#velrith

I decided to turn lesbian Dracula into an OC, it was too good of a design to pass up

Also the nameless vampire from years ago is called Ashley now

a smaller god.

It was interesting, watching her piece together the fragments resembling memories. Baldur’s Gate was apparently a home to her at some point in the distant past, though by now that may as well have been an entirely different life.

She did not seem to relish in the memory of slaughtering the couple who had taken her into their home.

Which doesn’t really surprised Astarion in the slightest. For all that she’s capable of committing acts of breathtaking violence when needed, he knows that she abhors directionless acts of cruelty. It had bothered him when he didn’t understand her compulsion, when he assumed it was another falsehood. Now, however, it is a welcome balm. It doesn’t solve the centuries of torment. Not even close. But he hadn’t realized just how desperately he’d been seeking that sort of respite in the storm until he found himself on its receiving end.

She is pensive on their walk back to camp, and somehow more quiet than usual. She allows the others to outpace her, and doesn’t say anything when Astarion falls into step at her side.

He hates the feeling of inadequacy that washes over him in these moments.

He’s good with honeyed words (vapid, empty, worthless) and sensual touches (the timing right now could not be any less appropriate for that, thank you very much). If this was someone who didn’t matter, he wouldn’t care. But she is, and he does, and he wishes for the thousandth time since he became aware of how much she meant to him that he was more built for genuine comfort.

Ivory Sarcotesta

ch 1/?.

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Astarion’s ribs are still tender with the memory of where she drove her knee into the side. The torque in her waist had been enough to knock him off his feet before he could register that he’d been detected. Just as vivid as the pain had been, her eyes bored into his from above. She’d laid him out flat on his back in one fluid motion, pinning him down and looking decidedly unimpressed.

Confessing the truth of his condition seemed to be the best chance he had at keeping her from ending his life then and there. He’d babbled through something passingly coherent, watching her turn the information over suspiciously in her mind. It probably only lasted a handful of seconds, but to Astarion, it might as well have been an eternity. He didn’t actually fear her enough not to try to sink his fangs into the pale flesh of her throat, but even he wasn’t so stupid that he couldn’t recognize his own losing hand in his current position.

And then she’d apparently decided that his explanation was sufficient—that he was a vampire, and apparently one worth trusting at that. He would call that foolish if she hadn’t twice proven her ability to gain the upper hand against him, even with the element of surprise on his side.

So she released him and withdrew to her bedroll, sitting cross-legged as she offered out a wrist.

He remembers letting out a little startled laugh at that, pushing off the ground. She stared at him like he was the one being strange, still holding her arm out towards him, vein-side-up.

“The boar was you, then?” She asks, breaking the silence. The question sounds less like something she needs confirmed, and more like a polite in for him.

“It certainly wasn’t the wizard,” he retorts. Something clicked for him almost as soon as the words left his mouth. “Did you… know?”

He didn’t much like the idea of that.