#moonhaven news

[dragonotherkinforest]

SAVE SEASON 2 OF MOONHAVEN SERIES PLEASSESDGHDFHUG÷/%"^!!!

[slverblood]

Everybody hold on I have a killer idea for my next BG3 pt

[hurtcomfortguaranteed]

In Moonhaven 1x06, Paul searches for his missing partner, Arlo, after he is shot and left for dead. Arlo’s prosthetic arm points the way, and the two ‘tectives are emotionally reunited!

[mistystepmoonbeam]

Reborn into BG3: Chapter 12

You're reborn into BG3 with only the memory of your past life. Now you're Tav's companion on his journey, and must learn about yourself as much as your new reality.

Chapter 12: You take a walk through the cellar in the blighted village. When the others catch up you say something that freaks out Astarion.

Word count: 2.6K

A/N: I was undecided if I wanted to post this >.> But what the hells.

You’re on your own, now.  Just for a bit, thanks to Wyll convincing Tav you don’t need to be watched at all times.  And with no more goblins between you and camp you’re able to be left alone to sort out…yourself, you guess. 

You didn’t throw up again after leaving Ethel’s, but you may have done some crying as you walked in circles around the forest by the village.  If it wasn’t for having to face the others you’d have run back to camp, pulled scratch into your tent and bawled your eyes out.

Though you promised to go back to camp you find yourself in the blighted village.  You can't read the sign at the entrance but you know it says Moonhaven, and you try to memorise what you think the letters might be.  

A little stop can’t hurt, you think.  Anything to avoid a conversation about what happened.  And you can collect the herbs that are in the cellar, along with anything else that might be useful.  You take a small swig of the health potion to get the taste of bile out of your mouth and then stash it into your bag, since it’s now nearly empty after leaving your personal hoard at camp, and head down into the cellar.  Whatever objects had been clinking in there remain a mystery–you still haven’t looked inside and won’t even as you add more to the pack.

As much as you had wanted to abandon your staff you took it with you.  Necromancy or not, it could bludgeon someone should the need arise.   And apparently it can cast light in a small radius around you because it does just that when you make it to the bottom of the ladder.  

With a slight purple tint, the staff lets out an eerie glow giving you just enough light to see by.  There’s a small buzz of energy through your body that you assume is the Weave.  Not wanting to question things anymore, you get to work prying open the barrels and crates and find the herbs you’re there for.  You circle around and pick up a couple health potions, a couple mystery potions to be identified later, and find the hidden lever.  You hesitate before pushing it down, but curiosity gets the better of you in the end.  You watch the shelves move and step into the secret cave.

Now that you’re aware of the phantom limb and what it has been reaching for, you can feel the dead weigh on your mind.  You know where they are, kind of in the same way you could navigate your room in the dark.  They’re permanent objects stuck in place, and should you so desire, you can reach out and move them. 

“I guess I’m a necromancer,” you mutter as you pluck a bone cap out of the ground.  “Awesome.  Couldn’t be a wizard or a sorcerer or…wait, am I one of those?”

Wyll seemed to make it sound like a necromancer was separate, but it kind of was a subcategory of wizard.

You straighten and keep moving, turning the corner and finding the cavern.  You ignore everything there and head for the mirror that waits beyond the wooden planks.  

When you step up to it the staff's eyes glow violet again, and the mirror slides open.  You sigh.  “Necromancer it is, then.”

But…maybe there’s a clue to your identity in this place if you’re powerful or rich enough?  You move inside and find the lab on the right, the paperwork scattered about, and logbooks.  Or you assume they’re the logbooks—you can’t read, after all.  Instead of flipping through them you head to the exit and find the rusty key on the shelves.  Soon enough you’re standing before the first trap that lights the braziers, and risk the step.  The room is filled with light as the fires blaze to life.  

The Necromancy of Thay is just beyond the barred door, and this time you can hear it.  It whispers to you, quiet little voices that speak in a language you don’t know.  They’re distant, but like with the bodies of the dead you know where the book is.  

It takes some strength to push the rusty key into the padlock on the door, and with some force you manage to turn it.  The whispers quiet.

“A well hidden laboratory, wonder what it’s doing down here?”

You turn to find Tav, Wyll and Astarion walking into the lab.  He still has both eyes, at least.  After he outed Astarion you thought he might take the hag’s deal. 

“How did you find this place?” you ask.  

He only offers you a shrug, eyes darting around the lab in search of loot.

You relent,  “I found the hatch and started looking around.”

Tav smiles and rests his hands on the back of his head.  Maybe he’s just happy you aren’t ignoring him again, or running away.  By the way his tail flicks at the air you think that might be it, and the reason he’s being quieter than usual.

“I followed your tracks,” Wyll reveals.  Well, he did hunt down all sorts of beings as the Blade of Frontiers.  “What have you found?”

“Creepy book,” you reply.  They approach you, surveying the book and everything else in the small cage.  

“Trapped, most likely,” Astarion says.  He steps forward carefully and does something to the stand the book is on.  It’s so quick you don’t have time to peer around him and get a good look at what “disarm trap” really looks like.

Astarion picks up the book, turning it in his hands.  They begin to discuss what it could be when you remember the bracers that are down here.  You slip away without a thought and find the nearby gilded chest, poking it before opening it.  There are traps here, who knows what else could be rigged to explode?

When you open the chest you feel a wave of magic—Weave—come from it.  It’s different from the warmth of the healing magic, somehow sharper, more demanding.  You pull the bracers out and put them in your bag, nearly overflowing with loot now.  

You turn to rejoin the group only to nearly run into Astarion on the level below you.  You stumble back and catch yourself.  “I think Shadowheart was right about putting a bell on you.”

He gives you a smirk, genuine, your surprise.  A thought occurs but rather than ask it you bite the inside of your right cheek.  

“You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Astarion asks.  You don’t know what he’s referring to, considering the amount of surprises you’ve had lately.  He goes on, waving one hand in the air.  “Filthy rich, can’t read, enchanted clothing, and now, a necromancer.”

“To be fair, I don’t know anything about all of that.”  You try not to sigh too hard thinking of what Auntie Ethel had said.

“I wonder what other secrets that little head holds…” he muses.  It’s more to himself than you.  “And you killed on my behalf, I’m flattered.”

“I didn’t mean to, though.”

“I know, that’s what makes it all the more entertaining.  You, the picture of innocence, murdered a man for a vampire spawn.  Ha!”

You furrow your brow, unsure how you could be considered the picture of innocence.   But maybe that was only compared to those Astarion knew.  It was your first murder…and only murder!  Not first.  Just the one, and only, murder.

Yes, you are rather innocent in the terms of this world.

Astarion pinches your cheek between two fingers, bringing you back to the conversation.  “Don’t think this makes us even.”

“Okay,” you say when he lets go.  You rub at where he’d pinched, shocked he touched you so casually.  And not just that…his fingers are warm.  “Uhm…”

Astarion quirks a brow.  “Yes?”

“Can I ask you a question?  About being a vampire.”

He leans his weight into one foot, crossing his arms as he eyes you warily.  “I suppose.”

“Why are you warm?  Shouldn’t you be, like, cold?  Or room temperature?”

Astarion, for all his acting, is easy to read.  His eyes widen as he steps back, arms uncrossing and held out before him like he’s trying to catch his balance.  “What did you say?”

“Sorry, is that rude?”  You shift on your heels.  “I just thought vampires would be cold, with the…being dead, and all.”

“We are,” Astarion confirms, voice grim. 

“But your skin is warm.”

“I assure you, it is not.”

“I literally just had your hand on my cheek.  You’re warm.”

“I think I know what temperature my own body is!”  Astarion huffs and walks away.  You notice the bag that rests on his back has the weight of the book within.  

You move down the steps as he paces, annoyed.  

“What’s wrong, Astarion?” Tav asks.

You answer, “I asked him why—”

But you don’t get to finish it because Astarion wraps one hand over your mouth and the other on the back of your head, successfully silencing you.  He says, “Nothing!  Nothing at all.  Just discussing what reward I might offer for valiantly saving me from a monster hunter.”

You roll your eyes.  But having his skin on yours again confirms his heat.  He feels like a living, breathing human.  Why did that freak him out?  When he releases you he gives you a hard stare that’s easy to understand.  Shut.  Up.

Wyll and Tav watch you, waiting to see what you say but you just shrug.  “It’s not that important.”

Wyll frowns, but lets it go.  For now.  Tav bites into his bottom lip but keeps silent.

Astarion’s words remind you of something you’d like to forget.  The Gur.  You can’t even recall his name right now.  Maybe you should have tried harder to keep Astarion away, or convinced them to not go there at all.  But you didn’t, and there was no reset now.

You watch Tav flit about the basement collecting loot.  It does little to help your mood, but at the very least you take comfort in the fact that they didn’t call you a monster for what you did.   You promise to keep better watch of those chords in your head, the little phantom strings that connect to the dead around you.  Because avoiding the dead is an impossible task, at least as long as you travel with Tav and everyone.

When you return to the surface the others are waiting by the well.  You spot your bag of gold on Gale’s shoulder and hurry to take it from him, but he holds up his hands to stop you.  “What kind of man would I be if I let an injured person carry so much weight?”

You’re about to argue but think better of it when the world sways a little.  You manage to stay still, probably, and thank him instead.  

“Oh, right,” you say, pulling the magic bracers from your other pack.  “I thought you might want these.”

Gale takes the bracers.  It’s then that you notice the bags under his eyes are especially dark—and you realize he hasn’t told anyone about his condition.  As far as you know.   The little lines that travel up the side of his neck and towards his left eye are darker, too.

Your thumbnail scratches at your staff as you wait for him to say something.  Anything.  Literally anything would be good right now because it’s been ten whole seconds of him staring at the bracers and that’s long enough of him being silent that the others are now looking.

“Gale?” Tav asks.

It jolts him out of his stupor.  “Yes?  Oh, yes.”  He looks at you.  “Thank you.  Perhaps there’s something I must admit…”

Gale goes through his first speech about the orb, and then his second.  It’s a lot to take in in one go, if you haven’t heard it all before.  At the end he says, “I understand if you want to part ways—this orb, for lack of a better word, is immensely dangerous.”

Tav asks, “Why?”

All eyes turn to him, his head tilted with a smile on his face.  

“Because I could explode,” Gale says slowly.  

“So?”  Tav points to each companion as he adds, “Shar worshipper, warlock turned devil, angry githyanki, infernal engine that could explode, vampire, necromancer with memory loss, and I’m sorry Halsin we’ve barely just met, but…uh, old?”

There are worse things to be said, about all of you.  

“Plus we’ve all got worms in our heads,” Karlach says.  “Oh, well except for…”

Gale lets out a small laugh.  “Thank you.  All of you.  Now, even I’m getting tired of my own voice so shall we get going?”

The group begins their journey back to the goblin camp. 

“I am not angry,” Lae’zel says, her voice almost a hiss.  “At least not at any of you.  The mindflayers, however…”

Halsin walks next to her, asking questions about the tadpoles and their magic, while Astarion and Wyll follow, then Shadowheart, Karlach, and Tav.  You and Gale are last to leave the village.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Gale asks. 

You hesitate too long before answering.  “No.”

“You are a terrible liar.”  He keeps his voice low as you walk, putting the bracers on his wrists.  “But I consider that a good thing.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, unsure of what to say.  They seem to consider your knowledge to be some kind of deadly premonition, so maybe you should lean into that.  “I can’t really explain it.”

Gale smiles but it’s weak.  

“We’ll find lots of stuff for you to eat,” you assure him.  “Or absorb, I mean.  Like those!”

You point at the bracers.  He holds them closer to where you know the orb is tattooed on his chest, breathing deeply. 

“And if we can’t find anything there’s always my boots, or coat.”

“You would offer me those?”  Gale looks you up and down like he had when you’d first met.

You shrug.  “Of course.  Oh, do you need them now?  Because I just need to sit down to get them—”

You lift a foot as you walk, nearly stumbling to the ground when Gale stops you.  “No, no, I’m fine for now.   I am just—very grateful to have such a generous companion.”

“It’s not really generosity if it’s something you need though,” you argue.  

Gale smiles gently but moves on.  “So what’s this I hear about you being a necromancer?”

Whatever emotion crosses your face makes him pull back and try to change the subject.  Regret, maybe, or pain.  You can’t focus on controlling your features with so much going on.   “I don’t want to be…that.  I can feel…I can feel where they are—like something is dragging behind me.  It’s heavy, but easy.  I don’t want it to be easy.”

“Just because something comes easily to you doesn’t mean you need to do it.”

You look up at him, unaware your gaze has been on the ground this whole time.  “But I did it by accident.  I can’t—I can’t exactly control it.”

“That’s no problem to learn,” Gale says, as if moving the dead was no harder than riding a bike.  “Learn to control it, and don’t use it.  Though if you can move a boar in your sleep you must have some considerably…powerful benefactors in Baldur’s Gate to deal with.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t mean to frighten you,” he says, “but if you can use magic without the intent, without the movements or incantations, then you hold a great power.  And that is something that doesn’t go unnoticed by the wealthy elite.”

Chosen.  Like Gale had once been of Mystra you too could be the preferred mortal of a god.

“Meaning there may be some unhappy people if I don’t use magic.”

“It’s only one possibility of many,” Gale assures you.  “And until we know more I am happy to help you control your magic.  I’m told I’m an excellent teacher.”

You twirl the staff between your fingers and laugh.  “It would be an honour to learn from you.”

Taglist:

@half-poison-and-half-hope @sanscas @hotmesshobbit @godoffuckedupcats @thequeen-oni @terrenuserinj @straewberrysoda @theomnipotentfox @becksynthetic @quitecontrary-to-mary @furblrwurblr @mega-trash-cringe @fandomsbookclub @dontneedbiologytoadopt @pebble-bb @v3lv3tvampir3 @mrow-kat @jeneralmischief @notsaelty @runaway-17 @aoirohi @tinswhimsy @xxgrimripp3rxx @kemonocat-blog @thetiredtoad0-0 @sleepydang @iwannabealocalcryptid @troutberryspoon @betwixttheweave @the-pale-elfs-love

[mumms-the-word]

Shadow Curse Events Pt. 2

Harpers, druids, and the battle against Ketheric

So in Part 1, I talked about Ketheric’s descent into Sharran zealotry and his attacks against all Selûnite faithful and anyone who so much as breathed a bad word about him. The TLDR is that Ketheric didn’t just become a follower of Shar, he basically became the Prophet-General of her new dark army, her Chosen, establishing new teachings and protocols for what defined a Dark Justiciar. It got so bad, and he became so powerful, that a leader of the Selûnite resistance, Ketheric's own master mason Morfred, made a deal with Raphael to take out his Justiciars just to hopefully give the Harpers a chance.

Because, to no one's surprise, all of this murder and fearmongering has captured the attention of the Harpers, who feel the need to step in and restore some balance.

The rest of this post is basically going to be about the Harper-druid battle against Ketheric and the siege of Reithwin, culminating in him getting sealed up in his tomb. Buckle up and be prepared for a couple of graphic war things (cw: animal death). Part 3 will be about the first few days of the shadow curse itself, because I just find that eerie and fascinating.

Full deep dive under the cut! Super long post ahead :'>

———

The moment is nigh; war has been brewing, and now it overflows. When Ketheric turned us toward Shar, I followed him - in appearance, if not in heart. This is my home, and I would not be removed from it, no matter what. I watched at a distance as the darkness here grew; as Ketheric's grief brought him farther and farther from life itself. As he gathered his army, I prayed for his defeat. As the Harpers march upon our little village - our little, beautiful village - I can only hope Ketheric will be felled at last, and Reithwin can begin to heal from this nightmare.

Let me briefly set the stage. Reithwin Town is under the governance of Ketheric Thorm, former Selûnite-turned-Chosen-of-Shar. All Selûnite worship has been driven underground. Dark Justiciars train in some elusive location outside and beneath town, only to return in order to interrogate the citizens of Reithwin about their loyalties to Shar and to Ketheric. Bodies are hanging in the square as an example to those who might think about dissenting or professing their faith in Selûne. People are going missing or being executed every day, and Ketheric's desire to expand Shar's influence beyond the borders of Reithwin is only growing stronger. Rumors abound that he's already completely destroyed a nearby village, another Selûnite refuge called Moonhaven. And now, the citizens of Reithwin hear whispers on the wind that the Harpers will soon arrive from the east...and they're bringing an army.

If a citizen were to wish to flee, they'd be nearly out of luck. The Harpers are coming from the east, but Baldur's Gate lies in the west, and the leadership in Baldur's Gate is already suspicious. Ketheric has drawn the attention of Grand Duke Eltan, the founder of the Flaming Fist and the good-aligned general who aided the heroes of BG1 (like Jaheira) during the Sarevok crisis. He's heard whispers of a Sharran enclave and has ordered a scout to go and investigate. That scout is Art Cullagh.

Incidentally, in the last post I suggested that these events are happening either between 1371-1374 or between 1396-1399. We don't know when Grand Duke Eltan died, so either theory still holds water (pick whichever you like best), but I do think his involvement moves the needle a little more towards the 1371-1374 theory. Eltan has just wrapped up the Sarevok adventure with Jaheira and the other heroes in 1368 and was dealing with other issues in 1369. He would still be in the height of his power as a leader of Baldur's Gate and the Grand Marshal of the Flaming Fist in the early 1370s. So he would have a vested interest in trying to maintain peace in his city, and that includes investigating rumors of civil unrest and strange darkness in a town just up the river from him to make sure that whatever is happening there doesn't come downriver.

Eltan sends Art Cullagh, a lieutenant/officer of the Flaming Fist (and virtuoso with a lute, as we well know). I won't post images of his orders here, since it's a letter most of us have likely read when trying to fix the shadow curse. But essentially, he's ordered to take lodgings in Last Light Inn and begin his investigation in the House of Healing to confirm rumors of corruption and Sharran influence in town. We know he attempts to fulfill these commands because he's seen at the inn and later his lute is left behind at the House of Healing.

Shadow Vestige: You see a man drain his tankard in an inn as he listens to a Flaming Fist play the lute. He's better than his uniform might suggest.

Around the same time that Art is preparing to travel down and begin investigating, the Harpers are already at work gathering an army. They're not just making Ketheric their convenient enemy—they're declaring all-out war.

They've gathered their evidence (after interrogating locals and possibly attempting to assassinate Ketheric from afar) and now they're ready to take the fight to him directly. But they need backup. So they write to the Emerald Enclave (not to be confused with the Emerald Grove) to arrange an alliance. Ketheric is going against nature, after all, and who better to call on for aid in preserving nature than the Emerald Enclave?

[The first few inches of this scroll are written in formal, elaborate script.] To the Emerald Enclave, and those deemed worthy to see this record, greetings from Those Who Harp. Know ye that the one known as Ketheric Thorm, a paladin of Shar, is guilty of crimes against body and spirit. They include, but are not limited to Murder, Slavery, and Desecration of Temples Most Holy. Let our intent be known: an alliance between the Harpers and the Emerald Enclave. United, we may end Thorm's reign of terror. The High Harpers eagerly await your good word.

The Emerald Enclave is massive, since it basically serves as the high council and umbrella organization for all druidic circles and groves that exist in Faerûn (or those who choose to align with the Emerald Enclave's tenants anyway). When the Harpers declare an alliance with the Enclave, those in charge of selecting allies make sure to enlist the druid circle that is local to that area, the Emerald Grove, since they will be the closest and have a stake in preserving the land around their grove. The Emerald Grove even immortalizes this alliance in their inner sanctum.

Image: Mural of Harpers and Druids shaking hands in front of an oak; Narrator reads: "In darkest hour, a concord made / 'Twixt harp and wild against the shade." Image: Mural of Harpers and druids stand back to back with the fallen armor of Dark Justiciars at their feet; Narrator reads: "The towers seized, the battle done / the moonrise broke the Darkest One."

It's possible that the Emerald Grove was the only circle that joined or was even asked to be in the battle, but perhaps the Enclave sent more. The Harpers needed an army, after all, and Jaheira says they numbered hundreds strong. Either way, the infamous Halsin Silverbough and his predecessor, the Archdruid in charge before him, are among the druids who join the army, though they never meet Jaheira in the battle.

Jaheira: The Archdruid Halsin. Do not be surprised that I know your name - you fit a rather singular description. And one survivor of the shadow curse's fall ought to know another. Halsin: We never actually got to meet, when fighting Ketheric that first time. Jaheira: No. We were a host hundreds strong, after all. Until we were not.

With the druids and Harpers finally aligned, they can at last march on Reithwin and begin their siege.

So let me pause for a moment to confess that the battle itself is...hard to track. Some characters (Halsin, Jaheira) and some accounts suggest that the battle only takes up about one day. The battle seems to either be contained to the banks of the Chionthar, or it spreads into the town to eventually reach Moonrise Towers. Other accounts, like the Harper's Testimonial, suggest the battle raged for three straight days outside of Moonrise alone before Ketheric descended personally into the field. Notes and letters from the House of Healing suggest the siege may have taken even longer, because supplies dwindled to dangerously low levels. Trying to reconcile all these accounts is tricky.

It's important to note that sieging a town doesn't always mean active fighting, it just means cutting off supplies and travel, keeping everyone out, or keeping everyone in, so it's possible the town was under siege for much longer than the battle that was actually fought. So the following is my best interpretation for the events, in an order that makes semi-logical sense to me. Some of this is complete conjecture. But feel free to come up with your own timelines!

Shadow Vestige: You sense a faded memory of marching in an army against Ketheric Thorm. Victory seemed possible back then.

The plan is to lay siege to Reithwin Town and force Ketheric to surrender. Failing that, siege the town until the army is too weak from hunger to fight well, then push forward into Moonrise Towers and kill Ketheric.

Part of the Chionthar divides Reithwin from the rest of the village outskirts (as you can see on the map), making three bridges the only access into town if you're approaching from the east as the Harpers and druids would have done (unless, of course, you want to get wet or you can fly). On one side of the river is the town proper. On the other, Last Light Inn and several farms.

If the Harpers barricade the bridges, or the Justiciars build barricades to keep them out, then Reithwin is cut off from everything on the east side of the river. Cut off the farms, and Reithwin loses food. Cut off travel and trade from the east, and Reithwin is forced to look to the west for supplies...but Baldur's Gate is to the west, and Grand Duke Eltan is already suspicious. He will not be a friend to Ketheric Thorm. Reithwin is essentially (if not literally) boxed in.

It's a good siege plan...in theory, anyway. And if the Harpers lay siege while waiting for their army to grow, waiting for the druids to join them, etc., then it helps them in two ways. It starves out and weakens the enemy and gives them time to increase their own strength.

For a while, the seige seems to be working.

Whether it was the Harpers or the Justiciars who built the barricades and pickets along the bridge, Reithwin is now officially under siege, and trade and supplies start to trickle nearly to a stop. The number of travelers through the tollhouse drastically dwindles, until eventually it seems to be cut off entirely. Reithwin begins to suffer food shortages, enough that the veterinarian in town is forced to butcher some of the stable's horses to provide food. And it's not just horses, judging by the evidence we find elsewhere in town, like the missing pets posters and the pile of bloodied cat and dog collars outside of the tollhouse.

(Ugh I hate it so much. But the Harpers are determined to win. And yes, while some of the food shortage stuff could have been Ketheric failing at governing his town appropriately, a siege makes more sense to me.)

At some point (days? weeks?) Ketheric likely says enough is enough. The battle must begin or he will lose his town and his army to starvation, especially with winter quickly approaching. Alternatively, the Harpers themselves grow tired of waiting. They see that their siege is doing little to sway Ketheric and decide that the only thing left to do is attack.

Either way, the battle will begin on the morrow.

On the eve of the first day of the battle, many Harpers and druids bunk at Last Light Inn, likely including Jaheira and Halsin (who both remember the inn as it was before the shadow curse). Art Cullagh is also staying there. Whether he has already visited the House of Healing and lost his lute there is uncertain, though I think it's likely. Perhaps he visited before Reithwin was sieged, or visited during the siege but before the fighting started. Perhaps he is there in the inn when the Harpers toast one another the night before the battle. The Harpers no doubt expect a hard-fought but certain victory. I can only wonder what Art must have thought, watching them, if he was there that same night.

Shadow Vestige: You glimpse a young Harper on the eve of battle against Thorm, long ago. He and his comrades toast each other in Last Light.

The next day, the battle begins.

Ketheric is a remarkable general who understands how to rouse his soldiers. Minthara describes him, even a century later, as "everything a general should be - a charismatic leader with a brilliant strategic mind." He knows his soldiers and those who would volunteer to join his army are going hungry and are fearful of what the winter might bring to their seiged town. Whether they are Dark Justiciars or not, they're mortal. More mortal than he is. So he gathers them together to bolster their morale before the battle.

[A record of Ketheric Thorm's speech to his troops before his victory over the druids and Harpers.] Take this. You there, take this from me. That is gold, friends. Let those who are coveters and cravens among you take my gold and go. There's enough to keep you warm in winter. But in those cold and lonely winters to come, you will look into the bought flames in the purchased hearth and see a bargained-for peace, and then you'll realise that such a retirement comes at the price of pride. Go on and take it. Take it and go. Those who are not afraid and me? We won't stop you. But neither shall we know a winter in which the coin of regret is idly spent. Instead we shall know blood, and fury, and a triumph worthy of a flame reconcileable only with heaven, I swear it! Against us arrayed is a group of fools - let them be our bank vault! Let us raid them, friends! Let us grow rich on screams!

The Harper Testimonial suggests that Ketheric himself did not enter the battle until day three. I can imagine Ketheric giving such a speech and then watching from the towers (a good vantage point to view the battle below) as his Dark Justiciar army descends on hundreds of Harpers and druids, knowing that victory is well in hand. His Justiciars have trained hard and ritually killed a celestial being, after all. They are an elite force.

~1~ A Harper's Testimonial: The Last Stand of Ketheric Thorm, Chosen of Shar. [The pursuant text describes a battle between Ketheric Thorm's faithful and magical Harper forces.] I do not know what magic the Dark Justiciars summoned to our plane. But if it came from the Weave, then let it be cursed for eternity. For three days, we sieged the Towers. For three days, their darkbolts cleaved our ranks. And on the third day, as his men and woman at last began to fall, Ketheric entered battle.

(The Harper might be conflating the Towers with Reithwin itself, or perhaps I'm wrong about this theory and the Harper is only talking about a secondary battle that happened right outside the Towers. Either way, putting it here because the information is extremely relevant, but here's your warning that there's plenty of conjecture ahead!)

The Harpers and druids clash with the Justiciars on the east banks of the Chionthar, slaughtering each other around ballistae, barricades, and battering rams, trying to push forward across the bridges and docks that connect the tollhouse with the village outskirts. This is no mere skirmish. The ground is slick with blood as Dark Justiciars fight to keep the Harpers and druids from advancing forward into town and reaching Moonrise. Dead and wounded soon begin to litter the ground. The battle is so brutal that vestiges of it remain even a century later, identifiable at a glance.

Character comments regarding the centuries-old remains of the battle around the main bridge into the tollhouse. Astarion: This battlefield must've ran slick with blood - I can taste it in the air, even after so long. Lae'zel: There was a great battle here. The ground stained red with blood long dried. Gale: The site of no ordinary skirmish. This was once a battlefield, and a bloody one, too, judging by the number of bodies. Shadowheart: These aren't the remains of some skirmish - whole armies clashed here once. Wyll: A great battle was fought here - I can practically hear the din of blade against blade, axe against shield. Karlach: This is a battlefield. An old one, but still. Jaheira: Forces from the Emerald Grove. Many stood against Ketheric - only we lucky few survived him. Halsin: A great many druids once stood here to fight Ketheric Thorm. Few ever left. Minthara: Remains of those who stood against Ketheric in the past.

Dark Justiciars rain down darkbolts on the Harpers and druids, bolts of pure darkness that deal moderate damage and can daze the victim. Healers among the Harper and druid ranks begin to get overwhelmed by the amount of wounded. Many of the dead are left abandoned on the field, the fighting too intense to stop and take them away for burial. Most are never recovered.

As the battle rages on for one day, two days, three days, things are growing dire for the citizens inside the town, some of whom are cowering as the battle gets closer and closer, spilling out onto the streets of Reithwin and surging toward Moonrise Towers. The House of Healing is trying to tend to the wounded and the sick, operating as both a regular clinic and a war hospital. Because the siege (and now the battle) has stopped all supplies from entering the town, their potions and tonics are running dangerously low. Additionally, though the House of Healing should technically be offering aid to any wounded person, no matter their faith or creed, Ketheric issues an order that all Selûnites or Harpers must be turned away and that all healing items must be focused on Dark Justiciars alone—an order that his surgeon uncle, Malus, strictly enforces.

[This exhaustive log lists each and every patient to have sought healing in Reithwin, along with their ailments. The minor injuries and common diseases of the early pages give way to critical wounds and deep lacerations - the repercussions of battle. Several unbound scrolls have been slid among the final pages, demanding that healers turn away wounded Harpers and Selûnites, and reserve their tonics for wounded Dark Justiciars - on the orders of General Ketheric Thorm.]

(If Art Cullagh hasn't visited the House of Healing already, he likely can't now.)

The House is still operating as a clinic, accepting patients who come in with ailments or injuries, but they're ordered to essentially ignore them. Malus even forbids the use of sleep aids and anesthetics to ease the pain or passing of the elderly and mortally wounded. Soon they begin turning away even Sharran citizen patients, or leaving them untreated, like the husband of one Cleric of Shar who comes to the House of Healing to be treated for an unknown malady. The husband never realizes that he is suffering the damage that his wife should be getting as she takes on "whole troops" of Harpers single-handedly and walks away without a scratch. He dies, forgotten, either a victim of the shadow curse or of his wife's warding bond.

Things grow so dire that at least one nurse, Sister Anna Lidwin, pens a note to the Chief Chirurgeon (surgeon) of Harbourside Hospital (which is itself kinda sketchy) requesting aid. Potions, herbs, clerics, anything that can help.

To: Chief Chirurgeon, Harbourside Hospital, Baldur's Gate From: Sister Anna Lidwin, Darkcloak, Reithwin House of Healing URGENT! Dear Sir or Madam, We have reached dire times in Reithwin. War has come. Do you not teach that it is our duty to mend all who break, comfort all who ail, without regard for the gods they worship or the champions they heed? Yet our surgeon Malus Thorm abides by his own creed. 'The will of Shar', he might say, and I dare not argue with him - or any Thorm. He allows supplies to dwindle, leaves some patients' injuries to fester so he may 'study', and commands me to nurse only Dark Justiciars that seek treatment. I beg you, Sir or Madam - please deliver us aid, so I might close every tear and cleanse every wound, even those of Harpers and Selûnites. We will humbly accept all you can offer: potions, herbs, sutures, even clerics. Help us to heal. With gratitude, Anna Lidwin

The letter is never sent. It lies abandoned in the House of Healing even a century later. Perhaps she wrote it on the final day of battle and was caught by the shadow curse as she was trying to tend to the wounded.

For the Harpers and druids, the battle has taken a turn for the worse. Ketheric's Dark Justiciars seem overwhelmingly powerful and the damage this battle is doing is only increasing, especially as it spills into town. Eventually, the Harpers weigh the cost of victory and elect to surrender. They get Khelben Arunsun, the Blackstaff himself, to write the surrender letter (whether he was physically there at the battle or not is uncertain).

Ketheric denies the surrender.

General Ketheric Thorm: It is with heavy heart that I must announce the surrender of the Harper forces and its allies to your Dark Justiciar army, under unanimous agreement. 'Harpers work against villainy and wickedness wherever they find it…' So states our code, and so here have we acted. But I also know, all too well, how the statement continues: '… but they work ever mindful of the consequences of what they do.' We cannot be party to the suffering of the people of Reithwin, and indeed, of the great loss of life that this war will visit upon the Sword Coast - and, perhaps, beyond it. So it is written, and so let it be done, Khelben Arunsun, on behalf of the High Harper Council and its allies. [Two words are slashed across the bottom of the scroll:] SURRENDER DECLINED

Ketheric rejects the surrender and clamps it in the jaws of some poor dead soul whose head or skull is then set on a pike at the battlefield (knowing him, it was probably the messenger who brought the surrender letter). The Harpers and druids keep fighting. They have no other choice. It's fight or be slaughtered.

It's the third day. Something has shifted in the ranks. Dark Justiciars are falling in battle, and for once, reinforcements aren't coming. Unbeknownst to the Harpers and druids, an infernal force is destroying Justiciars in Grymforge and in the Gauntlet of Shar. The Harpers and druids at last have a fighting chance.

And that's when Ketheric joins the battle.

The details of this part of the battle are lost to time. We know from Minthara that Ketheric is absolutely fearless in battle. She describes him as a man who leads his troops from the front and cuts through the enemy “like a scythe through stalks.” I suspect that even back then, when the blows and arrows rain down on him as they do when Minthara fights with him a century later, he does not readily fall or falter. With immortality practically guaranteed, he likely butchers more Harpers and druids than they dared imagine possible for one man. The hundreds that made up the original army of Harpers and druids have been winnowed and cut down until only, as Jaheira says, a lucky few remain. The dead number so high for Halsin that he says it would take him a day and night recite all the names of the friends he lost in this battle.

But eventually, somehow, the Harpers and druids at last defeat Ketheric and eliminate all the remaining Justiciars that are still fighting topside. Ketheric suffers a seemingly mortal wound and falls. He utters a "final curse" as he dies and then withers, according to one Harper at least. The effects of this spoken curse are not immediately apparent. For now, the Harpers and druids feel they have won a victory at last, but the curse, whatever it is meant to be, clearly spooks them. Perhaps they think that by sealing Ketheric in the mausoleum, they can avoid the effects of his last dying words.

The Harpers drag Ketheric's corpse from the battlefield and leave him in a tomb in the mausoleum. Jaheira (and possibly Halsin) personally helps other Harpers and Druids seal the mausoleum doors using arcane sigils.

Player: If he's back, perhaps you should have hit him harder in the first place. Jaheira: Believe me - he was well and truly dead. I locked his corpse in the Thorm mausoleum myself.

Halsin: These sigils...druids and Harpers alike tried to seal away Ketheric Thorm in his foul tomb. To no avail.

The remaining Harpers and druids think that this final act of sealing Ketheric away signals a hard-won victory. Jaheira and the other Harpers turn to the task of removing bodies from the battlefield to bury them at Last Light. Halsin and the other druids likely also focus on tending to their dead and wounded, while the surviving citizens of Reithwin breathe unsteady sighs of relief or resignation...until the late autumn air suddenly takes on a midwinter chill.

The shadow curse is only just beginning.

———

Tags for those who wanted the update! @fingons-rad-harp @stuffforthestash

Feel free to request a tag update for Part 3!

[vespaer77]

I'd like to tell you a story...

... about my first Tav, Shayla Moonsong.

She is a Zariel tiefling, and a College of Lore Bard, and while she wasn't my first Tav, she was the first one to finish the game. I had romanced Lae'zel, Shadowheart, and Astarion in early access, so I focused on her because I was anxious to try a new romance, Halsin. However, because she was created just after full release, her save file was horrifically bugged. I got the cut scenes for Halsin that allowed me to progress his companion quest and cure Moonhaven of the shadow curse, but after that I could get no further dialogue from him at all, even in camp. I was playing with a party limit mod by the time he joined my party, so I never needed to worry about dismissing him from my party, but I did occasionally have difficulty with him following the party. I had to run around controlling him a lot. The only scene I ever got with him once he joined me was specifically his sex scene, after I did the love test at the circus in Act 3. I knew literally nothing about him, lol, so I had to google the answers.

But that was the thing. I knew… nothing about this guy. He was just some hot elf my bard boned, I had zero investment in him other than that. And it became a head canon for me about her - she was a typical bard, slutting her way to the Gate. She slept with the Emperor, she had a foursome with the drow twins and Halsin, and she absolutely played Haarlep's game to get his pass code. And while I'd wished, at the time, I could have had the additional enrichment of a poignant, heartfelt romance, I did enjoy exploring a character that was more free with her sexuality. As a result, though, I'd ended up "saving myself" for Halsin, because I knew his romance would (or in my case should but didn't) open up very late in the game. And I'd shot down all of the other companions fairly quickly.

Including Gale.

Especially Gale.

He was still bugged at the time, and his… overly amorous nature, lol, was widely known to anyone who'd spent more than ten minutes on the internet. So I ignored a lot of opportunities to know him better. And at the time, he was honestly my least favorite character. Particularly because I truly didn't enjoy him in early access. I genuinely found him offputting and way too over the top, and subsequently much of his narrative flew straight over my head.

Like a Boeing 777.

But let's be honest. Because of the nature of his story, and the way he seems to compartmentalize his trauma as devotion, and because of the mask of charm and confidence he wears to convince your character of his usefulness, and the way he tempers his emotions so he doesn't upset the orb, all of these things… the complexity of his narrative is super duper subtle. Or at least to me it was. I was the complete dumb dumb that didn't pick it up from context like we were supposed to.

Until I played my bard, Shayla. The first one to get through Act 3.

I had saved the culmination of Gale's quest in Sorcerous Sundries til nearly the end. Just before all the stuff with the foundry and Gortash. At the time, he was still a checklist item, a box to mark off on my road to the final boss.

So I went into it feeling like this man was probably pretty fed up with me, lol. And then he read the Annals of Karsus and I realized right then just how much I'd taken this character for granted. Because everything about him, his entire personality, shifted right there, and he became… someone else. And everyone else in my party noticed it too. The choice of responses I was given was crafted in a way that made me feel like the writers very much wanted me to notice a change had taken place within Gale. And then I picked a response that was honestly a touch unkind. I don't remember what I said to him, but…

He yelled at me.

"She left me to die!" he said. I remember that part.

And when the camera panned back to me and the party, we were all wide eyed and reared away from him in shock and disbelief that this charming, confident, gregarious, and benign creature was suddenly so… dark. And it was at that moment that a light switch was flipped. The missing puzzle piece was found and snapped into place. Suddenly I understood everything I'd missed up to that point, and it was more than just an "ah hah!" moment. It was an, "Oh my god…" moment. He hadn't become someone else.

We were seeing who he truly was for the first time.

His mask had slipped. Cracked beneath strain. He'd been pushed to a breaking point.

Naturally, because he's Gale, he recovered quickly. But it was too late. I saw him. And then two things happened. I fell in love with him. Instantly. But then I also realized the game was almost over. His romance opportunity had come and gone, there wouldn't be a "confess your love at the last minute" option. And of course his fate at the end of the game was not so kind to my bard either.

I've had big feelings about it ever since.

And then the Hugs mod came out, which only served to further poke my great big ouchy feelings.

I've lived in head canon land for a while now when it comes to Shayla Moonsong. In my head canon, he did end up taking her advice, he did pick an outcome that didn't involve using the Crown of Karsus or the Karsite Orb, and in no way did he become a pulverized cloud of stardust. He ended the game living peacefully in Waterdeep, giving Tara belly rubs and ushering in the next generation of wizards without grooming them for a lifetime of suffering.

But that leaves Shayla herself and her big, unresolved feelings. Feelings that were never processed or acknowledged, as the time was never right between her relationship status with Halsin and the fate of the world resting on her shoulders.

So, what is a bard to do when she falls in love, but it's too late?

Nothing small, that's for sure. And it will probably involve singing.

(I'm planning on maybe two to three chapters for this story, in which she very much makes things worse before they get better, lol. She's still learning. But it's definitely gonna end with some light cunnilingus and good, heavy railing either on a kitchen counter or against a bookshelf. I haven't decided yet. I do hope, if you do decide to read this humble beginning, that you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. And also please excuse my ill attempts at self-effacing meta humor.)

Pairing: Gale / named fem!Tav bard Rating: Smut is imminent (once we get through the foreplay… er, mutual pining) Word count: 4790

Read the story HERE or under the cut

Chapter One: The Wizard, The Real One

"Is there a loan shark in the audience or something?" Jory asked.

"Hmm?" Nelsyn replied, but she didn't look up from her lines. He supposed that was fair. She was busy letting Sara fix the adhesive on the curly teal wig that sat between her horns, and Jory knew as well as anyone on cast that nothing good came from troubling the crew. He let his heavy bear pelt slip from his shoulders as he sat down in the empty chair next to her.

"She's been there all night," he told his friend as he nodded toward the entryway to stage right. "Boss lady. We've been touring this show for months. We could all do it in our sleep, she knows that. Never seen her hover like this."

And there was no reason for it. "The Fall of the Absolute" was a roaring success. The production was Shayla Moonsong's crowning achievement, a media darling, and the current obsession of a whole continent. She'd catalogued volumes of stellar, five-star reviews thus far, and was selling out box offices everywhere she went. The show was the hottest new thing since "Volo's Guide to Sex in the Elemental Planes."

But it wasn't her biggest accomplishment. It wasn't what she was truly known for.

She was the Hero of Baldur's Gate.

She faced the illithid Netherbrain herself, and won.

And the tale they were telling in front of all those people was her story.

Heavens knew the winsome bard had faced far greater perils than watching a chapter of her life play out on a stage.

And yet there she stood, on this most unremarkable of nights, leaning just inside the door frame where she could observe without obstructing. Where she could scan the audience like a scrying eye, searching for… something. Normally she'd be flitting about like a cloud of gnats directing the cast and crew, answering questions, giving orders, helping the caterer, filling water jugs, finding toilet paper, running errands, meeting VIPs. Trying not to go crazy. But not tonight. Tonight she stood very still, chewing her thumbnail and unconsciously flicking the tip of her tail over and over, hard to the left.

And Jory remembered what Nelsyn had said about what it meant when tieflings flicked their tail to the left.

She was clearly nervous about something.

"Well, we're about to do the big emotional number," Nelsyn finally told him, closing the cover of her script while Sara gave her wig a good yank to test the glue. "It's the one all the teenage girls are sobbing over their sketch pads for right now."

She stopped to take a sip of water when Sara bent to pick up her cosmetics case. The girl made a gesture to Jory to give up his seat, and he tripped over his own feet unfolding himself to stand up. Once again he was reminded why he was cast as the big druid, Halsin. Shayla had told him once that while he wasn't quite as tall as the real thing… he was close. He wondered how easily the boss lady's former lover would have fit into that chair.

"This is our first time in Waterdeep," Nelsyn continued, trying her best not to move her lips while Sara applied a fresh coat of pink stain. "She probably just wants to see how it gets received. She doesn't really get to just sit out there and watch, you know?"

"Yeah."

"Could be it," Sara told them both, bunching her eyebrows and concentrating on keeping her hand steady. "Part of it, anyway. That is her favorite character out there, singing his heart out about the bomb in his chest."

"Her favorite character? The wizard?"

"Someone else got a bomb?"

"Please. Everyone knows I'm her favorite character."

"Listen," she replied as she wiped the applicator clean with a kerchief, "you're a good looking kid, and no one hates watching you take your clothes off out there." Nelsyn snorted, but they both ignored her. "A healthy percentage of ticket sales is probably yours, no one's arguing that. But that's not enough for you to game the win."

"Game the w- what?" Jory laughed, his oiled obliques glistening as he pulled the bear pelt back over his shoulders. "Look, I'm not trying to make it a competition or anything, okay? You brought it up. But I literally play an archdruid who carves ducks, sings to squirrels, and adopts orphans. Plus? He looks like this." He swept his hands grandly over his abdomen, flexing muscles most people had only seen in paintings or medical textbooks. "And did I mention he's also her boyfriend?"

"Her ex-boyfriend," Sara corrected him, pointing at Nelsyn as she spoke. "Have you even listened to the song she's getting ready to sing? You know. The one about love? And sacrifice?" She shifted her weight as an intern sidled past her to tidy the table, refill their drinks, and bag up the trash. "And don't tell me you haven't looked at Erik with both of your eyeballs. We've all seen him. The man has eyelashes as long as your forearm. And the biggest, saddest, wettest brown eyes on the face of this planet. He's like a baby cow, okay? I'm just saying." She stood to let the intern past her again, and bent to drag her cosmetics case out of the way. "This is the man she cast to play the lead in the big romantic climax of the whole show. When the main character realizes she's in love and it's too late. She's managed to capture," she pinched her fingers in front of her face, "the very essence of what it means to have sad children mooning over this show for years to come, okay? The baby cow is a cash cow. And he is clearly her favorite character."

"I think the vampire is her favorite character," the intern said, unprompted, as she reached to help Nelsyn out of her seat. "He's everyone's favorite character."

"You're all wrong," Nelsyn told them as she sloughed her way out of her robe with great theatrical flair. The intern caught it before it hit the floor, just as she'd done so many times before. Nelsyn stood with her hands on her hips and a gallant curve to her tail, casting her eyes toward the rafters and beaming a heavily pink-stained smile, resplendent in her artificially distressed leather armor blotted with thick fake blood.

"I'm her favorite character," she said, glowing with certainty. "And it should be obvious. I'm her! Now, stand back and watch while I go make a bunch of little girls cry!" And with that, she grinned devilishly and pranced toward the stage.

But once she was gone, the intern leaned forward and beckoned. Jory found himself instinctually drawn to listen.

"Well, you wanna know what I heard?" she whispered, and her eyes landed on Shayla for only just a moment. Jory nodded out of reflex. "I heard a rumor that someone in the orchestra pit overheard the boss lady telling someone in the box office that there was going to be a special guest tonight."

"What. Like, family?" Jory asked. "I thought she was an orphan."

"Could be anyone," Sara answered him from where she stood, combing through a wig hanging on the wall. "Philanthropist, politician. Who knows.

"Or," the intern hissed, leaning in even closer, "it could be one of them."

"One of who?"

"You know. Them. Thems what was with her, when all this went down."

"Like… like one of the actual…?"

"Don't you two have anything better to do than -"

"Wait. We're in Waterdeep," Jory breathed. He snatched up Nelsyn's script and started thumbing through it, fanning the pages and blowing a strand of hair across his nose. "Isn't… isn't the wizard…?"

Sara dropped her comb to her side and opened her mouth, but stopped and blinked at him instead. A thoughtful look crept across her face. She nodded her head in defeat.

"The wizard's from Waterdeep."

Then, as one, they all turned to look at Shayla where she stood at stage right, still as a statue.

And the music began to swell. The strings stirred the air with sounds as soft and sweet as sunset. The woodwinds sang a shrill crescendo as Erik began to make his famous climb.

And Nelsyn began to sing her famous song.

Before she disappeared beyond the narrow view from stage right, Jory watched her as she raised her arm to reach for him.

The wizard.

And her voice rang out so high and so clear, so heavy with every loss that Shayla Moonsong had ever suffered, with every plea that ever twisted her heart in bitter knots. With every word that ever fell from the mighty pen of their beloved playwright.

Who stood now with her hand at her throat. It bobbed once when she swallowed. Her lips parted and she drew a breath, and a hush fell over the crowd. She settled in to listen with the rest of them.

And her tail flicked once more to the left.

I know I've been unkind to you And I've pushed you way too far And I know in ignorance I forced you To reveal the man you are And I know I've left you with nothing to lose And even less to gain And though I know you owe me nothing Please don't give in to pain

Erik's silhouette was emblazoned across the long, velvet curtain hanging behind the hideously decorated staircase he was climbing. His movements were eery and real, despite their paltry attempts to pantomime a grisly memory that none of them had ever lived. Each step was measured and dreamlike and perfect, like a person caught in a trance or a dead man called home to his rest by a spectral light.

Or in this case, a massive papier mache facsimile of a netherbrain hung from a scaffold over the stage.

Please, Please don't do this I'm begging you not to go Please, Please don't do this There's something you need to know What can I do to make you wait Convince a goddess to change your fate Please tell me that it's not too late There's something I didn't say…

"It can't be him, though. Can it?" Jory asked. "Didn't he, like," he pointed a finger toward the stage, "explode?"

"Oh, no. It's just a story, mate," came a voice from behind them. It was Velanthyr, the elf who played Astarion. They rounded the table and perched themself on the corner, placing their white wig beside them as they took a bite from an apple. "She's embellished tons of stuff. For emotional impact. They all do it."

I should have loved you since I met you I should have loved you all along

"That bard she played? In the first act?"

"Yeah?"

"She ain't really dead either."

"Seriously?"

I should have told you that I love you Instead of hiding behind a song

"My cousin met her. Said he saw her play someplace they had dinner."

"No shit?"

"It's true. She teaches music in Baldur's Gate."

Is there nothing left that I can do But fall to my knees and pray

"So what's with her, anyway?" Velanthyr asked, pointing their apple at Shayla while they wiped the juice from their lips with their other hand.

The tip of her tail flicked again, and slowly she wrapped her arms around her middle.

To any god or any devil Who'd keep you from walking away

"She's been acting weird all night," they said.

"S'what we were just talking about."

Please, Please don't do this! Turn around! This isn't right!

"We think the wizard might be out there," the intern told them. "The real one."

"Oh no," the elf laughed.

Please, Please don't do this! Please, I'm begging you to fight!

"Hope he has a sense of humor. It's about to get weird!"

"Weird?!" Sara growled at them, flinging her comb about.

Forget your fickle god's desire I'd cross the oceans, I'd walk through fire I'd conquer all the Hells entire For you And yes, I know you're tired

"The man is getting ready to watch himself die! And I'm sure I don't need to remind you his death is self-inflicted! If there's a chance that any of this is real? That the trauma this man survived is on display? You all need to show a little respect." She shook her head and turned back to her wig. "Shut up and let her listen."

Sara's words may have stung him, but Jory knew she was right. So he obeyed her, and he listened. And for the first time he truly heard the fragile warble of desperate heartache that Nelsyn had worked so hard to craft through her voice.

Come back to me and take your rest Indulge one overdue caress I'll steal the sorrow from your chest And confess, I will confess

But he didn't just uncover a new appreciation for his friend and her level of skill. There was more to it than that. There was a depth to this scene that he'd been missing before now.

There was a meaning. One that wasn't meant for the whole world.

It was only meant for one man.

He could sense it in the vibrant tension bound between Shayla Moonsong's shoulder blades.

And then Nelsyn grew quiet. Everything got quiet. The music made a subtle shift to something low and dulcet, but tense, like a string pulled too tight without snapping. Jory found his feet had led him to stand at Shayla's shoulder. He could hear her breathing through her teeth and he felt compelled to reach out and take her hand.

She took hold of it like a lifeline.

You're everything to me and more You're all that I've been fighting for You're more than just an end to war…

Nelsyn paused after that last note. It was important to the narrative, it was the whole point behind the wizard's story. But her longing would go deliciously unrequited, and would inspire a veritable deluge of creativity from fandom communities everywhere.

Shayla squeezed Jory's hand, squeezed her eyelids firmly shut. She held her breath and Jory could see Erik had reached the top of the rise. There he stood, a straight, unyielding figure gazing off into the liminal distance, resolute.

And he would never turn around.

It wouldn't be long. Any moment.

Nelsyn sang her penultimate line.

And I would give my life for yours…

She held the word so long it nearly sank into Jory's skin. It sent a wave goosebumps to crest over every inch of his body. The orchestra wove their way through their final, sweeping refrain, and the conductor brought them to a close on a plaintive harmony between a flute and an oboe.

And then the light collapsed.

It shrank to a small, pale circle that drew its stark and shining focus on a razor-slim shadow cast against the curtain.

In the shape of a dagger.

Erik lifted it high and turned its point toward his heart.

"Gods preserve me," Shayla mumbled to herself. It was the only sound Jory could hear aside from the sniffs and sniffles of the audience. Collectively they teetered at the edges of their seats, enthralled by a beautiful, mournful man who was counting the final seconds of his life with undaunted stoicism and courage.

Nelsyn could've whispered her final line if she wanted to, but instead it burst from her as a scream.

"Don't do this!!!"

Jory felt it thrum like a shockwave within his own chest, and beside him Shayla flinched. She squeezed his hand even harder.

"Just tell me when it's over," she said to him. And then suddenly there was a flurry of activity.

He took a step back and yanked her away from the door when a small flock of technicians flew in to crowd the space they left behind.

Up high, far in the corner, Jory saw the dagger move against the curtain. And all of the good people of Waterdeep gasped when they watched the blade meet its mark.

"Fire in the hole," a technician murmured beside him, and the spotlight on the curtain went black.

Then a pair of spells were cast that bathed the audience in a blinding aurora. It blazed with ribbons of vivid blues and purples and greens, speckled with myriad glittering white stars.

And an arrow of roaring thunder was launched far overhead. It detonated with such a resounding boom that it shook everything, even the floor boards beneath Jory's feet. It rattled seats and drinking vessels, it toppled music stands, and it made Erik's staircase sway alarmingly as it was wheeled backstage, with him still riding precariously at its top.

Shayla Moonsong's face fell into her hands.

"Go on," Erik sang as he danced his way down the stairs. "Tell me how devastating I was. Don't hold back. Tell me everything."

"You were spectacular, my love!" Velanthyr assured him as they ran to greet him, cradling his face in their hands and kissing him sweetly. "You always are."

"Were they weeping?" he asked his lover, nuzzling their face with his own. "The lights are so bright, I can never see."

"They were drowning in their tears, darling. Drowning."

"Is everything alright?" Sara asked as she approached on her tiptoes, reaching for Shayla's arm. Velanthyr's wig drooped at her side, forgotten. "What can I do?"

"I can't even look," Shayla whimpered through the palms that smothered her face.

"Oh honey," Sara cooed as she pulled the woman closer. And in a blessed act of mercy, she asked the question that no one wanted to ask, but someone needed to. Long before now, before this critical point had been breached.

"He's out there, isn't he?"

"I think I've made a huge mistake." Shayla slid her fingertips down to press against her lips, unable to form any other words. She could only shake her head, her eyes as wide as dinner plates.

"Do you want us to look? See if we can see him?"

"I don't think I wanna know."

"Where is he seated?"

"E6."

"Oh." Sara briefly grimaced at Jory, but didn't stop rubbing circles across Shayla's back. "Front and center. Of course."

"Yep." The way her lips popped at the end of the word only served to emphasize how mortified she was. "Wouldn't want him to miss anything."

"Well, of course not. He's your guest," Sara replied, jerking her chin in a way that suggested Jory had been volunteered for reconnaissance.

"Oh gods!" Shayla raked her claws past her horns to twist them into her hair. "I even told him he could invite his mother!"

"Well that's a perfectly reasonable thing to do, one would think."

Jory understood his assignment. He sauntered away but paused at the door frame. The show wasn't over yet. When the technicians finished collecting their gear, they scrambled off to safely stow their rockets and retrieve the set pieces for the final scenes. They were dragging the staircase away from the main thoroughfare when Corinne, the woman who played the narrator, whipped past them.

"Coming through," she chimed, racing out to center stage, taking her place before the curtains could rise once more. Her final soliloquy would lead them into the epilogue, and would give Jory the opportunity he needed to cast his eyes past the orchestra pit and across the section of seats that lie beyond.

Front and center.

He would only have a minute or two. Sara would need to replace Velanthyr's wig. Erik needed a drink and Nelsyn's makeup needed a touch up. Very soon they would be on stage, the lights burning holes through their retinas, leaving them blinded and oblivious to all but each other and the saga they would spin to its end. He reached up to buckle the clasp on the bear pelt that draped across his shoulders.

For now, it was the narrator's turn. But he was ready. And then the curtains rose.

He smashed his face against the door frame like a cat burglar. A shaft of light swung down upon the stage illuminating Corinne at its center, and Jory peered out into the darkness it left in its wake. He squinted until he found the end of the section behind the orchestra pit, and he started counting backwards from there.

But seat E6 was empty.

Certain he'd made a mistake, he counted back again to double check, to be extra sure.

But he was right the first time.

"It's empty," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"What?" Shayla cried as she spun to face him.

"Yeah," he told her. "I counted twice to make sure I had the right seat, but no one's in it."

"Oh gods." She began to pace, wringing her hands. "What about the one next to it?"

"Which side?"

"Just tell me if you see an older woman."

"Umm, okay." At first he wasn't certain. There was a child on the right side, but on the left was a person who'd stood up, and was bent with their back toward him, like they were reaching for something. "I think… maybe. Yeah. I think so. It looks like she's getting up. She's picking up a bag or something. Is that a cat?"

"Tara?"

"Who brings a cat to a -"

"She's not a cat. She's a tressym."

"What the hell is a tress- holy shit, it's got wings! It just flew over - oh! Oh, I think I see him!"

"Where!"

The tressym sailed through the air to float beside a tall, slender man who was moving quickly up the aisle toward the exit. He wasn't running, out of proper respect for social decorum, but he had the energy of a man who wished he was. His shoulders were hitched up near his ears and he was stifling his mouth with the back of one hand.

And a shiver ran down Jory's spine.

This was the guy. The wizard. The real one.

Gale Dekarios, of Waterdeep.

In the flesh. Right there.

From what little Jory could see, the play had done him justice. He was a very handsome man, lithe and lean, long-legged with a powerful stride, and every bit as comely as Erik had depicted him to be.

Yet it was hard to imagine, through simple sight alone, that this was a man who had once been the Chosen of a god. Or that this was a man who had once vanquished the avatar of Death itself. A man who had put an end to the Cult of the Absolute.

A man who had once made his own decision about whether or not to plunge a dagger into his heart.

But it was easy to see why Shayla would want to stop him. This man clearly meant something to her.

He didn't know what providence deemed it necessary for him to ask. It certainly wasn't any of his business. But the question tumbled out of his mouth, unbidden. Perhaps the gods themselves just wanted to hear someone finally say it out loud.

"Does he know how you feel about him?"

Shayla slumped and let her hands fall limp to her sides. She pulled her lip into her mouth, and her eyes swam with visions of regret. "No," she whispered to him. "It was never the right time."

Oh, how irony could be so cruel.

"You should go after him, then," he told her. "Go quick. If you hurry, you can catch him before he gets to the front door."

"Shit!" she snarled and for a moment, Jory was afraid she'd scurry across the stage in the middle of Corinne's long and emotional speech. There was a wild streak in him that almost hoped she would. But instead, she bolted through the loading bay doors and flung herself outside, presumably to tear down the alley between the theater and the wine cellar to run around the building toward the front.

Nelsyn wandered over to them, sipping cold water from her mug and watching over her shoulder as the loading bay doors swung back and forth on their hinges.

"Jory," she stated flatly. "What did you do."

"What?!" he cried. Sara could only double over and laugh at him. "I didn't do anything!"

"Somebody did something," she said, eyeing the doors skeptically. "And it looks a lot like it was you."

"I'm serious! She asked if we could see him, and I told her yes. That's all."

"See who?"

"The wizard!"

"What wizard? You mean, like… Erik?"

"No!" He stuck out both hands and shook them. "The actual wizard! The real one, from Waterdeep! Yes, he's still alive! No, he didn't explode!"

"Well, everybody knows that…"

"She wanted to know where he was, so I told her, and then she ran out the door."

"Wait. So he was actually here tonight?"

"Jory," Sara accused him, still smiling pitifully at him as she crossed her arms over her chest. "That's not all you said to her."

"But I didn't -"

"You asked her a pretty personal question."

"Where was he sitting?" Nelsyn continued as she took another drink and leered at him over the rim over her mug.

"E6."

"Wow. Front and center."

"Yeah. She didn't want him to miss anything."

"So what did you ask her?"

Jory could only roll his eyes and sigh. None of them had time for this. He dropped his head and pinched his brow between his thumb and his forefinger but when he looked up, he found all eyes were on him. Even Erik and Velanthyr had paused their conversation long enough to turn around and stare. The technicians in the back tried to appear as if they weren't listening, but everyone knew they were. Suddenly, he could feel the heat that was trapped beneath the heavy mantle of his bear pelt.

"I asked her if he knew how she felt about him."

"What do you mean, how she felt…" And through the window of her eyes he could see her mentally calculating every single word she'd just sung. Right in front of the very man it was all intended for. Seated front and center, missing nothing. Her eyes flickered like golden flames.

"Holy shit," she breathed. "Like… feelings? Real ones? What did she say?"

He didn't get to answer. Just then, raucous applause erupted from behind them. The thunderous retort of clapping hands and cheers drowned all other sound, and signaled to them all that their time was up. Corinne came skipping backstage as the curtains fell behind her.

"And that's a wrap for me! Slam and a dunk! Go get 'em while they're - what's going on?"

"The wizard was here tonight," Nelsyn answered her without breaking her eye contact with Jory. "The real one. Shayla is in love with him. What did she sayyy?"

"No," he told her, holding very still while Sara dabbed a powder puff over his face. "She said no. He doesn't know."

"Are you serious?" Corinne gasped, pressing a hand to her heart.

"Well he does now," Sara chuckled, wriggling her eyebrows as she dropped the powder back into her cosmetics case. "I hope she caught him before he got away. He deserves an explanation."

And all around them, activity buzzed. Scenic backdrops rolled by, the intern fussed with Velanthyr's wig on her tiptoes, Sara dug frantically around searching for her lip stain, and the other actors began lining up to take their places. But in spite of the jubilant bustle of life happening all around them, Nelsyn could only stand with her mug in her hands, awestruck by the revelation they'd just been given.

"Sweet tapdancing Asmodeus," she laughed, shaking her head with her eyes transfixed on some far away place. "You mean to tell me that this whole time," she jostled the water in her mug when she bellowed, "THIS WHOLE TIME?! This whole play has been just a great big love letter to some… man?! For months?! And he only just heard it? Tonight? For the first time?"

"I think that about sums it up, yep," Sara told her, taking the mug from her hands.

"That's genius!" She shuffled to her place in line, utterly befuddled, her eyes glassy and glazed. "They're star-crossed, it's perfect! I wish this would've happened months ago! Just you wait, you'll see. When all the little fan fic authors out there find out about this? They are gonna go berserk! People everywhere will pay money for a vial of our sweat! The contents of our chamber pots - we'll be famous!

"Gods have mercy on us all. There might even be a sequel. We'll be touring this show til the day we die!"

************************************************************************

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

You Know Better

Absolute filth for @amorgansgal, thank you for distracting me from my sadness with Gale being utterly unhinged... again. 18+ obviously. Little bit of pregnancy as body horror vibes.

'It can't be unlearned, I've known the warmth of your doorway, through the cold I'll find my way back to you.' - It Will Come Back, Hozier

Taglist:

@netherese0rb @boufsy @owlseeyoulaterpal @lanafofana

@auroraesmeraldarose @aryancunin @miradelletarot @marlowethebard

The world was saved again. There was nothing to do now but part ways; no camp to return to, no fireside to share, Tav followed her druid back to Moonhaven. Halsin threw himself into the rebuilding effort there, gathering the orphaned and the needy. He relished being a father figure, but Tav had never seen herself with that life. She helped where she could of course, but each night, as she lay beside him, her thoughts returned to the campfire. She pined for it, she realised. An adventure as thrilling as what had come before.

The first nights were dreamless sleep, her body too exhausted even to conjure memory. Halsin’s sleep was peaceful too, though she often woke to find him hard and was all too happy to accommodate a new routine. It was slow, at first. He seemed to want to take all of her in, savouring her moans and whimpers. She developed a taste for it, in truth. Though the days were boring, the mornings were worth it, the nights restorative.

‘Mummy, will you come with us to pick mushrooms?’ asked one of the older children on this particular bright morning. Halsin smirked, cocking his head at her.

‘Not today, love,’ she said gently. Her stomach dropped, anxiety and revulsion shuddering through her. ‘I’ll be back later, alright?’

She found herself taking to the risen road, toward Baldur’s Gate. She’d not said a word to the druid, shouldering her pack and a bedroll and setting off. She did not know where, or why. Only that she should. The first night on the trail, her thoughts turned to her companions: Karlach and Wyll in Avernus fighting demons, Lae’zel on dragonback, Astarion poring over tomes in the dark for a cure, Shadowheart finally free of Shar, embracing her Selunite legacy.

She did not think of him.

It was only as night fell that Tav realised what danger she was in; there was no-one to keep watch while she slept now. She would have to risk the kindness of strangers or the exposure of the open road. She found a cave, empty and spacious. Setting a fire going and warding the entrance against intrusion, she went through her provisions: there was a heel of bread, a mealy apple, half a wheel of cheese. She’d need to trade if she wanted a hot meal. She ate in miserable silence. The sound of gnolls in the distance unnerved her, accomplished as she was in manipulation of the Weave.

Her dreams were full of whispers. She was back at the Last Light, plunged into darkness. The lake was smooth and cold as glass, seeming to suck the dregs of moonlight into itself. She was kissing Halsin; it was a pleasant surprise to feel his weight above her, the strong, sure presence of him as his warm mouth pressed to her own.

‘Hi,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘Sorry I just left…’

‘No matter, my heart,’ he said, pressing a kiss to her neck. ‘I know you’ll come back to me. The children miss you.’

Her stomach twisted. ‘Yes,’ she said, running her fingers through his hair. ‘I’ll be back soon.’ She knew it was a lie even as the words left her mouth. Even in a dream.

‘Have you thought more about it?’ he said sultrily into her ear. The slow roll of his hips against hers made her whine. She clutched his massive biceps, shivering under his heated gaze. He dropped his head, pressing open mouthed kisses to her belly. ‘Well?’

She knew what he was asking. Opening her mouth to answer, she suddenly jolted awake, taking great heaving breaths. She packed up quickly and returned to the road, putting more distance between her and the druid.

‘What a sweet dream,’ said a voice on the wind. She froze. It couldn’t be.

‘What?’ she whispered. No response. She kept moving. Tav was spooked; every little noise startled her, each glimpse of people on the horizon making her heart rise and sink. I should’ve hired a carriage or something, she thought. The next night, she bedded down in a small tavern. Grateful for a bowl of stew and good ale, she felt more restored than she had in weeks.

Laying in the dark little bedroom, she watched moonlight through the leaded windows. Her belly was full and pleasantly warm, her breathing slow and soft. In the half-light, a figure was outlined in the doorway, but was gone again by the time her eyes had adjusted. Just playing tricks, she thought.

Her dream that night took her to the Stormshore Tabernacle. It was night-time, empty and quiet. She cast knock on the door, slipped inside and locked it again, breathing in its sacred energy. Moonlight cut across the floor and illuminated the statue of Mystra. Beneath it, ankles crossed and perched on the plinth, was the man she’d been trying to ignore for months.

‘Hello, my love,’ he murmured. ‘Come here to me.’ Halsin’s words out of his mouth. Gale reached out, slender fingers beckoning her forward. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

‘We broke up,’ she said tersely, though her steps carried her to him all the same.

‘Hmm,’ he said, in that half amused, knowing way of his that infuriated her. ‘You’re adorable.’ He pushed off the plinth, hands behind his back. Though this was a dream, he seemed to have changed; his hair was pulled back, his eyes keener than before, his shoulders a little broader.

‘Gale,’ she said, for the first time in months. ‘It’s over.’

‘Of course,’ he said, hand over heart. ‘You must be flourishing. With Halsin throwing himself into his role as father, you can only be doing the same as mother to all those orphans…’ his eyes glittered. He knew her, better than anyone, knew he’d just described her nightmare. She pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to scratch his eyes out. ‘How long, do you think?’ He pressed a cool hand to her belly, stroking his thumb over the thin fabric of her elegant nightgown. ‘A few weeks? Months? Oh you must be aching for him to put a baby in your belly.’

‘Stop it,’ she snapped, reeling back.

‘Oh, but pressing your buttons is so fun,’ he said, catching her wrist. ‘Because you know as well as I do what you want.’

‘Is this really a dream?’ she asked suddenly.

‘In a manner of speaking.’ He shrugged. ‘A little astral projection.’

‘How do I make it stop?’

‘You don’t,’ he said lightly. He gestured to the statue of Mystra. ‘You know where I am.’

She woke gasping and scrambled to leave the inn as quickly as possible. The next day she made more progress, refusing to sleep. The day after that, even more progress, even as she began to feel faint. After collapsing into dreamless sleep the next night, one morning she shouldered her way through to Wyrm’s Crossing, stole through Wyrm’s Rock with its haunted ghosts, returned to the lower city. She knew where he was and would not give him the satisfaction of showing up in daylight. She wandered instead, visiting her old haunts. She thought about the cold of Cazador’s palace and shivered, hoping Astarion was alright now that it had burned down.

Night fell. It was not his voice that drew her, though she felt its memory winding around her heart. It was the darkness within him, cold and hungry, that pulled at her. As soon as she was inside the Tabernacle it was overwhelming, like being submerged in the midnight sea.

Mystra’s shrine was empty. He tricked me, she thought. Her vision went black, and she heard a bolt slide into place. ‘You came,’ he crooned into her ear, sending a dark little thrill through her. ‘Good girl.’ The dim light was restored as he ran his knuckles down over her ribs.

‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said, her voice catching. The darkness she could feel enveloped her, squeezing at her heart and seeping into her lungs. ‘I need to go home.’

He came slowly into view, still touching her. His brown eyes were as soulful as she remembered, mouth plush and inviting even as it pulled into a self-satisfied smirk. ‘You are home,’ he said softly. You’re right, she thought but didn’t say. He seemed to sense he was right, anyway.

‘Halsin’s a good man,’ she said instead. ‘Better than you.’ She sought to wound him, dig her fingers in and make it bleed.

‘No doubt.’ His eyes burned. ‘You still came to me. You still shiver with desire when I touch you. If he’s so good,’ he spat the word, venomous, ‘why are you here?’

I made a mistake, she wanted to say. I need you. I want you. ‘Curiosity,’ she said instead.

‘A noble endeavour.’ He had decided to play her game. ‘Satisfy it then.’

They were in a holy place with the eyes of his goddess glaring down at them. ‘You don’t honestly think you’re in control, do you?’ she asked him, her own mouth smirking as he faltered. He licked his lips, eyes glowing out of the dark like some cornered beast. ‘Take off your clothes.’ She knew he itched to tear hers off instead, but he obeyed.

He moved slowly, watching for the subtle signs of her own want. The way she swallowed hard, bit down on her lower lip. She leaned against Mystra’s shrine, knuckles white with the effort of keeping her hands to herself. The darkness inside him purred. He stood naked before her, out of reach.

Tav would not break first. He’d come crawling on his hands and knees to her if she had any say in it. She pressed back into the stone, like she could shrink further from him. I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t.

You should, crashed his own thought into her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut. As if that would keep him out. My love, he went on, his voice in her ear as though he weren’t across from her. Let me in. Tav opened her eyes.

He stroked himself, there in full view of his goddess, of the other deities on their plinths, silent. The sight was so profane she could hardly believe he had the audacity to do it, here of all places. Any shyness he’d once had had vanished, clearly. ‘I didn’t say you could,’ she croaked. He stopped, took one prowling step forward.

‘I am at your command,’ he said into the dark. His words were contrite, but his eyes bored into her soul.

Fuck, she thought. I can’t take this anymore. She did not move. She didn’t even speak. He approached, knelt slowly before her. Slowly, she nodded.

With surprising speed and strength, he pulled her towards him. His hands clawed insistently at her unmarked flesh, a snarl leaving his throat as her clothes became an obstacle to what he wanted. She cried out as he sucked bruises into her inner thighs, lapped at the heat between her legs, dragged his teeth across her flesh. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling to draw bestial sounds from his throat as he devoured her. She came quickly and her legs buckled but he caught her before she fell, overwhelming her senses as he pushed his tongue between her teeth and dragged his nails down her spine. Her mind was a fog of his scent and taste and then he was inside her, pressing her up against the statue of his goddess and laughing darkly as she choked out his name over and over and over, a prayer all its own. She whimpered when he pulled out of her to come on the stone.

‘Tav,’ he panted, pulling her to him again and palming her breast. ‘You’re never leaving me again. Ever.’

‘Never,’ she hissed as he pushed her back against the wall. ‘Now shut the fuck up and do it again.’

[mjwiththefangs]

Trickery & Daggers - Chapter 9

In which we tackle arachnophobia. Also on AO3 Masterlist Word count: 4859 Warnings: Biting, arachnophobia, vomiting, knife play

--

“ ‘Vampire spawn, although weaker than the Lords that spawned them, have incredible strength and powers including spider climb. These combined with their affinity with shadows make them a dangerous adversary to face alone.’ Hm, well, fancy that, the little warlock was right.” Astarion reads aloud with a hum. “It would seem that Bastard kept us all starved for more reasons than we knew.”

 The bitterness lances through him, twisting with renewed fury and loathing for the one that turned him and tormented him all these years. So far, the book has been insightful. Not only in teaching him new things about himself, but about other undead also. He had been hoping to find something - anything - to use against Cazador, though so far it's only reiterated what he already knows. Sunlight, silver, a stake through the heart.

 He was amused to discover that lesser zombies will not be hostile if you smell like a corpse. It seems to be unknown if the same is true for greater zombies, being that they only seem to occur alongside necromancers.

 He leafs through the pages, skimming more text and paragraphs on vampires, until he turns another page and raises one brow, curiosity bubbling within him.

 Dhampirs.

 “They’re real?” He murmurs to himself, half-believingly. 

 ‘Often referred to as half-vampires, these creatures are not always the result of a union between a Vampire and a Mortal. ‘

 Now there’s something interesting. He’s assumed dhampirs are such a rarity due to the nigh-impossibiltiy of their conception. But maybe they’re not such an impossibility after all. 

‘Documented instances of dhampiric existence are confirmed but not limited to macabre bargains, necromantic influences and encounters with abstruse immortals.’

 He reads further, torn between amusement and a grimace when he finds that parasites can trigger this transformation through the host indulging its hunger. Well, these tadpoles suddenly have a few more complications or potential consequences. That will make their removal certainly interesting.

 Surely, being a vampire, he’s the only one of the group who is guaranteed to be safe of dhampiric transformation. Although, according to the next page, most studies show that while still sensitive, and in most cases weakened, they can walk in the daylight. Most of the time. The text seems to suggest that it can vary on an individual basis, what traits or powers a dhampir will share with a vampire.

 ‘ Typically, dhampirs can integrate and blend in better than their shadow-sworn kin. ‘

 “Ugh, what an obnoxious way of putting it.” Astarion rolls his eyes and instead returns to reading on what makes such a creature. “... ‘Reincarnation of a vampiric lord ancestor ‘ ? Oh dear, Strahd himself may yet walk among us!” He laughs to himself and then he instantly becomes more sombre, the fun lost, when his eyes fall to the next known cause of transformation.

 ‘Tragedy interrupted the transformation into an immortal.’

He stares accusively at the words for a long moment. His jaw clenches. He snaps the book shut.

Astarion decides he can read more later.

.

 “The sign says Moonhaven.”

“Well, the goblins were calling it Bogrot.”

The jovial chatter between Wyll and Karlach drifts in through the broken doorway of the apothecary.

“There’s a hatch over here. Shall we go down?” Morgana calls, peering over the counter top to the elf flipping through what appears to be a ledger.

 “Hm? Ah. Yes, it sounds like the owner had something hidden in a basement.” He says thoughtfully. Her own curiosity piqued now, she nods, and opens the hatch, descending down the ladder into the dank and stale room below, thankful for her inherited darkvision as she scans around her.

 Astarions boots step noiselessly down the ladder behind her, signalling his arrival. He stalks into the room, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

 “Ugh. It reeks of undead down here.”

 Morgana only hums in agreement. They both search the room, examining books, rummaging through drawers, patting down shelves, until Astarion makes an excited noise and something clunks and drags across the floor behind the bookcase.

 “A secret door.”

 “How cliche.” Morgana says dryly, and he giggles.

 Through the doorway, they find themselves in a cavernous opening, with sunlight leaking through the ceiling, and the thick smell of decay lingering about the coffins.

 Undead.

They exchange a quick glance. Astarion flips his daggers in his hands and crouches low, Morgana’s magic hums to life in her palms, and she takes aim, and nods.

…

 It doesn't take them long, going one by one through each coffin and eliminating the hostile skeletons in each one. Morgana checks all the remains, looting any valuables, while Astarion brushes any remaining bone dust from his clothes with apparent disdain.

 She can hear him muttering under his breath and rolls her eyes, hiding her smile, and wanders deeper into the cavern, halting when she spots something catching the light.

 “Astarion! Over here.”

 When he joins her, she gestures to the shining surface. It takes them longer than either would like to admit to realise they’re looking into a mirror.

 “I keep forgetting your reflection just disappears.” He clicks his tongue.

 She shrugs, scanning the silvery surface. “Honestly it’s rather pleasant to not be the only individual without one.”

 Before he can retort, a presence surges to life within the glass surface, a featureless mask, its hollow voice echoing out.

 “Speak thy na-me.”

Morgana lifts her chin, thinking, and slowly answers “Morgana.”

“I do not kno-w this name. Tell me, are thee an ally of my ma-ster?”

She grimaces and purses her lips.

 How about this…

“I know your master, Ilyn Toth.” She’d found a journal in the other room and quickly skimmed it. He was a former Red Wizard, although he only spoke of ‘Bringing her back.’

 “Ha. Clever little Warlock.” Astarion mutters his approval and she smirks to herself, pleased.

 “Fin-ally. If thee could see any-thing in me, what would it be?”

 Morgana pauses, folding her arms across her chest. What would she want to see in this mirror?

 “...I'd see myself free of this worm.”

“You se-ek to surv-ive.” The voice in the mirror seems pleased with her answer, and without much more to say, it dissipates, allowing the pair access to what appears to be a lab.

 Morgana lifts her chin in wonder, eyeing the large aquatic-looking skeleton hanging from the ceiling and glancing over the various apparatus and discarded, long rotten body parts, now mere bones, littered about the space.

 “What is all th-”

 She squawks indignantly, suddenly jerked back and flails her arms to keep balance. The warlock whirls on the vampire, incredulous, only for him to level her with an unimpressed stare.

“Traps.” He deadpans, pointing, without looking, right where Morgana was about to step. Her face burns briefly with a flash of embarrassment, but she clears her throat, regains her footing and mutters a thanks.

 She can feel his smug eyes on her as she carefully steps around the room, minding her footing this time, and approaches a locked gate.

 Her brows lower into a frown. There’s something magic in there; very old, and very powerful. Grasping at the bars, she tugs.

 It doesn’t budge.

 She clicks her tongue in annoyance. Turning, she reaches into her pockets, fishing out a lockpick and pin. A huff sounds over her shoulder.

 “You can’t pick a lock.”

 Morgana just rolls her eyes, carefully poking around in the lock with the tools. Unblinking, she mutters back “I can pick a pocket, can’t I?”

 “Yes, and you didn’t notice your own pocket getting picked by yours truly.” Astarion counters. “Just move over and let me do it before-”

 The tool snaps, a loud click echoing through the room.

 Morgana sheepishly turns her head up to him, Astarion glaring firmly at her. Relenting, she shuffles over without a word and he swoops down, peering into the lock and then immediately scoffs.

 “You’ve jammed the lock, darling.”

“You… can’t unjam it?” She asks meekly.

 He rises back to his feet, hands on his hips, exasperated. “No. I can’t. It's one thing to break a tool, it's another to break the damn lock in such a distinctly unhelpful manner.” He flaps his arms. “Now we can’t get in there and find what treasure they might have been hiding.”

“You’re incredibly petulant, you know that?” She says dryly, earning another glare. If he were a cat, his tail would be lashing in silent fury. “Look, maybe i can just blast the door,”

 “No. It’s trapped. You really are no good at spotting these things, are you?” 

 She throws her head back at his mocking tone, swallowing her own irritation, when she spots something.

 “Hey…”

 The vampire ignores her, skulking away already.

“Astarion?”

 He stops with a stomp. “What?”

“Did you read that book? The one I gave you?”

She can feel his intense gaze on her, puzzling over her. In her peripheral, he follows her gaze and looks up. The bars reach almost to the high ceilings, but there, near the top, there is a gap.

 “What are you thinking?” He asks, releasing a long sigh.

 “Can you spider climb?”

 “Ugh, this again-”

“Astarion have you even tried?” She levels him with a firm stare and he falters.

“Well, no-”

“Are you hungry?”

He freezes. Slowly meeting her eyes with some lingering trepidation.

He really is like a cat.

“Do you think you could do it if you feed?”

 His eyes dart to the barely-healed marks on her neck and she ignores the zip that his heated look sends up her spine.

 The vampire pauses, considering. “I would be willing to try it.” He says slowly, a silent question in his words.

 Oh. She had expected this, of course. But somehow, it still makes her flush.

She swallows.

 “You… You can feed on me, if you like.”

 His gaze darkens. He steps closer.

Bergamot.

 “If you’re sure, darling.” His voice is low and rough.

Rosemary.

She nods, resisting the urge to bite her lip. He taps a finger under her chin, tilting her face and leaning down.

Brandy.

“Use your words.” His breath ghosts over her skin.

 “Yes.” she whispers, and then his lips brush against her throat, hesitating for a heartbeat, allowing her this moment to change her mind. She holds still, only tipping her head to give him easier access.

 He hums his approval, gentle hands brushing her hair away, and then she gasps as his fangs sink into her neck, arms gripping her tight.

 Like the first time, it’s like ice, chilling and then numbing. Then it feels like she's floating. Her hands wind into his embroidered doublet, holding tight in an attempt to keep herself grounded while his arms snake around and hold her tightly, pressing her body against his and winding his fist into her violet locks.

 It feels… nice. Intimate, maybe. 

 She hears a soft groaning noise from her companion. Then a small moan. Heat sparks through her, even as her fingers start to grow cold.

 He’s been starving for years, she reminds herself, firmly, Of course he’ll enjoy a fresh meal. Although the thought of being meal did nothing for the heat rising to her cheeks.

 He drinks deeply, pulling her lifeblood into himself, savouring each mouthful, and right as her knees begin to go weak, he draws himself back.

 Those intense rubies bore into her, his face still so close. He drags his tongue over the wound, chasing the last drops of her blood, a final pleased groan escaping him, and a soft breathy whine leaves her lips unbidden.

 He looks more alive; there is a faint colour to his cheeks and the tips of his ears are tinted pink. He almost looks like he could be blushing.

 They stay that way for perhaps a moment too long, his arms slow as they release her, moving to her shoulders in an attempt to steady her. The whole time his eyes don't leave hers.

 He must be able to hear the erratic beat of her heart, she’s sure, and maybe she’s a little mortified. It is Morgana who looks away first, mumbling under her breath about the trail of red from the corner of his mouth.

 The vampire suddenly recoils back, as though uncomfortable with her proximity. His tongue darts out to lick up the stray line of blood and the tips of his ears flush a deeper pink.

 “I-” He clears his throat, regaining his composure, “thank you.”

 His attention pointedly turns to the wall, doubt still etched on his features.

 She watches him, wryly, trying to calm her racing pulse and quickly knocks back a healing potion, and gestures with the same hand towards the wall.

 “Well?”

He pouts - actually pouts at her - his mouth twisting into a grimace. “Are we sure spawn can just - walk on walls?”

 “Oh for the love of-” Morgana sighs deeply, one hand now cupping her neck and again waves the bottle as she speaks. “If it fails, I promise to catch you, ok?”

 One silver brow quirks up, and while he clearly still has his doubts, he resigns himself and tentatively places one foot on the wall.

 Then the other.

 She watches his face morph with surprise, and notes just how round his eyes are when he’s not frowning or flirting. It doesn’t take him long to get the hang of it, some excitement lighting his features as he scurries up the surface, over the bars and deftly snatches something from a pedestal on the other side.

 He returns moments later, hopping down in front of her and brandishing an aged ugly book. She cocks her head.

 “Can I see that?”

 Reluctantly, he hands it over.

 Malevolent magic oozes from the book, two large amethyst eyes on the cover boring into her soul, the wide gaping mouth with its uneven teeth appearing like a trapped scream. The book does not open. But the magic from it resonates in the air. She can feel its putrid pull, back out of the basement and not too far away.

 “There’s some sort of key nearby…” She mumbles, tracing her fingers over the leathery cover. 

 Astarion straightens beside her.

 “Well. We better go find it then.”

.

“There’s something down there?” Wyll peers over the edge of the well, eyeing the depths quizzically. “Are you sure?”

 Honestly, no, she wants to answer, but she can feel that chill touch of magic, the traces luring her down into the well.

 Her lips purse in thought.

 “Try throwing a gold piece down, we'll soon know what's at the bottom then.” She reasons. Astarion makes a disgruntled noise behind her.

 “A copper piece.” She amends. Karlach snickers.

 Wyll, good-natured as always, acquiesces in her request.

 The coin clinks down the well and makes a distinct thump shortly after.

 “It’s empty.” Wyll exclaims, “and not deep either.”

 They all look to her, and Morgana peers over the edge, noting iron rungs in the stone bricks. Steeling herself, she tugs her sleeves over her hands, swings her legs over the edge, and begins the climb down.

 It is dank and dark in the bottom of the well, the sounds of skittering in the distance make her skin crawl, but the magic pull is stronger here. Once again, she is grateful for her darkvision.

 And quickly remembers that at least one of her companions may not be able to see in the dark.

“Wyll,” she keeps her voice low, quiet, wary of the sounds echoing around them, “can you see alright?”

 By the tentative steps he takes to crouch beside her, she would wager that, no, he can't.

“Not as far as the rest of you, but I shall manage.” He responds.

 Karlach and Astarion come to crouch beside them, opposite in their countenance, Astarion’s stealth barely undermined by the soft glow of Karlachs engine.

“Stay close” Morgana tells him, the group steadily working their way into the cave as she follows the tug of necromancy and insatiable curiosity.

 She’s so absorbed in tracing the magic, not taking note of her surroundings, barring the chittering noises sending shivers up her spine, that she stumbles and her foot catches in a strange cocoon.

It’s only then, Wyll diving to help her, Astarion drawing his bow and Karlach brandishing her axe, that she notices the cobwebs surrounding them.

 Panic begins to swell in her chest, and she tugs her foot while Wyll slices through the cocoon. 

 Skittering sounds close in around them, the group staying tightly together. A shadow moves along the wall and Morgana swallows a shriek.

 Her leg finally free, she scrambles to her feet, hands crackling with power, but Wyll grasps her wrist. “The light will attract them.” He whispers, raising his rapier, then turns his head, concentrating, relying on his hearing over his limited vision.

 “Let’s just find this key, and hurry up and get out of here.” Astarion hisses.

 Morgana nods vehemently, squashing her magic down and tempering her impulse.

 Karlach hangs back, axe at the ready, maintaining steady breaths in an attempt to keep her flames down. They inevitably have to squash a couple of ettercaps, Astarion and Morgana hanging back with arrows and suppressed Eldritch Blasts, Wyll fighting alongside Karlach in her flamed fury, cleaving through them, and the few larger spiders that inevitably draw near.

 It seems for a moment as though no more are coming. 

 Until skittering noises rush close and Morgana almost screams.

 If not for the cool hand clapped over her mouth, and yanking her back into the shadows, out of sight. Her heart hammers in her chest, the worm suddenly squirming and Astarion’s voice whispers into her mind at the time as her back is flattened against him.

 “Keep. Still.”

She does. She doesn’t dare to move. Fear spikes through her and she holds her breath.

 Slowly, slowly, the sounds fade, and Astarion releases her, and she gasps, her hands trembling. She whirls to face him, and his eyes drop down. Confused, her own eyes follow to the blade in her trembling hand.

 It’s the first time she’s unsheathed her dagger since waking up on the beach.

 She drops it as though it burns her.

 They both stare at the ornate dagger for a moment, before she snatches it up and quickly re-sheaths it.

 “Th… Thank you.” She says. She brushes herself off, avoiding looking at the vampire, even as his questioning eyes linger, instead scanning for their two horned companions, spotting them a little ways away, wiping off their weapons.

 She waves them over.

 “I don’t think it's far now. Let’s just get this over with.”

 They follow behind her as she follows the trail. Around a corner, she spots it; a pulsing purple gem, seeping with necromancy. 

 But then, just above it, her eyes land on the largest spider she’s ever seen in her life, and all of its many eyes land on her.

 “♐︎◆︎♍︎🙵♓︎■︎♑︎ ♒︎♏︎●︎●︎⬧︎!” She swears in sylvan, and unleashes an eldritch blast.

.

The arachnid matriarch is dead. It must be. Morgana has unloaded three more blasts to its foetid corpse, and when she’s finally certain the bug is definitely dead, she spins on her heels, trips, and unceremoniously heaves, emptying her stomach's contents.

 “Ugh, charming…” 

Without looking, she flips off the grimacing vampire.

 “You doing ok over there, soldier?”

 Morgana retches again, unable to answer Karlach right away, hands now braced on her knees. The warmth from Karlachs hands hovers just over back, offering what little comfort she can without burning her.

 Coughing and gagging, Morgana takes a deep breath, filling her lungs, and finally straightens herself up.

 “Thanks Karlach, I just -” She gulps down another deep breath, this time reaching for her water skin, “I just really hate spiders.”

Wyll guffaws a laugh and quickly covers it with a cough, though his expression still shines with thinly-veiled amusement. Karlach grins.

 “Well! Let’s get out of here and get you some fresh air, eh!”

 She nods her agreement, noting that the purple gem is no longer on the floor, but she can still sense its power looming from the pale elf innocuously dusting himself off and with a minute shake of her head, she trails after Karlach towards the exit.

.

The fresh air does wonders for Morgana’s lingering nausea. Not so much for the clammy uncomfortable feeling of her padded armour sticking to her skin. She wrinkles her nose in distaste.

 “Have we searched all the buildings here?” She asks aloud, turning her head to Karlach. 

 “There’s a few older houses over here, they had some new-looking chests in them.”

 They both turn their heads expectantly to Astarion. Morgana’s mouth twitches into a sly grin.

 “You did say that I can't pick a lock earlier.”

He scowls. “Fine! But if there’s anything valuable, I want the first pick.”

 She chuckles and nods, and so that's how Astarion ends up lockpicking several trunks and chests, making unimpressed quips about how a few had nothing of value, finally stalking off with a huff to find Wyll when he’s done.

 Morgana and Karlach rummage through the chests. She picks a plain looking trunk, and unceremoniously upturns it, emptying its contents, when a flash of violet catches her eye. The half-elf pauses. The trunk did seem new, and it had been sealed, and there’s no musty smell emanating from the garment when she picks it up and examines it.

 “... Hey, Karlach?”

 “Hm?” The tiefling’s head pops up.

 “The area is clear now, right? We can take a break?”

“We cleared out goblins yesterday and now with those beasties today, i don’t see why not -”

 “Good. Keep watch for me for a moment.” Morgana interrupts and quickly strips herself of her padded armour, yanking it over her head and discarding it, ignoring the fresh air on her clammy skin and squirms into the new item, tugging it down. 

 “Holy shit. Your tits look great in that!” Karlach exclaims and Morgana bursts out laughing, smoothing her hands over the corset-esque top and flushing at the sight of her rather ample cleavage.

 “Hells, they don't look too showy, do they?” She laughs nervously.

 Karlach beams at her. “If you've got it, may as well show it off! Though I have to wonder where you've been hiding them!”

Morgana flushes, laughing awkwardly. The garment really does emphasise her assets. She was already somewhat well-endowed, and now, 

 “I look like I’m displaying goods for sale…”

“You look great!” Karlach chortles, “Now come on, Wyll will have lunch ready!”

…

Their lunch should have been uneventful. Or at least, it would have been not for their unwelcome visitor.

 “A devil?! It's bad enough we have worms in our heads, and now there’s a devil after us?!” Astarion splutters.

 “You can’t trust a word he says -” Karlach starts, ferociously.

“There is no good to come of dealing with a devil!” Wyll asserts.

“Let’s just get back to the others,” Morgana reasons, gathering up their things, and ushering them back to camp.

 The whole way, both Wyll and Karlach urge caution with Raphael, the newly acquainted devil in question, each recounting their own less-than-stellar experiences with devils and fiends. 

She allows the pair to take charge in recounting the meeting when they reunite with the rest of their camp. Although first, Lae’zel assess Morgana’s new clothes with the exacting opinion she’s come to expect.

 “This outfit offers no protection. You may not wield a sword, but you still join us in battle.” The warrior assesses, “Although. It certainly adds to your charm. You look… nice.”

 Morgana is briefly taken aback. Regardless, she thanks the warrior, who merely nods her reply and briskly adds that she expects Morgana to join her in weapons training soon, to which Morgana insists she will practise in preparation.

 After today, having to temper her powers to minimise discovery, perhaps she does need to be able to use her weapon when magic is out of the question.

On that note, the warlock glances around, noting her companions in deep discussion regarding the devil. All barring one.

 She knows where to find him, because despite his stealth, he still has the gem on his person and she can follow the magic emanating from it.

 The vampire is sitting beside the river, just on the bank, away from the camp. She approaches him quietly, and when he briefly acknowledges her presence without asking her to leave, she sits beside him.

 They stay in silence for a while, and she wonders when he changed into his camp clothes, watching him observe the river flowing by.

 The half-elf speaks first.

 “So, you might be needing a creepy skin-bound book to go with that eerie jewel in your pocket.”

 His mouth quirks up, amused. “I don’t know what you mean, darling. This is a perfectly good eerie jewel all on its own, don’t you agree?” He produces the amethyst with a flourish, side-eyeing her, and with a flick of his dexterous wrist, it disappears again.

She shakes her head with a smile. “You seemed interested in it, so I left it in your tent on my way by. Just. Be careful. Necromancy is powerful stuff.”

 He scoffs, waving her off. “Oh please, darling, it might have something helpful for an undead like myself. I’d be a fool to pass up that kind of power.”

 She just shrugs, turning back to the river.

 After another beat, she asks him, “Will you spar with me?”

 “Teach you a few little tricks, you mean?” He says suggestively.

 “Honestly, you are such a flirt.”

 “Only with you, you sweet, generous thing.” His silken admission ignites a spark under her skin, and he smirks knowingly.

 In a blink, he rises with all the grace and skill of a practised performer, flicking a dagger free from his waist. Morgana rises to her own feet, inelegantly, and fidgets with her rings, blinking up at Astarion.

 Pointedly, he looks at her still-sheathed blade at her hip. 

“Nach tarraing thu d’airm?” [Will you not draw your weapon?]

She bites her lip. She swallows. Her eyes dart away.

 “Could I borrow one of yours? Mas e do thoil e?” [please?]

 Astarion hums, considering and tilting his chin. “Alright,” he concedes, “dèan gàire orm an uairsin. Carson nach cleachd thu am biodag?” [Humor me then. Why don't you use the dagger?]

 He tosses his blade to her, and she stumbles to catch it, having been mentally translating his Elvish question. He comes at her quickly, swinging a blade with careful precision, and she jerks backwards, thrusting the borrowed blade up with both hands to defend.

 The vampire clicks his tongue, effortlessly batting her away, and holding his own under her chin.

 Just how many times is he going to get a knife to my throat?

He’s watching her expectantly.

She swallows and her throat bobs against the tip of the blade as she does. She licks her lips, readying the words. She speaks slowly, disjointed.

 “B’ e a’ chiad mharbhadh a bh’ agam. Rinn mi na bha agam ri dhèanamh.” [It was my first kill. I did what I had to.]

 Keen red eyes blink with interest.

 “Your pronunciation is awful, darling.” He sighs dramatically, “and your form is simply terrible. A bheil fios agad eadhon mar a chumas tu lann?” [Do you even know how to hold a blade?]

Shame colours her cheeks. “No.” She mutters, momentarily deflating. Then she stands up straighter and squares her shoulders, determined.

“Sin as coireach gu bheil mi ag iarraidh ort teagasg dhomh.” [That’s why I’m asking you to teach me.]

“Better.” His fangs catch the light with his grin. He raises his hand, demonstrating. “Like this, darling.”

 He gives her a moment, watching how those silver eyes scrutinise his hold, his grip, and then she mimics him. She nods. He rushes her again, but this time, she manages to deflect. It’s sloppy, he notes, but with a bit more practice, she can parry effectively.

 “Tha thu nad neach-ionnsachaidh luath.” [You’re a fast learner.]

Her face lights up at his praise. She’s actually enjoying herself. Elvish is much easier to speak when she doesn’t have the time to think about it, she discovers. As for wielding a dagger, it takes concentration, and practice, and by the end of their little training session, she’s more capable of defending herself. And speaking more naturally in Elvish. A double lesson.

 Despite how much skin she has exposed, his blade has not touched her skin once, though, she supposes, Astarion is just that skilled with a blade. It was intentional that he didn't catch or nick her.

 She hands his dagger back to him, chest heaving as she catches her breath. He gives her that signature smirk, taking it back with a thanks.

“You never mentioned that you can speak silvan.”

 Oh? 

“I didn’t.” She answers levelly.

“How is it that a little half-human like yourself is fully fluent in silvan, but not elvish?” He folds his arms, tilting his head with curiosity.

 Morgana laughs breathily. “Fae stuff.”

“Well darling, you shall simply have to tell me more next time we have one of these little… study sessions.” 

 She smiles filled with mirth and amusement. “It’s a date.”

[thunderwavesolveseverything]

Goblins, Mindflayers, and a Feared Creature of the Night

[Astarion x Named Tav]

Astarion should’ve known the boar wouldn’t have been the worst of their problems. The small village of Moonhaven was utterly ravaged and sacked. Not that he cared; now there was plenty left to loot and sniff through- everything left was his for the taking.

It was the goblins that still lounged about that caused the problem. And the bard, of course.

“Praise the Absolute!” Phayelynn dramatically exclaimed.

Astarion closed his eyes and shook his head.

_

(word count:  3,886)

Read on AO3 or below :)

Masterlist for Phayelynn's adventures here

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Goblins, Mindflayers, and a Feared Creature of the Night

Phayelynn’s cheeks were still flushed as they were well into their trek to Ethal’s.

 It’d been hours since she’d jolted awake, Shadowheart having heaved a wad of clothing and a heavy tangled-up bundle of belts and holsters down at her as she slept, drooling into her bedroll as the sun rose. Despite the rude awakening, Phayelynn had been thankful to shed the ratty rags her clothes had become over the last few days. 

She was also thankful for Astarion’s new clothes, a fact that didn’t remain to herself for long. She didn’t know what was more embarrassing: being caught gawking at him as he exited his tent like a gaping fish or that she couldn’t even muster out a reply as he sauntered over to her, eyes looking her over like she was prey, lips parting and face twisting into an arched expression as he spoke, 

 “My, my, darling,” he had all but purred as he stopped before her. “What is this?” Her attention was brought to his eyebrow-raising at her, his ruby eyes catching her breath. “Who knew you had such a body hidden underneath those piss-poor excuses of clothes you wore before?” 

Phayelynn had choked on her own spit. It didn’t help her embarrassment or decide which was worse. He let out a low chuckle before walking off, leaving her alone in her shame to finish getting ready for the day. 

 It was a compliment, she thought to herself furiously as she walked at the tail end of the group. Astarion’s clearly a flirt. It meant nothing. She frowned, keeping her head down, glaring down at her new shoes.

 Don’t embarrass yourself more than you have, especially after last night. 

 Her cheeks only felt hotter, remembering how he’d approached her last night by the river. He’d acted so strangely, yet she invited it, enjoying the one-on-one time with him, even though it was clear he had some other reasoning behind it than wanting to get to know her. He was intriguing. 

 He was handsome. 

 Her eyes trailed up. Astarion had been walking in the group’s center to Gale’s left. She barefacedly checked him out from behind. He looked good in all black.

 His outfit wasn’t that much dissimilar to her own besides color. The thigh-high buckled laced boots looked better on him, she thought, as they hugged him in all the right places while still looking to feel comfortable. He walked confidently in them, while she felt like she would trip over her own feet if she didn’t put heed in her step. 

 Even with his back to her, his cloak hiding most of his frame, his broad shoulders were only accentuated by the shoulder armor he wore. It didn’t matter anyway. She remembered how the golden clasped shirt fit him perfectly, showing off the body his former outfit didn’t either. 

 She picked at her shirt, averting her eyes back to her shoes. She wasn’t used to dressing like an adventurer. She was used to whatever she and her uncle scrounged up. She wasn’t used to leathers, bodices fitting familiar to pesky corsets that clung to her curves. She liked loose clothes. She liked looking a little slump. 

 “Shit,” Phayelynn gasped as she collided with Gale’s back. Her face met between his shoulder blades, causing them both to stagger to regain their footing. She hadn’t realized how little attention she’d been paying. She blinked, quickly backing away, “I’m sorry,” 

 “It’s quite alright,” Gale gave her a soft smile before they both turned to look at the cause of their sudden pause. 

 A boar. 

 It was in the middle of the trail.

 Dead.

 “Chk.” Lae’zel hissed, poking at it with her foot, a coiled-up look taking over her features. “Left out to rot. What a waste of perfectly good meat.” 

 She quickly lost interest as she and Shadowheart continued ahead. Astarion moved to follow, only stopping when he realized neither Gale nor Phayelynn had moved from their places yet. His shoulders tightened. 

 “Wonder what got the poor beast?” Gale had said first. “There’s no sign of a struggle.” 

 Phayelynn frowned, jaw slacking, looking down at the creature. Its eyes were still open and familiar. Her heart sank in realization. She remembered this one. This was the boar they had come across shortly after the crash, right when she and Shadowheart had first come across Astarion- directly before he had dragged her to the ground and put a dagger to her throat. 

 “We knew him,” her shoulders stooped, eyes watery. 

 Astarion scoffed, rolling his eyes before letting them dart around, eventually settling back on her and the boar. “It’s just an animal, darling. Were it a human, would you feel any better?” he tried to joke. 

 “It’s still sad, Astarion,” she said faintly. 

 “Well, he’s dead now, my friend.” He came up beside her, his voice a little snapper than intended. He shuffled on his feet impatiently as he watched Phayelynn kneel down. “Come now, gawking at it won’t bring it back, or are you really going to say a eulogy for a pig?” 

 She glared at him from her crouched position, “He was afraid when I spoke to him.” 

 Astarion clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth, pinching his lips together. He squinted down at her. His thick black hood cast a shadow over his features, but she still caught it from below him. She turned away from him, frowning down at the boar, giving him a gentle pat to show him one last act of compassion. 

 “You can speak with animals?” Gale spoke up, head tilting in curiosity. 

 “I know the spell.” Phayelynn nodded, giving another pat. 

 “So you are versed in magic?”

 Astarion groaned. He tapped his foot against the ground, crossing his arms against his chest. 

 “I do know some stuff, Gale.” Phayelynn chuckled. “I may not know a lot of spells that could be used in a fight, but I do know some things. I traveled with a druid; she taught me some basics.” 

 Gale nodded, rubbing his chin. Astarion rolled his eyes. 

 “Are we done here? You said your goodbyes.” Astarion cut in, “We’ll never fix these brain worms if we stop at every carrion you find.” He said. Though Phayelynn did not notice, his discomfort was evident to Gale. He’d caught Gale’s eye. And waited with bated breath, still holding it even when the wizard said nothing. 

 Phayelynn pressed her lips together, examining the boar’s body. 

 “Oh, dear gods.” Astarion huffed, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

 The body didn’t seem to have been left to rot for long. He had only been killed within the last few hours. There were also no signs of it being attacked by another animal. There were no claw marks- no open, gaping wounds. No signs of struggle. And no blood. Her face scrunched together. 

 Two clean puncture wounds in its neck caught her eye. 

 “Well? Is it dead enough for you?” Astarion leaned forward, looking over her shoulder. 

 “I’ve never seen marks like this.” She ignored Astarion, looking up at Gale. “Have you?” 

 Gale grunted, his weak knees cracking as he kneeled beside her to get a better look. He let out a sound of recognition, and Astarion felt himself glaring down at the pair of them. He looked up, seeing Shadowheart and Lae’zel hadn’t bothered to wait for them, making their way onto a bridge leading into a small, raided village, shuffling through left-behind supplies. 

 “It’s been drained of it’s blood.” Gale studied the markings. “Goblins, Mindflayers, now a feared creature of the night. This is quite alarming.” 

 “Wait…” Phayelynn took a moment to think about what he said. “You mean- this was…” 

 Her eyes bulged, not shy about the implication.

 “It’s been killed by a vampire, my dear,” Astarion said softly. Phayelynn craned her head back to look up at him with wide eyes. 

She looked back at the boar before pushing herself back up. She wrapped her arms around herself. During her travels, she heard many stories of monsters and creatures that lurked about Faerûn. Vampires weren’t on the top of the list, but knowing that one could be sneaking about in the dark didn’t give her any comfort. 

 “Like…like Count Strahd….” She remembered the book she had read about the Lord of Barovia that had kept her up at night for weeks as a child. 

 “Hmm… I doubt we’re dealing with a vampire at that caliper, but.. we should still keep a lookout at night should we camp nearby.” Gale smiled slightly, trying to ease her nerves, but knew they couldn’t take this lightly. “Maybe put up some garlic around the camp.” 

 Astarion couldn’t help the loud, brash chuckle escape from him from deep within his chest. He cleared his throat, dropping his arms down to his sides with a gentle shake to his head. “They are ferocious creatures,” he eyed Gale, almost threateningly. “But don’t worry, I’ll keep watch tonight. You won’t have to worry your pretty little head about nocturnal creatures. Now, please, let’s go.” 

 He didn’t wait for either to respond, ushering Phayelynn forward with a lax hand on her lower back, slightly pushing her away from the boar and Gale. He didn’t catch the twitch in Gale’s face, his lips pursing in thought. 

———-

 Astarion should’ve known the boar wouldn’t have been the worst of their problems. 

 The small village of Moonhaven was utterly ravaged and sacked. Not that he cared; now there was plenty left to loot and sniff through- everything left was his for the taking. 

 It was the goblins that still lounged about that caused the problem. 

The thought of using the tadpole to trick their way past the goblins without a fight was the first thing to cross his mind. This whole cult of the Absolute was absurd, but he could work it to his advantage. It seemed that Gale and even Phayelynn were thinking the same as the Wizard of Waterdeep cast prestidigitation, mimicking the symbol over the palm of his hand. 

 The bard nodded along, dramatically exclaiming, “Praise the Absolute!” 

 Astarion closed his eyes and shook his head. He heard Shadowheart let out a discontented groan. But at least they were all on the same page. It was entirely too early in the day to start a fight. Their stab at deception didn’t really count in the end, as evidently, they were not all on the same page after all, as Lae’zel squandered any infiltration plans as she surged forward, letting out a battle cry. 

 Astarion heaved a sigh as she lacerated and scored through goblin flesh. Regardless, he joined in the fray alongside her and Shadowheart. Gale and Phayelynn stood behind, the wizard shooting out ranged attacks while the bard shouted words of inspiration and the occasional vicious mockery. 

 It hadn’t been a strenuous battle. No, the Harpies took more out of him than he cared to admit, but he could still feel the ache in his body as it grew weak. He wasn’t used to this. This continuous fighting. The threat of forthcoming doom lingering overhead. 

 At least the payout here paid off. 

 When the scrabble was over and the village now void of goblins, he found himself inside what was left of an apothecary. He poked through bottles and baskets, pulling out various herbs and making a mental list of all the types of poisons he could draft up with what he pocketed. He scarcely cared about what the others were getting themselves into, grateful for the moment alone. A moment of calm. 

 Until he heard a clamorous grunt. His pointed ears twitched. It was too deep, too guttural to belong to any of his party members. It was undoubtedly too low to come out of any goblin. He peered up, glimpsing into the hole in the wall above the table he scoured through. His eyes dilated, not in surprise, because, frankly, he wasn’t; of course, she stumbled into yet another threat to life and limb. 

 His gaze flicked upwards. 

 There, across the way, in another wrecked building, Phayelynn stood about to become an Orge’s lunch. 

 Ugh, he thought to himself, shoulders sagging. Not even a moment of rest. 

 Movement up to his left seized his attention. He followed it, catching Lae’zel stalking slowly atop the roof, waiting for an opening to sweep in to save the dense girl. He rolled his eyes, wondering how often Phayelynn would compel him to do so. He went back to collecting more bottles, throwing them into his pack-

 “Are you friend, or are you food?” the bassy voice emitted, two others following in longing and excitement. 

 Astarion looked up. His hand flexed before clenching into a tight fist as it hovered over a bundle of mugwort. He shot Lae’zel another glance, furrowing his brow as she made no indication of moving as if a better opportunity to intervene would present itself. His eyes darted back to Phayelynn, who took a wobbly step back, which didn’t get her far. The Orge took a burly step forward, thwarting her from creating space between them. She seemed to have said something to the towering creature, but he couldn’t hear her from where he stood. 

 Again, he saw movement, but to his right, just outside the torn-off door of the shop. He didn’t turn his attention that way long, seeing only Gale and Shadowheart emerging from wherever they had ventured. 

 Good, he thought with a pleased smile. He may not have to jump in then. He reached for the mugwort again. 

 “Hmmm...” the Orge bore down at Phayelynn, licking his lips brutishly. 

 Astarion let out a curt wince as he felt a tug from behind his eye. Panic. Fear. A need for help. It all washed over him in waves. He was being drowned by it. He let out a soft string of curses, grasping at his

head. Phayelynn was reaching out to them through the tadpole. It was like when they had first met. That jolting yank as their minds become one. 

 “A delicacy waiting to be tasted,” the Orge took another step, and Astarion now felt Phayelynn’s repulsion. “Unless that is, if you bear the mark, of course.” 

 Lie.

 He forced himself over her growing fright.

 Astarion wanted to yell at her. To scream at her to shatter their connection as her mind raced, making himself teeter forward as he was bombarded by the flurry of emotions she felt. He could hear the blood pumping from her heart up to her ears as she tried to figure out how to cast the mark Gale had earlier. She’d only caught a glimpse of it before Lae’zel had bolted to cut the goblin who’d bore it down. 

 She was stammering, that much he could tell, as her arms started to flap about as she continued to walk back. 

 Stop!

 He shouted through the connection, but it was too late. Phayelynn fell, landing harshly on her behind, letting out a huffing ‘ooof’ after tripping over a loose floorboard plank. 

 “Food.” the other two Orgs smirked, clutching their clubs tighter. 

 Phayelynn was frozen in dread as they all took a step closer. 

 “Htak’a!” Lae’zel hollered, lunging out of concealment, bow raised and notched with a blazing fire arrow. The Orges didn’t even have the chance to look for the Githyanki before she rained down on them each. 

 “Flagra!” 

 Then, with a flash, Shadowheart made her and Gale’s presence known with a guiding bolt. The leader of the three was her mark, and the bolt of radiant energy struck sharply across his face. His strangled roar nearly shook the ground, but he didn’t falter in his stance, instead edging another foot closer to the fallen bard. 

 Asterion’s feet were bringing him up and out through the hole in the wall, dashing towards her just as Gale discharged a trio of magic missiles to push the Orge back. It was almost instinctive. He snatched his bow off his back, reaching into his quiver with his other hand, and pulled out a thunder arrow. He had to create more distance between them, as Gale’s magic only pushed him back so far. Even with the Orge’s disorientated state, he didn’t want to lose the upper hand. 

 “Come now, love, get up!” He shouted at her as he took a defensive stance, pulling back on the bow string. “If you plan to keep starting fights, you could at least have the common curiosity to participate.”

 She blinked, snapping out of it. With a scoff, she started to scramble up. “Hey! I help!” she put her hands on her hips, “In every fight, actually!” 

 He craned his head back to eye her, giving her a look that said to try again. Her face reddened, shutting her mouth momentarily. Her heart was hammering in her chest. 

 “Okay, almost every fight. Every fight beside the crypt, but-” 

 Phayelynn didn’t finish, halting any further defense she could spew as Astarion aimed and shot, eyes still locked on her. She gaped as he somehow managed to hit the Orge straight in the chest, knocking him back. He landed, shaking the room, and when he didn’t get up, it was clear he was dead. 

 “Okay, that was really impressive.” 

 Astarion rolled his eyes. 

 She gulped, blinking a few more times before nodding, “Right- fighting, yes.” 

 She looked off to the left, catching a glimpse of a crack in one of the support beams, holding what was left of the second floor up. It was rickety as Lae’zel moved about, more arrows being let loose from her hand at the last two Orges. They bellowed in rage, intent on avenging their fallen brother. She had an idea, one that Astarion would indeed yell at her for, but it was an idea. And he was adamant about her participation.

 “Lae’zel!” she shouted as she ran closer to the beam, gaining the githyanki and the Orges’ attention. “Get out of the way!” 

 “Chk.” Lae’zel had clicked with her tongue but knew better than to hesitate. 

 With a huff, she jumped, using the strength in her legs to land below, a handful of meters away from them all. She stood in the wall’s opening, the forest backdropped behind her. She holstered her bow, taking hold of her great sword and holding it defensively. 

 Phayelynn didn’t wait a moment longer, reaching behind her for her lute. Raising her hand up, she slammed it down, nails strumming a striking chord, 

 “De Torno!” 

 The wave of purple energy was more concentrated this time, more robust now, knowing the name of the spell, thanks to Gale. The beam snapped, splintering and bursting in an explosion. Shards of wood impaled the Orges as the wooden floorboards from above came crashing down, pilling on top of them. 

 It didn’t keep them down for long and only seemed to enrage them more. Phayelynn took a step back, swallowing hard. As one of them moved towards her, the other to Lae’zel, it brought up it’s club, preparing to bring it down on her. 

 But it never came.

 Instead, it crashed down onto a golden, shimmering shield that had formed around her, Shadowheart. The cleric had rushed to her, maneuvering Phayelynn to stand behind her as she held up the shield of faith. She grimaced her grip on the spell, flickering as the Orge brought down its club again, and again, and again, as Astarion’s arrows and Gale’s bolt of fire did not seem to hit. 

 The fifth time the Orge brought down his club, the shield gleamed, dissipating, leaving the two open for attack. 

 “No!” Phayelynn exclaimed, reaching a hand out for Shadowheart as the Orge’s club bludgeoned Shadowheart unconscious. Phayelynn moves to strum another deadly chord but cries out as she’s snatched up by the Orge and tossed to the side like a doll. 

 She rolled, landing in a heap towards an old, worn, and fallen fireplace. Her body groaned, but she couldn’t care about that. Her focus was cast down on her lute, the neck broken, and strings snapped from the force of her landing. Her eyes widened, ignoring the shooting pain in her side, where her dagger had jabbed into her from where it was holstered. 

 She reached for the instrument, the hair on the back of her neck raising. 

 “No, no, no, no-” she repeated, hopelessly trying to press the pieces together as if it would fix it. 

 Astarion moves fast, seeing Phayelynn entirely oblivious to the Orge approaching her. He let out a snarl, jumping up, piercing both daggers into his back, using them as leverage to hold on, as the Orge now focused on him, attempting to jostle him off. He grunted, holding on, driving the knives deeper within, giving them each a satisfying wrench. 

 The Orge bucked, trying to reach back to hurl the rogue off of him, but the flex of his muscle only ripped a terse howl out of him. He tottered, stumbling before smashing down onto his knees, dropping forward onto his stomach, his head landing mere inches from Phayelynn, who finally tore her gaze away from her lute in horror at how close that had been. 

 Astarion gave one last thrust with his knives before pulling out and sliding off the Orge. Behind them, Lae’zel finished off the other Orge in two swift, lacerating swipes of her blade. 

 “Are you alright?” Gale was the first to speak, reaching Shadowheart as she started to stir. 

 “Yes- ah,” she winced, clutching her head, pulling her hand back when she touched a large gash. “I just need to heal myself and rest perhaps....” she muttered, whispering a healing spell. She felt her magic growing weak, and it only did so much. 

 “Allow me to help,” Gale was too kind, Astarion noted, watching the display apathetically. “We should make camp. Rest before journeying any further to Ethel’s.” 

 “I saw some farmhouses right outside the village gate. We could hide out in there,” Phayelynn suggested. 

 Gale nodded, helping Shadowheart stand, knowing what Phayelynn was speaking of. Lae’zel let out a hiss, muttering that this was all a waste of their time before following Gale and Shadowheart. Astarion stood silently but waited for Phayelynn to stand up as well. 

 She took her time, biting her lip as she gave another look at the instrument in her hands. Her eyes were glossy. Was she going to cry? Astarion didn’t know what to do, chest tightening and eyes darting around for help. 

 “You don’t happen to know a mending spell, do you?” She finally spoke as she gathered the neck in one hand and the body in the other. She wore a slacked frown, already knowing the answer. Her grip tautened. “Damn it. This was---this was a gift.” 

 Astarion shifted on his feet uncomfortably. Phayelynn didn’t notice or comment on it, giving a last glance at the three Orges. Pursing her lips, she nodded towards him. “Thank you for saving me.” 

 Astarion blinked, unsure what to say. She hadn’t allowed him to say anything as she followed the other. He ran a hand through his curls, his hood falling off during the battle as he watched after her. He didn’t take long to follow them himself. Of course, he paused to trifle through the fallen Orges’ things. 

[thecharmingchimaera]

*collapses* God help me, I've finally made it to the end of this damn thing.

Ahem. In other news, new oneshot is up!

Deeper Than Bone

Rating: T

Characters/Pairings: Astarion/The Dark Urge

Word Count: 6113

Summary:

Astarion does not want to explain why he wants the Necromancy of Thay so badly. The Dark Urge finds out anyway, and Astarion realises moments of weakness can have their advantages.

The Dark Urge gave no sign she had heard him. There was something familiar in the way her face had gone still and vacant, and Astarion felt cold, hard dread settle in the pit of his stomach. He had seen enough of the Dark Urge’s scars to know that somebody had cut her open once, and cut deep.

Godey had never strapped him to a table. He had favoured stringing Astarion up by the wrists, sometimes by chains, sometimes on a rack. Astarion supposed he should be grateful for that, at least. Gods knew how he would react, if he had been tortured enough that the mere sight of a table was enough to immobilise him.

The Dark Urge was trembling. There was an opportunity there, hanging poised like a star. All Astarion had to do was grab it.

“It’s alright, darling. We’re in Moonhaven.” He murmured softly, gentle and reassuring. “We’re in the apothecary’s cellar. You’re safe now. I'm right here, with you.”

[spacemonkeysalsa]

God of Ambivalence

A tiefling Artificer splits a large stone on a beach to discover a one handed-wizard inside.

Pairing - Male OC/Gale (and some Shadowheart/Lae'zel which I mention because as of chapter fourteen there are more scenes of the two of them together than my main couple, but that's because I love me a slow burn and full disclaimer this is like an actual novel)

Chapter fourteen spoiler - A tiefling, a wizard, a githyanki monk and a cambion in disguise run into a fey creature who is interested in acquiring a new warlock.

Read Chapter One on Ao3

Read Chapter Two on Ao3

Read Chapter Three on Ao3

Read Chapter Four on Ao3

Read Chapter Five on Ao3

Read Chapter Six on Ao3

Read Chapter Seven on Ao3

Read Chapter Eight on Ao3

Read Chapter Nine on Ao3

Read Chapter Ten on Ao3

Read Chapter Eleven on Ao3

Read Chapter Twelve on Ao3

Read Chapter Thirteen on Ao3

Read Chapter Fourteen on Ao3

Or read Chapter Fourteen below

There was probably only a hair of difference between Erakis and Elion when it came to height—Elion’s horns helped. All the same, it seemed like Erakis had longer legs and could outstrip all of them with humiliating ease. He was far ahead, finding paths that Elion’s eyes couldn’t see, and guiding them through the underbrush with no small amount of impatience. The journey to meet with his ranger friend and to use her portal was only meant to take a day—but was that according to his personal pace? If so, they’d have to make camp well before they got there.

Gale was predictably in the rear of the group, still recovering, in spite of what he said, and in spite of what the cleric had insisted. At certain times there might be a full quarter mile between Erakis and Gale, with Elion and Xan hovering in between to keep the group from splitting completely.

They talked, mostly of the wilderness around them and what they were seeing. Elion could feel the subject of their poor pace bubbling closer to the surface as each of them took it in turns to let their anxiety get the best of them and glance back over their shoulders at the wizard.

“Seems like your family is close with Arabella. Has she always stayed in this area?”

“Not at all,” Xan shook his head. “I understand that my moms met her in that druid’s grove near Moonhaven, but she’s nomadic. I’ve known her my whole life, but only for a few days at a time, and never in the same place twice.”

“Your whole life? I thought she was younger than me when I first laid eyes on her.”

“Something to do with her nature. Chosen of someone. Of something. We can only speculate. She started as a normal tiefling. Then changed. Rolan’s the same.”

Being a tiefling on its own was complicated. People were already frightened of them on sight—of the implications. Rolan and Arabella had the power to isolate themselves as needed. It was hard not to be intrigued by that. “You traveled around a lot too?”

“Had to,” Xan admitted, a little grim quirk lifted one side of his thin mouth. “When on Toril, I’m something of a novelty. That’s fine for a short time, but a novelty in one place too long becomes a pariah. On other planes, the same became true, and this world held me all the more.”

“I know that feeling,” said Elion, “not really belonging anywhere.”

“In spite of insistences.”

“Constant,” Elion groaned. “I can hear my mother’s voice now. She was always telling me I belong anywhere I stand. I wanted to believe it.”

“You’ll go see them, while in Baldur’s Gate? Your parents?” Xan asked.

“I think I must,” Elion both looked forward to it and dreaded it. Six months was the longest he’d ever gone without seeing his family, but the circumstances of the present reunion were not ideal. They hadn’t parted on the best terms and he would have deeply preferred to return with something more impressive to show for his time away than a few new muscles and a very disappointed master. “They’ll be a little insufferable.”

“They’ll want you to stay.”

“Yes.”

“Will you?”

“I don’t know,” Elion paused a moment to spare a glance back at Gale, but was reassured to notice that the wizard seemed to be improving his pace, gradually. Perhaps he’d gotten a second wind. “What do you think? When did you leave home? Really leave?”

“In a sense, I never did,” Xan admitted. “And in another sense, I never really had a permanent home to begin with, in the Faerûn tradition. The little cottage where my grandfather lives would be close. But, I have spare memories of living there with him, and both my mothers—more distantly, my grandmother. The githyanki may never know peace and independence, but it won’t be for lack of effort. That effort has taken me from one plane to another at frequent intervals, since I was old enough to remember,” Xan admitted, frowning. That much, Elion had surmised, but hearing Xan say it with all the weight of his life behind those memories made Elion appreciate that he’d had a relatively eventless upbringing, it also made him feel very young. He supposed he was, but it was easy to forget that, being a member of a species with such a short lifespan to begin with. He’d felt ancient ever since he realized his life was a quarter over, at best, and he felt it had barely started.

Xan smirked, “It seems like the first time I left home I must’ve been very young. Just the day before my mother had been chasing me around the garden in play,” he stroked his little beard and recalled with a note of laughter, “she used to remove her false eye and hold it out in front to frighten me. I’m still not sure if she can actually use it to peer around corners like that, but she always acted like she could.”

Up ahead, Erakis had stopped walking, but Elion had the sinking feeling it was not because he was waiting for them to catch up. The man’s massive back bent as he crouched low. He seemed tense, and Elion quieted his footfalls. Xan was sure-footed, but seemed to follow suit, turning to swiftly and silently throw a gesture at Gale.

It could be any manner of beast, or an ambush, or some spectacle. Not for the first time, Elion thought how foolish it was that they ever thought that they might make it to their destination in a single day, without any upsets, detours or disasters. That simply wasn’t how these things worked. Erakis wrapped one large hand around the polearm of his spear, which did nothing to assuage Elion’s concerns. “Should we wait?” He caught Xan’s arm.

“You stay here, keep out of sight. I’ll make sure he doesn't need help.”

Xan moved like a scuttling reptile, silent and so fast it made Elion feel a little dizzy to imagine moving under his own power that way. The Monk reached Erakis so quickly that Elion had to privately acknowledge, somewhat sheepish, that if Xan and Erakis had traveled on their own, they probably would have reached their destination already. The two exchanged a word, seemed to be arguing. Xan gestured in front of them and gave a shrug. Erakis rolled his entire head and beckoned for the other two to approach. It was safe, apparently.

When he reached them, he saw that the hold up was just a small group of travelers ahead on the road. They were in some distress, having broken a cartwheel. They appeared to be nothing more than a little human family, with two young children and an old granny snoozing in the back of the lopsided cart. A man was trying to dig beneath the cart, perhaps hoping to get under it enough to put a new wheel on, but where they’d get a new wheel, Elion couldn’t say.

“Just some travelers in need of aid.”

“I could probably fix the broken wheel—or if not, I’m sure Gale could conjure a new one,” Elion suggested.

Erakis looked like he wanted to protest, but didn’t seem to be able to form the argument. Sensing his unease, Xan said, “They don’t really look dangerous. And it won’t take long to give them a hand.”

“Do as you like,” Erakis’ mouth, jaw and throat were all tight as he turned away.

For the life of him, Elion couldn’t discern what the problem could be. He suspected that Erakis was already annoyed with them for taking longer than expected, but maybe he could alleviate some of that irritation if he just showed off how simple it was to repair the cart with the tiniest bit of magic—or even just basic engineering. Elion had both skills at his disposal. 

The family hadn’t noticed them yet. They were still far enough back and mostly veiled by the brush. The mother looked to be close to tears as she distantly begged her children not to wander far from the cart. It may be a simple enough thing for Elion to fix, but they were clearly out of their depth, and probably exhausted from travel. No reason not to lend a hand when it cost them so little. He might even be able to have it all sorted before Gale caught up with them.

He raised his hand to call to them, when suddenly Xan grabbed him by the arm to stop him. “Wait!” he hissed. “Where’s the wizard?”

Elion whirled around, but Xan’s concern was well founded. Gale was gone. He’d been back a ways—but not far enough for them to get split up naturally. There was now no trace of him at all on the trail.

“Godsdammit,” murmured Erakis and he let out the deepest of sighs.

“Godsdammit,” Xan echoed with marked more enthusiasm.

Elion saw a moment later that they were both facing the direction of the road ahead again. The family had vanished, along with their cart and the tracks Elion was sure had marked the mud behind it. All of it had been an illusion, and a powerful one.

#

The first thing Gale became aware of was that he was missing time. That thought struck him before he even knew where he was, before he fully took in the view, floral and herb scent, and humid weight of the muggy air around him. It was dark, but not in an ominous or underground way, more like a well insulated chamber with the curtains drawn over what few windows it had. There was a little candlelight for convenience, but the glowing embers in the fireplace were about as much extra warmth as one could stand during these summer months. The chamber, wherever it was, would serve better in winter. Gale was setted at a low table, his knees jutting up to his chest. He held a cup of tea in his good hand, his new prosthetic listing to repeatedly tap the side of the tin cup with a faint chiming song. It was the ringing in his ear that seemed to draw him to his senses.

Something was very wrong. The last thing he remembered clearly was walking along that narrow pathway out under the blazing sun. Elion and Xan had been ahead of him, Erakis shaming them all, far ahead. Then.

Lilac? Did he recall the strong scent of lilac? And a laughing voice.

He looked around the small chamber for some anchor of reality, but there was nothing familiar, and nothing to pin his location.

He wasn’t alone, however.

The woman was busying herself, arranging something on a plate. She appeared young at first glance, though her movements were a bit too smooth, a bit too poised. She delicately stroked a variety of nuts, simple biscuits and dried fruit into place with the deliberate and thoughtless movements of someone who had long ago learned to disguise their lack of vigor with a touch of maturity and grace. Her face though, turned to the side, was youthful, and her skin was clear and perfect, what of it he could see. Down her back she had a braid knotted at even intervals and adorned with silver trinkets that matched an overbright sheen in the corner of her eye.

He felt like he’d been here for some time. The acrid hum of fey magic buzzed in the air, more apparent than when Arabella had unfolded herself from nowhere. Whatever he’d gotten himself into, and however it had happened, he needed to be careful. And, probably not drink the tea in his hand.

“I’m afraid my offerings are rather meager today,” the woman apologized as she set the plate before him on the table and stroked crumbs off her apron before sitting down beside him. Her voice didn’t sound like a woman of nineteen either, but the glamor was very good. He couldn’t find the edges of it. Couldn’t begin to guess what she really was. “It’s this time of year, nothing has quite sprung to life yet, and the winter larder and pantry are all but spent. Give it a few days and the whole of the land will start to awaken.”

An anxiety gripped him as Gale had to suppress the urge to ask about the others. It was grim arithmetic, but he did it in an instant, had to think of it. If he’d been taken by some fey creature, which seemed confirmed by his present situation, then it was all but impossible she’d simply left his companions out on the road, unbothered, where they might yet come search for him. In all likelihood, she had them in some kind of confinement, intending to use them for leverage.

But, leverage to do what? What did she want with him?

He wasn’t above sacrificing a moment’s peace and decorum to demand answers, but she spared him by addressing his unasked question with the smallest of smirks on her too pretty, and too predatory face. “Now, I’ll be quite honest with you, lad. I’ve  interviewed likely candidates for a pact before, but I’m well out of practice. I hope you’ll go easy on me.” Her violet eyes had an undulating warmth to them, more like the embers in her fire than sunlight, but with the smallest hint of blinding fury.

“A pact?” Gale’s concern ebbed, then redoubled. A fey creature soliciting a warlock was it? Interesting. “I’ll admit, I’ve never seriously considered a warlock’s pact.”

“That word seriously does quite a lot of work in that statement though, doesn't it?” she teased, and her chiding wasn’t a shot in the dark. There was such confidence behind it that Gale had to narrow his guesses about her true nature down to fey creatures with some natural divination ability. She could see a portion of his past, in all likelihood, maybe even pick up traces of dark things from his mind and private memory. Alternatively, there was the time he couldn’t remember. Had she drawn some secrets from him while he was entranced?

“I’m sure you’ve heard it all before, all their trembling warnings about the intoxication of power. Wizards like you pursue it as a life’s work. It’s an obsession. Those are the highlights of the lecture, are they not?” the woman rolled those purple eyes as she took a sip of tea from her own cup. “Oh! And the self destruction and misery that it leads to, of course.”

“Of course,” Gale had indeed heard this lecture—in a number of different languages, in fact. “But there are marked differences between what drives one to dedicate themselves to the study of magic as a wizard, as opposed to what drives a warlock to pursue power.”

“True,” the woman conceded, “I have my own understanding of those differences—but what do you think they are?”

“The effect of mastering magic is part of the appeal, part of what drives the obsession,” Gale didn’t like to follow this thought to its logical conclusion, because it had some rather bleak implications for his melancholic disposition, but it was also observably true. It wasn’t just magic that was his obsession, it was the continual pursuit of the unobtainable. “I would never describe myself as a patient man, but a warlock’s pact is certainly something of a shortcut, and one that doesn't appeal to me. I’ll take the long road, thank you.”

The woman let out a quick bark of laughter that turned into a giggle behind her hand, “the long road? You could cast fireball by the time you were eight.”

“True enough. That’s an unnerving little trick, you know? Peering into my past.”

“I am well aware,” the woman smirked, “but it's as natural as breathing to someone like me. How considerate are you, when it comes to suppressing all the things you know so that the people around you feel more comfortable?”

She had him there, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

“The truth is, you are remarkable, and under better circumstances, I don’t think you could be tempted by even the most reasonable of pacts. But. Your circumstances,” she gestured to him, one long finger nearly brushing across his prosthetic. “If left entirely to your own devices, perhaps you could have overcome the frequent pitfalls of power’s endless pursuit. You might’ve been the exception, and not just another Karsus. But, you do have such circumstances, don’t you? You were interfered with at every turn, one might even say that you were pushed to ruin. Dragged there.”

“One might,” he’d had those thoughts himself, during the darkest nights alone in his tower, when he felt fragility and mortality most keenly. When time seemed to gush rather than seep, and he feared he’d face an ignominious end before he ever got another chance at greatness, or redemption. “But, it hardly follows that I should—”“—oh, I think it does follow.” The woman’s flare of excitement gave him pause. “I think it’s the most natural thing in the world to recognize that even with a shortcut, you still might face inevitable defeat by your own ambitions. As natural as death itself. You are no ordinary dreamer. The unobtainable heights you seek require every scraping advantage you can grab onto, while you still have hands.” She shrugged, “Or, while you still have one left.”

[jeniffercheck]

light blue (nothing's gonna stop me now)

shivlina fic exchange: exposed affair with a side of shiv becoming twitter's rich white lady of the month, s2 canon (until it's not), set during 'safe room' - 2x04, shivlina are established affair partners.

words: 7.7k

read here or on ao3

for @shivvroys<3

“Do you have a Goodreads?”

Shiv pauses in the bed. Karolina’s been scrolling through her phone, laughing every so often at a cat video that she desperately needs to show Shiv right now, asking her if she’s heard about some absurd foreign news that Karolina gathers from the pits of Reddit.

(Because Shiv desperately needed to know that a rolled truck in Canada covered an entire highway in celery.)

It’s the worst part of the night, when the hours turn into minutes and the minutes to seconds, and every passing moment becomes one less that they get to breathe the same air. One less that they get to sit next to one another and exist in their small bubble, away from all the bullshit that makes up their lives.

“What?” Shiv asks, flopping her head to face Karolina.

“A Goodreads account,” Karolina says. “Do you have one?”

“Yeah,” Shiv says. She shifts closer to Karolina, trying to get a better look at her phone. “Why?”

Karolina shifts the device into Shiv’s view. “I think you’ve been discovered.”

“What?” Shiv rips the phone out of Karolina’s hand, eyes quickly scanning the screen. It’s her account, and the numbers do look suspiciously higher than usual. She grabs her own phone and opens the app, and lo and behold, hundreds of notifications have rolled in throughout the day. Likes and comments on her reviews, followers on her account. She’s not not used to it, her Twitter and Instagram receiving a healthy amount of engagement compared to the average user, but those are staged. This is…fucking embarrassing.

“How the hell did they find this?” she grumbles, clicking through some of the followers.

“I don’t know,” Karolina says. “Maybe the one-star and very detailed review of that unauthorized biography on your father was a good hint?”

“My review?” Shiv asks, scrolling through her page.

“I mean,” Karolina continues, “I don’t think the words, ‘My dad,’ were very helpful in keeping yourself anonymous.”

It appears on Shiv’s screen, a review logged last week. Sloppy, choppy, and boring as hell—she deletes it before she has time to read the rest.

“Oh my god,” she says, covering her face with her hands. “I was drunk when I wrote that.”

“Well, you’re a tough critic when you’re plastered,” Karolina says. Shiv’s mouth curls upward in disbelief as she unveils herself to Karolina, who seems to be fighting a smirk of her own. Shiv can’t contain her laughter as she drops back onto the bed, and Karolina follows, perched on her elbow next to Shiv’s head.

“What are the optics on this?” Shiv asks. The last thing she needs is to start an internet war with some E-List author. Karolina pulls her phone back in front of her, the screen flashing as she swipes through different apps, her nails making that grating tapping sound that pisses Shiv off when she’s trying to go to sleep.

“Uh—” Karolina pauses, zooming in on something. “Well, looks to me like you’ve just become the internet’s newest white girl of the month.”

“The what?”

“I mean, just look—” Karolina holds out her phone again, urging Shiv to read whatever’s on the screen, Twitter coming into view as Shiv does so. She scrolls through a variety of tweets, phrases like feral and deranged and mommy punching through. “They’re going crazy over you.”

  @evermores: Does anyone else think Shiv Roy and Nate Sofrelli had something going on?

          ↳ @dazzlinghaze: why do you know random ass Gil staffers

                      ↳ @evermores: Spoken like a fake fan.

↳ @notromanroy1: they were definitely boning

 

@milfhotline: I mean I know she probably steals money but she’s hot, so.

          ↳ @moonhaven: ???

                   ↳ @Ryan2334657: Her dad is Logan Roy. Definitely a family of thieves.

                            ↳ @moonhaven: sorry are you their bank? maybe she hates him. we don’t know

                                     ↳ @milfhotline: oomf out here defending a capitalist?

 

@candlenights: I don’t care what y’all say. Shiv Roy is my new Caroline Calloway. If she wants to steal, let her. Who am I to deny a woman her wrongs?

“Why the fuck do they all think I’ve stolen money?”

“You’re a Roy. It obviously means you commit wire fraud for breakfast,” Karolina says, scrolling through more tweets. “You should reply to one of them. Fan the flames.”

“Why would I do that?”

Fanning the flames sounds like the opposite of what her years of PR experience have told her.

“It would look good, engaging with the culture,” Karolina argues. “You know ATN’s viewership is sixty-eight percent senior citizens? Imagine if you brought in the youth. Your father would salivate.”

Shiv sits up, looking at Karolina doubtfully. “You, Karolina Novotney, want to brainwash the youth with ATN?”

Karolina shrugs, that hint of a smirk still visible on her face. Shiv scoffs playfully.

“Fuck you. You just want to see what would happen.”

“Fine,” Karolina concedes. “Sue me.”

“Yeah,” Shiv says, leaning over to press a kiss on Karolina’s forehead before getting out of the bed. “You couldn’t afford that.”

Karolina gasps, throwing a pillow at Shiv. “Whatever,” she says. “I just think it would be a good temperature check. Organic.”

“Well, I’m not engaging,” Shiv says. “I’m disengaging, if anything. I’m deleting my Goodreads and leaving the rest to their imaginations.”

“Their imaginations certainly are impressive,” Karolina says, grimacing at her phone.

“What is it?” Shiv asks.

“I thought you were disengaging?”

Shiv rolls her eyes. “I am.”

“You’re no fun,” Karolina says, pouting as she stands, but Shiv walks back over to her, lightly pushing Karolina back on the bed.

“You hang around me because I’m fun?” she asks, hovering over Karolina. She stops just as she reaches Karolina’s lips, and Karolina’s breath hitches. It’s then that Karolina’s laptop chimes from the other end of the room, and both of them sigh, an unwelcome reminder that their time for the night is officially coming to a close.

“You’re so much fun,” Karolina says before she leans up, stealing a chaste kiss from Shiv’s lips. “What time is Tom expecting you?”

Shiv sighs, rising once again.

“Thirty minutes ago,” she says. She walks into Karolina’s bathroom, pursuing her things that are already there. It all feels so simple, having a toothbrush in Karolina’s holder, having pajamas in her drawers. It’s a second life, sure, a home away from home, but it doesn’t feel any less real than the other parts, the parts where wakes up in the middle of the night and wonders why Karolina’s hands feel so big, why her sink looks so different. She washes her face, pushing the thought away for another time.

“Shiv,” Karolina says, her accusatory tone following Shiv into the bathroom.

“What?” Shiv asks, drying her face. “He’s fine. Mondale’s there.”

Karolina’s silent as she leans against the door frame, watching Shiv freshen up. It’s one of the more humiliating parts of the routine, running home to her husband who thinks she’s well on her way to becoming the next Head of PR for Waystar, guiding his eager mouth through the dark to her already-bruising breastbone, lest he think the marks came from anyone other than himself. Karolina looks at her sadly. It doesn’t happen often, but it’s annoying when it does, the sour mood or separation catching them both by its vicious claws.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Karolina asks. She asks at least once a week. Shiv would find it endearing if it didn’t make her feel entirely suffocated by just the thought of her actions.

“I told you, we have an arrangement,” Shiv says.

“And you’re not lying to me?”

Shiv sighs. She’s not lying, not really. She and Tom do have an arrangement. She stays out of Tom’s business—not that he even makes an effort to participate—and he stays out of hers. It’s simple, and she wants it to stay that way, but still, a part of her knows things with Karolina have gone outside the parameters of the arrangement. So, she’s not lying, but she isn’t quite sure where the truth fits just yet.

“I’m not lying,” Shiv says. “And Tom doesn’t own me. If I’m late, I’m late.”

“Alright,” Karolina says, voice still weary.

“What, you want to get rid of me so soon?” Shiv teases.

“I wouldn’t let you hog my sheets all the time if I wanted to get rid of you,” Karolina says.

“I do not.”

“Prove it,” Karolina challenges, and Shiv laughs.

“Should I set up the cameras before, or after we fuck?” Shive asks, facing the mirror. Karolina laughs, but it’s small and she replies by hugging Shiv from behind and resting her chin on Shiv’s shoulder. They lock eyes through the mirror.

“Stay over tonight,” Karolina says.

It’s an easy ask, as easy as anything else Karolina ever asks Shiv to do for her, and a rare one at that, and it tugs at Shiv the way it always does when she has to deny Karolina of something that she wants. Karolina, a never-ending stream of goodwill and wonder, Shiv, a constant disappointment.

“What do you get out of this?” Shiv suddenly asks, and Karolina doesn’t hesitate with her response.

“I get you.”

“But—” Shiv stammers, unsatisfied by the answer. “Like, what do you get out of it?”

Surely Shiv is not the prize. She’s a consolation, a means to an end. Karolina should be lucky to have her, sure, but when luck runs out, what’s left? Shiv is convenient.

“You make me feel normal for a little while,” Karolina says. “Like I’ve finally done something right. You do.”

It feels like a cosmic joke, Karolina saying that Shiv makes her feel right when Karolina makes Shiv feel as though she’s done everything wrong, her mere presence causing Shiv to rethink every action she’s ever taken to lead up to their interactions. Not that it’s Karolina’s fault. It’s a mess that Shiv’s made, one she knows she has to clean up soon, before it all comes crashing down on her.

“Not what you wanted to hear?” Karolina asks, looking nervous in Shiv’s silence. Shiv reaches up to grab Karolina’s hand, squeezing it as she smiles softly.

“Just—not what I expected,” she says.

“What did you expect?” Karolina asks.

“I dunno,” Shiv says. “Maybe that my financial crimes get you off.”

Karolina’s lips curve gently, and a soft laugh escapes her. Shiv knows she’s laughing because Shiv wants her to. Because Shiv has to leave in fifteen minutes and if they get into it now, if they let their emotions get any further, they might go places they can never come back from. Shiv turns around, connecting their foreheads. By the time she leaves, Karolina is back to some late-night work, and Shiv, back to Tom.

 

—

The first thought Shiv has when the gunshot goes off, is that it doesn’t really sound like anything at all. One second she’s playing Connect the Dots while being babysat by the Old Guard, and the next she’s being rushed off through the executive floor to a safe room that she isn’t really sure is all that safe, given the fact that they’re on the top floor of a high rise in the Financial District, distinctly known for having zero issues involving life-endangering events and fucking high rises.

She stumbles her way through an increasingly irritating phone call with Tom, something about the wrong safe room and she realizes that she doesn’t have a clue where Karolina is, right safe room or wrong safe room, and she still doesn’t know if there’s a shooter in the building, and she still doesn’t know where she stands with Dad, and she doesn’t know shit about anything, because everybody wants to keep her around but nobody wants to keep her in the loop.

“Where’s Kendall?” her dad is immediately asking, winded and wilting, and only ever concerned about her older brother.

“I don’t know,” Shiv says. It doesn’t seem like the correct time to remind him that she’s not Kendall’s keeper, and she’s also got bigger concerns on her mind. “Were you with Karolina? Have you seen her?”

“Karolina?” he repeats, and at first, it’s a quickening of Shiv’s heart rate, wondering if she’s somehow said too much, gone too far, but then it’s a dismissive wave of her father’s hand, a welcome sign that she hasn’t completely screwed anything up just yet. “Get on the phone with her—figure this fucking mess out.”

She does, retreat to a corner and call Karolina several times, her pulse beating harder with every passing ring. It’s not until the third try that Karolina actually picks up, just as Kendall and Gerri enter the room, and she still has enough time to roll her eyes as her dad greets Kendall, his golden boy returned safely to the throne room.

“Shiv?” Karolina’s voice comes through the receiver.

“Karolina,” Shiv sighs, relieved. “Where are you?”

“I was on a lower floor dealing with a small fire—we were evacuated right away,” Karolina says. “I’m with the news crew now, they’re prepping to go live from outside. Where are you?”

Shiv looks around. Kendall doing God knows what in the bathroom, Rhea and Dad looking awkward as all fuck on the couch, Colin hovering creepily. Gerri, it seems, is heading right for Shiv.

“In the Kensington Palace of panic rooms,” Shiv says, losing her words with every step Gerri moves closer. “I just wanted—we, wanted to check in on the response. And I—you’re safe? With the protestors outside?”

“I’m pretty sure ANTIFA is the least of our safety concerns,” Karolina mumbles, her voice getting quieter as Shiv cups the phone, Gerri stopped in front of her, gesturing to the phone.

“Can I speak with her?” Gerri asks.

Shiv has half a mind to say no. Wants to take herself and her phone and Karolina’s voice and lock it all away from others. Wants to touch her hand and make sure it’s real, that Karolina’s right where she says she is, outside of Waystar HQ, prepping some corporate shill with eyelashes far too long for national news to tell the whole world that everything’s fine, that there’s a shooter inside of their workplace but they’re all fine because this is America and guns are our friends.

Instead, she holds her phone out to Gerri. She’s at least grateful to be rid of the vibrations from Tom’s texts coming through every twenty seconds.

“How’s it looking out there?” Gerri asks into the phone. She eyes Shiv and then turns her back, mumbling a yes, and a no, and a no, we’re not legally liable, and a yes, they can say that on-air, and when Gerri turns back around, she looks as though she’s about to hang up, and if things were different—if Shiv weren’t trapped in a room with five people who definitely can’t know that Karolina is anything more to Shiv than a corporate sounding board—she’d get Gerri to stop. She’d rip the phone out of Gerri’s hands and take Karolina back.

Except, Gerri pauses. Her eyes flash suspiciously at Shiv, and she bids Karolina goodbye before handing the phone back, Shiv, using everything in her power not to look as desperate as she feels.

“Shiv?” Karolina says. “You there?”

“I’m with you,” Shiv says, trying her best to sound inconspicuous. Dad, Kendall, and Rhea are still deep in talks, but Gerri’s ears are her, even if she’s pretending they aren’t.

“I stepped away for a moment,” Karolina says. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, we’re all good here,” Shiv says. “I’m glad we got in touch quickly. It’s best if we get a statement out soon.”

“I was worried,” Karolina says, and Shiv bites the inside of her lip. “When they said there’d been shots fired, you know, I-I didn’t know—”

“Uh-huh,” Shiv cuts her off. “You’re right, we should wait a little. Don’t want to sound too haste.”

There’s a bit of silence on the other end, and Shiv feels bad. Feels awful, actually, because she’s worried too but she can’t show that. Not right here, not in front of everyone. She can’t cry or panic, can’t tell Karolina that if something had happened to her it would’ve been the end of Shiv, that the entire time she was speaking to her husband the only thing that was on Shiv’s mind was Karolina. She can’t tell Karolina any of this, ever.

“Can I see you tonight?” Karolina then asks.

It’s small and slightly hesitant, and feels far too fragile for the circumstances, feels too fragile to be aimed at Shiv. She can’t help it. Shiv might explode if she has to deny Karolina anything ever again.

“Yes, of course,” she says. “I’ll send you the details when we’re out of here.”

“Okay, Shiv. Be safe,” Karolina says, and it feels like the words are hanging, like there are so many more they should be saying that are inhibited by time and space and circumstance, and Shiv can’t help when the spell is broken, when she forgets that she isn’t the only person in the room and her lips curl to say something irrevocable, until at the last second she looks at Gerri, perceptive eyes still plainly on her and she does remember. The destructive words swallowed, and replaced with a cordial, “You too.”

She avoids Gerri’s gaze as she hangs up, opting to read through the abundance of texts from Tom that she’s received within the last twenty minutes. He’s going to be stuck at ATN all night, and the paperwork is, “Horrendous,” considering the shooter was revealed to be one of his employees. She schedules a car for Karolina and a separate car for herself, both to be taken to her apartment. It doesn’t feel entirely right, but it doesn’t feel wrong either, wanting to just sit on her own couch in her own place and bask in the silence with Karolina.

“What did Karolina want from you?” Gerri asks suddenly, voice quiet so as not to interrupt the Boys Club still trying to land a deal.

“Uh—just wanted my opinion on some words,” Shiv says. “That’s all.”

“Right,” Gerri says. “Because it doesn’t make sense to speak with the people who are actually on her payroll.”

“Look, Gerri, if you have a problem, then take it up with Karolina,” Shiv says. “I’m sure she’d love to explain.”

She locks eyes with Gerri this time, smiling her Shiv Roy best, and Gerri just sighs. “She’s not a toy, Shiv.”

Shiv can’t help it as she laughs under her breath.

“Are you my godmother, or hers?”

Colin whispers in Dad’s ear. He stands, Rhea joining him. They’re all shaking hands, smiling as Colin opens the door.

“If I were Karolina’s, I’d be telling her to run rather than telling you not to fuck things up.”

—

Relief.

It’s the only thing Shiv feels when there’s finally a knock on her door and she opens it to find Karolina on the other side, a little more disheveled than Shiv is used to, but her Karolina, nonetheless. Shiv normally wouldn't have her over like this, not when it’s so late and Tom could be in even when she knows he won’t be, but she finds that she’s running out of reasons to care.

The second Karolina is inside and situated, she’s pulling Shiv into a hug. It’s not her first hug of the day, but it’s the first one where she feels like she’s being held. Like her hands aren’t the only two things doing the lifting, like her body isn’t a vessel for someone else to consume and spit out and mold—like she’s being hugged because someone cares. Like someone is wrapping her in their arms, not because it’s where they want her, but because it’s where she fits. With Karolina, everything fits.

“Eventful day,” Karolina says, brushing a thumb across Shiv’s cheek.

“Not really a good reflection of Waystar,” Shiv says, frowning. “An employee blowing their brains out in the bullpen.”

“We’re lucky that’s all it was,” Karolina says, and her hands tighten around Shiv, voice thick with the emotional toll of the day. “Three Roys in the building an active shooter, I mean—it could’ve been anything, Shiv.”

“Hey,” Shiv instantly says, attempting to calm the concern in Karolina’s words. “It wasn’t that. I’m fine, and you’re fine—we’re all good. Right?”

Karolina looks at her, furrowed brows and scrunched lips holding back like they always do, and she just nods. It comes over Shiv again, that wave of protectiveness that she pretends hasn’t recently become exclusive only to Karolina, and she takes control of the embrace, bringing the side of Karolina’s temple to her lips and holding her tightly in return. She wants to say something, wants to make more promises that she can’t keep, and ask more questions that she doesn’t want the answers to, but her phone buzzes in her pocket.

“It’s Tom,” Shiv says, pulling away from Karolina, and then into the receiver, “Hello?”

“Hey, honey,” Tom’s voice comes through. “Are you home yet?”

“Yeah,” Shiv says. “Yeah, I got in about an hour ago.”

“Okay, good,” Tom says. “Will you make sure to feed Mondale? I’m afraid I’m going to be in the studio for a while.”

“Yeah,” Shiv says. “Can do.”

She’s being short. It’s not fair, but so many things aren’t fair. Which safe room are you in, Shiv? Are you sure there’s only one? I think they brought me to the wrong one, Shiv. I thought that it was something we wanted for me. What happened to the plan, Shiv?

“Alright, well. Everything—everything’s good?”

“Yeah, Tom,” Shiv sighs. “Your safe room kept you safe, I guess?”

“Oh, yeah,” Tom says. “Very spacious. It was nice to have some quiet time, you know? Hard to come by these days.”

“Right, no—yeah,” Shiv says. “Ours was—it was quiet too.”

“Good, good.”

There’s a lull of silence between them that Shiv often worries is a permanent fixture, but she knows Karolina looming behind her isn’t the best fuel for a conversation with her husband.

“Well,” Tom says, filling the silence, “I’ll see you later?”

“Sure, honey,” Shiv says. “Just let me know when you’re on your way, yeah?”

“Alright,” Tom says. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Tom.”

She keeps her back turned, scrolling through the calls on her phone. Tom, incoming. Karolina (3), outgoing. Tom, incoming. Roman, missed. Tom (2), missed. Karolina, incoming. Karolina, outgoing. She locks her phone, sliding it into her pocket without another glance. She finds Karolina’s set herself up at the kitchen counter, laptop out in front of her, fingers typing away. She looks up as Shiv returns, and Shiv wonders where her determined energy comes from, how Karolina can always keep going, despite it all.

“ATN putting out the fire for us?” Karolina asks.

“Yeah,” Shiv laughs sarcastically. “They’re gonna own the libs and turn a suicide into a men’s rights issue.”

“As long as the ATN audience believes it, I couldn’t care less,” Karolina says. “Waystar will provide its condolences and ATN can do…whatever the hell it does.”

Shiv knows Karolina doesn’t mean that. That she’ll be watching the news broadcast and she’ll send a scathing email to ATN’s PR department when their story doesn’t align with the professional public image that Waystar needs to maintain, and she’ll work long and extra hours just to make it right, even though there are plenty of people on her payroll that can do it just as well with her guidance.

Shiv wonders if Karolina thinks the same way about her. That whenever she asks if they can spend the night together or if they can see each other, if there’s not always a part of her that couldn’t care less. A part of her that can’t afford to care more.

“Well, with a Nazi on the news desk, I’m sure they’ll do just fine,” Shiv says. Karolina sighs and leans her elbow on the counter, head in her hand. She continues to type with one hand, a skill Shiv would find laughable on any other day, and Shiv pulls another seat closer to Karolina, resting her own body across the countertop as she watches Karolina work. Suddenly, Karolina’s typing furiously, sitting up straighter and switching through tabs at a rapid pace. Her phone dings a few times, and an unsettling feeling comes over Shiv.

“Fuck.”

Karolina’s expression has grown from slightly annoyed to exceedingly worried within seconds, and Shiv sits up instantly.

“What is it?” she asks. “Ken get high and shoplift with the Naked Cowboy?”

Except, Karolina doesn’t laugh, which worries Shiv, because Karolina always laughs at her jokes, no matter how stupid or ill-timed or horrible they are.

“Um, no, Shiv,” Karolina says. “It—it’s about you.”

Shiv goes through her mental calendar, trying to remember the events of the last week. She can’t remember stealing candy or vape fluid or murdering a fucking homeless person though, so whatever it is, surely can’t be as bad as Karolina’s frantic typing is having her believe. Karolina continues to type, and then pauses, turning her laptop screen to face Shiv, a gaudy email taking up the screen.

Email: breakingnews@six.com

Subject: Heavy is the Head

Message: Married heiress to a popular American news conglomerate spotted cozying up to a mystery woman at a gala.

Shiv tries to make sense of the words. “What am I looking at?”

“It’s a blind,” Karolina says, and Shiv attempts to calm her panic. A blind is a blind. They’re bullshit, even when true.

“It’s just the same thing as last night,” Shiv says. “Nobody’s going to believe it.”

“Scroll.”

Shiv does, hesitantly, and her heart sinks as she makes it to the next part. There’s a photo. A fucking photo of her kissing Karolina t that stupid charity gala that she didn’t even want to be at, taken by some sleazeball with an iPhone 14 and a dream. But still, it’s not the end of the world, right?

“Nobody can see your face,” Shiv says. “I mean, fine, fuck, I’m kissing a woman—that doesn’t mean anything—”

Karolina slides her second phone over to Shiv, a screen that’s usually reserved for the most desperate of occasions, and on it is a thread with a different photo, Karolina’s face and dress circled out of a crowd.

“Fuck,” Shiv repeats, because what exactly is the proper word to being outed to millions of people at once, and also, by the way, the person you’re kissing is one of your dad’s most trusted advisors, and, oh, you’re also fucking married! She looks to Karolina, who seems to be flitting between passing out and figuring out where she can purchase a military-grade machine gun to mow down the Reddit headquarters.

“Is someone on this?” Shiv asks, and she’ll admit it, she’s panicking, because normally it’s Karolina who’s on these stories and squashing them before they’ve seen an ounce of daylight, but Karolina is here, and the story’s already broken, and her eyes are a little frantic and her hands a little shaky and Shiv’s slowly losing faith that they’re making it out of this one unscathed. Shiv grabs one of Karolina’s hands, and the contact springs her into action.

“I—I don’t know, Shiv,” Karolina says, puffing her cheeks. She pulls her hand away, standing. “I need to make some calls.”

“You can use my office,” Shiv says, and Karolina nods, walking away without so much as another word. It’s a lot, a shooting and an exposé all in one day, and Shiv doesn’t even want to begin to think of the fallout. The thought of checking her phone makes her feel sick, and if the universe is at all on her side (which, it’s decidedly not, considering this is happening at all) then Dad is already asleep and he’ll never have to find out about this mess. There’s no way Roman hasn’t already found out, and she makes a mental note to come up with a list of things to blackmail him with if he enjoys his life as it is currently. And then, as if on cue, Tom is walking into the apartment, either blissfully unaware, or entirely all too excited.

“Shiv?” his voice calls out, and she steels herself, not at all ready for the first wave of consequence.

“In here,” she calls from the kitchen. It’s a little while before Tom actually enters, his slow, tentative steps confirming her suspicions.

“Hey, honey,” Tom says as he approaches. He doesn’t greet her like he normally does, his inviting arms usually engulfing her, and she’s troubled by the fact that it doesn’t bother her. The distance almost feels welcome.

“Hey,” she says. The tension is thick.

“Crazy day, huh?” he asks. He looks at her expectantly, and she imagines what he’s thinking. Maybe he wants her to fall to her knees, to beg for forgiveness. Maybe he wants her to serve him with divorce papers, to annul the marriage having violated the terms of the prenup. Maybe he wants to pretend it never happened, to forbid Shiv from seeing Karolina ever again even though they both know that Shiv would never listen to that order. She can’t tell, because she never knows what Tom wants. He pretends to want what she wants, or he says he wants less when he always wants more, or he wants things that simply don't exist, things that can’t ever exist, and she just has to stumble her way through his needs, catering to him without completely destroying her own desires.

She feels that urge again, to hide Karolina somewhere far away, somewhere where Shiv wanting can’t be used against them. Where she doesn’t have to suppress her desires just to make everyone else around her feel whole.

“Yeah,” she says stiffly. “Wild.”

Tom nods, still playing his cards close to his chest. He eyes the mess of screens on the counter, not lingering for too long on any device. It’s likely he spent his entire car ride home memorizing every detail of the news.

“So—what’s the plan?” he asks, like he’s somehow a part of it. Like it’s a business move that they’re making together and now they have to figure it out. Like it’s not Shiv’s livelihood at stake.

“The plan?” she asks. She knows it’s not the time to be dense, but he’s already pissing her off and they haven’t even begun. She doesn’t need a Tom-solution to her own mess.

“Shiv,” he says, her name coming out like a warning.

“I don’t know, Tom,” she says. “I have to—you know, I need to talk—”

It’s not the admitting that’s hard. She’s admitted plenty before. Admitted worse. It’s saying her name. It’s giving Tom that piece of her, that version of Karolina that up until now, had only belonged to Shiv. If she says her name, then it’s real. They belong to everybody. It leaves her control.

“Her,” Shiv finally says. Tom’s current state of mind is elusive. She never prided him much in the way of not wearing his heart on his sleeve, but he’s doing a good job currently, and it’s unnerving, not being able to suss out what he’s thinking.

“When will—I mean, is that—are you in contact with her?” he asks. “Because we should really all be on the same page.”

We. Us. All.

“She’s in the study,” Shiv says, and Tom’s eyebrows shoot upward.

“She’s here? Now?”

“Well, yeah, Tom. Did you want me to drop her off in front of Waystar?” she asks. “See how many different ways the paparazzi can ask her what it feels like to fuck your wife?”

“Okay, Shiv—I understand you’re upset—”

“Oh, fuck off,” Shiv says, turning away from him. “Can you just—stop, being so nice right now?”

“Well—I mean, this was a part of it, right?” he asks, that sickeningly dumbfounded expression slapped across his face. “The arrangement?”

Shiv hopes her face isn’t conveying the paralyzing lapse of nausea that she feels course through her. She can feel the boyish hurt seep through his words, pretending like the arrangement is still something he’s okay with. If she were being completely honest, it doesn’t feel like a part of the arrangement. If it were a part of the arrangement, it wouldn’t have been Karolina in that photo. It would’ve been some hot, young guy, just barely taller than Tom; enough to make her feel like he should be jealous, enough to make him jealous. Karolina is different. He wasn’t supposed to find out about her. She was supposed to be Shiv’s secret, her life away from Tom that he couldn’t touch, couldn’t steal. She won’t let him steal her now, either.

“Right,” she says. Silly. How could she have forgotten? “The arrangement, yeah no—sorry. It’s been a long day.”

Tom pouts and steps forward, Shiv’s lie like some kind of spell cast on him. It feels more morose than usual, his desperation for her bare minimum commitment to him. He pulls her into him, as if the arrangement means it’s not real. She isn’t sure either of them believes that, but she knows he wants to, and Shiv, as always, is beholden to his wants.

“It was frightening being in danger,” Tom says. “And this, on top of it all. We’ll get Rat-Fucker Sam on it. Ruin some Silicon Valley tech mogul’s life.”

“I think it’s too late for Sam, Tom. It went viral instantly,” she says. “I just need to figure this out.”

“Well, has she gotten the call yet?”

Shiv looks up. The call?

“What call?”

“You know,” Tom shrugs, and Shiv wildly shakes her head, because, no, she doesn’t know. She’s not some clairvoyant psychic put on Earth just to be able to read Tom Wambsgans’ mind when he decides the middle of a conversation is a good time to play fucking charades.

“What call, Tom?” she says again, stepping away. He looks around to make sure it’s just the two of them, which, Shiv’s pretty sure they are, considering she can still hear Karolina’s commanding voice leave the confines of the study every few minutes, and he leans in, lowering his voice.

“The fucking axe, Shiv!”

He says it like it’s break room gossip. Like Karolina isn’t one of the few people at Waystar who’s actually decent at their job, like she’s dispensable and that’s why Shiv chose her. Not a real person. She wonders if that boyish hurt isn’t just a glint of zeal, like maybe he’s finally found his opportunity for payback. Shiv gets to cheat, and Tom gets to watch the destruction. She wonders if this might not have been his play all along, let her run herself through brick walls over and over again, and watch silently until one of them finally takes her down, bruised and bloody and begging for mercy. Something tugs inside of her then, and she realizes there is a wall worth salvaging, and it’s not the one in front of her.

“She’s not getting fired, Tom,” Shiv says, hoping the blood and the cement seep through, spoken proof that even knocked down, the fragments of Karolina are deep within her now.

Tom just stares at her, open-mouthed with that stupid, disbelieving smile.

“If you’re worried about the optics, Shiv—we’ll have her sign papers. This won’t come down on you,” he says. “It’ll be quick and painless, I mean, you won’t even have to be a part of it—”

“Tom,” Shiv snaps, he closes his mouth, jaw set. “I said, she’s not fucking getting fired.”

In come the theatrics.

“Oh, oh, I mean, of course, Shiv, I don’t—I mean, I wouldn’t really think of it as a firing, more so as a sort of, Witness Protection situation,” he says. “I mean, she can’t possibly come back to the office, right? That could be, well—sort of disastrous, if you think about it.”

She tries to imagine it, tries to picture either of them returning to Waystar with a shred of their dignity, and she wants to believe that there is a way, somehow.

“She can,” Shiv says. “It was just a part of the arrangement, right? If we don’t treat it like a big deal, then it’s not. Firing her looks sloppy, Tom. It’s guilty.”

“Yeah, Shiv, it’s fine,” Tom says, finally letting some of his anger come through. “Maybe I should walk in with her tomorrow, then everyone can know I’m friends with the woman from whom I got cucked.”

“I don’t really want that any more than you do,” Karolina says, and Shiv looks past Tom, his head immediately turning towards the sound of her voice.

“Karolina, hello—”

“Hi, Tom,” Karolina says.

She’s a new kind of silent. Shiv isn’t sure how long Karolina has been standing there, doesn’t know how much of the conversation Karolina heard, but however much, Shiv wishes she hadn’t.

“Uh, hey—Tom?” Shiv says, Tom now looking back at her. “Can you just, maybe?” She nods in the direction of the door, and he raises his eyebrows before a light, “Oh,” escapes him, suddenly cordial again now that Karolina’s in the room.

“Sure, sure, yeah, I’ll just—I need to take Mondale out. All of this…energy isn’t good for his sleep schedule, so. I’ll, um, I’ll leave you two to…it,” he says, wincing near the end.

They both wait for him to leave, Karolina not daring to move closer until she hears the door shut, and even then, it’s a minimal attempt at closing the distance.

“He seemed mad,” Karolina says.

“Yeah, well,” Shiv sighs. He reacted how she’d expected. Highly upset but too desperate to actually show it.

“I thought he knew,” Karolina says, her tone slightly accusatory.

“He knew, yeah,” Shiv says, trying to sound sure. “I guess, he just—didn’t know who with, is the problem.”

She doesn’t expect Karolina to believe her, not in the way she expects Tom to take her words at face value, and Karolina doesn’t. She never does.

“So, we’ve been having an affair,” Karolina states.

“I told you, Tom and I have—”

“An arrangement. Yeah, Shiv, I got it,” Karolina says. The silence isn’t awkward more than it is uncomfortable. There are too many things to say, too many questions and strategies and unknowns. Shiv starts with what’s simple.

“Who was on the phone?” she asks.

“It was Gerri,” Karolina says. “She, um—well, she chewed me out, and then she, you know. Advice.”

“And what was her advice?”

“She told me I should stock my arsenal,” Karolina says. “HR, journalists, lawyers. She gave me some numbers.”

“Are you going to call?” Shiv asks, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach.

“I don’t know, Shiv,” Karolina says. “I might.”

Shiv nods, unsure of what other response she could give. Of course, she doesn’t want Karolina to call those numbers. Of course, she wants Karolina to trust her, to believe that Shiv will do the right thing, to believe that Shiv would stand by her, would choose her. The longer this bullshit goes on, the more Shiv thinks that she would.

“Don’t,” Shiv says. “I’m not going to hang you out to dry. I wouldn’t do that.”

“Shiv,” Karolina sighs, and her face falls almost sympathetically. She moves closer to Shiv, though they still feel worlds apart, and Shiv wants nothing more than to reach out, to grab her hand and never let go. “It’s not you that I’m worried about.”

Dad. Shiv had nearly forgotten about him while trying to handle Tom.

“Did Gerri say—”

“He hasn’t called her about it,” Karolina says. “So, he either hasn’t seen it, or he’s ignoring it.”

Shiv lets out a sigh of relief at the information. This gives them time, a lot more time than she initially thought they’d have.

“So, we still have a chance to get ahead of it,” Shiv says. “Or he doesn’t believe it. Both work in our favor.”

“It doesn’t really matter whether he hasn’t seen it, Shiv, there’s a photo,” Karolina says. “Everyone else has seen it. The entire fucking internet has already seen it.”

“He’s the only person that matters, though,” Shiv says.

“The only person?” Karolina asks. “What about my subordinates? My boss, fucking—Hugo? There are people who want to see me fail. This could ruin me, Shiv.”

“It won’t ruin you,” Shiv says.

“I’ve been fucking the married daughter of the fucking CEO, Shiv. This is a PR disaster from hell,” Karolina says. “Who’s going to want to hire me? I’m a fucking liability now.”

Shiv waits for Karolina to say more. Waits for her to say that she regrets this, and that she never should’ve done it, and that it was a bad idea from the start. That Shiv’s malignant, a festering presence that bursts into people's lives and does her bidding and then leaves right before things go to shit, that she somehow makes it out unharmed every time, a body count living in her wake. She won’t let that happen to Karolina. Won’t even give her a chance to think it.

“I’ll handle it, Karolina,” Shiv says. “I’ll fucking, I’ll figure it out, okay?”

“How?” Karolina asks. Her voice is sharp and jagged and Shiv doesn’t think she’s ever heard it sound so unsure before, so small in the face of something so large.

“I don’t know, I’ll offer my soul to Shanghai, I’ll do the fucking management program, I’ll do whatever he wants—”

“What?” Karolina interrupts. “Shiv you’re not even in the company—”

“Why do you think I was in the office today?” Shiv asks. “It’s me. It’s fucking me, Karolina.”

Karolina shakes her head, confusion taking over her face. “Seriously?”

“I don’t know if he meant it, but he said it, and it’s something,” Shiv says. “If he wants me out of his precious politics, then it’s fucking something, okay? We have to try.”

Because if this is rock bottom, then Shiv has nothing left to lose, and she knows the Dems on Capitol Hill would kill to have the gay fucking Roy child on their campaigns. She can work with this; she just has to convince Karolina.

“Even if that did—it’s not a Get Out of Jail Free, Shiv,” Karolina says. She goes silent, her arms crossing gently. Her expression softens, her anger at the situation replaced with something sadder. She looks up at Shiv again, eyes boring into her from across the room, “Did he really choose you?”

“He said it,” Shiv shrugs. Karolina still doesn’t look convinced.

“It’ll never work,” Karolina says. “It just won’t, Shiv. The CEO of Waystar—home of ATN—with a woman?”

“Then we’ll go to Pierce,” Shiv says instantly. “Get them to agree to an exclusive sit down. Dad will be so mad he’ll back off. Fuckin’ extort the hell out of him. I’m from a crime family, right?”

Karolina’s brows furrow so thoughtfully, Shiv might think Karolina were pitying her. “No, Shiv.”

“Why the hell not?” Shiv asks, growing irritated when Karolina laughs.

“Shiv, you can’t ruin your life for me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Shiv asks.

“That I can’t let myself get in the way of you becoming CEO.”

And it’s that. That sentence right there, when the decision’s already been made for her. She doesn’t care if Karolina hates her for the rest of her life and they never speak again; Shiv won’t let anything happen to her. Karolina, who didn’t go running to the papers right away. Karolina, a top PR strategist who could’ve spun the story in her favor within minutes of its release. Karolina, who desperately wants what’s in Shiv’s best interests. Karolina, who’s willing to throw away her tenure for a fucking vanity title Shiv isn’t sure she’ll ever actually get. Karolina, who cares about Shiv. Who’s worried about how it’ll affect her, sure, but who cares about how it’ll affect Shiv.

“And what if I told you that it wouldn’t even be worth being CEO unless you were there, by my side?” Shiv asks, finally moving closer to Karolina. Karolina's arms are still crossed, but she doesn’t move away as Shiv does so.

“I’d tell you that’s a stupid thing to say.” Karolina looks down, and Shiv lays a hand over her arms, squeezing lightly.

“I know this is bad, Karolina,” Shiv whispers, ducking her head as well. “I know that. But I don’t want any solution that doesn’t involve you. You’re non-negotiable.”

“I’m not an acquisition, Shiv,” Karolina says. “I’m a person and this is my life.”

“I have a life too,” Shiv says. “I want you in it.”

Karolina looks up, her eyes misty. “You have a husband.”

“I don’t have to,” she says, and it’s the first time she’s admitted those words out loud. The first time she verbalizes to another person that maybe she has made some wrong choices along the way.

“You’d leave him?” Karolina asks. Shiv looks into Karolina’s eyes and knows it’s not about leaving Tom. It’s about choosing Karolina.

“You make me feel like I’ve finally done something right, too,” Shiv says, tugging Karolina’s arms free. She presses their foreheads together, and Karolina’s hands grab at Shiv’s waist. They stand there in the silence, connected, and Shiv prepares herself for it to be the end, until Karolina’s voice rings out one final time.

“Shiv—are you sure?”

Shiv kisses Karolina, and it feels like nothing could ever go wrong again.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

 

—

“Look at this one,” Karolina says, rolling over in the bed. It’s been like this every morning since the divorce went through, Karolina doing her morning doom-scrolling and subjecting Shiv to the first round of daily tweets. She assumes one day it’ll get old, but for now, the only thing Shiv cares about is the peaceful glint in Karolina’s eyes and the easy smile she adorns, and Shiv lays her head on Karolina’s chest, giving her undivided attention to Karolina’s selection.

 

@milfupthesun: shiv roy has game like that ?

          ↳ @chaostheory: i mean we’ve all seen her girlfriend

                   ↳ @milfhotline: want a waystar baddie soooo bad now

          ↳ @onemintjulep: need her to teach me her ways

          ↳ @notromanroy1: shiv is definitely not the one with game

 

“Wait a minute—” Shiv snatches the phone and sits up, squinting at the screen. “Is that fucking Roman?”

[slverblood]

I think what makes the most sense is if Aylin has extremely short hair for a long time post-canon, almost shaved if not shaved at times, and then eventually grows it out again. Short hair is just easier to manage when she's already struggling and overwhelmed and adjusting to life after a century of torment. She's also trying to reclaim some power over the trauma of it being cut against her will by essentially revisiting what happened except now she's in control, she's holding the shears. As well as ensuring no one can ever take her hair from her again. She's cutting it off and burning it; there's nothing for them to take. It's an imperfect way of coping, but honestly show me a perfect one.

It's a long time — I'm talking years — before she decides to grow it out again. It's part of an attempt to move beyond what's been done to her, to rediscover how she wants to look not how she thinks it's safe to look. It's another way of reclaiming autonomy and power over herself, wearing her crown of hair in spite of those who would take it from her. It's also done in memory of the people, especially the women, she loved in her past. Erlona, the Four Moons, the priestesses in the temple — hair care was a shared ritual. Even Meadowlin brushed and braided her hair. She struggles a lot with physical touch after being freed, and she's hard on herself about that; she used to be so free with it. She used to fear nothing. But, it starts with trusting Isobel to help with her hair and slowly grows to trusting other people. She has a community again; she has family and friends again; she can trust and be safe and be loved.

Maybe there will be periods where she cuts it again and grows it out and shaves half and styles it a different way and dyes it. Ultimately, it's not about the hair. It's not about beauty or even femininity. It's about what the hair means to her. Having control over her own body and how she presents it. Having a connection to the community, to the people, that were her home. Carrying those rituals of intimacy forward into new relationships, feeling safe and loved again.

[kuwdora]

The fraught experience of watching TV in a streaming entertainment economy.

I basically watch new TV with the expectation that current season I’m watching is going to be the last. That includes The Witcher Netflix, btw, but other shows, too. I get the feeling we’ve all sort of…come to this conclusion, right? We’re all so jaded because things get cancelled left and right. Nothing is safe. Nothing. :(

We all have to race to watch The Sandman or Shadow and Bone ASAP instead of enjoying a week-to-week drop. It’s exhausting. I don’t like feeling guilty when I don’t have the brain to watch things. I definitely have just streamed stuff in the background and watched it for real later, too.

Star Trek Prodigy on Paramount? Cancelled and pulled from the platform. People who purchased the rest of the season on Amazon never got the episodes because the rights were pulled. Star Trek is the flagship IP!!! And it STILL GOT CANCELLED. Even though it’s beautiful, and fucking brilliant and incredible television and had new episodes in the pipeline.

The other show I’m currently mourning is Moonhaven. I wrote about that show here. It was renewed for a second season! It’s an fascinating, atypical sci-fi TV premise with great leads and interesting worldbuilding and shooting locations in Ireland. And then AMC decided that they were not going to renew it. It’s similar what happened to Avenue 5 on HBO (Ave 5 was more of a Schroedinger’s Cancellation. It’s cancelled except maybe not? But it really is cancelled.)

A League of Their Own? Cancelled. Willow? Cancelled. The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance? Sense8???? The list goes on and on. :(

I think for me it was in 2017 or 2018 that I really started internalizing this idea that none of my favorite, amazing shows were going to last. Santa Clarita Diet was axed by Netflix far too soon. Same with Altered Carbon. Those cancellations changed me, yeah…

I follow a lot of WGA writers on twitter and there’s been a lot of discussion happening about the Suits renaissance. Suits aired on the USA Network for 9 years with 16+ episodes/season. It’s been streaming on NBC’s Peacock platform for awhile and now has 8 seasons on Netflix. It’s currently the most-streamed show in Nielson’s history, something like over 2 billion minutes now. people are discovering it for the first time or coming back to it for a very happy rewatch.

This writer sums up the situation perfectly.

I also can’t track down the tweet where a writer was talking to a development executive at Peacock who admitted that they wouldn’t be able to get Suits made today.

Ugly Betty is another show that’s having a similar bump (thanks in part to Barbie, people catching up to how amazing America Ferrara is. Also watch Superstore!!) because people are looking for these longer shows that have character development and the longevity.

The only streaming platform I currently ‘trust’ with my vested TV interests is AppleTV. And I only trust them because I can see what kind of free reign they’re allowing their creatives to do with their shows. They’re specific and bold premises and commitment to characters and themes. Similar to Netflix in the early years. I doubt this will last much longer.

On Apple TV you’ve got incredible psychological thrillers like Severence and Silo happening. The musical comedy Schmiagdoon! too.

Ted Lasso got to have longer episodes and handed over showrunning duties to the lead actor with some questionable creative choices made in those seasons. It still got to complete the show on its own terms. Amazing.

Apple TV also has Mythic Quest which is a unique comedy in the streaming age.

It’s a workplace comedy about a fictionalized video game development company. Picture Ubisoft who also provides video game assets/interstitials for the show among other things. It’s Community meets Always Sunny in Philadelphia (features writers and actors from both). A comedy that examines toxic masculinity in a workplace, completely roasts the girlbloss tropes and the patriarchy. The main characters are really autistic and ADHD coded. The show is completely self-aware (at times painfully so).

But what sets Mythic Quest apart and what tells me Apple TV is letting creatives do their jobs: This show has Bottle Episodes! And flashback episodes that don’t feature any of the primary actors! But the episodes are still relevant to the the themes and character dynamics the show is exploring.

In a hyper-serialized streaming world where executives and product strategists are measuring engagement by minutes watched and how soon they watch, Apple TV is letting these folks make episodes you can watch out of order or skip. But they’re also episodes with high rewatchability. It’s a show with a ton of heart. Apple TV renews Mythic Quest ahead of a season premiere. It renews it for multiple seasons. I’ve found this commitment to the longevity of the show very heartening.

In the past I’ve fallen in love with shows that were irreverent, campy, self-aware comedies. All of these were ABC shows so I can’t even rail against the streaming model. But like Netflix shows they weren’t given enough time to reach a wider audience even though I think some of these definitely have Cult Acclaim by now. I showed up bright an early for most of these and my god. The cancellations stung so much. That pain just accumulated over the years. A precursor of what was to come. :(

Better Off Ted - 2009 show. Another workplace satire that was just ahead of it’s time in the way it showed us the gallows humor of being a cog in the capitalist system. Addressed sexism, racism and classism. Funny as hell. Portia di Rossi knew the fucking assignment and fucked its brains out with her performance. Maz Jobrani was only in like 5 or 6 episodes and he was SO GOOD. I made sure to see every local comedy show I could to see more of him once I saw him in Better off Ted. - currently streaming on Hulu

Galavant - 2014-2016 - a fantasy musical. Monty Python meets Princess Bride. Featuring creators and lyricists who worked on 90s Disney films. So fucking funny and cheeky and heartwarming and silly. The music is so GREAT. All my Witcher and Our Flag Meets Death friends need to check this one out if they need something new-to-them that is witty and light and heartfelt. - also streaming on Hulu

Don’t Trust the B— in Apt 23 - a 2012 show with Krysten Ritter!! Before she was Jessica Jones! This show has eccentric women characters and James van der Beek playing a fictionalized version of himself. This is a show that had so much potential and they aired everything out of order and and and and and and I loved it so much. - Hulu since this is again an ABC show. Vid Rec: Applause by elipie.

Selfie - JOHN CHO AND KAREN GILLAN! John Cho and Karen Gillan in a ROM COM. The screeching wails from fandom when this got cancelled. It was an amazing set-up, amazing chemistry. Funny, quirky. You could see the growth in both of the characters!! And! We Never! Got enough!! - seriously watch this on hulu if you can. John and Karen are AMAZING.

Every first season of Star Trek has been wobbly or had wobbily episodes that didn't work or actors were still getting to know their characters. Every first season. Including new Trek! The X-Files? Even rebooted again? I don’t think it would work. Heck, even if they made second reboot of Battlestar Galactica I’m not sure it’d last. FARSCAPE! Got cancelled! By SyFy! They (like Sense8 and Firefly and a few others) got to have a movie conclusion. But at what narrative cost?? The Expanse got cancelled and uncancelled. The Orville got cancelled and uncancelled. I can't get my hopes up about anything unless I know it's a "limited series" at the onset.

I'm exhausted and sad by the state of the industry. I hope the writers and actors get everything from the studios and we can see a shift back to the previous working models again. Better working conditions and pay and residuals.

So I'll eventually watch A League of Their Own and 1899 and I know I'm going to fucking love every moment that we got to have. And then mourn. And go dig up all the fanfic and vids and art that I can to get my fix.

I think for now I'm gonna join in the Suits rewatch cause I love the humor and the character growth and relationships are fantastic. I don't think I rewatched Suits or Ugly Betty since they aired.

[kuwdoravids]

Year in Vidding Review: 2023

Year-end round-up/meme: 2007 | 2008 | 2009 | 2010 | 2011 | 2012 | 2013 | 2014 | 2015 | 2016 | 2017 | 2018 | 2019 | 2020 | 2021 | 2022

April What (Yennefer of Vengerberg) The Witcher Netflix Making of "What" commentary: do it for the process (and for Yennefer!) The Witcher Netflix Mr. Brightside (Jaskier/Geralt/Yennefer) The Witcher Netflix

June Skipping Stones (Fringilla Vigo) The Witcher Netflix

August In Our Wake (Vilgefortz/Geralt) The Witcher Netflix

December [Festivid Assignment] - redacted until reveals! [Festivid Treat] - redacted until reveals!

Review questions under the cut.

Random process notes:

Well, I have been kidding for *counts* 16 years now?? I guess I kind of know what I’m doing when I have a good idea of what a vid is like inside my head. Which is why most of these vids took less than a week to make and none of them were on my actual to-make list that I had written down at the beginning of the year. Flighty ADHD/anxiety brain just latching onto the feelings of the moment and zooming across the timeline until I can call it done. I think I started two non-witcher vids during the year before Festivids but the witcher hyperfixation remains too strong. Everything else falling to the WIP piles. I tried to finish my Moonhaven vid but couldn’t focus. Tried to finish my Green Knight and Blade vids but no, my brain was more interested in writing +70k of fic this year, aha.

Overall thoughts:

HEY I made Festivid stuff! I can vid-non Witcher things! I was really worried there that my brain was just forever stuck on Witcher but! I did it.

Anyway. I really love vidding The Witcher Netflix and keep building up my clip gallery for easy reference for when I can settle in for the next witcher vid. I keep fuck up my exports though because I’m doing everything too quickly and not paying enough attention. So there’s some export-related things and a few minor clips I would have changed if I weren’t caught up in a in a rush. But overall I’m very, very happy with my crop of vids this year.

Favorite Vid:

Most of the time I have upwards of 8-16 vids a year and it’s easier to pick a favorite. When I do so few… they’re all my favorite. For different reasons.

For my Yennefer vid it’s my favorite editing.

For Mr. Brightside it’s my favorite song choice and tone (this is a cover in the style of The B-52s) for Jaskier.

My Fringilla vid — it’s my favorite thing that came together from all of the season footage of her character from seasons 1 and 2 and the song just makes me so happy that it tied everything together for her.

For the Vilgefortz/Geralt vid, oh it’s my favorite because it’s my pure id, heh, and my favorite build/pacing of all my vids.

My festivids are my favorite because I have been wanting to make things them for awhile now but hadn’t had the focus. And then I did!

Hardest to make:

The only thing that was hard was me exporting shitty stuff and not realizing it until days or weeks after I uploaded and crossposted. Anyway. I took my time with my festivid exports so those should look pretty good. Most successful:

They are all successful in my heart. I love them.

My best vid:

Probably my Fringilla or Vilgefortz/Geralt vid. I’m so happy how they turned out.

Most fun vid:

Mr. Brightside. I love playing with Jaskier’s humor with the song choice and the transitions.

Things I learned in 2023:

Mmm, I am still worked up about my fic WIPs and life anxieties that I wasn’t able to do more vidding things that I wanted. As for the projects themselves, I learned that it’s very handy to have a standing clip gallery all labelled and ready for when I want to make my next Witcher Netflix vid.

In 2024:

I always want to be ambitious in the new year but always end up wandering in completely unexpected directions. In any case I would love to finish my Moonhaven vid and get my brain in order to find the last of the Black Sails source I need for a vid idea that has been eating my brain for 4 months now. I also have my Philippa Eilhart Witcher vid I want to make as well as a season 3 Witcher Netflix vid too that’s taking up space in my brain.

[intheinkpot]

Six Some Sentences Sunday Tuesday

I was tagged to do this forever ago by @pentacass and just...uh...forgot to do it lol

Feeling the weight of eyes on her, Faerel places a fist over her heart and bows her head. Oak Father preserve us. Anxiety and dread sit heavy on her tongue. Please. If she is lucky, Silvanus is listening. But if he hears, will he aid her? The Oak Father is distant, likely to allow events to unfold if he does not deem them a disturbance to the natural order. It doesn't matter, says a voice in the back of her head. An absent god is better than a present one.  A hissing laugh echoes in her mind, and she represses the shiver that runs down her spine.

And another section to make up for how long it took me to actually do this lol

Faerel takes a small step back in shock when the drow woman turns to face them. Her eyes lock onto the tattoo on the woman’s neck, now clearly visible in the light from the sconce. What in the hells is a Baenre doing here?  “A drow?” the Baenre drawls, her voice deep and rough and pleasant to Faerel’s ears. “Tell me, Sazza, did your misadventures take you to the Underdark?” Faerel represses a shiver at the whip sharp pronunciation of Sazza’s name, the low irritated growl on the word ‘Underdark’.  “They woz in some rickety druid grove! Mostly full of tieflin’s, but them intruders you’re after were hidin’ out there!” Sazza says, clearly expecting a positive reaction from the Baenre at this news.   Faerel feels something like pity for the goblin. The intruders must have been the adventurers she met at the Grove’s gate, led by the one that punched Zevlor - empty eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, blood turning dirt to mud, stupid, stupid, stupid, if he had just listened - before gathering his people and leaving the Grove, the ones she had met later near the ruined village of Moonhaven. The ones who had left behind the Archdruid Halsin. No drow from the Underdark would be pleased to learn of the goblin’s failure at capturing or killing the adventurers, much less a noble from Menzoberranzan. A Baenre even less so.

Since it took me so long to do this, tagging @pentacass back lol