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naiatabris · 2 months

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That Rarest of Things

A little Regency AU drabble for Wyll Week in which Wyll tries to be the perfect heir, talks politics with a friend, and dances with a certain pale elf who has been watching him from the shadows. Prompt: "The Blade of Frontiers."

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The pale elf was watching him again.

Wyll tried to pretend he hadn’t noticed. He was supposed to be regaling Councillor Florrick’s guests with yet more tales of his time as the Blade of Frontiers, not ogling handsome strangers. And the man’s scrutiny should not have bothered him. Ever since his return to Baldur’s Gate it had felt as if all eyes were on Wyll whenever he entered a room. Some of the gazes were approving, the stares of people who looked at Wyll and saw a newly-eligible noble bachelor restored to his father’s good graces, the perfect target for a courtship. Other gazes took in his horns and the ridges on his cheeks and arms with loathing or fear; those gazes saw a devil, and little more.

The elf, however, did not seem to fall into either category. He watched Wyll with an air of weariness, of sorrow, of vague disdain. He tried to pretend he was not listening when Wyll described battles against goblins or encounters with a hag, but Wyll could see the way his eyes slid to the side, keeping Wyll in his sights.

Perhaps I am imagining it.

He knew he was not.

“Another stirring tale,” his friend Alys Towerfell told him once he’d finished the story and the crowd had begun to disperse. Wyll could see envious eyes on them the moment she favored him with her attention; Alys was a half-Drow beauty who happened to be the heir to a very large fortune, and Wyll knew that half the room would give their right arm for a conversation with her. To him, however, Alys was merely an old friend, the solemn teenager who used to read eight-year-old Wyll storybooks when their parents gathered for dinner.

“I have many more stories to offer before the evening is over,” Wyll said wryly. “Councillor Florrick and my father requested it specifically. Apparently, my tales of heroism are just what they need to swing the correct number of votes their way.”

Alys slid a companionable hand into his elbow and began to guide him into a turn about the room. “Ah yes, the city defense measures,” she murmured. “Lord Gortash cornered me earlier. He has many ideas about them. Most of them, somehow, seem to involve the city placing a large and lucrative order for steel golems of his own creation.” She scowled. “I do not trust that man. I don’t know how his golems work, but mark my words, there’s something amiss in their construction.”

“You’re right, I’m certain,” Wyll replied. Alys was a gifted sorcerer; if she said there was something wrong with a magical construct, he was not fool enough to bet against her. He was going to say more, about city politics or the golems or perhaps about Lord Gortash’s general oiliness, but a flash of white curls in the far corner distracted him.

The pale elf was lounging against the wall, sipping slowly from a wine glass, looking out over the assembled company like a predator evaluating prey.

“Alys? Do you know that man?”

Alys’s mouth twisted thoughtfully as she spotted the object of Wyll’s gaze. “Mr. Ancunin. A fixture of recent gatherings, but not someone I know well.” She arched an eyebrow at Wyll. “Do you desire an introduction?”

“Yes.” Wyll realized, a beat too late, what that answer implied. “That is to say—he seems to be watching me closely of late. It would be best to know his intentions.”

Alys bristled, her shoulders drawing back and her chin tilting up as she narrowed her eyes at the elf. Wyll felt himself half charmed and half amused at the sight. Alys had always considered herself something of an older sister to him, and had resumed that role almost instantly upon his return to the city. But the sharp expression was gone a breath later, replaced by her usual elegant poise.

“I agree.” Her drow-lilac eyes locked onto the elf. “Let’s see what we can do.”

To any onlooker, it would have seemed nearly accidental. Alys guided them around the room, chatting with the guests, continuing her conversation with Wyll. And then, when they were a pace or two away from the elf, she stopped and blinked as if she’d only just noticed him. “Why, Mr. Ancunin! What a pleasure to see you again. May I present Wyll Ravengard, only son of Duke Ulder Ravengard?”

“You may—and the pleasure is mine, darling.” The elf swept an elaborate bow. “Well. Haven’t you found yourself a handsome suitor.”

Mr. Ancunin’s eyes met Wyll’s as he straightened, and Wyll felt his breath catch in his lungs. It was a momentary reaction, fast enough that Wyll could almost pretend it hadn’t been there. The elf had been handsome from a distance, but up close… up close he was more than merely handsome. The other man’s gaze was nothing short of piercing and the smile that played around his lips was sharp and playful and wicked.

“You flatter me,” Alys said with a light laugh. “In truth, Mr. Ravengard is simply an old friend kind enough to keep me company.”

“As if you lack for company,” Wyll teased. “Every line of your dance card is full, whereas mine is woefully empty.”

“Well. That won’t do, will it?” From somewhere deep in his evening kit, Mr. Ancunin pulled out a pencil and his own dance card. He met Wyll’s gaze and arched one elegant eyebrow. “As it happens, my own card is rather bare. If I may be so bold?”

Wyll bit back a satisfied smile as he handed over his card. He had laid the trap, and the elf had stepped right in. “I would be honored.”

As Mr. Ancunin finished writing his name on Wyll’s dance card, the soft chime of bells sounded throughout the ballroom. “Just in time, it seems,” the elf murmured. He offered his elbow. “Shall we, Mr. Ravengard?”

The gleam of satisfaction in Mr. Ancunin’s eyes made Wyll wonder if he had been too quick to assume that he was the one laying a trap.

They took their positions opposite one another for the opening dance, studying each other all the while, pretending they were not. Mr. Ancunin was elegantly dressed in black with purple trim, a choice that highlighted his fair skin and pale curls. Wyll managed, just barely, to avoid tugging at the collar and cuffs of his own gold-and-white clothing. Even now, after nearly six months back in the city, he felt ill at ease in a noble’s garb.

As the music began, however, he felt his discomfort fade away. He had always loved dancing and he knew he was adept at it. He suspected Mr. Ancunin might be the same; the other man had shown a catlike grace as they made their way to the dance floor. But to Wyll’s surprise, as they began the steps, Mr. Ancunin moved with just a hint of hesitation—as if he were fighting to recall exactly what his feet were supposed to be doing and what came next.

Wyll’s object had been to learn more about the other man, to try to determine why he was being watched so closely. But seeing Mr. Ancunin ill at ease put him off-balance. Made him want to take the man’s hand and guide him through the dance rather than use the opportunity to press him with questions.

Spotting Wyll’s scrutiny, Mr. Ancunin flashed a smile, a quicksilver thing that did not reach his eyes. “When I woke this morning, I could never have imagined myself taking to the floor with the legendary Blade of Frontiers,” he murmured as their hands met for the first time, Mr. Ancunin’s black glove stark against Wyll’s white. “You’ve been amassing quite the audience for those stories you tell—all the tales of daring and heroism and mortal peril.”

There was an edge of mockery to his voice that set Wyll’s teeth on edge—and that sent a feeling of shame twisting through him. He enjoyed recounting his adventures for those close to him. But he was less comfortable doing so in public. He did not want to be thought a braggart or a fool.

I am doing it for the city, he told himself. Not my own glory.

“Do you have a favorite?” he parried, trying to act nonchalant as they spun round each other. “I believe I’ve noticed you listening. Once or twice.”

“Only once or twice?” Mr. Ancunin asked softly. “You should pay more attention to your surroundings then, my dear Blade. I don’t know what I find more astonishing: the number of stories you seem to have, or the fact that somehow, I believe them all to be true.” His mouth went tight. “A real hero. A creature that by all rights should not exist. And yet, here you are.”

Wyll wanted to reply, but the dance’s next steps took them away from each other, sent them weaving through the other couples until they had reached the end of the lines. When they faced each other again, Wyll met his partner’s gaze.

“I did what was necessary. Nothing more.”

Mr. Ancunin chuckled. “I think you almost believe that. Remarkable.” He stepped forward once more, met Wyll’s palm with his, resumed their steps around each other with more confidence and rhythm than before. “Perhaps it was necessary, all those risks and heroics and the years in exile. But few others would have done what you did. Which makes you, Mr. Ravengard, that rarest of things: a good man.”

The words nearly took Wyll’s breath away. It was as if Mr. Ancunin had stripped his soul down to its essentials and given voice to his greatest wish: to be a good man. A protector of his city. A defender of the weak. A worthy heir to Ulder Ravengard.

It was a wish he’d felt slip further and further out of reach every day he had worked with Mizora.

“I’ll make no such claim for myself.” He could hear the rough edge to his voice. “I hope I have helped those who needed it. Defended the city I call home. But I—”

“Too honorable to take a compliment, Mr. Ravengard? You’ve been so good for everyone else. Doesn’t it get tiresome?” Mr. Ancunin was teasing now—but his tone was not entirely playful. His voice softened to something near a whisper as they completed their turn. “Has anyone been as good for you?”

Wyll clenched his jaw. He did not allow himself to think about things like that. What mattered was doing the right thing, giving all he could. He did not keep score. He did not expect things in return. But—gods. It almost sounded as if Mr. Ancunin was offering something, and though Wyll did not quite know what it was, part of him ached to find out.

And with a flash of insight, Wyll realized that was exactly what Mr. Ancunin wanted. To put him off balance, to intrigue him, to draw him in. To what end?

“Why, it almost sounds as if you’re concerned, Mr. Ancunin,” Wyll said, letting warm amusement creep into his voice. “Or are you offering to be the one who evens the scales?”

The expression moved across the elf’s face so quickly Wyll might have missed it. But it was there: a twinge of revulsion, something close to a flinch. It was quickly replaced by a smile that did not reach his eyes. “And if I am?”

“Then I would decline,” Wyll said easily. He thought about telling Mr. Ancunin that he’d seen the expression, that he could sense the other man didn’t truly want a dalliance, but he worried that insight might scare the elf away—and Wyll very much wanted to know what this man was up to.

“Doing good is its own reason and its own reward,” he said instead. “Though I suspect you’ll call me tedious for saying it.”

“Dear gods. You actually do believe that,” Mr. Ancunin said wonderingly. “How utterly astonishing.”

As they stepped back to their places in line, their hands parted—but Mr. Ancunin’s fingers rested against his for just a heartbeat longer than they needed to, and Wyll did not pull his own fingers away.

He bent into his most elegant bow as the final notes played. When he straightened, Mr. Ancunin was watching him with those bright, knowing eyes, a half smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s been a pleasure, my dear Blade. Until next time.” He lowered his voice. “And I do hope there will be a next time.”

#wyll week #blade of frontiers #bg3 regency au #wyllstarion #drabble #my writing

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fistfuloftarenths · 4 months

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WIP Whenever

tagged by @my-favourite-zhent and using this as an excuse to inflict some badly written regency au rugan on everyone there is some implied attempt SA in here but nothing bad happens (i think this is the right way to warn people? let me know if not)

“Don’t think the lass wants to go with you, friend,” said the newcomer. A man’s voice, raspy and drawling.

The Honourable was startled, but recovered swiftly. “And who are you to interrupt?” he sniffed. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“I’m choosin’ to concern myself,” said the man in the darkness.

“By the gods,” said the Honourable. “It’s just a bit of fun! They run, we give chase, the thrill of the hunt, you know! Or perhaps you don’t.” For the unknown man’s accent was very far from the plummy vowels of the nobility. A northern accent, one of those dreadful manufacturing towns full of soot and machinery.

Something happened, too fast for her to make sense of it; a shadow detached itself from the hedge and loomed close; the scuffle of feet and the thump of flesh on flesh, and the Honourable let go of her and fell down, and did not move.

“That’s him sorted,” said her unknown helper with some satisfaction, and Tav tried to take a breath to thank him and fainted for the first time in her life.

She regained consciousness to find herself half-laying on a stone bench, the other man’s arms around her. She flinched away and he let her go.

“Easy, lass.”

“Oh,” said Tav, inadequately. “Oh.”

“Giving you a bit of trouble, was he?”

Tav nodded before realising he couldn’t see her. “Yes,” she said, although that couldn’t begin to explain being trapped in a room with four or five noblemen between her and the door, their eyes bright with drink. “I wasn’t - I didn’t -”

“Course you weren’t.”

“Is he - dead?” she whispered. They’d both hang if he was. Maybe she could leave the city tomorrow. Travel south down the coast and change her name -

“Gods, no. Rattled his bonebox is all, and he’ll have the very devil of a headache when he wakes up.”

“Oh.”

“Who is he, then? He live here?” The man pointed at the house, his arm a deeper black against the shadows.

“A guest,” Tav said. “The Hon-honourable John P------.” An entirely inappropriate form of address, she thought bitterly. “The Earl of R—-’s second son.”

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

“Do you know him?”

“Only by name, but them rich tossers are all alike.” Which did not seem quite fair, but Tav was not inclined to argue the point. “We might move the body to be safe,” he added, reflectively. “Someone finds him sprawled out like that they’ll get the dogs out.”

Chased by dogs. Tav shuddered. She’d thought his hands on her would be the worst thing, not teeth closing in her flesh.

“I am very sorry, but I’m not sure I can stand up just yet,” she apologised.

“Aye, it takes you that way,” before adding in explanation, “went for a soldier. Seen all sorts. Seen grown men doing worse than you, lass, and I daresay there’s time afore someone comes looking for him.”

Tav managed, then, to loosen her hold on her lute. It seemed uninjured as she anxiously ran her hands over it, but she did not dare test the strings for fear of noise.

“What’s that then?”

“My lute?”

“Thought it was a baby at first. You was holding it like one.”

“Oh - no - no - !” Somehow, she managed to laugh.

“That’s the spirit,” he encouraged. “Still, you might’ve dropped it. Would’ve been quicker on your feet.”

“I can’t,” said Tav, and patted the smooth wood. “It’s not paid off yet.”

“Makes sense, he said. “How much does one of them lutes go for?”

“Good ones? Pounds and pounds,” she replied. “This one is - it could be better - it’s not Italian - but it’s not bad. I had to get a loan.”

“Aye,” he said. “What’s your name, lass? Seems only proper to introduce ourselves. I’m Rugan.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Rugan,” said Tav in her best cut-glass finishing school accent. He huffed laughter. “My name is Tav.”

“Never heard that one before.”

“No-one has. It’s short for Gustava, which is awful, and Swedish, and I can't - I refuse to be called Gussie.”

“By the gods,” he said, shaken - as well he might be - by the full glory of her name. “I shan’t say what I think of your parents for inflictin’ that on you, lass.”

#yes he's there for nefarious reasons #yes he's being outrageously lucky #tav is a mere babe in the woods #as green as grass #no tadpoles just tymora putting her hand on the scales #bg3 rugan #bg3 tav #bg3 regency au

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sammakesart · 1 month

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“You have bewitched me body and soul, and I—I—I love you.” - Gale Dekarios

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #regency au

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missygoesmeow · 2 months

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Regency!Raphael x Tav :)

this will be a scene in my fic when my writing muse returns to me

#my-art #bg3 #bg3 raphael #raphael the cambion #regency au #raphael x tav #baldur's gate raphael #bg3 fanart #sketch #Regency!Raphael

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luminetti · 8 months

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𝑶𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒅𝒖𝒆 𝑨𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒚 ༺♡༻ Chapter 1

༘⋆ Summary: In the world of Faerûn, a new season of love begins for the upper echelons in the nation's capital Baldur’s Gate, gathering a plethora of unwed Lords and Ladies from across the nation. For Miss y/n Neredras, the season only promises another disappointing series of suitors and failed courting, until one night she suddenly finds Lord Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep on her doorstep with a gunshot wound through his stomach, seeking discreet refuge and recovery after a devastating duel. ༘⋆ Pairing: lord!gale dekarios x fem!reader/tav, brief wyll x reader, mentions of (previous) mystra x gale ༘⋆Warnings: blood and bullet wounds, eventual hurt/comfort, mystra's weird predatory behavior (fuck mystra) ༘⋆Notes: set in the regency era and very loosely inspired by bridgerton (I’ve never watched it). i had to make a lot of edits to make this work out how i want so keep in mind that the following changes have been made: - Faerûn and Waterdeep are neighboring countries - Baldur’s Gate is the capital of Faerûn - Mystra (and all the gods) is human - Mystra lives in Waterdeep - Gale is 21 and reader is around 19 (something something, regency age for marriage, something)

༘⋆ Chapters: ┆[1] ┆[2]┆[3]┆[4]┆[5]┆[6] ┆[7] ┆

ao3

You cursed yourself for getting in such a position as you heaved a bloodied body onto your goose down bed sheets, dark sticky crimson clinging to your skin and the front of your white nightgown. The body landed with a soft flump, leaving a suspicious looking trail of blood towards the center of your bed. Normally you were against opening the door for strange men in the middle of the night, but a gunshot wound to the stomach usually prohibited acts of violence, unless the attacker wanted to bleed out to death, so you deemed it safe enough. You made sure to grab a fire poker from the fireplace on your way back from the medicine cabinet, just in case.

Blood was beginning to pool underneath the man, signaling that if you were to do anything, it had to be done with haste. Fighting back a gag at the tangy metal aroma, you undid his vest and undershirt, pulling it off and discarding it somewhere on the floor. The bullet had thankfully wedged itself near the surface of his flesh making it an easy grab with a pair of tweezers. The wound itself proved to be more of a challenge. Stitches were required to stop the bleeding, but the needle slipped around between your fingers, and attempting to wipe the slick blood off your hands just made more of a mess. After a bit of adjusting, and a lot of wiping, you finally managed a messy line of seven uneven stitches.

For the first time in the past half hour, the thumping of your heartbeat began to fade from your ears, allowing you to process what had just happened.

You took a moment to look him over. He looked around your age. Around twenty– no, twenty-one? It was hard to tell with so much hair in his face. From what you could make out, he appeared to be a reasonably attractive man. Perhaps a bit unkempt, you thought, but as to be expected at this time of night. With his chestnut brown hair, he vaguely reminded you of Clyde, your childhood dog. Though intended as a compliment, you made a mental note to keep that one to yourself when–if ever–he awoke. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep that was drawing you to the curve of his jawline, but with a start, you realize you had been staring for far too long. Blinking away your daydreams, you see the scene in front of you as it truly is.

There was a body in your bed.

You frantically reach over the bed to press two fingers firmly against his neck, feeling around for a pulse. Was he even still alive? A slow and faint periodical throb against your fingertips pulls a heavy sigh of relief out of your weary body, and you slump against the side of the bed. Thank the gods.

Unfortunately, the fact he was alive did not solve the strange-man-in-bed issue. Once he had been securely wrapped in several layers of bandages–any more and he may appear mummified–you weren’t sure what else there was to do. So, you recruited the only person in the household that could keep their mouth shut. Your older sister, Euphemia.

“By Jove, sister… you’ve killed a man…” Euphemia looked pale-faced and wide eyed in horror at the seemingly lifeless body and blood adorning your room.

“Stop it.” You hissed under your breath, closing the bedroom door behind her. “He’s not dead. And would you keep your voice down?”

Euphemia looked from you to the body, then to your crimson hands and nightgown. “Are you to tell me he is… sleeping?” She asked, incredulously, her voice quavering.

You sighed, exasperated. You grabbed her wrist, much to her resistance, and forcefully pressed her fingers against his neck. “There. He is very much alive. Now will you please help me?”

Your sister sighed in relief. “Gods… He looks mauled.” She eyed your butchered stitchings. “Not a slight on your abilities, of course. Spoken from a place of love.”

“Mock me all you want when we break fast, sister.” You toss her a wet washcloth. “As for now, make haste and wipe down the headboard. I’ll deal with the floor.”

“I merely jest.” She replied, rounding the bed beside the body.

As she approached the unconscious man, she froze, the cloth in her hand dropped to the ground as you heard a sharp intake of breath. Startled, you jump up from your knees.

“Hells, are you hurt?” You turned, expecting to see a splinter or bruise. Alas, Euphemia just stood shell shocked, staring down towards the body. You looked at the man yourself, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

Euphemia leaned closer to the body and swept the hair from his face. “I’ve seen this man’s portrait before.” She crouched beside him, studying his features. “It was in a museum of art from other nations.” Closing her eyes, she recounted the museum. “It was a family portrait. So this must be…” Euphemia turned back to you, mystified. “The Viscount of Waterdeep.”

You stared at her. “...Who?”

“The Viscount, Lord Gale Dekarios.”

✣ ✣ ✣

The rest of the night–technically the early morning–passed surprisingly peacefully, with the only hiccup being a lack of bed space. Euphemia made sure to chide you thoroughly for even suggesting that she take Gale to her room instead. In your defense, he had a larger bed than yours. After some back and forth, Euphemia declared that she’d be ruined if someone found her alone with a foreign Viscount, and her hopes of being courted would be gone. You, however, were newer to the season and very much single–which she didn’t hesitate to enunciate–and therefore could afford a scandal or two.

Cursing her under your breath, you reluctantly slipped under the covers, a good sixteen inches apart from the supposed Viscount. Despite everything, you easily drift off into a sound sleep.

A sudden shift in the bed startles you awake. Groggily, you sat up to see early morning sunrays softly beaming through your windows. Your mind clouds with exhaustion as you attempt to recall the night prior. In your fatigue you barely manage to picture a sharp jawline and soft brown hair. A dream, you conclude. Just another fantasy to forget about. You were about to lean back down when you heard the soft squeak of your bed spring from beside you, followed by a hushed murmur.

“Shit.”

Turning towards the voice, you came face to face with a pair of warm chestnut eyes, staring straight back at you. Lord Gale Dekarios–very much not from a dream–stood with one knee on your bed and his other foot on your floor, attempting to leave without a sound. His face was tense with pain and his hand pressed over the wet bandages covering his wound.

You made no move to stop him, merely watching as he gawked at you dumbstruck like a child with his hand trapped in a cookie jar. “What are you doing?” you asked.

It was as if you had two heads with the way he stared at you.

“My deepest apologies for the intrusion last night,” he managed to stammer out, quickly collecting himself and beginning to stand from the bed. “By Jove, I will leave right away-”

“Why?” You cut him off.

He choked out a confused sputter. “Pardon?”

You gestured to his bloodied bandages. “You are injured. Are you not?”

His eyes flicked to the wound before returning to your questioning gaze. “I am.” He replied, slowly.

“So sit. Unless you mean to walk home.” Standing from the bed, you scoured the room for the remainder of the bandages you brought from before.

Gale hesitantly perched himself on the edge of your bed frame, unsure how to proceed. After a couple moments of watching you flit around the room, he cleared his throat. “Pray tell, which residence am I in the company of?”

Upon gathering the materials and medicines, you sat across from him, laying out the paraphernalia in between you both. “This is the Neredras Manor,” you replied, beginning to work on replacing his dark, oxidized bandages.

From up close you could finally make out his facial features in detail. His jawline was as you remembered, but his hair was finger-combed back against his neck, almost brushing against his shoulders. His atmosphere had changed as well. Despite his grim injuries, a warm feeling surrounded him, almost like an aura of liveliness. You leaned into him, passing the bundle of old bandages around his body as you unwrapped. In such close proximity you just barely manage to make out faint traces of spicy cinnamon, crisp parchment, and freshly lit firewood.

You froze and pulled back sharply. You had completely forgotten yourself. He hadn’t noticed, had he? You glanced up briefly, only to be immediately met by chestnut eyes that bore into you with a thousand-yard stare, and lips ever so slightly muttering to himself as if he was lost in thought.

“...Pretty.” Gale whispered, barely intelligible.

“What?”

Upon realizing you were staring right back at him, he quickly averted his eyes, finally breaking out of his stupor. “Sorry?” He cleared his throat, struggling to meet your gaze.

“Pretty?” You repeated, confused.

Gale sputtered, seemingly caught off guard before a look of mortified realization crossed his features. “Morning,” he declared abruptly. “Y-You are morning.” He paused. “I mean, it is morning.” He paused again. “I mean, It is a pretty morning,” he finally managed, eyes settling back on yours as a pale flush of pink crept up his neck, threatening to wrap around his cheeks.

You attempted to raise the back of your palm to feel his forehead, concerned, only to be intercepted by Gale as he caught your wrist and brought it back down to your lap.

“I assure you, I am perfectly well,” he took a deep breath, composing himself. “And usually better at this.” He added, pressing a customary kiss to the back of your hand. “All this and you don’t even know my name.”

“Well, actually–” you began.

“Gale Dekarios,” he vaunted, chest almost puffed, and you swear you’ve seen images of birds of paradise performing similar moves during a mating dance. Knowing he was a Viscount made the visual match far too well and you failed to stifle a chortle.

“Pleased to make your–” Gale faltered slightly at your reaction. “Did I do something?”

Struggling to pull yourself together, you shake your head breathlessly. “No, it’s nothing. It’s just, I know who you are already.”

He looked puzzled. “You do?”

Nodding, you let out a deep breath, overcoming your brief laughing fit. “My older sister is quite the socialite. She recognized you from your portrait.”

From his impressed expression, you caught yourself wondering if they would be a good match. Euphemia was always fond of the idea of marrying a Viscount, like your mother had, not to mention she was up to date on all the drama of the ton.

An unfamiliar sensation twisted in your gut, unnoticeable until you focused on it. You hadn’t had breakfast yet so it was likely just hunger. But strangely, this hunger was creeping up from your stomach, almost residing in your chest with a faint pang.

You stood up sharply, pushing down the strange feelings. “You must be hungry, my Lord.”

Gale’s eyes flicked around your face, almost as if he was studying you. “I could eat,” he finally spoke. “And please, just Gale.”

Nodding quickly, you turned on your heel and briskly left your room, closing the door behind you. The twinge in your chest finally simmered, leaving your cheeks slightly flushed and blood nearly warm. You let yourself fall against your door, breathing deeply.

Suitors had come and gone before, and once he healed, Gale Dekarios would be nothing more than a man you met for a day.

#gale dekarios x reader #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 gale #bg3 x tav #gale dekarios x tav #gale of waterdeep #gale x reader #alternate universe #bg3 #bg3 x reader #gale dekarios #wizard of waterdeep #regency #tav bg3 #gale x tav #gale romance #regency au

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mllersjoel · 4 months

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good old fashioned lover boy

Pairing: Regency!Wyll Ravengard x gn!reader

Summary: It's dreadfully boring at this ball, especially when Lord Gortash won't stop talking to you. Lord Ravengard steps in, and just maybe, this night can be saved.

Word Count: 1.1k

A/N: why does no one write for my bb boy. i love him. have some regency au (writing comms r open btw!)

It’s your second year as an eligible member of society, and you are bored out of your mind. Your guardian has dragged you to yet another ball, with dancing and schmoozing that you would rather die than be doing. Thankfully, you’ve managed to avoid just about everyone who wants to sign your dance card with a glare or pretending to choke so hard tears well up in your eyes. You came here because your best friend, Astarion, promised to accompany you this time and fill up your dance card with his name only, but that plan swiftly fell out the window as he laid eyes on a pretty half-elf.

You could see him check out of the conversation, eyes flitting to them then back at yours.

“Just go, Astarion,” you sigh, shoving him playfully.

His eyes blink back to yours, trying and failing to pretend like he wasn’t ogling another person. “I have no idea what you’re on about, darling.”

“I can handle myself and it’s pathetic watching you try to concentrate on me. Go.”

Astarion smiles broadly, kissing your cheeks. “Have I ever told you you’re the light of my life?”

You snort. “Just when you want something.”

He shrugs, taking your hand and pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. “If you need me, just shout.”

He leaves, and you’re barely able to let out a breath before another man (greasy, looking like he needs two decades of sleep) takes his place. Without asking, he signs his name on your dance card. “Enver Gortash, Lord of this estate. Care to dance with me?”

You are pulled to the dance floor before you can even answer and you desperately try to come up with an excuse. “I—I can’t dance right now,” you protest, attempting to extricate yourself from his grasp without seeming rude, “I’m waiting for someone.” He ignores you, laughing.

“Don’t play coy,” he says, assuming a waltz position. The music begins, and you have no choice but to dance with him. You catch Astarion’s eye and watch him square his shoulders, ready to pull you out of there as you minutely shake your head at him.

‘Don’t make a scene,’ you mouth.

The entire time you dance with Lord Gortash, he drones on and on about his estate, how he fought for his wealth (although it was an open secret that he participated in less than savory business practices), and how immodestly he thinks women are dressed now. The song feels like its going on forever, then, blissfully, the music stops. There is a slight bustle as everyone switches partners, looking at who’s next on your dance card. Lord Gortash takes your hand, and with a predatory grin realises you have no one else on your dance card. As he takes your pencil, eager to write his name again, a hand grips his wrist and stops him.

You look up and see a beautiful man, dark skinned, hair braided closely to his head and a slight stubble covering his cheeks. He has a deep brown, almost black eye, while the other seemed pale and translucent. His smile is charming and bright, without a hint of sleaziness the other man seemed to carry in bucket loads. “I’m terribly sorry to cut in,” he says, the dulcet tones of his voice sending a slight shiver down your spine, “but I believe it’s my turn to have the pleasure of their company.”

Lord Gortash scoffs, brandishing your dance card towards the handsome man. “Your name isn’t on there. Mine is. Get lost, Ravengard.”

The man—Ravengard—nods, taking a step back. He seems as if he’s about to leave, and your heart sinks at the prospect of another dance with this man when he leans back in, pointing near the back. “Oh, before I go, I fear I spy Lady Karlach on her way. She mentioned something about—what was it now?—getting even?”

You see Gortash’s face turn white as he whips his head around, trying to spot someone. Without sparing you a second glance, he practically runs out of the ballroom, tripping on his own feet as he’s nearly sent sprawling. You hide your laugh behind your hand, catching the eye of Ravengard. “Thank you,” you say, adjusting your clothes, “he just wouldn’t stop talking.”

“You seemed like you were in need of saving,” he says, taking your hand and planting a feather-light kiss on the back of it. “Lord Wyll Ravengard, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

You give your name back which he tests immediately, smiling at the way it sounds. He gestures to your dance card, his hand still holding yours. “May I?”

You nod, delighted that this night seemed to be turning around. He writes his name in neat, precise cursive, finishing just as the band begins to play the notes of the next song. His hand is warm as it envelops yours, large, course fingers wrapping around your glove, leading you to the middle of the dance floor.

A slow dance begins to play, and suddenly you are swept up in his movements. He dances easily, leading you as if it was second nature.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” you say, matching his movements easily.

He smiles bashfully, looking down for a second. “Ah, I’ve been away.”

“And how do you like being back?”

He twirls you, catching you easily when you return back into his arms. “I like it a lot better now.”

As you waltz with him, you catch Astarion’s eye once more. He mouths, ‘Good?’

You nod and smile, glad when he gives you a thumbs up of approval. ‘He’s sexy,’ Astarion tells you, and you accidentally snort, looking away when Lord Ravengard raises an amused brow at you. “Too clichéd?”

“No, not at all!” You scramble, trying to school your face into a neutral expression. Every time you looked at his face, however, you started giggling again. Lord Ravengard laughed along with you, still not missing a step and barely even wincing when you inevitably stepped on his toes. “My friend is being stupid, that’s all.”

“Well,” Lord Ravengard starts, stepping closer than what was deemed proper, “if it’s not my horribly cheesy sayings, may I say that you look more stunning than the goddess Aphrodite herself?”

You gasp in jest, smiling. “Careful, my lord, your hubris may see you cursed.”

The song ends, yet he remains still, holding you. “A small price to pay to adequately compliment your beauty.”

Your heart stutters as he steps back, bowing as you hesitantly remember to do the same. “May I see you again?” You ask, hoping your forward nature doesn’t put him off like so many other men.

He smiles broadly, genuine. “I would love that.”

#ari speaks #wyll ravengard #wyll bg3 #wyll ravengard x reader #wyll x reader #i love him sm....#regency au #ari writes

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n00b-vegas · 5 months

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A series of BG3!Tibbs sketches

#also maybe a regency bg3 au sketch?#anyway #courier tibbs #Tibbs au #my art #sketch #my oc #tibbs #bg3 tab #bg3 raphael #bg3 oc

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astarions-darling · 3 months

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The Devil's Game Raphael x FemTav Chapter One

Regency AU tags/warnings: no warnings yet. everyone is human. full of cliches :) words: 2323 read on ao3 via source

Miss Tav Larian fears she is running out of options. She cannot let her horrible Auntie Ethel force her to marry the Emperor—her distant cousin who has inherited Tav’s father’s title and estate. But there is no escape…her aunt controls all her inheritance until she either marries or turns five-and-twenty. She cannot wait that long… she has no time and nobody else will marry Tav—Auntie has seen to that.

She has no choice. A desperate plan has Tav sneaking into the House of Hope, the most notorious gaming hell in all of Faerûn, to take a chance at playing cards and winning enough money to escape her Aunt’s clutches.

But can she win the Devil’s game?

It’s Mills and Boon time, lads.

This story, while silly, contains spoilers for the game - mostly the Emperor and who he is.

Everyone is human in this story! But if you want to picture the Emperor as a mind flayer amongst a bunch of humans, go for it. Raphael and Haarlep are half brothers in this story so their relationship is much different to in game. It works better for me plot-wise.

This is also vaguely regency as it’s not historically correct by any means! It’s a world of its own, I suppose. Also I had to give Tav a surname and well…Larian seemed appropriate haha It sounds fancy!

Tav slinked across the wet cobblestones, trying to keep her dress from dragging across the ground—the edges were already wet. A barouche came around the corner at speed and nearly splattered her with mud but she quickly plastered herself against the stone wall of a nearby building. She held herself there a moment, breathing fast as she watched the carriage disappear down the street. Carefully she grabbed the skirts of her dress and continued down the dark street.

The thought of having to explain to Auntie Ethel how she’d ruined her dress was not something she wished to contemplate—she’d probably be locked in her room for a week as punishment if the old hag knew she’d damaged her clothes. Tav didn’t dare entertain the idea of what her aunt would do knowing how Tav had come to get her clothes in such a state. The young woman paused and shuddered at the mere thought. But Auntie Ethel would not discover this insubordination, Tav told herself, as she tried to keep hidden in the darkness of a nearby mass of shrubbery. She glanced down the street and took in the looming building that lay at the end of it.

The monstrous mansion that glittered impressively amidst the lit lanterns of the street was her destination. Even from this distance, Tav could see that the large windows in the building had most of the drapes drawn, but within the ones that were open, they flickered with candlelight and it was possible to catch a moment of movement as silhouettes passed by dreamily. It looked so inviting, so completely enchanting in the moonlight. But while Tav may not have grown up in the city proper, she knew enough that the look of this grand house was entirely deceiving.

Everyone knew about the gambling hell that was the House of Hope, not that anyone would admit to such profane knowledge. And certainly, nobody would let slip they had been there. It was the sort of place people whispered about in dark alcoves or behind their fans if they dared to mention it at all. Usually only the very wealthy or the peerage were allowed in, it was notorious for its selective entry and the things that went on inside...Tav was sure half of the rumours she’d heard about the wretched place had to be false. That had to be one of the only perks to living with Lady Ethel Pearl—that woman seemed to know everything and collected secrets like a squirrel hoarding nuts.

The building itself managed to sit along the bank between the lower and upper city of Baldur’s Gate; easy for those of little standing to be swallowed by and ostentatious enough for the worst kind of the upper class to dare set foot in. Tav knew that If you saw someone you knew in the House of Hope, you did not acknowledge it. You were there to play cards or engage in a game lanceboard, perhaps have a drink. That was all.

Tav watched another carriage trot by, this one at a more measurable pace, the hooves clattering happily against the cobbled street as she steadied her breathing. Her blood thrummed with nervous anticipation at the sight of the gambling hell. You had to be welcomed into the House and her plan to sneak in would surely not be met with any enthusiasm should she be caught. It was no place for a lady—though Tav had heard rumours about Lady Mizora frequenting it. Not that Lady Mizora had a care of being snubbed and was certainly wealthy enough to afford to not give a fig about the opinion of the ton. While Tav may not have been a lady, she had been the daughter of an Earl, before her father had passed. Her family name did mean something and it would damage her to be found in such an establishment. Her ruined reputation would be nothing more than leverage for Auntie Ethel.

Tav sucked in a deep breath through her nose and her eyes glazed over a moment at the thought of her father and the wretched woman he’d entrusted to care for his only child. It felt like she’d been trapped with Auntie Ethel forever. The woman wasn’t even her real aunt, she was her father’s cousin. Tav cursed the day that hag had appeared on their doorstep in the guise of helping her father through his long illness.

Poor Papa.

The street she’d been slinking down turned into a small alley, the end of which her destination glittered. She walked down it carefully, the uneven cobblestones wet beneath her feet. The small amount of gold she had secreted away felt heavy in her reticule as she navigated her way towards the House of Hope. It was not a lot of money, but it would be enough to play a few games of cards inside the house. So many years of playing with Auntie had taught Tav a lot about cards, especially because the old hag had a tendency to cheat. She felt she had a good chance at winning…it was her only chance.

Tav had heard that the Devil enjoyed having many of the high society deep in his pockets and the potential to win enough gold to leave Ethel behind was possible. The proprietor of the hell did not care so much who you were, as long as you had gold…or something of worth to offer if he had already emptied your coffers. He must have a name, Tav supposed as she walked down the alley, but she had only heard him referred to as the Devil.

“Eh, lass, whatcha doing ‘ere all by yourselves?”

The slurred voice startled Tav from her thoughts and she found herself in front of a short, elderly gentleman with a face like a walrus who had appeared out of the darkness. He belched loudly and Tav took a step back as he stumbled, an empty bottle held loosely in his hands before it clattered to the ground and rolled away.

“Young ladies shouldn’t be about all by ‘emselves.”

The man belched again and Tav tried to sidestep him but he grabbed at her cloak, his body swaying with the motion.

“Unhand me,” Tav demanded in the most direct voice she could muster. The man didn’t seem to be much of a threat. He had a melancholic air about him that had her add with a much gentler tone, “Please, sir, I must be going.”

The man peered up at her, his blue eyes bloodshot as if he’d been crying.

“Don’t go there, miss,” he said in a whisper, his eyes darting toward the House of Hope in the distance. “The Devil don’t take nothing.” He tugged on her cloak again and Tav feared the fabric would rip. “He don’t take nothing you ain’t giving. And he’ll make you gives everything you got.”

She managed to pry his grip off of her cloak and quickly hurried away, trying to ignore the prickling feeling at the back of her neck. She made it out of the alley, the cool evening air clinging to her fingers as a low mist settled itself in for the long night. The streets were bustling in this part of the city, though it always felt like Baldur’s Gate was never asleep no matter the time of day. In this busy crossing the streets were full and so she watched as people, some trying to be inconspicuous and some without a care, broke free from the flow of foot traffic to walk through the large open gate of the House of Hope and up to the front door. It was easier to blend in here, with so many people about—nobody was paying her any attention.

Tav knew she wouldn’t be able to get in through the Devil’s front door without an invitation. The large door was flanked by two guards, both looking burly and bored with their trollish appearance. As each new person approached, their name was checked on a ledger before being let in through the large and overly gilded doors. A glimpse of red velvet and glittering candelabras were seen before the doors closed once more. A moment later the doors opened again and Tav watched the guards hurl a man down the marble stairs and into a puddle left from the evening rain. Clearly, his name had not been on the list.

She knew there would be no ‘Miss Tav Larian’ on that list and so she had planned on how to gain entry. For several days she had perused the building on her walks. This wasn’t a bad place for a young lady to walk during the day, and she was never alone—her aunt had her accompanied by her personal maid, Mayrina, at nearly every waking moment.

But luckily for Tav, Mayrina was an utter goosecap. It was easy to persuade the girl to walk around these surrounding streets of the House of Hope on Tav’s daily walk and claim to be enjoying the architecture and surrounding gardens. All the while, Tav was taking note of the servant's entrance at the back of the mansion and how many people in service there appeared to be. She’d seen a few maids and footmen milling about; preparing horses, bringing in fresh food and loads of baskets filled with sheets.

So now it was easy to slip around the side of the building, searching for the servant's entrance she knew was there. When she spotted the open iron gate, she hurried through and was relieved to see nobody else. Quickly, she pulled off her cloak and hid it behind a nearby statue of an ugly-looking imp. She smoothed her dress down—she’d stolen a long apron from Mayrina and had tied it over her day dress—and fixed the pins in her neatly styled hair and put on the cap she’d also stolen from the maid. Her dress certainly was not the right sort of dress for a maid but with the apron and cap, she didn’t think anyone would notice her dress too much. Auntie was always talking about servants and how they were never noticed. Tav could never understand how Mayrina bore working for her.

“You can do this,” she whispered to herself, clutching her reticule tightly.

It was with a sort of disappointed relief that she found the servant entrance door unlocked. If it had been locked, she could have told herself she had tried and then simply go home. But there was nothing stopping her now. She darted in quickly and waited for the inevitable shout from someone demanding who she was, but none came. There was a young man lounging nearby, idly smoking a grimy looking cigarette. He hastily put it out and looked at Tav with a guilty expression.

“Er, please, don’t tell Korrilla,” he said. “I just needed a quick break.”

Tav raised her chin. “I won’t say anything.”

The man smiled with relief at her words and Tav tried not to run through the hallway. She passed a few others maids who nodded at her and she returned the greetings. Nobody had said anything! She could barely believe her luck so far, but she did not dare test it. When she came to a set of stairs she quickly ascended until she came to a door which opened with ease as she turned the handle. Creeping through, she found herself on a lushly carpeted floor that was empty of anyone else. Music and laughter greeted her and as she slinked further she realised she had come upon a mezzanine floor. Slowly, she walked forward and peered over the gold balustrade and down below. It was full of people! There were so many tables set up for all different kinds of card games and waiters were walking around with trays laden with champagne. It was like the most raucous soiree Tav had ever seen. She could even spy some men and women lounging together on a settee, sitting far too close than was proper and laughing as they clinked their drinks. Tav’s heart raced when she saw one man slide a hand so effortlessly under one lady's skirt—the woman didn’t even budge! She just laughed again, the feather in her hair swaying hypnotically before she gracefully stood and gestured for the man to follow. Tav watched them as they both drifted off together, arms intertwined, toward a large staircase.

Tav ducked back as the music from below swelled, and in the distance, a champagne cork popped. She’d spotted the cribbage card table and all she had to do was get down there and act like she belonged.

Easy.

The couple had reached the top of the stairs and Tav watched as they disappeared behind a set of closed doors. She closed her eyes and prayed to any god that may hear her plight and possibly offer guidance. With nothing left to do but either flee or continue with this madness, she steadied her resolve and started to head for the large staircase. Her heart was racing. As soon as she reached the top of the staircase she would remove the apron and cap before stuffing them in a nearby vase. The closer she got the more panicked she became. But she couldn’t leave now. That odious old woman was so desperate to get her to marry the new Earl—her estranged cousin who just happened to be next in line for the title and also just happened to be Ethel’s son. Sometimes Tav wondered if the old woman had poisoned her father and addled his brains to even let him think to give that hag control over Tav and her inheritance.

Too lost in trying not to cast up her supper, Tav failed to hear the door open behind her.

“A lost little mouse is running through the house…”

#bg3 fanfic #.writing #raphael x tav #baldur's gate raphael #raphael the cambion #bg3 raphael #bg3 raphael fanfic #fic: the devil's game #regency au #this is a very slow first chapter sorry!#i haven't done much writing lately as my brain has melted

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