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pheonixgrave · 1 year ago

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Need You (18+)

I honestly cannot believe how much the last three have taken off, it's actually fucking mindblowing. Thank you guys so much!!!!!!!

Warnings: Fluff and smut, blood drinking, we love Astarion in this household, mentions of Cazador

He loves her. After everything that’s happened and everything they’ve done, he loves her. They held each other all the way from the cemetery back to the camp. It was truly the best night since being back in Baldur’s Gate for her. They could forget that the outside world existed and just focus on each other. They could forget about her parents or Cazador. There was a peace to the night. There was a peace to them. She had loved him for a while. She had loved him since the first night. And she was content to have him however he would let her. She was ecstatic when he told her he wanted them to be something real. She had always been more than patient with him. She had cried when he said he loved her.

It was a deeply emotional night. They held each other, they cried. Astarion knew he had feelings for her at Moonrise. He knew he loved her when she faced down an Orthon in his name. But he was terrified. And then they stood in Cazador’s palace. She hadn’t hesitated to say he would have killed her if they had met under different circumstances. She hadn't hesitated to shove Cazador off a cliff. He had never known her to be malicious. But he could see the look in her eyes as she went toe to toe with a vampire lord. It was certainty. It was defiance. It was breathtaking.

This was real. He had to remind himself of that more often than not. Tav could have had Gale or Halsin. Mizora or Shadowheart. Wyll or Lae’zel. Anyone. But she chose him. And as she laid before him, her once pale skin now a deep golden and most of the softness in her body gone, he couldn’t help the feeling but to own the rest of her. Something about her made him want to be possessive. Sure, they were in the far corner of the rooms they had rented and had more privacy than normal. But he wanted to make her scream.

He sat on his knees, hands gently stroking her thighs. They hadn’t slept yet and the sun was creeping through the windows. They hadn’t even moved past kissing. Everything felt different now. It felt all the more important. She had the same look in her eyes from the first night. Except there was no hesitation. She loves him. Astarion leaned towards her, hovering over her. Piercing red eyes met blue ones. He didn’t kiss her. Instead he kissed her cheek. And then the other one. And then just below her ear, slowly making his way to the bite scars that finally formed on her neck.

He could feel her thighs tremble just from the brief contact. And the way she bared her neck to him was more than heavenly. But he didn’t bite her. Not yet. This was going to last as long as he pleased. She whined when he only sucked the skin around the scars. “Do you trust me?”

His breath was warm against her skin. She wanted him to take her so desperately and he was only taking his time. It was such a simple question but she couldn’t form the words. She nodded vigorously.

“Use your words, pet.”

She whined again but could barely whisper her answer. “I do.”

He smiled against her neck before taking her hands and putting them above her head. “That’s my girl.” He moved quickly, making her grip the bed frame. “Do not move your hands until I say so, understood?”

Her body shook. He had her pinned underneath him and her clit throbbed. She nodded again.

“Try again, my dear.”

“I-I understand.” He had barely touched her and she already knew that the second he did, she was done for.

He sat back and watched the elf squirm under his gaze. “Gods, you’re beautiful.” His voice always did something to her. But a reverent whisper was more than her body could handle already. Her skin was flushed and her chest was heaving. He trailed his hands from her arms to her waist, fingers barely ghosting her skin.

“Atsarion, please!” Tav could see the hunger in his eyes. It made her weak that she couldn’t tell if it was for her or her blood. She’d give him either.

He smiled at her. There was so much emotion in his eyes that neither of them were afraid to put a name to now. They would never be afraid again. He kissed her. A slow, powerful kiss. He kissed her like he needed her. He kissed her like he couldn’t live without her anymore.

He made his way down her body, peppering light kisses along her neck. It took him ages to get to her breasts. He swirled his tongue around her nipples before biting each one. Not hard enough to break skin but hard enough for her to know he could. Her gasps quickly turned into moans as she wriggled against him. And he just kept going lower, every kiss a small worship of her. Her legs had been spread to fit him between them. He started with her thighs, small gentle kisses while his other hand rubbed circles into the other. First the right one then the left.

She was shaking. A slave to his touch and his touch alone. And she cried out his name as he sunk his fangs into her thigh. He felt her muscles tighten as he drank. He knew this wasn’t supposed to be a pleasurable experience. And yet she seemed to almost crave it. It was intimate and held the building blocks for everything they’ve become. He drank slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. Her grip on the headboard was slipping but she was trying so hard to keep her hands there.

Once he stopped, he let blood trickle out of the wound. Quietly enjoying how easily she had given herself to him. He used his fingers to spread her cunt and watched her squirm even more. She knew he’d give her what she craved but she had been waiting for so long now.

“Eyes on me, pet. I want to see those pretty eyes.” Was the only thing he said before buried his face in her cunt. He's found it hard to have any amount of restraint when it comes to her.

"Gods, Astarion," was all she could moan. Her eyes were half hooded but she tried to keep them on the piercing red eyes staring back at her. She would never understand how he could be that amazing with his tongue and able to focus on her at the same time.

Tav was better prepared for him now. She didn't need nearly as much prep as she used to. But her finishing on his tongue? On his fingers? Almost nothing compared to that. Almost. Seeing his cum dripped out of her after he's reduced her to nothing more than a babbling mess? That was truly heaven. And it was Astarion's sole goal right now.

She tried so hard to keep her eyes trained on him. She could barely keep her eyes open as he gave her clit a harsh suck. She cried out for him. Instead of using his fingers to stretch her out, he took a hand and smeared the blood on her thigh around her skin. He made sure to leave his handprint on her stomach. Something about that shoved Tav over the edge. She came with a scream, her body finally finding the release she had so desperately needed. "Astarion!"

He took his hand away, sucking the blood off it. "You taste delectable, pet." He purred before sinking his teeth into her other thigh. She cried out again, her body reveling in the pain. He didn't drink as much, but he wanted to see her bleed. He wanted Tav to know who she belonged to. And she was all too eager.

"Atsarion, I need to touch you." She begged and he was very tempted to refuse her. To make her keep her arms there while he had total control and full reign of her body. But even he couldn't deny how much he loved having her hold him. To feel her wrap herself in him.

"Alright, but I expect you to behave, love." He hadn't moved. Her hands tangled themselves in his curls as he dived back to her cunt. This time, he teased her hole with the tips of his fingers. Her legs wrapped around his shoulders and her back arched as he slipped two fingers inside. The grip she had on his hair was rough. It hurt. And yet, it just made him go harder. She was always so tender with him. Always so careful, almost like he was made of glass. It drove him wild when she lost control and let her body make the rules.

"You're so-Gods-you're perfect." She gasped out and he hooked his fingers inside of her. It wasn't long before he was pumping his fingers in and out of her while tracing shapes on her clit.

She gave his hair a harsh tug, pulling him towards her. She pulled until he was face to face with her again, his fingers still working on her cunt. Now his palm was grinding against her clit. There was a mix of blood and slick on his face. She pulled him in for a hungry kiss. The taste of copper and her on his lips caused her cunt to clench around his hand. She arched towards him, crying out his name yet again.

“Astarion,” she held his face in her hands, “I need you. I can’t wait any longer.”

“After all this time, I thought I would have taught you what patience was.” His forehead rested against hers.

“Stop teasing, please!” She gasped, her body desperately trying to find any source of friction against him.

“Then use your words, pet.”

It wasn’t the first time he had used those exact words. But it was the first time she hadn’t answered. Instead, she wrapped her legs around his waist and managed to flip him onto his back. “I could show you.”

He grinned at her, “By all means,” he slipped an arm underneath his head. He watched Tav realize her position. Her face flushed with embarrassment as she tried to piece together what to do next. If she wanted control, he was more than happy to let her have it. Even if she had no idea what to do with it.

She straddled him, her cunt just a motion away from his cock. Her brain was reeling, was he really just letting her take over? What should she do now? She could take the easy way and impale herself on him. But he had spent so much time teasing her and making her crave him. Maybe she could do the same. She fit his cock between her cunt, not inside. She braced her hands on his chest and started to grind her clit against him.

Needless to say, Astarion was caught off guard. It was finally his turn to start writhing underneath her. It didn’t take long for him to throw his head back. Tav always thought he looked so pretty with his chest heaving and his skin flushed. And he was even prettier covered in blood. The blood from her thighs was a stark contrast on his pale skin. She didn’t consider herself a dark person or someone that enjoyed the darker parts of pleasure. Yet, when it came to him, she craved it.

His hands flew to her thighs to stop her ministrations. He sat up and wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “That’s not what I thought you asked for, pet.”

She moaned as he pushed the tip of his cock inside her. “I-I wanted to-Gods above, Asatrion!” She cried out as he pushed the rest of the way inside her.

“Shh, pet. I’ve got you.” He pulled her head on his shoulder and gently stroked her hair. She wrapped her arms around him, for once not being cautious of the scars on his back. “I’ll take care of you.” His thrusts were slow and deep. He was just enjoying her cries of pleasure and how her body trembled. Suddenly, there was no outside world. No Illithids, no gods. No Tieflings or goblins. It was just them, wrapped in each other like it could be the last time. It was simply Astarion’s quiet worship and Tav’s love for him.

“I love you,” she whimpered into his shoulder. “Gods, I love you.”

His thrusts faltered for only a moment, “Say that again.”

She pulled her head up to look him in the eyes, “I love you.”

Something snapped inside him. He kissed her, gentle at first. Then suddenly rabid. He threw her on her back so fast she thought she imagined it. The slow thrusts suddenly turned into an almost bruising pace. He had never fucked her like that before. Every thrust knocked the wind out of her. His hand grasped around her throat as she came with a silent scream. She dug her nails into his back almost hard enough to draw blood.

It was hard to think, it was hard to register anything but the feeling of him hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars. She could barely make out his whispered groans of “I love you.”

The grip around her neck tightened. She couldn’t breathe but she couldn’t find it in her to care. Her eyes closed as she came yet again on his cock. “Such a good pet,” was all he could manage before his hips lost their rhythm. He couldn’t help but cum inside of her. It was his turn to shake, to tremble in her arms. He didn’t pull out, he wasn’t ready to lose that warmth.

But Tav? Tav saw opportunity. She rolled him over once again. His cock never once leaving her. He was still so impossibly hard and she wasn’t one to let an opportunity like that slide. She remembered riding him for the first time and tried to mimic those movements.

And the vampire spawn was too far gone to do anything but try and meet her hips. His hair was stuck to his forehead and his skin was as flushed as it possibly could be. His nails dug into her thighs. “Shit.” It didn’t take long for him to finish yet again. And she wasn’t too far behind him. Eventually, she rolled off onto the other side of the bed. They laid there, their hands intertwined until the dried blood and cum became far too uncomfortable for either of them.

It was the quiet intimacy of climbing into a cool bath together that cemented what happened. Astarion was truly free of Cazador and he had found someone who loved him simply for being him. It may have confused him time and time again. And as small as she felt when she was pressed against him, he knew he was safe with her. Not just his body, but his soul as well. It didn’t hurt that she was moderately terrifying in battle either. For the first time since the nautiloid, they both felt…At peace.

#astarion #astarion smut #astarion x tav #baulders gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #fem!tav #not my gif #brainrot #yet another one of my fics with blood drinking #is this becoming a thing?#Maybe

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tunastime · 9 months ago

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A Moment Called Forever

waves my hands about! this is the first chapter (ish) of the docsuma SEN fic for my au I created for Stretching Endless Night!! it is. eventual docsuma! but I wanted to go into detail about who xisuma and his crew were before the Prometheus, before tango met jimmy, and before ethubs had their near fatal mission :3 so here it is! yaay!!

Xisuma pilots a ship known as the HSS Moonrise. His career begins--and nearly ends--with the crew and missions aboard during the first five years of his captain's career. Doc, the right hand to a captain far too young to be piloting, rebuilds himself from the ground up alongside the crew of a ship that's become family. At the same time, he watches his captain grow and change and root himself firmly into his life. Or: Doc and Xisuma watch their lives change and reflect each other. Or: how the Prometheus station came to be, and how its Admiral, alongside his captains, help it blossom. (2414 words)

Stationed ELMSC-14, stardate 2204.60. Deployed: Cpt. Xisuma V. LtCmd. Doc M., LtCmd. Cleo Z., Lt. Slip G., Lt. Mumbo J., Lt. Tango T. Stationed: Lt. Biffa T.

Conditions: visibility, 50km, clear, winds NW 2km. Communications established. Radar operational. Pinging team leader.

Xisuma shuts the screen on his visor, blocking out the binary suns and washing the world in shade and orange grids. Elm is devoid of surface life, long since uninhabited by the companies that had mined underground. In front of him stretches orange-red sand and large, smooth cliffs. It reminds him a lot of pictures of Earth—deserts and mesas with the sun high ahead of them. Tango’s voice crackles to life, then smoothes out as he speaks.

“So what’re we lookin’ for, X?”

X turns his head, glancing back at Tango a pace behind him. To Tango’s left is Mumbo, with a bag slung across his chest, much like Xisuma. Tango hefts the core sampler further up onto his back—likely less from the weight and more to keep balanced.

“Anything,” Xisuma answers truthfully. “Like you both know, this place was abandoned ages ago. Anything we can find to either prove it’s worth using or prove it’s good to leave is good for HASA.”

Mumbo sighs.

“Wow,” he says. “Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen soil this orange before.”

“I’ve never seen soil,” Tango jokes, voice dipping as he elbows Mumbo. Mumbo snorts, shoving him sideways.

“We get it, robo-man.”

Tango scoffs—or makes a noise that sounds just like it.

“Android! First of all!” he huffs. Xisuma sees him fold his arms when he glances back. “Anyway—the red comes from enriched iron deposits in the sediment. Partially magnesium as well.”

Below his visor, Xisuma grins.

“Says the man who’s never seen soils,” he pipes up. Mumbo laughs.

“Just because I’ve never seen ‘em doesn’t mean I didn’t learn everything I know from skimming Biff’s books,” Tango says.

“You’ve got a point,” X says. He hears Tango agree with him, something that crackles into obscurity as Cleo’s voice rings clear through the communicator.

“Xisuma,” she says.

“Go ahead,”

“Hey—” Cleo starts. “We’ve not found anything over here yet, and we’re about a kilometer or so from the first dig point. Should we keep going?”

“Affirmative, Cleo,” Xisuma says. “You all can keep going—we’re about 800 meters from ours, so we’ll stop here before we move onto the next one.”

Tango jogs to walk at his side, pulling up his projection of Elm’s surface. Laid out in a flat grid, Xisuma can see their current point, a small blip on the screen, and the location they’re trying to reach, a larger, solid shape behind the next crest. He leans into Tango’s space to glance at the map, and Tango bumps their shoulders together. Leaning back, smile on his face, Xisuma says:

“I want to get at least two done each today before we get back to the ship. That only leaves three total for tomorrow, and it’s more than likely we’ll be able to extrapolate one from orbit.”

“Heard,” Cleo says. “We’ll let you know if we find anything interesting, yeah?”

“Please do!” X chirps. “That’s the whole point of us being out here.”

Doc’s voice breaks through the communicator as he laughs.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” he says. X snorts, shaking his head.

“Be safe out there, you lot—” he laughs. “Cleo, Slip, Doc—”

“Why me?” Doc cuts through.

“Accident prone,” Tango supplies.

Xisuma laughs, waving his hand.

“Okay, okay,” he says, trying to quell the conversation. “Let us know if you find anything of note, or if we can help you at all after our two digs. We’ve got about 3 kilometers total today, so we may have a little less further to go than you.”

“Will do, Captain,” Cleo says. “Thanks, X.”

“Sure thing.”

Xisuma hums to himself, amused, as Cleo’s transmission ends. The three, Tango, Xisuma, Mumbo, walk in a line along the orange rock and sand, following the path of the map and Tango’s guidance. Tango steps ahead of Xisuma, curled over the map, shoulders hunched as he walks. He walks with the surety of someone who can see nearly everything around him, without interference or blindspots. He follows the bob of Tango’s head, caught in the yellow shimmer of his overlay as they walk. They make it up a rise and partway down into a valley. The sand kicks up behind them, swirling and settling as they go. Their bootprints in the rock and dirt are obscured as soon as they’re made.

The valley sits in a low between two other large faces, though the area itself is raised high above the ground. The rocky plateau dips and curves, creating large holes in the rock, smooth hills, and flat rises. If Xisuma were to walk a kilometer out to the west, he could see where the cliff face drops into the depression below, a sunken crater from mining operations in the years prior.

After a few minutes, Tango slows to pause, turning to look back at the two behind him. Though Xisuma can barely see his bright, neon eyes from behind the visor, he can tell when he meets eyes with both of them, nodding. Xisuma tilts his head.

“Here?” he asks.

Tango nods.

“Looks like it from our map, here,” he says, holding it out for X to look at. The blip of red against the screen is right over their geographical point for their first dig. Xisuma nods, then, unclipping his data pad from his hip and beginning to note down their surroundings.

“I’ll start field conditions while you two start the sample,” he says. “You remember what we’re looking for?”

“How could I forget?” Tango pipes up, patting his helmet with his glove. Xisuma snorts. He’s not sure it picks up through their linked comms, but he’s sure the shake of his head gets his notion across.

“Let Mumbo help you, alright?” he says. Tango shoots him a thumbs up.

Mumbo unhooks the drill machine from Tango’s bag, setting the chunky piece of equipment into the dirt. The two begin the process of setting up the sample drill together, lifting the bulky box to release the feet, straightening it to level. Xisuma turns away from them, staring out across the orange sand and yellow sky, still instinctively shielding his face from the binary suns. He can see across the valley and to another crest, the wide slopes bright orange and gold in the early day light. From behind his visor, Xisuma smiles, laughing to himself.

The conditions are clear, low wind, cold. It’s not a planet that ever housed life on the surface, so the frigid conditions aren’t an issue. X is certain something likely could survive, human, humanoid, or otherwise, but nothing ever did that anyone saw. He was hopeful that it remained that way, though no scan of the surface and ten feet under gave anything away. He marks down what he could classify the soil as by sight, but the soil tests would have to confirm what he knew once they got back to the ship. When he turns back to Mumbo and Tango, Tango is crouched by the core-sampler, watching it dig into the sand and rock, and Mumbo is sitting against a rock, staring at the orange sky. He makes his way back over, setting the data pad back on his hip.

“Workin’ fine?” he asks.

Mumbo nods, giving him a thumbs up.

“Working great,” he says. “Looks like it’ll be about fifteen minutes until we get a complete sample, and we can start analysis while we’re hiking to the next point.”

X nods.

“Tango,” he asks. Tango’s head perks up. “Where is the next data point?”

“Good question,” Tango starts. He unlatches his communicator, pulling up the map projection. “It looks like about a kilometer. To the northeast, so we might meet Cleo, Doc, and Slip on the way, if they haven’t reached their second waypoint. Theirs is due north of ours.”

Xisuma nods.

“About a thirty minute walk?” he asks. Tango nods.

“Just about.”

“Fantastic.”

For a long moment, Xisuma watches the core-sampler rotate slowly. He watches the percentages rise and fall as Tango starts to talk about what he expects the composition of the soil will be. Mumbo pipes up at some point, adding to the bidding, though the two quickly lapse into chatter about the next project they might receive. Where Mumbo specialized in many of the ship’s electronic components, Tango had quickly caught on, in their nearly two and a half, if not three, years together, to how the major functions of the ship worked. He could make repairs quicker than the rest of the team, especially in orbit. There was more EVA time recorded by Tango than any other member of the crew—with no need for oxygen, and with sun exposure being his only real worry, Tango could work quickly outside in minimal conditions. In fact, if Xisuma hadn’t been worried about wind and UV damage, Tango probably wouldn’t have donned a suit for this mission. But he did, and he stood looking small against the orange sand.

As the drill lifts the sample into one of its chambers, Tango begins the shutdown process. He and Mumbo lift the legs into the machine, boxing it together and reattaching the carrying strap. Dusting off the surface, Tango slings it over one shoulder, resettling it on his back.

“Alright,” Xisuma says cheerily. “Are you all ready?”

There’s a beat between when Xisuma finishes speaking and when Tango goes to answer. In that beat, no more than a second, there’s a high-pitched ringing in Xisuma’s ears. He squeezes his eyes shut. And in the less-than-a-second afterward, the air and ground wobbles, and something, not even two kilometers away, explodes.

Xisuma ducks on instinct, stumbling as the sound and air hits him. He hears Mumbo’s voice through the communicator—what he thinks is Mumbo’s, because he doesn’t hear anything else until the ringing fades and he rights himself. He whips around, trying to find the source of the explosion, searching for anything, really, to make things make sense, to place a face to the sound, sharp and still stinging his ears. He sees a plume of sand and smoke in the distance. The back of his mouth suddenly feels very, very dry.

“Tango—” he shouts. “Mumbo, are you two—”

“Fine!” Mumbo says. “Tango’s fine, too—”

“‘M right here, what—”

“An explosion?” Xisuma manages. “I dunno—”

Xisuma chokes on his next breath as he tries to force the words out. His hand comes to his wrist, fiddling with his communicator.

“That wasn’t that far—” Tango starts.

“Cleo,” Xisuma starts, paging his lieutenant. “Cleo, Doc, Slip, are you three all alright?”

“Xisuma—” Cleo says, words crackling. The crackling never fades, though, like she’s caught in static. Her words come choppy through the haze. “Something just—we hit something—”

“Cleo, what happened?”

“I don’t know,” Cleo manages. Her voice is wobbily. “Something we dug up—my vision’s busted, I-I can’t find Slip and Doc—”

Xisuma freezes. Very quickly, all of his joints go cold, down to his wrist and fingertips. He swallows hard, forcing down the heartbeat in his throat and pulling in a breath of oxygen too sharp and too cold.

“Tango,” he starts, voice leveling. Static surfaces and fades in his visor, the remnant of heat and dust washing over them as he tastes the tang of filtered air in his mouth. “Comm Biffa and tell him to bring the ship as close as he can to the second extraction point—” he turns, facing the two of them. “It has a bigger trauma kit on board. If someone’s suit got damaged it’s not gonna last long.”

“Okay,” Tango manages, taking a step back. Xisuma watches him fiddle with the transponder on his wrist before he sees his name blink from his HUD as he switches channels.

“Mumbo how far is their extraction point from here?” Xisuma asks, recalling the projection of the map of their portion of Elm. He can see the faint blip of Cleo’s transponder across the terrain.

“It’s—maybe a few kilometers. It’s not far? I think—I think it’s not far. I—” Mumbo stutters. “Yeah. Why?”

“Biffa won’t make it in time—” Xisuma says, tightening the straps for his bag, the data pad at his side. He brings up the overlay for both the extraction points and the dig locations. “I mean—he can get to you, but I need someone on board who knows how to set up the trauma kit, and that’s you, Mumbo. And I need someone to make sure we don’t damage the sample.”

“Do you think you’ll make it in time?” Mumbo asks.

“I—I have to, don’t I? I need you and Tango to stay here.”

“Woah—” Tango starts. “Captain, I—that’s a huge risk—”

“Tango,” Xisuma starts. “Lieutenant, I need someone with Mumbo, you’re the only one who can co-navigate with Biffa out of the two of you, and I need Mumbo in medical. And someone has to fetch the sample. Can I trust you to do that, Tango?”

“Yes—yessir.”

“Good—what’s Biffa’s ETA?”

“He—with takeoff sequence, he’ll be able to make it here in 35 minutes.”

“That’s good,” Xisuma manages. “That’s all we can ask for—we can work with that, can’t we?”

He laughs. It’s thin and weak, but Mumbo lets out a heh in response that washes over his nerves like a salve. He swallows, trying to get the dry feeling out of his mouth. He turns toward the plume of smoke for a moment, eyes flicking back to the group.

“X,” Tango says. “Be careful.”

Right. Okay. Xisuma shudders out a sigh. It’s more of a whistle, really, through the helmet. He does it because he thinks he can feel bile rising in his throat, and he’d really not like to get sick with no way of cleaning anything out.Something small in his abdomen curls up, tight and heavy. In that same moment, he sets his jaw. His vision is clouded with the heavy orange overlay, cutting through the rise of smoke that’s just started to cloud his vision. Turning back to Tango, he nods firmly.

“Tango—”

“I have comm until you get back,” Tango says, nodding back at him.

“Yes—” Xisuma starts. “Good luck. Good luck.”

Stepping backward, Xisuma feels a cold rush through his body. Then he turns, fully, toward the smoke.

#xisumavoid #xisuma #tangotek #mumbo jumbo #docsuma #hermitshipping #hermitcraft fic #sen au #mcyt #mcyt fic #hermitcraft au #mcyt au #text #fics #YIPPEEEEE #SPINS AROUND SO FAST!!!#same thing with the ranchers fic i'm desperately trying to post these and work on them continuously RAUURRR #so i really hope this helps brbrbbrrbr #we'll find out!! but enjoy <3 eventual docsuma

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tomcat-radio · 8 months ago

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Wes Anderson's kill count, a result of having too much time on my hands, spoiler: it's complicated.

Firstly, referencing the title, Wes Anderson himself has never killed anyone (at least I hope), but people sure do die in his films sometimes. The question is, exactly how many?

ALSO WARNING!! SPOILERS FOR ALL MOVIES AHEAD! PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK!!

The Conditions -

This is a low estimate, meaning only characters who are confirmed to have died are counted. However, if a character is stated to have died and later been resuscitated, they will also be counted. Animal deaths will only be counted if the animal is a character or their death plays a role in the story (for example hunting, or a character eating meat does not count). I will only add to the kill count if I have an exact number, so saying for example, "a lot of people died" means zero for these purposes.

Bottle Rocket

No one died in this one.

Death toll: 0

Rushmore

Eloise Fischer - cancer - 47

Edward Appleby - drowning - age unknown

The Royal Tenenbaums

Helen Tenenbaum - unknown - 55

Rachel Tenenbaum - Plane crash - 35

Royal Tenenbaum - heart attack - 68

Buckley - Hit by car - age unknown

Mrs Sherman - stomach cancer - age unknown

Death toll: 5

The Life Aquatic

Esteban Du Plantier - eaten by shark - age unknown

Ms Plimpton - overdose - age unknown

Ned Plimpton - blood loss due to injuries in helicopter crash, likely impaled by helicopter parts - 30

Filipino pirate - bullet to neck - age unknown

Alastair Hennessey's crew (at least 12 individuals) - cause of death unknown - ages differ

Pirates in hotel (at least 12 individuals) - explosion - ages differ

Death toll: 28

The Darjeeling Limited

Jimmy Whitman - hit by taxi - age unknown

Francis Whitman - motorcycle crash - 39-40

Child crossing river #3 - drowning - age unknown

“One of the sister’s brothers” - eaten by tiger - age unknown

Death toll: 4

Fantastic Mr Fox

Rat - electrocution - age unknown

Fantastic mr Fox’s father - cause of death unknown - 7 ½ non fox years old

Death toll: 2

Moonrise Kingdom:

Snoopy - shot by bow and arrow - age unknown

Sam Shakusky’s mother - cause of death unknown - age unknown

Sam Shakusky’s father - cause of death unknown - age unknown

Death Toll: 3

The Grand Budapest Hotel:

Madame D-U-T - poisoned - 84

Jopling - pushed off cliff - age unknown

The author - cause of death unknown - age unknown

Agatha - illness - age unknown

Agatha and Zero’s child - cause of death unknown - age unknown

M Gustave - shot - somewhere in his forties

Kovacs - murdered by Jopling - age unknown

Serge X - murdered by Jopling - age unknown

Headless girl - murdered by Jopling - age unknown

Kovacs’s cat - murdered by Jopling - age unknown

Death Toll: 10

Isle of Dogs

Dog in Spots’s kennel - starvation - age unknown

Dog referenced - hung by own leash - age unknown

Professor Watanabe - poisoned - age unknown

Atari’s mother - train crash- age unkown

Atari’s father - train crash - age unknown

Indigenous dog leader - cannibalised - age unknown

Death Toll: a shockingly low 6, because this operates off of confirmed deaths only. If speculated deaths were counted, Isle of Dogs would likely be the highest by far.

The French Dispatch:

Moses Rosenthaler victim #1 - murder - age unknown

Moses Rosethnaler victim #2 - murder - age unknown

Arthur Howitzer Junior - heart attack - 75

Zeferelli - Electrocuted - 19

The 8.25 bodies pulled from the Blasé river each week, The French Dispatch definitely takes place over at least three months (evidenced by the riot storyline) , so we’ll multiply this by four and minus one for Zeffirelli, making it 98 - causes of death unknown - ages vary

72 prisoners - riot - ages vary

6 members of The French Splatter School - riot - ages vary

2 men - shot by Clampette - ages unknown.

Morisot - jumping from a building - age unknown

Police cadet/nanny - gunshot wound to head - age unknown

7 kidnappers - poisoning - ages vary

Death toll: 201

Asteroid City

Mrs Steenbeck - illness - age unknown

Conrad Earp - car crash - 50

Death toll: 2

So, without further ado, the lowest possible estimate of the overall kill count from all 11 of Wes Anderson's films is 253, and if you read all of this, I don't know whether to thank you or be concerned.

#wes anderson #wes anderson movies #film #bottle rocket #rushmore #the royal tenenbaums #the life aquatic #the darjeeling limited #fantastic mr fox #moonrise kingdom #the grand budapest hotel #isle of dogs #the french dispatch #asteroid city #this is what autism can do to a guy #who is the intended audience for this? no idea actually

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graysparrowao3 · 27 days ago

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WIP Wednesday

I've been a little less in this space and it was giving me some trouble, but we're back! Thank you everyone for sharing your favourite blorbos and films and creations, making a effort to catch up!

Thank you @redroomroaving for sharing the snippet of your Harpers and for the tag! Some no pressure tags if you would like to share @crowwolf @faetouchedfool @lostinforestbound @lolliputian @reverieblondie and an open invitation!

Here's two little snippets from WIPs, one for Rolan and one for Rugan/Aradin.

Rolan "What if... Everything Went Wrong" snippet, in which, well...

Perhaps he slipped one into his pack when he realized Tav had failed to notice it, or swiped it from the party supplies, or even squeezed it squirming and squelching from the containers prepared and guarded behind the great tower of Moonrise. He would do anything for them. Anything. That’s what he’d always said, and despite their eye rolls and patronizing placations he’d meant it every time with every word. He would not, could not, fail them. And thus, he could not refuse any advantage or opportunity that presented itself. Not even one as unthinkable, as abhorrent as this. It was an unavoidable conclusion. For them, he would do anything. Rolan stilled the trembling breath in his lungs and brought the writhing abomination to his face.

Rugan/Aradin "How to Keep a Man and Lose a Devil" snippet, in which they realize they have something in common:

As soon as their gracious host was out of earshot, Aradin turned his disbelieving attention back to the former Zhent. “When did the likes of you meet the Grand Duke?” “Remember that time I told you about with the gnolls? Him and the group he was traveling with were the ones that saved my precious hide. Matter of fact, the Hero of Baldur’s Gate was leading the charge.” Rugan put his hands on his hips. “When did you meet the Grand Duke?” “That business at the druid grove with my old crew. The future Hero and Grand Duke were the ones that bailed us out when we were trapped at the gate. Ravengard was training up the tieflings, straight up threw himself into the fight when we was in trouble. Literally. Off the top of a cliff. Proper legendary hero-of-the-people shite.” Aradin shook his head, a playful tug at the corner of his lips. “How the fuck have we never mentioned this before?”

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lakemojave · 10 months ago

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The Direct Actors: A Baldur's Gate 3 "Adventure" pt. 10 live tonight at 6pm Pacific!

WE! ARE! SO! BACK! After a several months hiatus @caputvulpinum is back from wandering the earth as penance for its numerous crimes against me, the channel, and the sovereign nation of Venezuela. We can get the team together again! Join us for the return of our co op campaign of BG3, with @radiofreederry as Dhudlei Durite, @caputvulpinum as Micah Harper, my friends Nana and April as Leviathan, and me as Delilah "Mama D" Harper! See y'all then!

Art by @terrafey, recap under the cut

twitch_live

THE STORY SO FAR: On the way to a union rally, Delilah "Mama D" Harper and her grandson Micah were abducted and taken aboard an ilithid nautiloid, which they escaped with mysterious dancer Leviathan and self-proclaimed "Champion of Ilmater and Paladin of Good" Dhudlei Durite. Each infected by a mind flayer tadpole, but so far immune from transforming into mind flayers themselves, The Direct Actors, as the party have come to be known, now turn their attention to the Shadow-Cursed Lands, where Moonrise Towers, the lair of the Cult of the Absolute, awaits them...

LAST TIME: With Leviathan missing after falling off a cliff, the Direct Actors allowed Lae'zel to venture forth with them, and at her insistence headed into the mountains in search of a Githyanki creche. Along the way, the party killed a racist who was trying to steal a Githyanki egg, and met a blue jay who asked them to kill some eagles. At the creche, the Direct Actors were introduced to the finer points of Githyanki culture, including a brutal training regimen. Dhudlei was allowed to take an egg to raise with his girlfriend, and said girlfriend was subsequently nearly killed by the Zaith'isk, a supposed device for purifying those infected by mind flayers. As it turned out, the device was really meant to kill the infected as sacrifices to the lich queen Vlaakith. Initially in denial about her queen's sinister nature, Lae'zel insisted that the party seek the Githyanki inquisitor, and an audience with Vlaakith herself led the party to enter the Astral Prism, the Githyanki artifact they'd been carrying which had protected them from ceremorphosis. Vlaakith demanded they kill the Prism's occupant, but Dhudlei was more interested in getting some answers from this being which bore his mother's face. The Dream Visitor explained how Vlaakith had deceived her people and, her secret exposed, Vlaakith declared Lae'zel a traitor and ordered her death. Fighting their way out of the creche, the Direct Actors stopped to catch their breath at camp. They were visited by Kith'rak Voss, who declared his allegiance to the Githyanki Prince Orpheus, and called for Lae'zel to meet him in Baldur's Gate, as Micah chastised Dhudlei for his recklessness in the creche. The argument was interrupted by the sudden return of not only Leviathan, who had spent days wandering the Shadow-Cursed Lands, but New Gale, who had taken a new form as a gnome. Leviathan remembered little of his time in the shadowlands, but seemed shaken by it. The Direct Actors returned to the monetary which housed the creche, and Dhudlei guided Micah to claim the Blood of Lathander, a holy weapon, for his own. Afterwards, after a conversation with Mama D about choice and destiny, Micah received a surprising visit from Ilmater himself, who promised that they would meet again, and answers would be revealed...

Will Lae'zel leave her cult programming behind her, and will she and Micah be able to bond? What has Dhudlei figured out about the Dream Visitor? What - and who - did Leviathan see in his time in the Shadow-Cursed Lands? Will Ilmater reveal himself again? Find out in another exciting instalment of Baldur's Gate 3, starring the Direct Actors!

#bg3 #the direct actors #baldurs gate 3 #twitch #stream #shameless plugging

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mikuchan · 4 hours ago

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Aylin/Isobel Week Day 7

The road to Baldur's Gate...and beyond

rated m | 2300 words | Isobel, Aylin

This both very late, and a sequel to my Dark AU from Day 5!

Read on AO3, or below the cut

The axe is swift and merciless. Her staff explodes under the impact, shards of bone splintering through the air. Isobel falls to the ground as her breath rushes out of her.

The skull that topped her staff skitters across the floor, Netherstone winking out of one cracked socket. Their rogue bends to snatch it, dark lips twisting into a savage grin, even as Isobel scrambles desperately towards it.

There’s no hope of regainment, of course. Her necromites lie in ruinous piles. Her intellect devourers too. Z’rell, Radija, Linsella, all those under them…any army that once stood within the walls of Moonrise has been duly decimated.

No help is coming. She is alone with four noble horrors that circle her now like wolves sensing the swift-coming kill.

She has lost the Netherstone.

She is about to lose this second chance at life.

Still she struggles, even if in vain. Isobel Thorm has never been one to go with a whimper. She forces herself to her feet, blinking blood from her eyes; falls again, kneecaps cracking against the ground. Her magic is spent. She tries to conjure something, anything – a flicker of flame, a blast within a corpse, a single mote of holy power – but is forsaken by both Myrkul and herself.

“You’re done,” the axe-wielder snaps. “No more shadows, Myrkulite. This land will be free from your tyranny.”

The tiefling’s speech is so startling that Isobel almost laughs. “My tyranny! As if I brought these shadows and ruined this land! I am no friend of Shar, you fool. I am the only one left who dares stand against her.”

“Enough.” The gith has taken the skull from the pale woman’s hands and pried the Netherstone from it. It glows in her grasp as she glares at Isobel. “End her and be done.”

Is this truly how it ends? Sprawled on the illithid hive-floor deep below Moonrise, in a Reithwin still clotted with Sharran shadows, at the merciless hands of misguided fools?

The barbarian raises her heavy axe.

“Myrkul, do not let me fall!” Isobel cries, desperate. “Please–”

A shower of stone and illithid meat. Isobel and her enemies alike look up to see the sudden comet shattering through the ceiling. Huge wings tented like an eagle swooping for the kill, shining platemail dark as pitch – Isobel flinches instinctively as armored feet hurtle towards her –

Dame Aylin lands inches from Isobel’s head, crashing thunderously into the ground. The hideous screech of metal-on-metal rings through the chamber as the barbarian’s axe lands not on Isobel’s skull, but the paladin’s broad and armored back.

Only Isobel sees the brief shudder of pain that flashes across her face. Aylin does not so much as glance over her shoulder. She just scoops Isobel into her arms, launching back into the air before the startled group can attack again.

For a long moment, Isobel is too stunned to speak. Her mind reels with the impossibility of – everything, honestly. The rescue itself, the strong arms around her, the dizzying speed at which Dame Aylin is flying through the narrow illithid-burrowed passageways through Moonrise’s inner walls. They exit as Aylin must have entered, through a shattered hole punched through the side of one turret, into the shadowed night.

The wind whips around them, stealing any words from Isobel’s lips before they can reach Aylin’s ears. This is probably for the better, for as the shock wears off, too many questions bubble up to take its place. Isobel clings to her savior in silence instead, until her mind is more or less sorted and Aylin’s feet are touching down on solid ground.

They’ve landed just outside of the Shadowlands. The evening moon illuminates a weary stone fort – more ruin than structure, really – at the very edge of the Loss-dark forest. She can see Baldur’s Gate from the cliff it clings to, and the thin ribbon of road that will carry their army. Isobel leans against a broken column, blood seeping from her side, and gazes at the distant lights of the city. Then she turns to Aylin.

“Why did you come back?” she asks, more calmly than she feels. It is an enormous effort just to speak.

Dame Aylin is silent for a long moment. While Isobel’s eyes were cast over the far-off Baldur’s Gate, hers linger on the shadows of Reithwin.

“Something calls me to this place,” she finally says. “I know not what, or why. Only that I did not wish to leave it.”

“So mere coincidence?” Isobel is astounded. “You just…wished to return?”

“More than coincidence.” Aylin sounds more certain than anyone with so few answers has any right to be. “I cannot say what beckons me to Moonrise – yet I am grateful for it.”

“Why would you be grateful for such a pointless mystery?”

“It led me to your rescue,” she says simply. “It would have been a shame to lose such an enticing conspirator. Come here.”

Enticing conspirator. A compliment? A mockery? What a puzzle this noble Bhaalspawn is. Isobel doesn’t move as bid, but neither does she shy from Aylin’s approach.

Aylin is taller than her by a half-head or more; standing this close, Isobel has to tip her head back to look her in the eye. She lays her hands on Isobel’s chest, fingers spread across her decollete. They’re separated by layers of plate and robes and undergarments, but still Isobel’s skin prickles with the proximity.

She has not been so close to another living person in a long, long while.

She has not been so close to anyone as intriguing – as alluring – as Dame Aylin ever.

The charge of healing that jolts through her is hot as blood and sharp as silver. Bile rises in the back of her throat as her wounds stitch from the inside out, and it’s all she can do to not fall into Aylin’s arms. Sparks of gold dance before her eyes.

(Beneath it all, a strange, lingering undercurrent of milk and honey. The scent of candle wax. Sharp white wine on the back of her tongue. She must be gravely injured indeed for her mind to conjure such old, traitorous memories of Selunite healing magic.)

Finally she is whole again. Her breathing is sharp with the lingering shock that comes with Bhaal healing (were there ever two words less commonly paired, she wonders?) – but she is hale and healthy once more.

Yet all is not well. Far from it, in fact.

“My army,” Isobel says. “We’ll need to send word to Gortash immediately.”

There is so much work to be done, suddenly. Schedules to revise. Plans to reroute. The loss of the Netherstone is a harsh blow. They’ll need to recover it, of course, and quickly. But to do that she must salvage her army, the ranks of which currently stand decimated, half its lieutenants wiped out in one fell blow...

A jolt of horror. Her parents.

To the layman, they’d seem like any common reanimated. Surely they will not be spared.

Vain hopes crop up like forget-me-nots, thin and unbidden: perhaps they will go unnoticed. Perhaps they will be spared. Maybe Isobel can steal back into Moonrise – or Aylin could. Surely it would not be hard to soar through the upper window, to gather Isobel’s bone-light parents into her strong arms as she did Isobel herself?

Ideas as feeble as a child’s daydreams. Dame Aylin did not rescue her only to plunge back into danger. There is no tactical advantage to the half-here Thorms, no reason for them at all, really. Just Isobel’s childish affections.

She does not cry. She isn’t sure if she can cry; so much of her person has changed since Myrkul’s chill title settled over her. But something must have twisted in her face, for Dame Aylin is studying her, she realizes, with brows creased with concern.

“What is wrong?” Aylin asks softly.

“It’s all lost.” She tries to sound pragmatic. She’s the General of Moonrise, strong and sensible. A cleric of steady Myrkul. Yet it is hard to keep the emotions from seeping into her voice. “Everything. The Netherstone, Reithwin… My parents.”

Aylin touches her cheek. Her gauntleted fingers are a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. The gesture is surprisingly gentle for a Bhaalspawn. It’s all Isobel can do not to lean into it.

“You will have retribution,” she says softly. “They will fall as your Moonrise did, my lady, by my sword and your hand. We will strew their entrails across the city. Their skulls shall be shatter and scree, their flesh worm-meat, crushed beneath our boots…”

They’re surprisingly soothing, these hushed words of violence and vengeance. Aylin continues to murmur a lullaby of carnage, and Isobel finds herself leaning against the paladin despite herself. Aylin’s hand moves from Isobel’s cheek to wrap around her shoulders. The cleric almost relaxes; but Aylin winces near-imperceptibly, and Isobel pulls away instead.

“You’re hurt?”

“I will live,” Aylin says. Her voice is confident, but her wings hang heavy. The left is held at an awkward angle, dragging through the dirt.

“Let me look.” She’s grateful for the interruption.

Aylin is as vibrant as the moon overhead, a single bright spot in the yawning dark otherwise surrounding her. A small but similar brightness is beginning to burn in Isobel’s chest: she cannot ignore it, but she would be a fool to kindle it further. Theirs is a collaboration of hunger and convenience, of domination and control, of carefully laid political plans and the blades that will carry them to fruition.

This is no time for fits of sentiment. It’s no time for weakness.

Drawing further from the other woman, Isobel circles to study her back.

A deep wound is cut into the base of Aylin’s wing. It did not bear the brunt of the attack – that honor goes to her deep-dented backplate – but the barbarian’s axe still split it soundly. Fresh blood oozes, vibrant against the slick-dark gore that coats the rest of Aylin’s feathers. At full strength it would be an easy fix, but Isobel’s magic remains mere embers. This will take a closer touch.

“Your wing was hit.” She brushes her fingers across the dark metal surrounding the base of it, and keeps her tone casual. “I need to remove your cuirass.”

“Very well.” Aylin’s own voice has gone taut; though taut with what, it’s hard to tell. She doesn’t protest, at least, only kneels so Isobel can better tend to both armor and injury.

Isobel is not much practiced with such intricate armor, but she knows the basics. Deft fingers find the buckles beneath black metal, releasing pauldron and gardbrace. The act feels too intimate for a rudimentary healing; they are both, Isobel realizes, holding their breath.

The backplate is tricky, custommade to accommodate the sometimes-present wings. With great care, she unclasps each delicate leather strap connecting the cuirass around Aylin’s wings and torso. The paladin is very still; only once does she move, a small twitch when Isobel’s knuckles can’t help but brush against the open wound.

“Almost done,” she whispers, lifting the parted backplate away. Aylin wears only a thin tunic beneath, dark fabric clinging to her back. Isobel is struck with a sudden too-human longing to touch the sweat- and blood-soaked linen, to run her hands over the muscles underneath.

Instead she gathers with little magic she has left and channels it into her fingertips. When they finally glow with a thin pale light, Isobel presses them into the cleaved wing. Aylin tenses as the severed flesh is reknit, then, slowly, relaxes.

“There.” Isobel allows her hands to linger for longer than is strictly necessary. When Aylin makes no protest, she traces the tip of one finger over the base of her wing before letting it trail down the hard lines of her back.

Aylin makes a low sound: something between sigh and growl. Perhaps Isobel is not the only one who is touch-starved.

Is this a mistake? Possibly. Probably. But it can go no worse than any else that’s gone wrong of late, surely, and so Isobel places one steady hand on Aylin’s shoulder, tugging for her to turn.

Aylin does as bid, standing as she turns to face Isobel. Shorn of her armor, she’s no less impressive. Maybe more impressive, actually: still every inch the warrior, but with her full breasts and muscled arms now unobscured and on display. She snaps her wings to their full span, rejuvenated and resplendent, before letting them dissipate in a shatter of crimson sparks.

Aylin places one strong hand on Isobel’s hip; the other wanders upwards, lighting upon her thigh, her waist, the swell of her breast, her collar. Her fingers are calloused, rough and warm against Isobel’s cool skin.

When they move to her throat, it’s in a single fluid motion that slams her against one of the fort’s crumbling stone walls. Isobel wants to gasp, but cannot.

Was all that simply prelude, then? A fickle, treacherous Bhaalspawn, sweeping in to snatch her from those intrepid fools not to save her but to have the glory of murdering Isobel herself?

The press of Aylin’s lips instead is shocking. No sudden death, this, but the opposite. The kiss is violent – teeth and lips on bloodstained skin, quick sharp gasps, her nails raking over Aylin’s hard muscles – but it snuffs the last of Isobel’s doubts even as it heats her with want.

The road to Baldur’s Gate will be a long and bloody thing.

But she’s not felt so alive in years; and she will no longer be alone.

moon banners from here

#aylinisobelweek2025 #dame aylin #isobel thorm #very late but challenge complete!!!!#yayyyy #bg3 #mine

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suxxesphoto · 2 months ago

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Hastings Coastal Sunset Photography

Chasing Sunsets in Hastings: East Hill and Beach Adventures Hastings, with its rich history and stunning coastal views, offers endless opportunities for photographers. This November, after weeks of gloom, I finally got the chance to explore and photograph some of the town’s most iconic locations during golden hour and sunset. The results were as rewarding as they were instructive, with each…

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kirain · 1 year ago

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I love your Tiefling kids all grown up! The attention to detail is astonishing! But please, I need Doni! The sweet little non-verbal boy from the grove!!

I gotchu, anon! All the tiefling children that aren't confirmed to survive to Act 3, but very well could have. This is a continuation of this post. And thank you!

During the attack in the Shadowlands, Doni survived by squeezing between two cliffs and waiting out the slaughter. When silence fell, he paid his respects to the fallen and fled to the closest light source. He quickly spotted enchanted torches in the distance, and he realised they kept the shadows at bay. There he stayed until the curse lifted. Once free to move, he wandered cautiously to Moonrise Towers, where he was welcomed by other survivors. Though unable to speak, he would be instrumental in uncovering precious resources buried during the building's collapse; crawling under debris and mapping out paths for the adults to follow. As the land healed, Doni found a home, especially when Halsin returned. Though not a replacement for his biological father, he came to see the tender druid as a mentor, and with his guidance learned to hunt and attune himself with nature. Slowly, he also recovered from his trauma and reclaimed his voice. He would spend the rest of his days happily foraging food from the now vast forests, and all while blissfully married to the descendant of a Harper.

Meli was taken to Moonrise Prison with the other tieflings, but he managed to escape before reaching the cells. With pursuing guards on his heels, he jumped into the moat, nearly drowning as he dodged their arrows. Through sheer fear and desperation, he floundered to the shore, where he promptly fainted. When he woke, the shadows had faded and the land was bathed in light, but he felt anything but joy. For years, he walked a dark path, his anger seething and survival depending on theft and violence. This changed when he tried to rob a cleric of Lathander. The woman met his transgression with pity and forgiveness, and quickly invited him to join her at her temple. He agreed—with the intention of using her for food and shelter and eventually robbing her blind, but the woman was wise. She saw through his facade, shared her beliefs, and gradually helped him turn a new leaf. As he grew, surrounded by the clerics and their kindness, he too decided to worship Lathander, vowing to carry His virtues and redirecting all of his rage at His enemies. Upon completion of his apprenticeship, he would leave the temple and travel Faerûn, ridding it of undead abominations and protecting the innocent from their scourge.

Gan left the group long before they journeyed to the Shadowlands. Dissatisfied that he never got the chance to fight, and certain that Baldur's Gate wouldn't be the refuge the adults claimed, he chose to stay behind at the Grove. He had always been an independent soul, even at such a young age, and he continued to fend for himself while honing his skills on the practice dummies. The druids attempted to welcome him into their fold, but his proclivity towards violence caused a divide, despite their best efforts. Within a few months, he would leave the Grove and join a band of raiders, but even that stint was short lived when he came to empathise with their victims. One night, after a particularly brutal raid that ended in five murders, he slit the throat of the leader as he slept. It was then, in that moment of lost innocence, that he realised it wasn't violence he longed for, but vengeance. Vengeance for Elturel, vengeance for the refugees, and vengeance for anyone wronged by unfathomable evil. Eventually, he would cross paths with Zevlor, who would recognise the boy's struggle and train him in the ways of the paladin. This gave the wandering oathbreaker renewed purpose, and he would raise Gan to be one of the most feared but celebrated paladins in the Sword Coast.

Unfortunately, Zaki never made it to Baldur's Gate. He never even made it to the Shadowlands. Mere hours after leaving the Grove, he was separated from the group during a brief respite. As the others caught their breath, he left the trail to pee and pick some berries. Unbeknownst to him, he stepped a little too close to a den of wolf cubs, provoking the mother. She attacked, wounding his face and chest and knocking him into a nearby ravine. Once they realised he was missing, the group searched vigorously to find him, but to no avail—and they had to move on. Days later, he was found in a bad state by Rath, who rushed him back to the Grove. The experience had left him deeply traumatised, to the point that even his friend Gan was unable to console him. Feeling responsible for the boy, and the plight of all the tieflings, Rath decided to personally take him under his wing. Slowly, he introduced Zaki to the Grove's wolves, helping alleviate his fears, and soon he came to admire them, along with all the other animals in the area. Through Rath's teachings, he developed an appreciation for peace and the unpredictability of nature, earning him a blessing from Silvanus. From that moment on, Zaki would stay in the Grove indefinitely, one day inheriting the title of Archdruid.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #tiefling #doni #meli #zaki #gan #lathander #dnd #d&d #dungeons and dragons #halsin #rath bg3 #zevlor

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