You find out that your adoptive father is a drider that has been raising you to carry his eggs.
Cw teratophilia, incest, age gap, planned oviposition, being held captive until you give birth, cunnilingus, fingering.
The basement stairs were colder than they should have been.
You pressed your bare foot onto the next wooden step and held your breath, waiting for a creak that never came. Eighteen years. Eighteen years of Don't go down there, sweetheart and It's not safe and that particular softness in her father's voice that made disobedience feel like betrayal.
But you were nineteen now. And secrets had a weight you couldn't carry anymore.
The air thickened as you descended. Damp stone, old earth, something faintly metallic beneath it all.Your fingers trailed along the concrete wall, leaving tracks in condensation. At the bottom, a single bare bulb buzzed overhead, painting everything in sickly yellow.
And there it was.
A hole. Not a crack or a fissure but a hole, perfectly circular, nearly ten feet across, swallowing the center of the concrete floor. The edges looked melted. Silk-thin strands—cobwebs but wrong, too thick, too deliberate—glistened along its rim.
Your stomach dropped.Your mind scrambled for explanations—sinkhole, construction project, anything rational—but your body already knew better. Your knees locked. Your pulse hammered in your throat.
The stairs creaked behind you.
You spun, heart seizing, and scrambled toward a stack of crates in the corner. Your shoulder knocked against rough wood as you wedged yourself behind them, pressing your palm over your own mouth to silence the ragged sound of your breathing.
Footsteps. Slow. Measured. The click of dress shoes on stone, then dirt.
“Sweetheart”
Dad’s voice. Not angry. Not even surprised. There was something almost sad in the way he said it, like he’d been expecting this and dreading it in equal measure.
You didn’t move. Maybe he’d think he imagined it. Maybe he’d turn around and go back upstairs and you could slip out and pretend this never—
“I know you’re behind the crates, sweetheart.”
Your stomach dropped.
He sighed. “Come out. Please.”
The please did it. That soft, familiar word he’d used a thousand times. It was the voice of the man who’d raised you, who’d taught you to ride a bike and braided your hair before school and stayed up late helping you with calculus.
You stepped out from behind the crates.
Your father stood on the bottom step, one hand resting on the railing. His silver hair caught the bulb's light, and his expression wasn't anger. It was something closer to relief.
"I was going to show you next week," he said, voice calm as still water. "I've been preparing. Making sure everything was right."
“Show me what?” Your voice came out thin, shaky. “Dad, what is that hole? What is all this stuff? What have you been hiding down here?”
He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they glistened.
“I love you,” he said. “I need you to know that first. Before anything else. I love you more than anything in this world. You’re my daughter. My heart. That has never been a lie.”
A chill spread through your chest. “Why are you saying it like that? Like you’re saying goodbye?”
“Because after tonight, nothing will be the same.” He undid the top button of his shirt. Then the next. “I need you to stay calm. Can you do that for me?”
“Dad—”
“Can you?”
You nodded, swallowing hard.
He stepped back, away from you, and the transformation began.
It wasn’t gradual. One moment he was your father—tall, broad-shouldered, human—and the next his body unfolded. His legs split and multiplied, the lower half of him swelling, reforming. Where his hips had been, a massive arachnid thorax emerged, sleek black and red, gleaming like polished obsidian. Eight legs extended from it, jointed and powerful, each tipped with a delicate claw that clicked softly against the dirt floor.
You stumbled backward, your spine hitting the crates. A sound escaped you—not a scream, something smaller, a whimper that you couldn’t swallow down.
His torso remained. His arms, his chest, his face. But his eyes—his kind, gray eyes—had multiplied. Six of them now, changed from the silver shade he’d always had, now black. His silver hair had changed to that of a darkened crimson.
“Please don’t be afraid,” he said, and his voice was still his. Still Dad. “I would never hurt you, darling. Never. You have to believe that.”
Your legs gave out. You sank to the dirt floor, staring up at him, your mind refusing to process what it was seeing. “What—what are you?”
“A drider.” He didn’t move closer. He stayed near the hole, giving you space, his eight legs folding slightly to lower his human torso closer to your eye level.
Your vision tunneled. lungs seized. Not possible. Not real.
"Breathe," he said, and his voice was exactly the same. That was the worst part. Exactly the same gentle tone he'd used to read you bedtime stories, to talk you through nightmares, to promise you were safe. "Breathe, look at me. Just me. Still me."
He moved closer, and the soft click of his legs made you flinch. But he stopped short, not crowding you. Giving you space. "I know this is frightening. But I need you to listen now. Really listen."
You couldn't look away from his eyes. All six of them.
"I love you," he said. "More than anything in this world or any other. You are not just my daughter. You are the most precious thing I have ever guarded. Do you understand that?"
Tears slid down your cheeks. You didn't remember starting to cry. "Daddy."
"Do you love me?"
The question hung in the damp air. And you —nineteen years old, raised by this man, this creature, this father who had bandaged your scraped knees and taught you to read and never once let harm come near you—felt the answer rise from somewhere deeper than fear.
"Yes," you whispered. "I love you, Daddy."
His eyes softened. All six of them.
He stepped forward and lifted you. The chitin of his lower body was smooth and cool against your legs where they draped over his torso's junction with the spider half. You gripped his shoulders instinctively, and his hand cradled the back of your head the way it always had.
"There aren't many of us left," he murmured against your hair as he descended into the hole, legs finding holds you couldn't see. "My kind dwindled before humans learned to write. And I've been alone for so long, babygirl. So long."
Darkness swallowed you. The descent lasted minutes or hours—you couldn't track time with your face buried against his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him, cedar and coffee and something new, something earthy and ancient.
Then light bloomed.
The chamber was vast, walls woven from silk that shimmered like caught moonlight. A bed dominated the center—real sheets, real pillows, incongruously domestic. Bookshelves lined one curved wall. A small table held a pitcher of water and a plate of fruit. The web itself formed the architecture, but it was a room, designed for living.
Designed for you, you realized.
He set you on the bed, and the mattress dipped with comforting softness. He loomed above you and then sank down, bringing his face level with yours.
"I've been prepping you your whole life," he said. "The vitamins. The special teas. The salves I rubbed into your skin when you were small and told you it was for eczema." His hand cupped your cheek. "Your body is ready now. Ready to carry what I need to give you."
Your breath caught. "Carry?"
"Eggs." The word landed heavy. "Children. Our children. I've spent eighteen years making sure your body won't reject them. Making sure you'll be safe." His thumb traced your lower lip. "You'll stay here until the babies are born. Comfortable. Protected. Loved."
You should have been horrified. You knew that.
But the way he looked at you—the desperation beneath the tenderness, the centuries of loneliness pooling in his ebon gaze—undid something inside you.
"You want this," he said. Not a question but a plea.
You thought of every night he'd tucked you in. Every fever he'd soothed. Every monster he'd chased from your closet, never once letting you suspect the real monster was tucking you in.
But he wasn't a monster. He was yours.
"Yes," you said. "I want this."
He exhaled like a man released from drowning. His forehead pressed to yours. "Thank you.
Thank you, baby girl. I'll make it good for you. I'll make it so good."
Silk strands descended from the canopy above—responsive to some silent command—and wrapped gently around your wrists, drawing your arms above your head. More strands curled around your ankles, spreading your legs wide, holding you open to him. You tested the bonds and found them unbreakable but soft as velvet.
"Beautiful," he breathed, rearing back to look at you. "My beautiful girl. My perfect girl."
He lowered himself between your thighs, and his tongue—longer than it had been before, more agile—dragged up the seam of your cotton shorts. The fabric dampened instantly.
"Daddy—"
"I've wanted this." His voice vibrated against her inner thigh. "Every time you hugged me. Every time you fell asleep on my chest. I've ached." Teeth grazed the sensitive skin just above your knee. "Let me take care of you now."
He pulled your shorts down and dove in.
His tongue flattened and rolled, painting broad stripes from your entrance to your clit. Your hips jerked, but the silk held you fast. A broken sound escaped your throat.
"That's it." He murmured the words directly into your cunt, and the vibration made you see stars. "Let me hear you."
Two fingers slipped inside you—thick and clever and curling just so. You were wet already, embarrassingly wet, obscenely wet, and he groaned at the taste of you like you were the first meal he'd had in decades.
"Sweet," he growled. "Sweeter than I imagined."
His tongue circled your clit while his fingers worked deeper, finding a spot that made your vision white out. You pulled against your bonds, not to escape but because your body didn't know what to do with this much sensation. The pressure built sharp and fast, no gradual climb, just a spike of pleasure so acute it bordered on pain.
"Come for me," He said. "Give me the first one, baby. There'll be so many more."
Your climax hit like a fist—sudden, brutal, wrenching a scream from Your throat. You gushed against his mouth and he drank you down, fingers still pumping, tongue still flicking until you were writhing with oversensitivity.
"Good," he crooned, crawling up your body. His weight settled over you, chitin and warm skin. "So good. One more, sweetheart. Give me one more on my fingers, and then I'll give you what you were made for."
He slid three fingers into you, stretching you wide, and pressed his thumb to your clit.
"Don't look away from me," he commanded. "I want to see your eyes when you break."
His thumb circled. Pressed. Rolled against the swollen peak of your clit while three fingers curled and stroked that spot inside you that made the world dissolve to static.
You didn't climb so much as plummet.
The second orgasm ripped through you differently—deeper, a full-body clench that arched your spine off the mattress and pulled your wrists taut against silk. A garbled sound tore from your throat, not his name, not any word, just noise wrenched loose from somewhere primal. your cunt spasmed around his fingers, gripping in rhythmic pulses he worked through, coaxing every last ripple from you until you collapsed, chest heaving, thighs trembling against restraints.
"There." He withdrew his hand, glossy with you. "There's my girl."
You could barely see him through the blur. Six black eyes swam above you, unbearably tender.
"Stay with me," he murmured, positioning himself between your spread legs. The broad junction of his human torso and spider half pressed closer, and something emerged from a slit in the chitin—thick, ridged along the underside, tapered at the tip and glistening with his own slick. Not entirely human. But made for this.
"I'm going to fill you." "I'm going to put so many eggs inside you. You'll be round with them. Round with my children."
Someone actually used my pattern!!! THIS IS AMAZING!!!!
I think he looks wonderful (and I'm wishing I'd made the same choices with his eyes)
Genuinely considering getting one myself....
Why does all Drider smut feature them having human cocks? I wanna see some pedipalp action.
Essentially two dicks, but also they're more like hands to the drider in function, yet its the way they're meant to reproduce so its the most pleasurable for them
The standard half-human mythical/fantasy creature (mermaid, centaur, lamia, drider, Thorden, etc) has a human torso down to the hips or so and a whole animal body below. (Or at least most of one.)
But there's no reason that has to be the case. Two whole bodies, with two whole sets of organs? No reason you couldn't cut down on the human size a little. Have the human torso end at the natural waist, or even a bit higher up. Enough torso for a functional human range of motion on the arms, but not much more than that.
I'm not saying less is inherently better. But it's different, and when you see the same pattern repeat itself across such a wide range of character designs, you want to see some variation.
Whumpril 2026 Day 28: Sobbing Uncontrollably (Jasper)
Whumpril Masterlist
Jasper Masterlist
This bit of Jasper's story takes place before Y/N. How long before you might ask? Jasper is in drider adolescence here. It may or may not be loosely based on a true story. Also, this features some things I don't usually write, so along with the tags, there will also be a trigger warning up here.
TW: animal death, graphic animal death
Jasper made his way out of the cave just as the sun was setting. He had a few little berries and nuts in a pouch of non-sticky webbing. He had foraged them early that morning before going to bed, and he was excited to present them to his new guests.
He approached the birdhouse slowly and carefully. He had constructed it himself out of twigs and leaves, securing it with webs and setting it on a low-hanging branch. A bird couple must have found the lodging satisfactory, because not a week ago, their babies had hatched inside.
At the sound of Jasper’s approach, the squawking started up almost immediately.
“I’m here, I’m here,” Jasper said.
He knew the mother and father were out foraging themselves, but the birds in the past hadn’t been offended when Jasper had contributed some extra help, so here he was, lifting the roof of the house ever-so-gently and dropping little morsels into each baby’s open mouth.
The chicks swallowed their dinner and ruffled their feathers. Jasper would have loved to watch them all night, but that wasn’t his place. He closed the roof just as their mother came in with a worm.
As he patrolled the perimeter of his territory, he nearly tripped on a stick. Upon closer examination, however, Jasper realized he owed someone an apology.
“So sorry about that, little fella,” Jasper said, sidestepping out of the snake’s path.
Jasper stayed up for a few more hours, humming a little tune to himself as he tended to his forest.
…
Jasper woke up that evening to silence. He blinked slowly before stretching and heading out of his cave.
He passed the tree with the birdhouse and paused. Usually, the babies would be screaming their little heads off by now. He approached the birdhouse and peeked inside through the opening.
He stifled a gasp. Nestled comfortably inside was a long, scaly, black snake. It looked just like the snake from yesterday, save for the fact that its middle was considerably wider.
Jasper’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His gaze hardened and his jaw set. All he could see was red.
He ripped the roof off of the house and pulled the murdering creature out by the tail. A rock to the head and its frenzied struggles ceased. Jasper’s clawed finger tore through the snake’s stomach just as a sharp hunting knife would.
Inside, as he feared, lay the chicks. He pulled them out as quickly as he could while not hurting them.
“Come on, come on,” Jasper muttered.
None of them made a move. Jasper watched them for well over a minute, and at no point did the baby birds draw breath.
Wings fluttered behind him, and Jasper turned with brimming tears. The mother peeked into the house. She could smell snake.
She swooped down next to Jasper. She nudged one of the chicks with her beak. She chattered, hopping around the babies in vain hopes to rouse them.
Jasper’s lower lip trembled. He turned away. The snake’s corpse stared up at him, boring into his soul.
Jasper buried his face in his hands as the tears fell. His sobs broke through the silence of the forest, frightening any creature that had dared to remain in the vicinity. He sat on the ground while his whole body shook and trembled. His breathing came in ragged and shallow.
Those baby birds had thought they were safe. They were trusting their house to keep them sheltered from predators. They had barely opened their eyes yet. They had been waiting for their mother when the giant monster invaded their home, and they were utterly helpless to stop their own suffering.
And yet, the snake was only acting in its nature. It wasn’t out of malice; it was just hungry. But Jasper wasn’t hungry, he had been angry. He had killed in cold blood. He was worse than the snake had ever been.
This was based on something that happened in my teenage years. I never killed the snake, but I really, really wanted to. I felt so angry and full of rage, even though I knew it was just nature playing out. In writing this, I got to explore what might have happened if I had acted on that rage.
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.
