Datasets:
mickume
/
dnd_drow

Dataset card Data Studio Files
xet
Community
text
stringlengths
0
41.4k
"I care about him." Tav’s shocked by how easily the words come, even though he’s never said them aloud, and the massive surge of relief he feels once they’re out. It’s like his body’s been dying to let go of them, to tell someone , even if it’s not Astarion. "A lot, actually. And I care about all of you. We’re in this together."
Wyll grins. "I can’t argue with that. You’ll always have me, Tav. Through thick and thin. And—well, I’m glad I don’t have to kill him. I wasn’t looking forward to it."
Tav lets out a shaky exhale. "Thank you. For listening. And for asking."
"Since we’re being honest, you look like you’re about to keel over." Wyll pats him on the shoulder. "We can talk about the prisoners in the morning. I’ll chat with the others in the meantime, see if we can’t put some finishing touches on the details."
Tav’s grateful for him, for everyone, to a degree he can’t express. It’s all so much more than he deserves. But a deep part of him is afraid, too.
What if they don’t need him? What if they’ve never needed him?
If he can’t protect them and carry their burdens, if they’re the ones who think they need to protect him—from Astarion, from himself, from anything at all—then Tav’s been the burden. All this time.
He can’t let that sink in. Can’t afford to think about it for a moment longer.
"Don’t decide anything without me," Tav says, forcing a smile. "We’ll save them, Wyll. You have my word."
"I know I do," Wyll says blithely, like Tav’s word is worth more than something he could scrape off the bottom of a latrine. "You’re good as gold, Tav. Don’t think we don’t know it."
Tav curls his bleeding hand into a fist. Pain throbs through his pierced thumb, where the Blood of Lathander bit into him, but it’s not enough. Nothing he can do to himself is enough.
There’s only one person who can help, and Tav doesn’t even know where he is.
The little room at the top of the stairs in Last Light is empty. But someone’s changed the sheets.
Tav leans against the closed door and gapes in disbelief. The last time he was here, the room resembled a battlefield: torn cloth, empty bottles, and stray knives scattered across the floor, bloodstains all over the bed. It looked like someone had been murdered here—or perhaps several people. It smelled like an abattoir.
Now it’s clean. Tav must have the wrong room.
He takes a few unsteady steps, and then he sees it: a single bloodstain on the nightstand. In a breathless rush, he remembers bracing his bad arm there as he laid Astarion’s limp, mangled body on the bed. He does have the right room.
Tav’s skin prickles. He feels the hot weight of a stare on his back. For the first time in possibly ever, he knows Astarion is there before he announces himself.
Tav turns. And there Astarion is, in the shadowy corner of the room beside the bookshelf. Tav has no idea whether he was there the whole time, or if he slipped in a moment ago and shut the door again.
Astarion looks at him silently. He doesn’t move a muscle. The air doesn’t stir with his breath.
He’s not the only one. Tav can’t breathe either. Fuck, his chest hurts. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him—besides everything—but this unbearable pressure is going to build until it kills him. He needs... he needs...
"Astarion." It’s half-whisper, half-sob. "Please. I need you."
Astarion nods, stiff and mechanical, as if that’s exactly what he expected. What he was summoned here to do. And he moves out of the shadows towards Tav. 
His hands hover over Tav’s hips, then settle. Cold as ice.
"Lie down, darling. I’ll take care of you."
"Not that," Tav says, stricken. "I can’t. I just need you."
It’s hopeless. He can barely speak, let alone find the words to make Astarion understand. Astarion’s going to leave again, and he’ll take everything with him. Tav’s life, his light. His sole tether.
"Tell me." Astarion’s eyes kindle with an incomprehensible flame. Tav sees his own helplessness reflected there. "Is it the knife you need? Hot coals? A rope around your neck? I’ll do anything short of killing you, love. You’ll feel something. That I can promise."
"No," Tav breathes. "It won’t be enough."
He needs a higher pain. Not the highest, not yet, because that pain is final; he’ll lose Astarion afterward. Tav’s known that since long before they even met.
"What, then?" Astarion’s voice is nearly a snarl. "Tell me."
Tav takes his face between his hands and kisses him.
As broken as he is, as wretched and desperate, he’s still ready to let Astarion go the instant he feels resistance. But Astarion doesn’t resist.
His fingers curl around Tav’s waist and he tilts his head, deepening their kiss. There’s need in the way his tongue moves over Tav’s, in the soft press of his lips. Or maybe something better than need. Want.
And it’s enough for Tav to pretend.
Astarion loves him. Loves him deeply, desperately, the way Tav loves him. His heart is open and Tav has a place inside it. He’s home. And there’s no pain here, no loss or suffering. Astarion won’t let go of him, won’t turn him away, won’t leave on a path Tav can’t follow. He’ll never be alone.
Astarion loves him... he loves him... he does...
He doesn’t. Can’t. Won’t ever.
Astarion’s had every lover under the sun and more besides; Tav has nothing new to offer him, except for the fact that he isn’t dead yet. No wonder Astarion’s so keen on keeping him alive.
Tav shudders in blissful anguish. He has what he needed, and Astarion didn’t even have to know. No one can blame him for this. There’s no marks on Tav that anyone can see.
But through the fog, he feels something odd. Astarion’s hand on the small of his back, pressing him closer. Clinging.
And he’s still kissing him, in a way that feels new. It’s slow, unhurried, hesitant. Tav’s never kissed him like this before.
He’s never kissed anyone like this before.
Tav’s heart races—a premonition of danger, an arrow whirring toward his back. He cups Astarion’s face and gently pulls him away. Before he can stop himself, he runs his thumb over Astarion’s lip. It’s habit, to smooth away the clinging drops of blood before they can fall and ruin Astarion’s clothes.
But there’s no blood. Just Astarion’s mouth, flushed and soft.
"Is that it?" Astarion asks. The flame in his eyes dwindles, replaced by a familiar guardedness. "That can’t be all you wanted. For heaven’s sake, I didn’t steal Isobel’s linens so we could kiss like schoolchildren."
Tav lets him go. "Sorry. I’m just... I can’t, tonight. I guess I’m tired."
"You’re tired," Astarion says flatly, stepping back. "Well, if my services aren’t needed, I’ll be off. Places to go, people to kill."
"Or you could stay," Tav says. "I don’t mind."
He has to frame it as a choice, even if it kills him. Even if he’s sure he won’t survive one of those options. He has to use every ounce of guile and restraint he possesses to make it sound as if he’ll truly be okay either way.
And yet he’s certain it isn’t enough to fool Astarion. Not even close.
Astarion keeps choosing to stay. Every time. And what in the hells could that mean, exactly, except that Tav can’t lie worth a damn?
Astarion’s eyes flicker around the room, the way he searches crypts and cellars for pressure plates or tripwires. Tav wonders what he’s looking for. A way out? The door’s right behind him. There’s a window over there.
But Astarion isn’t looking in either of those places. His gaze moves to the bed, the nightstand, the rings of wax where candles used to burn. And then to Tav’s hip, where the Blood of Lathander hangs. His nostrils flare and his lips press together in a thin line.
Tav could watch his face forever. If Astarion was a book, Tav would study every page like his own holy text. He’d commit every word to memory. And still there would be so many secrets hidden between every line that he’d never catch.
Like this one. Tav can’t guess why Astarion’s staring at the Blood like it’s a snake about to bite. Or a snake that’s already bitten.
"Maybe I will," Astarion says. "Maybe I’m tired, too."
Gods, he must be. Tav can’t imagine anything more exhausting than being his keeper. Astarion’s never been able to rest, not with Tav, except for when he was on the brink of death himself.
Tav has to fix that. He has to find a way to hold himself together, so he can finally give Astarion a real choice. And then he’ll know.
He’ll know if Astarion stays because Tav needs him, or because he wants to.
In the busy bustle of the Lower City two progenies were maturing, like a cancer growing on a child in the womb; doomed from the onset.
One was a child pawned off like scrap metal to keep his parents debt at bay for another fortnight. His chains would eventually be broken and revenge taken; but revenge would not save him.
It’s a strange sensation — one’s skin growing numb against the pressure of chains, suddenly unfeeling — one’s age being an uncertain number, lost to time, if The Overseer did not make a habit of calling him his name at every battering, he was sure he would have lost that too.
Enver knows why he is here, but not to what end. Time works differently in the Hells, all at once it is still, unmoving, and simultaneously all too quick. When he is not in the prison he is working, unthinking and yet planning - his spirit unbroken. The beatings fuelled his ambitions like gasoline on fire. This was his gift; the hammer that would weld his spirit into steel, reforge him into something
The Black Hand had witnessed his ambition, the pure scorn and willpower which had been unseen in decades. He had placed his hand on Enver, gripping him with care - the very same care that the hammer holds for the nail.
He had died in the Hells, reforged to be greater than he was before. Gifted a new name;
And he would get his due.
Elsewhere— another child, similar of age — a tiefling urchin, taken in by parents whose faces it could not remember anymore. Blood and dirt under its fingernails, rot in its heart, yet loved by its foster parents; but love had not saved it. 
Sceleritas had appeared then, introducing himself as his butler. He did not yet understand the implication of his birthright, but he would learn soon, Sceleritas had said. And so he did.
His body grew into an instrument of his Fathers will, every nerve weaved together in a tapestry that spelled murder. Every limb was forged into a scalpel, to make every caress a cut;
a drop of Fathers gore,
sculpted, aged, matured, and finally,
His return to the temple had been a joyous occasion for all: The Dread Lord's scion returned to its home. He had not been expected there, but to be expected somewhere was to be a guest there; this had not been a mere visit – it had been a homecoming. A grand spectacle of gore, rooting out the weeds among the temples occupants in an offering to Father, to sow new seeds that would stain The City’s roots with a rot so beautiful Bhaals grip on it would never be doubted again. 
Corpses defiled and displayed, flesh granted in the holiest of offerings; it almost brought a tear to the scion’s eyes as he felt Father’s approval wash over him - a clear response to this sacrament of confirmation. The sculpted clay had finally reclaimed its birthright.
Mirtul 13, 1490DR.
Blood could be washed out, but Gortash preferred to not have to risk getting it on his garments — its metallic scent always seemed to linger in fabrics. Direct confrontation was always a hassle, and the implication of violence in any given interaction was often enough to deter it entirely. For as many years as the city stood, violence had been the shared denominator among every part of The Gate. Be it in The Lower or Upper City, in the noble houses or in the underground organisations that held equal, sometimes greater, amounts of power. 
Gortash was familiar with all brands of it, from the first, more humble, days of his return to The City, to when he held his position as upper military advisor to the elite of Baldur's Gate. 
Violence was often an answer, and yet blood was
Still, it was the fertiliser for the soil of Baldur's Gate. He was no stranger to executing political opponents once they outlasted their usefulness, sometimes it simply had to be done. Like today, with some half-elf from the Upper City, Gortash had not even noted his name when ordering his assassination. A life reduced to little more than paperwork.
He had not thought much of it at the time; given a day or two he probably would’ve put the memory far behind him, if it weren’t for a familiar metallic scent filling his bedroom on a Mirtul evening. The humid aid did nothing to quell the lingering scent of blood, familiar as always but somehow much more concentrated, tinged with the (sadly, also familiar) smell of sewer. 
Gortash had been between letters at the time, already drafting condolences and statements to the press even if the news hadn’t broken to either party yet. Lazily shifting his glance to the doorway where a figure had placed itself, it stood in the shape of a tiefling clad in red and white– perhaps ten centimetres or so taller than Gortash himself. The tiefling was unmoving, unblinking as grey eyes seemed to reflect in the evening light as the sun was setting; not unlike a cat meeting one's glance as it wandered in the night.
Gortash hadn’t been expecting company, and even if he had, his usual visitors announced themselves as they entered. No, this was something different, and — if the smell of blood and sewer hugging the stranger was anything to go by — this was someone
different, too.
Gortash would have been an idiot to not recognize a follower of Bhaal when confronted with one— The Black Hand and The Dread Lords association with one another were known to most in Faerûn. He was familiar with the fact that Bhaal’s cult had grown to hold a firm position in The City’s underground again for the first time in at least a hundred years. He had been fortunate enough to not have to encounter any part of it directly yet, but he supposed  his own hand in reviving Bane’s cult above ground was mirrored underground in Bhaal’s.
As above, so below. 
And yet here there was no above, nor below, only Gortash and this mysterious Bhaalist that had made its way into his chambers, mirroring each other. 
"A Bhaalist in my chambers, uninvited – curious. To what do I owe the pleasure?" A gentle smile flitted across his face, sizing the stranger up. 
"Do you know me?" There was no shock or recognition in his voice, only a flicker of interest that reverberated up to the ceiling and echoed across the room.
"I know of your kind, more like," Gortash corrected. "You
a Bhaalist, no? Our lords were bedfellows at one point in time. Of course I would know what you are." He carefully approached the figure, still unmoving, scanning his appearance for any sign of weapons. If he was armed, it wasn't visibly so; normally it would offer little comfort to not spot any visible weapons, but with a Bhaalist it offered none at all. "But as I recall, their partnership has been..
for a while. So I ask again: to what do I owe the pleasure? Surely this isn’t a social call?" 
"It is not, no." The stranger approached Gortash, revealing himself further as he did so, the two no more than three paces from each other now. "I come on behalf of The Lord of Murder Himself."
, a Bhaalist who genuinely wished me dead would have done so long ago." He waved his right hand dismissively. "So I ask again: Why is one of the Dread Lord’s followers darkening my door?" Gortash took another look at the figure, now fully examining him: his garb was black with golden accents, clinging to sickly pale skin and dark, dusty brown hair.
." Firmly stated with pride soaking every word. The unblinking eye contact remained – grey on brown. "I am His scion. The very embodiment of His will. He has bid me to come here to you, Enver Gortash. The Dread Lord has plans for us, as does the Black Hand."
If the stranger was bluffing, there was no indication of it, his breathing remained steady and his eyes unblinking. If this person was indeed who he claimed to be, there was mighty potential here. Gortash would be a fool not to avail of an opportunity presenting itself. Blood was always a hassle, after all – if he was not the one to spill it, he would have no need to clean it.
Mirtul 30, 1490DR
It was meant as a simple partnership, initially. Bhaal’s Scion had apparently received a vision most holy in one of his prayers, bidding him to seek out Bane’s chosen and begin a partnership. Bhaal demanded blood, but as of late it seemed as if the increase in murders tied to the cult of Bhaal had also led the Flaming Fist to sharpen their efforts to solve said murders. 
Obviously, he did not need further attention from forces in the city, and Gortash could help prevent that from happening. 
In return the leader of the cult of Bhaal would act as his assassin when the need arose; it was a beneficial partnership, one with potential to blossom into something grander than even Gortash could currently fathom. Two chosen of the Dead Three working together in symbiosis had the power to upend the entire city if they so wished.
During their first encounter, he had assumed Bhaals chosen had merely been dramatic when it came to describing his position in the cult - The Dread Lord’s followers were prone to theatrics, in their way.