This blog is at the moment dedicated to my writings around Baldur's Gate 3 and my Tavs, as well as my Durge Run. I also like analysing the plants in the game.
About me
Call me Tea. I'm an aro ace woman who has always liked telling stories, be it via prose writing or GMing for my table in Pathfinder and D&D.
𝕄𝕪 𝕎𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘
Imrae, the Mad Drow
In chronological order of events:
Your Are Beautiful
The moment Imrae decides to flee from his guardian's home.
First Sight
Imrae and Shadowheart explore the ravaged beach after the crash of the nautiloid and find a certain pale elf.
Skin Deep
When Karlach joins the group, she puts a few things into perspective for the lonely drow Imrae.
The Grey of Ash
During their journey through the Underdark, Imrae tries to sneak off alone. Lae'zel does not let him.
[Hurt/Comfort, Lae'zel POV]
Whatever It Is
After meeting and disappointing Araj Oblodra, Imrae takes some time to himself to overthink what happened. Luckily, Astarion comes to save him from himself.
[Angst with Happy Ending, Asexuality, Astarion x Tav]
Oddity
A short time after getting together, Astarion has a question for his new beau. [Slice of Life, Astarion POV, Asexuality, Astarion x Tav]
Takes place a few days after "Whatever It Is"
One Night At A Time (The Graveyard)
[Hurt/Comfort, Changing POV (Imrae/Astarion), Astarion x Tav]
Written for Week Four of SpawNovember 2025
Old Fool
Halsin confesses his feelings to Imrae. Shadowheart eavesdrops and thus makes it her own problem when the situation goes awry.
[Hurt/Comfort, Shadowheart POV, Astarion x Tav]
The Hero and Me
A young drow asks his teacher about his adventures during the Absolute crisis. [Slice of Life, Astarion x Tav]
Alternate Universes
The Barrister's Bargain (#bridgersgate event)
Chapter One, Two, Three and Four.
Lord Imyaraen Auvryervs, son of the Marchioness Lledrith Auvryervs, has come to Baldur's Gate for the social season in search of a bride, accompanied by his loyal friend Captain Lae'zel. He meets the charming Mr. Ancunín, a former barrister, and they form a fast friendship. Meanwhile, Lord Wyll Ravengard, son of Duke Ulder Ravengard, is doing his best to keep his city safe while braving the marriage market himself.
[Regency AU, Changing POV, Astarion x Tav, Wyll x Lae'zel]
Llar Darthiir [Read on Lotta's AO3]
Chapter One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty Twenty-One, Twenty-Two, Twenty-Three, Twenty-Four, Twenty-Five and Twenty-Six.
A crossover between Imrae and @lottavilja's Tav/Lymune.
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.
[Adventure, Changing POV, Astarion x Tavs (Polyamory)]
Just For A Little While [Read on Lotta's AO3]
What if Imrae's parents were alive? What if Lymune's mother Vhaidra Uoswiir seeks shelter at the Auvryervs palace?
[What If? AU, Changing POV]
Silk and Blood [Read on Lotta's AO3]
Prologue, Chapter One, Two, Three, Four, Five.
A crossover between Imrae and @lottavilja's Tav/Lymune.
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.
[Adventure, Changing POV, Astarion x Tav, Imrae x Zhah, Established Asexual Relationship]
The Drow Wanderer
Imrae as a companion.
Act One, Part One
Meeting Imrae, Waukeen's Rest, Camp Scenes and the other companions' reactions to recruiting him
Act One, Part Two
Goblin Camp, Celebration and Romance
Act One, Part Three
Mountain Pass and Underdark
Act One - Imrae's reactions to recruiting the other companions
Act One Miscellany
Camp Idles and Banters
Act Two, Part One
Enter the Shadow-Cursed Lands
Act Two Hero's Romance (Leader saved the tieflings)
Act Two Pragmatist's Romance (Leader helped Minthara)
Coming soon
Companion Greetings (Non-Romanced/Romanced)
Zethino's Love Test
Dragomir, the Dark Urge
His Astral Intro
TEA'S DARK URGE RUN [A Gale x Durge Tale]
Part One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six
Impressions from a night with a wizard
Part Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve
Part Thirteen, Fourteen
If your OC’s story were to be published, what would their book cover look like? Any genre - show me all the action, adventure, tragedy, romance!
Ty for creating this prompt and tagging me @perpetualmaladaptivedaydream! and also ty @deianestormborn for the tag <3
With my PC currently VP is limited so I just worked with what I already had available to me instead of taking new pics. I'm not great at graphic design so I used template. Specifically the gorgeous book template @carnivaley hand-made for her fic and kindly shared with me like 3 months ago. <3 Now I finally have an excuse to use it!
I did the VP for Tenebrose and Anamnesis Red here, but the VP in the Override & Underground covers was also done by @carnivaley <3
(The Anam Red one is really just a book version of the movie poster I made earlier xD)
I am tagging: @arlynx @fireflyeyes @faeriiefire @gortashsrighthand @defira85 @tociminna @asorceresswrites @toomanyfamiliars @theendofanerror @elinorbard @carnivaley @ele-millennial-weirdo @oursusanellen @scoldingdarjeeling @riddlerosehearts @purpleasters-inseptember @cinder-rellish181 @dynamicducks @unovafarm @gloura and anyone else who thinks it would be fun to make one! I'd love to see <3 Even if you don't have a fic I'd totally be down to see a cover for the story you imagine for them!
Edit: please forgive the repetetive synopses I kept jumping around between all 3 at the same time...and then did not proof read. Also I made these at like 11pm last night xD
If your OC’s story were to be published, what would their book cover look like? Any genre - show me all the action, adventure, tragedy, romance!
Taking up @saylofwaterdeep on the open tag. Thank you!
Gently tagging @missfortunetherogue, @burnt-by-marigolds, @the-red-drow, @lilhumanoid, @litsenn, @emmyandthetieflings, @riddlerosehearts, @taras-toe-beans, @lucretiouswept, @unovafarm and @bladesingerlily.
THE MAD DROW
A collection of short stories about Imrae's travels in the Underdark from 1412 DR to 1492 DR, and details just how he built his moniker.
UNEARTHED
After cultists of the Absolute attack him, Imrae finds himself on the surface of Faerûn, infected with an illithid parasite, and heading a group of equally unfortunate individuals.
SET IN STONE
A collection of short stories about Imrae and Astarion's lives in the Underdark after the defeat of the Absolute. Advising a newly established enclave of vampire spawn is quite different from being a lonely traveller.
It’s so fundamental to my understanding of Karlach’s character that her sunshiney, golden-retriever energy is entirely genuine... but it’s also a load-bearing wall holding back a festering swell of rage, hurt, and grief.
Underneath that warmth is a decade of hurt and tragedy and betrayal and suffering she has been through, that she can't afford to look directly at all of it. She has to keep reaching for the good.
She has to stay positive. She has to focus on simple joys and be cheery. She has to laugh, love, tease, dance, and throw herself into every happy moment she can find, because the moment that grip slips, - the moment she’s forced to face the true depth of her emotions - it turns into an inferno that threatens to consume her entirely.
Her sweetness and her terrifying, justified, destructive anger are the two halves of her survival, and cannot be seperated
I needed a hug, so I gave them to Miss Fortune. Still exhausted and feel like I'm drowning in irl responsibilities, behind on everything, haven't written more than a couple words all week, but I needed to get these shots on my lunch break 🥺
Threw the rogues in these adorable tux thongs - it seems an overstatement to say I'm beta'ing @dramatiquechipmunk's upcoming mod that includes these but hopefully I'll get more time soon to give these and other items some honest beta love.
"Orpheus" by Sara Bareilles was playing in my head while I staged these
Come by the fire, lay down your head
My love, I see you're growing tired
So set the bad day by the bed
And rest a while, your eyes can close
You don’t have to do a thing but listen to me sing
I know you miss the world, the one you knew
The one where everything made sense
Because you didn't know the truth, that's how it works
’Til the bottom drops out and we learn
We're all just hunters seeking solid ground
Don't stop trying to find me here amidst the chaos
Though I know it's blinding there's a way out
Say out loud, we will not give up on love now
Butts in thongs under the cut
No fear, don't you turn like Orpheus, just stay here
Hold me in the dark and when the day appears
We'll say we did not give up on love today
Lyrics from "Orpheus"
Tagging according to tag list: @cinder-rellish181 @optimisticgrey @chaushaus @spillingteanotpermitted @litsenn @theya-art @lucretiouswept @unovafarm @andromedaancunin @alwaysmauria
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, Four and Five are here.
Read on AO3.
Summary:
Zhah and Astarion's second hunt together somehow goes even worse than the first did.
Parings: Astarion x Lymune (named Tav), Imrae x Zhah (OC x OC)
|| Timeline: Late Act 1 || Word count: 3.377 ||
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: Intrusive thoughts, fantasy slurs, canon-typical blood and violence, blood drinking, temporary loss of a body part
Dividers by @strangergraphics.
Chapter Six
They were out hunting again.
Imrae had offered to take over that particular duty, but if Zhah wanted one thing less than to interact with Astarion again, it was for his partner to be out alone in the Underdark with that arrogant creature.
It was hard to imagine how Tav had talked the vampire into another attempt, but this time around, he at least had pretended to listen to any instructions. Instead of coming along in just his shirt and pants, Astarion had not shed his armor and weapons at the end of the day, but had worn them on the hunt, perhaps finally aware that the Underdark was more dangerous than he had first thought.
Perhaps he was afraid of Zhah now. The thought brought a smile to the drider's scarred face as they wandered on the rocky trails in search of prey.
Imrae had said that he had felt something tunneling and lurking in the area, too small and too slow to be a purple worm. Bulette, ankheg, umber hulk?
Whatever it was, Zhah listened to the tremors in the ground even more than usual. His sense was nowhere near the scale and precision as that of his partner, but it helped to stay safe nonetheless.
And right now, it alerted him to the scattering of small claws nearby.
Two white arrows. Two squeaks of death.
Vermin for the vermin.
Zhah hissed at the thought, angry that the vampire's voice now, too, echoed through his head.
After inspecting his catches, he pushed one of the giant rats towards Astarion with one leg. The spawn had to be depleted and starving by now. “Here. Feed. You're slow. You need your strength.”
The only response he received was a mean, pitched chuckle. “Unlike you cave dwellers, I have taste.”
“You spoiled, arrogant Faerie!” Zhah burst out, blocking the spawn's path with another leg.
“Spoiled!?” The look of absolute fury on Astarion's face made it clear that he had hit a nerve.
After everything, Zhah found that satisfying. Making another lose their temper was a popular game among the nobles, but he himself had never been meant to speak much at parties.
But now, he had made the spawn so angry that all he could do was repeat himself. “Spoiled!? You wretched monstrosity!”
“Reeking parasite!”
“Crawling freak!” The spawn's face was split by a mirthless grin. “No wonder your precious drow is gallivanting around with Tav!”
It was a matter of time until he cast you aside.
“What?” Zhah paused, not because he believed either of them, but because of the jealousy in the spawn's voice.
“You heard me, I saw them, sneaking back to camp after a private moment.”
Astarion continued talking, but Zhah's ears fell numb to it when he started listening to what his feet had been trying to tell him.
Too late.
Something huge barreled towards them from below.
Just when it burst out, Zhah's leg launched the spawn out of reach, reflex, not reason, then was hit by something large and craggy, sharp teeth snapping at his arm.
Bulette.
Zhah pushed against the beast's maw, claws scraping plated skin, desperate to shove it off.
The bulette was stronger, crushing his leg with a nauseating, squelching sound.
Stifling a scream, one leg down, Zhah wrestled with the beast.
The spawn was nowhere to be seen.
Of course he'll leave.
No way to get a bite in. No way to get it off.
No way to win.
This is it.
The bulette sank its teeth into the drider's shoulder.
This time, Zhah screamed, in fear, in pain, in wrath.
Desperate, he clawed at the bulette's eyes.
This is how you die.
No use.
Please, gods, let Imrae move on quickly.
Out of nowhere, an arrow struck the beast right where its jaws connected. It roared and thrashed, fighting against something Zhah couldn't see.
It mattered not.
Zhah shoved the beast off of him, then heard the draw of a bowstring.
“Keep the thing down!” Astarion shouted.
Who is he to command you?
Wanting to live, Zhah tackled the bulette, getting on top, holding it with all his weight so it could not leap away, shoulder bleeding and aching.
The beast was weaker, somehow.
More so when another arrow struck a ridge in its plating.
Now the bulette got desperate, swatting at Zhah, claw raking across his flank.
Two more arrows, and it went limp.
Zhah almost collapsed alongside it. Without hesitation, he snapped the injured leg off at its break point to avoid losing more blood.
“Let me guess. It grows back?” Astarion asked as he drew near.
“Yes.” Zhah coughed, too weak for vitriol. “You first.” He gestured towards the corpse, then grasped at his swimming head.
While Astarion found a spot to dig his fangs into, the drider fished a healing potion from his quiver, the flask slipping his claw several times before he managed to jug it down.
His vision and his head cleared just enough that he could start to draw silk from his hind, guiding it towards his injuries to wrap them in his own special kind of bandage. A dose of venomous spit to cleanse the wound. Sticky threads to help close it. Soft threads to cushion and cover everything.
When he was nigh finished, he heard a pitched giggle behind him.
“Gods, nobody is going to believe me when I tell 'em this. Hah! Nifty, really. No need to endure snarky clerics, oh-so-wise druids, or overeager little bards,” Astarion lilted as he watched Zhah patch himself up.
“Are you... drunk?” the drider asked, trying to wrap his dizzy head around everything he just heard. “From blood?”
Astarion giggled again. “Little bit. Bulette is much richer than bear, turns out. What, you don't get this?”
“No.” Zhah scoffed. “Blood is nourishment. Nothing more.”
“Poor thing. Next, you'll tell me sapient blood's the same as beast blood.”
Zhah neared the dead bulette, then pried off plating with what strength he had left to start sating himself. “It is. I'll take a rothé over a drow or duergar. Not enough blood for more risk with sapient beings.”
“Pity. Your drow smells interesting. Kind of... salty. I wonder-”
“To keep your head on your shoulders, you will keep wondering,” Zhah hissed, interrupting his meal to glare at the vampire.
“Gods, relax, I'm joking.” Astarion swayed, catching himself against the bulette's cadaver, then pulled a red flask from somewhere. “Here. Your drow will do gods-know-what to me if you don't get back.”
Zhah took the healing potion, sniffing it before he drank. “Thanks,” he brought forth, unsure what to think of the gesture, then readied himself for the walk back to camp.
After their safe return to camp, Tav makes her way straight to Astarion, who is sitting on his bedroll after a thorough cleanup in the nearby pond. His hair is still wet and curls around his head like pale moss hanging from a tree branch.
The rest of the party has assembled somewhere else to leave him enough space so he can collect himself. No one but Tav dares to approach the vampire during one of his sullen moods. But the young drow has survived years under the harsh and occasionally dangerous sovereignty of her cruel mother; a venomous encounter with an undead high elf is nothing compared to a poisonous glare of an angry Matron.
“How are you feeling?” she asks as she sinks down to her knees, scrutinizing him from head to toe. A few scratches and a tear in his right sleeve seem the only visible repercussions of his unwanted rendezvous with the bulette. Regarding his ego however—Tav is not sure about that.
“No need to fuss over me, darling. I’m fine.” He meets her gaze with a hesitant smile which then turns into his usual simper. “Which cannot be said for the landshark. A hideous opponent indeed, but surprisingly rich in taste.”
Tav rolls her eyes from his cheap joke and gets ready to leave when Astarion catches her arm.
“Will you check on Zhah?”
She pauses, startled by the question. “Well, do you want me to?” She studies him for any falseness but finds none.
“I… Yes.” His voice loses its usual arrogant timbre. “He is a good hunter. And…”
“And?” she probes when he doesn’t continue.
“And he saved me back there. Again.” Waving through his curls he tilts his head to the side.
“I will check on him, I promise. Now get some rest.”
There is the slightest flicker of ease in the way his shoulders wind down. Perhaps he expected more poking from her.
“I will, Matron Mother.” He chuckles and evades her sloppy attempt to slap his shoulder.
“Careful, pretty boy, down here you might end up in a golden cage,” she jabs on her way back to the others.
“Not the worst fate if it’s your cage,” he responds with a mirthful twinkle.
Huffing, she turns around, making her way straight to Zhah, who is resting in a corner which he has claimed for his “nest”—a thick cocoon spun from his drider silk.
“Hey there,” she greets him overly nonchalant.
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 explains 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.
“Thank you,” he finally replies. His voice has softened minimally. “Usually, I’m only tolerable if I’m useful. But I cannot blame people for that.” He lets out a long sigh. “And it’s not like that was too different before…” he gestures at himself, “this”.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been cold to you,” Tav takes one small step forward. “I was taught to avoid driders.”
He follows her every movement.
“That’s sensible. Don’t forget those lessons because of one exception.” He brushes his delicate fingers over the cocoon. “But it’s not all terrible. I’ve never run out of silk thread since, and I can protect the one I love.”
Her eyes widen. “All that silk is really from you?”
His reply comes in form of a proud smile. “Yes. It’s nice to be able to have a direct influence on the quality. Nothing worse to be blamed for lackluster quality when the raw material was terrible to begin with. I remember the year when many of the spiders fed on victims of a plague outbreak in M—” he squints to the side. “Erm. The quality was terrible that year.”
His unexpected enthusiasm steals a chuckle from her, and she is grateful to finally get to see a more personal side of him.
“Sorry. I’m rambling,” he apologizes.
“Don’t apologize. I’m genuinely curious. And I want to get to know you.”
An abrupt shyness runs across his pallid face. “Really? Erm. Thank you?”
She takes another step forward.
“You know, when I came to the surface people treated me with suspicion, too. I was the evil drow wherever I went. And they were certainly right about my mother. But I wasn’t like that. Never have been really. It was tough to make friends.”
“I see.”
“Not that I mean to say I had it as bad as you. I cannot imagine how it is to be turned in such a cruel way.”
“It’s alright Tav. You don’t have to feel pity for me. I accepted my fate long ago.”
His voice has turned mournful, and she can only wonder if he is being honest with her in that regard.
“Does being a drider hurt?” she asks carefully. “Day to day I mean.”
“Not physically, as long as I get the blood I need. It’s the foreign thoughts and the memories that hurt.”
This time he doesn’t shy away from her gaze, a sad smile forming on his face—a face that must have been very handsome once, she realizes.
“I’m so happy you and Imrae found each other.”
She settles on the bare ground the moment she notices movement in the corner of her eye. Turning toward the motion, she detects Imrae as he stores away the spoils of today’s hunt. A certain satisfaction is mirrored on his face when he silently greets Tav and his beloved from afar. And now that his partner has arrived, Zhah adjusts his position so that his body finally melts with the spare light of the cave’s glowing mushrooms.
“He’s wonderful, he’s brave, and smart, and handsome…” he praises while focused on his most precious, who is now fully occupied with his task. “Meeting him was a blessing. Not from any god. Screw the gods. What have they ever done for us, other than mess everything up?”
Tav snorts a dry laughter. “Aye to that. In fact, I left my mother before she could force me to undergo the Rite of Passage. I’m most certain that I would have failed.”
“Then I’m glad you did leave.”
A faint glow flashes across her face. “Thank you, Zhah.” She pauses, her brows knitted together. “I must say, your name is quite peculiar.”
He wiggles for a second, and Tav fears that she might have accidentally hit a wrong topic.
“I picked it after being cursed. My old name, it… Well. Too much happened. I wasn’t that person anymore, in any way.”
“I changed my name, too. And I know exactly what you mean.”
To her surprise he throws her an almost impish grin. “I figured. I have never come across a Tav before.”
Before she can reply, a warm presence manifests close to her.
“Imrae.” She jolts around. “Join us. I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
After tea and conversation, Tav retreated to her tent to get some rest.
Imrae meanwhile retrieved Zhah's comb, a beautiful tool made from rothé bone that he had bought from a dwarven trader as an anniversary present a few years back, then climbed onto a rock to groom his beloved's long hair.
He himself was content to put his in a knot and leave it there.
Zhah on the other hand groomed his hair daily, insisting that one hundred strokes were necessary to keep it healthy and beautiful. The results certainly proved him right.
Careful to avoid the wounded parts of his beloved's shoulders, Imrae undid what remained of his braid and got to work.
“Are you alright?”
As usual, Zhah saw right through his attempt to seem calm.
“There is a sussur tree nearby. I cannot tell if anything lurks there.”
“Im...” Zhah turned in alarm, then hissed and glanced at his patched-up side.
“I will not be alone when travelling there. I will talk everything over with Tav tomorrow.”
Zhah settled down again and closed his eyes. “You and her have reconnected quickly.”
“Yes. She is like the sister I never had.” Imrae leaned in closer and kissed his beloved's neck. “Did I do something that upset you?”
“No. Sorry. I believe you. The vampire was putting thoughts in my head.”
Imrae bit his lip. “I fear I might have added to the tension by confronting him yesterday during resting hours about insulting you.”
“You what?” Zhah bared his teeth. “I did not ask you to.”
“I was not going to stand by and let him do or say whatever he pleases without consequences.”
“Imrae, we talked about this.” Zhah hissed. “I am not that fragile.”
“I- No. You're not. You're very much the opposite.” Imrae took a few breaths. “My apologies. I did not mean to insinuate that you are fragile. That was not why I did it. This was about others treating you with the respect you deserve, not about you not being able to weather an insult.”
“Alright.” Zhah sighed, his shoulders relaxing. “Look. It's not like I don't appreciate that you have my back, but don't be overbearing about it. Maybe it would have been better to vent to you instead of just enduring it.”
Imrae gave a wry chuckle. “Maybe. Your silence might have been what spurred me to do it. My mind was running wild with what he might have said to you.”
“Don't worry. It was hurtful, true, but it wasn't that creative.” Zhah gave a dismissive snort, then reached for Imrae's cheek. “I will handle it. I don't know how yet. I promise that I'll keep you in the loop.”
“Very well. I promise to try to not be overbearing again,” Imrae said, giving Zhah's hand a gentle kiss before he resumed combing his hair.
As he continued, he closed his eyes, getting lost in the meditative nature of his task. He breathed in rhythm with the strokes and let his other senses wander.
The sound of his beloved's breathing was calming in his ears while the smell of Halsin's salves tickled his nose.
Within their cavern, he felt Shadowheart and Wyll play with Scratch to keep the canine content.
Tav was sitting with Gale by his tent, shifting and fidgeting while she talked to the wizard.
Karlach was sparring with Lae'zel, the tiefling's heavy stance providing a true challenge for the githyanki's rigid technique.
And at the very edge of the cavern, right by the water, a lone vampire spawn was sitting cross-legged, mending his torn clothes with careful motions.
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, Four and Five are here.
Read on AO3.
Summary:
Zhah and Astarion's second hunt together somehow goes even worse than the first did.
Parings: Astarion x Lymune (named Tav), Imrae x Zhah (OC x OC)
|| Timeline: Late Act 1 || Word count: 3.377 ||
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: Intrusive thoughts, fantasy slurs, canon-typical blood and violence, blood drinking, temporary loss of a body part
Dividers by @strangergraphics.
Chapter Six
They were out hunting again.
Imrae had offered to take over that particular duty, but if Zhah wanted one thing less than to interact with Astarion again, it was for his partner to be out alone in the Underdark with that arrogant creature.
It was hard to imagine how Tav had talked the vampire into another attempt, but this time around, he at least had pretended to listen to any instructions. Instead of coming along in just his shirt and pants, Astarion had not shed his armor and weapons at the end of the day, but had worn them on the hunt, perhaps finally aware that the Underdark was more dangerous than he had first thought.
Perhaps he was afraid of Zhah now. The thought brought a smile to the drider's scarred face as they wandered on the rocky trails in search of prey.
Imrae had said that he had felt something tunneling and lurking in the area, too small and too slow to be a purple worm. Bulette, ankheg, umber hulk?
Whatever it was, Zhah listened to the tremors in the ground even more than usual. His sense was nowhere near the scale and precision as that of his partner, but it helped to stay safe nonetheless.
And right now, it alerted him to the scattering of small claws nearby.
Two white arrows. Two squeaks of death.
Vermin for the vermin.
Zhah hissed at the thought, angry that the vampire's voice now, too, echoed through his head.
After inspecting his catches, he pushed one of the giant rats towards Astarion with one leg. The spawn had to be depleted and starving by now. “Here. Feed. You're slow. You need your strength.”
The only response he received was a mean, pitched chuckle. “Unlike you cave dwellers, I have taste.”
“You spoiled, arrogant Faerie!” Zhah burst out, blocking the spawn's path with another leg.
“Spoiled!?” The look of absolute fury on Astarion's face made it clear that he had hit a nerve.
After everything, Zhah found that satisfying. Making another lose their temper was a popular game among the nobles, but he himself had never been meant to speak much at parties.
But now, he had made the spawn so angry that all he could do was repeat himself. “Spoiled!? You wretched monstrosity!”
“Reeking parasite!”
“Crawling freak!” The spawn's face was split by a mirthless grin. “No wonder your precious drow is gallivanting around with Tav!”
It was a matter of time until he cast you aside.
“What?” Zhah paused, not because he believed either of them, but because of the jealousy in the spawn's voice.
“You heard me, I saw them, sneaking back to camp after a private moment.”
Astarion continued talking, but Zhah's ears fell numb to it when he started listening to what his feet had been trying to tell him.
Too late.
Something huge barreled towards them from below.
Just when it burst out, Zhah's leg launched the spawn out of reach, reflex, not reason, then was hit by something large and craggy, sharp teeth snapping at his arm.
Bulette.
Zhah pushed against the beast's maw, claws scraping plated skin, desperate to shove it off.
The bulette was stronger, crushing his leg with a nauseating, squelching sound.
Stifling a scream, one leg down, Zhah wrestled with the beast.
The spawn was nowhere to be seen.
Of course he'll leave.
No way to get a bite in. No way to get it off.
No way to win.
This is it.
The bulette sank its teeth into the drider's shoulder.
This time, Zhah screamed, in fear, in pain, in wrath.
Desperate, he clawed at the bulette's eyes.
This is how you die.
No use.
Please, gods, let Imrae move on quickly.
Out of nowhere, an arrow struck the beast right where its jaws connected. It roared and thrashed, fighting against something Zhah couldn't see.
It mattered not.
Zhah shoved the beast off of him, then heard the draw of a bowstring.
“Keep the thing down!” Astarion shouted.
Who is he to command you?
Wanting to live, Zhah tackled the bulette, getting on top, holding it with all his weight so it could not leap away, shoulder bleeding and aching.
The beast was weaker, somehow.
More so when another arrow struck a ridge in its plating.
Now the bulette got desperate, swatting at Zhah, claw raking across his flank.
Two more arrows, and it went limp.
Zhah almost collapsed alongside it. Without hesitation, he snapped the injured leg off at its break point to avoid losing more blood.
“Let me guess. It grows back?” Astarion asked as he drew near.
“Yes.” Zhah coughed, too weak for vitriol. “You first.” He gestured towards the corpse, then grasped at his swimming head.
While Astarion found a spot to dig his fangs into, the drider fished a healing potion from his quiver, the flask slipping his claw several times before he managed to jug it down.
His vision and his head cleared just enough that he could start to draw silk from his hind, guiding it towards his injuries to wrap them in his own special kind of bandage. A dose of venomous spit to cleanse the wound. Sticky threads to help close it. Soft threads to cushion and cover everything.
When he was nigh finished, he heard a pitched giggle behind him.
“Gods, nobody is going to believe me when I tell 'em this. Hah! Nifty, really. No need to endure snarky clerics, oh-so-wise druids, or overeager little bards,” Astarion lilted as he watched Zhah patch himself up.
“Are you... drunk?” the drider asked, trying to wrap his dizzy head around everything he just heard. “From blood?”
Astarion giggled again. “Little bit. Bulette is much richer than bear, turns out. What, you don't get this?”
“No.” Zhah scoffed. “Blood is nourishment. Nothing more.”
“Poor thing. Next, you'll tell me sapient blood's the same as beast blood.”
Zhah neared the dead bulette, then pried off plating with what strength he had left to start sating himself. “It is. I'll take a rothé over a drow or duergar. Not enough blood for more risk with sapient beings.”
“Pity. Your drow smells interesting. Kind of... salty. I wonder-”
“To keep your head on your shoulders, you will keep wondering,” Zhah hissed, interrupting his meal to glare at the vampire.
“Gods, relax, I'm joking.” Astarion swayed, catching himself against the bulette's cadaver, then pulled a red flask from somewhere. “Here. Your drow will do gods-know-what to me if you don't get back.”
Zhah took the healing potion, sniffing it before he drank. “Thanks,” he brought forth, unsure what to think of the gesture, then readied himself for the walk back to camp.
After their safe return to camp, Tav makes her way straight to Astarion, who is sitting on his bedroll after a thorough cleanup in the nearby pond. His hair is still wet and curls around his head like pale moss hanging from a tree branch.
The rest of the party has assembled somewhere else to leave him enough space so he can collect himself. No one but Tav dares to approach the vampire during one of his sullen moods. But the young drow has survived years under the harsh and occasionally dangerous sovereignty of her cruel mother; a venomous encounter with an undead high elf is nothing compared to a poisonous glare of an angry Matron.
“How are you feeling?” she asks as she sinks down to her knees, scrutinizing him from head to toe. A few scratches and a tear in his right sleeve seem the only visible repercussions of his unwanted rendezvous with the bulette. Regarding his ego however—Tav is not sure about that.
“No need to fuss over me, darling. I’m fine.” He meets her gaze with a hesitant smile which then turns into his usual simper. “Which cannot be said for the landshark. A hideous opponent indeed, but surprisingly rich in taste.”
Tav rolls her eyes from his cheap joke and gets ready to leave when Astarion catches her arm.
“Will you check on Zhah?”
She pauses, startled by the question. “Well, do you want me to?” She studies him for any falseness but finds none.
“I… Yes.” His voice loses its usual arrogant timbre. “He is a good hunter. And…”
“And?” she probes when he doesn’t continue.
“And he saved me back there. Again.” Waving through his curls he tilts his head to the side.
“I will check on him, I promise. Now get some rest.”
There is the slightest flicker of ease in the way his shoulders wind down. Perhaps he expected more poking from her.
“I will, Matron Mother.” He chuckles and evades her sloppy attempt to slap his shoulder.
“Careful, pretty boy, down here you might end up in a golden cage,” she jabs on her way back to the others.
“Not the worst fate if it’s your cage,” he responds with a mirthful twinkle.
Huffing, she turns around, making her way straight to Zhah, who is resting in a corner which he has claimed for his “nest”—a thick cocoon spun from his drider silk.
“Hey there,” she greets him overly nonchalant.
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 explains 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.
“Thank you,” he finally replies. His voice has softened minimally. “Usually, I’m only tolerable if I’m useful. But I cannot blame people for that.” He lets out a long sigh. “And it’s not like that was too different before…” he gestures at himself, “this”.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been cold to you,” Tav takes one small step forward. “I was taught to avoid driders.”
He follows her every movement.
“That’s sensible. Don’t forget those lessons because of one exception.” He brushes his delicate fingers over the cocoon. “But it’s not all terrible. I’ve never run out of silk thread since, and I can protect the one I love.”
Her eyes widen. “All that silk is really from you?”
His reply comes in form of a proud smile. “Yes. It’s nice to be able to have a direct influence on the quality. Nothing worse to be blamed for lackluster quality when the raw material was terrible to begin with. I remember the year when many of the spiders fed on victims of a plague outbreak in M—” he squints to the side. “Erm. The quality was terrible that year.”
His unexpected enthusiasm steals a chuckle from her, and she is grateful to finally get to see a more personal side of him.
“Sorry. I’m rambling,” he apologizes.
“Don’t apologize. I’m genuinely curious. And I want to get to know you.”
An abrupt shyness runs across his pallid face. “Really? Erm. Thank you?”
She takes another step forward.
“You know, when I came to the surface people treated me with suspicion, too. I was the evil drow wherever I went. And they were certainly right about my mother. But I wasn’t like that. Never have been really. It was tough to make friends.”
“I see.”
“Not that I mean to say I had it as bad as you. I cannot imagine how it is to be turned in such a cruel way.”
“It’s alright Tav. You don’t have to feel pity for me. I accepted my fate long ago.”
His voice has turned mournful, and she can only wonder if he is being honest with her in that regard.
“Does being a drider hurt?” she asks carefully. “Day to day I mean.”
“Not physically, as long as I get the blood I need. It’s the foreign thoughts and the memories that hurt.”
This time he doesn’t shy away from her gaze, a sad smile forming on his face—a face that must have been very handsome once, she realizes.
“I’m so happy you and Imrae found each other.”
She settles on the bare ground the moment she notices movement in the corner of her eye. Turning toward the motion, she detects Imrae as he stores away the spoils of today’s hunt. A certain satisfaction is mirrored on his face when he silently greets Tav and his beloved from afar. And now that his partner has arrived, Zhah adjusts his position so that his body finally melts with the spare light of the cave’s glowing mushrooms.
“He’s wonderful, he’s brave, and smart, and handsome…” he praises while focused on his most precious, who is now fully occupied with his task. “Meeting him was a blessing. Not from any god. Screw the gods. What have they ever done for us, other than mess everything up?”
Tav snorts a dry laughter. “Aye to that. In fact, I left my mother before she could force me to undergo the Rite of Passage. I’m most certain that I would have failed.”
“Then I’m glad you did leave.”
A faint glow flashes across her face. “Thank you, Zhah.” She pauses, her brows knitted together. “I must say, your name is quite peculiar.”
He wiggles for a second, and Tav fears that she might have accidentally hit a wrong topic.
“I picked it after being cursed. My old name, it… Well. Too much happened. I wasn’t that person anymore, in any way.”
“I changed my name, too. And I know exactly what you mean.”
To her surprise he throws her an almost impish grin. “I figured. I have never come across a Tav before.”
Before she can reply, a warm presence manifests close to her.
“Imrae.” She jolts around. “Join us. I’ll make us a cup of tea.”
After tea and conversation, Tav retreated to her tent to get some rest.
Imrae meanwhile retrieved Zhah's comb, a beautiful tool made from rothé bone that he had bought from a dwarven trader as an anniversary present a few years back, then climbed onto a rock to groom his beloved's long hair.
He himself was content to put his in a knot and leave it there.
Zhah on the other hand groomed his hair daily, insisting that one hundred strokes were necessary to keep it healthy and beautiful. The results certainly proved him right.
Careful to avoid the wounded parts of his beloved's shoulders, Imrae undid what remained of his braid and got to work.
“Are you alright?”
As usual, Zhah saw right through his attempt to seem calm.
“There is a sussur tree nearby. I cannot tell if anything lurks there.”
“Im...” Zhah turned in alarm, then hissed and glanced at his patched-up side.
“I will not be alone when travelling there. I will talk everything over with Tav tomorrow.”
Zhah settled down again and closed his eyes. “You and her have reconnected quickly.”
“Yes. She is like the sister I never had.” Imrae leaned in closer and kissed his beloved's neck. “Did I do something that upset you?”
“No. Sorry. I believe you. The vampire was putting thoughts in my head.”
Imrae bit his lip. “I fear I might have added to the tension by confronting him yesterday during resting hours about insulting you.”
“You what?” Zhah bared his teeth. “I did not ask you to.”
“I was not going to stand by and let him do or say whatever he pleases without consequences.”
“Imrae, we talked about this.” Zhah hissed. “I am not that fragile.”
“I- No. You're not. You're very much the opposite.” Imrae took a few breaths. “My apologies. I did not mean to insinuate that you are fragile. That was not why I did it. This was about others treating you with the respect you deserve, not about you not being able to weather an insult.”
“Alright.” Zhah sighed, his shoulders relaxing. “Look. It's not like I don't appreciate that you have my back, but don't be overbearing about it. Maybe it would have been better to vent to you instead of just enduring it.”
Imrae gave a wry chuckle. “Maybe. Your silence might have been what spurred me to do it. My mind was running wild with what he might have said to you.”
“Don't worry. It was hurtful, true, but it wasn't that creative.” Zhah gave a dismissive snort, then reached for Imrae's cheek. “I will handle it. I don't know how yet. I promise that I'll keep you in the loop.”
“Very well. I promise to try to not be overbearing again,” Imrae said, giving Zhah's hand a gentle kiss before he resumed combing his hair.
As he continued, he closed his eyes, getting lost in the meditative nature of his task. He breathed in rhythm with the strokes and let his other senses wander.
The sound of his beloved's breathing was calming in his ears while the smell of Halsin's salves tickled his nose.
Within their cavern, he felt Shadowheart and Wyll play with Scratch to keep the canine content.
Tav was sitting with Gale by his tent, shifting and fidgeting while she talked to the wizard.
Karlach was sparring with Lae'zel, the tiefling's heavy stance providing a true challenge for the githyanki's rigid technique.
And at the very edge of the cavern, right by the water, a lone vampire spawn was sitting cross-legged, mending his torn clothes with careful motions.
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.
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.
Here's a bigger project I've been working on for a while. The tiefling refugees are all pretty close to my heart, so I wanted to give them the love they deserve. A few of them are still missing, but I'm already planning another set for the kids!
Unfortunately, I can't add as many tags as there are characters, so feel free to tag your favorite underrated tiefling!
Oooookay, sorry for playing the boomer. I figured I need to leave the tags here. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go bury myself out of sheer shame.
This might get a bit boring since I am asexual and do not write NSFW stuff at all, the best I have to offer is double entendres, morning afters and suggestive pining, but I will do my best.
Gentlest of tags for @missfortunetherogue, @lottavilja, @luna-struck, @lilhumanoid and @et-augury.
1. What’s an idea, dynamic, or trope in your current work that feels naughty or self-indulgent? (Spicy answers 100% encouraged.)
Writing out a continuation of @lottavilja's setup for an ideal AU dream vision regarding our Tavs, specifically my boy Imrae going on a cute first date with Mas (Zhah if not cursed into a drider).
It might get suggestive, but not exactly spicy.
2. Is your oc a virgin, blushing maiden, or sexual fiend? or aro/ace? or something in between?
Imrae is demiromantic and a sex-positive asexual. He is a curious person and he does enjoy getting intimate now and then, but a partner with a high libido would overwhelm him with their needs.
He is uncertain if there is someone out there who is compatible with him sexually and in terms of personality.
At the time of the plot of BG3, he can count his sexual experiences of the past 80 years of freedom on one hand.
3. What’s your OC’s “I shouldn’t be this turned on by this” trigger?
Imrae hates how much he likes words of affirmation, sweet pet names and praise. He has conditioned himself to not want and need it. Words are cheap. Deeds are what counts.
Another thing is being tied up and blindfolded. His freedom is his most treasured good, yet a trusted partner doing it to him is oddly pleasurable.
4. What is your OC's hard NO?
Degradation/punishment. To close to home.
Consensual non-consent. Imrae does understand the concept of roleplay and safe words, but he still could not go on if his partner asks or begs him to stop (or his partner doing that to him).
Oral sex. Imrae does not care for someone's groin in his face and vice-versa.
5. What is the most debauched VP/Art you have ever created?
Behold. A married couple in a river. The depth of my depravity. 😂
6. What is the wildest NSFW smut you have ever thought up? Did you write it?
My brain is very cut-to-black, I'm afraid. It blanks when it gets to the spicy parts. I am the useless kind of asexual who does not write good smut. Sorry. 🤣
7. Do you have any crazy projects for the future?
I think my craziest idea was (and is, since I do try to motivate myself to keep writing it) to make The Barrister's Bargain (my Baldur's Gate meets Bridgerton entry) a story that while suggestive, depicts no actual spice or smut when that is exactly what people like about Bridgerton, that it is Jane Austen, but sexy.
Thank you for the tags, @lilhumanoid, @lolthwoven, @emmyandthetieflings, @scoldingdarjeeling and @litsenn!
Gentle tags for either game for @lottavilja, @missfortunetherogue, @elceewunjo, @et-augury, @riddlerosehearts and @bladesingerlily!
Here's my last paragraphs from Chapter 5 of The Barrister's Bargain.
On a beautiful spring morning, Wyll Ravengard made his way through the curious gardens of the Auvryervs city estate.
The marchioness cared little for horticulture, there was no vegetation here safe for lichen that might remind a drow of home, but she made up for it with a beautiful array of natural arches, basalt column structures and refreshing waterfalls.
And there were statues.
A whole menagerie of statues so lifelike that Wyll feared they might start moving any moment.
He shuddered as he wondered which were the work of a masterful sculptor and which were former enemies of the mistress and the heir of the grounds. Did they even remember them all? Their way of displaying defeated foes was certainly less gruesome than the gallows and much cleaner than what he had heard about the methods of the drow matrons of Menzoberranzan.
Wyll still moved away from them as fast as he could, and soon, he found Lord Imyaraen and Mr. Ancunín seated under one of the few trees. The elf had adopted the same dark glasses the drow wore in the light, reading to his friend from a small sheet of paper.
I finally made a full OC lore post for my insane vamp queen! I'm actually nervous to post about her but I also want to share more about her before the final chapter of Ballroom Blitz drops so here we are~
This post is mostly for me to organize her story, but I'll also tag according to the taglist for Venereaposting: @litsenn, @wyllravengards, and @spillingteanotpermitted 🖤 Be warned, this is long af and kinda fucked up - no pressure at all to read or engage!
// Basics
Former Name: Vananna Lighthand
Race: High Elf Vampire
Class: Oath of Beauty Paladin, formerly a follower of Sune
Gender and Presentation: Cis woman, femme
Pronouns: She/Her
Birthplace: Cormyr
Sexuality: Pan, on the ace spectrum
Romance: Cazador Szarr but "romance" is a strong word for what they've got going on
Alignment: Neutral Evil
Background: Socialite (homebrew by meeeee)
// Background
🚨 🚨 TW for self-harm and teeth-related body horror near the end. Please skip if you need to - I bracketed that bit with this emoji 🚨 🚨
also the prose is cringey, summaries are harder than actual stories to me apparently
Vananna Lighthand was one of very few elves born and raised in Cormyr. She was renowned in the city for her remarkable beauty, considered ethereal even for an elf. Everywhere Vananna went, she enjoyed luxuries and a wide social circle. Everyone was enchanted by her: she passed classes she didn't show up to, got jobs she wasn't qualified for, made friends and met suitors everywhere she went, received gifts and favors for no reason at all. The whole neighborhood wanted to know her, and she was never without a party invitation or a suitor's hand.
Vananna knew she owed her perfect life to her profound, gods-given beauty. In gratitude, she dedicated herself to Sune and became an Oath of Beauty Paladin. She pledged to spread art and romance, to match-make, to make-over, and to celebrate beauty in all forms. She eventually assumed a role in the Cormyrian government as its first Chief of Beauty. She organized festivals and commissioned artists, invested in arts education, and played match-maker for everyone in town who wanted such a service. She was known throughout the region for her energy, her style, and her dazzling smile and charisma (really).
Eventually, Vananna fell in love with the mysterious Lord Dario Dotsk, a reclusive but otherworldly human noble everyone fantasized about but only Vananna ever got through to. Before Vananna, Dario only showed himself at occasional parties to which he arrived late in the night and never brought a plus-one. But Vananna was a socialite. She stayed at every event until dawn; she grew close with Dario during the long nights when the parties wound down and they shared bottles of wine on starlit balconies.
The most beautiful day of Vananna's life was her wedding to Lord Dario. It was an opulent evening affair, so lovely Sune herself could have crafted it, leaving the guests mesmerized and even more obsessed with Vananna than before. Her dress was crafted to emulate the fire-red hair of Sune, and people wept over its beauty more than they wept over Vananna's vows.
It was the last day Vananna would know beauty.
Late that night, when she returned to Lord Dario's home as his wife, he revealed that he was a vampire—and he Turned her before she could escape. Her beauty would last forever, he said, but now it would belong to him.
Lady Vananna half-lived as a vampire bride for thirty years. She tried many times to flee, but Dario always caught her and his punishments were severe. She spent much of her marriage locked in his basement. Dario forbade her from socializing in town, from decorating the estate, from choosing clothes with color, from doing anything that made her feel like herself.
During her years of isolation and darkness, Vananna accepted that she would never return to her beautiful life. She no longer believed that beauty was a gift. People hadn't loved her for her beauty, she realized—they'd wanted to claim her because of it. Nobody listened to her speak or appreciated her mind. They cared only for what she looked like, what they could be or become in her presence. Nobody came looking for her when she disappeared. Worshipping Sune did not save or protect her. Falling in love is what got her here in the first place. She came to think of love as a disease and, to match that, she changed her name to Lady Venerea.
Venerea started carrying a fan to cover her face so nobody could look upon her. Dario, however, commanded her to stop; he wanted her on display for him. He wanted her to smile. So Venerea had just one option left: she had to stop being beautiful. She had to become Vindictive.
🚨🚨 Vananna Lighthand would never have taken a blade to anyone, much less to herself. Lady Venerea the Vindictive, though, did. She locked herself in Dario's basement, smiled as wide as she could in a mirror that showed no reflection, and drove a dagger into the corner of her mouth. She split her smile wider, wider, across her face until the blade ground against her cheekbone. Then she did it again on the other side, smiling as she worked. She didn't swallow the blood that spilled out. For months she drank no blood at all, so that her wounds would never heal.
When Dario discovered her, he was so disgusted by her transformation that he attempted to kill her on the spot, to discard her. Crazed by bloodlust and emboldened by her hatred of him boiling in her bones, Venerea managed to overpower him. She ended his long, wretched life and took not just his blood but ripped out his fangs as a token. She stitched the stolen teeth into the newly opened slots in her mouth, so Dario will forever be a part of her "ruined beauty." Now every time Venerea kills a foe, she adds one of their teeth to her collection.🚨🚨
Venerea inherited Dario's estate, his thirteen vampire spawn, and her own will. Her paladin oath didn't break—it warped. Sune's magic still runs through her, and her mandate as it relates to beauty still stands. It's just that now, she fights to destroy beauty, not to spread it. Her corrupted power is strongest against those who are the most beautiful (mostly in the physical sense, in Venerea's perspective) and/or who are in love, romantic or otherwise. She sees anyone who promotes beauty or reveres deep, loving relationships of any kind as feeding into the concepts that ruined her.
All Venerea wants now is the freedom to rot. Not even necessarily to die! Just to do nothing, to experience the freedom and the ugliness of decomposition. Undeath is so boring, so stagnant. In lieu of rotting, though, she is more than willing to accept power, influence, or a little fun... if she can fucking find any.
// Weapon and Magic
Pretend she's either wearing a mask or has Mileena teeth ok? or maybe she's using a shapeshifty spell to hide them for a second
Venerea wields a staff inspired by this mod. It's made of cherrywood (or perhaps it's just dyed red, who knows) and topped with an enormous heart-shaped glass piece that beats and glows in rhythm.
Spell list, thanks to this subclass mod:
Charm Person
Disguise Self
Calm Emotions
Enthrall
Fear
Hypnotic Pattern
Charm Monster
Confusion
Dominate Person
Seeming
She can use a Channel Oath Charge to Charm enemies and activate an Aura of Elegance, which gives her advantage on Deception and Persuasion checks. Creatures within the aura have disadvantage against her Enchantment or Illusion spells.
I've also decided based solely on my own whims that she knows Zone of Truth, Calm Emotions, Vicious Mockery, Dissonant Whispers, and Divine Word. She can summon a pink wolf companion named Ventricle and can infuse her melee weapon of choice, usually a hammer, with corrupted love magic to strengthen it (thanks to the Heartsworn Fighter mod - but she's "just" a paladin in her canon).
I don't think her spell list is real/viable in D&D but I don't caaaare she's an evil boss
// Playlist + Fanfic
Venerea is a major character in later chapters of Ballroom Blitz. She'll probably cameo in additional fics later, but this one's her time to... shine... or something.
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.
