#now to figure out where to go to look for ravengard

[blackjackkent]

Quick scour of the rest of the prison fortress before we move on.

Highlights:

A book behind the Fist desk in the main prison lobby seems to be a report by Devella (Valeria's assistant). Devella appears to be pretty smart and has already identified that the murder spree happening in the city is Bhaalist in nature:

BG1 reference! I know why they do it but it never fails to amuse me when Caden is just referred to as "Gorion's Ward." Couldn't even spring for a "Hero of Baldur's Gate"? Also Sarevok mention but booooo, fuck Sarevok.

The list of requisitioned stock for the fortress includes "a surplus of scrolls of invisibility, sleep, and armor designed to dampen the searing effects of fire." Not sure what I'm supposed to interpret from this per se, but it seems significant.

Lots of other documents indicating corruption, racism, and general sadism among the Flaming Fist, as well as the ineffectual efforts of a few better folk trying to stand against it.

It took a number of savescummed tries for me to poke effectively deeper into this area, but Hector was eventually able to rob the Fist blind of some armor, several health potions, and the only actual important thing, an elixir of hill giant strength.

We found a gnome dressed in a Flaming Fist outfit trying to lockpick a chest in the barracks next door while his comrades were asleep. Hector talked to him; turns out he wants to desert because he's scared of the fight against the Absolutists, and has been stealing from his fellows to try and get enough money to pay the price-gouging people running the local ferry. Hector honestly doesn't blame him for being terrified, and gave him 300 gold to get the hell out of town. Jaheira and Minsc approved, and he told Hector about a cache of the stuff he's been stealing, up on the roof. So we'll go check that out later.

Hector then stole everything out of the barracks himself. Given that the whole Fist seems to be corrupted at this point, taking everything he can get his hands on seems like a bit of a civic duty.

[limpfisted]

Something I think taken for granted for "good and heroic" characters like wyll is

How hard it is to be a hero in settings like this in gen. especially a solo hero.

And then u look at will especially at 17, especially after just losing half of your vision, and now being obligated to hunt devils for mizora, and not being able to tell people who you are or why you have magical powers

Wylls life has been extremely difficult.

Hes not "some rich boy." In fact, he tells you himself, he never really was. His father became grand Duke when he was 17. His father was a Duke before that, but his father was born to a poor blacksmith father and he was the youngest of six, so he worked his way up the ranks. Even as son of a Duke and grandduke---ulder was champion of the poorer "mythical middle class" lower city. All nobles and patriars are from the upper city. There's no way wyll wasn't looked down on by the upper city and then held to a certain untouchable standard as the flaming fist brat by the lower city/outer city people

And yet even at being some "rich boy" he excelled thru hard work and dedication, making things into a competition if nothing else, in which despite his Father's unsurpance to power, he still had PROOF he was the most charming, after all, he held the record for most sarabandes danced in a single evening, much to the exhaustion to the good lords and ladies of the courts.

But even so, with this "cushy life" (where he would get into trouble, mind you! Where his father would encourage him to get into fights, who would train him with a rapier, where he would drink in taverns in the lower city at 14 despite being "a noble rich boy" and hand deliver letters from his father to sharess's caress before he ever knew what went on with the pretty men and handsome ladies behind closed doors.)

Have you ever been camping, like experienced the holy shit, Outside of it all? I dont even like leaving the house without my phone. Wyll, 17, traveled all over the sword coast, with one eye, who knows how many supplies.

While wyll laughs off the trauma of it, losing an eye is a real ass disability that affects your motor skills. It can be difficult to do things like cut food at first, and it can take like 6 months WITH THERAPY for everything to feel "normal" again. Now imagine fending off goblins, and minotaurs, with no therapy, no physical therapy, no doctor. Having to navigate the cold of winter, cursed lands, mountains, all by yourself.

Having to learn to use you sword again, this time without your father. Remembering him every time you pick it up. Remembering the way he looked at you every time you face down a "devil." Spitting the words he would later say to you at them. They stink of avernus, they have brought ruin

Wyll dedicated his life to laboring for the people of the Sword Coast. It's not easy. He makes it look fun, because he's so proud of himself and happy to be helping people

But its actually hard and lonely. And it doesn't come easy, even to Wyll, I think. He had to train himself, it probably took him a long time to figure out what he was doing

I dont think wyll is really as inexperienced and naive as people think. Hes been to avernus, he's fought dragons and minotaurs. He's seen terrible things, he's STOPPED terrible things, and he's going to continue doing so, and choosing to do so, with the full knowledge of what that decision means, and the hard work and sacrifice it requires.

he's fully aware of who he is and what he's capable of, and he's extremely brave and strong and competent

Its good to be good for the sake of being good! And wyll does believe in fairy tales. But his dedication to the blade doesn't come because he's misinformed. Is he as experienced and powerful as he thinks he is? No, he's 24 LOL. But he's still done a lot! Has YOUR muse hunted devils thru avernus? Has ur muse even BEEN to avernus?

Wyll ravengard genuinely is improvising half the time---but more important than simply "being" good and wanting to do good----Wyll has the experience, practice and competence in serving a community to actually BETTER and protect communities.

In fandom spaces we often talk about how certain characters are "just so good" but we like. We forget about the effort it takes to actually commit to acts of doing good, the practice and perservance it takes to competently serve the community.

You can give the people the shirt off ur back but u run out of shirts eventually. Wyll has made himself an important resource on the Sword Coast for its safety. And I think we take that for granted bc its a genre staple, but like. He worked really hard. He dedicated himself to this.

He sold his soul, and he kept living and doing good anyway

[thetavolution]

I wasn't tagged for these, but I wanted to talk about this haha. So this is from the BG3 Wedding Season Tag Game!

Food - What kind of food and drink is being served at the reception? Is there a lush feast or simple fare? Is there a wedding cake or some other kind of traditional wedding food?

Gale and Tessa / Gale and Vaira

Gale would dominate the food. He just would. He wouldn't be able to cook for the wedding because he's too busy getting married, but he would carefully decide who is in charge of the food. It'd be his favorite chef in Waterdeep. If we're in the universe where he's marrying Tessa, he'd also bring in a chef from her hometown. He would do his research on who is the best because Tessa would have no idea.

It would be a lush feast and that is perfectly curated to their taste. Gale is less concerned with traditional foods and more about what sounds good, and what their friends would enjoy. His mother, Morena, would 100% take over wine duty. I feel it in my bones.

The Dekarios family most likely has their family dishes that have to be at every function. While I subscribe to the thought that he's an only child, I do believe he has a lot of extended family. He'd also count on his aunt insisting on cooking that eel pie she always brings. She's convinced the whole family asks for it. (They do not.)

Tessa has a few dishes she'd want. She'd be grateful that Gale took care of the chefs. She also comes from a large family. (She's one of 6 kids with plenty of cousins.) The wedding would be huge and she also knows her dad would insist on bringing moonshine. Although she would go back and forth on actually inviting dear ol' dad to the wedding. Gale would support her either way despite fearing he'd ruin the wedding. It's up in the air if he would actually ruin the wedding.

Vaira would just want a lot of protein and she would trust Gale's judgement on the food. She doesn't know anything about food on Faerûn and gith only really eat if they have to. Gale would help her gain an appreciation for food though.

The wedding cake would be magical. It would be layered with several flavors rather than just one. People would have options. It would be oh so slightly enchanted. Since it's made ahead of time, Gale was probably more hands on with the cake. There'd be a perfect replica of him and his partner on top, of course. I think he'd be delighted and a little freaked out how much it looked like them.

There would also be so much alcohol at this wedding.

People will talk about the food at this wedding for years to come. The wedding industry in Waterdeep will hear the phrase "I want food as good as that Dekarios wedding, except for that eel pie" for decades.

Wyll and Minty / Wyll and Lamia

Wyll would lean into the traditional wedding foods and what you'd find in Baldur's Gate. He would also want traditional foods from the culture of whoever he was marrying. He wants the wedding to feel like home for both of them. Yes, he has dignitaries to impress, but his spouse's happiness is more important.

They would also have the traditional Baldurian wedding cake. Right now, I'm influenced by historical British royalty for the upper echelon of Baldur's Gate. They often had an 8-tiered fruit cake for weddings back then. I've tried the recipe for one of these older cakes and they're honestly not half-bad.

Minty would want traditional Kara-Tur foods, like Shan sao fruit stew, roast duck, shark fin soup, fish, prawns, rice, and noodles to represent longevity. Wyll would have actual chefs from Kara-Tur come in to help make everything more authentic. He'd also get advice from Minty's mother. Minty's mom would be the one to make sure they have red twill cakes alongside the traditional wedding cake.

Lamia would just want anything she thinks tastes good. I wish I had more to say for her, but I honestly don't think she'd have a lot of thoughts on the food. She'd just ask for a couple of dishes and let the Ravengards figure out the rest.

Lae'zel and Laura

Lae'zel does not care. Just make sure there's meat and plenty of food.

Laura would want more of an outdoor, picnic-like affair. There'd be homemade bread, fruits, apple butter, soup, Shepherd's pie, and the like. It'd all be rustic.

Instead of cake, Laura would have a pie table with homemade pies and tarts of all kinds. She'd make everything herself and it'd be a very small affair. Lae'zel would be able to tolerate it because it was an intimate affair.

Halsin and Ingrid / Halsin and Paloma

Halsin wouldn't have a wedding per se. It'd be something different. I do headcanon that he wants to settle down in his own way. I think his days of just going his own way are over and now he wants a partner by his side. He's still poly! He's just less "we're just two ships passing in the night" about it. He wants a family to call his own.

But weddings are still too traditional and feel too much like he is staking a claim in a person. He is happy to celebrate his relationship with his community though, and to openly show his love. You could argue that's what a wedding is, but sometimes how you frame it is important.

Halsin and Ingrid would throw a simple party where they would plant a tree together. They would be able to watch it age together. Then they would just have a nice outdoor gathering with friends, food, and drink. (Although Halsin would not imbibe.)

Fun fact: I created Ingrid long before I played BG3 and knew anything about Halsin, but even back then her favorite food was Russian honey cake.

Needless to say, their event would have honey cake.

Paloma and Halsin would have something more concrete. It would be a simple commitment ceremony of sorts. Just in an openly committing to take care of each other and love each other as a family. This is also partially due to the fact Halsin would become a step-dad. This ceremony would also be about giving the kids a sense of stability.

Paloma would want to make sure everyone was well fed, of course. It'd be more like a large potluck or you could compare it to a barn raising wedding. People would bring casseroles, soups, vegetables, fruits, and tarts. If you're thinking of a cottagecore inspired picnic, that's basically it. Paloma would also make goat cheese, honey, and fruit crostinis.

And yes, there would still be honey cake and a honey pear tart.

Astarion and Bex / Astarion and Lamia

Astarion would just need blood, but he'd still have so many opinions on food. He would want the best of the best, real highfalutin stuff. Astarion would want elven food. I like the idea of him trying to get in touch with the life he lost out on and using his wedding as part of that.

He would want the most elaborate and rich wedding cake you've ever seen. Whatever is popular for weddings, he will not be doing. His wedding is too special to be just like every other wedding you've been to. He'd pull some shit like Bonaparte did on his wedding day where he got a pastry chef to make a unique cake. Astarion might even put aside his pride to get a recommendation of pastry chefs from Gale, of all people.

Astarion would totally be a bridezilla. This is important, okay? He's finally found family and belonging. And it's a day where he gets to really matter. So you better make his stupid, giant wedding cake (dessert?) just right.

Both Bex and Lamia would be the chill ones. In Lamia's case, that's a terrifying prospect.

Bex, who has worked as a professional cook, would have a lot of thoughts on food. Sometimes, she and Astarion be on the same page. Other times, they would not. Bex would be annoyed because Astarion doesn't even remember how some stuff tastes, but insists on having it because of optics.

They're the kind of couple that you can watch go at it over stupid shit and then they're over it in the next five minutes, as if it never happened. Outside of the food, Bex would sort of let Astarion have his way though. She's not persnickety about weddings in general.

Lamia just wants to be the center of attention, but she's so much trashier than Astarion. They would argue about her terrible, terrible taste in everything.

Lamia would suggest simple, filling foods. It would drive Astarion up a wall because, I'm sorry, is this a wedding for basic bitches? No, no, no, we're having the best. Lamia wouldn't care that much about the food, but suggesting "peasant food" to rile him up would amuse her.

They would also have to make sure Lamia's bestie, Allie, just gets a ton of meat. I don't even think they'd have to cook it for her.

Viktor and Barcus

God, could these two not give less of a fuck. They care, but only in the sense of "is it good? Cool." Barcus would have some Underdark favorites at the wedding though. They would have deep rothé steak because it is a special occasion.

Overall, they'd have simple, but good food. Gale would have opinions, but he'd really only tell his spouse about it. Astarion would gossip with Shadowheart by how basic it is, unlike his wedding.

Elyse and Rolan

Rolan isn't a bridezilla... but he's pushing it. He is a perfectionist through and through. Everything has to be the best. He's also a little insufferable after Lorroakan. I say this about him with love.

Lia and Cal would constantly make fun of him (lovingly) and Elyse would be the more laidback one. I also think Rolan would also really want to show off to Elyse's fancy pants family even though she wouldn't care about what they think.

Rolan had nothing growing up and now can have anything he wants. He would ask for the best of the best. It'd be based on what he read about in books growing up. Books full of royals and aristocrats stuffing their faces with rich foods. Of course, he'd also make sure that Elyse, Lia, and Cal's favorites were present. He's not totally blinded by his perfectionism.

But it'd be a huge feast nonetheless. There'd be things like venison, roasted pig, poached duck, lobster, fruits, cheeses, breads, and a plethora of vegetables.

They wouldn't have a wedding cake. Since one of Elyse's favorite foods is croquembouche, they would decide to do that instead. Of course, there will be other sweets for guests to choose from. Rolan has thought of everything.

I find food fascinating and could talk forever. That lead to this. I'm always open to random food asks although I do not foresee anyone taking me up on that.

[fllagellant]

“Wyll, no-!”

All had blurred into a fine point. The crunch of bone fracturing and the wet, sickness inducing gush of blood. When the sword finally caught him- the Githyanki knight had executed a perfect half pirouette and the flourish of her blade held no error- Wyll hadn’t felt it. He only heard the cry of his name from somewhere across the battlefield they had made. He felt the rough, unforgiving ground catch him by the knees when he fell. He saw a flash of crimson and a death gargle before him. An arrow through the throat.

Wyll could barely breathe.

The crèche had become a nightmare for everyone. Wyll had thought they were all lucky, in their mad fight and dash out of the abandoned halls that would only be a temporary home for all within. They had all been making good progress.

Until he wasn’t fast enough.

Now, trying to blink the ringing in his ears away, Wyll Ravengard was fuzzily aware of what was happening to him.

The short of it? He was dying.

The long of it? He was dying, and it could not be stopped.

He didn’t need to see the wound to know it would be brutal. He could distantly feel it beneath his fingers. The sword wasn’t perfectly sharp, and it still caught itself on the bits of chainmail and careful plates of metal in his armour. His defence.

She caught him in his side, a miracle it didn’t rupture any organs- Please, Wyll pleaded to no one in particular, let it only be flesh. Let it just be my flesh- but the blood still oozed from it no matter how deep the sword went. With every frantic heartbeat, he lost more.

His hand was slick with his own blood, and Wyll kept having to use up his energy to bring his hand back up. Trying to staunch the bleeding. The leather on his palm wasn’t made for kindness. It could keep a firm grip on the pommel of a rapier, making it near impossible for him to be disarmed. But with a wound like this? His hand slipped off his wound with a fresh smearing of blood and heat. He groaned.

Wyll’s head lolled back, horns and skull avoiding cracking against rock ground by the hands holding him there. One hand cradling his head, soft gloves cushioning the firm grip. Wyll was cradled in a lap, solid and warm and smelling like firesmoke and metals. An imposing figure, larger than he.

Armour all fur and hand stitched leather, tacky and stained with blood. His own blood, his companions blood, his enemies blood.

Wyll’s blood.

Shadowheart stifled a sniffle. Her ankle throbbed like it was broken, and Lae’zel hung heavy on her right. She could not look away from the scene before her. Her hand lit with pain like it had been shattered. She did not look away.

The monastery, the crèche, the mountains, they had not been kind to them. Or their supplies.

They had nothing to give Wyll. Nothing to pour into the wound or pinch his nose to make him swallow down. They had been toeing a dangerous line, and it seems they had finally had their spool of luck go dry.

Shadowheart had nothing to give, either. Her nose already bleeding, heart pounding behind her eyes, after forcing two more spells to be casted by her hands. If she was to try to heal Wyll, what would they all do? The chances were high that she would fail, and higher still that she would injure herself trying. Then what?

Lae’zel shuddered in her hold, hand meekly slipping from where it was hooked around her shoulders. Shadowheart could only gaze at the worsening bruise on Lae’zel’s temple. A pommel strike the fighter could not have imagined was coming, now embedded in her flesh. The very thing Shadowheart had used the last bit of her power to mend before it became disastrous. They cannot stay here.

“Giilvas-“

The weakness of her voice scared her. Shadowheart cleared her throat like it mattered.

“Giilvas, please, we cannot rest here.”

It was a feeble attempt at reason, Shadowheart not wanting to state what she knew she was implying. Dying in the arms of someone who cared wasn’t were Wyll’s story should end, but it was better than him bleeding out alone. The only thing holding him being the frigid air, the dirty ground.

But they were not safe. Every moment they waited was another that they could be found.

Giilvas did not move. Frozen statue that offered himself as a resting place for a dying man. He did not look away from Wyll’s face. The sweat beading on his brow. His eyes screwed shut. Giilvas did not look away.

Shadowheart’s logical, rational mind said that she should try to make the argument that they need to leave. Shadowheart’s self-serving mind told her to leave Lae’zel to collapse on her feet and run away. Shadowheart’s wound seemed to ebb into a faint throb at the idea.

Then it lit ablaze again, when she opened her mouth.

“Can you carry him? Camp isn’t that far away.”

Shadowheart’s words were both true and lie. She knew this. At the top of the morning, when they had all relaced and rebuckled their armour, camp was a minor jaunt away. But for a dying man and a collapsing fighter? It was miles. Days. Years of walking and jostling and stumbling and bleeding out.

It was a desperate argument, one that tore itself apart at the slight thought. But what else was Shadowheart supposed to offer?

From the floor, blank eyes darting from watching Wyll’s face to watching the pull and twist of the wound, Giilvas couldn’t respond. This was his fault. He was foolish. He led them this way. He broke off from the group.

He thought he had a plan of escape, he thought they had finally overcome the trial of this place.

His rage still burned under his skin, voice still wanting to scream and howl and yell, hands shaking. They had been shaking since the crash. Since he woke up in a pod. Since he was abducted.

He could hear Lae’ze mutter, about Vlaakith and retribution and betrayal, but it was like his head was full of cotton and linen trimmings. Her words, already slurred, blurred even further together.

His jaw shifted, teeth clenched against each other. He ignored the scream of agony from his jaw hinge. The raw, sharp pain of dislocation and being snapped back into place not enough to break him yet.

He heard Shadowheart, the idea of carrying Wyll, but the wound wasn’t in the right place. His body, his flesh, would bend and tear further, the broken bits of metal and chain only too happy to turn on the wearer. No longer for defence, now, only for pain.

Wyll groaned again- the sound weaker again. Every noise was weaker. Every movement was more sloppy. Giilvas’ breath caught, trying to choke him- as his hand slipped again from his wound. The glistening, wet gash, surrounded by tacky remnants of all the blood already split, looked at Giilvas.

Giilvas looked back.

His tongue felt like it was a lead brick, his mouth dry like cracked earth.

“Go to camp.”

Shadowheart jolted at the sound, the rough words and the scratching tone still closer to animal than man, but she was not scared of her friend. It still took her a few moments to understand what she had just heard, however.

“I… What? You cannot be serious-“

“But I am.”

The words were a muffled growl around a mouthful of leather and cloth. A glove hit the floor in front of Shadowheart with a faint slap. Tossed from Giilvas’ mouth, a wet imprint showing were he had wrenched the glove off of him, tearing off a second skin.

Wyll’s hand slipped.

Instead of the broken groan of pain and desperation, it was replaced with a hum. It, too, was broken and pitchy, but it was different. Giilvas’ hands were larger than Wyll’s, warmer too, and he had the energy to push down against the gash. The tacky, wet feeling against his palm did not frighten Giilvas. It did not disgust him.

“You have to, Shadowheart. Lae’zel is the main target of the crèche. To keep her here it to sentence her.”

Another bit of pressure. Wyll opened his eyes. The dim light was too much. He felt blinded.

“Go to camp, pass off Lae’zel to Halsin, then tell the others where we are. Tell them they cannot be spotted. Tell them-“

A shadow hangs over Wyll’s face, finally, his eyes stop screaming. He wills them to open further.

“Tell them Wyll’s hurt. And that I’m protecting him.”

Giilvas. Hanging over him like the moon does over a river. Splattered with blood and dirt. Hair matted with dried gore and mud and gods know what else. Lip split. Jaw bruised. Eyes watching him like he’s the whole world and more.

Wyll thinks he could die. He could die, and he would be happy. But he dares not close his eyes.

Shadowheart does not argue. Lae’zel wants to, she can tell, but the damage her body has taken urges her to be quiet. Shadowheart knows the sunlight will aggravate Lae’zel, and she has to check for a concussion or any fractures once they do step outside. That will be a whole ordeal in of itself.

But, and Shadowheart feels her hand ache, she’ll gladly do it. Then, help her back to camp.

Besides, Shadowheart isn’t foolish. There’s a sombre sort of tension in the air. This is not an event she should be privy too. As much as she may want to be.

Giilvas waited for the sight of Shadowheart and Lae’zel to disappear out of the cavern. Waits for the sound of their careful, scraping footsteps to vanish, before he speaks. His voice rumbles low in his throat, and Wyll swears he can feel that rumble in his chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t- don’t you dare.”

Voice cracking, Wyll still finds it in him to try and quell that building guilt within Giilvas. He refuses for this to be his last moments. Not like this.

“Wyll…”

Giilvas swallows, the visible bob of his adam’s apple enough to pull Wyll’s eyes away from his face for a second. The sound is dry.

“I wish I did more, for you.”

“You fought like- like the hells.”

Giilvas’ palm shifts, the sudden push and move of the pressure making Wyll flinch. His hand rests overtop of the larger one covering his side. Wyll takes note of the roughness of Giilvas’ knuckles, the scar he can feel running down his hand and under his armour. Mapping everything he wants. Everything he wishes to have a little longer.

They both know he cannot last long enough for the other to get here. At least, he won’t be cold.

“You cannot go. Not without me.”

“You cannot always follow, O Golden Rose. Please, stay here.”

There was something sickeningly poetic about it all, Wyll knew. Like books he read in his teens. The ones that made him sob into the arm of his reading chair. The ones that lull him to safety. Then make him break.

He was in one of those stories now. The final stanza. Wyll hopes the author gives him one more line.

“My- My Blade. Don’t make me beg.”

A crack in his voice. Wyll looked into those eyes. Wet. The light hitting Giilvas’ brown eye reminded Wyll of the bronze they’d use in Baldur’s Gate. The bronze they’d use to adorn statues and engraved commemorative plaques on.

“I do not wish for you to beg. I wish we had more… more…”

His voice, broken and quiet, finally started catching on his words. The wound did not compare to the ache in his chest. Maybe he was foolish, to think he would survive everything that was happening to them. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten attached, let Giilvas court him the way he always wished to be. Maybe he shouldn’t have done the same.

There was a knowing look in Giilvas’ eyes, and they widened in response to the trailing words. His hands, instinctively, tightened their holds on Wyll. A desperate, wordless plea.

Breaking the eye contact, his eyelids finally fluttering shut, Wyll inhaled. Deep and final,holding his breath, before-

“No!”

Loud as a bear, echoing like it was living, the seer veracity of the word forced Wyll to open his eyes. Giilvas pulled Wyll’s face closer to his own, body bending and contorting, close enough to almost press his forehead against the other. A single, fat tear rolled down his cheek, cutting a weak path through blood and dust.

Wyll willed his hand up, willing it to cup Giilvas’ face. Willed his thumb to caress the skin, a loving gesture. The only thing he can do. He’s so tired.

“… I will not follow. But you cannot go.”

Another tear, another, falling down his face. Splattering on Wyll’s ruined armour. He feels one catch on his thumb, almost burning warm, as he force himself to keep the movement going. If he can focus long enough, then surely…

“I am out of practice. This will be sloppy. But I cannot just watch. Being able to kill no longer cuts it.”

Wyll cannot speak, throat dry and mind exhausted. He can only make a slight face at the words, the statement. He trusts Giilvas.

Still, an unflattering cry forced itself from Wyll’s throat at the tingle of magic beneath Giilvas’ hand. His grip on his face tightened for a second, the burn in his muscles telling Wyll just how exhausted he was, before he felt it.

The humming. His humming

In the quiet of the room, the humming let itself be amplified. A tune, a common bardsong, carried through the air on a low pitch. The magic pulsates against his skin, following the rhythm of the song.

The hum only grew, slowly increasing in volume, the rumble from Giilvas’ throat and chest easily felt by Wyll in their proximity. Like a purr from a cat. A soft, careful force. Wyll could feel it in his own chest, the aching from early being chased away. Forced from his lungs, his heart, for that sort of longing was not to be his.

He did not have to yearn to live.

He was not living in his final stanza.

There was still a pain in his side, as Giilvas grew a bit bolder, quietly singing the words and becoming more sure in the careful movements of his fingers against Wyll’s skin. But it wasn’t a searing burn, an adrenaline demanding gash.

It was mending. Giilvas was mending the wound.

A faint thought crossed Wyll’s mind, about every tale of the Golden Rose taking illness and wounds away. Every tale of a bard song bringing life to the people. Every tale of him throwing down his weapon to offer life from his palms.

Wyll had only ever seen him fight, only ever seen him bring death to those he hated. He had thought those tales distant or fictional. Giilvas wasn’t a cruel man, by any standard, but that did not mean he was versed in the acts of healing and medicines. Wyll knew how folk tales could run away with themselves.

But here he was. Here they were.

The ache was still there, but when Giilvas pulled his hand away, there was no gush of blood. Framed by the bent and broken plate metal, the ruined chainmail, the shredded fabric, was tender skin and scar tissue.

Tears still slipped from Giilvas’ eyes, slower now, finally letting his gaze leave Wyll’s face as his eyes closed. Forehead resting against Wyll’s

“I will not follow you, but you will not go. You can’t.”

Fresh blood painted Giilvas’ face. A nosebleed. The fresh metallic scent punctuated his words. Proof of his desperation. Proof just how out of practice he was. Proof of his exhaustion. The spell, no matter how simple it was on paper, had pulled on every last bit of Giilvas’ strengths.

Wyll mustered up enough energy to reply, the mending of his wound not able to bring back the amount of blood and energy he’d lost.

“I cannot. You’re- you’re right.”

His eyes fluttered shut. He would live another day. Love another day. He would wake up the next morning and Gillvas would be across from him at the fire, like always.

He managed to force a conversation, body rebelling at every word. He knew it could wait, but he didn’t wish to leave Giilvas alone just yet.

“… I thought the tales were lies.”

“… I made a choice. When I woke up. That I had to be a wall. Something that could fight. I was always a bard first. But I was without an instrument. Hitting things is easy, but I need to be able to heal too. I just… my hands wouldn’t stop shaking before. And accuracy is everything.”

He let his words hang, not expecting Wyll to answer.

“I didn’t want to disappoint. Didn’t want you all to watch me relearn things I was so efficient at. Used to be efficient at. But… I can’t keep holding back. I can’t keep hoping we make it. I can’t keep letting you all down. I’ll learn again. I’ll pick up an instrument and make my hands steady again. I’ll heal again.”

His reply, his answer, was a whisper. Soothing enough to lull Wyll to rest. Watching how Wyll relaxed, watching his brow unfurrow and his hand falling from Giilvas’ face. He pressed himself into the warm body, feeling the comfort of the furs and soft fabrics embrace him. Feeling Giilvas’ hand still cradling his head, holding his weight and letting him rest.

The last thing Wyll felt before he fully slipped under, was a kiss to his forehead, all warmth and love.

[legrandepapillon]

wyllstarion | bloodpact nation, listen up! 📣

hello all, salut à tous!

it’s been awhile since i’ve been active on this blog, but i have a fun announcement for everyone. if you’re coming from twitter, this might be especially interesting to you! 🫶🏾

as you guys know, one of my new favorite ships is bloodblade/wyllstarion (Wyll Ravengard x Astarion Ancunín) from Baldur’s Gate III. i’ve been hyperfixating on them for awhile now, and i’m really letdown by how little slice of life fic we have for them. 

i would also really love to expand my writing skills perfect my craft as writer. i’ve neglected my writing muscles in recent years and i’m disappointed in a lot of the works i write now. 

because of this, i’ll be doing something that i haven’t done in literal years! i am opening my inbox for you to submit prompts for me to write. i will post the longer ones first on AO3, then here on tumblr, and finally link them on Twitter for all of my mutuals to find. 

the shorter drabbles i’ll post here on tumblr straight from the ask & link to them on twitter. if you’re reading this, my inbox is open & i’m currently taking requests. 

for the purposes of organization, i’ll only be accepting drabble prompts & requests here on tumblr though my inbox. my tumblr is linked on both my AO3 & Twitter accounts though, so it won’t be hard to find me. 

if you have a scenario that you you’ve been dying to put our boys in, you’ve come to the write place ( 😉 ). a few rules before popping over to the inbox, though!

as of right now, i’ll only be taking requests for the Baldur’s Gate fandom specifically for wyllstarion. however, if you like my writing style & want to see me try something for your ship, send the prompt over!! you might get a welcome surprised: i’m willing to try my hand at writing anything once. my one caveat is that i won’t be attempting to write anyone’s Tav/Durge outside of the canonical durge.

this is practice for me mainly!! prompts likely won’t be perfect or very long but they’ll give me something to do to hone my craft. don’t expect a soliloquy, and if you’re dissatisfied with the outcome of a prompt you’ve submitted, you can change it up a little & submit it again—i’ll be more than happy to try it again for you.

angst & nsfw request are accepted but i don’t write tortureporn figurative or literal. i will not write anything involving any character with their canonical abuser, and i will make judgement calls about certain kinks or mature themes on a case by case basis. some stuff is just not my cup of tea, hopefully you’ll find someone else who will write that!

keep it cute! literally! fluff/romance/domestic/slice of life prompts have a higher chance of getting written because that’s where i feel i excel at.

i’m not doing this on commission! this is 100% free thing that i’m doing mainly out of boredom and hyper fixation with this game/ship. please don’t be overly demanding or don’t expect the speediest response in filling your prompt. i work full time, look after my grandmother who is going blind, and i also just sometimes don’t feel like writing! i promise to do my best to fill every prompt as quickly & concisely as i can.

other than that, inbox is open & google docs is up and running. feel free to send me a prompt at any time; i look forward to making wyllstarion nations headcanons a reality! 🖤

[its-tricky-to-save-baldurs-gate]

Wyll x Dalia Date Night

(Dalia is a tiefling street urchin rogue.)

Love comes at the strangest time with unexpected company. A rare few lazy days at camp, everyone is getting a well deserved rest. Wyll was getting ready to clean his sword when he spotted an unknown note near his tent. He grabs it and begins to read. It says the following:

"Hey Wyll We're close to Zhentil Keep. I wanted to ask if you wanted to come with me to a secret spot of mine. It's at a corner of the city where no one will bug us or try to rob us. If you're interested, let me know. Sincerely,

Dalia."

Wyll felt giddy at the request of his new tiefling companion Dalia. She lived in this city her while life, she knows the ins and outs of it. At this point, he trusts her now t show him the way. The exiled warlock knew he will have to be cautious. Zhentil Keep is a very corrupted city run by the Zhentarim a mercenary company and mercantile organization. The few months shown to him, despite her chaotic life of petty crime to keep her stomach full, she had a heart. A couple of hours later, Dalia and Karlach returned to camp then started unpacking bags of long-needed supplies for the journey.

Wyll walks to Dalia and coughs to get her attention. "Hello Dalia, I got your note."

Karlach smiles, she shows what's going on, Dalia nods to her, then the berserker leaves. Dalia was a little shy, she had never asked anyone out before. The tiefling thief hopes he's up for it. It's not much, but Dalia works hard to find the best time. Wyll was shy as well, but he felt like a child on a holiday morning.

"I accept your offer. When do you want to go?" This made Dalia happy, her blue eyes lightened up. "How long will we be camping?" Dalia asked. Wyll took a moment, then remembered the plan. "Everyone is still tired for a couple more days." Dalia liked the sound of that. "How about tomorrow evening, when the sun is still up but setting?" Wyll agrees, it was a deal, he won't deny sneaking around the city and the Zhentarim to Dalia's secret spot is scary. But with Dalia's street smarts and experience, they should be ok.

*Fast forward to the city, the next day.* Wyll and Dalia enter a hidden tunnel in the city. They managed to come into a old corner that looked like someone had stayed there for a bit. Alias, they continue to the shortcut Dalia used all the time before she got captured by the mind flayers. They find an old abandoned building at the edge of the city, and Dalia helps him climb up to the roof with bags on their backs. Once they hit their destination, Wyll looked at the sky and was in awe at the view. "This is beautiful Dalia."

The tiefling hums warmly in response and looks over the horizon. "The little light that still shines in this dark city." She looked over to Wyll. "Lets set up," Wyll and Dalia set up a little picnic and watched the sun set. The food was delicious. Wyll wondered where Dalia got the meals from. His curiosity and breaks the silence. "Where did you get this food?"

Dalia smiles with pride and eats her share. "My Ma and I cooked it. I went to see her and told her what was going on. She was frantic when I got captured. I discreetly told her about you. And she offered to help wih what I wanted to do for us." Wyll gave her a puzzled look. "Discreetly?" Dalia nods.

"To give you privacy, I figured you needed it. And...the last thing we need is anyone dangerous and influential here learning that the Wyll Ravengard is in Zhentill Keep." She had a good point. Wyll recalls his father talking about the corrupted figures here. The thought sent shivers down his spine. And the thought of the girl he liked protecting him made him blush. He shyly chuckles.

"Underneath that tough facade, you're truly a sweetheart." Dalia looked away flustered. "Don't tell my friends, they'll tease the nine hells out of me." Wyll laughs as they drink and eat. The sun setting at this angle is something, but to Wyll, it didn't compare to his new lover. He slowly sneaked a hand into hers. Dalia sees that and lets him hold her hand. A street urchin and the Blade of Frontiers makes the oddest of couples. But they wouldn't have it any other way.

[jupyt3r]

Yellow

Set between Acts 2 and 3, Wyll confronts Astarion about the Rite of Profane Ascension; Astarion realizes that they have more in common than meets the eye.

It's nice to see the stars again, he thinks, after so many days spent cloaked in the gloomy, arcane shadows that had marred the landscape nearly from Elturel to Anga Vled. He'd only just gotten used to the sun's warmth when they'd entered the dark cloud, somehow so oppressive as to be almost tangible; like breathing in curls of steam, if steam were cold and necrotic. But the air is clear now. Clear enough, in fact, that he can see the whole of the Gate sprawled out on the horizon, the warm glow of candles and cantrips a lively reflection of so many icy stars above. An all too familiar silhouette looms menacingly from its perch along the curve of the lower city’s central wall, and Astarion has to quash the fear rising up in his throat as his eyes skate past it. He has a plan. A real one, now. When he gets to Baldur's Gate, he will ascend, and Cazador will be no more.

But he's not in Bladur’s Gate, yet. The gray stones of Wyrm’s Lookout are cool beneath him, warmed ineffectively by the dying coals in front of him. It's late, and the others have gone to bed. He considers curling up on his bedroll to trance, but suddenly there's sounds of movement from down below, where the camp has been set up. Rustling of blankets; shuffling footsteps. A pause. Then the clink of buckles on a pack being undone, the whisper of canvas as something is removed. The footsteps are heading for him now, ascending the ladder to the roof of the squat tower where Astarion is sprawled by the remains of his fire. The breeze carries a scent towards him, and it's all yellow: lightly floral, lemony, golden honey-mead middle notes, and a barely discernible undertone of brimstone. Sickeningly sweet. Sunshine-sour. Sulfurous.

Wyll Ravengard lowers himself wordlessly to the ground next to him, uncorking the bottle he's brought with him and taking a swig. Looking up at the stars, he proffers the amber liquid to Astarion. At first, he screws up his face and prepares to decline, but then thinks better of it; he takes a long pull. It's exactly the sort of drink he'd expect to find in one of the lavish estates of the Upper City, and he's not even sure how Wyll had managed to procure it: aged whiskey, peppery, vanilla, biting. It's not good. It's strong, though, and he figures that's what they're both after.

“Nightmares, is it then, darling?" he says dully, passing the bottle back.

Wyll shakes his head. “Actually, unless you count our nocturnal visitor, I haven't dreamt at all since this," he replies as he taps his forehead and sighs. ”Just couldn't sleep, is all.”

Astarion's question had been rhetorical and he doesn't much care to hear about whatever's ailing the restless warlock, so he doesn't deign to respond. Wyll starts talking anyway.

“I haven't seen my father in almost seven years. I keep running over in my head how it could go when we find him– gods, if we find him alive. I don't know how I'll feel. Angry? Relieved? Maybe he won't even want my help, when he sees these horns. But I have to try.”

"Hm.” Astarion truly wishes he had not asked. The quiet solitude of his night seems out of reach now. Last month, he'd have counted himself mad if someone had told him that his nights would consist of wrangling an owlbear cub to bed or listening to the laments of Duke Ravengard’s wayward son.

"Do you have anyone you're looking forward to seeing in the city, Astarion? A lover, perhaps?”

Oh, no. He is not having this discussion at all. He shoots Wyll a glare that hopes is interpreted as daggers coming out of his eyes. “Oh, yes. Hundreds. I'm adored by many people, you see."

The daggers fall flat against the shield of Wyll’s earnestness, or stupidity, whichever it be. “Oh, I have no doubt about that. Family, then? Parents?"

“No." Astarion can't remember his father, or even if he knew one to begin with. Seeing Wyll's discomfort, he thinks maybe that's for the best.

“What about Cazador's other spawn?"

He's had enough. “My ‘siblings’ should consider themselves lucky that their miserable lives will serve a higher purpose, for when I see them next, they will live their last.”

Finally, Wyll tightens his lips into a thin line, seeing that he's struck a nerve. Rather than back down, he needles it. "Siblings, though? So they are family to you?”

“It's not my chosen wording, it's– Ravengard, did you come up here just to bother me about my personal life?”

Wyll puts his hands up in surrender. “I'm just trying to make conversation, is all. And I have to admit, I've been curious about your relationship with them, and your plan, since you told us about the ritual. This… Rite of Profane Ascension. The name is a little on the nose, no?"

Astarion can't fathom why he'd take any interest in the plan beyond what would be expected of him for his involvement– which was very little. Either he'd help or he wouldn't, but that has no bearing on the decision Astarion has already made. "What would you have it be then, hm?” he asks. " The Rite of Puppies and Sunshine?”

"Listen, all I'm saying is that if it sounds downright evil and it's a contract drafted with a godsdamned devil, then maybe it's not all it's cracked up to be. Trust me, I would know. It just seems… nefarious in nature.” His mismatched eyes beseech him in silent plea.

He can't be serious. Astarion flops over dramatically, the back of his hand raising to meet his forehead as his eyes flutter shut. "Oh! At last, the famed Blade of Frontiers has come to save me from my own incompetence. My very soul is in danger– well, if there's still one to speak of, that is.” He peeks out of one eye at the last sentence, flashing a catlike smile.

The Blade of Frontiers purses his lips. “I'm being serious, Astarion. And while, yes, I am concerned about how this affects you, it's not just your life we're talking about.”

He scoffs, returning to his lounging position. "I'd be doing you a personal favor by carrying out this ritual. Six spawn and a full vampire lord disposed of, and you don't even need to lift a finger! What more could any monster hunter want?”

“To not create an even greater monster." He turns away, looking pointedly at the coals. The dim glow reflects off the dark sclera of his good eye.

Astarion suddenly understands the aim of the confrontation. Wyll’s not concerned about him, not really, but about the threat of unleashing a vampire ascendant; a wholly unknown type of being which exists entirely at odds with his naïve philosophy. He's still trying to play the hero– but Astarion knows that heroes don't exist.

He raises himself to a sitting position on his knees and spreads his arms wide. "Stake me now then, if you're so concerned.”

And Wyll looks like he really considers it, which stings a bit. Eventually, he says in a pained voice, "You have to understand the dilemma I have. Astarion, I don't want to go against you. But you confound me.” He shakes his head, running a hand up his braids between the horns. “On the one hand, if you don't perform this ritual, then it's easier for me to believe that a vampire is capable of good; but it also leaves alive seven vampires, one of whom I know is not good by virtue of your description of him. On the other hand, if you do go through with this, then maybe you are a monster. And while it's true the world would be net negative vampires, it would be hard for me to… trust you, after that. If you would sacrifice your siblings for power, the people you've spent two hundred years with, who's to say you would stop there?”

Astarion pouts in mock pity. "Aw, have we discovered what morally gray means?”

Wyll's fists gather on his thighs. "Don't condescend me, Astarion! I've dedicated my life to protecting the people of the Sword Coast, and I'm trying to do that here while giving you the benefit of the doubt because you're my friend.”

And that surprises him, because he hadn't considered them friends. He'd only recently stopped worrying about being staked in his sleep; although maybe that was a mistake. "Which is it, then? Am I a friend or a monster?”

"You tell me.”

Astarion is furious, then. What right does Wyll have to sit there and demand that he justify his own continued existence? As if he hadn't made his own deal with the devil? As if he were a hero, when no one is truly that good? If it were possible, then Astarion would have been saved long ago. Wyll's too late. Astarion would be his own savior now.

“I think," he snarls, “you're a sniveling pup poking his nose where it doesn't belong. I think you're an insufferable hypocrite to threaten me with the borrowed power of a devil. And I think you'll regret it if you cross me, because I'm going to live. I'm going to endure. I will ascend."

Wyll matches his intensity, nostrils flaring. “And I think you're making the wrong choice because you're afraid. You're too weak to do the right thing.”

Astarion is practically animal, hinged forward and fangs bared, because somewhere buried deep he knows the warlock is right. “Don't you dare think for a moment that you could presume my emotions. You are an infant. You could not conceive of the centuries of torture I have endured, the fetid conditions in which I was kept, the things I had to do to stay alive. I am claiming my right to be free; and to make sure I am never a slave to anyone else, ever again. And if that makes me a monster, then so be it."

“Just because I am human does not mean I don't understand what it is to be used. To be trapped. We both have our masters."

Wyll's voice is soft and flat; a hand rubs absentmindedly at his throat, and Astarion sees him for what he is beneath the heroic charade: a child, yes, but one who's lost his father, one who's under the thumb of a devil. He feels a little bad for yelling; but not that bad.

“Then you understand that I have to do this. No matter the cost. If given the opportunity, would you not make sacrifices to be free of Mizora?”

Wyll's response is immediate and resolute. “No. I agreed to this pact, and I would do the same if I was faced with the choice again. I may not have known the details at the time, but that's no one's fault but my own. I would not have anyone suffer for it."

“Then you are a fool. Can't you see that she tricked you? You were too young to soundly make that decision, however she coerced you into it." Gods, he can't imagine defending Cazador like that. He finds that he pities Wyll; so desperate to hide from the fact that he'd been taken advantage of that he tries to look strong by bearing the needless guilt, by indulging in this foolish fairy-tale heroism when he can't even save himself. The Blade of Frontiers is just a story he tells himself so he can sleep at night– and his presence here is only evidence to the fact that it isn't working.

Wyll has been silent, eyes scanning the horizon after taking another deep drink of the whiskey. After a time, he reaches out and points toward the base of Dusthawk Hill, a towering black silhouette which manifests mainly as a lack of stars. "That's where it happened, seven years ago. I told Tav the whole story earlier; Mizora granted me that, at least. In my father's absence, a cult made a move to summon Tiamat to Toril. The city would have fallen to the Dragon Queen; Mizora warned me just in time, and gave me the power to save it. Whatever price I have to pay is worth the lives of everyone in Baldur's Gate– so sacrificing more lives to undo my choice would render it meaningless. Besides, I've saved more lives with my patron’s power than I could have otherwise. I will bear it for their sake." 

How boringly predictable. “And how do you know that Mizora didn't set the whole thing up? That she didn't tip the cultists off about your father's absence, precisely so you could fall into her waiting claws?"

He pauses as if he's genuinely never considered it before. “I suppose I don't. But what's done is done, and there's no use wishing it had gone differently. I can only hope to use these infernal powers for good now, when I'm not busy playing her games."

“You are hopelessly dull. Look at what she's done to you!"

“I–” he stops himself, and lets his face fall, realization finally setting in. “You're right. She's fashioned me into one of the very villains I'm sworn to hunt. I saw the way all those tieflings in the Grove looked at me– I can't imagine how my father will see me. I hardly recognize myself." He brushes a few fingers softly over one horned temple, releasing Astarion from the hellfire of his gaze.

Astarion runs his tongue along his fangs, remembering his own unpleasant transformation; the pain as his body healed over the fatal wounds, the feeling of his own blood drying up and cooling in his veins, and the gaping silence from where his heart was that would take years to get used to. He can’t imagine being dragged through each layer of the Hells had been any more pleasant.

“I can… sympathize," he says hesitantly, not even knowing why he wants to offer comfort to the man who's still deciding whether or not to kill him. “I'm not sure I would recognize myself, either, if I could see my own reflection. But for what it's worth, the horns do look quite flattering on you."

He looks a bit surprised at the compliment, which Astarion supposes is reasonable given the insults he's been hurling up until this point in the conversation. “... Thank you, Astarion. I'm sure if you could see yourself, you'd find yourself just as dashing as in your mortal life. I mean that– from one red-eyed fiend to another.”

And as much as Astarion is frustrated by Wyll's storybook prince persona, his annoying black-or-white morality, he admits that parts of him are the closest he's come in a long time to looking in a mirror. He has a plan towards his own salvation, and he can't help but want the same for Wyll. "You know… In my mortal life, I was a magistrate. If– Don't snort, it's unbecoming. One must have respect for the law’s intricacies to know how to escape its consequences. As I was saying, if Mizora has now freed you to discuss the terms of your pact… I would be willing to look over it for you. Perhaps there's a loophole. One that follows your rigidly virtuous creed, without demanding a sacrifice. A way for you to be truly free."

Wyll's eyes widen at the thought. “If such a thing were possible… I would truly owe you a great debt of gratitude. You would really do that for me? After what I've said tonight?”

"Just call it a favor. From a friend. And, of course, feel free to pay me back in advance by not killing me in my sleep tonight.”

Wyll smiles, although it hadn't really been a joke. “One of the stipulations of my contract actually spells out who I can kill. Clause G, section 9: Targets shall be limited to the infernal, the demonic, the heartless, and the soulless. I think I can safely strike you from the heartless category.”

Astarion tries to hide the worry from his voice when he asks, "And the soulless?”

The monster hunter is serious once again. “I don't pretend to be an arbiter of the soul, having sold my own. That one's up to you. You've been winning me over, as of late, Astarion, but please… think about what this ritual will cost you. I won't intervene, and I understand what's at stake for you. I'm going to trust you, so just… don't make me regret it."

He's not sure he deserves this trust; he knows he's not good like Wyll. But… he's starting to see a universe where he might try to be. He knows he'll never escape the sins of his past, and, gods willing, he won't become some nagging do-gooder, but with Cazador out of the picture… he might evolve into a version of himself that he hates less. It's just such a waste of all that power, at the tips of his fingers. And the blood on his hands would taste so sweet.

"I can't promise that I'll change my mind. But… I'll consider it,” he relents at last. It's the best offer he's going to give. Still, Wyll's posture relaxes minutely, and he clamps a warm hand on the vampire's shoulder.

"To considerations, then,” he says, bringing the bottle to his lips and then offering it out.

Astarion can smell the strange perfume of his blood from the wrist near his face, so he looks up from beneath his lashes and bravely ventures, “I can think of something better to drink, if you're willing… ?”

Wyll flattens his lips together and pats him a few times on the shoulder where his hand rests before getting up. "And here I thought we were making progress. Good night, Astarion.”

"Wh– I thought you said we were friends?" he protests at the retreating figure.

“Not that good of friends," Wyll replies as he descends the ladder. “Keep telling me how nice my horns look, though, and we'll see how we get on."

“You are surely the most fetching sheep I've ever met,” Astarion teases.

“Don’t push it.”

“Good night, Wyll."

[random-introverted-blog]

So I've been on this injury/hurt comfort kick for a little while. Tav/Durge getting hurt and the angst that follows has been scratching my itch. But every time, it's like a day at most and then everything is okay.

So I propose a new type of drabble or one shot/short series. Use creative license to the fullest for this.

Ahem.

Knock out Protag/Whoever for a week. A month if you're feeling really devious.

You can do this for any character. But for the sake of simplicity I will describe it for Tav.

The best time to have the incident occur would be Act 2. You want it to be at a point where the party really looks to them for leadership and guidance for it to have the most impact. If you do it too soon and knock them out for too long, more pragmatic party members would likely decide Tav is dead weight and leave them behind, at best. Very Late act 1 would be the earliest I'd try it. Any earlier, and you'd need to really bend/twist your Tav's importance to the group. They have a power, skill, or connection that would be invaluable. Without either of those, you need them to be loyal, care and respect their leadership. Which I find difficult to believe earlier than the tail end of Act 1.

In my mind; without Tav's definitive say and leadership, they would have to take votes. No one would be able to take the mantle of leader for themselves without serious pushback. There would be many rough arguments and debates around the campfire as they worked out their next steps.

Now I'm going to take it a step further. This is suggested with a good aligned Tav in mind. Something I'm super keen to write soon myself.

Act 2, all the party members are likely eyeballing their crossroads as they draw closer to the fork in their path. Shadowheart with Shar, Astarion with the ritual, the others you can headcannon like Lae'zel maybe mulling over a return to Vlakith (perhaps she came with her offer sooner) and Gale might be thinking "what if I don't blow myself up", Wyll and Karlach are the tricky ones to this.

The lack of Good!Tav to help steer and ground their friends shakes them too deep. Shadowheart turns to Shar and pleads for her intervention. Shar agrees, if she completes the trials, kills Nightsong and faithfully abides Shar's instructions in the House of Grief. Boom, Dark Justiciar Shadowheart.

Astarion panics and believes he can bring them back if he Ascends and uses his power/resources to heal them OR EVEN figures out how to cut a new deal with Mephistopheles to bring Tav back. Which involves completing the ritual and maybe even a few extra souls. Boom, Ascended Astarion (sacrifice Duke Ravengard... Karlach??)

Lae'zel even convinces Vlakith in exchange for her unwavering loyalty.

Regardless, the board is set when Good!Tav finally awakes. All their friends, who was making such headway on their companions good sides, is now left with the worst possible versions of them. And they are not sorry. Maybe even creepily overprotective... yandere anyone?

LOOK YOU CAME TO A BLOG WITH YANDERE IN THE NAME, YOU CAN'T BE SURPRISED WHEN I THROW IT OUT THERE.

It's something I DEFINITELY want to try and write myself when I find free time from my current AO3 story. But in the MEANWHILE if someone drabbles it, give me a heads up! I'd love to read it!

[antiqua-lugar]

tagged by @invinciblerodent and thank you so much for the tag, it was super fun and a great break for today!

tagging @margridarnauds, as I think pairing songs with kissy-picrew (using this one) sounds right up your alley!

also all under the cut, because. well.

I still haven't found the perfect song for them as a couple but I have found the perfect song for when gale tried to blow himself up, and then to achieve goodhood and then TRIED TO BLOW HIMSELF UP THREE MORE TIMES, LOVE OF MY LIFE YOU GOTTA STOP DOING THAT

The perfect song for two men riddled by insecurity issues who just need to fully believe each others' Anywhere you go, let me go too / Love me, that's all I ask of you

(And the lines Let me lead you from your solitude and Say the word and I will follow you are a nice bonus. If Caradoc being Raoul and Gale being Christine means that the Phantom is Mystra, then so be it).

I have actually a whole folk song playlist for the two of them, especially because there are so many folk songs about someone called William, like SO MANY and some of them are SO appropriate but I have a soft spot for this one which is a version of the beauty and the beast (or the loathly lady) trope. tl;dr monstrous lady comes in his house and because King Henry is *that *noble and good he lets her eat all his favourite animals *and *sleeps with her, she becomes a beautiful maiden and in some versions also brings all the animals back to life

Also I like the ambiguity of the ending where imho it's not exactly clear how the curse broke BUT IT DID and now King Henry has the world most beautiful woman as a reward for being so good and noble.

Wyll gets a redeemed Bhaalspawn instead but that's probably how Mister Wylliam "I wanna get married and have children. Let's get engaged and then go to the Hells to slay demons together for the foreseeable future" Ravengard likes it.

Aaaand it's this one:

Now that Patch 6 lets them be together even if she wants to fly away on a dragon it's less tragic for me to figure out their ending but the way the male singer is hoping she'll live another day and he will be by her side (And if she doesn't have the will/But it seems the whole world does I'll stay because/ *I will be the man my father never was) while she tells the gods that if they touch him they WILL pay (But to a woman by the end you'll kneel and plead/'Cause I'm more than what my mum told me to be*)...

So the main problem with these two is that Elendris' doesn't really care about anything except the ones he loves and Astarion really should NOT be trusted with that influence on him until his character development kicks in *and they are both painfully self aware of it but *also don't really know how to stop it before it goes too far. And that's why they sent themselves to the Underdark so they can figure it out while helping people. And maybe develop some morals.

I assume some level of this will always exist in their relationship and for some reason this is the song to express it:

I like the self awareness of the couple in the song, the joy in love and being loved in this way and also we're like an odd pair of shoes / One slightly stylish and one slightly plain / One for the nightlife and one for the rain does sound like something Mister Astarion "UGH" Ancunín would say.

Last but not least, for my old veterans with trauma:

There is a version with English lyrics here, it's a love song about how the other person is the only one who truly understood them and I love that the chorus says "By looking for you in this world, I got to know it and I gave it to you". It truly fits Ves'i'ran background of having being promoted/kicked out of gythianki society due to how obviously "sentimental" he is and having spent decades as a ranger in Faerun, learning to love it while being unable to just stop being loyal to an absent queen because otherwise what's the point of everything.

Halsin instead gets "In recent years I have lost more than one friend / I lost myself plus a few lighters / Life gives and then it takes/ That's why I'm afraid to be near you"

There was probably something more thematically appropriate but I like italian rap. Sue me.

[rinwellisathing]

Get to know my OCs: NPC relationships

Sentry Ojeda:

- was in love with Gortash as the leader of the Bhaalist cult.

-Before he found out he was a Bhaalspawn and led the cult, he spent some of his childhood at the temple of Ilmater and considered Father Lorgan a father figure.

-Had close friendships with a lot of the workers at Sharess' Caress because they accepted him without judgement. Considered Ffion a mother figure.

-Gets along well with Dammon and enjoys talking shop with him.

-Considers Rolan one of his best friends, but mainly because it really annoys Rolan that he does.

-Understands Barcus Root and becomes a good friend of his when he realizes that the way he used to be Gortash's boyfriend now feels an awful lot like what Barcus has going on with Wulbern now that Sentry is working towards redemption.

-Raphael gives him bad vibes, he only realizes why when he remembers Gortash.

-Dame Aylin is his very best friend and coolest older sister figure ever. He basically idolizes her.

-Bothering Ketheric was his hobby when he was Bhaal's chosen.

-Looks up to Zevlor as who he wishes his father was.

Jaina Thalassia:

-Doesn't like Ulder Ravengard and considers him a bad parent, tolerates him for Wyll's sake, rescued him for Wyll's sake when she realized how sad he was that his freedom cost his father's life after she convinced him he deserved freedom.

-Just a complete catty bitch to Mizora. This is where we see the most influence from Yennefer of Vengerberg in her characterization. She is dismissive of the cambion and things she's vain and overconfident.

-Hates Raphael and is highly wary of his behavior towards Mol. As a teacher she knows all the Red flags she's seeing.

-Close friends with Bex, Alfira, Lakrissa, and Lia. She's missed having Tiefling friends since she started working in Baldur's Gate.

-Although she's probably younger than Rolan by a couple of years, she feels protective of him because she's met Lorroakan and knows he's a prick and a terrible teacher.

-Devoted to the tiefling children. In the absence of her own students, she feels responsible for these kids.

-Strikes up a friendship with Aylin and Isobel. She usually doesn't trust female Elves or humans(Aasimar are close enough in her mind) because of her coworkers but she's pleasantly surprised to find one she gets along with outside her party.

-Awkward around Zevlor because she's realized he's the tiefling paladin her dad had a fling with when he was younger and traveling as an adventuring paladin

Ghustil Kroger:

-Admires Kithrak Voss and will generally trust what he has to say.

-it's on sight with Auntie Ethel. Some of his companions may find her amusing, but that's medical malpractice she's committing and he takes that seriously.

-Kind of clings a bit to Isobel for guidance and information about Selune when Vlaakith abandons him.

-Still hasn't forgiven Nettie for trying to poison him, which is also medical malpractice.

-Really miffed at how Inspector Valyria doesn't seem to want to do her job.

-Finds Rolan incredibly attractive but unlike how easily he was able to approach Wyll, he can't really do the same with Rolan, so he's an arrogant dick right back to him.

Gish Octavia:

-Thinks Auntie Ethel is her friend and their fights are a game of sorts

-Was planning to kill Lorroakan the second he was rude so she could steal half his library.

-Alfira is probably her favorite person in the world.

-Actually Lucretious might be.

-Wishes she could meet Mystra so she could stand up to her for Gale.

-Thinks of Rolan as a fun academic rival.

-Isn't so sure why her 'siblings' are so quick to trust Voss when Vlaakith herself has already betrayed them.

Jackal:

-Actually appreciates Raphael and has him on his list of potential people to follow.

-Considers the same for Cazador if Astarion won't accept him.

-Tolerates Orin because she also hates Sentry.

-Views people like the Drow Twins as pathetic and an insult to his people. Same for Araj Oblodra.

[blackjackkent]

OK, once again, our first immediate priority is going to find Florrick, which means we're heading back to Wyrm's Rock fortress and staging a prison break. (Ravengard is also imprisoned but I think he's somewhere else and we still have to figure out where.)

While I'm trying not to get too sidetracked from our main objectives until we have Lae'zel back, I will take this opportunity to scour the entire Wyrm's Rock building so we don't have to come back here again later.

And in this case - my exploration immediately paid off. I found a hidden lever leading to a secret path near the door that took us to the audience chamber before, which led out to a back cliff area behind the fortress with a gorgeous view of the surrounding water.

Climbing down the cliff leads to this:

Perfect! \o/ We're coming, Florrick!

Going inside, Hector is able to smash through a stone wall (yay cloud giant strength potion) and get into a storeroom in the prison area proper. After breaking out of the storeroom from the inside... we're immediately confronted by a guard.

The two options are "lie" or "fight"; Hector is not a fan of either one, since he hates lying, but he would hate killing a guard who was literally only doing his job more. So he claims (scrambling for an explanation and trying not to look as panicked as he feels) that they're officially sanctioned prison inspectors, and astonishingly (even to the narrator), the guard bought it. Presumably Gortash has been cracking down and changing things up and no one is interested in accidentally questioning his orders.

So we appear to be free to walk around safely for now (at least, presumably, until we start busting down the door of Florrick's cell).

Also this happened:

The theft in question was A SINGLE WALNUT that I picked up off the floor without permission. I reloaded; Hector doesn't have time for this nonsense.

There's one door labeled "Prison Entrance Door" that I appear to be able to pick open without bothering anyone, and then a bunch of smaller iron doors that I'm not allowed to touch. The iron ones turned out to be what we needed, though, because a little bit of stealthing around the guards later and look who we found in one of the cells!

Victory.

"You might as well lock the cell. It's over."

She sounds so incredibly dejected, a far cry from the direct, decisive woman we saw in Waukeen's Rest and Last Light. Jaheira notices the difference too:

"Florrick? What have they done to you?"

But Florrick just smiles sadly. "I don't speak of myself, High Harper," she answers. "I speak of the city itself. We came too late. It's over."

"I don't understand," Hector says with a concerned frown. "What do you mean?"

"I came seeking allies to our cause," Florrick says flatly. "Watchers spotted me, dragged me to Ulder Ravengard's husk." Her head twitches, as if struck with sudden pain. "Empty as a stare. A tadpole's puppet, nothing more. He spoke in accusations. Apostasy, conspiracy, sedition." Her lip curls in a bitter smile. "I will soon be hanged on the city gallows to a chorus of cheers. You might have unlocked my cell, but there's no escape from this place."

"The Fist can go hang *themselves*," Jaheira snaps. "We're getting you out."

(I continue to love Jaheira a lot.)

"Ravengard's not lost," Hector adds firmly. "I felt him reach out to me."

This is true - Hector doesn't lie unless forced to it, as above - but it is perhaps a slight shading of the truth. Ravengard is pretty far gone. Hector has no idea if they'll be able to find him again. But he is not lost entirely.

Florrick for a moment looks as if she wants to dismiss him out of hand; the despair has taken a deep hold on her. But... she is a woman of considerable strength of character, and Hector can see the information work on her, the way she takes it in, processes it. The lift of her eyebrows, the flash of hope back into her expression.

"You... you felt him?" she asks unsteadily. "Extraordinary. Maybe... what is lost can be found."

Her shoulders square, her back straightens. The effect is contagious; her force of personality is such that Hector can feel his own strength rising in answer to it. "'When the people need a miracle, you cannot wait for the gods to answer.' Ulder's words..." she murmurs thoughtfully. "I'd almost forgotten." Her jaw works and her eyes flick around the cell with rapid thought.

"No more sulking," she says with a sudden sharp nod. "I know what to do." Her eyes fix on Hector's - more confident now, authoritative. "Lead me from my cell. Escort me out of Wyrm's Rock. I'll seek out my connections. When the city's streets shatter, you'll want their blades."

Hector nods respectfully. He has strongly approved of everything he's seen of Counselor Florrick since the moment they pulled her out of the flames in Waukeen's Rest, and this moment of strength growing out of despair is doing nothing to change his opinion. She will be a valuable ally in the fight to come - and even on a more personal level, he wants her to live.

"Follow me," he says.

[blackjackkent]

Wellp, I meant to hop back into BG3 several hours ago but I just accidentally took an incredibly long and deep nap. I slept terribly last night and spent the day going crazy over several different angles of house paperwork, so when I laid down my brain just decided it was time to shut off completely and I woke up having slept so deeply that I thought it was morning and was trying to figure out why tf it was SO dark at 8:30am, when it fact it was 8:30pm. XD

But. I am awake now and ready to examine the aftermath of The Wreck of the Iron Throne.

Hector, bless him, is as tired as I am, I suspect. XD

Narrator: Calmness greets you as the submersible slows to a halt. Unlike the Iron Throne, you remain intact.

Hector was the last one out of the underwater prison, just as it was collapsing, and he is still gasping for breath, crouched on the floor, all the adrenaline-fueled energy leaving his body only slowly.

The whole thing - from docking with the Iron Throne, to opening the cell doors, rescuing Ravengard and the gnomes, facing down Mizora, dragging Omeluum from its experimental cage, and the panicked run back through water and flame and sahuagin blades - took less than a minute. All of them have been subject to the reality-distorting, adrenaline-surging effects of a potion of haste, and all of them are suffering the painful comedown that follows it - aching muscles, blurred thoughts and tangled emotions.

And though Karlach has not said anything - though she knew the necessities of the situation - he knows the panic she felt in those last few terrifying seconds when he had not appeared. He felt her terror mingled with his own in the unstable net of the tadpole connection that binds them all, the wordless cry -- Hec, there's no time! There's no time! Where are you?! - and then the blinding relief as his dark hair and pale eyes and lithe frame, all stained with blood, emerged up through the porthole and collapsed across the decking and into her arms.

He was only vaguely aware of the low, resonant hum of Omeluum teleporting into the submersible itself, of the heavy thunk of the sub disconnecting from its moorings and the earthquake-like rocking as the explosion, barely avoided, sent them blasting through the superheated depths.

For a long moment he allows himself the complete surrender to the potion hangover and the warmth of Karlach's arms around him.

Slowly, though, the world becomes clear again around him. The gnomes have all gathered into a frightened knot at one end of the submersible, all casting confused and wary glances at Omeluum, who is hovering, heedless to their attention, near the cockpit and staring out into the dark water. Minsc and Jaheira are both sitting with some approximation of dignity in the sub's metal seating, but Jaheira's pale, wide-eyed expression and Minsc's tightly clenched muscles betray their agitation. Karlach just sits with him on the floor, holding him without words, her fingers brushing in rhythmic, soothing motions through his hair.

Ravengard, as stunned as anyone about the chaotic and reckless rescue that saved him, sits cross-legged nearby, visibly struggling to wrap his mind around the situation.

Narrator: Duke Ravengard approaches you, looking confused.

The Emperor whispers in Hector's mind. "He's tadpoled, but under my protection now, just like you." It is the first Hector has heard from it since their showdown over whether to rescue Minsc. There is still a certain coolness in the mind flayer's mental tone - but the anger, it seems, has faded. "His mind is his own again."

"I'm... free..." Ravengard whispers in bewilderment. "In my own mind again, wholly." He pauses, squares his shoulders, his eyes hardening with determination; Hector can see how this man has come to the reputation for bravery and strength that he holds, with how quickly he appraises the situation and rises to meet it. "I will not take it for granted."

The Duke reaches out and rests a hand on Hector's forearm; Hector stirs, trying to rouse himself from his lethargy and meet his gaze with equal firmness. It only half works; he looks as if a carriage has run him over, and Ravengard smiles very slightly, hearteningly. "You acted quickly, decisively, and compassionately. I - nay, all of us..." --he shoots a look of perplexed thoughtfulness in Omeluum's direction-- "owe you no less than our undying gratitude."

Hector draws a hoarse breath. He cannot quite wrestle himself from Karlach's embrace just yet, even to speak to a duke, and cannot muster the energy to be embarrassed about it, but he sits up slightly. "The Absolute's voice has gone silent," he says softly. "It must be a relief."

Ravengard shudders. "The... the Absolute. Its voice was clear as crystal, beautiful as a nymph's smile. It showed me the darkest lies and convinced me of their truth. To be free is like knowing the sun's warmth on my face for the first time." He looks up as the sub rocks again, slowly sliding into its berth back at the warehouse docks. "My thoughts are my own now," he adds firmly. "And my purpose certain. I will wait at your camp - we can speak more there."

Hector thinks about mentioning Wyll - explaining that the man's son is free from his pact, free to meet him on equal footing again for the first time in so long... but decides he does not have the words. There will be enough time for that later. So he just nods slowly and lets himself sag back against Karlach's chest.

We did it... he thinks wearily, and as the adrenaline finally begins to die away, a small flame of elation starts to burn in his chest. We did it. Gortash could not stop us. For the first time, a real wrench thrown into the wheels within wheels of his plans. Perhaps we can do this after all.

[blackjackkent]

OK, I am, in this case, doing a heinous bit of metagaming, because it's my game, my blog, my story, and I feel like it. XD

I'm told that we don't have the option to rescue Ravengard after killing Gortash, and we want to do that pretty much right now immediately, which means we have to get Ravengard immediate-er. The problem, however, is since we convinced Wyll to turn Mizora down, we have no leads.

Except Google. >:)

(Credit where due, @zenjestrr was also ready to help me with this, but they're not around just at this moment and I am impatient. XD )

Anyway we're going to a temple of my favorite goddess in all of the Faerunian pantheon: The BITCH QUEEN OF THE SEA! (AKA Umberlee/the Wavemother - we went to a temple of hers in BG2 as well and I thought it was hilarious then too). Why is Hector going into this place? Who knows! We're going to attribute this to general religious curiosity, or perhaps Selune pinged his divine sense about something being weird as he wandered by.

Figuring out how to get there is a little challenging. The main obvious path cuts through a Guild shipping area and they are NOT happy about us wandering through. But eventually I found the way to trot around and walk down towards the temple.

And OH MY GOD. LOOK WHO'S HANGING OUT IN FRONT OF IT.

"It's not a lie! If you would just listen - I can explain!"

Oh boy.

Volo is currently being shouted at by a loud, passionate, frightened crowd holding torches, who have tied him to what appear to be several large barrels of gunpowder.

"You have done quite enough 'explaining', Volothamp Geddarm! You have poisoned the very hearts and minds of these good, kind, gentel citizens with your lies! Your delusions! Your conspiracies! Though you hide behind a mask of stories, we have seen beyond the veil! We see what you really are! Fearmonger! Attention-seeker! AGENT OF CHAOS!"

Loud cheers of agreement from the crowd. Hector approaches, listening with brow furrowed. Volo was a blowhard, somewhat arrogant, and very difficult to convince not to perform amateur ocular surgery, but conspiracy? It doesn't seem his style.

And then...

Narrator: Your parasite stirs in recognition. This man is infected.

Well. That explains it.

"Today, citizens, we rid ourselves of this cankerous sore. Today, we burn away all falsehoods. Today, we will be divided no longer, for today we rise in TRUTH!" the man bellows, turning to the crowd around him.

Hector shoots a look at his companions, considering how he might insert himself diplomatically into the situation before Volo gets blown up - but Minsc gets to it first.

"Volo?" he says brightly. "Volothamp Geddarm? This man is no enemy of the people! This man could not even hurt a mouse! I know - I have seen him try. Release this man at once!"

Immediately the leader of the mob focuses his eyes on their small group of strangers.

"What's this? Another heretic in our midst?! Another mind, clouded by the disruptor's lies. Another soul to cleanse. Well, we are nothing if not gracious. Let us see if we cannot lift the veil from their eyes too!"

"No - please, NO!"

GDI Volo.