#I AM THE DROW MOTHER
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DAMN!BESSIA
#art#cesartio#bg3#baldurs gate 3#bg3 tav#tav oc#middle aged woman with questionable morals#digital art#oc#oc art#cesariocs#dambessia rosenthorne#drow#I AM THE DROW MOTHER#drow oc#dnd drow#dnd oc#she’s. she’s a monk paladin#think about that#monk paladin#really let that sit in your mind#DAMN! bessia#hahaha#yeah… yea
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I just committed to the grave mistake of reading the prelude to daughter of the drow. yeah I definitely will not be normal about liriel baenre.
#i need to stop#the book is written so oldfashioned in some ways😭😭 like some of these things my parents or grandparents would say and id be like: dont#😭😭😭#but gromph baenre was the narrator so ill make that his problem for now#im feeling like this is going to be awful for me#what do you mean he killed her mother and she understood and her accepting the situation#but a burning behind her eyes#proves that she is in fact his daughter#and then he goes: you are liriel baenre from this day on#and she just repeats: liriel baenre#HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO JUST BE NORMAL#JUST THE PRELUDE AND YOU HIT ME WITH THIS AWFUL AWFUL FATHER DAUGHTER DYNAMIC#IM GONNA BE SO AWFUL#forgotten realms#daughter of the drow#liriel baenre#gromph baenre#starlight and shadows
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Can’t stop thinking about dnd aus for multiple fandoms it’s actually a problem
#dnd#baldur's gate 3#okay so like for klaine I think Blaine would be a cleric and Kurt could be a Druid#and I have THOUGHTS about Kurt being a Druid#because like.#him being a half elf and his mom giving up every connection to his eleven heritage to be with Burt#but then she dies when he’s 8 anyway and not only has he lost his mother he’s severed any tie he has to his culture#but one day soon after she passes he’s sitting by her grave#thinking about how nice it would be if he could find some flowers to pick for her headstone#and instead… a circle of mushrooms blooms right before his eyes#because out of death there is life and something something the magic of nature#for Javey obviously David is a cleric and Jack is a rogue#I am legit so unwell about this#David and Sarah get a letter one day and travel to the elven city they were banished from#and it’s their mom (in this au she would be Not Great) and she’s like. I need you to take this young elf to moonrise towers (or smth idfk)#and long story short the young elf is Les!#David and Sarah are charged with safely getting him to where he needs to be#under the promise that upon his safe arrival they’ll be allowed to live in the forest again#(they were not allowed because they’re half human and racism is a thing in dnd)#anyway#out in the city they meet Jack (human rogue) - Race (drow fighter) and a few others along the way#and they get sidetracked and have adventures etc#a few key moments that stick out to me are: David being reluctant to use his magic but finally using it in a scuffle to save Les#Jack dying and Davey bringing him back#just a lot of really intense combat moments#oh and also them fleeing combat from the Fucking Frog#and sitting and pouting about it like ‘what the FUCK was that?’#and they never bring it up again bc they NEVER retreat
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Izveta Noquar
Class: Rogue
Dark Urge (Evil but "redeemed")
Romance: Astarion (Ascended)
Besties: Why does she need friends if she has her own company? (Shadowheart is her bestie)
Being the youngest adopted daughter of the prestigious Noquar family in Menzoberranzan, Izveta was able to surpass the matriarch's biological daughters in any aspect, battles or manipulations. The drow had a natural talent for killing ever since she first held a weapon, the family's only concern about the girl was her constant conversations with a butler who seemed like only she could see, but often some other drow could see a small shadow next to her, almost as if whispering in her ear.
Her first love was the first person Izveta killed, a handsome young elf with beautiful green eyes almost the same age as her who was given to her as a gift by her mother. The young drow really thought he loved her the way she loved him, but she discovered the hard way that it was all just cruel manipulation for him to try to kill her and escape... What he didn't expect was that it would be a trigger for something cruel and bloodthirsty to awaken in Izveta who hunted him like an animal and slit his throat completely, leaving him unrecognizable...
Izveta ended up finding out from her butler that her sisters planned to kill her to reduce the matriarch's chances of choosing Izveta to replace her as head of the family. The young drow, possessed by anger and a feeling of betrayal, slew her sisters, showing them both to her mother like a trophy, but she didn't react as Izveta expected... The woman who raised her all her life tried to kill her and was once again overcome by hatred, Izveta killed her own mother, afraid of the reaction of the other drow, she fled to the surface where her butler constantly talks about a place she could actually consider a real home, where she would be accepted and loved for who she truly is
Getting used to the surface culture was one of the biggest difficulties for Izveta, not having males to satisfy her whims or soldies to do as she commanded was a reality check. The males on the surface were not as submissive and obedient as those who served her in Menzoberranzan and this ended up involving her in several fights in the places where she managed to stay, but it wasn't long until she finally found that place her butler talked about, her home, The Temple of Bhaal, the Lord of Murder... Her father. She didn't like her father's temple, it wasn't quite what she imagined as she thought it would be something grand like a castle or a fortress, but it fit with the cliche "I am a homicidal God"
Baldur's Gate was truly a lovely city, so full of light and life, Izveta simply loved walking through the dark alleys looking for some clueless person who would follow her wherever she took them, so that was when she met that dark-haired human man who He wasn't looking at her with fear, but curiosity and even perhaps admiration? Izveta didn't know for sure, but receiving that look after so long made her interested in knowing more about this human, knowing more about this "Enver Gortash"
The years after meeting Enver seemed to improve her mood. Izveta might have loved killing, feeling the hot blood on her hands, but she loved even more being pampered, receiving gifts, ordering and having her carpices supplied whenever she wanted and Enver made a point of doing all of this for her, giving some small gifts like rings, necklaces, masks... Izveta LOVES masks. Even though vanity is not something much used either in the Bhaal temple or by his followers, Izveta always loved simply beautifying herself, makeup, big jewelry, hairstyles for her long white hair, she loved spending minutes and even hours just beautifying herself with makeup or the blood of someone she killed. Enver managed to make her see him as an equal, not just an equal, a potential partner both with this strange plan with a "brain" and in bed, he had a thirst in his eyes, a thirst for her and she would quench that thirst every time he begged for her...
For some reason, losing her memories, even if it caused a certain frustration, at the same time caused relief... Being able to recreate her story without memories of the past to worry about
Some may think that Izveta redeemed herself by denying her "family heritage" by denying Bhaal, but her wave of chaos was just beginning. Astarion may think he controls her, that she is his beautiful spawn waiting only to receive orders from her lord, but something he doesn't even suspect is that he is right in the palm of her hand... A little flattery, a few whispers in his ear, a few touches on his chest and he does exactly what she wants and when she wants, he may not feel anything anymore or maybe feel, but the memories of the love he once felt for her are what give her power. Being a Bhaalspawn may have its advantages, but having the control of an ascended vampire lord was much better and as a vampire spawn everything is even more delicious, an eternity delighting in the death of whoever she wants and without any consequences... No There's nothing more she wants
Some extra information about Izveta
She loves white, she loves seeing the white of her clothes stained with blood, she loves seeing how her skin is highlighted while wearing white, she simply loves the color white.
She felt a little sorry for Orin, her little blood kin might be a kinda crazy, but she wasn't a bad person... At least not before her mother tried to kill her.
The only bad thing about denying her "father" was losing Sceleritas... Her butler, her true father... one of the few creatures she truly felt affection for
#baldurs gate 3#baldurs gate#baldur's gate 3#baldur's gate iii#baldurs gate astarion#baldurs gate fanart#baldurs gate tav#dark urge#darkurge#durgetash#gortash x durge#astarion x durge#bg3 durge#durge#drawing#drawings#characterdesign#draw#sketch#digital drawing#character#drawn#sketchbook#sceleritas fel#bhaal#bg3 bhaalspawn#bhaalspawn tav
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I woke up and I am angry.
Whenever I say I like Gortash, people are always like :"eww how could you"
Without wanting to read or know about his story? I am sorry Larian cut most of his content from Act3. He had great potential. Even the story we know and have to search ourselves in letters, diaries, etc is deep and touching enough.
He turned out pretty ok for what he has been through.
-His mother hates him to this day and wished she k-lled him in the womb
-She says he was a needy kid(every kid is needy and requires love and attention)
-His parents sold him to Raphael to pay off a petty debt. Is this what your son's life is worth?
-He was forced to live and work in the House of Hope since he was a kid, witness Raphael shitting in the middle of the hallway, clean their yucky boudoir and see whatever Harleep was up to
-That gnome in the House of Hope was beating him up everyday for fun since a human kid is smaller than a petty deep gnome (drow hatred towards gnomes intensifies)
-His mother says he was always tinkering something ever since he was little, so he just wanted to craft
-All of the other gods ignored his prayers in Avernus, except for Bane. Gortash was not a debtor and was not supposed to be there in the first place.
-Despite all of that, he found ambition and will to live, wanting to rule, experiment, deciphered the Mind flayer language by himself, and created the whole plot. Enslaving people, being an arms dealer, etc is not ok ofcourse. I am just stating that the fact he had motivations, ambitions and creative genius still, no matter if they were evil.
-He kind of wanted to create a peaceful life for himself, even through tyranny. And for Durge probably too because they talk about their mutual "dream"
-Just when his dream plan seemed certain, Durge, who I believe is his soulmate, no matter if people believe they were in a relationship or not, disappears. I am sure Durge was the only person who could kind of understand him.
Yeh. That's it.
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BG3 Drow Lore 🕷️Minthara's Age and Name Meaning
🕷️Year Of Birth - Minthara was born before 1297 DR. In one of her lines, she mentions that she remembers a scandalous event from the past – when Viconia DeVir, a noble female drow and a daughter of the fourth house of Menzoberranzan, disgraced her family:
Two hundred years ago, she disgraced her family - the DeVirs - by refusing to obey a divine order from Lolth. It was quite the scandal, and I was young enough that it left an impression on me.
House DeVir fell out of favour with Lolth because of Viconia's transgression and ultimately, in 1297 DR, they were attacked and destroyed by House Do'Urden. During this time, Minthara was likely in the first decade(s) of her life, since by drow standards, she was still young and impressionable.
It would mean that she was born at least several years earlier, likely between 1270 DR and 1290 DR.
🕷️Age In BG3 - during the events of Baldur's Gate 3, Minthara is over two hundred years old, but probably less than two hundred and thirty.
🕷️Name Meaning - Minthara's name means „minor / second rune” or something similar, being composed of female prefix Min- („lesser, minor, second”) and female suffix -thara („glyph, marker, rune”). The name was probably given to her by her mother shortly after birth, according to drow custom.
We do not know if the meaning of Minthara's name was important in any way to her mother. Sometimes drow names seem to be connected to the child's future profession, ambitions or fate, but in many cases, there is no such connection and a name is just a name. For example, the eldest daughter of Matron Mother Yvonnel Baenre was named Triel, which means simply „wing” or „bat”.
🔹If Minthara's name meaning is not accidental, it could imply that she is her mother's second daughter (but at the same time, the eldest living daughter).
Noble drow females typically value their eldest daughters the most, from early years grooming them to become their successors. Who knows - maybe in this case, the first daughter did not survive, ending up being assassinated by enemies, or simply failing to meet her mother's expectations. Then Minthara would be „the second try” kind of a child – her mother's second chance to raise a worthy successor, to strengthen her position in the family and in the society.
🔹It might explain why Minthara's mother considered her so special and important: I have been told that I am special since my mother first held me in her arms. The burden of expectation.
Normally, drow children are not considered overly special by their mothers. The usual exception is the eldest daughter, expected to take her mother's place in the society one day.
In the next post - thoughts about Minthy's childhood, family and the identity of her mother 🙂
For more of my drow lore ramblings, feel free to check my pinned post 🕷️
#drow#drow lore#dnd lore#lolth sworn drow#dark elves#drow culture#baldur's gate 3#bg3#minthara#minthara baenre#for BG3 fanfic writers
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✧✦✧ Chapter 1 ✧✦✧
Dear Mother, Goodbye
Yandere Platonic Bat Family x Neglected Regressing GN Reader
Warning this part contains : Death, Poverty, Bad English (So fckn bad), death?, saying bye bye to mommy, short chapt.
Note: MC will be gender neutral and no mention of specific physical traits except for general parts of the body, No mention of MC's name only with the queue of -...- will it be mentioned
MASTERLIST Pages ↻ PROLOUGE 2....➣
NOW PLAYING ↻◁ ||▷↺ Remember Me - dv4d (Arcane) ılıılıılılılıılıılı
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As the darkness consumes me, I let the bitting cold spread through out my body, closing my eyes and settle to the back of my mind where the thoughts and whispers of quiet voices echo before drowing me down to it's depths.
I remember
I remember how everything was simple, so nice, so kind and.....
warm.
Oh so warm, she was warm, her voice, her smell, her touch and her love? it was the warmest thing I have ever felt and yet it's the thing I can never have, not anymore-
As I opened my eyes to greet death instead a blinding light made be flinch before blinking and see a light down the tunnel of the abyss flickering then grew size and engulfed me.
Gasping I woke and see myself back to where everything I ever wanted be again, looking down I see my small chubby fingers as I curl it around my palms over before looking up and catch a sight of my blurry younger self sitting on the floor infront of our old box TV.
Looking around I saw glimpse of my old home-
a broken window that was hit by a brick from one of the drunk neighbors as I remember her turning red as she almost ripped the lock off the window to pry it open and hear her curse like a true sailor before turning around and hear me laughing for some reason -her calling me a weird baby before blowing raspberries on my cheeks- then fixing it by using packing tapes.
a few planters on the corners from when she met a nice botanist lady and talk her into having greens around the house since it was to create a nice environment for a baby especially in gotham.
And a few wallpers with newspapers taped to cover rips, tears or holes but she won't use the ones where 'he's' in front page which was almost always but-
It was a busted down and dirty home that held the most beautiful and warmest memories that I'm slowly forgeting as I am losing myself more bit by bit.
"......"
A hum and a voice broke me out of my thoughts as I turn my head to see a figure working around the kitchen behind the couch.
My breath hitch as I take a deep breath as I push myself up and stood up on my shaking legs before taking a step and another till I reach the corner of the counter as I hear her humming closing in, peaking my head I stare at the back of her form as she continues to stir a pot of stew that I grew to forget.
"........ma?". I whisper and I rounded the corner of the counter, watching with baited breath as she stops by the cue of my tiny voice and raise her head.
I watch and move closely as she turns her head but with my younger and lower height the light shines from the window on her head obscuring her face to my view, her face? what does her face look like? why can't I remember her face? What does she looks like? Why do I keep forgetting?! WHY DID I FORGET?! THAT'S YOUR MOTHER! WHAT KIND OF-?!
".....? Oh! Sweetie Oh my God! Come here! Mama's here!". Her voice broke pass the voices as I feel her hand cupping the back of my head as her arms wrap around me and pull me in.
Eyes wide open I stare at the back of her again but with my head on the crook her neck and her fingers run through my hair and scalp lulling me and my thoughts to calm down.
"Mama...mama...mama". I tried to talk to her but only one words comes out making me frustrated and angry as I grip the back of her shirt while I feel her body rumble from her humming and soft hushing.
"It's okay baby, Mama's here you're okay, you're okay". She whispers and lay a kiss on the side of my head as she moves to carry up and sway to lull me to sleep.
'Mama.....I miss you....I miss everything about you....I miss your touch, your smell, your love.........I don't wanna forget you please......'
As her humming echo around the room hitting the corners and wall, so was the darkness creeping in and wrap around my head, each sway of her body stirs my eyes to close and each melody made my heartbeat match to the tone.
"It's okay my little love Mama's right here, I'll stay waiting till you're ready but for now rest". Her voice speaks to me as my eyes finally closed and drift me back to the abyss.
"I love you Ma, goodbye".
I say my last farewell one last time before opening up to the world and catch my eyes glaring at the rear-view mirror, two pools swirling around filled up by exhaustion and pain hiding underneath a never ending dark pits of anger and malice.
"Oh Dear Mother, we'll be together soon"
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Oh god, my shayla! my shayla!
had to rush this cuz it came to me after having a tense talk and crying session with my own ma after dinner, jesus that woman- love her but goddamn she makes me cry too much (in a loving way like telling me she's happy for me and stuff)
(And also a bit of credit to @acid-ixx new update the ch.5 specifically I hope it's fine I just read yours before this happened and kind of borrowed some inspo soooo heh-)
Taglist (still open) later cuz I'm stuffed with Mango Graham float and other Christmas food.
#No More Chances#batfam x reader#yandere batfam x reader#x reader#yandere#yandere batfamily x reader#Yandere Platonic family#yandere batboys#yandere batman x reader#yandere platonic x reader#yandere batfam#Spotify
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When You Bare Your Teeth It Almost Looks like a Smile
Pairing: Astarion x Female!Tav (not described)
Astarion’s POV
SFW/Fluff/Angst (seriously there’s no s€x here)
Summary: Set in Act 2 when the group begins scouring Moonrise Towers and Astarion and Tav encounter Araj Oblodra, the Drow blood merchant. She won’t take no for an answer, and learns why that is a very very stupid thing to do.
~3.2 K words
Bit of a deviation from the canon interactions/dialogue and what the outcome is because ummm little guard dog with her love that most certainly does doesn’t need one is a trope I LOVE and needed to vomit out a lil flash fic at 1 AM last night to perform catharsis help I also kind of made myself sad
I may get this posted on my AO3?
I also will post the next part of Turn My Heart to a Spade soon!!!
“Oh, but I’d prefer if you did.”
The sneering Drow’s reply to his assurances that he would not bite anyone doesn’t quite register for Astarion before she lets slip another gut-reeling string of words, this time directed at you.
“I assume he belongs to you? Judging by the way he’s clung to your shadow since you walked up…” her laugh is mirthful, the metallic smear of red around the blue-grey skin of her eyelids crinkling and cracking in her amusement. “It’s a truly remarkable boon, to have had a spawn at your beck and call during your trek through the Shadow-cursed lands. I’d be remiss and dishonest to say I’m not jealous.”
His pale brows furrow as an unfamiliar emotion hits him. Maybe unfamiliar isn’t right, but he’s been so long separated from it that encountering it again feels like meeting a stranger he’s all too wary of.
Much like how he felt when he met you.
Kind, generous, trusting, infuriating you.
Oh, how he loathed being proven wrong. Having his tried and true skills of determining who people are and what they want sidestepped, his—sometimes hastily drawn—conclusions about things tipped on their heads like a cat swiping a cup off a table. Mostly by you. Endearingly and maddeningly.
For Gods’ sakes, he is supposed to be the unpredictable, unreadable, unflappable one. It’s his armour. His sodding lifeline. When one is in control of their faculties and has only themselves to rely on, their ability to save themselves is entirely up to their skills, or lack thereof.
But you, you whose only purpose was to take a fall or stab (sometimes literally) for him, has somehow managed to get him to willingly hand over the one thing that could kill him.
His trust.
It had kept him from trancing, some nights, gnawing the inside of his lip to shreds while going over every possible scenario in which his trust could be wielded against him.
Yet thus far, you’d not only permitted, but encouraged him to hold the other metaphorical end of it.
Both in battle, and in his bedroll.
He wonders most days if you know. If you’ve caught onto what he’s now realized was a very poorly conceived ploy. He has to tell you, at some point.
There’d been a humbling, blind fierceness in every fiber of your being when you last drew your weapon for him—looking up at the devil Yugir as if he didn’t have his crossbow bolt aimed right between your glaring brows. You swung and hacked and sliced like it was your soul you were fighting for, not his.
You’d done more than received his trust, you’d earned the right to hold it.
And here he is, silently watching, pleading, mentally tugging on the other end like a child grasping at their mother’s shirt—hoping you feel it.
“He has a name,” your voice appears as even as ever to the average onlooker, and certainly to this Drow; but there’s a strain, a warning that Astarion can detect that, to him, feels like the gentlest tug back from your end on the rope.
“Is that so? How quaint,” the Drow tilts her head. Turning her attention back to him, she appraises him from his boots up to his curls with a gaze that makes that strange, ugly feeling swell again. “Do indulge me then, what are you called, spawn?”
“Astarion—but-hold on—“
“Well, Astarion,” the way her tongue flicks over every syllable of his name puts a crinkle of disgust on the slope of his nose. So unlike how you say it. Usually uttered, quick and delicate, the ‘Ah’ nearly clipped off—shortening it to ‘Starion. Familiar and sweet and warm. “I’ve dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl.”
His disbelief manifests in the way he stutters over his words, managing to compose himself into a semblance of his normal character by the end of his reply. “You—What? I’m sorry, You—you want to be bitten?”
“To feel your life’s blood slipping away? To dance between the edge of life and death? Yes, I want it.”
Though he’s already decided that this woman is, in fact, a stem short of a brain, the arrangement she proposes catches his attention. And not in any way that’s enticing. A likely dangerous and potentially faulty potion in exchange for drinking her blood is a shoddy deal at best, and a revolting one at worst. Her blood smells foul. Acrid. He can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, which only worries him more. Not a sort of sickly sweet smell of decay like Gale’s. Nor is it twinged with something medicinal like Halsin’s, or like the pleasant muddle of Shadowheart’s half-elven and half-human blood. And certainly not like yours.
Putting on all the politeness he can muster, which is already more than the Drow deserves, he replies.
“I will have to…erm, decline.”
“Excuse me?” The Drow scoffs, displeasure creasing the space between her brows. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and you’re squandering it.”
“I gave you my answer,” he shocks himself with the lack of grace he speaks with, voice lowered and snarling. He used to be so good at evading people like her. What the Hells has gotten into him?
Tutting, the Drow turns back to you. “Can you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?” Addressing you like he’s not in the room, with scant more respect for you than she had for him.
Proving the Drow’s earlier observation right—as loyal as a bloody mutt—he looks to you, anxiety tightening the muscles over his stomach. The scenarios begin to churn in his mind, the worst among them not even that of you asking him to bite her to get the potion—but instead acquiescing his wants in front of the Drow only to reprimand or even punish him in some way later.
They come to a hilt as both he and the Drow await your move, holding his breath.
Then, you do something that manages to stun, relieve, and thrill him all at once.
You smile.
Though a half of a head shorter than him, and barely a few inches taller than the Drow, your presence seems to swell to intimidating heights among the three of you.
“My, you are slow on the uptake, Ms. Araj,” you speak with a lowered, gentle voice, one which commands the both of them to listen carefully—maybe even get closer, though at this point the Drow would have to have a death wish to get within stabbing distance of you. How dreadful, and disappointing, to Astarion; that the ominous and certain threat in your voice still yet seems to fly over the Drow’s head.
And how entertaining it will surely be to watch her pomp crumble in a few moments.
“My dear companion deigned to give you his name and answer, twice. I would pity the other acolytes and pilgrims here—if I cared for their lives—for the mere cruelty it is to converse with you in any capacity.”
Dear companion? Now this is new. And not…entirely unpleasant.
“I’m—sorry, I—“ the Drow’s poise wavers, though outrage still lines the edges of her voice.
“You will be sorry, if you do not shut your Godsdamned mouth while I speak,” you let the full fury of your voice be felt, though you have yet to raise it past what can be heard within five paces of the Blood Merchant.
As a meager credit to the Drow’s intelligence, she does snap her jaw shut. Astarion’s lips curl all the higher with each passing second.
“As I was saying—though I do not pity the acolytes here for the ordeal it must be to give you some form of station here, I think I have reason enough to remove you from it. For how you have treated my—for how you have treated Astarion,” your smile beams brighter, not a crease beneath your eyes to suggest you’re anything but seething. He realizes, in a way, you’re baring your teeth for him. The near possessive slip seems to loosen the anxiety in his frame, slightly. But your self-correction helps more.
“You may be a True Soul, but you don’t have any authority to—“ the Drow’s lips suddenly quiver shut again, but clearly not of her own doing. Astarion glances at you and his own tadpole wriggles as he feels yours come to life.
“I should have been more specific,” you sigh, your tadpole holding the Drow rigid. Brushing past him, you beckon with your finger as you move towards the balcony’s doorway across the room. The Drow begins to follow, feet shuffling awkwardly as the fear wells in her eyes. He’s not used to feeling planted to the floor, but for a moment he can only watch in gleeful disbelief at what you’re doing. He picks up his feet at the Drow crosses the threshold and slips out to the balcony with the two of you.
“When I said I had reason enough to remove you from your station, I meant that in less of a bureaucratic sense—I mean literally remove you from it,” you continue to hold the conversation calmly, one-sidedly, as you turn back to look at the Drow from the stacked-stone guardrail. You point and snap your fingers, gesturing to the one spot on this balcony where the stones have broken off and fallen down to the inky, boulder filled shallows at the bottom of the tower. The Drow moves even more resistantly as the psionic force from your tadpole urges her to obey, but eventually she stands at its edge.
“Tell me, Araj, would you like the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to feel what it’s like to fly? All you have to do—“ you lay a hand upon her back, just between her shoulder blades, giving her the slightest nudge. “Is step off.”
Astarion hears a strange, strained sounding humming, and realizes it’s the Drow trying to plead behind sealed lips.
“Oh—but it’s a simple exchange, really! And I’m a woman of my word. You step off, and I cast ‘Fly’ upon you. The only risk is if you fall too quickly, well—then my spell won’t reach you in time…and I’ve only seen it happen once before, but to fall from this height? Your body would pop like a champagne bottle thrown to the floor. Skin and muscle and bone will split, and all your warm guts and blood will burst and spray everywhere. What do you say? In my mind, it’d be plain idiotic to squander an opportunity like this.”
You turn back, meeting Astarion’s eye. Within yours, he can see a volatile mix ready to explode. Wrath. Outrage. A cruel hunger for revenge.
But even with those powerful emotions threatening to overtake you, there’s a tenuous thread of patience still wavering. Patience, and a question: that which asks for his permission. To not merely act or speak on his behalf, but decide whether or not to take this woman’s life for the affronts to his dignity and autonomy.
Indignation. Righteous indignation.
That is the feeling that’s been gnawing at him, the words for which he couldn’t recall until now. And it’s all because of you. Because you’ve refused to let him think of himself, talk about himself, treat himself, like a loaner to his own body and mind. Stepping off the wall, he approaches the two of you with a swagger.
First taking hold of a strap on the Drow’s armor, he then plants a steady foot on a piece of the stone guardrail to hold himself upright. Looking to you with a reassuring smirk, you step back, and with a rough shove Astarion sends the Drow’s upper half forward, dangling her precariously over the edge of the balcony. He lets her moan and protest wildly behind her teeth for a moment longer before nodding to you, and you release her from the hold of the tadpole. She takes a ragged gasp, as if preparing to scream, and he leans in to her ear.
“Now now, Araj, let’s not arouse any undesirable attention from the guards, hm?”
Stifling a groan of fear, her arms unsteadily pinwheel in the air as her feet try to find solid stone, and not the edge which Astarion has forced her onto.
“I think I’m feeling generous, so close to the overwhelming splendor of the Absolute—“ he mocks the name of the so-called deity that had proven itself a thorn in their group’s side thus far. “Whom, need I mention, blessed and deemed me a True Soul, just like my dear companion.”
Throwing a conspiratorial smile your way, it deflates only slightly to see your face set so tightly, all but trembling in anger. Not at him, of course. With a sigh, he tuts and yanks the Drow from the edge, throwing her to the stone floor of the balcony further in. She scrambles back from the both of you. Following her towards the door with unhurried steps, he tilts his head in the same mocking way she had before addressing her once more. “The next time someone tells you ‘no’, Drow, I suggest you not argue. You might not be so lucky next time.”
—
The two of you eventually reconvene with the remainder of your group, and after determining your next move you all settle within an abandoned wing of the tower for the night.
Neither of you relay what happened to the rest of your companions—and in turn don’t find an easy opportunity to address it with each other, until the others have gone to bed.
He finds you hunched over your pack, inventorying your potions yet again—worrying and fidgeting his hands and fingers as he approaches.
“I think we’ll come across more, we’ve not unlocked every door in this bloody tower,” he offers—sounding uncharacteristically optimistic. It betrays just how uncertain and uncomfortable he feels about what he’s actually come over to say to you.
“Ah, I know. Just a bit paranoid since we got here. We had our asses kicked out in Reithwin, then again when we took care of Raphael’s dirty laundry—and to walk in to that whole spectacle with Thorm? Gods above—“ you huff, coaxing a genuine smile to Astarion’s face. Finally you turn, rising from your crouched position with a tired, lopsided grin. It falters as you take in his expression, and Astarion worries he’ll collapse in on himself if you look at him for a moment longer like you currently are.
Like you’re concerned about him. Which you are. Like you care for him. Which you do.
Like you love him.
“Everything alright, ‘Starion?”
“Oh—yes, of course I’m fine-“ he stumbles over every word, his charming, easy, impervious shell cracking. “It’s just that…I feel—awful.”
You push aside your own exhaustion, giving him your full attention—of course you do. You ask him why. He’d almost rather pull his own fangs out than confess what he’s about to. But as you listen, as you take in everything he hurries and tries to explain or make excuses for, your expression does not change. Not for the worse, anyway. Those same shining, gentle eyes hold his, and make his undead heart swell. He makes sure to express his gratitude, for how you stood up to the Drow—but even more so for letting him decide.
“Well—yeah,” you sheepishly look down at your feet, scrubbing at the back of your hair. He almost can’t take it, how wonderful you are. “I wasn’t going to rob you of that satisfaction,” you joke. Sighing, you meet his eye again. “I was ready to kill her, Astarion. You know I was. But then… I wouldn’t have done anything for you. Not really. Who’d’ve been empowered if I’d done it? Definitely not you. So, sorry for almost doing that. I was…well, I was fucking pissed.”
He’s not sure if he can recall how to breathe. How could you be apologetic right now, when you were ready to defend him like some knight in shining armor? He came here to apologize to you, not the other way around.
“Hells, darling, I might find an opportunity to make you a villain yet,” he offers you a small smile, voice soft.
You reciprocate, your cheeks dusted with a blush illuminated by the few candles lit outside your tent.
“So, um…what you said—about forcing yourself through-does that mean our—erm,” you try to be so cordial, so empathetic, even though pain seeps from every pore at the implication of what he said.
“No—no, darling,” he rushes out, taking a breath. “Being…close to someone, it just…it was always something I did, had to do, to lure people back—for him. I—want us to be different. I know we are. But intimacy feels…” he struggles to articulate it, feeling your eyes on him even as his own flit around the shadows of the room. “…tainted. I just…don’t know how else to be with someone, no matter how much I’d like to.”
“I care about you, Astarion,” you murmur after a heavy pause, and he manages to find your eyes again.
“Really?” He asks, throat filled with a bubble of emotion that threatens to burst.
And where words failing him and the inability to wield his body would normally make him feel completely hollow—a useless husk of a man—the embrace your arms suddenly surround him in makes him seem…whole. Solid.
And unfortunately, capable of dragging him down to the depths of sadness and pain with how heavy he now feels.
However, your arms around him remind him that you’re there with him. That you will be there with him no matter what, Gods and Devils and Mindflayers be damned.
Astarion remembers how to use his own as realizes they’ve been merely hovering, outstretched, and hugs you back. You tighten around him, sighing into his shirt.
He closes his eyes, nuzzling his face into your hair, into the crook of your neck—looking for those places he’d be happily cradled in for the rest of his thus-far miserable life.
When you eventually pull back—Astarion’s hands linger at your waist, his fingers almost curling around your shirt to tug you back in.
“You’re—um-full of surprises,” he musters a shaky smile, which you reciprocate, warmly.
“I am yours until you tire of me, Astarion,” you offer half-jokingly, the gravity of which does not go amiss in his mind.
“Well, unfortunately for you, I don’t sleep—so don’t get your hopes up for being rid of me, darling.”
Your eyes crease, nearly obscuring your irises as you smile.
“I love you, Astarion,” the words are carried from your lips on a breath as it slips out—falling tenderly as a kiss to his ears and piercing as true as an arrow through his heart.
You can tell as much, stepping forward into his arms once more to squeeze his hand and reassure him. “You—you don’t have to say it back. I just want—need you to know that. In the event we die tomorrow or something. Very real possibility, given our dwindling potions.”
“Oh. Well. If we’re telling each other things we need to know, I suppose I should tell you how I’ve been building a stash of potions I’ve erm…borrowed from you, then. You know, clearing guilty consciences and all,” he counters, squeezing your hand back. “I’ll share them with you—as a last resort—of course.” You snort, and then fall into a fit of giggles that he’s dragged into all too easily.
After a considerable effort and a number of failed attempts to stop laughing, a sharp ‘Tsk’va’ uttered from Lae’zel’s tent nearby finally manages to silence you both as you slip into his tent, you staying awake only long enough for him to clear the bedroll of clutter and shake the blankets out.
As you settle your cheek on his chest, snuggled up to his side, his lips press idle kisses to your forehead and hair, desiring to commit your smell, warmth, and weight in his arms to memory.
He eventually slips into a trance—for once, one not filled with crimson eyes and shadows and death—but your sweet smile, laugh, and the way those three words he once longed to forget sound in your voice.
#astarion x tav#astarion x reader#astarion x female tav#astarion#bg3 astarion#bg3#astarion ancunin#fluff#fanfic#short fiction
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I am so happy to finally show off the piece of art from our trade with the incredibly talented @goromimii ♥ thank you so much for this beautiful drawing of Maleane!
𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞.
She stayed hidden through it all, day and night. Her mother screamed and screamed — in between the many degrading words coming from the drow party's lips, in between the sounds of sizzling flesh and breaking bones — until a long drawn-out minute of gurgling noises, after which it all went quiet. And even after the group had long departed, Maleane stayed in the little niche under the roots of a tree, frozen, terrified. Just like all those times A’sherra had forced her to hide under the floorboards.
It was only as the dawn was breaking that she gathered enough courage to return to what should’ve been their home for the summer. Yet, it was home no more, merely the leftovers of a terrific crime. They had eaten their food, stolen most of their weapons and left their little cabin in charcoal and ash. But none of it mattered to Maleane. Not when she saw her mother lying on the ground. Or rather, when she saw what was left of her. Looking at her mother’s eyeless, tongueless face put the young drow in such a shock that she spent the rest of the day disconnected from her own self. Maleane knew little of burial rites or funerals, only the rare bits and pieces she’d encountered in her books, but it was almost instinctual to try and hide A’sherra’s remains from the rest of the world. From the animals that were already picking limbs and chunks off of the cadaver. From more damage brought by the ill-meaning creatures. From her own eyes. The rest of the day was a blur suspended in a haze: Maleane dug a crude grave with her own two hands, collecting the pieces of her mother’s body and then covering it all in a suffocating layer of dirt. And then came the empty. At first, it was only Mal’s blood and tears watering the soil underneath her knees, but soon the sky started weeping as well. The young sorceress sat there for hours — her eyes a blank field of lilac — as the summer storm drenched her to the last thread of her shirt, washing the dirt and dried blood off of her and into the muddy grave below. Everything she was feeling, all the emotions rolling through her in waves slipped out in tendrils of magic, up and up into the stormy sky, to weave clouds and rain and lightning, until exhaustion finally took her.
#baldur's gate 3#illustration#fanart#art#baldur's gate#bg3#baldur's gate fanart#baldur's gate art#bg3 fanart#drow#drow tav#bg3 tav#bg3 oc#oc: maleane#mywriting#blood cw#i'm so in love with this thank you so much yet again!!!#my poor sweet mal :(
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By the Silk that Binds Us (pt.2)
Matron!Minthara x Forced!Betrothed!reader
An arranged marriage, enemies to lovers fic: part one part three
CW: Gore, feminine drow reader
Hey hey hey, back at it with some more arranged marriage au, I find it such a good bit of fic to lose myself in when I write it, hope you all enjoy it ! - Seluney xox
*Mistress of the house is lore I have made up to describe the spouse of the matron, they are in charge of the more tedious aspects of running the house
"How did you do that?" Minthara's tone was a mixture of irritation and curiosity, her eyes locked onto you from across the room. You were seated at the vanity table, carefully removing the intricate pieces of jewelry adorning you. The engagement party had ended about an hour ago and you were keen to get some rest.
"Whatever do you mean, Minthara?" you asked disinterestedly, not bothering to look up. You continued to unclasp your mother's necklace, your movements slow and deliberate. In the mirror's reflection, you saw Minthara's expression tighten, her arms crossed as she took a step closer.
"You know exactly what I am talking about." Her voice had a sharper edge as she moved towards you, her frustration evident. Grabbing the corner of your chair, she spun it around abruptly, forcing you to face her. The sudden motion made you gasp, clutching the necklace to your chest. Your initial surprise quickly turned to annoyance, and you met her gaze with a bored expression, one eyebrow cocked in challenge. "Don't play coy with me. I will ask you one more time: how did you do that?"
"Oh, you mean this?" You gave her a lazy smile and held out your hand. Slowly, you drew a line of silk from your palm, its ethereal glow casting a soft light between you. The center of your palm illuminated as your index finger spun the silk, its appearance both delicate and dangerous. Minthara's eyes widened slightly, unable to hide her fascination as she leaned in to get a better look. The silk shimmered like nothing she had ever seen, as fine as a spider’s web yet brimming with lethal potential.
Before she could examine it further, you abruptly clapped your hands together, disintegrating the silk in an instant. Minthara flinched back, her curiosity giving way to irritation once more.
"It's nothing really," you said nonchalantly, setting the necklace down on the vanity.
"You decapitated that hook horror with it like it was forged in adamantine, and yet it looks like regular silk." Minthara's harsh words carried a hint of envy she couldn't conceal.
"Yes, I did quite well for just sitting there and looking pretty, didn't I?" you hummed, recalling her earlier remark. Minthara's face darkened, and she forcefully jolted your chair back so that it rocked precariously on its hind legs. One little push, and your head would hit the vanity behind you. But you remained unflustered, crossing one leg over the other as if to make yourself more comfortable.
"You will do well to remember your place," Minthara warned, her voice low and dangerous. She was not used to such insolence.
"Oh, I do, my betrothed," you smirked, leaning forward slightly. "Do you?"
"I am Matron of this House—"
"And I am to be your wife," you countered, pushing Minthara back, allowing the chair to rock forward and giving you the momentum to rise to your feet. You stood toe-to-toe with her, your faces mere inches apart, the tension palpable. "I apologize if your attempted decimation of my house has led you to underestimate me, but it would serve you well to remember that I survived for a reason."
"You survived because my imbecile assassins mistook your handmaiden's corpse for your own," Minthara spat, her voice filled with venom.
"And who do you think left them that corpse?" you interrupted, your gaze piercing into her deep red eyes. "I knew you were coming for me, and so did she. I couldn't risk my handmaiden striking a deal with you. I had to act first."
"You killed her?" Minthara's voice wavered, genuine shock flickering across her features. The idea that her assassins were outsmarted by such cunning hadn’t crossed her mind.
"And left her body for your assassins, implying that someone else had got there first. Truly, Minthara, you overwork your assassins; they were more than happy to take credit for it," you replied with a smile, reveling in her stunned silence. You cupped her cheek mockingly, adopting a patronizing tone. "Don't worry. When I'm Mistress of this House, I can deal with them for you, show you how it's done."
Minthara's eyes flared with anger, the dangerous glint intensifying. Without another word, she turned sharply on her heel and stormed out of the room, her footsteps echoing down the hall. You watched her go, a smirk tugging at the corners of your lips.
"Don't want to spend the night with your betrothed, Minthara?" you called out mockingly, your voice laced with feigned offense. "How disappointing."
The silence that followed her departure was almost deafening. You sighed dramatically, turning back to the vanity to finish removing your jewelry. Alone in the room, you took your time, savoring the quiet victory.
Minthara was formidable, but she was not invincible.
That night, you slept alone in your quarters, the silence only occasionally broken by distant, muffled sounds from the rest of the estate. You didn't sleep soundly, but it was enough. When you awoke, you could hear the hushed whispers of the servants just outside your door. Curious, you moved closer, straining to catch their conversation.
"Did you hear what happened last night?" one servant murmured, his voice trembling.
"Yes," another replied, barely above a whisper. "Matron Minthara slaughtered an entire rank of her assassins. They're being displayed in the gardens as a warning, as we speak."
A satisfied smile spread across your face. Minthara's wrath had been directed exactly where you wanted it. The consequences for her assassins had been brutal, but it reaffirmed her authority and your own cunning. How wonderful it will be, when you choose the replacements.
You dressed for the day, choosing an outfit that was both elegant yet understated, but more importantly were your house colours. As you made your way to breakfast, you could feel the eyes of the servants on you, their whispers following in your wake.
Entering the dining hall, you immediately noticed Minthara seated at the head of the table, her expression a storm of barely contained fury. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours as you walked in, and you could see the remnants of her rage smoldering in her gaze.
"Good morning, Minthara," you greeted her smoothly, taking your seat opposite her. You couldn't help but feel smug as you noted the dark circles under her eyes, the visible signs of her anger and sleepless night.
Minthara didn't respond immediately. Instead, she continued to fume silently, her gaze locked onto you. The tension in the room was palpable, and the servants moved around you both with exaggerated caution, clearly eager to avoid any potential outburst.
"Rough night?" you asked innocently, reaching for a piece of fruit. You bit into it slowly, savoring the taste as you watched Minthara's reaction.Her fingers tightened around the goblet she was holding, but she managed to maintain her composure.
"You think yourself clever, don't you?" she finally said, her voice low and dangerous.
"I merely act in the interest of our union, and if that means bringing you out of your delusions then so be it" you replied smoothly, leaning back in your chair. "After all, we are to be partners in this."
"Partners," Minthara echoed, her tone dripping with disdain. She set her goblet down with a sharp clink, her eyes never leaving yours. "We'll see how long that lasts."
You gave her a serene smile, unfazed by her hostility. "Oh we will indeed."
The rest of the breakfast passed in a tense silence. The servants continued their work, casting anxious glances between the two of you. As you finished your meal and rose to leave, you couldn't resist one last parting shot.
"Oh, and Minthara," you said, pausing at the door. "Do try to get some rest. It's unbecoming of a Matron to look so, well, ragged."
With that, you left the dining hall, your satisfaction growing with each step. Minthara leaned back in her chair, simmering with barely contained fury. She could not let such disrespect go unpunished. With a snap of her fingers, she summoned a servant who tripped over themselves trying to get to her.
"Her brothers," Minthara commanded, a cruel smile forming on her lips. "Lesaonar and Kyorlin. Bring them to me."
The servant nodded hurriedly and scurried off to fetch the twins. Minthara rose from her chair, straightening her garments, and walked out to the gardens. The morning light cast a ghastly glow on the lifeless bodies of her assassins, now hung as a grim display among the lush foliage. The macabre scene was a testament to her authority.
Lesaonar and Kyorlin were brought to her shortly after, their faces pale with fear as they took in the sight of the dead assassins. Minthara stood waiting for them, her expression icy and unreadable.
"Walk with me," she commanded, her voice a chilling whisper.
The twins exchanged a fearful glance but complied, falling into step behind her as she led them through the garden. The stench of death was overpowering, and they tried to avoid looking at the mutilated bodies hanging from the trees, swaying in the breeze.
"You must understand," Minthara began, her tone deceptively calm, "that while I am bound by the vow not to harm you, there are many ways to extract information without causing physical pain."
The brothers swallowed hard, their terror evident in their eyes. They knew Minthara was not bluffing. They had seen her ruthless efficiency firsthand and understood that she would find a way to make them talk.
"I only require answers," Minthara continued, stopping to examine one of the corpses with dispassionate interest. "Specifically, about your sister's… abilities."
Lesaonar's eyes widened, and he glanced at Kyorlin, who was visibly shaking. They both knew this moment would come, but that didn't make it any less frightening.
"It's a family secret," Lesaonar blurted out, his voice trembling. "An honor from Lolth given to each generation's female family members for their diligent worship. Only a few women of our house can do it."
Minthara turned to face him, her gaze piercing. "And what exactly is this ability?"
"We don't know much," Kyorlin added quickly, hoping to placate her. "It's a rare gift, a form of divine silk that can cut through almost anything. But only a few women in our house have ever been able to produce it. That's all we know."
Minthara's eyes narrowed as she considered their words. It was clear that they were genuinely terrified and unlikely to be hiding anything more. She began to pace, her mind racing with the implications of this revelation.
"Divine silk," she mused aloud, more to herself than to the twins. "A gift from Lolth. Fascinating."
She stopped pacing and turned to face them again, her expression hardening. "You will keep this interaction to yourselves. Should I discover that you have spoken of it to anyone else, I will find ways to make you regret it."
Lesaonar and Kyorlin nodded vigorously, their relief mingled with lingering fear.
"Good," Minthara said curtly. "Now, get out of my sight."
The twins hurried away, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the garden. Minthara remained behind, her mind already working on how to use this new information to her advantage. The knowledge of your unique ability could be a powerful tool, but it also meant that you were even more valuable—and potentially more dangerous—than she had initially realized.
You strolled through the garden, the scent of blood mingling with the fragrance of blooming underdark flowers. The sight of the assassin's bodies scattered around served as a testament to your cunning and strength, and you couldn't help but feel a smug satisfaction. You were set to meet your twin brothers, Lesaonar and Kyorlin, for some wine, intending to share a moment of triumph in the aftermath of the engagement party's events and catch up with them how their new tutelage under House Baenre was treating them.
You had to admit, despite their lowly status, you did have a fondness for them, more so than that you ever held for your sisters. There was just something so.. vulnerable about them. You felt bad for them, pitied them, even. And now they were all you had left of your family.
As you approached them, holding a bottle of fine wine in one hand and three goblets in the other, you noticed the tension in their posture. They sat rigid at the outside table, their faces pale and eyes wide with panic. You paused, your smile faltering.
"What’s wrong?" you asked, trying to keep your voice light. "Surely, the sight of a few dead assassins doesn’t trouble you?"
Lesaonar and Kyorlin exchanged a nervous glance before Lesaonar spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "It’s not the assassins, sister. It’s Minthara."
You felt a chill run down your spine. The mere mention of her name in such a tone sent alarm bells ringing in your mind. You set the bottle and goblets down on the table, your previous smugness evaporating.
"What has she done?" you demanded, your eyes narrowing, and arms crossing.
Kyorlin swallowed hard. "She questioned us about your abilities, sister. We told her what little we knew, but she… she was furious. She threatened us, made it clear that she would make our lives a living hell if we didn’t cooperate."
Anger flared within you. You turned on your heel, ready to storm off and confront Minthara, but your brothers leapt up grabbed your arms, desperation in their eyes.
"Please, sister, don’t!" Lesaonar pleaded. "We should not have even told you. She’ll find a way to hurt us without breaking the vow. You know she will."
You stopped, torn between your fury and the palpable fear in your brothers’ faces. Minthara had indeed found a way to instill terror in them, and you realized that confronting her head-on might only make things worse for them. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm.
"Fine," you said through gritted teeth. "I won’t confront her. But I will find a way to protect us. To protect our House. Trust me."
That night, you entered your shared quarters, your mind still racing with thoughts of Minthara’s threats and your brothers’ fear. The tension was thick in the air, and as you prepared for bed, you felt Minthara’s presence behind you. She moved with a predatory grace, her eyes glinting with a dangerous curiosity.
"So," she said, her voice silky and dangerous, "you possess some extraordinary abilities. I must admit, I am eager to see them in action again."
You turned to face her, your expression defiant. "And why, exactly is that?"
Minthara’s smile was cold and calculating. She stepped closer, her gaze never leaving yours. "Observation, of course. I cannot wait to find out how they work, how you can be… harnessed, so to say."
She reached out, tracing a finger along your jawline. You resisted the urge to flinch, meeting her predatory gaze with one of your own.
"You’ll find that I am not so easily controlled." You told her, your eyes locked into hers. You would not back down, not now.
Minthara chuckled, a low and sinister sound. "We shall see, my darling betrothed. We shall see."
The tension between you was electric, the chemistry undeniable even as you both put up a façade of indifference. You could feel her desire to dominate you, to break you, and it only fuelled your determination to resist her, to fight her.
Eventually you took a step back, and you could feel Minthara's hot gaze on you, looking you up and down. You were in silk robe, tied across your waist, and you suddenly felt self-conscious under her gaze. She had never looked at you like this before, like she wanted to devour you - and not in the murderous sense.
You recomposed yourself and flounced away, but as you walked away Minthara caught your wrist and yanked you towards her. She caught you off guard and you fell into her, your bodies pressing together. Before you could protest, she wrapped an arm around your waist and clasped a hand over your mouth. Her head nuzzling into your neck.
"Hush now, let me speak." Minthara whispered to you, you could feel her warm breath on your neck. "You know you could just show me yourself, be rid of these incessant prideful hinderances. Display your talents for me, your betrothed, your future wife."
You wouldn't let it show, and you would rather be eaten by a bulette than tell her, but the way she held you, the way she talked to you, you could feel a warmth pool between your legs. Minthara removes her hand from your mouth and slides it down your neck, you can't help it when your breath hitches when she uses her thumb to caress a certain sensitive spot on your neck. You can feel her proud smile as your body conveys what your words would never.
"Let go of me." You shakily try to demand but her grip on you is unyielding.
"I don't want to." She hums to you and you try to remove yourself from her grip, but she pulls her arm around her waist closer to herself, pressing you tightly into her abdomen.
"M-Minthara let me go, now." You try to assert yourself, but you feel her lips just fractions aways from your skin and your heart begins to race. In an effort of preserving your pride, you pull out the last move you have. "Please, Minthara."
At the sound of your pleading, Minthara sighs in delight and releases you, relishing in the way you retreat to your side of the bed, her dominance asserted. Oh how she cherishes the way you look at her with trepidation. She slowly saunters towards you an aloof smirk on her lips. "Worry not, my betrothed, I will not try anything until you are begging for it."
"You can pray to Lolth all you like for that day, but it will never come" You snap at her, and Minthara laughs and it sends a chill through you.
"Never is such an absolute term, I cannot wait to make you choke on it."
#baldurs gate minthara#bg3#baldurs gate 3#bg3 tav#baldurs gate tav#baldurs gate iii#minthara baenre#minthara x reader#minthara#matron!minthara#matron!minthara x reader#matron!minthara baenre x reader#enemies to lovers#arranged marriage#minthara x tav#minthara bg3#minthara x drow!reader#au#arranged marriage au#minthara my beloved
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@nemo-of-house-hamartia How do they reconcile the fact that Corazan is Eilistraean and Minthara instead was Lolth-sworn?? Would it prove a point of contention between them? Would they ever return to Menzoberranzan, or have they discarded every single connection with the Underdark?
I'm taking this out of the comments section 'cause I need room to answer all this lol
You didn't realize you hit my "unhinged rant" button, so I apologize for the novel this spawned. Thank you for your interest in my silliness, it's really made my day - my week, my month, really!
Anyway, here's my rants. I'm doing my best to make it easy to read (Tech Writer powers activate!) but I'm cobbling this together over a lunch break, so I apologize if it's messy. I've tried to highlight things that give you the TL;DR.
Lolth-Sworn:
Just for a little background: Coranzan grew up a Lolthite in Eastmyr, Menzoberranzan himself. He wasn't a die-hard or anything but that's just "how things were" for him.
He rejected her after his and Z'ress' Blooding and he had something of an epiphany about it. I won't go into it here but Coran still carries some Lolthite views, such as ambition being an admirable quality among other things. So they're not too different in some values - except that they disagree on HOW one achieves their ambitions.
But boiling it down, Coranzan and Minthara have a shared goal on Lolth: that Lolth's rule in the Underdark is a blight on Drow and if they can hamper her ability to rule, they should try and do as much damage as possible.
Lolthite Beliefs:
Through the game I see Minthara giving way on a LOT of Lolth-typical concepts except maybe in her view of power, ambition, and some governance.
She feels the way her mother raised her was terrible and a bad example - which was merely the way most drow were raised. She's so horrified by her mother's way, it chills her when she sees what this does to people like her and Orin - being "lost to madness and blood".
She's so enraged by Lolth's betrayal despite the fact that she was likely raised to EXPECT betrayal from Lolth (I am reading Daughter of the Drow and was fascinated to read this there).
She rejects the Baenre name - that's a huge part of her identity. This woman is rebuilding herself from the ground up, picking up each piece and analyzing it to see if it is a value she still has and discarding it if not.
Besides the fact that she's rejected a lot of Lolthite beliefs, I think there's a pattern to it: Minthara seems to feel that the drive for ambition and power is good but the societal norms that came from Lolth should be mostly rejected. So, generally speaking, Coran is aligned with her on this.
Eilistraean Beliefs:
The biggest point of contention for them is Coranzan's belief in Eilistraee. Minthara is pretty anti-worship-of-anything after rejecting Lolth. She calls Coran "my little marionette" for worshiping Eilistraee.
However, purely by values, Eilistraee is not the worst goddess and I think she and Minthara line up in some ways - mainly in rejecting and dismantling Lolth's hold on Drow and that Drow should be self-sufficient. Eilisitraee does not teach drow to become dependent on her and do her bidding, she bids them to be free and to consider helping other drow be free (only if you choose to join the Clergy). However, I still think Minthara would feel Eilistraee expects you to sacrifice too much of yourself to achieve those goals and that it shouldn't just be done for the sake of it.
So, they disagree on this aspect, but Coran is no preacher, so it's not a constant fight. He's not trying to convert her - or anyone for that matter - and the only Eilistrean thing he does is support her life of exile on the surface. When she first joins the camp, he gives her the attention he would any drow who has recently arrived on the surface, as is his Eilistraean mission. But he doesn't bark about Eilistraee, he just acts as she'd like him to: ensure drow succeed on the surface.
Coranzan worships separately: he privately performs the evensong for personal reflection every day (if possible) and he and his sister Z'ress regularly dance in the moonlight and make it no business of the rest of the camp - but they don't hide it either.
He understands Minthara doesn't agree with it and finds it all very silly - and their disagreement deepens when she comes to understand how Coran was treated in the Church of Eilistraee (gender issues are still a thing there and it took him 150 years to become a Cleric and Sword Dancer of Eilistraee).
She would surely believe the Church of Eilistraee is holding him back. Through the story, he clearly demonstrates strength of character and leadership - a rare and now welcome thing to find in a Drow man - but the Church of Eilistraee holds on to gender-based beliefs that are weirdly in common with Lolthites and that suppressed his ambitions.
In time (a little post-BG3), due to convincing arguments from Minthara and Z'ress, Coranzan will relent to their perspectives. Although he does not reject Eilistraee entirely, he will leave the Church of Eilistraee, and he changes the way he believes - he proactively pursues taking down Lolth's prized servants rather than the passive/reactive response that seems to be pretty common with Eilistraeans.
Menzoberranzan:
I've always felt that returning to Menzoberranzan openly as an apostate is insanity. If Lolth herself doesn't fuck you up, her people will.
Nonetheless, I have stories that I'm still figuring out where Coranzan does covertly return to Menzoberranzan post-BG3 without Minthara for months at a time. They are agonizing stretches of time and he loathes being in that hateful place without her or Z'ress. But it is to gather intelligence and find sympathetic rebels - as Eilistraean Secret Moondancers would do - to help their cause and build their new House. Eventually, he'll stop going and send others in his place.
Let me back up and give context:
First off, Coranzan lived most of his adult life around Waterdeep or the Promenade of the Dark Maiden (which is in the Undermountain below Waterdeep).
So in the Epilogue, when Minthara talks about founding a new House in "your name", he is hesitant but agrees - his family hasn't had a House in a generation or so now (which is why he and Z'ress have only first names). So, he leaves the Church of Eilistraee and decides that founding a House with Minthara is his future. He believes he can achieve far greater things with her than with the Church.
His thought is to return to the Undermountain near the Promande. That is to avoid getting too close to Lolth's domain so they have a chance at surviving. So they found (with a lot of help) a place to get started by clearing and rebuilding a section of the many ruined cities of the Undermountain (which is considered part of the Underdark).
The rebels that "swarm" to Minthara's and his' cause against the Spider Queen are the collective that shape the new House.
From there, they regularly make attempts to sabotage or hinder Lolth, House Baenre, etc. with their newly made forces. Being a smaller force, they favor guerilla tactics rather than going straight to warring with the Lion's Den that is Menzoberranzan.
So, technically they live in the Underdark post-game but there's a fair bit that stands between them and Menzoberranzan.
If you made it through this... thank you, truly! I appreciate it! If you are at all interested in what I wrote, comments, asks, and stuff are most welcome! If not, thanks again and I hope you have a good rest of your day/night!
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The Violet Thread of Fate Part One:
The Reclusive Wizard and the Cheeky Upstart
Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Join Taglist
POV || Third Person, dual POV Gale Dekarios and Elinna Inklynn (Tav)
Pairing || Elinna Inklynn (Half-drow tav) and Gale Dekarios
Length || 5,500 Words
Scenario || In an alternative timeline for the events of BG3 Elinna Inklynn, an orphan from the Moonshae Islands seeks out the tutelage of accomplished wizard Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep. She has a knack with the Weave, but no money or connections to actually learn how to harness it. She has heard the wizard is a gentleman and a schollar, and hopes she can appeal to him to take her on as his apprentice in exchange for her help around his tower, with his research, and in running errands in Waterdeep. Unfortunately for her, Gale Dekarios does not take on apprentices.
Warnings || Age gap (Perhaps about 10ish years), depiction of depression and heart ache, description of very, very mild body horror.
A/n || I hope you all enjoy this very indulgent little fic I'm starting. I am already having entirely too much fun with it. Please keep in mind that while this fic will have a good amount of characters and scenarios from the canon events of BG3 I am planning on taking a lot of creative liberties and may leave out certain situations/characters for the sake of flow!
If you like this, you may also like my original works! I have a writing taglist that you can sign up for simply by commenting or reblogging and letting me know you'd like to be added. OR you can fill out this form if you'd like to be specific about which works you'd like to be tagged in.
Tag list || @softvampirewhump @horizonstride @thoughts-of-bear @mymybirdie @tiedyedghoulette @drabblesandimagines @madwomansapologist @hijirikaww @tryingtowritestuff24 @laserlope @auroraesmeraldarose @puckprimrose @dont-try-pesticide
A Reclusive Wizard
“Mr. Dekarios, if you would just consider it–” Tara suggested as she fluttered alongside her charge.
“Tara, no,” Gale said. “We are not dropping the wards and we’re not taking visitors. The orb is too volatile.”
“But, Mr. Dekarios–I’ve told you this isolation of yours–”
“Tara–enough,” Gale shouted, exasperated. “You are my friend. You’re not my mother. I’m a grown man, who has done quite well for himself, might I add, and I don’t need your–your incessant fussing.”
“Mr. Dekarios!” Tara tutted, her whiskers perking forward with her disapproval. “My incessant fussing is what helped you figure out how to stabilize the orb in the first place, may I remind you. And if you so tire of my incessant fussing, allow me to divest of its burden! I may not be your mother, but your mother is a friend to me and will happily put me up.”
“Tara,” Gale said. “Wait–I didn’t mean you should leave–”
“I know that. But I am also quite aware that my willingness to fetch magical items and act as your little familiar has proven to only enable your reclusive habits,” she retorted. “Perhaps you will not listen to me, but when you run out of biscuits for your tea, perhaps you’ll see the reason in getting a little bit of fresh air…and perhaps a bath…and for the sake of the gods a shave.”
Tara flitted her way up to one of the high windows in the tower, pausing on the sill before leaving.
“Tara, don’t go,” Gale said, his eyes taking on a sort of sorry, piteous quality. “Please, just stay here.”
“Mr. Dekarios, those big glittering eyes won’t work on me any longer,” Tara said. “I’ve known you too long to be bewitched by your pouting. If you so wish me to return, you can come fetch me at your childhood home. The walk will do you well.”
And with that, she soared right out of the window, leaving Gale of Waterdeep entirely and utterly alone.
Gale scowled up at the window she’d escaped from before sighing and smearing a hand down his face. He cupped his hand over his mouth and heaved out a low grumble, lost in thought as he often was these days.
Perhaps Tara was right…maybe it was time to leave the tower. To engage in the ease of camaraderie at The Yawning Portal, reach out to the colleagues that had tried to pay him a visit in the year since his relationship with Mystra had come to an end–since this tangle of Netherese magic made a home of his chest cavity.
But it wasn’t just the volatile nature of the orb that worried him. It wasn’t as if he thought a raucous night with his friends would trigger an explosion to level the city he called home. Even with the constant peril of the orb in his chest being destabilized by a too-strong emotion, there was a deeper fear inspiring the reluctance.
Gale Dekarios was used to being an outlier. Unfortunately, it was the otherside of the coin of being a particularly gifted wizard. As a child, it had been a source of ostracization. As an adolescent it made him the subject of many an ill-begotten rivalry. As a young man he had begun to learn how to minimize the isolation by compensating for the inevitable inferiority complex he inspired in others by learning to be charming and funny–to couch his corrections in complimentary language so that he could have some measure of friendship.
It wasn’t often that he could find people that could keep up with him or converse with him on his level–at least, not where the subject of magic came into play. But he’d learned to accept that and enjoy the company of other wizards–even non-wizards–in different ways.
A game of lanceboard, the critical analysis of a book, a spirited debate on the merits of the shadow arts when applied to the correct endeavors. Now, as a man in his late 30’s with questionable knees, he felt nicely secure in his ability to play nice with others.
But this new sense of separation–this insurmountable mountain between himself and the other–had been so very devastating to the life he had carefully cultivated.
How could he listen to other people lament about their sordid love affairs, the politics at the academy–anything– with any measure of understanding or empathy? How could he confide in the people who he used to call his friends?
He was alone in the tower, but he wasn’t certain he could face the profound isolation of trying to connect with someone about his condition, only to find them staring back at him in utter befuddlement. Or worse, with soulless platitudes and what he could only describe as foolish optimism.
Who could possibly make him feel better when there was no way he could ever feel better? How could he listen to the woes of friends and earnestly care about them when he had been forsaken by the goddess of the only thing he held sacred in his life?
He couldn’t. That was a the truth of it. And that was why he didn’t want visitors. He didn’t want to subject his friends to the poor quality of his care; didn’t want to expose them to this unique brand of selfishness and bitterness.
He’d had enough of destroying things.
But he also knew he needed Tara–not just because of the artifacts, but because she was his oldest and longest standing friendship. And because the tower, in her absence, had already become unbearably quiet.
And he supposed it had been a while since he last saw his mother…
He sighed and turned away from his mess of a study, climbing up the two flights of stairs to his bedchambers. Once there, he conjured himself a bath as he undressed, leaving his house robes in a pile on the floor before stepping into the steaming water.
It smelled of bay laurel and lavender–an old combination that Mystra loved to use when they’d shared baths together. His mind drifted to the thought of his goddess cradled against his body, how small she felt even with her considerable power, the feeling of her silky hair catching on his skin as he kissed the hollow of her neck and…
“Don’t take that path in your mind, Gale. She’s the last person you should be thinking about right now,” he told himself as he gave his cheek a couple firm, bracing pats with his hand. He let his head drop back in the water and sighed.
The water filled his ears, quieting the ambient sounds in the room around him and creating an echochamber of his head. He heard the airy sound of his breaths coming and going in and out of his lungs; heard the gentle trickling sounds of his fingers creating tiny currents under the water; heard the sound of his heart still beating in his over-crowded chest.
He was still alive.
There could be hope for him yet.
Unlikely, sure, but there could be.
After washing up with some simple soap, he got out of the bath and toweled off.
He walked over to the small wardrobe where he kept his things and slapped a couple lazy splashes of a fragranced suspension he’d made onto his neck, favoring his pulse points as he used to when he’d go out for a night at The Yawning Portal. He trimmed his beard as a small concession to Tara (he would not be shaving it completely, thank you very much,) and got dressed.
He decided he would wear one of his nicer sets of robes. It’d been a while since he’d properly dressed himself in something other than simple tunics and roughspun practice robes. He started with some leather trousers and his under shirt, layering the criss-crossed front with car and fastening it with the ties at his waist to create a slender, tapered silhouette. Then he slipped the robe on, and paused as he caught a glance of himself in the mirror.
He’d not really been thinking when he selected the robe, but this was one of Mystra’s favorites on him. Various shades of violet with a wine-colored sash.
Violet, of course, was the color of the weave. Mystra’s color.
Would she want him to eliminate the color from his wardrobe altogether? Now that she’d left him to his devices? Surely a goddess couldn’t bar him from wearing a color. Hopefully not, considering more than half of his wardrobe was some shade of lilac, lavender or morning glory.
Whatever the case, he fastened the buckles and straightened the sash the wine colored sash, trying once again to put Mystra out of his mind. He did a flick of his hands to lace up the sleeves and then slid on some leather bracers for good measure.
It wasn’t as if he had any intention of doing any fighting or shooting any arrows, but he liked how they looked. And it had been so long since he’d looked in the mirror and thought to himself my, look at that handsome devil.
Finally he looked at the mop of his hair. It’d also been too long since he’d gotten a cut…now his messy curls fell past his shoulders when he usually preferred to keep it short enough to comb back with a bit of emollient or pomade. He was certain his mother would gripe about it and then he would have to deal with incessant fussing two fold between his mother and Tara. Still, it was dark outside–long past the time any salons would be open, so he gathered half of it up, bundling it as neatly as he could manage around his two forefingers and secured it with a two-pronged hairpin.
He looked at the earring on his wardrobe and hedged for a moment.
He’d been given the earring as a gift from Mystra when he’d first encountered her as a boy. He’d only stopped wearing it in the last year. Something had felt off about keeping it on–like a widower still wearing his wedding band. But it also felt wrong to leave his tower without it. It felt like a part of his identity.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said to himself in the mirror before turning from it and striding out of his bedroom.
…He returned not two seconds later and slipped the earring into his left ear. Damn it all. He couldn’t help what he was. A sentimental, heartbroken fool.
On his way out the door, he grabbed a hooded cloak and draped it over his shoulders. He lifted the hood, obscuring his face in shadow, hoping it would be enough to keep him from having to interact with anyone who wasn’t Tara of his mother. He considered, for a moment, casting an invisibility charm on himself…alas the concentration such a thing would require left him feeling exhausted at the thought of it. The cloak had worked for rogues and criminals for centuries. Suely it could work for him as well.
Finally, he left the safety and control his tower afforded him and walked out into the cold, Waterdhavian night.
A Cheeky Upstart
“Okay Elinna. Just…ring the doorbell. You’ve traveled all the way here. So just ring it,” a young woman told herself as she stood outside the wrought iron gates. “You sailed all the way from the Moonshae Islands, left every book behind, dealt with some of the worst sea sickness in all of the realms just to be here.”
Despite telling herself this, she had to shake out some of the numbness in her fingers from clenching her fists too tight. Or maybe it was just the nip in the air from the coastal evening. She couldn’t truly be sure.
As she stood there, her green eyes caught a streak of movement in the sky–some winged creature departing from a high window of the tower. She couldn’t quite make out what it was. Maybe a gargoyle? Or a mephit? An imp?
Something churned in her gut at the thought of Gale of Waterdeep cavorting with the infernal. Perhaps that was why no one had seen him in such a long time–maybe he’d made a pact with a devil and lost some of his humanity in the exchange. Maybe she ought to just turn on her shabby heels and book passage back home.
“You can’t do that, Elinna,” she told herself. “You already spent everything you have just to get here. You’re all in, now.”
But that was precisely why she couldn’t bring herself to tug on the chain to ring the doorbell. Who was she to show up at the door of one of the best wizards–a proper prodigy of composing strings of the weave; the apprentice of the famous Elminster, no less?
Well she knew the answer to that.
She was desperate. That’s what she was.
She’d been left at the Scribe’s Nest by her mother with nothing but a note and an old locket she couldn’t get open; drow craftsmanship. The note detailed her lineage as a half-drow, but begged the clerics of the temple to take her in and raise her. According to the note left in her swaddle, Elinna would be shunned and excluded by because of her impure blood.
A shame for both her mother and Elinna herself that the Scribe’s Nest had simply moved into an old Temple of Ilmater. The inhabitants inside were nothing but glorified librarians. They may have had access to all of the books in the world, but not a single one of her guardians actually knew how to use the information inside.
No. Instead, they tried to raise her to love cataloging the written word, but deny herself the joy of actually using anything she learned from the old dusty tomes in the temple. Even when she’d shown a natural knack for small magics, she had been discouraged from using them, leaving her with no choice but to practice in the wee hours of the night.
She knew she hadn’t much to use as a benchmark for her growth as a burgeoning young wizard, but she thought for all of the effort she’d put in she made a half-decent self-taught magician. All she needed was some proper tutelage to become something truly magnificent. Something worthy of the tales of great wizards that she’d read.
Which brought her here–to the first and only plan she had to seek out that higher learning. And now her future hung in the balance of whether or not her knock at the door–or rather the ring of the doorbell–would be answered.
Her heart pounded in her chest, at her temples. He leather fingerless gloves squeaked as she flexed and clenched her fists.
“Gah!” she cried, turning away from the gate, pacing across the narrow cobbled street, then pacing right back. She gasped in a few preparatory breaths and hopped from one soft-soled foot to the other. “Just do it, just DO it, Elinna. Just–”
The door of the tower opened, it’s underutilized hinges creaking as the man opening the door grunted.
“Damnable–old door–why did I make you out of iron,” grumbled the voice.
Elinna went entirely still, eyes going wide.
Perhaps it was habit from how many times she’d had to sneak tomes away from the restricted areas of the Scribe’s Nest, but she ducked behind the stone columns holding up the wrought iron gate and watched as the cloaked figure made his way to the gate and slipped outside of it with a wave of his hand.
She remained hidden as he looked down the road in her direction, his eyes looking too distantly to catch her small frame tucked away in the dark.
She’d seen sketches of the Gale Dekarios before, but she couldn’t help but feel they did him no justice. The etchings seemed to have emphasized the wizened qualities of his features; the lines around his eyes, the creases around his lips. They made him look sagely and–well–old.
But the real man, the one now standing in the flesh just a few feet from her was something different entirely.
He showed signs of age, of course. He was a middle-aged man, after all. But his lips were fuller, his beard a little more tidy, and his eyes…
His eyes were what made him look the most youthful. There was a sort of shimmer to them that she couldn’t quite describe, a sort of weight to his brow that made him look as if he was always curious, always observing.
She watched as he pulled his cloak a little tighter around him and turned the opposite direction, walking down the narrow street.
Wait, she thought. What am I doing?!
She hesitated for only one more moment before quickly hurrying after him. She searched her mind for all of the speeches she’d practiced for this introduction, but she was left wanting. She should have written it down so that she wouldn’t forget–or would it have been even more strange for read her introduction off the pages of a notebook?
It was all strange, of course; a girl crossing the ocean to show up on the doorstep of a stranger several years her senior. Asking for an apprenticeship when she hadn’t so much as sent him a letter of introduction or even had anything to offer in exchange except for chores, errands and meal preparations. Seeking tutelage from one of the most accomplished young wizards when she was still struggling with even the most basic of incantations…
But what else could she do?
The life of a Scribe Nest Archiver was not a luxurious one. She’d had to sneak out of the old Nest to sing songs at the local tavern to scrape what little money she could together to book passage to even get here.
Blackstaff wasn’t exactly inexpensive–and even if it was, she couldn’t hope to get in. Not with how poorly she handled the weave.
But Gale–she had read transcripts of his lectures, heard tales of how magnanimous and warm he could be. She even once met one of his friends at the tavern who was visiting the islands for this or that purpose–she couldn’t remember. She only remembered the tales of his kindness and generosity. Of his gentleman’s nature.
He seemed like her only real chance at ever mastering this art that sang to her like a harpy at roost in the bay.
God’s he was walking fast though. Perhaps it was just because she was so short in comparison to him, but she was almost having to run to catch up to him.
“E-excuse me,” she finally said when she was within earshot.
She saw the briefest glance back at her, the quickest flash of a startled expression, before he focused forward and quickened his pace.
“No, thank you,” Dekarios replied. “I’ve already a subscription to the Waterdhavian times.”
“Uhm, no–that’s not–” she stammered. “Wait, could you please stop walking so fast!”
“I’m in a dreadful hurry, good night to you,” he said dismissively, walking even faster as he pulled his cloak further to guard his face.
“Mr. Dekarios! I’ve come here to talk to you!” She shouted, a little crack of desperation coming out with it. “Mr. Dekarios I–”
He whirled on her, suddenly encroaching into her space. He was so quick that she almost stumbled backward and fell. Before she could, though, he seized her arm with one strong hand, stablizing her quickly before clasping his other hand over her mouth.
She stared up at him with wide eyes, bright irises flicking around his face as if she were prey caught in his snare.
“Shhhh,” he hissed before looking around, as if to see if anyone heard her. “Mystra’s Elbow, you’d think my reputation as a newly initiated recluse would have gotten around by now.”
Elinna swallowed dryly, critically aware of the feeling of his calloused fingertips on the soft swells of her freckled cheeks. She blinked up at him, unsure what to do. His hand felt warm through the roughspun, puffed sleeves of her Scribe’s Nest garments. Her feet were sort of turned in awkwardly after he’s caught her mid fall.
She wondered if it would have looked like she was being accosted by a thief to a wandering bystander. She supposed it didn’t matter because no one else was here. She knew she should have been afraid. That she was a young woman alone with an older man; that he’d rendered her silent and could easily do much worse. But she also knew that was likely the experiences at the tavern thinking for her.
Gale was supposed to be a gentleman. That’s what she’d always heard. And…
And his hands smelled like…like tea and old parchment and sage. There was a somewhat sharp quality to the fragrance–perhaps a suspension alchemized in alcohol of some sort. He must have made it himself.
“Now. This behavior of mine, admittedly, is abhorrent for a gentleman with a young lady. I will have to ask you to forgive my bad manners and to give me the grace of your understanding because I simply did not want to be greeted by anyone aside from my mother and my cat. Now. I am going to take my hand away from your mouth; apologies again for the rough handling. But I’m going to then need you to let me walk away. And perhaps most importantly, I need you to leave me alone,” Gale said quietly. “Do we have an accord?”
Elinna’s pale ginger brow furrowed and he tutted quietly.
“No, no. No crinkles of the brow, no narrowing of the eyes, miss,” he scolded. “It is by mere coincidence you’ve even caught me out of my tower. By all accounts this is an anomaly of the highest order and therefore…uhm…does not count. You should just forget this ever happened. In fact, I could help you do so if you like!”
Doesn’t count? What kind of logic–that was school-boy logic! And what did he mean help her forget?! She jerked her arm away from him and, perhaps in a moment of panic he tightened his grip.
“Alright, alright! I’m going to let you go–just– remember our deal, please,” he said, releasing her arm.
He winced slightly as he hesitated to remove his other hand from her mouth. She thought he had the same expression one might have if they were about to remove a cork from a vial of smelling salts.
He released his other hand, drawing it away from her mouth.
“Mr. Dekarios, I’ve come to ask you to take me on as an apprentice,” Elinna blurted out. “I know you have never met me, and that you have no notion of my ability or skill. And that showing up outside of a strangers house and asking them for a place to live–”
“I’m sorry, a place to live?” He interjected with an incredulous tone
“--and a comprehensive education in the arcane arts–” she continued.
“I assure you I do not have the time, and it certainly wouldn’t be proper for an older man to bring a young woman into his home to–” he interjected again.
“ But I have nowhere else to turn and…And I’m afraid I can’t take no for an answer.”
His brows shot up as she finally stopped speaking. She didn’t know what to make of that expression, nor the silence that followed. Elinna could feel her face beginning to warm and she knew from that her face was already starting to color with her own nerves. It felt the same way it did when a tavern patron made a bawdy joke at her expense–or about her body.
The silence was the most unbearable part, though. So she started to fill it, her face getting warmer by the moment.
“You’re silent,” she said. “Uh–right. Names. I’m Elinna Inklyn. I hail from the Moonshae Islands. I grew up under the care of the Scribe’s Nest Archivists and–”
“Elinna. Elinna,” he said, his tone almost pitying. “I’m going to stop you right there.”
She felt her heart sink as he pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head back, looking toward the sky. “Look, Miss Inklyn. I’m sorry that you came all this way, but. I am afraid you must take no as an answer. I cannot take on an apprentice, even if I wanted to.” He winced and almost half shrugged. “And frankly, I really do not want to. Even if I could do it, I wouldn’t want to do it.”
“But–if you’d let me explain–” she protested.
“No–no buts. Again, I am dreadfully sorry for the trouble you went through to get here. But…considering that you sought me out and addressed me by name, you must know who I am.” he said.
“Yes,” she answered.
“So, then you know that I am particularly gifted with manipulating the weave,” he said. “That’s why you’ve sought me out.”
“Yes,” she said yet again. “Well part of the reason but also because–”
“So, then I’m sure you could understand why I find the inadequacies of unskilled wizards irksome, correct? That if I were to take on an apprentice, it would be someone with a certain level of innate talent?”
Her brow furrowed again and she inhaled to speak, but before another word could fall out of her mouth a huge boom of sound tore out from the sky above them. She clapped her gloved hands over her ears and yelped.
“What was that?” she shouted.
The two looked up at the source of the sound only to see the sky split open like it’d been torn by a dull blade. Out of the opening flew a giant aircraft with writhing tentacles slicing through the air as if it were a squid traversing deep sea waters. The two wizards–one novice and one adept–balked at the appearance of the spelljammer, the size of it practically the size of Gale’s tower if you laid it on its side.
“A nautiloid?” They both said at the same time.
They met eyes briefly before Gale gritted his teeth and grasped onto her arm, almost flinging her away from him
“Get out of here, Elinna. And whatever you do don’t let the tentacles touch you,” he shouted.
She stumbled, almost falling on her face, looking back at him.
“What about you?!” she cried.
“I’m a wizard,” he said before turning and casting a bolts of ice at two of the tentacles that swatted out toward them.
“It’s a spelljammer!”
“I’m a very, very good wizard!” he said.
Elinna’s sense of self preservation won out over her worry for the man she’d come here to meet. If he thought he could take on a nautiloid, who was she to deny that? She turned and sprinted down the narrow street before dodging down an alleyway in hopes of getting cover from the massive tentacles that now swept down toward the ground like great, giant whips.
She chanced a single look back to see Gale running just behind her, and the spelljammer that was traveling far too quickly and far too low to the ground for comfort. He followed her down the alleyway, calling ahead. “Not that way! To the east–”
“I don’t know which way east is!” she shouted back.
“Are you kiddi–Eugh–LEFT,” he said. “LEFT, LEFT! Go LEFT!”
“Alright, I heard you!” she said. “No need to shout!”
“I will shout if I want to, now–Elinna, look out!”
She looked ahead just in time to see a brick wall and slipped on her worn soles as she tried to come to a screeching halt.
She slammed into the wall, but thankfully not with enough force to knock her out. She managed to clumsily tumble toward the left, dropping onto her fingertips just a moment before lurching back upright. Gale caught up to her and cast some spell–gust, she assumed– because a strong wind caught in the fabric of her clothes like a breeze in the sails of a galeon and made her feel like she was running on air.
He fought off another tentacle and she screamed as one almost tagged her, but smashed an old fish barrel to bits instead.
“Keep going. We’ll lose it on the main road,” Gale yelled.
They spilled out onto a wider street and she immediately regretted listening to the Waterdhavian native. It’d seemed a sound plan at first. But only if the goal of the ship was to find them specifically. When they made it to the street, Elinna realized that was not the drive of the nautiloid at all.
The main road was chaos. There were carts toppled over and people lying trampled on the ground. People ran and screamed, some of them were swatted by the terrifying power of the tentacles only to vanish into dust before they could make impact with the wall of a building or the floor below them.
Elinna froze in terror, realizing finally that her plight had gone from one of trying to secure a teacher of her own to one of simply trying to survive her first night on the mainland. It suddenly dawned on her that she might actually die here. She might die within moments.
She couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.
It was a mistake to stop, but she realized it too late. A horse cried out desperately and tore away from the frightening vessel. It tore straight toward her, its eyes wild, his nose gusting tufts of steam into the air like a machine. It pulled a market cart along with it, full of heavy barrels of meat and wine. She braced herself, squeezing her eyes shut and thinking about the magic she’d read about. Misty step–misty step, what was the incantation for misty step?
“I-Inveniam Viam!!” she shouted, the words sailing on waves of the weave and almost…echoing. There was the sweet taste of something on her tongue–the after effect of using the weave if her reading was any indication. She’d only tasted that once or twice before, but chasing that sweet, comforting experience was what brought her here. It’s what made her so desperately want to learn how to wield this magic.
When she opened her eyes, the horse was gone.
Unfortunately for her, so was the ground beneath her feet.
She’d somehow teleported into midair and, as if the weave was just as shocked as she was, she’d wound up suspended there for just the briefest moment, cradled by the strands of the weave she’d managed to manipulate. Seconds felt like minutes as he copper hair floate away from her face as she experienced true weightlessness for just moments. Then she felt the sickening churn in her stomach as she started to fall.
The floor just far enough to be lethal but not far enough to give her adequate time to figure out another spell. Her mind went blank with terror. In a moment of desperation, she found Gale in the crowd, a stationary man in a sea of fleeing people.
He looked at her in abject horror as she dropped like a dagger out of the sky. He looked utterly, woefully helpless.
She screamed, wrapping her arms around her as if she could brace her own fall, as if holding herself would hold her together.
Then, just as she was about to splat on the cobblestones into a puddle of bone and blood, a searing heat bloomed from the center of her back. She screamed again as she felt herself dissolve from the inside out, her innards liquifying into a primordial soup.
Her body went miserably hot, and then impossibly cold. No. Not cold–she realized–absent. She was vanishing from the center of her body. She watched in uncomprehending horror as her middle vanished, watched as her body evaporated like steam off a teacup.
Her guttural scream sounded from her and died in the air.
The last thing she saw before her vision went black was Gale still staring at her as he too succumbed to the nautiloid’s attack.
#bg3#bg3 tav#bg3 headcanons#bg3 fanart#bf3 fanfic#bg3 gale#bg3 gale dekarios#gale x tav#galetav fic#gale au#bg3 au#bg3 wizard#professor gale#recluse gale#gale of water deep#gale of waterdeep#writeblr#my writing#authors#baldur's gate 3#gale dekarios
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ASRA SILVERBOUGH - BIO
Name: Asra Silverbough Nickname: The Sentinel of the Silvan Glade Age: 199 years old Height: 1.91m (6'2'') Race: Half-Elf (Wood Elf/Drow) Class: Ranger/ Druid - Circle of Dreams Druid Background: Outlander Hometown: Emerald Grove, Sword Coast, Western Heartlands Alignment: Neutral Good Love Interest: Rolan
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evening evening!
I am sorry for the lack of artworks or chitchatting on my part! I am finally in the clear with Ms. ´Rona, but still not feeling 100%, which is why am taking one day at the time.
So, I finally managed to finish Asra's general design, and I am actually pretty happy on how she turned out :) I was too tired to design a brand new garment for her, so I took the one the druids from the Emerald Grove wore and modified just enough to make it more personal to her and close to how Papa Halsin wears it!
Also, I made sure to include her mama's shawl around her waist, and I actually like the way its palette doesn't truly match with the rest of her outfit, as to signify that her mother is completely disconnected from her life (the tragedy of it all, lemme tell you. I kinda reconnected that part of the story and am going with my original idea, and oh boy, the angst. the angst of it all) but that Asra is still hanging onto her with the only two things she has of her (my gods, Asra, you are the sweetest cinnamon roll, imma cry for you.
But I will write more about this once I am done with her full bio (am preparing one for both her and Hiraeth in the same way I did Aranea's).
Between tonight and tomorrow I respond to dms and whatnot, so I truly thank you all for your patience.
In the meanwhile, I hope you will enjoy this <3
--Nemo
#BG3#Baldur's Gate 3#OC: Asra Silverbough#halsin#halsin silverbough#dnd#art#Drow Half-Elf#Drow#nemo sketches#my art#my oc#Druid
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Drizzt and Cattie-brie and Zaknafein meeting Maedhros and Fingon would be an absolute trip:
1. The drow would be absolutely shocked and SHOOK that Maedhros and Fingon are married and to no other. Basically it isn't a case of homophobia but "they let YOU OWN each other?????"
2. Maedhros would meet Cattie-brie once and immediately become very fond of her and acquiesce to any of her demands because she reminds him so strongly of his mother Nerdanel.
3. Zaknafein and Maedhros outdoing each other with dark humor, nihilism and sarcasm almost as if it's a competition (it probably is)
4. Drizzt is put out by Fingon because "for one who is so old and has killed so many, he sure acts younger than his years".
5. Cattie-brie and Fingon are best friends and love doing stupid ill advised shit together much to the chagrin of their Quiet Brooding Worrywart Husbands.
6. Sparring becomes a bloodsport very quickly but Zaknafein and Drizzt are happy to have worthy opponents that can actually match them.
7. The first time Maedhros sees Briennelle-Zaharina he starts crying inexplicably. That's how Zaknafein finds out about his crimes: "I am responsible for the death of half elves such as this".
8. They get too drunk and start telling stories of their murders. Cattie-brie turns pale and leaves the room. Bruenor is passed out on the couch.
9. Zaknafein is MAD at Fëanor for "sacrificing such a good and noble son to such a vain cause". Maedhros secretly appreciates this. Zaknafein knows anyway.
10. All the elves sympathizing with each other over "did YOUR noble house screw you over TOO??"
#cattie brie#drizzt#drow#noldor#zaknafein do'urden#silmarillion#the legend of drizzt#maedhros#fingon#russingon#cattiebrie x drizzt#house feanor#house do urden#brie zara#silm fandom#drizzt fandom#silm
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So, I played Baldur's Gate 3, and I played it later than many others. All thanks (or perhaps it would be better to say fault?) of a friend who told me "you absolutely have to play it"! And so I did, completely losing myself in the world of Faerûn. It was really difficult to reconcile my duties as a wife and mother with the desire to play and discover everything about the plot and the characters. In fact, it took me forever to finish! Also because I am the classic player who has to go and sift through every single jar, corner or place forgotten by the gods to make sure I don't leave anything out. I'll start by saying that I played it completely blind and that it was a heroic playthrough. So here I am with my thoughts after finishing my first run.
Morween: Hi! I am a Seldarine drow. I am a cleric of Selûne. I'm a heroine! I spit in my father Bhaal's face and I'm proud of it! Oops! I accidentally killed an innocent bard...
I don't want to talk about the game and how well made it is in its entirety. We all know this, I think. I only need to talk about my very personal relational experience with the character who won me over despite my resistance.
In a roundabout way, while I was trying to conquer the beautiful Shadowheart, I found myself in a relationship with Astarion. I had fun with him at the tiefling party more out of curiosity than anything else, plus I didn't even think he liked me and that it was just fun for him too. Up until that moment we had done nothing but argue and clash over our respective visions of the world. And the “disapprove” message was constantly over my head (along with that of Lae'zel)! Nonetheless, having him around was a delight for this reason too (in addition to the fact that I found his jokes funny). The contrast and our discussions made the interactions seem particularly real to me...
I wanted to talk with him. First of all because I found our hypothetical conversations about getting killed or which of our companions to drink extremely funny. But I wanted to understand. And I wanted him to understand too. And every time I saw "the glimmer" I felt even more motivated to bring out everything he had inside. A lot of stuff, I later discovered...
Obviously at the beginning, as a player, I was trying to understand how the game worked and my female Durge was trying to understand who the people around her were and where their misadventure would lead her. So I only understood many things later!
Morween: Wait, ehm… Whaaat?!?! Am I the weird one or... no, never mind.
In any case, when Astarion thanked me for not giving him up to the blood merchant, I wanted to make this clear to him, so I selected the "I care about you" dialogue option. But I honestly didn't realize that this would mark the beginning of my relationship with him. Afterwards I didn't feel like reloading. Even if I had to abandon the beautiful Shadoweart (with whom I had only shared a bottle of wine and a passionate kiss until then). I thought that things had happened that way for a reason and my game, my choices, had naturally led me that way. Honestly, I had to stop with Gale too, because even my favorite wizard didn't disdain the company of Bhaal's offspring too much. And it broke my heart, because every single one of them deserves to be loved, dammit!
Morween: We got problems, you and I. Big. Deadly. Serious problems. But we're also so dangerously cute together!
What followed was an intense journey full of very strong emotions, as I think it was for everyone who played Baldur's Gate 3. I became attached to my traveling companions as if they were friends in the flesh. And of course I ended up falling madly in love with my pixelated vampire boyfriend.
He's truly a well-rounded character. The thing that literally drives me crazy is that he's a fucking vampire, a real one. A vampire who acts like a vampire and has all the instincts of a vampire. He likes killing, the smell of blood intoxicates him, he has a hunger that devours him from the inside, and he can very well lose control. Finally! An accurate and truthful depiction of what it means to be a vampire. And not just a spicy detail to add to a story for horny teenagers. So the character of Astarion earned admiration points from me. Why? Because despite everything he is able to travel with different "blood bags" without necessarily attacking them and sucking them to the core. It takes great willpower to keep such appetites at bay. And yes, I know, there's that first night when the pale elf tries to attack you while you are sleeping... but hey, surprise of surprises, everyone makes mistakes. Few are those who learn from mistakes. And Astarion is more than willing to learn, another of his qualities, and he is willing to do so throughout the entire journey!
Morween: Yeah, sure, I could judge him... If I hadn't also tried to kill him while he slept...
Side note, when the urge calls and Astarion finds himself in the same situation, he is ready to forgive Durge's mistake in the blink of an eye. Because he knows, dammit. What's more, he is willing to stay there, next to them, to help them control themself. And there I thought: fuck, I want to be there for him too.
Of course Astarion has his own personality, his own flaws; and I love him for it. He's a chronic liar, yes, and he's quite selfish with a nice propensity for lust for power. All perfectly explainable and understandable, considering his past. I was shocked at the amount of abuse he had to endure. I didn't expect it, not so deep, not so real and so detailed, especially for the psychological aspects and the reaction to trauma, considering we're talking about a character from a video game. And my heart broke. 200 fucking years under Cazador. It's no wonder he's a broken man, but not finished. And it's wonderful to see his survival instinct gradually transform into a real desire to live. He is a dangerous man (elf?) but the moment you realize that he can change, he can be rehabilitated, he can heal and be better (up to a certain point, he is still a vampire, a predator with the instinct of kill and with a passion for blood), you know it was worth it. No matter if as a friend or a lover, you are the hero he has been waiting for 200 years. And, for heaven's sake, when he trusts you completely he is capable of unprecedented sweetness and sensitivity. Of course he's still the scoundrel with the sharp tongue and easy sarcasm, but after all that's why he's adorable!
Morween: I confess, Mother Superior, saving the innocent is right, but it is too obvious and easy. Redeeming the bad guys is sooooo much better, that's a real challenge! What heroine would I be otherwise? How do you say... you are not interested? Yes, right... let's talk about Shadowheart.
So when at the end of his quest he thanked me for saving him from himself (even though I only gave him a nudge), with that honest smile on his lips, my satisfaction was immense. He knows, he appreciates, he has grown. He knows exactly what loving him means and is grateful for it. It took patience and a lot of trust, even when it was an objectively stupid thing to do. It took the ability and the will to go further, to see something in him, that he could be better, and to believe in him. Believing that he was enough just the way he is. This is loving someone and making them feel loved. And it was a beautiful conclusion to his story arc.
It also took a lot of delicacy, I would add. I played the entire game and experienced my relationship with the character of Astarion with the concrete feeling that losing him would have been very easy. After all, running away, hiding, even attacking, are perfectly natural responses to fear. And as we know he is legitimately terrified of everyone.
About this: when I met Sebastian it was another shock for me. I wasn't prepared. The whole sequence is heartbreaking, but what blew my brain was the response I got from Astariom when I asked him if Sebastian had hurt him.
God. In my mind the picture suddenly became untenable. No god answered his prayers, no hero deigned to save him and the only worthy salvation for him would still have been a stake in the heart because he was considered a monster. Cazador forced him into prostitution and when he was lucky enough he only had to live with the horrible knowledge that he had delivered another innocent victim into the hands of his master. Otherwise even his own targets would do violence to him, as most were not good people. And maybe in case of a failed delivery, Cazador would also punish him later. It is no surprise that he has learned to completely dissociate himself from everything, to become numb to the events and people around him.
For him everything and everyone was suffering.
And another thing that I really appreciated was the possibility that the game gives you to allow Astarion to rediscover himself and his relationship with others, to experiment with his own limits within a finally safe space (the camp, the companions, Tav/Durge).
In any case, for me it was a truly satisfying experience. I regret nothing, not even releasing 7,000 vampiric spawn into the underdark. Perhaps this is also why I was surprised when by browsing through various social media I come across so many cruel comments and harsh opinions regarding the character of Astarion. Everyone has their own sensibilities and tastes, obviously. But damn... how much repressed anger and aggression...
Anyway, I could go on for hours writing, but a treatise on the phenomenology of the Astarion was not my project! I just wanted to vent my fangirl soul a little and share my experience with you.
I'm currently starting my second run as Astarion. My plan is to conquer the beautiful Shadowheart without a certain someone getting in the way. Maybe, if my daughter and husband don't abandon me on the highway first, I might even consider a third adventure to sink into Gale's arms (and library)! I still feel sooooo guilty for dumping him, he seemed really hurt.
But for now... and they all lived happily ever after...
#astarion#astarion ancunin#dark urge#durge#bg3 durge#astarion x durge#baldur's gate iii#baldur's gate 3#baldurs gate astarion#baldurs gate 3#bg3 astarion#bg3#bg3 screenshots
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Hey! I'm writing a Minthara thingy about her past; since you're the drow expert of experts, do you have a timeline of her life or a theory of who her mother is maybe? Thank you!
Heh, I am really humbled by your words, I certainly do not consider myself the drow expert of experts 😳Thank you!
I am working on a detailed post about Minthara's past and her family, with (estimated) dates and other such details. I hope that I will find some time to finish it and publish sometime during the weekend. It is already half-baked, but... ugh, I really need more time for writing 😩
In the meantime, here are some fragments:
🕷️ Age - Minthara is over 200 years old, since she remembers Viconia DeVir disgracing her house and escaping the city ("I was young enough that it left an impression on me").
She was born in Menzoberranzan, probably at least a decade before 1292 DR, and she lived in House Baenre compound on Qu'ellarz'orl plateau.
Minthara recalls that she survived her first assassination attempt while she still suckled at her mother's breast. Her mother saved her life by covering her body with her own.
🕷️️Career - like other noble drow females from Menzoberranzan, Minthara most likely enrolled into Arach-Tinilith when she was 25 (she could be also older, since around 13th century DR, females started their education at the age of 40).
She finished her eduaction after 50 years, being between 75 and 90 years old, and most likely participated in the (in)famous drow graduation ceremony.
Minthara mentions that her mother tried to kill her when she came of age, making it a test of sorts. But aside from that, Minthara surely participated also in the Blooding - a drow coming-of-age ritual, usually completed during a surface raid (a young drow must kill an intelligent or dangerous surface creature, preferably an elf). It probably took place shortly after graduation.
🕷️️Oath - unlike the majority of noble females, Minthara was trained to be not a "pure" cleric, but a soldier in the service of Lolth. At some point, probably still at the early stage of her career, she took the oath of "bloody vengeance against any who defied Lolth".
She was fulfilling her oath, hunting heretics and apostates. She was also performing interrogations. At some point, she was entrusted with leadership - she was commanding drow warriors and probably also organizing and leading night raids to the surface.
🕷️️Relationships - Minthara mentions that being a noble (and Baenre), she lived in luxury.
Her first lover, most likely met during her years in the Academy, was a high priestess of House Vandree: "Beautiful, elegant, ruthless. I adored her, and had been sharing her bed for some time when the order came that she must die. I stayed with her while the poison did its work, and whispered words of comfort as she slipped away."
Minthara says that she had "a thousand suitors" and many lovers - they mostly wanted only her status or her body, though. The more they pursued her, the less she desired them, ultimately becoming tired of them all.
Unsurprisingly, she does not have high opinion on men in general - based on her experience with Menzoberranzan males: "half the men of Menzoberranzan are pleasure-servants. Weaklings, whose beauty is their only redeeming quality."
🕷️ Mother - Minthara's mother was a noble from House Baenre. We also know that she was visiting surface cities during her "grand tours of the surface world" and at some point, she visited also Baldur's Gate. She told Minthara about it.
She was certainly a female of high station, but considering the already existing drow lore, she was probably not one of the most famous daughters of Matron Yvonnel Baenre mentioned in the novels.
My guess: Minthara's mother could be some less known daughter of Yvonnel Baenre. Matron Yvonnel Baenre had fifteen daughters or so, and all of them were high priestesses (and alive around 1297 DR) - Minthara's mother could be one of them.
That would make Minthara a niece of Quenthel Baenre and other famous children of Matron Yvonnel Baenre (Gromph, Jarlaxle, Triel, Sos'Umptu etc.).
Hope you will find this information helpful 😊
#drow#minthara baenre#minthara#bg3 drow#lolth sworn drow#baldur's gate 3#bg3#drow lore#drow culture#dark elves
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