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Wyll Ravenguard is familiar with monsters. Monsters give him purpose: something to fight, a reason to keep moving forward, to avoid looking over his shoulder at the city and the home that he will never be welcome in again.
Then, he leaves Avernus with a mindflayer’s tadpole writhing through his brain. Then, he learns that the fiend he’d sworn to kill is an innocent tiefling. Then, his own personal devil tears the flesh from his bones and warps his body permanently, beyond his recognition.
Then, he wakes up in the calm of an otherwise quiet night to a vampire spawn’s teeth in his neck.
(Or: Wyll Ravenguard reshapes his definition of monsters. And maybe falls in love.)
Bookmarked by Moxy
06 Mar 2024
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This isn't the first dance they've shared – no, that was beside a campfire, the only music the tinkling chimes of a music box to accompany them.
It isn't the second – that was at the grand affair held just after they'd saved Baldur's Gate, the eyes of what felt like half the city upon them.
There have been others, after those: at a Midwinter feast when Astarion had made his way back to visit, and at a tavern in the Lower City, serenaded by a particularly talented fiddler, and in the quiet closeness of Gale's tower, when they'd stolen a moment alone during the handful of days they'd gone to call on him.
It's different every time; it's entrancing every time.
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Bookmarked by Moxy
14 Feb 2024
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There's a monster in their camp, and he's lounging about on a log near the fire, drinking Esmeltar red from a bronze goblet they found on a corpse earlier today.
"You know, my dear," says Astarion, as he takes a sip. "Your problem is that you try too hard."
"Pardon?" says Wyll, who's passing by with the last of the posts he needs to set up his tent for the evening.
"It's dreadful to watch," says Astarion. "The only wonder is that you haven't skewered yourself on that farce of a rapier yet, tripping over yourself to rescue someone."
Bookmarked by Moxy
03 Feb 2024
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It’s not terribly surprising, all told, that their nights are so very full.
They're busy people, and the days brim with blood and horror and probable impending eldritch transformation. Under the circumstances, it's scarcely remarkable that they've latched onto what creature comforts are available.
Astarion expects it, really.
What he doesn't expect is for Halsin to say, "I believe we have something to discuss," casually, as he scrambles eggs for everyone's breakfast one morning.
Bookmarked by Moxy
03 Feb 2024
Bookmarker's Notes
in which Halsin is the only one of these fools who understands how to have functional poly relationships
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"A pity, truly," Astarion cuts in smoothly. "If we only had more time, there's nothing I'd like more."
Wyll feels his eyebrows lift. "Come now," he says. "Surely you know as well as I do that Gale will be lost in his book shop for hours yet –"
Astarion catches his eye, over the top of the shopkeep's head. Those red eyes are just a touch wider than they ought to be; the stare he shoots at Wyll is rather more intense than is warranted, over something so minor as a fitting.
Bookmarked by Moxy
03 Feb 2024