#I AM THE DROW MOTHER

[coldtortelloni]

[cambacica]

a little sneak peek of a current wip for those who appreciate evil women

[wineredsea]

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.

[yourcutelittlegayfriend]

✧✦✧ 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.

[meanbossart]

the cissexist language at times (not always) is upsetting. for example, trans people can and do reproduce, especially in any trans-accepting society that would result in way more trans people out and about and potentially taking transitional measures that would affect reproductive ability even less than hrt does (which even then isnt 100%) a society that genders reproduction would not be a trans-accepting one. trans men who carry their own children suffer for this and it doesnt make them female

Hello!

I'm not sure if there was a third part to this ask that would have added more context, if there was, I didn't receive it. Unfortunately, I'm not totally sure what this is in reference to - is it about DU drow's perception of mothers and preference towards femininity? Is it about Fem Astarion and Corellon's Blessing (which I didn't invent, if that wasn't clear)? I know you cited cissexist language, but I think I have generally used the terms "sex" and "gender" appropriately. If I slipped at some point, I do apologize, and feel free to point out to me where I did that so I can correct it.

But, besides all of that, I would most of all hope everyone understands that I am one guy drawing and writing fantasy fanart for fun, and for what is comparatively still a very small and niche audience. One that is, seemingly, largely LGBT like myself and who share in a lot of common experience and language. I most certainly do not always qualify my language or word-choice as thoroughly as I could when talking about magical sex-bending or my character's, erm, reproductive interests. I like to keep things a little more casual because, generally, I assume people know where I stand and what I mean.

[sinizade]

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

[cheerysmores]

My wife once told me she would never play Baldur's Gate 3 because 'it's that slut game.' One year later she finally caved and did her very first playthrough.

May I present: Mrs. Cheery's chaotic gremlin adventure to Baldur's Gate.

Act 1

Our hero is the drow fighter, Lady Coolio. To this day we do not know whether Lady is her name or her title. She has a big sword, big tits and one goal: get to The Baldur's Gate with no distractions.

Escaped the 'Meat Bus' (Nautaloid). "Right how close am I to Baldur's gate? Like three hours?"

Sold her camp clothes by accident and was very sad that all she had to run around in was a grey hobo sack. (No mods. Sorry wife)

Asked if Withers was Solas's Dad.

Lady Coolio calls Astarion rat boy. In Wifey's words “he told me ‘when I was a little lad Cazador made me eat rats.’”

To be fair she isn't great with names so Halsin = Hoisin Sauce, Lae'zel = onion lady, Volo = Volvo, Cazador = Calzone (sometimes)

In camp: Gale "I'd like to show you something rather magical". Lady Coolio: "I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR MAGIC PENIS"

“There are so many dead bodies everywhere this entire place has got to stink” (just act 1 generally)

Act 2

Ran into the shadow cursed lands very under levelled and Last Light inn instantly got sacked. Bad news as she was romancing Karlach and now can’t get her second upgrade. Lady Coolio firmly blames Isobel for "triggering like three opportunity attacks when she could have... not done that."

Died to the shadow curse a LOT. Her: “Why is everyone dying????” Me: “Remember the moon lantern?” Her: “The what?” Me: “… that thing with the swearing pixie in it” Her: “ I still have to use that????” Me: “ yes, because Isobel is dead” Her: "WHY IS SHE STILL CAUSING PROBLEMS."

Hates the Gauntlet of Shar. Asked Shadowheart, “Is Shar the only goddess with an Olympic qualifier to join her religion?”

And now a series of comments on the Dead 3's chosen: “so the bad guys are evil undead Santa, Lady Gaga and the ugliest man I’ve ever seen?”)” “Is Gale… horny for that crown??” “Maybe Myrkul would be more threatening if he wasn’t standing in an giant toilet and not moving”

On discovering the Emperor) “wait my fairy god mother is a SQUID??? oh :( ”

She did however become half illithid but hated that she ended up with varicose veins on her boobs.

Gale and Astarion then graduated to “those weak pudding men” because they kept getting stuck halfway across the map by missing jumps. Act 3

Said “Brexit means Brexit” every time she met someone who was complaining about the refugees.

Went to see Raphael at Sharess's Caress. Didn’t sign his contract “ I trust neither Lord Farquad nor squid man but I’m not selling my soul to someone who has such bad vibes.”

At Gortash's coronation. "I thought he was popular? Like seven people turned up to watch it. Is it because he's really ugly and smells like Lynx (Axe) body spray?"

She wanted to eat Orin's outfit because it looks like delicious bacon.

Walking around the city: "so where do I go??" "Anywhere you like." "I hate this."

She would not stop stealing things. I think she murdered the entire battalion of flaming fist in the lower city because "a lady's gotta eat." She also killed everyone in sorcerer’s sundries including Rolan.

Had the prototypical stress aneurysm while doing the iron throne but somehow managed to get ALL the hostages out.

Lae’zel was kidnapped by Orin for 9 in game days . When I asked about this she said “FINDING CLOWN MEAT IS MORE IMPORTANT.”

“Why does every door here lead to the sewer????? And why are there so many live mines in the sewer??”

(in the basement of the elfsong) “soo because the Emperor has a shitty basement I’m supposed to be best friend with him now? This soup recipe does not make me trust you squid man”

Halsin “nature used all its powers when crafting you” Wife “well it also crafted bacon lady (Orin) so swings and roundabouts”

Astarion stayed a spawn and she convinced Gale not to use the crown. “No one is becoming ultimate bitch on my watch”

Despite her distrust of the Emperor she still allied with him in the final fight. Because, and I quote, "Lady Coolio's goal is to stop the Absolute. The Emperor has the same goal. I don't know when I became everyone's therapist and in charge of them making better choices but I'm putting my foot down at replacing dehydrated onion queen with baldy prince king over here. The Gith's religion is not my problem."

In her canon Lady Coolio and the Emperor high fived when they won.

85 hours later and Lady Coolio is the hero of Baldur's Gate. Please enjoy this picture of our heroine.

[lover-of-mine]

https://www.tumblr.com/lover-of-mine/780109723593834496/also-im-so-fucking-tired-of-yall-saying-that

Me watching these posts, eating popcorn laughing and going yeah! Whack em again Anna! Whack em again!!

Because this fanon notion of Eddie certain fans keep trying to make like… overriding the actual canon version of Eddie we have absolutely needs to die. And I’m so sick of the fandom pushing it (fanon Eddie) and saying anyone who says otherwise (canon Eddie) (correctly says otherwise mind you because again LITERALLY HAVE CANON EDDIE TO BACK IT UP) is inherently wrong.

Canon Eddie is not a rage induced toxic masculine man who can’t speak, can’t cook, can’t show emotions, can’t show love, or any other hateful thing the fandom has decided on.

Like literally!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I don't want to sit here and say I'm the ultimate Eddie understanter, but even the way Eddie dealt with his mother last episode is proof that he is not the angry drowing in machismo bad with words macho guy. He spent 8 hours making a meal. He got Chris back in a movement of protection. He was extremely articulate about how he was feeling without the anger that Helena quite frankly deserved. He's carrying and empathetic and good with new people and even Taylor fucking Kelly says his cooking is good. Eddie is extremely physically affectionate. We see him hugging everyone. His little muah kisses. "Tomorrow isn't promised to anyone" "the family we choose" "you make sure you take some credit for me, you earned it" "you don't have to be anything for anybody". The first thing he does in 810 is move to hug Chim. He started 5 of the 6 buddie hugs. The only person who cries in that show more than Eddie is Maddie.

Half of you have an Eddie quote as a blog title AND ARE STILL SAYING EDDIE IS BAD WITH WORDS.

Sure, writing Eddie like that in s2 when he was just military single father, sure. BUT THAT'S NOT TRUE ANYMORE. He is literally one of the most emotionally intelligent characters on the show.

AND I AM SO FUCKING TIRED.

"But I want Buddie to be the cliche grumpy/sunshine ship of my fantasies" boohoo they're NOT MOVE ON. Eddie is not the closed-off guy that only smiles when Buck is around, and quite frankly, Buck isn't the friendly sunshine friend of everyone guy either, just look at how he treats Ravi. Buck is a guard dog terrified of new people. He canonically only has the 118. His sister has to tell him to make friends and he fails at that.

Buck is also the one who is canonically bad with words. He is rambly, he's often not clear about what he means, especially if he is feeling particularly strong emotions. Buck likes to yap, that does not mean he's good with words. Buck is the action person between the two of them.

People keep erasing canon to shove them into these boxes to make them the cliche ship and IM SO FUCKING TIRED. THEY ARE SO INTERESTING IN CANON YOU DONT NEED TO KEEP DOING ALL THIS WORK TO MAKE THEIR RELATIONSHIP AND PERSONALITIES INTO SOMETHING THE SHOW IS ALREADY DOING IT FOR YOU WATCH THE SHOW WITH YOUR EYES OPEN IM BEGGING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[coldtortelloni]

DAMN!BESSIA

[shadowoftheuncrowned]

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.

[lunastrophe]

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 🕷️

[ihtherik]

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.

[mercymaker]

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.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

hiii, i am writing my first book/novel. its highlighting d***th, romance, mystery, politics, pretty questionable characters w revenge, thriller and lots of women n power play. its my first book and im not that educated about such themes. but this rough plot i have in my mind is so beautiful that underperforming this excellent trope would be a shame....ive never written before so could you please what to do to actually write this kinda theme to my heart's satisfaction. I've never written a freaking chap before and now im really lost

Writing Ideas: Revenge Tropes

some tropes related to revenge, thriller, women, and power play

Afterlife Avenger: This trope involves the circumstance where a character explicitly still chooses to pursue conflicts against whatever's left of their hated target long after they've passed.

Best Served Cold: Named for the French (or Sicilian, or Klingon, or drow, depending on who you ask) proverb, "Revenge is a dish best served cold." At least in the case of drow, it also means one can have well-planned revenge and drive them mad with fear as a bonus.

Crusading Widow: The death or murder of their significant other motivates the character to seek revenge.

Defeat as Backstory: A protagonist (or some other character's backstory) in a story begins by having been defeated either before the story began, or early on in the story (often in a prologue).

Dying Curse: With his dying breath, a character wishes ill fortune upon his killers, or some other personal enemy.

Pay Evil unto Evil: In real life, the sort of thinking behind this trope is called "retributive justice".

Revenge Through Corruption: Instead of inflicting physical harm, the villain attacks the mind and soul.

Villain-by-Proxy Fallacy: When someone goes after not only a crime's perpetrator, but those who supplied the perpetrator or were otherwise marginally connected to it, whether or not the people involved had anything to do with the actual crime.

Woman Scorned: A woman who's been dumped, cheated on, or otherwise done wrong by her significant other (or, in some cases, merely thinks she's been).

Examples

Alexandre Dumas's The Count of Monte Cristo, probably the greatest revenge story of all time.

In the original version of Beauty and the Beast, the Prince's widowed mother goes off to fight a war and leaves a wicked fairy to help him rule. When the Prince comes of age, she tries to seduce him and turns him into a Beast when he refuses her advances.

In Moby-Dick, Captain Ahab makes it clear throughout the book that he'll pursue Moby Dick to, into, through, and out of Hell, and even then he still won't be satisfied until the whale suffers forever for its slight against him.

Crime and Punishment: One of the antagonists of the novel, Porfiry, works as a police officer and interrogator, which usually would qualify as a good-aligned job. As you further witness this officer's tactics in catching criminals, you see him commit to bribery, thievery, death-threats, and psychological torture to force an admission. Furthermore, he seems to actually enjoy it, toying with amateur criminals like a cat torturing a wounded mouse. The justification, of course, being that the victim of this was a murderer, and therefore deserves it.

George R. R. Martin's Fire & Blood: After the war, Lady Joanna Lannister has a beef to pick with the Greyjoys, who've taken up raiding the coast, including killing a few Lannisters. She decides the best course of action is go to the Iron Islands and kill every man, woman and child she can find. She just settles for burning a lot of things and abducting one Greyjoy, gelding him and turning him into her fool.

Feyd Rautha Harkonnen receives a Dying Curse in Dune. After killing a combat slave in the arena, his opponent's final words are "One day one of us will get you." Given that this fighter is not just a slave, but one of the soldiers from the army of the Harkonnen's blood enemies, the Atreides, this may be prophetic.

In A Song of Ice and Fire, Arya Stark's conflation of justice and personal vengeance leads her to Villain-by-Proxy Fallacy. While many of people on her death list certainly deserve to be brought to justice, such as the Tickler for torture and Weese for abuse, others were merely acting on orders, such as the Hound, doing their jobs or are just guilty by association. Cersei Lannister is on her death list for being involved in the execution of Ned Stark, but Cersei wasn't complicit in that activity, and even spoke out against it. Same with Ilyn Payne, who was just doing his job as the royal executioner. The real mastermind of Ned's death, Littlefinger, is not on the list. Meryn Trant is on the list for killing Syrio Forel, but there isn't any evidence to confirm the crime. Polliver and Dunsen are on the list for flimsy reasons, like stealing. She has Chiswyck murdered for the crime of not being as funny as he thinks he is (granted, Chiswyck was joking about a gang rape, but that isn't the reason Arya cites as his crime). The conflation of justice and vengeance, and how that conflation leads to this trope, is one of the key themes of the entire story.

Queen Dido in The Aeneid, who prophesies that her and Aeneas's people will meet again in war (the Punic Wars — her future, Virgil's past). Particularly tragic in that it's made fairly obvious that he'd have stayed with her if he'd had the choice.

Sidney Sheldon's The Best Laid Plans: Leslie Stewart plots to ruin the career of Oliver Russell when he leaves her at the altar to marry a woman whose father promises to further his political career.

The Hunger Games: The Pay Evil Unto Evil trope is discussed all the way through Mockingjay, and reaches its culmination when President Coin suggests either executing all Capitol citizens or forcing their children into the Games.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hi, here are some tropes I found related to the themes you described. You can find more in the source linked above. Study how it is portrayed in different types of media, and in your favourite films/books, to gain inspiration for your own story. You can take the rough idea/plot you already have, and try to incorporate techniques and tropes used by other authors, but then deviate from borrowing those ideas when your story starts to flow naturally. All the best with your writing!

[moonselune]

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."

[meanbossart]

ASK COMPILATION: SHADOWCUTE, EGALITATION DU DROW, THE MAN WHO HAS NEVER HAD A COLD AND PROMISES OF FROTTING.

ALL I CAN DO FOR TONIGHT FOLKS, but I might end up doing another compilation very soon since the inbox situation is dire 💀

Thank you so much for showing so much interest in my character and my art! And an extra especial Thank You as always to anyone who has taken the time to leave a nice compliment or words of encouragement in my mail!

Now, onto the debauchery.

Surprisingly, no! While they may have been stuck at the hip since the early game, DU drow most definitely wasn't interested in becoming intimately involved with anyone at that stage - having lost all of his memories and seemingly kidnapped by mindflayers and all, he was a little on edge. Besides, Shadowheart struck him as rather juvenile in the earlier game, which kind of erased any possibility of his interest in her growing. By the time she """matures""" in DU drow's eyes he was already locked in with Astarion, and their friendship was also firmly established.

He did not. I think if he had been more observant as a Bhaalist he could have put two-and-two together - but he was far too self absorbed for that. He is under the impression that Helena (Orin's mother) had a divine pregnancy.

Besides women more often falling into a category that he is sexually attracted to (which doesn't affect his treatment of them by much either as long as he and Astarion are together, he may just steal a glance down their shirt or something) not really!

He has specific prejudices about women from the drow race for the same reasons everyone else has, but otherwise sex or gender doesn't impact his views. The one exception I can think of that may apply here is that he has a slight soft spot for mothers.

And don't worry, your english is perfectly fine!

Hello! I have gotten an ask about this before where I went much more in-depth, but I can't find it right now. The TLDR is that he doesn't care as long as you can still "pull your weight" outside of whatever the disability is. How reasonable his expectations are vary on how much he likes the person in question, but generally speaking he doesn't care and this would be something that bears much less weight than race or attitude - if they don't make it into a problem, he just won't bring it up.

He does have a vile sense of humor though; that might come up if he's trying to hurt someone's pride or, ironically, has built enough of a rapport with that he's comfortable joking around about such things with them.

Have a great day yourself!

I don't think there is anything wrong with relating to fictional characters, even if they are profoundly flawed or even straight up evil. Hopefully that's a vehicle for self-examination and introspection - after all, we are all flawed ourselves.

Honestly it is very hard for me to picture him old, at least in the conventional sense.

Truthfully, I am preeeeetty settled on DU drow being an immortal being at this point. I think it makes sense that Bhaal would have just stopped his aging at some point so he can be at peak performance while following through with his bidding, and that just seems to make sense to me based on prior BG lore. He changes over-time in other ways that I most certainly plan on drawing, but it might take a while for me to get there!

LOL, I think he retained knowledge of illness and disease just fine, so if he were to come down with something he wouldn't panic - probably quite the opposite. He strikes me as the kind of guy who wouldn't walk into a hospital unless a limb was dangling off by an artery - and even then, his friends probably had to insist he went.

Luckily he must has the immune system of vulture after so many years of eating half-cooked wild animals and rolling around in the cold dirt, so he very rarely contracts disease. When he does, he likely just tries his best to hide it or dismiss the concerns of anyone around him about it.

I'm glad to hear that! I remember being concerned that DU drow's scars may get read as rather exploitative or disrespectful when my art first started getting traction - I'm relieved that not only that seems to never have happened, but that people like yourself can actually gain some self-confidence from it!

Listen now that I know that there is an audience for it -

I'm not sure how I feel about simply making a book with art that already exists online and charging people money for it - especially when I have prints for sale that are most definitely of better quality than a zine and can actually serve to decorate your home! But I suppose if an opportunity like that popped up and it made sense, I don't see why not!

Oh he hates her guts, LOL. He would respect The Hag Grind for the pure comedy of it if she weren't so disgusting to look at or so unpleasant to talk to. He's particularly irate at her during act 3 when she tries to trick him into killing that little girl's mother, since he almost follows through with it (one of my few moments of lore save-scumming because I felt like SUCH an idiot).

He definitely didn't take up on her offer in act 1 for the failed tadpole treatment!

And as a bonus, here are some Viscious Mockery inspired taunts Ethel definitely bombarded him with during every fight.