#petras

[thedomesticanthropologist]

Siblings amirite 🤷‍♀️

[shkura2011]

Recreating @maetersart art as a screenshot has finally worked out.

This has been a gestalt since November, but the zine distracted me back then and it was difficult to implement, but now I've managed to pull it off as best I can. I love this art, and the guys do too.

[onlyancunin]

[MELEE ATTACK] Grab him by the throat and drag him towards the sunlight coming through the window. [Difficulty class: 18]

[lottavilja]

New short fic: Sweet Choice of Mine

“I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality.” – Frida Kahlo

Plot summary:

Astarion has been a criminal his entire life. Sick of committing only petty crimes for his boss, Cazador Szarr, he desires to become one of the big players. A name on a list is the ticket he has been waiting for, and he has one month to make sure his target bites the dust. An easy enough job because Astarion has an excellent killer instinct.

The Thorms are one of the wealthiest families in Baldur’s Gate. Since the miraculous recovery of their daughter, Isobel, a couple of years back, the Thorms have become loyal Shar worshippers, convinced that the goddess put her protective wings over the woman. Now someone put a death warrant on the older sister, Sylva.

But things rarely are as they seem, and what appears like an easy kill for the professional assassin turns out to be a greater challenge. More so when the line between hunter and prey increasingly blurs up to the point when both are left with one final choice.

Notes:

The story is a modern, no-magic AU, taking place in the city of Baldur’s Gate. A well-working transportation system, the metro, exists. Both the police (Fists) as well as the crime syndicate use bladed weapons. Heavy weapons and firearms don’t exist. The whole pantheon of gods and goddesses exists, but Faerûn is mostly a secularized state. Religious groups are called sects by the common people. Apart from these details, the world is mostly like ours. You will find names, places, and even things taken from the D&D universe, but they will be altered accordingly.

The disease mentioned in this fic is completely fictional. Any similarities to actual diseases are purely coincidental.

This story is born from suffering. It is shaped both by grief and a strong will to live. If I had to reduce the whole fic to three tags, they would be angst, comfort, and romance, though the first part of the story will be mostly angsty. I didn’t rate the fic, though if you expect porn, you should not linger. There will be sexual content, slightly explicit (one chapter), but the focus is not sex, it is intimacy and shared grief. I hope that this little fic will be as comforting and fulfilling for you as it was for me when I wrote it. Thank you for sharing this moment with me. Since the narrative is completely finished, I will upload regularly. There is also a Playlist for the songs I choose for each chapter. Here is the link.

First chapter on AO3 here.

[the-lunarvoid]

yeah, no, i need the lord

[vixstarria]

Astarion recalls scenes from his past as he receives a tarot reading of his love life.

All roads lead to hell, or: Astarion pulls his fifth card

Pairings: Astarion x several original or known characters

Genre: Angst / Drama / Romance

Rating: Mature

Chapter word count: 4,309

Prologue | The Sun | The Tower | The Moon | The Magician

Series Masterlist | AO3

This work is part of the Fate Spins Along Tarot collection by @bg3-fate-spins-along - please check out the other writers' and artists' works!

Updates weekly

Death

Asmodea hesitated before allowing Astarion to draw the next card.

“We don’t really have to keep going if you don’t want to, you know,” she said.

“What? Weren’t you just boasting about how flawless your readings were? Why stop now?”

She bit her lip before answering. “This was supposed to be fun, but you’ve been growing more solemn with each one. And we’re getting closer and closer to the present with each one, making it hit closer and closer to home, and… are you sure you want to have those memories stirred..?”

It did feel somewhat like self-flagellation. Each turned card had been an old wound. And yet… And yet Astarion felt like it needed to be done. So much has been taken from him. But these memories were his, even if it pained him to unearth and acknowledge them, and he wanted them back.

“Yes, I’m sure.” He reached for the next card.

He knew what was coming. Each card thus far had signified a momentary lapse in judgment, a weakness, a vulnerability. Much as he had tried to steel himself after Taliesin, he’d slipped and failed again some decades later, and this failing - he still remembered. He didn’t even bother to look as he turned the card. Instead, he watched Asmodea’s face.

Asmodea looked troubled.

“Well?” he said, after a silence held a tad too long. “What’s the verdict?”

“Death,” she said, as Astarion finally deigned to look down at the card which depicted a skeleton and a scythe, “is actually a positive card. Its meaning is often misunderstood, but at its core, it is pure, indestructible, indiscriminate. It doesn’t signify an end, but a new beginning. A future full of possibilities. Transformation. The shedding of the old, to allow for rebirth and renewal.”

“Oh,” Astarion said, surprised. “Well that’s… that’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Perhaps he had overestimated his sentiment, and it was all nothing after all. “Maybe it’s my future.” Maybe there was hope. He looked at Asmodea, but she was shaking her head, looking at him sadly. “Well why the hells not - you just said it has a positive meaning!”

“Because you placed it upside down.”

His fingertips traced reassuring circles on the skin of her bare thigh.

The slit of the skirt had ridden up too high, again, and he’d had to fix it. Taking a sip of his wine, he lightly nuzzled the shell of her ear with the tip of his nose, before bring his lips to it, the perfect image of a sensuous lover lazily whispering sweet nothings to his belle.

“For hells’ sake, stop squirming - you want to leave something to the imagination.”

“My leg’s fallen asleep,” she whispered back.

“No, it hasn’t.” Catching an annoyed look, he leaned back and laughed, as though she’d said something funny, before returning to murmur secretively in her ear. “Your blood doesn’t circulate. No circulation - no limbs falling asleep - no pins and needles - no excuses for any discomfort. You, of all people should know this.”

Dalyria clicked her tongue, quietly, but resumed her position on Astarion’s lap. Scandalously-cut dress draped over her legs, just so, back arched, chest thrust forward, she leaned back against him, twirling a curl of his hair around a finger.

“Better?” she smiled sweetly, the smile never coming anywhere near her eyes.

“No.” He brought the wine back to his lips again and smiled. “You’re acting like a whore. Seduce, don’t advertise.”

Her grip on his hair tightened, just a fraction. “I am a whore,”she hissed, with a manic smile.

Astarion caught her chin with the tip of his finger, tilted it playfully to make her look at him. Tutted. “The way you are treated will depend on the way you are perceived, and the way you are perceived depends on the way you present yourself.”

He’d had to learn this lesson and many others some 150 years ago in a brothel. He’d never quite decided whether that had been a blessing or a curse. He supposed it was the difference between being given gradual swimming lessons, or being thrown off a boat in the middle of a deep lake. Regardless, the expectation was that he would swim, and swim he did. The same expectation was now being applied to Dalyria, Cazador’s newest spawn.

“You will be consumed no matter what,” he continued,“but as for whether you are savoured by a gourmand, or chewed up by a glutton - is up to you,” he said.

No, the brothel had been a blessing, he thought. There, he was an actor, a worker, a character. He played a role. Here, in this den full of couples looking to share and be shared, where he had taken Dalyria on seeing her lost and clueless, there was less protection from pretending they were anything but themselves.

“The couple by the bar,” he continued. “They’ve been watching us, with intent. Go talk to them.”

“And say what?!” she hissed, panicked, as Astarion sighed inwardly.

“Invite them to our table for a drink, but don’t linger, let them decide. Ignore the man, talk to the woman. She’ll make the call. Then come back.”

“Fine,” she said, tipping her own glass back for a generous mouthful of wine, for all the good it would do her - vampires weren’t immune to alcohol intoxication, but the intake had to be persistent and ample, else their bodies healed it faster than it could take.

“They look harmless,” he added with another reassuring squeeze of her leg, before sending her off.

Harmless, yes. That’s where he had started. Opting to search for malleable, trusting fools, who held no malice. Innocents with no bad intentions, who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Then, once he hated himself sufficiently, he deliberately began putting himself at risk of harm, picking out those who would hurt and abuse him. And for a while, it was almost satisfying when he could deliver them to Cazador. It almost felt as though he was serving justice. His abuse was vindicated by their deaths. For a while at least, he could feel spiteful.

Then, eventually, he simply stopped caring one way or another. Innocent, thug, vagrant, whore, drunk. Anyone would suffice, as long as he could get his job done and be left alone in peace.

Dalyria would go through that full cycle, too. But she didn’t need to know it, yet. For now, she was still afraid of pain. Hadn’t yet dulled to shame. Still thought that she could avoid it. What a shock this all was for her, he thought. Physician General to the Parliament of Baldur's Gate turned vampire spawn. She was too good for this. Too smart, too educated, too proud, too dignified, too significant, too full of potential.

He had been too, once, he supposed. They had that in common. Among other things. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shared anything in common with anyone, aside from all that made him despise himself. But Dalyria’s company - it reminded him that he was more than just that. He enjoyed it.

Cazador seemed to enjoy it also. For the past moon, ever since her turning, he had been toying with her. He’d dressed her in rich gowns, had the servants rouge and powder her, tend to her hair. He’d shared wine with her, engaged her in conversations as with an equal. Had even taken her to a masked ball as his companion - though he did take the precaution of compelling her to steer clear of anyone who might recognise her from her past life.

Still, at the end of each night, he deposited her in the spawn dormitory with the rest of her newfound ‘siblings’ - rattled, lost, yet unharmed.

This was the first time Cazador had ever sent Dalyria out to hunt. Why the sudden change - who knew? Perhaps he had grown bored of her already.

Oh, but there she was, returning. Behind her, the couple were exchanging excited murmurs. They better not come to their table empty-handed - Astarion had already spent all the coin he had pickpocketed earlier that night.

“Now what?” Dalyria whispered once she reached him. Poor frightened little thing, she looked like she was about to be ill.

“Just sit back, look pretty, watch and learn. I’ll do the talking.”

Astarion stood rod-straight, feeling a trickle of sweat trail down the small of his back. Cazador was too quiet. Sitting behind his desk, shuffling papers around, as though there was anything of importance in them. Pointedly ignoring him. All calculated gestures aimed to perturb him. Predictable bastard… It worked, though.

“You returned with Dalyria,” Cazador said, finally.

“Yes, Master.”

Agree. Play stupid. Don’t provoke him.

“I send her out so she can earn her keep, and you perform her duties for her.”

“We brought back a couple, one each.”

As soon as the words were out of Astarion’s mouth, he flinched. He knew better than to say anything that came across as an excuse or justification. Talking back was anathema.

“Do you think I cannot count, boy?”

“Of course not, Master, only… Only I fail to see the harm, as long as we each returned with a mark…”

Oh he was really digging himself a hole now.

“Yes, you never cease to exhaust me with your failings…” Cazador accepted Astarion’s meagre offering of self-deprecation. “But this is a new low, even for you. Despicable. Filthy.”

“…Master..?”

“Dufay saw you through the spyhole.” Ah, confirmation that the chamberlain does indeed jerk off behind some hidden eyelet at last… That still did not explain what Cazador had found so disagreeable. “He saw your incestuous perversions. Dalyria is your family, now. Your sister. How could you do something so disgusting?!”

Cazador’s hypocrisy had momentarily rendered Astarion speechless. So it was the family standpoint… All this posturing and pretence of a ‘family’ with Cazador at the helm as a ‘patriarch’ had not prevented Astarion being bent over the very desk Cazador now sat behind, only a few days prior, and countless times before. Was he not their ‘father’ in this caricature of a household..? The audacity of this man to throw stones in this glass house so freely.

Thankfully, Astarion’s stupefaction prevented him from sharing any of his thoughts - so much so that Cazador sought to draw them out himself.

“What have you to say for yourself?”

“I… I’m sorry, Master. I was only trying to… I did not think.”

“You never do.” For some moments, only the staccato of Cazador’s fingernails drumming against his desk filled the silence. “But Dalyria should have known better. Was this her doing? Did she lead you astray? Is that why you have disgraced your family so? Oh my gullible child…”

Traps within traps within traps… What appeared to be a lifeline could turn into a noose at any moment. Though this was no mere lifeline - Cazador was handing him the opportunity to shift the blame.

“No! No, it’s…” It’s what? His fault? His responsibility? One did not take the blame for anyone else’s wrongdoings in this ‘family’ - to do so was to sign a death warrant for both. “It’s shocking how useless and incapable she is, how pitiful,” said Astarion. “It was inevitable that she would fail, and I couldn’t stand the thought of it.”

“You and the other children stab each other’s backs for sport, yet you took pity on her.”

Empathy was weakness, to be exploited and punished. Still, perhaps Astarion could talk his way out of this. That was the trouble with Cazador. He would show lenience, on occasion, if one played his games. Rarely, but often enough that his spawn wouldn’t give up without first debasing themselves trying.

“I merely did not want you to be displeased, Master.”

Astarion had had his eyes trained on the ground at his feet throughout this audience. Usually, this was safe. It didn’t provoke, and it prevented him from having to look at Cazador - a sight that invariably made his stomach turn. Unfortunately, it seemed he would not be afforded such luxury this time. Cazador’s boots intruded on the space Astarion had designated for his eyes. A large, clawed hand tilted his chin upward, forcing Astarion to meet Cazador’s eyes.

These eyes now bore into Astarion, seeking and probing with the expertise for uncovering levers and triggers for pain, humiliation, dismay and hopelessness that could only come from having firsthand experience of having been on the receiving end.

From what Astarion had been able to piece together, Aurelia had known Cazador back when he was still Vellioth’s spawn. He’d also gathered that she had been thoroughly compulsed to prevent her from disclosing anything from that time. The most Astarion had been able to pry out of her was a brief shake of her head when asked ‘Was he always like this?’. This explained a lot about Cazador. It explained a lot about Aurelia, too, for that matter, not that Astarion gave a damn about her.

Regardless, for all of Astarion tribulations, all his manoeuvring, all his mental gymnastics, all his efforts at trying to be clever and say the right thing - within an instant he could tell that Cazador could see right through it. That he understood it all down to a ‘t’. That much was evident from the cold irony in his gaze. And still he made Astarion continue this pointless game.

“You sought to educate her, to prevent my ire.”

“Yes, Master.”

“It is not your place and responsibility to concern yourself with your siblings’ education.”

“I’m sorry, Master, I overstepped.”

“Roads to the Hells are paved with good intentions, my boy,” Cazador sighed. His hand left Astarion’s chin to straighten his collar, pick invisible flecks of dust from his shirt. The attention only made Astarion’s spine stiffen further. “But you are correct in your observations about Dalyria. She is lacking. I have been… negligent. I must now attend to her education personally. It is my burden to bear - educating, guiding and punishing my wayward children.”

Astarion wanted to howl. He knew it was written on his face - he had never been a good actor. Try as he may, he could not hide it from those prying, expectant eyes that were still boring into him. There was nothing, nothing he could do that wouldn’t only make it worse. Was this how Aurelia felt each time he was flayed for her..? He should beg for Dalyria, he knew. Admit his own weakness, but divert from her. Cazador would take pleasure in pushing him. He always did.

“Have you anything else to say, boy?”

Astarion swallowed, hard. Sought to find his voice.

“No, Master.”

A frigid hand rose to pat him on the cheek.

“You tried,” Cazador said with mock pity. “Now send Dalyria to me.”

“Yes, Master.”

Astarion hurried through the manor, searching. Dalyria wasn’t in the dormitory - a small mercy, that he wouldn’t be delivering the news before an audience.

He couldn’t fix it now. He couldn’t be anything but this small, cowardly, selfish, traitorous creature Cazador had always told him he was. Now the only thing that was within his control was preventing anything like this - this weakness - from ever taking hold of him again. He would never put himself in this position again.

At last, he spotted her in the foyer, studying the grim art that ‘decorated’ it. She turned, her face lighting up when she saw him. A bashful smile began to form on her lips, sending an ice spike through Astarion’s heart.

“Cazador’s sent for you,” he said before she could get a word in. “He’s in the study. Go now, without delay.”

“Oh. Alright then.” The naive thing, she expected it to be the same as the times he’d summoned her there for wine and conversation… “…Is something the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?” Should he warn her, or should he pretend ignorance and leave her blissfully oblivious as long as he could? “…Astarion?”

“…Whatever he says, agree with him, tell him you were wrong and that you’ll never do it again. Don’t pretend to be stoic, he’ll only make it worse. Thank him after.”

“Thank-” Dalyria blinked. “What are you talking about? Wrong about what..? Is he angry?”

“Go.”

And still she lingered, waiting for an explanation. This would, perhaps, be the last time she still asked “why?” instead of hopping when told to jump.

How would he look her in the eyes after..? He would have to, would he not?

Just tear the bandage off…

If he was to be the villain, then he would embrace the role.

“And one more thing… I hope you were paying attention yesterday, because you’re on your own from here on. Now do us both a favour and stay the hells away from me!” Please.

“But…” she said.

“But what?!” Astarion hissed.

“But what about… us?” she said, faintly.

“Us? US?!” Astarion exploded in a vitriolic guffaw. “Are you stupid?! There is no ‘us’! Never was, never will be.”

He wished she would shout and abuse him. Lash out at him, tell him he was nothing and no one, that she didn’t need him and couldn’t care less if she never saw or spoke to him again. Instead, he saw her blink back at him, a wounded look in her eyes.

“Of course, brother,” she said, quietly. Perhaps she understood, and all too well, after all.

Unable to look at her any longer, Astarion turned on his heels and fled.

Hours had passed and still she had not returned.

Astarion lay on his bunk pretending to sleep - not that sleep was possible in that racket. Violet was strumming, loudly, trying to figure out chords of a melody that continued to elude her. She played a segment, over and over, building it to a crescendo before inevitably flubbing in some way and starting over. The cacophonous result was positively maddening, and Astarion would swear she did it on purpose, if not for her genuine anger and frustration. Her skills had deteriorated since her turning - she had admitted as much herself. That which used to be effortless now took strenuous exertion. Trouble with songbirds and captivity, Astarion supposed.

To his other side, Petras was recounting a boring, pointless and frankly implausible tale of some pursuit to Yousen - another one of Cazador’s recent acquisitions. It baffled Astarion why Cazador had taken him - he despised gnomes and halflings. Perhaps it pleased him to kick a gnome around. Yousen’s addition to the family did alleviate some of the attention Cazador ordinarily paid Astarion. The gnome now brayed at Petras’s idiotic story. Unsurprising. Yousen was the only one who gave Petras the time of day, and Petras was the only one who didn’t treat Yousen as a footstool. The two had formed something that resembled if not an alliance then at least a truce.

Aurelia alone lay on her bunk, catatonically, without causing any disturbance, as she was wont to do. Though it had been a quiet time, Astarion did not miss the days when it was just the two of them. A viper’s den was more exciting than sharing a tomb with a silent corpse. Aurelia’s melancholy was contagious. Being exposed to it with no counterbalance made the difference between craving murder and craving one’s own death. Astarion knew where his preference lay.

He despised all of them. Dalyria was the first of Cazador’s spawn whom Astarion found even remotely pleasant. Intelligent, thoughtful, tactful, soft and sympathetic Dalyria. She was a timid ray of light in their dank serpentarium. How Cazador will enjoy snuffing that light out… How he is enjoying it right now…

Then a silence fell, pulling Astarion out of his reflections. Petras trailed off mid-sentence, Violet ceased torturing her lute. The very same moment, the scent of blood assaulted his nostrils. It held no allure, some putrid note prevented him from viewing it as food. He didn’t want to know, but he had to. He opened his eyes.

She clung to the wall as she shuffled forward. What little scraps were left of her dress only impeded her movement, threatening to trip her. Her slender back was a ruin of torn flesh, stripped and peeled to the very bone in places. If anything like this had been done to a mortal, they would have long died of shock. But Dalyria was no longer mortal, and so she kept shuffling along the wall, half doubled-over, and shaking with silent sobs. Silent until she had reached the dormitory, at least - perhaps because she had healed sufficiently, perhaps because a dam was breaking loose once more now that she had reached the company of her fellows - but a forlorn wail escaped Dalyria once she was inside.

This is my fault.

The next person to break the silence was Violet. “Oh shut your mouth before I give you more to cry about!” she spat, before returning to her lute, muttering about spoiled brats learning their place.

Yousen and Petras only stared at Dalyria, dumbly. Aurelia showed no reaction at all, barely even glanced at her sister. And as for Astarion, he was frozen with horror and indecision.

This is all my fault.

Should he get up and do something..? Do what? And what would be the point anyway - it wouldn’t change anything. No, it would only make matters worse. None of them ever comforted one another - not since Aurelia had finally learned that the best thing she could do was to simply stay away. That was the best, wasn’t it? Staying away. Or else the others would see, sense weakness, peck them both to death. No, he couldn’t, shouldn’t, must not…

This is all because of me.

Just as Astarion was on the verge of leaping off his bunk (though to do what exactly he had not yet decided), it was Yousen who broke out of his stupor and stepped forward.

“Hush, it’s alright, you can rest now,” he said gently. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” He let Dalyria lean on him and led her away to the washing area.

Fucking gnome.

Astarion closed his eyes again.

The sound of sloshing water, Dalyria’s weeping and Yousen’s murmured nonsense came from behind the partition. On the other side of the room, Violet resumed the abuse of her instrument, now singing along to her strumming: no care or effort to her vocalisations, only volume, drowning out Dalyria’s cries. For once, Astarion was glad of it.

Attuned to minute sounds, Astarion’s ears still picked up another noise - a scurrying by his bed. He opened his eyes again, to see a rat. A rare treat to suddenly present itself. It paused within reach, stood on its hind legs, sniffed the air. He could’ve grabbed it, easily. Instead he only watched it skitter past, to be caught by Petras a few moments later. The cretin whooped, excitedly, eyeing his catch. Then some thought must have crossed the barren wastes of his mind, for he paused instead of sinking his fangs into the rodent. A crease formed between his brows as he contemplated the creature. He turned and walked over to the partition.

“Hey Dal… Dal! Here… It will help you heal a little faster. …But you owe me two, you hear?”

I could’ve done that…

Could’ve. Didn’t.

Some scratching at the back of his mind told Astarion that he was being watched. He looked up to see Aurelia studying him from atop her bunk - she likely had been for some time now. Her face as expressionless as ever, but he had long learned to distinguish different flavours of her melancholy in the 150-some years he had known her. This one was laced with a kind of understanding.

Astarion scowled and turned onto his side to face the wall. Fought the urge to curl into a ball. Lost.

Violet was still singing. Dalyria was still weeping as Yousen continued to pretend any of this could ever be washed away. Petras was using the rags that had been Dalyria’s dress to mop up the blood she had spilled on the floor of the dormitory.

Astarion began to idly claw at his own chest. The strength of a vampire spawn, at least of one that wasn’t starving, far surpassed that of an ordinary mortal. So did their pain tolerance and endurance. Suppose he could break through his own ribcage and tear his own heart out. Might that finally make this terrible ache stop..?

His claws dug in deeper, but the moment he drew a droplet of blood, his fingers refused to pierce any further. He giggled. ‘Thou shalt know that thou art mine.’ Silly, silly thoughts… Of course… What right had he to damage that which belonged to the Master? No, he couldn’t even kill himself if he’d tried.

“So what exactly does it mean, if it’s upside-down?” asked Astarion.

“There’s many ways to interpret this card, and all the others, but… What it comes down to, is missed chances and opportunities. Something that could have been, but never will be.”

Astarion hummed noncommittally. That much was true. He had been very thorough in enacting despise for Dalyria after that night. To do anything else would have been the same as laying his own neck, and hers, on the butcher’s block. Aurelia had pitied him, back when it was just the two of them. She had pleaded and begged on his behalf, and that had made it so much worse… He had known better than to make the same mistake.

“Was it ‘the one that got away’?” Asmodea’s question broke him out of him ruminations again.

“Not exactly,” he said. “…Actually, it wasn’t that at all, it wasn’t anything, really, and couldn’t be, anyway, because… Well...” He sighed. “…Because they died.”

Close enough.

Asmodea nodded and asked no more about it.

~~~~~

Next part coming in a week's time. It will be lighter, I promise!

Thank you for reading! If you liked it, you can find more of my writing here. Leave a comment and you'll make my day. ❤

AO3

[skibidialphajohnegbert]

can they like all be queer in their own romantic way