#Isobel is persistant

[sportygothic]

s1e2

[vibingandsimping]

More random intimate positions/scenarios! Pt.2

Morally grey/villain characters this time!

Forewarnings: Dark content… including things like ownership, stalking, gore + obsession. Some pure fluff though :)

(I apologize for this being considerably longer compared to the others. I have been playing some more plus researching the lore. I feel more confident in my understanding of the characters and my writing.)

Gortash had his fingers wrapped around your chin as he beckoned you to look at him. You’re sat in his lap with your hands rested atop his shoulders. His expression is content with how closely pressed you are to his body. He could savor your warmth and read you so intimately. His brown eyes meet yours with a certain warmth laced in all the unwavering dominance. His lips quirk into a smirk as he watches your poorly built facade begin to crumble. His spare hand runs along the small of your back slowly… beckoningly. He'd be the hero of Baldurs Gate soon. He'd have all the power he dreamt of as a boy. Don't you wish to share that with him? His chest purrs when you keen into his touch. Good. He knew you could be a pretty thing for him. Such a formidable foe and he’d have you right by his side.

Minthara had her arms wrapped around your frame protectively. No matter how large or small you were in comparison. She was determined to hold you and plant some sort of reassurance into you. The way she regarded you was not that of any other. No, you were special to her and the woman realized it may not be so clear. She may be a cruel and a standard "drow", but beyond that there was an affection for you within her heart. She plants a kiss against the back of your shoulder-blades and it draws a shudder. Her muscles tighten around you as she presses her face into your shoulder, hot breath washing the junction of your neck and the flesh of your shoulder. You resist a second shudder. Unbeknownst to you, she’d follow you even if it was fruitless. Nothing was shaking her now that she was wrapped around you.

Orin's blade travels down your chest. It was gentle yet sharp... she wasn't particularly aiming to harm you but the thin streak of blood was enticing. The wound was so shallow it barely bubbled- just enough to alert her she broke the skin. Everything about the way she gazed at you was unhinged. You knew if she had pupils they'd be dilated. She draws her face downwards and laps at the tender flesh while you draw a shaky inhale. The whispers of praise and wishes for more barely reached your ears beyond the thrum of your heart. The slimy feel of her tongue worming it’s way up to your collarbones hitch your breath and you watch carefully. Each movement breeds more anticipation- she was soaking in your torment. She was wicked, truly, she devoted herself to you. You’d never understand her… but did you have to?

Ketheric’s hand laced with yours as you walked to his side. He was laid on his throne with open thighs as he acknowledged your presence. The man was aged and once a father. Well, technically still but Isobel regarded him with disowning. He long burned that bridge from his desperation and despair. You entered his life and turned things around. Everyone in Moonrise had never seen him so soft since he lost his daughter and wife. You took a seat on one of his thighs as he drew your hand to his face. His lips planted a gentle kiss on the back of your hand and then along your wrist. His beard tickled and caused you laugh, struggling against his hold as he stubbornly refused to let you go. When he finally did his lips were quirked upwards and there was a twinkling in his eye. He never thought he’d take a lover again… so he was glad when you broke down his walls. He’d once curse you for being persistent but now he’d praise you for it.

Raphael tugs on the invisible leash that was wrapped around your neck. You jerk forward on the bed as you kneeled with palms balancing you on the lush fabric. His wings were on grand display as his typically slicked hair tussled ever so slightly. Expression dark and expectant as you slowly crawled toward him. His brows furrowed as he tutted impatiently, a leg swinging out to hook around your thigh and jerk it underneath you. You collapsed as he drew you towards him with little patience. You now sprawled across his lower abdomen and crotch as his chest rumbles in amusement. Your skin burned with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment. The hold he had on you, literally and figuratively, elicited a deep part of your brain. One that wished so carnally to be claimed… to be owned. Raphael would see to that, he promised, with one hand stroking your hair. You were such a sweet thing… and if you weren’t so persistent he’d lock you up for himself.

Kar’niss thought of you as a blessing. Truly, a drider like him didn’t deserve such an angel. He was supposed to be punished for all eternity for his shortcomings. He failed once and will never see to being a normal drow again. That’s why it didn’t make sense for him to be rewarded- but who is he to look at a gift with ungratefulness? He always holds you so tenderly… his body shockingly cold. He’s restless today, you note, as his eight legs skitter and his hands curl at you. There’s a flittering look in his face. A hunger he tried to conceal. When you question, he answers truthfully, drider need to feed on blood to survive. Every four days or he’d succumb to weakness and eventually die an empty husk. You offer yourself and he checks you for any hesitancy before diving in. He pierces the flesh with his sharp nails before indulging in the crimson that flowed. Between suckles and licks, he praises you for your generosity. Endless ‘thank you’s’ flow as much as your blood. He’s sure he’d never fallen deeper in love… or was it infatuation?

Haarlep knew their affection for you was essentially forbidden. Raphael handed you as a toy to them. Nothing more and nothing less- they should regard you only for his entertainment. They somehow found themselves wanting to indulge in your mind rather than your flesh after some time. It was your softness that first stunned them and foiled their pure-desire. Raphael never touched themself with such… they could barely find the word. Gentleness? Regard? They’d lay with you after your shared bliss and inch their nails down the side of your hip as you detailed your life. With a hand propping their head; they seemed enchanted. Mesmerized by how simple yet complex of a creature you were to them. Haarlep was a succubus and spent their life serving that purpose. They almost felt jealous of the freedom you held in life. They couldn’t help but find themselves fantasizing a life where you two lived in better circumstances. It was all a fantasy, though, they knew it with a bittersweetness.

Durge had always watched you from afar. Stalking, following and admiring. You caught their gaze amongst the crowd as they deliberately chose their next victim. You would’ve been easy. You didn’t hold yourself with a particular air in the ranks of Baldur’s Gate. Another citizen lost to the crazed killings of a maniac. It wasn’t until you’d noticed you had a secret admirer did your hackles raise. You could feel a pair of eyes on you at the most inopportune times. Then, came the letters at your doorstep detailing how they defied their nature. You could’ve been another hung corpse but instead they wished to wrap their mind around your heart and their lips amongst your neck. A shiver ran through you… a mix of disgust and a strange intrigue? Surely it was the way the letters were so detailed and deranged. You would’ve ignored it all until the stalking emboldened. You saw their figure in the window at night and through the alleyways. It was only a matter of time before they struck and claimed you as theirs. You’d simply have to keep an eye over your shoulder and hold a dagger close. If you could even strike them, that was.

[autistichalsin]

A Durge Theory

This is my theory for my Durge, and resist!Durge in general, but obviously YMMV with your own!

So, the core of this is the memories that are unlocked if you either give Durge a noblestalk or use Heal on them. Two in particular are relevant here:

If you eat the noblestalk but haven't met Sceleritas Fel yet, your memory is of murdering a newborn.

If you have Heal cast on you while not having eaten the mushroom nor having resisted Bhaal yet, you see a memory of having murdered a family, very likely the one that took them in.

In the first case, you have a few options for reacting, one of which is, "Delve: why did it die?" The Narrator then says (in a way that indicates it might be your own thoughts): "*Better to die than live on an earth walked by you. Each of your deaths is a mercy.*"

Durge, despite their brutality, despite their affinity for torture, ultimately views their deaths as merciful, because even torture is better than living in the same world as them. That..... is a staggering amount of self-loathing.

For the second option, Durge has a few options, all of which lead to Sceleritas taunting him: "Young Master, precious fledgling, follow ever your heart. In time, your true family will find you." Durge was quite young when their Urge first took over, and it was noted that after this, they tried to fight it off a few times unsuccessfully before giving in fully and entering the Cult of Bhaal.

Further, we also know that Durge has often not been in control of themself while committing murders, though they were for some, too. For Alfira or Quill's murder, they explicitly say it was in their sleep; if they get Steelclaw killed, they have no memory of doing it; if they choose to go to sleep rather than warn their lover after sparing Isobel, they'll wake to find their partner dead.

This suggests to me that in addition to the Urge itself, it is very possible that at times, Bhaal directly possessed Durge to make sure they killed in situations Bhaal wanted them to- particularly when Bhaal wanted them to experience bloodlust, and was angry they seemed to have forgotten this part of themselves.

So... piercing all of this together, we have my heartbreaking headcanon for resist!Durge, and especially for my Durge Kiaran.

Durge/Kiaran was taken in by a loving foster family. They loved to play and were sweet- which angered Bhaal. He needed his spawn to feel bloodlust.

So Bhaal possessed them and made them murder the very family that took them in, quite possibly including a newborn sibling. Durge started to develop an appetite for killing, as Bhaal planned, and was also overcome with grief and self-loathing, feeling they were a monster- which Bhaal also planned. Bhaal made sure the Urge persisted, and all the while, Scleritas kept appearing to taunt and guide them towards their "real family," a group of murderers who understood them better than anyone else.

Feeling there was nothing else a monster like them could do but embrace their nature, Durge finally entered the cult, rose through its ranks, and became feared and admired for their ability to create mountains of bodies. All the while, though, they loathed themselves, feeling that even their worst, most torturous deaths were a better fate than sharing the world with them.

After the Nautiloid, Bhaal tried to reignite Durge's bloodlust with more forced murders, but the brain damage from Orin had truly severed the part of themself that had given in to Bhaal, allowing them to fight back the Urge and become their own person at last.

It fits in so well with the game's themes of gods being willing to completely and utterly fuck over even their worshippers just to get what they want, and many other themes the game hits on too (especially trauma, loss, and accountability for past actions counterbalanced with the ability to change, grow, and be better.)

[moonselune]

I don't know if you do these two but can we get isobel and dame aylin falling in love with tav. If not, jaheira being constantly flattered and flirted with by tav to which they end up together. Love your work as always and thanks for doing my ask about tav with a kid and back hugs 😁

Okay so I didn't know if it was poly or separate for our moon ladies so feel free to request that again when my inbox is back open. Thus I wrote the Jaheira prompt. And no worries I loved those requests and thank you for your support !

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Jaheira was a woman of strength, wisdom, and undeniable beauty. From the moment you met her, you were captivated. You could have stayed entwined in her vines for a millennia. Her fiery spirit and unwavering resolve drew you in, and you couldn't help but express your admiration through some flattery and playful flirting, and by some you meant 24/7. It started with small compliments during your travels.

"Jaheira, your skills in battle are unparalleled," you would say, watching as a faint smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "And you have a way of making even the darkest places feel safe."

Jaheira, ever composed, would respond with a polite nod or a slight chuckle, brushing off your compliments with a modesty that only made her more endearing to you. But you were persistent, finding every opportunity to compliment her.

One evening, as the campfire crackled and the group settled in for the night, you approached Jaheira, who was tending to a pot of stew.

"Do you need any help?" you asked, your tone light and teasing. "I might not be as skilled as you, but I'm a quick learner."

Jaheira glanced up, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "I think I can handle it," she replied, but there was a softness in her voice that suggested she appreciated the offer.

"I don't know, it looks like a pretty mean stew, a dual attack may be needed," You joked and Jaheira let out a light laugh, relenting and handing you a wooden spoon. Enboldened, you continued. "You know, Jaheira, there's something about you that just draws people in. It's not just your insane strength or your ethereal beauty. It's the way you care for everyone around you. It's captivating."

This time, Jaheira didn't brush off your words. Instead, she paused, her hands stilling over the pot as she looked at you more intently.

"You have a way with words," she said slowly. "But I have come to learn that words are easy. Actions speak louder."

Taking her cue, you moved closer, your eyes locked on hers. "Then let me show you," you said softly. "Let me prove that my admiration for you is more than just words."

The firelight cast a warm glow on Jaheira's face as she considered your words. Finally, she nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Very well," she said. "But know this: I do not give my heart easily."

Over the next few weeks, you made it your mission to prove your feelings through actions. You stood by her side in battles, even when Gale was right there, which often led to Jaheira shoving you over to him - he needed the protection much more than she did. You shared stories and laughter during the quieter moments, bringing out the wine you had managed to steal from Shadowheart's stash, and you always found ways to make her smile. Your respect for her was unwavering, and your affection only grew stronger with each passing day.

One evening, after a particularly intense battle with a group of gnolls, the camp settled into a rare moment of peace. You found Jaheira sitting by herself near the edge of the clearing, her gaze fixed on the horizon as the sun dipped below the trees. You approached her cautiously, not wanting to disrupt her thoughts, but unable to stay away.

You settled down beside her, the warmth of the fire casting a gentle glow around you. "Jaheira, I meant what I said before," you continued, your voice earnest. "Your strength and wisdom are unparalleled, but it's more than that. It's your kindness, your compassion. It's what draws people to you."

She looked at you, her gaze softening. "You have a way with words," she said quietly. "I've come to realize that perhaps your words do carry weight."

A rush of excitement and relief swept through you, with a playful grin, you turned slightly away from her and pumped your fist discreetly, celebrating your small victory. Jaheira chuckled softly, shaking her head at your antics, but there was a fondness in her eyes that hadn't been there before.

"You may have... crawled your way into my heart," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. You were unable to hide the joy that lit up your face.

"I knew it!" you exclaimed quietly, unable to fully contain your excitement. You quickly composed yourself, realizing how important this moment was to both of you. "I mean... thank you, Jaheira," you said more calmly, meeting her gaze with sincerity. "I don't take your trust lightly."

Her smile widened, and without another word, she leaned in and kissed you. It was a soft, tender kiss that spoke volumes more than any words could convey.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

[fangsandfeels]

Who killed Isobel Thorm?

Among all the questions plaguing me, this one is the most persistent. I hoped Isobel would give any information about how she died or what the fuck happened, but we get none. And unless I did something wrong, Dame Aylin doesn't shed any light either. I remember there was some cut content in the EA (but it's not relevant anymore), so we only know that Isobel was killed suddenly in her parent's home, and the family dog died defending her.

So, my best guess is:

Isobel was killed by a Sharran. Being a daughter of the paladin of Selune made her a target already. But a lover of Selune's daughter? Oh, her death would be a blow to the morale.

Ketheric, fearing that something like this would happen, probably begged Dame Aylin to appeal to her mother and bring Isobel back, prayed to Selune herself (if his daughter was chosen by her ambassador, it has to mean something? If Selune cares not for his another tragedy, maybe she cares about her own daughter's grief?).

The only response he got from Selune and Dame Aylin is that nothing can be done, and they should rally against the enemy to avenge Isobel, which made him incredibly enraged and bitter - he gave so much, Isobel gave so much to Selune, only for them both to be cast aside, treated like pawns in the endless squabble between gods?! So he renounced his servitude to Selune and went to Shar out of sheer spite (and secret hope that if he served her well, she would give back what she took or at least help him stop feeling). He captured Dame Aylin as an offering to Shar and a "fuck you, I'm taking your daughter then" to Selune (probably feeling disgusted how Moonmaiden hadn't done absolutely anything to help her own child; fuck maybe he even waited for her to start bargaining - Isobel in exchange for Dame Aylin's freedom).

As the paladin of Shar, Thorm led her forces against Harpers and the druids, and the Shadow Curse was unleashed after he fell.

Centuries later, Myrkul plucks him from the afterlife (I wonder whether Ketheric was on his way to the Wall of Faithless because he cursed Shar with his dying breath too, or if Myrkul simply 'borrowed' him from her domain because he and Shar are supposed to be buddies. If it's the latter, it also explains why Isobel just saw dark instead of being taken to Selune's domain - maybe Shar claimed her soul after her death somehow, which made retrieving Isobel a no-issue?).

...somehow, my thoughts ended up going into the "Faerun gods kinda suck" territory yet again. Why does it keep happening?

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Fic Prompt #3

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Shar; also features Selûne, and Balthazar, that wretched walking content warning Length: ~4000 words Summary: Aylin prays in the Shadowfell, to a mother who can't hear her - and an aunt who can.

What can silence the Nightsong? @stachless prompted "nightmare" and also drew [this art]. Brainworms heavily inspired by @featherwurm's [art] and its followup [here]. Also inspired by a bunch of Aylin's Shadowfell dialogue, the extremity of what she went through, her mother, and the Jesus-Christ-Superstar-Gethsemane of it all. Then we have my own need to see her cherished and taken care of and protected, along with a bit of weird fascination with how the Calm Emotions spell is actually supposed to work.

Hurt/comfort. Warnings for canon-typical violence and references to torture.

---

Once, there would have been a steady hum, a warmth blooming eternal in her chest. An undeniable, reassuring presence, like a hand on her shoulder, and a loving murmur in her ear as if her Mother were there, but only just out of sight. Now there is nothing.

There is worse than nothing; there is a tug, a pull, a leeching so unnatural and wrong it makes bile rise in Aylin's throat. Makes her first steps into a stumble, as she pulls herself to her feet from where the latest Sharran had felled her, leading her so close to the bounds of her enclosure that the sickly glow of the grasping claws starts to manifest. 

So instead she kneels, as she has done countless times before: in magnificent temples and humble shrines, in muddy battlefields before and after skirmishes, in winter storms and in bright summer showers. Privately, or as one in a crowd of worshippers. Or, a traitorous little shard of her heart pipes up, with Isobel, whose devotion was always catching like the most pleasant of flames. 

"Moonmaiden, hear me," once she finally speaks, Aylin's voice is strong to her own ears, rising clear and resonant from the depths of her chest, unhampered by her predicament or by the bitter sting of grief. It is a bracing thing to note, and it makes it easier to straighten her shoulders and persist.

The odious essence that permeates the Shadowfell makes calm, comfortable meditation a distant dream, but Aylin does her utmost to shake off the worst of it. She chooses instead to focus on going through all the well-practised, familiar, reassuring motions. Hands open, relaxed, palms resting on her thighs, eyes closed but not clenched shut, chin upturned slightly, waiting for the light of an absent moon.

"Weaver of the silver loom, look upon me with mercy and pluck the threads of my fate to lead them away from this place, away from this dungeon of loss and dark and grief." 

It is easy, natural, to intone the words, even as the recitation feels slightly more formal than Aylin is used to. The conspicuous absence surrounding her and blanketing her heart does nothing to deter her.

"Guide me out of the grasp of shadow. Turn the tides, so that I may vanquish Your enemies once more and shield Your faithful from the darkness in turn, under Your watchful eye."

Ketheric will bleed, a Sharran plot that was allowed to fester and grow much too far will finally be thwarted, and Reithwin salvaged, recovered, a haven for those basking in the light of the moon once more.

Surely, whatever time Aylin has spent here… surely it is enough.

Her only answer is a coward's blow; a would-be justiciar who has snuck down to her prison oh-so-quietly, who has chosen to anoint herself with the blood of an unarmed, unaware opponent knelt in prayer.

In the rush of her own lifeblood Aylin could swear she hears laughter.

-

"Hear me. Moonmaiden," the words are ground out this time, slowly and painstakingly. "Our Lady of Silver. Shine Your gleaming light upon me, dispel the grip of shadow and pain, bolster my heart with Your radiance…"

There is an arrow lodged in her flank, and another one near her shoulder blade, still burning with the telltale traces of poison. This one wanted to make sure - a good Sharran: thorough, prepared. Lurking in the shadows and well out of reach, even for this. Truly meant for his mistress' embrace.

"I, whose hand has ever borne Your sword against wickedness gladly and with pride…"

The third in what can't have been more than, what, a day? But how to tell, when her own body falling and rising is the only thing she can rely on to try to gauge the passage of time? In any case, Ketheric is ramping up the production of his army, that much is clear.

So much of Reithwin has paraded before her eyes. People she had lived beside, even if for a little while, coming here to kill her. Some of them acknowledge the fact, even - let her know they never trusted her, sneer about their welcome and respect being but pretence, or forced by fear of divine retribution. Others avert their eyes and pretend they weren't the ones to help her pick out flowers for a bouquet to gift Isobel early in their courtship, just as they weren't the ones to help with the delicate petal-cups of the moonflower arrangements for her funeral.

If she thinks of what has happened, what must be happening to the ones who she hasn't faced here, the rage mixed with the bitter bite of failure threatens to overwhelm her utterly. They were hers to protect. Just as Isobel was.

She can't reach the accursed arrow in her back to pull it out. The sting mounts and mounts and meets the agony driven deep in her heart.

-

"Moonmaiden, hear me. As You guide the lost back onto their paths, as You set before our feet roads out of darkness, I pray. For my path is winding, never-ending, yet I have ever heeded--"

How much more? How much, how much, howmuch…

The spear to the heart she would have taken for one of the quick and merciful ones - but no. Because the Sharran misses, curse them, and then stops to deliver a tirade - before being swallowed by vicious, hungry shadows.

"The tides turn, inexorably," she mutters, half-dazed with blood loss, stumbling to her knees. "The tides, they… in Your strength, as all things, they…"

Aylin's head lolls forward, proud chin meeting chest, prayer cut short. "Enough. It is enough. I have borne--" What, she cannot say. Penance? Some crucial holy burden? Instead, she ekes out syllables around the agony in her chest, where the spear is still lodged. The spear left in her in disgust, once the acolyte realised it was a mere inert replica of the artefact they sought, incapable of delivering true death, of elevating them beyond a mere ordained assassin. Before their own fate was sealed so very efficiently.

One does not become the Chosen of a goddess by choosing themselves, after all.

"Please."

In the silence, she scrabbles with bloody hands and pulls the spear out herself, inch by painfully slow inch. Throws it into the abyss with a roar of fury and disgust, for she has no use for a weapon here. She cannot fight and tear and kill her way to freedom, a sword that cannot cut itself free. The best she could achieve by destroying her captors here and now would be oblivion, to be forgotten here. 

Lost.

"Mother," she whispers, and feels burning shame at prayer being reduced to pleading. "Mother, please."

Nothing.

-

The necromancer visits again, when she is barely recovered from the last freshly-made justiciar, still catching her breath and clutching at newly-unshattered ribs.

Aylin has goaded him before. Barked out whatever insult came to mind, every threat and vow of vengeance most bloody on both him and his coward of a general, who so adamantly refuses to come face her. But this time - she will find she cannot remember, after, what it was she said that led to this - if she even said anything.

But whatever she does or mutters or simply is right then crosses some threshold, unfathomable to her. Something that permits such aimless, gratuitous cruelty, justifies it in the mind of the truly monstrous. 

Balthazar is uncharacteristically silent, the usual sick gloating absent, when he gestures for the hands to pull her to her knees, to hold her in place; when they grip her neck and claw her head back and rip her jaw open against all her mighty strain, as if she is not even trying to resist. When she tastes the rust of the blade and then the rust of her own blood.

Her mouth burns, jaw and chin and palate aflame, agony spreading from the carelessly cut lip down to her throat. She spits blood, and blood, and blood, but it will not stop, and it chokes her. Dizzying, mortifying. Hunched over after she is released, one hand clenched in the dirt of her rocky prison, barely holding her up, the other scrabbling at her neck.

She cannot speak aloud the words that old and young, great and small throughout Faerûn know will bring the Moonmaiden's keen-eyed, loving gaze to them. But then, she has never really needed to. Selûne has ever kept watch over Her daughter, Her sword.

Mother. Aylin tries to think, upwards, upwards, imagining flying up to pierce the shadowy dome. Mother, hear me, when they would silence me.

Nothing. 

Balthazar shuffles into her blurred view, doing something with a jar, and silver-flecked muscle and--

And what will he do with it? What does he do with all else he steals from her? It is a horror she does not want to contemplate.

Her tongue, made for poetry, made for battle cries and striking fear into the unworthy and the wicked, into the scheming and the twisted. Made for jubilation and proclamation, made for testifying the glory of her Mother and the good, righteous cause she championed so gladly. Made to argue and philosophise. Made for joy and pleasure taken in the mortal and worldly and wondrously, preciously, divinely mundane: tasting fine wine and succulent food and the sweetest of lips and the softest of skin and most cherished of flesh, all hers, once, all of it -- all of it taken, gone.

Lost.

Instead, violation and violence. A cut throat, and spilt guts. And here comes one with a cruel mace - atypical, for Sharran clergy. She would laugh at herself, a half-mad thing, at the spark of absurd, sick excitement at being murdered slightly unusually - but what else is there? What is there, here, in the void?

Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. Pain, or nothing.

Her.

Aylin does not attempt to pray when she next rises. She screams curses and barely-coherent tirades against her hated, hateful aunt, if only for there to be something, anything else.

"Silence," comes that rarely-heard voice. Despised, yet known. "My sister spawned a rabid dog, it seems."

A gleam of feeble triumph warms Aylin's heart. A response provoked. A goddess' hand forced, even if in a matter so very small. She stands, as tall and proud as she can in bloodied rags. "I was chosen to bear her light, to be her sword, to champion her cause--"

"She did not choose you," the voice cuts her off, growing louder and closer, echoing in the endless chasm of its domain, surrounding. "She made you. And what a pitiful job she did of it, too." The disdain is palpable, radiating out of every wisp of shadow swirling around the lonesome platform. "She whelped you to hunt down my faithful."

"She charged me with protecting her own." Aylin glares into the darkness, turning this way and that, trying to fathom where to best aim her fury from her perch in the eye of a growing storm. 

"She who seeks always to steal from me, to supplant me, she who knows no measure, whose ambitions know no end."

The raging shadows swirl ever closer, angrier and angrier still. But Aylin refuses to be cowed, refuses to yield, faced with the one who gives her purpose. For the Sword of the Silverlight is a necessity, yes, but it is not Selûne who makes it so. It is her spiteful sister and her misguided followers, ever prowling and looking to harm.

"You lie, as always, Lady of Loss. She wishes only for peace, for her faithful to be left to make their own way, to flourish. Without your schemes, there would be no need for my service at all."

A clap of thunder behind her; Aylin turns, but not in time to see the grasping shadows that rush towards her, wind around her legs and arms, around her neck and chest. Restraints nothing like the eerie, necrotic claws, but just as cold and cruel and unmoveable.

"Ah, so my sister needs to bind her paladins with chains of bloodline to ensure they serve her?" The voice is mocking, and so very, very near. As if Shar herself is standing there, speaking in Aylin's ear as her shadows mercilessly pull her down. "Perhaps, for once, she is right. For I have claimed a prize from her already, and he has brought me you."

"I am not bound," Aylin spits out, pulling against her fetters, grinding her knuckles to dust and bone on the cold stone of her prison. "I am not bound. I choose, I serve, I am faithful--"

"You are a failure."

"I am-- I am Dame Aylin Silverblood, Sword of the Moonmaiden, Moon Daughter, Bearer of the Silverlight. When I am free, there will be a mighty reckoning. I will bring it on wings of silver, on the edge of my blessèd sword, in the name of my Mother, and in my own name."

"You are a failure," the darkness repeats, unphased, calm, certain, factual, "and so you have been discarded."

"I am," Aylin starts, barely forces out, then stops, gritting her teeth against the burning pressure, the rancid atmosphere cloaking her prison. "I am--"

"I am the Nightsinger and you are my Nightsong, and so it is mine to silence you."

The darkness becomes tangible, cloying, suffocating. Aylin tries to draw breath but finds that she cannot. Cannot see through the thickening murk even to the sickly blazing runes of her prison-circle.

"The moon does not shine its foul light here, and it never will. Here, in my perfect dark, we are gloriously free of it. Howl your foolish prayer-ditties, Nightsong - they will fall upon no ears. Your ever-whimsical, capricious mother has abandoned you to my care."

The shadows tighten and Aylin chokes on darkness like she choked on blood. Her back burns with phantom pains, spiking up and down her shoulder blades, and every wound and indignity feels visited upon her again. A scream feels like it should tear itself from her throat, but there is only silence.

"In the creation of my army, I have given you purpose. Much more than my pathetic sister ever has. And once that purpose is fulfilled, I will silence you forever."

She finds herself sprawled on the ground, suddenly free of the restraints, as the final, threatening proclamation rattles through her muscle, deep into her bones.

"The loss of a daughter," Shar sounds amused, almost, a cruel smile tainting her words, "is devastating, I hear. It will make a fine gift for my deserving kin. Now rise. One approaches who must prove their worth."

Aylin's mind is flooded with Isobel, Isobel, Isobel, and her chest feels like it will cave in on itself.

-

The air rushes in, finally, and Aylin tastes blood in her mouth from a bitten cheek, feels a pounding in her head - and very little else. A cool balm, a much-needed distance has been put between her and the red-hot thornvine of the past century, and it allows her to breathe.

She blinks, and knelt before her is Isobel, alive and whole, in a simple nightgown, hands aglow with the remnants of a freshly cast spell.

"Aylin?" She asks, cautiously, with the telltale downturn of the corner of her mouth that means she is concentrating. Her eyes are wide and filled to the brim with such tender concern, the restrained but clearly pained tremble in her voice more agonising than any Sharran knife. She keeps her distance, though the tension and the need to leap forward, to be close, to hold, is palpable.

"You were… I tried to wake you, but you weren't responding. It was like you were lost to me."

Lost.

"I am…"

Aylin stops, because she does not know what words could follow and not be lies.

"This will only last a minute. Please, stay with me, Aylin. Alright?"

Aylin nods.

"Breathe with me." 

Aylin does.

"May I touch you?"

Aylin hesitates, where she should have roared her enthusiastic consent. But her entire body still feels raw.

"...yes," she says only when she truly feels it to be true, and Isobel seems… proud?

The lightest, gentlest hand comes to rest on her cheek and jaw. Familiar, loved, ever so slightly colder than… than before. Isobel.

She would have nuzzled into it happily, usually, pressed a kiss or two to the soft palm. It is a bit much at the moment, though, just that little bit too close, and so Aylin slowly pries it off her cheek and holds the hand between both her own instead.

Then the minute is up and the spell wears off, and the veil that was between her and what seems like the rest of the world abruptly falls away. Aylin draws air in with mounting effort, then lets it out in a hiss at the flood of sensation.

But the hand between hers serves to ground; Isobel's eyes, luminous in the moonlight that seeps into the room, hold her own and seem to encompass her entire.

"Should I cast it again?" Isobel asks softly, free hand already rising towards Aylin's temple.

She moves to decline, muster up some sort of casual air, but stops herself at the last moment. Digs down to the soldierly disposition that has been a help to her, an ingrained way to make sense of so much. It does no good to overestimate one's own capability. Her mind rattles off, almost of its own accord. A correct measure of one's strength is key to all engagements.

"Once-- once more, please, my love," Aylin asks, and is mildly surprised at the complete lack of shame and nauseating sense of inadequacy that had, for a time, become her stalwart companions.

"As many times as you need," Isobel says reassuringly, already leaning forward and reaching out with both hands. "There is no shame in accepting help."

It is a song and dance they both know well by now. The words Isobel has spoken what must be hundreds of times, in an effort to make them real and true to Aylin.

Her touch on what feels like the sides of Aylin's troubled mind accompanied by a murmured incantation take all of a second, but the coolness and numbness and the slight drowsiness ripple outward and encompass her again. The separation from herself, the distance from everything, is always mildly discomfiting and ever-so-slightly reminiscent of the Shadowfell - a reassuring fact, as Aylin takes it to mean she is in no danger of craving it, or growing to depend on it.

It is but a moment of reprieve each time. But it is just enough to buy her a chance to shore up her own defences, when they have been so cruelly torn down by the workings of her own unconscious mind. She places her hands over Isobel's own once again, breathes in time with her, and thinks, very deliberately, of little else.

This time, when the minute runs out, the shock of being plunged back into the world is barely noticeable. 

There is no brand-wound placed on her by Shar, like brave Shadowheart still bears. And yet it still feels so often like her aunt's cruel grasp is lying in wait behind every shadow, waiting to snatch her up and pull her down, down, down, until her knees meet the cold rune-inscribed rock in the heart of the Shadowfell.

It makes Aylin still want to laugh at herself, sometimes. Her knees are, in fact, resting on the finest mattress of the grandest bed Waterdeep's House of the Moon could provide. Her legs are entangled with duvets filled with the softest down, with sheets of finest silk. And yet, and yet.

But she does not let out any bark of bitter, self-deprecating laugh, for even after everything, there is Isobel. The anchor. The crux of everything. The eye of a swirling storm. A beacon of light so blessedly blinding it washes out all else, all pain and sorrow and acrid, biting memory.

Isobel, whose mere presence drowns out the roaring winds of the Shadowfell, fills up the Lady of Loss' cursed silence that steals and numbs everything it touches.

Isobel, something to focus on when all else is too much, or too little. Who scuttles closer to Aylin on the bed once she sees her calmed enough, and leans in until they are pressed shoulder to shoulder.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Her thumb rubs small, delicate circles into the back of Aylin's hand.

Aylin sighs. "I cannot possibly begin to explain… to put into words…"

"Could you try? For me, my love, and for yourself?"

The only thing silencing Aylin now is she herself. 

Truth and honesty, ideals to strive for - and the light that chases away any Sharran shadow. Aylin draws in a deep breath, as much as her chest that still feels cramped will allow. Squares her shoulders as if preparing for combat.

And still her words come out hesitant, almost meek. "I would not have wanted you to bear witness, then. To… to their crimes, their sins against me. To my shame. And so I do not want to make you a witness to them now, even if it is only through my telling."

She feels reluctant to expose Isobel to any of it. Even when, yes, she is an accomplished cleric and a healer and has seen and dealt with her own share of horrors, but…

"Aylin," the palpable pain in Isobel's wide eyes is already too much as she reaches out a gentle hand again, turning Aylin's face towards her. "You are the woman I love, and the chosen of my heart. Nothing will ever change that."

"It has been nigh a year." Aylin knows she sounds petulant. Knows she would have thoughtlessly blinked away the meagre span of a single year, before.

"Compared to a hundred?" Isobel shakes her head, looks at her almost pleadingly. That way she does, the way she seems to have reserved for whenever Aylin insists she should think nothing of the way she hastily exited a too-tight or too-dark space.

"Fine. Fine, my love, for you," Aylin breathes out. "But… outside. Let us first recover somewhat, in my Mother's light."

Let Her hear as well.

Isobel rises, takes her by the hand, and pulls her along, gently, out onto the balcony. Theirs is a spacious, luxurious suite situated in the prime spot of the temple complex housing wing, overlooking the luscious inner gardens in the House of the Moon. Usually, neither of them care for the pomp and circumstance their visits tend to invite in Selûnite spaces. But this time Aylin feels grateful for both the privacy and the position under the moonlight dome, as she does little but breathe in the scent of the moonflowers, freshly opened for the night, each cupping a little mote of moonlight and embracing it in blue.

For a good while, until Aylin feels ready, Isobel chatters, hums, softly fills any second of silence. She has come to understand so much, and Aylin is so grateful as she lets the sweet voice buoy her heart, carry her. 

It felt near-blasphemous, at first, these calls to a goddess over things she would have once called trivial. But the joint efforts of her Mother and her beloved have convinced her they are anything but. 

Mother? Aylin sends out the simplest of thoughts as she gazes upward and feels the moonlight bathe her face, fill her heart to bursting, settle around her shoulders like a blanket.

I hear you, daughter. I see you. I hold you under my gaze, safe.

This, too, is her birthright. Simple reassurance.

Under her Mother's silver eye, guarded in the circle of Isobel's arms, Aylin speaks. Once her words run dry and she is left feeling drained, scoured out, head dizzyingly feather-light, Isobel finally moves from her side. She returns within moments, wraps herself around Aylin and wraps them both in a star-embroidered coverlet. 

"Never again," Isobel whispers, all moon-bathed steel, as she presses a dozen soft kisses to Aylin's face, then holds her to her chest. "I will not let anyone harm you again."

It is a heartwarming, if impossible thought. Aylin doesn't have it in herself to do anything but believe it.

The moon continues on her path across the sky, her Tears shining bright, as the night descends into a silence that is both warm and comfortable.

[cambion-companion]

Raphael x Aasimar!reader

My favorite chapter from my Ao3 fanfic Fallen in Flame.

Nostalgic for my cambion x angel dynamic.

Word count: 3500

Flames licked around you, the enveloping darkness surrounding you interrupted by dancing orange light as sparks of fire illuminated the edges of your vision. Instead of harming you, the strokes of heat caressed your legs, all while lapping a possessive trail up to the apex of your thighs and your burning arousal.

You felt strong unseen hands gripping and squeezing your flesh, the nails that bit into your skin drawing blood. These roughly intimate ministrations in the darkness were met by your sighs of pleasure; a drawn-out whimper as you felt him enter you, thrusting deliciously deep only to withdraw and repeat the motion.

A sharp pain in your rib jolted you awake, sending you bolt upright in your bedroll, a sheen of cold sweat on your forehead.

 

“Sorry darling, the noises you’re making are unconscionable even by my low standards.” Astarion withdrew his foot from your side and returned with a slight glower to his bedroll.

“Don’t you have a bear to wrestle?” Your words slurred together.

You were still distracted by the feelings of pleasure that had not disappeared as the waking world intruded.

You pressed your thighs together and bit back a moan as the feeling of being fucked roughly grew to a crescendo and then eased with surprising swiftness.

“What has gotten into you?” Astarion griped, giving your movements a roguishly appraising look. “If you need to relieve some tension, darling, all you have to do is ask.”

“Shut up, Astarion.” You retorted, squeezing your eyes closed as the phantom caresses stilled completely, mercifully, but left you feeling empty and frustrated.

“Mhm.” The vampire said tersely. “Sweet dreams.” Astarion made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat and rolled over, facing his back to you as he entered his trance once more.

You waited for a moment before getting quietly to your feet, wobbling slightly and wracking your brain to make sense of what the hells had just happened.

Moonlight shone gently upon your person as you walked away from your resting companions. You saw Dame Aylin and Isobel speaking together near the rubble of an ancient stone building, repurposed for the moment to house training activities.

You looked at Aylin with mild jealousy, her beautiful full feathered wings gleaming white under the starry sky. Her silver eyes caught your own as she marked your approach and she gave you a curt nod, her gaze following you as you walked past.

Your fellow Aasimar, daughter of Selune as she was, had been little help when you asked if there was a way to regain the missing shard of your soul. She held pity for you, that much was obvious, but there was certainly an undercurrent of disdain as well. As though she saw you as something defiled.

“Away.” Aylin had said haughtily earlier that week when you first tried to speak more with her about your predicament. “I have a darling to adore.” Her attention spent solely on Isobel, her lover.

Aylin’s most helpful advice had been said in clipped tones of annoyance at your own persistence, “Ketheric is vanquished. Your goal must now be ridding yourself of the Illithid parasite”.

Perhaps it was the distance between yourself and the celestial plane, but you couldn’t remember your fellow Aasimar having such an infuriating sense of self-righteous arrogance.

You glanced back over your shoulder at the silvered couple radiating light from the Moonmaiden’s power. An odd wistfulness took hold of your heart, unbidden memories of Raphael and all he had allowed you to experience floated to the forefront of your mind.

Lost in thought you approached the edge of where the roiling shadows of Shar’s curse remained. The dark coils probed against where the silver moon shone her light upon the ground as if trying to test the strength of it.

Halsin had said it would take time for the land to recover, yet in your bones you could sense movements of a great healing taking place in the earth beneath your feet.

You saw movement in the darkness and stopped abruptly, the full moon behind you casting your image in shadow upon the ground and illuminating the path ahead. Another flicker of movement caught your eye; someone or something hiding behind the trunk of a gnarled oak tree long bereft of any leaves.

You withdrew your sword with the long sound of metal against metal finished by a delicate ringing and the ethereal glow the weapon cast around it.

Korilla stepped out from behind the dead tree.

She seemed preoccupied with keeping an eye on the distant toll house looming dark and seemingly empty against the grey horizon. She therefore didn’t mark your surprised expression at her sudden appearance.

“You should be more careful where you set camp.” She said, her voice a harsh whisper. “There are some things not even my master can protect you from.”

“You’re scared of a…toll collector?” You sheathed your weapon, in doing so your surroundings dimmed. “Seems a bit ironic, no?”

Korilla didn’t smile. “I came to warn you to stay away from there. You have proved prone to wandering, so heed my words this time.”

“Speaking of your master…” You waved your hand and negated the whirring orange portal Korilla had just conjured. “Sorry to disrupt your usual dramatic exit but I need to speak with him.”

“He isn’t taking house calls currently.” Korilla gave you a curious look, between suspicion and pity.

“Make an exception.” You growled; your stature so much taller than the shorter woman put in stark contrast as you walked into her personal space.

Korilla hesitated, looking you up and down with a dubious brow. Finally, she shrugged. “Your funeral, angel.”

She turned away, hesitated, then glanced back at you. “May I?” She asked sardonically.

You nodded, suppressing a small smile.

Korilla waved her hand again and conjured her flaming portal. You felt a prickle on the back of your neck as you followed her through into the foyer of Raphael’s home.

“Gaudy as ever.” You murmured, looking around and spotting a bronze statue of the cambion himself set high as it overlooked the marbled hall.

“Be good and stay here.” Korilla said sternly, making a beeline down the dimly lit corridor and out of sight.

She did not return.

You turned slowly on the spot, looking up at the grossly oversized chandelier. Something about the glittering lights reminded you of your own home.

You drew closer while watching how the flame inside each shining crystal moved around like some kind of viscous fluid. You realized it wasn’t flame at all and your stomach clenched.

You pulled your face away and averted your gaze.

These were remnants of souls, shredded and confined into crystals to illuminate the home of a devil. You imagined you could hear the echoes of their screams.

Footsteps, the rustling of leathery wings unfurling and the smell of cherries, musk and sulphur.

“What have we here?” Raphael spoke behind you. “A plucked hen willfully wandering into the fox’s den.”

You huffed an annoyed sigh and faced him, turning your back firmly to the haunting chandelier. “Rhymes?” You forced bravado, clenching your hands to keep from shaking, whether from fear or anger you didn’t know. “Very well, get it all out of your system.”

His yellow eyes flickered in mild surprise before darkening with delight. “But you are no hen are you, my dove?” He approached slowly, his wings moving and stretching languidly with each measured step. “I was going to wait until you came crawling back to me, but I do so enjoy taming my pets.” Raphael slid his hand up along your side, smirking when he felt you shiver beneath his fingers.

“I am not your pet.” You said with vitriol.

Raphael smiled sharply, his eyebrows angling just enough to accentuate the dangerous angles of his face. “Yet with every word uttered from that lush mouth, my grip on your lovely neck tightens.”

To demonstrate he placed his hand gently against your throat, giving a brief squeeze. “I do not enjoy unexpected visitors, my dear. What is the adage? ‘Curiosity killed the cat’?”

“’But satisfaction brought him back’.” You replied, fighting back a smile at his smoldering reaction. “Besides, I thought I was the dove. Or was it a mouse?”

“Take your pick of whatever prey you wish.” Raphael murmured, stroking your skin with deliberate movements. “Tell me, what ill-conceived notion brought you back to my House of Hope?”

“I want an answer, Raphael.” You said, leveling an impassive gaze on him as you pushed his hand away from your neck. “I was visited in dreams by an incubus not long ago.” Your eyes narrowed into slits as Raphael chortled. “Did you send it?”

“I am a generous host.” Raphael ignored your question and burning look. “Therefore, I shall overlook your lack of decorum. Intruding into the home of a devil such as myself isn’t the wisest course of action, columba mea.”

You winced at the sound of the infernal words. Raphael chuckled, amused by your reaction. He tilted your chin up, stroking a thumb along your tense jaw. “Instead of singeing your fingertips, I will offer you a less unpleasant penance.”

“Penance?”

“Why yes. You angels are all about such tripe, after all.” Raphael chuckled again, his face darkening. “Come.”

You hesitated, then followed him into the familiar dining hall. The food was still there, this time however you noticed the foul stench and the flies swarming around the spoiled fruits and meats.

“Did you servants go on strike?” You wrinkled your nose in distaste.

“Something like that.” Raphael intoned, unamused. “They have been preoccupied attending other messes.”

You stopped in your tracks, a cold shudder running from your head down to your feet. Your eyes locked on a feminine figure leaning casually against a dark stone pillar. For a moment you thought it a mirror, your own image made flesh stood casually watching you with a sly smirk.

“Haarlep.” Raphael gestured to your double, his eyes calculating each movement your body made in reaction to this revelation. “Meet…well, you two are already intimately acquainted.”

Your eyes widened in rage, and you reached for the sword on your back. “Devil.” You hissed, realizing too late all of your weapons had been magically stripped from your person upon entering through Korilla’s portal.

“An astute one.” Haarlep straightened slightly and gave you a condescending round of applause. “A nice change from the usual, Raphael.”

“’Haarlep’?” You intoned, pausing as you thought it over. You gave Raphael a disbelieving glance. “This creature bears an anagram of your name?”

Raphael looked slightly impressed. “What a clever little thing you’re turning out to be.”

Your eyes flicked between the cambion and the devil and like a strike of lightning on a humid summer night the truth came to you. “It’s been you.” You pointed with disgust at the incubus. “You’re the reason I’ve been plagued by…these feelings of…” You trailed off, hating yourself for the burning in your cheeks.

“She is a darling broken thing.” Haarlep said in an affectation of your voice. You watched your own lips move to form the words, chills dragging cold fingers down your spine. “I can see why you favor her.” The incubus approached with movements akin to a forest cat stalking prey, causing you to hiss warningly though gritted teeth. “Such a passionate little soul, even if it isn’t whole.”

“Please tell me you don’t speak in rhyme as well.” Steeling your nerves, you remained standing tall and unmoving.

Haarlep only giggled, the coquettish sound making you want to throw a punch and knock yourself flat.

You glared over at where Raphael had sunk languidly into an ebony chair adorned with gothic detailing carved into the black wood. He watched with detached amusement as his orchestrated scene unfolded.

“I signed no agreement to this.” You spat out, keeping a wary side eye on your double as it began circling you.

“Your body signed the contract for you. Your moans of pleasure illustrating a signature dripping with ecstasy rather than ink.” Raphael said, his flaming gaze dropping to the shine of perspiration on your chest. “But I am no incubus, I leave such…unimaginative methods to those more restricted by their natures.”

Next to you Haarlep pouted, pulling yet another simpering expression you hoped to never see upon your face again.

“Now, where were we?” Raphael put a finger to his chin in thought. “Ah, yes. Payment for your impudence.” He beckoned you imperiously with one finger. “Approach.”

Raphael smiled slightly as you grudgingly obeyed. “Kneel.”

You grimaced and wavered where you stood, looking down at his smug expression. You felt hands upon your shoulders and sweet breath on your face as Haarlep intruded into your space, pressing down to encourage continued obeisance.

“Get your hands off me, devil.” A moment of incandescent rage overtook your body at the fiend’s touch, a purely instinctual reaction you had not experienced when Raphael touched you.

Your eyes emitted a sharp blue glow and a burst of stark white energy rippled like a shockwave from your person, pushing Haarlep back several paces. The incubus’ form flickered for a moment before resolving back into your perfect double. The devil opened its mouth, sharp snakelike fangs protruding from your replicated lips as it made an ugly sound between scream and infernal speech.

Claws grew from its hands and Haarlep raised them to swipe at your side.

“Stop.” Raphael said sharply, and to your surprise the incubus froze mid swing. “I will not tolerate such chaos in my house.” He remained calm, untouched by your burst of divine energy, though his appraisal of you had changed into something you’d not seen from him before. He dismissed his incubus with a wave of his hand and impatient glare.

For the first time Raphael spoke your name, and what lingered of your soul within your body responded. “Kneel.” He said again, less genteel this time. “You will come seeking me willing and wanton soon, but that is not my intent tonight.”

You hesitated as Raphael gave you a look of rising impatience and so you knelt upon the hard marble floor.

“Good. She learns.” Raphael purred, looking down at you. He fell silent for a moment, relishing the sight of you so vulnerable before him. “What an interesting little display, we will have to explore such passionate reactions in the future.” He caressed the ebony wood on which his arms rested. “For now, I wish to discuss the matter of your soul.”

You laughed softly, surprising yourself. “I could say I’m shocked.”

“Part of your soul has tragically been parted from you.” Raphael leaned forward slightly, the wooden chair creaking beneath his weight. “And I prefer to deal with those who are whole. Half a meal is not as satisfying after all.”

“I taste terrible.” You said, an echo of Gale’s words to Astarion ringing in your mind. “I wouldn’t recommend trying it.”

“I have it on good authority you taste quite delicious.” Raphael said softly, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip with relish that made your skin crawl and your thighs tighten.

“Do continue to bite your lip like that as I explain my terms.” Raphael continued dryly, his eyes falling appreciatively to your lips. “I will assist you in retrieving the shard of your soul from your estranged kindred. In exchange, you agree to perform three favors for me.”

You furrowed your brow at him, perplexed. “Do you think I’m stupid, Raphael?”

“It depends on the day, my dear.” Raphael gives a short wry laugh and leans back again. “I think you are endlessly entertaining. Which is more than can be said for most who wander so prettily into the palm of my hand.”

You fall silent, the flames crackling in the oversized hearth as you mulled over Raphael’s offer. It was tantalizing how achingly close you were to what you’d fervently desired since landing on the beach beside the Nautiloid wreckage. Since being spurned and cast out of the only home you’d ever known.

“I require revisions.”

“As do all great performances.” Raphael didn’t seem at all surprised or put off. “Life is but a stage, after all. And you, little fledgling, are a most fascinating player.”

“I’m flattered.” You deadpanned.

“Don’t be.” Raphael drawled, his lips twisting into a sinister smirk. “Be careful how you walk this rope. After all you have no wings to catch you, and one misstep would see you hanging from it.” He demonstrated the motion of swinging with his hand.

Despite yourself, you heeded his advice. “I would require you to detail these ‘three favors’ before I sign any contract or make any deal with you. Also, I need a way to reach you, so I don’t have to track down Korilla every time.”

“You’ve had the means to reach me always at the tip of your tongue.” Raphael sighed theatrically and produced a small black sphere into his hand and tossed it to you. “However, this sending stone should suffice for those lacking in imagination.”

You caught the heavy stone orb and looked into it, seeing nothing but your own face mirrored back at you, distorted on the round surface.

“You may call, I may answer.” Raphael stood and offered you his hand, his skin glinting a deep cherry red in the flickering firelight. “Have we an accord?”

You hesitated, your knees aching. You stared for a long minute at the offered hand. Your very blood reviling against the decision you were about to make.

The heat from his skin enveloped your own as you slid your fingers against his and he helped you up. “I agree to seeing and reading the contract you draw up.”

“An angel after my own heart.” Raphael’s voice dripped sarcasm as his clawlike nails bit into your hand momentarily, but he nodded. “Very well, you may peruse the infernal text to your heart’s content.”

Raphael produced a roll of parchment from a conjured cloud of sulphur that stung your eyes and nostrils. He waited with veiled annoyance as you coughed several times.

You spoke again only after clearing the acrid stench from your airways. “Very well, I will have Gale help me translate this since you seem to be hell-bent on making it as hard as possible.”

“Please!” Raphael said in a wounded tone. “Everything I do is aimed to help.”

You rolled your eyes and took the scroll, wincing as it scorched your fingers upon contact. You hastily stowed it and your newly acquired scrying orb into your small pouch of holding.

“Once your binding signature is made upon the parchment, I will come to collect.” Raphael smiled archly at you. “If you do not seek me out first.”

You snorted. “Don’t count on it, devil.” Your words were lined with a touch of familiarity at your usual tension-laden banter.

“I require something more to set the balance. Your intrusion and your little display earlier have set the score against you.” Raphael approached confidently, taking your chin rather roughly before you could protest.

Your eyes widened, thinking he was going to kiss you again but instead his lips and teeth found the side of your neck.

“First Astarion, now you!” You squeaked with undignified aggravation, biting your tongue to suppress a groan of pleasure at the unexpected scrape of his teeth against your skin. You arched into his touch, a ripple of something primal awakening deep within you.

Then his saliva against your neck began to burn and you felt the devil’s mark take hold as Raphael withdrew and licked his lips, his flaming eyes hooded. “While wandering the chaos of the mortal plane, don’t forget the laws of cause and effect, sweetling. There is a reckoning for every action you take with one such as I.”

“As with all devils.” You winced, unable to keep the worry off your face as you felt the welted flesh of where he’d marked your skin.

“I promise you on everything I own.” Raphael leaned into your space again and brushed his fingers through your hair, scraping his nails against your scalp not unpleasantly. He paused, catching your eyes with his before continuing. “You’ve never dealt with a devil like me before.”

And with a sharp push he sent you plummeting through an infernal portal, landing flat on your back upon your vacated bedroll. The noise of impact followed by your groan of pain awakened the rest of camp. Karlach was first on her feet, sword in hand before Gale’s eyes even opened.

You fought to gasp the air back into your lungs, slowly sitting up and opening your bag to gingerly retrieve the contract Raphael had drawn up. Your eyes found the wizard of the party as he too began voicing the same questions being lobbied at you from all sides.

Your voice was shaky but determined. “Gale, do you have the spell Comprehend Languages prepared?”

[lerihon-posts]

Dark Urge and Grieving Gortash

This might be a bit disjointed cuz I'm typing this instead of sleeping but thinking about Durge and the aftermath of Gortash's inevitable death. Especially in endings where the party breaks the alliance and kills him. Especially a Durge that's been fairly successful in their quest lines. (Keeps Isobel from being kidnapped, saves all the Tieflings and Zevlor ECT from moonrise)

Do we think Durge even realizes at first that they are grieving? Like yeah absolutely they are aware that grief is a thing and maybe they've felt something they thought was like it about Alfira. But being aware of something is one thing and experiencing it a whole other ball game. Like thinking about it pre-amnesia they're this peak, hand designed by Bhaal Bhaalspawn right? Literally designed to deal out death in droves. Grief would be a pretty useless and largely if not near entirely unfelt emotion by Durge at this point. Grief is something they inflict not experience.

Then you get to Durgetash era, weather platonic or romantic, and it's all kinda agreed by fandom that Gortash is the first person not only to care about Durge but the first person Durge themselves actually care about. A friendship and/or romance so impactful it freaks Durge out. This is what got me thinking; if this is Durge having a crisis over feeling attached to someone and reluctant to kill them for the first time theres no likely way they would have gotten to the point of truly mourning someone before or at least not since climbing the ranks to be papa bhaal's favorite prince/princess.

Now just thinking about an end game Act three resisting Durge standing in Gortash's office with Karlach and very likely their new LI (mine was Gale), deed done and looking down at Gortash's -"no, Enver, he's Enver to us" that persistent voice a the back of their head says- body and feeling that first bit of cold numbness spreading from their heart throughout their chest. Pressure behind their eyes and nose as an Urge, not to harm but to cry, build just as slowly. If it's another character that got the killing blow in maybe unable to look them in the eye with out feeling this sense to *Scream*. A Durge recently born a new free of Bhaal but not their lingering past self, still new to being a honest to gods person and not knowing what was *wrong* with themselves??. They cast speak with dead and hear Bane from Enver's lips and suddenly their body feels like something they have to pilot remotely, their throat burns with a vague wish to be sick.

Do they go to Halsin or Shadowheart later once back at the Elfsong tavern and forcing themselves through whatever this is to comfort Karlach? Chest aching and something all together bitter they don't want to admit to churning in their gut. Do they seek a one of them quietly to ask for a magical heal for this obviously physical poison they must be suffering from only to be told nothing seems to be wrong with them? Do they go through their symptoms confused and feeling numbed and overwhelmed at the same time only for Halsin or Shadowheart to finally reach in through their tadpoles to see what Durge is feeling and then have to explain to Durge that " oak father preserve you, but yours is but a profound sadness; your grieving," Halsin says, or Shadowheart with "you suffer no mere flesh wound im afraid, but that of a much deeper experience; Loss."

Just. All those posts about the dark urge coming to grips with what Gortash actually meant to their old selves, the only people that understood and cared for each other, the only two people who mattered. But then also with the added angst of someone navigating that sadness for probably the first time with no knowledge of how to do that while surrounded by people who wouldn't be able to really understand why you felt that way about someone like Gortash and also yeah there's no real time to process this you gotta fight an elder brain in the morning.

[ardentkurashk]

For the recent Tav ask list you shared : 13, 22, 23, 31, 42, 94, 95.

I tried to be selective, I swear.

Thank you, Barnabas you king <3

13. What was your Tav's first reaction to Lae'Zel?

The biggest eyeroll and the heaviest "G'lyck" to ever be uttered. She's sporting the attitude of a gith fresh out of the creche and talking about Vlaakith. He was happy to have kin on his side, but also oh boy the propaganda.

22. What is your Tav's first impression of the other companions (Astarion, Gale, Karlach, Wyll ...) He was convinced Shadowheart would try to kill him at some point and was very surprised when she actually voluntarily talked to him later on. Astarion pulling a knife on him earned his respect, even if he did nearly get himself offed at the bite incident. He's good at killing which is always appreciated too. Karlach's ferocity was immediately clear and he liked her straight away, although her questions and energy were a bit overwhelming at times. She'll be pestering him about random things I imagine. Gale and his talking, oh god his talking. He talks with such flowery language sometimes and Ka'zalii was already having trouble with common. Then along comes this wizard with his poetic words and his superiority. It's okay though, they get along very well in the end. They swap recipes, Gale now knows how to cook several creatures he will probably never encounter. Gale definitely constantly bothers him about learning tir as well. Wyll I always picture as the one most determined to talk to Ka'zalii, language problems be damned. He's the one that is persistant enough with his positive attitude and wisdom to get some childhood stories out of him.

23. What's their opinion of Emerald Grove? Do they help the tieflings or side with the druids? To Ka'zalii, the grove was very stuffy and slow and he'd much rather be elsewhere. But it was the only place to reliably get supplies and repair things. He ended up assisting the tieflings because Halsin was the best lead at the time. Kahga gave a bad impression by threatening a child, a very cowardly move.

31. What does your Tav think of the Underdark and the Myconids? He found the Underdark quite uncomfortable, being that far underground. The myconids were intriguing though, with their spore magic. It reminded him of the way m'lar use corpses to farm fungus. Just with more reanimation. Then of course meeting Omeluum who he did not kill, despite Lae'zel's urging.

42. How does your Tav react to the shadow curse? Are they scared of the dark? He's not scared of the dark, but he found the shadow curse extremely unsettling. Just a featureless, depressing void. Especially after that first time you walk into the curse itself. It was a big relief for him and the party to get that lantern and Isobel's blessing. He was glad to be out of there, even after the curse was lifted.

[harpershigh]

@ferinehuntress

Jaheira's eyes snapped open in the darkness of the inn room, her senses immediately alert. The silence of the night was thick and oppressive, the kind that seemed to press heavily against her chest. She sat up slowly, listening intently, her breath shallow and controlled. The soft sounds of the inn—a distant creak, the murmur of the night patrol—were eerily muted, as if the world had hushed in anticipation.

Jaheira swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet touching the cool wooden floor. She moved cautiously, her instincts finely tuned to detect any anomaly, though nothing immediately presented itself. The room was as she left it: dimly lit by a flickering candle, her belongings in their place. Yet a persistent, gnawing unease lingered at the edge of her consciousness.

She wandered quietly to the window, peering out into the dark waters below. Shadows played tricks on her eyes, and the usual reassuring sounds of the night seemed distant and hollow. Jaheira scanned the area, her trained gaze searching for any sign of trouble, but found nothing out of place.

The unease remained, a shadowy presence she couldn’t quite place. With a soft sigh, she returned to her bed, though sleep eluded her. Jaheira’s thoughts raced with possibilities—was it a warning, a premonition of danger yet to come, or merely the weight of the shadowcurse catching up with her? Whatever it was, she knew she couldn’t ignore it.

Slipping out of bed again, she pulled on her gear and gathered her weapons with practiced efficiency. The protective barrier of the moon shield cast an ethereal glow around the in , a shimmering cocoon that shielded them from the pervasive darkness. Yet, Jaheira couldn’t shake the feeling that the veil of safety was fragile. The Shadow-Cursed Lands, even with Isobel's protection, held dangers that could not always be anticipated.

Stepping into the cool night air, she took a deep breath, savoring the crispness that contrasted sharply with the oppressive gloom of the cursed lands. She ventured out cautiously, her eyes scanning the perimeter of their base. The moon shield's glow created a soft halo around her, the shadows beyond it unnaturally dense, living entities waiting to encroach upon their sanctum.

Jaheira patrolled the area with deliberate steps, her ears straining for any irregular sounds—an unusual rustle, the whisper of movement that might indicate a threat. She paused frequently, listening and watching, the weight of her responsibility pressing heavily on her shoulders. Her mind raced through the possible scenarios, from a simple false alarm to an impending threat that could shatter their tenuous safety.

She decided to continue her patrol inside the inn. The old building creaked softly under her weight as she moved from room to room, the dim light from the hallway casting long shadows on the walls. The inn’s atmosphere was calm, but the feeling of being watched lingered at the edge of her senses.

As she passed by Isobel’s room, a faint rustle of magic caught her attention. It was subtle, almost like a whisper of wind through leaves, but it was enough to make her pause. Jaheira approached the door, her keen eyes narrowing as she focused on the source of the disturbance.

She pushed the door open slightly, enough to peer inside without fully entering. The room was bathed in a soft, silvery glow from the moon shield, casting delicate patterns across the walls and floor. Isobel lay peacefully in her bed, her expression serene. Yet, the rustle of magic persisted, a gentle hum that seemed to emanate from the very air around her.

Jaheira’s gaze shifted to the source of the disturbance—a faint shimmer of magic near Isobel’s bedside. As she stepped closer, she saw the shimmer intensify and begin to form a swirling, glowing portal. The portal’s edges pulsed with an eerie, sickly purple light that seemed to warp the air around it.

Before Jaheira could react, a figure stepped through the portal: a masked cultist clad in the robes of the Absolute, adorned with symbols and dark runes. The cultist's eyes were fixed on Isobel with a chilling determination. Jaheira’s heart raced as she watched the intruder move towards the bed, clearly intent on kidnapping the young cleric.

With a sharp intake of breath, Jaheira’s instincts kicked in. She grabbed for her weapon, but the cultist was already reaching out towards Isobel. In a swift motion, Jaheira burst into the room, her presence a sudden disruption to the cultist’s plan.

“Not on my watch!” Jaheira growled, her voice a fierce whisper as she charged forward. The cultist turned, eyes widening in shock and recognition. Jaheira’s instincts surged as her form began to ripple and shift, her body contorting and compressing with a burst of energy. Fur sprouted where skin once was, and her limbs elongated into powerful, agile legs. Her eyes glowed with a predatory light as her snout extended and sharp claws emerged from her fingertips. Within moments, the druid was no longer standing as Jaheira but crouched as a sleek, black panther. Her senses sharpened, every sound and scent heightened, making her more attuned to the environment around her. The transition was swift, her muscles rippling with renewed strength and agility, ready to tear apart the intruder.

[comrademojave]

NARUTO UZUMAKI MADE ME TRANSGENDER: I SAW THE TV GLOW

Do you remember the first time someone called you a faggot? The first time I remember it was at school - muttered and spit in my face like acid, too young for me to understand. I understood the feeling behind it of course, there was something in me that other people didn’t like. I walked wrong, I talked wrong, I acted wrong. Even my family could see it on me, but they tried to not speak it. It wasn’t something adults talked about, and it certainly wasn’t something I wanted to talk about. And so I didn’t for two decades. I lived life inside myself and for myself, both ignoring myself and obsessed with myself. I retreated from life and found fandom right here on this very website.

I SAW THE TV GLOW is neon and scanlined. It is a film that loves fandom. Owen and Maddie are teenagers who live in eternal suburbia and their lives and home are so unimportant, so of a thing, that no details are ever offered to the audience. The film focuses on Owen, a sad and scrawny thing of a boy completely unremarkable in every way. He’s not particularly likeable or smart or lively. He’s scared and dumb. Early on he meets Maddie, an older girl dressed so dark and with such an annoying chip on her shoulder she could have been a rejected design for a Goth Kid from South Park before shuffling her ass down to Void High. She’s annoyed by him at first of course, everyone is. Owen immediately is struck by her and asks her about the television show he finds her reading an official episode guide for -  The Pink Opaque. Fandom given perfect, Buffy-tinged, VHS-blessed form. Owen and Maddie love this little show about two girls who barely know each other yet somehow share a supernatural and beautiful connection – tied via magic and psychic powers. Owen and Maddie sneak and lie in order to watch the show together. They never form a real friendship – and the time and things they share have to be done in the dark under the nose of the adults in their lives. In the Pink Opaque, Tara and Isobel have to claw a relationship in the dark psychic realm, Maddie and Owen do so in the in dark TV glow. Owen loves his mother and is scared of his stepfather. Maddie’s father drinks a lot, and she runs away in her junior year. Owen’s mother dies of lung cancer when he’s 16. Mine died when I was 19.

Owen loses himself in the Pink Opaque. Initially he watches the show alone off VHS copies Maddie makes and leaves for him in their school’s dark room but eventually, before she leaves, he watches it with her. She asks him to go with her and Owen agrees. He doesn’t go and his world is bleaker for it. Years pass and Owen works a gravedigging job where little by little, day by day, he kills himself. That’s right – he works for a local movie theater. Eventually, Maddie returns to their horrible little town, and this is where I knew Owen was transgender. Like me. Everyday he persists in pursuit of a life that isn’t his and an identity he’ll never have. Years go by, the world exists and grows and you’re still pouring a suburban family their popcorn. Maddie, she doesn’t go by that name anymore but Owen never gets to know this person who was once his only friend, returns and gives Owen a golden ticket out of Kansas and straight to Oz: they actually are Tara and Isobel! They were defeated at the end of the show and buried alive, and to retake their true selves they just have to bury these lives. Maddie has already previously helped Owen bury part of this farce he calls a life; years ago, during those fateful Pink Opaque viewing sessions, she gave him that very first drop of gender and put him in a dress and told him he was pretty. Owen never learned to give himself that and so he runs from Maddie again.

Like Owen, I spent much of my life hiding inside the television. Why live in the world that exists when I had bad anime and worse fanfiction? There, I could be and experience anything, all of it affirming and welcoming. I was hollow, but at least in some sense, I also felt like I was safe. Of course, that safety was bullshit. For faggots like us, I think it always is.

I SAW THE TV GLOW is monochrome and buzzed. It is a film that hates fandom. Owen persists. He has a family, he says he loves them, and works at a local Chuck E. Cheese-type fun center. Like the movie theater but longer. For Owen, dysphoria is like death but longer. One night, Owen narrates to us his sad little life and decides to rewatch the Pink Opaque as his new self and he fucking hates it. Its cheap, annoying and embarrassing. This thing that meant so much, that Owen used to convince himself closeted life was fine, losing Maddie was fine, as long as he had this thing – it was stupid. The Pink Opaque made Owen transgender and here he was 30 years later, transgender in a world that was decisively not. He has a breakdown at work and sees the television glow in himself.

Finally he asks: what if I really was someone else, very far away, on the other side of the television screen?

[blackjackkent]

By far the most annoying thing about the battle with the Avatar of Myrkul is this motherfucker:

Fundamentally what this means is that anyone near the big boy cannot get healed, which is a problem given that Rakha has the constitution, robustness, and mental stability of a single sheet of tissue paper.

Nevertheless we persist.

MVP status for this fight goes to Lae'zel, who landed a disarming attack on the first strike of the battle and knocked Myrkul's giant-ass scythe out of its hands, then action surged four attacks on it and dazed it with a pommel strike.

Aylin continues to eat shit repeatedly every time I do this fight, which I continue to blame on her having been a century out of practice, bc she always does a lot better in Act 3. :P

In the end, Rakha gets the final blow with a barrage of magic missiles that smash in the avatar's skull mask and send a shower of bone splinters raining down around them.

-----

The monstrous form fades. Ketheric collapses at Rakha's feet, a man again, mortal. His blood soaks him from head to foot, drips out in gory spatters on the rock.

The beast screams with glee in Rakha's head, watching him die. You mocked me, but you die like all the others, whimpering, pitiful. Who is the mad dog now?

"Impossible," he wheezes. "Death cannot take me... I am its master..."

He struggles to his knees, his eyes lifting again towards the cavern's ceiling. "My Lord! Hear me!"

Silence, but for the low slap of water against the rock around them. His shoulders slump. Blood drops through his beard, along the ridges of his armor.

"Nothing..." he whispers. "I am forsaken."

She steps forward, grips the front of his armor, gives a short, sharp jerk. "Answer me before you die, Chosen of Myrkul," she growls. "Tell me what I need to know. Who am I?"(*)

His eyes drift out of focus past her shoulder. "You... have no idea what you've done..." he whispers weakly.

"WHO AM I?!" she bellows, releasing him with a jerk. He nearly topples over, all the strength gone from his body. Light begins to pour from his eyes, his mouth.

"Isobel..." he whispers, and she watches and feels the deep shuddering pleasure of the beast as the life flows out of his body.

His corpse collapses in a heap at her feet.

Silence.

Rakha's head aches. She stares down at Ketheric's body. This has been her only goal for so long, almost since the crash, almost as long as she can remember, and now it is finished. She feels empty, drained - she waits for the feeling of fulfillment and it doesn't come.

What do I do now?

Before she can muster the energy to speak, a pale white glow streaks down from above them, an avenging angel homing in on the broken body before them.

"THE VILLAIN IS DEAD!"

The Nightsong. Aylin. She slams her boot into Ketheric's head and Rakha watches as his skull explodes, brain matter spattering in all directions, coated in black, corrupted blood.

"THE WRETCH!" she howls. "TOGETHER WE HAVE CRUSHED HIM, BODY AND BRAIN!"

Rakha watches, fascinated. Aylin's eyes are alight with her goddess's magic. Her movements are jerky and frantic, desperate. She pounds her boot again and again into Ketheric's head, flattening it into the ground, into a pile of shapeless meat.

She is just as majestic in this moment as she was in her flight out of the Shadowfell - but Rakha sees beneath that facade of light. Underneath is a river of rage, the fury of the prisoner released after a century of torment. Vengeance. Animal destruction.

This is what Rakha looks like when the beast overtakes her, reflected in the form of this creature of ostensible good. It is surreal to see it in another.

Eventually Aylin calms. Her eyes lift; the light has faded from them. Rakha recognizes that look on her face, too - the weary acknowledgement of her own violence, its mindlessness, its ultimate pointlessness.

"Now," the aasimar says softly. "Now we pick our way toward our fates... unleashed."

Rakha doesn't answer. What is my fate? she thinks bitterly. A lost animal, doomed to stagger forward forever, hoping only to sink her teeth into the 'right' prey.

To her astonishment, Aylin straightens and inclines her head with a sudden air of respect. "You have my sword - my fealty."

Fealty. Rakha blinks, bewildered. Why?

She draws a slow breath and lets it out. Because there is more ahead. Ketheric is dead, but the Absolutists still live. The tadpole still sits in her head. Her vengeance isn't complete.

And she realizes she is afraid. She is beginning to learn that there is nothing good for her in the memories that are lost to her - and also that following the trail of the cult will only lead her to more glimpses of whatever dark path she once walked. She will have no rest from the beast, from the war inside her head, because the path that lies ahead will be as soaked in blood as the path behind.

But the cult marches on the city. Rakha has never seen it - but Wyll has. It was his city, once. His father is still in the Absolute's clutches. She has to keep going - for Wyll, if not for herself.

She swallows. She doesn't feel able to speak. But she meets Aylin's eyes and she nods.

Aylin returns the nod, sober and serious as the grave. Perhaps she understands something of the turmoil that boils in Rakha's head, just as Rakha understood the rage that burns in hers. "Do what you must," she says softly. "Then we fly this foul place."

[scotianostra]

On January 29th 1852 smugglers caves and bothies on Arran, numbering about a dozen, were discovered and demolished by revenue men.

Whisky was outlawed in Scotland for around 40 years in the late 18th and early 19th centuries after its growing popularity drew the beady eyes of the government, who wanted to benefit from its manufacture. But it created a huge backlash of underground smuggling, with families, women and children all involved in exporting the drink.

Soon after the government became aware of whisky’s increasing popularity, they attempted to control production and of course benefit financially by introducing tax on spirits, this led to an incentive to illicitly sell the produce of small private stills. The government then responded to this by outlawing private distilling completely in 1781. Overnight, distilling went from ‘private,’ to ‘illicit.'

Illicit distilling and smuggling were prevalent throughout Scotland but the activities were mainly associated with the Highlands. Speyside, Campbeltown and Islay were also hot-beds of illicit production but Arran, one of the main players in whisky export at the time, had been completely overlooked, until now.

After whisky was again made legal in the 1823 Excise Act, Arran was unable to transition from illicit to legal production due to its lack of infrastructure, which may suggest why it has been overlooked. The illicit distilling and smuggling formed a critical part of the island’s economy, ensuring rent payments and guaranteeing employment on the island. It was noted by a Kilmory minister (a village in Arran’s south end) that there were ‘”Few, if any, in the parish, who, at some period of their lives, were not engaged in some department of smuggling.”

One notable incident that involved a number of these Arran smugglers includes three islanders murdered by authorities in the name of illegal whisky export.

William and Donald McKinnon (father and son) and Isobel Nicol, were shot and killed by a heavily armed Excise crew near Shannochie in Arran’s south end.

The commander of the Excise party, John Jeffrey, was tried for murder at the High Court in Edinburgh and found not guilty despite opening fire on a group of unarmed islanders. The incident had a considerable impact on the island community and a memorial service was held near the site of the killings as late as the 1950s

A contemporary of Sir Walter Scott described illicit Arran as ‘the burgundy of all the vintages.

After 1823, the majority of illicit producers were barred from the whisky industry, lacking the finance and infrastructure to compete with large landowners and tenant farmers.

On Arran, the acts virtually wiped out whisky manufacture, and for over 150 years, the island’s illicit stills lay silent. In 1995, Arran’s first legal distillery in over a century was opened, and now, the new establishment at Lagg brings production firmly back to the traditional heartland of distilling in the south end of the island.

Illicit distilling has died out from lack of profitability, but rumours still persist in remote places of homemade moonshine like "Melvaig Mist"

Of course the troubles with the excise-man started long before the 19th century, Rabbie Burns, himself an excise-man for a time, wrote a poem, the end few lines are........

Scotland, my auld, respected mither! Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, Till whare ye sit on craps o' heather Ye tine your dam, Freedom and whisky gang thegither, Tak aff your dram!

The pics are of caves and remains of an Illicit Still on the Isla of Arran, and how an Illicit Still would have looked.

You can read or listen to the whole poem here https://www.bbc.co.uk/.../the_authors_earnest_cry_and.../

[thefloatingwriter]

underrated marauders era characters hcs <3

Emmeline Vance

ravenclaw

has long black hair and dark brown eyes

would do anything for her friends. literally anything.

half-blood

knew everything about everyone. if she wanted to know she did. no one knew how she did it

her best friends were pandora and marlene

blames herself for surviving the first war when marlene didn’t

^ the guilt only increased when pandora died

visits their graves on the 16th of every month and their birthdays and just talks

took divination (with pandora) and care of magical creatures as her electives

was a bridesmaid for both of their weddings (they were each other’s maid of honors)

loved apple pie and strawberries

she loved the color yellow

Edgar Bones

gryffindor

had red hair and gray eyes

his middle name was antonio after his late grandfather

half-blood

his wife tried hard to convince him not to join the Order but he was very persistent

same year as emmeline (1969 - 1976)

was almost put into hufflepuff

very stubborn

had a younger brother (two years younger) and an older sister (Amelia) who was one year older

almost joined the Quidditch team but decided against it at the last second

wears a lot of crimson

his wedding band is gold and he still grins at it every time he sees it on his finger

james thought him and frank were so cool when he was in first year and marlene found it hysterical (because they’re both complete idiots but so is james soooo)

his patronus is a lion

grinned like an idiot when he found out helen (his wife’s) patronus was a lioness

Helen Bones (née Burton)

hufflepuff

curly dirty blonde hair and green-light gray eyes

muggleborn

friends with basically everyone. loved by essentially the entire school

best friends with hestia jones

prefect

really good at playing the piano

fluent in german (her mum’s german) and understands french but can’t speak it fluently

she knows so much shit from all of the Black brother arguments that were in public spoken in french. emmeline tried to get her to say what they were arguing over but she wouldn’t budge.

sirius first went to her when he started having feelings for remus because she knew she wouldn’t judge him even if she was muggle born (i hc that the wizarding world is a lot more inclusive than the muggle world is but still doesn’t fully accept queer people. the pure bloods are the least acceptive) 

good at transfiguration

knows a lot about everyone (similar to emmeline) but she refuses to gossip over it or tell anyone.

started dating edgar in her fourth year.

they were THE couple of their year. like there was dorlene and fralice but they were it. all of the younger students wanted to be one of them

mum friend of the hufflepuffs

Florence Wotton (girlfriend of the boy who hexed Bertha Jorkins after seeing them kissing behind the greenhouses)

hufflepuff

brunette that wears her hair in a ponytail and dark blue eyes 

half-blood

she broke up with Stanley (the boy she was caught kissing) in the end of sixth year on good terms

they were friends up until stanley’s death during the second wizarding war

never married or had children

her middle name was augustine

she was best friends with jude williams, a muggle born slytherin, while at hogwarts

florence had to learn multiple defensive spells due to how many times jude was attacked by her own housemates

got the nickname flo by her friends when she made a joke about “going with the flow”

her best subject was potions

Ted Tonks

hufflepuff

had blonde hair and bright green eyes

the younger years loved him

prefect

had so many friendship bracelets, like they literally lined his arm. he refused to ever not wear one of them because “what if the person who gave it to me gets sad”

met andromeda in first year and fell for her hard in third. they started dating in fifth

his hogwarts years were from 1964 - 1971

he had two younger sisters, named ellen and isobel (yes this is based off a fanfic, go read Flights of Fancy)

many jumpers and sweaters. he has a vast collection of ugly christmas sweaters

quidditch commentator

liked by everyone except the pure bloods (what else is new)

andromeda slept in the hufflepuff common room for a lot of her later years at hogwarts. a lot of hufflepuffs grew to like her a lot and she started sleeping in the dormitory with the girls in her year occasionally 

the hufflepuffs that knew about her and ted had this whole big oath thing where they swore they would keep their relationship secret

a lot of people actually knew about their relationship. it wasn’t really secret at all, the people that knew just weren’t anyone a pure blood would ever hang out with

good at herbology and transfiguration

[optiwashere]

Fascinated by the tragedy of Isobel dying just before Aylin breaks free and Aylin having to live with that...it's so easy to lose that fight in the Last Light if you don't know what you're doing, and if you do, Isobel is dead even though she keeps walking around for a while. Aylin pairings where Isobel dies again are so ripe for tragedy and angst, her struggling to understand her own pain which persists even past her liberation, her sinking back into the role of the Moonmaiden's Sword and the temptation to abandon that time in her life where she lived like a person...

The inherent tragedy of it fuels me as well, anon. That's why I think that version of Aylin would pair so exceptionally well with Minthara. Falling back into a role as it's all she knows and being pulled back from it by someone who has the vendetta of all vendettas to resolve? Two vengeance paladins as someone noted in the replies of the first ask? Once united against the force that took away their love and their self, now trying to figure out how to live after?

How do Minthara and Aylin work together? How do they uplift or bring one another even deeper into some pit they can never escape? That dynamic is bound to be wild. I'll have to jot down thoughts in a draft and let it simmer for a moment.

And that's not even getting into how they pair together visually. The size difference of it all...

[tadfools]

The durge/cuddle thing you posted is just… Whyyyy. I want to see that kind of content in game 😭

But also, please post everything about your (canon) ending with the manor. I love it. What do you think karlach is doing in that scenario?

That’s what the wonderful world of fan fiction is for my dear!

There’s bits I’m still figuring out and bits I don’t want to give away but there is gonna be a chapter that’s a banquet/party/maybe a wedding that’ll be fun to eventually get to. This is a spoiler for the one that got a thay but Mama K isn’t going to make it to old age

After the game’s third act she spends most of her time at Wyll’s side. They both stay in the city helping with the after math of [redacted]. A few months later Wyll becomes a viscount and Karlach becomes a self-appointed bodyguard (the wedding that takes place at Sunlit might be theirs) The manor is also where she spends the last few months of her life (there’s a pond on the grounds that she likes to sit by) when the engine begins to overheat

Its slow at first… she has dizzy spells, persistent heart burn, the scorching heat that made it so she can’t touch anyone returns. Shadowheart comes back from her pilgrimage with Isobel when that happens. She casts greater restoration on Karlach almost as often as on Wyll who, despite the blistering heat, does not let go of Karlach. In the end, when the pain is too much, Tavrais and Gale cast an extended sleep spell on her. What would be classified as a heart attack is what takes her in the end

After she’s gone, Wyll has burn scars between the webbing of each of his fingers and curled around his thumb in the shape of Karlach’s hand that he refused to have magically healed away. I haven’t decided if the two would have a child in the few years they have together but if they do, their daughter would be named Clara, she’d be a toddler when her mother passes

Karlach’s buried between her parents in the city's cemetery