Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of grammar.
@prophetandprincess
Just a blog to post all my fanfic in one place. I have written mostly Dragon Age, Marvel, And Supernatural at the moment, but I know enough about a lot of stuff to make me dangerous. I also have a AO3 account and a fanfiction.net account if you want to read/follow me there. However, some of the things here will not appear there. Feel free to ask questions if you have any.
Not to sound like a decrepit, rambling corpse about it, but back in my day Word used to be a pre installed program that came with your computer, if you were running Windows.
No subscription. Just program.
On your computer. You got to use it forever and ever and never had to worry about it going away.
Because it was physically on your computer. As a program. That you actually owned. Not because you got it separately, but because it was a standard inclusion with your computer.
I'm sorry but I'll just never get over it. I remember when companies cared about their products being usable out of the box. I remember when our things belonged to us.
Old man shaking fist at cloud, wherein the cloud is the background of the Windows 98 logo.
Those stupid damn braids, Astarion shook his head as he followed behind Kamaria, cleric of Selune. It would be his luck that after being abducted by mindflayers, he would be traveling with not one, but two clerics. Normally, he would revel in the drama of seeing a follower of Selune and a follower of Shar snip at one another, but not when his life was on the line. Kamaria was not nearly as dramatic and petty as Shadowheart, but a couple of times she had turned to defend her goddess with a surprising amount of zeal.
The issue was that he wasn’t strong enough without feeding to go out on his own, so he needed the two clerics to keep their claws to themselves, for the time being at least. He had thought about sneaking away in the dark last night, but when he wasn’t able to even chase down a squirrel or a fox to drain, he came back before anyone realized he was gone. He didn’t think he would be able to talk his way out of being turned into a pin cushion by the goblin horde should he run into them alone. He was so thirsty he would even consider drinking from a goblin, which showed just how far he had fallen. So, he walked behind those damn swinging braids, trying not to sneer at every damn sob story that she listened to from every damn individual who lived on this side of the damn Sword Coast.
While she was done up with impractical white armor and her braids spoke to a innocence to her, Astarion had seen flashes of something darker underneath the calm mask of the good cleric. There was this almost calm around her as she plunged her sword through the heart of a goblin or verbally sparred with some of the other “True Souls”. More than once, he saw a flash of a smile as she called holy fire to burn an opponent to cinders or used her illithid powers to convince a creature to literally eat itself. She was young, by elven standards, but he had a feeling that there was more to the cleric than sitting around praying in the moonlight. While Selune was known as one of the more forgiving Goddesses, that did not mean her clerics needed to be. While he had plans for Kamaria, most of them revolving around her protecting him from Cazador, he has thing compulsion to poke at those darker parters, to peer into them, and see if he could twist them to his advantage. The only currency that means anything is secrets and power. To have that, you need leverage.
While they might currently be walking around the middle of nowhere, eventually, they would head back to Baldur’s Gate. If he wanted to stay out of Cazador’s grasp and continue to enjoy the sunlight, he had to make these people protect him. He had no doubt that Kamaria would, she helped every urchin they had come across today, as long as he kept his vampiric nature a secret. Unfortunately, he had used too much energy the night before attempting to catch that fox and the hunger was burning through his veins. He was going to have to feed soon, or he wouldn’t be able to hide his condition anymore. Perhaps a stray goblin wouldn’t be as bad as they smell.
The swing of the braids became almost hypnotic as the sun got higher, making his eyes cross a bit, and the burn in his throat took up every thought in his head. In an attempt to distract himself, he wondered if he could cut off her two braids with his daggers before she could stop him. It was a ridiculous hairstyle, the two braids twisted on top, and the other two hanging down. He watched her take almost an hour pinning everything in place that morning, and in battle, it gave the perfect handhold to yank back and expose her neck. A long, slender neck that had sweat sliding down it and under her armor as they walked through the afternoon sun. It would make her skin taste salty before the warm rush of the blood filled his mouth. It would slide down his throat, stopping the burning, tasting of…Well, he had never had human blood before, Cazador wouldn’t allow it, but it must be exquisite for Cazador to deny him. Any blood would do at this point.
The thought of Cazador shook him from his fantasy, making him scowl. How many people had he seduced and brought back for his master to feed on or turn into a spawn? Cazador, who had abused him in ways that he didn’t even know were possible when he was first turned. Cazador, who kept him starving constantly, allowed him rats or birds when it suited him. Cazador, who promised him immortality, instead kept him locked away and unable to walk in the sun for over 200 years. Cazador, who was probably even now attempting to find him to bring him back under his control.
The cold sense of paranoia cut through the burning thirst. His eyes focused and darted around now that he was thinking about Cazador. They were in the middle of nowhere after escaping that Nautiloid. Even Cazador couldn’t control Mind Flayers doing…well, whatever the Hells are doing. Cazador had power, but not this far away from the city. He just had to figure out how to make sure the parasite didn’t turn him into a Mind Flayer and deal with his thirst before he had to figure out how to get away from Cazador for good. Still, even if he may turn into yet another monster, at least he was able to stand under the sun for the first time in 200 years. That was something he had given up on very early in his time as a spawn.
A loud sniffing sound caught Astarion’s attention, though he couldn’t tell what kind of animal it was. Kamaria took a couple more steps before she sounded it as well, pausing and tilting her head, braids swinging to one side. It reminded Astarion of a bird, plumage and all. Shadowheart opened her mouth, but Kamaria held up a hand, which made the cleric glare. Kamaria met Astarion’s eye, and he immediately understood what she wanted of him without saying a word. He crept off the road and into the trees, using the shade as cover.
Around the bend, there were some more of those dog creatures eating the insides of some more refugees. Astarion felt his mouth water at the sight of the intestines and blood, but a little further down, he saw knolls asleep in the sun. One of the tieflings at the Grove had mentioned that the gnolls were working with the goblins. It appears that these ones left the group for an afternoon snack.
He snuck back to the group, bow already in his hand, and just gave Kamaira a nod. She pulled out her sword and swung the shield off her back. Astarion returned to the trees and got into the perfect position to take out one of the gnolls with an arrow to the throat. He waited until he heard Kamaria approach before pulling back the string of his bow and letting the arrow fly.
It was a perfect shot, with little blood, and the other gnolls didn’t realize what had happened until the dead body hit the ground. Their bloodlust took over and they started to gnaw on their fallen comrade as well. It was disgusting and pathetic, but Astarion had to admit his hands were shaking as he pulled back to fire another shot. The smell of fresh blood, even underneath the smell of dog fur and rotten meat, was making his mouth water. His third shot went wide due to his shaking, and the gnoll was able to sink its teeth into Kamaria’s armor. She let out a huff of pain before setting the creature ablaze with white holy fire. It didn’t stop her continued attack on the still-standing gnoll, even as bright crimson blood dripped down her fingers.
Astarion missed his next shot as his eyes watched those bright red drops fall down her fingers as she dispatched the last gnoll with a thrust of her sword. He came out of the trees to find Shadowheart going through the bodies for anything useful. Normally, Astarion would be right there with her; every piece of gold was a small piece of power and safety, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Kamaria. She had taken off her bracer and looked at the puncture marks on her arm. They weren’t very deep, but they were bleeding a lot.
Fresh, bright, delicious blood.
“You’re looking a little pale, Astarion,” Kamaria said as she placed her hand on the wound and winced. “I wouldn’t think you, of all people, got squeamish over the sight of blood.”
The flash of white divine magic was not enough to distract Astarion from the blood that was still smeared on her white flesh, like jelly on toast. Just a lick would be enough to satisfy his craving, and a bite…well…
“Astarion, is everything alright?” Kamaria asked, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm.
“What? Oh, yes, fine. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Took a pretty hard bite there, didn’t you?” His voice sounded a little strained to his own ears, but if Kamaria noticed, she kept it to herself. The smell of blood was filling his nose and he was digging his nails into his palms to stop himself.
“I’ve had worse,” She said with a shrug before slipping her bracer back on and tightening it with her teeth. “Maybe don’t miss your shot next time, and I won’t have to worry about it.”
Her tone was teasing and friendly, but the words mirrored too many times the sneering words that Cazador had thrown at Astarion when he allowed him to fight against his siblings. Any time one of their claws or weapons had craved into his flesh, marked him, beat him, Cazador had told him not to miss and added more injuries of his own. He called Astarion useless besides his pretty face and perhaps he should lock him away until he tried harder. It made something in Astarion snarl and attack.
“Maybe if you didn’t throw yourself into the middle of the fray, you wouldn’t be bitten,” Astarion snapped back. “Honestly, what were you thinking, wading into the middle of the battle. You’re a priestess for Gods’ sake.”
“Cleric, not priestess,” Kamaria countered, expression falling at his sharp words, but then her head tilted to the side. “I will make sure to avoid any teeth in the future. Thank you for the concern. Now, are you sure you are not hurt? You’re shaking?”
Her hand slid down his shoulder and grabbed his wrist, her warm fingers attempting to find his pulse. That simple touch, without malice, unnerved him and he jerked back so quick that he almost fell backward. It was a reflex, but as he had no pulse, it was a good thing he didn’t wait any longer. Who was she to touch him in such a way? Did she think that because of her position as a cleric she could just go around running her soft fingers across his skin?
“Don’t touch me,” Astarion hissed with enough venom that Kamaira took a step back, barely keeping his fangs hidden.
“As you wish,” Kamaria held up her blood-streaked hands before walking over to join Shadowheart, looking over the bodies. Probably to say rites over them and not to take any gold off the corpses. At least one of the clerics was practical.
As Astarion waited for them to finish, his anger got more and more intense. Kamaria, with the power of a Goddess, had back down without a fight or snarling. She couldn’t have lit him on fire with a flick of her wrist. She shouldn’t let him talk to her like that, just like she shouldn’t have let those druids boss her around at the Emerald Grove. Did she not relish her freedom and the ability to make decisions for herself? Why did she waste it helping people who would spit on her if they saw her bleeding to death in the middle of the road? It made him want to rip out her throat. At least her suffering would be useful then.
He caught her looking at him a couple of times the rest of the afternoon and he started to wonder if she realized he didn’t have a heartbeat. He made sure to exaggerate his breathing, even though he didn’t need the air. That his body ran on blood that was not his own. Blood that he desperately needed. As they took a small break, he stepped into the shadows and looked down to where she had touched him. Blood was smeared on his skin in almost the shape of a heart.
Astarion’s eyes flicked to the clerics, who were arguing about something religion related. It seemed as if they would be at it for a while, so he quickly held up his wrist to his mouth and licked the small amount of blood off his skin. It tasted sweet and rich, like a well-made wine. He had to hold back a moan as he made sure to get every speck from his skin. It did nothing to sate his thirst; in fact, it only burned hotter in the back of his throat. He had to feed, and soon. He almost wished he didn’t know what he was missing by not drinking from humans.
As they started down the road again, those stupid damn braids swinging in front of him, he couldn’t get the taste of her blood out of his mouth or his mind. That was just a small smear, but a couple of mouthfuls and he would be strong for the first time since waking up in the damn grave. He would have the power to fight, to think, to breathe without pain. The taste would haunt him if he did not have more without sweat and dirt mixed into it.
Kamaria had been nothing but helpful and forgiving to everyone around her, surely she would extend that same grace to her companion should she unfortunately wake up while he was sinking his fangs into her neck. If she didn’t wake up at all, well, unfortunate but these things do happen.
When I was in college, my Creative Nonfiction professor would regularly have us do something she called "hotspotting" (she didn't know that this was already a term tbc) with our rough drafts. Basically, hotspotting is when you look at your draft and pick out your favorite sentence, or one of your favorite sentences--one that you're really proud of--and write it down in a blank sheet in a notebook. Not a new document, a physical notebook. (You are not allowed to use technology for hotspotting.) And then you set a timer for however long--like maybe ten to twenty minutes--and you elaborate. You treat that one sentence as if it's the opening sentence to a new draft, and you write from there, until the timer is up.
It sounds like a gimmick, but honestly, some of my best writing in that class came from hotspotting. Usually, the sentence you consider the "best" is the one that really gets to the heart of something you're trying to convey. In a rough draft, it tends to be that you're fumbling around a bit before you really hit on the heart of things. So with hotspotting, you're starting from a less fumbly place, which means you're able to dig into your subject in a much deeper and more precise way. It makes you feel like a surgeon, a little bit.
So I do recommend trying it, even just for fun, even if you think the rough draft you have is already good. You might surprise yourself with what you come up with! :)
dear lord, please take all life problems and responsibilities away from fanfic writers but also make them financially stable and happy with nothing to worry about so they can happily focus on writing and posting fanfiction. amen
So, work was a bit awful today and therefore I disappeared into the soliace of Fanfic. Do I still owe you guys like 17 other fics? Yes. But we are going to ignore that for now. Instead, we are starting another series of Baldur's Gate fics.
Yay!
Part I
It felt like it had been years since Kamaria had been able to wash herself, though it had only been a day. While it was nothing like the white marble baths at the temple to Selûne in Baldur’s Gate, right now the cold water of the lake at camp against her toes felt just as indulgent. Kamaria just stood there, head tilted up to the moonlight, as the cold water soothed her tired feet. How far had she walked today? Could she even get a true estimate, as she had been taken across multiple planes while on the Nodiloid?
“Thank you for seeing me through,” Kamaria whispered up to her goddess, letting her gentle, cool light wash over her. “Please, help me find a way to get rid of these parasites. If I can’t…please hold onto my soul when I lose it.”
The fear gripped her heart that she had been able to ignore most of the day, of falling asleep and waking up a shell of her former self. Perhaps less than a shell, if the reports were to be believed. Would there be anything left of her after the transformation? Would her soul go to be with Selûne, or would it just be obliterated? Even worse, what if it was trapped within the Mindflayer, screaming forever as she consumed the brains of innocents to survive?
Kamaria shook her head as she started to undo her armor, setting it on a rock beside the shore. It took her a while to figure it out, as normally she was in far more casual clothing than padding and chainmail. Still, the feeling of walking all the way up to her neck in the water was heavenly. After a few minutes of letting the blood and dirt wash off of her, her fingers started to undo her braids and unwind the two buns on the top of her head. Her fingers rubbed her sore scalp, and she wondered if a different hairstyle would make sense on this trek back to Baldur’s Gate. It took so much time to do them in the morning after all. Yet, it made her feel like herself, as if she wasn’t so far from the Temple and everything that she knew.
The soap that she found in one of the backpacks on the road had an earthy scent, sage and other herbs, unlike the lavender and moonflowers she used back home. Still, as she lathered up her hair and watched the dirt and blood disappear from the white strands, she didn’t care what it smelled like. With each layer of grime that came off, Kamaria’s shoulders started to relax. She may have had a life-changing experience, but she was also still Kamaria, a cleric of Selûne and a potion maker from Baldur’s Gate.
She had killed people today, numerous people. While the imps and other denizens of the Hells didn’t weigh on her soul, those looters did. True, they had attacked first after she attempted to convince them to do literally anything else, but still. She hadn’t even had time to give them their rites, not with time working against her with the parasites. Kamaria closed her eyes and commended their soul to Selûne now, hoping it was enough. The moon shone on her face, cold and impassive. She did not feel her gaze this evening, which made her even more worried. If there was ever a time she needed her Goddess’s favor, it was now.
Shadowheart and Gale probably would have given her the time, but Astarion would have huffed the made rude comments. While all her companions were strange, he was the one who piqued her curiosity the most. He stated that he was a magister in Baldur’s Gate, but she did not recognize him. It would be impossible to know every magister in a city that large, but someone with his looks would have been gossiped about. If there was one thing that priestesses were good at doing, it was gathering said gossip and passing it around the temple. Yet, his name didn’t ring any bells. There was something about the way he refused to talk about himself aside from the superficial that made her wonder what he was hiding.
Then there was the way that he had introduced himself, deception, and a knife to her throat. It is weird to say that it had been exhilarating, but it was. It made her wonder about herself, and perhaps she should have gotten outside of the Temple before now. It was also weird that a magister who obviously liked the finer things in life had been able to shoot an arrow from the shadows before his victim even knew he was there. If it hadn’t been for the parasites linking up, she wasn’t sure if she would have survived the encounter. The switch in his behavior the moment he realized that they had the same affliction was concerning. Fair-weather friends were not to be trusted.
He wasn’t always the easiest person to travel with, either. He was cold, sarcastic, and refused to help others. He also had no issue telling her everything that she did wrong, and had a bit of a blood lust that worried her. Yet, there were moments when he didn’t think she was looking, and she caught him looking so damn sad it almost broke her heart. He would say something truly cutting if she asked him about it, however, so she just wondered as she washed soap out of her hair.
“Is it safe for you to be out there all alone?” A voice called from the bank as if summoned by her thoughts. “You have no idea what’s in that water.”
“I don’t know much about what’s out of the water, either,” Kamaria called as she turned toward the bank. “However, there was no way I was going to be able to sleep with all this blood and dirt on me.”
“Pampered aren’t we?” Astarion laughed as he leaned against one of the tree trunks, arms crossed over his chest.
“Says a magister who runs in circles that I have never heard of,” Kamaria dipped her head back, making sure that the last of the soap came out of her hair. When she tipped her head back up, Astarion’s eyes were focused on her neck for a moment before sliding up to her eyes.
“Is there something you need, Astarion?” Kamaria asked as she started to walk out of the water, the air causing goosebumps to form on her skin.
“No, I was just…” Astarion’s eyes went wide for a moment as if he hadn’t expected her to walk out of the water completely naked, but a cynical smirk quickly replaced any surprise. He let his eyes roam over her appreciatively once, but then focused on her face. His eyes stayed locked there as she grabbed a towel from the rock and dried herself.
“You were just?” Kamaria asked as she tugged on her undergarments and then her camp clothes. They were not as clean as she would like, missing the comfortable robes of the temple, but it was better than the armor that desperately needed to be cleaned and aired out. She would smell like the dead if she didn’t do something before turning in for the evening.
“Making sure that you hadn’t snuck off in the middle of the night without the rest of us,” Astarion finished, pushing off the tree, though not coming closer. “After all, you seemed to be awake in the Noidaliod longer than the rest of us, perhaps you knew something the rest of us didn’t.”
“You don’t trust me,” Kamaria clarified as she gathered up her armor, sighing.
“You trust far too easily,” Astarion countered as he walked over so that he was close enough to take up a piece of her wet hair in his long, pale fingers. “Everyone is asleep, I could do anything to you out here and no one would be any wiser.”
He meant to unsettle her, to scare her, but instead, she smiled and leaned into his touch. “Anything?”
Asatrion took a step back, not expecting her to play into his ruse. “What type of priestess are you?”
“I am not a priestess, I’m a cleric, there is a difference,” Kamaria smiled as she went back to gathering up her things. “I figured that was something that a magister would know.”
Kamaria left him standing there as she made her way back to the camp. She did not hear him follow behind her, but felt his presence like a shadow behind her. He said nothing and figured he would go back to his tent to brood or drink wine or whatever he did to spend his evenings. It was a bit of a surprise that after she set her armor down and turned to go to her pack to get the supplies to clean it, he was standing there.
“Is there something else you need, Astarion?” Kamaria kept her voice low so as not to wake anyone else. Everyone seemed deep in sleep after their adventure on the Nodiloid, but none of them would be happy to be woken up by idle chatter.
“It’s just…” he ran his hand through his hair, rings twinkling in the moonlight. “Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot.”
“Which foot was that, the knife to my throat or the snarky comments around every decision that I make?” Kamaria kept the annoyance out of her voice, sitting down and starting to polish to metal of her armor. Her hand moved a little more forcefully than needed as she scrubbed.
“You’re too damn trusting,” Astarion said again, almost pouting as he looked down at her. “You accept every damn sob story that we come across as if we don’t all have parasites burrowing into our brains waiting to turn us into tentacle freaks.”
“I am well aware of our situation,” Kamaria didn’t look up, her fingers working methodically on the rings of mail. “Trust me, I think of little else. However, that doesn’t mean I will just let people die because I have an issue.”
“Because your goddess won’t be pleased,” Astarion sneered.
“Because I care about other people,” Kamaria looked up, her eyes glaring at him. “Because I think there is more to life than your own self-interests, and because if you help others, sometimes they come back to help you. You have no idea what effect saving people will have later.”
“Faith in humanity,” Astarion sneered and shook his head. “Even more ludicrous than faith in a God.”
Kamaria took a deep and calming breath. While she had not been a priestess, that did not mean she didn’t have to deal with the public while at the Temple. Her job had been making up tonics, tinctures, and potions for ailments that the priestesses could not or would not treat. Usually, it was the faithful that came to her for assistance, but it wasn’t uncommon for someone to come into the Temple and try to get a rise out of the believers. Some were just not pleasant when they came for treatment or assistance. Yet, with Astarion, she had a feeling something had made him so jaded, so she granted him patience.
“We have had very different lives,” Kamaria said finally. “And they have shaped us into different people. I don’t ask that you believe in my Goddess, or even respect her, hells, you don’t even have to like me, but if we are going to travel together, you will have to respect me.”
Astarion, with his piercing eyes that were hard to describe the color of, studied her for a couple of heartbeats. She wondered if the simple request of giving her respect would make him leave their strange little party.
Finally, he waved his hand, and a mask of indifference slipped onto his face. “Darling, no reason to be so serious, we are just having a friendly chat. You are the leader, after all.”
“You are more than welcome to take over.” Kamaria meant for it to sound biting, but it just sounded tired instead.
“I’m not interested in leading, darling.” Astarion waved his hand again, but there was something in his eyes that she couldn’t identify.
“Odd thing to say for a magister, your decisions lead the whole city on what is legal and what is not.” Kamaria looked up at him, but he looked away.
“That’s not leading, that’s delegating, there is a very big difference,” Astarion said with a laugh.
“Well then,” Kamaria said, leaning forward with a cold smile on her lips. “As you are delegating decision making to me, you’re just going to have a little faith in me, aren’t you?”
Astarion smiled slightly and shook his head. “I guess I will. Let’s see if you’re as big of a disappointment as the Gods and everyone else I trusted in the past.”
“I do enjoy a challenge,” Kamaria smiled up at him. “Sleep well, Asatrion. I am sure tomorrow is going to be just as weird as today was, possibly more.”
“Weirder than being plunked from Baldur’s Gate, flying through multiple planes, being infected by Mindflayer parasites, and then stumbling into some sort of powerplay between druids, tieflings, and goblins?” Astarion asked with a raised eyebrow. “I can’t wait.”
Kamaria laughed, which seemed to take him off guard, before he headed back to his tent. It took a while for Kamaria to finish cleaning her armor, making sure all the mud and blood were missing from the pure white leather. She knew it was ridiculous to wear such bright armor when attempting to move without drawing attention, but it was the only thing that made her feel like herself. Even if everything else changed, Kamaria would have the white armor of her goddess to remind her of what she had devoted herself to over fifty years ago. It seemed as if she would need constant reminders as she continued down this path.
When she finally sought her bedroll, her eyes strayed over to Astarion’s tent. He was lying on his back, but she could tell that he was not in his meditative trance. What thoughts kept up the magister, she wondered. Sure, there was the parasite, but she could sense that there was something, something darker, lurking behind his sharp words and charming appearance. He said that she was too trusting; perhaps he was attempting to warn her about himself. She had come to trust him within a day to kill effectively from the shadows, to have her back. Maybe she was trusting a man she barely knew far too much.
Yet, all he had done was make her more interested in him.
By reading my works you are signing an agreement that if you put my works through AI or repost my works or anything like that, i get to hunt you for sport
