#It's DEAD ORIN HOURS

[scrivellc]

Could you do the “I was just really really sad” prompt? (I am an Orin was a very depressed adolescent truther)

(Hey, so these prompts are meant to be from the sender's character to me/Orin so I answered it as such, but I did also try to touch on Orin and his big, bad, feelings.)

"No shit, you're sad. You're dead," Orin replied with a grimace, dark brows pushed close together with irritation. The one thing he'd learned about resting in peace throughout this whole ordeal was that there was in in fact very little resting and scarcely any peace. At least, not in his particular corner of the void, which he suspected was not one of the nicer eternities, which was...fair enough. In the darkness other spirits would wallow and loudly lament their fates, crying for pity into the great expanse of nothing. It made Orin want to strangle them, break their damn necks, but what good would that do? They were all already dead, and his desire to do harm had waned the longer he was stuck in this place. So he'd keep his distance until they disappeared back into the inky abyss, leaving him to his brooding. But this weird gray...thing, this thing with hazy, black, spots where Orin figured its eyes should have been had had the nerve to actually speak to him! Or at him...whatever the case it didn't really matter. His whole body had bristled as it had approached, agitated more so than frightened as it invaded his patch of dark. Whatever this vaguely human shaped being was, it was hardly the worst iteration of a spirit he'd come across. He supposed he was lucky. He still looked something like himself, or he figured he did since mirrors didn't seem to cross over into this realm. When he'd reached up to touch his face it was still there, and everything seemed to be in the right place, though the deathly pallor he had seen on his hands had been enough to make him queasy. Normally, he had quite the strong stomach, but it was different when you knew it was you whose skin looked so devoid of life. Plus, not long after he'd arrived to this emptiness, rings of dried blood had appeared around certain joints and around his neck, though he'd done his best not to contemplate too deeply their meaning. It was just too creepy.

Unfortunately, his response must not have been enough because the other spirit was still just standing there. Staring at him. Well, he thought it was staring at him. The lack of eyes was making things pretty difficult. "Look, I don't know what you want from me. You want comfort or something? Sorry, uh...you, but comfort was never something I was good at, and I don't think I'm gonna start now." Still it stood there. Staring even as he took a step back, wanting to put a little more distance between them, though he didn't take his eyes off it. "Jeez, you're persistent. So you said you...'was' sad? Like, past tense? You trying to tell me why you died or something? Got so sad you died?" Orin crudely gestured like he was pulling a noose tight, even going so far as to stick out his tongue. But not even that got any real response. "I mean, I guess I get it, but who isn't sad? Everyone's sad, kid. You're just born that way, and your parents don't help. You know, that's just being human. You're sad, and then you get older, and you get angry. You realize all the things that made you sad, well...you're big enough and mad enough to fight 'em, so you do." He clenched his hands into fists, raising them up as if about to throw a punch. "So it goes...sad enough to want to die, mad enough to want to hurt, angry enough that you hurt everyone around you..." Orin was surprised by how much he kept talking, but...well, he couldn't tell how long it had been since he talked to someone. Or something? Time passed so strangely here, as far as he knew he could have been dead for years. What way was there to mark the passage of time. Maybe that's the reason he couldn't make himself stop. "And after you're angry...after you're angry you...I don't really know. Guess I never got to the part where you stop being angry...or when you stop being sad. Figures I'd be sad for eternity. It fucking figures." Orin sighed, rubbing the back of his back of his neck, feeling the dried blood beneath his fingertips. "Sorry...I don't got any sorta satisfying story to tell. Most people's lives aren't satisfying...I just had sorta hoped after everything mine would be. That success and distance would be enough to make me happy, but I guess I didn't get far enough."

[robo-beasty]

Gortash: He hasn't texted, he hasn't called... Did I get DUMPED? Orin: I DON'T CARE. Now put your shirt back on, whoretash!! Ketheric: Please. Extra Durge snickering from the side because Gorty is being silly ♡

Gortash drawn by the wonderful @kaijusaur!!

[y-rhywbeth2]

While it looks like raw steaks or something, as far as my understanding of textiles goes, I think it might make slightly more sense if Orin's outfit is human leather dyed red (although I recall hearing somewhere that human skin makes terrible leather, but anyway).

Said outfit also kinda fits in with the original games, where you could in fact make a suit of armour called "human flesh" out of murder victims' skins and acts of evil.

"Made from human skin and treated with the blood of a noble dragon, this armor emits the stench of bitter death."

[beloved-ranger]

this would've been so much better if i had done it traditionally, but regardless young Orin portrait upon thee

[dykemerrilll]

was gonna wait til i finished act 2 before posting my nightsong thoughts but actually i want to get my first impressions out to see if they change but…currently i’m pretty disappointed by it because from an rp perspective i literally don’t see a single reason why the pc would let shadowheart kill the nightsong if they weren’t already allied with the absolute.

from a practical perspective your whole aim is to get rid of ketheric’s invulnerability - i guess killing the nightsong might achieve that purpose but to me at least the implication throughout the gauntlet is that if you kill the nightsong as part of the dark justiciar trial she doesn’t actually die. (never mind the fact that aylin seems far too important to both ketheric and shar for her to be sacrificed if an ordinary selûnite would do). obligatory disclaimer that i didn’t let shadowheart kill her so i don’t know what happens in that instance, but that doesn’t really matter in this case because i’m talking about how the choice is presented to you, and to me at least it did not seem like killing aylin would be in any way strategic.

in which case it’s not really a choice because a) practically you are strongly encouraged to let aylin go and b) morally your tav has to justify the murder of a defenceless woman for…what, shadowheart’s career goals? even if you’re romancing shadowheart (which i am) convincing her requires a straightforward persuasion check, the mechanics of which thus far have meant you convince her that your position is correct - there’s not much in the way of lasting relationship consequences in that she won’t get so mad at you she leaves the party because you’ve already convinced her you’re right.

all that is to say that i think this is reflective of bg3’s overall binary attitude towards its major choices - there’s a good route (save the grove, defend isobel, free aylin), and a bad route (destroy the grove, ally with marcus, kill aylin). a lot of those choices compound, as well - other people have talked from actual experience about how allying with minthara will lose you a huge amount of content and allies, thus railroading you into picking a side from both a narrative and gameplay perspective. you’ve a huge amount of freedom in how you go about achieving any of those things - stealth, persuasion, combat etc., but the objectives themselves are pretty static.

so when you then have a companion’s personal quest tied to intrinsically to the plot it negates a huge amount of player choice. thematically, the companion quests are binary because they can either break or perpetuate cycles of abuse - that’s an instance in which binary choices can be very compelling. but the thematic concerns of shadowheart’s very intricate and heartfelt personal quest are totally undercut by the necessities of a pretty straightforward choice. i can’t play a hands-off tav and let this be shadowheart’s decision without to all appearances letting ketheric win. this isn’t a truly grey choice like the decision to sacrifice isolde or go to the circle in dragon age origins. it feels like that’s what bg3 was trying to do here by combining shadowheart’s quest and the main narrative, but because that main narrative is actually relatively inflexible, it just means shadowheart’s quest suffers by comparison.

[skeleton-on-a-quest]

bringing the whole extended family to whoop your sister's ass for taking your job, house, boyfriend, & memories

[darkenedurge]

. Couldn’t stop thinking about the idea that Gortash likely thought Durge was dead, until Orin confirmed otherwise – so, I got in my feelings and decided to write Gortash being heartbroken because I love angst just as much as I love raunchy shit.

.

Enver clung to the last shred of her he had left. A petty thing, it was, a single shirt – worn, torn, and not the most glamorous thing she’d ever owned. Though, it was often she slept in it – he’d given it to her after all. It had once been his. It was saturated in her scent, intermingled with a hint of his own – ink from his desk splattered the sleeve edges, an inevitable result of her being bent over his desk during particularly heated nighttime rituals. They weren’t always dirty, weren’t always spontaneous, but sometimes blood runs hot.

Enver missed her. Her warmth, her voice. Everything, lest he list it all. His chest tightens as he takes another, sharp, deep inhalation of her scent – the fabric pressed firmly to his nose. He chokes, on a sob or two, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Orin, naturally, had ruined everything. She’s good at that, making the world around you collapse with a simple swing of her blade. Though, it hadn’t just been a swing. Orin had butchered her, mutilated her. Years, months, weeks, days, hours of their time together, succumbed to her hand. Yet another sob is strangled from his throat at the thought, and he feels like he’s suffocating. Drowning.

If it weren’t for duty, for his commitment, Enver surely would have joined her by now. Perhaps in a kinder fashion, he’d never shared her creativity, nor passion for the sanguine arts. He was glad for that, he loved that about her. No, he’d likely spike his own wine with poison – or perhaps drive a blade through his chest. Whatever it took.

But no. He’d suffer your absence at his side tonight, and every night thereafter. Enver was assured he could, at the very least, bury himself in work – perhaps work himself into the grave, even. Anything, that minimised her domination of his brain space.

He knew he’d be lucky if he slept. It’s rare he could, without her. She’d always rake her pretty, slender fingers through his hair – over and over until his eyes fluttered, coming to a close. Still, she wouldn’t stop until she was certain he was taken by the soft, sweet lull of sleep – and even then, her hands remained on him somewhat.

An arm draped over his waist, her head on his chest. Anything, just be touching.

This all felt horrendously cruel. Unreal. In his head, Enver had gutted Orin a thousand times over, and then a thousand times more. Yet, his sick fantasies wouldn’t bring her back. Nothing could.

[grape-eating-vampire]

PART 2 of

things that happened so far in my first bg3 playthrough ever that I found so funny that I put them in my notes (now proper spoilers below)

defeated Ketheric Thorm in no less than 4 attempts

freed Mizora from one of the mindflayer pods, regretted it immediately because I hate the woman

got annoyed at missing so much companion banter, caved and got the companion limit begone mod

am now running around with all the origin companions, left the druids at camp to not be toooo overpowered (luckily I'm so bad at the game that it doesn't make a huge difference anyway)

there is someone named Orpheus and eithin seconds I had the Wedding Song from Hadestown stuck in my head

reached Baldur's Gate! my 200€ pc is Suffering

slept with the emperor to get the 'Mind Blown' achievement only for my mum to walk in in the middle of it to ask me for a hairclip

needless to say she was concerned and I had to explain myself (she stayed concerned but also found it funny)

snuck into Cazadors home and met someone named Sebastian, bawled my eyes out at his and Astarion's conversation

killed Cazador!! (fuck that guy)

went through the entirety of the sewers to find Minsc because what Jaheira says is law and the quest markers in my game are buggy as hell

on a sidenote, I godamn LOVE Minsc and Jaheira as a duo they are the best

recruited Minsc obviously, also took me two attempts because just knocking him out while he was under a 'Hold Person' spell counted as killing to Jaheira :(

met Dammon again! Karlach was thrilled and so was I

talked to Gortash (he's meh) and he told me to kill Orin

talked to Orin (I hate her with all I have and more) and she told me to kill Gortash

OH I ALMOST FORGOT

Remember how I left the druids at camp? Orin snuck in and took Halsin, pretended to be him and had me almost crying

but rage prevailed, so I went around the city for about 19 years to figure out how to get into Baahls temple (I had only knocked out someone instead of killing them, making the amulet you need for it not spawn in their inventory)

finally figured it out, went in, and immediately found a clowns head from about 20 hours playtime ago

killed Orin (and got the achievement), it was great fun bc as mentioned before, I despise her

Halsin was so thankful I'd saved him that he immediately went "haha tysm for not leaving me, wanna fuck?"

so I left Wyll for him (with lots of pain in my heart, the things we do for the plot istg)

have not played since, but my most recent savefile is called "the wicked bitch is dead, long live the druids"

[extraclevermongoose]

Tender Prey

Orin the Red x Tav/Reader

TW: period sex, blood drinking, Orin being... Orin

With everything else happening, it was easy to forget about your period. When you take a morning off to recoup from particularly bad cramps, your plans are derailed by an unexpected visitor who is a little too interested in your current affliction.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52868542

You were never one to sleep in, even on mornings where all you wanted to do was laze in the grass like a cat. You preferred to rise with the sun, if for no other reason, then for the sake of a moment to yourself before the rest of camp stirred. It was a little more difficult since you had settled into actual rooms at Elfsong, but you quickly managed to sniff out a quiet spot on the roof to greet the dawn with coffees and teas. 

Today, though, the cramps had won. You were mildly panicked when you woke in the night to a bloody clot in your underwear and a thunderous ache clenching at your pelvis, until it clicked in your head. You cleaned yourself up, secured a thick rag in your fresh undergarments, and climbed back into bed to wallow in misery. It was your first period since the tadpole insertion, and the stress of, well, everything had screwed up your cycle so badly that your uterus apparently felt the need to put in some extra oomph to compensate.

It was Shadowheart who found you curled in your bed long after everybody else had dressed and ambled downstairs to seek breakfast in the tavern. She initially grumbled at you for not alerting her that you needed healing, but once you corrected her, her furrowed brow softened with sympathy. 

“Well,” she sighed, “I suppose you have earned a rest, since you felled an undead king the other day and all.” She raised a stern finger, but spoke with a playful tone. “But just this once!” You laughed, and she slipped out with a gentle smile, promising to tell the others to give you the morning. 

And so, off went your friends. Some went to follow up on a lead for the location of an unfortunate clown’s pelvis while the rest went on various errands of their own agenda. Before he left to once more try and negotiate his way into the forbidden book stash in Sorcerous Sundries, Gale charmed a long sock of dry corn kernels to act as a makeshift heating pad. They wouldn’t be gone for more than a few hours, but it brought the promise of a morning to yourself to move at your own pace. Within a half hour, you drifted back off with the sock draped over your lower belly and the dream of a proper hot bath.

You woke sprawled on your back, feeling heavy and sluggish. To your dismay, the heat in the sock had almost entirely diminished and what had originally been a relief now felt cumbersome – less like a sock of corn and more like a tepid dead eel plopped over your midriff. Frowning, you reached to push off the offensive sock and your hands collided with something fleshy and clammy. You quickly blinked yourself awake, and were greeted with a familiar pair of solid gray eyes less than a foot above your face. You startled with a loud gasp, and the woman straddling your waist split her lips into a smile suiting a jackal.

“The underling is a sound sleeper,” she cooed and slowly shook her head. “Unwise. Very unwise these days.”

You bucked your hips and tried to find purchase to push yourself up and knock her away, but she simply dropped deadweight onto your midriff, sending a jolt of pain up your belly and back. You yelped and flinched, and in a blink, she gripped your wrists in each hand to pin your arms to the bed.

She tutted. “Oh, but you are unwise, I see.”

“What the fuck are you doing here, Orin?” you spat. “I already agreed to help you. You swore immunity until we complete our end of the bargain!” 

Orin released your wrists, and as you tensed your limbs to try again to buck her from you, she slid her dagger from her lower back. You froze, wide eyed.

“Oh, oh! The little lamb quakes in its sheets,” Orin mocked with an exaggerated brow. She cackled. “If I wanted to drip-drain you empty, little fool, you would be rotting in a gutter by now.” She ran a delicate finger along the edge of the blade. “You will not perish at my hand this morning. Lord Bhaal demands a grander masterpiece – your supple meat to become an exquisite effigy worthy of his honor. No, we must wait until our blades dance before the eyes of His faithful.”

Orin slid the dagger under the hem of your sleep shirt and pulled upward. The fabric pulled taut against your back, and with a chorus of tiny pops and snags, the steel ripped through and the halves of the shirt furled helplessly across your breaths. 

“There are many hungry mouths begging to taste your drip-dripping from our sacred floors,” said Orin. “To waste your sticky-sweet obliteration in a common bed-slaughter where it would go unwitnessed by those who have craved such for a lick of your sinews…” She gasped, shuddering, and ground herself against your abdomen, a surge of cramping pain howling through your womb. “An affront,” she sighed.

You hissed in pain. “Then why –”

“I merely wished to observe the underling’s progress,” she interrupted, “and was snagged and snarled by a most curious perfume.” She wedged her face into your neck, burrowing her nose into you. "You are wreathed in crimson succulence,” she murmured and inhaled against you deeply, hungrily. “And yet, not that of the lordling." She licked a slow, breathy strip from your collarbone to your ear – hot, metallic. The hand without a dagger traced between your legs, and warmth pooled in your belly, curling through the haze of muscle ache. 

“I am bewitched on your humors, lamb,” she whispered in your ear, making you shudder. “Now I must drink and drink and drink.” 

She dragged the tip of her nose down your sternum. The hairs spanning your forearms and up your spine bristled at the ghostly touch, the softness of a shrike’s feather before impalement. 

"Give yourself to me,” she hissed, “I will render your bed our loving abattoir.” 

She bit down into your breast. Your pained cry urged her sharp incisors deeper into your soft flesh. Warmth bubbled to the surface, and a fat blood droplet rolled from a puncture down the curve of your ribs like an itching teardrop. Orin lapped across the wounds, eyes locked on yours, and she rose with her broad tongue slack from her lips, streaked in watery red. She curled it back into her mouth and her head tilted back slowly. She sighed dreamily, and swooped at your chest with bared teeth. 

You yelped when her teeth dug into your tender, swelling skin, drawing streams of red that leaked under the corner of her lips. She sucked your bleeding breast into her mouth and released it with a wet pop. She lapped at the wounds as quickly as the blood replenished, smearing blunt ruddy streaks of saliva to crust across you. The curling rasp of her tongue numbed the pain in sweet, fleeting reprieves, only for the burn to throb again as soon as it passed. 

The intact counterpart, she gently rolled and massaged between her fingers. Long nails teased the flesh but never pinched so tight as to penetrate. The nipple in her caress stiffened and flushed from the stimulation just as the one framed by her black lips seared and seethed in needly throbs. Your chest bloomed in arousal and agony, the two intertwining their cruel fingers to dig into your core as if they were her blade.

You rolled your hips underneath her, the pain of cramps long overshadowed. She straightened her back and grinned down at you, marbled skin flecked with splatters of drying blood and black lips ringed with rusty layers, thicker patches caught in the corners and rimming her teeth along the gums.

“Sweet plaything,” she crooned. “Patience, patience.” 

She slid backward down your thigh, and with a sudden flick, sliced open the middle seam of your sleeping pants. She dropped her dagger to her side, and ripped the tear in your pants completely open. Another rip, and the snug press of your underwear and rag vanished. You wanted to protest the waste of so much clothing, but your body instead chose to open your legs, breath heavy and your pulse that of a hunted rabbit.

When she hooked her arms around your thighs and snaked her tongue into your cunt, you dug your head so firmly into your pillow that the sunbeams through your window blurred like water in your eyes. Orin’s nails dug into your leg muscle, leaving angry little crescents whenever she repositioned a finger. You relished the sting by now – almost wished that she was leaving puncture after puncture across your tender thighs. You wanted her to prick you where she pleased, to draw blood and drink you dizzy.

She curled her tongue inside of you, drawing it out in a luxuriously slow scrape and into her mouth. A whimper shuddered from her throat, and she licked a broad stripe between your labia. You pushed your hips toward her and she gripped you tighter, burrowing into you as deeply as she could. She angled your hips upward and with a pitchy growl, she rooted her face against your cunt in a fervor. Her sharp nose pressed against your clit, and you whined and ground yourself against her. The familiar tightness of a brewing orgasm coiled and pulsed within you, just out of reach.

She yanked her soiled face back, gasping for breath. She stared you down, and your heart fluttered under her glower. You had thought her beautiful the moment you first saw her deep underneath Moonrise, in the way that you would admire a viper and pray it never crossed your path. Strings of saliva, viscous with mucus and thickened blood dripped from her cheeks and snapped between your pussy and her lips. Her nimble tongue darted out to collect the clots and pooled blood in the corners of her mouth. Beautiful was not a worthy word for how she looked in that moment, with your blood painting her sharp chin and cheekbones and her upper lip curled in a snarl over her stained teeth. Orin was the embodiment of the horror nestled at the heart of desire; you trembled with fear under her hand, and yet you yearned to offer yourself as sacrifice to this feral and terrible goddess. 

Her breathing steadied, and she descended again, this time wrapping her lips around your clit and sucking harshly. You bucked and whined, your nerves electric. The tip of her tongue flicked at the bud as she sucked, and you bit into your hand to stifle the noises clamoring to escape your chest. The coiling heat of earlier tightened in your belly until you ached. You dug your heels into the mattress. Orin gripped your thighs with possessive fury. She opened her mouth wide, and bit down into your mons pubis, tongue flattening against your clit, and you spilled over the edge, helpless squeaks and moans spilling from your throat, and your hips jerking in little erratic jolts against her mouth. 

As you wound down, she lapped broad, thorough stripes to clean up as much spilled blood as she could taste. Orin lowered you back to the bed, her eyes hazier than usual. Without bothering to clean her face, she quietly slid from the bed and attached her dagger back to her clothing. 

Orin slowly swiped her finger across her chin, collecting a large drip of clotted blood, and licked it away. “It seems my senses have been righted once more. A worthy sacrificial lamb indeed! You may find me in the temple once you have collected the little tyrant’s Netherstone.” She smiled, all teeth. “I look forward to basking in your brilliant crimson once more.” Before you had a chance to speak, she fiddled with her finger, and disappeared in a smattering of color. 

You stared at the spot where Orin had stood seconds before, and blinked blankly, unsure of how to react. So, that was it? You couldn’t say you expected Orin to be the stay-and-cuddle type. Frankly, that sounded more dangerous than… whatever had just happened. You sighed and decided that you probably ought to take a bath and do something with your ruined clothes before your companions walked in. 

You stood up, and when you saw the bed, you felt your face drain. In the whirl of everything, you hadn’t considered the bed, and sure enough, the blanket and sheet both looked like you had robbed them from a murder scene. You closed your eyes, and began to mentally prepare a cover story for asking a very uncomfortable Prestidigitation favor.

[mightymizora]

hello new followers!

I've had a lot of new followers recently and I'm going to take this opportunity to plug my fics, because that's why I am here (between shitposts and rushed meta.) So! I'm going to do a game I've been threatening to do for a LONG time, and I'm going to invite other writers to do the same.

Rules are that you plug a handful of your fics from your current fandom(s), give a quick summary, and then put in 1-2 lines from comments as reviews. Because fuck it, self-promotion is fine actually.

The Portrait

BG3. 6.5k one shot, Enver Gortash/The Dark Urge. Lord Gortash requests a portrait of his paramour. The pay is good, the contract legitimate. It seems almost too good to be true... In pre-canon, a young artist takes a job from an upcoming player in Baldur's Gate society. "The voice was amazing, the descriptions are poignant without getting too far in the weeds, you show so much without telling explicitly." "if i could frame this fic and put it up on my wall, i would in a heartbeat! literally the definition of perfection"

Monster, Mine

BG3, 7k one shot. Enver Gortash/The Dark Urge. There is a beast haunting the city, and there is a tentative reaching of hands across the table. In pre-canon, Enver Gortash tries to find the truth of the Slayer. "This is a genuinely stunning piece of fiction." "Their poisonous codependency and joint descent into it is the absolute delight to read!"

Even if Love

BG3, 8k, short chapters. Multiple. Shades of love for The Dark Urge, Orin The Red, Enver Gortash, Wisteria Jannath, Sceleritas Fel, Kressa Bonedaughter, Lae'zel, Minthara Baenre, Sarevok Anchev and Araj Oblodra. Can be read individually, but they do build a narrative together. "it is a crime that AO3 only allows one kudos for a whole fic" "All so distinct and sharply observed, and such gorgeous writing throughout!"

Blood and Bone, Bone and Blood

BG3. 3.5K one shot. Ketheric Thorm/The Dark Urge A collection of moments between Bhaal and Myrkul’s chosen as they are bound together with Gortash as the chosen of the Dead Three. "It simply drips with style. Gorgeous prose." "Feral about this fic"

The First Leaf on the Tree after Winter

BG3. 9k, multi-chapter. Halsin/Jaheira. Background Wyll/Karlach. Their time was a century before, she thinks. What can they be, these old souls rooted in their ways, these observers of the world, these failed heroes? "All the kudos here. The ultimate kudos. Oh I really loved this." "I reached the end with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. so bittersweet and beautiful. I adore every word."

Breath and Rosewater

BG3, 20k, multi-chapter ongoing. Gale/Tav She has always loved music for many reasons; the patterns that present themselves, and the sheer joy of playing. Working out the fingering, and bringing joy to others. The breath before the first note. The freedom that comes from following your heart and letting it soar. He has always loved magic for every reason; the study of it, the power in it. The quiet contemplation of hours of learning, the thrill of application on the battlefield, and off of it. The understanding that comes from complete control of your craft. "most well-constructed intro paragraph that i've read in awhile—we get such a strong sense of glim, her expertise, her pride in her art, in just four sentences." "Oh this whole thing is so beautiful. i adore your prose."

[animentality]

I love Baldur's Gate and the Dark Urge and all -

And the idea of the Dark Urge redeeming themselves after a lifetime of horror by literally choosing to die and go to purgatory forever is really amazing. In fact, it's why I'm so dedicated to the Dark Urge as a character.

The idea of a villain losing their memory, becoming a hero, and then realizing that they need to die not just once, but twice to truly DESERVE their redemption is honestly brilliant.

But.

But.

Withers revives you way too fucking fast.

You literally die...and then Withers instantly brings you back.

In fact, it takes him fucking longer to revive your COMPANIONS than you, and your companions dying and being revived at camp aren't even part of the story, it's just you fucking something up and not wanting to waste a revive scroll.

Withers bringing you back instantly comes across as like, oh, so dying for your morals, being a true hero in the end, a martyr, defeating the villain, which is you...it's totally negated.

You died for about twenty seconds.

I've known people who died for longer on the operating table.

Where is my lover crying and clutching my body?

Where are my friends, all looking devastated, because they're all gotten to know me and root for me and truly care about me after I've done ALL THIS for them???

So that they could be safe from me?

Where is the emotion?

He brings you back and then your companions have a single line that's essentially just, "good job buddy."

Karlach says something like, I'm proud of you and Wyll says I'll drink in your name or whatever.

And Astarion has a really obnoxious line about how this means you aren't going to attack him anymore...and it's like... okay.

Cool.

So you guys are totally unphased by the fact that you just watched me die...but I suppose death doesn't mean shit in this game, since you have Withers to constantly bring you back.

Cool.

So then what? Nothing matters?

It's just frustrating because I know it's the cut content curse. They had more planned for Orin and the Dark Urge and Bhaal...but it just feels so underwhelming.

I think BG3's primary flaw comes in the fact that they wanted to build this richly crafted narrative, while also accounting for player choice. And they did a magnificent job of adding SO MANY extra scenes and alternate interactions, to the point where I'm still finding new shit, after like 800 hours of playing...

But the tradeoff is that the character stories...fall really flat, because they want so desperately for a Tav to be the main character, and no one else.

The Dark Urge especially suffers from this, because they made them a murder hobo in one ending, and basically just a Tav in the other ending.

As soon as you are brought back by Withers, you might as well just be a Tav. It has no bearing on anything anymore.

And that's such a shame.

I just wish it had some weight. The Dark Urge has spent their entire life ending lives... it should be beautiful, that they would end their own life to atone...their last victim, would be themselves, as they always knew...but for different reasons-

oh wait, withers is here.

cool, i'm back, guys, let's go to arby's and celebrate.

i just think the game should legitimately make you think you died, at least until a long rest or two.

force the squad to go on without you, make someone else your fourth member.

THEN withers can come to you, maybe in some kind of new Jerrgal-form, so you know he's Jergal for sure, and then reveal he was secretly a retired god.

And honestly, that makes Withers a far more interesting character too. To give him this huge hero moment, and have him say, no, this will not stand. I know he HAS that moment, but it's so rushed.

Let the player breathe on it. Let them FREAK OUT. Can you imagine how much stir it would've created, if Dark Urge players LEGIT thought they were dead permanently?

That would've given their sacrifice real weight.

But Larian was scared, probably, of players being upset that their characters are dead, even though that kind of sacrifice is literally the most heroic thing you could do in the game, besides become a damn mindflayer.

So some sacrifice! You sacrificed ten seconds of your life, and your companions barely care.

Alright. Fine.

I'll just be over here writing your story for you!

[powdermelonkeg]

How I would run Act III

To streamline it more. And tie up loose ends. And stuff.

Part I: The Dead Two

You're apprehended by the Steel Watch the instant you use your proper faces in town, cutting the Steel Watch at the entry (or at least moving it closer to the Gate; I missed the whole of the Outer City for like 10 hours because of this)

Gortash holds one of your companions prisoner for "motivation." They're framed for the Open Hand murders and locked up. YOU have to solve those murders and track down Orin, both to kill her and to get the murder mystery off of Gortash's back. He needs controlled fear in his city, and he plans to take the credit for apprehending the Cult of Bhaal.

Orin still replaces a member of your group. The intended route is to get Gortash'd before Orin'd, but if you disguise self all the way through to Orin's place, you can get her ultimatum to destroy Gortash first; disable the Steel Watch within three days, or your pretty little companion dies.

Dilemma: Do you risk the companion Orin has, or the one Gortash has? Intended route is to turn on Gortash; he'll send your companion down to the Iron Throne if you do, which still gives you a chance to rescue them. However, if you have Minsc or Jaheira on your side, you can use them to find a secret path into the Bhaal temple and free Orin's captive first.

If you kill Gortash before Orin, Bhaalists attack your camp, because you're no longer useful and will make such pretty sacrifices to Bhaal. One of them has a map to the temple on them. On the other hand, killing Orin first still gets you an alliance with Gortash.

I want Apostle-of-Myrkul-style boss fights. When Orin's slayer form dies, you turn to leave, and Bhaal speaks through the skull in the wall, creating an avatar of the dead bodies around the altar.

If you're the Dark Urge, usual punishment for rejecting Dad's Gifts, and then the avatar appears to tear your companions apart over your dead body. You have to win that fight WITHOUT your player character.

Gortash gets more dramatics, because there was a lack of explanation for his whole fight. When you approach him, either after killing Orin or wanting to kill him, he has his back turned to you and asks you what you plan to do with the current situation. If you turn on him, he tells you what a shame that is—that you've turned on him, yes, but moreso that you've failed to notice the room. The turrets load up, and Gortash steps backwards into a steaming divot in the wall, then reemerges in his armored form. A pity you couldn't disable all of the Steel Watch after all.

Upon defeating Steel Watch Gortash, it looks like he's about to explode—then it stops. Bane reprimands him for being such a failure, taunts him for expecting the release of death, then twists him into an amalgamation of machinery and biology, a Warforged-like abomination akin to his avatar: "a twisted and monstrous form with leathery black skin and powerful claws that could rend flesh and metal alike." (The wiki was not more specific than that)

Congrats! You have all three Nether Stones. How do you feel?

[optiwashere]

Minthara/chef’s choice, E7

You would. Thanks for requesting this! 💜

You can send a prompt from this list + a ship or platonic pair, and I'll write a ficlet!

---

E7. While relaxing at camp, Character A begins to suspect that Character B is Orin in disguise

"Aren't you a welcome sight?" Shadowheart patted the stool next to where she knelt on her long-disused prayer rug in front of her tent. "Come, sit with me."

Minthara had hardly come out of her evening trance before Shadowheart called upon her. She sat there in her nightclothes, silver hair curiously still in its tight braid. She smiled at Minthara, a wide smile that showed her teeth.

"Why are you awake at this hour?" asked Minthara.

"Sleep's eluded me for a while. I figured a bit of prayer would do me good."

Minthara replied slowly, lingering on the syllables. "Of course. At least there's no dreadful sun burning us in the night."

"Afraid you'll be burnt to a crisp?"

"The sight of it nauseates me." Minthara approached slowly. "When did you resume your prayers?"

Shadowheart smiled again, tilting her head to one side. "I suppose it was recently. Easier to pray without that dreadful sun hiding the moon."

"Yes," Minthara agreed, though she stopped walking at once. She glanced to either side. Nobody else was awake. "And which goddess have you decided is owed your allegiance, after all?"

"The one that stops you from melting in that torturous sunlight, all of your skin sloughed clean off and left to rot."

Hairs stood up on the back of Minthara's neck. Her breaths burned as they accelerated in her chest, and she felt sweat begin to form on her forehead.

These words. So familiar.

That smile.

The creature that wore Shadowheart's form smiled again, flashing her pearly teeth. Slowly, the grin slid into a grimace.

"You look as if you've seen the living dead, my love," said the creature in Shadowheart's voice.

A familiar sensation washed over Minthara, one that had been suppressed the last time she stood before this woman. Fear. The need to turn and run. Pounding in her skull like a headache but twice as vicious screamed for her to get away. Now. But another thought fought against the overwhelming roar of self-preservation.

Where, then, is Shadowheart?

"Your camp's paltry defenses were almost difficult to puncture, at first." A snap of bone cracked through the air as Shadowheart's head suddenly crooked to one side. With a flourish of silver hair turning a dull, waxy yellow, Orin stood up and grinned. She brandished her curved, crimson knife. "But like any spine, the touch of a blade slices clean until only we remain. My darling web spinner, how I have missed the way your body drips with fear-scent."

[slothquisitor]

Family Ties

A member of Liv's family pays the group an unexpected visit. What, you thought I would write fic and not include complicated family dynamics? Astarion x Liv, 3.7k, angsty, but there's plot?

Also on AO3.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Astarion never thought he would be grateful for the distraction of heroics. His day has been spent investigating the disappearance of a little girl that led them right back to that damn hag from the swamp. But the whole day, his mind is quiet, no memories bob against the surface, he doesn’t hear Cazador’s voice, and he doesn’t feel trapped. It is a welcome respite from the quiet hours when the memories demand attention. 

Liv said it would take time, and because he trusts her, he is giving it time. He is also rescuing little girls from hags, apparently. But whatever works, he supposes.

Until Cazador was dead, he didn’t realize how much time was consumed by plotting and planning and hating. He had been bound to him even in freedom. He worries that some part of him always will be. 

He’s not about to admit it aloud, but sometimes, in the deepest, darkest part of the night, while Liv sleeps peacefully beside him, he wonders if he will live to regret his choice at the ritual. What if the power from the ritual was the thing that would have turned the tide in this battle for the netherstones, to destroy the brain? What if he is not enough as he is to protect Liv? Protect them? To ensure an after? What if an eternity without the sun is too long, and love is not long enough?

At least their companions, his…friends have stopped asking him how he’s feeling . It is a relief. He is not sure how to answer that question without a deflection or a joke or casual meanness. He doesn’t know what to do with their concern, so he brushes it off. Though he suspects they know it is a front. He might be willing to admit to Liv, and Liv alone that their concern is strangely touching, even if it makes him feel like they’re treating him like some fragile thing, liable to break at any moment.

It’s late, the sun already setting, and their little group heads inside the Elfsong, exhausted. Astarion is looking forward to a warm bath and evening by the fire, to the routine he and Liv have established. But when they enter their rooms, the scene they find is a tense one. 

Everyone has been on high alert since Orin snatched Halsin the day before. They were already working to dispatch Gortash, but Orin made the choice of which one to go after first easy. Though he’s sure that Liv is carrying a fair amount of guilt for having not gone after Gortash today. But there always seems to be something for pressing, more urgent than their own problems. Sometimes there are no easy choices. 

Tonight, Lae’zel stands behind a half-elven man, a dagger held to his throat. Gale and Wyll stand on either side, watching the prisoner, magic at the ready. The prisoner for his part, looks far more comfortable than anyone with a murderous githyanki holding them hostage deserves to be. There’s something familiar about the man, the set of his jaw…his eyes. 

“I found this istik poking about our rooms,” Lae’zel snarls in greeting. “He claims to want to speak to you.” Lae’zel looks to Liv. 

Beside him, Liv stiffens. It’s a slight thing, something he might have missed if he hadn’t been looking at her. Her voice is cool, calm, and collected as ever. “It’s been a while, Percy.”

Percy smiles a politician’s smile, all sharp edges and knives in the back. “Hello, little sister.”

The familiarity makes sense now. He can see the resemblance, something deeper than their dark hair and green eyes, a weight both of them carry. Over the years he learned to spot marks, those with money and power, and those without. Liv and her brother don’t carry the same sort of ease, the lack of care that would have easily marked them as wealthy nobles. There is something else, some shared grief that he suspects comes from growing up in a house that was never a home. 

“What are you doing here?” she asks. 

Percy glances up at Lae’zel. “As charming as your knife to my throat is, I’d love to have this conversation without it.”

Liv doesn’t relent. “Answer the question.”

He sighs, crossing his arms. “I’m here on behalf of the Guild. Nine-Fingers would like a word.”

Now, that is unexpected. Liv’s brother is with the Guild? How interesting.

Liv stares and Percy, uncomprehending. “What?”

Percy’s smile drops. “Do try to keep up. You’re supposed to be clever, aren’t you? The Guild, the undergr-”

“I know what the Guild is,” Liv says, voice sharp. “What I don’t understand is why you’re Nine-Fingers’ errand boy.”

Percy’s eyes are bright, smug even at coaxing a reaction out of her. Oh, Percy is a particular brand of insufferable. Astarion would like to add his dagger to Lae’zel’s. 

“Not an errand boy, if you can believe it. I simply volunteered because I felt that our usual way of bringing someone in for a chat might go…poorly with all the warrior types you’ve surrounded yourself with.” 

“And it’s going so well, right now,” Liv says gesturing to Lae’zel’s still-drawn dagger. 

Percy looks somehow more comfortable than before. “Trust me when I say I wanted to be caught by your friend here.” Percy scans the room, catches Gale’s eye, and looks him up and down. “Though I would not be upset if others wanted to detain me.”

Gale glares in response. 

Liv sighs. “He’s not a threat, Lae’zel. Besides, he’s enjoying this entirely too much.”

Lae’zel steps away. “Chk, one wrong move and I’ll run my sword straight through you.” 

 Percy offers her a dazzling smile while he leans back and drapes one arm over the back of the chair. “I would very much like to see you try. My my, sister, the company you keep is certainly exhilarating. The tales I’ve heard about your little band defeating the unkillable Ketheric Thorm seemed…unbelievable. But clearly, I was wrong.” His eyes sweep the room. 

Percy is doing a good job of acting nonchalant, but Astarion picks up an undercurrent of something. He’s not sure what it is, but he’s spent enough time charming people, being disingenuous to pick out someone else doing the same. 

Liv for her part, seems unimpressed. “You said Nine-Fingers wanted to meet?” 

Percy stands up, brushing some invisible dust off of his dark clothing. His clothes are finely made, but unobtrusive. Expensive only if one knows what to look for. “Yes. Shall we go now? She’s expecting us.” 

He doesn’t think she’s going alone with him, does he? Astarion steps forward. “Yes, let’s go meet with a band of thieves and criminals at night. Seems like a swell plan.”

Percy looks at him with a bored expression. “Oh, I’m afraid I can’t take a group of your size into the guild hall. That would draw far too much attention.”

Astarion inspects his nails, perfectly adopting Percy’s bored affect. “Oh, I’m afraid you don’t understand, we’re all a bit of a package deal.”

Percy ignores him, and that makes him want to throw something at the man. He instead turns to Liv and shrugs. “I’m afraid not everyone made the invite list. However, Nine-Fingers wanted to speak with Jaheira as well.” 

Jaheira nods. “Fine with me.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the famous guild hall,” Astarion says, glancing at Liv and Jaheira, daring someone to tell him he’s not coming too. 

Percy shrugs and sighs. “Are we quite done with the heroics?”

Astarion bites back a retort, though he wants to tell Percy that he’s the farthest thing from a hero in this room. He watched Liv retreat into herself that last time she saw her family members, when they’d made her feel small, nonexistent, and he’s not about to let it happen again. 

Liv’s gaze hasn’t left her brother, as if she’s still not sure she believes he’s here. “Let’s go.” Her voice is a brittle thing, almost resigned. Astarion doesn’t like it, and he certainly doesn’t like this. Liv’s brother's appearance is a complication they never saw coming; he’s sure that it means nothing good. 

Percy and Jaheira are already through the doors and descending the stairs when Astarion catches Liv’s hand. “You’ve got this, and I’ve got you,” he whispers. 

“Thank you.” She squeezes his hand before letting go and following her brother out into the night.

***

Liv was fifteen when she realized that her parents didn’t simply disapprove of her, but that they were indifferent. It happened at a dinner party, some celebration, or other she doesn’t remember the point of. She’d been thrilled to be included, to be treated like an adult. Old enough even to be given a glass of Elturian Red that Percy had brought back from his recent trip. He had returned from the city, brimming with stories and anecdotes that spellbound everyone at the table. 

Percy was the perfect son, the golden boy. Her parents doled out praise to him at the table. Liv watched with quiet resentfulness, wishing for a scrap of it to come her way. That’s the thing about praise: it feels like love when you’ve been starved of both. Someone at the table had asked her mother about her other children, about their accomplishments. Marcelia had smiled and listed off the things Cressida, Brelia, and Roland were working on. Liv had sat silent and obedient a few chairs away, waiting with bated breath to hear what her mother had to say about her . 

Only she hadn’t said anything. She’d finished talking about Roland’s scholarship, about how much time he spent in the high libraries only to turn the question back on the other woman. What about her children? Liv had stared at her plate, fought the urge to cry, to show weakness with so many witnesses present. It was a small thing, a mistake perhaps, an honest omission. But when she began to tally up everything else about her life, her family, it became so very clear. She remembers drinking down the rest of her wine, hating the way it burned the back of her throat. Afterward, Elturian Red always tasted faintly like disappointment. 

That night, she had disappeared from the party only for her older sister, Brelia, to find her. She had cried then, in the safety of her own bedroom, with her sister who had always understood. She had expected to be comforted when she cried about her parents' indifference. She had expected to be calmed, told that of course she was loved, of course, it had been a mistake. But her sister had simply held her through her tears and said nothing at all. 

It was all the confirmation she needed. 

Sixteen years later, she wonders at the kindness, the patience it must have taken for her sister to hold her, to love her through those realizations about family and love. In her sister’s arms, she had mourned all of the things she would never have, but Brelia hadn’t had anyone to do the same for her. She wonders if Brelia ever felt resentment for her tears, for her pain when she had suffered too and there had been nothing and no one to comfort her. 

Now, Liv walks behind her brother through the quiet streets of Baldur’s Gate in the late evening hours, wondering who the hell he actually is. The Percy she knew wouldn’t be caught dead working with the Guild.

She keeps waiting for him to speak, to say something. She refuses to be the first to do so, but he leads them on in silence, Jaheira and Astarion beside her. She’s brimming with questions, with anger. It all feels like weakness, and she’s not sure she can afford that. Not when she doesn’t know what it is Percy wants. 

He leads them through a stone wall in Heapside. Liv makes note of the street, in case she needs to find her way back here again. The guild hall itself isn’t empty this time of night. The cavernous space is dimly lit, but more well-appointed than expected. If one can ignore the perpetual feeling of being watched, of the threat of shadows and the daggers that might emerge from them. 

Many eyes watch as Percy leads their group deeper inside. Enough of the folks around give Percy nods of acknowledgment, respect even. If she doubted his story, she can’t now. He leads them into an office, flanked by two female guards, armed to the hilt. 

When they enter the room, a woman is speaking with a masked man. “It’s an orphanage, Uktar. What would you have me do - seize their toys as payment?” 

“They failed to pay tribute, we should withdraw our protection, at the very least.”

The woman must be Nine-Fingers. She speaks with an authority that’s hard to miss, though Liv notes that there’s nothing outwardly dangerous about her. That feels all the more ominous. “And cede more ground to the Stone Lord? You’re not suggesting I yield a single inch of the city - my city - to this cult?”

Uktar pauses, and looks cowed. “I…we already look weak. If you’re seen to be forgiving debts -”

Percy strides into the room like he’s done this thousands of times, for all she knows, he has. “Oh, come off it, Uktar. You’ve always been singularly focused. The cult is the priority now, not petty payments.”

Liv cannot see Uktar’s face, but she can see the rage in every line of his body as he turns to Percy. “This is a private council.”

Percy looks around the room doubtfully. “That so? But Flux let me right in. Must not have thought it was terribly important.”

Nine-Fingers smirks before returning to Uktar. “Seize the building. Arm any children old enough. If they protect what’s mine, we’ll consider that a start on what’s owed.”

Uktar bows slightly, anger still barely contained in his voice. “Yes, guildmaster.”

“Keep your underpants clean, Uktar. We’re playing host to a hero. You owe me a gold piece, grandmother. When I heard you died out in the wilderness, I made an offering at Kelemvor’s well.”

Jaheira scoffs. “Of gold? I did not know I meant so much to you, guildmaster.” Liv notes the familiarity here. Jaheira knows Nine-Fingers, and she instantly relaxes. 

Nine-Fingers smiles. “I’m terribly sentimental. Case in point - I’ve just let a Harper walk through my Guildhall, noticeably unholed. Because I’m curious if the reports are true. Is it right that Ketheric Thorm, General of the Absolute, champion of Myrkul, unkillable tyrant of Moonrise is dead thanks to you?”

Jaheira crosses her arms and gestures to Liv. “It’s thanks to her.”

Nine-Fingers turns the full force of her attention to Liv. “Well, you certainly look like a Vires. But heroism doesn’t exactly run in the family does it?” Nine-Fingers’ eyes flicker over to Percy. 

“I was often reminded that I didn’t belong in my family,” Liv says. Her voice emerges more detached and tired than she intended. 

Nine-Fingers shrugs. “You’re in good company here, then. I mean to burn the Absolute from the face of my city. So if you mean to help, congratulations - we just became the best of friends. After Jaheira warned me and then disappeared, I found evidence of Gortash’s projects, traced him to Orin the Red, and made a safe bet there was some dried-out old necromancer to round out the three. Because it’s always the Dead bloody Three - has-been half-gods who can’t help but make their irrelevance everyone else’s problem.”

Nine-Fingers continues. “We’ve been watching you. You took out the Steel Watchers. You’re moving in on Gortash. We’re willing to lend you a helping hand.”

Well, Liv isn’t exactly in the position to be turning away potential allies. Her group has done fine enough so far, but she knows that there’s a bigger battle looming, and they’ll need everyone who can fight. “I’m listening,” Liv replies. 

Over the next half hour, they share information, discovering that Jaheira’s friend, the famous Minsc of Rasheman is the Stone Lord. Nine-Fingers won’t tell them anything about tracking him down, but she can tell Jaheira has a plan, so she doesn’t press. Liv shares what they know about the netherstones and the brain, perpetually aware of the way Percy sits in a dark corner, hanging on every word. 

Nine-Fingers might be the leader of thieves and criminals, but her concern about the Absolute and the threat to the city is real. Her distrust of anyone in power is a comfort too. They might be getting played or walking right into a trap, but it doesn’t feel that way. And it's impossible to reconcile this conversation with what she knows of her brother. 

In the end, Jaheira asks Nine-Fingers once more to allow her to take care of the Stone Lord herself, but Nine-Fingers refuses, opening the guild hall to them and telling them to rest. It’s a clear dismissal, so they leave her office, Percy trailing behind. 

“There’s little point in pressing Nine-Fingers further. She means what she says. But we swore no vows. Perhaps someone within the guildhall knows something,” Jaheira says as they exit the office. 

The thought of spending the evening trying to get information out of the people here doesn’t sound particularly appealing to Liv, but she wants to help Jaheira. “Where do you suggest we start?”

Jaheira smiles ruefully. “We should start with the local wildlife.”

“There’s no need,” Percy says from behind them, words quiet. They’re in the tavern area proper now, the doors to Nine-Fingers’ office closed shut. 

“You mean to help us?” Liv asks, unable to keep the surprise from her tone. 

He slips his fingers in his pockets and leans forward, voice low. “No. A favor for a favor.”

“You have no right to ask a single thing of her,” Astarion says. He’s remained relatively quiet so far this evening, but she can feel the undercurrent frustration in his words. He’s kept close, a steadying presence while Liv feels like she’s drowning. 

Percy’s eyes narrow as he looks at Astarion. “Could you give us a moment? This is a family matter.”

But Astarion doesn’t leave, instead crosses his arms and remains beside her. She turns to him and Jaheira. “It’s okay. It’ll only take a moment.”

“Come, Astarion. We’ll go get a drink,” Jaheira says, but her tone carries a warning directed at Percy. 

Percy keeps silent as he watches them go. “He’s rather protective. Interesting,” Percy says, looking at her. “He’s one of Cazador’s lot, isn’t he?”

Nine-Fingers was incredibly well informed about the Absolute, it would stand to reason she’d be aware of a vampire lord operating in the lower city. Still, she’s not interested in offering Percy anything he can use. “Not anymore.”

Percy huffs out a chuckle as they retreat to a high table in the corner, away from listening ears. “Ah, so you were behind that too. I should’ve suspected. You certainly keep interesting company.”

“What do you want?” Liv asks, her annoyance is obvious. She wishes that somehow being around Percy didn’t make her feel so out of control of herself. 

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” 

Is she supposed to have something else to say? He’s clearly not who she thought he was, but that doesn’t mean a thing, does it? They are worse than strangers. “I cannot remember a single moment in my life where you have wanted anything to do with me, and I have far bigger problems than this.” She gestures between them, and his eyes harden. “So what is your price?”

She is sure it will be fantastic, full of his usual ambition for power. That’s what this must be, this alliance with the Guild. He must be getting something out of it. 

He looks sorry, but she might be imagining it. “When you kill Gortash, bring me anything you find on our parents. Anything that ties them to him.”

Liv shakes her head. “So that you can protect them. Of course.”

“No,” he says. “So I can ruin them.”

“What?”

“The kindest thing our parents ever did for you was be simply disinterested. Imagine the hell your life might have been if they had real expectations for you,” he says, words soft and full of bitterness. “I’ve been working to destroy them for a very long time.”

No. This isn’t the way things are. Percy has always been in league with Cressida, with their parents. He was the perfect son, the magical prodigy, the favorite. She was there the night Brelia was killed, and she saw what happened, she saw the magic, the lightning bolt that hit her….but she’d never been sure whose spell it had been. 

“Was it yours or Cressida’s?” she asks, words barely above a whisper. 

“I don’t know.” There is a guilt in his eyes, a burden he’s been carrying for years. 

This is the moment where she realizes that everything he’s saying is true. If it was a manipulation he would have blamed it on Cressida, and tried to shift the blame. “I’ll give you anything I find.”

He nods, looking away from her, as if this moment has become too much. “Jaheira’s friend should be at the Counting House. Day after tomorrow.”

He called this a favor, but this is information freely offered with no guarantee she will deliver on her end. “Thank you.” She still has so many questions, but no desire to ask a single one. This has all been too much. She needs time to…figure this all out. She turns to go. 

“Do you remember an afternoon in the garden? With the flowers?” he asks. 

She cannot fathom what it is he’s referring to. It’s almost as if he’s speaking in code. “No.”

She wonders if it’s disappointment she sees flash in his eyes before he slips a hand in his pocket, leans an elbow against the table, and settles back into that forced casualness he’s so good at. “Goodnight, Liv.”

Liv rejoins Jaheira and Astarion, who have been keeping a watchful eye from across the tavern area. “We’ve got what we needed.”

Astarion is already at her side, eyes searching hers. “What did he want?”

Liv hazards a glance back to the corner where Percy had been, only to find he is gone. “Less than I thought.”

[djinnhatescold]

What Was, What Could Have Been

Woe, angst be upon you.

Rating: Teen And Up Relationships: The Dark Urge/Enver Gortash, Astarion/The Dark Urge (Baldur's Gate) Summary: Orin's betrayal. The mindflayer tadpole. Astarion's change. Gortash's death. It was all too much.

The ao3 version has an epilogue, kind of. It's more angst.

~~~~

It was never supposed to be like this.

Even since waking up in the mindflayer pod on the nautiloid with a head full of holes where her memories should be, she was sure that this was not how her life was supposed to go.

Even after rejecting the pernicious instincts that told her to kill, mindlessly and often – a simple plan for a simple life – she knew that the world held more for her than this.

Didn’t it?

She had repented her father’s plan for her. Allowed her heart to open to another. Remained true to him, devoted to him, allowed him into her confidence and supported his ambitions. Scarcely any time passed after seven thousand and seven souls cried out their death throes in unison and he became the Vampire Ascendant before he began to betray her trust. She wanted to believe it was simply the high that he was feeling at Cazador’s end and when his powers came to be, and celebrated with him.

But soon enough he told her with absolute certainty that she did little else but await his command. Ordered her onto her knees before him. Called her his pet. To have fought so hard to be out from under Bhaal’s thumb only to be tossed straight into another’s subjugation was too much to bear, so she ended it – and in doing so nearly became undone by the guilt of facilitating Astarion’s change and the grief over the loss of their future together.

She had fled that night, unable to share the same space with him in the Elfsong, and spent hours wandering through the streets of Baldur’s Gate. She didn’t want to be stifled by the indoors yet she also didn’t want to see a single mocking star in the sky, so her feet brought her to the gazebo at the end of a dock that jutted out into the Chionthar.

How easy it could have been when she was still her father’s chosen, to forego emotion in favour of the pleasures of rent flesh and gushing blood. To replace the lost joy in her eyes with the blissful fading of light in another’s, her sorrowful weeping with the screams of the dying.

He came to her then.

He must have been following her through the unblinking eyes of his Steel Watch. Whether his surveillance was unsettling or sweet was debatable. But when Enver Gortash’s footsteps sounded on the wood behind her, something in the broken recesses of her mind recognized them. When he offered a sympathetic ear, she knew that she could trust him implicitly. He told her tales of their time before – not the meticulous scheming, the murders, or the political posturing; but the spaces between. The stolen kisses, the talk of their future together as one, making love as if the world was a powder keg and they were the spark.

The memories were gone but the feelings, oh, the feelings were still there.

They spent the rest of what was left of the night and the entirety of the next day together at his mansion in the Upper City amongst the trappings that his political and social victories had won him over the years. He promised her all he had and more, all that he was and all that he would be after they carried out their plans with the Elder Brain. And she promised him the same; she would not rule in the name of Bhaal, but she would rule in their names together. Even if there was no Brain and no plot for conquest, she would have stayed by his side come what may for eternity. But fate or the gods or anything and everything in all planes of existence would not let her realize her dreams of happiness.

In the blink of an eye the Nether Brain ordered Enver Gortash to die, and so he did.

Halsin and Minsc had to tear her away from his body and through the Emperor’s portal where she railed against them, Astarion, the gods, her father, Orin. She was dead thrice over, locked into a hellish waking nightmare instead of the beyond. No one quite knew what to do with her, and why would they? She had rejected their friendship in order to protect them from herself. None of them truly knew her; Astarion had only won her over out of sheer persistence and a common outlook on life and murder and power.

But now, life? Power? Meaningless. But murder – murder she knew intimately. She could murder the Absolute cultists. She could murder the Brain.

And when the deed was done and the tadpole in her head squirmed for the last time and the sun rose over a broken Baldur’s Gate, she turned and walked away from the city without a word.

[y-rhywbeth2]

Dropping by to update the filter list/tags again:

I'm thinking of tags for separating minor lore bits by type (vampires, Faerûn, elves, Bhaalspawn, religion, etc) Most importantly, in light of discussing the horror themes inherent in the Chosen, particularly the Bhaalspawn whose lives are sort of the result of an ill advised affair between cosmic horror and gothic horror, I think I need more ways to put distance onto those heavier topics.

(Still busy rn, but if I drop that off now it gives you time to jump ship or add me or the tags to your block lists.)

Edgelord hours remains the "reader discretion advised" tag

Villainous nonsense- is going to be the firmer dead dove tag from now on. Stuff on the level of Gortash's "let's play psychological death trap games using small children" and Durge's cannibalism and necrophilia, and Orin's "art displays". Not necessarily just about the Chosen though.

The Family Circle - is for filtering out the nightmare that is Bhaal's cult and his children: including the game's themes/subtext of reproductive horror and sexual abuse on top of the indoctrination, emotional abuse, shit parenting and etc. Also a stand in if I ever mention other characters and backstories with those (potential) elements (the vampire spawn aside, there's also other deities, and I am side eyeing the House of Hope)