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tieflingsfingers · 20 days

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Unwoven and Triple Knotted

What and who: Conflict resolution of mirror scene between Astarion and Thomasin, 18+ soft dom moment. Humor and fluff mixed with inner turmoil. Summary: Thomasin finds Astarion isolated, stargazing, and attempts to confront him about their argument. When her positive comments over his appearance don't land well, she takes another approach and teaches him about the ribbon she ties around her neck. The two find themselves connecting but intimacy at this point of their lives has become muddied and difficult to navigate. Warning/Content: More in the realm of character study, so a lot about two elves that are bad at feelings. OC lore on home in Baldur's Gate, her performative careers, and the ways her and Astarion relate. Part of series. Word Count: 4,775 Ao3 Link

Thomasin was hesitant, but pushed herself up onto each rocky step until she noticed Astarion. Legs stretched out and bathing in the moonlight as she often found him doing in the sun’s shining glow. He looked over at her, emotions difficult to read. The elf’s nonchalant nature quarreled with nervous habits. Shame only shone by his nails digging at the weave of his pants. A nightshirt that cascaded over on his frame, each button immaculate in its stitching, aside from the last, whose threads had been picked and pulled at. His fingers curled inward once caught.

“A night owl come to catch the night’s prey, I presume,” he joked in a quick rebuttal to anything she may have had to say. Any stoicism left on his face waned as he watched his tone. He assumed no sympathy, so the stakes weren’t to worry over.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said quietly, smoothing her long shirt down to sit beside him.

The elf let her ruminate in silence, until he noticed something in her peripheral. He had assumed she was entranced by the window of sky just as he was, but the faint constant beat of her vitals inclined. She was looking at him.

“What? What are you looking at?” he asked, unsure whether to be concerned.

Thomasin sighed, sleep heavy on her eyes. Her palm laid flat against his cheek and rested along the angle of his jawline, taking in the details of his face. The measured inches, curves, and planes of where each feature met. The heat from her skin burned hotter than usual, a signifier when anxieties were being snuffed.

“I can tell you what I see,” she said as she tilted his face side to side, handling his visage with a particular tenderness.

Astarion’s eye refocused once realizing she was nervous. He had to remind himself, safety had its own sacrifices and her reign wasn't awful. Although tender hands always reminded him of nights where he sat with shy folks, pretending all was normal and the opportunity of sweet delusion. The tiniest crumble of respite. Sweet nothings, bashful glances, and those poor souls that gave him the key to their chest cavity.

The heart was a raw, greedy thing, but it also housed their deepest secrets. Their unfiltered adoration. Impossible to not be utterly captivated by such naivety. Those beautiful natural gems he cradled before they were sent off and cut down into shards and sharp edges.

He dislodged the rhetoric in his mind. Earlier that day, her body had stiffened. He observed how she walked with mechanical grace their entire venture through the Zhent hideout. Heel to toe, grammar, etiquette, and poise. She, too, was prone to discomfort of the past, but inner turmoil often left him blind to such a fact. At least she smiled back at him once more, expression worn and forgiving. These moments always left him slightly puzzled.

Thomasin’s eyes wandered, knitting together compliments and observation alike.

“Piercing red eyes, but still kind. Strong bone structure cast in a pale light. Shall I keep going?”

Astarion’s face contorted, although careful to not give away his search for ulterior motives. It was easier to ascribe her attempts at creating this mythology to lack of practice. It’d take her at least another century to get to his refined status. “If you wanted to give me obvious little compliments, you could’ve said so.”

Thomasin threw her head back in annoyance, returning back to give him a gentle slap on the cheek.

“After storming off on me, take my advice just this once and choose silence. Let me have my fun. Forbid I not speak of my favored treasures like thy curls and how they intertwine with a caress between my fingers. Thou must be witness to my confession, how besotted I become at the thought of thy strong arched nose. One that can make a bluebird sing even in those most damned of tempests.”

Astarion laughed a bit. Longer than usual, in fact. Something he rehearsed often to figure out how to let it be more natural. At least the prose tickled him. Easier done when he admitted to himself that he enjoyed her habit of brushing away his stray curls hanging down his temple. It had taken him getting used to others seeing his fussed up appearance after bathing in the woods. A scrappier aspect he wasn’t proud of.

“When did you come up with those?”

“In my spare time, when I find you charming.” She tilted her head. “ As rare as that may be these days. You’ve yet to find the journal I’ve filled with every reason I adore the creases on your cheeks when you laugh.”

Astarion frowned, now all too conscious of the lines embedded with imperfection, and straightened his face. No need to exacerbate the problem. Only now was he thankful she held onto his cheeks so often, preventing his skin from its aging collapse.

“I think you look lovely. Is that a crime to speak upon?” Thomasin reassured him.

Astarion rolled his eyes.

“My skin is as pristine as it was when I was a magistrate. How foolish of you to assume anything about this vessel is working by mortal rules. People were sentenced to city square executions for less offensive behavior. ”

She let her jaw go ajar at his lack of tact, pushing his face away from her. “Dearest Magistrate, dare I utter the words? That I’ve enjoyed a freckle or two on your face?”

“Death. First orders to the guillotine, expedited. Rescheduled, then re-expedited.”

Astarion let out a half-hearted chuckle, leaning back against the cold rock wall. This was not behavior he was going to foster. The elf’s fingers ran along his face where her hand last was, as if the teasing had physically stung.

“But you’ve never complained about mine before, have you?” she protested, resting her back against the rock wall beside him. Her knees clutched in tight to her chest, thin woolen tights insulating her from the cool cave air. Her leg knocked into his playfully. “I caught you counting the freckles on my thighs at the grove once. Heathen. Wait until you’ve counted the ones on my ankles before you go that far.”

He chuckled, but before he could respond, he felt her clutch onto his arm with both hands. As much as the affection caught him off guard, it was accompanied by a much needed exhale from him. Thomasin’s body rested against his, forehead pressed onto his shoulder. The mixture of emotions was confusing. Frightening, even. But this was no abnormal way of being since she was dropped onto the coast to fend for herself and her tadpole.

City life was comfortable in its monotony, but now it felt like every protective layer she had built was being peeled off constantly. So haphazard, constant peril and danger revealing the gentle genuine inner shell that could be startling at first. Like a stranger, but this was no unknown entity. These were the remnants of young adulthood exposing their wounds in its regression.

“I hope I didn’t upset you too much earlier” the half-elf uttered, her expression dropping a bit as it lowered. Her voice bent curled at its edges, frayed like parchment dried after a rainy morning

“I’m not upset at you. My past self and his tepid lust for life is just of no importance now.”

He pecked a kiss atop her head, scooping up her cheek to witness her vulnerability. The warmth of her skin. The bare natural state of her face and how fatigue roosted itself into her languid body. He considered how his composure cracked before and the contemptuous untruths he spit at her. Elven hierarchies and their bloodlines were of little priority now. Arguing over the exact definitions of elven maturity even moreso, the elf finding the societal concept of years unreliable. Long after a century, many elves he knew were feeble, sheepish, and unhinged. But, he couldn’t help shelter under the cloak of superiority bred by insecurity.

Astarion funneled the ambivalence towards her in actions he knew best. The elf was not to dwell on what felt uncomfortable. What atrocities he could commit, knowing he was incapable of true intimacy. He could, however, atone for past mistakes in the way he knew best. What all wanted from the dexterity of quick hands and jaded charisma. An apology not from the heart. That was long dead to have any significance.

He was to make it up to her by satiating what was insatiable. Eroticism where once was pain. The elf caressed Thomasin’s face in a manner that seemed practiced, recognizing the beats where he could probe his tongue against hers. Affection he was certainly not unfamiliar with, but not one he was frequent to consider in his arsenal. Feeling her reciprocate, the two still had occasions of awkward fumbles. The overcompensation of those muddied in their early experiences of sensuality. The silent identification of whether to perform carnality or stay alert for threats.

Thomasin could feel herself giving too much, burning down the wick to nothing and watching candle wax drip far faster than she could stop it. A sharp inhale flooded her nose as she pulled back, chuckling between them. “Lust is a fickle thing if we don’t know how to treat her. Or how to treat ourselves, honestly,” she said before swinging a leg over to straddle his lap.

The half-elf’s violet nightshirt was long enough to hit at her hip, leather strings lacing down its side to personalize one’s shape. Although the garment hung loose along her frame and she began to unlace the string from its eyelets. It slithered from each hole with ease, reliving the fabric of its tension and allowing it to split and settle at the natural indentation of her waist. She, then, gingerly wound it twice around his neck. A little bow now dangled at his adam’s apple, loops pinched at the ends until tied symmetrical.

“You know how I always wear a ribbon? I picked the habit up again after the crash. Throughout the years, when I’d sleep with, y’know, paying lovers, I kept one tied around my neck. I always said it was for better tips in the end, and part of it was. I think men found it enticing, but I think I liked it because it was the only thing they weren’t allowed to take off. So I could feel in control of at least that.”

Thomsin leaned forward to press her lips along his jawline and neck. Careful, gradual, in the same way she placated previous clients and lovers with anxieties. Signs she caught fast after the sudden urgency of their last sexual encounter. Now, she was to ease into his pace, whatever that may be. To figure out if he was just there for her body and what could be stemmed from its blood and loins.

“Makes you look darling,” she said, letting her breath brace the crook of his neck, where his bite scars resided. The miniscule twitch of her cheek when she felt him laugh from a blend of amusement and fluster, she hoped. Her next words came out in such a low volume, they could only be understood by the parting of her lips and flicks of her tongue. As if it was only to be heard from his keen ears and not a soul more. “Does it make you feel safe too?”

Astarion’s ears drooped as he endured the rising pang of obligation lighting up within him. He wanted to through the motions set forth. What was planned. He couldn’t process why she would want to derail the inevitable. His fingers hooked onto the waistband of her woolen tights and began to tug downward. A subtle shift in his weight as he tried to take a dominant approach.

She placed both of her hands on his wrists to stop him.

“Please, let me do something for you,” she remonstrated.

Thomasin was immediate to catch her insistence and recoiled. Not out of bashful regret, but knowing of how cloudy and unclear sexual communication could accidentally become. How, even if he consented, she didn’t want to lose her own agency from a lack of thought. “Unless, I’m overstepping this.”

Astarion processed the type of intimacy that was happening. His eyes locked onto her, pushing down any malaise until he could sheath it under a practiced grin. Responding in a now humored tone, he pulled his hands back, open palms at her mercy. Playful dramatics in his surrender.

“All is alright. I know the connection we share and how much you want me. How could I say no to such flattery? This is you treating your lust as it deserves to be treated. Should I pretend to be a client? The Anonymous Rivington Special?”

She scrunched her nose at the thought, hiding her disapproval beneath an unimpressed smile as if it was absurd to offer. It wasn’t that her career in Baldur’s Gate was tortuous or even unpleasant. Life there had unconventional quirks and repetition. The same roads, daily newspapers, ignoring bickering on the streets like it was wallpaper. The guards she’d walk around as they penned down the details of a knife fight. A woman and child rejoicing over the same ten magic tricks performed on corners every evening.

The half-elf survived off barkeeps giving coin for her music and the bar patrons that nearly fell from their seats. Surrounding brothels were always somewhat regulated and the vital gossip was plentiful, giving insight into those requesting private home visits. Both a safety precaution and ample reason to bond with co-workers over bottles of wine.

None of those, however, would lay in her bed at night. Wouldn’t cradle her after her thighs ached and eyes were sore. She was never one to complain, but it didn’t mean there wasn’t a hollowness in the confines of her small home. Even the nicest clients and most loyal bar-goers could show their appreciation only so much.

Thomasin shook her head. “Be here, please,” she whispered and went back to the peppering affection upon him. Mild kisses and nipping that caught the edge of his ear lobes and jaw. Underneath her, she could feel his chest rise and fall with a sigh and his demeanor relax muscle by muscle. His cold embrace resting atop her hips and guiding their rocking motion. A lazy rhythm that needed no allusive interludes or coy lyricism to keep up with.

Murmurs and muffled giggles skulked from her throat until she noticed his arm move in her peripheral vision. As she leaned back to meet his gaze, she noticed him pointing upward. Not at the moon, but at the particular aura of nothingness around them. He tilted his head, as if to catch noise in its stillness.

Their campmates weren’t terribly close, it did remind her how the cave’s systems latched onto loud noises and echoed when shouted in. Something Karlach was very fond of entertaining herself with when they first arrived. Astarion lowered his voice, keeping a finger up to punctuate the lack of vibration about.

“This place will blare your lecherous thoughts,” he warned her.

Thomasin nodded at him, understanding how overwhelming it was for the two, but never to be said aloud. How she had to keep control of herself, as if to preserve some sanctity she couldn’t quite define. Perhaps it was the lingering aftermath of feeling she wasn’t much more than a vessel. The thought was all too consuming. Neither had remembered what intimacy was like within passion and leisure.

Astarion was quick to pull her back in to solidify their agreement. To prevent her from asking questions or voicing more thoughts. His internal motor was powered by pure curiosity and the prospects of sex outside of rigid oppression. He’d been submissive, dominant, and every version of versatile.

Now there was a newfound feeling, leaking like an old ceramic carafe whose baked clay flaked off in fragile chips. No way to keep the water from spilling out, streaming from between his fingers. It was as if emotions were both primary and secondary, fighting to claim the forefront.

All of the battling to and fro muddled the longer her touch explored his bounds. The light tickle of her fingertips and bands of rings grazed over a prominent bulge in his lap. Deepening their contact until it was a massage, kneading at the woven lacing of his pants, awaiting for his sobriety to stutter. How she idly fussed with the baggy pair keeping him clothed, brown linen tied at the waist and tapering into his boots.

Thomasin could see him fidget under her like a yearning ache he was trying to suppress. A man that remained as collected as he physically could until immediate gratification was stripped. She was now fiddling with the lower half of his shirt. Her touch had retreated up his pelvis and attempted to finesse a button or two open, only to be dissuaded by his hands.

They were pushed back down to take care of the lacing she left behind. An urgency that reassured her he was enjoying himself. The half-elf laughed at his unabashed persuasion, letting her delight buzz between their kissing, while lacquered nails loosened the knot securing his pants tight.

As the fabric gave way and access, she moved to gain better leverage. Thomasin inched over and straddled atop his thigh. One hand propped against the wall while the other cupped his cheek. Silent but studying his eyes and their curved inner corners. How his eyelids lowered in a manner she had only seen stunted and interrupted.

The warmth in her fingers dragged downward, leaving an imprint of its presence down his shoulder, clavicle, ribs and then the unfolded flaps of his waistband. The half-elf tittered as a light gasp hit her ears. She continued until she held onto the bare flesh beneath a pair of embroidered underwear, careful consideration being lent as his breathing and muttering devolved. Heavy petting, lingering, laborious. Thorough in her strokes.

Astarion shuddered, feeling the head rush of pleasure elbowing its way in, fogging his thoughts faster than usual. A high he had only felt when savoring the bloodletting between them. The only time he had pushed past this threshold at abrupt speeds.

Maybe it was the grounding of her weight atop him. It made him want to make up for any time he practiced restraint. Make an apologetic announcement over how foolish he was over the tiniest missteps. Even if he was in the right, logic and context had flown out of his orbit. Scenarios his brain couldn't formulate visuals of, yet alone articulate.

“Enjoying yourself, my sweet?” she whispered, listening to him devolve into panting.

He liked the way that sounded from her lips.

She was sweet. More delectable than the untouched perfection of a devil’s dinner table spread. Fresh baked pies and grapes in every form. Ripe, crushed, fermented, enticing across polished silver platters. Buttered breads and grilled game signaling harvests and carnivorous tendencies. Garnished by the herbs of a garden manufactured in the hells. The eternal bloom of moonflowers frozen by a beautiful pact.

Astarion let his head roll back, feeling his haggard breath, the jutting air rolling off his tongue. Time felt slow. Silken. Like every sensation was boiling down to feeling her hips sway back and forth upon his leg. His eyes settled on the small crater at the roof of the cave, observing the night sky. The same glowing vastness above him every night, clustered from the lack of light pollution. It was the smattering of stars against the darkness. The speckles reminded him of the freckles on Thomasin’s shoulder and it sent the signal to tilt his head forward and look at her.

“Fucking hells, I’d rise from the grave every night for this,” his voice hushed through self-restraint. However, the worry of social decency was getting crushed by eye contact that met back at him. How she looked with bare skin and the evenings he caught himself staring after she washed up in a stream. Her face’s details greyed and softened. Eyes honest in their fatigue and unwavering search for comforts. It triggered his subservience, attempting to offer what compensation she was entitled to. The demands felt like loosened floorboards creaking in his skull, too unstable to commit jumping on.

Astarion figured his face must’ve shone his struggles as she smiled back at him and pressed her lips to his. The elf felt her tongue swirl along his, allowing her to take the lead due to every other muscle occupying his faculties. They all twitched and strained, desperate to betray the last grip of composure left. He wondered if this was what it felt like when others opened their chests, but then noted he hadn’t given a key. His felt like the forced butt of a shovel, cracking ribs and applying steady stents to heal where clumsy hands left. He wondered if it would halve his heart. The organ wouldn’t know what counted as a stake until already split.

Thomasin’s touch gave too much grace for that. She wasn’t just giving him time to run, waiting until he was far enough to no longer anticipate the arrow puncturing between his shoulder blades. The primal urge toward preservation never bubbled to the surface.

The longer he let himself enjoy it all, the more he could accept she paid attention to him. His ears occasionally drooped down and back up, melting, the spontaneous revival, until melting once more. His thoughts became blurred, an ever-confusing mass of connections. Attempts to compare the feeling and identify it. Maybe the high of moonflower sable burning to ash in pipes in seedy bars. It was hard to recall.

Astarion’s own hands followed her movements and the folds of her stomach until the texture of wool met his fingertips. He yanked at the thin fabric of her tights, elvish pouring out of him from a dictionary long unused. “Orar, descenthallon, tham salen irinal irador. Saren rivvim–” A pause, somehow remembering to consider her partial fluency, and simplifying the elven prose to be understood. “I wish to touch all of you.”

The half-elf was more than ready to lean aside to let him get rid of the barrier between them. Her fingers untied the other half of her nightshirt so the slits on each side opened for his use. With a covetous hoist, he positioned her back onto his lap and let his fingers glide along her inner thighs. The momentum pulled a giggle from her that only encouraged his rapacious behavior.

Once Thomasin made herself comfortable and widened her stand, she lowered herself down to the hilt, lifting her shirt to view it from her angle. Her shoulders rose in tandem with her heartbeat, acclimating her body to his and the closing space between them. Groans rumbled off his teeth and into the still air as she graduated into a gentle rise and fall. A trance that let Thomasin drag into the mental haze that plagued him. Her own half-lidded eyes met his, their minds blurring into the slow incline of speed.

For the first time, he was able to properly study the details of her body. With her head buried in his shoulder, he collected data like he’d done with countless others. Consuming the ridges and trails of her body. Fingers digging in until indentations were deep within the plush of her thighs. Each bump, bruise, scar. A tactile history on his clammy hands.

It wouldn’t occur to either of them that this outlet came naturally from arrested development. Two folks forced out of their young adulthood and the frivolous mistakes that being young allowed. The privilege of aimless learning they were supposed to share as anecdotes years later. Daring friends to jump off docks, pocketing fireworks to take to city limits, sloppy trysts. Their stories were now told through dismissive jest and omitted details. The opportunity to simply enjoy a night was organic.

Astarion watched as she fell victim to her own greedy hedonism, awaiting for her clenching muscles to seize. Muffled moans hid in the crook of his neck and he pulled her hair back to keep her posture upright and taut. Now facing him, she looked startled and couldn’t help but laugh.

“Wha- Too loud?”

“I-Lift your arms up for me, ” he whispered, demanding yet wearing a giddy smile that betrayed any dominant persona.

Astarion unveiled Thomasin in one fluid motion and balled up her nightshirt in his fist, pressing it to the back of her head. Cushioning the impact now, he shoved her back onto the cold rock beneath them. The yelp and subsequent mirth from her lips was dampened with her own clasping hand. But, before she could remove it, he placed his atop hers to further muffle the sounds. Her heavy breathing flowed loudly through her nose as he pressed uncoordinated kisses on her chest.

“You’re doing so well. My veluthe talibund.”

The elf proceeded to drown out any ounce of negative feelings by focusing on the vibrational feedback ringing through both of their palms. Returning to a thrust, he rutted with no grace, shameless and unable to be inauthentic in any way possible. Selfishness that had mutual benefit and left her grasping onto the nape of his neck. A quick succession that felt a lifetime until his back hunched and his own moans disregarded the cave’s echo. With no shame left to their names, the two shared those long seconds, collecting themselves after a clash of endorphins.

The rock walls bounced their laughter about and awoke creatures scurrying within its confines. Dazed and silly, like ill-mannered young elves, now finding secret moments to be irresponsible for once. Astarion eventually rolled beside her in defeat, lifting his pants around his waist and securing them tight. She clung to his arm as she had the tendency to, but now he allowed himself to be clung onto.

The silence blanketed them in the afterglow. Bathed them in unspoken intimacy. Like a feeling of warmth that wasn’t attributed to the temperature of her skin. A sensation too good to be true as reality seeped into the elf’s brain once more. The clarity of it all and the gravity of their situation rearing its head. His eyes flicked back open, the twinkle in his eye dampening a bit.

“When I’m with you, I feel practically alive, yet I crave only to die again, with you,” he whispered.

His words floated above them, heavy in their juxtaposition to what occurred minutes before. Not what was whispered in her ear, but the verbal clanking of faux beads and counterfeit jewels. Shallow poetics only pleasing on the surface. One of many off a mental list of validation.

“Hm?” she hummed, turning her head to look up at him.

“It’s just that every part of your perfect body whispers temptation. Like the gods made you to simply ruin me.” His limp hand lifted before them, flicking in a gesture to punctuate his powerless victimhood to her pull.

“I-You don’t have to say all that.”

“I’m wonderful at flattery though, darling. What about everyone’s favorite little words?” He let go of any inhibition as he always had before speaking sweet nothings. “I love you.”

Thomasin was instantaneous in her response, loosening her grip so she could sit up and rest upon her palms. The half-elf looked at him perplexed by his sudden shift, voice sedated yet stern. “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean. Lying won’t appease me.”

He snickered, ensuring he didn’t take the action as rejection, but rather part of the natural tug and pull. “A rather beautiful lie though, isn’t it?”

Thomasin sighed, looking over at the cave’s mouth and then back at him. Even though she was reluctant to, she gathered the scattered clothing around them and bundled them against her chest. “Whatever you say, Astarion. I’m going to clean off in the stream. Goodnight,” she said upon departure, positioning herself to slide down each leveled stone step.

Astarion smiled watching her go, letting his head rest back down to watch the starry projection in the sky. It wasn’t long until his amusement simmered back into mild worry, however. The space beside him felt empty. Absence now more threatening and enveloping than expected. The elf pinched at the bow around his neck, tugging a long strand until the knot popped free. He could only sneer at himself in self-pity.

#bg3 oc #bg3 tav #bg3 fic #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #astarion romance #astarion #astarion x oc #astarion x tav #astarion smut #soft dom astarion #half elf tav #half drow tav

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tieflingsfingers · 21 days

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Baldur's Gate 3 locations 21/?

#i love resident evil

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tieflingsfingers · 21 days

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Astarion: “Orar, descenthallon, tham salen irinal irador. Saren rivvim–” Rough, rough translation probably: "To erode, to descend, to be close to my forsaken ruby. Our lust--"

For man that hates art, he gets a little poetic when his mind is fuzzy.

Spent last night avoiding doing job art and threw a screenshot into procreate for an upcoming fic banner. Mostly quick over-painting and tried to get the lighting of a cave with slight moonlight coming in. Honestly don't hate it, but yeah. Posting conflict resolution to my re-write of the mirror scene soon.

#bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 oc #half drow #bg3 astarion #astarion x oc #astarion x tav #bg3 fic #astarion art #bg3 screenshot #half elf tav #astarion bg3

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tieflingsfingers · 23 days

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more half elf for your night

a little Thomasin before coloring

#half elf tav #bg3 #bg3 oc #bg3 tav #baldurs gate tav #half drow #art wip #tav #half elf #half drow tav #digital art

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tieflingsfingers · 24 days

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Counterfeit Evereskan Jewel

What and who: Conflict/angst but also humor/fluff. Thomasin and Astarion argue. Wyll and Karlach eat big soup. Rugan says thanks. Summary: The gang gains access to the Zhent hideout in thanks and Thomasin finds the experience uncomfortably familiar to her own life in hideouts. Astarion gets asked about his lack of reflection and fights with Thomasin over using tadpoles for their gain. Karlach and Wyll are just thrilled to eat soup and hear about the little blue tiefling archer that could. Warning/Content: More in the realm of character study, so a lot about two elves that are bad at feelings. OC lore on unsafe homesteads, past friends, and moral values. Reimagining of mirror scene with Astarion and the Zhent chest side quest. Part of series. Word Count: 4,443 Ao3 Link

Sometimes Thomasin would reminisce on the days where acorns were shot from trees, armed with fresh picked stones. Visions of her childhood friends and how they were always competing for the best aim. Arguing over who’s stone could be shot the furthest. A childhood consisting of scraped knees and grass stains in unexpected places, as if she had rolled around hills for an entire afternoon. They laughed and played and fended off bullies with their makeshift weapons. Made uncreative jabs at rude neighbors and came home to tarts baked with whichever fruit was in season.

Even as an adult, the memory always sat dormant in her mind. If only battles she faced now could be resolved with a homemade slingshot. Ravenous creatures and unsympathetic villains had no chance, balance crumbling when acorns made impact against their flesh.

In the face of gnolls and bloodied pack mentality, Thomasin and her companions made swift work of their gnashing threats. Through blades and verbal summoning, bruises and knicks by teeth and claw. Not one daring to let their guard down until sounds of those trapped within a cavern’s vast open mouth came out in triumphant exhaustion. An older man and his young lackey stuck their necks out like cautious deer, boots caked in a thin layer of ash from their molotov cocktails.

The older man had charismatic confidence, despite the sweat and dirt on his brow, and introduced himself as “Rugan”. He sang their praises in a gruff calm and explained how much bloodshed had occurred along the Risen Road. His squadron was thrashed, but the cargo chest he carried had to return to his boss posthaste and by any means necessary. A foot propped atop the chest's lid as if keeping its contents inside.

Thomasin stood whilst they group talked, Karlach and Wyll standing their ground. Their exchange never veering into threats or suspicion, but rather the casual agreement of a truce. Two groups meeting together in a poor circumstance, keeping blades sheathed. Rugan laughed in pity at the demise of his partners and thanked them for his survival. He granted Karlach, and the others by extension, a password to enter his den. A meeting to be paid by his boss. The half-elf forced herself to chime in here and there, at least to establish her presence.

There was familiarity and an ingratiating urge that made Thomasin eventually speak up. As if it was critical to acknowledge the transaction taking place, struggling between her own dominance and passivity. Despite the casual nature of his voice, the habit of exuding strength in front of these types of men crept its way to the forefront. His features were rugged and expression one of self-assuredness. The deep creased worry lines of someone used to dire straits, like how she imagined the precocious tiefling children may end up. This didn’t feel dangerous, but guessing was no way to stay alive.

Rugan gathered his bearings with his lackey and the two carried their treasure down a trail out west. As they disappeared into the distance, the group gathered up and weighed out the odds. Although, it didn't take long to convince one another to head in the same direction. The promise of gifts when fighting tooth and nail was more than deserved.

And so, the entire walk to the Zhentarim’s den, they each threw ideas about the sacred chest's contents. An endless chain of solid gold and platinum. A book of unspeakable evils. The head of an important leader or three. An explosive rattling around, waiting to be opened. A pair of silken gloves with Rugan's grandmother’s name stitched down the side. Or maybe Rugan's name? It was the most entertained Astarion had been in days.

Thomasin, however, found herself silent mostly.

The half-elf wracked her brain for old verbiage. The obscure slang traded amongst smugglers and their confidants. Wondering how far those words may have traveled and whether modernity of only a decade and a half could be enough to evolve such language. If sailors were popular in those parts and if her knowledge of the sea would be of any use.

She thought about how the air pressure changed underground and if it’d remind her of old places she once called home. If the microscopic change against her skin would feel cozy. If she would remember the constant self-awareness of living in those quarters, questioning whether she was saying the right things or giving the wrong people eye contact. If the amount of space she occupied in those enclosed caverns was considerate of the space she was allotted.

Although, after they arrived, speaking with the Zhentarim came much more natural to her than expected. Groups of this size were strategic in hiding. Behind the burnt remains of a tavern, through its untouched wine cellars, and finally situated through a mundane wardrobe hiding the tunnel access to their hideout. With Rugan’s word, his boss Zarys gave her good graces for helping them out, even if she wasn’t as thrilled they had any knowledge of cargo in existence.

These dynamics were easy. Thomasin wasn’t to give too much information and speak with a tone that was both bold yet docile. Answering in absolutes and short form reassurance. The respect all pirates, mercenaries, smugglers, and morally grey organizations carried with them. The ability to pack every syllable with secrecy. The masculine edge and the underlying fear all involved felt but would never dare vocalize.

Blessings were upon them though, as the visit was short and sweet. The cargo they toted had no name, but warranted an entire underground system of smokepowder being prepared. It was best to wipe it from their curiosity. It would all be wiped from the hideout in a white hot flash anyhow. This meant there was enough time to speak to traders offering their curated wares before crawling up to the top soil unscathed. The smell of ground powdered flammables coated their nostrils.

Although, before leaving the tavern, they sifted through its charred wooden corpse for anything of use. The hollow shell of a once bustling interior, but they kicked through soot and damage until reaching the open expanse of a kitchen. To their surprise, a bounty of foods were left if you pushed aside what had become charcoal. Wyll packed up stiff loaves of bread and jarred jams in his bag. Excitement tinged his voice, although he supressed it slightly to keep his usual composure. This was only to be matched by Karlach’s unhindered rejoicing. Potatoes still intact, flakey herbs, and a burlap sack of greens. Serviceable cuts of thin meat still hanging by hooks, now dried by the smoke.

Thomasin grabbed numerous small pouches and filled them with what grains, nuts, and seeds were left unsinged in half-empty barrels. A tedious task, but welcomed after the amount of mental energy she exerted moments before.

She’d peek over at Astarion every so often and flinch at the noise of wine bottles clinking against another. He’d began to rifle through the wall of wine racks, pocketing multiple in his backpack and ensuring Thomasin knew his opinion and taste of each one. Whether he had tasted them before or if the label was simply too ugly to bother. It did make her laugh.

On foot, they lugged their heavy bags through crumbling bridges and sparsely inhabited pastures towards the location of the goblin camps. Although, after the fight they endured, it was difficult to not pine after a cooked meal and the luxury of cleaning up in a nearby stream. Their weary feet got them far, but they decided to house themselves in an abandoned cavern. Fire and tents to be assembled inside and a basket of laundry taken to the thin stream outside.

Each fell into the roles they naturally settled into. Wyll made meal preparations and watched over the bubbling tin pot hanging over a fire. He’d banter with Karlach as she set up her tent and picked up the slack where Astarion often left off, securing the others’ and tying them down. The extra work gave her time to discuss methods of killing beasts in Wyll’s travels and hypotheticals concerning how many oxen she could carry on her back. If oxen were friendly enough to befriend and if she could get a pet oxen of her own.

Astarion favored his role as more nebulous. Floating from task to task, lazing where he could and proving his worth to the group when he felt necessary. Sometimes, he’d join Thomasin at whatever watering hole they settled near and helped her do laundry. He couldn’t identify what could be eaten in the wild, but he knew of every way to rid of stains and reinvigorate worn clothes. What types of vinegar and salt ate away at blood. Which unremarkable weeds growing in the cracks of city walkways could be boiled to dye cloth to its original shade. How to re-use the carcass of citrus fruit and cheap spices as bleaching agents.

Thomasin sat at the water’s edge, her legs stuck out to let its cold temperatures soothe her muscles and acclimate in hopes of washing away the day’s dirt atop her skin. She appreciated his company. The evenings they both showed their grit, pants folded up their calves and hands busy at work. It often spawned the best nonsense that came out of Astarion’s mouth. An outlandish revenge plot here, a cocky opinion there, all sprinkled with pet names.

She got a hint of normalcy and imagined he enjoyed feeling heard, even if they never discussed past intimacies beyond a reference and a wink. It was like flyers on notice boards. A prolific event on display, but each day’s trials and tribulations covering it with more and more flyers atop it. A stack of papers so thick that unpinning them to rifle through felt more like a hassle.

At some point, she noticed a lull in his conversation and peered up from her duties. Inches from his face, the elf was scrubbing away at a blood stain on his shirt. He dug the bristles of an old brush into its woven hemp and thumbed at the stain, rubbing the rind of a lemon into its cream colored sleeve. His body was hunched and she traced along the scars on his back with her eyes. Following the raised surface of his scar tissue and highlights reflected from the low setting sun.

The half-elf recalled a night he returned from a particular hunt with fondness. The night he came back in drunken splendor and high off being satiated, if not stuffed to the brim with blood. Watching the man stumble back into camp and plop down before the fire as if he wasn’t unusual in its giddiness. They all couldn’t help but be amused by his wobbling state, far worse than he had ever been, despite his frequent wine consumption. It was one of the few times he’d ever been so candid to them. At least, in such a messy way. But, the bear had lost, he had won, and they asked him for every juicy detail.

His moments of opening up were often spontaneous and sporadic. Either coming out with a nonchalant attitude or bursting from his lips, as if toiling over memories all day. Whenever the latter occurred, his frustrations and anger often overrode the ability to ask for fine details. Rants ended up diverting into passionate complaints, away from the original story at hand. They’d all learned he was processing things at his own pace though. His friends saw the tangents seemed cathartic enough to let into the air.

He wore quirks she was used to at this point. His cursed symptoms became background noise that they tended to, like any other ailment or injury, caring for and considering out of instinct. However, Thomasin noted the bizarre sight in the water. Her brain pointed out oddities now and again, like an internal alarm alerting her body of an uncanny valley.

“Do you miss it?” she asked. It was the first time she’d uttered anything in the last few minutes. Most thoughts hadn’t caught up to her mouth though and she realized she should elaborate. “Your reflection.”

He blinked, noting the way his shirt’s reflection hung on the water’s surface like a ghostly figure, before looking back at her.

“My reflection? The ability to indulge in petty vanity? Of course,” he answered, although his words peppered with confusion. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“I haven’t seen this face since its eyes turned red and it grew fangs,” he answered in an earnest yet stony way, going back to scrubbing at his button up shirt. “A reason you should always take advantage of mirrors and your beauty, love.”

It was true. He often mentioned her visage in passing mirrors. Complimenting parts of her as if her reflection was another being that needed to be admired that instant. As if the length of her hair or curves of her thighs would disappear if not recognized.

“What color were your eyes before?” she asked.

Astarion looked over at Thomasin's reflection, filling the gap of his thoughts with casual titters and hums. It was an easy enough question. Everyone knew those fine little details that made them who they were. Until he realized, he couldn't access the memory. No doors to be unlocked or anecdotes to fawn over. It made his expression drop into mild worry.

“I don’t know… I don’t remember, it seems.” He paused, brows furrowing at the epiphany, as if now contending with new untapped grief. The elf went into re-wiring his brain. A huff of air sighed through his nose as if letting go of anything unpleasant. Eyeline retreating back to where they sat, mentally searching for crumbs of idealism. Something that could soothe without a doubt.

“But, that’s why we should take advantage of the tadpoles. Think about it," he said.

He twisted to gesture at her, as if pitching a plan. Open hands pointing at the air around him, his feet in running water, and then the sun’s beams on his skin. His mere existence outside the bounds of Baldur’s Gate’s proximity.

“I’ve become conveniently lost and feel the warmth of a sunny day on my skin for the first time in centuries. Centuries. ” He repeated it, astounded by the sounds and sheer audacity coming out his mouth. “Unbound from Cazador’s grasp. Can you imagine the power we haven’t tapped into yet? I could destroy the man and wield the power to reclaim what’s mine. My reflection. Everything.”

Thomasin chewed at her lip. She wasn't a stranger to his outbursts of passion and revenge fantasies. She understood the desire for revenge. She could even empathize with that desire of a grandiose finale and closure. His ideas all ended in the strive for power, however. Control. Fantasies with motivation, but never quite grounded in its diverging possibilities.

It was as if complete dominance was the one thing stopping him from fulfilling his perfect life. Perhaps it was. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to encourage it.

“Power corrupts. You don’t want to become the same man you’ve despised for years.”

Astarion scoffed, waving a dismissive hand at her like an unimpressed elder. “Corruption comes without fail, regardless of power. Don’t be naive. You think as though I’d not put my command over thrall to good use?” He pondered the delights of his reign, losing his train of thought to daydreams. “Cooling me with grand silk fans and mixing my goblet of blood to my liking. Sending folks to death for not bringing the exact Evereskan jeweled cuffs I asked for. ”

“That would make you happiest?”

“Of course. It’s what everyone wishes, even if they don’t admit it to themselves. Gods…” he sighed, looking at her, the smudge of distaste on his face as he reminded himself she would never grasp him. How overthrowing the beast squashing his light under a manicured thumb was the one answer. His brain tingled under a wash of dysregulation. He knew this struggle well, although that wasn’t something he could identify with words at the time. The need to be nice to her for his survival without consideration of his own feelings.

The elf had to speak his mind. The emotions were justified, monstrous, causing deep resentment of his past to overflow with each sentence.

“Don’t try to guilt me. I would be moronic to squander this opportunity. My problems would cease to exist if I was in control, but why would I expect you to be able to even fathom why it’s so important? Vampirism has created a homestead within me just as the tadpole has staked its claim in my skull. When do I get to reap the rewards of whatever decrepit undeath lies where my heart once was? Riddle me that, little half -elf.”

Thomasin’s brows scrunched into a grimace, more incredulous than anything.

“Considering we know nothing about these stowaways means it could do eons more damage than what’s already been done to you. That doesn’t freak you out?”

“What? The powers above finally doing something for once and you want me to just give up? Why don’t we just hole up in a little cottage somewhere until this all blows over? Precious.”

His voice was riddled with contempt, giving glimpses of how he must’ve bantered with the other spawn in his home.

Her heartbeat began to pick up as he twisted her words. Unfed anger broiled within her, lips parting to speak, unsure if an apology or retort would be what exited them. Although his vigilance was as alive as hers. She figured her uncertainty read clear as he cut her off before she could respond.

He had never spoken to her like that.

“I won’t be taking advice from a youth. In fact, what color my eyes once were is none of my business nor is it yours. No need to dwell on lost causes and what was.”

Astarion rose from his spot in the grass and set his shirt aside on a flat rock facing the sun. His fingers wiggled and stretched out as if they, too, were strained like the muscles in his shoulders and neck. A gulp perforated the intensity of his voice, although its hostility still lurked beneath.

“I’m going to go read in peace while the light is still out. At least occupy this damned thing in my head while I pass the time we have such an abundance of.”

Thomasin stared down at the water’s surface, not bothering to combat with her own vitriol. By the gods, did she want to. Call him names and accuse him of acting haughty and indignant when he got riled up. Let him know his groveling wouldn’t help anyone. The tension in her body kept it in though, knowing it could show him that she may have been, in fact, scared.

By the time her breathing stilled and the quietness of his absence floated about, the half-elf picked herself up. She threw the wet clothes in a wicker basket. A pluck at their clothesline from a neighboring tree to relocate it inside the cave with the others, ensuring to grab his shirt on her way back. There would be more heartache if his garment were swept away by the night’s winds or wandering thieves.

Thomasin arrived by the fire as Wyll and Karlach snacked on crackers and made their own merriment. Although they knew of the tension brewing between the elf and half-elf, watching from a distance and the dramatics at the stream’s edge. When Thomasin greeted them with a frazzled demeanor, their postures straightened and Wyll was ready with a bowl in hand.

“Don’t mind Astarion… or take it personally. Whatever happened, don’t worry,” Karlach said in an attempt to comfort, even if she knew little detail. “Sit, have dinner with us. We were talking about Wyll’s big fancy dad.”

Wyll nodded along and leaned forward to take the pot’s lid off, letting steam and aroma fill their proximity. It swirled and melded with the cool air flowing into the cave’s mouth. Warm broth with floating specks of green and presumed beef flowed into a wooden bowl by the ladle.

“Ah, it’s nothing that hasn’t been told before. A duke’s son is still a son. I am a simple man,” he said, brushing off the unimportant concept of hierarchies. “I was just telling her about fencing classes I took as a teenager and how I’m still surprised when that muscle memory springs into action.”

Karlach abided by their distribution system. A bowl, once full, passed down the line, and replaced with another empty to be filled. The tiefling’s hand kicked up the bubbles in the broth as she handed her dinner. A handful of wheat crackers were set atop Thomasin’s thigh.

“I guess there’s some good tips to be had in all of that prancing around,” Karlach said, knowing Wyll had been precautious in timing his sip as to not burn himself.

The playful teasing made Wyll laugh on cue. Head tilted aside, catching himself and coughing in fear bits of green onion would spill from his mouth. “Hey, hey, hey. Even the most beautiful of sports can be deadly with quick precision and an open mind.” He gestured to Thomasin. “No different than battle through crafted melodies.”

“Ay, maybe you’ve got the right idea. When did you learn how to use a bow anyways? I’ve seen you strike down foes with that thing all willy nilly… Or is that magic stuff too?” Karlach asked and took a spoonful, slurping up her scalding dinner into an equally scalding mouth.

Thomasin chuckled at their antics as she finally began to feed herself after such a long day.

“No, not magic. I always had good aim as a kid and when I got older, I hung around all sorts of sketchy folks, a little like the Zhent. Illka taught me, the best sharpshooter in the organization’s whole siege of archers- unbelievable sight to see her always outdo the men she worked for.”

Although she disguised the exhale as a means of cooling her meal, she tried to let go of anxieties tensing her shoulders. Looking back at her early adulthood could often feel like a blur. Criminal activities she only partially witnessed, people she only partially knew. Yet, a syndicate could feel like a cluster of mushrooms. An underground connection of nonverbal communication, leeching off one another and dependent on those cues. Inconspicuous once the soil was pat down and the outside world knew nothing of it.

Although, if there was anything to look back with sentimental nostalgia, it was Illka. Someone always attached to Thomasin’s hip, in a way that was both protective and needy at the same time. A woman, only a few years younger, whose alcohol intake soaked in her system when hyperfocus wasn’t needed. Warm swigs and blushing cheeks that softened her friend, turning her into a youth hoping pretty women liked her.

These were the tales that let Thomasin relax and continue.

“A little blue tiefling, head always shaved, something snarky always coming out of her mouth. One of the funniest, most gutsy ladies I ever knew. We were close like sisters and she always told me I needed more ways to defend myself.”

“Sisters? Family is found everywhere! That’s adorable, ain’t it? If I put an apple on my head, would you be able to knock it clean off?” Another big heap of soup into the red tieflings mouth.

“Gods, maybe. Give me a shot of rum, shield your face, and I’ll see if I still have it in me.” Both hands rose to mimic a metaphorical bow, pulling back her spoon to let imaginary tension plunge it forward. Her hazel eye, the one still useful for its vision, closed tight and only the flick of two fingers signaled she had let the string of her phantom bow go. Her shoulders, then, slackened, sighing fondly. “Although if she knew who I’d grown into, she’d tell me I’ve gone soft now, probably. Once I got into the city, I only used it on rare occasions to hunt for food.”

“Huh. Maybe Astarion is jealous you’re a better hunter than him. Lil’ pointy guy can’t have competition.”

Thomasin was hesitant to laugh, still replaying his words in her head, but forced herself to push them aside and join the comradery. She bit off half of a cracker soaked in soup, the warm broth enveloping her stomach. Little by little, her nausea subsided. Friendly company was her favorite cure as was conversation. Wherever it wandered, she followed. Discussions of favorite books or confessing how her temper seemed to clash with Astarion.

Reassurance and the mental escapism of exchanging fictional stories. Tall tales of those in power in Baldur’s gate as if bold truths. The renowned magistrate with ninety tressyms in his home, all named after exotic fruits. The famed prison chief with a proclivity for lingerie under his uniform. Gortash’s drawer packed with unsent letters, penned to brothel workers whom he had undertipped and yet fallen head over heels for. Anything to get the three to clutch their stomachs in laughter.

That night, Thomasin snuck back into her tent with a mellow calm of knowing she had friends. Genuine connections. Food in her stomach and as much health that could be afforded. What wasn’t always as guaranteed, however, was sleep. Gnawing thoughts raced in her mind, causing short bouts of rest disrupted by tossing and turning. Nights where her tent felt more like an enclosure or terrarium, like she was being contained more than safe.

Per usual, she opted to use the excuse for a walk. In only a long night shirt and her woolen tights, Thomasin crept from her bed and walked along the cavern’s cold flat foundation. The cavern they found refuge in wasn’t massive, although its interior proved roomier than it looked on the outside. Curving walls and pitfalls where the ground gave out to darkness. Stout tunnels with rock that jut out from its walls like misshapen staircases. Craters along the roof sparse, but light still peeked in from a barrel-sized hole.

The climb was easy enough, pushing her tired body upward with the reward of stargazing. Scooting herself along short edges and crawling until she reached a ledge and could stand up. Although, as much as the sky beamed in, another had caught her by surprise. He was only a few feet ahead, sitting with his legs crossed, and hadn’t noticed her presence. In the moonlight, all alone, a white-haired elf stared wistfully into the sky through the small porthole.

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tieflingsfingers · 24 days

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Getting back into digital art and realized I was trying to stray super far from the way I usually paint and draw.

So, here’s a WIP I think I’ll finally actually finished. Thomasin, the little half drow bard that could.

#bg3 #bg3 oc #bg3 tav #baldurs gate tav #half drow #art wip

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tieflingsfingers · 26 days

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it’s comin along

#hubba hubba #im in trouble

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tieflingsfingers · 1 month

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creating ocs again also makes me realize that, since i was a kid, i never made heroic powerful characters. maybe an edgy rogue here and there. but mostly i really was out here making the fry cook that got wrapped up in some fantasy nonsense

was 10 years old and grizzled already lmao

#bg3 #bg3 tav #pathfinder #dnd

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tieflingsfingers · 1 month

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The Barbaric Feminine

What and who: Humor, Mild Fluff. Thomasin and Alfira play music. Wyll and Karlach roast Astarion. Aradin and Remira need to leave. Summary: Thomasin encourages Alfira to put on a little show for the caravan to both cure her writer’s block and encourage her peers. All the companions witness Aradin and Remira's pettiness. Astarion learns the true meaning of art. Warning/Content: Just a little fun character building and au event in the grove. I love the tieflings. Part of series. More in the realm of character study, per usual, so also a lot about two elves that are bad at feelings. And an ounce of fighting. Word Count: 3,443 Ao3 Link

Thomasin swished her skirt to and fro to the light jingling emitting from her boots. Bells hooked on straps, buckled onto her shoes for a theatrical flare. A contraption she’d made herself after inspired by another performer long ago. She tightened her finest corset, whose fabric had to be fully reupholstered upon purchase, and let it cinch the excess of her dress. Her sleeves billowed, to match every other asset, and followed every single movement she made.

With a sudden stomping of her heels, she clacked them firm onto the wooden floor boards beneath her to settle the small crowd of tieflings.

“Well, thank you kindly for wanting to see me perform today!” she announced to the gathering, careful to make sure each word had its proper annunciation. Her hosting skills were quite rusty. “After the warmth, gifts, and open arms, how could I say no? My name is Thomasin, if we haven’t formally met, and I’m here to lift a few spirits today!”

In front of Dammon’s roost and the soup kitchen, the wooden platform where many rested their heads was reinvigorated and reinvented into a makeshift stage. Rudimentary in design and weathered by the elements over years, but that didn’t stop Alfira from proposing such camaraderie nights before. Each performer was to simply stand at the edge of the staircase and present their talent.

Alfira had found herself confessing worries of her passing teacher’s legacy and the artistic block that coincided. How the confidence of herself and her people had been lost after such rocky migration and the nerves of the caravan were relentlessly rustled. She wished that, for one single evening, battles were of little importance. And, in her own wholesome logic, she decided that entertaining her brethren was vital.

The tiefling would heal with the arts. She would play her lute. Someone wanted to juggle. Someone could eat an apple in two bites. No auditions, just nonsensical amusement. They had sat through scrappy children showing off their introductive cantrips. Lullabies and travel songs belted from the lungs of mothers. Sword balancing acts and flashy conjuration spells with advisory warnings. Thomasin needed no begging to be thrown into the roster.

Scattered before the staircase were horned children, parents, and tipsy friends alike. Even with little luxuries, they set out blankets in the dirt and indulge in whatever festivities they could find. Dammon’s blacksmith quarters radiated a heat that cozied the onlookers as they passed around loaves of honey bread and apples. Bottles of gin and moonshine made their way around. No fear or pain where the supply was constant, guzzled down until the last drop hit someone’s tongue.

Behind Thomasin, Wyll, Karlach and Astarion settled near a table atop the platform, further behind the performing acts. Out of the tieflings’ eyeline, but more than participating from the comfort of a canopy. The same spot where Remira and Aradin had previously settled their claim.

In honesty, the humans' plans to head out in search of holy artifacts and bounty riches gave Zevlor respite. Their presence was now nothing more than packed bags and distasteful comments upon passing. Remira stood a few feet away from Astarion and the others, tucked behind a sturdy support beam engraved with white naturalistic patterns. She watched Thomasin with contempt, awaiting Aradin’s return so they could leave before sunset. Going out in a flash of dramatics would give them more trouble than it was worth.

Thomasin readied herself. The half-elf lifted her violin up to her chin, tucking it comfortably, and raised her bow. A studied grace. “If you know the words to this one, please join! Nothing more beautiful than a harmony from your good graces!”

Before she knew it, she had slipped into the role. It didn’t matter how makeshift or sudden the gig was, there was tremendous relief. The connection to others in the name of mundane, if not jovial, normalcy. She was in her element. Glittering pigments collected over years sparkled on her eyelids and left iridescent streaks across her cheekbones. No more than a few hard smacks of her heel and the half-elf began to sing a common, yet classic bard ditty. Something bright and upbeat.

They all watched as Thomasin glided around the small corner of the platform, some in awe like she were an exotic bird spreading its wings. Circles, winks, keeping multiple rhythms in tact. Her ribbons were tightened and her outfit meticulously ironed by metal heated over their campfire. Like a single fraction of time where everything was in its place.

Propped against barrels under the canopy’s shade, her companions watched her perform. Karlach busied herself with fruits warming in her hands and gin she passed back and forth to Wyll. The two practiced their most enthusiastic cheers. If they were to tour this to Baldur’s Gate, their fanaticism had to be as perfect as their friend’s talents.

Astarion opted for a subtle approach. He leaned back, arms crossed, perhaps to prove he knew how to consume art most effectively. Even if his expression settled into cynicism, there was no doubt he couldn’t help but gaze upon her.

Thomasin swished her hips, making a spectacle out of every inch of her person. The dulcet tone of her voice. The strings of her violin. The bells shaking and whipping about with each step. Even when she stopped her flow of dancing, earning pause from the crowd, her skirt would wrap around her legs, then unravel in a swirl of cornflower blue revelry once more.

Astarion found himself squinting at the details of her dress.

He remembered the night he and Thomasin laid under the stars and reminisced about their favorite, most prized thefts. Small trophies, but ones that lived on as fashion staples. High heeled boots from a cheating man’s wardrobe. Bolts of fabric lifted from elderly women with a storefront and unwelcoming demeanors. Beads broken from a drunk aristocrat’s necklace and confiscated with a swift scoop up into pockets.

That’s what he recognized. The hem of her dress. The glint of repurposed opalite beads sparkled against glowing faerie lights. A product of multiple late nights, pinning and picking at a dress she never wore on the road. He’d watch her fall into a quiet trance for hours around the fire, pulling at thread and pinching tiny beads, stringing them along. It was one of the few guilty pleasures she invited in. A reward after mending a hole along Wyll’s inseams or re-attaching a buckle to Karlach’s leather straps.

Astarion was getting lost in the magnetism she garnered from her act. Admired how she bounced back from days where bodies ached and brains barely functioned, now teeming with unbridled vitality. No longer in lethargic depths, free to experience the wonder of watering her like a well-pruned leafy plant. Naturally, he took the credit where he could though. His personal rations and food scraps were often gifted to Thomasin in nonchalant exchanges. If he wasn’t to eat it, at least she could be nurtured.

He noticed her growing into her softness. What he imagined she was like before the days of treacherous nature walks and feasts only composed of wine and wild lentils. The masses now got to gawk those same ample hips but jealousy was nothing he was going to voice. Their minds must’ve ventured into poetic saccharine monologues. Ones that, in his opinion, were for lust-riddled simpletons. Nothing more than idealism and viewing her beauty as a commodity. Best used to simply get you wanted and leave before the beautiful possession caught on.

“Philistines can’t even enjoy music without all the moonshine coursing through them,” Astarion muttered.

Karlach stopped in the midst of her swaying, befuddled at how he could keep still. How he was not enamored, even at the most platonic level, by the art Thomasin created. She knocked her bottle of gin into his arm, shoving his lithe frame a bit. The joy in her voice was palpable.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Look at you. Can’t even enjoy yourself for a night. You upset because everyone is looking at how pretty she is all dressed up?” the large tiefling said, trying her best to keep her volume respectful.

He scowled at Karlach, knowing she wasn’t phased by such grouchiness, and snatched the gin from her hand. His eyes watered with regret immediately upon taking a swig, scrunching his nose. It burned with a fierceness down his gullet. “Ack- gods no. I’m upset by the terrible choice of alcohol in this place.”

Astarion looked back over at the half-elf to assess his thoughts. Despite encouraging her musical endeavors, he always included a jab that undercut such complimentary words. It was natural to him. Yet, he began to realize had never heard her sing more than a well-tuned hum. Never saw her dance unless guided by Wyll’s hand.

The closest he could recall may have been during her worship of Eilistraee, but those were always witnessed from afar. Memories housed only within the context of his own selfish voyeurism. Maybe self-expression wasn’t always frivolous, he thought.

The elf caught himself staring, mind drifting between conflicting hypotheticals and amorous soliloquies. Details that he was quick to shake from his consciousness. “Thomasin is doing a just fine job,” he followed up plainly.

“Perhaps she could teach you a thing or two, Astarion. How to show that personable side hiding deep in that illustrious heart of yours,” Wyll teased, his half of the gin adding blush tones to his cheeks. “What if you’re a natural born performer?”

Astarion scoffed. “I’ve got a skillset already, thank you very much. I haven’t gotten this far just on looks, I will have you know.” His fingers pressed flat against his own chest. “Personality is half my charm. You should try it sometime.”

The sour attitude and unapologetic gumption tickled his two drunken companions, suppressing their laughter to not become interruptive. Mirth so bountiful, it leaked between the cracks of their fingers clasped over their mouths.

“I’ve gotten this far on looks alone, you should try it.” Karlach eventually said, catching her breath. She had begun to stretch her chest wide, back tightened, and presented the bend of her arms in a muscular flex. Years of pommeling through Avernus had to pay off in some capacity. “It’s versatility, ain’t it? Being hot in every sense of the word really gets the ladies going.”

Wyll clinked their shared bottle onto her bicep in agreement before gesturing to his own horns. A facet of his appearance he was still getting used to, but bonding amongst Elturel survivors made acclimation easier. “The horns are also a definite plus, I’m growing to learn. Nothing like romantic poetry penned by a horn dipped in the finest oil inks.”

“Yeah, exactly. Oily inks.” Karlach pointed to Wyll with her thumb, mouth full of fruit, mumbling her words. Juices from an apple, crisp between her pointed teeth, flew out as she spoke. Although she decided to ignore the fact, knowing she would break into a fit of laughter over Astarion vocalizing disgust.

He did notice.

He did sneer.

“You two are insufferable. I’ll let you know I have remarkable, if not astonishing, reviews without all the tricks,” Astarion said, waving a dismissive hand. His lips, then, curled in a hint of amusement at their taunting.

They three continued swaying their heads, clapping as stray copper coins and picked wildflowers were thrown at Thomasin’s feet. The half-elf felt herself return back into her body by the end of the song, engulfed by the rain of praise, and grinned from ear to ear. Genuine unadulterated happiness. She bowed to the small crowd.

When she rose, the sting of coins pelted against her back, followed by a familiar thud. The sound of arrowheads, two to be exact, penetrating wood behind her. She rolled her shoulders, determined to not acknowledge it. To not let it ruin her composure. At her feet, she noticed Wyll crouch to gather all the flora and tips left, whispering tipsy affirmations to her and lurching back to their spot to keep her gifts safe.

Thanks to him, her smile never faltered, and she went onto presenting the next act.

“Thank you! Thank you all very much, dearly,” she cheered, holding her violin idle in her arms. “This lovely evening was all brought to you by the ever so talented, Alfira.”

Alfira ran up the far staircase where Karlach and the others stood, flashing them a sheepish delight with her lute clutched tight. Karlach felt herself blush at the sight of the feminine tiefling’s pastel whimsy, offering her own toothy grin. The bard looked overwhelmed, but particularly gorgeous that night. The way her pink and blue undertones glowed under the low sunlight.

She had to say something. Anything.

“You’re gonna do wonderful, babe,” Karlach whispered, giving Alfira a thumbs up as she scurried down the long platform and up to the crowd. A sigh as Karlach critiqued her less than smooth demeanor.

Thomasin’s arm extended to present Alfira in all her glory. “Speaking of the delight of your travels. Please give a round of applause and your utmost attention to Alfira on the lute!” The two musicians exchanged a supportive hug before Thomsin bowed again and walked back to her companions.

As she approached the canopy, she caught the sight of Aradin and Remira. The curly-haired man had returned, hand just barely on the railing before he made eye contact with her. A face plastered with smug satisfaction and obvious inebriation on his breath.

Remira glared at the drunken human coming up the stairs. Not only did she recognize his anger simmering, but she was pinned to the support beam by the shot of arrows through her clothes. Two, again, to be exact. Comeuppance for the fact her silly little hostile coin toss resulted in Astarion’s swift archery. Pettiness resolved by the act of more pettiness. All she could do was await for Aradin to reign terror in her honor and help her down.

“Did you need something, darling?” Thomasin said softly, setting her violin aside and kneeling before him from her elevated height. Her fingers fiddled with the buckles on her boots, unlatching the bells from them. She felt her performative pleasantries loosening as she remembered her first day at the grove. How punching him square in the face may have not been the answer, but her tolerance for masculine pride had been long ground into oblivion. Now, she was in her brightest pigments. He was no match for her when rouge made her stronger, taller, more powerful.

Aradin flicked a coin her direction, amused by his own taunting as it bounced off her shoulder. His eyes wandered long after though, taking a step closer, blatant and unrepentant in her objectification.

“Was gonna call you a bitch for making all this commotion by our awning, but I gotta admit you clean up pretty nicely, don’t ya?” he responded.

The comment made her grin. Solidified her reasoning for retaliation. Her lashes fluttered in the name of feminine mystique before glancing over at Alfira at the opposite end, entertaining her peers. Dancing lights bloomed around the tiefling as she reveled in the attention. Belting out a song that would make her teacher proud. As long as the tiefling was well into her song, Aradin would be dealt with.

To the backdrop of Alfira’s lute and nervous melody, Thomasin took a step forward, pressing the base of her heeled boot against Aradin’s chest, its thick stem situated right atop his sternum. Her shoulders pushed forward, chest enclosing in on her bent knee, and kicked him back with the force of her shifted weight.

His build hit the ground with a solid heft, blood pressure rising at such disrespect. Perched upon his elbows, back still laying in dirt below, Thomasin grabbed the bottom of her dress and walked down the steps. The human’s face contorted into a myriad of emotions. Disdain, confusion, and then reluctant enticement as she walked over him and settled in a straddle atop his lap.

Astarion’s eyebrows rose at her sudden dominance, noticing Wyll and Karlach’s similar disbelief. They merely waited with excitement and bated breath for this was the last place they expected a bar fight. So, the elf did the honors and grabbed her instrument for protection, stepping back with no comment or snark to be heard. He respected the arts now, after all.

Thomasin grabbed Aradin’s wrists and pinned them above his head, noting the lack of struggle on his part. It was a relief. Reassurance she had the upper hand. A man that could overpower her if he wished, playing feeble in hopes of gifted flesh. She proceeded to tighten her posture, back curved and body shifting into fluidity.

Practical, utilitarian sexuality. It was all performative in nature, far from her actual desires, but the skill set promised survival. Retribution was never a natural instinct of hers. At least not one from birth or even youth. The seed was planted over decades of unpredictable company, learning from the adults around her. Their feuds, loyalty, murder, and pacts. It bore its roots deep, granting her access to her own sadism. Sleeping, unkempt, until it thrashed out in the name of untrustworthy bandits or unsavory temporary lovers.

“Aha- not one for being on the bottom, but I’ll take one for the team,” he tittered.

Thomasin giggled back at him like she’d done to countless others before.

Methodical and sensual, she crept closer and closer to his ear. The half-elf braced herself for whatever his reaction may be, screwed her eyes tight, and let forth a faint blue glow from her lips. Dissonant whispers. The language of her ancestors spliced with nightmares of catastrophic proportions. Threats to the nervous system, disjointed phrases, and speech so rapid, it ran his blood cold.

They all clashed into one another, almost as painful to his biology as it was incoherent. The glowing wispy smoke crawled into Aradin’s ear canals and thrashed through every microscopic crevice of his brain. Only a few seconds, but enough to make up for the multiple stressors he inflicted on others outside the grove.

He gasped for air as his body took its time regulating itself, crawling backwards in desperation. Trying to figure out how Thomasin had shifted back from an extraplanar terror back to her unintimidating figure. Chest heaving for any semblance of comprehension.

The half-elf leaned back, palms flat and raised to allow him to scurry away. She didn’t prolong his horror. She had no need to. But, she couldn’t deny her heart raced with self-satisfaction. No matter how many times she found the drive to fight back, she knew it had a chance of ending with her demise. Of course, the thought frightened her, but she couldn’t dwell. She knelt where he left her, brushing off stains from their grassy tussle and watching his dilated pupils mellow.

“First the tieflings and now the drow. No keeping the fucking peace in these parts,” he spat at her, scrambling to his feet to scuttle off.

“Don’t be scared everyone is going to find out you’re nothing more than an impetuous noisy cuck.” she retorted, scorn riddled on her face.

Thomasin turned her head to notice the three watching her in light awe. She tried to catch her breath from the intense exertion of both her emotions and the Weave, reminding her body that she was safe. An easy assertion for a titter soon left her lips. She noticed Astartion’s foot propped up beside Remira, giving her mercy with a yank of the arrows to allow her to fall to the floor. No much grace offered, but the human wanted no pity after being strung up in humiliation.

The group watched as the two humans darted away, bickering at one another for their lack of judgment, and then focused back to Thomasin.

“Cheers to that, I suppose,” Wyll said, raising his bottle and taking a swig, then handing it off to Karlach.

“Cheers. Not going to sugarcoat it, that was kinda hot, mate.” The tiefling grabbed the gin, colored by her love of rough-housing and unfortunate touch-starvation. Her word was an objective, undebatable fact.

Astarion felt himself laugh. Unhindered and genuine for the first time that evening.

“Praise the Dark Maiden,” he proclaimed.

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tieflingsfingers · 1 month

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thought about astarion and jaheira the other day and now i canNOT STOP

#this energy is just every extroverted gay dude friend i have that is all of our moms besties

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tieflingsfingers · 1 month

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doing all this writing as a 29 year old, just wanting a fun outlet while i have to do structured fine art stuff has been great. no pressure. I just turn off my ring light, wipe down my table, and hunker over a keyboard for silly fantasy hours.

shoutout to bg3 for both getting me into writing again and being an outlet for all my tabletop shenanigans I miss.

#bg3

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tieflingsfingers · 1 month

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Tarnished Feathers for Eilistraee

What and who: Angst and Fluff. Wyll and Karlach being pals. Astarion not liking emotions. Half-Drow Bard OC trying to cope. Summary: Thomasin, Astarion, Karlach, and Wyll fail to save a tiefling boy from harpies. After her companions help patch her up, she wanders off for a moment of isolation. The fight brings back memories of her past with the small syndicate she traveled with and Astarion realizes he isn't sure if he knows how to console her. Warning/Content: Reimagining of Mirkon/Harpy side quest with my half-drow bard, Thomasin. Part of series. More in the realm of character study, so a lot about two elves that are bad at feelings. OC lore on past traumas, child loss, and unsavory partners. Word Count: 5,058 Ao3 Link

Sometimes Thomasin would think about rain that fell over the sunny weather of her hometown. The occasions where rain drizzled over farmland and how it provided short-lived novelty wonder to its people. Or how much she hated the paranoia of locals shouting about superstitions. The half-elf was always drawn to its juxtaposition. In the midst of sounds flattening around her into silence and steady ringing, Thomasin tried to enjoy the oddity of the rain.

Her knees and wrists were submerged in shallow muddy water. She remembered where she was, for the most part. A short departure from the druid’s grove, where the shore met land and ancient silt engulfed her fingers.

Her blind eye squinted against the sunshine’s intense reflection against the water, sharp and cold. A sensitivity she was used to. The eye still picked up shadow and light sources, but intensity still could prove painful. It wasn’t long until she realized, perhaps both eyes were particularly sensitive. She cataloged every sense, dipping her head to look at the greenery swaying beneath her. Whether its figure was warped by rippling waves or if her vision was struggling to keep up.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d truly paid attention to how crystal clear the shore was. How every crumbled rock and resident creature lived their lives. A drop of blood hit the water’s surface and dispersed into organic swirls.

Thomasin was fighting the urge to fall asleep where she hunched, tempting in every way, but something was telling her not to. Had the sky rained blood down from the high powers above? Some holy event she hadn’t read about?

She noticed another drop. Enough to stream down her face, catching on her eyelashes and spattering into the water. It ran down her cheeks and along the bump of her nose. Anxiety began to build up with each heavy breath, tightening her chest with its familiar vindictive grasp. Too much adrenaline pumped through the half-elf’s body to come to a conclusion, but one thing was for certain. She had been dropped from unknown heights.

It wasn’t until her hearing unmuffled that Karlach’s yelling became clearer and clearer. Astarion, Wyll, and Karlach had been shooting arrows with fervor and panicked spellcasting out of reach. Feathers, tattered, washed up beside Thomasin and the scent of its nearby corpse wafted in the air. A harpy. One the half-elf had stricken and, in its last retaliation, had stricken her back.

Overwhelm flooded her body as she comprehended more and more. Sounds, sights, smells of salty water and exposed wounds. Distant melodies with undertones of abhorrent screeching far off acting as a backdrop to Karlach’s voice. Thomasin attempted to push herself up, but to no avail. Only to limp towards the commotion and land her cheek in the water, liquid trying to funnel its way into her lungs and claim another to the sea.

Its embrace was as off putting as it was serene. Time felt pliable. Sounds bobbed and sputtered, but she heard Wyll off in the distance. He was yelling too. Hard to decipher, but the timber sounded of urgent demands. That she could recognize.

“I got her! C’mon, mate! No need to hang around for more!” Karlach bellowed out as she hoisted Thomasin onto her shoulder.

The tiefling’s body, temporarily cooled and wet to the touch, felt warm on her skin and filled the air with wisps of steam. Every splash, every light raindrop, it all sizzled against her engine. They floated off like long ethereal ghosts rising from a mechanical chest cavity. Thomasin noticed how quickly mud dried onto her own shaky palms and salt encrusted onto her bruised skin. The same salt that was still coughing up from her chest.

“You alive in there?” Karlach asked, whilst trudging uphill.

“I think so,” Thomasin managed to respond.

“Great! Well, wakey wakey! Dozing off right now won’t do you any good.”

She was right, she could’ve been concussed. The jostling of Karlach’s heroics might’ve been the only thing keeping her awake. Using every ounce of energy left, Thomasin put the puzzle pieces together. Wyll and Astarion were close behind, scrambling away and bearing their own bumps and bruises. Admirable persistence in their last attempts to slay the last remaining harpies.

She remembered now.

She was enthralled by their song.

Before the attack, they had ventured off a thin windy trail that spat them out at the shoreline. Where they planned to sunbathe and stake temporary claim. A spot usually forbidden by anyone other than druids in the times of Kagha's high tension. Hugged by an incline of rocks and grassy patches, boulders absorbing the air’s moisture and warmth.

Looking back into the skies and its now dwindling rain, Thomasin froze. Bloodied talons and tarnished feathers flew further and further away, dipping down and regaining their flight path on course. In their clutches was a modest vest hanging by a couple claws and a mop of curly hair, blunt horns poking out. A youth tiefling wandering into forbidden waters to experience beauty and now he was a faint image in the sky.

Thomasin wanted to vomit.

The last thing she saw was Wyll’s concerned face, blemished by blood, looking back at her before she passed out.

When Thomasin awoke not too long after, the other three had started to settle at a clearing far from the shore. Bags sprawled about and fire yet to be stoked, they had relocated camp. The half-elf groaned. Muscles ached and bones felt as if they could somehow throb just the same. But her eye could still see. Her hearing had returned in full. At least those were small blessings.

She sat up slowly, figuring out where she was, how she was, and how she had gotten there.

“You’re up! Thank the gods above, you stumbled pretty hard out there,” Karlach announced, dropping piles of wet brush she was actively turning into dry kindling. The tiefling clapped her hands together to rid of lingering dirt and knelt beside the half-elf. She reached over to examine Thomasin’s forehead, immediately recoiling her fiery touch . “Whoops, no, nope. Got a little excited there. Don’t need to cause another injury.”

Wyll chuckled from the distance of their half-constructed tents, shaking his head and looking for humor in the stone-faced vampire beside him. Nothing more than a wordless scowl back. At least it gave him an excuse to poke at Astarion’s grumpy behavior later. And so, he ran over to Karlach as a safer option of aid.

Wyll checked for potential wounds that had surely split along Thomasin’s skull, according to what poured from her scalp. Her hair parted with his light touch and he followed an intense cut that stopped at her hairline.

“Good news, doesn't look too deep. Head wounds tend to be dramatic when they bleed, even when they’re not too terrible. Seems everything about you has a fondness for the theatrical, hm?” Karlach snickered, wishing she could nudge him for the corny comment, and continued to listen with her full attention. “Shouldn’t take more than a few nights of rest and a quick cleric incantation to get that healed, from my experience. Hm… Although, you took a mighty fall. Are you feeling okay?”

“I’ve had worse.”

The lost memory of being dropped did frighten Thomasin, worrying it’d spring back into consciousness unprovoked one day. But, that was to be dealt with later. Now, her body was sore. Along her legs, scrapes from dislodged rock embedded deep and varying knicks clawed into her thigh. “I think… I may just cast a few of my own healing spells and sleep it off the rest of the day,” she said, easing herself back onto her backpack as a makeshift pillow.

“Good idea, get that noggin back in working order,” Karlach reassured her before getting back to work on the campsite with Wyll and Astarion.

As the afternoon progressed into evening and eventual night, camp was alive once more with three companions all sitting around the fire. Wyll had even done the honors of setting up Thomasin’s tent up in the event she wanted to migrate over. Although, they all knew about the heavy weight of their fight earlier.

No one tried to call Thomasin to dinner. Even when they saw her awaken, they gave her space. The day was nothing they couldn’t repress, but there was unspoken acknowledgment some fights hurt more than others.

The half-elf was quiet, reserved. Not a single word left her, simply scouting out the area and recognizing where water pathways cut through the forest. A stream was nearby. With little else other than her canteen slung around her shoulder and the damp socks still encased in her boots, she disappeared to find fresh water.

Not soon after, Karlach and Wyll had fallen asleep beside one another, horns both nestled in the patches of grass near their fire. A hearty meal of broth, potatoes, and bread stuck to their ribs and knocked them out.

Astarion grew tired of staring into the flames’ flicker and grabbed a larger portion of bread. It was neatly wrapped into a handkerchief and stuffed into a worn leather satchel on his hip, before his curiosity led him to search for her. Thomasin was of no use if she was out in the wilds, starving and concussed. They had a two man sewing circle that needed strict attendance. Which, in turn, meant the elf must endure retrieving her for his hobby’s sake.

Halfway through the brush, he considered turning back. The woods were not his natural sanctuary. Cracking branches beneath his feet only served to scuff boots and alert everyone in his vicinity. It almost made him miss the city streets, as off limits as his prey may have been. City drunks weren’t as prepared as the animals of the wild. They were easier.

As he got closer to the stream, he heard misguided feet followed by a splash of water. Sounds he couldn’t quite distinguish. Whether they were cries or laughter. Or both.

Astarion stopped to take in a bizarre sight. The creek babbled and flowed, water not higher than right above the ankles. Thomasin simply sat there hunched in the middle like a log. The gentle flow brushed against her, parting at her back and rushing away. Her hair, stiffened and damp, created awkward wave patterns, as if she had fallen in multiple times. Her dress clung to her. Above the waist, patches of fabric dried into thick creases whilst her skirt wrapped around her legs as if it feared it, too, would get whisked away.

She turned her head to the sounds of him approaching, face framed by wavy locks slick against her cheeks, and offered nothing more than an embarrassed smile.

“I just get clumsy sometimes, don’t mind it” she said, almost too gentle to be heard from where he stood.

Astarion rubbed at his jaw, flummoxed by how to approach this sudden emotional state. He figured that Thomasin had settled down, but been reduced to some sort of post-trauma delirium. Grief was a minefield. One he was strict to abstain from. Either way, the offering of bread was not going to survive underwater and he was not here to feed ducks.

“That is a rather… creative way to decompress.” He glanced over his shoulder, gesturing behind him with his thumb. “Would the others be of better service here?”

Thomasin shook her head, plopping her weight back onto her palms. Her movements were heavy, yet swayed wherever the wind blew. This was enough of a nonverbal answer to most of his questions. Not a surprise as the clinking tin of her empty canteen drummed against rocks, once partially filled with amber liquid stashed away for rainy days. Moonshine that smelled of barreled firewine and lethal fruits now sloshed around and were left to writhe in her empty gut.

“Alright, alright. You’ve spent enough time trying to drown today. Let’s get you out of there,” he said.

Astarion had difficulty hiding his feelings about her situation. He reverted to a near skulk as he found himself at the water’s edge, grimacing at the mud trying to reclaim his boots. He immediately lifted a foot, sighed, and began to pluck each boot off with mild resentment coloring his expression. How anyone could own anything without nature trying to consume it first was beyond him. He tossed them aside onto dry land.

Astarion tugged at his pants’ hem to protect the leather from being weathered. He forced himself to take a few more steps, muttering curse words under his breath. The current was cool to the touch on his skin, nearly identical to his body temperature.

He gestured with two fingers for her compliance. “Come now, grab my hands.”

Thomasin reached forward, extending herself like a child, energy focusing in on her fingertips as if they would get longer. With a grunt and bit of momentum, he reached her enough to yank her up and out onto the grass, posture pulling back at her sopping wet demeanor. Back hunched and core tightened inward. A white-furred cat avoiding what dripped from her linens.

“Is it not foolish to be alone out here this late?” he asked, shaking droplets from his hands as she let go. His eyes panned up and down, surveying whether she could hold herself up.

“Can I sit back down?” she said, taking off her own drenched boots with little consideration for gravity’s pull.

“Yes, sit. Tell me why I found you in a creekbed.”

Thomasin plopped down onto the grass, fussing with the sensation of her dress and how it suctioned to her skin. She twisted and squirmed, beginning to peel it off in a power struggle. A heap of heavy fabric that fought back just as much she did. Astarion sighed, indulging in the ability to pity someone else for once, and leaned forward to help.

“I haven’t spoken to Eilistraee in a while. The evensong- it’s that dance thing. I know the Dark Maiden probably doesn’t care if I fall, but I kept trying.” Eventually, she was freed from the clutches of her clothing, the half-elf now sitting there frigid, arms shielding her near nude body. “I just want forgiveness.”

Astarion tossed the heap of wet clothing aside and blinked for he recognized twinkling tears welling up along her lashes.

“Does being musically inclined not lend you the ability to be more… rhythmically inclined?”

The oddity of a chuckle even surprised her as it flitted from her lips. “I didn’t mean forgiveness for my dancing. I can only hope she hasn’t given me poor scores all these years,” she responded, sniffling after. Humoring herself was familiar and reassuring. Where her mind usually wandered in times of discontent, even if it meant combatting the lump in her throat.

This lump was indifferent and unflinching, however. Jester acts couldn’t dance around with bells fastened to their boots. Their jingling efforts merely bounced off in disregard. The affectation of her voice flattened as her stare did. She was staring behind him at this point, in a manner that concerned him, trying to muster the mental energy to explain herself.

“The-It’s-The little boy. It felt like I–” Thomasin stuttered. Her eyes never shifted back. No acknowledgment of his presence. The half-elf was far too busy ensuring she would take another breath. That her voice didn’t shake. That she could at least impart some sense of coherence. “I failed that child. I can’t keep doing this.”

Astarion stood there slack jawed for a moment in mild confusion. Then, he knelt down before her, noticing how she kept her blank gaze forward. “Huh. Thomasin…You do know the harpy wasn’t your fault. Harpies are just another unfortunate creature out there. Like most of us, honestly.”

He watched as her body shook and succumbed to her sadness with light sobbing. Exposure to the elements couldn’t be helping , he thought. Something indescribable stirred within the elf but it was swallowed back down, pressing forward despite his instincts. He glanced around for a threat he wouldn’t be able to quite put his finger on before unbuttoning his shirt. After the patchwork she provided on it, the gesture felt appropriate.

“Here, put this on,” he beckoned.

The button-down would drape over her shoulders like a cape, finding itself immediately pulled taut against her. Thomasin sat there bundled up and shivering like a frightened rabbit.

Astarion couldn’t admit to himself that he felt unequipped to navigate this vulnerability. It was different. Jarring and complex in a way where simple flirtatious thrills weren’t the answer. He let periods of silence buffer between the two, figuring out if he even wanted to quell her pain. Whether he even knew how to console someone like this.

“My weakness always must rear its ugly head,” she said, voice becoming constricted by her emotions. “It takes one mistake and there goes another.”

Astarion considered the start of their altercation with the harpies. How Thomasin grit her teeth without hesitation and played haphazard notes on her violin. Magic teemed from every note against their venomous melodies until she could grab the tiefling boy. A matter he hadn’t pondered further upon until now. Unpacking her feelings made him feel stunted though and he caught himself relying on old coping mechanisms and dismissive truths about the woes of life. The colder response ricocheted around his head. Although, in his eyes, these were simple logical reflexes.

“Ah, this all makes sense now,” his tone venturing toward amused, as if to establish a sense of superiority. He gestured around them with a single point of his finger. The darkness. Her soaking dress. Her exhausted body. His pair of boots with old velvet accents that needed to go back to camp with him. He settled in the grass in front of her, a single knee tucked in.

“That really rattled you. When did you h–”, he began, only to be promptly cut off.

Thomasin’s gaze was quick to return to his as she felt him trying to dig deeper. Was it panic that made her so nauseous? It felt like a sickness. Like his uneducated guess could tip her over without fail.

“A man I knew- ah, long, long ago. We had a- child- I had a child. This all brought up–” She shrugged. “Feelings.”

Astarion’s brow rose. “Oh. Well. Is that the ominous span of time where you were 'traveling’’?”

“A bit. It’s not ominous as much as- they don’t matter anymore. I hopped around a lot with this group. Just bad people that came into my life when I was far too young. Odd to think back about how they paid a nineteen year old for fake signatures. The–”

“Forging? You did… document forging? Scandalous, in all honesty.”

“Yeah, I suppose. Everyone involved used to refer to me as a “secretary”. I was in my little skirt, doing my little job.” She shook her head, thinking about how silly it all was. “Years went by, I met more people, made more mistakes, and somehow found myself on a cargo ship with this giant misguided excuse of a man.”

Something suddenly popped into Astarion’s memory and he leaned in to brush her long dark fringe from her face. The faded ink that was usually hidden atop her brow. He studied the symbols. Thomasin took advantage of the small interaction and rested her cheek against his wrist, careful to ensure the aversion of her eyes was frequent.

“Is that where you got the tattoo on your face?”

She nodded, whispering a “yes” into the darkness.

“Makes a hell of a lot more sense. From a clashing aesthetics point of view, at least.”

She laughed a bit, looking back up at him through her bleary eyes. “A lot of us have it. Thought it made me look tougher, but I don’t think I was ever near intimidating to the others. I didn’t have to worry about that with the captain though. He was plenty scary for the both of us.”

“Wait, and who is he ?” he asked immediately, relieved the conversation felt more like tantalizing gossip than depressive venting.

Thomasin paused and worked up the courage to continue. She felt the slightest disappointment watching his hand return to his lap.

“One of the first drow I ever met… I must’ve been twenty-four? Twenty-five? The group I worked for expanded, branched out, and I just… chose to follow,” she said with regret hanging at the end of her sentence. Recollecting her past among low-tier bandits and thieves weren’t her proudest moments. “Living in all these small underground hideouts, rouging my cheeks in a den full of usually sketchy men. It wasn’t a huge operation when I started, but a lot of people passed through, making deals or getting drunk, or whatever the fuck they did.”

A chuckle. She was surprised by how clear certain memories were. How fragments of the past felt like storybook panels filed away on some dusty shelf. “One morning, this cargo ship docked and suddenly I’m wooed by this big strong man. We worked so rurally, it felt rare seeing a drow out in the wilds.”

Astarion cracked a smirk, visualizing his own ideal man. Tall, dark, handsome. Accompanied by his magical panther companion. “Ugh, Drizzt Do'urden. You wouldn’t be the first to get swept up by a drow heartthrob.”

Thomasin laughed, weakened but still clinging to what joy lay dormant. She caught fallen tears strung down her face, wiping them away with the scraped surface of her hands. “I-Yeah. Exactly. I can’t even blame myself for being so smitten. A man of few words, muscular, driven, but only ever really affectionate in private.” She paused. “Looking back, he really just loved the way I made him feel. I thought I’d make love songs about us, like the love letters my parents wrote. But- I never considered he might like having authority over a drow woman. I assumed I would be… I don’t know. I was just stupid and naive.”

Astarion found himself taken aback by the information she was offering on a platter. All too dangerous. As if she didn’t consider that he could use it all against her. His next words were chosen carefully. They felt softened and feeble coming from his lips, but he tried them.

“No. Just young.”

“You’re right. Just young.” Her fingernails dug into his shirt, feeling the early signs of complete dread brewing. “It’s not all horrible memories, just tainted… Small crew, lots of late night parties in lots of cities. Friendships I miss. This was my life, y’know?” Her voice shook.

Thomasin could feel compulsions arising. Her clouded and hazel eyes shot back down to the grass. Eye contact was too stimulating. What she needed was solace, a dire action to remedy dire times. Words fell involuntarily from her throat.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hm?” he hummed, almost bewildered by the fact he was being propositioned. He wasn’t ready to participate. This struggle wasn’t one who could be bypassed by verbal pats and probing questions. Something gnawed at him. Perhaps it was empathy, in its rawest state, digging itself out of its own grave.

No. Nonsense.

She felt the question come out of her, closing her eyes with a sigh, as if regretting the act already. Now she had to deal with the consequences and determine how much shame would be permitted as a result.

“If I give you my wrist, would you drink a little?”

“Excuse me?” Astarion scoffed, her intentions throwing him through loops. Certainly not what he expected to hear.

“Just so I don’t feel like this anymore.” She tried to feint pleasantries, lips turning into a smile, even if her words wobbled by impending grief. The volume of her voice wavered, almost overshadowed by the quiet exhalation of air and parting of her lips. “I always feel so calm after.”

Astarion stifled the urge to interrogate Thomasin. He felt himself judge her. The way she simply existed. He raised his hand, twisting at the wrist and careful to approach her. With his palm facing upward, he waited for hers. But, before he could speak, she had begun to slink forward.

Pushing him back slightly with only her weight, she settled herself, braced between both of his knees. Her head rested upon his shoulder. Her freckled hand, decorated in the morning’s pale bruising, was presented in his face.

Astarion tried his best to hide the reflexive flinch the moment he felt her pressed against his chest. His hands were almost too afraid to rest anywhere. It was as if her body had become forbidden. The promise of being offered to feed overrode a few sparking circuits in his brain, at least, and he wrapped his hand around her wrist.

With a gentle controlled poke of his fang, Astation broke the skin. His tongue pressed against the holes and he began to suck. His ears remained perked up to the sound of her breathing, counting along in his head as he had prompted her to when she feared the pain. It’d been a few seconds. Long enough. The intangible hand of his subconscious gripped his hair and made him pull back in discipline.

Relief washed over her in an instant. Whilst she no longer could walk herself to camp, everything numbed and reminded the half-elf that the stars were a perfect place to sleep under. That Eilistraee could see she didn’t mean to make mistakes.

Thomasin felt her punctured wrist be set upon her thigh, both of them staring at the small injury in silence. Each had to contend with whatever was now giving them absent minds.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Pleasure.”

Tasting the warm lush notes of her blood simmered his own anxieties a bit. There was power in indulgence, but he couldn’t shake his uncertainty. She felt fragile in a way he hadn’t expected to witness. His hands still couldn’t rest upon her, opting to hide away in the grass. Astarion fidgeted in place. He had already shed his shirt, but he now realized it was his skin that made him uncomfortable.

It was touching another and he was unsure how he’d gotten there. He pushed the thoughts down. There was bread. He remembered his bread wrapped up in a favored handkerchief. Lifting a single hand to unwrap the fabric’s delicate folds and creases, he broke off a crumbly piece of the loaf, and presented it to her.

“Don’t pass out on me. You need to eat something.”

Thomasin felt cradled, taking the brown crusty bread from his hand and biting with her back teeth. A loaf tucked away in their backpacks from a generous tiefling mother in thanks. One whose daughter had almost been sacrificed to Kagha’s unjust ruling. It was older, heavy, and its flaky exterior took an extra effort to chew, but it felt like one of the best meals she’d eaten in months.

She remembered she had been speaking, swallowing another bite and finding her spot in the story.

“The cargo ship… It must’ve been… three or so years on that thing? Dark Maiden, I wasn’t even thirty yet. That last year was a blur spent in almost constant isolation.”

The half-elf settled into a distant stare again as she crawled toward the key moments she often omitted. Something that left her lips so little these days, they felt like a concept more than reality. Although she wasn’t sure if that thought comforted her either.

“Essentially forced to coop up in our tiny bedroom quarters because I was visibly pregnant and therefore a ‘distraction’. And so, I stayed inside. A lot. Even when we docked. He’d tell me that I should wait before I grow attached to our child. The off chance I’d have a little girl. Even if she wasn’t born from the Underdark, I’d ‘summon forth more of Lolth’s corruption.’”

Despite her fuzzy mental state, Thomasin still felt nausea. It was mellow, but always made sure she was aware of its existence. Always leaving her with a sense of uneasy fatigue. She felt herself getting tired, fighting to keep the order of events chronological.

She didn’t want to stop though.

She needed the catharsis.

“But he was right. I brought a little girl onto our plane. More perfect than anything that had ever existed… One morning, he-uhm.” Her words became hollow and flat, barring access to any inkling of emotion wrestling inside of her. “He got me tea in bed and held her for the first time. The nicest gesture he’d done in ages. But, then I slept for days. Life went on. The boat had scheduled a stop, and he just- took her somewhere. I-I still- I don’t know where. We were in the middle of the ocean by the time I awoke.”

Astarion felt bizarre. He thought that maybe he was figuring out how to use the catharsis of another for his own selfish reasons. Or it was the kinship of unjust treatment and the wish for revenge. Finally, that was an emotion he could connect with. Vengeance.

He let her finish.

“The moment we docked, I went into town and got belligerent drunk. Apparently getting into bar fights until a crew member tried to subdue me and take me back. I always figured somewhere in the middle of that, someone must've knocked me hard enough to blind my eye.”

“I hope you gutted that man the moment you set eyes on him. Flayed him senseless and tied him to the bow of his ship like a figurehead,” Astarion imagined aloud.

The vision, as gruesome as it was, knocked her back into her body. It made her laugh lightly. There were countless nights where she toiled over ways to get back at him, but she assumed those hypotheticals were long retired. Something felt right when their flame rekindled.

“If only. I snuck out of his bed in the middle of the night, and hitched rides with his gold until I landed in Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion nodded. He found the connection he had been feeling. What his consolation was aiming towards. Closure.

“We should kill him,” he said.

Thomasin nodded with no hesitation, even if it felt like an impossible feat over a decade later.

“One day.”

He handed her another piece of bread.

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