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elisende · 3 years

Text

Wild Game (1/3)

Characters: Halsin/OFC, Halsin/OMC, Kagha Warnings: Dubcon, implied drug use Rated: E

Words: 1285

Part I

What no one understood about Halsin was that he was a man of great, if not inexhaustible, forbearance.

To the initiate convinced his master was secretly one of “the lizard folk” in a cunning disguise, Halsin proffered a barely raised eyebrow.

He merely sighed when Glinzel, a half-drow lay priestess, lobbied him for an idol of Silvanus for her bedchamber, and dismissed her with a terse wave when she suggested that his fine person might be a reasonable substitute to decorate it, if the idol was needed elsewhere. Though he allowed that he had growled a bit when she added “preferably nude” to her request.

And when a minor riot broke out at breakfast between a halfling, two initiates, and a semi-crazed boar over a bowl of honeyed wheat berries, he hardly raised his voice--only enough to be heard over the din of hooves trampling over the halfling’s hammered breastplate.

But even his considerable patience was not without limits. And that patience dried up all the faster when certain needs went unmet for too long.

Worse, the Druids could sense his hunger, and like lascivious Glinzel, many sought to offer themselves up as tribute to his desire. But he’d walked down that road before--too many times--and had vowed never again. What began as an innocent dalliance all too often ended ugly, creating disharmony in the Circle: accusations of favoritism, dinner-ruining recriminations, and general ill feeling that hung about like a persistent, swampy fug.

Kagha had been his last--and he swore to himself, final--mistake, nearly four decades ago. Every time his needs threatened to overcome his judgment, he reminded himself of the sight of her jilted lover--a high elf he had been, and from a rather good family in Evermeet--running bare-arsed through the grove, covered in pseudo-mystical symbols and pig shit he’d mistaken for woad, howling some laboured rhyme about Kagha’s tits. It was only by Silvanus’s sweet grace he longer recalled the words of that poem.

Nearly a decade after that final incident and his self-imposed vow, the situation had seemed nigh intractable--for his needs, and the bear’s needs, were inescapable, yet discord, if not outright chaos, was sure to follow if he bedded another member of his Circle.

The answer was so obvious.

It came to him on a journey to High Forest. The Wood Elves there were his people, though the kingdom where his kin once ranged was long, long abandoned. Elves had left for Evermeet, goblins proliferated, humans pushed them back, then elves returned and reclaimed their lost land, as the centuries passed. Much of what had been was lost, but some traditions remained, in the deep wild of southern reaches.

None more beloved to his people than Aerith Av’in. The Wild Game.

In truth, he’d nearly forgotten the Wild Game of his youth. He might have lost even those distant memories if he hadn’t stumbled onto the huntress that moonstruck night.

She wore her auburn hair in a long braid down her sinuous back; the tip just brushed the swell of her buttocks. Naked, she was, and he only guessed she was a hunter because of the long, deadly bow she carried, its tips spiked in thorns.

Her eyes, gold-ringed like a goshawk’s, scanned the shadowed pines of the grove, but he saw her long before she noticed him watching her. He took her in, mystified: at once so defenseless in her nakedness, yet so alert, and armed. And then he remembered the Aerith A’vin, the Wild Game of his boyhood.

It was consecrated to the Leaflord, though religion, per se, was the last thing on his mind when he hunted the Aerith A’vin as a youth. As he watched the huntress thumb her bowstring, his loins twitched with the sudden, visceral memory: an arched back, a wordless moan, the first, sweet plunge into a woman’s wetness. He gasped and there in the present, the huntress had spun and drawn her bow taut, eyes wide. Her form was perfect in every way.

He didn’t lift his hands. Didn’t trust himself even to breathe. His eyes held hers, showing he understood.

That look, the recognition exchanged between hunter and prey, was part of the ritual--of the immortal hunt, between elf and beast, and of the Wild Game. Valatoth khalgith, the life-giving glance. His life and body had been forfeited to the huntress, and were hers to command--in whatever way she wished.

She had taken him in the richness of the pine duff, and forever after the scent of pine pitch would call back the memory of the huntress, gold-ringed eyes fixing him to the ground as she rode him, hunting knife to his throat. A trickle of blood as she lost control, pleasure overtaking her senses, and the strangled cry that escaped his throat had drawn others to them, others who claimed him in turn.

The ritual was repeated, twice, thrice, and again, until the moon dipped low in the sky and left them all gasping, a raven haired warrior with tattooed snakes writhing up his forearms knelt over Halsin, gripping him around the shoulders like a wrestler, his final thrusts and Halsin’s pleasured groans punctuating the end of the night of worship.

Never was the ritual spoken of beyond the night, always the waxing sixth moon of the year, and if he should chance upon the raven haired elf later in his journey, neither would speak of that night when Halsin had been prey under the hunter’s eager hands.

Now, when the six month approached and Halsin’s unslaked desire threatened the harmony he cherished, he undertook his journey.

“I don’t understand,” Kagha said, watching him pack a few necessaries.

Simple healing potions, a jar of lavender oil to help him relax into his evening meditation, some dried chamomile for his tea, a pinch of the greenleaf for recreation, and a pretty feather he liked, plucked from a sleeping lyrebird. Kagha scowled at Halsin even as her eyes begged him not to leave.

“It’s not required that you understand,” he answered, too sharply. His patience was now worn to a brittle veneer that shattered at the slightest probing. Her expression closed, but not so quickly that he missed the hurt that flashed across her features.

“You are the most talented Druid I’ve trained,” he said in a more measured tone. “That is why I’m leaving the Circle in your care.”

Her eyes lit up--too eagerly, she was ever too ready to assume power, and he hoped that this brief taste of the trials of leadership would cure her of at least some of her overweening ambition.

“I will keep the Circle strong,” she said, already standing straighter, lifting her chin.

“You will quickly learn that the best way to do that,” he said, “Is by keeping it in harmony. And to listen more than you speak.”

She opened her mouth as though to launch into one of her tirades but stopped herself just in time, replying with a simple, “Yes, Master Druid.” He winced, as though the words were a lash. She’d called him that in fun, many years ago, with honey dripping from her fingers, her unbound hair, her breasts--

He turned abruptly to his pack, decided the thing was useless after all, and tossed it into one of the illimitable crates they left laying around the sanctum, as though it were a warehouse, not consecrated ground.

“Well then, Treefather’s blessing to you,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder. Anyone else in the Circle he might have hugged, but he couldn’t bear to see her pull away from him.

She bowed her head, and because he was already gone he didn’t see the tears that glistened in her eyes, unshed.

#halsin #bg3 #fanfiction #fanfic #baldur's gate 3 #bg 3 #halsin/omc #halsin/ofc #bg3 halsin

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ruecien · 6 years

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Sharing Trouble

Three postal services between Pandaria and Silvermoon, nearly two weeks travel in the Eastern Kingdoms alone, all for one letter tattooed over nearly the entirety of its crinkled skin in innumerable stamps and markings; the crawling chaos of ink had grown with each stop on the long way home, but under it all a message in a familiar hand could still be made out in the upper corner, just beneath the address.

To the lovely Kharris Dawndancer,

from Ruecien,

with all fondness.

And inside?

Dearest Kharris,

There have been too many false starts for this letter, over the past month. I’ve finally decided to just begin at the beginning and end at the end.

First of all - you are dear to me, and to Sinobel, perhaps more than we will ever be able to express! Not a day goes by that I don’t think of you in some way. There’s a hidden humor in how the chime of precious metals summons your graceful sway to mind, or the slow coiling steam of fragrant tea winds its way into memories of nights and conversations spent with you. Too few of those, maybe, and too few letters from here, an error which I recognize with regret. Will you forgive me for not writing sooner? Or at all? I am ashamed. That feeling is all the stronger because of the circumstances under which I write, as I selfishly -

Apologies. I escape myself like an unraveling scarf. I’ll reveal the smallness of my character soon enough.

Regardless of my anxieties, it’s my hope that this letter finds you in good health and high spirits; maybe it will glide beneath your fingers as you saunter through the Exchange one evening, looking for another curiosity, or perhaps it may catch your eye at morning tea, one among many siblings vying for the warmth of your undivided attention. Part of me wishes that it reaches you quickly but is read slowly, patiently, saved for when the sun has traded stations with the moon and you’re safely enfolded in the darkness of your favorite, affectionate Shadow. That you’re happy in the deeply-rooted, painted-toes-to-tip-of-ears sense is what matters most and above all else.

It’s a concern about happiness that prompts this letter in the first place, as it happens. Sinobel and I are happy here, in the sun and the surf and the low drum of monsoon rains on our crooked roof. I never would have imagined how much one could love fishing before I met her, and now I take for granted being vicariously versed in all the little details of tackle and line and tides and so much more, now that she’s become an Angler proper. The community of Pagelites that live below our cabin recently inducted her as a senior member of their ranks, even. It keeps her energetic and up early - she’s kicked coffee almost entirely, did you know that? Wonders never cease - and helps me rise to the challenge of my own pursuits with the local apothecary. She runs, fishes, and lazes about in the sunlight like a hunting cat when I can entreat her to relax with me. Her hair has refined itself into a river of gold after hours under the sky here, a perfect marriage to the tan she now wears so well. It suits her, but she’s almost too beautiful to gaze on (You’ll agree when you see her). As for myself, you would scarcely recognize me now, if I had to guess; Sin says I’m finally a healthy weight, and she’s been quite the benevolent taskmistress in forcing me to cultivate a tan of my own - all over, and evenly shaded. “If you get burned, then what fun will you be? Ounce of prevention, pound of cure!”. Doesn’t that sound just like her? I was thoroughly scandalized at first, but like so much else here, there’s an ease and a wonderful comfort to simply lying in the sun and letting ones thoughts dry awhile under its rays.

Of course, it hasn’t all been sunlight. Rumors reach us of the world beyond, all dark murmurs and whispers of war. The worst of them cannot be true. I refuse to believe it or commit it to the page. My fits are no worse but also no better. Traditional Pandaren medicine, acupuncture, ‘alignment of internal energies’, all have proven as futile as any other treatment. Sinobel suffers new ailments. She has nightmares, now, that trouble me deeply; her face twists like a knife on the worst nights, while she wars against a past I cannot see to stave off a fearful future I cannot guess at. But we manage. She is always around me when I fall away, and I am ever at her side when the night is far longer than it ought to be. I am indescribably fortunate to have such a love as hers. Sinobel never once turns away from my brokenness, always putting her face to the wind and her shoulder to the wheel...

And, so, I will not turn aside from her growing sickness, no matter how painful the cure will be. I wrote to tell you this, and to seek assistance that only you can provide, Kharris: Sinobel is dying.

Don’t be immediately alarmed, but please, do not misunderstand me either. There’s no physical ailment, no lazily thumping heart or oozing vein, but she’s endangered nonetheless. Fatally so. I never did have a flair for the dramatic, least of all for its own sake. I’m saying the truth as plainly as I can, however, as honestly as I’m able. Sinobel, the woman who’s glove I return to like a trained hawk, your Crew, my Muse, is dying here. The sparking parts of her that make her who she is - “Trouble” - are falling away, and I fear that there will be lasting harm if I cannot steel myself to action. Or if you refuse to help me.

Kharris, I think Sinobel wasn’t built for this sort of pleasant idleness, in spite (‘because?’ is written and underlined, off to the side) of it being so idyllic. The same slow passage of time that deepens my roots withers her on the vine; salt water that invigorates me, strengthens me, seems to be rusting her passions; evenings spent leisurely make her anxious and bored; little routines of market visits bind her down and choke the life out of her without the contrast of another goal, another adventure, another moment of skills exercised towards a worthy end. She grew and grows listless. There has to be something more.

I discovered what that was, only a few weeks ago. I had the lock changed on the cabin, and her smile at picking us a way back in was the most complete I’ve seen in months. Later, I plied her with lockboxes - the fisherfolk beneath all contributed, and Master Ling provided me with two himself from the Interior - and basked in the glow of her focused glare, while she lost herself in the mystery of tumblers and pressure pads and locks and prybars. My answer came to me, then. I would write you and I would ask for a terrible favor, one that ends my sunny days and disrupts the heart of this peacefulness I’ve wrapped up tightly inside my chest.

I love her more than lif with all my he just as a drowning man loves

Forgive me. Words fail. I love her, and that is all. I trust you above all others to understand what it means to adore someone so completely, so inescapably, that their happiness is worth walking through fire, or burning for. To truly love another means recognizing certain expanses that may never be crossed or explained, and providing all the space for them to flourish in those places away from us even if we never truly understand their calling. This, too, you know intimately. And so I beg you, against the wishes of my jealous heart, to do what I would allow no other soul:

Take her from me.

You must steal my Trouble away, and soon. She needs to feel useful - you can find tasks to be completed. She needs a purpose outside of building a life here in Narsong Spires - you can inspire her. There is a yearning beyond all that I can affect - and I trust utterly, Kharris, that you can ensure that my weakness doesn’t shackle my Muse at my side until she wastes away, bit by bit, like sand sculptures at high tide. You love her in your own fierce way, as a member of your Atlas family. I vaguely recall that the salvaging company is defunct, but perhaps you could leverage old connections, or wrangle deals on the good reputation of the past as a reference? Anything at all. Please.

I know of no one else I could turn to. It’s an agonizing request, even if it weren’t so shameful to beg for your assistance after so many years apart from you, but it must be done before my will weakens. Selfishly, allow me to lean on your forthrightness and gentle, unyielding compassion once more, as I always did under the spires of Silvermoon. You’ve always been the very spirit of tenderness to me; honouring that spirit, I will find a way to repay you in whatever manner you desire for this undertaking. For her sake, there is no price I would not pay and no endeavour I would not attempt.

Well. There it is. I would fill more pages if I could, but she’ll return soon from the marketplace, and this must be kept a secret from her sticky fingers and cat’s eyes. Know you’re loved also, Kharris, for everything that you are to me. Writing to you seems to have unstopped something deep inside my head - or in the cage of my ribs - and I can feel as much as see the memories desperate to flow to the page. The nights spent drinking tea in your little home, Ylaise and Castien fluttering all about; Embraelle’s sudden visitations, unearthly air alloyed with authentic care; Cakes, even, Braedyn’s ever-adjusted hairpins, a stoop full of faces old and new, moderated by the Most High Xiuhteena’s gruff affection. You know, I even miss when she would tease me about my ‘cloud of women’, or hearing about Junarra’s latest energetic scheme? Acelynn, for as harsh a break as we had. There are other names, and faces, all spiraling out an-

Enough. My reverie has nearly cost me the stealth I require.

I have faith in you, and will await your response as Autumn’s seeds await Spring, and its unforeseeable changes.

Yours, Ruecien

(( @sinobel, @kharrisdawndancer, @embraelle, @saltsparkle, @xiuhteena, and @ylaisegreymist for mentions, with more tags missed because I don’t recall their blogs! ))

#Ruecien #Sinobel #Kharris #Atlas Treasure Salvage #letters #a little long

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