#half elf Tav

[spacebarbarianweird]

Hi, wondering if you could do some dadstarion headcanons for a half-elf child, since I see quite a few for astarion with an elven child. I was wondering how he would deal with a half-elf child as they are known having the free-spirted and chaotic energy whilst having a sense of wanderlust, I picture astarion trying to stop them from running off at times, or not.

Oh, doing a half-elven kid would be fun! In case you want to read about an elven kid, I am currently writing a series about Astarion's elf daughter Alethaine

Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion's half-elf child

You are a human and you can't wait for decades till Astarion is ready to settle down.

You have ten years, fifteen, maybe twenty, but not a year more of active life ahead.

Astarion understands that, too, but what he also understands he can't settle down now.

You break up ten years into the relationship and your ways part.

As an innkeeper, you gather all kinds of strange folk under your roof but you can't find anyone who you want to share a bed with.

Not until...

Someone familiar shows up.

You barely recognize Astarion, thinking, it's just another Moon Elf. They all look the same especially when they have long hair.

"Hello, darling."

You stare at him in disbelief.

He isn't a vampire anymore.

Green eyes, long silver hair. Mortal.

He tells you all sorts of things that happened to him. He found his family and his home, and he was saved from the curse and resurrected.

And then he spent years searching for you.

He will overlive you anyway. You have a few decades but he will keep living his long elven life after your death but somehow it feels less terrible now when he can walk in the sun.

You soon get pregnant - bless or curse be the human fertility.

The half-elf baby stuck between two worlds, is born almost without pain as she is just way smaller than a human would be.

The tavern and its yard soon became her playground. She is curious like a human and has an innate wanderlust as an elf. Sometimes she just goes missing only to be found in the next village.

Astarion's elven family loves her but there is always sadness about her.

She will die.

Astarion will see her death even if she lives till the ripe old age. If she has kids of her own with another human, they will all wither and die in front of their elven eyes.

Astarion tries not to think about it. He has never learned to think about the future.

The girl becomes a professional adventurer and leaves her human village. Astarion stays with you till your days end and buries you, feeling sorry only about those ten years he was away.

Then he leaves and returns to Evereska to his elven family.

Your daughter wanders the world - always ending up at her father's, ready to tell new stories and share new experiences.

Astarion notices the indication of her own aging and knows his daughter's time is also coming sooner or later.

But he tries not to think about it.

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[baba-the-fool]

I’ve been obsessed a lil with my Tav(Phoebe) and everyone’s favorite vampire

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Hibernation

Set post-game. Halsin starts to feel more tired every day and knows what it means---he will need to hibernate. NSFW.

“Daddy Halsin, are you alright?” One of the tiefling children asked him. He had been showing the children how to take care of the vegetable seeds they had planted in the greenhouse when a jolt of fatigue went through him. Third time this has happened today. Is it that time again? “Daddy Halsin?”

He offered a gentle smile to the child. “Yes, Eustace. I’m well, simply tired.”

One of the other children, a human girl named Poppy, thought for a moment before suggesting, “You should take a nap with Miss Annie, Daddy Halsin. You’re always so happy after being with her!”

He could not help but laugh and ruffled the child’s hair. “You’re very right, Poppy! Miss Annie does make me happy.” He looked at one of the druids, a dragonborn from Baldur’s Gate. “Can you continue their lesson, friend? After, let them wander the square and play to their hearts’ content.”

The druid gave a nod. “Of course. Now children…”

Thankfully Halsin was able to slip away without too much crying, and soon he opened the door to his and Anais’s cottage on the edge of what was Reithwin and now known as Moonrise. He and his beloved agreed to live away from the town center (so I may easily go into the woods whenever I please) but with a kitchen of her design (higher than usual counters and a large hearth) and additions of nature throughout. It was a beautiful home. Certainly not as grand as that manor she grew up in, but thankfully her tastes are much simpler than her mother’s. He smelled something sweet as he entered the cottage. Honey cakes?

“You’re back early!” Anais looked up from her book. She was sitting at the table, her apron covered in flour.

He smiled as he bent to kiss her. She is perfect. She fills my heart with such joy. “I was feeling tired.”

“Again?” Her voice was tinged with worry.

Pulling up his chair next to hers, he sighed. “Yes, but I think I know what it is.” She offered an encouraging nod, and he continued. “Every so often, the bear needs to hibernate. It’s getting to be that time.” He watched as she put a slip of paper inside her book and closed it.

“How long?”

“It can range from a week to three months. It’s never the same, and I won’t know for long I’ve been hibernating until I wake.” She’s going to ask if she can come with me. Oh Annie, please…

As she serious as he had ever seen her, she asked, “Can I come with you?”

He sandwiched one of her hands in his as he shook his head. “No. It’s far too dangerous. Best to stay here and—” Please don’t fight me on this. It’s too dangerous. Far, far too dangerous.

Anais smiled sadly. “Carry on as best I can.”

The two sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. “I will write to your mother, Nadia, and Astarion to see if any of them would like to be with you while I’m gone. Or perhaps Gale could make the trip from Waterdeep. Or Shadowheart and her parents?” I would also suggest Wyll and Karlach, but alas, they cannot return from Avernus, and gods know where Lae’zel is.

Her other hand now rested on the top of his. “Oh no, please. I don’t want to be a bother. Besides, I’m not alone when I have Scratch, Horace, and Obie here. And there’s also everyone in town. I’ll be okay.” She reassured him with a kiss on his cheek.

Their foreheads touched as he closed his eyes. I don’t want you to feel alone. I want you to be surrounded by love and care while I hibernate. It will make my sleep much more peaceful. “Since we have coupled, we have not spent one night apart. I worry if my hibernation lasts more than a week or two you will be lonely, my heart.” And it breaks my heart to see you sad.

She wrinkled her nose and gave him a quick peck. “Oh, I’ll be alright. Don’t worry about me.” Impossible, dearest one. “Is there anything else we need to do before you, I assume, go into a cave and sleep?”

Halsin chuckled heartily. “Yes! I’ll start scouting for one tomorrow. There is something else, Annie. I need to put on some weight.”

Anais raised an eyebrow. “How much?”

“Usually between forty to sixty pounds. Though,” he remembered a specific hibernation, soon after the Shadow Curse took hold. “There was one time I barely put on forty pounds, and it was…erm, not a pleasant experience. So please forgive me if I eat us out of house and home for the next several weeks.” Upon hearing her laugh, he shook his head. “You’re taking this remarkably well, my heart.”

She waved a dismissive hand with a grin. “To be honest, when you pass a certain point, some things are just filed under ‘strange but interesting druid things.’ This happens to be one of them.” Giving him a kiss on the cheek, she rose to check the items in the oven. “Ooh, these are all done.” Taking the honey cakes out of the oven, she placed the tray on the stovetop. “Nice and fresh, love, though if you’re going to grab one or two, just wait until they cool a bit.”

Chuckling, he rose and embraced her from behind, his large, calloused hands resting on her apron covered belly. “I was…thinking of something else, my love. As I make ready for hibernation, what if I leave you a piece of me?” We’ve spoken about this before, but why does my heart race so?

“A piece of you, hm? A lock of your hair perhaps?” She cannot be serious. “Or,” Praise Silvanus, she’s teasing. “Something else entirely?”

He huffed a breath as he tugged on her earlobe. “Does ‘something else entirely’ cover me filling you to the brim with my seed until it takes, blessing us with a child?”

A small gasp escaped her, her hands now covering his. Attempting to cover mine. Hers are smaller…and so very lovely. “What a coincidence it does! When shall we begin, Halsin love?”

He gave her a quick squeeze before releasing her and taking a honey cake. “Right after I have a few of these, my heart.”

They spent the rest of the day in bed---laughing, making love, and Halsin leaving the bed every so often for more honey cakes. How blessed am I to love a woman who is brave, brilliant, beautiful, and an excellent baker. Annie is truly one of a kind.

***

Halsin was in heaven.

Or what was as close as he would get to it.

In wildshape, he was on his back in a small clearing outside Moonrise, his belly full of fruit, milk, and honey as Anais scratched behind a soft ear. She had been reading a book her mother sent (“More bawdy romance, love” she said) after a morning filled with music lessons for the children. She has taken on the role of teacher so well. The way she lights up when they learn something new is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

“I still have some more strawberries if you’re still hungry, my handsome bear.” she said sweetly. Annie always casts Speak to Animals or drinks a Potion of Animal Speaking before I go into wildshape. The sweetest and most thoughtful woman alive… “There’s still plenty of honey too.”

He huffed. “In a short while, my heart. Need things to settle first.”

She nodded, her nose wrinkling. “Alright, love.” Placing her bookmark where she left off, she closed the book and put it down. She then shifted so she was sitting closer to the bear’s middle. “Belly rub?”

Silvanus preserve me. “If…if that is something you wish to do, sweet one, then by all means.”

Anais slowly rubbed circles on his fur-covered belly, humming her favorite waltz. To Halsin, he had never seen a more beautiful sight. The way the sun is hitting her skin, it appears as if she’s glowing with radiance. Oak Father, thank you for sending her to me. Upon hearing him moan, she chuckled. “That good, huh?”

“You’ve no idea…feels so good, my heart…”

She puckered her lips a little and winked at him. Another way of giving each other kisses while I’m in wildshape. “Good. And don’t worry, my beautiful bear---I love doing things for you, big or small.” How true that is, especially anything with the children. She adores every child and acts as a mother to all. “Oh, and before I forget---the care package from Mum should be arriving tomorrow or the day after. I told her to put in lots of snacks with honey in them for you.”

Halsin groaned loudly as she continued her ministrations. “So thoughtful, lover. You’re so good…” As I hope I am to you. Perhaps I should show her how much I adore her. A golden glow surrounded him as he wildshaped back into an elf. “Come here to me…”

Smiling softly, she shifted to lay down next to him, curling into his more substantial side. Not that she minds. I could be a worm, and she would love me. Blessings be upon you, Oak Father. Thank you for her. “Always coming to you. For you. On you.” She snorted, beginning to laugh. “With you.” They laughed for a few minutes with Halsin tickling her upper arm.

He pressed several kisses to her red hair and murmured, “Come with me before you start supper. Come with me after. Come with me once more after dessert…and more…” Seeing the knowing grin tugging on her lips, he held onto her wide hips as she straddled him. And mindful of how full I am. I am blessed. “More…” She will know how much I desire her.

She rocked a little on the ever-growing bulge in his trousers and chuckled. “And you accuse me of being greedy? You’ve been wanting me more than usual, lover. I’m not complaining, mind you.” Her hands traveled down her sides and rested on top of his. “Is this how it usually is for you when preparing for hibernation?”

He furrowed his brow. “Hmm, the fire burns a little hotter some years but never like this.”

Anais thought for a moment. “Maybe because the burdens you once carried---the battle at Moonrise, the Shadow Curse, Thaniel, the responsibilities of the grove---are no longer present? You said yourself your heart feels lighter than it has in centuries.”

“Very true. It could be that. It could be something else entirely. However,” he squeezed her hips and stared at her with his most loving gaze. “I will choose to believe it is because of you.” After all, it is because of you that light shines here once more. Nature thrives here because of you. My heart is full of joy every day because of you.

Her cheeks flushed pink. Nature blessed her in so many beautiful ways. “You are quite possibly the sweetest man to ever exist,” she smiled brighter than a million suns. “And I adore you.” Untying the laces on his breeches (which are far too tight in more ways than one), she freed his aching member, earning her a groan. “Time to come with me, love.” Hiking up her dress a little, she slowly sank down his massive length and not being silent about it as is her way. Finally, be loud, my heart! “Decided against panties today…had a feeling we’d be…” Yes. Good. Very good, my love. “Gods, I’ve no idea how I get you inside me every time…you’re so bloody huge…”

“Ah, and yet, you take me so well!” He let her adjust to him for a few moments until he was fully hilted inside her. Oak Father take me. She is your most lovely creation. Thrusting slowly, Halsin bit back a moan as she rolled her soft hips. “Annie…my love…”

She clenched around him and squeezed her brown eyes shut. “W-what do you desire?”

“To stay like this…and…” He licked his lips. “The honey.”

With ease, Anais summoned a pair of mage hands that opened the jar of honey and brought it back to her and Halsin. “How should we do this?” She clenched around him and moaned softly. “Eat honey off my hand? Pour?”

“Pour…please, my heart…” He panted, his cock twitching inside her. Oak Father, fill me with your bounty, and let me fill her with my seed. “Please, I beg of you…”

Her cheeks turned redder as she smiled sweetly, tipping the jar towards his lips. “No need to beg, my handsome bear.” She cooed. “I can’t possibly tease the one who owns my heart, can I? Not when he’s been so incredibly good to me lately.” Her smile grew brighter as he swallowed the honey. How am I so blessed? It is the highest honor to hold your heart, dearest one. “That’s it, Halsin love. Jar’s almost empty, and then,” she winked. “Want to me to bounce on your cock for a bit?”

Gulping down the rest of the honey, his calloused hands squeezed her soft hips and thrusted upwards making her to moan. More. I must have more. My blood is on fire. All I want is her. All I need is her. Her. Annie. My heart. My everything.

His everything then tossed the empty jar aside as Halsin swallowed, rolling her hips slowly. “Fucking hells, you’re so bloody much, love…” She reached for his hands, grasping them in hers. “Gods…Halsin, fill me…please…”

“As if…I can ever…deny you…” He huffed, thrusting with as much frequency as he could. He could feel his own end coming quickly but hoped as always that she comes first. It is only right that my sweetest Annie experience pleasure before me. Giving one of her hands a squeeze, he let go. The hand dove under her dress to find the spot where they were joined and began to rub furiously. He reveled in her reaction---completely, openly, happily debauched. That I am the cause of her pleasure brings me so much joy…more so knowing that she feels the same for me. “And if this doesn’t take…I shall fill you again, my love.” So close. Oak Father, hear me---let me bring her bliss always. Let this be the seed that creates life.

“HALSIN!” Anais screamed as her orgasm ripped through her.

Moments later, he reached his own peak, hazel eyes glowing gold. Several grunts escaped him as he once again gripped both her hands. “Annie…” Halsin sighed, feeling not only impossibly full but entirely spent.

She rolled off him and onto her back, staring at the sky. “Yes?”

“Perhaps we may nap here a while before returning home?” He waited for her to respond before noticing she immediately fell asleep. Chuckling, he laid on his side and brushed a few strands of red hair out of her perfect face. “Rest now, sweet one, for there will be more later.”

***

Today is the day. Halsin heaved a sigh as his feet hit the bedroom floor. Today I will leave to hibernate. Today I leave Annie for who knows how long. Annie, my love… As tears began to form in his eyes, he remembered something she said the previous night that made his heart feel lighter.

“Think of it this way---you’re taking a lot of me with you.” Anais wrinkled her nose, giggled, and kissed his cheek. “About sixty pounds worth, I’d say. I’m keeping you snuggly warm until you wake and return to me.”

He was not ashamed to admit that he began to cry after hearing her say that and held her in his arms for some time, refusing to let her go. Not that she minds. She once said if she could spend eternity in my arms she would. The feeling is certainly mutual, my heart.

“I packed a few more herbs to make healing potions in your bag. And some freshly baked cinnamon rolls!” Anais said as she leaned in the doorway of their bedroom. While she was smiling, it did not reach her brown eyes. “I keep trying to think if there’s anything else you need—”

Halsin held up a hand. “You’ve done enough, my love. I am more than prepared for hibernation.” Standing, he grabbed the only pair of trousers that still fit and put them on. “All thanks to you of course.” He smiled warmly at her as he tied them. Loosely. They’ll be off as soon as I reach the cave. Then wildshape. Then sleep. And hopefully dream of her. “Your mother is still arriving tomorrow?”

“Yes. I think she might be staying longer than originally planned. Now that she knows the Ironworks can indeed function without her, she wants to see just how long it can function without her.” She giggled and walked to Halsin, giving him an adoring look over. “Gods, you’re gorgeous. Do you know that, love?”

He enveloped her in his arms and pressed a kiss to her head. “I am nothing when compared to your beauty. Nature truly outdid itself when it created you.”

She rested her head under his chin and grinned. “Flatterer.”

“It’s not flattery when it’s true, my heart.”

Normally she would banter with him further. Instead, she hummed softly and ran her hands over his back and sides. “I’m going to miss you.” She whispered after a few minutes.

Annie, please. I do not wish to cry. I want to leave you with a smile, not with any more tears. “As I will miss you, sweet one. Oak Father willing, I will return to you much sooner than we think.” He cupped her face and kissed her forehead gently. OH! “Remember that Eustace loves—”

“The lavender soap at bathtime. I know. They’ll be alright.”

He had said goodbye to the children the previous night, and while it was not easy for anyone (there were many tears shed and hugs given), he knew they were in the best hands. “Forgive me, I—”

She silenced him with a short kiss and a knowing smile. “We’ll be alright. Now,” she stepped back and sighed, hands on her hips. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

He laughed and hugged her one more time. “I love you, Annie.”

More than you will ever know.

[predninja]

Sclurp dat blue tongue

[aristenfromwarsaw]

🌸 Serafina 🌸

Request for: @tragedybunny

[tieflingfingers]

cropped version

Long man convinces himself he’s the scary dog privilege.

[y-rhywbeth2]

Elf Lore Dump - 1/???

I had to cut a lot of detail. Wouldn't have to do that with any of the other demihumans; they'd just fill a single fucking post. I could be talking about dwarven druids and their giant bees, or bitching about how much better Tieflings used to be, but nooo elves are fuckin' special!

Elves in brief are fey spirits in mortal flesh, spiritually connected to each other, the world and their gods. Often aloof, considered creatures of ethereal grace... They would also very much appreciate it if you never mentioned their long history of fuckups including several world wars, multiple war crimes and genocides - successful or attempted.

I just shoved a load of elven lore together in an attempt at an overview, occasionally hypothesising when gaps appeared in my knowledge; here's hoping it made sense!

Overview; Spirituality stuff/Afterlife; History rundown; The different types of elf

As always: "D&D is old as balls, there's a lot of stories and information out there that may conflict with what you hear from me because D&D is an old trainwreck pileup of lore that keeps contradicting and tripping over itself and there's stuff I might not be aware of." I personally am mostly taking the angle here that older, detailed Realmslore will take precedence over generic 5e lore.

The elven word for their own race is Tel'Quessir - translated as "The People", or "Of The People". This is due to the aforementioned spiritual link: elves are spiritually linked to each other, which gives them a low-level telepathic link…

"Elves seem to have some sort of mental link between them […] linked with [a] mysterious gland in their brains. It cloaks their brains from [enchantment magic] but it can also emit energy to allow another elf to project his mind into another's and then the two share thoughts on some level. The closeness of elven communities comes from this habitual sharing of minds, and the elves do not understand other races without this ability, for they cannot conceive of being totally alone in one's own head. Apparently, elves look forward to sharing their thoughts with others and do it directly or in "reverie."" - Cormanthyr: Empire of the Elves

"[Elves] mystically acquire [skills they don't have] by drawing them from shared elven memory..." - Mordenkainen's Monsters of the Multiverse

Reverie is the world for the elven trance in the Realms. During reverie the elf falls into a trance like state where they lie down (or recline on a chair or something) and go incredibly still, their eyes open. This can often cause panic amongst non-elves not experienced with elves, to whom they appear to have just died.

In reverie an elf relieves the past events of their life. This is how elves avoid forgetting past events of their lives, despite living for 700+ years.

Pregnant elves eventually fall into a semi-reverie as they commune with the developing infant. The child "learns" of their family, home and is born knowing them and starts off already knowing some basic knowledge of the elven language.

Non-elves are N'Tel'Quessir or N'Quess - "Not of the People." They are not part of this link and not part of the whole that is The People.

I don't think it's ever been specified whether the mind linking applies to half-elves. Half-elves may chose to either reverie as an elf or sleep as a human and possess the elven resistance to enchantment magic, implying that gland exists to some degree. They might be capable of some degree of this connection, at least, but possibly not the full version. Half-elves are sometimes insultingly referred to their more racist cousins as A'Tel'Quessir - "Almost of the People"

Dark elves theoretically should be able to do this, but 99% of them wouldn't, due to Lolthite cult brainwashing.

Considering that vampires are immune to enchantment and psionics due to being corpses with no brain activity, presumably that gland is dead and an elf who becomes a vampire cannot access this communion. They do appear to be capable reverie in some depictions, however - though they probably can't share it. (Even if they can, I highly doubt elves are going to trust a spiritually defiled undead monster that's also an abomination in the eyes of one of the major deities in the elven pantheon.)

Elves are inherently connected to magic and the Weave. This is apparently what gives them their extremely long lifespans and what is behind their cultural adoration of magic.

Random things about elven culture include that they have champagne and they've invented the prog rock genre, according to Ed Greenwood, who created the setting.

Elves live 700+ years and physically and psychologically mature at the same rate as humans. While they are still in their first century of life, and within a human lifespan, they tend to experience the world much the same as a human of equivalent age rather than an ancient fey being to whom next century is the equivalent of next year. Elves in this stage of development usually go through a cultural rebellion stage. They ignore their own communities in favour of humans, if possible; involve themselves in human "fads"; and have flings and relationships with non-elves. Young elves sometimes dabble with evil alignments, something older elves generally consider a phase that they'll grow out of and look back on with embarrassment when they're old enough to know better.

Elves are not considered fully mature adults by their own people's standards until they're into their second century of life. Age 20-120 is basically like being 18 to early 20-something for a century from the elven perspective. Fully mature elves are slow to respond to events (major human events pass in the blink of an eye to elves) and have a rather laissez-faire attitude to the world. That might explain why elven culture values personal freedom and individuality.

--- Afterlife: Elves are kind of fey spirits in mortal flesh - which was backed up in 2e, when the fact that they have spirits and don't have souls meant that resurrecting them could be annoying and expensive sometimes, because Raise Dead wouldn't work on them, only Resurrection and True Resurrection.

According to Ed, the elven spirit is inherently tied to the plane of Arvandor. While they can dedicate themselves to non-elven gods, outside of exceptional cases those elves will still be going to Arvandor when they die.

Dying, in elven terms, is called "Passing West." In their reverie they begin to receive signs from Sehanine Moonbow, elven goddess of dreams and death, who prepares them for the end of this life. A ring of colour like the titular moonbow forms in their iris, marking to other elves that they're in their final days. Then they travel to elven lands where they die amongst their people or pass directly to Arvandor, I'm not sure. Elves that die of unnatural causes are given funerals according to their cultural norms (usually either in tombs or private burials.) It is believed by the very religious that in Arvandor elves will join in a reverie-like communion with the gods - the Seldarine (Tel'Seldarine; "the siblings of the wood") Reincarnation is a part of elven religion, it's believed that Sehanine works with Corellon on preparing elven spirits in Arvandor for the transition to their next life when/if the time comes. In exceptional cases they can also petition the gods to be reincarnated as nymphs, dryads and treants (ents, basically). Or be turned into guardian spirits who will manifest to defend their homes in times of war. There's also a special type of lich (a baelnorn) that can be formed if there's a dire need for it, very begrudgingly tolerated by Sehanine despite her dislike of the undead.

Drow rarely die of old age, and most being Lolthite their souls go to her and I believe she transforms their souls into one of the millions of soul spiders that accompany her (sometimes she makes them into other things, sometimes she eats them) Eilistraeean drow have a similar ending to surface elves, where Eilistraee will call to them at the end of their lives and take them with her to the afterlife (Eilistraee's realm in Arvandor) Most of the Seldarine (with one or two exceptions) actually have no issue accepting dark elven worshippers, so I assume this particular minority of dark elves is also guided to Arvandor by Sehanine. Otherwise they take the half-elven route:

Half-elves have souls like humans, and are not tied to Arvandor in the same way. Worshippers of the Seldarine will be collected by them at the Fugue plane as an elf, and those that worship human gods will be collected by one of them.

-

A brief, clumsy overview of elven history: Elven myths about their origin vary. All claim Corellon Larethian as the creator of their people. The most popular story states they're descended from their chief deity, Corellon Larethian and his/her future-consort Sehanine (and by all accounts, they appear to be correct). The first elves were born from Corellon's shed blood mingled with Sehanine's tears, shed when s/he was wounded fighting the orc god Gruumsh back at the dawn of time.

Of course before Sehanine was consort, Corellon was involved with Araushnee the elven godess of fate. This led to an epic divorce when she allied with Gruumsh and Corellon's other enemies in an attempt to overthrow him and once the dust cleared (following several attempted coups) he turned her into a demon and exiled her to the Abyss (the lower plane of Chaotic Evil), where she renamed herself Lolth and decided that spiders were actually really cool and she was going to start a cult and society based on spiders - a conclusion she almost certainly didn't reach because because spiders eat their mates and she's bitter about her ex, imo. Also, Lolth's banishment would surely not come back to bite everybody on the ass At All.

Elves first leave the Feywild for Toril in -27,000 DR - the Dawn Age, when Dragons rule the world. The Torilian Fey open a portal connecting Abeir-Toril to the Feywild, bringing the dark elves through to come disrupt the dragons. A tribe named the Ilythiiri establish a kingdom in the South of Faerun [Ilythiir] that will be a beacon of elven culture for millennia. Other waves of immigration follow at different times. Elves eventually defeat the dragons at war; elven nations dominate the planet. Five world wars ensue, involving the numerous war crimes nobody wants to talk about because it makes all of them look bad, and ending in the dark elves getting exiled. Humanity rises to power, moving faster than elves can currently comprehend, driving elves out in their expansionism. Most of the elves' bad history with humans involves the Netherese. Various methods are used to try and stop this ranging on a scale from friendship and cultural outreach to founding genocidal terrorist groups because humans are less than animals and must all be exterminated. Elves decide to make Only-Elves-Allowed-Island by dragging a piece of Arvandor into Toril. The Seldarine say; no, please just make friends with the non-elves. The Elves ignore this and end up blowing up a continent, causing mass death. The result is Evermeet (only reachable with permission, and guarded by the avatars of the Seldarine). The elves plan to totally abandon Faerûn and live there alone with no N'Quess. In 1344 DR there's a magical summons that calls all elves to either Evermeet of the elven city of Evereska. It is followed by pretty much everybody except some moon elves and all the copper elves. Everybody except the elves think this disappearance is really sudden, but the elves have been planning this for centuries, actually.

4e had the Spellplague cause the Feywild to realign with Toril, as it did when the elves first moved over. This caused Evermeet to vanish into the Feywild somewhere and allowed "high elves" to step between worlds with ease and then the elves started rebuilding their lost homelands in the Feywild (on the locations where they used to be, but not in the "human" world). I have no idea whether any of that is still canon.

---

A somewhat tongue-in-cheek, overly simplistic guide to elves:

Half-elves - Cha'Tel'Quessir - are the offspring of humans and elves or two half-elves. Very, very rarely they occur in a human lineage that has an elven ancestor a few centuries back in the family tree. Half-elves sport a mixture of human and elven features, sometimes fully passing as one or the other. They generally follow the culture norms of whatever society they were born in, either human or elven. The only places that half-elves make up a significant enough numbers where they can make a significant society are in the Yuirwood in Aglarond of Easter Faerun, and (formerly, I think) the Loviataran half-drow of Dambarath. They live between 100-200 years.

It'd be best to give them their own post, honestly.

The child of a half-elf and a human is, mechanically, a human. The child of a half-elf and an elf is, mechanically, an elf. But these children may inherit traits from their heritage (so a human with pointy ears or a moon elf with brown eyes and skin, for example).

When elves mix (for example, a green elf and a silver elf) the result is a child that, again, mechanically speaking, is the same "subrace" as one of their two parents. They still inherit genes from the other parent. Dark elven genes are almost always dominant, and an elf with one dark elf parent will be a dark elf themselves nine times out of ten.

WOOD ELVES: Copper elf | Sylvan elf | Wood elf | Or'Tel'Quessir - Chill, patient, friendly. The only elven group that's native to Toril, the result of a mixture of the other elven ethnicities after the five world wars (Crown Wars) becoming populous and focused enough to become their own independent culture. As a weird side effect they actually like the world and the non-elven people in it and don't want to lock themselves away from it. They like living in nature in quiet little villages and towns in the wilderness, and are the only elves that don't like arcane magic - locking yourself away studying magic and never seeing the world or other people is unhealthy for you. Druidry is way better. Most half-elves of "wood elven" variety have copper elven ancestry. - Skin is coppery brown, occasionally with a green tinge; eyes are brown, hazel, green; hair is usually brown or black, but occasionally blonde and copper-red turns up.

Green elf | Wild elf (slur) | Sy'Tel'Quessir - Closely related to the dark elves, who they branched off from. Watched as through five world wars one of their dark elven cousins' nations (which they also lived in) was genocided off the map by gold elves for resisting colonisation; and the other dark elven nation started getting involved with Lolth and demons and war crimes; and by the end of it all the other elves had annihilated every single green elven civilisation. They came to the conclusion that permanency and city building is bullshit and they're going to vanish into the wilds, embrace a nomadic lifestyle in touch with the earth and everybody else in the world can fuck off. Bye, don't call (or we'll stab you). They like nature, prefer sorcery to wizardry and have an animistic approach to religion. Often have to deal with other elves either trying to "civilise" them or else going for the "noble savage" angle and appropriating their culture. Very nice bead work. - Dark brown skin; hair is brown or black with the rare blonde; eyes brown, green, hazel with the rare blue.

HIGH ELVES: Silver elf | Moon elf | Grey elf (slur) | Teu'Tel'Quessir - "Flighty, chaotic and irreverent." The party elves who enjoy fun, adventure, hedonism and gambling. Revelry is an important part of their culture. Basically the only type of elf you'll ever meet because the copper elves stay in the forests and the other elves, on average, would rather kill themselves than live with non-elves. Responsible for the vast majority of half-elves in existence. Curiously they make up more than 50% of the demographic of the church of the elven god of moonlight, mystery, dreams, death, and hating the undead. - Silver elven genes include white/silver or black hair; Pale skin, often tinged with blue; Blue, green or grey eyes.

Gold elf | Sun elf | Ar'Tel'Quessir - No actual affinity for the sun, just a reference to their golden colouration. "Dour and serious." "Methodical, careful." Conservative religious types who are raised to believe that they are the purest example of elvendom and that Corellon appointed them defenders of elvendom against the hoards of humans who have driven the elves off their lands and despoil the natural world in their inherent greed and short-sightedness. Would respond to the idea of leaving elven lands much like His Majesty responding to the idea of joining your camp: "I'd rather die." - Gold, bronze, amber skin. Bright golden blonde hair, copper or black. Gold, black, silver and rarely; bright copper or golden-hazel eyes.

Star elf | Mithral elf | Ruar'Tel'Quessir - Human expansion led to the humans trying to conquer them (they lost), so they created an entire plane of existence (Sildëyuir) and all moved there in -699 DR. Recently forced to move back sometime between 1300-1400 DR due to strange monsters invading. They're not very religious, have a strong bardic tradition and wear these weird glowing gems on their foreheads for some reason, they don't know shit about the modern world and they're terrified of non-elves. - Pale skin, like moon elves but with a violet tinge; Gold, red or silver hair; Grey or violet eyes.

DROW - (Who, frankly, take up a post of their own.) Dark elves | Night elves | Ssri'Tel'Quessir | Dhaerow | Drow | Ilythiiri Originally part of the High Elf category, before exile.

Basic overview of the fallout with the dark elves and everyone else: An empire of gold elves (Aryvandaar) decides they're going to conquer the world and starts by colonising the nearby dark elven empire of Miyeritar. Down south, Ilyithiir responds with hostility. Miyeritar resists, Aryvandaar responds with genocide and wipes them off the map with magic that leaves the entire Miyeritaran region permanently wrecked (even into the modern day) and wipes out the worshipers and power base of Eilistraee, leaving no barriers to prevent Lolth from taking over the dark elves as their only god (In the future surface elves will point blank refuse to ever discuss this event). Ilyithiir responds by going apeshit and starts committing imperialistic war crimes claiming to be avenging their Northern kin. The Ilythiiri were also ruled by demon worshipping imperialists who'd fallen under sway of Lolth and the surface elves insist that avenging Miyeritar was just an excuse.

The surface elves say that the dark elves are N'Quess and start calling them dhaerow, which means traitor. The dark elves say that the surface elves are N'Quess and start calling them darthiir, which means traitor.

Lolth dominates 99% of dark elven society with her cult, and basically their entire society is a cycle of abuse married to their bitter divorcee goddess' spider fetish. Yay, toxic matriarchy; Those with power can do whatever they want to those who have less, so you should do everything to make sure you're the one with the power; Love is a lie, kill your mate when you're done with him; If your children aren't trying to kill you, you've failed as a parent; You only have worth because of what worth Mother Lolth gives you. You only live because of Her. etc.

There are also the merchant clans who live outside of city. They're a little more egalitarian, because dealing with outsiders is demeaning, so it's a man's job. They favour plutocratic governance (they're ruled by an inner council formed by the most wealthy members, often male wizards). They're the most "friendly" to outsiders and basically the trade they bring is the only thing that stops the noble house run cities from collapsing.

Minorities include the Eilistraeeans; Eilistraee voluntarily went into exile so that somebody would be there to encourage the dark elves to put down the knives, get away from Lolth, move out of the Underdark and go to fucking therapy.

Her twin brother, Vhaeraun, also encourages the dark elves to put down the knives, get away from Lolth, move out of the Underdark and go to fucking therapy - stab other people instead of each other! This is totally unproductive villainy! You're better than this! How are the drow supposed to conquer the world and rule over the lesser beings if we're still in this glorified cave after a millennia?? - Noticable sexual dimorphism, females are larger and more robust than males. Very dark skin. Hair is usually pale with black being an extremely rare recessive gene (white, platinum blonde, pale copper). Eyes are also typically in pale colours, with red being common because Lolth decided to have the Ilythiiri nobles breed with a demon lord and that got into the gene pool. Other eye colours: white-grey, lavender, pink, amber, black, green is sometimes seen but it's thought to be a sign of surface-elven ancestry.

OTHER: Avariel | Winged Elves | Aril'Tel'Quessir - Flying elves with bird wings who live on mountaintops. Almost extinct. Sea elves | Aquatic Elves | Alu'Tel'Quessir - Elves with gills and webbed hands and feet that live under the sea. Blue with green stripes or green with brown stripes, depending on what sea they're from. Lythari | Ly'Tel'Quessir - An exclusive elf club where you join by getting infected with elf lycanthropy and then you turn into a silver wolf. They're sterile, so they can only make more lythari through recruiting.

[thechaoticdruid]

Hello BG3 elf lovers, what kind of elf is your Tav?

[brisephone]

my newest tav is a half wood elf gloom stalker ranger and i can’t help but picture her and halsin having an april/ron dynamic

[kiruvry]

uhhrmm woahh double post uhrrmm OKAY im sorry guys i love being insane here's my fuckign. half elf paladin w zevlor bc i love imagining things that ARENT POSSIBLE that old man needs a big hug and a kiss i think. Something something old man yaoi

[spacebarbarianweird]

Hello Darling

Summary: Tiriel desperately searches for Astarion as he loses his immunity to sunlight.

Pairing: Astarion x OC (Tiriel)

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, post-game, named Tav, established relationship, f!tav, patch 6 update

Thanks @themadlu for beta-reading!

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

The burn left from the fight and dulled by the tadpole pierces  Tiriel’s stomach and she falls to her knees, paralyzed by the pain.

 It's over.

The tadpole is gone. She is free. She will never become a mind flayer, she will never have to face  that blasted dream visitor. 

Then, she hears the scream. It's a cry of pain, of despair, familiar and shocking.

Astarion is burning in the sunlight.

His beautiful face is gray like ash, his eyes white as if he were blind. Astarion reaches out his hand for Tiriel as if she could save him from  this peril. She has saved him so many times, she can do it again!

But her own pain pierces her body. Tiriel presses her arms to her stomach. She is going to die, she thinks. They both are.

"Astarion, hide!" someone cries out, and Tiriel loses consciousness.

The blissful darkness takes her.

No nightmares, no horrors, no dream visitors. Nothing. Just beautiful nothingness.

She wakes up in a dimly lit room. Her head hurts as if her skull had been crushed by a hammer. She is half naked, her belly heavily bandaged. The throat is sore and her legs are numb.

Tiriel is so exhausted she could sleep for a few weeks.

Four months of non stop traveling. Of fear, anxiety, and never ending stress. Tiriel had never had to make so many decisions in her life. Excusing orders, negotiating, and planning. She is just a lonely traveler, for fuck sake, not a warlady!

And now she can just rest.

The memories slowly crawl into her head and she remembers Astarion’s desperate cry.

A wave of panic  crushes her.

Where is he?!

Tiriel’s only known him for four months, but she is sure they were meant to meet each other. She had never loved anyone before him. His cold body, his pale skin, his sharp mind, his… radiant hope. 

What if he died?

Tiriel makes herself sit up. The idea that her love turned into ashes horrifies her. He was in such pain, he was so afraid. What if he is gone?

Life is truly unfair, isn’t it?

It couldn’t end well. No happily “ever after” for the undead.

Tiriel makes an effort to calm herself down. There are many places to hide. Basements, houses, debris… The whole city is in ruins, he has enough shadow to hide in…

The other realization makes her sick.

Sunlight isn’t his only enemy anymore. He also can’t go inside without an invitation.

He could have burned down in front of the open door to the darkest room in Baldur’s Gate because no one invited him in!

Still dizzy, Tiriel puts on her camp clothes (no need to attract unnecessary attention with her shiny Drow armor) and rushes outside the inn.

The city has been truly destroyed by the Netherbrain, and whatever future lies ahead Baldur’s Gate will never be the same. 

Tiriel wanders the street for hours—she visits the graveyard, the ruins of the vampire lord’s mansion, dozens of places but  Astarion is nowhere to be seen.

He’s known the city for centuries. Tiriel, whose first impression of the city was ruined by the mind flayers, stands no chance of finding the vampire.

By the end of the night, she feels like a lost child. Tiriel hasn’t felt so miserable since the day she woke up in the mountains all alone and cold. She was fifteen, and her rage blurred her mind making her run away from an abusive household. She wanted to go back, to the warmth of the house, to sit by the fireplace even if her stepfather would have beaten her again. To just be somewhere she belongs, not in the middle of nowhere with no weapons or armor.

The sun is slowly rising above the sea and the skies slowly turn blue. Tiriel sniffs. She's gotten too used to NOT being alone, a very unfamiliar concept to be honest. 

Well, if Astarion isn’t back, if she fails to find him, she will have to go. This city makes her sick, it’s too big, too dirty, too crowded. She will walk the roads of Faerun just like she has ever since she was fifteen. The memories will fade and she will probably question why she fell for Astarion in the first place. He is a difficult person, traumatized, angry, his bruises and wounds are invisible to anyone, and the facade of lies is inseparable from his personality.

Tiriel’s heart sinks at the very thought she might not ever see him again.

A tear flows down her cheek and she immediately wipes it away. She is a warrior. A barbarian. No one must see her cry or in pain. Women like her are alive as long as people perceive them as emotionless marble statues. Weakness turns people like her into victims.

But it felt so nice to be weak in Astarion’s arms. To let him tend her wounds, to cry in his arms… He would never admit it, but she knew he loved protecting her.

The night search exhausts Tiriel and she returns to her room in the inn. The warrior locks the door — she doesn’t want to deal with intruders —and falls on the bed, pressing her face against the pillow.

Astarion is gone. If he is alive, she will never find him. If he is dead, she will never bury him. In any case, Tiriel the Barbarian is on her own again.

She  makes herself a promise not to fall for anyone ever again.

When she wakes up hours later, her head doesn’t ache anymore and her whole body feels rested. 

“Hello darling”

She startles at the familiar voice.

Astarion lies beside her, with the palm of his hand under his cheek. His eyes are soft and tender and he has the stupidest smile shining on his face.

“You…” she gasps. “You are back!”

“Of course I am”, Astarion leans to her and kisses her forehead, and then rests his head on the pillow. “You are so adorable when you sleep.”

“I thought you died,” she whispers. “Where were you?”

Astarion touches her cheek. “I was hiding.”

“But you could have returned to the inn once the night fell! I was looking for you!”

His face darkens. “It’s because of hunger. It…blurred my mind. The sun damaged me and once I got to the shadow I was starving and just forgot everything. Who I was, who you were. I fed on… something… I don’t remember what and my mind returned to me. And I was so embarrassed by what I truly am and was afraid to come back”

“But you did.”

“I did.”

They lay in silence contemplating each other’s faces. Tiriel's heart melts at how adorable he looks. He doesn’t pretend, doesn't play, doesn’t act. That’s him, that’s the real him. Hidden and concealed for two hundred years.

“How did you get inside?” she asks. “This isn’t the room we lived in. I thought you needed an invitation?”

Astarion shrugs. “I do need to be invited if I don't want to bump into an invisible wall I can’t go through. When I picked the lock I was sure I would just stand there unable to enter. But apparently… I was invited anyway.”

Tiriel nuzzles his collarbone and wraps her arms around him.

“Tiriel?”

“Hm?”

“You aren’t going to… break up with me, right?”

His voice sounds so helpless and vulnerable that it makes Tiriel hug him tighter. 

“Of course not.”

He cups her cheeks and kisses her. Tiriel leans to him pressing their bodies against each other.

Then Astarion starts talking.

He speaks about freedom, the future, the places they may visit, and things they can do.

“Tiriel”

“What is it, my love?”

“I need to… rest. Can you stay by my side until I wake up?”

Tiriel kisses the tip of his nose. “Sure. I will be right there.”

Astarion buries his nose in her chest, and Tiriel lulls him to his trance.

As she promised, she doesn’t go anywhere. Time to time she moves a bit not to let her limbs stiff.

Then, she notices Astarion slowly waking up. His eyelids are half-open, his mouth cracks a smile. Tiriel draws an invisible line along his nose.

“Hello, darling,” she whispers to him.

--

Tag list

@tugoslovenka @marcynomercy @wintersire @vixstarria @not-so-lost-after-all @ashiro20 @theearthsfinalconfession @herstxrgirl @starlight-ipomoea @micropoe10 @astarion-imagine-archive @veillsar @elora-the-slutty-songstress @fayeriess @lumienyx @tallymonster @caitlincat-95 @tragedybunny @valeprati @lynnlovesthestars @marina-and-the-memes @waking-electric @ayselluna @connorsui @asterordinary @darkarchangel96 @locallegume @brainfullofhotsauce @coffeeanddonutscafe @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen

[etheartist]

Tav'eris and Durge in the Shadowlands, one is starting to hear the shadows speak, the other hears voices in general.

This is late night, low effort work, but I've gotten my interest in bg3 back but gotta wait for an update. So here's the two in meme posing while i wait.

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Jealousy

Fill for #7 on this list featuring poor Rolan watching his fiancée get hit on at a ball. He decides to do something about it. NSFW.

“Rolan, at least try to smile, sweetie.” His fiancée’s mother lightly chided the Master of Ramazith’s Tower. He, Amelie, and her mother were attending yet another boring ball hosted by idiots. He was already in a sour mood when they arrived. There’s been a setback in repairing the glass observation dome at the tower. There was a parade of rude customers in the shop today. These new dress boots are hurting my damn feet. The wine here is piss.

But then he saw something that made him seethe.

His beautiful, perfect fiancée was speaking to a human noble who was standing too close.

Too, too close.

Amelie very clearly knew the gentleman, chuckling softly at something he said.

He had not felt it in the months, not since their engagement was announced and her companions went their separate ways.

A dark, ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach.

She is mine. MINE.

“Rolan, there’s…oh dear. Off he goes.” The countess laughed, shaking her head, watching her future son-in-law stride with purpose across the ballroom.

Heart pounding in his chest, Rolan downed the rest of his wine and placed the chalice on a tray before resuming his mission.

Yes, mission.

To save my beloved from…someone she knows and is happily speaking to.

Turning her head, the half-elf caught his glance and grinned. “Oh Stannik, this is my fiancé Rolan—”

He as discreetly as possible wrapped an arm around her ample waist, his hand resting on a hip. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” he began as politely as possible. “But may I borrow you, my dear?”

Borrow.

As if I should have to borrow my future wife from an ingrate like this “Stannik.”

As if I should have to be gracious when he was CLEARLY flirting with her.

As if I should have to be a gentleman at all times…

Unaware of her fiancée’s inner turmoil, Amelie smiled at him. “Of course, love.” She looked at the human and nodded. “Please excuse me.”

Pleasantries out of the way FINALLY, Rolan guided her out of the ballroom.

“Rolan, is something wrong?”

There must be a private room somewhere…

“Are you alright, love?”

I am FINE AND DANDY, sweetling.

There!

He hastily unlocked the door, which turned out to be a washroom. Both now inside, he locked the door.

For privacy, of course.

Amelie barely opened her mouth before his lips crashed into hers.

Mine.

Mine.

My Amelie.

She is mine.

All mine.

Forever mine.

My intellect, my talent, my heart, my soul, my body…all belong to her.

She is mine as I am hers.

Breaking the kiss and completely breathless, she placed her hands on his shoulders. “Rolan, what has gotten into you?”

He truly wished to say, “You.”

Instead, he huffed, “He was flirting with you, Mia! And I was standing across the room! Watching him! Flirt with you!” His hands stayed firmly on her hips, which he noticed were fuller than they were previously. She told me yesterday that she’s the happiest she’s ever been. Happy and content with our life together.

She blinked. “Was he?”

Rolan groaned. “Darling, really!”

“How was I supposed to know? He’s always been nice to talk to at these things, but I never thought he would flirt with me.” She frowned. “I’m sorry?”

FUCK.

You idiot.

You fool.

You utter swine!

“No, no, no darling. That’s not what I meant. I’m not blaming you in the slightest. I simply—”

A manicured nail touched his lips, silencing him. Any trace of sadness and confusion in her golden eyes was gone and replaced with amusement. And lust. Gods. “You simply wished to remind Stannik that I’m your fiancée and not his? That I’m going to marry you and not him?” She closed the admittedly small gap between them, her body flushed against his. Hands once again on his shoulders, her lips curled into a smile. More like a smirk, you saucy little— “That I’ve given you my all and not him?”

He nodded. “Y-yes.”

“Did you want to take me in the middle of the ballroom, my love?” she whispered against his lips. “Scream that I’m your Mistress of Ramazith’s Tower?” Amelie captured him in a quick kiss before she let out a squeak as he gripped her hips and forced her backwards against the sink.

Chuckling heartily, Rolan pawed at the hem of her gown. A light and airy rose pink gown with various embroidered summer flowers. Another piece from Astarion. “No, but I do want to take you here, sweetheart.” He began to pull at her smalls, getting off and placing them on the counter. He then grunted as he undid his trousers. “Going to show you…how much I…” How much I love you. How much I desire you. How much I need you.

Bringing his face to hers, she kissed him slowly as he lined himself to her entrance, gasping at how bloody wet she is. Zurgan, she’s going to be the death of me. Moans escaped their lips as his ridged member slid inside her. “Rolan…take me, love…”

As you wish.

He was going much faster than he would have been if they were at home and not in a washroom at a ball, much to his dismay. Still though, I’ll make her feel wonderful. How could I not? With a few deep thrusts, he came just as she did. His hold on her remained firm as she was more than a little unsteady. “Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you, sweetling. I’ve got you.”

Long, soft arms around his neck, his fiancée nodded wordlessly, still catching her breath.

I will always have you, dearest. Always.

“I do believe this is the longest time we’ve gone with you cleaning us after lovemaking, my handsome wizard.” Amelie teased.

Gods, I love seeing her like this---happy, carefree, full of joy.

He grimaced and then muttered the spell. “I barely call whatever that was lovemaking, sweetheart. It was barely a fuck.”

A wave of giggles erupted from her as she kissed all over his cheeks and mouth.

Perfectly content being in a washroom with her future husband.

Certainly better than going back to that bloody ball.

[predninja]

Tav brushed her thumb along his cheek. Save a few grooves and bumps, it hardly felt like scales. Just thick skin with a rubber texture. Would the rest of him feel like this, she wondered. “Sweet Ambrosia,” Vorcarion hummed. A warm pit formed in her stomach and Tav pressed her thighs closed. Her nickname spellsong paled in comparison to being called ambrosia. Tav suddenly didn’t feel the cold anymore. “Your presence eases me so,” the crimson dragonborn continued. “No nightmares, no cursed thoughts. Just your scent of citrus and pine.” He nuzzled her hand again. Tav curled her fingers along his face, continuing to rub her thumb against his cheek. What softness to his angular features. What weakness. What trust he was showing her exposing this all to someone like her. Silence stretched between them. The sun was starting to crest over the tree line now.

Da babies. And da size difference Also, my fanfic updated. Read it here

[aristenfromwarsaw]

❤️ Nat x Noah 💙

Request for: @nisfiteatspencils

[tieflingfingers]

What and who: Astarion tries his first attempt at close quarters. Thomasin isn't happy about it. Summary: Thomasin awakes to find a silhouette hovering over her. Between blades, blood, and bickering, Astarion tries to find a way to feed himself without breaking the mild trust they have. Warning/Content: Re-write of first bite scene, character lore, and Astarion character study. Adjacent to horror/angst/humor/the seed planting of fluff. Vague mentions of abuse/trauma. Part of campaign remix, but can also be read as one-off. Word Count: 4,925 Ao3 Link

In the depths of the Dales, where agriculture and pillagers roamed free, lived a forbidden courtship. Proof of peace and harmony sprout from its bud. It was the birth of a child. One whose cheeks were pink and supple like her human mother. Like her mother before her and those before them. Skin stained shades of raspberry as though she, too, was grown from the same acre of land. Soil rich enough to build a lineage of women feminine yet sturdy. 

Paternal instincts didn’t come naturally to the infant’s father, but not out of his own volition. He was a drow softer than the Underdark would foster. Intimacy was prohibited. The gentle touch of sun-warmed flesh even more so. Only a handful of meetings left a legacy he’d never know. A daughter bathing in light not afforded to him whilst he was swept back underground.

But, living on farmland proved rich with experience. The child braided ribbons into her hair to keep strands out of her eyes while tending crops. Hours under the sun left imprints on her skin that mirrored her mother. Skin decorated by a labor of love. Speckled and peachy against silver tints.

"There’s so much to see in every plane, Thomasin,” her mother interjected between lullabies.

Perhaps her parents were both stricken by their own nagging wanderlust. Thomasin heard countless stories of travels beyond her young comprehension. Stories of a drow that defied Lolth. Not by mighty bloodshed, but a gentle demeanor. The defiance of a man wanting nothing more than freedom. Details that were mulled over so often, he began to feel more like a fairytale. His character evolved with the human’s fallible memory.

Some evenings, the drow was heroic against his raiding caravan. Other times, he simply was a man whose fingers ached for acceptance. All of it, all of him, muddled together, fed Thomasin like breadcrumbs. They were memories she could cling to, even if he existed only through anecdotes and physical letters left behind. He was folklore.

-

Lifetimes away from her original roots, Thomasin became the conduit of their dreams. She’d witness the vastness of their plane. Places where adventures never ended. But, her mother never truly warned of life’s woes. How merciless it could be, even when fruitful.

Thomasin spent the evening concocting medicinal magic. They were common procedural spells that ward off inflammation and voided the need of stitches. As content as her new companions were, it wore the half-elf down, and so she retired to her tent earlier than the others.

It wasn’t long until she was tucked away underneath a makeshift blanket. Sleep hadn’t always come naturally, so she took advantage of exhaustion. Her dark hair sprawled around her head like a halo, strands entwined and unfurled from restless slumber. But, no matter how hard she tried, her mind remained partially tuned in to life outside her tent.

Thankfully, it was nothing more than banter around a campfire. They rejoiced in comradery fueled by dinner whose foundation was primarily red wine. It eased tension. Let their playful jabs and jokes wash off their backs. This possibility of protection comforted the half-elf a bit.

So, Thomasin remained in her nest. At forty-five years of age, she figured fatigue stemmed from her human half. The same that made her frame worn yet strong. Travel brought city inclines, grassy hills, and crouching through thistle in the name of foraging. But, no matter how much she pushed herself, she was constantly decorated. 

Easy on the eyes. It was a habit, more than anything. A default state of being.

Curated fashions were collected over years. Gifted, stolen, sewn, swapped, and saved. Pigments made cheeks looked pinched and sparkles smeared over scars from unfortunate scraps. Her hips were wide when seasonal harvests were plentiful. Her posture bordered between straight and feminine. It was as though every aspect of her persona had been created from decades of standing in front of a mirror.

Starting this new journey, as involuntary as it may be, she was thankful for what piece of home she carried. The belongings of an abandoned home still packed in her bag after getting abducted by mind flayers. Scarves made of fine stolen silk, whose weave snagged. Books with split bindings lovingly re-bound by bundling pages until whole once more. Their contents ranged from fictional anthologies to sappy romance to guides of edible flora.

Residing next to potions, bottled perfumes soaked into cork tops. Her violin slept in the corner. Its body had been as plucked, popped, and rewound as hers. Simple blessings.

Eventually, noises dwindled. Those outside finally laid to sleep. The forest began to rustle louder, as though it had been waiting for their commotion to cease. To be able to exist in its most natural state. It harmonized. Branches creaked and native berries were plucked by gusts of wind. Whenever the unknown awoke Thomasin, she reminded herself of her mother’s saying.

“We are a guest to nature. The nocturnal world has always lived with us, just as the light does."

What she lacked to consider, was the nocturnal entering her den.

Cast shadows were almost tactile in their density, hovering atop her skin. An ever faint sensation. One that resurfaced her hypervigilance born from syndicates. And, for a split second, she caught a glimpse of the greyed silhouette above.

Dread set in.

Before her was a tale as old as time.

Domineering men proving she was just consumable company.

There was no hesitation in her reflexes. No need to identify who it was. No time. Words fled from her lips in rapid succession. The spell, readily accessible, flowed from an unnatural tongue. It was a series of broken common, deep, and high drow. Unintelligible horrific statements. The whispers trickled in a river of flowing smoke, its blue haze snaking its way into the figure’s skull.

As the weave infiltrated their thoughts, it illuminated streams that spilled down the planes of their face. Down their cheeks like painful tears and pouring from an agape mouth as though squeezing the last remnants of a well’s ground reserves. 

In a full blown panic, the figure gasped. Thomasin wouldn’t prolong the forced terror, but she knew even a single second of torment felt like hours. The pressure entangled within her foe’s temples and dragged its ephemeral claws around an already battered brain.

Out into the moonlight, Astarion stumbled from the mouth of her tent. He had flung himself backward, landing square on his palms. He stared back at Thomasin, but it was apparent he was still recovering from the sudden retaliation. He appeared disillusioned. Frightened in a way that made her uncomfortable.

Thomasin scuttled to the entrance with ragged breath. A small dagger embedded so deep within her fist, her knuckles grew white and sharp. Although her blade had become a beacon of last resort rather than an eager desire. Chips and wear along its metal mumbled its victims, but that couldn’t defy the obvious shaking of her hands and the memories of every time she’d fallen victim, herself.

In the darkness, the light from her cryptic illusions mellowed until both elves peered at one another in shades of livid grey. Before her, Astarion was shivering in place. Jaw slackened and back hunched. He knew he had to simply endure. Magical cruelty was unyielding, but the clutches of the Weave always dissolved before he did. 

Thomasin recognized her chance to approach. Survey the feigning of undeath she figured he existed within. His humanity, stunted. Stagnant. She peeked her head out further like a writhing animal curious about a writhing beast. As though her quills plunging him into fright was an act of wry mercy. 

Astarion’s knuckles appeared speckled in shades of bruised plum. Its fruit’s tender exterior tumbled, prodded, and thudded against the dirt before truly ripening. His heavy breath revealed the sheer discomfort his posture took to maintain. It was as though his frame ached under the weight of its growing hunger. They were wordless pleas of pangs. Pains of a pallid complexion.

Eventually, Astarion melted into his body once more. Pupils no longer dilated and dissociative. No longer forlorn. As his fingers eased from their strained grip into the grass, his gaze flicked back up to hers. It reeked of exhausted predation.

“Gods—shit,” he muttered. “It’s not–”

Thomasin’s intuition begged for civility. Her history beckoned her to protect herself through any means necessary. It boiled to a froth from her gut. Words clamored to be free, vitriolic in her throat. Syllables bashed against her teeth. But, she ground them down until the unbridled anger condensed into something meek. Uncharacteristically so. 

“Astarion- Please. You promised,” Thomasin whispered.

His eyes trailed down to the dagger she still held tight. 

“You don’t have to use that. Blades among friends is never the answer, honestly” His voice cracked. “An old-hat solution. Passé, even.” 

“I-” She looked around the camp with bleary eyes. It was still. Oblivious in each tent’s drunken slumber. “Is this from all that dessert wine you found? Fucking hells- you have ten seconds to plead before I wake the others.”

“Ten seconds?” The elf swallowed his distress, struggling to smooth its ridges with his usual temperament. “Going back on a promise?  I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I’m not some kind of- oh, I don’t know.” His hand twisted about in the air in search of answers. “A ne’er-do-well? I thought we were better acquainted than that.” 

His lilt was slithering back into his grasp. He even let out a light titter.

“Thomasin. Darling. You’re beautiful, but I am no ill-intentioned monster.

Astarion shifted to tend to the impact upon his wrists, wringing his hands around sore joints. Thomasin watched him repress every line of dialogue that would fail to placate her. But, there was overcompensation in his eyes. After their tumultuous days, little strength was left to press down the fatigue he forcibly polished like an ever rotating stone wheel. He was stuck with the excess. Nothing but powdered iron and rust.

The elf’s ears drooped at the unnerving silence between them. He caught her hesitance. But, even her reluctance to strike couldn’t mask the sheer adrenaline coursing through her. And before he knew it,  Astarion found himself pulled by his linen shirt collar.

His back slammed against crackling wicker. It was the mat flooring of her tent. Wavering between fragility and disorientation, he found himself straddled and pinned by the half-elf’s knees. One restrained his forearm whilst the other dug into his open palm. His fingers curled under the crushing weight.

“Absolute bitch- I need that!” Astarion hushed himself, but not before hissing through his teeth. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Next was the fine point of a dagger nestled between his jawline and jugular. Any quick movements would prove deadly to Astarion, if he wasn’t careful, but the act of unrelenting threat grew muddled. It wasn’t her voice that faltered. Nor her commitment. It was the droplets that hit the elf’s face under her. Gravity pulling what laid along her lashline with little consent.

“What were you thinking? Sneaking up on me? Inside my tent? I wanted to consider you more than some… tawdry dandy… The lack of tact. I’m not afraid to end you where you lay, you know. Those weren’t falsehoods I spoke of.”

“Wait- There are few things I have a difficult time wording,” Astarion uttered. “Nothing awful, terrible, of course. I wouldn’t dare ruin the company we keep. Sometimes actions are more via–”

The microscopic tilt of Thomasin’s hand shoved the blade deeper against his neck, cutting shallow within the flesh. She was terrified, but couldn’t allow herself to voice it. Every word of his tasted like milk and honey. If only there weren’t gall in his heart and fraud in his deeds.

Astarion gasped and pulled his shoulders upward as though he could make distance between them. “Ah! Easy there. No need to spur a horse going full speed. Listen-”

A huff jut from his nostrils. His eyes closed to shield himself from the consequences. Each sentence raced behind the next, detailing the confession that finally caught up with him. The reason for his comeuppance. 

“You remember that ghastly sight we saw on our walk earlier? That hog . You remember the one, yes? The one with those curious little wounds on his neck.” A weak laugh fluttered out, making the wound sting more. “Exsanguinated. Perhaps… the stories of creatures going bump in the night aren’t entirely as they seem. That-Perhaps… Perhaps! Just maybe, vampire spawn live amongst you just as your peers.”

Astarion opened his eyes to witness her reaction, although it was not as extravagant as he expected. It was quiet contemplation wracked with desires. For mercy. Possible bloodshed to solve it all.

After years of prowling, he was left to his own devices. No masters or gods to tell the elf what to do or how to act. No higher powers to blame. No scripts for the circumstance. No one to pick up the pieces.

“I could have guessed as much,” she finally spoke up. “You lack subtlety, I fear.”

“Look. I won’t be saccharine about all of this. I am not in this state of being out of choice . I-There are powerful people in Baldur’s Gate, you know this. Cazador resides in the high mansions of the city, maintaining his control through slavery. I was only lucky to be plucked from his clutches.” 

The muscles in his face struggled to maintain a calm. His dignity, visibly pained.

She paused, recognizing the name from word of mouth. The rare occasions she associated with the upper echelon, where her escorting brought forth gifts of fresh seafood, fresher furs, and the freshest hearsay. She was suddenly grateful she’d never accepted invitations to the grand castle in the sky.

“Do you survive off animals?” she asked.

“Typically, yes. I’ve existed under strict rules for as long as I’ve been riddled with this disease.” 

He averted his eyes and recalled the list of his master:

“‘First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.

Second, thou shalt obey me in all things.

Third, thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.

Four, thou shalt know that thou art mine.’”

Astarion’s glanced and lit up at the sight of her expression softening.

“Though… quenching my thirst has proven difficult out here, “ he continued. “Every day I grow weaker. It gets more and more difficult to fight beside you all and hide such ailments. Aha… Color me… desperate.” The admission was bitter to taste.

Thomasin unsheathed the blade’s tip and pressed her thumb against Astarion’s wound. The gentle touch did not heal, but rather pondered over the damage. It was a souvenir of who she once was.

Astarion didn’t let his guard down further. He couldn’t. She had no reason to spare him the quickened death of a dagger through his chest. The obvious answer was self-preservation. Yet, she was suddenly tender, despite her weight heavy atop him. He let out a weak laugh. The reality was, he was still alive.

“Vampirism seems to have an odd relationship to the city streets,” Thomasin said. “I came across your kind every so often, but rarely did we speak. I imagine murdering the harlots would put a damper on your ability to blend into flophouses…” She grabbed his jaw, turning his face to assess the gnarled scar on his neck. The trauma of a blistering bite. Under it was an elf he once was. “I suppose part of me wanted to encourage whatever humanity is left inside you.”

“I… Well…” he mumbled, uncertain the comments called for offense or flattery.

“...Did you want to feed off me?”

He inhaled sharp, nodding his head in her clutches. “Yes! Yes, I would, very much so. Not a drop more than you are willing, of course .”

“Will… I turn?”

“No, I am merely a spawn. Transforming you into some thrall isn’t in my…  vampiric wheelhouse.”

Thomsin felt coziness in the unconventional path. Dangers were plentiful and often more perilous than the man sitting before her. What was more indulgent than snake oil? The grey morals that provide true, unfiltered respite. The enticement of taboo relief. A thought that would later morph into regret if she didn’t take the chance. She yearned to finally relax. To finally feel something. Or nothing. Anything.

Although she’d never admit it to herself.

After short deliberation, the half-elf freed Astarion and positioned herself beside him. A shaking hand tucked her weapon back into its sheath. Her knees pulled into her chest. And, as she was about to consent, a noise escaped her throat. A whimper. Biology voicing its disapproval.

“Ah-What should I do?” she whispered.

“Just… let me take the lead. You sit pretty.”

Astarion sat up and gathered what energy he had left. He groaned and articulated his fingers, instructing his limbs to cooperate once more. Gradually, he oriented himself behind her with a slow stalking grace and encouraged her shoulders to rest against his chest.

It was as though a spark livened him. Not a sensation of excitement from pocketing coins or fulfilling lewd fantasies. This felt different. The vampire never had the luxury of an artery so willing and gifted. Wrapped in a bow, so to speak. Yet, he had an epiphany. 

Every fiber of his being had subconsciously prepared itself for another death. His master professed this fate. He could already hear the joyous cackling Cazador would make upon finding his withering starved body in the forest. It was everything he promised upon escape.

Even if he wished to disobey, Astarion had never fed upon a victim nor been taught to. Rodents' bodies were compact, whereas living speaking anatomy had nuance. In fact, he’d only witnessed feasts from a distance with palpable envy. One could recall wounds, but where would be best to bite? How could he ensure she was preserved, leeching life without the inevitable corpse on his hands?

Astarion proceeded to mimic those dining in the halls of his home. The decorum was different, but that wouldn’t matter. The elf proceeded to wrap an arm around her waist for support and gently brushed aside long strands of hair. They ran down her clavicle like a cascading curtain, revealing her neck.

"How much will it hurt?" she asked. 

Seconds went by. No answer. He was enamored by the mere concept of a meal. Stone still, ferality awoke within his brain, although he eventually snapped back into reality. He felt like a starving animal careening toward rats for sustenance. He was.

"It's only a pinch. A nick. Just…” His words trailed off, voice low and heavy. “Just relax yourself against me. I'll keep you steady.”

"What if you go on a count? I breathe in and out a few times?”

“Sure- Yes. Let us count.”

There was impatience in his tone being strangled. The elf was fueled by tunnel vision. Unshackled hedonism. Still, he played along.

“One.” 

“Two.”

And not a syllable more. 

Thomasin’s flesh being punctured felt like the hissing of an unkempt fire. Dried kindling snapping and sparking against moisture in the air. She yelped. The wound in her neck pulsated in a way she'd never experienced, uncomfortable and siphoned. Excitement of the unknown had all but culminated into panic.

But, if there was one about the half-elf, it was that she was stubborn. Her nails dug into his shirt, pawing at the linens for his cold embrace. They searched for any semblance of safety. Through creases and cuffed folds, they landed at his wrist and etched a codex into his skin.

Astarion's body began to writhe against her in pure intoxication. With his hand guiding her head, he rose to a kneeling position, fulling taking control of the dance macabre. The footwork proved messy, but style was far from his mind. Never had the finer tastes in life been so abundant. Every sense was sharpening. Every emotion, ecstatic. 

The elf’s eyes had nearly glazed over until a pain brought him back. It was Thomasin’s nails. He realized her composure was crumbling.

"Keep counting, love,” he managed through a tongue coated in the blackened blood pooling at his lips.

Diving back into her neck once more, Thomasin finally let go. The pain that once seized her neutralized. What now resided was a bloodless calm. Their hearts raced at uneven beats, momentarily syncing until they passed one another. Hers slowing whilst his engorged with borrowed life. He ventured into an aggravated fervor at the expense of a bard’s descent into the dirt. The oozing ebb and flow of building delirium. An amalgamation of every misstep and the bottles of whiskey that couldn’t quite wrap them in creature comforts.

She did as she was told and crept into a languid submission, head rolling any way his body contorted hers. 

Back to counting. 

Two. Three. Four.

The numbers coinciding felt more like concepts than measurements.

Five. Six. Seven.

Internal dialogues began to devolve. Abstraction. It washed over her. Abrupt and startling like tumbling into a cold lake. Although its cool waters rejuvenated where her soil never knew rain. Repose began to blossom.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

Thomasin clutched onto him as a safety net. She ran her fingers along his shirt. They trailed over every stitch, discovering mending he’d sewn by hand. Bumps and valleys. 

By now, the sounds of his neglected appetite were fading into the ether. Numbers had lost meaning and she had to find new ways to remain grounded. First, it was the threads. Then, the slowing repetition of her heartbeat. They were the last ways of documenting how unsubstantial seconds passed by.

Time was trivial in the face of the physical.

Sensations lured her forward with warm euphoric dreams and brighter visions of the past. For a moment, she couldn’t identify the emotion heavy in her chest. Whether they were death’s temptation. But it wasn’t long before she realized they weren’t all acidic.

They were shades of colored wax she used to liven monochromatic children’s books. They were the light noise of tin cans tickling your ears as they clinked down cobblestone walkways. The mythical society of dust particles floating indefinitely against a window’s evening light. The stray fuzzy knits of her favorite sweater and the lingering scent of perfume from hugging close friends. 

They were the protective glow from oil street lamps guiding her way home. The giggling and tingles of bubbles popping from steins of beer. Fogged mirrors from steaming rooms with a hot bath and the way sounds muffled when sunken into a wooden tub. Stories told under the covers, fairytales to romantic confessions, until everyone fell asleep to dwindling candlelight.

These all lived in a hypothetical mist that rolled in. More of a fog, like those she experienced during her childhood winters in the Dales. How she’d begun the exchange with Astarion was unimportant. Details melted into something viscous. Consumed how the two had even met. 

Her fingers were still moving as far as she could understand. The atmosphere felt heavy against their journey, but they operated as their own entities. Their coordination, unsteady, persisted out of habit. The stripped down basics. 

Repetitive motion. Color. Air. Pressure. Darkness. Enveloping darkness.

“Stop,” she mumbled. “Please.” Words seemed warped from her lips, unsure she had even spoken them aloud. They felt incorporeal.

Hunched over her, Astarion was coursing with vitality he’d didn’t know how to tolerate. His fangs were hooked and mania was the only voice in his head. It wasn’t until he noticed her shallow gasps of air in his arms. How her muscles no longer fought against him. The desire to simply finish her screamed at him, but he found the strength to pull himself off. 

The elf’s grin framed his pointed teeth in their glory. He chuckled in his daze, unsure if her pathetic grasp for life were to be laughed at or pitied. She was food. An object. For once, he didn’t share that feeling. 

Astarion scoot back to let her head rest in his lap so he could revel in his dinner. Although, his fantasies couldn’t help be bombarded with the reality of her death on his hands. It all conflicted. Anxieties had been buffered by his bloodied delectation.

He slapped her cheek twice, printing her blood against her flesh in a hasty spattering. 

"C'mon. You haven’t lost that much.”

To no avail, the elf snapped his fingers over her shut eyes. He jostled her side to side. Pressed his hand against her neck, hoping to calm the flow unleashed. Soon, he noticed thin ribbons of red staining both of their clothes and caught himself staring  at the blood wet between his fingers.

“Wake. Up. Don’t make me start asking gods for favors.”

Despite a faint pulsing thump against his hand, her responses were absent. Even looking at her made him uneasy. He wondered if holding his gaze for too long would unlock parallels between him and this random young woman. A thought that would anger him if not for being appeased by his leeching. 

Suddenly, he considered her backpack and yanked it to his side, digging around for anything of use. He needed to stop the escalation. A potion. A salve. A deity with a worrying sense of humor.  

Within, a diamond shaped bottle glittered. One he recognized. It was commonly consumed among mortals for hangovers, bar fights, or the lucky escape from an owlbear. The concoction healed minor injuries and illnesses in a foul swoop. Thomasin’s sickness was more dire than half a bottle, but it was still a victory to toast to.

Astarion tucked a pillow between his thigh and her head to create elevation. And, with a gentle tug by the pad of his thumb, he lowered her bottom lip. Its glittering elixir slowly but surely ran down her throat.  

“Aha, wonderful. There you go. Watch your pretty little head.”

It took a minute or so, but Thomasin’s eyes finally flickered open. She had been unceremoniously thrown back into the realm of the living, where she lay in a veil of crimson strewn across her face. The land smelled of iron much richer than she remembered. But, her comprehension of her surroundings faltered.

“Do you know how irritating these stains are going to be to get out?” Astarion said, taunting her, egging her on to get a reaction. 

Thomasin’s body suddenly flinched. A ragged titter. The half-elf was at least somewhat responsive.

“Wasn’t it wonderful though?,” she whispered, nearly inaudible. 

Astarion’s ears perked up. Crisis had been averted. He was prompt to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the remaining evidence of bloodletting. With fresh water from her canteen, he soaked the fabric swatch and grazed it over her shoulders, chest, and neck. It wiped away what streamed down her arms. What dripped down her back. A courtesy of aftercare, wringing the tainted water into a bowl between each cleaning. 

Once she acknowledged she, too, was alive, she resigned herself to slumber. His touch was oddly gentle. Comforting. The mindless task allowed him to think clearly for the first in centuries. Although he was unsure what to do with said thoughts. Knowing what he was feeling had become impossible over the years. Trusting them, even more so.

The longer he studied her face, the more he considered it helped repress the urge to kill. It forced him to humanize his prey. A concept he wasn’t privy to. A new novelty. 

The elf ran his hand along her cheeks and admired her freckles through backhanded compliments not spoken aloud. He traced along the thick scar across her nose, pressing into the curl of her lashes to reveal her blinded eye, and conjured stories of how it came to be. Then, his trail took him up. The space where her fringe often fell and covered her forehead. 

Right atop her brow, a tattoo had been intentionally hidden. The pattern consisted of four shapes laid in a row, overlapping one another in mashed thieves cant. Its black ink had faded. Damage that could only come from years of sun and forcible scrubbing.

“Everyone in Baldur’s Gate is owned by someone,” he mumbled, twisting his head every which way to decipher the tattoo’s meaning.

Eventually, he grew bored of solving her mysteries and situated himself in the corner of her tent. From the sullied water bowl, he wiped his own face with a dampened cloth, sneaking self-indulgent licks of what was left on his forearms. Only then did he notice he was shaking. 

But the only person that could judge him was comatose. Her chest gently rose and fell with each rickety breath, but she would awake in the morning. For now, he'd keep an eye on her. What if she choked in her sleep? Stopped breathing altogether? He would be blamed.

It wasn’t difficult to busy himself in the confines of her tent. He was used to much more unwelcoming atmospheres where dangers lurked. Threats much more vile than him. 

As he rid of incriminating stains, the water bowl grew dark and rich. What the elf had cobbled together was a fine wine of his own. Stealing an empty glass bottle, he began to store the liquid away for a rainy day. A treat for later.

Even engulfed in his usual unease, he couldn’t help but laugh. Maybe it was amusement. Maybe fatigue like before. Disbelief, even.

One thing was certain.

By the gods, he was rightfully fed.