#LIMPFISTED

[bhad-bhunnie]

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[avernusdamned]

@limpfisted inquired:

“I don’t think I…. properly apologized.” Wyll trails off, his voice as quiet and still as the night air, but so much colder, even despite the cinders burning through both their involuntary changes. He feels emboldened. He feels bitter. And like the call of the cicadas, his own voice sounds oppressive and consuming in its firm crisp bluntness, shrill to his now sensitive ears. The guilt surrounds him. But it does not consume him. That is the job of the shame, to choke like Mizora’s leash—for having to say this, and every direction that smoke bomb of a weighted obligation billows outward in the Sword Coast’s humidity. “I should do that, right?” He smiles after a long pause, softness filling the space between his scars, the furrow beneath his horns unfurling if only for a moment, his gaze catches just the corner of her eyes. “Though if you’d prefer, instead, to fight me instead for your own honor, I think I would much prefer it.”

There's a delay in response, only a couple of seconds, before her head turns and she gives Wyll an empathetic smile without truly realizing that she is. Every description of her that Wyll was fed and he repeated contradicts this quick and subtle moment of oh, you poor sod but I won't say it aloud. She cannot begin to think of what runs through Wyll's head but she does know this: the man didn't deserve it. But devils rarely care about what is deserved and not deserved.

An apology. Karlach almost laughs. Those sound like fairytale. Devils don't deal in apologies (but here Wyll stands already contradicting her thought. Again, not to be said aloud.) " Oh, I don't know. " She finally gives out a laugh as the not quite tension settles before it even grows into something to hate. " As fun as a good ol' fashioned tussle sounds I wouldn't want to give you what you want! "

She gets a bit loud and more smiley as she finishes the sentence, all the more reason to show that she's joking. It's easier to make things lighter if she laughs and smiles. She doesn't feel like she's earned an apology. All the things that Wyll's been told about her and repeated... well there's merit to it. Contradictions or not. Despite doing it all at Zariel's hand... perhaps she deserves to be hunted. Maybe in a different life it would have been easier. Especially knowing all that she knows now. " It's my apology after all, right? I want to savour it. "

[wistrearchived]

she nearly chokes on the wine as laughter clawed up her throat without warning. in her own corner of their campsite, the purple cloth of her tent pitched up, she had sought to succumb herself to silence and not slumber. the silence was dangerous when one has thoughts as bloodied as hers, but she has convinced herself that they are whispers she needed to hear, otherwise she will never learn who she was [ ... ] she was not even sure if kira was her real name, if she was to be honest.

and yet, she cannot find it in herself to turn away the company of her friend. as always, wyll is somehow able to make her heart feel lighter than a feather.

❛      sweet hells, could you go somewhere else, please?      ❜ her voice was far too filled with mirth to be taken seriously, remnants of her laughter remaining in every syllable she spoke. she wipes the wine from the corner of her lip, the ghost of a smile lifting her lips. ❛      our camp is vast. and you, my dear wyll, are making it terribly difficult to sit here brooding by myself.      ❜

@limpfisted , ♡'d

[elkenbulwark]

@bruinescence

U may call birv princess while he's down collecting his knees -

@limpfisted

wyll vc I would rather call you a cleric

POV Log: You've taken -8 fall damage and are now prone in a healthy swash of blood. "Do not. I'm building character-"

[recitedemise]

Gale is prosey, honey-sweet nonsense. He's the mind of scholars, the tenacity of intellectuals whittled by books, but that tongue he wags with such maddening abandon? That, truth be told, is the stuff of bards. Of course, honest, Gale shan't ever deny it. After all, he's a man moved by poems, a ravenous consumer of every heart-rending sonnet, and as he tosses his gaze unto the mighty Blade, it's this very penchant that stares on back. Hm. "Were anyone to challenge me in the art of sharing the written word," he declares, "I should think it'd be you, Wyll." There's not a sprig of doubt. His eyes fall to that table, his friend's collection of tomes stacked beside a leg, and, with a smile, Gale closes his book.

"You're rather eager to sharpen your skills on the whetstone of our companions, I've noticed." My word, that is teasing pinched in that grin.

@limpfisted, liked for a starter.

[fatewoven]

// cont.

Paraded around as a well-behaved dog, the muzzle slackened and metal collar replaced by ribbon-embroidered finery, there's barely energy enough to bristle — let alone enjoy Wyll's increasing discomfort as they converse in intimate murmurs. Gortash represents disaster, presence prominent (unpleasant) as sulfur as he lifts, barely, a half-empty glass in greeting toward familiar faces. Few manage to cover their animosity, fewer still wear politeness with the same deadly finesse Gortash often does, his voice demanding everyone's attention despite never raising in volume.

He speaks to the Comtesse de Montpensier, conveying false sympathy for the loss of her only son. No one believes his words, of course, but for the sake of civility and their own reputation as nobles, none dare to point out his hypocrisy. Rumors will spread and more people will doubt their perception of events as Gortash continues with this courteous demeanor ill-fitting for a war criminal. Such is the cycle of politics.

Eventually, after circling amongst the guests like a hunter picking out the weakest in the flock, quick to trade a few words and sow the seeds of future conversations, his presence quietens by the edge of the garden. Bribery, persuasion, threats; it's all done with the same ease of breathing, naturally and without thought. A noticeable contrast as his tongue finally begins to form a response that requires more consideration now that they're in private. "You lie. You learn to sell the lie and even if no one believes you, they must first uncover evidence to dispute you." He shrugs, tone edging low as he stares at the gurgling fountain — looking into the depths while contemplating drowning someone in it. Gortash notes his rippled, warped reflection and how Wyll refuses to look, chin and horns held high. "It shouldn't be hard when you're good at that. At least to yourself, dear Blade."

Another sip of the wine. Another drawn-out spell of silence as he picks at Wyll's choleric mood. Here stands the two most dishonest men of the Gate. Gortash cracks a smile. Indulges the spectators gawking at them by curving his knuckles across Wyll's cheek, tender and comforting — if you could ignore the cold, dead look in his eyes. Perhaps hate would make it easier, but Gortash remains far too exhausted to muster even indignation at this rate.

"You're proving yourself as naive by attempting to be a hero. You could return to the Frontier and kill a troll threatening a village, and they will consider you barbaric. What these know best is to reflect someone's worst traits at them. Understand?"

Humming to himself, allowing for the words to sink in, he steps away, clawed fingers tracing the fountain's ceramic edge. At the far side of the lip he finds a veined crack. "There are ways to garner personal favor as well. You must've heard about the recent string of grave robberies. Many of their living relatives are present. And, well, you look to be dying for an adventure as of late," he adds equably while wishing the rest of the nobles were also dead and rotting.

At least he's getting used to the taste of defeat, similar as it is to cheap wine harvested too soon. / @limpfisted

[sanguinir]

@limpfisted asked: who died and made you king? still accepting

❝      𝚀𝚄𝙸𝚃𝙴   𝙰   𝙻𝙾𝚃   𝙾𝙵   𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴,   𝙰𝙲𝚃𝚄𝙰𝙻𝙻𝚈.      ❞   The   casually   cruel   smile   is   momentarily   concealed   by   a   healthy   sip   of   blood   wine,   crimson   stained   teeth   peeking   through   pale   lips   at   his   one-time   traveling   companion.   The   years   since   the   defeat   of   the   absolute   had   been   incredibly   kind   to   the   former   vampire   spawn,   his   power   and   influence   spreading   farther   and   faster   than   either   Cazador   or   Gortash   could   have   dreamed   of.   Now   Ascendent,   Astarion   was   just   as   likely   to   be   seen   in   shady   backrooms   of   Lower   City   taverns   brokering   illicit   deals   as   he   was   here,   at   balls   attended   by   Baldur’s   Gate’s   high   society   and   crafting   political   policy.  

Turning   with   a   cocked   head,   calculating   carmine   eyes   traced   Wyll’s   form   with   little   regard   for   subtlety.   The   elf   had   had   little   use   for   𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒆𝒔   since   he   had   been   turned,   even   if   he   had   been   dragged   kicking   and   screaming   into   being   hero   adjacent   because   of   Tav,   and   he   had   less   use   for   them   now.   Morals   were   such   pesky   things,   anyway,   always   getting   in   the   way   of   the   things   one   wants.  

❝      Surely   running   around   the   wilds   of   the   Sword   Coast   have   not   addled   your   brains   that   much,   Wyll.   You   were   there   to   watch   me   kill   a   fair   few   of   them.   But   back   to   the   point      —      lots   of   things   have   changed   in   Baldur’s   Gate.   Has   your   father   not   been   keeping   you   up   to   date   on   the   politics   in   the   city?   Shame,   that.      ❞

[hallowleaf]

✧ STARTER: @limpfisted

"I do not enjoy this sitting around and waiting," announces Lae'zel, irate, as though her saying so might suddenly cause the sprain in her ankle to dissipate. Bah. Were that they had the services of one of K'liirs ghustil in their employ — or, better, were that Shadowheart did not have a stick up her ass in every matter that surrounded Lae'zel's well-being. Either or would do: and result in her being able to fight again.

Either her annoyance boils over, or the ghaik worm in her skull continues to wriggle, aimlessly gloating. She spits onto the dirt floor, and continues to lament.

Though, she supposes, it could certainly be worse. Not that it couldn't be better, but there are worse people to be stuck in camp with. She was not the only one who'd been claimed by injury, though at the very least Wyll can claim his injuries as an expense of protection. Not that Lae'zel was ever in true need of protection, but... Wyll, for all of his rehearsed gusto about blades and heroics and whatever manner of pompous slop, at the very least has the sword skill to back up his chatter.

Loath as she is to admit it.

How their companions must suffer, that the two most skilled combatants in their retinue are out of commission for the foreseeable future. "And you, Wyll, must enjoy this idleness even less. How fare your wounds? Aside from the presumed blow to your ego."

[weavewilled]

"I will pay you in all the fortunes of the Flaming Fist, if you will spin me a psalm, tell me a tale, speak magic into words into magic---and tell me how it feels to touch and mould the weave, and have it full inside you." ↳ @limpfisted

THERE  IS,  TRULY,  LITTLE  THAT  WOULD  INTEREST  HIM  SO  MUCH AS THIS —  the  request  is  barely  out  of  Wyll’s  mouth  before  acceptance  and  agreement  is  plain.  It’s  been  so  long  since  he’s  been  able  to  share  what  he  loves  about  who  and  what  he  is  ——  

❝  No,  no,  the  journey  of  telling  it  all  is  all  the  payment  needed,  ❞  protests  he  with  a  little  laugh,  but  then  the  gravity  of  the  complexity  and  depth  of  the  question  both  settles  into  him,  and  the  smile  eases.  ❝  It’s  something  that  spoken  language  scarcely  has  the  capacity  to  describe,  but  I  will  try.  ❞ 

A  hum  of  something  softly  eager  swirls  through  his  bones  —  hums,  resonates,  is  warm  and  welcoming.  ❝  Trust  me,  then,  and  let  me  show  you.  Close  your  eyes.  ❞

[silksworn]

TRAUMA TW: how does it feel for ira to control the dead, knowing she can never bring true life back to her family’s corpses? does she ever touch a corpse and see her grandmother’s touch mirrored in the shape of a hand, or the weight of it? or, in a more literary sense: do the bones and corpses of the victims she puppets, ever match and/or break the same way as her family?

Iraestra often closes her eyes and sees only ghosts behind them. She opens her eyes and sees the dead, soft-jawed servants and instruments of profane knowledge. She surrounds herself with their rotting presence, perhaps out of a longing for the familiar. before their deaths, she had never learned the secrets of undeath. Her current studies a direct result of this desire that she can never fulfill — to raise them from their subterranean graves.

She did not see the bodies of her family, and that is, perhaps, her biggest regret. Fate would have it that she was not there the day that her ancestral home was sacked and then sundered from the very edge of the city itself by divine fury. She had been off researching rumors of an aboleth deep within forbidden tunnels of the Underdark with her cousin, far from the slaughter. Though their absence is what spared them, Iraestra will always blame herself for not being there. The rumors never came to fruit, anyway.

But she has seen enough dead to be able to imagine well their cold, dead eyes, their crooked knuckles and swollen limbs. They likely wouldn't have had time to rot before their bones were picked clean. Scavengers of the Underdark would have skittered out of their loathsome homes en masse that day, eager to feast upon the flesh of noble drow and slave chattel alike. All equal in death as far as a hungry mouth is concerned.

Iraestra does not own mirrors and covers them if she has the means to. It is worse to look upon her own face and see her mother's hooked nose, her grandmother's proud chin, the almond shape of her sister's eyes peering out from her own wretched visage. What is she if not a haunted house?

And oh, how they would hate her, to know that they had died and she would live. That she did not even try to dig for them and bring them back.

The glooming, swooning hours of the night belong solely to her most inane longings. The ones where she imagines she would have found them all. Would have known such magics at the time to be able to bring them back to her, perfect and intact. That they would laud her in praise for her dutifulness.

That once, perhaps, she would not be a disappointment of a daughter.

[avernusdamned]

“Be honest. Can you even stand to look at me, now?”

Sharp teeth bite down on the inside of her cheek and the familiar taste of something copper sits at the tip of her tongue. She's hesitating for too long and she knows that she is, it's hard to cover her emotions when she wears her heart on her sleeve and the emotions seem to burst from her like a poorly covered pot. Wyll, by now, has likely made an answer in his own head she's sure. Because even as he asks it, she refuses to look at him.

A part of her wants to let him stew in that silence. For his brain to start thinking the worst because it is the only form of solace she could possibly get. But those are just thoughts forged from a broken heart. (And she's just gotten it too.) " I don't know, Wyll. " Her voice is flat, no high upbeat bounce to it. No laugh to weave between syllables like the cherry on top. She sits stiffly. Uncomfortable and uneasy. There was a time where she would never have felt this way around Wyll. Gods, he's seen things that others hadn't in a decade.

Maybe that's why it hurts so hard. Because she let him in and kept letting him in until he had made a home in her. A spot just for Wyll in a dusty little corner of her heart. Now locked. Shut. KEEP OUT. DO NOT OPEN. CONTAMINATED. Gods ... gods ... gods ... she could be sick. Feels like she may just. " He... you... " her brows knit together tightly as her head turns to his direction but she still does not look at him. Her eyes are pointed at his feet. His knees. His hands. Anything but his face.

She swallows a lump that had been building in her throat and her bottom lip begins to quiver. Fists form into two tight little balls and she crosses her arms, trying to contain the blast from the exploding bomb inside of her. " I TRUSTED you. " and there is an anger inside of her that Wyll has only ever seen directed at him a handful of times. Mostly as the Blade of Frontiers.

" He sold me to the devil. You know that, right? Don't you? " Now she looks at him, eyes glazed over with fresh tears but a fire burning bright within her irises. " Gave me up without a single passing thought about it so he could, Oh I dunno, TAKE OVER THE WORLD? "

The hurt in her voice is not so easily hidden behind her rage. Though, to prevent her flair up from getting as bad as when she found out, she tries to breathe easier. Steady breaths. Just like Dammon showed her. She tears her eyes away and lets the tears fall, no sense trying to keep them from doing so. She doesn't sob or sniffle, she sits there as cold as stone. " Hope it was worth it. Hope it felt good. "

[jurispotence]

If I waste a minute of a day in stardew valley I'm like. Well. Its all over. Taking a drag of my cigarette

gotta maximize productivity every second!!! *chugs coffee*

[elkenbulwark]

hc // Obligation vs Resentment - Ouroboros

The relationship between Birvor and the elf he'd been raised to regard as a brother (Ren) is not as cut and dry as it seems, though it would take them the journey of losing their home to the army of the absolute, their sense of selves (due to bot the illithid infection and their violent uprooting), and the discovery of who they can become when no longer burdened by forced sentry duty or enforced smothering.

For all intensive purposes, the brothers were both victims on different sides of the same spectrum under their parents. For Birvor, they may have purported the idea that he was also a son beside his brother, but he was also seen as property- and although parents do own their children in a way, they don't necessarily brand them to let others know that. Granted, in the minds of the family - no one would know that Birvor belonged to their family unit due to their vastly differing appearances, and with a culture where taking halfling thralls was very much common place amongst this faction of high elves, it was seen as absolutely necessary to avoid another family taking claim of 'unclaimed' halflings spotted among their ranks.

While he was treated harshly and far more critically than his brother and was expected to stay tough under the most daunting of pressure to be a shield for any that might look to settle upon his brother, he was essentially allowed to venture out of the family home on various outings - either with those he needed to escort, or simply running errands for their family and was allowed to do so because his brand always ensured he would return or be returned. In contrast, his brother was expected to either stay inside and never venture out of the home unless he was with Birvor. While Birvor's 'leash' tied him to the family's home in the way a long rope tied to a tree in one's front yard might, his brother's was to be held by him when not in the hands of their parents - and from the perspective of an elf like his brother who'd come to know of halflings and orcs as being beneath the elves, such was a contemptuous fate that only encouraged the brother to dislike Birvor more for his service to the family because he, like them, was just another force holding him back from his own independence.

So it's no surprise that when both brothers are uprooted from the life they'd known, Birvor no longer has an anchoring point from which to refer to aside from his brother, and his brother no longer has to submit to Birvor holding his leash. Birvor of course still hangs on to keep some form of connection to the past despite how undesirable of a situation it had been since it was all he ever knew whereas all his brother ever knew was the constant feeling of being held back and coddled. This causes friction between them during the journey to cure themselves of their tadpoles since his brother is very much seeking independence that he is not able to fully attain with Birvor still serving as that last part of his past that kept him shuttered in and sheltered.

Resentment and pettiness runs like blood between them like that between Gruumsh and Corellan. Both have their own branching path away from one another while they struggle to separate to travel those paths. For the brother, he is seeking out the natural proficiency of the high elves towards learning magic- a desire that was quashed by his parents for being too dangerous. For Birvor, he may find that just because he's not looking for anything directly does not mean it's not looking for him- namely the buried elven bloodlust that calls out to all of Gruumsh's children to some degree at one point or another. When an orc or half-orc loses or gives up an eye, they are more inclined to hear and adhere to that murderous call...and when one solution to rid one's self of their tadpole is dig out an eye, well...it may only be a matter of time before each brother must turn their new identities upon one another.

"A child doesn't ask to be born, a slave doesn't ask to be enslaved. And yet the two of them know nothing else. Even with freedom---even worlds apart, they will be connected by something deeper than blood: Obligation; Resentment." -@limpfisted

[recitedemise]

WAX POETIC.

Send 'wax poetic' for Gale to work some poetry; his muse is you: still accepting.

Not for the first time, Gale watches the sun wreathe that head like a gold-hewn garland. It would make Wyll stand nobler, shimmering him kingly like the grandest of keeps, and on the run of his skin, Gale feels the gentlest summer, the kindest morning, and the stroke of wind.

Of course. Wyll's presence, he decides, is like an inspiring tale. He watches him smile, heroic and heartening. When the Blade speaks alone, a soft timbre that'd spring like sun to lift the dark, it's like... to stand in the audience of sounding trumpets, silver with the banners that'd greet you home.

He can dare the foul with him. They march toward the Shadow lands. Yes, even the longest night is but a passing shadow beside you. You are the very stirring of dawns. I dare the dark to come.

Wylll's first to breach the wall of that wading penumbra. Gale follows not frightened, morning never far.

[fatewoven]

KIWI. Im in love with your BIG WET BRAIN!!!!!! The way you write characters, you build whole entire worlds in every single reply. You make characters that have a handful of dialogue trees and NONE of the in-game content they deserve SING with ur writing. Gortash, especially, my betrothed and beloathed, gets so much love from u and I love that. I was talking with another oomfie about this the other day. But dark themes are an important part of art. Triggering stuff, villains, toxic relationships---the world has so much color. Would you paint each stroke with the same shade of eggshell? Would you break half your box of crayons?

You have such a LOVE of this game and its characters. Your thesis, I would say, is to appreciate it MORE instead of merely "fixing it." You expound perfectly to every theme and are additive in all the right ways. You transform the work by creating more of it in more depth. You understand that there are more colors in the crayon box of this game than good or bad, right or wrong, and are willing to take the game SERIOUSLY and ask all the right questions. I honestly feel like your gortash is just canon? Like that's a cliche, but I feel like you just are writing him in a way larian couldn't because the game is just too big already.

And your gortash? Hes just the right level of serious, pretentious, and flamboyant af. His voice and affectation are perfect. Your dammon is so lovable. I read all of your replies to the oomfies, and im always gobsmacked at word choice and presentation and sheer utter style of ur writing. It has swag and yolo. I dont know how to describe it... but the tone has clear, wonderful shapes, like an ice skaters gliding figure 8.

Besides that ur just a great online bestie. U perceive me so kindly, and are such a giving rp partner in terms of communication, plotting, and the things u give me and the rest of us to reply to. And ur just kind and sweet and cool and I appreciate u

// Kenjamin....buddy....pal. I truly have no words beyond a heartfelt thank you. Thank you so, so very kindly for such a sweet gift. It's a great feeling to have fun writing again and the fact you appreciate these little details <3 Wao!! I'm holding you so gently and spinning you around. This got me over the moon, truly. You are a bright light in the rpc as we all vibe and have fun <3

[bruinescence]

@limpfisted cont.

Just about every god had temples; places thoroughly inspirited with art and incense where dogmatic worship was not unknown to follow. Granted, the area he and the Blade entered through a root-cellar like staircase down into the earth itself amongst oaken roots wouldn't quite qualify as a 'temple' by any traditional means. At the very least, one might call it a shrine...placed there for weary travelers to rest and perhaps seek the Oak Father's counsel or his blessing through meditation and small offering. A heavy root that broke through one wall and hung somewhat awkwardly out into the room still had several pouches hanging beneath it, though any fruit offerings within them had surely spoiled by now.

Halsin soon forgot the company he was with in favor of striding up the middle of the bleak room, steps slow and purposeful - yet uncertain all the same. The place of quiet comfort he had once known was merely a shadow of its former self-...much like the rest of the lands within the curse's choke-hold.

Wyll's curiosity fell on temporarily deaf ears as he sidled up to the far wall painted with faded depictions of Silvanus's wisdom depicted in child-like storybook imagery. Even the most boisterous of children accompanying their parents could not help but fall curiously calm amid the array of alluring bedtime stories. Now they lay dormant in a way that evoked not wonder at nature's hold, but sadness over its grip now lifeless. Running callouses along the color-sapped stones, he paused over a smudged image of what may have been a deer at one time and was now a soundless shape with horns.

A jolt passed through his arm as energy the curse could not extract caused his breath to hitch momentarily; druidic...withstanding the march of time alongside nature. Desperate, frightened, trapped...the feeling of an animal cornered all compiled at once in a single charge that had but one word attached to the infused message-

"Halsin?"

He broke the connection to the wall with a harsh inhale, suddenly reminded of his need for air, tainted as it was. With a slow shift, he pivoted and strode over to Wyll. "Silvanus left these lands ages ago. This place is no different than any other within the curse's boundaries. It is...empty."