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Weisshaupt was glorious.

The air was thick with the sounds of slaughter, and the smells of burning flesh and otherwise filled him with a sense of purpose so ripe and juicy he could taste it. These ‘Darkspawn’ had a wonderfully singular mindset - kill everything that moves and isn’t one of them - which made them delightfully predictable.

They were on the ramparts of the fortress, making their way to the War Room with a girl as their guide - fiercest little thing he’d ever seen, miniature version of Karlach, without the horns; she would’ve loved Mila - and the battlefield below was like a dance floor. Rook and Davrin were in the thick of it, fighting off the little beastlies with the red googly eyesockets like the heroes they were always meant to be. Aw. Emmrich kept a safe-ish distance: ish, as nothing was safe in this place, and he rained down necrotic spells like he’d done it his entire life. He probably had, at that.

Hence, Astarion’s detour to higher ground. He had his eye on a pair of big, muscular whatsit, hitting hard with their long-distance projectiles. If he could clear a path for Rook and Davrin, he might impress them further. Show them he could be useful, that his invitation to join the team wasn’t for nothing.

Blades at the ready, he sneaked closer to the edge of the outcrop of cliffs. He picked his target, and jumped into the fray, landing with his legs over the hurlock’s shoulders. The second one barely had time to react before he’d half severed its head from its shoulders, and the first - the one getting intimately acquainted with his thighs - made a gawping sound at its friend.

“Sorry, darling,” he said, tutting, and thrust both blades into his new friend’s chest. And twisted. “I shouldn’t have made you watch that.”

The hurlock choked on its own blood, and as it sagged to its knees, Astarion flipped himself forward, pulling his daggers with him.

Up in the air, Assan made ooh-ing noises that were equal parts impressed and teasing. On ground level, Davrin came running with a fresh smile, pausing only to cut down an uppity spawn of the ‘dark’ variety. “Good job taking those two down.”

“Flashy,” said Rook, not quite so impressed despite his grin. The weight of responsibility, and whatnot. “In the words of my mentor, ‘don’t get cocky.’”

“Varric’s a wise man,” said Astarion - who else could it be? “But I’m afraid that ship’s sailed a long time ago.” He patted Rook’s shoulder and spied down the crumbling path. “Run along now, I’ll see where Emmrich ran off to.”

“We don’t have time!” Mila glared at him, running past them all. “We have to find my dad!”

“He’s right behind us.” Rook pointed in the general vicinity of that-a-way, and pushed forward with Davrin. True to his word, there was Emmrich. Leaping backwards through the air like something taken right out of a ballet performance, raining down mayhem on any darkspawn foolish enough to go at him. Covered in blight and blood. Looking perfectly…

Their eyes locked across the vast expanse of corruption taken physical form. Emmrich’s eyes were quite something. In the warm light of the Lighthouse courtyard his irises were almost amber-like in quality. In the infirmary, they were hazel; brown and green combining in the most delightful way. But here, they glowed a bright green. Like his magic.

Something crashed behind him, but with the general calamity and all, he didn’t think much of it. Lucanis had said something about Emmrich being a battlemage, and hells’ bells was he right about that - the way he moved on the battlefield was nothing short of distracting. He came running, his eyes widening with alarm and the sweet rush of adrenaline. Shouting. Something.

He remembered the first time he’d seen that colour. Emmrich’s features disappearing into the darkness of oblivion, nothing left but a pair of literal twin orbs of that green. The second time, the Grand Necropolis, and the Veilfire lanterns.

Emmrich’s magic coursed through him to the point of bursting, and in a weak moment Astarion might admit to being smitten. If he were weak. Which he was not. Categorically not.

“ASTARION!” Emmrich’s teeth were bared, his face covered in grime and sweat-sheen, pale and flushed at the same time. “MOVE!”

“What?”

“OGRE!” Emmrich’s voice cracked over the words, and still Astarion couldn’t move. “BEHIND YOU!”

A shrill sound carried through the air to his ears, and the air came away from him, displacement brought on by something enormous and very, very bad. His instincts more than rational thought kicked in a fraction of a second before something as big as him crashed down a hair’s breadth from his skull. He threw himself out of the way, tumbling onto his ass on the craggy ground. The loud chink of metal hitting stone; the gleam of a sharpened blade and the bloodied pike sticking out at the top like a lethal exclamation mark. A halberd bigger than his own head, and attached to it was, indeed, an ogre.

Its eyes glowed a menacing blight-red, much like its maw, lined by far too many razor sharp teeth. It roared at him, but didn’t immediately attack, too preoccupied with trying to yank the halberd loose from the rock it had cleaved.

And then, there was Emmrich. Wild-eyed and hollering, he rushed the beast, wielding his mage staff like a close-combat weapon. The glowing skull connected with the ogre’s big head with a resounding crack, and Emmrich used the momentum to leap off its broad shoulder, spinning sideways in the air for another unforgiving wallop.

Behind the ogre was a wall of debris, cutting off their path forward. Davrin and Rook were nowhere to be seen. It was just them against one pissed-off behemoth with horns. Or, rather, Emmrich going at it tooth and nail… defending him.

The ogre gave another marrow-curdling roar and lashed out, grabbing Emmrich by the arm, and shook him like a ragdoll. Emmrich cried out in pain, his staff clattering over the edge of the rampart.

“Emmrich!” Astarion’s breath caught in his throat, and he went scrabbling for his daggers. He ran, using the halberd’s handle as a stepping stone, catapulting himself through the air to land, daggers first, on the ogre’s broad back. He snarled, driving his blades deep through bone and soft tissues, deep as they would go. Once wasn’t enough to make it let go, but Astarion didn’t mind. He stabbed, and he stabbed, and he stabbed, to the sound of gurgling wails of agony like music to his ears. Leaving a latticework of flesh behind once he was satisfied, and jumped out of the way.

The ogre gave a final, desolate groan, and sagged right over the edge into the darkness. Dragging Emmrich with it.

Tagging everyone, as always:

@ghoulehhh @natendo-art @in-my-loki-feels @kusakichan15 @kcscribbler

@devilbearingtrouble @impulsemuppet @mirilyawrites @scifikimmi @silentxsymphony

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@insert-witty-user-name-here @blackbirdofasgard @dreamycloud @distracteddream

@mobius-m-mobius @dilfmobius @adorbspotat @lgwilt

@redheadsramblings @starfleetteddybear @mercars-musings @holyglassbone @genocidalfetus @wolfpup026 @elodiah @notyourmamasdeerbat @lavender-tea-fling @otterpocketz @notyourmamasdeerbat @crowtoed @roshytsunami @watcherandcrow

Over the course of Act 1 in BG3, Astarion is flirtatious and flamboyant, a bit of a dork and an utter bitch, depending on where you are in the story, and how you treat him and others. He Does Not Get the concept of doing for others without getting something for it. Altruism is bullshit, and anyone who says they only want to help are obvious liars. Marked by the past two centuries’ abuse at the hands of the vampire who made him a spawn, he views the world through a lens of you’re either prey or hunter. No one will help you but you, dog eat dog. In some ways he’s stuck in a bad place, and he doesn’t know how to dig himself out. Now, he used to be a Magistrate in the big city - a judge, basically. A nobleman, educated, who was nearly beaten to death after one of his rulings didn’t go down so well with certain elements of society.

He’s been left for dead by the justice system, literally, for the past two centuries. Abandoned by the society he loved, forced into a very abusive situation he had no means of escaping. I hesitate to call his bond to his vampire master a ‘relationship.’

But. As one plays through Act 1, he’s beginning to find his place within the group. With Tav’s ongoing support, he’s feeling a bit… not safe, exactly, but free-er to be himself, even though it’s a long way to go before he’ll be completely free. He’s one of the companions to first let Tav know they’re interested in a sexual relationship - Astarion attempts to seduce them, not because he wants a relationship, but because he sees Tav as a way to gain some measure of security against a bigger threat - against his master, or, the people he’s sent to look for him after his escape.

Towards the end of Act 1, we learn that Astarion has a scar on his back - an elaborate scar tattoo, spelling out words in Infernal, the language used in one of the Nine Hells. His former master, Cazador, carved it into his back. But what the words mean, well… Chances are, it isn’t a love poem.

At the beginning of Act 2, the group find their way to Last Light Inn, a sanctuary in the Shadow Cursed Lands they need to traverse. There, a devil by the name of Raphael tells Astarion he can reveal the purpose of his markings… if he can do something for him, first.

When Last Light Inn is attacked by hideous creatures twisted by the Shadow Curse, Astarion takes a bad hit. Gale grabs him and casts Dimension Door, hoping to get him away from the thick of battle. Except… When Gale comes out on the other end of the spell, Astarion is gone.

Meanwhile…

In the midst of a critical analysis ‘round the library table, a door opens up in the Lighthouse proper, up in the air, up where the floating bookcases do their thing, with a battered Astarion falling through like so much dead weight.

So, from an emotional growth standpoint, Astarion is very much at the stage where he’ll readily seduce people to gain the upper hand against threats. Except… he wakes up, tucked into a bed in a weirdly decorated room that smells vaguely like an apothecary. His daggers are lying, neatly, on the bed next to his, along with everything he had on him. His jacket, shirt, and trousers, having been cleaned of blood, all laid out on the aforementioned bed. His boots next to it.

A human sits by his bed, reading from a tome. A tall-ish, neat human, with not a hair out of place. Graying. Neat pencil moustache.

…and a wry-toned dwarf watches him from the other end of the room, propped up in a bed of his own. Strapped into braces for his leg and his arm. So, an infirmary.

Varric and Emmrich are his first introduction to the world of Thedas, where everything is familiar enough to be unnerving, but different enough to… also be unnerving.

Interacting with the Companions:

Taash is both baby Karlach and grumpy Karlach and standoffish Karlach all at once. Weirdest tiefling he’s ever seen. “Sorry. ‘Qunari’. You’re telling me you’re a thief. An actual member of a thief’s guild founded by a pirate queen… and you don’t steal?”

“Uhuh.”

“And you’re a dragon hunter. But you don’t hunt dragons. You look after them.”

Taash: *smiles*

Astarion: *eye twitch*

*

Lucanis drinks too much coffee, but his skills at killing all sorts is nothing short of commendable. And Spite’s adorable. You know. For an imaginary friend. 10/10, would fuck. If he could take a hint. Or had any kind of authority within the group. Would Viago be amenable to some enjoyable company, he wonders… Or Teia, for that matter. She looks like someone who can get things done.

*

Neve’s too sweet for a seasoned detective. What in the Nine Hells is wrong with her that she hasn’t already taken over the Threads and built herself an empire within Minrathous? Femme fatale sleuth with a network like you wouldn’t believe. Top notch asset, and she asks him for help spying on a mark? Be still his undead heart.

*

Bellara. She’s too sweet. He can’t deal with how sweet she is, she can’t be real, who hurt her to make her this obnoxiously kind and caring and incredibly knowledgeable on all things technical-and-magicky? HOW IS SHE EVEN REAL?!!??!?!?!

*

Davrin. Forget Davrin, Assan is the bestest boy in the whole wide woooorld.

No, okay. Beneath that cleavage lies a proud, kind heart that Astarion wouldn’t technically mind tearing out of his impressive chest. If only he wasn’t so genuinely good. If only he didn’t remind him of himself, back when he… Before he was…

Assan is the finest, prettiest, sweetest boy there is. (And Manfred too. Astarion loves Manfred. Even with those ghastly jewels he pretends are his eyes.)

*

Harding. Deceptively sweet, hiding a veritable powerhouse. If she can just harness all that power, the things she could do. She could topple entire empires. She could rebuild the world in her own image. Bring forth a new era of Titan rule.

He can appreciate that. He can not appreciate how she wants to help people all the time without asking for something in return.

Come to think of it, they’re all like that. What the FU**

At least Rook’s got the right idea - yes, I’ll help you with your personal issues, you just need to do me one small favour. Fight two ancient godlike creatures and hordes of quasi-undead. We’re good? Good.

*

Varric calls his bullshit the first time they’re alone together. He’s the obvious authority figure next to Rook, but he ain’t buying what Astarion’s peddling. “Nice try, Daggers. I’m flattered, but not in the market. Sorry, kid.”

He calls him ‘kid.’ It’s vaguely refreshing.

*

Insult to injury, Rook’s all moony eyed at the assassin with the imaginary friend, and, well, all they want to know is how to impress him, and does Astarion have any tricks? Any tips on flirtation? Or, how to get his attention in a nice, subtle sorta way?

Astarion has to bite his tongue not to be a snide little bitch, and eventually caves. Rook’s too damn nice, it’s nigh impossible to say no them.

*

And then there’s Emmrich. Gentlemanly, friendly, respectful, sincere, genuine good egg. A necromancer who reveres the dead, why I never. He’s absolutely fascinated by Astarion being a vampire spawn, or anything resembling a vampire. He tells him at length about the lore on vampires in Thedas, and by the end of it Astarion’s 1) ready to claw his own eyes out, 2) pounce his stupid, happy, endearing little face with the tiny beauty marks and the crow’s feet that come out whenever he smiles for real.

Can you just imagine the chaos that is Astarion flirting with Emmrich - flirting is what he does best (aside from stabbing people repeatedly). Desire is his currency, seduction his trade. How many unsuspecting fools has he seduced on Cazador’s orders? Why shouldn’t he use all his tricks on Emmrich, who may not be the one in charge, but everyone else looks to for his guidance and expertise - Emmrich has a position of power within the group. Everyone listens to him. And one of the few ways Astarion knows how to connect with others, is through flirtation, and sex.

But Emmrich, who has longed for love his entire life, knows not to trust a pretty face and insistent advances. He’s old enough to have learned the hard way when people want something from him, be it a favorable letter of recommendation, or his endorsement for some more-or-less political venture (academia is So Very Political these days), students wanting extensions, or… whatever the case may be. However-much he’d love for someone like Astarion to be genuinely interested in him, he knows when someone doesn’t actually want him. He’s a means to an end, whether that’s casual sex or… whatever it is he wants.

He tells Astarion he’s flattered, but not currently interested in liaisons - but he would never say no to friendship.

Astarion is initially disgusted, of course, though he wouldn’t tell him. Not outright. That would be counterproductive to getting into his good graces. And, well, you can get a lot of leverage through ~friendship~. Eugh.

For a while, things go to plan - they “bond” through the various missions and fetch quests Rook makes them tag along for. Emmrich’s open-minded, generous, as in giving of himself as well as his worldly possessions. Emmrich invites him to the Memorial Gardens, to show Astarion what the Mourn Watchers do, exactly. He talks - which suits Astarion, really, the more he knows about someone the easier it is to manipulate them into doing what you want - and he… opens up about things. Things like how the Mourn Watch took him in as a child, after he lost his parents in a perfectly preventable accident. A collapsed building, of all things. His fear of death. Manfred makes them tea.

Within days of that whole thing, Emmrich shows up at Astarion’s room, knocking on his door (HE HAS A DOOR! AN ENTIRE ROOM!), and he… has prepared a pint of his own blood, as a token of gratitude.

A pint. Of his own blood. In a glass flask. Still warm. As thank you. For listening to him natter on about the sanctity of life and death, for perhaps sharing too much of himself so quickly - in one of the most breathtaking places Astarion’s ever been and he’s seen the Underdark.

And Emmrich smiles so genuinely, all blushing with self-consciousness, and says “Well, I just wanted to make sure you’re not starving. Blood from the butcher’s fine and all, but. Well. Good night, Astarion.” And his crow’s feet come out, and he clasps his hands behind his back and turns on his heel, and…

Astarion’s standing there with a warm flask of blood, feeling happy. For the first time in forever, and he hasn’t even sampled the blood.

(You know what kills me in the game? If you let Astarion feed on your player character, the next morning he has a status called “Happy” and the symbol is a smiling little mouth with fangs. It is the most adorable AND heartbreaking thing ever.)

So. That’s a game changer. Definitely tipping the scales from ‘Oh, wouldn’t it be nice to have some form of security in this new environment’ to ‘I want him. For my own sake.’

It’s not as though he technically needs protection from Cazador. Or the tadpole, which seems dormant. …might be good to see about that, but in any case. No one’s telling him what to do, what to think, how to feel. What to eat, or when. Whom he sleeps with.

He could have something all his own.

But feelings are hard. Difficult. Sticky and cloying. Dangerous. They require you to reveal too much, to bare yourself for emotional evisceration. Feelings can be exploited. They make you vulnerable, and if there’s one thing Astarion can’t bear the thought of, it’s to be vulnerable ever again.

And yet, the more time they spend together, the more he wants. He wants with the all-consuming fervour of a child, he wants Emmrich so much he could implode on the spot. And in some ways, he already has him. The way Emmrich looks at him, he doesn’t look at anyone that way. His smiles. The things he tells him, the stories, the anecdotes, the knowledge he shares over pots of tea in the wee hours of the night. His tone of voice, reserved only for those moments. Little brushes of his fingers over Astarion’s arm. His hand a comfortable weight on his shoulder. But he never crosses the line into something… untowards. Always respectful. Always.

Things are tense, after the fall of Weisshaupt. Everyone does what they can to deal with the loss of one of the few remaining living legends of the Grey Wardens. A symbol of perseverance and victory against evil - gone.

Over a game of Wicked Grace with Varric and Lucanis, they tell Astarion there’s no point in pretending there isn’t something going on between him and the professor. “Love’s what this world needs more of,” says Varric, “not… whatever this shit’s supposed to be.”

Astarion scoffs. Calls Varric all kinds of insults [affectionately. He likes Varric].

“Don’t waste time,” says Lucanis, with his wet puppy dog eyes and his charming way of stating things as if they’re obvious. “You love each other, anyone can s--”

“I don’t love him!” He laughs. The sound cuts through the dining hall like a knife parrying a blow. No one must know, this is his secret, or, if not a secret, it’s his, and no one gets to act like they know what he feels. Not about anything. No one will exploit him, no one will use it against him. Being a snide ass comes easily to him. He’s a master of deflection. And poisoning his blades. “Love is for the young and beautiful, and last I checked, he’s neither.”

And you can all guess who’s just walked through the door bearing a tray of tea and cookies. Home made. And a flask of blood. Still warm.

TO BE DETERMINED, coming to AO3 soon! Soonish! Aaaaiiiieeeee!

Bonus points, if I ever go down that route: Emmrich in Faerûn

Can’t you just imagine Emmrich and Gale talking for hours, comparing and contrasting Mystra and Mythal? Expanding on magic systems: their own, similar but different areas of expertise. Gale asks for his input regarding his condition, and Emmrich generously lays out various theories and potential ways of helping. He’s the Senior Wizard Gale’s hoped to find, and even if he doesn’t have an actual solution, Gale feels better for having a wizard to share his fears with.

Emmrich listening to Wyll, because he can see how much the young man needs someone to just listen for once. Offering no bits of advice unless asked for, giving no insights or suggestions. Just sitting there with him on the sand, watching the water while he talks about Mizora, and his father, and everything that’s gone… not quite the way he’d hoped. (Emmrich thinks Mizora sounds just like a desire demon… but so does Raphael, from what Astarion’s told him. HMMM)

Shadowheart can actually talk to him about Shar without being met with prejudice. Emmrich’s kind, attentive, and doesn’t have a judgemental bone in his body - except, when he hears of how she became a follower of Shar, and what happened to her parents. He may come from a world where Hell doesn’t exist, but Hell hath no fury like Emmrich Volkarin’s inner eleven-year-old when someone else’s parents are threatened.

Karlach can’t hug? For fear of burning people’s skin clear off? Manfred has no skin! Emmrich’s made sure he’s flame retardant! AND he gives quite precious hugs, Emmrich assures her, so long as she’s careful with his joints - and takes it upon himself to do something about Karlach’s predicament. Like learning all he can about Infernal Iron and whatnot. Oh, if only Bellara were here! She’d know just how to fix this.

Halsin, well. What can’t they talk about? Conservation, wildlife preservation, horticulture, medicinal plants, just plain geeking out over ~Nature~ with a capital N. Disappearing into the woods for hours on end, until Astarion, filled with a mix of lingering low self-worth and seething jealousy, follows them - fueled by some manner of masochistic need to catch them in the act and have all his fears validated (but also wouldn’t Emmrich and Halsin be kind of hot? Conflicting emotions! The struggle is REAL). But he doesn’t find them locked in an amorous embrace, but spying on a bird’s nest. With hatchlings. Entirely too excited about birds breaking through their little shells as a metaphor for the circle of life, but… you know. New life is to be celebrated. It’s… kind of adorable.

Astarion once again wants to 1) claw his own eyes out, and 2) pounce his silly little necromancer right there. Surely Halsin wouldn’t mind. Nature boy.

*

Edit April 13 2025:

I forgot about Lae’zel! My darling!

Aside from the obvious hardship of learning harsh truths about your religion - Emmrich’s been there, with everything going on in Veilguard, where everyone’s more or less forced into questioning their own belief systems, whether they worship elven gods or the Maker - BUT THERE’S A GITHYANKI EGG? Githyanki lay eggs? And it is enormous, and there’s a baby githyanki in there! Emmrich is overcome by his mama bear/mother hen instincts. They are powerful instincts, everyone - although, of course, he wouldn’t dream of stepping on Lae’zel’s toes. It may not be her egg, but it’s part of her people. And life, just as much as death, is to respected.

Having said that, anyone threatens that egg, they explode on the spot. Or lose whatever offensive limbs they dared use. Verbal abuse? Congratulations, you don’t have a tongue anymore. (Yes he would be that vicious. But if the offender asked nice, he may be persuaded to sew it back. Lae’zel doesn’t see the merit of this, but Emmrich explains the agony of a swollen tongue might not be enough to dissuade the cur from speaking out again. But he’ll always have the scar to remind him. And, Emmrich would tell the offender - he’ll know if they ever speak out of turn, ever again. And woe betide, if he has to hunt them down. It won’t just be their tongue next time. It’s… mostly intimidation. Mostly.)