#asatrion

[fl0werb0ys-art]

Astarion and Rixian having a rare peaceful moment as they look at the sketches she has drawn over the years.

(Please don't tag as kin/ID or your OCs name unless you are the commissioner)

[lillotte17]

WIP Wednesday

@andauril was sweet enough to tag me, but I'm not 'technically' working on any writing atm, since I'm foaming at the mouth working on an armor design for 10-years-later Aili. But! I dug up some snippets of old things I got a bit stuck on, so hopefully they suffice. <3

Up first is a bit from my Looking Glass retelling Daffodil:

“Coming, Puzzle?” he calls back over his shoulder, “I promise, this city has much more interesting places to see than the interior of my boy’s silly tower.”

She looks back at the building for a second, not overly worried that she will be missed, but still weighing how much she should really trust a stranger who fell out of a ceiling and began asking her uncomfortable questions. The hesitance only lasts for a moment, though, as she shrugs her shoulders and follows her new compatriot down the spiraling steps. Haninan does not strike her as particularly dangerous, at least, not in the typical sense. He reminds her more of Compassion and Curiosity, than Mythal and her ilk. She also suspects that even if he were dangerous, there would be no getting back into the tower without him.

“You know,” she begins, panting a little as she rushes to catch up with him, “Calling me ‘Puzzle’ doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

Hanin laughs.

“No? Aren’t you a sum of disparate parts pieced together?”

“Well…yes.” She admits with a huff, “But a puzzle is different pieces that are designed to fit together to create something functional and whole. I…wasn’t meant to be like this. I don’t think anyone is meant to be like this.”

Haninan hums thoughtfully.

“A mystery, then? A riddle? A wonder?”

“A mess would be more accurate,” Aili snorts in amusement. “You could also just use my name.”

“That’s no fun,” he waves her off as they reach the bottom of the steps and head out through the streets. Unlike the light and music that had trailed after the evaunris’ processions, the darkness Haninan conjured earlier seems to follow him as they move along. Blotting out streetlamps and dimming colors where he walks. “A name is something anyone could call you.”

“This is some sort of great honor, then?”

 “Oh, undoubtedly,” he grins, “How do you feel about Blondie? Curly? Fluff?”

“Largely over-used, and reminiscent of a house pet,” she shakes her head in the negative. “I had another friend with a penchant for nicknames, and he already claimed most of those. You’ll have to work harder.”

“Or I could simply reuse the one he gave you, if you prefer,” Haninan offers. “It would spare you the trouble of having to get used to it.”

“Lazy,” Aili tuts at him as they turn away from the wide smooth paths of the main city streets and veer into the close, winding alleyways.

The farther along they go, the more muted the buildings and decoration becomes, as if the all color is slowly bleeding out of the air around them. Eventually everything is gray and square and uniform, with barely a signpost or a banner to be seen hanging out by the streetlights. It is late, and the foot traffic on their path is minimal, but the elves in this part of the city seem much like their surroundings, drab and unobtrusive. So different from the glitz and splendor of the upper city and the evanuris’ processions that they might as well be in another world entirely. In fact, if she did not know better, she might have thought that they had somehow ended up in one of the alienages from her own time, except that none of the houses seem likely to collapse in on themselves at any given moment.

She does not realize that she has stopped to take it all in until Haninan calls out to her.

“See something familiar, Twinkles?” he wonders.

Aili makes a face at the name.

“That one sounds too…”

“Cheerful?”

“Sappy.”

“You’ve got to give me something to work with here,” Haninan sighs, pretending to pout a little.

“I’ll tell you what,” Aili smirks, “If you can guess the name Varric gave me, I’ll let you use it.”

Haninan’s eyebrows tick upwards and he lets out a whistle.

“You know how to set a challenge, I’ll give you that, Moonbeam.”

“Not even close,” Aili laughs. “Now let’s get moving before grass starts growing on us out here.”

“The city’s aesthetic coordinators would never allow it,” Haninan scoffs, even as he obligingly begins leading her down the narrow streets again. “I think I deserve at least some sort of hint to work with here, or I’ll just start picking anything. Twigs. Pebble. Sweetbread.”

“At least those are more imaginative than ‘blondie.’”

“Well, let me know if one of them strikes your fancy, Bright-eyes.”

She lets out a deep sigh and follows him around yet another corner. Haninan stops in front of a building that looks like every other building surrounding it, grey and blocky and drab, but she thinks she can hear the muffled sounds of talking and laughter from within. He tilts his head at her questioningly, waiting for an answer or possibly some sort of acquiescence, one large scarred hand resting on the wooden door.

And for the BG3 folks, a little bit from the morning after Bite Night:

Astarion stands outside his little personal encampment, bathed in dazzling rays of morning sunlight, pretending to read while keeping the opening of their impromptu leader’s tent well within view. He had managed to get the blood he had been craving the night before without a stake through his chest, and he would very much like today to continue in the same fashion. Breaking the news about his nature to the rest of the party is going to require a delicate touch, though, so hopefully if their resident bard is having any negative side effects, he can smooth things over with a bit of light flirting and roguish charm before the half-drow begins crying about foul play and sharp teeth coming at him out of the dark.

Even if that is more or less what happened.

Nivan stumbles out of his tent, looking groggy and a bit wan, with a faint whiff of blood still lingering about him. Astarion licks his lips. Even after catching a fair amount of game in the forest last night, the taste of the other man’s blood had lingered on his tongue. Full and rich and decadent. Since Cazador had forbidden his spawn to drink the blood of thinking creatures, he cannot say how it compares to the vintage of any of their other companions, but it was, without question, the most delectable thing he has had in his mouth for the whole of his undeath.

He wants to taste him again. And again. He wants to drink him down until there’s nothing left. His stomach clenches at the prospect. Warmth and hunger spreading outwards to his limbs and tingling to the tips of his fingers. They twitch briefly, eager to find purchase somewhere.

The bard catches his eye and makes a face at him. He is, perhaps, getting ahead of himself. He plasters a smile across his lips and saunters over.

“Good morning,” Astarion croons, his voice dipping low and draped in velvet, “How do you feel?”

~

Tagging @scurvgirl! I know you haven't gotten to write for a bit, but maybe you've got some old stuff stashed away, too? <3 <3

[transslyblue]

I will forever love how in my Dark Urge campaign I'm courting Asatrion.. whenever I die he yells "No! My bloodthirsty friend!"