warwaited - Tumblr blog

[warwaited]

Morality is subjective. She doesn't correct it, but she certainly thinks it. Rakatak's eyes stay down for the moment, a curl of smoke rising between them before she shrugs wryly. "That it may be, but I still value the simplicity of feeling too strongly about giving some bandits their due over... the patch job that was necessary after you saw fit to silence the bard."

Another puff on her pipe. She sits back and crosses her legs, gazing at it... resentfully? Ruefully? A tinge of acceptance, at least. "A fair number of people liked her. Including most of the group. The selection you made was not the most subtle."

It's never been subtle. It's never felt the need, or had the inclination. Rakatak rolls her neck, the muscles in her shoulders twisting and pulling as she does so. She's stiffer than she's been in a while, and it isn't a pleasant feeling.

"I dislike the uncertainty of it. Push too hard, he may push back and torch the lot of it out of spite, but this soft-handed approach doesn't become me." The paladin's lip twitches.

"Perhaps the tadpole."

it sneers, open and shameless. "morality is arbitrary."

he is above the trappings of mortals. the vessel of bhaal is bound by none and no one. it sits back onto its heels, spearing rakatak with an icy stare. preparations for their tenday sacrifice were finalized. the dread lord shall receive his due. whether or not rakatak is worthy of witnessing his sanguine glory remains to be seen. i have time to take her measure. selûne's disgusting gaze is bright.

"i have the advantage, priestess," knock, knock! blood smears across its temple, fingers unfurling to rake three stripes from cheekbone to chin, "revise your approach."

[warwaited]

Rakatak looks at her out of the corner of her eye again, but this time? There's a smile on her face. Faint, slightly grim, but very present and no small amount of anticipatory. Rather than keep talking in a way that could easily be overheard by just anyone wandering around, the paladin lifts a hand, rubbing at the side of her neck. Her eyes narrow, and suddenly her voice is in Karlach's brain.

Not quite as simple as emptying out this fetid hovel, no. There are three leaders - a goblin, a drow and... regrettably, another hobgoblin. I will show you the layout of the building to enable you to make your preparations.

A pause. Something tugs at her lip, but she's able to tamp it down - even mentally - and keep going. Should such a thing actually be necessary. I would advise some discretion, if you don't wish to fight your way in and out, but whatever course of action you take, I will lend my assistance. These heretics must be burnt out.

By some persuading and use of the tadpoles themselves, Karlach and this band of waywards had made their way into the camp just as the goblins were celebrating a successful raid. How could they possibly get any answers from drunkards-?

Karlach's shoulders stiffened as the hobgoblin started muttering lowly at Karlach. The tieflings long ear twitched when it became very clear that this person wasn't as aligned with the goblins as she would appear to be.

Karlach remained quiet for some time, hearing the stranger through - mind ticking away. She should tread carefully, really. This could be some kind of trap after all. But truly, why should she care? It's not like she couldn't take them all with one arm behind her back- Well...she could have, if not for the damned tadpole.

"Absolute?" Karlach scoffed. "Such bullshit. Either way, this party's getting crashed. There's an asset in there we need to collect. Getting rid of this anthill is just a necessary sacrifice... I'm assuming this Absolute bastard isn't waltzing around with this filth?"

[warwaited]

@cheekylilfiend

"The hand was proof of work for something, and I no longer have need of it. I was going to discreetly drop it into the river."

She looks down at Shovel, arms folded, expression a vague sort of stormy. "But you seem as if you could get more use out of it than I would simply throwing it away." Which is to say, Shovel looks like something that would probably eat hands and has immediately proven the assumption correct.

[warwaited]

"Darling?"

It turns back towards her, the incredulity in its tone a bit disparate from something close to glee on its face. War laughs, and only spares one more wrathful look towards Henk before letting out a sharp huff. She reaches forward herself, hand clasping just above Karlach's elbow, and pulls her to her feet as well.

"My appetite for this place has certainly soured, but... well. Best not to make a scene. I suppose." She'd love to cause a scene. It's the perfect opportunity for it - a rude worker, an incorrect order, a complete lack of restitution.

But Karlach is here, and it knows she wouldn't want to get kicked out of a place she recommended so highly... nor would she want to scare the barman within an inch of his life with grim prognostication about just how soon the city will be in flames. Rakatak sighs, tugs her in that little bit closer, and loops an arm around her waist as she starts towards the stairs.

"I wonder where else might be offering a good meal at a time like this." It's clear she has no intention of eating, or even paying. Her cape flutters as she leads her date back down to ground level, and her chin only dips when they're out of view of the guests.

Another huff, this one more heartfelt. "What a way to treat royalty. To treat War. My condolences that it wasn't... quite as you remembered it, but once this unpleasantness is finished, we will be back."

It smiles over at her, almost playful. "With a retinue of guards, and a palanquin."

Just as quickly as she had sank into the giddiness of the moment, embarrassment came chasing after it like a yappy little dog with needly little fucking teeth. Henk, while never having a good bedside manner with guests was in a fouler mood than she remembered him. Though she understood his desire to explore the world as a beloved bard, the longer he stayed in the city the more bitter he grew with time. Karlach was quick to try to swat away the spilled drink from her lap.

This, she decided, amounted to the bulk of her luck of late. Good and bad, and it felt like the needle that had hovered towards the good luck had decided to switch without warning towards the bad. On the one night she'd been given to actually impress Rakatak with something other than her clever mouth or the brutishness with an axe in hand. Fucked up how that worked, actually. The one night she tried to roll out the red carpet, and it turned out to have bugs in it.

Karlach hardly had time to sink into the ooey-gooey feeling of their first I love yous, or the comfort of the evening together. Without thinking, she took the handkerchief, and moved to dab at her trousers that were now sodden through with ... She took a sniff of it. Ugh, vodka. Then it dawned on her. The tiefling stood and stood quickly enough that she almost tipped over the stupid fucking table, and caught her arm.

"Darling, no," it came quickly, and she showed how she wasn't going to let go by the gentle squeeze of her forearm. "Let's not let the bastard ruin our night, yeah? We'll square up here, take a jaunt into the city. Take in a few sights. I know a knock-out bakery near here that'll really blow your socks off. Doesn't close for a good while yet, either."

The tiefling moved to reach for her coin purse, and made a show of putting a single coin on the desk. Not for the uneaten food or the spilled wine. No sense in paying for what they didn't actually have.

"The night will still be important without bloodshed or knicker-shitting, in his case."

[warwaited]

@accultant

She isn't looking as they steal a glance sidelong at her. She's actually turning to admire the stilt-walker, a small, tight smile on her face. Feeling, but only just. It's been a journey of learning to read with her - Iago has had to find meaning in the minutiae.

Despite the grousing, she really needed the break. Quieter than usual lately, but, when prompted, she does respond. "...I saw Dribbles as a solo act once or twice. The- clown. His routine is awful but he knows how to work with the crowd. I like him."

A few more seconds of silent walking, her eye drawn to the wheel of fortune before sliding past. "I would like to see him before we leave, at least."

[warwaited]

"You are all of you despicable."

[warwaited]

Single Muse RP Blog for Ketheric Thorm from Baldur's Gate 3. Post/Pre Game Plot Verses. Companion Verse available. Plot Heavy.

Indie-Highly Selective-Mutuals Only - 25+ ONLY

Written by Hez. 20+ years rp experience. 35+

Open to Fantasy/D&D/BG3 Canon and OC.

Rules in Pinned.

[warwaited]

Its lips press together slightly, and it nods to her. It's a known quantity that Karlach would quite readily take a gamble on what might lie beyond the veil over bringing herself back to the land of her most successful campaign. Well...

A smile quirks the side of its lips. Second-most successful, if everything goes to plan here. The Fury of Avernus certainly racked up her share of a kill count, but a Netherese elder brain? Quarry of another stripe entirely. It can't actually recall, just yet, if it's ever tangled with something so tantalizingly ultimate. The occasional dragon, sure. Liches by the hundredweight. An elder brain, though? A literally otherworldly invader, reduced to gruesome fleshy mulch at its-

Rakatak realizes she's been completely spaced out of the conversation, and blinks, smiling warmly at the barbarian across from her. "And you are loved in turn. In actions, yes... but in feelings as well. I... appreciate. That you understand the way in which you're loved. I admit that my grand gestures could be mistaken easily for something else." Mostly because they come in the form of battle trophies, and "confiscated" treasure. Oh, the armoury Karlach has amassed over the course of their journey together.

The hobgoblin seeing things and thinking of her does tend to lead to those things being taken, and redistributed to someone she believes will appreciate them more. Sometimes it's best not ask where they came from, or who had them last.

She's about to continue, but their recalcitrant waiter puts a stop to it with an abrupt offering of their food. Or... someone's food, and someone's drinks. Funny enough, it's the first time Karlach has seen it surprised in a good bit, the last of significance having been - understandably - when the Emperor had been forced to come clean about everything.

So shocked is it that it doesn't actually correct Henk until he's off and away. For a second it looks that the moment has passed them by. Then, Karlach spills whatever it was in her cup onto herself, and she can see those flaming eyes turn towards the counter.

War stands. Reaches to pat her shoulder, tone dissonantly serene for the almost combative set to its own. "Use my handkerchief, would you. It seems I must have words with our host about the importance of the night he is..."

Fingers tighten. Face darkens. Voice thrums. "Degrading the quality of."

I might like to go back to the hells. There were a million places where Karlach would traipse after her like a lovestruck fool, but Avernus was not one of them. She had decided, those many, many tendays ago that the only way she would return was very, very dead. She'd been adamant about it. Told anyone -- and she meant everyone -- who would lend her an ear about it. What she hadn't expected to do was to fall in love with life all over again, beginning with that single patch of scorched grass at the crash site. The grass. The leaves. The friendships. The possibilities. With her. Gods, especially her.

Wonderfully brutal, ever-pragmatic, ever hers. Until her last breath. Karlach felt something catch in her throat. Most lovers had decades upon decades to show their loves how much they meant to them, yet here the tiefling was, trying to fit a lifetime of love into a long stretch of uncertainty. She wanted her to know just how much she truly meant to her. None of the traditional nonsense of marriage and settling down, but spoils of war gifted not only in admiration, but with love. Affection. Adoration. All of it.

"I don't want to go back there," she said, though her tone was woven through uncertainty. If there was anyone that could talk her into going, it was her. A part of the barbarian knew, and noted with a sinking heart, that she had her wrapped around her finger. All them, actually. Twisted and tangled like twine in the mischievous paws of a particularly excited kitten. Ruined, completely and wonderfully ruined.

For a long moment, she watched the hobgoblin, her expression tender. So much for her blaze of glory over a plethora of strange beds, eh? She only wanted to be in hers. From now until ...

I love the things I keep, Karlach. And I have gone to - and will go to - great and terrible lengths to keep you.

Whatever resolve she had to definitely die, absolutely and completely, actually, fizzled away into nothingness. It left in its wake the ever-spreading warmth of affection, and she sank into it in the same way aching bones appreciated the heat of a warm bath. If she could return to anyone, it would always be her. First person to truly claim a victory over the tiefling's heart, who had built herself a reputation for a one-night-only sort of lover.

"And I hope there are many more to come," Karlach shot back, her voice giddy. Gods, her first real love, and in the one place she loved more than anything else. This was a perfectly bottled moment that she would remember in vivid detail. "I mean that. I love you. So much that I don't know what to do with it sometimes." Or where to put it when she was otherwise occupied, either. The tiefling's finger splayed to better tangle her fingers with Rakatak's.

"Oh, I think that's our food-!"

Two plates landed on the table with a clatter loud enough that it made Karlach startle. Neither of the plates contained lamb, and the drink did not smell like beer.

"Hey, uh, Henk? This isn't our--!"

The half-orc's face twisted into a deeper scowl and with a growl of jableeda, stalked off to go back to sulking behind the counter.

For a long moment, Karlach sat in stunned a stunned silence that quickly bled into embarrassment. As she drew her arm back, her elbow caught her cup and sent the contents of it onto both her own plate and lap.

"Shit, shit -- fuck!"

[warwaited]

"...you don't look like you're enjoying the party."

Neither does she. It's a rasp that she speaks in, low-toned as a matter of discretion but also... rough. Here is someone who spends a lot of time raising her voice, or has a serious smoking habit. Maybe a little of both. Rakatak First-Among-All regards the tiefling in front of her, casts a glace to the nearest goblins that sees them hurriedly averting their gazes, and leans in. Slightly.

"I think both of us may have a vested interest in an end to the festivities. You were on the crashed ship. Do not respond." She pauses, looks to Karlach again, and clears her throat, still speaking in an undertone.

"I have my own reasons to want to be far away from here, but the closer I go to the bridge across the ravine, the more... agitated my passenger gets. I have a foreboding feeling that pressing the issue is going to lead to larger problems."

The hobgoblin straightens up, looking out and around the ruined pavilion. "They call it the Absolute. Apparently their worship here makes its influence stronger."

Goblins. Quite the drop in quality of enemies to fight.

These tadpoles were becoming a huge problem. Mostly because they were getting in Karlach's way. All she wanted to do was rush to Baldurs Gate - not to return home and try to reunite with whatever friends may still linger there after a decade - but to raze everything Gortash touched to ashes. The man needed to burn...maybe then she could focus on this tadpole business.

But no. It was becoming clear that blockades were constantly going to show themselves between her and her goal. Karlach grimaced in the direction of the Goblin camp as they drew near. Pests...lower than rats. Maybe they'd learn more from this place, maybe it would be a complete waste of time.

Either way, Karlach would try and derive some enjoyment out of it...

She picked up on Rakatak's approach but didn't acknowledge it straight away. Simply turned her head in the others direction as a subtle indicator she was listening.

[warwaited]

"That, in itself, is an answer." Rakatak pauses, then chortles, shaking her head at her own response. "I apologize... I'll speak plain. It seems to me that you have put yourself in a corner. No wonder that you lash out as you do, then, with nowhere left to retreat. I suppose the question then becomes, with you being unwilling to tell me what you want... what you need."

Again, the pirate looks out over the ocean, thinking of who knows what. Imagining her influence spreading across it like burning oil spreading across a ship's deck, perhaps. Anne might spot it in the way her eye narrows, her brow tightens, that grin flits onto her face.

She looks back. "Do you know... I have picked my favourite of the steeds from the book of the Lord, but it tempts me so to have a matching set. A quartet of ships, sails billowing, cannons gleaming in the evening light. Yet I can only captain the one."

The smile widens. "Of course, there are still three left. Which would be yours?"

Anne looks away with a tsk when the question’s batted back to her. Without Rakatak’s knowledge—or perhaps with it, but unannounced to her—Anne has tried to leave the Red Horse. More than once, even. She’s tried wheedling her way into other berths, but touched by the Horseman as she is, she’s been turned away at every opportunity. Those that don’t turn because of the Red Horse turn because of Jack and the Ranger. She’s well and truly committed to her watery grave now.

Irritable—as if she’s ever anything else—Anne flips her hand in an almost violent gesture, as if trying to wave the matter off altogether.

“Congratu-fuckin-lations, ye now know the disposition of yer fuckin crew. En’t my fuckin duty t’figure out the oughts; that’s a right of the captain.” Quartermasters, even unofficial ones like Anne had been, are not in charge of praise or reward among the crew. They keep the ship ready and primed, and mete out discipline on the captain’s behalf. Finding the missing pieces to a successful voyage has never been on her roster of duties, never mind within her skill set. It seems to her to be one of the few duties of a real captain, a successful captain.

[warwaited]

"...hmh. I will... keep that in mind. Thank you." She smiles back, a touch more uncertainly. Part of her wants to leave it all there, just close off the conversation and call it a win - after all, Karlach had gotten what she'd been after for years, and she herself helped in... some way, at least. But, try as she might, she can't leave this one open-ended.

"What are you going to do? Now that you can... interact with the world around you. Without worrying about the destruction you might cause by doing so."

Sometimes she feels like the only way she can interact with the world is by destroying little parts of it. All she can be is a closed fist... most of the time.

Karlach didn't mean to offend Student in any way - as she had said, she was just curious. Karlach didn't grip onto Student, letting her step away freely as she did the same, to provide her personal space back.

"N-no, don't be sorry! I didn't mean anything bad by it, just wanted to make sure you were alright with it." Karlach tried to reassure her with a smile. "I appreciate it, I really do. Going without a friendly pat to the back, a hug... It eats into the marrow. Destroys you from the inside out. So being able to get to this point is incredible! So, thanks aren't even enough, not really."

[warwaited]

Their impromptu planning session is interrupted by the fight erupting, but she doesn't interpret much beyond the signal of "she takes the left" before she slips into action. Light steps carry her up the outcrop, and the broom she's been carrying around for little other obvious reason than as a walking stick suddenly doesn't look so ridiculous.

Her first swing goes low, taking out lefty at the knee (it WOULD be the ankle, but they're just so short). The sudden stop in momentum gives her a perfect chance to drive it backward, across the line drawn between the two scouts and into righty's chest. He stumbles, she turns, and the brush head of the broom rises from the lower right, sending him twirling down to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

Lefty starts sitting up. She lifts her foot and drives it down into his face.

　　　his chin dips, gut tight and twisted, world glaring. they’re pathetically ill-equipped for a horde.  he beckons her to move, after all;  head-on isn’t his way, not without a shadow to slink through, so.  the outcrop.  superior vantage point—and two goblin trackers with the same idea, they soon discover. a rock for them each to crouch behind midway up, conveniently; astarion on the right, student left. given his attempts to use thieves’ signals with her proved dismal before, he now simply juts his forefinger: her to lefty, himself and righty.  the feline-like cant of his head is the question mark;  lone blade glinting gold in the sun, his brow and the corners of his mouth uplift in tandem.  are we doing this, then?

[warwaited]

On its face, the task hadn't been easy, but it had been simple. Use the tadpoles as a cover, gain access to the tower, figure out what Ketheric was planning and stop him from accomplishing it. She should have known there would be far too many steps in between - incapacitating the entire second floor of the tower without anyone hearing hadn't seemed like a safe idea. But, crucially, going all the way across the damn town to poke around in a crypt hadn't seemed likely to get them any closer to their goal.

They needed to get to the top of the tower without anyone stopping them and the door was constantly guarded. Maybe she should have considered that what she's doing now isn't exactly subtle, but they'd been low on time and lower on options. Hell, she'd even started from the dock side, with fewer people to catch sight of her ascent, but slowly she'd had to rotate around as seemingly solid handholds had shifted or outright crumbled at her touch. That said - she'd done it. The climb of her life was completed.

The person there to witness her success just wasn't who she'd hoped it would be. She heaves herself over the crenellation and rolls forward, landing in a low crouch (clearly not for Ketheric's benefit, judging by how she visibly startles at the Chosen of Myrkul's proximity).

Her mouth opens practically of its own accord. "I need to get this tadpole out of me. And I need to return to the Gate. Someone told me that both problems would be solved here." Her face pinches, feeling like she shared too much, but what point is there in lying?

a starter for @warwaited

New True Souls and initiates of the Absolute came to Moonrise practically every day. They traveled through his shadow cursed lands routinely, flocking to him for a chance to be a part of something much greater than themselves--a regular siren's song for grandeur and a place in the cosmos. So, when another pack had made themselves comfortable within the confines of the Towers, Ketheric had taken it to be regular correspondence.

What he hadn't been expecting was to receive a message from his men stating that one said True Soul was now climbing up the outside of the Towers, heading for the summit. Of course, he often went up there as par for the ritual, so his access was far easier to obtain than hers was, so by the time she managed to scramble her way over the rafters, there he stood, arms crossed over his chest.

"Very ambitious of you, taking matters into your own hands and climbing all the way to the top. I would say impressive as well. Now that you have made it up here, where would you go?"

[warwaited]

"...and my appreciation for limiting yourself to "morally acceptable" targets. This time." She sort of lollops up, not bothering to hide the tiredness in her movements from it - she's seen little of the Urge over the past weeks and while it's made things somewhat simpler in terms of keeping her previous engagements under wraps... Wish hasn't exactly made things easy on her.

The hobgoblin takes a pipe from one of her pockets, rubs her fingers together; they ignite, with a divine, scarlet flame that Bhaal most certainly has nothing to do with. Index is pressed into the bowl, and she tokes deeply, blowing smoke through her nose before she speaks again.

"Pliant to you but still frustratingly resilient to me. I'm uncertain he realizes his threats to get us both killed at best are what they are."

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@warwaited rolls . . .💀

sheep to the slaughter, all of them. lifetimes of violence could not prepare these brigands that now rot underfoot. it looks up from the scimitar under inspection. "perfect timing, high priestess. i've been meaning tae speak with you. your persistence has upset bhaal's darling boy. you're like a hound on the scent," its black eye glitters obsidian, "you have my thanks. he's . . . pliant in his unrest."

[warwaited]

[warwaited]

Rakatak might also be nervous, but at this point she's an expert in not showing it. Even if she did have some concerns about the place - which, admittedly, she does, buried deep beneath a veneer of disdain and disinterest - she has... other things on her mind. More concerning things.

Not just the tadpole. The paladin casts a glance over her shoulder at the mention of a temple and answers before she can self-censor the strangeness of her instinctual response. "I know."

Her expression pinches. "Or- I could... assume so. Why do you sound worried?"

Shadowheart is nervous. Maybe Lady Shar will test her here. What if this is the place she could finally become the dark justicar she has always wanted to be. She hopes so, somehow. Her entire life has revolved around the dark lady. It would only be natural to fully join her.

"I... I don't know," she admits, after she has taken a moment to listen to Rakatak's words. "I feel... I feel that these lands are calling me, somehow. Lady Shar's temple... It must be nearby."

[warwaited]

Francisco Goya - Boy Staring at an Apparition, (1824–25)