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Astarion
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Astarion feels a fool for it, but he can’t stop thinking about Wyll.
It would be fine if he were ruminating over his failed seduction and plotting to try harder to bed their fearless leader. Instead, he’s stuck thinking about soft lips, the faint scrape of facial hair, the coy way Wyll pulled away before Astarion could slip his tongue into his mouth.
Before he can find out whether there is a forked tongue and fangs he can discover, hidden within.
It’s childish. To obsess over something as simple as a chaste kiss, alone on a beach, away from the drunken revelry of overjoyed tieflings. It should be a drop in the ocean that is Astarion’s experience with relationships; sex is far more compelling than a kiss.
Especially when Astarion had been angling for sex in the first place.
He’d never even gotten around to his proposition, distracted easing Wyll’s mind about his changed features, cajoling him into realising that he’s just as handsome —even more, if Astarion is honest— than he was prior to Mizora’s punishment.
There’s something different about Wyll now. He’s taller and broader —technically, the horns give him extra height, yes— but he used to be almost eye-to-eye with Astarion, whereas now Wyll has to duck his head to meet Astarion’s eyes. He can see it, too, in the way Wyll’s clothes don’t fit as well; they are too small at the shoulder seam and tight around his biceps.
He makes himself seem smaller, bows his head and curls in on himself so he doesn’t take up as much room, but Astarion thinks it means the others haven’t noticed the change because of it.
Maybe they’re distracted with their own issues; all of them seem riddled with secrets and unfinished business, and in fairness to Karlach and Lae’zel, they’ve only just joined the group.
Lae’zel was actually the first person Astarion had met on the horrible mindflayer vessel, but once the thing crashed, she disappeared.
Astarion and Shadowheart had met Wyll in the grove and had warily asked him to join their group. It had been evident from how he’d helped the hapless tiefling children that he was more a leader than either of them. Despite their similarly abrasive personalities, both of them were used to deference. Diplomacy was difficult; doing the right thing and ignoring self-interest was almost impossible.
Their best chance of surviving this parasite was to defer to someone like Wyll, someone charismatic who could get them help with a bashful smile and a sincere retelling of their harrowing tale.
Between him and Gale, who they found in a malfunctioning portal later that same afternoon, they had a solid team of people who knew how to make plans. Lae’zel didn’t add much diplomacy, but at least she was good at killing things, and even Shadowheart could concede that her knowledge of Illithid was invaluable to their situation. Karlach was another ray of sunshine type, becoming fast friends with everyone, even Astarion, who wasn’t looking to make friends.
Even Wyll, who had been seeking her out to kill her.
Astarion finds himself glad that Wyll didn’t do it. He wonders whether Wyll feels the same or if he regrets it sometimes.
He knows that Wyll hasn’t seen himself, not really. He wonders if he’s avoiding mirrors so he doesn’t have to face reality. Because he’s terrified of the monster he’s become, appearance-wise, or because his fiendish appearance will remind him of those slain in his years of adventuring.
Will he see the humanity within himself and start to wonder if any of the monsters he ruthlessly cut down were innocent victims, just like Karlach?
Devils lie. Everyone knows that. Has Wyll been naive to assume that Mizora didn’t twist his contract to suit her needs whenever she wished?
“What do you think, Astarion?”
Astarion blinks out of his musings; his fingers still pressed to his lips. When his eyes refocus, he’s staring at the crude maps Gale has copied from some of his books about the Sword Coast. They highlight the mountain path — one of the two routes the giant archdruid has told them may take them through the Shadow-Cursed Lands on their way to the Moonrise Towers.
Wyll looks at him expectantly, eyes imploring. They’re lovely: the unique stone eye and the newly black sclera and fiery crimson iris of his remaining eye.
However, Astarion finds himself missing the deep, rich brown of his natural eye. There had been something so magnetic and compelling about his eye —the type of innocent, long-lashed doll eyes that made lesser men kill— and Astarion has always been a lesser man.
“The mountain pass would surely be safer,” Gale argues, jabbing a finger against the map. “There are too many unknowns with the Underdark; we don’t even know where the entry point is! It’s a waste of time, and time is of the essence!”
“You know I’d prefer the sunny route,” Astarion concedes, leaning back on his hands and tipping his face up so he can bask in the orange rays of the late afternoon sun. “I’ve had more than enough of skulking in the dark.”
“Thank you!” Gale says, relieved.
Astarion holds up a hand, halting his premature celebration. “That said, the archdruid seems a strong fellow, and he advised us to go through the Underdark because it’s safer. If he thinks the Underdark is safer than the mountain pass… I think we should take the easy route.”
Wyll beams.
It does not make Astarion’s stomach flip.
Lae’zel crosses her arms, baring her teeth at him. “T’rac! We have to get to the crèche; if we do not get to the zaith’iskfor purification—”
“Halsin said these were not ordinary Illithid parasites.” Wyll’s voice is calm and measured in the face of Lae’zel’s spitting fury. “With all due respect, Lae’zel, I’m not sure the usual method of removal will work with these things.”
“The hag seemed confident until she realised it was tainted with Netherese magic,” Astarion adds, still bitter that the evil fey creature had plucked out one of his eyes, and he didn’t get anything but a worse eye out of the bargain.
As awful as the experience was, he’s glad the sorry excuse for a bard they rescued from the goblin camp replaced the hideous, milk-pale eye he’d been left with. His ersatz eye is more practical, allowing him to see invisible enemies.
“Besides,” Wyll rubs the back of his neck, bashful, “while I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting a Githyanki before you…” He looks up at Lae’zel under his lashes, the imp. “You said yourself that a Gith less charitable than yourself would cut any of us down without hesitation. So you can imagine none of us are eager to walk into a crèche crawling with them, banking on your presence to deter them from striking.”
Lae’zel watches him warily for a moment but concedes he has a point. “Tell me of this Under Dark,” she asks abruptly after a moment.
Despite his misgivings, Gale lights up at the opportunity to impart his wealth of knowledge to anyone unfortunate enough to ask.
Astarion tunes him out, watching Wyll as he always does.
Wyll’s shoulders slump a little, and he lets out a relieved breath.
It must be taxing, Astarion thinks, to care about what other people think. To keep everyone happyinstead of doing what you want and dealing with the fallout later. Astarion doesn’t know how he can live like that, constantly walking a tightrope where a single wrong move can alienate one side or the other, send Wyll careening down into the abyss, scrambling to set things back into balance.
“Good job, mate,” Karlach murmurs, reaching out like she’s about to clap him on the shoulder but thinking better of it at the last moment.
Astarion wonders whether Wyll’s fiendish transformation has made him more resistant to fire. It would be nice if there was a positive outcome to it, to make him feel better about it all.
And then he thinks of the natural conclusion to that line of thought. Of Karlach, who hasn’t touched anyone in a decade; Wyll, who has never touched anyone at all. The two of them finding a nice, private place to indulge in touch. It’s an intriguing visual, but something about it makes Astarion feel restless, irritated.
Maybe he’s just pent-up. It’s been far too long.
Shadowheart huffs, taking a seat next to Karlach. “It’s getting cold,” she complains, as though her camp outfit doesn’t expose half of her torso with its plunging neckline. “Warm me up?”
Karlach slides as close as she dares, her eyes wide.
Shadowheart crosses her legs primly. “I agree with Wyll,” she says, studiously avoiding Lae’zel’s beady gaze. “Though I’m loath to return to that cursed moon-witch’s temple to find an entry point.”
Wyll shrugs. “It’s a lead, but it’s not the only one,” he concedes. “Let’s retire for the day, gather our resources and be ready to move out at first light tomorrow. If we must, we can camp in the ruined temple while searching for an entry point.”
Shadowheart’s pretty face twists; she’s not thrilled at spending more time than necessary in the Selûnite temple, even though the thing has been desecrated.
“I suppose I’ll begin prepping for dinner,” Wyll says after a brief silence.
Gale is still mid-lecture, explaining the wonders and terrors of the Underdark with an increasingly irritable Lae’zel. His arms are waving like he’s trying to paint a mental picture for her.
Her arms are crossed, her brow pinched and her foot tapping. It doesn’t look like she appreciates his verbose descriptions of dark, fungus-filled vistas aglow with bioluminescence.
“I’ll help,” Astarion announces, standing and following Wyll to the campfire nearby and the enormous flat rock Karlach and Halsin had dragged over so that the camp had a makeshift table to make enough food for everyone the night of the party. Astarion ineffectually brushes some of the blackened soot left behind by Karlach’s hands before hopping to sit on the bench. He wordlessly holds out a freshly sharpened knife for Wyll to use.
Wyll places a large satchel on the stone bench, blinking at the shiny knife Astarion holds aloft, handle-first. “Oh.” He carefully takes the blade and sets it near his bag before rummaging for some vegetables. “Thank you.”
“It’s no trouble, darling.”
Wyll piles carrots, potatoes, onions and mushrooms on the stone.
“Huh. That’s more vegetables than I’ve seen since we all crashed here; I didn’t know we had such variety at hand.”
Wyll produces a slightly battered cabbage from the bag and puts it aside, rolling his eyes fondly at Astarion. “Gale is quite the camp cook, but the man has clearly never eaten a vegetable if he could help it. I’m hoping to sneak them in before he realises I’ve taken over cooking duties for the night.”
Astarion hadn’t actually intended to help —it’s not like he can eat any of it— but finds himself hoping Wyll succeeds, even if it means he’ll have to distract Gale and endure an incredibly boring sermon himself.
Astarion says thoughtfully, “I can’t imagine having such diversity in your diet and deciding to be picky about it.”
It’s strange to be able to speak openly of his affliction. Especially with a self-proclaimed monster hunter, someone who rightly should have staked him the second he realised what Astarion was.
He didn’t know what he had been thinking that night, hovering over Wyll’s sleeping form, salivating over the maddening sweet scent of his blood, like a siren song to his unquenchable thirst. He hadn’t been thinking, honestly. His trance hadn’t been restful; a nightmare of Cazador, of his wretched master’s commandments, and he’d felt like a poor, pathetic prey animal, a small sickly rodent, frozen in terror under the watchful gaze of a rearing viper—
So he’d been panicked and so very hungry but also… curious.
Hadn’t he broken his master’s rules already? Hadn’t he disobeyed Cazador’s orders by not immediately heading for Baldur’s Gate? Wasn’t he leagues away from Cazador without permission?
And… he’s eaten. Drained a boar dry, and while he doesn’t necessarily believe they’re the most intelligent creatures… it was still a thinking creature, was it not? It had still been alive when he’d drained it, its blood still warm, heating his frigid insides.
Could he drink from a person? Had the tadpole gifted him the ultimate freedom?
So he wasn’t thinking when he’d crouched by Wyll, dazed with want and paralysed with indecision.
That Wyll had allowed him his pathetic defence was a miracle. That Wyll had allowed him to live and to stay? Entirely unheard of.
That Wyll had allowed him to drink…
Astarion thinks there is no greater fool in all of Faerûn than Wyll Ravengard, the heroic monster hunter who allowed a monster to feed from him and then kept him close by, as if Astarion couldn’t —wouldn’t— turn around and drain him dry at the earliest opportunity.
Still… Astarion feels indebted to him, and usually, his debts are paid with his body. It’s irritating that Wyll didn’t go for it at all and only accepted a paltry kiss. It doesn’t feel like equal payment.
Astarion realises sadly that Wyll really is a prince-type. It’s not an act in the slightest; he really does want to find someone with whom to share a slow, sappy courtship. He wants to kiss their hands and dance with them, probably proposing to them before he’ll even lie with them.
Astarion doesn’t understand those who save themselves for marriage and wonders how many of them shackle themselves together only to find themselves incompatible yet unable to free themselves from their premature entanglement.
Wyll clears his throat, chopping through his pile of vegetables with precision and speed bourne of practice. “I’m curious.” His tone is even, but how he focuses on his task instead of looking at Astarion betrays how curious he is. “While you don’t have the variety of a mortal diet, there are a few creatures you could consume the blood of. Do they… do they taste different, or is it all just… blood?”
Astarion shrugs. “I haven’t the experience of a wide range of samples, my sweet,” he reminds Wyll, inspecting his fingernails casually. “Rats and insects are disgusting. Considering the paltry blood they contain, they are not worth any time and effort. I didn’t exactly have much of a choice. Boar is good, but I’ve nothing to compare it to, except…”
He lets his eyelids droop, looking over to Wyll speculatively from beneath his lashes, darting his tongue across his top lip so quickly he thinks Wyll might miss the motion entirely.
Only Wyll has frozen, is no longer focused on his task, and his mismatched eyes follow the movement of Astarion’s tongue with undisguised interest. Though his dark complexion hides his blushes from a mortal gaze, Astarion’s vision is sharper, seeing the subtle difference as blood pools at his cheeks and in the faintly pointed tips of his ears.
Astarion’s lips quirk up, lopsided, revealing one fang. “Goblins,” he says to break the growing tension. He makes a disgusted noise. “Gods, they taste as bad as they smell.”
Wyll sputters into helpless laughter, lurching forward against the table. “Goblins,” he repeats, his smooth voice coloured with mirth. “I suppose you did sup on quite a few of them when we raided their camp. I’m surprised you kept eating them if they tasted so bad.”
Astarion’s chest is warm at Wyll’s bright smile turned towards him, but he elects to ignore it. “Yes, well. Even the rancid blood of a goblin is better than the desperate gnaw of sanguine hunger.”
A shadow passes over Wyll’s face, his brilliant smile fading as he takes in Astarion’s words.
Astarion kicks himself for losing that expression. The way Wyll’s eyes crinkle at the corners, deepened by his scars, and the brilliance of bone-white teeth against the dark rosy-brown of his full lips. He finds himself eager to win that expression back, somehow.
“Of course,” he says, pressing a hand to his chest, playing at sincerity. “All those things pale compared to the smallest sample of your blood, my sweet.” He tilts his head back, almost baring his throat, looking down upon Wyll, where he practically kneels at Astarion’s feet. However, his eyelids are low and submissive despite sitting higher. “A single drop from you… Nothing else I’ve sampled could even come close.”
Wyll swallows audibly, his lips parting as he looks up at Astarion like he’s at the feet of something celestial. He looks lovely like that, like there’s nothing he’d like more than to have someone put him in his place, make him kneel for hours and tell him how good he is for following instructions…
Astarion is getting ahead of himself. Wyll is painfully chaste, painfully romantic, painfully vanilla. No matter how delectable he looks on his knees, he’s not that kind of man, so Astarion needs to adjust his expectations.
Expectations?
He supposes he does have expectations for Wyll. He owes Wyll a debt for letting him feed. He also desires connection and protection so that he’ll be safe should any of the others decide he’s not worth keeping around anymore. At this rate, he doesn’t think it likely anymore, but he’s not about to count his chickens, as they say.
He needs someone to be invested in his position in the group, and Wyll, as their leader, is the only person worth pursuing. He’s too deft a hand at persuasion for Astarion to consider anyone else. If he loses favour with Wyll, he’s finished.
The man could probably persuade Astarion that he’s evil and needs to be staked for the good of the Sword Coast.
Seduction had been a no-go with Wyll. He’s into courtship, whatever the hells that entails… Astarion has always been very good at charming total strangers, though, hasn’t he? How difficult could it truly be to play along with Wyll’s romantic tendencies, to plot out a slow, romantic form of seduction to save his own skin?
Wyll could be more inclined to protect him from Cazador when they inevitably wind up at Baldur’s Gate again. If he thinks they’re romantically linked, that Astarion is in love with him…
There’s no way he’d allow his lover to end up enslaved once more, is there?
“You can feed on me tonight if you’d like,” Wyll blurts, blood rushing to pool in his cheeks and ears once more.
Astarion’s thoughts are derailed at the idea of tasting him once more, supping that sweet nectar straight from the source. But no, he’s not some lowly Ziran addict, unable to function without his next fix. He refuses to rely on the charity of someone to feed him, even someone as authentic and noble as Wyll.
“It’d be a lie if I said it wasn’t a tempting offer,” he sighs. “Too tempting, my dear. I want nothing more than to taste you again, but I can’t rely on you for all my meals, can I?”
Wyll’s expression dims again, but he doesn’t seem offended by the rejection. He almost seems pleased. “The offer still stands,” he says, too honest. “I don’t want anyone going hungry if I can help it. If you ever need to feed, just ask. And I’ll keep offering, even if you don’t need it.”
Astarion gives a high-pitched, ugly giggle rather than his refined and pleasant fakery. He’s thankful when Wyll doesn’t recoil at the hideous noise. “You can help me in other ways,” he purrs, throwing an exaggerated wink Wyll’s way.
Wyll misses it, having returned to his cooking. All his thinly chopped vegetables end up in a pan, which he covers in some fragrant oil before taking it to the fire. He turns back to Astarion once he’s settled it onto the flames, crossing his arms. “You know I’m not that kind of man,” he says sternly, but his mouth is tipped up at the corners.
“Oh, I know.” Astarion hops down from the bench and saunters over to Wyll. He makes sure his shoulders are curled inwards, like he’s unsure of himself, vulnerable. “I’ve… never courted someone before.”
Wyll’s eyebrows fly up, and his gaze flickers over Astarion, taking in his slumped posture. “Neither have I,” he admits, reaching out to take Astarion’s hands in his own. “We could… We could learn together, couldn’t we?”
Astarion tips his head down, acting flustered. “I would like that. Although, er, we should shelve this conversation for later, or your dinner will burn.”
Wyll drops Astarion’s hands, spinning into a graceful crouch before the fire in an impressive show of agility and precision.
It means his tail, awkwardly stuffed into his tattered camp trousers, smacks into Astarion’s legs with surprising force.
That, annoying as it is, gives Astarion an idea.
“I’m going to hunt,” he says airily, turning towards the trees before Wyll can acknowledge his words.
And he does think it would be nice to find another boar or perhaps something more considerable. Instead, he circles back to the grove. The tieflings had meant to leave at first light, but the late-night revelry had left more than a few of them in no state to travel, and Halsin insisted they stay one more day to rest up.
It gives them more time to gather precious resources and sell off whatever they can afford to do without. He doubts they have any clothing to spare, but…
He makes his way through the harried group of refugees, grimacing and gritting his teeth through pleasantries. He’s still uncomfortable with how they fawn over him, and he is not exactly sure why that is.
He thought being treated like a hero would be novel, and it would make him feel valued for something other than his body and the pleasure it could bring others, but it just made him feel old and jaded.
He doesn’t feel sympathy for these people, doesn’t know if he has the capacity for such kindness anymore. But they don’t deserve to live like this; defenceless civilians constantly under threat by everything the Sword Coast has to offer, their numbers dwindling by the day.
Astarion is pointed towards a tiefling woman acting as a merchant, who offers him some underclothes in various sizes, all second-hand but freshly laundered and clean enough to pass muster.
He tries to offer her payment, but she staunchly refuses. “We’re alive because of your lot,” she insists, her fuschia eyes aglow within pitch-dark sclera. “These are for him, aren’t they? The devil-touched man. The Blade.”
“He’s not a devil,” Astarion says, hackles raising immediately.
She rolls her eyes. “He’s sure not a tiefling,” she snarks. “He’s pacted to a devil; he chose that path where we tieflings were born like this. We didn’t get a choice. That’s why we fear him, you realise. Even if we’re forever indebted to him for his assistance with the goblins, no good man would ever choose to become… that.”
Astarion huffs, amused. “He didn’t have a choice, either, darling.” He tilts his head up, looking down his nose at her. “I’m sure one day, you’ll realise the world is not quite so black-and-white. Good men will walk around with devil horns, and bad men will walk around wearing pretty armour and wielding holy swords. You’ll do well to remember that if you want to survive Baldur’s Gate.” He turns away before she can respond. “Thank you for the clothes.”
He finds Dammon next, packing up what little is left of his makeshift forge.
“Ah, Astarion!” He wipes his sweaty brow and grins widely. “I was honestly expecting Wyll might come by, so I left aside the last of my good wares if you want to have a look.”
Astarion shrugs. “I’m looking for some decent light armour.” He feigns disinterest. “And, if you happen to have a sewing kit you could spare…?”
Dammon beams. “You’re in luck! Mattis pawned this off earlier today, though I daresay it might be too large for you as it is. It’ll prove handy for your next adventure if you’re willing to make some adjustments.”
The armour is definitely leagues better than the plain padded set Wyll has been wearing. It’s studded leather, woven and reinforced, but light and flexible. It would work well for someone like Wyll, who, like Astarion, prioritises agility and precision over everything else. It’s not ugly, either; the leather is a mix of beige and taupe, while the more supple fabric underneath is dyed indigo, a little faded from the sun but still pretty.
The shoulders and torso are too broad for Astarion, but while the plate, studded and stitched together with metal and metal-lined cord, will be challenging to unravel, the straps will be easier to adjust.
“This will do nicely,” Astarion says, inspecting the breeches. They’re the same indigo as the rest, though less faded as the leather faulds covering waist to thigh have protected them from the sun. It will be simple to add a slit for Wyll’s tail to rest more comfortably in the pants, though he’s not sure whether the faulds overtop will pinch or otherwise undo his hard work. Thankfully, there are plenty of experts he can consult. “Can I ask you something?”
Dammon’s smile dims a little, his eyebrows arching up. “Is there something wrong with it…?”
“No, dear, of course not.” Astarion holds up the faulds. “Would this be uncomfortable for you to wear? With the tail?”
Dammon looks down at it, inspecting it with furrowed brows. “Well, I suppose it would be. If one of my fellow tieflings were to wear it, I would undo the stitching along the back here to create a vent for ease of movement. Then, add a slit to the breeches for the tail, but maybe add some form of belt or something to make sure they don’t fall down.” He nods at the burlap bag Astarion already carries. “Shopping for Wyll, then?”
Astarion nods. “I don’t think anyone in camp knows how to sew,” he says, in case Dammon starts to get ideas that Astarion is doing this out of the goodness of his heart or something equally nauseating. “If I get the sewing kit, I can add holes to the clothes he already has, but the armour he’s using now…”
Dammon nods. “The padding would likely spill out everywhere,” he agrees. “Leather is definitely a better choice here.”
Astarion hands over enough gold to cover the armour and the sewing kit, which is more extensive than he needs, but that’s not bad. Maybe he’ll take to embroidery again in the tedious hours when everyone is asleep, and he’s run out of books to read.
Dammon clears his throat. “Um. Can you thank Wyll for me, by the way? I doubt I’ll see him before we leave, and well… Those binders he gave me were a generous gift.”
Astarion files that little tidbit away to ruminate upon later, his face studiously impassive. “I’ll pass along the message. Good luck on your journey. Hopefully, our paths will cross once you’ve reached the Gate.”
Astarion doesn’t think his tone reads as sincere, just a throwaway goodbye and a meaningless remark, but sometimes he forgets he’s dealing with nice people here. People who take words at face value; naive creatures who may have been through Hell, some even literally, but have yet to learn not to trust so easily.
“I hope so,” Dammon says earnestly, his pale orange skin flushing with pleasure. “I… Can you tell Karlach…” His voice catches, and then he bites his lip. “Actually, do you think Karlach would mind if I visited? Said goodbye before I go?” He stuffs Wyll’s new armour into his pilfered burlap sack.
Astarion laughs. “Please, she’d be thrilled!” He tilts his head, watching Dammon. “Do you mind… not mentioning the armour when you go? I haven’t altered it yet, so I’d like it to be a surprise.”
Dammon beams. “Of course! Not a word from me!” He mimes locking his lips and tossing away a key.
It is, sadly, adorable.
Astarion finds his way back to the remote clearing he had intended to bring Wyll to the night of the party. It’s still and quiet, late enough that the sun is mid-set, and diurnal creatures have found shelter for the night, but nocturnal creatures have yet to wake. It’s like nature is holding its breath.
Astarion glances around, but the clearing seems safe enough for now. He can leave his work here and come back for it after he’s eaten. The lack of light won’t make his work much harder; darkvision allows him to see well enough that his stitches will be as neat and precise as if he works on his project now.
Still, he’s hungry, and he’ll need a few things if he wants Wyll’s clothes to fit.
⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆
“Karlach!” Wyll cries the following morning, hurrying over to her tent eagerly.
Astarion looks up, startled out of his reverie. He’s been trying to read, but the tome he’d swiped from the druid grove is painfully dull. He finds Wyll in his new armour, looking dashing. He flits across camp like he’s lighter than air.
His tail pokes out of the newly formed vent in the back of the faulds, slipping through the leather skirt to bob around more animatedly than it has been since he’d been cursed to grow it.
He looks much more comfortable, and Astarion is relieved to see it.
“Ey up!” Karlach calls, beaming at Wyll. “Oh, don’t you look nice?!”
She’s not wrong. The colours suit him well, but Wyll is the type of man who could pull off almost anything. The sleeker leather does a better job showing off his lithe figure, highlighting his tiny waist, trim hips, and impossibly long legs. The pauldrons aren’t attached to the chestplate, but the gap between the plates highlights how broad and strong Wyll’s shoulders are.
“Hm.” Shadowheart appears at Astarion’s side. Her eyes droopy as if she’s only awoken, but she’s watching Wyll and Karlach intently. She’s in her uncomfortable-looking sleep clothes, her mace in her slack hand, like she’d anticipated an attack.
Across the camp, Wyll does a little twirl.
Karlach laughs loudly, clapping her hands.
“Did they pull you from your beauty sleep, darling?” Astarion asks, unable to stop a corner of his mouth from ticking up.
“I thought we were under attack.” Shadowheart scowls at him. “Ugh, you’re looking too smug this early in the morning. What did you do, eat an entire nest of baby piglets?”
Astarion turns a page idly. “I daresay that would be a litter, not a nest.” He flashes a fangy smile at her.
She makes a disgusted noise and stomps back to her secluded corner of the camp.
Emerging from his own tent, Gale makes his way to his usual haunt in the mornings, sitting by the campfire, stoking the coals into a crackling blaze. He forages through their growing collection of food for something he can prepare.
The tieflings had gifted them with a few dozen eggs they didn’t think would survive transport to Baldur’s Gate, and Gale decides gleefully that eggs are the special of the day.
Astarion snaps his book shut and walks over, sprawling artfully on a log across from their resident wizard, who’s too cheerful for someone doing something tedious like cooking.
“Morning, Astarion!” Gale gives him a cheery wink and returns to his work. “It’s a shame you don’t eat with us because this morning’s breakfast will be the best yet!”
Astarion snorts. “I’m sure it will be scrumptious, dear. To someone with my physiology, though, it would taste like bile, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately!” Gale hums a happy tune.
Gods, it’s dreadful. The fact that Astarion is stuck with people like him for the next however-long defies all reason. He’s surrounded by cheerful, heroic people and itches with the need to break something or steal something… cause some chaos to balance things out just a little.
Still, he’s not trapped in Cazador’s mansion. He’s not being tortured, kept in the kennels, or otherwise mangled to the point where death seems a kinder fate than the possibility of living through the pain. His bones are all intact, his skin is clean and unbroken, and he’s even fed at night. There are much worse states he could be in.
Gale, like most of his companions, is insufferable. Being annoying is a considerable step up from living with his so-called siblings, though. His so-called loving father.
Even with some unknowable entity trapped behind one of his eyes, digging into his brain the longer it’s allowed to stay in his head, he doesn’t feel scared of his possible fate. He doesn’t exactly want to become a mind flayer. Not only would it be another form of servitude, but the things are absolutely hideous to look at.
Even becoming a slave to an elder brain is better than being a slave to Cazador Szarr.
“Well met.” Wyll takes a seat next to Astarion. He’s smiling wide, his good eye sparkling with good humour. “Check out my new threads!”
Astarion glances over them, choosing not to linger. “Mm, don’t you look delectable?”
Wyll’s tail flicks in a wide arc behind him, the tip brushing Astarion’s fingers where they support his weight behind him. “You like it? I already feel it will be a fantastic set for travelling; it’s a damn sight less stifling than the padded set.”
“Looking good, Wyll.” Gale nods from across the fire. “When did you get it?”
Wyll smiles softly. “Oh, it was Karlach,” he says fondly. He stands and spins to show Gale the adjustments for his tail. “Look at this!I had no clue how much better I’d feel with clothes that fit this thing properly!”
Astarion freezes, staring up at him in horror. Karlach? He thought Karlach had—?
He slowly turns, looking for the oversized tiefling, but she must have gone off to bathe. He’s seen the tattered, poorly sewn leathers that she sports; surely there’s no way Wyll thinks she altered his clothes…
But then, who else would?Astarion hasn’t advertised his less-useful skillset, and he doesn’t know much about tiefling anatomy. It had been a passing thought, more a whim than anything else.
Damn it all.
Okay, so this courtship thing might be more complicated than he first anticipated. Having to admit to his good deeds sounds mortifying when he should be able to sit back and allow Wyll to come to the natural conclusion that Astarion is the one doing nice things because they are trying this courting thing.
He desperately loathes the idea of asking, but…
He might need some help.
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