#zevlor & ikaron

[turquoiseoverthesea]

[scaredyspooks]

BG3 Kinktober 2024

Because I'm a perverted conduit that the void speaks through, I'm doing a Baldur's Gate 3 themed kinktober this year on here and AO3. As I publish the fics I'll be updating this list with links to them, and so y'all can gauge your interest here's the list!

Astarion (spawn) - roleplay - what's an innocent magistrate to do when his assistant propositions him when they're staying late at work?

Gale - pegging - growing bored of the wizard's endless accounts of how he and his goddess' bodies once intertwined, you notice there's one pleasure she never showed him.

Shadowheart - sensory depravation - life's greatest pleasures can be found in loss and darkness.

Lae'Zel - leather - peeling the leathers from your lover's body are one of the greatest rewards of battle.

Wyll - chastity - just because he wants to take things slow, doesn't mean you can't torment him a little.

Karlach - temperature play - attempts to cool her down end up having an interesting result.

Minthara - bondage - an interrogation goes south as you try to get to the bottom of the Absolute's cult.

Halsin - olfactophilia - after almost a tenday of not having time to bathe you head to the river, only be blocked off by a large elf.

Mizora - public - shrouded in the cloak of the hells atop a secluded pedestal, only to find it is in fact a stage.

Rolan - electro - someone's ego boost at getting a new tower has him coming out of his shell.

Zevlor - glory hole - the commander and the cleric need a release, things get interesting when the stranger behind the wall ends up being far too familiar.

Ikaron - semi-public - tensions are high in The Hollow, but you think you can help.

Raphael - naked platter - the devil has made a patisserie of you for his guests, though they seem to fade from existence as he grows distracted by the meal he's making of you.

Haarlep - size difference - the succubus is shocked that you want to see their true form, turns out they're a lot bigger than their master.

Rugan - impact play - the Zhentarim seeks to punish you for trying to skip out on your deal, he doesn't get very far.

Gortash - power play - your relationship has always been somewhat of a dance, one that you're determined to lead.

Dammon - edging - the forge's flames illuminate more than the smith realises, but you're happy to "help" once things quieten down.

The Emperor - hypnosis - the ilithid believes he can still get through to you, with one last attempt.

Aradin - hate fuck - your competitor, the thorn in your side, but damn if he doesn't have good stamina.

Abdirak - sado-masochism - two priests of Loviatar aid in each other's prayer.

He Who Was - free use - his ability to travel the shadowcursed lands unhindered has him popping up everywhere, making you pay for his insatiable desires.

Lia - wax play - after the first few drops, it's hard to tell what's blush and what's burn among the giggles in the Elfsong.

Cal - play fighting - a little extra training won't do any harm, though the proximity may prove... challenging.

Gale - findom - what starts as a simple shopping trip to Sorcerous Sundries takes a turn as you drag the wizard to more and more shops.

Astarion (ascended) - biting/marking - your last night as a mortal will be one to remember.

Shadowheart - human furniture - god's favourite princess needs a throne.

Wyll - roleplay - the son of a duke has a duty to mingle at these important events, though it usually shouldn't lead him to a cupboard with a handsome stranger.

Lae'Zel - predator/prey - your heart races, your breathing to quick to catch, and you know the more you sweat the easier it'll be for her to catch you.

Karlach - human ashtray - she's been making fun of you all evening for your drunken confession about her cigars, but once the other's go to bed she's happy to indulge you on the Elfsong's roof garden.

Halsin - breeding - ever the beast of nature, with your perils finally at an end he lets himself run loose with you and you realise it’s going to be a long night until he’s done filling you.

Minthara - body worship - the drow isn't keen onbeing nursed after but with injuries so severe you need to make sure she's alright.

[whatusername00]

Which Baldur's Gate Characters Know How To Lace Up Their Clothing - Tiefling Edition

Or, Part 2. Honestly didn't expect my earlier post to be so popular, but I enjoyed doing it and enjoyed taking the screenshots for this one too. Honestly I intend to continue doing this regardless of how popular it is because I need to know.

I went through all the tieflings at the Emerald Grove, so if someone's not listed here it's probably because they just don't have anything that laces shut. I don't think I missed anyone.

Starting with Zevlor. Honestly I'm not even sure this is actually lacing rather than decoration. If it is laced, it's the only spiral lacing I've seen so far, but's its so miniscule I'm not totally sure. There are other instances of this same pattern that definitely are decoration, but this is the only one that looks like it goes over two pieces, so I'm convincing myself it's actually laced. I give it a 8/10. Perfect execution, but so small I don't know why it's there at all.

So Alfira, Lia, and Rechel all where the same corset with slightly different colors, so I'll just judge them all at once. Something I've noticed is that Larian rarely shoes the knot where these characters tie off their lacing, which really bugs me. It especially bugs be here, since corsets are one of my favorite things to make. But, the corset (both the front and the sides) have a horizontal lace at the top and bottom, which is accurate and not seen on a lot of the lacing in game where it should be, even if it is missing a knot. Lia and Rechel get a 9/10, and Alfira gets a 9.1/10 because I like the purple lacing.

Zorru and Lakrissa both have this sleeve lacing. One of the very few instances of knots being shown! Unfortunately, it's not laced properly. They do the same thing Astarion does - one eyelet in a pair is laced from the outside, and the other is laced from the inside. For cross-lacing, they should match. Also, I think this is two separate pieces of lacing instead of one long piece, which bugs me, but there are clearly two knots which is nice. 7/10.

As far as his front closure goes, it's nice! Honestly I'm a little bored of the cross-lacing at this point, but I guess that's just the style at this point in time. The lacing is consistent, which is something some of our companions couldn't do. 10/10.

As far as his shoulders go, I don't know how I feel about it. It's a bunch of different pieces of lacing, which means a bunch of different knots to tie. Definitely tied everything together once and never bothers with it again. Which, same. I do that with my shoes. 8/10 at least cut the ends to be the same length dude.

Bex's shirt is the same as Tav's starting outfit. Her skirt, however, has...this on the back. We're going to ignore her tail phasing through the top two crosses. At first, I hated the design, because why do you need a skirt that's split down the back. Honestly, the only thing that would be needed to sell this design to be would be to get rid of the top two crosses that I can obviously see, then it would make sense, because of the tail. But then why don't you just sew the skirt together from there down instead of lacing it? It already ties in the front. I guess I still hate the design.

But I digress. I'm arbitrarily judging the actual lacing job, not the skirt design. 8/10 there's no knot.

Toron is cursed with the lack of knots. I'm also fairly certain this is 3 separate laces, because I don't think this pattern is possible with one lace. If it's not knotted and the ends are just hanging down on the inside of his overshirt, I can only imagine how annoying it is. Honestly like 3/10 I hate looking at it.

Asharak, Danis, and Kanon (and Blurg, but he's not here) have the same outfit. And the way this is laced is not physically possible without fastening the lacing into place with sewing or glue or something. The lacing goes in and back out of the same eyelet on each cross, which would just pull the lacing out. Also, once again, not ends, no knots. 0/10 not physically possible.

Listen. This lacing is kind of atrocious. And given the circumstances (orphan, child) I'm willing to forgive him. However, that top right eyelet. He laced it in and back out of the same eyelet. Can't do that. At least 2 eyelets are missing. And I was having a hard time actually following the lacing so I pulled out a corset to try and follow - that lacing is not possible. The 4th eyelet from the top on the left has too many lines going to it. So, sorry Mattis, but 0/10. Meli also wears this top, btw.

Mirkon wears the same overshirt that Yenna does. So someone taught him how to lace his shirt properly. Didn't really help him with the harpies, but at least he looked put together while being lured. 10/10.

Arabella and Zaki wear the same outfit. And there no knot. Can you believe it? No knotting your lacing, in this game? Never seen before. It also seems to have the opposite issue and Asharak, Danis, and Kanon. Her lacing seems to go in and back out of the same eyelet, but instead of coming from the top, it comes from the bottom. Regardless, same issue, 0/10 not possible.

Locke and Umi wear the same outfit that Tav wears by default, except Locke's pants button instead of tie. That means the notes are about the same. They know how to lace, yay. Though they switch the lacing on the final cross, it has purpose - to keep the ends of the lacing on the outside (though it still sticks out.) 9/10.

And I think that's all the tieflings. And wow is it a lot. If you want to see this same thing for other characters, I'll link them below.

Camp Characters

[reindork-games]

[lolliputian]

I think you are the most qualified person to ask this question since you write the tieflings so well: what Olympic sport would the tiefs complete in?

High praise indeed, Anon! Thank you so much!

Going through the list of events, I'm going to go through the adult Tieflings we see in the Grove. I'm also sticking to the summer events.

Zevlor is, of course, Equestrian, and more specifically eventing (which, I discovered, is basically a triathlon). Tilses would also take place in Equestrian, but she'd be focused on jumping. If the Hellriders aren't taking place in the equestrian events, it's a crime. Nuff said.

Rolan would be a swimmer. I think he'd would find swimming for exercise cathartic--the water resistance, the controlled breathing, engaging all your muscle groups to move through the water.

Lia would be a rower for a similar reason, engaging all the upper body muscles. I think she would do really well with a team, as well, and find a lot of fulfillment in it. Cal, in perhaps a surprising choice, would take part in gymnastics. His high strength score lends itself to strength based events. Imagine Cal taking on the pommel horse or the rings, holy shit.

Dammon, surprising absolutely no one, would take part in the hammer throw. But, before I remembered that existed, I also figured he would do well with shot put. Short bursts of power suit him.

Along a similar vein, Alfira would really excel at rhythm gymnastics as a form of artistic expression. Lakrissa, on the other hand, is a natural for archery, and in a modern AU would absolutely be that person doing trick shots on TikTok.

In canon, we know Bex is a great runner and that she was able to outrun the cultists. Thus, I can see her taking part in the sprinting events. Danis, meanwhile, I think would get the most enjoyment out of golf out of any of the events available. Outside of competition, I think he'd like the social aspect of it.

Komira is absolutely a Taekwondo girl--she was ready to throw down with the druids and strikes me as the type who wouldn't hesitate to fight for what she believes in. Locke's temperament, in contrast, reminds me more of a distance runner. He's much calmer than his wife.

So I debated between Asharak and Guex whom I thought would be a better fit for fencing--we see Asharak training the kids in fighting, and Guex using Main Hand Attack against Makeshift Training Dummy. Ultimately, I felt Asharak's temperament was a lot better for it and, frankly, that he would do well enough to compete on an Olympic level. Guex's event? Javelin Throw. We see him use potentially any weapon you sell Dammon against the Training Dummy if you defeat the druids (off the top of my head, I can't think of anyone who uses a javelin canonically otherwise minus maybe Cal). But I also think he'd like the challenge and feeling powerful without having to get into close quarters.

If we've talked Tiefling headcanon, you'll know I carry a headcanon that Okta is/was a monk and actively adventured until her pregnancy. Thus, she's a natural fit for Judo. Ikaron, too, does a physical event that requires a lot of control and precision: Boxing. Like Rolan with swimming, I think he'd find it cathartic.

Cerys would take part in the modern pentathlon. We don't know much about her backstory from the game besides her being a scout and the third leader option if both Zevlor and Asharak are killed in Act 1. Thus, IMO, she has to be extremely impressive in her own right. The pentathlon presently includes fencing, swimming, equestrian jumping, laser pistol shooting, and distance running.

Zorru and Yul are other canonical scouts. We know Zorru was able to make it Baldur's Gate presumably by himself, which means not only is he a good runner, but he has to be skilled at dodging obstacles, too. He's a natural choice for hurdles. Yul, we don't know enough about, but for the endurance required for scouting, let's slot him into cycling.

Kaldani and Rikka get to be our beach volleyball pair! I really wanted a duo that's seen a lot together in game, and they seem to get along well. I can see them working amazingly well at a team and being unafraid to work hard to win.

Damays and Nymessa were a little hard for me--I very much wanted Nymessa to be in breakdancing just to make Damays's head explode (at least the way I characterize them). But, in the end, I thought pole vault would be a good fit for her. Damays seems a fit for discus throwing.

Kanon strikes me as someone who would be really good at diving. We know he was a tailor in Elturel, and I think he'd appreciate the precision and artistry. Arka and Memnos? They get to be our tennis duos team. I think they'd balance each other well in the sport.

Pandirna absolutely has to be in weightlifting, all things considered. Let's hope she doesn't get in trouble for doping with Ethel's potions... Toron I think would be wrestling because wrestling cattle or something. Nadira would be sport climbing, because that seems to fit in well with her sneaking around devils and the like. (I can't remember at the moment how much of that is canon and how much of it was headcanon we came up with on the camp server.)

Eramis and Elegis I slotted into long jump and high jump respectively. At the time of writing this, this is based off vibes from each of them rather than anything in game that lent itself to this. Finally, Xeph, Rechel, and Amek get to be our synchronized swimmers, because we gotta have synchronized swimmers, and also I don't know where else to put them.

Hope you enjoyed the post!

[ploompkin]

That awkward moment when the weird druid you picked up on the road and your leader start flirting

[commander-krios]

Hey everyone!

I ran a gift exchange for the Elturel Tiefling Camp discord server and the works have been revealed! From Rolan/Gale to Bex/Danis and everything in between! Enjoy the art and fic!

[space-blue]

In this crisis, Zevlor is his people's last bulwark, and what he craves, in his heart of hearts, is an equal.

[starlitsemantics]

BG3 having a bunch of recurring NPCs from *Elturel* aka the city so plagued by vampires it started the chain of events that led to the Descent, as well as a vampire companion (cosmic horror pun not intended) who makes a very lacklustre attempt at hiding the vampness (iirc you can have him bite people at the second Grove battle right in front of former Hellrider Zevlor), is definitely a choice.

I am ultimately glad they decided not to have any of the refugees comment on it because it would force some odd story choices (it seems very odd even post Avernus for Zevlor or Tilses to be chill with a vampire hanging around - desperation and lack of options are a hell of a drug, but the risk reward ratio on early game Astarion, who also does not hide his disdain for them, seems like the kind of thing they wouldn't be able to look past especially with children involved). Making the player choose between interactions with the tiefling faction and Astarion as a companion would be terrible in terms of experiencing the story to its fullest, while having them be easily persuaded he's all good would feel cheesy and off to me, so in that sense, the polite fiction that they're just completely unaware works best.

But

But

Consider the following: they're absolutely aware what he is and don't trust the party to do anything sensible about it (because let's face it, the party doesn’t really give off the vibe of being particularly sensible), so take things into their own hands. What I'm envisioning is Zevlor being too busy to be on it all the time so he deputises Tilses and maybe Ikaron or Asharak to handle it. At all times when the party is around the Grove, two to three people with sharpened stakes follow them, hiding behind corners spy comedy style and being wildly conspicuous to anyone with eyes - it's just that our player characters are failing every perception check.

(The less comedic version of dealing with this conundrum is one I'm still hammering out the finer details of for my post-game story. It is also narratively tasty but unfortunately, sad)

[vera-king-hrfl]

With all the talk of dancing today, you all have inspired me. This is a lead-in to the spicy Zevlor fic I wrote a while ago, typed furiously on my phone while I was at work. Apologies for any formatting issues, y'all know I'm garbage at that anyway.

“Dance with me?”

Zevlor’s head snaps up as you approach. He’d been standing alone beyond the firelight as if trying to blend in with the darkness, his arms crossed, staring at a random spot on the ground somewhere in front of him. Glowering, to your estimation. You had been looking for him, and the soft siren call of the tiefling’s presence drew you to him here in the dim flickering of the distant fires. He looks for a moment like a startled deer, before flinching and sketching a brief bow. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I was miles away. Did you need something?”

You laugh softly and hold out your hand. “I asked you to dance with me, Zevlor. Please?”

He looks at your outstretched fingers and swallows, staring at your hand as if it were a snake about to strike. “Oh… I do not… I am not very good at dancing. There are others who would be better for… hm.” His consternation is so adorable, you think, but you don’t let up, instead moving closer, gazing up as the flames in his eyes pulse lightly. He tenses a little, as if preparing to bolt. “You should try Ikaron. He can… or even Alfira. She’s a wonderful dancer. I am afraid I may just trip over my feet and embarrass us both.” But his hands twitch, clawed fingers briefly flexing, and you sense the heat of him rising. If his skin weren’t already a beautiful shade of deep red, you’d have sworn he was blushing.

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. “Alfira is playing the music. And Ikaron seems so determined not to enjoy himself… everyone else has a partner. I am afraid it will have to be you, Commander. Would you really deny me one little dance?” You let yourself pout a little, and risk touching him, placing your hand lightly over his where it grips his biceps.

He swallows again tightly, looking down at your hand, before allowing himself to relax a bit. “I think I could deny you nothing… I mean…” he coughs, “alright. One song. But you must forgive me if I disappoint. I am more accustomed to the battlefield and the barracks than genteel society functions.” He smiles, finally and slips his fingers into yours. His hand is incredibly warm, and grips you firmly. His other joins, chafing lightly at the dorsal surface. “Your hands are cold.” His eyes widen as he realizes what he’s said. “That wasn’t meant to be a criticism. I know that you are… just… let’s just go.”

“I think you’re warm enough for the both of us.” You giggle softly and begin to lead him closer to the fire, where groups and couples are swirling around Alfira, who is currently playing a lively number on her lute and singing gaily. You catch her eye and she nods, grinning, and shortly brings her tune to an end amidst the laughter and applause. She tunes the instrument for a few minutes, giving the dancers time to grab a drink and reset themselves. You pull Zevlor into position, placing yourself before him and smiling up into his eyes. He gulps, and then, as Alfira’s nimble fingers caress the strings in a more sedate, almost sensual melody, he bows, takes your hands, and begins to move.

His steps are not vigorous or intricate, but he has a warrior’s grace as he guides you around him, turning to keep you in his sight. Those burning eyes never leave you, even when he cups your waist and lifts you easily before turning in a quick circle and setting you down again. A soft smile spreads on his angular face, his hands more confident. A dip, a rise, a light press of his palm on your back. He mainly moves your body, keeping his feet in roughly the same spot as the dance goes on. He is certainly not tripping over himself, you note as he twirls you once, twice, appearing to actually be enjoying himself for the moment. You feel the heat of him as he pulls your back briefly to his chest, swaying before guiding you back out again. You see his free hand curl loosely around a lock of your flying hair, letting the silken strands flow through his fingers. His tail, which curls sinuously around him, occasionally brushes against your bare ankles. As the song ends, he draws you flush against him, with a hand on your lower back, and goes still.

His eyes burn into you, his hand warm on you, and he wets his lips, suddenly looking rather frightened. Your stomach flip flops as you get a glimpse of two tapered points. He usually speaks tightly, through gritted teeth, so you’ve never noticed that his tongue is forked. His gaze moves to your own mouth, and he catches his lower lip with his sharp pointed teeth. You let your hand drift up his chest, curling around his shoulder, and apply just a whisper of pressure. Inviting him to do what he so obviously wants. His grip tightens as the world fades, and  you part your lips with a tiny gasp when he begins to lower his head.

A sudden, loud wolf whistle cuts through the fog, making you both jump, and Zevlor’s head jerks up, quickly smothering a frustrated snarl. Everyone is looking at the two of you, their eyes glowing with tipsy tiefling amusement. He smiles thinly, releasing you and lifting his palms in good-natured surrender before taking your hand and leading you back to his previous spot, followed by laughing applause and a few catcalls.

Your heart is racing as you take your position by his side. He relaxes his grip, but you do not, instead pressing his hand more firmly, and glance up at him. “I do not know what all the fuss was about. You’re a wonderful dancer. I forgot where I was, for a moment.”

He does not protest, but instead mutters thanks and allows you to remain, holding his hand and standing close enough to feel his warmth. He is gazing out at the others, who seem to have lost interest in ribbing the older man, and have returned to their merrymaking. “It is so good to see them smiling. It… all of this has been very hard on them.” His voice is casual, but when he cuts his eyes down to look at you, you see what seems to be a flicker of pain dart across the orange surface, before he tries a slightly wobbly smile and looks away. “I should go. There are still things I… you should stay and enjoy yourself. You deserve it after all you’ve done for us.”

You squeeze his hand tightly, sidling a bit closer and keeping your voice low. “And what of yourself, Zevlor? You’ve been through just as much. Do you not deserve a little comfort as well?” You think you already know his opinion on that, but you don’t give him a chance to start depreciating himself again. “I myself… we’ve all had a difficult time with things of late. But shared burdens are lighter. Will you not stay with me, for a little while?”

“It’s my responsibility…” he begins, but then sighs. He nods, but then his expression becomes thoughtful. He’s worrying something over in his mind, you think, and you wait, silent, giving him time to organize his thoughts. When he finally speaks, his words come in a quiet, breathy rush. “I do not… they do not need a dusty old soldier glowering at them tonight. But if you are still interested in my company, I will return to my office. You may join me there if you wish. I have a map to finalize with Tilses, but then I will send her to join the party. She… sleeps with the others. I should be alone within the hour. Then we can… talk.” He glances back at you, seeming surprised by his own boldness, and you nod in agreement as he lifts your hand to his lips and presses briefly before releasing you and moving off into the shadows. You feel your cheeks burn with a flush, because you know he doesn’t really want to talk. Zevlor, Hellrider, former Commander of the cavalry forces of Elturel, has just invited you to his bed.

[gloomstalkertav]

Summary: In which the tiefling party, in-keeping with canon, is a disappointment to Zevlor fans (though Zevlor himself comes out ahead in this version).

Part 5 of 10

Warnings: implied sexual references

Word Count: ~7.6K

View story masterpost | Read on Ao3

Zevlor stood, a tin cup of wine in his hand, the gentle night breeze at his back and the friendly warmth of the firelight before him, watching the people he had fought for so long and so hard laugh and drink and dance together, free for the first time in months from immediate duties and imminent threats, feeling thoroughly miserable, and with no one to blame for it but himself.

This had been his idea, after all.

It was he who had bid his people gather themselves and their belongings and make the short trek from the grove down the now-safe road to join Tav and her companions’ camp. A practice march, he had called it wryly, to get them back in the habit before resuming their journey for Baldur’s Gate the next day. And between his own uncommon good-humour, and the refugees’ general state of stunned elation, this excuse went uncontested. But Zevlor’s true motive was much less practical or prosaic: namely, a desire to stay as close as possible — for as long as possible — to Tav. Because she would not be coming with them; he had known it before the battle began. But, somehow, with the sun high overhead, and the cocktail of victory and relief still singing triumphantly in his veins, this had seemed as surmountable an enemy as Minthara and her goblin horde.

Now, Zevlor wondered what he’d been playing at. He was bone-tired; every inch of his back was sore and stiff, his muscles ached, his knees were viciously swollen under his armor. He ought to have left it off after he washed. He ought to have done a lot of things differently, Zevlor thought with a wistful pang, squinting through the torch-lit dark as another of the refugees — Ikaron, by the horns — took leave of the noisy celebration in favour of a few extra hours rest. Zevlor’s bedroll, too, and the necessaries he had transferred from bulky trunk to more easily toted sack, waited outside the ring of scrap-fabric tents, in the ruins of the blighted city beyond. But he could not retreat to them yet. That same irrational, inexorable urge that had brought them to the adventurers' camp in the first place kept Zevlor rooted to the spot.

Submitting to his tick of the night, he took another sip of wine and, as he lowered the cup, let his eyes find Tav: currently sprawled across a fallen log near the fire, tail curled in the pool of her patched skirts, turning her own empty cup idly in one hand as she listened to Alfira pluck experimentally at her lute and try out different prosy lines.

“Alright, how about … hearts a-quiver, we raised our bows -”

“Pfft — none of that poetic stuff,” said Lakrissa, her voice too loud, swaying slightly over the women on the log. “C’mon Alfie, make it spicy!”

“Spicy? It's supposed to be an epic, not a backroom ballad!”

Tav giggled: a bubbly, buoyant sound that carried over the amiable argument. She tilted her head, loose hair tumbling over her shoulder and briefly caught Zevlor’s eye.

Zevlor dropped his gaze to the dark amber contents of his cup, as he had every other time Tav had looked his way. An unfriendliness she did not deserve; any more than she had deserved his earlier awkward declination and abrupt dismissal when she had tried to coax him deeper into the evening’s revels. But nor, he reminded himself sternly as guilt and regret wriggled holes in his resolve, did she deserve to have her celebration spoilt by his sour mood. However much he craved her company, he would not inflict himself upon her, make his misery another problem for her to solve. She deserved one evening of carefree happiness. If Zevlor could give her nothing else — and he had laboured over what to give her; considered even his own sword, before admitting something so old and cumbersome had little to offer a lithe, energetic duellist and leaving it behind in the grove with other useless detritus — he was determined to give her that.

So, resolved to keep a respectful distance, but unable to tear himself away from what would almost certainly be his last sight of her, Zevlor had stationed himself on the outskirts of the party and watched as Tav made her rounds: at Bex's request, she had strummed a few lively tunes on Alfira’s spare lute, until laughter at the giddy, drunken dancing it inspired shook her hands too badly to continue; she had attended Rolan's regular — and unsolicited — displays of prestidigitation, applauding enthusiastically each time; she had watched, cheered, and occasionally catcalled along with the children as Karlach and Guex re-enacted, and embellished, their favourite scenes from the morning's battle; and she had lent her hands and powers of persuasion to Asharak when he corralled the boisterous youngsters off to bedrolls shortly after. Each interaction with the people under his care felt as intimate to Zevlor as a physical caress, and agonising as a twisted knife. They did not understand, the other refugees, what the morning would bring. Or, rather, what it would take away. And he dreaded the coming hour when they realised — when he would be forced to explain — their new friend and thrice-blessed saviour would not be accompanying them to Baldur’s Gate.

A burst of purple light and silver stars from the far side of the fire made Zevlor’s tail twitch; as had every other of Rolan’s fireworks that evening. Though this time, unable to brace himself against the sudden noise, his hands jerked involuntarily as well. His tin cup tumbled to the ground, dark wine spilling from its mouth like blood. An image reinforced by Lakrissa’s overloud declamation:

“Try this on for size: the goblins attacked, but we were brave, and blasted them all with a thunder wave!”

Zevlor, bending to retrieve his cup, could hear Tav's burst of laughter. He glanced up compulsively and saw her doubled over, shoulders shaking. Strange, how the sight and sound of her mirth could soothe his nerves and stick painfully in his gut at the same time. He righted himself, grunting stiffly, and another stolen glance as he straightened caught Tav sneaking a peak at him, mouth frozen mid-laugh.

“But no one even used thunder wave,” Alfira was insisting.

“Oh, for Helm's sake, it's a song Alfie, not a history book. Have a little fun with it!”

“Well, I think you two have this particular piece well in hand,” said Tav decisively, and got to her feet, smoothing her skirts, empty cup dangling at her side.

Zevlor’s stomach turned over. Her abrupt exit, and the way she was studiously not looking his direction now, struck him as likely signs Tav was headed his way. And he could think of only one reason for her to approach him again: to say her final goodbye. Zevlor turned, and, swiftly as his legs allowed, shuffled past the line of torches to a nearby, overlarge rock under whose shadow a rickety wooden table holding uncorked bottles and mismatched cups was kept. He knew he could not put it off long, but he thought a second glass was warranted before enduring that ultimate hardship. He lifted a bottle, shook it, then set it aside when it proved empty, repeating the process again and again, and becoming more despondent each time.

Why hadn’t they remained in the grove another night, where there was a private chamber for him to slink off to, a door he could shut in the others’ merry faces to be miserable on his own? What had he thought could be gained from joining Tav’s camp for one night? The calloused pads of Zevlor's fingers fumbled more smooth bottles. And what had possessed him to take such an excessive amount of time on his appearance — scrubbing his skin and armor to a shine, brushing his hair smooth, changing his shirt, even trimming his nails? What had he expected to happen? What had he hoped? Zevlor wasn’t sure he had articulate hopes or expectations anymore, only feelings: this craving for Tav's presence, this undeniable desire for her that burned his blood, but offered no plan, no purpose, no executable action. He did not know what to do with what he felt, that was the crux of his frustration.

And, to top it all off, there was no more wine.

“Need another drink?”

Zevlor heard Tav's voice at the same time he sensed her at his shoulder, smelled the freshly cleaned scent of her mingled with smoke from the fire.

“I’d thought, just the one more,” he said haltingly. “Before turning in. It’s been … a long day.” Tav edged around him to inspect the table herself, and Zevlor, needing something else to look at it other than the silhouette of her skirts as she bent down to search for more bottles, surveyed the party still piping on behind them. “But it seems we might have been too festive already this evening.”

“Just festive enough, I think. Considering what everyone's been through.”

Zevlor, unable to stop himself, looked back. Tav was still half-crouched under the table, but had turned her face to the cheerful crowd. Through the shadows, he could make out the curved edges of her little fond smile. It did something to him, watching her watch his people with such affection: warmed his limbs until his aches and pains were echoes, relaxed his tensions and tongue.

“You have no idea how good it feels to see these people smiling,” he said, surprised at his own earnestness. “And we have you to thank.”

A slight shudder ran from Tav's shoulders down her arms, and Zevlor thought her smile slipped for a moment. Unless it was a trick of the dark. The next second she was straightening, face pleasant as ever, though she ignored Zevlor's last remark and, instead, announced:

“I know where there's more. Come on.”

A step sideways and a jerk of her head reinforced the command. Her smile softened it. And Zevlor knew no choice but to obey.

Nerves of a more pleasant sort than he'd experienced all day crept down his neck as he followed Tav, tripping over the occasional stone and clump of earth as they left the ring of torch-lit tents behind. A bend in the sheltering cliff-side ushered them down a short slope and deposited them by a tree-trunk bridge perched precariously over a swift-moving stream. Moonlight, spilling through a break in the tree canopy, revealed a pile of rocks gathered out of the way of the water and guarding a collection of bottles, like a stony bird's nest of glinting glass eggs.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Mol’s stash,” Tav replied, and Zevlor could hear her smile. 

“Mol.” His sigh held all his own amusement and concern about the mischievous young girl who'd been a minor thorn in his side since Elturel: pilfering from anyone and everyone she could and coercing the other children into her life of petty crime. “I shudder to think what she’ll get up to in Baldur’s Gate.”

“From what I know of the place, she’ll fit right in. Probably running it from behind the scenes in no time,” mused Tav, clinking carefully through the stolen wines. “What do you fancy?”

“What? Oh — anything is fine.” Zevlor, momentarily forgetting what they had come for in the joy of simply being with Tav, and the implication of her words, considered them while she held up bottle after bottle, reading the faded labels by moonlight, then indulged his curiosity at last. “You're not from the Gate yourself, then?”

“Oh no, I’ve never been. Or, rather, I was there for all of about an hour before that mind flayer ship came through and snatched me out. So, not quite long enough to call it home. Ah, there's the stuff.”

Tav pushed to her feet triumphantly, clutching a fat-bodied bottle by its slender neck. She made a small arcane gesture over the cork and waited while it sparkled, then disintegrated into nothing, then held out her hand for Zevlor's cup.

“You have some skill at magic, too,” he noted politely as she poured.

Tav wrinkled her nose.

“Not really. Party tricks. Illusions. Little things. Gale and Rolan put me right to shame.”

She filled the cup nearly to the brim, returned it to Zevlor with a courtly nod, then bent to retrieve her own. Zevlor took a long sip. Ashaba Dusk: a wine he enjoyed, and all the more so for how the taste returned him to their first night of real conversation at the grove. And the rush of noisy water beside him brought back the memory proceeding it, the one which so often insinuated itself into the better of Zevlor's dreams. But which was hardly appropriate now. He drank again, trying to wash the vision from his mind. When it lingered, he asked, by way of distraction:

“So, what brought you to Baldur’s Gate?”

“The circus,” said Tav promptly, balancing her own full cup while stooping to tuck the bottle back into its nest of rocks.

“The circus?”

“The Circus of the Last Days. It's an extraplanar circus. It moves around a lot, but it's supposed to come to Baldur's Gate soon. I was hoping to join.”

“You want to join the circus.”

Clarification was required on this point before Zevlor, alcohol buzzing through him gently, could believe he had it right. Tav shrugged one shoulder, mouth hidden behind her cup.

“Is it so mad?”

“No! No, of course not. It's only ... just … I would have thought it a waste of your talents.”

Tav let out a little chirp of laughter, but Zevlor thought the low swish of her tail was more self-conscious than genuinely amused.

“On the contrary, it’s the only place my talents might be of some regular use. I can sing a song, tell a story, do the flashier bits of swordplay - hardly the makings of a trade or proper career. Plus, I thought a circus might be more accepting of - well,” She tucked an errant curl around the base of one horn absently, and finished: “I thought I might not stand out so much.” Her eyes flicked furtively to Zevlor's. “I suppose that would seem silly to someone like you.”

Zevlor had no idea what sort of someone he was in this instance, but hastened to assure her, “It doesn't,” then paused, wetting his lips, the drink he had so wanted minutes ago forgotten in his hand — he wanted other things now.

He longed to ask more questions. All their talks of the last tenday had concentrated on war, on military strategy, on the enemies of their present and his past — even his stories of Elturel had largely been related to its defence. Now, with battle behind them, and no time left ahead, Zevlor wanted a different sort of conversation. He wanted to know Tav: what she thought, what she felt, what she liked, where she had come from, her future plans — everything they would have talked about, every intimate detail they might have shared over tendays of travel together, had the gods permitted such a fate. Or, if that was asking too much of one night, he'd have been equally happy to hear her voice saying anything at all for another hour at least. But his melancholy musings were interrupted by the ear-splitting strains of a poorly-strummed lute, followed by an outburst of laughter from the camp they had left behind.

Tav cocked an ear towards the sounds, and Zevlor remembered his resolve to let her enjoy herself for once.

“I suppose I should let you get back to the festivities.”

He did his utmost to keep any bitterness from his voice, but, as Tav regarded him steadily, Zevlor wasn't sure he'd quite done the job. The infernal quality of her eyes was stark in moonlight. The pupils swirled and glowed like cobalt flames, illuminating her face where a resolve of her own solidified.

“Oh, I think I've been festive enough for one night.”

And, without waiting for Zevlor to argue or agree, Tav dropped in a heap of skirts to the stream bank. She stretched her legs out over the side, soft slippers hovering just above the dancing spray, and took a long, slow slug of wine. She said nothing, but the invitation was clear. Heart beating so loud under his armor he worried she would hear the muffled metal thuds, Zevlor gathered his legs and tail underneath him and eased himself to the sandy ground. A grunt escaped him as he unfolded his knees, though his wince had more to do with his unbecoming noise than his physical discomfort.

“Are you alright?” Tav's expression was suddenly serious as she twisted to take him in. “Were you injured? I have an extra potion back at camp, I can-”

Zevlor waved her worry away. They were close enough for his hand to swipe loose strands of her wayward curls as it passed.

“I'm fine. It isn't a wound, just ... age. Hazards of being old,” he said with mordant humour, smoothing his own hair pointlessly back.

“Oh, please, you're not that old.”

Zevlor watched those blue eyes widen, wisteria cheeks darken to iris, at this clearly wine-inspired slip, and could not help himself. He chuckled. It felt unfamiliar in his throat. Tav glanced quickly at him, surprise transmuting her chagrin into a sort of sheepish determination. She took another swig from her cup, then plunged ahead:

“Alright then. How old are you?”

Zevlor hesitated. But what was there to be gained from a lie except a false sense of pride? He told her.

“That’s hardly old,” Tav tittered dismissively, and tilted back more wine.

Ridiculously emboldened by her groundless defence of his age, and feeling the effects of this second glass more rapidly than the first, Zevlor found himself asking: “And, how old are you?” and, when Tav admitted a number, blurting, "Truly?" before he could think twice. Her laugh was distinctly self-conscious this time.

“Older or younger than you thought?”

"Older."

It took him the rest of Tav’s awkwardly fading laugh to understand this had been the wrong answer. But even were he stone sober, Zevlor did not think he could communicate how irrationally heartening he found her age. It did not touch his by nearly two decades, but, nevertheless, relieved him of some of the guilt he felt for certain, occasional late-night indulgences in which the memory of her wet wisteria skin in the twilight had featured.

“You think less of me, now,” was Tav’s conclusion from his silence, however. Overriding his noise of protest, she pressed on: “I understand. It's always easier to forgive mistakes and recklessness in people when you think they're young. You raise your standards when you think they're old enough to know better.”

Zevlor's brow furrowed as he attempted to parse her meaning. Another sip of wine did nothing to help.

“I promise,” he said at last, when he thought he might have it, “I think no less of you for your actions in the battle. You took a risk going after your friend, yes, but risks are not inherently reckless. Nor are they monopoly of youth. You did the right thing. And it won the day.”

The cloud across Tav's face abruptly cleared as if a lantern had been lit behind her. And when she looked at Zevlor now, there was an echo of that same open awe she had bestowed on him that morning before the fight.

“You've quite a way with words,” she said softly. Her praise felt like some expensive, luxurious fabric — silk or velvet — brushed across Zevlor's skin; a sensation he wanted more of. “Sure you're not also a bard in your spare time?”

Her lips curled with her own light jocularity, and the thought appeared unbidden in Zevlor’s mind that this was his last chance to taste them, his last chance for … anything. He wondered if he dared. If that would count as a calculated risk or recklessness in Tav’s book. Resting his cup in the sandy dirt between them, he leaned in slowly… too slowly.

A muted bang from the direction of the camp made Zevlor jump. His tail whipped behind him, tangling in Tav's, at the same time his trembling hand knocked into his cup, sloshing wine across the hem of her skirts. Tav gasped: whether from the sudden noise and light overhead, or the dark seeping stain, or the tug she too must feel at the base of her spine as their tails fought to free themselves, Zevlor was too mortified to determine.

Then, “It’s alright, it's fine,” she was saying over and over amid his blustered apologies. Reaching around to extricate her tail, she scooted through the sandy earth and dipped the sopping edge of her skirts into the fast-flowing stream. “Really, it's nothing,” she continued to soothe even after Zevlor's voice had died miserably away. “It's a cast-off from Bex. It's all over stains and holes already.” She glanced from Zevlor's face — so furiously flushed he was sure she must see it even through his fiery skin — to the sky, and gave a small, shaky laugh. “They - they really like fireworks, that lot, don't they?”

Zevlor, grasping gratefully at this olive branch, shot a resentful look above them where the sparkling remnants of Rolan's latest light-show hung.

“You'll have to forgive the pageantry. All Elturians have a bit of it in them, I'm afraid. We are — we were — a city that loves to celebrate.* And anyway,” he prattled on, grappling at the remnants of the mood the fireworks, and his own clumsiness, had ruined, “you certainly deserve to be celebrated.” Zevlor gestured at the little silver stars in their corona of purple and blue with his nearly empty cup, adding: “A light for every life you've saved.”

He returned his eyes to Tav, hopefully, and nearly dropped his cup again at the look on her face - the same he had caught before they left camp. A joyless, smile-less, almost … lost expression. She blinked, and it was gone, but this time the threat of it lurked at the edges of her eyes and uncharacteristically hard corners of her mouth. She bent over her skirts, wringing the wet fabric out over the stream.

“People keep saying things like that,” she said, her attempt at airiness audibly brittle. “I really wish they wouldn’t. I didn’t do anything more than anyone else. And less than some.” Anticipating the argument ready on Zevlor’s tongue, she hurried on, “Astarion and Karlach, they were incredible. We wouldn’t have made it halfway through the fight without them. And Wyll saved Arka, and killed that spider all on his own. And I would have died myself if you hadn’t saved me, and then Lae’zel. You’re all real heroes. I’m just—”

She broke off with a grimace, dropped the soaking skirts and reached for her abandoned cup. She gulped down wine with the sort of desperation that came from the desire not to feel. Zevlor knew it intimately. But it hurt him like an open wound to see it on Tav.

“You may not have killed every goblin single-handed,” he said encouragingly when at last she lowered her empty cup, “but you had a hand in every enemy that fell today. You’re the reason any heroes were there at all. You found them, you kept them together, kept them from dying — and killing each other, by the sound of things. You’re their leader. Their victories are yours, and yours, theirs.”

Tav was already shaking her head before he finished.

“I’m not anyone’s leader, it’s just sort of … happened … this … me making decisions, being in charge, but it’s only because someone has to. I don’t have any qualifications. I don’t really know what I’m doing!” The confession burst from her, as sudden and explosive as another firework, and Tav's free hand gesticulated wildly as though hoping to claw answers from the disturbed night air. “And I don’t have any idea what I’m supposed to do next! They expect me to come up with some brilliant plan, but every plan I’ve had so far has failed. Halsin didn’t have the cure. Neither did the goblin priestess, or the hag. Nothing I’ve tried has got us any further to getting these worms out of our heads. And every day there’s some new distraction, someone needs something or has some secret or condition that crops up and they all want it fixed right now and it’s all I can do to keep everyone alive!”

Her hand fell limp to her lap, exhausted. Zevlor waited for Tav to catch her breath — afraid she might not hear him over her great gasps — before saying gently:

“I’m afraid that’s all a leader really does. Weigh the available options, cobble together plans, keep their people alive as best they can. It’s much less glamourous, and much more thankless, than songs and stories might suggest. And it isn’t easy. Especially with such a disparate group as yours.”

Tav blinked up at him a few times before asking, “How do you do it?” and Zevlor’s lips twitched as he assured her, “Not half as well as you, I promise.”

Her snort of disbelief broke the delicate air between them. She sat back, groping through the rocks behind her, and produced the bottle of Ashaba Dusk. She lifted it at Zevlor in a question. He raised his own cup in answer. After she had poured him a generous measure and set to her own, he re-arranged himself to face her, ignoring the twinge of weary muscles.

“It’s different, commanding soldiers,” he said, no longer as concerned with flattering or impressing Tav as making her believe the truth in his words. “The Hellriders under my command were voluntary, enthusiastic recruits. They needed training, yes, guiding, and often encouragement, but never this coaxing or cajoling most of my camp now requires. Every day, Rolan needs a new reason why he ought not to just leave, but I can give an order to Tilses, any order, and she’ll follow it without question. Civilians are just … different. They all come with individual wants and needs and conditions, as you say. It takes a different sort of charisma, a flexibility of mind to juggle them all. You have it naturally.” He dipped his head at Tav; then shook it slowly at himself as he realised for the first time: “I’m afraid I don’t. My strengths are more suited to a military setting: discipline … strategy … the upholding of a common faith.”

“That’s right…” Tav’s tail perked up behind her as some sudden thought distracted her from her distress. “You’re a paladin, I keep forgetting. You know, I - I’ve wanted to ask…” Zevlor took a hasty swig from his newly filled cup: sure he knew where this question was going and startled when it went an unexpected route. “Who was your god?”

“I did not have any one god.” His response required no thought. It was second nature. “Elturel is a holy city, that boasts many lawful gods as patrons. I paid respect and due reverence to them all. But my oath was one of devotion to the city itself.”

He paused, bracing himself, but the grief the memory conjured was more akin to the dull ache in his back than its usual evisceration. A result of the alcohol saturating his senses, Zevlor supposed. And perhaps it was also to blame for the compulsion swelling in his chest, the inexplicable urge to tell the story to Tav. She was leaning in towards him, outlined in silver moonlight, loose raven curls dancing lightly in the breeze — the sight was undeniably stirring, but it was a different sort of intimacy Zevlor now craved.

“In Elturel,” he explained, “when a citizen comes of age, they sign their name in a book - a holy book - swearing fealty to the city. It’s a rite of passage. Not necessarily an oath of power, but … it was for me. I wanted to defend my city, strengthen it, serve it. And when I signed, I could feel the power of my oath straightaway. I joined the Hellriders soon after. There were few paladins amongst their ranks then, but to me, no lesser commitment would do. Being a Hellrider is for life. Or, it's supposed to be.” Zevlor inhaled, slowly, savouring years-worth of memories: the bliss of knowing his place, his purpose; the safety and sanctity of power he understood, responsibilities he could fulfil. He missed the weight of it, like armor, and felt hideously naked as he admitted: “But I devoted myself to a lie. That book - it was the contract Thavius Kreeg used to bind all the souls in Elturel to Zariel. He sold us all. I don’t know whether it was the book’s destruction or my own disillusionment in Elturel and its leaders that broke my oath, but the outcome was the same either way, so it hardly matters. My city was not what I thought it was. And I am its paladin no longer.”

Zevlor wasn’t sure he had ever said it in so many words before, even in his head. Above him, high tree branches rustled in a more insistent, faintly smoke-laced wind. His bare hands and face registered cold. He sought warmth in his wine.

“That’s … devastating,” Tav said at last, her voice unembellished. “It sounds like … a hell all its own.”

“You’re not wrong,” he agreed between desperate gulps.

Tav sipped too, though more sedately, then asked: “Could you get it back, somehow, do you think? I mean, if you devoted yourself to something else? Or somewhere else? Like Baldur’s Gate?”

“I doubt it,” Zevlor sighed, lowering his cup and gazing morosely up at the starry sky. “Devotion is an instinct. It’s inspired. It can’t be forced. Or offered to just anything or anyone or anywhere. Baldur’s Gate may hold a place for us yet, but even if it does, even if I lived out the rest of my days there, I don’t know whether I could ever truly call it home.”

“I can understand that.”

It was Zevlor’s turn to be struck by a thought, like a fallen tree branch, that knocked his own troubles askew. He blinked shadows of the past from his eyes, and, for the first time in minutes, gave his full attention to Tav. Her arms were looped round her knees, her cup dangling from careless fingers between them, considering the little stretch of earth between her slippers and Zevlor's boots without, he was sure, really seeing. And he was long past the point of worrying about intrusive personal questions.

“Where is home for you?”

“I don’t have one,” she answered with a preoccupied shrug. “I mean, not like that. Not like Elturel for you. Not a place I ever really belonged to.”

“An orphan?” ventured Zevlor, but Tav shook her head.

“Technically, but… not really. I mean…” She shifted in her seat and closed her eyes for a moment, composing her thoughts before laying them out. “My mother did die in childbirth and I never knew my father, but I had my mother’s parents and they raised me. It’s just … they weren’t like me. Like us. Tieflings,” and this time her discomfort in the word sounded like an echo from someone else’s voice. “It was a shock for them. Their kingdom — or, the place they live, I mean — there aren’t any other tieflings there. Or not the born kind, just people who make actual deals with devils so there’s a bit of a stigma, obviously. They tried all sorts of cures when I was young.” Tav’s free hand darted compulsively towards her head, but she caught it in time. She wrapped it safely around her cup, while Zevlor's gaze flicked to her stunted horns, noticing as he had once before their flat, filed tops. “And when that didn’t work, they tried covering it up, but of course those things always get out. They did their best to make sure everyone treated me normally, at least to my face, but I knew what they — I knew what they thought.”

She squeezed her eyes briefly shut again, and took a fortifying sip of wine before speeding on: “So whenever anything bad happened in the kingdom — animal attacks, hard winters, famine, illnesses — everyone always blamed me. Then when I was fourteen, we had a plague. A bad one. There was a … well, it wasn't quite a revolt exactly, but my grandparents didn’t really have a choice but to send me away. I understood. I went to visit a neighbouring kingdom, then another, then schools, but it always ended the same: a wave of sickness, bad weather, some freak accident, and I’d be shunted off again. When I turned seventeen, I finally just took off on my own. And I’ve been on my own, on the move ever since.”

“I see…” was all Zevlor could think to say. It was a difficult existence for his wine-soaked brain to comprehend - to have no anchor, no tie, no purpose. But, even inebriated, he didn't think this an appropriate comfort. As if Tav sensed his struggle…

“I don’t mind it,” she said, a little too heartily. “I’ve seen beautiful places, met fascinating people. I’ve had a hundred odd jobs, learned things I never would have otherwise. Amassed enough stories for a three-volume novel. It’s been loads of fun.” Then, as if this show of enthusiasm had cost her, Tav’s shoulders slumped. “Although,” she added, more subdued, “I admit, now that I’m not quite so young as I look,” — she threw Zevlor a weak half-grin — “I have found myself looking for more of a … a permanent place. Somewhere to belong to. Hence the circus.”

Tav raised her cup to her lips and cocked her head, surprised to find it empty. She reached around for the bottle. Zevlor wondered how much was left. A question answered when she refilled her cup, then leaned over and drained what remained into his without asking. She dropped the bottle clumsily behind her, where it rolled until it clunked against rock.

And for several minutes they simply sat, facing each other over their separate cups, listening to the stream break over rocks beside them and the trees whisper above; and though no part of them was touching, to Zevlor they felt intangibly connected; united against a land supremely unconcerned with their fates. They were two tieflings alone in a world that had no place for them, but alone together. That thought, or the third helping of wine, renewed Zevlor's strength. And — he blinked; abruptly dazed as if by some bright light — illuminated a heretofore unconsidered path. If this world and its gods would not make a way for them, then it was up to them — to him — to make their own. 

“Well,” he announced into the silence, setting his cup carefully to the earth: his hands were trembling with a sudden surge of excitement, “should the circus not be everything you hoped, I meant what I said before: you always have family in Baldur's Gate. I would have asked you to leave with us tomorrow, but I know your … condition takes precedence.”

“The mindflayer incubating in my head, you mean?” Tav asked, sardonic and slightly slurred.

“That, yes.” Zevlor's nod both acknowledged and dismissed the gravity of this problem. He refused to be discouraged from his new hope or dissuaded from his infant plan. At least, not until he knew how Tav felt about it. “But perhaps when you’ve wrapped up that adventure—”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Not simple no, but…” Zevlor smiled, and it felt easy on his face. “You’ve come this far. It’s hard to imagine you failing at anything you’ve set your mind to. And once you’ve succeeded, it shouldn’t be hard for you to make your own way to the Gate. The others would be terribly glad to see you. As would I. And,” — his thumb absently traced the dented rim of his cup — “having been there some time already, I should have more to offer you than camp rations and stolen wine.”

His words were so heavily laden with meaning Zevlor had the fanciful notion they might fall through the air and drown in his half-full drink. But Tav caught them. She opened her mouth and let it hang, temporarily incapable of speech. Her tail, rarely ever restrained and evidently feeling the full effect of this third draft of wine, curled and uncurled eagerly behind her, and Zevlor, nerves alight, was certain the picture he painted appealed to her, too. When she found her voice, it was breathless and raw, her answer almost indistinguishable around her wine-thick tongue and the smile growing up the sides of her face.

“Should I get this thing out of my head, I'd be quite happy to see you again anywhere, whatever you had to offer — more tents and caves in some new wilderness, or a house somewhere in Baldur's Gate. I mean, it's almost like a wilderness itself, that place." She giggled nervously, words tumbling from her now. “I mean, I got lost the second I arrived, those streets are a labyrinth. I spent the whole hour I was there looking for the Elfsong. Should we be able to find each other once I was there, do you think? What's your surname, so I can ask for you?”

“I don’t have one.” Zevlor was barely aware of what either of them were saying — his mind, too, was already reeling towards the future; their future. Together. “Many of our kind don't have family names,” he babbled on, “unless they choose one for themselves. You're not the only one of uncertain heritage.”

“Oh, of course. That makes sense. I'm sorry,” Tav stuttered nonsensically. “I mean, it shouldn't matter. I've never met anyone else called Zevlor, before. I quite like your name by the way. It's a good name for a song. Much easier to say than mine. It rolls right off the tongue.”

She said his name again, and even slurred as it was by excitement and drink, Zevlor thought he would burn alive at the sound. Tav, in contrast, froze. Colour drained from her face and her tail drooped with almost comical slowness, as she passed visibly from confusion through shock and finally into horror, realising all she had just said. The reality of it seemed to sober her. She blinked rapidly, then lifted her cup, held it away from her and upended the contents into the earth.

“I think I’ve had enough wine for one night.”

Zevlor would have laughed out loud were his own sluggish brain not busy processing something else she had let slip.

“Tav is not your real name?”

“It’s a nickname,” she said, brushing dirt Zevlor could not see from her skirts and avoiding his eyes. And in spite of her previous display, apparently still unable to reign in her tongue. “I never liked my full name. It's long and pretentious, and no one ever gets it quite right. I haven't used it in years. Since I first left, in fact.”

“Will you tell it to me?” asked Zevlor, and his quiet request was enough to still Tav's stumbling tongue in her mouth and her hands in her lap and draw her gaze to his.

She told him.

She had to say it twice before Zevlor could wrap his mind around the intriguing set of syllables. Then he tried them out for himself. A storm-cloud blush spread across Tav's cheeks, and their faces were so close together — when had that happened? — Zevlor could feel its heat. Her blue eyes were glassy and glazed as she said, in little more than a whisper, “It doesn't sound so bad when you say it.”

And in that moment Zevlor knew every indefinable desire, every pleasure he'd barely let himself dream was his for the taking. All he had to do was lean in a few inches more. They could end the night like this: their new joint hopes sealed here in the dirt, by the water, under the stars; lips and hands clumsy, sensations vague with alcohol and fatigue; then part necessarily in a few hours, heads pounding, mouths dry, the experience half-remembered. And Tav... he could imagine her, cheeks dark with a different sort of embarrassment, unimpressed, disappointed, and wondering if it would really be worth the effort to find him in Baldur's Gate after all.

The image cleared Zevlor's head. He leaned reluctantly away. He wanted that kiss, and everything that would inevitably follow; if he was honest with himself, it had always been his secret hope for the night. But now he wanted more. Tav was not a mere momentary pleasure, she was a whole world of possibilities. To risk that — to risk her — would be a reckless mistake: one Zevlor was old enough to know better than to make.

“I think you’re right,” he said hoarsely. “We have had quite enough wine.” And he held his own cup safely away from Tav's skirts and turned it over in the dirt with a little sigh.

“Oh! Yes. Of course. I'm sorry. So sorry, I've kept you up so late, and you've an early start tomorrow.”

Tav's voice was breathless and quavery. She looked and sounded as though she had just been punched. She ducked her head, a waterfall of loose raven curls obscuring her face, and pushed unsteadily to her feet. She snatched up her cup and the empty bottle, clutching them close to her chest, then took an uncertain step away from Zevlor, clearly unsure what to do next. Zevlor stood quickly — too quickly: his knees cracked and his back screamed as it was forced to uncurl so fast, but he ignored his body's complaints. He would have endured a great deal worse before he let Tav leave like that.

“Tav,” he said, and then, on a whim, tried her full name again; and when she peered, startled, through her curtain of curls, Zevlor reached out for her hand, removed the wine bottle from it, and, without giving himself time to second guess, brought it to his lips.

He left them pressed to her skin too long to be mistaken for any sort of politeness, and put into it everything he could of his hopes, his gratefulness, his own thwarted passion, and his — there was no point calling it anything else — his love for her. It was a lot to ask of one kiss to the back of a hand, but Zevlor trusted himself with nothing more. And by the look on Tav's face when he pulled away — that glowing adoration he would never have enough of — he thought she understood the gist.

“Thank you,” said Zevlor, and had never meant it more earnestly. “For everything. Meeting you has been an honour and a privilege. I look forward to seeing more of you soon in Baldur’s Gate.”

And even with half a bottle's worth of wine still in her blood, Tav's endless well of words failed her.

She let Zevlor lead her back up the sloping path, along the bend in the cliff-side, and into the torch-lit circle of scrap-fabric tents. Snores issued from more than one of them. The party had ended. The fire was embers and both refugees and adventurers had gone. Bottles were scattered across the empty, open ground, but Zevlor would not let Tav stop to tidy them. He escorted her safely to her own tent, extracted her assurance she would not sneak out of it to clean, and left her — but not before Tav, a blazing look in her cobalt eyes, had reached for his arm and used it to balance as she stretched up to kiss his cheek.

Zevlor could not remember finding his own bedroll, after, but assumed he had because his last memory of the night was lying on his back, head propped on his arms, staring up into the sky, and feeling for the first time in months, the kindling of a long dead fire; a whisper, as if from another life, of ... faith. Faith in Tav. Faith in whatever had sent her. Faith that the world, after all, might be more than politics and power plays and leaders protecting themselves at the cost of their people. Faith that his own life might once again have purpose and meaning. It was a flickering echo of the white hot flames that had fuelled him before Avernus, but, as he drifted to sleep, they were enough to keep him warm.

The Elfsong’s crowd has only increased with the hour. The conversations of a dozen tables mingle and meld into one rolling thrum, interspersed with strains of music — a flute and lute — from somewhere above, and the shouts and drunken laughter and catcalls and cartwheels from the street outside. But in one corner privacy booth, all is silence. Not even a clatter of tankards or gulping of ale interrupts for several minutes that feel too long to its two occupants. But neither knows what to say.

“So,” concludes Zevlor at last, voice hoarse. “I’m afraid Lakrissa loses her bet.”

But any humour he might have found in this truth earlier now falls flat. And Alfira does not reply. Both refugees know what part of the story comes next, and it makes all Zevlor’s bright hopes and plans of that long-distant night in the forest all the sadder.

*Author's Note: While I do adore Zevlor’s lines about making their own stars while in Avernus, having actually played DiA, I am 100% certain such action would have got him and anyone else around him killed. Hence, my creative liberties.

[choccy-zefirka]

Alfira's fingers dance across her lute strings, their soft glide punctuated by vigorous, gleeful pinches. Her eyes remain half-closed, and she scarcely looks down at her own hands... Or up at the excited, giggling children who have perched atop a nearby rock, and formed an ever-fidgeting nest of limbs around the only one of them that knows how to play a Fay's flute.

None of them need to look at each other. The melody that they shape together, out of rippling strums and cheery little peeps, is enough to guide them. They trust in it, allow it to sweep them off, until it grows into something much, much larger than any of them, soaring over the campsite and weaving through the Grove beyond.

But while Alfira loses herself in the music, her loyal companion — her fellow "Tiefling queen", her Lakrissa — keeps her eyes wide open. She scans the swirling, swaying, stomping crowd for awkward stragglers, for lone silhouettes on the fringes of firelight, and calls them to dance.

Her "Come on, come oooonnnn!" is very hard to resist — unless, perhaps, you are Ikaron, determined to disapprove of the merriment; or Bex, who has already drunk and laughed and flirted her fill for the night, and is now dozing on her fiancé’s shoulder, mouth open and drooling slightly. With enough prodding from her, even the druid briefly shimmies in front of the campfire opposite little Arabella, before retreating again to talk to the adventurers' dog. And eventually, Lakrissa lands on one of the more... challenging targets.

"Zevlor?" she drawls, cocking her head to the side. "Zeeev-looooor? Why won't you dance with us?"

He meets her mischievous, wine-lit gaze with a smile. It is a relief, truly, to finally have these young folk open up enough to tease him, like a weird uncle at a family gathering. He never did manage to dissuade their little group's scouts from calling him "sir" when they reported on goblin movements on the road. As if he was still a Hellrider; a paladin. As if he was still *worthy*.

He might not be worthy of being the uncle figure either — but for a moment, in the warmth of the campfire, he can imagine a home for this motley family of his. Almost like the one in Elturel, before it became so horribly, disastrously clear that he had not been doing his duty enough to —

"Ohhhh!" Lakrissa laughs. Zevlor blinks back to the present; he must have looked quite the fool, with his thoughts scattering like this.

"You must have a very special dance partner in mind! Our lovely hero went that way, I think!"

She points towards the river bank, where reeds rise through the mist, almost like a natural fence. Guarding the camp from the unknown that they will all inevitably face come morning.

Zevlor feels heat flare up under his skin. This... This is not what he was thinking about, but now that Lakrissa brought it up, he can't get his mind off — off Niamh.

The adventurer with the face of a fierce gith and the upbringing of a druid. Torn out of a peaceful home of her own and thrust into great wide open, where she has often felt confused, overwhelmed, unworthy of leading and protecting. Not unlike himself.

They'd confide in each other during her stays in the Grove in between trekking back and forth across the wilderness. She'd often return heavy-eyed, tired, with a cracked mix of dry blood and grime clinging to her like half-sloughed second skin. But she would always find a moment to drop by in his quarters. To talk. First, she thanked him for not recoiling from her like a monster; then, she gently guided him away from the brink, from becoming a monster himself, as he pondered striking Kagha down and she proposed a diplomatic resolution instead. And later on, when the druids stopped their damn chanting and the refugees managed to catch some respite at last — she would just check on him and his people. Sometimes share a story or two of her adventures; even invite them to try out the cooking of her wizard companion.

And every next meeting, somehow, the days when she was not in the Grove began to feel so much drearier than when she was there. Smiling — still such a rarity after Avernus — began requiring less and less effort when Zevlor's eyes lingered on hers. Memories of another life, when he was younger, more hopeful, more confident that he could change lives for the better, began to stumble out of the dark.

"Why not," he murmurs, gaze travelling from Lakrissa's smugly grinning face to the reeds. "Why not dance with her..."

"That's the spirit!" Lakrissa winks at him before striding off to find more dancers.

"Do enjoy the night! I know I certainly will."

When Zevlor reaches the rustling, fence-like thicket, someone else steps in front of him from the heavy milky swirls. At first, he just catches the outline of curving horns and the glint of a single red eye. And then, his dark-vision chisels out the details. The human features blending in with those of his kin. Young Wyll — now even more of a brother to them all than when he first came to their aid.

Zevlor's heart sinks, despite himself. After the drawn-out, icy, knife-twist pang of disappointment, comes the scalding burst of self-loathing. Why is he feeling this way, thinking such low thoughts?! He shouldn't! He — he should be happy for Niamh! Wyll is a wonderful, honorable man; perhaps the best possible choice for —

"Good evening, Zevlor!" Wyll smiles at him, but his eye is touched by a deep, quiet melancholy. "If you, too, have sneaked away to brood, be warned — Niamh might spring up on you and give you a pep talk!"

"You know me!" a familiar voice calls back from the reeds. "I always worry for everyone!"

"Well, you can stop worrying about me," says Wyll, with a little parting bow. "I promise, a little walk under the stars and I will be right as rain. Perhaps Zevlor here can cheer you on, instead. Before you overexert yourself making sure everyone else is happy."

With that, he leaves them one on one.

Niamh parts the reeds and steps on a dry (or, well, dry-er) patch of sand to greet Zevlor. She is barefoot and out of her armor. Her white shirt hangs loosely on her bony shoulders, and her simple camp breeches are rolled up for wading through the shallows — something she once confessed she does to calm her nerves. Her long pink hair, haloed in silver by the moonlight, is undone, cascading around her golden face like flower petals around the sun-kissed center.

Zevlor's breath catches halfway up his windpipe. He is still uncertain what this little encounter with Wyll meant — who are they to each other, is he intruding where he does not belong? — and even less certain if he has actually managed to keep the dazed little "You are beautiful" from escaping his lips.

"I am glad to see you," she breathes out, stunning him further. "I have been... making the rounds all night, double-checking that both your people and mine are comfortable, happy, well-rested... Wandered all the way out here to comfort poor Wyll. I..."

She makes a long pause, her lake-blue gaze drowning out all reason within Zevlor's mind. Maybe he underestimated the strength of that wine Moll has been cleverly peddling to the thirsty adults — but by the Hells, what he would give to find out if her hair feels as silky as it looks.

"I care for everyone here, I truly do, but has been a bit exhausting, and I feel like you will understand."

"I do," he says — sincerely, even rather gravely. His racing mind might have started sobering up... And then he hears himself speak.

"I was seeking you out in... perhaps outlandish hopes that you might share a dance with me, but if you are overwhelmed, I can just keep you company."

She lets out a little gasp of surprise. Pleasant surprise, he thinks. Not outrage, not disgust. Then again, can he trust his perception, with blood pounding so loudly in his ears? Is this what being young felt like, back in the city stolen from him?

"I admit that I do not do well with crowds — but we can still hear the music from here!"

She holds out her hand to him: long fingers the color of summer pollen, talons filed short to care for all the woodland creatures she always seems to gather round herself.

He is slow, deliberate, when lacing her fingers through his — so unused to the feeling of anything warmer and softer than weapon steel. The drumming that overtook him gives way to a gentle flutter — a caress of unseen butterfly wings. And when he places his other hand on her waist, and she beams at him, the same flutter echoing in her blissful sigh, that is when the last shadow of doubt is gone. He is not intruding. He belongs.

Her bare feet and his travel-worn boots print a delicate swirl into the sand. Like Alfira with her lute, they move without looking up or down, guided by the distant warbles of music. For him, the world fades into muted, watercolor non-existence; nothing remains except her gleaming eyes... And for her...

"By the Oak Father, you are so handsome," she says, in a hushed, almost reverent voice, sounding nearly on the verge of tears.

All of a sudden, Zevlor becomes painfully aware of his tail, which tangles around his leg, getting in the way, a tripwire of his foolish body's own making.

She catches him, one leg intertwined with his, one hand clutching his back, the other placed gently over his frenzied heart. She holds him for a moment, half-dipped to the ground, and then — far too soon — brings him to his feet.

"Did... Did I speak out of turn? I had a few drinks with Shadowheart but I did not think — "

His heart plummets once more, at the sight of panic spreading over her face. Before she can succumb to it, he rushes to blurt out,

"No, not at all! I am just... out of practice with... Really with anything that goes beyond survival."

"I hope tonight brought some reprieve," she murmurs gently. "You have come so far. You deserve it."

Their little dance has, obviously, ground to quite a ridiculous halt, but they are still holding hands. Lost in thought, she trails her thumb over his rough, scarred knuckles. Soothing his skin, the way cool fresh air soothed it on the first night free from Avernus.

"I have been thinking about the magic lights you ignited around camp," she goes on.

"One for every life you saved," he chimes in, voice cracking.

It is a tradition they brought from the depth of Hell, where the sky is either an oozing, oppressive clot of black tar or an endless whirlwind of sickening fleshy tones. No stars in Avernus. No glimmer of hope. Yet they tried, against all odds, they tried, to keep it alive, in tiny, spluttering flickers of candles and conjured mage light.

And tonight, even as they have a real sky overhead, vast and breathtaking, the Tears rolling in a lavish pearl string against its velvet, Zevlor has sparked the lights again. For his people — and for her. The one who cleared the road for them; who kept their new hope from withering, from suffocating in the Rite of Thorns, from being stomped out by a marching goblin horde.

"I wanted to share some magic of my own in return. I wanted you to see the wilds the way I see them... To maybe understand why I seek solace down by the river when being a mighty hero is too much for me."

She arches her eyebrows.

"May I?"

"Yes," says Zevlor, far more hoarsely than intended. She smiles, her most radiant smile yet, and returns her hand to his chest again.

Ribbons of ghostly turquoise weave from under her fingertips. They spill all across his torso, light made liquid, turning the grooves in his breastplate into ephemeral rivulets.

"Amicus animalis," she chants. Her voice is lowered, but each syllable is clear, almost forceful in its enunciation.

And the moment she says the words, the riverside comes alive.

Among the reeds and beyond, countless little voices whisper. The chirping of the late-night birds — or early-morning birds, at this point — the soft cricket trills, the throaty croaks of a frog chorus... It also suddenly fills with words, with meaning.

"Look at those two-leggers, making so much noise!" one critter grumbles, from somewhere underfoot. It speaks with a squeaky lisp, so Zevlor imagines a mouse. Watching him from the shadowy triangle of two grass blades bending down towards each other under the weight of dew.

"Absolutely preposterous!"

"Haven't you heard?" another, similarly squeaky voice interjects. "They are having a ritual of survival! They have escaped goblins! You know, the greedy toothy ones that roasted your cousins?"

"Oh."

The first voice grows quieter, considering.

"Well, in that case... I suppose we can forgive them. Especially if their feast has leftovers."

"Mmmm, leftovers..." the first voice sighs dreamily, and then two sets of tiny feet pitter patter off into the dusk.

Zevlor chuckles. A foolish thing, welcoming the approval of some unseen rodent — but it does feel oddly heartwarming. And... Ritual of survival does have a certain ring to it.

Niamh eyes him, holding back her breath. Curious what he thinks of her magic. But before he can open his mouth to thank her — for sharing this spell with him, for saying everything she said, for... for being herself — a shrill cry rolls across the water. Like the voice of a hawking peddler in the market.

"Mate! Mate! I am searching for a mate! I am the strongest frog here! Let me mount you, and your spawn will be just as strong! Come and mate!"

Niamh withdraws her head into the collar of her shirt, mortified. It is still buried deep, her blazing ears sticking out like a pair of autumn leaves, when she snaps her fingers and the turquoise glow fades. The aggressive advertisement turns back into innocuous ribbit-ribbit; and Niamh slowly emerges from her cocoon.

"Nature," she says weakly.

"Nature indeed. The things Halsin has told me..."

Hiding inside her shirt has ruffled her hair, and with a soft, good-natured laugh, Zevlor edges forward to brush a loose strand out of her eyes. It... It is as silky as he imagined. The sensation makes him freeze, his hand going limp against the side of her face.

She inhales, biting her lip... And upon exhaling, attempts a joke.

"Well, at least animals are straightforward with their intentions."

He feels her flush under his touch. Her voice, calling him handsome, echoes through him. His body still aches from the sweetness of being pressed against hers in their impromptu dance. This ache constricts his chest, and pulls at him, driving him to lean in. Closer. Closer. Half a breath away from her.

She is the first to kiss him.

For a moment, it feels almost alien — the push of another's mouth against his, the living warmth of tongues touching... Another remnant of another man's past, buried with Elturel, melted in the fires of Avernus.

But only for a moment.

Across the years, across an eternity from that foolhardy young paladin, with hopes and dreams and illusions of grandeur, his tired, beaten-down flesh remembers. He returns the kiss, moaning from the force of it; his hands finally sink into that flower-bright hair — and pull. Not enough to cause her pain, not enough to bring her to tears — he would never do that, never! — but more than enough to coax out a moan of her own, in that sweet voice of hers. A new music, as their dance begins anew.

She tears away from his lips and moves to his throat, down to his collar, as his pulse leaps in wild joy under her tender bites.

"Wait," he slurs feebly, lost in the net of her wandering hands. She is searching for a way to undo his armor.

"Wait... I... I have scars. I just thought that you..."

She pauses, chest rising and falling, hair wilder than ever before.

"Oh — oh no. You know me, Zevlor. You... You cannot truly think I would find that off-putting?"

"Thank you," he thinks he says, for who knows which time, and she returns into his arms, finding the elusive buckles on the back. The plate is off, then the leather. In between his Tiefling blood and the hazy warmth of arousal, he barely registers the nocturnal cold. Half of him is bared to her: red skin stretched across spiky ridges, warped and lumpy where an imp ripped into him. Or a geyser of fire erupted too close. Or a demon's blade fell between him and the children he was shielding.

She takes him in, utter awe in her eyes. Almost as if... When she looks at him, she sees the same thing as when he looks at her.

"Is there any place where it would hurt to touch you?"

He shakes his head, chest swelling with elation. And her hands return, gentle and inquisitive; as do her lips, her nibbling teeth, over his collar, down his stomach, thorough as a priestess in worship.

His breeches are undone now, and her eyebrows soar up.

"I was, um intimate with a few people in the past, but never with a Tiefling. I did not know there were... more ridges!"

"Nature," he grunts, hardly managing to form the syllables — because she is on her knees now in front of him... He glances down to discover that, while one of her hands reaches for support, the other has dived down into her clothes; the realization burns through him like hellfire, hardening him for her quick tongue to explore.

She circles around the base, along the side — leisurely, leaving plenty of space for her hand's strokes and for Zevlor's shuddering whimpers.

"Sylvanus preserve me, I want you inside of me," she exhales at last, her mouth leaving him. "Ridges and all."

"But... The measures?" he tries to ask, through the intoxicating pre-release fog.

"Don't worry!" She rises from her knees, touching him in tune with her words, and every second makes him writhe in her grasp.

"My books said, and Lae'Zel confirmed, that a Githyanki cannot get pregnant unless Vlaakith wills it. And something tells me Vlaakith does not much care about me."

"Her loss," Zevlor says.

Under normal circumstances, she might have been distressed by the casual blasphemy — making him instantly regret it. She has, after all, been trying so hard to learn more about her people, to respect their ways.

But here, tonight, all she does is push herself against him, clothes pulled down, body open and wanting.

She yowls in delight when he slips in, startled by the sensation of those ridges against her, and laughs at the sound of her own voice. He laughs as well, and then drowns that laugh in a new kiss, drinking every last drop of her, only stopping when his thrusts rob him of his breath.

"You... You are the best thing that happened to me in..." he gasps, with his fingers deep in her hair again, his forehead touching hers. "...Longer than you can ever imagine. I will always remember this."

This cannot last, of course. Soon, the dawn will break, lighting up the river brighter than the little Tiefling lights ever could in the night; and they will be on the road again, each going their separate way. Each will be back to fretting, to protecting their companions, to ensuring that everything runs smoothly, that are safe and happy, their own happiness be damned. Maybe they will never see each other again. Maybe she —

"You had better remember, because I will find you," she says, in between more kisses. More and more and more. While their bodies are still one.

"When we reach Baldur's Gate, I will find you. And we will do this again. I promise."

[rottenbrainstuff]

BG3 playthrough - what I found on the road of the shadow-cursed lands

Spoilers under the cut.

Sigh, here’s the stuff I was dreading: the first dead tiefling refugee found on the road: Elegis. She was in charge of opening and closing the gate after Kanon was killed. She was always so nervous. During the siege, she was very frightened but she fought well. She was apparently killed by an ox that was possessed by the shadow curse.

Then farther along in a big group I found:

Rechel, Amek, Xeph. These three were the most angry at the druids, back at the grove. They ran away from the grove on their own the night before the siege and left everyone else to their fate. Looks like it didn’t save them. I wonder if they reunited with the other refugees on the road, or if they died first and their bodies were found later by the group.

Asharak. Zevlor���s second in command. He was teaching the kids their sword lessons. He seemed like a nice guy.

Ikaron. Okta’s son and the guard posted inside the hollow. He was gruff and stiff in the grove, with the air (to me) of a kid taking his new job too seriously, or perhaps a kid who had to grow up too fast and doesn’t know how to relax anymore. During the siege he was furious about the group that left and was arguing with his mother. He mentioned since him and his mother had no ox, he’d be pulling a cart himself! At the party I finally got him to relax and enjoy a pint. I liked him.

Memnos. He tried to talk Arka down from her anger after Kanon died. During the siege I found him in the ritual grove praying to the god of death, because he was convinced they were all going to die. Even though he was scared, he still went and stood at his post.

Kaldani. She was a guard at the gate. Cried over Kanon’s body when he died. During the siege she was building barricades. She always seemed more tired of this shit than frightened.

Toron. He was tending the oxen at the grove. Probably he would have been the most scared when their ox fell to the shadow curse, he would have known first that something was very wrong.

I took all their bodies and laid them to rest on one of the cliffs in the monastery, the cliff with that other grave already on it. It’s a beautiful view overlooking the valley, with the sunrise dappling the rocks, and some little white flowers growing out of the grass. Left wine for an offering. This spot is peaceful and bathed in sunshine so they’ll never be afraid in the dark again.

I wish I could have talked to even just one of the corpses. Maybe I couldn’t save any of them, but I wish I could at least know what happened.

[underdark-dreams]

Facts About Fellow Writers Tag Game

Thank you @darkurgetrash and @lostinforestbound for the tags! Tagging @rolansrighthorn (zero pressure, only if you feel like participating 🖤)

Last book I read: 

I'm reading through the Fourth Wing series by Rebecca Yarros right now (thanks for the rec Cal!) Last book I finished was a re-read of Jennette McCurdy's I'm Glad My Mom Died. Obsessed with her raw honesty

Greatest literary inspiration: 

Jane Austen for her characterization and use of the Loud Silence, and Dickens for his world building and details! (sidenote A Tale of Two Cities: The Musical was one of the 2008 recession's most tragic victims, go look it up if you're a Les Mis fan)

Things in my current fandom I want to read but I don't want to write:

I very much want to but am so bad at writing M/M pairings 🫣 At the same time, M!Paladin Tav x any of the Tiefling men is literally catnip to me. I love it sm 😩

Things in my current fandoms I want to write but I think nobody would be interested in them but me:

Ikaron 💗 Anything Ikaron, including a rewrite of the Tieflings in Act 2 with him as a protag. I'll probably write it anyway! We Ikaron lovers are few but feral. There are dozens of us!

You can recognize my writing by:

Pared-down prose, comma splices, gerunds, too many adverbs, use & abuse of pining tropes. Generally all the things I was taught not to do in my creative writing program but said fuck it

My most controversial take (current fandom):

Zevlor as a paladin companion ("good" route alternative to Minthara) makes more sense than Halsin or Minsc as a companion. Halsin at least should've been party-recruitable going into Act 2 and the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Right? He would have so much idle dialogue while exploring that map. And though I truly adore Minsc and do use him in my party (re-specced to Gloomstalker to give Astarion a break now and then), he's just recruited so late in Act 3. Recruiting Zevlor in the Mindflayer Colony and bringing him into Act 3 (plus the Ketheric fight) would've just been so interesting for the Tief community as a whole. They are such a big part of Acts 1 & 2, it just feels like they need more closure in the final act.

Current writing mood (10 – super motivated and churning out words like crazy, 0 – in a complete rut):

I'd say a 7! I am noodling on little blurbs every night, including for my Rolan WIPs, and for any other NPCs that strike my fancy. I don't have as much free time as I did in January (fuck work) or I'd be writing a lot more. And Rimworld Anomaly DLC + Stardew 1.6 are seriously testing my free time lmao! But the thirst to write can never be snuffed out~

Top 3 favorite tropes?

MUTUAL PINING 😩

Forced Proximity ( awakened by @catsharky who handed me the plot for Pent Up)

Hurt/Comfort

Share a random frustration:

It takes me a lot of time and effort to get into a writing flow. The littlest distraction can completely derail a good session (ADHD gang wya)

Also, I can never turn off my editor mode, am constantly editing as I draft, and am slow as fuck at writing as a result 😭

[lolliputian]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Guex/Ikaron (Baldur's Gate), Zevlor (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Lia/Rikka (Baldur's Gate), Bex/Danis (Baldur's Gate), Alfira/Lakrissa (Baldur's Gate), Cerys/Rolan (Baldur's Gate), Dammon/Karlach (Baldur's Gate), Cal/Geraldus (Baldur's Gate) Characters: Guex (Baldur's Gate), Ikaron (Baldur's Gate), Zevlor (Baldur's Gate), Original Female Character(s), Lia (Baldur's Gate), Rikka (Baldur's Gate), Bex (Baldur's Gate), Danis (Baldur's Gate), Alfira (Baldur's Gate), Lakrissa (Baldur's Gate), Cerys (Baldur's Gate), Rolan (Baldur's Gate), Dammon (Baldur's Gate), Karlach (Baldur's Gate), Cal (Baldur's Gate), Geraldus (Baldur's Gate) Additional Tags: Fluff, Romance, Cute, One Of These Things Is Not Like The Others Summary:

Eight vignettes, each based around a different couple, catching a glimpse into moments of intimacy. Somewhat of an AU. It's fluff, it's fine.

--

Work has been stupid and I wanted fluff. So. Fluff it is.

[sharess-festhall]

Confessions by Characters

Companions

Astarion

Gale

Halsin

Jaheira

Karlach

Lae'zel

Minsc

Minthara

Shadowheart

Wyll

Tieflings

Cal

Dammon

Ikaron

Lia

Rolan

Zevlor

Enemies

Cazador

The Emperor

Enver Gortash

Haarlep

Kagha

Kar'niss

Ketheric Thorm

Lorroakan

Mizora

Myrkul

Nere

Orin

Raphael

Yurgir

Githyanki

Kith'rak Voss

Orpheus

Varsh Ko'kuu

Assorted NPCs

Abdirak

Aelis Siryasius

Aradin

Aylin

Barcus Wroot

Geraldus

Isobel Thorm

Mohan the Trader

Mystic Carrion

Nettie

Nine Fingers Keene

Nym Orlith

Petrified Drow

Ogres

Rath

Sorn Orlith

Stonemason Kith

Toadbreath

Valeria

Withers

Wulbren Bongle

Zhents

Bellar

Brem

Rugan

Salazon

Zarys

Dragonborns

Durge

Quil Grootslang

Other

Asmodeus

Mephistopheles

General

More tags will be added as more confessions comes in!