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whalesforhands · 7 months

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singe the tales i (satosugu x reader)

adventuring is never what it seemed to be, not when your companions are the loopy sort.

happy october! note that there will be VERY HEAVY references/inspirations from baldur’s gate 3/terraria, some anime (goblin slayer, grimgar of fantasy and ash) throughout this story, haha

warnings: fantasy au, slightly suggestive, depictions and a bit graphic descriptions of gore

masterlist next

gojo - a nobleman sorcerer from a lineage of great honour and power. an outstanding, exceptionally strong one who preceded even the most gifted of his ancestors. unafraid to get up close and personal with enemies and allies alike despite his role in the party, truly void of any fear. you wonder if he notices all the little stolen glances from you at that pretty face of his whenever he unties his bandages…

geto - summoner of sorts… a druid? necromancer? dragon— tamer? just what is he? and how is he summoning these things?regardless, all beasts, exotic creatures and even humans alike flock to him, appearing with a snap of his fingers. sly, charming and an overall magnet for trouble that begets your curiosity.

ieiri - a mysterious sorceress who seems to be lacking in terms of raw power. could you even call her a sorceress at this rate…? despite the lack of magical attacks, her healing powers and knowledge of medicine are undeniable, despite being no cleric. why does she— have such a strange allure? your eyes can’t help but stray to her whenever she enters the guild.

you - the guild receptionist who does their best. with this specific outpost quite frankly being in the middle of nowhere, you were trained in minor restoration spells, a few of the more unconventional magic tricks, and have exceptional prowess in protection spells.

——

“Little receptionist!!!” The bustling of the small guild hall rings a pleasant chirp through your ears, yet you’re still able to pick up the overly excited greetings to you.

“Oh, welcome ba-CK!” You choke when you catch a whiff of the spine-crawling odour, disgust and distaste heavy on your tongue. Rotting flesh and spoiled milk, the scent trailed heavily into the small guild hall, surrounding beginner adventurers unable to handle it, hands slapped over their mouths as they ran out, fighting the urge to throw up.

Slathered in blood and dripping with the stench of decaying entrails, the trio strolled in. Shoko is looking a little less for wear, face deadpan and quite frankly offended as she watched the already empty guild practically become void of people. Remnants of dried blood, bits of organs sticking to her cloak, her hood over her head to hide the shame of looking like this.

Satoru looks far more… Put together, if you could call it that. Not clean, not an inch at all. His stark white hair has been stained with coagulated bits of red, his face having a streak of dried blood just under one of his eyes, gloves dripping a fresher red as it gripped onto the sack he was holding onto. His armor was… practically non-existent, hanging on by a thread with his exposed undershirt revealed the torn up cloth, the lack of cuts despite the tears certainly of Shoko’s magic.

He practically perks up, his excited demeanor growing even more restless when he realizes he had correctly guessed that it was in fact you manning the front desk, nearly tripping over himself to reach you as he left his teammates behind.

“One gnoll packlord head; delivered!” He’s sending you a two-fingered salute, the bloodied sack starting to seep onto the counter as viscous blood made its presence known, bag tied crudely to outline the beheaded canine. His face ushered a cute blush, awaiting your praise as he watched your lovely face, awaiting that pretty smile and fond eyes that upturn at the sight of—

“And we managed to wipe out the entirety of the pack.” Suguru’s quiet voice draws your attention towards him, noticing his presence as he appears suddenly, his hair in slight disarray from his usual bun, sticky blood on his worn out, once pristine clothing which had been torn through to reveal disintegrating chainmail underneath. “I hope we managed to do it to the quest’s details.”

(And hopefully, to yours as well. Are you happy they managed to help get rid of knolls for you, on a quest you personally offered them? Gods, it felt amazing to be someone you relied on.)

“I-I appreciate your timely completion of my quest, but—“ You nearly want to hurl at the mere smell as the last of the few adventurers ran off, desperate to escape this overwhelming stench as your professionalism fought to surface. “Please wash up now…!”

(“So? So?! Do you like it’s head? I cut it off myself!” If Gojo Satoru had a tail, it’d be wagging uncontrollably in front of you. His sparkling eyes from behind those bandages of his can almost be seen from how excited he was.

He could’ve just cut off one of its ears as proof… But they really went beyond what was needed to bring you this decapitated head.

“Thank you.” The smile on your face is absolutely radiant as you look towards the three, the twitch of your nose and the scrunch of your face held back through pure dedication. “I really—“ The air tastes absolutely putrid. “Cannot thank you all enough!”)

——

“Help a girl out, won’t you?” Shoko twirls a strand of her hair with dismissive motions, the tobacco pipe held between her fingers waiting to be set alight as she eyes you, concentrating on the way your hair swayed with every light movement.

“Of course, Miss Ieiri. But I really am not a big fan of you smoking…” She’s leaning in close, the soft fragrance of her bergamot scented wash wafting near just as your fingertip alights with a small flame, a small pout on her lips when you pull away, eyes returning back to your work as she leaned over the counter. “It’s bad for your health.”

“It’s only for a little while.” Her cheeks puff slightly, like a child getting lectured. Don’t be too disappointed in me.”

Her playful tone causes your lips to quirk up in fondness. “Of course not, Miss Ieiri. But please do put it out after a while.” You suppose she deserves it, after her tough mission.

“Ieiri this, Ieiri that… Have you taken a liking to my last name, perhaps?” She ends with chuckle as you pause in your administrations, looking up from the tangerine you were peeling for her.

“It is quite a pretty last name, Miss Ieiri. However, it is proper protocol to maintain my professionalism, after all.” A practiced saccharine smile and a polite tone. Just part of the job to you, or is it?

(You wouldn’t exactly be peeling fruits for just any adventurer, right?)

She laughs at your overtly rehearsed, stiff tone. “Lighten up a little. I’ve already told you.” A smile is upon her face as she takes another breath from the pipe, the smoke swirling about her in an alluring whiff. “Shoko is perfectly fine.”

“Well then—“ Your bashful face is a surprise, a very welcome one to her as your eyes shift about nervously, the creeps of a hot blush upon your cheeks, a hand placed upon your face as if to slow the heat of embarrassment. “If you don’t mind, Sho—“

It’s hard to remember, that in this small guild, where hardly any adventurers drop by, calls for a lack of traffic even by your own coworkers who inadvertently take too long of a break.

“Ahhhh! (name)!” The embarrassed cry of one of them doesn’t escape you with the loud whine reverberating throughout the wooden halls. “How could you not tell me the Gojo Satoru was back?!” The older elf cried, skin burning up as she hurriedly fixed her uniform, adjusting her beret before her hands latched onto your shoulders, shaking you about as you catch the falling fruit before it gets pummeled onto the ground.

“Hi, Miss Ieiri!” Her greeting to the girl is short-lived as she moves to hold both of her hands in yours, frazzled gaze speeding to meet your own. “(name), I’m begging you!”

“Please, please!! Take over my shift! I want to go see him!” She’s hurriedly, and very suddenly dabbing on a red far too mature for her complexion, dabbing powder onto her skin as she fixes herself, cosmetic products strewn all over your once near desk, her hands combing through her locks as Shoko puts out her pipe.

“Sylrel, you look perfectly gorgeous as always.” You’re shaking your head as you take in the sight of the pretty elven maiden, patting down the beret on her head and adjusting her brooch. “I’m sure he would think so too.”

“But he doesn’t!” She’s whining as Shoko opens her mouth, letting you plop a slice of the sweet fruit in as she chews delightedly.

“Do me another favour and find him, pleaseeeeee?!”

(“So do I take your shift first or—“

“Find him, please! Or— Wait, stall him! I can’t have him find me whilst I look like this!”

Shoko misses the tangerine slice you were about to feed her when you pull away to watch your coworker, a pout on her lips as a small glare is directed towards you. As if awaiting your attention to be directed back to her.

“Oh, sorry Shoko.” You hurriedly press the fruit back against her lips. “Just… How do I even stall him…?”

(You’re finally using her name. She’s satisfied.)

Shoko doesn’t even hesitate to answer through her chews. “All you have to do is talk to him, really.” Her elbow is propped up onto the counter as she holds her chin, a smirk on her lips as she licked up the remnants of the sweet fruit.

“I’m serious.”)

��—

“Oh, Mister Geto.” You greet the half-naked sorcerer, fresh out of the shower as a smaller towel is sat upon his head, long hair hanging over his shoulders as your eyes start to falter at the sight of the extremely attractive man before you out of politeness, dressed down in clothing far more relaxed to suit his mood, his pants hanging low on his hips. His arm cages you in further into the corner as you’re trapped between the wall and his frame.

(You didn’t expect to be in this situation at all. But… He is just Geto Suguru, the humble gentleman of an adventurer.)

“Did you enjoy your shower?” Your smile is as polite as ever, sweet and oh, so clueless. Even daringly helping to pat the towel down onto the wet locks of his hair.

It makes him kind of mad, really.

“You know…” He trails off, large hand coming up to tuck a strand of your hair back, his palm brushing against the soft skin of your face, watching as you blink up at him in confusion, tilting your head into his hand and letting him hold your face.

He clicks his tongue.

“It’s good that you’re so clueless at times.” But it gets on his nerves. So frustratingly, adorably hard to resist. Perhaps you need a lesson?

He leans down to your ear, lightly blowing to tease you as he watches you squirm, your body lightly jumping as your hand hurriedly rushes up to cup your ear. Just what is he doing?

You hear him chuckle, a pat descending onto your head and displacing your beret as you allow him to do so.

“It’s cute.” You’re cute.

“Thank… you?” You’re still smiling as you try to put your thoughts together. Was there a bug by your ear? Lint in your hair? Oh, whatever. “Would you mind having dinner together with the rest of your party?”

His chuckle is hearty. “And when have I ever turned down an offer from a beautiful being such as yourself?” He’s letting your warmth linger on his skin before he begrudgingly forces himself to pull away, watching as your hands slowly reached up to fix his hair, tucking wet strands away to reveal his face as you stare head on into his eyes.

“I’m happy to hear that, then.”

And he’s happy to see that smile on your face.

(“Ah, Sylrel was looking for Mister Gojo. Where is he? Still showering?” Just as he opens his mouth to answer you, a shout sounds out from the showers.

“SU. GU. RU!” Angry yells akin to a chihuahua’s bark echo from the ajar door. “I’M USING YOUR SOAP!”)

masterlist next

Notes:

A sorcerer differs from a wizard. A sorcerer is someone whose affinity for magic is innate, whilst wizards study magic in order to wield it, much like a learned skill.

Geto and Gojo are nowhere near in a romantic relationship together. (Yet.) Their relationship is described as a ‘love-hate rivalry’ more than anything. Their inability to cooperate together has costed them several quests.

Your feelings towards the SSS trio? You care about them. They helped you plenty of times ever since you got this job recently. You really appreciate it.

Sylrel. A high elf that adopted you and raised you as her own. Basically the closest thing you have to a mother figure.

*Gnolls. Born from the gluttony of bloated hyenas feasting on human remains, emerging from their four-legged cages of flesh and lesser being, bursting out as a human-hyena hybrid that walks on two legs all whilst maintaining low intelligence, predominantly canine features and a never ending hunger.

nvy’s aftertalk:

hi guys i’m addicted to baldur’s gate 3 haha. i don’t think i can ever write modern aus properly or at all after playing that game. writing this made me realize how much of a stupid geek i am

do u like this series 👉👈, if u don’t it’s fine (i will cry if u don’t)

#jjk x reader #satosugu x reader #gojo satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #ieiri shoko x reader #stt au #whalewrites #geto x reader x gojo #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen

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alicelufenia · 1 month

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Thinking about my last reblog and how Baldur's Gate 3 character creation kinda fucked with my perception of paladins in the bg3 setting (it's specific version of the Forgotten Realms at least)

Since paladins don't get to select a deity at CC, I got the impression that paladins who's oath was not sworn before any particular god were more common than they really are.

There's technically a "Paladin of X" tag in game for dialogue, but the ONLY way to get it without mods is to also take a level of cleric and select a deity that way.

So when I made Alice as essentially a renegade paladin whose oath was sworn before no one except through her own conviction and fervor to self-actualize (she's Oath of Glory in canon) and that manifested divine power anyway, turns out that's really weird and uncommon in setting where most paladins swear an oath before a deity, and thus presumably are bound to tenets dictated by said deity (or the order of paladins they belong to, whether that reflects the true will of the god or not)

This is, in my defense, NOT how it works in tabletop 5e, where paladins select an oath but are not required to pick a deity (they still can pick one like many characters do, even those with no levels in divine casters). Giving a paladin a deity is more a nod to tradition, but RAW you're free to hold an oath without following a faith, just like you can be any alignment regardless of your oath (except maybe oathbreaker. BG3 even turns that on it's head by making it possible to be 'Good' as an oathbreaker, even restoring your oath, which isn't a thing in tabletop unless it's to repent for breaking it but without going full oathbreaker subclass)

Enter the most prominent paladin in Baldur's Gate 3, Minthara

Don't have any art saved to my phone so enjoy plushthara instead

She originally swore her oath of vengeance while in service to Lolth, to seek out and eliminate the enemies of the faith in Menzoberranzan (essentially part of the Lolthite Inquisition). This, by the way, is why she's so insightful when it comes to the other companions; it was literally her job to get good at reading people to find out what their deal was.

Her crusade against the enemies of Lolth led her and an army of House Baenre soldiers to Moonrise Towers, but instead of putting an end to the Absolute cult, she was captured, tortured for days, her soldiers killed or enthralled, and finally tadpoled and made to turn all that religious ferver and devotion towards serving the Absolute.

For this failure, Lolth abandoned her. As a Lolth-sworn drow (a problematic term basically made up for bg3 but works here) losing Lolth's favor is the most devastating thing possible, and there's almost no chance of going back. After being released from command of the Absolute by the Prism, she was, spiritually, alone for probably the first time in 250+ years of memory. Unless you come from a religious background only to lose faith later in life, you can't imagine what that's like (I don't ftr, but this is how I have come to understand it based on @spiderwarden's analysis)

And yet, despite this severing from a god that works Her way into every facet of Udadrow life, her oath endures. She remains a faithless (really faith-orphaned), but still undeniably spiritual paladin, bound to an oath that, for now, has her carrying out the same objective that sent her out of the Underdark before—destroy the cult of the Absolute, and seize that godlike power from those who control it.

When you rescue Minthara after romancing her in act 1, she says "You came. I prayed that you would, but there are no gods left for me." That raw-as-fuck line also spells out her current relationship to religion; IF a god would have her, she would be devoted. She even calls out to Lolth who, if the Spider Queen were to somehow take her back, she would in a heartbeat. With none answering her, she has no one but her savior, Tav/Durge, and their companions (whom she is now oath-bound to help whether she likes them or not)

And her natural inclination is to channel all that hurt, all that resentment and humiliation at being left with no divinity to know and to be known, into abject RAGE. Though she doesn't show it, I believe she is angrier and meaner NOW than she's ever been in life. That's why she talks about spitting on a shrine to Lolth, why she disapproves of offering tithe to any god at the Stormshore Tabernacle. Why she wants to BECOME a god, to become Absolute.

Hate is love betrayed. And I believe she had a LOT of love for Lolth.

Anyway this started as me musing on the spiritual nature of 5e paladin oaths in bg3, and kinda turned into character analysis for Minthara. Still, as the game's biggest example of a paladin who no longer serves any god but still commands divine powers to ⚔️SMITE Evil⚔️ by her oath, I think it came around in the end.

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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 3 months

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Moon-chosen, Moon-guided - Part II

What's that? The writing got away from me and now the fic has three parts instead of two? Shocking and unprecedented.

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm, Jaheira, Shadowheart, and a bit of Withers and Karlach Length: ~11500 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence and sexual content

More hurt/comfort, more trauma and coming back from the dead, more pondering mortality. But also some first kiss flashbacks, (un)likely cleric camaraderie, friendly grappling, and stomping mind flayers. This part spans the events of Act 3 of the game.

Summary:

There is a part of Aylin still in that cage. There is a part of you still in that grave. From that night of your coming-of-age ritual when you astounded all of Reithwin with the uncanny speed of your return from the woods, to your desperate flight away from your own grave, one thing has remained true. The guidance was granted, no matter the harshness or difficulty of the path. But it has always, always been up to you to walk it.

The brilliant, defiant Beacon of Last Light many revere from afar. Isobel Thorm they do not know at all.

Part I

Also on AO3.

—

Part II - First Light - The City

They call him Withers - a frankly ridiculous name - and none of them seem to have any idea who or what he truly is.

You watch in horrified awe, from what you hope is a safe and discreet enough distance, as he cleaves soul to body with such ease as to be unthinkable. And all the others observe this amazing feat of power (so painfully echoing what your father sold his life and yours and everything for) as if it were a blessing for safe travels and good weather from the village priest. You gape for a few breathless moments, then try to focus.

There is an undeniable air of divinity about him, but it is one you cannot place more precisely than the clear fact it is unlike both Aylin's blaze of moonlight and Ketheric's reek of the grave. Death and fate dance a strange, subtle, orderly choreography around him that has been unmistakeable from the moment you arrived in camp. You would not care to repeat your brushes with either of those two things, so you have found yourself avoiding him in what you can only hope are inconspicuous ways.

Yet still, here you are, your own curiosity playing its games with you. The others leave, take the shaky, freshly restored Gale over to the central campfire for warmth and thin, scrounged-up soup - and then presumably to Shadowheart for further healing. There was an element of urgency to the whole thing that strayed from mere concern for a friend into something oddly specific. You make a note of it to ask about later - though who to ask is a question on its own.

The wight-ghoul-skeleton-lich- demonstrably and evidently none of those things - Withers - tilts his head serenely to meet your gaze with a quiet challenge even as you duck behind the treeline like a child playing hide and go seek.

You pout, worry at a torn seam in your left glove, and wonder. He spoke to Aylin the other day, leaving her unusually contemplative, mood dour. But she refused to elaborate, even to you. And you, coward, squashed with great efficiency any feeble emerging thought of confronting him on her behalf.

So it is a surprise to find your feet carrying you from your woodland sanctuary until you stand before him at last, and it is an annoyance when questions stick in your throat. Who are you, truly? doesn't make it past your lips, and neither does What do you want with us? With me?

He looks up from his tome, after a while, and breaks the silence himself. "Shrink not so from death, grave-touched cleric."

"I do not fear death," you find yourself repeating to yet another, chin raised high - words you have always meant, that have nonetheless always been met with varying levels of doubt. But it is true. You never sought out death, of course, but you never feared it, either, because you knew with such certainty what awaited you afterwards. There is no loss; only temporary separation. We will see her shining spires and walk the silver gardens…

Except you turned out to be wrong. Now, after your grim awakening, you know one thing.

You died, but Selûne did not Claim you. For all your devotion and service, Your Lady did nothing; could, surely, do nothing, leaving your soul forfeit for one reason or another as a century slowly and darkly crept by.

Instead, once you were back - returned by entirely vile, unholy means - and when you called out to her amidst the suffocating darkness, She answered, put you to work and used you as the instrument of the salvation of many. Through you, Her light, Her protection. Through you, Her will.

Oh, it was a duty you took up gladly. You would have yearned to be so chosen, once. You would have been so proud. But reality proved yet again, in cruel, cruel ways, to be quite different from tales and bard songs.

Withers looks at you with those strange eyes, those singular sparks of life in a dead face. Looks into you, almost, as if digging for some hidden truth. "Indeed, thou dost not. But the trace death has left upon thee - that, perhaps, is a different matter."

You know there is something wrong with you, still. You can feel it. Have felt it ever since-- well. Nothing you've tried, no spell or prayer or ritual, has done anything to lighten the foul, rotting thing that has settled within you. Not even the archdruid's excited proclamation that the shadow curse on your home was slowly but surely lifting did much to relieve it. It is differently horrifying, however, to hear it so casually confirmed by another.

"There exist many roads to death, and just as many from it. A number of them known not even to myself, and beyond even mine accounting. And so thine path, perhaps, is something yet to be fully seen and understood. But who could be better suited to navigating the unknown than one of Selûne's shining faithful?"

"Shining," you scoff at that, bitterness rising, ingrained courtesy and highborn upbringing set aside. "Hardly. I have done my best for Our Lady, yes, because it was necessary, because there was no one else. But," you swallow, every syllable sticking barbed in your throat, "She cannot possibly want--"

This time, the words swarm, drowning each other out: me. this husk. anything to do with me.

"And so, moon-devoted, thou claimest to know better than thy goddess what she wilt?"

You feel a hot spike of anger and shame, hear it bleed into your voice. "What concern is it of yours?"

"Matters of balance are ever mine concern, and thine goddess hath a weighty counterpart and rival." He waves an almost insultingly dismissive emaciated hand. "It is no matter. Thine own father was unable to make peace with death, and instead sought to master it - an impossibility, of course. The challenge laid before thee now is different, but a challenge nonetheless."

"I-I was-," you start, stammer, taken aback by the mere mention of family ties, but he continues before you can even attempt to fully form a reply.

"I have said my piece," he states, all finality and eerie calm. "It is not in mine purview to guide."

Of course it isn't. Selûne guides. It feels like She has guided your steps since you were born, a presence in your life for as long as you can remember. Ever watching over you, ready with a twinkle of moonlight to show a path if you but asked for it, a comforting silver hand to envelop yours, to reassure and gently direct if you chose to follow it. A feather-light touch, always, but one you cannot fathom the absence of, a life without. One you feel even now, with the tiniest bit of focus on your part: soft as a warm breath on your shoulder, in this utterly unremarkable evening-darkened wood just off the side of a well-trod road.

From that night of your coming-of-age ritual when you astounded all of Reithwin with the uncanny speed of your return from the woods, to your desperate flight away from your own grave, one thing has remained true. The guidance was granted, no matter the harshness or difficulty of the path. But it has always, always been up to you to walk it.

"Thank you," you say softly to Withers, and receive no response.

Dark clouds catch up with you just outside Rivington. The ensuing storm makes for a day of travel cut frustratingly short then turned into a miserable and damp night in a hastily assembled camp.

Ironically, now that your vigil is done and you have ample chances for it, sleep mostly chooses to elude you. It seems unthinkable, away from Aylin, and difficult even when safely and reassuringly in her embrace.

But you once again have the long, late-night confidences when you're tangled up in each other, ensconced in soft blankets. Those hours were ever your favourite - and while they may be darker-tinged now, they are still a treasure regained. You've never had anyone so enraptured as Aylin always seems to be while listening to your thoughts, no matter how deep or how mundane. Even as you selfishly press your icy feet and hands against her.

And it is really quite easy to understand - after all, you yourself would be hard-pressed to find anything more fascinating than Aylin. The differences between you to be explored and the endless similarities to be surprised by, and the wonder of there always being something more to discover. Thoughtful, almost philosophical discussions that are somehow just as important as the absurd joy of recounting and reliving a perfectly uneventful day through each other's eyes.

But most of all it is the gentle, warm radiance of Aylin herself, when the Sword of the Moonmaiden is set aside, and when the weighty mantle of Selûne's daughter is briefly dropped. She's always struck you as, above all else, profoundly lonely. With her singular position, the unique burdens she bears, now only brought to the fore. You remember wondering, a century ago, amidst lovestruck daydreams in your room atop a tower, if she kept herself apart on purpose. If this was a defence against the inevitable reality of both her immortality and her eternal duty, so entwined with her being.

The thought of any carefully-kept distance, any long-constructed barrier being obliterated for you makes your breath catch all over again, as you hold her close and run gentle fingers through her hair.

What little sleep finds you that night is restless, shallow, riddled with nonsensical dreams of thick, suffocating darkness cut through by flashes of pale bone, picked clean to a shine. Through it all you keep blearily, exhaustedly focused on your efforts not to move too much, as Aylin fell asleep clinging to you tightly, her head on your chest, murmuring drowsy nothings about the sound of your heartbeat and the soft patter of the rain on the canvas of your tent. To disturb her feels unthinkable. Instead, you close your eyes and try to match her steady breathing with yours.

A moment or an hour later you blink awake and groan as your head pounds. A grey light suffuses the tent, the rain still beating down fiercely, and Aylin is nowhere to be seen. Her handiwork is evident, however, in the way you are carefully wrapped in all the mismatched blankets and covers you've collected over the past few days, and it takes some effort to extricate yourself from all except one.

Aylin is gone, but she has left behind a telltale trail of feathers. There are some in the blankets, and as you pick one out of the wool you cannot help but smile at the fond memories that bubble up. They would get caught in your clothes, your hair - yet another way in which the peculiarities of your paramour made secretive trysts all but impossible. You recall Aylin's indignant reaction when you, flustered, once tried to pass some of them off as the result of a torn duvet seam. The surge of warmth is enough to rouse you fully.

You stumble to your feet and into your boots, trying to ward off the worst of the morning chill. A peek through the flap finds Aylin standing a few steps away from the tents and the treeline, in a veritable downpour. She is perfectly still, her chin tilted up and facing away from you, wings present in all their glory and languidly outstretched, altogether more calm than you have seen her be since your reunion.

Holding the blanket tight around your shoulders as the cool air fully hits you, you step outside. Aylin herself is wearing nothing but the threadbare yet comfortable linen shirt scrounged up by your newfound allies to get her out of her century-old prison rags, and you almost want to tut - it was difficult enough to find one that fit her, and now it is utterly drenched.

It can't be very long after dawn, but the endless grey makes it somewhat hard to tell. Even without speaking up you make enough sound that Aylin notices you, inclining her head towards you slightly.

"I used to detest days like this one. Doubly so when travel was required of me, let alone flight. Cold rainwater seeping under armour, well - even Dame Aylin has her foibles." She exhales a small huff of laughter.

Then she stretches her right arm out in front of her, raising her hand to catch raindrops and observe them chasing each other in rivulets, running across and along golden scars.

"I have not felt rain on my skin in a hundred years," Aylin says, so quiet you can barely hear her from where you still stand, shivering. "A mere nuisance, once. Now I am prepared to call it a delight."

She lifts her wings, feathers ruffled up, then spreads them and shakes off what water she can. They are awe-inspiring in their impressive span from afar and beautiful in their detail up close. But what few get to know is just how soft and fine and warm they are. How welcoming.

And welcoming is the only way to describe the way Aylin steps closer, extending a chivalrous hand to you and lifting one wing above you to shelter you from the rain. "Join me, my love? One of the truest wonders of this world is the way all delight multiplies when shared with you."

You gladly take the offered hand, and when she moves to brush a kiss over your knuckles, gazing at you with eyes overflowing with affection, you feel like your chest is about to burst. You press into her side, all thoughts of cold or discomfort forgotten as if they were never there, and stay in that cherished sanctuary until the rain stops.

The bustle of a city as large and as endlessly crowded as Baldur's Gate is new to you, nigh dizzying. It's something you've only ever imagined, listening to Aylin's tales of Waterdeep, and something you planned to see in your travels that never came to pass.

You don't quite share Halsin's discomfort, but the few outings you've made in the days since your odd little band settled in the Elfsong Tavern have been somewhat overwhelming, even with Aylin and her uncanny sense of direction by your side.

But it is also where you've so far felt the least disoriented and displaced - utterly unfamiliar as it is, a hundred years ago or just yesterday makes no palpable difference to you. It is a chance, perhaps, to set aside some of your very particular burdens, at least for a little while. Nothing here is like peering into the gloom and seeing perverse outlines of Reithwin, its very ground torn asunder, the cobblestones you walked what felt like yesterday crumbling under the onslaught of shadowy vines.

And Aylin, well…

You've known Aylin to be a bit toned down - for her standards, anyway - approaching lethargic, even, around this time. Slightly more inclined to bemoan the need to get out from under the covers and leave your embrace when dawn broke. The dark period of the new moon was ever a challenge - a cruel little twist, perhaps, that her powers would be at their lowest when they were most likely to be needed.

This time, feeding your uneasiness, it is all far more pronounced than you can ever remember it being.

And really, how could it not be? Learning of another who sought to chain her and use her, not even a full month after winning back her freedom from a century of captivity - it makes you boil with rage, rage you only wish you could take out on some unsuspecting foe in combat. You barely dare imagine what it must be doing to Aylin. And dispatching the wretched wizard has seemingly done very little to help, all of it only serving to undo the scant, precious progress towards something resembling peace you two have managed to achieve in the time since your reunion.

Your eyes catch on the golden scar that cleaves across her noble chin, so often haughtily tilted, now a picture of despondency. She sits quietly in one of the plush chairs at a beautifully engraved table, a single finger idly stroking the fur of the chittering hamster that Minsc, that loud, endearing mountain of a man, claimed was going to offer her great comfort and wisdom.

She doesn't like telling you of what happened to her, what was done to her. And you only pry and draw out what you think necessary, slowly and oh-so-carefully.

But there are things that cannot escape your notice. The slight hesitance, the brief stiffening when you hold down her arms, caught up in a flurry of passion. That is new. The visible discomfort she still displays after too long a time spent indoors, without a clear view of the sky. The way sleep so often eludes both of you.

Then, her reluctance to have her back touched at all. You think of the perfectly soft trail of downy feathers on her shoulder blades even when her glorious wings are dismissed - now marred, cut through and laced with some of the worst of the gilded scars, save the ones above her heart. She flinched the first time you thoughtlessly, ever-so-casually tried to run your fingers through them, as you had a thousand times before. To have your beloved shrink away from you so suddenly felt like a blade through your very heart.

It was utterly enraging, as well.

You've on a handful of occasions caught Aylin gripping something so tightly rivulets of silvery blood had run down her hand, her breathing ragged. She is somewhere far away in those moments, and you are never sure how to bring her back, more often than not forced to let it run its course despite your attempts at soft reassurances. You have a sinking feeling, a sense of where she could be returning to, and you worry she'll get lost there, sometimes. It is a place you've never witnessed yourself, though you would have pleaded and bargained a thousand times over to take her place.

Instead, you seethe, appearing carefully contained to an outside observer, and cannot fathom how someone could bear to raise a hand to a being so good, so precious. How so many could have laid eyes on Aylin and chosen to hurt. To kill. It is unthinkable.

You take a deep, steadying breath, and sit down across from her. You don't speak, merely offer your presence from a comfortable distance, and leave the rest up to her. After a long stretch of silence, she nudges the hamster and sends him scurrying on his way. Busies her left hand with tracing the golden line that runs from around her right ring finger down to her wrist.

"'Nightsong' they called me," she starts, quietly, not looking at you, then almost snarls. "A cruel jape at my expense - as if I were nothing but Shar's plaything. Her little instrument. Hers." Her hands clench into fists on the table, and you place your own upon them gently, touch feather-light, careful not to suggest restraints.

"A daughter for a daughter," her tone is almost wry, her voice low and gravelly. "Some sick arithmetic of loss concocted between her and Ketheric Thorm."

As Aylin speaks, your eyes land, again, on the scar that goes through her bottom lip, and the one that stops just at the right corner of her mouth. The ones you have felt in kisses, on your own skin. Reminders carved into her, as eternal as she is.

The mouth twists down into a grim arc. "They poisoned him, once. That was undoubtedly one of the worst."

Deaths, she doesn't say. You've known one, and Aylin's full tally is beyond counting. The leaden silence stretches between you again.

She shakes her head, movements heavy, and visibly pulls herself back into the present, as best as she can. "No, Isobel. It is of no use. I picture the destruction of my would-be captors that I wrought with my own hands, I spin a grand tapestry of my victory, and all of it is for nothing. Still I feel… hesitant. Tired. So unlike myself. The joy of righteous battle… diminished, if not gone altogether. Lost to me."

I am lost to myself, her entire countenance cries out, and your throat tightens painfully.

She is different, understandably so - well, understandable to you, perhaps. She is also understandably frustrated by this new ground to tread, unused to something that was never supposed to be her lot.

"My darling," you begin, picking your words out one by one, so very carefully, running your thumb over her knuckles in a comforting rhythm, "time and experiences simply take their toll on us. We cannot expect to stay untouched forever - not even you. We are ever ourselves, of course, but - but made anew, different from moment to moment. There can be a joy to it, to the newness and discovery of it all."

You stop short of pointing out and praising change as one of the main teachings and virtues of Selûne herself. Your try for encouragement does not seem to hit its intended mark, anyway.

"But what if I find," Aylin grinds out through her teeth, "I do not like who I am at the moment? Who I seem to have become."

The darkness roils within your gut and the taste of rot creeps up your throat.

I don't know, my love. I don't know what to do. I don't know.

"What am I to do then?" She asks again, insistent, as frustrated as you are by the lack of a clear answer, chafing against it all. The lines of gold on her brow furrow in displeasure. "Is it my lot to wait for another nebulous change that I am to have no say in - a tenday, or a hundred years hence? Until when? Until Mother Selûne sees fit to--"

She cuts herself off in an attempt to stop her temper getting away from her, eyes squeezing shut, hands clenched into tight fists beneath your palms, breathing loud.

You imagine, sometimes: learning of her predicament and charging off to save her, Last Light be damned. Wonder if you could ever have done such a thing and lived with yourself afterwards - though you recoil at the very thought.

You imagine, then, taking a different turn in your erstwhile flight from the mausoleum. You imagine, instead of stumbling into a dilapidated inn and creating a haven there, reaching the Gauntlet and finding Aylin. Setting her free.

Dreams, nothing more. Flights of fancy. Shar would never have allowed you to reach her. Her prison was right there underneath you when you awoke, but she may as well have been thousands and thousands of miles away. And besides, the worst of the harm to Aylin had already been done. And you yourself readily accepted a different duty.

Still it churns in your mind, over and over, just as it clearly does in Aylin's: Why was there no one else to stop it all a century ago? Why was there no one to try for a hundred years?

Instead, there is this: whatever the two of you are now. Sitting across from each other, eyes locked on the interplay of your hands. There is a part of Aylin still in that cage. There is a part of you still in that grave.

And there is the haunting, niggling thought that all your efforts are merely you trying to make her whole and hale enough again in order to be ready for your own inevitable second death. And oh, she seems to have borne it remarkably well the first time, all things considered - you feel strangely proud when you think of it. But things are different now, and so is your immortal paramour; this unfading, eternal, amaranthine being you've inadvertently burdened with the struggle of mortality.

What future is there in store for you? Some far-flung decade that you would have dreamed up once: you, ancient, and Aylin, glorious, untarnished by the wear of time and untouched by the world.

Except she isn't so above it all, is she?

In the end, you fear the one way forward for both of you is this: moment by treasured or agonising moment. Day by precious or miserable day. It will all only ever be what you two make of it - which, after all, is how it is for any couple in love, young or otherwise, isn't it? A charmingly ordinary thought that makes the corners of your lips want to perk up despite everything weighing you down.

"I think," you begin slowly, "the only thing we can truly do is live on. In the face of everything, in spite of everything, as best we know how." And then, just to drive your point home, you tighten your hold on her hands and her gaze both. "Together. And I want you to know that if you need me to, I am always prepared to simply listen."

For once you are so very certain you have the full measure of her great might and ability: whatever she may claim, Aylin cannot do this alone. Shouldn't need to, besides.

She has you. And you have always been a stubborn one, much to your father's chagrin.

Aylin heaves a deep, heavy sigh, wide shoulders straightening, visibly attempting to pull herself out of her gloomy reverie and reinforcing some internal bulwark. "With you by my side, dearest Isobel, how could I do anything but my utmost best?"

Your thoughts still stray, unwitting, in the direction of mortality and you try to refocus - no loss, only a temporary separation. No loss. You pray it is so. That this time, when the fateful moment inevitably comes, you will be granted the kindness.

In the meantime, you're not about to lie down and wait. You can think of a few less fateful moments you'd like to fill your days with, even as the threat of an unprecedented evil and the culmination of your efforts against the Absolute looms over you all.

"Aylin," you tug on her hand lightly, and she looks back up at you questioningly. "Let's go out - see more of the city, perhaps."

She seems confused, more than anything, but even this is enough to burst the last of the dour, heavy bubble that had begun to settle over the both of you. "My love…?"

"A stroll by the docks, maybe? And then, well, not necessarily today, but…" You trail off, daydreams catching up with you. "Once the fight is done, and we have a moment to ourselves, we can take one of the boats downriver. The sea is a sight to behold, I hear, and lovely this time of year - and, well, I've yet to see it."

The river you've lived by your whole life, but the ships departing Moonrise always left without you. There is much to amend.

Aylin smiles - it is genuine, if still tinged with that uncharacteristic tiredness around the edges - then raises your hand to her lips. "Who am I to deny my darling such an easily fulfilled request?"

You allow yourself another mote of seriousness. "The day seems perfectly clear and warm, and I'd love to share it with you, Aylin. But if you would prefer not to, I understand."

She shakes her head, and holds the hand she has just kissed between both of hers, enveloping it so very tenderly. "I would be honoured, Isobel. You who cherish me, who hold me entire in your caring hands even when pieces of me grind against each other most inharmoniously. What greater prize in this world, but even an hour more spent in your company?"

You swallow against a sudden lump in your throat, stricken by the intensity of the feeling, the naked adoration in her eyes, still tinged with the impossible wonder of your reunion. All of your hours. However many remain. You would gladly give her all of them, as numbered as they are.

Aylin stands up and holds out her arm to you, the very picture of gallantry. "And perhaps - to drive away some of this malaise - a flight? My darling need not wait for a boat if she wishes to behold the sun set over the sea. I will show you the ocean that bathes Argentil in my Mother's light, one day. But for now, this one will have to suffice."

You rise and, instead of taking her arm, you step forward to embrace her and bury your nascent smile against the reassuring beat of her great and precious heart.

The rot within is more subdued than it ever has been, now that you are well and truly out of the shadow. Aylin's mere presence noticeably keeps it at bay - and that is one remedy you truly cannot find fault with. Her insistent, devoted applications of her own brand of healing and blessings help immensely, as well, each time she settles in behind you, enveloping you in her arms and wings and the soft silver glow that is just as pliant at her fingertips as you are in those moments. With her at your back, it feels impossible to doubt, impossible to feel unworthy or tarnished in any way.

But when the last traces of even the most fervent of Aylin's efforts inevitably fade away, it is still there: the foul, unnameable thing. And you fear more and more that it always will be. It doesn't take being apart from her for very long for the cough to start up again, for the insidious cold to crawl relentlessly up your spine and all the way down to your fingertips, and the hitch to appear in your breath at the first sign of more significant strain.

There are more important things to devote your attention to, however.

You conclude your business with the Selûnite enclave with a promise to return with aid and with none other than the Moonmaiden's daughter herself. Emboldened by the warm reception despite their dire circumstances, you bask in the familiarity and sheer sense of belonging among people you've never met before, but who feel tied to you with the same silver threads that once twined around you and your family and your moonlight-bathed home, and wider still.

A way to dull the ache of the keenly-felt absence, perhaps: weaving a new tapestry altogether.

After a prolonged farewell, you set out back towards the city and your companions, all under the still weak but enduring light of the sickle moon only starting to wax. The night is Your Lady's domain, just as much as it is Shar's. You refuse to let her claim go unchallenged, and you march forward confidently, a fistful of summoned silver flame to show the way.

It is early morning by the time you return, perfectly unaccosted and somewhat smug. The streets around the Elfsong are abuzz with everything the start of a new day entails, a veritable hive of purposeful activity.

Your rooms, however, seem to be more than that. The noises of a struggle reach you as you climb the stairs, concern furrowing your brow and driving you to rush, washing away any lingering effects of your sleepless night. But as you reach the door, you realise it doesn't sound like an attack: there is a familiar tangle of voices, none of which sound distressed, and there are… cheers?

"A well-fought and invigorating bout!"

The first words you make out as you carefully crack the door open are Aylin's - as if your very ears are attuned to her somehow, as if all of you is searching for her, always.

"Damn right you're invigorated, you slippery angelic fucker," Karlach's voice is next, unmistakeable, brimming with laughter and only slightly out of breath.

You open the door fully and step inside, only to be faced with what is clearly an improvised arena taking up the majority of the sunken area around the large fireplace, an array of mismatched cushions on the floor carefully delineating a ring. The thick rugs and skins have been piled up in one corner, and Astarion is lounging atop them, trying his best to exude boredom.

The rest of the varyingly invested audience is scattered around the open communal area, Wyll and Minsc leaning against the balustrade eager for the best view, most others sitting in displaced chairs. Some of your companions are still enjoying breakfast, and some, like Shadowheart, are enjoying some breakfast wine. You step forward, eyebrows raised as you take it all in, and move to stand next to Shadowheart's perch on one of the massive hardwood two-seaters that someone took the time to move up here.

"D'ya know, never thought I'd get a chance to duke it out with a godchild. Nevermind fighting alongside one," Karlach is bouncing on the balls of her feet, shaking the strain out of her arms, and you see her flared-up flames slowly subsiding, heat visibly rippling just underneath her skin. "One more round, then? Tiebreaker?"

Aylin, pacing around the other side of the ring from her, turns to face her and inclines her head in a show of respect. But whatever reply she was going to give is cut short when your unannounced presence is finally noticed by her opponent.

"Or maybe not?" Karlach nods towards you, then winks, warm and playful. "Wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of your fine little lady friend, after all."

Aylin follows her gaze and the moment she sees you, she seems to grow a size larger, all aglow. She beams up at you from her place across from Karlach, the two of them obviously tousled and sweaty and still catching their breath. Judging by the way they are both dressed as if they've just rolled out of bed, this… athletic competition is what they've, for whatever reason, decided to start the day with. You give in to the laughter you feel bubbling up, decide not to question any of this, and sit down next to Shadowheart.

"Graced by the gaze of my darling Isobel, defeat becomes an impossibility," Aylin proclaims, and you give her a perfect little ladylike wave, as if dispensing a blessing.

Her wide grin is matched by Karlach's, and they step to face each other again. But Karlach suddenly stops and hastily gestures at a deathly serious Lae'zel who is moving forward to stand between them, one arm half-raised. The… referee of the proceedings?

"Oh, oh, oh. Shouldn't we wait for Isobel to give you a handkerchief or something?"

"There is no need," Aylin answers the teasing, a picture of serious earnestness, radiating confidence and pride, looking up to meet your gaze once more, one hand to her chest. "The truest token is my heart, given to her entire and for eternity, and her own to me."

"Gods, I love that woman," you murmur to yourself, and place a hand over your own heart to mirror her gesture. Shadowheart snorts next to you and you elbow her, not taking your eyes off Aylin.

There was a brief interlude, early in your courtship, where you both decided to try for ill-advised secrecy. Why or how this came about you can't even remember, but you do remember enough to look back and laugh at the sheer futility of it.

A thankfully short period when you thought it very lucky and convenient that your knightly paramour had wings, and your rooms a balcony. As if all of Reithwin didn't see her glow with irrepressible joy when going to see you, as if she didn't perch on your railing in full silver-blue plate. Your everything-but-secret lover is a radiant beacon, and your love was made to be basked in - it was really quite simple.

Lae'zel huffs, signalling for the talk to cease and the bout to proceed. "Assume positions. Fight."

It is a delightful spectacle when they meet in a grapple, and you arch your eyebrow at Shadowheart's rapt gaze as she sits beside you, leaning ever forward, her cup threatening to slip out of her hand.

But a couple of singed floorboards later and a mess of feathers everywhere - really, far from the worst the poor apartment has seen - Jaheira storms in and forces the goings-on to a stop with a single command, ensuring the score will be forever unsettled.

In the aftermath, as the ruckus and disappointment both subside, you do a quick once-over of the damage to mentally add to the proprietor's repair fund tally. The vampire spawn ambush the other night made sure at least one of the rooms of the suite was currently uninhabitable.

Scratch lopes over to you as you do the rounds, not seeming to mind the noise or the lively chaos at all. He knows very well, in that uncanny canine way, who is the most likely to spoil him rotten - and so you do, with very little prompting. Jaheira raises an eyebrow and smirks at you as you give your report to her, sitting on the floor without the slightest pause in the belly rub you are administering, half-occupied by thoughts of needing to find a decent brush for dog fur.

You recall how utterly terrified you were when Scratch approached you the first time you joined the camp - so convinced he was about to take one sniff of you and growl at the wrongness that you simply froze. Instead, he almost toppled you with the sheer enthusiasm of his welcome, tail wagging into a blur, licking your face the moment you crouched down to bury your hands in the warmth of his soft white fur. You laughed until you cried, some dam within you breaking utterly, and drove poor Aylin into a state of confused panic.

With one final good boy as you pat down the fur you've ruffled, you send Scratch on his merry way. Then you get up, only mildly reluctant, smooth down your robes, and pull your gloves back on. As you flex your fingers in the supple leather you try not to think about how the chill comes on so very quickly.

You go looking for Aylin, only to find her and Karlach in a tight embrace, almost clinging to each other, slapping each other's backs, laughing breathlessly with such abandon it makes your heart feel light as a feather and a smile bloom on your face, wide and unrestrainable.

But then you stop and duck behind a corner, because the laughter is turning into a conversation and you dare not risk an interruption. For days you have been trying to nudge Aylin back towards talking to the others, joining in, finding a kindred spirit, to little avail. Now, perhaps, she has managed on her own.

"Sort yourself out, yeah?" You catch Karlach's quiet words, brimming with shockingly kind concern, even as they are accompanied by a light fist to Aylin's shoulder. "And make sure you take care, despite, you know. Despite everything. For her. But for yourself, too."

The inclination of her head towards where you were sitting with Shadowheart mere minutes ago makes your breath hitch a bit, and you feel the burn of guilt for eavesdropping.

"Let's just say… I know the trap of going on like you've got all the time in the world. Fell into that one arse-over-teakettle one time too many. And, well. Here we are now. One very tight and busy schedule to live on."

"I wish I had aid to offer. I would beseech my Mother--"

"What, calling down divine intervention for little old me? Please. We'll figure something out, if it comes to that. Anyway, no time to waste, too much homecoming to enjoy, too many evil and-or tentacled skulls to crack, right?"

There is a smile in Karlach's voice as she stubbornly diverts away all concern for herself, and it makes your chest clench painfully. You feel suddenly overwhelmed with the worry you'll interrupt whatever this nascent and much needed thing between the two of them is, so you do your best to slink away unnoticed.

The enclave has one of the simplest yet loveliest shrines to Selûne you have seen. Outside of the bustle of the city and a little ways uphill, they've housed it in a small, plain-walled circular room in the midst of the enclave itself, its centre left open to the heavens. There are no seats or pews or even tiles on the floor, only soft grass carefully maintained to a perfect length, surrounding an unnaturally still pool. In the middle of it, as if hovering over the water, one arm outstretched in welcome towards the entrance, is a statue of the Goddess herself, wrought in white stone, pearl, and lapis lazuli. Almost miraculously, this place has survived all the attacks of the Absolutist forces untouched, and even served as a sanctuary for those unable to fight, for a little while.

As you make your way inside to enjoy some morning peace and offer up a brief prayer in calm, pleasant solitude, Shadowheart is the very last person you expect to find there. She is sitting, seemingly engrossed in calm meditation. Her newly silvery-white hair matches the mother-of-pearl inlaid in stone so perfectly you pause for a moment to appreciate the sight - for its beauty and for all it truly signifies.

"Hello, Shadowheart," you greet her almost cautiously, stopping a few steps behind her.

"Oh," she turns to face you, startled out of her contemplation - of the pool, or the statue, or nothing at all, you can't tell. "Hello. I-I wanted to see where it was you two'd run off to."

You tilt your head and spread your arms as if to envelop the entirety of the place. "Here we are. Though I'm afraid you just missed Aylin - she is taking some of the more martially inclined faithful out on a patrol."

Shadowheart nods, but still seems oddly distracted, or lost in thought, and turns away from you again. You let her set the pace of the conversation, let the silence be.

"I just thought…" She finally starts, tentative, as if feeling out the shape of the words before she speaks them. She doesn't look at you or face you, all of her attention on Selûne's still, carved visage. "I wanted to know if I'd… feel something new, or different."

"Do you?" You prompt simply, and move to sit beside your unexpected guest.

"Not really," she mumbles, head bowed, brow furrowed, seeming almost frustrated. "I- I don't know."

Silence blankets the small shrine again.

"I found them," Shadowheart says finally, voice carefully level. "My parents."

"That is… incredible news." But you keep your enthusiasm in check, because her face drops immediately.

"I barely got to talk to them. To know them at all, to remember them. It feels like I was introduced to them just enough to be pained by their loss. Their death. By my own hand. In exchange for a chance at being free from her."

Your heart falls at her words, and you shut your eyes and bow your head. You don't need to press for details - Shar's cruelty is something you are all too aware of.

After a moment, you reach between you and place a gentle hand over hers - where that telltale dark purple mark now seems to be fading, healing. Then, you start to muster up the words, voice kept quiet, level, and soft.

"I was a child when my mother passed. There are pictures, statues, but… it's been so long." You've never shared this with anyone, not even Aylin. "I feel oddly nervous, sometimes, that one day I'll make it to the Gates of the Moon and she'll be there, waiting for me, and I won't recognise her at first. Can you imagine? The… awkwardness? It's the silliest thing to think about, I feel, and yet I've fretted over it so many times."

You try to laugh it off, weakly, wryly. Then you squeeze her hand in yours, and it makes your heart feel just that little bit lighter when she squeezes back.

"Grief is but a part of love, I think," you begin again, letting your gaze catch on the way the blades of grass bend beneath your joined hands, soft and pliable. "If I had to choose between suffering through inevitable sorrow or never truly feeling anything, only to be spared the pain - well, I'd like to think the choice is so obvious as to hardly be a choice at all. But I am aware - painfully so, in recent times - that it isn't such an easy choice to make for others."

It is something in which you and Aylin are entirely of one mind, and an agreement without which you are certain your relationship could never have blossomed: refusing love in order to avoid the pain of its loss is no way to live.

The void of Shar, the numbness and nothingness - that is true death.

"You will be reunited with them again, one day, if you so wish. Walk in silver gardens…" The precious words bubble up, as they have so frequently been doing of late. "There need be no loss, not truly, for us. Only a temporary separation."

Shadowheart doesn't say anything, but moves closer to you, and rests her head on your shoulder. You feel a small shudder run through her, and you know you would see tear stains gathering on your robe were you to look. But you do not. Instead, you rub your thumb against the back of her hand in gentle circles.

You stay that way for a while; long enough for the sun to climb in the sky and shine down into the shrine, bringing the water of the pool to life in a rather lovely display. The gold rays reflect into silver, lining the entire sanctuary with intricate designs.

"May I?" You ask Shadowheart as you give her hand a gentle tug, the first words to disturb the peace of the moment.

You twine your fingers through hers when she gives a curt nod, and then nudge as if to grasp at something in the air. Guiding the gestures, more than anything, and waiting for her to follow. As is only fit.

At first, nothing. Then, silver threads weave themselves around both of your hands, winding in between your fingers. Coalescing, finally, into a bright point in Shadowheart's palm. She cups her hand around it, closes, grasps - then brings it down for the two of you to look at.

A small silver half-moon attached to a fine chain lies in her hand.

"Well, look at that. A proper holy symbol." You smile your best encouraging smile at Shadowheart, whose brow is furrowed in mild confusion as she turns the little pendant around and around.

"What- what am I supposed to do with it?" She blurts out, finally.

You shrug. "Whatever you want." Then, still keeping your tone airy and light: "It's a gift. A keepsake. No strings attached, I'd like to point out, despite appearances - Our Lady just happens to be something of a weaver, you see."

"I… didn't really know that, even with all the endless preaching against her I sat through," Shadowheart replies, frown deepening. "I also don't really think she's, well…"

"My Lady, then," you acknowledge, indulging her. You remember your vow to yourself of treating her with patience and kindness. "And I've never known Her to give a gift and expect something in return. It is Hers to give, nothing else. Yours to use it, or not - that's entirely up to you. Like it is for all of us."

It is precisely the lightness of Her touch and the endless respect for mortal will that you would blame for what happened to your father, your home. To you and Aylin. And blame is far too strong and unfair a word, perhaps, and something about it all rings a bit hollow still where you feel it shouldn't - but you stifle a sigh and note it down for the future as something you need to contemplate and work through yourself. Include in a prayer or two, maybe.

But it is certainly not something you feel ready to discuss with Shadowheart just yet.

She gives a little snort-laugh, and you'd almost say you feel triumphant at the sound. "You sound just like Aylin."

You raise an eyebrow. "Well, far be it from me to claim it unlikely we'd rub off on each other, but my darling is rather unique, and so is her way of speaking. I wouldn't really compare myself--"

"No, no," Shadowheart is insistent now, and her grin is turning dangerous as - you do notice - she very pointedly turns the conversation to different topics. "I'm sure of it. Gods, you two are insufferable. And I'm not sure if you're worse together - pardon the expression - mooning over each other, or when someone's somehow managed to pry you apart for all of two minutes and you instead decide to yearn."

"We've well earned the right to be insufferable, I think," you snip back, cheekily. You quite like this Shadowheart, you find. A bite to her still, but not with the intent to truly harm. Merely… keep you on your toes, perhaps.

Shadowheart scoffs, but without even a hint of malice. Then, very softly, she admits: "Yes. You did."

She smirks again, as the two of you rise and make your way out into the unassumingly lovely day, Selûne's gaze escorting you out like a friendly hand on your backs. "Though you could perhaps work on some subtlety. Take it from a former… well… not-quite-Sharran. It's not always a bad thing, not wearing your heart on your sleeve."

"You know," you tap your chin with a single finger, as if pondering a difficult problem, "I'm not sure Aylin is capable of that."

"You doubt your glorious paladin's abilities? I am shocked, Isobel." Shadowheart places a hand against her chest in mock-horror, pausing in your walk down the gravel path winding in between hastily-erected but comfortable dwellings.

"I do not doubt. I know. And I know I would never ask her to even attempt to subdue herself so. Dame Aylin." The two of you giggle like schoolchildren, what had perhaps begun as forced levity turning entirely genuine.

Then, Shadowheart leans closer, conspiratory, and slightly wicked. "Oh, we've all heard Dame Aylin go on. 'The most precious treasure in the world is the noble heart in the chest of fair Isobel.'" Then, an almost innocuous nudge at your shoulder with hers. "'The most delectable feast in the world lies betwixt the thighs of sweet Isobel.'"

You rub your temples with one hand, your other arm busy sending a sharp little elbow in Shadowheart's direction as she almost skips away. Your face is heated, but not unpleasantly so. "Oh, Aylin. She is incorrigible."

"But you love it."

"Guilty," you let out a heavy sigh that melts into a laugh.

But then you turn towards seriousness again, and muster up something you've wanted to tell Shadowheart for a while but never quite got the chance to.

"Thank you," you say, taking both her hands in yours and standing facing her, forcing herself to meet her eyes. "Thank you for bringing her back to me. I know it has cost you much."

"It's cost me everything," Shadowheart replies simply. "But it has brought me everything as well."

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 was sending 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.

You trained to be a cleric. Uniquely gifted and blessed from a young age, you excelled.

You prepared to travel and adventure, to right wrongs and heal hurts and bring the Lady of Silver's light to all that might find themselves in need of it, your glorious paladin at your side. That, you never got to do, all your life and promise snatched away from you.

After your reawakening, you were chosen, in one way or another, to be a protector, and protect you did.

But now you find yourself cast in the role of a battlefield medic in a city under siege. Nothing could have prepared you for the sights, the sounds, the smells. Not even the shadow curse's foul grip on your home.

You drain every drop of light and magic from yourself every day. And every day you reach within and wring out just a little more, fervent prayers on your lips, bloodied and worn hands knitting together injuries, conjuring up food and water for starving refugees, calming the fog of violence and war in wounded minds. Shielding and protecting from stray arcane bolts and fending off freshly-turned mind flayers, too.

Every day, Aylin takes to the skies, to the walls, to the Upper City, to wherever she is needed, wherever the battle is raging most hotly.

And every night she returns to you and holds you and whisper-pours devotion into your ear until you finally still in the few hours of sleep you are granted.

And then you wake and do it all over again.

The task of steadfast faith, you called it once. It is not nearly as long as your vigil in Last Light, but the few days since the escalation of the tremors beneath the city into an all-out attack are the most draining of your life.

Still you refuse the very thought of stopping. Selûne burned herself to give the world the sun, after all, and did not complain of the pain. Whatever you have left of your own self is the least you can give.

You are fighting alongside a cornered group of Harpers and a few fellow Selûnites from the enclave when it all reaches an explosive finale. The brain-shaped monstrosity topples out of the sky and into the Chionthar for everyone to see, turning its tightly controlled forces on the ground all throughout the city into little more than a confused, easily routed mob.

Aylin alights on the mind flayer that is clutching at its bulbous head and cowering before you just as you are about to finish it off with a well-aimed bolt of moonlight, ending its misery with great finality.

She is covered in gore and soot and far too many gruesomely varied kinds of muck. The feathers of her wings are ruffled and scrambled and some of them even broken, and a telltale imprint of a tentacle lash runs from her jaw down across her neck. But she is gloriously triumphant and resplendent even so, and you do not mind it one bit when she picks you up in a crushing embrace, spins the two of you around with a great, bellowing, utterly victorious laugh you feared you would never get to hear again, then kisses your cheeks and your brow and your lips until you are both breathless.

#baldur's gate 3 #isobel thorm #dame aylin #aylin x isobel #fanfiction #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #what's that you say knight/lady flavoured nonsense oh don't mind if i do #if isobel thorm has one fan it's me if she has no fans i've died or something... how does that spiel go

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apothecaryforwearysouls · 2 months

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@callsignbaphomet has opened the door to my opinions on magic in fallout ✨️ woe be upon ye <3

Okay okay okay sooooooooooo! This goes back all the way to my original playthrough of point lookout! Not only is this where we find the Necronomicon (I know its not called that but come one.) We see the Blackhall family praying and worshipping and reading from it. We are told it has power! The swamp people are drawn to it as well. In my mind it has to be able to give magical powers of some sort. Not to mention we are asked by Marcella to help destroy the book. Now I have a personal belief that her search for religious artifacts points to the artifacts having power as well.

Now my theory is we have 4 versions of magic that can be accessed, however none of them are arcane in nature. In fallout science is the stand in for arcane magics to me. The magic we are seeing is faith based, clerics, paladins, warlocks, etc. So let's talk about them one at a time.

ATOM: we see that the children of Atom have boons and benefits like immunity to radiation. They are the the most prevalent and widespread religion that we get to see. We see that they accept all of Atoms children. Ghouls of all types are seen as deeply connected to Atoms holy light! (It's why I theorize that Atom is at war with the eldritch entities but another time for that.) I feel like the CoA are capable of more feats than we get to see in game. Bethesda gave us a bit more of their capabilities in Far Harbor. We walked the hallucinations and we're guided to the answers we needed. I'm a big fan of the idea that the children are more important than we give credit for.

2. Ug-Qualtoth: they keep giving us locations and quests for this evil thing! He'll in the ttrpg they have an entire adventure associated! The two major characters we see tied to this are the Dunwich family and Lorenzo. The Dunwich family are directly tied to rituals, artifact finding, and sacrifices to the old gods which has given them extended lives and who knows what else! And with Lorenzo we get to see the effects his blood has not to mention the psychic powers he uses!! Oh and pickman too! His paintings are definitely related.

3. The Mothman: so this is the most recent addition to this ever growing web. But we see the effects of the mothman cults, we see that the Mothman can give you buffs and visions. The former church in 76 houses tomes you cannot read without keeping your connection to Mothman. It's ability to teleport in puffs of black smoke and prophetic abilities are undeniable.

4. I'll call this the miscellaneous section: we know ghosts are real (I'm counting them the more magical aspects of the games given supernatural entities and magic go hand in hand alot.) In Nukaworld we have the Ghoul magician who was capable of things that is more than just simple slight of hand. Going back to Marcella, she was searching for religious artifacts. In my mind that makes me thing that Christian artifacts hold some level of power even if minor given how the religion has fallen from its massive pre war following.

All in all I've been a devout believer in magic within the fallout universe and think they really need to add more aspects of magic and the supernatural in the games and not just the ttrpg. I know they probably don't want to because of pushback but it's so obvious that there is a dark undertone to this setting!

I don't think it would break any kind of cannon for a character to have some type of powers/abilities through a worship of a god/entity. (My brain is struggling but please if you have ideas or questions feel free to ask!)

#<3 #fallout #magic

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thettrpgtournament · 11 months

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Why you should vote for each of them and full art below!

Halos Lightbringer (by @cl3ric for Dungeons & Dragons)

(art by @alanahsart-blog)

Halos is a Half Orc cleric of Light from the campaign Silverlinings! Hailing from a small island off the coast of Nicodranas and raised by two loving, still alive adoptive parents, she was driven to become a cleric of Pelor because of her cousin and role model Priya, a paladin of the same god. Halos strives to help others while maintaining a positive attitude-- this can be a little off putting to her coworkers in a "why are you so happy that we have to get mutant rats out of the sewer" way. She loves talking, cooking for her friends, and being a good cleric.

Her main arc so far is her struggle in balancing her faith and her friendship-- when her best friend (and pathetic little meow meow) Argos is revealed to have killed a lighthouse keeper due to something taking control of them in their sleep, Halos helps them and the rest of the party lie to the police when they're questioned. This leaves Halos questioning if she's still a good person, if she's still righteous, and a fear of losing her place as a cleric starts to grow. She resolves to make sure that Argos never hurts another person again if she can stop it. So far it's been successful! ‍‍ ‍‍ ‍‍

A vote for Halos is for religiously obsessed magical girls! ‍‍ ‍‍

Misphi Nesolis (by @apricot-sprites for Dungeons & Dragons)

(art by @alanahsart-blog)

Misphi Nesolis was a divination wizard with big, big goals…that goal being attaining the status of god. She was raised as part of a cult that she later broke away from..She's power hungry, undeniably selfish, broke fate a couple times, and over the course of several years with Divided Wisdom (The Party!),made one (1) friend and killed both her parents…(It wasn't personal, she just really wanted the power they held).

She saved the world by refusing to change when given the choice of chosing power over her party members(and proved a point the creator of the universe saw needed proving) and become the God of Power, Knowledge and Madness…. and… several other domains! She once went back in time to organise a meeting for the present day, died once but got better, and was loved by wild magic storms (It leveled her up separately from the party twice!) Did 87 damage to someone who did 12 to her…..and two of the party members called to her via god connection link to teleport them home after getting drunk…..now that's god uber!

The end of the campaign consisted of Divided Wisdom taking on the role of caretakers of the universe to reverse the spell that had tried to destroy it, forgotten by all that knew them, save for one little god who had the last link of contact to the world ;3

#tournament poll #season 2 #s2 round 2a

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fenharel · 8 months

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saskia i am on my hands and knees begging for some ysabel info! what’s her backstory? what’s she like during the game? she’s so 🥰💖

[PERSONALITY]

Ysabel is a noble, Lolth Sworn Drow, living in Menzoberrazan and is a School of Divination Wizard

Shes an chaotic neutral ENTP, Gemini, 125 years old and 1.60m tall

Ysabel is creative and intelligent, mischievous and cunning. Some perceive her as quirky, eccentric - funny, confident with a giant ego, but also power hungry and selfish, sometimes cruel. She has always been full of ideas, always thinking of new and better ways to do things. She’s always been curious, more often than not you find her with her nose stuck in a book. Her childhood bedroom was exploding with books about fungi or tomes like “The past and present: a Scholars Guide to Divination”.

She’s also rather extroverted and a social chameleon, excellent at manipulation and persuasion, something her mother often took advantage of, as she would often use her children like chess pieces in her political affairs.

[BACKSTORY]

The noble house of Do’Rahel is one of the 8 powerful houses in Menzoberranzan

Ysi has two older sisters (Yris, Yvory) and one younger brother (Ysmael, my warlock charlatan & very first D&D oc 😘)

Their mother (Yaelryn Do’Rahel) is a matron mother, a priestess of Lolth and a powerful and influential figure in Menzoberrazan’s affairs

As most intelligent people are prone to, Ysabel was more questioning of things like societal norms or rules and ideas than what was socially acceptable in the Cult of Lolth, something her mother often reminded her of through whipping. But her mother was also more progressive than some would believe - when her daughter showed more interest in the arcane than continuing her training as a cleric she encouraged it. She thought that having one of her daughters in the circle of the Sorcere was something that could be beneficial to her.

After a particularly nasty ambush on Ysabel (your regular weekend in the Underdark really) her mother assigned one of their warriors as her personal guard - a tiefling slave called Lucien (Side note but he’ll be romancing Shadowheart in a future playthrough 🤓)

Lucien was in his early twenties and enslaved for around 5 years at the time, he was passionate and charming, warm and strong. But he was also as cunning as he was kind. Ysabel liked him, and often would spend more time with him than was strictly necessary. He had Ysabel figured out quickly, and noticed that traits in her that might be weaknesses in her mothers eyes, could be his opportunity. That growing close to her could be his ticket to get free.

But things didn't necessarily work out for him at first as he would have thought - both of them fell in love.

He would tell her stories of his previous life, about his ideals and morals, about the world above. How children do not fear for their life where he is from, how parents love their children unconditionally, how he missed feeding the neighbors ducks before he would go to school. Ysi would laugh at him sometimes, call him weak and soft. But sometimes she would indulge in his stories. Catching herself thinking of them in bed before she go meditating. How strange it must be to live so truly carefree.

The influence Lucien had on her was undeniable. Small and meaningless at first maybe but there nonetheless. There were glimpses of true kindness in Ysabel only he got to see. Glimpses of love - real love, not just the craving for flesh or power he was accustomed to from other Drow. He saw that he had shaken her morals and beliefs, slightly perhaps, but shaken. So when she finally wanted to set him free out of her own volition, instead of running when his binding spell was broken he asked for her to come with him.

She helped him to stage his own death and broke his bonds and let him go, but she didn’t go with him. This would be a turning point in her life, something she regretted for the rest of her existence, something she kept thinking about for years on end.

For many years after, she buried herself in her tower. She never dared to think of why she said no, instead she sat in front of her mirror of memories, where she relived the time she had with Lucien. But in doing so, a part of herself, the past party in fact, was lost in it. Her present self was split in half. She was either overly good or overly evil, and she became known for being mad and for research and experiments that were even extreme by Drow standards.

She was in this state for at least 60 years. She had short periods of time where she managed to stabilize herself through experiments, but it never worked for long. Nevertheless, she made a name for herself, she was an extremely powerful wizard, was considered one of the masters of Sorcere and had a place in their council. (Much to their dismay. Assassination attempts from her colleagues were a daily occurrence tbh.)

[GAME TIMELINE]

House Do’Rahel was infiltrated by Absolute cultists, leading to the almost death of her sisters Yris and Yvory, and the losing a handful of their staff members. Ysabel's mother also heard rumors of similar things happening in House Baenre and other houses all over the city. Sensing a bigger plot, instead of sending warbands like her colleagues, she only send Ysabel and a handful of warriors on a scouting mission. She was to gather as much information as possible. If she would see an opportunity beneficial to them - she should take it, and most importantly she was also to kill or capture any heretic or deserter of Lolth.

The trail they followed led them to the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate. She didn’t know it at the time but she was on her way to Moonrise Towers when she was abducted. When she woke up in the Nautiloid, the tadpole didn’t just strip her of her powers, but also stabilized her mind.

Being fully herself again after so long felt like having someone forcefully pushing a heart back into her. At the beginning of her journey she’s manipulative (she does a lot of the “heroic” options not because she thinks it’s the right thing to do, but because she thinks it’s a smarter way to uncover what is going on and/or because working with the Absolute would go against Lolth), she’s also selfish and a bit cruel, but a lot of things she does suddenly don’t feel the same to her anymore, and an top of that the problem with the tadpole - it forces her into introspection.

At some point she realizes that her companions remind her of Lucien, and the time she had with him. Her development throughout the game mainly consists of her realizing that she rather wants love and friendship than pure ruthless power. She develops a consciousness, empathy. Something Lucien already built the groundwork of so many years ago. She realizes she was too much of a coward back then, that she couldn't let go of all that power and desert Lolth even though that's what she really wanted. Surrounded by her new friends, she doesn’t want to make the same mistake again. In her mind, she’ll never be truly good, much less a hero. But she doesn’t want to be what she used to be either. Seeing real friendship, love, experiencing it for herself, she realizes the only times she wasn't hollow was with Lucien - and now, with them.

Her new friends act as mirrors to herself as well. She sees herself in Gale when he gets obsessed over the Crown, she sees herself in Astarion when he’s willing to kill all his former friends for power. And she sees herself in Lae’zel, Wyll & Shadowheart when it comes to the influence a God, Goddess or devil can have on you. They were all on the path she already walked on, and the guilt she is carrying with her over things she can’t change anymore is overwhelming, so she stops them all, helps them see what is truly important.

About the reason she was in Baldur’s Gate in the first place, she isn’t honest with her companions at first, she has obviously her own agenda like everyone else in that camp. She was forced to explain herself by Wyll when she let True Soul Nere kill the Gnomes. Having a tadpole in her head made everything more personal of course, she starts going against the Absolute not in the name of Lolth or for her mother but for herself and her own beliefs in Act 2.

After the game, her mind is still hers. Going through so much change and admitting her biggest fears repaired herself, like a curse she casted and then lifted on herself. Also, she and Astarion guide the Vampire spawn in the Underdark for a while, and she also researches for ways to make Astarion walk in the sun again (and I like to headcanon that she succeeds :3)

If you want to take a peak, here is Ysabels pinterest 🥺, and since i mentioned Lucien, here is his'.

#shadowglens #answered #thank you for enabling me sophie. i wanted to post an info dumb for so long but im such a lazy mf #im leaving kisses on ur forehead but im also running away in fear. god i already cut this down but it's still so long IM SO SORRY 😭#you: whats her backstory; me: here is my essay. kdjfslkjflsf #ysabel do'rahel #ocs tag #bg3 spoilers #lucien lovera #& yes u guessed right. jekyll & hyde was my inspiration for her Lul. also redemption arcs are my unguilty pleasure :3 #idk if i was really able to explain it but ysi's biggest flaws are cowardice and stagnation???#having a damn mindflayer worm in her brain gave her finally the kick in the butt to be honest with herself #i think even if her mind would have stayed intact she would still have stayed in the underdark. she just would have been unhappier about it #or worse. however u wanna call it #oh side note but she was neutral evil before the lucien times. then become somewhat CN (then was split into chaotic good/chaotic evil.)#her current desposition is chaotic neutral. just to clarify since it might sound weird

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the-world-of-palara · 2 months

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The Second Arcane Age

"In Palara, the Demigoddess of the Arcane watches over all that is magic in the world. In this role, she has seen countless who have used the gift of magic that had been given to them, and the gift of magic they had studied themselves. But many more had not been so fortunate. Sil'ithea wished for everyone to experience magic, and so she set out to change the flow of all mana in order for that to happen. She did not expect what would come when she began to enact her plan."

Word Count: 4,248

"Mother, what was your plan for all of those people who could not make use of your magic?" Asked Sil'Ithea aloud as she stood with her arms crossed under her chest.

The lamia deity presiding over the great Materia Lake of Mount Arcadia, the protector of all magic in the world of Palara itself stood on the edge of the greenish-blue waters outside her inner sanctuary of the temple. Fifteen feet tall from a normal stance with three near-fifty foot long tails coiled behind her, covered in glittering light green, blue, and purple scales along with her sides down to her hips, arms up to her shoulders and neck, her cheeks, and covering the entirety of her back. The scales nearly matched the color of her extremely long, thick, wavy hair, but were a bit lighter. The humanoid part of Sil'Ithea's body and part of her snake body, covered in simple white robes, was rather average in size compared to a normal human for example and she had medium sized breasts, with no real need for food or water her body never changed from its original size from when she was deified in the lake millennia in the past, but if she wished, she could change her form however she wanted.

Her power was undeniable to all who had the privilege of meeting her. Perhaps no one person on Palara or in the Primordial Realms could match it, even the Primordial Lords. She knew every single bit of magic there was to know in the realms. She knew the flow of it through the veins of the earth and through the winds in the sky and the flowing waters and the blood of many living creatures whether they practiced it or not, or if they could or not. Sil'Ithea could watch for thousands of years as the gift of magic was given to thousands upon thousands of beings throughout the world of Palara, and for all that time she could see that many of those gifted with the innate ability to use magic used it to varying degrees of effectiveness in their lives, some had gone on to become great mages and sorcerers in their eras.

But those who were not gifted with this innate magic within were left to rely solely on single-use scrolls or grimoires depending on who they were. Those with interests in magic and no means to be able to learn how to read spells from grimoires or scrolls, use components, or even speak the words of spells were left unable to make use of the wondrous gift of Materia. Even those with the innate ability of magic within them could not even use the most basic of incantations for any form of spell because they were born mute and unable to speak. Perhaps that was the way Materia had designed it to be, but in the thousands of years Sil'Ithea had been the Protector of the Arcane, she had grown increasingly sad over the state of how unfair it could be. To feel you had the gift of Materia inside you, unable to be released, or to be unable to read from a grimoire, or to have your voice stolen from you…

It wasn't fair at all.

The demigoddess let out a sigh and looked up at the bright beam of pure mana flowing into the sky. Sil'Ithea may not have been a mortal any longer, but her heart still bled for the mortal plight and how those people must have felt over the millennia. Good or evil, a mage, cleric, sorcerer, or any magic user should never have to be without the use of their magic whether they were able to use it before or not. Anyone with the gift of Materia should be able to use that gift, and anyone who has any interest in magic should be able to study magic as mages do and use their inner mana and energy to use that magic. Their mana, their will, and most importantly, their creativity should dictate their ability to perform magic. Not if they didn't have any disabilities.

Sil'Ithea let out a frustrated sigh. "Materia, I have no idea what you had planned, but something needs to change."

She slithered closer to the edge of the lake and looked deeper into the waters, as far down as she could. They ran impossibly deep, no one knew just how far down. Not even Sil'Ithea herself knew. But, she knew they held the absolute source of all magic of Palara, something hidden deep under the waters within Arcadia. She didn't even know what exactly it looked like either, she only knew it was down deep below. She didn't know how far down it was, but that didn't matter. She could swim for as long as she needed to in order to find it. For her plan to work, she needed to find it.

"Balfaren."

A High Elven man that had been standing behind her stepped forward to her side. "Yes, Mother?"

"If my plan succeeds, the entire flow of arcana in Palara, and possibly even the Primordial Realms as we know it will change for every living being."

"And for the better, from what you have shared with all of us. And… if you fail? If Materia stops you?"

Sil'Ithea pondered the question for a few moments. "Then I may be killed, you will have to take my place as the leader of the monastery, and magic will have to remain the same. If that happens, you have my full trust to lead this monastery."

"Ah… I understand. Good luck, mother."

Sil'Ithea took off her robes and handed them to Balfaren, who neatly and easily folded them despite their size, and the demigoddess prepared herself for what she was about to do. It was something that no one in their right mind would ever think to do, even a demigoddess like herself. Going against a goddess was not a smart action to take. There were protests within the monastery to her wishing to do this, namely for her safety and the preservation of the balance of the arcane, but in Sil'Ithea's eyes?

Safety and balance be damned.

She dove into the liquefied mana and began to swim down into the depths. Once she was fully submerged, she cast a spell on herself to grant herself easier movement in the water, along with clear sight. And that in itself was part of the issue she had with magic as it was. Being the daughter of Materia, Goddess of Magic herself, she could use magic as freely as she wished without needing her voice or any components, or any hand movements at all, but countless people in the world were not so lucky. Everyone should have that freedom.

She swam deeper and deeper into the depths of Materia Lake, but despite how deep she ventured, the light never seemed to fade. And despite Sil'Ithea being a demigoddess, it was hard for her to keep her bearings of up and down, left and right, so she did her best to stay her original course and keep moving in the direction she had originally started. She didn't know how long she had been swimming for. She truly didn't know if she had her plan thought out fully by the time she had finally reached her destination deep within the lake. But eventually, she had finally discovered the source of all magic in the world. A colossal orb of shining, crystallized mana floating in the depths that all the liquefied mana and the undulating beam of mana above Mount Arcadia originated from. Sil'Ithea felt a twinge of nervousness wash over her for a moment, but she batted it away quickly as she stared in awe at the wonder before her. Despite her status as a demigoddess, she was the first person in the history of Palara to discover the true source of magic. It excited her, and she had not felt something like that in a long time.

After taking a moment to revel in her discovery a bit longer, she steeled herself and swam closer to the mana orb, and she laid her hands on it. From what Materia had told her when she was deified after she submerged herself the first time in Materia Lake, anyone with magical skill could manipulate the flow of magic at the source given enough time and effort. With her bond as the daughter of Materia, and her knowledge over all magic as it is known, Sil'Ithea surmised that she could manipulate it simply, if not with a bit of effort. She began to use her power to alter the arcane flow throughout the orb and thus, throughout the vast world itself. Her plan was set and she steeled herself to set it in motion no matter what.

But then something unforeseen happened.

A massive pulse of force pushed her away from the orb and rippled through the mana around it and her, forcing her to guard her face. When she took her hands away, she was face to face with the form of her mother, The Goddess of the Arcane herself, Materia. She stood as tall as the lamia with longer hair that was much the same color but it flowed in mist in the water. Her body was slender, her arms and legs long ending in what looked like clouds of mana, and her face was like a porcelain mask. Her eyes were trails of mist and glowed bright, changing between light blue, green, and purple at different intervals, much like her arms, legs, and hair did.

"My my, this is unexpected now…" The goddess said in a curious tone as she stared at Sil'Ithea, "What possible explanation could you have for altering my magic, Sil'Ithea?"

Materia's voice reverberated all around the lamia, threatening to overwhelm her body. It was then that she began to feel fear for what could happen. "I plan to reshape the flow of mana, mother. I plan to make it to where the use of magic isn't dictated by components anyone needs, their eyesight, their use of their hands, or their voices."

"Oh?" Materia moved uncomfortably close to Sil'Ithea, her face mere inches in front of the lamia's. She took a hand and a sharp, porcelain-like finger materialized, and pressed against Sil'Ithea's throat, "I did not expect you to wish to corrupt the very nature of magic. Did you not think I would detect you?" Her head tilted a bit, her eyes glowing a bit more fiercely to show her anger, but did nothing to hide the curiosity within them either.

Sil'Ithea stared deep into Materia's glowing, unsettling, misty eyes. "I did, but I had to do something to end this cycle of unfairness and cruelty that your gift of magic had brought to so many people."

Materia was taken aback by the response she received from her daughter and moved back a bit, taking her finger from Sil'Ithea's throat. "How can magic be a cruelty?" Her curiosity was absolutely piqued after hearing that, despite her gift being so insulted.

"For reasons I mentioned previously," Sil'Ithea began to explain, "Magic is a truly wondrous gift to the world, to everyone who is born with it and to everyone who may learn how to harness its power. I don't mean to say it isn't. But…"

She conjured an image of a person with no arms. "A person born such as this, or who lost their arms and isn't fortunate enough to have prosthetics, would not be able to use their arms and hands to cast and direct spells."

Materia watched intently as Sil'Ithea changed the image to one with arms and made it begin to speak clearly with a mimicry spell, but then the voice was cut off, the image's lips were still moving. She began to speak once more. "And if a person was born mute, or if they lost their voice in life through various means, they would not be able to speak the incantations needed for all forms of magic if their voice couldn't be healed with the proper magics."

Sil'Ithea changed the image once again, this time to one of a person leaned over a table, attempting to cast a spell using what little materials they had, but to no avail. "And those who can't afford or find the materials for spells that require them simply just won't be able to cast them."

Again, she changed the image but to one with bandages wrapped around their eyes. "And those with their eyes blinded or if they were born blind, they would not be able to see to direct their spells."

She let the image disappear and faced Materia fully. "I have lived for millennia, mother. I have witnessed this happen countless times over that long period of time, and even though I may not be a mortal anymore, my heart bleeds for all of those people in the past and the people today who cannot use this wonderful gift because of those reasons. I believe it should be able to be used by everyone the gift is given to, good or evil. Do you see what I am trying to tell you?"

Materia let out a thoughtful hum, thinking all of what Sil'Ithea said over as she began to circle around the lamia, still staring intently at her. Truthfully, Materia thought her gift was being used by everyone it was given to. Being the Goddess of the Arcane herself, it was shocking for her to not be able to tell if it wasn't being used or couldn't be used by people who had the gift within them. But being formerly mortal, having that connection with mortals, actively watching over the world and its magic from a closer vantage point, Sil'Ithea was able to tell for millennia what was happening.

"Well well, what an observant lamia! I apologize for putting such stress on you for all this time!" Materia said after several moments and swooped in close, her porcelain face mere inches in front of Sil'Ithea's once more, "What is your plan to fix this oversight of mine, daughter?"

Sil'Ithea didn't flinch at all from Materia's face being in hers once again, and she began to reply. "As I said, everyone with the gift of magic should be able to use it. Everyone interested in it should be able to as well. I planned to manipulate the flow of magic to where it does not rely on components, hand movements, or voice to use. Instead, I will make it reliant on three key things that every person has deep within; Mana, will, and most importantly, imagination. Just by thinking a spell into being, it will appear, such as a barrier spell or a firebolt spell, and direct it by will. Mages won't require grimoires any longer, but can use them or other items such as staves as focuses to aid them as well."

Materia tilted her head, thinking it all over as she blinked her smokey eyes, and she let out a pleased hum. "Oh Sil'Ithea, I believe this idea is very interesting. You do know this would mean the beginning of a new age, don't you?"

Sil'Ithea nodded her head. "I do."

"With imagination and will being key factors in spellcasting under the new age, the possibilities would be limitless for new spells. The entire fabric of the magic world will be turned upside down!" Materia began to sound almost giddy with excitement.

"Yes, it would. This has been needed for a long time. May I begin?"

"By all means." Materia moved out of the way, her body changing to almost fully a cloud of mana and leaving only a porcelain face.

"I suppose one of us will have to speak with all of our magic users once this is finished and tell them what has happened." Silithea remarked as she moved close to the colossal mana orb once more.

Materia moved next to her once more. "Or perhaps I could warn them all before you do this. It would be a jarring experience to have the use of their magic changed so suddenly without warning. They may have to spend some time to gain the use of it once more."

"That is a fair point also. Please do that while I work on this."

Materia floated away from Sil'Ithea as she did her work to change the flow of magic, and her eyes flared brightly as she began to speak with every single one of her followers in their minds, or in their dreams. "Followers of Materia, listen well! You may have expected to hear this after feeling the mana in your bodies begin to change moments ago. My daughter Sil'Ithea has noticed flaws in the gift of magic and brought them to my attention. As I am speaking to you, she is working to change the very foundation of magic as we know it, and bring us all into a new age of arcane."

"Many of the spells may stay the same, but how you use them will change, and this will lead to a new age of magical discovery," Materia continued, looking back to watch the orb of mana glow and pulse erratically with Sil'Ithea's actions, "No longer will mages be required to speak spells into existence. No longer will they be required to use components for certain spells. No longer will they be required to use hand movements to direct spells. Will, mana, and imagination are the key factors in spellcasting under this new age. Mages are no longer required to speak spells from grimoires as before, but they can instead be used as preferred focuses to increase the potency of their spells, or choose another type of focus to control with either their hands, or their mind."

The more Materia spoke to her followers, the more excited she became thinking of all the possibilities of new spells. She smiled to herself and continued to address her flock. "My followers, Sil'Ithea will soon finish her work. You will feel when she is done. I want you to go into the world and create all manner of magic. Learn from each other. Take from each other. Improve upon each other. The possibilities are truly limitless. I will be watching."

With that, Materia stopped speaking with her followers. All around Palara, they stopped hearing her words, and soon after, they completely felt the nature of the magic they knew change within themselves. The knowledge they held, once useful for all their spells, now near meaningless. Many of the once less fortunate who were given the gift of magic after hearing Materia's words were given hope that they could finally make use of the power they felt inside them that they could not use before due to their circumstances, it would only take time, effort, willpower and imagination. And that was what Sil'Ithea hoped for.

A few moments passed before Sil'Ithea spoke. "And with that… a new age has begun."

"Indeed it has. I feel it in the very mana around us, and the very fibers of the world. I trust you can as well?" Materia asked her daughter and received a nod in return, "This will be an unprecedented age, Sil'Ithea. I trust you'll teach your own sect of followers well."

"I will. You may need to speak with certain people so they may help others along as well for guidance."

"That is a good idea. It will certainly take time for everyone to adjust. The both of us included."

Sil'Ithea took a long, deep breath and looked back to the orb of mana she had altered. She could tell that it had changed deeply with what she had done as well, even if it did not outwardly show it. "We will all get through it. I will look forward to the next millennia, or even decade with this new age."

Materia's eyes once more brightened enthusiastically. "I will certainly look forward to that. Now, I think it is time for you to return to your temple and your followers. There is nothing more to do here."

The goddess floated forward and enveloped Sil'Ithea's entire body within her ethereal form. Not even a moment had passed before she had removed herself from her daughter, reforming her misty limbs once more, and they were both on the edge of Materia Lake at midnight, on the outside of Sil'Ithea's sanctum. They both stood in front of all of the demigoddess' followers who had come to wait for her return, or news of her demise. When they felt the flow of magic begin to change at first but suddenly stop, they feared the worst and flocked to the edge of the lake to await Sil'Ithea or that news. To see her return to them brought them great relief after they felt her work finally finished, but seeing Materia with her was more than a bit surprising to say the least.

Materia looked over the collective of monks for a moment, her head cocked to the side a bit curiously before she turned her attention back to Sil'Ithea. "Quite the interesting group of followers you have. Be sure to teach them the ways of this new age."

Sil'Ithea nodded. "Of course. I have faith they and every user of magic will adapt and become even greater than they were before."

"Good. I will be sure to speak with certain mages across the world and guide them, and instruct them to guide others if they need it. They will have been some of the most skilled mages in the world in the previous age. I feel they would be the best for this task. I will be watching, daughter. But for now, it's time for me to take my leave."

"Farewell, mother."

With that, Materia summoned a portal to her realm and stepped through it, and it sealed behind her leaving Sil'Ithea to return to her followers. Balfaren was the first to greet her, quickly giving her back her robes that she had handed him to take care of before. "Thank you, Balfaren."

"Mother, we were quite worried what had become of you…" Balfaren said after a few moments, his hands clasped in front of his stomach, "What did Materia do?"

"She very nearly erased me from existence," Sil'Ithea replied, shaking her head a bit before she let out a chuckle, "I should have expected I wouldn't have been able to bring this new age about without her noticing immediately. I explained my reasoning behind wishing to change the flow of magic, the injustice brought to those with disabilities who have the gift of it, and she decided to join me in my vision as you all heard. I believe most of that came from her curiosity."

"We are relieved to see you returned safely. How will our training be affected?"

"We may discuss that tomorrow and begin everyone's training within the next few days. I have everything planned in my mind. Explaining it and helping you all put it into practice will be difficult, but well worth it."

Balfaren nodded his head in response. "I understand."

"Now, everyone go rest!" Sil'Ithea spoke to the rest of her followers, "The following days will be crucial in shaping this new age, not only for you, but to give Materia the information she needs to guide the mages she will speak to along their way to help others across Palara as well. Rest well, because the coming days will be hard."

Her followers all bowed to her and took their leave of the area, and Sil'Ithea returned to the edge of the lake. It was such an eventful day. She pushed through all the anxiety of standing against her mother and changed the flow of all magic forever, dove into Materia Lake and was the first person in the history of the world to discover the source of all magic. Demigoddess or no, it was an impressive feat, and one she would keep to herself. Even being a demigoddess, she was tired from the ordeal, especially her work with the crystal of pure, solidified mana. And she was sure her work in training her followers in the coming days would be even more tiring.

But, it was something she very much looked forward to.

She looked up to the starry night, past the undulating beam of multicolored mana where she noticed seven shooting stars streak through the sky into the unknown. She couldn't help but let out a smile both at the sight, and thinking of all the wondrous possibilities that will come in this new age of magic. The possibilities brought by endless imagination, creativity, and will. She could already feel countless people experimenting with their abilities after Materia had spoken with them, and it made her smile even more. It was a very good sign that the actions she took were more than justified. The risk she took was massive, but she trusted even more now that it was worth it.

"Thank you, mother."

With that thought and those words, she moved away from the lake's edge and toward her inner sanctum, where she prepared for bed, and prepared for the next day to teach her followers how to use magic in this new age. It had been a very long time since she had taken a main instructor role, but she was looking forward to it.

Finally, she retired for the night, ready for the days to come in the new arcane age.

X x X x X

//Big note at the end of the story: This story was inspired by Frieren: Beyond Journey's End and the magic in that setting. I love Frieren so much from the setting to the characters and their journey, but this is about the magic. I love the magic in Frieren a ton in that it can range from being so mundane that there are spells to clean bronze, to massively destructive spells that can wipe out stretches of forest. And I love that it's all based around creativity of the mages too rather than necessary components.

The magic in Frieren is based on creativity and freedom, and I wanted to write this story to change Palara's magic system to be based on creativity and freedom also. Not to "copy" Frieren, but just because I just think it's more fun for me, and it makes me happy thinking of all the possibilities of any future story. This is the kind of magic system I love the most.

So if anyone read this far and read this end note, thank you for listening to me ramble a bit. Have a nice day/night, wherever you are. Stay hydrated, take care of yourselves out there.//

#fantasy world #fantasy #fantasy character #materia: goddess of the arcane #Sil'Ithea: protector of the arcane #inspired by frieren: beyond journey's end #the world of palara #original character

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gale-sized-hole · 2 months

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💕⭐ 💕 hiiiii

Hey hi hello!

Ok, so since I get to pick a fic to ramble about, I'm going with All That You Held Sacred Falls Down And Does Not Mend, because it's got background Vissenta Lore both in fic and outside of it, and this was me working at some Forgotten Realms lore tie-ins I've had kicking around while I was at it!

First of all, I realize that while there's a handful of folks following me who know all about Vissenta, my oldest and most special and most favorite girl, not everyone does. She's an OC I developed a lot over the course of writing about her in the context of The Arcana, and among the things that really defined her were that I gave her a connection to Death and an affinity for swords (queen of swords, to continue the tarot theme). She had some juicy "born leader of a religious/death cult" trauma built in, too, and a mentor/father figure (Reynaud, who she calls Old Fox) who grappled with his own faith in Death and what on earth a child's role could be in being a figurehead.

So, obviously, Vissenta ended up slotting pretty well into being the Dark Urge. (Much better than as a cleric of Kelemvor, which I'd thought about at first; the fondness for swords are what had me pivot to paladin.)

This fic actually began when I started thinking: what if Vissenta was an origin companion? Well, she'd be a paladin in service of Kelemvor, obviously, an acolyte who believed that it was her born duty to serve as a Doomguide. That she has a physical resemblance to Kelemvor Lyonsbane was just a fun bonus, really, and that seemed fun. So I started writing this with the intent of it being her origin character timeline.

Well, what if the cleric who raised her thought that she was born of divine means because of her resemblance to Kelemvor? And then the Dark Urge came back into play, because there's nothing quite like almost having it right, and the tragedy of being wrong.

The feeling I was going for was like a fairy tale within a fable: Reynaud tells a story, which he hopes will tell another story, and here we are being told the story of how it all went wrong. It's laid the foundation for Vissenta's character and her story, I think, along with the seeds of the possibility of her redemption in how she delivers his final rite.

Stylistically, Reynaud has always been one of my more introspective characters. In the stories I have on my drive that I wrote about him, in a doomed city that I created around Vissenta's childhood, he has a poetic streak, and keeps journals recording histories and myths. This was very much in the same vein. Just for a fun bonus, I've dug up some of Vissenta being strange and unusual and unsettling Reynaud as a child, from that particular universe:

Vissenta was undeniably human, and undeniably a pain in his ass, half the time. She’d come traipsing down to the chapel, ostensibly to supplement her education, though why the Oracle needed education in the ways of the Church made little sense to Reynaud. The moment she spotted the first streak of gray in his hair, she’d crowed with delight. “You really are an old fox now!” “I’m not much older than your sisters,” he’d said, gruffly, trying to conceal any sort of familial affection he felt for this incorrigible adolescent who, he reminded himself, bore a mark of power. “And younger than your father.” “Still older than me,” she’d retorted, before she grew suddenly somber as she stared out at the churchyard beyond the chapel’s back door. These turns of mood were far from unusual, and Reynaud almost found them comforting. When Vissenta’s eyes clouded over in thought, when she turned on a dime from giggling to glowering, he was able to rise above his doubts, to rise above thinking of her as anything but the power of the Lady made flesh. He’d followed the line of her stare to the gleaming white marble mausoleum that stood stark and shining above the weathered, tumbled markers scattered about the rest of the graveyard. When she spoke again, it was soft, tremulous, and he was reminded all over that she may very well just be the child she appeared to be. “Do you want to see something?” Immediately discomfited, but intensely curious, Reynaud followed Vissenta to the mausoleum. There was room for several names on the brass plate door, but the sole one inscribed upon it - Catarina - served as a reminder of questions long unanswered. “Your mother?” Vissenta’s fingers traced lightly over the letters, and she shook her head. “No. Something else I found.” And with that, the churchyard faded away.

#if u read all of this I am giving you a forehead kiss and a cookie #this is really just me talking about Vissenta Lore sorry #but this fic is part of it! and special to me #ask games #durge vissenta #my writing #thank you!

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rtnortherly · 1 year

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Tierney, and Where the Story Began

Recently did a series of polls to decide on my Baldur's Gate 3 Early access character. What we landed on was this:

Tiefling, Trickery Cleric (Tymora), with an Entertainer background.

This is them, as decided by popular vote:

And this is their story, as I have decided. Some of the details might not apply so well once I get into the game, but I have had so much fun coming up with this story all the same. I am already very attached.

(TW: Depression, abandonment, grief)

~ I was born Tierney, in a small hamlet southeast of Loudwater to a solitary trapper who spent more time in the foothills of the Greypeak Mountains than amongst other folk. I grew up understanding the quiet solitude of the vast world around me, and the few times we ventured into towns to sell leather and furs and meat I always found to be bizarre and almost fantastical. The rhythm and closeness of it all seemed almost supernatural to me.

For the most part though, my mother and I kept to ourselves. She raised me alone, but I never felt the absence of other people. The land was too full of life for that, and mother was too good at telling stories for me to grow bored or dwell upon loneliness. Some of the things she would tell me she’d declare were history, sometimes heart breaking and cruel, sometimes powerful and undeniable.

“The bones of our world,” she call them.

Other times the tales she wove were strange and silly, impossible things full of wonder and humour. I would laugh and laugh and insist that I did not believe a word of it and that she could not fool me.

“Why, my little rabbit’s foot,” she would say, winking at me over the fire, or as she set traps, “anything is possible. Don’t you know the world is vast?”

That was before she got sick.

I’d thought I had know solitude before, that it was a comforting friend. Without her I realized what it was to truly be alone. I tried to be like her, I did. I tried to be content under the open sky and among the trees. I looked for serenity in the dirt under my feet, and the nip of the wind across my face. I told myself stories by the fire and as I set traps, sang songs she used to sing. But with no one to rely on except for my own self, the world began to feel a little too big and a little too indifferent and cold.

The twilight caw of the carrion birds began to contort into eery and eldritch scream. The barking of foxes and coyotes began to sound a little mocking and hungry. It was odd to find the shadows of the forest haunting, twisted and dark when once they had been cool and welcoming shade.

And then came my thirteenth winter, not even a year after my mother’s passing. It was a cruel and terrible long freeze. Prey grew ever more scarce, and what I did manage to catch in my traps often got scavenged by other creatures and I found myself more and more often trying to fend off the starving forest creatures, patrolling my trap line in the bitter cold, exhausted and with a constant cough and sniffle.

And then, when spring should have already been easing back the thick snowfall, but was continuing to hide its face, the large cats began to come down from the mountains, ravening with hunger.

I remember going out to check my traps, mind foggy with a fever I couldn’t shake, and stomach hollow with hunger that my dwindling stores of grain could not sate. I remember the blood, the torn carcass, and the low, yowling growl that drifted somewhere between warning and hunger.

I remember thinking that my luck surely had run out that day.

The rest is a blur of snow and fear and branches clawing at my face. The cold burned in my throat and lungs, and my ribs ached with the beat of my heart.

There is no outrunning wild beasts. Especially not as a sickly child, half starved and near delirious from fever. It didn’t matter how well I knew the woods, not with the snow hungrily devouring my awkward, gangly stride. I wasn’t so foolish as to think that climbing a tree would help keep me away from a mountain cat, that I could out last its patience in the cold.

But I ran all the same, and I prayed to whoever might have been listening.

I’m sure it was the luck of the devil that sent my tumbling head over heels down the steep embankment that overlooked a cold mountain creek, frozen over for months. It left me with cracked ribs, a dislocated hip, and a concussion that did nothing for the fever. I was told later that I bounced off of no less than three rocks and four trees, and rolled off a drop of at least eight feet, and I was lucky the snow that had built up over the frozen stream cushioned my fall somewhat. And most of all, I was lucky for Crusoe.

He never would tell me what he was doing out in those woods, all on his own. He’d just wink and tell me how very fortunate I was that he had been. He’d tell me that I was lucky he had been born with a knack for little tricks and magic, and that the mountain cat was too clever to risk a fight with a person who could apparently hurl fire at it. Wild animals are like that. They won’t risk the damage of a fight for a morsel of prey when they’ll have better, surer chances elsewhere.

And then he carried me, a strange and unconscious child who’d all but fallen from the sky back to the nearest town to be healed. It wasn’t an easy process. It took more than a couple weeks to clear the fluid off my lungs, and to keep the fever from coming back. Never mind that I was malnourished and had bones that needed mending. Out in some small hamlet that was still locked in by the long winter there was no magic healing for me. I had to do it the hard, long way. To this day my hip aches in the cold.

As for Crusoe, I don’t know why he stuck around, not really. He was as much a stranger as I was to the little hamlet, supposedly a traveler by trade. He could have left me there, a problem for the townsfolk to solve. Maybe he pitied me, maybe he took one look at the horns crowning my skull, and the dull embers of my eyes, and knew I would not have an easy time fitting in. Maybe it was some noble sense of responsibility that made him want to see me well and looked after with his own eyes. Maybe it was something else, some other thing he wanted to cling on to.

He never spoke of his family in all the years that I knew him after all, and there were times I saw a weariness in his face that made my chest hurt. For all the connections he made, for all the people he spoke to, I wasn’t even sure if he had much in the way of friends. He was always happy to listen, to share a drink and a laugh, but with the exception of the months it took me to heal he never stayed bound to one place for very long.

When the spring finally came, we left together. We’d not discussed it. I just woke up one morning to find that he had packed our things and was told that we could eat on the road. He had seemed to be in a rush, but when I asked about it, he told me that he’d gotten an itch in his feet and if he stayed any longer he thought he would go mad.

Over the course of the next six years we travelled up and down the Sword Coast, drifting from one place to the next. I learned a lot from Crusoe in that time. He was a thespian by nature, and used his talents for storytelling to make his living. He was impressed by my own repertoire of tales, and taught me to expand on that. I learned to change my tone, how to pace my words and adjust the tempo of my speech. I learned to act, to give life to my characters. I learned to breathe from deep in my chest, to project my voice far and wide—something we found my devilish heritage gave me quite the advantage at. I learned how to shift my expressions on a coin. I learned to improvise, and I learned how to listen and remember.

Most of all, I learned to never forget that all the world was stage (that seemed to mean different things to Crusoe, at different times, and I’m not sure I’ve uncovered them all yet).

But then, just as I was about to turn twenty, something changed. I couldn’t quite put my thumb on what gave it away, the moment I truly noticed, but one day it was as if suddenly Crusoe’s stage was a little different than mine. As if he was reading from a script that I did not know, and looking out at an audience I could not see.

Perhaps I’m simply imagining things in retrospect, trying to find some through line, some explanation for the change, but I look back on those times and I wonder if maybe his smile was a little strained, if I caught him staring blankly into the distance, some half formed and frozen expression on his face that I couldn’t understand. When I woke up in the night, on the side of the road, why had he still been awake staring up at the stars, or maybe into the deep darkness between them, so very still that I’d wonder if he’d turned to stone.

I may never know, because I woke up one morning, in a backwater town with an inn that had little more than three rooms to rent, to find Crusoe and all his things gone.

For a while I thought that he might come back so I stuck around, doubtful and confused. After several weeks of telling stories for meagre coin that grew more meagre by the day, I decided that maybe if I hit the road I would cross paths with him. Maybe I’d find him standing in a town square, his eyes alight with mischief and merriment, a hoard of small children gathered around him with faces contorted in awe. Maybe I would find him sitting on a stump by the side of the road, the end of his pen caught between his teeth and ink on his fingertips. He would look up in surprise, flush with embarrassment for being caught. We’d fight. He’d make excuses, and I would sulk and stew in bitterness. Things wouldn’t quite be the same, but we would make it work and maybe I would finally learn about some of his stories. The ones he never told.

Four months later I found him in a small seaside town, emaciated and stuck in a coma in a small church that was little more than a shack with a shrine and a loft. He was being tended to by the young priest and herbalist who tended to the church, and she told me that he had washed up on the shore one morning, covered in strange injuries. The fishermen had brought him to her for healing, but she had not been able to do anything for him, because he was cursed and it was far beyond her abilities to undo whatever fell magic had bound itself to him.

I stayed for a time, fearing he would simply slip away the minute I wasn’t looking. Lorelei, the priest, said that his condition was very unstable, and that he was clinging onto life by only a thread. All I could think of was that look in his eyes as he stared into the space between the stars, and whether maybe that hadn’t been the case for a very long time.

I tried to find answers for where he had been, and what had made him this way, but all of his things were gone, lost to the sea no doubt. The only thing that was left was a a strange metal amulet that Lorelei warned me not to remove, as trying had stopped his heart and forced her to resuscitate him—something she wasn’t sure would work a second time. Other than that, he had a two faced coin in his pocket, which both Lorelei and I determined was utterly mundane as far as our limited abilities could discern.

I sat by his sick bed (I tried so hard not to think of it as his death bed, but it grew harder as time passed and he wasted away more and more), flipping that two faced coin over and over in my fingers, and I talked. I told stories we had told together a hundred times or more. I asked questions that I had always been to afraid to ask. I whispered accusations, and I begged, and I bargained, and I almost gave up hope.

I think I almost would have gone mad sitting there in that chair, if not for Lorelei, who dragged me outside one day to help her with her rounds in the town delivering medicines and checking in on the people.

Maybe it was because it was all I knew how to do, but on one such venture I found myself telling a story to a child who sat by the fountain and stared with sad little eyes at the other kids and fiddled with the pinned up legs of his empty trousers. And then I told another one, and another, and at some point I might have cried.

It was nightfall when I stopped, the parents coming out and urging the crowd of tiny faces that had collected around me to return home breaking me out of my daze. Across the way, Lorelei looked on. She came and sat next to me and we spoke for a time, late into the night, far away from Crusoe’s sick bed with the stars shining down on us both. We spoke of many things, and many of them were very embarrassing for me, fears that had snaked along my thoughts since my mother had left me, but had bared their fangs since Crusoe had left.

And so Lorelei told me about faith, and she talked to me about chance, and she talked to me about fate. And then she slipped the coin from my fingers with a tiny little grin, and tossed it into the fountain and told me that at the end of the day, it was all a gamble. It was just up to us to rig the odds.

I can’t say when my path found me. It simply happened gradually over the the following years, as I helped Lorelei with her duties during the day, and local legends and all many of accounts regarding vile magics during the day, hunting for a solution. It happened gradually, with every coin I’d toss into the fountain, and every late night by Crusoe’s sick bed pouring over books and texts I’d uncover from the church’s lacklustre library, or buy from travelling merchants. It happened on my short forays to nearby towns as I chased rumours and hunted for scholars and arcane practitioners. It happened with every bruised knee and rattling cough I watched Lorelei tend to.

It happened with ever fragile bit of faith I cultivated in myself.

It happened with every time I held on to Crusoe’s hand and thought of all the things I would say when I got him to wake up.

It’s been more than six months since I have seen him last. I found a lead, and I will chase it down, come hell or high water. Lorelei will keep him alive until I return, and when I do, I’ll wake him up, and we will tell each other our stories.~

#writing #creative writing #character background #baldur's gate #baldur’s gate 3 #game character #bg3 #bg3 mc #dnd character #cleric #tielfling

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dungeonsandsquirrels · 3 months

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In the beginning...

In the realm of Dungeons and Dragons, a motley crew embarked on an adventure that would weave their destinies together in unexpected ways.

In the heart of a bustling tavern, amidst the flickering glow of torches and the lively chatter of patrons, destiny began to unfold for our unlikely band of heroes. It was here, in the dimly lit confines of the inn, that their paths first crossed, drawn together by the whims of fate.

Thana, a cleric shrouded in mystery, initially presented herself as a devoted healer, only to reveal a darker allegiance to necromancy. Her disdain for others seemed to match her affinity for death.

Eric Chesthair, an aasimar Paladin blessed with celestial beauty, carried himself with an air of superiority, believing himself superior to those around him. Despite his arrogance, his prowess in combat was undeniable.

Illo Uwu, a timid wizard, navigated the world with trepidation, his fears often overshadowed by his powerful magic, notably his formidable magic missile that never failed to impress.

Melodira, the beatboxing bard, brought both rhythm and competence to the group. Amidst the chaos of their companions, she stood as a beacon of reliability and skill. Little did she know that her eyes would receive a solid workout from the sheer number of times she would roll them over the coming days and months.

Together, this unlikely band ventured forth, facing perilous challenges and unraveling mysteries that tested their resolve and forged bonds stronger than steel. From battling fearsome creatures to uncovering ancient secrets, their journey was fraught with danger and discovery.

As they delve deeper into the unknown, each member will reveal hidden depths and vulnerabilities, forming a bond that transcended their differences. Through triumph and tribulation, they stood united, ready to face whatever adventures awaited them on the horizon.

First Quest:

The party was brought together by Gundrun Rockseeker, (one of 3 brothers, the others being named Tharden and Nundro). Gundrun had discovered an old abandoned mine and was preparing to set up a mining expedition there.

Gundrun enlisted the party's help in transporting supplies to the mine, entrusting them with the task of safeguarding the wagon and its contents during the journey. Accompanied by his companion- Sildar Halwinter- Gundrun went ahead to prepare the mining operations.

Each of the party had a different reason to have taken on, what is arguably, a pretty easy task.

Intrigued by her unique musical talents and desire to distance herself from high society, Gundren saw potential in her unconventional skills. He hired her to entertain and boost the spirits of his prospecting team during their long travels between Neverwinter and Phandalin. Through shared campfire stories and laughter, they formed a bond that led to a genuine friendship.

With Phandalin as their destination, our band of adventurers braced themselves for the challenges that awaited in the untamed wilderness. Anticipating encounters with goblins, Melodira took it upon herself to master their language, a strategic move that would prove invaluable in the days to come.

The others were hired and took the job for the money**

**Note to add- I, Melodira, did this write up months after we began and completely forgot the back story of the others- I did ask them, they forgot too!

#dnd #dungeons and dragons #dnd5e #adhd #neurodivergent #asd #audhd #erichappened

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adamwatchesmovies · 1 year

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Mary, Queen of Scots (2018)

Yes, it’d be nice if Mary, Queen of Scots was a completely accurate portrayal of history but is that what audiences want? Personally, I'll take an entertaining movie over a faithful one any day. When we look at the film's performances and sumptuous costumes, when we consider the drama and the engaging story, this film is undeniably succesful.

In 1561, Mary Stuart (Saoirse Ronan), the Catholic Queen of Scotland, returns to her home country to claim her late husband's throne, currently held by her half-brother, the Earl of Moray (James McArdle). Her cousin, Elizabeth (Margot Robbie), is the Protestant Queen of England. This makes them - at least in the eyes of every man in their respective courts - enemies. As Elizabeth is unmarried and childless, Mary is the one who would replace her as Queen of England should she pass. This prompts conspirators on both sides to begin making their moves.

Something about these costume dramas makes for great villains. David Tennant plays John Knox, a Protestant cleric so fanatic about his hatred you can’t wait for him to get thrown in an oubliette or better yet, beheaded. But at least he’s got the courtesy of being openly hostile towards Mary. Nearly everyone surrounding the young queen is conspiring to raise an army against her, trying to weasel their way into marrying her to gain power, scheming up a way to knock down her allies to undermine her position or a greasy troll. You want Mary to find a way to navigate the complex maze of politics and egos set before her. In a time when women had no power or authority, she’s someone with a voice. The sooner she adapts to this nest of vipers, the better. Of course, once she begins getting her hands dirty, she's likely to get stuck in the mud, unable to escape...

There’s a unique sort of relationship between Mary and Elizabeth that develops. It’s one of the film’s most compelling elements. As women of authority, they have a lot in common but the circumstances of the time have forced them into antagonism. They have sympathy for each other but only to an extent. It’s an amusing fantasy. The real-life queens never saw each other this way. In fact, they never met face to face. The film finds a way to sort of but not really tiptoe around this fact. Historians will disagree but I say writer Beau Willimon made the right choice because it hightens the engaging story and drama. I have more mixed feelings about the casting of Adrian Lester as Lord Thomas Randolph and of Gemma Chan as Elizabeth Hardwick. They’re fine in their roles. Randolph is an amusing character with much to do but the two of them stand out like sore thumbs because… well… they were white in real life. I’m not a director. I don't know anything about making movies but since Josie Rourke told the world “I was really clear, I would not direct an all-white period drama” maybe she should’ve selected a different project?

Mary, Queen of Scots isn’t quite explosive enough to make you forgive its looser-than-needed interpretation of history. As a movie, however, there’s a lot to like here. It looks good, the drama is consistently intriguing and the characters are compelling. I'm sure there's another adaptation of this story out there that's better. If there isn't yet, there will be some day. Until then, I recommend Mary Queen of Scots. (June 7, 2019)

#Mary Queen of Scots #movies #films #movie reviews #film reviews #Josie Rourke #Beau Willimon #Saoirsce Ronan #Margot Robbie #Jack Lowden #joe alwyn #David tennant #Guy Pearce #2018 movies #2018 film

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saphirered · 3 years

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Ah I just read like 5 of your head cannons they're amazing! Could you write about the M9 reacting to a fighter s/o using magic for the fist time, and the s/o explaining that they haven't used it cause it scares them?

Thank you so much ☺️! It turned out a bit longer than I intended but more content is good right? I tried to get some variety in the types of magic users to kudos to anyone who figures out the (sub)classes. Thank you for requesting and I hope you enjoy this one 😘

Caleb:

Caleb, observant as he is caught on the fact you had more knowledge of the arcane than you let people believe. You knew things someone not schooled in some kind of magic wouldn’t have the faintest clue about. It may have left him a bit suspicious of you in the beginning but over time he saw no malicious intent or a connection to the people he’d rather distance himself from.

The first time Caleb noticed you cast a spell, you spoke the familiar words combined with the motions to deflect a hit from an enemy mid battle that otherwise might have been the death of you. You thought no one had noticed but Caleb had, and he recognised the shield spell you used. He saw you flinch the moment you cast it and fear in your eyes as if you were waiting for an aftermath. It never came but you were on edge for the next few hours.

Approaching you after noticing you were still on edge, nervously fidgeting with a coin in your hand to get rid of the more obvious jitters, you denied all claims. If Caleb is good at anything it’s providing a verbal slap in the face through reality check and calling out your bullshit. He wouldn’t press for answers because your past is your past and he had no right to demand it if you were not willingly offering it.

It took you some time but you came clean. You told him how your relationship with practical magics is destructive and hurts people. Because of that you vowed to distance yourself from magic altogether but sometimes you slip and hope no one notices and no ill effects follow you casting any spell. Caleb understands, better than anyone perhaps. He admires your restraint and capability of stepping away from the thing that causes you so much pain; something he never could.

If you’re able to and with your consent Caleb would help you work through your fears, only for your own wellbeing because one thing is undeniable; your magic is part of you and if you never learn to live with it, that it is part of you, you might never be able to accept it. What happens when you’re unable to fear the magic? Will you instead turn to fear yourself like he had himself for so long? No, if he can spare you a fate like that he’d do anything.

Beau:

You never hid the fact you were schooled in the arcane. It just never clicked you are actually a very capable spellcaster especially donned in battle worn armour and your tastes for sharp edged pointy things, and a ‘will cut a bitch’ attitude whenever someone comes for you or those close to you.

Perhaps a little ashamed to admit the first time Beau actually saw you cast a spell it was a simple mage hand cantrip. You couldn’t reach a book on a high shelf at the Archive and you thought it disrespectful to physically climb the bookcases to get it. Beau may or may not have been watching you, more like admiring your muscle. Nothing better than a strong, gorgeous ripped bookworm. Mouth agape you caught Beau staring. You had to snap her out of it. Beau had a million questions, maybe half of them flirty. You answered her questions best you could, even the flirty ones but when it got to where you learned magic you sort of just shut down so she dropped the subject. Beau knows how to read the room no matter how much she might want to press for answers. She’ll refrain. For now.

This doesn’t mean Beau drops the subject entirely for all future reference though. She’d leave hooks for you in case you’d be in a more talkative mood and grow frustrated when you ignored or brushed off the so-many-eth attempt to get you to spill some beans. One day she sat you down, giving you one more chance to tell her what’s going on. If you wanted to tell her, you could. If not, she’d never ask again or try to get you to talk about it.

That’s when you broke down, explaining all the terrible memories of your ‘studies’. You were the only child in a long line of powerful mages to barely be able to cast a cantrip growing up. You were a disappointment and disgrace to your family. Rigorous hours practicing and studying from dawn til dusk without breaks. Not being allowed to go outside and play with friends until you got this one thing right. Nevermind the fact that your family let it be known you were a disappointment.

You’d been working hard already to break the circle but couldn’t prevent the bad memories haunting you every time you felt like you had to cast a spell. No matter how far you ran, whenever you reached for the components, spoke the words or performed the somatics, you were hit with a sense of incompetence. Beau’s not unfamiliar to the need of living up to the expectations of family. She’d be there for you if you wanted to take up magic on your own terms or distance yourself from magic entirely.

Fjord:

Didn’t have a single clue you were magically inclined. But to be fair you never gave anyone a reason to believe you were. You were born with magic and you had seen what developing those abilities had done to others like you. You like yourself the way you are and would very much prefer not to fall into the servitude of some evil entity in the hunger for more power.

You’d seen Fjord spiral into the clutches of his patron and saw him struggle to get away from the leviathan. Ritualistically you tapped into the power bestowed upon you to search for a way to break the pact between warlock and patron. Of course it was doable and your powers could show you the way but you needed to get stronger first…

Fjord grew worried. You’d begun talking to yourself, spending nights awake and an odd sense of paranoia had grasped you. A storm hit once and you had nowhere to shelter. The little voice in your head came back. You could stop that storm. All it would take is a little tiny taste. When you agreed you had no control over yourself. Hand held up to the sky, eyes white and skin ashen, a bright light emitted and the clouds disappeared. Needless to say this did not go unnoticed by anyone.

Obligatory endless questions. Obligatory none answered. You retreated within your shell choosing to ignore your surroundings and feeling the nagging in the back of your head. Fjord heard you speaking to yourself at night. Asking the skies if it was worth it. Worth what? You heard him and just because the voice in the back of your head told you not to, you told Fjord everything; how you had been trying to find a way to keep Uk’otoa at bay, how to break his connection with his patron and give him freedom and what would happen to you if you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching for more after completing that goal.

Fjord refuses to let you sacrifice yourself for his freedom. He’d rather have you fighting the evils of the world at his side than end up fighting you in an attempt to save yourself from what you might become. The two of you would work together to repress the inkling for more power and keep your powers at bay and under control. While you might want to see it differently, for the good of everything you’d stay far away from any magical forces seeking to awaken the power you were born with.

Veth:

Veth made it clear she would not understand why anyone would pass on the opportunity to learn or develop magical abilities should they be available to them. She literally spoke those words and you just nodded along changing the subject. You’d rather not lie but is this lie by omission?

It was an emergency. A fight had gone south and you were losing quickly. Clerics on their last legs, a wizard down being dragged away by the monk and Veth running in arrows blazing and screaming to protect her friends. You had to get out and none of you were quick enough at this point to all get out. So you did what you had to do. A quick expeditious retreat resulted in conveniently released magic missiles at your enemies, grabbing the halfling who got out some last shots you misty stepped your way to safety. You shouted to the others you were safe immediately knowing to keep your mouth shut for the next minute. Bless the gods the surges weren’t that bad this time.

Safely returned Veth commented on what you did. Did you take those scrolls? Did you buy that misty step enchanted item after all? Those were the only logical explanations right? Yes but they weren’t true. So you told Veth the truth. No scrolls or enchanted items were involved. Why didn’t you tell anyone you could do that?! It would have been so helpful in the past! Look how many buttons you could have helped her get!

You calmly explained her you could cast spells and were actually quite good at it one point your magic is dangerous, and the surges uncontrollable the state you’re at. While this time the reward by far exceeded the risks in this situation, you’d rather prevent killing those around you in a blaze of glory if you can. Wild magic surges are no joke and you’re so afraid of hurting the people you care about you’d rather step away from magic completely than live with the knowledge you could be the end of your friends and family.

Veth still has a hard time understanding your reasoning being prone to risky behaviour herself but accepts your views and respects your decisions. While you may not practice magic you still know it and after some persuasion, the woman gets you to teach her a thing or two. Of course all used for the good of mankind of course…. She just failed to specify who’s.

Jester:

You’re a special one. The Traveler told her so after all! He just didn’t tell her in what way specifically but you are special! That Traveler of hers may know a bit more than you’re comfortable with so you’ve been wary of the green cloak should he see the need to reveal your secrets. Luckily he cares about Jester and revealing your secrets would hurt you and you being hurt makes Jester upset so you can take comfort in the Traveler’s attachment to the tiefling.

Pixies came to haunt you in the night. They were meant to send you a message. Someone wanted you to stop running and accept your fate. Pissed off as you were you fought them off but when some tried to get away and your bow out of reach you were forced to release the bursts of bright green energy. Regret hit followed by fear. What if your patron could find you now? What if they came to get you or tried to hurt your friends to get you to cooperate? You will never be a puppet again and if a cantrip screwed this up for you….

“Oh. My. Gosh. Why did you never tell me you could do magic?” Jester exclaimed waking up Fjord just to tell him your eldritch blasts looked so much cooler than his. Guess the cat’s out of the bag… You had to prevent Jester from waking up the others to tell them you’d just gotten even cooler than you already were.

Successfully sending the others back to sleep you took Jester aside. Your hands still shaking, you asked her to talk to her god and ask him if he knew someone might be looking for you and getting close. The Traveler obliged but he wanted to hear the story behind your predicament. You told Jester everything ignoring the green hooded figure. How a being from another realm tricked you into an agreement. From then on you became a warlock.

You didn’t like being a warlock and you being stuck in such a binding deal lead to a very abusive relation between you and your patron so you did everything in your power to get away from them. Luckily crossing the planes is a lot more difficult and limits their capabilities quite a bit. Jester promised she’d protect you and of course the Traveler can be your new god so he’ll protect you too. Both you and the Traveler might not have been in full agreement with this statement. Jester understands you wanting to be far away and never see your patron again. She’s seen her mom get rid of the people getting a little too close for comfort or too attached and possessive so she knows how to deal with them.

Caduceus:

From the beginning you knew you couldn’t hide anything from Caduceus no matter how hard you tried. This lead you to just never specify anything. If he picked up on thing and asked about them then you’d answer, if not, you weren’t just going to say anything. Not even to explain yourself. Let him draw his own conclusions.

You may once have been a devout follower of your god, the one who bestowed upon you the powers you’d need to uphold their tenets but you veered from that path. Not everything is as black and white as some people claim it to be. You learned the hard way afraid of repeating your mistakes you’d only revert to your old habits in the most dire situations.

Caduceus had gone down. Jester was too far away and you were the only one able to get to him in time but you were out of healing potions. A quick lay on hands later and Caduceus was back on his feet albeit a bit confused about how you had managed to get him back to the land of the living. Talk later, he told you after seeing you mortified of what you had just done through the relief of seeing Caduceus alive.

Talk later you did. You couldn’t run away from your problems. Caduceus wouldn’t let you. You told him how you had done terrible things, hurt people because your god willed it so. You thought you were doing the right thing until you were faced with the truth and consequences. That’s when you stepped away from your life as a paladin; a vessel for your god.

You kept the sword but refused to use the magic; proof of your ability to hurt people who were worthy of redemption. Over many months Caduceus would help you see that your magic is nothing to be afraid of as long as you wield it with a good conscious and to protect instead of seek vengeance. There’s a fine line between being righteous and being just. The Wildmother taught him as much. Maybe she could through him, show you the same?

Yasha:

Whenever someone played a happy tune or began singing you’d retreat and block out your surroundings or find anything you could to distract you from the sound. Yasha just thought music’s not for everyone and maybe these songs and melodies just were’t your style. However when you asked her to please stop humming a tune while you had watch together she became a bit suspicious.

Spending some downtime at a tavern, deep in your cups Yasha was being bothered by a rather persistent asshole. On the verge of a fight breaking out you stepped in front of the barbarian and in a singsong voice told the asshole to kindly piss off and find company elsewhere with someone actually interested. The act alone made your stomach churn so you ran off.

You didn’t like controlling people. It didn’t even take a rhyme or proper verse. All it took was some booze and a melody in your head. This couldn’t happen again. Yasha had come after you to check on you and when you told her to stop, she stopped, frozen in place unable to move. You immediately dropped the accidental spell you cast putting distance between you and Yasha.

Yasha assured her it was fine and with your permission approached. A hug from the gentle goth was all it took for you to turn into a sobbing mess. When the sobs calmed down you told Yasha how you were cursed with your voice. Song and rhymes, tunes and melodies constantly plagued you afraid you’d go along with them and people got hurt because you couldn’t control your voice.

For the longest time you were uncomfortable using your voice but with your permission Yasha would help you practice. She can take a hit if you lose control badly but this fear is no good for you. She’ll play sweet serenades, some prettier than others as she too needs practice, the both of you can practice together learning and relearning the things you grew to love together.

Mollymauk:

Mollymauk doesn’t care about your shit. Everyone hides something and as long as those secrets aren’t a danger to those around you it’s all fine. Though he can’t deny being a bit curious when you snuck off to burn a suspicious stack of paper…. lighting the flame without tinder, flint and steel, or anything.

The next few weeks involved Molly trying to get you to use magic again, asking you to do small tasks much easier to complete with magic than they would be manually. You didn’t budge. Somehow he couldn’t get you to do anything. You’d complete the task the hard way each and every time. He began to wonder if he might have imagined the whole thing.

He spent the whole night tossing and turning until he decided to give up on sleep and just face you with the question to be done with it. You were gone, the light of a fire a bit away from the rest of the group. He found you watching the flames, tears in your eyes and devoid of all emotion. He’d seen Caleb in a similar state before. That’s when it hit him. This was pain, fear and trauma and you’re disassociating to get through this.

Sitting down next to you he’d place a hand on your shoulder, when you don’t stop him he’d wrap it around your shoulder letting you know he’s here for you when you need him. His views don’t change. Everyone is entitled to their secrets and keeping their lives to themselves. If you want to talk, he’s here but he’d accept your silence too despite his curiosity. Luckily for his curiosity, you told him everything. The torments of the past and the family you lost, the pain you’ve caused countless others and how you’re trying to pay your penance and make right your wrongs.

You’re glad to have Molly at your side be that to cheer you up or listen to you. He’s there whenever you need him and will take no for an answer when you don’t want to talk about something. He won’t ask for further details but will do anything to show you you’re on the right path and leaving a place better than you found it when you can’t see it.

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