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Summary
"Fine, since you've been such a good true soul, opening the way for me, I suppose I can give you back something that you've lost."
Balthazar's hand flicks ever so slightly, almost as if as an afterthought on his way toward the nighstong, but with it comes a hideous wave of necrotic energy- almost like a ressurection and a murder all at once.
Mors drops instantly to his knees, a strange and choked sound leaving him.
It happens almost in slow-motion.
Astarion's immortal eyes catch ever scrap of sinew, ever arch of unnatural flesh and bone, ripping and dying, being born anew and turned wretched all at once.
It is the death of something holy.
It is the birth of something divine.
The spines, covered haphazardly by grafted flesh on his shoulderblades make sense now-
once, they'd been roots.
Now, necrotic and blackened, mostly bone and finely feathered by shards and daggers, they are the echoes of wings long since removed.Or,
a retelling of The Dark Urge Redemption story, told primarily by outside viewpoints.
(Especially Astarion.)