Chapter Text
You are ULDER RAVENGARD.
You have safeguarded your city against dragon cultists, Bhaalist incursions, the many-headed hydra of organized crime, and—not six months past—the absurdly apocalyptic attack of the ELDER BRAIN. You withstood the fall of Elturel; survived the Absolute’s parasitic presence in your very soul.
Your maids are fucking giggling at you.
They flit from room to room, hanging the holly garlands and blown glass baubles traditional of the upcoming MIDWINTER festivities. They paint red stripes on wooden Canes of Frost to symbolize the aging of the year. They pose an effigy of Hroth’s surprisingly jolly and generous servant Saint Claw on the upper landing, a nod to the coming month of Alturiak, known as the Claw of Winter.
It’s the kind of exquisite holiday detailing expected of Ravengard Manor, home of current Grand Duke WYLL RAVENGARD. Soon to host Baldur’s Gate's prestigious MIDWINTER’S EVE BALL.
But you are ULDER RAVENGARD, and the maids whisper behind their hands when you pass.
Surely this is ASTARION's doing.
Your son is completely besotted with his fiancé, but you can’t figure out the appeal. And the feeling appears mutual: the lad’s taken an inexplicable disliking to you.
Certainly not due to any action of your own.
He communicates to you chiefly in cutting remarks or cheerful anecdotes about killing people. He makes no effort to hide his fangs when lounging about the formal events you host, and he said something deeply heinous about Lady Gemilia’s parrot mere moments before you would have clinched her financial support for the Fists’ new armory.
He’s spoiled, and petty, and seems chiefly concerned with draining the Ravengard coffers. You are, frankly, at your wits’ fucking end.
You corner a butler about the giggling servants and he mumbles something about the Duke-Consort-To-Be’s generosity with the staff: with the contents of the Ravengard wine cellars, but also—more importantly—with idle gossip.
With stories gleaned from the new Grand Duke about his father’s youthful indiscretions. Something about the Blushing Mermaid, a monk, and a redcap.
This cannot stand.
But you are a mature adult—a politician!—who can control his wrathful urges. Surely Astarion can be brought to heel if approached with respect and an open mind.
Or perhaps it would be wiser to approach Wyll with your concerns. Astarion would certainly accept correction from his fiancé.
>DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS WITH ASTARION LIKE A MATURE ADULT POLITICIAN
>DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS WITH WYLL LIKE A MATURE ADULT POLITICIAN