#not ulder apologism or ulder bashing but a secret third thing (ulder suffering)

[wufflesvetinari]

ok here is a 1k-word preview of Astarion Holiday Son-in-Law Simulator (it will be choose-your-own-adventure once complete and posted to my ao3)

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You are ULDER RAVENGARD. 

You have safeguarded your city against dragon cultists, Bhaalist incursions, the many-headed hydra of organized crime, and—not a year past—the absurdly apocalyptic attack of the ELDER BRAIN. You withstood the fall of Elturel; survived the Absolute’s parasitic presence in your very soul.

Your maids are fucking giggling at you. 

They flit from room to room, hanging the holly garlands and blown glass baubles traditional of the upcoming MIDWINTER festivities. They paint red stripes on wooden Canes of Frost to symbolize the aging of the year. They pose an effigy of Hroth’s surprisingly jolly and generous servant Saint Claw on the upper landing, a nod to the coming month of Alturiak, known as the Claw of Winter. 

It’s the kind of exquisite holiday detailing expected of Ravengard Manor, home of current Grand Duke WYLL RAVENGARD. Soon to host Baldur’s Gate prestigious MIDWINTER’S EVE BALL. 

But you are ULDER RAVENGARD, and the maids whisper behind their hands when you pass.

Surely this is ASTARION’s doing.

Your son is completely besotted with his fiance, but you can’t figure out the appeal. And the feeling appears mutual: the lad’s taken an inexplicable disliking to you.

Certainly not due to any action of your own.

He communicates to you chiefly in cutting remarks or cheerful anecdotes about killing people. He makes no effort to hide his fangs when lounging about the formal events you host, and he said something deeply heinous about Lady Gemilia’s parrot mere moments before you would have clinched her financial support for the Fist’s new armory. 

He’s spoiled, and petty, and seems chiefly concerned with draining the Ravengard coffers. You are, frankly, at your wit’s fucking end.

You corner a butler about the giggling servants and he mumbles something about the Duke-Consort-To-Be’s generosity with the staff: with the contents of the Ravengard wine cellars, but also—more importantly—with idle gossip. 

With stories gleaned from the new Grand Duke about his father’s youthful indiscretions. Something about the Blushing Mermaid, a monk, and a redcap. 

This cannot stand.

But you are a mature adult—a politician!—who can control his wrathful urges. Surely Astarion can be brought to heel if approached with respect and an open mind. 

Or perhaps it would be wiser to approach Wyll with your concerns. Astarion would certainly accept correction from his fiance.

>DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS WITH ASTARION LIKE A MATURE ADULT POLITICIAN

>DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS WITH WYLL LIKE A MATURE ADULT POLITICIAN

***

>DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS WITH ASTARION LIKE A MATURE ADULT POLITICIAN

You seek out your future son-in-law after evening falls. He’s lounging about in the darkened greenhouse, sharing a bottle of wine with SNIDE-WHITE-BRAID. 

Snide-White-Braid is one of Wyll’s little friends from that time he saved Baldur’s Gate and also the world. You do not remember her name, but she is frequently in your house drinking your wine. She is either the cleric or the wizard, and you are terrified of having a full conversation with her in case you guess wrong.

Tactically, you ignore her. 

“Ah, Astarion!” you say, as though you frequently visit your greenhouse at night and have only caught him here by chance. “I was hoping to have a word.”

“You were,” Astarion says lightly. He stretches out like a cat on the—you believe the contraption is called a lawn chair, and he had it shipped in from Waterdeep at full expense. He blinks at you languidly. “Well, go on, then.”

You glance at Snide-White-Braid, who raises a dark eyebrow at you. 

“Alone?” you try.

Astarion sighs, a perfect picture of put-upon luxury, and Snide-White-Braid hums in a distinctly judgemental way before leaving the greenhouse. She takes the wine bottle with her. It is, of course, one of the good years. You will not see it again.

Business-like, you sit on the lawn chair beside him. You pick a disarming opening gambit. “Astarion, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“The wrong foot?” Astarion says, pressing an offended hand to his chest. “Whatever do you mean, father dearest?”

You fight back a full-body shudder. “Don’t—please don’t call me that.”

Astarion shrugs and sips his wine. He continues to recline, leaving you looking awkward and stiff in comparison. 

“I mean that we are very different people,” you try valiantly. “And I can respect difference. Wyll clearly cares about you—”

“Of course he does!” Astarion flutters his eyelashes, and you grow distinctly uneasy. “And he cares so much about you, as well. Even after…well, you know. All that unpleasantness between the two of you.”

“Er,” you say eloquently, your unease only growing. “Yes.” 

“So of course, I have to play nice,” Astarion says, grinning over his glass. “You needn’t fear any aggression from me. Why, I’m just happy to call you family.”

You flounder. “That’s…good to hear? Perhaps, then, we could discuss some smaller matters of—”

“By the way,” Astarion says silkily, placing his glass on the greenhouse floor. “Ser Augustus won’t be coming to the MIDWINTER’S EVE BALL after all. His invitation got mixed up in the mail somehow—instead he received the rather scathing meeting minutes from the Planning Council’s discussion of his budget indiscretions.”

Astarion covers his mouth with his hand, the picture of scandalized. 

You breathe deeply. He’s trying to bait you, the gods know why. But for Wyll’s sake—for your own dignity—you can’t let him.

“The MIDWINTER’S EVE BALL is an important political event,” you tell him calmly. “For Wyll especially, as the new Grand Duke. Ser Augustus’s presence would have been a boon to him.”

“Or at least to the Flaming Fists’ new armory fund,” Astarion says, examining his nails. “Pity.” 

You grit your teeth. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“I’ve changed the main course to venison.”

“Venison? I—Astarion, I am organizing this event. On my son’s behalf.”

“And your son,” Astarion says, his eyes flashing, “prefers venison.”

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Don’t give into his petty games. Don’t let him drag you down into some insane secret war. 

“Be that as it may, venison is a commoner’s dish. I can provide better for him.”

Astarion looks at you coolly. He reaches down to run a finger over the rim of his wine glass.

“Can you?” he says.

He’s not talking about the venison anymore. This is abundantly clear. You see the distaste in his eyes—the dismissal—and embarrassment washes through you.

It’s quickly replaced by rage. How dare he judge your mistakes, when anyone can see that Astarion is a mistake Wyll is in the midst of making? It’s a father’s duty to correct mistakes.

The INSANE SECRET WAR is declared without a word between you.

You lean forward in your chair, eyes alight. “It’s good that we’re getting along so well, for Wyll’s sake. I’d hate for him to sense any discord between us.”

“Quite,” Astarion agrees with a smile. “That sweet man has enough on his mind. You have my word he will never notice an inkling of a problem.” 

“Then we are agreed,” you say.

The TERMS OF ENGAGEMENT are set. Wyll will never learn of the SECRET WAR. The war that, on your honor, Astarion will lose.

Your honor levels are not inconsiderable.