#like when you reach baldur's gate and she mentions that the city should take the refugees in (as slaves 😰) and she starts her sentence with

[killerpancakeburger]

Minthara: *frequently reminds you that she's evil (e.g. supports slavery, actively encourages you to dump your current partner to date her instead, etc*

Also Minthara: *has the best sense of humor of all the companions IMO*

*comes from a matriarchy and shows it*

*is a very badass and ruthless woman*

Me: Urgh, how am I supposed to not adore her?

[linka-from-captain-planet]

no so much a director's cut as it is a teaser, trailer or sneak peak, but do you have any tidbits from WIP fics (for any pairing) that you can share?

Due to being lizard-brained, most of my drafts/WIPS live in the primordial soup of my mind until I can dump them into a doc in a dedicated writing session, but I have a little written down to share!

Below the cut:

sneak peek at Minthara/Florrick #3

two snippets from Shadowheart/Nocturne fics I wish my brain would let me finish

a chunk of an abandoned followup to 'when my blue moon turns to gold again', a Shadowheart/Lae'zel fic focusing on Lae'zel raising the gith egg alone on K'liir/ the Astral Plane.

The first two installments of I could liken you to a werewolf (but I admit I provided a full moon) (Minthara/Florrick) are very much about Minthara with Florrick just being along for the ride, but the third installment is much more about Florrick and her life, both with and without Minthara. Florrick being polyamorous and having other lovers has been brought up in passing, but by the time of this third installment, Minthara is much more oriented to her true feelings for Florrick and the existence of (perceived) rivals becomes Relevant, even as they've developed a sort of tense, weird-vibed domesticity in the months since fic #2.

The evening is golden, cool and clear as the infernal sun sets behind the open veranda door. Florrick, matron of her own hideously modest House at the edge of the Upper and Lower City, overlooking the park, sent her only full-time servant home in the early afternoon, and so Minthara hovers about the sink as she braises vegetables from her garden and sears thick steaks of venison from her man.  On the counter, a smart pair of black-dyed buckskin gloves stand out against the light-oiled wood. “I understand if you don’t want them,” Florrick had floated cautiously the night before, placing them like an olive branch where they still lie, untouched, “but Ambrose just wanted to say hello.”  They looks like they would fit perfectly, the cuff and palm sewn deliberately to fit a battle-thickened wrist, and Minthara’s stomach sours for the dozenth time as she dwells on it. Minthara had thought it pragmatic at first, that Florrick should keep a pet man on a long leash, far from dirtying her fastidiously clean home but close enough to rub her feet or pleasure her on demand. Minthara herself had kept several jaluk to the same effect in Menzoberranzan. But Ambrose is no pet.

I want to return to the Shadowheart/Nocturne arena sometime soon, so I have two WIPs percolating for them. One is from Selunite Shadowheart's perspective and takes place post-canon, where she meets Nocturne again in her travels. I've mentioned it before, to be titled "under your skin, over the moon."

In Baldur’s Gate, in those first few weeks she hung around and helped heal wounds and cart away rubble, she could hardly take a step without someone reaching out to shake her hand, to offer her a bottle of fine vintage or the watch off their wrist in gratitude, to beseech her to lay a hand in blessing on their child. For someone raised in a locked vault, spewing the virtues of a life spent skulking the shadows, the sudden thrust into the limelight was… uncomfortable, to be charitable. She already felt like enough of a fraud. Felt enough like her skin was stretched too tight over her frayed nerves and her grief, as if it were someone else’s, bleached and cut and sewn into a grotesque costume. She looks in the mirror, and she sees the ragged faces of her parents framed in unearned silver. Forty years held captive. Tortured by her own hand, at times. Sacrificed, for her—for nothing. Because in the end, it was exactly as she’d been taught in the dark: only nothingness endures.

I also have another Shadowheart/Nocturne WIP, from Nocturne's perspective, that I wanted to cover the whole of their relationship in the cloister. This has been tricky because writing religious indoctrination is pretty hard without any of that experience IRL, and keeping the balance of what the narration says and what's actually happening, so it's been slow going and this WIP has been parked in the same state for months. If I ever finish it, this is 'my sparrow blue'.

The night is black and moonless, blanketing the Lower City beneath them in Her sacred darkness. It was on a similar night those decades ago that Nocturne found her name, looking up at the endless, empty void of space, swallowed up by it, listening to the crickets sing Her somber melody. It was then, and remains as always, just as the Mother Superior taught: “The Dark Lady guides us all. We find our true selves in Her embrace.” If she had a mother before the Mother, Nocturne doesn’t recall; that part of her life is mercifully blank, long since surrendered in Her name. Who or what she was before then is irrelevant, although she supposes she may owe a thank-you to whatever whore, herself devil-cursed or lain with such, that must have begat and abandoned her. She’s seen plenty enough of tiefling urchins swarming in the muck like rats, slithering aimlessly through their invariably short lives. Without Lady Shar, she would have nothing. She would be nothing. Through Her, and the Mother, and the cloister, Nocturne has not only a home, meals, and education, but a purpose and an identity—and with guidance, difficult as it may have been, the right identity, to boot. And, she has a friend. Supper is several hours behind them by now, by design the most meager meal of the day. Emptiness is a holy state, they’re taught, and so an empty belly is said to enhance an evening spent contemplating Her canon, but…  Nocturne’s belly feels chock-full of butterflies, and all she can contemplate is the warmth seeping into her thigh from Shadowheart’s foot pressed, just barely, against it.  Initiates aren’t supposed to touch each other outside of training, and even then, instructors are quick with a lashing. They aren’t kids anymore, with a blind eye turned on play-wrestling or braiding one another’s hair; they’re expected to practice restraint and turn from, not toward, false comforts. Perhaps it’d be easier if Shadowheart were better at meeting expectations. But Shadowheart has always seemed so special, so important despite her failings. To the Dark Lady, to Mother.

Lastly, I was going to write a sequel to 'when my blue moon turns to gold again', but I think this one's solidly abandoned, especially after being torpedoed by Patch 5. This fic is mostly about Lae'zel raising the gith egg baby, named Jenevelle, alone in the Astral plane, but with Shadowheart always on her mind. I was also playing with gith biology in this one.

Even the kind-faced new varsh, hand-selected by Lae’zel herself, quirked a brow when presented with a late-stage githyanki egg that had been dormant for nearly half a decade. The sentiment was shared. Its odds were poor, especially knowing that the egg was a slow hatch to begin with. But Shadowheart bathed that egg in milk every night for weeks, an old gith trick, to put it into stasis until it could be a found a safer creche to resume incubation and, hopefully, hatch. Shadowheart helped shield it from the hungry owlbear cub and the odd ambush in camp. Shadowheart rocked it in her arms on chilly nights, worried about it freezing—a pointless paranoia, but by then, Lae’zel had learned well that acts of love aren’t always optimized for efficiency. So, she had to try.

It took several years of hard-won battles, campaigning, all but pulling out a lute and singing of the lich queen’s betrayal, but Lae’zel did not merely find a safe creche: she rebuilt one. Hers. Creche K’liir, nestled inside the moon-bathed asteroid of Stardock, trailing Selûne. It seemed fitting for Shadowheart’s egg. Lae’zel told herself that she was finished with it, then. She’d done what she’d promised herself she would: found the egg a safe place and a fair chance. But it wasn’t a week later before Varsh D’narav approached her with wrung hands and news that the youngling was attempting to hatch, but the egg only rocked back and forth listlessly in the pool. It was unable to breach the shell like the others, and soon, the egg’s air sac would fail and its nutrients would be depleted. Varsh D’narav wanted to verify whether the old procedure should apply. They had skirted the issue in prior discussions—optimism and foolishness, all the same. A part of Lae’zel wanted to bark an affirmative and berate the varsh for barging in on her war-room just to share news of a weakling needing to be culled. The rest ran to the hatchery and scooped the trembling egg from the pool with her bare hands, ignoring the sting as acid splashed up her arms. For all the slates in the vast library, there would be none prescribing a procedure. If a githyanki had ever before attempted to rescue a failing hatch, they would have been wise not to leave evidence behind. Under Vlaakith’s rule, such shameful tenderness would have the egg and the gith flung into the abyss such that it couldn’t spread. But some instinct roared within Lae’zel, from somewhere deep inside down to her very being, buried underneath her lifetime of training and the embers of her indoctrination. It was as if the instructions were whispered directly into her ear by Mother Gith herself. She tore into the leathery shell with her teeth, puncturing it right over the dead space above the shriveled air sac. Pressure released from the hole, and Lae’zel pried it larger with her fingers and claws. A serous liquid seeped out, soothing the acid burns on her skin, like that was the way it was always supposed to be done. A tiny fist shot out of the tear as soon as enough space was made for it. Shadowheart’s youngling wanted to live. She worked quickly, desperately. Eggs are weaker from within than the outside, so she uses her fingers hooked into the hole to rend the shell wide enough that she could pull the air sac out entirely. In doing so, she uncovered the hatchling’s nose and mouth, exposing it to the outside world for the first time. It sneezed. Sputtered. Wailed.  Lae’zel hardly heard it.  She was too transfixed on the hatchling’s black hair. The peach tint to her skin. The nose that was still unmistakably gith, but also so unmistakably reminiscent of a larger, fleshier one that she derisively called ‘decadent’ just once, but later kissed goodnight far too few times. She hadn’t known that non-gith could imprint on a gith egg.

[movedto-clifflix]

🪦 Graveyard Date 🪦

ship: astarifen

content warning: bg3 spoilers, kn!fe (dagger) mention

author's note: had this special scene in the game n i just had to write it down 😪 (meeks told me to do so /hj)

word count: around 1.2k

After Cazador has been defeated and the pale elf had regained his cool, the party went back to the Elfsong Tavern where they had rented the entire upper floor just a couple hours ago. They all were tired, exhausted and wounded by the numerous fights with Wolves, Werewolves, Vampires and other undead creatures. Astarion kept quiet the entire walk, and so did Fenren, wanting to give his lover the space and time he needed after reliving the traumatic events in Cazador’s palace. Once they reached their chambers, Jaheira used the last bit of magic which she had left to patch up her companions with a healing spell which led to everyone mumbling a “Thank you” at her. 

The hours passed rather quickly, and by now the party had changed into their comfier clothes, their bellies full with delicious food from the bar of the Tavern and ready to get a good night’s rest. This was also Fenren’s plan. The day had been long and the young half-elf had been feeling tired ever since the adrenalin left his body, which was shortly after arriving back at the Tavern. He sat on his bed, staring at nothing in particular, yet his mind was full of so many thoughts and concerns. His head perked up as he felt the side of his bed lowering, seeing his lover sit down. The younger one’s eyes went big, like the ones of a puppy and he couldn’t help but stare. Astarion kept silent for a while, gathering his thoughts before he started speaking: “I should probably start getting used to the shadows again. Who knows how long I have left in the sun?” 

“We’ll find a way for you to be able to continue walking in the sun. The ritual wasn’t our last chance, I’m sure.” Fenren said, being optimistic as always. 

Astarion let out a quiet sigh, yet a small smile covered his face. “Maybe never seeing the sun again is just the price for my freedom.” 

“Even if it is, that won’t change my opinion about you. I’ll be with you either way, I promised you that.” The ash-blond held himself back from taking his partner‘s hand, not knowing with what he’d be comfortable by now. The pale elf stood up, making the taller one look up as he was still sitting. “There’s something I’d like to show you. Not far out in the city. If you’re alright with that, that is.”

Fenren agreed, and soon they were out walking around Baldur’s Gate. The air was rather warm, yet there was a slight breeze blowing through the streets and alleys, making it comfortable to walk around.

They soon reached the graveyard, the moon shining bright, lighting up the many different tombstones. It was silent, no soul being around. Fenren took a quick look around, remembering the place. They had been fighting some Kobolds here as they were passing through on their way to the Devil’s Fee. He didn’t speak, just looked at his partner who stood in front of a tombstone which was overgrown with ivy. Astarion didn’t speak either but he moved up to the gravestone and removed the plants carefully, revealing the carved-in letters and numbers. “Nearly two hundred years and it’s my first time being here again after what he did to me.” the pale elf spoke. “When I finally got out, Cazador was waiting. From that day on I was his. Until today.” His gaze was sealed onto the gravestone. 

Fenren chose his words wisely, not wanting to seem like it wasn’t a big deal for what happened to Astarion. “You didn’t choose to become his. What he did was take you by force.” 

“That doesn’t change the fact that he did take it, leaving almost nothing left of the person I was. All he left behind was a name on a rock. And now…now I need to figure out who I am and what I want.” The pale elf became quieter towards the end of his sentence, still looking at the tombstone. 

Fenren’s gaze fixated on his lover, and he spoke with sincerity: “You’re the one I love. The one I want.” 

Astarion smiled, almost instantly replying with a “I feel the same.” followed by a short pause before he continued. “You were by my side through all of this. Through bloodlust and pain and misery. You were patient. You cared. You trusted me when that was an objectively stupid thing to do.” He paused again, thinking of how to word his next sentence. “I feel safe with you. And whatever the future holds for me, I don’t want to lose that.” 

The young half-elf has been listening intently, his partner’s words clearly touching his heart, meaning a whole lot to him. He smiled, his heterochromia eyes sparkling in the moonlight and his gaze full of love. “Whatever happens in the future, just know I’ve always got you. Just like I promised.” 

The vampire’s gaze softened, an almost relieved “Thank you.” leaving his lips before he turned back to the gravestone. “I should probably fix this.” he mumbled, taking out a dagger and carefully carving in the numbers of the current year, just under the ones which showed his living days almost two centuries ago. Once he was done he put away the dagger and kneeled down in front of the stone. The ash-blonde remained silent, letting Astarion have his moment. He just kneeled down next to him, hands on his lap and his gaze on the gravestone. 

“I’ve been dead in the ground for long enough.” The vampire broke the silence with those words. “It’s time I try living again.” Astarion turned so he was facing his partner, taking the younger one’s hands in his. “With everything that life has to offer.” 

Fenren looked at his lover innocently, a small. confused smile on his face. “Meaning…?” 

“You know what I mean, Darling.” Is all the pale elf said before sitting up straight again. “I have to be honest with you though. When we first met, I didn’t care about you.” This made the young half-elf chuckle. interrupting the older one. “No, that’s valid!”

Astarion chuckled as well, shaking his head before he turned serious again. “But I do care about you now. Being with you is more than just…lust or manipulating you into a tactical alliance.” He paused, just like he did before. “I love you. I love this. And I want it all.” His words were soft and gentle spoken, but most importantly; they were the truth. 

Astarion reached out, cupping Fenren’s cheek, his thumb carefully tracing over the scar which the younger elf had gotten during a fight back when he was a child, before leaning in for a short kiss.

As he pulled away, they both smiled, their gazes full of love. The vampire gently pushed the bigger one back so he now leaned on his elbows, watching his boyfriend intently, a smile still on his face. Astarion crawled so he was now leaning over the younger one before he kissed him hungrily yet still softly, pushing his partner more and more against the dirty floor, making both of them have a night they won’t soon forget. 

taglist: @little-miss-selfships | @macgyverwife | @aduainscelus | @cassmeeks | @eternally-smitten | @wanderers-wife | @mechasuit [lmk if you wanna be added / removed !! 🫶🏻]

[larvasmoon]

Portrait of the pale elf (2) - Rough sketches of a stranger

Chapter Summary : Who is a painter if she cannot paint anymore ? Selene has reached a dead-end, she is uninspired and despaired, wandering aimlessly in the streets of Baldur's Gate. But it is without counting on the fact that one fateful encounter can change anything and everything, and set in motion the wheel of fortune.

Warnings : Abuse. Mention of past abuse. Teasing. Pining.

Word count : 3,6k

Authors's Note : In this chapter I'm introducing my OC, Selene, a shy little painter. Tav will be part of this story too, but not yet :) You can also find this story on my Ao3. I hope you will enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it !

How strange it is to lose something you thought you’d always have, Selene thought, as she sat in front of a blank canvas. 

As far as she could remember, she’d always had fingers stained with paint or charcoal. It had came to her as naturally as her first breath, or as the first clumsy steps of a child. 

There was a silence now in her mind, an absence that she didn’t quite understand. As if a long lost version of her past self had packed all her belongings, and left her to rot in a world devoid of beauty.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t inspired, she could’ve painted anything and everything. She’d only have to take few steps outside to find a pretty view in Baldur’s Gate.

She was simply terrified to do so, after that one incident.

Come back, Please come back to me, she silently prayed to Déneïr, or to any other god that had once taken an interest in the follies of artists. How am I supposed to live this way ?, she kept begging, night and day, day and night, but no answer ever came, either from the sky above, or from her own paralyzed psyche. 

Weeks after weeks, months after months, torn pieces of paper after torn pieces of paper, ripped canvases after ripped canvases, she wasted away. She grew thin and sickly, sleepless and with no appetite for life. 

It would have been fine if she was the only one to suffer from this peculiar affliction, but Selene wasn’t free to paint when she felt like it. She had responsibilities, paintings to finish in time, and a master painter to please. 

Damian Fallheel, was an acclaimed and renowned artist amongst Baldur’s Gate nobility. She was nothing but an orphan, an half-elf little girl with no prospects and future, when he’d taken her in. 

One day, he’d walked by the steps of the orphanage she was sitting on, furiously drawing on a stone with chalks. Even after all this time, she still remembered how dazzling he looked to her children’s eyes.

He stood tall above her in the declining light of the late afternoon, cladded in dark blue silk and golden jewelries. His long blond hair was tied by a red ribbon in his back, and he had the most beautiful golden eyes she'd ever seen. Everything, from the way he was dressed to the way he moved, reminded her that they should not have been breathing the same air.

If the sun had been graced with a body and a face, he would've looked like Damian, so the little girl guessed that he was a sun elf. He could only be a high ranking nobility one, like the pretty people that she sometimes saw when she dared to go to the limits of the higher city, just to get a glimpse of the "toffs" as the other kids would say.  

His bright eyes curiously followed the motions of her fingers, the swirls and the scratches, the halts and the continuations. Crouching down to be at eye level with her, he then stared at her drawing intently for a few minutes.

What he saw in that unskilful drawing made by an eight year old girl, she would never know.

Selene’s small heart hammered in her chest, because it was the first time someone had ever taken an interest in her at all. It was as if she suddenly realized that she existed. Her whole life she’d felt as though she was an invisible spectator, sitting on the side of the stage of life, waiting to be given a role to play. 

Strangers usually passed by the streets without a glance, cats curled up by the plants pots behind her for a nap, couples giggled and kissed arm in arm. But no one ever went out their way like this. Ever.

He softly traced the colorful butterfly wings she’d drawn with his fingertips. "Do you like to draw, child ?"

"It’s the only thing I’ve ever liked", she shyly replied with an adorable lisp, hiding her blushing cheeks behind her black hair. 

"Drawing is akin to magic, you know. Things that are real, things that aren’t, it doesn’t matter. You will always have the world, and beyond, at the tips of your fingers. It’s a gift." 

As he was talking to her about the beauty of art, she felt as though he was part of the things she’d like to have at the tips of her fingers. At night, when all the other children would be asleep in the dormitory, she’d slip away by the kitchens, and light a candle in secret. While the whole world would be dreaming, far far away, she’d draw him by memory, to never forget this moment.

Sad days weren’t scarce in orphanages. Some kids would cling to a book, a toy, or a small object left with them by their parents, to survive in the hardest of times. Selene cherished her drawings instead. Not because she’d made them, but because each one of them was a memento of a particularly happy memory. 

"Yes, but I need to see more of it to paint it", she wistfully added, "And children like me don’t go anywhere."

His long and graceful fingers caressed her cheeks, wiping away a tear that she didn’t know was there. 

"What is your name ?"

There was nothing in the blanket Selene was wrapped in, when they found her at the doorstep of the orphanage. No jewelry, no doll, just a crumpled piece of paper with a name hastily written in black ink. 

"Selene" she mumbled, as he gently tuck a few strands of her dark hair behind her ear to properly look at her. 

"Would you like to come and see the world with me then, Selene ? I’m a painter myself, I could teach you."

Such offer could never be refused, of course. She had willingly taken Damian’s hand, and he’d her made her his student and apprentice.

She didn’t know it then, but she had been caught in a trap.

To this day, she couldn’t tell what Damian truly was to her. 

A teacher. A master. A father figure. An unrequited love. 

These days, he was, above all, a thief. An indebted clown, that signed her own paintings with his name. 

If someone was to learn that Damian Fallheel was a liar and a farce, what a tragedy it’d be. For him and for her. Her name would forever be soiled and associated into every mind with his scam. 

How unfair it was that he could drag her with him in his fall, when he’d always made sure that his rise to fame would never rub on her. 

For the past ten years, all his best works had secretly been painted by Selene. She’d always had to endure the torture of seeing people congratulate him, praise him, worship him, in her place.

It’ mine. It’s all mine, don’t you see ?, she wanted to scream, but always remained silent and poised instead. Damian’s good little apprentice, the docile and gifted child he’d generously saved from a life of misery.

He had indeed given her a role on the wide stage of life, but she’d been fooled. Her master had promised her that she would be one of the main actors, but he’d made her a bit player instead. 

All of this she could endure, somehow. 

But to lose the sole purpose of her life ? To be stripped of her art altogether ? She could not. 

Sometimes she even wondered if this was a form of divine punishment. She thought that the deity that had once been looking over her, had forsaken her, because she’d given up on her own paintings.

Because she had given them away so easily to Damian for scraps of love, just to hear him say that she "belonged".

You have given up on yourself, child, so I shall give up on you in turn, the god would sternly say, weighing in their hands the gravity of her crime. 

And yet, right when she had started to lose all hope, she crossed path with him. 

The breathtaking stranger that she saw almost every night, sitting and reading at the Black Cat’s Delight. 

It was a small tavern, in the very last streets of the higher city, that only artists visited. Some came to discuss, to exchange ideas, and sometimes to find an understanding shoulder to cry on. Others came to read and enjoy the unusual books that the owner collected and shared with her guests : grimoires of scatty enchantments, encyclopedias on all the fashion trends of the last centuries, memoirs of famous painters and sculptors of Faerûn … 

That man belonged to the second category. 

He came to sit on his own, near the library nook, and read silently on his own for a few hours, with a glass of red wine by his hand.

At first, she’d just cast discreet glances at him, her eyes ever drawn to lovely picture his presence created in the dimmed atmosphere of the tavern. 

He would always sit by the windows, and the streets lights that came through it made it look like his white curls were made of star light. The diffused silver hues made it look like he had a halo about him, one that she’d only imagined gods, angels, or otherworldly creatures would’ve been blessed with.

Shadows and gleams of light moved across his focused face, with each coach passing by, with each silhouette walking past the storefront. Chiaroscuros danced around every one of his sharp lines and soft edges, as if even the darkness and the light were fighting the right to touch and covet such beauty.

What a marvel his symmetrical and delicate features were… She would’ve argued that his visage was more bewitching, than those of the marbly statues of angels she’d admired in the estates of some baldurian nobles. 

His eyes were, probably, the part of him that she observed the most.

Two rubies, shimmering in the candlelights. They looked identical to the rings on his fingers, adorned with big red stones she’d only seen in the jewelleries’ window displays of the richest neighborhoods, where Damian’s manor was. 

One night, her hands moved on their own and grabbed her charcoal stick.

It felt like she’d been possessed, and she quickly entered the familiar trance of a painter at work.

Fingers moving on their own. Eyes glazed over and frantic.

On some corner of a page she drew one of his low set eyes, and the shadow cast by his lashes on his cheek. 

On another one, she traced the graceful curve of his long hands around the binding of his book.

And then in the middle, she meticulously drew his side profile. The soft and almost imperceptible curve of his straight nose. His barely opened mouth, as if to draw a sigh. The intricacies of his jawline, neither sharp or round. The shape of his pointy ear, picking through his thick hair. The pale column of his neck, barely visible amongst the rustles of his pussybow shirt. 

It went on like this, night after night. Her sketchbook all but filled with parts of him, glimpses of his beauty, she felt like she couldn’t take enough time to do justice to. 

"His name is Astarion" the owner, Lara, had once whispered in Selene’s ears as she placed a cup of brewed tea by her side, "He is a very famous tailor … Well, I should probably introduce him first as one of the heroes that saved us ten years ago, before deciding to sew dresses for the riches."

She’d settled beside her on a stool, and leaned closer to mutter the next part, as if it was too scandalous to risk other people hearing it. 

"They say he is a vampire. Rumors has it that a lot of his clients like to indulge his needs… and do many other vulgar things",she giggled, quickly getting up and about to serve the other clients. 

Selene blushed, flushed from her neck to the tip of her ears. A vampire … It explained his mystical aura for sure. An image of him with blood smeared across his perfect lips flashed in her mind, and her fingers tightened around her pencil, as if they itched to draw it. 

See it, etch it, trace it on the blank paper. 

She liked to admire him from afar, to simply pay tributes to his magnificence without him being aware. It probably would’ve gone on and on this way, if he hadn’t been the one the creep closer.

Selene didn’t know it then but, one cannot really observe a vampire without him being aware. Such sharp senses wouldn’t allow it. 

Especially not Astarion’s. 

"Are you drawing me by any chance ?", an enchanting voice had asked from behind her shoulder one evening, and she nearly wailed in terror. 

"N-No", she stuttered, and her words came out hurried and muffled like a child surprised by their parents while doing something naughty, "I'm definitely not."

When she turned around, there he was. So regal. So close. So … wonderfully… himself.

Her hands instinctively shot up to slam her sketchbook close, and a dangerous smirk settled on his delicate lips. 

A single lose piece of paper had escaped her rushed hands and was flying away, slowly falling at his feet. 

When he bent down to pick it up, her heart was in her throat.

It was just a barely finished drawing of his hands, and yet she’d never felt that vulnerable when showing her work before. 

Don’t look at it. It’s messy. It’s ugly. I’m far too out of practice. 

"Oh come now darling, are you lying as well as prying on me ? Those are unmistakably my own dainty fingers, I’d recognize them anywhere", he chuckled before showing her his index and the jewelry on it, "And I haven’t seen anyone wear that one ring in all of Faerûn either…Apart from me that is."

Darling, he’d said to her. She thought she might combust right then and there.

"I’m so sorry I should’ve asked-", she started but, he gracefully walked closer, and leaned on the back of the empty chair next to her own. 

"Don’t apologize. Being a source of inspiration is hardly offensive, on the contrary."

His perfume softly drifted in the air. Astarion supposedly was a creature of the night, but she’d never met someone that smelt so much like the sun. If she closed her eyes, she could almost picture a hot summer’s evening in a garden full of herbs and flowers, the way their earthy scent would be pugnant after a day in the blazing heat.

Bergamot. Rosemary. And a hint of alcool, that she thought came from the drink he’d left by the grimoire he’d been reading that night.

"I’m sorry if I seemed creepy, staring so intensely. I needed to practice and, the scenery just looked so lovely.",she softly muttered, her hands still tightly clasped around the cover of her sketch book, as if she feared it would fly open on it’s own.

" I’m used to people staring at me, but usually they end up making a move at some point’ he picked his nails as he talked, and Selene couldn’t help but follow each and every one of his motion with awe.

She noticed how his hands gracefully moved around each time he talked, or how his muscles flexed under the pale skin of his veiny forearms. "I saw you lurking for weeks, and I was wondering when you would."

It would be a mix of yellow, white, beige, and perhaps a hint of purple, or blue, for the cold undertone. Just thin layers of paint, repeated touches of colors, until she’d have managed to translate the "translucent" quality of his skin on the canvas.

"Patience isn’t really my thing, so my curiosity got the best of me and I talked to you first."

He gave her the first ever smile she’d seen on him then, all dimples and sharp teeth. The color of his pouty lips should be a cold pink, slightly mauve, maybe a rose de bois. 

"I understand now, you were not just admiring me for the sake of admiring me, were you ?", Astarion seductively implied, and it’s only then that she picked up on the conversation. The rest of his words had somehow been lost to her, as if for a few seconds, she’d been too busy painting him on the walls of her mind. 

Imagining the right colors to use, and the right way to apply it on the stretched fabric. 

"To be honest, you are the first person I’ve been wanting to draw in quite a bit of time.", she finally confessed, quite sheepishly, and as soon as she’d said it, she regretted admitting to her pitiful state.  

"Could I see ?", he asked and there was an edge to his voice that made her look at him straight in the eyes for the first time since they’d started talking, ‘Your drawings, I mean.’

She was met with a smoldering look, his irises shining up close like the dying embers of a fire. There were no traces of deceit or mockery in his gaze, he truly meant it. 

Or so it seemed. 

"It’s nothing spectacular really, just a few unimpressive sketches. I’m no great artist, just a nobody in a city full of maestros."

"Please", he sensually begged, his voice swiftly dropping a few octaves. Liquid smooth. 

He slowly bent over, bracing his hands on the table, to come closer. The devious smirk that she'd seen him wear before disappeared, and his molten gaze intimately followed the lines of her features. This almost painful scrutiny had Selene squirming on her seat, cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

From this new angle, she could see the scar on his neck. The ghost of a gruesome puncture wound emerging from the frills of his fancy silk shirt. A crack in his mask of glamour and seduction. 

It was but a somber reminder of the fact that he indeed was a being who forever belonged to the darkness : a vampire.

The painter in her almost reached for it, unknowingly eager to have the more sinister parts of him at tips of her fingers, and at the tip of her paint brushes. She wouldn't only draw the sublime parts of him, she'd embrace everything that he was. 

Every scar. Every fang. Every dark urge. Every blood stain. 

His pale ringed fingers reached out to toy with the end of her dark curls, gliding and tugging, mere inches away from the open collar of her shirt that she had unbuttoned earlier.

"Don’t be so ridiculously humble. I can already tell just by looking at this", he tapped on the drawing with his index, before whispering in her ear, "that you are quite the accomplished artist."

Delicious shivers ran down her spine.

Astarion then glided his fingers through a strand of her long hair, and his hand gently brushed against her cheek when he tucked it behind her ear. 

"So indulge me, darling."

She felt his cold and sweet breath on her cheek, and he was so close that it almost seemed like he would kiss it.

He was perfect in every possible way, the most magnificent man she’d ever seen in her entire miserable existence …And yet, something felt wrong. 

His gesture had reminded her of something. A painful superposition.

The sad memory of the day she'd met Damian flashed before her eyes. 

She stared at Astarion's fingers, and all she could think about was the way her master had touched her hair at the orphanage.

Let it be a warning, she'd vowed to herself, a reminder of the fact that pretty words and a soft hand are often used to blind and abuse the trust of others.

Do you like to draw, child ?, he'd asked her, and she knew with certainty, that her answer to that question had changed.

And just as she was thinking about the master painter, the doors of the tavern were violently thrown open. 

An elf furiously emerged from the darkness of the busy streets, and Selene suddenly wanted to throw up.

Talk of the devil and he will appear.

"There you are ! I have been looking for you everywhere !", Damian exclaimed, his boots stamping on the wooden floor as he quickly got to her table. 

His amber eyes nervously darted to Astarion, but he did not introduce himself, like Selene would’ve expected. 

No handshake, no bow, no curtesy. No fake smiles or disgusting flattery. 

How peculiar… Fallheel wouldn’t usually miss any chance to sell himself, or to "extend his social circle", as he would say. 

Damian simply looked at Selene once again, with a scolding look that she’d seen too many times before. It made her shudder with fear as much as it did when she was still a child.  

"Obey me. Or I'll put you back where you belong, in the streets you were born.", he would always say when she grew untamed.

She instinctively gathered her belongings, and put on her coat, before apologetically smiling at Astarion. He had a strange and guarded composure, one similar to the way his face looked while he read his books. Now that she’d seen him being so animated, it felt impossibly wrong. 

Gracefully handing her sketch back to her, he kept his claret eyes trained on her. 

"Oh no, please keep it... As an apology."

Before Astarion could answer, her master suddenly grabbed her by the arm and dragged her along with him towards the exit. 

"We have much to do, Selene. Do hurry up, will you ?", he reprimanded her with an exasperated sigh.

"Thank you" she quickly blurted out to the vampire, and the corner of his mouth perked up slightly. 

"For what, darling ?"

"For giving me back something I thought I’d lost."

He furrowed his brows, looking at her with a face full of confusion. But there was a softness in this expression too, something she had not been expecting to see. 

"Selene !", Astarion called out, and she resisted the tug of her master’s tight grip, to look back at him one last from the threshold she’d almost already crossed.

Sounds of the busy streets of Baldur's Gate, loud at whatever hour of the night, poured from the open door, and into the silent and hushed atmosphere of the Black Cat's Delight. Each and every other client looked at the little group of them as though they were the most annoying people they had ever seen in their entire life. 

Selene didn't care though, she was starstruck. Her name on his lips sounded so unfamiliar, so strangely beautiful, like it had never been said the right way by anyone before him.

"If you are ever in need of a dress, come to Carmine Red. It will be at a bargain price, and we could explore each other’s full portfolio of talents, so to speak …"

And with that, she was dragged out into the night.

[svartalfhild]

4,7,8

4. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Care to share one of them?

Soooo many and I’ve not been getting into them because my depression has been putting the hurt on my ability to motivate myself.  

One little idea that I’ve been sitting on for a while is a fic about Aloth and Pallegina’s friendship.  

This came about because Pallegina has a line where she mentions that her father hated her and I was immediately struck by the notion that she may well have bonded with Aloth over their experiences with paternal abuse.  In my experience, abused kids tend to find each other and build strong friendships based on understanding and I thought that would be a very neat thing to explore in Aloth and Pallegina, especially since there is basically no fic about Pallegina.

7. Share a snippet from one of your favorite pieces of prose you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

Context: This the beginning of a desert battle scene (which was inspired by this song) from my Baldur’s Gate fic Calimport which takes place as Gorion’s Ward and Rasaad (now married) are traveling with a merchant caravan.  For anyone confused about how they are this powerful, the Baldur’s Gate Saga finishes at around level 26 (possibly higher, if you really milk it), so they are beyond epic level at this point.

“What is the literal translation?”

Syrin opened her mouth to tell him, but before she could get the words out, there came a deafening crack, like that of a tree splitting in two, only much louder. Accompanying the sound was a great bolt of lightning that blew apart one of the caravans ahead.

“What the f-” one of the guards began, but he was stopped short by the booming sound of deep laughter and the screams of many as a massive blue scaled creature swooped in out of seemingly nowhere and snatched up a few mounted soldiers from a Neverwintan caravan in its claws to drop them from high in the air, the horses screeching like demons all the way. If this was not terrifying enough, a horde of humans dressed all in black descended upon the road from both sides, following the dragon’s laughter like a battlecry.

The entire convoy was thrown into chaos. No one seemed to know what to do or which way to run. Syrin swore loudly and did her best to keep her horse from bucking her off in its panic. She could see the blue dragon coming down for another pass and she sprang into action.

“Rasaad, look after Celthica and be ready to punch a dragon,” she ordered before galloping right into danger, giving him no time to object. Yanking off her veil and drawing her bow, she fired arrow after arrow at the approaching threat. A few struck, getting the creature’s attention. He veered from his course and headed straight for her. “That’s right. Focus on me, you arrogant brute. Those special little arrows hurt your pride, didn’t they?” she muttered, racing away from the convoy as quickly as she could.

When the dragon was almost close enough to pluck her up, she rolled off her horse, letting it escape as she turned to face her foe. With a grand lifting gesture, glowing vines burst out of the sand and grabbed at the dragon, pulling him down. He roared and beat his wings wildly, trying to tear himself free. He failed to manage it before Syrin nimbly climbed onto his back, however, and she was carried with him into the sky. Upon realizing her presence, he immediately did a vertical dive and she would have tumbled off if she had not thought quickly and plunged both of her swords into the base of his neck, giving her something substantial to hold onto.

“You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?” she said as the wyrm shrieked and she clung to the grips of her blades for dear life.

“I am Baeshravirlym the Dune Terror! I will not be mocked by you, puny elf!” the dragon growled before doing a series of loops in the air in an attempt to throw Syrin off. His back spines cut her in several places as she was tossed about and she hissed in pain, but did not relinquish her hold, even with the wind battering her relentlessly.

Switching tactics, Baeshravirlym headed back towards the convoy, which now looked more like a battlefield. Syrin could easily spot Rasaad on the ground among the clashing humans because he had surrounded himself and Celthica in a circle of flame. Realizing what the dragon was about to do, her heart leapt into her throat and she pulled her swords from the blue neck before her and swiftly replanted them in one of Baeshravirlym’s wing joints, twisting until it became readily apparent that she had impaired the muscles of the limb. With a bellow of agony, he began to plummet, unable to keep himself in the air with only one fully functional wing.

It was at this point that Syrin realized that she had not thought this through entirely. Baeshravirlym’s fall would be hers as well and being a hard, scaly thing, he would not provide a much of a cushion.

“Maybe I should have let Imoen come,” she muttered. Her sister would have a spell for this, surely. She had no more time to think on it, however. The dragon crashed spectacularly into the ground just beyond the battle. Sand flew everywhere, as if there had been an explosion. The impact was strong enough to rip Syrin from her swords and send her flying. To her great misfortune, Baeshravirlym was still very much alive and flailing. His tail caught her as she tried to get to her feet and tossed her into a warrior and the raider he was fighting, bowling them both over.

“Syrin!” she heard Rasaad shout. She was too dazed to look about for him effectively, but she soon felt strong hands pulling her to her feet and she knew it was him.

“Just like old times, eh?” she joked and tasted blood in her mouth. She was fairly certain that most of her ribs were fractured as well, going by the severe pain in her chest every time she took a breath. “Where’s Celthica?”

“Proving herself quite capable. Now, are you alright? Can you fight?” Rasaad responded urgently, brushing her hair from her face. Retrieving an azure bottle from her magic bag, she gulped down the healing potion it contained and then chucked it at the head of a nearby raider, watching it smash magnificently across their temple.

“Ready when you are.”

I’m proud of this entire sequence, because it’s probably the best fight scene I’ve ever written.  The music gave me a very clear, very cinematic image in my mind of the entire thing and that made writing it both fun and easy.  I think I really nailed the sense that this is an extremely dangerous, intense situation, but our heroic couple are such experienced badasses that this is like a lazy Tuesday for them.

8. Share a snippet from one of your favorite dialogue scenes you’ve written and explain why you’re proud of it.

The next morning, Percy was called to his father’s study and the look on the man’s face was not quite as stern as he had expected when he entered and took a seat in the chair opposite the desk.

“Do you know why I’ve called you here?” Fredrick began, sitting back and setting his elbows on his armrests.

“I have a few ideas.”

“Have you been thinking about your future?”

“Yes.”

“And what have you decided?”

“Does my decision matter or is this just a formality?”  Percy was careful to keep his tone neutral so that his father couldn’t accuse him of sassing him.  Fredrick scowled.

“It does matter.  It matters a great deal.”

“Then I will be a knight.”  Like Mother, Percy added to himself.  His father’s frown deepened.  He had long been pushing for him to choose the priesthood.

“Are you certain?  Knights have little time for the intellectual pursuits that are so important to you and they must work very hard every day to achieve and maintain peak physical fitness.”  At the last comment, he ran his gaze over Percy’s scrawny frame critically.

“I may not be as robustly built as Julius or as energetic as Oliver and Cassandra, but I feel that I would be much more useful to Whitestone’s knightly order than I could ever be to Pelor.”  As a knight, at least he could have an excuse to continue his tinkering without unwanted scrutiny.  He would have an excuse to visit Klaus, whom he liked to think was something like a friend.  He could study and improve the city’s defenses as well.

There was little he could do as a priest.  He was not particularly religious and he was not at all skilled in comforting people the way a priest of Pelor would be expected to.  It would be awfully boring and of no help to anyone really.

“That is not the choice I would recommend, Percival, but I can see that you are determined to defy me, so I will allow it, for now, with the hope that you will learn something from it,” Fredrick relented with a sigh.  Percy was admittedly shocked that he’d given up so easily, though he supposed this might be yet another thing he had Professor Anders to thank for.

“Thank you, father,” he replied, unable to stop himself from smiling a little as he was dismissed.

“Percival,” Fredrick called as Percy reached the door and he turned back.

“Yes?”

“I know you think I’m old fashioned and far too strict.  I know you don’t take much stock in anything I say.  But I want you to know that I am proud of you, however much it might seem otherwise.  You know your own mind and that is no small thing.  Do not let that be compromised by me or Professor Anders or anyone.  Even more importantly, you have a generous heart and while that has its pitfalls, it is most certainly not without merit.  You are guided by your love for your family and your people.  You have the mark of a true de Rolo.  And for that, I am proud of you.”

This was from my Critical Role fic, Of Legacies and Pride, about Percy’s relationship to Professor Anders and to his father as a teenager.  I wanted to explore the idea that Fredrick de Rolo was a flawed man and not the best father, but ultimately had a better understanding of the sort of person Percy is than Anders ever did, and I think this dialogue takes that notion to full bloom in a very emotional way, which I’m proud of because getting that kind of complex emotional intensity right is difficult.

[everyonesomething]

Session Eighteen

Capridi: "So is it time for a road trip?"

Edith Runekill: "Guess so."

Malkas: "Yep. Unless we can scrape together money for a flight."

Pepper: "We'll probably have better luck than the train trips we've had."

Edith Runekill: "Unless we run into the dreaded highway kraken."

Capridi: "What, did you hijack the trains or something?"

Pepper: "We only took over that one because the engineer got brain-jacked out the window."

Sydney Gaydos: "We then drove it into a Kraken."

Pepper: "We got on the news and everything."

Malkas: "Fewer Krakens on the road."

Edith Runekill: "Don't forget the last train, with the manticores."

Pepper shudders.

Malkas: "Oh, I remember the manticore."

I completely forgot to mention last session that Capridi is a full new party member and is played by Sewbro! Oops! I suck!

In this session we learn some valuable information. Then we teach someone a lesson. Then we do some more learning.

This write-up is pretty hefty because we got a lot of RP done.

The set-up: We're off to the Baldur's Gate museum for a history lesson on our lich buddy.

The Game: It's a somewhat relaxing morning back at the hotel, considering all of everything that happened to us the day before. Mal and Edith enjoy a nice breakfast in bed—Edith still feels awful about how things shook out between her and Grim—Mal reassures her she didn't do anything wrong. Syd and Pepper have their own conversation about how things shook out between Grim and the rest of the group—Syd is determined to have all her gumshoes get along, darn it.

Sydney Gaydos: "Hm." Thoughtful look. "Gaydos... understands the need to do one's job. So she knows where Grim is coming from. But on the other claw our newest Gumshoe didn't do anything."

Pepper: "She didn't do anything to us anyway. Except the whole 'kept us from not dying' thing."

Sydney Gaydos: "Rightly so. So conflict is very sure to arise. This is why Gaydos did this--" from her coat next to the bed as she's still in her pjs, Sydney pulls out her notebook. "--she wrote down a few ideas to better create harmony within our group."

Pepper tries to peer at the notebook--why are you so tall. "Anything good?"

Capridi lets out a jovial "GOOD MORNING" to Grim. She can't resist poking the bear.

Pepper: "'Don't shoot each other' better be high on that list."

Edith Runekill starts doing her makeup but she's very distracted and keeps on having to fix her eyeliner after she messes it up approximately 700 times.

Grim: "Mornin'."

Edith Runekill puts on a dignified dark grey dress with a white collar. She doesn't have a hat to wear. :C

Sydney Gaydos bends down and shows Pepper a few pages. "First, we will introduce ourselves and talk about who we are as people. This is Step 1 of The Great Detective Gaydos' Plan for Great Gumshoe Getting-Along."

Grim and Cap are waiting for us in the lobby, they're keeping a healthy distance from one another. For good reason, probably. We collect everyone in the hotel lobby and make our way to the museum—Edith and Mal are hoping someone will have information on where Szass Tam might keep a phylactery or at least some idea of his motivation.  He had been a high-profile public figure some centuries back, but then he disappeared from the historical record before showing up again the other week at the Fair.

An employee at the museum—Morvayn—greets us and starts talking shop with Edith. Their best guess is Szass Tam had been trapped under Thay, a city known for a large network of magical ley lines running through and under its foundations. The people in charge of Thay are wary of letting strangers dig around the city, so information is hard to come by. It's an outside chance, but if we could convince them Szass Tam is back, they might let us in to do some exploration.

Morvayn also suggests we stop by Prastuil University before going to Thay—it has a large library and more information about Thay in general than where we are currently. It's a long trip, Prastuil is far to the southeast, through Plaguewrought Land and past the Underchasm, assuming we don't want to drive through the middle of a desert to get there instead. Grim is concerned we don't have time for such a detour, but Edith assures her it will be worthwhile. Information on Szass Tam is hard to come by and any little thing could help.

Morvayn then takes us to the divination office to get our scry on.

Katalina Winemi'zer: "Do ya haff somethin' of the Liss's for me to focus on?"

Pepper: "I got a real bad first impression of him from when we met."

Katalina Winemi'zer looks at the bewildered faces.

Edith Runekill looks down, embarrassed. "No. We never got close enough to him"

Katalina Winemi'zer: "Is fine, is fine. I can do this without."

"Everyone hold hands pleass."

Malkas: "Why are your hands so sticky, Sydney?"

Edith Runekill gives Mal's hand a li'l squeeze.

Capridi sighs and holds out her hands for Edith and Pepper to hold onto

Malkas squeezes back. Saps.

Pepper makes a big show of wiping her hand off before taking Capridi's

Grim just takes people's hands jeez

Sydney Gaydos: "... oranges." She says simply.

Malkas: "Fair enough."

She scries for us a nice view of the lich flying the car, unfortunately there's few clues to be had since he's in the middle of the air. Edith manages to spot a blue shimmering reflection in the undercarriage as if he's over a body of water, but it's anyone's guess which body it could be. Our vision is cut short when he detects us and dispels the scry, leaving us with more questions than anything else but we do our best to puzzle through it.

Edith Runekill: "It could be the Sea of Fallen Stars?"

"If he kept heading east after he was through in Secomber."

Malkas: "But it could be the Sea of Swords. There's plenty of magical stuff left on the Moonshae Islands."

Pepper frowns. "I don't see what business he'd have going to the Sea of Swords."

Edith Runekill: "If he were trying to get somewhere else up or down the coast without attracting attention by flying over populated areas, maybe."

Edith Runekill: "Back to Waterdeep or Neverwinter. Further south to Velen or Tehtyr. North to Luskan or wherever."

"But-- I dunno. Heading east seems more plausible."

Grim: "He won't backtrack."

"He's looking for new sights. Doubt he'd waste his time."

Edith Runekill: "Yeah. But Secomber was a detour, remember? He might have had other business along the coast."

Edith Runekill: "I feel like eventually he's gonna be headed to Thay. But he's obviously got things he needs to square away first."

"Gathering resources for a takeover? Retrieving things he'd stowed away? I dunno."

Malkas: "Maybe he wants to have a tropical island vacation in Chult."

Grim: "So we call around, learn if there's been any sightings round the coasts."

Pepper crosses her arms. "I mean. There's a lot of elvish magic crap at Moonshae but there's also a lot of Baelnorn. And it just took one to keep him away from Candlekeep right? I mean. If he was ever even going to Candlekeep in the first place."

Grim glances at Pepper, mildly surprised for a split second

Edith Runekill: "Yeah. Maybe check the foreign papers, too. See if there's any news of unexplained disasters or mayhem."

"Hm, that's right, though. Tharnis seemed very confident about being able to hold Tam off, or keep him confined if he'd walked into the trap set for him."

Malkas: "Okay, well. I think we should continue on to Prastuil, unless we get word of Tam somewhere."

Edith Runekill: "Yeah."

Our course of action stays the same, we're heading to Prastuil and then further on to Thay. But first—shopping. Edith gets to work enchanting a wizard hat so she won't lose it after the next monster fight, Syd looks over gifts, and Grim, Mal, and Pepper scope out the local Army Surplus store.

Mal and Grim chit-chat a bit about Syd—she's a different sort of paladin than the holy-rolling assholes they're used to. While they're talking, they spot some suspicious merchandise in the store's display cases: bits of animals and humanoids of questionable legality. Pepper calls Mal over to look at some tacky hats

Pepper lets out a stifled laugh at a hat with an Elvish phrase on it.

Malkas: "What?"

Pepper: "It uh. It wouldn't really translate too well."

Pepper: "It's completely filthy though."

Pepper turns the hat around in her hands, obviously desperate to buy it, but puts it back. "I'm pretty sure you'd get kicked out of like EVERYWHERE if you wore that in public."

Malkas: "Just get it."

Pepper: "We'd never see Edith again."

Grim, meanwhile, stays to strike up a deal with the shop owner.

Grim: "That goblin hand genuine?"

Grim definitely says gen-yew-wine

Helia (GM): "Oh yeah. Got it off a gerblin trader."

"I bought it from 'im, already severed."

Grim nods and studies the case, sucking on her cigarette, then gestures at it

Grim: "How 'bout them hydra fangs?."

Helia (GM): "Can't reveal my sources on that one."

Grim: "Uh-huh."

Helia (GM): "You with the guard?"

Grim: "Shit no."

Grim looks at him

Grim: "I look like a guard to you?"

Helia (GM): The dwarf shrugs.

Grim: "You in the market for trophies, say I had a line on some unusual game?"

Helia (GM): "Maybe. Depends."

Grim: "Here's how it is. I'm a bounty hunter by trade, come into contact with a lot of...real exotic types."

Grim: "Once in a while, a perp don't make it home all in one. You know what I'm saying?"

Helia (GM): "Why don't you give me some more details about what you got a line on, eh?"

Grim regards the dwarf for a moment, then reaches into her pack and pulls out a couple of wanted notes. Specifically, Mal's and Capridi's.

Helia (GM): The dwarf examines them.

Grim: "So happens I'm, uh, travellin' with a couple folk right now as might have some interest to you."

Helia (GM): "Hm. That's a weird lookin' Dragonborn..."

Grim: "Never seen one the like've her," Grim mutters back."Pelt like a sheep, but tougher'n leather."

Helia (GM): "Hm..."

He writes a number down on the back of Malkas's bounty paper.

(2500 gp)

Grim: "Whole package, or horns 'n tail?"

Helia (GM): "Both, an' the Dragonborn."

Grim: "Shit, you gouge your clients almost as bad as your merch."

Grim straightens up and raises her voice along with her rifle

Grim: "Hey Malkas? This sorry sonovabitch just offered to buy your hide."

Malkas: "... What?!"

"... For how much?!"

Pepper: "Uh."

Grim: "2500, you an' Capridi both."

Helia (GM): "Your pal here offered to sell it!"

Malkas: "That's not nearly enough!"

Grim: "What d'you reckon on our doing with a rotten ass poacher?"

Pepper squints her eyes shut and rubs the bridge of her nose.

Malkas: "Uh... We're legally allowed to beat the hell out of him, I think?"

Grim: "That's about what I wanted to hear."

There's a minor scuffle with the shopkeeper pulling a rifle on us, but Pepper deftly panics and knocks a rack of merchandise onto his head as she dives for cover under a table. Mal and Grim only got shot a little bit. Pepper's not too happy with the turn of events, but thanks to the Baldur's Gate laws of “finders, keepers” she scores a free lewd hat out of the deal.

Success! And it only took up most of the morning!

Later that afternoon, Pepper spies Edith on the street. Mal's gone off to run an errand and she's looking for a place for lunch so she invites Pepper along into a local diner. Edith orders a burger while Pepper can't resist ordering the mushroom and spider-meat stew. Edith shows off the darkvision goggles she picked up for the road trip that might come in handy, Pepper seems to have spent her time thinking about what she's going to eat.

Edith gets in to the philosophy of the different schools of magic—she was drawn to Evocation because of the inherent excitement, but she's always admired the ways wizards can be useful with magic, even if it's less flashy.

Edith Runekill: "See, now, I went into wizardry for the excitement of it, which is why I ended up majoring in Evocation even though my school's so famous for useful schools of agricultural magic like transmutation or enchantment."

"But wizards who do useful stuff are so, so important? They're the reason Plaguewrought Land isn't so wrought with plague these days."

"Maybe I was just selfish..."

"Or too fascinated by setting things on fire."

"Both, probably."

Pepper: "Seems like being into something useful just gave my mom an unhealthy obsession with legumes."

"Which--and I'm still trying to puzzle this one out--leads to setting a lot of fires in its own right."

Edith Runekill laughs. "Well, we all got our specialties."

Edith Runekill: "Legumes and fire?"

Edith Runekill considers this.

Edith Runekill: "Culinary magic?"

Pepper eats another sugar cube and sips some coffee. "Got that in one."

Edith Runekill dumps like three sugar cubes into her coffee cup.

Edith Runekill adds an amount of cream perhaps best characterized as "too much"

Pepper says nothing to the massacre in a cup happening across the table and digs around in her soup for more legs.

Edith Runekill: "Always wanted to try something cooked up by a culinary wizard. But it won't happen with what I make as an assistant curator. Or at least not if I want to pay both rent and eat for the rest of the week."

The topic then naturally turns to family, we'll be driving straight through Plaguewrought Land where Edith's from. She's not looking forward to going back home, but she feels obligated to do so, though Pepper doesn't see it that way. At best, Edith anticipates a lot of farm chores to which Pepper jokes it's a good thing they have Grim along. Which just gives Edith something else to fret over—she's still trying to see how she could have handled the Cap situation differently, but she's at a complete loss.

Edith Runekill: "Yeah. You SEE that look she gave me? Her tone of voice when she talked to me? And. Like. I GET it, since-- like-- catching bounties and bringing lawbreakers to justice and stuff is her THING, but... but I can't really APOLOGIZE since... since she really was wrong there? That really wasn't the right thing to do?"

"But it's even more messy because like now I know WHY I care so much about what she thinks of me????????"

Pepper spoons some pie onto Edith's plate. "Settle down, it's not like she hates you. Or even dislikes you."

Edith Runekill drops a french fry in surprise. "She... doesn't?"

Edith Runekill: "I... I figured I'd burnt my bridges...?"

"Making friends with her at all was so hard... worth it, but it was hard..."

Pepper: "She doesn't strike me as the type to hang around people she doesn't like."

Edith Runekill: "Well. I mean. We all got a job to do, here..."

"And it's important to me, and it's important to HER, too, which is why how she handled things with Capridi burns my butter so much?"

"Capridi helped us NOT DIE so we can CATCH THE LICH and isn't that more important than jaywalking in High Imasker or whatever?"

"Everything's all mixed up with everything else and I'm just flying in like six different directions at once."

Pepper: "I think she's just got different priorities. She just spent 20 minutes by herself getting a shopkeep to admit to blackmarket bodyparts trafficking instead of, oh, calling the police."

"Like, if it's a law problem she can fix she just goes for it?"

Edith Runekill: "Well. That's good detective work, at least."

"And-- like-- I get that. I live by a code too, even if-- as I'm learning-- it's a pretty different one. It's just. Like. The Lich is breaking any number of worse laws in worse ways? Shouldn't we be triageing our priorities a bit? Or at least sorting things out before just shooting people?"

Pepper: "Well sure, but if you think about it, we were heading to the police station anyway, so we didn't really waste much time--" she trails off, catching Edith's expression. "I mean, it was a crummy thing to do, don't get me wrong."

Edith Runekill: "Yeah..."

Pepper scratches her chin. "But I think she's just used to doing things her own way. She doesn't seem the type to do a lot of uh, group activities, anyway."

Edith Runekill: "Yeah, that too. Which is maybe why she didn't realize that between all of us there were way better ways to keep Capridi form bolting before we got everything worked out."

Pepper: "I mean, it's hard to get used to working with a group if you've been alone for awhile." Her face flushes and she shoves a forkful of pie into her mouth. "'At's just wha' I fink, 'nyway," she mumbles.

Edith Runekill: "I guess so."

Pepper then does her best to reassure Edith that unexpected crushes aren't the end of the world and you can even still be friends and coworkers with a crush. Pepper also starts to come to terms with the fact that she's been a complete ass.

Pepper clinks her mug to Edith's, which is weird because Edith's mug is sitting on the table. "At least you figured it out with a girl you LIKE, and not one that keeps hiding your shoes at camp."

Edith Runekill: "I guess," Edith says, sounding a bit unconvinced. "Sure makes things complicated though. Also, hiding your shoes sounds pretty mean and I'm sorry somebody did that."

Pepper: "Joke's on her, I got to go home a week early because of it." She laughs, but her brow's a bit furrowed.

"Anyway. It's not complicated so much as. Hm. Wrinkled? You can pal around with someone you've got a crush on, y'know."

Edith Runekill: "You... can?"

Pepper: "I think modern society would crumble if that weren't the case."

Edith Runekill looks thoughtful as she contemplates the mysteries of modern society.

Pepper: "I mean, you work with so many people one of them's bound to've had a thing for you and kept it to themself," she says, eating another sugar cube.

Edith Runekill: "Leave some of the those cubes for me," Edith says, as she absentmindedly puts another one in her cup of coffee. Then: "Wait, really? On li'l ol' me?"

Pepper: "I guess I am taking it on faith there's more than one person out there who'd be interested in you."

Pepper pauses. "That was mean. Was that mean? That was mean."

Edith Runekill: "That... that was kind of mean. Sorry."

Pepper: "Right." She nods and eats a too-large bite of bread.

Edith Runekill: "Well. Thanks for realizing it and saying something, anyway. You... you've been nice to me, these past few days."

Pepper rubs her chin. "Yeah, I sorta had you pegged wrong from the start. I thought--" she trails off and rubs at her chin like there's a smudge she's trying to get rid of.

Pepper: "Well, nevermind what I thought."

Pepper tries to paint Edith a picture, anyway: To her, Edith was a stone-cold hardass willing to tangle with a lich and then hunt down some muggers for street justice. Edith gets upset remembering the showdown in the alley, it's something she's been avoiding thinking about. In doing so, though, she realizes that maybe she shouldn't keep these things to herself—that it's better to talk about what's bothering her. Pepper agrees, it's no good to keep your troubles bottled up inside.

On that note, Pepper asks if there really is a chance the lich is headed over the Sea of Swords—it turns out her parents live in the Moonshae Isles, just off the coast that way. Edith doesn't think it's likely, she agrees the baelnorn in the area would keep Szass Tam away and going by history, he's much more interested in the Eastern part of the world. Still, Pepper says she'll let the group know if her parents have anything lich-related to say the next time she calls them.

Pepper: "Fingers crossed pops doesn't bring up skeletons next time I call home, then."

Edith Runekill: "Or he does but it's just the friendly baelnorn next door." She smiles, but then a guilty look flickers over her face. "Wait, you been calling home? I... I haven't since the Secomber thing..."

Pepper flushes and looks up at the ceiling. "Well. Y'know. Not like EVERY day. Just every few. If I have something to say."

Edith Runekill: "Ah..." Edith wrings her hands, anxiously. "I... I know I ought to call more often, but I don't... I don't think they'd be all right with how dangerous what I'm doing is. They aren't even thrilled about me living in Neverwinter, or the little expeditions me and Mal go on, or... well, Mal at all, really. Ma was really mad,,, or-- or really worried, maybe-- when I called her during the Secomber thing. But. But if we're headed in their direction?"

"I... I guess I GOTTA call?"

Pepper: "Edith, I call my folks because I like to. You don't gotta if just thinking about it gives you a peptic episode."

Edith Runekill: "Ah..."

"Well, I still probably oughta call before we just show up unannounced. Even if that would actually be pretty funny, come to think of it."

They finish up their meal and head out. +1 to social bonding between Pepper and Edith achieved!

Edith meets up with Mal who gives her a present: a bracelet with 5 enchanted charms. Each charm can summon a different party member to Edith—useful if we get separated during the trip. A very thoughtful gift! Mal's such a good boy.

They talk about the upcoming trip, Mal is understandably nervous about visiting Edith's parents at their home. They've never been too keen on him in the past—the word “half-breed” may have come up a time or two—but it's important to Edith that she stops in. She tries to reassure Mal that things will go as smooth as possible, she's positive her parents will come around on him.

Edith Runekill: "They like you better than my high school boyfriend. Low bar, I know, but..."

Malkas: "Ha, really?"

"What did he do?"

Edith Runekill: "Tried to elope at the age of 18."

Malkas: "Wh-What!"

"You ... What?!"

Edith Runekill: "He wanted us to get married and run off together right after high school. And I'm standing there with an acceptance letter to PA&M like, what? I think he was just trying to save the relationship before I went away..."

"And. You know. My parents 100% had my back on that. They want me to marry a nice local boy, but, sweet Auril, not like that."

Malkas: "Not at eighteen, no matter how thick-necked and tow-headed he was?"

Edith Runekill: "Yeah. And not when I had a future ahead of me. Of course, turns out the future they imagined and the future I imagined were pretty different."

Malkas: "Fewer ravenous monsters in their future?"

Edith Runekill: "But at the time they were proud of me for going away to college. But I reckon they counted me on coming back with a degree in agricultural magic and ideas about how to modernize the farm. And not... well, all the things I found that've made life worth living."

Malkas: "Edi, you're gonna make me blush."

They head back to the hotel and the scene fades to black.

Ahem.

After waiting a polite amount of time, Grim—who had been in her room when Mal and Edith got back to the hotel—goes to pay Edith a visit. Edith is noticeably flustered to greet Grim while wearing a bathrobe, but it's not as if she's the type to pretend she didn't hear the knock at the door.

Edith Runekill opens the door. She's wearing a fuzzy hotel bathrobe, and her generally carefully-styled hair is in disarray. She has an obvious hickey on her neck; she tugs on the collar of the robe in a vain attempt to try to cover it up.

Edith Runekill: "Oh... Grim! When did you get back?"

Grim looks at her

Grim: "Bout an hour back."

"Don't mean to interrupt."

Edith Runekill: "Um... an hour, huh. Um."

Edith Runekill sweats.

Edith Runekill is having a waking nightmare.

Edith Runekill: "Um. Anyway! What can I do for you?"

Grim: "Wondered when y'all reckon on leaving. Ain't heard from none've the others."

Grim is just as completely :| as ever

Edith Runekill: "Oh! Um."

"Sometime this afternoon, depending on how long it takes for everyone else to finish getting things together."

"I've already done all the shopping I needed so... I guess... I can get ready whenever?"

Grim shrugs

Grim: "Ain't out to put a rush on the two've you." She glances across Edith's shoulder for a split second, then back at her.

"Only wonderin' is all. Got no feel for the temperature round here lately."

Edith apologizes for accidentally disregarding Grim's feelings back at the library and the museum; she feels like she took the reins on where the group should go and what they should do without taking Grim's views into account. Grim doesn't seem too upset, Edith is more equipped at dealing with libraries and museums than she is.

Edith emphasizes she thinks Grim is an important member of the group, Grim in turn tells her not to be upset if they're at odds occasionally—it's not a bad thing that Edith stood by her convictions in the library about Capridi.

Grim: "You ain't gotta like me, Edith. Or agree with half what I do. I got no place to ask that from anyone. Don't make no difference to my bein' here to see this through."

"Truth be told, I reckon it's the mark of a good person. When your conscience won't lay flat on what you see just 'cause it'd be a whole lot easier."

Grim shrugs gently

Grim: "I ain't one to do what's easy. And you ain't neither. Don't mean we always gotta agree on the right way."

Edith Runekill nods.

Edith Runekill: "Yeah..."

Grim: "I don't want you thinkin' I'm a good person, or a smart person, or the kind you gotta tear yourself in two to please. Just so long as you do what comes right to you, I got no quarrel."

Edith Runekill looks visibly relieved. Even though she's standing there in nothing but a bathrobe, with a hickey, and a look that sort of evokes the 17th century fashion concept of "romantic negligence".

Edith Runekill: "I do think you're good, though, and smart. I think I can still think that about you, even if I don't always agree with you."

Grim snorts softly

Grim: "Guess I talked myself out've arguin' you on that one."

Edith Runekill smiles a bit for the first time in this whole conversation.

Edith Runekill: "Guess you did."

Grim eyes her, considering her words again

Grim: "Didn't reckon on you carin' for me, for as much as you ever did. Ought've been different to you if I realised."

Grim isn't exactly apologising but she looks vaguely abashed

Edith Runekill blushes, and looks away. "Guess it was obvious to everyone but me."

Grim 's brow furrows

Grim: "It was, huh?"

"Didn't figure on it myself 'til I heard it out've your mouth last night."

Edith Runekill: "Ah..."

Look at these two.

But, now that it's all out in the open, Edith is a lot more comfortable with things and the situation has more or less resolved itself. They come to a mutual agreement that Edith can just say what's on her mind next time, rather than keeping it all to herself.

They chat a bit about going back to Edith's hometown—Grim seems to be the only one vaguely encouraging about her making the trip.

Edith Runekill: "I dunno. I been thinking a lot about how... how dangerous this thing we're doing is. We might not come back from it. So... so I guess I don't want to regret having missed what turned out to be my last chance to see home again."

Grim takes this in and nods, eyeing her cigarette

Grim: "You got folks there, too. For good or bad, there's a place that made you."

"I got no answer for it, all I know is it's somethin' that don't stop being true. No matter how far you go."

Edith Runekill nods. "I might spend my days in dusty tombs or overgrown temples or stuffy museum offices. But Plaguewrought Land is still in my bones, Auril's ice is in my blood, and that'll be true until the day I die."

Grim: "It's somethin' I like about you Runekill. You got feet that know the ground, hands that know the soil. Ain't met so many magic types that way."

"Ain't nobody else where you are now who came by the roads you did."

Edith Runekill nods again.

Edith Runekill: "Maybe getting back there for a bit really will do me some good. Or at least it'll be a chance to see my nieces and nephews again..."

Grim: "Worst comes to worst, you got a half decent right hook these days."

These two, I swear to God.

And with that, bridges are mostly mended and we're ready to be crammed in a car together for hours at a time. Good luck to us all.

[wizardsnwookies]

Campaign Diary- TOD071217

The party takes their time exploring the lair for the remainder of the hoard, checking it against the inventory given to them by the toad creatures upstairs. Once everything had been accounted for Dain went about removing the dragon’s head. A bit squeamish, Osborne turned away and faced Skydancer.

“We still have the problem of the fact that we didn’t get a single bit of useful information out of him. What are we supposed to do now?”

Between hacks of his axe Dain raised his voice, “I can speak with the Dead. Maybe we can still ask him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be all too happy to answer our questions...”

Skydancer replied with a furrowed brow, starting to get annoyed with Osborne’s pessimism. “Do you have any other options?” She cast her gaze to the rest of the party. “I say we do it.”

“I can only ask five questions though.” Dain punctuated his statement with a final blow, severing the spine with a loud CRACK.

“Ok, so what do we ask?”

The entire party thought for a few moments, each offering their own suggestions. Several angles were suggested to sweeten the pot, such as insinuating violence against Arathator’s mate, finally the decision was made and Dain clutched his holy symbol and began muttering the incantation.

Within his head, Dain heard a faint echo like water rippling deep inside a well. A presence began to form from the fog, and he felt a chill run down his spine as the departed dragon connected it’s mind with his.

“How does it feel to be betrayed by the dragon cult?” The first question was a bluff, a bluff that may just breed his own betrayal of their location. 

“I feel...nothing.” The voice felt empty, almost bored at this question.

“Where is the Draakhorn?”

“...with the dragon cult.”

Dain frowned, not much help with that one. “Where is the cult?”

“With my father.”

Moving on to other topics now, topics that may or may not have been spawned of different motivations than their current mission. “Where are your other lairs?”

“To the South.”

“And which Dragon has the biggest hoard?”

The presence began to fade, but before it left it let out a cold chuckle and replied, “Tiamat.”

The party sat and let the information digest. Osborne was still unsatisfied, not quite sure what, if anything, they accomplished here. Then he remembered Makath and the lost texts. There was something there at least.

Collecting Makath the heroes made their way to the cavern of Toads to deliver the news of the beasts death. When Waldorf spoke of his passing the creatures seemed almost sad.

“What’s wrong my friend?”

“This work, this is our lives.”

Waldorf looked puzzled at him for a moment. “You surely can continue your work outside these walls?”

“Well, yes. I suppose you’re right...”

“In fact, I have a wonderful idea.” The wizard put a wrinkled hand on what he assumed was the toad’s shoulder. “Why not come back with us? We can set you up with your own work space and library. You can continue your studies, only now it might be used to aid the world. Work against the dragon cult!”

The toad’s eyes suddenly brightened with the mentioning of a private library. After but a moment’s thought, he croaked to the entire chamber and suddenly everything was a blur of movement as scrolls and tomes were carefully packed and readied for the long journey south.

The leader hopped over to a small chest to make his own preparations when his eye caught sight of Dain, with the massive severed head hoisted on his shoulders. “Is...is that the dragon you slew?”

“Why, yes! This is the very beast. I must say Arathator put up quite a fight, but eventually I got the better of him.” Waldorf boasted, ignoring the toad creature as it hopped over to examine the bloody head.

“This is not Arathator...”

The entire party was frozen in place, not even blinking. “I beg your pardon?”

“The cranial ridges, here. You can tell. This is not Arathator, this is his son, Orathian.”

The color drained almost completely from Osborne’s face. Skydancer, allowed herself a smile, turned, and lead the way out of the cavern and into the hall.

Osborne took stride with her. “Hey, where are you going?”

"Arathator is still alive. Maybe if we wait, he’ll come back on his own and we can finish what we started.”

Osborne had to catch himself from tripping over his own feet. “Are you...gah...are you suicidal or something???”

“What are you talking about??”

“We barely made it out of that alive, and that was a younger dragon!!”

“Oh, come on. We did fine.”

“FINE???” Osborne tried not to get lost into his memories, the sight of massive gaping jaws coming for him. “If it wasn’t for that Scroll of Disintegration...What is with you lately? Seriously, it’s like all you care about is dragon slaying!!”

“No...I just want a worthy match for my abilities that’s all.”

Lotus took the moment to speak up, having discretely followed them out into the hall. “We are not looking to slay dragons. We are looking for the Draakhorn.”

“What he said.” Osborne replied.

“So, we just have Dain cast ‘Speak to Dead’ again. No biggie.”

Osborne took a deep breath. “So what, we just stay here until god knows when, waiting for Arathator to return? We don’t even know if he WILL come back. Not to mention, we are on a bit of a timeline after all. What with the Apocalypse and all that, or have you forgotten?”

Skydancer took a moment, looking at both Osborne and Lotus. She let out a sigh, they were right of course. 

That night the village held a mixed celebration. Bonfires roared, roasting dragon flesh on spits, enough to feed everyone in attendance. Upon reaching the surface the news was broke that the party had indeed slayed a dragon, it was however Arathator’s son. After speaking with the chieftain it was agreed that the natives were no longer safe here, should Arathator return, his fury would destroy them all. So it was they held this last feast in their island home, the heroes as honored guests, slayers of dragons, and freedom bringers to the tribe.

The next day began the long journey back to Waterdeep. When they finally arrived, though weary of travel, they immediately got to work. After setting the toads up temporarily at the guild hall, the heroes sought out Leosin for a debriefing and update.

“...there was one last thing. The shaman mentioned seeing two white dragons a few months back, one much larger than the other, and the smaller one with what appeared to be a riding harness.” Skydancer finished her report and Leosin held his chin in his fingers, thinking long and hard on all he had heard.

“Dragon riders...lovely. That’s the last thing we need at the moment. And with Arathator still alive...” The Harper shook his head. “At any rate, it cannot be helped. It’s good to see you all back. We’ve had some developments that could use your attention.”

“Aye?”

“It seems the Dragon cult has lost one of the five Masks of the Dragon. Reports are coming in that several masked and hooded individuals, one a dwarf dressed in purple, scouring the area around Boraskeer Bridge new Baldur’s Gate.”

Osborne’s memory brings him back to the lodge on the mountain, and his conversation with Talis. “It’s the white mask isn’t it? The purple robed one must be Verim, the wyrmspeaker.”

“That tracks. Can I count on your to get investigate?”

Skydancer stood, looking back at the rest of the party. “Of course, we’ll get right on it.”

The party stepped out into the city streets, everyone was very much in need of a good night’s sleep, everyone did their best to hid it, but they were all tired. And so the heroes returned to the guild hall and their beds. All except Barton, who sat up with his book by candle light.

During the journey he had managed to translate a portion of the book. He knew it held the contracts of infernal beings. He could see that Bel’s name was in the table of contents. This meant Bel’s contracts where there...HIS contract was there. But most importantly, within the book there was a copy of the standard contract form in it’s entirety. Perhaps, if he managed to translate it, and examine it he could find some kind of loop hole...

A small hope, but at this point, that’s all he had. And in these dark times, that’s all anyone has.