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spacebarbarianweird · 6 months

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If I Had A Voice, I Would Scream

The Cloak of Dragomir is finally found, and Astarion can walk in the sunlight. But magic comes with a terrible price.

Based on Mute!Tav Headcanon

Tags: f!Tav, disability, post-game, established relationships, nurturing Astarion

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Masterlist

Headcanons

Astarion basks in the sunlight, arms wide open. It feels like cat fur – delightfully tickly and warm.

The world unfolds in vibrant colors – the blue sky, green valleys, and distant mountains. Daylight reveals a beauty he's long forgotten, absolutely breathtaking.

Astarion's black cloak dances in the wind, showing only his palms and a half of his face.

The Cloak of Dragomir. The artifact that allows vampires to stroll in the sunlight, cross running waters, and invade homes without an invite. Astarion doesn't even have to wrap himself entirely. He pulls up the hood and lets the cloak cascade over most of his body.

Walking in the sunlight becomes a reality. Such a thin, delicate fabric opens him to a world of possibilities.

He still can't see himself in the mirror, but even the tadpole couldn't fix it, so Astarion doesn't hold a grudge.

But-

Astarion glances back at the small campsite. Tav is nowhere to be seen; she sleeps in their tent. The protective spells guarding the Dragomir Cloak have taken a toll on her strength. Astarion wishes she could join him in the sunlight. After enduring years confined to darkness and liminal spaces, Tav deserves to bask in the day's warmth alongside him.

She can't.

A piercing screech rends the air, drawing Astarion's gaze skyward. There, high above, a red dragon soars, its massive form appearing no larger than a bird from this distance.

Astarion and Tav had been hunting for the cloak since they departed from Baldur's Gate. Initially, it was just a flicker of hope, a phantom possibility. There may have been something out there to aid Astarion to walk in the sun. A ring, a spell, a blessing, or maybe even a cure – the possibilities were as vast and unpredictable as the wonders of Faerun.

They found the vampire cloak in the Underdark, protected by a dozen spells and traps. However, the items came with a condition – one had to provide something of equal value to obtain it. A fair exchange, a valuable possession for a valuable possession.

Astarion tried to dissuade Tav. The ghostly guardian's demands needed clarification. What exactly did he want in return? Tav's life, perhaps half of it? A potential imprisonment or transformation into a monstrous being? It could be something intangible, like memories, skills, or sanity…

There is nothing worse than making pacts with supernatural entities, whether hags, devils, or vampires. Trust a Baldurian magistrate.

"We can't just walk away!" Tav pleaded.

He objected and attempted to reason with her, searching for alternative solutions. Yet, deep down, they both knew there was none. Tav gestured towards the radiant day outside, the lure of stepping into the sunlight undeniable.

Astarion reluctantly agreed, but he was supposed to make the sacrifice, not her. However, before Astarion could intervene, Tav reached for the cloak. A valuable lifesaving thing in exchange for something equally vital.

Astarion shouted at her. How could she be so reckless? Why did she never ever listen to him? When his tirade ended, he steeled himself for her response.

Tav remained silent. He would never hear a single word from her.

The price was her ability to talk.

… The dragon disappears in the skies, and Astarion returns to the camp.

Tav can't speak to the people they meet. She can't talk to the quest givers. She can't simply say what she wants and needs and even writing skills are little help since most people in Faerun are illiterate.

Astarion wanted to summon the guardian back and return this cursed thing, but it wouldn't improve anything.

The price was paid.

And as with any curse created by a vampire, it was irreversible.

Astarion sometimes wants to burn this cloak, to rip it apart. He wishes they never learned about its existence.

Sure, it could be worse. Blindness or deafness would be much worse than being just mute. A thousand paladins and clerics give an oath of silence. But they have a choice to break it.

Astarion looks inside the tent. Tav is still asleep, curled in her side of the bedroll. Despite the warm temperature, she is wrapped in blankets. Looking at her, he feels warmth in the undead heart as if a small sun pulsates within his ribcage.

He needs to find a solution. To teach Tav to speak Thieves Cant? It's basically sign language, profane and rude, but very practical. Or lip-reading? If Tav "pronounces" everything clearly, he can recognize the words.

There are also telepathy spells…

He hears a sniff.

It happens so unexpectedly that Astarion first can't realize what he has just heard.

Tav tries to cover her head with the blanket, pretending she is still asleep. And not crying uncontrollably.

"Tav, my sweet, I know you are awake," he enters the tent and removes the cloak, kneeling beside his love.

Another sniff. Louder and more desperate.

Astarion hesitates. It's usually Tav consoling him after nightmares and yet another breakdown. It's her hugging him when it's just too much to bear.

And Astarion has never seen her crying like that. He strokes the blanket, hoping she feels his touch through the thick fabric. "I am here."

He almost adds, "Speak to me," but bites his tongue.

As Tav ceases to conceal her silent tears, trembling and shuddering, Astarion grapples with the profound weight of the silence that envelops them.

He has never realized how talkative and loud she used to be.

As Astarion pulls the blanket away, he unveils Tav curled up in a fetal position, her eyes swollen and face red. The upper part of the blanket is damp, soaked in tears.

Astarion feels a desperate urge to run away, and escape the overwhelming responsibility of being a caregiver. He fears that his presence will only exacerbate her pain, that he'll inflict more harm than healing.

No. He can't do this to her. She needs him.

He sighs, wrapping his hands gently around her waist, guiding her to sit on his lap. Cradling her, Astarion kisses her cheek.

"I miss it," he begins, carefully choosing words. "I miss your voice. You used to talk to me, asking if you could touch or kiss me. I miss the way you spoke about my own self-worth. Your laughter."

Tav presses her face against his chest. He kisses her forehead.

"Once, I asked you what in nine hells you'd found in me. Of course, I knew the answer – who else would be so handsome and smart like me? But what I couldn't understand was what attracted you in the first place, considering I had tried to slice your throat. Remember what you told me? You said you had fallen in love with my voice. You said you just wanted to hear me speaking to you".

"The thing is… it was the same for me. There, on that cursed Nauthiloid, I'd heard you before I saw you. I would never admit it, but I liked how you sounded. Not this drunk voice of my victims, not an order from the master. Just you being so stubborn about survival."

Tav silently cries, and Astarion sees her lips moving. He tries to concentrate on them, figuring out what she is saying, but she trembles, and he can't work anything out.

"I wish we never found this thing. If I knew what it would cost, I would accept fate as a creature of the night. I was selfish. I wanted more than I had, but what I had was enough. Freedom and you, it was enough. I didn't need the sun to feel happy. But now… We have to work it out."

Tav nods and finally pulls away from his shirt, looking into Astarion's eyes. He smiles at her, and she, with hesitation, smiles back.

He keeps talking. He talks like a lovestruck drunkard in a tavern who needs the strongest wine to confess their feelings.

About the night he realized he was in love with her.

About tensed days when he tried to cast this feeling away. How he was afraid to hear the rejection. And how he felt when Tav admitted she felt something, too.

Her protecting him from the Drow bitch. Agreeing on helping with the scars. Saving him from the gravest mistake he could make.

A night in the cemetery when he forgot about any decency, if he even had one, pinning Tav down to the ground. How they returned to the inn, all covered in soil as if they were gravedigging.

Tav is his first. She is his first sentient being to feed on. Her blood is addictive, divine – no one tastes like her. He's had thousands of opportunities to understand this.

She is the first person who he made love to. He had no idea what it was supposed to feel like until that night in the graveyard.

Tav sits up and wraps her hands around his neck.

"I will never leave you, you hear me, Tav?" Astarion affirms, and she nods in acknowledgment. "But we need a way to communicate," he says, gently pulling her away. She clings to him like a kitten, reluctant to be separated.

"Okay then," Astarion decides, reaching for the cloak. With Tav cradled in his arms, he steps into the sunlight, carrying her in a bridal embrace. Together, they ascend to the cliff he stood before, where he lingers, allowing her to share in the picturesque view.

The dragon is nowhere to be seen, but Tav finally stops crying, looking at the distant mountains.

Astarion puts her on the ground, and they sit in front of each other.

"I want to be able to lip-reading you. It's easy. I did it before; I must adjust to your pretty mouth."

Tav silently giggles and then leans back with a smile. Now, she looks like her real self – funny, strong, brave. Asatrion melts by simply looking at her.

"I need you to talk to me."

Tav spreads her legs a bit and bites her lower lip. Her head tilts a bit, demonstrating the right side of the neck.

"My pretty darling, if this mouth of yours doesn't do what I asked, I will find another use for it."

She smiles, and her lips form a sentence.

YOU. ARE. A. FREAK. AND. I. LOVE. YOU.

"Well, if you don't stop teasing me, I will make both your lips and tongue work."

I. DON’T. MIND.

He chuckles, studying her face.

"I am surprised you were single when I met you. Lucky me."

NO. ONE. IS. LIKE. YOU.

"Keep going."

DON’T. BE. UPSET. WE. ALL. LOSE. SOMETHING. IT’S. A. PART. OF. LIFE. IT. WIIL. BE. EASIER. FOR. US. WITH. THE. CLOAK.

"Yes. It will. Are you upset?"

I. AM.

"I will teach you Thieves Cant. It's easy. I suggest telepathy spells, but I don't know how to learn them.

NO. I. DON'T. WANT. TO. GET. IN. YOUR. HEAD. YOU. NEED. YOUR. AUTONOMY. I. AM. NOT. BREECHING. IT" "

She keeps talking. Telling different nice things. The more she talks, the more she is her old self. Kind. Funny. Smart. Horny. And by the sunset, he forgets he doesn't hear her voice because they finally properly speak.

When the sun sets, he removes the cloak, letting the moonlight wash his hair and skin.

I.AM. TIRED, Tav pouts. CARRY. ME. BACK.

Astarion obliges and receives a kiss when she is in his hands again.

As the night falls, it gets much colder, and Tav is shivering when they return to the tent. She quickly sneaks under the blanket and makes an inviting gesture.

Astarion lays beside Tav and nuzzles her collarbone. She kisses him goodbye and falls asleep.

He doesn't need to meditate yet, so he lets himself drown in Tav's warmth and steady heartbeat. Astarion presses her tightly and lets his own tears flow.

"I wish it never happened," he whispers in the dark.

Tag list

@tragedybunny @caitlincat-95 @tallymonster @astarionsbeloved @lumienyx @fayeriess @aoirohi @elora-the-slutty-songstress @veillsar @astarion-imagine-archive @micropoe10 @starlight-ipomoea @herstxrgirl

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lordundying · 5 months

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— WIP WEDNESDAY

it's still wednesday for me !! so !! tagged by beloveds @adelaidedrubman @corvosattano @socially-awkward-skeleton and @faerune for wips, thank you my loves ♡

sending tags to @florbelles @adelaidedrubman @henbased @vasiktomis @belorage @jackiesarch @chuckhansen @queennymeria @yourlove-is-sunlight @shallow-gravy @angharradhs @inafieldofdaisies @arctvrvs @risingsh0t @cassietrn @thedeadthree @dickytwister @moonflowcr @delicateweapon @starsandskies @strangefable @firstaidspray @nokstella @gwynbleidd and anyone else who sees this and would like to play!

working on the nsfw prompts from the other day so have some (still sfw) varyaheart! longer wip because it's been a while and i don't know when i'm actually going to finish this xoxoxo durge!varya x shadowheart more like "local woman refuses to admit she doesn't like when girlfriend disappears randomly, continues to be upset when it happens"

“Sweetness,” the brunette tuts in a come now sort of fashion that makes her skin prickle with delight. “I hate making a fuss. That is all.”

Her brows furrow in at the center of her forehead, lips pressing into a thin line despite the overwhelming urge to kiss the skin she can reach.

She says, “No, you love making a fuss. Go on, have another go. I love guessing when you play off your reticence as modesty.”

As admonished as a woman like Varya can be, she pulls back , dark eyes searching for a moment before she presses the pad of her thumb to the love line on Shadowheart’s palm. This little camp they’ve made for themselves on their way out from the Shadowlands is dreadfully quiet at night—morguelike, even—and in the lapse of their more hushed conversation, she’s sure she can hear the uneasy thump, thump, thump-thump of the other woman’s heart.

The silence compounds on top of the divinely-punishing quiet from Shar; it bleeds and bloats, a swollen corpse, bulging eyes and splitting skin as it winds around them. The now-familiar sensation of panic begins to coil inside of her. It wiggles its fingers between the slats of her ribs and grips, yanks, rocks back and forth, getting bigger with each passing second.

You don’t understand, she wants to say. It’s just that I really—I really think that I—with you, I need—I need you to—

“I missed you.” Varya glances at her through curtained lashes. Her fingertips graze the inside of Shadowheart’s wrist as she sidles back closer again. “Most immodestly.”

No smoke and mirrors here, not anymore. Not with the way looking feels like kissing, not with the way she can feel Varya’s breath against her lips, count the freckles touched by each individual lash; the intimacy of the moment, with only whispers of physical contact somehow sustaining each suspended second, almost washes away the strange panic that sits high in her throat every time she wakes up to find the other woman gone.

“If only there were a solution to that,” she manages through the tightness, “such as not disappearing as much, or so often.”

“My, you are cross with me,” Varya remarks lightly. One of her hands drops to the dip of Shadowheart’s collarbone, fingers tracing the shape and curve of it. “What is it, then? Must I divine this dark cloud over your soul myself? Is it a test? I am very good at tests.”

Yes. “No,” Shadowheart says. “There is no dark cloud, and it is no test. It would simply do you good to not go where not a single one of us knows to check, in the instance you fail to return.”

“I suppose I should inform whoever I like the least,” her paramour muses, even as her fingers idly tug at the laces of Shadowheart’s top, “so that they may be the ones to find me, and lose their extremities—since my failure to return would be predated only by complete bodily-haunting, such as what we dealt with the other night.”

Her eyes narrow. She begins, rather primly, “Well—”

“And as I rather like your extremities,” Varya continues blithely, lips brushing the corner of her mouth, “it would simply do me good to make sure you remain in possession of them.”

#— x. what resembles the grave but isn't.#— wip tag.#this one's sitting at a cool 1k so. maybe. we will see the end of it.#maybe !!#*posts at the worst time of the night*

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avinryd · 8 months

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ficbit time!!!

BG3 brainrot incoming. What can I say, the sad arrogant wizard got to me. I will not apologize.

“What in Mystra’s name were you thinking?”

He keeps his voice below a shout, barely, but Arden flinches as if he hadn’t. Still, their voice is level when they reply,

“What do you mean, ‘what was I thinking’? You were there, in my mind. You know. You saw.”

‘What I saw was a stubborn fool with more power than sense,’ Gale does not say. That would brand him the most egregious hypocrite on the Sword Coast, after all. Instead he exhales deliberately though his nose, searching for calm before he speaks again.

“Your mind is a maelstrom, Arden—” fuck, he can’t quite keep the awe from his voice “—and I’m no illithid master of the psionic arts. At least, not yet. So I ask again: what in the Hells were you thinking? Did nothing I said, no impression of the severity of the situation get through to you?”

“Of course it did!” They snap back, eyes flashing in a very literal sense. “The situation seemed very urgent, so I chose the most expedient solution available.”

“How does ‘pouring your entire life force and then some down a drain’ register to you as a solution at all? Let alone the most expedient!”

“This, coming from the man whose apparent life plan is to find the darkest corner of Faerun to detonate his mistake, rather than find a way to fix it. Your self-preservation record seems as black as mine, Gale of Waterdeep.”

Before Gale can sputter out a reply to that comment, they continue bitterly,

“There’s a hole in the Weave sitting in your chest, and I’m brim-full of the stuff that threads the loom.”

Lightning crackles between their fingers as if to illustrate.

“It’s just…so much. It stood to reason that enough of it could er—fill the hole, as it were.”

(There’s more to it than that; Gale’s no fool. The sorcerer’s hands have balled into fists, some deep-seated frustration robbing them of their usual eloquence. “Brim-full”. “So much”. If Gale had to guess—with that part of his mind not worried about the apocalypse in his chest—he’d conjecture that Arden suffers under a problem diametrically opposed to his own. He shelves the thought for later.)

Arden at least has the decency to look ashamed.

“Clearly, I’m outclassed—I’d never encountered Netherese magic before last night. I won’t— I won’t apologize for my actions, but I did not take you at your word and for that, I am sorry.”

There's like, 2k in this doc so far and I'm not quite done with this piece. I'm thinking it'll be a series of oneshots(actually 2 series, companions) that vaguely follow my playthrough as Storm Sorcerer blast-first-questions-later Arden. We have a good time, and Arden's vowed to vaporize everyone who's ever hurt their friends, up to and including the gods themselves.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fic #gale x tav #gale x mc #gale x named tav #ficbits of ryd #avinryd

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gwimulchorom · 2 years

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Myron stays in bed the day after the siege, more in quiet trepidation than the shame her bunkmate felt for losing.

The last thing she remembers is falling to her knees and then to her side when the adrenaline had finally faded from her, replaced with a now deeply familiar pain and lack of coordination for a body that she could no longer rely on. Whoever had moved her would’ve noticed how light she was- as if she was going to be snapped in a slight breeze. In truth, it would be a reprieve if it happened, really.

The rest had already gone off for breakfast, and she could hear Haruuc’s voice echoing down the corridor, loudly searching for Milo. Near her, a quiet sigh exited the half-dwarf as he eventually got up too- just as she feels a sharp pain in her ear, a familiar berate and is on her feet, managing a resigned smile in Milo’s direction as it sinks in to him that he was very much seeing double.

A whirlwind of events followed: Myron being introduced to Muirin’s girlfriend (a high elf named Elia, one she couldn’t quite get a read on but remained politely curious towards) and drinking apricot wine while they both fussed over her about putting on some weight and actually taking better care of herself. In truth, she had forgotten how to properly care for herself, what with her workload between the school and the Wyrmworks keeping her busy enough that she wasn’t particularly inclined to bother.

What she’d taken away was that a body was a means to an end. She didn’t think of it more as a vessel to hold her soul in, to maneuver and produce mechanical marvels, than anything else. Of course, this was deeply dysphoric behavior, something Myron was gravely aware of but had no means of fixing- after all, her original body had been destroyed, vaporised through a fault in the Mythal, and this was but the “second-best” solution to ensure the Red Wizard could function and be intact.

It was cruelly funny to her how everything seemed to line up one after another. There was a difference between fighting Muirin in public and simply going along with matters, and the latter seemed so much easier when managing her own form seemed a feat in and by itself. She finishes a lavish breakfast and drinks with the duo (who both said they couldn’t be seen here, something Myron chuckled and took in stride), and when she prepares herself to head out, she finds a warhorse in red and brown drapings, undoubtedly for her.

Oh, where do we begin; The rubble or our sins?

She returns for Muirin to take the three dragon eggs from her, but not before Haruuc nearly ruins matters attempting to keep an egg that would simply never hatch into “a good dragon” that he seemed to be looking for. Even then, her mind remained distant, watching Muirin grow into herself with a quiet pride of someone who had enough time apart to finally overcome her own inferiority and jealousy about matters.

They had different niches, and it seemed inevitable that everyone just vastly preferred Muirin over her, anyway. Abjuration was just a school that seemed universally acceptable across Faerun, whereas Illusion came as redirection and deception, a hollow lack of reality.

Even Tate’s age-old question bounces off her when it would’ve bothered her 20yo self, when they used to be claws that seem to dig into a complex nurtured from tutors and fellow mages comparing them both constantly as they grew.

“Why is your sister so good and you’re like this now?”

She examines her own hands- calloused from hard work drawing diagrams on dragon hide, examining various dragon parts for their viability and cutting them into salvageable components, constantly shattered and mended enchanting with high-levelled magic far beyond the reach for the layman.

Nobody needed to know her baggage, drowning in grief and despair about Silverymoon and everything she’d lost.

Not that Muirin didn’t, or the fact that she’d volunteered this to Milo because she very clearly knew she would never speak it on her own terms. They’d taken turns to scry on each other over the years, after all.

It felt like acid melting in her throat, a cantrip she seemed naturally inclined to, when she wanted to retort that she didn’t ask to die, to be in chronic pain so much she wanted to just give up all the time, and she hadn’t asked to have all the spells she very much knew all locked away through sheer pain of her bones splitting open every time she made a familiar motion for something that she couldn’t attain with her current recovery process.

She asks herself: what was the point taking out her frustrations on someone who didn’t know better and would never? It wasn’t something that she wished on anyone else, after all. Maybe being a professor did do her some good after all in learning some patience around people.

“We took very different paths,” her truth slips out, one that remained reservedly resigned as she manages a quiet smile like she had so many secrets within her she had no reason to share, “That’s all there is to it.”

Myron allows the silence to settle between her and her teammates, victoriously satisfied. She’s comfortable letting it stretch on bringing the stacks of books to Muirin via a Floating Disk (what, they weren’t physically strong, it seemed to make the most sense) and retiring to work on her fang, her first major project since the accident when she’d found it mostly intact and partially embedded in her chest.

Eventually, Alasker’s Tooth would return to its glory of warding her from the wiles of dragons and allow her to sprout wings, letting her take off in majesty. It could even surpass itself and grant her more, an old friend and foe that seemed to always be with her as if she had just been gifted it.

For now, it was as broken as she was, and she needed to be patient with it, in a manner she couldn’t seem to apply to herself. She feels the fang writhe in her hand as if alive, sparks flying off its tip when it reacts to familiar magic while she works in one of the studies in Muirin’s house, stirring like a newborn dragon moving around restlessly in its shell.

Life endured, loathe as she struggled to deny its relentless advance.

She puts on her binocular spectacles and gets to work in silence, patiently stitching the restored fang together.

#who lives; who dies; who tells your story | myron #you are the sun; and i am just a planet | muirin #my work

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venusdevotea · 6 months

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throwing this spawn!astarionxtav brainrot out into the ether- ficlet not really a fic but a semi fleshed out idea, please feel free to use and change, build upon as I'm not a great fic writer but pls enjoy.

summary: spawn!astarion and you struggling to find a solution to your mortality and his immortality to stay together forever- you want to change, but he doesn't want you to until that choice is taken from the both of you after you are taken yourself and made into another ascendant's spawn and you are gone from him for years, decades, without any explanation. You find your way back to him, bloodied and turned after the agony of killing your master, but maybe with your blood, he too can walk in the sun and both of you can live together forever as survivors. slaves turned spawns turned survivors who can now walk in the sun, hand in hand.

So yes, he did not proceed with the ascension ritual and he will be a spawn for the rest of his days. Free, but forever saddled with the promise of eternity, and the promise that one day, you too will pass.

It's a thought that both of you try to ignore in the events post-canon, but it is and always will be a worried thought in your mind. The inevitable heartbreak of your mortality, and his imperfect immortality.

You both tried to find a way to figure it out together, maybe find a way for him to become mortal or you immortal; you floated the idea of maybe finding another practitioner of the sanguine arts like Lady Araj, to see if there could be another way to turn you without the contract of servitude to a master, but to no avail. Astarion would stake himself first before you too turned into the thing he hated most. A slave to someone else for the rest of eternity, and barring that, a slave to the night and his unending hunger. No, that would be the one thing he would never allow.

But pretty things tend to shine brighter under the cover of night. One slip, one mistake of wandering through the streets of Baldur's Gate late at night without your pale companion by your side, and you are taken. Stolen from his arms, and ripped from the pillow of safety and domestic bliss that you have created with each other. Gone, just like that.

It was as simple as you not returning home that night. Panic stricken and heartbroken, Astarion searches the ends of Faerun for you, gathers your old companions once again, and soon, days pass. Weeks pass. Months turn into years into decades and maybe he just has to accept that he has to live the rest of his wretched days without you. He isn't alone, but the downcast and teary eyed faces of your companions don't help either. He did not love them the way he loved you, and they did not love him the way that you had so deeply come to love him.

He contemplates sleeping outside of his tent one night to see the sun come up one final time, feel the sun kissing his skin with the same warmth of your lips on his, and maybe then he will know peace and if not in life, he would see you again in death. But before the sun could crest over his skin, a shadow looms over him and creeps ever closer.

It was you. By gods, it was you! Blood soaked and wounded, your newfound pale skin and matching ruby eyes shining in the light, you crumple onto him. He quickly drags you both into his tent and before he could question if this was a hallucination of the afterlife or indeed reality, croaked words spill from your lips.

"I did it." "Did what, my love?" "Cazador... he wasn't the only one. He wasn't the only vampire trying to ascend. She needed new servants after her Black Mass, so she turned me and so many others. She stole and stole and stole from the city, only to take more and fill the void of power Cazador left. I- I'm so sorry I left you, my love-" you say before breaking down in a fit of sobs against his chest. He holds you tightly, still wondering how this could be possible, how were you still laying here before him.

You both cry, holding each other tightly for a long time. After decades that felt like centuries apart, he had you back. You, an immortal spawn like him, used and enslaved as he was, his biggest fear. He couldn't protect you. He couldn't save you. And yet here you were, finding your way back into his arms. Changed. Immortal. And...?

"Bite me," you finally say, after catching your breath. Astarion pulls back to look at you, a little incredulous. "I mean, yes of course, my dear, but you seem to be losing a lot of blood already. Please, let's just rest. Everything else can wait until you are well." "Astarion, I... I was the spawn of the Ascendant. I searched for you, days and nights, I was able to find you in the light. Please my love, let me share this with you. We can be together, forever like wanted. Out in the light."

---

Aaaaand scene. Barebones idea I wrote at work, please feel free to work with it, completely change it, build on it. I'm more of a poetry writer myself so fanfics aren't exactly my forte, but I wanted to try my hand at this. Thanks for reading!

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thetoxicgamer · 7 months

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Baldur’s Gate 3 Random Encounters Add an Ever-Present Threat to Faerun

Baldur’s Gate 3 is filled with various perilous encounters, but as you traverse the realms of Faerûn, you'll gradually clear out the paths, leaving you with relatively deserted areas. If you enjoy revisiting places and spending more time exploring, this Baldur’s Gate 3 random encounters mod is precisely what you need to keep the gameplay engaging. Among the top contenders for the best Baldur’s Gate 3 mods, 'The Hunted,' created by 'Gabe Camomescro,' introduces random encounters that occur unpredictably as you explore the expansive RPG world. It's an effective way to keep your game dynamic and ensure you never feel completely safe. As someone who dedicates a lot of time to thoroughly exploring every nook and cranny of Baldur’s Gate 3 acts in search of hidden secrets, I've noticed that areas can become a bit quiet over time. This mod offers a great solution to that issue. Installing the mod is relatively straightforward; you just need to use a special potion, which can be acquired from a specific vendor early in each of the game’s acts. You have the option to choose the default, full-chaos mode, where random enemies can attack you at any time, even interrupting conversations, or a 'protected' version that prevents spawns when you're within 100 meters of non-party, non-summoned allies. Gabe explains, “Spawns can, and will, mess up NPCs. This was not planned for, but I find it realistic enough in a Dungeons and Dragons setting to not poke at it too much.” Nevertheless, if you want to avoid potential conflicts that might disrupt a potential Baldur’s Gate 3 romance, for example, you now have the option to disable random encounters when entering town. In addition to the standard monsters that can appear, which are typical enemies encountered in regular gameplay and originate from your chosen act when using the "bait" spell, you'll also encounter a new creature – Treasure Goblins. Similar to those in games like Diablo, these creatures will attempt to flee from you. If you defeat them in time, you'll receive loot such as gold, health potions, and scrolls. Fail to do so, and they'll become petrified and burning, serving as a reminder of your failure. After some experimentation, Gabe decided that these random encounters should grant a small amount of experience per kill. This way, you gain some benefits from facing these additional challenges, without the risk of overly leveling up your character unless you grind them for an extended period. The mod also includes several pets that can join you in combat. Originally, these pets were part of an earlier version used as the spawn trigger for random encounters, but Gabe decided to keep them “for added fun and as a little extra firepower.” However, they are notably weaker than players, so don't expect them to carry you through battles – you'll have to rely on your own character's abilities and builds for that. If the idea of adding random encounters to spice up your adventure appeals to you, you can find and download the Baldur’s Gate 3 The Hunted mod here. The page also provides instructions for installation and customization. Personally, I'm strongly considering experimenting with it in my next playthrough, along with some of Gabe’s other mods, linked on the same page, which include a ring allowing you to polymorph into over 30 different creature types and "Instruments of Controlled Chaos," transforming cosmetic instrument interactions into potent weapons. If you're interested in crafting in Baldur’s Gate 3, our guide can help you harness one of the most powerful yet underutilized tools in the Larian Studios RPG. And if you're in the mood to watch the adventures of others, I recommend starting with Baldur’s Gate 3 narrator Amelia Tyler’s Dark Urge run, which she just began this week with hilarious results. Read the full article

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krispdreemurr · 5 years

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:thinking: faerune noelle? and what would happen to her in the later chapters..

hmmm

susie goes missing for a while, and kris changes, becomes even weirder, quieter, and for all your prying you can’t figure out what’s going on because they just look at you blank-eyed when you question. and you panic, and hunt, and search, but there’s nothing.

and then–

and then susie comes back, and kris starts acting like themselves again, and like. it’s great? definitely great? but now they’re definitely dodging your questions, and susie and kris are having weird meetings after school, and you’re honestly just worried about them? they’re a childhood friend and, um, susie. you want to know what’s going on.

(and hunting for answers is a nice distraction from everything else in your life. your father, your mother. all the things you can’t fix. there is so, so much in your life that is broken, and this is only one part.)

you see the way they glance at the old storage closet, now and again, warily. you see the way they duck to walk around it, see how they tense and refuse when alphys asks them to get supplies.

so you go to check, and walk into the dark–

and someone in tattered green robes, smiling, strings just barely visible in the dark, and he tells you that you’re the hero, that you’ll fix everything.

you follow him. looking for answers. looking for solutions. looking for one thing you can get right.

the stage lights shine so warmly.

(someone shows up for school the next day and takes a seat at your desk, and kris and susie look at each other and know.)

#faerune #angst #i-can-do-tricks

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utilitycaster · 5 years

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Lucretia’s D&D Class

Please see my evidence for why Lucretia is a druid with 2 levels of paladin. Spoilers for literally all of TAZ: Balance.

1. Her school of magic per the relics, as well as the one spell she casts in canon (Shield of Faith), are both abjuration spells. Druids don’t specialize in any school of magic, but they are protectors of nature and have a good number of abjuration spells.

2. In the finale, she is still alive when Magnus dies. Canonically, she and Magnus are both humans and she is about 20 years older than he is (having given up 20 years of her life in Wonderland, she appears to be in her 50s at the time of the main series and Magnus is in his early 30s) Magnus is stated to live a long life. It’s definitely possible she just lives to be in her 90s or older, but if she were a L18 druid by that time she would age 1 year for every 10 years of life per Timeless Body and would easily outlive Magnus. She’s obviously a primary caster and no other casting class has a similar agelessness - only Oath of the Ancients paladins and mystics (if you include those) do. However…

3. Shield of Faith is a first level spell available to clerics, paladins, and artificers. Because she has to be able to take 18 levels in druid she can be no more than 2 levels in another class. She can’t therefore multiclass into artificer as they don’t have any spells until L3. She also has stated she puts no trust into the gods and so I don’t think cleric is a good fit. Hence, paladins: they can believe in the gods, or they can swear an oath to a concept, and a L2 Paladin has first level spells. Given Lucretia’s dedication to duty above all and willingness to suffer terribly for it, a few levels of paladin aren’t surprising. Now, you may ask why she’s not just a L15+ Oath of the Ancients Paladin, who cannot die of old age and would definitely have this spell (and whose directive is to nurture the light). However, she shows virtually no physical combat skills and is able to cast an unnamed extremely strong shielding spell, and so she is unlikely to be solely a paladin, as they are a mixed fighting/casting class.

4. She makes a wooden staff as her item. Druids don’t use metal armor or shields and are proficient with clubs and staffs.

5. Her spell in the finale isn’t anything in the player’s handbook, but druids have access to a lot of shielding and planar spells such that this is a feasible extrapolation for the sake of narrative fiction and the power of the staff, which is already, as a relic, able to do things beyond the abilities of the creators (eg: Magnus’s relic can do magic and he can’t).

6. The fandom jokes about the lack of party balance for the Starblaster’s crew, but most of the NPC classes are never stated explicitly and they don’t necessarily need to be wizards. Therefore:

Magnus is a fighter, Merle is a cleric, Taako is a wizard (canonical PCs)

Lup and Barry are probably wizards given their abilities and the fact that they were able to become liches, though Barry either multiclassed into fighter or his amnesiac Faerun self became a fighter but his true lich self is a wizard.

Davenport does illusion magic, which could be any of the casters, or an arcane trickster. His stats are never stated nor can I find a specific spell he cast online (I haven’t relistened to the series in full while writing this).

Therefore: if Davenport were a high level arcane trickster he could serve as a battler along with Magnus as needed, or he could be a bard and serve as a backup healer. If Lucretia were a druid, we still have a wizard-heavy party but it’s nowhere near as bad:

3 wizards of different skillsets (transmutation, evocation, necromancy). Note that a necromancer would probably know Vampiric Touch which lets them heal by draining the life of others, evocation lets you do ridiculous amounts of damage, and Taako has a high dex modifier and is good with acrobatics so he can probably stay out of the way of a lot of damage, especially if Lup has spell-shaping to begin with.

A cleric

A fighter

An arcane trickster or college of glamour bard (both high-utility characters; also if Davenport were a bard this adds some great additional narrative reasons for Lucretia taking away most of his ability to speak)

A druid, perhaps one who took the paladin levels as part of her character arc (maybe during the year she was alone, or as part of her ultimate decision to protect the light?)

This is a much more balanced party with at least one and maybe two additional healers, which would also explain why Merle is unused to being the sole healer of the party (though obviously any weirdness before the second voidfish incident can be chalked up to the induced amnesia).

Addressing potential counterarguments:

1. She’s an NPC and not subject to class requirements: true, at which point this whole argument and all arguments about Lucretia’s class are moot. Like, this does not impact your ability to appreciate the story but some of us like to come up with complicated mechanical explanations for D&D stories that fit in the rules, even though the whole point of having a DM is allowing exceptions for the sake of story. We are nerds. Just...bear with us.

2. The wiki says wizard. Whatever. Not stated in canon. Next.

3. She never uses Wild Shape, a major hallmark of the druid. However, it is worth noting that she doesn’t get a whole lot of screen time during which she’s not being the director and therefore needs to be reachable and able to communicate, which many animals cannot, and if she doesn’t reach L18 in druid until post-story (ie, in between the Day of Story and Song and Magnus’s death) she would be unable to cast in Wild Shape form and hence may avoid it unless absolutely necessary. Based on her pre-Stolen Century nature she seems more of a Circle of the Land spellcasting-focused druid than a Circle of the Moon wild shape-focused druid. Having access to wild shape would actually help explain a few items, notably how she could survive for a year in hiding on her own, how she made it through Wonderland, and how she could personally gather information before having the whole Bureau set up. Also the real reason she doesn’t want dogs on the moon so that no one will smell the cat in her office from when she wild shapes into a cat and hides in a drawer for some goddamn peace and quiet.

4. Wizards have access to Modify Memory. Obviously it’s not perfect and has limitations (opportunities to resist, can’t be cast on a wide net) but never does Lucretia even consider using Modify Memory for small things. It’s voidfishes all the way down.

5. Wizards cast with intelligence. Druids cast with wisdom. Is it wise to do what Lucretia did? I would argue that she truly believed she was doing the right but hard thing and was acting based on that. The knowledge of the planes and the impact of her shielding spell is more of an arcana element that the wizards of the party can understand but perhaps a wise but not as intelligent character would not. Wisdom is also considered to be akin to resilience, willpower, and resolve - all things Lucretia demonstrates. Her trait in the beginning of the Stolen Century is perception - she’s the journal keeper. Later, she knows what she’s doing is deeply controversial and her insight shows her that the hunger will devour all if she doesn’t stop it…but she doesn’t quite have the intelligence to know how. Contrast her quiet determination and forging ahead with her plan vs. the intelligent wizards, who endlessly search for solutions but don’t take the same kind of definitive but painful action.

#taz balance #taz: balance #lucretia #the adventure zone #i've had this in drafts a very long time but was waiting until i started this sideblog

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ecotone99 · 5 years

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[FN] D&D Fiction: The Tale of Rolen Smith

Rolen Smith shambled out of bed and toward his medicine chest. Rifling through the vials and bottles, he came across the potion he was looking for. One brew to cure a hangover, another to provide energy. He poured them both into his bedside goblet and drank the concoction quickly. Bitter. He retched as usual but the years of practice kept him from expelling it immediately. It was nothing like the vague sweetness of a valuable healing potion, but at least he was feeling better.

His blurry vision began to clear and his small room came into view around him. A single window with a view of the street below shone light onto his straw bed. He could hear the noises of the city on the street below. Many voices drowned each other out to create a single drone. There was the neighing of horses and the clops upon the cobblestone. Beside his medicine chest was a dresser, and across the room sat his desk. It was a modest dwelling in a modest house in a respectable district of Waterdeep.

He glanced at a mirror that hung on his wall. He saw a young man with short cropped auburn hair and olive skin. He was a bit short, even for a half-elf, and it had been a while since he had some good exercise. His features were sharp and his ears pointed. He gave himself a slick smile. Spying his clock on the desk, he could see that it was almost time for work, but there was plenty of time to go leisurely.

Rolen was a self-employed Alchemist. Over the years he had gradually earned his place in the community through his relationship with the Alchemist’s guild. During his apprenticeship, he found that he was a good salesman and often had the solution to most of life’s problems. His strategy was to step back and find the root of his potential customers’ issues, and try to solve that. With Alchemy, there usually was a solution given a bit of inspiration and creativity. It was a long road, but owning his own business had become a worthy reward. He had come a long way from being the only child of a small-town blacksmith.

Rolen often thought of his childhood and the unfairness of it. He had never known his elven mother, and his Human father rarely spoke of her other than to say that she left because she had more important things to deal with. Of course, that was the polite way of saying that she got bored. It was not unusual to have a single parent in Rolen’s circles, but it was usually something to do with an Orc attack or fleeing from persecution. He was too embarrassed to admit that his mother with simply tired of her man and child. His father was a stoic and harsh man, soft spoken until he ran out of patience. With Rolen his temper was often short, especially since his early blacksmith apprenticeship was one of countless errors and a general lack of enthusiasm. Life was hard in a small town as a half-elf, especially with an unsympathetic and clueless father. He had a hard time making friends and spent most of the time alone with his books, which his father was at least able to provide. One day, he came across a volume that would come to shape his future, “Beginner’s Alchemy.”

With just the common ingredients found in the woods and simple tools that were available around the house, he began to take control of his own life. His peers thought it was a strange habit until they sampled what he had to make. Simple energy potions, mood-enhancing potions, and more complicated brews like potions of bravery helped him and his new friends. Even his father came to make use of certain concoctions that allowed for long hours of precise work. Potion making occupied most of his time and became something of an obsession. His search for new potions finally peaked when he found the one that he would hold above all others.

He found it in an obscure section of an advanced tome. It was a potion to connect oneself to one’s inner spirit. A deep delve into one’s own mind and the connection one had to the multitude of planes. While remaining his his physical body, he was able to explore the world inside himself and how his own mind connected to the greater universe. He had conversations with the likes of Modrons and Fey on one hand and devils and yugoloths on the other. He, and every living creature, were connected to all realms on a deep and spiritual level. It was an exhausting process, but the depths of awakening he was able to access were unrivaled. Through his explorations, he found that he could no longer remain in his small town and set out to the largest city he knew of.

Rolen descended the stairs into his the shop. The walls were packed with herbs, teas, containers, apparatuses, spell components, and everything aside from alchemicals themselves. For security, he brewed all potions on demand from a catalog he kept on the counter. Few thieves would find any value in dried leaves and dust. Most potions he was able to concoct on the spot, but a few had to be ordered ahead of time. Usually though, he had plenty of time to sit behind the counter and indulge in his original passion: reading. He sat down and opened his book, “A History of Zakharan Alchemy.”

The day went as usual. His shop was relatively popular in the neighborhood. People needed a little support sometimes in their daily lives, and potions were often an easy solution. Most were benign, some had side effects, some were particularly dangerous, but all had their place. As was his specialty, sometimes he would need to prod his customers to find out the real issues underlying their requests. Sometimes the solution was beyond him and sometimes the solution was a simple pint of ale, of which he would recommend his favorite pub owned by his favorite business associate. Only on a very rare and special occasion, usually outside of work, would he share the potion that had set him on his current life path.

As the day concluded, his duties shifted to accounting. He sipped something that would stave off the boredom of his least favorite task. There were some Alchemists who swore off the use of their own products, but he was not one of them, nor did he want to be. There were certain potions that had addictive qualities that had to be moderated to specific regimens, but others were less dangerous. What was the use of being an expert if one could not take advantage of ones own expertise? It was a common saying that there were two kinds of alchemists, those who made potions and those who made bombs. Rolen was proud to fall in the former group, although he was aware of how to make certain explosives solely for interests’ sake.

Wrapping up his work, he locked his doors and went back upstairs into his home. Today there was no time to socialize as he usually did. He had long ago decided that once a month, his mind would depart the physical plane.

He sat in the middle of his mostly empty living room on the second floor, legs crossed and meditating. It was one thing he had picked up from his Elven heritage, not from a parent but from a book. He found that rather than having the potion activate at some random time while he was engaged in some other activity, meditating put him in the proper mind space to ensure the smoothest transition into the depths of himself. He thought upon his childhood again. He forgave his mother and father as he had done countless times before. He forgave his ignorant childhood peers who had hated him for his differences and liked him only when he became useful. He felt at peace as his mind began to alter.

He opened his eyes. The world was rushing past him at an unbelievable speed. His room, the neighborhood, Waterdeep, Faerun all came into view quickly and dissolved into one another. He rushed past the planet Toril and into the space between the planes. Finally, the process reversed itself and even more quickly he landed in his own mind. All around him were patterns of infinite colors and shape. He was floating in an endless sea of geometric designs. Lights trailed around him and flickered in and out of existence. Finally, he landed.

He stood in an unbelievable palace. The dimensions of the room in which he stood were beyond comprehension. A gargantuan crystalline wall rose higher than he could see up and into either direction. In the center of it was an unbelievably beautiful throne. Sitting upon it was one he had never seen before but could instantly recognize. He stood in the presence of Mystara.

She spoke only a single word, “Rolen.” His own name filled his spirit with joy that was overwhelming. He felt that his body and soul could disentangle and disintegrate simply from the power of the utterance of his own name. There was deeper meaning in it, and at once he had understanding. This place was connected to him in a way that nothing else could possibly be. He felt that he was a small part of this place and everything that he was came from here.

He felt a true awakening of knowledge as he never had before. Energy coursed through his body and exploded outward. He was a part of this place, and this place was infinite magic. Once again, everything began to move and he was hurled through the palace at an exponential rate. Fire, Ice, Electricity, and Earth swirled around him as he flew, emanating from his own body. When Mystara had spoken his name she had not only awakened him, but given him a charge. To have one’s name be spoken by a God was a very sacred thing, and with that he knew that he had responsibilities beyond what he had ever known.

Suddenly he was back in his living room in perfect clarity. Although he was back on the material plane, he felt the same as he did a moment ago. He held out his hand in a cup, and fire spontaneously generated from it. He snapped his fingers on the same hand and the fire disappeared. He held out his finger and sparks flew from it, ceasing when he willed them to. He looked within himself, and found great power. The power was divine. The power did not come from Mystara, but he came from Mystara. It was a rebirth. It was his sacred duty to enact Mystara’s will in the world.

He slowly walked to his cabinet and poured himself some whiskey. It was a lot to take in, and he had a lot to think about.

****

Lucky watched as Rolen shot another fire bolt, shattering an empty bottle. He laughed and said, “Ay, that sure be somthin’.”

Lucky was an older human who had a long life at sea. He came to port at Waterdeep every few months and was a regular customer of Rolen’s. They had gained a mutual respect and friendship over the years.

Rolen launched another fire bolt and another bottle shattered, “This isn’t all. I can enshroud myself with magical armor, cause people to go to sleep at will, conjure illusions, and bless people with supernatural fortune. Of course, my favorite thing is that my potions aren’t bitter anymore.”

Lucky stroked his beard, “Arr, that’s a lot to be sure. And yer wantin’ to know what tae do with it?”

Rolen stopped firing, “That’s it. Until now I’ve been living a pretty simple life, and a mostly meaningless one. In my travels across the planes I’ve seen more than this world has to offer, but I had never stopped to think what I had to offer this world. There is surely evil in the world, but I’ve found that people rarely do evil out of malice. They simply do what’s good for them without considering the effect on others. It’s not malice, but apathy at the source of most of the world’s ills. Where could I possibly start in addressing this?”

Lucky was quick with a response, “Yar, the evil of man be somethin’ truly terrible, and it is as you say. ‘Carse thar be evil beyond what men do, and the evils that men do commit need fixin’. Adventurin’ may be what ye seek. Most do it fer the gold, but all that post work have a job that need doin’.”

Rolen wrinkled his nose, “Mercenary work, huh? I can shoot fire out of my hands but I’m still an alchemist bookworm.”

“Thar be those adventurin’ with far less. I’ve had me share meself. The appeal to ye remains that the work is that what need doin’. Killin’ monsters afor they kill little children, findin’ those absconded with, solvin’ crimes what the authorities don’t want tae. All’s noble work.”

Rolen thought about it for a moment, “I’m sure it’s not all noble work. Like what I was saying before, there are too many who believe that they have the moral authority do do anything that results in what they see as a positive outcome. I’m not a sage, how can I avoid getting caught up in some crusade that ultimately amounts to upholding an oppressive authority?”

Lucky smiled, “There’s none among us who is perfect, but that sentiment will take ye most of the way. Rest easy, thar be few moral quandaries when it comes to slayin’ goblins. Nasty little critters would level villages if you let em.”

Rolen responded, “True, there are things in the world that are objectively bad but wouldn’t the bad be the act rather than the actor? I have heard tell of goblins in this very city living peacefully among the many races of Waterdeep. If this is true, it would indicate that goblins are not fundamentally evil, or are at least capable of sapient thought to the extent that killing them indiscriminately would itself be evil as I described it earlier.”

Lucky laughed, “I’ve rarely met a fool what had sympathy for goblins. If ye see what they be capable of doin’ to innocent folk ye’d change yer tune quick.”

Rolen shrugged, “Maybe. Maybe there is something to destroying evil where it manifests.”

Lucky was still smiling, “Yer the type that think somethin’ over so long they have no time to act fer all the thinkin’ they be doin’. Tell me, who does it help to think about not killin’ goblins while they burn down farms and kill women and children?”

Rolen smiled himself, “You’re right as usual Lucky, perhaps I am overthinking this. What matters is actions rather than motivations. It is at least something to react to evil. I only worry about the creatures that choose to do evil, as despicable as it can be. What circumstances bring a person, or creature with intelligence, to do evil? There are the classic motivations like lust, envy, and greed, but there is also desperation, self-preservation, and cowardly weakness. Evil deserves punishment, but would it not better serve society that evil be prevented?” He caught himself, “Certainly, but that’s a problem beyond what I’m capable of addressing right now. It is time to take action on what is within my power. Thank you as usual, Lucky. Too often I’m trapped in my own head.”

Lucky bowed exaggeratedly, “My pleasure, young sage. Now, let’s be off to celebrate yer new path. On me most recent voyage I learned of a drink popular in Kara Tur. It’s delicious and strong, and I know ye share me taste in such things. It’s on me, lad.”

As usual, Lucky was able to show him a great time. That evening was a long one and Rolen became ever more confident of the path he would be to walk. Despite everything, there was objective good he could do.

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