adaptacy

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.14}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

Word Count: 3.2k

“You seem distracted, Gale,” Shadowheart comments, picking a bit of fuzz off of her chainmail and flicking it into the grass. The wizard she speaks to doesn’t reply, simply idly walking alongside the rest of the group, and it takes a nudge from Astarion to earn his attention.

“Hm?” His head lifts, drawn out of his thoughts as he looks between the group, whose eyes are all on him aside from Lae’zel, who stares confidently at the road ahead. 

“Something on your mind, darling?” Astarion hums, leaning towards him with a knowing smirk – one that only serves to confuse (and slightly unsettle) his target. 

“Me? Oh, no. Well, aside from our unwarranted brain pilots, that is. Though… perhaps too literal of an interpretation,” he jokes back, though it falls mostly flat, save for a quick chuckle from Halsin. 

“Still suffering the effects of last night’s fun?” The cleric asks, a hint of teasing in her voice. 

“Must be. I wonder – do the tadpoles feel the effects as well? I believe mine has been positively tamed since drowning it out so literally,” Gale replies, attempting to draw the topic of conversation away from his drifting mind. 

“If only we were so fortunate. If that were the case, I would have subjected myself to wasting away in the reserves as the two of you did. Alas, one of us needed to keep their wits about them,” Lae’zel hisses, cutting into the conversation as if it were yet another meal, her tone a freshly sharpened blade. 

“Right. Because you have such endless wits to begin with,” Shadowheart snaps, and the two share an angry glare. It comes as a surprise that they’re capable of maintaining their pace and don’t jump into an all-out war on the spot, but by no means is the tension any weaker. “Refusing to indulge does not make you any better than the rest of us, gith.” 

“Perhaps it does not. But sustaining self-control certainly does, elf. You are lucky we were not attacked. You would make fine bait for predators,” Lae’zel growls, forcing Halsin to physically step between the two women, making for a large and hefty barrier. 

“Let us remain focused on the journey ahead. I do not believe it will be an easy one. Moonrise towers may prove quite the threat, and it’s best that we do not allow our minds to stray,” he reminds, his tone gentle, almost guiding, and he even goes so far as to place a hand on each of their shoulders.

That plan backfires immediately, as both of them simultaneously bark out “Don’t touch me,” which both makes Halsin retract his palms and earns grumbles from the arguing parties. 

“We are plenty focused,” Shadowheart defends, keeping a slightly cooler head than Lae’zel – at least on the surface. 

“Focused on ripping one another’s throats out,” Astarion mumbles, and Halsin frowns at him in some attempt to scold the pale elf, though it doesn’t seem successful by any means. “All I’m saying is, if the two of you do get into a bloody tussle… My bets are on Lae’zel winning.”

“Hah,” Lae’zel chuckles, and Shadowheart’s cooler head is quickly set aflame. “A wise choice, Astarion. Shadowheart would prove no more difficult to defeat than those measly goblins. Not much better looking, either. Such a distracting nose – best it may be that I slice it off,” she threatens, and Halsin seems more intimidated than Shadowheart. 

“Best indeed. Better off I would be, free from the curse of having to smell you in the vicinity. It would be the ultimate mercy. Take my eyes, while you’re at it, so I may be obliged the avoidance of seeing you,” She shoots back, her scowl intensifying. 

“A wise choice, to submit. It is unfortunate that I care too deeply for my blade to stain it with blood from the likes of you. Were I lent Astarion’s daggers, the circumstances may change,” Lae’zel answers, finally breaking her gaze away from the cleric to investigate the surroundings, and she begrudgingly comes to a halt when she spots Halsin a few feet behind the trio, appearing most confused as he kneels in the dirt, inspecting something.

Shadowheart grumbles, somehow even more irritated. “You need not pull up every hunter’s trap. I’m well-aware you are ‘one with nature’, but you’re slowing us down,” she scolds. 

Halsin chuckles sheepishly at her critique, but shakes his head. “Not a hunter’s trap. As much as I would love to allow you two to continue bickering, I must bring to your attention the absence of a certain brown-haired wizard,” Halsin replies, and the group immediately looks around themselves, finding that he has, indeed, disappeared. 

“Chk. Your gods have seemed to bestow upon us a blessing at last. I can only hope that Shadowheart follows suit,” Lae’zel muses, though her comment goes unanswered by Shadowheart, who seems genuinely concerned at his leave. 

“He was just here, was he not?” She asks, and both Astarion and Halsin nod, her tone convincing enough for Lae’zel to remain quiet and temporarily stand down from the argument. “He wasn’t attacked – as talkative as he is, he surely would have made some verbal alert to us.” 

“Seems he was pushed away by your incessant arguing,” Astarion hums, as if he hadn’t been encouraging the two of them no more than moments ago. “Marvelous. Now we have to search for a wizard and a cure. Gods, this trip manages more hellish bounds than I knew possible,” he complains, unsheathing one of his daggers in case of lurking threats. 

“Footprints, in the dirt,” Halsin speaks from where he is crouched by the ground, running two large fingers over a firm print in the soil. “Seems to have left in a bit of a hurry. A wonder why he didn’t alert us as to what drew his attention.”

“Suppose we ought to follow him,” Shadowheart sighs, mildly irritated at the inconvenience, but she knows he wouldn’t have split up from the group without good reason – very good reason. 

So they follow, and it only takes a few steps and even fewer seconds to spot the wizard, his staff loosely hanging by his side, his grip on it barely enough to keep a hold. Only a few yards from where the group had been, he stands at the edge of a river, looking at the other side as if he expects the waves to part and allow him to cross. Alas, they do no such thing – while there are rocks that could serve as stepping stones to the other side, the water rushes quickly and roughly, permitting no traversal. He doesn’t quite detect the group’s presence behind him, not until Halsin clears his throat, and Gale looks over his shoulder, squeezing the staff and straightening it in an attempt to fix his posture.

“Ah– Apologies,” he says, sounding slightly conflicted. His head turns as he looks back at the opposing bay, watching it for a moment more before fully pivoting to address the group. “I believed I had… spotted movement on the other side,” he explains, glancing once more behind him, and the rest follow his gaze, though it is only an empty few ledges that they see, notably lacking any life. 

“Movement? Such as a deer? Frightened by your approach, likely,” Halsin suggests, shrugging his shoulders in a minor shift. 

Gale’s eyebrows slant inward, and he narrows his eyes, expressing his disbelief as he disagrees, “No, not an animal. It looked to be a pair of humanoids, or so I thought. It may be that my mind is playing tricks on me. Please, let us proceed.” He lifts his hand, motioning with a palm back towards the area that he’d initially left their side. 

“Becoming quite the hunter, are you?” Astarion teases, his tone purposefully mocking. “Maybe next time you’ll actually have prey, rather than a… belief.” 

“I’m sure he was only trying to watch out for us,” Shadowheart defends, growing increasingly annoyed with the elf’s constant taunting. 

Lae’zel snickers, angling her head scantily away from Shadowheart. “Absurd. Surely he does not doubt our capability in battle? Should we be ambushed, I advise that we welcome such boldness – the cowards will be quick to realize their mistake,” she scolds, looking back at Gale and leaning her head forward, attempting to intimidate during her ridicule. “It was fallacious of you to depart from the group. You lack the strength to act so boldly.”

Gale cringes, raising his hand and dipping his head in a quick apology. “Of course. Thank you, Lae’zel, I’d nearly forgotten,” he responds, rejoining the group with a few steps forward. 

“Do not make me remind you again,” she growls, not picking up on his sarcasm. The group turns back towards the path they’d been walking, heading again towards the goblin-raided village, but a quick, loud whine to their left yanks their attention away. 

“A wounded animal,” Halsin states, quick to discern the noise. He’s the first to step towards the sound, and the rest of them follow, allowing Halsin to lead them towards the source of the soft whimpering – a white dog, attempting to free one of its back legs from the confines of a net that tightly wraps around it, ensnaring the creature.

“Disgraceful. The creature must be utterly dense to have been caught in such a lazily concealed trap,” Lae’zel gripes, reaching to ready her blade, but Halsin raises his hand, instantly discouraging the violence. Instead, he approaches the animal, showing his palms as he lowers himself to the ground and extends a hand, allowing the dog to sniff him. 

“I suppose I could not ever disarm enough of the traps. It is horribly cruel – vile, to act with such cowardice towards the innocence of nature,” he sighs, looking behind himself and holding out his hand, his gaze on Astarion. “May I borrow one of your daggers?”

Astarion narrows his eyes, thinking about denying the request, but ultimately gives an exhale of contempt and unhooks one, holding the blade as he hands it to the druid. “I’m sure the hunter who has to fight for his food would argue otherwise. After all, not everyone is able to purchase food so readily.” 

“I have no quells with hunters. Trappers, however, are entirely craven folk. Should one wish to reap the benefits of nature’s grace, it is only just that they fight for their food in the same fashion fellow predators do,” Halsin explains, using his dagger to carefully clip the thin netting around the dog’s hind leg. Once it’s able to, it steps to the side, shaking the freed leg as if to check it over. 

“It has a collar,” Shadowheart mentions, pointing towards the creature’s neck, which bears a leather collar, engraved with faint purple lettering. There’s a small medallion hanging at the center, and Halsin peers closer, the dog letting him reach for the collar and lift it slightly, the light catching it better at a different angle, allowing for Halsin to read it. 

“Scratch,” he hums, and the dog gives a short whine, tilting his head curiously at the name. Halsin chuckles and rubs the animal’s head, making his ears flatten and his tail wag. 

“Great, you freed the mutt – I’d like my dagger back,” Astarion mumbles, his hand on his hip as he watches the scene, just short of scowling. “We’ve wasted enough time. Is it too much to ask that we please keep moving?” 

“Patience, Astarion,” Halsin muses, handing him his dagger and standing up, presenting his hand for the dog to sniff once more. “Seek us if you wish, Scratch. May the Oakfather protect you on your journey, wherever it may lead.” He gives the dog another gentle pat on the head, and Scratch barks in response, seeming to understand what the elf was offering. Finally returning his attention to the group, he merely smiles in response to the few judgmental glares he was faced with. “Let us carry on with our own journey. Moonrise Tower awaits, as do the perils on our path.”

“We have had enough distractions for one day. We proceed, and we proceed swiftly,” Lae’zel commands, and while three of her four companions nod in agreement, Shadowheart lets out a short huff of irritation. Nevertheless, she does follow the group as they continue moving, even if her gaze is tainted with her distaste, she stays silent about her misgivings. 

–   –   –

“Makes me killer in battle, which tracks, given Zariel’s purpose for me,” Karlach speaks through a mouthful of food, loosely motioning with the stick on which the freshly cooked boar meat was impaled. “Been runnin’ hotter than I’m used to, ever since I caught a ride outta the hells. Doesn’t change anything – I’ll happily take an overheated heart over being controlled by Zariel any day. Guess it wasn’t really made to operate outside of Avernus, though.”

You take a bite of your own kebab, only difference being that you fully chew and swallow before responding. “Does it hurt? I mean, all those flames, and inside of you no less? Surely it’s a little painful.”

Karlach shrugs, bringing a knee up and resting her arm on it. “Eh, at first. After ten years, you get pretty used to it. And anyways, I was pent up in the hells for long enough to get used to the heat,” she chuckles, and though her tone is light, you’re sure that the memories aren’t all too pleasant to reflect on. “I was fighting – all the time. Usually had worse, and more painful, wounds to bear than the ol’ furnace. Always been a fighter, though. Even as a kid. Your pain tolerance builds up pretty fast when you’re constantly on the wrong side of a weapon.”

“I can’t imagine what that’s like. At least you’re resistant to it, though,” you hum, not entirely sure whether you should attempt comforting her or not. 

Karlach smiles, nodding and taking another bite. “Beggars can’t be choosers, eh? Oughta take what I can get. I like stayin’ optimistic – lookin’ on the bright side, all that jazz. Even if the odds are pretty shit,” she explains, tearing off the last of the boar meat and snapping the stick in half, tossing it into the campfire between the two of you. “I don’t mind all the fighting n’ killing. Just prefer to do it on my own terms, and avoid violence against innocents and all that. Plus, all my experience means I can protect those who can’t protect themselves.” She gleams, pulling up an arm and flexing, laughing at her own expression of strength. “Got somethin’ to show for all the hell I’ve been through. Or, more specifically, all the hells I’ve been through.”

“Figure we’ll probably need it,” you tease, knowing damn well that she was a necessary companion if you wanted a real chance at survival. At least until you found Gale, though you didn’t have any intentions of ditching Karlach once you did – you just assume that surviving won’t be so dependent on her when you have an extra person to accompany you. 

“You said you’re lookin’ for someone, right? You think the nautiloids got somethin’ to do with him? Or, maybe he has something to do with the nautiloid?” Karlack asks, using a nail to pick out a stuck piece of meat between her teeth. 

As she flicks that piece of meat off into the distance, you finish off your own meal and contemplate her question. You’re not sure, really – but there’s always a chance, and things seem about as impossibly derailed as they could be. Nautiloids in Faerûn, something about new deities and everything that Elminster talked about? Hardly imaginable, yet they seemed plenty real. “Not sure, to be completely honest. I have no clue how he would’ve somehow wound up in such an ordeal, but… I also struggle to grasp that any of this is actually happening.”

Karlach chuckles in agreement. “You and me both, scout. Gods, I’ve missed the grass. Such a simple thing – oh, and the sky! The flames of Avernus ain’t got shit on the stars,” she sighs dreamily, laying back and folding an arm under her head, looking up at the sky. 

“My mentor’s obsessed with the stars. Sorry – Gale’s obsessed with the stars. Back home, where we live in Waterdeep, he has this balcony with a drop-dead gorgeous view,” you comment, imitating her movements and stargazing as well. “I guess obsessed is a strong word. He just has an odd affinity for them.”

“He’s your mentor?” Karlach asks, and you hum out a short affirmation. “I don’t blame him. If I could, I’d spend the rest of my years watching them. Never really know what you got ‘till it’s gone. Wasn’t always trapped in the hells, you see – I was a city kid, and I used to live in Baldur’s Gate. Born and raised Baldurian.” She speaks with pleasant recollection, and takes a pause to truly reflect. “Almost twenty years spent under the sky. Almost twenty years to really enjoy it, take it in, appreciate it. Never did. Not enough. Back in Avernus, there’s nothin’ like it. Missed it everyday. Might sound ridiculous, and maybe it is,” she lets out a mildly self-deprecating chuckle, “But damn, did I take it for granted.” 

“It’s not ridiculous,” you argue, hardly finding her struggle anything short of realistic. “I don’t think so, anyways.” You give yourself a moment to think through your next words, carefully tip-toeing into the subject of her servitude – she speaks calmly about it, and doesn’t appear particularly troubled or bothered by the topic, but you don’t know her very well at all, and don’t want to risk upsetting her. Still, you don’t want to avoid the conversation completely and risk seeming apathetic. A middle ground is foggy at best, but you’re willing to try and find it. “Can’t say I’ve ever been to hell myself,” you begin, your tone just light-hearted enough to keep the conversation gentle, “But I can at least imagine how different it probably is. I think the stars have a sort of reassurance about them.”

Karlach’s head turns to look at you, and she seems more curious than anything close to hurt, or offended. “A reassurance? What do you mean?” 

Squinting, you let out a short troubled exhale. “I mean, like – it’s the same everywhere, you know? Like it connects everyone,” you attempt to explain, and although you’re sure that you don’t sound entirely sure of yourself, Karlach is at least interested in further elaboration. “The stars never change,” you quote, “No matter what happens. No matter where you are. Everyone sees the same sky. They could be hundreds of miles away, but they’d still see the exact same stars. The exact same constellations.”

“Huh. Never thought about it like that. Guess they’re pretty strong, huh?” Karlach laughs, looking back up. “I always just missed it cause it was pretty, and reliable, in a way. Gave some routine, no matter how fucked-up life got. In hell, life just gets fucked-up. There’s no balancing acts, or calmness. But you’re right. It’s kinda weird to think about. Bunch’a different people, races, backgrounds, experiences – but everyone sees the same stars. Wild.” 

“It is wild,” you chuckle in response, tracing imaginary lines between the stars. No matter how far away, everyone saw the same sky. Gale was out there, somewhere. You didn’t know exactly how close, or how far, but you did know one thing – he was out there, and he saw the same stars you did. You were going to find him. You had to, and you would. But for now, you watch the stars, telling yourself that he was watching them as well. 

[adaptacy]

your gale/reader fic is so fucking funny. like 3 chapters of romantic build up and then baldur's gate just happens. you're fucking galaxy brained and i can't wait to read more

LMAO yeah no i couldn't just let them have it easily. obviously?? it wouldnt be a true adaptacy fic without throwing in a wrecking ball to ruin/postpone/throw off their romance arc. Ao forbid i let them be happy for too many chapters at a time. probs wont be the last time i blueball their build up either :))

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.13}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) - (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

Word Count: 4.6k

After nudging a small roll of bandages towards you, Tara lays down by your side, her chin resting on your thigh, tail swishing with a mix of irritation and concern. You accept the assistance, unrolling the bandages and beginning to wrap your neck, wincing at the uncomfortable stinging of the two small holes on the left of your throat. One of Tara’s paws lifts to lay on your thigh as well, and her head turns, scanning the area for fear of your attacker making a second attempt.

“We need to find Gale immediately. I don’t– Had I known the area would be so dangerous, I would’ve brought more protective clothing. I should’ve had the dagger with me. Gods, vampires… I never would have imagined I’d run into one. Let alone be attacked by one,” you sigh, bringing the strip of bandage to your teeth and biting into it, ripping the fabric and setting the roll back down, tucking the torn end into the wrap around your neck. Your hand runs over Tara’s head, petting her to show your appreciation. “Thank you. You probably saved my life.”

“The bastard needed a good clawing. Ought to teach him a lesson, make him think twice before attacking innocents in the woods! What a fool. I hope I gifted him a scar or two,” she hisses, tail thrashing and puffing up as she recalls her defense of you. Then she settles, her ears pressing back against her head as she looks up at you, then visually inspects your bandaged neck. “Are you alright?”

“I will be. He didn’t take much blood, thanks to you. It stings, but it’ll heal in time,” you reply, your thumb brushing her head once more before you return the bandage to your adventuring pack, scooting it closer to yourself so that you have a better chance of retrieving your dagger should anything, vampires or otherwise, choose to strike. “You said Gale should be somewhere nearby, right?”

“Indeed. Fortunately for us, he’s not the quickest-moving adventurer to roam, so we have a good chance of catching up to him rather quickly, so long as we are precise and efficient in our hunt,” she replies, backing off of your leg as you lay back down on your bedroll, pulling the thin blanket you’d packed over your body. Tara spins in a circle a few times next to you, her paws kneading at the grass before she eventually lays down, curled up with the tip of her tail resting near her face, her back against your side. “I’ll stay awake for a little while longer to ensure no pasty beasts pose you any threat.”

“Aren’t you tired?” You ask, looking over at her as her gaze continues to flick around the trees, seeing far better in the dark forest shadows than you ever could. 

“Very much so. Alas, Mr. Dekarios would surely dismiss me if I let his darling apprentice be harmed in such a way. And Mr. Dekarios most certainly could not survive without me. It’s a miracle he’s made it this far,” she chuckles, her wings twitching at the thought of upsetting him. “He cares quite deeply for you, dear.”

You roll your eyes with a dismissive scoff, looking up at the starryscape above you, her words being just thought-provoking enough to draw you away from registering the subtle pain in your neck. “With only two companions to care for, it’s hardly surprising that I get a hefty portion. Compared to someone with a… larger social circle, that is.”

Tara’s wing thumps against your side as a scolding, and she huffs, rumbling out a subtle growl of disapproval. “Oh, hush. You and I both know his affections run deeper than that. He sees you as more than a mere companion,” she argues. “He’s very fond of you. Gods know he’d never admit it to himself. But a tressym always knows.”

“He is?” You can’t help but ask, finding a small smile spreading over your mouth, as embarrassing as the sensation is. You don’t really see it, but Tara knows him better. Any interactions you’d had with him were perfectly innocent, and not romantic in the slightest. Just normal, unassuming conversations and whatnot. The sorts of discussions and time spent together that was completely expected from a mentor-apprentice relationship. 

Things like studying, and learning, and… stargazing. Errand-running, tidying, dozing off on his arm in front of a warm fire. Nothing that should arouse any sort of suspicion, or pining. Tara’s head nods, and she replies with a gentle “Oh, naturally. You ought to see the way he writes about you.”

Your head lifts at the expense of your comfort, eyes narrowed at the familiar. “He Writes about me?” You question, mind immediately drifting to that gods forsaken book you’d read in his room, a subject you still aren’t entirely sure of your opinion on. 

“Yes, in letters to his mother. He speaks so highly of you, mighty proud of your progress. Both as his apprentice and as his friend,” she clarifies, allowing you to breathe a quiet huff of relief. “I must ask, dear, is the fondness mutual?”

“I respect him a lot, as my mentor, and just… as such an accomplished wizard,” you praise, but Tara eyes you closely, urging you to answer more directly. You lay back down, looking up at the stars for guidance once more. “I think what we have is nice. I don’t want to lose that.”

“Fools, the both of you,” she scolds.

“Tara…” You groan, closing your eyes to try and steady yourself, not entirely understanding why she’s being so insistent. 

“No, no, I understand. Truly, I do. Mr. Dekarios fears his own mortality too intensely to dabble in his feelings. You fear his rejection. Both of you fear losing one another. Mr. Dekarios runs from any reminder of his all-too-mortal body, emotions included. And you, dear, run from the threat of change,” she elaborates, her tone entirely self-assured, as if she knows you better than you know yourself.

It irritates you. With a frown, you pinch the bridge of your nose and turn onto your side, your back to her. “Gale has been perfectly clear in his disinterest in romantics. And don’t act like you understand my fears – or even understand me. You hardly know me, Tara.”

“Ah, but a tressym always knows. Do as you please. Keep running. When your paws ache and your lungs are empty, it will be Mr. Dekarios who catches you. And then we shall see just what you were running from,” she tuts, her confidence still irking you, but you stay quiet this time. You need rest, so you figure it’s easier if you let her get away with her unreasonable fantasies. Entirely unreasonable.

–   –   –

Waking up granted him one, all-consuming, far-too-powerful feeling; Pain.

Pain in his legs, his arms, his gut, and most uncomfortably, his head. Soreness from the exercise of the past few days had truly taken its toll on his muscles, and last night’s celebration served a hellish punishment on the parts of his body not already burdened by the exhaustion. He’d had the strangest of dreams last night; visited by some otherworldly spirit, the exact details a blur he hadn’t yet recalled, humming a tale about something-or-other concerning the parasite, but frankly he’d been far too drunk when he’d gone to bed, and he struggled to grasp the particulars. 

That’s likely all it was – side-effects of his state mixed with his stress, granting him strange visions to join his raging headache. A hangover most unpleasant. 

It seemed the consensus was the same for everyone else in camp. Lae’zel hadn’t indulged much, or perhaps had a complete immunity to the effects of a morning after drinking, but the other two bore their own wine-induced scars. 

Astarion more literally than Shadowheart, oddly enough. Shadowheart knelt by the river, fighting off her nausea in the only way she knew how – throwing up last night’s regrets, and Gale would probably join her quite soon, but he was a little more intrigued by the strange scratches spanning over Astarion’s nose and cheeks. 

“Encounter a feral cat in your sleep?” He asks, and Astarion gives a quick, unhappy glare towards the wizard, but he’s far from threatened by him. 

“Took a walk last night. I’m not the most nimble drunkard – tripped over an inconveniently-placed log, where a patch of bramble awaited me,” Astarion replies, tapping his fingers to the dried cuts, checking for any leaking blood. “Merely an unpleasant coincidence, darling. We have larger things to worry about.” He motions with his head towards Halsin, who’s standing a few yards away, buckling the leather straps on his large upper arms.

“Do those serve any real purpose?” Gale wonders aloud, and Astarion chuckles, shaking his head.

“Doubtful. I expect they’re just for looks. As if those muscles weren’t distracting enough,” he teases in return. Gale cracks a small smile, bringing himself to his feet and running a hand through his hair, doing his best to neaten it, even if the change is quite minor. Once he’s vertical, he feels the lingering wine bubble up in his throat, and quickly excuses himself, rushing to join Shadowheart in her purge.

After a few minutes, once they’re positive that they’re ready to proceed, Gale reaches out a hand and helps the cleric to her feet, granting her a reassuring smile. Shadowheart dips her head in appreciation, straightening her headpiece and clearing her throat, deciding to make small talk. “Next time we host, we ought to have someone guarding the reserves. Had anything happened last night, none of us would have been in a proper enough state for defense.”

“Couldn’t agree more. Though Lae’zel seemed well-off enough,” he replies, looking over at where the Githyanki puts on the heavier pieces of her armor, wiping them free of any dirt. 

Shadowheart scoffs quietly, raising an eyebrow at Gale. “I’d sooner label her the very enemy we need defense from, than to imply she’d be the defender. I’m rather surprised none of us found ourselves with a dagger to our throats in the middle of the night. Hesitate when trusting her, Gale. She’s yet to show her true colors,” Shadowheart hums, her defensive pride showing through in her tone, and Gale replies with a frown. 

“She hasn’t tried to kill us yet. So long as these parasites are in our heads, I take it she’s on our side. She’s a solid warrior, and one we are lucky to have fighting for us,” he attempts to defend, but Shadowheart isn’t so quick to agree. 

“I fear it’s the parasites that make us her enemy. Githyanki aren’t prone to very efficient logical reasoning. They have a sworn rival, and as long as we have these mind flayer spawn with us, we are but an incubating version of those very rivals. Just don’t be too surprised if she decides to attack someday soon.” She, too, looks over at Lae’zel now, her expression one of hardly-muted disgust. 

“I assume you’re not too keen on seeking out the crèche she speaks of, then?” Gale hums, taking a few steps back towards the unlit campfire. He spots Astarion talking to Halsin as the druid checks over his own armor. 

“I’m desperate enough for a cure that I’m willing to try our hand at any possibility. Do I trust that we’ll be saved there? Hardly. More likely, our heads will be stuffed onto spikes for a gruesome display. But our selection of options are thinning by the day, so I don’t see much other choice than to make an attempt,” she responds, taking an extra second before she follows Gale’s steps, her focus still mostly on the githyanki she spoke of. “I suppose you have… some kind of a point. For all of her flaws, she is quite efficient in battle.” 

Gale chuckles, nudging the half-elf with a certain playfulness in his movements. “Ah, see? You’re warming up to her. I’m sure the two of you will be gossiping over tea before long,” he teases. 

Shadowheart’s eyebrows raise in disagreement, and she gives the slightest shake of her head. “Let’s… not get ahead of ourselves. I merely tolerate her. Nothing less, and most definitely nothing more.” She stops walking alongside him, motioning loosely towards her tent. “Pleasure… purging with you, Gale. I’m going to excuse myself before I get distracted. I’m sure the journey today will leave room for plenty more small talk.”

“We shall see,” he agrees, dipping his head as she turns and heads back to her tent to prepare for whatever the day may bring. Gale contemplates returning to his own tent to dress in more battle-ready clothing, but he notices a sudden flash of concern over Halsin’s face, and decides to investigate. 

“Oh, you caught me,” Astarion concedes, his tone a little too dramatic to be genuine, but Halsin seems too worried to notice. “The truth is a little less kind to my reputation. I don’t remember specifics, exactly, just that I somehow found myself facing off against a rather angry red squirrel,” he sighs, keeping his voice barely above a whisper, as if attempting to keep the conversation private.

“Ah, worry not about your reputation, Astarion. Nature sees the best and worst of us. It’s no surprise – some creatures are quite territorial around these parts. Especially with the approaching mating season. I won’t judge your drunken quarrel with a squirrel,” Halsin comforts, and Astarion seems a little confused for a moment, especially as Halsin places a hand on his shoulder, but he eventually snaps out of it.

“I was hoping you could repair what damage those little claws dealt. Not much one for battle scars. More your style – and well-so. If it isn’t too much trouble, of course…” The pale elf puts up a mock pout, and Gale smiles to himself, deciding the conversation no longer warrants his eavesdropping. As he turns his aim back to his own tent, he hears Halsin murmuring a healing spell of some sort, obliging Astarion’s request. 

Gale steps inside of his tent, one that he purchased from a vendor at the grove, much like the rest of them did. It’s small, but adequate enough – and purple, no less. He’s not one to complain, especially not with the situation they’re in. Sifting through a small adventurer’s pack, he removes the purple robe he’d been wearing when the abduction occurred, and zips up the entrance as he changes. 

There’s no telling what the day holds in store for them. New companions, new battles, new discoveries galore – Gale doesn’t have a single clue. All he can do is hope they manage to take one step closer to a cure. 

–   –   –

“She looks… injured?” You whisper, narrowing your eyes at the blurry figure of a red, faintly humanoid-esque shape in the distance. You can’t see much, as you’re quite far back, but she seems to be hunched over, and you hear what sounds like pained groaning, but you’re not entirely sure. 

“And positively dangerous,” Tara hisses, her tail stiffened in the air as she pulls back, claws unsheathed and ready to strike. “You must be mad to think of approaching her!” 

“Tara, what if she’s seen Gale? We should investigate. Worst case scenario, we’ll just make a run for it. We should at least get a little closer,” you whisper, sneaking forward, seeing that the figure is on a small ledge across the river, a fallen log acting as a bridge between the side that you stood on now, and her side. 

“My– Has he taught you no self-preservation?!” Tara yowls, though she too keeps that yowl down to a whisper, and you hush her, earning a scoff of disbelief from the tressym. 

As you near her, you see that she is, indeed, slightly hunched over, with her arms folded over her abdomen. She’s a tiefling, which you could have assumed from the redness of her skin, though she only bears one, curved horn. The groans are certainly uncomfortable ones, but not quite pained – more so just burdened. Even as you near her, she’s too preoccupied to notice your approach. 

“I do believe the woman is on fire,” Tara remarks, though quickly silences herself as you take another step, now standing on the opposite end of the log from her.

“Are you okay?” You call out, and immediately her head lifts, locking eyes with you.

“Hells, not another one – Stay back!” She yells, and you furrow your brows, not understanding. You aren’t sure if it’s a warning or a threat that her words carry, and you’re not given a chance to decipher the exact connotation before her expression softens, immediately killing any fear of her. “Shit. You’re not one of them, are you?”

You step closer, much to the dismay of the tressym at your heel, who’s tail is now swishing back and forth with an ever-intensifying defensiveness. The woman takes a small step back, and you immediately take notice of flames carried on her shoulders. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that the flames were originating from her, but that’s surely impossible, right…? “Not one of who?” You ask, head tilting as you take yet another step, now standing on the log. 

“Those damned fake paladins,” she replies, groaning for a moment, and the flames around her intensify, as if sent from the hells themselves. Now that you’re even closer, it’s undeniable that the flames are originating from her – exactly how, you have no idea, but you know for a fact that your eyes don’t deceive you. “Careful, soldier, I’d keep your distance if I were you.”

“You’re on fire. Are you okay?” You ask again, and the woman chuckles at your question, the flames seeming to calm down after a few moments. She stands up fully, and whatever intimidation had faded comes back, albeit much gentler, but it returns nonetheless. She’s tall, and decidedly strong, if her build is anything to judge by. Yet, despite her intimidation factor, you don’t quite fear her. She smiles, a nervous one but still somehow optimistic, and it… somehow eases you. Maybe by means of magic? You’re not sure.

“I’ll be alright. Just got a little heated. The name’s Karlach. Well met, soldier,” she introduces and holds out a hand, though near-instantly retracts it and shakes that hand at her side, extinguishing the few flames lingering on her palm. Her attention shifts to Tara, and her grin widens, eyes following suit. Karlach places her palms on her knees and squats down, giggling at Tara as she bares her teeth and hisses again, clearly still not a fan. “Hey, kitty, kitty! Aren’t you a cute lil’ thing?”

You look down at Tara as well, watching as she inspects the woman again, backing up and taking shelter behind your ankles, suspicious of her intentions. “Nice to meet you, Karlach. This is Tara… Sorry, she’s, uh…” You glance around, and then chuckle awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck. “Not used to being out in the wild. More of an indoor cat– ow!” You grumble as Tara’s wing roughly smacks against your leg, and you’re quick to correct yourself; “An indoor tressym, sorry.”

“Gods, she’s adorable! Never seen a cat with wings before,” she remarks, standing up once more, and Tara hisses her complaints. “Oh, right, uh– What’d you call her? Testin’? Tressym?” She corrects, and then raises a finger and waves it, her wide grin returning. “Hold it! I’ve got just the thing,” she giggles, her playfulness throwing you for a bit of a loop. You wouldn’t have expected such a friendly attitude on a woman as objectively scary as her. Karlach turns around and reaches into a leather pack, pulling out a long, silver-scaled fish and tossing it onto the bank behind you. 

Tara’s eyes follow it with striking accuracy, and you notice a few dark dots littering the upper half of the fish, a mark typical of salmon. There’s no more than 4 seconds between the fish landing and Tara nearly pouncing on it, sniffing and pawing at the limp prey as if she were no less distinguished than a common housecat. You chuckle at the sight before returning your attention to Karlach, who begins cracking her knuckles as if preparing for a fight. You seriously hope she doesn’t mean to fight you. 

“You asked if I was one of those ‘fake paladins’,” you remind, stepping a little closer and assuming a more casual stance, hoping to put her off of the idea of fighting you, if she had any plans to. “Who were you talking about?”

Karlach groans, stretching her interlocked arms above her head and rolling her shoulders. “Ugh. It’s a long story, scout, so I’ll save you the borin’ bits. Important part is, a bunch’a evil bastards are on my tail – hunting little ol’ me all the way from the hells,” she scowls, her shoulders dropping, and now you notice a red tail behind her, typical of tieflings, that sways in irritation. “Now, before you assume wrong, I should probably clarify that I’m not some escaped devil, or, like, some evil that they’re trying to drag back down to Avernus for good reason. Nah, it’s this bitch named Zariel sending her attack dogs after me ‘cause I hitched a ride on a nautiloid ship and got out of her enslavement,” she boasts, placing her hands on her hips and nodding. 

Nautiloid – the word sounds familiar. Very, very faintly familiar, and you try to recall where you’ve heard it before. It only takes a second before you instantly remember mention of nautiloid ships piloted by mind flayers in a book about, well, mind flayers. The ships were capable of jumping between astral planes and posed quite the threat, but had become the stuff of legends in Faerûn, at least until one crashed somewhere in the Dalelands, but you don’t remember the specifics of that event. 

So… either this woman was completely insane, lying to your face, or somehow, against all realms of possibility, had been kidnapped by mind flayers and dropped somewhere in Faerûn, all the way from Avernus. You weren’t particularly eager for any of those options to be true. 

Shaking your head with a small scoff, you decide to question her further; “Sorry – a nautiloid? How did you… escape it? Or survive it? What happened to it?” 

Karlach laughs, pointing finger-guns at you. “Aw, you’re a funny one!” She jokes, and though it takes her a few seconds, she seems to catch onto the fact that you’re being completely serious. “Oh, damn. You’re not joking? You been livin’ under a rock? Yeah, no, it was a disaster, really. Whole thing just crashed and burned. Like, literally. Pshewf.” Her hands meet in front of her chest and then explode in a mock explosion as she imitates the noise, following the description with a hearty chuckle. “Not a whole lotta survivors. Surprised it didn’t shake the earth enough to make the mountains fall. You really didn’t know?” 

“I’m… not from around here. How long ago was this?” You can’t help but let your curiosity get the best of you. Even if it probably isn’t connected to whatever might be happening with Gale, you figure it’s best to explore any chance you have of following clues back to him, or solve whatever puzzle you’ve been tasked with piecing together in his wake. And, to be fair, this does seem like a pretty major event. 

“Couple days ago. Like, ten, maybe? Dunno, not the best with time… Man, you picked a reaaaal bad time to take a vacation. Hate to be the one to spoil it, scout,” Karlach hisses through her teeth, cringing at her guilt. She then leans in towards you, a slight frown on her face. “Listen, I don’t wanna overwhelm you or anything, I’m sure this is a lot to take in, but those assholes are on my tail, and it’s only a matter of time before they find me coolin’ off down here. I’d be more than happy to answer any questions you have, but I need you to do me a favor n’ help me throw the yappers off my scent. Or… keep ‘em from smellin’ ever again, if you catch my drift.” She giggles with a sense of mischief, and you can’t help but trust her. Maybe it’s foolish to, but she seems genuine – and she seemed to trust you pretty easily, which makes you doubt that she’d be lying about such a thing. 

“I’m… not really built for fighting anyone off. Not sure I’d be of much help,” you confess, raising your shoulders in an attempt to display your apologies. “I’m not familiar with the area – like, at all – but I’m happy to try and help you escape them.”

Karlach thinks over the offer for a moment, and she looks a little disappointed that she won’t have your assistance in battle, but she ultimately nods and gives you a thumbs up. “I appreciate it – means a lot that you’re willing to help me. I wish everyone around here was as accepting as you. It’s been a while since I’ve been on the surface, so I’m afraid I’m probably not the person to ask for directions. But, hey–!” Karlach grins again, the optimism behind the expression noticeably contagious. “Would much rather be clueless together, yeah? Figure it out as we go, and all that.”

You feel a presence at your feet once more, and Tara sits on the log, eyes slightly narrowed at Karlach, but she’s no longer anywhere near defensive. The reason why is quickly explained when you notice that Karlach’s peace offering to her is nothing more than a frail, fish-shaped skeleton now. “Actually, I’m here because I’m looking for a… friend of mine. His name is Gale – he’s human, middle-aged, shoulder-length brown hair, likes to make cheesy book references…?” 

She looks off to the right for a moment, a finger pressed to her chin, but soon she shakes her head, shrugging. “Not ringin’ any bells. Sorry, scout. I’m happy to help you look for him though, once we’re well off-and-away from those paladin-posin’ asses.” Karlach glances down at Tara, and she leans down again. “And before you go thinkin’ I forgot about you, I promise I’ll pay my weight in fish. Wouldn’t risk gettin’ on your bad side, kitty,” she teases, and you think about telling her that Tara is way more conscious of what’s happening than Karlach seems to think, but Tara has yet to say anything, so you refrain from breaking the illusion for the time being. 

“We should get going, then. I don’t want to risk running into these hunters of yours,” you advise, and Karlach stands up again, stretching once more before grabbing her backpack and a bedroll, approaching you where you stand on the log.

“Yup, I gotcha. Any danger comes our way, just stick close to Mama K, alright?” She hums, almost singing the rhyme before laughing to herself, and you chuckle as well, nodding in agreement. 

You definitely weren’t expecting to find a second companion before you found Gale, but Karlach seems more than valuable in battle, and you’re certain that she’s a way better protector than your dagger could ever be, so you’re not complaining. Not that Tara isn’t also a fine defender, but should anything stronger than a cowardly vampire pick a fight with you, you doubt that Tara would be able to do all of the heavy lifting. Definitely not the kind of heavy lifting Karlach seems like she would be capable of. 

So, the three of you set off back the way you came, hoping to find safety – and, ideally, answers – as quickly as possible, and preferably without having to fight for either of them. 

[adaptacy]

The General Drow's Celebration {2/2}

Pairing: General!Minthara x Durge!AFAB!Reader

{Part 1}

Warnings/Tags: NSFW! Pure smut this time. Knifeplay, bloodplay, consensual poisoning, exhibitionism, the slightest hints of foodplay, etc.

Word Count: 2.4k

Her hand slides up your body, finding purchase around your throat, and she meets your gaze, her prideful smile meant entirely for you. “Tonight, we celebrate two deaths. The death of Late General Thorm, and the death of The Nightwarden. Indulge in the wine and feast as you deem fit – a rebirth occurs this evening. A rebirth of values. A rebirth of power. A rebirth of The Absolute.” Her gaze lifts, meeting the intrigued smiles of her soldiers. “Hear the testament of my reign – straight from the voice of darkness,” Minthara chuckles, eyes drawn once more to you. “Speak my title, dear oloth.” 

With a lustful smile, you oblige; “General Minthara.” 

“General Minthara,” she agrees, leaning over the table to meet your lips, hand tightening around your throat, robbing you of breath in the two ways she knows best. Her other hand is placed on one of your knees, fingers tracing the inside of your leg and tugging outward, creating a little more room between your leg and her waist. Her hand disappears, and it’s only sensible for you to immediately miss it, especially when she’s forced to break the kiss, leaving the two of you to catch your breaths. She stays close, her voice low and steady as she makes a command; “Swallow.”

Without question or hesitation, you do as she asks. Immediately, there is a stinging present, starting at your lips, washing over your tongue and down your throat. Some tart bitterness that you’d subtracted from her mouth – you know both from experience and from the faded glisten on her lips, a mixture of your spit and the poison, some custom concoction made only for the two of you to share. The taste fades as your mouth borders on the edge of brimming numbness, your throat tight, and before long you feel it lull you into a state of light-headedness. She’d increased the dosage for the occasion, and you were, slowly, building an immunity to it, but tonight was a test of many things. A test of her guild’s loyalty, a test of her power, and a test of your constitution. 

“Stay awake, my love. You will not want to miss what follows. You are far more entertaining to please when you are conscious. Your attentiveness shall be rewarded in full.” Her coos are accompanied by a snicker, and you nod in understanding, in a silent promise to obey her every request – her every demand. Your efforts to fight the artificial weariness in your head are pushed to the forefront of your priorities, and you keep your eyes strictly on Minthara, relying on her to be your point of focus, to keep you grounded and awake. 

The kiss is resumed, and you allow yourself to close your eyes, very quickly regretting that choice as it makes the urge to drift off significantly stronger. So, instead, you force them open just in time to catch the glint on the blade of her bloodied dagger, lifted from the table and venturing towards your thighs. The chill meets your skin with the flat length of the weapon, though her hand rises enough to slant the dagger and poke the sharp point into your skin. Had your mouth been free, you certainly would’ve been forced to give some small hiss of discomfort, but you’re thankful for her lip’s presence working as a preventative. 

The point is drawn down, and then curves inward, and then is drawn out again – soon, there’s five slightly curved lines of blood on your thigh, but she’s not yet done. Two lines in the middle are what it takes to complete it, and the pinching pain serves as an assistant in keeping you awake, making you grateful for the branding in more ways than one. Despite not being able to see her work, the web design imprinted on your thigh is a perfect recreation of the mark that she bears on her own skin. Minthara pulls out of the kiss, and you release her with a quiet whine, your mind too preoccupied with the challenge of staying awake to bother splitting your attention to prevent your own natural pleading. 

Fortunately, the general doesn’t seem to mind – in fact, she grins, raising an eyebrow and tilting her head at you, as if surprised by your minor show of desperation. “Poison caught your tongue, dark one? Oh, do indulge me; what is it that you crave?” She asks, an unusual curiosity admitted in her tone. 

Well, there’s only one answer for that question. It’s a simple one. “You.”

“Me?” She clarifies, and you nod – sleepily, thanks entirely to the effects of the barely diluted poison, though you suppose your confusion isn’t helping. “What about me? Which part of me do you desire? My hands? My tongue? My blade, perhaps?” Her hand releases some of the tension around your throat, tracing your arteries under her fingers until she cradles your jaw, angling your head upwards as she awaits her answer. Her thumb crosses your lower lip, wiping it clean of lingering poison, though it has no effect on what you already ingested. 

Again, the question isn’t a difficult one, even in your faded state. “All of you, my General,” you elaborate, your eyes trailing down towards the hand that wields the dagger, but a tug on your chin is enough for your gaze to snap back onto the drow. 

“Do not get distracted, xi’hum. I have trained you better. We have an audience tonight – do behave. You fight the poison well. It seems you are adapting to the taste,” she praises, her thumb tucking into your mouth, and you blink up at her, staying quiet as she seems to be directing. “As you have so willingly consumed my gift to you, it is only just that I feast upon you in return. After all, a banquet is only complete with a meal. And a meal, I shall have.”

It’s not entirely clear if the butterflies in your stomach are due to your excitement or the poison beginning to digest, but either way, they’re a pleasant and welcome sensation, and Minthara is quick to catch onto the smile that they bring across your lips. Her thumb pulls away from your mouth and glides down to the very bottom of your stomach, her palm located just under your belly button as it presses you into the table, earning a momentary squirm from you. Once you settle, she leans down, her other hand firmly holding your marked thigh, and once she’s close enough, her tongue sweeps over the wound, collecting the spilled blood. Her eyes close in order to truly savor the taste, and her hand squeezes, pushing out as much blood as possible. 

Perhaps due to your light-headedness, or maybe just how much she seems to be enjoying it, the feeling is strangely pleasant – despite what your short whine may lead the audience to believe, the warmth of her tongue over the cuts is oddly comforting, even if it is joined by the faintest of irritated stings. You don’t see a world in which it would be possible to not let your mind drift, anticipation and elation curling into a fantasy of what is sure to soon play out, once Minthara deems you desperate enough to earn the gift of her mouth’s company on your core. Unfortunately, that time hasn’t come, and dreaming of it only makes you squirm with expected neediness. Minthara reminds you of her plans with a soothing, yet firm, “Patience, dark one.” 

And patient you are – as patient as one can be when they’re displayed so lovingly over a table of prying eyes, teased by the expertly dangerous (and expertly attractive) General Minthara, left powerless until she permits further pleasure. Every movement of hers is a carefully planned test, either of your obedience or your control; meticulous, gentle trailing of the tip of her dagger over your underwear, enough to tease what’s beneath without so much as catching a single thread of the fabric. She trails kisses up and across your thighs, her lips claiming every inch except the place that so terribly needs her attention. 

The flat width of the blade presses against the length of your underwear, and you flinch just barely, earning a ‘tsk’ of disapproval from Minthara. You fall still once more, finally letting your eyes squeeze closed, your head tilting back as you try to divide your focus between fighting the poison and fighting your reflexes. You feel an unfamiliar, trivial chill brought on by the removal of cover, and you lift your head in time to catch Minthara pulling your underwear away from your skin with her knife, slicing it on the blade in a quick tug. Her eyes meet yours, and the point of her weapon presses against your throat, tilting your chin up towards her. “Tell me, my love. Who is it that controls you? Who is it that you belong to?”

“You, General Minthara.” 

She chuckles, drawing the edge under your chin, enough to cause a scratch without spilling any blood. “What a good girl.” Her praise is followed by the removal of the blade against your skin, and she sets it aside, instead pulling up her chair and placing her hands on the outside of your thighs, tugging you a little bit closer to the edge of the table. Your knees hang on her shoulders, and soon her hands slide up to hold your hips, thumbs pressing bruises into the soft skin they rest on. “Sing my name as I command, and pleasure shall be yours,” she promises, kissing your thigh once more. 

Your head falls back once more, and she only allows you to lay in wait for a few seconds before her tongue runs over your folds with the same meticulous precision that she exercised when tasting your mark. Your ankles lock where they rest on her back, trying to pull her in closer, but she only chuckles at your attempt, the near purr against your skin sending a shiver up your spine. Though she’s hardly even begun, you feel all of the anticipation paying off, your high standards miraculously met, and you hum out “General,” in an effort to earn further pleasure. 

Minthara obliges, letting her tongue bathe your clit, the movements nothing short of loving despite how intensely violent and unapologetically rough she could be, though that side of her is still ever-present, especially as she runs her teeth over your clit, threatening to introduce a pinch amongst the pleasure. 

Partially in an effort to avoid facing the attention of the surrounding True Souls, you close your eyes, which also causes all of your attention to be drawn to the sensations between your legs. Just in time, Minthara pulls her tongue back, drawing a long line from the lowest point of your entrance up to your clit, still teasing you before she takes it any further. Her nails aren’t quite as willing to remain on the surface, however, and an accidental squirm earns you eight pricks where her fingers hold your skin, her thumbs settling on merely pressuring their spots. It takes a lot to subdue a whine, though the pain is slight in comparison to the carving of her blade. 

Your ankles thump – gently, nearly disguised as a flinch – against her back, and she chuckles against your skin, refusing to continue just yet. At least, until you sing out a “Please, General” of desperation, to which she replies by finally moving forward, slipping her tongue into you as a form of affirmation. This is hardly the first time the two of you have been in this position, but it never fails to overwhelm you – in all the best ways, of course. 

There’s a tingle on your skin, no doubt a side-effect of the sting of poison, though the slight traces still remaining on her lips are hardly enough for any actual damage or irritation to set in. Just a tingle, enough to prick your skin without genuine danger. Of course, that’s not to say the rest of the dosage wasn’t still in effect, as your eyes felt heavy even despite them being closed. Fortunately, with Minthara lapping up everything your insides had to offer, you were far from at risk of falling asleep. 

Your hands reach down, one holding Minthara’s arm, her grip on your hips tightening in acknowledgement, and the other pushes against her head, encouraging her as best you can without being able to move your hips much. She lets go of your body with one hand, instead her fingers wrap around your arm, keeping it in place. Minthara moves with your eager pushes, and you can feel her smile against your skin, buried beneath the stimulation provided by her tongue. 

It doesn’t take much, or very long – she’s fantastic at giving speeches and winning people over with her words, but it’s hardly the only thing her tongue is gifted at – before you feel yourself approaching the very edge of pleasure itself. You do as she demanded; singing out her title, begging your General for release, and as promised, she doesn’t let up. Every swipe or curl of her tongue is a carefully planned one, completely unraveling your dignity, revealing your desperation before her, and before her devoted followers. 

Your legs tense, pulling her closer and locking her between your thighs, hips rolling as you hit your release, your pitiful whines met with a sinister chuckle from the drow. Once you settle back, you feel her stand and force your legs to unclasp, and you open your eyes to meet hers, her glare simultaneously satisfied and yet still hungry. Your hands fall to your sides, and she leans down, gripping your chin and narrowing her eyes at you. 

“You obeyed. A magnificent show, my darling. Perhaps it will not be your final performance. Certainly not for my eyes,” she praises, pulling your head up enough to capture your lips in a kiss, and your already weakened body isn’t able to do much but melt in her hold, mumbling mindlessly against her mouth. You feel a second hand on your waist once more, and you’re pulled to sit up, your legs locking around her hips. The kiss breaks, and she glances around at the audience, contemplating something before she speaks. “Finish your meal as you wish. There is excess wine in the kitchen. Your general must finish a banquet of her own.” 

Those around you either snicker or mumble understandings as Minthara moves her hand from your throat to your waist, lifting you off of the table. Immediately, you wrap your arms around her shoulders and lean into her, allowing her to carry you off, letting your high fade in the journey back up to your quarters.

[adaptacy]

i love them sm, such an underrated RE ship

Wanted to do something a bit more spicy but at the same time something tender and wholesome

Censored because tumblr didn't like the drawing

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.12}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) - (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

A/N: Sorry I haven't been updating this super frequently, I lowkey forgot tumblr existed for a hot second. it's all up to date on AO3, but I'll get back into posting it on here too! Also, I have commissions up on my page! There's a link to an info post on my pinned :) could really use the extra money & I'm happy to write for ideas that y'all have!!

Word Count: 4.6k

The start of the morning went according to routine. Waking up at sunrise, fixing yourself and Tara breakfast, and tidying up the study before she awoke. While doing some light reading over a cup of hot coffee, you’re startled by a knock on the door. Soon your increased heart rate is not out of fear, but instead out of excitement. An eagerness to see a familiar face, somehow believing that he had managed to cut the trip down to only nine days. An incredible feat, but you certainly weren’t going to complain – you would be without him no more!

You’re quick to stand from the loveseat and rush for the front door, leaving the book you’d been reading on the table, far less interested in its contents when Gale had finally come back. You open the door – you don’t bother to call out, or ask who it might be, as you’re sure that you know who it is. 

But Gale’s beard was certainly not that long. And not nearly as white. And his face was never as… old. 

“Hello?” You stammer, caught off-guard by a completely unfamiliar elder, dressed in obvious wizard-esque attire, with a long orange and red robe and a matching hat that drapes behind him. He nods, smiling wearily and glancing behind you.

“The apprentice, I presume? I intend not to affright thee. Might you indulge an old man? I bear regards to Gale,” he speaks, his voice deep in the stereotypical elderly way, and you swear he’s far too old for a mortal human, but he looks plenty human. 

“You know Gale?” You ask, hesitant to believe anything the man says, both due to your immediate disappointment that the door didn’t open to Gale, and because you know better than to immediately trust strangers. 

“Indubitably. You may safely classify Gale and I as friends,” he confirms, and you realize that this may very well be Gale’s ‘old friend’ that he intended to visit. After all, he’s plenty old, and allegedly a friend. There is an instant pit in your stomach – If he is here, and notably lacking the company of your mentor, then something must be wrong. 

You know that your worry shows on your face, but you don’t care. You step out of the way and pull the door open further, inviting him in. “Come in, please.” It takes a lot not to choke on your words, on your rising anxiety, on your terror. He enters, steps out of his boots, and makes his way to the study, not requiring any sort of direction – a confirmation that he’s likely who he says he is. 

You follow, and he pauses in the middle of the study, motioning about the room. “A mighty toothsome abode this has become – cert ameliorated since I last bore tarriance.” He turns to look at you and waves a hand, a smile crossing his wrinkled features. “Compliments! Alas, I trekked not for flattery. Should thy curiosity bear uncertainty, I shall put to rest such indecision. Elminster Aumar, at your service.” He extends a hand, and you stare at it for a moment before ultimately taking it, and he gives it a firm shake, pushing dried wrinkles against your palm, before he drops his hand. 

“Nice to meet you. Where is Gale? Is everything okay?” You question, desperately searching his eyes for answers, perhaps something more clear than his convoluted conversation will provide, but you find a barrier of blue wisdom, refusing you any peeks into his true nature. 

“Enigmatic, the situation remains. Harrowing dawns are upon us, I fear. Mystra sanctioned the deliverance of a memorandum most paramount,” he sighs, and you frown, simultaneously trying to decipher his statements and search for assurance that Gale is okay. You don’t particularly succeed at either. “Cognizant am I of his absenteeism, inclusive of thy enlistment to the abecedarian chosen’s – ah, erstwhile chosen’s – service. A most discommodious concatenation has seized the deliberation of the Gods.”

There’s a few seconds of silence, but when he doesn’t speak anymore, you shake your head, narrowing your eyes. “I’m… not understanding.” 

He tuts, clasping his hands together and closing his eyes, sighing yet again. “Apologies. I come bearing a–”

“By Mystra’s mercy!” Tara yowls, her tail stiffening and puffing as she emerges from Gale’s room, anxiously glancing Elminster up and down, her head shaking and her wings twitching. “Elminster Aumar? Oh, dear – whatever trouble has my wizard gotten into?” 

Elminster looks at Tara, and he smiles nervously, dipping his head once more. “Tara, dearest, a delight to see you.” He clears his throat, addressing you once more, and Tara comes to rub against your calf, taking a seat between your ankles and looking up at the old man. “I desiderate not to impose you, but to entrust to you a message. A consideration, on Mystra’s part, to offer Gale redemption.” 

Your eyebrows furrow, and you feel Tara’s fur bristle against your skin, both of your guards up. “Redemption? I don’t understand – where is Gale?” 

“I know not his precise locale. Hence my emergence in Waterdeep. It is in your hands I allocate his discovery. Tara – grant me aplomb, will you?”

Her tail swishes, brushing over the ground in mild irritation, or perhaps worry – maybe even a combination of both. “I can find him, Elminster. Rest assured.” 

“Most meritorious. Upon reconciliation, I ask you to inform him of the following. It is imperative that he understands the false deity he faces is far more dangerous than he may possibly conceive. It threatens the gods, the realm, the universe itself. Mystra believes only he is capable of its thorough destruction.” His voice is tainted with regret – as if he is apologetic for the goddess’ message. He reaches into his robe, presenting a tightly tied scroll, and you take it from him, though don’t dare to open it. “If he complies, the spell contained within that scroll will put a halt to the orb’s impending implosion. A temporary fix – all too temporary indeed. He must find the heart, and obey the ritual.”

“False deity? Threatening the gods – the ‘heart’? What are you on about?” You let out an exhale that borders on the edge of a confused, overwhelmed whine, your head shaking in an attempt to dispel the oncoming migraine. 

“Set out as quickly as you can. The realm battles against time. He will understand, even if you do not.” He shakes his own head, inhaling slowly, as if to steady himself. “My sincerest apologies, child. Had I any choice in the matter, you would not be my target of burden. Alas, you know him well, and the trust is mutual. I have little time – Mystra beckons me afresh. I may only bestow upon you luck. And the best of luck it is.” 

. . .

“So, he is her chosen?” You ask, sorting through Gale’s desk as you collect two pouches of gold, dropping them into a quickly-filling traveling pack. 

“Has been for many a century. Oh, I do so hope to be absolved of my misery at a quicker rate than that. To live for a millenia – isn’t it plain dreadful?” She mews, kneading at the cushion of the loveseat across the room from you. 

You close the drawer that you’d been sifting through, opening a different drawer filled with quills, as well as a dagger that has gone unused for longer than you’ve known Gale. You don’t have any intentions of using it, but you’re smart enough to know better than to travel unarmed. “Did you understand anything he said? All of that about Mystra and the ‘huge threat’, or whatever he called it?” 

“Hardly, though I rarely concern myself with the affairs of gods. Once we find Mr. Dekarios, he will explain all. He won’t want to risk the clawing that would come with keeping us in the dark about whatever he is up to,” she replies, stretching out her back and jumping off of the couch, approaching you before hopping onto the desk, inspecting the bag you were packing. “My, quite the pile of gold you’ve acquired, dear.”

“Well, yeah. We’ll need to afford rations for the trip, there’s no telling how long it will take, and probably transportation, and–”

“Hah!” She meows, amused at your statement. “Nonsense. The trip will be a short one. With my purrrfect nose, we’ll find him in a whisker’s twitch.” 

“We’ll still need to travel to him, though.”

“Ah. With my trusty sense of smell, my unbridled connection to my darling humanoid, and a sprinkling of conjuration magic, we’ll be in the… general area of Mr. Dekarios,” she assures, sticking her head into the bag and biting the tip of a gold pouch, removing it and dropping it onto the desk. “Let’s leave some inheritance for our return, yes?”

“Wait – we can just… appear there? Like, teleporting?” You chuckle in surprise, a little baffled that it would be that easy.

“Well, thirty-two years of companionship doesn’t go without its benefits! Aside from the self-warming bed, of course. I know Mr. Dekarios better than he knows himself. I’ll find him, don’t you fret. Elminster emphasized the urgency of the situation, so I best be referring to a few studies on transpositional spells. We should depart before the evening. Will you be ready?”

You think over what else you need to do, or pack, and eventually nod. “Yeah, I’m ready whenever you are.”

“Delightful,” she praises, hopping off of his desk once more and walking towards his room. She pauses, however, to look behind herself at you, her ears twitching. “Do bring along some of that salmon, would you? As much as I enjoy hunting the occasional mouse, we’ve larger missions to sink our claws into.”

“Of course. I’ll even cut it up into squares,” you tease, and she lets out a loud purr in response, satisfied with your answer. Tara disappears into his room, and you return to your packing, picking up the backpack and leaving the study, immediately preparing the salmon before you risk forgetting. You slice it into squares as you’ve been doing for the past few days, and then place those squares on a sheet of parchment paper, rolling it up and securing it before you tuck it into your bag. 

Knowing that you have very little hunting experience, you make sure to grab plenty of rations for yourself, as well, though find that the bag is getting quite full. You suppose the several changes of clothes are mostly at fault for that, and you have to sacrifice two sets in order to fit what you believe will keep you fed for at least a few days. Maybe less, should you need to share with Gale, but you’d be happy enough to have found him, you doubt you’ll have room for complaints. 

When you return to the study, you can hear Tara muttering incantations in the next room over, and you decide better than to risk interrupting her. You would pick out a book to keep you company, but you doubt you have the room for that, and as Tara said, you’d probably have your hands full for the next few days. Instead, you take a seat by the unlit fireplace, allowing yourself a few minutes to think – to properly process everything that has been dumped onto you in a morning. Truly, it would be nice if ‘grand reveals’ were a little more spaced out, or had some build up to them. Alas, you were smacked with concerning news flashes that rattled you for a morning, or a single conversation, and then you were promptly dropped in a sea of confusion, left to teach yourself how to swim. 

How unfair. 

Thanks in part to Elminster’s intensely coded and decorated speech mannerisms, you have no clue what you should expect. On the bright side, it seemed quite assured that he was not dead. Mystra would certainly know if he was – not only because of her familiarity with him, but likely that her connection to the weave within him would draw her immediate attention, should that connection be severed, or… exploded. 

She was rather audacious, if you had to be honest. To abandon him in his time of need, to leave him wandering and hurting after everything he tried to do for her, was one issue, and a plenty large enough issue on its own. But now for her to suddenly call upon him for a mission because she felt threatened? Oh, the gall. 

You couldn’t tell if it was incredibly serious because she’d called on a mortal to do her bidding, or if it was incredibly un-serious, because she had called on a mortal to do her bidding! She, a goddess, the weave incarnate, the mistress of magic, couldn’t take care of a threat to the entire universe, but Gale Dekarios, a middle-aged, objectively gauche and reclusive wizard, was capable of such victory? 

It was the orb. It had to be. In no world did Gale naturally have such power at his fingertips. Even so, the weave within him is only a fraction of Mystra. Surely she is stronger? Surely she can cast such destruction tenfold, should she be so inclined. 

…Right?

Gale was not more powerful than Mystra. Nobody could be – not via the weave, anyways. Gale wasn’t even on a similar level to Mystra. He had a fraction – a fraction – of her power. Didn’t he? That’s what he’d told you. 

You recall your own experience – pulling energy with the orb as your source. The split second of unforeseen power that you felt, that surged through you as if it was you. In that moment, you’d believed yourself unbeatable. All-powerful. An irrational thought, you’re aware, and yet such possibility intrigues. 

If Mystra controlled the weave, couldn’t she remove the orb? According to Elminster, she’s capable of pausing it, and yet it remains latched and active within his body. She had to have her reasons. Mystra would not turn down the ability to be even stronger without good reason. 

Again, you return to your memory – the quiet calm of the orb, paired with Gale’s utter terror. It makes you think.

Is Mystra scared of it?

“Are you quite ready?” Tara peeks her head out from Gale’s bedroom, and you quickly stand, putting on your boots and nodding, grabbing your backpack from the loveseat. You follow her into Gale’s bedroom, where a swirling purple and black vortex awaits you. 

“We’ll be able to return, right?”

“Oh, of course,” she reassures, and you relax, stepping closer to the portal. You feel her rub against your ankle, and she outstretches her wings, yawning. Jumping to fly behind you, she perches on your shoulder, her tail bumping against your back. “With the assistance of a horse, but a return is a return, yes?”

You cringe, a little less sure, but give an affirmative shrug nonetheless. “Right. Here goes, I guess.”

“Prepare your feathers, dear – a quick trip through the cosmos and we’ll surely be on his doorstep! Or… somewhere in the vicinity.”

With that, and a nod at one another, you step through the portal, having to rely on your trust in Tara to recite the spell correctly and not land you in a heap of trouble. 

–   –   –

He’d left the ruckus of the party behind him, the noise from drunken singing and laughing a little too much for him to bear. And far too sweet of an opportunity. A perfect distraction – as if it had been curated for him. He did deserve it, didn’t he? 

He’d worked so hard. Slain so many goblins. Thoroughly exhausted himself, dirtied his daggers and saved lives. Heroes, they named them. As if his intentions were entirely pure – as if he felt empathy for the tieflings, as if he’d been pushed to act in their honor, as if he cared. 

The wine was tolerable, at least. The company not so much. Drunk and dry. Below his standards, and far too chatty. 

The boars were better than the rats. Had more sustenance to them – a little more flavor. More of a kick, too, as small as their legs were. Alas, he was hungry, and ever-so-greedy. Perhaps he’d find a deer. Or another boar – it wasn’t too wretched of an idea. If he had to compromise, he wasn’t entirely opposed to it. Hardly a fan, but blood was, ultimately, blood. A boar would hold him off for another day or two. A deer, though? Oh, certainly a week. 

He finds himself traveling deeper and deeper into the forest. The party, ringing through the trees around their little clearing, scaring off the prey he so helplessly yearned for. What insatiable hunger. A hindrance, a terrible flaw, a godsforsaken craving – until he satisfied it, at least. 

However temporary the satisfaction, it made the carnal desires, the churning desperation, the withdrawals – all of it, worth it, for a little while. Few things came close to the sensation of blood running down his neck, washing him inside and out, fulfilling his bone-chilling needs. 

How clueless his companions remained. It granted him fragmented amusement, witnessing their utter hopelessness – gave him the slightest rushes of power, of pride. Of security. To know, and to trust, that his secret remained just that, all thanks to his carefully plucked words, his controlled smiles, his flawless manipulation. Even his kills were tidy –

Well, save for the first boar, that is. Not that they’d picked up on it, fortunately, but he supposes he could have cleaned that one up a little better. He’d been desperate, and practically starved. Trekking about in unfamiliar lands was so incredibly exhausting. Especially when he was forced to sweat under the heat of the sun – not to say he didn’t enjoy walking freely under the sun, of course he did, but the sweat he could do without. 

And slaying was even more taxing on his body. Swinging, dashing, dodging – oh, catching prey used to be so easy. 

At least he did it for himself now. Made the burdens far easier to bear. Free will was such a luxury, wasn’t it?

Astarion pauses, hearing movement ahead of him. He can’t hear the noise of the party anymore, nor can he see the lights, and he’s sure that his prey lies close. So he sticks closer to the denser parts of the forest, hugging every shadow that he can, moving with them as one as though he’s Baldur Gate’s best trained assassin, or a panther, slinking about the underbrush, eyes on a darling, oblivious gazelle. 

He smells a fire, and then he hears quiet chattering –

A person.

His heart flutters, his fangs practically ache, and he realizes that settling for a boar would be a horrific lowball. Unfair – unfair to him. 

He deserves better. He deserves real prey. He deserves payment for two-hundred years spent in a hell personalized for him. He deserves payment for having his freedom robbed from him. He deserves payment for freeing those poor, defenseless tieflings. 

He deserves payment. Retribution. 

He deserves real blood. Sweet blood. Thick, terrified blood – crying blood, pleading blood. Blood with a life. Blood with a soul. Blood with a personality. 

Better him than a wolf, or a bear. Better fangs in the neck than claws across the torso, surely. He’d be doing this stranger a mercy. Maybe he’ll even be gentle. Maybe he’ll be kind – maybe, he’ll be the hero that the tieflings claim he is.

But he is hungry. And he is weary. And he can smell them, smell a meal, smell satisfaction. It is yards away, and he is closing in, and his fingers twitch, and he is silent. The grass does not betray him, no sticks dare to sneak under his steps, not a leaf crunches under his weight.

He is being given what he deserves, at last.

No – he is offered no gifts. Every step is a careful one, every stick is dodged, every leaf is tip-toed over.

He is taking what he deserves. 

He creeps closer, finding someone getting ready for rest, curled up alone on a bedroll, unaware of the danger lurking mere feet away. They smell sweet – innocent. Had he any less dignity, he’d positively be salivating, closer to an excited mutt than an ex-magistrate. However far he’s fallen, he cares not. 

His mind belongs not to him, but to his need, to his cravings, to the yearning of his fangs. He watches them, their eyes closed, but he’s sure they’re awake; moments ago, they shifted their makeshift blanket, ensuring perfect comfort. 

He hopes it’s an adequate final resting place. 

In an instant, he’s pounced, and he kneels beside them, a hand firmly clasped over their mouth as their eyes widen and they writhe, making his own blood rush. He shushes them, feigning some care for their comfort, but he knows that the more terrified they are, the quicker their heart beats, and the more blood that will be pumped directly into his mouth. 

His other hand tangles in their hair, and he yanks them up, his mouth opening as he eyes their neck, and at last, he bites down, earning a pained squeal from his victim. 

It is magnificent. 

Perfect, sweet with a kick, and it warms him, far better than any blood he’s ever tasted. Animals are no match. When blood like this exists, blood that makes him feel like royalty, blood that makes him twitch, blood that consumes his mind as he consumes–

“Fiend!” A feminine voice hisses, and Astarion feels claws rake across his face, earning a hiss from himself as he stumbles off of the victim, dreadfully yanked away from his meal. That meal clutches their neck, and Astarion finds that his assailant is a winged cat, her fur standing on end, her tail thick and bristled, claws unsheathed and prepared to strike again. 

“Bloody hells! What is wrong with you?!” His victim cries out, and Astarion’s eyes linger on the blood trailing down their neck, pooling in the crevice of their collarbone, painting them a perfect feast–

Once more, claws strike across his nose, and he growls, backing away an extra step and looking between his victim and the tabby. Despite his urges, and his concern for allowing a victim to escape, he recoils and retreats, believing it to be better to return to camp rather than expel any more energy in a battle. 

After all, it’s quite unlikely for the pair to stay in these woods when they’re aware of a vampire on the loose – They’d have to be positively insane to stick around.

–   –   –

It’d been too long since he’d indulged in the bittersweet sting of wine, and he’d made up for lost time tonight. Several glasses deep, as a matter of fact, and his mind was entirely distracted from any pressing matters, and certainly drawn away from the impending regret to follow the next morning. 

The river bank they camped by was perhaps the most peaceful place he’d found thus far. So it was on the bank that he sat, not minding the tickle of sand, too focused on the quiet, buried sound of the water slowly running past. Buried, that was, underneath the sound of the off-tune singing and chattering of his companions and their guests, the tieflings they’d rescued. 

It isn’t half the view, but it reminds him of Waterdeep. Reminds him of the view from the balcony – the one he could share with them, no matter the time of day, or night. The breeze here was slight, but it’s enough to make him reminisce on the salty breeze he had grown so used to. The kind that’s just chilly enough to allow for him to pull them closer, wrapping an arm around their shoulder in mock defense of the cold and be safe from any possible accusations about ulterior motives. Gods forbid he be pushed to answer for what exactly his feelings on them were – he hardly knew, and he doubted anyone else, especially them, would be capable of understanding.

Tara called it love. Tara also had quite the habit of getting ahead of herself. He enjoyed their company, that was certainly a given, but toleration was quite different from love. Albeit, he was beyond simply tolerating them, but it still hardly called for such an extreme adjective. He was not, and still is not, a man who is searching for love. Even if he did possess such feelings for them – which was wildly unlikely – he wouldn’t be able to act upon such feelings. Gods, he didn’t want to even imagine the embarrassment that would follow any kind of confession from his end. Perhaps even worse, the accusations. He had not taken them in so he could pursue any kind of an intimate relationship with them. He had not mentored them with such intentions in play. 

Gale knows his concerns are reasonable, and completely justified. Any such unforeseen flattery would put too heavy a damper on what they already had; a perfectly innocent business relationship, perhaps even one more akin to a professor and his student. The kind of relationship that absolutely did not, under any circumstances, have room for romantics. 

Anyways, he harbored no longing for them. So it mattered none. Whatever limitations he had firmly set in his mind were not going to become tainted with regret, because there was nothing to regret. Nothing more to wish for. He yearned for survival, nothing else. Certainly not them. 

Likely, the wine was to blame – mixing unpleasantly with the tadpole in his head, causing his thoughts to branch off into unsavory places. The wine and the scenery. Wishing for them, now, meant nothing. Being calmed by the waking dream of their presence beside him, it was nothing more than a result of his exhaustion from the day’s events. What little peace he experienced now, he wished he could share with them. But that was not due to love, he was a perfectly sane man, and sane men don’t fall in love with their apprentices. Unreasonable – that’s all it was. Unreasonable to miss more than their company. Unreasonable to allow himself to crave their touch, to dream of the sound of their voice. 

Unreasonable to revisit the feeling of their weight in his arms, carrying them back to bed after they’d fallen asleep in the study, resting so comfortably against his chest. It had been unreasonable for him to hold them for a few moments more, despite standing beside their bed, knowing he should set them down. 

Unreasonable for his mind to drift in this moment, the wine barely being strong enough for him to blame his less chaste thoughts on, conjuring up other scenarios in which he might feel their weight against his body, close and gentle, or what sorts of noises he may be able to pull from them when his hands are allowed to roam their body freely. The expressions that may come across their face, acting entirely on reactions to his saccharine teasing, playing them much like he would a lute, capable of plucking their strings enough to form only the most blissful of melodies. How pleasant such an encounter would–

“The fun is coming to an end.”

Gale’s eyes open quickly, and he finds himself gripping the base of his chalice rather tightly, causing him to gulp and forcefully relax, sitting up and turning his attention to Shadowheart, a glass of her own in her hand. He nods, cracking an awkward smile and raising an eyebrow. “Is it?”

She nods, motioning with her cup back towards the main gathering space of their camp. “Indeed. Assumed you’d want to say some goodbyes. Perhaps accept another round of praise. I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”

Gale scoffs, shaking his head and rising to his feet. “Nonsense. I was merely enjoying the quiet. Past time I submitted to sleep – fear I’ve gotten well-too deep in our wine supply for one night,” he chuckles, and Shadowheart dips her head and raises her glass in agreement, returning to the fading festivities alongside him. 

[adaptacy]

Hello fellow Galemancers, I found this:

Gale: I must tell you, Shadowheart, the bathing waters here leave much to be desired. Gale: The ablutions offered at the Temple of Beauty in Waterdeep are far superior. And they have the most excellent soaps. Shadowheart: Hmm. I was wondering why you always smelled like a wealthy dowager.

In case you would like to know what the wizard might smell like:

Woody top notes, deepen with floral, enveloped by a touch of mystic musk. Delicious. 💜 I think it would be fun imagining a perfume for everyone! Anyone?

[adaptacy]

One-shots/Mini Fic Commissions (OPEN)

Do you have a plot idea in mind for one of your favorite characters, but don't have the time to bring it to life, or would prefer to have the final product be a surprise? I do a lot of writing in my free-time, and have experience with long-term fanfics and one-shots, especially when it comes to working off of a request! I have plenty examples on my page, accessible via my masterlists.

No options for OC-only works right now, but they may be an option in the future.

I may request using your commission as an example work. It is up to you ultimately whether or not it is posted, but please remember that posting example commissions is a nice way to advertise my work!

Max word count is 6k.

Base pricing:

Canon character (No relationship): $10 per 1k words. Canon character(s) x Reader: $15 per 1k words. Smut/NSFW works are $5 extra per 1k words. Canon character(s) x Canon character: $15 per 1k words. Smut/NSFW works are $8 extra per 1k words. Canon character(s) x Original Character: $20 per 1k words. Smut/NSFW works are $8 extra per 1k words. (Will require a description of your character's appearance & personality.)

Discounted works:

Canon character (No relationship): $5 per 1k words. Canon character(s) x Reader: $10 per 1k words. Smut/NSFW works are $5 extra per 1k words. Canon character(s) x Canon character: $12 per 1k words. Smut/NSFW works are $8 extra per 1k words. Canon character(s) x Original Character: $18 per 1k words. Smut/NSFW works are $8 extra per 1k words. (Will require a description of your character's appearance & personality.)

Fandoms I will do commissions for:

Baldur's Gate 3 Resident Evil Texas Chainsaw Massacre

(For more information on which characters I have experience with, visit this post.)

Active Discounts:

Gale Dekarios [BG3]

Minthara Baenre [BG3]

Leon S. Kennedy [RE]

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Want a high quality bot to roleplay/chat with? Do you have a bot that you've made, but the bot isn't behaving how you'd like it to? I've made many roleplay-purpose bots that are literate (at least as literate as the word limit allows), in-character, and well-written. Let me bring your ideas to life! For examples, visit my masterlists.

You will have full control over the final product. I simply craft the definition, starter message, and other details before handing them off to you.

Custom Bot (From Scratch):

$10 for canon/pre-existing characters. Base $15 for original characters, pricing may fluctuate based on the complexity of the character.

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$5 for canon/pre-existing characters. $10 for original characters. Must have a premade character definition & starter message.

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I accept payment on Venmo or Cashapp. Initial payment will be half (rounded up) of the full price, and you will get previews of the work so you know it's being completed. Once it is finished, you will need to pay the other half before receiving the full, unwatermarked work. Once you do, you'll get it as a PDF, a google doc, and/or in a message (only available thru Discord.) It's up to you how you want to receive it.

Wait time may fluctuate based on how many active commissions I have, but that will be communicated to you before you make your purchase. Ideally it will only take 1-3 days to complete.

You can email me ( adaptacycomms@gmail.com ), message me on Tumblr, or message me on discord ( adaptacy ) to discuss pricing/payment/your commission! I'm most active at night time - I am in the Eastern time zone (EST) and will do my best to answer/reply to you as quickly as possible.

[adaptacy]

Credit: Idea @dekariosclan Design of Morena @necromosss

I fell in love with this so much I was forced to draw it. (While watching the Game Awards)

[adaptacy]

When I think about Gale and Mystra, I'm reminded of the Greek myth of the moon goddess who fell in love with a shepherd and asked Zeus to place him in an enchanted sleep, so that he would never change. So he would be beautiful and hers forever.

There are different versions of the myth, but this is the one I knew as a kid - and it always made me so fucking sad. And now I see why, because Selene loves Endymion - and her love takes his life from him. A god could not love Endymion as a mortal loves a mortal; she wants his presence to gaze on, to soak in, his body to hold. Perhaps he's a balm to her immortal existence; perhaps his beauty is an inspiration to her - but she does not want him, not all of him, not really. She doesn't want his sheep flock, the evenings where his fingers burn from the cold. She doesn't want his voice, or the lines and experience he'll gather as he ages. She doesn't want to live a life alongisde his.

Selene would say she loves Endymion, and perhaps, yes, Mystra would say she loved Gale. But how can a god love a mortal in a way that a mortal can recognise as love? You soak up his company, you laugh with him, you value his mind and his talent and his deftness with words. His presence is a spot of bright difference in your endless existence. But will you change with him? Will you be vulnerable with him? Will you look him in the eye, as an equal? Will you stroke his cat and put a blanket over his shoulder when he falls asleep reading, make soup for him when he's sick? Would you love him as a person, not a treasure? You can't.

Gale wanted to be loved with a devotion to match his own. Mystra wanted him to live in the enchanted sleep of being hers, something to smile at and hold but never, never to live beside. And she knew - she must have known - how unequal their desires were. She kept him anyway, until she didn't. Until he woke up.

A god's love ruins mortals.

[adaptacy]

oh how i hate mystra and how i love love LOVE this person's art <3

Mystra showed him the secrets beneath the veils. The gossamer veils first, draped across the Weave. The delicate veils next, draped across her body. 'Chosen One' she whispered, as she slipped them off completely.

poor gale :'(

- the dialogue is from ea gale's explanation about his folly

- i kinda like that she ended up looking like a mother-of-pearl inlay lacquerware!

- oh this was a subconscious choice, but Gale is sitting in seiza which is a posture for showing respect especially to elders. it's also known to be a painful position to sit in for extended periods of time, which is why it was sometimes used as a method of (morally dubious) punishment. however, experienced people can maintain this posture for much longer. food for thought :-)

- (idk how credible this is but i think this position also leaves the person sitting pretty vulnerable to attacks compared to a cross legged sit? in that sense it would be an even greater show of deference)

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.11}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) - (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

Word Count: 4k

Sleep is a luxury that, sometimes, very few can afford. Tonight, you find yourself amongst those impoverished enough to be missing the peace that rest brought. Worst of all, no amount of gold could bribe the gods to give such a gift. 

Neither your mind nor your body felt fatigued in any way. There were no errands to run, no overwhelming number of passages to read, no ramblings to bear audience to. Tara was a surprisingly effective (and unexpectedly pleasant) mentor, but she took breaks quite often, mostly due to her own craving for cat naps. She didn’t have near as many errands to send you on, or busywork to keep you occupied with. Maybe she was taking it easy on you. Or maybe she was taking it easy on herself.

Thanks to Mr. Dekarios, the lack of busy work had become a very foreign concept, and you weren’t sure how to convince sleep to take you when you hardly spent any energy during the day. You imagined you should be tired, since you’d always thought that casting spells, especially as a beginner, would be quite taxing on both body and mind. That wasn’t quite the case. 

Maybe that was due to the simplicity of the spells you were casting, as they were meant to be mere cantrips for more trained hands. Either way, you find yourself with enough remaining energy to wander about the tower long after dark, standing on the balcony, leaning your elbows on the stone railing as you look over the expansive waters, taking in the reflection of the moon on the waves, enjoying the crispness of the nighttime air. 

Never had you imagined you could have developed such a reliance on him. Though you suppose being forced to spend every day in his company had grown into an important staple of your daily life. There was also the gnawing pit of dread that told you he could be off dying, or already dead, miles and miles away and you wouldn’t have the faintest clue about it. 

The first day had been strange, but that was mostly due to your fresh anxiety about the situation concerning the orb. The second day was a little better, and Tara kept you busy enough. Each day was easier than the last, and eventually you’d stumbled your way through eight whole days, learning more in depth practices of your new close acquaintance that was the fire bolt. You’d even managed to cast a mage hand, albeit small and slightly deformed, that lasted a good few minutes before you’d spotted a mouse and completely lost focus, having abandoned your conjuration to instead jump onto the loveseat, demanding that Tara dispose of the dreaded thing. 

Speaking of Tara, she’d grown more accepting of your pets, and had even dared to sit on your lap today, passing the act off as desiring a warmer spot as you read aloud the passages she’d requested from you. Strange as it was to admit, you found her company rather delightful – prior to his disappearance, she’d always seemed distant at best, and judgmental at worst. You knew, now, that she was just protective of her wizard, and you couldn’t completely blame her for being a little hesitant of a stranger suddenly joining forces (and home) with their developed duo, and any jealousy you’d perceived from her was nothing more than the manifestation of her worry for Gale. It was sweet, really.

Not only had she put aside her concerns in order to accept you, but she now even encouraged and assisted you, giving you both her wisdom and pleasantries of conversation. She was good company, but it didn’t take away from your longing for what had become your normal – that being your routines with Gale, as poorly scheduled and simultaneously dreadfully repetitive as those routines had grown. 

You had to give credit where credit was due; Tara was a good teacher, but she wasn’t Gale. 

Reminded of the fact that you still had another two weeks to go, you let out a quiet groan, lowering your head to rest on your arms, wondering what kinds of stories he might return with. Laments about his visit to an old friend, perhaps an excited ramble about a cure that he’d learned of, one that he’d certainly explain and that would definitely be entirely lost on you. Nevertheless, you’d listen. You always did. He had a habit of rambling, over-explaining and lecturing you on a topic that he knew well, and at first, it had come off as an attempt to flaunt his knowledge. You’d originally assumed he did it out of a need to impress, a desire to one-up you, but that couldn’t have been further from the truth. 

The longer you knew him, and the more of those confusing rambles you’d listened to, the more that his passion for teaching made itself known. His features lit up when he was granted the chance to share his knowledge with you – to make use of the years he’d spent studying, perhaps to remind himself that there was a reason that he read so much. 

Sure, it was rare that you fully understood what in the bloody hells he was ranting about, but you usually got the main idea, and that was enough. You supposed you didn’t hate hearing him talk, either. Seeing his passion for the subjects he shared with you was more than enough to motivate and inspire, and it also gave you a break from all of the reading. Nothing more than a minor bonus, of course, were the smiles that usually paired with his elated teachings, the bright-eyed expressions as he practically glowed with endearment. His excitement was certainly contagious. 

Then again, his return could be accompanied by an apology. No lectures, no stories, no reassurance. It was all-too-possible that the journey would be fruitless. That his doom would still be as inevitable as he’d left it. That this waiting was merely practice for an awaiting future in which Gale was completely absent. Practice for being without his giddy teachings and over-explanations. You want to be optimistic. You want to believe that he can be saved. That this ‘old friend’ is a miracle worker. But you also understand that it’s more likely that this trip, or hells, whatever cure he might stumble upon, could be a final leap of faith that he may not land.

It’s strange to mourn a man who is, somewhere, still very far from dead. Strange to mourn a man who, eight days ago, stood in front of you with such emotion, live emotion, in his face. Who’s hands were actively gesturing about the room, as they often did, with such energy. A man who was inarguably alive.

Maybe he wouldn’t return at all. You hate not knowing. It’s probably for the best that his exact planned location went unmentioned – if you could, you surely would’ve taken off to pursue him after the first three days. 

In the confusion, in the sea of unknowing, you find yourself praying. To who, you aren’t sure. At this point, you’d take Mystra’s attention if it meant being granted the promise of seeing his face again. Preferably his actual, real face, and not another terrible, lifeless, astral mock-up of him. Though you suppose either one will do. You just want to see him. So you send out a request to any Gods who might be tuned into you, a simple and short one. A quick ask – should any of them have the spare time, you want him protected. At least for a little while longer. 

It might be pointless. And it doesn’t really make you feel any better, but at least it’s something, since you’re quite useless otherwise. Two more weeks, and he’ll surely be home. You try to imagine what he might be doing right now – and you have to remain optimistic, because you’re sure to lose yourself with worry if you don’t. So telling yourself that he is sleeping tightly somewhere across the realm is what you leave the balcony doing, retreating once more to your room in hopes of doing the same.

After all, it’s well past sunset, so he’s probably comfortably nestled in a rented bed, or perhaps his friend’s spare room. Someplace easy. Someplace nice. Someplace peaceful. 

If the gods have any sense of mercy amongst them, that is surely the case. And one of them has to have some. 

–   –   –

Murder.

Gods, they’d murdered them all, hadn’t they?

Lives, ended – breath, stolen – souls, ruined. 

And yet not even so much as an uttered apology was granted to the dead.

Gale exhales, the blossoming blisters on the curve of his thumbs irritated as he squeezes his quarterstaff, searching for something to ground himself. How many times now had he pinched himself? Surely, after every dream. Every morning. Every night, before bed, pinching as he prayed that returning to his dreams would grant him an escape. And throughout the day, multiple times, depending on what he was experiencing – Eight days, and surely dozens of pinches for each. None successful. 

He wished he was imaginative enough for this all to be a charade. The fiction of a terribly twisted mind, the kinds that empty book pages yearn to soak in, that quills so often accompany. Yet no such tools occupied his hands. 

No, instead he gripped the rough, shaved wood of an unfamiliar staff, the original owner dead and, hopefully, buried. Though if the current room, littered with loose, freshly slaughtered green bodies, was anything to judge by, a proper burial seemed hardly customary for these lands. 

Was this not the Faerûn that he knew? That he’d traveled so many years ago, that he had read book after book on, that he had studied and explored? How intimate he’d become with his familiarity of ancient ruins beneath the surface, how well he’d charted each species that shared this plane with him, and yet he found these grounds wretched and injudicious. He was no better than a stranger to this place.

How many had they killed?

Tens? Surely more. Fifty? Hells – eight days, and perhaps they’d laid to waste a hundred bodies. 

He’d been witness to the punishments a thief would endure – just, deserved, and expected punishment. A punishment that provided such mild comfort, but comfort nonetheless, to the victims. An assurance that such behavior would not be tolerated.

And yet, perhaps a hundred bodies newly littered this area – he did not know, and he did not need to know. There was no punishment. No workforce to toss tickets at their stomping about in regulated woods, or to demand permits for the several times they’d set up camp in ancient ruins, or seemingly free forests. 

No law dared to so much as bat an eye at their existence, let alone their treachery – elsewhere, such as Waterdeep, they would be tried for treason for killing one goblin, let alone some-odd twenty. As unruly and degenerate of creatures as they were, and these select beings were particularly far from innocent, they surely deserved something better than for their bodies to be pieces in the portrayal of a grisly, nauseating scene. 

They earned no mourning. Not a soul cried for them. 

Instead, it was disgust that met the air of rot and decay in the room. Grimacing pouts as the offensive party shook their hands, and weapons, free of loose gore – adding to the splatters that these creatures had left. 

Moments ago, they had been yelling, breathing, fighting. Moments ago, they had been pummeling and insulting, and they had been more than bodies that were kicked out of the way and stepped around. Disrespected. 

The room was all thick with the stench of death, the abandoned temple flooring stained with blood, stained with memories and, thanks entirely to their actions, likely ghosts. Spirits. Spirits that may never experience peace again, if they had even earned such a luxury in their waking life. 

The whole scene makes him sick. 

The butt of his staff presses into a groove between two stone tiles, the cement joining them long past eroded, chipped away at and weakened. It’s enough for the wooden edge to catch on the half-inch dent, and Gale leans some of his weight into the enchanted weapon, trying to find rhythm in the weave. Searching for familiarity. Searching for something constant, something unchanged, something that his actions have not harmed.

But his magic is dwindling – so much of his energy had been expelled in the battle that led to this horrific display, and so too had his staff been temporarily drained of its connection. 

He misses home. He misses his tower like he never knew possible. He misses Tara, and his apprentice. He misses his books, his peace, his stress that now seemed so incredibly minute, even immature, compared to what his life had become in such a short time. 

Perhaps the monster in his head was turning him into one, too – even when every kill felt so incredibly deserved, and was always in the pursuit of survival, it weighed on him. No eternal rest awaited him, not anymore – not after what he’s inflicted on those who have stood in his path. Those who have disobeyed him, who have argued with him, who have posed any semblance of a threat to him. 

The law has not cared. The Gods have not yet shown any interest. The dead certainly have no means to care. 

And he is absolutely positive that his companions lack any empathy for those at the wrong end of their blades. What unparalleled wrath the group contains – their desperation manifesting as a bloodlust, a paranoia backed by unmatched prowess in battle. 

This was not what he had signed up for. Not to say he’d signed up for or chosen this fate in any capacity – had it ever been up to him, he would’ve settled for the clear-cut implosion of the orb, because at least that would’ve been predictable, and short. Alas, a fortunate man he was not; not even the irascible ferocity of the orb could keep it contracted with his body. It sits in his ribs, that much he may never be without, but Gods, was it ever-silent. His original misgivings about its predator-like intentions had been disproven; it had been offered plenty of platters for easy dining, and it had not so much as twitched at the teased meals. It did not lay in wait – it merely lay. Spell after spell, dreamless sleep after dreamless sleep, and not a burn in the mildest of heats. 

How terrifying the unknown had proven itself to be. Especially the unknown in such silent shades. He was clueless to the plans of either of his body’s guests – neither the tadpole, as squirmy and active as it was, nor the orb betrayed any hints of what the future may bring. As awful as ceremorphosis was, at least he’d been certain of its inevitability, in the moment. 

Obviously, no symptoms ever revealed themselves. Even when the seventh day came, in which the group spent the majority of the sun-lit hours worrying and paranoid, no tentacles ever did sprout. Wonderfully human, or elven, or gith, they all remained. Had he less pressing matters on his mind, he would’ve been fascinated enough to return to studies about the legends, but alas, he had neither the books nor the free time necessary. 

It didn’t keep him from feeling like a monstrosity, not after what he’d done. What disaster he’d used his spells to cause. Gifted, he was – he could imagine Tara’s reaction upon learning what his proficiency had been used for. Self-defense, as the others would call it. He found the term ‘slaughter’ much more fitting. 

Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe, leaning against his staff, he should have been tuned into the conversation occurring between his traveling companions and the druid. Maybe he should’ve been pushing his morality to the side like the rest of them, obliging with what fate seemed to call upon him to do, rather than questioning his alignment and letting his focus slip at last. 

He decides that now is not the time to concern himself with ethics. Allowing himself a few blinks, he lifts his gaze to watch as Astarion, Shadowheart, and their semi-recent addition of Lae’zel each take turns discussing something with a large, scarred man. Halsin, Gale recalls. The reason they’d slain the goblins – yet another step in this grueling search for a cure to their brain-suckling tadpoles. 

It’s Astarion who’s speaking when Gale begins listening, though seemingly halfway through a longer speech is where he picks up; “Unless we were fed nothing more than a tale, and you are not the esteemed healer everyone has so affectionately made you out to be, you should be familiar with a recent uptick in patients with pet tadpoles? The type of pet that snakes into your skull and threatens to destroy your body?” Astarion tucks his daggers into the hooks on his hips, letting out a quiet ‘eughk’ as he shakes his hands free of wet blood, sending spits of scarlet onto the floor. His palms remain heavily stained, and he decides better than to continue in the attempt, instead placing his hands on his hips, seeking Halsin for answers. 

Halsin nods, his hands at his sides, and he looks around the group. “The mind flayer’s spawn, yes, I am familiar with the subject. All of you are infected? Yet you don’t kneel to the Absolute – fascinating,” he remarks, a thumb pressing against his chin as he thinks. “A strange case, I will admit. And a rather tragic one at that.”

There’s an immediate air of hesitant uncertainty following his words, and the group exchanges glances with one another before looking back to the druid. Shadowheart, quietly, mutters out a concerned, “Tragic? Please, elaborate.”

Halsin nods, clearing his throat. “What little I have ascertained from the mind flayers and the influence of the tadpoles is this; Someone, or something, has the means to control those infected by the spawn. The goblins were poor hosts, but perfect subjects. ‘True Souls’, as they call them, allegedly hear the voice of a God, one they refer to as The Absolute. Whoever controls these tadpoles does so magically. Magic that I, unfortunately, do not have the means to reverse – thus it pains me to say I may not be the cure you search for.”

Disappointment-tainted exhales are released from three members of the party, but Lae’zel, their newer addition, instead huffs out a foreign curse, her grip tightening on her blade. In a whirl, she points the end of her large sword towards the druid, a grimace on her face – one even more intense than her resting scowl. “Provide me one reason why I shouldn’t slay you where you stand, kainyank.”

Halsin’s pitying frown pulls into an intimidated smile, and his hands raise, presenting his palms to the woman in a defensive stance. “Not what you wanted to hear, I understand. I do so hate to be the bear-er of bad news,” he chuckles, fearfully, and his poorly-timed attempt at a joke only makes the woman step closer, threatening to puncture his throat with her blade. “I may not have a cure, but I do have valuable information – one that could lead to a cure. Please, allow me to explain.” 

“Stand down, Lae’zel,” Shadowheart orders, and Lae’zel growls in response, her thin arms tensing as she contemplates following through on her threat.

“Chk, speak, beast,” she demands, pulling back her blade at last, granting him an opportunity to earn a shred of her mercy.

Halsin nods, appreciative of a second chance. “My original mission to discover a cure for the tadpoles has been as fruitless as winter. But I have managed the next best thing – I believe I know their place of origin. Or, rather, where the person controlling them is likely to be. And I presume a solution will be waiting for you there.”

Gale narrows his eyes, and he sees Astarion glance at him from the corner of his eye, drawing his attention to the pale elf. Astarion pulls up one corner of his mouth in an unsure sneer, perhaps the first time that he has ever displayed his distaste silently. Gale understands where the hesitancy stems from; it seems the group finds themselves at dead end after dead end, and no matter the favors they fulfill or the advice they follow, there has been no cure – not even a true explanation. Much like a hydra, finishing one wild goose chase only ever seemed to sprout two more, and the party was beyond exhausted by now. And running on borrowed time, no less. 

Astarion opens his mouth to speak, but Gale raises his hand, keeping it at his hip but showing his palm to the elf. It does earn another frown, but Astarion keeps quiet for once, allowing the wizard to voice his concerns, and hopefully speak for the group’s shared worries at large. He steps forward, successfully gaining Halsin’s attention as he clears his throat. “This location you speak of – where is it? We have spent far too long pursuing mere rumors of assistance, and I do hope you can understand why we are hesitant to embark on yet another loose thread in this, for lack of a better term, weave of mystery.”

“Of course. And I intend to do all I can to help. You four saved me from whatever fate the goblins planned for me, and I owe you a gracious handful of favors for that. My time spent in that cell was not entirely a waste, you see. Goblins are rather talkative creatures, and seem to lack understanding of secrecy. Many times, most often in threats, they mentioned a place known as Moonrise Towers. A hub for this ‘Absolute’, as I understand it. Their God, or perhaps more true souls, allegedly convert captives to their cause, likely through forceful infection. Should the curse truly originate there, so too would your best chance of a cure.” 

“I hardly see how storming into a place swarming with the morons is going to do us any sort of good,” Astarion grumbles, no longer so willing to keep his irritation to himself, and Halsin shrugs, offering only an apologetic cluelessness. “That is our best plan of action? Gods, at this point, submitting to our cephalopod overlords seems the most favorable of our options,” he complains, pinching the bridge of his nose, staining it with two marks of fingerprinted blood.

“Chk. Submit, we will not. Our true mission persists – we must find the nearest crèche. The only true cure awaits us there. This rescue was an utter waste of time and resources. Yet another failing at the hands of poor leadership,” Lae’zel growls, her tone sharp as her eyes burn into Shadowheart, a deep-rooted hatred festering in her words. “That we do not yet squirm at the hands of the ghaik is no more than a stroke of thinning fortune. We move – now.”

Shadowheart scowls, thinking about putting up an argument against Lae’zel, but she ultimately bites her tongue and agrees, too weary from the battle to expel any extra energy on attempting to make a point. She looks to Halsin, pushes out another exhale, and smooths the skirt of her chainmail. “The goblins won’t take kindly to our slaughtering. We’ll need all the help we can get if we wish to escape the temple with our lives intact. We’ll likely return to the grove come morning, and you may camp with us tonight, if you would like.”

Gale’s stomach churns, and he cringes at the realization that the bloodshed will not yet cease. It was far too ambitious, naive, to believe otherwise. If this world had any consistency to it, it was more than likely that his conscience would continue to be burdened by crimes, at least until he is able to return home. Even if he doesn’t make it out of this infection alive, he supposes death is still a mercy compared to the treachery haunting his waking life. But for now, they must proceed. Following threads of hope is their only option aside from submission, and he knows better than to even consider such a fate. 

 “I would be honored to fight alongside you once more. May the Oakfather’s light guide us,” Halsin vows, dipping his head and rolling his shoulders, preparing for whatever fight awaits them outside of the makeshift prison. The rest of the group, as tired or annoyed as they may be, each ready their own weapons, once more choosing their survival above all else. After lending themselves an extra moment to catch their breath, they soon depart, resolves steeled yet again as they resume what they hope to be today’s final fight. 

[adaptacy]

The General Drow's Celebration {1/2}

Pairing: General!Minthara x Durge!AFAB!Reader

{Part 2}

Warnings/Tags: !!NSFW!! MDNI. BG3 Act II Heavy Spoilers. Minthara is, uh, evil. Exhibitionism, minor foodplay, bloodplay sorta (but its not either of yours), straight-up murder (also not either of you), general cultish things. Mention of poison. Part 1 doesn't include the actual smut but it will happen in part 2! Which I'll finish writing... eventually. Some Drow/Undercommon terms are used, I'm not super familiar I just looked shit up, there's a glossary thingy at the end. :)

Word Count: 3.4k

“Pitiful display. Bold of you to slight me so poorly. Your loyal fleet has been charged on account of your mistakes. Each throat slit. Yours is next.”

“Please, Nightwarden, you do not–”

“Silence,” she cuts back, crossing one of her legs over the other, her stern gaze intimidating even if it wasn’t backed by a history of bloodshed. “Abysmal absence of respect. Treacherous.”

“Shall we admit them to the cells?”

The drow snickers, waving her hand in a quick snap. “A waste that would be. We need the space for more valuable criminals. Slaughter the underling,” she commands, and the executioner raises the blade, but her palm lifts, and the order is paused. “No. Throw them to the shadows. Let them fend against the forsaken.”

“As you command, General,” the man replies, dipping his head and gathering up the chains that bind the betrayer’s wrists, dragging the pleading goblin out of the hall. 

At last, it is empty. The line of criminals, cultists, and true souls sorted through. Another day comes to an end with the drow on the throne, another day bearing the late Ketheric’s title, wielding his power, and fate spins along as it should, weaving her pristine web of influence. 

“General,” you hum, taking the opportunity to sit on the stone arm of her claimed throne, and she turns her head to look at you, a proud, passionate fire behind her eyes.

“Glorious, isn’t it, my love?” Minthara raises her hand and her slender fingers dance on your chin, feigning a gentle touch before she grips it, her thumb pressing into your jaw as she yanks you closer, her fanged grin growing. “Do you wish to taste the power?”

You smile in return, holding her gaze until she eyes your lips, the pride in the red of her eye soon joined by a similarly hued lust. You stay quiet for a few extra moments before finally responding. “I would like nothing more.”

Her tongue runs over her bottom lip before she pulls you closer, the kiss teasingly tender, and she breaks it in an instant. “Drink it in. My power is yours, dark one. Together, we reign.”

 You inch forward, attempting to meet her lips again, but her grip grows more firm, and she forces you to remain stationary. “Nobody else is here,” you whisper, glancing between her lips and her eyes, and her gaze lifts to yours as she smirks.

“Precisely. How shall I lay claim to my property without an audience? You are too exquisite to be concealed,” she whispers, her words catching on your lips, her breath only serving to tease you further. You feel the faint sting of her poison, and it only drives you to deepen your yearning. “Tonight, we will feast. A new age of True Souls shall be celebrated. And I will claim you before our guests. You will be desired by all, but earned only by me. My slayer. My pet. My oloth.”

“He would be proud,” you praise, inching closer to her with your body, though your head remains still. 

“I’m inclined to agree. A shame his sacrifice was a necessity. As is the cycle of hierarchy,” she states, releasing your chin, but pulling her own head away before you have a chance to take advantage of the freedom of movement. “We will coddle a new generation of warriors. Not with affection, but dedication. Swaddle them in viscera and nurse them to victory.”

“We’ll raise a force of blood-bringers,” you agree, and Minthara smirks, huffing out an amused exhale.

“Blood-bringers. A marvelous title for a marvelous army.” The drow presses her palms to the stone arms and pushes herself up, standing before the empty room. “Sine Thelids, we will be.” You feel an uncanny itch in your palms, and you shift uncomfortably. Your tadpole squirms, and Minthara lowers her head, sensing your edge. “Control, my slayer. We will march soon. The world will be ours – all thralls along with it. You will have your vengeance, and I shall have mine. Havoc will come to Orin, but it is the blood-bringers she will fear.” 

“We will claim her life,” you second, standing up as well and joining her side, watching her as she looks over the empty throne room. Many times, she’s been seated off to the side. Only ever gazing at the throne that Ketheric so often sat in. With your help, however, her placement had changed. Rightfully, she had taken his power, his lead, just as you had helped her take his life. Ketheric was the first to fall, but he would not be the last. 

“They shall bow to us. Each and every one. Extinguish their lives, and ignite their influence. We will be almighty,” she purrs, her chin tilting up ever so slightly, red eyes scanning the room one final time before she turns back to you, and holds out her hand. “Come. We must prepare for the banquet.” 

It came as no surprise that Minthara had already planned an outfit for you; she had a plan for the banquet, and she intended to follow it through perfectly. That required your cooperation, even in the slightest of details. You weren’t complaining – it was a fine choice she’d made. Less surprising still was the nature of the clothing. 

A personally tailored leather clasp for a neck piece, attaching to a particularly revealing shirt, cut with a wide triangle down the middle of your torso, leaving little to the imagination. You didn’t mind. Chances are, nothing would be left to the imagination by the end of the gathering, so you were going to take what you could get. 

You clean yourself up of any lingering grime from the day, enjoying a short but relaxing bath before dressing yourself up in the clothes she had prescribed to you. Once you’re sure that you’re ready, you make your way downstairs to the audience hall, where Minthara waits at the bottom of the stairs, her hand offered to you as you approach. 

It would be an understatement to say that suppressing a smile was difficult – pitted against her appearance, your physical display of enjoyment was far out of your control. Minthara was the type to look good in anything, though she usually stuck to her usual dark drow armor and her black, rigid evening clothes. 

Tonight, however, was special. Her outfit reflected that in a way that almost took you by surprise. 

Both of you were well-aware of the possibility of an attack. Not an attack on Moonrise, not an attack on The Absolute, but an attack on Minthara – with Ketheric the unkillable now, against all odds, gone and dead, there was sure to be turmoil between the higher ranking members of the cult. Minthara had been the one to dethrone him, to rob him of his power and his breath, and thus she had claimed his authority. 

Not everyone was so willing to allow such an opportunity to slip out of their grasp. Z’rell had been taken care of even before Ketheric, as she posed the most significant threat. A few others, too – mostly those who had previously disrespected Minthara, made to pay their dues in the light of her new title. 

Tonight, she would feast with potential enemies. Betrayers. She may feast with attempted assassinations, and it was unlikely the night would sail without bloodshed. 

You did not expect a full suit of armor, but you had expected something more protective than the clothing she had decided upon. Her upper arms and shoulders were well-guarded with black leather shells, attaching to an equally thick leather that ran down her sides, though where defense mattered most – her abdomen, the simplest and most lethal place to strike – her purple skin was left revealed to the world. 

Her legs were wrapped comfortably in black pants, and you know immediately that this is not an oversight on her part. Hardly so. It is a test. An offering – an opportunity for her silent enemies, her weakest spot left vulnerable to their hunger for power, a surefire bait. Minthara had not forgotten about her endangerment. She embraced it. Welcomed it. Challenged it.

“It fits,” she states, smirking as you take her hand in your own and step carefully down the final few steps, allowing her to drink in your appearance just as you had soaked in hers. “A good thing. I wish no harm upon our tailor – I have already removed his tongue, but I suspect he may need his fingers to continue his work. A troublesome ordeal seeking out a new tailor would prove,” she chuckles. 

You turn to face her, and she takes your other hand as well, her red eyes judging your expression. “You look nice as well, General,” you praise, not bothering to hide your wandering gaze as you trail over her chest, the bra piece more than familiar to you. You dare to lift a finger, pulling your hand from hers, and snake it under the band over her sternum, pulling it down ever so slightly, your temptation getting the best of you. 

Her slender fingers trace up your wrist, wrapping around and pulling your hand up to her mouth, pressing her lips to the back of it. “We shall be objects of desire tonight. Some may see vulnerability. It is in that liability we find our strength. Neither harm nor pleasure shall be brought upon you unless it is by my hand. That is an assurance.”

“They worship our power. Soon, our bodies alongside it, yes?” You ask, and Minthara smirks again, giving your hand another kiss. 

“Our power. Our lethality. Our bodies. And we will worship one another.” At last, she releases your hand, and it returns to your side, though she still holds the other one. Gently – hardly afraid of losing you, or allowing you opportunity to slip away, for she knows you are hers, and she is yours. It is for that same reason that you don’t tighten your grip around her fingers. There is ample security and assurance without the need for a strong hold. Her gaze shifts to large wooden double doors, where light shines through the crack at the bottom. “Our squadron awaits. Ah,” – Minthara tilts her head – “Our blood-bringers.” 

Providing a controlled nod in response, she leads you into the banquet hall, the table already arranged with the offerings of a feast, and ‘True Souls’ line the longer sides of the table, and at the head there are two empty chairs. Empty, that is, until Minthara guides you towards them, and you take a seat at one while she stands in front of the one beside you, releasing your hand in order to address the group. 

You know everyone stationed at the table, though you aren’t quite familiar with all of them. You know each person’s name, but not everyone’s current rank, or how they served Ketheric during his reign. Those who you do immediately recognize consist of The Warden, who’s standing remains unchanged, the halfling Linsella, who has been granted an increase in authority, with Minthara permitting her reign over verified prisoners and hostages, allowing her to convert said captives as she pleases. Sitting two seats to your left is the skilled spy Marcus, who you recall once yearned to be the right-hand of the late general. As far as you’re aware, he has remained a mere spy, but high in the ranks nonetheless. 

“A waste of precious time it would be, were I to spare words of mourning for Thorm,” Minthara announces, all eyes pinned on her, save for yours. “He served well, but he serves no more. I plan no delegation over the loss. We move forward, as the Absolute commands,” she continues, and the True Souls each dip their heads, murmuring out quiet agreements; ‘In Her name.’

She does well to hide the truth. You have always admired her, both for her prevalence in battle and her combined willingness and capability to achieve further power where she sees possibility. Few manage to look past morals as she does, few are as earnestly eager as she is with their dreams. 

Her faith was crushed, the truth revealed in ways that would desecrate any other’s ambition, had they been in her shoes. Alas, she is Minthara of house Baenre, and she seizes opportunity the moment it presents itself. With one stone in her grasp, and an oblivious, willing army at her disposal, she poses a far larger threat to the other chosen than they may have ever thought possible. 

“You sit in his throne,” A man speaks up, two chairs to your left – Marcus, the spy, “You serve his meals, you command his troops, and yet you disrespect his name wholly.” He speaks with a growl, and dares to rise, making his intentions clear to the room, his target included. 

Minthara pulls her torso back, and she meets his eye, her palms resting flat on the table. No longer hidden beneath the table, a greatclub is grasped tightly in his right hand, his knuckles tinted white from the tension in his hold. “Ketheric disrespected his name to far greater lengths than I would ever have the words to manage. And so creatively, too,” she chuckles, her tone brimming with clear-cut confidence, and although you attempt to reassure yourself, you feel your heart skip a beat, momentarily silently fearing for her safety. You see no daggers, no means of defense on her person, and yet she smiles all the same. 

Marcus scoffs, grimacing, leaning towards the drow, the fire in his eyes fueled entirely by resentment. “Attempt no trickery by mouth – Our General wanted you disposed of, and I intend to carry out his orders as my final judgment by the Absolute.” 

“Pathetic. Loyalty to a dead man serves no greater purpose – only a grave.” Minthara sneers, her next words joined by a tone of stable, smooth mockery, “Do you expect him to rise again? Fulfill his wishes, and his head will roll back onto the neck I severed it from? The Absolute has already judged you well and true. I’m afraid your devotion is tardy. Had you served him so faithfully while his corpse was animate, perhaps he may have led a longer rule. Alas, I shall reward your allegiance, and reunite you with your Bossk.”

Marcus’ scowl pulls wrinkles in his forehead, his arm twitching – the split-second jerk being movement enough to warn Minthara of his next move. He charges, raising his greatclub, eyes pinning a target on her skull. You’re not granted a chance to so much as flinch before Minthara retrieves a dagger from its place in a sheath attached to the bottom of the table, raising her arm as the blade is precisely swiped across the man’s throat, spraying the immediate area in his blood. 

That immediate area being you, Minthara, the two True Souls sitting closest, and part of the prepared meal on the table. 

The spy’s body falls with a final gurgle, and Minthara spins her blade to capture it in a firmer grip, her blood-kin gaze serving a silent order to the stunned audience. “Rath’arg. Do any other false believers wish to challenge me? To take my head would be a grant of my authority. Do strike now, daring lambs, for tonight I am willing to grant mercy and bestow quick deaths upon traitors.”

Her breath is steady – she is not tense, but firm, and the True Souls exchange glances with one another, each and every one remaining silent and submissive. Though her fine attire is splattered with the blood of a betrayer, she remains unphased. True to her mission, allowing no room for distractions, nor for doubt. 

When she is assured, she sets her dagger on the table beside her, and she dips her head. “Very well. Feast, warriors, for we need our strength. In Her name,” she states, her eyes closing for only a moment. 

“In Her name,” the party recites, beginning to indulge themselves in the food less affected by the close death, but Minthara turns instead to you, her own personal repast, free from the intermingling of her underlings. The True souls speak, quietly, amongst one other – discussing the Absolute, the rise of their new General, and similar such topics. 

Her bloodied purple hand is offered to you, and you accept, rising from your seat at her physical request. Few eyes are drawn to you, for the time being – you don’t bother to take count, to truly decipher how many pay attention to your activities. Minthara pulls you closer, her free hand cradling your jaw and wiping Marcus’ blood from your lips, allowing her to kiss you without risking a taste of the coward. For a short moment, the contact is broken, and her nose brushes with yours, gaze intense with a roused lust from the bloodshed. “However intense our reign may become, however great our influence grows, know that at the center of my drive is where you lie. You are mine, as I am yours. We are bound as one – in body, in soul, in power.” There’s a pause in which you make an attempt to reconnect your lips, but she pulls back, her mouth instead moving towards your ear, her tone lowering to a whisper, ensuring only you may receive her message. “Bow as we may to the Absolute, pray as we may to their lies, you are my true quar'valsharess. My deity, and mine alone.”

Knowing how much she risks by admitting that in a room full of the Absolute’s followers, however quiet of an admission it was, is more than enough to make your heart flutter, stomach pleasantly uneased by a disturbance of butterflies. You pivot as a hand on your hip guides you to press your back against the edge of the table, and the dishes behind you are pushed aside, likely much to the dismay of the nearest True Souls. Minthara’s lips trail over your lightly bloodied neck, no longer caring whether or not the blood invades her taste, merely enjoying the flavor of her success on your skin. 

While she delivers no verbal commands or physical guidance, you understand her intentions well enough to assist her in carrying them out. So, you lift yourself onto your ankles and hop just enough to steady yourself on the table, immediately finding that she invades the space between your legs, bringing her hips closer to yours. Her kisses continue to trail down, littering every available space that her selected clothing allows her to access. Hands run along your sides, caressing over the full length twice before they linger on the sliver of skin between the top and bottom pieces of your outfit. When her mouth reaches that section as well, your leather pants are dragged downward, shedding her territory of protection, vulnerable to her touch – to her command. 

When they bunch at your knees, thighs against the wooden table, your only means of defense being your thin, weak layer of underwear, Minthara pauses, standing up straight once more. A hand presses to your chest, pushing you backwards, though your hips remain stationary – you lay back, displayed across the bloodied feast as if you were one with it. All eyes are on you, now, but Minthara’s attention is the only attention that matters to you. Even if you don’t threaten to disobey or refuse, her palm is firm on your chest, forcing you to keep position. 

“True Souls,” she addresses, instantly gaining the room’s undivided interest. “Speak my title.”

“General Minthara,” the audience replies, and her smirk grows, revealing flashes of her hungry teeth. 

Louder, she repeats; “Speak my title.”

“General Minthara!”

Her hand slides up your body, finding purchase around your throat, and she meets your gaze, her prideful smile meant entirely for you. “Tonight, we celebrate two deaths. The death of Late General Thorm, and the death of The Nightwarden. Indulge in the wine and feast as you deem fit – a rebirth occurs this evening. A rebirth of values. A rebirth of power. A rebirth of The Absolute.” Her gaze lifts, meeting the intrigued smiles of her soldiers. “Hear the testament of my reign – straight from the voice of darkness,” Minthara chuckles, eyes drawn once more to you. “Speak my title, dear oloth.” 

With a lustful smile, you oblige; “General Minthara.” 

“General Minthara,” she agrees, leaning over the table to meet your lips, hand tightening around your throat, robbing you of breath in the two ways she knows best. 

(1) Oloth – Darkness (Drow) (2) Sine Thelid – Great Conqueror (Undercommon) (3) Bossk – Lord (Undercommon) (4) Rath’arg – Coward (Drow) (5) Quar’valsharess – Goddess (Drow)

[adaptacy]

cooking. need y'all to keep this outfit in mind.

stay out of the kitchen for a bit, I'm working on dinner i promise. stewing. roasting. brewing. baking. grilling. frying, even.

the meal will be........ 'exquisite'

Minthara showing off her nimble fingers bg3challenge | 1/2 classes | rogue

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.10}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) - (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

Word Count: 2k

His hand squeezes shut, fingers curling into a firm fist, his eyes following the grooves of the large veins that trail beneath his skin. His elbow rests on his knee, and he finds it mildly surprising that his hand bears no trembles. He relaxes, and the veins fade into obscurity, easing beneath his skin. Again, he tenses, and before long, they appear again.

“Numb?” A man hums, and Gale looks up from the fallen log he sits on, immediately giving up his studies and shifting into a more normal position, his hands folded in front of him as he sits up, looking at the white-haired elf standing before him.

“Pardon?”

“You looked as though you expected it to fall off. Or perhaps sprout into a tentacle. I only ask because I figure I’d rather hear about any transformations before they take place and we’re forced to slaughter you,” he sighs, and then motions towards Gale’s hand. “So?”

“Fortunately, it would take approximately seven days for ceremorphosis to fully set in, so any unwanted evolutions are a few horizons away. Alas, I’m hardly comforted at our lack of immediate help, but…” Gale scoots back on the log, and then slightly to the left, in case Astarion had any intentions of sitting down, but he doesn’t seem to. “Still perfectly human.”

“Oh, how… pleasant. Though I’d argue the validity of a title such as ‘perfect’, I’ll save you the insult,” Astarion teases, and Gale puts up an awkward smile, not entirely sure how to take it in any way other than personally. “I’ll keep watch tonight. Decided I should let you know so you don’t risk stressing yourself out by staying up past your bedtime,” he chuckles. 

“That’s awfully altruistic of you. Much appreciated.”

“But of course – I’m nothing if not altruistic.” Astarion dips his head and wanders back over towards one of three bedrolls – two that they had scavenged, and one that Gale had conjured up – that he takes a seat on, warming his pale hands by the fire. Shadowheart rests on the opposite side, already attempting her hand at rest, which given the chaos of the day, Gale was sure would come easy to her. 

He wasn’t sure he’d be so lucky. Beyond the sudden shift of going from a bed that felt as if it was made to host royalty itself to the thin cloth of a bedroll on dirt, he found his thoughts far too active to make any attempt to quiet them. What a day it had been, indeed. 

He should’ve been in the company of a good book and the warm firelight of a room at a tavern. Curled up in a mildly comfortable bed, at least with a blanket over him, pillows beneath his head. Alas, he was instead in the company of two complete strangers, an illithid tadpole, and the stars. 

At least the stars were pleasant. 

Not to say the more lively company was unwanted; it had been quite a while since he’d truly engaged with people for more than just trade barters, and he’d gotten too comfortable with Tara and his apprentice. It was strange to suddenly be thrust into completely unfamiliar territory and reminded of such distant memories of socialization. In his defense, his traveling partners were also rather… strange. 

He was owed no right to their secrets, but even so, they were quite reserved. Shadowheart was quiet, but seemed a good decision maker, and plenty helpful between her original act of rescuing him, and patching him up both from the wound he’d inflicted on himself and patching both he and Astarion up after a run-in with quadrupedal brains with an intense thirst for violence. She clearly held back, though he’d gotten a glimpse of a slightly more talkative side of her whenever she’d made one or two quick, sarcastic quips targeted at the two men. 

Astarion was impossible to get a read on. He seemed entirely focused on his own survival, more akin to an unwilling child being dragged along with the two of them than a willing fellow adventurer. He also had an air of self-importance about him, and was far from afraid of hurting their feelings, as he loudly and confidently called out any of their mistakes, ensuring his opinion was understood by all. With what little Gale could collect from him, he saw a bit of himself in the elf – Gale found himself with a quiet doubt following each of Astarion’s words. If his own experiences had taught him anything, Gale figured the deflective, imposing nature of each of his comments was something of a defense mechanism. 

Or he could’ve been a snobby royal. Truly, Gale couldn’t figure that one out, and he understood asking such a forthright question would earn him nothing but a snarky, sarcastic remark of disbelief from Astarion, and even if he was a snobby royal, he’d likely never be granted any sort of confirmation. 

And Gale had bigger things to worry about. 

After tonight, he’d have six days. He’d start experiencing the symptoms tomorrow, should his studies prove true. But the symptoms weren’t his worst concern. 

However much he believed his comrades were keeping secrets from him, he knew he was no better. He had been entirely silent about the orb, and strangely enough, it too had been silent. Even when he’d cast spells he hadn’t cast in years past, when he channeled and called upon the weave, it granted him no reaction. Not a single beat, not a sudden spike in appetite, not an angry bellowing of disagreement, or the pain that he’d grown so accustomed to feeling each time he cast a spell. 

It was still. Gale believed it the status of a predator, lying in wait for an unsuspecting victim, still and silent enough to blend in perfectly with the surroundings, near invisible to the unquestioning eyes of its prey. 

The tadpole, on the other hand, had been quite active. Writhing and twisting everytime it feared Gale may forget his new occupant, though it was an impossible feat to say the least. He knew precisely what would happen if they failed to find a cure. His skin would not be the only thing to burst upon an unwarranted evolution – the orb would likely detonate along with the rest of his body, and he suspected even a tentacled face would not manage to survive such a blast. 

Neither would his surroundings. His companions may have been strangers at best, but he still wished them no harm, and they would not be the only ones to feel the orb’s wrath. Whatever communities they might stumble upon would quickly be wiped out, and innocent lives along with them. 

How long would it take for his only two friends to realize he was not returning to them? How long would it take for them to understand and accept that he was gone?

He’d promised them. Promised them he wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Sworn to them that he would not die without a fair and certain farewell. Even if he did find someplace to die where it would not hurt those around him, he would never die satisfied. Not even in eternal rest would he find any semblance of peace.

He has not yet said goodbye. And so he cannot die. 

What a strange feeling, to yearn for survival. How unfamiliar it had grown for him. No more than two days ago, he’d been satisfied to embark north and accept death’s cold embrace. Just this morning he had attempted to plunge a dagger into the orb, albeit he’d hardly been pleased at the situation. 

But tonight, he had made a promise, and he had every intention to keep it. He had an obligation to keep it. 

And the orb was so dreadfully silent. He’d never known it to sleep before. Even if it was merely feigning absence, it was foreign to him. Without the insistent reminders, he felt himself again. For the first time in nearly two years, he felt like Gale Dekarios. He felt like Mystra’s chosen. He felt like his mother’s son. 

But he’d become the host for another insatiable, and rather annoying, to-be beast, which at this very moment was happy to squirm behind his eye, instilling an immediate reminder of his circumstance. 

What he’d give for a shot at normalcy again. For one more chance. A chance to obey. A chance to be satisfied with everything he’d been granted. A chance to maintain his sense of self. A chance to see his mother again without the guilt of his actions. A chance to be loved by Mystra, however restrained it might have felt. 

Gods, if he only knew what restraint truly was back then. He’d always yearned for so much more – never believing her fleeting affections to be enough. At least he’d had some of her affections. Now, he found himself completely lacking (and missing) such generous displays. 

He wonders whether he’d been satisfied if he understood what the possibilities were. If he’d known back then the true flavor of failure, the abyss of loneliness, the all-consuming blight of regret – had he settled for the love he had? Had he settled for the limits of his power, the limits of Mystra’s time, the limits of her saccharine intrigue? 

He could have been the Great Gale of Waterdeep. He could’ve been Mystra’s chosen. Why that wasn’t enough, he hardly understands. In comparison to the shell he is now, he had perfection. He had everything he should’ve wanted. 

If he’d succeeded – if he’d acquired, safely, this fragment of the far reaches of the weave, if he had knelt before her and presented it as a gift of the finest quality, if he had handed her the final piece of her puzzle, would she complete him in return? Would she affirm him as her best? Would she grant him a few extra moments of her time? A few extra glimpses of her love?

Or would she withdraw? Claim his gift, claim him, and return to the weave? 

Perhaps, in learning so much from her, so too did her ambition find its way into his motivations. Never before had he felt he truly satisfied her. Her praise was no less shallow than a puddle, and certainly no deeper. Any satisfaction he did manage to bestow upon her was entirely fleeting. 

At least she’d been convincing in his younger years. Her approval so graciously hummed into his ear at every successful spell, seeming to him as if he’d truly managed to impress his goddess. But her smiles seemed less earnest in time. He’d believed earning her love and lust was sure to be followed by only brighter horizons, yet her eyes seemed only to dim, her words grew just harsh enough to instill anxiety, fearful that he might risk her disapproval. 

To fail his goddess was to fail his talent. To think, he feared losing her so terribly that he managed to drive her further away than he ever could’ve imagined possible. 

Gale curls his hand into a fist once more, watching his veins contract. He is a mere mortal. To ever believe he would be more than a muse for the embodiment of his faith was unreasonable. For all the compliments targeted at his ambition, he found it no more than a haunting flaw. To manage ambition after one is stripped of potential is no trait to be envied, much rather one to be ashamed of. 

He relaxes, and stands, making his way over to the campfire and kneeling on the thin hide of his bedroll, watching the flames for a few seconds before lowering himself further, eventually coming to rest on his side. His eyes close, and he decides to lend sleep an opportunity. 

At least temporary peace is still, most assuredly, peace. 

And some is better than none.

[adaptacy]

when he draws Gale & minthy 🥰🥰🥰

BG3 doodles of some sillies u3u

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.9}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) – (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

A/N: so very completely off topic but Minthara is so hot & i just wanted to mention that. she's not in this chapter or anything, im just thinking abt her.

Word Count: 3k

“Oh, gods,” a masculine voice cringes, carrying a thick, posh accent, accompanied by a twinge of what sounds like disgust. “A maimed hand. What a… horrific display. Unfortunate.”

“It’s not a–” A female huffs, her irritation clear. “It’s a portal. Move aside,” she directs. “Hello?” 

“A little help would be appreciated!”

“Oh– Right. One moment,” the woman replies. There’s a quiet mumbling of some ritualistic magic spells, and the vortex swirls, easing the pressure it had been constricting on a purple-robed arm. 

“A little pull should do the trick!”

A pair of hands grab onto the arm and pull, gentle at first, and then suddenly yanking it, sending a brunette flying through the other side, hitting the dirt and huffing out an anguished groan as he was promptly reminded of a bleeding wound in his shoulder. Both him and the woman who pulled him out brush themselves off and rise to their feet, locking eyes once they’ve checked themselves over. 

Immediately, the man reaches forward and shakes her hand, met with a concerned minor recoil from the woman, not expecting the contact. He bows his head, his other hand clasped over his wound, and he grants her a wide smile. “My deepest gratitudes. I believed I’d meet my fate in that whirlpool of weave – Gale of Waterdeep, at your service.”

“I see. I’m Shadowheart, and this is…” She glances over her shoulder at a white-haired man behind her, and Gale releases her hand.

He hesitates, placing a hand on his hip before waving his hand and sighing, conceding. “Oh, yes, the name is Astarion. What in the hells happened?”

The three look towards the scene of fiery, bloody destruction a few yards away, and there’s an awkward exchange of contemplative silence. 

“I haven’t the first idea,” Gale confesses, surveying the surroundings. “I’d have been quick to blame a particularly exciting wild mushroom for the things I’ve witnessed today, though unless you’re also mere voyagers of an imaginative hallucination, I doubt I’d be so fortunate as to be dreaming.” 

“Quite the twist of events,” the pale elf replies, looking back towards the brunette, his eyes hovering for a moment too long on his bloodied wound. “You’re bleeding.”

Gale looks at the wound as well, and he waves his hand dismissively. “Ah, yes, I…” He hesitates, recalling the events prior to his sudden abduction, unwilling plane-hopping, and forceful infection. “During the crash, I met an all-too-friendly shard of debris rather attracted to my shoulder. The least of my worries, I must admit. You two were aboard the nautiloid as well?”

“Yes, we were. Never before did I think I’d ever come face-to-face with mind flayers…” The woman sighs, recalling her own experience. 

“The mind flayers are hardly the biggest of our issues. I’m not sure about you two, but I’m a little more worried about the literal tadpoles in our skulls!” Astarion huffs, and Gale’s eyes narrow. 

“Then I wasn’t the only one. Do either of you happen to be a medic, or a cleric? Or know any? Or… have any clue where exactly we find ourselves?” He asks.

Shadowheart hesitates before answering with “I’m a cleric, but if I knew how to cure myself of whatever these little beasts are, I would’ve well-past done so by now. I could take a look at your shoulder, at least.”

He thinks over the offer before shrugging, and then wincing at the irritation, and he removes his hand. “Quite the savior, you’ve been. I assure you, I’m more than appreciative.”

Mostly ignoring the praise, Shadowheart steps closer to him, closing her eyes and lifting her hand, muttering another phrase under her breath. Gale recognizes segments of the words, but before he’s able to focus on exactly what they are, he’s distracted by a quick sharp pain in his wound, followed by immediate release as his flesh is pulled together once more, though the cut in his robe remains. 

Astarion breaks his attention away from the scene as Gale runs his hand over the spot, double-checking to ensure it’s fully closed. Gale nods once he’s sure, and he looks between the two in front of him. “Finding a medic – as darling as you’ve been, Shadowheart, we do need someone more proficient in our afflictions – is our first rule of business.”

The male elf scoffs, raising an eyebrow. “Our?” He asks, and Shadowheart and Gale both look confused for a moment. “Oh. Oh dear. You mean to stick together with him?”

“The more the merrier, no? Strength in numbers,” she reminds, and Gale quickly realizes that rejection may very well mean death, as traveling alone in unknown lands is a recipe for certifiable disaster.

He clears his throat, stepping forward and standing up a little straighter. “Have you any clue what happens, should we allow these maggots to complete gestation behind our eyes? I assure you, it’s not a fate we will want to meet. I’ve read extensively on the topic, and it involves an excruciating process of skin-shedding, organ arranging, and tentacle sprouting,” he defends, swallowing his anxiety in an attempt to mask how desperate he is. “I’m also quite the seasoned caster, and should we engage with any danger, I’ll be more than able to pull my weight.”

“Not seasoned enough to travel alone? Darling, in numbers we lose stealth. All of that stomping about is sure to attract danger,” Astarion purrs, rolling his eyes, and Gale feels his heart skip a beat, but Shadowheart is quick to jump in.

“We’ll need all the help we can get. You’re welcome to venture off on your own, Astarion,” she replies, and Astarion thinks over the possibility for a moment, but eventually sighs and gives a nod of irritated approval. “We should move quickly. I’d like to be rid of the monsters before any of those unwelcome effects manage to set in.”

“Fantastic,” Gale exhales, chuckling to avoid accidentally revealing his immense relief. “I reckon following the riverside north may be our best hope of coming upon civilization. And, ideally, a cure.” 

The other two agree, and the three set off towards the river, each occupied too greatly by their own thoughts to bother with small talk. Gale’s mind is busy, as it always is; Aside from the parasite, he feels impeccably normal. 

The orb rests. 

It sleeps.

Never before has it been so silent. 

Something is wrong.

–   –   –

“You’re sure?” 

“Oh, for the gods’ sakes, dear, for the last time, I wouldn’t have told you to begin if I lacked faith in you,” she groans, peeking her head out from a round metal shield that had been propped up against the post of a lamp, providing shelter and protection to the small creature. Whatever faith she did have in you was clearly limited, as she flinched every time you moved your arm, terrified that somehow you’d manage to ignite her in a fiery blaze despite the fact that you were facing the opposite direction. 

“If you say so,” you hum, giving a small shrug. Looking down, you line your feet up like how Gale had directed you a few days ago, inching your right foot forward until you were both comfortable and felt the slightest twinge of battle-readiness, or at least what you imagined it would feel like to be ready for battle. 

See, even before you’d been interested in actually learning magic, you’d always found it pretty amazing that people were able to conjure and cast some of the huge, deadly spells you’d heard about. The sorts of spells that Gale told stories about. 

You’d only ever seen him cast small spells, as he stuck usually to quick, simple flicks of his wrist to conjure up a small mage hand to grab a book, or sparking flames from the tip of his finger to light a candle. Easy things. Sort of impressive, but you got used to seeing them after a while, and they appeared entirely effortless.

But he talked about other ones. And you’d read about some. He spoke fondly of his days at Blackstaff academy, and hells, he’d managed to summon a lifelong cat with wings at the ripe age of seven. He seemed nothing short of a retired prodigy at this point, but you could certainly believe the stories he told.

Channeling the creations of Talos to send ship-sized rays of lightning to wreak havoc on the path before him. Pulling living, writhing coal-black tentacles from the earth to ensnare unsuspecting enemies. Or hailing a storm of sharp, freezing shards with no more than a phrase and a swipe of his hand. It was all magnificent to hear about, and you couldn’t imagine the kind of power that he – and all spellcasters – must have felt, having that sort of destruction at their disposal. A great payoff to years of practice, it seemed the stuff of legends or the sorts of tricks that only the greatest deities have in their arsenal, and yet he spoke of it as if it had been just another academic lesson. 

To say you felt admiration for him would be a bit of an understatement, but it was perhaps the best word still. It was motivational, knowing that, one day, you could somehow be on the same level of such unfathomable, incredible power. 

There were other spells too, obviously. Like protective shields that fed off of astral fuel rather than steel, or transpositional spells – things like that. Way less interesting things, in your opinion. But he spoke pleasantly of them all the same. 

Plus, having that kind of knowledge in your back pocket was way more effective than any dagger or greatsword – and far less obvious. Not that you’d ever engaged in any battles or even minor fights, but you assumed that knowing spells would automatically give someone the upper hand. A sword or a hammer would be obvious– but couldn’t a wizard feign cluelessness? Pretend to be unprepared, and then right when they’ve been underestimated, strike at their foe’s vulnerability! 

Point was, it was pretty cool to think about. The closest thing to fighting that Gale had ever mentioned engaging in was during his exploration of ruins, back when he had to actively hunt for artifacts to feed off of. Now, you couldn’t imagine how a man who smelled like Waterdeep’s finest candles and had a closer relationship to books than any person could have possibly been embarking on tomb-raiding, bandit-battling adventures, but maybe he’d been something of a spell savant in his younger days. 

After all, he claimed to have helped lead the quarterstaff martial arts extracurricular club, and while you didn’t really understand what that meant, you assumed he meant that he was good at swinging the magical sticks littered around his tower. Or, at least the ones that used to be littered around the tower. The ones that you’d eventually thrown out. The ones that he’d consumed every last lick of weave out of, the ones who were reduced to just fancy sticks, ‘magic’ entirely lacking. 

You’d always wondered what he’d been like prior to the orb. If he’d been more powerful before, if the invasion had weakened him. Or if it had strengthened him, if it had opened his body up to new avenues of the weave otherwise unexplored, but he’d merely lost touch with it because he’d stopped practicing. You’d never asked. Always worried it would be a sore subject, and he didn’t like talking about it in any other context, if his constant dismissive statements and tendency to quickly change the topic was anything to judge by. 

He consumed the weave. Consumed raw magic like you would scarf down a salad. He did not merely understand the weave, or learn to speak with it – he was the weave. He was magic.

It was unfortunate. He could’ve been the strongest wizard in Faerûn, and yet he used his power to pluck story books off of shelves out of his reach. You only wished you knew why. 

He’d gotten himself into a bad situation. Yet, when the reason for said bad situation up-and-ditched him, he never bothered to find a new reason. Why he didn’t make the best of his circumstances was beyond you. If you were in his shoes, you would’ve certainly made a point to prove to Mystra that you didn’t need her.

Who the hells needed a goddess when he had his own piece of the weave? Weave that she didn’t have. Weave that was out of her control. Weave that was entirely his to shape and use. 

He could’ve had a million reasons, and it was likely that he’d simply never bothered to share them with you. But that lack of knowledge kept your mind wandering, and curiosity only ever snowballed. 

You raise your arm, eyeing the target, looking over the black smoky imprint you’d given it last time you were in this position. Small, but visible. Making sure you keep your finger pointed at the mannequin, you make a mental note of its position in relation to your own, and let your eyes close, attempting to swim through whatever scenes come to you in search of inspiration. 

Initially, you figure you could always return to the same memory you’d used during your first practice, but what you find first is your discussion with him from a few days ago, in which he revealed the truth behind the orb. It’s pleasant at first, revisiting the closeness with him, his gentle tone, the feeling of his hands on your arm. The warmth of his chest and the mellow beating of his heart. 

But you follow the moment, recalling the heat beneath your palm when you truly pressed it to the mark, the pining of the orb that you managed to tap into. How insatiably hungry it was. You remember being intimidated, but now, looking back on it, you feel no fear – instead a strange, silent understanding. An understanding of what, exactly, you’ve no clue. It seems as though understanding heeds no requirement of knowledge, as though the connection runs deeper than a mind could possibly reach. 

You touch not the orb, but rather his skin, yet you feel it all the same. Breaking the bounds of physicality, it hums, and you feel the power against your fingertips. The power in the weave, but you feel no power in the man. 

If anything, he looks entirely powerless. And you realize that, in the moment, you’d been feeling him. Focused only on his emotions, his being, his existence. 

But here, he’s hardly present. Rather, it is you and the orb. It burns, and it swirls, a pocket-sized vortex protected behind a cage of bones. You know it is dangerous because Gale has told you so. 

You would not have known otherwise.

It’s sweet. The energy it crackles with is no more harmful than the flames in a fireplace. Its desires are but a child’s ambitions. It is contained, and it is obedient, and it is a tragic tale. 

Does it feel?

Does it understand?

“Ignis,” you call, and the orb hears, and it responds. There is a surge, magnificent and pure, in your arm, shooting to your index with the rush of your blood, and you open your eyes in time to watch as the entire upper section of the mannequin is cascaded in a flowing, raging garnet hue that engulfs the humanoid frame and singes the protective chainmail, proving it to be a weak barrier at best. It melts the metal in an instant, staining it against the terrorized cloth underneath, and the mannequin stumbles, threatening to fall over with the storm of heat, but then it steadies. The flames flicker out after a few seconds, and the torso is left a mess of momentarily liquified steel and burnt, lifeless fabric. 

Then there’s silence. You feel your mouth pull into a smile. You eventually lower your hand and turn back around to Tara, nodding. 

“How was that?!” You ask, laughing excitedly, and Tara peeks out from behind the shield, her ears flattened against her head. 

“I’d bet to say you’re just short of ready for Avernus,” she chuckles, and though there’s a strong sense of anxiety about her tone, you pass it off as a side effect of her worry for her own fur. 

“Damn, I wish Gale was here to see that. Did you see how big that flame was? Like, practically the size of the mannequin! Or a dwarf! Oh, he’s gonna be so impressed,” you giggle, having to contain a squeal of pride at just how skilled your casting was. And it was only your second try! Who knew what you could be capable of with more practice? With the amount of practice Gale had? Oh, the possibilities were endless.

Tara slinks out from behind the shield, double-checking the area to ensure it was safe, and she sits, looking at the ruined target for a few extra moments before turning her attention to you. “I do so hate to imitate the wizard too closely, though my curiosity is certainly mewing – I assume you found your flame elsewhere this time?”

Your smile falters, and you think about being honest – admitting that you drew energy from the perceived villain of Gale’s story – but you don’t wish to concern her. So you tell a half-truth, because it’s not quite a lie, and therefore warrants no guilt. “I, uh, got it… from Gale, I guess.”

Tara’s tail flicks, and she purrs for a quick moment, standing up once more and walking across the room, a certain proud air about her. “How precious. No surprise that he encouraged such mighty flames,” she teases, and you quickly shake your head, believing her to have the wrong idea.

“Not– not like that, uh, I just mean that he’s really inspiring, so… I thought about him and his directions, and tried to, y’know, follow them,” you laugh nervously, but Tara hardly seems convinced. 

It makes you think. Her assumptions – they’re food for thought. You know what she suspects. 

And maybe it’s okay for her to believe that. 

Maybe it’s okay. 

Because the alternative is not.