Recovery (Astarion BG3 Fan Fiction)

6: Another Round

The tieflings insist on having a party to celebrate the group's successful genocide of a significant portion of goblin-kind - er, victory .

Aysla, itching ever since she weaned herself off the bottle, is ready to do drugs, fuck, get into a fight, or ideally all three should the opportunity arise. It's been awhile since she's been to a party.

Karlach and Shadowheart sit on the floor of her tent as she fixes her makeup in the mirror. Both wear accessories clearly thrust upon them by their owner. Karlach wears a black leather corset top a size too small, and Shadowheart's trademark eyeliner sparkles uncharacteristically.

"I know Dammon is going to be there," bemoans Karlach, who had been crushing hard since their extremely brief first meeting, just before raiding the goblin camp, "but I can't do much about it, now can I? I can't even shake his hand, let alone ride him to the Faerun and back."

"Oh, Kar-Kar..." Aysla says without looking. "Have you no creativity?"

Astarion pretends not to listen, but the tent is made out of tent, and sound does carry. Wyll and Gale attempt to look politely distracted in front of their own respective tents, but their ears perk up as well. Lae'zel, sharpening a knife, raises her eyebrows.

"Just talk him through it. Flirt with him a little, feed him drinks - then take him to a nice little patch of dirt," she tug at her shirt seductively, "and say, 'Oooooh, it's sooo hot, Dammon, let me get more comfortable! Why Dammon, you're so naughty - stroking yourself in front of me? That's a good boy - just like that!' Do you think it would sizzle if he came into your mouth?"

She mimes lascivious movements - a lot of bending and rolling of hips and grasping of her own un-generous breasts.

Shadowheart nods solemnly, contemplating the words as if they were discussing war strategy.

Karlach doesn't look so convinced. "What if he doesn't get - you know, inspired ?"

"I sincerely doubt that. But if you find yourself lacking in confidence, come find me," she says, her smile gleaming wickedly, holding up a small velvet sack filled with iridescent powder.

"You seem to have a lot of experience," Shadowheart remarks. "No offense. I just mean, how are you so confident?"

"None taken," Aysla responds, putting away her makeup. "My stint in chain vacation a la Mister Thumbs was sort of a hybrid imprisonment-slash... - offering to guests, if you catch my meaning. Though I can't say I was exactly a precious virgin before that, either."

Silence ensues. All party members outside the tent look at fixed points on the ground.

"But look at me now. The most person you've ever met!" Aysla cheeses at them.

"You were trafficked?" Shadowheart says, slightly shocked.

"Oh, no," she says, reflexively. "Trafficking is, like, slavery."

They all watch as the gears click in her head.

"Well shit," Aysla remarks casually.

She decides to double down on the drugs.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aysla, for all the confusing mess her life has been thus far, knows one rule to be true: Druids can fucking party.

There is a group of them dancing by Astarion's tent. He's drinking the bad wine like it's a lifeline, hoping that it will imbue him with enough joy to make it through this party.

And then he sees her. She prances up to his side, facing the inebriated group. She is looking at the gangly young druid man closest to them.

"You're a funny little man - have you ever played Knife-y Fingers?" she says, a gleam in her eye that says that she's in a fun mood. A look that Astarion suspects they should all fear.