#── 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃? … 【 ᴀꜱᴋ 】

[sinistercall]

A few goblins he could deal with. But HUNDREDS? Actually, hundreds?! The sweet little tiefling might be losing her mind, or she's too much of a BLEEDING heart for her own good. Astarion is already voicing his displeasure to the situation, whining loudly in hopes to be louder than WHATEVER power is compelling her to aid these strangers.

❝ —it'll take HOURS to kill them all. We should just go. ❞

But it's too late— the paladin already pledging herself and EVERYONE ELSE'S aid to that pathetic grove. Wonderful.

❝ Darling. Love. Kitten whiskers— can daddy have a moment to speak to you privately...? ❞ He just wants to talk....

@sanguisstella

  "𝐈 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐕𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄, 𝐀𝐒 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐀𝐒 ... 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐑𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅."

There is a hint of annoyance in how she regards him, brow furrowed with a slightly wrinkled lip, although it is quick to fade into a more startled appearance once his previous words about leaving the grove settle into her mind. It was as though she could not hope to even begin finding an excuse for this type of complaint. Had she truly been sheltering a 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓 all this time? Ithuriel's ears swiftly angle down while her cerise eyes became swallowed with her expanding pupil, the abyss reflecting his wintry tresses - as though she were finally recognizing whatever darkness he may have been hiding from her. He had always been 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐒𝐇 - a thorny maze hiding a beaten lamb, Astarion ... just a wee little 𝐄𝐋𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 when he had lost it all - with proper navigation perhaps she could reach him; or so she had thought.

The tiefling lets herself settle back into the reality of Emerald Grove surrounding her, freeing herself from the troubled, agonized misery that was Astarion’s mind and heart. Lathander had kissed the Grove with gently cascading light - each blade of grass ignited into a beautiful shade matching the grove’s title. The paladin's gaze flicks to the side as she drinks in the sight of children cuddled up to their grandfather under a peach tree fresh in bloom - even her Urge doesn't bubble in delight at the thought of their tattered bodies littering this wondrous space. Nausea settles in her stomach like curdled milk at the bottom of a glass - visible and conspicuous; she's unable to 𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐄 her hurt and surprise - it paints and piles onto every feature of her face.

  𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦'𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

"You are right, Astarion, it will take hours - hours to save over a hundred innocent lives from despair and dread; something many a person should have done but didn't. I will not fall into the category of people who stand idly by and let hundreds of lives be lost because 𝐎𝐍𝐄 act of altruism may disturb my day. I ... I had thought you would feel the same as me, but I ..." Her gaze begins to blank and the longer she watches him, the more her brows relax and lower into something far worse than anger; and even worse than disappointment - there was ... Nothing. Just like the falling leaves in autumn she was soon left barren and cold before him; there was no flame within her except the swirling bile in her stomach which threatened to bring up her breakfast. What kind of person would just allow such a slaughter to happen? What kind of person was he? The screaming thoughts render her nearly placid, and it was that distinct lack of 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 in her voice that illustrated her true feelings hiding under all of this civility. 

“They called me 𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 - without hesitation." 

Those with rose and blushing flesh like her - swiveling horns and pointed tails; seemingly hell spawned devils - how kindly they'd regarded her ... How quick she was to melt into their warmth and gentle hand; family maybe, more likely something feasible and earthly to cling to. What feelings of dejection had she kept so feverishly 𝐓𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐘? Had he not even been able to detect them? What yearning screamed and ripped itself forward even past her Darkest Urges? Ithuriel shifts her focus past him as though he has become yet another 𝐎𝐁𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐂𝐋𝐄 for her to overcome. Her hand rests upon the hilt of her blade, yet her fingers never curl to unsheathe its mighty edge - instead she spares him one last glance as she steps to the side of him to approach the others within their party:

"You may leave, if you like, I don't own you. If you wish to go, then go - I will not stop you." 

@sanguisstella

[sinistercall]

what's your favourite thing about ithuriel's appearance ?

𝐔𝐍𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐋𝐄. 𝐁𝐇𝐀𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐀 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘. 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇... 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄... 𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

Something I really enjoy about Durge as a whole is the fact that Bhaal had "given his seed" out long before Durge was even an idea - and instead, with Bhaal being on another plane, was sculpted from his very essence. Sceleritas Fel answers a lot of questions about Durge's past, and one of the questions able to be asked is in regards to Durge's mother; to which its discovered the character doesn't have one:

𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘞𝘌𝘙𝘌 𝘕𝘖𝘛 𝘊𝘖𝘕𝘊𝘌𝘐𝘝𝘌𝘋. 𝘉𝘏𝘈𝘈𝘓 𝘚𝘊𝘜𝘓𝘗𝘛𝘌𝘋 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘍𝘙𝘖𝘔 𝘈 𝘋𝘙𝘖𝘗 𝘖𝘍 𝘏𝘐𝘚 𝘖𝘞𝘕 𝘎𝘖𝘙𝘌.

I found this idea really cool because bodies are full of different colors, not just red but whites, blues, purples, all of that - so I had to sit and really decide what I wanted to do with them since I was dead set on making a tiefling. But of course being me I couldn't just leave her being standard red, and instead wanted to base her on something else in the body besides blood. Eventually I settled on having her visage be inspired by bleached bones and their raw marrow:

There's many different viscera within the body, and I included the inspiration of veins and arteries as well - the blues lend themselves a fine contrast to the pinks and creams that make up her main body. The reason I went with bones specifically is because of their meaning in regards to Ithuriel's storyline: there is a degree of duality with regard to the symbolism of bones in that they can both represent death but also the indestructible part of life which endures beyond death. Not only this but in many cultures they are used to encourage reflection on one's mortality and the impermanence of worldly attachments - and identity is a major theme of Ithuriel's story since she feels she lacks one at all.

Her name even means "discovery of God" - whether she follow the lifelong destiny promised by Father Bhaal or decides to free herself from it entirely.

Another aspect of Ithuriel's design are the two dark crescents under her eyes, they're not actually markings but rather makeup that she puts on when she wakes up in the morning. This is more than a routine for her, however. Durge's storyline is rife with amnesia and while it isn't my favorite trope it does lend for some interesting explorations in terms of identity and what it means to connect with something specific from one's past. These markings are similar to a haircut or a tattoo for her; they are something she remembers being present on her body often, and she intends to keep them there as her reflection looks wrong without them.

This next paragraph is going to seem like its out of left field a little but I promise they all connect. Within the realm of DND devotion to Gods usually brings about boons or power that can be used by clerics, paladins etc - this happens whether someone is born into worship or indoctrinated. However if you dig a bit deeper into Bhaal specifically you’ll find books and writings detailing how his devoted are gifted divine ecstasy. Joy and pleasure beyond anything by following his tenets - and considering some Bhaalists are necrophiles it definitely extends into sexual pleasure. A common reaction to sexual pleasure is to run the hands down the face, usually starting at the corner's of the eyes and following the curve of the cheek down to the chin or jaw.

These marks that she is recreating with makeup are from the blood of hundreds (if not thousands) of sacrifices within Bhaal's name, each one having their blood smeared down her face while she writhed in pleasure gifted from her Father. Ithuriel before the tadpole was a massive hedonist, and while extremely logical and efficient as she is now, she enjoyed her worship and the gifts given to her by Bhaal. While Bhaal inflicts his spawn with dark urges/nightmares so they either submit to the depravity and become a worshipper or resist and Ithuriel, in her past, felt extremely loved and connected to her Father and gladly obeyed his doctrine. Currently she's unaware why she's so connected to these markings, or of their nature, and uses a dark carmine to rouge pigment to recreate the markings.

I also like her double horns and that she's built like a brickhouse but -

[sinistercall]

what is something ithuriel needs to hear right now ...

"𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐘, 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐍𝐄, 𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐒 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓?"

She glances over to the strange being before her, she is aware of Lathander's code - to 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐘 all undead and beseech their souls back into the great cycle so they may begin their journey anew. Somehow though, Ithuriel cannot muster the will to unsheathe her weapon - there are no signs for her to try and interpret, nothing to desperately cling to and call her forth into action. Instead the tiefling lowers her head to gaze upon her hands, clean yet somehow they still felt 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐘 with blood, 

"Wanderer, who am I meant to serve? What am I 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 to be?"

[sinistercall]

"You know they call it the angel's disease." Cirith hums tracing their claws along the spine of the leather bound book in their hands, "They say you get prettier as your body wastes away. Your cheeks flush and you become sickly pale... thin. Some even claim it gives men better writing abilities, interesting isn't it? How everyone hates being sick and they're watching them drown in the decay of their own lungs yet it's painted as romantic." She places the medical journal back on the stack, "I think you'd make a pretty corpse." - @delphinixm

𝐈𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐒, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐘 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐋'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐒𝐄.

However, given their relationship and how lacking in malice Cirith's comments were, the tiefling allowed herself to stay relaxed by the campfire and listen. In the silence between their voices the flames began to die down, forcing Ithuriel to bring them back to their prior flickering glory by prodding at the logs. Once finished she lifted her maroon eyes to the cleric, drinking them in as they spoke about the appearance of the sick and rotting. It was curious how mortals often tried to 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐙𝐄 such horrors; but then again, Ithuriel understood why. It made things easier to accept - especially the fate all men must meet.

"It makes men less afraid, I think. To make pain and suffering shrouded in allure and beauty softens the blow of what is to come."

But Cirith was different; fear seemed an 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐍 concept and acceptance of death was a creed he seemed to hold very close… and their compliment shockingly brought a small smile to Ithuriel's lips. The cleric's adoration of illness was no mere facade to comfort themselves ( 𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰 ) , it was a genuine fascination and devotion for Talona and her divinity. Ithuriel found no cause for offense in Cirith's unwavering faith in the Goddess of Disease; after all, Talona's afflictions could be healed, ultimately fortifying those who overcame them. Cirith was practically immune to anyhing that could poison his body. It was far easier to understand this rather than the reverential brutality of the Bhaalist temple. Comparing one form of death to another … the 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐘 was not lost on her.

"Thank you, I think you would make a very beautiful corpse as well."

━━ @bells-of-black-sunday

[sinistercall]

Are you planning on paying Astarion for helping you? Before or after your father kills you?

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆'𝐒 𝐕𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐔𝐍𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐘 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃, 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐈𝐗𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐑.

An abundance of whispers assailed her consciousness as she observed 𝐇𝐈𝐌, his unblemished form accentuated by the sunlight filtering through the forest canopy, and quelling the persistent murmurings reverberating within her skull soon proved to be a formidable task. It was a constant theme for Astarion that assistance should be reciprocated, and he made no secret of his displeasure at providing aid without remuneration. He repeatedly emphasized that every act of kindness was a transaction, not a 𝐆𝐈𝐅𝐓. The hesitant mutterings in her mind harmonized with the memory of Astarion's voice, giving the impression of an accord between the two. Her heart felt tight.

Ithuriel's subconscious impulses took over as she set her book on her bedside table and found herself standing, her crimson eyes fixed on him, their intensity unyielding as she advanced closer. The wind carried her unfastened locks towards him, caressing her cheeks with a light touch as she entered his vicinity; as though Lathander was urging her towards him. A tempest of self-doubt and remorse raged within her mind, reflecting in the anxious creases on Ithuriel's face and the trembling vermilion curved 𝐁𝐎𝐖 of her lips. Finally she found the will to speak:

"Astari - "

And all at once her mind was silent. Her scathing, censorious cries were abruptly quelled upon his gaze falling upon her, and for a few brief moments, a tender expression of affection reflected in his gentle, 𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 eyes. That moment brought clarity to her - she was a unique form in his mental landscape. As the transient moment came to an end and time ensnared them Ithuriel found herself at a 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒 for words as the vampire arched an inquisitive eyebrow. The subtle curve of his lip assumed an arrogant sneer - casting a shadow over the sparkle of his scarlet iris. The tiefling failed to catch his customary "𝘠𝘦𝘴, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨?" - far too preoccupied by the unexpected tranquility that enveloped her. The fragrance of his cologne was composed of bergamot, rosemary, and a subtle note of aged brandy; it radiated a warm, earthy scent, intermingled with subtle sweetness and floral undertones, allowing her to be 𝐄𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐃 by it.Upon recognizing the lengthy duration of her silent gaze, a burning sensation arose in the depths of her abdomen, accompanied by an intense reddening of her cheeks. The sudden anxiety that had taken hold of her caused her to stumble over her words, leaving her uncertain of how to proceed and struggling to construct a convincing 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐔𝐒𝐄 for why she was just... standing there.

Ithuriel usually exuded an unyielding control over her surroundings; every environment she inhabited was subject to her 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 and shaped by her command. Leadership abilities came naturally to her, and she approached battles as if her bones had been specifically crafted for the task; emblems of dominance had been ingrained into the 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 of her being. How delightful to witness her emotional fortitude slip through her fiddling fingers; transforming the tiefling from a formidable 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅 into a meek 𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐁 in the vampire's company.

𝘛𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘳 𝘐𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘤𝘦.

"I - " Half-formed sentences were stuck in her larynx, unwilling to be released - resulting in another stumble in her speech. "You - I was thinking - " Frankly by this point, she wasn't really 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 at all - her hazy brain had decided to fixate on the inviting fullness of his lips and to let her gaze trace over the peeking tips of his 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒; evidentally they were more important to her than finding a suitable lie. Ithuriel's heart fluttered in the delicate column of her neck, stirring recollections of the feeling of his mouth against her skin. The impulse to press her lips to his was becoming almost unbearable; a token of gratitude for his quieting effect on her dark musings. 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐌. Damn him and his stupid tempting smile and stupidly husky huff of a laugh. The paladin knew she could just lean in and finally do it - to really make him shut up and stop 𝐒𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 at her fumbing torment. His arms around her waist and a tender remark about the allure of her lips was likely to follow. But of course, she stood there with fluttering ears sputtering out nonsense until finally something stuck - or made any bit of 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄. 

"A hunt - ! You should join me later for my evening hunt! I know it won't lend much to 𝐘-𝐘𝐎𝐔 but - " Ithuriel paused for a moment to collect her thoughts, absentmindedly adjusting the hem of her dress, "I would very much appreciate it if you would join me in tonight's hunt, you're amiable company and a great shot. Maybe you can show me how skilled you are on horseback. I'd love to see you try to not fall off."

── @sanguisstella

[sinistercall]

“ y’know you are within friendly company.. no need to get defensive on me. “ eilis sits by their shared campfire, eyes fixed on ithurel with a catlike gaze. analyzing her movements such a hunter stalks their prey.

@babalonite :)

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍'𝐒 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑, 𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐄𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄.

The precious bow of Eilis' top lip feels less like a mouth and more attune to a painted visage - a 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊, the same honeyed concealment Astarion used to hide his sharpened canines. Perhaps that is why Ithuriel always strayed away from their newest companion despite their shared blood; and the realization chills the Paladin's ichor into a thick, viscous substance that threatens to stop her beating heart. However the icing of her veins is far from the bony vice of 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐑 but of 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐋𝐓 and 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓; after all, who was she to judge what may or may not be 𝐖𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃? 

For her own baseless prejudice to cast a shadow upon the welcoming light of her Morninglord - to have caused their new ally to bloat out their true self ... Their camp was a pound of strays and mutts; a welcoming solace from the brutal and harsh gaze of the outside world - and Ithuriel feels she has somehow trampled its sanctity by bringing in an unplaced drop of bigotry. No, this had to be 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐃. Suspicion and anger brought doubt and doubt created unbelief - a blade's edge to the carefully threaded tapestry of society and kinship - and she'd been a 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄 against it. 

𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘱.

"You're right." 

Her once husky and rounded tone had become as delicate as a dew drop within the first rays of dawn, its usual harsh edge was whittled down into a smooth and sincere tone - a feature many people seemed to lack; her earnesty was palpable in its saturation of each word. Ithuriel's body rushes to keep up and her hips rotate to connect directly with Eilis' eyes. She wants her to know that she is under her 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 - and that her feelings are true.

"You're right, and I'm sorry, Eilis. I have not treated you fairly, I have given you a scornful gaze more times than I have the others for less egregious offenses. It was 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 of me. None of this is your fault, I have been childish and susceptible to the very hatred many use to scorn our kind and even those from the Hells that others deem worthy of hatred. That brought weakness and strife between us ... and if it is alright by you, I would like to follow in the path that Lathander extends to all - a new beginning for us both - one free of my prior mistakes and shortcomings." The corner of her lip lifts in a hopeful, inquisitive twitch, "I would like to get to know you better - if you'll still have me. I want our bond to be more than just an uneasy alliance in opposition to the Absolute and the horrors it is trying to bring.”

━━ @babalonite

[sinistercall]

dip, sender skinny dips in front of receiver and invites them to join.

(o:

|| @sanguisstella

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐔𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐒 𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐋 𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐊𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐁𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 - 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐆𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓.

The tiefling finally had a moment to slip away from her companions to spend a night with herself; horrifically enough she cannot recall the last time she didn't smell of 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇 and 𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐍. With how many battles their journey had torn her through she was shocked that she wasn't somehow covered horn to tail in gore - needless to say being at camp was a welcome rest. Ithuriel nearly glows when the rays of silver moon light passes over her form, lithe fingers eager to unbraid her long hair and let it flow freely down her back; within the crisp night hair she suddenly realizes why fae hold their gatherings at these hours. Selune's wild and freeing call infected everything around the Paladin - crickets screaming, bats calling, the bubbling flow of water just ahead. Golden clasps fiddle between her fingertips as she finally releases her cloak, allowing it to fall slowly onto a nearby boulder. Although she is quick to startle when a sharp 'ahem' fills her ears upon the untying of her collar - cerise eyes flicking around quickly to locate the origin of sound only to meet crimson. 

  "Astarion - ?"

  Good evening, Darling. 

  Fluttering ears fall flat against her head as her gaze descends from his face farther and father until she meets water; his body shimmering within the moon's playful effulgence. The blood in her cheeks rises to the surface in a surprisingly demure display as she registers his next request: to 𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 him. In her mind she scoffs but her body does not heed her command, she finds herself wishing that her companion might rise from the water and untie her attire. To feel the caress of another without fear of harm - the thought is too sweet to bear, and she waves it away from her fantasies. There is a strange 𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 in her next movements; belts unbuckling, leather sliding, the fall of fabric ... Her sheer underdress but a ghostly sheet barely able to cover even the flushing red across her chest, the moonlight behind her reveals every slope and curve of her silhouette. Ithuriel pauses a moment to drink in the way Astarion almost seems to 𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑 her - yet the furrow of his brow reveals his shock that she would agree to join him. She cannot tell if he is happy by her decision, or now finds her just as wretched as the others that gaze upon him hungrily; it was always difficult to tell where his true intentions lay versus the mask he put on. She expected to never be able to see past it, as if he would remove it for her - a foolish mistake if he did, she thinks and ruminates while gazing upon the vampire’s expression, there was no goodness within her, what could she possibly offer him?

  An exhilarating rush sparks in her when she watches his lids fall halfway, eyes lock onto hers in a way that already strips her nude. Her head swims with dazzling illusions, her lips yearn to be kissed and the shame nearly swallows her whole when her chemise circles her ankles and she steps away from the pale fabric. Her long hair cascades over her shoulder as her feet and strong legs slip into the cool water - the ends of her wintry tresses catching on the current to paint her into a picture of grace. She’s a strong form with flesh as white as bone - a gentle peach tone encircling the framework of her body; 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐃 in scars - from claws to bites. The stamped skin tells of a life much longer than her young appearance, a full life that had been torn away and worn to nothing after the tadpole ate her memories. Her steps come to a rest as Ithuriel raises her face to the moon, drinking in the moonlight with deep inhale; she can feel him watching. She does not remember the last time someone else had witnessed her form like this, the last time she had wanted someone to look upon her - had she ever felt like this before? 

  For a moment her tadpoles squirms uncomfortably and produces a strange, distant image of someone that causes her cheeks to flush darker. Perhaps before she had wanted someone to see her like this ... was this someone from before the Nautiloid? A deep voice cooed in her head as she stood, dark hair and eyes like the abyss locked to hers within her memory. The stranger's features are decidedly less chiseled than Astarion's but they hold a bubbling sense of determination and ambition - his brow is furrowed and his smirk is turned in such a way that Ithuriel finds her body growing ever more hot. Who was this person ... Someone who promised her rule, power, friendship; an ally - maybe 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 . Only when her mind focuses once more unto the companion before her does she realize just how 𝐅𝐈𝐗𝐄𝐃 her stare had been, her eyes burn from lack of blinking, and her expression relaxes once more. How long had she been standing here before him looking to be worshiped like a 𝐆𝐎𝐃 instead of her usual self - sacrificial martyrdom? 

  What parts of her had been snuffed out in order to try and "be better"?

  Selune's silver embrace finally coaxes her forward and gives her the strength to meet Astarion's eyes once more, her own husky voice low and gravelly as she 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐒. The tiefling feels her skin tickle as each pore raises into goosebumps - the heat she had felt with the stranger stays and lingers, deciding to comfortably nest in her thighs once her inner flame decides Astarion is worthy of her attention. Now pointedly aware of the tension in the air she sank down into the river's water - its cool touch eliciting a quiet 𝐌𝐎𝐀𝐍 from her lips. Her wisping lashes fell heavily halfway down her eye, blown pupils hazing over as he filled each blackened pit. Her ears remain alert as her jaw falls ever so slightly agape to reveal small canines, eager and ready to 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄. Her visage has transformed into an ethereal siren, dark gospel pulsing in her veins that beckoned him forward into the danger that was her very being, her heartbeat crooning to him like a 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑. It seems that she has grown comfortable. Cherry lips curl upwards into a sneer as she lifts her chin and sews her fingers between a lock of pale hair; revealing her gleaming breast in self - satisfaction. Even the waves within the river seemed to turn and bow before her, she felt powerful with his wanting gaze upon her; 

  "Well, Astarion, what of it then? What now that you've gotten me naked before you - did you think I would turn into a blushing, stuttering maiden like those within your seemingly countless romance novels?" She scoffs with a playful glint in her eye, bringing her head down to slick the bangs off of her face, "Are any of them even good?"

@sanguisstella