#kaivir

[enlichened]

ok hi you guys can have this video too as long as you promise to be nice to him

[bardspeak]

My durge's sad lonely funeral for Alfira | ao3 link

Warnings for: Suicidal ideation, handling/preparation of the dead, gore/blood, and durge-typical description.

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Kaivir kneels at his bedroll for long enough that his thighs have been aching and trembling long before the sun begins to rise. Blood and viscera dries sticky and cloying on his hands up to his forearms, dipped through the leg of his pants as though he knelt just like this in the spray of her. It flakes off in little chunks though he tries not to move, head dipped low - wrists propped against his knees, palms turned up. Tendons and veins and arteries turned out toward whoever might bring teeth to tender flesh. Punishment or measure of justice. Snap of the whip or relief.

But when the dawn comes - sunlight breaking over the horizon and making their display bright, obvious, dusty, beautiful, and disgusting - and people begin rustling and milling about, when they notice , it’s obvious that of everyone here, only he would have the stomach.

Karlach shouts at him, but like an owner might at a bad dog. A beast who is expected, if discouraged, to disembowel defenseless people - to kill and keep going until claw scrapes raw against bone. A beast expected to kill a woman who wanted shelter for the night, to gain stories to tell and give hope. Expected to splay her out across the campsite. There’s a sigil of blood under her body that they ignore in favor of a convenient explanation. 

Ignore the beast with obvious intention. 

They all have something to say, a false laugh getting caught at the back of their teeth or an admonition that meets the bad dog where it’s at. And they all watch but don’t look as he gathers her body in his arms. They glare, Lae’zel reaches for her sword, but they don’t move to stop him. Was she this small before? Was she this small when she was working on her song, smiling up at him, asking him for a chance? Was she this small when he was killing her? Was she so small and feeling it, or was she small and dead before it could hurt?

Her shoulders are still smooth and unmarred, skin soft and ice cold against his as he hefts her up, thighs continuing to burn and shake as he brings her to Withers - the gazes of his companions at his back. 

His voice croaks as though with disuse, though it hasn’t been long since he last spoke. The back of his throat aches and burns. “I didn’t mean to kill Alfira,” he tells Withers - voice coming out weak, reedy and pathetic - laying her down delicately in front of the skeleton. Careful placement of her hands at her sides. It matters little to Withers, who stares down at him with the shadows of his face obscuring eyes. “Please bring her back,” he adds, a raspy whisper, though he can already see the answer.

“The bard’s death is a weight for thine own conscience to bear,” Withers says, finger outstretched as if in instruction. Bad dog. “She will be left to the peace of eternity, where the Urge shall seek her no more.” 

And if Withers knows the Urge, Withers would have known if there was a way to stop it before he did this. And if Withers knows the Urge, Withers would know if Alfira being alive would mean she could never be free of him. 

He ducks his head - swallows against the hot, red, bloody feeling in his throat - and gathers her in his arms again. He paces her back and forth like a caged beast until the wet drip of shame down his neck pushes him away from their eyes. 

The river might wash away the blood enough that wildlife wouldn’t come for her body. The river is symbolic, he thinks, of death somewhere - if not of hers. The river is further from camp. The river is pretty. So he brings her there, just to the bank, and washes the blood off of his hands so he can wash it off of hers. There’s nothing under her nails, the beast notes, like she’d been unable or unwilling to put up a fight. Washing her only reveals more wounds, though her body is too cold to bleed anymore. Her purple-tinged hair tangles around his fingers.  

The lutes - both hers and that of her teachers - he puts further up so that they don’t get wet. It wouldn’t be good for them, he guesses distantly, not if she wanted to play them again. Bloodied musical notation goes with them. She doesn’t have much else.

He still doesn’t remember killing her, can’t fathom wanting to, but setting her things aside and cleaning the blood from inside her - the cavity out of which her slippery organs spill forth and do not go back in no matter how he tries - makes his hands shake. A phantom sensation or imagining of tearing them into her flesh. Of warm blood pooling between his fingers and twitching muscles resisting him to a point. Of tears rolling down his face, though now his eyes run insidiously dry. 

It might not be real. He might not have cried.

She’s as clean as she’ll get without undressing her, which he doesn’t want to do. It feels wrong to be her killer and be the one to do so, but the thought of asking another in camp makes his throat ache hot and wrong again. Wyll is watching without looking from his vantage point, tent looking flimsy in the light of day. Withers stands across the bank. Karlach only behind a few grasses and branches. They might not trust him to not attack them. They might not wish to help her killer with her lonely funeral. They condemn her death but looking at the both of them would be too much. He’s washed the blood out of the fabric so that it stains but the smell isn’t so strong, and it’ll have to be enough. She can still wear it. 

Her hair is still twisted wet around her neck, mussed and matted around the style she’d put it in, so he starts combing it out as gently as he can with his hands. It tangles still, and terribly - the water and the blood flattening and sticking the strands to each other. A half hour, the sun standing taller, and it’s at least managed enough that it doesn’t cover her face or her neck. But the sun might give her a burn, so he blocks it with his hands for some time until he blinks hard, realizes it’s not going away, and shades her in the trees instead. 

He doesn’t know what sort of funeral she’d have wanted. He doesn’t know her at all, except for her teacher and her song. And it wasn’t finished, and he doesn’t remember it, so nobody could sing it. He wouldn’t have been able to play it, with or without her. 

A shallow grave, some part of him decides while the rest has only been looking at her, right there in the reeds. Burials are practiced in most every culture, if not primarily in some. He has a shovel in his pack, somewhere, if they haven’t already taken his things. But even if they have, it’s only fair to dig it with his hands. He killed her with them after all. 

More time passes while he shifts cold, wet dirt with his hands. Small stones get caught under his nails. The noises of camp fade behind the water, the dirt, and her silence - they might be watching him, or breaking bread, or already left them. They might not wait much longer than they already have, so he stops digging once his hands are aching down to the bone and the hole is deep enough to cover her by a few inches, at least. He leaves her by the bank, water drifting lazily at her feet and reeds shifting in the wind above her head, to go back up to camp. 

They haven’t left, and they still aren’t looking. He grabs his bedroll and takes it back to her, tucking her into it as best he can - to hold her together, and because he found it soft. It almost looks like she’s sleeping, nestled into furry warmth and hair wet and sort of combed. A child tucked into bed, except her blue cheeks aren’t flushed with sleep or fever, and he can’t recall ever seeing a sleeping child anyhow. 

It’s inappropriate, like it would have been to undress her, but he doesn’t seem to be able to help leaning down and pressing a trembling kiss to her brow. Like an impulse, or another thing piloting his body, or muscle without the memory. 

Alfira, he remembers with intent as he tucks a small, escaped strand of her hair back into the bedroll. Apprentice to Lihala. The Weeping Dawn, the song, the eulogy to her master. He remembers parts. The bloodied papers remember others, legible between pools of red. 

He lays her in the grave, then, and buries her. He tries to hum the parts he knows as he works, but his throat closes only a few stanzas in. 

It’s faster than digging, but still the sun is high in the sky when he’s done and has been burning the back of his neck. His whole body trembles with effort, with exhaustion - lack of sleep and water and food but mostly what’s been done. He’d never put shoes on, he blinks to realize, neither to kill her or bury her. There’s still blood soaked into his pants. 

The reeds are disturbed and messy, but he hopes they’ll grow back. At her head there’s rocks and trees and no headstone he can conjure. He takes both of the lutes in one hand, necks crowded against each other and squeezing the bones of his fingers so he can hold her papers in the other hand. Walking back to camp, soaked in water and blood and mud and holding her things, he instinctively bares his teeth at anyone who might look at him. 

But they avoid doing so now, while he lays them tenderly in his pack, which they also haven’t yet taken from him. They’re all standing with their bags packed beside them, so he dresses, pins himself back into his armor with sand in his hair and her blood invisible from him but for the stickiness left at his elbows, his neck under the armor. His hair is wet against his forehead when he looks up to the sky. They still seem to take their cues from him, even as they glare, turn their noses, or stink of fear. They’re ready to leave the camp, if ready is something he can be. He wishes any of them had learned the song, or had the stomach.

[aailbhe]

Thinking about my unused dnd pcs. Thinking about kaivir, the neutral good tiefling warlock. Thinking about how he was an acolyte before his best and only friend was terribly injured and he made a last resort pact with a demon. Thinking about how he was kicked out of the temple hed spent his whole life in, even though he saved them. Thinking about how his payment for spells is memories, about how he scraped by with his own, irrelevant memories while looking for a party to tap. Thinking about how he gets too attached, and when the time comes to pay, he uses his own, again and again. Thinking about the mechanics of that, about how the dm would have to do a scene where i described a core memory for him to give up. Thinking about how, after that, i would have to play him as though that memory never happened, about how i would be picking away at him, chipping pieces of his self away to save his party that fate. Thinking about the day when he finally does too much, runs out of irrelevant waffle to give, has to give up the one that started it all. Thinking about the day that he finally forgets the name of his best friend.

Thinking about the symbolism of that, of making this pact to save someone you love and then forgetting all about them in order to save another.

Thinking about the guilt. Does it keep you up at night? Does it scare you? Does it scare you that you can remember the way they like their eggs but not their name? The pattern of freckles on their left shoulder but not the colour of their eyes? does it scare you that, one day, you may forget they ever existed in the first place? Do you sometimes wish that you had just let them die, because surely to be treasured is better than to be forgotten?

Do you think that when you do forget, you will remember that you have forgotten something, but not what? Do you think you will always be this hollow? A nickname on the tip of your tongue, a stranger catching you eye and having no idea where you recognize them from, a naging sense of deja vu trickling in? Do you think you will remember?

Do you remember?

[martenoodles]

ArtFight 2024

I wanted to post them somewhere, so here's a few of my artfight drawings so far!

@lemonlurkrr 's oc Amity!

@teevee-trash 's oc Kaivir!

@candledotpng 's oc Aypei (and their goddess from the campaign, Valkah)!

[crstaluth-portfolio]

A Vicious Cycle

The cycle — that was all Ceorcar could think about. It was all around him. Every step he took, every breath he pushed through his lungs, every battle he suffered through was in service to it. In his younger years he was blind to it. Though now, as he stood as the new Grandmentor of the Huntrivikyos Order, he could see it everywhere. Ceorcar was tethered to it; all he could do was play his part.

In his childhood, Nalias had told him that there was always an exception to every idiom and law. Ceorcar often pondered these words for the rest of his life. He found it paradoxical: if every certainty had its exception, then Nalias’ own rule had to have one. Yet, with every natural law, Ceorcar could find inconsistencies. Every mandate was bound to be broken: not all Cou-ul were bound to their hatred, not all Sprites were without spirit, not all Humans were infallible, and some cycles were broken. Not everything was made to last forever.

However, in these years after the ‘final’ war, he might have found an exception to Nalias’ old saying. The cycle of life and the struggle that came with it was eternal, and there was no escape from participating. Even the Goddesses were not immune to it; they struggled and fell as all mortals did. Humans, who walked the line of mortality and godhood, were still bound to the Doro Nand and forever intertwined with its fate. Though, they were only bound to it as long as they lived, and death came for all at some point. Even if Huntrivikyos could live forever, they were still human. Ceorcar was eventually going to slip up and perish all the same. He wasn’t the first Grandmentor, and he doubted that he would be the last.

There were some things that Ceorcar couldn’t control, and this brought him comfort. Actions had consequences, but some things happened no matter what choices he made — not everything was his fault or his triumph. This simple fact lessened the burden on his shoulders, but didn’t nullify it. No matter what, he still had to lead. To this very day, one hundred or so years after being named Nalias’ successor, Ceorcar felt unfit to lead. The fact that he had the lives of others in his hands was daunting, and someday those lives will be cut short. It was something that he had to live with.

Ceorcar ran his fingers down Nalias’ broken blade. Even if a hundred years have passed since Nalias’ death, the loss of his grandfather never stopped hurting. Ceorcar used to blame himself for it, but he came to understand something: Nalias had made his choice, and there was nothing Ceorcar could have done. All that Ceorcar could do now was try his best.

The young Grandmentor could hardly know what the future will hold, but he resolved to walk this path to the very end, even if it will cost him his life at some point. In the futility of the cycle there was life, and it was this life that Ceorcar was bound to protect. His people will not fall. He was willing to sacrifice anything to keep them safe, even the lives of his fellow Huntrivikyos. Although this fact pained him, he knew that as a Huntrivik he was willing to lay down his life for others, and he did not doubt that the others felt the same. He knew that even if he blamed himself, they wouldn’t blame him.

He knew who he was now, and what he had to do. The cycle was his burden to bear.

Ceorcar reverently gripped the hilt of Nalias’ sword and inspected it. The jagged, irregular edges of the shattered weapon stood in stark contrast to the expert Sprite craftsmanship of the hilt. The deep silver blade itself was starting to show signs of rust. Ceorcar always meant to clean the sword at some point, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that Nalias would have died laughing if he caught the boy trying to clean a broken blade. Ceorcar chuckled quietly to himself. It certainly would be an odd sight.

As Ceorcar thumbed the sharp, jagged edges of the blade, he heard a knock on his door. The Grandmentor sighed. He didn’t have any meetings until three hours past midday, and this disturbance was unexpected.

“Come in,” he said, trying his best to mask his disappointment.

The door opened and a young Huntrivik made her way inside the office. Her light armor and leather harnesses showed little to no wear, and the design of a serpent rested on her spotless dark-green cloak — a new graduate with little experience, and his personal apprentice.

“Acrethos, Grandmentor. I’m sorry to bother you, but I have important news for you,” the Huntrivik apologized.

“It’s okay, Rainor. What is it?”

“We intercepted a Thraika passing through the mountain range in the south. He was a messenger of sorts — a message for you.” Rainor elaborated.

“This is the farthest west a Thraika has ever been. Hardly a good sign,” Ceorcar said mostly to himself, “You said it had a message for me? Where is it then?” Rainor shifted her weight nervously. “It perished shortly after telling me its message.”

Ceorcar immediately grew curious regarding the circumstances of its passing, but elected to ignore it and not question her about it further, for now. “Then tell me what it’s message was.”

“Actually Grandmentor, it was more of a challenge,”

“A challenge?” Rainor nodded solemnly. “The Thraikas told me that a Human now leads them, and that this Human personally wants to duel you.”

Ceorcar’s heart sank. Deep down he knew who this other Human was. There was only one who was willing to betray his people like this, going against his nature. Ceorcar’s past was coming to haunt him once more.

“His name — what was his name?” the Grandmentor asked

“It’s him. Yuanor has returned,” Rainor confirmed what Ceorcar had already known.

Ceorcar set down Nalias’ blade and picked up his hatchet and knife, nestling them into their holsters. The Grandmentor walked out of his office, Rainor following close behind.

“Where are you heading?” she asked, trying to keep pace.

“Settling old scores and reopening old wounds. Kaivir is in charge until I get back,” Ceorcar left without another word.

[aethermancy]

some older art of my dnd oc Kaivir, thought i’d share!

[ashenhart-rising]

👀 @candycoatl​ your lair is so colourful! For some reason I thought it would be kinda edgy ahaha (sorry) but I really like how you’ve got pastels and bright colours and everything Also can I just say your music taste is Top Notch

Muerte?? Is so colourful I love him. And the many eyes accents are always a freaking classic. I’m pretty sure that’s a verse from a song from Coco in his bio but I haven’t seen the movie so not 100% sure. Either way 10/10 an A+ dragon

Obligatory shout-out to Istus because the adventure zone is MY JAM. Also that skin is gorgeous  👀

I’m a fucking slut for spirals and this man is S E X Y. I’d recommend layering the alchemist tools on top of his armour but that’s a hella minor layering issue on an otherwise gorgeous dragon.

Y’know I had to pick the wc. The g1 wc. I’m the WC guy! Also blue and yellow is a glassic tropical combo and he’s super pretty. Would look very nice with sunbeam blades I think.

Kaivir is so perfect he doesn’t even NEED apparel. THe accent and the glowing eyes gives him this serene look. Spooky, but quiet calm. I’d love to design a gijinka for him actually.....

[enlichened]

Everyone making tents for their bg3 characters are so real and true for that but kaivir really doesn't have one. Everyone walking past him sleeping at night on the cold hard ground going "bitch you live like this????"

[enlichened]

speaking of everyone look at him

hes so sexy and pathetic and sopping wet and nobody even cares

[enlichened]

i was looking for wyll refs in my screenshots and i cannot get over this image...

Wyllvir. e volo

[enlichened]

this is my motherfucker rn btw <333

[bardspeak]

Me and my besties @the-funkiest-penguin 's bg3 ocs.. The tiefling is my dark urge Kaivir and the human is her paladin Liv ❤️❤️

[enlichened]

its SO funny that i played durge first bc now when ppl post about orin im just like.... my evil sister/niece? ok...

[enlichened]

📊 Current number of WIPs + 🌙 What time of day do you prefer to write? Why?

WOO hello :^)

Current number of WIPs just for fanfiction.... Six? (giant Geralt witcher study, giant the outsider DH study, my ryder from MEA's whole thing, my sadly near-abandoned beaujest au, my even more abandoned spock startrek study, and my deeply embarrassing johnny storm fic that's reared its head recently.)

I wake up super late generally, but I like to write around 12 pm - 6pm? Anytime after that I'm tired and anytime before it I'm loopy.

[enlichened]

i love video games bc they let me create such a vast variety of transgender characters <333

[enlichened]

Manifesting doing a ton of art tomorrow because FUCK ME if I'm going to be staying in this rut