#*shaking Larian by the shoulders*

[y-rhywbeth2]

It doesn't help that the in-game romances are a few weeks (tendays), maybe a month or two old, whereas they've potentially known Gortash for years. The gods started making their newest Chosen in the 1480s: they've potentially known each other for the better part of a decade.

And it's gone. It's gone.

[magehandling]

tbh kar'niss being so decidedly. um. white makes me think he might've been a szarkai before being transformed into a drider [thinking emoji]

[bladesmitten]

looking at the tags on that post... they don't know what larian took from us...

[glimmersea]

Honestly I bought this game because a couple of posts about Astarion that I saw made me sure I would love him, and I do, but I was not expecting to latch onto a random npc. And I am, in fact, a little mad about it.

[amatres]

ugh. the wasted potential of an aasimar dark urge is haunting me

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Burn

My heart always hurts when I watch the cutscene where Astarion burns under the sun. Dammit Larian Studios

Summary: You chase after Astarion when he runs away from the rising sun and remind him that you chose him.

You watch as blue lines crawl across his skin, steam rising as the sun eats away at him once more, now that he is free of the parasite. You hear the panic and sadness in his voice as reality sets in — he is no longer immune to the sun, condemned forever to live in the shadows. His ruby red eyes lift to meet yours as his skin scorches, an apology falling from his lips and he rushes to find shelter before you can say anything.

“Astarion!” You shout, watching his fading figure. He doesn’t look back, of course he doesn’t, he doesn’t have the time to when all he can think about is how his skin is searing. Your other companions remain rooted but your legs find an extra burst of energy and soon you find yourself hot on your lover’s trail, desperate to find him.

“Astarion!” You call out, panting from the exertion. Running like that just after defeating a Netherbrain was not a good idea, and you can feel your head spinning. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to steady yourself and lean against the nearby wall, getting as much air into your lungs as possible.

“Astarion,” you gasp, forcing yourself to keep moving, telling yourself that the vampire was suffering more than you were. You stagger onwards, barely remembering where you last saw him and pray that he hasn’t gotten far.

You make your way to a stack of crates hidden behind a docked ship and find a figure huddled in the corner, shaking. You stumble towards the figure, fingers hastily fumbling for the clasp of your cloak which you throw around the figure’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Star,” you breathe, relieved. You feel his arms slide around your waist tentatively, cautiously hugging you back.

“Why are you here?” He whispers. The scent of your lifeblood fills his nose, causing fangs to peek out but he holds himself back, holds the hunger back.

“For you, of course.” You continue to hold onto him tightly. “I’m not leaving you alone, not ever.”

“Why?” He can feel you, feel your warmth, your touch, but a part of him still nags at him, trying to convince him that this is all just a dream, that you want nothing to do with him, not when he is confined to the darkness. He runs his fingers through your hair, taking in the fact that you’re here with him, that you came for him when you could be out in the new dawn with the others.

“Why? Because I love you, I’m hopelessly in love with you and I don’t want a future without you.” Your fingers ghost over the burns, an ache in your heart when you see how badly the sun has burnt him. Even as the sun scorched him, he still took the time to apologise, to look you in the eye, to tell you of how much he enjoyed the journey.

“Even if it means being unable to live in the day? Being unable to feel the sun on your skin?” The words cause a lump to form in his throat. He wants to push you away, tell you to find someone else, someone better. You deserve so much better than whatever he can give you, you deserve to be able to live with the sun warming your skin, you deserve —

“Yes. I know what it means to be in a relationship with you, I know it means never seeing the sun again, never feeling its warmth, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay if it means I get to spend the rest of my life with you.” The fierce fire he fell in love with back then burns in your eyes, daring him to deny you your choice and he feels himself falling for you all over again.

Your devotion to the people you care about, the lengths you would go for each of them, the love you had for those around you. He had once found all these traits foolish, but now they were his saving line, the reason you were currently kneeling by his side, tenderly caressing the rough burnt skin of his cheek as you firmly declared your intent to remain by his side for the rest of your life.

You pull the cloak over his head and shoulders, ensuring they cover as much of his skin as possible.

“I look terrible, don’t I?” He gives a hollow laugh.

“And yet still so beautiful. It’s not fair how you can pull that off.” You chuckle, tilting your head to offer your neck to him.

“Drink up,” you say with a smile so bright it blinds him. “Then we’ll head back to Elfsong Tavern and discuss what to do next.”

He tugs at the cloak around him. It smells of you, the scent deep and warm. He buries himself in it, grateful for the protection it provides and gently rests his lips against your bare neck. His fangs prick your skin, and then dig deeper as blood begins to flow into his mouth. The cracking blue lines on his skin start to fade, his usual pale likeness coming back as he drinks your precious lifeblood, savouring every drop freely given.

“Thank you,” he whispers against your neck.

“Anytime,” you murmur back, holding him close. It always brings a sense of comfort, feeling him in your embrace, breathing in his scent. You hold him for a while longer, basking in the feeling of his cold undead skin against your warm living skin until the others find the both of you.

Your group makes its way back to Elfsong Tavern while shielding Astarion from the sun’s rays. The walk is filled with a quiet yet comfortable silence, exhaustion from the day’s fight and thoughts of the future that lay ahead setting in.

Everyone files into their own rooms, leaving you and Astarion standing in the corridor, facing one another.

“You really mean it?” He asks. He has to confirm, he has to make sure that he is making the right decision to entrust a part of his future to you.

“Mean what?” You tilt your head quizzically.

“That you don’t mind staying with me.” He shifts his weight from one leg to another, playing the corners of the cloak over his head.

“I mean it. We’ll find a way to get you walking in the sun again, and if we cannot, then I don’t mind spending the rest of my life in the shadows.” You take his hand in yours, squeezing it tightly. “You’re all I need, you’re all I want in this future of my choosing. I hope I’m in the future you choose as well.”

In the future he chooses? He…oh right. Cazador is dead, there is no master to tell him what to do, to control his every move. He can decide what he wants to do next, where he wants to go, who he chooses to spend his time with.

And he wants to spend it all with you.

“Of course you are, my love. There’s no one else I’d rather have.” He flashes his usual smile, eyes softening at the way you light up upon hearing his words.

“Then…let’s start planning it, together.”

“Together.” He agrees, liking the way his new future sounds. Even if he had to skulk in the shadows for eternity, maybe such a life wasn’t so bad with you around. He would have you to wake up to, be able to hold you, be loved by you, even if he had to burn under the sun.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

[antigonick]

In the Live of Night

DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to Larian Studios, and no specific Warnings apply... yet? WHAT TO EXPECT: I said I would publish this here so here we go. This fic is supposed to follow my Tav, Hero, from night encounter to night encounter, as the game's plot unfolds—shifting POVs, character and relationship developments, hard conversations and harder decisions. We start small with the first night at camp in fair Faerûn where we lay our scene.

Chapter I: The Pied Piper of Hamelin

Tis me, the well-known cypher, the widely traveled Pied Piper, Whom this old and famous town, certainly needs to have around; Irregardless of how many rats, and snakes and weasels on top of that: I shall cleanse the town, you'll see; they all can't help but follow me.

Good-humoured though I am, I charm the children viper-like, The wildest ones follow along as I sing my golden fairy song; and be the lads sometimes defiant, and be the lasses uncompliant, I lead the untamed battery you see: they all can’t help but follow me.

(HERO)

Come close. Come sit. Come sit by me. Let’s go back to the beginning, shall we?

This story does not start with gods, nor with the astral plane, nor even in a shaking rumbling breaking Nautiloid. It’s a common mistake, I know; but tsk, tcht, clck—focus now. This story starts here, in the crackling light of the fire, under a swelling moon, as our characters set up for camp far and far between, a distrustful eye thrown above their shoulder even as they brandish a smile like an olive branch, a prayer for peace-sleeping, for life-keeping.

This story starts— (ut, re, mi, fa, sol, la, sings the lyre) This story starts with me.

____

To seduce easy and quick, you need two, two things: beauty creation and self-stripping. Around the fire, with my lyre, I am no-one, I am nothing. In the eyes of the beholder the true seducer is only a veil, and seven veils besides; a canvas, and thus a masterpiece; a projection, a mirror, a mimicking, a distorting, a bettering, yes, you understand. What do you love best but yourself, this familiar echo of what you could be if you dared?

My mother, the dusty bitch, always hated the fae sparkle of me; but fae sparkle I am wholly, I am only. You couldn’t touch me if you wanted; nobody touches a will o’the wisp.

Come on, try it.                           See? Yes. See?                                                     What do you see?                                                                                    Why do you looks like me?

“I do love this song,” the wizard says, dreamy and dreamily, his pretty face alight with shadow-dancing.

Of course he does: I’m playing The Ballad of Waterdeep.

Continued here (with better formatting).

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.7}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) – (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

A/N: i haven't finished the game personally but i have seen (minor) spoilers of the epilogue and uhm... i feel so validated knowing what his job is after the events of the game. complete, even. so glad larian agreed with the fandom on this one :) also warning for slight mentions of smut/nsfw material!! no actual smut here, but just beware. MDNI

Word Count: 3.2k

The early morning went about as you’d expected; Serving salmon for the Tressym and warming up what remained of the mushroom stew despite it not being much of a morning meal. Seeing as how the stove was being used, you decided it best to make yourself a cup of coffee along with the soup, though the pairing wasn’t a very pleasant one. Better than nothing, as you weren’t sure you’d manage to survive the day without some form of caffeine, and coffee was the only way you knew how to access that booster. Once you finished your makeshift meal, you spent a little while cleaning the kitchen, and then found Tara waiting for you in the study, planted in front of a very familiar book. 

“Flames and Fatalities,” you remark, and Tara purrs in response, pressing a paw to the left page, one claw unsheathing to tap at the passage she pointed to. You step closer to get a better look, and your hand rests on the back of Gale’s chair. You hesitate, unable to avoid the feeling that you’re lacking permission to sit in it. To sit at his desk. To take his spot. This chair isn’t meant for you, and you’re sure you’ll insult the tower by making any attempt to replace him. He isn’t here, and he isn’t dead either, and yet you struggle with the idea of disrespecting him.

“Oh, dear, it’s not going to eat you – Sit,” Tara mews, rolling her eyes at your conflict, and you force out a nervous chuckle. Pushing past the discomfort, you pull the chair out and take a seat, hovering on the edge of the chair, not wanting to take up any more room than absolutely necessary. Tara either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, as she pulls her paw away and tilts her head up, expecting you to read.

Clearing your throat beforehand, you give a meek roll of your shoulders and begin reading the passage. “Chapter six, Avoiding Accidental Amalgamations,” you over-pronunciate as you fight not to twist your own tongue on the words, “Spark spells and their synergies… Uh, fire and freeze frustrate– Gods, does everything have to be an alliteration?” You grumble, shaking your head. 

“Wizards and their wordplay. Mr. Dekarios is merely a fraction of the pride most take in their language. Overdone, if you ask me. Carry on,” Tara dictates, and you nod, finding your place on the page once more. You continue to read aloud, going over the reactions of different spell types, ranging from fire, to force, to thunder, to psychic, and everything in-between. Including some you didn’t know of, despite all the reading you’ve been subjected to. 

“Wouldn’t ‘radiant’ be the same as fire?” You ask, and Tara shakes her head, her tail flicking. 

“Hardly! Oh, dear, this will be a long journey, won’t it?” She sighs, and you chuckle awkwardly, not sure if she means it as a tease or a slight. “Fire-based spells, such as the flame bolt you cast the other day, or more… trained skills, such as fireball, rely on heat; the physical form of sparks, blazes, and what have you,” she explains, her tail twitching, reminding you of Gale’s gesticulations whenever he explained similar topics. The parallels are amusing, making you feel a little more at ease with his absence. “Radiant spells, however, have direct connections to religion. The spells that devoted clerics or paladins most commonly use, for example, are usually spells that make use of their religion, which comes in the form of radiant lights. Examples of said spells include guiding light, sacred flame, and so on and so forth. Are you particularly devoted to a certain God or Goddess?” She asks. 

“Well, I was closest to worshiping Mystra, since Gale was so fond of her, but not so much with my knowledge now. My parents both worshiped Lathander, but I never really ‘devoted’ myself to one specific deity,” you explain, leaning back in the chair, allowing yourself to get a little more comfortable.

“Radiant spells require the channeling of devotion, so it’s unlikely you’ll come across such spells in your practice. Anyhow, I do assure you that the two are quite distinctly different,” she reminds, and you give a small nod, returning to reading the passages in the book. 

The ‘lessons’ (though it soon felt more akin to storytime as you read infodump after infodump aloud to Tara, and even she seemed bored after a while) continue until you reach the end of the chapter, at which point Tara promptly excuses herself for a nap. Frankly, you were surprised she didn’t doze off during your reading. 

Scanning over the thirteen pages again, you decide that reviewing would best be saved for a time when you weren’t feeling so zapped. For all the reading you did, decoding the tongue-twisting alliterations took up most of your brain power, so the processing part of the lesson was sorely lost on you. Using a spare feather to mark your place in the book, you close the guide and stand up from Gale’s chair, only now realizing just how far you’d been sitting back on it. Any of your previous reservations seem to have been pushed entirely aside, and you glance around the study as if to offer apologies to the room. 

Tara, resting in the small nook by the fireplace, appears to have already dozed off, and you’re left not entirely sure what to do with your time. Usually, at this point in the day, Gale would make a request of you, or allow you to find some story or written lecture to occupy yourself with, or you’d be in charge of picking up around the study, but…

With only you and Tara, there isn’t much of a mess to clean up after. Everything was exactly as you’d left it last night, save for the Flames and Fatalities book being removed from its usual place on the shelf, but you figure that it’s best to leave it out for now, as you expect to return to it before long. 

You don’t need to make lunch, as you aren’t currently hungry, and there’s not the usual extra wizard to feed. It feels lonesome, really. You’re not much of an apprentice without a mentor. Not much of an assistant without a boss. Not much of yourself without him. 

Mildly unsettled at the reminder, you do your best to think of some way to entertain yourself, and you are quick to recall the plans you’d made last night. Seeing as how Tara tends to sleep in his room, her napping in the study grants you a short, but sure, opportunity to ‘peek’ into his bedroom without fear of interruption. 

Breaking and entering is hardly the right term! You live here too, and you’ve seen inside of it before, even if you haven’t necessarily been invited inside or actually ever stepped foot past his door. 

Anyways, since the rest of the tower is remarkably tidy, you can only imagine the mess that awaits behind his door. Blaming it on your lack of direction, you figure the best way to stay in touch with your role as apprentice is to do some gentle rearranging and fixing of his bedroom. Almost like a gift to him, upon his return. He’d surely be delighted to find his private quarters in a much better condition than he left them.

And if you just so happen to find the rumored book that somehow completely changed his mind, you wouldn’t be complaining. 

So, with a quick regard to Tara to ensure she’s paying no mind to you, you step towards the dark door that you’d only ever seen cracked open or completely closed. He’d never given a direct reason as to why he kept his private quarters so private. In his defense, you’d never asked, for fear of seeming disrespectful or potentially upsetting him.

Oh, how far you’d come. 

Perhaps your comfort had festered into the slightest of flaws. It was fine in moderation. But maybe you were a little more comfortable than the term ‘moderation’ could bend to fit. Recently, you’d made quite the series of advances that certainly tested the limits of your business-based relationship with him. Though he was hardly innocent of making similar leaps in faith, and sometimes you wondered just how far you could take it. Of course, when you found your mind wandering, you were always quick to shut down such adventurous hypotheticals, as he was your mentor, and you, his apprentice. That was all it would ever be. Nothing more, and hopefully, nothing less.

Besides, he’d made it perfectly clear he was neither interested in nor gifted with the time he deemed necessary to pursue romantics. Between the pressing matter of the orb and how busy he was in his day-to-day life, you’re nearly positive that a relationship is the last thing on his mind at any given time. 

The door creaks when you open it, and you cringe, but Tara remains settled and, by all appearances, soundly asleep. So you push it open just a little further, enough to awkwardly shimmy inside, and you’re met with a much stronger scent of dust and… sage? 

There’s a bed, round and draped with messy indigo silk, in the middle of the room, pushed up against a wall with an equally circular window, the panes split into four sectors by silver dividers. Those dividers stop at a smaller circle in the middle of the window, forming a pretty design to compliment an even more gorgeous view of the water. You doubted that the balcony, as pretty of a sight as it offered, hardly surpassed the view that this window had, and it makes you wonder why he didn’t mention it when you previously asked if he missed the stars. 

The room is, as you expected, in quite a disastrous state – The bed is lazily arranged, the four satin pillows messily strewn across the head, and the silk blanket is on the verge of dressing the floor rather than the mattress, making you wonder if he even bothers to make use of it when he sleeps. Bookshelves line a foot and a half of wall space on either side of the window, though the dust stacked up on most of them is visible even when you’re a few yards away, and you have to stifle a cough just thinking about trying to neatly clean them. 

You’re quite sure that those bookshelves were incredibly neat once upon a time, but now the books lean in all different directions, making it obvious exactly where a book was plucked from the company of its comrades, and was never important enough to put back. It also helps that there are piles of books stacked around the room. There’s one stack to your left, just narrowly avoiding being knocked over by the arc of the opening door, and another one-and-a-half by the right side of his bed. A few other, shorter stacks litter the floor, most pushed against the nearest wall, though it does little to make the floorspace appear any neater. 

There’s two rugs – one large dark blue rectangle that is unevenly layered underneath the foot of the bed, the longer sides stretching out to the left and right, and another small red square that nestles underneath a cat tree, and you realize that the natural wooden posts are the most probable cause of the underlying cedar scent of the room. Still, the sage goes unexplained, at least for the time being.

You close – or, nearly close – the door behind you, curious as to where exactly you should start searching. Or– tidying. Where you should start… tidying. 

Naturally, you’re drawn to the bed. Despite the complaints of your initial hesitancy, you dare to take a seat on the edge of it, your hand brushing over the strikingly soft satin sheets, matching the maroon of the messy pillows, and you struggle to see a world in which a man who sleeps on this level of comfort could possibly wear the same weary exhaustion that Gale’s eyes do. Surely, anybody who was gifted this absolute perfection of a sleeping space would receive the best rest known to man, hells, even known to any of the gods. And still, it isn’t quite enough to balance the scales of Gale’s stress. 

You frown, momentarily finding yourself pitying him, but you quickly shift your thoughts, knowing very well that pity won’t help anyone. Slightly subconsciously, you dare to arrange his pillows a little neater, lining them up against the fabric-wrapped, shell-like headboard. Continuing, you grab the silky indigo that washes over one half of the bed and pull it closer, and only then does the origin of the sage make itself known. Double-checking your assumption, you pull one handful of the blanket closer to your face, slowly inhaling, and your suspicions are confirmed. It shouldn’t come as any surprise that they smell exactly like him, but it does come as a surprise just how much that detail soothes you. 

A little strange, you have to admit. Perhaps it’s the familiarity that has you grasping it a little tighter, running your thumbs over the impossibly soft texture, holding it close enough to continue enjoying the aroma. Barely has the sun managed a full cycle since he’s left, and gods, you miss him already. It’s embarrassing, a little shameful, and you don’t appreciate the places your hypothetical imagination wanders, contemplating the permanent loss of his company, how distraught such a development would render you. 

So you hold the blanket for a little longer before eventually conceding, scoffing silently at your own perceived immaturity, and you return to your initial plans; straightening his bed. You fix the blanket, lightly tucking the edges between the mattress and the bed frame to keep them in place. You continue around the bed until your foot hits something beneath it, and you first believe it to be one of the feet of the bed frame, though it’s out of place, and uneven compared to the placement of the other supporting posts.

Allowing curiosity to get the best of you, you kneel, and find four books pushed underneath the bed, stacked too neatly to be accidental placements. Well, you did have two goals, after all. And maybe these are the books you’re looking for. So you reach underneath and pull out the stack, placing it on the bed. Interestingly enough, there is barely a lick of dust to be found on any of the books. There’s no title covers on any of them, not even a sewn in phrase or name on the spines of the books. 

How mysterious…

It would be positively insane of you to not indulge and examine these books a little closer. And you’re nothing if not sane. So, you sit on the bed once more, even shuffling up to the head and getting a little more comfortable as you grab the book off of the top of the stack, the forest green leather showcasing mild signs of wear, as if it’s one that’s been combed through, maybe with more urgency than usual, many times. Your curiosity only builds with your anticipation, and you scan the inside of the spine, noticing a few poorly tagged folded corners of pages, as if to mark his place in the book, though given the appearance of multiple markings, you doubt that’s the true reason behind them. 

Deciding to see what exactly intrigued him about the different sections, you open to the first folded page, expecting to find lectures on spells, or the weave, or magic, and…

What you find isn’t completely different from what you expected, but it’s definitely not what you would have imagined the Gale Dekarios owning in any universe. It doesn’t help that your eyes immediately locate the words ‘erotic’ and ‘stimulation’, but taking a moment to read the entire page does very little to assign those words to any normal context. 

You knew he owned plenty of spellcasting books and story books, more than you knew to even exist, but finding an explanation on how sexual encounters ‘in’ the weave (whatever that might possibly mean) work was not ever included in your general assessment of his belongings. Part of you wants to assume that he only had this in his collection because of his endless studying of the weave’s potential uses, but the louder part of you is not paying much heed to Gale’s reputation. 

And yet you find yourself reading on. Maybe his reputation isn’t the only reputation at risk. 

All things considered, it’s quite an interesting read; from explanations on astral bodies and heightened senses, to the many ways that magic can be applied to more intimate occurrences, and it does make you just slightly more keen on learning how to manipulate magic like Gale can. 

Not in these ways, of course!

But it does pique your curiosity, to say the least. 

You read a page or two and then flip to the next dog-eared section, suspending any of your disbelief that this was actually happening, that he had such questionable literature stored away, and continue to read. At this point, you’re only digging him a deeper hole, and you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to see him the same way. This section of the book continues with the theme of magical intimacy, though delves into more personalized – ‘solo’ would be a better term – events. 

There is a small attempt to pull your eyes away from the text, but it’s much like viewing a carriage crash, some spectacle of horror, only that the horror is embarrassment, and you’re unsure if you’re more ashamed of yourself for reading it, or of Gale for owning it! It’s no help that your imagination, as cursed as it surely is, is rather quick to form some fragmented image of Gale following the steps in the book and making far more degenerate use of his mage han–

The book is closed. Abruptly. Forcefully. You cannot read anymore. You shouldn’t have read that far, you shouldn’t have investigated, you shouldn’t even be in his room in the first place. If only you knew just how ‘private’ his quarters truly were. 

There’s three more books. And you may never have another opportunity to learn about this side of him. 

You’d be lying if you said you haven’t been curious before. 

After all, he was involved with a goddess, and that was surely no easy feat. 

But you know better. You’re prying, you’ve more than gotten back at him for ditching you, and you were raised better than to push boundaries. Boundaries that, mind you, you have snuck past, and you can already feel a burdened guilt beginning to stir inside of you. You place the green book back on top of the stack and push them under his bed once more, finishing up your tidying of his bed and you promptly leave, fully prepared to be haunted by your relentlessly imaginative mind for the next few days.

Still, you have to admit, for someone so objected to the idea of romantic pursuits, he sure does know how to keep himself satisfied. Or… so you assume.

Damn, you really need to find something else to think about.

[tantalizingtopi]

Foolish

Gortash x Durge (Draela)

Word Count: 783-ish

Disclaimer: Characters are belonging to Larian Studios and Baldur’s Gate 3

Pretadpole. Moonrise Towers, a meeting of the Dead Three’s Chosen. Mild tension as the plan continues.

Enjoy ~

“I still fail to see why you insist on animity, Draela,” Kethric begins, leaning over the table towards me. “It’s not doing you any favors.”

I laugh. “It’s easier for me to keep them in line if they don’t know what purpose I serve, if they remain at a distance and fearful.”

“And they should fear you,” Enver agrees readily.

Ketheric shakes his head. “But how do you expect them to continue to revere you as they should, without knowing how pivotal of a role you play?”

I lean back, steepling my fingers together and take a deep breath. I try to remember that we are only a couple of months from the beginning of the end. Yet I am so tired. I cast my eyes to Enver, watching as he works his fingers against his palm, clearly fighting the stiffness in them from all of his correspondence. He will have to take his leave soon to return to Baldur’s Gate and I am itching to join him, torn between feeling like I need to be here to keep the elder brain functioning properly as well as Kethric’s little minions in check and taking care of temple matters as well as causing further panic in the name of the Absolute. The Banite catches my eyes and smiles guiltily, stilling his hand.

“I prefer some intrigue and mystery, old man. Besides, I doubt your own followers would feel comfortable knowing they remain a heartbeat from death in my presence. I work best in the shadows, and that’s where I will remain.”

“For now, my dear. But you will need to embrace the light at least a little when the time comes for us to rule together,” The tyrant gently reminds me.

“I think we are both looking forward to you taking the centerstage with us as your counterparts, Gortash,” Kethric is quick to respond, and I nod. Kethric has always been a reluctant participant in our partnership, more so since Myrkul brought back his daughter who is disgusted by him. I try to find empathy for him but I simply don’t have it in me. Only an old fool would expect his daughter, whose faith is so strong in an opposing god, to be grateful to be by his side and join him. Especially after all these years she’s lost.

Gortash lets loose one of his famous political smiles, the smile that charms dozens and dozens of elites, and strikes fear in many more. I say very little else for the rest of the meeting as the two hash out intricate details over and over again. The same things we have discussed a hundred times over, with only the tiniest variants that change nothing.

I have been struggling to sleep lately, tucked up in small quarters. Kethric had offered to move Balthazar out of his hole for me, but contrary to popular belief, I prefer sleeping in clean quarters and without the stench of the undead flooding my nostrils. My father visits me while I sleep, visions of a future of rivers of blood and gore, carcasses of the dead piled like mountains on his altar, for him. He wishes for quicker progress, but we are stalled for the time while we track a new lead on something that may prove to be our undoing if we cannot locate it.

I watch my lover as he talks, gesticulating as he goes. I think about what those hands, those fingers, can do to me. What mine can do to him. Suddenly I find myself standing, my hand on his shoulder, freezing him mid-sentence. He looks up at me, concerned. I blink down at him, equally as surprised. I quickly catch myself and turn towards our third. “I think we are done for now, Kethric. That will be all.”

“But—“ Kethric begins, and my grip tightens on Gortash’s shoulder.

“You heard the lady, Kethric. We can continue in the morning. It’s late,” Gortash crosses himself, putting his hand on mine.

Kethric stands, fixing me with a glare. “Fine. But this—“ he gestures to the two of us, “needs to not interfere with our plans.”

“It’s just sex old man,” I retort to his back. “I have told you before I can assist in finding you a suitable replacement if you are interested.”

“I’m not.” He opens the door to leave, looking back at us once more, “you’re both being foolish.”

Kethric’s words echo in my head long after he is gone, long after Enver and I have exhausted ourselves with one another. I lay tucked into my lover’s side, listening to him sleep soundly, longing for that sleep myself, wondering just how foolish I truly am.

[crypticcaveart]

You'd think that I'd have better things to spend my time on than writing but here we are. Also curse you Larian for creating something I feel so passionately about I broke my nay-sayer attitude and wrote fanfic. How dare you. Anyway my durge is a male twink so that's what u get. Durge spoilers btw

“I don’t need any of this. The only family I know are those who fight by my side.”

“You were made to conquer. To devour. You reject my blood, and so I will reclaim it. I will make another who is worthy.”

Everyone looked on in fear, as Scleritas Fel, possessed by Bhaal, raised his arm, lifting Tav into the air and drawing all of the blood from his body in a red mist, and dropping his lifeless body to the floor with a sickening thud. Scleritas’s body wrenched in odd positions, and was ruined from the inside-out before Bhaal left the chamber altogether. The party slowly walked toward Tav’s body, as if it might lash out at them as a mindless machine of death. Astarion knelt down to feel for a pulse, and found none. Karlach sank to her knees, and lifted the limp body up to her chest, cradling his heavy head in her arms. 

Tears running down her cheeks, Karlach’s voice cracked, “It wasn’t supposed to be this way, Soldier.” She pressed her face to the top of Tav’s head, planting a gentle kiss on his forehead, and held him closer, hoping that any bit of hope from her heart could bring him back.

Jaheira, hand on Minsc’s shoulder, says quietly, “He denied his birthright power to protect others… and it cost us all so dearly. But I am so proud of him.”

From behind, Withers apparated into the chamber. “Thou hast defied Bhaal, thy liege and father, and doing so hast earned a place among champions and heroes.”

The chamber was quiet, save for his voice.

“But, alas, thy courage was in opposition to the divine cosmology that bound thee to the Lord of Murder. Thou art now faithless - godless - and doomed to wander the fugue plane for all of eternity.”

Karlach ignored his presence, as if he were not even there. So focused on her love, now passed, she didn’t even hear the next few things he said.

Withers continued, “I will not permit that, though all the powers of life and death dictate that it should be so. I, too, still hold some power, and I invest a portion of it in thee, who have challenged the gods, and now liveth to tell of it. Thy fight is not over, and it is thy fight, for one who can look upon Bhaal and oppose him can survive any crisis.”

Quietly, as though to not disturb the group further, “Death will not claim thee whilst I endure.”

Karlach was saying her own piece to Tav now, having completely ignored Withers.

His entire body felt so heavy. The static feeling of blood not moving as it should was pinpricking every nerve in his body, and it was dark. His eyelids felt so unimaginably heavy, no part of him would listen to his commands to move. Brain fog was very slowly giving way, and the only sense from the outside world was sound, and he could feel something wrapped around him tightly.

Close to him he could hear sniffling, and the cracking familiar voice of Karlach. Gently, she stroked his cheek and said, “I’m the one who is dying… you were supposed to live on. We were supposed to have more time, more dates, more kisses and nights together in each other's arms. You were going to stay with me when I went, and then live on for both of us. I…”

Her sobs overcame her. Her face was now pressed into his hair, tears flowing down her face. He heard all of these words, and tears formed on his face, too. His first breath returned to his chest, and he coughed his exhale, enough to pull Karlach back to the present. He slowly opened his eyes, mind still a little muddled, a minor headache forming in the back of his head. He had just enough energy to raise one of his shaking hands up to Karlach’s face, which was now wide-eyed and staring down at him, in disbelief.

In a tired, pained voice Tav responded to Karlach’s laments, “I’m not going to let you die. We will have our fifty more years together. I love y-”

Before he could finish what he was saying Karlach had already pressed her lips to his.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

[y-rhywbeth2]

Lore: Gnomes #1

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

Culture | Homelands | History | Religion ---WIP

Today we remember that the Forgotten Folk exist.

Featuring whatever scraps of their culture I could get my hands on while digging.

Including gnome and halfling solidarity; gnome weddings; birthdays; the toaster and some other stuff.

Then the three distinct groups: Svirfneblin, Forstneblin and Rock Gnomes who don't have a fancy gnomish name as of now.

-

Amongst themselves, the gnomes refer to themselves as the Doamun - roughly translated to "Us-who-endure," and their language is munthar ("us-talk"). The gnomish accent is something of a brogue; soft and quieter, described as having a humming or murmuring quality. Pronunciation is mostly flat, with a firm downward emphasis on stressed syllables.

Amongst outsiders the doamun are often referred to as "the Forgotten Folk", because history and the vast majority of non-gnomes often totally overlook their existence.

In the Realms there is a form of short-hand sign language that developed amongst workers in noisier industries to quickly communicate basic, vital information using arm and hand gestures. Gnomes and halflings have both adopted this into their everyday speech when conversing amongst themselves, and are capable of adding extra information or carrying on two conversations at once (one verbally, one by sign). The two races also have a tendency to co-opt human slang and make their own variants while living in cities, so that they can “talk in front of humans without humans knowing all that’s said.”

Gnomes deliberately keep to themselves, to avoid the violence and other trouble that often seems to plague other races' societies. Due to their lack of enmity with any particular faction, and their dedication to political neutrality, they also make useful intermediaries when there's friction.

Some call gnomes cowards, which would be incorrect - gnomes have martial traditions and the willingness to use them if they must, it's simply that gnomes as a whole have absolutely no interest in territorial borders, or having land be considered "theirs," or wielding power. These social constructs are foreign and irrelevant to them. Gnomes are largely content to live in their towns and villages hidden away from the world. Humans have begun to shake this ages-old neutrality, however, as the never-ending expansion of human settlements has begun to encroach on the peace of gnomish homes.

This desire for peace and privacy is a factor in the fact that gnomes heavily favour the school of Illusion when it comes to magic.

Their lack of interest in riches and glory means that should a gnome achieve those things, the famous adventurer can expect to return to a nonplussed community that places no value on these things and sees them as just some guy. Maybe one with a head too big for their shoulders after spending too much time with the Big Folk.

-

Tidbits of overarching gnome culture:

Gnomes have a unique form of traditional dance called "slap-dancing" - the audience forms a ring around the dancer, and both they and the dancer slap the front of their upper thighs to form a syncopated beat between the steps.

Doamun history is an oral tradition, preserved by women in the form of traditional chants.

Gnomes are the master inventors of the realms, and have invented numerous clockwork gadgets. Including a kind of clamp that works as a toaster.

A birthday is a day to reflect on one's ancestors and departed loved ones while the individual is "still here" for another year. Visiting graves and telling the departed how you're doing is a common way to celebrate. (That doesn't mean there won't be a party though.)

While not on the same level as dwarves, gnomes can definitely hold their liquor.

The Doamun and the Hin ("halflings") appear to have had significant cultural exchange;

They both have the knowledge to concoct a very powerful painkiller called meerithaele. This drug is only used in the most circumstances, when the patient is suffering extreme physical trauma, or to ease the suffering of the dying.

When a gnome would count with their hands, as humans do with their fingers, they instead count the backs of their knuckles.

Apparently the Realms has a tradition of ancient magic based on runes, and the Doamun have their own form of it, but I can't find any more details. It's an old, dying art that most people know nothing about, even amongst the gnomes themselves.

Their famous philosophers include Nith Foelkor (884-929 DR) who wrote a treatise called Yoan Drae, roughly; "The life of a gnome." He posited that the only concrete truth of existence is what one perceives and feels.

Other traditions they share with the Hin include very similar wedding ceremonies:

While there are traditions for weddings, they're not that big a deal and the partners tend to invent their own customs, or at least their own spin on tradition, unique to themselves and their relationships. There is no standard dress for weddings, and the bridal veil is not a concept in their culture.

The traditional structure is as follows:

There will be an officiant, and the vows will be said in a setting of natural beauty - such as a glade or by a stream. The officiant will begin the wedding by beginning the "calling song", which will signal the couple to step forth - if it's a m/f couple then traditionally the groom will step forth, if it's a same-gender couple then the oldest of the pair is the first to step forward. These rules are not set in stone though, and the couple may chose to mix it up. There are many traditional calling songs, which are often customised to fit the couple. Sometimes couples write their own.

Once the two are standing face-to-face you have the usual "does anybody here object?" - It is not socially acceptable to actually object, unless there are legitimate legal issues (such as if this marriage is taking place in a realm/amongst a clan that doesn't recognise polygamy.) Naturally, many romantic dramas feature the romantic lead standing up and declaring their undying love at this point, but in reality that wouldn't be acceptable behaviour.

There will be a brief sermon on love and marriage, and a varying degree of religion, depending on how religious the couple/clan is. The couple exchange speeches they've written for each other (as before, either the groom or the eldest traditionally goes first).

The couple then spit on their left palms and raise them up to hold hands as the officiant begins a lucky chant to bless their wedding. The bodily fluid is usually spit, doesn't have to be - you could use tears of joy, or blood, for example. They will then embrace, kiss and exchange tokens. These tokens can be anything, including rings, though those are not the default.

Then the reception; dancing, music, food and then the couple goes off to enjoy some private time - said private time may be anything from planting a new seed as a symbolic ritual to going on some kind of quest/adventure together.

-

According to their creation stories, the first gnomes were born when Garl Glittergold came across a cavern rich with minerals. He breathed upon them, and they opened up to reveal the first gnomes.

Forest Gnomes The forstneblin live for around 400 years. They stand at a range of 2'1" - 2'10" tall and they none ever reach 3 feet, making them the smallest of the Doamun. They are the only gnomes that live almost exclusively above ground, and according to the creation myths were born from emeralds, which are sacred to them.

Forstneblin have made no mark whatsoever upon the history books, the most they've done is shut down logging companies and other incursions in their home forests, and even then their work and settlements are so well hidden by illusion magic that nobody realises they were there in the first place. Other defences include the local fauna, as forest gnomes put their innate ability to speak with animals to good use and use them as an information network. Nature and life are sacred to the gnomes, and clerics are as likely to have injured animals brought to them for healing as villagers.

They have no quarrel with or even a mistrust of outsiders, they simply do not believe that either party has anything to interest the other, so they don't make contact. When they do approach an outsider, they'll use illusions to pass themselves off as a member of the outsider's own race. They are shy in their interactions, but pleasant enough and easy to befriend, and when it comes to outsiders they generally get along best with the races whose cultures share their love of the natural world; other gnomes, elves, and halflings. Humans, they tend to be wary of, as human industry rarely keeps the welfare of the environment in mind.

Their communities are rarely more than 100 people strong, and are sustained through foraging and a small bit of hunting. The entire hamlet is carved inside the trunk of a still-living tree, carefully constructed so that they are hidden within the boughs and almost impossible to spot. The homes are spaced out enough to afford the occupants sufficient privacy, and all sport cylindrical windows to allow plenty of light in. Each home has a passage down into the earth below the tree-hamlet, where a communal chamber has been excavated as a public space.

Forest gnomes have a great respect for their elders. The leaders of these communities are the eldest gnome in them, and they have no divisions of labour based on gender; everybody is treated the same. This leader wields no authority, they are simply afforded respect and their advice is valued on account of their long life experience.

Religion is important in forest gnome society, and clerics and druids are common. Their patron deity is Baervan Wildwanderer, who has charged them with the protection of nature. The gnomes, who love said nature dearly, are incredibly grateful to the deity for entrusting them with this.

Childhood is a time to run wild and do as you like under the careful, but unobtrusive observation of one's elders, and children usually learn the ropes of adulthood simply by observing their parents.

The age of majority in forest gnome culture is 20 years old.

As with all gnomes, forest gnomes have a love for gemstones and enjoy crafting with them. Forstneblin jewellery often features motifs depicting the beauty of the natural world.

-

Rock Gnomes Despite not having an official name, we do have the pattern for the names of gnomish subraces, and the word for "rocks." I would hazard a guess it's Cammarneblin, though obviously that's a headcanon. Rock gnomes are associated with diamonds, and favour those sacred stones in their craftswork.

Their homes tend to be underground, in "burrows." If they live in a human city, they'll usually buy a house and start extending the basement (or make one, if none is available). Human cities with a significant gnome population may end up with some kind of underground warrens populated by the gnome community.

They live for 350-500 years, and stand between 3' - 3'6" tall. Rock gnome children have hair that can be any range of colour, including the ones seen on humans, or any other colour on the light spectrum - however their hair will begin to turn white or grey once they reach adulthood. Their skin comes in any shade of brown, although they don't tan or pale.

Rock gnomes are the most commonly encountered gnomes, and the ones you'll find in human cities (although the vast majority of them have no interest in living there).

Their culture places great emphasis on the importance of the journey over the destination. It's the learning and the joy of creation that makes things like jewelling, and gem cutting, and alchemy, and magic, and inventing so wonderful, not whatever the end product is - although it's certainly nice if that product is beneficial. Life itself is one big journey, and it is to be enjoyed as much as possible. Play is just as important as work, and if those can be the same thing then that's all the better.

As with their forest cousins, children are given free reign to explore the world at their own pace. While all young rock gnomes are expected to learn basic self-defence, and a useful trade, they're also encouraged to dabble and experiment until they find something that suits them. Youths are given a long time to explore what the world has to offer, and what they want from it, and rock gnomes aren't socially considered adults until they're 40. And then there's a party.

There is always a party. Rock gnomes do not need such silly things as reasons for parties, though a flimsy excuse can probably be found somewhere, if required. Said parties are wild, out of control, and may last for tendays. Part of the reason for that is that the rest of the time is spent working for tendays on end, and after stepping away from the workbench or the mine, working out what month it is and getting the cricks out of one's neck, what one really needs is clearly to blow off some steam.

Rock gnome religious philosophy holds that life and the world at large is a puzzle, meant for solving. The greatest joy lies in the study of that puzzle and the onward march of science.

While they hold great affection for their gods, attend services regularly, and often talk about them in daily conversation, they don't tend to be religious as a culture. To a rock gnome, the gods are present and reachable everywhere and always, and specific buildings and pomp and ceremony are just toys to wave around.

Prone to inquisitiveness and a highly sociable society (overly so by some people's standards), a common trait rock gnomes are infamous for is that They. Do Not. Shut Up. Ever.

They get along best with dwarves, who share their love of craft and creation; and halflings, who they share similarities like a love of a simpler life, home and family, and a good time. The fact that the Big Folk tend to literally and figuratively look down their noses at all three of them doesn't hurt either.

They are infamously bad cooks (rock gnome cuisine is either too bland or too salty), but their alcohol is considered excellent. They also make rock candy. Between their skill as brewers, their love of fun, and the dedication gnome musicians have to their crafts, gnomes are the best guests or hosts you can have for a good time. You are, however, entirely to blame for whatever shenanigans happen if you get drunk with them.

They're also the inventors of the firearm (gunnes), and the only people who've mastered their use. It is in fact common to find a rock gnome bearing a pistol.

-

Deep Gnomes The the shortest lived of the gnomes, with an average lifespan of up to 260 years. They stand between 3' - 3'6" tall, and tend towards a scrawny frame, sometimes described as "gnarled". They look like they're made of bone and sinew, although said sinew is actually a significant amount of muscle mass and deep gnomes are heavier than they look (average; 45lbs). Their skin takes on tones of earth and rock; brown, grey or brown-grey. AMAB svirfneblin do not grow hair on their scalps, and AFAB gnomes grow stringy dark grey hair (which may be dark enough to seem black). Likewise their eyes are dark grey to black.

According to legend, the deep gnomes were born of rubies, and prize those best.

The reality of survival in the Underdark means that deep gnomes are far more reserved and practical than their cousins. Their society functions on strict male and female gender roles, with each work force answering to the King and Queen respectively. The men make up the miners and the armies, and are responsible for expanding city limits, trade, and other vocations that require leaving their carefully hidden homes. The women take on the roles of maintaining their settlement and society; the water and food, fishing and farming, city services and maintenance, crafting, raising and educating the children, etc. Women rule inside the city, and men outside of it. It is possible to find svirfneblin outside of these roles, but it is very rare.

Their governments are monarchies, with the monarchs being advised by a council of elders. The monarchs are elected from amongst the city (anybody is eligible, but status within the community plays a large part), and rule only by the consensus of their people - deep gnome communities must be able to trust each other and cooperate to survive so deep into the earth, there is no room for selfish tyrants. Everybody has their place and their role, and everybody does it so that all may live. Kings and Queens are not necessarily married, though it is possible for a married couple to both be elected or for a governing pair to get married on the job. Regardless, these are simply jobs, and no relationship between the two is inherently involved.

Despite their practicality and apparent sullenness, the deep gnomes do not lack for creativity. They love gemstones and take joy in working with them to create art as much as any gnome; it's for the sake of their craft and the gems that they came to and remain in the Underdark.

Each svirfneblin settlement is unique in its design - featuring anything from smooth rectangular cuts to undulating waves and curves in artistic places. Their cities are well fortified fortresses, built near mineral veins. Homes are carved into the walls of the cavern, consisting of a series of small rooms with windows overlooking the city. The rich gnomes live in hollowed out stalagmites. Cities are much larger than the homes of other gnomes, often hosting over a thousand residents. As light and heat could give away their location, the deep gnomes simply don't use any such thing. They navigate purely by darkvision, and their world exists only in greyscale. On that same note, sound also carries, so these civilisations tend to be eerily quiet compared to what one expects from a lived in settlement.

Deep gnomes don't bother with keeping history or tracking the passage of time. The closest they get are two holy days; the Festival of the Star in winter, and the Festival of the Ruby in summer. The festivals celebrate the svirfneblin ancestral ties to the surface world, as well as their descent into and continued survival in the Underdark.

Naturally, they don't trust their Underdark neighbours, not any outsider really. The common practice of slavery disgusts them, and they would rather not deal with any society that partakes in it. Nevertheless, they are willing to engage in careful trade when required for survival, and Underdark trade being dominated by the drow, interactions with the dark elven merchant clans are a necessary evil. Surfacers tend to assume that svirfneblin are the "evil counterparts" to surface gnomes - as duergar to dwarves, or drow to elves - and respond to them with similar hostility and violence. Even if they're not assumed to be evil, deep gnomes are so used to being on guard for danger from strangers that they're sullen and suspicious of anyone they don't know, and many people write them off as rude and miserable.

Amongst themselves, deep gnomes tend to be warm and affectionate, and they're fully willing to adopt friends into this circle once they've proven safe to trust. When one of the community betrays their neighbours they will be brought before the monarch and council - whether it's the king and male advisors who presides over the proceedings, or the queen with her female advisors, depends on if the crime took place outside or inside the city. Rehabilitation of the offender is preferred, and punishments escalate in severity from shunning, to incarceration, banishment or execution. If banishment is the punishment then the exile will be armed and given supplies in the hope that they won't die. If the offender is deemed a security risk then banishment will not be considered.

Svirfneblin children are treasured and doted upon. Once they start puberty they will begin their apprenticeship, and at about 20 they will be considered an adult. There is no celebration or any note of the occasion; you know you're an adult when you graduate and start working. There is no retirement age, you work until you die. Gnomes live with their parents until they get married, at which point they'll move out.

Their lives aren't devoid of joy - the priesthoods are responsible for morale, and often declare an impromptu holiday when they feel the people need cheering up. Clerics of Segojan Earthcaller, god of the deep earth and the dead, also take on the task of caring for the elderly.

Deep gnomes tend to come across many lost, ancient magical artefacts in their excavations, and cities tend to preserve these treasures.

Their books tend to be crafted from lizard-skin and bioengineered fungi cultivated for the purpose. Svirfneblin fashion tends to sport a lot of gems and jewellery. Due to the lack of fire, they don't tend to cook. Fungi, raw fish and rothé meat all feature heavily in their diet, and most outsiders find their cuisine unbearably salty. They have two unique beverages; a unique, nameless brew made from fermented fish, and Gogondy which is a crimson wine made of... something, and apparently includes crushed rubies amongst the ingredients. Drinking it is said to induce visions, and is likely to knock you out after a few mouthfuls.

[findingtarshish]

god Act 3 has some really abysmally designed fights Someone needs to point at stunning gaze and unstoppable and then shake larian's designers by the shoulders and ask them "Do you think this is fun? Waiting for a dozen enemies to finished their multiattacks so that you can skip your turn? Do you enjoy this?"

like if I was in a tabletop game and a dungeon master put me through this I would make it very clear after the game that this is not a good experience.

[wyllsravengard]

Fang the new url makes sense to me now. I get it I understand. I support you. Go crazy go stupid baby. I’m holding up a sign that says “Wyll and Fang 4eva” in a little drawn heart

MARQUIE HE IS SOOOJKFDKJLKSD. play it or watch it u wont regret it he is handsome and princely and also makes me insane. shaking you gently by the shoulders so on and so forth.

i will tell u upfront his story is the least fleshed out (larian when i catch you larian) but what he does have is so sweet and im completely deranged about him and will continue to be

[firespirited]

Khatastrophic part 3: Of course something had to happen so my left glove burst and I cannot scrub out the blue... But look at those tropical greens *gestures magnifique in mediterreanean* (It’s like chefs kiss but lower, both hands: thumb to forefinger and index with a double shake and little shrug to the shoulders, no words or pouting needed.) The white-ish streaks went mermaidy teal, the neon green went bright clover and some parts remained a lime fresh green. Now i’m motivated for the repaint and whatever I decide to do with the eyeshadow, i’m leaning towards bleaching as I’m digging the simple cat eye look and the teensy pop of green, draws more attention to the hair/skintone combo.

I would like to thank QiYue hair for accidentally screwing over MGA by letting fans make their own customs without needing to reroot a 7″ head and the factory workers who kept and sold all 10 defective heads in my collection: giving me both increasingly difficult challenges and a way to not give a dime to Isaac Larian. I would have not been able to do this without my good friend heavy anxiety that needed an outlet as neither my back nor my blood pressure wanted to let me do anything today and all yall enablers of brightly coloured plastic whimsy.