Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If anything’s going to kill her, Dolyn is certain it'll be Astarion.

Even the tadpoles in their heads can't measure up to the headache he's been so far. She's heard plenty of tales about high elves and their eccentricities but this is beyond even those tall tales. Maybe she's being harsh, comparing her own humble beginnings to a man who wears a flouncy white shirt to rest in.

Dolyn takes a deep breath in the midst of that thought when Astarion huffs his disapproval. She's trying to console the tiefling girl currently sobbing in front of them. Astarion would rather she do anything else.

She has to keep herself together. For the girl's sake.

Pushing her frustration into the back of her mind, she holds onto her smile. “This isn't your thing, is it, sweetheart?” she says sweetly with a tilt of her head. She knows that feeling all too well, the guilt, the fear, the shame. “The life is not for all of us.”

She plucks a gold coin from her purse, dances it between her fingers, and before she can hand it over, the girl has run away out of sight. Shame, really. Poor thing has been through a lot.

“Must we really stop for every poor lost soul?” Astarion sighs behind her.

Of course he's got a problem with this. 

“Would you rather stay back at camp?” Dolyn challenges, crossing her arms. 

Karlach and Wyll not-so-subtely step away as the tension rises in the air. After the last few days of their back and forth petty disagreements, most of the camp’s well and truly done with their bickering.

His hand touches his chest like she’s wounded him, lips forming into a pout for show. “Darling, I'm hurt, I thought we had something special,” Astarion drawls in his typical honeyed tone. 

Special is certainly one way to put it.

Dolyn has considered him a number of times when her wits weren't about her. He's an attractive man, well-dressed, dextrous hands, and good with a short blade. Superficial qualities at best, but his face occasionally gave her pause.

“Do you really want to be here?” She challenges, knowing full well he's been moaning about every minor inconvenience from the crash to the old tollhouse, from the crypt to the nearby forest. “You could be lounging about back at camp, preparing for tomorrow with the others.”

Astarion purses his lips and flashes a faux-disappointed smirk. “If you insist, I'll make my way back… but don't be long, right?” He turns on his heels and leaves with a flourish of hand gestures and swish of his hips. Like everything with him, it’s a performance.

Without him present, Dolyn can focus on the task at hand: helping every tiefling they can. Made all the easier by the absence of a certain pale elf’s questionable judgement.

Wyll makes it a breeze, making introductions and setting the bar high for being a do-gooder. 

She hadn't expected him to be so charming with how he'd introduced himself, running a goblin through with a blade, nor how set he'd been on hunting down their now mutual compatriot Karlach. Yet his resolve past his infernal punishment at the hands of his cambion patron has been nothing short of inspiring, even for a hardened heart like hers.

There's something nostalgic about being with this muddled group of misfits: an over-intellectualising wizard, a blunt-speaking gith, a secretive cleric, a literally warm-hearted tiefling, a melodramatic elf, and a horned man of the people. How Dolyn fits in, she still isn't sure. A wood elf herself she should fit right in the Grove, surrounded by the magnificence of nature. There's no denying she'd rather the cobblestone stomping ground of Baldur’s Gate.

“So I think I'm really picturing how comfy my bedroll is,” Karlach pipes up. “We're not going to be out much longer are we?”

“It has been a long day,” Wyll agrees, stretching.

Dolyn clears her throat and sucks at her teeth. “No chance you could humour me a little?”

── ☆ ──

The cavern has a strange way of making her feel at home. She's not sure if it's the makeshift furniture of crates, or the homemade decorative flare that only kids could put together. Maybe it's simply the sight of an organized group of kids making the best of what they have.

“Some set up you have here,” Dolyn smiles the moment Mol, their patched-up leader, strides up to meet them. She can’t tell if the markings around the tiefling’s eyes are permanent or not. Neither would surprise her.

“Well, look who’s come to visit. My kids say you’ve been busy since you got here,” Mol asserts back, already with so much confidence despite her age. She speaks of each of the tiefling children they’ve run into like they’re her wards, protective, grateful in an entirely performative way.

It’s like staring at a memory that’s walked into the daylight. The tone, the gestures, everything about this self-assured tiefling reminds Dolyn of memories she was sure she’d forgotten. Superficial charm always has a way of making itself known. The sound of it rings in the air, a tune only those playing the same music can hear.

A sudden squint to Mol’s eyes, a clear sign she’s being gauged, brings Dolyn back to the present, catching the last of the words leaving the tiefling’s mouth, “Not many marks would’ve done the same.”

“I’m not just any mark,” she returns with just an echo of the smile she’s been treated to. “Happy to help.”

They continue to exchange tense pleasantries amongst discussion of revenge and theft. The appeal of reliving fond memories tug at Dolyn’s heartstrings. Surely a little motivated thievery is a harmless crime. Even if it might be an important religious relic. Details.

After a casual nod and smile to Mol, she checks in on each of the other tiefling kids. Silfy, perpetually shy it seems, diverts any questions back to their appointed leader. Meli, still all spunk and will, refuses to provide any information of that locket, but Dolyn knows better than to push. Mirkon, the sweetest of them all, gifts her a handwritten story of his near escape, thanks to her motley crew of misfits. She has to resist the urge to tousle his hair.

Giving them each a gold coin and a knowing look of quiet encouragement, she heads back to Mol. Her confident timbre informs the others to lay low after Silfy’s missteps. Being exposed for their petty crimes would spell the end of their joint venture, especially with such grand aspirations as starting a new thieves guild in Baldur’s Gate.

Dolyn could part with more gold for a good cause.

── ☆ ──

“You should've seen her, getting along with all of them kids!” Karlach energetically booms the moment they’ve settled down to eat by the campfire. Who knew she had been paying so close attention. “Could've set them on anyone by the way you'd won them over.”

Sitting down beside the fire, sword draped across her lap, Laezel’s eyes narrow in Dolyn’s direction. “Do you have a small army of children? They would be incredibly inefficient in battle.”

Some questions she’s learned, especially from Laezel, are best left unanswered. Though she’s barely into her cups before Gale adds his own, “You’re not a mother by any chance?” 

“Gale?! What? No, no, nothing like that.” She finally manages a proper sip of her wine, the dry sweetness burning her throat on the way down. “A bit of a mother hen maybe.”

The looks she sees across the campfire show more doubt now. Shadowheart. Gale. Even Astarion has an eyebrow raised.

“What? Like you've never been kind to children.” Given the current company that might actually be a true statement.

“No, that was different…” Wyll corrects with a sly smile, hand gesturing with an accusatory point. “She handed the little leader of them money.”

“Just tell them all of my secrets, why don't you?”

“What?” Astarion jumps in with an amused smirk, both eyebrows now raised, curiosity piqued. “Our faithful leader’s bleeding heart extends to budding criminals. Why, I didn't know you had it in you?”

“You wouldn't know the last thing about me if it bit you.”

“Oh, don't tempt me.”

“One day we might all get some rest when the two of you are awake,” Shadowheart cuts in, stretching out the day’s travels in her shoulders, directing a pointed stare at the two of them.

Karlach heaves out a great sigh, “Any old rest would do right now. She didn't happen to mention she agreed to steal the statue, right?”

“What?!” Shadowheart’s face is a tense mixture of disbelief and displeasure. “Tensions are already high and you want to steal their idol.”

Wyll shrugs in agreement. “It is not exactly the best plan.”

“Well I'm all for it. Something a little fun.” Astarion makes a show of swirling the contents of a dark wine bottle, tilting it to punctuate his words. “I had no idea that you could be swayed so easily.”

“Look, I've thought about it… and I do not think fondly of how they've treated these kids. They're having a hard time enough already, having lost their home, their childhood even.”

Dolyn stiffens as they all give her a pensive look. She's said too much, gotten too emotive, given away more of her than she likes. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough for her. 

Astarion’s smirk glints in the fire light. “Guess that settles it then. We're stealing that ridiculous idol of theirs.” 

“Glad you're on board, Astarion. We're going to need your skill set.”

They get comfortable by the warmth of the fire and share one of Gale's mismatched recipes with all the supplies they collected. All but Astarion, who seems more than sustained on conversation and wine, eyeing each of them over in deep thought.

As the night dies down and Dolyn settles into her bedroll by the fire, she swears she can hear the soft movement of feet in the darkness, slowly walking away from camp.

Chapter Text

Growing up in Baldur’s Gate, Dolyn knows a thing or two about rivalries. First, it’s best to stay out of them unless you’re already involved. Second, they also happen to be one of the best ways to make a killing. Literally or figuratively. And though the tension between the druids and the tieflings can hardly be considered to be between rivals, the potential fallout seems to be just as deadly.

If she’s going to keep her word to Mol, she’s going to have to go about the heist carefully. Last thing they need is their group dropping the proverbial match in the gunpowder. One wrong move and the Grove is sure to explode.

The Shadow Druids though, that’s a complication… or an opportunity. Certainly not the kind of thing Dolyn thought she’d turn up in their investigation. It would explain how repulsive Kagha has been acting. Anyone that has anything to hide tends to be more prickly out of sheer survival. She knows that all too well.

A journey to the Sunlit Wetlands will find what they need. Even while the words of Faldorn’s Canticle repeat over and over in her mind: Balance is a myth. Where any clan treads, nature struggles.

She’s roused from her planning daydreams when Karlach starts poking at Astarion, “Not one for roughing it, I see.” Her boots squelch through the mud as they head downhill towards the wetlands.

The distaste is already heavy on his tongue. “Wallowing in filth is for pigs and children, my dear.” The shudder that runs up his spine is visible from several feet behind him. Amusing. Precious even.

“Pigs, children, and people with a little bit of grit,” Karlach adds, stomping eagerly forward, ignoring the grimaces of her companions.

Dolyn can’t help but agree, smirking, “I don’t think Astarion would know what grit was if he ate sand...”

“Excuse me…” he begins to bite back before eating his words. He stops in his tracks as Gale before them raises his hand to halt the group, something close ahead.

She’s almost disappointed to be interrupted. She was sure she got him, finally making the mouthy elf speechless, but she’ll not get to hear what his next words were going to be.

Instead she’s treated to rising voices, an argument between two men and Auntie Ethel. About a girl. Their missing sister.

That familiar twinge sparks in her chest. It’s none of her business but it feels personal. She can't help herself. Next thing she knows she’s already pushed past the party to ask them to calm down.

Conflict surrounds them everywhere as of late.

The men begin calling Ethel a hag while she in turn pleads her innocence. Their best bet is to stay out of it, Dolyn knows, but the brothers’ faces, their pleas… Something inside her twists against her best judgement. That same protective instinct.

“Ethel, what did you do to their sister?” Her jaw tightens, feeling the dread of the accusation sit in her chest. Auntie Ethel’s swearing answers more than her words.

In a flash she’s gone, parting with empty threats and demands for apologies that will never happen. It’s not the first time Dolyn’s angered an old lady, and it certainly won’t be the last, but a hag? That’s new. Dangerous. Curious.

Gale steps up, trying to diffuse the heightened emotions between the brothers, warning them about the perils of hags, but no convincing can stop them. They’re set in their ways, seeking to save their beloved sister. Hearing it is sweet. Thinking about it makes Dolyn's chest ache.

“They’re putting themselves at risk going after her on their own.” Gale turns, lips pressed together in concern. He has a way of softening his features that makes Dolyn question how accomplished a wizard he truly is. She's known few wizards that were open with how much they care about others. “We should follow them. If they’re going up against a hag…”

She swallows, throat raw with guilt. “We can help them later.”

Butterflies flutter up from the long grass and the sound of endless bugs appear to sing in the distance as they continue on into the wetlands. She’s sure there’s some enchantment hanging over every branch and root. A hag's domain is never a pleasant place to be. But despite her knowledge her mind pushes it away, ignoring whatever reality might be while her thoughts turn to her companions.

She can appreciate the kindness that some of the party extends: Gale’s gentle anecdotes that are inevitably poorly timed; Wyll’s supportive storytelling that feel like they should be accompanied with a stein of ale; Karlach’s endless encouragement and enthusiasm.

Yet she finds a strange comfort in the directness of Laezel’s unintentional criticism of Faerun; Shadowheart’s dismissive and somehow endearing judgement of anything and everything; then Astarion’s… well, his knack for getting under her skin.

That is, of course, until Astarion sneaks up behind her and purrs into her ear, “So what is this?” His breath is as hot and as unpleasant as the swamp water up to her knees. “The bleeding heart of our group isn’t going to insist we go save the girl?”

Now would be a great time to push him into the water. Let him find traps face first.

“Oh we will,” she snaps back through her teeth, holding a smile as the two of them trail behind the rest of the group. Their contention isn’t private but she wants her words to be. “A hag lair’s no place for a grieving widow.”

“For what it’s worth, I applaud you.” She can hear his smile as they reach the rocky beach. “We have more than enough to contend with.”

── ☆ ──

Exhausted, mud still drying on their skin, their little band stands surrounded by druids and druids that were just rats. The frescoes on the walls stand etched into stone like silent witnesses. Kagha is insisting the shadows would protect them.

Eyes never leaving the tense scowl on Olodan’s face, Dolyn throws out her hand, the letter they found in the swamp clenched in her fingers, “Take this letter, Rath. It will explain everything.”

The concerned druid takes it, albeit reluctantly, and as he reads, the leader of the Shadow Druids begins waxing lyrical about so-called untouchables and the false promises of harmony.

To think they thought the tieflings were victims of misguided prejudice...

Hand now empty, Dolyn faces Kagha again, brow furrowed, “The shadows won’t save you - they’ll corrupt you.” It’s not enough to convince her.

The eyes of druids and harpers likely long past stare out at them. Shadowheart’s hands glow with radiant energy while Laezel’s sword glints in the light, their bickering temporarily thrown aside as Dolyn holds Kagha’s attention.

“You’d let all of this history go… in the shadows too.” She gestures the points of her ears to the fresco across the room and recites their words, “In darkest hour, a concord made; Twixt harp and wild against the shade.”

Kagha nods and lowers her head, repeating a similar phrase to herself. The guilt of her decision washes the anger from her face, replaced by shame. “I was thinking I could make us safe.”

With twisting vines and twirling steel, together they cut down and make quick work of the shadow druids. Kagha’s relief remains tainted by the weight of her decisions, of her betrayal, the threat she’d made to Arabella.

The best Dolyn could have hoped for is exactly what they left with: safe harbour for the tieflings until they depart for Baldur's Gate.

── ☆ ──

“There is protection to be found in shadow,” Shadowheart asserts as they return to camp. "With Lady Shar's blessing." She takes to her tent and prepares her incense for the night, gently falling to her knees in preparation for prayer.

Dolyn huffs, eyes darting up as Lae'zel heads back to her tent, wishing briefly for tension that did not involve her. She sits, legs crossed, beside their Sharran cleric and bows her head to prompt her to continue.

“No sharp words from you then?” Shadowheart jabs with a smile. 

Dolyn takes a breath, considering her words, “I thought better of it after today.” A partial truth. She's too tired to keep up appearances.

“You make it sound like I was going to scold you.” The cool collected way that Shadowheart speaks sometimes sounds like the night itself, if not for the precision of her observations.

“Weren’t you?”

“Maybe a little.” There’s that softness to her smile that Dolyn’s grown fond of. “Lady Shar’s embrace offers comfort, protection, guidance, to those who embrace her.”

"Since I'm not getting a lecture tonight..." Dolyn chuckles and pushes herself up to her feet, hands firmly on her thighs. “I am perfectly okay with my normal level of non-cuddly darkness, thank you.” Last thing she needs is the gods paying any attention to her.

“If you’re sure…”

“I think you cover enough of her…'' she eyes Shadowheart’s wound on her hand, “attention for the rest of us. Just our luck, hmm?”

The day still sitting in her mind, Dolyn leaves for her own tent, tucked under the rock outcrop by the river. The weariness of the day drags behind her with each step, feet sinking into the dirt. It’s any wonder she doesn’t slam into the ground herself when she trips over outstretched legs laid out in front of her.

“The hells--” she starts but catches herself. She turns, arms defensive only to find Astarion laying back casually on his elbows, eyebrow raised. There’s a hint of wonder on his face, seemingly unfazed by her.

“It’s quite a sight.” His voice is soft, pensive. She has half a mind to snap back at him before he beats her to it. “The stars, I mean. I could take or leave your chin.”

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. Her mouth’s open but she can’t speak. Her hands are at her side but she can’t throw a fire bolt at him, as much as she’s itching to. He seems so perfectly… calm.

His face grows more thoughtful, staring past her at the sky. He’s different than usual, considerably more pensive. As she stares, he points out the clarity of the stars, and he’s right. She’s never known them to be so bright.

She doesn’t know what to do with herself. Her mouth’s open but she can’t speak. He seems so perfectly… calm.

“It got me thinking…” he begins, “Reflecting on what tomorrow might bring...”

Dolyn humours him, lacing her fingers in front of her, “We’ll have more answers once we find Halsin, yes, and after that…”

Astarion peers over her then, red eyes darker at night. “I do wonder what that means for this… group of ours. If this is the end of this little adventure.”

There’s something in his voice she can’t place. He almost seems saddened, worried, but only the tiniest sliver of it is peeking through that perfect smile on his pretty lips.

“It doesn’t have to be,” she offers and feels the doubt rising in her. She might actually miss their banter if it were to end. How is it that it feels so uncomfortable to consider that this little band of misfits might some day end? “We can still travel together.”

The soft sway in his shoulders pauses. He’s pleased. “Good. I don’t want you to run off just yet.” He pushes himself up off the ground and dusts himself off.

“Oh, you think I’d run from you?” She resents the idea that he could ever get her to run. Not this self-entitled pompous pretty boy.

“Now don’t go giving me ideas.” He smirks and lists accomplishments that she ignores in favour of trying to read the truth in his face. ”You’re stronger than I gave you credit for.” The surprise in his voice rubs her the wrong way, prickling the back of her neck.

She pauses, uncertain of the strange glint in his eye. She wants to have a go at him, tell him off for underestimating her, but he’s staring… His eyes are lingering over her body with a look she can’t place. Her heart picks up and her mouth dries. His eyes don’t seem to leave her. How can a talk about their future feel so intimate?

“Are you… okay?”

“Oh.. um…” He stutters, shaking out of whatever place he had disappeared to in those long moments between heartbeats.  “I just need to… get some air, clear my head.”

She can’t shake that something’s off. He’s never looked at her like that before, and it doesn’t feel like whatever she saw briefly in his eyes has disappeared as he wishes her sweet dreams.

Chapter Text

“I can't believe you roped me into this,” Shadowheart hisses at the stone arch by the hill, shoulder to shoulder with Gale.

“It is rather risky to put us all in this situation,” he agrees with a nod. “I do think there were other alternatives.”

Dolyn remains silent. She's made up her mind and they'll be hardpressed to make her budge on it. Now’s the perfect time to steal it.

“Shadowheart, you'll be the lookout, our backup if this all goes pear-shaped.” Her eyes are fixed on the idol as she continues, “Gale, you'll be our fixer.”

His voice is at least an octave higher when he retorts, “The what now?” Gale’s incredulity would be adorable if not for his timing.

“Whatever we need… you do it with magic. Invisibility, mage hand…” she trails off at his huff before looking behind her. “Astarion…”

“Yes, darling.” His red eyes lock with hers. That’s nothing to be concerned about.

“You'll be the runner. You get in there and out as soon as you can.” She holds her voice firm, though she feels the longer she looks at him, the more it’ll waver.

His lips purse and the spell she’s under immediately breaks at his tone, “What, can't you just use your magic…”

“My magic is more the practical kind.” Dolyn performs a twirl of her wrist for show. She’s never really shown them her full repertoire of talents, as intended.

“So a children's magician?” There’s his snark, creeping in like always. “Are you planning on pulling a good idea out of a hat?”

“Shhhh.” Shadowheart’s elbow lodges firmly in Astarion’s side.

Dolyn continues, “I figure Gale casts invisibility on you, Astarion, and you sneak in, grab the item, and then--”

“And you propose I do all of that on my own?”

“Not exactly…”

“What are you doing then?” Astarion does his own mock version of her wrist gesture, exaggerating with the rest of his body.

“I'll be in the mix of it, talking to the druids, laying the groundwork, charming them so they never notice you.”

“You…? Charm…? darling, I think you have greatly overestimated your abilities.”

“Would you rather I grab the idol then?”

Astarion huffs and that's all the confirmation she needs.

── ☆ ──

The moment his hand touches the idol she freezes.

She knows he can see her, and thanks to a Gale’s prepared See Invisibility spell, she can see him.

The druids haven’t caught on yet, but the moment that idol moves, the moment they’ll notice.

Dolyn puffs out her chest, puts on a practised smile, and rounds the nearest druid by the stairs to draw his eye away from Astarion.

He’s taller than her, but that’s not hard to be with her standing only 5’5”. His long hair is braided from his rounded ears and tied back, holding his hair from falling to his face. He seems friendly enough, reasonably amiable. He shouldn’t be a problem.

“You have to tell me your favourite wildshape,” she states with one of those laughs that always seems to cover any hidden intentions. “I’ve always been so fascinated by the idea of just being something else.” 

Not entirely a lie, but not the complete truth. 

The perfect inbetween.

Her eyes glance up at Astarion who’s still poised, tilting his head at her with impatience.

She can take a hint.

“See, here’s the thing…” Her hand makes a series of gestures and an illusion appears off in the patch of grass behind them. It’s a small cat, white and fluffy, stretching itself out on the grass. “I’ve always thought I’d be a cat, but are cats actually a good wildshape to choose?”

She continues gesturing in the direction of her illusion, watching the other druids carefully to check that they too are just as entranced by the sudden appearance of this adorable feline.

They seem taken with it for the most part.

The druid before her, tanned, broad, and seemingly not as interested in discussing the intricacies of druidic life, answers bluntly, “Everyone’s wildshade is their own. You can’t really--”

There’s a scrape of stone.

Not loud but loud enough.

Astarion’s moved the idol.

Dolyn’s eyes dart to the cat. Still there, thankfully.

She tries to keep from turning to check on Astarion. If she looks, this druid will look, the others will look.

It’ll be worse still if Gale’s spell has ended.

“Did you hear that…” The druid begins to turn, despite her smiling and her wrist twirling and the adorable illusion she’s created.

It all happens in seconds.

Her eyes look up and there’s the idol, firm in Astarion’s hand as he tries to swiftly pocket the damn thing. He’s shoving it into this bag but it’s not moving fast enough.

“See, I…” Dolyn begins but immediately trails off as the druid glances around her, looking for the sound.

She clears her throat. Nothing.

Astarion’s creeping down the stone stairs and something slips from his bag.

Dolyn’s face stills. She can’t react. Can’t give it away.

“Hey, um, you were saying something?” she tries, forcing the smile now as he insists on turning around.

The other druids are starting to notice him moving. Their interest in the cat is waning.

Dolyn takes one last glance up at Astarion, fully visible now, crouched and poised like a lack of movement might stop them seeing him.

She has to act.

She has to do something or they’re going to notice.

Last thing they need is to start a fight with Grove before they’ve even saved it.

She has to do it.

She moves in front of the druid, standing between him and the stairs behind her, demanding his attention. She locks eyes with him, now fully turned to face exactly where she doesn’t want him to look.

The words leave her mouth like a reflex, “Look at me.”

Her voice is soft, polyphonic, as the whisper of her word pushes past her lips and the magic seeps into his ears.

Her eyes bore into his, holding him fixed, waiting for her will to push his down. It’s a long few seconds, but he relents and his body slouches where he stands, dazed.

Incapacitated.

“I just wanted you to look at me,” she continues to whisper, holding him still, unable to move away. He has to be able to see her.

She tries to keep up the illusion and hold him still while Astarion darts off. Though she can’t tell if he’s safely away. She’ll have to trust that he is.

She releases the illusion and it fades. The other druids laugh and shake their heads, but they start returning to where they’d been. A couple give only a cursory glance her way.

She blinks and steps back further than 5 feet from the druid under her spell.

“Are you okay?” she smiles immediately, putting on her practised concern as he comes back to himself. “You disappeared for a moment there.”

The druid nods, still dazed and confused.

Behind her she hears someone clear their throat. That’s her clue to leave.

── ☆ ──

The sense of pride Dolyn feels when they hand off the idol to Mol lasts for the rest of the day. It makes the discovery of the blood-drained boar and the dog with his fallen owner all the easier to bear. The dog hesitated coming with them, despite how long it appears the man had fallen, and apparently there’s a vampire somewhere nearby, according to Astarion.

Odd that he should know such detail. Stranger still that he said he didn’t want to worry her. Entirely suspicious that he’s offered to keep watch tonight.

As they continue toward the Goblin Camp, she hangs back to ask him about it. Though she has no idea what she should ask in the first place. Of course he wouldn’t care about a pig, but where has this concern for her come from? Her specifically by the sound of it.

“Do you always keep secrets from me?” she asks bluntly, walking beside him with a side glance.

Her lips curl ever so slightly into a satisfied smile when she sees his back stiffen, shoulders back. Why does it give her so much pleasure to get a reaction out of him?

Astarion sighs, eyelashes fluttering shut with momentary frustration. “I don’t know what you mean. I have been perfectly honest with you.”

“You told me that you didn’t want to worry me… by telling me a vampire killed a boar.” Those are the facts as he presented them after all.

“And now you’re proving me right…” he gestures at her dismissively, that competitive bickering tone coming back again. “You’re worrying about a vampire… during the day.”

Dolyn clicks her tongue, “I am not worrying, but I do find it concerning you’re weren’t going to tell me,” she gestures at the rest of the party, “and them, if there’s apparently a ‘ferocious’ creature nearby.”

Astarion scoffs with amusement. “And tell me darling, what exactly would you even do with such a creature?”

She considers him, the road ahead, and bites her lip in thought. “Surely it can’t be that bad if it’s killing boars. I can kill boars.”

Astarion guffaws, loudly, a full mirthful laugh. When he looks at her, he looks like she’s done something incredibly ridiculous, but all she’s said are facts as she understands them. Her brow furrows, searching his posture, his stance, anything to understand what brought that on.

He answers her with one more huffed laugh. “You’re unbelievable. I don’t even know where to start with you.”

“Perhaps some honesty would be nice?” She adjusts her gear, feeling heat rushing into her face. This is not where she wanted this to go. She feels perceived and judged and entirely uncomfortable under his gaze.

There’s a moment of silence between them. Only the sound of crunching leaves beneath their feet fill the air.

When she looks over finally, she finds Astarion looking at her with a question in his eyes. The moment he realises she’s looking at him, his expression hardens. “Well that would be wonderful… if we were both being honest.”

“What?” He can’t be serious. She’s told them all everything they needed to know. Besides, they’ve only known each other for a few days. “I’m not keeping things from you because you might get worried.”

Astarion’s tone grows more serious, pointed, “What did you do to the druid?” His smile is gone.

She blinks.

He saw that.

She was sure he had left by then and that she used the right words to make it looked like she was standing in someone’s way, like she was in an impromptu staring contest.

“I’m not sure what you mean…” Her lips part and she carefully licks them, focussing on relaxing her shoulders. She’ll need to keep her composure, keep up the image. If he’s seen what she can do, he might… react.

Astarion beelines for her side, arm intentionally brushing against her. “You know exactly what I mean,” he lowers his voice just for her with just a hint of threat woven in. “You don’t have to tell me now… but you will later.”

She doesn’t risk looking at him and keeps walking forward, trying to outpace him and failing. “There’s nothing to tell.”

He chuckles darkly, a hint of cynicism unmistakable to her ears. “Sometimes, Dolyn, dear, I think you’re going to get us all killed…”

She laughs back, a forced, awkward laugh. “Sometimes I think the same about you.”

Chapter Text

Tucked into her bedroll close to the river, Dolyn finds comfort in her personal nook. Her tent isn’t much more than an ensemble of fabric strewn haphazardly over the rocks and pulled taut by branches she found on their journey. Yet it’s a sight better than cold bricks in the tunnels. Anything is better than that.

Hidden from view by the rocks, she feels safer there, protected. Few of her travel companions can see when she flinches in the night, or that she sits there contemplating the sky. The exit to the river is only a few short feet away, should she ever need it.

With so many threats around them, setting up her tent, securing her place, is the least she can do to ease her nerves before she falls into the reverie each night.

But the curse that comes with never truly sleeping is never truly dreaming. Instead, as she drifts away, her body relaxed, arms fallen to her side in the warmth of her bedroll, memories flicker into her mind.

The hard ground beneath her feels like stone, then brickwork, then dirt. The smell of mouldy floorboards rise into her mind, as real as when they creaked beneath her feet.

She’s back in Baldur’s Gate by the docks. The air whips around her head with the sounds of berating seagulls and rowdy sailors returned from sea. Her legs dangle over the edge of the boardwalk, feet bare and free. The scent of the Gray Harbour greets her face with a spritz of the water on the breeze.

It’s home.

One of many.

As home as anything could be.

The bright midday sun shines off the crest of an incoming wave and she shields her eyes with her hand. It's a beautiful day. Perfect.

Footsteps trail behind her, jostling the boards beneath her. Passers-by make their way with bags and gear and fresh catch.

She breathes in, relaxed, at peace.

A hand touches her shoulder. 

A rough push hits her right in the middle of her back, enough to bruise her ribs.

Wood scrapes at the backs of her legs.

The wind running through her hair increases speed.

She's falling.

Water rushes up to meet her.

It's seconds before she hits the water, hard. Her knees strike the wave as it meets her halfway. Her eyes slam shut, desperate to keep out the sting of the harbour, but her mouth gasped open only tastes the filthy water of the docks.

The light in the water seems to come from all directions as she tosses and turns. Her arms meet resistance but no purchase. She wants to open her eyes, and seek the surface, but the harbour swallows her up. If the worshippers of Umberlee are right, she may very well feel her end. Pathetic to lose oneself where the water is the most shallow.

She holds her breath, muscles tensing as her lungs struggle. 

Time slips through her fingers and she can't tell how long it's been, how long she has left.

She has to live, has to survive, has to exist.

Focus, she tells herself, you can outthink this.

Calm.

She stops her movement and lets the wave push and pull her with the outgoing tide. 

Her body hangs in the water, suspended, waiting, like the kelp of the ocean floor, subject to the whims of the current.

She blows the air held in her lungs into the water around her. The bubbles kiss her cheeks on the way to the surface, up past her eyes. She tries again to be sure which way is truly up. The bubbles kiss her eyelashes and she nearly loses more air with a smile.

Focusing her hands in front of her, she concentrates.

Move, she wills silently. She gestures down, light glowing in her fingertips, pushing, focussed. Move as I command.

The flow of water changes, pushing her up. Her legs kick, gaining further movement as all her limbs work together. She'll be free of this soon, and then she can worry about her thoroughly drenched clothes.

Magic and body working in tandem she pushes up and up and up. The light appears brighter to her closed eyes. She's so close she can feel the crests of the waves curled into the wind.

With one last push, she breaches the surface -- her eyes blink open to the sight of teeth in an open mouth, hovering over her. Silver-white hair, pointed ears, that handsome chin. 

Deep red eyes meet hers.

"...Shit."

Astarion looks as shocked to see her as she is to see him.

She blinks, shuffling back onto her elbows. She'd just been in a memory that felt so vivid, so real, she can't be sure she's not hallucinating a new kind of dream. 

Except she doesn't dream.

Not ever.

Dolyn pushes up to her feet and watches, frozen, as Astarion shies away from her like he's been hurt, fearful and cautious of her. The more she blinks, the more she can't make sense of what she's seeing. He had no reason to be so close to her, so watchful, mouth open...

His eyes shine in the moonlight and his lips twist into an anxious smile... with fangs. His hands defend himself, raised to prove himself innocent. “No, no - it’s not what it looks like, I swear!”

His voice sounds close to breaking, nervous, desperate. He too seems to be catching his breath from the moments that just transpired. Though he looks to be more scared of her than affected by a memory having crossed his mind.

Her elbows draw in close, fingers curling in front of her chest. Her throat tightens the more she tries to swallow away the memory of water burning on the way to her lungs. She was vulnerable, she was scared, and he was...

“I wasn’t going to hurt you!" he calls out, as if reading her thoughts, or her face considering how raw she feels. He breathes out a sigh, resigned, "I just needed - well, blood."

It can't be...

The reverie fully leaving her now she sees him with clarity. The pallor of his face. The sinewed strength beneath his skin. The blood red hue of his eyes. The fangs that greeted her waking eyes.

"It was you," she says softly. She needs to say it for her own sanity, despite how raw her voice sounds in the quiet of the night. He's certainly picked an opportune moment. "I can't believe I didn't see it." She laughs despite herself, feeling overwhelmed and maybe a little mad. Mad would certainly be apt.

She tilts her head, examining him now. It's a wonder she didn't see it before. He's not made any attempt to hide himself, not reasonably, but as much as she knows how people are, she's never been very good at determining what they are, what they're capable of.

"That boar... you lied to me..." It's less of an accusation as that dreaded deep-seeded worry roils in the pit of her stomach. How is she supposed to trust him now? Her head is shaking before she can think better of it. Her hand moves over her chest and feels the racing of her heartbeat.

Surely a vampire can hear it. Astarion as much as confirms it when he answers, "It's not what you think..." He searches her face as she seeks the truth in his. "I'm not some monster."

For all the wavy confidence in his voice, those words strike true.

He gestures with his hands like he's trying to pull back a lost thread, desperate to regain the tension on the connection between them. "I feed on animals, like that boar... deer, even the odd kobold. Whatever I can get..."

Dolyn tries to calm herself down. If she can just close her eyes and take a deep breath, she can react in a reasonable way. She can avoid panicking and making it worse. The dread that this really isn't a dream continues to wash over her.

Astarion keeps seeking something from her. Forgiveness perhaps. Maybe understanding. He's saying he's too slow, too weak, and he just needs a little blood? “...I could think clearer. Fight better. Please.”

Her breath catches. That is what he was after. While she was in the middle of a trance no less. Her eyes narrow and read him from head to toe.

He's not standing tall, body ready to move at any instant. His face is paler than usual, the moonlight not doing favours to his handsome features, nor the campfire still roaring behind him. She knows that look: the desperation of someone who can't remember their last meal and doesn't know when the next one is coming, when the shakes have begun to rattle you from the inside, clawing at the edge of your stomach that may just drive you crazy. She knows it far too well.

And yet... 

Her mind yearns to know and a strange sensation follows, coursing through her. With another blink, Astarion's mind unfolds, glimpses beginning to unfurl. Her need for the truth pushes her to a place she never thought she'd go. 

His eyes widen before his hand clutches at his temple, "I - what are you doing?"

The activation of the tadpole feels like her mind has lurched forward, grabbing out successfully despite the blind fumbling in using it. Somehow accurate and also less precise than a simple Detect Thoughts spell.

Yet as his mind cracks open to her curiosity, she finds it considerably less refined, raw with rough edges scratching against her own mind.

She feels a command, demanding to feed the hunger. His mouth - no, her mouth biting down. In her hands - a mild surprise to the part of her mind that watches - a rat twists away as teeth sink in. That's all he's permitted to eat. 

Her mind recoils back and her fingers immediately jump to her lips. No blood, despite how real it felt. 

"You were forced... to eat animals..." she recalls, "You didn't choose that." It's not accusatory but perhaps that's exactly what she’s doing. If he's trying to explain himself… that doesn’t explain why he’s now come for her.

With a sneer of disgust and confusion, Astarion's body appears to shudder. "I - yes... I ate whatever disgusting vermin my master wanted me to eat."

He peers back to her, gaze softening. "So, now you can see why I'm... hesitant to trust you."

It's one of the first things Dolyn feels she can agree on. She nods, unsure of where to look. After a sigh she settles for looking into his eyes, as terrifying as it feels with how exposed he looks in this moment. Both of them frozen in a stand off.

"I can understand that," she agrees with a stilted nod. 

It's a strange place to be to not only find out that her companion, who has been so readily on her nerves, is in fact a vampire. It's even stranger to think that he's the one that finds it difficult to trust her. After all, he's the one that was leering over her in her trance.

But Dolyn knows more than most the desperation that comes with survival, particularly hunger. Worst still, she never thought she'd know someone else who knew the miserable, haunting reality of needing rats for sustenance. Though she has no plan of sharing that, unless he's already seen that when she entered his mind.

"It... makes sense why you wouldn't trust me," she admits.

The longer she stares at his face, the more it settles in that he's more than his coiffed hair and melodramatic fair. There's a vulnerability. Hidden, yes, but it’s there, underneath the surface. He doesn't seem to know that he's brought out into the open.

He cuts through the quiet again, insistent, “But I do trust you. And you can trust me."

Dolyn's lips part. If this is all part of some further manipulation on his part, this is the softest his face has ever looked. If she didn't know any better, she would swear that he wants her to understand. Perhaps even needs that from her.

The twinge in her chest squeezes.

"For what it's worth, Astarion, I - I trust you... a little." 

"That's... something. Thank you." His face warms with a smile and that calculating look of his flits into his eyes. "Do you think you could trust me a little further?"

She swallows, a warm flush running up to her cheeks. He's eyeing off her neck. It's hard not to see it. She did interrupt him after all.

He steps a little closer, no doubt seeing her hesitation. The longer she lets the question hang in the air, the more his confidence returns, “I only need a taste, I swear."

Dolyn runs her hand up to her neck, massaging the muscle, attempting to work out her nerves. The idea of being bitten is the least appealing thing she could think of. How was she supposed to... let him... bite her? Surely she'd bleed... a lot... and it'd hurt... But she can't let him go hungry, not with that face. Certainly not with that memory.

"O-okay, but don't drink anymore than you need?" 

She curses herself. She's more confident than this, than to get nervous about helping her travel companion that just happens to be a vampire. There's no need to be nervous.

Astarion's eyebrows rise, shoulders relaxing, head tilting in surprise. "Really? I - of course." He huffs, "Not one drop more."

As he gestures to her bedroll and suggests they get comfortable, Dolyn feels a panic rising. Her face is warm, her heart is racing, and her nerves all feel like they're on fire. She stumbles back and awkwardly falls, landing heavily on her bedroll.

She isn't like this. She's confident, self-assured, not easy made into a flustered mess. Even her hair is carefully braid and twisted into a bun to look well put together. 

Astarion must see it with the way that smiles. Perhaps that's just all part of his ploy. Maybe that's all it is, a hungry vampire needing a feed.

"Well, aren't we eager?" he purrs, kneeling down over her. 

A nervous laugh escapes her mouth. "D-don't... hurt me..."

His hand guides her down, a firm yet gentle hold, and she lies back, unable to escape the way that her heart continues to race. It'll be a wonder if she doesn't bleed profusely the moment he bites her. 

She settles down and stares up at the sky. It'll be over quick enough, surely. 

If she wasn't so anxious, maybe she could enjoy the moment, the way he seems so relieved and grateful for a taste of her blood. He settles over her like a cat ready to pounce and his breath on her neck makes her shiver.

Her heart is pounding so loud she can barely hear him before suddenly his lips are on her neck and she resists the urge to flinch. He's colder than she expected. Admittedly she had never considered this as a possibility, but she's always put herself in peculiar situations to help others. This is just another instance.

His fangs pierce her neck, sharp pain stabbing into muscle and tendon with a chill as cold as ice. She feels faint instantly as her pulse quickens ever further and her eyes close tight. She can barely breathe.

If not for the shock, she could have enjoyed this. His body is pressed firmly against hers and as he sates his hunger, he murmurs soft groans of delight as her blood graces his tongue. He devours her as she lays completely at his mercy.

The tips of her fingers tingle as her whole body seizes up. It hits her then that she might never get up from her bedroll. Her body is already feeling colder, like the chill of Astarion's body is reaching into her as her warmth leaves with every lap of his tongue, drawing more of her blood into his mouth.

As his hand cradles her head, pulling her body closer to his, the reality hits her. He could kill her, right here, right now, and she'll have done nothing to defend herself out of... fear? charity? kindness? Of all things?

"Astarion?" she gasps, her voice weak as she feels her consciousness start to fade. Her hands push weakly against his chest. She realises in that moment, that this is the closest she's ever allowed him to get to her. "P-please... stop."

As darkness takes her, she can’t tell if he heard her plea.

Chapter Text

The next light she sees feels like she’s staring at the sun, as blinding and brilliant as it feels painful. Her body aches like she’s been pulled from the ground by a tether to her soul. She would rather slip back to the peace she had before.

“Come on, soldier, time to get up.” Karlach’s voice coaches from beside her. The warmth of her presence unmistakeable.

Dolyn clenches her eyes shut, raises her brows, and squints up towards the source of the voice.

“You’re right,” says Shadowheart, relieved, “She heard you that time.”

Karlach’s smile comes into view in what must be the early morning light. Her features are framed by the embers of last night’s fire dwindling and the vermillion glow of her chest. She’s still wearing her camp clothes.

“What’s…” Dolyn trails off as she pushes herself up to a seated position. She's still on her bedroll, which is now cut open and splayed out beneath her.

Karlach and Shadowheart sit by her side while Gale watches on, worrying his lip with obvious concern on his face. Wyll stands by him with his hand ready on his rapier. In contrast he is considerably more serious, teeth clenched together while he surveys them all.

It’s when Dolyn peers up pass them, further back to Lae’zel’s tent and her unique collection of beast heads, that the events of last night replay in her mind. For there stands Lae’zel, eyes narrowed and her pupils thin slits of anger, with her longsword held tight against Astarion’s neck. His face twists between fear and worry, unsure of where to look until Dolyn’s eyes meet his.

He swallows, looking over her, and then the softness she had a glimpse of last night disappears behind the mask. His lips tighten and his brow falls to something more stern. The theatrical performance puts every detail of his social shield in place.

If he’s worried about her wellbeing, he’s not showing it. Though anyone would find it difficult to look beyond the edge of a blade at their throat.

Dolyn starts untangling her carefully twisted bun until her long chestnut brown hair rests in waves on her shoulders. It’s rare for her to let her hair down, especially with so many people watching, but she needs the tactile feel of something mindless to calm her down. She’s never seen the party look so tense and it's not about to change any time soon.

“What happened?” she asks, her voice surprisingly small.

Karlach answers first, eyes downcast, “You were dead for a minute there.”

That would explain the tension.

She nods and fidgets with her hair, eyes carefully meeting her companions’. “Dead? What do you mean… dead?” That's something she should remember.

Lae’zel asserts from across the camp, “It seems the elf is a vampire. He drained you during the night.” Her grip on Astarion tightens.

Of course that's what happened. How could she forget? She had let him feed and she hadn't stopped him when it became too much.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Wyll tries to soothe her. “He’s been swearing his innocence since we found you.”

Dolyn rubs at her neck and finds the marks where he bit her. “How long has it been?” She doesn't know how she's supposed to feel, but when she looks at Astarion, she doesn't feel anger.

Gale responds now, not easily hiding his displeasure. “Long enough.”

Astarion sighs dramatically. “Yes, this is incredibly fair, why don’t you all gang up on me some more?” His eyes plead with her to say something.

Lae’zel’s sword tightens and her other arm twists his hands behind his back.

“Don’t hurt him!” Dolyn yells, voice strained. She isn't about to have him take the fall for what was meant to be a helpful gesture. Though she's not sure what kind of defacto leader she is to be killed by one of her own party.

Shadowheart balks. “What - now you’re defending him?”

Dolyn gestures his way, trying to make her point while her head feels like it's spinning. “He was hungry, that’s all.” She sends a pleading look Lae’zel's way. “Please…”

Lae’zel huffs and releases her hold. She keeps the sword pointed firmly at Astarion.

Gale steps closer, arms folded. “Any other day you would have--”

Dolyn interrupts, “Yes, yes, I get it, please, everyone just calm down.”

Shadowheart’s hand settles softly on her arm. “You died.”

Dolyn doesn't mean to dismiss their concern, doesn't want to dismiss them at all. She made a choice and she reaped the consequences. She knows she's incredibly lucky to even still be breathing, to have been found tucked this far out of the way from everyone else.

They're starting to crowd her and her frustration comes out in her tone. “Yes, and I am very much alive now, if you’d like to let me do that?”

She sighs and ignores the looks on their faces. “I’m alive for a few seconds and I’m already being scolded.” 

The silence between them all is tense. 

Dolyn breaks it with command. “Let him go.”

The githyanki hesitates, sword gesturing Astarions’s way. “You do not wish for retribution?”

An argument with Lae’zel over her personal choices is not how Dolyn wishes to spend her morning before breakfast. She challenges back, “Are you planning on taking it from me?”

Lae’zel pauses. “No.”

“Right. Okay, well, look, thank you.” Dolyn nods to each of them in turn. “I am very much not dead. And I would very much like some space and to give Astarion what for.”

Dolyn holds her face stern while she watches the ripple of reaction throughout the party. Shadowheart’s face lights with a smirk. Wyll nods in recognition and respect. Karlach slaps her thighs and gets to her feet.

Astarion however…

“What?” he exclaims indignantly.

Dolyn pushes herself to her feet before walking directly to him and grabbing him firmly by the front of his shirt. “Come on, you, we have things to discuss.”

She pulls him far away from the other tents. It isn't a conversation she wants the others to overhear. Especially with each of their own worries so clearly plastered on their faces. She's never been so smothered by concern and it feels… confronting.

Astarion doesn't seem as concerned about anyone hearing him. “Listen! I didn't mean to kill you and look, you're fine! You're alive and hopefully not kicking.”

She lets him go the second they're between the walls of what looks like the ruins of an old church. He looks flustered and threatened with his hands raised in defence for a second. Then it all disappears behind that smarmy smile and gentle sway of confidence.

“Astarion…” she warns.

“Sorry.” The words sound foreign on his tongue. “I may have gotten a little carried away.”

Dolyn raises an eyebrow. “A little?”

“As much as you trust me apparently.” He peers over her with an expression she can't place.

“For good reason, it seems,” she scoffs.

He throws one hand into the air, twirling his wrist dramatically and glancing at his nails. “Glad you could talk some sense into them. I was starting to think I’d be another head in Lae’zel’s collection.”

Dolyn had worried the same. 

That's an odd feeling she doesn't want to admit. The back and forth between them feels so silly in retrospect. 

But she still can't help herself when he's just so easy to tease.

She slaps at his hand playfully, “So what happened to just as much as you needed?”

“Look, you… I… I may have plenty of experiences with hunting all manner of beasts, but drinking the blood of a thinking creature?” His fingers dance before him like a nervous tick and his eyes briefly meet Dolyn's, softened. “You were my first.”

She chuckles with a gentle shake of her head. “I should have guessed… and you didn’t think to bring that up?”

“I was hungry, starved really. And you…” his voice drops lower and he returns to his flirtatious nature, “you were delectable, invigorating.”

He is utterly ridiculous.

Her face warms. She can't help but laugh again, “Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?”

Astarion steps closer, eyes half-lidded. “Why would you not?”

“Something about the whole death thing.”

He clutches his chest like an overacting bard. “I promise I will never do it again.”

She pauses then. The image of him hungry, near starved, so close to begging her for what he called just a taste. Only he bled her dry, so desperate was his hunger. 

Memories of her own stomach growling and rumbling to the point her head pounded and her vision blurred fill her head. To think he has been hiding this from them all and suffering for it.

It would be the easiest thing she could do to offer herself. A kindness. A gift.

Dolyn licks her lips and starts softly, “So… about you biting me…”

“I already apologised. What more do you want?” Astarion protests and shift his weight to one leg.

“Astarion…”

A cheeky look crosses onto his face and he drawls suggestively, “Unless… you’re looking for another nibble…”

Dolyn ignores his baiting and turns to a more sombre subject. “In all seriousness, the reaction this morning… if you’re to stay with us, I need to know how we’ll feed you.” 

She's still working to saying the quiet part out loud.

That she would feed him, if he needs that from her.

“Not on them, not after that reaction. And no innocents, you have my word.” He leans forward as if performing a small bow. “Only people we’re going to kill anyway. What’s the harm in draining them if they’re as good as dead.” 

He smiles in that bemused way he does whenever some suggestion of violence is involved. “You all know what I am now. I can use all of my weapons.” Dolyn spies a flash of a fang in his smile.

“I’m…” She remembers the surge of uncertainty, the anxiousness, the fear. She feels stupid just offering this. “I’m not against you feeding on me.”

“O-oh?” The look on his face is befitting a cat that got the cream. Somehow he makes it more suggestive with just the curl of the smile on his lips.

She immediately rolls her eyes. “Don’t get any ideas.”

“Too late…” He steps closer and tilts his head to read her body. “You really did enjoy it, didn’t you? Just a little death.”

Dolyn crosses the space between them and jabs at his chest. “You kill me again and you lose your blood privileges.”

How is it easier to threaten him losing access to her than offering herself in the first place?

Astarion’s eyebrow raises, suspicious, but his smile victorious. “Are you offering yourself, just like that?”

She remembers the look of his hunger and a bashful warmth tingles in her cheeks. “I don’t want you starving, or draining other people, or sneaking up on other people in the night.”

She gulps and asks the question she's been dreading. “So how often do you need to… feed?”

A look passes over his face. “I can go without for some time, but I become… weaker. It’s hard to concentrate.” There’s more that he’s not saying, but neither of them acknowledge it. “What about the others?”

“I will speak to them, don’t worry,” she says and turns back to the nervous topic at hand, “What would you need from me?”

“I…” Astarion pauses. He blinks and no thoughts or words follow.

She offers, becoming more aware of the bite mark on her neck. “I couldn’t possibly manage it every day…” She pulls her hair to the other side of her neck, revealing the side he bit. “But… every few… If that would be sufficient for you.”

“Look at you, being so incredibly generous, you sweet thing you,” Astarion purrs. His eyes drop to her neck.

She gulps the second she notices how softly his eyelashes fall when he blinks. Even something so mundane looks beautiful on him.

“Don’t push your luck,” she retorts, pushing down her own smile.

His half-lidded gaze doesn’t leave her. “Oh, like luck has anything to do with this. I felt the way you shivered when I tasted you.”

In fear. She couldn’t help it. The idea of him biting her again is terrifying, but he’s not to know.

“You let me know when you’re ready for next time.” He gets even closer, practically standing breaths apart. His smile shifts from teasing to genuine. “Despite how it ended, it was a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.”

Neither will she.

Chapter Text

The way to the goblin camp goes as smoothly as they could have hoped. Though not without an extra push from the wriggling passenger in Dolyn’s skull.

She feels that same urge from the tadpole in her mind and pushes her will onto one of the goblin leaders. It feels like second nature, as familiar as breathing. After all, it's not the first time she's influenced someone without words. Perhaps the tadpoles in their heads could offer more to them than previously thought.

Astarion certainly seems to think so, but the others each express their concerns. The idea of having some foreign being take over her body is certainly not the most ideal of outcomes, and if Gale and Lae’zel are right, they should have long been transformed by now.

Perhaps she’d be best not using whatever powers they offered.

Besides, she doesn’t need it when she convinces the ogres to work for them in exchange for the dead they leave behind nor to convince more goblins to leave without bloodshed so they can save the deep gnome tied to a spinning windmill.

What use are external powers to her if she already has her own skills? She’s been persuadable all on her own and it’s worked out for the most part. She’s had decades to work her magic, literally. What’s more is they now have a collection of trinkets, an old ominous grimoire, and enough scrolls to keep her arcane curiosity at bay.

Though if they have to keep feeding Gale a magical artefact regularly she’s seriously considering enchanting some of her own to save the ones they have.

It seems all her companions are hiding their own personal demons and as they pass into the goblin camp, Dolyn's not entirely sure if she’ll ever be able to keep hers hidden either.

The smell hits them as soon as they enter past the first broken statue of Selûne, a sight much to Shadowheart's distaste. The strong scent of blood, sour roasted mystery meat, and something that’s trying to be beer lingers in the air. The goblins pay them no mind as they wander in, completely unconcerned with their presence.

“Sounds like they’ve captured themselves a bard,” Lae’zel says as the sound of forced rhymes hit their ears.

A struggling bard at that.

The bright blue of Volo’s garb is smudged with all manner of dirt and blood and likely beer now too with the audience he has around him. A goblin woman smiles up at him, teeth exposed like a predator waiting for their prey to run. It’s an awful sight, even if Dolyn finds him to be the most insufferable dolt she’s ever met, and that’s saying something.

She knows he’s seen them the moment his eyebrows raise with concern and he begins to stumble. Not a word passes from her mouth, from any of them, while he continues to struggle.

The goblin woman turns to yell at them to leave and Volo follows with a quiet plea, “Do as she says. Now.”

Before they can act, Volo’s being dragged away into the centre of the goblin camp, back to his ‘cage’. Perhaps that’s not the worst thing for them, if it can help lead them to Halsin, but now there’s an extra body that Dolyn feels responsible for. 

This is going to be harder than she thought.

“Goblin parties are better than the ones in the hells,” Karlach says quiet enough for just their group to hear, likely trying to cheer Dolyn up. “Not that I’m suggesting we stay here.”

“We’ll want to get in and out of here somehow,” Dolyn adds. She’s growing more concerned with the sheer number of them.

Astarion clicks his tongue behind them. “There’s so many of them.” 

Dolyn chuckles. At least they’re on the same page. If they weren't surrounded he might have been more forward with his complaints. Something about how long it would take most likely.

“Despite our…” He sneers down at a passing goblin burying his face in a flagon, “company, I’m always up for a little debauchery.”

“Your idea of debauchery is roast dwarf meat?” Dolyn asks, nodding towards large thick slabs of meat being rotated on a spit above the coals.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

They scout the exterior of the camp, finding a group of goblin children, those singing the praises of the Absolute as a god, and a poor owlbear cub that’d glimpsed in a cave out in the forest. The poor thing looks as dazed as Dolyn felt to be surrounded by so much noise all at once.

She adds a third tally to her list of people and, well, creatures to save.

── ☆ ──

Four, Dolyn notes when they hear the blood-curdling screams of one of the druids.

She beelines towards the sound without a word. Her heart takes off racing like a rabbit on the run from a wolf, syncopated beats blending together into louder thumps in her chest.

Her body stills the moment that she sees him, the blood smeared on his arms, the fear and sense of hopelessness in his eyes. Her mouth immediately dries and she catches herself swallowing around nothing but the lump in her throat.

“Tell them you’ll take over because they’re doing a horrible job,” Shadowheart says beside her suddenly.

Whether she means it to help or genuinely has opinions about the goblins’ torture techniques, Dolyn can’t be sure, but it’s an idea. Even if she’s now eyeing the cleric differently. She shouldn’t be surprised to hear such things from a worshipper of Shar. It’s just a wonder she hasn’t been more openly judgemental.

Heartbeat in her throat, Dolyn manages to convince them to leave and hurries to unpick the lock holding the druid to the rack. 

“Darling, allow me…” Astarion offers and she quickly shakes her head, barely looking at him.

She needs to let him go herself if she can help it. Releasing him is infinitely more time pressing to her than Volo's was. The panic of it fills her mind in the same way the smell of his blood floods her nose. It’s not the same as that time. This is different. He’s going to be okay. He’s going to be fine.

As her mind runs over and over the same old affirmations, her fingers turn and twist and with a soft click the lock comes undone. Years of practice paying off.

They really should be asking him questions, but her head is swimming. Her nerves are sparking down her arms, willing her to run, to hide, to disappear as if she could make all the sensations go away in a dark corner.

Steeling herself, she manages one question about where Halsin is and the druid informs them that the archdruid wild-shaped into a bear. There’s little more to be gained from him in his state so she nods for him to go.

Dolyn stands there, looking over each of the implements of torture, and feels an uncomfortable wash of nausea take over her body. Her feet stumble and her hand lands against the rack with a thick wet slap, the man’s drying blood sticking to her hand.

“You alright, soldier?” Karlach chimes in, her voice soft, noticeably concerned.

She shakes her head. “I think I’m going to need a moment.”

No doubt they’re staring at her now, asking themselves the same questions she’s been asked by less tactful people. Is she okay? Does she need to sit down? Does she need anything? Question after question they would ask but never once wonder if perhaps they should not speak at all.

“I’m fine,” she forces out before they’ve had a chance to say anything. “Just need a walk. Stay here, would you?”

She ignores their concerned eyes and the glances they make between each other. Her feet lead her to a war drum overlooking the great hall where a goblin who likened herself a Priestess of the Absolute seared brands into devotee after devotee. So much pain inflicted needlessly, with malice, is enough to turn her stomach and her feet away from the mess below.

She sees him then, a man with a shock of white hair dressed in black leathers, most of his back and chest exposed. He kneels in a puddle of blood, facing an alcove in the stone wall.

Blood seems to be everywhere. She’s not going to be able to escape it. He’s probably just as bloodthirsty as--

Thwack!

Her eyes snap to the sudden sound and her lips part.

The sound definitely came from where the man sits, and though she can’t be sure in the dark, where the sweat on his skin reflects the candlelight is now a thick red welt.

Thwack!

She watches in wonder as he hand rises up and he strikes himself with an implement of torture, a quick and firm hit against his own back.

It’s been years since she’d seen one of Loviator’s followers but the markings, the dark and revealing nature of his clothes, are unmistakeable. She’s known of the goddess for as long as she can remember. It was hard not to know of her in the Lower City, though Ilmater generally had a stronger following, being the kinder of the two. Something about gods who alleviate, justify, and give meaning to pain attracts all manner of people.

Her feet drive her forward before her heart catches up, the beat now firmly, thankfully, back in her chest where it belongs.

“Ahem,” she interrupts his penance. The nausea subsides, if only briefly, as the prospect presented in front of her.

The man rises from his position, turning to face her with a welcoming smile, or as welcoming a smile as she could expect. His arms sweep wide before he beckons her forward. Without her uttering anything further, she knows he can see her intentions.

“Greetings child. I've met few beside goblins here,” he says, “Are you also here to assist with the prisoner?”

Dolyn gulps, flexing her hand, still sticky with the druid's blood. “N-no… definitely not.”

His demeanour shifts just enough for her to notice. “Probably for the best… their methods are primitive at best.” He eyes her with a sense of knowing, seeing something in her. "Pain without purpose is a terrible thing, wouldn't you agree?”

“Are you offering to give pain purpose?” she asks, already knowing the answer. The kind of torture the goblins engage in doesn't compare to the stories that she's heard about the Maiden of Pain. Belief that pain is a gift is a terrifying motivator.

That belief eludes Dolyn entirely. She wants to feel, to forget, to free herself of this feeling overwhelming her. It's ridiculous to feel so light-headed. It's just blood and the man who bled is still living. He's going to be okay, she's going to be okay. It's nothing like what she's seen in Baldur's Gate.

She's safe now. She has to believe that. If she just trusts this stranger to indulge in her pain and exchange the pain throttling her chest with something tangible. Something that feels real and now and will ground her. 

He answers her after a long look in her eyes, “Pain has the power to cleanse you.” He gestures to the alcove with a mace now firmly grasped in his other hand. “I can show you.”

She hears the sound of steps behind her but ignores it as she shrugs off her robe to undress down to her underwear. Dropping her clothes to a patch of stone not slick with blood, she steps forward to face the wall. Her skin prickles at the cold but her body doesn't tremble. She can take it.

The worshipper, Abdirak, sighs his approval at her enthusiasm. Dolyn chooses not to correct him.

Whispers behind her tell her she's got an audience and she's not one to disappoint them. Her shoulders straighten and her chin rises proud. She'll not take this slumped and miserable like the weak creature she so desperately wants not to be.

The mace hits her with a wet thump. The sharp edges split the soft skin of her back, no doubt marking with growing welts and flecks of crimson as her blood blooms both under and through her skin. She hisses through her teeth to stomach the pain that ripples through her.

“Is that it?” she barks defiantly. “A child can hit harder than that.” She'll goad him into more. They'll both gain what they're seeking today.

An amused and impressed hum echoes off the stone behind her but she has barely a second to think before the second blow strikes her back. This time she stifles her body's urge to shake at the pain. She's had worse. The faded marks across her back and over her body would tell the tale.

Praises spill forward from the Abdirak’s mouth, encouraging her to take more. She immediately turns to grab his gaze and sneers defiantly, “You look tired. Should I take over?”

When she turns back against the wall, solidifying her posture to endure more, she hears a familiar drawl behind her, “Who knew our friend has so much blood in them?”

She barely has a second to process it or the following snide comment from Shadowheart before the mace hits the air out of her lungs. She gasps back her breath in short bursts, refusing to let them hear her struggling.

Her mind swims through thickened fog as praise after praise comes from Abdirak’s lips. He thanks her for her penance as she mumbles her own gratitude.

She blinks in confusion as he appears to enchant her, red and orange flickers of energy taunt her already fuzzy vision and then it's gone, explained away as a blessing from the goddess herself.

Thankfully the whole scene was enough of a blessing to draw Dolyn's mind from floating off into ruminated memories. She feels firmly grounded, if not thoroughly pummelled into the floor.

She grabs her robe and slips past a bemused Astarion who quickly follows in pursuit, “Looks like that's going to bruise.”

“You don't say,” she quips back, darting for the iron ladder that leads up from the centre of the sanctum. She needs space and privacy if she's going to have any hope of keeping herself together.

Astarion clicks his tongue, giving her a judgemental glance as he moves to her side. “Darling, are you in any condition to be climbing?”

Dolyn moves anyway, her robe thrown over her shoulder as she climbs up the ladder to the second floor. She crawls across the floorboards and settles leaning against the stone pillar, staring out at the burning coals below.

To her annoyance, she wasn't alone for long, and she finds herself less than a foot away from Astarion, who has parked himself defiantly by her side.

“I can't say that the view you just gave me was how I had pictured seeing you in your underwear, but it was a sight.” He grins at her triumphantly.

Dolyn rolls her eyes, “Nevermind the fact you've been picturing me in my underwear.” She fails to sound mortified the second the implication sets her heart beating.

“Clearly I'm just clairvoyant and you are considerably less the prude I thought you were,” he plucks at the robe lying down onto the ground around her. “What stopped you from being completely naked?”

“Oh you would have liked that, would you?” She throws the words out and regrets the immediate need she feels to know if he would, in fact, like that.

Astarion stretches and teases her briefly with his silence, leaning back onto his hands. “There are a lot of things I like, such as that show...”

“It wasn't a show meant for you… besides, I came up here to bleed in peace, thank you.” 

Her skin is still singing with the tingling of the strikes to her back and she can feel the wet gentle trickling of blood from broken skin.

“Would you mind if I had a closer look?” Astarion asks, shuffling closer, seating himself behind her. His hand gently settles on her bare shoulder.

Her head turns to peer over her shoulder at him, “What are you--”

His eyes fixate on her back. His tongue wets his lips. “It is an extraordinary mess this…”

She hisses as he presses a finger to a fresh bruise. The hunger in his eyes sets off that strange nervous quiver through her body. It's not the same desperation she had seen in him before. This looks closer to want than need.

“I-I…” Her voice disappears into a breath. She would shudder if she didn't also fear she might spook him. She licks her lips and swallows the dryness now in her mouth. “If you're hungry…”

“...yes?” his voice is low, close to a growl, when his eyes meet hers.

“You could…”

“Go on…”

“Help yourself…”

He blinks slowly, eyelashes delicate and pretty just like his eyes. She can't look away, transfixed and bewildered by how close he has gotten. His hands have moved to her, a welcome chill to her hot flushed skin.

“It’d be a waste of perfectly good blood. Would be a shame if I didn't…”

His lips meet her back in a kiss and all she can do is gasp. His hands grasp her, gently clasping her like prey in his claws, one at her shoulder and one at her waist. 

The warm wet swipe of his tongue sends a shiver down her spine and heat down to pool between her legs. She should feel ashamed of herself, to be so responsive to something so…

Her mind stops thinking as his lips leave a trail of kisses up her back. Whatever itching and stinging she still feels is washed away by his touch, his lips devouring her pain as Astarion himself devours her composure and conviction in tandem. He groans as he tastes more of her blood, shifting closer to her with a growing breathlessness.

She freezes, heart racing so fast she’s sure she’ll never be able to catch her breath.

And then it stops.

His breath heaves against her ear, shuddering as if he’s feeling the same tension between them. “Thank you... for the snack.”

Dolyn forces her eyes to blink and looks across the sanctum as if it’ll provide her answers.

She finds nothing.

When she turns to face Astarion finally, he’s already gone.

And she’s left to drape herself in her robe and try piece herself back together after nearly falling apart.

Chapter Text

Covered in blood and sinew of goblins, ogres, and spiders, they fight their way out with the roaring archdruid at their side. His warning of his rage was not an understatement as he tears through the camp in retribution by tooth and claw. 

Dolyn finds herself both impressed and pleasantly surprised at his devotion to his own survival. She would never have expected to be witness to such action from a druid, let alone a leader, but everyone has their limits after all.

As they start to leave, the revellers outside turn on them the second the heavy wooden doors swing open. Sword and dagger clanging in the air and fire and lightning sparking on barrels and wine, the fight erupts in the courtyard of the crumbling monument to Selûne and ceases in a cloud of smoke.

The silence that falls feels eerie in a placing so recently buzzing with celebration.

She's not keen on staying long, but encourages the others to gather whatever valuables they find. While they wander through the camp, her mind drifts to who they'll survive this, how they'll manage to save themselves from the tadpoles.

Halsin, the archdruid they freed, offers no answers and little more than a pleasant welcome back to the grove. He's as perplexed as they are, but at least it's a start, knowing that they aren't the only ones, but revealing that this goes far wider and longer than they had even suspected.

But of course this would be another thing to the list. A long list of struggle after struggle, the long thread tugging her forward to stumble and trip into some new disaster. It's any wonder she hasn't given up completely and lived the life so many of her contemporaries have.

Time will tell of course. Can one really fall into madness if they're already waist deep?

The thoughts plague her as they journey back to the wetlands. Her previous decisions coming back to haunt her as they find the bodies of the bodies, each carrying pitchforks and poisoned apples.

This time she can't afford to turn a blind eye to their reality and the murky thick smell of swamp water and rot pulls them headfirst through the shattered illusion. Where there was sheep are now redcaps, bright flowers into wilted plants, and clear water into muddy stagnant bog.

A quick Speak with Dead spell from Shadowheart confirms the hag not only killed them but was sought by their sister for some kind of deal. The level of desperation it takes to seek a hag’s help never works out well. 

“Let's go get the girl,” Dolyn instructs before the spell has even ended, trudging off towards the hut tucked further into the swamp.

Shadowheart sighs, pushing to ask one remaining question about how they died before the spells ends. 

Karlach, Wyll, and Gale are immediately by her side with the same desire to rescue the sister in the hag's clutches. It's a relief to have them right in step with her, both in motion and in mind. They've been a saving grace to herz more than once.

While Lae’zel has fallen in line like a soldier taking orders and Shadowheart has shown herself to be less hardened than she appears with chains in her hair, the softer and friendlier of her newfound friends are consistently keeping her compass pointed towards doing good.

Astarion however remains invested in his own desires, which seem to be firmly self interested, indulgent, and more insecure that she had originally given him credit for. He's already been caught out muttering practiced lines of praise by Shadowheart as well as number of attempts to build rapport with their resident monster hunter by bringing up vampire lords. 

Dolyn can hardly blame him. A vampire spawn among them means a risk to them should his hunger strike. If she were him, she’d be using the party to survive.

Survival takes work.

And so do people.

Trust is never a given.

As they power through a confrontation with the green hag, that thought sits in the pit of Dolyn’s stomach. Exploding barrels and flame licking around her heels, she lets that survival instinct kick in and stares the hag down, eyes connected, her will pushing forward. It’s a risk and though the hag struggles against it, all she can manage is one last misty step before Dolyn has her held.

The others, thankfully, don’t seem to have noticed Dolyn’s charm as their barrage of attacks take the hag down.

── ☆ ──

“His name is Astarion,” the monster hunter Gandrel explains, “but I fear he's gone to ground. I hope the hag of these lands can help me flush him out, if I can afford her blood price.”

Dolyn steels her face the moment she hears Astarion’s name.

Curious.

Wyll has spoken of hunting all manner of creatures before, even knowing how to hunt vampires themselves. She’d never considered that their very own vampire companion would find himself hunted.

But this is Astarion of all people. Vampire or not, he’s bound to make enemies. It can’t be that much of a surprise.

She watches Astarion from the corner of her eye when she asks, “And when you find this ‘Astarion’? Do you plan to kill him?”

She keeps her tone cool, faintly disinterested, despite the smile threatening to curl her lips. There's satisfaction in knowing that Astarion’s squirming beside her and that she gets to tease him.

“Not this time. My orders are to capture him,” explains Gandrel.

Her stomach drops at the genuine worry that flits over Astarion’s face. 

At the idea that someone wants him captured.

It's one thing to be amused at someone wanting revenge for something he has done, but to see actual worry on his face is new. That same vulnerability from the other night is drawn into his features again.

She meets his gaze and for a second there's a shared understanding.

Astarion clenches his jaw. “Oh? And bring him where exactly?”

He's trying to hide his worry with a light tone and a smile. Yet he keeps looking to her, a silent conversation seeking reassurance, an answer.

The monster hunter is more than forthcoming, not concerned with sharing this information with strangers. “Baldur's Gate. My people wait for me there.”

“So he's just a vampire spawn?” Dolyn says with a smirk and a casual dismissive gesture. “Not a real vampire.” She makes a pointed raise of an eyebrow.

“Oh I don't know…” A mischievous glint takes to Astarion’s eyes. Oh he's not the least bit impressed, but at least his frustration at her has distracted him. “I'm sure a vampire spawn could still rip your throat out of he felt like it.”

He smiles at Dolyn just enough to expose the tip of one of his fangs.

It's both a threat and a tease. 

Gandrel misses their banter and waxes on about the threat a vampire poses to them. For all his earnest demeanour, Dolyn finds it hard to take the monster hunter seriously.

Especially with their own personal vampire in their midst.

Though she can hardly talk when he has technically killed her. Even if she didn’t help the situation.

“Yes,” she begins, talking to Gandrel while directing all of her words at Astarion, “I imagine they could prey on you in the middle of the night.”

She suppresses a laugh at the stiffening to his shoulders.

“Well we're not dead so let's focus on the positive, shall we?” Astarion throws back, continuing to hide their back and forth as if they were discussing the potential roaming threat of some terrible vampire in the woods.

For as forward Gandrel has been with information and how much he assures them that the threat of the vampire spawn is present, Dolyn can’t help but see the humour in it.

And yet this man wishes to take one of her party away. 

Despite all the risks Astarion poses, she can't allow that.

She doesn't abandon her people.

“Indeed it is,” Astarion agrees with the monster hunter’s statement. “We should do something about this threat.”

She knows that look he gives her then, the same one seeking permission, waiting for guidance. How it came to be her voice he listens to she doesn't know, but it's her he wants to hear from.

Her throat feels dry just standing here in this moment and facing the gravity of the decision he wants her to make.

“Okay,” she sighs, “Kill him if you must.”

“Excellent.”

The growl of his approval sends a shiver down her spine.

── ☆ ──

“You helped,” Astarion comments, tucking away his daggers after wiping the blood off on the grass. There’s as much implication in his voice at her guilty participation as there is surprise she got involved.

Dolyn picks through the monster hunter's pockets, deliberately turning her face away from him. She's not about to tell him more than he needs to know.

Instead, she tries to dismiss his prying, “Don’t get used to it.”

Astarion doesn't let go. “You held him… with your eyes… like the druid.”

She did.

And she's trying not to think too hard about it.

That makes three times now that he's seen her use her magic. The enchantment that makes everyone uncomfortable the moment they know she can cast it with her eyes.

Yet Astarion only becomes more intrigued.

“And you killed him, with my permission,” she says flatly. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Astarion moves closer behind her. “Indeed I am, and I was just thinking…”

She pries the crossbow from Gandrel’s hands and passes it back to him. 

“About our time together, the things we've shared…”

Dolyn pauses, crouched over the blood and gore of the man they both just murdered to save his skin. “Astarion, get to the point.”

“I'm growing to like the whole package.”

That’s not what she was expecting to hear.

Her heart skips a beat, or two, and she has to steady herself before she dusts herself off and stands to face him. “You're pulling this now?”

Astarion flourishes his hands, leaning closer, his hand hovering almost close enough to touch her. “You clearly like me too.”

If he’s trying to get past her defenses, it’s working.

Maybe he likes getting to her as much as she does, as much as she enjoys getting to him. 

She shakes her head in disbelief and puts some distance between them. She can’t afford to get too close.

“You drained me dry once. I think that’s what you liked, hmm?” She wants to hold her ground, but she finds herself licking her lips in her nervousness. 

He tilts his head like he knows and captures her in place with his words. “Let me make it up to you. You gave me a wonderful gift - it's only fair I return the favour.”

He mimics her, tasting his lips like she imagines he must have after he tasted her.

“Somewhere intimate. Somewhere we can... indulge in each other.”

── ☆ ──

She has to be an idiot.

Every ounce of self-preservation has been thrown out the window.

She has had days to put some kind of defense up, find some kind of reason not to see this invitation through, and yet here she is in the dead of night, alone, heading to the secluded place Astarion said he would meet her.

The soft cotton of her camp shirt feels like it's clinging to her chest. She feels exposed just being out here in the woods.

The implication hadn't been entire clear the first time when Astarion had offered a reward of all things, but he left nothing to the imagination when he cleared any and all confusion earlier in the night.

Sex, to be clear, he had said leaning in and plucking any breath she had right out of her lungs.

She picks at her shirt hem, nerves getting the better of her. She's taken all the precautions she can so the others don't know she's disappeared off with him. They would never let her forget it.

She might never forget it.

That's when she see him, shirtless, hair glimmering in the moonlight. He stalks towards her with a single-minded confidence.

“Uh-um…” she stutters, a ghost of her breath leaving her lips at the sight of him.

She didn't expect him to appear half-naked already, nor with that smug grin of his. He looks over her likes he's already picturing her naked, working out the quickest way to get her undressed.

“I've been waiting,” he drawls, pitch lower than she's heard it yet. 

He's closer, so much closer, and the way his eyes assess her fix her into place.

“I-I didn't think I was that far behind you?”

This all feels like a dream, a fantasy she didn't know she had. He's… beautiful. The angle of his chin, the soft warmth of his smile, the intensity of the red in his eyes, his body sculpted by the gods themselves.

Her mouth opens to speak and he hushes her with a raised hand. “Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you.”

Her eyelashes flutter but in confusion rather than flirtation. 

That's not true. They've been at each other since they've met, from the very first moment he put a blade to her neck.

He's never had any interest in her otherwise.

Believing anything else would be delusional.

“Astarion, please,” she sighs, “we both know that's not true.”

“How can you be so sure?” His finger curls and strokes gently down her arm. “Your heart is racing. Your body knows I've been waiting to have you.”

Nervous laughter erupts from behind her lips before she can keep it in. 

“Come on, Astarion,” she pushes at his chest and her smile disappears the second her hand feels the firm muscle of his smooth chest. “Y-you know this is all a…”

Dolyn trails off as his eyebrow raises, questioning her, mocking her. He knows exactly what he's doing. Every look over her is like he's plucking ever so gently at the threads keeping her together, breaking down her carefully woven resistance.

“I don't think you want to talk,” he says with a sly gesture at her.

She pulls back. “Th-that’s a big assumption. We barely know each other.”

Oh she wants to see where this goes, as much as it pains her to know she might regret it, just as much as she wants this moment between them.

All his lines are so practised, so obvious, so different from their back and forth. Yet every word from some script he created.

He smiles, unfazed, “Then let us get to know each other better, intimately.”

“Is that what you want?” she asks reflexively.

Every back and forth between them so far has been touched with a hint of vitriol. She's been a thorn in his side as much as he has been in hers. To think he had this in mind… it doesn't make sense.

“Isn't this what you want?” he counters, bridging the gap between them, so close Dolyn can feel her skin prickling already. “To lose yourself in me.”

Torn, she blinks, mouth agape. Those aren't the words she'd use, but he seems so insistent, so confident and sure.

Her voice is quiet and breathy when she finally replies, “If you're sure…”

His hand grabs at her waist, hand snaking to the small of her back, and pulls her flush against him.

Oh she couldn't pull away from him now.

Chapter Text

Astarion’s lips find hers and capture a short inhale. His fingers claw into the small of her back, pressing her closer, capturing her in his grasp too. It’s all she can do but to sigh into it and give into his charm.

Her shoulders relax and she kisses him back, humming in approval. Her hands find his chest, fingers splayed out like the night he had drained the very life from her.

He could do it all again. 

Tonight. 

If she let him.

Astarion breaks their kiss with a smirk and starts kissing across her jawline. He trails down her neck, feather-light touches at every patter of her heartbeat until he lingers at where he’d bitten her nights ago.

It's as if he knows she's thinking about it.

He probably is too.

How easy of a meal she had been for him.

How easy she is now.

She shudders as he focuses on that spot. The cold touch of his lips prickles against her skin. She can't recall being this sensitive or feeling the sharp tug of fear that she's letting a vampire this close. A vampire that’s already killed her once.

Yet when she's sure he's ready to bite her, he pulls away. His eyes lock on hers, watching her closely, and then they disappear behind the cotton of her shirt as he slips his hands to the hem to pull it up and over her head.

She freezes as the night air brushes across her bared skin. She’s not been the more discrete of their companions at camp, but in this moment she feels all the more exposed. Every scar on her skin presented and in view.

But he doesn’t pay any mind to the littering of marks across her body.

Every step he takes feels like a practiced dance. A hand to her hip, a kiss to her shoulder, fingers carefully unfastening her bra before unlacing her pants.

Dolyn's hands slide up to his shoulders as he sinks down to his knees and they grasp tight to hold herself up as he kisses each of her now exposed thighs.

He makes quick work of undressing her completely, loosening her loose bun for her hair to fall across her shoulders. His fingers are just as dextrous as they are with any lock, unlocking every mechanism she has to keep herself in check. She moves in step with his dance, out of her clothes as he shrugs out of his, deeper into the forest, following his lead.

In a nervous rush of cheek, Dolyn jumps into his arms and he lifts her with a strength he rarely shows outside of battle before turning to press her back against a tree.

“Didn’t take you to be someone…” she begins to tease before he cuts her off with a rushed kiss, leaving her to speak in gasped breaths. “Mmmhhh… who fucks… in the woods.”

She clings to him like she might fall and perhaps she might. It’s been so long since her last tryst that the thrill of this moment may threaten to undo her if she’s not careful.

He quirks an eyebrow as that sly smirk of his plays across his lips. “Thought a wood elf like you would feel at home.”

Dolyn scoffs and relishes flitting back into the small comfortable place they’ve built between them. It snaps right back into place. Something warm like a flame yet too hot to touch.

Her hands clamber to hold his face and pull him into her. Fingers threading clumsily through his silver-white curls before tugging him forward to taste his lips again.

The first thing she notes as his lips crash against hers is how quickly his smile fades. Like a brief glitch in his otherwise smooth demeanour, he falters, only to press more insistently against her, pushing through, once the moment breaks. There’s a fervour to his movements, a need that she can feel but can’t describe.

Her hands freeze.

They both pause.

Dolyn pulls back to press back to the tree.

The comfort slips away from her grasp as her hands fall from Astarion’s hair.

“Sorry.”

Despite her insistence that he didn't need to repay her, especially not like this, she had relented and agreed. There's only so much she can say politely without Astarion pouting and expressing his disappointment with judgmental jabs at her expense.

Last she wants is to have him regretting her taking him up on his offer.

Even now, naked, at his mercy once again, exposed, vulnerable, and considerably more wet than she had ever expected to be in his presence, she wants to give him something back.

She gulps down the nerves bubbling up her throat and tilts her head. Her tongue flicks across her lower lip as she offers her neck with a coy smile.

An apology of sorts.

Though most apologies aren't accompanied by a throbbing need between her thighs.

She leans forward and in a swift movement they fall to the forest floor together. Her knees find soft grass as Astarion takes his turn putting his back to nature.

Suddenly she's straddling his thighs and spread over him. He is a vision under the moonlight, smooth skin presented as perfectly as the way his curls frame his ears.

A look passes over his face and he flips her over with a sweep of his legs. 

It’s no wonder. He’s never been fond of not having one over her.

That appears to apply to tonight’s tryst too.

A glint takes to his eyes, darkening the red of his iris, before he crawls over her. The muscles in his shoulders flex as he pauses above her, another look crossing his face for a fraction of a second. His eyes are focussed, determined, and yet staring right through her.

He's barely touched her and she's shaking. With anticipation. With fear.

“Don’t kill me this time?” she whispers, spreading her legs as he settles between them.

His lips brush against that curve of her neck just before he whispers, “Only a little death,” and sinks his fangs into her neck.

The cold chill drives into her body, a shiver forcing its way through her nerves. She resists every urge to move, shrink away and flinch.

It conflicts with the involuntarily bucking of her hips as the hard length of Astarion's cock presses against her. 

She gasps, hand clasping at his sides, and finds herself frozen in a mixture of arousal and fear.

The pressure of his fangs and the seal of his lips around the wound fill her mind. He couldn't control himself last time and she finds herself trapped in a place of longing and trepidation.

“Aahhnnn!” She cries out as his hand delves between her folds and drags her wetness up and over her clit in careful circles.

His touch is perfect. Just as practiced and deliberate as every other movement he makes. A welcome distraction.

As she presses up against his hand, desperately seeking more of his pressure, more of him, he releases a groan into her neck.

A shudder of her own ripples through her body at the sound he makes, like a man desperate and wanting. A sound he's made just for her.

He has been quiet to this point, seeming more composed, following rehearsed steps until he bit her. She can feel her blood seeping from the wound as he laps it up with swipes of his tongue.

Dolyn presses her body against him wherever she can touch. Her neck to his lips, pressing his teeth further into her muscle, earning a moan from him as her blood further fills his mouth. Her hips up to his hand, which slips further down to slide two of his fingers into her heat, drawing out her own moan.

“Please,” she begs. 

A chuckle answers her and the warming presence of Astarion's face against her neck lifts.

Gasping with want, lips parted and face flushed, she's met with the bright red irises with wide pupils scanning her face. He's breathless, panting, shuddering through every breath like he's already exerted himself, like he's as lost in this moment as she is.

His chin and lips are smeared with her blood. The streaks paint his face like a mask over the lower half. His tongue flicks out to slowly draw across his upper lip, savouring the taste of her with a groan.

She should be terrified and maybe for a second she is, but for the look in his eyes. That same desperation tints his expression, a need that his face betrays.

His fingers start thrusting into her as he catches his breath, trading it for hers.

Each movement hits her right where she's sensitive, like he knows exactly the right angle, the right pressure, the right curl of his fingers to have her quivering beneath him with want.

The more his gaze intensifies, the more effort he expends in beckoning her closer and closer to the edge. She can't help but fall into the rhythm, percussive gasps and moans tumbling from her lips.

Prying herself from the urge to close her eyes and moan and indulge in every touch, she forces her eyes open to watch him. 

But he's not quite there.

The repetitive motions and intensity give way to mechanical action, repetitive pistoning of his fingers.

His eyes meet hers with the smallest shake of his head and he blinks like he's come back into his body from somewhere else. A composed smile pushes itself across his face.

The next moment his face buries itself back into her neck to pepper it with kisses while his hand slips down to grasp his cock. He lines himself up with a grunt.

He times his thrust with the piercing of her skin. The cold chill from his fangs meets the warmth of her blood while he buries himself in her in one slow thrust. Her body welcomes his cock as her head lolls back and her mouth falls open.

“Ahhhh-hnnn-- h-hells,” she cries out into the night, unable to stifle the sounds that Astarion draws one after the other with every next thrust.

He responds to her cries and the complete surrender to carnal impulses by cradling her head in one of his hands while the other takes to her hip. 

His mouth withdraws from her neck and she can feel his gaze watching every expression he gets out of her. He moves then to hold her firmly while his cock works impossibly deeper, punctuating every breath, every moan.

She follows his lead, sliding one of her hands up his side, over the strange ridges on his back to slip into his soft curls. The other rests on his back and splays out to feel as much of him as she can.

They’re tangled up in each other like actual lovers.

Dolyn would laugh if Astarion wasn’t so focused on her. She’d consider it unlike him if it weren’t so perfectly indulgent. 

She barely has a moment to catch her breath before he is fucking her into the grass and leaves, moving her whole body with every roll of his hips. She crosses her legs over his back, drawing him in further, meeting his movements in increasing desperate need.

Dolyn feels the tightening coil of her pleasure building as she wraps her limbs around Astarion. She's close, ready to snap if only he lets her.

“Astarion?” she gasps into his ear, resisting the urge to bite him back.

Her eyelids flutter open to see him lower his lips to her ears. He drawls low and raspy, “Yes, darling?” He nips at her ear like he relishes doing what she had chosen to not do.

She doesn't know what she wanted and had no idea she could be so wrapped up in this beautiful carnal mess but the words come out of her like a plea.

“Kiss me?”

Breathy, needy, and demanding all at once, she puts all the effort she would put into one of her spells into the desperate question.

He answers with a smile and blood-slick lips capturing hers, the swipe of his tongue continuing to taste her blood as Dolyn is greeted by the iron tang of it.

The swift and eager response, the rhythmic grind against her, and the inescapable taste of her own blood sends her over the edge. Her body shakes as she comes and her orgasm pulses through her in white-hot waves.

For a second her vision feels like it shorts, her eyes rolling back into her head, her toes curling so hard they might cramp.

Only once her lungs catch up and Astarion's pushing through her peak, does she even consider the fact that she must have just screamed his name loud enough for the camp to hear.

Her body feels aflame even as he pulls back from her completely and sits back on his heels. The warmth of her body seeping into the ground around her as the cold of the night settles back between them.

“I.. hah… think I’m going to lie right here,” she breaks the silence with a chuckle.

The stars above them, peeking through the canopy of this secluded place in the forest, seem to shine that little bit brighter in her afterglow.

Astarion lowers himself down to his hands and lies down beside her. There’s a calmness about him, though that might simply be his vampiric nature, or the sheer undisputable fact that such exertion was not uncommon for him. He doesn’t have the same need to rest and snatch his breath back. Dolyn silently curses him for it.

He clicks his tongue and she can feel his eyes wandering over her body. There’s an unspoken agreement that something has changed between them.

His voice is low and raw when he comments, “You look positively consumed.”

“I wonder whose fault that is.”

“Mmmm, yes, you did rather present yourself, dear.”

There’s a low growl to his teasing and Dolyn has to close her eyes to compose herself. She hopes that in the moonlight the flush of her exertion is enough to hide the blush rushing to her cheeks.

She turns her head to face him, “Like you didn’t lure me here?”

“And you came.” A smile plays across his face but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “But look at you now… thoroughly exhausted… we’re not going to be able to get you back to camp like this, are we?”

Dolyn gives him a look, one of amusement and judgement and reluctant agreement. “No, definitely not going anywhere.”

She closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths. At the back of her mind is the nagging tug of a thought, that all of this is not what it seems, that she has to remember to not get caught up in affection and dalliances and daydreams. But those are thoughts for when she’s not slowly succumbing to her fatigue.

And it’s just as she starts to float away into her dream she hears the softest mumbling from Astarion’s lips, but she can’t make out the words before she drifts into sleep.

Chapter Text

Dolyn wakes to the warmth of the sunrise and the scent of the forest floor. Relaxed and newly sore, memories of last night wash over her before her eyes open to the canopy above.

She touches her lips in thought and finds them clean. The blood of the night before has been wiped away in her sleep. Likely Astarion.

He’s not beside her when she turns to her side, though she hadn’t expected him to be. 

But she finds him instead basking in the rays of sunrise, stretching out his arms in welcoming, already half dressed. The light dusts his hair like a halo, a golden shimmer to his already lustrous locks. The morning light trickles down over every muscle of his bear arms and back.

Dolyn catches herself staring at him in awe.

He appears peaceful. Happy.

Perhaps he is, though she’s never truly seen him smile like this, as if all of the worries were gone.

Perhaps this is how he appears when he doesn’t know someone is watching him.

That is until she sees his back covered in raised welts in a decorative circular pattern.

That certainly explains what she felt last night, but she hadn't thought it would look so confronting.

Whatever blade had carved into his skin had done so enough times to form raised scar tissue so clear and distinct it had to have been intentional.

Dolyn knows a scar inflicted by cruelty when she sees one.

Though these markings are the most intricate she's seen for that kind of torture.

If she was breathing steadily, she can't remember now, and the huff she makes draws Astarion's attention.

“You sleep light. I thought you’d still be exhausted after last night.”

His voice is softer, almost amused as he peers over his shoulder. 

Dolyn scoffs and pushes herself to lean back onto her hands. “It’d take a lot more to truly tire me out.”

“I was holding back a little. As delicious as you were, I didn’t want to go too far.”

“Oh, were you? I'll have to remember that. Though don't go thinking you have access to this whenever you want now.”

“No? With how eager you were, I hardly believe that, darling.”

“Oh, and you weren't? You better not go crowing around camp. The others won't let up about it if they knew…”

“Given the noises you made last night I'm sure they already know.” Astarion makes sure to turn enough to meet her gaze.

Dolyn groans. “You're not wrong.”

Having the rest of their party knowing her indiscretions is not ideal. She wouldn't put it past him to put her in that position or any position. 

It can't have meant anything beyond Astarion's own need to pay her back or work whatever last night was out of his system. They didn't have that kind of relationship. Their tit for tat has always been words and teasing.

Though the idea of some kind of agreement wouldn't be entirely out of the question. If that's what he wants.

While in her thoughts her eyes fall again to his scars and she pushes herself up from the ground to wander closer. She mentally traces over each of the characters.

“Your back… can I ask… ?”

She’s cautious, like a ranger approaching a lost animal. He doesn’t flinch at much but asking this question of him feels personal. He could bolt at any moment.

“It’s a poem.” He turns his back to her again as venom coats his words. “A gift from Cazador.”

Astarion has mentioned him in passing, as a slaver and a vampire lord. Though every mention of him felt distant and more of an exaggerated tale than something real.

His scars are very much real.

“He considered himself quite the artist and used his slaves like a canvas,” he continues, shoulders slightly hunched. “He composed and carved that one over the course of a night. He made a lot of revisions as he went.”

The confident bravado he held the night before has fallen. His voice is tinted with captive emotion, of anger, of despair, of pain.

If only she could see his face.

If she could help.

She moves closer, hand raised but not quite reaching. Her stomach turns to think she'd ever considered it as just another one of his complaints when he's been through something so heinous.

Years in the Lower City she’d never seen anything quite like his scars. The writing looks familiar. If the way the letters fall and the jagged edges are any indication, and if she remembers her studies correctly then it has to be the language of the hells.

To think he’s been carrying them all this time.

“I can't read it, but did your master speak Infernal?” she asks finally.

“Infernal? I … Who knows? The bastard was insane.”

He turns to her then and it pains her to think all of that peace he had while standing in the sun is gone.

“It looks like it hurt,” she says quietly.

"That's an understatement." He gives her a look that makes her regret every word. “I’m just glad your performance last night was better than your pillow talk.”

He throws a hand up in that casual dismissive way of his and all of that vulnerability she had seen for a second is gone. The mask is up once more.

“I’m sorry. If you ever want to talk …”

She knows it's more of a gesture than any offer he would actually accept. They aren't friends and they aren't close. Their bodies have been closer than either of their minds have been, even with a tadpole threatening to reach into each other's minds.

“Let’s go, before I regret my restraint last night.”

── ☆ ──

Sulphur. The unforgettable scent overwhelms her the moment she's standing in a decorative dining room filled with ornate paintings and furniture and enough food to host a feast.

Dolyn can't say she's pleased. Neither is Karlach, who expresses as much and sneers the moment they arrive.

Not only to be accosted the moment they attempt to cross the bridge to the Risen Road, but that overly articulate smarmy man has them to some ‘middle of somewhere’.

“Can you be more specific than ‘somewhere’?” she asks, unimpressed.

“The House of Hope,” he begins his speech with gestures of his arms. 

Dolyn’s face immediately sours at his humourless jabs suggesting she enjoy the food. That lavish spread would have fed them for days. The table is laden with pies and fruits and meats.

She shows him exactly what she thinks of him by ignoring him and starting to pile bread on a silver plate. She resists the urge to laugh when he says she's not easily rattled. 

He doesn't know how right he is.

Raphael as it turns out is a different beast altogether, making a show of his transformation while he makes offers of assistance. Large red wings and curved horns sprout from his body with a twist of flame in the air. 

That certainly explains his attitude.

Karlach swears and mutters, “A cambion.”

It takes everything in her to not outwardly roll her eyes and dismiss him completely. They're already dealing with tadpoles and goblins and a hag and now there's another devil in the mix, as if having Mizora breathing down Wyll’s neck wasn't enough.

This one is not as straightforward, preferring riddles and obnoxious attempts at shows of intelligence that put even Gale's explanations to shame. At least Gale seems to have shame.

It makes sense to make some valuable use of their time rather than the smoke-ridden words of an overgrown imp. So with a growing pursed smile on her lips, she chucks more and more food onto her plate.

Satisfied that she and the devil were done, Dolyn takes her plate and stands before hi,. She has no desire to taste it in front of him, as good as it looks. There's a chance that everything before them is simply smoke and mirrors. 

“You want my honest opinion?” She asks and continues without pause, “I find it highly suspicious that you are offering help in the first place. What do you have to gain from helping us? What do you want?”

A devilish smile for a devilish face greets her. “Oh, a mere trifle. How dear is one’s soul, really?”

Dolyn stares through him. If she had her way she would have used her magic on him by now, but devils weren't likely easy to charm. 

Instead she scoffs. “You think we're mad enough to trust a devil?”

“And what is madness but a denial of reality?” he counters. 

He makes a reasonable point that so far they've had no luck with Halsin, the goblin priestess, and they could very well run out of options before their faces explode with tentacles.

She's not entertaining him or his desire to trade their souls.

Neither is Karlach.

She appears tense. Years in Avernus surely would have her an expert by now on all things Infernal. As many years as it would take to build that rage they’d seen the destructive power of in battle.

“That’s why we’re different from devils, soldier,” she says through gritted teeth, voice low. “They think hope is our weakness.”

Dolyn glances over before she answers Raphael.

“We have enough deals with devils, thank you.”

The shift back to the bridge happens with the snap of the devil’s fingers.

Dolyn stands with a silver plate and food in her hand, surprised the food appears at the most part to be real.

Karlach and Wyll are naturally the first to express their displeasure as they continue on to the Risen Road. The others follow, some more cautious than others to dismiss the opportunity out of hand, but as equally suspicious. Any option to remove their tadpoles seems like a good option right now.

Dolyn hangs back, tucking her culinary winnings away in her pack, and eyeing each of the party.

Somehow they’ve come together like a family, if not friends by this point. Being joined by mutual head parasites is not the smoothest of introductions and yet they’ve made the best of it. Even if Wyll snores and Laezel sharpens her sword too loud and Karlach is too hot to stand near and Gale has a story for everything and Shadowheart is brutally honest and Astarion…

Well, Astarion is his usual inconvenienced self.

He hovers at the back of the group, hands wringing until Dolyn sidles up beside him.

“Something worrying you, Astarion?”

He tilts his head with judgement and lets out an exasperated sigh.

“This is getting better and better,” he complains with a theatrical throw of an arm in the air. “Now there’s a bloody devil trailing after us?”

She sighs in agreement. “It’s not ideal, I’ll give you that.”

Astarion leans closer, shoulder brushing against hers. “He seems sure we won’t find anything and he might be right.”

There’s something about his pessimism that brings out an impulse to counter him. It’s been constant, more persistent than she’d like. Yet he always seems to take it well, even when they bicker over the most petty things.

Maybe she actually has respect for him. 

Maybe something more than that.

That’s a thought.

She brushes it away with a shake of her head and says, “It’s too soon for us to tell. We’re doing okay so far.”

“Maybe, but he said he’ll be waiting. He’s playing with us.”

He pauses for a second, just a second. His face shifts for a moment, furrowed brows softening, before a scowl takes to his face once more. “Reminds me of --”

“Cazador?” Dolyn asks immediately, cutting him off.

Any man that holds slaves and is willing to leave those kinds of scars has to be the kind of person to play with people’s lives. With Astarion’s life.

He answers to confirm her suspicions, “Someone like that doesn’t play games unless they know they can win.”

Dolyn straightens her shoulders and tries to mimic the way he moves his body when he makes a point. It’s something like a shimmy, a swish of the body that punctuates spoken words. She only hopes he doesn’t see it as her mocking him.

“We won’t be their playthings then because we aren’t,” says Dolyn with a smile, playfully bumping into Astarion’s shoulder.

He gives her an odd look and peers over her with a purse to his lips.

“We,” he adds as both a statement and a question.

There’s a softness to his eyes when she looks over. Light dances through his hair as they pass into the stark daylight and yet his face takes to it despite his pallor.

She considers him and briefly licks her lips. “You’ve got a problem with me considering you part of this group?”

The group ahead of them were discussing stories of the Astral Plane, blissfully unaware of how far behind the two of them had fallen. Maybe Astarion truly didn’t see himself as one of them. Yet he’d found a place in step with her.

He shakes her from the thought with a scoff and another rebuttal. “Even with us together, we know that these aren’t any ordinary tadpoles.”

“It hasn’t been that long, Astarion. We’ll find out more.”

She reaches out a hand for his shoulder, a gesture of comfort and support, and stops before her fingers touch his shirt. That wasn’t the kind of relationship they had. Not really.

He stalls for a moment, not missing her hesitation, not reacting to it either. “If we do then we might have a chance.”

“We always have a chance.”

He gives her a strange look, like he’s reading her. She feels her heart racing again. It didn’t mean anything special or important but the moment she takes in his expression, it suddenly feels like something else.

The odd tension disappears when his overly charming smile forms on his face again. “Let’s catch up with the others, shall we?”

Chapter Text

The smell of ash and cinders cling to her lungs as Dolyn settles into camp. If not for Gale’s cooking, she would have put out the fire out of spite.

Here’s hoping she never has to run through a burning tavern ever again.

They managed to save everyone inside. Though their dignity was worse for wear, or hers specifically. Dolyn’s arm still stings from the explosion of hot air that pushed her off the second floor. 

She still feels the sting of the smoke as it rushed into her lungs to replace the air pushed out by the fall. Even sitting down feels exhausting.

“You should probably watch what you're doing in a burning building,” Shadowheart scolds as she starts assessing the burns. The skin has already started to blister.

“Yes, yes, I will remember backdrafts exist next time.” Dolyn sighs.

“You better, or else I might just have to ensure you learn your lesson.” 

The cleric bristled with the kind of caring frustration she was starting to develop whenever any of them got hurt. She leaned in with that doubly pleasant and judging demeanour of hers. The crisp sound of her voice cutting through dismissals like a blade.

“Ah, consider myself taught then,” Dolyn teases. “Whatever would I do without your healing?”

“Die probably.” There's a sly quirk to her lips as she holds back a smile.

“Shadowheart--”

“Again, I might add.” She presses her thumb into the burn to earn a hiss before calm blue light glows beneath her hand. A cool tingle dances over Dolyn's skin as it knits itself back together.

Shadowheart makes a pointed look and moves to sit by her side, leaning closer like a schoolgirl indulging in gossip. “I’m surprised our camp vampire hasn’t drained you again with all the chances you’re giving him, hm?”

Dolyn huffs and tugs to take her arm back but the cleric holds it firmly. “Don’t start, please.”

“I believe you started it with all that noise the other night.” 

Dolyn cringes and avoids Shadowheart’s piercing eyes as a blush takes to her cheeks. “It wasn't that bad, was it?”

She huddles closer, eyeing the rest of the camp with apprehension and shame.

Shadowheart nudges her in the side with an elbow. “You sounded like you enjoyed yourself. Did both of you work out your issues? Astarion has been awfully… close with you as of late.”

“It's really nothing like that.”

“Like what? I thought you were simply working out all of that tension.”

Dolyn clears her throat and gets to her feet. That's not really a question she's willing to engage with right now. 

“I think we have some more important questions to ask.”

She spies Wyll standing by Gale, knelt down at the fire and adjusting the turning spit of tonight's dinner. If there were ever two people able to change topic on a whim it would be the two of them.

The less she has to discuss her… whatever it is with Astarion the better.

She flashes an apologetic smile at Shadowheart before launching forward towards the fire with a theatrical grin. “So when were you planning on telling us you were a Duke’s son, Wyll?”

Wyll jumps at the sudden question but places his hands firmly on his hips. It's a soothing gesture he does, likely something that comforts him with a sense of control. It makes all the more sense now knowing who he really is.

He clears his throat and answers, “Truth be told, it isn't something I go around presenting.”

She sits down by the fire, arms hugging her knees, and shrugs. “It would certainly explain how you hold yourself.”

Wyll stutters in protestation, suddenly removing his hands from his hips and unsure of where to put them. “Hold myself?”

That's something Dolyn can appreciate about him. He's confident in so many ways but still very much a young man with shades of insecurity. It's sweet. If he wasn't so young, she could see herself falling for his chivalry and utter naïve sincerity.

But the truth is she's also lived a life he could never understand.

Dolyn gestures towards Wyll’s posture just as he crosses his arms. “You have a way of holding your arms and puffing out your chest. It all makes sense.”

She continues the gesture with a sweep across the camp. “Everyone in this camp shows off the kind of person they are.”

Gale sits back onto his heels and claps his hands together. “That so?”

Karlach sidles up with a shuffling of her feet and plops down beside Dolyn. Curiosity brims in her eyes. “Ah yeah, soldier? And me?”

Dolyn takes the invitation and glances over Karlach’s face and frame. Even with ten years in Avernus, her habits stand out. The way she eats, the way she flops to sleep on any surface, and the general comfort with dirt and grime are hard to miss.

“Outer City kid one hundred percent. Can't tell me I'm wrong. I've met a lot of kids from Rivington and beyond.”

Karlach’s hands slap her thighs in delighted applause. “That obvious, is it? Okay, okay, do Fringe next.”

Dolyn swivels in place to see Shadowheart taking quiet steps over to join them. Her eyebrow rises at the suggestion that she’s next. 

“Shadowheart is a mystery, but I'm sure she wouldn't mind that. Bet she had a nice family though.”

Shadowheart’s head tilts and she sighs, joining on Dolyn’s other side. The effortless way her hair swishes into place to line up down her back will always be fascinating.

She rubs the mark on her hand and says, “Can’t say I would remember, so you are as right as you can be.”

The smell of Gale’s charred roast and vegetables sizzling in the pan over the coals is starting to surround them. The smoke fills the air and clouds the distance between the party. 

Everything always seems closer when the air is thick.

What’s the harm in continuing this game?

“Lae’zel is…” Dolyn continues, peering over the fire towards Lae’zel’s tent. The mention of her name draws those sharp amber eyes. 

Lae’zel’s back stiffens as she walks over, though she can’t hide the minor annoyance at being interrupted in the middle of sharpening her blade. “I expect that you will say that I am efficient.”

Dolyn chuckles and nods. “You can tell she's a fighter just by her stance if not for …”

Lae’zel nods in return. “My skills in battle.”

Of course Dolyn can't tell what area she's from or details about her like the others. Simply one of the complications of having a Githyanki in their camp. Thankfully Lae’zel is straightforward enough that the only surprises so far is how quickly she is learning deadpan humour.

Without much more to say, Dolyn turns her attention to Gale. He has quietly been turning over the vegetables, taste-testing some of the meat, and otherwise been focused in his duties.

She has to bite her lip to not snicker at the opportunity to distract him. “Gale, well… his charm is certainly not Baldurian.”

The moment he hears it Gale pulls back from checking the food to tell Dolyn off in that unmistakeable annoyed voice of his, “I am right here.” 

“And Fangs?” Karlach nods towards Astarion who stands back by his tent. 

At some point he crept into the camp from the woods and settled in the shadows. Like the others he hangs onto Dolyn's every word.

Yet this time, what she has to say feels less like playful banter.

His red eyes meet hers across the fire.

“Astarion gives all the pomp and circumstance of an Upper City patriar with surprisingly less of the assholery.”

“Less?” Gale asks incredulously.

Dolyn counters, “How many have you met?”

Wyll laughs and jumps in. “I have met a few.”

She can't help but make a face. “And how many saw you beyond being a Duke’s son?”

“Well…” Wyll trails off.

“It's different if you're not one of them,” she confirms. The less patriars she would have to deal with in the future, the better.

Shadowheart takes the moment to turn the game around and looks so pleased with herself when she does. “And what about you?” 

The flames licking at the night’s dinner illuminates each of their faces. The party grows quietly curious.

Dolyn leans back and smirks, “Don't you want to guess?”

“Lower City. I'd bet any amount of gold on it.” Astarion says confidently, standing now a few steps from the fire.

Karlach points to Dolyn's robes, the detailing is fine gold-flecked embroidery over a rich green. “Dressed like that? Her hair?”

Dolyn sits still as Karlach's broad hands hover over the rich chestnut brown of her locks delicately twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. That had taken at least an hour to fix and many more to keep from falling apart.

Astarion clicks his tongue and waggles a finger. He gestures like he's presenting a tale rather than undressing her for all of them to see.

“Lower City folk… and I've been around a few… They're survivors… that bun isn't what's in style, that robe has been repaired and not by skilled hands, and her scars…”

Gale comes to her defence then. If there's one thing she appreciates about him is he relative ease at becoming defensive on behalf of others. “You don't need to insult her.”

Shadowheart joins in, “You really know how to spoil the moment, Astarion.”

Karlach’s head swivels like she's watching a court tennis match and agrees, “That is going a bit too far.”

Their voices rise as they make more points at his expense and defending hers. He doesn't flinch, doesn't move, and keeps his eyes on her.

She sighs when she finally speaks, “He's right.”

Wyll's face looks somewhere lost between surprise and concern. If anyone else knew about scars it would be him. “The scars…?”

Astarion makes a pointed nod. “Like the one over her lips…”

Karlach's face contorts comically as she reacts at the claim. “She doesn't have one.” Her hand hovers over Dolyn's shoulder while she stares in search for the scar, hot and bristling with that same energy always beneath the surface.

“What are you talking about?” Gale adds to the questioning. He too searches Dolyn's face for any sign of scarring.

Astarion gives them a direction. “Scar on her upper lip.”

The weight of their stares feels heavy but as much as the look Astarion gives her, his feels different. It feels raw, encouraging as much as it is accusatory, and only broken by his smile. 

That cheeky, infuriating, beautiful smile.

She sighs and reaches out a hand. “Anyone got a handkerchief?”

Gale obliges with a clean cloth from his pocket. He still looks just as confused.

Dolyn wipes the cloth across her lip, back and forth until the remnants of the cosmetics on her face wipe away. She wishes she at least had a mirror to see how she looks lit by the evening’s fire.

She's gotten so used to covering the deep red gouge spanning an inch from above her top lip to the bottom, marring the side of her smile.

“I'm handy with disguise kit,” she explains to their startled expressions. She can't meet their eyes as she continues, “Not a fan of people staring at me.”

Wyll is the first to speak up and be her saviour. “I can understand that.”

Gale follows with a clearing of his throat and rustling of metal utensils. “Dinner's ready. Who's hungry?”

── ☆ ──

Following one of Gale's flavourful meals and once everyone had all turned in for the night, Dolyn makes her way to Astarion's tent.

It's not the cleverest ideas she's ever had but she's also not one to back down when she has questions.

She hovers outside the flap of his tent and glances over the array of trinkets and pillows propped outside on that luxurious rug. It's a wonder the man manages to keep all of this with him, but no surprise with how particular he is. 

“Most people knock, darling.”

Astarion throws open the flap of his tent and poses dramatically, resting himself on an elbow. He blinks at her slowly in silent judgement.

It's maddening that he can say so much with his eyes.

Dolyn steps closer and squats down. She speaks in a hushed whisper. “I needed to know. How did you know?”

“How could I not?” He makes a point of licking across his upper lip, making a point of focusing on the right side, right where her scar is. “I could feel it.”

She clears her throat. “I meant the fact I'm from the Lower City”

“I said as much.”

His pushback has her nerves bristling. “We both know that I could fit in in the Upper City.”

“That's the most Lower City thing I've ever heard.” Astarion chuckles with that bright and wild laugh he does when something sounds just a little bit mad.

With a huff, Dolyn snatches her bun and tugs it out, brown waves falling about her shoulders. 

“Much better,” Astarion drawls.

“Better?” Dolyn scoffs back.

He reaches out, almost enough to clasp a lock of her hair. “Yes, the bun was so… very not you.”

She gulps. Her mouth feels dry, drier than she remembers it being after a couple of glasses of wine with dinner.

There's that irritating part of her that wishes Astarion's hand had reached just a little further to tangle in her hair.

“Did you really have to do that?” she asks avoiding his gaze.

“You mean tell them? They were going to find out at some point. You can't hide that kind of thing for long.”

There is some truth at that, and admittedly there is some freedom to be gained in not hiding the angry mark across her face. Though it would have been nice to have some say in the matter.

She runs her tongue along her teeth before she asks, “Like you and your scars?”

“That's different.”

“How do you know mine isn't?”

The words rush out of her mouth before she could regret it. She's ready for his face to be hardened, to be judgemental, or even defensive.

Instead they're soft and wider like they're seeing something new in her.

She doesn't know what she's supposed to say to that. Silence hangs heavy between them.

She says the first thing that pops into her mind.

“Are you… hungry?”

Astarion pushes himself up and crawls forward a few inches closer, just enough to rest his elbows on the rug. His body lays mostly within the confined of his tent while he appears, at this angle, to be close to begging.

If what she's ever heard about vampires is true, he can surely hear what he does to her heartbeat. Maybe more.

“Are you offering?” Astarion looks up at her through his eyelashes. “You sweet, generous thing.”

“I did say that I would be okay with it…” she trails off and settles down to her knees. “If you needed it.”

“When?” he asks, voice low.

“Tonight, if you want.”

“My sweet, there is nothing I'd like more. I'll come to you tonight, when you're snugly wrapped in your bedroll and we can have a little privacy.”

Chapter Text

Dolyn sighs and snuggles into her bedroll on her side. The cool touch of her pillow feels so pleasant against her skin and her hair sits as a curtain across her cheek.

She's so comfortable and rested that the reverie takes her quickly. She'll only need four hours thankfully, especially when it has taken hours for her to calm herself enough to trance in the first place.

Something about waiting for a vampire to feed on you in the night tends to wreak havoc with your ability to focus.

That's what she couldn't help after all. Waiting.

For that moment of privacy Astarion spoke of.

Yet the combined anticipation of his closeness and the looming dread of being bitten again does nothing for patience and rest.

She's just about to relax into the comfort of her makeshift tent when she feels the shifting weight by her knees. The quietest of rustles of the fabric set her heart galloping, but she doesn't open her eyes.

“You're still awake,” Astarion's voice purrs with amusement. “And here I was thinking I allowed you enough time.”

Dolyn forces a breath to steady herself. “Hard to trance tonight.”

A huff right by her ear sends a shiver through her just as Astarion laughs. “Oh I wonder why that might be.”

She refuses to open her eyes and find herself entranced by his. The sound of his voice is already undoing her resolve, but she doesn't need to be this affected. 

“You trance like you're sleeping,” he says softly. His hand ghosts over her hair where it covers her ear and her neck. “And you cover your ears.”

He makes no attempt to truly touch her.

“Old habits.” 

“Do you mind if I…?”

She opens her eyes and sees him sitting poised beside her, leaned forward on his knees. The second her eyes meet his she shakes her head.

No. She doesn't mind if he touches her at all.

His hovering hand moves to gently tuck her hair behind her ear and over her shoulder. His fingers caress the curve of her neck, soft enough to make her shiver.

The smile on his face says that reaction was intended.

“Why would you ever want someone to think you're human?” he asks amused.

“It had its benefits.”

He hums in thought but doesn't push. 

It has been some time since she needed to blend in, hide what she was to not raise questions. She's not sure she knows how to explain it.

Even to a vampire with Infernal carved into his back.

“I had expected a repeat of our previous positions,” Astarion muses as fingers twist in her hair.

She laughs, more breathless than she thought. “With you over me?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth suddenly feels dry and she finds her tongue wetting her lips, betraying what composure she had.

She had expected he would bite her mid-trance, take the nervous dread right out of it, and she would wake up a little dazed. 

As much as she enjoys him being close, the idea of being bitten still scares her.

Astarion must see her hesitation when he says, “I can make do if you still wish to…”

“I think I would prefer uh--” Dolyn blinks and swallows, clinging to her pillow. She keeps to her side.

He smirks. “You're really going to have me do all the work?”

“You would have when I was trancing.”

He gives her a look and leans over her. “That's different.”

She scoffs. “How?”

“And here I was thinking you were generous.”

“Beggars can't be choosers.”

“Me? Beg? Never, but you might be able to persuade me if you ask nicely.”

“For you to bite me? I thought you were here for supper.”

“You had so kindly offered that lovely neck of yours and yet here we are tête-à-tête.”

“Could you just get it over with?” Dolyn asks curtly, one hand scrunching her pillow with the other checks her hair is fully out of the way.

She offers her neck with a tilt of her head.

When he doesn't immediately dive in she pauses and peers up to see his brow furrowed. There's a look on his face that softens his eyes. Doubt.

Then he leans in, opens his mouth, and--

She flinches.

Her shoulders hunch and her body tenses. She hates being bitten.

Always has.

Yet she's found reason to let him.

“Did you just flinch?” Astarion asks, offended.

“Reflex, sorry.”

His lips purse in thought. “I thought you wanted this.”

She sighs. “Yeah, sure, take what you need to feel sated.”

The sooner he does it, the easier it is. If he could just start the bite, she could hold onto him and fight the fear.

“Darling, are you nervous?” he asks curling a finger in her hair.

When she turns her head to look at him again, she's met with consideration and thoughtfulness that surprises her. It's clear her face betrays as his smile curls into the side of his lips once more.

“I-I…” she begins and immediately realises there is no lie she can tell him that she won't immediately give away. “Yes.”

He tilts his head and continues playing with her hair. “Can I help with that?”

“It's uh…” 

She feels exposed just looking at him. The red of his eyes is always so pretty and always peering into her. 

“What if I make myself comfortable?” 

She shifts and turns more towards her pillow, lying on her stomach. Maybe this way she'll feel… safer.

A chuckle beside her gives her doubt and then she feels a hand land by her arm.

“You still want me on top?” he purrs into her ear as his other hand finds purchase by her pillow. His lips brush over her neck like a feather-light kiss. “And here I thought you were scared.”

She doesn't admit it aloud, but the silence that follows his words is answer enough.

“You know,” he begins again with a kiss to that same delicate spot. “I think you like to feel your heart racing.”

“Is that so?” she says trying to not feel so exposed beneath him. 

She fails.

“Mmmm, but only when I'm the one making it beat faster.”

“Don't flatter yourself.”

“Oh, don't worry, you'll do enough of that for me.”

“Do you want to bite me or not?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes…”

“But you're… not excited enough, hmm?” He asks as he lowers himself down, his body making contact with hers from shoulder blade to hip. “What if I relieved some tension?”

“What do you mean--”

She loses her train of thought as his hand caresses down her side, delicate and deliberate as most actions with his fingers were. They dip beneath her hip and slide under her belly to play with the hem of her small clothes.

“I get to feed and you get to feel.”

He sucks at that same spot on her neck and grazes her skin with his teeth, testing her response. He nips and pulls but doesn't puncture.

“Ready?” he asks against her skin, hand moving under the hem as he shifts his weight.

She nods her head. If his intention is to distract her then she is well and truly--

His fangs sink into her neck with that familiar icy sting. As she opens her mouth, the sudden touch of his fingers slipping down to beneath her legs turns her gasp into a moan.

He responds with one of his own, the kind a man might make when savouring a taste upon his tongue. Though with the way he presses against her body she can't help how her mind wanders to their previous tryst in the woods.

As his tongue laps and his lips press more firmly against her neck, his fingers circle over her. He starts slow at first, gentle movements, designed to put her at ease, perhaps even sate her. 

She muffles every sound wishing to escape her with the pillow pressed to her face, only loosening her grip to gasp for air. 

The distraction Astarion is providing certainly works. 

She can feel her heart racing at the blood leaving her and its redirection to the pulse now loudly beating between her legs.

It's a wonder she hasn't simply passed out by the overwhelm alone.

Astarion lifts his head briefly to utter, “Enjoying yourself, darling? It feels like you are.” Then his fingers dip lower and swipe through the wet, teasing around her entrance. “Oh my, what a mess you are already.”

She bucks into his hand with a whimper. Gods, she's more worked up than she thought. He literally has her in the palm of his hand.

“Please,” she begs and whimpers further when he draws his fingers back to swirl around her clit but doesn't quite touch her when she needs it.

“My, my darling, who would have thought I could reduce you to such base instincts, hmm?”

He's going to undo her. 

And she wants him to.

“Astarion?” she asks, quiet and breathless.

“Yes, my dear?”

“Bite me again. Take what you need.”

It's a demand more than a request, desperate to quench this growing need inside her.

He doesn't hesitate this time. Fangs stinking right into the same spot. The pain is a perfect counter to her pleasure as his fingers renew their focus.

He presses fully into her this time. Every touch pins her to this spot, this moment. His fangs, his body, his fingers. He savours her blood with more enthusiasm while his hand picks up speed.

Her body gives into her urges and she bucks wildly against him. Her teeth bite into the pillow to stifle her cries.

As her peak approaches and the light-headedness starts to take hold, she swears she can feel his length hardening against her.

Body close to shaking, Astarion pulls away to lap at the wound. She can feel his smile as she continues helplessly chasing her release.

His lips so close to her ear has her on edge as she bites into her pillow.

“Take what you need,” he says back to her with a growl.

So she does.

With a muffled groan, a whine, and an embarrassing shudder through her body, she chases her peak and topples over, coming hard against his hand.

She releases the pillow from her mouth and turns to lie limp, exhausted and spent against her bedroll. She can only imagine what he might have done if she had a full tent. Let alone what she might have done.

Astarion places pressure against the fresh wound, lying down beside her.

“I wonder if they heard you this time,” he mutters with a sense of pride.

Dolyn wants to smack him, but instead, she reaches up to trace over her new bite marks. She had prepared herself for that. A bite, a light-headed morning.

She had not prepared for him to give her any kind of favour.

It’s a pattern developing that she’s not sure is right. She never asked for this, as much as she enjoys it.

Maybe she’s just reading too much into the way he’s looking at her now.

“You didn't have to do that,” she says the moment she catches her breath. Dolyn moves back to offer him part of her pillow should he want it.

He doesn’t move. “It worked, didn't it?”

“That's not the point.”

“Hard to be afraid of me when you're turned on.”

Dolyn nervously licks her lips and goes to shake her head. “I'm not afraid of you.”

“You offer your neck to bite and then you flinch, doubt, and delay. You think I don't know fear?” His brow raises as he questions her. Though the sombre look on his face says he doesn’t quite believe what he is saying either.

Dolyn knows she’s already justified this to herself, that he’s hungry and she can offer him something he’s never had, an easy, sustaining meal. It’s simple. Revived and fearful memories are nothing compared to that.

“Astarion, while yes, okay, you killed me but you didn't mean to?” She wants to touch him, be closer than they just were, but she can't bridge the space between them with that look on his face. “Didn't you only have rats before?”

“That is true. I had never drunk the blood of a thinking creature before.” He swallows thickly and adds, “I thought all these jitters and flinching was from my overindulgence, from me.”

“No?” she shakes her head and shuffles closer. “I… I mean you make me nervous…”

His eyes turn their eagle-eyed focus back to her and that familiar charming teasing comes back into his tone. “Oh?”

“Shhh you.” She rolls her eyes and lets out a laugh. “I… you weren't my first…”

“Well evidently, you moaned like a common tavern bard.”

Dolyn covers her face with her hand for a moment, annoyance and embarrassment flushing across her cheeks. “No, not that, I mean… biting.”

A look of concern comes over Astarion’s face. “You’ve been bitten by a vampire before?” 

“No, not that either. A human.”

Astarion visibly relaxes but leans in out of curiosity.

“No fangs but a lot of teeth. And it was messy. Violent.” Dolyn shudders just saying it. 

“I didn't see a mark.” He sounds almost apologetic.

“It's been a while. It healed and I hid it.” She nods like she’s pushing through the thought, grateful she’s lying down as she shares more. “But he was… I didn't do anything to earn that… but I was there and that's all that mattered. So what I'm saying is biting is… it freaks me out a little. The fact you're not trying to take a chunk out of me helps.”

“I see. I guess that is a very human thing to do.” 

“Besides, being afraid of that is nothing compared to… you.” She gestures at him. “And you need to feed.”

That soft look in his eye returns again. “Why would you do that for me?”

“I told you. I don’t want you starving, and that I needed to work out how we’d feed you.”

Astarion stares past her then. He appears haunted, like a thought just entered his mind that wasn’t welcomed. “You never told me why you let me kill the monster hunter.”

Dolyn opens her mouth and closes it again. She’d all but pushed the memory out of her mind. She’d held the hunter while Astarion delivered the last blow.

“If I saw what I saw,” he begins and makes eye contact before he continues, “You held him, with your gaze, so I could kill him.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Surely she should feel more shame than this but she doesn’t. She knew what she was doing. She made a choice.

Survival makes a lot of choices.

“You’re one of us. You needed to be protected.”

“Why?”

“You’re worth protecting, Astarion. I couldn’t have some brute come in and just steal you away.”

They sit in the shared quiet of the night, searching each other’s faces to the sound of the river. Dolyn’s eyes flit down to his lips, remembering how bloody they were the last time he kissed her.

How is she ever going to not react to him every time that he feeds from her?

Especially when he’s adding pleasure to the mix.

“To be clear, I… um… if you're trying to train me to get wet anytime you bite me, what you did before, that's a surefire method.”

Astarion bursts into soft laughter and the tension in the air blissfully breaks. “I will keep that in mind.”

She points at his chest, falling short of actually touching him. “Of course you will. Don't you dare abuse that, or you will regret it.”

“Oh will I? Whatever would you do to me, Dolyn?”

“I’ll work something out.”

“Well, thank you for supper,” Astarion says with a grin. “May you have a restful reverie.”

With that, he takes his leave.

Dolyn sinks back into her pillow, wraps herself up in her bedroll, and feels more exposed than she’s felt in some time.

This can’t end well.

Chapter Text

The journey back to the Grove feels blissful compared to the strange dreams and interparty tension.

Dolyn hasn't had to play defence and referee for years. Yet in the span of a few days she's had to fend off Lae'zel from cutting her down, Shadowheart from stabbing Lae'zel in the night, and the strange golden paladin showing up in her dreams with an eerily familiar face.

All connected to their damn tadpoles, the artefact, and that voice that pulsed through their minds. 

To think only a few short weeks ago she was trying to find her next job. Now she's once again herding a muddled group of misfits to some semblance of a cause.

If she could just have one moment to breathe.

“So, Dolyn,” Gale starts as he slows his gait to walk beside her, dawdling in at the back of their group. “That's an interesting name for an elf.”

“Was there a question in that, Gale?” she quips back with a chuckle.

Gale stumbles for a second. “W-well, is your name… common?”

She resists the urge to laugh. He's not the first to ask, but it's always more entertaining to play her reaction seriously. “You're saying it's strange?”

“Those were not my exact words,” he placated, hands up in his defence.

She responds with her own hands shaking away and dismissing the tension. “It's fine, and no, it's not common.”

Gale’s face grows more serious, brows stitching together. He's so expressive when he's thinking. “I know we don't know a lot about each other, but if you were able to share some personal details we would learn more about who you are.”

Dolyn sighs, amused. Given that they didn't immediately learn about his condition and subsequently fed him magical items, this feels a tad rich to her.

She holds no reservations about pointing this out. “Ah, yes, Gale of Waterdeep, bearer of the Netherese Orb, you have been ever so forthcoming.”

“I told you as soon as I was able,” he says with his tone strained. That defiant and defensive tone of his comes forth right when she expects it.

Though it did raise a very good point. This line of questioning doesn't come from nowhere.

She tilts her head at him, briefly eyeing the distance of the others ahead of them

“Well, Mr Dekarios, what got you questioning my name?”

The look on his face is priceless. “Well that's not what I--hmm, I suppose wood elf names are rather floral, arboreal, and even terrestrial, but yours is…”

She nods. “Quite mundanely human.”

That’s what she’s always been told.

“Not how I would put it,” he frowns, the kindness in him forming in the wrinkles around his eyes.

“Don't worry, you're not the first to notice. I've heard it enough times.” 

“Now you've got me worried I've overstepped.”

“You're fine, Gale,” she says with a smile and shrugs to reassure him. “It is an odd name, but it does seem I'm in good company.” She takes the opportunity of their distance to nod towards their companions. 

Gale nods in understanding. “Mmm, that is true. Though our troupe is not without drama.”

“It's hard to get a night's rest in this camp.”

He gives her a knowing look. “There’s certainly plenty of uses for a well placed silence spell.”

Silence spell? That’s not even a spell a wizard would know. Why would he…

It hits her with a flood of embarrassment, her face prickling as the blood in her face pinks her cheeks. She immediately places her hands over her nose as the reality hits. “Oh gods, you heard… ?”

Gale is positively flippant, amused even, tilting his head to the side like some kind of cocky professor when their student finally understands the topic. “There are some things best not discussed in polite conversation.”

Hoping to not draw attention, she hisses under her breath, “I am mortified.”

He starts gesturing one of his explanations with swirls of his hands. “Appropriate considering the term mortified has a relation to dead--”

Dolyn doesn’t let him finish. “I really don't need to hear wherever that was going.” She shakes her hands by her sides like she’s trying to keep the noise down, always looking up to see if anyone else noticed. “Please Gale, let me process my embarrassment in private.”

He pulls a face in the way it does when he’s stating a fact to reinforce a point. “I imagine you do a lot in private.”

“Gale!” she nearly screams, but thankfully manages only a hushed angry whisper.

His eyes widen and he says softly, “Not like that. You have been hiding your skills from us.”

Dolyn has worked hard to keep most of her personal details exactly that: personal. If she’s given anything away then she needs to know. She needs to know without drawing attention to it.

She tries her best to keep her tone calm when she asks, “What do you mean?”

“When I first met you, I said you had an air about you, and I asked if you were a wizard,” he states matter-of-factly.

Dolyn resists the urge to scream in her impatience, gesturing her hands in circles trying to get him to the point. “Mmm that did happen, yes. I believe you told me I was too glassy-eyed to be an apprentice when I told you no.”

He ignores her jab at him, thankfully, and continues, “Since then you have picked locks, stolen and sneaked, and given Astarion a run for his money.”

She can’t deny that. Beating him to locks had been part of the fun, especially given that she isn’t as skilled as he is and it seems to get under his skin.

Gale clears his throat and adds, “And yet rogues are not usually as adept with the arcane as you appear to be, nor as intelligent.”

A flicker of defence for Astarion’s own intelligence battles against her own ego. For as much as she knows she’s smart enough to best him, he’s managed to work his own wiles on her.

She hums thoughtfully. “You haven't met a lot of rogues then.”

There’s a glint of mischief in his eyes when he looks at her, a spark in them like this is something he’s long been wishing to say.

“To be clear, you aren't very good at hiding it. You've collected every book we've found, you spend your time scribing and reading when you think no one is watching, and your spells are well timed in conflict.”

Dolyn can’t help but put her hands up in her defence. “That doesn't prove anything. Magic isn't exclusive to those who’ve read their way into magic.”

Gale holds up his fingers to count through the rest of his point. “Mmm but sorcerers have a fluidity to their magic. Warlocks like Wyll are subject to their patrons and can be spotted by a simple Eldritch blast. Druids… well, they're obvious as bards, and I've never heard you sing.”

“Well I …” Her attempt to rebut him dies on her tongue.

He starts discretely gesturing towards their companion ahead of them. “You can't dodge as quickly as Astarion and you have none of the fighting skill of Karlach nor Lae’zel, and you have none of the religious fervour of Shadowheart.”

Dolyn can’t help the mixed feelings of the chagrin of being told all the things she isn't good at and the blooming pride at his deduction. It almost makes up for the fact he figured her out. “You've thought about this a great deal.”

“Since that night where you entertained my brief lesson of the Weave, and pretended to be somewhat of a novice.”

“That obvious, huh?” She sighs. “I thought if I humoured you it would be less so.”

“Well… some things can’t always be hidden.” He clasps his hands behind him in thought, somehow always in the mood to have some kind of lecture ready to go, even if just in his posture. “Do the others know? Does Astarion?”

She doesn’t understand why Gale would bring him up right now. She’s been keeping as much of her arcane magic abilities hidden from the whole group. They certainly have some kind of arrangement after he essentially exposed himself as a vampire to the entire camp, but there isn’t a lot more to it. Not really.

Yet her voice still sounds like she’s tripping over her own tongue, awkward and unpractised. “Oh, no, I've not really brought it up. It's somewhat of a habit if I'm honest. Present myself as some kind of arcane trickster.”

“Why would you hide it? Why present yourself as less of your talents?” he asks, genuine and probing in only the way Gale can be when it comes to anything arcane.

“I'm not the kind of wizard you are, Gale. I wasn't a prodigy. I didn't summon creatures and draw a god's attention. In fact I'm pretty sure Mystra didn't see me at all. I learned what I needed to survive.”

She stops just short enough of getting emotional. The last thing she needs is to relive memories of what she’s had to do to get by, while they’re currently walking through a situation that is reminds her enough of her past.

“To survive?”

She huffs. “I think that's a story for another time.”

“Where did you learn magic? What school did you attend? Who were your teachers?”

“I didn't have such luxuries or even teachers beyond the books and scrolls I could find, or steal… But I did have the benefit of time.”

He reaches out a hand to rest on her shoulder, a light squeeze of reassurance. “Perhaps there is some magic I can teach you. I may be a different kind of wizard, as you say, but sharing one’s teaching is one of the highest intellectual pursuits one can undertake.”

She sighs and begrudgingly doesn't directly dismiss his offer. “I'll consider it.”

Chapter Text

It's the screech in the night that wakes her.

Dolyn shoots upright and gasps to catch her breath, fingers claw into her bedroll as her heart thumps in her chest. Yet another night of not being able to trance for four hours straight. Rest is becoming a luxury.

Hearing further noises, she starts searching the camp for the source of it. Each step she makes is light, trying to avoid waking the others.

It's as she approaches the dwindling fire in the middle of camp that she sees him. A round bundle of feathers, the owlbear from the goblin camp that had run off in the chaos.

“Oh hello precious one,” Dolyn says as she drops down, hands on her knees.

The owlbear tilts its head in curiosity. Its wide innocent eyes peer over her with chirps and ruffling of its feathers. The poor thing probably hasn't eaten or rested since the goblins took it, likely killing its mother.

Dolyn pats her camp clothes to check her pockets and plucks out some of Gale’s travel jerky. It’s something at least.

She offers it as slowly as her hand will let her. Hopefully he'll take it and her offer won't startle the poor creature.

“What a delectable little pet,” Astarion remarks, suddenly beside her.

The owlbear immediately darts away with a squeak. Its eyes are wide with fear. The scurry of it's feet are faster than Dolyn can react and she feels the immediately disappointment settle on her shoulders.

Astarion speaks before she can tell him off. “Oh no, you've scared off the little snack.”

The gaul of him to sound scandalized by the result of his own actions.

“You're gonna blame me for that?” She sighs, frowning at him before looking out after the creature. “Poor thing. I bet it's only coming after us because… ” That familiar tug at her heartstrings at a poor creature left to fend for itself leaves her trailing off with a sigh.

Astarion saunters up beside her, ensuring he's in her periphery. “Whatever the reason, it only wants your attention.”

Astarion is becoming less and less subtle by the day. Though Dolyn can't quite put her finger on why. 

She side-eyes him and finds him doing the same. “Like you?”

He turns towards her with a huff and demands her attention with exaggerated gestures and the sway of his body. “What ever would give you the impression that I want your attention?”

“Despite our relative closeness you've still been… ” she faces him, eyes raking over him. The words die on her tongue. She's not entirely sure what she wants to say but really they have become so… not close, not comfortable, but something. Something different.

He catches on, shifting his weight, and immediately changes the subject.

“You had a rather long conversation with Gale today.”

Of course he would bring that up. Even when she's sure he's not paying attention, there he is again proving her wrong. He's certainly much more observant than she had given him credit for.

“Jealous, are we?” she pushes back and steps just a little bit closer.

Astarion's face delightfully turns sour with disgust. “Why would I be jealous of Gale?"

Dolyn chuckles and smirks triumphantly. She moves to bump her shoulder against his, basking in the quiet night, and how she has him alone. “If you must know, yes, I did.”

He leans in with his usual flair. “Pray tell, what was it you discussed between you?”

“You really want to know? Or do you want to know if it was about you?”

He scoffs. “I know I am a rather interesting subject, darling, but even I know not all your waking thoughts are about me.”

She takes a long lingering glance over him, making no effort to hide how obvious she is about it. In his camp clothes he looks softer, the ruffles of his white shirt as delicate as it appears clean, while his pants are tailored perfectly to fit him. It's any wonder she hadn't truly taken his visage in before.

Telling him anymore tonight would leave her more exposed than she would wish for. Maybe some other night.

“You're right, but for now, I am wondering when you last… ate.” 

A look passes over Astarion's face, just for a moment, but enough to give her pause. His eyebrows draw together and his eyes soften.

Then it disappears.

“So I do flit into your mind, how generous of you to think of me.” He grins with a flash of a fang.

Dolyn pinches the bridge of her nose. “You're something, you know that? If you are in need, I'll be over at my tent.”

He steps close, close enough that she can smell a whiff of rosemary and brandy. “I can't believe you still continue to call that a tent.” He gestures dismissively at her set up. “Mine is significantly a better option for privacy. For both of us.”

He sweeps an arm towards his tent and with a moment's hesitation, Dolyn follows his direction. Against her better judgement.

She's been to his tent any number of times but she's never been invited in. After the revelation that their previous... tryst? Nighttime indiscretion? Dolyn has no desire to have another repeat of that level of embarrassment if she can help it.

Her feet halt at the entry of his tent and she slips off her camp shoes. 

Astarion swans by with a grin and holds open the flap of his tent for her. “Are you waiting for a more direct invitation, darling?”

Pulling a face and trying to not roll her eyes, she steps in to find her bare feet meet hardwood. She hesitates before shuffling in, her knee finding the edge of a wooden board. A stretcher. No sign of a bedroll.

She had been expecting a collection of pillows.

Instead, there’s a solid stiff uncomfortable space to sleep, a mirror, a ratty old blanket and a couple of bottles filled with a congealed substance that looks like blood. She had thought, with the way he presents himself, that his tent would be filled with creature comforts. 

Though it’s not what he intended, he did have a point about the stark difference in their sleeping quarters.

“You don’t…” she begins but finds herself speechless. “Give me a second.”

She ignores the confused look he gives her when she hurries across the camp to bundle up her bedroll. It’s not much but it’s something. To think he’s been laying on something that hard all this time and she thought the ground was bad enough.

It feels far too familiar. Though she’d slept on cobblestones and bricks.

“Here.” She presents her bedroll with a shove and when he doesn’t take it - out of stubbornness or surprise, she doesn’t know - she pushes through to roll it out inside his tent herself.

“You’re… making yourself at home apparently?” Astarion asks with amused curiosity. He slips in gracefully, tentatively sitting on the bedroll like it was the skirts of a delicate gown.

Dolyn sighs and settles by him. “No wonder you're a miserable griper when you sleep like this.”

“I-- how dare you? I am not miserable or a griper, thank you.” He snarls in that offended way of his that she can never take seriously. Though his eyes dart away with a hint of avoidance and shame.

She bites her lip to suppress a smile. “Then maybe you're just hungry? And you've just been grumpy anytime your hunger strikes?” She gives him a knowing look.

His eyes narrow but he chooses to bite his tongue, opting to stay silent. There's an element of intimacy in the way they both find their place comfortably by each other without a word. A tense beat thrums the moment that their eyes meet.

“Well, that leaves us with that offer of yours.” Astarion's focus turns to her neck. 

Dolyn presses her lips together. She did just offer that. That is certainly something she just did. She keeps finding herself in these situations where she offers or does things when she's in his presence that she hadn't prepared to do. Some of it he doesn't even ask for.

Astarion settles onto the bedroll, leaning back onto his hands. “Will tonight be a repeat of last time? Since that seemed to work well for you.”

A nervous laugh leaves her lips. “I think we can manage without… that.”

“What?” he blinks and tilts his head. His surprise seems for the most part genuine.

Dolyn shuffles forward and gently nudges him to move aside. She sits next to him, turning her back and pulling her ponytail across her shoulder. She leans just enough to expose her neck to him.

Maybe sitting upright will help her nerves. Some sense of control, knowing she can easily move away at any moment.

After all, Astarion has so far only drained her dry once.

But every other time she's been considerably… distracted.

“Oh, I see,” Astarion purrs and slips one leg by her side as the other slides behind her. Gracefully he fits in behind her, slotting her between his legs.

His breath caresses over her neck as his hands settle on her waist. He gently tugs her back against his chest and she reflexively places her hands over his to hold on.

Dolyn knows she's too close, too intimate. All she's meant to be doing is a favour. It's nothing more than that.

Yet her hands betray her by squeezing his.

His lips find the sensitive spot on her neck, cold chill adding to the reflexive shiver. He lingers long enough to nip at her skin. “You let me know when you're ready.”

Dolyn gulps and nods, feeling the tickle of his soft curls. She leans into it with her eyes closed. A momentary dip into the unfamiliar comfort she's found herself in.

She hums as he moves his hands up, further up and up her chest, guiding her hands with them. To be embraced, with such tenderness, only serves to break down the fragile armour protecting her.

His hands reach in and tug at the threads holding it together. He might as well be undressing her with the confident way he is drawing out the moment.

One hand caresses up over the warmth of her chest, her shaky exhales, over her heart and cups over the swell of her breast.

Her eyes snap open.

“Wait, no, no, just…” she stammers and tugs away his hand. “Teeth only.”

A sharp inhale follows by her ear and both his hands pull away.

There's a beat. Silence. The overwhelming sensation of every nerve of hers alight, waiting for the next movement.

Then the moment breaks with a huffed laugh. “There? My, you certainly have some wild thoughts.”

“What?” A hot blush floods her face and she's sure she's pink in the face if not completely red. “Hells no, that-- that's not what I meant.”

Astarion hums close enough to the tip of her ear that she swears she can feel it. 

She wants to feel it.

“Keep it to blood tonight. Please.” She clasps Astarion's hand.

It's a stupid gesture. Too personal.

But then he grasps her hand back. 

The other moves up and over her chest, resting just below her left breast, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing. It takes her a second before she realises it's as close as he can get to her heart.

His lips linger over the curve of her neck. “Blood only?” 

“Blood only,” she repeats back and gasps as his fang prick her skin.

She braces herself against him, squeezing his hand tighter and trying to embrace the moment as best she can. She's done this before. It's just Astarion, and he needs this.

A sharp icy pain strikes into her neck followed by the gentle suction of his mouth closing around the wound. She gives herself over to the feeling.

It's calmer sitting up, but that might just be the fact Astarion has her held to him as he drains her. Every beat of her heart hammering in her chest is surely felt by him, by his hand, by his enhanced senses, by the taste of the very blood he's drinking.

She tries to ignore that feeling of dread and anxiety that bubbles up from the depths of her mind. Her focus turns to her breath, the feel of his hand on her chest, knowing that every time she fills her lungs she fills his hand as well. 

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

After three cycles in of long, counted breaths she feels him pull back and the trickling of blood down her collarbone.

“Still with me?” he asks quietly.

Dolyn swallows and manages a nod. “Yeah.”

The hand on her chest pushes her further back into him as he sinks his teeth in once again. This time it hurts less with the wound still fresh.

Astarion growls this time like he's breathing her in. His hands hold her tighter while he hunches over to taste every bit of her blood he can savour.

Dolyn reminds herself between breaths to calm down, to relax, let him have his fill. The faintness she knows all too well starts to blur her vision. 

By now she's become used to it, the drain that comes with long bouts of hunger, the strain of using their tadpoles, the long days of trekking by foot. Being in Astarion's tent, providing him with what he needs, something so easy to give, is by comparison remarkable easy.

And he keeps making it easier.

He keeps making her comfortable.

What else is a vampire meant to do to have a willing blood donor?

Why would any vampire choose to go to the effort of making them comfortable? Both of them know he could simply drain her at his will.

He did try the first time.

Astarion interrupts her light-headed musings with heavy panting as he pulls back. He groans, hands falling away from her body, untangling her fingers that had woven together with his.

She catches her breath and jolts at the pressure of his hand over the fresh wound. She gasps, “A-All good?”

“Mmm,” he hums, leaning close and inspecting his handiwork. He runs a finger up to her collarbone, gathering the trail of blood before catching it in his mouth. “If you are, darling.”

His words are heavy with implication and suggestion. One that sits uneasily on her shoulders. No doubt he has an impression from her that she wants something in return.

She should've known she'd establish a precedent. There's always a price for any gift and always an expectation with any offering. That's a cycle she's been trying to get out of for years. It always ends up circling back.

“I am a little tired, but that's to be expected.” She self-consciously straightens her blouse. Her eyes fall to her bedroll. “How about you?”

The reality of where they are hits her. It would be a cruel thing to take her bedroll away. Every other one they'd found she'd sold thinking, somewhat foolishly, that everyone in her camp had one.

Given Astarion's past, she couldn't bear taking it away from him now. Not after learning he's been making do with so much less.

“I'm used to the night.” He slots his chin on her shoulder. His laughter at her sudden jolt rumbles through her chest. “I only need to trance for a few hours.”

He tilts his head then, making a pointed glance at her face. Just enough for her to catch his gaze in the corner of her eye. “As do you.”

“True, uh, I ...” she lets the words trip out of her mouth as she tries to catch up her racing mind. Honestly is all she has, and so it tumbles out. “I don't want to take my bedroll back after I've seen what you've been resting on. It wouldn't be kind or fair.”

“Is that your bleeding heart of yours returning or are you looking for an excuse to stay?” he teases with a smirk she tries to pretend she didn't see.

She hasn't thought that far. Not even considered it.

But it is an option.

She doesn't hate it either.

She swivels around and pokes an accusatory finger at his chest. “I can't trance comfortably at my… tent, and I'm not letting you trance here uncomfortably either. So I guess you're just stuck with me.”

He glances over her, piercing eyes raking over every detail and saying nothing of them. He purses his lips before saying, “Well, that's quite an ultimatum, darling, putting me in such a position. Who knew you would scheme for a cuddle?”

“That's not--”

“Isn't it?”

She pushes weakly against his chest and bites her lip to suppress a smile that would match his.

“You are incorrigible.”

“And you are delicious as always.” 

Dolyn shakes her head and shoos him off the bedroll. It takes a few minutes but with enough wrangling and dragging in his decorative pillows from outside, she manages a reasonably comfortable sleeping arrangement.

She slides into the bedroll and scuttles aside to make room, closing her eyes in a feeble attempt to calm her nerves. Travelling and camping with strangers leads to strange bedfellows.

Astarion follows suit and quietly, without complaint, slides in behind her.

Where she expects him to shuffle close and drag her close to him to bask in her warmth, instead he hesitates. His hand hovers over her hip, fingers twitching. She hears him part his lips and a sound of an exhale.

Biting her lip, she reaches back and pulls his arm around her middle.

“I’ll let you cuddle me. At least once.”

His body tenses, pressed up against her, likely some kind of discomfort, but it passes quickly enough.

As she slips into the reverie, she feels Astarion relax behind her, arm draped over her, and eventually join her in a trance.

Chapter Text

The clamorous gathering of tieflings and guests fills the night air with laughter, music, and revelry. A well deserved night, even if some of the tieflings were well into their cups.

Making her way through the camp, dodging the clumsily angled horns and sloshing in tipped goblets, Dolyn feels the warmth and joy of the night seep into her bones. It has been too long since she last enjoyed a good wine and greater company. She’d even let her hair down, basking in the feel of the wind through her locks as Karlach dances circles around her in their tipsy misguided attempts of dancing together.

“Look at them all!” Karlach practically shouted with glee. It had to be the biggest smile Dolyn'd seen on the tiefling’s face. “This is because of us.”

It is hard not to smile in the face of Karlach’s own joy.

“Seems that way, yeah,” Dolyn agrees and tries to manoeuvre her way out of the spin Karlach appears to be starting again. There’s only so much she can endure having drunk this much wine. Especially when one wrong move could mean burnt skin.

Karlach laughs and takes a big gulp of her goblet before she adds, “It’s just so nice to feel like what we’re doing is good.”

With a nod, Dolyn follows Karlach’s gaze to Bex, one of the tieflings who spoke of starting a bakery, sitting down from too much wine. Near her there was the wizard’s soon-to-be apprentice, Rolan, putting on some kind of show for his siblings, a dazzling display of prestidigitation, masked as something more magnificent than it truly was. 

Others milled around their camp with short greetings and longer strides. Perhaps the friendliest company they might have for some time if they are to continue their way to Moonrise Towers.

“You should enjoy yourself then,” Dolyn says with a smile. “I am going to… take a break from all this noise.”

“Really? Now?” Karlach’s shoulders slump with her displeasure. Her eyes are wide and pleading. “You were just getting into a rhythm with those two left feet!”

“Yes, really. I think I need a moment. Please enjoy the night.”

With a tip of her goblet and her horn, Karlach’s bright smile returns and she slips off into the camp to continue dancing.

Dolyn took her own leave, darting out past the rocks to the lake. The cool night air meets her skin on the evening breeze.

Yet she still did not have the luxury of being alone.

Mere metres to her right stood Wyll, staring out across the lake in deep contemplation. It almost seems like a shame to interrupt him.

“I see you’ve had the same idea,” she announces her presence with her hands resting behind her back.

Wyll's face turns to her with a look of shock that warms into a sheepish smile. “Hells, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice I was gone.”

She laughs, both at his misguided kindness and at her own obliviousness. “I’m afraid I must admit that I had not realised you had hidden yourself away.”

Wyll returns her laugh, eyes down at his feet. His hands dive into his pockets. “That would be fair.”

“I would still miss you at such an affair,” Dolyn apologises with a smile. 

She had scarcely paid attention to much of her party tonight. With so much time together it's a pleasant change to mingle with a different cohort of familiar faces. New stories, new conversations, and less wondering on their fate. 

“You are too kind, Dolyn. In truth, I don't feel in a festive mood.” His eyes flicker towards the camp when voices rise up in drunken cheers. 

“You would be more than welcome to return to the party.”

His demeanour shifts. “Not when I unsettle them, as I unsettle everyone. I am a devil now after all.”

“For what it's worth, you do not unsettle me.” She searches his eyes as she approaches. It is a shame that he sees himself so poorly. 

All of those years he's carried the burden of a pact he cannot speak of and now his visage is marred by its consequences. The greater shame is the one he carries.

Considering him and his doubt, she tries to lighten his mood with a jest. “Besides, I have seen considerably worse and even they had prospects in the Lower City.”

He shakes his head with a huff of a laugh. “Maybe I should reconsider calling you kind.”

“As you would be right to do.”

“But please, do not let me keep you from your party.”

“Our party.”

“Enjoy your night," he insists.

Wyll's eyes met her with a knowing tilt of his head. He knew just how to imply his will in the way someone who had spent time at court and the Upper City.

She is not one to question it.

And so she returns back to the party.

She continues the night greeting and drinking, making conversation where she can. 

Lae’zel has a single-minded focus on dealing with their parasitic passengers as soon as the sun rises. That and apparently a need to work out some additional tension aroused by the heat of battle. Dolyn politely declines the forward invitation and swiftly continues her rounds.

Shadowheart meanwhile seems strangely pleased with the celebrations. Her usual cool demeanour warmed by the slightest of smiles between sips of her wine.

Though her dark mistress of a goddess seems to be ever present and judgemental in her mind. Seems odd to Dolyn for a goddess so encouraging of grievance, loss, and pain to provide her clerics with the ability to heal.

But questions of piety are exactly why she's a wizard and not a cleric.

Though Gale… his godly connections left him apparently isolated from the world, desperately consuming magical items brought to him by a tressym… and now herself. 

He takes to the night with a sombre appreciation for his now present company. Though not without him passing an amused comment about Rolan’s prestidigitation theatrics.

And as she makes her way around to Halsin, he too seems surprisingly reserved given the fortuitous outcome for the Grove. He instead wears the mantle of his position as Archdruid like ill-fitting heavy armour. Despite her attempt to draw him out, Dolyn is quickly shooed away to enjoy the night too. 

Astarion however looks pleased as punch as she walks up to check in on him. He quickly puts aside the bottle of wine in his hand and gestures dramatically at her approach.

“Here’s my little treat with their cheeks all flushed.” Astarion moves just that little bit closer, capturing her gaze with a look apparently intended only for her. “You will come to my bed tonight, won’t you?”

Dolyn freezes and the shock of his forward question stops her mind as well as her body. The odd nature of it bubbles in her chest before she erupts into laughter. Her hand rushes up to clasp over her mouth, peering at him in disbelief.

Her voice strains, high and almost giggly. “Wh-what?”

Astarion falters, but for a second, and quickly recomposes himself. The mask flits back over his face to hide the momentary worry.

Dolyn doesn’t miss the change.

“Ah, you need a bit of enticing, let me see.” His hands gesture in the air as flourishes around his words as if plucking ideas from the ether. “How about this one…”

She watches as the gears of his mind work. Maybe it’s the wine or maybe it’s the joyous atmosphere around her and his always oddly charming eccentricities, but she can’t help the chuckling behind her lips at the way he’s working so hard to convince her.

Especially for something that could be so much less effort.

“All these accolades from the Tieflings are nothing compared to the sound of my name, cried from your lips.”

She blinks, stunned.

A second passes.

The memories of their previous nights flit through her mind. The last time that she can recall saying his name was their first night together. 

When she’d wanted him to kiss her.

Then here he is, awaiting her response as if she has been stuck in a moment of flustered shock. Like she’s so easily swayed by honeyed words. 

He hums thoughtfully at the lack of his desired reaction and continues anyway. “Hmm, let me give it another go…” He strokes a finger over his lip in thought and then leans his body towards her. “Every part of your perfect body whispers temptation - it’s as if the Gods made you just to ruin me.”

Dolyn feels a chuckle bubble up her throat in her surprise. The idea of her being created by any kind of god especially for him is a special kind of ridiculous.

The more it sits with her, the harder it is to hide her laughter. “Wow!”

He's definitely pushing it too far. They both know he doesn't believe a single word of it. Astarion's never once given any kind of indication that he would rate her so highly.

She's not the most beautiful or fit or shapely, certainly not attractive enough to be worthy of terms of temptation or ruin. But she's attractive where it matters, or at least she likes to think so.

Though Astarion does have a penchant for the dramatic.

His face contorts in further disbelief. “What?!” He swallows, eyebrows furrowed, eyes scanning over her.

“Just… that’s… these worked?” She bites her lip only for more giggles to work their way through into the night air. She looks him up and down, savouring the lines of his body and the warm flush under her skin. “I am way out of my depth with you, aren’t I?”

Dolyn can feel the wine flowing through her. Thanks to Shadowheart's influence she's had more than her fill and it's beginning to sway her feet. And her judgement.

Astarion pouts and a hand presses against his chest. He strikes a posture of defence. “Excuse me?! I am--”

Dolyn interrupts with a smirk to finish his sentence, “Trying to seduce me with over-the-top whatever those were?”

She steps forward, chin tipped up. She's not so easily swayed. Even if he is pretty, pretentious, perceptive, passionate…

He pulls his hand from his chest and with an accusatory spin of his fingers, he asks pointedly, “They worked on you last time, didn’t they?”

The heat in Dolyn's cheeks stings and confidence surges through her. She isn't a pawn to be played. Even if she enjoyed it.

Even if she enjoys it now.

“Excuse you, I resent that,” she spits back, words stringing together almost musically.

It is his turn to grin. “You didn’t resent our last night together.”

“As I understand it, you got a fuck and a feed. So…” she says with a coy smile.

He matches her, standing slightly taller and slightly closer. “I’m amazed you managed to keep your mind clear.” His eyes look over her before returning to her face. “I’ve been thinking about our last night together ceaselessly.” His voice drops to his low growl.

Dolyn squints and laughs, trying to hide her nerves, how much his voice gets to her. She pokes at his chest and slinks closer to him to mirror his paltry attempt of seduction, encouraged by too much Ithbank and Arabellan Dry. “Oh, you're weak to my charms, are you?”

“You are impossible,” Astarion huffs.

“Good.” 

He turns briefly away from her, crossing his arms. “Wizards, I swear.”

“Go on… try me,” she challenges with a smirk. 

She shouldn't want him to bite back, to continue their back and forth. Yet he seems to be just as temperamental as she is if the mood strikes and that's what this is, isn't it? Just some amusement between them. Nothing more.

Astarion’s mask falls back into place. His lips pout just a little, his shoulders broaden just so, and his eyelids lower as if he’s considering their options.

His voice is but a low whisper when he asks, “We could continue this back and forth all night, but… is this really what you want?”

She sighs. He really is too much.

When she wants to tease him, he'll react, disgruntled, but only for so long. He always comes back to some semblance of whatever this Astarion is.

Funny how she's grown almost fond of what used to vex her.

Astarion’s features turn to that thoughtful look once more. “How about if I said these little words…” he continues with playful tone, “everyone’s favourite…”

Dolyn prepares herself with a raised brow. As if any words would be little to this flamboyant, talkative, ridiculous man--

“I love you.”

Except that.

Her heart skips.

Her heart drops.

Astarion's face has too, no longer smiling or warm but serious. He almost appears sad.

He can't possibly mean it.

The words can’t be real. He wouldn’t dare it.

It feels almost low and yet…

Her ears feel like they’re ringing all of a sudden, as if the grass around them is suddenly chiming like bells in the wind. Then it dissipates like a Silence spell settling over her in a fog cloud.

Her face feels odd.

She gulps before she refutes him, “We both know that’s not true.”

He shrugs and smiles like he's simply been caught out in a white lie. “Well, it can be true, if only for tonight.”

Dolyn puts up a mask of her own. Neither smile nor frown appears on her face as she continues with the ease at which those words fell from his lips. Worst still the implication he would use them to seduce her, or others.

Yet he seems serious about bedding her. 

In his eyes, as far as she can guess, he believes the prospect of love for a night is a desirable dream. That she would want that.

Surely he can hear the sound of her heart beating faster.

Oh the thought of being loved again.

Astarion shakes her from the thought of bittersweet memories with one of his impatient diatribes. “Now, as much as I relish standing around and saying all my favourite lines at you, I’d much rather we got to experience each others’ full portfolio of talents once again.”

Perhaps indulging in him will give her the illusion of being loved, if only for a night.

Chapter Text

There is something about crawling back into Astarion’s tent for the second time in a week that feels humbling, if not embarrassing. Dolyn deliberately blocks out the party outside and who might be witnessing her disappearing into the elf’s tent.

She moves to the corner and finds the selection of pillows she had moved in last time. In fact, he hasn’t made any changes at all despite everyone having taken down their tents and set them back up again.

This is a choice he made.

To keep her setup.

She shouldn't feel flustered over how he chooses to keep his sleeping arrangements.

She lies back on one of the pillows, and stretches out her legs to get comfortable.

Dolyn clears her throat when he enters, her heart stammering at the way his curls shift just as gracefully as the rest of him. He smiles, lips curling and eyes glinting as the candlelight of outside dims when he closes the tent flap.

It's just the two of them now. Outside is still loud with celebration. 

There's still enough light filtering through the fabric for Dolyn to make out the handsome curve of his jaw.

And he's perched by her feet, attention focussed solely on her.

“How have you been finding the bedroll?” she asks with a polite smile and an awkward pat of the bedroll beneath her.

Those eyes don't leave hers when she peers up. He replies with a sly grin, “Empty without you.”

He starts to crawl over her, hands pressing into the floor by the fingertip. So much concentrated strength in the wiry muscle of his arms. He's silent in the way he stalks towards her, over her legs, closing the distance between them.

He's so close she could touch him.

“You have been sleeping in it, haven’t you?” she asks with her breath caught in her throat. She immediately swallows after.

He can probably hear all of it. Her heartbeat betrays her every time. Just the knowledge of why they're in his tent and everyone is just outside and still awake has her in suspense.

Astarion instead stops, eyebrows furrowed. The tone in his voice is one of frustrated disbelief. “Of course I have, I’m not--”

He cuts himself short like he's swallowing his words. Something he thinks is better not to say.

Dolyn gives him a look, levelled and questioning.

He settles back onto his knees and straddles her legs. “I’m not a wood elf who apparently can just go sleep out in the woods like an animal.”

She blinks and gapes at him. Instinctively her shoulders pull back and she feels the years of standing her ground shoot down her arms to curl her fingers in soft leather.

If only he knew how she had survived the last hundred or so years. She could sleep a hundred nights under the stars compared to the sewers and rubble of the Lower City.

She's prepared to be insulted but a smile quirks at the corner of her lips at the sheer disgust on his face. It pulls at his face in a way that's always amusing. His nose wrinkles, he sneers like a cat who has tasted something bitter, and his eyes narrow like he's been offended. 

What an incredibly precious and ridiculous man he is. All over the thought of being comfortable with sleeping outside.

She could poke at him like this, pretend to be offended, feign his particular style of mock-insult. 

She places a hand delicately over her heart and mocks him when she asks, “Is that what you think of me?”

Astarion tilts his head and dismisses the thought with a flick of his wrist. “Oh like you weren’t sleeping under the stars with the druid?”

“Halsin has only just joined our camp,” she states matter-of-fact. 

There's a hint of something else in his voice, an implication she can't quite grasp. If he was easy enough to figure out, she wouldn't be sitting here trying to work out what he means and why.

Though she's not the most opaque of individuals either.

A spell could enlighten her. A few thoughts read and she'd know.

Even the use of the tadpole.

Enchantment is her speciality after all.

Instead she opts to stare at him pointedly.

And he spits, “Fine, you were sleeping out there on your own then. On the dirt and leaves and moss.”

A flush of warmth tints her cheeks when she giggles at him. He almost sounds concerned, hidden under the guise of being insulted by her own choices.

Or perhaps more specifically her kindness and where that left her.

“Would you rather I have been in here, taking up all your space?” she asks, leaning forward and parting her legs under him, pushing his legs apart. Her eyes rake up his thighs, his chest, to his face. “So, you wanted me…”

She's trapped beneath him, certainly, but not without her agency. Not without the stark reminder of why she's in his tent.

“Right, yes,” he clears his throat like he'd simply been off on a train of thought. The masked grin returns to his face. “I was thinking we should experience each other once again.”

“Mmm, apparently couldn’t stop thinking about it?” Dolyn takes the opportunity to grab him by the front of his shirt and tug him close. “So tell me, what couldn’t you stop thinking about?”

There's a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. The red of his irises always read so clear and piercing between his outward flirtations and disgruntled complaints but surprise and hesitation? That's new.

His eyelashes flutter and a blink clears the expression on his face. The grin returns and so does the confidence that puffs out his chest.

“Here I thought you were way out of your depth?”

She takes her turn to not answer him and ignores the question.

The igniting of all of her nerves and the slow laboured breathing through the staccato of her heartbeats are enough of an answer.

Dolyn hasn't had much wine but with her hand tangled into the soft white cotton of his shirt she feels intoxicated by his scent of rosemary, bergamot, and brandy. She can't meet his eyes as the warm flush passes through her body. 

Maybe she has had a little too much to drink.

“Would you become drunk if you drank me?” she asks curiously.

He leans against her hand. “Depends on how much I drink.”

“I think I’d enjoy seeing you drunk.”

His hand covers hers and gently loosens her grasp. “And you’re sure you’ve not had too much?”

Dolyn bites her lip. Their voices have become little more than hushed whispers. “Just enough, and not one drop more.”

They're close enough she could kiss him, but she finds the courage through her nerves to only look him in the eyes again. He is singularly focussed on her.

He purses his lips into a small, satisfied smile. “I thought you were afraid of being bit.”

“Less so with you, if it’s you,” she admits as quietly as she can.

The pillow behind her sinks as she leans back.

“Is that what you want?” he asks.

“What do you want?” she retorts in an attempt of humour, but fails due to her genuine interest.

She already knows he likes to bite her. All vampires would. An easy meal, and Astarion is anything but someone who strives for a difficult chase. The height of comfort for him would be a meal at his beck and call, offering itself to him for him to indulge.

But does he want her to want him to bite her? 

Does he want her to want him?

Does he want her?

“Whatever it is that you desire most,” he purrs with lowered lashes.

It's practised, again.

Forever infuriating, even when anticipation is thrumming through her and weakening every ounce of resolve.

She clenches her jaw momentarily. “You said you’d been thinking of me - what was the word you used - ceaselessly . That my body was made to ruin you… I say we… find out how.”

He asks again, “Is that really what you want?”

“Astarion… ” she warns.

“Well, now you’re all mine, and I’m all yours. Until morning at least.”

Astarion places a hand under her chin, with a smirk, and tilts her face up towards his. He's positioned over her, the clouded dream that he is, and his touch feels heavenly and cool against the heat simmering in her skin.

She might just melt him.

But he is ever as cool as he is collected when it matters.

Dolyn feels a moment of hesitation, looking down to hide the gulp at the dryness in her throat, but it disappears away in a snap as his lips meet hers.

She sighs into him, breathless as ever, holding back the moan her mind and body want to make at being at his mercy again. It's a delicate place to find herself.

His teeth tease along her bottom lip before he pulls back with a sigh. “You really do give yourself away. Shall we…?”

Astarion tugs at her blouse and without a word she obliges him. It slips over her head and falls softly by her side. 

Dolyn follows suit, slipping her fingers into the folds of his shirt, tugging it free from his waistband. Her fingertips brush against the cool firm muscle of his back before she nods with raised eyebrows, a question to let her continue.

Instead he sits upright, hands sliding over hers and taking over. It's a sight to watch as he removes his shirt in one swift movement, a rehearsed action of someone who has performed this act many times.

A pang of guilt hits Dolyn in the chest.

She's still not sure what her role is, whether she's an actor or the audience.

The moment she sees his face again, all toothy grin, she hides her concern behind a smile.

“You really don't need any help with that, do you?” she teases.

“Never. But you, well… let's make quick work of this, hmm?” he plucks at the hem of her camp pants.

It's hard to hide the way her chest rises and falls higher and faster as he swiftly slips off her camp shoes and tosses them carefully into a corner. His fingers then make quick dextrous work of her ties before tugging her pants down over her thighs.

With a nod at her, he provides silent instruction to lift her hips and that's when she realises her underwear is being pulled along with her pants. She gasps at the touch of his fingertips caressing her thighs, intentionally by the look on his face. Of course he slips her clothes off with a cat-like grace.

“You work fast, Astarion,” she says with a nervous chuckle.

“Only,” he grins as crawls over her. “Where it.” He reaches to remove her remaining bra. “Matters.” He tosses it aside with a smirk.

Dolyn's eyes fall to Astarion's waistband and her mind wanders to how much better a sight he would be right now without them.

He catches her chin and tilts her head up. “Someone's eager.”

“I'm merely giving attention where attention is due,” she says, feigning innocence.

He lowers himself down but hovers just enough to not touch an inch of her.

Her hips move ready to meet him too.

The tease.

Astarion follows up by capturing her lips again, hungry and insistent with need. He steals her breath every moment and yet lets her gasp enough between the meeting of their lips to fill her lungs. Each time she craves to fill them but finds herself aching to have her breath taken away once more.

If he is intent on teasing her, she's going to have her fill of every moment.

It's impulsive of her. More than she should be risking, but he has focussed on her every single time they'd been intimate.

He's done nothing more than focus on her in some exchange he has created in his mind. Perhaps he believes he owes her for her blood, for… not killing him?

The fact remains that he never has gotten off in their trysts.

Her hands frame his face, as delicate as she can, and she pulls him back, gasping for breath. “I… hah… want to trade places.” She bites her lip, worried he might turn her down. 

“Oh? I wouldn't have thought that with how you're lying there.” The tip of his nail draws the faintest pink line down her chest, over her hip, and down her thighs.

Dolyn answers him by planting her palms firmly against his chest and pushing him back. She slips out and kneels to the side, presenting the place she has just left.

“Can you blame me for wanting a varied experience?” 

He looks confused for a brief moment, but with a sly look over her, he settles against the pillow and gestures over his body with a flourish. 

“I should've guessed you of all people would like to be on top, darling,” he says, coaxing her over him.

She climbs onto his lap, straddling his legs, feeling the touch of his leather pants between her thighs. 

“You have no idea,” she says cryptically and begins to wiggle backwards.

Her hands press against his bare chest again, holding him back despite the quizzical look growing on his face. She presses a first kiss against his collarbone, then his neck, then up to his jawbone.

He remains silent as she continues, much to her surprise, but it breaks with soft gasps at her affections. A kiss to his cheek, the corner of his lip, the other side of his face, and down his neck.

She pauses over the scar, fighting the urge to focus there. Suddenly it hits her just how intimate it is when he drinks from her.

“You don't need to focus on such an ugly mark,” he says, restrained. 

Dolyn immediately moves to look him in the eye. “No mark could look ugly on you.”

“Is that right? And why is that?” He practically fluffs up like a prancing bird at the praise.

“Are you fishing for compliments?” she asks flatly.

He tuts and touches his chest with a flourish. “I am always partial to a bit of flattery.”

“I bet you would look pretty in anything. Blood, bruises, scars, and all.” Her eyes trail down his chest. “Or nothing.”

Her hand slips down his chest, down and down until she finds his clothed length. Her palm cups him before applying slight pressure back and forth.

His breath hitches. “Anything?”

“Anything.” She hums and adds, “Makes me wonder if that mark on my neck is prettier than yours.”

“That hardly seems fair.” He grins despite his exaggerated pout.

“Mmm… no,” she hums and resumes kissing down his chest.

This time she nips and lingers, tasting him and indulging in his perfume. Small pink marks bloom as she moves from one place to the next.

All the while her hand keeps working him as she delights in the hardening of his cock beneath her fingers. 

He isn't complaining.

Though… she only has so many hands.

With a flick of her wrist and an incantation between lingering kisses on his pecs, she conjures mage hand to take the place of her real one.

She catches the amused look on his face as her casting hand makes gestures by his side.

“Magic in the bedroom? Have you been holding back on me?”

“You have no idea.”

As her mouth continues to explore his chest up to his neck, indulging in the press of his chest against her with every movement, the mage hand works over him to the blissful sound of sighs. His arms are laid relaxed and forgotten beside him.

Dolyn moves up to stare into his eyes, indulging how drunk on him and his reactions she feels. How wonderful it feels to give like this. How she had in the past.

Yet his eyes are focussed, watching her with an intensity she can’t place as he lets her do as she pleases. 

So she watches him as she attempts to slide the mage hand under the waistband of his pants. She's memorised the angles of his body enough for her to manage without looking, just like unpicking a lock around a corner.

“Let me? Please?” she begs with a hand firmly resting on chest. “I want to focus on you.”

A brief moment of conflict changes his expression.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

Then a look passes over his face like he's not quite in the room, disappearing behind his eyes. It's not a look she's seen on his face before. There's a vulnerability and uncertainty. His eyes are wider, jaw slackened.

Her will acts on instinct before she can stop it, an impulse she has felt for weeks but never acted on. The sheer need to know him and know his mind.

It feels like a twist of thoughts in her mind and next she knows she's squinting.

Her tadpole has reached out to his mind, desperate and eager for connection.

His voice is far away, soft but firm, “No.”

“Okay I'll…” she immediately signals for her mage hand to lift.

“No, not that,” he corrects, lifting a hand to dismiss her action. He doesn’t look at her when he adds, “Stay out of my head.”

“And…” she begins to say but he shakes his head at her.

He grimaces, jaw clenched, as he unlaces his trousers and shoves them unceremoniously down. He nods without a word for her to continue, determined, but all hints of his smile are gone.

Like this is all a task to be done.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm fine.” He doesn't meet her eyes.

She has other ways of getting the truth from him. An enchantment can sway someone to your will as much as they can reveal others.

But this is not one of those moments.

Perhaps he needs this.

Perhaps he thinks he does.

Her spectral mage hand grasps down his length, now hardened and curved towards his stomach.

If not for his pallor, she suspects he might appear flushed by the way he chews at his cheek, and how he avoids looking at her.

She's never felt so close and yet so far away.

She has to change tactics.

Dolyn slips down his body, mage hand slipping away to instead run up his chest to cup his face with a gentle caress.

Without her direction, it can stay there, a reminder of her presence. Her care.

Something she hasn't quite recognised until this moment.

Dolyn slides down until she's positioned over his cock. Her hand starts stroking him the moment that she takes hold.

His body tenses beneath her and his head throws back with a groan. As she gets faster, his hips begin to buck up into her hand. 

Once she has a rhythm, her gaze finally meets his and that vulnerability has returned, a desperation she didn't see last time. Part of him looks… almost afraid.

She signals for her mage hand to caress along his cheek before her own soothes over his thigh. She wants to tell him that it's all okay, he's safe, but the only words that tumble out of her mouth are: “You're beautiful.”

She sounds as breathy as he looks, writhing beneath her like he doesn't know his own pleasure. And then he bucks at her words with a whine, immediately covering his mouth to muffle the sound.

At the very least he seems to be enjoying it.

“Astarion,” she warns cheekily, “You might want to bite your hand.”

Dolyn takes the head of his cock into her mouth and swirls her tongue around the tip. His hips jolt up, pushing his length further into her mouth.

She moves her mage hand to grasp his hair as he sinks his teeth into his hand to muffle his cries. Then she tugs at him to look down so she can see that beautiful shade of red in his eyes as she downs as much of him as she can manage.

His face does not know how to react. Fear. Lust. Shock. Confusion. They all flit across his face as she bobs again and again, hollowing her cheeks and lavishing him with her tongue to pull more muffled moans from him.

The speed of his hips increases until she's struggling to hold his hips down to not completely choke or be pushed away. His eyes shut, closed tight.

She pulls back with a wet pop, a string of her own spit connecting her to his cock twitching in front of her face.

Her voice is a hoarse whisper when she asks, “Where do you want to finish?”

Astarion takes a second to catch his breath and find his words. When he does, it's after a raspy laugh and while peeking through his lashes. “You did say I would look pretty in anything.”

Dolyn hasn't paid much attention to her own needs beyond seeing Astarion undone. Yet the second the implication hits her, she can’t ignore the feeling of how dripping wet she is.

She crawls up his body in the manner she has seen him do and feels simultaneously weak and drunk with power, if not lust.

He doesn't hesitate to sit her on his lap like a throne of her own making and lines himself up. As if only to tease her, he slips two of his fingers into her heat, leaving her to bite her lip to hold in a needy moan.

For whatever time she had him, he now has her back wrapped around his fingers, literally, in seconds.

She clenches around him in need, trying to move but finding herself held aloft by his other arm now clasping her hip in place. His fingertips make their mark with bittersweet pain, likely to bruise later.

Now it’s her turn to whine.

Blissfully he silences her with his lips. One of his fangs teases at piercing her but relents. Both of his hands grasp her face as she gives in to him.

“Quiet now, wood elf, we're not in the forest this time,” he teases, slipping two fingers into her mouth to taste.

The shock of it has her groaning around his fingers and having to swallow down the urge to wipe that victorious smirk off his face. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

As he always seems to do.

He pulls his fingers out of her mouth as he pushes her down and thrusts into her. He grunts, fangs biting into his lip to stifle the noise.

She grasps his shoulders to maintain her balance and gasps as she sinks further down onto his length. Her body shudders, her hips buck, and her breath catches each time he thrusts.

He moves with such precision. One hand takes to the small of her back while the other takes to her hip. He thrusts perfectly to punctuate every breath, to draw out every sigh.

But this time, compared to last time, he is clinging to her and desperate with need.

With want.

She can’t help but kiss him then.

Not desperate, not rough, but gentle, tender, and sweet.

She feels his rhythm falter, but only for a moment. He gasps against her lips and moans into her mouth.

She loses herself in him. And the smallest of hopes sparks that he too is lost in her.

The tension in her builds and her fingers dig into his shoulders. She bucks her hips to meet his thrusts, growing more erratic and urgent. Try as she might she can’t muffle the wet slap when he sits up and she moves with him only to be met by his hips when she comes down to meet them.

She buries her face in his neck, smothering him with kisses, before she pulls back to whisper in his ear, “Finish inside me. I want you to finish this time too.”

He chokes and sputters a cough. His body jolts before he answers with a purr in her ear, “Is that so?” The breathiness of his voice betrays the otherwise confident tease.

Dolyn answers in kind, breathless. “Yes. Please.”

He gives a frustrated amused sigh. It has to be a promise of a later tease, but it sounds almost softer than usual. Though that might be due to the rough breaths he makes as he pistons his hips while he holds hers.

She can scarcely catch her breath and with how perfectly he is hitting the right angle with his thrusts she's too scared to take her face away from where it's buried in his neck.

His lips touch her ear with a smile when he echoes her words back to her, “I want you to finish this time too.”

One of his hands threads beneath them to focus circles around her sensitive clit. She instantly clenches around him and shudders, mouth opening silently as the heat and pressure in her builds.

It's like a white hot light searing its way through her. It cuts through all of her defences and there is nothing else she can hear or see or feel than him.

He holds her firm as he grunts once and twice and thrusts deep where his legs spasm. His fingers work faster as if desperate for her to join him.

The tension snaps and she comes clenching hard around him as he fills her. She falls forward onto him even as his fingers continue to pleasure her through the waves and shocks.

He laughs fondly in her ear as she jolts with sensitivity.

She certainly knows he came this time too. 

“How much do you think they heard?” he asks with a sense of pride that seems too early to have after the noise they likely made.

She pulls back to see a stark purple bruise growing around the bite mark on Astarion's neck.

Dolyn's not sure whether to join him in his pride or suffer the embarrassment of leaving a mark so… prominent.

She sits on his lap, his cock still buried deep inside her, and assesses his face, almost nose to nose. “Hopefully less than last time.”

“Oh you're no fun,” he pushes at her shoulder.

He is remarkably playful given how many times he dropped his mask.

“And are you okay?” she asks cautiously 

Astarion dismisses her with a wave. “I'm fine. Just got a little out of my head. Shall we at least attempt to get some rest now? Assuming you'll help clean up your mess in the morning.”

When Dolyn doesn't bite at his tease and looks at him with concern, he looks away. In fact his eyes don't meet hers for the rest of the night.

Not as she gets off his lap. Not when she preps the pillows and their shared blanket. Not when she dresses and hands him his camp clothes.

All of that connection… lost. 

He puts himself back together and runs through the motions.

Until they're finally lying face to face and he whispers, “Rest well, darling.”

She's sure when she goes to close her eyes that the weak smile on his face crumbles.

Chapter Text

In the morning after the Tiefling party, Dolyn finds herself trancing alone in Astarion's tent. She'd felt him leave in the early morning light when the first few rays peeked in, but it feels different coming out of the reverie to truly find him gone.

After last night she's not sure how she should feel. It's not the first time she's woken up alone, and not the first time Astarion has left her.

A vampire who has spent years in the darkness surely wants to bask in the sunlight. 

The alternatives are considerably darker to consider.

With little noise of others awake, she peeks out, finds no stragglers waiting outside, and sneaks over to the river. The rocks feel cool against her bare feet, a welcome distraction from the colder feeling edging into her chest.

Here the River Chionthar is beautiful and serene, free from the filth and burden of the city, and yet it connects the rural beauty to the life she knew only days ago. 

It's a wonder to her that she has survived. 

But again, she always has.

“We can awaken the others and get an early start.”

Lae'zel’s voice startles her from behind. Her direct speech is blunt as always. Dolyn couldn't appreciate it more now.

“We should let them rest. They deserve it,” she answers decidedly, wishing she could go back into a trance without the overhanging threat of confronting memories.

“Chk! We should make haste to deal with the ghaik tapdoles,” Lae'zel insists, not for the first time. “Once we find a crèche my kin will rid us of our burden.”

“I know,” Dolyn says, unable to put her usual softer spin to her words. “We will find that crèche of yours, I promise.”

She continues to stare out at the river. The ripples of the surface catch slivers of gold and yellow as the tide carries falling leaves and flowers towards the riverbank. Her mind falls silent, her body a flood of emotions she has not yet parsed.

“Your behaviour has changed. You are unlike yourself,” Lae'zel observes, moving closer. Her sharp golden-eyed attention turns to Dolyn. Ever the soldier, she stands attentively and mirrors Dolyn’s thousand yard stare.

Choosing not to address the githyanki’s observation, Dolyn redirects, tone pensive, “I never did thank you for not killing me here.”

Lae'zel, quick as ever, does not miss a beat. “I do not require your gratitude. It was a calculated decision.”

A bittersweet smile crosses Dolyn's face. “Well, thank you anyway.”

Standing there staring at the river together, it feels so foreign to that night when the Lae'zel's knife pressed against her throat. Everything always seems to be clear cut to Lae'zel, even if she is often not the most polite or patient. 

It couldn't hurt to share. Not more than it does already, if she can admit that to herself.

Dolyn clears her throat. “To be honest with you, I'm not feeling… in the best of spirits.”

Lae’zel hums thoughtfully and turns her attention back from the river. “Is this in regards to your night-time exertions?”

Immediately the sting of regret hits Dolyn in the side. She should've expected Lae'zel to hear something, considering how close they all keep their tents.

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Don't tell me you heard that.”

“You are virile, as is Astarion. It would be a waste to not partake in carnal pleasures,” Lae'zel says without the trappings of someone who is familiar or even aware of shame. 

The githyanki makes a pointed look and lets her eyes roam across Dolyn's body. “If you had not bedded him, I would have.”

Dolyn shouldn't be surprised. Lae'zel has already expressed herself more than once about her particular proclivity.

“Yet you have chosen each other,” she adds with a hint of curiosity.

“We didn't exactly choose each other. That's not…”

No, in fact Astarion had invited her to a sordid night in the woods after they had collectively murdered a man after him. He suggested it as a favour for a favour. For the blood. For the murder.

Just like that night where he brought her to pleasure as he fed. As he tried to when she offered sustenance to him once more.

But last night...

That seemed the first true dalliance, and yet she's not entirely sure he enjoyed it. Or if she did.

Or if it was good for either of them.

Dolyn corrects herself, “We revisited a previous night once more. Nothing more.”

“Then if it's nothing more, I will entice him to my bedroll.”

Lae'zel's eyes are piercing whether she tries to be intimidating or not. While the more that she stays with them, the softer they become and the easier she finds her attempts at humour and lies.

There's a near triumph in her voice, the opportunity for success, and in Dolyn's ears it sounds like defeat.

The entire morning does.

“By all means,” she offers after a long exhale. “He is free to make his own choices. He is a considerate lover.”

── ☆ ──

Their journey to the Underdark is blessfully filled with the party's musings on the beauty in the dark. The glow of the underground mushrooms lights the endless cavernous expanse with a soft chill. The threat of silence hangs on every ledge and path they follow.

Countless webs and spiders on their way in. A beholder and drows. A bulette. A series of exploding mushrooms threatening to send them mad or to their explosive deaths.

Despite the madness of it all, they all seem so content, able to get along with less of Dolyn's input. Even if Shadowheart jokes about losing Lae'zel and in turn Lae'zel jokes of bloody death in the dark.

It reminds her of her old troupe, where threats of defensive survival became affectionate jabs. They may never embrace or express platitudes but perhaps they've found a rhythm of contentment in being adversaries.

Karlach and Lae'zel discuss their future journey to the crèche and Astarion questions Wyll on his previous monster hunting ventures.

It leaves Dolyn free of the turmoil of her own mind and any need to speak.

Instead she can listen as they made their way towards the tall ominous building in the distance.

Astarion's typical complaining immediately draws her interest.

Ahead of her by a few paces, he walks in step with Lae'zel. Gale and Wyll now taking to discussing the magical properties of the Underdark flora while Shadowheart and Karlach take off ahead.

He appears drastically bothered, gesturing to the wildlife around them. “Do we have to spend so long poking about down here? I'd much rather be outside, with the sun on my skin.”

Lae'zel is quick to respond, sharp as her blade. “You've only just come to tolerate sun, and you're already nostalgic?”

She utters something Dolyn can't make heads or tails of before adding in Common, “If you're going to complain the whole way, by all means, return topside. You could use the colour.”

Astarion barks a laugh. “Oh I would be more than happy to, but we all know I have uses. What would you do without me?”

“You are mouthy, loud, and indiscriminate when you kill. We would manage.”

He narrows his eyes and smiles slyly. He leans closer, gesturing in that over performative way of his. Then his mouth moves but Dolyn can't hear a word.

It's tortuous not being able to hear him and seeing the flirtatious way he addresses Lae'zel. It's just his behavior, but knowing what she knows…

They might be a suitable bloodthirsty pair.

Lae'zel considers his smooth talking and places a hand on the hilt of her sword. It could read as a threatening gesture, but to her the sword is an extension of herself, defence as well as offence. It's a natural place for her to put her hand.

“Why have you not tried to lay with me, Astarion?” she asks bluntly.

It takes everything in Dolyn to not splutter in her shock. She bites her lips to keep her silence, pretending she can't hear them. But she is most certainly listening in.

Lae'zel continues, curious and confused, “It is in your nature to have tried. You have not.”

Dolyn struggles not to look directly at him, even with them right in front of her. Thankfully the scenery around them serves as enough of a distraction and she can place the mask of fascination on her face easily enough.

With a smirk, Astarion chuckles and runs a hand through his hair before adding a flourish with a twirl of his wrist. “No, and you're so charming and alluring. It's baffling, really.” 

Her eyes snap back to his face. That's not the response she had expected, given all his flirtations. He's turned more towards Lae’zel, head tilting in that considering way he does when reading over someone. 

This isn't the first time she's tailed someone. She knows better.

But it is the first time she's eavesdropped for her own interests.

Really she shouldn't care.

She's almost to the point of convincing herself she doesn't when Astarion says more, “I guess it shall remain a mystery, now and forevermore.”

Then his gaze snaps to capture hers.

Her heart thunders in her chest and she immediately looks away. Her face might be still but the rapid blinking could give her away.

Maybe she imagined it.

Real or not, her face feels incredibly warm in the damp depths of the Underdark for the rest of the walk to the tower.

── ☆ ──

“Hells!” Dolyn screams as she hits the deck and tries to crawl out of the turret’s path. Yet it hits her in the side again with a hiss and a thump, pushing the air from her lungs.

Ahead of her and hidden behind a large rock jutting out of the ground Gale is assessing the arcane targets, mumbling aloud as he recalls the best way to take them out. Karlach is beside him, hand ready to hoist him back by his collar to prevent him from peeking out too far even if it means burning him in the process. Flames lick up her arms as her mechanical heart noticeably starts to overheat.

She can hear Wyll behind her muttering an incantation under his breath before peeking out to shoot an eldritch blast. But the turrets are out of range and his blasts fall short.

Lae'zel curses and dashes to behind the rock with the others to avoid the turret blasts. Even peeking out and releasing an arrow at the magical deterrent does nothing.

Shadowheart tuts and casts healing on Dolyn, much to their mutual relief. Her voice yells out an exasperated “What haven't we tried yet?”

Dolyn winces and tries to push herself up. A wizard's defence requires a wizard's answer. If she could just cast something. Her hand rises up, fingers pointed at the turret.

“Don't you dare,” Astarion's voice growls in her ear and she's suddenly aware of how he's poised over her. It’s the first thing he’s said to her since the night before.

His hands grab under her arms and then he's dragging her across the rocky ground. She grunts and huffs at the scraping on her skin, but she doesn’t resist. She’s maybe one hit away from lying unconscious. 

“Little help?” Astarion huffs, struggling to pull all her dead weight behind the rock. 

His request goes unanswered as Gale once again casts a witch bolt at the turret and misses. It's followed by Wyll's attempts and then others with their ranged weapons.

Dolyn catches her breath when she’s dropped back down to the ground, turning onto her back only to find Astarion perched over her. She complains right to his face, “I had a shot. You didn't have to do that.”

“What?! And let you get fried by the magical death machine? Yes, maybe I should have just left you there.”

Dolyn rolls her eyes and tries to hold back her snide laughter. “Okay, okay, thank you for saving me, Astarion.”

“See? Was it really that hard?” he spits indignantly. “I didn't have to move you at all, you know.”

“Help me up at least?” She eyes the way he is kneeling beside and over her like he intends to keep her down.

His jaw clenches, but he moves to his feet and helps her up with him.

“Huzzah!” Gale announces triumphantly as a well-timed witch bolt stops the turret. “Lightning seems to do the job nicely.”

“You handle the next one, yeah?” Dolyn hisses, holding her side.

Shadowheart rushes in and pushes Astarion aside, much to his annoyance. “And you won't, hmm? You are too caught up in trying to be helpful, you're going to get yourself killed again.” She stares blatantly at Astarion until he shuffles back with a disapproving huff.

The cleric’s hands clasps on her shoulder as she tries to move away. There’s a special way that Shadowheart manages to chastise her while somehow managing to be kind about it. They’ve come so far since the moment they met on the Nautaloid.

“I’ll be fine.”

Astarion questions Shadowheart with tone of disbelief, “Will she? We do unfortunately need her.”

Shadowheart stills in a motion of frustration, ignoring Astarion as she angles her back to him. “You will let me heal you so you aren’t as squishy.” Her finger pokes into Dolyn’s ribs to make a point, earning a hiss of pain. “You’re no help to us dead.”

In the distance she can hear Gale and Wyll cursing and another turret whirring down before the heavy metal thunk of an axe into metal. Sometimes Dolyn wonders how they’d manage to survive without her. The answer is always with great difficulty.

Just as silence falls again and she feels the tension in her shoulders dissolving, Karlach's voice booms across the expanse. “Astarion!”

Shadowheart looks at him expectantly. She can scarcely hide the bitter smile on her face. 

“Oh look, I’m needed,” he laughs awkwardly, hand pressed to his chest. He keeps his attention on Shadowheart who appears just as ready to push him away as hit him.

The moment he’s gone, the grip on Dolyn’s shoulder relaxes and a softness returns to Shadowheart’s eyes. “You know, I’m surprised he’s been a pick-up artist all these years. Too often he sounds like he belongs in a two-copper paperback.”

A nervous chuckle leaves Dolyn’s throat. “I’m not going to ask how you’re familiar with those, but I assume you’re saying you’re judging me?”

Shadowheart straightens her back and glances slyly off to the side. “If the boot fits…”

── ☆ ──

Following further turrets and others thankfully taking hits instead of her, Dolyn disappears to a corner of the tower at the first available moment. She throws out a spare, moth-eaten bedroll she had plucked from their brief stint in the Whispering Depths.

She’s spent decades surviving, fighting off would-be muggers and attackers, but the dangers of the Underdark are something entirely new. There’s no capturing their interests, turning them on themselves, no spells to make them amenable to her cause. To say that she is growing more out of her depth would be an understatement.

What kind of influence can she have on creatures that are immune? It’s remarkable she has even gotten this far with an entire party of humanoids that have been swayed by her judgement without a single manipulative spell on them.

She might have to actually admit to herself that they like her. Though if that’s for who she is or what she offers she can never be so certain.

To do so would make her vulnerable.

But in reality she was just following one of her rules: Don’t be alone.

As she takes to her bedroll, legs tucked up under her chin as her arms circle around her knees, she can’t say she hasn’t succeeded on not being on her own. Survival requires other people after all, even if it’s risky.

Though the risk of becoming attached to this group of misfits is becoming greater by the day.

Don’t let down your guard.

Old habits kick in as she backs up against the wall. She can’t be snuck up on if her back is protected, if there’s no way behind her. Though she had never intended for this rule to mean something… else.

Don’t draw attention.

Yet that’s all they’ve done. Whether by their heroic actions or current affliction, attention has been all they’ve obtained. From the tieflings and druids to the hag and the devil and the dream visitor.

Don’t be afraid.

And yet she’s never wished more for the certain horrors of the Lower City and the sewers below. Better the hells of the material realm that she knows. Growing up on the street of Baldur’s Gate she’s seen so much and yet apparently not the extent of how much further the world extends and what new horrors await.

As she glances over the party, watching them settle into their places, she can’t help but think of how easily she could bend them to her will. She could charm them for a minute or an hour, sway them with an arcane suggestion, even turn them on each other. Or hold them for as long as she can use her gaze, for as long as they could see or hear her. All it would have taken was a glance, a word, a twist of her wrist.

Yet here she is curled up on the floor, little more than a charismatic bard with none of the musical talent.

Dolyn grabs out a spare invisibility potion and downs it when she’s sure no one is looking. The desire to meld into stone is overwhelming. Knowing that they might truly care for her wellbeing only makes the night before more unsettling in her mind.

Lying down, she watches as Astarion perches on one of the boxes, fiddling with his dagger after looting everything in sight. He seems so incredibly unfazed.

Her heart very much is not.

She watches as Wyll settles beside the rogue who appears unconcerned with his presence. The Blade of Frontiers meanwhile has that air about him, one he has only when he means to raise an issue. 

“I suggest you be careful with our mutual friend,” Wyll says with all the warmth of a pleasant conversation but an edge to his words. “I don’t know if you have anything good in your heart, or even a scrap of it left for her.”

Astarion baulks, suddenly twisting his head towards Wyll, his mouth agape. “Excuse me? That's just mean - we're all adults here.” 

The tip of his dagger catches in the top of the crate between them. His eyes search over Dolyn’s bedroll where she had been visible just moments before and for a second it’s like he’s staring right at her. He turns back to Wyll with a scowl.

“Your heart's cold as ice, Astarion,” Wyll frowns, concerned, briefly following Astarion’s glance. “I'm just making sure no one slips and gets hurt.”

Astarion settles back, twisting the blade into the wood until shavings of it fall away. “Are you saying our leader is unable to make her own choices? You don’t seem so concerned when she chooses directions.”

“I am not as much worried about her decisions as yours,” Wyll quips back, leaning forward. If he wasn’t a commanding presence before, his horns certainly give him all the distinction of someone whose opinion matters. “You’ve already killed her once.”

The dagger slips from the wood and slides right back into its sheath in a flurry of movement. Nothing more than a way to show off a rogue’s dexterity.

Astarion follows with a sigh, meeting Wyll’s eyes with a chill intensity, “And I don’t plan on doing it again.”

Both seem unaware she’s still sitting there, able to hear every word. The embarrassment of it all prompts Dolyn to move, shuffling to behind a pole for when the one minute of invisibility wears off.

It seems everyone has their concerns about her involvement with Astarion.

Maybe they’re right.

Chapter Text

The wizard tower of the Underdark proves itself to be a beautiful if not ruinous haven from the dangers that lingered in the dark. Dolyn could have considered it home in time. A few fixes, some personal touches, and it would be wondrous.

Though that's only an opinion she's built from seeing one floor. The rest remains restricted by the lack of power to the arcane lift and a sheer drop to the courtyard outside.

Without magic or severe bodily harm, there's no reaching the beautiful glowing tree below and the promise of further depths of the tower without adequate rest.

Though Dolyn has no qualms about making the effort down, she isn't the only one feeling the aches and bruises of back-to-back fights to get here. As their unappointed and yet designated leader, it sits with her to make the decision to return to camp.

She makes the round, tapping each of the party on the shoulder with a nudge that it's time to head back. With Karlach, she only needs to give her a look and nod to the exit.

“Really?” Karlach whines, kicking her feet as she trudges towards the staircase. “We only just got here. I could keep going.” She shrugs her shoulders, swings her arms around as if she's warming up, and makes a show of stretching her back. 

“Not all of us are so blessed,” Dolyn chuckles and makes a pitiful show of flexing her arm next to Karlach's. She follows by exposing the parts of her arms, legs, and even sides that are speckled with bruises. “I'm a bloody mess and lucky to be in one piece.”

“Point taken,” she says with a small cheeky smile. “Don't worry, I'll protect you on the way back, soldier.”

“My hero…” Dolyn answers dryly.

Thankfully the others seem just as relieved as her to head back to camp and lead the way back.

Once again she sticks to the back of the pack but this time she casts prestidigitation to warm her clothes and soothe the aches. She's not going to risk asking for more healing from Shadowheart when they're all worn out and she’ll get another talking to.

Things seemed so much easier on the surface.

── ☆ ──

Back at camp, Dolyn picks a spot by the fire, craving the warmth and a flickering distraction to stare into. Her new bedroll isn’t as plush as the one she gave Astarion, but it does its job. And despite Astarion's prior teasing of her sleeping outside without her tent, she’s in no rush to join him in his.

Between them still hangs an awkward silence, a distance that hasn’t been there even since their very first bickering. She’d stayed in his tent the one night because it was easier and he acted like it was a personal insult that she slept outside afterwards, leaving him to his space.

He never did answer her when she asked if he’d rather have her in his tent.

Maybe she should just make herself at home.

But he wouldn’t complain. 

Not when it comes to her. Unlike everything else.

Dolyn crawls into her bedroll, wraps herself up in it, and curls up on her side. She covers the points of her ears with her hair like old habits and drifts slowly into reverie.

She fades back into the Lower City, which is bustling with the bright sun overhead. Sellers by the roadside show off their wares while wary of the children running past.

A human boy sprints past them down the street, huffing and trying to catch his breath. He runs down the side street and leaps into the secluded alcove, tucked behind the tavern. His face is serious until he sees her.

“Gwynnie!” he says with a beaming smile. All teeth and tousled hair, brown wavy locks of it falling over his forehead above his amber eyes.

She pouts and shakes her head. “We're meant to be hiding, Duck.” 

She can't be much taller than him, but he stands up with his chest puffed out. He's not more than twelve years old and still as scrawny as kids years younger. His face is covered with soot and dirt all the way up to his rounded ears.

The last few months have been hard. With more people moving to the city from some land far off and unknown, there's more competition for an easy feed.

“I know, I know, but…” he says as he plucks a half-burnt loaf of bread from his cloak. It's hard enough to not be squished from being tucked under his arm, but that probably just means it's stale. “Got us some bread, and if we stick out here by the kitchen, we can sneak some meat too.”

She can feel herself salivating. She's been working on getting her skills up to speed. They're nothing like Duck's but she can do something helpful in a pinch. If all the books she's been reading pay off, then they won't even have to worry about how many lockpicks they have.

“It seems really quiet,” she whispers, inching towards the door. Her hand poises ready, a cantrip at her fingertips. “You get the door and I’ll distract?”

Duck nods enthusiastically and skilfully picks open the lock, the doorknob turning silently in his hands.

As he opens it and the old rusted hinges of the double doors begin to squeak, she draws the sigil she read in one of her stolen books with her hand and follows with a muttering of the corresponding words with intent. It throws the sound of a strong gust of wind and shutters shaking, as if the sound is coming from outside. Something plain and normal to cover the sound of the two of them peering around the doors and sneaking in.

“Did you just do that?” asks Duck under his breath.

She stares down at her hand and whispers in awe, “Yes.”

Her practice is paying off.

The tiled floor proves to be covered with just enough dirt and discarded crumbs that they’re able to sneak in without detection. Thankfully the kitchen is empty and ripe for a raid.

Wooden bowls and copper pots line the benches and stoves. Some quietly bubble away with the tavern’s famed stew, likely filled with cheap meat and cheaper vegetables. 

They’d heard stories of melted cheese sandwiches and all kinds of seafood cakes, even puddings made of bread. The potential for week's worth of food for the taking has them both gazing at each other with wide smiles.

Duck is the first to hop up onto the bench and load up his sack with more bread, cured meat, and what looks like a wheel of cheese. She joins him by gathering the potatoes and carrots and whatever vegetable matter she can find into a sack of her own. Most of it needs to be prepared, but they don’t quite have the means to take anything hot with them. Not this time, but maybe in the future.

If only she could believe in one of the gods and then they might bless her with the magic to pluck food from thin air. She’d feed all the kids down in the tents. They’d never have to go hungry again.

Neither is special enough to have been born with magic, or to draw some otherworldly beings' attention. Instead she’s had to learn her way, in a method of magic where most practitioners seem to be focussed on power and damage. Maybe the only people who have the time to study to become wizards are the ones who aren’t spending their time hungry.

Stomachs rumbling, they laugh and make their way to the door as footsteps follow up behind them.

“Who’s there?” a voice bellows just as they duck by the tables near the door.

She casts the same cantrip and tries to keep her voice down. She focuses on the far end of the kitchen, on the sound of clattering pans.

She sees him then, a stout dwarven man with a stained apron, moving to the corner where she focussed. She freezes in place, exposed where she’s hiding, but unable to move. She's never been good at running.

When she turns, Duck is gone and the double doors are swinging shut. He’s already bolted at the first chance he got and she’s just standing there like an idiot.

They slam with a loud thud and a click.

The dwarf immediately rounds on her, thick legs carrying him across the kitchen before she can gather up the sack in her arm. They’re almost the same height but she feels so incredibly small standing before the thick red curls of his beard.

“What are you doing in here, little lady?” he asks stern, with warning.

She brushes the tiniest amount of powder from her pocket to her face, a peachy rouge she’d taken from the pockets of an Upper City tourist. It’s a chance she has to take but it’s either this or being delivered to the Fist.

Her fingers move in through another sigil, focussing her intent, battering her eyelids and putting on a smile. She feels the touch of the weave take to her chest, move through her and the air to her fingertips, and then the dwarf’s eyes narrow.

Her heart’s beating loud and her eyes are wide. She gulps to keep herself from screaming.

Then the dwarf’s posture changes as he shifts his weight from his intimidating stance to one leaning on his heels. He glances over her bruises and the dirt and the torn clothes that are clinging to her with sweat.

“I-I was just leaving out the back,” she lies in an attempt to convince him. “C-can you get the door for me?”

There’s a brief moment of confusion and then a glossy pinkish hue shifts across his irises. And then it fades.

“You slimy little shit!” he yells as he reaches for a dagger at his waist.

She tumbles backwards into the door, barely catching her breath. She drops everything in her hands at his feet and potatoes and pumpkin roll out across the floor. Her hand finds the doorknob behind her, sweating and slimy against the metal, and as she manages to push the door open to slip through, he lunges for her.

The dagger reaches her first.

Her head ducks backwards but in the fray, as the door slams back into the dwarf in the flurry of limbs, the tip of blade catches on her chin and slices up through her lips.

Warm wet trails waterfall down her chin. The sting of torn flesh sears into the new wound on her face. All she can taste is her own blood.

Then she sees a shock of brown hair, amber eyes now hard and focussed. Duck pushes against the doors to hold the dwarf back.

“On the count of three, we run,” he grunts and gives another full push of his body against the doors.

Shocked and trying not to cry, she joins him, hands pressed against the wood.

Three.

Two.

One.

She awakes in the chill of her own sweat, breathing heavily, body twitching to move. Immediately she sits up and finds the camp blissfully quiet.

Her trance has always played some of her memories back to her but with the tadpole in her head, they’re becoming more charged, more pointed, like they’re targeting her rather than just reminiscing like they used to.

She gets to her feet and walks straight to the edge of camp, away from the comfort of the dwindling campfire, with a brief glance to Shadowheart’s tent. There’s one remaining stick of incense burning, smoke twirling up to the cavern

When she turns, she jumps at the first sight of movement, only to find Astarion awake, seemingly glancing at his own reflection. How strange to be awake at this hour. Stranger still to be holding a mirror.

His presence is a welcome distraction.

“What are you looking at, Astarion?” she says quietly when she approaches. She makes no attempt to hide the amusement in her tone. The appreciation for making her smile is something she can’t possibly explain.

He turns the mirror until she can see her own reflection. She grimaces and fails to hide her frown as she spies the scar across her lips. It’s too soon after the memory to be further reminded of that particular year of her life and what it left her with, and without.

Maybe he sees her reaction or maybe he simply wants to attempt to see himself again when he shifts the angle of the mirror once more. She can’t tell when he doesn’t face her.

“You sneaking up on me, late at night,” he answers casually before sighing. “The only benefit to a mirror when you have my condition.” He tilts his head, trying again to see himself in a mirror that does not reflect him. “It doesn’t quite make up for the lack of a reflection, mind you.”

Dolyn watches as his jaw clenches, either from frustration, disappointment, or anger. It’s not a thought she had even considered. The idea of missing one’s own reflection feels so incredibly foreign. Yet she can tell just by watching him that he means it. More than any other platitude he’s said her way.

“You miss it?” she asks as respectfully as she can muster. “Seeing your own face?” Her nerves already feel on edge following that memory, let alone asking him something so personal late at night. 

Astarion huffs a small indignant laugh before he turns, gesturing with the mirror in his hand. “Preening in the looking glass? Petty vanity?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Of course I miss it. I’ve never even seen this face.” His voice grows just a hint quieter, bitter. “Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red.”

He doesn’t look at her, lost in pensive thought, eyes staring past her. She feels like she’s watching him reveal himself from behind opaque glass. It’s a truth so obvious and so clear once it’s seen it’s hard to believe she didn’t notice it before.

He cares deeply for how he looks, and not in the showy way he presents himself so publicly. It’s in his eyes. Those beautiful deep red eyes. Ones that haven't always been red.

Dolyn lets her curiosity get the better of her and asks, “What colour were they before?”

“I…” His face drops and his body slumps with it. His silence softly gives way to words. “I don’t know. I can't remember.” His expression grows sour, troubled, and anger simmers beneath the surface. “My face is just some dark shape in my past. Another thing I’ve lost.”

In one fell swoop, the mirror is thrown to the ground and shards dance across the dirt, grass, and rug. The pieces are likely to imbed themselves. Astarion seems the least bit concerned.

But she is.

He looks haunted, his eyes as red as they may be are still soft, vulnerable. It takes her a moment before she realises the crunching sound she hears are the shards of mirrored glass beneath her feet. If not for her boots, she might have bloodied his rug too.

She stands close, less than a few inches away, and peers over his features. He has all the beauty that bards regale of when they speak of high elves. If not for his expressive nature and sour commentary, she might have thought him little more than a pompous, self-aggrandising, spoilt elven heir to some long line of aristocrats. She’s delighted to be wrong. 

That expressive face of his changes and pouts. “What?”

Dolyn opens her mouth to speak, licks her dry lips, and her hand reaches up to frame his cheek. “May I?” She doesn’t touch his skin, but lets her hand hover just enough for the air between them to feel electrified. “Let me tell you what I see.”

Staring into his eyes, she removes her hand and with her thumb resting under her chin, she rubs her finger over her lower lip in thought. Just to tease him a little she hums like something has just occurred to her.

“And what do you see, exactly?” he asks, eyes peering over her, hungry for answers. He smiles expectantly, twisting his shoulders as if a cat accepting the warmth of an afternoon sunbeam.

Dolyn hums again and lightly bites her lip. She considers what he might want to hear the most, that would still be honest enough for her to say. “Strong, piercing eyes,” she says first, staring into them as they pierce into her.

Astarion smiles, evidently pleased with her assessment. “Oh. Go on…” He encourages more with a gesture of his hand.

To beat her previous compliment, she’ll need to reach deeper. She traces his cheekbones, his jawline, the delicate curl of his hair around his ears that she is growing more fond of. Then as he watches her in turn and smiles, she sees one of the aspects of him that’ll be her undoing. If it hasn't already done her in.

“That dangerous smile.” Her cheeks feel flushed with warmth as she says it, having thought it many times before.

He smiles at first and then hides it with one of his performative pouts. “This is meant to be flattery, not poetry.” He gestures to his chest, like he does whenever he wants something, something personal, yet feels the need to place a hand between what he’s saying and what he might receive. “Just tell me I’m beautiful and we’ll call it a day.”

Dolyn resists the urge to chuckle and merely lets her lips form a small smile. She gets as close as she can without giving into the other urge building and lets her eyes fall to his lips to sate it just for a second.

“You’re beautiful,” she breathes honestly. 

This time she’s not saying it after he’s told her that he’s fine. He’s asked for it and she wants him to know that she means it, but she can’t bring herself to say that. Not now.

Her brow furrows together for a second before she checks, “Is that all you want?” She follows with a huffed laugh, knowing she could provide him with so much more if only he asks. Yet all he seems to want, allows himself to admit that he wants, is: “Shallow praise?”

“Observant,” he praises like he never needed to hear it in the first place, when they both seem to know that he did. He glances down at the shards of glass at their feet. “Mirrors aren’t much use, but being reflected in someone else’s eyes?” He shrugs with a self-satisfied purse of his lips. “Well, I could do worse.”

“Astarion,” she says like she’s asking once more for his attention.

He appears caught off-guard, hiding the way he swallows the lump in his throat.

“For what it’s worth… most high elves I’ve met have blue, grey, green, or even violet eyes.” It’s as she says this that she feels herself caught in his gaze again. To be victim to it feels so painfully poetic that she wonders how long he would let her stand trapped in it, until she could no longer see him, no longer hear him, if he moved more than five feet away. She wonders if her hypnotic gazes feels so gripping.

“You would have looked beautiful with any colour, but I think…” she pauses, knowing this would be the last thing she’d be able to say to him before she’d need to run away to preserve herself. “This colour is the most beautiful of all.”

Bashfully, she tilts her head down and gives a quick nod to excuse herself, ending the conversation before she finds herself tripping into a situation she might regret. She mutters a good night and heads back to her bedroll without a single look back.

She rests through until morning, warmer than any fire could make her.

Chapter Text

Waking up in darkness doesn't get any less strange after the third or fourth time. Without the sunlight Dolyn finds it hard to keep tabs on the passage of time. Though thankfully the amount they've achieved helps mark their progress.

Delving into the depths and heights of the ruins of Yrre and Lenore’s tower, they set the arcane lanterns alight. Poetry and old Githyanki works have been read and carried along with them, as well as some magical items that might be useful. 

The surprise of the lone mechanical companion of Bernard and the awkward hug she received will forever ache in her heart. She too would have created such a being if her circumstances had been the same.

Loneliness is a powerful motivator.

Longing even more so.

And she has to admit that she has longed for the sun, daylight, birdsong. Instead, the Underdark has greeted them with the song of the circle, booming mycanoid voices as a collective hive mind. 

As if they needed any further mental connections with others. The occasional meeting of minds in stressful situations seems plenty enough without more.

Yet the creatures showed themselves to be kind, welcoming, though not without cautionary threat before revealing they too are vulnerable. The colony of bright and vibrant mycanoids seek their help and Dolyn can't say no to creatures in need.

Bloodied and sore from levelling the duergar by the water and the hook horrors by the enormous sussur tree, the party spreads out to gather supplies. Under the brilliant blue light, each of them look as much drained as hauntingly beautiful.

Dolyn chooses a spot far up in the tree, surrounded by the very flowers that absorb her magic from her. She serves no use out here. She's too vulnerable and has no means to protect herself with creatures so clearly beyond her street fight capabilities. So she watches them all from above like she's part of the Flaming Fist.

Gale too shares her concerns but he continues his conversation with Lae’zel about the greater possibilities in the Astral Sea. There's very little that would deter that man from the pursuit of knowledge, including fear.

Wyll and Shadowheart appear to laugh about some story or two about the adventures of the Blade of Frontiers. From where she sits, Dolyn can't tell how genuine Shadowheart’s laugh is, but she appears to mean well.

Karlach confidently wanders down the expanse of the tree, climbing and walking up branches only to jump down to explore further into the dark. Her wonder never seems to end, but Dolyn worries perhaps that is simply her way of keeping herself busy.

That leaves Astarion.

After his concern about her magic being sapped by the tree, she’s surprised he ventured off. The shine of his silver hair is nowhere to be seen. Not by the trunk, not by the cliff face, and not--

“Looking for me?” he chimes in with a smile so big she can hear it. “Did you miss me?”

She turns around, hands gripping to the bark to not fall from her perch, and spies him leaning confidently against a tree branch. He's posed, ridiculous, and looking at his nails like he's been waiting there for her to notice.

“I will push you out of the tree,” she retorts flatly.

Astarion mocks a gasp of surprise. ”You wouldn't dare, darling.” He gets closer, bending at the hips to form a dark grin. “I would take you with me.”

Dolyn bats her eyelashes at him, matching his energy. “Shame I can't save us both with feather fall thanks to the tree.” She pats the bark pointedly. “I don't know about you but my bones tend to break if I fall long distances.”

She takes the moment to stare down at the sheer drop beneath her. If not for many years of climbing rooftops, she’d be shaken by the chance of falling to her death. The drop here is considerably further down though…

Astarion breaks her thought by sitting down near her. He is resplendent in the blue luminescent glow of the tree. His features bask in the light like it was made to be seen illuminated by magic.

For a moment her breath stops.

Her lips part.

She's staring.

“Proverbial cat got your tongue?” he asks curiously. 

He assesses her without saying a single word and it sets her heart to a faster beat.

She clears her throat. “I was just thinking… you, you look… beautiful in this light.”

If she doesn't look away then, then she can hide how bashful she feels to say it aloud. He’s the one that asked for praise after all. This is just what he asked for.

An expression comes across his face. She can't quite place it. Her own nerves are too distracting.

“I-I thought you would want to know, after what you…” she trails off.

Though days have passed she's not acknowledged the other night nor talked more than necessary. To think, she used to charm people, professionally.

Astarion hums, “Well, of course I do. You have good taste.”

Dolyn stares at him with a chuckle in her throat. “Sometimes I wonder if you'd fall for someone's charm, if they gave you all the petty praise you wanted.”

A thoughtful look crosses his face. “You think I'm so easily swayed?”

She glances out at the boughs of the tree, blue glowing leaves enchanting the air. “I think you'd be easy enough to charm, through magic as well as praise. Maybe both.” With a smirk, she looks back to him.

Astarion raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Why do you think that exactly?”

She presses her lips together thoughtfully. “You asked what I did before… to the druid… the monster hunter…”

Astarion twirls his hands impatiently. “And this is leading to…” 

“I charmed them,” she says plainly. “Hypnotised them technically.”

“You charmed them?”

“Yes.”

Astarion laughs, amused. “You?”

She clears her throat and feels the prickling sensation of frustration running down her arms. The urge to hit him for the poke at her is thankfully not as strong as her desire to not knock either of them down into the rock crevasse below.

“Is that so hard to believe?” she asks through gritted teeth.

His eyes meet hers. “Darling, your charm is… rudimentary at best.”

She crosses her arms. “Well, I'm not going to show you if you're going to be mean about it.”

“Prove it,” he lifts his chin as he challenges her.

“You're an elf.”

“Evidently, as are you.”

Surely he has to know. Elves generally are resistant to an array of magic by the very nature of their being. She's learned the hard way that even her own magic can't compensate for natural advantage. Maybe she’s been too quick in saying he’d be easy enough to charm.

She sighs and stares at him blankly. “And by our nature we are resistant to charming magic?”

“Oh, are we? And this is magic? So not your natural charm then? Guess you might need to use magic to compensate.” He looks her over with a hint of amusement.

Whether he is trying to get at her or simply finds the idea of her using magic to charm people amusing, she isn't entirely sure. 

She shuffles closer and throws her leg over the tree branch to face him, not making an effort to contain her displeasure. Her heels dig into the bark as she presses her legs into the wood to keep herself steady.

“Don’t test me, Astarion. If I try it and we're not careful, you could fall out of the tree without me trying to push you.”

He blinks like the thought only just occurred to him, eyes darting to the ground before he turns back with a cheeky smile. “Then maybe we should be careful.”

Curse him.

Pursing her lips and resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she explains, “You would have to be susceptible to the spell… and not be resistant… and you are fairly… perceptive and avoidant so it's not likely to work even if I tried.”

His smile doesn't fade. “Oh I get it, you think it won't work because it won't work.”

“That's not--”

“No, no, I get it,” he interrupts. “You just don't have the power. Wizards couldn't possibly--”

She interrupts him in turn, “Fine! But if you fall…”

She lets the implication dance out in the air between them. The blue of the Sussur tree illuminates him from behind like a halo. If not for the light behind her, she would be blinded, and not just by the light.

Frankly she would be distraught if he fell because of her.

“Is that worry… about me?”

She blinks and finds herself the subject of Astarion’s quirked brow, as if the idea had written her worry across her face for him to read. How he manages to make her nervous with his self-satisfied smugness she is yet to understand

She sighs, again. “I'll have to tie you to the tree.”

“Oh? And this isn't just some ploy to get me alone and tie me up?” He humours himself as he wriggles back against a branch of the tree behind him. Its gnarled form reaches up into the cavernous heights of the Underdark. He’s having fun with the idea, which seems to be closely related to mocking her.

“Like you wouldn’t try some kind of ploy with me yourself?” she asks, following after him, movement by small movement. He’s not exactly guiltless in his own ideas. Knowing him, he would swindle her or twist her in some way if it suited him. After all, he did try to hide the fact he’s a vampire.

Astarion settles back against the tree branch, head turning reflexively as his back presses against it. He looks cornered, and for a second it’s like the wind has been pushed out of his lungs.

But in a blink the mask that hides his vulnerability comes back over his features and he is his smarmy self again.

“Well? Aren't you going to show me these charms of yours?”

“Not recklessly.”

Her hand delves into her pack and finds a long length of rope. It’s not the best option, but given her reduced arcane capacity, it will have to do. Though it’s been some time since she’s had to secure anything or anyone with a rope.

“Help me,” she demands, thrusting one end of the rope to him and nodding towards the branch.

He understands without another word and makes a show of reaching behind him to loop it around behind him. Arm fully extended in an awkward twist, he nods to his other arm, struggling to reach the other side. “Think I might need some help, darling.”

It takes her moving forward enough that she’s practically in Astarion’s lap before she can fully reach to grab the rope. Then with a tug and a knot taught to her by an old friend, she tightens the rope around his waist to fix him into place. All the while Astarion appears somewhere between amused and delighted by the turn of events.

“Okay…” Dolyn says finally with a huff, settling herself into position, right in front of him. “So, you'll need to look me in the eye.”

“To stare deep into your eyes? Am I meant to believe this isn't simply you wanting all of my undivided…”

Dolyn can’t be sure if he trails off because she’s not reacting or because he’s focussing on the intensity of her gaze. She’s been told many times before that when she really truly focuses on her enchantment, the charm in her features amplifies and in some people encapsulates their attention to be hers only.

Though never the prettiest, she has her own share of attractive features, from her hair to her smile, and of all of them her eyes, in their soft mossy green, draw the most ardent attention. Most of all when she casts within her school of expertise.

As she places her hands on his knees, settling into the stare, meeting his gaze, she knows that there’s usually a swirl of colour in her eyes as the enchantment builds. It’s always a shimmer of mulberry purple, almost pink, sometimes neither, but always beautiful. Then as it swirls, the eyes that meet hers take in the sight and the chance to enthrall them presents itself.

There'll be a moment where if the magic takes for a second they won't be aware of anything else. Assuming the magic she’s worked on for decades will even work while she’s affected by the tree.

“Astarion…” she says softly, the enchantment on her tongue.

She can hear the way the sound splits into its own harmony as it travels to his ears.

“Look at me.”

Chapter Text

Look at me.

The moment of magic stretches out between them, the vibrant blue light around them softening while they hold each others’ gaze. Dolyn swears that the sound of her voice is echoing in her ears the moment the words that bind leave her lips. To think, a skill she’d learned to get by in the maze of Baldur's Gate would be so intimate.

She swallows and keeps staring as her eyes begin to water. Then she blinks and Astarion is still sitting there, hands on his thighs like he's still waiting for her to start.

He's not…

He couldn't be…

Dolyn tilts her head and darts her eyes over his features. There's no way he actually failed to defend from her gaze and yet… his shoulders have slouched, his grip on his thighs has weakened, and his eyes have softened like he's peering into a memory in the distance.

“Huh,” she says aloud in thought. “I didn't actually think that'd work.”

She leans forward and considers him for a moment. All of that wired tension of his has faded and what remains is the softness she has only seen in glimpses, most of all when he rests.

“See,” she begins, unable to hold the amusement in her voice, “it's generally not a positive experience, subject to the person afflicted. They can't move, and I could disappear from sight but as long as you can hear me or see me, the effect remains if I'm close.”

Astarion appears to be completely enraptured by her words. Most people who've been subject to her hypnotism look the same way. Whether or not they truly take in what she says is up to the individual.

“You can speak, if you're able,” she adds, inching ever closer.

His lips twitch, eyes still open and vacant with a hint of innocence that she's scarcely seen in the short time they've known each other. His voice is a breathy whisper when he speaks, words blending into the sigh that escapes him.

“Your eyes… pretty…”

Dolyn chuckles and chews at her lip. “Not the first time I've heard that.” She peers him up and down, clearing her throat. “Though you are… hmm…”

He's so much more relaxed than she thought, as if it's easy to slip into this place between body, thought, and will. As if he's been there before.

The wide glassy stare is less and less vacant the longer she takes it in. Eyes so open and strangely trusting as the sheen on them grows. He looks so soft like this, quiet and increasingly exposed by staying so still.

And only still because she willed it. Because he insisted.

Her brows furrow as she takes the image of him in, with his slackened jaw and relaxed arms. Even his back doesn't have the strength, or even the will to hold him up.

It's then that she sees what looks like tears welling in his eyes, the smallest twitch in his brow.

Maybe this isn't as foreign to him as she thought.

He'd told her about his past, about Cazador’s cruelty. The remnants of it carved into his skin. Still, no one else in the party has seen it, leaving that secret with her to keep. A twisted memento of Cazador’s power over his coven, over people, and his ability to control them completely as Astarion had put it.

He'd been so bitter when he said it, unable to meet her gaze as he told her more. His words echo in her mind like he's spoken them again.

They speak and our bodies react - it's all part of the deal.

The gravity of those words sink to the pit of her stomach.

“Astarion?” she asks as she searches for traces of him in his own eyes.

All humour leaves her like a tide drawing out before the wave of guilt crashes in. The connection shatters the moment she wills it. Pieces of her composure fall to the wayside as she focuses on him.

“I'm so sorry, I…” her hands reach out to him and pause, so close that she could touch him if she felt she had any right to. “I-I-I didn’t think it would… I didn’t think.”

Her stammering only makes her heart feel like it’s hammering harder in her chest and the rest of the world feels so very slow. Astarion in the same moment moves very little. His eyes first fall to his hands before he tests they still work, still move, still have freedom. His face follows next, muscles twitching into confusion, concern, fear.

He doesn’t say a word.

She fills in the silence for them both.

“You still have your thoughts, your will, your words. I can’t compel you.”

Everything she says feels like it’s too late.

“It mostly makes people friendly while I hold their attention and we’d rob them blind.”

The sound of her laugh that follows feels so empty, like more than just her magic is now being drained by the Sussur tree.

“I said I would keep you safe…”

Astarion’s hand grasps hers still frozen in the air between them and she falls silent.

The movement is quick but not aggressive, though Dolyn is convinced he has every right to be. Reckless, irresponsible magic only leads to one result, and that’s never been one in her favour.

She finds his eyes peering over her, questioning, narrowed. There’s a scowl on his face now and she can’t help but notice how so much of how he holds himself is in his expressions. All of what makes him him has flooded back in.

“You had the ability to manipulate people, turn them to your will, and you didn’t think to share that?!” he demands in exasperation. He throws aside the hand he grasped to gesture his frustration. “You’re telling me that this, this… power of yours can not only sway people but hold them?! And you’ve used it on monster hunters and druids?!”

His voice rises higher, twisted by the annoyance now plastered on his face, while his lips twist into a snarl. He shakes his head and scoffs. He’s both equally annoyed and flabbergasted, apparently unaffected by his experience.

“I-I’m sorry… I…” Dolyn begins, confused, and trying to parse what’s happening.

Astarion seems entirely focussed on what she can do with her power to others, not what she’s just done to him. Or how very similar it sounds to what he has said about Cazador. Perhaps that explains his interest in their tadpoles. Having the ability to influence, persuade, control others surely must be of interest to someone who has experienced it first hand. Someone who spoke about needing to know what they were up against.

Did he truly not know what she’d been doing? Or was that his morbid curiosity and exceptionally bad planning?

Dolyn has to know if what she suspects is true, even if it hurts more than the vice grip currently around her chest. “Cazador held this kind of power over you…?”

He pauses and meets her eyes again, “Well, yes…”

Her face falls, her body wanting to edge closer to him. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean...”

“You didn’t know… I didn’t…” he clears his throat and looks away. “I thought that each one was simply enamoured with you, not...”

“Incapacitated,” she offers, voice small.

He answers in kind, “Yes.”

He's sheepish when his eyes meet hers again. There's not a hint of anger or blame. He has every right to feel that way, especially after he trusted her. 

Their usual banter and bickering has no place between them in this moment and in the space that remains is an unknown spark. She'll likely be struck down by it if she lingers for too long.

“Are you okay?” she asks finally.

He subtly shakes his head like he's shaking free of a thought. “I will be perfectly fine, but if you would get around to untying me, I might be somewhat better.”

Dolyn nods quickly and rushes forward, hands working to swiftly but carefully untangle the knot she tied. Her hands shake despite her attempt to keep herself calm. The sheer drop beneath them feels infinitely deeper the more she fumbles.

Astarion huffs a laugh close to her ear as she threads the rope free of the knot. “I know you’re probably excited by the sight of me tied up, but I would much rather it be in a less precarious situation.”

“I don’t always think about that, you know,” she frowns. That's not even within the same plane of the thoughts she's having. Her hands can't move fast enough to free him.

With a careful tug and a firm hold on his shoulder, she pulls the rope from around him and the tree. His face is so close, eyes burning into her.

His body tenses, chest slightly puffed out as he leans into her personal space. They're so close he could kiss her if he wanted.

“What, sex?” he muses aloud to entertain himself. “What else does everyone think about? It’s certainly not the best kind of rope knots.”

She avoids eye contact. The idea of looking him in the eye again feels too shameful, knowing what she’s done to him, that he doesn’t either know or want to admit either. Her chest feels tight. She might as well be tying the rope around herself.

Her voice betrays her worry. “I thought I hurt you.”

That defensive mask of his is back. It falls over his face in the form of a smile and a dramatic pout. “Well, you didn’t, so sorry to burst that bubble.”

She sighs. “Astarion, you looked…”

“I looked out of it? Distant? That’s what your magic does, doesn’t it? I’m perfectly fine.”

She looks down to find the rope now wrapped around her hands, fingers raw from the rough fibres. She’s been working her hands over them without realising and wearing away at her skin.

“It worried me. Can I at least check that you’re okay?”

“By what exactly?”

“Looking you over?” she finally meets his eyes then. 

He gives her an amused suggestive look in return. 

“Not like that. Please?”

He shrugs, the idea completely nonsensical to him, or at least how he wishes to present it.

She feels ridiculous for being this nervous and worried and concerned for someone who is trying with every part of him to deny that anything happened. But she saw it all.

Gulping, she reaches out to gently grasp his face in her hands, cradling it as she looks into his eyes, into him. She bites her lip and questions what she’s even looking for. He’s made it clear that he’s fine. She has to trust that, and yet she finds herself still looking, for the reassurance she hasn’t hurt him.

When did she get so entwined in his well being?

His smile softens and he leans into her hands. The judgemental look in his eyes gives away to one of questioning, perhaps to match hers.

“Okay,” she leaves a small pat to his cheek and follows it with a kiss. Her words echo his. “You’re fine.”

If only she could believe it.

Chapter Text

“Some of us like to make a contribution without snapping at everyone,” Shadowheart snipes in Astarion’s direction. She makes a quick tilt of her head that sets the chains in her hair to chime.

A growl follows and Astarion appears in the corner of their camp, gesturing dramatically out wide with his hands towards the expanse of the Grymforge carved into the Underdark. “And some of us don’t go around praising the darkness.”

The irony of his statement doesn’t seem to dawn on him, despite the fiery orange glow lighting his face from the cooling lava by the edge of the camp. Though it is by the far the largest source of light other than their fire and torches.

The heat alone has all of them sweating, breathing heavily after every battle, and just as hot with the tension between them all as the forge itself. It’s a wonder none of them have fallen in or caught on fire with how highly strung each of them have been.

Wyll and Gale have been taking turns as peacekeepers, but even they know when they have no chance of cooling down the most venom-tongued of the group. It sometimes feels like those few are their happiest in their bitterness rather than actually being content.

Shadowheart doesn’t let Astarion have the last word and immediately retorts, “I’ll have you know, Lady Shar--”

Karlach groans and stomps her feet on the ground where she lays, back pressed against the cool stone, arm thrown over her face in anguish. “Can you all give it a rest? I thought I was hot headed.”

Gale clears his throat and raises his hands to ease the tension in camp. “If everyone is feeling a little worked up, perhaps we should play a game. Something to stimulate our minds and get us thinking on other matters.”

“Everyone knows that you’re the one that is worked up, Gale.” Astarion sighs, leaning forward at the hips and staring the wizard down. “How many years were you alone in that tower?”

“Astarion, let’s not talk about highly contentious matters,” Wyll steps in between them and his turn at diffusing the tension. “You're not the most clean slate in the group yourself.”

Despite the warm smile with hands out and open, Shadowheart and Astarion seem no more affected. If anything Shadowheart seems all the more amused that she's not being addressed while Astarion becomes more discontent by the focus on his reaction.

He takes the attention to spit back, “That's rich coming from a warlock. Has your devil given you other gifts other than your horns?”

Lae'zel, who has been standing by in rapt but confused attention, steps forward to provide her opinion, “This is petty squabbling. If you wish to sort this out, you should do so by sword.”

She steps forward with her sword in hand in demonstration, ready to pass it to the first taker. Her face doesn't twitch as the reaction to her violent suggestion ripples through the camp.

Karlach groans again. “I just got Nere’s blood out of my shoes. We don't need another decapitation today, do we?”

“Who's talking about decapitation?!” Gale yells, exasperated. His hands thread through his hair and glances over at Dolyn with pleading eyes.

Sitting in the corner, overlooking the old torn down statues of Shar, she sighs and closes her book. She's been trying to get a moment of quiet. Spells don't just write themselves into her spell book, and by this rate they may never be inked onto the page.

She places it gently aside and pulls a long stick of incense from her satchel. In her fingers with a quick movement, the incense sparks, smoke snaking its way up into the air. As the smell hits her, she quickly traces the glowing incense in the air and casts her magic in the midst of the party before anything else can be said.

A burst of vibrant colour explodes and twists in the centre of her companions, sparking out in spirals. It catches them all by surprise, flashes of the light reflecting in their eyes. Each of them freeze for a moment as the spell does its work before one by one she can see who broke free of the hypnotic pattern.

Gale is the first to shake himself free of it with Shadowheart following shortly after, crossing her arms. They both blink through the brief daze before shooting her each their own judgemental frown.

Wyll, Karlach, and Lae’zel are not so lucky. Instead they stand transfixed as the enchantment glows briefly in their eyes and their mouths part in awe. 

Despite wanting to disrupt the argument, and succeeding, Dolyn can't help but feel a tinge of disappointment that only those three are affected. They aren't the ones causing issue and inciting conflict.

Astarion, now paused and tensed like a cat ready to run, casts an annoyed glare her way before storming off and leaving camp. 

“Now we'll get some actual rest,” Shadowheart adds before shaking the hypnotised out of their stupors. She actually sounds relieved and for a moment like she's hopefully the slightest bit embarrassed by her actions. Though with how closed off she is it's unlikely she'll ever admit it.

Dolyn keeps to herself as quiet settles back over the camp. Tension has been cut and everyone can take the time to relax, but she can't not notice the quiet reluctance to approach her.

It is what it is. She's never met anyone who enjoys finding out her particular skillset. 

Except maybe Astarion.

── ☆ ──

It’s later in the night when Dolyn’s flipping through her book, satisfied that she’s transposed just about everything she can, that she spies Astarion return to camp. He’s staggering, feet tripping over themselves, clothes and limbs splattered with blood.

Concerned, she jumps up to wander over. The others in the camp already retired to their tents, especially Gale whose snoring sets the comfortable mood in the area. Oh, to be at peace enough to sleep so soundly.

Unfortunately for her and her chance at rest, Astarion’s demeanour has her concerned.

“Are you… all right, Astarion?”

He smiles the second he sees her, arms out wide in greeting. He's swaying with a bobble of his head, giggling as he says, “There you are! My friend.”

Dolyn can't believe what she's seeing. The grumpy sour demeanour is gone, replaced by an almost giggly happiness and swaying. It's almost as if… “Are you drunk?”

“I have drunk. Not alcohol of course,” he clarifies before he leans forward to announce with whispered pride, “A bear.”

He looks so proud of himself, genuinely, rather than the constructed pride he usually carries. “He took a little of my blood. I took all of his.”

The self-satisfied gloating smile takes to his face. Of course he’s happy about something so ridiculously reckless and stupid.

Though, she never has seen him use the full extent of his strength. All of that power to take down a fully grown bear and drain it of all its blood.

He’s been holding back all this time.

But that doesn't explain…

Her eyes dart to Halsin’s tent with concern to thankfully find him returned from his wandering and now working on his whittling.

Further confused, she asks slowly, “Where did you find a bear down here?”

The question takes him a moment to process. “I mean- I think it was a bear? Big head, four legs, hair that gets stuck in your teeth.” He places a hand firmly on his hips as his other hand appears to pluck the memory from this air as he lists the details. He laughs it off. “Whatever it was, I thoroughly enjoyed it.”

“Well you seem happier… Does that mean you won't need humanoid blood, then?” she teases. She knows he’s been sneaking off to find more sustenance without once asking for her help.

The question strikes a nerve and Astarion leans forward to correct her. “You’re comparing plonk to vintage wine. You can make merry with either but they are not the same.”

He sneers, happiness shifting to something darker as he continues, “But Cazador fed me rats and bugs. And when you’re used to drinking from a sewer, even plonk is a marked improvement.”

“Fair. Rats really do leave more to be desired.”

The words fall out of her mouth before she can think better of them and realise what she’s said. It hits her the second Astarion huffs in surprise.

“You-- What do you--” He leans back, swaying in his drunkenness, brows drawn together. “Are you telling me you’ve…?” His nose crinkles with his sneer like a horrid smell has been placed under his nose.

“I--” she feels old feelings swarm across her, the tightness in her chest, the feeling of being trapped enough to make desperate decisions to survive. “Food is food when you don’t have much of a choice, I guess. I imagine it’s the same for blood?”

“Not at all! Blood is life essence.” He makes a point of stepping closer, voice breathy and almost suggestive when he glances at her. “And some creatures have so much more life than others.”

The flirtation disappears as quickly as it appeared and he frowns, eyes lost in memory. “Cazador gave me just enough to keep me - well, ‘alive’, for lack of a better word. But never more than that. Still, that was the past. I’ll never have to grovel for him again.”

Dolyn wonders whether she is right in feeling pity for him. A life where you're barely alive and only by the cruelty of another is a horrible life to remember. Her heart aches to know he has never known anything different.

“True, you have a lot ahead of you now. You can be better than what he made you.” 

There's a twinge in her chest when she looks at him, mixed feelings of pity and sympathy and hope for something new for him. Despite his attitude, he's shown himself to be a loyal ally and at least developing something of a conscience. Maybe he even has the potential to be kind beyond the blood and other attention she's given him.

He perks up immediately, eyes intense in the way they get whenever he talks about his goals. “Exactly! I can be better than him. Stronger. More power. More -” Hands gesturing in the air, grasping for the concept of the strength and power he apparently wants, he pauses and interrupts his speech. 

“Oh, you meant ‘be kinder’? Pet bunnies, that sort of thing?” His hands hover in the air before dismissing the idea entirely with a smile. “I’ve no objection to being nice, of course. Once I have the power to bend others to my will.”

Dolyn hides a sigh behind her lips. This certainly explains his interest in her abilities. He's always shown an fascination with anything that would let him get ahead, be stronger, safer, even if it's the worms in their brains.

“I can tell you from experience that it's not as great as it appears,” she warns as the image of him frozen and scared in front of her plays out in her mind. Other memories of old friends and lost friends play in the background of her thoughts. “You think that power would let you do anything, free from consequences?”

Controlling people can only be so good for so long.

Astarion’s frustration is all the more dramatic under the influence. He nods with an annoyed flutter of his eyelashes and gestures out to the space around him demonstrably. “Well… yes. You can’t look at the world and tell me I’m wrong.”

“We should probably get you to bed. Before the others hear you and get the wrong idea.”

“Let them. What are they going to do? Lecture me about right and wrong, good and evil.” He glances around at the rest of camp, his snark failing to hide the hint of sadness in his eyes. “No one saved me from Cazador: mind flayers did.”

Dolyn looks at him, immediately feeling that pang in her chest again, the ache of empathy. The fact he speaks of no one saving him hurts, knowing he's saying this while swaying and mind likely swimming from overindulging in bear blood.

His confidence returns when he leans forward, voice lowered, “They gave me a gift: the strength to take my own freedom. I’m embracing this power - you should too.”

She sighs and resists the urge to shake her head. Meeting his eyes, that vulnerability melts to determination, for power, for freedom. He wants to keep what he has, that much is clear. There's no dissuading him when that's where his hope has gone, and she's not about to take that from him.

But maybe she can help him find something else, something that doesn't involve tapping into the parasites inside them.

“All I'm going to do now is take you to bed,” she replies sternly.

“Uh-uh…” he waggles his finger, his lips twisting into a sly smile. “Nice try.”

He's always so much more at ease when he smiles like this. Something about teasing her seems to be genuine and pulls him out of darker memories. She'll have to use that to her favour.

“I can’t say I’ve seen a drunk vampire before, but you do make for an adorable one.” 

She takes a gentle hold of his arm and starts to shuffle him towards his tent.

He snatches his arm out of her grasp to plant his hand on his heart in a dramatic display. “Excuse me, I am not adorable, I am dashing and-”

Dolyn rolls her eyes and takes back his arm, humming in amused dismissal, “Mmhmmm.”

He gasps, letting her take lead. “You don’t think so?”

“I think I'm going to take you back to your tent, and I'm…” she pauses in the midst of her firm explanation to see Astarion hanging on her every word. “I'm going to stay and make sure you’re okay in the morning.”

The decision comes to her naturally. He's like any of her friends and crew that hit one too many wines on a long celebratory night. Plus he's new to drinking that much blood. She'd be beside herself if she left him overdo it without supervision.

It's not until she's led him to his tent and opened it for him to enter that he questions it.

“Oh, so now you’re going to stay in my tent? When it suits you?”

“When… because…”

She can’t very well say because he needs her or that she needs to when it’s more her concern for him compelling her. It’s not that she wouldn’t mind staying in his tent, but after the last week or so, she's managed on her own, making shelter and settling into trance where she found herself the most comfortable. Intruding on another’s space uninvited requires some excuse of necessity. She just happens to have it now.

“Let’s get you into your bedroll.”

── ☆ ──

An Underdark morning is never truly morning, but rather a sense of when others have fully rested and ready to get on with their day. Dolyn however is entirely comfortable where she is. There’s a blanket wrapped around her and tucked under her chin. She has her leg propped up on a cushion or perhaps more blanket and then her face is snuggled into a firm and yet soft surface that shifts every so slightly when she sighs happily.

Then it vibrates beneath her at the same time as an amused hum hits her ears.

“Making yourself fully at home, I see, including making me your furniture,” Astarion’s voice rumbles through his chest, reaching her through both air and his body. She's suddenly fully aware that he's where she’s resting her cheek.

Her eyes blink open and finds her vision filled with the sight of his white cotton shirt, the soft feel of it against her cheek. Her bare leg is hiked over his hips, almost as if she’s ready to start climbing over, and her arm, most embarrassingly of all, is slumped over his middle, clinging on like she might fall off an imaginary ledge.

She moves to pull away but his hand grasps her wrist firmly.

“No, no, I quite like this.” 

She peers up at him, his eyes filled with amusement and challenge. There’s still a chance he’s still just as playful as the night before. Perhaps more so, depending on how much blood he truly drank. A bear is a lot bigger than a humanoid. Though she’s not sure how much that calculates into blood quantity.

Rather than face him knowing she's truly fallen asleep on top of him, she buries her face and her embarrassment into his shirt. Her voice is muffled when she complains, “How long were you going to let me sleep like this?”

Astarion’s laugh thrums through his chest. “As long as it would take you to wake, darling.” His hand strokes through her hair thoughtfully, fingers tangling in the sleep-tossed waves. “After all this time, I thought you’d shrugged me off. I rather appreciated the warmth.”

She finds the courage to lift her face and turn to shoot him a questioning glance. “Warmth?”

His hand cups the back of her head in a way that makes her face flush. It's so sweet and gentle she might just curl up now, and judging by the thoughtful look on his face, he has no idea he's doing it.

“Truth be told, I was missing it since we’ve been following you in the dark. Hardly any sunlight down here.”

“Me?” she asks quietly.

It's silly but for a split second she thought he was talking about missing her. Then it hits her just as fast that he misses the sun, one of the very things he's done so long without.

Thankfully he doesn't read it on her face.

“You are in fact our dear leader, are you not?”

“Uh…”

He continues, nodding towards the outside where the rest of the party are stirring. “The light show last night makes a point. None of us would get along without you forcing us to, twisting us in your devious way to make us play nice.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes and leaning her weight against him. “You make it sound like I manipulated them all.”

His fingers still in her hair. “Would that be so bad?”

She draws her own fingers up to trace shapes across his chest. “I don’t tend to do it unless absolutely necessary.”

“Like when I’m tied to a tree, yes, got it.”

“You asked for that.” She taps at his chest to punctuate her words.

“I did, and I got more than what I asked for.”

“I am a very giving person.”

Astarion snorts a laugh. “Mmm, very.”

She shifts to lay her head firmly on his shoulder, slipping her leg down from his hip. How he managed to trance at all last night is a wonder. Meanwhile she apparently felt so relaxed she fully fell into sleep. Elves as a rule, as a lack of the need, do not sleep, but sometimes, when she's sure she's safe, she'll slip into sleep to try to dream.

She’ll have to truly unpack why she found it so easy to sleep when she had no intention to. But that can wait for a time she's not literally in Astarion's arms.

He seems to be okay after his bear run-in at least. Though she has to wonder how much blood a vampire truly needs to get by. He's made no attempt to drink her blood in some time, and she'd be lying to herself if she says she's not the slightest bit disappointed.

Today seems like a perfect day for bad decisions.

“So did you want your breakfast in bed or not?” she asks finally, brushing her hair back to expose her neck.

He licks his lips and laughs before turning to his side and forcing her off his shoulder. “Oh, is that what you're calling it?”

Dolyn pouts playfully, side-eyeing him. “I thought you said I was like vintage wine.”

His eyes fall to her neck, eyelids lowering as he blatantly imagines the taste of her. Then eyes travel further down her body. “And where will I be eating from?”

“Astarion,” she manages in her fluster and has to gulp to clear her throat. “That is not what I meant.”

“But you missed it?”

“I didn't say that.”

He pushes himself up to his knees and swiftly traps her shoulders against his bedroll with his hands, throwing a leg over hers to straddle her hips. “But you didn't say you didn't.”

Dolyn gulps and bites her lip. She's not going to live through the embarrassment of this morning. Yet she clears her hair out of the way.

“Are you jealous?” he gloats, sinking down to press the length of his body against hers, propping himself up with an elbow on either side of her, forcing her hands to rest on his shoulders. His breath is hot against her neck.

Her body reacts with a shudder before she can answer, “No. I'm not jealous of a bear or whatever poor thing you drained.”

Astarion leans down to nip at her skin, tongue darting out to taste her, lips following with a light touch. He repeats it, the weight of his body holding her in place.

“I didn't think you played with your food, Astarion.”

She's prey to him, caught by his body, his gaze, his voice. Vampires are by their very nature designed to capture and weaken their prey so they can feed, and here she is offering her life essence, as he calls it, with a suppressed whimper.

Stories of vampires paled compared to the tales of bhaalspawn in the lower edges of the city. Though it wasn't unusual to hear of people going missing, of people having run into beautiful pale strangers. She'd never have thought she would be beneath one, let alone more than once, by choice.

This vampire, or vampire spawn as he'd no doubt correct her, is eyeing her up like a meal and somehow managing to pout and smile at the same time. “Oh I am great at all kinds of play. I am a professional.”

She lets her chest rise and falls as she reads over him. He seems to mean this, genuinely, but she hesitates to check him in case it's a mask that she'll shatter. Part of him has to mean part of what he's saying to look like that.

“Oh I bet you're a real tease too, huh?” 

She's about to say more when his fangs sink in her neck with an icy prick and a satisfied groan. His legs move to spread hers so he can get in closer, body pressed down to trap her further.

Her breath catches as that faint drifting feel takes to her head, eyes shuttering closed as she sighs, trying not to tremble beneath his touch. Outside the tent she can hear the sharp sound of a grinding wheel, the clatter of pans, the shuffling of feet. The rest of the party are awake and up. The smells of cooking fat and fresh incense mix and seep in through the gap of Astarion’s tent. Any sound she makes now is likely to be heard.

But despite the commotion outside, she lies captivated and overwhelmed by him. The sound of Astarion's lips, the muffled moans against her skin, the heat of his mouth over the icy prick of his fangs and the faint tingle in her limbs as he continues to drink all come together and flood her senses. His scent of rosemary, bergamot, and brandy clouds around her and into her mind while his body warms slowly to her touch.

Fingers caressing his back, she gives into it, her own back arching to press into him and immediately finds herself meeting with the hardening length now pressing between her legs.

“G-good morning?” she huffs amused into his ear.

He's not only feeding and overwhelming her but he's getting hard while doing it? Or maybe she missed his morning glory? The idea that she's affected him in this way at all has her body flushed and her mind whirling.

Astarion lifts from her neck and moves to look her in the eyes, blood dripping down from the corner of his lips. “Mmm, all of this breakfast in bed certainly makes for one.”

“That’s g--” she begins and suddenly loses all speech when he rolls his hips against her, his clothed cock presses not so subtly right where he knows it'll affect her.

He raises an eyebrow. “Hmmm, I could have sworn you were going to say something.” He thrusts against her this time, the moment she opens her mouth, and she releases little more than a choked moan.

The devious smile on his face only fuels her frustration as she hits him without any malice on his shoulder to tell him off.

“You said I was a tease. I said I was a professional. If you want a tease, darling, then…” he says with a punctuating roll of his hips. The smirk on his face makes it worse.

“Everyone's outside,” Dolyn whispers through the arousal further clouding her brain. “If you keep going I'll scream.”

“Like they haven't already heard your beautiful voice.” Astarion starts a steady pace of rubbing against her.

Dolyn gulps. How does her own blood dripping from his mouth look so… how he is so…

She pushes up to capture his lips with hers, revelling in the surprise in his eyes before he matches her energy. The taste of her own blood is surprisingly sweet on his tongue. Chasing after his mouth, she hums and struggles to muffle the moans as he continues to grind against her.

It takes effort to break away from him, falling back to the bedroll, breathless. “How in the hells are you so hard so early? Does blood do that to you?’

He laughs and leans to kiss at her neck, savouring the last lingering trails of her blood and stemming the flow. “Don't give yourself too much credit. I can be ready at a moment's notice.”

Dolyn gulps, pushing the implications out of her mind, thoughts instead indulging in what that could mean.

“S-so you… you're…” her mind leaves her before the words leave her tongue. 

Astarion gifts her a caress across the cheek before he pulls back to sit on his heels. “Getting up for the morning ahead. Ready for the day thanks to a satisfying start.” He throws a gesture her way so casually it's almost dismissive if not for his teasing grin.

“Can't share the sentiment,” she huffs and tries to catch her breath. “You're really going to work me up like that and leave me to this?”

She hadn't thought this through or thought at all, and then her sense returns her brain. She's lying in his tent after spending a night here, cuddling him in her sleep, flirting in the morning, and letting him have his way with her.

He's been nothing but restrained. Maybe she's thinking too much of whatever this confusing thing between them is. 

“I guess you won that bet,” he says, shuffling his way out of the tent.

His shadow heads out to the edge of camp, likely to hide the obvious erection that would be outlined by his tight pants.

Dolyn sighs and focuses on calming herself down. Maybe if she pretends she's still sleeping no one will question her.

But even pretending is hard when her mind replays every action, and wonders when she started genuinely wanting him to bite her.

Chapter Text

“Gwynnie!”

A hushed whisper calls out and grabs her attention.

Looking down the wall, she shuffles over and presses her back against the stone. The door beside her opens with a creak.

“Bag,” the voice instructs and she follows instructions, holding out a rucksack.

A slender man with a mop of brown hair and green eyes rounds the corner with arms full of bottles, likely wine judging by the grin on his face. Duck being his over-enthusiastic self.

It's hard to resist the urge to roll her eyes as she steadies the bag after each bottle gets added to the mix.

She says flatly, “What could possibly go wrong?”

“Trust the process.”

“And how much have you had to drink already?” she questions under her breath.

His hands unload the bottles into the bag before gently closing the door behind him. “That place is a gold mine!”

“And sure to get us killed.” She jostles the bag to try reading the labels. “That looked like Guild property. Please tell me you didn't just pocket Guild wine.”

“Okay, I won't tell you,” he says with a wide grin, confidence beaming from his nose to his chest now proudly pushed out.

“Let me past.”

Pushing the bag of clinking bottles into his arms, she takes a deep breath and reaches into her leather pouch. She finds a small vial with a cork stopper and plucks it from the bag to spread the golden dust across her fingers before smearing a sigil across the door. Uttered words she's practiced make the sigil glow and the door’s lock clicks.

Dusting the rest off her hands, she gives Duck a nudge. “You owe me 25 gold.”

He splutters in surprise as he hefts the bag over his shoulder and hunches forward. “25 gold?! What in the hells did you do?”

“Gave us more time.”

They don't have the time for explanations and she's not entirely sure Duck will even take in the explanation of an arcane lock spell.

The path back through the sewers is short with swift feet. Thankfully they're not there any longer than they need to be. There's been enough stories of bhaalspawn, vampires, and undead crawling through the bowels of the city. They did not need to be running into any of those complications.

Dodging people in the street, they duck into a market space adjacent to the palace wall that divides the Lower City. The more sellers, the better their chances of a good trade. So long as they don't raise any suspicions.

Duck swaggers over and unloads the sack at the feet of a stocky human trader whose chin juts out like he already has a problem with the two of them. He's most likely dealt with this man before.

“Morning, morning, Aldous, got another batch of goods to sell today,” Duck announces with a wave towards the bag at his feet.

The man eyes him up, blue eyes piercing and full of distrust. “You didn't steal this, did you?”

Duck puts his hands on his hips, hands confidently pointed to his crotch. When he wants to be, he's charming, but not without also being painfully unaware of how much he annoys his targets. 

His smile and tone are insincere when he asks back, “When have you ever asked where we got your stock?”

Really Dolyn shouldn't even let him talk with the way he approaches selling. By now half the sellers in the city know they're at risk just by talking to him. He's by far the most blatantly obvious rogue she's ever known.

Aldous' lips draw into a thin line, unimpressed. “Since the Fist have been increasing patrols due to an increase in thefts. That wouldn't have anything to do with your lot, would it?”

Dolyn pushes forward, hair carefully, neatly presented in a loose plait over her shoulder. The presentation of order and intention, of a more thoughtful and careful partner in this venture.

“Oh you know us, don't you?” she asks with a soft practised smile and steps forward to rest her hand on his upper arm. A placement that speaks of familiarity and, with the right individuals, potential of connection they wish to pursue.

She steps further into his personal space, angling her body in line with his as she feigns brushing at her cheek, a tint of rouge left in place. The familiar feeling of the weave runs through her body and out through her fingertips. Her voice is soft, friendly, magical.

“We’re friends aren't we? You know you can trust us.”

Her gaze briefly meets Duck's before checking the seller. His eyes blink, his face softens, and a pink swirled hue takes to his irises.

He beams back like he's just seen old friends. “Yeah, yeah, you're right.” He stares blankly at the bag of items before shaking back into a more pleasant version of himself, slapping his hands together. “Okay, what this time?”

Without a beat, Dolyn cheerily says, “Food and any gold you feel you can spare. Got mouths to feed, you know?”

Duck takes the cue to empty the sack, lining them up on the seller's table.

The seller nods, more than necessary, and drifts from Dolyn's touch to pluck bread and vegetables and meat from his wares. “Yeah, yeah, all right.”

Duck steps up to offer the bag as food is dropped in absent-mindedly. He gives a sly smile Dolyn’s way, peeking to see their spoils.

A concerned look falls over the Aldous' face, eyes openly and innocently following Duck's. "This okay?”

With a pat on his shoulder, Dolyn reassures him, smiling warmly. “More than enough, thank you. You're a saviour, you know that?” The tone of her voice is soft, gently twisting her magic to hold it steady.

They don't have much time left before it wears off and he knows exactly what she's done to him.

“Until next time!”

She gives a quick nod to Duck before she sets off across the road through the crowd. Her enchantment holds, the sliver of her magic like the tug of a spider web as they walk away. It'll soon snap.

“As soon as we hit the corner, we leg it.”

The moment they turn the corner, her concentration on the spell ends and they sprint across the cobblestones. Hissing cats and yelling people jump out of their way. Their feet hit the stone, throwing rocks and clouds of dirt in their wake.

Duck laughs mirthfully, like a man not running for his safety, but a man gleefully running to beat her. The wind ripples through his hair as he takes off in front of her.

He puffs out his chest and laughs through huffed breaths the second they make it to the park. Watchers nearby scatter when they settle by the steps. Laughter in these parts can spell danger as much as joy.

“Okay, okay, what did we get?” he announces, rifling through the bag. It's a wonder he doesn't bruise half the produce they made off with. It feels like a steal, even though they've provided sufficient value in exchange.

It never hurts to be careful. Post-enchantment aggression is unpredictable.

“Looks like… potatoes, carrots, cured meats…” Duck lists off with a simmering pride. He continues to take stock, muttering about the kinds of herbs they'll need to make a solid meal.

Dolyn sits down and sighs. There's more than enough to get them through at least a few days, depending on the appetites of ravenous children. They'll be sure to wolf their way through anything they make come nightfall.

Just as she stands up again she hears the shuffle of feet, the shift of fabric, and a low grumble. A blur of black follows and a glint of metal.

Dolyn throws up her shield just in time to block a dagger at her shoulder. The blue shimmer of abjuration magic illuminates the face of her attacker. 

“Gwyn!” 

She hears Duck’s voice but doesn't see him as a man, hunched and speckled with blood, lunges for her again. His clothes are tattered and covered with dirt and mud. His face is contorted into a sneer, teeth bared in a gruesome smile of determination. 

The smile disappears as Duck dives in between them. Their blades clash and the greet each other with grunts as they push and shove. A hand meets with her chest before she stumbles backwards.

“Gwyndolyn, move!”

She falls back, hands scraping on the ground as she catches herself. A jolt works through her arms, the pain pushing a wheezed groan from her lungs. She rolls over onto her knees, arms up and ready.

Yet her magic doesn't appear needed.

Duck sweeps the attacker's legs out from underneath him and dives down with his dagger. With a thud, the knife sinks into the stranger's chest. A crunch follows as Duck's weight falls onto him, the heavy blow likely breaking ribs.

A wheeze and a gasp and the man's hand falls open, blade falling aside. 

“Great…” she mutters. Nothing like a murder in daylight.

She turns to Duck and finds him wiping his blade on the coat of the attacker. He's unfazed as usual. He's protected her, like usual.

She gathers up their food and casts a quick prestidigitation to clean them both of blood and dirt. Though there's no quick cleaning away of a fresh body, and all of her reading in Sorcerous Sundries did not provide answers beyond necromancy.

“We'll have to deal with this, Bradach,” she states more for herself than for him as she surveys the body before her feet.

She's known that he's killed before. He's incredibly skilled at it, moving like a creature of the night on the hunt. But seeing it is something else completely. Thievery, deception, general miscreant behaviours of a rogue she's seen but murder is something different all together.

He simply shrugs and gives her a smile as he puts away his blade. “And what do you suggest? We can't carry him.” He gives the body a firm kick. “You haven't got any magical ideas, do you?”

“Make it look like Bhaal's work. There's enough… blood they'll believe it.”

Duck gives her a look, one of his cheeky smiles, and unsheathes his blade. He tosses it in the air with a twist. “I love the way you think. No chance you've got magic to make this quicker.”

“Afraid not, but I trust that you have all the enthusiasm of an artist.”

She flinches and looks away as his blade slashes bare skin.

── ☆ ──

Her body jolts awake, eyes snapping open to find her vision filled with red, the canopy of Astarion’s tent. 

So many years later and she's considerably more comfortable with blood, more than she ever considered possible.

While the years have certainly helped, with violence and danger and battle, Astarion's own thirst for blood has further diminished her discomfort. Perhaps encouraged other associations as well.

He encourages a lot out of her, more than the initial frustrations when they first met.

Turning to her side, she finds him, blanket halfway up his bare chest, resting with his brows furrowed. Not the face she expected.

“Nhhh… Master… Please,” he cries out, begging, fearful and defending himself with his arms raised to an invisible assailant. “No!”

He tosses and flinches, muscles tensing sharply and suddenly. 

“Astarion?” she whispers, hands outreached and hovering. She can't risk scaring him by waking him but she can't leave him to his nightmares. She's never seen him so… frightened. Her stomach twists at the sight of his pain.

He twists further, lips pulling back into a snarl as his hands move to shove at the source of his fear. Then his body shoots up from the bedroll, hands clawing at nothing before falling back down to lie with frustrated twitches in his muscle.

His eyes immediately shoot to her. A hint of accusation lies in them until he blinks and recognition hits him. “Dolyn?”

“I'm here,” she whispers in reassurance.

He nods and tilts his head back to stare at the tent canopy. His body settles but his fingers curl into the bedroll.

Dolyn shuffles closer, gingerly reaching out to caress his arm. “You’re safe here.”

Astarion flinches at her touch at first before he leans into it, practically breathing into it. He rolls over towards her, gaze searching over her body, vulnerability shining in his eyes like tears for a second before he blinks it away when their eyes meet.

“Safe?” he barks a bitter laugh. “Hardly. I won't be safe as long as he's alive.”

“Are you okay?” She bites her lip before adding, “Nightmare about Cazador?”

Astarion grimaces, eyes staring past her, into a memory that he does not dare to speak. “It was him. It’s always him.” He gulps and clears his throat. “He was… reading poetry.”

She avoids his eyes for a moment. The last time Astarion spoke of Cazador’s poetry it meant the act of slicing over and over into his back until welts grew over savaged skin. He’s hardly spoken of it since, instead letting his hatred of his master add venom to his words and impatience to his actions. He’s been spending more time wandering off when the others go to rest.

She can only wonder what he’s been doing with that time.

Dolyn presses her lips into a thin line, biting her lip in hesitation. Her mouth feels dry when she asks the curious question in her mind. “Did you ever… have you worked out what the Infernal on your back means?”

Second to Gale, he spends most of his time reading books when in the sight of others. Light fingers and book theft are second nature to her. Perhaps he’s been doing the same.

He sighs with a frown. “No, I’ve been tracing the scars with my fingers, trying to read them by touch, but I can’t.”

She might be pushing this, but when hasn’t she pushed when her curiosity has demanded it. The most common downfall of wizards other than power is pure unbridled curiosity, particularly in the search for knowledge. And hers is not one that is easily reigned.

“Could I have another look?”

Instead of a rebuke, a sharp joke or a hiss, he falters, body stiffening for a second when so easily at rest just moments before. His hand raises as if to hold her silence while he thinks, and he utters, “I - this isn’t your problem, you know.”

An offer. One to rescind hers should she choose. It’s a wonder of how many times anyone has offered to help him in the last two centuries. Even less for when he’s asked for it.

She can’t let him be any stronger in his push back so she answers him firmly, but gently. “I know. Now shut up and turn around.”

“Fine.”

Her fingers trace over the markings like she’s reading runes, or an old manuscript on paper close to disintegration. Every letter has been dug into his skin with a precision that only speaks of cold, dark cruelty. It’s confronting this close, feeling the result of his agony, his torture. Taking it in, her eyes begin to water, her body wanting to cry for him.

He’d kissed the fresh welts on her back from Abdirak’s blows with such care, something he’d scarcely shown at the time. Even if he was hungry for her blood. Though she doesn’t share his hunger, she does want to soothe him.

Her lips meet his back. Once, twice, and then again over the markings.

He stiffens against her, head tilting in confusion. “And? What can you see?”

“Let me grab my book.” 

Dolyn pushes herself up and darts for her spell book, grabbing a quill and ink, before sitting behind him. She’s written out plenty of sigils before when transferring spell scrolls to her book, but an entire Infernal insignia is something new. She can’t remember the last time she’d even written in Infernal.

It takes a few scratchings and considerable focus but once complete, she lies back down and holds her book open to the page. She nudges him lightly to turn back to see her illustration.

“What in the hells…” he says, staring at the picture in horrified wonder. “What did he do to me?”

His finger traces the page, smearing the edge of the Infernal ring. He looks equally perturbed and anxious. One of his eyes twitches as he takes in the image.

He’s kept so much of his past to himself, and this, these markings, could be more easily unravelled with the help of their companions.

“We could ask the others? Karlach might know Infernal. Gale might--”

“No!” he immediately interrupts and then lowers his voice. “No, let’s keep this between ourselves. At least until we know what it means.”

That cagey self-protective instinct of his simmers beneath the surface. Dolyn can’t say she doesn’t know it well. When you have known little protection, little trust, it takes a great deal to trust another person, even if you know them. It’s a wonder she’s managed to trust him. More so that he appears to trust her.

Wanting to trust someone makes it easier. Even if it makes you vulnerable in the process.

Astarion’s voice is strained when he mutters, part wonder, part sorrow, “Two centuries carrying this, and I can finally see it.”

“And… how are you feeling?” she asks quietly. Vulnerability is a fragile thing for someone who’s used to hiding it.

Astarion regards her for a moment, something flashing behind his eyes. His eyebrows furrow. “Perplexed? Surprised. Cazador’s surprises are never good.” His face turns as his thoughts play across his face. “Whatever he planned, it’s gone wrong, which gives us an advantage.”

Of course he’s thinking of vengeance and power. It’s almost as predictable as the way they keep finding themselves in more complicated situations. It’s still a surprise that he’s stuck around with the rest of them.

But then her thoughts stop as he pauses, genuinely considers her, and says, “Thank you, by the way. This is… well, it’s something.”

Gratitude.

Honest gratitude, from Astarion of all people. She wouldn’t believe it if she wasn’t lying so close to him, her heart beating in her throat.

“We'll end him, I promise.”

Given everything they've already done, their trek to Moonrise Towers, and the eventualities that await them in Baldur's Gate, Cazador’s demise would be but a small detour. Yet the reward, ensuring Astarion's freedom, would be more than worth the effort. She can hardly ignore it when they have Shadowheart's task to return and Gale's issue to handle. Nevermind the determination of Lae'zel, Karlach, and Wyll on their own.

“Aren't you…. sweet?” Astarion muses aloud. “Yes, with enough power, I will be more powerful than he ever was.”

That didn’t last long.

Dolyn huffs and reaches to hold his face. “Without the tadpoles…”

“You really are no fun,” he pouts, closing his eyes and leaning into her touch.

She moves closer to plant a kiss upon his forehead. It's a sentimental gesture but she means it, truly, wanting to express her desire to keep him safe without needing to say it. 

Dolyn rests her forehead against his for a moment before pulling back. “You seem to think I'm fun otherwise. Going to have to sleep elsewhere, I guess.”

His eyes snap open and she realises just how close their faces are. “You can do whatever you please, but don't come crawling back to me when you're uncomfortable.” 

Her hands fall to his shoulders, resisting the urge to tug him closer. “You just want easy access to a meal.”

He smirks and manages to shimmy closer, pushing himself against her. “Can you blame me, darling? You are delectable. Why would I want to give up a bleeding heart like yours?”

She nudges his chest like she's trying to extract the truth from him. There's always something else he's not saying. “Are you hungry again?”

“Oh, I'm always hungry.” His face is carefully closed off, eyes narrowed just enough to judge her with a hint of a smile. Maybe he's simply tired, or maybe he's not trying to force a smile this early in the morning.

Licking her lips, she considers him with a smile, finger tracing over his shoulder. “I always suspect you liked the fact I'm a bleeding heart. You have a taste for them.”

He nudges her back, playful smile back on his face. “Mmm and yet I've never tasted yours.”

He shifts himself enough to kiss at her exposed chest above her neckline, catching her breath with the touch of his lips. He sighs and ponders aloud against her skin, “Come to think of it, I haven't tasted you elsewhere, have I?”

Immediately she gulps and becomes aware of every fibre in her body. The idea of him putting his mouth on her skin has her warming from her cheeks to her thighs. He's never shown any interest before.

“You've never tried...”

He corrects her, “I never asked.”

Her eyes follow his down her chest, her camp shirt exposing her skin down to her décolletage.  “But you could.”

He hooks a finger right into the v of her camp shirt and tugs down, his touch gently caressing her skin. “Could I? Would you let me taste you wherever I pleased?”

She can't meet his eyes. It'll ruin her if she does, either from her imagination running wild or from finding the actual glint of intent in his blood-red eyes. She'll be helpless against him, and she'll need to hold herself together. 

Honesty is all she has when she speaks. “It’s less… scary. You… biting me… elsewhere.”

“Like here?” he asks as his mouth kisses over her left breast. The thin cotton of her camp shirt and her equally thin brassiere is the only barrier between the wetness of his lips and her skin.

She knits her eyes closed, steals herself and looks down. He's hovered over her like one might expect a vampire would over a victim, yet he waits, poised to see her every reaction. “If you tease me again, Astarion, I swear...”

He smiles when he knows she's watching and starts kissing down over the curve of her breast.  “I can hear your heartbeat… right… here.” He stops right where the curve of her breast he meets her chest. ”Your heart is only a few inches behind your ribcage, about an inch below your nipple.”

A loud screech interrupts him. Claws scratch at the tent door, followed by nudges against the fabric. An insistent little intruder.

“Good morning, little one,” she sing-songs and opens the tent door flap to spy too large round owlbear cub eyes peeking in. “Did you want to come into Astarion's tent?”

It's hard to be frustrated at their interruption with such adorable eyes beseeching her attention.

She gives Astarion a sly look. “Have you been feeding him?”

“What?! No, the little thing keeps coming to my tent to pester me.”

“Uh-huh,” she smirks, not believing a word. She sits up, forcing Astarion off her, to drag the baby monstrosity into the tent with them. Her hands find the owlbear’s chin and scratches. “I bet he's been sneaking you vermin, hasn't he?”

With an exaggerated swish of her shoulders, she turns the cub accusingly at Astarion, who looks increasingly displeased with their company. “Must you drag everything into my tent?”

She ignores his complaint and brushes her hands through the cub’s fur. “We really should give him a name.”

His face falls into one of quiet judgement, tone flat, staring at her through half-lidded eyes. “Once you name it, it'll stick around.”

“Which you obviously won't mind,” she teases, tilting her head. “Hmm, what did you call him again?”

“What?”

“Little Snack, wasn't it?” She smiles to herself and deliberately avoids looking at Astarion. Instead she turns to pamper the owlbear with kisses and pets. “Shall we call you Snack?”

Astarion huffs like she's spoiled his morning. “You can't be serious.”

“That's what you called him.”

“I didn't think you were going to name the damned thing!”

He's sitting up now, back on his heels, arms crossed across his chest. One of his fangs peek below his lip as he sneers. She knows him well enough by now that he's exaggerating for her benefit.

“Too late,” she laughs. “How are you this fine morning, Snack?”

The owlbear nuzzles against her hand with a soft purr and series of clicks. For an owlbear he's taken to the camp with remarkable ease. 

“Honestly, it's a wonder you survived out here,” he mutters with an eyeroll.

She pushes Snack out the tent despite its persistence in reaching Astarion. Despite all of his protesting, it's clear Astarion's made some kind of bond with the creature. The very fact he's not killed the creature speaks volumes, whether he realises or not.

Seeing him this morning, knowing what their future holds, a decision she's been holding off settles in her mind.

“I'm heading out, but uh… there's a gift for you, end of the bedroll. I worked out how to fit the amethyst and you said you were interested in the book…” she points to the taut skin-leather bound book. The mouth gapes just out from the pile of her books in the corner, a glint of purple catching in the light as she moves out the door. “Don't start casting any magic on your own though. It's not a book that bodes well.”

Astarion gives an amused huff, keeping to the tent as she leaves.

Chapter Text

Every few days Dolyn remembers exactly why Astarion was constantly getting on her nerves at the beginning of their journey. From dismissing the concerns of Tieflings, to wanting to side with the murderous and worse, and now, most recently, to his apparent aversion to gnomes.

“You didn’t want me to save them, remember?” Dolyn nudges him with a judgemental look. 

He rolls his eyes and dismisses her with a wave of his hand, tilting his head towards her and picking his way through the scattered remains of animated armour. “Really though? Gnomes.”

She's grateful for the distraction as they walk high above the deep cavern below, just beyond where they'd faced and killed Nere. Her only regret is not getting to the poor gnomes the drow had killed behind the rubble and unceremoniously thrown in the lava to burn.

Seeing the safe ones that remained run for each other and embrace, worried and so relieved to be together again, has left her heart aching for that kind of connection. Each of them, including Barcus who had been so rude to them, are kind, hard-working, and worth defending as far she's concerned.

She glares at him, lips drawn into a thin line. It's hard to hide her disappointment in him as she climbs back down the rope ladder. “What have gnomes ever done to you?”

Astarion doesn’t answer. Though she doesn't need to see him up there to know he's pulling a face. It can't be as bad as his grudge against the Gur or else he would have encouraged a more active role in their deaths. Yet all of it still doesn't sit well with her.

The others haven’t made much of a statement, other than Wyll who is an endless walking tale of heroics or Gale who always takes her side. Though she’s yet to know if he truly feels so righteous or if he’s simply been intending to appease her. In any regard, as de facto leader, she feels obligated to keep Astarion in line.

“I wasn’t about to let them suffer," she calls out to him, "Besides, we have more allies now, and we did promise Barcus we’d help him.”

Thankfully he isn't the only one she has for company.

Karlach returns with a selection of finds as Wyll comes back to report his findings: a forge down one way and a lava elemental further down the path. Gale takes to searching through their rations, handing out the last of their healing potions, while Shadowheart assesses what magic she has to last until their next rest.

Dolyn dismisses the help. She’s running low but she’ll manage. There’s only the forge remaining and once they lay down the moulds, place the metal, they’ll soon be on their way. 

Astarion makes a point of climbing down the rope to beeline for her, pocketing his newly gathered treasures. He tosses up a dagger he found in one of the piles and flaunts the swift way that he catches it, hilt first.  “You know, I’ve been thinking… the fact that you were a thief says a lot about you.”

He takes the opportunity to snake through the group, twirling the blade in his hand as he lets the statement simmer amongst them. It hangs in the air as looks jump between Karlach and Gale as they all take off towards the forge following Wyll’s directions.

“When were you a thief?” Karlach asks from behind her, bright and curious and loud.

Astarion smiles and moves up beside the tiefling, amused like a cat that's caught a mouse. “You have seen her lockpick, haven’t you? What learned wizard learns to lockpick? Why would you need it?”

She’s not about to let him get to her as they’re casually snaking their way down a steep incline. Compared to the others, she is not nearly as sure-footed and can’t risk falling to a most certain death.

“I mean I could just cast a simple knock spell whenever you’re struggling at a lock, Astarion,” she quips back with a mock-thoughtfulness. “We wouldn’t need you for a single lock again.” She makes a point to stare straight ahead as she mimes the sigil for the spell.

He moves up in step with her, his gaze burning into her side. All she can see in the corner of her eye is the exaggerated gesturing of his hands. “And wait for your 'arcane recovery' every five doors? Please, you need me.”

“So long as you don’t get in our way, remember? Your words. We can’t expect you to help.” 

It's entirely petty of her to use his words against him, but he did make a big deal about expectations for his help the moment they stepped into the Grymforge and learned of the cave in. He protests an awful lot for someone who is so worried about his own skin. Like everything else that he does, there's a veil of the falsehood.

The questioning of the motivation behind his actions disappears the moment Shadowheart calls out from behind them, “Yes, he would ruin those nails.”

Dolyn chuckles. Seems she’s not the only one that remembers and uses his words against him.

Astarion baulks, though there's a hint of amusement in his tone. “Excuse me, I’m not the one who puts my hair into chains every morning.”

Shadowheart moves to Dolyn's other side, “Compared to your hair routine, mine is simply adornment, not preening without a mirror.”

The steep steps down to the forge feel so incredibly narrow with both of them on either side. Any slight push, any momentary trip, and a permanent solution awaits below. At least the rooftops of the Lower City offered a fairly solid and sure landing, even if it meant significant injury.

She has half a mind to ask Karlach and Lae'zel to pull the two cattiest of the party away from each other so she can walk in peace. But neither of the two can help themselves.

“Considering the fact I have not seen my own reflection in two hundred years, I am exceptional at maintaining my image.”

Under his breath and leaning in, Astarion begs for Dolyn’s input, “Please tell me my hair is not the mess she is making it out to be.”

“Your hair is fine,” she hushed back with a soft smile.

He gives a small nod, his hunched shoulders pulling back as his posture straightens. In the light of the lava’s glow, she could almost mistake it for pride if she wasn't so sure it’s little more than an act.

“So how did you learn to lockpick?” Shadowheart turns to her. “It wasn’t Astarion. He wouldn’t have the patience.”

Astarion bristles like a cat rubbed the wrong way. “I would be an excellent teacher, thank you.”

Shadowheart shakes her head. “You really would not. But yes, Dolyn, tell us.”

Trying to break up a petty argument between the two of them when she's already feeling low is not her ideal use of her energy. Often it feels like two alley cats fighting over territory when both would find good company in one another.

Shadowheart is taking particular pleasure in flexing her claws today.

Dolyn sharing parts of herself will have to serve as a distraction.

“I learned to steal from a boy in the Lower City,” she starts as vague as she can.

Shadowheart smirks, glancing briefly at Astarion. “Oh, was this some great love of yours?”

Dolyn resists the urge to roll her eyes and tell her to cut it out, but she'd only deny what she's so clearly trying to do: get a rise out of Astarion. The man who has grown quiet, watching them both intently as they make their way down to the forge.

It's hard to provide a decent summary of her history with Duck, especially not without giving either of them the wrong impression. She can’t shake the intrusive pestering concern about what Astarion might think.

“Not exactly.”

Shadowheart nudges her in the shoulder. “Did you have a crush on him?”

Carefully, cautiously, she says the best of the truth she can muster, “I loved him, but… Not in that way. No, he… he gave me something to do, introduced me to the rooftops and…”

Any more and she won't be able to continue. She's already been drained of her energy just getting here. She doesn’t need to be mentally unprepared for what awaits them at the forge.

“And?” Astarion prompts.

Shadowheart follows in turn, trying to finish her sentence for her, “You are looking forward to seeing him again when we reach the city.”

Dolyn's learned how to hide her emotions as a matter of survival. One doesn’t get the option to be emotional, weak, vulnerable, when survival is a necessity. Sharing is enough of a task on its own.

But this? This is something else entirely.

They deserve the truth.

She wants to be truthful.

Astarion hangs onto her every word. He hunches again, leaning into his steps, head tilting to be sure he doesn't miss a thing.

He's never been so focussed.

How are there so many stairs left?

When did she slow down?

“The streets took him.”

It’s a cop out, avoiding the details of the matter, but anything further and she might not be able to focus. The memories alone singe her mind any time she dares to touch them.

She checks to see if he's still looking and finds him looking away. Suddenly the floor is more interesting, like he's unsure of where his feet will be next.

She shrugs it off and tries to be convincing when she dismisses the thought. “It was decades ago now, it shouldn’t matter.”

Though he won't look at her, Astarion breaks the awkward silence with his soft voice. “I don’t recall most of what my life was before… but I imagine if I did I might miss it.”

She hums back and adjusts her robes to soothe herself. There'll be a time she'll start to forget Bradach, when her years extend longer than memory was meant to, and the Reverie will be the only place that she might find him and everything he meant.

Shadowheart clears her throat and hums thoughtfully. “Speaking of our lives before, Dolyn, I… wanted to discuss something with you.”

She gives a warning look over at Astarion who takes it as instruction to move ahead of them. Though he doesn’t keep much of a distance.

Shadowheart continues, looping her arm into Dolyn’s as they wander down the remainder of the steps. “There have been signs of Dark Justiciar in those ruins. That structure we saw from a distance on the way here. Something about it struck me as noteworthy.” The stern look in her eye softens, more hopeful, searching Dolyn’s own to find common ground. “Perhaps we’ll find an easier way to reach it, if we keep pressing forward.”

“The bridge is destroyed, but I’m sure we can look.”

“It might be all a coincidence… but between those ruins, and the signs I saw of Dark Justiciars before? It might be much more.”

Shadowheart has already made her devotion to Shar clear, enough that Dolyn found herself saying Lady Shar just out of sheer repetition. Shadowheart’s reverence still gives her reservations. For all her years in Baldur’s Gate, one thing Dolyn knows for certain is the devotion to Gods, any God, any person, only leaves misery in its wake.

And this is the very goddess of loss, something she knows all too well.

Biting her tongue, she listens as Shadowheart passionately talks about her desire to be a Dark Justiciar, to serve Shar, the slightest hint of desperation to seek something worthy, acknowledgement, dedication.

It would be commendable, if only in concept, if only it wasn’t to such a cause.

Shadowheart’s gratitude for her own acceptance of a Sharran in the party feels so horribly misplaced. It’s in spite of who she worships that Dolyn keeps her there.

She reaches out to touch the mark on Shadowheart’s hand, which the cleric offers back with a look of apprehension. Perhaps Dolyn has simply misconstrued what it means to be a goddess of loss and darkness and secrets, but getting to know Shadowheart and the kindness she possesses, Dolyn can’t quite reconcile the punishment Shar has bestowed and continues to bestow on one of her own devotees. 

Shadowheart must see something in her face before she snatches back her hand, rubbing over the mark. “I simply forgot about the desire I had, until I saw some things that reminded me.”

“We’ll look into it, but I must warn you that I only want what’s best for you.” She looks over her shoulder to the other walking behind them before turning back to stare at Astarion’s back. “For all of us.”

── ☆ ──

“Turn the wheel!” Lae’zel shouts across the expansive forge, panting with her sword firmly held up to block the Grym’s next attack.

Blow after blow the creature withstood their onslaught, swords barely scratching its adamantine surface. Only the hits of Shadowheart’s mace and Karlach’s warhammer appeared to make a reasonable dent. Wyll and Gale’s magic only cut through when the damage was cold or force or thunder.

Only when they were surrounded by the threat of miserable blood-boiling death.

Lae’zel distracts the great metal beast with the swing of her blade, already having taken the brunt of its attacks along with Karlach. The two of them holding up the front line, leaving the melted bodies of Fire Mephits in their wake.

Though barely making a mark on Grym, Astarion’s quick-footed actions and impeccable aim dispatched a number of Mephits too. He sprints across the forge towards the wheel, making the distance in mere seconds, hands ready.

Shadowheart provides assistance, blessing whoever she can within reach, and healing as best she can. It’s barely any time at all before her power is tapped.

None of them were ready for this fight.

The other side of the battlefield is where Dolyn finds herself. Able to hold her own but barely standing. There’s only so many uses of the shield spell she can use before she’s left unprotected. 

Her mage armor shimmers over her skin, but even an explosive mephit and a thunderous wave of a gigantic automaton can break through such magic.

She’s never felt more useless.

Her enchantments, her words, her quick wit are no match to a blade that extends from an unthinking hand.

Every magic missile finds its mark, but the damage is negligible, only serving to turn the creature her way, becoming its new target, before one of the party can land another blow.

Gale throws another shatter spell and Wyll follows in kind. No matter of fire or lighting they’ve each tried makes any kind of difference, but every attempt leaves them all the more depleted.

“Wyll!” Dolyn shouts across the way. “Head to the lever.”

He takes a second to respond before he sprints across the platforms to grab the level. “Got it!”

Lae’zel nods her way and yells across to Astarion. “Now!”

A fresh new river of lava courses through the forge the second Astarion turns the wheel. The heat bubbles beneath their feet, surrounding them once more as it overheats the adamantine titan.

Karlach is the first to take another hit at it, slamming into its side and knocking it a step back. All of her might is channelled through the handle of her weapon. A loud clang rings through the air.

Lae’zel follows with another hit of her blade as Shadowheart comes in after with a swing of her mace.

Magic sparks as thunderous roars fly out one after another.

Dolyn concentrates, focussing the last of her spells on the ground around her. A glyph of warding isn’t the most useful thing in an active fight but if she lures it, if it comes her way, it’ll take the blunt of the thunder damage as soon as it steps on the markings.

It takes seconds, marking a spot out of range of Wyll and just out of range of Lae’zel. The marks itself unseen between the red-hot glow above it.

“Hey!” she yells at Grym. “Over here!”

She takes an arrow, aims her bow, and shoots at it, trying to draw its attention. It turns to face her, target locked.

The next few moments feel like minutes are passing. Another missed arrow, a spell that doesn’t hit, attention not dissuaded.

Then the reality hits.

She’s too close.

All its weight shuffles towards her, thundering step after step.

One step more and it hits the ward.

A blinding purple light explodes.

A thunderous vibration rumbles between them.

She feels the brunt of her own magic hit her chest. Air is knocked out of her lungs and she’s sent flying.

Through ringing in her ears she can hear someone yelling out after her in anguish.

But the sound is soon replaced by an overwhelming, enveloping, searing heat.

Everything burns.

Chapter Text

The first thing she feels is the cool soft ground beneath her, followed by the scent of freshly turned earth, of moisture and compost. It's a far cry from the heat of Grymforge, but remarkably pleasant. A gentle singing in the air and in her mind feels like a welcome balm.

“Hmmm?” she hums sleepily, turning her head to the side, eyes still closed. A soft pillow meets her cheek.

There's a shuffling around her and the dim light above her is suddenly shrouded by shadow.

A familiar fond huff signals the presence at her side before a kind voice speaks up, “Hey soldier.”

Karlach.

She's not close enough to share her warmth but there's enough of it in her tone. It's a shame she can't simply ask for a hug.

“Don't try moving,” Karlach warns softly. “You're gonna need to sleep that off. Nearly thought we lost you out there.”

Dolyn opens her eyes to find herself met with Karlach’s face sporting a sad smile, staring down at her, hands worrying in her lap. There's a part of her that looks a little lost, wanting so desperately to be held, to offer comfort herself. 

“That bad?” Dolyn asks, first with a smile only to have it fall when she sees the look in Karlach's eyes. A hint of shame and guilt swirls in their reflection of the campfire. Her voice grows quieter, “I'm sorry I worried you.”

“You worried everyone. What were you thinking?” Karlach insists, hands moving to tightly grasp onto her knees. She sighs and releases her grip. “Everyone's been keeping an eye on you when they can.”

Dolyn peers around, barely lifting from the comfort of her position and turning her head. There isn't much to see. There's the campfire, the glow of it against the tents, and the eerily beautiful colours of Underdark fungi. Beyond Karlach, there doesn't appear to be another soul.

The dread hits like a twist in her gut.

“Where is everyone? Did they--”

Karlach sees the worry in her eyes and her brows rise up in surprise as a thought occurs to her. She leans forward with a light slap to her knees, trying her best to be reassuring, “Everyone made it out okay! Though not without a short rest.”

Karlach laughs to ease them both and it sounds like warm welcome rainfall to Dolyn's ears. The idea of them all not making it through the conflict in the forge sits so uncomfortably in her mind and heavy in her heart. The tinge of her worry doesn't leave her chest as quickly as she likes and she nods for Karlach to continue.

“Wyll and Lae’zel took Nere’s head. Gale and Shadowheart sorted the whole Noblestalk business or whatever it was. They’ve been running around to get things done while you rested.”

“And what about you? Astarion? Halsin?”

“Halsin’s been taking care of Scratch and… Snack?” She pauses to chuckle and shake her head. “I can't believe you called him that.”

There's no defending it but Dolyn'll take the appreciation of comical jab at Astarion. 

She says, amused, “I had to.”

Karlach gives her a knowing smile and continues, “Astarion and I have been working on our next plans. Where we're heading, sorting out all of this stuff we have. We weren't sure…” she clears her throat, thick with emotion, eyes watered, “if you'd be okay.”

“I’ve got all of you? Couple of healers, potions, magic? Of course I'd be okay.”

“Halsin said that. He was convinced you'd get up and prove us all wrong for doubting in the first place.” Karlach looks away, pensive, the guilt still plastered on her face.

But in a second it's gone, eyes wide as another thought suddenly hits her mind. Her face is always so wonderfully expressive.

“Do watch out for Lae’zel though. She's convinced she needs to teach you how to properly use a sword so you can defend yourself in future. Something about you being weak.”

Of all things to happen after she… She died. Again. It's entirely her own fault this time. One spell too many, one wrong move and it's all over.

Though how Lae'zel plans to fix that with sword lessons is beyond her. Her body can only take so much.

All she can do is sigh and nod slowly. “Of course she did.”

Karlach smirks a little, tilting her head fondly. “Keep your guard up in case she tries to test you.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Though Dolyn doesn't truly know what happened, the sensation of burning flesh is certainly difficult to forget as the wave of that memory washes over her. She checks over her body and finds no signs of marks on her skin.

Magic certainly can work wonders. 

She doesn't have the best grasp at necromantic magic but revivals are usually expensive, requiring a financial sacrifice of some kind to essentially pay for the return of a life. Shadowheart surely must have cast the spell again. And if not her, their bony camp companion Withers who has more than once offered her additional companions should she need them.

Either way, it hits her somewhere tender that this group of hers wanted her back. That they went to such lengths to get her back.

The weight of that knowledge has her mind turning to the curious ache in her chest. 

She asks a question before she can think too long about it. “So, what's Astarion doing?”

Karlach takes a breath like she's been waiting to answer this one. “Well… he… last I saw him he was fixing something in your tent.”

Dolyn chokes on a laugh, chest sucking in air only to force it out again in her shock. “My tent?”

By all technicalities she has never had a tent.

“It is your tent now too, right? Don't think we've missed you getting close. Don't get me wrong, if I had the chance I'd ride him to the Feywild and back,” she smiles slyly, a wistful tone to her voice.

Dolyn can't help but laugh again. There's a relief to watch Karlach settle back into her confident casual self. Sadness looks particularly miserable on her features, an element of disappointment and weight on her shoulders.

Though there's a hint of a feeling she can't quite place, the idea of Karlach and Astarion scratches at a part of her mind, and her curiosity. The need to see both of them happy would both far outweigh any of her own needs.

“Uh huh, well by all means if he takes you up on it.”

She means it. For the most part. They'd be sweet, at least in theory, even if Karlach can tend to be a little too loud and a little too excitable, and Astarion can be a little too snarky and a little bit too vengeful.

There's always something to be learned, something to be gained, from someone different from oneself. Even Dolyn has learned that over their brief time as a troupe.

But Karlach doesn't share her thoughts.

Instead she looks her over with a look of disbelief, perhaps even pity. “Oh, I don't think I have a sliver of a chance with the way he looks at you.”

The way he looks… The man has made numerous attempts to jab at her, to complain, tease, even swayed her towards murder.

Perhaps she means the way he looks at her when he wants his way, or a midnight snack.

“What? What way?”

Dolyn moves to sit up but Karlach's hand stops her, hovering over her chest. Taking the hint, she sighs and lies back down.

Karlach shoots a glance over at the red tent behind her, voice low when she turns back, “He hasn't left camp since… complained the whole time we were planning ahead as we each weren't our dear leader.”

There's a fondness in her eyes, like the blissful breath of a sweet memory passed through her mind. It's pleasant to see considering what Karlach's been through. 

Though that doesn't explain the matter of Astarion's insistence on herself as leader. He'd said a word here or there but she'd never seen him actively prevent the others from leading. Yet she can't say she has seen him discuss his plans with anyone else.

Confused by it all, Dolyn shrugs it off. “I didn't think he thought so highly of me.”

“You think that's what… you know what, let him tell you.” She shakes her head, mumbling something on her breath, smirking to herself.

The moment her eyes find Dolyn's, amusement settles for a tone that signals she is entirely serious. “For the record, soldier, he barely let you out of his sight.”

Dolyn scoffs. Perhaps more surprised than anything, but they do have a strange relationship of sorts. He tells her things and she tells him things and every now and then he drinks from her. The nights have become more a matter of shared quarters, though not without the occasional cuddle.

All in all it feels to her like a kind of transaction. They both mutually benefit in some way.

That's all.

Right?

“Speak of the handsome devil!” Karlach announces loudly with all of the decorum of a child badly trying to keep a secret. Or pretending to and wanting to be caught.

Naturally the fact they're discussing him has to be told to him.

The smile that forms on his face says he's considerably pleased with this fact.

“Oh? Was I the topic of conversation? Do tell. I hope it's good.”

He eyes Dolyn over with a grin, brow poised in amused judgement.

That can't be the look Karlach meant. Surely not.

“Apparently you were resource guarding me from what I heard,” Dolyn throws out with a mockingly thoughtful tone.

Astarion shrugs like the comment is simply rolling down his back. “It’s so hard to find a good meal out here.”

His eyes narrow mischievously. “Besides, perhaps you'll have more of a smokey flavour. I do hope I get another taste.”

“You better not be wanting to drink her after what we went through to get her and back, Fangs,” Karlach warns.

He throws his hands up, head bowed in his defence before peering over at Dolyn. “No, no, of course not, but you can't blame me for being curious.”

Karlach frowns and pushes herself up to her feet. “Well, I believe you had her quarters ready. For a good sleep, right?” Her emphasis feels accusatory and protective, standing at her full height over Astarion.

“She will be very well rested in her tent, as promised.”

Dolyn squints, blinking a few times while she assesses the two of them. This feels more like a hand over of custody than the two of them working together. Not particularly helped by the talk of promises made in her absence.

Not that she could help that she supposes.

She moves to get up but is met by a fussing and tutting as Karlach waves at her not to move. Then next she knows the blanket beneath her is flopped over her body to provide two corner handles in the barbarian’s hands.

Unceremoniously she's lifted like she's being carried in a stretcher, like she's still injured. All her protesting goes ignored until she's placed softly onto the bedroll in Astarion's tent, practically swaddled like a babe.

She knows if Karlach had her heart fixed she'd have carried her in her arms. Perhaps even made a passing go at Astarion for not doing it himself.

Astarion seems the least bit concerned, muttering gratitude before slipping into the tent and promptly closing the flap behind him. He sits quietly by her side and looks her over, not making a move to adjust the blanket, or lie by her, or touch her at all.

The tent still holds the same layout but the addition of another bedroll, some further cushions, a bottle of what looks like water, and dried herbs hung from the ceiling. Perhaps a touch from Halsin if she's right. 

“You made an addition?” she asks with a motion to the herbs.

Astarion clears his throat. “Halsin said they were, uh…” 

His hand swats at the long green leaves decoratively surrounding the delicate purple flowers. Interwoven with them was a spindly lighter purple plant that seemed more like the myconids around them than a flower.

“This one is Wizard's Beard, he said,” Astarion adds with more confidence when he finds the right words. “Grows where the weave is strong. Not that I know much about the weave but with you and Gale I like to think I have some understanding.”

Dolyn presses her lips together to try to hold back her smile. It's weavemoss, if she remembers her books correctly. A sweet touch if she's to give him that. Long purple lichen isn't what she'd normally consider flowers but the implied meaning is appreciated.

“And the other is balsam,” he continues, tracing the petals with a finger, “because clearly you need some extra help with healing.” He pauses, and turns abruptly to her, “And yes, I know, it doesn't work like that but you can't fault me for the gesture.”

She meets his gaze and feels hers soften. Hard to look at him without feeling her heartbeat dancing.

“It's sweet of you.”

He positions himself beside her, resting back on his elbows, head thrown back dramatically. Though he's making a show of it, he's lying down beside her and slowly sinking into the bedroll.

“Sweet? Yes, I suppose it is. And let it serve as a reminder to not get yourself killed. Loathe as I am to admit it, we do need you.”

He glanced at her the second his emphatic speech ends to check her reaction. How he manages to be so easy to read while thinking he's hiding himself she'll never understand.

Though she's spent a lifetime of needing to read people out of necessity.

The urge to tease him bubbles to the surface. That's their comfortable place. Communication in subtly and sly glances. Requests through implication and intention.

“So this is not a bid to keep me around as an easy meal?”

“Would you hold it against me if I did?” Astarion takes a long lingering assessment of her. “We are safer in numbers. Cazador is sending people to hunt me. I am safer in your company, and you've seen how well everyone gets on in your absence.”

They are simply a group of individuals with aligned goals. And matching tadpoles in their heads.

“So, for survival. No, I really can't blame you.”

He opens his mouth to speak. A short breath in follows as he hesitates, licks his lips, and asks, “Would it be possible?”

“Hmm?”

“A little blood?”

“I'm back from the brink of death and you still ask?”

“The alternative is finding whatever bear-like creatures I can down here. Based on our track record, that is slim and if I--”

She interrupts with a laugh, “Fine.”

He freezes, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. His face softens as his mouth parts like he can't think of words describe his own shock at her acquiesce.

Seeing him unsure of what to do with himself, she reaches out to grasp the back of his head and pull him close to her neck. “Go on, bite me already.”

He huffs against her skin, turning his body to rest beside her on his knees. “Is this some new found enthusiasm?”

He dives in, lips to her neck without a second thought, breaking free briefly to ask, “Are you developing a penchant for my teeth?” He nips at her skin and waits for a response.

And he gets it.

She gasps, goosebumps travelling down her arms, and her fingers curl reflexively. Perhaps it's the brush with death or being the focus of his attention but her body alights, every inch of her suddenly awake and waiting.

“I-I did say that if you-- that it-- it could…” she trails off as his fangs move into position, her mind growing blank, “It's entirely your fault that I've developed a--”

He bites into her neck, body crouched and curled over her. One hand seeks purchase to hold himself up and it settles on her chest. His fingers curl appreciatively around the curve of her breast, her nipple hardening against his palm.

He growls into her neck before he starts drinking, the chill of his mouth and warmth of her blood making her shiver. 

“R-reaction,” she finally manages with a whine, breathless.

His lips kiss over her neck as he laps up the blood trickling down to the bedroll. His voice sounds as breathless as hers, “My my, isn't that a development? Does that mean…?”

As he settles his weight onto his other hand, his hand leaves her breast to slide down her chest, over her hips, and grasps the soft give of her thigh.

“You’re ready and eager?”

She swats away his hand, earning an indignant scoff from him. The last time he teased her he left her frustrated and worked up to deal with it on her own. She's briefly considered what he did following his wandering off from camp, but it would be more accurate to say that she's been wanting to get him back in her own way.

She clicks her tongue and sighs, “Oh I think I can take care of it on my own.”

For show, she follows his movement with her own hand before settling it firmly between her legs. She's already so sensitive even through the fabric of her robes. 

Astarion tilts his head, bewildered and perplexed, “Oh? So I just put you in the mood for you to just… touch yourself? While I'm right here?!”

The look on his face is precious and the tone of his voice is delicious. Dolyn licks her lips just to savour it.

The trickling blood flow from her neck continues, forgotten.

Dolyn shifts his hand again but this time by unfastening her robes and laying them about her, like she's unwrapping a gift for his eyes only. Her hand returns to caress over herself beneath her underwear, circling over her clit and the growing dampness between her legs.

There's a particular pleasure in the sweet revenge of showing him that he's not needed while showing this part of herself, exposed, vulnerable, wanting.

“After last time, I'm prepared to take matters into my own hands.”

Her eyes lock with his and he settles close by her side. Astarion doesn't seem to know where to look. His gaze shifts from her neck to her eyes, her lips to her chest, and to the fingers now dipping below her waistband.

She takes a deep, shaky breath before her fingers make contact with the growing wetness between her thighs. 

“You could always join me -- hhahh.”

She delights in the way he swallows. His brows twitch, eyes shifting and taking in the rise of her chest. He appears lost and yet pleasantly surprised, a curl of a smile poised on the edge of his lips.

“By which you mean?”

She nods at him and it's part instruction, part invitation, and all curiosity. Her eyes try to glimpse if he's been affected by her or not. As he's said more than once he's done this before, many times, so he's probably seen it all and could be simply be watching her for entertainment.

Her eyes flutter close briefly as her fingers circle over her clit, cheeks burning as she flushes beside him. “Enjoy yourself? Watch? Unless you would rather leave.”

As the words leave her mouth, she hears them and second guesses herself. She doesn't want him thinking he has to, that he has to do anything.

“You don't have to, of course. Any of it. You--”

“Shh,” he hushes and places a finger on her lips to silence her. The red of his eyes feels all the more intense as her eyes open to be held by his gaze. 

His body moves then with a sense of purpose. Not a word leaves him as he moves silently to shed his shirt, presenting himself as the beautiful specimen he is. As he moves, there's a steeled look to him, jaw square, teeth clenched. 

He's determined in his movements and slides his pants down his legs in a smooth calculated motion. He's done this before. He's done this many times. There's not a hint of fumbling or hesitation.

In an obligated sense of solidarity, Dolyn joins him, slipping her arms out from her robes before removing the rest of her undergarments. It feels so intimate and leaves her more exposed than she ever was in the forest.

He lies down beside her, face softening when he sees she's laying beside him, just as bare. It's then his eyes look lost, confused about his next step, where his body should be.

She swallows, heart tapping out a percussive beat, and angles her body towards him. “You don't need to do anything.”

Biting her lip, she makes a show of snaking her hand down her body again to take up the same slow steady rhythm with her fingers.

“Hhnnn, b-but you could,” she offers, eyes dropping down to see his dick hard and curving up against his stomach. She gulps and carefully considers her next words, “If that's what you want.”

He slides beside her, the tip of his cock brushing against the soft skin of her thigh before she feels him take it in his hand. “Is this one of your sordid desires?”

Emboldened with his attention, she slips one of her fingers into her heat, hips bucking and legs widening to allow better access. Her legs brushes against his and he traps it with his own, knee sliding against her.

The presence of him heightens the sensation and she thrusts faster, thumb moving to caress her clit clumsily. “Hhhn-- How tame it would be if it was,” she answers between moans.

His hand appears to move in time with her, but he doesn't look anywhere else but her face. The intense focus holds her pinned, trapped yet again by this man and his peculiar ways.

He shudders and bucks into his hand, a brief sound of a whine follows before he swallows it. He looks vulnerable, seeking guidance or praise or reassurance of some kind with that wet look in his eyes.

He shifts his body closer. “I’d be disappointed to say the least. You could do so much better than that.”

“Oh could I?”

She adds a second finger and arches her back, leg brushing against his. She wants to feel more of him. Kiss him. Hold him. Anything more than this.

But she won't push him. Seeing him take his own pleasure is enough.

And so he does.

“Yes,” he growls, low and deep like the times he's been threatening violence. 

How the two desires fit together will be something she'll have to question later. So seems the risk of being involved with a vampire spawn.

Yet he doesn't say what more she could do. He doesn't make requests, doesn't ask for anything. Much to her frustration.

Instead he curls his body into hers, hand stroking over his length with increasing speed and desperation as his eyes close. It sounds like he barely has breath to groan as his voice catches each time his grasp brushes over the head.

Dolyn turns towards him, slipping out her fingers to favour watching in instead. Her nose brushes against his and his eyes open, pupils wider than she recalls seeing. He has the most beautiful gentle eyes this close.

“So what could I do?” she breathes as her eyes indulge in the muscles of his chest, movement in his arms, and the flushed pink of his cock peeking through Astarion's fingers with every pump.

His lips part and his brow furrows. He doesn't stop as he considers her, like he's silently begging for something he doesn't know how to ask for. But he stills as he takes her in.

A thought crosses his features and she acts on impulse to stroke the side of his face, brushing his curls behind his ears. He appears sheepish as he leans into her touch. They stay in the moment of breathless silence that connects them.

He pulls his leg back from atop hers and moves to slip it under instead to tangle their limbs together. His features have changed again, less soft and more determined, drawing a nervous laugh from her chest.

“Astarion?”

She worries if perhaps she has lost him again, if he feels some obligation rather than need. His hand has stopped and he's pausing like he's capturing the breath he doesn't truly need.

Then his hands grabs her hips and pulls them closer together. His cock rubs against the soft curve of her belly, precome smearing her skin as if to mark her in some way. 

She can feel her heart beating in her chest. He surely can hear it as much as he can see the pink flush dusting her chest and shoulders. But Astarion hooks a hand under her leg to lift it up and push her slightly up the bedroll.

“Oh?”

All of her blood is rushing south instead of her brain. The lightest touch would have her begging and whining and worse. It takes her longer than it should to realise his intention.

His voice is a growl, gravelly, when he says, “Let me.” 

The tip of his cock rubs through her slick folds as he tugs her even closer, arm holding her leg up and poised to hook it over him for better access.

She nods, chest heaving, and leans towards him, angling her hips just right. She checks with him, taking her turn to look concerned, brows drawn together in concerns, but he seems unfazed.

With a shudder, he slides his cock in deep. One thrust is all it takes with how wet she is. She slips one hand under his neck while the other finds his shoulder, gripping on to hold onto reality. She's forcing her eyes to stay open while her mouth struggles to stay closed.

He tries to buck with the angle but struggles. His fingers grab onto her thigh and uses his strength to move her. One hand pulls her onto him, fingers dug into her thigh, while the other cradles his head so he can watch her. 

She hadn't expected this tease of hers to escalate and yet here she is suddenly clinging to him, grasping the back of his neck to keep him close. Their noses meet and his smile seems to grow with every moan she makes after he thrusts.

He's slowed his movements to a leisurely pace.

He's delighting in this.

“I'll give you this,” he says with a smug smile, cocky and yet completely genuine, “You're better than my hand.”

Her mind goes blank, overwhelmed by need. Her hips move as best they can against him, trying to breathe when his cock drags out only to ram back in. She needs him to come, to give him pleasure, drag him into a state of overwhelm with her.

She tries to steady herself to watch him but fails. As far as she can tell he means this and means every movement. The mask has slipped but where it's gone she can't tell. 

Maybe he really does want this.

Or maybe she's just there.

Just easy.

To use.

Gathering her courage, she spits back a weak “So are you” with a quiet chuckle.

Their eye contact doesn't break. A spark flickers in his eyes, between them, or maybe she's imagining it. 

“Well of course,” he rasps, immediately sending her spiralling again.

He slams into her, shifting again to use his strength. It's a wonder she's not screaming into the night. Perhaps it's the look in his eyes, her hand in his hair, or just losing her voice to moans she intends to keep just for him.

“No,” she corrects and surges to kiss him sloppily between her cries, “You're doing so good.”

His thrusts lose momentum for a second.

Oh, that got to him.

“That's it,” she praises against his lips, closing her eyes to lose herself in him.

He captures her lips and regains his momentum. The wet slaps of their bodies meeting is only dampened by the slow persistent speed of his hips.

His teeth graze her lip, nipping at her between self-satisfied smiles, showing off at how much he didn't need to breathe. He leaves her with no other option than to gasp and sigh and moan.

And that's how he gets her back.

As he drags against her inner walls, her body clenches, unwilling for his cock to leave before he thrusts it back with purpose. He increases his speed, fingernails now starting to claw at her flesh.

She's captive. To his gaze. To his body. 

To him.

A whisper of words, a flick of her wrist beneath his head, and warmth spreads through the bedroll beneath them. Like the presence of a campfire or the blinding light of a morning sun.

Astarion takes a second to laugh, but it sounds somehow more fond. “Magic? Ahhhnnn-- aren’t you something?”

He makes a point of thrusting faster, eyes closed in concentration. Each delicious movement of his hips driving another moan that he urges forward to swallow in kiss after kiss. They're joined in so many ways she half-expects she may never be able to pull herself away.

She can feel the heat growing in her, that tightening band threatening to snap. He plucks at it with his tightened grip and when he pulls back to groan from that pretty mouth of his, she feels it break. 

She opens her eyes to watch it all unfold.

She clenches around him as he bucks forward, head so close to hitting hers as his body jerks and hers balls up in tension. He keeps a failing rhythm as he comes, eyes watching hers like she's prey he's captured.

A rushed hand moves to her clit to hurry her along to join him. The second she feels his touch she claws into his back, losing his name on her tongue to a broken mewl. 

Then her body fucks itself on his cock, driving through her orgasm with greater need than she knew she had. Astarion's fingers spur her along until he is thoroughly spent and she's weakened in his arms, the warm wet of their coupling dripping down her thighs.

They lay entangled in each other for a while. Her eyes meet his and his meets hers between small smiles and laughter.

If she didn't know any better they'd almost be like lovers. They take each other in and give back in kind.

“I could, uh, clean us up,” she says with a glance down to where his cock sits buried in her. They've made somewhat of a mess it seems.

Astarion's smirk returns. “What's the hurry? We worked hard for it… didn't we?”

She's too tired to know which Astarion this was. If he truly believes the words he's saying because he thinks it'll make her happy, or if genuinely is the kind of man to enjoy the hedonistic lurid results of his carnal labours.

She chooses to ignore the thought.

“I should probably get that rest I was meant to be having.” Her heart hasn't slowed down a beat.

“As long as you're not going anywhere.”

He searches her eyes for something.

“I'm not planning on it,” she laughs, sighing out some of the exhaustion settling in her lungs.

“Good.”

Dolyn smiles and closes her eyes.

His voice is quiet and sincere, low enough he might think she can't hear him.

“I need you.”

Chapter Text

The halls of Lathandar’s temple feel empty without the bright presence of his followers. That is, despite the current and well settled occupation of githyanki within. When Lae’zel had mentioned a crèche, admittedly Dolyn had assumed a newly built structure or some interplanar vessel. Instead, she finds herself in the midst of overtaken ruins. 

It's a wonder that even in such a conquered stronghold they have established training, a hatchery, trade, and a peculiar setup in the infirmary that appears more investigative than curative.

Yet Lae'zel insisted this was their solution. Even after it nearly tore apart her mind with all of their troupe to witness.

The desperation to show Lae'zel what she stood to lose still sits as a bitter taste on Dolyn's mind. The agony they all experienced still echoes in her memory. 

As does the familiar voice reaching out to warn her. 

The same voice that yelled before its will destroyed the zaithisk.

The same voice that sounds just like Bradach’s.

Pieces strewn around them, it took a stealthy friends spell and some convincing to assure the githyanki doctor that the machine had worked and all was well. All before Dolyn escorted them all out with cautious smiles and Lae’zel’s insistence that a traitor must be responsible.

The depths of this militaristic training run deep enough to justify such ideas it seems.

Dolyn chooses to remain neutral between the group's already heightened tension and the shared apprehension of so many armed githyanki standing by and confirming at each brief interaction that they were for the most part unwelcome. If not for Lae’zel’s presence.

Though Dolyn’s neutrality swayed in the training room as one boy was berated for his mercy. Seeing such training in action captures so succinctly how Lae’zel gained her approach to life. 

The very idea of children fighting to the death by choice rather than necessity is something she'll never understand.

It's a miracle she wasn't taken down herself for standing up for the boy, but she would have gladly shown the Sa’varsh a thing or two about her supposed weakness. 

The boy himself seemed so sweet, surprised by someone showing basic kindness. To think that such actions are a novelty to the githyanki. And yet the action of taking Orpheus' tale from him did not seem to register as another act of kindness in itself. The fanaticism she's seen alone is enough to make her worry for his well-being.

And yet as they make their rounds through the rooms, witnessing the training and raising of the githyanki young, it makes the decision to take the githyanki egg with them unquestionable. The Varsh naturally has his concerns of a strange elf offering to take the egg somewhere safe, to raise it as if it were her own.

But Dolyn means every word. 

Lae’zel eyes her cautiously while she gingerly picks up the egg from the pool of acid. Beneath the slate-like exterior something stirs, alive, wanting to live. Dolyn gives her an encouraging nod before she places it into her pack.

“An unhatched githyanki egg should be the burden of a varsh, not a warrior, whether ascended or otherwise,” she notes her displeasure, standing to attention. 

Dolyn keeps her thoughts to herself about the matter, noting that Lae’zel took great care with the egg and showed no intention of leaving it behind. Despite her upbringing, she still shows a sense of loyalty that cannot be disregarded.

“And yet I'm drawn to the warmth of it,” Lae’zel suddenly adds as they begin their trek across the trap-laden pool of acid. “A child of Gith and a servant of Vlaakith grows within.”

Dolyn watches as Lae’zel holds her body a little more tense, taking cautious steps through the acid in the varsh’s boots. While she might not want or know how to admit it, she cares.

Keeping an eye on her, Dolyn smiles to herself and quickly finds narrowed discerning yellow-green eyes narrowed her way. Lae’zel is somehow equally relaxed and on guard everywhere they turn.

“Keep it close,” she instructs, turning back to lead their way back to the others. “Perhaps in our care, it might yet hatch.”

“I would hope so,” Dolyn admits with genuine optimism.

The idea of helping this last child to hatch activates a deep protective need in her. Though she is not someone who ever would consider herself a mother figure. Even with years and perhaps decades of helping the forgotten children of Baldur's Gate.

Whether Lae’zel would be comfortable with her taking the child is yet to be seen. The githyanki’s own protective nature and loyalty to her people might mean she will want something else for the child.

“So, Lae’zel,” Dolyn starts to broach the topic on their way out of the crèche, companions in tow. “You were raised in a crèche like this, weren't you? What was your experience?”

Lae'zel doesn't hesitate dolling our her assessment, beyond her opinions regarding how lax they were compared to her own crèche. “My own Sa'varsh would never have threatened a youngling. A waste of time and energy.”

Her voice is matter of fact as she goes on to explain how he cut down her fellow classmates and how the githyanki have no need for such blights that are too weak or strong-willed to survive. 

“I knew the githyanki were blunt but I hadn't thought they would be so… brutal,” Wyll chimes in, catching up behind the two of them. 

Karlach clears her throat to interrupt. Her axe creates a heavy thwump sound as she swings it up onto her shoulder when she says, “I imagine a lot would look brutal from your vantage point. I bet your parents spoiled you, living the life of a Duke's son.” 

She sounds so genuinely enamoured with the idea of the pomp and circumstance of Upper City life. No doubt she's always been fascinated with it. This time her curiosity comes with a hint of joviality.

“Hardly,” Wyll’s laugh is empty, not quite bitter but certainly awkward. “It was just my father. My mother, well, she passed during my birth. My father ensured I had my fair share of hardships, to keep me grounded.”

“With all those fancy balls and stuff? Didn't need grounding whether we live. But my home was filled with laughter growing up. Had our own little language and everything.” 

Karlach’s eyes shine with curiosity and fond memories. She sucks loudly on her teeth while they continue further out of the crèche. “So what about the rest of you then, hmm? I bet Gale was a momma's boy.”

“I’ll have you know that both my parents cared a great deal about me and my education,” Gale immediately calls out from the back of the pack. He sounds indignant, silently tutting to himself and yet managing to so perfectly confirm Karlach's judgement with so few words.

His voice carries over them again, half shouting like someone finally speaking up after being ignored. “What I do wonder is about the rest of you, who have barely mentioned family at all.”

Their steps past the stained glass windows provide a relatively pleasant syncopation as no one provides an answer. The birds themselves in the distance are louder.

Astarion slinks in beside Dolyn and casts her a look. His face suggests she say something to keep the peace, lest he disturb it. The smallest of grins twitches on his lips.

Instead, Gale announces with a frustrated tone, “Don't everyone speak up at once.”

Astarion’s smile disappears for a brief moment. “You wouldn't want to meet my family, I assure you. The less I say, the better.”

His eyes meet Dolyn's before he dramatically glances over his shoulder. “But I'm sure Shadowheart has something to share.”

“There’s not much to tell.” Her voice is curt, clipped by the simmering frustration under her calm exterior. If there’s one thing Shadowheart excels at it is the ability to restrain her anger behind the most beautiful veneer. 

Astarion meanwhile appears somewhere between annoyed and disappointed that she didn’t bite back.

“I don’t remember anything before I was saved in the woods,” Shadowheart says slyly, repeating words she had said to Dolyn earlier in their journey. “Before I was given a new home.”

Dolyn tries to hold her laugh in but a small chuckle hums through her throat.

Shadowheart pounces on it.

“Though you have been very quiet, Dolyn. Do you not wish to share another part of yourself with us?”

Naturally she knew the attention would eventually come back to her but sitting in this moment of playful banter between the others, she had hoped she might escape it. There’s a lot to tell and not all of it is something people want to hear.

A little misdirect couldn't hurt.

“By the sounds of it, none of us had particularly pleasant upbringings, despite maybe Wyll’s access to money and Astarion having the attitude of a spoilt child.”

“Excuse me!” 

She sneaks him a self-satisfied smile with a wink and watches his shoulders relax as all that huffed air slowly releases.

“Mine’s no different if you consider it?”

“And?” Gale asks, prodding.

“My parents raised me in the northern forests, probably not too far from where Halsin’s from, but I don’t really remember where. It’s been a long time.”

Wyll hums. “Why do I sense there’s more to this story?”

Now she knows that she has most of them looking to her, even as they start up the steep hill to camp. It’s been a while since she told the story to anyone but there’s no escaping it at this point.

“Like a lot of families, we moved to the city.” Her throat feels like it's closing on its own accord. The words tumble out of her mouth. “We got separated… and I don’t know where they are, if they died, if they moved. Entirely possible they’re out there but they never came looking for me.”

Silence.

And she’s grateful for it.

There’s a lot more she feels that she can’t put words to, that are almost impossible to express, but those are the words that she has. Her eyes start stinging and her vision blurs, but they’re almost back to camp and she’s so thankful for the wind in the trees and the general ambience of the creatures in them. 

Wyll seems the most concerned. Of course he would br. The man can’t help but be valiant in every situation. It aches to hear the kindness she wishes she’d known so much earlier.

“How can you be sure?” he asks delicately, moving to her side and skillfully maneuvering the others away so he can place a hand on her shoulder. 

She’s trying to maintain her composure but the feelings are still raw, even after all this time. That brief moment of vulnerability makes the world seem so small and the silence so loud.

“Cause I checked,” she manages, keeping her voice as steady as she can.

Wyll and Astarion make eye contact for a brief second before Wyll questions her, “Checked?”

Sighing, she knows they won’t let her leave it at that. Especially not when she’s pried into each of their own lives. Yet, collectively, they feel comfortable enough to ask the same of her. She expects this is what mutual care and respect looks like. It’s been rare to experience up to this point.

“Despite my otherwise weak exterior I can get people to talk.”

Astarion’s face tilts, ears perking up to listen to her. He knows all to well what she has the power to do, and how she can get people to talk. Knowing him he’s also hoping there’s a hint of violence she hasn't told him.

Wyll meanwhile looks concerned, voice now hushed, “By force?”

The man's too good. Any of her own charity appears tainted by comparison.

She steadies her gaze, mindful her steps don't trip her up the edges of the rocky path. “Of will, yes.”

Though she doesn't watch them, she can feel the ripple through her companions. From shocked to amused to curious to horrified, each of them has a different reaction and makes no effort to hide their thoughts on her hidden talents.

Clearing his throat, Wyll leans closer, hands in his pockets, unsure where else to put them. “Are you saying you could influence each of us to do what you wanted?”

Astarion's huff of a laugh is right behind her.

“If I intended that, it's possible. But influence doesn't always require force.”

There's a tense quiet in the group as a realisation lands over all of them. It's not something that's particularly novel but she had been hoping to avoid making it clear they are, in fact, travelling with an enchantress.

Karlach pipes up from the front. “Wait, wait, so you can do that mind power stuff without the tadpole?”

“Technically, but it's more than that. But that's why I don't think we need to use the tadpole unless absolutely necessary.”

They make it back to the camp, tired from the long day, and with a new sense between them. That same sense of regret she feels whenever someone new would discover her skills feels heavy in her stomach.

Yet Astarion's arm wraps around her shoulder and holds her close. His voice booms over the remnants of last night's campfire. “For what it's worth, I do think our brilliant enchanting leader has some conveniently applicable experience.”

Shadowheart raises her brows at him before joining Karlach to share a bottle of wine together. Gale and Wyll seem the least bit interested, already prepping their rations for the evenings dinner, while Lae’zel sees to tucking their new egg safely into her tent with Halsin providing guidance from a safe distance.

“I think they'll be fine,” Dolyn says to Astarion, not entirely believing it. “They don't really listen to you though, do they?”

After the day they've had it feels natural to lean into him and the casual affectionate touch of his. Normally he keeps such gestures to their private quarters. Her cheeks start burning as the thought occurs to her.

“You know, one of them dared to call me your pet while you were knocked out?” Astarion pretends to seethe. Remarkably he sounds more amused than perturbed.

Dolyn rounds on him, bringing each other chest to chest. “You don't say? That would make sense, wouldn't it? With how much you nip at my heels.”

“Oh is that where you want to be bitten now? Because I can oblige.”

“Is that you asking to get on your knees?”

Astarion smiles slyly. “Will that get you to tell me what exactly you left out?”

Dolyn opens her mouth but chooses not to speak.

“Your parents just… disappeared?” He rolls his wrist like he's trying to conjure the word.

Her brows furrow. “Yes? Why?”

He takes his own turn to open his mouth in thought, making a choked sound. “When would you say they disappeared?” His tone rises with uncertainty.

It's ridiculous, but of course it is. He is. There's something strangely appealing about it now that she's gotten to know him better.

“It's been a few decades now… why? I was a child.”

“Nothing. Awful long time to leave you alone.” His hand moves to slide down her arm. “Couldn't imagine doing that myself.”

And suddenly the fake charm of his is back. That same overly sincere tone dripping from his tongue.

Dolyn rolls her eyes and pushes against his chest. “Well, I was lucky enough to have a friend take me in.”

She avoids his eyes as she recalls the sound of that voice in her mind again.

“I owe him everything.”

Chapter Text

Finding herself in the midst of the endless wonder of the astral plane is not how she'd expected their second day in the crèche would go. 

Though in all honesty it was significantly less as concerning as the taut, whitened flesh of the githyanki god-queen that she angered. And that was after inspiring the same anger in her so-called ‘justice-in-flesh’ Inquisitor.

How else was she supposed to react to finding out they'd be tracked from their first interaction with the Absolute? That they're apparently part of some Grand Design to restore the Illithid empire and that's why they were all snatched in the first place.

And all of those plans, the Illithid intention to remove wants, needs, and choices from all thinking life, is why the githyanki are so intent on getting back their ‘weapon’. The very thing that protects them, that speaks with Bradach's voice.

She spent decades learning to trust that man and work with him despite how often he tested her trust of him. She was his voice of reason. He was her protector. 

Now his voice told her not to hand the weapon over.

Don't do it. The weapon is how I protect you.

Yet she did and then the intimidating visage of the deathless githyanki was towering over her, making judgements on her character, over something as reductive as kneeling for a queen she does not serve. Even going so far to call her noble when Vlaakith got what she wanted, a willing servant.

Dolyn is not anyone's servant.

Not anymore.

She said as much to the queen's face when she bid they be her executioner. Gods and queens might provide meaning to their followers but Dolyn has no intention of answering their calls.

Though she certainly fears Lae’zel's wrath more, and thankfully she has built enough trust for Lae’zel to venture in with her.

Inside the prism a giant skeleton with six limbs stretches out before them, littered with the bodies of githyanki who lost whoever they were fighting. In the midst of it is a strange portal with magic swirling in hues of purple and blue.

When she recognises the colour and sense of wonder from her dreams, she turns, speechless, to Astarion, Lae’zel, and Gale. Each equally fascinated by the wondrous sliver of a plane apparently having been with them since they met.

Yet none of them know that when she turns to reach out for the portal, the voice of someone so dear to her calls out.

So you came. In spite of all my warnings. 

Disappointing.

Come. We will talk in private. Just the two of us.

The reaction she feels is visceral. Her breath catches in her chest. Her limbs tingle and goosebumps prickle down them. Her eyes sting with welling tears.

The idea of facing him alone, in reality, after those dreams feels so farfetched, a wish for a possibility that was not feasible even in the wildest of her dreams. She'd thrown away the idea when Gale spoke of his own dream visitor, a woman, who reached out to him.

This can't truly be the Duck she knows.

Steeling her body and her mind, she blinks away the forming tears to briefly search the faces of her company.

“I'm not leaving my companions behind,” she calls back through the portal. It takes everything not to let her nerves shake her voice.

Suit yourself, but only the leader of your group is coming in. I will not allow anyone else.

The leader of your group. How formal that sounds.

She glances back, hiding the gulp as she tries to clear the lump in her throat. She knows this time that everyone else heard that too.

Astarion is the first to respond, gesturing towards the portal to direct her gaze back, “Oh, don't look at me. That is all yours.”

Admittedly she’s hopeful for some encouraging words, but she's not exactly been forthcoming with why she's looking back at them. Her face likely betrays her fear, her hope, her dread.

As she finally steps through, she's greeted by a courtyard. The same one from her dream. Vines braid themselves up trestles on decorative columns that stand like broken pieces of a time not befitting the speckled sky.

But for all the beauty and wonder, her eyes rest on the man before her, dressed in full armour, exactly as he appeared in her dream.

He's broader, stockier, perhaps a bit taller, but with his stubble, tousled brown locks, and those warm brown eyes, he looks so eerily similar to the last day she saw him. Even the way he holds his lips has that familiar crooked half-smile. The smile of a man who thinks he'll live through anything and has the confidence as if he has.

She'd forgotten how deep his voice had gotten, how his tone mellowed by age. The echo of it in her head for the last tenday or so had her believing it was just an effect. But standing there, as he begins to speak to her directly, she knows it is so painfully his.

“I may have made a mistake in trusting you,” he says, stepping forward, shoulders held firm as he stands so unlike himself before her. “I told you to stay away from the githyanki. But you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

None of Duck’s cheek is there. None of his roguish charm. He's as serious as a dower paladin, like a guard on watch. 

She knew it was too good to be true, but she had hoped that some of him might be here. 

Bradach’s imposter continues, “Still, refusing a githyanki queen’s orders… That was bold. You are a worthy ally.”

She chews on her next words as angry tears brim in her eyes. This whole time he's been in her head as she's been trying to push away the memories, thinking this was some misguided part of her mind trying to tell her not to get close to yet another rogue.

Through gritted teeth, she hisses, “You have some explaining to do.”

It’s all she can manage as she fights the overwhelming urge to run and hug this stranger who looks like her last memories of a man who meant so much to her. She doesn't know what to do with her hands but claw into her robes at her sides. All her magic at her fingertips and she still feels powerless.

This dream-wandering stranger is nonchalant, face resolute in providing her his full attention. “Very well. What do you want to know?”

He uses Bradach's voice with a gravitas so foreign to his tone that it feels wrong. This stranger has no idea who Duck really was.

But he looks exactly how he looked that last time she saw him. 

Minus the armour.

“Who are you really?” she asks with a mixture of accusation and hesitant curiosity. “You look like him. You sound like him. And he's long gone.”

She swallows the thick lump in her throat that threatens to choke her. “Is this some game for you? Wear his skin like a shapeshifter. Use him to get to me and exploit that connection? Who are you?”

Dolyn doesn't say what she thinks next. That of all people she's ever known, Duck is the best choice if someone wished to manipulate her. Even seeing him has that nostalgic part of her brain wishing he was here.

Either way, she detests when her own games used against her. 

He's unfazed by her growing anger and calmly answers, approaching by a few steps. “I told you already. I’m just like you. An adventurer from Baldur’s Gate who was infected with an illithid tadpole and seeks to be free of the Absolute.”

Just like you.

Oh, she doesn't believe that for a second.

He goes on to speak of Vlaakith’s secret. One great enough to end her rule. One that has allowed his stranger to protect them.

Though he never does say why he's protecting them in the first place.

Such times do call for strange bedfellows.

He continues, “I can hear your thoughts. You think I’m lying.”

She should have guessed. He's been in and out of her mind several times now. All of the things he likely knows about her…

He has the gaul to speak of Vlaakith saying he'd deceive them, which is incredibly rich coming from someone who already, technically, has. 

He's closer now. That familiar crinkle forms around Duck’s eyes even with the subtlest of smiles. Gods how she's missed the smiles he used to flash her way when she made him proud.

“I'm on your side. I have been since the very beginning,” the stranger says, using Duck’s brows to convey sincerity.

Dolyn's meant to be here to kill him. This is the blight that the githyanki god-queen wants dead: the very stranger that's been haunting them. Yet the way he uses her old friend’s likeness has her questioning whether it is worth serving a queen just once.

She blinks and the tears brimming in her eyes threaten to trickle down her cheeks. This is simply another form of cruelty. It's been more than fifty years now. Sixty maybe? More?

Decades of making her way without him.

“Is this some kind of trick?” she asks, trying to ignore the tremor in her voice.

The longer she stands here, the more his arms move naturally. He gestures, he shifts his weight, and his expressions are more approachable.

He answers, “I already told you I protect you, that I saved you. That I'm just like you. If this was not enough to convince you, what more is there to say?”

A sword appears over his shoulder with a shift and shimmer of light. The metal forms as if real, and when she sees him hold it, weight rested on his hands, she knows this is what he's offering. His death at her hands.

He kneels before her like a soldier offering featly. Thought the truth is exceptionally darker.

If he can truly read her mind then he knows how much this sight hurts. He might hold the sword aloft but he's already sunk in a hidden dagger. So too does the memory play out in her mind.

Biting her lip, she considers her choices, and finds herself back where she started. “I told Vlaakith I wouldn't kill you. I meant what I said. Get up.”

Two words she's only dreamed of saying to the real Bradach.

The fake one stands and puts away his ornamental sword. As he stands and begins telling the tale of Vlaakith’s deception, her heart thumps in her chest.

Curse the wrath of the lich queen. Curse her questionably loyal githyanki companion. Curse their current protection from the Absolute boiling down to an item she can't throw away even if she wished she could.

“Since you spared me that fate, she will come for you,” he says finally. There's less of a warning to his voice than simply stating a predestined path, one that should come as no surprise.

Closing her eyes, she releases the tension held in her body in a long exhale out her nose. Hope is always such a delicate thing to have and in times such as these it requires everything at one’s disposal to keep it aloft. 

It seems that this imposter is someone they'll need. An ally of circumstance.

Opening her eyes to stare him down, she steels herself again and utters for her own benefit, “I protect my allies.”

Chapter Text

It starts with a mistake. 

Glimpses of shadows in the sewers haunt the edges of their vision.

A clumsy Flaming Fist tries to prove himself by chasing them underground for some minor suspicion of theft.

Their partner, hiding behind a pillar, grasps her hands, twisting them behind her back. She's caught with his stubble against her ear as he yells, “I've got this one! If he fights, knock him out.”

His hands are calloused, thick fingers holding her wrists so tight her own bones feel sharp under her skin. His grip is a vice, and without her hands her spellcasting is limited.

Struggling against his strength, she watches, trapped, as the cocky, lanky Fist stands toe to toe with Duck.

The Fist’s shortsword swings through the air and slices right where Duck's head just was, the rogue having moved swiftly to crouch between the attempted blow.

Duck’s smirking, crouched and ready on the balls of his feet. He's always been quick on his toes. Everything rolls off him like water on a duck’s back.

His dagger cuts once and then again through the air. He misses the guard’s side, but only by an inch. 

Knowing Bradach he's doing it for show.

“Like your lot could even hand a hit,” he teases, winking confidently at her while she rolls her eyes.

He continues to duck and weave, running circles around the increasingly reckless Fist who gets less and less accurate with his swings.

The one holding her wrists squeezes tighter in frustration.

“You right there, big man?” she goads, trying to snatch back her hands, and finds herself still trapped. “Make you feel powerful strong-arming a caster?”

Instead the Fist holding her drags her closer, making the height and size of him clear as he towers over her, body pressed against her back.

An involuntary shudder passes through her at how disgustingly close he is.

Duck's head turns for a second and he grunts in surprise as another swing of the sword comes down just a hair to his side. He can't afford to be distracted.

Yet he laughs, in his casual dismissal he so often does, “Don't worry, Gwynnie. I'll take him on next.”

She's not helpless. Not as she used to be. And she's not about to let this smug aging human she calls a companion hold it over her. He'll never let her live it down.

Her hand twitches. She might not be able to move her hands, but she has her voice. Not all spells require more than that.

Though there are so very few.

She recalls the books, the scrolls, the sigils, and settles on one that might work, if she's lucky.

She peers over his shoulder to stare at the sun-leathered skin and blue eyes boring into hers, twisting her body to stare at the taller guard. Not more than a second passes before she's forced to stare down at his shoes.

But that's all she needs. She just needs to see him.

He doesn't need to see her.

Mumbling the spell under her breath, she concentrates her magic in the air, in her body, in her words, to focus on her captor’s sight. She can feel him go still.

But then his fingers grip again and he shakes free of her attempt. His body is stronger than her spell.

Meanwhile Duck is sidestepping the lanky Fist’s blows and with a quick jab disarms him, sword clattering to the ground and echoing through the tunnel.

Feet in the distance shuffle. Feet bigger than rats.

With a running start and a solid right hook, Duck lands his fist square in the unarmed guard's jaw, pushing him stumbling backwards. His left hand follows, blade in hand, and slices into the man's arm. 

A warning slash.

A theft charge is one thing. A murder charge is another.

They trade blows one after another with Duck adding more cuts to the Fist’s hands, going easy on him, playing more of his games.

She concentrates again, eyes closed as she feels the magic warm and tingling behind her eyes. The energy focuses in her thoughts until it leaves with a hot flush through the back of her head. 

“Aggghhh--you damned--!” the man holding her curses, his deep voice reverberating off the brick and stone around them. The echoes of his voice call back just as angry.

He shakes her violently, and her teeth feel like they rattle in her head before he shoves her down to the ground. His knee pushes the air out of her lungs as he rests on top of her. 

Echoes of grunts and snarling surround them as if the echoes of his pain continue across the walls. As if the very sound is approaching them.

The cold, stone floor against her cheek scrapes her skin as she feels rope snaking around her wrists. They burn just as her face does before suddenly the weight on her back lifts and the binding around her hands tightens, knotted in place.

Twisting her head, she can only watch as Bradach sees her and spurs into action. He stabs the lanky guard’s arm, aiming to slice through the padded leather and succeeding. 

As the man stumbles, Duck goes in for a deeper lunge, dust chasing at his heels. In a quick sudden strike upwards he stabs the blade through a gap in their armour, right below the armpit. He lands a solid kick to the man’s chest to pull him from his blade and sends the guard sprawling on the ground on his back.

As the man lays there holding his wounds, Duck turns face to challenge the remaining fist.

“Let her go, you bastard,” he says, wiping the blood off his blade on his gloves.

Though there’s little she can see with her face against the ground and the weight still resting on top of her, she can still see the way that his crow's feet crease when he narrows his eyes.

His feet hit the ground and he rushes forward. His blade rises up in the air.

The guard lifts his knee and suddenly she can breathe again as the weight is lifted.

As she moves to get up to her knees, she hears the lanky guard scrambling backwards, a growling and a hobbling, and then hears a sharp, quick sound before a flood of warm fluid strikes the back of her head. 

Then in a heavy thump, she’s squished to the ground again. The warmth of the guard on top of her seeps into her robes, covering the ground around her. When it finally pools before her face, curving its way between the stones, she knows for certain it’s blood.

The stocky guard sputters, choking as the last of his breaths flounder, but it's drowned out by the unmistakable sound of bloodlust. 

Her hands still bound, pinned, she watches in horror as a hunched scrambling creature of a humanoid dives upon Bradach.

He’s ready with his dagger raised, dodging out of the path just in time to avoid the snapping jaws of a face covered in blood and sinew. The humanoid claws at him, more monster than person, clothes shredded and doused with all manner of matter. They strike back with their own blade, curved and spiked, designed to slice and dissect.

Missing multiple slashes and stabs, their new pursuer turns, eyes fixed on the lanky guard trying to scuttle away.

Like a cat, they pounce, knife raised with speed before plunging into the side of the Flaming Fist. The brunt of his scream cuts short and he wheezes a rattling breath before the humanoid repeats the motion.

Again. And again. And again.

Blood spills across the stone and flies with every strike. They pivot, teeth bared, and lunge for the larger Fist.

He's slumped on top of her but they don't seem to mind as the knife starts carving through him. It becomes clear after the first few strikes that he's not the real target.

She struggles, cursing under her breath, and hears the sound of metal above her as Duck comes to her defence. 

But her hands remain tied.

Shutting her eyes tight, she focuses again. Magic coursing through her and shimmering around her like a blur. If she can maintain it, perhaps she'll have time to truely get out of the way.

In a move of desperation, she tugs one hand free, rope scrapping her skin, and she hisses through clenched teeth at the sting. 

Bradach grunts, trying to pull the humanoid away, and follows with his own hiss as the movement above her shifts.

She takes the moment to try rolling, managing to scramble out, hands cut by rough stone. She's never been made for these kinds of scrapes.

She hears Bradach curse and turns in time to see the teeth of the creature sink into her upper arm. Their teeth gnaw into the soft flesh, surprisingly sharp and yet painfully blunt. It's a wide bite, like they're trying to partake of her flesh with famished desperation.

Their hand tries to skewer her with their blade and fails as she reels away in agony. A long string of their spit trails from the fresh wound. Purple bruising blooms and blood trails down her arm.

Her heart is pounding while her mind reels. This is not where she had expected her evening to go.

And yet she watches in shock, clutching her arm, as Duck jumps to clamber on the humanoid’s back. His arms cling around their neck, even when they try to take a bite from him too.

Then he stabs them in the chest. Desperate, roaring with anger.

She stands transfixed, lost, head dizzy.

She falls to her knees and wishes she was not so weak. Not such a liability.

And as she looks up, the humanoid throws Bradach over their head. Her companion's eyes widen in surprise as he's thrown at their feet, chest exposed, blade now lost to the humanoid's sternum where it protrudes grotesquely.

The curved blade hits so fast she's not sure it truly happened.

Then again, hitting right between Bradach’s ribs. She knows that sound as he's so often been the one behind it.

She tries to yell but her voice is gone. Her magic isn't made for this. She isn't made for this. Shield can only work for herself. 

Tears fall instead as another strike hits in their blind murderous rage. Blood flies from Duck's chest. More blood from him than she's ever seen.

She has to move.

She has to do something.

Wisps of silvery mist swirl around her as she teleports beside him, squatting by his legs and putting herself right in harm's way. It’s risky, but she has to at least try.

Staring at the glassy-eyes of this brutal creature, she feels her magic swarm through her body, gathering momentum and warmth before it leaves her body by her tongue. 

“Leave!” she commands, forcing all of her will and as much of the weave she can muster to bend this creature to her will.

Her eyes sting as she holds her eyes open to focus while her tears start rolling down her cheeks. She's too incensed to let them blur her vision.

The humanoid shifts, retracting its blade, and a different glassy look takes to their eyes. It moves then, effortlessly, and stalks back off to the shadows.

The bodies of the Flaming Fist guards lay limp in her sight as she tries to process what just happened. Her head is so busy. Her body aches.

“Hey Weave,” Bradach says weakly to grab her attention, still smiling through choked laughter when she finally looks at him. “You really pulled that one out of nowhere.”

He looks so proud. He knows she's been working on that spell for years. And he remembered.

And he remembered the old name he used to call her.

“Okay, that's not fair,” she swallows the thick tight feeling in her throat. “You haven't called me that in years.”

Blood is beginning to pool around her fingers. His blood.

There’s so much of it.

A Shape Water cantrip can’t work on blood, and she was never much of a healer.

She finds the wounds in his chest and applies pressure. Though there's little hope now that it'll stop much.

“You know, wizards don’t learn the healing kind of necromancy, right? But there is one that I might…”

His hand grasps her wrist. His strong grip has already weakened.

“Hey, Gwyn? it’s okay.”

He's kind, even now. But he's always had silly ideas. Stupid, ridiculous ideas.

“It’s really not. I could get you somewhere. I could carry you,” she offers, peering around to start calculating their move. That's always been her job after all.

“With your strength?” He looks her over with that same fond amusement and somehow it hurts more. “By the time you get me anywhere I'll be dead anyway.”

He coughs, spluttering on the blood now pooling inside him as well.

“I-I could have one spell ready and then we can find someone…” she starts and snatches her spell book from her belt, thumbing through clumsily to find a necromantic spell that'll hold him until they can find someone with greater skill. 

His hand grabs the top of the page, bloody fingerprints stamping the edge. “You cast any of that undead magic on me and I swear I'll haunt you.”

His laugh breaks into coughs and the smile he's holding for her benefit breaks.

He gulps and smiles again, thought bitterly this time. His eyes shine just that little bit more, as warm and as brown as the day they met.

“We always knew I'd go first… and I'd get myself into some kind of mess.”

“That's not fair.”

He caresses her cheek and wipes away a tear. “At least you're safe… now give me a hug while I can still move.”

Without hesitation, she leans over and embraces him, arms slipping beneath his back. She blocks out the feeling of the blood against her skin and tugs him close. His arms wrap around her in turn.

“Gwyndolyn?” he rasps against her ear and she pulls back to see his face.

And he has nothing to say. His mouth twitches briefly as if still trying to smile before his eyes grow glassy when the light leaves him.

She clings to him for a passage of time she never counted.

But she makes her rules to pass the time. Now that she's on her own. Again.

Don't be alone.

Don't let down your guard.

Don't draw attention.

Don't be afraid.

But, if she really faces the truth, she's always afraid.

── ☆ ──

Loud whirring rumbles before them as the golden dial begins to spin around the centre of the Lathanderian platform. Towers with pointed crystal lamps rise up from the darkness and begin to glow. The sun-like rings hovering above sink down to meet the connecting light from each directional glowing crystal as the rings begin to turn like the discs of an astrolabe. 

The arch at the end of the platform shines a portal into existence. Light from the outside, a glimmer of the eagle’s nests, shows in a wavy visage, the morninglord’s magic still present. Through it, the light shoots out to meet the weapon awaiting outside, activating it to spin and turn to threaten imminent destruction by what can only be assumed to be the power of the sun.

And before them, standing like a rat in a trap, stands Astarion surrounded by a tall golden barrier, illuminated by the now rapidly spinning astrolabe above him. The glowing mace now firmly in his hand. The very one they’d read about in the monastery records. 

The one that the monks had written they would destroy the entire monastery should it fall into the wrong hands.

“Get me out of here!” Astarion yells back at them as he takes in the golden barrier around him, raised high over his head and making even the highest of jumps impossible. Quieter he adds, “How do I get out?”

Dolyn freezes, the unmistakable dread of imminent danger sits heavy in her stomach and crushes her chest. The tight vice around her lungs squeezes as feeling hits before thought, the overwhelming sense of fear of it happening all over again.

So much for not letting down her guard.

She runs forward, hands against the barrier and it singes her skin like a sunburn. But she takes a lingering second before she pulls away to leave her hands hovering.

Astarion appears more annoyed at the inconvenience and toys with the mace in his hand. He's circling his enclosure and increasing his pace as the rings above spin faster.

Dolyn tries to take everything in, but she can’t shake the overwhelming presence of her party. Where more of them are, more of them can be hurt.

Lae’zel is the first to shoot a look her way. It’s more seeking an order than concerned for Astarion's welfare. Given the fight they just had following Vlaakith’s orders, Dolyn appreciates that their githyanki still trusts her.

After all, her own distrust in the githyanki god-queen had been well placed.

Now she needs to be right again. Play this right this time.

“Lead them out,” she instructs to Lae’zel with an affirming nod. 

She's always a soldier ready for an order. If their survival didn't appear to be restricted by time, she might have voiced her appreciation.

Instead she's trying to run calculations on an apparatus that's potentially centuries old, by people whose magic is gifted not learned. 

As she begins to pace around it, she finds no break in the barrier, no foreseeable way to work over it or under it or break the very metal casing it. Unlike the traps Astarion disarmed on their way in.

Her eyes can't meet Astarion's. He’s trapped because she wasn't careful, wasn't observant, and isn't strong enough to break what surely is a simple magical trap.

She hears Lae’zel call for them all to leave, only to be met with silence. Though she has a commanding voice, their loyalty keeps them rooted.

In the corner of her eye, Dolyn sees Lae’zel leading the way out. She reaches the door in seconds to test their only safe means of escape. She can handle herself. She'll be able to get to safety.

One down.

Shadowheart turns before fully following Lae’zel. Though her hesitation means thankfully they're less at odds than they once were, there is still conflict in her eyes when Dolyn meets them.

She'll be needed if anyone's hurt, if anyone needs to be revived.

Her eyes flick back to Astarion who has already taken to disapproving mumbling as the others start moving to the exit. Though she sees him freeze in place when she briefly catches his gaze and her heart gallops.

Looking away and feeling her throat grow tight, she nods at Shadowheart to leave with pursed lips. With a returned sympathetic smile, the cleric follows after Lae’zel.

Two down.

Gale meanwhile hesitates, following her movements as she continues pacing. “I could stay and assist you. Surely there’s some key to this that we could work out--”

“Cast Haste on me,” she interrupts, avoiding looking him in the face and those puppy dog eyes of his, “I’ll need it, but I’ll need you outside to safely get them down from that height.”

She's trying her best to keep it together. It all feels so much, so big that her chest feels tighter with every second. She can't be dragging them down with her. Not for a mistake Astarion made. For one she made in not stopping him.

The fact that she’s staying remains unspoken, but thankfully Gale relents and casts the spell on her with sigils and whispered words. He appears worried as he leaves and it takes a forced smile from her before he does.

Three down.

Wyll moves to her side as she walks forward to press her hand close to the barrier. He takes a moment before he offers help, “Do you want me to stay with you?” His eyes don’t move from her when he lowers his voice. “Do you want me to take you with us?”

She can feel the helplessness aching in her chest and her eyes begin to sting. She has people here, in this incredibly difficult situation, and yet as she looks up at Astarion who has taken to searching the ground, the metal, anything to find a way out, she can’t leave him.

She’s not strong enough to have someone die on her again.

Somehow it's worse that it's him.

She knows Wyll only means well, as he so often does, but even the best intentions can’t hide the blunt questions he asks that show his relative inexperience in the world. In situations like this.

He doesn't know that she heard him warn Astarion. She suspects his concerns come from somewhere good.

“See they all make it out, Wyll.” She places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “That’s your charge.”

He presses his lips together, swallowing his disagreement, and turns to follow the others. He motions Karlach towards the portal as she starts to yell out her unbridled disapproval.

“You can’t just pull me away from this?!” she bellows, her voice echoing off the walls as they too begin to shake. “I can’t just leave you here! You can’t just stay here?! Soldier!”

She continues even while both Wyll and Gale try to block her path back in her stubbornness. The only thing holding her back is her desire not to burn them should she touch them. But the glowing in her eyes speaks of a questioning of what desire is greater.

Dolyn swallows her guilt as she watches each of them reluctantly leave and hopes that between them all that they’ll make it out.

Only one remains.

Astarion has been uncharacteristically quiet. Perhaps he shares her panic.

“I’m going to get you out of there,” she promises.

The moment she speaks to him his face changes, one brow rising. His features are a mix of apprehension, judgement, and curiosity.

“On your own? You just sent everyone away!”

Her voice shakes as she realises how much time has gone, how close the end is. “I’m sure I can figure this out, but if I can’t. If we can’t… I…”

Astarion lifts his chin as he considers her, like he’s seen something new, or something familiar.

Seeing it, she feels tears welling in her eyes. She can't reach him. How is she supposed to save him? 

“I couldn't let them suffer for my decision.”

The panic has snuck into her voice. Her hands are free and there's nothing stopping her.

Except her ability to think.

“You mean my decision.”

Astarion's voice cuts through crisp and clear. He wanders to stand in front of her, holding the mace in his hand, almost forgotten at his side, the blood-flecked amber still glowing.

“I should have stopped you.”

Astarion scoffs. “And not take this? We need all the power we can get. We have armed githyanki behind us.”

The displeasure of his predicament slips back onto his face again. The sneer on his face tugs at the guilt already wedged in her gut.

Thankfully it pulls some of it out of her and replaces it with disbelieving frustration. “Are you seriously arguing with me right now?!”

He gives her a flat look, unimpressed. “You have any better ideas to pass the time before that sun cannon obliterates us?”

Dolyn blinks and forces herself through that lingering feeling of fear. It's different this time.

“What can you see in there?” she asks, hoping he's seen something, “There must be something you can disarm or press.”

Astarion sighs and putters around, throwing out his hands before he shrugs.

Dolyn gulps, staring up at the threatening glow of the Lathanderian weapon bearing down on them.

Of course she's forgotten the most obvious solution. The very one that echoes the past.

Silvery mist swirls around her as she mutters to herself and in a blink she’s by his side. She ignores the surprised look on his face to see her suddenly there. 

Let him be surprised. She’s going to do what she needs to do to get him out.

She can’t let it happen again.

She can’t.

There’s no telling what time they have left.

Taking a deep breath, she investigates the metal, hands moving over where the mace had stood. Her fingers catch on a four-pointed gap where something is meant to go.

Then it hits her.

“There has to be something to turn this off. Did you find anything in that room?” she turns to him, hopeful, more desperate than she likes. “The one with the stained glass? Do you remember the records we found about this?”

“What? Was I supposed to pay attention to you each time you stopped to read some lonely monk’s diary entry?” he pouts, crossing his arms in his attempt to dismiss the idea as the panic works its way into his eyes. His voice gives everything away.

Dolyn huffs, her body on edge, knowing this might be their last hope of getting out. “Astarion! Did you find something or not?”

He sighs and rifles through his pockets. It takes a moment but his fingers catch on something in his pouch and he pulls out a jewel-encrusted golden star, the Dawnmaster's Crest. It has exactly four points.

She snatches it from him, shaking it in her frustration. The whole time. He'd had this the whole time.

“How do you forget that you have this?” she breathes and leans over the altar, doing some last checks before she locks it in and potentially blows them both to the ethereal plane.

As her fingers trace it and she hovers the crest over it, he complains back at her. “I don’t keep track of everything that we have. You expect me to know that this thing was important?”

She slots it into the gap.

For a brief moment she feels overwhelming fear, like her feet have started sinking into the floor. But instead there's a sound, and the spinning above slows. The ring around them stops whirring and the light barrier closes as a larger ring floats down to the floor. The exit to the weapon outside shimmers out of existence.

For all her anger, she has to stand so very still to not let the emotion overwhelm her, or else she might break down in front of him.

Clearing her throat, she turns to him in a flurry of words, “So you thought it was fine idea to take a glowing religious relic weapon hidden away with all of that security and there would be no repercussions?!”

She wants her tone to be more fury than the way it actually breaks, like she's seconds away from crying. “Did you want this place to send us back to the Underdark? Hells, even destroy a centuries old historical monastery?!”

There's a brief laugh from him as he shrugs and gestures around them, apparently unfazed. “Obviously I'm glad we didn't level the monastery with that sun cannon. But… come on, you can't say you weren't a little curious to see what would happen?”

A small smirk tugs at his lips and his brow rises in anticipation of an answer she doesn't give.

He leans into her space, almost like a proud cat, and clicks his tongue before he teases, “Where's your sense of curiosity? Some people just don't appreciate the wonders the world has to hold, I suppose.”

She rolls her eyes and resist the urge to push against his chest. The last thing she needs is to push him into the chasm after what she's just been through to keep him safe.  

The worst part is that he's not wrong. 

The design of the weapon immediately drew her interest when they saw it outside the monastery, and the connection of crystals and metal contraptions are fascinating. The possibility of uses and the combination of mechanisms…

She gives in to his posturing and the dramatic pout on his face, knowing full well he's watching her closely.

“Well… maybe a little,” she admits.

He looks triumphant when he hears it, eyes narrowing like she's just shared a juicy secret. “I knew it! There’s no shame in being curious about power. It is exhilarating.”

He continues, looking up in thought, twirling his wrist like he's conjuring possibilities. “And who knows? Maybe we’ll have better luck with our next weapon of incomprehensible destruction.”

Every time he speaks about gaining power, building their strength, plans and schemes, it feels like an uncomfortable heavy weight on her conscience. She knows the appeal of power and the risks that come with it.

Knowing he intended to take it for himself, whether for comfort or insecurity, twists something in her.

And it breaks.

“You did this all for power?” she asks, in part to say it aloud as she struggles to grapple with how he put them all in danger, and in part how he put himself at risk. Her rage is little more than a strain to her voice. “You scared the hells out of me… for power?!”

“Scared?” He tries to find words, clearing racking his brain as he takes her in and points at how she's holding herself before she walks away.  

He calls out after her, “When were you scared? You… jumped right in here with me… told me off too.”

Dolyn walks to the edge of the walkway and collapses in a ray of sunlight that warms the space where their exit disappeared. Hunched over, she feels her chest tighten, her throat ache, and her eyes grow blurry as tears pool behind her lashes.

Her shoulders slouch when the first tear falls. She can't believe she's crying over something that didn't happen, that was ultimately a mistake, if not a careless one.

But that isn't why it hurts, or why her body is wanting to shake out the feeling now apparently wedged deep in her chest. 

Even if they had the right tools, enough time, enough knowledge, they were so close to that sun cannon destroying them.

She was so close to losing someone again.

Close to losing him.

Astarion's feet shuffle behind her. For a rogue, making their presence known when they have so much skill in stealth, he intends to let her know he's there.

“I didn't think it through,” he offers, though it still sounds flippant, like an apology not well practised. That's if it's intended that way.

She sniffles and wipes her face with the hem of her sleeve. “You don't think a lot through, do you?”

There's a hollow laugh that leaves her chest before she gets up, tightening her robes and avoiding meeting his eyes as the last few tears trail down her cheek.

“Sorry, I… it's a long story.”

“Is it shorter than us getting out of this nightmare? I do not like our chances.”

When she looks up, he's nodding down the path that lead them here. No doubt word is already spreading through the crèche and an onslaught would be awaiting them on the way out.

Thankfully, Gale has followed through on showing her magic beyond her current skill level.

“I can get us to the sigil outside,” she states as her hands begin the sequence to transport them to the glowing runes outside. “You'll just have to hold on.”

Astarion immediately links his arm with hers, pulling her close. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

“You’re lucky I like to keep you around.”

As she concentrates, she notices in her periphery that his face relaxes. His features soften, eyes more open, lips almost pursed in thought. All of his pretences are gone and he's just himself, whatever that really is. 

His hand squeezes her arm just as they're about to move and she returns the gesture by tugging her arm to her side tighter.

She truly does like having him close.

Chapter Text

Perhaps as a wizard Dolyn should have some concept of who the most famed and respected wizard of the realms was. She'd certainly read of Elminister’s name in passing but historical texts that held no benefit to her immediate situation often left her with little or no value beyond an entertaining read.

The man off the page is verbose, lacking tack, and calls Gale out on false motives of decorum and in their own camp no less. All before the man gorges himself on their best supplies and delivers devastatingly morbid news from Mystra herself.

It certainly adds a sour note to the journey to the Shadow-Cursed Lands. 

In their favour Gale's predicament has been halted, but in exchange he's been tasked with detonating himself to take out the Absolute. Not a pleasant choice by any measure.

If Dolyn had any kind of relationship with Mystra, she's most certain she’d end it or worse. For all the things they’ve done and failed to do, she’s further certain she'll never understand the cruelty of the gods.

In the midst of it, Karlach, much in her nature and to her credit, immediately took to cheering him up. At least, in her way. Gale spent at least 10 minutes informing her the benefits of reading, questioning why she hasn’t read in so long, and politely and yet condescendingly at the same time questioning if she can actually read in the first place.

No one dared step in to correct him. They all needed the little cheer they could get.

By the time they reach the darkness of their new destination, Gale seems in better stead, but his face immediately changes when they reach the outskirts of the Shadow Curse Halsin has spoken of.

“I've never seen such a concentration of shadow magic,” he remarks with a thoughtful gaze out into the distance before he leans in to provide his advice. “We must forge on, but carefully. It will corrupt any who lack the power to control it.”

If anyone has the ability to point out the obvious, it would be Gale.

Perhaps it's her fault for humouring him for so long. Pretending to not partake with more complicated magic has worked against her in that regard. Though prior to the parasite crawling in her brain she had considerably more skill than she's had in the past few tendays.

Working back up to what she once had has been a rather lonely journey on her own.

Gale would also know that better than anyone.

She gives him a sharp look with just a hint of a smirk so he knows she's not being too harsh on him. “I recognise shadow magic when I see it. You needn't explain this to me.”

His mouth opens and closes then he points at her with a nod. “Of course.”

There's a brief expression of embarrassment that flicks across his face. “Sometimes I forget who I'm travelling with. It takes some getting used to, walking amongst peers again.”

She can't blame him. The pang of guilt washes over her when he says it. Being alone for any period of time is hard. She would know.

“You're doing all right, okay?” She checks in with him, eyebrows raised with concern. “Maybe give us the benefit of the doubt than assume we don't know something, hmm?”

“I will be sure to keep that in mind.”

The confidence returns to him, shoulders back and chin up. He will ever be like some kind of puppy to her, wanting affection, companionship, and any kind of means to keep himself entertained. 

“Having said that… if you wanted to regale us with details of the shadow magic, I might just listen.”

Despite a brief flicker of annoyance at her cheek, Gale does oblige.

── ☆ ──

Through surprisingly little convincing, they're pointed by a goblin scout in the direction of a convoy of cultists, conveniently waiting for a True Soul to guide to Moonrise. 

Thankfully some careful pilfering of the Underdark drow meant they had the instrument required, but whether they could play was a different matter. Dolyn's harp playing skills left less to be desired, which their summoned drider guide complained about immediately.

Yet despite his scolding, the rasp of betrayal in his voice when they sided with the Harper's still stung. There was no other option for them, no solace for individuals clearly caught up as pawns in someone else's Lanceboard game, and after each of the cultists fell, the Harper's quickly rounded on them too.

But apparently even in near darkness Dolyn still has some powers of persuasion and after sharing their predicament, they're promptly informed of a sanctuary further off called the Last Light Inn. 

More threats of violence turned to offers of safety.

It's a wonder they haven't all been killed multiple times over by now. Just seems to be her luck. Death by her own misguided choices.

Yet she chooses without protest to make camp somewhere safe away from the Last Light Inn. It's a broad expanse, surrounded by strange red foliage, and secluded enough away from the howling in the distance for the party to spread out. They might be safe enough for the one night here. There's even a dilapidated house up on the hill overlooking the path to the clearing.

To Dolyn's surprise and delight they continue to huddle their tents near one another. Except of course for Halsin who is intent on remaining separate as if for some kind of penance and Withers who remains ever questionably watchful.

As she makes her rounds, Astarion keeps a watchful eye of her, glancing every few moments. In the way he does where he has something to say but no intention of chasing her for it.

Typical. 

He might not say it, but he always seems to prefer her going to him. 

Perhaps he doesn't even know he does it.

Making her way to him, she barely has a chance to get a word in before he speaks.

“I’ve been thinking about the runes Cazador carved into my back,” he begins, leaning in a little, hands poised in the air thoughtfully. “I don’t know much about Infernal, but I know anything written in devilscript is going to be bad news.”

She nods along and hides her worry behind a smile. It's been a thought she's had on her mind but never had the words or time to express.

Spells and incantations appear in all sorts of ways. Carved into flesh is not particularly common but if she were to imagine one such written spell, his back would be her first thought.

Astarion continues on, staring down as he expresses a thought that he appears to have pondered on for some time, “I’m afraid that through those runes - somehow - Cazador might still be able to dominate me.”

He finally looks up at her. His eyes are softer, the red of his irises more warm than she can recall seeing them, and he waits for her to speak. His body falls into a holding pattern, as if he needs to hear her first before he decides what to do with it.

How many times has he done this? Waiting for the next line so he can continue the script.

His worry flutters to her in a blink. She’s only had a few brief glances of his back since she first looked at his scars. Perhaps there's more that she can find. It couldn't be that hard to transcribe Infernal if she tried or if she cast the right spell with enough study.

“I can take another look if you want?” she offers with a small shrug. 

A cheeky look takes to his face when he steps closer and leans forward in implied accusation. “Any excuse to get my shirt off, I see.”

There's a flicker of bitterness she catches in his features. An acidic jab to corrode her confidence, depending on its make.

She says nothing. It's clear what he's sharing: thoughts about a part of him that he's only shared with her. It's a sensitive subject to him. To be sharing it at all makes him feel vulnerable.

He only wants her to listen.

So she’ll listen.

“But no, I don’t think another viewing will serve any purpose. I need someone with a little more expertise,” he continues, eyes moving between her face to ensure she's attentive and the ground to dig further through his thoughts.

“Our devilish friend - Raphael. If anyone’s going to know about Infernal text, he will.”

She nods when he finally pauses. Though none of his plan has been posed as a question he awaits for affirmation, confirmation of a thought he appears not quite comfortable in to make on his own.

She says simply, “Sure, makes sense.”

His eyes light up, smile brightening his face too. It's exactly what he wants to hear.

“I knew you’d see the pragmatic side!” he crows for a moment of elation before he frowns. “Unfortunately he comes and goes on his own schedule, so we’ll just have to look out for any sulphorous odors or the sound of questionable poetry.”

Dolyn smirks and nods, “And in the meantime?”

It's pleasant to see him thinking about the future. More than she would have expected it would. 

Who would have thought she'd feel… pride? For him, of all people?

And yet she feels genuinely happy to see him scheming.

To hear him say that he knew she would agree.

He knew she would.

He'd thought about how she’d answer before she walked over.

“I think I’ll spend some more time studying the art of infernal negotiations,” he says, already disappearing into his thoughts.

She smiles, tilting her head slightly. “Let me know if you find anything.”

── ☆ ──

Sitting by the campfire, Dolyn takes to untying her hair for it to fall loose over her shoulders. She twirls strands between her fingers, braiding and unbraiding as she listens to Wyll tell stories of his travels.

He leans forward, hands on his knees. The fire catches in his features as a sparkle gleams in his eye.

He loves telling these stories to a captive audience. While it's a brief moment in their journey, it's nice to see him with a smile on his face.

On everyone's faces.

Though Astarion has truly taken to his researching, standing by his tent and flipping through the book Dolyn gave him.

After all these weeks he still will put his own desires first.

Even when he could really use the company of others.

Secrets in silence only leave you in solitude.

“Keep going, I think I'll step away for a bit,” she excuses herself with a knowing look from Shadowheart.

She strikes back her own look with a dare to say anything but Shadowheart simply smiles and nods for her to go. There's a lot more that could be said but Dolyn's thankful she seems to understand. With some reserved judgement.

Dusting the dirt off her hands, Dolyn jogs up to Astarion for a second time that night. Whatever he's looking for he's concentrating, frowning as he flips through pages. 

He puts the book down in frustration only to look up just as she reaches him.

It's like the clouds of his worries clear from his face when he smiles at her presence.

“Hello, my sweet.”

Dolyn freezes.

Whatever thought she had is immediately erased from her mind.

My.

Sweet.

She blinks and she finally takes a short breath in. She swallows. Her eyelashes flutter as her mind tries to reset.

Dolyn's been dealing with him for tendays making all sorts of snarky jabs and over-the-top flirtations. She can banter with the best of them. Their back and forth has been a comfortable compromise.

If she's honest with herself, she even likes it.

But as of late, it's escalated beyond what she intended, and she's finding herself spending her nights trancing in the comfort of his presence.

Now she's blushing, face hot and flushed because of two simple words.

She clears her throat and tries to get back on her train of thought, “Why ask Raphael about your scars? What’s your plan?”

While they have been approached by the cambion, his offer has to be tainted. Karlach practically sneered at his presence alone. She'd not be pleased that Astarion is even considering this.

The twinge of worry that he'd make some kind of deal to escape his master sits uncomfortably in her mind.

“It’s not a plan yet - more a feeling,” he answers with a slight grimace and a squint to his eyes. He shrugs off the uncertainty. “Just an itch at the back of my mind, but I know I’m missing something.”

She purses her lips, arms crossing over her chest while she looks him over. He means every word. There's more determination than fear. 

“Whatever Cazador did to me, it was more than his usual sadism: it had purpose,” he says with a gravity that draws his eyes away from hers. “Once I know what that purpose was, maybe a plan will present itself. But for now I just need to scratch this itch.”

The edges of his lips pull down and his eyes soften. He doesn't show this side of him often. It's soft, slightly broken, and fragile. His vulnerability is not something she's seen so front and centre, but it's right there within her reach.

She steps forward, wanting to touch him, hold him, and kiss the lines that form around his lips when he frowns. If only she had any of the confidence she'd need to bring a smile back to his face.

Oh she's fallen way too far.

Sometimes the greater magic has no sigils, no components, no words.

Impulse drives her to take action with the only idea one that he so permanently implanted in her mind.

“Uh… I was thinking…” she begins, hand raised but fingers unsure how to move. She awkwardly pretends she's trying to pluck the idea from the air. “Before we get into the thick of shadow and creatures and whatever awaits us at Last Light, uh, would you like to join me… tonight?”

How he managed to approach her with such confidence earlier in their travels she may never understand. She's shaking, though it's certainly not showing on the outside. 

His eyebrows shoot up, face a careful mask but no less surprised by her question. She hasn't truly asked anything of him, not beyond what they need when working as a team.

It dawns on her that she's not been clear. She quickly clarifies, “There's a little house up the hill. Broken, but cosy. For what it is at least. Might be a nice change?”

Apprehension crosses his eyes. Then uncertainty and finally amusement. If she looked any closer may even be pride, but if she truly did see that, she still wouldn't believe it.

“Is that you asking me off to some secluded location for a bit of privacy?” he muses in an exaggerated stage whisper. His laughter erupts mere seconds after. “Once everyone is asleep I'm guessing?”

His eyes roam over her unabashedly.

“You certainly have my curiosity piqued.”

Chapter Text

Her breath is shaky as she throws another log onto the fireplace. It’s firmly caught light from the kindling thanks to a well-placed cantrip. The warmth of the flame and the light sits comfortably across the rather dilapidated house, but it will do.

When she found it, she had immediately felt a nostalgic urge to make it a home. A few touches, some magic, and it’s shelter. Liveable, as much as one can when there's little otherwise at hand. It’s no Philgrave Mansion but it’ll do nicely for a night or two.

She lights candles around the room. One is little more than a small lump of wax with half an inch of wick left but it’ll provide light for a little while. On the table beside it, she places a bottle of wine that Shadowheart kindly passed off and two goblets she had clanging deep in her pack. It’s not the most pleasant of locations, but for a moment she can pretend.

She can pretend she’s back home, that they’re not days from a confrontation that might end them all, that what she’s feeling is the start of something beautiful and not a result of close quarters and heightened senses.

Dolyn sits on the edge of the bed, assessing the moth-eaten linens that have sat there for likely decades, untouched. She can’t remember the last time she actually slept on a real bed.

“I didn’t realise you would be inviting me to a hovel, but I guess that’s to be expected out here,” Astarion announces as he enters, taking in the holes in the walls and the shabby cupboards ready to fall apart.

He catches her off guard, leaning back on the bed, lounging as if she’s trying to pose. Of course he would turn up at the most inopportune moment.

She curls her fingers into the sheets before addressing him. “I’ve brought some plonk for us to share, or I can have the plonk and you could have the vintage wine.” She pointedly nods to the table, glancing there and back.

Oh she hopes she’s not as flushed in the face as she feels. How does this feel so much more awkward than it did before? She’s had time to settle in and prepare herself for a night together with him.

When she’s had plenty of nights with him before.

The others would think they’ve absconded off somewhere together. But at this point, their companions are well beyond questioning what it is between her and Astarion.

Astarion smiles, bemused and titters a small laugh. “Is this your way of seducing me, darling?”

There’s a swagger to his hips as he stalks forward, surveying her, her posture, and all of his assessments playing out in the muscles of his face. He doesn’t know quite what to think of whatever conclusion he’s made, or, at the very least, trying to make.

Dolyn licks her lips and grows more nervous. Seduction is not what she had planned. Yet, admittedly, everything appears as if that was her entire intention. The candles. The secluded location. The wine. Her casual reclined pose on the bed.

It all looks incredibly damning.

“I… can’t say I’ve ever seduced anyone,” she manages as playfully as she can muster. 

It’s not something she’s ever needed to do, or tried for that matter. 

It’s technically not even what she’s trying to do.

For a reason that she can’t explain, it worries her that it looks that way.

Astarion immediately bites. “You? The charmer? Never? Really?”

He stalks across the room and slides onto the bed beside her.

She throws her legs onto the bed, holding herself up with her elbow, laid out on her side. She mimics his expression from the half-lidded eyes to the amused smirk. He's gotten closer, shuffling over to meet her in the middle.

“Never. I had my wiles,” she says with a raise of an eyebrow.

Astarion lets his eyes linger on her face and then slowly down her body, disbelieving. “Is that what this is?”

Dolyn giggles and further slips down to the bed to rest her head in her hand. “Oh definitely not, no.”

She considers him then, feeling more at ease from his teasing, and finds him still unsure of what it is that she wants from the night. He's trying to play the casual uninterested party.

“I guess not all of us can be so alluring.”

“And yet you came here,” she accused, almost defensive.

She's testing the hanging question between them. What is tonight? What do they want? 

Why is he here if not for her?

Astarion pulls a face. “Wouldn’t want you to be eaten by the shadows because you wandered off on your own. We both know how skilled you are at being downed.”

She struggles not to smile, looking away dramatically with exaggerated movements of her free hand. “I have my moments, but I've got companions who know how to hurt and heal.”

His eyes don't leave her.

“Lucky for us, yes.”

She wonders sometimes if he'd hold the same intensity with eyes of a different colour. Something piercing like blue would catch her off guard. Something warm like brown would put her at ease. Something green would appear so much kinder.

But the red is what holds her still and makes her want to stare in them longer.

“You can feed on me tonight, if you like,” she offers, more rushed than she had expected. She’s offered plenty of times before, but it was a different kind of nervousness. This time she hangs on his answer.

“In this bed?” He strokes the sheets to emphasise the space between them. “Aren't you being presumptuous?”

“Aren't you?” She wiggles her shoulders and self-consciously licks her lips. Her mouth suddenly feels drier than she remembers.

Her attempt to put this back on his assumptions isn’t particularly working, not with the amused way that he’s looking at her. He lounges back onto the hay-stuffed pillow with a judgemental tilt of his head.

Her voice almost squeaks when she tries to defend herself from his implication. “I don't get quite as--”

He interrupts, “Darling, you can hardly hold in a whimper.”

She opens her mouth and closes it again.

She does her best to not pout and knows she fails. “Depending on what's happening. You don't make it easy.”

He leans closer, indulging in their back and forth and hovering his hand in the air as if he's about to caress her neck. “No need when you are so very--”

“Excuse you!” she takes her turn to interrupt him, “You know I could just as easily not offer.”

His hand pauses, palm up, fingers curled. “And have less of your bleeding heart generosity?”

She shuffles closer to him, pointing at him accusingly with her free hand. “You like my generosity. Admit it. You made a big deal about it in the Grove but I know you do.”

He avoids meeting her eye. “I don't need it.”

“You can bite me wherever you want,” she challenges and feels a rising rush of triumph as he stills, intrigued. “Feed on me wherever you want.”

Face still pointed away, his eyes immediately snap back. “You’re really trying to make a point...”

“You're the one who joked about biting me elsewhere. Now I'm letting you.”

She loosens the tie around her waist and tugs at her robes to expose more of her shoulders. She could fully expose herself to him but that would be too easy.

It's his turn.

His fingers grasp the lapel of her robe, thumbing at the smooth fabric while he keeps his thoughts to himself. They play out in his eyes, eyebrows shifting between a myriad of emotions.

When he purses his lips, she leans into his touch. “How do you want me?”

There's a mischievous glint in his eye and just a hint of approval. “Make yourself comfortable.”

She obliges, shuffling her way down to lay against the bed, her robe slipping to form delicate folds marking her place. Glimpses of her skin peek through hemlines and give him whatever access he desires.

She makes no effect to fix how haphazardly the fabric covers her and her distinct lack of underclothes. Another decision that holds other implications.

Astarion tutts, passing the back of his knuckles across her bared collarbone. “I could have sworn I have seen you wear something under your robes before… have they gone missing?”

“Can you blame me for wanting to be comfortable?” she says before wetting her lips yet again and wiggling her shoulders like she's burrowing into the bed.

It's certainly not the most luxurious of linens but she's cleaned them as best she can with at least an hour of cantrips. That has to count for something.

Astarion meanwhile gently moves the edges of her robe aside, tugging at the centre and pulling them wide to reveal her chest to her navel. The fabric holds just at the curve of her breasts, an intentional move of his part.

His fingers move swiftly and gently as he traces something up to her decolletage and down to her stomach. It takes a moment before she realises what he's doing: tracing her scars.

He hasn't remarked on them, not even on the first night that he saw them. They're not as large or as intricate or even as raised as his, but they mark enough for her to instinctively curl her body inwards at the attention.

“I have laid with hundreds of people, darling,” he begins, somewhat fondly, “but I don't think I've seen anyone with scars quite like yours.”

His fingers slip under the fabric over her shoulders and reveal more of her marked skin. She's never been as tanned as one would expect of a wood elf but thankfully she's not pale enough that her scars decorating her sternum, her abdomen, and her shoulders stand out glaringly from a distance.

Where an adventurer might have scars like the one on her lip, battle-won, sharp and pointed from a cut of a blade, she has odd scratches, dots and lines, and marks not made by something sharp. The rest of her from waist down is just as bad, but most people and creatures seem to aim for the centre of mass.

“You ever had to heal yourself when you're not a healer?” she asks and fights the instinctual flinch as she recalls stemming blood flow with rags and moonshine. 

Though the second she thinks of her own past, her mind immediately pictures how awful and tortuous in its own right or would have been for his back to heal. A wash of shame moves across her face. Of course he knows.

Their eyes meet and she nods. She doesn't need to tell him what it's like to heal on your own in a world where God worshippers, zealots, and comuners with nature could heal you should they so choose.

There's only so much a healing potion can do.

She continues, “Things don't… heal… the same.”

They share a silent moment of understanding, or at least that’s how it feels. He moves after her exhale to plant one hand over to her side, leaning over her as she lies below him.

“So these are?” he asks with a generalised sweep of his other hand.

Humouring him, she glances down to a thin raised line above her left breast, slightly whiter than the skin around it and jagged at the edges, and runs her finger over it like she’s presenting herself. “That one? I got that during a mugging.”

He tilts his head, unfazed by her answer. Then he places a finger on her lips, for the scar she used to hide before he exposed her. One of his eyebrows rises in question.

“Stole food from the Blushing Mermaid,” she says bluntly, a hint of amusement in her voice. Her lips brush against his finger like a featherlight kiss as she speaks.

He snorts a laugh of approval and his sly smile grows. “You scoundrel. When did this happen?”

“I was young. Barely knew cantrips then.”

He leans in closer, holding himself up by his elbow while his other hand falls to rest by her ear. “And? Don't tell me it was something boring like you cut yourself on the door handle.”

“Nothing so bland.” She matches his smile and tilts up her chin. “No, got a dagger to the face. Lucky I left with the rest of it.”

“Lucky it fits you perfectly.”

His hand returns to her lips to thumb across the scar like he is considering kissing her and her breath stops when her heart skips several beats.

Turning his attention elsewhere, he slips her robe off her shoulders and tugs at the sides to reveal more of her chest. Scratches and more whitened scars mix with raised pink marks and darker scar tissue. There have to have been a number of scrapes she’s been through.

Each one he appears to be curious about and yet equally unfazed. It’s somewhat refreshing than to have the overblown pity or undeserved praise of any of her past lovers.

And in that moment, that brief consideration, she realises she’s placed him in the same category. As a lover. Her current lover.

He beckons her from her thoughts with another question, “What of these?” He pokes playfully at her side where one crescent scar curves over her ribs and another creates a jagged broken line.

“Argument with a Guild member. Tried to glass me over some stolen wine. But this one is from one of Duck's tricks gone wrong.” She points to the broken line and tugs at the skin to get a better look at it.

Astarion’s eyes crinkle in a mixture of curiosity and accusation. “Duck?”

“That boy I mentioned. Well, man.”

She thinks nothing of it. Someone who meant a lot to her that she's only brought up maybe once or twice.

But then Astarion goes quiet and pensive.

He absentmindedly tangles his fingers in the fabric of her robe, exposing her further.

“The one you loved? But weren't so smitten to be in love with him?” The red of his eyes feels intense, burning into her mind, but there's a smile on his face. 

It doesn't look happy. Maybe even bitter.

“That's the one.”

He taps his fingertips over her sternum then traces circular patterns around and over her breasts like he’s simply scribbling in a journal. “So pray tell, what had you so enamoured?”

The delicate way he touches her snatches her breath. She becomes hyper aware of how he can hear and see and feel every shuddered breath at his touch.

In a soft voice, she asks, “What, are you jealous of a dead man?”

His fingers still, but only for a second. “As an undead man, I may have reason to be.”

It's a silly impulse to want to touch him, to reassure him of an insecurity he doesn't voice. It's not as if she has voiced any of hers. The room feels so much warmer despite how exposed she is sprawled out on the bed.

Honesty becomes a gift she so desperately wants to give him.

“He was the one who found me when I was young. Saw the whole Blushing Mermaid fiasco happen. He was a close friend, a partner in crime, literally, and honestly? Family… When I needed it.”

She glances at her shoulder where scar tissue is more pronounced. A mixture of darkened marks and raised skin meet together in a collection of crescents, though they'd long faded with time.

Astarion follows her gaze. “And that one…”

She knows the smile on her face is forced. There's nothing else it can be when she looks at that mark and what it serves to remind her of.

Dolyn meets his eyes. When did they become so open, so soft, when looking at her?

Maybe it's just easier to smile when looking at him.

“The thing about your fangs is they leave neat, clean punctures when you bite… but human teeth or whatever that… thing was? The teeth are blunter, require more to puncture flesh.”

She struggles to look at it even now. A shudder courses its way through her body and she immediately feels vulnerable. Perhaps simply moreso to him. Surely he can hear her heartbeat pick up. 

“Looks like it was rough with you,” he says with a gentle caress over the mark, brows furrowed.

She takes the brief seconds he’s not looking in her eyes to glance over the mark on his neck. He’s never once left that kind of mark on her. Not even close. In contrast, the punctures from Cazador’s bite remain, pocked in his skin, like the beast had been forceful when taking Astarion’s humanity.

Astarion speaks from experience.

“Somewhat,” she agrees softly. 

“But with me…” He gets a glint to his eye. Oh how she appreciates that his self-important, exaggerated, performative tone is back. "Darling, you practically beg for my teeth. I do hope that is my doing. I am an exceptionally handsome vampire after all.”

He preens and tousles his hair, almost falling on top of her in the process.

“No wonder you were shaking. Given the absolute mess they made of you, and not in the good way.” He moves to straddle her, placing his thighs firmly on either side of her, barring any option she’d have to escape.

The first night she let him feed plays through her mind.

He grins, smug as ever. “You were my first. I should be your best.”

Seems they're both thinking the same thing. No tadpoles required.

She swallows and bites her lip reflexively.

“At biting me?” she shifts to loosen her robe further, finally letting it fall around her and pulling her arms free. “Do you like biting me?”

“Must it be said?”

She answers by running her hands through his hair. She tugs just light enough to tug him down to her chest.

He doesn't need any more encouragement but he pauses to ask, “Anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

His lips find the soft curve of her left breast and test the placement of his fangs with soft kisses, lingering on the skin. His bottom lip brushes against her nipple as he speaks, “I can feel your heart beating.”

As his fangs sink into her swell of her breast, his eyes lock onto hers. She doesn't know whether to push up against him with the urge to breathe or linger in the breathlessness she feels. The sharp, icy puncture of her skin is already spreading and sending goosebumps to ripple through her body.

He creates a seal around the wound to feed and holds that eye contact. Dolyn swears she can see the red of his eyes brighten as he tastes her. He lifts as if to tease, showing the way his lips and tongue coax blood to his mouth.

His eyes darken and he moves across her breast, lips brushing against her skin as he moves. He seems to challenge her with his gaze, or perhaps he's simply determined to keep her fixed as he does as he pleases.

Either way there's a smirk at the corner of his lips in the seconds before he runs his tongue over her nipple. He huffs his amusement as she arches up against his mouth, which starts to suck at that sensitive part of her as if he had just bitten her.

“Th-that’s--” she breathes and loses all thought. She can feel the way he's smiling against her. He sucks harder and sneakily tests one of his fangs against her nipple.

The sharp intake at the mixture of pain and pleasure forces Astarion up from his comfortable position. He looks far too proud of himself for how weak and wet she is.

He has to know.

As if reading her mind, he moves back to lap at the bite on her chest before he moves down. Every few kisses he leaves a new nip at her skin. In places he sucks hard enough to bruise and at her hips sinks in his teeth to test her again.

There's a tension between them, eyes locked and breaths caught, that draws tighter the more he slowly drags her to further into overwhelm. Though fortunate enough for him he doesn't need to breathe at all.

Nor does his heart beat.

Meanwhile hers flutters as he continues his journey down her body.

He leaves the fresh mark on her hip to plant another at her thigh, perfectly centre. Perfectly designed to taunt her, and she can't stop herself from reacting.

“Hhh- enjoying yourself, are you?” she manages despite the exceptionally distracting reality of his body settled between her thighs. 

His mouth returns to her skin following a brief flash of his fangs. He presses over and across her inner thigh until he feels his way to what she can only assume is a good spot to sink his teeth in.

Astarion glances up through his lashes, mouth parted in what looks like a breath but is little more than a practised motion. He must have perfected the look of panting and breathlessness. It's all over his face. Even with the knowledge he can't, he looks so pretty when he pretends he does.

Maybe he's simply doing it out of habit.

Whatever the reason, her legs spread at the sight of him settling firmly like he's about to devour her.

Without missing a beat his fangs sink into the delicate part of her inner left thigh. He moans against her, heady and indulgent, as if he is merely savouring a sensual meal. Those beautiful lashes of his flutter closed and she can feel not only the icy touch of his teeth and the wet of his mouth but the warmth of her own blood trickling down her leg.

One of his hands slides up to the juncture of her hip and her thigh. It's so close to her core that if she dared she could close her legs and buck up to touch him. 

Yet she dares not. The sharp point of his fingernails dig into her thigh like he's captured his first solid meal in forever. 

With how many sounds he makes from his throat and the tingling sensation over her body, she can only assume he's found a spot as good as her neck. Though this one is so incredibly more sensitive.

The look he gives, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, and the breathless huffing as he pulls up from the bite directs heat right between her legs. The darkened stare speaks of a man who wouldn't let her go if he had the choice, like a beast protecting its feed.

As her blood trails down her thigh, wet and slick, Dolyn pushes herself up to rest on her elbows. One hand then reaches down to run her fingers through his hair. 

Gods he looks like a sordid dream.

His eyes dart pointedly to her thighs and the most telling sign of her growing desperation between them. No doubt she's likely glistening with how shallow she's breathing.

His hand shifts to brush a finger down from her hip and she actually whimpers in anticipation.

“Well, that certainly is a reaction,” he gloats, stroking down her inner thigh so painfully close and yet not close enough. “You could probably scream out here and the shadow curse would swallow every sound.”

But rather than touch her like she desperately wants, he moves to the bite on her thigh and sucks harder. He feeds with low growls and moans. He closes his eyes to savour her and the enthusiasm in which he takes to her blood has her bucking her hips in reflex.

“Hells, this is not what I had thought would happen,” she admits with a nervous laugh.

And it's true.

She'd not even considered Astarion being inches away from putting his mouth on her but the growing need to know that reality twists in her brain. Even the tadpole twitches, aching for the connection she wants with him, that thrumming need for action.

In her current state, broken down by heightened senses and growing desperation for release, she gives in and her mind reaches out. She doesn't push it, simply sharing in the way she has with Shadowheart and Lae’zel in the past. 

A song between minds.

This time, however, hers was little more than begging.

Please.

The rush of warmth that she feels when his mouth finds her folds runs through every fibre of her as the sound of a lurid moan leaves her lips. He knows exactly where to place himself.

His mind doesn't respond in the way she expects. No images, no sound, just simply that feeling of hunger that she felt a tenday ago.

This time though it isn't for food, nor for sex, but… something else…

Fuzzy disconnected thoughts interrupt her thinking as he takes one long teasing stroke of his tongue right where her body aches for touch. He kisses and laps around her clit like one of the marks he's already made. She swears for the briefest of seconds she can feel the sharp point of a fang and her body stills.

He follows in kind, voice raspy with need, “Sensitive, are we?”

The second she meets his gaze he takes her into his mouth again and makes a point of lifting up between movements of his tongue to lick around his lips and fangs. The blood from her thigh is well and truly smudged across his chin.

And she feels it again, that hunger. It fights with her own urge for more, for that itch he's created to be scratched. 

Dolyn throws her head back against the bed. She moans loudly into the night, breath leaving her as she does. But her mind echoes with it, reverberations pushing through her mind in her connection to him.

His fingernails dig into her thighs and his tongue hungrily moves lower. His own moan is muffled by his own mouth pressed deeper between her legs. His mind pushes out the same hunger and a spike of something new, something cold.

The movement of his tongue becomes pattern, finding her clit again and driving her mind further into a blissful oblivion. Nothing else seems to matter.

Back and forth, around and down, his tongue moves. It's perfect, practised, repetitive. 

Her eyes roll back into her head and for a second she swears she can see the bite on her thigh. For another brief moment she can see the way her chest heaves from two different directions.

“Hhnngg?” she manages wordlessly. Her bliss overwhelms her mind and no other thoughts persist.

She can't move, she can't think, and Astarion's more persistent, almost desperate, holding her down so she has no chance of pulling free.

As their connection vibrates she feels that shimmer in that hunger, something distant and cold. There’s an impression of a bed, sheets strewn aside, but it's not the bed they're on.

She can feel him indulging like a creature gorging itself beyond its means. Too much. Too full. Too far to pull back.

She feels the rock of a bed that isn't this one. It is just as cold but with softer linens. She can almost feel and smell the impression of the room in her mind.

It feels empty.

Barren.

Disconnected.

Yet despite that feeling they now both share Astarion continues. His grip tightens and his mouth feels fastened in place like he might float away if he stops.

Dolyn manoeuvres herself up to watch him, struggling to push through every brush of her nerves and the way her body wants to give into them. 

Between her legs, eyes glazed and staring blankly, Astarion keeps going, diligently. There's not a conscious thought behind his eyes. Instead a darkness of staring into a place long ago haunts them.

He's not here.

“Astarion?” Dolyn calls out, quiet at first. “Hey, I'm right here… Astarion?”

She gulps as she sees a flicker of recognition but he's soldiering on. 

Dolyn shoves her hand in front of his face to grip his chin, pulling it up and away from her body. She meets his eyes with her own brows drawn together in worry.

“You with me?” she asks and it feels like the room is ringing around her as she waits for him to speak. Her thoughts repeat her words with a sense of urgency through their shared connection just to be sure.

He blinks. Slowly.

Then his eyes change. Not a lot, but enough she can see it.

His lips part and he glances down. At her hand. At her legs. At his hand that releases his hold of her.

He starts to speak, a small clearing of his throat or an unspoken word, and closes his mouth again.

There's a moment of worry on his face. That vulnerability she's seen more than once flits onto his face, working its way into his eyebrows and the corner of his lips.

The connection of their tadpole snaps.

He checks over her face before something clicks on his own. He places the weight of his chin in her hand and smirks.

“Got there already, darling?” he grins like he's caught on to a secret. “Well, tonight will certainly be interesting.”

His mask is back.

Dread hits the pit of her stomach like a stone dropping in a well. 

Her fingers curl under his chin and she tries her best to smile. “I think that's enough of that for now, Astarion.”

Despite her best efforts she knows that pity taints it and her forehead feels the strain of her worried gaze. 

He tilts his head as if he doesn't quite believe her and she moves her hand to his check while her other hand surges forward to frame the other side. 

With an urgency and as gently as she can manage at her disadvantage she tugs him towards her, “Come here, handsome.”

He obliges with yet another smile. He crawls up her body, stalking over her like a cat. 

“Well, you certainly know how to draw me in for more,” he purrs, leaning into her hands still holding his face.

As he draws closer she settles back onto the bed, wanting, needing him closer. The desire she had has melted into something else entirely. 

He settles on her body, lining up his crotch with hers and testing out a roll of his hips. He's hard and seemingly unaffected by the thoughts they'd both shared.

She holds his face more firmly, holding his gaze, “We don't have to do anything more.” 

She means it as an offering. It's the gentlest way she can think to let him down. There's something so sombre about saying no to him, and not because she doesn't want what he's offering but rather she can't accept it. 

He needs her to say no.

Yet he smiles anyway.

His eyebrow rises in disbelief at what she's saying, like it's some ploy she's using. He genuinely seems to think she's playing coy.

“No, no, of course,” he says like he's playing along, “Nothing. At. All.” He rolls his hips again and nips at her hands.

Something in her breaks.

A hint of panic shows in his eyes that it's not working, that the growing frown on her face and worry in her eyes indicate she's displeased. 

One thumb strokes his cheek while the other hand soothes through his hair. Her gaze doesn't leave his.

“I mean it, you know.”

He huffs. “No one ever means it.”

“Don’t make me use the tadpole again.”

“Ooh, threats. How charming,” he says, rolling his eyes.

She runs her fingers through his hair, her face softening. Hells, she's becoming far too fond of him. “Well, we have established I can charm you.”

He assesses her then with a cautious energy. 

But he says nothing.

“Don't make me charm you again,” she warns. A warning that softens to gentle touches of his face and tugs to bring him closer still.

She finds herself staring into his eyes, lost. The tightness in his jaw has slipped away much like the dismissiveness in his tone. He appears unsure of what to do, what to say, what to be.

Dolyn nudges Astarion to the side, practically lumping onto the bed beside her. He takes the move better than she expects and she can't help the chuckle at how absolutely insulted his features become.

“You're really going to unceremoniously toss me aside? Rude.”

She pokes at his chest and shuffles closer on her side. “You're still in the bed, aren't you?”

Her fingers thread in his shirt, eyes staring at how easy it is for her to make such intimate casual gestures with him.

Her heartbeat has slowed but it feels louder. Every beat drums in her chest like accompanying percussion to her building realisation.

She can barely look him in the eyes. Not when all she's thinking is how she wants him close, regardless of what that means.

Astarion takes notice.

“All of this and you decide you don't want to indulge? Is there something more you want to say?” he whines aloud in his perfect self-engrossed defence of his own ego. His voice drops to petty murmurs under his breath, “If you can't appreciate--”

“I want you safe.”

He pauses at her interruption, searching her face with genuine confusion. “...what?”

She gulps. It feels like she's confessing, nodding her head with her words for emphasis. “I want you to know that I will make sure you're safe… whatever happens.”

Her eyes meet his.

Those beautiful red eyes.

He's squinting like it might reveal a lie she's not telling.

She answers the question in his eyes, “I'd rather that we enjoy our company together. Whatever that means. So long as we… enjoy it.”

“And you weren't enjoying… that?”

She stares at him unwaveringly when she counters, “Were you?”

His lips purse. His tongue evidently running across his teeth as he thinks of an answer.

She beats him to it.

“You asked once if I was looking for a cuddle… is it too late to say that I am?”

Something in his face changes. Like a new thought dawning. He seems caught by surprise, though pleasantly.

“Certainly not.” His hand caresses across her middle to drape his arm across her body.

“Good… you know,” she starts, changing the topic of conversation, “A lot of people seem to think wood elves are promiscuous?”

Astarion chuckles with an amused shake of his head. “By the stories Halsin tells, you can see why. Sounds like the man has spent centuries pioneering the reputation.”

Dolyn finds herself smiling at him. Not out of pity or to please him, not out of politeness or keeping peace. Just genuine joy at seeing the light back in his eyes.

He catches her confelicity and turns on her with his own smile, tugging at her robe to cover her body again. “So, with all of your… shall we call it enthusiasm? You're telling me you haven't gotten up to all sorts of stories of your own?”

“I-I never said that.”

“Oh, but I bet you must have charmed your way through the Lower City.” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I maybe… frequented a pleasure house or two, but nothing like they tell in stories.”

“Who would have thought it?” He grins like he's caught onto some great secret for blackmail.

She playfully pushes at his chest, snuggling closer so his arm rests over her back. “Besides, I heard tales that high elves would judge wood elves. All high and mighty, assuming any rel--”

She cuts herself short, eating her words as she realises what she's saying.

That word was high elves thought relationships with wood elves were destined to fail.

That she was saying it to this high elf about their… whatever they have.

He assesses her, moving in closer. “Assuming what exactly?”

She redirects by thumbing away at her blood still over his lips and chin, “You have really made a mess of yourself.”

Astarion hums. “You could clean it up yourself, darling.” He licks across his top lip in an exaggerated stroke of his tongue.

She answers by casting prestidigitation. The drying and wet smears of her blood fleck away with a mere wave of her hand, disappearing into the night.

“I still hadn't savoured that,” he protests with a whine.

“Why not simply take more from the source?”

“I am really starting to like this newfound taste for my teeth you've developed.”

“If you want to stay in this bed, you best behave.” She pushes her hands against his chest while her body moves to settle in his arms. Their legs tangle together, finding more ways to touch in their makeshift home for the night.

“Of course, my sweet generous companion,” he says against her hair. His voice taints with a light warble, a sound to a look on his face she can't see when they're this close. “I will ask before I bite.”

Chapter Text

The Last Light stands as a bright beacon in the darkness, a brilliant sphere that protects all within from the shadows outside. Harpers and travellers have made refuge in the old inn as traders set their wares outside for the chance of a sale.

But the party's welcome quickly turns to sharpened vines circling around Dolyn's legs and questions from an older elf who presents a tadpole as proof of ill intent. 

It's almost refreshing to find someone who has worked out the workings of the cult, but not so convenient for their predicament to be used against them.

Nothing she says seems to deflect the Harper's suspicions.

“Stop!” a familiar voice calls out and rushing across the inn courtyard there's a familiar pair of gold embellished horns and a bandage over one eye. 

Mol.

Dolyn never thought she would be so grateful to see that little schemer.

“What are you doing?” Mol continues, coming to a stop, catching her breath. “She’s the one who saved us!”

Naturally this elder elven druid doesn't trust that honest response either, but Mol chimes in with their actions at the Grove, defending them with tales of what Dolyn's simply considers acts of genuine care. 

She would have done them all without praise. Hells, she did them with Astarion bitching in her ear. 

If she could see his face now, just to shoot him a glance and a smug smirk that she was indeed right to save the tiefling children beyond just being nice. Perhaps one day she'll get through to him that kindness begets kindness.

Later she’ll have to question why she's thinking of him in an eventual future.

“I’d pretty much trust her with my life,” Mol finishes, looking proud that she's sticking up for them. That child is going to be a force of nature if she continues on this path.

Hells, she reminds Dolyn of a younger Duck, convinced he could take on the world.

And thanks to that confidence, this druid stranger is at least open to hearing her out. 

Intrigued, her face leaves no mystery of her opinions of the Absolute, the artefact, and everything they've learned so far. It feels a relief to tell someone who seems to demand so much respect from the other Harpers.

Someone who has been in this game longer than she has. 

“Congratulations,” the lead Harper says finally. “You’ve earned yourself the benefit of the doubt.”

── ☆ ──

“That's Jaheira. The Jaheira,” Karlach whispers with excitement once they’re out of earshot. Despite her attempt at subtlety, her height and her voice do little to prevent her words from carrying.

Thankfully no one pays much mind.

“Jaheira?” Dolyn asks, leading them on a quick scout around the grounds. 

She couldn't say she recognised the woman or her name. As much as she’s read, the stories she knew were old enough that most people in them had passed before she was born.

“Don’t you know the whole story?” Karlach’s eyes light up like a child sharing something special. Her whole body shakes with the excitement she can't quite contain. It's adorable.

“Years ago - over a century - Jaheira was part of a group that saved Baldur’s Gate from Sarevok.”

None of it sounds familiar. Though that's to be expected. It becomes clear as her tiefling companion continues that this was the kind of story told through community, nights at home with family, connection to others.

It's no wonder Dolyn has never heard of it. She was too busy surviving.

But she listens with a smile as Karlach speaks about her mum telling those tales and how she in turn would tell them to herself. Her ideals of saving people make so much sense in the context of such childhood bedtime stories. 

Karlach shrugs, “I was always… some Outer City kid.”

Dolyn chuckles a little laugh. “Honestly, the Outer City never did seem so bad from where I grew up. Seems to have produced some gems.”

Karlach's mind however has already moved on. “Wonder if Jaheira ever hangs around the Outer City. Maybe after this is over, I could buy her a drink.”

She wanders ahead lost in her thoughts, speaking of wine. Can't be every day that an Outer City kid meets their idol after all.

What a surprise to find her childhood hero out here, in a much welcome refuge with the screams of shadows and the creatures at their mercy in the distance. 

── ☆ ──

“Wait, are you Karlach?”

The bright voice of the tiefling kid trader greets them the moment they've gone inside. He's the same one that encouraged that poor Tiefling girl to steal. He's smiling like he hadn't been caught out. Thankfully it appears genuine. 

As he talks excitedly about Karlach’s exploits in Avernus, Dolyn can't help but note the somber unspoken melancholy that has fallen over everyone else around the room. 

She spies more tiefling children by the bar, seeming to be in an argument with a swaying Rolan, and a rather dejected Alfira staring into the fire heating the ink. None appear happy to be here.

There's so few of them left.

Mattis’ smile appears all the more bittersweet if what she suspects is true.

They're all that's left.

“From the look of things, you've got your wits about you,” Karlach says beside her, deep in a pleasant conversation that Dolyn has completely tuned out of.

If what she's noticed is true, then the smallest bit of happiness is worth protecting. Even if this kid is doing everything to avoid dwelling on their unfathomable surroundings.

Dolyn smiles and nods along as Karlach speaks of clever minds and fighting as last resort.

But even this cheeky kid’s not one to pass up on an opportunity, trying to hock his dodgy magical items. She can't fault him for the hustle.

Though she doesn't need to step in for Karlach.

“Ha! Nice try, shorty,” she jokes with an encouraging chuckle. Her eyes meet Dolyn's just to wordless share her joy. “Keep it up though, and you'll be scamming the greats in no time.”

Those were certainly some words of encouragement. Not that she could talk. There were ways to live on the streets and a lot of them weren't clean cut or easy.

She could've used a hero growing up.

Karlach had Jaheira. Mattis has Karlach.

Hope brings them cheer and smiles in such times. Something she can only wish for and appreciate from a distance.

“Kid really looks up to you. That’s nice to see,” she says once they leave Mattis be.

“It isn’t, isn’t it?” she says with a self-satisfied smile and a brief apologetic glance at Wyll. “Hope he makes it out of this mess with his wits in one piece. I’d like to see him set up in a proper home in the city. Every kid deserves that.”

Dolyn hums thoughtfully in agreement.

── ☆ ──

Drinking appears to be the theme of the day.

Where Alfira can't stomach a drink more, Rolan is deep in his cups. The already sour wizard soured further still by anger and regret and despair. No doubt ready to ferment into deeper misery.

Dolyn can't blame him for it, not when he has a point. She might not be the sanctimonious prick he’s intent on calling her but he’s not wrong about her convincing his siblings to stay in the Grove to help.

Even the tiefling kids are standing between him and further drowning in his sorrows.

It feels almost wrong to leave him to it, and to accept a glass of wine for herself from the High Harper.

“You’ll have to pardon my friend Karlach. She’s very excited to meet you,” Dolyn says offhand as she gazes into the goblet. A deep red, smelling of something more than wine.

Karlach chuffs, a sound somewhere between excitement and bashfulness. “Tsh. Yeah. I mean, it’s an honour. M’lady.”

Happiness looks good on her.

Jaheira’s smile however holds more tension than one of pleasantries, but she still puts on airs for the benefit of such an eager fan. “I will gladly drink to your health as well, Karlach.”

Dolyn gazes over at Rolan again to see him swaying in his seat as Lae’zel and Shadowheart discuss whether they should intervene before she stares back down at her own wine.

There’s a hint of something familiar, herbal. As she closes her eyes to savour the scent, the goblet almost resting on her lips, she smells the culprit: klauthgrass. Her eyes open to see Jaheira’s smile now directed at her. They both know the herb inside will make her truthful.

She casts a glance to her side and finds Astarion there, scowling. He must see it in Jaheira’s expression too.

“Herbal wine from a druid? With a rare specimen no less?” she muses, swirling the wine around like a connoisseur might. “I’m honoured you’d go to such efforts for me.”

Though before more words can be said, she drinks the wine. One gulp after another, letting the warmth of it settle in her chest before she places down the empty goblet.

She’s played this game before, and she’s already said more than enough to earn the High Harper’s favour.

But trust is, as ever, something to be earned.

Dolyn takes her turn answering Jaheira’s questions, genuinely. The truth about klauthgrass itself is it is little more than a culinary herb if your intention is honesty.

She’s spent enough decades dancing around the truth to twirl it to her tune.

But one thing she knows for sure, and says with the depth of earnest feeling, she’s resisting what the tadpole’s trying to change. After all, she doesn’t need that kind of power over people. Not with the magic she already has.

As Jaheira continues, speaking of the Sharran brought back by necromancy, she can’t help but see a familiar devil in the corner of her eye, sitting across from the very tiefling who saved her from Jaheira’s vines.

Mol indulges the cambion with a game of lanceboard. Her hands, much smaller than his, move the pieces with hesitation, her body hunched forward, making her body appear all the smaller.

The second Jaheira’s told them of what task awaits them at Moonrise and the Moonmaiden’s blessing they’ll need to get there, Dolyn beelines for the table in the corner.

What strange coincidences would lead the very devil that had followed them to the same inn. And so few nights after Astarion said he wanted to find him.

“What’s going on here?” Karlach beats her to calm or cordial introductions.

Dolyn bites down her curses. Of course she would have such an issue at his presence. Having her around to get the answers Astarion needs may prove to be a problem.

Mol, thankfully, provides her a much needed in.

“Look who made it!” she announces, throwing her hands up gregariously. Already she has all the makings of a Guild footpad, and all the telltale signs of the role of an Guild operator in her future, if she was given the option to lead.

Mol continues, loud and proud of herself, “For once I saved your butt out there, didn’t I? We’re square now, chief.”

That’s certainly a way to put it. The things this girl must have seen.

Mol leans her way then, her smile mixed with nerves and confidence. “Say, do you play lanceboard by any chance? It’s my first time playing.”

Dolyn gives Raphael a cursory glance. His eyes haven’t left the girl, watching her like a creature on a hunt might watch its prey. He never lets her out of his sight.

Meanwhile Mol smiles in a way Dolyn hasn’t quite seen from her yet. Interesting that she should have a tell. There’s a difference in her cadence, her body, showing a complete lack of worry that a new player might have. Especially for a game as old and as complicated as lanceboard.

It would be wrong of her not to play along with the girl’s game.

Even if the klauntgrass is still present on her tongue.

“He’s set up a clever little trap,” she says as if she’s savouring the words with the last bit of wine she can taste in her tongue. Can’t hurt to echo the words she heard Mol say. “But…”

She leans in to consider the board and circle her fingers over Raphael’s pieces. “But… his Cyric looks rather open, don’t you think?”

Mol doesn’t hesitate to move the piece she touched, placing her piece right in prime position.

Of course Raphael plays it off with his bravado, claiming he would do the same. He manages a self-congratulatory announcement while trying to make it sound like praise. Every word feels like the real trap is him and not the wooden pieces in front of them.

They play out the rest of the short lived game, only for the devil to offer more tainted compliments. “I see I was right to make you the offer I did. You will consider it, won’t you?”

Mol leaves without a word.

As patient as Dolyn is, the desire to find the answers she’s seeking, that Astarion’s seeking, must show in her face.

“What a lovely specimen she is,” Raphael says as if it’s a normal greeting. His hand comes up to mime to grasp the air. “A blushing apple, begging to be plucked.”

Karlach tenses, teeth gritted. “Please let me smack this creep.”

The cambion pays her no mind, turning his undivided attention to Dolyn. “The Theskan move suggestion was inspired. I had no idea you played.”

“Didn’t know what it was called,” she says flatly. “Seemed rather a basic play for someone I’d expect would be better at the game.”

He smiles, sickly, stepping forward with his hands prepared to gesture as embellishment to his words. He speaks of not worrying about Mol, like she’s a mouse in a trap, with no other options.

Dolyn is ready to tell Karlach to truly smack him when he turns to Astarion instead.

“Now, let’s talk about you. I sense there’s something you want to ask me.”

Astarion doesn't meet her eyes before he engages. His shoulders pull back and he turns to his side like he's trying to make himself a smaller target before he shifts to face the devil.

His voice is clipped when he replies, “I do. I have a proposal for you.”

He's trying to hide it but he's nervous. This is a step closer to freedom, something he's finally doing for himself. Dolyn's chest aches for him in that moment and she signals to Karlach to stand back with a slow knowing mod.

Thankfully Karlach's already clued on.

Raphael grins, intrigued. “A proposal? If you’re hoping to taste my blood, little vampling, think again. It burns hotter than Wyvern Whiskey.”

Oh he's going to make this as painful as possible. Dolyn clenches her teeth to keep herself from casting something stupid.

“This is serious business, devil .” Astarion pouts and nearly shouts it back, voice thick with emotion.

He takes a second to compose himself, hands gesturing and he tries to think what to say on the spot. “My old - well, long time ago, someone carved infernal runes into my back. They are a fragment of a contract.” He focuses his attention squarely on Raphael. “I’d like to know what the full contract says.”

Raphael hums as if he is being engaged in some paltry small talk. The sound someone makes when they're mildly disinterested and close to dismissal.

He has no interest in doing anything without a price. Unless of course he gets to play with his prey first.

She snaps, but keeps herself as cordial as she can manage. “We’re not your pawns to play with, Raphael. Answer him.”

To think, Astarion used to drag this reaction out of her.

“Oh, such impatience,” he says dismissively before he turns to Astarion.

He talks but says very little substance, preferring to raise possibilities and no answers. “It’s something very important to your master. But is it a love letter, a warning, or deed of ownership? I could give you all the gory details.”

Yet that hellish bastard says nothing of them.

And then the moment they were waiting for hits.

“But of course, you’ll have to do something for me first. Let me think about it and get back to you.”

“You’ll ‘get back’ to me? This is important , devil.” Astarion's voice nearly breaks with indignant, impatient frustration. He practically stomps at the iniquity of it all, but after a breath huffs a defeated “When?”

“Don’t worry - I’m motivated to help you. Scars often tell such wonderful stories - I think yours might be truly exquisite. I’ll see you soon.”

── ☆ ──

Astarion wastes no time skulking off to brood and wallow in his thoughts. It's a stark contrast from his frustration back near the goblin camp when that same devil was approaching them to make a deal about their tadpoles. Now they were the ones approaching him.

Yet they still don't know what horrendous price they'll be asked to pay.

Deals of any kind with men, let alone devils, like that never go well.

Tadpoles, illithids, an immortal General, an Astral realm lich god queen, aggressive shadows, and now an entanglement with a devil that's wanted a deal with them for tendays. They're truly collecting an array of enemies and creatures wishing for their demise, whatever that may be.

As she watches her companions speak with the tieflings and wander out into the safe moonlit air outside, Dolyn can't help but feel overwhelmed by the choices they'll have to make soon. Most notably what she'll need to do about this growing connection with Astarion.

She's starting to worry she might lose him.

A cleared throat makes her jump as the tall and steady presence of Wyll sidles up beside her. He's immediately apologetic, dismissing any ill feelings with that easy smile of his.

“Lost in your thoughts?” he asks, gazing out into the inn with her. He follows her gaze to the tiefling children, talking amongst themselves.

Mol can't be seen among them.

“A blushing apple, begging to be plucked,” he says finally. There's a sombre tone to his voice and it feels all the heavier when she turns to see the sadness settling into his features. “Raphael’s angling for the girl’s soul.”

Wyll would certainly know a thing or two about that. He might not have been so young when he signed his contract, but he knows where the blinders of youth lead.

Dolyn nods. “She's certainly headstrong. I don't think we'd be able to convince her not to take his offer.”

She'd met kids like Mol on the street before. Confidence, bravado, overcompensation for the fear they have that they'll never find food, safety, or love. The kid's literally been to hell and back, and she's trying to protect others like her.

If Dolyn really sat on the thought longer, she's sure she'd see a younger version of herself in that mix. If a bit more aggressive and forward than she had been.

“We should at least try,” Wyll offers. “The girl’s as bold as a lamb cavorting in a lion’s den - but I think she’s clever enough to flee before the jaws close around her neck.”

The look that comes over his eyes appears to be more than empathy. Rather it's an opportunity to save someone from a choice he once made.

She's not sure when he continues speaking, eyes looking at her but almost staring through her, if he's really speaking to her at all.

“One way or another, she’ll see there’s no winning Raphael’s game - and she’ll walk away.”

“And if she doesn’t?” she tilts her head, frowning, knowing that it's not an easy thing to imagine.

“Then Raphael collects another trophy, and Mol sells her independence to the Hells.”

Dolyn sighs. “Well, we can't have that, can we?” She tries a playful bump against his shoulder but he stands still, a statue of a man who was only so recently a boy himself.

He answers, pensive and serious, more Wyll than the Blade that he presents himself as, “You’ve seen what happens when a bound soul reaches for freedom.”

She glances briefly at his horns and his scars and nods. “And the things we do when we care, when we want to survive.”

She glances out to the front of the inn where the taxidermied form of Darkmaw the Wicked stands guarding, where Astarion spoke of how that bear had snatched more children than vampires ever did.

She'd been putting it out of her mind. How peculiarly specific it was to say that. What needs would vampires ever have for children? To snatch them instead of draining them, to know that they were snatched at all. Perhaps she’s simply overthinking it.

“Do you trust him?” Wyll asks as if he's just read her mind with a tadpole.

It must be written all over her face because he quickly follows with, “Sorry, I promise I didn't read your mind. You just… have a look on your face… when you worry about him.”

“Really?” She settles her palm against her lips, fingers grasping at her cheek, before she can say something stupid. Part of it she presents as mock-shock at his apt observation. Another part is genuinely concerned she’s been so transparent.

Wyll chuckles and stands beside her, facing forward but for a careful cheeky side-eye. He's even a gentleman when he's making a joke at her expense. “And here I thought you knew.”

“I-I… I knew? Wait-wait, what do you mean when I worry about him?” she asks, pulling her hand away from her mouth, trying to keep her voice down when the combination of surprise and embarrassment take hold. 

He squints just a little and tries to hide his gentle smile. “You… how do I put this? You used to worry about him in a way one might about a rival neighbour in the middle of a property dispute and now…”

Dolyn shouldn't be surprised. She's not exactly been subtle about her attachment to their vampire companion, but having it said aloud, knowing how obvious it is… she's flustered.

“Now you look at him like he might break you.”

That's not what she thought he'd say.

“What?” she says, heart now in her throat.

“It makes me think you don't trust him. Not completely. Vampires are by their nature wily. I would not blame you if you had concerns of being under his spell.”

She laughs, genuinely laughs, and shakes her head. “Oh I can definitely say there's no spell here. I'm the spellcaster of the two of us.”

Wyll might be young and naive but in terms of reading people and their hearts, he has a knack for it. 

His voice changes to that dreamy quality it gets when he tells stories from long ago. “I am a fan of old fashioned romance and what you two have--”

She immediately interrupts him, partly out of panic, “I promise you it is not romantic. Have you met Astarion?”

“That is exactly my point… what if what you have between you, isn't what you wanted? Can you trust him with your heart?”

He doesn't know she heard him down in the Underdark, defending her from Astarion and his intentions. All they really have is their nights together and maybe a few shared secrets. Though at this point she may know more about him than he does of her.

When did she start wanting him to know her? Beyond just her body and how it moves beneath him.

“I… I don't know,” she admits aloud. 

The man still unsettles her deep down. He's ruthless when he wants to be, self-involved, still stuck in survival mode that he's ingrained over centuries. He's never known true safety.

How can she find safety in that?

Wyll, ever kind and ever the duelist, points the sharpest point of his concern right at her chest. “And I see that sometimes. When you look at him.”

Something he can see must be real.

Wyll nods his head to her in what looks like a long unpractised bow. He meets her eyes, genuinely worried, “Be careful.”

She nods, averting her gaze, before she wanders over to Darkmaw, standing by the entrance. The comment about snatched children sits uneasily in her mind.

Chapter Text

Well-rested after a brutal fight with a Flaming Fist traitor and winged beasts, they set out into the darkness from Last Light with renewed optimism. Karlach even has the prospect of being able to touch another again thanks to the blacksmith Dammon, even if she refused to hear out the bad news he had to give her.

They had enough already on their plate. Tieflings to save, an immortal to weaken, devil deals, and tadpoles mysteries to uncover. All in all it’s just another job.

Though she never did finish the job the Mindflayers so violently interrupted.

She’ll have that to return to whether she likes it or not.

For now, she'll just have to survive the claws of the creeping darkness and the haunting bellows in the near distance.

She hangs by the middle of their group, holding the moonlantern, keeping an eye out as best she can. Lest any of them be pulled into the darkness by shadows or the undead or cultists.

Though she won't admit it to anyone, her entire body is humming with nervous energy. Even the tips of her fingers feel her nerves sparkling through her limbs, as if her access to the weave is sparking, ready to let spells fly.

If she lets her guard down, even for a second…

“Rolan?” Astarion's voice calls out to shatter her uneasy focus.

Her eyes dart to the elf, staring down at the bottom of the hill where a tall shadowy figure towers over the tiefling wizard. 

“I knew the tiefling was a fool, but this?” he says before glancing Dolyn's way.

When their eyes meet, she doesn't know how to hide the fear that has crept up onto her face. The shadows they've heard of are manifest, corporeal and foreboding. No wonder the Harpers had warned them on their way out.

And there she is with the only lantern holding those haunted figures at bay. 

She can't possibly hold them all off with this light. 

Her eyes drop to the ground to find an odd sphere. It smokes and glows like the end of a campfire made of necrotic energy. 

An overwhelming sense of dark melancholy fills her chest. She gets the sense of a life, a memory filling her mind. She's frozen. Her limbs are lead. Her fingers are clutching the lantern.

In the corner of her eye, there's a blur of shadow. The distinct sound of something sharp plunging through the darkness follows.

The crippling cold drop of dread in her stomach pulls her attention down the hill, afraid of what she'll see.

Her body's prickling, frozen and yet ready to strike, when she sees Astarion at the base of the hill, casually putting away his blade. A sphere sits at his feet, fresh smoke rising up to meet him.

“Gods damn it all. I can do nothing right - not a damn thing,” Rolan complains the moment that he's safe.

Dolyn swallows the thick feeling in her throat and quickly surveys the others. Shadowheart and Karlach seems more surprised that Astarion jumped into action. Lae’zel has already begun her way down the hill and Gale and Wyll each share a look before each checking she's okay with a glance.

Clearing her throat, she nods for them to go forward.

The fuck was she thinking. Getting caught up staring at a sphere isn't going to help anyone. She's better than that.

Hells, any of them could have died and she'd be staring here all the same.

Astarion's frustrated voice cuts through the noise, “You're supposed to be at Last Light.”

Rolan responds in kind. The two of them a strange bitter pair.

Whatever spurned Astarion to save the wizard doesn't matter. She's just thankful that he did. Though the second Astarion and Rolan start accusations and demands for gratitude that's the second she knows she needs to jump in.

But Rolan storms past her with a grimace when she finally goes to move.

She wasn't needed after all.

Maybe she really is out of her depth.

── ☆ ──

The Mason House is a mixture of old marble and stone, littered around in the yard and interior like work had been halted suddenly. In Astarion's words they were clearly artists based on the mess.

Dolyn could hardly disagree. Though the odd hint of sulphur in the air is not something she'd never known to be used by masons. Blacksmiths perhaps, but never has a stone smelled like smoke.

The infernal iron they find to Karlach's delight may explain it. Such a key find being so easily found gives them all a little hope. 

That is until Dolyn hears a call in the distance.

The voice is terrified, strained, calling out for someone they clearly miss. The sense of loss sits heavy in their tone.

As Dolyn steps out the side door, she hears the voice clear across the screams of darkness.

A child.

A little girl.

Lost to the depths of the shadows and calling for help.

“Answer me please!”

She sprints before she can think better of it. She won't be frozen again.

Not for a child.

Not for a small girl left to fight for herself.

“Hello? Pops? Are you out there?” calls the voice with increasing desperation. “Please, please, please be all right…”

The lantern in her hand clangs and the light shifts violently as her feet hit the ground.

Behind her, she hears her name yelled after her. Groans and curses follow her heels but she can't dare to look back.

The child's voice screams out again, “Mum, pops, can you hear me?”

The familiarity of it hits her the second she reaches the gates and the eyes of the girl meet hers, wide and glowing in the darkness.

“Arabella? Are you okay?” Dolyn asks, unable to stop the frantic nerves in her voice.

As she raises her hand to comfort the girl, shadows rise from the foliage, towering above the girl and closing in.

More darkness to fight off.

But Arabella moves quicker than Dolyn can. She mutters a phrase, curls her fingers and twists her wrists with a select few words, and vine sprout from the ground with impeccable speed. Brighter than another other plant around them, they capture the shadows and hold them firm in place.

Breathless, the once scared tiefling holds herself confidently, catching her breath from the sudden show of magic. She apologises, bent over for a moment with an explanation that casting an entangle spell knocks the wind out of her.

Dolyn can't say she's not impressed, and a little proud. Perhaps the magic of the Grove has rubbed off on her after all and she'll be a druid before she knows it.

“I'm not surprised!” she laughs, partly at the sheer joy at the girl's skill. “That much magic at your age? You might hurt yourself if it's that wild.”

Arabella disagrees and explains the extent of her powers. 

As she talks, Wyll appears by her side, smile warm but cautious. He glances over to the others where Shadowheart is healing Gale and Astarion is letting out a higher pitched complaint about being attacked by the curse. 

She meets Wyll's eyes with a silent apology. Apparently leaving them so quickly meant the loss of the protection of the moonlantern.

Arabella seems otherwise proud of her new found powers, claiming to have developed following the theft of the idol. Though if that were completely true, surely Dolyn and the others would be affected too. There must be more to it, but that's a conversation for another time.

“I heard you calling. What are you doing out here?” she asks and steps closer. “It's not safe.” Her head makes a pointed nod to her much older, much more capable companions patching themselves up.

It's a wonder the girl has survived on her own for so long, and for so long without a moonlantern. She confirms as much as she speaks of running away and continuing to run with all of the hope that she’ll have the key to finding her parents.

Dolyn glances at Wyll who nods in agreement. “I'll find your parents. What matters is that you're safe.”

“Thanks, miss. I knew you’d help me again!” Arabella's face lights up with a genuine smile.

Dolyn's sure she can feel a literal tug on her heartstrings. Just the idea of keeping this little girl safe means so much. Enough that she'll need to unpack that later.

That a girl lost without her parents in the darkness feels so close to home.

“I don’t - I don’t s’pose I can stay with you?”

The question cuts through Dolyn's train of thought and she finds herself standing there only half catching what's being said. She gulps and blinks to clear her mind.

Thankfully Arabella doesn't notice.

“Just ‘til you find mum and pops. I won’t be any trouble, I swear it!”

That sweet innocence in her face is a welcome brightness in such a dark and barren place. Like the other children in Baldur's Gate.

Dolyn kneels down, hand reaching out in offering. “Of course, sweetheart. You are always welcome.”

Checking through her companions, she hates to admit that she's questioning which would be best to guide Arabella there. She's not about to risk the poor girl heading off her own, even with magic at her fingertips.

Shadowheart, Astarion, and Lae’zel are not the most child-friendly of individuals even on a good day. Hells, she's sure Astarion would just as easily fob her off if he desired.

Shadowheart's affinity with the shadow curse provides a clear advantage.

Karlach would be the most fierce protector, but that in turn is just a good of a reason to keep her close. Though she might lose focus if a certain cambion appears or her fun-loving nature gets the best of her. That's not forgetting she would not be able to touch the child if the situation required.

Gale's magic would be useful, but he would not be able to resist interrogating the girl to the point she may forgo magic altogether. Even the kindest of wizards have certain unfavourable thoughts about innate magic casters.

Then Wyll, having known the girl and her parents, would be the perfect solution, but Dolyn needs him to find Arabella's parents.

“Lae’zel!” she calls out as Arabella takes her hand. Dolyn tugs the girl into her side for a quick hug. 

The githyanki appears with a nod. The questioning of Dolyn's choice is clear in her eyes.

“You and Karlach take Arabella back to camp. Stay there, make sure she's fed,” she says with a soft pat on the girl's back, releasing her with a smile.

The implication to protect her remains unspoken.

Arabella's face brightens. “Aw, thanks - you’re the best.” She twirls back after only a few steps after her chaperones. “You send mum and pops there . I’ll be waiting, hero-lady!”

As she stands, Dolyn can feel the smile on her face wane. The chances of both her parents being out hear after the cultists attack are slim.

Wyll echoes her thoughts aloud. “It would take a miracle for Arabella's mother and father to survive out here.” He offers a smile, in that perfectly princely optimism of his. “Lucky for us, we've got a knack for miracles.”

“I think you've been drinking too much wine, Wyll,” Dolyn snorts with a shake of her head.

He clears his throat. “Wine has nothing to do with it, but with time being of the essence, let's reunite the girl with her parents. She deserves that much.”

Maybe he's said it for her benefit. Given what she's said about her own family, Dolyn would find it difficult to not consider the furtive glances to be concern about her.

All she can say is “Yes, yes she does.”

── ☆ ──

The room is littered with forgotten toys. Blocks, a teddy bear, and even an odd instrument or two. All of it lays abandoned amongst the tiny beds in the old children's ward of the House of Healing. Long left to rot, the floorboards creak with years of water damage and decay.

It is there, quite tragically, they find what they were looking for.

The sight of two familiar tieflings lie across a child size bed. They barely fit, but the need for comfort appears to have long left their bodies, even despite the effort the present nurse puts in.

“Why are you treating a dead body?” Dolyn steps forward to ask. 

Wyll beside her confirms quietly that the man they're all looking at is indeed Arabella's father. And Dolyn would never forget the face of the woman who gifted her a magical locket. What a sweet and precious gift it had been so an action so characteristically easy for her to make.

Yet despite her pointed question, the nurse corrects her, “Not dead, merely mediated.” Her face is mostly hidden beneath her habit, a Sister of this dark place, the lace framing her blue sallow skin. “To ease the pain.”

If this is what they look like ‘medicated’, the very idea of what they looked before is beyond the horrors her mind can conjure. She hesitates at first before fully given into the urge to be sure. If they are truly dead, she needs to know, and with a small nudge, she feels the cold to their skin, the stiff rigor of their muscles. 

She knows that feeling of death well.

The Sister however takes the movement as poor of her twisted delusion. She rushes to their side, continuing to treat them as if they stand a chance.

Who knows how long they have been here waiting for help? Whether they were mortally injured or brought to death by the concoction they were given.

Either way, she has only bad news to bring back to camp.

── ☆ ──

The roof feels safe.

Away from everything.

The horizon might be an endless curse of darkness but at least she's free of the horrors she just witnessed.

A poor girl's dead parents. A man tortured to death. The hideous mutation of nurses once devoted to healing.

And the brother of the immortal man they're on a journey to make bleed, who enjoys the pleasure of inflicting ghastly wounds. Or at least he did before they all killed him in his own operating room.

She can't say she's ever seen so much blood.

The so-called House of Healing reeks of it, coagulated and dry, smeared and dripping. It's across every floor, every wall, stored in jars and syringes. The sheer number of horrors that must have been committed to make them all.

The moment that horrific monster of a man fell, she ran.

Damn the curse. She'll be safer far away from sight where she needn't explain the sheer overwhelm.

And yet when she passed the lantern to Gale, muttered an apology, and took off, the curse doesn't hit as bad as she thought. Or perhaps she's simply not far enough away from the lantern as they'd have her believe.

She sits further down from two skeletons, people who once had the same idea of escaping from the world below. They lay there, in death, cosied up on a blanket. The sight of them makes her eyes sting.

But she's not going to let it blind her.

Curling up with knees up to her chin, she clings to a book she'd found on the way here. Bounded in a stained leather, the pages are worn and well-loved. The print on the side reads “The Way of the Wanderer” like some kind of poetic jab at her.

She reads it, first in her head and then as a whisper as she struggles to not feel the words speaking to her.

“How to convey that which I know, deep within myself, to be true? Would that I could bring each of you reading these words into this head of mine, this heart of mine, feeling as one. Perhaps then I could speak what words fail to describe.”

She sighs and pauses as a haunting scream shatters the silence in the distance. It is all one breath, one chaotic sigh at the hurt of the land. Once she might have mourned for it. Once when she was more of a wood elf like her parents.

Her voice creaks when she continues, eyes beginning to water. “That home isn't home unless you're far from home. That love isn't love unless it unleashes you. That the sky is infinitely big as long as you can--” 

“I did wonder where you went,” Astarion announces out of nowhere.

The book slams shut. Her body immediately curls in further on itself, muscles tensing from the shock of his presence.

She can't look at him. It takes every last bit of energy to hold back her tears and reply with a steady tone. “I needed some breathing room.”

He moves then, louder steps than before, likely for her benefit, and sits beside her. He stares out in the same direction she faces, matching her faux-interest in the landscape around them. There's truly nothing but further dread and horror before them, an overwhelming picture of what has passed and what is to come.

When she glances to her side, however, she sees he is only truly looking at her. Though never long enough that she can hold his gaze.

His silence is a rare gem, a gift for her to take. And she does, fingers closing around the book's spine.

“That was… awful,” she manages. “Arabella’s parents… how badly were they hurt?”

She has to stop to not let herself fully fall apart. What dangers could she put them all in if she isn't all here. How she feels isn't important right now.

But Arabella...

“I don’t know how I’m going to tell her,” she admits and the dam holding her tone level breaks.

Astarion remains so still that it hurts, but his voice is soft when he asks, “Arabella?”

“That poor girl… I said I would find her parents but I didn't mean like this… she'll be devastated…” 

Dolyn throws the book aside and hugs her knees. Everything aches, everything hurts.

“That poor girl is going to be alone… that man down there he… we could have done something… all those tieflings… and the children…”

A tear rolls down her cheek. The sensation feels welcome for just a moment before her throat begins to ache. She's trying to hold back, to keep it all together. None of them have seen her cry. It's so much and there's so much more to do.

“H-how do you tell someone that someone they love is g-gone?” Her voice is shaking now but she's lost the will to care.

Instead she turns to Astarion whose eyebrows are raised in surprise or worry or fear. She can't really tell right now as the emotion rises up to flood her mind. But he's here, much to her surprise. He's hearing her out and there's a lot to be said for that that she can't even begin to articulate.

Her arms release from their grip around her knees so she can hold herself up. She finds herself gesturing with them instead. Her body moves on its own, the need to express the bubbling grief in her soul taking her with it through motion.

“She might be on her own, alone, without anyone, not truly.” The words keep tumbling out of her mouth and where she would normally feel shame she can't feel anything but... numb? Lost? Confused? Astarion is but a captive audience to hear her pain.

“I don't think I'm strong enough to tell her. I don't think I--”

Astarion catches one of her hands before it's about to strike down against the roof.

She freezes while her tears keep falling and trailing down her cheeks. He's captured her attention and holds it so gently she may cry for that alone.

“I did miss that face, you know,” he purrs with that charm of his. Only this time it isn't thick with suggestion. Perhaps even a little bit genuine.

He continues, “There's nothing that says you need to tell her. Let one of the others handle it.” His grip on her wrist lessens while his other spin like it's capturing ideas from the air. “I'm sure even Gale could handle that news with the delicacy it requires.”

“But I said--”

“That you'd find them. Nothing more than that.”

“She deserves--”

“And? What, pray tell, do you deserve?” he asks with a challenge. He releases her wrist and shuffles closer. “The way I see it, there is nothing requiring that you subject yourself to that.”

Dolyn bites her lip. He has a point. Though she is bitter that it has come from a place of self-serving. “I was so lost before Duck found me. I didn't know what to do with myself. And I didn't after he was gone.” Her voice breaks when she admits it. Oh, she hasn't admitted anything like this in decades.

“Are you really going to give credit to a dead man?” Astarion teases, his voice surprisingly lithe while his face is softer, almost kind. The sight of his eyes so open and honest has part of her reeling.

“Maybe I shouldn't give you credit either, as you are also technically a dead man,” she snaps back with a bitter sob.

“You wound me," he clutches his chest with all the drama and flare of their earliest interactions. "If I had known I'd receive such jabs I would have stayed down there. Or not told the others to hold off.”

Dolyn laughs, truly, mirthfully. It almost hurts.

Then her tongue runs across her lips as an idea occurs to her, or perhaps impulse would be more precise. The words come out of her mouth with painfully honest urgency. “Do you think I could ask something of you?”

Slyly, Astarion tilts his head, smirk on the edge of his lips, “Oh, are you asking for favours?”

“I'm serious.” Her heart picks up speed and all sound around her feels like silence but for his voice.

He retorts in turn with the smallest shimmy of his shoulder. “Fine.”

Dolyn's heart is already racing, but it leaps into a thunderous gallop when she swiftly throws a leg over Astarion's lap and straddles him. Her knees press into the hard tile of the roof while her hands find his shoulders.

His beautiful red eyes are wide, open, and stunned. His voice rises close to an octave. “You really did mean you were serious.”

“Please,” she begs, tears still in her eyes, capturing his gaze as best she can while the flood of failure and shame take hold.

“Take me. Drain me. Make me feel anything but this.”

Chapter Text

“Take me. Drain me. Make me feel anything but this.”

All sound fades beneath Dolyn's heartbeat and the deafening silence between her and Astarion. Her desperate begging hangs in the air as she holds perfectly still. 

She gulps, swallowing the building shame that blisters in her cheeks. The idea of asking him of all people shows a clear leave of her better judgement. She knows so much better, could have asked for anything else. But there's no devotee of Loviator and no pleasure house in sight to quash this feeling.

If he says no, then it's likely for the best. She can deny the urge to distract herself well enough. She'll simply write out more spells and study the books they've found. Maybe cast some beneficial magic.

If he says yes though… if he gives her what she wants, what she needs… she won't know what to do with that. Perhaps deep down she wants him to dismiss her, save her the trouble of wondering.

Clearly he's as shocked at her desperation as she is, lips parted, eyebrows raised. A hint of a smirk shows on his face as the mask drops into place. 

They are alone after all.

She's never asked him for anything like this.

He could very well feel like he cannot say no.

He might just say whatever he thinks she wants to hear. Rather than the more vulnerable truth.

If only she--

“Uh… not to disturb you both!” Gale’s voice cuts through the air, voice higher than normal with an air of fluster and embarrassment.

She stands corrected. They're very much not alone.

Dolyn immediately pulls back like a skittish animal, searching for the source of Gale's voice. Only when she peers back to the way they came does she see the hint of moonlantern light cast across the tiles. Whoever holds the lanterns is standing in the door-like gap of the House of Healing roof.

“Did you know they were here?” she asks Astarion in an urgent hushed whisper. 

The world feels like it's spinning and she's falling through the ground, or rather she wishes she was. Who knows what part of her breakdown they heard.

“If you are going to insist on your current locale for… your proclivities , may I suggest back at camp?” Gale manages in his typical way to make the embarrassment worse. “Or at the very least, let us go back so you can hold the lantern yourselves?”

“Uh, one sec,” Dolyn calls back and immediately throws herself off Astarion. 

Her face falls into her hands and it's only then that she realises she hasn't been able to look Astarion in the eye. When she peeks through her fingers, he's squinting in thought and tilting his head.

“I did have some inkling they'd be standing there,” he admits, glancing briefly over towards Gale. Then his face changes to an amused satisfaction, “Had no idea you were an exhibitionist, darling, we could have had so much more fun.”

She throws a glare his way, hands falling to her lap, and huffs, “I wouldn't have… I…” With a sigh she realises that if she knew Gale was standing over there she would have never tried to distract herself through Astarion in the first place.

“I really don't want to have to listen to your foreplay again,” the voice of Shadowheart follows, stern and somehow also chirpy and sweet. “And I don't even need the lantern.”

“Ugh!” Dolyn groans and rushes over to the hole in the wall. There could have been any number of ways that this could have gone and this is the last one she would want.

The three of her remaining companions are standing huddled in the odd attic space, awkwardly positioned like they were staying on guard, just out of sight. Dolyn would feel flattered they'd stayed so close if she hadn't specifically run off and then bared her soul for everyone to hear.

Shadowheart's face is the first she sees. Her eyes shine with amusement while her lips purse in judgement, arms crossing over her chest. Beside her, Wyll looks positively sheepish and apologetic. He stands the furthest back like she's been trying to give her the privacy she desires.

Gale meanwhile is huffing, lantern thrust out towards her the moment he sees her. He's flushed and avoids looking her in the eye. “Take it.”

“Do you have a way back?” she immediately asks, concerned. Her hands wave through the air in front of her nervously, trying to dismiss whatever they're thinking about her. “I don't know what you heard but I wasn't planning… I hadn't… I didn't know you were here. Promise .”

Shadowheart winks. “We know.”

“Did you hear--”

“Whatever it is we heard, we will forget it,” Wyll assures, ever the calm voice of reason and diplomacy. Clearly not just for her benefit. “Isn't that right?”

His hands land on both Shadowheart and Gale's shoulders. Each nod in their own way.

As much as they're trying to assure her, she still feels uneasy. She has always planned everything when it came to her sharing the deepest parts of herself, lest someone know her true weaknesses, but she had no choice here.

“Okay,” she breathes, “If you're sure? I just need to--”

Gale clears his throat, pulling back from Wyll who is trying to guide them all away. “A simple jump to Last Light and we’ll head to camp from there. No need to worry about us.” He pushes the lantern into her hands before letting Wyll pull him away.

Shadowheart hangs back with enough insistence that Wyll sighs and gives up. She leans closer with a soft smile. No doubt she's ready to crow with amusement. 

“If you do need to talk, I do have ears, you know.” She levels her gaze, hidden implications in her words. “But if you insist on your choice of confidant, then I can only suggest that you be as honest as you can while you have the time.”

With a sly smile, she moves to lean out to spy Astarion. He sits leaning back onto his hands, face scrunched up at the inconvenience of being there and waiting for their conversation to end.

“Enjoy your night,” Shadowheart wishes in parting. Her braid sways with the sudden spring in her step.

Dolyn will be interrogated later. She can be sure of that.

Astarion, however, is something she's yet to quantify. He's simply waiting for her on the roof, actually patient. Even in the limited light it glides over his features like moonlight over clouds, delicate and infinitely beautiful. She'd give anything to touch him, and for him to want that.

When she finally hears the others leave, she takes a few steps back to him. Her fingers clutch the lantern to stop herself from shaking.

“So, um, you can forget what I asked,” she mutters just loud enough for him to hear. “We can go inside. I'm going to look at some of the books in there.”

Astarion's raises an eyebrow then both his eyes narrow, suspicion clear. “Just like that? Completely… done?”

She closes her eyes and turns, struggling to push down the humiliation of the last however many seconds. She's stuck now. Either she clears up and heads back to camp, running like a dog with its tail between its legs, or she stays and all of camp gossips about why they've taken so long. All conjecture based on what she thinks they might have heard.

It's not like they haven't heard them before, but even she knows this isn't the time or the place. How is she worth the attention that she craves? Why is she worth that attention from him ? Why here and now when everything else is calling for their help? What is a little suffering when the world’s on fire?

“ Hello ?” Astarion calls from right behind her. His presence being so suddenly near fixes her to the spot. “Now despite my many skills, mind reading is not one of them? Do tell me what’s going through your head. You're not having regrets now, are you, darling?” His voice is cautious, perhaps even a little calculated, trying to work out the doubts clouding her mind that even she doesn’t understand.

She clears her throat and nods towards the hole in the wall before she leads him through. Words aren’t finding their way into her mouth, not while they're buzzing around her brain.

Instead he follows her across the attic, but beats her across the gap with a swift leap. His feet hit the metal so softly she has to take a moment to smile. 

The face that greets her on the other side is one of sharp eyes and a stern expression. Astarion's hunched and poised over the gap, hand extended towards her. 

“Are you really going to play the helpful rogue?” she scoffs with a bitter laugh. She can't escape his eyes this time and all she sees is how guarded he is.

He clenches his jaw. “I don't trust you to jump the gap, or for the others to believe I wasn't responsible if you fall.”

Stubbornly, she makes the jump herself, landing with unsteady feet. Astarion's hand grabs her arm before she can topple in any direction, quicker than she can pull away. His concern is rather unlike him.

“You can let go,” she says softly.

His hand releases, fingers flexing before they fall to his side. “Lead on.”

The room they enter is filled with shelves upon shelves of books with more still laid across desks and tables. It would appear like any kind of wizard’s tower if not for the metal grates surrounding the central pillar. They cover most of the floor except for a circle of wood panelled floors leading around by the glassless windows, all serving as glimpses into the darkness beyond.

If not for the teal light of the shadowroot sacs of the trees erupting through the floor and a strangely still burning candle, there is very little illuminating the space. Somehow the House of Healing offers some protection from the curse outside. Moonlantern or not.

“What did you mean before?” Astarion asks as she settles the lantern and her gear on one of the desks and he closes the door behind them.

She shrugs, “Moment of weakness I guess.”

It's a bad lie, but she's not trying to lie well.

He clicks his tongue in thought. “Your moment of weakness is jumping onto my lap?”

“It's a good lap?” she offers with a laugh and meets his eyes again to see a smirk taking to his face. He does always enjoy the gift of a compliment, regardless of the packaging.

She pulls out her spell book and begins flipping through the pages. A nice glowing spell would be perfect lighting if she's to settle here. The time will allow her to refresh her mind and her thoughts, privately, or at least as privately as she can with Astarion present.

“And is this…” he gestures at the way she walks towards the platform by the door, “what you had in mind when you said take me ?” He mocks with a version of her voice, higher pitched, breathy and desperate. 

Hells, she hopes she didn't sound like that. Like a harlot begging for release. Like a bitch in heat. Even in the city's filthiest brothels she's never been so outwardly desperate.

She starts casting a ward into the floorboards, magic swirling around her in an orange glow. Lines dance across the woodgrain, first in a circle and then in interconnecting lines. 

“It isn't,” she answers as matter-of-fact as she can. “But you know that. I was just…” she lets the words trail off in favour of finishing her spell.

As the lines finish, the sigil brightly glows, casting light up to the ceiling. Warm orange light of a fire ward, designed to immolate an enemy upon contact. It's not a thunder ward this time, but the same risk of a threat setting it off exists.

Thankfully they're far enough away for nothing to trigger it. That leaves the beautiful work of magic art to function as a light that can't be snuffed out.

“Just what?” Astarion persists. He stalks over, offering candles from his pack. “Might not last long but since you're… creating a fire hazard…”

Dolyn chuckles and takes them with a small bow of gratitude. The candles may very well not last, but placed around into the sigil they add just a little more light to a gloomy space. Tucked away from the cold green sickly glow of the trees, the spot is almost cosy. If not also appearing like a hellish summoning circle.

“I didn't take you as one to recognise these kinds of markings, Astarion,” she muses.

He kicks at the glowing light on the floor. “Some things about me may surprise you. But in this case, orange glow means ‘fire can erupt at any moment’ is not that hard to figure out.”

“Fair.”

Rifling through the rest of her pack and his, she grabs out two bed rolls and unfurls them in the centre of the circle. With it she dumps out a handful of her books beside them and a bottle of wine just in case. It's enough that she can settle here and truly recover from the events of the day.

Astarion wanders around her setup at first, while she settles onto one of the bedrolls. “You tell me to forget but this looks like an attempt to charm me.” He joins her, leaning so close they're touching. “Is this a renewed approach to seduce me?”

He certainly knows how to press her buttons, and in her current state, she would gladly take that from him. Gods, she would take him anywhere right now if it meant the mindless pleasure he could offer. If he's not going to let it go, how does she have any hope of pushing past it?

She wets her lips and leans her shoulder against him. He's so close she could bridge the gap to kiss him. “Do you want me to seduce you? Has anyone ever seduced you before?”

She can't forget the look in his eyes when she jumped him. Surely he's met someone with that level of enthusiasm, though perhaps not after being so teary. He's a beautiful man that bards would sing songs about it they didn't already. 

Though when he’s spent so many years finding lovers as prey, how could he ever tell that they wanted him ? Beyond his appearance alone.

“I have standards,” he affirms with an amusing air of confidence. “Plenty have tried.”

She searches his face but can't tell if he's lying. Everything he's said about Cazador suggests he never had any choice in his partners. But she's not about to challenge whatever he needs to say or believe.

“That's not what I asked,” she chuckles and leans further into his space. That feeling of desperation crawling up her back again. She wants to feel something beyond loss.

Searching through her pack, she finds something she's kept on hand just in case. She had only intended for it to be used in the case of emergencies but this seems like a deserving moment if there ever is one.

Astarion's still here. He keeps asking. She can't let this opportunity go, not while it's right in her hands. His presence and his questions have kept her from crying further.

Before she can think further she shoves the scroll into Astarion's hands. “If… if you… if you are amenable to the favour I asked for, then you can keep this aside.” 

Astarion peers down, unrolls the scroll, and immediately his eyebrows rise before he squints, trying to read her face.

“When I said drain me,” she pauses to gulp and focus. Her body is already on edge just at the thought of what may happen. “I meant it. That revivify scroll means you won't have to hold back.”

Her heart is beating steadily but her breath is short. He could kiss her now and she'd be gasping for air. Heat is now pooling between her legs. She is beyond wet at even suggesting the idea to him again, basked in the warm glow of her own magic.

It's perhaps one of the most difficult parts of their travels. In the past, when she needed to be grounded, to push through the shakes and the tears, she would find someone she could trust to give her pleasure or pain to set her free. She feels naked and exposed just asking him for something so raw.

“You're suggesting…” Astarion opens his mouth and closes it, placing the scrolls aside.

Before he can say more she crawls back into his lap, knees bent and legs spread to settle as close to his crotch as she can. “That you make use of me. A simple exchange. You get something you want and I get something I want. Like this has always been, right?”

An odd look passes over Astarion's face before he smiles, too perfect. “Of course, but what do I get from you? Other than another night of pleasure?”

“Oh, well…” she trails off, unsure of what she has of value. That same doubt is sinking in because he's so focused on sex, and has always seemed to lead on the subject. “You could just drain me? Bite wherever you please? It doesn't have to be sex.”

Astarion tilts his head and laughs, disbelieving. “Really? And with how enthusiastic you are, you wouldn’t be disappointed?” One of his hands curves around her waist.

She pushes playfully at his chest. “You're good but not too good to miss out on. Besides, I have hands, mage hand, an imagination.” She gazes thoughtfully upwards with a smirk. “I could even ask someone else at camp.”

He scoffs but eyes scanning over her for a sign of truth. “Now that is going too far.”

“Is it?” she challenges with a bite to her lip, feeling spurred on by what she assumes is just a hint of his jealousy. “Would you rather watch me then? Or do you want me to try seducing the beautiful elven vampire?”

Before he can answer, she dives forward to kiss at his neck. She tastes his skin, lips pressed gently before trailing up to his jaw. She can feel him melt beneath each one.

“Hah--” he laughs breathily, “never thought I would see you get so aggressive.”

She hums against his skin, letting him feel her smile and every word between lavished kisses. “Oh this is hardly aggressive, sunshine , but I don't think you're ready for that.” 

“S-sunshine?” he asks in a shaky whisper.

Pulling back to see his face, Dolyn catches her breath and finds her lips hovering right before his. Up close there's little he can hide. His beautiful red eyes are wide and soft, glossy with the surprise of her endearment. His eyes flash with a mixture of shock, delight, and want. 

She can only agree, knowing full well she had simply said a casual cheeky insult off-hand. “Mhmm.”

Astarion straightens his back, trying to compose himself again. “You think I can't handle you, sweetheart ?”

Oh she was getting to him. Perfect. Somehow this setting, surrounded by magic of her own making, lit firelight caught in the floorboards, creates a moment perfect for getting at him. The warm touch of light illuminates their bodies as they face one another.

Whatever happens, she wants to make the most of it.

She mirrors one of his smirks, feeling the mask she so often wears melting away. She can be herself, here, alone, without judgement. “I'm not some inexperienced welp. I've had plenty of lovers.”

He raises an eyebrow and touches his chest. “O-oh? I bet none of them have been as heartbreakingly beautiful as me.”

She indulges him by drinking in the sight of him and pursing her lips. “None.”

There’s a spark in his eyes. “And were any of them as good as me?”

She tilts her head, choosing to taunt him just a little more. “Maybe even better.”

The hand at her waist digs in to hold her. “Can't have that.”

Dolyn hums and pushes into his touch, laying her fingertips on his chest. “No, probably not. Especially when I've only screamed your name once ?” She has no idea how many times, but a cheeky lie can be a good one.

His other hand not gripping onto her disappears to unsheath one of his daggers. He makes a show of flipping and twisting the blade in his hand. The dexterity of his fingers work expertly to layer on his playful threat, “I think I might kill you tonight.” He glances over his shoulder at the discarded revivify scroll.

It’s not the first time that she’s been threatened by a blade, even beyond his initial meeting with her. After all, he doesn’t truly know her yet and what she’s done to survive. Especially when there is so much she’s yet to share.

She leans closer still, hand clawing into his leather armour. “And which of us will come first?” 

“Both if you're good.” The implication of what that means hangs thickly in the air between them.

“Good as in behaving or good in--” she begins with a chuckle and stops as the spine of a blade presses against her thigh. “Oh.”

Though the tip rests pointed away, the threat remains unspoken. He has her complete and undivided attention as she holds his darkening gaze. The knife moves across her leg to adjust her robe, moving the fabric aside to reveal her tights beneath. A choice she now regrets.

She swallows as her chest rises and falls slowly, despite the confused syncopation of her heartbeat. She is both suddenly pale and on edge as she is flushed at the promise of his endearment. She never would have guessed he’d be so forward, nor that a vampire would produce such a sharp implement when his fangs would work just as nicely.

“You said take you, right?” he hums, brandishing the knife, tilting the handle to run the blade across her tights towards her centre. 

The blade is sharp, freshly cleaned, and as it hisses across her leg, the fabric gives way, splitting across to reveal her skin. She bites her lip as he gets a little too close and nicks her inner thigh. Blood blooms from the cut, but not enough to spill.

“Yes” is all she can say. She’s frozen and all but helpless to watch it unfold.

Astarion repeats the cut across the other leg and makes light work of splitting the middle seam that runs up her stomach. His fingers finish the job, sharp fingernails tearing through weakening fabric, splitting the tights in two. Her underwear now fully exposed.

“Then let me take these down,” he muses without her input. His fingers seem to delight in grabbing the fabric to roughly tug it down to her knees before placing the blade between her legs to cut the last remaining connection.

Dolyn finally exhales, eyes fixated on his blade, “I'm going to need new tights.”

“Do you really?” He plucks at the tattered fabric at her knees and it snaps weakly. “You weren't wearing them often were you… and these…?”

She follows her gaze up her thighs as his free hand slides up to brush aside her robes. His fingers only stop at the hem of her underwear.

“You're not…” she starts with a shake of her head, body resisting the urge to buck, to press into him more. If not for the blade she would be, but now he’s sliding the sharp tip under the side.

If she wasn’t wet before, she is thoroughly soaked now. Everything is on edge, every nerve, every beat of her heart, every sensation in her body. He knows exactly what he’s doing and she has no composure left to leave him with any doubt of what it’s doing to her.

The blade then cuts through in a quick snap of his wrist.

“Oh fuck ,” Dolyn gasps, eyes blinking like she’s falling into a dream that’s not real.

Astarion tosses the blade over to his other hand which snatches it out of the air with lithe precision. He leans in, pressing himself against her at every point of contact. She can feel the knife sliding under the other side without him even looking.

When the blade stops, he growls in her ear, “Are you dripping ? Who knew you were so debauched?”

His tease brings her back into herself, if only briefly, to snap at him, weakly, “You can talk.”

He meets her eyes, which carry the same charming, dangerous energy as his smile. He challenges her with it before cutting the other side with a sudden flick of the dagger and asking, “Can you?” The sound of the dagger falling to the bedroll follows.

She’s about to answer him when she feels his hand slipping between her legs, fingers cupping her mound. If she had any doubt of how wet she is, she can feel it as his fingers curl and press up against her. 

He looks triumphant, drawing an indulgent moan out of her as he pointedly presses her underwear into her cunt as far as the fabric would allow. 

Though it doesn't last. He claws into the fabric and snatches it away, the slashed sides no longer keeping her covered. He throws her useless underwear aside with a self-satisfied hum.

Exposed, positively drenched, she needs to do something to feel connected to him. On pure instinct she dives forward, hands landing on his chest and tracing up to explore his shoulders as she brings her lips to his neck. In her state, she indulges, sucking hard enough to bruise, moaning against his body before he's really done anything to her.

She speaks aloud when the rumble of his laughter reaches her, “Maybe I should bite you.”

“Oh?” His hand grabs her hair, fingers tangling through to the back of her head, and he tugs. Her head moves with him, exposing her neck just in time for him to sink his teeth in. An action seemingly powered by spite.

The cold familiar chill hits and she can swear she can feel his gloating smile.

“ Fuck . So unfair,” she cries out, tugging at his hair just enough to get back at him without removing him completely. 

He responds with a growl, loosening his grip on her hair. Blood trickles down as he feeds, only for him to lap and kiss the blood he let spill in his ravenous attention.

He then firmly places his hands on her ass and drags her up his lap to run his bulge against her bared cunt. The rough touch of his pants has her whimpering, helplessly sensitive. 

Once again Astarion has her weak, partially exposed, in beautiful blissful pain. Bathed in sunset-like colour, she feels so vulnerable and raw and yet she’s practically fully dressed. Her fingers claw so weakly into his shoulders, hands slipping down in her overwhelm.

But Astarion gives her a moment of reprieve. He pulls back, almost breathless, blood smeared over his lips, pupils widening when his eyes settle on her again. They're the largest she's seen them. It might even be the first time she's truly looked into his eyes right after he's fed on her, as far as she can remember.

It's the most engaged in one of their trysts that he's been.

Her thoughts fall out of her mouth as one question, “How do you want to fuck me?”

He huffs a dark laugh before he dives back in to feed. By now blood must have drenched her robes. She'll be lucky to get the stain out at this rate. The state of her clothes seems the last thing on his mind.

Astarion fumbles at loosening his pants, growling his impatience and frustration into her neck. He's struggling to get anywhere, lost to the taste of her.

Dolyn wets her lips before she helps him. Her own hands move his out of the way, eyes glancing down as best she can as his fangs find a new fresh point to puncture and her body quivers.

Perhaps it's her own impatience or the way his hips start to rock up against her attempts, but she's not any quicker. The sheer fact that the taut bulge of his pants is as hard as it is makes for more than enough distraction every time it brushes against her hands, making her task excruciatingly slow.

But she does manage.

As she sighs at her success, Astarion withdraws from her neck once again with a satisfied huff and the wet smack of his lips. Blood is smeared across his bottom lip and part of his chin. 

Her hands find his waist when he grabs her thighs and thrusts them both closer to one another. Deliberately and painstakingly slowly, he moves until the tip of his cock brushes against her clit.

“Y-you still haven't answered,” she accuses.

He shifts her forward further in response, leaving her to throw her arms around him and cling on. 

He finally speaks when he has her poised over his crotch and rubbing through her folds. “So many options.”

Her voice rasps with need. “We have all night.”

“Show me all that experience then.” Astarion punctuates his tease by moving her and slides his cock against her until the tip catches at her entrance.

“Hah! Yes, darling.”

There’s a part of her that feels like she’s won for using his own term against him when he shudders and rests his forehead against hers. They're connected. In so many ways. For several seconds she doesn't know what she wants first. She could kiss him, hold him, fuck him absolutely senseless.

She settles for instinct.

Her hips move to slowly edge him in. She's so worked up it takes no time at all before she's moaning obscenely at how good it feels to have him fill her again. She can’t recall when she started thinking that way about him this way, or about anything of this.

Hells, even with his cock free and thrusting inch by inch deeper, he's still trapped in place by his pants. Their joint desperation only heightens the sensation as if the ward on the ground has sparked something else between them.

Astarion however simply watches her as she moves and not so gracefully fucks herself in his lap. It's so infuriating and frustrating and hot that her blood might just boil with a misplaced spell. Of course, even now, when she’s begged and moaned and teased, he’d try to ensure that he is the one that gets to watch the other fall apart.

He's biting and licking his lips, but barely a noise leaves his mouth as she does all the work. Smirking, she leans to kiss at his ears, nose brushing through his gorgeous silver-white curls. 

He trembles at the touch of her lips, the soft sound of her breath right in his ear as her hips continue to work his cock into her heat. It’s a little victory that she’ll take from him as many times as he lets her.

“Did you like that?” she whispers as she continues up his ear. Like so many other elves he’s just as susceptible to small gestures of affection, the gentle touch of heat to their pointed ears. It’s a wonder if he’s ever known this kind of touch before.

When he leans into her lips, she gives him lingering nibbles all the way back down to tease at his ear lobe. “And that?”

Astarion sighs blissfully but halts like she’s hit a nerve and curls his fingers into her side with a warning, “Careful.”

“Of what?”

In answer he digs his fingers into her side and slams her down onto his cock, thrusting up hard enough to force an obscene moan from her lips. She's louder than she can recall being. All traces of embarrassment and inhibition gone and lost to the sounds screaming outside. Her voice may even rival them. There is no one around for miles to hear her.

Blissfully helpless in his grasp, his name falls from her tongue in both praise and pleasure, eyes closing. “Astarion.” Perhaps she’s even praying.

“Yes?” he teases, “I thought you were showing me something.”

“Fuck you!” She cries and bucks her hips defiantly to make a point. Yet her determination shifts the second the pleasure of her movement ripples through her. The full length of him, the fabric of his pants, the leather of his armour, the very debased, desperate nature of it all.

He squeezes at her waist, the touch of his sharp pointed fingernails feels like claws at her side. He looks like he's won an argument they haven't truly started. “That was the gist, yes.”

She grabs his hair, curling her fingers in his locks, and tugs his head back so she can capture the moan on his lips. “Oh I'll fuck you, all right.” She’s not one to be bested.

Dolyn smirks as she deliberately rolls her hips, arching her back, driving through with the power of her thighs. She wants him to regret what he’s started, still dressed, and only able to enjoy her in the way that she allows.

Astarion throws his head back and chokes back a broken curse, “Gods!”

His face is exquisite in the glow. His eyes rolling back in his head and his lips parting around a gasp. All of it is her doing. The light touches him as another caress. Her magic has him basked in bewitching light that enhances the brutally alluring features he possesses. She may never be able to look at him in his armour the same.

Pride flushes through her body from cheeks to fingers, knowing that she has him so affected, enraptured with pleasure. She can only tease him further, “No gods here, handsome.”

Turning his attention back to her, he huffs a laugh and reaches up to brush at her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Where was this before?”

It’s such a peculiar gesture from him, sweet and gentle. His eyes are burning into hers, darkened with want and piqued curiosity. There's a smile on his lips that's almost fond. She can forget for a second that he's been out of every other time they've been together.

Except now.

He is so very much here with her.

“I didn't like you before,” she teases as she leans into his touch. His fingers feel so cold against the warmth of her cheek. Time passes so incredibly slowly as she finds herself frozen, never wanting the moment to end.

Then he stills, reading her face like she might have lied. “But you like me now?”

“I...”

The overwhelming urge to change the topic, divert to anything else, sinks deep into her chest. Like the cold of his fingers had dragged her under the current of an icy river. It feels suffocating, panicked, like her lungs will collapse if she indulges in his eyes for a second more.

Instead she brushes away his hand to dive back into his neck. She can hide there and let her heart thunder along to make up for lost time. Let him have a little of his own taste of how intimate it feels for someone's lips to taste across one’s pulse. 

She mimics the way he teases her, lips then tongue then a hint of teeth. He bristles and shudders when she times it with the rolling of her hips. She's enveloped in him. In body and heart and mind.

“You like that?” she whispers in his ear, confident in a way she hasn't been with him before. Triumphant. His breathless silence tells her what she wants to hear. “That's what I thought.”

There’s a security with a pleasure house that allows her the freedom to give in, to give over. It’s but a night where gold is exchanged and fantasies are lived, but they always end. There is always a goal in mind and a door to leave. This time she’s not sure she ever wants to.

With her own smirk, she pushes against his chest and lifts herself from his lap. The implication is clear and he follows her lead beautifully. His legs extend out just in time for her to push his back to the ground, her hands splayed over his chest like a predator that has caught its prey.

“So does this count as seducing you?” she asks, crawling up his body to stare down at his face.

Astarion laughs, “Hardly.”

“Oh so I won't just--” 

He catches her off guard. Both hands on her sides grip and grip hard to slam her back down to be flush with his hips, cock buried deep inside her as he thrusts up to meet her.

“Fuck.” She's almost annoyed that she's the one breathless between them. “Look at us both, so desperate we're still dressed.” She’d laugh if it didn’t take the breath right out of her.

Her whole body prickles with goosebumps, the sensation of him moving her so swiftly, with such need has plucked her like a string, and she is humming.

“Let me fix that.” Astarion tugs her in closer with a fistful of her robes. His knife is back in his hand, twirling around his fingers like it's nothing more than a toy.

She immediately stills at the sight of it and involuntarily squeezes around his cock, drawing a surprised moan out of the both of them. The very threat of the blade and what he can do with it has her wet and wanting.

“ Hells… someone's eager,” he growls with appreciation. ”Stay still.”

The tip of the blade slips under the cross of her robe’s fabric, bundled at her lap. With careful, delicate precision, Astarion slices upwards, from her crotch, up past her navel. Fabric tears and splits with just pressure from a turn of his wrist.

He raises an eyebrow at her, waiting for her to curse him out and bite back, but she sits there, resisting the desire to ride him senseless and struggling to stay still. Her chest heaves with heavy breaths, her lungs threatening to stop completely so she feels nothing else but him inside her.

Yet as he reaches the top hem, cutting through the band of her brassiere she feels a sharp stinging sensation in her chest.

The knife pulls back and left behind, beneath the cross wrap of her robe and between her breasts, is a fresh red line as blood starts to trickle. 

She hisses at the sting of the new cut, blissful in its pain. She sees it, his mark on her, when Astarion rips her robes and bra back to let them fall off her arms. 

“I think you got me,” she says looking down. Her bare chest perks up as his attention follows her eyes.

Without hesitation, he pushes up with one arm to grab the back of her neck and pull her forward to lick at the blood trickling down her chest.

It's debauched but sensual, beautiful and broken, in a way she's not experienced since her nights at Sharess’ Caress. And yet it's different with him. That gorgeous peculiar vampire positioned beneath her on one arm, ready to taste her if--

His hips thrust upwards and all thoughts leave her mind but lust. She can't decide where she should look. Perhaps the frenzied look in his eyes, the joining of their bodies, or the fresh new mark on her body that makes her his .

Oh she is entirely out of her mind to want more.

“Do it again.”

A glint flashes in his eyes, the knife glints in the light, and Astarion obliges.

Flipping the blade in his hand, he assesses the collection of scars already across her chest and presses the tip against her collarbone. He traces under it like a caress before he follows it with his tongue.

Fuelled by her sighing and bucking, clawing at his sides, he adds a few more nicks and cuts across her chest. Each one he follows with kisses, lapping at her blood with loving attention. Every mark a promise of following affection.

“How will I explain this to Shadowheart later?” she huffs, eyeing the littering of new marks across her skin.

“Preferably with me out of earshot.” He drops the knife aside once more.

She can't help but sigh. “Really?”

“Let me make it up to you.”

Before she can question what he means, he grabs hold of her and rolls them together to flip her onto her back. That smug look of his persists as he hooks one of her knees over his shoulder and sinks right back into her wet heat.

Bent in half, he can't reach her lips but he turns to thigh, teeth teasing across her skin.

“This what you wanted, lover?”

She wants to spite him, curse his attractive face and smug cheek. But instead she wraps her other leg around him and pulls him in closer. Gods, she wants him to stay there, drive her through her deepest desires and higher fantasies. This is what she begged for.

All she can manage in the heady spells of her own making is to cup his face and pull him into a kiss between moans. Honesty slips from her lips before she can think better of it, “I only want you.”

As he meets her lips with his and begins to thrust in earnest, a swell of feeling fills her chest. There's something different about this time. Maybe it’s the setting or the magic or their first tryst fully and truly alone far from the others. It can't be that different, surely? But she needs to be sure.

She retreats from his kisses to stare into his eyes, afraid he’ll disappear again as she's unveiling more of herself to him. In his eyes, those enchanting vermilion eyes, there's a light of recognition and presence. He's there. With her. Definitively. She can't help but smile like some love drunk idiot.

“What?” Astarion asks, slowing down to drag out every moment.

“I.. getting sentimental,” she admits before she can think better of it.

“About?”

She slows the roll of her hips. “Hard not to be vulgar with you inside me.”

He thrusts back, increasing the intensity between each word. “Then. Try. Harder.”

“Oh fuck. I- nnnhnnn Astarion.”

“Go on.”

“I--”

He thrusts again as if to punish her to his delight.

“Let me--”

He does not let up. “Mmm, Dolyn?”

Her eyes roll into the back of her head, clenching around him with a desperate need. Her voice is growing hoarse from the moans spilling forth from her mouth. She can't remember the last time he used her name in their trysts.

She's never wanted to hear anything more.

“You like that?” He's watching her like a hawk, every thrust timed just to part her lips around curses and screams of pleasure.

“Mmmm. I'm… I'm not…”

“Yes?”

Her whole body clings to him, tightens around him and pulls his face in, staring right into those charming red eyes, foreheads touching and connected by sweat. Her face is flushed, more hot than warm, like her desire is molten, threatening to melt her at any minute. She hasn't heard her true name in years. She’s too vulnerable not to share it now.

She wants so desperately for him to use it.

“Call me Gwyndolyn,” she whispers to the space between them.

He stops thrusting, his cock half-pulled out of her.

That is not what she wanted. She wanted so much more than that. 

“Don't stop, please.” 

He's assessing her. The look in his face hard to define, but it fades the second he captures her lips and thrusts hard, plunging back in like he’s answering her prayers. He swallows every moan he draws from her like they're worth more than gold.

“Astarion?”

“Yes?” He huffs heavily in her ear. “Gwyndolyn?”

Her whole body shudders. It takes everything in her not to scream as loud as a pleasure house patron.

“My, your own name makes you wet and needy?” Astarion's gaze darkens, the power he has over her so much more palpable. He has a secret she’s not revealed in decades and she feels raw at the notion.

“Did I just not fuck you well enough?” he grabs her thighs and claws in. “Hard enough? Deep enough?”

He follows every question with a full thrust, not even attempting to keep a rhythm any more as they both bask in the electrified connection between them.

The pleasure of his teeth sinking back into her neck sparks through her body. The warmth of her blood spills across her from his sheer enthusiasm alone. She cries out in a broken moan, pleasure and pain twisting into a growing heat between her legs.

Astarion's hand snatches her hand the moment it moves to pleasure herself, fingers tight around her wrist, and moves it to his neck. His own hand swiftly delves between her folds and circles her wetness over her clit. He hums into her neck, messy and rough.

Lost to him, she pulls him back to kiss him, blood smeared over his face and now hers. She tastes tangy and sweet on her own tongue. Yet she can't shake the thought that part of the appeal is his presence. The fact that he’s here, with her, on her, in her.

He moves to leave bloody kisses across her cheeks and down her neck as she mirrors his actions. Her blood becomes a work of art across them both, painted by their lips. Her blood joins the two of them together as they sate each others’ needs.

“My Gwyndolyn.” His voice is soft with wonder and rapture.

She's getting closer, tipping over the edge, wanting him in her, over, part of her very being for longer than the limitations of her body would allow. The taste of her blood, the sight of his eyes, his fingers coaxing her to higher pleasure, the drag of his cock deep inside her starting to shake as he becomes just as engrossed in her. 

“Astarion, I l--” and she stops herself.

The confession on the tip of her tongue is swallowed as the escalating pleasure in her peaks. Her body shakes at the precipice of her orgasm, squeezing around him and bucking into his touch. She's so close it hurts. Her mind blanks to anything else.

She watches his face, his own brows knitted together. He slams this time to watch her mouth part around his name, around begs to fuck her, and godless affirmations. She can’t hear her own voice anymore, but she can still speak.

“Come in me?” 

“Yes, Gwyndolyn,” Astarion rasps in wanton agreement.

Then the tension snaps.

She crashes over the edge, well and truly lost to her pleasure, clenching around him to keep him in her.

As if reading her mind, he sinks his teeth into her neck again and her blissful high lingers. One shock then another, clinging to him helplessly. Her legs shake as another wave crashes through her body.

“Did you really just get off to the sound of your own name?”

She tugs on his hair despite her weakness and tugs his ear close to her mouth, wanting sweet, sweet revenge. “You’re doing so good, Astarion. Yes, Astarion. Please.”

His body shudders despite his attempt at composure. Oh the joy of seeing him fall apart around her, within her.

She smirks, rolling her hips to greet his as she claws at his back. For once he does falter.

“Gods, I lu-- ahhh.” She catches herself again, choosing to indulge in the feel of him. Yet the implication hangs in the air.

At her cry, he comes, fangs sinking deeper and hands clawing in her sides like he's trying to hold onto her wherever their bodies meet. He moans brokenly into her neck with a need that sets her heart racing.

Oh.

That's why it stings so sweetly.

That’s why her heart swells.

That’s why she flushes.

She loves him.

Irrevocably. Unrepentantly.

He huffs and laughs a weak shaky laugh, propping himself up on an arm. “Do you still need to be drained?”

Her mind is reeling, unsure of what it is she needs anymore. She answers as best she can while flooded, “Other than the mess you made... My neck is yours.”

There's a soft glint to his eyes as he lets her legs down gently to the floor. “Is it? Just your neck?”

She hopes he can’t read her mind despite their tadpoles, or worse, that she is so painstakingly obvious in her post-orgasm glow. “Any part you want. Just bring me back.”

His teeth sink in again and the cold chill spreads.

She's too well and truly delightfully fucked to care enough to feel fear. And it's him. The man she… loves.

It feels unreal to acknowledge it. That she's likely loved him longer without truly knowing or acknowledging. Hells, she nearly told him.

But his teeth, his lips, his tongue feel blissfully sweeter against her skin. 

Her eyes close as the darkness reaches the edge of her being and she sighs as her consciousness fades.  She'll just have to trust him. As she has for some time now.

── ☆ ──

Gwyndolyn hums and sighs with a hint of song before her eyes finally open. She lies on her side with her head on something soft while her body lies on the cold wooden floor, a blanket of sorts thrown over her body.

As her eyes adjust, she prepares her voice to call out but Astarion beats her to it, his voice thoughtful and soft behind her.

“Good to see you awake.”

She rolls to face him and finds him right behind her, resting his head in his hand. He fiddles gently with her sliced robes, the makeshift blanket he used to preserve her modesty and body heat.

“Awake? Did you use the scroll?” she immediately needs to know so she can prepare for a day of exhaustion.

“Didn't need to, but…” He huffs a laugh and pulls a face, questioning and judgemental. “Sunshine?”

He wastes no time shifting the topic while she comes to terms with the choice he made to not completely drain her, despite the lack of consequences.

And here he is asking about a word that she said offhand in the heat of the moment. Something not entirely the best fit. Her mind immediately shifts focus, as if it was.

“You’re bright, hard to look at front on, extended exposure leads me to… feeling warm,” she admits with a gulp and feels that heat flush her cheeks as if on queue. Honesty is so much easier when she's been fucked out of her mind. “But otherwise you’re warm, pleasant…”

His face changes. Disbelief and playful dismissal cross his features.

She changes tact. “I mean, I could call you something else? Charming, handsome, bloodhound.”

His nose crinkles with disgust. Perfect little lines across his beautiful face. They're a pleasure to see and she's certain as she ponders the thought that he can see it written across hers.

She clears her throat and continues on, “Technically, sunshine was always an insult growing up. Particularly if they weren’t cheery and warm all the time.”

She shrugs a little, pointedly, given that part is also fitting. It's not the smoothest of transitions but he relaxes. Hells help her if she ever gives him any true kind of pet name.

Though it's not like they are anything in particular, as much as her chest now aches at the prospect of more.

“So what should I call you? Given you've hidden your name from all of us.” His accusation sits heavily in the air.

She introduced herself as Dolyn from the very start. She fobbed off Gale's clever perception of her odd ‘elven’ name and provided nothing else that would have them believe she was anything more than Dolyn.

Even her reduced wizardry and hiding of her skills seemed to mask the fact she had a peculiar name.

Though it was a name she needed to have. A name she's used for so long it feels like hers now.

“It hasn't felt like mine in a long time. Haven't used it since Duck died. Doesn't sound nearly as good when you're dealing with unfavourable types.”

There's a risk that he'll reject her, accuse her of lies for her omissions. Given how close they've gotten, how much she's fallen, and all his attempts to get something from her, he seems the most likely to trust her still. 

At least she hopes.

“Sounds like you should be wearing ribbons in your hair and dancing with squirrels,” Astarion snorts, making a jab at her shoulder.

Of course he'd find something with her name to make light of.

And yet she loves him for it.

Gwyndolyn pouts and shoves his chest with both hands. “Rude.”

He captures one of her hands and presses it against his chest. “As always. But it is a pretty name. And yours. Am I to keep this secret for our… moments alone?”

“For now? If that's okay?”

“Of course, Gwyndolyn.”

Oh he is going to use her name at every chance he gets.

She can't say she doesn't love that.

Or him.

Chapter Text

It is one thing to spend a night in a misguided attempt at healing in the twisted House of Healing itself. It's entirely another to go back to camp with clothes split cleanly up the middle, and not by some explainable accident either.

Thankfully Astarion's quick fingers and needlework strings the two pieces together across Gwyndolyn’s chest. Her tights and underwear however earn a spot in the bottom of her pack, ready to be used as future fire fuel. 

Of course this leaves her exposed beneath her robe. A fact that Astarion has not failed to comment on as they walk their way back to camp.

If not for his jest and his company, Gwyndolyn’s sure she'd be dismayed by what sounds like the endless cries of souls long corrupted. The trees themselves would be a druid’s nightmare, are a druid’s nightmare. Halsin’s most specifically.

Alone together, with no other companions to distract them and Astarion more quiet than usual, she feels compelled to ask him something, anything, to drown out the sorrow that surrounds them.

“I never asked,” she begins and gulps the second his head turns her way. He is stunning in the dim light as she's sure any vampire would be. Yet her recent realisation adds a certain glow even in the shadows.

She makes a point of looking straight ahead, pretending she's focussing on the knots of the tree they're walking over. “And feel free to ignore me if it's too much, but… are you Cazador’s only spawn? Or are there others like you?”

A man, a vampire lord, like Cazador can't have only had the one spawn. Not with his desire for abject cruelty and violence. Not with a need for so many victims. Astarion would have been so much more haunted, more than he already is if that were the case, if he was the only outlet for such horror. It only begs the question of just how many victims have befallen this manipulator in the shadows. 

How many of them were people she knew? How many were people she thought had simply disappeared?

Astarion lets out a sigh, like he's been waiting for this question. “Cazador sired seven spawn - me and my six ‘brothers and sisters’.”

She watches him as they continue on and his eyes dart from the path to her face. There's a part of him that's resigned completely. She can see it in his shoulders and the lines of his face as he goes on.

“He always insisted we were a family - even when he was carving scars into our flesh.”

His tone saddens despite how tainted with bitterness his words become, his eyes glossy with unpleasant memories. 

“I was one of his first, some of the others came years later. He was a monster to us all, but did take special pleasure in my pain.” His face twists from a place of mournfulness to disgust, his lips forming into a sneer. “He said my screams sounded sweetest.”

Her gut twists at his words and her heart aches. There's nothing to say. Nothing that Gwyndolyn feels she can muster to be a worthy response. 

“And now that I’m gone… I don’t know. I pity the others.”

They walk several steps before Gwyndolyn knows where to begin. Her chest aches, her throat feels tight, and her eyes close to stinging. She'd known his life had been difficult, filled with misery and torment, but to have his very screams described as sweet , to watch as others are dragged into the same hell and called ‘family’. She can imagine nothing worse.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly, edging closer to him. It's something and yet not nearly enough.

His eyes meet hers and for a moment she sees him, that soft questioning gaze of a man wondering if he can truly trust. He looks away when she attempts a pitying smile.

Then that vulnerability fades behind the mask as he hides himself once again. It’s become so predictable by now.

His voice drips with performance, changing the topic, “But, we have dark enough surroundings, what of you and your… family? Beyond your mysterious disappeared parents that is.”

The thought flits into her mind once more, dark and quick like a shifting shadow: How many victims were people she knew?

She shrugs it away and answers, “It was just me… for a while.” 

She feels all the smaller for saying it. An only child left to the streets, easily lost, easily forgotten. Though she can't fail him for how she feels remembering that pang of loneliness.

“Obviously my parents, well… I was about thirteen, tiny for my age. They just up and disappeared. That was at least 106 years ago now.”

For as many times as she had seen the memories in her trances, she could never see anything new. It had been dark, a world of grey even with her darkvision. 

She would have been alone in that darkness if not for Duck. 

“Closest I had to siblings were my old troupe, but mostly Bradach, who was pretty close.”

“Brah-dahk, ” Astarion repeats back, sounding out the name like he's trying to get the taste of it on his tongue, yet with all of his mockery of it carefully tucked behind his teeth. His eyes narrow in the way that they do when a thought hits him. “Is this the Duck you mentioned last night?”

Gwyndolyn sighs, knowing that if Duck were here the man himself would hate that question. “Yeah, he hated that name at first.” Yet she can't help but laugh after she says it aloud. He took to life with so much energy it was a wonder she ever managed to survive him.

She bites her lip and rubs her hands up her arms. It's been at least six decades now and she can still hear his laughter and see his smile. He was nothing like Astarion that's for sure but sometimes when she's not paying close attention she sees the same quick thinking in action, the reflexes and the skill, in the way Astarion moves.

His eyes meet hers when she looks to him, perhaps seeing something in her that gives away her thinking.

Maybe giving parts of herself away isn't so bad.

Not when she has nothing to lose.

“Do you want the full story?” she asks with a smile. 

Astarion grimaces at the road ahead. “Is it long enough to last the walk back?”

“I don't doubt it.”

He nods for her to go on and she feels a little lighter.

── ☆ ──

To her relief, Dolyn didn't have to tell the news to Arabella. That difficult conversation was handled in her absence. One she's told was as rough and as confronting as she feared. The girl wanted nothing to do with them and instead began speaking with Withers at the edge of camp.

For a strange man, settled into their periphery for so long, hearing him speak to the young tiefling of acceptance was heartening. Though her anguished cries kept Dolyn as far away from the girl as she could muster.

Yet peace continued to elude them.

Mizora’s unwelcome devilish presence set proverbial fire to all of their moods. The first task for Wyll following his unceremonious punishment. 

Dolyn behaved as well as she could while Mizora's pompous tone dragged through her resolve. Thankfully it presented an opportunity, a deal of sorts. Despite Wyll’s initial reluctance, he trusted her. Even with the additional burden of a cambion to save, Wyll may truly have a way to be rid of his bindings.

It would be the first of many if their travels go the way they all desire. Freedom seems to carry a heavy price at every turn.

“I don't trust her as far as I can push her,” Dolyn adds the moment Mizora's apparition disappears. The cambion couldn't even make the effort to appear herself. Instead she projected her image from safely outside the Shadow Curse if appearances meant anything.

There are far too many devils around them for her liking, present or not. It's becoming an unfortunate trend.

Wyll lets out a long exhausted sigh, gritting his teeth to hide his frustration. “Agreed. Another asset that might turn out to be just like Karlach.”

“She seems desperate and I can only hope that works out for us,” she offers with a tilt of her head. The Blade of Frontiers has a way of keeping up a front that he is fine, grinning and bearing whatever is handed to him. Dolyn wants to be sure he knows at the very least she intends to help.

“Us?” Wyll gives her a wary, concerned look. “I don't expect you to get involved.”

“I never considered you to have any expectations, Wyll.” Dolyn places a hand on his shoulder as she moves to pass him. “But you are also just as bad as the rest of us at asking for help.”

Wyll smiles with his head bowed, bashful and humble even with the weight placed on their shoulders. He shakes it off with a sigh and peers around camp. “Speaking of not asking for help…”

His eyes pass over to Astarion's tent and back to her with a sly purse of his lips. Whatever he is thinking, he's amused by it. 

“If you have something to say, say it,” she warns back, struggling to keep his infectious smile off her own lips. Wyll has had perhaps the most staunch opinion of Astarion, despite how accepting he has been once getting to know him. But the jokes of eating rats, the warning she overheard, and his continual protective but distant watch over her when she’s with him cannot be ignored.

She’ll never tell him what she heard. Lest it get back to Astarion.

Wyll huffs and takes a deep breath, considering his next words before he answers, “You should go to him.”

His eyes are softer, almost fond. There’s a hint of it in the way his face settles, scars so much harsher than the expression on his face. He means it.

Something he means in those words goes unsaid.

Dolyn isn’t about to question what that is.

She finds Astarion right where Wyll had nodded, deep in thought, standing in front of his tent with his hands poised. One elbow rests on the hand of the other while he strokes at his chin. Dolyn can’t tell how much of it is an act and how much is simply him.

His face lights up at the sight of her approaching and she has to swallow as the immediate flush takes to her face. Thankfully the mix of candles and the surrounding darkness obscure the colour she can feel taking to her cheeks.

True to form he doesn't miss a beat before jumping into the thought he wishes to share.

“You know, I feel a connection between us,” Astarion leans forward, trying to entice her closer.

Gwyndolyn humours him, stepping up into his personal space. She'll hear him out, even if the look on his face has her more concerned the longer she looks him over.

He continues, unabashedly, “Like we’re two souls walking the same path. You might be a little naive in the ways of the world, but I see promise in you. Ambition.”

The words tumble out of his mouth like a flowing stream of thoughts. One's he's clearly not given an actual second thought to. She had so stupidly thought for a moment that maybe he cares for her, but as with many of her positive thoughts of him, he is sure to quickly test them.

“Excuse me, naive? What in the hells do you mean by that? I have lived more than you can even...” she trails off and bites her tongue. Clearly he's the same petty man that’s hellbent on getting under her skin.

“Just that you…” He gestures a hand at all of her body. “Have a big heart. You like doing what’s right.”

His voice sounds almost like he's genuine and genuinely disappointed.

Gwyndolyn clicks her tongue, but allows herself a little spite in her words, “Mmm, that’s certainly one way for you to put that. You're lucky I still have last night on my mind.”

She watches the way he lets that thought settle in his mind before moving on to his next point, skilfully brushing it aside. She would be annoyed if she didn’t find him so infuriatingly attractive when he did have topics to speak on.

“So I was thinking,” he continues with his hands punctuating his words, “what would be the right thing to do when we get to Moonrise Towers? When we come face-to-face with whoever is controlling the parasites in our heads.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Where is this going, Astarion? You know we're getting rid of these worms.”

“That’s the obvious option, yes, but consider the alternatives.” His voice is so bright and positive, spinning a tale that he’s trying to sell, a pitch she didn’t know she’d walked into. “How many people are infected--”

Gwyndolyn cuts him off, “I would rather not think of it.

He jumps back in to make his point, “There are powerful people in the worms’ thrall.”

“I really don't like where this is going,” she says with a shake of her head and a sigh.

For all the worms they’ve collected, she’s been sure to stuff them deep into her pack for none of them to find. She saw how Lae’zel squirmed when the tadpole entered through her eye socket. The way she watched it slither and crawl in still makes her shudder. Worse still was seeing it so close with its rows of teeth before it crawled under her eyelid, burrowing itself somewhere in her brain.

Astarion has repeatedly shown interest in the use of them. Gwyndolyn’s glad she’s never handed any of them over.

He finishes his pitch with his point, “If we can take that control from them, imagine the power we’d wield.”

And that is his goal.

The entire point of this conversation comes to a crashing halt when Astarion’s entire purpose for it is revealed. Not that she should be surprised by now.

But of course he hasn't thought this through as he so often doesn't. 

She crosses her arms and leans back onto her heels, “And how would we do that, exactly?”

There’s a sweet pleasure in watching him struggle in thought. She's right, because of course she is. His beautiful features crinkle together over the briefest creative thought in his mind.

His voice rises, defending himself with his tone more than his words, “I mean - I assume there’s some device controlling these things, so we find that , murder some people, and… Look, I’m not a ‘details’ person, all right? But turning and causing chaos has worked for us so far.”

Gwyndolyn takes an audible breath in instead of speaking the words she would find so much joy in saying. Her eyebrows rise in a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

Astarion isn’t deterred. “I’m just saying there’s an opportunity here. If we can control the tadpoles, we can keep ourselves safe and liberate the world from this evil.”

“I’m not even going to entertain the idea.”

“So much for thinking you had ambition. Still, we’re not there yet. Maybe you’ll see the light yet.”

Gwyndolyn knows that’s not very likely.

── ☆ ──

So many devils despite a distinct lack of hellfire. Dolyn is starting to understand Karlach's distinct dislike for them. Of the two she's met so far, both have been distinctively particular about their words, much to her chagrin.

Hearing Raphael's overly practised poetry filled with mixed metaphors of beasts and graves and hunters leaves her more than bitterness on her tongue. Seeing his performative act of kindness before a grand mausoleum is not how she expected to find him. It has been so remarkably easy to find him that she has to question his motives.

Astarion however gives her little chance, stepping forward, eagerness in his steps and hesitation in his shoulders. “How long were you skulking there, practising that rhyme before we arrived?”

Dolyn nods along, finding herself content with his choice of words. She would say much the same if she'd been the first to speak.

Yet she has the briefest moment of relief that Astarion sees fit to speak, and she stays a few steps behind to give him space.

The others meanwhile investigate the graves behind them, while Karlach stands at attention, watching at a distance with a death stare aimed squarely at the cambion.

Of course Raphael is unfazed and smiling in his infuriatingly smug manner. He's so calm there's an extra level of unease at that alone. 

“Until it was perfect,” the devil answers, eyes shifting from Astarion to her. His eyes narrow with a glint in them. “I've grown quite fond of you, you know - in my way. I thought it only fair to warn you about the dangers ahead.”

Dolyn struggles to hide the sneer twitching on her lips. Oh how she wishes to wipe the smile off his face. He has the answers they need, has pitched a deal to a child, and now stands between them and something of value high enough to warrant his presence.

“Did you now?” Astarion questions, moving intentionally to place himself between the devil and her. “And what dangers would that be?”

Raphael continues to wax lyrical about some kind of threat. He speaks so many words and so very few of actual substance, speaking of some kind of role they'd be playing. The man could waffle on just to hear the sound of his own voice. He probably does.

She's not about to tolerate his indulgent soliloquy.

“Just cut to the chase, will you,” she interjects, throwing her voice across the distance, even if Astarion stands before her. The second it leaves her lips she clenches her jaw and digs her heels into the ground.

She'll have to bite her tongue or else she might ruin whatever misguided deal that Astarion wants to strike with the cambion. 

“I already did,” Raphael begins and starts repeating his same ominous poetry.

Gwyndolyn groans. “Get on with it.”

Thankfully he does, but with enough pomp to make Astarion look like a community theatre performer in comparison to Raphael's stage-stealing self-indulgent thespian. She feels a wash of relief that Astarion is nowhere near as loquacious and verbose. Yet even in all of the talk of something infernal lurking in the shadowy depths within the mausoleum, there is still very little substance.

It’s testing her patience. What little of it is left.

Her glance to Astarion and his subsequent steps back to her side tell her she does not appear as patient as she wishes she did. It’s difficult to keep her face diplomatic when the devil standing before her holds so much information over their heads. She resists the urge to spit the venom pooling on her tongue as she asks, “What aren't you saying, Raphael?”

That flippant smile turns into more of a scowl. “This creature and I go back a long way. I admit it would be in my best interest as well should it remain trapped in the dark, or misplace its head perhaps.”

There’s a bitterness that flits into his features. Finally a genuine feeling and perhaps an opportunity.

As Karlach joins them to question him about the type of infernal persuasion, Dolyn considers their options. By the sound of it, they could propose a deal to kill this beastly adversary, or gain knowledge from it for a better chance at some kind of arrangement. Bribery or extortion are options. None of it seems a particularly good footing for garnering information, but someone Raphael knows presents an interesting thread to pull.

Eyeing him over, she speaks aloud the obvious thought at the forefront of her mind, “Sounds like someone I should get to know.”

The anger in Raphael's voice is immediately undercut by him calling her pipsqueak. He might be a devil, capable of using magic against them, but calling her cutesy names while needing their help undermines his threat in her mind.

She tunes out most of what he says until he turns back to Astarion.

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten your tale, Astarion.”

Her heart thunders, loud enough Astarion might even be able to tell,. Dread and hope mix together in her like a noxious cocktail. Raphael's already on the same page and that can't bode well. 

“When the beast is dead,” Raphael explains, hands gesturing like this is simply another one of his lines, “I’ll consider that payment enough to translate those scars of yours.”

There it is.

It's too perfect, too practised like one of his poems.

She meets Astarion's gaze all but for a second. He's guarded, determined, shoulders back and his fingers twitching, aching for action. 

He turns back to the devil, incredulous, head tilted with confusion and suspicion. “ Really? That is suspiciously fair.”

“You wound me, spawn. I always deal fairly.”

Astarion appears darkly eager, driven in a way she has seen in him briefly before. It's that drive for knowledge, for power, for freedom. Gwyndolyn can hardly blame him. His answers lie deep within the building beyond and the only price is the death of a devil. It is remarkably fair and that only gives her more reason to worry.

If there are secrets to be found about Ketheric below, then adding another task along the way is hardly difficult for them to accomplish. But surely there must be something more to it, if this is truly the key to Astarion's scars.

Turns out he didn't need a plan. All the more reason for her to worry.

He might need her when the time comes, and she will be ready.

Chapter Text

The bones filling the mausoleum mark years of a chilling spiralling descent of grief, a macabre altar to the memory of the loved one within. The words written on Melodia Thorm’s grave continue to chime in Gwyndolyn's thoughts as they delve deeper into the growing darkness.

Ai armiel telere maenen hir.

To have something inscribed, so sweet for a lost loved one haunts the inner workings of her mind.

‘You hold my heart forever.’

Such grief displayed, loss and memory immortalised, makes it easier to believe why people would turn to Shar in the first place. It's a wonder she didn't in her darkest moments after Duck’s death.

Yet to go this much further and move from a goddess of the moon to a goddess of loss to a god of death and bone requires a devotion and determination that she can't quite understand herself. She's not sure she ever would.

No number of pages written in Ketheric’s hands quite help to explain the depths he had fallen to go so far.

The picture they're painted as they delve deeper into the old ruins of a great temple show them to be dark depths indeed. Purple flames burn as a vigil while statues of the goddess watch them at every turn, providing the faintest of light if there is even any light at all.

Astarion is right when he calls it grand, bearing the weight of centuries, for much like the Grymforge has aged so too has the great underground expanse crumbled. 

Yet they find more life than they planned with a hideous necromancer, his animated servants and numerous rats hissing at every turn. The briefest sight of a panther-like beast gives them pause as it runs away and they settle in a wing of the great Gauntlet of Shar to rest.

Shadowheart stares out at the dark expanse over the edge of the precipice where a wooden bridge lays in pieces. The further they had gone into the Shadow Cursed lands the more she had withdrawn, staring out into the distance, down at her hand, or to a place in her memories that make her eyes go glassy. She'd been withdrawing from the camp discussion and sinking further into contemplation than her cups.

“You seem… preoccupied?” Dolyn asks as she approaches the cleric. She steps softly, hoping that she doesn't startle her off the cliff’s edge. “Who would have thought this was all down here?”

Shadowheart takes a sharp breath and rubs at the mark on her hand. “Who would have thought…” she repeats back softly before throwing an apologetic smile Dolyn’s way then turning to peer at the way they'd come. “Ever since we entered the Shadow curse, something has been calling to me.”

Her eyebrows briefly furrow but her face falls back into her usual calm exterior. “I've been dwelling on that idea of becoming a Dark Justicier. Perhaps seeing the power of Shar unleashed on the land has been keeping the thought in my mind and now this…” Her chin lifts to gaze with genuine wonder at the temple around them, the great Gauntlet of Shar. 

Shadowheart mentioned it in passing once or twice, but to see it in person, surrounded by such destructive, corrupting power appears to have shaken the cleric more than Dolyn had considered it would. There’s a light in her eyes of hope. 

“Maybe you’ll find what you’ve been looking for,” Dolyn offers, not meeting Shadowheart’s eyes in case she sees the briefest of doubts in them. “You never know what you might find when you look for it.”

“Which reminds me. You seem to have found something on that little night on your own?” The bright accusatory teasing breezes back into Shadowheart’s tone so easily it’s hard to imagine she was contemplating her goddess’ power. 

Dolyn tries to laugh it off. She’s felt perhaps a little lighter since her night alone with Astarion but surely nothing that drastic. “It’s nothing really.”

“Nothing is a funny word for slices on your… thighs?” Her eyes do not relent in expressing every bit of judgement she can in a withering look. “I do wonder how a shadow not only picked up a blade but got so close to cut you there.”

Dolyn shifts slightly, the slit up her robe to her thighs leaving very little hidden. They’d all had their own fair share of scrapes so she hadn’t considered this any different.

Though clerics always seem to have a way of sniffing out wounds.

With a stern tone, she hits back, “Shadowheart, I’m warning you, I-”

“You’ll what?” she interrupts with a light airy challenge. Shadowheart takes a long considering look over Dolyn, eyes softer. “I don’t care what it is you do in your downtime, but don’t go getting yourself hurt in a way I can’t heal you.”

Dolyn steps closer, moving her weight to lean more to one foot, arms crossing across her chest. “Are you worried about me?”

“We have a lot to worry about lately. I would like to know our leader is well enough to lead.”

“I’ll be okay. It’s…” Dolyn stops and sits down to consider what it is she wants to say and why there is a sliver of doubt when she says it. If there is anything to see, any hint of the feelings she’s so clearly developed, Shadowheart would be the one to see them. “It’s a comfort in tough times.”

Her mind flits to the nights she lies next to Astarion, snuggling into their shared blankets and pillows, how over the night she gravitates to him, and wakes to find herself closer. She’s trying to resist the urges she has to simply be close. It would be simple if it weren’t for the fact that it’s him and she is so very much her. Getting as vulnerable as she already has with him can't bode well. Yet she feels all the more safe with him, for reasons she can’t quite pinpoint.

“And what happens when those times end?”

Shadowheart’s question cuts through the comfortable thoughts and plucks Dolyn back to the cold, uneasy reality. She forces a smile and stares at her boots. She doesn’t have the answer, but she needs to provide one now. The weight of a cleric’s stare is heavy enough on its own.

“I will know then.”

── ☆ ──

While Shadowheart takes to each one of her dark lady’s tasks, Gwyndolyn remains in camp, sitting at the edge of the remains of a broken balcony. The dark expanse below keeps her alert, at attention as she thumbs her way through whatever references she can find on devils and their wiles. For all the stolen books she’s ever read, apparently none of them provide the answers that she’s seeking. Oh how she misses the days she had access to Sorcerous Sundries in a pinch.

The weight of the deal with Raphael sits heavily on her shoulders. To think she could have twisted Astarion towards some other course of action instead of what amounts to a hired hit on another devil. The task itself is remarkably easy. Perhaps more questionably so. 

That’s what makes it so worrisome.

In all her years of contract work, this is the one job that she feels the most perturbed by.

And there’s no helping that worry when she finds herself needing to know what’s on Astarion’s mind. He seems so unbothered by the whole thing. After all, what is a little murder to him.

When did she become an accomplice to his particular brand of thinking.

Only tendays ago she was cursing his name.

Now it sounds different on her tongue.

Spurred from one curiosity to another, she beelines for Astarion’s tent, books discarded and mind swirling with possibilities. This deal that she watched him make, let him make, and perhaps even encouraged him to seal can’t bode well for him. That alone has her heart beating when she storms up to him, trying to soften the clenching of her jaw before she speaks.

“Are you really going to trust this devil to keep his word if we kill this orthon?” 

She hopes the words don’t sound as forced as they feel when she practically huffs out every word. A sense of desperation sits in her chest that she didn’t want to acknowledge was there. They’ve seen what devil’s deals can do.

Astarion’s face flickers with brief amusement before he shrugs off her concerns.

“I’d trust a devil over a vampire any day,” he says before he leans in like he’s sharing a secret, a smile creeping onto this face. “I think he likes us.”

As far as devils went, Raphael is by far the most benign she'd ever had the pleasure and misfortune to meet. She has to admit that his flamboyant nature makes him entertaining in his own way.

Her record shows she has a penchant for ridiculous men.

“I like him, too,” she admits reluctantly, hoping her agreement with Astarion will get her somewhere. “But I’d never say it to his smarmy face. Last thing I need is him getting any ideas. Devils will take everything they can get. And more besides.”

Her mind shifts to the marks on his back. Incomplete infernal, carved into the flesh of what must surely been a ghastly spell. Enough runes, enough study has Gwyndolyn sure it must be some kind of spell she can decipher, but she lacks Gale's training. There’s only so much that can be learned from stolen books without a teacher. 

Whatever the answer Raphael has for them, it can’t be good.

Neither is Astarion’s utter lack of concern.

“Perhaps if we kill this orthon extra bloody, he’ll invite us for tea and brandy back in his House,” Astarion adds with a odd mocking happiness of his, flippant and selfishly indulgent in a way she can see is a smokescreen. 

If aspects of life aren’t serious, then those aspects of life can’t be so bad.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that,” she says through a laugh but unable to meet his eyes as they sting for the briefest moment with empathy. “I just want you to be careful. We should be careful.”

When Gwyndolyn meets his eyes again, he gives her a look.

“Am I not the very definition of ‘careful’?”

That smarm, the little shimmy to his shoulders, the bolstered confidence of man who is putting it on for show and maybe has also convinced himself of it. 

His mask is a smile under shiny eyes with wrinkles that shows years of previous grins.

He is most definitely more than his mask.

But maybe his mask is so much more of him than she thought.

“What is that look for?” he asks with the impatience of a man who has spotted the anxious thought in her expression and read it. “Look, I am not about to swap one master for another. Even though he’s using me, I’m using him, too.”

That would fit with Astarion, wouldn’t it?

To use and be used.

Much like their unspoken arrangement.

A mutually beneficial arrangement.

Until whatever silent deal is done.

── ☆ ──

Large, pointed horns curling over the orthon’s head like a beastly crown and a body draped in skulls of fallen foes, their quarry, Yurgir, stands at the edge of the shelf above them. He knows Karlach almost immediately, her reputation proceeding her, adding another twist to this simple task of theirs. 

Surely Raphael knew. Perhaps they'd simply fallen into his real life game of Lanceboard.

His recognition of Raphael's lingering scent of cherries, musk, and sulphur raises many more questions of what exactly their role is in the devil's game. No amount of persuasion could have her convinced of anything else. There's more to this than they know.

“You know Raphael I take it?” she asks, perfectly pleasant with a practised smile. If there's one thing that works from patriar to peasant, it's pleasantries.

Yurgir however seems to be caught up in a devilish betrayal, speaking of being trapped and swindled. It's no wonder Raphael wants him dispatched and all the more disconcerting that he could have an army of debtors acting in his stead.

Still, opportunities present themselves.

“I’ve had dealings with that devil,” she says with a thoughtful look down at the ground. Avoiding eye contact makes her look thoughtful, less strategic than she truly is. Especially when she follows with a small purse of her lips and furrowed brows like an idea just occurred to her. “Maybe we can help each other.”

Naturally devils are impatient. There's something to be said about fiery natures and fiery tempers. She expected his demands, but Astarion's reaction takes her by surprise.

“What are you doing?” he hisses in her ear, leaning forward, crouched like he's about to skulk and hide. 

From the corner of her eye, she can see the worry on his face, moulded into bitter indignant anger. She should've at least hazarded a guess that he’d be so opposed. After all, the death of this creature would be the key to the deal inscribed into his skin.

He continues, seething, in a hushed growl of a whisper, “The devil told us to kill this thing, so let’s stop chatting and kill it.”

She'd hoped he'd at least trust her. Enough to know that she has no intention of leaving him without answers. 

A question asked should be a question answered.

No matter how cruel that answer is.

She calms her face, and pays no mind to Astarion's protest. It hurts to do, but with his dissonance it'll sell the story more. Devils love the discord between people after all, even if they profess to love order. If what she read is true, they’re weak to conditions that favour them.

So favour them she shall.

“Let’s share our experiences about Raphael,” Dolyn says with a bright and friendly tone with just a hint of something darker to sell the conspiring. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

It takes her relenting to an eye twitch to contain her frustration when Astarion starts up again. 

“So he’s the one who slaughtered the Justiciars - can we kill him now? Because if he doesn’t die, then Raphael won’t tell me a damn thing about my scars.”

His voice is higher, strained, whining through with indignation at the fact she isn’t even facing him to hear his complaint. She knows him well enough by now that he reserves the most emotive of his complaints to the very things he cares most about. All of which is exacerbated by impatience, especially when bloody violence might ensue. 

His point is accurate. Raphael has no desire to provide them anything if they don’t do something in exchange. Hells, it doesn’t even matter if Astarion doesn’t kill the orthon himself. An odd contractual loophole which Dolyn can only assume is an oversight.

Astarion waits for her instruction, her permission. It would almost be adorable if he hadn't so crudely questioned her intentions. 

Not only is he not taking the clue like the others to let her handle the situation - one she has always handled - but he is blundering into another agreement with a devil. He might be an orthon, yes, but by their nature they love opportunity when it arises.

They've discussed as much before.

She'll just have to let him trust her a little further.

“There must be something you missed,” she pipes up like she didn't hear a word the rogue said. “Let me search this place for you.”

For her efforts, it works. No bloodshed and no injury.

A momentary win.

── ☆ ──

Try as she might she hopes that the group trusts her after everything but Astarion is the first to bring doubts back into her mind. They’re barely out of earshot of the orthon before he tugs her from the path to look her up and down with poorly veiled judgement. 

Astarion proves himself as not entirely the most astute, despite his history of swindling and charming people on his own. There's something to be said about how his lack of trust blinds him where the others see in perfect clarity.

She has their best interests at heart.

She has his interest at heart.

Dolyn pays him no mind at first as she joins the others to mingle around a large spider’s corpse. Clearly he doesn't get what she's questioning. The very dead, very large spider in front of them, clearly feed for the displacer beast, may very well hold the key.

Though she's never met one, Dolyn’s certain she’d never read or heard of one working in league with devils. At least not without some considerable benefit or threat. Surely a gigantic spider would not be enough to keep a beast like that from taking out most of the hellspawn and moving to somewhere outside the gauntlet where there would be alive, fresh kill.

“Yes, Astarion?” she asks finally to his presence in the midst of her thoughts. The smell of the body reeks like memories she'd rather soon forget and it puts her on edge more than she'd like.

Astarion sidles up, face scrunched with heated displeasure. “I hope you’re not serious about helping that hellsbeast.”

She raises a brow and tilts her head to consider the image in front of her and exactly what it would take to help a hellsbeast. It would take considerably more than the prospect of what they stand to lose. She’ll just have to live with the disappointment that he seriously thinks she’d consider letting him down like this.

He persists, moving close enough to brush against her shoulder. “We made a deal with Raphael - his destruction for the secrets written on my back.”

She exhales as calmly as she can. The man doesn’t have the patience for her to explain her thinking, or how rushing into killing an orthon surrounded by a multitude of hellspawn and a loyal displacer beast would be more than risky. 

Oh how she wished he could be reasoned with.

“It will be fine,” she says as calmly as she can. 

Dolyn’s eyes narrow, eyes still fixated on the carcass. Strange. There are bite marks on the spider’s body and they look fresh.

Astarion balked, hands flailing in her periphery. “Fine? What part of this is fine?”

She grimaces and steps forward for a closer look. The body is laid almost ceremoniously, intentionally. There has to be something to the carcass for the bite marks to be this fresh.

“Don’t worry, this is all part of the plan.”

“You call this a plan.” Astarion moves up beside her.

Her lips purse, resisting the urge to bite back at him as he questions her focus with mild gestures and what she assumes is disapproving grimaces in her direction.

Whatever he goes on to say or do, she can’t tell. Her mind fixates on what could ever be so attractive about a long dead arachnoid, and why a beast so capable would ever need it.

Unless…

Dolyn takes off towards the spider in a sprint of steps. If her thoughts are right then the spider may be enchanted or even laced with some kind of agent. There's only one way to be sure and it’s not going to be pretty.

But she's eaten worse.

With a shove of her hand into a soft spot of the body, she rips a chuck free to inspect the flesh. It's rancid, definitely turned, and long since left here.

Displacer beasts may well be scavenger beasts, eating carrion flesh left behind. But to be so…

Nose flaring and regret churning in her as strong as her stomach flips at the smell, she licks the chunk of flesh. Her body gags before she can truly taste the bitter, rancid flavour she immediately regrets. Her body clenches, threatening to hurl.

Her companions make their varied comments and judgements. Gale makes particularly show his disdain and promises further discussion when she takes a second lick just be sure. It isn’t like he’s planning on working out the enchantment on the beast and that area happens to be her expertise.

Unfortunately for her, her stomach churns, her mouth twists in disgust, and the most notable surge of arousal hits her. Astarion takes no hesitation in calling her out for it, but it tells her everything she needs to know.

Her suspicions were correct and considerably more grotesque than she expected.

── ☆ ──

Navigating the rest of the Gauntlet of Shar while reeling from the succubus’ spit messes with her focus while they take advantage of their freedom to roam. Even the sigils of the strange spell on the last Dark Justiciars are little more than she could compute with her distraction.

Her aim is off, her heart is offbeat, and past memories on similar substances make for a cocktail of disorientation in a place already out of sorts.

Thankfully the reaction settles by the time she convinces the displacer beast Nessa to work with them. The orthon falls soon after in a mess of claws and blades and a well timed ward. The addition of Nessa to their side makes quick work of their devilish task, though not without showing the terrifying foe they would have faced were she still sided with Yurgir.

It is with a well placed ward that the invisible orthon finally falls, shocked until he is little more than char. They're lucky he was the only one in the spell's net before it activated.

Especially considering Dolyn herself died the last time one went off.

Thankfully there's only scrapes and nothing Shadowheart can't handle, working her way from Wyll to Gale. She skirts her way around both Karlach and Lae’zel who check through the bodies for anything of value.

Usually Astarion would be right with them, but instead he stands staring at the remains of Yurgir’s body. His face is stern, jaw clenched, as he stands in silence.

Wyll gives Dolyn a quick nod with a cautious glance to Astarion. The look on his face is clear: he's going to give them a moment alone.

Sometimes she wonders if he might have been a better leader for them all. If she hadn't been so hellbent on saving people and getting them to play along, maybe he would be the one leading them like he leads them back to camp now.

Taking a deep breath, she takes a spot behind Astarion, matching his stance. 

“The plan seemed to work.”

Perhaps she's starting a conversation too much in a tone of self-congratulation. It wouldn't be the first time she'd gloated about how her instincts were right, or how she had told them exactly what would happen. She’s lived this so many times before. She’s told enough people that if they had just listened they’d be safe.

She’s been ignored just as many times too.

“Hello?”

Astarion’s brow twitches in recognition. His eyes dart briefly towards her before staring back at the corpse of their mark and humming a brief sound of acknowledgement.

“Astarion?” Gwyndolyn repeats another time, stepping closer. The concern in her voice now clear. “The orthon is dead. Aren’t you pleased?”

She would have expected as much from him. Yet the moment the question falls from her lips he turns to face her not the least bit pleased. 

“The orthon is nothing.” The lines on his face frame a perfect frown. “I’ll have my satisfaction when Raphael makes good on his word.”

Gwyndolyn sighs and tilts her head. After all the pushing and complaining, his dismissive permissism leaves her with more frustration to add to the undercurrent of arousal still in her veins. One frustration on top of another.

“I know this is not exactly in your vocabulary, but would it hurt you to acknowledge any of our efforts for once?” Stepping forward again, she feels the warmth of her magic take to her cheeks and the familiar sensation in her eyes, knowing full well there's a likely glimpse of it he could see.

“Repeat after me,” she continues through a tense jaw and puts on a lighter tone. “Thank you for helping me, it was very kind.”

Their eyes meet and she resists the urge to smile. Instead her eyebrow raises in challenge. Her body flushes, still just as sensitive, when it hits her just how close she's gotten herself. She could almost smell the rosemary on him.

He sighs, amused, and repeats back with a grimace, “Thank you for helping me. It was very kind.” Every single word sounds like it had been wrung out of him by force.

Even a Suggestion spell would have made him sound better.

Gwyndolyn bursts into a giggle, biting her lip to keep her from breaking completely into raucous laughter. The look on his face matches the absolute distaste in his tone. The phrase is so difficult for him to say.

“It was almost convincing,” she teases. “Maybe with some practice I'll believe you.” 

There's a flash of something that crosses his face. Apprehension, curiosity, or mild annoyance, whatever it is, he chooses to bite his tongue.

His face gleams in the firelight, jaw tense, ever beautiful. Just looking at him sets her heart beating that little bit faster, or at least it feels like that when her breathing is heavier.

A night's rest is what should set her right. 

Then they can face Raphael tomorrow.

“Let's join the others at camp. We're going to need the rest.”

Chapter Text

The smell of cigar smoke and spilt liquor truly has never left the carpet of the old Sharess’ Caress. Years may pass but regardless of when Gwyndolyn visits, patrons always seem to remain the same. Messy.

Voices from the adjoining rooms call out with raucous laughter and faint moans of pleasure. If you listen carefully enough, voices could be recognised and secrets uncovered. The walls gave privacy only where attempts at maintaining privacy were made.

Of course, good ole Duck made no such attempts. Thankfully she can only hear the briefest of moments. 

She only hopes that he hasn’t heard her own indulgence in the room next door.

“You sure you’re done for the night?“ says the golden female tiefling draped across her lap. Her sharp fingernails carve delicate lines across Gwyn’s stomach. There’s a hint of desire and longing in the way she traces her unspoken further questions.

Gwyn smiles softly and runs her hand through the tiefling’s amber hair. “I am more than satisfied. Thank you.”

The tiefling’s soft features have her appearing almost cherub-like when her eyes open wider in surprise. “After one round?”

“That took an hour,” Gwyn corrects.

“You still have the rest of the night and you can have whatever you desire.” 

For all the curves of this particular attraction of the Caress, she certainly knows how to move them. She crawls up closer, her larger breasts dwarfing Gwyn’s as they brush over her, all so she can pout with both of their lips so dangerously close. 

It’s always such a curious thing to see the way each of her lovers of the night have made their requests for longer bookings. Each of them knowing full well how much more coin they could squeeze from Gwyn’s hand.

This one has been one of the most eager yet. 

The tiefling’s sunglow eyes narrow with fluttering lashes. “Especially with those hands of yours.”

Tempting as it is, she has to resist.

“All I require now is a soft bed.”

As if to prove her point or give her as much regret, there’s a knock at the door, urgent and insistent. 

A knock with a rhythm that only Gwyn knows.

Voices on the other side whisper and without so much as hearing a clear sound, she sighs and prepares herself for incoming frustration.

She gets up from under the tiefling’s curved horns and warm limbs to cover herself with a borrowed silk robe. She meanders over to the door with a sigh wandering over with sigh. 

“Yes?”

“Open the door, Weave.” He sounds beyond intoxicated. His giggles are low.

If it weren’t for the door, she’s sure she would hear him swaying. 

“Duck, the fuck--”

“Come on Gwynnie, you gotta try this.”

Opening the door with a sigh she finds Bradach decked out in only his boxers with someone else’s underwear slid up his arm and a chest harness he doesn’t own across framing his thick patch of chest hair Indulging this part of Duck is going to get old one day. No doubt he has some new scheme or sex position or, hells, even a toy he wants to thrust through the door for her “benefit”.

This trip was all his idea after all.

“Look,” he says, struggling to form his lips around a simple word. “You gotta try this stuff, Gwynnieveve.”

His hand thrusts out a bottle of a glowing dark magenta concoction, swirling around with some kind of enchantment. The colour mirrors the colour of her mage hand. A curious coincidence if he still has any functional thoughts behind those blown wide eyes.

“It… is…” He lands a hand on her shoulder, leaning his weight on her with a sly grin. The bulge in his pants is unfortunately unmistakeable. 

Her hand takes it before he can take anymore of the stuff and averts her eyes, lips pursed in disgust. “Are you seriously at my door with an aphrodisiac?”

Duck chuckles and squeezes her shoulder. “Not saying that you can’t, you know…” He leans purposefully over her shoulder to gaze at the still naked tiefling lying across the four-poster bed behind her. 

Of course he is. Typical. Checking who she’s rooming with has become almost a hobby to him. He’ll likely have something to say about her taste for fangs later. 

She sighs. “If I drink it, will it kill me?” 

The look in his eyes gleam like he’s just won.

“Well?”

“You’ll feel it for sure.”

She rolls it over in her palm, watching the fluid slip and stick to the glass.

“Succubus spit has unique properties. In fact I--”

Grunting and rolling her eyes, she pops the cork off the bottle and downs the contents. She does not need to hear how long he’s been hard or how many dicks he’s taken or put in people, or any other kind of things he’s managed to achieve in one night. It’s been years of this and yet he continues to keep oversharing every second of his conquests.

She can at least be thankful he’s never asked her to join.

“Happy? Good.”

The shock on his face is priceless when she shuts the door on him. So much fuss over some mixture that he wants her to use. It’s probably something one of his paramours has conned him into buying. 

The man has some of the worst forethought she’s ever seen but he has always relied on her for that. It remains an unfortunate fact that he is also one of the most stubborn men she’s had the pleasure of knowing. It’s almost endearing how he thinks that some innocuous likely watered down bottle will do any--

It hits her the moment she returns to her bed when the silk of her robe slides across her skin. 

A shock. A shiver down her chest. A curling of warmth in her loins.

Her lips part to catch her breath.

The tiefling’s eyes narrow with a sense of knowing. “Oh I know that look. Whatever did he give you?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just kiss me.”

Her touch is on fire the moment that she wakes. Skin simmering at the brush of her camp clothes against her limbs. Even Astarion’s colder touch strikes her nerves like flint sparking.

It’s irritating and all encompassing.

A once pleasant indulgence now a bubbling pot she can’t escape.

She needs air.

Stumbling out over Astarion, she fumbles for the ground before getting to her feet with a wobble. The cold of the stone is a welcome reprieve and yet she craves more.

If not for the dead of night she might have cursed any god that could hear her in the great expanse, but instead she bites her lip and sneaks her way down to the abandoned altar where she may be able to suffer the indignity alone.

Her journey is as quiet and slow as she can manage. No one else seems to have heard her shift in the night, blessedly. Even if she is now rubbing her arms, rubbing her lips, and pacing around chipped marble columns like it was some other kind of substance messing with her.

It’d been years since Duck had goaded her into challenging his half-brained ideas and yet he still manages to curse here even here. Decades upon decades later her body reacts to traces of substances perhaps more on memory or some programming she’s yet to untangle. 

It’ll pass. She’ll be fine.

“I forget how quiet you are, Dolyn.”

His voice breaks the silence and her heart gallops.

In the dim light, his silver-white curls still shine. Standing in the shadows in the corner, he is the perfect shadow himself. It’s no wonder he’s managed to have as many victims, even if his entire goal is flaunting himself for seduction.

“I have my skills, Astarion.”

His choice of her shortened name does not go without notice.

She’s trying to hold herself up with some semblance of confidence but the sweat on her brow is starting to drip down by her ears. 

He tilts his head with a knowing smile, once teasing, speaking all the unspeakable things for him.

Or maybe that’s just her body talking.

“You’re not planning on leaving us in the middle of this…” he trails off to twirl his wrist half-heartedly at the crumbling decor. “Tomb?”

There’s a hint of suspicion as he stalks closer, eyes narrowing each time they rake over her body and she feels all the more naked.

Or more willing to be naked.

It takes her a shake of her head before she can answer, “I just need some fresh air. That’s all.”

“And you weren’t planning on telling me?”

“What is there to tell?”

“You’re sweating… you’re pacing… you look like a mouse in a trap, darling, and like somewhere deep in there, you want to be caught.” 

His fingers are slipping into the neckline of her nightdress. The cold touch of his fingers feel so warm, enticing, so close to reaching in and caressing her chest before he takes hold of her--

“I-I’m fine,” she lies, having to bite her lip between sighs.

The closer that he steps the more she can feel her body want him. 

The last time she had succubus spit it’d made her sensitive to touch, needy, and uninhibited. It’s perfectly fine for play another time but now?

His hand finds her cheek before she can dart away. She knows her eyes are wide, pupils blown, and if she is incredibly unlucky he can see the pink-purple shift of colour in her eyes that gives away her magic.

“Your eyes say otherwise.”

That heady feeling swims through her mind like a thick fog. Memories of nights of ecstasy play back over her skin like she can still feel every touch. 

Staring into his eyes feels like she could swim in them. Yet she’s drowning in that thick feeling clouding her judgement. Her words feel heavy on her tongue when she replies, 

“Then stop looking at them.”

“Hard not to when they look like that.” His finger hooks under her chin and tils up her head. 

He could have her. She would let him. 

If only the room didn’t smell like sulphur.

Her head might be swirling but her instincts, however dulled they are, can still pick up on the presence of someone watching them. She turns, almost losing her footing, and sees the familiar pompous doublet of a certain devil, grin forming on his human disguise.

“Oh thank gods,” she says relieved before she can think better of it. What better time to be interrupted than when she wishes so desperately not to be the centre of attention. 

Perhaps she should be more focussed on the relief of not having to find Raphael instead of the creeping discomfort of being vulnerable in front of Astarion. He’s been watching her so intently this morning. His features briefly twist into confusion, brows drawn together, before that mask of his flits into place because of their company.

“Not the kind of greeting I am usually met with but I could grow accustomed,” Raphael announces, arms wide. “Do you know what happens when a devil is struck down on this charming plane of existence?”

Of all times for their personal devil to turn up, it is when she’s not in the best state of mind. She’s taken drugs that have given her better trips even with her worst reactions. It’s like listening to someone in the distance as her heart beats louder than they’re speaking. Maybe it’s the lack of rest, the anxiety, and not her body reacting and struggling to focus. It’ll be a nightmare when she plays it over in her mind later. 

Like a bard trying to play to an audience, Raphael gets dramatic, speaking of his so-called House of Hope and healed wounds and restored bodies.

Astarion takes a step forward with his usual scowl, chest out as he stands up for himself. “We delivered the devil. Now I want what I’m owed - we had a deal.”

He appears the perfect image of a man that intends to fight but Gwyndolyn knows him well enough by now to know he’s scared to be told no. She wants to stand right beside him, place a hand on his shoulder and let him know that she’s with him. But the risk of getting that close, having it backfire, are beyond what she’s capable of thinking through right now.

Raphael gestures, calm as anything. “Indeed we did. I discovered all there is to know about those scars of yours - it’s a rather grim tale, even for my tastes.”

Walls down, body on fire, Gwyndolyn knows she doesn’t have a voice in this. One charlatan to another they are in a stalemate of performative words, dancing around the point.

She swallows the thick feeling in her throat, bitter. “Get on with it, Raphael.”

The devil’s eyes flit to hers and she spies a hint of a smile for but a second. He’d be dangerous if he wanted to be.

“As you wish.” He raises his eyebrows in challenge and turns away from her. “Brace yourself. Astarion - we’re about to unveil your destiny.”

For all of his grandiosity, thankfully Raphael does, eventually, get to the point: Astarion’s scars are part of an infernal contract. One between his former master and an archdevil.

Gwyndolyn’s read enough to know the depths of such contracts, deeper and more convoluted than any warlock contract which simply requires one soul. Even the cambion in front of them describes the apparent associated ritual as vile. Not without some kind of devilish pleasure and describing it, of course.

Then it hits. The words that etch themselves into her mind, as a promise too good to be true: “The arousals and appetites of man will return to him.”

Her eyes search Astarion’s face as he takes all the information in. That his master would be a ‘Vampire Ascendant’, a creature that has never before existed, with all of his current strength amplified while regaining all the bodily pleasures of men. Including the warmth of the sun on his skin.

The image of Astarion standing in the sun flashes into her mind. His master would get that luxury. After everything that he’s done.

A deep sense of dread fills the pit of her stomach.

Astarion remains guarded, leaning more onto one foot than another.

“But the ritual has its price, as all worthwhile things do,” Raphael continues, “Lord Cazador will need to sacrifice a number of souls, including all of his vampiric spawn, if he is to ascend.”

There it is.

The soul cost.

All rituals require their components, their sigils, and the right words and time to cast them. Where one soul is enough for a devil like Mizora for the gift of loaned magic, the gift of an enhanced life, a longer life, with pleasures of food and sun are an untold number of souls. For an Archdevil, it seems like such a small cost for simply--

She can’t help the look of concern that crosses her face when she watches Astarion process everything he wished to know and the brunt of that weight settling on his shoulders. He appears closed off, resigned to the news he’s been given. 

That he himself is a component for his master’s ritual.

A new wave of nausea floods through her body at the very notion of people being used for other people’s magic.

Raphael is naturally unconcerned and heavily implies Cazador’s discontent with one of his ritual components disappearing in the night. That certainly would explain the monster hunter back in the swamp.

And with little more than a casual dismissal of the weight of the information he’s provided as part of a deal actually kept, Raphael leaves with a huff of sulphur.

They both stand there in the dim purple firelight of the brazier. Astarion’s face holds still like it might crack if he moved. Yet behind his eyes she can see his mind working, processing, calculating.

She dares to step closer. “You’re… quiet. That’s not like you.”

Her voice feels so much quieter in this cavernous space. The giant statue of Shar looms in the distance like a threat of silence over them and it takes everything in her to not whisper like she’s a guest in someone else’s house.

Truly, she feels a wave of empathy for Astarion she can’t quite place. He’s been used like a tool only to be told that he’s been part of a greater plan without his knowledge. 

Astarion considers her, all of their previous humour lost to his mask dropped, a hint of vulnerability on show. “It’s a lot to take in. What do you think I should do?”

The dread in her gut takes root, twisting into her stomach, and she feels so very much sober now. “There’s a way to become a living vampire…” She keeps her tone as measured as she can, knowing what that would mean to him and what horrors it could take. “That must mean a lot to you.”

She can see before he says anything that he’s already considering it and part of her chest aches for him. He revels in his strength and copes through his condition with bitter humour, but deep down she knows the countenance of someone making do with what has been handed to them. With a possibility of claiming his very life essence back, she can’t blame him for flirting with the possibilities that presents. 

Flirting with possibilities is what wizards do with magic after all.

“The idea definitely has appeal,” he confirms her worries immediately. “I could get rid of the worm in my head and still walk in the sun. I’d finally be free of the hunger.”

She can’t tell if he’s seeking her approval or her support but she nods along so he knows that she’s listening. He deserves that. As much as the idea of taking an archdevil’s contract for himself sets a deep terror in her bones.

“And if I’m key to this deal of Cazador’s, perhaps I can turn this to my advantage…”

He addresses her next, taking her by surprise, “I need to take the fight to him. And I need you to help me.”

The look in his eyes when theirs meet fix her into place. He’s sincere and genuine in his desire of this possibility. And ethereal realms help her, she loves him more than she’s let herself feel or know as the very idea of saying no to him, countering those thoughts with her own doubts when there’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes, aches in her chest. She can’t do that now.

She says the best version of the truth that she can manage.

“Of course, I’m yours however you want me.”

── ☆ ──

“So are you going to tell me why you were out in the middle of the night?” Astarion whispers into Gwyndolyn’s ear when they were well and truly settled in their bedrolls on the edge of reverie.

She sighs with a laugh, refusing to turn to face him, nuzzling into the pillow. “I wasn’t feeling my best.”

“Dilated pupils, laboured breath, sensitivity to touch…” He muses through her symptoms and playfully touches the back of his hand to her forehead. “I can’t even tell if you were running a fever or if you were just feeling hot under the collar.”

Astarion slips an arm over her middle, fingers tracing gentle circles across her bare stomach. Only a few hours ago it would have driven her mad, desperate for those dexterous hands to venture south. It’s like he’s trying to get a reaction out of her.

“And if I was?” she asks quietly, holding back a smile.

There’s a brief pause and his fingers claw gently into her skin. 

Gwyn’s breath stills. 

His voice is a low rumble when he continues, “Might make me a little less worried that you would run off. You haven’t been the most forthcoming with your plans.”

He's not wrong. Though it worked in her favour, keeping things to herself has not been without its flaws. Astarion alone could have ruined some of them. He's so ready to assume she'll betray him in some way.

After all, she’s only just grasped some sense of trust in him. Even if she does regularly let him sup from her. Even if she sleeps in his tent, in his bed, and indulges in the comfort he gives her.

Maybe they're both too close to truly be at ease.

Trust is so hard to give after years of that gift being squandered.

For now, she'll hold her guard.

“I can’t tell you everything, Astarion.”

“Is that so… Gwyndolyn…” Astarion draws out her name with his familiar sarcasm, tongue dripping in a mix of frustration and amusement. “Is there a surname I should know? You’re not some patriar’s secret daughter, are you?”

Gwyn snorts and rolls her eyes. She nudges back against him with a firm jab of her elbow into his side.

“I hope not!” She mocks her indignation and rolls over to stare him in the eye. “I'd like to think I have more self-respect than to be the spawn of someone of such ‘high status’.”

A gleam shines in Astarion's eyes. His smirk spreads across his face like he's the cat that caught the canary. His brow raises when he asks, “I appear to have hit a nerve? You don't secretly judge Wyll, do you? You can tell me, you know. I'm rather good with secrets.”

She shoves his chest, trying not to laugh. “That is not what I meant! And you know it!”

“Are you sure? Hmmm…” He continues to judge her while he smirks to himself, laughing at each half-hearted shove she makes in her mild frustration.

“You really like to stir me up, don't you?” 

She takes her turn to narrow her eyes and judge him. Sliding closer, she brings their faces close enough for their noses to touch.

Drawing her eyes over him slowly, she makes a final observation, “Somewhat of a mood killer.”

Astarion smiles all the wider. “Oh are you in a mood after all that?”

Heavens she would be tempted if it didn't feel like both of them wouldn’t be running away from a grim reality. Astarion, or at the very least his body, is a component for a diabolical ritual. How so painfully fitting of Cazador to find yet another use for the man.

It's hard to keep the moment light when the heaviness of that truth is etched in skin only inches away.

Gwyndolyn avoids his eyes, taking a deep sigh to settle the uneasiness in her chest.

Her voice is as steady as she can make it.

“You haven’t eaten in some time and I don’t know how much longer we’ll be here.” 

He doesn't argue. He smiles with a small twitch under his eye. This close he can see a thought clouding her expression. 

“Mmm, I haven't,” he adds quietly.

A sombre unspoken understanding passes through them and she leans her head to give him access.

There's little thrumming left in her veins but his teeth prick in a way that sends a shock of pleasure through her, a new and strange sensation. He takes his time, like there is nowhere else in the realms to be, like he's savouring the touch of her skin to his lips more than sustenance itself.

His arm is closer around her that night.

His hold is stronger too.

Her hand reaches up to stroke through and tangle in his hair. Her lips part around a sigh as a sense of relief rushes through her. If she wasn't so tired, she might have thought it sounded like a moan.

Neither of them acknowledge it. 

Neither of them pull away.

But she lets him drink deeply.

And he lets her caress through his hair as he does.