This is my little corner in the world. I am a writer but not necessarily a good one. I am certainly more comfortable writing BTVS Fanfiction however I am dipping into BG3 fanfiction (Becuse it will not get out of my head).
I wish to god i had the ability and talent to draw, but alas that was not in the cards when i was made.
My BG3 stories will be mainly about Astorian and my Tav from my games, Taveleigha.
I will be addigng infromation regarding Taveleigha's backstory, as she has an intriguing one :)
Fanfiction: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/6897697/Braelynn
You are welcome to ask me anything
As you may know if you are a regular reader of my work, i am currently sorting out a Long fanfic of Astarion and my Tav (Taveleigha).
Sometimes the Unknown is Safer:
Footprints on my heart: Astarion watched as Taveleigha dodged and weaved throughout the party goers, stopping at every single member in the group, he watched as she clapped at Rolan’s light display and conversed with the Tiefling wizard and his siblings declining an alcoholic drink. He watched as she laughed at something Karlach had said, and at whatever Wyll had said, resting her hand on Wyll’s shoulder as she doubled over in bellyful guffaws. Taveleigha never laughed like that with him, it was snide comments and sideway smirks and glances. He happily went tit for tat with the Elf sorcerer but with a shock he realised he had never actually made her full out laugh. https://archiveofourown.org/works/58220614
Interweaving Purple Threads: Taveleigha’s grip was firm as she dragged Astarion around the corner, her small frame belying the surprising strength of a sorcerer well accustomed to survival. Shadowheart and Karlach lingered behind, smirking at their retreat, and that alone seemed to grate on Astarion more than anything.https://archiveofourown.org/works/57679585
Through the Veil of Memory: Agony. It had embedded itself in her bones over the past month in the Shadow-Cursed lands—pain, fear, despair. Every fight was a fresh wound, and this one was no different. Taveleigha’s body screamed in protest, battered and bruised, her magic barely holding together. She could feel the edge of something just beyond her grasp, teasing her from the fringes of her mind, an answer locked away in the prison of her lost memories. https://archiveofourown.org/works/66500593
An unfair hand has been dealt: Astarion felt it first in his fingertips—a creeping cold that slithered through his veins, slow and deliberate, until his extremities turned numb. This wasn't supposed to happen. He staggered forward, staring into the ink-black void, unable to decipher anything beyond the suffocating absence of colour. His world had been plunged into monochrome, stripped of its golds and silvers, its warmth and vibrancy. And he didn’t care. Or perhaps he could no longer care. Was this what numbness felt like? If it was, he could manage that. He had learned to move through life as a shadow once before—when he was first turned, when survival demanded apathy. https://archiveofourown.org/works/59697382
Sometimes the unknown is Safer Alternative:
This is the oneshots that I find are inspiration that hits me and I use my OCTAV Taveleigha as the catalyst to tell these stories. Often they are ruminations in my head, sometimes they are realife fuelled but most of the time they can run alongside STUIS, or jsut as stand alones.
Think of them as little Case studies of our favourite vampire spawn and our amnesiac Tavi
Tav's Nightmare: He felt her twitch and tense in her sleep, the telltale sign that not everything was copacetic in her mind as she slumbered. Sighing he pulled her tighter against his chest, she was nestled on his left side, arm lazily thrown over his waist, no cloth barrier just the two of them, skin to skin, it was a novelty for him, for his skin not to crawl, for him not to recoil in terror or disgust, he loved it. He loved the feel of her breath against his solar plexus, tickling him, he loved the weight of her pressing down on him in her sleep, their legs entangled together. It was perfect. His mind was at peace for the first time in two hundred years his mind and he was at peace. It was laughable that he was so at peace and yet she was not, and the world was close to ending. https://archiveofourown.org/works/57464338/chapters/146199190
The Threads that Bind us: The group precariously trudged through the undercity of Baldur’s Gate, the sewers. The smell alone was enough to make anyone grimace and bring up their mornings breakfast food. Astarion was hot, irritated and wanted this day finished. The sooner they finished the better for them. Last night they had gone against the Bhaal Tribunal, and with a strength that even Astarion had not have guessed Taveleigha possessed, they had destroyed the three sisters and Saverok himself. It was no easy feat him, Karlach, Shadowheart and Taveleigha had suffered several wounds that could not be fully recovered by Shadowheart, not that she always healed everyone fully, throughout their months of travels Shadowheart was getting better with her healing, but still it was never completely full. https://archiveofourown.org/works/57805798
If you have any questions about my fanfics or my tav's please feel free to press the ask me anything button.
This list will be updated with each Fanfic, update. Also on a little note, I am also looking to find someone to draw my Tavi, and Astarion together. So if anyone has any names or artists that they feel would be fantastic at drawing my Tavi please let me know so i can put some feelers out.
Thank you. i hope you enjoy my work.
I am not ok with today’s news. Giles held such significance when I was growing up. The character gave me my love for books. Made me believe that knowledge is power. Learning is living. Anthony Stewart Head was such a phenomenal actor.
2926 has tested me to my limits. It’s been so incredibly rough for me personally and to add this on top. I truly feel 2026 can go to hell.
Fly high Anthony.
I cannot stop crying. It’s crazy how an actor and a character can have such an impact on you.
Chapter 2 of this story is now up on my AO3 page. you can access it here:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I ahve changed the story title to No One leaves Unchanged, it is still aprt of the Sometimes the unknown is safer series, and now chapter one is called The Hammer's gonna fall.
I jsut think its better this way, and i am quickly realising this peice of work is becoming the parties travel through the Underdark.
As always i enjoy hearing what you guys think. Either way enoy. Once again Karlach is MVP however i feel Astarion is also MVP this chapter so joint MVP to our fave vamp and our fave mama K.
Chapter 2: The silence between us
The Silence Between Us
The last stone fell with a groan, tumbling into the dust like a final breath. The cave-in had been cleared. For a moment, silence reigned, thick, expectant, unnatural. Then the rubble shifted. A hand emerged first: pale violet and bloodied. Then another. Nere pulled himself free like something reborn. His armour was cracked; his face smeared with ash and contempt. Behind him, gnome slaves stumbled out, coughing and blinking into the forge-light. Their chains clinked like wind chimes in a graveyard. Taveleigha’s breath caught. The heat from the lava pools licked at her skin, but it was Nere’s voice that burned.
“You came,” he rasped, eyes sweeping over Tavi and her companions. “The Absolute delivers. I knew She would not abandon me.”
Karlach stiffened. Gale’s brow furrowed. Astarion said nothing, but his hand drifted toward his blade. Tavi didn’t speak. She let the silence stretch, let Nere fill it with his own delusion.
“I sense Her mark upon you,” he continued, stepping forward. “True Souls, like me. You must have heard my call. Praise be.” One of the gnomes collapsed behind him, coughing blood. Nere didn’t turn. “They slowed me down,” he said. “But the Absolute teaches us to endure. To sacrifice.”
Karlach shifted behind Tavi, her hand resting on the hilt of her great sword. “I don’t like him,” she muttered.
“You’re not supposed to,” Astarion replied, his gaze locked on Nere. His jaw was tight. “He smells like power and rot.”
Gale stepped forward, voice calm but edged. “You’re a True Soul, aren’t you? That mark on your neck, it’s not just decoration.”
Nere smiled, indulgent. “Ah, the wizard speaks. Yes, I serve the Absolute. And these gnomes?” He gestured lazily to the cowering workers. “They’re nothing. Tools. Broken ones.”
Astarion’s hand twitched toward his dagger. “I’ve seen broken tools. I’ve been one.”
Taveleigha’s breath caught again.
Nere’s gaze slid to her. “You look pale, darling. Did the forge take something from you? This place usually does”
She didn’t answer. Her magic flared, unbidden. The cadence of his voice; it was wrong. Familiar. Like a memory she hadn’t agreed to keep. Karlach stepped forward, her voice low and dangerous. “You start killing gnomes, and I swear I’ll rip your spine out through your teeth.”
Nere laughed. “Oh, I like her.” Still talking to Taveleigha, acknowledging the leader of the group, and still she did not reply.
Gale raised a hand. “We don’t have to do this.”
Taveleigha finally spoke. Her voice was low. Steady. “Yes, we do.”
Nere sneered. “You think you can threaten a True Soul? I serve the Absolute. I am chosen.”
Brithvar stepped forward, axe in hand. “We’ve had enough of your games, Nere. You owe us gold. You owe us blood.”
Nere turned, eyes narrowing. “You dare…”
“I dare.” Karlach didn’t wait her roar split the cavern as she charged, blade swinging, the opposing Duergar joined in the fight. “We are not HER’s, and we are not yours”
Gale’s magic flared: precise and brutal. Lightning arced toward the duergar, striking one mid-command. Astarion moved like a whisper, striking not with fury but with precision, his silence a blade of its own. Tavi moved last. Her magic surged, wild and hot. She didn’t aim at Nere. She aimed at the chains. The metal glowed, then shattered. A gnome stumbled free, eyes wide with disbelief.
“You’re free,” she whispered.
Nere smiled. It was the kind of smile Tavi had seen before; on men who taught pain like scripture. His hand lifted, and the magic surged, raw, unfiltered, cruel. Larissa barely had time to scream before the blast struck her square in the chest, hurling her into the lava. The hiss of her body meeting molten stone was louder than the explosion itself. The gnomes flinched. Some fell to their knees. One sobbed. Another tried to run, only to be yanked back by a chain still fastened to Nere’s wrist.
Taveleigha stepped forward, heart pounding. The forge-light painted her in gold and shadow, and for a moment, she felt like she was back in that circle again; kneeling, watching, powerless.
Not this time. “Nere,” she said, voice steady. “Let them go.”
He turned, eyes gleaming. “You question Her will? You wear Her mark and speak of mercy?”
Taveleigha’s spell cracked like thunder. Fire bloomed across the forge, catching the remaining Duergar off guard. One screamed, stumbling into the heat. The gnomes scattered some ducking behind crates, others frozen in place.
Astarion danced through shadow, striking with elegance and venom. “You enslave the small and call it strength?” he hissed. “You wouldn’t last a day in chains.” He pulled his off-hand blade from Nere’s ribs and brought it down hard into his shoulder.
The fight was short, but not clean. Blood pooled near the forge, mixing with soot and sweat. The gnomes didn’t cheer. They didn’t speak. They just stared at the bodies, at the broken chains, at the strangers who’d torn their world open. The duergar were scattered or dead. Nere fell, blood pooling beneath him. His last words were a whisper: “The Absolute… will rise…”
Karlach spat. “Not today.”
Brithvar nodded to Tavi. “You did what needed doing.”
Taveleigha didn’t answer. She was staring at the blood. At the echo of a voice, she still didn’t understand.
“You’re free,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. Unsure if she was speaking to the gnomes or Nere’s corpse.
One gnome stepped forward, trembling. “Why?”
Tavi knelt, making herself level with the gnomes. “Because someone should have done it for me.”
The forge stank of blood and molten stone. The gnomes had retreated, silent and wide-eyed, leaving only the wreckage and the corpse of a man who’d once called himself chosen.
Taveleigha stood over Nere’s body, staring down at the slack jaw and glassy eyes. His head lolled slightly to the side, as if still trying to look smug.
She crouched, pulled out her dagger, and hesitated. The Myconids wanted proof. A head. Something to show that the tyrant was dead and not just taking a nap in a puddle of his own ego.
She pressed the blade to his neck. It didn’t go in cleanly.
Her first cut was shallow, awkward. The skin was tougher than expected, like trying to slice through old leather soaked in arrogance. She adjusted her grip, tried again. The blade skittered off bone.
Behind her, Astarion watched with theatrical dismay.
“Oh dear,” he said, voice dry. “Is this going to be one of those long, slow decapitations? Should I fetch a cheese knife? Or perhaps a hacksaw and a bottle of wine?”
Tavi didn’t respond. She gritted her teeth and tried again. The blade slipped, catching on a tendon that refused to cooperate.
Astarion sighed. “Darling, I admire your commitment, but this is starting to look less like a beheading and more like a very personal massage.”
Karlach stepped forward, eyeing the mess. “Want me to do it?”
“I’ve got it,” Tavi muttered, though her tone suggested she absolutely did not.
Karlach didn’t wait for permission. She knelt beside the body, grabbed the dagger, and with one brutal, efficient motion, severed the head from the neck. It hit the stone with a wet thud.
“There,” she said, wiping the blade on Nere’s cloak. “No fuss, no drama.”
Astarion clapped slowly. “Bravo. Truly, a performance worthy of the forge. I especially liked the part where his dignity rolled away with his skull.”
Tavi wrapped the head in a cloth Gale had conjured earlier, careful not to look at the eyes. They were still open. Still smug.
“Let’s get this to the Myconids,” she said, voice low.
Karlach gave her a nod. “You did good.”
Astarion leaned in slightly, smirking. “You did adequate. But next time, maybe leave the butchery to the professionals. Or at least someone with upper arm strength.”
Tavi didn’t answer. She just stood, the bundle heavy in her hands, and started walking toward the Underdark, toward the Myconids, toward whatever came next.
Behind her, Nere’s body twitched once, as if trying to protest the indignity.
Astarion nudged it with his boot. “Still dead,” he said cheerfully. “Just checking.” The silence that followed wasn’t the same as before. It was softer now. Exhausted.
From the shadows, the gnomes began to emerge, slowly, cautiously, as if afraid the violence might start again. One stepped forward, chains still dragging behind him, eyes rimmed red from smoke and grief.
“Is it… over?” he asked, voice hoarse.
Karlach nodded. “He won’t hurt you again.”
Another gnome, younger, limped forward. “We heard you talking. About Moonrise. Wulbren’s still there. He’s, our leader. Our friend. But we can’t…we’re not strong enough to go after him.” His voice cracked. “We’re barely standing.”
Tavi didn’t respond. She was still holding the cloth-wrapped head, staring at the boat moored nearby like it was the only thing left that made sense.
Gale stepped forward, his tone gentle but firm. “You don’t have to go to Moonrise. Not yet. There’s someone waiting for you, Thulla. She made it out. She’s on the other side of the lake, with the Myconid Colony.”
The gnomes exchanged glances, uncertain.
“They’re peaceful,” Gale continued. “They’ve asked for Nere’s head as proof. You’ll be safe there. You can rest. Regroup.”
Astarion gave a theatrical sigh. “And breathe in all that lovely fungal air. It’s practically a spa.” Karlach shot him a look, but the gnomes didn’t seem to mind. One even let out a shaky laugh.
Tavi finally moved, stepping toward the boat. She didn’t speak. Just climbed aboard, the bundle still clutched in her hands like a grim offering. The others followed. Gale helped one of the older gnomes across the gangplank. Karlach hoisted a crate of salvaged supplies. Astarion lounged near the bow, eyes scanning the water with idle detachment. The boat creaked as it pushed off from the forge’s edge, gliding into the stillness of the lake. Behind them, the cavern swallowed the wreckage whole, blood, chains, ash, and Nere’s twisted legacy.
Taveleigha sat near the stern, the cloth-wrapped head resting in her lap like a curse she couldn’t put down. Her gaze stayed fixed on the water, watching the ripples distort her reflection. She didn’t speak. She hadn’t since they boarded. She didn’t look up when Gale sat beside her.
“You did what needed doing,” he said quietly. She didn’t answer. Just kept her eyes on the water, one foot in front of the other, even now.
Karlach slumped onto a crate, her great sword resting across her knees. Sweat streaked her soot-stained face, and her shoulders sagged in a way they hadn’t before. “Feels like we’ve been fighting for weeks straight,” she muttered. “Forge, goblins, cultists, caves. I swear if the next person we meet asks for a favour; I’m throwing them in the lake.”
Astarion stretched out along the bow, one leg dangling over the edge. He looked relaxed, but his eyes were sharp watching the shadows, the gnomes, the water. “I’m beginning to suspect we’re the Underdark’s errand runners,” he said. “Kill a tyrant, fetch a head, liberate a colony. What’s next? Deliver fungal mail?”
Gale sat beside Tavi, his robes damp and rumpled, his usual composure fraying at the edges. He rubbed his temples, then glanced at the gnomes huddled near the centre of the boat. “They’re scared,” he said quietly. “And tired. Like us.”
One of the gnomes looked up, voice barely audible. “We didn’t think anyone would come. Not after Moonrise. Not after Nere.”
Gale nodded. “You’re not alone anymore. Thulla’s waiting for you, on the other side of this lake. The Myconids will shelter you. Rest. Heal.”
The gnome blinked, “We don’t know how.”
“No one does,” Gale said. “But you start by surviving.”
Astarion snorted. “Inspirational. Shall we knit them matching cloaks next?”
Karlach didn’t rise to the bait. She leaned back, eyes closed, letting the boat rock her like a lullaby she didn’t trust.
“I miss the sun,” she said. “Even the heat. This place, it gets in your bones.”
Gale glanced at Tavi, then back at the others. “We’ve all been running on fumes. We need to breathe. Even if it’s fungal air.” He smirked at Astarion
The boat drifted in silence for a while. The water was dark, but calm. The kind of quiet that made you notice every ache, every bruise, every thought you’d been avoiding. And still Tavi didn’t speak. She just kept her eyes on the horizon.
Astarion broke the silence again, softer this time. “You know, I used to dream of freedom. Now I dream of sleep. Preferably in a bed that isn’t made of stone and regret.”
Karlach chuckled, low and tired. “You and me both.” The lake stretched ahead, vast and silent.
The boat scraped against the lakeside shore with a soft, wet crunch. No one spoke as they disembarked, just the shuffle of boots on damp stone, the clink of Karlach’s armour, the rustle of cloth as Tavi adjusted the bundle in her arms.
The gnomes followed close behind, eyes wide and uncertain. The lake had been quiet, but the Myconid Colony loomed ahead like something half-remembered from a dream, bioluminescent growths pulsing gently in the cavern walls, spores drifting like lazy snow.
Astarion sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. “Ah, yes. The fungal welcome mat. Nothing says ‘civilisation’ like ambient mould.”
Karlach elbowed him lightly. “Better mould than duergar.” They moved quickly, not out of panic but momentum, driven by the need to finish this, to hand off the proof, to stop carrying Nere’s legacy like a weight in Tavi’s lap.
The Myconids stirred as they approached, their movements slow and deliberate, like trees deciding whether to bend. One stepped forward, its form shifting subtly in response to their presence. A soft hum filled the air, not sound, exactly, but something that brushed against the edges of thought.
Gale stepped ahead, hands raised in peace. “We’ve brought what you asked for. Nere is dead. His head… is here.” He glanced at Tavi, who didn’t move. After a beat, Karlach reached out and took the bundle from her, unwrapping it just enough to reveal the bloodied, slack-jawed face.
The Myconid pulsed once, then twice. The spores thickened, swirling around the group like a silent chorus.
“They understand,” Gale said quietly. “They accept it. I think.”
Astarion leaned toward Tavi, voice low. “Well, that’s one errand crossed off. Shall we go deliver a mushroom-themed status update to the others?” Still, she didn’t respond. Her eyes were on the colony’s glowing walls, but her thoughts were somewhere else, back in the forge, maybe, or deeper still.
Karlach stepped beside her. “Camp’s just through the lower tunnels. The others are waiting. They’ve kept their heads down.”
“It was safer that way,” Gale added. “Too many of us would’ve drawn attention. This… this was enough.”
The gnomes hesitated, then followed the Myconids deeper into the colony. One turned back briefly, looking at Tavi.
“Thank you,” he said. “For everything.” She nodded but didn’t speak.
The group turned toward the tunnel that led to their hidden camp. The air grew cooler, quieter. The glow of the Myconids faded behind them, replaced by the soft flicker of campfire light and the low murmur of familiar voices.
Tavi kept walking. One foot in front of the other. She didn’t feel victorious. Just… done.
Shadowheart looked up first, her expression shifting from guarded to relieved in a heartbeat. Wyll stood nearby, sharpening his blade out of habit more than need. Lae’zel paced like a caged animal but paused when she saw them.
“You’re back,” Shadowheart said, rising. Her eyes scanned the group, landing briefly on Tavi, then on the bloodstained cloth Karlach still carried. “Is it done?”
Gale nodded. “Nere’s dead. The Myconids have their proof. The gnomes are safe, for now.”
Lae’zel snorted. “And what did it cost?”
Karlach dropped onto a log near the fire, groaning as she stretched her back. “A lot of sweat. A lot of blood. And Tavi nearly dislocated her shoulder trying to decapitate him.”
Astarion flopped down beside her, legs crossed elegantly. “It was tragic, really. She gave it her all. But in the end, Karlach had to step in and do the dirty work. Very heroic. Very messy.”
Shadowheart raised a brow. “You’re joking.”
“I never joke about decapitations,” Astarion replied. “Well. Not often.”
Wyll leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Tell us everything. What happened down there?”
Gale took a breath, then began. “The forge was worse than we expected. Duergar everywhere. Slaves in chains. Nere buried alive behind a cave-in. We cleared it. He came out like a prophet crawling from a tomb.”
Karlach picked up the thread. “He started preaching. Talking about the Absolute. Called the gnomes ‘tools.’ One collapsed behind him, and he didn’t even blink.”
Astarion’s voice was quieter now. “He killed one. Larissa. Just, lifted his hand and burned her alive. No warning. No mercy.”
Shadowheart’s jaw tightened. “And the gnomes?”
“Tavi freed them,” Gale said. “Broke the chains mid fight. It was chaotic. Lightning, blades, fire. Astarion stabbed Nere like he was carving a roast.”
“I was very precise,” Astarion said. “Artful, even.”
Lae’zel crossed her arms. “And now the gnomes are free. But their leader is at Moonrise.”
“They know,” Gale said. “They’re too worn down to go after him. We told them about Thulla. About the Myconids. It’s the best we could offer.” No one spoke for a moment.
The fire crackled.
The air felt heavier than it should.
Taveleigha sat apart from the group, her posture straight but distant. She hadn’t spoken since they arrived. Her hands rested on her knees, her gaze fixed on the fire as if it might explain something she hadn’t yet understood. Shadowheart glanced at her, then looked away.
“I swear, if the next quest involves lava, I’m out.” Karlach leaned back, eyes half-closed.
Astarion smirked. “You say that now. But you’ll be back. We all will. It’s what we do. unfortunately,”
Gale stirred the fire with a stick, watching the embers swirl. “We survive. We endure. And sometimes… we rest.” The camp settled into quiet. No celebration. No relief. Just the soft rustle of bedrolls, the distant hum of spores, and the weight of everything they’d carried back with them. Tavi didn’t move. Didn’t speak. And no one asked her to.
Camp stirred back to life with the quiet urgency of routine. Bedrolls were unfurled. Boots were unlaced. Weapons were cleaned with the kind of care that came from habit, not hope.
Karlach was already stacking firewood, her movements efficient but heavy. She grunted as she bent to pick up a log, muttering something about her back and the forge’s cursed humidity. Gale conjured a pot and began boiling water, his gestures precise, practiced. He hummed under his breath, something tuneless, just enough to fill the silence.
Astarion lounged nearby, polishing his daggers with theatrical flair. “You know,” he said to no one in particular, “if I had a gold piece for every time we returned from a traumatic errand with a severed head, I’d be able to retire. Somewhere sunny. With wine. And fewer mushrooms.”
Shadowheart didn’t even look up from her gear. “You’re a vampire,” she said flatly. “Without the tadpole, you’d retire straight into a pile of ash.”
Astarion paused, then gave a slow, indulgent smile. “Details. Details” He pointed his dagger at Shadowheart a lazy smirk on his lips
Karlach snorted. “Hope you like your wine smoked.”
Gale stirred the pot with a quiet chuckle. “We could always build him a sun-proof gazebo. Very dignified. Very flammable.”
Astarion sighed dramatically. “You’re all very cruel”
Taveleigha didn’t react she was just sat stock still. The gnomes had settled near the edge of camp, huddled together, whispering about Thulla and the strange peace of the Myconid Colony. One was already asleep, curled up beside a crate like he’d simply run out of energy mid-step.
She hadn’t moved since they arrived. Her hands rested on her knees, her posture upright, but there was no tension in it, just absence. Her eyes were open, unfocused, staring past the fire, past the walls, past everything. The camp moved around her like a current, and she was the stone it flowed around. No one disturbed her. Karlach glanced over once, then looked away. Gale stirred the pot a little slower. Astarion’s quips softened, drifting into silence. Tavi didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t speak. She was there. But she wasn’t. And for now, that was enough.
Dinner had been quiet. Simple fare: boiled roots, dried meat, a conjured broth that Gale swore was “nutritionally complete,” though no one asked for seconds. The gnomes had eaten quickly and retreated to their corner of the camp, curling into sleep like they were afraid rest might vanish if they didn’t catch it fast enough. Taveleigha hadn’t touched her bowl. She’d stood slowly after the others finished, walked to her tent, and pulled the flap closed with deliberate finality. No words. No eye contact. Just the soft rustle of canvas and the message it carried: not tonight.
Karlach watched her go, then turned back to the fire, poking at the embers with a stick. “She didn’t eat.”
“She didn’t speak,” Gale added, voice low.
“She didn’t need to,” Shadowheart said. “You saw her face.”
Astarion lounged with his back against a log, swirling a cup of conjured wine. “She’s brooding. It’s very dramatic. Very on brand.”
Wyll gave him a look. “She’s exhausted.”
“We all are,” Lae’zel said, arms crossed. “But she carries more than most.”
Karlach nodded, tossing another log onto the fire. “She’s the one who always steps forward first. Talks to the weird fungus kings. Stares down cultists. Breaks chains mid-fight.”
“She’s the one who doesn’t flinch,” Gale murmured. “Even when she should.”
Astarion took a sip, then smirked. “She flinched when she tried to cut off Nere’s head. That was… memorable.”
Karlach chuckled. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not,” he said. “It was tragic. Heroic. Slightly pathetic. I adored it.”
Shadowheart shook her head, but there was a faint smile on her lips. “She’s not pathetic. She’s just spent.”
Wyll leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “She’s, our leader. Not because she asked to be. Because we automatically follow her." He paused for a second glancing over at Taveleigha's tent "Maybe it’s taking its toll”
Lae’zel grunted. “She makes choices. Hard ones. That earns respect.”
The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across their faces.
The tent flap remained closed, unmoving.
“She’ll come back to us,” Gale said softly. “She always does.”
Astarion raised his cup. “To our silent commander. May she sleep, sulk, and eventually rejoin the land of the unstable, emotionally available.” He sneered over his cup, sniggering at his own joke as the others rolled their eyes
Karlach raised her own mug. “To Tavi.” The others followed suit, clinking cups and bowls in quiet solidarity.
Inside the tent, Taveleigha sat in silence, knees drawn to her chest, eyes open but unfocused. The voices outside blurred into background noise; warm, distant, safe. She didn’t move.
The camp was still. The fire had burned down to embers, casting soft orange light across sleeping forms and scattered gear. The gnomes were curled together like fallen leaves, and even Karlach’s snoring had quieted to a low, rhythmic hum. Astarion moved like mist; silent, deliberate, practiced. He slipped past bedrolls and crates, his steps barely brushing the earth, until he reached Tavi’s tent.
He paused at the flap.
She hadn’t stirred all night. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t eaten.
But she’d left the flap unlatched. That was the agreement. If he needed to feed, he could.
Quietly. Without waking her.
He slipped inside.
The air was cool, tinged with the faint scent of ash and lavender. Tavi lay on her side, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other curled loosely against her chest. Her breathing was steady, shallow. Her brow furrowed slightly, even in sleep. Astarion knelt beside her, careful not to disturb the blankets. His fingers brushed her hair back from her neck, revealing the familiar spot just below her jaw. He hesitated, not from hunger, but admiration.
His bite was gentle. Controlled. The kind of feeding that spoke of restraint, not desperation.
Her blood was warm, steady, tinged with exhaustion and something deeper grief, maybe? Or the echo of too many choices made too quickly.
He drank only what he needed. No more.
When he pulled back, he pressed a cloth to the wound, dabbing away the blood with practiced care. Then, without thinking, he lay down beside her, curling his body around hers, not possessive, not protective. Just present. She stirred. Her breath hitched once, then settled. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, then found him. Rolled to face him and settled again
He didn’t speak. Just held her.
Tavi didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Her gaze drifted past him, toward the tent wall, as if watching something only she could see. Her eyes closed quickly again as she settled into sleep, again.
Astarion rested his forehead against hers, his voice barely audible. “You’re still here.”
The camp hadn’t stirred yet. The fire outside was little more than a glow, casting faint shadows against the canvas walls. Somewhere in the distance, a gnome coughed in his sleep. A pot shifted. But the world, for now, remained hushed.
Inside the tent, Astarion lay still, curled around Taveleigha like a shield made of silence. Her breath was slow, steady, warm against his chest. One hand rested lightly on his shirt, fingers curled not gripping, just there. Present. She hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved much. But she hadn’t pulled away either. And that, he thought, was something. He stared at the ceiling of the tent, eyes tracing the seams in the canvas, the way the morning camp light barely filtered through. His body was relaxed, but his mind was anything but.
He hadn’t expected this.
Not the feeding, he’d grown used to that, the quiet agreement between them, the trust it required. But this part. The aftermath. The way she curled into him like he was something solid. Something safe. It was absurd. He was a vampire spawn. A killer. A creature shaped by centuries of cruelty and survival. He’d spent most of his life being used, feared, desired and then discarded. He was good at seduction, at manipulation, at slipping into roles that made others feel seen while keeping himself hidden.
But this wasn’t a role.
This was her. Tavi. Curled against him, silent and raw, not asking for anything but space to exist. And he was still here. Still holding her.
Astarion let his fingers drift along her back, tracing the curve of her spine through the fabric of her shirt. She sighed but still did not say anything.
He thought about the forge. About Nere’s smile. About the hiss of flesh meeting lava. About Tavi’s silence afterward, how she hadn’t flinched, hadn’t cried, hadn’t spoken. Just moved. Just carried the weight. She always carried the weight.
And somehow, she’d decided he was someone she could lean on. Not for answers. Not for comfort. Just for presence. It was terrifying. And strangely… grounding.
He’d spent so long trying to be untouchable. Beautiful, dangerous, clever. A mask of elegance over a pit of hunger. But here, in this tent, with her breath against his skin and her silence wrapped around them like a blanket, he felt something else.
Steady.
Not heroic. Not healed. Just steady.
He didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know how to be someone who stayed. Who held. Who didn’t need to be dazzling or sharp or useful.
Nonetheless he still didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just let the moment be, let it naturally stretch out.
Tavi shifted slightly, her fingers curling tighter into his shirt. Her brow furrowed, then smoothed. She was waking, slowly, but she didn’t pull away.
Astarion closed his eyes. He didn’t know what she’d say when she was fully awake. Didn’t know if she’d retreat, or apologise, who are you kidding you know she will apologise and then you will say something snarky. But for now, she was here. And so was he.
And to his very great surprise, that was enough.
No pressure tags i jsut love seeign and reading waht you are all doing, as you are amazingly talented: @roguishcat @renard-rogue @lirotation @shewhowas39 @slothquisitor @loquaciousquark @starlight-rogue
I am currently working on a few things so i am going to give you a taster on 2 nearly finished peices of work.
The Mountain Pass (Working title)
The mountain groaned behind them, a deep, guttural sound that echoed through the pass like the death rattle of a god. Dust billowed outward, swallowing the path in a choking cloud. Taveleigha stumbled forward, coughing, her fingers clenched around the Mace of Lathander. It pulsed in her grip—warm, insistent, almost alive. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t.
Karlach was the first to speak, her voice hoarse and furious. “You said we’d have time!” She slammed a fist against the rock wall, sending a spray of gravel skittering down the slope. “We nearly died in there!”
“I didn’t expect the ceiling to give,” Taveleigha said, breath ragged. “The wards were supposed to hold.”
Shadowheart stepped between them, her eyes locked on the mace. “You stole it from a sacred place. What did you think would happen?” Her tone wasn’t angry—it was something colder. Disappointment. “That weapon was meant for a chosen. Are you sure it chose you?”
Taveleigha looked down at the relic. Its light flickered, then flared, casting golden arcs across her blood-smeared armour. “It didn’t reject me,” she said softly. “That has to mean something.”
Astarion, leaning against a boulder with a gash above his brow, chuckled darkly. “Oh, it means something, darling. It means we’re now fugitives from a crumbling temple and possibly cursed. Again.” He winced as he dabbed at the wound. “You do have a flair for dramatic acquisitions.”
The Nere fight and Aftermath (Working title)
Karlach nodded, tossing another log onto the fire. “She’s the one who always steps forward first. Talks to the weird fungus kings. Stares down cultists. Breaks chains mid-fight.”
“She’s the one who doesn’t flinch,” Gale murmured. “Even when she should.”
Astarion took a sip, then smirked. “She flinched when she tried to cut off Nere’s head. That was… memorable.”
Karlach chuckled. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Absolutely not,” he said. “It was tragic. Heroic. Slightly pathetic. I adored it.”
Astarion raised his cup. “To our silent commander. May she sleep, sulk, and eventually rejoin the land of the unstable emotionally available.” He sneered over his cup, sniggering at his own joke as the others rolled their eyes
Karlach raised her own mug. “To Tavi.” The others followed suit, clinking cups and bowls in quiet solidarity.
I have been working on companions interactions in my stories, and how certain companions interacting with others. And i ahve been really enjoying these imaginary conversations between our favourtie people.
Anyway i hoped you enjoy. I would love to know what you guys are working on,. No Pressure @roguishcat @lirotation @shewhowas39 @slothquisitor @nyx-knox
OOOO a new chapter you say of your STUS series, and a WIP all i nthe same day.
Well you know what they say, well actually i don't so if you could let me know that would be brillant. (Sorry rambling)
Anyway this the chapter. Let me know what you think, only if you want to thats not a demand.
This chapter certainly did not go where i thought it would, and Karlach is jsut MVP.
My poor Taveleigha, she cannot catch a break and to be fair in that fight she got beaten around like a ragdoll.
The Hammer's Gonna Fall
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The Hammers Gonna Fall
The Hammer’s gonna fall
The forge groaned beneath them, ancient gears grinding like the breath of a sleeping god. Lava surged through the channels, casting the chamber in flickering orange light—like veins pulsing beneath the skin of the world. Taveleigha moved with practiced precision; her fingers found the valve, twisted hard, and the hiss of molten rock drowned out everything else.
She didn’t see the blow coming.
She’d just triggered the lava valve, the hiss masking Grym’s charge. Astarion shouted however it was too late. The construct’s arm slammed into her side, and the world fractured. Her body skidded across the stone, scraping toward the edge of the platform, dangerously close to the lava’s reach. Pain bloomed sharp and immediate. Her ribs screamed. Her breath shallow, the heat clawed at her skin, the pain unforgiving Taveleigha tried to move, purely on instinct, defiance, but her limbs betrayed her, it was if her broken ribs had taken control of her body and they refused to move. The forge blurred at the edges, light and shadow dancing like ghosts.
Not stone. Not heat. A different room. Cold. Damp. A gauntlet struck her ribs. The same ribs. The same pain.
“Again. You must endure.” The voice was low, clinical. The speaker’s face blank. Not hidden. Erased. Chains rattled. Her own? Someone else's?
She tried to scream, but the memory wouldn’t let her. It ended as abruptly as it began, ripped away like a page torn from a book she hadn’t finished reading
Then a blur, a figure. Astarion. He was there in seconds, knees hitting stone with a thud. His hands hovered, trembling, not touching. His eyes: wide, and frantic searched her face like he was trying to memorise it.
“Tav…” His voice cracked. “Don’t move. You’re hurt.”
She coughed, blood flecking her lip. “We still have to…”
“No.” His tone was steel. “You don’t have to do anything but breathe.”
She tried again to sit up. He caught her gently, cradling her against his chest. His grip was firm but careful, like she was something sacred.
His hands were gentle. Careful. But somewhere deep inside, her body flinched. Not from him. From memory. A hand once touched her like that, soft, reverent.
“You are chosen.” The words had felt like a blessing. Until the blade followed. She couldn’t see the face. Just the feeling. Cold fingers brushing her cheek. A smile that didn’t reach the eyes.
She blinked, and Astarion’s face came back into focus. Concerned. Real. Grym turned its attention elsewhere, but the heat pressed in, relentless. “You’re not allowed to die in a forge,” he whispered. “It’s too poetic, and I hate poetry.”
Despite the pain, she laughed and then coughed “You love poetry.”
“I love your poetry “he acquiesced “Not this.”
She felt his faint heartbeat against her cheek, uneven. She was still amazed that vampires had heartbeats regardless how irregular the beat was, but still a heartbeat. His scent was ash and blood and something older, something she couldn’t name. His presence wrapped around her like a warding spell. His touch asked for permission, the other never asked.
But Grym didn’t stay distracted for long. The construct’s head swivelled with a grinding click, eyes glowing like twin furnaces. It registered movement; Astarion cradling Taveleigha; and the forge seemed to respond in kind. Gears groaned louder. Lava surged higher in its channels, spitting sparks like fury incarnate.
Astarion’s grip tightened. “We need to move.”
Taveleigha tried to speak, but the pain stole her breath. Grym took a step forward; each footfall a seismic thud that sent tremors through the platform. Its molten core pulsed visibly beneath its armour, heat warping the air around it.
Astarion shifted, positioning himself between her and the construct. His blade was already in hand, but his eyes flicked to the lava, calculating, desperate. Grym raised its arm again.
“No,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Not like this.”
The construct lunged.
Astarion moved fast; inhumanly fast, but not to strike. He scooped Taveleigha into his arms and dove toward the nearest support beam, rolling behind it as Grym’s blow shattered the stone where they’d just been. Debris rained down, heat licking at their heels. Taveleigha gasped, pain flaring white-hot. Her vision blurred. Astarion’s voice was in her ear, low and urgent. “Stay with me. Just a little longer.”
Grym roared, if it could be called that. The sound was mechanical, guttural, like the forge itself was screaming. It turned again, relentless. And still, Astarion didn’t run. He crouched beside her, blood on his cheek, eyes locked on the construct. “I’ll draw it away. You stay hidden.”
She gripped his wrist, weak but insistent. “Don’t.” He looked down at her, really looked, and something shifted in his expression. Not fear. Not rage.
Resolve.
“I’m not letting this forge take you,” he said. “Not when you’ve already survived worse.” Then he stood, blade gleaming, and stepped into the heat.
The forge blazed around him, air shimmering with molten fury. Grym loomed ahead, its massive frame backlit by lava, a silhouette of destruction. Astarion’s blade caught the light, silver against fire, but he didn’t strike. Instead, he turned and shouted, voice slicing through the roar. “Gale! Now!”
Across the chamber, Gale stood poised at the lever, arcane energy crackling at his fingertips. He yanked it down with a grunt, and the forge responded like a living thing.
The hammer dropped.
A deafening clang shook the chamber as the massive forge hammer slammed into Grym’s back. The construct staggered, metal groaning, lava sputtering from its seams. For a moment, just a moment, it was still. Astarion didn’t wait. He was already moving, back to Taveleigha’s side, crouching low, eyes scanning for escape.
But Grym wasn’t done.
With a grinding roar, it rose again slow, deliberate, like the earth itself refusing to die. Its head turned, gears clicking into place. The glow in its eyes reignited, brighter than before.
It had recalibrated.
Taveleigha was still the Prime Target.
“No,” Astarion breathed, realisation hitting like ice.
Grym’s gaze locked onto her broken form. It began to move, each step a quake, each breath a furnace. The construct didn’t care about strategy or vengeance. It was following its directive. She had struck it. She was marked.
Taveleigha tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled. Blood slicked her side. Her vision swam. Astarion stepped in front of her, blade raised, body taut with fury. “You want her?” he snarled. “You’ll have to go through me.”
Grym didn’t hesitate. It charged.
Taveleigha’s breath hitched. Her body refused to move fast enough. Her limbs were lead, her lungs fire. She could feel the forge’s heat licking at her skin, the air thick with ash and inevitability. Astarion stepped in front of her, blade raised, voice low and furious. But Grym didn’t care. It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t sentient. It was following its directive.
She reached for Astarion’s cloak, fingers curling weakly into the fabric. “You have to…”
“No,” he said, without turning. “I’m not leaving you.”
Taveleigha braced herself, every nerve screaming. She braced for impact, for pain, for the end. But even through the terror, something else bloomed; faint, defiant. She wasn’t just a target. She was a survivor.
Astarion stood firm, blade raised, but she could see it in his eyes, he wasn’t enough. Not against this. Not alone.
Then the air split.
A guttural scream tore through the forge, primal and furious. A blur of motion; red hair, molten armour, a great sword gleaming like vengeance, intercepted Gym’s blow with a thunderous clang.
Karlach.
She’d thrown herself into the path, feet planted, muscles straining as she met the construct’s strike head-on. Sparks exploded from the clash, heat rippling outward in waves. Grym reeled back a step, its arm forced off-course by sheer brute force. Karlach didn’t flinch. She snarled, eyes blazing, and shoved forward with a roar that echoed off the forge walls. “You don’t touch them!”
Taveleigha stared, breath caught in her throat. Karlach was a wall of fury and fire, her great sword locked against Gym’s arm, molten light dancing across her armour like it belonged to her.
Astarion exhaled sharply, stepping back just enough to shield Taveleigha again. “Remind me never to get on her bad side.”
Karlach twisted her blade, forcing Grym’s arm upward, then slammed the hilt into its chest with a grunt. “Gale! Again!”
Across the chamber, Gale was already moving, arcane light gathering in his hands as he reached for the lever once more.
Taveleigha tried to rise, pain lancing through her ribs. But something in her shifted, not just physically, but emotionally. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t a target. She was protected.
The hammer fell again.
Grym crumpled under its weight, metal shrieking, lava bursting from its seams like blood. For a breathless second, the forge held its breath. Taveleigha felt the tremor ripple through the stone beneath her, Karlach still braced beside her, Astarion tense and ready.
But Grym rose. Again.
Its joints groaned, its core pulsed, and its eyes reignited with that same unrelenting glow. It didn’t falter. It didn’t hesitate. It simply recalibrated and turned toward her.
Across the chamber, Gale’s voice cracked through the heat.
“Why won’t you die!” he shouted, hands clenched around the lever, arcane light flickering at his fingertips. His voice was raw, rage, fear, helplessness all tangled together. “We’ve hit you with everything!”
Taveleigha twisted, trying to see him. He was separated from them by a stretch of molten stone and broken platforms, isolated on the far side of the forge. The heat shimmered between them, warping his figure like a mirage.
He looked small. Not weak, but alone. His magic sparked around him, wild and unfocused, as if even the Weave couldn’t reach across the divide.
Grym took another step toward her.
Karlach growled, shifting her stance. Astarion’s blade gleamed, ready. But Gale’s voice echoed in her ears, louder than the construct’s steps. She knew that tone. She’d felt it herself, when power wasn’t enough. When brilliance couldn’t bridge the gap between knowing and saving.
She reached out, not with her hand, but with her voice. “Gale,” she rasped. “You’re not alone.”
He froze.
The magic steadied.
And Grym kept coming.
Grym turned toward Gale, recalibrated and relentless.
Karlach didn’t wait. With a snarl, she broke into a sprint, veering left across the fractured platform, her great sword gleaming with heat. Astarion mirrored her, darting right, fluid, fast, a shadow against the forge’s glow. They moved like a storm closing in.
Taveleigha pushed herself upright, breath ragged, pain lancing through her ribs. Her legs trembled, but she followed stumbling forward, one hand pressed to her side, the other reaching for balance against the scorched stone. She couldn’t keep pace. Not with them. But she had to move.
Grym registered the flanking manoeuvre, its head swivelling with a mechanical grind. It paused, just for a beat, calculating. Then it surged forward, ignoring the threats on either side, still locked onto Gale.
Karlach roared, leaping onto a raised platform and launching herself downward, blade arcing toward Grym’s shoulder. The impact rang out like a war drum, staggering the construct just enough.
Astarion was already behind it, daggers flashing, slicing at exposed joints with surgical precision. “You’re not the only one who can play with fire,” he muttered, dodging a retaliatory swing.
Taveleigha reached the edge of the central platform, breath hitching. The heat was unbearable. Her vision blurred. But she saw Gale, hands raised, magic swirling, eyes wide with both terror and resolve.
And she saw Grym, still moving, still burning, still coming. She gritted her teeth and kept going. Her Magic Missile struck true. Grym reeled, gears grinding, molten core flaring. It staggered backward just enough. Just far enough. The hammer loomed above, primed and waiting. She could see it now: the perfect angle, the final blow.
She shouted, voice hoarse. “Gale! The lever, again!”
But before Gale could move, the forge erupted.
Molten mephit’s burst from the lava channels, shrieking and winged, their bodies dripping fire. One slammed into Gale mid-step, claws raking across his shoulder. He cried out, stumbling, his hand flailed for the lever, caught it. The hammer fell.
And missed.
It crashed into the stone beside Grym, sending up a geyser of sparks and steam. The construct twisted, recalibrated, and roared. The quake came fast, a seismic pulse that knocked Karlach to one knee, sent Astarion sprawling, and nearly threw Taveleigha off the platform.
She caught herself, barely. Her ribs screamed. Her magic flickered.
Grym spun. Its eyes locked onto her again.
She was Prime Target.
Taveleigha didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, hands raised, magic sparking. Her body was broken, her breath shallow; but she was ready. If this was the moment, she would face it.
Astarion saw her move. And something in him snapped. “No,” he growled, voice low and sharp. “Don’t you dare.”
She turned, startled. “We need to finish this…”
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” His eyes were wild, furious. “You’re lining yourself up. You’re giving it a clean shot. You want to be the one who ends it, even if it ends you.” She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Astarion stepped closer, blade trembling in his grip. “You reckless, infuriating creature. You think this is noble? You think I want to watch you die for us? That it makes you strong. It doesn’t. It makes you reckless. It makes you…” His voice cracked. “It makes you leave.”
The mephit’s shrieked overhead. Grym advanced.
Taveleigha’s heart pounded. “I’m not trying to leave.”
“You always say that” he whispered. “But you keep standing in front of the fire.”
She looked at him then. And in his eyes, behind the rage, she saw it: fear. Not of Grym. Not of death. Of losing her.
And yet she still stood tall. If she died protecting these people, people who just a few weeks ago were strangers she would at least be happy that they survived. Her body screamed in protest, ribs aching, blood slick on her side, but she didn’t flinch. Grym loomed ahead, molten and monstrous, its gaze locked onto her like a curse. Behind her, Astarion’s voice was still raw, still trembling. “You always do this,” he said, low and furious. “You throw yourself into the fire and call it bravery.”
“Don’t you dare—” His voice cracked. He’s on his knees before she hits the ground.
He presses his forehead to hers, trembling. “I’ve died enough. I won’t lose you too.”
She didn’t look at him. “It’s not bravery. It’s necessity.”
He stepped closer, eyes burning. “No. It’s martyrdom. And I’m sick of watching you bleed for everyone but yourself.” Before she could answer, Karlach’s voice cut through the forge like a war horn. “Not now, you two!” she bellowed, swinging her great sword at a diving mephit. “Lovers’ tiff after the lava monster’s dead!”
Astarion blinked, startled. Taveleigha almost laughed. Gale, across the chamber, was already moving. He ducked a mephit’s claw, spun, and reached for the lever. His hand slammed it down with a grunt, and this time the lava surged.
Grym stepped into the flow, its armour glowing red-hot, steam hissing from its joints. The forge hammer loomed above, primed and waiting.
Taveleigha raised her hand again, magic sparking. “Now!”
Gale didn’t hesitate.
The hammer fell.
It struck Grym square in the chest with a deafening clang, driving the construct to its knees. Lava burst from its seams, gears shrieked, and the glow in its eyes flickered.
Karlach was already charging, blade raised. “I’ve had enough of you!”
She slammed her great sword into Gym’s exposed core, just as Gale unleashed a final arcane blast. The construct convulsed, once, twice and then collapsed, molten light dimming.
The mephit’s shrieked, scattering. Karlach turned, eyes blazing. “Gale! Left!”
He spun, casting a wide arc of ice that engulfed two mephit’s mid-flight. Karlach leapt, cleaving through another with a roar. The last tried to flee, but Astarion was faster, his dagger catching it mid-air.
Silence fell.
She lay still, breath shallow, ribs aching. The forge was quiet for now. But inside her, something stirred. A memory, not of pain, but of preparation. She was kneeling. Hands bound. A circle drawn around her in ash.
“Sacrifice is the path to strength.” The voice again. Blank-faced. Familiar. She had wanted to believe it. Had tried to. But the ritual ended in blood. Hers. She didn’t remember the aftermath. Just the sound of footsteps leaving. And the feeling that she had failed some test she never agreed to take.
The forge hissed, cooling. The hammer hung still. Grym lay broken. Taveleigha exhaled, knees buckling. Astarion caught her before she fell, arms wrapping around her with something too fierce to name. Karlach wiped her blade on her armour, grinning. “Now that’s teamwork.”
Gale slumped against the lever, panting. “I hate lava.”
Their voices felt distant. Like echoes from a world she hadn’t quite returned to. She didn’t know what the ritual had been for. Only that it had left her hollow. Marked. And now, in the quiet aftermath of battle, the emptiness stirred again, hungry, familiar. She leaned into Astarion’s chest, breath shallow. “You were right,” she murmured. He didn’t answer. Just held her tighter.
The forge was quiet. Not silent, never silent, but the roar had faded to a low, exhausted hiss. Lava still pulsed through the channels, but slower now, like the forge itself was catching its breath. Grym lay broken, its molten core dimmed, its limbs twisted in final defiance.
Taveleigha sagged against Astarion’s chest, her body trembling. Every breath was a knife. Her magic was spent. Her fingers twitched with residual energy, but it was fading fast. Karlach stood over Grym’s remains, blade resting on her shoulder, chest heaving. “Well,” she muttered, “that sucked.”
Gale slumped further down the lever, robes scorched, hair singed, eyes wide with lingering adrenaline. “I think I inhaled lava.”
A mephit twitched nearby. Karlach didn’t hesitate; she stomped it with a grunt. “Not today, fire pigeon.” Taveleigha tried to laugh, but it came out as a wheeze. Astarion shifted, lowering her gently to the stone. His hands hovered again, always hovering, never quite touching unless he had to.
She looked up at him. “You’re angry.” He didn’t deny it.
“You were going to die,” he said, voice low, tight. “And you were fine with it.”
“I wasn’t fine,” she whispered. “I was ready.”
“That’s worse.”
She blinked. “You don’t understand.”
“I do,” he snapped. “Too well. I’ve lived in that place. The one where pain feels like purpose. Where sacrifice feels like control.” His voice cracked. “And I hate watching you stand there.”
She reached for him, fingers brushing his wrist. “I wasn’t trying to leave you.”
He looked down at her hand. “But you didn’t try to stay.” The words hung between them, heavier than the forge’s heat.
Karlach glanced over, sensing the shift. “Oi. You two gonna kiss or kill each other? Because I vote kiss. But maybe after we patch up the walking corpse.”
Gale raised a hand weakly. “I second that. Also, someone please tell me I didn’t hallucinate the fire pigeons.”
Taveleigha smiled, just barely. “You didn’t.” Astarion didn’t smile. But he didn’t pull away, either.
Taveleigha sat cross-legged on her bedroll, the canvas walls of her tent dimly lit by the fire outside. Shadowheart’s healing magic still hummed faintly beneath her skin, cool, steady but her ribs ached with every breath. The bruises would fade. The memory wouldn’t. She stared at her hands. They trembled slightly, not from pain, but from everything she hadn’t said.
Outside, Karlach’s laughter echoed near the fire. Gale muttered something about “fire pigeons” and “lava trauma.” The camp was alive again, wounded, but breathing.
The tent flap shifted. Astarion stood in the entrance, silhouetted by firelight. His posture was casual, too casual, but his eyes betrayed him. They searched her face like they were bracing for impact. “You’re awake,” he said.
She nodded. “Shadowheart’s good at what she does.”
He stepped inside, slow and deliberate, and sat across from her without asking. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Just looked at her, she watched as his eyes ticked across her hairline, her nose, her lips, the freckles on her checks, and then finally he sighed “You scared me,”.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. “But you did it anyway.”
She looked down. “I wasn’t trying to be noble.”
“No,” he interrupted. “You were trying to be necessary.” Astarion looked down, then away. His voice, when it came, was quieter than before. “I used to think survival meant staying ahead of pain. Outrunning it. Outlasting it.”
She watched him, breath slow. “But you…” He shook his head. “You walk into it. You let it burn through you like it’s the only way to feel real.”
Taveleigha swallowed. “Sometimes it is.”
“You don’t have to understand. I won’t make you.” She faltered, gathered her breath. “But I won’t force you to stay.” She kept her eyes downcast watching as her fingers picked at a loose thread on her thin blanket, she then glanced up at him.
He met her gaze then, and something in his expression cracked open, less fury, more fragility. “I don’t know how to be near that. Not without wanting to pull you back. Or push you away.” The silence that followed wasn’t empty; it was thick with everything unsaid. Astarion’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to her hand, still resting near his. Then he reached out, hesitated, and let his fingers brush hers. “I don’t know what this is,” he said. “What I’m feeling. It’s messy. And inconvenient. And I hate it.”
She smiled, just barely. “You don’t hate it.”
“I hate how much I feel it.” He looked at her then, and something in his expression softened. “I don’t know how to be near someone who walks into fire like it’s a promise.”
“I don’t know how to be near someone who wants to pull me out of it.” She met his gaze. He leaned in, forehead resting lightly against hers.
“You’re infuriating.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“And yet here we are.”
Her hand rose to his cheek, thumb grazing the edge of a scar. “You didn’t run.”
“I couldn’t,” he whispered. “Not from you.”
For a moment, they stayed like that, no forge, no fight, no fire. Just breath and skin and the quiet ache of being seen.
They stayed like that, forehead to forehead, breath syncing slowly, hands resting between them. No promises. No declarations. Just presence.
Outside, the fire crackled. The world kept turning.
The canvas walls of the tent glowed faintly, shadows shifting inside. From her place near the fire, Karlach didn’t need to hear the words to know what was happening. She’d seen it in the forge, the way Astarion’s fury had cracked into fear, the way Taveleigha had stood like she was ready to burn. Now they were quiet. And that quiet meant something.
Karlach didn’t interrupt. She just watched.
The forge was behind them, but Karlach still felt it in her bones.
She sat cross-legged by the fire, armour half-unbuckled, great sword resting against a log like a sleeping beast. Her muscles ached in that good way; earned pain, not wasted. The mephit’s were gone. Grym was scrap. And her friends were alive.
Mostly.
She glanced toward Taveleigha’s tent again. The flap had shifted earlier, Astarion slipping inside like a shadow with too much weight behind his eyes. Karlach hadn’t moved. Hadn’t called out. She knew better. She’d seen the way Tav had stood in the forge; magic sparking, ribs broken, eyes steady. She’d seen the way Astarion had looked at her, like he was watching someone walk into fire and couldn’t decide whether to follow or scream.
Karlach had wanted to do both.
Instead, she’d shouted the only thing she could: “Not now, lovers’ tiff later!”
It had worked.
Now the camp was quiet. Gale was scribbling something arcane into a journal nearby, muttering about “lava trauma” and “fire pigeons.” Shadowheart was sharpening a blade with that serene intensity Karlach admired and feared in equal measure.
“She’s got that look. The one you get when you’ve died inside more than once.” Karlach muttered to Gale, keeping her voice low
“And yet she keeps choosing the fire.” He responded unsure of their sorcerer friend, but aware that she had been through so much already, always willing to step through fire for each and every one of them
“Yeah. But maybe this time, someone pulled her out.” Karlach glanced back at the tent, She didn’t know what was happening in there. Maybe they were kissing. Maybe crying. Maybe just sitting in silence. But what she did know was that whatever this group was, whatever the relationship between the vampire and the sorcerer, it mattered. And because of that she would fight for it. Just like she always did.
The fire outside had burned low, casting long shadows against the canvas walls of Taveleigha’s tent. The camp was quiet now, truly quiet. Even Gale’s muttering had ceased, and Shadowheart’s blade lay untouched beside her bedroll. Taveleigha lay curled beneath her blanket, her breath slow, her ribs aching in a way that felt almost nostalgic now, like the forge had left its signature behind.
Astarion lay beside her, one arm folded beneath his head, the other tracing idle patterns on the fabric between them. Neither of them spoke for a long time. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was deliberate. Like they were both afraid to break whatever spell had settled over the tent.
Then, from somewhere outside, a snore erupted; long, guttural, and vaguely triumphant.
Taveleigha blinked. “Was that…?”
Astarion smirked. “Karlach. Definitely Karlach.”
Another snore followed, this one ending in a muttered, “Take that, you lava bastard.”
Taveleigha stifled a laugh, wincing as her ribs protested. “She’s still fighting Grym in her dreams.”
“She’s winning. Loudly.” They both chuckled, and the sound felt strange, like laughter had forgotten how to live in their throats and was relearning it now. Astarion turned toward her, his voice softer. “You know, I used to think nights like this were wasted. Too quiet. Too… honest.”
“And now?”
He reached out, fingers brushing her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw. His touch was featherlight, reverent. Then, with a breath held between them, he leaned in and kissed her gentle, careful, like he wasn’t sure if it would break her or bind him. She closed her eyes, letting the moment settle. Letting him stay.
Outside, Karlach snored again, this time with a victorious grunt.
Astarion pulled back just enough to whisper, “I think she just decapitated a lava mephit.”
Taveleigha smiled, eyes still closed. “Good. Someone should.”
Astarion turned slightly, his gaze catching hers in the dim light. “You should be asleep.”
“So should you.”
“Yes, well.” He gestured vaguely. “I’m not very good at rest.” She studied him, his pale skin touched by firelight, the faint crease between his brows. “You’re thinking.”
“I’m always thinking. It’s a terrible habit.”
“What about?”
He hesitated. “You. The forge. The way you stood there like you were daring it to break you.”
She looked away. “It almost did.”
“But it didn’t.” His voice was quiet. “And I still don’t know if that terrifies me or makes me want to kiss you.” She laughed softly, then winced. “Careful. I’m still bruised.”
“I’ll be gentle,” he said, mock solemn. “For once.”
They lay there, forehead to forehead, the night pressing close but not heavy. No declarations. No promises. Just presence. And Karlach’s snores, like a war drum in the distance, keeping time.
Justa little WIP.
Nicel ittle taste of the next story in the Sometimes the unkown is safer saga (is it a saga, is it big enough to be a saga? hmm) either way. Hope you enjoy
Taveleigha didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward, hands raised, magic sparking. Her body was broken, her breath shallow; but she was ready. If this was the moment, she would face it.
Astarion saw her move. And something in him snapped. “No,” he growled, voice low and sharp. “Don’t you dare.”
She turned, startled. “We need to finish this...”
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” His eyes were wild, furious. “You’re lining yourself up. You’re giving it a clean shot. You want to be the one who ends it, even if it ends you.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Astarion stepped closer, blade trembling in his grip. “You think that’s noble? That it makes you strong? It doesn’t. It makes you reckless. It makes you...” His voice cracked. “It makes you leave.”
The mephits shrieked overhead. Grym advanced.
Taveleigha’s heart pounded. “I’m not trying to leave.”
“You always say that,” he whispered. “But you keep standing in front of the fire.”
She looked at him then really looked. And in his eyes, behind the rage, she saw it: fear. Not of Grym. Not of death.
Of losing her.
Taveleigha stood tall.
Her body screamed in protest, ribs aching, blood slick on her side—but she didn’t flinch. Grym loomed ahead, molten and monstrous, its gaze locked onto her like a curse. Behind her, Astarion’s voice was still raw, still trembling.
“You always do this,” he said, low and furious. “You throw yourself into the fire and call it bravery.”
She didn’t look at him. “It’s not bravery. It’s necessity.”
He stepped closer, eyes burning. “No. It’s martyrdom. And I’m sick of watching you bleed for everyone but yourself.”
Before she could answer, Karlach’s voice cut through the forge like a war horn.
“Not now, you two!” she bellowed, swinging her greatsword at a diving mephit. “Lovers’ tiff after the lava monster’s dead!”
Well thoughts? Comments? Statements?
I know i have been away a little, turns out raising a puppy much like raising a child apparently, who knew :P
No pressure tags: @roguishcat @lirotation @lirotationside @renard-rogue @starlight-rogue @slothquisitor @loquaciousquark
