#『 the scribe of the dead 』 . . . withers.

[rhysintherain]

Bhaal to his chosen: kill! Kill!

Bane to his chosen: we stop at nothing short of world domination! Do whatever it takes to make all existence bow to us!

Myrkul to his chosen: raise an army of undead to march in my name!

Mystra to her chosen: go traipse around the countryside until you find my ex and deliver this slightly passive-aggressive message.

[deathbind]

I've never really thought about how Serot feels about Withers. I don't think I'm gonna reach a conclusion tonight. I have several factors to consider, and my brain is simply too tired.

It's interesting, though. I don't think resurrection is usual in Meket. I won't say it's unheard of, but it's probably not as common as it is other places. It may even be stigmatized with periods of being outlawed. I gotta chew on that some more. Again, several factors to consider. One of those factors is definitely that I don't think Soshist priests can perform resurrections? The One Above is, essentially, Ao who does not grant powers to his followers. The priesthood draw their powers from the Planes of Life and Death, not from a god. While it's theoretically possible they could use the power of those planes to perform a resurrection, I think there's a prohibition against it. I'm not saying it's never happened, but I am saying I think it's overall forbidden. That's upsetting balance, not preserving it. Even the Anactaci, who animate corpses as a matter of course, do not do so by calling the deceased back into it. And when the dead are invoked, it's temporary and voluntary.

[dreadgloom]

tag drop two.

[miraculan-draws]

Jergal, the scribe of the dead, the archivist—this three fates motherfucker who refuses to elaborate on personal questions but waxes philosophical about your adventure, protects you, ensures your success, brings you back into the fray, puts you back on your feet, helps you mold yourself into whatever you want to be, this strange reverse-psychopomp—is the only god who did not reject Astarion.

Astarion, a finicky undead who went to law school once upon a time who is never seen at camp without a book in his hands. Astarion who passes more perception and insight checks than anyone else in my games. Astarion with his mediocre Charisma stat but higher than average Intelligence stat. Astarion who ONE HUNDRED PERCENT probably put together who Old Man Withers was but just shrugged like "I got other shit going on and I'm not about to kick a skeleton out of the closet."

I want Old Man Withers as Astarion's Grampa Figure. Astarion CALLING Withers an elvish equivalent of "Gramps". (U'osi/U'osu?? That's so cute wtf)

[the-timid-birb]

Riding on the heels of the idea that Durge screeches for Withers to bring Gortash back from the dead in the Astral Plane...

I don't think the totally-not-Jergal skeleton would be thrilled about being asked to bring back one of the Dead Three's Chosen, especially if it's someone unapologetically a villain, so he likely refuses (at least at first) however then imagine, with however much black humor or gravity you wish,

Durge just stares at him, brings up Stillmaker, and stabs his own throat repeatedly maintaining eye contact with the scribe of the dead, before any of the companions can stop him/heal him enough.

does Jergal say fuck it, he wishes to be dead, you guys can handle it on your own? Would that be the end of all three Chosen? Would the ragtag group left over suddenly have to cooperate together without a clear leader and just, somehow deal with the Brain as they are, still shellshocked at what they just saw, needing to leave both their friend's and the tyrant's body laying in the Astral Plane side by side?

or is the player character important enough to be brought back despite their wishes? what if he offs himself repeatedly. They waste revivify scrolls before Jergal relents and says "FINE, I'll yank your boyfriend back from Bane, STOP KILLING YOURSELF WE NEED YOU!!"

or he does not agree. It's just not what fate has in store. Gortash made his choice when becoming Bane's Chosen.

The group need to tie the howling, cursing, blood drenched bhaalspawn up, because obviously they can't take them along to fight the Brain like this but they don't want him to die AGAIN!! and he refuses to cooperate. Too lost in his own grief to be able to, or even want to, fight, except them, clawing and biting and wasting spells just for the chance to die, because it's not worth it going on without the one person they ever loved

[bitethedevil]

Living with The Devil You Know (Raphael x Tav): Chapter 17

Chapter: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen

Read this fic on AO3 (Link)

Fic Summary: Tav broke their agreement by handing the Crown of Karsus to Mystra instead of Raphael. Not only that, but she also robbed his house and killed his incubus. Raphael is patient and he is determined to get his revenge.

…Tav isn't too bothered. She will figure something out eventually. Until then she just has to find a way to live peacefully with a devil.

Chapter Summary: The epilogue.

(AN: And here we are at the very end. I want to thank each and every one of you for reading, for comments and reblogs <3 It means the world to me. I started writing this fic with little to no plans for plot and somehow it became this. I've gotten so invested in these two and I'm going to miss writing about them. As I've said before, maybe (maybe) I'll write a sequel or something at some point, but I won't promise anything. Thank you all so much! <3 Also: there are additional notes on AO3)

Tav was sitting on the edge of the bed. She was reading the card that had somehow appeared on her bedside table while she had slept. It was an invitation from Withers. Her eyes ran over the letters, squinting at the handwriting with her tired eyes. She felt an arm snake around her waist. It pulled her back until she was laying over Raphael’s stomach.

“What is that in your hand?” he asked and looked at the card.

“An invitation to some sort of celebration from Withers,” she answered and flipped over the invitation to see if there was anymore information on it. “How did he even send this to the Hells?”

“’Withers’?” Raphael asked.

“Oh right,” she said and explained. “It’s a bit difficult to explain. We found him in a crypt. He has the power to bring some people back from the dead. It’s a long story.”

“You call him Withers?” Raphael asked with an amused smile. “Don’t you know who he is?”

“What do you mean?”

“I will not spoil it for you then,” he said and took the invitation from her hands to look it over. “Your friends will be there too it seems. In the same location where you kept camp all those months ago. How sentimental of the old scribe.”

She snatched back the invitation from him to look at it again. The invitation made her stomach churn. She had been back on the Material Plane a few dozen times since she signed her contract with Raphael. Mostly to feel the fresh air and to get away from Avernus for a little while.

She had also been back to leave a message to her friends, though she had not seen them since she signed the contract. The message she left at her house simply said that she was ‘away’ with no further explanation.  

No further explanation was really needed. She had just spent time in the Hells, kidnapped and held prisoner by a devil against her will, so it must have seemed natural to her friends that she wanted to get away for a while. What she had not told them was that her going ‘away’ meant to go back to said devil out of her own free will.

“You should attend,” Raphael said and ran his fingers through her hair. “It is long overdue that they are told, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled and sat up on the edge of the bed to get dressed.

Raphael had been very adamant about her telling her friends about everything. He wanted them to know that she was his, and he had been slightly disappointed when she told him that she had avoided the subject completely in her message to them.

Raphael got off the bed behind her and got dressed as well.

“I might go,” she said. “But I don’t want to sour the occasion by telling them about all of this. It’s half a year since we defeated the Elderbrain. It’s not really the time where you want to hear that the leader of your group has decided to live their life with one of the villains, or whatever you want to call it, from our journey.”

Raphael chuckled.

“A villain? Really?” he said. “If I recall correctly, and I do, I was nothing but helpful in your endeavor. You forget that you were the ones who betrayed me.”

“You know what I mean,” she mumbled and pulled a dress over her head. “They will ask me about where I’ve been, and I don’t want to lie to them. I don’t want to tell them either. It’s easier if I just don’t go.”

She adjusted her dress and turned around to face him. He was buttoning his doublet and looking at her.

“It will make them more suspicious if you stay away,” he reminded her. “You will go, and you will tell them the truth.”

He walked slowly towards her until he was right in front of her. He wrapped his arms around her waist.

“You will tell them that you live here with me now,” he said in a low voice. “That you are mine, and that neither the Heavens or the Hells can help them if they are foolish enough to try and change that.”

“Why are you so insistent on this?” she asked with a hint of annoyance in her tone. “What are you hoping to achieve? They might as decide that I’ve gone mad and try to come here to save me.”

He smiled at her.

“I simply want them to know,” he said.

He kissed the top of her head. She sighed and brushed him off. Her thoughts were too loud, and she needed to go somewhere quiet. He caught her hand before she could walk off.

“I could go with you, you know,” he said. “To the celebration. It would get the unpleasantries out of the way immediately and they would not dare to throw a tantrum while I am there.”

Her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed. She turned around and crossed her arms.

“You…going with me?” she said as if it was the stupidest suggestion she had ever heard. “Last time you saw them, you nearly killed all of them.”

“Nearly…” he emphasized with a smile as if that made any difference.

“You are not invited,” she said. “If Withers knows that I live in the Hells, he probably also knows that I am with you. If he wanted you there, you would be invited. You are just itching to create more drama than necessary, love. Forget it.”

Raphael pulled her closer again by her hand.

“You don’t think it would be nice for your dear friends to see us together?” he asked in that voice of his that he always used when trying to persuade her. “To see that we are indeed happy, and that I am not just pulling your strings from Avernus, or that you have not in fact ‘gone mad’ as you so eloquently put it?”

She pulled her hand to herself and looked at him with a small frown. He smiled. They both knew each other too well. Raphael knew that she did not like the suggestion, but her silence along with that small frown showed him that she would be thinking twice about it.

She was working in her library. Raphael had made a whole new library for her. He had used impressive magic to create a whole grand new room in the House of Hope. One could enter it through a door in the archive as a sort of pocket dimension. He had moved all of his own books there along with the ones he brought home to her every now and again from wherever in the Realms he went.

She was sorting and categorizing the books. She also kept an inventory of all of them and moved them to their respective places when she was bored. Old habits die hard, she supposed. She was not a librarian anymore and she never had to work another day in her life, but still she found it relaxing to do so.

She constantly felt the need to do something productive, like she was a working dog that had been turned into a lapdog. Especially after the constant anxiety she felt when she had been here against her will had disappeared. Him gifting her the library was meant as just that: stimulation so she had something to do. A sense of control in a world that was entirely Raphael’s.

She was moving books through the air with her magic. They floated to their places on the shelves while she crossed them off on the inventory list. The door to the library clicked and her deep concentration was broken. She managed to catch the book that fell from the air with her hand.

“There you are,” Raphael said and walked towards her. He took a look at the shelves she had just got done arranging. “If you keep going like this, I might just be tempted to fire my archivist and have you take his place instead.”

She put the tome in her hands on the shelf. She looked at the piece of fabric he had slung over his arm.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Raphael held out the fabric between his hands in a soft grip and presented it to her. She could see that it was a dress. He had gifted her plenty of those. This one was a red dress with dark blue and gold detailing. His colors.

“For the celebration,” he said and looked from the dress to her.

He held it out to her. She took it and held it up to her body.

“Pretty,” she noted and looked down at it. “Though not exactly subtle, is it?”

He smiled at her before starting to slowly walk around the library.

“It’s in two days,” he reminded her. “I also have some jewelry for you that you can look at later. You will attend, won’t you?”

“I suppose I will,” she sighed. “I will go there alone and tell them though. You might be right that it would be good for them to see us, but I want to ease them into it. They won’t be happy. If they don’t chew me out too much, I can always call on you after I’ve told them.”

“Hm,” he hummed. It was a dissatisfied hum.

She glanced at him through the corner of her eye while she was putting the last couple of books in their place. He was doing his version of pouting which consisted of that hard, cold look washing over his face.

“But thank you for the dress,” she said. “It really is beautiful. I can’t wait to wear it.”

That softened him up a bit. His arm snaked around her waist, and he kissed the top of her head.

“You are welcome, my dear,” he purred.

She appeared some distance away from her old camp in a flash of fire. She stood still and closed her eyes. She could hear faint music in the distance and the smell of the woods was exactly how she remembered it. This was the only other place except the House of Hope that had ever felt like home to her.

The feeling of nostalgia won over her nervousness for only a moment, because she was incredibly nervous. She tried to calm down and remind herself that these people were her friends. That they might not be thrilled with the news, but that if they really cared about her, they would forgive her eventually.

Besides, it was only going to be Gale, Astarion and Shadowheart as the rest was elsewhere doing their own thing. Perhaps Minsc, Halsin and Jaheira too at most, though they also often seemed to be busy most of the time after the defeat of the Netherbrain.

It’ll be fine, she told herself and started following the sound of music. She saw the lights getting closer and closer. When she stepped into the clearing, she felt herself be lifted up from the ground by two strong arms.

“Soldier!”

Tav froze in her arms.

“Karlach?” her voice almost cracked a little, both in surprise and happiness. She hugged her back tightly. “How did you…?”

She saw Wyll smiling warmly at her and giving her a little wave from behind Karlach. She put her down again.

“Withers did his thing,” Karlach said excitedly. “We are on a little vacation away from the Hells. I’ve missed you! All of you, really.”

Tav nodded. The smile on her face that faltered a little bit when she realized that this would most definitely complicate things. She hugged Wyll too. She realized that they were all there, even Lae’zel who she had not seen since she took off to bring freedom to her people. Her heart started beating faster and her hands got clammy at the realization.

“What’s this I hear about you and Raphael?” Karlach asked.

“Mm…what?” Tav asked nervously, her heart rate going up even further.

“That you got kidnapped and all of that,” Karlach clarified. “Hells, if we had known, we might have figured out a way to sneak in and rescue you. Are you alright?”

“Yes, yeah,” Tav said hurriedly and gave her a weak smile. “I’m fine, I’ll explain later. Just…want to say hi to everyone first.”

Karlach nodded.

Tav quickly went on to greet the others. She expertly avoided talking to much in detail about what she had been doing. Surprisingly, it was Astarion who looked through her charade. His eyes went over the dress she was wearing, and he recognized the colors immediately. His eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Tav…” he said very quietly to her and moved closer. “You went back, didn’t you?”

“Shhh,” she shushed. “I…”

“I can smell him on you,” he whispered. “I knew there was something odd about you just suddenly deciding to leave the Gate. Honestly, the dress isn’t exactly subtle either, darling.”

“It’s complicated,” she whispered back.

“Oh, I am sure it is,” he whispered. “Poor thing.”

Tav jumped when Shadowheart was suddenly behind her.

“What are you two gossiping about over here?” Shadowheart asked and looked between the two of them.

Astarion looked pointedly over Tav’s dress and then at Shadowheart. It took her a moment to get what he was hinting at. Her eyes widened and then she joined their little whispering circle.

“What?” Shadowheart whispered. “Tell me that this doesn’t mean what I think it means. You went back? Why?”

“This fucking dress…” Tav mumbled to herself. “Look, I’ll explain…”

They were interrupted when they were called to sit down at the table to eat together. They all took a seat. Astarion’s and Shadowheart’s eyes did not leave her as they did. Withers said a few words before they started eating. The atmosphere was pleasant except for the few pointed and expectant looks she got from the other side of the table.

It was such an annoying situation. She felt like she just wanted to forget all of it. This was not a celebration that she wanted to make about herself. This was for all of them. She knew that if she told them, it would turn into something else, and she did not want that. On the other hand, Raphael had been annoyingly persistent about everything, and she would hear for it if she did not.

As people began to talk and a few began holding brief speeches about their time together, the pressure on her to say something rose. Screw it, she thought. She had been living in Raphael’s world for too long. This night belonged to her companions and her. She would find another time to break the news.

As the speeches came to an end, she was gathering up the courage to make hers. She wanted to thank them all for everything they had done, and ways to do so was buzzing around in her mind. Her train of thought was only broken when she realized that everyone had gone completely quiet. She looked up from her food to look around. They were all looking in one direction. Karlach and a few others got up from their seats when they saw him. Her heart was suddenly in her throat.

“Please,” Raphael said with a smirk and a hand gesture as he slowly walked closer to the end of the table. “Don’t feel the need to get up on my account. I will make this brief.”

Tav looked at him with pleading eyes for him to stop. He smiled back at her and walked to stand at the end of the long table they were sitting at.

“I merely wanted to congratulate you all,” Raphael began. “The threat vanquished, the monsters slain, and a powerful artifact handed to an already powerful god. You truly have achieved much and gone beyond the expectations of everyone. Myself included. You must all be pleased.”

“Not all monsters,” Karlach mumbled. She received a glance from Raphael before he continued.

“Of course, as impressive as this all is,” he said. “None of you would be here if it was not for the immense help you received from elsewhere.” Raphael looked at Astarion. “Had it not been for me, Astarion would not know the role he played in the plans of his old master,” he said and then turned to look at Lae’zel’s projection. “And you, Lae’zel of K’liir, would not have been able to free Orpheus from his chains and bring freedom to your people.”

Raphael took a moment to look each and everyone of them in the eye.

“And yet,” he said with a raised finger in the air. “I have found little gratitude from any of you. No one, except your dear leader, has made amends for what you stole from me. You all sat idly by as she handed her soul to me, by not giving me the Crown as we had agreed upon.”

Tav got up from her chair to stop the circus what was going on. She looked at Raphael who only smiled at her and gave her space to talk, or more rope to hang herself with, depending on how one looked at the situation.

“I was kidnapped by Raphael a few months ago,” she started, her hands were shaking a bit. “Despite my better judgement I…grew to like him. Some of you came to save me, because you thought that was what I needed. I thought that too at that time…”

She looked at Shadowheart and Astarion who was just listening intently, there was still a hint of disbelief at the whole thing in their eyes. It was nothing compared to Gale though, who she could barely get herself to look in the eye. He looked both worried and defeated, sad even. Tav took a deep breath before she continued.

“But I…missed him so I went back,” she admitted quietly and the people around her started murmuring, some protested. “I know how it sounds. This won’t involve any of you. I know what I’ve signed up for. I just need you to trust me when I say that I will be alright...and I love him. This is my choice and I have taken it.”

“You love him?” Karlach piped up, furious and in disbelief at her words. “Have you listened to nothing of what Wyll, and I have told you through our time with you? He’s a devil. He is incapable of love.”

Tav shot a glance at Raphael who was still just looking at her.

“Maybe...” Tav said in a tone that was too weak for her own liking. “Maybe that’s true, but it doesn’t change the fact that I love him.”

“What did you sign, Tav?” Wyll asked in a gentle though wary tone.

She looked at Raphael again.

“She has signed a contract that hands her life, in addition to her soul, to me,” Raphael explained in a rather cold and collected tone. “She will live in the House of Hope until her death, where I will collect her soul, as stated in her original contract. The contract that you all were responsible in not fulfilling.”

They all spoke up in a chorus of protests. Some of them yelling at Raphael, others were asking Tav how she could do this. A few were grasping for weapons to simply kill him then and there. Tav tried to restore order and bid them to calm down, however there was only one voice that was able to cut through.

“You were not invited here, Raphael, son of Mephistopheles,” Withers said, calm as death itself.

Everyone went quiet. Raphael and Withers faced each other from opposite ends of the table.

“Here you stand,” Withers continued. “How curious it is to see you of all people admit your weakness so openly, cambion. You have taken more than what you were promised, and you are disturbing the balance in doing so.”

Raphael narrowed his eyes at him. Tav looked between the two of them. She was missing something.

“I will not be spoken to about weakness from you who so freely gave away your powers for others to misuse, Jergal,” Raphael retorted with a laugh. “Lest we forget that this little get-together celebrates the end of a mess that would not have been, had you simply done as you were bid.”

“You will never have her soul,” Withers said. “You are clinging to her just like you clung to the promise of power. How very mortal of you.”

Tav’s brow furrowed, and she looked at Raphael. His eyes were ablaze in anger at the comment, but he still managed to keep his composure.

“What is he talking about?” she asked.

When no answer came, she looked to Withers.

“You will never age,” Withers said to her. “You will never grow old, and you will never die. He has made sure of it. It is etched into your very being. An action done out of love, though the man and the devil seem to love two different things entirely.”

Tav did not understand. Her mind went through what stood in the contract she signed. One particularly difficult clause popped up in her mind: She was unable to remove the effects of any spells or conditions that Raphael put on her for whatever reason. He had somehow made her immortal. The contract between them was in effect until she died, and she never would. She was his for eternity and she would never know peace.

“What does he mean, Raphael?” she asked him in disbelief. “Is this true?”

His rage died down and he was quiet for a moment before looking at her with a small smile.

“I am truly sorry, if it is any consolation, my dearest,” he said and readying his fingers to snap. “But I did once warn you that you were only delaying the inevitable.”

He snapped his fingers and Tav disappeared back to the House of Hope in a flash of fire. His eyes hardened and went back to Withers.

“You call it weakness,” Raphael said with a dangerous smile. “I call it resourcefulness.”

Raphael turned to address all of them. It was dead quiet.

“In another six months it will be a year since you defeated the Netherbrain and gave away the Crown of Karsus,” he explained calmly. “Steal it back and bring it to me before then and I will annul both of her contracts. She can stay or walk freely, but her soul and her life will be her own. I care little about how you will achieve it. You have conquered gods before, so I am certain that no one is more capable for the task…You all owe her, so I would suggest you use the time wisely.”

He readied his hand to snap, and flames danced around him.

“Tick tock…” he said with a smile.

Snap.

[featherwurm]

I like the Emperor as a character and narrative foil, and think it makes for great story beats.

Tav isn't a fan - it reminds her of everything she hated in childhood (being denied autonomy, explanation, respect, choice), which she has a real chip on her shoulder about (she had a "good" childhood but was deeply angry and resentful until entering monastic training at 12 to help curb that. To give the paired down version; if you've gotten this far thinking this woman is neurotypical I have... news.) She also REALLY hates being lied to*.

I do enjoy that BG3 goes out of its way to show you that an illithid can be a caring, interested, thoughtful, good-natured character who tries to do right, even if they emphatically** do not have souls and represent the death of the person they spawned from... and then there's The Emperor.

Tav hates its guts, especially in its final betrayal - if it had stuck with them, Orpheus would not have had to sacrifice himself. Yes there was bad blood, but it could have at least TRIED, Tav has negotiated tense situations before.***

*As a follower of Helm/personally very just minded she very much counts 'half-truths' and 'deliberate omissions' as lies.

**Withers (née Jergal, scribe of the dead) tells you this outright.

***I think this a good story beat and reasonable character action, this is just her opinion.

Tav's Dream Guardian under cut:

Her thought upon first meeting is "I... don't remember this fantasy. I haven't met a lot of Drow... didn't know I had a - oh this isn't a sexy dream." (The form is more representative of something Tav, personally, would respect and be curious about to learn more of, rather than someone she specifically knows or has in mind. You can see she's visually a lot like Tav - large, imposing, dramatic facial scar and tattoo, sensible hairstyle, not a common species in Faerûn, at least topside.)

[salmonight]

Free Title Ideas Pt. 1

I am always looking for new title ideas trying to find the perfect match for my meager amount of fics actually published ( I got a ton of wips mind you) so I have this little file full with title ideas I got from here and there and I thought I share them! Feel free to use them and all! I only actually used a few of them myself so theyre up for the take! Enjoy!

( I suck at categorizing mind u so take it however u want)

Low Mood:

Paint Splattered Teardrops

A Mournful Radio Song

The Quite Ivories

20 Minute Too Long… Too Late-

No Third Round Up

My Heart's An Artifice, A Decoy Soul

If These Walls Could Talk

Like Drying Paint on the Walls

Withering Memories

Bury Our Secrets Shallow

Isn't It Tragic How Far You Came?

The Best of the Worsts

Your Wings Are Failing, Icarus

Let Your Wings Carry You Away From Here

Cry For Reflection

The Scream of Winter

Much Madness in Divinest Sense

Family Doesn't End in Blood

In This Castle Of Glass

All the Same (Once a Liar, Always a Liar)

Crack:

Law is Where You Buy It

Miles from Normal

Stop Screaming - It's Me

Between Two Liars…

Lost My Soul and All I Got Was this T-Shirt

Dude, Where's My Soul?

When Life Hands You Demons Make Demonade

Demon-Blend Straigh From Hell

Nothing to See Here Officer, Just a Bunch of Blobs

Hey Kid, Wanna Buy a Blob Ghost?

Gingers Have No Souls

This Little Blob of Mine

Feral Goose Hunting: A Beginner's Guide (Just Don't)

10 Ways to Connect with Your Feral Goose by Robin

A Guide on Ruining Your Life

It IS and Idea (Just NOT the Brightest)

I Am totally NOT the One to Blame for THIS

Dead Men Won't Shut Up

Encryptid

Cryptid Crash Course

Shakespeare Has Nothing on Me!

[insert name]'s Observation Diary of the Weirdest Boss(es)

The Devil’s Eyes and His Voice of Reason

Romance:

Makeshift Chemistry

Stargazing, Coffee and the Mystery of You..

Play Love Like Killers (We All Fall)

Good Vibes:

Sunshine Riptide

Come on Baby, the Laugh Is on Me

Fair With Some Rain

Star Light, Star Bright, First Arrow I See Tonight

Bitter (?):

Ah, Lay Waste to it, then Laugh at it

Believe, We Were Never Gonna Lose Control

Die, but too Blind to See

Too Latte for Smiling (yes thats a pun there no miss typing)

And as the Scribe Said, Mark Me Up With Words

Vodka Shots in the Dark

What Lingers, What Waits

Dr.Sunshine is Dead

Action:

Swing 'em Sword, Comin' in Swarms

Droppin' Guns all on the Floor 'till it look like River Styx

Black on Black at Night

Rifles, and they're Useless in this House

Dropp the Dagger

Watch Us BURN

Death:

Leave Your Body and Soul at the Door

Dead Man's Party

'Till the Reaper Call

'cause the Hangman's Waiting

A Night in the Ice Box

Stars Fall Underground

Can't Reach the Stars from the Underworld

Dance on Your Grave in All Whites

I Will See You Down Below

A Toast to the Passing Lights

I am a Ghost, but Only If You Remember

A Forray into Thanatology

Do You Want to Build a Snow-ghost?

In the In Between

Deceased When Last Seen

They Only Murdered Him Once

Colder Than These Bones

A Ghostly Collection of Stories once Untold

Dearly Departed

Hopeful:

City of Last Hopes

Bright Foggy Skies

This Bird Has Flown

A Bard's Tale, so Bittersweet

In the Winter, the Van Keeps Rolling

Oh Raven (Sing Me a Happy Song)

A Light to Call Home

Lost and Found

Towards the Sun

Khmm I have quite a few ghost/death and Dc related ones cuz I mostly wrote DC and DP fics so I looked for tittles for those. Those who know, know those who don't can ignore them.

Pt 2 |

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Moon Above And Stars Beside Her

Me, rising from the dead after a hundred years to post fic? It's more likely than you think! These specific characters were laser-targeted and lovingly crafted to activate every single one of my neurons and I am immensely grateful for them. Please enjoy the result of me endlessly rotating them in my mind ever since I met them.

Be warned that this fic is pretty much made up entirely of spoilers for Act 2 of the game.

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm, Balthazar, Withers, and a smidge of Selûne herself Length: ~11000 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence and sexual content

Hurt/comfort, dealing with trauma, an overabundance of righteous anger, a smidge of Came Back Wrong, and some pretty complicated and peculiar parent/child issues.

Summary:

What of the gnawing in thine holy gut, the rage clawing up thine throat? A great weight, inclined to tip the scales once more. Which way shalt thou cast it? When you had nothing else, caged in darkness, you learned to cultivate your anger like the finest of crops. And yet there seems to be so little for you to reap.

The Nightsong is no more and Dame Aylin is returned to her most holy duties. Isobel Thorm is free of her grave. How they handle their past, present, and future is, perhaps, up to them.

Also on AO3.

—

Moon Above And Stars Beside Her

"And what of thee, god-child, moon-graced, silver-blood?"  

It is the Scribe who addresses you one entirely unremarkable evening, looking up from his scroll to arrest your gaze with his deathless one. They introduced him, a camp guest most unexpected, by some nonsense name you cannot even call to mind. But you would know him anywhere. And so you stop in your path, as you are bid, and listen. 

"A tipping of the scales most severe: thine mother freshly spared mourning her daughter, her dark sister's triumph snatched away at the very last moment." 

"You have guided these adventurers well, Scribe," you incline your head in respect and a small measure of thanks.  

"I do not guide," the grave-wind voice is raised just enough to convey something resembling annoyance at a minor inaccuracy he simply must correct. "I offer what services I am bound to, nothing more."  

You arch an eyebrow at him. "And yet you wish to speak to me, who did not ask any service of you." 

"Yes," he responds, and leaves it at that for a few moments that feel like an eternity. A timescale he is used to, one would imagine. 

"Dame Aylin. Thou art a curious creature, I admit - immortal, yet appearing in my records many times over. Moreover, thine fate stands indelibly entwined with one whose name has been freshly struck from the archives in a manner most uncommon and highly questionable." 

A tension floods you as you realise he talks of Isobel, and your hands tighten into fists at your sides.  

"What of her, pray tell?" It comes out more curt than you intended, perhaps, but the words are spoken before you can properly settle on them. 

"She lives, and shall do so for the time that is given to her, as it is to most. And still," he nods, unnervingly calm, all taut paper-thin skin, a being of unlife if you've ever seen one, "thou wouldst cleave thine malefactors in twain and rejoice in their screams. Thou, who burnest so deeply to reflect back upon them every spear-strike, every lash, every cut, every shattered, twisted bone and sinew, every drop of blessed blood they dared spill."  

You breathe in a leaden breath, knit together as you are, the divine birthright of your Mother lacing your scars with shining gold, proclaiming that the testament of your newly ended immeasurable suffering is something to be proudly displayed. You know the marks on your face glisten in the firelight much like the woven gold that decorates his skull, his sunken cheeks, as he looks upon you half-expectantly.  

"I would, and I do," you can but confirm through grit teeth. 

"What of thine anger? What of the gnawing in thine holy gut, the rage clawing up thine throat? A great weight, inclined to tip the scales once more. Which way shalt thou cast it?" 

"I would destroy them. I would scorch the very traces of them from the world. Some, I already have - as you are doubtlessly aware, Scribe. Much like they tried, and failed, to destroy me." 

"Or did they?" There is the infuriating calmness again, and a question meant for no answer, or perhaps merely a word of caution aimed at you. 

His withered countenance is as utterly illegible as a weather-worn tombstone, but if this was meant to stir hated doubt in you, it does. For you have grown well aware it is not just the bright, righteous blaze of justified anger that fuels you now, but something relentless that stings and cuts you as it wants out, out, out. This is not the way of Protection, of Devotion, of measured Justice. This is not the duty you were once sworn to, the sacred oath that has resounded in the marrow of your very bones since the first breath you ever drew upon this land. No, it is something new, and yet Vengeance has served you just as well - better, perhaps - in this brief time you've been free. 

"For all their infernal efforts, I have pieced myself together over and over and over again. It is my nature to do so, not a choice to be made, nor a conscious effort. Their betrayal and their sins against me are but a chapter in my tale, nothing more. My task is not done, and for as long as it is so, Dame Aylin will not stop, will not falter. You know this as well as I." 

The calm of the tomb refuses to be disturbed in any way, least of all by your tirade. "And yet, along the way, a piece of thee was lost and replaced with another, ill-fitting. Many stand to win from this, as many stand to lose." 

You frown as you scrounge around for a reply, and find yourself lacking one. He looks not at you, but into and through you, and it is uniquely discomfiting.  

The Scribe raises his hand in dismissal, and offers solemn parting words. "A godling thou art, but no god. It is in thine nature, too, to wonder, and question, and change in response. As it is in mine to observe, and take note, and stand witness to the weaving of fate. Forget not: thou art not near as tide- and cycle-bound as thine divine moon-mother." 

- 

You are given little time to contemplate the Scribe's weighty, ominous statements. Yet another comes seeking, coveting, poaching. Craven-clever mouth full of honeyed praise for your "gift" and only ever wanting to take, take, take, all for himself. 

How dare, how dare he, how dare they how DARE--  

A thousand echoes of deaths upon deaths swarm and you take the vainglorious fool, lift him bodily up and-- 

He breaks upon your knee like a dry kindling scrap and your breaths come loud and half-choked and heaving. What was once a vile wizard is now nothing and for a moment, the briefest, most fleeting of moments, neither are you. 

Until the world rushes back in, exhausting in its sheer weight. There is no glorious, triumphant rush of battle-roused blood singing through you. Vengeance didn't taste sweet. It didn't taste like much of anything.  

When you had nothing else, caged in darkness, you learned to cultivate your anger like the finest of crops. And yet there seems to be so little for you to reap. 

As the sounds of the city far, far below slowly fill the enchanted tower, competing with crackling magic and bubbling potions and a complete absence of words spoken by any of your present companions and allies, all you can pinpoint whirling within you is a rising despondency. 

One more, and then another, and another after that, extending before you all in a line, down the endless, endless years that await you, immortal and eternal. Magus or sorcerer or ruffian or necromancer or halfwit charlatan, it won't matter much, will it? Because they will try. 

Do you dare ever again let your guard down for even a few precious moments of respite, when another villain with designs on your person could be lurking, scheming just around the corner? 

Worse yet, far more chilling - what if they, conniving, decide to aim their ambitions at a different target, at your soft underbelly, and come for Isobel in turn? 

When you draw yourself out of the crowding thoughts and return to camp at long last, subdued, tired, painfully aware you are far removed from your usual mighty bearing, hours have flown by and the sun has already set. Isobel is there, and for a moment that is all you know. She is there, and whole, and alive, and it is all you can do not to drop to your knees once more and offer prayer upon prayer of gratitude. 

She looks at you, eyes brimming with a potent mix of concern and questions, then rushes towards you and wordlessly takes you by the gauntleted hand to the small sanctuary you've carved out for yourselves in the midst of your newfound allies: a simple tent, a soft, warm rug, a comfortable enough cot. A small washbasin Isobel keeps filled with conjured, moonlight-laced freshwater. 

"It was a glorious victory, my love, worry not," you rush to reassure, though even you can tell your heart is not in it. "Yet another villain slain, his devilish designs denied -  as has become the habit of our merry retinue. The battle has tired my mind somewhat, that is all."  

You can see the doubt writ plainly on her face, but it is no lie you tell her (never, never could you bring yourself to lie to her). It is more that… you do not know the reason yourself, or, rather, that it feels too manifold to ever encompass in simple words. 

"I wish you would give yourself time, Aylin, let yourself rest," Isobel says, soft, endlessly caring, achingly perceptive, and only slightly disapproving. She starts taking your armour off piece by piece as you sit on the small campaign stool you appropriated recently, then dampens a washcloth to wipe the traces of recent battle from your face. "Please. You endured more than a hundred years of horrors I can scarcely imagine."  

You grit your teeth at the mention and try, foolishly, to hide from her the tension that runs through you at the mere evocation of the thought. She palms your cheek and tilts your face to look up at her - her, standing above you and yet barely exceeding your height, though you remain seated - and oh, how you adore the sight! 

Isobel frowns as she notices a scrape on your temple, slightly singed in a near-miss from one of the mage's commanded elementals. It is nothing, you want to insist, no need to fuss over it, but you know how to recognise a battle lost before it has even begun. "In Her radiance, you are made whole," she murmurs, and you feel the familiar tingling and slight warmth of the gash knitting itself closed. 

Her incantations are perfect and as subtly melodious as ever. There is healing even before her spells take hold simply by the fact she is here. It is Isobel's touch that has ever been a balm when you returned from a skirmish, feathers ruffled, just as it is now when you feel burning echoes of abuse tear through you at some unintended motion or runaway thought. 

Satisfied for the moment, she dips the cloth in water again, and runs it gently over you, in a cycle as regular and comforting as that of the Moon itself: brow, nose, cheek, jaw, neck, then brow again, and again. For a little while the gentle, refreshing, cleansing caress is the only thing that exists in your world, and you let go of the death-grip you only half-consciously had on her other hand. 

"I confess… I hate to see you throwing yourself back into the fray like this. I understand why, and that it is necessary, but…" she trails away and pauses for a heavy moment, cloth in hand. She resumes, more determined, now scrubbing at a stubborn mark on your chin. "I wish it didn't have to be so soon. Duty or not, you shouldn't have to. You should be allowed to recover in your own time, to heal in peace, until you are ready." 

You cannot help but bristle at that. "You would deem me unfit for my purpose? My duty and my self are so entwined, it is not possible to have one without the other - would you call into question a sword's place in battle?" 

"Listen to yourself," Isobel snaps, harsher than you can ever remember hearing her, stopping her ministrations and standing tall to face you down, cheeks reddened. "Can't you hear what you sound like? Like a misguided Sharran, making yourself out to be nothing but a tool to be used and used and used until you are useful no more!" 

You gape at her, useless, wordless. "Isobel…" 

"Yes, you are the resplendent Sword of the Moonmaiden, performing great deeds in Her name… but you're so, so much more than that, and I treasure all that you are." The words are so impassioned and so openly honest you are struck silent in pure awe. Isobel, clutching a dripping, bloodied washcloth in the middle of a patched-up tent, might as well be a queen making proclamations before her devoted court assembled in a lofty palace. And oh, devoted you are, endlessly, endlessly. This can never change. 

"My Aylin, my angel. You always have been, and always will be, and if it takes me years to remind you of all of these things I know you once knew, I promise I will." Her palm is back on your face, a gentle caress that soothes many wounds long invisible, never healed. 

She speaks her promise as solemn as any vow you have ever made, and you bow your head to kiss her hand.  

"There is no need for recklessness, after all," Isobel smiles, the slightest wry twist to it, as she tips your chin back up, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead and murmur against your freshly washed skin. "The Moonmaiden's shield is mine to wield. You know its strength, the blows it can take. Let it be a sanctuary for you as well. Give me - give yourself a chance. Slowly, step by step - there is time." 

You have time, she is correct, even if you've never managed to have a very good grasp of it. All the time in the world, and then some. 

Isobel does not. 

You've already lost her once, had her ripped from your arms by whims of fate, or rather something far more sinister. There is no way to know, but you suspect, oh, you do. Your Mother's dark twin schemes ever on, and Moonrise, beacon that it was, surely seemed to her a provocation, Ketheric Thorm a crown jewel to be poached, and Isobel, your Isobel, a mere means to an end. 

Isobel, brought back, a miracle paid for so very dearly. It would be foolish to count on another. 

You stand up and reach over and almost crush her to your chest in an embrace - one she returns not a moment after completing her surprised exclamation. You hold her and hold her and allow yourself to lose track of time again. 

- 

Moonlit, timeless, subdued in her glory, you listen to Isobel recite the Words as she pours fresh milk into the small silver ritual bowl before her.  

"Our Lady of Silver, whose light falls upon us all, hear me."  

Her reverent voice is barely above a whisper but carries impeccably, harmonising with the gentle bells and chimes surrounding the private little altar.  

"Sheltered by Your radiance, guided by Your hand, I come not to entreat, but to reaffirm." 

Motes of moonlight buoyant around her dance in the rhythm of the prayer you've heard and repeated so often it feels like breathing itself. It would feel stranger not to join in, so you do, if only in your mind. 

- 

Ever-changing, ever-returning, as the silver Moon waxes and wanes, so too does life.  

- 

You lurch back into awareness in a place you have never seen before, but that you recognise without a shred of doubt. The utter absence in the dark dome of the sky above you, the storms that swirl and rage all around, the assault on your ever-heightened divine senses - the reek of the Shadowfell feels like it has sunk its claws into your lungs already. You shudder, then startle, scrambling to stand when you realise your armour is gone, your sword nowhere to be found. 

Your feet are bare on the cold, cruel rock; your mind reeling, disoriented. Half-blinded by the glowing runes that encircle you, your tunic still stained with the fresh blood of your latest, very recent death, you come face to face with the two men you made the mistake of believing and turning your back on mere moments ago, in what must have been a different pocket of the dark realm.  

And so, the last time you see him for what is to be more than a hundred years, Ketheric Thorm locks gazes with you and wordlessly draws a dagger. Then he cuts his palm, deep and deliberate and unflinching, and your own muscle and sinew feel the slice. 

The hideous grin of savoured success on his pet necromancer's face upon witnessing your startled, pained reaction chills you to the bone. It is then, perhaps, that you begin to grasp the scope and shape of what they have in store for you. 

You try to rush at them, charge and claw them into submission with your bare, bloodied hands if needs be, but the boundaries of the sickly-bright rune-inscribed circle flare up, the cage tightens around you, phantom hands grasp and wrench and restrain and keep you in place, your foes and would-be tormentors only just out of reach. 

"What are you doing, you dog ?" You roar at Ketheric, your insides twisting at the sight of the dark disc newly burnished on his armour, Sharran symbols adorning his brow, his chest. "Oathbreaker! How dare you conspire against Dame Aylin, against Selûne herself! How dare you so betray Isobel--" 

A heavy gauntlet smashes into your jaw as soon as the beloved, yearned-for name leaves your lips, and Ketheric's voice rises above the ringing in your ears. 

"You do not get to speak her name, thief. I am the one betrayed, abandoned. By your witch of a mother who hoarded my misguided service for far too long." 

Ketheric steps back and calms, somewhat - or merely restrains his rage into something crueller and colder, while you recover enough to speak.  

"Shar will not help you, Ketheric Thorm. Oblivion does not heal, does not mend - and oblivion is all she offers. But what she will ask of you in return will damn you forever." 

He waves a claw-armoured hand in mock-dismissal of your warnings. 

"Do what you will with her, Balthazar, as long as it doesn't impede my Lady's plans. Break her, if you can. Let her rage and pace and fume and rot, if not. But I want her to know," he steps closer again, so close, almost close enough to touch, if not for those accursed hands holding you back, "when our Dark Lady's acolytes come calling, when her wretched silver-stained blood fuels the creation of an army the likes of which the world has yet to see - I want her to know and never forget: it was on my orders." 

You calm your breathing enough to answer, the burning rage within you forging your words into steel - the only steel you can aim at him, for the moment. But the tides will turn, as they inevitably do. "The Moon shows many faces. Our Lady of Silver is ever-changing. You should be careful, traitor, lest the Hunter's Moon marks you as Her prey." 

Ketheric scoffs, unimpressed. "Let her try! Let her come, let her send all her legions after me, when she would not lift one holy finger to help me when I needed it most, for all my decades of faith and devotion. No, you will see," the quiet conviction in him is chilling to behold, in all its sheer wrongness. "This place, this bond, will sustain me, and it will take everything from you, piece by piece, until you whine and cry and beg your moonwitch mother for salvation. And when you are met with the same merciless silence as I was, perhaps I will consider it payment enough for the precious hours of my daughter's presence you dared steal from me, interloper." 

You cannot reach him to wrap your hands around his worthless, treacherous throat and wring. But the trap, the cage, is imperfect, and you spit silver-flecked blood at his face easily. 

He flicks his cheek clean, all dismissal, then motions to his foul, death-reeking companion to come forward. "Start with her wings. She has no need for those anymore." 

"I would be delighted, General," comes the sickening, rot-sweet voice of Balthazar from somewhere behind you, along with the deceptively gentle sound of him tinkering with his ghastly tools and implements. "How very appropriate, how symbolic, to start by clipping our little bird's wings." 

You roar your rage at Ketheric's back until he is out of sight and your throat is raw and bloody and capable of nothing but a hoarse whisper. You strain and pull and beat your wings in great gusts with all the desperate force you can muster; you burn, entire, with a scorching radiance unlike any you've manifested before. But the newforged bonds persist, and drag you down, down, down, merciless, until you see and breathe nothing but dust, the magic of one of the caging runes stinging against your cheek as the sounds of what can only be termed butchery fill the stale air. 

It is the perhaps unfortunate attribute of your particular strain of immortality that you are obliged to feel every wound, every hurt, every blow that seeks to lay you low. That you rise to fight again only after you have been truly felled. That your memory is one made to suit your long life - blade-sharp, exact, and infallible.  

You lie there afterwards for a long, long, quiet while; unmoving, though the spectral hands loosened their grip and vanished along with Balthazar, a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year ago. There is too much pain still, you think almost idly, feeling quite far removed from your own self. Too much for any of it to have been a killing blow.  

It is the first time in your storied existence you dare to think of death as a possible mercy and wonder if you might ever welcome it. 

- 

Let all on whom Selûne's light falls be welcome if they desire.   

- 

You do not see Ketheric after that, except in gory fantasies produced by your mind's eye. But you do get to know, intimately, each and every battle he deigns to fight personally, each scrape and cut and bruise and jab, arrow and spear and sword - all unseen, but far from unfelt. 

Then comes the steady stream of misguided Sharrans, would-be Dark Justiciars.  

You try to speak to them, at first. Reach out. Try to make them see their terrible error while retribution might still be within their grasp. 

You fail, each and every time. And each and every time you pay for that failure with a death. Some of them are more decisive about it, quick, almost merciful. Some stretch it out, savour it. Some can't bear to meet your eyes. 

But all of them, in the end, do it. And you choke back to life over and over and over again, knit together anew, as the murmurings mount. 

Descend to her. Look upon her. Listen to her.   

Kill her.  

You remember the first time you died: out on a quest taking you through a steep mountain pass, falling into an ambush, peppered by poison-tipped crossbow bolts. You remember also the slight fear, the uncertainty of what exactly would happen to you - the fact of your Moon-blessed immortality until then only a suggestion, a curiosity somewhere in the back of your mind. 

You remember the gradual change into certainty over several misadventures and the ensuing determination - you were indestructible! Indomitable, as befits the Sword of the Moonmaiden, put upon this earth to enact Her will. Who would dare stand before you, resplendent, eternal, uncowable? 

And you remember the long, slow slide into being utterly used to it, down in these seemingly bottomless shadows, stuck on another Sharran spear, listening to your own blood drip drip drip as the darkness grew even heavier, laced with increasingly triumphant whispers. 

- 

As we turn to the Moon, we trust She will be our true guide.  

- 

Exhaustion overwhelms even the most righteous of furies, and you fall into a fitful sleep now and then. You dream of Isobel, soft, warm, brilliant, alive, and it makes the cruelty of awakening all the worse. 

Balthazar comes, sometimes, your most frequent and most despised visitor by far. He delights in letting you know how much time has passed - impossible to tell, in the umbral pocket of your prison. Regales you with tales of Sharran tyranny being visited upon the land and the people you were sent to watch over and protect and guide, your one mission and the purpose written into the very blood flowing through your veins. And yet you did nothing but fail. Precious Isobel, dead; Ketheric, lost, determined to tear down with him the world entire. 

Balthazar rejoices in the disgust you cannot help but bear openly upon your face as he expounds on his experiments, hands unbound by any trace or suggestion of morality and propriety and with Selûnite victims in abundance. He crows endlessly over his successes, his sick triumphs - but oh, none as impressive as you!  

He does much worse, later, and you learn you do not need a tongue to curse him. 

You know nothing can come of it but even more pain and sick retribution, yet you goad the corpse-rotted bastard every chance you get. The necrotic embodiment of every foul undead creature you would have wreathed your sword in radiance for, if only it were at hand. Whom you would have longed to smite until nothing but ash remained. 

There is nothing else here. Empty shadows, as befits the Lady of Loss. A void without and within, yours to fill with gnawing, searing, holy wrath. Nothing left to sustain you but the thought of a long-distant but inevitable escape and vengeance.  

One day. 

"I keep a tally just for you, Balthazar." You pace the infuriatingly familiar bounds of your cage, precise in your steps in order not to trigger the wretched closing in, the grasping-- 

He looks up from the stitching he is doing, morbid handiwork on some poor Moon-devoted stonemason he wanted you to see. "Aylin! I did not know you cared so." 

"Why, yes," you bare your teeth at him in mockery of a smile. "When your little spell inevitably fails and this game of yours runs its course, I will come find you first. I will tear you apart, limb from mismatched limb, into your grave-robbed constituent parts. And then I will mince them further, until there is one rotting morsel of you for each and every hurt you have ever visited on me." 

"You will find," you prowl closer, just out of reach of the necrotic claws, "I have an excellent memory." 

Infuriatingly, the corpse only smiles, laughs in your face. 

"I was expecting just a touch more creativity, but then I suppose that has never been much of a strong point for you moon-followers." 

You scowl and swallow back a growl and want only to provoke him further, itch to make him react, to make a mistake. 

"So very boring and predictable. Painfully straightforward. Laughably easy to trick." 

He waves a hand and conjures a muddy image of the lost Selûnite child you were made to chase down here what feels like a lifetime ago, the perfect bait they contrived just for you. 

"You were nothing, Aylin. A meat-headed little errand girl for your useless mother. I, well, I have made you into a treasure." 

Balthazar's smile splits the corpse-bloat of his face. The stench makes you want to gag, makes you yearn for the duller senses of one not trained from birth to be a paladin.  

"As thanks, let me leave you with a thought you will doubtlessly appreciate. Do you know, I wonder, how very little it would take for you to be freed? What little effort I had to invest to ensure your captivity? One friendly touch would break the confinement spell, a mere moment of kindness. Nothing more." 

He steps forward, waving your clawed shackles into existence. Then he moves as if to pat your head or caress your face - but instead pulls at your hair, whipping your head back, and sneers. 

"How lucky for both of us you will never find such a thing here. There is not the slimmest hope of reprieve, not for you." 

And for a hundred years, he is right. 

- 

The Moonmaiden will never allow us to bear a burden we cannot carry.  

- 

The burning flare of indignant rage sours somewhere deep in your belly along the way. You are not of Ilmater's stock, made for the rack, proud to endure all pain, indignities, and abuse, for oh, good things would come to those who waited! With idle waiting you were long done. There was no glory to be found in suffering. No, you were made to be a beacon soaring through the sky, driving away shadows and fear and doubt, illuminating with the stark, silver light of your Mother's truth all the myriad lies your foes so loved to wield. 

What have they done to you? When it might be easier to ask what haven't they, over the months, years, decades, uncountable. Tongue, eyes, wings, heart. Yours to lose, all of it, when it was never theirs to take. And then, darker still - what use it all, when your heart's love had gone already? Isobel, most cherished of all, taken so suddenly and cruelly - you always knew you were going to be painfully parted, for your nature made that an inevitability. But not so soon. Not cut so short so abruptly, when she had so much still to give, and do, and be. When you were supposed to watch her grow old and say goodbye slowly and gradually with every precious day. 

You try to fill the hours between deaths with something kinder: memories of her gentle smile, her soft touch, her grace and her wit and her light. But all you can picture here among the accursed shadows is the beautiful, heartrending serenity of her laid on her bier, awaiting her final rites. 

Your own words to Ketheric resound in your mind. "Dear Isobel," you whispered, reverently, words you now know fell on deaf ears, "in my Mother's care at the Gates of the Moon, no doubt, with noble Melodia by her side. One day you shall be reunited on the silver shores. One day, my mission will be deemed complete, and I will be released from my duty… and I shall be permitted to join you." A tentative, tender smile to the bereaved father, and a hand on his shoulder. Trying to meet the man's grief with your own and perhaps thus relieve both your burdens. 

In a kinder world, you could have mourned your mutual loss together. But it wasn't to be. Instead - this. Instead, you, here, caged, tormented, made to carry more than just the hurts visited upon Ketheric's flesh and bone. Though in your mind it seems it has all done little to soothe his own pain, instead merely doubling it and vomiting it back into the world. 

Your contemplation is cut short by a sudden agony. This in itself is nothing new - Ah, you think, Ketheric has run afoul of a Harper's blade or a druid's claws again. You know enough from Balthazar's boasting to distract yourself with dreamed-up possibilities, a comfort as meagre and thin as the rags that clothe you. As if you could will his own hurts back onto him.  

No, the pain is nothing new. But there is something different about it this time - it feels like it has no end, it does not ebb, and you take such a very, very long time to die. And when you awaken again, the crushing in your chest continues, then stops so abruptly you feel like you can breathe for the first time in years. This was clearly no normal battlefield injury and it makes your entire being burn with hope that, for all the unusual suffering it is foisting upon you, it means that something shifted -- 

That perhaps, somehow, miraculously, even with leeching off of you, fat and silverblood-gorged, Ketheric failed. Was defeated. 

That perhaps your torment is reaching its end, and soon enough some enterprising hero, a fellow Selûnite perhaps, will find themselves guided into your prison to help you pry the bars wide open-- 

And then, a roar. A quake of the very foundation of your unseen cell so strong it knocks you down, and a surge of darkness and fury greater than anything you've ever seen. An entire storm of shadows, howling, screaming with a thousand enraged voices, ever-wretched Shar's above all, rushing up and up and up and blasting through the black dome that stood for the sky in this abyss.  

You dare not think of what this could mean: the Shadowfell pouring out its umbral essence over the world so suddenly and violently. 

It is a moment, perhaps, of ultimate weakness - for a precious few seconds you had the nerve to think it might finally be over, but instead… this. 

"Hear me, Mother," you rasp out against the ground stained over and over with your own blood, unable even to lift your head and address the words up high, where they belong. "Hark, Moonmaiden Selûne, Your blade is dulled, stolen. Your will delayed, undone. Your daughter… begs for Your aid…" 

"I need… I pray… a boon. Bless me with Your help, so that Your bright sword can once again be lifted as an instrument against the darkness. At Your service, as I ever must be, I incur this debt gladly. Let us answer this invasion with all our might." 

There is no response to your prayers. Not a glimpse of your Mother's ever-changing face. Not a single droplet of silver moonlight penetrates these shadows, and no other voice reaches your ears. 

The thought rises, unbidden: is this what Ketheric meant? 

There is no shadowy shroud of Shar that a moonbeam of Selûne cannot pierce. You have staked your entire being on this belief, a thousand times over. And yet not a mote of light reaches you in all your years of captivity, and you, curse you, you wonder. The swirling shadows whisper and tickle your mind and your very soul and you despise this intrusion but-- 

If she can, and yet she does not - does that mean she does not want to? Does not care to? 

Among the wild shadowy storms and the gusting winds and lashing lightning, the silence is deafening. When you repeat your prayer, a year later, then a decade, there is still no answer. 

An incredible loneliness stretches before you, a nothingness so profound and so very, very long you think you might even miss Balthazar's rancid presence. 

And then, a sudden crushing in your chest again, and an agony exploding behind your eyes. Mercifully brief, as far as these things have gone before, but igniting such unspeakable anguish in you that you bellow and pound your fists against the ground until they are raw and bloody. For you know this can only mean one thing: the cycle is starting anew after all this time, and what you took for Ketheric's defeat had somehow only been a temporary setback. 

- 

As Your starglow soothes and bolsters, so we promise to aid our fellow faithful, and guide those whose path is not yet clear.  

- 

You've flown over these lands countless times, but now, as you rush forward to your long-promised reckoning, you might as well be flying over one of the hells. The ruin and desolation drains away even the heady rush of newfound freedom, the sheer relief of feeling the wind on your wings once again. 

It is hard to reconcile the shadow-swollen horrors below you with the magnificence of Moonrise Towers as you once knew them, striking pillars of faith without question. Reithwin itself and the land entire have changed, twisted, in the end but a mirror to the devotion of their ruling family.  

There is nothing here of what you remember, nothing left of the simple, blessed life you got but a taste of, not even an echo to be found of all that you once came to treasure alongside your beloved. Fields and orchards you helped work; vineyards you helped bless; fine, silver-wrought fountains you helped make ever-pure, all in your role as your Mother's emissary. 

Ketheric Thorm, now False twice over, in whose throne room you stood in audience, promising your fealty and your aid, as recognition for his family's long list of deeds in Selûne's name. 

And Isobel, his daughter, still fairly young for one of half-elven descent, but an accomplished cleric in her own right. Her mother's daughter through and through. 

The first in Reithwin to stop being star-struck when faced with you, made of far sterner stuff than she might have at first seemed, and insisting on meeting you as an equal. Wise, caring, and skilled. And achingly beautiful, with a soft face and rosy cheeks meant to be bathed in the gentlest of moonlight. 

It was odd, but meant to be - clearly part of some plan you happened not to be privy to, but had no desire to question. 

- 

All love alive under Her light shall know Her blessing.  

- 

Isobel, living and breathing before you, is a miracle if you've ever seen one. 

Isobel, still hurt, bruised from what you are told was a kidnapping attempt ordered by her own father - you bristle, and bite it down. 

"It is nothing," she insists when you belabour the point, and you want to chastise her for never thinking of herself enough, even after a century, always putting her own wellbeing last, knitting everyone else's wounds closed and leaving no salve for her own. 

Instead, you take her face between your palms, trace her cheeks with tentative fingers and carefully, carefully tap into the healing magic you've ignored for a hundred years. The face of the Moonmaiden is ever-shifting - the fierce, warlike guise of martial prowess is but one of many in Her exalted repertoire, and so, too, in yours. 

Then, in the privacy of the spacious upstairs room granted to Isobel as the haven's pivotal goddess-touched protector, the very embodiment of the Last Light, you do the same for the rest of her.  

Her body is warm, though she complains of a coldness she cannot be rid of. 

You fall before her, on your knees as if in supplication, as has always felt like the most natural thing in the world. Face buried in the softness of her bare stomach, a dam in you breaks, and you weep for the joy, the relief beyond all hope, of her real and breathing and whole before you. 

She leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head, like a benediction, hands running through your hair and cradling you ever so softly until you regain yourself. 

"My darling, my angel. I can hardly believe you are here." 

In this, she speaks for the both of you, and spurs you to action. 

"Then let me banish all doubt," you murmur, trailing kisses all the while, reverent hands on soft thighs. "I would taste of you, my love, if you allow it." 

There is a fleeting moment of hesitation that was never there before as her hands and lips still. But then her shiver becomes one of anticipation as she murmurs into your ear. "I welcome it." 

It is yours, then, as ever, to do as you are bid. 

You wish to touch every inch of her, impress upon her again and again in a thousand kisses the affection and adoration welling within you inexhaustible. You crave to recommit to memory what you once studied and learned like the most fastidious of students. You need in a way you never have before. And she obliges - no, answers, just as eager and driven by your age-long separation, though her experience of it has been so wildly, incomprehensibly different. 

The sounds you draw from her (familiar, dearly missed) are like a balm, a private song you were certain you would never hear again.  

You hold her as close as is possible, and she returns the favour. Her caress is familiar, warm, healing in ways few things could ever be. After the hundred years of emptiness interspersed with biting, death-inviting pain and foul, crushing hands holding you in place, after unspeakable things visited upon your body, your person, a gentle, loving, careful touch is a treasure unmatched. The sharpness of the contrast makes your throat tighten. 

"Isobel," you breathe into her shoulder, neck, and can think of nothing holier to say than her name. 

She holds you entire in her gentle hands, heart and soul and body, and whispers fervent vows to never let you go, never allow you to feel hurt and harm again.  

Isobel is slight compared to you, small and soft, for your strengths have ever lain in different areas. Treasured and safe in the circle of her arms, in the sanctuary of her embrace, finally, finally, you find rest. 

- 

You are back in your circle-cage, face down, limbs leaden. 

The bloated corpse-face of Balthazar leers over you and you launch upwards, swipe at him, near-desperate to drive him away before he continues his wretched work. Aching to make him pay for every insult he has dared commit upon your blessed flesh. 

Only to find yourself gasping, gulping down cool night air, seated on the bed in the pleasantly twilit room on the upper floor of the Last Light Inn. 

You focus for a moment and effortlessly as ever manifest your wings and take stock of yourself. You know you have not escaped unscathed, unchanged, but your strong limbs are still there, as if nothing had ever happened. Shoulders wide and sturdy, downy feathers, wings. Every sleek vane and fine bit of plumage in their place, pearly white-silver and perfect.  

Yet any human rosiness that used to reside there is long gone out of your skin, grey like marble, criss-crossed with precious gold. If you look down, there is a severe, pronounced crack lying right above your heart. It makes sense, of course, if you think on it, though you so desperately prefer - try - not to. 

And the dream - nightmare - insists on sinking vestigial claws into you, leaving you with a burning, torn sensation between your shoulder blades. 

Isobel stirs beside you, and you curse for having woken her from such hard-won and rarely granted serenity. She sits up, sleep-cottoned, and traces gentle fingers down the tensed, trembling part of your back, though you have said nothing. But Isobel, wise, insightful Isobel, always seems to know at least part of what ails you. 

"One of the Flaming Fists encamped here... a traitor. Marcus," she speaks somewhat haltingly, cautiously. "We were all struck by his betrayal, but I... when I saw him, when he came for me, when he was sent for me..." 

Her eyes meet yours, almost reluctantly. 

"He had wings. Hideously warped, blackened, rotten things, but..." 

A question is raised, a mirror of one you've asked yourself, during long hours-turned-days of morbid contemplation in your prison. 

"Balthazar. He got them from that wretch Balthazar." 

"And he got them--" Isobel cuts herself off, fully awake and alert and wincing at the confirmation of her fears. 

You swallow, throat parched and burning as if the screams from then still scrape against it. Harvesting, he called it. 

"He got them from me." 

It is simply not something to be thought about. The bile of wrath rises, crawls up your throat instead, and you spit out words almost in a growl.  

"He has been dispatched, I trust? The traitor?" 

Isobel understands.  

"He has, of course," she rushes to reassure. "Jaheira and the Harpers made quick work of him and the horrible creatures he called to his aid." 

You hum, move to sit back against the headboard, then change your mind as soon as it touches your skin. "It seems I have much to thank High Harper Jaheira for." 

Your hand is still tightened into a fist in the coverlet, and Isobel reaches over, pries it open, to hold it ever so gently between both of her palms. 

"We both do. We'll see them all come morning, exchange tales over breakfast. Outside, perhaps, in the sun, at long last." Her smile is as bright as this promised dawn, but there is a note of silver-filigree steel behind it. "We can thank her then. Make sure she knows she can count on us through whatever is to come." 

She reaches over to cradle your chin, tugging you down, and kisses you softly. "Let us get some more rest, my love." 

The both of you slip back under the moth-eaten but soft covers and she burrows insistently into your side, under one wing. You lie - and, blessedly, sleep - on your stomach, Isobel's arm thrown over your lower back in that perfect balance she is mastering of being reassuring while not calling too much to mind. 

- 

When we are beset with shadows, You mend our hearts with the silver thread of Your radiant loom.  

- 

You let Isobel braid your hair, one idle evening in camp. You can sense she is just as starved for simple contact as you are - her hands seem restless, even more so than usual, and flit over your back, shoulders, arms... so you let her occupy them, as she perches in your lap and peppers you with kisses, and speaks not a single word. 

There is no mirror at hand to see her handiwork when she is done, but she looks pleased with herself, and with you, and you feel like this should be... enough. 

But another memory stirs and inches through, of the times you knelt, crouched, sat in that glowing circle that your world had seemed shrunken to, and, for want of anything to do with your hands (now past punching, past clawing for the freedom that was out of their reach) you set to braiding your hair, as if preparing to don a helmet and march off to glorious combat. It was something to do, and pretend. 

You undo the braids as soon as Isobel falls asleep. 

- 

The city, that meeting point of fates, draws ever nearer. 

Isobel's cough comes and goes. Nothing as bad as the fits that sometimes awoke her while you were still in the cursed lands, but it persists, frustratingly. 

"Isobel, I--" you barely get to begin to voice your concern before she brushes you away. 

"Please, it's nothing. Don't worry about me, dearest." 

"I find I cannot," you state simply, as it is a very simple truth. 

"I- I don't want to burden you. You've enough on your plate as it is." She gives a small smile so forced you almost feel insulted. "It'll pass, I'm sure." 

"Burden…? Isobel," a mess of words past her cherished name stick in your mouth, awkward, nigh indignant, and you take a moment to calm and order them. Simple and earnest is what you settle for, in the end. "Isobel, my love… You are first in my thoughts, always, you know this. I would gladly bear all your burdens if I but could, if you were to allow it - each and every one." 

She frowns, shakes her head, and you hate that you seem to have somehow displeased her. "That's just it, isn't it? I don't want you to. I don't need you to. You've born more than anyone's fair share." 

"Ah, but Dame Aylin is hardly anyone, is she?"  

You aim your most winning, blinding white grin at her, but fail to induce the reaction you were once used to getting on a whim. No blush or giggle hidden behind a dainty palm at your deliberately overtuned charm being pointed at her, no smirk and tease in return.  

No, Isobel is subdued, troubled, and, most vexing of all, everything you say seems to only serve to make it worse. 

There is something new behind her eyes, too, those beautiful, wise eyes that won your heart entire the first time you met them. A darkness, you would dare call it, a shadow not unlike the curse once fallen upon the land. A question, a yearning for some understanding that never seems to come, a futile grasp for something in an emptiness that was not there before. 

"Please, my love," you say with the utmost tenderness, reserved for Isobel alone, "do not hide your heart from me. You know I cherish it as if it were mine own." 

"I haven't felt… myself," she haltingly begins in answer to your plea, as you step forward and encircle her, first in the embrace of your arms, then in the shelter of your wings. A treasured sanctuary saved for the two of you alone. 

"I cannot… the death, it clings, I..." 

She buries her face in your chest as she struggles to pick out words one by one, plucking them out like painful thorns. You let her rest tucked under your chin, restrain yourself to quietly running one gentle, slow hand through her hair. 

"I am afraid," she settles on, finally, almost a whisper, hiding still, refusing to look at you. "I am afraid there is no fixing this wrongness I feel day after day, that's been… in me, over me, ever since I awoke. That something has been taken from me, and now there is no way to remove this vile mark that's been left on me instead, whatever it is. Not even by the grace of the Moonmaiden." 

She shivers, and you tighten your hold on her, even as the sentence after that tears into your very heart, sharper and more jagged than any Sharran knife. 

"I am afraid, most of all, that no matter how much I pray or plead, that whatever I do to try and prove myself worthy, I… cannot be. Ever again. I will never be worthy of Her light again. Or of yours." 

"No," it comes out far rougher, angrier than you ever intended, ever wanted to aim anywhere near precious, beloved Isobel - not at her, never at her. But she is wrong, because it is an impossibility, unthinkable, ridiculous to even suggest. Her, treasured, cherished, held high above all in your regard, and lofty in your Mother's. 

"Please, Isobel," you move a half-step back, if only to make it possible to cup her face, tilt her chin up and look at her. "Do not ever, ever think such a thing again. You could never be unworthy, not you. Not you." 

The hitch is back in her laboured breath as she moves to protest, the haunted look shadowing her eyes. "How? How can you be so sure?" 

And that is the question, isn't it? Your love for Isobel and faith in her intertwined, utterly certain and utterly relentless. Like the rage that sustained you through a century of torment, settled heavy and deep in your bones. You don't know any other way to feel, to be. 

"I will prove it to you, I will drive away any shadow of any doubt. Her light, through me. For you alone, Isobel." 

She acquiesces, at least, to being led over to the bed and sitting down. You lower the shoulders of her tunic. Place a gentle, reverent kiss on the revealed skin, trying to press in with it all the love and devotion you desperately need her to be aware of. 

You lay a hand on her bare back, palm flat and flush with warm skin. The rush of joy and slight disbelief that she is once again yours to touch is still fresh, and yet the familiarity of every freckle, shift of shoulder blade, and light shiver of gooseflesh is ancient and deep and right. From the outside it is the same, perfect, unchanged Isobel. But you believe her unquestioningly when she says something is wrong. 

A mere moment of focus has a silvery glow bathing the room, unwinding from underneath your fingertips and sinking into Isobel's back. She breathes in deeply, breathes out, then in again, shifting under your touch, until she seems to find at least some relief. 

"Thank you, that's…" she murmurs, barely above a breath. 

There is a dawning, deeply saddening comprehension rising in you - Isobel, insisting on pouring all her heart and soul into taking care of you, healing and protecting and doting on so devotedly, driven not just by your love most mutual, but also by fear. By a desperate need to prove herself worthy of Selûne's grace again, prove her return to life was not a horrifying mistake. Chasing redemption where none was ever needed, not for her, clinging to the thought like a lifeline. 

"Whenever, whatever you need of me, however many times." You allow your fervour to seep into your voice as you feel your eyes burn, and continue trailing moonlight-dipped fingers down her back. "If you but say the word, I will provide what relief I can, I swear it, until you are free of any shadows haunting you, or until there is no light left in me - whichever deigns to come first." 

Isobel smiles wryly, turning to steal a glance at you over her shoulder, a tiredness in her that she has only ever shown you alone. "I promised I would take care of you. And yet here you are, taking care of me. After… after everything." 

She knows enough not to specify. Even this brief almost-mention is enough to make a darkness creep at the edge of your thoughts, but you swallow it back hastily, and focus only on the treasured countenance before you, on brushing stray silver locks behind her ear with your free hand. 

"A fair and just exchange, I would think, if you are amenable." 

Isobel hums something that is neither agreement nor disagreement, then turns to face you fully, sombre in the circle of your arms.  

"I always thought that when the time came, I would be ready," she begins, slowly, as if every word was a trial. "Foolish and naive of me, probably. But I thought I knew what to expect, what I would have awaiting me, after a life of service. The City of Judgement, as awaits us all, and then, hopefully, and - I pray - deservedly, an audience in Argentil after being Claimed." 

She stops, swallows, looks at you so pleadingly you cannot help but pull her back into your embrace. 

"But instead…" you hold her tighter as she shudders, "...nothing. Darkness. A void." 

Nothing. Like the black hole of your prison. And it seems fitting, for a moment, that fate has decided to match you in this, too. 

"It is I who failed you. When it truly mattered, when it was of most consequence, I wasn't there. And you… you were lost to me. To us." 

A small frown furrows her brow as she grasps around for something, anything. "I don't remember." 

"Perhaps… perhaps that is for the best," you exhale, half-sick of dredging up shadows you would prefer remain buried. "My own memory is prodigious, and yet how I wish I could forget much of the past century."  

But Isobel looks at you longingly, searchingly, and you oblige, at least for a little bit, calling to mind what should have been the darkest days of your long life. "For all our efforts, we were never able to capture your attackers - the cowards struck so suddenly, fled so swiftly. You were laid in state, for a while. The entirety of Reithwin mourned - the Silverbrow Priestess conducted the funeral services most beautifully. The very Moon, full to bursting, cried over it. And your father…" 

Your throat seizes up. Her father, your tormentor. A wretched man you feel the two of you have to speak of, some day. The man who gave the world Isobel twice over, but selfishly, impossibly, wanted to keep her all to himself both times. 

Her countenance grows steely and determined in a way you have yet to get used to. "My father was lost to me far before he died at your hand. I mourn the man I remember, not the monster you killed. A loving, kind, generous man, who should never have been capable of such horrors as Ketheric brought down upon my home, upon you. And yet... if I was all that was keeping him from such a fall, I cannot help but think--"  

Isobel's voice cracks and you wonder when, in your absence-captivity, he stopped being Papa and became Ketheric. Your anger towards him tastes bitterer still. 

And you think of Isobel, fleeing her own grave and the twisted visage of what was once her beloved father. Dragging her own burial shroud across a land of shadow and horror, full of echoes of a life half-remembered. 

Isobel, alone, convinced of your demise, mourning you as you endlessly mourned her, both of you unknowing. 

Isobel, left to desperately and single-handedly guard the only meagre surviving pocket of her childhood home, doomed and destroyed by her father's violent, misaimed grief over her own death. A pillar of light in an all-encompassing darkness and one final, crucial defence against it, without even a fair promise of hope or future to sustain her.  

It sounds, at first, like a noble task you would think worthy of a cleric of Isobel's most excellent calibre. But you can't help but think it a test of devotion far too harsh, and entirely superfluous. Such incredible weight to place on any one person's shoulders. And for what? 

Needed and necessary she once called herself and her efforts when you asked, insisting on dismissing it all in a way you perhaps understand entirely too well. 

Perhaps, together... you, hollowed, and her, overflowing. And, in turn, her aching for something that is missing and you fit to burst with wrath and vengeance and violence. Perhaps there is hope yet, and healing to be found for both. 

Together. Only ever together. 

- 

We trust in Your radiance, Moonmaiden, even when it is out of our sight.  

- 

The battle you were waiting for is over - won, by most reckonings, but not without great cost. What is left of the city now needs care and careful restoration. There are still stray cultist enclaves to root out, remnants of the illithid army, as well as mere opportunists who always show their vile selves in such circumstances. As part of an array of unexpected, colourful allies, you make short work of them all, whenever any come to light.  

But rebuilding takes precedence, as does healing, and Isobel has taken point among Selûne's devoted in a way that is nothing short of awe-inspiring. The situation seems altogether more suited to her talents rather than yours at the moment, so you follow her readily, without question, and provide whatever aid you can. 

It is a cycle as old as time, after all, as reliable as the phases of the Moon. Building, destruction, rebuilding - the world will always need both of you. 

But tonight is the night of a full Moon, and Isobel has gone to conduct the requisite rituals with the rest of the Selûnite encampment that has been so welcoming to you. Isobel, death-touched but untainted, no matter what she may fear, will excel in whatever role they set out for her, of this you are certain. 

You, on the other hand, have begged off, your own communion awaiting you elsewhere. 

Your path leads you away from the outskirts of the city and up into the hills, your back turned on the Chionthar. Through remnants of farms and hunting lodges, up and up to cliff and brush and down again to sparse woodland, your steps are guided, as is your birthright. 

It is becoming easier to hear Her voice once again. She does not always speak in words, but Her presence She makes felt.  

And so you stop in a clearing, before a pond, crystal clear and fed by a jolly, clamouring stream. It is quiet, otherwise. Peaceful.  

You dismiss your armour, letting it dissipate into motes of moonlight. You remember with a touch of warmth and immense fondness how sweetly Isobel would pout whenever she did not get to take it off you piece by piece.  

The air is crisp and the water, once you touch it, is almost icy. The moonlight on your skin cleanses and soothes, combining with the chilly water into a refreshing blessing. It is the sensations of the world that you so dearly missed during your captivity, that you now allow to rush over you, all at once. 

It is the first time in over a hundred years you stand and behold the full silver face of your Mother, the trail of Her Tears beside Her, and wonder, idly, if She shed any for you.

Please, you beg as you step into the pool, without shame, without words. A kinder fate for Isobel, this time. 

A kinder fate for the land she still calls home.  

A kinder fate for me.  

The cool silver water seeps into every crevice of your being and washes away with it some ichor of darkness you didn't even know still clung to you. You lie back and let yourself float, the rush of water in your ears drowning out even the small nighttime noises of the clearing and surrounding woods. In the soft waves you hear your Mother's voice, and She sounds kind, inviting, forgiving. 

Why, you want to ask, why would you allow…  

There is new dampness on your cheeks, and you realise haltingly that it is tears. "Hello, Mother." 

The light of the Moon is caring and compassionate, and bathes you in love. It is the only embrace She has ever been able to give you, here. It is almost enough to forget a century of sorrow and the cries that went unheard.  

No more, She says. 

Rest, the murmur continues, soft and sad - a familiar melancholy, though not one you would expect during a Moon so full and bright. Earned, a hundred times over. My Sword, tempered to perfection. My Daughter, put through trials undeserved. Lost to me for so long. You are welcome here. Safe. I would have you know peace once more.  

"Not… not yet. There are still too many, I cannot--" You sit up, rivulets of water running down your face, following the crevices of your scars. It is unlike you to struggle so with your words. You proclaim and vow, you do not stammer and hesitate. 

What would you have for yourself, then, daughter mine?  

"I would seek and extinguish the tyrants, the oppressors," your hands tighten into determined fists as you channel and reflect all that has been done to you, aglow with silver, wings unfurled. "Those who would bind, capture, enslave, who would subjugate and rule another for their own gain - let them sleep with one eye open. Let them know: Dame Aylin sees their deeds and offers no mercy." 

Your cause is righteous, and I bless it as my own. But a burden should be shared. And you are not the only champion at my call.  

It is true, of course, and you grasp the intent, but you cannot help but bristle. You may not be the only one, but surely you are the most-- 

--fearsome? Reliable? Accomplished? 

Doubt creeps in, that most rare and hated of sensations. There is a shift, then, into a plea for you to understand, from a mother to her child. 

A broken sword can accomplish little. And even the finest steel has a breaking point. Do not too eagerly seek your own.  

You sink back into the pool, water up to your chin, as if bowing in acceptance. 

If you crave a task, I task you: offer aid in healing and rebuilding, and thus rebuild yourself. Worry not - I will call upon you when the time comes. But for now, shore up the bulwark within you.   

A smile, a tender grace. 

And let each and all know yours is a blessed union.  

The last fading words leave you puzzled for a few moonlit moments. And then Isobel is next to you, bare and glowing and embracing you, holding you to herself as if she will never let go. 

"Isobel," you start, a host of questions forming on your tongue, but she places a finger over your lips. 

"Guided back to you, as you were to me. As I promise I will be, for as long as I can."  

A shiver runs through you at the undercurrent of steel and sheer devotion in her sweet voice. 

"Then I vow I will never let myself be torn from your side again. And any who seek to part us will meet a swift end by my hand." 

You spoke such promises to each other once already, what feels like a lifetime ago, even though it should by rights have been nothing compared to your eternal years. It is a heavy lesson to have learned so well in breaking them, though - that no tomorrow can ever be guaranteed. Not even for you. 

Not near as tide- and cycle-bound, the Scribe had said, and you wonder at the recalled words. No endless rise and fall for you, then, perhaps. No waxing and waning. No rote repetition of tragic history in this world changed and strange, but instead something altogether new, hewn by the two of you. 

Isobel takes your face between both her hands and kisses you, putting a swift end to your reverie. 

In response, you pick her up out of the water, twirl her around, splash the both of you back down happily. Your smile turns into a grin, then a laugh, open and simple, and her giggle is crystal-bright and utterly free of the grasp of the grave. You feel lighter than the feathers you leave behind like a snowy trail. 

You hold her and kiss her again and again and again and allow yourself to lose track of time. 

[therobotmonster]

What do you say to the one who killed Ceasar?

Corruption? Infighting? Communications breakdowns?

That aint' how it happened and that ain't how it is.

Pass me a sarsaparilla and I'll tell you how it happened and how it is.

After stamping westward like the vicious cattle they carried as their symbol, Caesar's Legion found New Vegas their downfall. Their martial prowess and seemingly endless numbers found in that place their nemesis, in the classical sense.

They found the Courier.

They didn't know what they found at first. The initial wound was shocking but not unthinkable. Vulpes Inculta went out to make an example of a local settlement called Nipton and never came back. The scouts that went looking for him found a their staging camp slaughtered. Landmines had been put in their sleeping bags. Their watchman was found in pieces.

Every scrap of clothing and equipment was gone. So it was chalked up to raiders. Patrols increased and the Legion moved on.

The loss of Vulpes Inculta's forces was a tiny cut, but a tiny cut can kill if infection sets in. The slaves at Cottonwood cove escaped, though no one could explain how. The Great Khans turned on Ceasar's Legion, somehow seeing through the Legion's plan for them. The prison break that kept the NCR off-balance just... stopped.

Weeks later, the forces at Cottonwood Cove sickened. By the time they found out their camp was contaminated with nuclear waste they were already dead. Their abhorrence of technology meant they had neither the Geiger counters nor the radaway to save themselves.

Prepared caravaners found Aurelius of Phoenix's wasted corpse, bald, covered in radiation burns, withered to a radioactive husk. He was staring up at one of the locals he'd ordered crucified. On his desk was a note saying "I did this. Signed, the Courier. XXXOOO" right next to a pile of human waste with Aurelius's helmet on it.

Enraged, Edward Sallow, the man calling himself Caesar, sent his assassins after the Courier. A squad of four, his second finest men. Then his finest four men. Then his third finest, and his forth. He'd sent his fifth squad before the one of them, the second batch, was found. They were stripped naked, their sun-baked corpses posed humiliatingly in acts of mock-coitus.

The scouts reported dutifully that the squad leader was found sitting atop his own head. The scouts didn't think their commanders needed to know how far down he was sitting.

Sallow watched the reports come in as this phantom cut through his men not with ruthless efficiency, but what appeared to be intentional ruthless inefficiency. The Courier wandered lazily from Legion outpost to Legion outpost without regard to strategy. The NCR would fight with a plan that could be anticipated. They wanted territory, they wanted resources.

As far as Sallow could tell, the Courier just wanted him to suffer.

Nelson's occupation ended in a hail of molotov cocktails and sniper fire. The plot to destroy the monorail ended on the knuckles of a Brotherhood scribe's power fist. As to Dry Wells, and the massive Legion Reinforcements there?

The mushroom cloud rendered a scouts' report moot.

No one really believed that Sallow was stupid enough to invite the courier to his camp. According to the legend, however, that's what he did, thinking he could sway the Courier to his own side with promises of power and wealth.

The legend goes on that the Courier and a vengeful NCR ranger walked in through the gates as welcome guests, only to murder the forces there to the last man. Sallow died, they say, begging. The Courier butchered him with his honor guard's machete, just like the livestock he chose as his symbol.

Sallow, it seems, had been right about what the Courier wanted.

That's pure myth-making, of course. The idea that an itinerant hero hopped up on chems and a vengeful NCR sniper could kill their way through an entire, alerted camp on their own is absurd, power armor or not. It was an obvious coup by Legate Lannius that he blamed on the Courier. It did him little good, as he ruled the Legion for mere weeks before the second battle of Hoover Dam.

Barely literate raiders in football pads and machetes do not fare well against against Vertibirds and Securitrons, it turns out.

They say that it ended there. With the heads chopped off the proverbial brahmin, the Legion crumbled from a collapse of leadership and operational control, with rival raiders, the NCR, and slave uprisings killing their 'empire' via a thousand cuts. That's the official story.

That's a bigger pile of crap than the one on the Aurelius's desk. The cut that killed the Legion was Nipton and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. The few survivors of the Legion's Hoover Dam forces thought the Courier would stay in their neon kingdom.

They did not.

They marched East, the Courier and their warriors: Arcade Ganon the Doctor of the Apocalypse, Lily the Nightkin who they call Shadow of Death, the Ghoul Gunslinger Raul who never misses, the Sniper Boone who never forgives, Veronica the fallen scribe, and Rose Cassidy? She's just plain ornery. They marched with a squad of twenty Securitrons at their back and an army of silent, deadly ghosts.

They marched through Arizona, severing Pheonix from settlement after settlement, starving the great bull before descending upon it. When Pheonix fell, they didn't stop. I know because that's how I'm free today. I know how Ceasar's Legion died. I saw one of its deaths with my own eyes in my own village.

When each Legion settlement falls, as the red-bull banners burn atop the naked corpses of those legionaries who make the same mistake Vulpes Inculta made so long ago and far away, the captured slavers that call themselves an empire are gathered in a line leading to the Courier's tent.

Each one is brought, in turn, to the Courier. They stand, a growling half-robot dog at their left hand, a laser-wielding eyebot at their right, as the ex-legionary is commanded to kneel. They obey, as the command comes from behind them. There stands Boone, a gun once belonging to Joshua Graham in his right hand.

There's a moment of silence. Just as the first beads of sweat begin to roll down the prisoner's face, the courier pulls up not a machete, nor a gun, but a simple wooden sign.

"Say it." The courier says-

-and listens for the wrong answer.

[daemon-in-my-head]

I saw your post about the memories being gone forever but there’s a dialogue between the Dark Urge and Withers

Dark Urge: My old memories and past self - I can never get them back?

Withers: If thou couldst recall in full every barbarity thou hadst committed, every tragedy thou hadst authored... wouldst thou truly want to?

Dark Urge: It is a dishonour to my victims to not recall their names.

Withers: All their names are written. One day, if thou truly wishest, I will show thee, and we shall remember them together.

So Withers can restore Durge’s memories to a degree. Perhaps if Durge really wanted to Withers could restore even more. I have hope that the love Durge had for Gortash isn’t lost to the sands of time

Alright Anon first up, I love the idea that there's still this sliver of hope for Durge out there. Durge needs all the hope they can get.

But imma be honest, I don't think Withers means remember as in "congratulations your memories are back" but more like "these are the people you killed, the sins you committed, remember them and be sure to never do this again."

"All there names are written. And, if thou truly wishest, I will show thee, and we shall remember them together."

Considering its the scribe of the dead saying this, I do think he just has a list of names ready to show Durge if there should ever be a need for it. And while Jergal is a god and could probably restore Durge, memories and all inclusive, I don't think he ever would.

Because why would he risk that? Jergal is lawful neutral in 5, used to be lawful evil in previous editions. He's just here to clean up the dead threes mess and definitely not because he likes it.

Restoring Durges memories would be a gamble at best and utter foolishness at worst. Because they wouldn't just regain memories of Gortash, but also of the cult programming, the inherent fear and devotion to Bhaal, their original plans, yada yada. It could put all the "work" Jergal/Withers put into Durge in jeopardy.

Buuuuuuut this isn't to say that memories of Gortash are 100% lost. The human brain is weird and we tie smells and taste and all sorts of stuff to memories, so it's very well possible Durge gets handed a bit of steel and he has the faint memory or idea of someone who did the same once. Or they walk around the Gate and this one spot just feels particularly wonderful or dreadful or what have you.

It's just the "real" picturesque memories that are not available any longer, but certain emotions are still very much there from what it seems ig (and I suppose a revival by yours truly puts a halt to the memory loss, dizzy spells and all that fun stuff)

[justabrowncoatedwench]

Alternative gods that aren't Shar to turn to in times of sadness & mourning:

Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead

Jergal, the Final Scribe, servant of Kelemvor (Withers, maybe)

The Raven Queen, Goddess of Death/Dying (collector of memories & strong emotion, esp dealing with loss & sadness) - lesser known deity, largely worshipped by shadar-kai

Loviatar, the Maiden of Pain (a way to externalize internal pain)

Talona, Lady of Poison (worshiped by survivors of pestilence)

Myrkul, quasi-deity re power level, serves Kelemvor (oversees old age, among other pieces of his portfolio)

And that's just deities who also have Death as a cleric domain. This is just talking about broad Faerunian deities, most races also have their own pantheons, with their own deities they'd turn to in different situations. The majority of people in Faerun aren't solely worshiping a single deity, they worship deities within the situations & circumstances that that deity has jurisdiction over.

Deities of human/broad pantheon(s) who aren't Shar that you might turn to in a time of grief, sadness, or loss:

Chauntea, the Great Mother (OG nature goddess, these days goddess of agriculture & how civilization interacts w nature)

Selûne, the Moonmaiden (viwed as cyclical, & esp worshipped by human women during their menstrual cycles for example)

Ilmater, the Crying God (portfolio is endurance, suffering, martyrdom, perseverance)

Lathander, Morninglord, Lord of Birth & Renewal (the death rites are actually pretty neat imo)

Umberlee, Goddess of Oceans (for deaths at sea)

Etc etc etc

Basically, if a person has a deity they favor, every church/organization is going to have death & mourning rites. The majority of people aren't going to be turning from their other deities to seek succor at Shar's door just because they're mourning or sad; the kind of loss, and the solution Sharrans offer, is the way you'd rather forget what made you happy so you don't have to feel the pain of having lost it. That's what comfort Shar & her clerics offer.

[wellthebardsdead]

Tav: *setting up camp in the Myconid colony* huh? *looks over to see Withers speaking with Omeluum* oh um, *walks over* withers this is-

Withers: yes child. We have already acquainted ourselves with each other.

Omeluum: you truely are the oddest band of adventurers to cross my path. But welcome nonetheless. A tadpole beyond my comprehension, and the scribe of the dead.

Tav: y-yeah we’re definitely a group of head turners. Is everything alright? Do you have more questions?

Omeluum: yes. But not for you, for him.

Withers: *nods and holds up his hand, tracing it lightly across the mindflayers face and body* hmmm… *lowers his hand* You are an enigma to even I… while you may not possess a soul to my comprehension. You are in possession of something else other mind flayers are not. Something that could perhaps pass for an ilithid soul.

Omeluum: and, that is?

Withers: Selflessness. Kindness. A want to aid others beyond your own curiosity. Despite the pain it caused you aiding my companion, you still willingly chose to continue aiding them without want for so much more than a chat… you wished to help, without gain, or manipulation. That is something other mind flayers, are incapable of. There is something more to you, though it is beyond my domain.

Omeluum: *scrunches his face to resemble a joyful expression* I am… Happy, to hear that. You have given me answers I’ve pondered since my conception. I’m greatful. *reaches into his robe and produces a book to try and offer something in return*

Withers: *raises his hand again* you need not return the favour, but if you do insist, perhaps join me once in a while for tea with a few of my associates.

Omeluum: *tilts his head curiously and flares his tentacles in a questioning manner* May I bring Blurg?

Withers: *smiles slightly in a display of almost disbelief to see an ilithid thinking of others beyond itself* Of course, I’m certain he like you would benefit from some time, above, ground.

Omeluum: yes, thank you. I shall expect your invitation then. *nods politely and floats off*

Tav: I never thought I’d find a mindflayer, well, sweet, before.

Withers: there is a charm to him certainly.

*meanwhile*

Omeluum: *zooms over to his hobgoblin companion* Blurg! I made a new friend!!

Blurg: Several in one day?! You’re doing wonderfully Omeluum!

[throwaway-yandere]

Dear Secret Penpal,

Happy Irodori Festival! My name is Lisa (disclaimer: not my real name). A pleasure to be exchanging correspondence with you. While I am better at writing my thoughts than speaking them outloud, unfortunately I'm not too well-versed in the art of keeping a conversation, so I hope you will forgive me for my clumsy attempts.

For starters, I hope you are doing well as you are reading this letter. Always remember to take a good care of your health!

I'm sure you don't wish to divulge too much personal information in these letters. However, would you mind talking about the things that interest you? I'll start first - recently I have been testing out a Fontaine technology which is aiming to assist people in writing articles and books. It's a most curious technology indeed, and I am having fun tinkering with it for the past few days.

I hope this letter reaches you safely and I eagerly await your response.

🌸 Lisa

cw: yandere themes, and alhaitham being an asshat in general-

From this yandere genshin secret pen pal event

✥ YOU GOT A LETTER FROM YOUR SECRET PEN PAL!!!

"See you soon, Malikata."

Those were the same words King Deshret last uttered before the sand dwindled in his very own hourglass. It was the words of a hopeless man— the delusions of a mourning king.

And yet, as if there are miracles born from misfortunes, it came true.

"Alhaitham" recalls little of who he once was eons ago. Since childhood, he had felt that he operates differently compared to his peers. All the rational man had was, ironically, a gut feeling. There is only one situation where he would rely on intuition and that would be whenever he needed to explain his geometric reasonings in two columns— but no one demanded proof that he was the reincarnation of The Red One.

Besides, what person would demand about something they have no prior knowledge of? 

 "ALHAITHAM!!!" 

Kaveh closed the door behind him with a loud slam. The mounted shelves shook while Alhaitham stood, unflinching. There's no visible reaction on his face,  

"YOU HAVE THE MISSING DIVINE KNOWLEDGE CAPSULE, DON'T YOU?!?"

"Of course not," Alhaitham replied. "If I had a use for it, surely I would've used my authority to access it."

But the architect didn't believe a single word. They both acknowledge that the Acting Grand Scribe had an unexpected proficiency or talent for acting. Lying came easy to him, yet strangely enough, Kaveh sensed not a hint of deceit.

Which could only mean he's innocent or he had someone do his bidding and delivered the capsule to someone else.

"That Irodori Secret Exchange thing— what was it called—"

"Pen Pal or Yokais."

Alhaitham is once again reminded how fortunate he is that his dear "Lisa" is as clever and as articulate as they were lifetimes ago.

"Yes! THAT!!!" Kaveh grabbed a fistful of Alhaitham's grey cloak, looking at him dead in the eye. 

"You definitely smuggled it to Inazuma to avoid suspicion! You got a taste of that power when you confronted Azar and intend to steal it didn't yo—"

"I've never used the divine knowledge capsule."

"... What? Didn't you try to kill Azar with it?"

"No," Alhaitham shook his head lazily. "It was just a minor part of our strategy to lower their guard down. I've no need for divine favors to win. I only need to think."

"That sort of arrogance does sound like something you would say..."

And his sheer indifference for the divine also marked one of many similarities he shared with King Deshret.

"You're mistaken. It's not arrogance but belief in one's competency. You should learn to think before you speak, Kaveh. I can arrest you for lèse-majesté."

"Gah— Okay then, fine!" Kaveh waved his hand up dismissively. "Maybe you didn't steal it after all."

He let go of his cloak.

"Still, aren't you worried about where it is?"

"No."

"You can't be serious," Kaveh gawked. "That thing is contaminated by The Withering. Aren't you concerned that someone would—"

"Just let it be," Alhaitham said. "You can't discount the chance someone might use it wisely for the benefit of the people."

"Argh!!!— you are so damn lazy, I can't believe you. Need I remind you that capsule was used to almost create a new archon?! Why on earth are you being so laissez-faire about this?! You're our Acting Grand Sage, you should be— hey! Get back here! Don't you dare lock yourself inside your room—"

Shut.

How exhausting. What a waste of his time.

Why would he possess the divine knowledge capsule, when it's Nabu Malika that needed to remember their past the most?

You'll use that divine knowledge capsule, won't you, his hayati?

It's easier to lie in letters after all. 

It's only a matter of time until his Goddess is back in his arms again.

[morgana-ren]

Lady morgana, chosen of knowledge why can't we raw withers

I mean, who says you can't?

I'm sure the scribe of the dead has some dirty deeds left in that undead dick.

That being said, I genuinely do not know what you are going to find when you pull those ancient robes aside. Could be dusty dong or more of a... Bone. Literally. It could be a... Literal raw. So just be prepared for that.

I'm sure the sarcophagus will be lovely to snuggle in, though I wouldn't count on him for warmth, given the circumstances. Do not let him near you with his fingers.

[your-local-squip-fanatic]

Wait wait another idea for the MC AU:

Observer fucks over the entire world by downloading a Wither Storm mod. Everyone dies a lot to the storm and bully Obsy into helping kill it. (Really it was more like Scribe spawnkilling them until they agreed, but Observer wants you to forget that so don't) Even after the Wither Storm is dead, everyone politely ignores Obsy's demands to be seen as a hero and forces them to help fix up the ruined world.

teehee minecraft au go brr