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Absolutely not. Y’all really out here modding Wyll into a white dude like it’s Create-a-Sims 4: Colonial Edition?? That’s a crime. And those ‘make Halsin and Astarion look like polished mannequin rejects’ mods? Nightmare fuel. Stay back, don’t touch me, and definitely don’t touch my party 😒🙄😤🚫

I’ve already talked about this before, but I have to say it again. (I have nothing againts somebody who likes this mods but) why take away the wrinkles, the laugh lines, the eyebags, their naturally shaped face?

They look like they have gotten facelift.😭

Also bonus, because I just now seen it and I-….😀

Just why?

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Just roommates 👀?

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I love the BG3 modding community! Ugh, the cute aggression is real! 🦖

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i don’t think people understand how much of life is grief. not just people dying, but losing the version of yourself you thought you’d become. grieving the city you had to leave. the friends you lost not in argument, but in silence. the summer that will never come back. the feeling that maybe you peaked at 12 when you were reading books under the covers and believing in forever

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Virtual Photography | OC: Tempest

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WIP Wednesday

Still tinkering with it but I’m not mad at how it’s turning out so far ☺️💙🐻

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About Warlock Pacts...

In my OC canon, I'm exploring every aspect of the relationship between a warlock and their patron. I believe Wyll drew the shortest straw when it comes to Mizora; she doesn’t have the final say in what a working relationship between a godlike being and a mortal should look like.

For Tempest, Queen Morwel serves as an important adult figure outside of her immediate family. As a child, she could charm her way into the hearts of the Star Court, while others would risk their lives simply by setting foot inside the realm of Arborea. Humans are, in principle, forbidden from entering places like Arvandor, the Feywild, and the crystal palace of Argentil.

I've written a scene where Morwel, the Queen of Constellations, teaches a young Tempest how to play the lute. This is completely in line with canon, considering that Morwel is a bardic class in the lore, albeit a bard with celestial powers....on steroids, lol.

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Soooo I’ve been trying something new with my art…. 🫣🫠

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Design graphics Geya Shvecova (Glass Substance) V.2 Archive_281224

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Halsin recovering at the camp after the last surprise encounter in the Shadowfell.

My PS5 photo edited shot.

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Chapter Three of Instinct is ✨LIVE✨

🚧Warning: Excess moisture hazard. Not safe for public reading without a plastic seat or divine self-restraint. LOL⚠️

Rating: Explicit (mdni 18+) Relationships: Halsin x Tempest (OC) Fandom: Baldurs Gate 3 (post game) Additional tags: POV Halsin, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Language. Fluff and Smut, Polyamorous Character, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Dark Past, Sleepwalking, Reithwin, Age Difference, Friends to Lovers, Demisexuality, POC, Healing, Magic scar/tattoo.

When Tempest, a human touched by the Feywild's haunting beauty, crosses paths with Halsin, the Hierophant of Silvanus, more bear than elf, something ancient stirs. What begins as quiet kinship soon blazes into fierce, consuming passion. Both carry echoes of the fey in their blood; she, marked by survival; he, born of wild groves. Each awakens the untamed heart in the other, a humming beat beyond planes and reason. On a night conjured by magic and vines, they offer each other the most primal of gifts: a glimpse of wholeness, where souls entwine in sacred abandon (a.k.a. Tempest loses her V-card to Halsin).

Excerpt from chapter three: Nature's Bounty

🜁

“In my youth, I was known within my circle for having a rather sweet tooth. I developed an addiction to fresh honeycombs. Raiding beehives while in wildshape became a daily ritual for months. However, the bees did not take kindly to me—understandably—robbing them of their most coveted treasure. I ended up getting stung numerous times: on the nose, the paws, and… other unmentionable places. I am now convinced that the Tree Father wanted to teach me a lesson in temperance.”

Tempest snickered, raising her cup. “Other places, huh? Like what, you stuck your bear wiener inside and found out?”

She hesitated when Halsin didn’t answer right away, her eyes darting to his profile.

“Halsin?” She took a sip to calm her nerves.

“Well... a little further down south,” Halsin said, raking a hand through his hair.

Tempest did a spit-take, stifling a laugh.

“No. Surely you didn’t do that.”

Halsin gave her the side-eye.

“HAHAHAHAHAH!”

Tempest lost it in a fit of belly laughter, drawing the attention of passersby, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Very unladylike.

“STUNG ON THE BALLS?!”

“All true, I’m afraid,” Halsin responded with a slight grimace.

“When does it ever necessitate a bear to teabag a beehive—you know what, no. Don’t answer that!” Tempest put her hand up just as Halsin looked ready to respond. She pressed her lips together.

“You jest, now,” Halsin said, turning to face her. There was a peculiar intensity in his eyes as he did.

“I’m so sorry, Halsin. It’s just too damn funny—the deadpan delivery. Oh man! Stop—my tummy hurts!” Tempest collapsed, wheezing, slapping his leather-clad arm repeatedly like a wrestler admitting defeat.

Halsin narrowed his eyes, his mouth twitching.

“The worst was yet to come, however—”

“—Halsin?!” Tempest rubbed her face in exasperation.

Halsin hunched over, attempting a show-and-tell, miming the girth of his imaginary balls with a frown:

“When I woke up the morning after, to the sight of my testicles swollen to the size of a gra—” 

“HALSIN!!” Tempest turned away, cringing in her seat. She couldn’t take how Halsin spoke of his balls like it was the most natural thing in the world to share in public.

The elf had no shame.

Halsin was relentless, however. He straightened, his voice turning somber.

“It was serious enough that the archdruid of the grove—my predecessor—had to oversee my treatment personally, lest I risk becoming sterile.”

More? Click Here.

Shout-out to my awesome moots: this story only exists because of you! <3 @thoughts-of-bear, @amorgansgal, @hippotooth, @rambling-tam, @serenaoffaerun, & @optimisticgrey 💫

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maggotmuncher is out

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What Gortash said

summary: After meeting Gortash who has revealed that he not only used to fuck Celeste but that she was also one of the head instigators of the Absolute conspiracy, the other companions are not happy.

author's note: This is a piece of background for Song of Love and Loss, Celeste's and Gale's story.

Theme song: Frederic Wiedmann - A Song of Love and Loss

content warning: my usual favorite mix of self doubt, shouting, drama, tears

taglist: @rdekarios @astarioffsimpmain @whiskeyskin @monowires

additional tag for @judasiskariot and @funniestbitchinfaerun, as you expressed interest in the WIP

word count: 3k

AO3 Link

The walk back from Wyrm’s Crossing was steeped in silence. A silence so dense it might as well have been its own presence, trudging alongside them like an unseen specter. Even the creaking of old wood beneath their boots and the low murmur of evening wind across the rooftops of Rivington failed to penetrate the hush that had descended upon the group.

Not a soul spoke. Not a sigh, nor a muttered curse, nor even the shuffle of casual camaraderie passed between them.

For what words could possibly hold against what had just transpired?

The revelation, Gortash’s revelation, hung in the air like a blade suspended mid-fall. And oh, how easily it could have been dismissed as one of his manipulative theatrics: an attempt to divide them, to weaken the heart of their unity.

Celeste.

A Bhaalspawn.

It sounded absurd, didn’t it? Absurd in the way that real horrors often are—so grotesque in scope and implication that the mind refuses, at first, to bend around it.

Not merely a daughter of Bhaal, mind you. Not merely the unwilling by-blow of a deranged god’s foul ambitions.

No.

She had also been his High Priestess. The orchestrator of ritual and bloodshed. The voice that led chants in darkened, bloodsoaked chambers. The silken hand that guided blades into chests, hearts into bowls, cities into ruin. Hundreds had followed her, if not more, revered her. Sacrificed in her name as proxy for the Lord of Murder himself.

And worse—yes, somehow worse still—she had not merely participated in the madness they now sought to thwart. She had conceived it. The Netherbrain. The tadpoles. The entire vile, infernal architecture upon which this nightmare had been built bore her signature, like an artist leaving initials in blood beneath the canvas.

Gale’s mind reeled, even now. Not with revulsion. No. He was far too acquainted with the darker corners of ambition to recoil in horror at what had been. Rather, he found himself struggling to reconcile the Celeste he knew—the one who cradled injured birds and whispered lullabies into the restless dark—with the specter Gortash had conjured in brutal clarity.

And yet, was it truly conjuration, if the spell simply revealed the truth?

The hush between them was not companionable, it was weighted, tense, like the crackling quiet before a storm. Celeste, notably, did not look at anyone. Not even him.

She did not seek his gaze. Did not seek comfort. Did not ask for forgiveness. All she had asked of him—meekly, almost timidly—was a moment of his time. To talk. To explain.

And he, in his pain-laced pride, had declined.

Not because he lacked the time. No, time he would always make for her. But because he lacked the emotional fortitude in that moment to endure yet another conversation in which his heart was handed back to him in pieces. He was in no mood to listen. He was brooding, and he was aware of it. Gale Dekarios was many things, but oblivious to the workings of his own mind he was not.

He dissected, as he always did, every word, every glance, every implication. What was love, truly? What was commitment, and what shape should it take when forged between two extraordinary, deeply scarred people who carried more than their share of burdens?

They had fought. Gods, how they had fought. When Celeste, with quiet fear in her voice, confessed the truth: she was in love with another man.

Not instead of him. In addition.

As if love were divisible. As if it were something that could be doled out in equal measure without diminishing its worth.

It had hurt. Far more than he had been prepared for. And beneath the hurt, there had bloomed something far more dangerous—rage. A raw, unfiltered fury, the likes of which he had rarely known. Not even in the wake of Mystra’s rejection had he felt so thoroughly unmoored.

He had given her everything. His knowledge, his magic, his trust. His secrets. His very soul, bared and offered with trembling hands. And still, it hadn’t been enough.

He hadn’t been enough.

The echo of that truth reverberated inside him, as insistent as it was cruel.

And yet, despite the tempest brewing behind his composed façade, Gale was not a fool. He recognized the darkness coiling at the edges of his mind—the old, familiar allure of self-doubt, cloaked in logic and clever justification. He knew how far he was sinking into it, knew the temptation to drown in his own righteous hurt.

But he could not face her. Not yet. Not while the wound was so fresh and raw, the shape of her proposal so foreign to the image of love he had carried—so reverently, so patiently—for her.

Celeste. The woman he loved more than he had loved anything else. More than power. More than ambition. More, even, than Mystra.

He had intended to propose.

Yes. Once the war was over. Once the mindflayers were no longer breathing down their necks. Once they had survived this accursed struggle — brought onto them by her — and the world allowed them, finally, a moment to exhale.

He had planned to ask her to come with him to Waterdeep. To his city, his home, his heart. To build something real. To have a life that wasn’t shaped by trauma or terror, but by mornings with tea and books and the slow, wonderful quiet of ordinary days.

But now? How could that life be possible?

The thought was ludicrous and unbearable. The idea of sharing what was meant to be intimate, sacred—sacrosanct—gnawed at him with a ferocity he could hardly contain. And yet, this was the future she had tentatively sketched. A new shape for love. One that defied every narrative he had ever believed in.

And for the first time in his life, Gale Dekarios—the ever-assured, ever-curious, ever-articulate—did not know how to respond.

Not as a wizard.

Not as a lover.

Not even as a man.

He simply walked, hands clenched at his sides, too proud to look back, too terrified to look forward.

And, perhaps most tragically, too heartbroken to look at her.

Back at camp, they erupted. One by one, in quick succession—as if some unspoken spell had finally fractured, releasing a cascade of pent-up fury, confusion, and grief.

It was not a dialogue. No, this was a tempest. A cacophonous, visceral expulsion of disbelief so profound it seemed to shake the very earth beneath their boots.

And in the eye of that storm, Celeste sat.

She did not defend herself. She did not flee. She did not so much as rise. She merely sat there, motionless as a statue and twice as silent, her trembling hands folded in her lap with that same eerie composure one sees in paintings of condemned queens awaiting their fate. Her shoulders sagged as though the very weight of their fury had settled upon them, and her eyes—those eyes that had once met his with such incandescent conviction—remained firmly fixed to the dirt.

A curious thing, he thought, to witness a soul so vividly alive choosing stillness. Not passivity. No, this was not surrender. It was acceptance. An exquisite and painful stillness that said: I will not ask you to forgive me. I will not ask you to understand. I will simply take this.

And take it she did.

Continue on AO3

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I know I wanted weighted blanket Gale (reference to this post) but here I found weighted blanket Halsin

Art by dopamine0714 on X

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(new) progress report: six companions down, four to go. eyebrow painting skills improving rapidly. 😛

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First bg3 run was a co-op with two close buddies. They locked into their romances fast while I huffed about not really vibing with anyone. Friend who knows me too well and who had played before said “just hold on, I’ve got someone I think you’re gonna like.”

Anyway heres an unfinished sketch of Halsin keeping warm while he enjoys a nice book about medicinal plants.