i have finished all the body type 1 dyes... for now 😳 (edit: not anymore since patch 5 but STILL A LOT) everything is in the archive drive. special thanks to @salfur for handling the body type 2 outfits!
i added a spreadsheet (+ a pdf version) to the drive so you can check for specific items that may be missing - there are a BUNCH of items that have the same model, and are functionally identical once dyes are applied. so, for example, if you're looking for dye variations for the Anarchic White Outfit:
you can reference the Anarchic Blue Outfit dye sheet! ✨
also!
now that im finally done with the heavy lifting for this project..... the time has come for me to actually play the game. 🫣 im going to be streaming occasionally over on twitch, so feel free to follow me there if that's something you're interested in 💕 no concrete schedule yet, ill probably post updates on here to keep u in the loop on that (but i still gotta keep this blog tidy to keep it functional as an archive)
but anyway, for now.... i will take a nap 🫡
edit: adding my ko-fi since some people have been asking me about it - thank you for the interest & generosity! 💗
summary: a simple mishap during a meeting with a piltover client almost cost you not only your life, but your dignity. luckily, silco was able to find you and guide you to take refuge in a nearby cabin to wait out the storm.
tags: cliche snowed in trope, silco’s a little mean at first, smut in final chapter, kinda angsty, hurt w/ comfort
one, two, three
The snowstorm came fast, an icy hand snatching the sky and smothering the land in white. The wind howled through jagged mountains, a sound that clawed at the edges of your mind and the small cabin you’d stumbled across creaked as though the storm might rip it apart.
Inside, the air was scarcely warmer than outside, but it was shelter. A merciful reprieve from the snow. You huddled closer to the meager fire you’d managed to coax to life in the dusty hearth, frozen fingers trembling as they extended toward the flickering warmth.
The sound of the cabin door slamming shut came from behind you and sent a jolt up your spine. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was— the measured steps that followed, the click of polished boots on wooden floorboards— they were unmistakable.
Silco.
The man in question shook the frost from his coat, his bad eye burning brighter in the dim light than the fire itself. For a moment, his gaze swept the room, cold and calculating, as though assessing every weak point of the fragile structure. Then his attention landed on you.
“Well,” he said, his tone razor sharp and coated in disdain, “I didn’t take you for the sort to thrive in adverse conditions.”
You bit back a retort, forcing yourself to focus on the fire. The snowstorm might have stranded you both in this miserable excuse for a shelter, but you weren’t about to play his game.
He crossed the room with deliberate slowness that made your skin crawl, removing his gloves finger by finger before crouching at the edge of the hearth. Silco’s presence loomed even as he knelt, his mismatched gaze flicking to the fire and then back to you.
“It’s weak,” he muttered, nodding to the flames, “if the storm doesn’t kill you, that poor excuse for heat will.”
“I don’t see you helping,” you shot back, unable to hold your tongue any longer.
Silco’s lips quirked into something that might have been a smirk— or a sneer. “Because I was busy ensuring this hovel would remain standing, “he remarked, motioning toward the door he’d semi barricaded with snow dampened boards.
“But by all means, continue blaming me for your failings. It seems to be a habit.”
Your stomach churned at the reminder. This wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go. Silco had entrusted you with a simple task: deliver a message to a Piltover contact and return to the safe house before nightfall. But somewhere along the way, you’d taken a wrong turn. The storm had hit before you realized your mistake, furious winds obscuring landmarks and swallowing every sound except the relentless scream of the gale.
By the time Silco had found you wandering through the snow, it was too late to make it back to the safe house or to the Piltover contact. You hadn’t even had the nerve to look him in the eye when he silently took the lead, guiding you to this miserable excuse for a shelter.
“I didn’t—” you started, then stopped. What was the point? There was no excuse that would satisfy him, no explanation that would make you seem less foolish.
Silco’s expression didn’t shift, but his gaze pinned you in place. “What?” He asked, voice low and sharp, “you didn’t think? You didn’t realize that a single misstep could jeopardize everything?”
You pressed your lips together, the words you wanted to say stuck in your throat. Silco’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, cutting into you like the icy wind outside, before he scoffed softly and leaned back on his heels.
“Typical,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, “you’ll find your excuses when it’s continent. Meanwhile, I’ll ensure we survive the night.”
The disinterest in his words burned, but before you could respond, Silco was already moving. He stood, shedding his coat and draping it over a chair, muttering something about how it didn’t do any good soaked. Beneath it, he wore his usual vest and dress shirt, his hands undoing the rolls so they covered his arms, definitely doing less than enough to keep him truly warm.
You shivered and glanced at the fire. it wasn’t enough to ward off the cold seeping through the gaps in the cabin’s walls.
“I’ll look for more firewood,” you muttered, more as an excuse to escape the suffocating tension than out of necessity.
“Don’t bother,” Silco’s voice stopped you before you could even stand. He leaned against the wall near the fire, arms crossed as his good eye pinned you in place, “you’d only get yourself lost or worse. The wind would bury you alive before you could find so much as a twig.”
You clenched your fists, heat rising in your chest for the first time all night. “So what, then?” you snapped, “we just sit here and freeze while you glare at me like this is all my fault?”
He tilted his head slightly, considering you in that unnerving, calculating way of his. “No,” he sighed, after a pause that felt far too long, “we ration the heat and wait out the storm. If you’re not entirely useless, you might even make it through the night.”
Your nails dug into your palms, but you forced yourself to look away. He wasn’t wrong about the storm— or the danger— but his words still stung. You shifted closer to the fire instead, pulling your knees up to your chest in an attempt to preserve what little warmth you had.
The silence stretched out, broken only by the groan of the wind and the crackle of the fire. It wasn’t long before Silco moved again, retrieving a small flask from his discarded coat. He took a measured sip, his eye watching you.
“You’re shivering,” he said, his voice as neutral as the icy air.
Bristling at his observation you muttered a quiet, and slow “I’m fine,” as to not give your teeth an opening to chatter.
“Fine doesn’t survive a storm like this,” he stepped closer, extending the flask toward you. His movements were calm, deliberate, but there was no mistaking the edge of impatience in his expression.
You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the flask, “what is it?”
“Something to keep you alive,” he responded with a tone that hinted to the answer being obvious, “now stop dithering and drink.”
With a sigh, you took the flask, your fingers brushing his briefly as you brought it up to your lips. The liquid inside was sharp, burning a path down your throat, but it send a wave of warmth through your frozen limbs. You handed it back quickly, unwilling to meet his gaze for too long.
“Better,” he said, though there was no trace of real praise in his tone. He capped the flask and tucked it away, returning to his place near the fire.
Silence fell again, heavy and awkward. For the first time, you noticed the faint tremor in Silco’s hand as he adjusted his cuffs— a sign, perhaps, that even he wasn’t immune to the cold.
“Why did you come after me?” you blurted out, the question escaping before you could stop it.
He didn’t look at you, but the pause in his movements was telling. “I don’t leave loose ends,” he said simply, “especially not ones that can be traced back to me.”
You all but flinched at the coldness of his response, but something about it didn’t ring entirely true. Silco was practical, yes, but you doubted he would have risked his life for practicality alone.
“Right,” you uttered quietly, leaning your head back to take a deep breath before ushering it all out, “loose ends.”
As the fire crackled, you couldn’t help but wonder if that was all you were to him despite all the, all be it, rare, laughs you shared in his office— or if there was something more lurking beneath the surface of his calculated words and demeanor.
You stared into the flames, wiling the quiet to stretch on, even as you felt the weight of Silco’s eye still boring into you. It was a question scrutiny, but it was there, like he was turning over every word you hadn’t yet spoken.
“I didn’t mean to get lost,” your tone hushed, breaking the silence. Your voice sounded small in the vast quiet, almost swallowed whole by the wind.
Silco shifted, the creak of wood and leather drawing your attention. He didn’t scoff this time or offer some cutting remark. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his good eye narrowing as he considered you.
“I know,” he said at last, the words low and almost begrudging, “but intentions don’t matter when you jeopardize something larger than yourself.”
You kept your eyes on him, determined not to look away just yet, “I didn’t think it would be this bad.”
“No,” he replied, his voice colder now, sharper, “ you didn’t think at all.”
The accusation hung between you, heavy and unyielding, but then something softened. He looked back to the fire, lines on his face easing ever so slightly.
“But you’re still here,” he murmured, almost to himself, “ that counts for something.”
You blinked at him, surprised. It wasn’t quite forgiveness, but it was condemnation either. Slowly, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
“Barely,” you remarked, half under your breath.
Silco huffed a sound that might have been a laugh if it weren’t so dry, “barely is still enough.”
The silence returned, but it felt different now— less suffocating and more tolerable. You shifted your position near the fire, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.
“You don’t seem like the type to come out all this way for someone else,” you spoke up, testing the waters of his patience.
Turning his head slightly, his expression unreadable in the light, “what type may that be?”
“The type to care.”
It was a bold thing to say, but you were too tied and cold to care. To your surprise, Silco didn’t lash out or dismiss you. Instead, he leaned forward, settling himself down on the ground by the fire, resting his elbows on his knees while his fingers laced together as he stared into the fire.
“Caring,” he said, his voice quieter now, the sharpness dulled, “is a liability. A distraction.”
You frowned, caught off guard by the raw edge in his tone that you thought you worked hard enough to get past, “then why did you?”
His mismatched gaze flicked to you, holding yours just long enough to make your stomach twist. Then, he looked away, jaw tightening.
“I told you,” he said, his voice measured, “I don’t leave loose ends.”
It was an answer, but not the one you were looking for. Still, you let it lie, sensing that to press further would be to overstep some invisible line he wasn’t ready to cross.
The fire continued to crackle between you both, its warmth a fragile bridge over the unspoken tension. You shifted closer to Silco, your movements slow and a bit strained from the cold— not too close, but close enough to feel less alone in the emptiness of the cabin.
“You know,” you said quietly, the words escaping before you could stop them, “you’re not as untouchable as you like to think.”
His head turned sharply, his eye narrowing as he studied you. You thought, for a moment, you’d gone too far, but then his lips curved into something faintly resembling a smirk.
“And you’re more reckless than I thought,” he countered, his voice for once, free of venom.
Laughing, you shook your head, “fair enough.”
The tension between you dissipated again, this time settling into something that felt almost like mutual understanding. Silco leaned back against the wall, his posture relaxing ever so slightly, though the sharp edge of his presence remained.
For the first time that night, the cold didn’t feel quite so unbearable.
The fire was fighting a losing battle against the cold, and it began to dwindle. The walls weren’t enough to keep the frost at bay and the storm showed no signs of relenting. Despite the safety and even comfort Silco offered opposite of the crushing loneliness, the sharp chill in the air reminded you that survival was far from guaranteed.
You moved closer to the fire, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself. Every breath was a cloud of vapor and your fingers were stiff, body trembling despite your best efforts to stay still.
“Stop that,” Silco said abruptly, his attention snapping towards you.
“Stop what?” you asked, tone a little sharper than intended.
“Shivering so obnoxiously,” he replied as if it was a casual complaint, “it’s distracting.”
Glancing away from him with a huff, you stared into the fire instead, doing your best to stop the shivering that did not want to ease up on you.
Even then, Silco didn’t let it go. Instead, he sighed and pushed himself closer to you. He sat beside you now, his shadow stretching long in the firelight, his mismatched eyes locking with yours.
“You’ll freeze like that,” he pointed.
“I’m fine.”
While your words were shrouded with intent, your body trembled, betraying you.
Silco reached for the coat he’d draped over the chair and shook his head, muttering something you couldn’t quite make out. Then, before you could protest, he wrapped it around your shoulders, the worn fabric heavy and faintly warm from his body heat.
“How’s that?” he asked, though the edge of impatience in his tone made it clear he wasn’t looking for an argument.
You nodded, pulling the coat tighter around yourself. The scent of leather and something faintly smokey clung to it, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected.
“Thank you,” you whispered, trying to control your chattering teeth once more.
He didn’t respond, instead settling beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours. The proximity was startling at first, but you didn’t pull away. In fact, you found yourself leaning just slightly toward him, drawn to the faint warmth radiating from his body.
“You don’t have to stay there,” you said tentatively after a long moment, “I mean… we could share the coat. It’d keep us both warm.”
His gaze slid to you, expression unreadable in the flickering light. You thought he might refuse, that he’d scoff and tell you he would deal with the cold on his own. But then he sighed, reaching for the edge of the coat and lifting it up so he could wrap it around himself, your sides now flush together.
“You’re bolder than you look,” he remarked, there was no bite in his words.
“And you’re not as heartless as you pretend to be,” you countered, glancing at him.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes, “don’t mistake pragmatism for compassion.”
You hummed in response, unsure what to say to that. The two of you sat in silence for a while, the storm raging outside and the fire crackling weakly before you. Slowly, your shivering began to subside, replaced by a strange kind of comfort you hadn’t expected to find in such close quarters with someone like Silco.
Your head dipped forward a bit, the exhaustion from the cold and the day’s events catching up to you. Without thinking, you let yourself lean into Silco’s shoulder, the warmth of his body a welcome reprieve from the icy air.
He stiffened at first, muscles tensing beneath you, but he didn’t push you away. After a long pause, you felt him relax— his sharp edges softening just enough to comfort you.
“You’re not really what I expected,” you whispered, half asleep.
Silco didn’t respond immediately, but when he did, his voice was not only quieter than you had ever head it, but it was comforting.
“Neither are you.”
Smiling, you let your eyes shut as the weight of the day pulled you under. For the first time since the storm began, the cold didn’t seem quite so unforgiving.
i initially wrote this for a friend with the intent of being a short cute fic, but it accidentally turned into a planned out multi chapter fic. whoops,, anyway i’ll have the next two chapters out soon i hope <3
everything klaus does is so intricately and vitally intertwined with every single major plot point in the show and yet he is always on some bizarre side quest. simultaneously the most and least plot involved character.
Thoughts on Astarion and why he's the most compelling character in BG3 to me right now
I've been posting a lot about this boy recently, mostly just about finding him hilarious and adorable but I do genuinely love his character and find him extremely interesting.
The defining thing about his story, especially when comparing it to Wyll or Gale, is just how LONG he has been suffering. Wyll has essentially just realized how tricked he's been and is fuming, Gale is still in denial that he's done anything wrong except for failing at his goal to return the trapped magic. Astarion has been a puppet for an evil vampire lord who tortured him and forced him to lure probably hundreds of people to their deaths for TWO HUNDRED YEARS.
He's past the initial anger. Past the denial. He's gone through every kind of grief a dozen times over until he came around to a terrible, cold acceptance. And to having to see the "funny side" of it. The cruel, twisted humor in everything. For instance, he seems, in some way, truly sorry for Mayrina and her husband's fate, but also finds it funny. He mentions he wishes Mayrina could at least see the "funny side of it". It seems that crucial to his ability to accept the things he's done and have been done to him.
I saw a comment earlier that said they felt Astarion is just "needlessly evil" but honestly I see very clear cut motivations in all of his approval choices. Fear for his life. Fear of being controlled. And finding joy, however twisted, in the horrible things that have befallen him and others.
I honestly think one of the best scenes in exploring his character is the goblin party after siding with the goblins in the grove battle, which is likely a much more rare scene since the game pushes you pretty hard towards helping the teiflings. If you side with the teiflings, he spends the party being boisterous and whiny. He complains loudly about the lack of reward, but seems to be mostly just blowing smoke, enjoying complaining. He'll joke around with you and, while making a fuss about it, does seem to enjoying himself to some extent, even if it's just enjoying the fuss he's making. And he raises a good point. If you tell him "just think of the lives we saved" he'll raise the question: did you really "save" anyone? You killed as many goblins in the camp as there were teiflings in the grove. Goblins who were manipulated and controlled by the cult of the Absolute. At the end of the day, you decided that some lives were worth the loss of others. Whether or not you made the "right" decision is up to your interpretation. It gives a glimpse into the way he's come to rationalize the things he's had to do under Cazador's command.
At the goblin party, he's much more subdued. I saw a video saying he was clearly "having a great time" but I don't see it that way at all. His jokes are dry and dark. His words soft. The way we only really see him in scenes where he feels vulnerable, emotionally. His usual flamboyant nature dulled. If you express regret over what you did, he tells you "You did what you had to. Don't be ashamed you did it well." You can really tell how that's a motto he's had to cling to himself. He's not wracked with guilt the way the others like Gale and Shadowheart are, but you can see exactly why. Not because he wanted this, but because he's completely internalized the idea that one can't get what they want. They can only take it. And accept everything else as inevitable. Right and wrong stopped meaning anything to him a long long time ago. There's just life. Survival. And whatever it takes to keep on going.
Everything Astarion does is, in some way, about protecting himself. His blades protect his body. His harsh words and lies protect his secrets. His humor protects his mind. Which is why each of his important character cutscenes have been about having to lower his guard. To trust you with all three of those things.
I'm very interested in seeing what will happen when he truly is faced with the decision to protect himself or to protect those he cares about. I think that will be the defining moment for him and will vary wildly depending on if you've managed to get him to lower his defenses around you and learn to trust.
I love the character of Astarion from Baldur's Gate 3. He's truly the character ever because he's every single vampire trope at once but they all cancel each other out.
Like, he only drinks animal blood but not because he doesn't want to hurt people, he's just never been allowed before. He hurts people all the time, it's one of his favorite things to do. He acts drunk after drinking a bear's blood because it kicked the shit out of him first. He's 200+ years old and still lvl 1. He's foppish and high class but has been eating rats and bugs in a crypt for 200 years. He can go out in sunlight and gets sad if he's underground because he misses the sun. He lies all the time but he's a terrible liar so it's always super obvious. He's brooding but also whiny. He has no reflection but mostly is just sad about it because he misses petty vanity. He's suave but his sense of humor is essentially "man slips on banana peel" and he'd lose his mind laughing at basically any Money Python Sketch. He's so extremely, powerfully bisexual.
Thinking of Astarion just trying everything that he shouldn't be able to do as a vampire spawn just to see if he can do it and/or as a way to prove to himself he's in control. Just imagining like
"Astarion are you crying?"
"No. My eyes are just watering from this."
"Is that garlic? Are you just eating an entire bulb of garlic like it's an apple?? That can't possibly be good."
"Oh, goodness no. It's really quite wretched, actually. My mouth is on fire. Not in a vampire way, just in a 'taking bites out of a bulb of garlic' way. It's very painful."
Commissioned this stunning piece from @looneylolita, and still hyperventilating. I love it so much.
Lirella is an 8 year-old vampire with as much need for attention as she is need of a teacher, and more than happy to go along with whatever evil scheme you plot. The perfect protégé to follow Astarion around and praise his every step in the wrong direction. With love, of course. 🖤
