and I use all pronouns, including neos! Please try to use a variety when referring to me; if you need some ideas, my current neopronouns masterlist is here:
🩵Link!🩵
(feel free to make up new ones though! get creative!!)
I am an eclectic Pagan worshipping Gaia, Hephaestus, and Freya, as well as a baby witch! Any witchy advice is greatly appreciated and I hope to find some mutuals involved in similar practices!
I love alt fashion and getting dressed up, so you will see a lot of that here too
🩷 My other blogs! 🩷
@sister-lucifer - where my fanfiction lives
@sisterlucifergraphics - where my graphics live
@xladyxluciferx - where my art lives
🩵 Please do not interact if you are/are in support of: 🩵
TERFs/SWERFs
Pro SH/ED
MAPs
Zoophiles
Radqueers
Nazis
Endo systems
I also ask that you do not follow if you are a minor!
sorry not gonna lie i think it’s a little crazy to try and drag me into something that has nothing to do with me with a person i haven’t associated with in MONTHS. sorry to crash out but yeah i’m mad because im trying to live my life and get better and people still have to bring it up one way or another for no reason.
i literally didn’t need to be involved in this at all and anyone who tried to make me needs to step back from the internet and genuinly go outside bc why do you even know who i am when the issue is with someone i cut off months ago? this is literally nothing to do with me and never did. you’re just aggravating everything i’m trying to heal from at this point.
i wanted to wake up and have a good day. instead i woke up to find out that people have found a way to tie me back to the person i hate for two timing me and siding with my abuser. why do you all do this
Mb I sent this on ur art acc instead of ur main, but how are you anti map but friends with vivica
hi ok so. i know that you corrected your mistake and i appreciate that. but im going to take this chance to clarify what happened.
i stopped associating with vivica months ago after i found out he had been going behind my back to talk shit about me to my abuser, was informing my abuser about me after i had cut contact, and was literally going around saying i was crazy and making things up and exaggerating. there were other issues too, but that’s the main one.
if vivica has somehow become a “map” or “pro map”, it happened after i cut him off. i have no idea what he’s doing now and i also dont care, so please dont inform me about it (not that i think you would, but just in case).
whatever he may have turned into has nothing to do with me and i absolutely do not deserve harassment for it. this was a shocking thing to wake up to considering i haven’t had any contact with him in months, and it’s disheartening to think i could have been dragged into a conflict that has nothing to do with me if you hadn’t corrected yourself.
please think twice about bringing other people into things like this. i have no idea what might be going on between you and vivica, and i don’t want it to become my problem when ive only just begun to move on from everything.
and frankly, anon, i find it concerning that you somehow managed to find out me and vivica were ever friends. i suggest taking a step back considering you almost opened up a fresh scar for me and could have done to same to anyone else.
Mb I sent this on ur art acc instead of ur main, but how are you anti map but friends with vivica
hi ok so. i know that you corrected your mistake and i appreciate that. but im going to take this chance to clarify what happened.
i stopped associating with vivica months ago after i found out he had been going behind my back to talk shit about me to my abuser, was informing my abuser about me after i had cut contact, and was literally going around saying i was crazy and making things up and exaggerating. there were other issues too, but that’s the main one.
if vivica has somehow become a “map” or “pro map”, it happened after i cut him off. i have no idea what he’s doing now and i also dont care, so please dont inform me about it (not that i think you would, but just in case).
whatever he may have turned into has nothing to do with me and i absolutely do not deserve harassment for it. this was a shocking thing to wake up to considering i haven’t had any contact with him in months, and it’s disheartening to think i could have been dragged into a conflict that has nothing to do with me if you hadn’t corrected yourself.
please think twice about bringing other people into things like this. i have no idea what might be going on between you and vivica, and i don’t want it to become my problem when ive only just begun to move on from everything.
and frankly, anon, i find it concerning that you somehow managed to find out me and vivica were ever friends. i suggest taking a step back considering you almost opened up a fresh scar for me and could have done to same to anyone else.
it's a pre canon fic following Cordelia, the secret captive daughter of Cazador Szarr, and Astarion, who wants to use her as a pawn in his plan for freedom.
the story is still in its early staged but I would adore you for giving it a chance and maybe even sharing/reblogging! thank you so much!
AO3 link:
Captivity in Tandem - Chapter 1 - Sister_Lucifer - Baldur's Gate (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]
Tumblr link:
Baldur’s Gate 3 Masterlist – @sister-lucifer on Tumblr
(WARNING: this fic will at some point contain ableism, emotional incest/covert abuse, and canon typical abuse and violence. i suggest taking a peek at the AO3 tags, but every chapter will be labeled with individual warnings for reader safety!)
The reblog chain is one of the things that makes Tumblr unlike anywhere else. All the notes on reblogs are attributed to the original post, no matter which branch people actually liked or reblogged. We want to keep encouraging conversations, and give contributors the recognition they deserve.
Soon, you'll be able to like, reblog, or reply to any part of a reblog chain, and that note will go to that reblog's author. Each reblog will have its own counts, instead of one aggregated number from every version of the post. And yes, you’ll be able to like multiple posts in one chain.
If a reblog doesn't add anything, the love flows up to the last person in the chain who did. Your post doesn't lose notes just because people spread it quietly.
Past notes will stay on the original post — we're only changing what happens from here on out. Retroactively re-attributing all of them would be... a lot.
This is just the beginning. More changes are coming as we keep building this out – stay tuned!
everyone comment and reblog telling them how awful of an idea this is. and then go to contact Tumblr support, select feedback, and do the same thing there. you should do both !!! you can copy paste !!
Since some of you don't seem to understand how this 'new notes' thing works, I'll break it down:
I'm the OP. I'm making this post. If you like, comment, reblog (without comment) on this post, then I'm the one who will see all those notes in my activity page.
However...
If you reblog (with comment), I will get a notification that you did that, but any likes/comments/reblogs (without comment) you get on that reblog will only be shown to you. As OP I won't see them.
If someone adds a reblog (with comment) to your reblog...as OP I won't see that. I won't see any of those notes in my activity page.
Basically, if someone with a large following makes a comment, then they will get all the notes and OP will see nothing. If OP has said something silly because they're, y'know, 21 and it happens, and then someone reblogs it onto the dash of someone with a large following who then dunks on them for fun? OP doesn't see it, doesn't get notes for it, but they're gonna get the harrassment for it in their inbox.
If I, someone with a 5 digit follower count, reblog something to correct misinformation on Ancient Egypt, then OP will never see it unless it was on the original post, but I will continue to get notes on that post even though it's not my post. If I reblog fanart, or just art in general, with a comment like 'Oh this is so lovely!' then OP will not see any of the notes from people reblogging it from me. They'll only see my reblog. So it's possible for an art post by someone else to have 200 notes for them, but 9000 for someone who reblogs it with a comment, and the OP artist will have no idea it's been seen by that many people.
It's killing blow to the community we've built here, by someone higher up who doesn't understand that being able to see all the comments and reblogs is what makes this site the place I keep coming back to.
That's what sucks.
I encourage people to go to tumblr's support page, select contact support, and then in the dropdown menu select 'Feedback' and leave polite and constructive feedback (for those of you who enjoy 'emails worded politely but are a strong 'are you an idiot?', try that way of wording it). They're more likely to listen to you if you're not an asshole about it. I've already gone and done this, and I hope others will too.
I encourage people to go to tumblr's support page, select contact support, and then in the dropdown menu select 'Feedback' and leave polite and constructive feedback (for those of you who enjoy 'emails worded politely but are a strong 'are you an idiot?', try that way of wording it). They're more likely to listen to you if you're not an asshole about it. I've already gone and done this, and I hope others will too.
Since some of you don't seem to understand how this 'new notes' thing works, I'll break it down:
I'm the OP. I'm making this post. If you like, comment, reblog (without comment) on this post, then I'm the one who will see all those notes in my activity page.
However...
If you reblog (with comment), I will get a notification that you did that, but any likes/comments/reblogs (without comment) you get on that reblog will only be shown to you. As OP I won't see them.
If someone adds a reblog (with comment) to your reblog...as OP I won't see that. I won't see any of those notes in my activity page.
Basically, if someone with a large following makes a comment, then they will get all the notes and OP will see nothing. If OP has said something silly because they're, y'know, 21 and it happens, and then someone reblogs it onto the dash of someone with a large following who then dunks on them for fun? OP doesn't see it, doesn't get notes for it, but they're gonna get the harrassment for it in their inbox.
If I, someone with a 5 digit follower count, reblog something to correct misinformation on Ancient Egypt, then OP will never see it unless it was on the original post, but I will continue to get notes on that post even though it's not my post. If I reblog fanart, or just art in general, with a comment like 'Oh this is so lovely!' then OP will not see any of the notes from people reblogging it from me. They'll only see my reblog. So it's possible for an art post by someone else to have 200 notes for them, but 9000 for someone who reblogs it with a comment, and the OP artist will have no idea it's been seen by that many people.
It's killing blow to the community we've built here, by someone higher up who doesn't understand that being able to see all the comments and reblogs is what makes this site the place I keep coming back to.
That's what sucks.
I encourage people to go to tumblr's support page, select contact support, and then in the dropdown menu select 'Feedback' and leave polite and constructive feedback (for those of you who enjoy 'emails worded politely but are a strong 'are you an idiot?', try that way of wording it). They're more likely to listen to you if you're not an asshole about it. I've already gone and done this, and I hope others will too.
Summary: Astarion gets a chance to put his inquiring mind to rest once and for all, and perhaps gain the upper hand.
Contains: Mentions of ableism, outdated terminology regarding disability, slow burn, enemies/strangers to lovers, forbidden romance, manipulative Astarion
Word Count: 5.19k
Like my writing? You can show your support by reblogging! Thank you!
You can also find me on AO3 under Sister_Lucifer; all my work is cross-posted there!
Please let me know if you see any typos!
“Under no circumstances are any of you to leave the palace grounds until I return.”
With that declaration, Cazador was off. He explained briefly that important business dealings required him to take a few days’ leave to consult with some high-standing lords on the other side of Baldur’s Gate. Of course, that was all he was willing to say, and it’s not a spawn’s place to question their master (as he so often likes to remind them); besides, he’d already been in a sour mood about having to stray from his lair, before the sun had set no less.
The lord’s absence is a rare and welcome relief, even if Astarion and his fellow spawn aren’t permitted freedom beyond Cazador’s estate. The air feels a bit lighter without a tyrant stomping through the halls, but while the others are more than content to revel in the quiet, Astarion has scarcely been able to rest.
Thoughts of a winding tower staircase and the pale silhouette of a nightgown disappearing behind a locked door pervade his mind at all hours. The banquet was nearly five days ago now, and still, his insatiable curiosity has yet to fade in the slightest. He’s been itching to return to that shadowy corridor, to find answers to the countless questions he’s been mulling over, and now the threat of being caught is no longer a deterrent. No more excuses—now’s the time to make a move.
Yet, as he stands at the mouth of the dusty hallway, he falters. He’s staring down what very well may be a monumental discovery, and his feet won’t move. Is he… afraid? No, that’s not right. Tense, maybe. There’s a jittery thrill in knowing something Cazador doesn’t want him to, and the phantom adrenaline coursing through his undead body heightens his anxiety. Truly, he wants more than just to know—he wants to interrogate this something until he’s pulled out every detail, and then he can decide what to do with the guts.
There’s a greater opportunity here, far greater than the temporary exhilaration of disobedience. As amazing as it feels to get one over on Cazador, that girl could be his real first stepping stone to freedom. The other Szarr children only come around when their father calls for them, and are far too arrogant to fraternize with spawn, too stuck-up to be of use to a mutiny. This girl, on the other hand, doesn’t even have the spine to bite back at the most obvious insults. She’s horrifically passive, and he can take advantage of that.
He can use her.
The plan currently piecing itself together in the back of his head is far from perfect, but this is the sort of scheme he’s familiar with. Malicious flirtation is his second nature. Even the brightest of young ladies are easy to sway with the right promises and enough commitment, and she certainly didn’t strike him as the type to be experienced with men; nobles don’t give up their secrets easily, but that doesn’t mean their minds are impossible to break into.
So, then, what is he so worried about?
He glances over his shoulder again, just in case Cazador is about to come barging back in to tear his head off. Besides the distant noise of dishes clanking in the kitchen, he hears nothing.
Don’t be such a coward. You saw him leave. Don’t waste this chance.
He steps into the yawning maw of the corridor, keeping his eyes on the velvet curtains awaiting him at the end. With each step he takes that is not halted by the booming voice of his master, he picks up the pace. When he does get to the end, he makes himself reach out for one of the drapes before he can pause. The pads of his fingers run across the soft fabric without interruption. No greater force has manifested to stop him, and as he yanks back the curtain, he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.
He was almost expecting to see a solid wall. Part of him was convinced that someone must have slipped something into his wine, and the frail little apparition he had seen was only a hallucination, an excuse he dreamt up to get some fresh air.
There is no barrier behind the curtain.
The dark entryway to the far tower is just as real as it was when he first saw it. He takes a slow step inside, letting the drape close behind him. Every crack and blemish in the brick is just the same as he remembers. He can even run his hand along the stones and feel every little flaw.
The singular torch he can see from the bottom of the stairs casts beckoning shadows that flicker along the ground, calling him to ascend as he did before. He clenches his fist, pushing down the unease turning over in his stomach, and presses on.
He’s overly cautious as he takes the first step. The solid stone isn’t going anywhere, yet he moves as though it may collapse and swallow him whole. Now, he’s painfully aware that he’s disobeying his master. The fear of punishment tugs at him, begging him to stop while he still can, and he has to fight off the terrified ringing in his ears. Everything he’s ever wanted for the last two hundred years may lie ahead.
The faint silhouette of the ghost girl flashes in his mind as he makes his way up. He can see her so clearly in the shadows. The memory of walking behind her and watching her hobble along is still fresh in his head. His legs strain a little more each time he steps up, and it baffles him how one so frail could make this climb alone. He wonders if her bad leg hurts, if she made the trip down and back up the tower on a painful limp before he shakes the creeping vestige of concern. The Szarr girl is in no need of his sympathy, and he has none to give.
He halts when he realizes he’s arrived at the top of the staircase. He must’ve been lost in thought, because the climb to the top had passed in what felt like a second. His apprehension spikes with his goal so close, tongue running across his dry lips as he takes the final few steps, and it’s like walking along the bottom of the ocean. The weight of his limbs fights against him until he’s finally standing in front of the wooden door.
He tries to steady his nerves as he stares back at the only thing standing between him and hope. There’s nothing unusual about it; it’s just like every other door in the palace. Still, his hand shakes when he lifts it to knock. He almost expects it to hurt, to burn, to reveal some sick defensive enchantment placed upon it, but he barely feels the impact of the wood against his knuckles.
“Just a moment!”
The reply is perfectly cordial. It sends a shiver down his spine.
That’s her voice. A bit more eager, without any hint of a nervous waver, but it’s her, without a doubt.
There’s a bit of rustling behind the door, then the sound of a drawer being closed. Her footsteps cross the room to the entryway, and they sound steadier than before, now accompanied by something thudding along the ground as she moves. The lock shakes as she turns it. Then, nothing is standing between them anymore. His expression contorts into a charming smirk before she has the chance to blink.
She’s the same girl she was when they first met, though now looking considerably more put together. Her nightgown has been traded in for a proper dress, one with a many-layered skirt and floral embroidery fanning across the bodice, all in a shimmery white. The collar is rather modest compared to what’s fashionable, and it covers her up to her neck, around which sits a simple string of pearls. Her chestnut curls have been pulled half up and pinned with a decorative hair stick, leaving two twin ringlets—one brown, one blonde—to dangle on either side of her face. In her right hand, she grasps a wooden cane with an ivory handle carved into a dove. The bird has a long tail leading into the gentle curve of its back where her palm rests, and he’s never seen anything like it. It must be one of a kind.
He’s underdressed, he thinks. The unadorned leather vest, linen undershirt, and plain trousers he chose don’t exactly compare to a noble lady’s wardrobe. He must have been so anxious to see the tower again that changing clothes slipped his mind. Of course, he’s still as handsome as ever, but he needs every advantage he can get with her.
It’s a bit surprising to see her dressed so formally. When he saw her staggering about in that plain nightgown, he had assumed her to be…simple. She wasn’t exactly making intelligent decisions, or even trying to conceal that frightful limp. Now, she could pass as a woman befitting her title.
He anticipates a similar inspection to the one he’s subjecting her to, followed by a sneer at his attire. He’s had every inch of himself dissected by the judgmental gazes of aristocrats. The girl doesn’t seem to give much attention to his clothes at all, though. A little gasp leaves her as she fixes her eyes on his face.
“Oh! Hello, Sir Astarion. You’re not Merewyn.”
He hides his confusion with a soft chuckle, raising an arm to lean against the doorway. “Sorry to disappoint.”
“No, not at all,” she’s quick to assure him, “I just wasn’t expecting anyone else. I don’t often have visitors, you see.”
“Well, perhaps we can change that, hm?”
“Huh?”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
He turns a heavy sigh into an amused huff.
“I’d like to speak to you, darling. Inside, if you don’t mind.”
She opens her mouth to speak, then stops. Her brows furrow before she briefly ducks behind the door, checking to make sure her living space is presentable, or maybe looking for a polite excuse to turn him down.
“I-I don’t know,” she stutters, “I’m not supposed to have any visitors Father doesn’t approve of, and for good reason, you know.”
“Come now,” Astarion purrs, “your father isn’t here. You’re a grown lady, aren’t you? You ought to choose for yourself now and then.” He draws out the last few words and takes a not-so-subtle glance at what little of her slim silhouette he can discern.
The girl hums in contemplation, tilting her head to one side and searching anywhere but his eyes for the right answer. Her teeth part to gnaw on the second knuckle of her pointer finger as she weighs her choices. He didn’t think a simple request would drum up such worry.
He bends down close to her face, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Just a little something to push her in the right direction.
“No one has to know. It’ll be our little secret.”
His low insistence makes her shudder, though it’s not followed by the rapid flushing of the cheeks that he’d expect from any other mark. Still, his charms have not failed him, it seems.
“...You haven’t been sick, have you?” she asks.
“Fit as a fiddle, sweetheart,” he declares with a hand on his chest. “The undead aren’t often at risk of falling ill.”
That appears to satisfy her, and she steps aside to allow him entry. “Alright, I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Come on in.”
He takes only a single step inside before he has to jump back, narrowly avoiding being singed by the bright rays of light streaming in through the glass balcony doors and sprawling across the floor. She doesn’t turn around in time to catch his stumble, thank goodness, but she does give him a questioning look when she finds him unable to move from the doorway.
“N-Now, darling, if you didn’t want me to stay, you could have just said no,” he chokes out. “No need to try and incinerate me.”
“What do you… Oh!”
She rushes to close the curtains, yanking them across the rod in her haste and snuffing out the intrusive afternoon sun.
“Gods above, I’m so sorry!” She yelps. “How awfully rude of me. With Father gone, I didn’t even think about—”
“It’s alright,” he interjects before she can go on babbling. “All’s well that ends well. No one was reduced to ash, at least not this time.”
He punctuates that line with a playful wink, trying to soothe her nerves. She gives an embarrassed laugh.
“Ahah, well, even still, I-I ought to be a better host…”
Astarion lets the door close behind him as he enters and reaches behind his back to turn the lock, just in case. That ‘Merewyn’ she mentioned, whoever they are, could be a potential interruption, and he can’t afford to get caught so soon.
The girl moves to her bedside to turn the valve on the lamp, though he doesn’t need a flame to see the room in perfect detail.
Every inch of her chamber is draped in pastels, the pale colors of the early dawn, down to the white oak bookshelf that takes up the better part of the wall to his left. To the side of that is the only other interior door, which he would assume leads to her washroom. Against the opposite wall is her canopy bed, which looks big enough to fit two and a half of her, and just beyond that are the now covered balcony doors. Next to the entryway is a vanity and a matching wardrobe of similar design to the bookshelf, much like the hand-carved writing desk nestled into the corner by the curtains.
The entire room is littered with all manner of knick-knacks—figurines, candles, art pieces—shiny little trinkets on display for no one in particular. There must be a lifetime’s worth of junk gathered here.
I guess even she isn’t immune to the rich man’s hoarding instinct.
It’s… cute, he supposes, but the word carries no affection. It’s girlish in a juvenile sort of way, and unlike anything he’d expect to see in the Szarr palace of all places.
He doesn’t waste any time being nosy. With brazen curiosity, he flits about the room, inspecting whatever catches his eye.
“You’ve quite the collection here,” he comments, picking up a marble statuette of a sitting woman from the shelf and turning it over in his hands.
“Yessir,” she agrees, “Father brings me gifts all the time. In fact, he’ll probably have something new for me when he gets back from his trip. Isn’t that one beautiful? He bought it from a Chessentan sculptor years ago, and I look at it every day, but I always find myself so impressed by the craftsmanship. I’ve read about the massive marble works of Chessenta and its neighboring nations, but on such a small scale…”
She goes on, but he’s stopped listening. His interest in the statuette has proven short-lived. It returns to its spot on the shelf, and he resumes his snooping right in front of her. The girl’s voice fades to an insignificant buzz as he works his way from one corner of the room to another, not in any particular order, and none of her curiosities keep his attention for more than a second or two. That is, until he spots a small framed painting atop her vanity.
It’s a bust portrait of a woman—about thirty if he had to guess, perhaps a bit younger—with the same brunette curls as the Szarr girl. They both have that blonde streak, too, and the same freckles across their cheeks, though the woman’s are somehow even more plentiful. Her sky-blue dress leaves her shoulders bare, and he can see that they’re just as spotted as her face. Her eyes are a deep brown, but more downturned than the girl’s, and her ears are perfectly rounded without any hint of a point. A pearl necklace rests against her collarbone, and the artist took great care to make each little gem an iridescent star all its own.
“Who is this?” Astarion asks as he takes the frame into his hands, one brow raised with intrigue.
The girl sighs, and suddenly all that excitement drains from her. “That’s…that’s my mother, Lady Adaria Bynes of Eroba. She is, ah, no longer with us, I’m afraid.” Her hand floats up to trace a finger across her necklace.
“I see… my apologies. I’m sure she was a lovely woman.”
“Oh, I-I never got to meet her, but I appreciate it.”
“Mm.”
He stares into the painted eyes of the noble lady, then turns back to the girl.
How unfortunate that she’s got her father’s wretched face.
He sets the portrait down and turns back to her, resting against the vanity with assumed nonchalance. “You must have gotten your beauty from her, then.”
She giggles, averting her gaze and brushing off his words with a wave of her hand. Now he’s got her blushing, and that’s a step closer to figuring out what she really wants to hear.
“You’re far too kind,” she replies. “She really was a beautiful woman. I honestly don’t see the resemblance.”
He has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Please, spare me your farce of humility.
“Nonsense,” he croons, “you’re a perfect work of art. I’d be hard-pressed to find a lady in all of Baldur’s Gate who could rival you.”
He pushes off the vanity and makes his way towards her, not too eager but far from reluctant, and stops when he’s close enough to reach out and touch her. The tips of his fingers gently lift her chin, coaxing her to look up at him with the slightest touch.
“I could study this face for hours,” he mumbles, as though he doesn’t realize he’s thinking out loud.
She freezes under his sharp observation. She barely even blinks, seeming more like a startled doe than a flustered maiden. He can feel her face getting warm as red blooms spread across her cheeks, but her lips show no hint of a smile, no irrepressible twitch of enjoyment. She’s quick to take a step back and return her attention to the floor when he finally pulls his hand away.
“S-So, um, you said you wanted to speak with me,” she recalls, moving her hair to one shoulder and raking a hand through the curls. “What might that be about?”
“Hm? Oh, yes, right. Must have slipped my mind.” He gestures to her bedside. “Is it all right if I sit?”
“Yes, of course. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
The mattress sinks beneath his weight, and he has to bite back a scowl of steaming jealousy as he imagines what it must feel like to sleep on something so inviting every night, with enough room to stretch your legs and toss and turn to your heart’s content. He sits back on his hands to hide the way his fingers dig into the sheets.
The girl stands there with one hand on her cane and the other hovering awkwardly at her side, awaiting his next words with stiff anticipation. He can’t help but smile at her sudden inability to put herself at ease.
“You can sit next to me, you know,” he teases. “It’s your room after all, and I don’t bite—not unless you ask.”
Confusion crosses her face, but she decides not to question that little afterthought. She takes a seat beside him, making sure to keep a respectful distance, and sets her cane on the bed before folding her hands in her lap.
He reaches out to brush a lock of hair from her shoulder. “That’s much better, isn’t it?”
She tenses at the touch, but nods.
Being obvious isn’t getting him the response he needs. It looks like he’ll have to try another tactic. She seems to be a sensitive lady; perhaps she’d have more interest in a sensitive man.
“You spend most of your time up here, I take it?” Astarion questions, letting his head loll to the side as he surveys the room.
“Yessir, I’ve lived here my entire life.”
“Oh, my. That must get lonely.”
The girl shrugs, fidgeting with her sleeve. “I wouldn’t call it lonely. I just have a lot of time to myself, that’s all, and I see Father every day. It’s not so bad.”
“Not so bad?”
“Well… of course, sometimes I wish that I wasn’t so limited, but—”
“Is that why you snuck out?”
She stalls, then shrinks back with shame, head hanging low.
“I-I wasn’t sneaking,” she mumbles. “I wasn’t trying to, at least. I only wanted to talk to Father. I didn’t realize it would be so… overwhelming.”
He clicks his tongue in mock sympathy. “That’s a nice word for it. I could tell you were frightened, and I couldn’t bear to leave you alone like that.”
“You must have thought I was such a fool…”
That’s because you are. In fact, you’re downright stupid. It’s a miracle you haven’t gotten yourself killed yet.
“No, no, not at all,” he insists, “don’t say that. It’s not the most inviting scene for a newcomer, especially when you don’t know what to expect. I’m just glad you got back safe. Lord Szarr’s events might not be open to the public, but that doesn’t mean the guest list is short; anyone could have been crawling around.”
“I suppose you’re right. Father does his best to keep good company, but you can’t have eyes on everyone.”
‘Good company,’ she says. That’s funny.
He waits for a moment to see if she’ll break her act—she’s dead serious. She actually believes that.
It’s worse than he thought.
That knocks the wind out of him for a moment, but he quickly gathers himself and clears his throat.
“Speaking of your father, I never did ask why you were looking for him, if you don’t mind me doing so.”
“Oh, i-it was nothing, really…”
“Hm. Don’t take this the wrong way, darling, but you’re a terrible liar.”
She laughs, and this time, it doesn’t shake. “I must be. It’s not something I’ve had a lot of practice in.”
He returns her grin, letting his eyes soften into that perfect look that he knows will compel her to open up, to bare her soul and hand over all her secrets on a silver platter. The final touch will be in the measured delivery of his next line:
“...I know we’re hardly confidants, but I can tell that something’s been troubling you. I may not know you yet, but I’d like to, if that’s all right, and perhaps be able to take some of that weight off your shoulders.”
That pushes the right buttons.
Her smile fades into something more somber as she moves in a little closer, still hesitant to take up his personal space. She must be dying to talk to someone who’s not her father for once.
“That night,” she whispers, like they’re schoolmates trading secrets, “I could hear the party from up here. It wasn’t bothersome, but it got me thinking, and I started wondering about what I was missing out on. Sometimes I get myself so upset, worrying over silly things like that, but I can’t help it.”
He nods solemnly and reaches out to pat her knee. “I understand completely, darling. It’s not fair that he keeps you from things.”
“It’s not, not in the grand scheme of things. I know that’s how it has to be, but lately I’ve been finding myself rather frustrated with my lot in life. I feel awful admitting this, but… I even started wondering if Father was ashamed of me.”
There it is. That’s the confession he’s been looking for—he’s finally pushing her in the right direction. This is the perfect first step.
“Ashamed?” He echoes. “Of you? He’d be a fool, sweetheart.”
“That’s kind of you to say, but I think even he has trouble understanding my hardships. I know he loves me, but I just can’t shake the fear that I’m not what he would desire me to be.”
She can’t keep her emotions at bay to save her life, and each word is more suffocated than the last. The gears are turning fast in her head as she grapples with her thoughts.
“I read a book once,” she continues, “about an ancient kingdom ruled by a king with three sons. The two eldest boys were strong, healthy—they were heirs to be proud of. The youngest turned out sickly, unable to walk on his own, and hardly able to speak. When the king passed on, they gathered stacks upon stacks of his personal writings that had never been seen by anyone else.”
“And… what was in them?”
Her shoulders tremble.
“He cursed the gods for their cruelty, for tarnishing his bloodline and burdening him with such a disgrace; he cursed his wife for bearing such a creature, and for caring for him as though he were any other child; he cursed his baby boy for daring to breathe, for still finding reasons to laugh despite his condition. It was horrific, and I couldn’t put it down. It was only a sliver of the king’s legacy, a brief digression from what should have been a rich, triumphant life story, but to me… it was the only part that mattered.”
Tears have gathered in her eyes now, and despite himself, Astarion’s chest tightens as he watches her sorrow overtake her. The elation that was bubbling beneath the surface mere moments ago suddenly feels so far away as control of the conversation slips through his fingers. He didn’t think she’d be a difficult one to pry open, but everything is flooding out of her so much faster than he was prepared for. She’s been waiting for this for a long time.
For all the hatred he harbors, for just a split second, she really does look human. In just the right light, he might be able to forget her lineage long enough to find the fearful girl underneath.
Damn it all.
He shoves down that naive urge to look beyond what he knows to be true. There are a hundred sob stories just like this one waiting to fool a bleeding heart, and he knows better.
She can cry all she’d like. The tears of a Szarr are of no consequence to him.
He reaches out to grasp her hand, and she doesn’t pull away.
“It scares me to think that someone might feel that way about me. The last thing I’d ever want is to be Father’s disgrace… after everything he’s done for me, after all I’ve put him through, the least he deserves is a daughter who makes him proud. I’d like to come out on the other side of all our strife and say that I turned into something worthwhile, you know?”
“…O-Of course, yes. Of course you do.”
She bites down hard on her bottom lip, barely managing to keep the tears from spilling down her speckled cheeks, and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. A faltering smile does its best to turn her expression into something less distraught as she fixes her posture and smooths out her skirt.
She sniffles and fans her face, halfheartedly pulling herself back together. “But I spoke to Father, we had a very nice talk, and I see how absurd I was being now. I can be so foolish sometimes, getting all worked up over nothing. I’m just like my mother that way.”
She wants to take back what she just did, to tear his attention away from her ill-advised admission, but she has no idea how. She’s floundering, stammering as she tries to scrape together some passable change of conversation.
“L-Look at me, just prattling on and on and bringing down the mood! I’d talk your ear off if you let me.” Her voice is shrill with discomfort—it sounds like her throat is closing up. “I should let you get a word in now and then, no? I never did ask you about yourself.”
“You… want to know about me?”
“Absolutely! You were nice enough to walk me back to my room, after all, and I’m sure you’ve got better stories to tell than I do.”
He’s still processing the revelation she’s just dumped in his lap. This was not supposed to happen so quickly; she could have at least given him enough time to put together a real plan! She should have tried to refuse him, to play coy until she thought he was serious, and then he could have lured her into bed and done the rest over a few sessions of pillow talk. By then, he’d know exactly what he needed from her.
Hells, what kind of a lady is she, giving it all up that way? A man she barely knows waltzes into her room, and she thinks it appropriate to lament her deepest woes? She’s either naive beyond comprehension or far more intelligent than he’s given her credit for, and the latter possibility isn’t even worth considering. Any noble with half a brain would never let a stranger anywhere near such an exploitable insecurity. She should know better; she should be able to hold back, to maintain some dignity. This girl has no idea how to conduct herself around other people. You don’t survive in a place like Baldur’s Gate with a soft heart.
He barely had to do anything, and she’s served him her heart without complaint.
He ought to be cheering, seeing as she’s practically eating out of his hand already, and eager to be wrapped around his finger. Despite the revulsion bubbling in his stomach, he puts on a smile.
“I’m not all that interesting, love, I assure you,” he replies, softening his words just enough for his denial to draw her in.
“Nonsense, I’m sure there’s plenty about you that’s interesting. In fact, why don’t you stay for dinner, and we can talk a bit more? Merewyn will be up soon.”
“Ah. Who exactly is Merewyn?”
“You don’t know her?” The girl asks, eyes wide. “She’s been my handmaid for years. She’s human, I’d say half a head taller than me, with blonde hair…”
Astarion’s eyes narrow as he considers the description, and it doesn’t ring any bells. He shakes his head.
“Can’t say I’ve met her.”
“Let’s see, um—she’s got a scar,” she adds, gesturing vaguely to her mouth.
“...You mean the mute with the patched harelip?”
“Yes! She looks after me when Father is away, and she’s just a darling, you know. He says she’s dumb, but I don’t think that’s a very kind word for it. She’ll have supper ready for me any minute.”
He crosses his arms and leans back against the headboard, looking off in contemplation as if he might have something better to do than sit around and entertain her.
“I suppose I could stay, just for a bit.”
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