The Embrace of Love and Death

“Where's the whetstone? The scissors are blunt!”

“Mrs. Okta, I'm sorry, I need the lemon juice for Her Ladyship's face tonic!”

“Has someone seen the rum?”

“Lia, I swear-”

“Ikaron needs it for His Lordship's hair wash.”

“Hells, am I running a kitchen or spa?”

The servant quarters of the Auvryervs villa were abuzz with activity. It was before the night of the grand Balduran's Ball, and there was many a thing in need of being done before they would have the house to themselves until the dawn of the next day.

Rolan navigated through the tangle of tieflings in the common room, hopped over a shoe-shining Cal and wandered into the kitchen to check the jars. “Do we still have candied ginger?”

“Now's not the time for a treat, Rolan,” Mrs. Okta chided.

“I need it for the young master.”

The elder tiefling sighed. “What sort of new-fangled recipe is that for?”

Rolan didn't answer as he found the jar he was seeking, pocketed a few pieces and left the kitchen without further explanation. He descended the servant staircase and slipped into his master's chambers, following the retching sounds towards the washstand.

“You've barely eaten all day, what are you even throwing up?”

“I don't know,” Imrae said, one hand trying to loosen his cravat to lessen the pressure on his throat. “At this point, my soul, perhaps.”

“Don't let the devils know that it's that easy with you,” Rolan quipped while he put some of the ginger pieces on a small plate.

It earned him a hoarse chuckle by the drow, who abandoned the washing basin and sank onto one of the chairs nearby, then eyed the yellow candies with suspicion.

“Chew it. It's a remedy here-” Rolan said while he conjured a Mage Hand to assist him in cleaning up, “-and if you're good, you'll get a reward.”

“Please do not mock me, I'm not in the mood.”

“Not even for a letter from your elf?” Rolan asked as he pulled an envelope from his pocket and waved it around.

“He is not 'my elf',” Imrae huffed and began to chew on the treat of sugar and spice, though Rolan did not miss the glimmer of curiosity in the drow's eyes. “Put it on my desk for tomorrow.”

“You devoured every other letter by that man, and now it's not good enough for you?”

“I was wrong about him,” Imrae said, though his eyes never left the letter.

Rolan frowned. His last master had been an unforgiving and cruel soul and a coward to boot, but not the drow. It was unlike him. “Fine. Be a sorehead, then. Your elf wasted that perfume on that letter, then.”

That spurred Imrae to get up, snatch the letter out of Rolan's hand and open it with haste before he sat down to read the elf's calligraphed writing.

Making his Mage Hand fetch a comb, Rolan used this opportunity to work on the drow's hair while he was distracted and thus sitting still, glad that he only had to untangle and prepare it, leaving the complicated braiding to the Lord Consort instead. He had wanted to spend his life memorizing spells, not hairstyles and haberdashery, godsdammit.

Either from the combing or the letter, the tension in Imrae's shoulders began to wane with every passing minute, and he sighed. “Thank you, Rolan. I needed that.”

Rolan paused, though he covered it up with a scoff. “Thank me by holding still, will you?”

The festhall of the Ducal Palace was bursting at the seams as it always did during the Balduran's Ball, nobles young and old laughing and leering, drinking and drooling, mingling and matching under the golden lights of the enchanted lustres.

From the gallery, Lady Lledrith Auvryervs watched them all while sipping her wine, a light sweet Marsember Ice Wine if she was not mistaken, staying above the crowd as dancing with one's husband had fallen out of fashion since she had last been to the surface, something she still could not fathom. Was she supposed to dance with strange men while her beloved was being handled by some undeserving wench?

Outrageous, truly.

Her gaze fell upon Imrhys as he spoke to his old friend, Admiral Voss. Her husband was a vision in his embroidered crimson coat, and knowing that none but her had seen what lay beneath it filled her with unparalleled glee. No one present but her knew every inch of this sculpted man, every toned muscle, every mole and every scar on his delectable grey skin.

Snapping her fan open, Lledrith tried to cool her boiling blood. She had a task to see to, she could not sneak off with her husband as if they were newly-weds tonight, not when she had her son to look out for. The reward would be waiting for her in the privacy of her bedchamber.

So far, she had nothing to worry about. Imyaraen was walking about with Lae'zel, who was already growing frustrated with the sling supporting her injured arm and thus was glaring at any unwanted company with exceeding ferocity tonight, but she made an exception for the young lady approaching them.

Lledrith watched as Imyaraen greeted Miss Orlith and fetched her a drink, and it took her back to the days of her own courtship, when her husband had drawn her attention with the same mannered gestures of attention and dedication. He had taught their son well.

She decided to let the couple speak in private, and smiled as she spotted the white curls and corbeau green tailcoat of Mr. Ancunín, a marginal improvement over the drab black threads she had seen him in before. He looked healthier in them, not as pale and sickly as before.

The elven gentleman had just arrived, helping himself to a drink while he, too, surveyed the crowd for people worth his while. Feeling her gaze on him, he met it and raised his glass to her, a gesture she gladly returned.

People noticed. The favour of a marchioness was something to behold and to consider when one interacted with the man, and Lledrith was curious what the elf might do with it.

She let her gaze wander further and frowned when it fell upon a group of familiar and unfamiliar drow women who, of course, had nothing better to do than to leer at her greatest treasure.

There was their leader, Lady Minthara of House Baenre, a duchess and old nemesis of Imrhys. The woman's title would have been impressive if she had not been cast out from her oh-so mighty family. She had not yet managed to found her own line, and the thought that she might consider ensnaring the son if she could not have the father upset Lledrith to her core.

There was Lady Viconia DeVir, another outcast, one from an eradicated family no less. Rumour had it that she disappointed her dark goddess in Menzoberranzan ages ago, and she had been a secretive one ever since. Perhaps she was the infamous Lady Mirrorhold? What a pathetic way to gain some form of power here on the surface.

The third was younger than the others, a debutante in a blood red gown. Perhaps she was Minthara's attempt to start her own family? There was no familial resemblance between the two, so perhaps she was the Baenre's ward?

Seeking Mr. Ancunín's gaze once more, she drew her finger over the tip of her fan, and the elven gentleman understood, beginning his ascent towards her. The man had been most helpful to her son, and now she was in need of his knowledge as well.

“You rang?” he quipped when he reached her, drink in hand.

“The copycat down there, who is she?” Lledrith asked, pointing her fan at a young drow.

“The bleeding blueberry? That's the Questionably Honourable Miss Araj Oblodra.”

Lledrith smiled, then laughed at the elven gentleman's words. Her son had been right, Mr. Ancunín was a man of cutting wit. “Oblodra? Are you certain?”

“Certain as the sun. The court room stank of alchemicals for days after her mock-hearing for arson. They quickly found a scapegoat to take the fall for her. She got away with a slap on her dainty little wrist.” Mr. Ancunín sneered before he took a sip of his wine.

“I thought their family was extinct by now,” Lledrith muttered, unsettled by the news. “Thank you, Mr. Ancunín, you have been very helpful. If you can, keep that mariticide in the making away from my son. Now please excuse me, I have an old friend to talk to.”

She surveyed the festhall before she misty-stepped down into an empty spot, delighted with the spooked gasps and neigh-faintings of the nobles nearby, then strode away with purpose, headed for the ducal table where she had greeted Ulder Ravengard upon her arrival.

Feeling pleased when people startled and made way for her, she gave them the hint of a smile as she walked past, the sort that would leave them wondering if they should be frightened, enchanted or both.

“Your Grace!” Lledrith exclaimed with a syrupy smile when she saw her old friend. “A word?”

“Of course,” Duke Ravengard said, a charming glint of unease appearing in his eyes. “Beforehand, may I introduce Sir Gortash, my lady?”

“You may.” Head held high, Lledrith studied the human gentleman. He was a handsome one, with thick black hair and sideburns, though his clothes were dark and dour, as well as too heavy on the gold embroidery. There was a scar on his chin that made her wonder if the man had served in the military before rising to his position. His bearing did not suggest so.

“An honour, my lady.” Sir Gortash took a deep bow, then looked up at her again with a quick and easy smile. “As one of our most important allies, I was hoping to meet you tonight.”

Lledrith bared her teeth. “Oh? If I am such an important ally, why have you set out to offend me so?”

“Our sincerest apologies,” Sir Gortash said, his face falling. “What have we done to sour your opinion of us, my lady?”

“I had assumed you had a better taste in guests for such a grand event-” Lledrith glanced over her shoulder and towards the group of drow women, “-and I took you for smarter than to invite oddments.”

Duke Ravengard cleared his throat. “They are nobles of the Realms and have found refuge in our city, my lady.”

Lledrith narrowed her eyes, an angry spark lighting a different fire within. “Your Grace. Sir Gortash. Just because Lady Baenre's and my family's feud predates you both, that does not mean that it is naught.”

“I call upon your endless mercy, my lady,” Duke Ravengard said. “For old times' sake and for the future of our city.”

Lledrith's anger boiled within. She was thinking about the future, that of her son and her family. Was that not important to the city as well? What good was she to them if she was dead, like these bawds wished her to be? The stone floor beneath her feet responded, awakening to her bidding, and a tremor went through the hall, prompting more than a few gasps. 

“Fine,” she replied, her hiss a breath to calm herself. “I will keep a truce, for old times' sake, so as long as she and her posse will, too.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Duke Ravengard gave her a warm smile.

It caused Lledrith's anger to fizzle out. Ulder did not have much of a choice in many matters nowadays, did he? The demands of the local nobility were not always sensible. Perhaps the Baenre and the DeVir pretended to be useful for now, and her old friend was pushed around by what was convenient, not what was right. What a pitiable situation to be in.

So she smiled back at him to let him know that everything was going to work out in the end, then she turned around to see what the duchess and her entourage were doing.

Right this moment, the women were focusing their leering gazes on Mr. Orlith instead of Imyaraen. The young drow gentleman was mingling, laughing and flirting under the watchful eye of his sister.

It was of the essence to make it crystal clear to the duchess' posse that the Orlith siblings were not to be touched, Lledrith decided, so she strode over, giving both a gentle smile.

“Good evening, my lady,” Miss Orlith said when she noticed Lledrith, bowing her head. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“To extend my apologies,” Lledrith said. “Due to the stresses of moving places and my duties as a Peer of the Realms, we have not had much of a chance to speak, even less the opportunity to call on you or invite you to our city home. I in no way wish for you to seem and feel unrecognized by me and my family.”

“It is quite fine, my lady.”

Perfect posture and manners, as well as a sense of fashion, even if the greys and blues the young woman preferred were a little dull. The gold coloured hair was a charming touch, though. She was a fine choice indeed.

“Of course you must say that. I insist that the two of you join us for dinner soon. Our cook has created fascinating new dishes by mixing Elturian and Underdark cuisine.”

“An honour, my lady,” Mr. Orlith said.

Lledrith glanced over her shoulder, towards the duchess and her swarm. They were watching her every move, just as planned.

“And my pleasure,” Lledrith replied to the young gentleman. “Now, as locals to Wyrm’s Crossing and its surroundings, what is your opinion on Wyrm’s Lookout? My son’s birthday is coming up, and the castle might be a good present for him. It is a bit old-fashioned, but the mountain trails are beautiful. He quite enjoyed his stay there.”

Miss Orlith nodded. “It would be a splendid gift, my lady. He did express a love for historical structures in his letters, as well as his love of quietude.” 

“It is what is known to him from our stronghold in the Underdark.” Lledrith gestured for the two to walk with her. “How about you, my dear? Would you enjoy the quietude?”

“Yes, my lady, though in my experience, having family around is a certain way for things to never grow too quiet-” Miss Orlith said, casting her brother a judgmental glance, “-and one can always ride into town should life become dull.”

“Sister, you insult me.” Mr. Orlith returned the glance. “Life is never dull with me around.”

“Your lack of capability to listen properly is infuriating as usual.”

“Apologies, sister, I was watching the witches’ coven,” Mr. Orlith said, nodding his head towards the duchess and her gaggle of followers.

Lledrith laughed at the gentleman’s bite. She laughed until she saw who the newest target of the lustful gazes of the witches was, making her glee turn into anger.

From her corner, Lady Minthara was practically derobing Imrhys with her eyes while he was chatting and laughing with the widows Lady Florrick and Duchess Stelmane.

When Lledrith saw what Minthara was drinking, her anger turned back into glee. Red wine in a crystal glass was such a foolish choice when one was so eager to upset a sorceress by leering at her husband.

Astarion had not a worry in the world.

After all, he was sipping delicious wine and enjoying pleasant music at one of the most exclusive and prestigious events of the year. He was even clothed in a fine new suit for a change.

So, why worry?

He had only insulted a powerful mage from an influential family to the face in a fit of anger, and only yest had found the words and the courage to write a letter of apology.

But, he had still received an invitation to the ball, he was still walking and breathing, showing no signs of petrification or other drow curses, so perhaps he had been forgiven?

Lady Auvryervs had smiled, jested, greeted him like an old friend, though perhaps she was simply a devious one, as her favour put a target on his back. With connections to a lady who in her jeweled splendor could be mistaken for an empress, the mamas of the ton would not leave Astarion alone tonight.

Or it was genuine, and Imrae had never told his parents about their argument.

Astarion did not know what to make of that thought, though perhaps it was for the best. Yes, he could go back to square one with Imrae. No, not “Imrae”, that was for friends, he reminded himself with a pang of sadness in his heart. He would stay close to him, would continue to advise Lord Imyaraen about the ton as an acquaintance for the rest of the season and then toast to him at his wedding to that drow girl.

A good plan. A nice, simple plan. 

A plan that became complicated again the moment he set eyes upon the young heir.

Imrae had been a formidable sight at the Rivington Ball already, but tonight Astarion's very breath caught from the dark elf's beauty. The dark cherry and amber hues of his attire, completed by a crimson sash of spider silk, brought out the warm undertones of his amethyst skin, giving him a vibrant glow that the gods would be jealous of, and he wore his hair in intricate braids interwoven with a small fortune's worth of gemstones.

And you wanted to drag him to a barber to have it cut. For shame.

A not too small part of Astarion wished to snatch a fan from one of the ladies, feeling in dire need to cool himself down with it. He took a generous sip of wine instead.

Next to the drow, Captain Lae'zel wore an actual gown for a change, its shade of red so dark that it could be mistaken for black under some lights. She did clean up rather nicely, though if not for the curious silver jewelry she wore, she would have looked as if she was in mourning. Then again, perhaps she was warning any potential suitor of their fate. Delightful, really.

Was she not wearing her arm in a sling, Astarion might have even asked her to dance.

Imrae had been talking to Miss Orlith for quite a while, perhaps discussing what dances they would share, and now the marchioness had made her favour for her and her brother clear by walking and laughing with them.

Feeling bile rising, Astarion washed it down with another sip of wine. That girl with her boring-arse pearl grey dress and her silly gold-powdered hair would get to have this man in ways no one else would, would get to see every inch of that delectable purple skin, would feel these fine long fingers all over her body.

But, better the sweet boring one rather than Miss Oblodra. Imrae deserved so much better than the company of that poisoner.

Right now, the young heir was being introduced to a dashing human man in a navy tailcoat by Captain Lae'zel, and Astarion realized that it was the son of Ulder Ravengard.

Two powerful scions side by side, dressed in their finest threads and awaiting the onslaught of marriage-minded misses.

Wyll Ravengard was the sort of fairy tale prince whose existence had brought Astarion to the realisation that there was more to life than courting princesses when he was coming up.

Imyaraen Auvryervs on the other hand would have been the villain in these childhood dreams, the vile sorcerer snaring little Prince Astarion with an evil spell, yet this drow elf was not at all deceptive and cruel. Quite the contrary, in fact.

Reassured by his own musings, Astarion headed over to join them. Perhaps between the three of them, the sheer magnitude of their handsomeness might turn it from a lure into a shield.

“My friend!” he called out, a natural smile spreading on his face when he made his approach.

It almost faltered when Imrae gave him the same polite mien as he did all the others at the ball before he turned to Wyll Ravengard. “May I introduce Mr. Ancunín? He has been most helpful in getting acquainted with the city and its customs.”

“Of course. How do you do? I have to admit, after some time away, I feel like I need to do some reacquainting myself.” Young Ravengard’s smile was warm and bright like the sun itself, and most important and puzzling of all, genuine.

Astarion wondered how long that would last tonight. There had been a time when the introduction into the uppermost echelons of society had been all he longed for, but now he was failing to enjoy it.

“How do you like the festivities?”

“Splendor beyond my wildest imagination, my lord,” Astarion replied. “Have you had a hand in planning it?“

“Oh, no.” Young Ravengard laughed, which sent shivers down Astarion’s back.

It’s unfair. Young ladies can dance with each other when there’s a lack of gentlemen. What of us poor men who’d like to dance a set with a handsome prince?

“I haven’t even had a hand in my own attire, truth be told. Lady Florrick and Duchess Stelmane arranged all of it.”

I will give you a hand in getting out of your attire.

Astarion emptied his glass. His thoughts were running wild at this point. He had not enjoyed another’s company for way too long. 

Maybe there was a bored widow present tonight.

Maybe Lae'zel was looking for another adventure?

“It is a nice attire,” he replied before the pause in the conversation became too long. “Will you dance tonight, Captain?“

“I hadn't decided. Do you not need both hands?“

“I’m sure we can find something,“ young Ravengard jumped in, much to Astarion’s amusement.

Was the man interested in courting Captain Lae'zel of all people? What a zany choice.

“Yes, indeed, we’ll find something. Perhaps a waltz? What say you, Captain Lae’zel?” Astarion asked

“I thought you did not dance.”

“I think I would be lynched tonight if I did not. Do me the honours?”

“Why not.”

“Marvellous,” Astarion said, his eyes going between young Ravengard and the captain, then to Imrae, gauging their reactions.

The Earl of Wyrmway fought for his composure and was quick to secure a spot on the captain’s dance card as well, but the Earl of Grymforge nodded to Astarion with a smile, content that his sisterly friend was not excluded from the festivities tonight. There was not an ounce of jealousy to be seen in his gaze.

Well, I should be glad that he is happy. Now, to carry out Lady Auvryervs’ orders.

Astarion exchanged his empty glass for a full one and took a generous sip. His next gambit required numbing his own feelings towards Miss Oblodra. At no point had Lady Auvryervs forbidden making the woman more popular with the bachelors who were not her son.

When he approached the murder of drow crows around the young miss, he was met with judging and leering glances alike, especially from the leader of the pack, a mature woman in a blossom evening gown. 

How quaint. Mutton dressed as lamb.

“Miss Oblodra! A pleasure to see you again! We were introduced some years ago.“ Astarion put on the brightest smile he could manage.

May she be burned by it like the poor bastards who died in that fire.

It became strained when her vile alchemical smell wafted towards him. Not even the gaudy pomander on her bag could help to cover it.

Would it kill her to bathe? Then again, maybe water would make her melt.

“Ah, the handsome barrister. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Astarion shuddered on the inside at the sultry tone of her voice.

Get a hold of yourself, woman.

“I was wondering if you would like to dance.” He gave her a winning smile, proud of his little plan.

If she or her guardian declined his invitation, they would insult him, a friend of the marchioness. If she excused herself by feigning tiredness, she would not dance at all tonight. If she accepted him, that was still one spot on her dance card taken up.

To his disappointment, she did accept the offer, but that meant that he got to leave the stench of her proximity for the time being, and he noticed that other gentlemen now approached the previously unapproachable miss.

Hah. Right into the spiderweb. Morons.

After acquiring a few more introductions and dances with various debutants, not for their sake, but for the sake of being admired as the handsome devil he was, Astarion circled back to where Imrae was standing.

“Your choice of dance partners is quite interesting tonight, Mr. Ancunín.” 

Was that concern or jealousy in the drow’s eyes?

“Don’t worry about it, my friend.” Astarion exchanged his glass again. His plan had worked, Miss Oblodra was not dancing with Imrae tonight, and the marchioness would be happy.

“I- Of course. Forgive me.”

Soon, the first dance was called, and Astarion spent the following hours in a blur. Next partner, next glass of sweet wine. Miss Elerrathin, Miss Orlith, Lady Firelia Wisteria Jannath. 

He barely listened to the women, giving the necessary responses to seem polite. One did not like to talk, the other restricted herself to the usual comments made during dancing about the number of guests and whatnot, the third would not shut up about her art collection and the new artist she discovered, Oscar So-and-So.

When he stood up with Captain Lae’zel however, he found himself looking forward to the conversation, if only because the githyanki’s literal nature had proven to be amusing.

“So, Captain, how do you like the event?“ 

“A waste of time. I should be preparing for the next hunt.”

Astarion laughed. “Do you ever take a moment of respite, my dear?” he asked, minding her injured arm.

“I would forgo sleep if such a thing were feasible. The one advantage elves and drow hold over githyanki. I even tried to emulate the Lord Consort during my training, but to no avail.”

“Remind me to tease you about it at every convenience.” Astarion’s hand grazed her figure as they danced, brazen yet discreet.

“Chk. You are tiring, elf.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Captain.”

They fell silent afterwards, much to Astarion's disappointment. The captain was not in the mood tonight. Or she preferred Mr. Orlith’s attentions.

Oh, if poor Ravengard knew. He struck Astarion as entirely too naive for this entanglement. Though the man was having the time of his life while he waltzed with Miss Elerrathin, not at all jealous about the captain’s hand.

The set ended. Miss Oblodra would be next.

When Astarion walked towards her like a man approaching the gallows, the alchemical smell in his nose reached a fierce disagreement with the wine in his blood, and a wave of nausea flooded over him.

When he heard something shatter and one of the drow women screech, he did not care to mutter an excuse before he fled. He had no idea where he was going, but somewhere in a dark corridor, he pushed open a window to get some air.

He did not know how long he stood there. Slowly, the nausea faded. His throat ached for some water.

Would the drow women blame him for whatever happened there? An awful thought, so awful that his chest felt tight and the nausea threatened to return.

A sweet calm voice pulled him back to reality.

“Mr. Ancunín, are you alright?”

Astarion turned to see Imrae walk up to him, not one bit hindered by the darkness. Of course not, why would he be? A drow stumbling in the dark would be a great disgrace.

“You noticed I was gone?” Astarion asked after clearing his throat in an uncouth fashion.

The young heir stopped in front of him, his pale diamond eyes shining with the little light that got caught in them. “Of course. My father taught me to always keep track of my companions in an altercation. I believe a ball very well counts, even though the duels are of a purely verbal nature.”

Astarion stared at Imrae. He had left the dancing just to go look for a man who had insulted him deeply, who had meant it in that moment but regretted it ever since. “Go back to the festivities. They're going to wonder where you are.”

Imrae did not heed the command. “It is not even half as enjoyable without you there, I hate being gawked at, I hate these crowds of people, this wall of sound in there, but just one joke from your lips, and it all feels better, like everything is going to be fine!” He gasped for air after this rambling confession and walked up to Astarion. “By the Gods, Mr. Ancunín, I am running out of proper ways to express how very fond I am of you!”

Astarion's tongue was faster than his head. “How about improper ways, then?” he challenged the drow.

Many had praised him for his beauty, his charm and his smile, but later on they had preferred he'd keep his mouth shut, more interested in tasting him than in listening to him. His jokes and his wicked tongue drove people away, intentional or not, yet it had lured this one close to him.

Very close in fact, as Imrae had taken another step towards him, a gentle determination shining in his eyes. “May I kiss you?” he asked, and after Astarion had nodded, he pulled the glove from his hand to plant a gentle kiss onto his knuckles and then his wrist. He lingered for a moment before he got on his toes to lock lips.

After tendays of pining and lusting, Astarion did not hesitate to let his stowed longing overtake him. He pulled Imrae closer, deepening the kiss, turning it from tender to passionate within a moment, and he felt the drow's arms wrap around his neck.

Now he had his answer. Imrae was not the most practised kisser, but he was not a bad one. Tender, considerate, a bit too hesitant, but that might fade with time and familiarity. There was a trace of sweetness on his lips and a hint of spice on his tongue. Curious, but delightful.

Astarion cupped the drow's face in his hands. “You are full of surprises...”

“Do you think me to be so sheltered and naïve that I do not know what goes on behind closed doors? That I don't know that two men can love one another just as husband and wife can?”

“I wasn't certain you knew,” Astarion admitted before he kissed the drow's pouting lips again, leaving it at a short peck to then lean down and whisper in his ear. “Tomorrow. Call on me at my home. Only bring people you trust not to tattle. I want to have you. I wanted to have you ever since that walk in the mountains.”

He felt Imrae swallow. “This is not fair to you... I shouldn't have- It cannot last.”

Astarion grazed his thumb over the drow’s lips. “Oh, sweet prince. Let me decide what's fair to me, hm?”

“Tomorrow then, Mr. Ancunín.”

“I think we are well past that now, aren't we?” Astarion laughed.  “You may call me by my first name.”

“Tomorrow then, M- Astarion.”

“I am counting the minutes. Now back to the ball with you. As little as I want to share you with these harpies, the last thing we both need is a scandal.”

After Astarion had released Imrae and watched him leave, he leaned against a wall, his head buzzing from the wine and the excitement of the moment. Perhaps this was a folly. Perhaps the alcohol and his lusts had made him reckless. Or perhaps satisfying their mutual curiosity was the smart thing to do.

Whatever the case, he had never wished for morning to come this desperately.

Balls were an irrational way to gain new acquaintances, Lae’zel thought to herself, but Admiral Voss insisted that the people of the Sword Coast needed to be met in a fashion in which they felt comfortable.

The only thing she liked about them was the dancing. It was a formidable way to show off her superior fitness and coordination. The occasion would have been much more enjoyable if not for the long dress getting in the way, the long gloves that were useless as protection in combat, and all the frilly decorations.

She could have done without Sir Gale Dekarios and his endless questions. The archmage had nearly begged Wyll Ravengard for an introduction to Imrae, and now some of his inquiries bordered on espionage, as they touched on topics that were highly confidential, like the Auvryervs’ estates, their sorcery, its source and its limits.

He was not from Baldur’s Gate, but from northern Waterdeep. Right now, the demesnes were allied, but her studies of history alongside Imrae had taught her that even the most long-lasting of treaties could be as fragile as the paper they were written on.

Luckily, her brother-in-arms remembered these lessons as well. He was evading the questions to the best of his ability, managing Sir Dekarios’s enthusiasm by claiming that this topic was too broad to be a ballroom conversation and that they had to talk more in depth at a later date, perhaps over tea.

Another thing she could have done without was the persistent glare that his wife Lady Dekarios was sending her. It was a mystery what had upset the dark-haired half-elven woman, as she only opened her mouth to sip at her drink, but her sour face was tiring. If she found githyanki to be distasteful, she ought to leave, by all means.

If the woman had not been married, Lae’zel would have thought that she was jealous of the attention Wyll Ravengard was giving her, like many of the other young women who were sending her death glares, but were too istark to say or do anything.

As expected, Wyll was quick to fetch Lae’zel a new drink when she emptied her glass. He was awfully persistent tonight, especially since him and the elf had asked her to dance. Perhaps, as the duke’s son,  he was feeling responsible for the guests.

When the dancing was soon to begin and Sir Dekarios took his leave at last, Imrae went to find the drow woman he favoured while Lae’zel stood up with Wyll for the first set.

 She soon understood the other women’s glares.

The human was a formidable dancer and in excellent shape, and he had no trouble keeping up with her vigor. His features were not one bit strained, even ten or twenty minutes into the fast routine of steps. No, he was smiling and enjoying every minute.

Lae’zel found herself staring at him, a puzzling warmth going through her that was different from the heat of lust or exertion.

When the second dance of the set began, a calmer routine, Wyll struck up a conversation.

“Captain Lae’zel, you have the most exquisite eyes. Golden as the sands of the Calim desert.”

“And you have a soft skull. A ghaik tentacle will have no issue pushing through it.”

Wyll paused. The conversation, not the dancing, of course.

“Is that a compliment?” he asked after a few steps.

“No. It was a joke.” Lae’zel held her head high.

“Ah. My mistake.” Wyll chuckled.

“Your eyes are wondrous. Dark and deep like the Astral Sea,” Lae’zel said after a moment. After her dance partner did not respond, she added, “That was a compliment.”

Wyll blinked a few times before his smile grew broader.  “Thank you, Captain.”

The end of their dance came much too soon, and Lae’zel found herself in want of another fast dance with him. But, he was spoken for in regard to all the other dances tonight.

She stood up with Imrae next. Had they been related by blood, that would have been a breach of etiquette, but since they were kin by choice, the ‘ton’ could not object to it.

“You look satisfied,” Imrae commented.

“Lord Wyll Ravengard is a formidable dancer,” Lae’zel agreed. “I would like to dance with him again.”

“You will get your chance during the next of many balls, I’m certain,” Imrae said, a sigh escaping him. He found these parties even more tedious as she did.

She at least enjoyed the dancing. He did not. She did not understand why, as they always had fun when they were practising at home in the Underdark.

Sorn Orlith was next. The drow gave her a knowing smile when he took her hand in his..

She gave him a cool stare in return.

While he had been skilled when they had met to taste one another during the ball in Rivington, to a degree where Lae’zel had considered propositioning him again some time, the next thing she had heard from him was not in a letter or a visit, but in the society paper, where he had claimed to want to pursue her.

He was not oblivious to her displeasure. “Have I offended you, Captain?” he asked.

“Chk! Make your declarations properly, eye to eye, not to the istark Mirrorhold,” Lae’zel replied.

Mr. Orlith snorted. “You don’t believe that drivel, do you?”

Lae’zel frowned. “So you have told no one.”

“Of course not! There’s not enough paper in the Realms to print all the stories I could tell her. I would probably make a fortune as a gossipmonger or informant, but I am of the discreet persuasion, Captain. A gentleman never tells, they say.”

“Then how?”

Mr. Orlith shrugged. “I don’t know. People talk. Sometimes, they even make things up that turn out to be true.”

The dance with the drow left Lae’zel unsatisfied in more than one way, and that trend continued when she waltzed with the elf Ancunín. If the fop ceased his frivolous ways, kept his mouth shut, and learned to obey orders, he might have made for a nice distraction, but not tonight.

Having no partner for the next dance, Lae’zel approached the Lord Consort and Admiral Voss, who were discussing recent events in Neverwinter.

“Have you heard about Duke Neverember’s miraculous recovery? It was a curse, apparently. The conspiracy was unveiled by a group of criminals of all people.”

“All this infighting is disgraceful. Githyanki work together instead of against each other.” The Admiral shook his head, then frowned when the Lord Consort laughed. “Vlaakith still supported the fight against ghaik, Imrhys.”

“Oh, if your dear Prince Orpheus could hear you.” The Lord Consort laughed harder, then reined it into a smile when he spotted Lae’zel. “How are you enjoying the evening?”

“The inconsistent quality of dance partners is frustrating.”

“Not many can keep up with us, child,” Admiral Voss remarked truthfully.

“Lord Wyll Ravengard was adequate.”

The Admiral and the Lord Consort shared a look, but before either could respond, a bursting sound and a  screech rang through the room, which drew the eyes of the entire room to a drow woman splattered with red wine.

Lae’zel’s eyes did not linger on her, but searched for her companions as she had been taught to do.

Lady Auvryervs stood with Duke Ravengard.

Imrae, whose gaze met Lae’zel’s when he did the same headcount as her, was next to Wyll Ravengard, who moved to the drow women to help.

The Orliths stood together by the refreshments table.

Mr. Ancunín had been close to the drow and was fleeing into a corridor.

When Lae’zel frowned and moved to follow him, the Lord Consort put a hand on her to hold her in place while shaking his head.

The elf was only a spooked bystander, she concluded and looked closer.

Wyll Ravengard was helping the women while Imrae had vanished from sight.

Lady Auvryervs on the other hand was calm and collected through it all. She wore the look she always wore when she was happy with herself, and everything clicked in Lae’zel’s  head.

She gave a nod  to the Lord Consort, who removed his hand from her shoulder.

The next dance was in disarray from the upheaval, and was postponed until after the midnight meal.

Lae’zel sighed in relief. She had not noticed how hungry she had become, and after Wyll had mentioned the excellent fish dishes at Baldurian balls multiple times, she found herself curious.

 Now, to get rid of these useless long kid leather gloves.

Her injured arm proved a greater hindrance than anticipated. When she had managed to get one button open, a sharp pain shot through the wounded limb, causing her to hiss. 

Maybe she could find Imrae to help her. Gods, she hated asking another for assistance.

“Captain? Are you well?”

Lae’zel sent Wyll Ravengard a glare. “I am fine.”

He looked at her glove, then back into her  eyes, which according to him, were golden like desert sand. “It may not be entirely proper, but may I help a lady in need?”

Wanting to refuse, wanting to protest that she was not some damsel in distress, Lae’zel was reminded of the emptiness in her stomach by its growl. “Chk. Very well.”

“I will be quick.” Wyll pulled on the end of the ribbon holding the glove up, loosening it so he could fulfill his promise.

One by one, he undid the rest of the buttons, working fast as promised. When his own gloved hand brushed the sensitive flesh of Lae’zel’s inner arm, a pleasant shudder ran through her.

Then, he loosened the glove from her fingers, after which he pulled it off in one swift motion and put it in her hand. “There we go.”

“The other one, too,” Lae’zel said, as she found herself to be disappointed that he had indeed been quick. “Please.”

Wyll smiled, and the warm puzzling feeling returned when he followed her request. His movements were gentle to avoid causing her any pain when he helped her arm out of the sling. He repeated his previous actions, the ribbon, the buttons, but the brush of his hand on her bare arm seemed less accidental than last time.

When he was finished, he lingered for a moment, holding her hand in his.

Just as she was about to pull away, he raised it to his lips and planted a kiss on her knuckles.

They separated when they heard Imrae call her name, and Wyll took his leave with a bow before she could say something, almost forgetting to leave the gloves with her.

"I hope you die screaming" were the last words Astarion said to his companions. He never imagined they'd come true.

Six months later, drowning in guilt and armed with a stolen Wish spell, he tries to bring them back. Instead, he wakes up at his own funeral in a world he doesn't recognise where everyone he lost is alive, and the woman he loved and abandoned is calling him "partner."

"She is an absolute monster."

My dear friend, beta reader and lore domme recently said that about Celeste and, honestly? I have rarely been more proud.

I've been an avid roleplayer for the better part of twenty-five years. That said, I've never particularly enjoyed D&D as a roleplaying system. I much prefer skill-based character progression over class-based mechanics. That's entirely a me problem—especially considering I somehow fell hopelessly in love with a fictional woman I created within this exact system and setting. I own that.

There has never been much of a method to how I create characters.

I scroll through options, flip through sourcebooks, browse artwork. Either inspiration strikes or it doesn't (much to the dismay of my GMs, but that's a story for another time).

So when I started Baldur's Gate 3, I did exactly the same: I clicked together something that felt "good enough" and started playeing. Sometimes a character finds their story; sometimes they don't.

(Thoughts and prayers to all the unnamed Tavs who never made it out of Act 1, forever trapped by a lack of inspiration or hardware failure.)

When I created Celeste—fully embracing my teenage excitement to play a draconic bloodline Dark Urge—I went looking for a name. A D&D name generator suggested Celestia. It didn't feel quite right at the time, but it was close enough. Derived from the Latin caelestis, meaning "heavenly," it simply became Celeste.

That was over two years ago.

And more than 2.2 million words ago.

(No, that is not an exaggeration.)

Since then, her story has grown far beyond anything I ever imagined. Her name has settled into itself. She has changed. Her character has deepened, flaws have emerged, old wounds have healed while others have opened, and trauma has slowly unfolded into something I never could have planned from the beginning. She is horrible in most parts, cunning and calculating, but has a gentle, vulnerable and sweet side she offers to those she loves.

She speaks to a part of me that is still deeply teenage, still a little childish, still utterly fascinated by stories about broken people who keep choosing kindness anyway. She gives me hope.

Writing her life fills me with immense joy. Seeing her name still makes me smile. And knowing there are people in this fandom who are genuinely invested in my wonderfully broken girl means more to me than I can properly put into words.