Chapter Text
Dearest Kindly Readers,
It is with great pleasure that I welcome you all back to the Ton for another splendid Season filled with lively balls, thrilling engagement announcements, and, if we should be so lucky, salacious scandals. I hope winter at your estates has treated you with care and kindness.
For those of you just arriving back to your city residences, you may have missed the news that Prince Wyll and his beloved wife, Lady Karlach of Thornhold, have welcomed a healthy baby boy a mere moon ago! Although they will largely be absent from the ball season this year, this author has it under good authority that they wish all the eligible bachelors and bachelorettes the very best of luck in finding a most suitable match.
There is another new arrival that has the Mamas of the Ton all aflutter: one mysterious Marchess of Mirabar. The silver-haired Lord Ancunín has been absent from the Ton for several decades, causing much speculation as to the reason behind the family's sudden disappearance from society. However, recently out of mourning for his reclusive father, the late Lord Szarr, the new Marchess has at last returned seeking a match for his younger sister, Dalyria. Pray he watch where he steps lest he fall into the snare of an ambitious Mama ere he can accomplish his aim.
Already these calculating Mamas have the bell sitting atop the door to Lady Fortune's Dress Boutique ringing to excess as they shuffle in with daughters in tow, each of them eager for the magic touch of our Ton's most esteemed and auspicious dressmaker. After all, have we not seen in years past that any debutante sporting a Lady Fortune masterpiece has met her match by the end of the Season? Why, this author has half a mind to march down there herself to commission a new gown or two before her ledger fills up!
To all the young ladies and their Mamas seeking a match this Season, I wish you good hunting. Moreover, to all the gentlemen seeking to woo their lady loves, I bid you brush up on your banter and your ballroom dances.
Discreetly Yours,
Madame Wispweed
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Lady Fortune's Dress Boutique was such a staple to Baldur's Gate society that the ladies of the Ton considered one's first trip to see the dressmaker as much a rite of passage as getting their moonly cycles. Nestled proudly along the promenade between the Ton and the Lower City, Lady Fortune's was impossible to miss for the clutch of vibrant purple morning glories twining their way across the shop's front awning and the ever-changing window displays of mannequins modeling stylish gowns.
The dressmaker herself had become something of a local legend, known for her charming sense of humor and almost eerie ability to predict which couples would marry by the end of each social season. Ladies from all of the Gate's most prestigious families flocked to her shop each year, eager to get their spot in her commissions ledger before she reached capacity. For it was also known that Lady Fortune worked alone; in 18 years of business they had never once taken an apprentice.
Three such high-born ladies and their Mamas currently stood gathered in the spacious white and pastel green atelier while Sasha Amastacia, known only to their customers as Lady Fortune, held a bolt of buttery yellow Elven thistledown fabric across their forearms. The debutantes took turns rubbing the thin, gauzy fabric between their fingers while their Mamas stood back with appraising eyes roaming over the many choices before them as if adding up all the gold and silver pieces they were about to commit to spending.
"You see, my darling dears, while you'll want a medium weight cotton or velvet fabric for the Debutante ball, by the time the weather begins to turn warm in Tarsakh or Mirtul you'll be wishing for a lovely thistledown or chiffon dress to wear when your suitors ask you on a promenade through Bloomridge Park at highsun!" Sasha explained excitedly, looking between each of the young women before them. "Perish the thought of worrying about leaving a puddle of perspiration behind you when you're trying to impress your suitor."
Lady Jenevelle of Moonhaven looked on with a scowl. A half-elf in her 40s, it was rumored this was her last Season on the marriage market before "resigning" herself to a life as a priestess. She had just been taken into the care of Lady Viconia DeVir, her parents having grown exasperated by her sharp tongue and lack of prospects near home.
Even with her features pinched, she was beautiful. Proud cheekbones jutted prominently, and her eyes were the color of sun-dappled leaves with flecks of flinty grey. Coupled with copious amounts of thick silver hair that likely took four attendants to comb and braid, the only explanation for her unwed status was her caustic personality. When Jenevelle crossed her arms over her wool overdress, Lady DeVir pinched her elbow in warning. Lord Halsin Silverbough would make an ideal match for her; underneath his sweet demeanor was a man who would revel in Jenevelle's savagery.
"Ow! Erm, it's lovely," the spirited woman threw out half-heartedly.
"I simply adore it," gushed Amelia Durinbold, the gentlest of the three debutantes and the only human, her tidy braids lined up like rows of soldiers along her head and cascading like a waterfall down her shoulders. The braids rustled along her capelet when she swayed from side to side in excitement, her Mama beaming proudly from where she stood behind her.
"I don't see why you're lecturing us on your trade, Lady Fortune," snapped Rion, Lady Jaheira Elerrathin's firecracker of an eldest daughter. "We're paying you either way, are we not Mama? So just make us whatever."
"RION!" Lady Elerrathin scolded, her tone scathing. "Apologize."
"What? I'm just saying what we're all thinking," the athletic half-elf said with a roll of her eyes.
Gods help them, Sasha groaned inwardly. They'd been dressing the Ton's upper crust for half a generation and the ladies on the marriage market grew more belligerent by the year. Half of them seemed to prefer one another's company and the other half either had unrealistic expectations or challenging personalities.
But only a couple as blessed as Dame Aylin and Lady Isobel could get away with marrying the same sex, and only the Lord of Waterdeep, with his immense magical prowess, could circumvent traditional breeding expectations to marry a woman without a womb. Evidently it took being the literal child or Chosen of a deity to be granted the leeway to do whatever the hells one pleased. The rest of them would have to settle like everyone else.
Bringing a rough, calloused hand to their throat—covered at all times by high-collared dresses to hide their Adam's apple—Sasha cleared it delicately, and the bickering mamas and daughters abruptly hushed.
"It is true you have little need to worry about the fine points of your fineries. I shall interpret your comment to mean I have your implicit trust to use my vast creative expertise however I see fit, in which case I merely need your measurements. Let us mosey back to the mirrors, hmm?"
The embarrassed look Lady Elerrathin shot them as she passed with Rion did little to assuage the marrow-deep weariness that had begun to sew lead weights across Sasha's shoulders; they needed to blow off some steam tonight once the shop closed. How long had it been since they'd shown face at Bongle's Gentlemen's Club, anyhow?
"Lady Fortune," Viconia DeVir broached slyly while they were taking Jenevelle's measurements. "Surely you've heard by now that the new Marquess of Mirabar has finally come to the Ton for the Season with his little sister in tow?"
"Oh?" was all Sasha could manage while they focused part of their attention on instructing a Mage Hand to take down measurement notes while they worked the measuring tape around Jenevelle. This was news to them; now they had to get to Bongle's and see what the other gentlemen knew.
"It's no secret that he's the catch of the season. Certainly the highest ranking bachelor seeing as Duke Stelmane's son is newly off the market. I've heard he's quite handsome as well. Silver hair that glitters like starlight, shoulders for days. A proper match for my Jenevelle, wouldn't you say?"
The silver-haired daughter of Selûne's high priest and priestess only scowled again. "He sounds awful," she muttered under her breath.
Setting the quill down on the shelf, Sasha moved around to Jenevelle's front, carefully measuring her underbust and chest. "If I may speak plainly, the official Lady Fortune pairing prediction for your Jenevelle would be one Lord Halsin Silverbough. I have a good feeling about their compatibility, and the Viscount's lands are as vast as they are verdant."
From behind Jenevelle came a scoff. Rion again. She was Lady Jaheira's eldest of five, and if Rion was this much of a terror Sasha feared they wouldn't survive the whole litter over the years.
"Just what makes you the authority on good matches anyhow?" she demanded to know.
A collective gasp rose up from the three Mamas standing around the entrance to the fitting area, and the daughters each had the good sense to appear chastised. It was Lady Durinbold who stepped forward with an answer, and when she spoke it was with a hushed reverence that made Sasha's chest feel warm.
"Lady Fortune lives up to her name in more ways than one. Amelia is my third daughter to enter the marriage market so I've been actively seeking matches for many a Season, and Lady Fortune is never wrong when she makes a compatibility prediction. Debutantes ignore her at their own peril, but we Mamas trust her word nearly as much as our queen's."
Amelia beamed at her mother's explanation while she stepped forward to take Jenevelle's place on the pedestal in front of the three-way floor to ceiling mirrors for her measurements.
"I believe in the Lady Fortune blessing," Amelia squeaked in her sweet, diminutive voice. "Pray tell, most esteemed seamstress, who would you fancy as a good match for me?"
The Durinbolds hailed from some of the oldest money in the Gate, and Sasha knew any new-monied dandy who asked for Amelia's hand would be shunned by her parents. A quick mental inventory of the lords they'd conversed with at Bongle's yielded the perfect answer.
"Yarrick Sashenstar seeks a wife, and rumor has it his disposition is sweet and his dance skills sharp. I could see him making a fine match for you, Miss Amelia, and a joining of your families would be auspicious."
Approval shone in Lady Durinbold's buckwheat-colored eyes, and Amelia clapped her hands excitedly before remembering she needed to stand still.
"And even though you doubt, Miss Rion, I've a prediction for you, too: Dammon Cinderheart, heir to Viscount Cinderheart's title and his family's considerable estates to the south. Given their wealth comes from infernal metals and weapon smithing, I dare say he shall manage to handle that scorching hot tongue of yours with ease."
"HA! Rion, she truly knows you." Lady Elerrathin's laugh was unguarded and distinctly unladylike in all the best ways. Mother to a litter of hellions or not, Sasha admired the old woman. "However, wise tailor, there is a question I have been dying to ask you: if you are so insightful as to the proper matches for the Ton's daughters, how is it you have yet to land yourself a husband? Although you are unusually tall, it is plain to see you are beautiful. Surely there have been suitors?"
White-hot anxiety struck Sasha like lightning, but they'd received this question so many times by now from different gossipy ladies that their hands never faltered while taking down the last of Amelia's measurements. Instead they calmed themselves by looking quickly around the fitting room, taking comfort in the familiar sights of mannequins sporting gowns in need of alterations, spools of ribbon, and the many pincushions they strategically placed so as to have one in reach wherever they worked. Reminders of everything they'd built for themselves.
Sasha let a gentle exhale escape through their nose before smiling gently. "I simply have yet to find the right man, Lady Elerrathin."
And we'll leave it at that, they thought to themselves.
"Bah, I am sure you shall find Mr. Right soon enough if you ever leave your dress shop long enough to meet him," the old matriarch assured them with a wink. Sasha was wholly unconvinced.
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Alone in the privacy of their small but tidy apartment above the dress shop, Sasha immediately set about doffing their wig and ladies' clothing, scrubbing off makeup, and unlacing the corset that cast the illusion of an hourglass figure with a relieved gasp. Between bites of fruit, cheese, and bread, they began to reassemble themselves in their male guise—the transformation took enough time that they knew the kitchen at Bongle's would cease serving supper by the time they arrived.
As always, they conducted a final inspection in the mirror by the back entrance to ensure they had erased all traces of Lady Fortune. Sapphire blue eyes stared back at them over a proud nose with the hint of a bump on its bridge—a gift from their Lord Father. Makeup no longer concealed the many freckles spanning their cheeks and nose like a starry night, nor did it hide the shadow of their whiskers or their sharp jaw and cheekbones. Beneath the long, braided wig was a coif of wavy black hair that tucked behind their pointed ears and tickled the nape of their neck. All was in order; the gentlemen would suspect nothing.
The rumble of dozens of lively conversations struck Sasha in the face the moment they cracked open the sturdy wooden door as the men of society—from upper crust merchants vying for titles to the patriarchs of Baldur's Gate's oldest noble families—had already moved on to their preferred nighttime activities.
Wulbren and Barcus, the grumpy deep gnome husbands who owned the club, barked out a noncommittal greeting when they walked in, but despite their attitudes a snifter of Sasha's favorite spiced rum sat on the corner of the ornately carved oak bar by the time they reached it.
The first sip of spirits stung their throat and made their eyes water, but it calmed them, too. With the familiar taste came the feeling of community, of acceptance. They were the son of Duke Amastacia, the Lord of Daggerford, after all—indeed, his only offspring. It was only too bad they were a bastard and thus could inherit neither their father's title nor lands. But Duke Amastacia's acceptance of his bastard at least afforded Sasha a modicum of belonging as a man.
Although they preferred a more feminine presentation and held a lifelong passion for sewing dresses, Sasha's life as a woman was one of always being held at arm's length from polite society. It was like cooking delicious feasts for the city's elites and then being forced to stand outside shivering in the cold watching everyone else savor the fruits of their labors. But here, they had friends. Friends and sometimes lovers, although each would deny it if asked. Sasha saw several of them among the crowd tonight.
Lord Silverbough sat by the window drinking mead and smoking his pipe across from Elminster Aumar, the latter of whom Sasha hadn't realized was in town.
In the room's center, Cal, younger brother to Rolan, the Lord of Ramazith's Tower, was losing terribly at cards to the old men's club nicknamed the Dead Three for their aged proximity to the grave: Earl Sarevok Anchev, Duke Enver Gortash, and Count Ketheric Thorm.
Lord Dammon Cinderheart was also here, playing darts in the far corner with a weapons dealer Sasha could never remember the name of.
And then there was Archmage Dekarios, one of Sasha's favorite companions. He was thoroughly engrossed in a game of lanceboard with Rolan, each absentmindedly swirling a chalice of wine while pondering their next moves.
It was just as well their usual companions were occupied; Sasha was wound tighter than a Harper's bowstring and in desperate need of getting off. Bongle's was famous for three things: the constant bickering of its married owners; stiff drinks; and the presence of waist-high holes in each of the water closet stalls. Only its members knew of the existence of the latter. Eventually, someone with a similar ache in their balls would mosey down. And when they did, Sasha would be waiting.
The farthest of the water closet's two stalls was dark, rendering the space in greyscale for the half-elf. They were the first one in, but merely the anticipation of company had them rousing in their tight pantaloons. There was nothing quite like the thrill of the unknown; who would join them, and would they be able to identify the owner by the sight of his little lordling alone? Gods, their mouth felt so empty. But their hand? Well, that needn't remain so.
Pantaloons hastily unbuttoned, Sasha was already well into pleasuring themselves sitting on the closed lid of the loo when the water closet door creaked open. Pausing their languid strokes to listen, their pulse quickened with every delicate padding of hard leather soles on wood until the stall next to them groaned open and a lock slid quietly into place. There was a long pause after the occupant finished relieving themselves. Sasha pictured the man noticing the hole, envisioned him deliberating: Am I up for a bit of excitement? Is anyone even on the other side?
In answer to the latter silent question, Sasha tapped their foot quietly a few times, then waited. They heard the catching of breath, the shuffling of fabric. And then, just when they expected to hear the sound of metal unsheathing from its resting spot on the door, the tasteful dress shoe on the other side tapped in response. The half-elf's cock twitched in anticipation, and they got on their knees.
A single beckoning finger through the hole, and then another pause. Barely audible over the sound of their own breathing came the unmistakable whisper of flesh gliding along flesh. Their lips moistened and moments later, a gloriously pale cock with a slightly darker head peeking out from its sheath and smooth, plump balls popped through the hole, bouncing enticingly in invitation. Gods, it was beautiful. And for however long its owner could hold out, it was theirs to pleasure.
A tentative lick up its length and then a kiss at the top had its owner quivering; his excitement only further fueled their own. Gently, they took his pale plums in one hand and rubbed them while they continued their inspection. One of the first things that struck them was the distinct scent of the man's perfume wafting over from the other side of the partition. Sasha had never smelled this combination, and it made their thoughts scramble—rosemary dominated, supported by some sort of citrus, and a dark amber or brandy rounded it out with a hint of sweetness.
The paleness and lack of body hair was also curious—not a tiefling then, but…a high elf. They'd have remembered a specimen this juicy and gorgeous if they'd see it before. A thought entered their mind: could it be the Marquess of Mirabar? Were they about to reduce the most eligible bachelor of the season to a puddle? Best not keep him waiting.
Sasha put the brunt of their considerable skills to work, sparing nothing for their mystery partner while working their own arousal from where they knelt. And hells, was it difficult to remember to tease, to take their time. Most men were enthusiastic recipients, but this one elevated it into an art form. Between the man's enticing scent and cheeky hip rolls, their own hips were bucking with a desperate desire to slip under the partition and couple with him face-to-face.
The cock slipped out of Sasha's mouth with a faint pop. "Voco!" the half-elf muttered under their breath, conjuring an ethereal Mage Hand and sending it under the partition to go creeping up the man's leg. Normally they didn't show off their magic ability like this, but this alabaster beauty had them feeling wild and reckless, yearning to feel more of him than they had any right to seek.
Returning their attentions to his hard length, they felt lithe legs, muscles tensing with every hip roll through the Mage Hand bond. They paused its ascent at the swell of the man's ass, seeking permission that came in the form of a strong hand pulling it up to cup one of his cheeks, and then the other. They let an involuntarily groan vibrate around his cock; even his ass felt heavenly. Small and firm but just juicy enough to fill their palm and then some, like an almost-ripe peach.
But this wild mystery man wasn't done with that hand. Something wet dripped onto it, and then he guided one of its fingers towards his entrance with a frantic insistence. Not wanting to spill their seed on his no-doubt expensive shoes, the half-elf relinquished their own cock even as their bobbing along his length hastened to a desperate speed and the Mage Hand began to tickle that special spot inside him.
From up above, a thud, like a forehead hitting the wood as the man neared his limit. Then a strangled groan slipped past, half-broken and ragged, as the man began to pant loudly. He urged a second spectral finger inside and began thrusting between the Mage Hand and Sasha's mouth for several more minutes before he pulled out and began stroking himself punishingly, his spend coating Sasha's waiting tongue in wave after wave. Unable to help themselves, they swallowed him whole once more before licking him clean.
The Mage Hand winked out of existence, and with a sinking feeling of disappointment Sasha watched him withdraw and begin to button up. They'd wait until he left to finish themselves, they reasoned. No need for him to hear just how worked up he'd gotten them, for indeed the half-elf couldn't remember the last time they'd enjoyed the gloryhole this much.
Except he didn't leave. Wool-clad knees dropped to the floor. A finger beckoned through the hole that connected them. Oh, fuck. It wasn't unheard of for a partner to reciprocate for them, but it was uncommon. Rare enough that they weren't going to pass up the opportunity. Their leaking, aching cock slid through the hole before the man could withdraw his hand, and he wasted no time returning the favor.
Sasha had to bite their lower lip to suppress an undignified moan as heavenly, pillowy lips wrapped around their cock and glided downwards until most of their length was enveloped in the warm, wet cave of his mouth. They'd missed this. Gods, how they missed coming undone in someone's mouth. Why did they insist on working so many late nights at the dress shop for ungrateful whelps when they could be spending them like this instead, buried to the hilt inside a no-doubt beautiful man? If only it were that simple.
It was with those half-baked thoughts coursing through them that Sasha neared their peak on trembling legs. But when they tried to remove themselves as a courtesy the man merely gripped them at the base, pinning them in place. When they relinquished themselves to the height of ecstasy he drank them down effortlessly before releasing them with a satisfied hum. Whoever this man was, one thing was clear: he was dangerous. Potentially addictive.
And then he was gone, leaving Sasha breathless and dumbstruck. It took several minutes before the half-elf trusted their limbs enough to clean up and reassemble themselves so they could rejoin the club.
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"Ah, there's the lucky bastard!" shouted Rolan from across the club when at last Sasha reemerged from the water closet, head still buzzing pleasantly from the high of release. "Get your arse over here and meet the new arrival!"
Rolan's robes were a beacon of blue, scarlet, and silver in a sea of men dressed in greys, blacks, and browns; he'd relocated from the lanceboard tables over to the bar, where he now stood with perhaps the most handsome man Sasha had ever laid eyes on. The closer they got to the pair, the harder it became to breathe properly, for the pale beauty of a man was stealing it straight from their lungs. Judging by the glimmering silver mane of curls and long, pointed ears, this high elf could be none other than the very Marquess of Mirabar whom Lady DeVir had been gushing about earlier today.
But while she had waxed poetic over his hair and broad shoulders, she hadn't thought to warn Sasha of how hauntingly gorgeous his eyes were, like two glittering emeralds flecked with gold. And those priceless eyes were now trained on Sasha, flashing mischievously as if he suspected the very truth that they were now certain of beyond doubt: this was the man they'd just pleasured in the water closet. The salt of his ecstasy still lingered on their tongue and his intoxicating scent held their thoughts in a vice grip.
Yet here he was, more beautiful than they'd pictured. Even his taste in clothing was impeccable. The Marquess was resplendent in an emerald and cream outfit that complemented his pale complexion and gem-like eyes. The wide sleeves of his cream shirt billowed out from his verdant waistcoat, giving an otherwise masculine outfit the slightest touch of feminine softness.
Dear gods, please let this man be an irredeemable prick, Sasha prayed to no one in particular. Give me something to hold onto so I don't fall into the abyss.
"Sasha Amastacia, meet Lord Astarion Ancunín, the Marquess of Mirabar," Rolan boomed, his hand clapping like thunder on Sasha's back. "Lord Ancunín, meet Sasha Amastacia, the bastard of Daggerford."
Well, there went any chance of friendship with the Marquess, Sasha realized with a mix of disappointment and relief. Someone of his station wouldn't wish to associate with a bastard, no doubt. But perhaps that was for the best. Now that they'd seen his angular face and irresistible body, "dangerous" didn't even begin to cut it—this man was an omen of catastrophe for someone like them.
"What a positively charming introduction you've given me, Rolan!" the half-elf glowered at their prickly friend. Turning their attention to the Marquess, Sasha ignored the way their heart seemed to twist when their eyes met. "He's not wrong, however. It's true, I'm daddy's worst kept secret. The other lords humor me by allowing me to fraternize with them—but only at the dingiest of their social clubs, mind. I'd never be welcome at Volo's, for instance."
Lord Ancunín bowed low with a flourish of his hands. "A pleasure to meet you, Sasha."
Were they imagining things, or had he placed an unusual emphasis on the word pleasure? When he stood once more his smile was friendly yet innocent. They must have been imagining it. Sasha returned the bow anyhow, their black hair tumbling into their eyes while their head was bent.
"I assure you, Lord Ancunín, the pleasure was—is—all mine."
They were definitely imagining the hunger in his eyes when he watched them run a hand through their hair to reassemble it.
What am I, some kind of infatuated schoolboy? The pleasure was all mine…gods.
"I imagine you two must have much to catch up on so if you'll excuse me, I shall let you two get to it."
"Come now, don't be sore, Sasha!" Rolan called after them. "It was merely a jest. Bollocks."
Seeing an empty billiards table, Sasha sped over to it, grabbing a pool cue from the rack on the wall and beginning to chalk its end. Rolan and his stupid, big mouth. An all too common pitfall of wizards, they reminded themselves. And yet, Sasha knew they had fled the scene out of embarrassment for their bumbling towards the Marquess, not because Rolan outed them as a bastard. That was old news, after all, even if it made for an unfortunate introductory fact.
By the time they had finished racking the balls they saw a shadow fall across the table to their right.
"9-ball? If you are not opposed to company, would you consider re-racking for 8-ball?" The velvety smooth voice of the Marquess tickled Sasha like a lover's caress down their spine, and they shivered.
"I should think a newcomer such as yourself would prefer to mingle more freely, Lord Ancunín—" they turned towards him only to find the Marquess standing extraordinarily close, a hand held up in protest.
"Please, call me Astarion. As for mingling, I am rather fond of billiards. For many years my only opponent has been my younger brother Petras, and I'm afraid one could scarcely call him a worthy one. I look forward to savoring the taste of victory again."
Sasha's traitorous heart kicked up its rhythm at the way Astarion emphasized "savoring the taste," eyes involuntarily darting to the lips that had savored their taste not an hour past. A desperate rallying cry rose up from deep within to resist the Marquess's considerable charms even as they feared they would be unsuccessful.
"There are plenty of other opponents here who would gladly provide you with a much sweeter victory to savor."
"I highly doubt that." He flashed a winning grin, yet at this close proximity Sasha thought they detected a hint of pain behind his eyes, although they couldn't begin to guess the cause.
It was gone a moment later, and Astarion flitted over to select his own pool cue. Trying to make their eyes settle anywhere besides the firm rear retreating before them, lest they remember how it felt in their palm through the Mage Hand and find themselves at attention again, Sasha looked instead to the lanceboard table in the corner. Gale had found a new partner to play with—in more than one way, they thought with a pang.
"Solids or stripes?" Astarion asked when he'd returned, twisting the chalk round the tip of his cue with practiced turns of his delicate wrists in a way Sasha insisted was not meant to be suggestive.
"Stripes, if it would please His Lordship," Sasha quipped as they removed the rack and nodded for Astarion to line up the first shot.
Emerald eyes darkened to sun-starved moss when the Marquess leaned forward, his pool cue gliding across knocked knuckles and the tip of his tongue sticking out just so from the side of his mouth. Then, with a decisive whip-like crack he drew the cue back and struck the cue ball forcefully, sending the triangle of balls scattering.
"Nice shot," Sasha praised while they circled the billiards table, seeking the best angle. As their own personal challenge they enjoyed targeting the balls in order, but it appeared they would be hard pressed to accomplish such a feat tonight.
"I hear you are in town to find your sister a match? Have you any other siblings?" They took a clean shot, knocking the 11 ball into the middle pocket. They moved around the table again, missing their next one.
That unnameable shadow of emotion scurried across his face once more, but he mastered it quickly, coming around to lean in for his shot next to where Sasha stood. Another crack, like the snapping of bone, split the air nearest them, the sound getting swallowed further out by the din of conversations.
"I am also joined in The Gate by Petras, but indeed I have six siblings. And you, so-called lucky bastard of Daggerford? Any siblings, half or otherwise?"
"Six! My, but your home must always be lively."
"In all the wrong ways, I'm afraid."
"Ah, my condolences. I am, sadly, an only child—half or otherwise. I was born just before the Duke married, but the Duchess was unable to provide with children. And my mama, well…I am sure you are aware of how difficult it would be for an unwed mother to do, well, anything."
Sasha's next shot ricocheted off one of the solid balls, their 14 ball narrowly missing a nearby pocket and making Astarion's next shot more challenging. He clucked his tongue behind them, and when Sasha looked back they were again driven to distraction by the sight of him folding and rolling up his voluminous sleeves. Blue veins protruded and wiry muscles flexed, causing the half-elf to sway towards him involuntarily.
"It would appear it is my turn to offer condolences. Both for your mama, and for you—for you may think me beat, but you left those balls precisely where I wanted them."
The Marquess's smolder seared itself right into Sasha's chest, and they questioned for the umpteenth time tonight whether they were in danger of falling. Another crack, only this time the cue ball leapt over the 8 ball and guided one of Astarion's safely home.
"No need for condolences. Rolan was correct; I am a lucky bastard, all things considered. The Duke provided a comfortable life for us both and provides me with a trust fund, allowing me to travel freely."
That much was true. Sasha missed their next shot, too, for they were occupied calculating their next words to ensure the lie would be convincing.
"In fact," they continued, "I shall ride out with the first light tomorrow, heading for Waterdeep."
By which they meant they would be locked within their dress shop, working their hands until they bled to stitch through their considerable backlog of dress orders.
"Pray tell, whatever entertainment could be found in the city of splendors in late winter?" the Marquess questioned, taking yet another flawless shot and sinking his 4 ball.
"Should my timing prove correct, there is a most splendid tradition in Waterdeep to celebrate the thawing of the ice in the harbors."
Or so Gale had told them one of the countless nights they had lain together in bed after thoroughly enjoying one another. Before, when he was unwed. Two years ago he had even offered to procure them an apartment in his city, that they would have somewhere to stay that he could visit discreetly.
"Ah," was all Astarion said at first, the disappointment in his tone plain enough that even Sasha was unable to misinterpret it. "So we rowdy lords should not expect to see you at Bongle's for…?"
"At least a tenday."
"At least a tenday…Well! I shall have plenty of time to, how did you put it? 'Mingle' with the others in your absence. All the better I chose to mingle with you tonight, if your presence here is so rare."
"My presence may be rare but no more valuable for its scarcity, I'm afraid. Better to make inroads with the other men of note in the Ton, if you will accept a word of advice from a lowly bastard."
Another flawless shot from the Marquess, forceful enough Sasha thought for a moment he might have broken his pool cue. He nearly had them this game, and given the way his interest in them was growing more blatant by the shot, Sasha feared there was little hope of recovery.
For every time Astarion took his turn their eyes roamed once more to the lord's rolling hills, the broad plains of his back and the towering mountains of his shoulders—the shoulders of an archer, no doubt. Images of him teaching them to shoot, his body pressed behind them, hands over theirs while he guided their aim, sliced through their focus and left splotches of red along their cheeks. They had to quickly turn their head in hopes he would not see.
As if the lord's considerable assets weren't enough, it quickly grew evident that Sasha's prayer that he be an irredeemable prick was not to be answered. With each bit of banter exchanged, each morsel of personality and history revealed, the half-elf grew more thoroughly charmed until they forgot to be competitive about their billiards game. Indeed, they nearly forgot their surroundings entirely.
It was fortunate then that Lord Silverbough was not quiet in his approach. Sasha noticed him mid-shot, and the reminder that anyone other than the Marquess still existed was so startling that their shot went wild, causing the cue ball to fly off the table and into Astarion's hand.
"Sasha, I must say I am astonished," Halsin exclaimed playfully. "Normally your skill far surpasses my own. What could have you so distracted? Thinking of a sweet little mistress tucked away in one of your other cities, perhaps?"
The half-elf's palms began to grow damp when they saw Astarion approaching, tossing the cue ball between his hands all the while. "I am merely excited for my trip to Waterdeep tomorrow," they lied again.
"That would do it. I came to play next round with the winner, and it appears that shall not be you tonight. Oak Father preserve you on your travels, friend."
Oak Father preserve them indeed, for in Astarion's proximity his scent once again rolled over them. They pictured their feet growing deep and gnarled into the wood floor like an ancient oak so they could remain standing straight and proud rather than lean into the Marquess like a wind-blown sapling.
"You dropped this, darling," Astarion teased when he placed the ball in their hand, quiet enough for their ears alone. Soft, delicate fingers lingered over their calloused pads for several moments—they remained statue still until he withdrew, lanced through with shame and fear that he would notice their working hands.
"Thank you," was all they managed with a gulp, suddenly eager to finish the game and return home.
Blessedly, Astarion made short work of winning. Even in victory he was gracious, allowing himself a demure fist pump and a clap on the back from Halsin that nearly made him stumble. Sasha received the same, although they were used to Halsin's might and remained stable. The half-elf clasped forearms with the giant elf and bid him goodnight, but when they returned their pool cue to the wall Astarion followed them.
"Do not let my victory weigh too heavily upon you," he said with a cocky grin, reaching past them for the chalk and re-coating his cue's tip while his eyes bored into them. "I usually come out on top. But regardless of your defeat, it's clear you know how to use that stick." His tongue clicked sharply on the k, and his eyebrows waggled momentarily.
Lest Sasha be left pondering the double entendre, the Marquess leaned in closer, reaching out to shake their hand while his mouth was a breath away from their ear—Sasha deflected to clasp forearms instead, their hand grasping bare skin and sending a shiver through them. "Perhaps next time, when you return from Waterdeep, we can wield our sticks face to face…" he whispered before straightening again. "Anyhow, Sasha, it was lovely to meet you. I wish you good travels and a safe return."
"Thank you, Lord—Astarion. And best of luck to you, Lord Silverbough. You'll need it with this one," they quipped on their way out.
The path towards the solace of the cold winter's night was riddled with friends and acquaintances wishing them a good night and safe travels—Sasha's supposed wanderlust was legendary by this point, so the lords and merchants always assumed anytime they saw the half-elf would be the last appearance for a spell. They were not wrong on the timing even though they were unaware of the true reason.
Tonight, they clasped forearms, let themselves be pulled in for hugs, and clapped backs in a daze while their mind continued replaying the whirlwind of an evening. At the eye of their storm of thoughts stood that silver-haired beauty, the memory of his smart mouth and expressive eyebrows driving them to the brink of madness.
Something told them they were going to regret meeting this mischievous Marquess. And the only one who would pay the price for flying too close to the sun would be them, the so-called lucky bastard of Daggerford.