Human in real life. Drow in fantasy setting. Or was it the other way around? Find me on AO3 if you want to read my works: LottaVilja (Header and Avatar made by the amazing dramatic_chipmunk)
Part 1 of Fear, Fate, and Fangs in which Astarion and Tav's love story begins.
This work follows the events of Baldur's Gate 3 from Astarion's POV. It is an attempt to portray Astarion as a psychological being. I'm not analyzing him or losing myself in theories (though I am relying on psychological constructs, and my beta is a psychologist), this is rather a genuine attempt to understand him emotionally. This is why I try not to sugarcoat his actions, or idolize the 'she can fix him' trope (it might happen, though, because I, too, have my blind spots, so don't be mad at me, please).
Over the course of chapters, the language will change a bit. When Astarion opens up, so does his perspective. It's very centered and narrow at the beginning but will expand over time.
However, since this is as much a love story, there will be a lot of intimacy (sexual as well as non-sexual).There will be angst, there will be fluff, and there will be romance. There will be a lot of heartbreaking drama. But since this is a story about healing, I can assure you that eventually, everything will be fine.
Notes:
My goal is to stay true to his character as a vampire (D&D alignment: neutral evil at the beginning of his journey) while allowing him to heal and grow over time. I don’t yet know what that will ultimately mean for his alignment, but—well, no sense in rushing things. Let’s see where this leads.
At times, I'll take liberties as a writer and tweak the content a little—though never in ways that would alter the core of the story.
Also, this is a slow burn—don’t expect smut until chapter 12.
Note: spoilers ahead (if you haven't finished playing the game)
This work is still in progress. I plan to upload regularly (weekly, perhaps). *Update: Sorry, guys, weekly won't be possible any longer since I'm running too many WIP at the same time (should teach me a lesson). But updates will come, don't you worry.
Comments are welcome! They fuel the soul of every writer ❤️
AO3 here.
Fleeting Dreams: completed long fic
Summary:
Part two of Fear, Fate, and Fangs, which is an alternate reality and follows Astarion and Tav's love story as it becomes threatened by unpredictable evil forces.
Ever longed for another life? A lover you were never meant to meet? For one woman in our world, these midnight fantasies become reality when her favorite video game character seeks her in her dreams.
What begins as harmless, sensual escapes slowly transform into an adventure where the veil between worlds thins and reality and fantasy collide.
And soon she learns that the darkness waiting on the other side... has teeth.
Please mind the tags as well as the warnings in the notes section.
Enjoy.
Warning: Spoilers from the game.
Warning: This story explores the fine line between sanity and insanity in a deeply psychological way. If you are vulnerable regarding mental illnesses (especially when it comes to deciding what is real and what isn't), or if you have experienced (or currently experience) suicidal thoughts or the wish to simply not exist, please be cautious when reading this fic. It will play with these emotions.
AO3 here.
Snow Bite: finished Short-Fic
Summary:
Tav and Astarion stand before the dryad at the Circus of Last Days. Upon asking the last question, the fey maiden senses that Astarion's fear might define his upcoming choices. And that these choices might threaten the deep bond he and his sweet drow share. There is but one last question she must ask to define whether their bond is eternal or doomed eternally.
An adventure awaits the two lovers, where they must find their way back to each other. Expect a world full of wonders, where beautiful princesses, boasting princes, and evil queens reside—only nothing is quite as it seems.
If you are looking for a sweet story to fill your soul with warmth and joy, this might be the perfect treat for you.
AO3 here.
What are Words when I can Show You: finished One-Shot
Summary:
Tav feels unattractive, and Astarion shows her how much he adores her.
AO3 here.
Llar Darthiir: Long Fic WIP
Summary:
Almost 100 years ago:
Tav is a highborn drow going by the name of Lymune, who has to flee the Underdark together with her mother.
Imrae is a highborn orphan and is owned by Lady Laele, who uses her ward however she pleases.
Astarion is a vampire, who roams the streets of Baldur's Gate with the only goal to collect fools for his greedy master.
Today:
Among other survivors, Tav and Astarion are in search of a cure for their tadpole problem when they stumble upon a lone drow. As infected as they are, Imrae becomes part of the group.
Two drow and a vampire, the three of them band together rather quickly, exploring Faerûn as well as each other in pursuit of answers.
Notes:
This is a collaborative work between spillingteanotpermitted and LottaVilja featuring Imrae and Tav (Lymune). The idea was born when we realized that under certain circumstances, Imrae and Tav likely met when they were children. Plentiful hours of yapping later, we decided to write a fic about it.
Enjoy!
AO3 here.
Series: Oh Brother of Mine: Imrae and Lymune's Adventures
Just for a little while: finished One-Shot
Summary:
What if Imrae's parents were alive? What if Lymune's mother Vhaidra Uoswiir seeks shelter at the Auvryervs palace?
This one-shot explores the what-ifs of a happier future for both Lymune and Imrae. Brother and sister who are meant to have found each other.
Notes:
Inspired by The Embrace of Love and Death - Short Rests by MissFortuneTheRogue
This is a gift from the wonderful spillingteanotpermitted in honor of our two drow Imrae and Lymune. I cannot express my gratitude over this cute little fic. And more so because I was permitted to post it here.
Thank you so much, my friend!
AO3 here.
Silk and Blood: Medium-Fic WIP
Summary:
Drow Tav and her companions make their way down into the Underdark to reach Moonrise Towers. On their way, they stumble upon a strange couple. A drow and a drider. What could have easily ended in bloodshed turns out to be something pleasant when the two drow recognize each other from when they were kids. Determined to help his friend, Imrae and his partner Zhah join the group.
A drider and a vampire, however, seem not the best combination, and so Tav and Imrae have to find a way to ensure the two 'monsters' get along with each other. A delicate matter because Tav and Astarion's romance is hanging on by a thread.
Notes:
This is a collaborative work between Spillingteanotpermitted and LottaVilja featuring their favorite drow Imrae and Lymune.
AO3 here.
Series: Astarion's Reflection: One-Shots and Short-Fics Evolving Around Psychological Themes in the Astarion Universe
Swet Choice of Mine: finished Short-Fic
Summary:
“I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality.” – Frida Kahlo
Astarion has been a criminal his entire life. Sick of committing only petty crimes for his boss, Cazador Szarr, he desires to become one of the big players. A name on a list is the ticket he has been waiting for, and he has one month to make sure his target bites the dust. An easy enough job because Astarion has an excellent killer instinct.
The Thorms are one of the wealthiest families in Baldur’s Gate. Since the miraculous recovery of their daughter, Isobel, a couple of years back, they have become loyal Shar worshippers, convinced that the goddess put her protective wings over the woman. Now someone put a death warrant on the older sister, Sylva.
But things rarely are as they seem, and what appears like an easy kill for the professional assassin turns out to be a greater challenge. More so when the line between hunter and prey increasingly blurs up to the point when both are left with one final choice.
Notes:
The story is a modern, no-magic AU, taking place in the city of Baldur’s Gate.
A well-working transportation system, the metro, exists.
Both the police (Fists) as well as the crime syndicate use bladed weapons. Heavy weapons and firearms don’t exist.
The whole pantheon of gods and goddesses exists, but Faerûn is mostly a secularized state. Religious groups are called sects by the common people.
Apart from these details, the world is mostly like ours. You will find names, places, and even things taken from the D&D universe, but they will be altered accordingly.
The disease mentioned in this fic is completely fictional. Any similarities to actual diseases are purely coincidental.
This story is born from suffering. It is shaped both by grief and a strong will to live. If I had to reduce the whole fic to three tags, they would be angst, comfort, and romance, though the first part of the story will be mostly angsty. I didn’t rate the fic, though if you expect porn, you should not linger. There will be sexual content, slightly explicit (one chapter), but the focus is not sex, it is intimacy and shared grief.
AO3 here.
Killing Spree: finished One-Shot
Summary:
Tav and Wyll shared a romantic evening together. The next day, the nosy vampire is eager to learn all the dirty details from his travel companion. What starts as a fine evening among friends, turns more and more into a night of intimate confessions up to the point where Tav has to make a choice.
This one-shot is inspired by Astarion's reaction when Tav chooses him over any other companion in Act 2. It made me so emotional, and my mind got to work immediately, weaving a little sweet tale from it.
AO3 here.
Worthy: finished One-Shot
Summary:
Tav and Astarion spend their first night together. But instead of a night of passion, Tav prefers to talk—about worldviews, wishes and wants, and a future Astarion doubts he will ever lay claim to—and he realizes he might not even need to seduce her to gain her loyalty.
AO3 here.
Ravenous: finished One-Shot
Summary:
Astarion and Tav have a fight. They are on the verge of ending things, when something unexpected happens.
AO3 here.
'Til Fate us Part: finished One-Shot
Summary:
Months ago, Astarion ascended—just as he always dreamed. Power, freedom, dominion over the city: it’s all his. All but one thing. Tav is not by his side. Not yet. She’s still weighing her options. After endless months of longing, Astarion grows tired of waiting. And so, he turns to what he does have—devoted thralls, eager to play the part of the one he truly desires.
AO3 here.
Morning, Darling!: finished One-Shot
Summary:
Astarion and Tav spend a usual morning together.
Warning: all kinds of liquid spilling, draining, soaking,...
Otherwise, porn in its pure form.
So, enjoy!
AO3 here.
The Beauty of Time: finished One-Shot
Summary:
In this fic, I want to explore the long road of love and adoration, even when facing the wheels of time. It’s a story about change, the fear of changing, and the unwavering devotion of the person loving you—all of you.
Notes:
I believe dealing with the unavoidable aspect of getting old is very important, because no one can escape the wavering of time—no matter how hard we try. Writing about aging, especially when it comes to love and sex, is something very precious to me. Beauty comes in various forms, and I don’t want to close my eyes to the beauty of old age.
Don’t get me wrong—aging sucks. But there’s something so mundane, so inevitable about it, that it becomes a wonder in its own right. So, if you’re not into old women having sex with young men, don’t read further. Maybe it’s not time yet.
To all the others out there—enjoy.
And to those who know from experience what I’m talking about: you are not alone in this. And always remember—
You are beautiful.
AO3 here.
Butterflies: finished One-Shot
Summary:
I have always wondered what the Urge must feel like. This is what I came up with. A story about craving, beauty, and the slow unraveling of self. Beware the tags. Enjoy.
AO3 here.
Whispering Snakes: finished One-Shot
Summary:
A Dark Urge is confronted with fear—for the very first time.
Let’s delve deeper into that dark, paralyzing feeling.
I dare you.
Enjoy.
AO3 here.
He Will be the Death of Me: finished One-Shot
Summary:
Tav gets entangled in Astarion's web of seduction.
Content warning: it's a common manipulative tool of certain people (narcissist dickheads) to trigger this kind of reaction in others for the sake of control. I would definitely count Astarion among this spectrum at the beginning of Act 1.
Enjoy.
AO3 here.
A collection of short fics
From Ashes We Rise: finished Short-Fic
Summary:
When Tav and her companions rescue Halsin from the worg pens in the goblin camp, they’re forced to make a quick escape. Through a crack in the wall, they stumble into a tunnel that leads them even deeper into the Underdark. Soon, the group splits, leaving Tav and Astarion alone to find their way back to the surface.
A proud drow and an even prouder vampire, the two must work together to survive—swallowing their animosities and facing the dangers of the deep. But as the road grows darker, so do the lines between ally and something far more intimate. And in that darkness, they begin to realize: perhaps they’re not so different after all.
The story starts in the worg pens but quickly takes a different turn from game canon. From that point on, it follows an alternate path, focusing on Tav and Astarion’s journey through the Underdark—alone.
AO3 here.
It Was You Kising Me: finished Short-Fic
Summary:
Tav and her team of young, motivated engineers are on a work-related camping trip. Scavenger hunts turn into something far more personal when she and Astarion find themselves circling the tension that's been simmering between them for months. They have history. It started with a kiss. And now, Tav has to decide: act on her feelings—or run from what scares her mos
AO3 here.
More Long fics:
Journey through the Jungle: Medium-Fic WIP
Summary:
With this fic, I try to come to terms with a very personal topic. Having been diagnosed with cancer changes a lot. Even years after successfully beating the bastard, the long-term effects are still visible (physical and mental). What better way of reprocessing the past is there than to write about it? Baldur's Gate 3 with its refined and complex characters serves as the best background for spinning a tale in which fantasy meets real life.
Consider with care whether you want to read this fic. It might trigger something (if you have your own fair share of experience with this topic), or it might just not be your cup of tea.
Should you decide to read this piece, let me tell you how happy I am to have you here with me.
Since this is a very emotional theme, I won't upload new chapters on a fix time schedule.
Comments are, as always, welcome (except for you, scam vultures, get the hell out of here!)
One more thing: each experience is different. That which worked for me might not work for you. I don't intend to lecture anyone on how to cope with their problems.
AO3 here.
There are no Showers in Faerûn: Long-Fic WIP
Summary:
Tav—ferocious leader, potential savior of or possible doom-bringer to Baldur’s Gate—gets replaced by an earthling, who barely holds it together when she realizes she’s trapped inside a game. The story starts in Act 1 when all companions have already been recruited, and the party has established a well-working command structure. But with Tav acting so weird, chaos erupts among the companions, turning the journey into a sequence of strange encounters and creative ways of problem-solving.
Or a different form of coming-of-age story as in how a simple teacher learns to become a leader.
Comments are very much appreciated :-)
Notes:
The idea to this fic came to me in a moment of respite. It's fascinating what a couple of hours in a Spa can do to your brain. Anyway, the rough plot is established, details will be added on a more or less regular basis (I have yet a couple of WIPs waiting, but this one was so annoyingly demanding, I had to add it to the collection).
rules: Click on these to make your OC in Picrew and put their name in the incorrect quote generator!
Thank you to the likes of @vividiana, @andromedaancunin and @alliskit for the tags <3
Below is my idiot, Octavia (unfortunately, piccrew didn't have a side braid option for this, so enjoy her here with her mane in all of its glory).
The quote generator was so fun I couldn't stop at one.
So here's a combo of Octavia, plus Octavia and Astarion.
Tagging some of my peeps to join in on the fun: @alwaysmauria, @ginateeth, @lolthwoven, @lottavilja, @missfortunetherogue, @alrendriablaze
Thank you, Chip, you didn't exaggerate, it was a load of fun. So, here is my sweet Lymune. The skin colour is not too fitting, but hey, we are not picky, are we? The cutie next to her is supposed to be Scratch, ahem.
And now to the quote generator. I literally couldn't stop. Since I'm currently drawn into the dream AU (a Collab with @spillingteanotpermitted) where Astarion and Mas are no monsters and Imrae and Lymune grew up together, I took the liberty and generated some quotes with the four of them. Enjoy!
Mas: That's ridiculous, Imrae doesn't have a crush on me.
Astarion : Yes they do.
Lymune : Yes they do.
Imrae : Yes I do.
Mas: What are you getting Lymune for the holidays?
Astarion : I don't know. It's kind of hard buying a gift for your partner when they already got everything they could've ever wanted when they married you. So I'm not sure yet.
Imrae : I'm getting Lymune a divorce lawyer.
Lymune : I give up. I am so tired.
Mas: Get the emergency supply!
Imrae : *carries Astarion and places them in front of Lymune *
Astarion : *smiles*
Lymune : AND I AM BACK BABY, LET’S GOOO
The gentlest of tags go to: @spillingteanotpermitted @elceewunjo @judasiskariot @optimisticgrey @play-me-a-durge
Thank you for the tags, @spillingteanotpermitted and @lolthwoven. I always a enjoy a good read from the two of you.
No pressure tags for @missfortunetherogue, @dramatiquechipmunk, @aerin67, @et-augury, @nw39, @shandoratheexplorer
I'm slowly returning to a more or less regular writing habit, though I'm still shying away from any smutty scenes. However, my latest collab project with @spillingteanotpermitted featuring Zhah (Mas), Imrae, Astarion, and Tav (Lymune) keeps me pretty busy. We keep exploring different AU scenarios, the latest being a dream sequence in which Tav has a vision of a more fortunate future together with her brother. You can find the fic (One-shot) here.
For this post I will add a snippet from the chapter I'm currently working on for Silk & Blood, the WIP longfic in which Tav and her tadfools stumble across Imrae and Mas (a drider) who, tadpole-free, guide them across the Underdark. You'll find the fic here.
Enjoy.
(Short background clarification: Astarion and Zhah went hunting. The drider and the vampire don't get along very well with each other, and when they are surprised by a hungry bullet, they barely survive the encounter.)
Zhah, who seems in a far more dire state than Astarion, with bruises and nasty cuts all over his spider body, looks up from the book he was reading. As he shifts to the side, she notices with a cold shudder that one of his legs has been cut off, the black stub carefully wrapped in silvery cobweb.
“Greetings, Tav,” he says in a neutral voice, but the keen senses of the young bard pick up a faint twitch in his jar—is he being nervous or in pain? “Imrae went scouting,” he clarifies when she keeps staring at him. Tendrils of darkness seem to pull at him, and Tav realizes that he is trying to hide from her sight.
“Actually, I wanted to check on you,” she quickly says with an easy smile.
“Oh,” he sounds surprised. “Thank you.”
“Astarion told me what happened. Thank you for protecting him.”
His head snaps to the side and a low growl escapes him, twisting his face into a ghoulish mask. “Don’t mention it,” he nearly hisses.
Tav’s unease increases upon his sudden griminess. In her mind, she tries to bring back Imrae’s face. His expression when he spoke about his love for the drider gives her the motivation to speak on.
“How are you feeling, Zhah? Do you need more healing potions or salves?”
“No, I feel better already, thank you. Halsin is a good healer. I’ll be back at it by tomorrow. This won’t disturb your journey, I promise.”
“Nevermind that. Take all the rest you need.”
He observes her tentatively, dozens of small lenses glimmering in the twilight of the cavern.
“If you are sure. I won’t be a burden.”
Tav swallows. Beneath his beasty appearance there is a certain softness peeking through. And with a sudden clarity she is reminded of an encounter she had as a young girl when she stood before a cage insight of which a bear was raging, thrusting against the bars, growling and snarling and baring its fangs. So shocked and afraid was she that she sought protection behind her mother, who forced her to step closer to the cage, telling her that the beast inside was even more afraid than her. Every day, her mother would drag her in front of that creature, where she would remain until the bear was too exhausted to rebel against the intruders up until one day it would stop completely. And just then little Tav could finally see the fear beneath the rage. That animal was suffering, and she cried bitter tears because she understood that despite its composure it would kill her the instant she would open that cage.
“Don’t say that,” she whispers. “You aren’t a burden, hurt or healthy.”
Zhah regards her quietly for a moment, his heinous eyes seem to pierce through her.
Inspired by @lottavilja's gift fic When Little Bards Are Dreaming, where in a dream vision of Tav/Lymune, Imyaraen "Imrae" Auvryervs and Masorvir "Mas" Darnruel (Zhah if he was not cursed into a drider) meet at a ball held by the latter's old friend Lord Ancunín.
This is a gift for my friend, @spillingteanotpermitted. It is inspired by her work Just For A Little While. Link here.
You can also read this story on AO3.
Pairings: Astarion x Tav (Lymune), Zhah (Mas) x Imrae
word count: 6.916
Dividers by @archiveofsnow
Summary:
Just like every year, Tav and Astarion embark on a journey to reunite with Imrae and Zhah. Decades have passed since the successful defeat of the Absolute, and the saviors of Baldur's Gate have moved on with their lives.
Good lives. Happy lives despite the sacrifices they had to make along the way, and Tav cannot but wonder…
What if things had been different?
The bags were packed, the house was clean, and the only remaining task left was to shut the door behind them. Astarion fumbled with the keys while Tav waved at the approaching carriage. Her darling husband had insisted to travel in comfort, no need to ruin their shoes now that they could afford it. Tav hadn’t protested. They would spend enough time in the wilds once they had reached their destination.
For the last couple of months she had been eagerly awaiting this trip. Her students were already mocking her whenever she drifted off into daydreaming during her lessons. They were nice kids, eager to learn, and she didn’t take offense by their jests. On the contrary, whenever the situation allowed for it, she would give voice to her happiness. And whoever was willing to listen would be filled up with stories of her adventures together with her husband whom she met just then.
That time when hope seemed so far away.
That time of miracles.
That time when she met them.
Imrae, her brother at heart, and Zhah, his beloved, and one of her dearest friends.
Decades had passed since they had made their way through the Underdark to find a cure for their unusual problem. She and Astarion and her fellow tadfools who if not for Imrae and Zhah might have perished in the depths of Tav’s origin. And no year had passed since without an annual reunion with her saviors.
Every year when the forest green of Bloomridge Park slowly transformed into a snowy white she and Astarion would travel to the Sword Coast where a nice little grove was waiting for their arrival. And every year they would spend one or two evenings among druids and her former companions before descending into the dark where Imrae and Zhah were already expecting them in their nice, little cavern.
Over the years the cozy place had grown into a much larger domicile, for it no longer housed only a drider and a drow but also a young man named Drovic, an aspiring bard and adopted son to the couple. And chances were high that this time, she and Astarion would travel back with a new student for her. Not only a student, though, he would live with them for a couple of years, and Tav could not be happier and prouder.
“Shall we?” Astarion offered her his arm to help her inside the carriage.
Settling in next to each other, he reached for a book he brought along whereas she would spend most of the time gazing outside the open window, seeking inspiration for her music in the millions of stars above until her eyes would turn weary and she would snuggle closer to her husband for a couple of resting hours.
Tav’s eyes wouldn’t stop swelling from fresh tears for hours upon rejoining with Imrae and his family. Astarion had already been teasing her tenderly when she wouldn’t let go of Gale and Shadowheart at the grove. But now with her brother close by, who endured her kisses and hugs with this innate patience of his, she couldn’t hold back any longer. And she didn’t need to. Those dear to her knew about the bottomless pool of emotions she kept inside her chest. The good kind and the bad.
“Let the poor man live, love,” Astarion called from the rocky chair where he was sitting as he watched his wife cling to her brother.
“It is fine, Astarion,” Imrae chuckled and waited until Tav released him.
Both Zhah and Drovic wore the same amused smiles as they drank tea and snacked on the fresh fruits Tav and Astarion had brought with them—a courtesy from the grove keepers Halsin and Francesca.
Finally, Tav returned to her seat next to Astarion. Imrae had crafted that piece of furniture only for them. Patted with cushy cushions Zhah had created from his own arsenal of spider silk it was no less comfortable than a sofa. No one but Tav and Astarion used this piece of furniture. Imrae’s family preferred stone to anything else.
The whole living room was made from what the Underdark had to offer. Her brother was skilled in molding the granite into anything he desired. And with Zhah’s keen sense for beauty not even the Arabellan Palace in Cormyr could rival their perfect little paradise.
“So, tell us, how is the rest of the group?” Zhah asked while one of his slender legs cradled his partner’s neck.
It had taken the drider a while until he felt secure enough to act genuine around Tav and Astarion. Especially Astarion. Until both became the friends they were now, a lot of nasty things had happened between them, some of which the vampire wasn’t proud of up to this day. But despite his gruesome appearance, Zhah didn’t hold grudges for long. He had long forgiven Astarion’s cruel trespasses.
“They are all fine. Gale is still lecturing at Waterdeep, although I fear he is not very popular with the students.”
A sneer followed by a snort revealed Astarion’s opinion on that matter.
“Lae’zel paid us a visit last month,” Imrae notified while pouring more tea into their cups. “Apparently, she and Gale have decided to walk separate ways.”
“Yeah, I know. Gale was devastated. His books keep him busy, though.”
“A certain cleric might keep him even busier,” Astarion added, grinning when his drow’s attention shifted to him. “Oh, come now, darling. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed their timely arrival.”
“A coincidence more like.”
“Ha!” Her husband laughed out loud and then placed a gentle kiss on her cheek. “Sweet innocent thing,” he crooned.
Blushing, she cast a nervous glance at Drovic.
“Don’t mind me. I’m old enough to understand how these things work,” the young bard commented on Tav’s concern over endangering his youthful innocence.
“Oh, really?” Zhah put down the teacup, his blackened eyes disapprovingly focused on his son.
“That is not in the slightest what I meant, pop.” Drovic’s lips trembled from the chuckle he tried to stifle.
From what Imrae had told her through their regular sending stone communications, Zhah was clearly the more worried parent. At times, her brother had to hold his distressed mate back or else Drovic would spend the rest of his life among hermits. The idea for the young bard to join Tav and Astarion was the result of a long-fought compromise. She would make sure to honor Zhah’s trust in her.
“Whatever the case,” Imrae intervened mildly, “I am happy to hear that both are well and healthy. As for this evening, Drovic and I are planning to make dinner. Tav, what beverage would you prefer with your fragrant fungus stew?”
Tonight, as Tav laid her head to rest on the comfortable cushion on top of the matrimonial bed—another token of affection from her dear hosts—she and Astarion lay intertwined with each other in silence, both following their own train of thoughts. This annual reunion brought up not only joy to both their lives but also a surge of dark memories.
Up to this point—and probably for the rest of his existence—Astarion was grieving his forfeit chance to walk in the sun. With the defeat of his master, he hadn’t only rid himself of the shackles of his slavery. The price he had paid for rejecting the infernal offer of pure freedom at the cost of thousands of souls had been devastating.
He didn’t talk much about his feelings, and Tav was sure that the rare moments when he did open up to her were the only ones he ever would. She knew he loved her more than anything. That he was happy with the life they both shared together; as happy as he could be at least.
No matter how hard she tried, she would never be able to replace the sun.
She knew that. Had accepted it long before she said yes to his unexpected proposal to spend the rest of her life with him as his wife. But at times she wondered…
What if things had been different?
For all of them.
Behind her eyes, Tav watched her younger self as she clung to Imrae the moment her mother dragged her away from him. She cried awful tears and was punished for it according to drow customs. But the tears were not only for herself, they were for him too. Imrae’s parents had died when he was just a little kid, and the woman who took him in was just as cruel as her own mother.
All those years of suffering.
And Zhah? She couldn’t imagine the horrors he must have endured since his transformation into a monster. The stories she had heard as a lass were not only meant to scare little babies into obedience. That Zhah had kept his sanity and even got to experience such a deep bond as the one he shared with Imrae and now Drovic was nigh unbelievable. She knew he still suffered from the madness of this curse—just as Astarion did from his vampirism. If only…
“What are you thinking about, little drow?” Astarion’s nose grazed her cheek as he beheld her most tenderly.
“Just how happy I am to have you,” she replied, holding his gaze and snuggling closer.
“Happy enough for a midnight snack?” His lips parted to reveal his pretty fangs, and Tav snickered from his unhinged eagerness.
“Always, my love.”
He cupped her chin for a soft kiss, breathing, “I could not be happier than with you by my side, Tav. You know that, don’t you?”
“I do.” She closed her eyes, stretching her neck for him to better feed on her. “I do.”
The grand ballroom is thrumming with chatter and laughter, the vibrating light bulbs which float above the high stucco ceiling accentuate the festive décor. People cloaked in extravagant attire cluster in small groups around embellished tables. Only small flocks of dancers graze the dancefloor with their presence while a small ensemble of musicians fills the time with an easy tune.
Lymune is peeking through the thick curtains to catch at least a quick glimpse of her waiting audience. Her purple orbs are restlessly seeking one particular person, and once they have found their target, joy transforms them into a sparkling glimmer.
With satisfaction she retreats to the center of the stage, her flute nestled in her right hand. Little by little, the rest of the small orchestra settles around her. Alfira, the tiefling lutist, waves at her enthusiastically. In her blue costume the young woman looks like a princess from Cormyr, and Lymune signals with her eyes how impressed she is. Blushing, Alfira returns the gesture. And indeed, the dress the young drow is wearing tonight has been the prettiest she has ever worn in her life.
A renowned tailor, drow like herself and unimaginably skilled in weaving silk, crafted this artwork for her. Admittedly, had the host of this grand jamboree not covered the expenses, never in a million years would she have managed to afford such beautiful outfit.
Lihala, the first fiddle, seats herself beside her.
“Ready, Lymune?” the older woman asks, knowing that for her colleague this evening will hopefully be the premier to many more to come.
“Ready as I can be, I guess,” she replies in a hesitant voice.
Lihala gifts her a reassuring smile which is only matched in beauty by the silvery adornments curling around her pretty horns. “You have nothing to worry, luve. Your flute will captivate this audience in no time.”
Lymune blushes and chuckles nervously. “I’ll take your word for it.”
The signal to get ready smothers her laughter. Within seconds her mien turns neutral, and facing toward the still closed curtains, she waits for the stage to come alive. A susurrus of sound and melody fills the air as the musicians attune their instruments. Taking two deep breaths, counting to five, she brings the flute to her lips the moment the veil lifts, and dozens of expecting eyes wait for her to announce the beginning of the play.
This is for you, Cashoon, she whispers to herself, thinking back to her beloved teacher who taught her to play the flute like a celestial being.
Closing her eyes, she exhales, charming her flute into releasing a warm and soft tone. Lihala’s fiddle completes the melody. And then the majesty of a dozen bards unleashes their magic and casts a murmur of appraisal on the stunned faces of the audience.
“That was beautiful, sister.” Imrae keeps praising her as they make themselves comfortable at one of the tables which have been reserved for the musicians and their families.
“Thank you.” She beams at him and stretches out her hand. “I’m so happy that you came.”
“Of course I came. I would never have missed this.”
“I know. But I also know that your travels keep you busy.”
“Frankly, I have been looking forward to a moment of respite. I hope my being here won’t be a burden to you.”
“Are you kidding?” Lymune tuts. “There has barely been anything on my mind since your letter arrived.”
“I am glad.” He squeezes her hand affectionately from across the table.
With his hair woven into a cute bun he looks so dashing in his outfit. The quality of the tuxedo is cheap compared to her ballgown, but Imrae would look good even in a simple potato sack.
In the next moment, a servant approaches, his hands balancing a tray with plates. Elegantly, he arranges the food onto the table, carefully placing it around a gilded vase with a single red rose. Another servant brings a glassy carafe with red wine and fills two ornate glasses.
Throughout the serving Lymune observes her brother with an amused smile. To him this must be so foreign. For years now he has been working as a guide in the Underdark, ensuring travelers won’t get lost inside the labyrinth of tunnels. It was his choice. Despite his talents as a sorcerer, he prefers a simple life. And unlike her, his roots are strong.
“Tell me, how has life treated you? Now that you are a famous bard,” he asks as soon as the servants have left.
“Famous?” she chuckles. “We will see about that. But you’re right, this concert could decide much for me. You see, the lord of this place is a patron and art lover. He and the Grand Duke’s son are said to be close friends. Rumor has it,” she draws nearer, pitching down her voice, “that both are monster hunters in secret. The Szarr palace, this very palace, used to belong to an evil vampire lord, and when he died through mysterious means the Grand Duke gifted him this place.”
“Really?” One of Imrae’s fine brows raises in open skepticism.
“That’s what I’ve heard at least.”
Lymune takes the fork and stuffs her mouth with vegetables, humming in delight. Imrae’s skeptical gaze remains on her before he, too, begins dining.
“Fantastic food,” he praises.
“Rich food,” she corrects and reaches for the glass of wine.
The next half hour, both siblings catch up on their lives while indulging in the delicacies of the Sword Coast’s cuisine and laughing mirthfully. Occasionally, they are being interrupted both by admirers of her art and fellow musicians. After a while, the soft background music stops and an elderly human man approaches the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, dear guests, esteemed musicians,” his voice sounds twangy, and Lymune can’t help but imagine the man choking on his own stuffed words, “with great honor I present to thee the host of this fine evening. Lord Ancunín wishes to address his guests for some personal words of praise.”
A swell of cheers roams the hall as a young fair-haired elven aristrocat appears out of the midst of the audience.
“Curious,” Lymune whispers to Imrae, “usually those lords and ladies don’t mingle with the ordinary people.”
“I assume these are no ordinary people,” her brother replies.
Meanwhile Lord Ancunín expresses his gratitude for the applause with a couple of elegant bows, his handsome smile addressed to no one in particular.
“Thank you,” he finally says, his speech smooth and well accentuated. “Thank you,” he repeats a couple of times before the hall quiets down.
“Here we go,” Lymune leans forward. “Prepare yourself for an hour of self-praise.”
Much to her surprise, the lord keeps the self-praise to a minimum. Instead, he turns the attention quickly to the bards.
“My sincerest gratitude and utmost respect are dedicated to the true stars of tonight’s gala. Please consider the remaining hours of this wonderful evening as an homage to their skills.” With another bow he bids his farewell and disappears into the crowd.
“Indeed sister, this was truly awful.” Imrae grins at Lymune, who shakes her head in disbelief. “I have been meaning to say,” he goes on, “this dress you are wearing is magnificent.”
“I know, right?” She etches her gaze away from the flock of people.
“Who made it? Or more importantly, who paid for it?”
“Well, Lord Ancunín paid for it. He insisted that we sought out this special tailor in the Upper City. A Darnruel.”
“Darnruel you say?”
She nods, taking another small sip from her glass.
“I believe he used to sell his craft in Menzoberranzan. The spidersilk armor father used to provide our guards with was made by him. And mother once bought a scarf for you. The purple one.”
Lymune searches the back of her mind. “Indeed, she did. So that young man was him? I remember when mother and I browsed his wares. He offered me the scarf because the color matched my eyes and mother bought it for me. But that was ages ago. Your mind is remarkable, brother.”
“What is he doing on the surface, I wonder.”
“Let’s find out. I think I saw him in the crowd somewhere,” Lymune proposes.
“Find out? What is your cunning plan, sister?”
From his smirk she can read that he is fully aware that she has no plan at all. This would not be the first time that she brought them into an awkward situation. But in contrast to Lymune, who could easily talk herself out of nearly any predicament, Imrae prefers more controllable interactions. Luckily, their bond is strong enough so that no matter how silly her mishaps are, he couldn’t be mad at her for long.
But this evening should not end in an embarrassing disaster.
“You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”
He beholds her with a soft smile as she fumbles the long sleeve of her dress.
“How about a dance?” he proposes, huffing a laugh when her eyes widen in glee.
“I would love that.”
A gentleman to his word, he rises and offers her his arm. And the lady accepts the invitation with a curt bow and accompanies him to the dancing area. By now dozens of other couples have found the courage to swing their legs either gracefully or not to the simple orchestra playing in the background. Both Imrae and Lymune have no experience in dancing whatsoever, but that hasn’t been an obstacle so far. With giggles and guffaws they move to the music—more or less in synchrony to the rhythm and each other—and soon they involuntarily earn the attention of the guests nearby.
Lymune cannot suppress her laughter. Her brother has always been her best friend. Literally even. Before his parents also became her parents and he the brother she always dreamed of, he was her very first friend. And he has been ever since. There is no one she trusts more in her life.
“We’re awful dancers, Imrae,” Lymune sputters as she becomes acutely aware of the dozens of eyes watching her—either in amusement or bewilderment.
“Would you rather we stopped?” he asks.
“No. Yes? I don’t know. But I fear we might become a hindrance for the other dancers.”
She feels someone else’s presence nearby. The remaining couples have given them a wide birth not to accidentally collide with the clumsy pairing, so she is only caught half in surprise when a slightly familiar rich baritone resonates nearby.
“This is absolutely the most peculiar display of a freestyle dance if I have ever seen one,” the voice drips with sarcasm.
Lymune’s cheek redden in embarrassment, and with a snarky reply on her lips she turns toward the speaker. However, she gulps down the venom when Lord Ancunín stands before her, a charming yet impish grin on his attractive face.
“Who says it is freestyle?” Imrae replies in her stead, his tone as neutral as ever.
She casts a worried glance at the lord. In the past, people did not always catch the subtle humor her brother so skillfully hides behind his dry tone. But Lord Ancunín appears not that kind of people.
After a quick chuckle, he replies, “Apologies if I offended any cultural customs that I wasn’t aware of. But do tell, dear sir, do all drow wiggle and jiggle like you do?”
“Excuse me, dear sir? But that is just rude,” another voice joins in, and out of the crowd, which has luckily returned to its own business, a handsome drow appears—the artisan who made her dress. “The jiggle and wiggle we reserve for a more exclusive audience.”
“Not to mention the joggle, which we only perform on a full moon.” Immediately, Imrae falls into his banter, receiving some mirthful chortles, and slowly Lymune relaxes around the men and their weird conversation.
“Gentlemen,” she chimes in, “shall we bounce back to a steadier topic perhaps?”
“By all means,” Lord Ancunín meets her gaze. “But may I ask for your credentials first? I can’t say I have seen the two of you before.”
“Lymune of House Auvryervs. And this is my brother, Imrae of House Auvryervs.”
“A pleasure to meet the lovely flutist in person.” Lord Ancunín nods and greets her with a gentle hand kiss. Then he offers Imrae his hand and shakes it. After that he turns toward his companion. “This is Masorvir of House Darnruel.”
“Mas suffices, please,” the man clarifies and greets both Lymune and Imrae in the same manner as the lord just did before him. “Might I say that your music is inspirational,” he addresses her.
“And might I say that your skill in weaving silk is beyond breathless,” she replies politely.
“You are too kind.” He inclines his head, clearly moved by her compliment.
“Now that that’s settled, how about we settle down for a bit?” Lord Ancunín proposes and without waiting for an answer stretches out an arm to usher them towards a more excluded area of the ballroom. With a shrug meant for her brother, Lymune sticks to the lord and Mas.
Here the party noises are reduced to a comfortable buzz, and the single table is completed with even more pompous chairs. Not that Lymune minds, her love for cushions is unquenchable. But her brother is not that fond of cozy stuffings. He wiggles and squirms as if accidentally falling into an ants’ nest.
“Excuse my brother,” Lymune apologizes when she notices the confused looks on the men’s faces, “but he is a true child of the stone.” Ignoring Imrae’s fiery stare, she laughs charmingly.
“What is she saying?” the lord asks.
“She refers to the fact that I spend most of my time in the Underdark.”
Mas looks even more surprised than the lord. “Voluntarily?” he inquires.
“Well, yes.” Imrae lets out a nervous chuckle. “Is that so unusual?”
“The way I understand it, and please correct me if I’m wrong,” Lord Ancunín interjects, “the Underdark is not the safest place, especially for, uhm, young handsome men such as yourself.”
Lymune glances between her brother and Mas. The lord is not wrong. Drow culture is based on a matriarchy, but that doesn’t necessarily mean all drow follow that tradition. But she knows better than to say anything as she is the only female at this table, even more so because she is not acquainted with Mas’ backstory.
“True,” Imrae replies, “but when have things ever been easy, my Lord?”
“It’s Astarion, please. No need for formalities among friends. And yes, I agree. Usually, the world is more complex than it is good for us mortals.”
“Well spoken,” Mas replies. “Besides, we don’t want to insult the only lady in our midst.”
“Oh, don’t mind me. I can be pretty and quiet if the occasion requires.”
Imrae’s chuckle is prompt, as he is familiar with his sister’s peculiar humor. Both Astarion and Mas take a while longer until they join in.
“Indeed, you can, but it would be a shame to miss out on such beautiful voice,” Astarion hums, and despite her intention not to fall for such charm, she blushes.
“But where are my manners?” he exuberantly cries out. “What can I offer you? Have you dined already?”
“Yes, and it was fantastic,” Lymune acclaims.
“Such rich taste, right sister?”
“Yes, absolutely, brother.” She glares at him in mock annoyance.
“How about some wine then?” Astarion continues without reacting to their sibling banter.
“Not for me. I have had my fill for tonight,” Imrae decides for himself.
“And the lady?”
“One glass more or less doesn’t count, right?”
“Mas?”
“Nothing for me. I have work to do tomorrow. And these hands need to be kept steady.”
Indeed, his fingers are as fine as the silk on her skin.
“It’s down to you and me, Lymune, to keep the table entertained.” Astarion makes a hand gesture, and not one second later, a young serving lady steps forward. “You strike me as a red type of lady.” Next, he whispers his command for only the servant to hear.
Lymune exchanges a side glance with Imrae. Despite the hospitality of the young host, she knows he feels as uncomfortable under the likes of these rich people as she does, and her mind is already spinning a tale as to why they have to leave early.
“Imrae,” Mas turns his attention to her brother, “I’m curious as to what business you have beneath ground if you don’t mind sharing.”
“Certainly. However, it is nothing as fancy as your artwork. I guide people across the Underdark.”
“Really? That’s impressive! So, are you some kind of freelancer?”
“You could say that.”
“My brother’s being modest. He knows the Underdark like no one else does.”
“I would not go that far, Lymune.”
The servant returns with a carafe of red wine and fills her glass and then Astarion’s.
“Cheers to you, the star of tonight’s entertainment.” Astarion proposes a toast for her.
“Cheers,” her brother and Mas repeat, both holding a glass of water.
“Well, thank you so much,” Lymune takes a sip, feeling Astarion’s gaze on her. There is scarcely a taste of alcohol. Instead, the fruity aroma fills her mind with images of flowers under a clear blue sky.
“And?” he probes.
“This is marvelous. Imrae, you have to taste it.”
Reluctantly, he takes a probing sip. His eyebrows shoot up the moment the wine develops its full aroma.
“Would you like a glass?” Astarion asks.
“No, thank you. It is a fine vintage, but I don’t indulge in wine very often.”
“Besides, he has to ensure his sister gets home safe,” Lymune remarks with a smirk.
“By my honor, it is my personal interest to keep you under my protection.”
The lord’s words are sweet and appear honest, but still, Lymune would prefer to be escorted home by no one else but her brother. There is no telling whether the motives of Lord Ancunín are truly as innocent as he likes them to believe. In her experience, surface men have quite a different perspective on women. She doesn’t want to become prey to some touch-starved lordling.
“You were saying?” Mas redirects the attention back to the former topic.
“I was merely trying to rein in the enthusiasm of my dear sister.”
“But still, your line of work seems dangerous. And I don’t refer only to the perilous fauna and poisonous flora. I mean people.”
A shadow runs across Mas’ face, and Lymune shudders. Something happened to him down there.
“I am very cautious. That is why my services are more expensive and take longer than what other guides tend to promise their customers. Up to this point, every client of mine has reached their destination unharmed.”
“And where do you live?”
Mas’ curiosity seems insatiable, and to Lymune’s delight, Imrae doesn’t seem to mind.
“A grotto is all I need for a living.”
“All by yourself?”
“Ay.”
“Isn’t that lonely?” Astarion wants to know, his voice lacking any haughty undertone.
“Not at all. Why should it be? My work provides the necessary amount of social activity. And if I feel like I need someone close, I have my sister and my parents.”
“But you don’t live with him, do you?” Astarion asks Lymune, who has been watching her brother tenderly.
“No, I studied at the Bards’ college in Waterdeep and moved to Baldur’s Gate a couple of months ago.”
“And your parents?” Mas asks.
“They have their own place in the Upper Northdark—Menzoberranzan is close by,” she clarifies for Astarion.
“What about you? Where do you hail from?” Imrae doesn’t reveal that he knew about Mas even before he introduced himself.
“Menzoberranzan. The Duthcloim district. But I left for the surface many years ago.”
Apparently, he doesn’t want to elaborate, and both Imrae and Lymune won’t pry.
“How about the two of you?” she asks. “Where did you meet? What’s your secret story?” She winks at Astarion in particular.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he returns the wink and slouches deeper into his chair, signaling Mas to take the floor.
“I met this one before he became a rich prick,” he answers to Lymune’s astonishment—and amusement.
“How dare you! I should flay you alive,” Astarion hollers, and one or two heads snap towards them.
“See what I mean?” Mas snickers. “Money spoiled him.”
“You are just jealous.”
“Am I now? And who is complaining all day that life has become, and I quote, ‘such a tedious never-ending theater of lies and scandals’?”
“That is not the point of her question.”
“No, but it is funny.”
Lymune has been following the playful stabbing with delight. Maybe she has judged them too quickly.
“To answer your question,” Astarion’s green eyes turn to her, “he and I met in a tavern. I know how that sounds, but it is the truth.”
“It is. And it was the first night after my ascent. I was looking for a place to stay and for work.”
“And so did I. The latter part, I mean. Imagine, two young lads with nothing to offer but skill, will, and wit.”
“You weren’t that young.”
“No, but I was just as broke. You see, I had a good career running as a magistrate. Awfully well paid but boring as the hells. I took a huge risk by laying down the arms of justice. But I would have perished from boredom if I hadn’t.”
“We figured that if we sticked together, our chances of success would only increase.”
“He means to say that we became fast friends.”
Lymune glances at Imrae. A small smile plays around his lips. Knowing her brother, those two have caught his interest. As well as her own.
“Say, Lymune, would you care for a dance?”
Astarion’s proposal catches her by surprise.
“Well… yes. Sure, why not?” she stumbles.
Imrae casts her a reassuring glance. With as much elegance as she can muster, she takes Astarion’s offered hand and follows him to the dancing area.
“I hope you know what you are doing considering you witnessed yourself that my dancing skills are not quite the best.”
Astarion clasps her hand and curls his arm around her waist.
“Who says I’m a better dancer?”
In accordance to the music’s slow rhythm, he leads her most skillfully. Lymune snickers and rolls her eyes.
“Of course, you are not only a practiced dancer but also a masterful liar. Anything else I should know before I get too involved with you?”
“A compliment and an insult wrapped around an offer? My, my, you drow do know the game.”
She laughs heartily and then curses because she stepped on his toe.
“Sorry, but I warned you beforehand.”
“It’s nothing my adept clerics cannot fix. Besides, you are almost as tiny as a pixie. You couldn’t hurt me even if you wanted to.”
“And who is insulting now? It’s not very gentleman-like to judge a girl’s height. Besides, from this angle I could cut you open without your noticing.”
He exhales loudly in feint shock. “Dear lady, are you threatening me?”
“Only with my clumsy feet.”
His chuckle is rich and genuine, and Lymune has to force herself not to keep gawking at him. She doesn’t want to admit it, but this lord is quite a nice character. In order to hide her growing sympathy, she seeks out her brother. He is still locked in what seems to be a heated discussion with Mas. Seldom has she seen her brother so passionate towards a stranger.
“Am I boring you?” Astarion asks when he notices her digression.
“What?” She stares at him. “No, of course not!”
“Relax, I’m just seeking your attention, little assassin.” Nodding towards the table he asks, “Is he your little brother?”
“Imrae? No, we are about the same age. Why?”
“Just curious. You two seem to share a strong bond.”
“Yes, we do.” Lymune smiles proudly.
“It’s not often that you find that among siblings.”
“Well, perhaps because we are not genetically related. His family took me in when I was very young.”
“Really? You look so alike. I would never have guessed.”
“To you eladrin, we drow must all look like twins,” she quips.
“Now that is a term I haven’t heard in a while. But no, I have seen a lot of ugly dark elves in my life. And I can recognize beauty when I see it.”
“Sweet talker.”
They smile at each other and then fall silent, moving slowly to the rhythm of the orchestral music. And now that she is no longer occupied with words, she realizes that she actually enjoys this dance. His hand rests gently on her lower back, the parts where their fingers link feel soft and smooth, and his smell… His smell is kind of familiar.
By accident, her eyes meet Imrae’s as he watches her from across the hall. He seems happy and relaxed, and she casts him an open smile. Mas’ attention rests on her brother. The handsome drow seems quite smitten with him.
“They make a fine couple, don’t you think?” Astarion remarks when he follows her gaze.
“Do they? I mean, my brother is not easily impressed.”
She doesn’t like to describe her brother as different. Everyone is different. But with her parents putting so much pressure on him as he is their only son, he struggles a lot with his lacking desire for ‘procreation’, as he likes to call it. So far, she has been the only one he has confided in, seeking some form of answer perhaps. But the only answer she could give him was that it didn’t matter to her at all whom he did or did not sleep with.
Over the past years he has become calmer, more accepting towards himself. She doesn’t know if he is lonely or if he has met someone special. A loving partner who deserves his affection. She sure wishes him all the love in the world.
“Lymune, would it be bold of me to ask if I could see you again?” Astarion nearly stops mid-step, making her look at him.
“Why? You barely know me,” she replies, trying to be polite.
“And that is why I ask. To get to know you. Nothing more, nothing less.”
She bites her lower lip. He is the host of this event. An event she hopes will be a door opener for her career as a bard. It would cause quite a stir if she were seen with him. Enough to end a path before it even began?
“You don’t need to answer that now. Or ever if you prefer. Let’s spend the rest of this evening in merriment. It has been wonderful so far.”
“Yes, I would love that.”
She meets his gaze, noticing the fine lines looping around the corners of his curved lips. He is older than her. With her 100 years she is quite young for an elf.
“Shall we?” He gestures toward the table and guides her back as gracefully as he did when they entered the dancing area.
Imrae and Mas are still engaged in an eager conversation. The tailor has shifted closer to her brother, and so she takes her seat next to Astarion.
“My guess is that these species crossbred over the centuries. Hence the better quality of their silk.”
“Sensible claim, albeit not one I would be able to prove with existing specimens.”
“I guess one has to do more research. I happen to know that the Society of Brilliance here in the city finances such brave excursions. If you dare to accept the challenge, I might be willing to provide you with a protective spidersilk armor. If you share your findings with me some time. Over a drink perhaps?”
“What in the Nine Hells are you two talking about?” Astarion asks after exchanging some amusing glances with Lymune, who observes her brother as he tries to decipher Mas’ intentions.
“Oh, you wouldn’t understand,” Mas snarls, resulting in a chuckle from his long-time friend.
“Probably not. And I won’t ask further. Lymune, how about another drink? The evening is still young.”
“Absolutely.”
“Count me in as well,” Mas announces. “Tomorrow’s work can wait. It has been too long since I’ve had such good company.”
“Imrae?” Lymune looks at her brother expectantly.
“One glass cannot hurt.”
She beams at him. That her brother shares a drink with strangers shows that these people might be worth knowing. The past years have been nothing but studying and rehearsing without halt. And who knows? Maybe this evening will unlock more than just a chance for her work life. She wouldn’t mind at all if Imrae had more than one reason to visit the city.
Her and Astarion’s eyes meet, and a titillating tingle runs across her spine.
Besides, when has she ever cared for what other people think about her?
“Love, it’s time.”
“Huh?”
Astarion smiles at her. “Wake up now, little assassin,” he says, and the world collapses in front of her eyes.
Tav woke with a gasp, her head spinning.
“Wake up, why won’t you wake up?”
Astarion’s face was hovering over hers, his eyes wide open and his nose crinkled in worry.
“Gods Tav, you scared me,” he almost yelled when their eyes met.
She blinked twice, trying to figure out where she was and what just happened. Astarion observed her quietly as she sat up.
Stony walls around her. Small and delicate furniture giving this room a cozy touch. Cool air drifting through tiny windows which gave nothing away about their location. Clitter-clatter from somewhere nearby telling her she was not alone. Laughter in the distance.
His laughter.
“Imrae,” she whispered.
“He’s preparing breakfast I assume. Tav, is everything alright?”
“Yes. I…” she scrambled for words. “I had a most peculiar dream. No, it was more than a dream.”
“A memory?”
“No, not a memory. Not really. More like a vision, but…”
She stared at him.
“But?”
“You were there. And Imrae and Zhah, only his name was Mas. And you… You were a lord and—”
“Oh, I do like this vision,” he jested.
“No, Astarion. Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not. Tav. You are scaring me here a little.”
“Sorry, I’m fine, really.”
He leaned in and checked her forehead. He wouldn’t be able to tell whether she had a temperature, but somehow, he had learned to rely on other senses.
“You’re sweating, love.”
“I feel fine. Really.” She took his hand and kissed his ring finger where their matrimonial band sat.
“Tell me about this vision,” he pleaded, smiling.
And then she told him. It took her a while to regather all the details, but once she had, she couldn’t stop painting him a picture of what might have been a different reality. Astarion listened, at times chuckling, at times turning pensive, at times looking at her with unreadable eyes. There was a long silence after her narration, and Tav feared that this more fortunate version of him might open old scars.
But to her surprise he suddenly smiled and pressed her against his chest. The words he spoke next made a strand of her hair tickle her ear. She would never forget this moment.
“I’m both jealous and happy for that man, who unlike me apparently made some right choices in his life. But at least we have one thing in common. We recognize beauty when we see it.”
Her giggle was stifled by his kiss. Gentle. Familiar. A promise.
Because wherever she was, she knew that as long as her husband and her brother were by her side, she could never be unhappy.
|| Timeline: Alternate Universe || Word count: 1.100||
|| Relationships: Imrae x Astarion, Lledrith x Imrhys ||
Taglist: @missfortunetherogue
Eleven 100-word vignettes of Imrae and Astarion in an alternate timeline where Lledrith and Imrhys, Imrae's parents, are the leaders of the tadpoled adventurers.
Dividers by @sweetmelodygraphics
CONTENT WARNING: Mild mentions of Astarion's past
One night, a face appeared in Astarion's mirror.
Not his own, sadly, but one strikingly similar to the drow sorceress leading their group.
“Ilhar? Ilharn?” the young man asked.
“Um. Hello?” Astarion tried.
“I cannot see you. Straj.”
“He's a vampire, my treasure.” Lledrith walked up to him, husband in tow. “He has no reflection.”
“Shout it from the rooftops, will you?”
Her son beamed with relief. “Ilhar! Thank Ibrandul.”
“Some privacy, Astarion? Thank you.” Lledrith left no room for discussion.
Astarion caught little of that conversation, but heard the young drow's name.
Imyaraen.
The drow's face reappeared a fortnight later, and again, Astarion was driven from his sanctuary.
So he formed a plan. A nice, simple plan.
There was no seducing Lledrith, so obsessed with her husband Imrhys.
But he could learn all about them from their son, then manipulate them, if he played his cards right.
He could stay safe. He could gain his freedom.
The next time, he was ready. “Good evening, Imyaraen.”
“Astarion, right?” The drow smiled. “Please, call me Imrae. All my friends do.”
If he had any, Astarion finished the sentence.
Oh, this would be very easy.
“Your parents are fighting.”
Imrae's purple face paled. “What? About what?”
“Some drow woman leading the goblins. Minthara.”
“Baenre?”
Astarion shrugged, then realized his mistake. “Maybe?”
“My father's old foe.” Imrae sighed.
“Oh, shared history?” Astarion probed.
Imrae laughed, no, cackled. “Not like that!”
“Spoilsport.” Astarion couldn't help but smile. “Your father thinks killing her while infected is wrong.”
After pondering for a bit, Imrae suggested, “Tell him 'Desperate times call for desperate measures.'”
“Magnificent! I knew I could count on you.”
Imrae blushed at the praise.
Oh, how easy this would be.
“Good evening. Your parents are off, celebrating,” Astarion greeted, then laughed at Imrae's grimace.
The drow observed the dying festivities. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Hardly. Vinegar for wine and disenchanting company.”
“You poor thing.”
“I am!” Astarion agreed. “What's a beautiful gent got to do for some revelry?”
“Beautiful?” Imrae laughed. “I will take your word for it.”
of a collaborative work between @spillingteanotpermitted and @lottavilja featuring Imrae and Tav (Lymune). Another AU for our AU. Enjoy!
Prologue and Chapters One, Two, Three and Four are here.
Read on AO3.
Summary:
Tav reconnects with Imrae, and through him, her former home.
Parings: Astarion x Lymune (named Tav), Imrae x Zhah (OC x OC)
|| Timeline: Late Act 1 || Word count: 2.705 ||
Content Warnings for the whole work: arachnophobia, mental health struggles, blood drinking, mentions of past non-consent, mentions of Astarion's past, mentions of familial abuse, intrusive thoughts
Content warning for this chapter: Familial abuse, mention of forced marriage
Dividers by @archiveofsnow
Chapter Five
“And this is for you, my little lady.” The slender ringed hand of a young man is clasped around a fine silken scarf in deep purple. The lustrous weave vibrates in the dancing lights floating above a high rocky ceiling. The girl’s eyes are the same color as the cloth and right now they are sparkling with glee for such a beautiful token. She reaches for the pretty piece, already imagining the silky touch of this refined artwork when a rough claw pulls her back most harshly.
“We don’t take gifts, we earn them, Lymune-vik. Now consider, have you earned this?”
A poisonous lavender stare carrying as much regal beauty as disdain holds her captive, and she retreats her arm.
“No, Vhaidra-ec.”
A relieving wave stifles her shivers as her mother’s expression shifts. She has given the right answer. Devotedly, the ebony-skinned child follows the Matron as they make their way through the masses of showcasing traders, vendors, and merchants. Just before she is swallowed by the lively gathering, she casts one last glance back at the tradesperson. Only for a fleeting smile. Only to show him how grateful she is for this rare gift of kindness.
With a gasp, Tav rouses from her reverie, the lingering echoes of her past like an icy grip around her chest. Lately, she has been reliving memories more often than usual. Must be the proximity to the stone of her childhood, she suspects. Menzoberranzan is still far away, but it is said that stone carries the bloody history of generations. So why not her own as well?
With light feet, she leaves the part of the tunnel where she and her companions have taken shelter for a couple of hours and steps into the communal center of the cavern. Beside her only Zhah and Imrae are awake. She hasn’t noticed Astarion among her resting companions and assumes that he is out hunting. His stubbornness will be the death of him sometime. Or of her.
She passes the drider, who is combing his long, fine hair in one of the dark corners, ignoring her entirely. She has to admit, despite her good will she wouldn’t turn her back on this creature. Imrae might trust him, but the stories her mother and aunt have told her back as a child still cling to her.
Lolth’s punishment for severe defiance. Or simply for being too weak.
She wonders what Zhah did for having angered the Spider Queen so much.
Picking up the scent of something tasty, she settles besides Imrae, who is resting by the small campfire. As he sips from his small cup, she recognizes the aroma. Her fellow drow smiles upon her arrival and offers her another teacup.
“Good morning. You are up early. Is everything alright?” he greets her.
“Yeah, well, it’s just been a rough couple of days. And tendays,” she replies and focuses on the warmth spreading through her as she drinks the tea.
Imrae looks at her with empathy, and to her delight, reaches for her hand. “Considering your situation, I would be surprised if nothing was weighing on your mind and heart.” Squeezing her fingers, he asks, “What would you like to talk about?”
“I don’t know, how many days can you spare for a whining bard?”
She waits for his chuckle, smiling softly upon his prompt reaction. She has always taken pride in making people laugh. Be it a hesitant snicker or some full-hearted guffaws; nothing brings her more joy than seeing others happy around her.
“You have not changed a bit, little bard,” he says, using the old moniker with which he used to address her when they were kids.
“You haven’t forgotten,” she whispers, squinting at him from below. He is tall for a drow, and with her unusually small frame, she reaches only toward his neck.
“Very well. You want to know what’s going on in my head? Truth be told, I don’t rest well since coming here. A lot of bad memories haunt these tunnels, you know?”
He nods, his gaze turning inwards for a moment. But then his eyes lose the shadowy veil and without another word he rises to his feet, pulling Tav with him.
“Come. I know something that might cheer you up.”
Locking eyes with Zhah and signing him to guard the camp, he guides her toward the exit, but not without throwing the drider a kiss—a fact that makes Tav snicker. There is no trace left of the scared boy she met all those decades ago.
Crossing scree and debris, she follows him inside another grotto nearby, one which is filled with a small cavern pool. The water is pitch-black since the walls are not inhabited by glowing mushrooms, and only thanks to her darkvision she manages to reach their destination without slipping on the slick stone.
He halts close to the shore and settles between two stalagmites which reach far above. Only centimeters prevent them from grasping the ceiling; one or two centuries perhaps until the inevitable fusion.
“Join me.”
Imrae claps the ground beside him and waits for Tav to find a comfortable position with her back leaned against one of the stalagmites. Beneath the thin cloth of her shirt, she feels the cool and moisty touch of the dripstone.
“Why bring me here?” she asks after a moment of silence.
He waits for a couple of seconds and then closes his eyes. “Listen.”
Realizing he won’t spare more insight to his motives she follows suit, trying to hear what he is apparently hearing.
There is the constant drip-and-drop coming from above, amplified by the acoustics of the cavern. Occasional scraping in the distance reveal that some critters occupy the ridges and fissures across the tunnel. All in all, nothing special considering the place.
“I don’t hear anything.” A flicker of impatience runs across her face when Imrae doesn’t respond. “What am I supposed to hear?”
“The song of the stone. You do not remember?”
“No,” she admits reluctantly. “I’m sorry.”
Finally, he looks at her and smiles warmly. “No worries. Let me remind you.”
He closes his eyes once more and begins humming. A low sound, barely audible within the huge vastness of this cavern. Tav closes her eyes and tries to focus on his voice. And then… a melody forms, transforming the sound into a song. And now that she recognizes the pattern, she remembers.
She remembers.
“You taught me that song. For years I’ve had it in my mind and I completely forgot where I learned it.”
“So you do remember?” he asks after completing the tune.
“Yes.” She lets out a mirthful giggle. “Yes. You brought me to a cavern just like this one because…”
“Because you were sad,” he finishes for her.
“Yes.” Her expression turns sorrowful as the memory uncloaks behind her eyes. “I didn’t want to leave you behind.”
“It was the night before your departure.”
“You told me that if I sang this song, you would listen, no matter where you were.”
“Yes.” He smiles tenderly, clasping her fingers.
“How could I forget?” How could I?
“These things happen. Do not blame yourself. It has almost been a century last we saw each other.”
“And yet you remembered the moment you saw me, didn’t you?”
“Indeed. But I did not leave the Underdark like you did.”
“True. The surface world is very different from the Upper Northdark. Thankfully so, I might say.”
He nods, and for a while they remain like this, holding hands just as they did when they were kids. Her very first friend, she realizes now.
Imrae is the one to break the silence. “I have been meaning to ask why you are avoiding any mention of our previous connection. Now, it is none of my business in the end, but I have to warn you, while I can seal my lips, I am a bad liar if confronted directly by your friends. Some among them do not seem to be all that happy with Zhah and my presence.”
Tav stretches a brow. “A bad liar? Are you sure you are a drow?”
He huffs a chuckle. “Last time I checked, yes.” He seems to study her before saying, “We do not have to talk about you, if you do not want to.”
“No, that’s not it.” She seeks his gaze, trying to prove to him that he is not the reason for her clandestinity. “It’s just… I’m not ready for them to know. Besides, I wouldn’t even know how to start. I mean, how can someone explain that they changed their name?”
“Zhah did.”
“Oh?”
“It is not my place to say more. But what I am meaning to say is that you do not have to fear his judgement and from what I have seen so far, I am certain your companions would understand too.”
“Thank you, Imrae.”
“No need to thank me. Now that we are alone, do you have any questions for me?”
“Loads, truth be told. But let’s start with this one. You said you ran away from your guardian’s home as a young man. What happened?”
“Laele wanted to marry me off to some Eilistraeen warrior lady to gain an alliance with her. I knew that meant letting someone use me in ways I was not interested in, so I ran away, unsure if I would survive a day out in the Underdark. But a day became a tenday, tendays became months, months became years…”
“I’m glad you got out. I only wished it had been sooner. Laele was just as mean as my mother. I guess you don’t need a wicked goddess to be evil.”
“She was not evil, only obsessed, selfish, and cruel. And traditional,” he adds with a sad smile.
“Imrae, if I had asked you to come with me, would you?”
“I would have done anything I was told to do out of fear of punishment. But once out in the Underdark, I would have been a danger to you, your mother, and myself. I had to learn to control my sorcery first, once that it had awakened.”
“I wouldn’t have minded. You would never hurt me on purpose.”
“I might have killed you on accident, Lymune—Tav, I mean, my apologies.”
“It’s alright. It’s nice to hear my name, truth be told. Maybe when we are alone you could call me that?”
He fondles her hand. “I can certainly try.”
She closes her eyes, tasting the sound of her child name once more after having been so long without it. Filled with a strange satiation another question pops up.
“So, you and Zhah. How did the two of you meet?”
“After a decade or so on my own, I was attacked by sahuagins by the Glimmersea. The smell of blood attracted Zhah, and I let him have the dead fishmen. We decided to join forces, learned to trust each other bit by bit, and the rest is, as they say, history.”
“Wasn’t that a risk? Trusting a drider I mean.”
“Maybe, it was a risk I was willing to take. It is rare to meet a potential friend out in the Underdark. And like I said, Zhah is the most gentle soul I know.”
Once again, Tav is smitten by the tenderness in his voice when he speaks of his partner.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way, but how did you end up falling in love with a drider?”
He chuckles softly, apparently used to such questions. “With time and familiarity, like most others? Well, maybe not most others. My heart is not the fastest to warm to the possibility. Zhah said he fell for me quite a while before I brought my feelings up.”
“You can ignore me if this is too personal, but aren’t drider sexless?”
A mirthful laughter reverberates across the walls of the cavern. “I was never one for lust and desire. Sex can be enjoyable, but I can take it or leave it. There are more important things to a relationship than that, like care, companionship, and building a life together.”
“So you are happy?”
“Beyond belief, Lymune.”
She exhales audibly. “You cannot fathom how glad I am to hear that.”
“Now what about you? Is there someone waiting for your return?”
“For me?” She snickers. “No. I guess I haven’t found my Zhah yet. Besides, this adventure I’ve found myself in makes it sheer impossible to fall in love anyway.”
Squinting at him she hopes that he doesn’t catch the lie. To her relief, he only nods in a gesture of understanding.
“Shall we return? I imagine Zhah is worried by now.”
With both alleviation and disappointment over leaving this beautiful place she agrees.
“Yes. Hopefully Gale has made breakfast. I’m starving.”
Before they get to move, she holds him back. “Thank you for this, Imrae.”
He smiles back at her. “Any time, Lymune.”
Day two of travel went by without issue.
The only thing that continued to bother Imrae was the vampire's behavior. He could ignore the distrustful stares of some of the others, the Blade of Frontiers being the worst among them, but Astarion had been getting on his nerves all day, interrupting conversations with Tav at will, drawing her attention whenever he could.
Imrae would not have been bothered by it if it had not been such a sudden departure from what he had witnessed before, when Astarion had kept to himself, safe for the occasional complaint about sore feet and the lack of sunlight.
The mindflayer parasite was powerful enough to protect a vampire from their greatest weakness.
Had that same vampire not insulted the sweetest, most beautiful person in Imrae's life, he might have been more inclined to ponder this more.
Not that Zhah had said a thing about it. He did not need to.
Thus, Imrae spent the day planning his approach in this situation. He was Tav's friend, though not a part of their group. He was a professional, and they paid his partner and him for their services, but a line had been crossed.
By the end of the day, Imrae had made up his mind to confront the vampire and the vampire alone. No need to tattle to Tav about it, she had enough on her mind.
So it happened that he bid his time until he could catch Astarion one on one, an easy task since the man proved to be a loner who had a tendency to separate from the herd by slipping off, but hiding from an earth sorcerer was a nigh impossible feat.
“Astarion. A word?” Imrae asked, keeping his voice low.
It took a moment for the vampire to leave his hiding spot to respond. “What is it, drow?”
“If you have any problem with my partner or me, I expect you to address it in at least an approximation of politeness,” Imrae said, voice calm, refusing to let Astarion's dismissive tone get to him. “We are not the sort of professionals you get to degrade just because you pay us money.”
Astarion scoffed. “I don't have the foggiest idea what you are on about.”
“Let me clear up the fog, then. You will not insult my partner again. This is your one and only warning.”
There was a flicker of unease, a shift of discomfort before a sneer spread over Astarion's face to cover it up. “Aaaw, does the big strong drider need you to fight his battles for him?”
“Is it so foreign to you that someone would protect another's wellbeing?”
Astarion laughed, a hollow sound if Imrae ever heard one. “Some of us aren't dainty little flowers.”
“Said the vampire who is wilting away without the sun's light,” Imrae shot back before he turned to leave. “I said my piece. Have a good rest.”
The idea for this piece originated from two tags, for writing a story around Melancholia (@lottavilja) and Small Mercies (@et-augury).
Dividers by @diviniyae
CONTENT WARNING: Non-explicit handling of a corpse. Cremation. Conversation about death and burial.
Something was off in camp tonight.
Ever since they had entered the Underdark, Lae'zel had made it a habit to keep track of each and every of her allies, such was her task as deputy in this strange yet familiar place.
One of the few things in her life that had not changed.
Hshar'lak.
The word burned in her mind and soul like red-hot steel, and she sought a distraction from the pain it brought by patrolling the cavern their leader had chosen for their war camp.
He had chosen well. Limited entrances, fresh water, edible mushrooms, and a decent amount of the magical radiation called “faezress”, which, according to their guide and leader Imrae, would protect them from divination magic.
It seemed to put the vampire Astarion at ease, which meant that he was less of nuisance than when agitated. Despite his whinging about being parted from the sun, he still feared his master and found comfort in the thought that he would not find him here by magical means. Right this moment, he was playing with a dagger by his tent, tossing the blade “for fun”.
He sent her an annoyed glance when he noticed her presence, to which she continued her round.
Nearby, Shadowheart was watering her herbs, trying to keep them alive in this place without sunlight, but at least the plants were quiet about it. The same could be said of the half-elf, as Lae'zel had expected incessant gloating by her about the failed attempt to purify themselves at the crèche, but she had abandoned her efforts after two comments.
Wyll and Gale were sitting together with Karlach, who was roasting little morsels of food in her burning hot hands, as their leader had forbidden making campfires as they had held it on the surface, much to half the band's dismay.
The tiefling offered Lae'zel a mushroom that Imrae had confirmed as edible, yet the other two had gagged at, but a githyanki was not as picky as these istik. Chewing it down, she nodded in approval. The mushroom's subtle taste and chewy consistency reminded her of the roasted stalks of infinity vine back on K'liir.
Nearby, the druid Halsin was whittling, the canine Scratch was resting by his feet, and the k'chaki Volo was writing into a book, same as the corpse Withers. Normal behaviour for all of them.
When she reached the spot Imrae had chosen as his workspace, a rock serving as their map table and his desk, she noticed what was off.
Each other evening, he had been humming while studying his manuscripts after his trance, but tonight, the only sound coming from him the soft tap of his finger on parchment as he was staring out into the vastness visible from the small opening in their hideout, where the soft glow of the sussur tree in the distance illuminated the larger cavern,.
Were the averse effects of the plant still bothering the mage? No. They were too far away, and none of the other magic users in camp had complained.
Was he in pain after the battle with his kin who had lived there in company of monsters called hook horrors? She could not recall a moment in which he had been struck. Her and Shadowheart had drawn their foes into close combat as usual, splitting the herd for an easy victory, while Imrae and Astarion had backed them up with arrows and crossbow bolts. They had played it safe, for the sussur tree interrupted magic, even the soothing kind cast by the Sharran.
No, Imrae was simply deep in contemplation, she told herself. He was strong. He was stone while she was steel. A good combination. A fine alliance.
An alliance she desperately needed.
Shoving down that degrading thought, Lae'zel returned to her tent to sharpen her blades. They would explore more tomorrow to find their way to the exit towards Moonrise Towers that Imrae knew about, held by Clan Bitterroot. Grey dwarves.
They would be no match for Lae'zel of Crèche K'liir. The only reason her name would be unknown in the Underdark would be the lack of survivors of their battle.
She was useful, well-trained in combat in the close spaces of tunnels.
She was useful. She still had purpose.
Even though her eyes betrayed her in this darkness.
Even though tunnels were familiar, these were once again alien.
Even though her mere presence invited pursuers.
She stopped her thoughts and her sharpening before she could ruin the blade. Perhaps this was her cue to get some rest.
Settling on the furs by her tent, she stared at the cavern ceiling. Without the weather on the surface of Faerûn bothering their operation, she could rest however she wanted. The view reminded her of K'liir, too.
She quickly closed her eyes.
Sleep did not find her.
Not even after it had become deadly quiet in camp.
When she felt movement beside her and the qua-nith psionic detector being placed into her hand, she opened her eyes to see the white glint of Imrae's in the darkness, the dim light in the cavern catching in them.
“Speak. What is this?” Lae'zel asked, sending him a stare of disappointment.
“There is something I need to do. I will be back before you know it.”
Lae'zel sensed sorrow, but no lie in his words. “Alone? Chk. Your rules were clear. Nobody goes alone.”
“I- Yes. I did say that.” Imrae's gaze fell to the side, and he took a deep breath before he dared to look at her again, his mien more open than before. “Very well. Will you guard me, Lae'zel?”
In response, she rose from her resting spot, donned her armour with the quick movements that had been drilled into her on Crèche K'liir and grabbed her sword and her crossbow, her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness.
Imrae was already waiting for her by the exit, his bag slung across his body. He nodded to her, then made the hand sign of his kind that meant “follow me”.
She followed.
As a pair, they were faster. He was faster, running as if the ground itself was pushing him along.
She followed.
He led her down tunnels they had not taken while exploring with the others, trusting that she would keep up.
She kept up. She followed.
They stopped by the plateau near the sussur tree, its blue glow heralding it before they emerged from the tunnel they had taken, and Imrae wasted no time in his approach towards the body of the drow mage they'd slain.
They had taken his kin's valuables and raided his hideout. They had spoken to the corpse about any remaining secrets. They had searched the site for hidden treasures.
Try as she might, Lae'zel could not think of a reason why they'd returned, so this time, she remained in her spot. “Why are we here?”
“I am going to put him to rest.” Imrae did not look up, gaze fixed on his kin's body.
A githyanki did not weep for their fallen kin. But they still were that. Kin.
Drow were not gith. Treachery was their way of life, their birthright. They had no common goal. They cared little for one another, least what happened to the other's remains. Imrae had not hesitated to order the death of the drow woman leading the goblins, and had put the vampire in charge of looting and disposing of the body, not caring if it was treated with piety.
Why this one, then?
Lae'zel caught Imrae's gaze as he looked around, contemplating how to get the task done. It was unlike him to not have a plan at the ready. She favoured his quick thinking. He acted when the others still prattled, and she followed him into the fray with pleasure.
“You'll need a pyre,” she stated.
Imrae gave her a wordless nod, looking almost... helpless. It was jarring to see.
“Do you know how to construct a pyre?” Lae'zel asked.
“In theory. Why, do you-”
“Chk. A githyanki's most honourable death is in battle, but many a kith'rak has been laid to rest on a pyre on the Astral, set ablaze by their red dragon's fiery breath, to not become food for the ghaik. Of course I know how to construct one.”
“Thank you, Lae'zel.” Imrae smiled at her like he so often did, despite her doing nothing to soften her tone. “You are a true friend.”
There. He had used that word again.
Pausing for a moment, Lae'zel studied the man, but he it seemed like he meant it, unlike the vampire, who used the word very often, especially to smooth things over when someone got upset with him.
“Chk. Stop prattling and collect anything burnable in sight.”
Imrae heeded her command, giving her time to shake off the strange feeling gripping her innards, after which she grabbed the dead drow's old axe they'd left to rust and went to chop up a few of the tree's gnarly roots.
A githyanki did not have friends. A githyanki had kin, allies, brothers and sisters in arms, slaves, servants, not friends.
Drow, too, did not have friends. Imrae had taught her that in his language, the word abbil was an oxymoron, for trust was foolish and friends were people who had not tried to kill you yet.
And Lae'zel had tried to kill him once, albeit out of mercy.
Even so, he had called her his friend to the strange being that inhabited the artefact, had not protested when she had demanded that he should show her his mind after it had not died.
“I have to do it,” he had pleaded with the mirage, a drow woman with purple skin like his. “Vlaakith will take it out on my friend if I don't.”
He had tried to slay her on Vlaakith's command, that woman who he suspected to be an echo of the mother he had never gotten to know. Lae'zel remembered the pain he had felt when he had plunged the long dagger into her middle.
Gith had no parents like the people of Faerûn did, not in the social sense, and they did not bemoan not knowing the woman who had laid their egg. They had cousins of sorts, kin hatched from the same clutch of eggs. Maybe some had a favourite savarsh during their training years, but such attachments were for the weak.
And yet, his pain was familiar, so similar to what had flooded her heart these past nights.
Was that why she was helping him?
She would have liked to tell herself that it was out of pure loyalty to their leader, that she was just a soldier doing what needed to be done.
But that sentiment hurt. It was a lie. Another untruth to shed.
Over the course of the next hours, she retrieved the body and assembled the gnarly logs into a crude, misshapen approximation of a cremation pyre, then instructed Imrae where to spread any oil and any kindling that they had available.
“It needs to reach a high and consistent temperature, like an oven,” Lae'zel explained. “Many bodies burn decently on their own, but githyanki are made of honed muscle and little fat. Elves are similar. This drow is as bony as you are.”
Imrae nodded, taking no offence while following her instructions without protest. He trusted her expertise, he trusted her to be his sword and his shield, he trusted her whenever they interacted with her kin.
He had trusted her when she had led them to the crèche in the mountains.
He had trusted her right up until the moment when the zaith'isk had threatened to rip her mind apart, had pleaded with her to abandon the purification, not commanded, pleaded, and for a reason she still could not fathom, she had listened to him over what she had been taught since she could form coherent thought.
Perhaps because he was the leader.
Perhaps because she trusted his sense of survival.
Perhaps because she had felt his fear for her.
Lae'zel studied the drow while he inspected their construction
“If there are spiderwebs nearby, we could wrap the body in them,” Imrae mused in a strange monotone. “They burn easily. And he was from Menzoberranzan. He might appreciate it.”
An odd sentiment, considering the searing, uncompromising hate she had seen in his eyes when faced with the drow woman at the goblin camp, the same hate she felt for anything ghaik. Minthara, too, had been from that city, and it had been her undoing, yet the stranger had not received her companion's hate.
Was it because the man was a mage as well? Had they met before?
That must have been it.
Before Lae'zel could ask him anything, Imrae had walked off to check a few crevices for the webbing he sought, and he soon returned with a decent amount sticking to his staff.
Imrae produced a piece of dried fungus, using it as tinder for the kindling they had placed. “Once the pyre is burning reliably, we have to keep our distance from it.”
“Because the heat will attract creatures who see or sense heat.”
“Yes, Lae'zel.” Imrae gave her a small smile.
She gave him a nod in return. Unlike some of the others in camp, she paid attention to his lessons. He had survived in the Underdark for decades, even fought ghaik before, she would be foolish not to listen.
Once the small flames had turned into a roaring fire, the two moved away, and Imrae found them a spot from where to watch the pyre from afar, a small stone alcove a few feet overhead.
“Rest in peace, Filro,” the drow spoke. “I will think of you when I find the Adamantine Forge.”
Lae'zel sat down, feeling the twitch of her muscles from the strain of the day and the task they had completed. She was too tired to enjoy the sensation, rubbing her eyes as the lids grew heavy and the brightness of the fire and the remnants of smoke stung in them.
When she opened her eyes again, disoriented, vision bleary, the firelight had dimmed, but it kept going as intended. She shifted, and the woollen cloak that now covered her slipped into her lap.
Imrae had not moved an inch, still watching the fire with an empty stare.
She envied the elves in camp for their independence from sleep. She wondered if this feat could be taught. Imrae had mentioned that he had needed to learn it himself.
“Did you know him well?” Lae'zel asked.
“No,” Imrae whispered. “I did not know him at all.”
“Then why?” Lae'zel felt frustration rise in her, one she could not explain, a feeling that only increased when he took his time to answer.
“To pay respect to someone living a similar life to myself, perhaps?”
His words and his tone caught her off guard. He had spoken of his life with pride before, his existence as a lone wanderer, an outcast, a tribe of one by his own admission. He had spoken of freedom and of choice.
She had disregarded his words, finding them and him lacking in purpose, but she could not deny that his life had hardened him, made him strong and resilient.
Now, she saw a different side, and she did not know what she felt.
“This was for yourself more than it was for him, was it not?” she guessed.
“Yes. He was what I could have very well become, alone out here in the Underdark. Hiding and surviving. Then a corpse no one would care about.”
“You are stronger,” Lae'zel asserted. For his sake, or for her own?
Imrae gave a weak chuckle. “That is kind of you to say.”
Kind? Another odd sentiment. They had defeated the mage. Lae'zel had stated a fact.
But Imrae was not done talking. “The mind is more fragile than we like to believe. I know how it is to be hunted. Had I grown stagnant out of fear, like he had...” His voice broke. “I do not know what would have become of me.”
Hshar'lak.
“Why were you hunted?”
“In addition for my general crime of being born drow?” Imrae more grimaced than smiled. “First because my cruel guardian wanted me back in her clutches. Then, when it became known that my mother's bloodline was not as dead as they thought it was, that I had inherited her sorcerous spark, eager warriors from Menzoberranzan tried to kill me to present my head to their matron. The more I fought back, the more dangerous I proved to be, and so on, and so forth.”
It was a sober report rather than a proclamation of victory.
It disturbed Lae'zel in ways she could not explain. Strength was to be celebrated and admired, yet no one had ever done so for him, she concluded.
“But hey, nowadays, most leave me alone, safe for the truly desperate and fanatic.”
“The cult of the Absolute.”
Imrae hummed in agreement. “I still have no idea what they wanted with me, and it drives me mad.”
“Whoever comes for you shall know my fury and my blade,” Lae'zel declared. “This I vow.”
Because it felt like the right thing to say.
Because he would do the same for her.
Because they were friends.
Imrae gave her a nod to thank her.
Friends. She had known cousins, teachers, lovers, and comrades. Never a friend. She had thought herself above it. But a great many things she thought to be true had turned out to be falsehoods.
Where before, her future had been certain, ascension or death, she now knew they were one and the same. The only thing she could hold onto was her mission.
Meet Voss in Baldur's Gate. Guard the artefact. Bring about Vlaakith's demise.
She looked at the drow next to her. He had promised to help her do so, without needing to be asked.
“What will you do after we rid ourselves of the ghaik parasite?” Lae'zel asked.
Imrae gestured to their surroundings. “Return here. For good or ill, I belong in the Underdark.” When she frowned, he chuckled. “Well, after taking revenge on that cult and aiding those I promised aid to, of course. You, Wyll, Karlach, Astarion...”
“Speaking of Astarion, is he not the one you usually recruit for your silent operations?”
“I did not wish to bother him,” Imrae said, his right hand grasping his left. “I believe he is figuring out what to do with his freedom of choice. I have been there. It is not a pretty process.”
“So I see.”
The vampire had often been glued to their leader's side when it came to steering him towards something he desired, yet in the place where the drow's word was law more than ever, Astarion had kept his distance, pairing up with others when they were hiking from one resting spot to the next.
Learning to be free. A novel concept.
Even still, her friend deserved a more loyal mate than that.
Another question lingered in her mind, one that was almost painful. “If you were to perish without a chance of return... Should I do the same for you?” Lae'zel asked, gesturing towards the pyre.
Imrae thought for a moment, then shook his head, undisturbed, pragmatic in the face of his own mortality. “If possible, bring my body to an earth node. Let it consume me fully. Do not ask me why, I do not know for certain myself. It is simply a feeling that it must be so.”
He had mentioned earth nodes before, spoken of their wondrous nature. They were a font of magic within the Underdark, an accumulation of power with a rudimentary form of consciousness, able to teach and grant spells.
“You have my word.” Lae'zel rose, shaking off the stiffness in her legs. “We should head back. Come, T'lak'ma Vhir.”
Imrae laughed. “Should you not consult with Voss before you name me a 'Brother in Freedom'?” he asked while he got to his feet as well.
“You are my closest ally. I have grown to trust your judgement.”
After a moment of quiet, Imrae touched her shoulder. “Thank you, Lae'zel. For not letting me do this alone.”
A smile found its way onto Lae'zel's lips. “Chk. Your rules were clear.”
“Of course. The rules.” Imrae laughed again, then the two returned to their war camp, where the drow prepared tea over a heating stone, like he did most mornings before the rest of them awoke.
Things were normal again, as normal as they could be.
That night, Lae'zel's world had become a little more colourful.
The red of blood and the black of death were joined by the grey of ash.
of a collaborative work between @spillingteanotpermitted and @lottavilja featuring Imrae and Tav (Lymune). Another AU for our AU. Enjoy!
Prologue and Chapters One, Two and Three are here.
Read on AO3.
Summary:
A vampire and a drider go hunting. It does not go well.
Parings: Astarion x Lymune (named Tav), Imrae x Zhah (OC x OC)
|| Timeline: Late Act 1 || Word count: 3.254 ||
Content Warnings for the whole work: arachnophobia, mental health struggles, blood drinking, mentions of past non-consent, mentions of Astarion's past, mentions of familial abuse
Content warning for this chapter: Depiction of severe poisoning, Mental health struggles with intrusive thoughts
Dividers by @sister-lucifer.
Chapter Four
For hours they have been marching, crouching through fissures and crevices inhabited by glowing mushrooms and lustrous gemstones of different colors, and despite the constant crunching of dozens of feet as well as the occasional pants coming mostly from Gale it is absolutely quiet. Where only a couple of days ago Karlach couldn’t stop ranting about whatever got stuck inside the tiefling’s head, there is only eerie silence now. And Astarion has to admit, he misses her vexing voice. At least then his mind was occupied with annoyance.
He darts an angry glare towards their latest addition leading the convoy.
Imrae and Zhah. A weird drow and his even weirder consort who are supposed to guide them safely across this hellish darkness.
In the past Tav has made some very foolish decisions. But nothing as foolish as now. What the hells was she thinking when she decided to put all their lives into the hands of this—monster and his lackey?
The others might trust their leader. But they haven’t lived the life he had. They have no idea how cruel the world can be. Not even Karlach, it seems, has learned from her past mistakes. One might think that a hellspawn who groveled before the archdevil Zariel for ten years would be more careful with strangers. But not even an hour after their introduction she came up with nicknames for them. That even a victim of the Blood War acts so gullibly is something he might never understand.
That a highborn human like Wyll believes in the good of all creatures should not surprise him. And yet the man didn’t seem very amused when Tav announced her plan to the group. Even in his devilish form—the hellish reward for sparing Karlach and a fitting punishment if you asked Astarion—Wyll is a monster hunter first and foremost, and driders are monsters indeed. The fact that drow raided Waukeen’s Rest and took his father must be another reason why he acted so cold. Well, he doesn’t complain. At least this will get him off the hook when it comes to blaming the monster in this camp.
A repressed curse behind him when Lae’zel stumbles over a loose rock reminds Astarion to pay more attention to his surroundings. An effort he can’t keep up for long, for not even a minute later his mind starts wandering again.
Lae’zel, too, appears to be on high alert since those freaks joined the group. Admittedly, the gith has kept her vigilance since he met her. Of all his companions he respects the fighter the most. Yet blinded by loyalty to her queen she at least doesn’t shy away from violence. Lae’zel has a keen sense and her judgement is not clouded by morality.
If only Tav were a bit more like her. He knows their leader can be scrupulous if needed. Before they recruited Wyll and Karlach Tav was willing to turn a blind eye to all the injustices happening around them. It’s painful to see how easily she flipped.
But it’s more than that, isn’t it? At times when he spotted a flicker of intrigue in her eyes, he noticed something else. Fear.
Astarion has mulled over the reasons for her hesitation without success. He can only guess that the source lies somewhere in her past. And to his dismay she is just as secretive about it as he is with his own history.
When they infiltrated the place where all the cultists gathered—before they learned that the heart of the Absolute was to be found at Moonrise—Tav acted especially odd. This female drow, Minthara Baenre, got into her head, filling her with all these enticing ideas. The leader of the raiding party who abducted Wyll’s father held some strange authority over Tav and in turn seemed very interested in the bard. And by the hells, they should have seized that opportunity. If they had slaughtered the grove just like these Absolutists had planned, they would have gained access to the cult’s inner circle. An advantage they squandered because of narrow-minded people like Karlach and Wyll.
And now Tav might lead them into a disaster.
But instead of sulking over some conflicting emotions he clearly harbors for her he should be by her side. He has managed to influence her in the past. He should continue his manipulation on her instead of running from her.
No, there is no other way. He needs to pursue her again. He needs to cement their relationship. He has to make sure she will keep protecting him. He can’t afford any mistake.
His gaze rests on her back as she walks beside one of the guides—the monster fucker. They use strange hand signs to communicate with each other. Drow sign language if he had to guess. Something he has to learn, apparently.
The other one—the monster—walks up front. He has been keeping his distance from the others. Not surprising, really. At least Astarion has kept his good looks when Cazador cursed him. That creature is just disgusting. This Imrae must be clearly a deranged mind for voluntarily laying with such monstrosity.
Now the monstrosity comes to a halt, signaling his mate something Astarion cannot glean. Seconds later Tav addresses the group, a faint smile on her pretty lips.
“That’s enough for today. There is a grotto nearby with access to a lake. Imrae and I will hunt for fish. Gale, Imrae will show you to a spot where you can ignite a fire. Shadowheart, please make sure Scratch remains close. Astarion,” her purple gaze rests on him, “Zhah will take you out for a hunt. Follow his orders. It’s dangerous out there.”
She doesn’t wait for a response and guides her flock toward the opening, which looks more like the angry maw of a fat dragon. Shadowheart, Gale, and Wyll hold on to Tav and each other when they walk into the dark tunnel. Scratch wines lightly and the owlbear cub inside Wyll’s backpack peeks curiously outside the open lid.
Astarion grits his teeth. Hunting with a drider? This day cannot get any worse.
Zhah had enough of the vampire mere minutes after they had left camp to go hunting.
It took all of his senses to keep track of the unruly undead elf as he kept slipping off into the darkness, the light tremors, peripheral movement and his stench the only clues to his whereabouts.
Even beforehand, the spawn had barely listened to Zhah's instructions, more interested in his nails than in learning to only collect kills with arrows with white fletching, and to not touch anything with a black arrow in it.
Not because the drider minded sharing his kills, he planned to bring back enough meat to feed everyone in camp, but some foes went down easiest when one used all of the weapons in one's arsenal, and very few living creatures could withstand his venom.
“So, you and him.” The vampire appeared next to Zhah, a mean grin spreading on his face. “How does that work?”
“Work?” Zhah asked. He surely wasn't asking about-
“Oh, don't be shy, you can tell me.” The undead creature gave a cold and empty chuckle. “We're all adults here. You cannot tell me two drow are prudish.”
He was. Gods above and below, a thousand curses on this spawn. He had no concept of what it meant to become a drider, Zhah realized, he and many a copper novel writer from the surface, who wrote one horribly inaccurate smut piece after the other.
Lolth did not want his kind to multiply without her permission, so a drider was robbed of the means, the drive and the joys of reproduction. It was plain as that.
During his years of freedom in Menzoberranzan, Zhah hadn't been prudish. Secretive in his affairs with his fellow man, yes, but never prudish. Though, he might have appeared so to the public, for he had avoided massage houses almost entirely.
You were beautiful. Who could want you now?
“Hello?” the vampire snarled. “Do you always start ignoring people?”
“Do you always talk this much while hunting?” Zhah shot back, picking up the pace to gain distance to the man while he prepared his bow.
His ears pricked. Leathery wings, big enough to construct a tent from. Giant bats.
Zhah licked his fangs, then the heads of three black arrows. One by one, he sent them flying towards one of the creatures flying above them.
Archery was easy, instinctive, raw physical power used to fell prey from afar, deadly barbs sent flying from a silken bowstring that was strong as steel.
A shadow plummeting down in the distance made Zhah smile with victory and anticipation, an expression that grew wider when two more shadows turned around to shoot towards him.
A few white arrows later, they, too, plummeted.
Scattering. Claws. Movement in the dark. Two white arrows, two squeaks of death.
More movement. Steps. An undead stench.
Zhah stopped himself, not a moment too soon.
After collecting the pair of giant rats he had shot, he drove his fangs into the cooling bodies. Mere morsels, but enough to replenish him, keep him fit until he would reach his larger kills.
The vampire had gagged at the mere mention of rodent blood, leaving them to the drider. “Vermin for the vermin, how fitting,” he had said.
Spoiled, arrogant brat, reeking of stale and stolen blood. One fed on what one found down here, not what one picked from a menu.
As the rodent's life essence ran down Zhah's throat, his mind quieted down, that sought-after reprieve from haunting thoughts when his thirst was quenched, these few precious moments of peace that would and could not last.
His own blood froze when he heard a choked outcry nearby. He dropped his meal and twisted his upper body, all of his eyes trying to locate his charge.
He found the vampire spawn writhing on the cavern floor next to a giant bat cadaver with three black arrows in it, mouth and shirt stained red, his spasming limbs no longer listening to him, pain twisting his face into a grimace.
Drider venom paralysis. Death by suffocation and heart failure. A horrid fate Zhah hated inflicting on others.
You bring nothing but pain.
“Not true,” Zhah muttered, reaching into his quiver, his claw shaking as it grasped the antidote potion stashed within.
They will blame you. They will kill you.
“Imrae won't let them.” Zhah pulled the cork from the bottle.
When the drider crouched down and bent to get closer, the spawn tried to move away, shield his face, but his body failed him.
You ruined everything.
Careful now. They only had the one dose here. At least an undead creature could not die from a stopping heart, though Zhah's own was hammering against his chest.
“You will feel better in a moment, Astarion,” he promised, trying for the same soothing voice that worked on Imrae, the spawn's feeble movements no match for the strength of a drider as he pried fanged teeth open and slowly poured the liquid down his throat.
He had managed to pour about half of it when the vampire regained enough control to twist out of his grip, fangs snapping at his claw, sharp nails trying to slash Zhah open, but both just scratched against the black carapace covering his arm.
“Get the Hells away from me!” Astarion rasped, tongue barely complying.
“You need to take all of it.”
“I need you to die, you cockroach!”
Zhah recoiled, giving the vampire space to drag himself off of the ground and back towards camp with slow and stumbling steps.
He is right. You are vermin.
His gaze fell onto the bat cadaver, the blood's smell made even more tantalizing by his venom liquefying the flesh. But there was no time. He had to make sure the spawn was safe.
Wrapping the bat in sticky silk, marking it as his, took no time at all, and the venom coursing through it would do the rest.
To not make things worse, he made sure to follow Astarion at a distance, but when the spawn slipped into the smaller cavern where their encampment lied, Zhah hesitated.
Run. Save your own life. Forget about the drow.
Reminding himself that these thoughts were not his own, that he loved “the drow” with all his heart, Zhah pushed himself forward, motivated by the frightful mental image of the “Blade of Frontiers”, the devil who reeked of sulfur and righteousness, impaling Imrae on his rapier.
He found Imrae unimpaled and unharmed in the camp's center with Tav, the kind drow girl, and a small basket of fish.
Astarion was nowhere to be seen.
“What happened?” Tav asked, voice calm, free of anger.
Beside her, Imrae's eyes were darting around the cavern, the grip on his staff firm. Zhah knew that look, the mage was calculating their chances should the situation turn against them, and the lack of tension in his body told Zhah that he liked their chances.
“He drank from a kill he was told not to. I'm sorry. I should have watched him better,” Zhah said and held out the half-empty bottle of antidote to Tav. “Get him to drink the rest of this, if you can.”
She took the bottle, clutching it in her hands while she took a deep breath. Then, with a smile, she responded, “I will. Thank you for your honesty. It's alright. You're not in trouble, Zhah.”
While Tav departed, Imrae put a hand on Zhah's arm and looked up at him, a silent inquiry about his wellbeing in those beautiful pale eyes.
Before Zhah could give him an answer, Karlach, the untouchable tiefling, walked over to them. To his surprise, she was smiling, too. “Don't worry, Legs. Even with those big pointy ears, Fangs is not always the best at listening.”
“I hope he is better at learning from the consequences of this particular shortcoming, then.” Imrae lingered for a moment longer, then went to help Gale prepare the fish for their evening meal.
Zhah watched him go, then turned back to Karlach. The tiefling was nice, giving him and Imrae nicknames without any malice to them. Anything that was not a devil deserved a chance in her book, which was a great relief.
It differed from the glares of the devil and the githyanki, as well as the inquisitive stare of the human, the aching and creaking wizard strangely reeking of bile.
“The fish might not be enough for all of you.” Zhah clutched one claw with the other while he avoided looking the tiefling in the eye. “I shot giant bats. Maybe you can help me get them back to camp before something scavenges them? Those with-”
“White arrows. Gotcha, Legs. Let's go!”
It takes Tav a while to find Astarion. He has managed to sneak past her and the others and has perched his trembling body onto one of the slick stones by the lake’s shore. One hand disturbing the water surface, the other rests on the ground, his fingers unnaturally bent and clawing into the mud.
Tav makes herself known by kicking a pebble. Not that she could conceal her presence from the keen ears of a vampire. But she knows how much Astarion hates it when people try to take him by surprise.
“Coming to check on me? How charming.” His voice doesn’t match the message it conveys.
Tav remains silent and settles next to him, leaving enough space between them not to crowd him. In this vulnerable state Astarion can be especially mean.
“You need to drink the rest of the antidote or else you will spend the night retching and in agony.”
She stretches out a hand, offering him the vial Zhah gave her.
Astarion doesn’t meet her gaze and instead faces toward the shore. He doesn’t reach for the potion either.
With a low hum, her hands find their usual spot in her lap, the antidote nestled between her fingers. The urge to grab her flute makes her digits fidget restlessly. Without another word she pockets the tincture and gets up.
“Don’t,” Astarion’s head snaps up, his reddened eyes unusually imploring. “Stay. I’ll drink the damn antidote.”
Tav is taken by surprise by his sudden change of character and settles back next to him, offering him the potion once more. When their fingers link for a second, she shivers from his icy touch. With shaking hands, he brings the vial to his lips and gulps down the content, making a grimace afterwards.
Tav snickers involuntarily, receiving a scolding glare from Astarion. But his disapproval shifts into a defeated grin and he huffs a laugh.
“I suppose I deserve that,” he says, watching her probingly.
“What exactly happened there? Did Zhah attack you?” Her forehead twists into a frown.
“No. As much as I would like to lay blame on this creature, it was my fault alone.”
Tav’s expression mildens. “How so?”
He doesn’t respond immediately and returns his attention to the horizon. Tav waits patiently. The urge to fidget with her flute has given way to an impulse to reach for his hand. She bites her lower lip and gropes the instrument instead.
“I’m not used to hunt in packs. I’m a loner,” he finally admits without looking at her.
“So you didn’t listen to him? Astarion, you are not alone anymore.”
“I know,” he hisses back. With a friendlier tone he adds, “It’s not that easy.”
“What isn’t?”
“Trusting others.” Finally, he meets her gaze, and Tav is startled by the absence of his usual sarcasm.
“I see.” She tries to smile at him, but in truth she feels absolutely clueless about how to respond to his sudden genuineness.
In the past before they became intimate with each other he and she had spent an increasing amount of time together. Watching sunsets side by side, her playing the flute for him, allowing him to taste her while she offered him insight to the taste of real food… These sort of things. At first it was not easy to come through to the real him. This pretentiousness she soon learned was his way of keeping others at bay. Charming her, insulting her, teasing her. But the rare moments between were the reason why she eventually fell in love with him. These moments when he shared more about himself. About his past as a slave to a sadistic master. About his desire for freedom which she could easily relate to.
After their shared night together, there was nothing left of this genuine person. She felt betrayed and used. And soon that hurt turned into anger.
This has been the closest they have been for weeks.
“I’m sorry, Tav. I will be more careful in the future.”
A surge of relief outshines her disappointment about the shift of topic, and she realizes that she is not yet ready for more.
“I’m glad to hear that. Now get some rest. Or… do you need more blood?”
He wavers for a second, his gaze turning hungry for a fleeting moment.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you. Don’t worry for me, darling.”
“Alright then.” She gets up and saunters back into the cave, ready for some decent rest.
of a collaborative work between @spillingteanotpermitted and @lottavilja featuring Imrae and Tav (Lymune). Another AU for our AU. Enjoy!
Prologue and Chapters One and Two are here.
Read on AO3.
Summary:
A perfectly normal business meeting among perfectly normal people - at least perfectly normal for the Underdark.
Parings: Astarion x Lymune (named Tav), Imrae x Zhah (OC x OC)
|| Timeline: Late Act 1 || Word count: 3.063 ||
Content Warnings for the whole work: arachnophobia, mental health struggles, blood drinking, mentions of past non-consent, mentions of Astarion's past, mentions of familial abuse
Content warning for this chapter: Mentions of Halsin's Underdark past, mentions of canon-typical drow misandry, implications of past non-consent
Dividers by @strangergraphics.
Chapter Three
“You want to do what?”
Astarion’s disapproval turns his face into a grimace, and Tav cannot but wince from his rejective tone. Anger flares mere seconds later and with the same amount of venom in her own voice she hisses back,
“We need every ally we can get if we want to survive this. So keep your animosities to yourself. Besides, I’m not planning on going alone should you fear for my safety.”
He scoffs condescendingly, and Tav isn’t sure whether she just exposed his indifference toward her or if there really is concern on his part. She gulps down the flicker of disappointment.
“A sound choice,” Halsin, who sits between them, intervenes. “If you don’t mind, I would gladly offer my company.”
“Thank you. Yes, I would be most pleased.” She tries to smile at the kind druid, Astarion’s presence weighing heavy on her.
“Tell us a bit more about this drow,” Gale encourages as he distributes the rest of their breakfast among them. Like always he serves himself last, scraping the remains out of the pot with a wooden spoon.
“He seemed most civilized, truth be told. A scholar, I presume. At any rate, he is no one’s husband. He would have mentioned that up front.”
Taking a small sip from her water bottle she hopes that her companions haven’t noticed her slightly shaking voice. She cannot tell them that he and she actually met before. This life she so desperately tries to outrun has caught up on her despite all her efforts. She is not ready to talk about that to anyone.
“No one’s husband?” Gale arches a brow.
“Well,” Tav’s fingers instinctively seek out her flute, “drow customs are very strict in that regard.”
“She means to say males have no value among her people,” Astarion throws in with a mean grin.
“Oh.” Gale blushes and avoids her gaze.
“And yet you don’t hold onto such customs,” Halsin states with his usual soft smile. “How come?”
“As I said, I left the Underdark when I was very young,” Tav more mumbles as she feels increasingly uncomfortable talking about her past.
An awkward moment of silence follows, and she finishes the rest of her breakfast as quickly as possible. She feels Astarion’s acid gaze on her. Not for the first time she wonders what in the hells she did to him that he treats her so poorly. If not for their shared night a couple of weeks back she would believe he didn’t like her at all.
“If we’re lucky, they will guide us through the most perilous part of the Underdark,” she offers and gets up.
“They?” Lae’zel, who has been silently following the conversation until now inquires, already fully equipped and ready for battle.
“He and his partner,” Tav clarifies as she begins braiding her hair to look at least a bit decent for the meeting.
“Two drow we don’t know a damn thing about? You can’t be that naïve!”
Tav takes a deep breath and tries not to glare at the vampire. Why does he have to constantly rally against her?
“That’s why Halsin and I meet these two drow together. Will you at least trust his judgement?”
Another scoff is the only answer she gets.
“It’s settled then.”
After one last glance toward her companions, she and Halsin make their way to the rock where she and Imrae met yesterday. He will wait for them there to take them to his place. A precaution Tav understands very well. He cannot trust her. And she cannot trust him. Who is to say what person he has become since last she saw him? And giving away someone’s shelter to a stranger would be more than stupid. A fact that tells Tav he knows what he is doing. And with the lot she and her flock has been given this is more than she could have hoped for.
Astarion looks after the drow. Next to the giant druid Tav appears even more vulnerable. An unwelcome feeling of protectiveness courses through him. Gritting his teeth, he turns his gaze away and crouches toward his bedroll, which lies amidst the beddings of his companions.
Astarion has to stifle a groan. Usually, he avoids such close contact. Back at the palace he shared a bedroom with his six spawn siblings, but his master’s cruelty and 200 years of slavery molded their relationship into one of careful distance, and Cazador made sure that no alliances were formed. The true vampire needed his spawn isolated. He couldn’t afford an uprising.
Sleeping with Tav was merely a formality. Offering intimacy is his currency after all. It didn’t mean anything to him. He only needed to ensure her loyalty. A vampire amidst so many mortals is dangerous. He needs every advantage he can get if he wants to survive this. And by the hells does he want to survive this. After so long his mind is finally his own again. There is no master controlling him. No midnight hunts so his tormentor can feed whereas he is barely kept alive with the life source of vermin. He is free.
He is finally free.
But freedom doesn’t taste like he expected. Actually, he had no idea that freedom could taste so sour.
Reaching for his backpack he takes out a book he nicked from Gale. This annoying human keeps more books than provisions. An extraordinary cook—not that he could be a judge—but Karlach is the one who carries all his utensils.
His companions sit idly by the unlit fireplace. Only for a couple of hours Tav allowed them to take comfort before the crackling flames. Something about dangerous fumes and wildlife. He didn’t pay much attention. Lately his mind has been wandering to places he wished he could rather forget. The few moments when he is not tormented by vicious memories, he thinks about Tav. About her smell. About her taste. About these awful feelings in his chest. Her voice. Her eyes. The kindness with which she treated him. Her kindness was the worst.
At least that’s no longer a problem.
He turns a page and realizes he hasn’t paid attention to what he just read. His companions are occupied with each other and so he returns to the previous page and scans the lines once more. What was the book about again?
101 Garlic Recipes.
What the hells?
Was he so out of his mind that he didn’t even pay attention to what he actually took? Astarion glances toward Gale. The wizard is scrubbing the cookpot, sitting with his back to him. He has to find a way to sneak that book back. It’s no fun teasing the man when he only carries fucking cook books. He wouldn’t be surprised if he had found a way to shield his more valuable stuff from prying eyes. But he wouldn’t be an exceptional rogue if he didn’t find a way, would he?
When Tav and Halsin arrive at the rock, Imrae is already waiting for them. Not on top like the first time but casually leaned against it. Upon spotting the giant wood elf, his expression turns a bit wary. But Halsin has lived over 300 years watching strangers react to his unnatural stature. And so he takes on a disarming smile and even lowers his head for a friendly gesture.
“Oak Father preserve you. I am the druid Halsin.”
“Greetings. They call me Imrae. It is a pleasure to meet you. A druid, hm?” He inclines his head to the side. “Now a few things make sense.”
“Oh?” Halsin blushes, looking at Tav. “For example?” he asks.
“The stone knows and welcomes you, Master Halsin, just like it does with me,” Imrae replies, his tone friendly.
“You are a druid as well?” Halsin beams, obviously delighted and surprised to meet another druid so deep below.
Imrae begins marching, signaling both Tav and Halsin to follow as he leads them to his home. “Ah. No. My sorcery connects me to earth and stone in general, and that of the Underdark in particular.”
Halsin nods, and Tav doesn’t miss the intrigue in his eyes. “Your kind has become rare. We may speak on this one evening, yes?”
Imrae chuckles. “Certainly, Master Halsin.”
They keep walking in silence, leaving Tav a moment to admire the massive stalactites hanging from above the stony ceiling. She can’t deny it any longer. Since coming here, a strange feeling has been manifesting inside her chest. Apprehension of course. That much she expected. What she didn’t anticipate was a sense of strange belonging. One might call it the feeling of returning home. Something deep inside her connects with the stone and the darkness. She hasn’t made up her mind over what to make of it.
“One more thing you must know before we enter.” Imrae has stopped before the entrance of a grotto, directing his speech to both of them. “Zhah is a drider.”
Tav’s breath dies in her lungs.
“A drider?” she repeats as if to ensure she heard correct. Imrae just observes her with a blank expression. “And they are your partner?”
His expression shifts into a smitten smile. “He is. In all aspects of life. He is the most gentle soul I know.
After you.” With a gesture he bids them to enter, and once again Tav is captivated by his elegant politeness.
They move into a beautiful grotto with access to the lake shore. Tav’s mouth waters by the sight of it. Taking it all in, she is impressed by the charming coziness this little encampment radiates. It’s homey.
But what strikes her most are the various hand looms which are standing in almost every corner. Silk threads and products in various stages of production occupy empty stone sockets. Blankets, napkins, and loads and loads of pretty cushions remind her of her aching back and feet. For nearly three months now she and her companions have been traveling, feasting on what nature provides, and resting on hard ground with nothing but their simple bedrolls for cover.
Tav’s daydreaming gets interrupted by a voice as silken as the cushion next to her as Imrae offers her to take a seat on a stone which has been fabricated into a comfortable seat. The song is familiar, and a strange dizziness holds her captive for a moment. When her eyes catch the source of the song, her heart clenches.
Ensconced on one of the stones, the shadows almost concealing him completely, a grotesque figure observes them. His former dark skin has a greenish tint. His face is scarred in an almost ritualistic manner and covered with symmetrical small eyes which appear to pierce her. His main eyes are completely black, and Tav cannot hold his gaze for long. Only his long braided white hair, which reaches half down his back, gives away his drow heritage. His spider body is wrapped inside a dark carapace armor with a pretty silk cape.
Without a word he leaves his sitting position and scurries toward a small round table where he picks up a tea service. With deft hands—and legs—he serves them tea.
Tav catches Imrae’s gaze. Sitting across her the drow observes her and Halsin most carefully. Smiling at him she exchanges a glance with Halsin, who seems a bit paler than usual. Apart from that he seems his usual stoic self.
“Thank you, Zhah,” Imrae says tenderly when his cup gets filled with steaming tea.
“Yes, thank you,” both Tav and Halsin say almost simultaneously. Tav wiggles uncomfortably in her stony chair, uncertain of how to behave properly. She doesn’t want to appear rude, but Zhah’s presence is most bizarre and a bit frightening.
“You are welcome. Please enjoy the tea.” Apparently the drider’s voice is the only thing that hasn’t been affected by the curse. And just like Imrae his words spoken in Common carry a slight accent.
“Thank you. You have a lovely home,” Tav admirers.
“Thank you.” Zhah’s lips stretch into a polite smile. Even though his mouth is mostly closed, she glimpses a set of fangs. Now that at least is something she is familiar with. Astarion’s fangs have approached her neck more often than she can count.
“I hope you like tea? It is a blend of black tea and funguswood.”
“Sounds nice. I like spiced tea.” She brings the cup to her lips and takes a sip, humming in delight when the fragrance reaches her taste buds.
Zhah’s hesitant smile grows into a full beam, and Tav nearly chokes on the beverage when she realizes that his fangs are by far larger than Astarion’s. Fortunately, no one noticed her uneasiness and Zhah takes a seat next to Imrae.
“To business, then,” Imrae announces after a long silent moment. “We have drafted a simple contract for our alliance. While most of our dealings are done with verbal agreements, a task like this does demand a certain degree of formality.”
He hands Tav a page of silken paper with neat script. Skimming over the contract she asks, “A task like this?”
“Your group is sizable and varied. We can go over our concerns together.”
She nods, returning to the contract. A shame Gale is not here. He would be a better judge.
“How long do you think the journey will take?”
“A tenday, give or take.”
She hands Halsin the agreement, hoping he might spot anything unusual.
“This is beautiful paper,” she remarks.
Imrae smiles proudly, exchanging a glance with Zhah. “Right? Zhah made it. We will make you a good price if you would like some for yourself.”
Tav snickers. Her kin has a good sense for business, it seems.
Halsin returns the paper to her. “That is a very reasonable fee. I expected it to be higher,” he says.
“It is our minimum rate.” To Tav he adds, “You were kind to me once, I have not forgotten that. We will support your fight against the Absolute in any way we can.”
Tav’s smile freezes as he reveals in front of Halsin that they know each other. But the druid doesn’t react to this revelation, and so Tav relaxes. For another half-an-hour they drink tea and make idle conversation. A lovely afternoon, all in all.
After their guests had left, Imrae boiled more water to wash out the used cups while he reflected on the conversation.
Tav and Halsin had agreed to their terms, which was not surprising. The group's situation was dire, and they were among the best independent guides one could find in these parts. Unlike the Bregan D'aerthe, Zhah and he weren't mercenaries who listened to the highest bidder.
What had been surprising were a few revelations about Tav's friends. “Varied” now felt like a gross underestimation on Imrae's part.
Karlach was not just hot as some tieflings and fire sorcerers were, after an involuntary career in the Hells, she was modified with an infernal engine that made her scorching to the touch. She would be a beacon for anything that relied on thermal vision.
“Fangs”, real name Astarion, was a vampire spawn, dependent on blood to retain his strength and sanity. Hunting down here was a dangerous pastime, but Zhah was an excellent hunter, as well as an expert in which prey provided the most sanguine satisfaction.
At least the wizard, “Gale of Waterdeep”, could be told to be quiet. Imrae hoped that he was smarter than the other academy darlings from the surface he had met on his travels, who had insisted to trust their old and inaccurate library texts over his lived experience.
And then there was Tav. She had changed her name and had done her best to avoid any mention of their previous connection during their meeting. She had not held back like this when they had spoken one on one last night. Did she distrust Zhah? Or did she distrust-
“Halsin.” Zhah took off his silken cape and put it into a chest with great care. “I have heard that name before.”
The drider's tone made Imrae pause his task and give his partner his full attention. “In Menzoberranzan?”
“Yes.” Zhah gave a low chuckle while he hugged himself. “I suppose it is my turn to be reminded of my past life now.”
“Would you like to talk about it or should we let the matter rest?” Imrae asked while he put the cups aside and walked over to Zhah. When he reached out with one hand, his beloved tightened the grip on himself.
“Sarn. Not now. But I want to talk about it.”
Imrae nodded and knelt next to Zhah, his hands resting in his lap.
“I believe it was one of the first parties the matron threw after acquiring me. She was showing me off to her gaggle of friends. It got them talking about past playthings. The matron's older aunt talked about someone once owning a large young wood elf who would turn into a bear. Halsin.” Zhah shook his head. “I don't even know why that got stuck in my head.”
“Plaything as in gladiator, or-”
“Chained to a matron's bed.” Zhah spat out the last word.
Imrae wrung his hands. “Oh. Oh dear. The poor man.”
“Maybe it stayed in my head because I thought in that moment that my life could be worse.” Zhah's voice came out in a low monotone. “At least I was still weaving. Still free to move through the house.”
“Laele wanted me to be just like that chained man. Just a living accessory to put in a room and use when needed.”
“I am glad you ran,” Zhah said, returning to the here and now.
“Me too.”
“I don't think I tell you enough how brave that was.”
“Brave or foolhardy?” Imrae smirked. “How would you like to spend the evening?”
“Read to me? The book where they discover a secret civilization?”
“Can I complain about the implausible architecture?”
of a collaborative work between @spillingteanotpermitted and @lottavilja featuring Imrae and Tav (Lymune). Another AU for our AU. Enjoy!
Prologue and Chapter One are here.
Read on AO3.
Summary:
Tav gets a surprise visitor, and surprises that visitor in turn.
Parings: Astarion x Lymune (named Tav), Imrae x Zhah (OC x OC)
|| Timeline: Late Act 1 || Word count: 1.904 ||
Content Warnings for the whole work: arachnophobia, mental health struggles, blood drinking, mentions of past non-consent, mentions of Astarion's past, mentions of familial abuse
Content warning for this chapter: Mentions of familial abuse
Chapter Two
The sound of her sleeping companions wakes her from her reverie. Gale’s faint snoring is even and calm. Shadowheart’s breath on the other hand comes in rapid successions as if she were having a bad dream. Lae’zel is barely audible, and Tav wonders whether githyanki are trained to sleep soundless or if life in the Astral has something to do with it. Wyll mumbles something incoherent in his sleep, and Karlach’s engine screeches softly with each exhale.
Her elven companions are deep in trance. Whereas Halsin lies on his side, relaxed and with a soft smile, Astarion looks like a corpse inside a coffin. The soft glow of nearby mushrooms illuminates his face.
Tav takes a moment to observe the vampire. She has seen it multiple times now. Whenever he feels unobserved, his sassiness vanishes. Instead of his dry, cracking humor, something else appears. Something dark, sinister, but also sad somehow. As if his demeanor hasn’t decided yet whether to want to see the world burn or get burned along with it.
All of her companions, she included, carry their own burdens. All of them carry their secrets that they have, reluctantly or not, shared with her over the time. Shadowheart’s devotion to Shar is not the most disturbing, albeit the most worrying. The cleric has a soft side she barely shows to the others. But in those few moments when the two women shared a bottle of wine in front of the half-elf’s tent, Tav saw a glimpse of this tenderness which the other woman apparently tries to hide so desperately. Why? Tav has often wondered. Is it her young age? Or are the teachings of Shar really as cruel as people claim?
Astarion is like Shadowheart in that regard. If he carries gentleness in his dead heart, he desperately tries to hide it.
It’s easier with the others. Gale has eagerly shared his past with her. Tav likes the wizard very much. Despite his human age, he carries a wisdom in his chest she hasn’t seen very often. Sure, his eagerness to prove himself is a bit unnerving, but then again, he is human. It lies in their nature.
Tav’s bladder reminds her to answer her own call of nature, and so she gets up soundlessly to seek the spot they selected to use as a latrine. On her way back to camp, she decides to make a short detour to collect some edible mushrooms and look for signs of wildlife.
The lake they encountered yesterday stretches far into the deep tunnels where the huge body shrinks into several small streams, providing the area with life. Plenty of fish they found, much to Wyll’s delight, who already started gagging whenever Gale offered him another bowl with mushrooms. Tav smiles from the memory as she sinks down to her knees to collect some bluecaps.
“It is dangerous to separate from the herd, you know,” a baritone voice in her back catches her by surprise.
Tav jerks around, trying to localize the speaker, her hunting knife pressed into her hand.
“Who’s there?” she challenges as she still can’t figure out where the person is—and whether they are hostile.
“Friend or foe. It depends on who you are,” the voice replies, and finally Tav spots movement in the distance. A male drow who rises to his full height on top of a rock. He doesn’t carry any visible weapons, which doesn’t mean he wouldn’t kill her as soon as she draws near. But according to drow customs, concealing weapons is an act of piece offering. An invitation to talk.
Carefully, Tav tucks away the knife and presents her bare hands to the figure. Slowly, she approaches the rock, observing the man curiously. They must be of the same age. But in comparison to her dirty hunting clothes, he is wearing the fine garments of nobility. A handsome face with a soft smile watches her as she comes closer.
He waits for her to reach the base of the rock before he speaks again. His tone is friendlier now that they have both decided the other one is no threat.
“Greetings. They call me Imrae. May I ask why you and your company are trampling about in my Underdark like stampeding rothé?”
Tav snorts a laugh. He is not wrong in his observation. “Your Underdark? You don't own this place. Though you are correct. We do must look like a herd of rothé for the natives.”
Imrae laughs shortly, his smile revealing even white teeth. He must live in luxury for looking so clean and cared for. “And you, too, are correct. I don't own the Underdark. Could you imagine how much work that would be?”
He jumps down, digging his fingers into the stone as if it were soft earth, his eyes taking on a green glint in the dark. Afterwards, he pulls a jar with a mind flayer parasite from his bag. It stirs in recognition of Tav's tadpole.
“You're infected, but you aren't transforming. Are you with the Absolute?” he asks, frowning.
Tav is too occupied with the tadpole in the jar. So that’s what’s been happening whenever two infected meet. A wave of nausea overcomes her as she visualizes her own tadpole as it stirs inside her brain fluids.
Shaking herself off this disturbing picture, she asks in return, “How do you know about the Absolute?”
“They are recruiting drow renegades. Soldiers of the Absolute assaulted my partner and me after we turned down their offer to join their little cult.”
“So, you’re not one of them?”
“No. Are you?”
“No.”
Tav exhales in relief. In these two seconds, things could have taken a wrong turn depending on their choices of words.
“That is fortunate for the both of us. May I ask what brings you down here…”
“Tav. My name is Tav.”
“It is nice to meet you, Tav.”
In the next half hour, she tells Imrae about what happened to her and the others since she found herself incarcerated inside a Nautiloid, where a mind flayer put a tadpole inside her head.
He listens patiently, but other than the occasional question, the purple-skinned man observes her as if looking for something.
Tav worries that he might not believe a word she is saying, a worry that is dispelled when he poses an unexpected question.
“Apologies, but have we met before?”
“You look like you've seen a ghost.”
Imrae had wandered back into their cavern deep in thought after his meeting with the leader of those strange illithid-infected adventurers he had spotted.
Knowing him, Zhah suspected that his mage was not only far away, but also far back in time.
“I- Yes. In a way, I have.”
Zhah put his comb aside and went to prepare tea for them. Whatever had happened, a hot drink to warm the bones could not hurt. While he waited for the water to boil over their heating stone, he observed his mate.
After he had shed his cloak, Imrae sat next to the stone that was desk, dining table or work station as needed, scratching the surface with his nails as he stared out onto the water.
When Zhah decided that both the tea and his mage had had enough time to steep and cool down, he transferred it into a pot and collected their favourite cups.
While most of their clothes were of his making, their marble tea set had been stoneshaped by Imrae, emulating a style of tableware he had found shards of in one of the ruins they had visited. It had taken him hours until he had considered his work to be perfect, something Zhah could understand like no other.
“Thank you,” Imrae said when the tea reached the table. He poured them each a cup before he looked up. “I met her before. Their leader. As a child.”
Zhah settled next to his mate and cradled him with two of his legs.
It was for good reason that Imrae rarely spoke of his childhood. While he had not been brought up under the Spider Queen, his education had been no less cruel, insistent on the fact that as a male specimen, he was lesser. The broken boy he had been had perished in the Underdark long ago so the grown mage could thrive in freedom.
Even in Menzoberranzan, as long as he had not messed up on the loom or at the reel, Zhah had faced little punishment as a commoner child.
Meanwhile, the high-born Imrae had been beaten for a misplaced look or smile.
“Was she cruel to you?” Zhah asked, slipping a hand around his mate's waist.
“No. On the contrary, she was kind to me for the short time she was there. She called me her friend. We could not truly be friends in that environment, but that was not her fault. She did not know any better.”
“A kind drow girl.”
“Yes, and she grew up into a kind woman, as far as I can tell.”
Zhah felt his mate's forehead.
“I'm not delirious, Zhah,” Imrae said, a slight smile appearing on his face. “She did not recognize me in these robes, how could she? It was so long ago, and all I wore back then was coarse and plain gray cloth. She said that I look like nobility now.”
A surge of pride went through Zhah. How proper of her to take notice. The bespoke silken robes had taken months to perfect. Timeless and indestructible, a testament to what that city had lost with his banishment, fit for the archmage himself, but screw that arrogant bastard. Only Imrae deserved to wear them, not because he was the most powerful, but because he knew how it was like to have no power at all.
“She has lived on the surface, became a bard in Waterdeep. Now she and her friends need to reach Moonrise Towers to get rid of their illithid infection.”
A hiss escaped Zhah. “So she is not with the Absolute?”
“No. She is a victim of their evil, too, and she is open to the idea of hiring guides. She and one of her friends will visit us for tea to discuss everything.” Imrae glanced over to his maps. “I have heard about a nearby exit towards the surface controlled by Clan Bitterroot. That should be the one she seeks.”
Zhah nodded. “Guiding a group that large and diverse is hazardous, even without crossing through gray dwarf territory. It will cost them.”
“Under normal circumstances, I would agree. But they are fighting the Absolute, and this plot is much bigger than I anticipated,” Imrae said, his fingers caressing Zhah's hand. “We could do our part by charging them the minimum price.”
“Our part? I fail to see how that is our responsibility.”
“It is not, I agree.” Imrae gave him a smile drenched in mischief. “But it would be revenge on the cult if we helped their enemies.”
Zhah considered the plan for a moment. It was a peaceful way of getting back at that damned cult, and they would be travelling again soon anyway. They might as well earn some coin on the way. “Alright, my love. Let's meet with them.”
She has come to replenish your well of inspiration. Drink once from her crystal cup, or pass it along to bless your mutuals in turn:
✨May your prose run clear as Feywild rivers✨
✨May your colors wake beneath a touch of pixie dust✨
✨May your spark remember the first flame✨
Dear Muse Fairy, gladly do I drink from your crystal cup, leaving not even one single drop. Let Feywild rivers run through my vein, let my skin sparkle and burn aflame. With gratitude in my heart I shall praise your name.
Parings: Astarion x Lymune (named Tav), Astarion x Imrae
|| Timeline: Act 3 || Word count: 2.273 ||
Content Warnings for the whole work: mention of forced marriage, mention of Astarion's past, light angst, mention of familial abuse, canon-typical violence, blood drinking, blood and injury, jealousy, sickness, dehydration, hurt with comfort
Content warning for this chapter: None
Recommended music.
Chapter 26: Vaendin-Thiil
Tav is as still as a statue while I recount the events at the trading outpost to her.
Looking at the wares. Smelling Imrae's blood, a faint trace anyone but me would have missed, then discovering that he's gone. Following the scent upstairs to end up at a closed door, bolted from inside. Using the Knock spell from my skeleton key to magic it open. Rescuing my darling wizard from that poor excuse for a hostage situation.
Gods, how much I wanted to rip that woman's throat out in that moment. But there had to have been a reason that Imrae humored her little scheme, so I let her live.
And looking back, I am glad I did, because Tav seems like she appreciates our restraint. Whatever her aunt wants to tell her, it must be important. One thorough description of Imrae's assailant later, she confirms that the drow is, in all likelihood, Ulua of House Uoswiir.
Imrae, her brother, the family she's chosen, sits beside her, giving her his hand to hold with his usual stoic diligence.
At certain points in the story, Tav squeezes it, looking at him with concern and sorrow, which culminates in wrath when she hears how he was treated. After asking to see the cuts on his fingers, she retrieves a salve and applies it while she mutters to herself.
“How dare she talk to you like that! No matter how much time she or my mother have spent on the surface, nothing ever changes for them! They still treat men like shit!”
My fiery little drow is a vision when she is like this, whenever her warmth turns into a wildfire that is as alluring as it is terrifying.
“I have had worse, Tav. These things are not worth losing sleep over.”
My stony drow on the other hand is not angry enough for my taste. He's still wearing that damned magical disguise, for crying out loud. It's like having a stranger in our tent! It even messes with his scent a little, adding a hint of ozone that Gale, too, has clinging to him.
Tav seems to agree, because she huffs and bandages the wound.
“Now, what about me? It was an ordeal for the both of us. I think I chipped a nail,” I joke, showing her my hand. I'm used to filing them down to blend in, but neither Tav nor Imrae seem to mind a more claw-like look... and feel.
“You poor thing.” Tav gives me a mild smile for my efforts, but she is elsewhere with her thoughts.
I extend my hand further to cup her face. “And there I was, afraid I was the only one facing a difficult family reunion. First Imrae's cousin, now this.”
“Don't forget Wyll and Shadowheart. We need to save their parents.” Tav sighs, leaning into my touch. We have not even reached the city yet and her head is already full of things to get done.
“Oh yes, how could I forget.” I want to roll my eyes, but don't.
Honestly, I don't want to think about Shadowheart's problems at all, not after what Shar did to sweet Imrae. I don't want neither him nor Tav anywhere near another temple of that bitch of a goddess. I can't bear the thought that either could just forget about all that we've been through.
A whole city was quick to forget about me once, that was bitter enough. For the two people who care about me now to forget me? No, that'd be more than I could take.
But Shadowheart is one of us, isn't she? Tav cares a great deal for her.
Damn and bless her tender heart.
I fix an errant strand of Tav's hair. “You don't have to go. It's some sort of trap, for all we know. I'm sure we can get the information out of her one way or another.”
She is quiet for a moment, wringing her hands while she pushes herself to confide in us. “I do want to meet her,” she says in a low voice. “I've missed her, you know? She wasn't as harsh as my mother.”
I try to read her tone of voice, but she is way too good at masking her feelings. Is she ashamed that she wants a connection to her aunt? She is conflicted at the very least, as she should be, after what happened to her brother.
That very brother holds his tongue, but there is a sadness to him all of a sudden. Envy, perhaps? Wishing for memories of his parents? Wishing that he, too, could have had some positive interactions with the family he was raised in?
He really should not. Family that you haven't chosen is nothing but trouble.
“She taught me a lot about surviving in the Underdark.” Tav smiles, but it falters moments later. “I did not get to see her much after we had reached the surface. She was always away, trying to help my mother rebuild our house.”
“She does know her craft,” Imrae throws in, which makes me snort.
Just half an hour ago, that woman held a dagger to his throat, but now he is complimenting her for Tav's sake? Sweet fool, trying so hard to put it behind him, still disappointed with himself for getting angry when it was more than appropriate. How frustrating.
Then again, would I want him to be a raging lunatic? His calm and patient nature is what makes him feel so incredibly safe. Cazador flew off the handle at the drop of a hat. One time literally, even.
Gods-damned bastard.
Distracted by shoving down the memory, I miss what Tav was saying, which leads to her and Imrae staring at me with concern on their pretty faces.
“Are you okay, Astarion?” my little drow asks.
My smile puts itself on. “Of course! I was just considering our next steps,” I lie.
One raised eyebrow from Imrae and one shake of the head from Tav is enough to cause my dead heart to clench.
“Trying to shift the attention away from you, aren't you, little drow?” I jest, though part of me wonders if I've hit the nail on the head when Tav's face scrunches up.
“No!” she protests, much too eagerly. “Giving my partner a chance to talk openly.”
“Tonight,” I promise. And I mean it.
Later, when her aunt is dealt with. Preferably for good.
“Okay. I'll hold you to it, you know?” Tav says, her smile much too quick and easy, just like mine earlier.
Imrae sees it, too.
When she tries to get up, both he and I do not loosen our grasp on her.
“Let's go, Jaheira's waiting.”
“Little bard, you're tense like a coil and your heart is racing.” I give her a smile to lighten the mood a little. “As much as I'd like to take credit for the latter, I think there's still something weighing on you.”
Her lips press into a line, but she sits back down.
“He is right, sister,” Imrae agrees. “You will fare better during the conversation with your aunt if you are calm and collected, not simply putting on the facade of it. Jaheira will manage for whatever time you need.”
Tav stares at him for a moment, then squeezes her eyes shut. “I'm scared.”
Before I can react, Imrae closes the gap between them to offer her a gentle embrace.
Not even two heartbeats later, she clings to him for dear life, face buried in his chest while she vents to us. “I have no idea what she wants from me. What if she's here on my mother's orders? What if Astarion's right and it is a trap? She was already okay with hurting you!” She sniffs. “I don't know what I'll do when I see her!”
I know what I would do. But Tav might not approve my ideas. They might rend her soft heart in two.
“I meant what I said, sister. She could have been much worse.”
This time, I don't keep quiet. “Yes, and she could also have been nicer, and served tea and brandy for our troubles! Stop defending her!”
“I am not defending her.” Imrae's tone remains calm. “I am providing a nuanced view of the situation.”
Tav sniffs. “Don't fight. Please.”
That moment, something becomes clear in my head. Why this whole deal of his has been annoying me so much. “I am not the one condemning getting upset.”
Imrae's face falls. “I am not condemning anybody but myself. I told you, this is about my own emotional discipline, nothing more.”
“Ugh. You're infuriating.”
“Astarion, do you really believe Imrae is judging others on this?”
I crumble under her gaze. “I- No.”
She has a way of stripping me bare, and I don't mean in the carnal way, but a deeper, more intense connection. It is relieving and frightening at the same time.
“Good. Because I don't think he is, too.” Tav shifts in her brother's hold, not finished with the interrogation. “Were you worried that he was judging you?”
“Maybe. Hearing it again and again was... rough, I suppose.”
“I apologize. That was never my intention.” Imrae shifts on the cushions we're on. “You are incredible. I hope you know that.”
“Naturally. But thank you for saying it out loud.” While still a judgement, I'll take it. After a long time of hearing only in what ways I am faulty, their praise is balsam to the wounds. Part of me almost believes it.
“All good, then.” Tav wipes her eyes and nose on the inner fabric of her sleeve, then takes a deep breath and looks up at Imrae. “Alright. I've gotten it all out. Thank you, brother.”
“Do not mention it.” Imrae kisses her forehead.
Before I can feel left out, Tav scuffles over and pulls me in for a tender kiss on the lips. “Haven't forgotten about you. Thank you,” she says with a smile.
A surge of heat goes through me, as it so often has during these past few days of delightful exploration and experimentation, and I do not want to let go of her and her warmth when she withdraws to exit the tent.
I look to Imrae, unsure if I've offended him despite his apology. That patience of his must run out at some point even for those he cares about, right?
But instead of pulling away, he takes my hand, brushes his lips over my knuckles and presses them to my wrist, then smiles at me before he follows Tav, leaving me aching for more.
That evil, evil drow. Well played.
Part of me wanted to take him right on that desk at Moonrise Towers, find out if he's truly the gentle lover I had clocked him as, no matter how public that space was. Yet, a much larger part was not ready for it and was glad that he does not expect, let alone demand any of that, especially since I only halfway through thought about how Tav would feel about it.
She and I are still not clear on that. But I shouldn't think about that anyway before I can protect what I've found with my drow.
Outside Tav's tent, the brain thing is already waiting for Imrae. Why Tav let him keep it is beyond me, as is why he did not just kill it. Sympathy, perhaps.
Figures that a wizard would identify with a brain on legs.
I watch Tav as she dons a hooded cloak while she puts Gale and Lae'zel in charge before we head off to the trading outpost, then her and Imrae as they walk together, side by side, brother and sister.
I won't lose them. I cannot lose them. I have to keep them safe.
Tav from her mother. Imrae from all those who hunt him.
And both of them from Cazador. The bastard would love to get his spindly old hands on someone dear to me.
Which is why I have to steal the ritual from him.
I already have Imrae's support for the plan. He understands that power is necessary to secure our future, he said that exact thing on his second night in camp. Sure, the man has his practical concerns, which I expected. He wouldn't be my wizard if he did not overthink everything. No, his actual disapproval looks different.
Hah. Gale's flummoxed face was priceless that night.
The crux of the matter is, once again, Tav. I am going to have to make her see that this is best for everybody involved, that this is for her and her brother as much as it is for me. She and Imrae could not only be tolerated in the city, by my side, they could both live like royalty. We deserve it!
And her tender heart could not stand the thought that she would be forcing me back into the shadows if she denied me this chance, right?
Who knows, maybe whatever her aunt wants to say will play into my hands, too.
Ample opportunities to pull her to my side.
With my newfound power, her grace, and Imrae's magic, we could rule the city, if we so pleased. My darling mage is so worried about causing catastrophic amounts of damage when angered, could he really level a building like Moonrise in a fit of rage? What an exciting thought.
Thanks for the tag, wifey (@dramatiquechipmunk)! You already know Octavia is my second favorite... 😈
I have a couple OCs that fit the bill, but I'll dedicate this post to my main, my love, my everything: Adelaide Silverhand. Here is a combo of renders and VP I've done/taken of her.
As consort (render).
In a modern setting (render).
Warming up and looking fly (VP).
I LOVE HER. More than myself, maybe, idk. 😂 I have a whole series jsut for her and Astarion on AO3. <3
Gentle tags for: @lottavilja, @lolthwoven, @lenorebutsad, @strixamans, & @optimisticgrey. Sorry if you've been tagged already!
If you're seeing this and want to do it, feel free to tag me, too so I don't miss it. <3
Imrae takes some time to himself to think. Astarion picks his brain. On the road to Baldur's Gate, the two make a new acquaintance.
Parings: Astarion x Lymune (named Tav), Astarion x Imrae
|| Timeline: Act 3 || Word count: 4.151 ||
Content Warnings for the whole work: mention of forced marriage, mention of Astarion's past, light angst, mention of familial abuse, canon-typical violence, blood drinking, blood and injury, jealousy, sickness, dehydration, hurt with comfort
Content warning for this chapter: Mention of familial abuse (verbal and physical), mention of depression, drow misandry
Recommended music.
Chapter 25: Pasaison
The tunnels under Moonrise were quiet, safe for the churning of illithid membrane that permeated the walls. Would it die, now that the Elder Brain had left its nest?
Scavenging forsaken illithid colonies had been a lucrative pastime in the Underdark, but Imrae had never stuck around to see what happened to them in the long run. The decomposition of stone was fascinating. The decay of organic matter was not.
He grimaced. He had not come down here to think about illithids, but about the situation he found himself in, but he already felt anger gnawing at his heart when he directed his mind to the problem at hand.
Phyra. How dare she try to rebuild the bridge he had burnt so decidedly? And not even a bridge with a solid foundation of connection and regret, she had tried to make one out of rope and out of chains.
Had she been ordered to do this? Had she been a failed spy in the cult, sent by her mother to see if this was a trick by Lolth, just as Imrae had assumed once he had seen Minthara?
“Who am talking to now? You or your former guardian?” Tav's words echoed through his head.
Yes, Laele's teachings had left an impact on him. As he had told Tav, he had taken the lessons that were useful and had disregarded the rest. The theory had been a sound one, even if it had turned out to be wrong. Right?
For all his former guardian's cruelty towards him, he had no objections to her war against the Spider Queen, so as long as she kept him out of it. But everyone in her family had to do their part, either as a warrior like his cousins or as a bargaining chip for alliances like himself.
One of Laele's oldest children had been a son. Imrae had never met him, as that cousin had been sent off long before his birth, but there had been old notes in the etiquette books made by the young man.
Imrae snorted. His first hunt to piece together the life of a person he would never meet by the smallest of clues. Asking questions had not been a feasible idea, he never knew which question was inconvenient or taboo, which ones would get him a rare reward and which ones would get him punished.
That male cousin had seemed ecstatic about his studies. Perhaps Laele had treated him better, either because he had been her own son or because he had been less work to prepare for his adult life than Imrae had been.
He sighed. He was getting off-topic.
“Always distracted,” Laele had said. “Never pays attention to his studies.”
He had paid attention! Just not to the things she wanted him to, as studying something that did not interest him was a torture of its own.
Whenever his cousins had been tutored in the library at the same time as him, he had listened to their lessons while pretending to read the inane books the teachers had picked for him.
He had been able to answer every history test question the teacher had asked his cousins. But he had not been supposed to know, so it had remained a silent victory.
What a bitter irony it was that the Absolutists had hunted and captured him for this exact skill decades later.
His mind returned to Phyra's file.
She had joined the Cult of the Absolute after meeting other pilgrims, whom she had followed to Moonrise. As a drow, she had met the Absolute and become a True Soul almost immediately after her arrival, meaning she had been under the influence of a mindflayer parasite right from the start.
She had been popular with the other cultists, her pretty face and her so-called jokes endearing her to them, just like she had been the one to lighten up the mood among her sisters by making jests, usually at Imrae's expense.
She had eagerly shared all she knew and heard about him with the cult, though if that had been her own free will or the influence of the parasite, the file did not detail.
She had left for Baldur's Gate some time before Tav and her small team had reached Moonrise Towers, sent to the city to help with the cult's operations there. Her bounty for bringing Imrae to her alive remained.
Within the city, she would either be in a place where drow were not out of place or she would use disguise magic to blend in. She had been an entertainer and a diplomat for Laele, perhaps she continued this in the cult.
Was she working for Orin or for Gortash? Both? Neither?
When Imrae heard clawed scattering on stone, his body reacted before his mind did.
Intellect devourer.
They were a constant threat in the Underdark, especially for someone who was quick of mind. One must have survived the assault on the colony.
He waited until it came close enough to aim a magical blast.
'Friend!' he heard a telepathic chirping in his head.
That made him pause. As far as mind tricks went, that was a new one.
He waited longer, but he felt no further push into his consciousness.
'Friend?' the intellect devourer chirped.
“Hello there,” Imrae said, politeness and curiosity winning out over wariness. “Who are you, little one?”
'We are Us.' The creature drew closer. 'You are like Us. You are like our other friend!'
Imrae bent down to have a closer look. “You don't serve the Absolute?”
'We are different. Aberrant.' Us reached him and lied down at his feet, almost like Scratch did with Shadowheart in the evenings. 'They were not kind to Us! The Absolute does not care about Us, and we do not care about the Absolute.'
“I can understand that better than you think.” Imrae found a smile within himself for this courageous little brain. He truly lived in interesting times. “Would you like to come with us? I could use a familiar. I promise to be kind to you.”
One of Us' tentacles grazed his ankle. 'Yes! Friend!' it chirped again.
“Lae'zel will gut me,” Imrae muttered to himself.
'We will not be any trouble! We will project the image of a 'kitty'!'
“Very clever, Us. I like the way you think. Come along, it should be dinnertime soon.”
The overgrown ruin near their campsite was bathed in the orange light of the impending sunset when Imrae settled there, high up on a crumbling wall, to take some time to himself, as he had been doing for the past days of travelling.
Tav had agreed to it. She had even ordered him to do so, as long as he took Us with him as a guard dog.
That her and Astarion were taking time to themselves to figure out where their bounds and limits might lie, that was a coincidence, of course.
Imrae chuckled at the thought, happy for the two of them.
It was good to feel anything but anger and annoyance again.
Though he did have the sneaking suspicion that Astarion spent some of his hunting hours checking in on him without making contact. There had always been at least one bloodless carcass close to where Imrae had settled to think. Perhaps Astarion was concerned about his state of mind.
Bouts of strong melancholia could drive people to do things they would not otherwise consider, could drain life of all its colors and make it seem so unbearable that they sought an escape from it.
When he had observed the ruin long enough, which in his opinion had been a watchtower that had been destroyed over 500 years ago and partially raided for stone since then, he observed the surrounding thicket.
“I know you are there,” Imrae said.
Soon enough, he received an angry response. “Alright, how? I was perfectly silent. Did the brain thing rat me out?” He looked around for Us. “Tattletale.”
Imrae laughed. “You told me. It was a toss of the coin.”
“Evil drow,” Astarion muttered as he picked a few leaves from his clothing and climbed onto the wall to watch the sunset from there. “So, does that mean you finally are ready to talk?”
“Yes. I know this all might look like a bad bout of melancholy. I assure you that it is not,” Imrae said with a smile. “Still, thank you for caring.”
“Mhm. Why all this?”
With a sigh, Imrae reached for Astarion's hand, who responded by intertwining their fingers. “Shar's torment and the revelation about Phyra were only the straws that broke the rothé's back. I am not used to the constant company of others. I hate being observed. It grinds me down like a millstone. It's been a slow process, but I had reached my limit. It has nothing to do with any of you.”
Astarion scoffed. “Please. Everyone gets angry. Especially when Gale is involved.”
“And I will not chastise others for feeling and expressing anger. But I cannot afford to. And that is fine.”
“Is that about the cracked tile?”
“It was just a tile because of the tadpole,” Imrae said, a frown spreading on his face. “I was a danger to myself and others before I had learned to control my powers.”
“Then get angry now! As long as you still can!” Astarion exclaimed, squeezing Imrae's hand for emphasis. “I for my part am enjoying the gifts of our little stowaways. You should, too.”
Imrae pulled his hand back and gripped the cloth of his robes. “I cannot afford to get used to it,” he said, head held high. “I worked hard to have a grip on myself.”
“Ugh. Fine. Suit yourself.”
They spent a good while in silence as they watched the setting sun, with Astarion savoring every last bit of its light. His face fell when it had vanished from view, his awe replaced with longing.
“I know you want to help,” Imrae said, reaching out again. “But I could not forgive myself if you or Tav got hurt because of my lack of self-control.”
Astarion looked at him, then his hand, and put his arm around Imrae. “I suppose I can understand that. Losing control while drinking from Tav would be- well. Terrible. It would be terrible.”
Before Imrae could respond, Astarion shook his head and cleared his throat. “What were you thinking about on your own? And don't say you were not thinking, you are always thinking.”
“Many things. Phyra among them.”
“And what will you do about Phyra?”
“I don't know,” Imrae admitted. He rested his head on Astarion's shoulder while he sought the right words. “She is under the cult's influence. Until her mind is her own again, I do not know if I can judge her for her actions. The cult might have simply used her for information about me.”
“Really now? And you said that I'm the more forgiving.”
“Make no mistake, I do not forgive her. I never, ever, will. She made my childhood a living nightmare. But right now, she might not be herself.”
“So, we don't kill her?” Astarion's tone meandered between disbelief and anger. “The person who is hounding you?”
“If she gets killed in the heat of battle, I will not weep for her. But I would like to know her side of everything, if possible.” Imrae looked up into Astarion's concerned face. “There is not one single person to kill to stop people coming after me, my dearest. Laele and her family are irrelevant in the larger picture.”
He felt Astarion tighten his grip. “Then who? The Baenres?” he asked, murder in his thoughts, voice, and eyes.
“Among others. My mother made many enemies. Then those who would kill me for the simple reason of being drow.” Imrae swallowed before he continued, but what would come next needed to be said. The offer needed to be made. “What I am trying to say is, a life with me would mean that you might get caught in the crossfire. I will not begrudge you for prioritizing your own safety.”
Astarion was quiet for a few agonizing moments, then he chuckled. “Oh, my sweet, don't you worry about my safety, or yours and Tav's, for that matter. I have a plan.”
The sudden rapture in his voice was concerning.
“What sort of plan?”
“Cazador's ritual. Think about it. For all his evils, he has gotten further than any of my kind ever have. He's on the verge of a miracle. If the time comes, and I can stay one move ahead of him, I'll take his place before his blood can hit the floor.”
Imrae wondered if Astarion could hear his heart quicken. He took a few calming breaths, trying to regulate himself before he responded, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.
“Astarion, rituals are notoriously fickle magic even if done perfectly,” he warned. “One detail out of place and it will not work. Worse, it is likely to explode in your face.”
Astarion laughed. “Ah, it is sweet that you worry about me, my darling. Don't fret.”
To be expected. He is too proud of this idea to let it go because of such concerns. No matter, you have more than enough time to talk him out of it. Subtlety will be the key.
“An infernal ritual is likely to be even more problematic,” Imrae continued. “How does the saying go, the devil is in the details?”
Astarion smiled, an almost condescending grin that told Imrae that the vampire was taking the concerns at face value. “Let's be clever about this, that's all I'm asking. If an opportunity arises for me to become a more magnificent bastard than I already am, why turn it down?”
Imrae held his tongue.
Don't object. He will just dig his heels in. He will come to his senses. He is stronger than to fall for the same hellish promises Cazador has.
Astarion's hand found its way into Imrae's hair to play with the strands. “If it soothes your precious overthinking mind, there's a store in Baldur's Gate that specializes in all things hellish, The Devil's Fee. We can do some more research there, if you like.”
There we go, the seeds of doubt are sown. Small victories.
“That is a store within the city's bounds? I have no words.”
“Oh, my dear, legality is for sale everywhere. If the punishment for something is a fee, it is basically legal for any rich bastard,” Astarion whispered into Imrae's ear. “And if everything goes right, I am one of those very soon, my sweet prince.”
“Mhm, though tonight, you will need to sleep in a tent and hunt for your food in the thorns and the thicket,” Imrae said, attempting to dissolve their embrace. “I will wait for you in camp.”
“Stay?” Astarion asked, the ecstatic high fading into a vulnerable plea.
The nights no longer felt safe to his dearest, Imrae realized, though perhaps they never had. But now, they were getting closer to the city. Closer to Cazador. Along with being a source of enjoyment for Astarion, the sun's light offered protection from his tormentors.
“Yes, dearest. I will stay,” Imrae said and settled back into Astarion's arms.
The trading outpost was busy despite the danger the troops of the Absolute posed.
Imrae kept to a dark spot while he watched Jaheira haggle with the shopkeeper, a cover for getting her hands on news from her Harpers in the area. In the end, she and the clerk moved to a back room to “check out the supplies”.
Meanwhile, Astarion sauntered past, his white curls hidden under a coif and a beret hat. The rivet spectacles on his nose gave him the look of a proper merchant as he looked at the wares available.
'Harpers, back room, at ease,' Imrae signed to him.
Astarion made an affirming sign in return, then went to check out a bale of golden yellow cloth in one corner. His practiced gaze as he looked the material over was not an act, neither was his delight at the quality.
One of the assistants, a petite human girl, smiled at Imrae as she walked past.
Despite the pang of resigned sadness in his heart, he smiled back. She would not have reacted that way to his true face. An illusion colored his skin bronze, his hair black and his eyes golden, giving him the look of a mysterious sun elf instead of a reviled drow.
While Astarion insisted that Tav and Imrae would be safe from the worst treatment their kind faced by surface folk in Baldur's Gate, they had not reached the city proper, so caution was of the essence.
But for now, their cover worked. He could breathe easy and look at the wares himself. His gaze fell on a travelling tea set, complete with a kettle and heating stone for boiling the water.
It was then when something moved behind him and he felt the tip of a dagger in his back.
“Not a word. Upstairs. Do not resist,” a woman said in High Drow. The language of the priestesses and the nobility.
Imrae's hand touched the blade. No oil. No stickiness. Probably not poisoned. He chanced it and drew his fingertips over the edge. If she wanted him dead, she would have stabbed him in the kidney already.
“It's sharp, don't you worry, jaluk. Upstairs. Now.”
He could have shouted. Even if he got stabbed, Jaheira could have saved his life with magic afterwards. But his curiosity won out.
“Of course.” Imrae squeezed his fingers, drawing as much blood as possible while the woman and him walked to the guest rooms on the upper floor.
His mind raced as she maneuvered him into the room, bolted the door and moved the blade to his throat. Was she with the Absolute? A Lolthite? If she was a bounty hunter, she would have stabbed him already, unless she was one of the drow women who liked to play with her targets.
If so, he hoped her style of play was torture, not the alternative.
“Remove your disguise. Masking as a Faerie is disgraceful, even for you.”
Imrae pulled the illusory weave from his face, revealing the purple skin beneath.
“The likeness. Astounding. The witch really had a child.”
“Do not speak ill of my mother,” Imrae said, his voice thinning with unease. “What do you want?”
“Does House Uoswiir mean anything to you, mad drow?”
Lymune. This wasn't her mother, was it?
Imrae swallowed at the notion.
The woman noticed.
“One of the many houses serving your wicked goddess,” Imrae said, emboldened by the thought of protecting Lymune. “I do not care to differentiate between you. You all bleed and die the same.”
“You are a bad liar,” the woman said. “Now listen-”
She was interrupted by a loud knock, then Imrae head the door bolt slide back before the door flew open and a blur launched itself at the woman, tackling her to floor.
Imrae himself fell to the side and coughed, gripping his throat.
“Give me a reason not to gut you right here and now!” Astarion hissed.
“Your friend is alive, isn't he?” the woman said, her common heavily accented.
“Touch him again, and I will cut off your fingers one by one.”
“What does House Uoswiir want from us?” Imrae asked.
“I am Ulua. I am looking for someone. Rumor has it that the mad drow is travelling with a drow songstress. That girl, Lymune, is a daughter of House Uoswiir and my niece. I need to speak to her.”
Astarion glanced over his shoulder, worry shining in his eyes before he turned back to the woman. “Let's assume those rumors are true and that we know her. Why should we trust you after your little stunt just now?”
“No need. Whatever she has to say, her corpse can tell us just as well,” Imrae said, falling into his bored monotone.
“She would hate you for killing me.”
When both men hesitated to say or do anything, Ulua laughed.
“So, you do know her.”
“Let us tie and lock her up here. Then we can decide what to do.”
Ulua laughed. “Yes. Leave the decision making to your betters, jaluk.”
Tension and unease turned into boiling anger, and Imrae did not stop himself when he slammed his quarterstaff down on Ulua's knees, her laughter turning into a surprised outcry.
“Hah! Serves her right,” Astarion cheered.
When the surge of anger faded, the satisfaction Imrae felt turned into shame, into disappointment with himself. Without another word, he stepped outside to let Astarion work.
“You make friends everywhere you go. I am almost jealous,” Jaheira commented on the events when she joined him in the upstairs corridor. “I will watch her while you two get Tav. She'll want to know that one of her crew was assaulted.”
Imrae could just give a nod. Before they departed, he insisted on reapplying his magical disguise, much to Astarion's annoyance and dismay.
“A lot of good it did us,” he commented. “She still found you out.”
“If I had to guess, it was the hand signs that gave us away.”
“I suppose,” Astarion said, then a grin appeared on his face. “That was a good strike to the knees, though. I'm impressed. I didn't know you had it in you.”
“I should not have done that. I am better than that.”
“You got angry. The tragedy. However could you?” Astarion said in a mocking tone.
“I should not have let that woman get to me.” Imrae's gaze was fixed on the dusty road. “But yes, it is about getting angry as well. I cannot get used to that.”
“Gods forbid you have a little fun. You are not angry enough, darling.” Astarion cracked his neck. “You shouldn't need to wear a false face to be safe, you know.”
“Raging at a problem is not going to change anything.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but it feels damn good, doesn't it?”
Imrae did not answer.
During his childhood, he had concocted many an idea how to get back at his cousins in secret. But they had always stayed ideas for a fear of discovery and its consequences. Some things were not worth the risk.
Taking revenge did feel good, it always had. He remembered the panicked look of the duergar woman he had turned to stone. He had felt satisfied by her scared face for a few moments then, until reality had settled back in.
Afterwards, he had just felt exhausted and empty, requiring a recovery away from people to feel like himself again.
Imrae turned to Astarion. “Anger and revenge can feel wonderful, but never for long.”
“Speak for yourself,” the rogue responded. “Mine will be glorious.”
“Maybe it will be different for you. Your hurt is fresher than mine.”
Astarion grinned. “If you want some ideas for what to do with your cousin, let me know. I certainly will be having my fun with Tav's aunt later.”
“We know how she feels about her mother, but she was worried about her aunt's fate when we were children.”
“Yes, and children are stupid, my dear,” Astarion said. “And nosy. One of my brothers brought his brat with him to the palace when he was turned. Valeria? Veronica? Eh, something with a V.”
Imrae blinked, many questions filling his already bursting mind, but that was a conversation that would need to wait until later.
When they reached camp, Astarion went straight to Tav, relief appearing on his face when he spotted her laughing with Gale by the cooking fire as the wizard prepared their midday meal.
The rogue then proceeded to kiss and lure her to her tent before she could ask any questions, though when Imrae joined them inside, her face grew concerned.
“What's wrong? Where are the supplies and where's Jaheira?”
“The old crone is fine. She's still at the trading post. But given that you hate talking about your past, little drow, you will want this conversation to take place in private,” Astarion said, putting a protective arm around her.
“Astarion, what happened?” Tav asked, her voice pitching with unease.
Imrae settled next to them, taking his sister's hand.
“Brother?” Tav squeaked. “Say something.”
“Tav, we met Ulua Uoswiir. Your aunt is looking for you.”
Thank you for the tags, @optimisticgrey, @archduchessgortash, @burnt-by-marigolds, @scoldingdarjeeling, @perpetualmaladaptivedaydream, and @gortashsrighthand!
In turn, gentle tags for @endermal @lilhumanoid @cinder-rellish181 @chaushaus @elceewunjo @spillingteanotpermitted @litsenn @theya-art @lucretiouswept @bladesingerlily @careful-l-bite @cursed-nyxan @riddlerosehearts @lottavilja and @r3drozebud.
I've been so swamped with work and life stuff that finding enough solid chunks of time to get writing has been tough the last week or so, leaving me mostly fiddling around with VP projects since I can pick at them here and there. This is a duo of pics I did up for a writing exercise I'm working on that will be accompanied by a written "audition tape" of Miss Fortune's video audition to Lucretious's Drag Race for an eventual drag race modern AU fic in very VERY early development.
Putting them under the cut as the first one contains CW: derogatory terms/insults for LGBTQIA+ folks, sex trafficked persons, and sex workers (as part of a larger message being made)
If you'd like to be added/removed from my tag list for WIP games, let me know here. Always a struggle worrying if I'm spamming or excluding folks unintentionally.
