#and the dialog is basically a snippet itself. brain also still rotten about corrie echo

[purgetrooperfox]

yeehaw ask game moment 🌀🌤️❄️

[wip ask game]

YEEHAW

🌀Post the fic summary for a fic you haven't written/published yet. It can be hypothetical or something you really plan on releasing...

not a summary I'd actually put on the fic itself but I'm working on one that's centered around Gale getting snatched by Orin. Astarion's pov, bloodweave undertones (and overtones. tones in general tbh) of the Astarion-can-no-longer-deny-how-much-he-cares variety, Gale whump, headbutting trauma, aftermath hurt/comfort, all that good stuff. I'm insane about it and I really hope I can get it cleaned up enough to post 😭

❄️Share a snippet from a WIP of your choosing.

At times, typically in the night, after most of the camp has retired, his mask drops and Astarion is gifted with a look at the man behind the illusion. When he isn't rambling on about theories of magic or regaling their merry band with tales of Waterdeep, or his beloved tressym, or his allegedly wild youth, Gale watches. His gaze is sharp, analytical, like it seeks to see through his companions' armor and down to their squishy underbellies. He wants to know what makes them tick, what makes them laugh, what earns their approval, what pulls them in or pushes them away. 

Like recognizes like, and Astarion recognizes Gale. He knows the look of someone hiding, afraid of being found out. Of a secret that could change everything. He knows the look of someone working tirelessly to become needed. Indispensable. A thing to protect. 

But above all, more intimately than he knows anything else, Astarion knows hunger. Alone at the fire, clutching his elbows, gaze trained on their darling leader's tent, Gale is a man starving. 

🌤️Share your favorite piece of dialogue from your WIP.

(realizing rn that I have all these bg3 drafts but very little dialog, which is Not like me lmaoooo star war it is. will put this under a break so post isn't stupid long)

"Echo," Nocte cuts him off, finally redirecting his attention from his screen to Echo's face. "Can it wait? I'm almost off shift, I'm sure someone else–"

"I wanted to request access to Fives' autopsy report," he blurts all at once in a jumbled rush.

And Nocte stares at him, face unreadable, for a moment that seems to stretch out long between them. His expression doesn't so much as twitch and the drumming of his fingers freezes. “Why?”

“He was my brother."

“I'm your brother. Why?”

He carefully doesn't purse lips. “He was my brother and he died.”

“We're at war,” Nocte's voice is sharp, almost a warning, “and he was a soldier.”

Why?

It's more resistance than Echo expected, two appeals more than he thought would be necessary. While Nocte has a reputation for many things – questionable bedside manner, gruff demeanor, variable patience – callousness isn't one of them. The family card should have worked. “Haven't you lost anyone you cared about in all this?”

Barely there, his expression tightens. “Watch yourself, lieutenant.”

“I thought you'd understand,” Echo snaps before he can stop himself. “I thought–”

“Echo.” He doesn't raise his voice because he doesn't have to. “Stop, before you say something you'll regret, and tell me why.”