#beregosts

[lordsrot]

He had been not but a lingering figure in the absence of light. Letting the shadows shallow his form whole. Silently he had watched the far smaller woman sneak about the makeshift camp he had put together. A handful of supplies had fallen captive to her sticky figures. It's only when she reaches for something of greater value, wrapped tight in a dark cloth, does he shatter his silence.

"You may one day lose the hands you thieve so confidently with." He speaks from the darkness, yet does not relive himself. "By those swift enough to catch you, or the souvenir which you pocket."

@beregosts

[dreadgrace-a]

❛ i’ve had a clever thought. if your mind is absent of one, you should perhaps follow mine. ❜ | @beregosts

❛ And? Will you share this thought of yours, or must I stand here guessing until our bones are dust? ❜ if Arlis seeks to wound, she'd be better off seeking a target her daggers will not shatter against. Neither the blade nor the hand wielding it know the taste of their own blood.

Finding an open section of wall to lean against, Lark yawns, making no effort of hiding her continuing boredom. ❛ I've no interest in trading barbs. Orin's hunters have marked you, not me. ❜ The full weight of her attention settles upon Arlis, a mantle of darkness made no less heavy by the noon sun. ❛ Whether you accept my help in finding her or not won't change my fate. ❜

[n1ghtwarden]

minthara knows the bonds of war - she knows the bonds of blood more so; a web that binds; chokes. necessary, forged in fire - tested by time and battle after battle. those, of course, were far stronger than any family bonds - kin turn against kin as easily as water flows, as a spider weaves. the night warden knows not what the assortment of souls before has gone through to reach this blighted land alive; only that their own bonds have been forged in the same heat as her own had. friendship; rare and true, and a retort forms on her lips, faltering at the defensiveness - the steel in arlis' words, in her look. the night warden knows that expression, and had worn it often enough in her raiding days - no word or hand would ever be raised against her own men. and for once, minthara falls silent - watching, listening to arlis speak, and an uncomfortable sensation gnaws at her as the other continues - settling within her like a weight. the expression of a martyr looking at a blade - the tortured awaiting execution. it burns in her, expression hardening as storm clouds gather, darkening her as she brews.

" i do not need your pity. " she spits, agitated; expression pinching with irritation. the night warden does not enjoy the way arlis looks upon her now; as though she is wounded, bleeding out into the salted earth of the shadow cursed lands. a part of her knows that she is; a map of scars across her body that will never heal - the lone survivor, and she did not even possess the strength to claw and fight her way from the colony. " continue to look at me with it -" red eyes narrow, her jaw set as she takes in the other woman - the way she reaches for her; and minthara stiffens, teeth bared in warning, lips curling into a snarl. " - and i will pluck your eyes out from your skull. unlike your bard, i do not have spares to give you. " the night warden remembers how arlis had looked at her before; eyes narrowed, suspicious - she had preferred the fear. that, she knew as intimately as the dance of battle. this is a weakness; an insult, her eyes burning with a cold fury. what she does not notice is the way her vision blurs and burns - a shaky breath leaving her as she blinks; once, twice -- lips twisting into a thin, hard line as she looks away; then back again.

arlis has been lucky - all things considered. luck, being relative - tadpole aside, absolute aside. she had always been protected from the call of the absolute; had never lost herself to its crushing will. more than that: she had not lost any of the others here, weak as the night warden knows them to be; shackled by fears and petty desires. they all have that same will to live - the same, perhaps, can be said of her. how is it that they have survived, and her own had not? minthara baenre, lost daughter of menzoberranzan, knows that the blame lies solely with her. she will believe this until the day she is cold in the ground.

another step back; grateful for the distance she creates, and minthara's chest heaves with a slow, deliberate breath. brave, foolish girl - the same as she. her jaw clicks, slides; the noise of her teeth grinding loud within her skull. " you will have to gain the strength to do so, should you seek to be useful in our campaign. " ours. the word tastes strange within her mouth; unable to quite speak it aloud. " and if you cannot gain it, you will take it. if we are to survive this, there must be not a moment of doubt or fear; or ketheric will find it and strike us down before we even manage to wield a blade against him. "

@beregosts ha ha hi.

𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃𝐋𝐘, 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐘, she feels a sudden defensiveness stir within her at mention of the others. arlis isn't certain when, or really even how, but they are more than just the odd assortment of acquaintances cobbled together amidst horror now. they are her friends, undeniably, and there is a frightening swell of care behind her ribs when she thinks, speaks, of each of them. minthara is allowed her skepticism, but is matched with a coolness of tone that reveals her protectiveness. ❛ they are far more than you give them credit for and they are far stronger than i suspect you could imagine. ❜ of course, how could the drow before her know the sharp arc of lae'zel's steel or the way the very air seems to crack and shift around gale's hands, how could she measure the enormity of karlach's spirit or comprehend the strength of wyll's without having seen it herself? for that, arlis' next words do not bear the same ice. ❛ give it time & you'll see. ❜

something changes in minthara's face then, seems to ripple through every inch of lean form. delicate features harden, reveal more than arlis suspects the drow desires to share. it startles her. it feels like looking upon something she isn't meant to see, hasn't been given permission to witness, and for a brief moment her gaze drops as minthara composes herself, rebuilds and repairs her defenses. ❛ i'm sorry, minthara, ❜ a hand briefly, momentarily extends to comfort, but retreats before she continues gently, ❛ i didn't know. ❜

the sickly sweet rot has faded from her tongue now, the grave dust cleared from her lungs, but even now the memories of moonrise and the drowning death within set her heart to beat faster. ❛ i'd have torn those towers apart with my own hands, had i the strength, ❜ her jaw works silently, ❛ some places have been witness to too much to be saved. it should be erased, made to be forgotten.❜

[y-rhywbeth2]

Durge: 'I've killed so many people. You should end me here and now.' Astarion: 'Oh please, how many lives have you taken? Dozens? I must have brought Cazador a thousand souls.'

Hang on let's attempt some maths...

Durge defaults to dragonborn, meaning 15 is literal physical maturity (as opposed to 15 being socially 'of age,' as with humans). They were active as a Bhaalist 15 years ago, so they're canonically at least 30 - probably older.

Assuming the calculator/dyscalculia isn't leading me astray:

365 days a year, with a murder at least once every tenday: 36.5 murders a year, at least 547.5 kills over 15 years, up to 1,095 kills if Bhaal has been making them do it for the whole 30 years.

Bhaalspawn with the Urge have to kill need to kill at least once every 13 days: '...an NPC that would not normally have the attitude of hostile towards the Bhaalspawn. This NPC must have an intelligence of 3 or more.' They've had the Urge before puberty, so that's apparently like 842 murders or more over the course of their life.

Bhaalist doctrine actually calls for a life taken every day it's just that only one in ten has to be human/oid. Durge being Durge, murder is more likely, which makes it like 5,475 murders over 15 years.

All of this, of course, assuming Durge was limiting themselves to only one kill per day. Not including sprees and group killings.

I don't know, I think Durge can probably match your score, Astarion. Also they were vivisecting people, and while they had as much say in murder as you did in handing people to Cazador they also did it with their own hands and slid into personal monstrosity, so I think they beat you in sadism. Of course if we include all the people you ruined or sentenced to death in your magistrate years we can probably nudge the scales a smidgeon in your favour...

But then, looking at some of the numbers, it seems like it could be possible for Astarion to have been accomplice to more murders than Durge has committed depending on the factors. Unlikely though.

Edit: Actually it's possible that Astarion brought Cazador more than 1000 victims, since Cazador has to feed every night, not to mention the 'parties' and sending the spawn out to find 'guests,' and he probably ended up with surplus... Well, they've both got a high body count and I'm getting tired. Let's call it a tie that Durge technically wins due to being hands-on.

[striderstable]

Sung to the tune of “The Boxer” by Simon & Garfunkel

I am just an orphan And my story’s often told, I have gambled my existence On Alaundo's mumbo-jumbo, Such are prophecies. All lies at best, Still, a man hears what he wants to hear And disregards the rest.

When I fled my home In Candlekeep...

[livetoariel]

I pulled my hand up with the ring on it and looked deeply into his eyes. “Is this going to replace the other physical marks that prove I’m yours?”

He pressed his cold nose and lips against my throat and growled “Not a chance.” He bit down hard enough to draw blood, but didn’t start drinking. “I’m going to continue making sure there’s no question, no matter the angle.”

I like to think that sometimes Astarion is just a feral weirdo.

2k of unedited drabble under the cut. 18+ only this is not ok for kids.

We stopped in Berdusk after leaving Beregost without looking back. It took some time to get there, travelling at night and I don’t think we said much to each other while we travelled. I had pulled myself into my own mind and could feel myself brooding about everything that happened in the three days we were in my old hometown. 

One day while we were camping, waiting for the sun to go down, Astarion looked up from the book he had buried himself in. I could feel him watching me. He took a breath like he was going to speak, then paused. 

I scowled at him, “What?” I ground out.

“Nothing, darling,” he said, shaking his head and going back to his book.

I sighed and laid down to try to get at least a little sleep.

We made it to a little tavern in Berdusk a few hours after full dark. The harried looking bartender shoved a key into my hand and barked the door number at me before moving around me to shout at the (drunk?) halfling that was climbing across one of the card tables. 

Astarion turned to the card tables, with a wicked glint in his eye. “Darling?” he said to me, hopefully, looking back.

I took a handful of coin out of my pouch and rolled my eyes, “Give me your bag, I’ll go upstairs with it.”

He pressed a quick kiss to my forehead, handed his pack over and sauntered over to the tables.

The room was comfortable, it had a fireplace, a small table with two chairs, a plush looking couch and a bed that was going to be big enough for the both of us. 

I placed our things gently on the table and started unbuckling my armour. I stripped off my travel worn clothes, and left just an over-large shirt and underwear on. I spied a canteen of water and small basin in the corner. I took some time to wipe my face and hands, brush out my hair, and decided I should also take time to clean some of the travel dust out of my armour. 

I cleaned methodically, falling into a nice rhythm, completely losing track of time. 

I nearly jumped out of my skin when the door banged open and Astarion strode in with purpose. 

I placed the piece of armour I had in my hand on the floor beside me as Astarion approached, leaning over me. He sat himself down, straddled over my hips and pulled my face in for a kiss. I closed my eyes and leaned into him, wrapping my right hand around his shoulders. I had been so in my own head since Beregost. With everything that had happened, between Tuille, Tomal, and my mother, I feel like I’d been neglecting Astarion’s needs. 

I pulled back from him to apologize, but he seemed to know that’s what I was going to do. He immediately hushed me. He grabbed my left hand and pulled it up to his lips. “I know you think you need to worry about me, but this is about you.” He kissed my knuckles softly and turned my hand over. He kissed down my palm, onto the inside of my wrist. He pulled away slowly and tapped at my wrist, “this is for later. I want to show you what I won.” he said, smiling slyly. 

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something in his closed fist. I looked up at his face quizzically. He smirked at me, grabbing my left hand again. He flipped it so it was palm down in his hand. I looked back down at my hand and there was a beautiful gold ring with a rough cut pink gem set in the middle of it. 

I looked back up at him and opened my mouth. No words came out. 

“Do you like it?” he asked, with an edge to his voice I hadn’t heard for months. 

I nodded. It was perfect for me. There was no way he won it tonight, but I didn’t want to say that to him.

I still wasn’t ready to express myself with words, but I leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss on his lips. I pulled away and dug into the hidden pocket I had crudely sewn to the inside of my shirt. 

I pulled out the plain gold band I had been carrying around with me since we left my mother’s house. 

“I wasn’t sure when I should give this to you,” I said, rolling the ring around in my hand. “It was my father’s. I didn’t think my mother really deserved to keep it. Will you accept it now?” my eyes flicked to his for half a breath. It wasn’t really Astarion’s style, but it meant a lot to me to have this ring back.

He wrapped both his hands around mine. “Carquyn, I would love to wear this ring for you.”

I placed it on his finger, kissing his hand once I did. 

“Now,” he started, leaning back a little, “I am positively starving, my love. Would you mind?” He pulled my wrist back up to his teeth and kissed over my pulse point there. 

“Of course,” I answered. The piercing, split second pain came as soon as the words were out of my mouth. I could feel him swallowing methodically, slowly, like he was savouring every drop. I sighed contentedly. I watched as his hips started grinding slowly into me, small moans starting to slip out of his lips as he drank leisurely. 

I used my free hand to start unbuckling his armour and undoing his various laces.

He pulled off my wrist before I even started feeling the tell tale tingling of needing to stop.

He licked his lips and leaned in close to my ear. “I’m not done with you yet,” he practically purred in my ear. 

He slid off my lap to stand in front of me. He finished doffing his armour and dumped it onto the floor beside the couch. He also stripped off his plain shirt and breeches. He reached down and gestured for me to stand up with him. 

I pulled the shirt I had on over my head, dumped it on the floor with his clothing and pressed myself against his chest.

I pulled my hand up with the ring on it and looked deeply into his eyes. “Is this going to replace the other physical marks that prove I’m yours?”

He pressed his cold nose and lips against my throat and growled “Not a chance.” He bit down hard enough to draw blood, but didn’t start drinking. “I’m going to continue making sure there’s no question, no matter the angle.” He palmed my chest and bit into it with a bit of force. He pulled away and watched the blood trickle down toward my ribs. 

He licked his lips and pulled me back against him and kissed me. He tasted of my blood and the familiar sweetness he seemed to always carry with him. I melted into his arms, letting myself truly relax for the first time since before Beregost, it felt like. 

Astarion pulled away for a second. “I need more,” he said breathily. 

I moved my hair off my neck and tilted my head slightly. He bit down hungrily and started taking generous pulls of blood, somewhat sloppily. I felt some blood trickle out the sides of his mouth and drip onto my skin. He was too busy grinding his hips against me to notice. 

“Astarion,” I breathed. He let go and looked at me, with a frenzied look in his eyes. 

“I’m going to ravish you, darling.” he smirked, his blood-streaked chin really selling his words. 

He flipped me around so I was facing away from him. He bit down hard on my shoulder in more of a possessive manner than he would if he was drinking from that spot. He snaked his hands around my waist and dipped his into the underwear that was separating his skin from mine. He held me still with hands and fangs while he ground himself against me. 

My heart was hammering and my breath was catching with every move he made. It had been long enough I felt like a spring that was coiled and ready to explode. 

He unlatched his fangs from me long enough to push my underwear down for me to step out of. His followed suit.

“Kneel.” he growled, pushing me to my knees. He kneeled down behind me, pressing himself close to my back. He gathered my hair off the back of my neck into his hand, and bit down on the nape and side of my neck in quick succession, leaving marks and drops of blood that I really hoped he would clean up later. Every single bite had an underlying feeling of possession and need that was making itself evident as he continued to rut his hips against me. He was hard and leaking, obviously ready to press himself into me. 

I glanced at him over my shoulder, his eyes strained into slits as he licked a few drops of blood from my back. “Astarion,” I whispered again, “can you please stop toying with me and fuck me?”

He let out a feral sounding growl, pushed my upper body down, holding my hair and wrists in his right hand and let his left roam over my body. He pressed his hard dick into me, meeting no resistance. He started rocking against me slowly, pushing my shoulders and head down even further into the rug. He picked up his pace and bit down on my shoulder again, rutting into me in time with the swallows of blood he was taking. 

I could feel myself coming unravelled at this side of Astarion. He hadn’t felt this out of control for a very long time. 

He let go of his fanged hold on my shoulder and bit a few more times across my back. My whole mind went blank at the feeling of his fangs piercing my skin. I could feel the blood dripping off his mouth and chin onto my back and shoulders. There were even a few stray drops that landed on my face. I could taste some blood at the corner of my mouth. 

He straightened up behind me, pulling me with him, my wrists and hair still firmly in his grip. He held them tight under my chin so my back was flush against his chest.

His free hand gripped my hip as he continued to rock himself into me. The new angle had me gasping, already unravelling against Astarion’s chest. 

The hand that was on my hip moved to my abdomen, pressing me impossibly further into his almost frantic, feral movements. 

I gasped and let out a keening moan. The noise seemed to spur him on, he groaned into my ear and let out a breathy “Yes yes, like that, Quyn, give me more.” The hand on my abdomen moved lower and he started gently rubbing the pads of his fingers over my clit. I let out another breathy sigh, ready to let him take me to the end. I pressed the back of my head against his shoulder and whispered his name almost silently. I knew he would hear the desperation in my voice. 

He let out a low moan, letting his hips snap hard into me. He grabbed my chin and pressed his lips into my ear. “Come,” he growled, putting the perfect amount of pressure on my clit and throat, hitting all the right spots inside and out. I felt the coil in my abdomen spring free and let my eyes roll back in my head, allowing all the pleasure wash over my body until there was nothing left to feel except the man behind me. 

I had barely come back to my senses before I was being pushed back down on the rug. Astarion sunk his fangs into me one more time, holding me still under him as he chased his own release into me. He groaned while he sloppily moved his hips, sliding in and out of me. The groan morphed into a whimper and I felt apologetic kisses on my back and small aftershock movements of his hips as he came back down from wherever he went. 

He kissed my back and shoulders and few more times before letting go of my arms and hair to pull out. 

I hated the loss of the feeling of his body against mine but definitely needed to sit up. I turned to face him, finally seeing the mess he made of himself. 

He smiled sheepishly. “I think I got a little carried away.”

I just reached over and smudged some blood across his lips. I’m sure I didn’t look much better.

[lrdvyke]

Being deemed as more well off than the rest ... Vyke laughs at that and, inwardly, hopes that that is not the case by a lot. There is no saying what he has gotten himself into, but it is one of those things where looking back now is not plausible ( not with word given in acceptance ). Despite it, there has been some murmurings in and around the area—some far more larger than the others. One of the reasons why he went this way to begin with, seeing the wreck for himself, yet there is still much and more he is not quite privy to.

❛ I'll take your word on it, but sometimes when something is important and good to one, to another it is quite the opposite, ❜ he says with ease, reaching behind himself to hook his spear to his back once more. Done all in favor to take off his helmet and push the sock covering his hair off, feeling the breeze finally hit against flesh.

❛ Ah ... but fighters or not, I suppose. Victims of circumstance, I'd imagine, yes? Want to tell me more about it all? ❜ Vyke then asks, ruffling out silver hair to be less flat ( no hope there ), as he sets the helmet on his hip. �� I do not necessarily need the whole story, just what's important, really. ❜

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄, across the various tents that establish their little enclave, that welcome respite from the chaos of the world around them and, startlingly, feels her heart grow full with affection. it's a strange sensation, alien, but not one she finds to be entirely unwelcome. after a moment, her eyes turn back to the man before her, come to rest on unexpected smile. ❛ well, then it sounds like you're likely the most well off amongst us, ❜ arlis smiles herself, pleasantly relieved and just the quickest flash of teeth, ❛ and i assure you, our cause is more than worthy. it's important. dare i say, you might even call it good. ❜

it does feel important, it feels like everything somehow even if she unable to define its edges and put names to its contours.

❛ well, whatever it is you need to be distracted from, ❜ her voice softens, ❛ i've no doubt our errand will service. ❜ it isn't her place to ask further. they all have their secrets, her companions, though time has seemed to have loosened some of the locks binding them away. ❛ i'd have you use that spear, for starters. we've some fighters, certainly but most of us? couldn't pick that properly up if we tried. ❜

[nyda-the-tav]

RULES: post 5 songs associated with your OC, followed by 3 outfits they would wear

Thank you for the tag, @avani-telvanni ❤️ Took me a while to get this together so here we gooo!

Here's Raina

... the high elf Arcane Trickster daughter of Coran (he doesn't know she exists) and a courtesan in Beregost!

She starts off with a long ponytail, chops it to try to avoid recognition in the Gate (and she's rockin a face scar now), and magically regrows her hair again! Tahdah!

Now for the 5 songs!

Aaaand the outfits!

Camp casual chic ✨

Formal event (easy guess who picked this out lol)

Aaand all armoured up with no one to kill

This was fun. Tagging @faundlydreaming @randomfanner @kelandrin @memyselfandnobodyfromnowhere @chewchewman to give it a go~ No pressure though ❤️

[coreene]

Places in Faerun: Candlekeep

The great keep never fails to take my breath away: it stands on a volcanic crag a hundred or so feet from the coastline, a fiat-topped spur of rough stone out in the midst of the surging sea. Imagine, if you can, the top of this crag hemmed in entirely by a tall wall. This wall is interrupted by several towers all the way around, and it encloses a large space from which even more of these same towers rise. Those who have seen this vista from above have said that it looks like nothing so much as a cake decorated with too many candles. The mist of sea-spray fills the air nearest the western walls, and in winter, this moisture can cause treacherous build-ups of ice. Sometimes entire towers along the western edge of the keep have to be abandoned for the season, they become so overtaken by frost.

From the center rises the largest and thickest tower of Candlekeep. If the other towers are well-wrought branches and blossoms, then this surely is the bole of the tree: strong, massive, and rising well above the perimeter structures. About the central keep a garden spirals in rising steps, and those lucky enough to enter the library proper do so by passing around and up through this green space to the keep's main door. However, most folk who visit Candlekeep see this structure only from the courtyard east of it, where the facilities for arriving scholars lie.

The only gate into Candlekeep stands at the end of the Way of the Lion, which is the only road that provides access to and from the outside world. The route extends from Beregost, leagues away, and winds a lonely path out on the peninsula where Candlekeep stands.

The Great Library

Candlekeep is the largest repository of lore and writings in all the Realms (although my scholarly kin in Evereska don't like being reminded of that). It was once the home of the great prophet Alaundo the Seer, and within its walls were written the Prophecies of Alaundo. Its vaults, it is said, contain hidden knowledge enough to make any person with the ability to discover and absorb it all powerful beyond compare. The problem with doing that, of course, is the same as with secrets in any other location: one must know that a secret exists before its details can be sussed out.

To that end, Candlekeep's vast library is something of a defence in and of itself: for every bit of hidden lore of potentially great power that lies within, there are thousands of inconsequential recipes, old songs, bits of history, journals of Jong-dead folk, and myriad other pieces of writing of no lasting importance save to the monks of this place, and the sages who come seeking such trifles.

Of course, before this treasure trove can be plumbed, one must gain entry to its hallowed halls. The cloistered scholar-monks of Candlekeep, who are called the Avowed, guard this place and work tirelessly to ensure the library's protection and preservation. Though they are friendly enough in a workaday fashion, they are also suspicious of all visitors to the library.

There are a lot more information on Candlekeep but it is too long and I feel too lazy to write it down so I'm just gonna leave screenies.

source: Sword Coast Adventurer’s Guide, top map

[mr-leach]

Dorian's player is running a Candlekeep Mysteries one shot for our D&D group that takes place 10 years after our Curse of Strahd campaign (assuming everyone gets to live etc etc) so of COURSE I had to draw a re-imagining of Sy in his 50's; living his best life after strong-arming his pariah-hood into submission and becoming a reliable cornerstone of the community in his hometown of Beregost. Turns out when you defeat a Dread Lord and have psionic powers potent enough to make Vlaakith sweat, people pretty much have to start treating you with respect. But really, Sy just needed to get his foot in the door so enough folks could come around on him. He's quite well loved by the local youth, especially students of Dorian's school, and is called "Nana" by kids and young adults alike.

Fun little extra tidbit under the cut:

The symbol carved into his living prosthetic is Corellon's symbol, which he carves onto himself every so often kinda sorta as a joke (the carvings disappear after 2-3 days, which is also when twigs, leaves, and fresh bark will start growing on his arm, which he has to maintain and carve/sand down). He's only got a sliver of elven blood in him, and he doesn't earnestly worship any gods to begin with, but sometime in his youth he started swearing on members of the Seldarine to freak out/piss off the more zealous followers of Lathander who used to get on his case about not being a follower himself, and it became a habit. Truthfully, he does have some feeling of reverence, but not necessarily to the Seldarine. Moreso he feels a genuine reverence towards the feywilds, seeing as it's his connection to the fey that gave him access to his latent psionic ability.

[grilledcheesd]

oc profile - lydia

aaaaa thank you @bhaalbabebardlock for the tag 💖 i'm gonna tag @wafflerageface and @averageangst3njoyer if y'all wanna do this too💖💖

basics

full name: lydia blackwinter (last name is from her foster parents, and she no longer remembers it due to her amnesia)

gender: cis woman

sexuality: bi/pan, demiromantic

pronouns: she/her

other

father: bhaal 😡

mother: also bhaal?

siblings: orin! and technically sarevok but he's a dickhead

birthplace: ??? raised in beregost by foster parents, then taken to baldur's gate at age 10

job: former leader of the temple of bhaal, currently trying to save the world and get this damn tadpole out of her head

phobias: spiders and loss of control

guilty pleasures: people watching and reading (esp smut lol)

alignment: somewhere between chaotic and true neutral

sins: wrath. also all the murdering

virtues: diligence

this or that

introvert / extrovert: social introvert (she loves hanging out with the tadpole squad but needs significant time to recover or she gets snappy)

organized / disorganized: incredibly organized but it only makes sense to her (no one is allowed to touch the camp chest bc they'll mess up her system)

closed-minded / open-minded: open-minded

calm / anxious / restless: usually calm

disagreeable / agreeable / in between: agreeable until you piss her off

cautious / reckless: reckless

patient / impatient / in between: patient with others, impatient with herself

outspoken / reserved / in between: outspoken

leader / follower / flexible: reluctant leader

empathetic / unempathetic / in between: more sympathetic and will try to help people solve their problems/feel better

optimist / pessimist / realist: she wants to be an optimist so bad but bhaal Does Not Like It

traditional / modern / in-between: in between, it depends on the context

hard working / lazy: hard working to a fault

relationships

otp: lydia/gortash pre-tadpole, lydia/astarion mid-tadpole, maybe a lil throuple post-tadpole who knows 👀

brotp: the whole tadpole crew, but esp shadowheart. she's pretty tight with minthara too after moonrise. also jaheira is her mom (jaheira does not know lydia thinks this)

notp: nobody i can think of? lydia is kinda down for whatever as long as her partner is down

[kelandrin]

This is Haseley. He’s a Gloom Stalker Ranger/College of Swords Bard. He hails from Beregost, but he hasn’t been there in about 20 years, instead hunting and trading across the Faerûnian Heartlands.

He can be a bit dour, but a good mug of ale and a warm fire to sit at, and he’ll regale you with a story or a song if the mood strikes him.

I think he would get along with Xyrra! She is pretty laid back but they have similar lifestyles. She is a lythari (tldr; a werewolf elf) and has been traveling for several years now. She is a big fan of hunting and being on the open road and under the stars. She doesn’t demand a lot from the people around her and would be more than happy to just relax by the campfire and listen to what he has to share.

[bitterflames]

list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern (tagged by @sunriseverse on main, tyty! 💛)

...i've only got 9 posted fics so we're gonna have to make do lol. talk about inspiration to get off my arse and finish some of my wips >.>

1. how to deflower your martial brother (wo jia dashixiong naozi you keng, dongfang wuqiong/gong changsheng) Gong Changsheng had noticed this when he was younger, the way Dongfang Wuqiong would sometimes press a hand to his chest as though in pain, the recurring cough he’d shrug off as a minor seasonal affliction. 2. what's in a name? (mysterious lotus casebook, di feisheng & fang duobing) He didn’t mean to keep it, but something about the helpless little bundle of cream-coloured fur had stirred his heart. 3. no takebacks (mysterious lotus casebook, fang duobing/li lianhua) Li Lianhua is teasing him about his supposed upcoming marriage to the princess again, in that way he does sometimes that’s more of a defensive mechanism than anything. 4. to gravity and the unknown (elder scrolls online, verandis ravenwatch/prince naemon) It’s cold. 5. you and me and a bottle of wine (baldur's gate 1, player character/xan) Beregost is a welcome sight after weeks of trudging up and down the Sword Coast at the mercy of the elements, the wildlife both mundane and monstrous, and the seemingly endless roving gangs of bandits. 6. hold me tight and fear me not (baldur's gate 2, player character/xan) The dark elves are not much for merrymaking, Ceru thinks as she sips at her second tankard of black mead; in all her travels, she’s never seen a tavern so quiet. 7. snow and repetitions of snow (elder scrolls online, mannimarco/vanus galerion) Vanus Galerion sank into his bathtub wearily, the troubles of the day weighing heavily upon him. 8. a light that does not flicker (elder scrolls iv: oblivion, hero of kvatch/martin septim)

Nevos could only watch, mute and uncomprehending, as Martin was enveloped in a blaze of light so bright it hurt his eyes to watch.

9. into the abyss (elder scrolls iv: oblivion, hero of kvatch/martin septim) Blue, all around him is blue, a placid calm sky that stretches on in all directions as far as he can see. taking "first line" as the first full sentence, which... lol. if there's any consistency in these it's that i am very inconsistent! past tense, present tense, rambling run-on sentences or just "it's cold"? no pattern no rhyme no reason baby!!!

tagging! @shararan @strandedchesspiece uhh i think i've seen this one around a bit, i'm not sure who else has done it! any writer friends who are interested pls feel free to do the thing and @ me about it 💛

[murdershaped]

Bhaal's insatiable appetite was something Orin was ALL TOO FAMILIAR WITH. After all, was it NOT THEM who handpicked that which he gorged on ??? Was it not Orin who shoveled gore and bone into the bottomless pit which was his belly ??? So many mangled and twisted all for the Dreadlord, every tenday it was REQUIRED, but Orin took such pleasure in overachieving for Father. But she could always FEEL HIS NEED FOR MORE, his unending hunger. It burned within her, as well. Every stroke of the blade, every breaking of a bone did SO LITTLE to ease that burning pang for more and more violence. " What Bhaal savors of my carcass when all of the crimson has been drained is for him to determine, all that concerns is what I offer whilst I live for his RAVENOUS APPETITE. "

Sometimes Orin DID wonder if Bhaal would pause to consider all it sacrificed for him. If it was to just be digested and forgotten as a mere welp chosen as a sacrifice in the street. Such things did not matter, Orin could almost hear what their mind mangled blood-kin would say in response. And that would HAVE TO BE WHAT SHE THOUGHT, too. It was enough to serve, to fill his altar while it could. It was enough because she was his Chosen. Of course they would be remembered, ORIN WAS THE ONE WHO WOULD BRING THIS CITY TO ITS KNEES. All who resided here would be felled in Bhaal's name because of Orin's actions. Of course she would be remembered, be savored. Even though it did not matter.

Orin tsk'd in disappointment as the blade fell to her side. Skin had been primed for the blade, read to feel the STING OF THE CUT and allow blood to pour forth. She wasn't ready, not perfect enough to fight, not perfect enough to die to. It was for the best that Orin's viscera remained intact now, they reminded themselves. Those stones would not command themselves. Her own desires did not matter, only TRIUMPHING IN BHAAL'S NAME DID.

" It was not MY CHOICE to tangle my sinews with the lordling, " she sneered, eyes distant with thoughts disparaging her fetid sibling who forced it in this CONTRIVED ALLIANCE. It was because of them Orin now had to scramble like a maddog to sever it from the others. " It will be YOUR BLADE which cuts, which saws them apart. And you will bring me that stone, or your pretty pet will be mince meat. I will HACK AND HACK until I see bone, I will make them agonize in your failure. How its death would weigh in your insides, always caught within the spooled intestines. Never free of your failure. "

𝐎𝐇, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆. she has never been afforded the luxury of a being a lamb. she may look the part, large eyes and soft mouth that hint at docility, but there have always been sharp teeth behind her lips even if she is loathe to bite. that much had been afforded to her as a birthright and, distantly, grimly, she wonders what else had been blessed upon the chosen before her. did they chose to be chosen, orin? was there ever a moment of true decision, knowing determination, or had it simply all been forced upon them? (is the sickly, eager curve of orin's smile what would've awaited her had she not run fast enough that night? would their laughs echo in unison, gutted and made feral in dark temples and before altars?)

❛ he's hungry, your lord, ❜ her fingers twitch against the instinct to push the curve of her dagger further into pale skin. so much blood already has stained her hands, what difference could orin the red make? blood is blood, her blade would not revere it for its host. her gaze flicks to orin's, finds not an ounce of fear. if anything, eagerness. it turns her stomach and her hand retreats to her side. ❛ so hungry i doubt that he'll even care to savor you on his tongue before swallowing when the time comes. if all of the city won't sate him, i don't see why your devotion will taste any different in his maw. ❜

she understands it better now, that cold light burning in minthara's eyes.

orin's next words, however, have her falter, though relief follows. so bhaal's chosen does not know of shared history, of that decade of loathing made all the more virulent by distance. it feels significant, however minor, to understand that orin does not know everything. ❛ is that what you're asking, why you've decided to haunt our steps? ❜ her fingers do not loosen their grip despite the arch of a dark brow. ❛ are there fractures in whatever tenuous little alliance you've forged, orin, that you'd send me after gortash? ❜

[beregosts]

need to put together a properly thought out post about it tomorrow, but if arlis stays in the city after the main game's events have wrapped up she's actually fairly miserable. after the initial surprise of suddenly having everything that she's never had (power, stability, at least some shred of wealth), she realizes it comes at the cost of her needing to pretend to someone she just isn't. she isn't a hero (at least, in the way people want heroes to be), she isn't even a baldurian, and needing to constantly compose herself to reflect the city's virtues and expectations exhausts her.

while she hardly misses the horrors(tm), arlis misses her friends and the proximity of them. she's now surrounded by people she doesn't know who have been playing a game she's unfamiliar with for a long time. she has influence but no idea how to wield it properly.

she's tired and lonely and sooner than later makes the decision to fade back into obscurity.

[y-rhywbeth2]

Next stage in the 'who has a bigger body count' competition Astarion started yesterday, while praying I can use a calculator correctly:

Bhaal VS Cazador: Deaths in Baldur's Gate over the last 15 years.

I counted about 22 active Bhaalists (including Orin, Sarevok and Durge), who, having to murder once every ten days, have about 12,045 kills between them. However, as briefly mentioned in game, most of them do not reside in Baldur's Gate and also Bhaal's clergy are usually a little nomadic, so this wouldn't have been too highly focused on the Gate.

They do need to kill a living thing every day, so that's also another 108,405 dead things which may or may not be human/oid.

As for the vampires, assuming they don't have a massive herd of blood dolls:

While vampires do need to feed a little less as they age, it's still not that much lower.

A typical Fledgling vampire must drink 12 hit points worth of blood in every 24-hour period. The source of this blood is immaterial; it can come from living victims, fresh corpses, animals, or even sealed “caches" of chilled blood. - Van Richten's Guide to Vampires

The typical person, people with adventuring classes being rarer, has 4 hit points. Or less. Sometimes you're lucky and 5e upgrades them to 1d8 with an average of 4. Add in older editions and level drain and normal people do not survive being fed on by vampires.

Judging by talking to Astarion, Cazador does drain his prey dry more often than not.

So on average Cazador has needed 3 kills a day, and over the past 15 years that's 3 kills every one of 5,475 days. Which is apparently 16,425 dead bodies. (7000 is small change to vampires and Archdevils alike, apparently. I keep coming back to this, but Mephistopheles' deal is extremely and suspiciously cheap.) Each spawn has needed about 12 rats each: 65,700 rats dead each, 459,900 rats altogether. I assume they feed the corpses to the ghouls.

Cazador forbidding his spawn human blood actually makes perfect sense. Aurelia and Astarion have been with him for most of that 200 years. Cazador has murdered at least the equivalent of 73,000 people, if those two also feed properly it's now 219,000 people. Petras and I assume Violet, are about 100: 109,500 kills each (or more). 438,000 people. Yousen is 60 (65,700), Dalyria less than 50 due to being a Peer (54,750); Leon's less than 12 (13,140). Altogether this 'family' would have killed aprox. 571,590 people over the last two centuries.

The Western Heartlands' city and town populations, circa 14th century, were:

Baldur's Gate: 42,103 Elturel: 22,671 Evereska: 21,051 Berdusk: 20,242 Iriaebor: 16,193 Scornubel: 14,574 High Edge: 9,716 Asbravn: 5,668 Hluthvar: 5,668 Beregost: 2,915 Secomber: 1,417 Daggerford: 891 Corm Orp: 810

Census indicates the Western Heartlands' total permanent population was 163,919, of which Cazador would have consumed the equivalent of 44.53%. I can only assume that he either fasts a lot or mixes in some animal blood (which would not have made him fun to be around for the spawn), or we're drawing off of VtM logistics and he has control of blood banks and a herd of living people he keeps alive plus just feeding off of his spawn to top him up between murders (which does explain the human staff).

I'm not counting the amounts of rats and mice consumed, but honestly I think there's money to be made hiring your spawn out as a pest control service. Assuming they don't drive themselves out of business.

There is absolutely no way the 7000 spawn in the cells should be anything but feral howling messes who are scrabbling for rats and bugs and cannibalising each other, assuming they haven't just shrivelled into the state of torpor from lack of blood to fuel the magic keeping their bodies animate. There is no feasible way to keep them fed. I don't even think there are enough rodents in the city to feed them...

Meanwhile Bhaalists have been active for 130 years since the end of the Bhaalspawn crisis, and have killed around 4,745 people each in that time. Luckily, they've been quite low in number, mostly nomadic, and only recently had a revival (which is still low population) so that probably not too many.

Verdict: DnD maths is poorly thought out and the vampires win the murder competition by goddamn miles. While Bhaal wins overall, due to having 1300+ years of murders to his name, Cazador's recent activity is higher, and Astarion has been accomplice to the number of murders that Durge only dreams of. Durge is still winning in the sadism and first degree murder count though.