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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 20 days

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Isobel, Before

On something of a whim I decided to compile, in chronological order, the flashback segments from Isobel's POV that are woven throughout Moon-chosen, Moon-guided. I was curious how they'd read, and it turns out I quite like how they do - so here they are posted as a standalone little prequelish thing, a series of windows into a developing relationship and some family drama. This includes the segment I wrote for the upcoming third chapter, so consider it a sneak peek of an update that will take me a little while longer because it decided to develop a plot or some such nonsense, you know how it is. The years are my own very rough guesses, trying to somehow work around the Spellplague while keeping it all approximately a century before the main plot of the game, so don't take them too seriously.

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm Length: ~8000 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence (including temporary character death) and sexual content

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1381 DR

It is an unusually warm and bright summer day for Reithwin, the relentless sun urging you to rush your errands around town and make your way home to the merciful shade. And it is upon your return there that you find the glorious Dame Aylin laying waste to an army of training dummies in the otherwise empty practice field beneath Moonrise Towers.

You steal a moment to watch and appreciate the spectacle that is her entire being in perfectly orchestrated motion, uncharacteristically free of her ever-polished armour, sleeves rolled up - a vision of ferocity, even if it is against such laughably unworthy foes.

It calls to your mind, amusingly, the poor announcer in your father's audience chamber a little over a month ago, so very unusually formal and far too visibly nervous, struggling to rattle off one too many titles.

The Valiant Dame Aylin Silverblood, Undefeated Sword of the Moonmaiden, Paladin and Daughter of Selûne. Arriving as formal Emissary of Our Lady of Silver, speaking in Her name.

She turns when she hears you clearing your throat to announce your presence, an indulgent while after your arrival. Ever so slightly out of breath, with a subtle sheen of sweat on her radiant brow, she inclines her head with respect. "Ah! Lady Isobel. I was just thinking of sending to fetch you. A request, if you please."

"Of course, Dame Aylin." Anything for the resplendent emissary, you want to add, only half-teasingly. It is frustratingly difficult not to act a smitten fool around her, and sarcasm has proved a feeble defence from her charms.

Her request, however, is nowhere near anything you might have anticipated.

"I would have you meet me in the sparring ring, if you are willing."

You blink. "I-- pardon?"

"You are no mere lord's daughter, nor are you simply the demure local healer. I can tell by your bearing you have training. Not the typical mace of the clergy, no," she hums, as if in thought, looking you up and down quite brazenly, appraisingly. "The rapier, perhaps, along with a dagger for the offhand? No, rather, the quarterstaff--"

"The spear," you cut her off. And the lofty, approving tilt of her chin is so fetching as to be insufferable. "I can protect myself, you're right. My father is an accomplished general, after all," and stiflingly overprotective to boot, but that part you bite back and keep to yourself. "It is only fitting. Besides, any devotee of Our Lady knows how important it is to be able to fend for oneself."

"Show me, then, general's daughter," she gestures to the packed-dirt training ring with a grin. "I grow quite bored of this straw-filled wicker regiment I have been pitted against."

She's got a good head and a half of height on you. Her reach outclasses yours quite overwhelmingly. She is visibly broad and strong and unshakeable as a mighty fortress. And though you do indeed have training, the martial arts were hardly your main focus - very much unlike her.

A challenge, truly, but one you cannot help but suddenly crave.

"Fine, then, I accept." A giddiness washes over you as you speak, and your head feels oddly light. The heat and humidity of the day, surely. Treading dangerous ground, Isobel.

Aylin immediately goes over to the training weapon racks to put away the blunt sword she has been using, and you follow her.

"I have trained in arms of all sorts, but I find I most favour the greatsword," she muses as she rummages, retrieving two wooden staves with padded ends, testing their weight. "The spear I must confess I have neglected somewhat, in recent times."

You smirk as she hands you a staff that has evidently passed inspection. "There is no need for excuses, Dame Aylin. When I trounce you, I assure you it will have been fair and square and well deserved."

You expect the hearty bellow of her laugh, some lively banter in return, an exclamation, Ho! Instead, she inclines her head in a respectful gesture, and does so with a surprisingly soft smile and oddly inscrutable gaze in your direction. "I would expect no less of you, my lady."

You look away hastily, wipe the sweat from your hands and put on the leather gloves from your belt. The day has been far too hot for them and the afternoon sun is still beating down fiercely, but you are not about to embarrass yourself and risk losing on the technicality of a splinter.

Then, you face each other.

Her stance and the way she holds the wooden training weapon speak of years, decades… centuries of experience, perhaps. It is hard to truly imagine, and you find you do not really know. Immortal, yes, but… well, since when? Does she have a universe of deeds and escapades on you, a hundred lives lived to the fullest, or merely the knowledge that they lie ahead of her?

When could it possibly be polite to ask such a thing?

You shake away the distraction of your thoughts, just in time to block a quick, testing blow aimed at your own weapon. A tease, really, hoping for a reaction you know well enough not to provide.

She continues with the probing attacks, none of them with any real force behind them, and you think how under normal circumstances it might be a good strategy to let your opponent waste her strength and tire herself out like this - but you know better. You have discreetly observed enough of her training sessions to know that if she is anything at all she is tireless.

But she is leaving it up to you to attempt anything other than these light provocations. So you do - you would hate to disappoint, after all.

You strike out high at her head, once, twice, then at her front leg, swift as a viper, and when she moves her weapon down to parry, you jab at her shoulder and step back in time to avoid the afterblow.

"Oh-ho! An excellent feint, perfectly executed!" The joy that lights her face even as she rolls the struck shoulder is so infectious, you can't help but laugh breathlessly, warmed by this small triumph. "I was indeed correct in my assumption - the most noble Lady Isobel is not to be underestimated. Her skills and merit extend far beyond even the lofty requirements of her duties - be they of the court or of the faith."

The next strike you attempt, flushed with both the heat of the day and the effusive praise, is met with far more resistance, and soon you are exchanging blows with vigour. She repays your shoulder blow with a tap to your hip, then tries to strike the staff from your hands in a disarm you just barely avoid with a well-timed tilt.

Your next attempt at a feint is parried at the very last moment, but you do not retreat, and so you end in a bind. She is much stronger than you, yes, but your angle is superior, and you can see her straining to stay in position, close to that ever-important centreline, and keep her balance. A bead of sweat trails down her neck to her collarbone, and it takes you a moment to realise you are following it, rapt. It takes you another moment to register she is staring at you just as raptly, even as you feel your hair sticking to your temples and realise the paint around your eyes is likely a smudged mess.

Distraction. An opening if you've ever seen one.

"Do you know, when I heard an emissary of Selûne was coming to our town, I did not expect her to have a bard's silver tongue on her." Instead of moving to disengage and putting distance between you, you draw even closer to her, until your mouth is almost at her ear. "In more ways than one, perhaps?"

Her eyes are wide and her cheeks are flushed silver, shining. It is the oddest and most captivating blush you have ever seen, made only more so by the closeness of your study.

And of course, the moment of distraction proves sufficient for that slight shift you needed. The great oak topples with so little effort - leverage, always, the key. Her reaction is faster than you anticipated, however, and so with the force of her riposte you go down right after her. Foolish of you, really - the thought has time to rush through your mind as your sense of balance disappears - to underestimate an accomplished paladin so.

In any case, within moments, Aylin is on the ground, and you land atop her. You have enough presence of mind, somehow, despite the proximity and the warmth and the, well-- to reach for where your weapon started to roll away and press the end of it lightly against her neck. "Yield?"

She raises her hands, palms up in surrender, and nods, struck speechless for once.

You scramble rather gracelessly to your feet in all your triumph, and offer her a hand up. She accepts, then somewhat disappointingly lets go to dust herself off before you've had a chance to fully appreciate the feel of her hand in yours.

"Well!" Aylin turns the bright glint of her full attention on you, charmingly tousled still. "I see no point in struggling to prolong a losing battle. A challenge, skillfully won." She steps closer to you and inclines her head in a slight bow. "Besides, I can tell my yielding on the field of battle pleases you, and I am not one to deny a lady her pleasure."

All of it spoken with a smile, and a shockingly honest, unmasked, open, and entirely unabashed look in her eyes. Damn her.

You do your best, feebly, to catch your breath and return to something resembling calm propriety. And you fail to squash a niggling doubt. "Thank you for the bout, Dame Aylin. But… honestly now, were you holding back?"

"Only as much as is appropriate for the training ring, of course. One is never to exert one's full might in these circumstances, as you well know." She shakes her head, a small frown furrowing her brow, and you can't help but feel this is a recitation she has been made to repeat until it stuck, something she had to deliberately become aware of after getting carried away one too many times. A thought to file away for later, perhaps. "But not in the sense you doubtlessly meant, no. I would not pretend and deceive after asking a fair duel of you. Such things are beneath Dame Aylin."

The heat floods your cheeks again. Damn her phrasing.

"Ah," she clears her throat. "The day has grown too hot for martial pursuits, I fear - let us retire."

She offers you her arm, ever gallant. You allow yourself the bold indiscretion of taking it only after you have peeled off your gloves and tucked them back in your belt. You've not known Dame Aylin for a very long time, but you are well aware she is possibly the least subtle creature in all of Faerûn. The ill-concealed catch in her breath and stiffening in her shoulders as your skin meets hers is a treasured token you stow away for further contemplation.

It is a regrettably short walk to the pleasantly shaded entrance hall of Moonrise.

1382 DR

Sharran forces dare attack even here, in the shadow of your father's moonlit fortress, in the very heart of a famously devoted Selûnite region. Perhaps they heard, or tortured out of some poor soul, that their hated Moonwitch had sent an emissary.

But the emissary does not seem to be quite what they expected or prepared for.

You've heard of Dame Aylin's exploits, of some of the many glorious deeds to her name - well, to be quite honest, you've deliberately asked around for them and chased down all the tales, however ridiculous they seemed, with somewhat concerning single-mindedness. But none of them, not even the most outrageous exaggerations with all the force of poetic licence behind them, can compare to actually seeing her in the heat of battle.

It is certainly dangerous to be so distracted in the midst of a clearly planned and organised assault on your home, and it is especially egregious to keep looking up, chasing a vision as it flies somewhere high above all of you, soaring over the head of your father's statue gracing the centre of the embattled town square. But she is so utterly glorious and radiant and filled with unquestionable purpose in all that she does, and you are utterly beyond help.

"Selûne, Moonmother, in Your name!" The clear voice suddenly rings out from somewhere close by, drowning out the din of battle in your ears. You turn just in time to see a flash of silver light engulf one of the masked attackers, burnished black disks brazenly displayed on their armour, and, well, you are not the only one smitten.

But then - disaster. Three of Moonrise's most recently recruited silver-bedecked guards find themselves stumbling into a group of enemies that close a circle around them. You see one of them fall, gripped by inky-purple strands, before you can even start to intone a spell; another one loses his footing and opens himself up for a deadly blow.

Quick as lightning, Aylin rushes down and forward, pushing the stumbling guard fully out of the way. Instead of him, the cultist's scimitar finds purchase in her gut, sliding through a gap between armour-plates like butter, and another's obsidian-black axe bites into her shoulder.

The sound it makes, that Aylin makes, draws a shout from you. A bolt of moonlight dispatches the first cultist, rage and terror somehow making your aim uncanny, and you step forward to bathe the rest of his nearby comrades in deadly, burning radiance before he has even hit the ground.

After this, the battle is over as quickly as it had begun. The last of the attackers falls on her own blade rather than be captured and questioned, crying out some pitiful, ill-conceived mantra about secrets.

You find you do not care: your world, for the moment, has sunk down to the breadth of one woman lying on the trampled ground in a distressingly rapidly growing pool of silver, the guards she saved hovering around her in a mix of awe and alarm.

They let you through without hesitation - you are a cleric, after all. A healer. But as you drop to your knees at her side and attempt to assess the damage, you can tell you are too late.

Your hands fly in well-practised movements all the same.

"Do not worry, fearsome, fair Isobel," Aylin manages, breathily, barely audible, around a mouthful of blood. Her hand makes a very weak attempt at a dismissive wave, or grabbing your wrist to stop your ministrations, you cannot quite tell. Her helmet and her wings are both already gone, and the silver burning in her gaze just moments ago is a weak flicker. "I--"

Her eyes flutter closed and she falls limp beneath your hands and you--

--do not have time to even begin to comprehend what has happened before she is gasping awake again, coughing and groaning, spitting up a clot, trying to sit up.

You gape for a moment, then help her in her efforts, lean her against your chest. The weight of the armour feels like it might crush you, but moving away feels unthinkable.

"No tears, no," she mumbles, half-coherently, as you strain to understand, as a gauntleted hand reaches up to brush against your cheek clumsily. "So mundane a blow cannot… truly fell… Dame Aylin."

It is one thing to be aware of it in theory. Another thing entirely to witness it. Immortal.

There is a crowd gathered around you by now, you register faintly. People crying out prayers of praise and thanks to the Moonmaiden, for Her infinite wisdom and Her endless gifts and the indomitable daughter-champion She has blessed you all with. You feel a tug in your chest, like you should be joining in; like you would be the one leading the prayer in ordinary circumstances.

But you feel terribly far away from it all even as Aylin's breath grows more steady as she leans against you. You see her smile, still bloody, and understand only the most general sense of the reassuring platitudes she is whispering at you.

You bring her to the House of Healing with the other wounded of the battle and insist rather possessively on treating her yourself. Only afterwards do you tear yourself away from her bedside to take full stock of damage and casualties while she sleeps it off.

Your father rushes to embrace you tightly as soon as he catches sight of you from the House's grand entrance, and you let yourself cling to him for a moment. You do your best to assuage his worries, claim - lie - that you were in no real danger, insist on continuing to help here where you are most needed as he returns to his gubernatorial duties. And somehow, miraculously, he lets you go.

As you help the dutiful sisters with the worst of it, you finally manage to focus on murmuring your own prayer of thanks. It helps clear the long-clinging fog from your mind. And it helps, truly, that you count no deaths among Reithwin's faithful - the only fallen today are Shar's to claim if she deigns to do so.

Well - and then there's Aylin.

You go to check on her in the morning, after you've managed - been forced into, rather - a very brief nap.

The glorious and apparently unconquerable Dame Aylin is awake, reclining against the headboard of the only occupied bed in that wing. You don't recall requesting she receive any special treatment, and she doesn't look too pleased with being singled out as if in a place of honour - in fact, she mostly looks bored. She is frowning down at herself, plucking at loose threads hanging off of the bandages that cover most of her shoulder, chest, and abdomen - your own handiwork.

You step into the room and set down the basin of fresh water and an assortment of healing supplies with a deliberately loud clatter, jarring her out of her reverie. The moment she sees you, an expression of blatant joy dawns on her face. You try very hard not to read too much into it.

Instead, you make very standard proper-bedside-manner-dictated small talk as you peel away the gauze. The wounds are mostly healed, as you would expect from your application of any and all magic you had remaining that night, but there is a small line of gold running down towards her left side, where the blade bit in and through, and another one cupping across her shoulder. Oddly beautiful for what is presumably a scar - and highlighting the marvellous build of a finely muscled torso, pipes up a segment of your mind that has no place around a sickbed.

You wrench yourself back into professionalism and lightly press down with your fingers, following the shining gold, the freshly knit-together skin, still reddened and bruised in places. "Do you feel any pain when I do this?"

"None at all," Aylin answers resolutely, entirely back to her old self. But then- "Ah," she winces as you find a particularly sore spot, expression wry, "it would appear I spoke too soon."

You trace back up, murmuring incantations, letting the cool, healing relief flow from your fingertips.

The way she is unphased by all of this seems… uncanny. In fact, she shows more concern for you, completely untouched by the battle, than for herself. It is oddly and slightly frighteningly flattering, in retrospect, that she used her dying breath - well, this particular dying breath - to reassure you.

And it all makes much more sense now, as things slot into place. The recklessness of her fighting style, of her whole manner. The way she shrugged off blows and rushed ever forward, where the battle was thickest and fiercest.

But now you've seen she is immortal, yes, but not invulnerable, however much she might like to act like she is both. And if she pulls herself out from literal death, no matter the scope of the wounds, she does not seem to magically heal much past that - the evidence is before you now. You can already picture her merely patching herself up with her own healing magic in the middle of the fray, as if in passing, just enough to enable her to storm on. All while her enemies gape and turn tail when they realise the futility of standing against her.

"I only hope you did not worry overmuch, Lady Isobel. It is in my nature, inextricable from my being. I cannot fall, not truly. But I keep the reminders, sometimes - wrought in gold."

Then she very cordially points out a few more, as if to indulge you. Some bigger, some smaller, some thin lines, barely there, some wide and jagged. But all of them bright gold seams, seamlessly integrated into her skin.

"Why not silver?" You blurt out, then feel your face burn with embarrassment. And then a mild but growing horror as you think back to the silver staining your hands and robes as you knelt on the damp cobblestones. This is in turn chased away by an odd warmth as you recall how she murmured your name and reached for your face.

Aylin, however, guffaws joyfully, stopped short only by a sudden wince as she pulls something still tender.

"Would you believe - I do not know? It is simply how I am, how I have always been. Perhaps I shall ask my Mother to elucidate, when next we commune." Then she beams at you. "What a joy and pleasure you have proven to be, Lady Isobel. To make me consider things about myself I have never had cause nor inclination to before. A rare treasure."

You blame your lack of sleep on the ease with which she is managing to fluster you without even seeming to consciously try, so you do your best to keep your response polite and nothing more. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, Dame Aylin. All of Reithwin treasures your presence and is grateful for it, especially after tonight."

She looks up at you and you meet her gaze, pausing in your ministrations. She looks disappointed, if anything, and the disappointment is shared - those are not the words you truly wish to say to her. And you cannot quite explain to yourself why you feel like a sudden distance has sprung up between you, after months of a beautifully built-up rapport, laid on the foundations of those first few shared star-struck gazes. Why this one out of all the many reminders of her divine nature has shaken you so.

As you continue reapplying bandages and keep distractedly checking in with her about the tightness, she catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. "My wounds are a distant memory, for they are being tended by fair Isobel--"

There is a naked determination writ all over her face now. It brings to mind her battlefield bearing, more than anything else, but her eyes are wide and soft and almost pleading.

"Truly, I am in the best of hands." A kiss again, and she lets the hand go. It is a perfectly polite and courteous gesture. Nothing… scandalous. But there is a clear ardour to it you did not acknowledge before. Calling attention to a line you have not yet crossed, but that you have both, perhaps, been toeing for a while.

Then she moves to sit up fully, even through visible winces, and shrugs off the steadying hand you place on her shoulder.

"You are the worst patient I have ever had," you state dramatically, laughing. She merely cocks her head in response, so very winning and charming even when still covered in blood, dirt, and partially unravelled bandages. "I will go get some more fresh water so you can clean up - though we've already ruined these sheets, I fear."

But you do not move, despite your words. Your eyes have not left hers in what seems like hours, but can't have been more than a minute. There is a blatant yearning there that you know is reflected in your gaze, that you have both become utterly incapable of hiding.

"I would ask, greedily, another boon of my most gracious healer," she murmurs.

"Oh?" You lean closer, ostensibly to hear her quiet words better. "Why, Dame Aylin, after your valiant performance tonight, I might just grant it."

You are almost nose to nose when Aylin speaks up again, her throat visibly working, her entire impressive self working up the courage to leap the distance - and you find you very much want her to.

"A kiss, then. To drink but once from the lips of the incomparable Lady Isobel Thorm would soothe all that ails me, seal all my wounds."

You watched this woman take an axe to the shoulder and a sword through the belly, and only now does she sound hesitant. Nervous. Afraid, even. The smallest of trembles in that rich, regal voice.

"If… if I have misread, if I have misinterpreted your intentions, I beg your forgiveness with all possible contrition…"

Your reply is wordless as you surge forward, boon happily granted. The first of many to come.

1383 DR

The dinner is only slightly awkward, as far as these affairs have gone in the past. The most notable thing about it is that your father, it seems, has learned from last time.

Oh, Lady Arianella Bormul was lovely - the very picture of elegance and rather breathtaking grace. A crown of curls you felt a stab of envy over, a perfectly cut gown that accentuated every curve of her and every dark blush shade of her skin. Carrying herself like a queen in the dining room, but perfectly polite and amicable in the conversations you two were inevitably forced into afterwards, with intriguing flashes of a cutting wit. But you shared so very little. And she was beautiful like a work of art whose objective qualities everyone agreed upon, you included, but that just were not to your personal taste.

Now you wonder just how obvious you'd made it.

As your father shoots you pointed glances from across the table and over a strategically placed carafe of wine, you allow yourself, briefly, an entire slew of unkind thoughts. About how maybe things would be different if your mother were still here. About how much easier it would be if you had siblings, so that the entire future of Reithwin and the Thorm family and your father's heart didn't rest on your shoulders. About how selfish you truly would like to be.

Then you shove it all back down and smile at the guests around the table, and offer your opinion about the most excellent skills of your local mason's guild and their potential for expansion.

The young Lady Jana Whitburn is strategically sat right across from you, as her father and yours conduct the important conversations on venison and marble and slate trade that this visit was ostensibly arranged for. She is tall and broad and clad in a marvellously fetching brocade suit of dark green. Her mother, rather obviously focused on you since their arrival in what is clearly a tactical division of duties agreed upon in advance, talks about Jana's successes in the tournament arenas across the Coast and her pending performance in Waterdeep's Field of Triumph. She herself, in a pleasantly deep yet melodic voice, mentions being interested in jousting, as a means of keeping her riding skills sharp while she is not out and about keeping her family's lands safe. Tilts her head at you with a winning smile at the conclusion of one adventurous story or other, the sharp cut of her chiselled jaw accentuated in perfect candlelight. You smile back, and poke half-heartedly at your tasteless dessert.

Later, you take her for a walk in Reithwin's small but well-kept gardens. She very gallantly offers you her arm, and you take it. Your father and her parents beam, and you contain your sigh. But when you look up at your companion, you are slightly surprised to notice that there is something brewing behind her eyes as well.

As soon as you are out of eyesight and earshot, you stop, take your hand off her arm and turn to face her.

"My apologies, Lady Whitburn…"

She almost winces when you address her, and shakes her head as if she is trying to physically shake off the formality and the trailing remnants of the dinner atmosphere. "Jana, please, Lady Thorm."

"Jana, then," you smile your most agreeable smile, "and so I must be Isobel, no?"

"Of course, Isobel," she smiles back, but it is clearly strained, and you feel nothing so much as pity.

"Listen, Jana, I…" you hesitate, struggling to put your words into polite, inoffensive shape.

All this does is highlight the lack of Aylin, the lack of the connection and utterly natural understanding between the two of you. The ease. Even when there was supposed to be some fundamental and unbridgeable rift between you, according to your father.

"I'm afraid my father has misled you and your family - not out of any desire to harm, nor with ill intent. But, you see, I… I already have a lovely woman courting me. Well, rather further along than mere courting, I would say…"

To your surprise, Jana bursts into laughter, light and clear, and you are spared the embarrassment of elaborating further.

"Isobel, you cannot believe what a relief that is for me to hear."

You pause, a bit taken aback by the enthusiasm of her response. "Oh?"

"I'm afraid I count myself taken as well. Now, make no mistake, you are perfectly charming, and a delight in conversation. But," she waves a dismissive hand, "the heart wants what it wants and all that."

"That it does," you agree, and this time your smile is genuine. A tension you had gotten so used to seems to melt away from your shoulders, and the two of you resume your stroll among the gardener's latest offerings. "My father, well… he's a shrewd man. You and my Aylin would get along splendidly, I think."

"As would you and my Iona. She is training to be a cleric too, an acolyte of Ilmater. I swear, the realms have never seen a more patient and kind creature. Whenever I visit her at the temple I take a moment to observe her finishing her rounds - the way she all but glows with compassion is-" Jana halts both her words and her steps, slightly embarrassed, as if she has only now caught herself in her charmingly lovestruck enthusing. "Ah, but I've gone off on a tangent, haven't I?"

You cannot help but smile at the sight of someone so utterly, beautifully enamoured. It is, after all, a feeling you happily know all too well.

"Please," you gesture at a bench behind some conveniently tall rose bushes - one of your favourite spots. "Don't stop on my account. Though, of course, now I can't help but wonder… what is your family's objection to the match? If you don't mind me asking."

Jana gives a wry smile as she takes a seat. "My parents would prefer someone of much higher birth for me."

"I think mine would prefer I set my sights lower," you chuckle ruefully.

Jana's interest seems to be piqued. "Is that so? I've heard some… rumours, since our arrival. I've been wondering about, well, what kernel of truth spawned them."

"Have you, now?" You arch an eyebrow, allow a bit of bite into your tone. "You've barely been here a day - I wouldn't have taken you for a gossipmonger."

"You'll have to forgive my natural curiosity," her grin is as easily charming as it was during the dinner, but now, in the unexpectedly pleasant atmosphere of friendly understanding, you allow yourself to fully appreciate it, and to grin back. "But you must admit it's a bit unusual, Isobel. A celestial paramour… I suppose your father wants you to look lower than the very moon in the sky?"

Her dramatic gesture in the general direction of said moon earns her a giggle, which she seems to take as encouragement.

"Is it true she single-handedly took on a score of Nightcloaks and won?"

You think back over the many rousing tales of victory Aylin has shared with you, and when nothing rings a bell you realise she must be talking about the raid last spring.

"You mean here, when the Sharrans dared to attack Reithwin?" It's hard to contain your amusement at her eager nod. "Well, it wasn't exactly single-handed and there were no Nightcloaks among the Sharran forces, but I can confirm she was certainly impressive."

You decide to leave out the part about Aylin dying and coming back right before your eyes. It is something you've yet to discuss with her, more than a full year later. Something you've no idea how to bring up, and something that inspires in you feelings you cannot quite define.

Something you know you will have to confront, one day.

For now, you sit on a secluded bench and shirk familial duties with a fellow highborn daughter. The two of you trade stories for the rest of the evening, and by the end of it you feel like you've known both Jana Whitburn and Iona Bluewater for years, and find yourself rather invested in the future of their relationship. In turn, you hope to have painted a picture of an Isobel who is more than just General Thorm's daughter, and of an Aylin who is something besides her divine silver bloodline.

You part amicably when the time comes, even promise to write to one another. Later on, the leave-takings complete, both of you having played your respective parts well enough to buy yourselves some very brief reprieve, you go to retreat to your room. Every stair you climb still seems to drop your heart that much deeper into a listless moroseness.

The air in your room is heavy and stale after the garden's freshness, so you decide to take your brooding out to your balcony. You may have won a friend today, but your father will be in a dour mood when he finds out his attempt has once again fallen through. And then how long until he plans another? Or turns to something else? No, this was simply untenable--

A gleaming Aylin alights on the balcony and pulls you into an embrace in a single, elegant movement, and it is like a moon rising to dispel the dark of a cloudy night.

The first thing you notice as you are subjected to one kiss after another is that your beloved seems to be of a rather amorous disposition. You still wear your jewels and your finest silver-blue gown, the picture-perfect lady. But with the way Aylin's hands are wandering you sense this might not be the case for very long.

You place a hand on her chest, the metal pleasantly cool against your palm, and she stops, looking at you both questioningly and with blatant yearning.

Which should be ridiculous. You were barely apart for a day! You've gone longer without seeing each other whenever Aylin flew away on some divinely ordained quest. But the feelings you read on her face are a perfect reflection of your own, and you are sick of the very thought of denying them. Instead, you throw your arms around her and draw her close once more.

"I missed you," you murmur the truth into her neck, just above the edge of her gorget, into that bit of unearthly pale skin that is always so conveniently available for you to kiss.

"I have dutifully stayed away, exactly as you bade me to," Aylin doesn't sound too disgruntled, and for that you find yourself both grateful and relieved. "But your guests are gone at long last, and so I consider my duty done."

You suppress a scowl at the bitterness that rises in you - because yes, you did pull Aylin aside and request, against the palpable wishes of every fibre of your being, that she not show herself around Moonrise today. All in the ultimately futile pursuit of appeasing your father, in a way so shallow and childish and stupidly, obviously temporary that you feel a flare of anger - disgust, even - at yourself for not standing your ground. For going along with it all in the first place. But the slight yet audible disdain Aylin puts on the word guests is too conspicuous, too intriguing, and so your curiosity trumps your rising guilt.

"Do you have something against the Whitburn family?" Surely, if there was something objectionable about them, your father wouldn't have invited them the way he did. Aylin would have warned you of anything sinister. But then, suddenly, a different, more darkly amusing flavour of thought arises. "Or do you merely not like Lady Jana Whitburn?"

Aylin huffs, tilts her head with an unconvincing nonchalance. "She seems a fine woman. A knight with several deeds to her name - in particular some courageous outings against a local Cyricist offshoot, very recently. I hear she conducted herself with utmost skill and bravery."

"You've looked into her, I see?" You ask teasingly. Aylin's frown is an entire hundred-page novel. "Aylin. Are you jealous?"

The tinge of possessiveness in the way she holds you against her chest is clear to you now. You also find you have no complaint to give.

"I cannot help but feel this latest attempted match is… rather shrewdly targeted. Do you not find it so? Why, I would near take it as a slight."

With some reluctance, you pull away the slightest bit in order to face her properly.

"Aylin, look at me," you tilt her chin up, make her meet your eyes, reaching over to smooth the thundercloud frown away from her brow. "Forget about it, about them. I would have none but you - you know this by now, I hope. Only you."

Forever, you dearly wish you could say, sometimes. Your fingers trace down her cheek and to her lips as you watch her ire pour back into fervour.

"Isobel, I swear, from the moment our eyes first met, I--"

You interrupt her with a kiss - she is too striking and too beautiful and too achingly, passionately devoted not to.

The entire situation is a problem to solve, and a mounting one. You can tell by your own rising annoyance and resentment each time the subject comes up that you cannot entertain your father's attempts at denying your relationship for much longer. But you can sense in both your and Aylin's current moods that any discussion will be anything but productive.

You break apart, but stay close enough for you to whisper against her mouth. "Why don't we stop wasting time, and instead of wallowing in misery, you take me to bed."

A different frown creases her brow now as she inclines her head towards the door you left ajar behind you. "Your bed? Here?"

You glance back as well, almost drawn in and through the imposing towers of Moonrise and all they represent.

"Yes," you reply with little hesitation. You decide then and there to be done with this farce. No more flying away to stay at Last Light, or utterly unsubtle attempts at sneaking off, slinking back before dawn only to present yourself downstairs come morning, unacknowledged but fooling nobody. There are other methods in your arsenal besides pointless subterfuge. "And tomorrow - if you wish to join us, of course - I would like to invite you to breakfast. Where you will sit at my side."

Where you belong, you swallow back, keeping your mock-proclamation formal. Where the world should and will acknowledge you belong.

Aylin's smirk reassures you she understands fully how you intend to play this. "How could I decline my lady's invitation?"

You tilt your chin up, the picture of a lady issuing a decree, even as your lips curl into a smile. "Despite any slights, intended or not, and protests from my family, it is an honour to have you here. I will see that it is better demonstrated, as it should have been from the start."

Or perhaps it would be better to say how it was at the start, before Ketheric Thorm's welcome for Selûne's emissary cooled down to an icy, formal tolerance - of course, exactly as your and Aylin's relationship blossomed, decidedly informal, regardless.

Aylin's mouth is hot on your neck as she effortlessly lifts you up and carries you inside. You feel her grin through her kisses. "I think, Isobel, you'll find the honour is all mine. And so is having you. Here or anywhere else."

You cannot help but laugh, taking her face between both your hands and peppering it with kisses in return, always delighted by her utter lack of both subtlety and hesitation.

Once Aylin plants you on the bed and herself between your thighs, she refuses to stop until your legs are jelly, your head is void of all thought, and your heels have pressed shimmery bruises into her back. Her face both glows and glistens when she rests her cheek against your stomach at long last, alight with some private amusement and sheer pride. You thread your hands through her hair and catch your breath, and bask in her presence.

So magnificent in her devotion, your angel.

You spend the night curled around each other in a too-small bed, both of you choosing to be utterly brazen.

1385 DR

You were very young when your mother died. The searing, half-understood pain of her departure had time to dull into an ache, then into a sense of absence you have grown up with, that will always be yet another part of you. You keep her final letter, and reread it less and less as the years and then decades go by. You can hear and feel her words just as well in the soft, warm moonlight that blankets Reithwin on blessed nights. It makes you feel like you can firmly grasp and hold and understand all that she tried to leave you with.

There is a distinct sense that she is proud of you. That she will see you again one day and tell you so herself. So you smile up at the Moon, the ever-changing treasured constant in your life, and bask in the pale, gentle love you receive in return.

When you lost a mother, Reithwin lost its head cleric. In the years since, it has had only interim duty-bearers. And you understood, years ago, even as you settled into a promising role in the House of Healing, that you were being looked to as the replacement.

And true - this has ever been your calling. You feel you were born for this service, sometimes, so easily does it come to you - the deeply felt devotion, the lightness of moonlight always ready at your fingertips, the sheer awareness of Her presence, of all She gives and provides and strives for. A cause so good and just and right you would barely deign to call it a choice - though a choice it is, always, freely made by you, again and again and again.

So when you reject the notion of taking up office at Reithwin - at least for the foreseeable future - and announce your plan for undertaking several pilgrimages of increasing length and complexity, it causes a stir among the clergy and a dark thundercloud to settle upon your father's brow.

The further away the locations you list as you stand before him in his study, oddly formal, the deeper his frown becomes. By the time you mention leaving Waterdeep and the House of the Moon and the settlements on the way to Neverwinter, he raises a hand to cut you off.

"I do not think this is wise, Isobel. There is need of you here. The roads are perilous--"

"I can take care of myself. You know I can, papa - you've seen to that. I have trained and prepared for this all my life." Then you smile, hopeful, and make your biggest misstep. "Besides, Aylin will be there to protect me, should the need arise--"

"Of course she will," you catch the mutter under his breath and your mouth slams shut.

You take a deep, steadying breath, and reach across the desk to lay a gentle, reassuring hand on your father's, meeting and holding his heavy gaze. "Reithwin is my home. No matter where the road takes me, no matter how far, I'll always come back. And to you as well, papa."

Reithwin, ancestral seat of your family, safe and idyllic, surely does not need you as much as the wide world; the vast, colourful, challenging variety of the realms. There is so much you can do, and offer. What good are gifts if you are not going to use them? Hoarding them, hiding away, sheltered - no, you refuse to be a waste.

"I need you here, Isobel."

There is an edge of desperation to your father's voice that makes your breath catch and your eyes burn. A pain that calls to mind, oddly, the sting of the black ink being slowly applied around your lids, a needle shaping the curl of the holy symbol down towards your cheekbones.

And there it is, perhaps - the real root of the struggle at hand.

"I can't be your little girl forever," you exhale, frustration mounting, somewhat undercut when you see the naked hurt on his face. "I can't be just that," you amend. "I have an entire life to live. My own life."

"With Aylin," he suggests darkly. Disapprovingly. "And when she carelessly discards you, a mayfly in her eyes--"

"Is that what this is truly about, again? Father," not quite papa at the moment, no, as you try so very hard to keep your calm in the face of your own rising irritation, "must we?"

"How can I not, Isobel? When she has clearly been feeding you this - this drivel."

"It has nothing to do with her!"

The doubt is writ plainly all over his face, and you bristle. Fine. If he is not ready to relinquish his chokehold over Isobel Thorm, cherished daughter, then he will have to reckon with Isobel, accomplished cleric of Selûne, and prospective Silver Lady initiate. You let go of his hand and step back, square your shoulders demonstratively, stand up ramrod straight.

"Our Lady champions and rewards self-sufficiency, agency, travel, and discovery - of ourselves, the world around us, and all in it who might need guidance or help in any way. It is mine to freely give, and I intend to do so, wherever I am needed. In Her name."

You turn and leave without waiting for your father to scrounge up a response.

It is the last conversation you have with him for a century.

It happens so very quickly, for something that would rewrite the fate of your home and all you ever loved for the next hundred years. Like a carelessly tossed pebble turning into a rockslide.

An ominous chill that barely has the time to register fully; a bark-whine from Squire, cut short; a searing pain in-- through-- your side and your chest, fading into numbness within moments, so fast that you barely choke out a desperate blood-drowned breath as blackness swarms the edges of your vision; a frantic cry of Isobel! ringing out from somewhere above or below; and then--

nothing

and nothing, and nothing, and nothing.

#baldur's gate 3 #isobel thorm #dame aylin #aylin x isobel #bg3 #fanfiction #my fic #oathkeeper writes things #comments welcome thoughts welcome honestly i just want to rotate these two in my head forever #i want to yell about isobel thorm constantly

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y-rhywbeth2 · 4 months

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Gods & Clergy: Selûne

Link: Disclaimer regarding D&D "canon" & Index [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

I should probably compile some lore on gods who aren't evil messes for a change... Then right back into the evil nonsense with Shar.

Worshippers & Clergy: All are equal and personal freedom and tolerance of other ways of life is very important. Also something-something motherhood. Now if you'll excuse me: "o, White Night Lady, guideth mine eye to wherever the hells mine keys that I had literally five seconds ago art?"

Silverstars: You can make an amazing amount of things out of moonlight, really.

Selûne: The Anti-Shar. She's kind of a spoonie.

"Let all on whom Selûne's light falls be welcome if they desire. As the silver moon waxes and wanes, so too does life. Trust in Selûne's radiance, and know that all love alive under her light shall know her blessing. Turn to the moon, and she will be your true guide. Promote acceptance and tolerance. See all other beings as equals. Aid fellow Selûnites as if they were your dearest friends." - Selûne's Dogma.

Selûne's worshippers come from all sorts: people who work the night shift, and other people seeking protection from Shar; travellers and navigators who will be navigating using the night sky; sailors; female mages; diviners and people hoping for a glimpse of the future; and lycanthropes who want to resist the influence of their curse. Selûne is also considered associated with femineity and is something of a mother goddess, and is worshipped by women, particularly mothers and couples trying to conceive.

In every day life one might call on her if they're lost, or to find misplaced objects and such - for example, where the hells have the house keys gone?

Female mages born under a full moon are considered to carry her blessing.

The moon waxes and wanes and may show itself in a vast array of colours and shapes; so is the moon goddess as inherently mercurial. Her faces are many and never the same, and so her follows are many and no two are the same.

There are only a few concrete rules of the faith. All people are equal and should be made welcome and treated with dignity. Shar's predations must be combated wherever you uncover them. One should always give healing freely to those who need it. The lonely and ostracised should be offered friendship and care.

The faith is extremely, proudly diverse, and Selûne places very few demands upon her followers in exchange for her blessings. There is no "right" way to worship the Moonmaiden, individuality and customisation in religious practices in encouraged.

Her clergy promotes acceptance of different ways of life and follows a lose hierarchy with emphasis on personal freedom.

The clergy have no uniform, save their holy symbol (a pair of eyes surrounded by seven stars, in silver), and they dress how they see fit. Moonstones are popular. When dressed for battle they can often be recognised by the iconic weapon known as the moon's hand - a footman's mace with a smooth head.

Even her temples follow no set structure, one may find a temple of the Night White Lady is a massive cathedral, a small roadside shrine, or a circle of standing stones on top of the village hill where her followers go to dance under the moonlight. "Anywhere the full moon shines is a place for [worshipping] Selûne."

Clergy are known collectively as Mooncloaks (informally) and Ladyservants (formally). A variety of titles exist within the church. The loose ranks of experience are as follows: those who are interested in joining but have not yet entered training are Postulants, Novices are referred to as the Called. Runrae (singular: Runra) are fully trained priests.

One of the Called becomes a Runra when they are assigned a simple task in the form of a low-level quest where they're expected to show that they have learnt the lessons of their faith. When successful, Selûne contacts them in their dreams via a vision, and they are a priest.

Ranks ascend into Alrunrae, Tenembrae, Sartembrae, Trintelrae, Aumrae, and finally the Calunalae.

A Calunala is an independent agent who maintains close personal ties with the goddess, essentially serving as her secret agents in the war against Shar.

Priests tend to wander Faerûn, making a living by offering their services as navigators (especially if you're traveling by night) and fortune tellers (there are no diviners more accurate than a Selûnite). There are no restrictions about whatever work they want to do to support themselves, and travelling mooncloaks can be found in part time jobs blacksmithing, weaving, farming, serving tables... They're also prepared to fight against Sharrans and lycanthropes, whenever and wherever they cause harm.

Not infrequently, a mooncloak will receive missions and holy duties - sometimes from higher ranking priests, and often from Selûne herself. Whenever she sets them a task, the Moonmaiden usually grants them temporary spells and abilities to aid them. With their siblings in the faith alway ready to aid them, and their goddess personally lending her aid, Selûne's clergy often give the optimistic opinion that "The Moon waxes and wanes, and fortunes of the holy folk of the Moon rise and fall - but the Moon is ever with us, sailing on no matter how dark the sky."

Selûnites traditionally charge very little for their services, save for a place to sleep for the night and a warm meal, and maybe any few coins you can afford to spare. They have a reputation for kindness, open-mindedness and generosity that makes their faith very popular.

Selûne personally encourages her clergy to be self-reliant, kind and humble, but also wants to see them live lives they're happy in.

As stated, Selûnite rituals are highly customised and tend to be unique to the priest in question. Generally they are performed in the open under the moonlight and involve dancing and meditating. Offerings of milk or wine are poured on Selûnite altars during the full and new moons. If the priest is in the godess' good graces then she will cause the libation to transform into moonfire - an "opalescent, glowing fluid with the consistency of custard." It's described as feeling silk-soft to the touch. The touch of the moonfire as it flows down the altar may enchant objects or bestow powers upon the things and beings it touches, as per the will of Selûne (it can also destroy undead). On ritual nights, her priests cast commune in order to socialise with their goddess and reaffirm their personal connection with her.

There are two holy days: the Mystery of the Night and the Conjuring of the Second Moon.

The Mystery of the Night is performed once a year by every priest (it has no set day, it occurs whenever the priest in question holds it). The priest lies before an altar of the Moonmaiden and slips into a trance. They fly upwards and spiral the moon, communing with Selûne via an exchange of visions. This ritual is extremely taxing, but the priest will quickly recover with rest.

The Conjuring of the Second Moon occurs once every four years during Shieldmeet, and is generally a day when the church goes to war with the church of Shar. To aid them, priests summon Shards to do their beings - celestials who take the form of blue-haired, winged warrior women who serve Selûne (equivalent to planetars in power). At the end of the day, one mortal priestess will leave with them to join their ranks.

Religious orders in service of the Moonmaiden include the Swords of the Lady (also known as "Lunatics" behind their back). They're a fanatical order of warriors dedicated to combating Shar and her worshippers.

The Oracles of the Moon are an organisation of female mages, specialising in divination, who dedicate themselves to Selûne's service.

The Order of the Sun Soul is a monastic order that worships Selûne and Lathander.

Specialty priests are known as Silverstars.

They can see in the dark perfectly for up to 30ft.

They can create blades made of moonlight, wieldable only by the silverstar that made it. The blade causes no visible damage to living beings, but it does sap their life force and disrupt magic, preventing mages from casting. The flesh of undead visibly melts away under its touch.

They can raise or lower the levels of bodies of water, akin to the effects of the tide.

They can fire small meteors (shooting stars) from their hands, in an effect much like fireballs. They explode on impact.

A Silverstar infected with lycanthropy has control over their transformations, and Selûne protects them from being damaged by silver.

They can also shape moonlight into a wall - the wall is intangible, but it illuminates its surroundings, dispelling magical darkness. It will cause harm to any with evil intent, and followers of Shar (or Umberlee), as well as any undead being that passes through it. Magical items on the person of an individual who passes through will glow red, drawing attention to them, and magical potions will explode.

Stairs and bridges can also be crafted from moonlight, which can reach up to 15ft in length. While standing on the bridge, individuals are protected from enchantments, life-draining effects and missiles. It's impossible to knock them off of the bridge.

Finally they can shape the light into a net that protects a specific area. The strands are visible only to the priests, the goddess and those under the spell's protection. Everything else - intruders, weapons and magic - that enters the area is forced back to its point of origin. Attacks will be rebounded.

Selûne is a Chaotic Good deity. Her realm is in the Gates of the Moon, on the plane of Ysgard.

She doesn't care about ritual and dogma or how observant of these practices her followers are, as long as they are able to support themselves, fulfilled in life and will offer kindness to others. The spirit of faith is more important to Our Lady of Silver than the scriptures of religion.

Sometimes she is taken by a joyful, energetic mood. Sometimes she is a quiet, caring and maternal figure, prone to poetic moods. Whichever mood she's in, she carries herself with an underlying sense of grief that seems millennia old. Selûne is slow to anger and prefers to avoid fights, but that changes rapidly when she comes into conflict with her sister, and there she displays a side to herself that is much more warlike. She also opposes Umberlee on behalf of sailors and others who live by the sea. When in conflict with her enemies Selûne is merciless.

Selûne was (apparently) born of the primordial essence of the universe, one half of the Two-Faced Goddess with her twin, Shar. Together they created the planetary bodies of the solar system, including the Earthmother, Chauntea.

When Chauntea begged for warmth to nurture life upon her, the Two-Faced goddess experienced conflicting desire for the first time. Selûne was willing to grant the Earthmother her wish, but for Shar, the very concept was a horrifying antithesis to her very being.

The argument between the two spawned the concepts (and gods) of destruction; such as war, disease and death/murder. Eventually, Selûne reached into the Elemental Plane of Fire and drew a portion of it into Realmspace, and fashioned it into the sun - a process that burned her.

Shar's rage doubled, and she began to snuff out every light she could find in the universe, causing Selûne to tear out a part of her own essence and fashion it into a weapon that she threw at Shar in defence of the newborn life of Realmspace. This portion of Selûne passed through Shar and formed itself into the Weave - the goddess Mystryl (who would one day be called Mystra). Mystryl sided with Selûne, and Shar was forced to concede defeat now that she was utterly outnumbered.

This battle has left Selûne permanently weakened, and her strength waxes and wanes much like the phases of the moon. The two sisters continue their argument - and Shar is boldest when her sister is at her weakest.

The Moonmaiden's avatar takes the form of a human woman, with various appearances, her age generally conforming to one of the maiden, mother, crone concepts. In one of her more matronly, middle-aged forms she enjoys walking the realms, and curiously has decided to open an inn in Waterdeep using this form, unbeknownst to many. Her apparent health depends on the state of the moon, while it wanes she appears sicker and closer to death. Regardless of its phase, she glows faintly with moonlight in the darkness.

Her lesser manifestations include dancing trails of little lights known as "moondust" or "moon motes." She manifests these to people who are lost at night, or traveling over dangerous ground that they can't perceive. She will also provide them for her faithful, when they require a light source to perform an important task but have no way to see.

Her messengers and servants include owls, weredragons and other lycanthropes and shapeshifters, and her Shards.

For a while, prior to the Time of Troubles, she worked under the goddess of love, Sune. She later went her own way and resumed operating as an independent deity, but maintains a close relationship with Sune and Lliira.

#for shadowheart and moon lesbian writing needs #shadowheart #selunite shadowheart #bg3 isobel #bg3 aylin #cleric tav

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vepaluiron · 7 months

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Dame Aylin, the shining beacon of justice on Faerûn.

May the wicked look upon her face and weep at its beauty.

#i am o b s e s s e d with aylin #her and isobel are living in my head rent free #also the writing on the framing is all thorass #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 spoilers #dame aylin #fanart #vepaluiron art

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writingmochi · 1 year

Text

! "receiptify" tag game !

rules: go to receiptify and share your last month's top artists and tracks!

tagged by: aleyna aka @euphor1a thank you for tagging me!

tagging: @kookthief @itz-yerin @tyunlatte and anyone who wants join!

#tagged for the moon #note: 7/10 radiohead songs...#the way that OKC and IR have a grip on me for about two months now #and the fact that the tracks are a 50/50 split of isobel's songs and the ones i used as inspo for my radiohead anthology #especially “all i need” as the most played track because the vibe of that songs matches the scenes i'm writing in isobel so much agh #music diversification mission: succeed #alt rock. vgm. krnb. kpop. new wave. grunge. art pop!

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blackjackkent · 1 month

Note

Letter prompts - any or all!

Minsc to Hector

Lae'zel to Gale

Rion to Karlach

Shadowheart to Isobel and Aylin

Nine Fingers to Jaheira

(Letter fic prompts!)

TY as always for the prompts, friend! <3 Sorry it took a bit to get them done, but I did all of them bc I loved the ideas so much. XD

-----

(Minsc to Hector - a note scribbled on a crumpled piece of parchment with one corner slightly chewed off. Left on Hector's bedside table in the Elfsong, three hours before dawn on the cold, rainy morning before the battle with the Netherbrain.)

My friend!

Do not fear to find Minsc’s bunk empty when you wake; know that I have gone ahead to clear the path! The sewers that stand between us and our wrinkly foe are well known to Minsc and Boo, and we shall see to it that they are well-scrubbed of evil that might hinder us in our final journey. A fine tale it would make for us to travel towards a battle for the world's fate and be delayed by a passing bandit!

Should we have no further time to speak before all is chaos, Boo wishes you to know you have been a fine companion, a hero to rank high among all those he has traveled with. And Minsc would say the same, though Minsc does not juggle words with Boo’s skill.

Boo and I have traveled across many years in an instant, and much has changed. We did not think to find a company with which we could feel heroes again, not least after Minsc was made a puppet of the Absolute’s worm. With Jaheira, with you, Minsc has remembered what it is to be alive, to fight for goodness, and this city's every shadow trembles to know it.

Though evil brings the brain, Hector and his friends shall bring the brawn! And Minsc is proud to be among them!

(signed with the letter M and a very small pawprint in ink)

-----

(Lae'zel to Gale - a note carved in the spiraling gith script into a large flat rock, lacking the fine materials of true githyanki slate, written in camp deep in the Underdark.)

When you can read this, you may consider yourself a true scholar worthy of the secrets of githyanki magic. Until then, cease your inane questioning of matters far beyond your appreciation; my time is better spent in recuperation than in the education of overambitious istik.

A note is attached to the rock, written in Common in careful, precise handwriting: Ever so sorry to disappoint you, my dear sa’varsh, but my inane questioning shall continue unabated. I do, however, thank you for the opportunity to reacquaint myself with Comprehend Languages! I so rarely get a chance to turn that one out for a bit of exercise.

Below these words on the note is scribbled a considerably less meticulous tir’su spiral scrawled in ink: That is *not* what I meant, and you know it, kainyank.

-----

(Rion to Karlach - a note sent by standard post to the Elfsong, several days after the party's visit to Elerrathin's Home.)

Karlach,

You're kidding me - you're Pluck Cliffgate's kid? I carried messages for him now and again; he talked about you plenty, and I did see you once, maybe seven years old, darting all over the Wide like a little hurricane. Small world, I guess. Odd to think that I’m more or less the same and you’ve shot up to be taller than I am. Elf blood’s a funny thing.

I know you’re hoping for exciting stories about growing up with the High Harper but the truth is I don’t have much to offer. She wasn’t any kind of “heroic adventurer” to me - she was just Mother, and she never much liked to talk about the past, not even about my father. I heard more about her from bards in taverns than I ever heard from her own mouth - and some of it I wish I could scrub back out of my brain.

You ever hear a bawdy called “The Harper’s Head”? Yeah, now imagine that was your mum they were singing about. Awful.

She was good to us, though, in her own way. I know you saw me bite her head off and her bite mine right back; that’s just how we’ve always been. But she saw to it I grew up strong, that I knew how to fight, and how to keep my head down when the time called for it. Harper things, mostly, even though I don’t think she ever wanted me to be one.

She taught me how to take no shit, too. Her mistake, because now I don’t take hers either. But I think she’d rather that than otherwise.

After a while, the other kids just started drifting in - first for a meal here or there, then a bed, then before you knew it, this was their home. Another one in the pack. It’s strange, really. I always knew deep down - even when I was a kid who didn’t have words for it yet, just knew it was confusing and it hurt - that part of her really wanted to be back on the road, not tied down with us in this mess of a city. But somehow every time one of us moved out, she’d found another to bring in, almost like clockwork.

I think she’s been looking for something, all this time. But I don’t think she knows what it is, any more than I do, or what she’d do with it if she found it.

Not an exciting story, like all the tales you’ve heard. But it’s truth; I can tell you that much.

It probably won’t surprise you that I haven’t had a message from her since you left. But you can tell her I’m off to the refugee camp in the morning. We’ll hold our end of things, and see they’re taken care of. Take care of that bloody brain, and maybe I’ll find a better story to tell when you’re done.

Rion

-----

(Shadowheart to Aylin (and Isobel by proxy); several conjoined messages by a series of Sending spells, dispatched from somewhere on the edge of Waterdeep)

> Aylin… your mother's house is beautiful. I never imagined such a place. It's… foolish, perhaps, but I wanted to let you know I've seen it.

> I still carry the spear with me. Once dark, now light. Like me. Still surprised you didn't crack us both across your knee like Lorroakan.

> You gave me a second chance. I hadn't earned it; I wanted to kill you. The great difference between Shar and Selune. Cruelty versus mercy.

> A lot’s happened since then. I found my parents. Shar's last joke at my expense. You were right about everything. That I had to act.

> So I'm free now. Of all of it. One day I will think of a way to repay you both for your kindness. Your wisdom.

> I don't know what plans call you now, but should you travel near Waterdeep in the next fortnight-- OW! Yes, yes, I'll tell her, calm--

[a slight pause]

> Please also tell Isobel that Buddy says hello. The morsels she used to slip him in camp have purchased her a permanent owlbear friend.

-----

(Nine-Fingers to Jaheira - a note left in a dead drop at Danthelon’s in the middle of the night.)

Jaheira. You’ve GOT to call off the Rashemaar. He’s driving us all insane trying to teach us the good path; on all the gods, either I’m going to beat the hells out of him or someone else will. I don’t care what you do - take him on an adventure, lock him in the cellar, turn him into a statue again, hold the hamster for ransom. But something. Fuck’s sake.

He listens to you. Starting to think you’re the only one he does listen to. Like a pup with one master. It’d be cute if it wasn’t so infuriating.

We all want the same thing - this city safe and strong. But he’s got to learn that we don’t all go about it the same way, or sooner or later there’s going to be trouble.

Astele NF

#ask meme #astreamofstars #hector carlisle #minsc #lae'zel #gale dekarios #rion bg3 #jaheira #karlach #nine fingers keene #shadowheart #dame aylin #isobel thorm #these were fun to write c:#hope you enjoy <3 #bg3 fic #bg3 fanfic #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction

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justanotherignot · 27 days

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#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #aylin x isobel #dame aylin #aylin #bg3 aylin #isobel thorm #isobel #bg3 isobel #justanotherignot #iggy's model swap shenanigans #shirtless aylin #some of the pictures aren't as high quality because i was laughing too much and couldn't wait to take a screenshot #i'd write a fic about this if i still did that

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ponder-the-orb · 16 days

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Moonlit Quiet

Pairing: Dame Aylin x Isobel Thorm

Tags: Hurt/Comfort/Fluff, Spoilers for Act 2

Word count: 3K

Summary:

“I never thought I’d do this again,” Isobel admits after a moment, tugging at the heavy neck of Aylin’s mail. “I think I’ve forgotten just how many pieces there are.”

Aylin laughs and she sits back, pulling the chain shirt over her head as if it were made of cotton. “Take all the time you need. We have so much of it now.”

Time. There was supposed to be near enough an eternity of it before.

She cups Aylin’s cheeks, makes a memory of how she melts just that little bit into her touch.

They’d whispered such promises between these very walls so many times, enough that the weight of Isobel’s own mortality seemed to flit further away with every kiss.

What force could possibly break them apart? Fight past Selûne's own sword and shatter this happiness?

Bile rises in Isobel’s throat, her fingers firm against Aylin's face as she presses their foreheads together. It’s another familiar gesture, the touch so delicate but the words behind it clear.

Nothing will take you from me again.

AKA: Aylin and Isobel take some time to themselves following Ketheric's death.

Read on AO3 or below

***

It’s been over a century since Isobel has seen Moonrise Towers bathed in the light of its namesake. Longer still since she’s set foot in this bedroom – her bedroom.

It’s not a space she ever imagined seeing again, but she’d found her hand on the doorknob before she’d realised she'd climbed to the top of the tower. An old instinct she’d presumed. Either that or she’d just been desperate for some – any – form of home comfort in the aftermath of such a battle.

She chooses not to dwell on how it remains just as she left it: sheets rumpled, hearth warmed, her own cleric robes pressed and hanging on the back of the wardrobe- just as any other evening.

Kicking off her boots by the window, she can almost pretend it is just any other evening. Her father could be working below, stern but happy in his way, and she could retire from her daily rituals ready for an altogether different sort of ritual atop her sheets.

She smiles as she hears the old but familiar thump of someone landing against her mattress.

Her darling. Her angel.

It’s almost dizzying how normal a sight it is. The Dame Aylin on her bed, battle-mussed and resplendent in her full armoured regalia. She glows a gentler silver now, like Isobel’s own slice of moonlight waiting against her pillows.

For once, she’s silent, but the blazing promise in her eyes speaks volumes.

Want. Need. Impatience. So much that even decades of death can’t stop the way Isobel’s knees weaken at the sight.

She hurriedly shutters every window until the room is solely lit by Aylin’s glow. Under any other circumstances, she’d leave them wide open. She’d always like to sleep under the watchful light of Selûne and for the first time in years she can feel her Lady’s caress reaching across the land. It’s another old familiarity, one she loves– but tonight requires privacy.

She undresses Aylin with practised care. The sword finds a new home against the carpet, sheathed and quiet for now. She’ll need it again, no doubt sooner than Isobel would want, but it need not sing at this moment. Their battle is won. Plans for the rest of this war can wait.

There’s a quiet relief on Aylin’s breath as Isobel unlaces her armour. Piece by piece the silvered soldier falls to the bed, Isobel’s hands slow as they find the strength waiting underneath. She pauses as she brushes above the collar of her mail, her thumb meeting the ivory line of her throat.

She’s rooted, awed, as she feels each long breath– so real, so alive against her touch.

That first lightning bolt of shock and elation at seeing her here had fallen along with Aylin’s breastplate against the sheets. She can’t quite place where in her head she is right now, somewhere between a shaky sense of regularity and the colder fear that she’ll close her eyes too long and awaken back at Last Light. Alone, hiding and still mourning the losses she can’t tell another living soul.

Aylin’s look softens as she continues to work. They both know she could dissipate the armour with but a thought, she had so enough times when the heat between them called for it. She stays still for now, letting Isobel ground herself in the ritual, the feel of the metal, of her angel’s fingers against her. Her worship belongs to Selûne, but true devotion– that will forever be for Aylin. It’s a thought that borders on blasphemy, but it would taste a lie to deny it. There’s no careful composure or rehearsed words needed. It’s something aching, intimate– pleasure and want so desperately pressed into each other with shaking hands and parted lips.

“I never thought I’d do this again,” Isobel admits after a moment, tugging at the heavy neck of Aylin’s mail. “I think I’ve forgotten just how many pieces there are.”

Aylin laughs and she sits back, pulling the chain shirt over her head as if it were made of cotton. “Take all the time you need. We have so much of it now.”

Time. There was supposed to be near enough an eternity of it before.

She cups Aylin’s cheeks, makes a memory of how she melts just that little bit into her touch.

They’d whispered such promises between these very walls so many times, enough that the weight of Isobel’s own mortality seemed to flit further away with every kiss. What force could possibly break them apart? Fight past Selûne's own sword and shatter this happiness ?

Bile rises in Isobel’s throat, her fingers firm against Aylin's face as she presses their foreheads together. It’s another familiar gesture, the touch so delicate but the words behind it clear.

Nothing will take you from me again.

“Yes, we do,” is what she says aloud, dipping down so their lips can finally meet.

She knows it’s the calm before the hurricane, one moment of pure unfiltered serenity before Aylin’s composure snaps. Her mouth opens, gasp hot as she pulls Isobel into her lap.

“Oh my darling, my fearless Isobel,” she whispers against her mouth, tugging her close with a strong arm around Isobel’s waist. “ Please let me adore you now.”

Isobel groans. She’d almost forgotten how perfect her name sounds in Aylin’s voice– the strength of a battle cry; more delicate than a prayer.

She shifts under Isobel and her lips are everywhere, her chin, her ear, her throat. Pieces of her own armour clatter to the floor as impatient hands roam over her, seeking lost skin.

It’s a task unto itself not to press her down onto the bed right now and ravish her until they’re both sweetly exhausted and sore. Gods-knows she wants to. It would be so easy to lose herself in Aylin until dawn dared intrude on them.

She squeezes the curve of Isobel’s thigh and lights burst behind her eyes.

It’s everything. It’s too much.

“ Aylin - wait.” She catches her face, slowly guiding it back to hers.

Aylin’s hands immediately still. “Does something trouble you?” Her voice is thick– those moon-bright eyes blown wide as an eclipse.

Isobel smiles. That’s a sight she remembers all too well. Her Aylin. Her perfectly besotted love.

“It is as you said. We have time,” she breathes, gathering the spill of Aylin’s hair and letting it slip between her fingers. “So please, could you let me do this?” What exactly she’s asking for she isn’t quite sure. There’s a century still hanging between them, so many moments to make up for, far far too many.

Perhaps too many for the years she has left with her.

She swallows and brushes the down of Aylin's cheek, marble to flesh.

For now, she needs to be slow. Deliberate. Relearn her love inch by beautiful inch.

She knows that Aylin will forever be Aylin: the Moonmaiden’s justice, her unwavering paladin– as regal and proud as the heavens themselves. It’s her duty to stand as such until her immortal service is finally complete, perhaps when the last vestige of Selûne's light fades into that final night. But for now, she’s battled enough. It’s finally Aylin’s time to be savoured – and Isobel knows she’s more ready to take on that duty.

She brushes the peach curve of her lips, then those new golden scars fractured across her face. She pauses against the darker flecks on her jaw: blood from their new allies, from illithids, her father-

She tucks the thought away. It’s a feeling too messy for her to fully fathom right now, raw and tender as a new bruise. She quietly makes a vow to process it fully in her own time. Much much later.

He’s at rest, his poison gone and Isobel would rather throw herself into the fetid pit under this tower than let him snatch the joy from this night as well.

She can’t hide her gasp as she pulls Aylin’s undershirt from her body. Wider, deeper scars splinter over the firm muscles of her torso and finish in a jagged patch over her heart.

Once, such marks were almost a comfort to Isobel, a shining reminder of every battle won and every chip she’d taken to come home to her. She’d never imagined it like this, the evidence of every sword and dagger and javelin plunged through her.

She cups her hand to Aylin’s breast, the gold fully eclipsing each finger.

“Does it hurt?” she whispers.

Aylin’s expression doesn’t falter as she covers Isobel’s hand with her own. “Not anymore. Such cowardly attempts would hardly be enough to break me.”

They’re strong words, proud as every gallant decree that the world expects of an emissary such as her. And Isobel knows they’re a lie.

She can see it, beyond her stone-hard smile there are cracks, invisible and silent but no less present than those golden tracks left by battle and brutality.

Death for Isobel had been timeless, easy even. Nothing but the dreamless dark. Being ripped back into life, that had been a harder weight to bear. She’d awoken to her home now twisted with perverse Sharran magic, Selûne’slight snuffed out by the haunted visage of her own father. ‘ For love. For our family,’ he’d said, flat and chilled as a wall. And in the same breath, he’d revealed the worst of it: Aylin too was gone. Nothing mortal or immortal to ever bring her back.

It her own spear through the heart, but what was that in comparison a century caged, a century alone and shadowed, broken again and again and again until the might and wrath of a goddess was belittled down to naught but a tool.

Isobel’s vision pools with red.

She tries to ground herself in the drum of Aylin’s heart, forever steady as the rocking tide, but she sees her own trembling fingers betray her.

Aylin tips her chin up with her thumb. “There is something else. Tell me.”

Isobel refuses to meet her eye.

“All this time- all this time you were so close,” she whispers shakily. “I should have known. I could have found you.”

Aylin shakes her head and strokes the length of her back. “None of that.”

The touch does nothing to quell her anger. “I’m a fighter too. I may not be any sort of divine Paladin, but I could have done something instead of hiding at Last Light.” She drops her head to Aylin’s shoulder as if she could muffle the guilt of her words in the broad muscle. “If it were me down there, you would have razed that vile temple to the ground, brick by brick, until you freed me. I was not even there when your cage was broken.”

There’s a long moment of quiet before the hand at Isobel’s back slides up to cradle her neck.

“You are indeed most ferocious,” Aylin says, her voice soft with fondness. “Before, I’d never laid eyes on anyone so in tune with my Mother’s power. It was the most remarkable sight to behold. And from what I understand, you were doing precisely what was needed of you at that Inn. You protected our allies, strengthened them so they could destroy this tower’s forces and the powers so wicked that laid beneath. Without you, they would have all been destroyed by the shadows that ruined this land.” She tilts Isobel’s head slightly, letting each word brush against the point of her ear. “ That is why I am free.”

Isobel shifts into the touch, lets the soft rain of her lover’s words unravel the tension inside her.

She’s free, Aylin is here and she’s free.

She focuses on the thought. How it happened and who found her are facts she’ll need to let go of one day. She’s with her, solid and soft and oh so strong against her palms and that is the only thing that could possibly matter.

Aylin guides her face back with warm hands. Her intention is clear as she drops her eyes to Isobel’s mouth, the conversation probably over in her view.

She halts Aylin’s kiss with a finger to her lips.

There’s something else, one last weight she must unburden from herself before they can finally take that first step in moving forward.

She touches her own chest, rubbing the spot over her heart. “A hundred years, Aylin. It’s a lifetime to most, even to me. I may scarcely remember being dead, but I know I came back changed. Wrong.” From the moment she’d jerked awake in her tomb, she’d felt it– something bitter and cold resting inside her.

Aylin pulls back, eyes wide. “Did that foul necromancer hurt you?”

“No, no, my love,” she answers, running her hands across Aylin’s shoulders until the fire in her gaze quietens a little. “Whatever brought me back and healed my body was unnatural to say the least. I think some part of me knows I shouldn’t be here.” Even now she knows it. Under the joy and shock and wonder there’s still a seed planted deep in her chest, rotting.

A large part of her wishes that was the only thing changed in her.

She takes another breath. “That’s not all. After I ran from my Father, I had to fight, to harden against it all, become a warrior against people I’d once held dear. If… if I’m completely truthful, I think the person you truly knew remains in the crypt I was pulled from.”

Aylin tilts her head, an eyebrow raised. “And you believe that will eventually turn my heart from you? Or do you think that my time caged has changed my own feelings?”

Isobel bites her lip, fighting the urge to look away. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

“I do.” Aylin’s hands trail down Isobel’s body, her eyes following. “To many an immortal, a century seems so little. It’s nothing but the blink of an eye in the face of eternal life. For me however– it was the first instance where I truly understood the weight of time. Every second that I felt Ketheric’s wicked connection or looked up at generation after generation of craven Sharrans was its own eternity in that cage. Yet, as is my duty, I swore to never show my cracks.”

Her hands continue their gentle path as she speaks, slipping under Isobel’s shirt and pausing at the dip of her waist. “I am my Mother’s sword, her glory– but it was not her power that kept me steady in the Shadowfell. It was my memories of you, my love.”

Warmth blooms like a blush under Aylin’s hands, her thumb caressing just under Isobel’s naval. She strokes her neck, waiting for those pale eyes to meet hers. “Even though you thought me dead?” she whispers.

Aylin’s smile softens. “Even then.”

Her thumb moves slightly lower, dipping just under the loose band of Isobel’s trousers. It’s a promise and a reassurance.

I’ve got you. I want you.

Aylin kisses her chin as she continues. “And yes, you are changed just as I am, but did you think I would not recognise that voice, that love in your eyes as clear as our Lady’s light the moment I saw you again?”

Isobel’s answering smile threatens to split her cheeks, the last of her doubts disappearing into the fading curse just beyond. She kisses her forehead. Their noses brush. “Perhaps I just wanted to hear you say it,” she murmurs, shifting up so she can unlace the final armoured pieces on Aylin’s legs. She rises to help her, her fingers never leaving her bare skin as she works. It’s the only protection she’ll need for now.

“Then I will say it as many times as you need. Until the stars burn out, until this tower crumbles to dust around us– let it be the last thing I ever utter in the light of this world.” She presses her words across Isobel’s face, gentle as moonlight, steadfast as an oath as she finally lands on her lips. “My love most high. My Isobel.”

“Aylin,” she gasps against her mouth. It’s the only words her kiss-drunk mind can find as she pulls her impossibly closer, the world blurring in gold and pink around her.

It’s such a simple truth: loving Aylin will forever be the easiest thing she’ll do. Easier than loving herself, than her purpose, than her goddess. A century passed and that want hasn’t quietened, not even slightly. She’d wept, cursed, grieved for Aylin and a single kiss had her falling again, more desperate for her touch than her next breath.

“For the world to see, Dame Aylin shall forever be indomitable,” Aylin hums, slowing their kiss to lace their fingers together, “but so too is this.”

She presses one last, achingly gentle kiss to Isobel’s lips before ripping her shirt over her head. Her breath catches in her throat as Aylin twists them, pushing her into the mattress and caging her there with her torso. She swallows Isobel’s gasp as her lips drop to her chest, the heel of Aylin’s hand grinding between her legs with a warm familiar rhythm.

“Now, time enough has been wasted,” she mouths over her breast, the words rippling down to her beating heart. “It is as I said, I have a darling to adore.”

Everything else melts away after that.

It’s an ungraceful mess of hands and hearts. Words of love and gratitude spill against scars and skin as they finally find themselves within each other again.

Come morning, they will have to face the future. There are allies to bury, secrets to share, the road to Baldur’s Gate twisting and dark in front of them– but for now, between these silver-bathed walls, their world is nothing but the two of them.

As close to heaven as either of them will ever need.

***

These two have taken up waaaay too much brain space over the last couple of weeks so have something soft.

#aylin x isobel #dame aylin #isobel thorm #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #my writing #bg3 fic #moon lesbians #I just love them your honour #moonangel

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