#bgbbau

There is, they think, a rhythm to it. Not quite as easy as the equilibrium they have carved out with Enver, but recognisable enough as a dance all the same, each of them taking their turn to lead and then to fall back, a sort of uneasy alliance that has sprung up out of necessity down here where Enver's honeyed words cannot smooth over their rough edges. There is nothing so crass as trust between them, but Labrys thinks, sometimes, when they are lost the two of them in the steps of it, when they know instinctively when to step aside because Ketheric will be there, when the general knows to duck a split second before their pistol shot catches a beast right where he had just been standing without them having to call to him, that the man is perhaps not so bad as all that.

And then there is quiet, save for their heavy breathing echoing back off the catacombs walls to surround them, when their teeth are bared in a savage, blood soaked grin, and Ketheric's expression is one of pure disdain.

He takes the blood all the same, and even he, with his iron will and his well established hatred of the gods, cannot hide the pleasure it brings him, fizzing along his veins and sealing over his wounds, restoring the strength expended on each battle.

He never brings enough with him. Arrogance, perhaps, the belief that he will not need it, or maybe just the delusion that Labrys will agree to call off their excursion when he demands it and not when neither of them are fit to carry on. Sometimes they have come to blows over it, and Labrys relishes those times, those times when that icy countenance cracks to give way to the same boiling rage that seethes restlessly beneath their own skin. He can pretend to be above them all he likes but beneath it all he is still made of that same flawed mortal flesh as the rest of them.

so the genesis of the idea came from laubritter posting abt Gort using the threaded cane, at which point I went whoa wouldn't a bloodborne style gort boss fight be so cool...and then @todderwodders poked my brain with a hot poker and then I saw this art and went WHOA dead threesome...and then I bounced some ideas off of @lifegoesohno and a three act structure and a sequel fell out of my head...and then I noodled about with some scenes bc I didn't wanna commit to A Long Fic bc I don't even know if I could finish one...and then I info dumped at Nic for a while and he's been very nice about it all and now I. might be writing a long fic or two

most of the pre canon bloodborne lore ended up lining up really nicely with characters from the baldur's gate series hah, there's still a couple things I haven't fully nailed down but I have like 90% of the outline done and I think this is the most excited I've been to work on something in. a VERY long time haha, like I have barely thought about bg3 canon in. probably a month at least lol

"You're feverish," comes a voice that they recognise, but it sounds far off, distant, like they are hearing it from a room away. "Perhaps this was too much. If we flush your system through with saline--"

"No," they snap, voice breaking. They will not fail. They will not fail. They will not fail. "The third vial. Give it to me."

He releases them and steps away and they cannot bring themselves to turn their head far enough to follow him. "That is unwise. If you cannot handle two vials, the third--"

"I can handle it," they snarl, wrenching at the restraints as if they hadn't checked and double checked, the both of them, that they were strong enough to hold them down. "If you cannot handle seeing me in a little discomfort, then perhaps I need a better partner. Perhaps Ketheric--"

The needle burns as it stabs through their skin. He has not waited long enough for the metal to cool and they worry, for a split second, that the heat will have denatured the blood -- but the ice that spreads through their veins amplifies the song echoing in the back of their mind and their mouth falls open on a moan even as his hand finds their face, resting possessively over their skin, fingers catching briefly on a tusk before pushing between their lips.

Mor had lasted three vials. They had complained of the cold, had shivered more with each injection until their body had turned brittle and rigid, skin hard enough that the needle of the fourth syringe had snapped off when Labrys had tried to administer it. The skin of their temple had cracked open, dark brown splitting apart to reveal the bleached white of their skull beneath, but they had not bled. Their blood had still been frozen solid in their veins an hour later, after Labrys had blunted three scalpels trying to cut them open.

They are cold now, but at least they can feel their blood still liquid enough to pump sluggishly around their body. They cannot stop shivering: their sweat still has not dried, and the air down here is too cold to ever truly be comfortable, even if they did not have ice water running through their veins in place of blood. Enver's fingers in their mouth are so hot they almost burn -- they should bite down until the rich taste of his blood floods their mouth, until he cries out in pain. But when they set their teeth to his skin their jaw feels too weak and they cannot bite hard enough to break the skin.

Her face is altogether too familiar, even lined with wrinkles and scars that are new to them. There had been portraits of her all throughout the castle when they were young: Tamoko, First Knight of Castle Kazgaroth, in her harrowing black armour, with her ever watchful gaze, her stern expression. She had looked faintly disapproving in every single painting, save for one.

They had been ten years old, playing hide and seek with Orin. Labrys had thought themselves clever, sneaking into Sarevok's chambers when he had been busy with the dull meetings that they were never allowed to attend. Not the rooms he shared with Cythandria; these were his private rooms, away from his consort, away from his children, away from his subjects.

It was here where Labrys had seen a different side of her, one that, looking at the age hardened woman before them now, they still aren't sure had been real. She had been dressed in some sort of loose robe with a wide belt, with her arm threaded through Sarevok's and her expression, as her painted face had looked up at him, had been soft. Open. Happy.

When Sarevok had found them there half an hour later he had been furious, had roared and screamed and thrown them from the room hard enough that their arm had sported bruises in the shape of his handprint for a week and they had been so spooked by his behaviour that they had never dared venture inside again.

But the woman before them looks nothing like that painting.

She is wearing the same armour as most of her portraits in Castle Kazgaroth. Not exactly the same -- she had left that behind her, along with the rakuyo that is now theirs, when she had left Sarevok -- but it is the same deep matte black metal that seems to swallow up the light, twisted into horned, snarling faces on her chest and her pauldrons and her arms, the expressions so detailed as to seem ornamental.

"Yes," Enver says finally, voice rough. "That was my theory."

"And what--" Their voice is shaking. They pause to collect themselves, take a deep breath, and try again. "What is your conclusion?"

He smiles and rises to his feet, collects the syringe that is still clutched too tight in their left hand.

"My results are inconclusive, as of yet. I think I should repeat the experiment to eliminate any potential biases. What do you think?"

He cannot be serious. Labrys stares at him, half seething, half dumbstruck, as he disposes of the used syringe and retrieves the next. His expression is serious but there is the hint of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, a playful glint in his dark eyes half hidden by the dancing light from the flame beside them on the bench. But they feel...fine, at least, compared to the new baseline Isobel's blood has drawn within them. Four vials taken fine, with the fifth being prepared, and they feel as close to normal as they can think to expect.

"I think," they grit out, "that we have more important tests to run."

"Oh?" he asks, sounding amused. "I thought the point of this was to catalogue all we could about the blood. It hardly seems in the spirit of things to ignore one aspect in favour of another. How do you feel?"

They glare at him as he finishes preparing the fifth syringe. They have a right to be angry, they think. Don't they?

"Fine," they say finally, when it becomes clear he is awaiting their response. "Give me the fifth."