[ID: a digital portrait of Astarion from Baldur's Gate 3 on a black background. He's facing the left side of the picture and is colored in soft pastel colors. A few green plants grow around him. End ID]
I have to wonder if Rolan ever realizes how far he got. How close he was to Moonrise Towers.
Protected by nothing but a torch.
We have Isobel's blessing, a moonlantern/DollyDollyDolly's blessing, and all he has... is a torch. He's within spitting distance of Moonrise, all by himself, surrounded by burning Shadow Ravens and Vestiges, and he's fine. Ruffled, frustrated, and scared, but alive and able to return to the Last Light Inn on his own.
With a torch.
We're not better than him. We're not more powerful than he is. We're just better equipped and travel in a pack.
A deeply fucked up Durge who romanticizes death because murder victims are grieved and cherished regardless of how unloved they were in life. A Durge who has experienced this tragic loss so many times that it becomes a defining moment in all of their relationships, yet knows no one will ever mourn them (ie truly love them) in return.
A Durge whose darkest desire is to be missed. And they will never know that kind of love, even if they succeed, because they must outlive every person who could possibly grieve their loss.
A knick, at first, just a little something to decorate the cobblestones from the good Samaritan who interrupted their kill twenty seconds too late, steel on steel with the needle unseen. A hassle, really, keeping the man on his toes, make him think he had a chance a winning when he barely would swing a sword, then throwing the fight. Bitter, annoying, but a necessary inconvenience, a means to a greater end.
It's all too easy to follow that good man through the moonless alleyways of Baldur's Gate, trailing more blood behind him, a bright red path begging just to be followed. Their steps are silent, calculated and precise, suiting that of a predator, every movement controlled, precautionary, though it becomes quite apparent after a few turns that their quarry was less concerned with the possibility of being followed than he was with the quick slice on his shoulder, frantic from that touch of pain. The fear was there, oozing from every pore of the man with every beat of his heart, bleeding into the air, but they were patient, a far cry from the cutthroats cowering in shadows who would've already gone mad with the hunt, the bloodlust, barely more than an animal. They were refined. Controlled.
The man, fleeing, of course, fled home. Sweaty and breathless as he sounded on the door, short of screaming for someone named ‘Jossan’ as he pounded on the door of some decrepit building just north of the fish market, eyes bulging like some frightened goat. A faint glint of steel marked with a rising sun as the door opens is all the signal they need to strike.
A sword from the dark, Ebros strikes first, driving his blade through the back of the good man, using momentum to push forward, the paladin at the door swearing as the body clambers to the floor, quick and dead. The paladin is clumsy, slow to react, still fumbling for His sword as the tiefling steps over the corpse, unconcerned, opening his mouth to shout only to gargle and choke as frost blooms over his armor, clawing at the ice that tears from his throat before falling limp to the floor, one man atop the other, blood beginning to pool. Brym, quiet as a shadow, steps in next, flicking the melting frost from their fingers with a look of vague amusement on their face, kicking the door closed behind them. They spare no glance towards Ebros, eyes already on the nearby stairway, magic humming in eager anticipation to the sounds of frantic feet thumping above, waiting.
There are six of them, near tripping over themselves as they try and rush down the stairs, all in various states of dress, from fully armored to shirtless, their faces already fading from Ebros’ mind as one of them raises an ax over his head, weapon/glowing with a half cast spell that never finishes. the man cries out as his armor begins to glow a burning red, dropping the ax as the light sputters from it, clawing at his armor as his flesh begins to blister, sizzling, his companions only managing to spare him a glance before he drops, tumbling down the last few stair, taking his group with him, collapsing into a pile of limbs and curses. There's a snicker from Brym at the sight, and Ebros can't deny the hilarity of the sight, gaze turning downward as he adjusts his grip on his sword, lips twitching upward.
Blood flows quickly after. Brym, sparing only a second to amusement before striking, ever graceful, slices the throat of a paladin as they struggle to their knees, blade sinking into the eye of another in one fluid motion, the rest barely able to get to their feet as the downed gargle and fall limp. Ebros is less graceful, though no less effective, a single swing of his sword nearly decapitating a faceless individual with ease, arc after elegant arc of brilliant red flying free as the two dig in.
By the time the last of the paladins fall, the final cowering at the base of the stairs begging for their life only to be cut short by a touch of lightning, Ebros is jittery, fingers tingling as he shifts hisblade from one hand to the other, ears straining, listening for any signs of life. Brym seems to fair no better, shoulders tight as they spin their dagger in their palm, gold eyes bright, a moment of silence falling between them before the elf lets out a breath, clicking their tongue in annoyance.
“Well, that was disappointing.”
Ebros lets his shoulders drop at that, letting out a slow breath as he tries to smother down his own disappointment, his own blood singing, aching with a need that was no where near sated.
“Isnt it always?” Ebros replies with a forced disinterest, couching to wipe the blood off his sword on the shirt of a corpse before slipping it back in it sheath, stretching as he stands. “Honestly, I dont know why you had me come along for this. Its not like you couldnt have handled it on your own.”
“Well, forgive me for my misguided hope, my lord.” Brym drawls, rolling their eyes as they nudge the twitching thigh of one of the paladins with an expression of vague disgust. “I had thought with all the efforts they had made in trying to stop us, they would…put up a bit more fight, at least.” Scoffing, Brym kicks the leg, irritation bleeding into the lilt of their voice.
“Is this what paladins are these days, just blundering about? Shameful.”
“You can always search upstairs, see if theres one hiding under the bed?” Ebros offers unhelpfully, backing up to lean against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, letting out another breath from his nose, trying to will away the all too familiar ache in his veins.
“You think me that desperate?” Brym asks in mock indignation, spinning their blade in their hand again, the gesture quick as they saunter close, the corners of their lips twitching upward. “I'm not the one who's been hunkering down in their little hole in the wall, drowning themselves in paperwork.”
“One of us has to.” Ebros replies, words clipped, dismissive, turning his head slightly the closer Brym gets, throat going dry, the proximity making his bones ache.
There's a breath of a laugh at that, a patronizing hum, and suddenly there's no space between them, a hand pulling Ebros's arms down from his chest in one rough movement, pressing close, a teasing dagger nicking at the hollow of Ebros's throat.
“You deny yourself relief. Why?” Brym murmurs, their breath warm against Ebros's jaw, all blood and leather covering sweetness that fills his lungs, heavy. Ebros's chest clenches, fingers twitching as his hands fall to his sides, something within him throbbing. “Strange, to refuse yourself the gifts bestowed by father dearest. Blasphemous, even.”
“You don't even fight against this.” Brym continues, pressing the blade a little firmer against Ebros's throat, the tielfing dragging in a rough breath at the sting, the warmth of his own blood as it beads making him shiver. “Poor, poor bloodkin, fighting against himself as his blood sings for a kill, a death, yet so compliant still. Do you think yourself better than us, than me, that you resist?”
Brym is flush against him now, pushing Ebros hard against the wall, body against body, the corpses at their feet forgotten even as blood pools around him. A deep heat that throbs in his veins joins the ache that gathers in Ebros's bones, his breath coming slightly quicker, proximity making him burn. He wants, and he craves, and his mouth tastes like copper and ash, and it takes everything in him not to dig his fingers into the elf and take, his head spinning. He squirms slightly, arching a little against the blade, and Brym laughs.
“Oh, Ebros, you just ache, don't you?” They taunt, letting their lips brush against Ebros's jaw, teasing with a taste of lightning. “I know. I understand. You fight and fight when all you want to do is take, dig your hands in and bathe in it, draw it out and over your skin until the need simmers to ash and relief, the calling in your veins finally going quiet.”
“I know. I know.” Brym coos as Ebros squirms again, hissing through his teeth, tilting his head up as the blade drags up to his chin, thin cut weeping. Grunting softly, the elf shifts against Ebros, shoving their leg between his, pressing firm, and Ebros groans, hands twitching at his sides, but he holds still, breath harsh, stiff with restraint, with need, trying to force his attention to the dusty cobwebs clinging to the rafters above. He counts seconds until they fade, and for a few blissful moments, he floats, detached, drifting, only to be slammed back into his body as Brym drags their tongue along the bleeding wound, a thick stripe of stinging heat that sends electricity arching over his nerves, jerking, hissing as sudden desire pools in his gut, almost burning out the ache in his bones. His hands come up, weakly settling on Brym's hips as he groans, the sound catching a little.
“There you are.” Brym hums against his skin, the hand they have pressing against Ebros' chest sliding downward, skirting sideways to his hip and then lower, kneading at Ebros' thigh as the tiefling struggles to breathe. “I'm going to help us both, hm? Ease the ache left behind from this…fucking disappointment. Just…stay with me here. Now.”
There's an edge to Brym's voice, a fine crack in smoothe veneer, and Ebros lets himself sink into it, nodding once as the blade digs in a little deeper with the movement, the sting of pain giving a ripple of clarity, grounding. Brym let's out a slow breath, hot on Ebros' skin, before letting the dagger drop, steel clattering to the floor, splashing into blood beginning to cool, free hand tearing at Ebros' collar as they drag their tongue along the dripping wound again, groaning as if savoring the taste, making Ebros' head spin. His legs spread a little to make room Brym's thigh, hands sliding from the elf's hips up their sides, one moving to cling to leather and cloth at their back while the other settles at the base of their neck, fingers trembling with the effort to keep his nails from tangling in their hair, wanting to pull them closer, claw and scrape and consume. Ebros grinds, unabashed, unashamed, onto Brym's leg with a low groan, arching against the wall he's pinned too, jerking with barely controlled motions, not caring how Brym with taunt him with this later, the heat in his gut burning and building, desire twisting and aching, searing past the ache in his bones, silencing the voices that creep at the edge of his mind.
Brym, for a moment, indulges him, pressing their thigh higher, firmer, relishing the slow break, pulling open the collar of Ebros' shirt, baring more skin, seeking, tasting, the urge to consume seeking purchase at the edge of their mind as well. All too familiar sweet rot clings to Ebros' skin, filling their lungs with every breath beneath the sweat and the heat of the tieflings skin, adding to aching need, driven by the sweet submission of the body pressed against them, heady and pliant, until they snap. There is little warning, just a shift of their hand on Ebros' thigh, a low rumble in their chest, as they suddenly hike his leg up to their hip, making the tiefling gasp, cursing harshly as Brym's teeth sink into the curve of Ebros' shoulder. Blunt and tearing at flesh, the pain making him arc, white heat spiking with sudden pleasure as the elf grinds themselves against Ebros, straining cock against straining cock, the two groaning in unison. Once, then twice, over and over as Ebros bleeds and gasps, clinging to Brym as pleasure builds, vision blurring, clawing their back, their shoulder, scrambling for purchase, trying to stabilize himself, keep his head above water as he drowns and burns. Brym's teeth leave him, wound throbbing to the beat of Ebros' rushing heart, but it is a brief relief as the shift again, grabbing his other leg and pulling up, taking his weight as they press him harder against the wall, another taste of pain added to ragged pleasure as they rutt up against Ebros, driven to take, leaving Ebros helpless to do anything but groan through grit teeth, shuddering, throat bared, Sinking and lost.
Time bleeds. Moments to hours to seconds, one and the same and yet endless all together.
Ebros aches. Flushed and breathless, vision blurred, the urge to tear and rend replaced with something more desperate, only just holding back the moans that build in his chest, catching in his throat as Byrm all but devours him, teeth sinking into his shoulder again, edging on feral. His cock throbs in the confines of his trousers, twitching and weeping precum that seeps into his underwear, a frantic part of his mind begging for a moment of pause,for the opportunity To strip, to feel flesh on flesh-- the locale meant nothing, of course; it would not have been the first time the two had fucked in the company of corpses. But this, here, is almost too delicious to stop, the appeal of such frantic submission only feeding the tightness in his gut, everything too much and not enough at the same time.
And then suddenly, Brym stops, whole body going still, pressing firm against Ebros as the tiefling squirms on reflex, stilling only for a moment before trying to grind against Brym, chasing his own pleasure only for Brym to bite down Harder on his throat, a warning that Ebros complies, trembling slightly. A long moment passes, and eventually Ebros can feel Brym relax, loosening their hold on his legs until his feet find the ground again, pulling their teeth from his flesh once he's steady, then pulls away. Once more, Ebros is stiff, still, eyes narrowing in barely contained confusion, wanting nothing more than to reach out and pull the elf back, more and more and more, forgetting how to breath for an instant as he watches Brym wipe the blood off their mouth, gaze even, gold eyes glinting in the dark.
“Brym…”
“Oh, don't pout.” Brym murmurs, only just breathless. “We have standards. These bags of rot don't deserve the show we could put on for them.”
“And, surely, as fun as it would be to watch you cum in your pants, I deserve to have more fun with you than this, hm?”
I don't remember the last time I held my mother's hand. Not before this moment.
This moment, where her fingers are stiff and cold in mine, a crowd gathered around a stone slab adorned with flowers where she rests, as if sleeping. If sleep, of course, made one look sunken in and dull, her skin holding a near translucent edge where it presses against bone, having shifted slightly on her frame.
It had been a childish notion, to reach out, to touch, my hand bare, as if somehow I would find something others had missed. A flutter, a tremble, a twitch- a sign, Somehow, perhaps a warmth. A small shred of hope that twisted in my chest, briar wrapping around my heart spun tight, because I was thirteen, and loved, and I can't remember the last time I had felt my mother's hand upon me.
I feel more than see my father tense beside me, my gaze fixed upon my mother's corpse, drapped in linen and wildflowers, my hold on her hand tightening, trying to embed her into my memory. A hand comes to rest on my shoulder, squeezing gently, and neither of us speak. We haven't spoken much at all since. Others do for us, as they do now, which I suppose is enough for now. I do not blame him; they were supposed to have more time.
My other father speaks, but it is a dull murmur to me, his voice the breeze that whisks away flower petals and makes the grass sway. There are a dozen of us, maybe more, gathered to grieve, to remember, to honor. Mother would think it Silly, to finally have all her friends in one place for such a thing, after years spent trying to align schedules, sending letter after letter. The thought makes me a little bitter now, grinding my teeth. I squeeze her hand a little harder.
Aunty Lae speaks next, her words harsher, angrier, but the grief echos in her words regardless. Honor, strength, loss. Words roll like stones down a hill, over and over. Everyone speaks, says the same things in different ways, except for my father and the drow woman, both standing silent with their backs straight and chins up, like pillars. Like statues. The sky, too, heavy with cloud and cloaked in gray, seems fit enough to mourn with us. I close my eyes, and try and pretend that her palm is warm against mine.
Eventually, the speaking stops. My chest is tight and I barely breathe, because I know what comes next. My father squeezes my shoulder again, and I am forced to open my eyes, looking up at him with wide eyes, doing my best not to cry. He looks at me sadly, tiredly, looks at my hand and then nods slowly, just one small movement. I let out a shuddering breath, gaze dropping, throat tight, my other hand curling to a fist, trembling, and I hold her hand all the tighter, trying to remember the feeling, pretend it's warm and holds me back.
My other father joins us, crouching, hand on my other shoulder, speaking gently, but the words mean nothing, just the wind in the grass and the leaves, and my mother, dancing in the garden, in the mud and the rain. He pulls my hand from hers, and suddenly I am cold. I am cold and I am empty and I do not fight when the two of then guide me away, my eyes to the ground, tethered and bound. I feel the eyes on me, but I don't dare look. I am not strong enough to stand like my fathers, unwavering even in grief.
More words are spoken, and the air hums with magic, wrapping us in a wave of heat, and then there is fire, the stone slab lit, flowers burning. I can't look, can't watch, the finality of it too real, too much, wrong, as if my denial were enough to change the truth. So, I watch the grass as it sways gently in the breeze, and breathe, trembling, feeling small, wanting nothing more than to curl up and become one with the dirt, with the earth, and the hum. And my mother burns regardless, skin to bones to ash, and then she is gone.
