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hiddenlark · 15 days ago

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I somehow got inspired to write a Pride & Prejudice inspired Rolanfic so here is a little snippet from it :) it's a work in progress and part of a longer scene :3

this is the "she's tolerable, but not nearly enough to tempt me" part at the ball lmao

COME GET YALLS ENEMIES TO LOVERS!!!

Rolan was content to spectate. He did not enjoy dancing with strangers and absolutely did not enjoy meaningless smalltalk, either. To occupy himself while Cal and Lia were all bust lost in the dense crowd of dancers, he instead chose to sink into his generously poured goblet of red wine. It was good. Rich.

It matched the attendees of tonight’s event, who were all swathed in expensive fabrics. Velvet, silk, chiffon, satin - all were represented in every color, swirling around in a jubilant wave of celebratory dance.

Rolan’s amber eyes flickered around the room as indulged in his drink, observing for the entire duration of one song. And then yet another. And another.

Only the need for his second - no, third - goblet of wine lured Rolan from his self-appointed post and once his refill had been obtained, he made his way back to the secluded spot against one of the grand stone walls.

His siblings returned at nearly the same time, their cheeks flushed from dancing. Cal was smiling but Lia was not; she looked irritated to find him in the exact same place where she had left him.

“Rolan,” she said sharply, tugging on the sleeve of the new robes he had purchased specifically for this event. He scowled and pulled himself away, out of reach of her bristly annoyance. “Cal and I will drag you onto the dance floor ourselves. Quit hiding.”

“I’m not hiding,” he protested. Hiding was what children did. He was merely… strategically placing himself beyond notice. Yes. That was it. The goblet was held in Lia’s face, swaying to get her attention. “I have a drink. Am I supposed to take it with me? Slosh it all over the floor for the sake of some blasted dance?”

Cal made a resigned ‘here we go again’ face and Rolan knew all too well why; their sister had crossed her arms over her chest. Lia was now a dog with a bone. “The point of a dance, funnily enough, is to dance,” she said.

Rolan swallowed. “I don’t know anyone,” he said. “Only the two of you.”

Cal looked sympathetic; he could hear the well-hidden, tiniest twinge of reluctant apprehension in Rolan’s voice. For as long as they had known each other, Lia certainly picked up on it as well, but her steely pose did not yield in the slightest.

“Well, you’re absolutely not dancing with either of us-” she began.

“We already have partners for the next dance,” Cal explained gently.

“- and besides, you’re too old to be this pathetic,” Lia said. She clapped him on the shoulder and gestured to the bustling room with a sweeping, grand arm. “Go ask a girl to dance, Rolan. It won’t kill you.”

“No. I refuse,” he said, swallowing another large mouthful of wine instead. The immediate refusal earned him another scowl from Lia but he ignored her easily, his gaze flowing over the room. There were certainly a large number of people to choose from; a frame of waiting participants had formed around the already-crowded dance floor. “If I dance with them, I’ll have to talk to them. And none look as if they have a single interesting thought in their head. Why should I waste my time with such meaningless frivolities? Who even are these people-”

“Bloody Hells, who cares?” cried Lia, rolling her eyes. “They’re pretty! Pretty girls, pretty boys, pretty people. Go swing one of them around the dance floor and smile and have a good time, you absolute dunce-”

“Linry promised me the next dance,” Cal said excitedly.

“Of course,” Rolan found himself saying with a defeated shrug of his shoulders. “Of course you would manage to capture the attention of the prettiest girl here-”

“I’ve already danced with her twice,” Lia said. The annoyance on her face temporarily melted into smugness, as if there were some unspoken competition between the siblings. “Stop stalling, Rolan. You’d better hurry - look, most people have partners already.”

And he saw that she was right. The band was taking a break to quench their thirst at one of the little bars scattered around the large ballroom, but pairs were already queueing around the dance floor in anticipation of the next song.

“Oh! I know. Her sister!” Cal said suddenly, brightening. He scanned the crowd, searching. “You should ask Linry’s sister to dance, Rolan. You’re both tall and-”

“Yes,” Lia agreed enthusiastically, taking Rolan’s cup and setting it down on a little table nearby. “What was her name? ‘Kes’ something? She’s stunning. And honestly, she looks a little grumpy, which is good. It means you’ll have something in common-”

“Stunning?” Rolan asked in disbelief, already mourning the loss of his cup. It had been both an indulgence and also a strategic shield between him and the rest of the partygoers. “That’s a generous observation. You’re only trying to manipulate me into - into-”

“Enjoying yourself?” suggested Cal gently.

“How dare we!” Lia said, throwing a sarcastic scandalized hand over her heart.

“Kesrin’s tolerable,” Rolan conceded at last, retrieving his wine from where Lia had placed it. “But not nearly enough to tempt me. Go. Have your fun, you two. Leave me to my own company, which is certainly preferable to anyone else’s.”

“Oh, Rolan,” Cal said. The words dripped with pity.

“Fine. Stay here and be miserable all night,” Lia said.

“I’m hardly miserable-” Rolan protested, but his words fell into the empty air; Lia had already turned her heel and marched off, with Cal trailing behind her.

He watched them for a moment. Lia found a dance partner within moments, a curvy human woman with freckles and shiny auburn hair, and Cal of course was dancing with Linry Ralotumal. Rolan could see the pink in her merry cheeks from his spot across the room.

Linry really was the prettiest girl in the room and with a bright cheeriness that meant she would not want for a dance partner at any point in the coming night. Everything about her was round and welcoming: her sweet circular face, curving easy smile, and shining large round gray eyes.

Rolan did not see her sister anywhere. Kesrin would have been easy enough to spot; she was tall and had rather unique and strong features - at least compared to her family. Where Linry was all softness, Kesrin was entirely angles: expressive arched eyebrows, prominent cheekbones, and stern, hooded almond eyes in the same light gray as her sister’s.

The only features they had in common were their eyes and their hair - though Linry’s dark curls were cut shorter than Cal’s and Kesrin’s fell to the middle of her back.

For a few more moments Rolan looked, but was unable to spot Kesrin’s tall figure anywhere.

No matter.

He would not have asked her to dance anyway. The wine was company enough.

It was warm in his stomach and on his cheeks, mingling with his muddled feelings. Certainly he was a little annoyed that his siblings had managed to not only push him into accepting the invitation to this dance in the first place but now still seemingly wanted more.

Why they insisted on his participation in activities that did not appeal to him at all, he did not know.

The tiefling wizard knew how to dance well enough, sure, but his time was better spent elsewhere. He had an entire tower full of knowledge to explore and he would much rather be there than here, and he did not want to have to pretend otherwise.

Feeling oddly lonely and cross, he took a few steps back so he would not have to see so many jolly faces. There was a tapestry on the wall behind him, a large and intricate thing showing a scene in a forest. Rolan expected to feel it against his back now, but instead-

“Shit,” he said, almost falling. There was no wall behind the heavy bit of cloth; it was a doorway. The tapestry was actually two tapestries, acting as curtains, parting to reveal a surprisingly roomy balcony.

Fresh night air pleasantly washed over his hot face.

Rolan inspected himself to make sure no wine had managed to splash onto his new robes and only once he was absolutely sure he was spotless, he pushed the heavy coordinating curtains aside and stepped onto the balcony.

It was very cozy, with a metal awning curving over its entirety to shield any occupants from rain. There was a set of charming wrought iron chairs, too, with a little matching table between them, and some more furniture pushed against the far wall.

Rolan took in a long breath, closing his eyes. Perhaps he would remain here for the rest of the night, to avoid any further poking and prodding from his siblings. The spot was nice enough; private, but not quiet. He thought the tapestries would have dampened the sound of the party, but they did not.

Someone purposefully cleared their throat.

The goblet nearly clattered to the floor, but Rolan caught it with a desperate scramble of a catch that sent wine spilling over his clenched hand and onto the balcony’s tiles.

“Oh. It’s you,” he said as he straightened, without thinking, identifying his unexpected company.

It was Kesrin, the sister of Cal’s dance partner. The half-elf looked quite comfortable in an armchair he had not noticed in the corner, her feet propped up onto a matching upholstered stool. In one pale hand she held a small, thin book and kept its pages open with her thumb. In the other was what looked like a drawing pencil.

“My name is Kesrin,” she said. Her tone was neutral, uninterested, a complete departure from the convincingly polite words they had exchanged at their introduction. For a brief moment, her bright gray eyes flickered to him, and then returned to the open pages of her little book.

“Yes, I remember,” Rolan assured her, feeling oddly out of his element. The tiny puddle of wine was at his feet. What was he supposed to do about that? Rolan’s fingers drummed anxiously against the goblet in his hands.

Kesrin did not reply and instead kept looking over to Rolan and then back to her book and then back to him again. She did not seem to notice - or perhaps did not care - that her erratic glances and lack of response were making him uncomfortable.

“Really?” she asked quietly, finally.

Rolan stood there in his now wine-splashed robe, feeling like an idiot, because he could think of nothing to say as she scribbled away. Perhaps he should have stopped at one glass of wine. Rolan swallowed and tried to clear his mind. He needed to excuse himself and steal away to a washroom, where perhaps he could coax the drops of wine from his robes before they stained, and then-

“I could have sworn you thought my name was… what was it?” Kesrin continued, her words indifferent and almost lazy. “Oh. ‘Tolerable.’”

Fuck.

Was his face on actual fire? For all the sudden heat, it could have been.

His mind clumsily raced for words - any words, Rolan, say literally any words, please, he begged himself - but his tongue was gummy and fuzzy and none came.

Or rather, too many words came. Excuses, denials, all pushing up into his throat. He swallowed the crowd of sentences down.

“I… didn’t mean that,” he offered finally, looking down into his empty cup. The loss of wine on the floor was sorely lamented; perhaps if any liquid was left he could have drowned himself in it. Rolan felt her gaze upon him.

“Surely not,” she agreed lightly. The tone of her voice did not match her words. She did not believe him. And why would she? Kesrin knew nothing of him, save for his name. Their only interaction had been the run-of-the-mill introduction earlier in the evening and now this.

Yes, he had made a right ass of himself. Wonderful.

Rolan dragged his eyes up, straightening his back and forcing himself to look at her. But Kesrin’s attention was back to her book and he realized from the large movements of the pencil that she was, in fact, not writing - she was drawing.

“Are you in the habit of saying things you don’t mean, when you think you can’t be overheard?” she asked after a moment, both voice and expression carefully controlled. Her mouth was set, stubbornly determined to give nothing away.

Rolan stayed silent. The tips of his ears were even redder than his cheeks. There was no right answer to that question, so he would not offer one.

“I think this is the part in the conversation where one would apologize,” she suggested, looking up at him finally. Their eyes met again, simmering amber to striking gray. He felt a shock run up his spine. The song that had been playing in the ballroom ended.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said hurriedly, relieved that she seemed to be offering him a guiding hand back toward a less tense conversation. The help was probably based in pity now that she could see his defeated (and arguably slightly drunk) expression, but he would take it. “I am sorry. Truly-”

“Oh, that’s alright,” Kesrin interrupted with a dismissive shrug.

A page was torn out of her sketchbook with careful, nimble hands. Rolan could only watch. Her fingers, which had been neat and pristine mere hours ago when he had shaken her hand during their meeting, were now darkened by spots of what he assumed were pencil smudges.

Her guarded face offered no indication of her true feelings and he could not rely on her unclear words to determine if she was angry or not.

Rolan waited. The wine had burned off in his heated embarrassment and he found his agile mind was returning, somehow, driven by his sizzling adrenaline.

He would not be a mouse for her to toy with and he absolutely would not give her the satisfaction of continuing to see him squirm. Yes, he had made an ass of himself, but he was sorry, truthfully. She did not deserve to hear his unthinking words, certainly not, but had had already apologized once.

So he waited.

Waited for an insult, a demand that he be thrown from her family’s ballroom immediately, or something else entirely.

The little sketchbook page was folded in half so that its contents were hidden and Kesrin stood, tucked her belongings under her arm, and approached.

Gods help him, her unsettling eyes were upon him again and now that she was closer, he could see - see the challenge in her gaze that sparked, unyielding, fueled by irritation and anger and perhaps the tiniest tinge of reluctant hurt. All hope for an accepted apology was smashed in an instant, ground to nothingness by the steel in her expression.

Wordlessly, she reached out. Judging by her sharp and narrowed gaze, Rolan was expecting a slap, perhaps, or a less extreme indignant poke to the shoulder accompanied by equally angry words.

She did neither.

Kesrin instead pressed her hand against the center of his chest, holding the folded piece of paper firmly against his robes. Rolan silently cursed his breath, which had caught in his throat, for betraying him.

She held his gaze and he returned it, refusing to break eye contact. He would not bend, he would not give her the satisfaction of his yield.

After a long moment, her slender hand was pulled away and instinctively Rolan reached up, covering the folded paper with his own flattened palm so that it would not flutter to the ground.

“Goodnight,” she said simply, with a mocking curtsy.

And then she was gone, ducking through the parted tapestries without so much as a look back.

For a few moments Rolan could only stand, dazed, goblet in one hand and the bit of parchment in the other.

And then curiosity quickly got the better of him.

The empty goblet was hurriedly set down on the little wrought iron table and he unfolded the page from her sketchbook with frenzied fingers.

What had she given him?

Amber eyes swept over the page.

Slowly, his mouth folded into a frown.

Rolan squinted and the paper was examined again, tilted this way and that in the candlelight, to make sure his wine-fueled eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

They were not.

He scowled.

The sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears, summoning him back from the irritation bubbling in his mind. Turning smartly on his heel to face the doorway, Rolan expected to see Kesrin - hoped to see her, even, because there was a choice set of words ready at the tip of his tongue that he wanted to free - but it was not her that entered the hidden balcony.

“There you are, Rolan!” Cal said breathlessly, parting the tapestry curtains. Behind him, bright eyed and a little worried looking, was Lia, peering over his shoulder intently. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Were you planning on jumping off the balcony and making a mad dash back to the Tower? Don’t worry, we won’t really make you dance if you don’t want to,” Lia assured him after she noticed his face. “... Rolan? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he spat in return, but regretted it almost instantly. They were not the reason for his anger. They did not deserve the venom in his tone.

Mercifully, they both ignored his ire.

“What’s that?” Cal asked, pointing to the parchment in Rolan’s hand.

His siblings did not wait for his answer and instead came around to stand next to him, one on either side, and together the trio all looked at the paper once more.

It was a sketch. The one, he assumed, Kesrin had done while he stood there like an idiot with spilled wine on his chest and no words in his head.

Kesrin had drawn him.

It was a little rough portrait from the chest up but to her credit, she had captured his likeness very well. It was all there: the curve of his horns, the span of his shoulders, his fingers wrapping around the stem of his goblet. It was a very flattering, rather regal depiction of him.

Or, rather, it would have been if not for one detail.

At the bottom of the page, the sketch had been both titled and signed by the artist herself.

ROLAN THE DICKHEAD by Kesrin Ralotumal

“Hey, look,” Lia said cheerfully, stabbing a pointed fingernail toward the sketch. “She remembered your name!”

#rolan #bg3 rolan #holy rolan empire #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #hiddenlark writing #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 fanfic #bg3 rolan fanfic

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