#YES i made two durges

[draconic-furr]

Delight and ascended Astarion (oh no!)

[qrovidcore]

so HEY UH

WAS ANYBODY GOING TO TELL ME THAT DURGE AND ASTARION REALLY DO HAVE THE SAME TRAUMA OR

WAS I JUST SUPPOSED TO FIND THESE PARALLELS OUT FOR MYSELF

OH OKAY YOU ALSO WERE TRAPPED AND HURT YOURSELF TRYING TO CLAW YOUR WAY OUT?????? YOU ALSO WERE THE SPECIAL LITTLE PET OF THE PERSON WHO TORTURED YOU, WHO IMMEDIATELY STARTS TALKING DOWN TO YOU THE SECOND YOU SEE THEM AGAIN?????? OKAY. YEAH. WE CAN COMPARE NOTES IF YOU’D LIKE.

[vertexline]

DURGE ZARIEL DURGE ZARIEL DURGE ZARIEL DURGE ZARIEL DURGE ZARIEL DURGE ZARIEL DURGE ZARIEL DURGE ZARIEL DURGE ZARIEL DURGE ZARIEL DURGE ZARIEL DURGE ZARIEL

[alistairssock]

Character study, info graphic, whatever you call it

[whatusername00]

Which Baldur's Gate Characters Know How To Lace Up Their Clothing - Camp Edition

I got this idea because I noticed Gortash's shirt isn't laced properly, and then noticed Astarion's shirt isn't laced properly, so now I need to look at as many characters as I can because I can't stop noticing. And I'm about to spend too much time on this for it to stay in my brain. Starting with all characters who appear at camp (main party + others.)

Shadowheart, Lae'zel, Gale, Withers, Aylin, Mizora, Duke Ravenguard, Emmaline, and Arnell don't have lacing on their camp outfits.

Starting with the default clothes for Tav. Yes, they know how to lace their shirt. Good job. This particular Tav is Durge, so it's good to know he didn't forget how when his brain got Swiss'd. However, it's not perfectly consistent because on the bottom 2 sets of eyelets he threads from the outside, but the third set he threads from the inside. Though this is probably intentional so the lacing doesn't hang on the inside of his shirt, so 9/10.

Astarion, baby boy, you were so close. But unfortunately there are two pairs of eyelets where he threads one side from the outside and one from the inside. For someone who wants to appear so put together, you think he could take the two extra braincells to lace his shirt consistently. 7/10.

Threaded consistently the whole way through...with one side. Why didn't you finish lacing your shirt? Why even lace one side if you weren't going to lace the other? Why isn't the lacing that you didn't finish shorter than the one that you did finish? All questions I can't answer because I cannot ask. 7/10 at least it's consistent.

I couldn't get a good in game screenshot of Karlach since her lacing is on her pants, but I found a texture rip so I can work with it. So the lacing here is the same all the way through, super consistent, *mwah*, but...it's sneakily unnecessarily complicated. Typically, the lacing that laces from the inside to outside would sit on top, but it's not that way on her pants. She pulls the lacing through the eyelet, then threads it under the other part of the cross, then threads it through the top of the next eyelet. And with as much lacing as her pants have, this must have taken forever for no extra benefit. It would have been easier to let it sit on top. 8/10 its pretty though.

Halsin. Beautiful. Gorgeous. I choose to believe the knots are hidden on the inside. No other notes. 10/10.

I've never actually recruited Minthara so I took a picture from the BG3 wiki. Just like Halsin, beautiful. Again, I choose to believe the ends are hidden on the inside. 10/10.

Jaheira's pants lace the same way Halsin's shirt does: perfectly. Though if the knot is hidden on the inside, I feel like that would be more uncomfortable, so I'm gonna headcannon that it ties at her waist under her shirt. Other than that, 10/10.

Minsc's shirt uses the same model as Wyll's so everything I said there applies here, though I feel like it makes more sense for Minsc. My real gripe here is that Minsc is a liar. Talking 'bout some thrice laced pants, but I didn't see any lacing on those pants. How dare he trick me in this way. 6/10 I don't like being lied to.

Yenna's mom may be dead, but she made sure her baby knew how to lace her shirt before she did. She may have gotten kidnapped by Orin, but she looked put together while doing it. Perfect 10/10. She deserves it after what she went through.

After being dead for 100 years, Isobel didn't forget how to lace her armor. Gotta be put together to see her girlfriend again. 10/10 Isobel can do no wrong.

Volo...I don't know what you've done to the front of your pants but it doesn't look good. Some of those crosses are missing. It looks sloppy. What is this. This is something I would do as a joke to see if anyone noticed. Well I noticed and I hate it. 2/10 it keeps your pants closed I guess.

That's it for the camp. I'll link other sets of characters below as I do them.

Tieflings

[orinfucker]

cravings

summary: your desperation to learn about your past has led you to the door of the one and only enver gortash, and he is more then happy to refresh your memory.

warnings: fem!reader, durge!reader, blood, slight manipulation (gortash), suggestive, making out, finger sucking, pet names, dom!gortash

note: small drabble of durge x gortash because i am sooo normal about them! might write a part two to this but i’m not sure yet.

you knew this was wrong; sneaking out of camp in the midst of the night to meet with a man you had no knowledge of. but, who could blame you? everything he said about your urges wasn’t wrong, only someone who experienced them first hand would have the information he possessed.

so here you are, blindly trudging your aching legs up the staircase towards enver gortash’s office. you had your doubts about the man obviously, the way karlach had described him made your blood boil with anger; how dare he hurt one of your companions so badly. you knew this was a carelessly bad decision, but you needed to know more about this ‘past life’ of yours, and gortash seemed to have answers you craved.

“second door on the right.” you whispered aloud, reminding yourself of the steel watcher’s directions to the lord’s office. once you reached the polished door of his quarters, your body froze for just a second. was this really your only option? could you live knowing nothing of who you truly were? with a shaky breath, you curled your hand into a fist and knocked onto the wood of the door.

“ah, come in please.” a heavy voice spoke, the sounds of paper rustling echoing filling your senses. you fiddled with handle before finally opening the entrance to reveal the man you’d sought out: lord enver gortash. his presence was overwhelming to say the least, he held himself with such confidence it made the depths of your body ache. “i’m shocked to see you here, my dear. have you had a change of heart since the last we spoke?” you swallowed nervously, trying to search for the words to say, but nothing came up.

“perhaps we should make ourselves comfortable, to speak plainly with one another, yes?” gortash spoke, his eyes seeming to pierce right into your mind. a simple nod was your response before descending into his office, taking a seat at one of the chairs placed in front of his desk. “i, well, wanted to speak with you about my past.” gortash glanced towards you, and then a smirk plastered itself onto his face. “of course dear, ask me anything you would like.” the sultry tone of his voice sent a jolt of arousal through your body, one that felt oddly familiar to you.

“you’ve told me of my urges, something that is deeply personal to me,” you took a breath before continuing, “but i want, no, i need to know more about us.” gortash’s face twisted into a more sinister one before an amused laugh exited his throat. “you’ve been thinking about me then, is that it?” he began, leaning back into his chair as his eyes bore into your own. you shifted in your seat before shyly nodding in response. “when i heard your voice, it held such a familiarity, yet i have no clue who you are.”

gortash stood in his chair, circling around towards you own before kneeling to match your height. “that’s because we were something much more than business partners, my dear.” your face flushed over with red, immediately understanding the intent behind his words. “that.. can’t be right. i would never sleep with the likes of you.” you spat out in denial, refusing to believe you’d stoop to that level. “yet here you are, sitting in my office, begging to know about us. it seems to me that you want to indulge in our old ways.”

one of gortash’s hands began to trail over your knee, slowly edging up towards the clothed flesh of your thigh. you peered down at him for a moment, a feeling of lust clouding over your mind as the ministrations of his hand continued. “your body craves my touch, it aches to be used by me again.” you so badly wanted to refuse him, to feel repulsed at the feeling of his touch upon you, but every part of yourself cried out towards him.

gortash observed the way your face contorted from one of disgust, to one of desire. you felt an insatiable hunger rise within you, and without thought you leaned down to capture his lips in a messy kiss. the man below you groaned at the feeling, his teeth brushing against the flesh of your mouth before biting into your bottom lip, letting pecks of blood slip through them. you felt his tongue lick away the metallic substance before finally pushing away, heavy sighs leaving the both of you.

“my love, how i’ve missed you.” gortash breathed out as he stood from his knees, letting one of his hands come down to caress the side of your cheek. his thumb brushed against the fat of your bottom lip, wiping away the blood that was left from your raunchy kiss. “open.” your body could no longer resist; it obeyed every word, every breath that left gortash’s mouth. the flesh of your lips parted as his calloused thumb entered the cavern of your mouth, pressing down on the slimy organ inside before reaching for the back of your throat.

“you always were a nasty little thing.” his words sent chills throughout your body, a gag leaving your throat as his finger sunk deeper into you. “good girl.” gortash slowly removed his finger from you, wiping the spit and saliva away on the sides of your face. you looked up at him with doe eyes, practically begging the man to do anything he wanted to you. gortash took your hand between his own, helping you raise to your feet before guiding your body to lean against the edge of his desk.

“now, we have lots of catching up to do, don’t we pet?”

[avocado-writing]

I loved your Pregnancy headcannons for the bg3 boys. I was wondering if you could maybe do more and possibly about weird Pregnancy Cravings. I'd think it be funny to have Tav (durge/vampire/or not) just suddenly have this strong craving to drink blood. Or maybe they came across something during their adventures that was just weird and now Tav craves that exact thing.

this made me think about weird pregnancy cravings for each of the bg3 men and how they’d react to you, so here we go. rated M. original

Wyll

You have normal cravings, thank the gods. Well, as “normal” as they can get.

Rich and bizarre foods. Filet mignon and sorbet, that sort of thing.

Maybe something a bit spicier if he’s been turned devilish by Mizora, but honestly nothing that counts as strange.

Wyll is a godsend. If you ever mention you have a craving then he goes and gets it for you, even if it’s late at night and you’re both tucked up in bed.

He watches you eat and gets you to give him a little food review! He listens and nods along; it’s playful and sweet.

Constantly whispering to your belly, “you have very odd taste little one… I hope you take more after me and have a normal palate…”

You laugh and shove him playfully, he is enamoured.

Astarion

It’s not exactly blood that you crave… but a raw steak looks super good right now.

He watches you eat rarer and rarer meat until it’s practically bloody off the bone. Pursed lips, looking at you from over the rim of his wineglass.

“Darling; are you sure that’s… normal?”

You gesture to him wildly with a fork. His eyes go wide, you don’t stop eating.

“You’re the one who fucked a dhampling into me, Astarion! I don’t know what’s normal! This is entirely new territory!”

He apologises and keeps the raw meat coming, taking very good care of you indeed. Even after you give birth, you never go back to anything above medium-rare.

Gale

When you’re pregnant with Gale’s baby, he comes home to find you with necklaces in your mouth. Magic ones.

At first it’s just the original talisman that you wore about your neck anyway, something with a charge of Cure Wounds in it, and you’d just end up with it on your tongue without thinking.

Soon it gets too much. You look at someone’s Boots of Brilliance and start salivating.

“This is your fault, Dekarios…” you mutter after he gently pulls a magic glove from your mouth like you’re a cat caught eating something it shouldn’t.

He apologises because, yes, clearly the netherese orb continues to have an effect.

Starts cooking for you more and channels the weave into the food he makes for you, so that you can satisfy your cravings without risking accidentally choking on clothing.

Mostly works… but still sees you eyeing his robes hungrily sometimes. Though actually you may just be checking out his arse.

Halsin

The need for honey has never been more compelling.

Oh, how you long for it. Directly from the source, thick comb to dance across your lips.

Halsin finds you with your hand in a beehive one day, a ward around yourself to stop any stings. He realises ah, he may have had more to do with your current state than just the act of conception…

Does his best to source you as much honey as he can and as safely as possible. You pour it onto him at night and lick it off, revelling in the taste of it just as much as the taste of him.

You long for salmon, too, if you can. He finds you trying to catch them in the river with your bare hands. It’s so sweet he can only stop and watch for a while before you roar - literally roar - for him to come and help you.

When the baby is born with little furry bear ears and a tail, the two of you think about that… wildshape night.

[cowboygenesis]

1/2 fatum invenit | gale x reader

part 1 of the "fatum" mini-series.

summary: you've loathed each other since the dawn of his first arrival. it never should've worked, but somehow, as you find yourself chest-to-chest within a sunken crypt with no way out, your feelings finally surface— and Gods, do they cut deep.

pairing: gale dekarios x sorceress!durge!reader tags: fluff, angst, tons of cursing, mutual pining, forced proximity, enemies/rivals to lovers. word count: 5.3k notes: whew, here we are at last. if you've read "knuckle up" you might find the ending a little similar but... what can i say, im a softie. also, the durge aspect of the reader is truly very minimal, i just added it for the sake of flavor, whatevah... oh, and reader is super cheeky and generally curses a lot, im case that's something that bothers you. i want this to be a two-parter eventually, so expect some smut in the future chapter. as always, let me know what you think! enjoy! masterlist.

You… you fucking knew it. The one time in your life you decide to give a wizard the benefit of the doubt he… he screws you the fuck over.

It was supposed to be an easy job: infiltrate Kereska’s chapel, retrieve the relic Raphael demanded, and slip away unnoticed. Hey, no big deal— you’ve handled worse without breaking a sweat.

Most of your companions weren’t so eager to take on the devil’s dirty work after a night of drinking, so, you figured you’d tackle it solo. No problem. After all, you’d just returned home to Baldur’s Gate. The evening was warm, the streets thrummed with energy, and after a night of revelry, you were in a damn good mood.

So when Gale, with his calm, holier-than-thou attitude, offered to “assist,” you’d thought sure, why the Hells not?

And what a mistake that would turn out to be for you. Just as your gut had warned you, things ended up going sideways. All because of him.

You both had made it past the wards, the traps, and even those fucked up, undead necromancers that you hated dealing with—no thanks to Gale’s constant commentary on your spellcasting techniques. It was always some remark about how your magic was “undisciplined,” how you were “too reckless to be at your best.” Fuck, like you hadn’t been doing this shit for years, now.

Warranted, you weren’t exactly the nicest person, either. Meals at your camp were a battlefield of their own, filled with biting comments and passive-aggressive stares, often over trivial matters that had nothing to do with magic.

Plus, combat was no different. It rarely took more than a few minutes before you and Gale were mired in a heated debate over the “best course of action for the situation”. Naturally, these debates only added to the tension, making every encounter feel like a personal clash as opposed to a friendly discussion over technique.

You two were polar opposites, discordant, incompatible.

But you were an idiot, then. A dumb, tender-hearted idiot in a great mood who had hoped you two could eventually get along if the stars aligned just right. But that’s all hindsight.

After all the hard work, you had almost had it— your hand was just within reach of that damned necklace, caution thrown to the wind, when Gale decided to get fancy. A small “adjustment” to the magical aura surrounding the relic, he’d explained— something about minimizing risk and stabilizing the flow of the Weave so you could extract it safely.

You discarded the idea, of course; “fuck your tricks,” you had said (your actual words), rolled your eyes at him, and said goodbye to the remnants of your good mood as he reprimanded you like a teacher would a novice— and that, naturally, you weren’t.

Unlike him, you didn’t need a stack of tomes to inspectthis kind of arcane energy. It felt powerful and intricate, yes— but beneath it all, it was just a trick of the eye. The glowing, golden-tinged sphere wasn’t malevolent whatsoever, and instead served as a cheap ploy to repel those tempted by the artifact.

So, knowing what you knew, you reached for the relic despite his suggestion.

But, just as you were to lay a finger on it, he… he cast his fucking “safety” spell. And everything went to hell.

The forcefield around the necklace reacted— wildly. The air rippled in waves, the ground shifting beneath you, and suddenly, you were trapped in some kind of collapsed chamber beneath the chapel— cut off from the rest of the world, with no way out.

Worst of all, you were in heartbreaking proximity. The dugout was deep, but narrow, allowing you maybe a centimeter of privacy before your chest collided with his. And Gods, did that happen often. Any movement you made, your bodies would collide in one way or another, be it feeling his thigh rub against yours, grazing fingers, or smacking his chin— the last one being a complete accident on your part, of course.

And yes, as two magic-wielders would, you tried your luck. As it turned out, the stone binding your bodies together seemed to have a sort of Weave-repellent property that rendered your only functional skills worthless.

So, here you were, stuck with your arch-rival, and with every passing second, your frustration grew. It must have been half an hour since the disaster struck when you finally felt your head pound with frustration.

“Gale,” you sigh for the millionth time, “Are you even listening?”

He’s been doing a great job ignoring your commentary by seemingly occupying himself with analyzing your surroundings. Smart, sure, if it wasn’t for the simple fact he refused to collaborate with you whatsoever. After your initial scream-off, he seemed reluctant to give you the time of day again.

He finally clears his throat to speak, and you shoot him a glare in the dim light.

"You just had to do your thing, didn’t you?" he sighs.

“And you just had to show off,” you retort through a bitter snark.

Gale glances at you with narrowed eyes, yet his expression remains infuriatingly contained. “I was trying to prevent a catastrophe. If I hadn’t intervened, the entire chapel may have collapsed.”

“Well, congratulations,” you snap, “It collapsed on us instead. I’m so glad we avoided a disaster, Gale.”

He exhales slowly, then gives you a haphazard eye-roll. “Perhaps if you hadn’t rushed things—”

“Rushed things?” Your chest flares, making it collide with his. “I didn’t touch a damned thing. You’re the one who decided the Weave needed tuning or whatever other bullshit.”

Gale’s eyes narrow, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “You think I did this on purpose? I made the right choice. But you—”

“Oh, so it’s my fault now?” You cut him off, “Honestly, fuck you, man. If you were half as concerned with doing a good job as you are with peacocking we wouldn’t even be here in the first place.”

He looks away, his jaw tightening. “Peacocking?”

“Yeah. Peacocking, showing off—Are you okay? I thought you were supposed to be the clever one.” You shrug in mock nonchalance, rolling your eyes as if the circumstances weren’t already driving you up the wall.

You feel Gale’s chest rise and fall with a steadying breath, the sort one might take when trying to stop themselves from saying something they’ll inevitably regret. When it came to containing his bubbling rage, he beat you to it every time.

His casual lilt, when it comes, makes your teeth grit. “Obviously.”

You groan loudly, letting the back of your head thud against the stone wall behind you. A tense silence falls between you, broken only by the steady rhythm of his breathing, a sound that seems to grow louder in the small space whenever conversation dies down.

“You would’ve been buried stone-cold dead under the rubble if I hadn’t cast that spell,” he mutters, and just like that, your patience snaps.

“I— I can’t believe you’re saying this to me,” Your words are sharp as daggers, eyes burning into his as you twist your body just enough to face him head-on. “The barrier was a ruse, Gale. A fake. I told you not to cast that damn spell—”

“And I suppose explanations are beneath someone of your obvious talents,” he snaps back, his words dripping with venom.

You glare at him, feeling your pulse quicken. “You’re a scholar— Gods, don’t you know this kind of illusory magic is Kereska’s whole thing?” you spit, watching his face aptly in hopes of catching a glimpse of something; remorse, sympathy, fuck, even just a bit of pity would satiate you.

But it never comes. His eyes bore into you with practiced reprimanding, and because he must see you on the precipice of breaking down, he continues to poke the metaphorical bear. “You should’ve waited.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the part where you became the authority on everything. In case you somehow overlooked it, I’ve been doing this for years without your lectures.”

“And look how well that’s worked out for you,” he retorts, his voice low, treacherous. There’s a mocking smile imbued on his face, and you quickly realize it makes you want to tackle him to the ground and claw it out yourself. If it wasn’t for the minimal space, you probably would’ve even attempted it. “This wasn’t some petty street magic. That relic was infused with layers of defense—complex protections you clearly didn’t even account for—”

“I knew what I was dealing with!” you hiss, pushing against the wall for leverage. You brush against his chest again, sending an electric jolt of tension through the confined space. “I didn’t need your over-calculated, pompous meddling. I had it under control until you—”

“Under control?” Gale’s voice rises, his frustration finally splintering through his quiet facade as he emits a burst of scornful laughter. “Do you even hear yourself? Your recklessness nearly got us killed!”

You scoff, pushing back even harder. “You’re so damn smug— acting like the world will end if you don’t micromanage every little detail, but guess what? You don’t always have the answer. And right now, we’re stuck— all because of your fucking arrogance.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but then closes it, jaw tight, eyes blazing as he holds your gaze. For a second, you think he’s about to let loose another lecture, but instead, there’s silence—a strange, electricity-charged stillness that envelops you like a cold breeze.

You can’t speak. It crackles between you with a strain, thick enough to feel suffocating. Every breath you take only draws you closer to him, and somehow, it almost feels like the walls enveloping you have only grown thicker throughout your argument.

The closeness, the heat, the sheer intensity of the argument—it’s all too much, and yet, neither of you looks away once your gazes inevitably connect.

The wizard licks his bottom lip languidly, lips smacking as he seems to be taking you all in. His eyes scan over you, and somehow the fact makes you feel vulnerable.

Finally, he breaks the peace.

“If I’m so arrogant, why did you let me join you?”

His eyes are dark, but not just with frustration; they’re searching, questioning, as though he’s daring you to give an honest answer, knowing it’s something you can’t afford yourself right now.

“You asked me to let you come,” you bark out, pushing his chest with the heel of your hand, the contact sending a spark of heat through your outstretched arm. “I didn’t want you here. I figured we’d get through this, grab the necklace, and go our separate ways again. But no—you wanted to come. Play the hero, do all the dirty work, whatever your reasoning was.”

Gale doesn’t flinch at your words, but his eyes narrow slightly— they flicker to the space your bodies connect at, then back to your tautened face.

His gaze lingers on where your hand presses against his chest, and for a fleeting moment, you think he might back down. But instead, his jaw clenches, and when his eyes snap back to yours, there’s a fire behind them that ignites something deep in your gut.

“And you agreed,” he counters mockingly, the smile adorning his face making your head spin. “Why?”

The question hangs between you for a beat. You falter, mouth opening and closing without a reply.

He’s right. He’s fucking correct, and you hate it.

Why did you agree? You could’ve said no, barked back at him, insulted his stupid wizard frock— pushed him away with one of the countless options you had at your disposal.

But you didn’t. You let him come with you, willingly.

You clench your fists, pushing against the surge of discomfort bubbling in your belly. “Well, forgive me for being an optimist,” you mutter, voice tight. “I thought, for once, that maybe— Fuck. Maybe we could get through one fucking mission without trying to jump at each others’ throats.”

He exhales at your explanation, tilting his head to glance through the top of the crevasse and toward the chapel ceiling. You follow suit, albeit subtly, noticing the intricate engravings lining the skylight; in the dim light of the afternoon sun, they look elegant, beautiful, even. How didn’t you notice that when you first walked in?

“And how’s that going for us?” he asks suddenly, the smile curling at the edges of his mouth turning bitter.

You huff, running a hand through your hair. The condensation sticks to your fingers, and you can’t help the joyless chuckle that escapes your lips when you look at him again.

“Well, I don’t know,” you sigh, shrugging your shoulders lazily. Your cynical laughter shifts into the shadow of a smile. Somehow, as he glances down at you, you find yourself with a pang in your chest that overshadows the frustration you’ve been drowning in— it’s deep, and resonant, and feels like it’s swallowing your heart whole when his dark eyes meet yours. “We still hate each other.”

The wizard exhales sharply through his nose, and strangely, you can’t seem to read his expression even as your eyes squint.

His gaze is fixed on yours with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken; you feel it best when his hot breath hits the sweat-slicked skin of your face as he leans in. It’s a slight, almost imperceptible gesture, yet just enough to make your breath hitch with… rage, aversion— or perhaps, most frighteningly, something else you’ve been pushing down for months since your first quarrel.

You’re forcefully dragged out of your stupor when the pad of his thumb grazes your palm— the touch sends a sharp, almost uncomfortable jolt of electricity down your spine, leaving you speechless as you chalk it up to an unfortunate accident. Nothing more, it couldn’t be.

“I don’t hate you,” he says, and though his tone is stiff, the words cut through your pause like a skilled blade.

It couldn’t be.

Your breath catches in your parched throat, heart pounding with a force that would surely reverberate through his body hadn’t his robe been so thick.

You can feel the heat radiating off him, each shallow breath you take only drawing you closer— or, at least, that’s exactly how it feels in the tiny space you’re being forced to share.

His thumb is still brushing your palm, slowly, gently, and deliberately enough that you cannot ascribe it to a simple accident anymore. For a second, your eyebrows arch and there’s this urge to pull away, something thrumming in your head and telling you to hold to principle.

But you don’t… you— you physically can’t. Not when he’s gazing down at you with… with patience. Understanding, maybe. But why?

A beat passes, then another. The tension coils so tight you almost want to scream to break it, and his gaze remains locked on yours, his palm grazing yours.

You swallow hard, trying to gather your scattered thoughts, but your voice betrays you when you finally manage to speak, trembling, barely above a whisper.

“You—” Your throat feels tight, words failing you as his face remains inches from yours. "You’re fucking with me. I… you hate me, Gale, I can’t—"

He glances down at you with a strange glint in his eyes, then exhales loudly again. Did you strike a nerve?

“Why do you always do this?” he questions with exasperation tugging at his tone. You feel his touch momentarily drop from yours, and in the heat of the moment, you find yourself missing it.

“What?” you blink, eyebrows furrowed.

“This,” He gestures between the two of you with a frustrated sigh. “You’re— you’re always picking fights with me. Always pushing, always assuming the worst—”

“I’m picking fights?” Your eyes narrow, the sneer coming back to your lips like armor. “You’ve been criticizing every godsdamn thing I’ve done since day one, making me feel inferior, questioning my skill— and now I’m the one picking fights?”

He shakes his head sharply, then sighs in frustration. When you look up, his eyes are locked on yours—deep brown with flecks of gold, catching the fractured sunlight streaming through the cracked skylight. You could drown in them, given the chance.

“No, that’s not— That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” He stops himself, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again. “You don’t— you just refuse to listen to me. When we fight, in camp— even now. The relic, that barrier, you— Gods, you always act instead of—”

“Don’t you dare paint me as the villain now,” you snap, bumping his chest with the pad of your palm again.

“You almost got us killed!” he bites back, “I don’t care for your talents if it means you don’t utilize them properly. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, raw talent doesn’t equal capability?”

Right.

Your lips purse, the pit in your stomach suddenly overpowering your ability to retort. It was a mistake— you should have known the niceties were a convenient gimmick to ascertain his position over you, and not an actual instance of humanity, for once.

But somehow, your false hopes only drive the wrath within you. You let the nausea overcome you and have it fuel your bitter tone as you finally find the power to speak up again.

“All you care about is being right— about having the last word against anyone who dares question your abilities,” you mutter, challenging his stern gaze with your own, “And the rest of us? We’re just supposed to sit by and watch, grateful to be in the presence of Gale Dekarios, the great, tragic wizard who thought his tricks could satiate a fucking Goddess!”

You’re fuming. The words that come out of your throat are only half-baked as you shrill at him, but… but at the moment, it feels right— warranted, somehow.

So when you catch him give you the space to continue, you take it.

“…But the truth is, you need to feel superior. You need everyone to see you as the sleekest in the room because deep down, you’re still clinging to the ghost of a woman who abandoned you. And that’s why you’ve been picking me apart since day one—because I’m not afraid to tell you how full of shit you are.”

Suddenly, you feel his hand catch your wrist, his grip firm as he holds you still. His thumb presses lightly against your pulse, sending a sharp, unwanted jolt of awareness through your body as your arm tries to jerk away.

“You don’t know the first godsdamn thing about me,” Gale growls, his breath fanning your face as the words spill out, thick with venom. “You’re so wrapped up in your own insolence, so blinded by your stubborn pride, that all you can see in others is a reflection of yourself. And trust me when I say that it’s an ugly one.”

You laugh, a bitter, angry sound, but your heart is hammering now. “Oh, so you think you’ve got me all figured out?”

His jaw clenches, but his grip doesn’t waver. “I know enough. I know that your actions speak louder than words. I know that you’re reckless, impulsive, and too damned proud to admit when you need help—”

Your heart pounds in your chest, the heat between you scorching as your breaths mingle. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite. You’re the one who’s blinded by your own self-importance— always thinking you’re the wisest, savviest person in the room, like the rest of us are just pawns in your little fucking game.”

Gale’s eyes flash with something wild and uninhibited, and you watch his sneer shift into a bitter smile again.

“You— You really think that?” he questions through a chuckle, voice gravelly and low. “Do you really think I’m just using you for some game?”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. You sneer at him, and the outrage bubbles out again.

“Oh, don’t make me laugh. You’ve only ever looked out for yourself. This was never about helping me—it was… it was about proving something. To me, to yourself, to fucking Mystra,” you trail.

The moment the words leave your lips, the air shifts between you like a storm about to unravel. His grip on your wrist tightens, not painfully, but with a deliberate firmness that forces you to stop and feel the tension between you. His face is suddenly too close, and for the most succinct moment, you catch something flickering in his eyes—something dim, and dark—but not the rage you were expecting.

He should be angry with you— Hells, he should be furious. You just tore into every insecurity you knew he had, ripped open wounds that never quite healed, and worst of all, dragged his old lover into it all.

And yet… his gaze isn’t burning with the fever you’ve grown used to seeing from him in every argument, every fight.

Why the fuck isn’t he furious?

“Gods, I actually— I used to admire you. You know that? Before all this, I thought you were someone I could… I don’t know, respect. You were this brilliant, woeful man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and I thought, ‘Maybe there’s something more underneath all that.’ I thought we could, I don’t know, actually be something—friends, allies, whatever the fuck. I wanted us to trust each other. But… but you…" your voice lowers to a near whisper, and somehow, unbeknownst to you, your eyes go glassy with hot tears.

You’re left reeling, heart hammering in your chest as your mind races along with your bitter confession. The air around you feels viscous, mucous-like, but when your throat goes dry with impending tears you look up to see something that makes your breath hitch.

He’s listening.

Not just waiting for his turn to speak as he usually does around you, not calculating his next clever retort, but listening— really, truly listening.

His gaze, once so sharp with ire, has softened. His dark eyes are fixed on yours with a vigor that nearly undoes you, and there’s no anger in them now, no resentment.

Your breath catches.

“You never gave me a chance, Gale. Not once. It was always about you, your guilt, your past, your Mystra— Fuck!” you cough out and rub your eyes with the pads of your palms, massaging your vulnerability away. “I tried. I really, really tried. But none of this seemed to reach you, not through that… that mental barrier you’ve created around yourself. I think that since the very beginning, everything else was just noise to you. I was just noise to you,” your voice dies down to a mutter, and you inhale sharply to fight the sorrow back into your grieving heart.

You withdraw your hands and finally feel brazen enough to face him.

You can feel the heat in your cheeks, aware that your nose is red from the tears you tried so hard to hold back, that your eyelids are probably puffy and swollen, and you’re a fucking mess.

But it doesn’t matter now. You’ve come undone, and now, nothing mattered to you anymore; not the anger, not the sorrow, and especially not the way his kind, gentle touch seemed to soothe your aching heart when his palm met yours.

You scan his face, but there’s nothing— or at least, you can’t seem to read it through the coating of tears obscuring your eyes. The light above has shifted to cast his face in a warm, velvety light. You catch the subtle lines etched into his forehead, the faint silver threads streaking through his hair, and his lips curling into… a smile.

Despite your desperation, despite your pain, he was smiling.

Your chest tightens, fists clenching at your sides, and before you can stop them, a stream of hot tears finally spills down your cheeks.

This was it. You braced for impact.

“…So do whatever the fuck you need to fill that void in your heart, but don’t involve me in any of it. And— for fuck’s sake, Gale, don’t act like you give a shit about me because you—”

But you never get to finish.

Before you can witness the gentle glint in his eyes as he leans into you, before you can even register it, his lips crash onto yours.

Your gasp is muted against the softness of his mouth. When he moves, it’s not gentle, not soft, but raw in its intensity and so, so desperate.

His grip on your wrist tightens briefly before finally releasing, his free hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck. The warmth of his hand is a pleasant change to the cold, hard stone you’ve been leaning against, and suddenly, just as your mind threatens to flood you with dopamine, it all dawns on you.

You’ve been here before—no, not here, but in moments that feel eerily alike.

You recall the edge in his voice during arguments, the way he’d insist on ‘rectifying’ you at every turn, the blunt critiques you assumed were borne from pure vanity. But now… now there’s a clarity to it all. Worry. Fear. A softness, a hesitation. Like when he would offer his hand to you after a fight, his fingers lingering just a moment too long as they brushed over yours.

You loathed him… Hells, you detested him.

But how deep were you willing to draw the line between hate and devotion?

Against all your instincts, against the sharp, burning ache in your chest—you drink him in. His warmth, his touch, the power behind it all.

You know you should push him away, shove him off, scream, but instead, you find yourself frozen— trapped in the certainty of this moment. And despite every ounce of fury burning inside you, you can’t deny the spark it ignites in your indigent heart as he caresses you so tenderly.

And with that, you seal your fate with his.

Your lips press against his, head tilting until you feel you’re melting into him. He groans softly against your mouth, and the sound makes your chest thrum with a melody you’re afraid to place.

Your hands, trembling, inch towards his chest, but this time they aren’t formed into spiteful fists or an accusatory point— your palms lay lax against him, resting at the junction of his ribs and pushing, pushing… just in hopes of catching the steady thrum of his heart against your fingertips. The anger, the pain, the confusion—it’s all still there, but in this moment, none of it matters.

Just him. Just this.

For all the times you’ve misread him, all the moments you thought his criticisms were barbs, meant to wound—now you wonder. You had mistaken his care for contempt, his frustration for hatred. But now, as his lips part slightly against yours, the world narrows down to just the two of you. No damned relic, no mission, no war; only the benign sensation of his hand cradling the back of your neck, the warmth of his mouth on yours, and the undeniable truth of it all:

You’ve never hated him. Not once in your rotten life.

And when his tongue swipes against your bottom lip, you want to come undone. You’re tired, hot, melting into this fiery, passionate kiss that has slowly turned languid and gentle.

So despite the zeal enveloping your body, you’re finally forced to part.

When your eyes open, you find him already watching you. A shiver runs down your spine as you drink him in; tousled hair, half-lidded eyes, and the ghost of a smile on his plush lips as the both of you pant in tandem with each other.

He looks wrecked. But then again, you’re certain you do too.

Your face feels flushed, still burning with aftershock and when you bite your bottom lip, you find it swollen. Raw. The taste of him lingers there too, sweet like bourbon and sharp like anise.

You stare at each other. It’s like you’re seeing him for the first time again, really seeing him, and it softens your heart as much as it terrifies your lust-addled mind.

The silence stretches between you, so thick you can feel it pressing against your skin. It pulls taut with every second, coiling tighter, and you can’t stand how fragile it makes your heart feel.

You swallow hard, trying to gather your scattered thoughts, but your voice betrays you when you finally manage to speak, trembling, barely above a whisper. “You—” Your throat feels tight, words failing you as his face remains inches from yours.

"Yeah?" His voice is husky— you’ve never found that aspect of it attractive until now.

You open your mouth, but the words—whatever they are—die in your throat. Instead, all you can do is look at him and fall deeper into his embrace.

There are questions that swirl in the back of your mind, ones you know you should ask, but they slip away the moment his thumb brushes your cheek again. Why did he kiss you? Why did you let him? And why, despite the chaos and pain that’s passed through your mind, did this—he—feel like the only thing that has made sense since you forgot all else?

“I never hated you,” he murmurs and shifts slightly, lifting his hand to cup your cheek. You nuzzle into his touch.

“I didn’t want to hate you,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I thought it’s what we were meant to be. Enemies.”

“We aren’t,” The corner of his mouth twitches. “We never were.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, and just like that, the fragile walls around your heart crumble. Gale Dekarios, the man you had sworn to hate, has somehow intertwined himself into your very existence in a way you suddenly think might last centuries.

—

As it turns out, the solution to your predicament was surprisingly, nearly embarrassingly straightforward. The anti-magic barrier encircling the sunken crypt could be dispelled by reciting the incantation inscribed on the rock walls— and with Gale’s surprising proficiency in Draconic, it proved quite an easy feat.

After that, it was just a matter of a few rudimentary spells. Naturally, the task took longer than anticipated, thanks to the lingering, newfound tension between you and the wizard— fleeting glances, soft touches, and even an occasional, stolen kiss as you recited your magic; things you surprisingly found yourself quite fond of.

As you step out into the cool evening air, you inhale deeply, savoring the crisp, refreshing breeze. The sunset paints the world in a warm, golden hue, casting long, soft shadows across the cobbled streets as you pass by groups of chattering townsfolk.

“I’ve been thinking,” you hear your companion muse through a playful smile. “After all of this, do you think we could avoid arguments for a little while?”

You meet his gaze with a puckish eye roll, a smile tugging at your still-swollen lips. The warm glow of the streetlights casts his face in a soft, intimate glow, and your smile widens into a grin when you catch his lips bearing that same sign of your carnal affection.

“It depends,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug, pushing against him playfully.

“Mhm, and on what exactly?” he hums, his hand squeezing tighter around yours. When his thumb caresses your palm, you feel your heart thrum with something you can’t quite describe.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you reply, glancing up at him with a grin. He returns it within a beat, and now it’s your turn to knit your fingers tighter. “How much longer are you planning on nagging me?”

He chuckles from the belly, and the coil in your chest that you’ve long expected to be spite emerges as something much larger, softer, and most unexpected. You fear to name it out loud.

You smile when your gaze meets his, the warmth in his eyes mirrored by the softness of your own. He leans in, and the world narrows to the touch of his lips against yours—a brief, gentle kiss that seems to linger in the evening light. In that fleeting moment, all the doubts and anxieties are swept away with his voice calling your name.

“For as long as I live,” he retorts softly, his voice laced with tenderness as the air between you, once again, fills with his laughter.

[milton-chamberlain]

SPOILERS!!!

Another reason why I love the romance of Astarion and Durge most of all is the ambiguity and, in a sense, the danger of their union. Yes, the characters can positively influence each other, but in a situation where Durge accepts his father’s legacy, Astarion will be a victim in any case. Even if Astarion performed a ritual and made Durge the spawn of a vampire, this does not change anything. He simply exchanges one tormentor for another, no less sick and sophisticated. By the way, this is a good example of the fact that Astarion is mistaken, believing that new forces and power are equivalent to security and freedom.

I do not know why, but in general it seems to me that this development of events is terribly beautiful and sad at the same time, I love it.

Now I'm in the process of passing the game for a good ending for these two, but I think I'll pass the second one for the evil Durge and Astarion, it's too interesting to look at it!

[truly-sincerely]

IS GORTASH ENTHRALLED?

(tl;dr: yes)

In this essay I will…

Okay, but seriously I did write an essay.

I got here after chasing a very different rabbit down its hole. I'd noticed that Gortash seems to have been throwing out a lot of his stuff (read: mostly employees).

Waldemar Prinski, a loyal banite, sold to a devil for a corn chip

Dark Breaker Antiope, sahuagin wrangler, A Negotiation

The Steel Watch Foundry, Orders to Black Gauntlet Rives

Scribe Yanthus, my beloved, sent on a wild bhaal chase

Vance Farnol, journalist, tho you could argue he had it coming

Goblin Worg handler at Flymm Cargo, plus the Worgs when they run out of Goblin to eat

And, of course, everyone at his Coronation

Was killing all of the patriars and their staff a grim necessity, Enver? Was it?

(Also, he's installed a giant portrait of Bane and a bust of Bane in the penthouse, but he doesn't have a single picture of himself, or any mirrors, for that matter. Food for thought.)

My initial diagnosis was macabre, but obviously I’ve moved away from that line of thinking. He's just way too happy to brag about how much danger he's put himself, us, and the entire world in. It freaked me out the first time I met him (as a Tav). Like I see him glancing at the ground and smiling coyly while saying, "If we're lucky, we'll become slaves," on the back of my eyelids when I go to bed at night.

For the love of all that is holy, could you please turn it down a notch?

I've been obsessed with The Ultimate State since I first read it. It's absolutely absurd nonsense. The item description says it's, "the philosophical ramblings of Enver Gortash." and I feel like it's worth noting that he doesn't write his own propaganda; he has the banites do it for him. But I mean, it really does read like he's twisting himself in knots to connect "unity" and "progress" together, but babe, those jigsaw pieces do not go together like that. Anyway, while thinking about this subject it dawned on me:

They're the same picture.

You know what other line of thinking these two have in common?

They both look so sad when they say this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I abandoned you.

I know we all love to joke about Durge or Gortash feeding the Brain the "Handsome, Younger Man" line, but what if that was just a smokescreen and it's been the other way around this whole time?

Netherbrain: You think you know why you are here. You think you can atone for giving me my power, child of Bhaal, by destroying me with the Netherstones. You are wrong. The Emperor: It’s messing with your mind. Don’t listen to it. Use the stones. Netherbrain: By eliminating Ketheric and Orin, you have simply unbound me. Exactly as I intended. The Crown is now mine to command - mine alone. The Emperor: Don’t listen to it! Focus on the Crown! Netherbrain: You placed the Crown upon me in the depths of Moonrise Towers, and there I was born. The Crown is not my weakness - it is what made me what I am. Gortash: You are delusional - the Crown is how we controlled you! Netherbrain: I respected Bhaal’s child once, but not you, Gortash. I allowed you to control me as long as it suited my purposes. You have played your part. The next order to be given is mine and it is this - die. Gortash: (crumples like a piece of parchment) Netherbrain: When the parasite entered your ruined mind - you became a pawn in my design. Who do you think told the Chosen about the Astral Prism? Who do you think planted the knowledge of Orpheus’ power, and the fear of what it could do? When the Chosen sent my thralls to retrieve the Prism - who do you think let the ‘Emperor’ slip its leash, knowing it would be the one to bring you to me? The Emperor: We were part of its plan… Netherbrain: I only needed one Netherstone loosened from the Chosen’s grasp to guarantee my freedom. You brought all three back to me. In doing so, you have liberated me. This was your role - and it is complete. Now you will witness the Grand Design.

The face of a man who has 20 INT and 16 WIS and is definitely not the brainwashed pawn of a giant brain that's been manipulating him in his sleep.

You think his puny +7 WIS save is gonna beat the Netherbrain when it's been working on his ass every time he goes to sleep for the last nine months? I say thee nay.

Also, and this is probably oversharing, but my dad, who I used to think of as a really smart guy is now a huge Trump supporter. He's an atheist but he'll parrot conservative christian talking points that I've seen clipped from Nazi talking heads. The words that come out of his mouth and the way he smiles when he says completely insane things is haunting.

What all of this means at the end of the day isn't much in the grand scheme of things, but it's kind of sad, and it definitely says something about his characterization. This man is floundering in a soup of his own making. A tragic puppet. A poor little meow meow.

There's an interesting line of demarcation between the various writings that he dictated to Scribe Yanthus, the things he wrote himself, and the things he says to us in the game.

Elder Brain Domination (from Ketheric, but about Gortash)

Suspended Ceremorphosis

The Grand Design

Studies of the Elder Brains

Accelerated Grand Design

Memoir Notes With Recent Addenda

Journal of Enver Gortash

He's so much more motivated and insightful early on, epitomized in Ketheric's entry, "Gortash fears that, energised by the dark energies of the Crown, the brain we now call the Absolute will eventually metamorphose into something new and more difficult to control." And he was right! But that guy's nowhere to be found by the time we meet him.

This one makes me particularly sad, "No weakness but the unexpected. It seems I shall need unexpected allies," because, again, he's right, and we could've saved him if the game had given us the opportunity to say, "No, there is another way. Let's not walk into this obvious trap." He wrote us a roadmap; left a trail of breadcrumbs; and we weren't given the option to follow them.

But I guess that's what fixfics are for.

THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TAVtalk!

[pupmkincake2000]

So, I played Baldur's Gate 3 four times (as Gale rpmancing Astarion, as Astarion romancing Gale, as Durge romancing Halsin, as Durge romancing Gale) and here are the conclusions I came to:

Gale is soooo main character/leader coded. I enjoyed playing as Durge, but playing as Gale and watching him through all 4 playthroughs I realized he is better for this role than anyone else. He's smart, intelligent, kind, he has seen some shit in his life, and won't die on the first day after the nautiloid's crash. Yes, physically he may be weaker than many other characters, but with the amount of knowledge and magic power he is capable of a lot things, and he is also sweet and helps those in need (I consider canon the route when the hero does a lot of good things, including saving the Grove, saving prisoners in Moonrise Towers, etc. ) and is ready to give up god powers for the one he loves. He would be a great leader. You may disagree, but I think hes perfect as a main character.

Despite my dislike of Astarion as a character (and my sudden love for Durge x Gale ship), I think Gale's romance with him is the best and most... uncliched? And I just love it so much! It is precisely because they are two halves of the same coin, they have a lot in common and are able to make each other better. Considering that Astarion's best ending is the one in which he, remaining a vampire spawn, becomes either a traveler or happily married to Gale. Just imagine: Astarion will finally have a loving family, a home, a loving husband (and I’m not even surprised that Gale is the only one who proposes marriage to his lover), he will have a happy, well-fed life, he can choose a profession he enjoys or he can travel with Gale when Gale, as a professor, gets his vacation. After all, every Academy has summer holidays, and Gale himself says that sometimes he misses adventure. And I wouldn't mind reading a story about them travelling the world together again.

Ascended Astarion is the worst version of Astarion, no matter what anyone says (I decided to ascend him in my last playthough and oh gods he's so disgusting!). He doesn't love his consort, I will never believe he does, not to mention his consort is nothing but a pet to him. He is also even more narcissistic and manipulative and is just another Cazador, just a bit worse. This is exactly the impression I got. Plus, he is an evil that needs to be eradicated.

I really enjoyed playing as Durge. Moreover, I really like his redemption. This is that very case when redemption actually works and the character can actually start their life anew. But to be honest, I missed Gale's reaction to Durge's revival after Bhaal drained him of all his blood and after Jergal brought him back to life. But probably any romantic character has no reaction to this.

Wild Magic. The best magic ever.

Karlach and Wyll are made for each other. In my first two playthroughs, Karlach either died or became an illithid, but then I managed to send her with Wyll to Averno. The way he asks her to go with him so that she won’t be lonely, the way he later talks at a party about their joint adventures, the way Karlach says that if it weren’t for Wyll, she would never have returned there... all these moments are the best. It's even more than enemies to lovers, it's a full-fledged healthy relationship built on friendship, trust, support… it's amazing. Just think about it: Wyll did this for her sake, he literally agreed to go with her to hell, where the conditions of survival for a human being are very difficult, just so that she would not be lonely and so that she would not die. I want to believe that they will still be able to repair Karlach’s heart and return to Faerun together.

[daemon-in-my-head]

Past Life Dark Urge Asks - 9th Edition:

OK but how does Durge actually view relationships and romance?

What does their room look like? Describe it to me. Neat? Messy? Organised mess where everything has its place?

What's their favourite spot to hang out at after a long day of temple managing and murdering in Father's name? Is it by the altar, their desk, a certain someone's office or by the docks?

Gorion's Ward was a hero and a Bhaalspawn that defied Bhaal. But they're also a powerful person who rose far above many, as well as the reason Sarevok once returned. What does Durge think of them? Is he an idol or a villain to them? When did their view of them change or do they perhaps even feel pity for the sibling which had been led astray?

Durge loves efficient killing, but what was their one little indulgence whenever they did it? I don't mean getting loot, keeping trinkets. Did they perhaps draw out the hunt or play with the mouse unfortunate enough to fall into their trap?

There's this funny bit that Durge refused to clean themselves, but is it true for yours? Did they indeed always carry the scent of entrails or did they bathe regularly? After all, Bhaals Scion has a reputation to uphold.

Speaking of Water, Baldur's Gate is a Port City. What did Durge think of the sea? Did they long to sail or do they prefer solid ground beneath their feet? Did they feel any connection, or was it just a body of water, perfect to drown some innocent souls?

Durge is clearly a skilled master of their craft, but would they ever consider taking an apprentice? Perhaps they already did? Or would they absolutely detest those who yet lack skill and prefer they attain it on their own?

Orin makes for a great spy and even the Bhaalist Temple relies on intelligence to survive and operate more efficiently. Did Durge ever try to help out Orin in attempts to gather intel? What was it like? Did they charm their way into hearts and minds, or did they rely on the thing they did best, a skillful killing?

Bhaalspawn are pretty similar to Aasimar in every aspect, well except that Aasimar are children of celestials and good aligned powers while Bhaalspawn hail from the Lord of Murder. What did Durge think of their goody-two-shoes counterparts?

Bhaal is widely hated or feared, as are Bhaalspawn, but what does Durge think about that notion? Would they hunt down anyone who dares speak I'll of their father, or could they not care any less? Do they perhaps revel in that fear and hatred?

If Durge knew they'd lose all their memories in the future, what would they think? Would they weep for their treasured moments or perhaps even feel delighted about forgetting a dreaded past?

Name a personality trait of theirs which is, in theory, something great, but they've taken it to such extremes it became something negative.

How is Durge handling failure? Do they handle it at all or do they just refuse to acknowledge any?

Would Past Life Durge like for their life's story to be told and remembered? Why or why not? In what way would they have liked it to be remembered?

In general, how does your Durge cope with stress, life, and the things that happened? How did it affect them? Are there any lasting effects from an outburst once?

On a scale of 1 to 10, how easily does your Durge snap? 1 being the world could end, and they'd barely be mildly inconvenienced, and 10 being somebody looks funny in their direction, and the next minute, they're in a nasty brawl.

What is their favorite spell? It doesn't have to be one they themselves know or learned. Just a spell they think is neat, handy, cool, etc.

If there happened to be a street fair in the Gate, would they attend? Yes or no, who would they go with, what would it be like visiting one of those with them?

Bhaal was a netherese arcanist. Does Durge, considering they're made from Bhaals flesh, consider themselves to be netherese? Have they ever thought about these things or do they simply not care?

I totally forgot I had these I'm sorry lmao. They've been rotting away in my drafts the whole time.

[animentality]

you know what hurts worse than gortash admiring durge so much only for durge to forget him? the fact that it was mutual. durge admits in the prayer for forgiveness note that they admire gortash but in that note they were trying to reassure bhaal they would stick to the plan and kill him and then themselves, but what if.. they were lying? what if their devotion to total slaughter was shaken, and they had started thinking about a life with gortash?

the chosen of bhaal is supposed to devote their entire being to bhaal’s will and then die happily upon his altar, but durge found gortash, and found an equal. someone to lie for. someone to live for.

but of course that change in their behavior, that life changing admiration that neither of them could hide or deny, would be durge’s fall from grace. orin noticed. how could she not? they were hardly subtle. and finally she had an opening, a nick in the armor she could use to usurp her sibling. they had a weakness in the shape of enver gortash.

Listen anon, the idea that the Dark Urge might've had misgivings about their role as the Chosen of Bhaal and the Scion of Bhaal HAUNTS me.

This is why durgetash appeals to me so much.

It humanizes the Dark Urge SO MUCH. It makes them a real fucking person and not just some edgelord murder hobo. It gives them fucking depth.

The idea that Orin was only able to kill them because she used their affection for Gortash against them? Fucking brilliant. It was their loyalty to Gortash that made her resentful, and it was that same loyalty that would be their downfall.

The notion that perhaps they actually LET her kill them because they knew Gortash could handle her, in the way he could never handle killing them? Also fucking brilliant. They died to save him...only to come back, and deliver the killing blow themselves.

It's fucking Shakespearan, anon!!!

The dramatic irony is so fucking brilliant that I could froth about it for days!!!

URGH.

They'll never confirm these things though. And that's fine.

I'm smarter than everyone. I know what's good.

And THAT's good.

DURGETASH. But OUR durgetash, not theirs. The durgetash we hold in our bleeding palms.

And yes.

The dramatic irony of...we didn't know two vicious creatures could find something so soft within us. We weren't made for it. We didn't know what to do with it, so we tore it apart with our teeth. And then we didn't even get to mourn the loss together.

Only one remembers. The other isn't aware that they've lost something.

And that is more heart breaking than simply losing a beautiful thing.

[fourraccoonsinacoat]

How the Dark Urge playthrough adds depth to the Astarion romance.

Hello, Tumblr! Welcome to my midnight dissertation on how the Durge romance scene adds a whole beautiful layer to the Astarion romance, because I can't stop thinking nonsense about a fictional character in a video game. Join me.

Also, spoilers ahead for the Dark Urge playthrough...obviously.

So, the Durge romance scene starts with your necrofabulous demon butler, Fel, showing up and saying some shit about your romanced companion.

I should also mention the timeline here, cause that's important. In my Durge playthrough, this scene triggered in the Mountain Pass. So we'd saved the Grove, went wilding in the Underdark, almost got roasted and toasted in Grymforge, couldn't fucking figure out how to get out of the Underdark (thanks for nothing, Halsin), so we go back up top and take the Mountain Pass. We then proceeded to completely miss the creche, stumble into Last Light Inn via being jumped by the Harpers, and save Isobel. (At this point in my playthrough, I knew I'd messed up because we hadn't found the creche, so I backtracked to the Mountain Pass.)

We had barely scratched the surface of the Shadowlands.

So, Fel is there talking shit. And if you're romancing Astarion he says: He is so afraid. So, so afraid. Of everyone, besides you, who he ought to fear most.

This shows that Astarion is already starting to feel ~feelings~ for your Durge, to his great discontent. You're something different, dare he even think it...special. Ew.

Again, this is before the majority of Shadowlands, before all the Thorm drama, way before Moonrise (at least in my playthrough) and That Bitch Araj.

Durge tells Fel to fuck off, and Fel says some more shit and Durge gets a dialog option that says: We are indomitable together. You underestimate us.

And I love that line because it shows Durge thinks of Astarion as an equal. Not something to fix, despite how broken the both of them are. But equal, and stronger because of it (insert some nonsense about two broken things being stronger together as one. It'll break your heart.)

Then, Fel responds to that dialog option with: You are wrong to consider another your equal. So, here is this child of a literal god - Bhaal - considering Astarion an equal. Yes, Durge doesn't know that yet, but I love the headcannon of the litteral child of a murder god looking at Astarion and going, yep I like you, let's go be chaotic and tragic together and maybe help eachother heal in the process.

So, Fel fucks off.

Durge wakes Astarion up and recounts what just happened and Astarion is Astarion about it, but then the Urge takes over and your Durge looses control. You wake up and are tied up by Astarion (but not like that) and he is obviously taking the situation more seriously after presumably seeing you pass out and lose it. Your Durge can pass a saving throw to resist the Urge and express that you understand what he's saying "Whatever this is. It won't win."

His response if you make the save is: "Easy now, darling. You've got this. And I've got you."

And don't tell me this dude doesn't care about Durge at this point, way before he admits it out loud once you get to Moonrise/speak with That Bitch Araj.

So, you get through the night and Astarion cuts you free once you're back in control and admonishes the Durge a bit and says they need to talk.

Astarion tells the Durge that they're not alone in this struggle and that he's there for them. He says "that's not who we are" when referring to the things they both did while under the control of an abusive authority figure. He says "we make our own choices, and you made the right one last night."

I love this whole scene because it really establishes the dynamic between Astarion and the Durge as a supportive one. A lot of Astarion’s romance involves the MC being in the role of the person providing support and reassurance, and I love that about the romance. I love that this masculine character is shown being vulnerable and that a part of his arc involves coming to terms with needing support (as a trauma survivor, myself, who had and still has a lot of toxic independence issues to deal with, I feel you.) But in this scene, we see a completely flipped dynamic that I think really adds a depth to the romance that can go missed if you don't do the Dark Urge playthrough.

Durge is the one in need of support and reassurance here, and Astarion provides it confidently and sincerely. He tells your Durge that they'll get through this, and that he will be there to "make sure" they do.

It's so ride or die, and I love it.

I could go on about all my headcannons in regards to how the Astarion and Durge romance progresses, but this nonsense has really gone on long enough. Apologies for the mindrot, I just adore well written characters.

My point is, go do a Dark Urge playthrough and romance Astarion!

[ode-to-fury]

See the thing is I think a fundemental thing about Gale Dekarios is that if he didn’t have a love interest to talk him down he would claim the crown every time. Because I don’t think he would even stop to think about whether it’s a good idea or not, just like he didn’t stop to think about the orb the forst time. Did he learn his lesson that time? Sort of. He’s going to be super careful about rebuilding the crown. No mistakes! No research undone! He learned his lesson in the sense that now he thinks he was being too hasty and not thinking it through with all the facts… but he has all the facts now. And Karsus’ own book! I think that’s such a fundemental part of his character. Also, he’s impulsive! He does and says things without thinking all the time! Like yes he does it in a charming way and the way Tim plays him leads you to believe he’s jokingly doing it but I’m not so sure. His impulsivity, despite what Larian try and make you believe in scenes like the Blood of Lathander, has only marginally improved from when he discovered the orb. In fact, he’s been locked in a tower for a year, if anything that made it worse now that there’s so much to see and do again.

“But his friends!” I hear you say. Well, disembodied voice that represents my imaginary audience, to that I say- he had friends before. Supposedly. And I have this feeling that he’d think no matter how good of a friendship he has with someone, they’ll leave at the drop of a hat if he does anything wrong ever. Maybe- MAYBE- one of the others could convince him not to do it (I’m thinking Wyll probably) but idk how much sway that would hold with him given his past with people like Elminster and I assume his other colleagues. And another very prominent characteristic of his is that he is very romantically motivated. Even one of his wishes if you talk to that mirror is some shit about a tower being a refuge for him and his sweetheart or whatever (I love this sap of a man). I think more than a lot of the others, he is really looking for a deep connection, a deep companionship, and in the absence of something like that I think he’ll settle for the best revenge against Mystra he can conceive of which is wresting her magic from her or becoming better than her. (Granted it doesnt exactly work out that way but that is the groundwork of his plan)

So I think, in conclusion, if there are a hundred alternate universes Gale would pursue the crown of karsus in 98 of them. The two other possibilities being he has a romantic partner that does not share his ambitions or think they will harm him and thus talks him out of it, or he does for some reason listen to a voice of reason which he has come to trust as much as his own (the only companion I can concieve of this as being is Wyll or an unromanced Tav/Durge)

[coriphallus]

A little rant on patch 6 and the implications for bg3's future

Okay, bear with me for a sec its gonna go somewhere eventually. My first bg3 run (thats spammed here on this blog) i played ascended astarion/dark urge romance where i picked the reject bhaal and become the absolute ending.

as it was my first playthrough on release i was vibrating off mt seat and i didnt really have elaborate HCs or anything, i was just doing a quick evil run until the bugs get sorted out. i didn't think much beyond "yes this dude would want the shiny stones for himself"

first time i saw astarion enthralled, i was confused. he asked me to do it, he was quite insistent on it since the beginning of the game. i was confused for a couple of hours, digesting the entire game i just played. Then it hit me; the game was calling me out. it was telling me ive been stupid for not having seen this coming and at that point i felt awe.

it was right, everything pointed to this, it was right in front of my eyes all i needed was to connect the dots that the game laid out quite visibly and i was just too caught up to see.

'well my durge would never do that' didnt matter because thats exactly what the companions thought. Gale thought the powers of an insatiable weave wouldnt corrupt him, that he'd stay true to himself, shadowheart thought shar had blessed and her she'd guide her, that she could be her true self under her influence, astarion thought he'd be free, that he'd cherish the bond he'd made with the player but at the end of the day power reveals; and when that power is acquired through the corpses of thousands its quite evident that Absolute power corrupts absolutely. IT WAS IN THE FKIN NAME.

it was a shining bait i was so focused on getting my hands on that i didn't look back to see the mountain of corpses i had to step on to get there. the game was telling me 'HEY LOOK AT EVERYTHING YOU'VE DONE TO GET HERE, LOOK AT WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL THE OTHERS WHO THOUGHT THEY COULD ACHIEVE THIS, DO YOU THINK YOU'D HOLD HANDS AND SING KUMBAYA WITH YOUR FRIENDS AFTER ALL THIS?'

just as there was never an option where frodo could stab saurons flaming eyeball and sit on his throne with the ring on his finger and sam at his side, there was never an ending i could get my 'happy ending' the way id like it to. i wanted frodo to remain in middle earth and have some peace in the end, i didnt understand how he was 'too changed' to remain and sam wasnt when i first read the books. i was angry even, that i didnt get what i wanted. it wasnt like tolkien haphazardly put together an ending out of his ass bcs he didnt know what to do with the characters, its not that he didn't think while writing that the fans would hate it, he wrote a story that achieved its catharsis by reaching its narrative conclusion. it couldnt have done that any other way. it was deliberate. i may not have understood or agreed at the time but it was the story he wanted to tell, and it wouldnt be one of the greatest stories ever told if the writer wanted to please a 10 y/o like myself.

it was never out of character for my durge at all, i was just blissfully avoiding the NARRATIVE.

months later we get this absolute narrative abomination:

and all i can say is im worried.

im worried bcs this is a clear disrespect to the story they've written, im worried bcs if they can do off with huge plot elements and beats such as this just like that it shows a lack of commitment to their own plot and if a huge Point of the game can be treated like a minor mistake than what else can? was is just a lack of oversight that laezel gets killed under vlaakith? can it be waved off if enough vlaakith loving gith players come together and shout loud enough that they want to ride alongside their queen with their gith gf?

what part of the game is tangible to hold on to, and after two years worth of patches that are made to appease the fans at the expense of the story, will it still be the game i fell in love with?

i dont blame the fans for wanting, i blame the devs for delivering. that they could sacrifice the integrity of a pretty straightforward story bodes ill tidings for the future of this game.

yes i wanted this feature, but i was glad i wasn't given it. i may have been confused and slightly miffed that i didn't get to reign supreme with my evil bf, but i immensely respected the game that could call me out on it. i wish they could show the same respect to their own writing.