Human Shadowlach For The Soul.....

human shadowlach for the soul.....

House Rules

And now for something completely different, lol. Here’s a Nine-Fingers character study I did for the BG3 Women’s Wrongs zine (it’s not my zine piece, that will be something else).

Rating: Mature for canon-typical violence Word Count: 1700

AO3 link

***

Today will be a heavy day. Not a bad one, not a long one. Heavy. The unique sort of heavy that comes with defending one’s legacy.

Nine-Fingers Keene flexes the remaining fingers of her hands and glances down at the missing pinky on her left. It’s no matter. She has done what needs to be done before. She will do it again.

The one-eyed man who took her finger when she was but a girl continues to live out his days blind and fingerless himself, plagued by drug-induced nightmares. But she is not ungenerous. He is fed and housed as he suffers his elven lifespan’s worth of terrors.

She clenches her fist. No one takes from Nine-Fingers and walks away unscathed.

Contrary to popular belief, violence is not typically Astele’s first choice. Avoiding it is how she keeps the Gate’s criminal machine in motion, how she maintains her empire under the heel of the Fist and the Harpers. What’s a bit of dirty dealing so long as a leash is kept on violent crime? Indiscriminate murder is messy, it’s chaotic. It’s a weakness. Dead people can’t be properly extorted, after all.

Imagine the creeping roots of her rage lighting up when she digs up the culprit behind the recent spree of serial killings and arson throughout the Lower City.

Nine-Fingers keeps her eyes on her communications, sifting through the recent letters on her desk. Without looking up, she addresses her bodyguard.

“Ferrona,” she says, voice even.

“Saer?” comes the automatic response from the female dwarf at her side.

Nine-Fingers picks up a sheet of parchment and shifts it to another pile. “Fetch Laurel and Gilly. We’ve business to discuss.”

The dwarf nods her head in acknowledgement of her order and leaves the room.

When she’s alone, Nine-Fingers removes the hand crossbow she keeps strapped under her desk and lays it out in plain view. Then she opens a drawer to retrieve several bolts and a vial. She rolls the vial between her palms, stirring up the contents inside, and pulls the cork. Unhurriedly, she dips each bolt in turn and lays them out.

Moments later, Ferrona returns with the requested Guild members. A beautiful young tiefling wizard, ambitious and brilliant. A dark-skinned half-elf wrapped in black leather, hood and mask obscuring her face. Both members of the Lady’s Court, Nine-Fingers’ personal inner circle.

Astele rises from her seat and puts her hands behind her back as she comes around to meet her confidants. Her eyes pass over them and land on Ferrona. Nine-Fingers gives her a nod.

“You may leave us,” she says. “This is a sensitive matter.”

Ferrona’s jaw clenches as if her instinct is to argue, but she does not dare. Though her purpose is protecting her guildmaster to the death, her charge is no helpless figurehead. The guard has her order. She leaves, the door creaking shut behind her.

“Gilly, if you wouldn’t mind keeping out curious ears?” Nine-Fingers says, addressing the ranger.

The leather-clad woman traces a rune in the air, murmuring a spell that silences the area closest to the doors. As she does, Nine-Fingers picks up her crossbow and bolts from the table, casual and calm as can be. She loads a bolt and turns, taking aim for the humanoid target dummy in the corner.

“Another blaze in the Lower City last night,” Nine-Fingers says. She fires a bolt and it pierces squarely through the dummy’s head. “The Fist are sniffing around. Our people were able to move the body before they got there this time, but tensions are wearing thin.”

She fires another bolt and it lands right next to the first.

“I fear we may be looking at a raid soon,” she says as she loads a third bolt, turning back to the others. She raises her head to look at them. “Don’t suppose either of you have good news for me?”

Immediately, Gilly’s eyes narrow. They shift in Laurel’s direction.

Laurel, on the other hand, smiles brightly and speaks, her voice like trilling birdsong. “There’s been a new lead just this morning, I heard. A little Lightfoot halfling who fancies himself a vigilante has been targeting people currently paying dues to The Guild. Trying to cut off sources of our funding or reroute them to his own cause, if I were to guess.”

Nine-Fingers lets the hand crossbow dangle from her fingers at her side. “A good guess it is,” she says. “Funny thing, though. A Lightfoot halfling stopped by my office earlier, and my, did he have such a story to tell. He suspected his partner was about to betray him.”

The expression on Laurel’s pretty face has barely gone from confidence to realization when Nine-Fingers aims her weapon at the floor and fires a bolt directly through the tiefling’s foot. It pierces clean through her cloth shoe and embeds itself into the worn wooden floorboards underneath.

Realization turns to pain, but before it can turn to an incantation, Nine-Fingers shoves her bodily in the chest so she falls over backward directly into the edge of Gilly’s Silence spell. Without a word and needing no order, Gilly immediately draws her short sword and points it at Laurel’s throat, a clear warning should she try to move. A display of loyalty her leader knew to expect.

No emotion clouds Nine-Fingers’ face as she sets the crossbow on the desk and peers down at Laurel. She squats so they’re at eye level and gives a disappointed sigh.

“Every primary school-aged magical brat knows how to cast a fire bolt,” she says. “So you can imagine my frustration trying to narrow down exactly which wizard was aiding that halfling arsehole in finding folk who keep us on payroll. Thank you very much for confirming it. He’s out testing the poison traps now.”

From the floor, Laurel gesticulates, clearly attempting speech, but the spell steals her voice.

“You’re very clever,” Nine-Fingers continues. “But you’re not that clever. Your first mistake was assuming working your way onto my Court would make me complacent. Your second was stealing from me. Your third was making an absurd bloody spectacle of the whole ordeal because you like to watch things burn.”

Nine-Fingers leans in closer, right to the edge of the spell.

“The Gate does not burn unless I will it,” she whispers.

Laurel struggles to pull her foot from where it's pinned, but her movements turn sluggish, her blinks heavy. She attempts a somatic spell and her hands refuse to make the correct shapes before they collapse onto the floor at her sides. Nine-Fingers waits until all her muscles give up on her, leaving her lying helpless on her back with her eyes full of loathing.

Astele flicks her hand at Gilly. “Drop the spell.”

Gilly does, waving the magic away in an instant.

Nine-Fingers wraps her hand around the bolt stuck through Laurel’s foot and yanks it out, throwing it aside. Laurel gurgles, incapable of forming words.

“Paralytic poisons do come in handy, don’t they?” Nine-Fingers stands and walks around the immobile woman, taking another vial from her belt and shaking its violently pink contents. She shows it to Laurel. “You know what this is? Of course you do. In lieu of a proper interview, I think we’ll just have a poke around.”

The guildmaster uncorks the Potion of Mind-Reading and throws it back, pocketing the empty vial. She maintains eye contact with the traitor and invades her mind, the concoction amplifying her ability to pry apart anyone’s secrets. Laurel resists – and does a good job of it, too – but Nine-Fingers’ will is stronger. Always has been, always will be. She can allow for nothing else.

The tiefling’s memories are flame and chaos, hubris and cruelty. So bright, so pretty, so talented. She thought it would give her the entire world. She thought it would win her control of The Guild, in time.

Nine-Fingers tuts aloud. “A pity, honestly, that such a rising star should fall. But some youthful mistakes are permanent, aren’t they, pet?”

She snaps her wrist and a hand dagger slips into her palm from a hidden holster along her arm. Nine-Fingers twirls it once and points it at the woman. “Magic was never my strong suit, you know. Seems that it’s no longer yours, either.”

Beyond the door in the great hall, thieves and assassins perk up at the sound of strangled screams, their eyes roaming to their leader’s chamber. When the screams go quiet and the door opens, no one pretends they weren’t listening in. Nine-Fingers stands in the open doorframe, wiping bright red blood from her hands with a handkerchief. She cleans her blade and wraps it all in a neat little package.

When she moves forward toward the railing to address her crew below, she nods at Ferrona and tilts her head back to the room. The guard answers the call immediately and exits a moment later leading a tiefling wizard bound by hands burned down to the bone, blood streaming from her disfigured mouth. Laurel tries to spit, but she can only drool. The smell of burnt flesh fills the air.

“Do not treat her fingers,” Nine-Fingers says over her shoulder. “They will heal as they are. The Temple of Ilmater will find shelter for this poor victim of the latest shakedown and arson.”

She reaches the balcony and tosses the bloodied package over the side so it falls in the mud below. As she places her hands on the railing, she watches a group of Guild denizens fight over it. The victor raises the package in the air and unfolds it to show the bloody hand dagger and a miserable lump of flesh – a wizard’s tongue.

All eyes are on Nine-Fingers. She lets the silence stretch.

“I am in the market for a new wizard,” she calls, her voice echoing throughout the Guild Hall. “Feel free to put forth a name. A finder’s fee for a successful appointment. Any attempt at trickery will cost an eye.”

There are murmurings throughout the space, a low buzz of fear and awe.

Nine-Fingers turns and walks back to her office, rubbing her thumb over the stump of her left pinky. The weight of leadership is heavy, but she bears it by choice.

As she passes Gilly, she says, “Inform your Fist contact that the issue has been rectified. There will be no more fires.” The ranger nods and takes her leave, silent as shadow. Word will spread by nightfall.

Astele turns once more to admire the empire she’s built. Then she shuts her door.

No one upsets her Guild’s order and keeps their tongue.

Some more crumbs so you guys know I'm still working- pretty sure you all can tell where this is headed. 🫣

“There are werewolves here?” The look of shock on her face would almost be comical if the circumstances were different, but he can’t fully acknowledge it as he grinds into her core to keep the need at bay. She makes a soft noise and pinches his earlobe, the little flash of pain keeping him surprisingly grounded. “There are… and I killed them during a full moon,” Her brow furrows, slightly shaking her head to indicate that she doesn’t understand. “Well yeah, that’s when they come out, right?” He snorts. “They can come out anytime, but… darling, the full moon is when they’re in rut.” She stares at him a moment, eyes falling to his body before flicking back up to his, and when they subtly widen he knows she’s starting to put the pieces together. “Oh…” She mumbles, flush spreading over her cheeks. He laughs, bringing his hands up to cradle her jaw before he can’t resist any longer. His hands squeeze the plump swells of her breasts, so full and spilling over his fingers and she makes another soft noise as he pays special attention to the deep rose peaks that pebble beneath his touch. “So now you’re um… affected. And that’s why you were all… like that before?” He nods at her scattered questioning, biting his tongue from spilling more embarrassing sounds as he detects another sharp stinging scent of arousal from below. It’s far sweeter than it’s ever been, and when he grinds into her again she moans, soft whine spilling from his lips. “I need to be inside of you…” He pants, straining against the front of his trousers and her eyes fly shut as he rocks against her, head falling back to expose the pretty column of her throat. “I’m sorry for this…” He murmurs brokenly, sharp fingernails scratching her breasts to leave long raised pink lines beneath. “Don’t… please, go ahead…” He hesitates, peering into her soft brown eyes when they finally crack open. “I don’t know how long it lasts… I don’t want to put you in this position-” “It's okay, really-” “I could hurt you-” “Seriously, Star, it's okay. I know you, we'll be fine-” “But I might lose control. I don't think I can stop once I start-” “Astarion! Please just fuck me already!” His entire body ignites. “As you wish,”

Cats outta the bag, they're going to fuck like animals. Ty please send flowers to my headstone cause I'm going to promptly recede back into the grave once I post this. 🖤💀

If you'd like to read my other Kinktober prompt, you can find it here for some Incubus Astarion fun. ❤️

WIP Wednesday - Kinktober Teaser (2)

I don't want to reveal this prompt yet because I'm still working out the kinks (haha I'm so funny), but it may be giving itself away here a little bit. Or it could still be mysterious!

I am hoping to post it this weekend, maybe Sunday in lieu of a WSTFMD chapter since the release schedule changed. It all depends on how I feel after I get back home from visiting relatives (and if I actually finish by then)! But the good news is I have 2,500+ words so far and I've barely even scratched the surface of the smut, so there's that to look forward to if you so choose. 💕

Enjoy! (subject to chaaange minorly)

“Astarion… what happened? Are you okay?” She asks, watching his head cock to the side as he listens to her. Her worry blossoms into unease as he remains silent, taking one careful step toward her. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck raise in response, but she holds her ground, careful to keep him cradled in her gaze as she notices two other large masses of fur behind the one he’d been hovering over. God, he’d taken down more than one? Her heart aches for him and as she refocuses on him she notices he’s covered the gap about five feet, so close she can see the stillness of his chest and the light wounds over his skin more clearly. “Please talk to me-” He snarls and she clamps her mouth shut, eyes widening. It’s too late to get away. He’s too close- too fast. He’ll be on her in a moment, and for some reason, he isn’t recognizing her. There’s an animalistic gleam to his eyes- sharp and keen as a predator tracking its prey. She feels her throat close and her pulse speed up frantically, watching in horror as he scents the air and gnashes his teeth. Shit. She turns on her heel despite every hiking guide she’s ever read telling her to always back away slowly- they always say that, what is she thinking? “Okay- I’m sorry! But can you please snap out of it? I can’t run faster than you!” She shouts over her shoulder, cursing her stupid sandals as they obstruct her leaps and bounds. She tears off in the direction of camp she has a vague recollection of, though truth be told, she’s too turned around and shaken by her lover’s strange shift in behavior to recall which way she’d come from. She can hear him behind, footfalls light but deafening in the quiet of the trees. She heaves for breath, lungs burning, terror closing around her rapidly beating heart. He’s so close that she can smell the blood in the air and the scent of his perfume, beckoning to her. She chances a glance, instantly regretting it when she trips over a tree root and falls flat on her stomach into the damp soil and leaves. “Ah!” She cries when he overtakes her, chest pressed against her back and hands closing like a vice over her arms as he holds her down. It hurts, especially the way his knees pinch her waist and her wrist bones grind together, gasping for air under the weight of him. Her cheek is barely cushioned by her hair and she looks up at him, eyes wide as his eerie, vacant red orbs spear through her. His lips part to reveal his fangs, the pair at the bottom elongated to match and shining in the dim light from above as his blood-stained tongue flashes over them. She’s never felt so afraid- every nerve ending wired and circulating adrenaline at the speed of light. “Astarion, please,” She pleads, whimpering when he tightens his grip on her arms. He lowers his face until she can feel his frigid breath against her neck, moist and fanning over her ear and upper back. He growls, low and gravelly, before opening his jaw wide. “No!” She shuts her eyes, bracing for the killing bite, but it doesn’t come. His lips find the mark he’d left her with earlier in the night, mouthing at it as a soft whine leaves his throat. He’s… never made that sound before… She shivers when his fangs press over the indents and his hands start to unclench, body slipping over hers until one knee presses between her thighs and nudges them open. Oh.

If you guys have anything you'd like to share! 💕 I crave your writing!

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