#LOOMSRED

[loyalborn]

sc. // @loomsred

Haarlep always received special punishments.

Raphael had spent the first decade trying to use pain, to torture the little incubus into submission. But they knew how to derive pleasure from pain and make the experience enjoyable. And when he had caught on to it, they moved to emotional torture. Mocking, insulting, tearing away at their psyche. Except that didn't work either, as their incubus training had made them accept long ago what they were and their purpose in the Hells.

So how does one punish an incubus? Boredom.

The leather collar around their neck was attached to a chain that kept them from reaching any of the furniture of the boudoir. If they wanted to sit or lay down, it would have been on the cold floor. And what if they wanted to touch themself, indulge in self pleasure to pass the time? Well, Raphael had thought of that too and placed them in a chastity belt with an arcane lock.

Pacing back and forth in their little area, Haarlep was sure boredom would be their cause of death. So when the doors to the boudoir opened and a brand new face appeared, they were elated.

[bloodyarn]

Idk man I just had to sketch this little scene out. The brainworms didn't stop squirming.

from this thread with @loomsred

[lordliing]

Puts an orphan in his lap just to watch him squirm - love, Durge :)

The look on his face as he lifts the child by the scruff and sets them on the floor is particularly damning. He definitely isn't thinking of throwing his partner into an incinerator, the orphan with them-- just to watch them squirm.

[archivestarlyht]

how are you going to take my gold if you're dead? / for a gentlemanly Fox

SENTENCE MEME BALDUR'S GATE 3 / PART THREE

hahaha,   well,  he'd fucked up.  he knew his fingers weren't as deft as they could have been today.   ----   hells,   for some reason,   and he couldn't quite place why,  ever since he'd miraculously survived the nautiloid crash,   fox knew he wasn't right.  he felt startlingly out of practice,  fingers stiff and clumsy even though just yesterday he'd been up to his usual activities with all of his usual skill.

and spoken so nonchalantly!  fox noted with a bit more clarity the dragonborn's size and weight.  sure,  he could have been much more imposing,  but he was clearly not the kind of man to get caught fucking around with.  “before we get violent,”   the thief said as he started to slip backwards,  “let's   ----   let's think about this.”  the parasite in his skull writhed.  “can't fault a desperate man for trying?”

[bloodyarn]

      𝗕𝗿𝐨𝘄𝘀 𝐟𝘂𝗿𝗿𝐨𝘄𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐚𝘁𝐡𝘆 - 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝘁𝐦𝐚𝗿𝐞𝘀 - 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝘂𝗿𝘀𝐞.     As much as the woman wanted to dig deeper, she knew better to read the room, when to keep her nose out of uncomfortable business. Attor would open up if he felt the time was ripe. It would most likely do worse if he unwraps his mind in front of her. Fearing, she couldn't be of help at all.     ❝ Hm - Hmm . . . ❞     An acknowledging murmur, accompanied by a deep nod. 

     ❝ You know you find an open pair of ears with me, if you ever consider sharing these nightmares, yes   ? ❞     Searching for the dragonborn's eyes, maybe catching his approval in the process, her mind now occupied by his simple curiosity about why she was sitting with a few jars full of . . . water.

     ❝ Moon water. ❞     Babette stated simply.    ❝ For enchanting yarn, fabric, the likes, ❞     Something the girl picked up when her parents invited clerics to their workshops. Something that basically anyone could figure out; just let them sit under the full moon for a night. Nature will do the rest.     ❝ I suppose there are easier ways for wizards or sorcerers to quickly chant a spell on armor and clothing. But there is a charming simplicity in doing it the traditional way. It also lasts longer. ❞

A silly thought, after the hexblood glances over the crystal clear water in translucent containers.     ❝ Do you think drinking it would have an effect on your dreams   ?   It is said to have soothing, healing properties. Worn, that is. Consuming would be . . . more of experimental nature. ❞

Attor chuckled softly, "Nightmares." He confirmed, trying to shake the image of sewer crocodiles from his mind. There were, in his opinion, much more dangerous things in the sewers than a few nibbly crocodiles. "They're getting worse. Much worse." He knew what had to be done to alleviate them, to temper the building pressure he felt in his skull. He had to kill. Something, anything. A horde of goblins, a githyanki warlord, Ketheric fucking Thorme. It didn't matter. All that mattered, was the blood. But how could he?

How could he justify such killing to his companions who, for the most part, were sensible folk who wanted to get things done as cleanly as possible? Especially when they were sweet as Babette, or morally just as Wyll or Gale?

He blinked, "May I ask what the jars are for?"

[illithilit]

I have a metric fuckton of quiz results in my drafts and I want them out. So this is my solution to not wanting to spam the dash

Tagged by: @dracourge ; @mindfoster ; @loomsred

Mourndax

Love feels like.... Fear

the tap of a nervous foot against the floor. those butterflies in the pit of your stomach. a dry throat. heavy limbs. you want them so badly that it hurts, but fear keeps you frozen to the floor; what ifs and hypotheticals run rampant through your head. it's a chain around your neck, love, and it's your choice to let it choke you or break it.

How do you view love? Violent

harsh words and cold glares. painful in the way that your heart burns but can never seem to seek for something better. it is the way you would walk through glass to see a smile, or claw at your own arms just to satisfy another, give and never take for the guilt that comes with wanting is suffocating. emotionally draining and a forever ache that you can't escape.

What kind of love are you? Love as a flaw.

Cowering, your love hides in the dark. In shadows and under cover of night, your love runs from corner to corner, afraid to linger, afraid to be caught. Afraid, afraid, afraid of everything. When you fall in love, it is with alarm bells ringing. Your love is a mistake, a flaw in the code, a purchase you don’t remember making and desperately want to return. You didn’t ask for this. You didn’t want this. It’s a problem–– your problem ––and you would do anything to pass it off, burn it away, scoop it out of you with bare hands, or carved out with hooked knives before it can destroy you. Get it out, just get it out now. You don’t care who you hurt in the process, only that you can’t afford to be hurt first. Being loved by you is to be loved by a figment of the imagination. It is to be loved in halves, or not at all.

What tragic character from Ancient Greek literature are you? Cassandra.

you are cassandra from the trojan women by euripides and agamemnon by aeschylus. people have tried to silence you one too many times, but you are resilient. your own dignity and agency have always come first, but at a great cost. you know yourself and your inner strength, but that won't ever stop you from feeling completely alone in the world. sometimes simply enduring the pain won't be enough, no matter how hard you want it to be. above all, you must never lose your unwavering hope in mankind, even as the world forsakes you. it is what keeps you human.

Let me assign you an affection language. A knife called grief.

You have left your house, you have left those people behind, but what are you going to do about the memories which have taken root in you? You can run but not without them. You want someone to sit with you on this cool marble floor while the sun burns everything.You want them to cut your rotten heart and theirs too. You want to sit with it in front of you, let them see you with all your flaws, which haven’t been your fault but you have been made to believe so, and you want them to love you anyways. Because you know you’d do that for them.

What colour does your love feel like? Deep staining crimson.

Ripped out confessions, warm velvety whispers and a heart like an open wound. Your love flows out like dripping blood, beautiful, flawed and twisted. It's gut wrenching, the type of painfully dramatic feeling that makes you clutch your chest, picturing dramatic monologues about love and loving and big screen over the top scenes of sobbing into your pillow until you fall asleep. It rips out of you, clawing it's way up your throat more so than tumbling out. Sticky words that just need to be let out, feelings so big they don't fit inside you. Your love isn't easy, it's a true bloody mess, dripping and staining everything it touches in a desperate attempt to be seen, to be felt, to be loved back. And you, you love so hard, so deeply, so much for someone who carries all that pain. Atlas holding up the world, how are you? Is your love still flowing? Is your heart still open? Still pumping and bleeding and dripping with blood and tears? Still painting your beautiful pictures and writing your love letters in deeply personal red ink? Because I see them, I read them, I love them and you, you, you, you. Clench your chest, scream your love, cry it out. Spill your words of loving, keep your heart beating, keep your love coming and paint the entire world red with it. Make it in your image, keep going, it's okay. Maybe one day the whole world can be red and loved and beautiful just like you.

What kind of hot are you? Rockstar hot.

you're wanted. by crowds of people. a heart-throb, who people hang posters of in their room and tell their friends is "so dreamy." you may not even be a celebrity, you could just be the star of your school. but what you and rockstars have in common is that your entire routine is very well-rehearsed, and you know exactly the right words, the right looks, to draw people's attention. you're a performance, you're an act, a hyperbolized version of a human being that others can get lost in. it's so easy for people to crush on you because they don't realize they don't know anything about you. you're an archetype, a character for others to project onto, and damn if it isn't a fun role to play.

What flavor is your soul? Salt.

ah little kraken, bold are you. restless sailor, dauntless fighter, lower your sword, let me see your shield. ah, of course, they are but the same object. oh wave-tossed ruffian, lend me some of your mettle would you? you have been struck by the sharpest of spears yet you still stand here proudly. but off your guard, elsewhere of the battlefield, you will find your spirit can parch others. your words are but weapons crafted from your soul. little lion, sheathe your claws, or the ones you love the most will suffer. you do not have to be strong all the time love, there's nothing wrong with being soft. vulnerability is not weakness, and if it were, what's wrong with that? strength is not always your greatest tool, your heart is good. put down excalibur, and use your words. you'll find they will carry you much farther. not everything in life is a battle.

How do you need to be touched? Cautiously.

your teeth are bared, as they have been, your jaw aching for so long as growls slip free. you always have to defend yourself. you lash out in fear. you need someone who does not shrink back... a hand falling slowly to your shoulder, however briefly, in a reminder that you do not have to lunge. there is no danger here, now.

What colour are you coded as? Pink coded.

pink, the color of femininity, believing in yourself, and embracing the side of you that you used to reject. you aren't someone who likes to hide, but you do all the time. you don't like yourself nearly as much as you may present, one way or another. you think of yourself as a hollow castaway of someone's little matryoshka doll, or worse, something broken and thrown away. you want to believe that there's more to life, to you, than this broken frame of something you have long forgotten the name of... but what are you supposed to do, after all this time?

Grazilaxx

Love feels like.... Everything

nothing matters but this. not you. not them. this moment, this love that you've built, that is what matters. it is all that there is. you will do anything to keep it this way; no matter what line you have to cross, who you have to step over. the ends justify the means, after all; and for you, this is everything. they are everything.

How do you view love? Isolating.

intense, silent, overwhelming. you have so much to give but it is too much to share. nobody every reciprocates the way you do. makes you feel alien, unwanted. so you keep it and and watch others, hoping one day that could be you too.

What kind of love are you? Love as a religion.

Devotion, that is the name of your love. Your love is an act of worship. Your love is like witnessing the birth of Venus, like seeing the sun come alive, or the stars fall. When you love, it is because you have found God in a lover. You have found the meaning of life itself in the heart of the one you adore. They are everything to you; they are your Maker, and you are their lamb, their flock, their first and holiest worshipper. When you fall in love, it is as a baptism. You are born anew, made a believer in the divinity of the one you love most. Being loved by you is an ascension; it is holy and golden. It is all-consuming, and all-faithful, loyal as the dog. You will never, ever bite back.

What tragic character from Ancient Greek literature are you? Medea.

you are medea from from the argonautica by apollonius and medea by euripides. you are ambitious, ruthless, and unforgiving in getting what you want, and unapologetic in your self-preservation. the truth is, you have let your romantic ideals get the better of you before, and time and time again you have had to relearn how to build up those walls and thorns that guard it. the only person who can protect you is yourself, and you have learned that the hard way. sometimes stoking that fire of hate and anger in your heart hurts more than whatever you're fighting against.

Let me assign you an affection language. A story that ends in blood.

The world has always been unkind, and when you have turned to yourself for comfort you have come face to face with an empty pit which seems to be laughing. You don’t care if it kills you but once you find someone whom you love and who loves you back, you will make sure nothing happens to them. They are yours. You will make a tear in this world and create a new place for you and your love if it comes to that. Because it has always been about love, and it is how it always ends.

What colour does your love feel like? Warm burnt orange.

Riding off into the sunset, the hope of a happy ending, the bitter after taste that still in it's own way smells kinda great. Your love is all bitter hopefulness, all about a broken heart that refuses to quit, all about the unshakable knowledge that a burning fire has a great comforting warm and a soft glowing light, all about the way when the sun comes down there's a beautiful starry night. It's stubbornness, it's the refusal to give up, the clutching of broken shards despite the searing pain and being adamant that dammit you can still make a beautiful stained glass window out of it. Yours is a screaming heart, a pleading love, a bitter and almost belligerent hopefulness that things will still work out even if you have to roll up your sleeves and make them. And god, aren't you tired? Isn't your heart heavy? Is all your hard work worth it? Don't you just want to curl up and let it be? Let the fire turn to ashes and the sky turn dark and let love die down and watch people leave? But you don't, do you? You're the bravest out of all of us, so you pick up the pieces and you keep going, you keep believing and you keep your heart full of hope because some day. Some day you know you'll get it. You keep riding off into the sunset and you keep filling my heart with hope as you go because god, how do I wish you finally get it too.

What kind of hot are you? Math tutor hot.

you're really not here for romance, at all. but whenever you actually interact with people, they're smitten with you. you might be usually overlooked, but for some reason whenever you're helping a peer who likely wasn't responsible enough to study like you told them to before the session, they're always paying rapt attention. you roll your eyes and lecture them whenever they seem distracted, staring at you or the floor instead of the textbook. but it's the moments where you raise an eyebrow, half impressed, and give them a quiet "good work" that makes you such a successful tutor. your praise is hard to come by, and people are certainly going to work to hear it again.

What flavor is your soul? Lavendar.

oh moon child, restless sleeper, tell me what it's like to dream? you float along the margins of reality, picking up the pieces of fallen memories to sculpt into your own realm. you are searching, but your tongue is quiet, quiet, quiet. open your mouth and sing my dear, silence only does you good for so long. and here you planted roots in the darkness, where not even the moon can reach your leaves. there is such a thing as being too practical, for you sail your ship on perpetually calm waters, and never have you spotted land. your mind has wings, uncage them! allow yourself to dream, you are not too far gone. there is no such thing! trust in yourself dear.

How do you need to be touched? Gently.

you need to be held as though you're going to break. you need someone to trace your scars like cracks in a wall, crumbling. their touch is almost painful; you've been without it for too long, without someone to hold you. but, you cannot bring yourself to pull away.

What colour are you coded as? Blue coded.

blue, a study in wisdom, belief, and knowing when enough is enough. you know yourself best, but you know the way the world works even more. you've been wandering in this world a little too long, and maybe that's the problem. you're a wanderer, a vagabond, an oracle, and a prophet all the same. who are you when the curtain call drops the last encore on you? do you dance behind the scenes for a job well done or are you already planning your next show? take a breather, for a moment. enjoy what you've done, enjoy what you have, enjoy the world that you've been wandering for so long. this world is so much better when you realize that some of it is worth living for.

Blurg

How do you view love? Soft.

love that is welcoming, one that encompasses you in its warmth. the feeling of a warm mug after a cold day. familiar huffs of laughter respond in the air as you lean on each other for balance. the feeling of falling on a soft bed of clouds on a nice sunny day. of waves lapping at sand on a beach

What kind of love are you? Love as a threshold.

Your love does not ask for much. Your love does not take. Your love is free, and unquestioned, and here for wherever needs it. When you fall in love, it is as gentle as a breath in the night. It is quiet, and it is effortless. It is tender. If your love was a house, it would readily welcome all who come through. If your love was a hearth, it would warm the hands of whoever stopped by, whether for a day, a month, a year, or forever. When you fall for someone, it is without strings, without conditions, without need. You love for the sake of loving, for the sake of caring for those who need it. You love with a giver’s heart and a giver’s hands and are made so much stronger for it. Being loved by you is to always feel at home. Your love may not always be well-received by those unprepared to linger, but it is unforgettable all the same.

What tragic character from Ancient Greek literature are you? Patroclus.

you are patroclus, from the iliad by homer, doomed by fate to be stuck in a love story that has no place on the battlefield. although you always have the best intentions, you have to realize you cannot save everyone. your unwavering loyalty means you often lose yourself in the process of putting others first. take a deep breath, remember who you are, and that you are deserving of the same love you try to put out. you are kind, you are strong, and you give and you give but it is never enough to protect those you love. in the end, it's not even enough to protect yourself.

What colour does your love feel like? Bright sunny yellow.

Sweet tasting popsicles, summer dresses and shielding your eyes from the sun. Your love is the excitement of something brewing, something growing. It's the almost childish bubbling giggles of something new, but with the potential to stay. It's wide smiles, blinding sunny light and warm bodies that gravitate to one another. It's the the softness, the willingness, the slight holding of breaths in a crucial "what if" moment. It's the impatience too. The bouncing on tiptoes to see further than your eyes can reach, the holding out for a future that never seems to come even though you're ready, you're so so so ready. It's the constant feeling of warm sand beneath your feet, holding out for the crashing waves. And still you wait, dry and impatient and with burnt soles of feet. Your love is sour candy, enjoying it as your nose scrunches up from the aftertaste of it. It's hands that grab and take hold, that reach and ask them to stay and hope and beg and wait. It's bubbling excitement sure, but it's also demanding, focused, driven. It's love like a plan, with a path and route and a clear destination. And you bonce on your tiptoes, and burning, waiting for the soothing water, the crashing waves, you hold onto the melting popsicle, you wait and wait and wait. It's tiring almost as much as it's lazer focused ambition, deeply rooted desire and the unrelenting hope that it will work, that it will come. And it does, I promise it does. The waves crash, the beach floods and the pain passes, the water cool and soothing and you can let yourself fall in, sinking, sinking. And it's good, it's perfect, what you were hoping and more, holding and embracing you and welcoming you into the stillness you always knew you were reaching for.

What kind of hot are you? Bob the builder hot.

i am not saying bob the builder is hot, im just saying you have the hotness of a handyman. you're humble, down to earth, and exist with an easy confidence that takes peoples breath away. you always seem to know exactly what you are doing. you may still be stuck in your hometown, but you have quite the reputation. you do get a lot of business, after all. people around here sure tend to break things an awful lot, and they always call you, listening through the phone reciever with a light blush and bated breath, for your inevitable "I'll help you."

What flavor is your soul? Rosemary.

ah, the old soul, nice to meet again. the time of ages is etched into your bones, you see clearly. you've watched the heartache in this realm and sworn to solve it. but kindness without limits is self destruction. oh little leaf, strong and wise, you seek to bring peace with your presence. I'd be wrong to say you fail at this effort, but you mustn't set yourself on fire to keep others warm. you wish to please everyone, to protect them all. but if you shield the saplings from the sunlight they will never grow, and you one day will wither. protect yourself too. you know there are no happy heroes, so don't be one. be a friend. your loved ones will not forsake you for not being perseus slaying all their demons. you have your own monsters, why not meet them first before you conquer anyone else's nightmares. oh true-hearted paladin you are brave, and you are good enough. you know that right? be true to yourself, one cannot do anything saintly if they did not tend to their own wounds first.

How do you need to be touched? Fervently.

you crave a hug that cracks your ribs... the feeling of your wandering soul being crushed back into the bones that can't seem to hold it. you need a hand gripping yours so tightly you almost fear it may leave a bruise, a reminder that you are here. and that you are not alone.

What colour are you coded as? Yellow coded.

yellow, a study in wildfires, honeycombs, and summer rain. everyone sees you smiling and laughing, happy in all the ways but the way that you know is true to you. everyone believes that nothing bad could happen to you, that you live life so freely that you'd never miss a beat, even if something bad DID happen to happen around or to you. but you're as miserable as the rest of them. you might be warm and gentle, when you need to be, but at the end of the day, you have long since accepted that fire is like you: best to be admired but never touched.

Orianna

Love feels like.... Lightning

you feel like you're on top of the world. like you've been struck by lightning -- you hope that they feel the same. it's all electricity, those metaphorical sparks; all adrenaline and the rush you get when you're near them. they're magnetic, they have some sort of pull over you, and you live off of the high they give you. watch it; lightning never strikes the same place twice.

What kind of love are you? Love as a performance.

Your love is a masquerade, a dance, a work of art. You love with a veil across your face, unable to allow anyone to see the real you. Can that be considered love, you wonder? As a performer, you have all your lines prepared, and you know exactly what to say and when to say it. You’re charismatic and bold, seductive and hypnotic. Your love is a snake’s melody, the siren song of the sea. Your love is enchanting. Your love is melodic. Your love is afraid and fearful and longing. You ache to tear the veil off, you ache to cast poetry aside for the sake of something real and gritty. You’re terrified of the very thought. Being loved by you is to be loved by an artist; it is to be a muse. It reflects others beautifully, but never, ever yourself. Not really. Not truly.

Let me assign you an affection language. Violent devotion.

Everyone seems to think you are faithless, but the thing is you haven’t yet found someone who will bring you to your knees and make you raise your head in reverence. This world has stopped bringing you joy, you want more of the divine. You want to dedicate your entire existence to someone; you want to make them realise they are not something terrible, make them see just how much beauty they are bringing to this world. You want to be the only one for them, the only one they have chosen to love. There’s a god shaped pit inside of you and only they can fit in it. And what if they choose to walk away? Didn’t I say this was violent devotion?

What colour does your love feel like? Cold stark gold.

Fireworks, borrowed lighters and sparklers against a dark backdrop, yours is a love that burns stark and bright. It's scary though, like things that burn always tend to be, but for you it isn't the thrill of the open flames that gives pause and a slight stomach drop of terror, but rather the time when the flames go out, the sparkler ends and the night is cold and dark once again. Fireworks, borrowed lighters, a striken match, your love burns bright and fast and then maybe it passes, maybe the feeling dies out and you're left in the cold once again. And that's the feeling isn't it? Of being bored and waiting for someone to light you up again? To be fair, you do know you don't need it, but then again we don't often crave the things we need. And you crave and yearn and burn in the wait, restless in the knowledge that at some point someone will pass and rub you the right way, that some day you'll light up the night sky bright yet again. There's comfort in the darkness and solace in the predictable loneliness of the in between, but your heart still squirms inside you, waiting and willing and begging to burn up again. Your love might not be comfort, it's not one for the sick days, but then again, there's a reason why everyone waits for the shining lights in the sky during holidays.

What kind of hot are you? Pink panther hot.

you're a modern queen. you sit to the side of the dance floor and drink out of martini glasses, a perfect vantage point to look over your court. you like to see the way people's eyes linger on you, hoping you'll see them, that they'll gain your approval. you are offered drinks by many overeager servants throughout the night. when you finally join the ball, the sea of people parts just for you, and you hear the nervous titters of the crowd who are so captivated by what you'll do next.

What flavor is your soul? Honey.

"sugared mel e lingua serpentis." sugared honey from a serpent's tongue. oh dearest, look how you gleam. how the sunlight dances off your shoulders, how the heavens shine across your wingtips. but you are hollow, hollow, hollow. even the taste of nectar can choke a man. sometimes the sweetest flowers hide the sharpest poison. you lie to yourself, the worst lie of all. you needn't be so obsessed with perfect. the greatest beauty lies in our faults. do you think the moon apologizes for their mara? no, their craters add to their glow. my dear, breathe. you are not an island, breathe, before the honey drowns you. you wish to be lovely, you long to be loved. but did aphrodite trade her powers for perfection? she did not. you can be beautiful, and also whole. be whole above anything else dear. a heart of diamonds is worth nothing if inchor oozes from it. inward. look within and question how well do you know yourself? little petal are you trying to be a god? why? can a god bloom from sullen soil? no. you are whole as you are.

[eldritchborn]

“&– - I care not about cause of death-- - my curiosity is whether the corpse is of interest- because if it is not then I desire to take claim of it.” // @loomsred liked for a starter

[bloodyarn]

@loomsred continued from here

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     𝐄𝐥𝐚𝘁𝐢𝐨𝐧.     Oh, how glad the white-haired one was; The gift was well-received. Twirling her arm before coming to her chest with a dramatic bow, Babette breathes out a chuckle.     ❝ It was my utmost pleasure. I always wanted to try my skills on a dragonborn plushie. You make for quite the muse, so to speak. ❞

Eyes descend to her work, then back at Attor. He seemed happy, albeit something was a tad bit off. The tailor couldn't remember someone being so thankful over a doll. Maybe he tried being nice   ?

Maybe he was like this normally . . .

     ❝ Say, you look a bit worn-out. Did you drink enough water   ?   Are you sleepy   ? ❞     The scaled one squeezed his eyes shut, making the impression of something was hurting him. They live in horrible times, it would not surprise the hexblood if things are overwhelming. Hells, they are oftentimes more than that to herself. At least, the gift could convey a certain amount of comfort.

[avernusfuries]

Karlach let out a small huff of laughter. Truth be told, in many ways, they were all in the same boat. The reminder that while they were having a whale of a time, ( Karlach, herself, was anyway ), that was not the case for everyone. Attor had been somewhat upfront about his tendencies and the violence of them, though he had not gone into enough detail that it could very easily be blamed on their little hitchhikers.

"Don't worry about me mate, I'm fed, watered and free. It's the best I can ask for," she shot back, lightheartedly. Truth be told, she was still reeling from the fact that she was. Funny, too, how here was the one place where she could sleep, but found herself far too giddy to actually nod off.

Were she not currently on fire, Karlach's hand would have moved to settle against his shoulder. Same way her father had done to her when she was teeny-tiny, and all of the big emotions were condensed into one little girl. Her hand lifted and fingers flexed as if she would, but after a long moment, it fell again.

"You know, a problem shared is a problem... halved? That's the saying, right? Fairly sure I heard Gale say that the other day." He said a lot of things, and Karlach remembered the ones that made sense. "I got two ears for listening, if it'll slow the march of the mind."

"Truth be told, I do not oft sleep well. I have a lot on my mind, and, well -- in it." He gave a weak chuckle. It was a joke he'd said countless times, a bit of a deflection-- but never less true than now. His tadpole squirmed, wanting to connect with Karlach's and he grimaced at the feeling. "I am worried about many things, many of my friends. Gale, Astarion, even you." What if they couldn't find infernal metal? Magical items? The missing arch druid? What if the goblins were too strong, too crafty, too numerous? What if it was more than a crashed mindflayer ship? -- what if you killed them all "And my mind is always racing. Thoughts I can barely control. Wicked, nasty, evil things. I do not feel myself." Himself? Who was he, even? So many questions unanswered. So many images in his head that had a place, but it could not be with him. He could never do half the things in his mind at a given time. He sighed, rubbing his furrowed brow with his hands. He was getting a headache.

[bloodyarn]

⚝ 𝕎ℍ𝔸𝕋 ℂ𝕆𝕃𝕆ℝ 𝔻𝕆𝔼𝕊 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ 𝕃𝕆𝕍𝔼 𝔽𝔼𝔼𝕃 𝕃𝕀𝕂𝔼   ? ⚝

❥ source

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   𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍

     Nice breeze, bare feet and freshly cut grass.      Your love is a   lighthearted hope   for the future. It's protecting your eyes from the sun but enjoying the light rays still, it's laying on the grass and feeling it tickle your neck. You look to the side and they look back at you, full of hope and plans too. You plan together and laugh all day and your sunburn will feel like them. Your love is delicate, hesitant. A well curated binder full of collages for a future you can't be sure will come, but you keep going, you keep planning, you keep squinting at the sun and smiling, and running your hands through the grass so it will smell better. You keep holding onto the bright sky even as the sunsets, even as the starry night stares back.    But you keep on holding,    you keep on dreaming, you close your eyes and feel the sun on your skin and convince yourself that the sunburn is good, it's something to hold on to, just makes it linger a bit longer. Your love is a lighthearted hope for the future. It's sweet and wonderful and it keeps love alive, makes the world a better place. You run your hands through the grass, clench your fingers tighter and keep making plans. And I can only thank you and hope I can learn to love like you someday.

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tagged: @softersinned ty hun ♥

tagging: @loomsred , @mystraguideme (feel free to do this for Mystra and Haleth too if you want ♥) , and you !

[bloodyarn]

⚝ 𝕎ℍ𝔸𝕋 𝔻𝕆𝔼𝕊 𝕐𝕆𝕌ℝ ℍ𝔼𝔸ℝ𝕋 𝕃𝕆𝕆𝕂 𝕃𝕀𝕂𝔼   ? ⚝

❥ source

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   𝐀 𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 , 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

     Just because you cannot see your own heart doesn’t mean that others can’t.      Your heart is blinding, captivating, a fire so bright that others can’t bring themselves to look away. It illuminates the path they follow and cements you as a guiding star for their own wayward hearts. Every experience you’ve lived through has built your lighthouse heart up just a little higher. You are inspirational, a light that doesn’t go out.

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tagging: @loomsred , @mystraguideme , @infernaliscor & anyone who wants to do it ofc :)

[loyalborn]

The love making between Vashti and their master was practically magical. It usually was, but their approaching heat made their body feel like it was on fire. Archimedes had pulled several orgasms from them, all of them sweet on their tongue. But despite the hours spent in ecstasy, they still weren't satisfied. With him sleeping soundly beside them, their mind went back to the new champion.

Venka. Unlikely to be their true name, just as Vashti wasn't theirs. The beast felt dangerous, like a venomous snake poised to strike. Except they wanted to be bit, to feel burning toxin run through their veins that accompanied a sweet orgasm. Naked and freshly wet with their imagination, Vashti silently slipped out of bed and through the halls.

He was beautiful just like before, perhaps even more so with the dancing lights of torches. They grabbed one from the wall as they approached, allowing the dragonborn to view their cum and sweat soaked body, with fresh bruises and bitemarks trailing over blue flesh. Vashti's arousal ran over them again, making fresh slick trickle down their inner thigh.

"Dear one," they sighed dreamily, "you're so angry. Locked away like some savage beast. But you're more than that." Vashti tutted, "You're smart. I see the intelligence behind those dark eyes."

The beast snarled and rushed the bars of the cage, the chain tightening and stopping him an arms length from the bars. Archimedes was taking no risks, not knowing what he did about it’s bloodline. His very own Bhaalspawn — the thought thrilled him mightily. Twas no other devil who held such a prize, t’would be no other devil as victorious as he.

“Venka,” he said, coming to Vashti’s side. “That is its name. It means ‘victory’ in some forgotten tongue.”

Dark eyes darted back and forth, torn between the desire to kill ( especially the smug, stag-headed bastard who brought him here ) and between something else. A private sort of thought, the sort that made him confused and wary. It had to do with the other devil, who’s scent dripped off them like water off a fall. They were pretty, blue skin visible beneath fabric so sheer it might as well not have been there. Not a devil then, a succubus. One of the Hell’s most traded resources. Suddenly, he felt just as bad for them as he did himself. He snorted, teeth bared in a growl that might have been frightening were it not contained.

“Not quite House broken,” Archimedes mused, “But I am confident that will come with time.” He was no fool. He saw the beast’s reaction and knew his most favorite pet was having an effect on it. Another possessive kiss, a grope, a glance towards Venka with a wicked smirk. Everything here was his. Everything. “Now then, pet. I know you’ve been extremely patient with me. Why don’t we allow this poor creature to settle in, and I’ll make you comfortable.” Comfortable. With their heat on the way, that could only mean one thing. And Archimedes knew how to keep his favorite happy.

————————

‘Venka’, as he supposed he would be called, paced like a wild animal. His father was being exceptionally quiet about his plight, which made him think this was a deserving punishment or worse, a lesson taught through humiliation. No matter, he would get himself out of this — just as he had a half-hundred other problems in his past. Arcane locks were beyond his comprehension and skill, but the lengths of simple chain that held him to the back wall would be easily broken if he could just free his face or hands.

A sound caught his attention, and he turned to see the one called ‘Vashti’ approaching his pitiful little cage. Why? What did they want?

[illithilit]

          AT TIMES SUCH AS THESE, scent became even more vital; were it not for the dark glass shielding his eyes, he'd have been blinded by the light of the harsh midday sun -- and these peaks and crevasses were no place to be blundering about. By night, he'd prowled through the grass a beast, low to the ground and eyes keen for any inkling of movement. By sun rise, he'd begrudgingly returned to the shape of a man, taking to the trees to locate that which had evaded him before. Noon saw him finally return to camp, confident as he could be in these alien surroundings, with freshly killed and cleaned rabbit in hand.

          After staking the creature above the fire to smoke and cook, it was only the chime of bone upon bone that betrayed his entrance into Attor's tent -- not practiced and silent approach.

          "Dreadful, isn't it?" The extra layers of Attor's tent brought an immediate wash of cooling relief over the hunter. Enough, he tentatively thought, to remove his sunglasses to the top of his head for later use. "How you surface dwellers tolerate the daily tyranny, I shall never understand.... But I digress. I've been out scouting the area since the early hours, and thought it best to share. The, ah...... Landscape, is relatively barren of life, though I note, host to a collection of undead to the northwest...."

          With his pause comes silence; were there any other important details to share, they were lost to whatever had caught his attention. Ruby eyes fixed upon Attor, glossing over the scales of his countenance for signs of sweat or blood. Seeing none, but feeling no less satisfied, he added, "Are you entirely certain it isn't you who needs the assistance...? You don't seem well."

@illithilit We do what we have to, don't we? With these beasts caged inside.... It was getting harder to be in the light. It burned and itched and gnawed at a part of him that was getting harder to ignore. To the creche in the West he sent Lae'zel and Karlach, to the Zentarim hideout he'd sent Astarion and Wyll. Loose ends, pieces that needed tying up. And he? Well, here he was, wallowing in the yawning shadows that had become his tent. Heavy furs and linens draped the already stressed structure, completely sheilding it from the sun's rays. He didn't know how long he could keep hiding it -- the Urge. The despicable part of him that hungered for the sinful things. Everyone had to play their part, and here he was, churning from the inside out with the insatiable need to kill. -- useless -- The bone chime in his doorway clattered melodically, and he groaned and pushed the thoughts from his mind as best he could. "Ah, Mourndax. Apologies. How can I be of..." He grimaced at the midday-sun, "Assistance."

[torntruth]

you know ... it's not socially accepted to just kill people laying in the dirt. don't ask her why that's her thought. the bhaal fighter training was violent , violence is always her first thought. so this is her striving for a less violent approach , whether he became an ally or not was what she was searching for. what she found was another parasite infected person.

... & , that certainly sparks all the curiosity.

kristen's head turns to side , demonic green eyes still on the stranger , as if turning her head could halt the uncomfortable and itchy pain the probing parasite always brought. kristen's own lips are curling into a snarl , just because she's uncomfortable. her fangs peeking out from underneath lips , she rolls her shoulders. there's a long sword in her hand , the tip just touching the sand. an eyebrow raises.

" i'm kristen , " is all she says. an answer that's probably underwhelming. it's more to her , though. her bhaalist kidnapper tried to train to never speak her name. she was just a switchblade , a weapon to them. here she's a person.

" do YOU have a name? "

Kristen has made herself known... Attor's blood sung. His muscles ached, his body craved and hungered and there was no balm, no cure. He'd been like this for an hours time or more, curled in cooling ash and dust as his mind raged unholy war on him. There were thoughts in his head, violent sick thoughts, and a name. His name. But he couldn't shake the thoughts. The voice, the intense desires screaming through his very veins. -- kill her kill her she unamde you she ended you she she she she KILL HER KILL HER KILL HER -- Attor. His name was Attor. And he was here, in the dirt, with a weapon and a name and monster-spawn in his head. The creature writhing around in his skull pulsed with acknowledgement. He ignored it. There were too many questions unanswered. Too many pieces he thought, no he knew he had to put together. How could he find himself otherwise. It pulsed more frenetically, and he growled at the headache that followed. He hadn't even realized someone had approached him -- lost in his bloodsong as he was. "You," he barred his teeth, pressing his back against the rocky outcrop he'd hidden under, "You have one too, the worms--" The tadpole wanted to share with it's bretheren, wanted to open his mind. Resisting was met with an awful, searing pain, and he panted with the effort of keeping his thoughts sealed. No one should see what he saw. No one would understand. He didn't even understand. He barely knew who he was, let alone had a desire to share with...her. Was she the one...? "Nghh-- Who are you?" -- @torntruth

[recitedemise]

Ah! There's the bristling agitation and the dwindling patience! Both, Gale decides as he turns to face him, are by leaps and bounds the scholar's norm. "Apology accepted," he says, hands returning to the table before him. In the darkness of the hour, the Weave softens to a lull. "Hardly anything to be ashamed about. If we're to continue in our manner of honesty, I confess, I'm surprised you'd lasted as long as you had. A great many pupils before you would have lost their patience several manuals ago." Truly! "That said, your ceiling for adversity has me undoubtedly impressed."

And that, what with his rather genial expression, is the truth. Huh. How...strange that Attor's so cautious of him. Still, wizards are known to lust for power, strange riddles in their mouths and schemes in their eyes, but in Gale of Waterdeep, there lumbers a great deal different: namely, a somber acceptance and a twinge of regret. Regret? Gale doesn't know that Attor's wary. Instead, he takes the seat across the table and, with a cant of his head, twinkles his fingers.

"Unfortunately, that's as far as my conciliatory words go. There's hardly anything easy about mastering the Weave, even first year spells requiring arduous study. But I hold firmly to the belief that a passionate instructor can take the most driven student a remarkable distance. And believe you me, I've passion to spare." Here, he drags his hand between them, and a shimmer of what seems like the conjured cosmos blurs in their gap. "And you, drive. You don't strike me as a man to surrender. I've seen you fight. You must have a great deal of stories that prove your startling perseverance."

@recitedemise is a good teacher. The student however...

Attor slammed the book down on the table with a frustrated growl, "How is anyone meant to understand any of this drivel!" Hands massaged at weary brows as he sighed, a bit of smoke trickling from between his teeth. "My apologies, Gale. I know you're only trying to help." It had been his idea, Attor's, to learn a few spells from scrolls they had picked up along the way. A part of him wanted to be prepared for the inevitable time he would be caught with his proverbial trousers down. Another part of him, a deeper more morbid part, wanted to prepare if Gale...turned on him. There was something off about the Wizard, after all. His strange condition, the way he traded in secrets and spoke in rhymes and riddles. It made something in his skull prickle -- and it wasn't the worm.

"I suppose I imagined magic would be easier. You are, of course, free to laugh at my folly."

[loyalborn]

For a brief moment, Haarlep found themself stumped. It wasn't the first time they had been given clothes, but they were usually made of much less material. Slowly, they took the coat and stared at it for a few beats as if they didn't know what to do with it. They couldn't put it on with the current form they had.

Holding it to their chest, Haarlep did something they hadn't in centuries. They let go of their glamourized form. It had been so long since they appeared to be anyone other than Raphael. And with the exception of hidden wings, Haarlep returned to their true form.

The coat was big on them and was more than enough to cover up their naked body and the chastity belt. Their hand, now blue gray and much smaller, gently grasped his. White eyes studied their linked hands for a moment before looking up at the dragonborn.

"Thank you," they murmured. "I'm Haarlep."

He sighed softly, giving them a once over. His bleeding heart would get him killed one day. But not this day. "I won't leave you here, you'll be safe with me." He took off his coat, offering it to the devil with gentle hands. He didn't know if it would fit them, but he wanted to offer them some modesty. He only imagined what the rest of his party would think if he brought a naked incubus ( succubus? ) back to camp. He was very certain he was already going to be bombared with questions and increasingly judgemental stares. "I have clothes you can borrow when we get back to my camp, but that should do for now."

He offered his hand. They would have to take the portal out, and by all of the gods he hoped Raphael wouldn't suspect him right off the bat. He didn't quite have the werewithal to battle a devil at the moment.