#githyank

[tentaclesandtomes]

Did I turn Kith'rak Voss into the sickos meme? Yes, yes I did.

[visenyaism]

I don't get it. What is the emperor trying to do?

trying to know my bard astrally. tentacly. psionically.

[humonculuss]

I mean, we're going to go to the friggin' Creche

We're just not staying as long as you think we are

[thedragonagelesbian]

actually deeply enamored with the two of them running around the wilderness together, atz’s attitude essentially being ‘as far as i know i have existed for like two hours and you seem to know what the fuck is going on and i trust you to kill me before i kill you’

[yourplayersaidwhat]

Paladin: Dammit, I keep mixing them up and that's bad.

Monk: There's an easy way to remember--Githzerai are the peaceful monk dudes. And it's Githyanki as in "GithYANKing my sword from my guts."

[dough-bee]

"the moon will sing is such an astarion song" "the moon will sing is such a shadowheart song" WRONG IT'S ALL OF THEM.

there's astarion's being a vampire spawn and all he was forced to do. there's shadowheart's religious trauma. there's gale's abusive, groomed relationship with a goddess he can't escape. there's wyll's strained relationship with his father. there's how karlach was used as a soldier. there's lae'zel's upbringing, the githyanke culture moulding her into a war machine.

even tav can't stop all this by themself.

[racheloleo]

Cave of Wonders

Zevlor x Tav, NSFW

Zevlor smiled to himself as he saw the others relax and enjoy their evenings. Alfira strummed idly, giggling with Lakrissa about their personal victories over the goblins and what kind of tale the bard should weave through song. Cal and Lia continued to rib Rolan, who had had perhaps too much wine and was ready to blast his siblings backward, if only to stop their hooting laughter. Bex and Danis snuggled by the fire, petting and whistling to the camp's canine companion, a scruffy white hound named Scratch.

The goblin threat had been eradicated, thanks to an intrepid band of heroic adventurers lead by a human woman names Tavalia. Gods knew there was no one else with the wherewithal to corral the rag-tag team: a Githyank warrior, The Blade of the Frontiers, a secretive cleric, a former archmage, a tiefling attack dog, and a foppish vampire. Zevlor shook his head; how she did it, he couldn't begin to fathom.

As the revelry continued, the tiefling commander took one last sip from his goblet before setting it down. He nodded in farewell to Halsin, the archdruid the adventurers had rescued from the goblin encampment, and made his way back towards the Emerald Grove, away from Tavalia's camp. Zevlor had a few more crates to finish packing before morning, and he could use a moment to himself after all of the noise and merriment of the evening's celebrations.

Zevlor quietly walked through the gate of the Grove and made his way through The Hollow towards the chambers that had been his during the refugees' stay. Rocks crunched under his boots as he strode confidently to his quarters. A few druids were up and about, but the place still felt strangely still after all the chanting had stopped. Kagha had been in league with the Shadow Druids, it had seemed, until Tavalia had talked some sense into her and the interim archdruid put an end to the Rite of Thorns.

He walked through the stone passageway, the door closing behind him. He replenished a few candles before carefully doffing his armor. Gods, but it felt good to have that weight off of his shoulders, literally and figuratively. He stretched and flexed his back, taking pleasure in the little pops and cracks that told the story of a loosening body.

Zevlor let out a soft groan. He found an empty crate and brought it to his desk, where he began to slowly and carefully pack away his many books for the next leg of their journey. The Shadow-Cursed Lands, gods, how was he ever going to -

A gentle rumble of the stone door marked the entry of another. Quickly and quietly, Zevlor set down the book he had been holding and reached for his crossbow, eyes on the entryway to his sanctum. He heard the stone door shut again, and a rustling sounds drew his attention. He deftly loaded the crossbow and positioned himself near an alcove, the perfect spot to lodge an attack should one also be aimed at him.

A shadow grew on the walls in the candlelight, soft and feminine.

"Zevlor?" A tremulous voice called out, the shadow edging closer to the commander's lair.

Zevlor almost dropped the crossbow. "Tavalia?" He asked, shocked and shaken, horrified that he could have so easily pulled the trigger against the hero of the hour had she not made her presence known.

"Yes, it's me. Did I startle you? And please, again, call me Tav. Everyone else does, there's no need to stand on ceremony." She walked slowly into the soft light of the numerous candles Zevlor had lit not but half an hour before.

She was nude, he saw, his mind not comprehending. Or, nearly nude, it appeared that she maintained some cover for the sake of modesty, but only around her hips; her breasts were bared to the world. No, not to the world: bared for him. He shook his head, still confused.

Tav's eyes adjusted to the lighting, scanning the room. When her gaze fell upon him, her lips curled into a smile that reached to her eyes, so happy was she to find him.

His body was in a state of panic, wanting to avert his gaze and drink her in all at once. Why was she here? And nearly naked? She didn't seem hurt or afraid, there should be no reason for this state of undress, unless -

The rustling. She had removed her garments after she had entered his quarters. The confidence made him wet his lips, blood pulsing in his face and below his belt. He could not deny that she was a beautiful woman, that he had not thought of what she might feel like in his arms, soft and warm and spent, but this...

She closed the gap between them, her hands alighting carefully on his shoulders. Her bare feet had been almost soundless in the dirt. She glanced up at him, eyes twinkling with the small flames that lined the room. Tav leaned into Zevlor, her mouth grazing his neck, as she whispered his name against his flesh. Small goose-pimples rose along the back of his neck.

His hands moved to her hips, and he felt them, full and round beneath his touch. Her skin was softer than he could have ever dreamed, and he was suddenly very aware of his talons, hard and sharp at the tips of his fingers. He made to move them away, but she caught him and held him to her. "No," she whispered gently, still nuzzling against his neck. "Please, stay with me. I have imagined this a thousand times, and yet nothing could compare to the here and now." The tip of her tongue delicately traced the muscles in his neck, and his breath caught in his throat.

"Tavalia, please, do not misunderstand me. You are a very beautiful woman, but I am nothing but an old, disgraced paladin. Surely there are others far more worthy to share your bed than the likes of me?"

She hummed quietly, her nose gently caressing the underside of his jaw, the hand that once held his now at his cheek. Her thumb carefully followed the ridge pattern of his cheekbone, and he could feel her smile against his skin.

"Says you," she murmured. "I can freely choose whom I have in my bed, yes, and I can confidently say that I have desired no one else since meeting you. You are strong, courageous, empathetic, and handsome. You have bewitched me, Hellrider, and I only hope that you will have me as well." The thought lingered in the air, both carefully waiting to see what the other would do.

Zevlor's heart was likely to fly out of his chest, and he had no doubt that Tavalia could feel that, just like she could no doubt feel his arousal pressed against her thigh. He sighed slowly, afraid he would not be able to follow through. He pulled his head back long enough to look at her beautiful, glowing eyes, before wrapping a hand behind her head and pulling her in for a deep, sensual kiss.

Tav brought her arms to Zevlor's neck and pressed herself into him. Her tongue darted out of her mouth and played with his bottom lip, which drove him into a deeper frenzy. Their mouths melded together, their sighs intertwined, breaths becoming one. Tav's hands moved to Zevlor's face, cradling his jaw as she drank him in.

His hands moved to her waist, and he began to carefully roll his fingers down the curve that flared into her hips and rounded, pert bottom. These undergarments would prove to be a future problem, and he pulled them down and off. He cupped her ass and lifted her up, leading her to straddle his waist with her thighs. She acquiesced, and linked her ankles together at the base of his tail. A jolt of electricity shot through him at this touch, and he moved his tail to encircle one of her calfs. Tav tightened her thighs against Zevlor's taut center, her sex wetting the front of trousers.

Her warmth spilled onto him, and he deepened his kiss. His tongue tentatively moved in askance against her lips before she opened her mouth and invited him in, sucking playfully. A low moan escaped his throat as he moved towards a wall and gently balanced Tavalia's back against the rough-hewn stone.

In one motion, he transferred her thighs from his midsection to his shoulders and fell to his knees. Tav's back scraped against the rock, but the sensation barely registered as Zevlor's breath hit the sensitive place at her center.

His hands gripping her hips, Zevlor gently nuzzled his nose into her soft, damp curls. Her breath hitched and her legs tightened in anticipation. His tongue flicked out cautiously, probing her slit to find the hard little bud tucked in between.

As he ran the flat of his tongue over her pleasure, Tav gasped with joy. He continued to lick and flick and tease, circling her nub until she was leaking with arousal and panting heavily.

Like a man starved, Zevlor continued to work his mouth against her sex. Slowly, he moved one finger to her entrance before working it inside. Tav cried out, her walls clamping down on his finger, which soon became two.

He stroked her carefully, beckoning her to come for him as he whispered sweet, loving words to her core. "My darling, let yourself go. I am here to catch you, and I would never let you fall too far."

At that, she felt the coils in her belly tighten before springing to a quick release. She cried out his name, sobbing, hands holding onto his horns, grasping to stay afloat. He held firm, his hands cupped around her bottom and lower back. Her thighs tensed so firmly around his face that he thought he was likely to be a dead man, but that there may be no better death in all of Faerûn.

He stood slowly, easing her into his arms, one arm under her knees, the other under her neck. She stared up at him, dazed.

"That's not what I came here to do," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I was meant to be worshipping at your altar, not you at mine."

"All in good time, my love," his whispered back, moving towards the various travel gear he had already packed.

"Do you think you can stand?" He asked, tentatively testing her weight on her feet. "Only for a moment, and only to make you more comfortable."

Tav nodded against his chest as he tipped her feet towards the ground. She stood on shaky legs, keeping one arm on his.

Zevlor unfurled a bedroll and straightened it out against the hard floor of the chamber. Carefully, he eased Tavalia to her back and onto the bedroll.

She sat, and began working at his shirt as he moved to sit next to her. Tugging, she pulled it free from the band of his pants and moved to pull it over his head. Zevlor stopped her.

"Please, if you don't mind. I am... I am not proud of what lies underneath, and I would not want to taint your memories of this evening with the view."

Tav looked hurt and startled. "Zevlor," she whispered, eyes large and round, "there is nothing about you, ever, that would make me turn away from you. Is it a scar? A burn?"

"My heritage," he mumbled, lifting the corner of his shirt. Underneath, Tav saw more of the infernal ridges, like the ones that marked his face and tail. Her eyes softened.

"Oh, Zevlor, no. Not in a hundred, thousand, thousand years would that ruin tonight. It doesn't ruin you, nor does it define you. Nothing about your infernal heritage alarms me, and I love you because of it, not in spite of it. My love, you are wholly beautiful to me, and I would see all of you as you have seen all of me. Besides, your heritage is as plain as your horns and tail. If that were ever to deter me, I would not be here now."

Gingerly, she helped him lift his shirt over his head, smiling briefly as the collar gets snagged on one of his horns. As he tosses the shirt to the side, Tav begins working on the laces to his pants. His arousal pushes against them, undeterred by these few moments of inaction.

Zevlor stands and finishes undoing the laces. His sex, hard and girthy, stands ready as he removes the pants and small clothes. He eases back to the bedroll where he is immediately met with a deep kiss as Tav climbs onto his thighs and straddles them.

His heat meets hers with a rush of sensation, both of them forgetting to breathe in that moment. Tav arches her back, grinding her center to his. He can feel her sex against him, still wet and inviting.

His tail wraps around one of her ankles, securing her. Her arms encircle his neck as she breathes into his ear. "Please," she begs, "please let me have you as you have had me." His hands move up her sides until they find her breasts, and he begins to massage them and gently pinch her nipples. He ducks his head to carefully pull one of her nipples into her mouth, where he gently licks and sucks until it becomes firm under his tongue.

"Dearest," he nuzzles against her neck, "if I allow that, then this night ends much too quickly for either of our likings. Besides, I do not deserve such attentions."

Tav snaps her head to face him, hips still grinding against his. "To the Hells, what do you mean! 'Deserve?' As if this is not an act of love, freely given? Lie down." Her grinding has stopped, and she lightly pushes him onto the bedroll before kissing and licking her way down his chest.

He has never been harder in his life than he is the moment she breathes against him. A liquid pearl sits at the tip of his member, and Tavalia is quick to duck her head and lick it off in one quick flash of her firm tongue. Zevlor moans, louder than he would have liked, but too ensorcelled by this beautiful creature to care.

As quickly as her tongue is there, it is gone again. Zevlor takes a moment of respite, the briefest of seconds, before his pleasure is deepened by the flat of a tongue on the underside of his member. A long, hot stroke goes up the shaft to the tip before Tav takes him into her mouth and begins working on sustaining his bliss.

He cannot think, he cannot breathe, he cannot remember his own name. He focuses on the wet heat that has engulfed him, that threatens to be his undoing. Tavalia licks and teases, suckles and massages at him until he finds himself on the edge.

Sensing the loss of control, Tav stops and pulls herself up to Zevlor's face, smashing her mouth into his with pure passion and possession. "Take me," she whispers to his lips. "Make me yours. There is nothing more I desire to be than yours."

Gently, he rotates her to her back and slides a knee between her legs. She opens easily for him, expectantly. "I would look upon your lovely face, my darling," Zevlor says, eyes full of love and lust. Tav nods and sighs, pressing her hips to his as she moves a hand down to guide him into the entrance of her core.

They both moan loudly as they become one. Zevlor thrusts slowly, cautiously, easing into her, that she may be able to take all of him. She is slick with her own love and has no trouble receiving all that he can give her.

She moves her hips in time with his, their tempos slowly increasing as their pleasure reaches a fever pitch. Tav takes his hand and wetly sucks his thumb before moving it between her legs. "Please, again, please," she whimpers, and he dutifully begins creating small circles around her hard, taut button.

A moan of pleasure escapes her lips, quickly turning into a scream of delight. He calls out as he finds his own release, pumping his spend into her until it trickles out from between them.

He watches her face and then pulls her in for a tender, delicate kiss. She returns, gently, sighing into his arms as they disentangle their legs and his tail.

They lie together on the bedroll, foreheads together, eyes heavy with love and sleep. Drowsily, Tav opens her eyes and stares up at Zevlor. A hand comes up, slow and soft, to stroke his cheek.

"We must depart in the morning. We have duties to fulfill, people who need us. But here and now, tonight, we have each other, and that is all I need." She kisses him tenderly, smiling into his lips.

"My darling, I could die now a happy man. I did not know that it would be possible for a man my age to find a love like this, so true, yet here I lie, you in my arms." He kisses her back, a strong, low purr beginning to emanate from his chest. "May your love and faith see me through the undoubtedly dark times ahead."

"And may we find each other once more in Baldur's Gate, with tasks complete and victories won, to begin a new journey, a quieter one, just the two of us."

They fall asleep, arm in arm and facing each other. Zevlor's tail drapes protectively around Tavalia's waist, and her soft snores lull him into a deeper peace than he has known in quite some time.

[amica-aenigmata-naboo]

COLLISION

Astarion x Y/N - Chapter 2 - 2.5K WC

Masterlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 (you are here!)

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5 NSFW 18+

Chapter 6 NSFW 18+

Chapter 7 NSFW 18+

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Magic was tougher than it looked. It felt like the most grueling full body workout. “Well, you’ve got enough to get you through a very short… heavily aided battle.” Shadowheart said, it sounded like the best backhanded compliment. 

“Can we be done for the day?” You asked, cracking your neck and stretching your back. “Please?”

Gale smiled and waved you off, “Just for today, we’ll need you in battle soon enough. Best you have a few tricks up your sleeve to survive… A word of advice, seek out Lae’zel, have her show you combat training. The Githyanke are -”

“Excellent warriors, I know.” you stated without thinking.

Gale’s face faltered for a moment before relaxing “Precisely, she’s the best to learn from.” he clapped his hand on your shoulder before walking back to his tent.

Shadowheart was walking back to her tent but gave you a smile and mouthed “good luck” towards you. 

You took a deep breath and walked to Lae’zel’s tent. Feet practically made of lead the way the anxiety made them drag. You stopped in front of her not looking up.

“Speak” was all she said.

“I’d like to spar with you… have you teach me how to fight… so I’m not just a useless cleric.” Your lip twitched up at the end of your sentence. Finally raising your gaze, Lae’zel looked at you and crossed her arms. 

“Fine. I suppose you can use this.” She said handing you what you recognized as “The Cruel Sting” sword from the drider, Kar’niss. 

You clutched the sword and followed Lae’zel to the center of the camp where she unceremoniously body checked you, knocking you onto your back with a groan.

“The Hell was that for?!” you yelled at her.

“Your enemy will not fight fair, you need to know brutality if you wish to fight.” she said as she unsheathed her sword.

You stood and held your sword. Nothing had ever felt more out of place. This wasn't a Renaissance Festival, this was real and you had to learn this to survive. You took a deep breath, closing your eyes and praying a collective prayer to any deity listening. You opened your eyes, the first strike of many clanged against your sword.

Shit.

________________________ 

Metal collides well past sundown. Lae’zel had run you ragged. You were currently trying to shove her back. She put her foot behind yours and shoved, sending you crashing onto your back.

“Have you learned nothing?!” she yelled so loudly everyone else in the camp was watching now. “Your enemy will not hesitate to kill you. You shall offer them no such mercy either!” she continued to yell.

That's it. That’s what broke the camel's back. Rage consumes you after being beaten down for hours. Your hand reached slowly for the small blade tucked into your breast pocket. Lae’zel put her sword to your neck to demand your surrender. You raised your hands. Lae’zel began putting her sword away and that's when you struck. You kicked her closest ankle and sent her falling. Dagger in your hand, you rolled on top of Lae’zel, straddling her hips and pressing the blade to her throat. She gawked at you, she was speechless. 

“Never assume the war is over because the battle was lost.” you said with hate in your voice but a proud smile on your face. 

Lae’zel gave the faintest smirk before taping the handle of the blade, signifying she surrendered. Both of you got up slowly. Lae’zel extended her arm. You stared at it in disbelief but your arm went to hers. Holding each other's forearms she shook it once firmly before saying, “Cleric, you may survive us yet.” she let go of your arm, walking to the bonfire as the meat roasting smelled as if it was almost done. 

Karlach walked over to you, “That’s as close as you’ll ever get to her saying you’re friends now.” she laughed. “You’ve improved a lot in one day. It’s going to be nice having you around soldier.” she patted your back before she herself walked to the campfire. 

You smiled watching her walk away. Glancing at Gale and Wyll they both gave you smiles, Gale giving a soft clap and Wyll a thumbs up. You walked back to your new tent that Karlach had set up for you while you were in the weave. It wrapped around the tree you slept on last night. A bedroll, some candles, and a small table with a lamp softly flickering. The flamed danced shadows across your tent, you laid on your bedroll momentarily, watching the shadows. Quickly, before you got too comfortable, you stood and began your walk to the stream. Your body ached but in a satisfactory way. Maybe you could be an adventurer. At least until you got back home. You shed your camp clothes at the shore, looking back and making sure everyone was at camp. You could hear them eating and telling stories  around the fire. You waded into the stream until it reached your ribs. You sat against a boulder in the stream. The water rushing around you felt calming, as if the water was trying to massage the ache out of you. You brushed water over your face and hair before leaning your head back and closing your eyes. Trying to connect to the earth around you, searching for a blissful escape in the elements even if only for a moment. 

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

Astarion watched you from behind a tree near the shore and his tent. He didn’t mean to spy on you. He honestly thought he saw a fae or siren wade into the water, your body enchanting him. He watched you wade to the boulder finding some sort of solace in it. You leaned there unmoving for what felt like hours. 

Sad

That's what rang out in Astarion’s mind. The tadpole saying what your mind must have been screaming. He felt that unfamiliar pang in his chest again. He wanted to… comfort you? He didn’t even know what that would look like. Was it like seduction just… less? He both wanted to know and despised the thought of knowing.

Without realizing it, he had drifted off and he refocused on your form trudging back to the shore. He knew what he had to do to get rid of the pang in his chest. Crush it. Crush you. The very thought hurt him somehow but he knew it had to be done. He walked out from behind the tree heading towards the shore. Your back was facing him, your shirt and underwear on but nothing else. He adored the way the moonlight made your shirt cast a shadow of your body. He noticed every curve, dimple, freckle… he noticed them all. 

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

“Oh! Astarion…” you jumped when you heard the rocks behind you shift. Your hands flew all over your body trying to cover up but not sure what exactly to cover. He grabbed your hip when you started to move backwards. You glanced at his hand before looking at his face, your eyebrows scrunched together. Astarion hadn’t exactly been the most welcoming in the camp so what was this? Hand still on your hip he possessively pulled you to his chest, his opposite hand tilting your chin up so your lips were a breath away from each other. Your whole body felt like cement and lava at the same time. Your eyes watched his every move. 

“A bath with no invite? Darling, you wound me.” he whispered onto your lips. You sucked in an unintentionally sharp breath when he leaned forwards and smashed his lips to yours. He was rough despite his gentle grasp on your chin. He continued to kiss you, nipping at your lower lip.

“Ouch!” you yipped, pushing his chest away. 

“Come now darling you cannot be so delicate…” he said seductively.

You backed up and held your arm out in front of you to put a physical barrier between you. “Astarion, stop.” You said as your finger smoothed over the nip on your lip that had drawn the smallest bit of blood. 

Now it was his turn to freeze, “What? Why? Is something wrong?” He asked. He almost sounded… annoyed? Instead of concern which you would expect from a lover. 

You knew enough about Astarion from your progress in Baldur's Gate III that he was trying to manipulate you by sleeping with you. It saddened you. He might not like you much in reality but you would still protect him like everyone else in your party. Your face gave a painful squeeze before you swallowed it all down. You put your arm down, picking up your pants, boots, and vest. “Astarion… you don’t truly want this. I’ll umm… I’ll see you at camp.” You whispered out. 

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

The world seemed to be so still and quiet down by the stream. Astarion heard every syllable. He watched you leave quickly and did he detect… a quiver in your voice? Why would you be upset about him trying to fuck you? Why did you say “you don’t truly want this”? He didn’t want it, but how did you know that? He walked back to his tent glumly. After seeing you take down Lae’zel he thought you might not be so bad to have under his thumb. Why would you reject him? He saw himself for the first time in 200 years that morning so he knew for a fact he was still beautiful, fangs and all. He wracked his brain but couldn’t come up with an answer to why his plan didn’t work on you. It works on everyone else. 

A bitter seed was planted inside him. He watched your form move around camp for the rest of the night. Eyes never meeting his. He watched you talk with the others. Sing with Wyll. attempt to dance with Karlach. Everyone wore soft smiles, even Lae’zel which was rare. A warmth was spread around the camp. As if the air was made of warm honey. Suffocating you in the best way possible. Rested and comfortable is what it was.

He wanted so desperately to be a part of it. And yet, that bitter seed took root and every thought of you suddenly felt like rot and decay. Finding the bad and none of the good. Making you the cause of such ire. He wanted to be rid of you. He thought of the item you had, the “mirror” he used. Had you told the others about that? What would they think of it? He could twist it to make you look like the villain, he was sure of it. 

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

“”Y/N darling…” 

Your head snapped to Astarion who had silently managed to sit across from you at the bonfire. Your head swirled a bit, whatever Karlach was drinking had some twang to it that's for sure. You were drunk and the warm glow of the fire made you feel like a cat in a sunbeam.

“Astarion darling…” you giggled back.

“Have you told our dear friends about your powerful little tool?” he batted his eyelashes at you but a devious smirk laid across his lips. 

Everyone's eyes slowly drifted to you and lord did you feel them on you.

“I… I showed Gale.” you rushed out. You weren’t hiding it. Not truly. You just didn’t know how to tell them what a phone was without having to tell them about your… well… life? And how to you, they were a mere video game. That they didn’t actually exist. That's a little tough to deliver. Especially while drunk. 

“Yes! She had me repower it.” Gale chimed in. 

“Oh it needs magic to power itself? Sounds dangerous if you ask me…” 

Now everyone's eyes were not only looking at you but focused on you, scanning you over for any potential danger. You slowly reached into your bedroll. Your phone lit up and everyone kept a strong hold on their weapons. 

“I… it is a power source… but it only powers itself. It’s not dangerous I swear…. It’s used to communicate where I’m from.” you quickly defended yourself.

“And where is that exactly?” Astarion hummed.

Your skin was crawling, you felt how unsteady your stomach was, a cold sweat coating your back, your hands shaking, and dear god you were fighting the urge to spill tears. All out of sheer anxiety. You didn’t want to lie, but you didn’t know how to tell the truth either. 

“I… I’m… not from here. Or Baldur’s Gate. Or Faerûn. I’m… I’m from somewhere far away. I’m not sure how to explain it.” you choked out. The tears slipped out but you quickly wiped them away and looked at your new friends, hoping they’d believe you but not push for more answers either. 

“How mysterious.” Astarion jested. “Care to show up what it does so we know it isn’t dangerous?” 

You looked down at the phone before looking at everyone around you. You had no idea if this would have some sort of butterfly effect or alter reality but you didn’t really care. These people were your best hope, you needed them and were in no position to test their patience. You looked down, defeated. You agreed, turning the phone on you opened the camera app. 

“I can use it to see people… and take portraits of them instantly.” you softly explained before taking a picture of yourself and then showing them all the picture. They looked impressed, borderline shocked. 

“Anything else?” Astarion asked, sounding unamused. 

You opened your music app and clicked on classical music, thinking that would be somewhat close to the music they know. Playing strauss II - voices of spring you turned the volume up and watched them become entranced. Karlach started swaying and humming with the melody. Everyone’s tense appearance faded and they all seemed pleased with the music. 

“Portrait machine and a music box, how delightful!” Gale spoke before drinking more wine. 

“If you all don’t mind I will retire early this evening.” you spoke softly as you got up and walked away leaving your phone as it began the classical music playlist you had saved for when you would study. Some of the group gave you nods, some were too deep in drink or conversation to notice. But Astarion did.

He saw how tightly you clasped your hands as you walked away. How your eyes were so big and full of fright. How your heartbeat sounded. Terrified.

Shit.

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

He watched you from his tent as you threw rocks from the river bank into the riverbed. He could still hear your heartbeat. How strained it sounded. Like it was fighting itself. He felt wretched. He was doing what he needed to. Right? Then why did it hurt so damn bad? Why did the way the tears skimmed down your face feel like a wound to his heart? Why did he want nothing more than to go to you and whisper sweet apologies. He hates you. He has to because it is the only control he can feel at this moment. So why does the final sob he hears escaping you on the shore bring him right back to where he doesn’t want to be. He digs in his supply pack before pulling out the vile of angelic slumber. If he couldn’t meditate this away he was not above drugging himself to sleep for the night. Anything to not feel what he felt when it came to you.

Hello angels! You all were so sweet leaving me comments, likes, and reblogs. Thank you soooooo much! All that support went into overdrive so here is chapter 2! I'll be working on other chapters this week. Thank you again for all the love, I love interacting with ya'll! <3

[xalygatorx]

Unbound | Chapter 13, "Dancing With Devils"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: A week has passed nowhere near uneventfully. The truth of Gale’s condition comes out when Elminster delivers a message from Mystra. A very worn-thin Áine checks on her companions. Wyll shoots his shot. Áine and Gale, both projecting somewhat, get into an argument. Astarion asks Shadowheart for a favor. Áine shows Astarion firsthand how he looks through her eyes. 

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: Angst on angst on angst; fluff; suggestive content and dialogue (mild); mention of fantasy violence (appropriate to canon); lightly proofread; it's a really long one; besties, I struggled through this and I can only apologize so much if it sucks but if I didn't post it now I'd keep messing with it

Word Count: 11k

Listening to: my brain leaking out of my ears (idk White Winter Hymnal again probably)

The next week’s worth of travel brought more heartache than victory for the party. Camping for the night, normally something that at least held a neutral air if they were all especially fatigued, felt strained and the tension in the sweet mountain air seemed to branch from all directions.

Crèche Y’llek had been a mistake. When they’d met Kith’rak Voss and his warriors by the destroyed bridge where Zorru had marked on Lae’zel’s map, they should’ve forgone the idea of venturing further into githyanki territory, if only to avoid having the artefact taken from them. However, Lae’zel had remained adamant after Voss had gone that, despite deceiving him, they still needed to get to the crèche and be purified.

Áine, in retrospect, knew that as their appointed leader she should’ve been more forceful. She’d had a bad feeling about delivering the artefact into the heart of the gith who were seeking it out and she’d had a bad feeling about the zaith’isk too. And yet she’d allowed them to move forward with both. All because she wanted to have faith in Lae’zel and spite their “guardian” a little in the process. Spiting their guardian was petty and she understood that, so she could fault herself fully for that. However, having faith in Lae’zel was the opposite of a mistake and Áine would stand by that until it got her killed.

“Lae, please, get out of there!” 

She could still hear her own scream in her ears, the way her voice had cracked on her plea, swallowed by the roar of the machine as it rattled with its efforts to rend her friend’s mind in two. At seemingly the last second, Lae’zel had hurled herself from the pod just before it and its appendages caved in on themselves. She’d cried hshar’lak, deeming a traitor among the githyanki the only possibility that could explain the zaith’isk’s failure. And still, they’d ventured even further into the crèche to speak with the visiting Inquisitor.

Lae’zel, battered and bruised as much if not more than the rest of them, now sat silently at the entrance to her tent, her stone heart shattering with every doubt she’d taken as a parting gift from their failed venture. Each one was punctuated by the grinding swipe of her whetstone.   

The githyank warrior was scared and she felt disgusting for it. Learned self-loathing pummeled at her chest as if it could crush the shrapnel of her faith back into one cohesive piece. That faith shook the same way her hands had trembled after searching Áine’s mind for the truth of her confrontation with the being inside the artefact. With the “guardian” she still suspected of illithid treachery and not simply because of the heresy it managed to inject into her already scrambled thoughts. Lae’zel had balled her shaking hands into fists and demanded their leave, despite knowing that every one of her kin on the other side of that portal out of the Astral would be waiting to cut them down in Vlaakith’s name.

It had to be a test of her faith. Lae’zel kept telling herself until she somewhat believed it that this had to be a final test of her devotion. Because if it wasn’t, then what had her entire life been for?

Her conflicted gaze lifted from her blade to the approaching bard, wondering if she had it in her at all to bear the weight of company this night. Lae’zel’s gaze dropped back to the hand clutching her whetstone, stilled against the silver. “You must have questions,” she said slowly when Áine didn’t speak first.

Áine sighed and knelt, setting a bowl of soup and a crust of bread near Lae’zel’s knee. “I have dinner that will likely fall short of the usual quality,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Gale understandably wasn’t up for much tonight so I’m afraid you’re left with my cooking.”

“Something ails him?” Lae’zel wondered, relieved that the topic of conversation didn’t immediately fall to her. She set her sword and stone aside but didn’t yet touch the food. Not because she didn’t trust Áine’s cooking, but because she felt utterly hollow after the events of the day and in no way resembling hunger. She would eat—she needed to so she could fight—but it would take her a moment.

Áine slid from her crouched position into a seated one, wincing when she leaned on the heels of her hands to do it and her bad shoulder locked up. Lae’zel noticed but did not voice that she noticed the weakness. Áine was doing her the favor, as Lae’zel saw it, of overlooking her own weaknesses for the time being and she would return that favor. “An old friend or mentor of his perhaps, Elminster, was wandering near the path down the mountain, I guess. He happened to ask after Gale when he saw Halsin pass by with some berries.” 

Lae’zel’s attention caught on the name, her expression denoting surprise. “Elminster?” 

“You know of him?” Áine asked.

“I do,” Lae’zel said, frowning. “However I still wonder why this visit would have caused Gale any ill.”

“Elminster was a messenger this time. For Mystra,” Áine said and she had to make an effort not to spit the name. Lae’zel noticed her rancor and her expression tightened in kind. Áine sighed and ran a hand through her loose white locks. “Gale’s condition…is a Netherese orb in his chest apparently. The magical items he’d needed up until this point, up until they stopped working anyway, were to feed that orb lest it feed on and destroy him. And…everyone around him, it would seem.” 

“I fear I lack understanding,” Lae’zel said.

“I just barely have my head wrapped around it,” Áine admitted. “The orb could and would have acted as a bomb if left untreated, which he failed to tell us.”

“How did such a thing become a part of him?” the githyanki asked, her eyes troubled.

“I don’t know, I…,” Áine paused to sigh, “I haven’t spoken to Gale privately yet. I was upset at being lied to and hadn’t yet absorbed the situation in full, so that is an eventual conversation I’ll need to face.”

“You lost your temper?” Lae’zel guessed.

Áine’s brow furrowed. “Not completely. But I wasn’t as kind as I could have been before I knew the whole of it,” she said, clearly disappointed in herself.

“And what is the ‘whole of it’?” Lae’zel asked, startled that there could be more to finding out one of their companions had the equivalent of a bomb in his chest.

“Elminster’s message from Mystra,” the bard said. “Whatever caused the orb to become one with Gale, Mystra seems to think was his fault, and that was what had caused him to fall out of her grace. And her path to forgiveness that she’s laid out for him is to use the orb to destroy the Absolute. To kill himself.”

Lae’zel’s features twisted. “Elminster delivered this message?” she verified and Áine nodded back. “Hm, well… Even the githyanki have heard tell of the Sage of Shadowdale. Some of his works have been translated to tir’su slate.” Her expression hardened. “That doesn’t mean his every word carries wisdom, however.”

“He seemed devastated to tell Gale,” Áine said, recalling the old man’s tone and face. “He was simply a messenger in this, but I don’t know that I could have delivered such a message, myself. Mystra, for a goddess, seems…misguided at best. And at worst—”

“Near as I can tell,” Lae’zel asserted, “Mystra demands Gale’s faith, but holds no faith in him. Why else would she demand that Gale sacrifice himself and perhaps so many others?” Fired up, Lae’zel began to speak with her hands as well, her long fingers tensing in quick, meaningful gestures to punctuate her words. “Does she not think he can destroy the Absolute with his own immense talents? Does she not know the mighty company that he keeps?”

Áine smiled. “She must not.”

Lae’zel muttered, “Demanding Vlaakith may be, but she acts for the good of the githyanki people. Mystra is concerned only for herself.” A low, annoyed growl turned into a sound of annoyance in her throat. “Chk… Perhaps he would find her forgiveness in a fiery death. But I can’t help but wonder why he’d want it at all.”

“I would hope that he craves it more to better the state of his own afterlife rather than smooth her feathers,” Áine admitted, all the while admiring Lae’zel’s confidence. “She doesn’t deserve a good turn from him for the rest of his years based on what little I know of her. But I suppose he loves magic. He loves the Weave. And therefore he loves Mystra, too.”

“Her lain claim upon magic itself is blasphemy against its very existence,” Lae’zel decided openly, finally reaching down to retrieve the dinner that Áine had brought her. “Magic must have existed before Mystra and it would exist without her as well.”

“I wish you’d been the one to speak to him instead of me,” Áine sighed. “I feel as though I made a mess of things where there was already an abundance of messes.” She rested her head in her hands and gave an agitated sigh directed only at herself. “I should have let you lead us when we first met again away from the Nautiloid.”

Lae’zel watched Áine with a mixture of admiration and pity. “Your humility is what makes you a good leader,” she informed the bard. “We are matched in prowess and I may lead in kind in the heat of battle…however my skills ended at these sorts of dilemmas until I met you.” She offered Áine a faint smile when she lifted her head to meet her eyes. “My people are taught from their birth to forsake softness, to form from edges so jagged that contact alone will cut lethal. Our enemies, our kin too weak to avoid the cull. We are one people taught to claw across our own corpses should it mean our victory. Taught to see a heart as only a soft place for a blade.” Her smile faded. “And what good has it ultimately done me? What good is this heart of stone for it to be shattered?”

Áine felt her eyes sting with unshed tears of empathy. “Stone crumbles. It erodes,” she said firmly. “Your heart is much stronger than that. I’ve seen it.”

“In the past, I would have cursed you for such a sentiment,” Lae’zel said. “I was brought to this plane, my teachings done, only to find I am learning still. You have become another sa’varsh of my life—a teacher.” Her lips pursed. “It has been…eyeopening to learn amongst friends. As a unit without constant threat in the form of my classmates, without barely concealed bloodlust at all times. Save for Astarion.” Áine smirked at Lae’zel’s words. “Even he, with the excuse of being driven by innate instinct, has more in his heart than the warriors I trained amongst. Than I did until recently.”

Áine was touched by Lae’zel’s words. How was it that she’d come down here to console the githyanki and had instead ended up being consoled herself? “You give me a lot of credit, Lae, and I fear not enough credit to yourself,” Áine said. “This side of you didn’t simply happen. This has always been part of you.” Her throat tightened around her next words, feeling that she could stand to lend these very words more toward her own healing than she did. “The circumstances you were born into are part of what has made you, but they are not you.”

Lae’zel gave that some consideration, nodding slowly in acknowledgment after. “I am coming to understand that,” she said.

“Are you alright?” Áine asked at last. “After today, I mean?”

The githyanki warrior offered her a reassuring look. “I will be. Rest is needed. All else will come in its own time,” she said.

“If you need anything,” Áine said, “don’t hesitate to ask. Please. Not just me, but anyone.”

Lae’zel nodded once. “It will be done.”

When Áine crested the slope back to the rest of their tent setups, she noticed that—at least as far as she could tell—Elminster had left and Gale was also out of sight, but had likely retired to his tent after the grueling conversation. Despite that conversation being with an old, dear friend, its topics would have felt heavy spilling from anyone’s lips. 

Áine spent a moment warring with herself over whether or not to seek him out and address how the first leg of the talk had gone, when they’d yet to hear Mystra’s message and she’d only yet had the truth of his condition dropped on her lap. Betrayal had hit her like a flurry of knives and, after everything else they’d endured just in the past few days, it had hit her harder than it had any right to. After all, she wasn’t the one being tasked with a suicide mission from her past teacher, her past lover. Gale was. And yet she’d felt anger on hearing all that he’d kept from her and the rest of their friends.

The question she had to resolve within herself before she tried to speak with him about it was whether that anger was at Gale at all. Was it even anger? The answer to that became less and less clear the more she thought it over. 

When she dwelt on the pain in her chest, her mind offered her images of Gale’s expression breaking at hearing what Mystra wanted of him, her former Chosen. Of Lae’zel’s shattered expression both back in the crèche and down on the cliffside just now when she’d spoken of her “stone heart.” Of turning on the road leading away from the temple to find Karlach doubling over in the dirt as her engine flared hotter than ever with no signs of stopping, and Áine and the others with no way to help her except to get her to Dammon again as fast as possible with infernal iron and a prayer. And then there was nearly losing Shadowheart in the middle of everything back in the underbelly of the crèche. 

At the memory, Áine felt her shoulder ache and she subconsciously reached across her chest to sink her fingertips into the scar-toughened muscle, gritting her teeth. And, despite all of it, still having the yet-to-be ceremorphosed tadpoles wriggling in their heads and no closer to being extracted was giving her a headache that had nothing to do with the little beasts. The truth of Gale’s condition had simply been the straw that broke her back that night. If it had only been his revelation that had turned the tables on them, she may have been able to digest it better.

No, she was becoming less and less sure all the while that what had surfaced during her conversation with Elminster and Gale had truly been anger. If she was honest with herself, she’d had a piss-poor reaction to being afraid for her friends and herself. Because amongst all this, they were still making their way to Moonrise Towers, the symbolic crux of all her past but still-festering trauma. 

Her anxiety often rewrote itself as anger and it was one of her greatest flaws that she knew of. And she owed Gale an apology for that.

A flutter of movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention and she looked down the hillside toward where Wyll was set up, noting with surprise that he appeared to be dancing. Either he was seeking a bit of stress relief or he’d fully lost his mind amidst all the latest developments in their journey, she decided. 

Her curiosity got the better of her and she followed the path down to his patch of camp, noting that he hadn’t been kidding when he mentioned he’d partaken in courtly dance during his days in Baldur’s Gate. He seemed to find renewed energy in its controlled leaps and arcs and the sight brought a faint smile to her face. In his spry movements, she saw what she supposed would’ve been a younger Wyll, when his only duty had been to be the son of a revered duke. Although, she supposed that too would come with its hellish qualities. 

He still looked every bit the part of a noble, she decided, horns and all.

He rounded his steps then and, in doing so, spotted her standing nearby. “Oh, I didn’t see you,” Wyll breathed, startled. “I was a bit lost in the steps I suppose… It’s been such a long time.”

“I couldn’t tell for whatever that’s worth,” Áine said. “You look like you’ve not missed a day of practice. You undersold yourself when we spoke before.”

Wyll chuckled with some embarrassment evident on his scarred features. “I needed the release, I think. It’s been a trying few days, I’m sure you could agree,” he admitted. “I am glad we at least have confirmation that Father is at Moonrise. The rest gives me pause.”

Somberly, Áine nodded. “We’re on the same page then,” she said.

“Well, lucky for you, I’ve properly warmed up and brushed up on my steps a bit,” he said with a cheeky smile as he extended a hand her way. “Woeful would it be for me to fail my new partner.”

Áine smirked and gestured toward her shoulder. “I’m afraid I’ll only hinder you in my current state,” she said. “And I would hate to slow you down.”

“There is no shame in taking things slow,” Wyll said, his voice even and reassuring. His hand remained hovering between them. Áine noticeably hesitated—on one hand, she was tired and sore, but on the other dancing always cheered her up, too, even just a little. The bard’s heart in her won out as she gave him a worn-down smile and took his outstretched hand, accepting his offer for what she perceived as a simple gesture to try lifting her spirits. 

Pleased, Wyll smiled and guided her forward. “I will lead us.”

“Good because I daresay I’m unfamiliar with whatever step you were just performing,” she admitted. 

Despite her words, she easily followed along in his movements and he gave her a gentle spin with her good arm. She didn’t often have physical contact with Wyll, she realized, as she noticed how hot his skin burned now with Mizora’s punishment wreaking havoc on his body. It was nothing compared to Karlach of course, but he was fiery in contrast with her own temperatures. Especially in comparison to the frosty hands she normally touched, adoring each opportunity she got to do so. The passing thought made her smile, a smile Wyll by no fault of his own read as being meant for him. 

He moved them through the simpler suite of steps and it all felt so natural that she didn’t notice how close he’d gotten nor how his arm had moved to wrap fully around her waist until he was right there, slowing them down. It took her until Wyll’s face was just inches from hers for Áine to realize the turn that their little jig had taken and that comprehension then dawned in her expression as well.  

“Oh, Wyll,” she murmured, familiar horror sinking in as she realized she’d once again tricked them both into a situation they may not recover from. How was she so good at reading others and yet so awful at picking up on these sorts of signals? “I'm sorry, I didn’t—I’m awful at picking up on these things, I thought this was just for a bit of fun.”

Reddened with chagrin, Wyll let go of her and stepped back, his expression torn between hurt and irritation. It was a grimace of injured pride. “Why not?” he asked suddenly and Áine felt guilt stab through her stomach. “I simply don’t understand what about me isn’t worth giving a chance. Is it my Infernal appearance?”

“Not at all!” Áine quickly said. “I told you that didn’t bother me and I meant it. I simply don’t see us that way and, well…” She cleared her throat and lowered her voice lest she scare off the very interest she was soon to reference if he was in earshot. “My heart is already spoken for.”

Her discretion didn’t end up mattering much. Embarrassed and reacting poorly, Wyll asked at a raised volume, “Is it Astarion? Because rest assured that trusting in a skillful tryst to become genuine affection will come back to bite you.”

“I mean, he already does that,” Áine said unthinkingly before her own lavender skin darkened with distress. “Sorry, that was meant to be a joke. What is wrong with me?”

In a way she hadn’t anticipated, Áine’s joke had worked some wonders, serving to shock Wyll out of his embarrassment and send him into a fresh wave of chagrin that now had to do with little more than his own ego. The Blade of Frontiers ran a hand down his face. “Áine, I apologize,” he said, surprising her. “Of course, I didn’t mean it. You are both deserving of all you can give each other and I want the best for you. Pride is a fickle thing that causes one to say things that aren’t true. I fear I’m projecting my insecurities and it pains me that it’s fallen on you to weather them.”

Áine hastily shook her head. “I’m sorry for not catching your intentions sooner,” she said in kind. “And it was still nice to dance with you. It’s all okay, you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Wyll gave her a bashful smile. “Nor do you. However, your forgiveness is not received lightly. I would be honored to dance again someday with a person I’m grateful to call a very good friend.”

Áine sighed with relief. “I’ll hold you to it. Thank you, Wyll, for being understanding.”

Wyll nodded. “As I said, I’ve been failing to look inward for ways to fix my thinking. Rejection that would, in a past life, not cause my footing to falter now feels harsher than it has any reason to,” he explained. “It is only a burden if I make it such and I have so far. I needn’t take that out on the people I care about the most.”

She smiled. “You have my full support in finding your next happiness,” she said, her panicked heart rate finally coming down. “You’re a good man, Wyll. Maybe the best of us.”

His features softened and he inclined his head. “You flatter this old devil.”

“Oh, come off it,” Áine laughed. “Devil, maybe. Old? Please. I have double your years and half your wisdom and power of self-reflection. Be proud of yourself. Always.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wyll said with a chuckle and a mock salute, all traces of his earlier hurt gone from his kind gaze.

Áine turned to head back up the hill, passing Volo as she did and giving her head a quick shake at his third offer of the night to amend her “brainworm problem.” The man had finally found his way to their camp after the patrolling party had sprung him from the goblins’ imprisonment and Áine was realizing she’d been a fool to let him examine her eye after telling him about the tadpole in her skull. She’d honestly done it just to see the look on his face, but it hadn’t been worth the laugh. She’d now had to tell him thrice at this point not to helpfully lobotomize her with a knitting needle to get the thing out. Something she hadn’t found charming in the slightest.

The bard was just passing Gale’s tent when she heard him mutter something toward her in passing. Áine stopped and turned to look at the wizard, the shadows of his tent and the book in his hands only holding partial credit for the darkness in his expression. “Pardon?”  

Ever perceptive about almost everyone but himself, Astarion had been watching the way Áine carried herself since they left that crèche blessedly behind them, its halls silenced in their wake. He could tell she was ailing, but it was more than just her shoulder bothering her. 

And he could hardly blame her given how empathetic she was—it hadn’t seemed like any of them could catch a break these past few days and, of course, it was instinct to look to one’s leader when things were going awry. He didn’t envy her the pressure, but it was her own fault for being such a hero all the time. 

Astarion didn’t think such a thing with any of his former vehemence toward her offering to help every stray that crossed their path, but he disliked the toll doing so much for everyone else ultimately took on her. Especially when she, stretched too thin to maintain her usual patience, finally snapped and hated herself for it afterward. Given the unexpected twists thrown their way one after another in the past week, but especially in the past day, he didn’t see how anyone could blame her. Hells, he was still trying to process it all, too, and he was hardly so invested.  

Now understanding how Gale had found his vampirism so easy to digest as a potential liability when he was dealing with the magical equivalent of a bomb in his chest, Astarion had been aghast at not being informed about the extent of the wizard’s condition but likewise couldn’t blame him for withholding the whole truth. He could blame the man for continuing to ogle at and flirt with his lover up until the whole Netherese orb business had sparked a spat between them. 

Instead of indulging either blame, Astarion questioned the state of his priorities if, for him, Gale flirting with Áine ranked in similar standing to a chest-bound cataclysm in the making. He supposed that some of that imbalance branched from how he’d felt over the past few days. They’d understandably had little to no time or energy to carry on what they’d started, save scattered meaningful glances and brief touches in passing. Astarion had trouble with the concept that she wouldn’t just forget or forgo him if he didn’t manage to keep her attention, even though his unwavering interest in her served as more than enough proof that such an attachment needn’t be a full-time job.

An attachment, he repeated in his mind, his expression souring at the word. It was fine and good, but it was swiftly becoming not good enough. 

Scarier than any battle-hungry githyanki or catastrophically combustible wizard—most wizards could be categorized as at least partially combustible due to haywire spellcasting, but Gale’s blast radius put him in a special category—was his growing desire to be more to her than a sometimes-bedfellow. Even knowing that he was already more than that because she’d told him directly still wasn’t quite enough. And not exclusively because he still couldn’t help getting jealous whenever anyone continued making passes at her. If anything, the way his digestion of such a sight had changed was beginning to tell him more about his own fears than the actors he projected them upon. 

At least he no longer bristled at someone looking at her with anything resembling interest, although he did, for example, find himself craving ursine blood specifically whenever he decided that she and Halsin looked a little too cozy during one of their chats. His envy had morphed from a territorial need for her attention into a deeply rooted anxiety that she would eventually figure out just how little she gained from being with him. And then of course, what could she do but leave once she had that epiphany?

As Astarion had grown closer to his other travel companions, it had become easier for him to see their appeal, which also meant that he found it easier to compare himself to them as they’d risen in his esteem. 

While Astarion still found Gale intensely frustrating at times for reasons he couldn’t concisely put into words, he’d gotten used to him at least. He even tolerated him when he wasn’t flirting with Áine and Astarion had more or less learned the difference between when Gale was flirting and when he was just being friendly. More often than not, Astarion found that he was just being friendly. 

And then there was Wyll. Princely, debonair, traditional Wyll. The sort of man that, perhaps in his long-past life before the world had caved in and broken him a thousand times over, he may have pictured himself marrying. A handsome devil of a white knight. He was getting bold lately and he wouldn’t be propositioning her with a quick fling. No, Wyll would offer her his heart and his hand, something Astarion wasn’t sure he could match. 

And who was he to get in the way of such an offer from such a hero if it surfaced? She deserved someone who could care for her.

You can care for her. Better than any of them! a small, ever more present voice rang out in the back of his mind. She wants you, just let her have you!

Astarion grimaced, his gaze sliding to the bard currently cresting the hill on her way up from checking on the githyanki. He followed her lovely eyes skyward as they briefly skimmed the night sky, darkening to reveal thousands upon thousands of stars. Alas, he didn’t know if he could care for her the way she needed, the way she deserved. He was, for all his rallying against the notion, a monster. At the very least, he was far too damaged to do any of this properly. Too broken to love her.

The trouble was that, despite knowing this, he felt himself falling. And it was killing him.       

Something had caught her eye past a small throng of trees and brush and she stepped away from the ledge to go seek out whatever had caught her interest. While she walked, he saw her right hand reflexively clasp against her scarred shoulder, her fingertips pressing into the joint like she could push her discomfort away.

Astarion’s expression turned concerned. Familiar now with her fighting style and what tended to trigger her flare-ups, he knew with little doubt in his mind that it had been the longsword that had done it this time. 

He could still see her clearly in his mind’s eye. After being disarmed and temporarily losing her scimitars amongst the viscera coating the floor, Áine had dived for the first weapon she could scoop off the blood-splattered stonework to defend their downed healer—a heavy githyanki longsword. 

Shadowheart, terrified of wolves, had been sent to her knees by a ball of psionic energy while in the midst of a crippling panic attack, buckling at the sight of the gith captain’s enormous attack hounds. Áine had thrown herself into the ring as she always did to protect her friends and, also as always, she’d gotten battered in the process. She’d succeeded in saving their cleric and cutting her attacker down, but the force she’d used to swing the scavenged blade that was, all told, bigger than she was had done a number on her shoulder.

Shadowheart sat near the fire, dressing a couple of her more minor wounds with some salve and gauze. Bluish shadows lingered under her eyes that he’d learned were telltale signs that she was drained—a tell that they had in common. She’d spent much of her energy healing their party’s worst injuries until, no matter how much she tried to harass each of them into letting her heal them further, she’d been lovingly shooed away to take care of her own wounds or rest at the very least. 

A thought had occurred to Astarion as he’d watched Áine pace away toward Wyll’s side of the campground clutching her shoulder. It was a thought that would possibly open him up to some unwelcome speculation or even embarrassment if he acted upon it. His lips formed a thin line, his cupid’s bow disappearing into it as he deliberated. There was ultimately no question of whether it was worth a bit of potential goading, which he found somewhat freeing as he made his way slowly toward the cleric by the campfire.

By the time he reached her, Shadowheart had looked up to watch his approach, her gaze already skeptical the moment it landed upon him. Astarion had successfully mustered up the courage to approach the cleric but found himself already aggrieved at the idea of asking anyone for advice. Even more so because he was sure she’d needle him over it. Internally, he braced himself.

“Change your mind about having your wounds tended?” she guessed, her eyes narrowing warily when he sat down on the log she was using as a bench seat. “If you’re looking for blood, I’ve barely enough for myself as it is.”

Astarion gave her a chiding look. “I’m not in the market for your blood,” he said, his exhaustion with the direction of the conversation already plain in his voice. “And I’d rather not be ‘tended’ to. I’m halfway healed already anyway.”

“Really?” Shadowheart asked. To prove his point, Astarion adjusted the sleeve of his soft, ruffled shirt to show her what remained of a deep cut she’d earlier tried to bully him into letting her heal up. Lo and behold, when Shadowheart looked upon the cut again, it looked a week old, barely even the thin red line of a new scar left behind after mere hours. By midnight, she imagined, it would be gone completely. “I had no idea vampires healed that swiftly. Quite the perk, I suppose, in a sea of downsides?”

Astarion nodded and rolled his sleeve back down. “A ‘sea’ may be too small a measure, but yes. A quick turnaround on healing is…something,” he agreed.

She could hear unease in his voice and noted the careful way he spoke to her, which immediately made her suspicious. What did he want from her? Something to do with Áine? She didn’t get the impression that he was just trying to be friendly. “Did you want something, Astarion?” she asked more directly. 

His jaw clenched faintly as he worked up what remained of his courage and Shadowheart watched with fascination as emotions flittered just under his surface, his statuesque face roiling with conflict. Finally, he met her eyes and said through his teeth, “I would like to request a lesson in how to tend Áine’s shoulder.”

Shadowheart’s brows shot into her bangs. “You—that’s all?” she asked, still a bit suspicious. She gave him a leering look of amusement that could have only been, he decided, at his expense as expected. “I would have expected the rake, the ‘master seducer’ himself to know how to give a nice massage. How could you skip over such a romantic staple in the manual?”

Astarion waited for her to get her gibes out of the way, only speaking when she fell silent again to wait for him to fight back. He wouldn’t lest he ruin his opportunity to glean the information he wanted, having embarrassed himself for nothing. “I didn’t skip it. I know how to give a massage,” Astarion said with strained patience that was new to Shadowheart and, honestly, new to him as well. “However, my aim isn’t to worsen her condition because I lack the medicinal know-how behind such things and am too proud to seek it out.” 

Shadowheart properly felt like an arsehole for her provocation. Her eyes rounded with surprise at his borderline vicious display of earnestness barely concealed beneath a veil of politeness that cost him whatever quips he could have tossed her way. 

She gave a quiet hmph of consideration before her head slowly tilted in a nod. “Very well. My apologies,” she said in equal earnest. Not thinking, Shadowheart reached toward Astarion’s shoulder to demonstrate only to have him deftly duck away from her touch, his features suddenly tensing as he wondered if this contact was a concrete condition on her part to teach him. Instead of dwelling on the miscommunication, Shadowheart scooped her supply pouch from the ground near the fire and pulled the drawstrings tight, using it as her dummy instead.

As she explained to him what she knew about using massage to aid old wounds, especially those with deep scarring in the tissue, he subconsciously leaned back in, paying close attention to how she positioned her hands on the pouch and how deeply she dug in. Shadowheart found his attention and the boyish turn his features took when he let his guard down alarmingly endearing and she began to worry that she’d severely misjudged the vampire up until this point. 

She’d continued her lesson uninterrupted until a sharp tone from their bard across the clearing caused both Shadowheart and Astarion’s attention to shift to Áine and Gale in the midst of a confrontation.

Even after he spoke up, Gale figured he probably shouldn’t have said anything. He was fully out of sorts and had never felt so existential and dismal and utterly embittered. He was only half-aware of what he was doing, what he was saying. He’d gone into his tent after Elminster had taken his leave just to try and contain the fallout. A poor choice of words, all things considered.

He knew how it looked, how underhanded it seemed and probably felt to them as well that he’d failed to tell them the whole truth before it was told on his behalf. But he also couldn’t help but feel wronged. Ensconced in a negative aura only amplified by the orb inside him. Even dormant now, he could feel its cold, hungry tendrils still swirling paths beneath his skin. It was just no longer leeching from his life force, his power. Now it simply wrapped around his anger, his pain, and his disappointment like a most unwelcome embrace. 

It sat barely stagnated by Mystra’s will all so he could live long enough to die conveniently. But sure, his failure to inform his companions about the dangers they might face due to the dangers he did face was of utmost precedent. 

It was fair to say that Áine’s reaction had bothered Gale the most of anyone who had been present for Elminster’s explanation of his condition and delivery of Mystra’s missive. Perhaps because he’d had the most faith in her understanding his plight out of everyone present apart from perhaps Wyll and Karlach, who were both too empathetic for their own good.

“You’ve put everyone in danger by not telling us. How could you do that?” 

She wasn’t wrong. But Áine had been the one helping him procure items, had fretted over him when they stopped working, and had assured him that they’d figure something out. And now that something was figured out, it was still an inconvenience to her that he hadn’t given her the truth in the first place. He was no longer a danger to them unless his moment to take the Absolute out of this plane with him happened to include their troop in the blast radius. It wasn’t as if he’d wanted any of this in the first place. He didn’t want to die. He’d simply been a fool in the past and he was still that same fool in many ways, he realized. He’d just not thought he was a fool for believing he meant something to them.  

And now, for whatever reason, he was sabotaging himself further by picking a fight with the head of their group on the grounds of what he’d just witnessed down near Wyll’s camp. It had nothing to do with him, nothing to do with the hurt he felt, but he’d said it anyway and now he was doubling down because being angry was easier than being in pain.

“Pardon?” she inquired in response to his muttering that she’d only just caught the gist of.

Gale sighed through his nose and closed the book with more of a snap than was needed, leveling a look at her that made Áine tense. This wasn’t a face she’d seen of Gale’s—it hardly looked like the cheerful, sometimes gloomy wizard she’d come to know. Had Elminster not made dormant the dark energy in his chest, Áine may have started to wonder if this was his affliction looking at her through his eyes.

“I said,” Gale enunciated, “Wyll is right.”

Áine’s eyes narrowed, more in confusion than confrontation. Although she could feel herself bracing for another argument. “You’re going to have to give me a little more context than that, Gale.”

Gale looked at her as if she were stupid. This definitely wasn’t the Gale she’d come to know. Was this all because of how she’d reacted earlier? “Wyll is correct,” Gale said, “in that this—whatever this is—will come back to bite you. He’s already half-bored of you, I’m sure. He’ll get what he wants, be it blood or flesh, and then go on his merry way. As many would, not just him. Meanwhile, others who would stay—”

She failed to stop her hackles from going back up when he dragged her relationship with Astarion into their evidently ongoing spat. “What, like you?” Áine fired back, also tired of him not taking “no” for an answer. Her raised voice was enough to draw the attention of the others, including Shadowheart and Astarion near the fireside. 

“Please, as if I’d want you after all you’ve put me through,” Gale snapped. “After all you’ve put us through. We nearly died back there for your poor judgment and leadership!”

Áine fell silent, shaken by his ire. When she spoke again, it was barely above a snarl. “How dare you. No one has ever forced you to follow me,” she gritted. “And I sure as hell won’t start now!”

“I think we’ve all endured enough conflict for at minimum a tenday,” came a tired voice from the fireside. Áine looked over her shoulder as she and Gale both met Shadowheart’s weary gaze, dark shadows under her eyes. Astarion sat near her, also warily looking between Gale and Áine but more as if he were anticipating a fight than hoping to prevent one. 

Shadowheart gave them both a scolding look. “Tensions have run high enough recently without us all turning on each other… Although if there is to be a fight, at least give us time to get together a betting pool.”

At the commotion, Wyll had come up to stand near the bard and wizard facing off, one hand raised placatingly toward Gale. “If this is truly about what you overheard from our earlier conversation, there’s no need to attack her for it,” Wyll said, a stern edge to his voice but concern in his eyes. “If it’s not…then perhaps rather than fight, we can talk.”

Áine was visibly shaking, meeting her breaking point in full view of her companions and deeply ashamed for it. She avoided Wyll’s worried gaze when it fastened on her, her bleary eyes inspecting the dirt until she said without a single waver in her voice, “You are correct, doubtlessly so, but anything I might say at the moment I will later regret. I need some time.” And she quickly paced away from them both, avoiding everyone’s eyes until she disappeared into her tent. 

Silence lingered after her departure, fragmented only by Wyll’s lowered voice as he tried to talk to Gale and Shadowheart picking back up what she’d been telling Astarion, both finding renewed importance in their exchange given the state Áine had left in. 

Shadowheart had him repeat the kneading pattern she’d just shown him on the pouch they were now passing back and forth. “Good,” she said, watching how he pressed more firmly on the fabric under her instruction. “Assuming she lets you work on it for her—which she will, just maybe give her a little while to cool off—you’ll be able to feel where the tissue is the most damaged. Just gradually work from light to deeper pressure like we practiced and have her tell you if it hurts. That’s really all there is to it.”

Astarion nodded slowly and Shadowheart watched his jaw work again as he drummed up the courage or energy to say whatever he was about to say. She knew this time, however, to wait for him to say whatever it was before teasing him straight away. Cautiously, he said, “...Thank you for this. I appr—I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

Shadowheart gave him a humored look but allowed him the out. She only wanted to make sure he knew she was allowing it. “Of course. Happy to help.” The cleric watched his retreat with new consideration, feeling a little more at ease than she had before about the vampire her friend was swiftly falling head over heels for.  

Astarion had given her a quick, exasperated smirk before he’d handed her back the supply pouch and rose from his seat. He glanced toward Áine’s tent before going and settling on the pillows near his own, one pointy ear perked to keep tabs on her resting heartbeat so he could try to catch her before she fell asleep but still give her time to decompress as Shadowheart had suggested.

After having a reason to talk at length with Shadowheart and ask her for something that she came through for him on, Astarion had an odd impulse to find an occasion to do so again. Was this what craving someone’s friendship felt like? He who had oft dismissed the usefulness of friends and scrunched his nose at the level of maintenance those near-useless relationships required? 

Dismally, Astarion supposed he was growing a bit soft and had no one to blame but the bard that had rushed to her tent after being spurned by one of these very friendships. At least, that’s what it had seemed like. He had been so focused on what Shadowheart was saying in the moment that he’d only realized something was happening when Áine’s voice rose. He’d missed anything leading up to it, but from what he could gather, something had happened between Áine and Wyll down by his tent and Wyll wasn’t bothered by the turnout, but Gale for whatever reason was.

Astarion sniffed. That’s what they deserve for hitting on my bard, he thought dismissively, and for getting my hopes up yet again for an exciting before-bed brawl. 

Astarion afforded Áine just under an hour before he set the book he’d been barely skimming aside and rose from his pillows to visit her tent. Her heart rate had lowered but wasn’t yet at the rhythm he’d learned it usually reached in sleep. 

Something close to nervousness did creep in as he approached, however only because the path he was taking reminded him of the last time he’d attempted to visit her while she was upset and had been politely turned away. It would be no matter if she did so again, he told himself. She had every right to. Astarion just found himself very much hoping she wouldn’t.

He was so focused on his destination that a quick whistle from nearby gave him a start. Crimson eyes flickered toward the sound and located Shadowheart sitting outside her tent, waving him over when he made eye contact with her. Scratch had also taken the whistle as an invitation and bounded over to make several attempts to lick her face, which she dodged successfully until the very last one which painted a glistening trail of slobber across the Sharran’s cheek. 

“Scratch, please,” she said insistently, but her features were soft and she gave his head an affectionate pat when he sat down more politely. To Astarion, she said, “Don’t follow his example or we’ll have an even angrier bard on our hands.”

Astarion snorted. “Why even call me over then, darling?” he bantered back, genuinely wondering what she wanted all the same. Perhaps he was finally in for a “don’t break my best friend’s heart” speech.

Instead, Shadowheart held out a tiny bottle of pale yellow liquid. Astarion took it, raising it to his nose and giving it an experimental sniff. Lavender oil.

Running her hand over Scratch’s back as he laid down next to her, Shadowheart regarded Astarion with a conflicted but kind expression. “You’re all set now,” she said. He inclined his head in silent thanks, rolling the bottle between his fingertips as he turned to walk away. “Oh, and Astarion?” Astarion stopped, just turning his head to let her know he was listening. “I’m beginning to think I was mistaken about you… Keep proving me wrong.”

Astarion tsked at her words and carried on his way to Áine’s tent, leaving Shadowheart with a faint smirk playing on her lips. She looked down at Scratch, who met her eyes with his own shiny brown stare. “What do you think?” she asked, laughing when Scratch’s tail began thumping the dirt in response. “I’m starting to think so, too.”

Astarion resumed his route to Áine’s tent and cleared his throat once he was just outside. He heard her quiet “yes?” from inside and he responded in kind, “May I?”

Inside, Áine sat with her lute leaned against her bad shoulder, using the joint more as a prop in its useless state while she plucked at the strings with her other hand. She’d found solace in her solitude, but at hearing Astarion’s voice outside her tent, solitude suddenly didn’t seem so appealing. “Sure,” she said with ease, offering him a smile when he entered. 

Astarion returned her smile, ever alarmed at how swiftly his walls started to crumble whenever they found some time just for themselves. Similarly to how she’d felt when he’d first invited her to spend the night with him in his tent, he was suddenly struck by the intimate notion of coexisting with her in her private quarters. The very air hanging around him smelled like her. It was a kind of bliss. “How are you doing, my dear?” he asked.

“Better now,” she said, setting her lute aside. He first thought she was saying that she felt better after her earlier spat with Gale, but the sweet tilt of her smile made him realize that she was saying she was better now…that he was there. Would he ever grow used to her flirting with him or would it always send nonsensical heat to the very tips of his ears? “You?”

“Also better,” Astarion suggested, sitting across from her on one of the many throw pillows she’d formed into a nest in her tent. “And a bit worse for wear, too, after today, but aren’t we all. How is your shoulder?”

Áine blushed, her hand subconsciously running across the curve of the joint in question. “It’s…well, it’s how I should expect it to be after the stunts I pulled,” she admitted, deciding against playing it off to him. “In a day or so it should correct itself. It just takes time.”

Astarion nodded, suddenly shy about the proposition he’d been preparing for all night. How was it that suggesting they have sex out in a field for the first time had felt easier than offering her a shoulder massage? That they were different forms of intimacy was the answer to that question, but Astarion wasn’t yet in a place to differentiate. “May I try to help?” he asked, the words awkward as they tumbled from his lips.

Áine regarded him with confused surprise and it was all he could do to keep himself from rescinding the offer to protect his fragile ego. His panic ebbed when her expression softened and she said, “If you’d like to. I appreciate you.”

Astarion felt relieved and tried to brush off the sentimentality that bubbled up when she said she specifically appreciated him, not what he did for her alone. He raised himself just enough out of his seated position to crawl forward and settle himself behind her. Áine took the hint and scooted forward to give him space and he couldn’t help but tease her by dodging in to bury his face in her neck. She muffled a yelp that still came out as a small squeak, which was even more embarrassing, especially because she knew that his entire goal had been to mess with her. 

Redfaced, she glared down at his silvery curls as he chuckled against her throat and dropped a kiss across his old bitemarks. Áine couldn’t help the way her glare fell away to leave a smirk in its place, shaking her head at Astarion’s antics. Leave it to him to ease her mind about everything still going on outside her tent. The world still turned and the person swiftly becoming her world turned, too. Turned to settle in behind her and reach around her shoulders to untie her shirt laces, the icy tips of his fingers tracing soothing trails across her still stress-flushed skin as they moved.

Astarion let her shirt pool off Áine’s shoulders, leaving it up to her whether or not she took it off fully. He smoothed her hair away from her scarred shoulder and withdrew the vial of oil from his sleeve, popping the cap with an easy twist of his fingers. When Áine caught a familiar whiff of lavender, she started to ask, “Isn’t that—?”

“Shadowheart’s? It is,” Astarion admitted, his expression guarded even though she had her back to him. His palms and fingertips slick with the fragrant oil, he thought back to the practice rounds Shadowheart had instructed him through on her medical pouch and carefully placed his fingertips against Áine’s scars, feeling her shiver a little under his hands when he did. Silvery brows pulled together in concentration and he murmured, “Tell me if anything starts to hurt, darling.”

Áine was still trying to figure out how he’d managed to pilfer that massage oil from Shadowheart when he started investigating her shoulder, her shiver having more to do with anyone touching her scars than the now-familiar feel of his hands on her body. She nodded in reply to his request, drawing the calming lavender scent deep into her lungs and letting her eyes close as she urged her muscles to relax. Relaxation was a difficult thing to manage in the current climate of their circumstances, but she tried. 

When Astarion began to massage the scar tissue riddling the span of her shoulder joint, Áine noted the similarities in the ways his hands kneaded her aching muscles and how Shadowheart had addressed them on their accidental date. In fact, the patterns that he was carefully pressing into her flesh were almost identical. When Áine realized that, she wondered if—given the fact that he also inexplicably had the massage oil she’d used and hadn’t bragged about thieving it—Shadowheart had supplied him with the oil and told him how to work on her shoulder. 

Curiously, Áine asked, “Did Shadowheart put you up to this?” She felt his hands still, maintaining their pressure but ceasing their movement, and she hastened to add, “I’m just being nosy and you should just ignore me. Just, um, please don’t stop. This is helping.”

She heard him snort softly behind her, but he continued his work after using his pause to stretch his hands. Áine was cursing herself for prying when he surprised her by breaking his silence, his voice a quiet, focused lull. 

“No one put me up to anything, dearest,” he murmured, learning the extent and complexities of her old injuries through touch. “And you should know by now that I’m hardly capable of ignoring you.”

Áine smiled to herself, closing her eyes again and leaning back against his hands. At some point, after her shoulder had loosened up a little from the careful work he’d put into it, Astarion’s hands ran with new purpose over her bared skin. The bard’s smile skewed toward amusement as she adjusted her position so she could face him, getting scooped into straddling his lap by those talented hands of his along the way.

Facing him, Áine found herself simply content to get lost in his eyes and admire the lines of his face, the curl of his hair, the knife’s edge of his jaw, and the dramatic point of his ears. She raised her fingertips to stroke his cheek, trailing them toward his hairline and through his locks, gratified when he leaned into her hand. The corner of his mouth lifted in a coy smirk. “Like what you see, little love?” he purred.

“You know I do,” she said, gently caressing the long elven sweep of his ear in the way she’d learned he liked, eliciting a pleasurable hum from his throat. She’d seen him become gradually more and more comfortable with her, even when he was clearly still combatting whatever hells he’d been through that she’d yet to—or would never—learn of. Áine was proud of him and honored to be part of what helped to heal the wounds in his heart, even if she did end up being just a passing fancy for him in the end.

His crimson eyes searched hers, heavy-lidded with his momentary bliss. “And what is it you see?” he coaxed her, wondering if any of her answers had changed from the last time he’d asked her to be his mirror. 

Her answer had changed, just not in the way he expected. Áine had parted her lips to reply, but hesitated, her features becoming contemplative before she finally asked, “Would you like me to show you?”

“Hm?” Astarion hummed, baffled until he caught where she might be going with this. “You mean to use the tadpole? …Would that work?”

“It’s not a mirror or a reflection, so I don’t see why it wouldn’t unless I’m missing something obvious,” she mused. “I can try if you want.”

Astarion hesitated in turn, his curiosity and vanity both stirring to the surface. He was nervous though. What if what he saw horrified him? He’d never seen himself as a vampire and had endured so long and so much without seeing his own face he hardly knew what he looked like anymore. He knew because he’d been told with varying degrees of kindness that he was what society deemed beautiful, but what had that been worth in the end?

“I can just do what we did before,” Áine offered when he stayed silent and clearly conflicted. “What did we say… Ah, ‘shallow praise,’ as it were?”

He chuckled faintly, but it felt hollow around the anxious lump that had formed in his throat. “No, I… I would like to try,” Astarion said. Suddenly he found himself admitting to her exactly what was unnerving him and it felt like confessing a sin to the only goddess he believed could forgive him. “I’m wary of seeing myself after so long. Seeing what I’ve become.”

Áine’s eyes softened and she raised her other hand to gently cup his face, feeling his grip on her waist tightening as if she were a lifeline. “We can stop whenever you’d like, as with everything,” she murmured. His heart gave a painful pang and only after he nodded for her to go ahead did Áine use the illithid tadpole to open up her mind to him, a little nervous herself.

Astarion felt when she opened for him, her consciousness unfurling like a flower as she closed her eyes to concentrate. He admired her for a moment, having half a mind just to kiss her senseless and avoid his fears altogether. With his hands still rooted to her waist to ground him in the present moment, he let his mind join with hers.

He was startled initially when he was met with darkness, but as he settled into her sentience and his initial wariness of the connection itself waned, he realized that her eyes were just still closed. He could feel the way her lashes brushed against the apples of her cheeks. He could feel her heart beating as if it were in his chest, her lungs filling with air and exhaling in even time. Her calm body managed to calm him and Astarion gathered that she could sense his nerves in kind because it was only after he steadied himself that she opened her eyes.

The pale elf sat bewildered and shaken as he stared into his own eyes for the first time in two centuries. The planes of his face he could only trace with his fingertips and try to make sense of came into focus, a stranger more familiar than anything he’d ever known. His hair didn’t surprise him, so that must have been the same for the most part. Astarion couldn’t quite recall seeing these lines in this face before this moment, but they did little to catch his vanity in comparison to the bright red eyes taking all of this in. 

He remembered how she’d asked him what color his eyes had once been the first time—the only time—they’d talked about the access he’d lost to his own appearance. In mirror and memory. Another thing taken from him. Another thing she’d found a way to offer him back.

He wished he could remember. Maybe it was better that he couldn’t. And when his jaw dropped slightly at seeing just how vividly the red irises shone in the dim light, he saw the points of his fangs just past his parted lips. Astarion curled his lip back to get a better look, the tip of his tongue running along one of the sharp tips with new understanding. They weren’t as big as they sometimes, especially in his early days as a vampire spawn, had felt in his mouth.

“Are you alright?” Áine asked gently through their connection, her voice skimming his inner thoughts like a kind touch. It took him a moment to realize that she was asking him this now in real time and he wasn’t remembering another time that she’d checked on him. He acknowledged with a tug at his chest that there would be plenty of those instances for him to pull from.

“I believe I am,” he replied similarly, although he could see on his own face that he felt a bit troubled. “It’s both as alarming and not as much as I’d expected.”

Áine’s hands had remained gently cupped against his face throughout the process and his gaze left his own features to perceive how her strong yet delicate hands lingered and traced reassuring lines against his cheekbones. He found himself lightly prodding around the vision she offered him, a new question surfacing that made him even more curious and still more wary.

She felt his conflict as he searched the piece of her awareness she’d lent to him. “Something else?” she asked, removing one of her hands from his face to rub at her eyes, which had watered a little from her attempt to limit her blinking while he studied himself.

“I want to see how you see me,” Astarion told her and his expression grew vulnerable in both their minds’ eyes. “Just you.”

That made Áine a touch nervous. She knew what he was asking of her—he wanted her to let the barrier she’d put around her feelings down so he could experience her perception of him in full. She’d originally tried to stow her bias so he could just see himself as he was without her weigh-in, but now that he was requesting that, too, she was worried it would be too much. What if she scared him off? What if he laughed at her? 

Ultimately it came down to a single, simple question that tended to shake her to her core regardless of who it referenced. Did she trust him?

The answer was just as simple, if not just as foolish. She did.

Astarion felt her throat tighten like it was his own right before the barriers he’d been testing were removed. He saw himself precisely as he’d seen himself before through her eyes, but the emotion that poured in with the sight of him this time made his eyes go wide and his jaw fall slack. His chest constricted. There was no sense to what he was experiencing through her, of hers, and yet he was experiencing it in full and in real-time. Her anxiety about baring more of herself to him, her concern for him and whether or not this had been a healthy thing to offer him, a lingering sadness that came from seeing the conflict flitting through his features, and more than all of that…

…ardent care and compassion. So ardent that he could feel it burning in his chest. Shocked into stillness, he could only watch as she gave him a sort of tour of his own features that he’d just been deliberating over in untouched neutrality with only his opinions for reference. Áine traced over the bow of his lips, the currently flushed tips of his ears, the regal line of his nose and jaw, and lastly his soulful, widened crimson eyes. And the more she showed him, the more she admired him, the more unabashed she felt in her reverence.

When finally using the parasite began to feel taxing to her, Áine screwed her eyes shut, letting go of the connection and trying to refocus her vision. She opened her eyes, wondering if all of that had been too much until she met Astarion’s eyes, his vision his own again, and saw the tears streaming down his face.

Áine’s eyes widened and she instinctively smoothed the tears away even as more came, an apology springing to her lips to atone for whatever she’d done. 

An apology he kissed away like a man starving.

Thank you.

Next chapter: Chapter 14, "In Waters Deep"

[orkbutch]

why do githyank have belly buttons. Do they??? Do they?????????

[piipaw]

RULES: Post 5 songs associated with your OC, followed by 4 outfits they would wear

I was tagged by @tavsboots and I've been slowly chipping away at this ;w; TYSM for the tag!!! (i love tears for fears, good choice ;w;)

Filling this out for my boy... Gum!!

Gum is my Githyank Cleric of Mystra!

SONGS

I find it so hard to pick songs for Gum bc he changes so much pre game/ Act 1-3/post game so.... I picked a few off my Gum Playlist but tried to not include couple-y ones.

OUTFITS

As for outfits I never know what to dress him in short of "hot mom athletic wear" or "mesh and harnesses" but I feel like I don't address enough that Gum's more they than he by post game. He's always felt more comfy showing skin VS covering up- a vibe his new neighbors don't really enjoy.

Tagging @astralprisms @w1tchsoup @karaokebearwithal @violentlyexplosive @githkisser and whoever else sees this and wants to play!!

[magicveiled]

should I give the lady from the creche who wants the githyank egg the owlbear egg or the spider egg? :/

[cellphishthekaiju]

Crackpot Theorycrafting: Prince Orpheus is the son of Gith and Zerthimon

I know I'm quite 'late' putting this out but I needed to let it ruminate for a while longer. To preface, there's very little evidence in Baldur's Gate 3 and even Dungeons & Dragons lore, as a whole about who Orpheus's father/sire was... so this theory is almost entirely conjecture and brainrot.

Don't take it as anything solid, this is just the ramblings of a lunatic with nothing better to do with her time.

Also, (obvious) spoiler warning cause it mainly uses stuff from Baldur's Gate 3's story. Most information is sourced from The Forgotten Realms wiki as it's the most 'decent' source of D&D info for me to find relatively quickly and be accurate.

Anyway, on with the show.

Baldur's Gate 3 establishes some 'certain' things about Orpheus's connection and role within the githyanki lore (and D&D lore) as it is nowadays.

For those who are not in the know, the 'gith' were a slave race to the Illithid Empire but thanks to the strength and collaboration of Gith, Zerthimon and Vlaakith, they fought and gained their independence and brought the Illithid Empire to its knees but were soon wrecked by a civil war, called the Proclamation of Two Skies, that tore the gith race into two distinct factions/culture; the Githyanki (gith who followed Gith and Vlaakith) and the Githzerai (gith who followed Zerthimon).

The first time you meet Orpheus, some interesting things are immediately noticeable about him, starting with the gith himself(ignoring the infernal chains, that's a different story). Orpheus exhibits attire, body art, and a beard that is characteristic of the Githzerai and even his in-game class is that of a Monk (as well as his honor guard). What's this have to do with his relation to Zerthimon?

Githyanki don't look and dress like this and, to be honest, Orpheus's whole 'drip' looks more like Githzerai 5e art than Githyank art.

However, Orpheus identifies himself, quite confidently, as a Githyanki (and BG3 gives further 'evidence' of this through some of the endings, when he departs on a red dragon), so I suspect he never actually spent time with the Githzerai yet has chosen to embody the philosophies of an important role model... which had to be Zerthimon, before the civil war. Very flimsy proof of fatherhood, I know, but it makes sense in my deranged mind.

But Lae'zel says githyanki reproduce asexually. Sure... as far as she knows. We have no real 'facts' if the information Lae'zel was taught (all controlled by Vlaakith, mind you) was right, wrong, or only partially correct. Perhaps they can but if that was their 'primary' form of reproduction, I feel like the githyanki would be nowhere near as diverse-looking people as we see them... but that's just applying logic for the sake of my own headcanon.

Anyway, given that we have no real confirmation of event timelines, I also assume Vlaakith I is the one who imprisoned Orpheus in the Astral Prism after he rebelled against her in retaliation for trading Gith to Tiamat. (a slate inside the prism itself states Vlaakith I was the one who commissioned it's construction and, assumedly, the shackles as well, given their infernal design), which would suggest Orpheus was around/existed before or during the civil war, at least. There's not reason I can think of Vlaakith, any of the Vlaakith's would permit him to persist to threaten her reign plus his useful ability served her greatly.

Well, I hope ya'll enjoyed my insane rambling. If you'd like more, just let me know. I'm always open to suggestions (doesn't even have to be BG3 related).

[deaths]

i made a githyank i think would be cute for my romance with wyll but then my game crashed SAD! she is a monk noble she is very cute. im still piecing together what story i want her to have but i think shes good aligned for sure.

[batapocalypseincoming]

I love how githyankes look like cats. 😻

[danse--macabre]

1 and 2 from gen? :)

Where can your Tav be recruited?  Are they first encountered on the Nautiloid, or in the Nautiloid crash region?  Or are they not recruitable until a later act?

She's an origin companion (whose arc fits the themes of control / agency very well) whose family have links to Gortash and the cult of the Absolute, but she's not as vital to the plot as Shadowheart or centrally located in the Githyank-Mindflayer conflict as Lae'zel.

I personally imagine her in the crashed Nautiloid ship, surrounded by a ring of corpses. She's absolutely spent, with a bloodied, smouldering dress, a broken jewellery box + a tome open (she's trying to do a blood ritual, but the only tool she has for it is a cut gem), trying to use it speak to a dead mindflayer to press him for answers -- and struggling to resist their 'spirit'. Her dress seems like it's going to slowly burn her - but she doesn't appear to break her concentration for a second. There's a lot of intellect devourer viscera about - a quick investigation shows she's attempted to raise the dead, but the level 1 nerf means that what was second nature is now impossible, and so she's settling for just 'speaking with it'.

You have to break her from her work, and can optionally heal her.

2. Do the other companions have special comments or reactions upon recruiting your Tav?

Astarion exchanges some banter about how marvellously she's improved the décor in this rotten place, Tirazel takes it in her stride, responds that viscera and rotting corpses just make the prettiest additions to a new home, don't they? 'Another undead treasure,' she says. She doesn't bother to clarify that she's joking.

Gale is inquisitive to the nature of the ritual, her tome, and what she has learned from probing a mindflayer. I think Tirazel's a little prickly r.e. necromancy, 'Surely a tremendous wizard such as yourself would be kind enough to let me keep just a handful of trade secrets', but is fairly open about how 'precious little' she's been able to extract from the mindflayer.

Karlach has some iteration of 'ew, gross', and I think Tirazel just laughs + just starts flirting. 'Professional hazard. I clean up nicely enough.' Makes some remark about 'the dangers of playing with fire' as she stops the fire on her clothing, but how it's often 'worth the risk, far more than most will tell you'.

Lae'zel asks if it was her who made short work of the ghaik in this ship, Tirazel replies in the negative, 'though wouldn't that be awfully convenient? No, [gestures to pod] I was stuck in one of those beastly contraptions like the rest of you. We do have things in common.'

Shadowheart recognises that she's in the midst of some dark ritual, though Tirazel cheerily reassures her 'Oh, this is just something I set up off-hand, it's rather... crude. There's not even any [alchemy ingredient]-scented candles here. But desperate times call for desperate measures, don't they?' alluding to the fact that she was more powerful than this while making a flippant wizard remark.

Wyll immediately goes, 'Ah. Necromancer.' [suspicious voice]. Tirazel smiles sweetly and says 'Well, just look who the devil dragged to my door.' She'll greet him with a curtsy - she does recognise who he is, actually. (Insight proficiency + Noble background means Tirazel often has people on the back foot in these kinds of situations).

I think on the whole, Tirazel is attempting to show herself as powerful, composed, and knowledgeable, if not wise - despite the surrounding viscera indicating otherwise. On successful checks, you can notice that the gore indicates failed rituals, and you might succeed at an insight check to realise -- despite the projected confidence, she's deeply nervous. Tirazel's noble bearing and demeanour aren't a secret, she's from that type of Balduran family. She does otherwise keep her cards to her chest though.

You may actually have the option to attempt to probe her with your tadpole, and you'll get a brief image of a dark library, tucked away behind an extravagant ballroom, where heady dancing and swirling music can be felt through the walls, as trembling hands pull a bloodied tome off a forbidden shelf. She will catch you peeking after that, and will say something along the lines of 'It's awfully rude to let your tadpole squirm where it doesn't belong, isn't it? Perhaps I should take one of your memories in return.'

I think that's it for Tirazel entry scene. The impression is a haughty mage noble who thinks she's the wittiest thing since sliced bread, who wants to appear dangerous. (She is not dangerous, she's sad and a bit pathetic if I'm honest.)