#dark justiciar shadow heart

[random-introverted-blog]

I'm putting the BG3 fanfiction community on blast, you cowards

[gothhabiba]

Hi my name is Shadow Dementia Dark’ness Raven Heart and I have long shadowy black hair (that’s how I got my name) with short bangs and a silver diadem and mossy green eyes like cool shaded ponds and a lot of people tell me I look like I could be a Dark Justiciar (AN: if u don’t know what that is get da hell out of here!). I’m a half-elf but my ears are elegant and tapering. I have pale white skin. I’m also a True Soul, but I’m on a quest to defeat the Absolutist cult. I’m a follower of Shar (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly black. For example today I was wearing black sandals and black leather leggings and a low-cut black corset top with leather straps and metal studs. A lot of Selûnites stared at me. I put my middle finger up at them.

[aesteries]

⋆✴︎˚。⋆ ─ ❝sweetling❞ ─ aemond targaryen and original female character. ❝alicent hightower's youngest daughter, haera targaryen, has returned to king's landing after eight long years in old town and aemond finds himself inexplicably drawn to the girl kissed by the moon and with the eyes that seem to only look at him.❞

how could i not love eyes that see me in all my forms as beautiful?

〔incest, innocence and fantasies, fluff and romance, smut, virginity, events of blood and cheese, family rivalry, disabled main character, hints of book!aemond, modified show!timeline and events.〕

words: 1k. series' masterlist.

                 BLOOD AND CHEESE. 

The news of Lucerys Velaryon's demise spread like wildfire over the realm, igniting the fury of Rhaenyra Targaryen and her supporters. Yet, somehow, within the Red Keep, they basked in their perceived victory, blissfully unaware of the plans made against them brewing on the horizon. The Green Council believed that they had secured their claim to the Iron Throne as more houses pledged their support for their side, growing in power. Little did they know that the ancient walls of the Keep held secrets far more dangerous than they could ever imagine.

Helaena Targaryen, as the newly-crowned queen, had long since established a nightly ritual where she would lead her young children to the chambers of the former queen to be greeted with warm milk and storytelling. This routine was well-known throughout the Keep, with even the low ratcatchers making way for the royals as they walked through the halls towards their destination. On this one fateful night, however, there was a change in the formation. The usual maids that accompanied the queen on her routine had asked to be dismissed, and instead she was followed by her younger sister, Haera. The usual guards that kept watch at the front of the room had been changed as well, replaced by newly-appointed young men. As they settled into the warm embrace of the Dowager Queen's chambers, the tranquillity of the moment was soon to be shattered by a darkness that would forever change the course of their lives.

A secret passage in Princess Haera's chambers creaked open, revealing the entrance to tunnels that had once served as a safe escape for the royal family. Two figures emerged from the shadows, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Unnoticed by the guards or ignored by them, they slipped through walls towards their goal. Princess Haera had been teaching the kids a lullaby, an ancient melody from the citadel, when she was silenced by a cold blade pressed against her delicate neck. A rough hand forced her back, grabbing a handful of her head to keep her in place. Blood and Cheese made their appearance, introducing themselves as justiciars, agents of vengeance for the death of Lucerys Velaryon. They demanded a life for a life, a son for a son.

Blood and Cheese allowed the Queen to choose between her sons—to give one of them up and save the other. In tears, she named her youngest, believing him to be too young to understand the situation. Helpless, the younger princess cradled her nephew, Maelor, while the eldest boy stood nearby, fear etched on his innocent face. Helaena, in desperation, offered her own life as a sacrifice instead of the life of her children, but the men's hearts were hardened by a thirst for blood, and so they turned their attention to the children. They taunted the young child before the true horror unfolded. With a swift, brutal strike of a sword, Jaehaerys' head was separated from his body, his blood splattering over the women in the room. The room was filled with the sickening sound of steel against flesh, the muffled cries of the child, and the piercing shriek that followed.

As the assassins vanished into the darkness, carrying the severed head of the young prince as a grim trophy, Queen Helaena wept over her fallen son, her heart shattered. Dowager Queen Alicent, overcome with grief and rage, rushed to summon the guards, but it was too late. The Keep drowned in chaos, with guards swarming the halls with faces taken by fear and confusion as they accused each other of negligence. Swords were drawn, and tempers flared as they searched for answers to the impossible question: How had the assassins managed to infiltrate the heart of the Red Keep, undetected?

Alicent clung to her broken daughters, heavy with grief as she shielded them from the sight of the child's body. Helaena's cries pierced the air, a shattering song that would haunt them for years to come. The younger sister, traumatised by the event, fell to the floor, foam spilling out of the corners of her mouth, yet no one could calm her. King Aegon turned into a shell of his former self, having to be contained in the throne room, where he had been spending the night with his companions while his family witnessed the murder of his heir. He threatened violence over anyone who dared to touch him.

A sole figure emerged from the chaos, strangely peaceful. Prince Aemond Targaryen's presence commanded silence. Was it for the intimidation of his temper or because of the reason why such a crime had been committed against an innocent child? With a single glance, he cut through the throng of guards and made his way to his sister, Haera. Gently, he took her into his arms, only offering her comfort in the face of the tragedy. As he carried her away, his one eye fell upon the lifeless body of Prince Jaehaerys, covered by a white sheet. Some say that a cruel smirk played upon his lips, a silent acknowledgement of his role in the boy's demise, while others claim he offered a sombre apology, taking responsibility for the horrific event. Regardless of the truth, Aemond's presence was a stark reminder of the dark forces at play.

Grief and despair marked the days that followed, with the Red Keep shrouded in sorrow. The city echoed with mourners; people who had never met the prince shed tears for the tragedy of his demise. In an attempt at showing some sort of reaction to the crime, the city's ratcatchers were rounded up and executed, their bodies hung from the walls as a grim warning. Otto Hightower replaced the human ratcatchers with an army of felines, whom he believed to be more honourable than men in the end.

Queen Helaena sank deeper and deeper into madness while the king raged, drank, and raged.

[tcustodisart]

What would be the dynamic between Shadowheart and Conneticut if he had let her go down the dark justiciar route?

First of all bless your heart for asking me this, second, buckle up because I'm going to turn into a yapper for a moment.

Okay, I haven't experienced DJ Shart myself yet, but, in my head during the eternity of Act 2 right up to the Gauntlet of Shar, Shadowheart distances herself from Connie in favor of Shar. Because of that and the exposure to the Shadow Curse he felt pretty much miserable during that time. He witnesses for himself what Dark Justiciars are capable of and has some problems with that, but there's nothing he can really do about it. Part of him fears what would happen if Shadowheart becomes one, but there's a part of him that respects her choice above everything else. So fast forward to the gauntlet. In the Selunite path, he almost loses hope, but Shart proves him wrong in the best way possible (that's his small development moment, where he learns to just trust her instincts). In the Dark Justiciar path, I imagine he stays with her because he still believes there's good in her, even if it's buried very deep. It makes him miserable but he just can't stop being supportive. Shadowheart remains to be cold towards him, but can't stop feeling bad whenever she sees him like that. Eventually she breaks up with him.

[mumms-the-word]

Shadow Curse Events Pt. 2

Harpers, druids, and the battle against Ketheric

So in Part 1, I talked about Ketheric’s descent into Sharran zealotry and his attacks against all Selûnite faithful and anyone who so much as breathed a bad word about him. The TLDR is that Ketheric didn’t just become a follower of Shar, he basically became the Prophet-General of her new dark army, her Chosen, establishing new teachings and protocols for what defined a Dark Justiciar. It got so bad, and he became so powerful, that a leader of the Selûnite resistance, Ketheric's own master mason Morfred, made a deal with Raphael to take out his Justiciars just to hopefully give the Harpers a chance.

Because, to no one's surprise, all of this murder and fearmongering has captured the attention of the Harpers, who feel the need to step in and restore some balance.

The rest of this post is basically going to be about the Harper-druid battle against Ketheric and the siege of Reithwin, culminating in him getting sealed up in his tomb. Buckle up and be prepared for a couple of graphic war things (cw: animal death). Part 3 will be about the first few days of the shadow curse itself, because I just find that eerie and fascinating.

Full deep dive under the cut! Super long post ahead :'>

———

The moment is nigh; war has been brewing, and now it overflows. When Ketheric turned us toward Shar, I followed him - in appearance, if not in heart. This is my home, and I would not be removed from it, no matter what. I watched at a distance as the darkness here grew; as Ketheric's grief brought him farther and farther from life itself. As he gathered his army, I prayed for his defeat. As the Harpers march upon our little village - our little, beautiful village - I can only hope Ketheric will be felled at last, and Reithwin can begin to heal from this nightmare.

Let me briefly set the stage. Reithwin Town is under the governance of Ketheric Thorm, former Selûnite-turned-Chosen-of-Shar. All Selûnite worship has been driven underground. Dark Justiciars train in some elusive location outside and beneath town, only to return in order to interrogate the citizens of Reithwin about their loyalties to Shar and to Ketheric. Bodies are hanging in the square as an example to those who might think about dissenting or professing their faith in Selûne. People are going missing or being executed every day, and Ketheric's desire to expand Shar's influence beyond the borders of Reithwin is only growing stronger. Rumors abound that he's already completely destroyed a nearby village, another Selûnite refuge called Moonhaven. And now, the citizens of Reithwin hear whispers on the wind that the Harpers will soon arrive from the east...and they're bringing an army.

If a citizen were to wish to flee, they'd be nearly out of luck. The Harpers are coming from the east, but Baldur's Gate lies in the west, and the leadership in Baldur's Gate is already suspicious. Ketheric has drawn the attention of Grand Duke Eltan, the founder of the Flaming Fist and the good-aligned general who aided the heroes of BG1 (like Jaheira) during the Sarevok crisis. He's heard whispers of a Sharran enclave and has ordered a scout to go and investigate. That scout is Art Cullagh.

Incidentally, in the last post I suggested that these events are happening either between 1371-1374 or between 1396-1399. We don't know when Grand Duke Eltan died, so either theory still holds water (pick whichever you like best), but I do think his involvement moves the needle a little more towards the 1371-1374 theory. Eltan has just wrapped up the Sarevok adventure with Jaheira and the other heroes in 1368 and was dealing with other issues in 1369. He would still be in the height of his power as a leader of Baldur's Gate and the Grand Marshal of the Flaming Fist in the early 1370s. So he would have a vested interest in trying to maintain peace in his city, and that includes investigating rumors of civil unrest and strange darkness in a town just up the river from him to make sure that whatever is happening there doesn't come downriver.

Eltan sends Art Cullagh, a lieutenant/officer of the Flaming Fist (and virtuoso with a lute, as we well know). I won't post images of his orders here, since it's a letter most of us have likely read when trying to fix the shadow curse. But essentially, he's ordered to take lodgings in Last Light Inn and begin his investigation in the House of Healing to confirm rumors of corruption and Sharran influence in town. We know he attempts to fulfill these commands because he's seen at the inn and later his lute is left behind at the House of Healing.

Shadow Vestige: You see a man drain his tankard in an inn as he listens to a Flaming Fist play the lute. He's better than his uniform might suggest.

Around the same time that Art is preparing to travel down and begin investigating, the Harpers are already at work gathering an army. They're not just making Ketheric their convenient enemy—they're declaring all-out war.

They've gathered their evidence (after interrogating locals and possibly attempting to assassinate Ketheric from afar) and now they're ready to take the fight to him directly. But they need backup. So they write to the Emerald Enclave (not to be confused with the Emerald Grove) to arrange an alliance. Ketheric is going against nature, after all, and who better to call on for aid in preserving nature than the Emerald Enclave?

[The first few inches of this scroll are written in formal, elaborate script.] To the Emerald Enclave, and those deemed worthy to see this record, greetings from Those Who Harp. Know ye that the one known as Ketheric Thorm, a paladin of Shar, is guilty of crimes against body and spirit. They include, but are not limited to Murder, Slavery, and Desecration of Temples Most Holy. Let our intent be known: an alliance between the Harpers and the Emerald Enclave. United, we may end Thorm's reign of terror. The High Harpers eagerly await your good word.

The Emerald Enclave is massive, since it basically serves as the high council and umbrella organization for all druidic circles and groves that exist in Faerûn (or those who choose to align with the Emerald Enclave's tenants anyway). When the Harpers declare an alliance with the Enclave, those in charge of selecting allies make sure to enlist the druid circle that is local to that area, the Emerald Grove, since they will be the closest and have a stake in preserving the land around their grove. The Emerald Grove even immortalizes this alliance in their inner sanctum.

Image: Mural of Harpers and Druids shaking hands in front of an oak; Narrator reads: "In darkest hour, a concord made / 'Twixt harp and wild against the shade." Image: Mural of Harpers and druids stand back to back with the fallen armor of Dark Justiciars at their feet; Narrator reads: "The towers seized, the battle done / the moonrise broke the Darkest One."

It's possible that the Emerald Grove was the only circle that joined or was even asked to be in the battle, but perhaps the Enclave sent more. The Harpers needed an army, after all, and Jaheira says they numbered hundreds strong. Either way, the infamous Halsin Silverbough and his predecessor, the Archdruid in charge before him, are among the druids who join the army, though they never meet Jaheira in the battle.

Jaheira: The Archdruid Halsin. Do not be surprised that I know your name - you fit a rather singular description. And one survivor of the shadow curse's fall ought to know another. Halsin: We never actually got to meet, when fighting Ketheric that first time. Jaheira: No. We were a host hundreds strong, after all. Until we were not.

With the druids and Harpers finally aligned, they can at last march on Reithwin and begin their siege.

So let me pause for a moment to confess that the battle itself is...hard to track. Some characters (Halsin, Jaheira) and some accounts suggest that the battle only takes up about one day. The battle seems to either be contained to the banks of the Chionthar, or it spreads into the town to eventually reach Moonrise Towers. Other accounts, like the Harper's Testimonial, suggest the battle raged for three straight days outside of Moonrise alone before Ketheric descended personally into the field. Notes and letters from the House of Healing suggest the siege may have taken even longer, because supplies dwindled to dangerously low levels. Trying to reconcile all these accounts is tricky.

It's important to note that sieging a town doesn't always mean active fighting, it just means cutting off supplies and travel, keeping everyone out, or keeping everyone in, so it's possible the town was under siege for much longer than the battle that was actually fought. So the following is my best interpretation for the events, in an order that makes semi-logical sense to me. Some of this is complete conjecture. But feel free to come up with your own timelines!

Shadow Vestige: You sense a faded memory of marching in an army against Ketheric Thorm. Victory seemed possible back then.

The plan is to lay siege to Reithwin Town and force Ketheric to surrender. Failing that, siege the town until the army is too weak from hunger to fight well, then push forward into Moonrise Towers and kill Ketheric.

Part of the Chionthar divides Reithwin from the rest of the village outskirts (as you can see on the map), making three bridges the only access into town if you're approaching from the east as the Harpers and druids would have done (unless, of course, you want to get wet or you can fly). On one side of the river is the town proper. On the other, Last Light Inn and several farms.

If the Harpers barricade the bridges, or the Justiciars build barricades to keep them out, then Reithwin is cut off from everything on the east side of the river. Cut off the farms, and Reithwin loses food. Cut off travel and trade from the east, and Reithwin is forced to look to the west for supplies...but Baldur's Gate is to the west, and Grand Duke Eltan is already suspicious. He will not be a friend to Ketheric Thorm. Reithwin is essentially (if not literally) boxed in.

It's a good siege plan...in theory, anyway. And if the Harpers lay siege while waiting for their army to grow, waiting for the druids to join them, etc., then it helps them in two ways. It starves out and weakens the enemy and gives them time to increase their own strength.

For a while, the seige seems to be working.

Whether it was the Harpers or the Justiciars who built the barricades and pickets along the bridge, Reithwin is now officially under siege, and trade and supplies start to trickle nearly to a stop. The number of travelers through the tollhouse drastically dwindles, until eventually it seems to be cut off entirely. Reithwin begins to suffer food shortages, enough that the veterinarian in town is forced to butcher some of the stable's horses to provide food. And it's not just horses, judging by the evidence we find elsewhere in town, like the missing pets posters and the pile of bloodied cat and dog collars outside of the tollhouse.

(Ugh I hate it so much. But the Harpers are determined to win. And yes, while some of the food shortage stuff could have been Ketheric failing at governing his town appropriately, a siege makes more sense to me.)

At some point (days? weeks?) Ketheric likely says enough is enough. The battle must begin or he will lose his town and his army to starvation, especially with winter quickly approaching. Alternatively, the Harpers themselves grow tired of waiting. They see that their siege is doing little to sway Ketheric and decide that the only thing left to do is attack.

Either way, the battle will begin on the morrow.

On the eve of the first day of the battle, many Harpers and druids bunk at Last Light Inn, likely including Jaheira and Halsin (who both remember the inn as it was before the shadow curse). Art Cullagh is also staying there. Whether he has already visited the House of Healing and lost his lute there is uncertain, though I think it's likely. Perhaps he visited before Reithwin was sieged, or visited during the siege but before the fighting started. Perhaps he is there in the inn when the Harpers toast one another the night before the battle. The Harpers no doubt expect a hard-fought but certain victory. I can only wonder what Art must have thought, watching them, if he was there that same night.

Shadow Vestige: You glimpse a young Harper on the eve of battle against Thorm, long ago. He and his comrades toast each other in Last Light.

The next day, the battle begins.

Ketheric is a remarkable general who understands how to rouse his soldiers. Minthara describes him, even a century later, as "everything a general should be - a charismatic leader with a brilliant strategic mind." He knows his soldiers and those who would volunteer to join his army are going hungry and are fearful of what the winter might bring to their seiged town. Whether they are Dark Justiciars or not, they're mortal. More mortal than he is. So he gathers them together to bolster their morale before the battle.

[A record of Ketheric Thorm's speech to his troops before his victory over the druids and Harpers.] Take this. You there, take this from me. That is gold, friends. Let those who are coveters and cravens among you take my gold and go. There's enough to keep you warm in winter. But in those cold and lonely winters to come, you will look into the bought flames in the purchased hearth and see a bargained-for peace, and then you'll realise that such a retirement comes at the price of pride. Go on and take it. Take it and go. Those who are not afraid and me? We won't stop you. But neither shall we know a winter in which the coin of regret is idly spent. Instead we shall know blood, and fury, and a triumph worthy of a flame reconcileable only with heaven, I swear it! Against us arrayed is a group of fools - let them be our bank vault! Let us raid them, friends! Let us grow rich on screams!

The Harper Testimonial suggests that Ketheric himself did not enter the battle until day three. I can imagine Ketheric giving such a speech and then watching from the towers (a good vantage point to view the battle below) as his Dark Justiciar army descends on hundreds of Harpers and druids, knowing that victory is well in hand. His Justiciars have trained hard and ritually killed a celestial being, after all. They are an elite force.

~1~ A Harper's Testimonial: The Last Stand of Ketheric Thorm, Chosen of Shar. [The pursuant text describes a battle between Ketheric Thorm's faithful and magical Harper forces.] I do not know what magic the Dark Justiciars summoned to our plane. But if it came from the Weave, then let it be cursed for eternity. For three days, we sieged the Towers. For three days, their darkbolts cleaved our ranks. And on the third day, as his men and woman at last began to fall, Ketheric entered battle.

(The Harper might be conflating the Towers with Reithwin itself, or perhaps I'm wrong about this theory and the Harper is only talking about a secondary battle that happened right outside the Towers. Either way, putting it here because the information is extremely relevant, but here's your warning that there's plenty of conjecture ahead!)

The Harpers and druids clash with the Justiciars on the east banks of the Chionthar, slaughtering each other around ballistae, barricades, and battering rams, trying to push forward across the bridges and docks that connect the tollhouse with the village outskirts. This is no mere skirmish. The ground is slick with blood as Dark Justiciars fight to keep the Harpers and druids from advancing forward into town and reaching Moonrise. Dead and wounded soon begin to litter the ground. The battle is so brutal that vestiges of it remain even a century later, identifiable at a glance.

Character comments regarding the centuries-old remains of the battle around the main bridge into the tollhouse. Astarion: This battlefield must've ran slick with blood - I can taste it in the air, even after so long. Lae'zel: There was a great battle here. The ground stained red with blood long dried. Gale: The site of no ordinary skirmish. This was once a battlefield, and a bloody one, too, judging by the number of bodies. Shadowheart: These aren't the remains of some skirmish - whole armies clashed here once. Wyll: A great battle was fought here - I can practically hear the din of blade against blade, axe against shield. Karlach: This is a battlefield. An old one, but still. Jaheira: Forces from the Emerald Grove. Many stood against Ketheric - only we lucky few survived him. Halsin: A great many druids once stood here to fight Ketheric Thorm. Few ever left. Minthara: Remains of those who stood against Ketheric in the past.

Dark Justiciars rain down darkbolts on the Harpers and druids, bolts of pure darkness that deal moderate damage and can daze the victim. Healers among the Harper and druid ranks begin to get overwhelmed by the amount of wounded. Many of the dead are left abandoned on the field, the fighting too intense to stop and take them away for burial. Most are never recovered.

As the battle rages on for one day, two days, three days, things are growing dire for the citizens inside the town, some of whom are cowering as the battle gets closer and closer, spilling out onto the streets of Reithwin and surging toward Moonrise Towers. The House of Healing is trying to tend to the wounded and the sick, operating as both a regular clinic and a war hospital. Because the siege (and now the battle) has stopped all supplies from entering the town, their potions and tonics are running dangerously low. Additionally, though the House of Healing should technically be offering aid to any wounded person, no matter their faith or creed, Ketheric issues an order that all Selûnites or Harpers must be turned away and that all healing items must be focused on Dark Justiciars alone—an order that his surgeon uncle, Malus, strictly enforces.

[This exhaustive log lists each and every patient to have sought healing in Reithwin, along with their ailments. The minor injuries and common diseases of the early pages give way to critical wounds and deep lacerations - the repercussions of battle. Several unbound scrolls have been slid among the final pages, demanding that healers turn away wounded Harpers and Selûnites, and reserve their tonics for wounded Dark Justiciars - on the orders of General Ketheric Thorm.]

(If Art Cullagh hasn't visited the House of Healing already, he likely can't now.)

The House is still operating as a clinic, accepting patients who come in with ailments or injuries, but they're ordered to essentially ignore them. Malus even forbids the use of sleep aids and anesthetics to ease the pain or passing of the elderly and mortally wounded. Soon they begin turning away even Sharran citizen patients, or leaving them untreated, like the husband of one Cleric of Shar who comes to the House of Healing to be treated for an unknown malady. The husband never realizes that he is suffering the damage that his wife should be getting as she takes on "whole troops" of Harpers single-handedly and walks away without a scratch. He dies, forgotten, either a victim of the shadow curse or of his wife's warding bond.

Things grow so dire that at least one nurse, Sister Anna Lidwin, pens a note to the Chief Chirurgeon (surgeon) of Harbourside Hospital (which is itself kinda sketchy) requesting aid. Potions, herbs, clerics, anything that can help.

To: Chief Chirurgeon, Harbourside Hospital, Baldur's Gate From: Sister Anna Lidwin, Darkcloak, Reithwin House of Healing URGENT! Dear Sir or Madam, We have reached dire times in Reithwin. War has come. Do you not teach that it is our duty to mend all who break, comfort all who ail, without regard for the gods they worship or the champions they heed? Yet our surgeon Malus Thorm abides by his own creed. 'The will of Shar', he might say, and I dare not argue with him - or any Thorm. He allows supplies to dwindle, leaves some patients' injuries to fester so he may 'study', and commands me to nurse only Dark Justiciars that seek treatment. I beg you, Sir or Madam - please deliver us aid, so I might close every tear and cleanse every wound, even those of Harpers and Selûnites. We will humbly accept all you can offer: potions, herbs, sutures, even clerics. Help us to heal. With gratitude, Anna Lidwin

The letter is never sent. It lies abandoned in the House of Healing even a century later. Perhaps she wrote it on the final day of battle and was caught by the shadow curse as she was trying to tend to the wounded.

For the Harpers and druids, the battle has taken a turn for the worse. Ketheric's Dark Justiciars seem overwhelmingly powerful and the damage this battle is doing is only increasing, especially as it spills into town. Eventually, the Harpers weigh the cost of victory and elect to surrender. They get Khelben Arunsun, the Blackstaff himself, to write the surrender letter (whether he was physically there at the battle or not is uncertain).

Ketheric denies the surrender.

General Ketheric Thorm: It is with heavy heart that I must announce the surrender of the Harper forces and its allies to your Dark Justiciar army, under unanimous agreement. 'Harpers work against villainy and wickedness wherever they find it…' So states our code, and so here have we acted. But I also know, all too well, how the statement continues: '… but they work ever mindful of the consequences of what they do.' We cannot be party to the suffering of the people of Reithwin, and indeed, of the great loss of life that this war will visit upon the Sword Coast - and, perhaps, beyond it. So it is written, and so let it be done, Khelben Arunsun, on behalf of the High Harper Council and its allies. [Two words are slashed across the bottom of the scroll:] SURRENDER DECLINED

Ketheric rejects the surrender and clamps it in the jaws of some poor dead soul whose head or skull is then set on a pike at the battlefield (knowing him, it was probably the messenger who brought the surrender letter). The Harpers and druids keep fighting. They have no other choice. It's fight or be slaughtered.

It's the third day. Something has shifted in the ranks. Dark Justiciars are falling in battle, and for once, reinforcements aren't coming. Unbeknownst to the Harpers and druids, an infernal force is destroying Justiciars in Grymforge and in the Gauntlet of Shar. The Harpers and druids at last have a fighting chance.

And that's when Ketheric joins the battle.

The details of this part of the battle are lost to time. We know from Minthara that Ketheric is absolutely fearless in battle. She describes him as a man who leads his troops from the front and cuts through the enemy “like a scythe through stalks.” I suspect that even back then, when the blows and arrows rain down on him as they do when Minthara fights with him a century later, he does not readily fall or falter. With immortality practically guaranteed, he likely butchers more Harpers and druids than they dared imagine possible for one man. The hundreds that made up the original army of Harpers and druids have been winnowed and cut down until only, as Jaheira says, a lucky few remain. The dead number so high for Halsin that he says it would take him a day and night recite all the names of the friends he lost in this battle.

But eventually, somehow, the Harpers and druids at last defeat Ketheric and eliminate all the remaining Justiciars that are still fighting topside. Ketheric suffers a seemingly mortal wound and falls. He utters a "final curse" as he dies and then withers, according to one Harper at least. The effects of this spoken curse are not immediately apparent. For now, the Harpers and druids feel they have won a victory at last, but the curse, whatever it is meant to be, clearly spooks them. Perhaps they think that by sealing Ketheric in the mausoleum, they can avoid the effects of his last dying words.

The Harpers drag Ketheric's corpse from the battlefield and leave him in a tomb in the mausoleum. Jaheira (and possibly Halsin) personally helps other Harpers and Druids seal the mausoleum doors using arcane sigils.

Player: If he's back, perhaps you should have hit him harder in the first place. Jaheira: Believe me - he was well and truly dead. I locked his corpse in the Thorm mausoleum myself.

Halsin: These sigils...druids and Harpers alike tried to seal away Ketheric Thorm in his foul tomb. To no avail.

The remaining Harpers and druids think that this final act of sealing Ketheric away signals a hard-won victory. Jaheira and the other Harpers turn to the task of removing bodies from the battlefield to bury them at Last Light. Halsin and the other druids likely also focus on tending to their dead and wounded, while the surviving citizens of Reithwin breathe unsteady sighs of relief or resignation...until the late autumn air suddenly takes on a midwinter chill.

The shadow curse is only just beginning.

———

Tags for those who wanted the update! @fingons-rad-harp @stuffforthestash

Feel free to request a tag update for Part 3!

[magewisdumb]

Greetings & Partings

Dark Justiciar Shadowheart HCs

A/N: I was listening to a really ethereal cover of down by the river and starting about reuniting and departing with DJ Shadowheart. I kinda wanted to capture SH's more sensual side in this and yes I know her being a DJ she definately hardcore dommy mommy, but how I consider Selunite Shadowheart Light Silk, I consider DJ Shadowheart dark Velvet. Both have their softness in the variance of texture. Enough of my rambling, enjoy!!!

CW: Some NSFW sprinkled in there

Shadowheart knows as choosing the fate of a Dark Justiciar, her run ins with you cannot last long... for now

When meetings Shadowheart, you do not look for her, she looks for you.

She doesn't actually like to meet at the cloister either, she'll meet you in the woods outside the city.

Being a mistress of shadows gives her the edge and she loves the feeling of tracking you through the forest gives her a release from her mother superior duties.

There's a clearing in the forest that you always reunite with Shadowheart in. Bending down at the creek along the side at the clearing, you reach to dip your hands into the clearing to rinse your face when you see her reflection behind you, eyes glowing purple in the night shining with mirth before dragging you to your feet lightly by the collar.

Shadowheart herself is in a loose fitting silky black dress that embodies the endless dark that she worships.

Ok ok so my headcanon is that Selunite Shadowheart develops a love for swimming, Dark Justiciar Shadowheart develops a love for dancing 💃

To her a dance can be full of passion and life, but all dances come to an end and Just like night orchids, Shadowheart finds that cycle of life and death, gain and loss beautiful however tragic.

She always leads. No ands buts or ifs

Hums or sings a tune next to your ear making sure you're well aware of her breath fanning out across it as she pulls you close.

Always chooses to meet you out on a full moon to spite Selûne with her presence.

When the dance dies down, she'll pull you into her tent (which is soaked in the scent of lavender btw)

Wine glasses are ready to go and she'll propose a toast. Expect a small bittersweet expression to flash across her face before she masters it back to one of relaxation.

As the night goes on expect her desire and want of you to grow, and she starts to get handsy. She's feeling emotional and the wine doesn't quite burn enough for her liking.

Takes a swig before kissing you deeply, wine spilling between the contact of your lips

She quickly divests of your clothes and hers and goes down on you

Hickeys and bites ftw she wants to leave whatever impact she has on you.

Her eyes water as your sighs ring out into the space in her tent.

She's missed this more than she'll ever admit. She knows she can not call it love, but deep inside, she knows your heart is hers.

When you cry her name, she rides the after shocks with you before climbing up your body, leaving kisses as she climbs back up and pulls you into a languid kiss.

In the after glow, the pillow talk is mostly about new recruits, nocturne shenanigans, and new changes in the city.

When the night pulls the moon further behind the canopy of trees, Shadowheart knows her time draws short.

When you fall asleep in her arms, she solidifies by casting magical sleep (if you're an elf pretend it works) as she uses a teleportation scroll to bring you to your room in the city or anywhere you live in the surrounding area before taking a longing glance at your sleeping form.

She vanishes through the cracks of the window in a dissolution of smoke.

She leaves a small note along the lines of "till next time"

A/N: OK OK I KNOW I GOT LAZY ABOUT THE DEPARTURE BUT I NEEDED TO GET THESE THOUGHTS OUTTA MY BRAIN. Listen I firmly believe DJ Shadowheart can love (just don't call it that)

[katyusha454]

Random idea I had today that should be a fic but I'll probably never write it so here, have the outline.

Okay but imagine being Durge. You wake up on the nautiloid with nothing but a name and some intrusive thoughts. No memory whatsoever. You're confused as fuck. Nothing makes any sense.

But then you find out that Shadowheart had her memories taken too. This is exciting! There's someone else like you! You wonder if maybe you're like her, if you also serve this "Shar", whoever she is. But no, Shadowheart's confident whatever took your memories wasn't Shar; your symptoms are too different from hers.

But! That doesn't mean Shar doesn't approve of you. All loss and forgetfulness ultimately belongs to her. Shadowheart is reluctant to tell you much at first, but as she gets more comfortable with you she talks more freely about her faith and you won't lie, it's kind of appealing. Your memory loss isn't a problem, it's a blessing! And oblivion doesn't sound so bad in comparison to your constant murderous urges.

Then you learn more. Shadowheart talks about torture. You read "Mistress of the Night and Friends", you visit Grymforge and learn about the sacrifices. Not only does Shar love you for your memory loss, she could also give you an outlet for your urges?!? This is awesome!

You start praying with Shadowheart. Not as often as she does, but it becomes a part of your daily routine. You spend more and more time talking about religious stuff with her. She's thrilled to have the company of someone who thinks like her, who respects her beliefs and doesn't act like she's a bad person for having them. She admits that she'd been having some doubts about her faith, but that spending time with you has really helped reassure her that she's on the right path.

By the time you reach the shadow-cursed lands, Lady Shar is sort of your unofficial patron goddess. The shadow curse does still disturb you, and it's frustrating that only Shadowheart gets protection from it, but she reassures you that it's probably just because you're not a real Sharran yet. She promises that once you get to Baldur's Gate she'll bring you to the cloister and you can join up for real.

It's probably for the best that you decide to tell that weird little butler dude to fuck off when he tells you to kill Isobel. You know you're supposed to hate Selûnites, but there's no way in hell you're gonna take orders from this nasty-ass goblin man. If he was a Sharran it'd be different, but he's very obviously not one and you don't trust him. Which is good; becoming the Slayer would have marked you out as a Bhaalist when the only god whose favor you seek is your Lady.

You complete the Gauntlet at Shadowheart's side. She explains that you don't have the religious knowledge and training necessary to be a true Dark Justiciar, but it's giving you an excellent head start if Lady Shar ever calls you to that path. The two of you practically devour the religious texts in the Silent Library, and when you find the Spear of Night you both quickly realize the implications.

Nightsong dies, of course. It's difficult to keep your urge to carve up her alabaster flesh yourself under control, but you stay strong and let Shadowheart do her duty uninterrupted. When she becomes Lady Shar's Chosen, she offers to induct you into the church right there and then, right in the heart of your Lady's domain. You eagerly accept.

What you discover beneath Moonrise Towers horrifies you. You realize that your memory loss truly is a blessing. Lady Shar has rescued you from horrors beyond imagining and you're immensely grateful. Once it's all over, you and Shadowheart celebrate a Nightfall feast in the Towers' dining hall. Most of your party does not join in.

You've never been able to feel the state of total emptiness that Shadowheart feels in her meditations. Finding out that you're a Bhaalspawn explains why. Lady Shar will never accept you now...will She?

You reject your birthright. You will serve no god but Lady Shar. When Withers brings you back from the dead, you can finally feel that sacred emptiness. For the first time in your limited memory, you feel peace at last. Now all that's left to do is help Shadowheart purge your Lady's church and put an end to the Absolute.

You got what you wanted. Why does your victory feel so hollow? So...empty?

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Fic Prompt #3

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Shar; also features Selûne, and Balthazar, that wretched walking content warning Length: ~4000 words Summary: Aylin prays in the Shadowfell, to a mother who can't hear her - and an aunt who can.

What can silence the Nightsong? @stachless prompted "nightmare" and also drew [this art]. Brainworms heavily inspired by @featherwurm's [art] and its followup [here]. Also inspired by a bunch of Aylin's Shadowfell dialogue, the extremity of what she went through, her mother, and the Jesus-Christ-Superstar-Gethsemane of it all. Then we have my own need to see her cherished and taken care of and protected, along with a bit of weird fascination with how the Calm Emotions spell is actually supposed to work.

Hurt/comfort. Warnings for canon-typical violence and references to torture.

---

Once, there would have been a steady hum, a warmth blooming eternal in her chest. An undeniable, reassuring presence, like a hand on her shoulder, and a loving murmur in her ear as if her Mother were there, but only just out of sight. Now there is nothing.

There is worse than nothing; there is a tug, a pull, a leeching so unnatural and wrong it makes bile rise in Aylin's throat. Makes her first steps into a stumble, as she pulls herself to her feet from where the latest Sharran had felled her, leading her so close to the bounds of her enclosure that the sickly glow of the grasping claws starts to manifest. 

So instead she kneels, as she has done countless times before: in magnificent temples and humble shrines, in muddy battlefields before and after skirmishes, in winter storms and in bright summer showers. Privately, or as one in a crowd of worshippers. Or, a traitorous little shard of her heart pipes up, with Isobel, whose devotion was always catching like the most pleasant of flames. 

"Moonmaiden, hear me," once she finally speaks, Aylin's voice is strong to her own ears, rising clear and resonant from the depths of her chest, unhampered by her predicament or by the bitter sting of grief. It is a bracing thing to note, and it makes it easier to straighten her shoulders and persist.

The odious essence that permeates the Shadowfell makes calm, comfortable meditation a distant dream, but Aylin does her utmost to shake off the worst of it. She chooses instead to focus on going through all the well-practised, familiar, reassuring motions. Hands open, relaxed, palms resting on her thighs, eyes closed but not clenched shut, chin upturned slightly, waiting for the light of an absent moon.

"Weaver of the silver loom, look upon me with mercy and pluck the threads of my fate to lead them away from this place, away from this dungeon of loss and dark and grief." 

It is easy, natural, to intone the words, even as the recitation feels slightly more formal than Aylin is used to. The conspicuous absence surrounding her and blanketing her heart does nothing to deter her.

"Guide me out of the grasp of shadow. Turn the tides, so that I may vanquish Your enemies once more and shield Your faithful from the darkness in turn, under Your watchful eye."

Ketheric will bleed, a Sharran plot that was allowed to fester and grow much too far will finally be thwarted, and Reithwin salvaged, recovered, a haven for those basking in the light of the moon once more.

Surely, whatever time Aylin has spent here… surely it is enough.

Her only answer is a coward's blow; a would-be justiciar who has snuck down to her prison oh-so-quietly, who has chosen to anoint herself with the blood of an unarmed, unaware opponent knelt in prayer.

In the rush of her own lifeblood Aylin could swear she hears laughter.

-

"Hear me. Moonmaiden," the words are ground out this time, slowly and painstakingly. "Our Lady of Silver. Shine Your gleaming light upon me, dispel the grip of shadow and pain, bolster my heart with Your radiance…"

There is an arrow lodged in her flank, and another one near her shoulder blade, still burning with the telltale traces of poison. This one wanted to make sure - a good Sharran: thorough, prepared. Lurking in the shadows and well out of reach, even for this. Truly meant for his mistress' embrace.

"I, whose hand has ever borne Your sword against wickedness gladly and with pride…"

The third in what can't have been more than, what, a day? But how to tell, when her own body falling and rising is the only thing she can rely on to try to gauge the passage of time? In any case, Ketheric is ramping up the production of his army, that much is clear.

So much of Reithwin has paraded before her eyes. People she had lived beside, even if for a little while, coming here to kill her. Some of them acknowledge the fact, even - let her know they never trusted her, sneer about their welcome and respect being but pretence, or forced by fear of divine retribution. Others avert their eyes and pretend they weren't the ones to help her pick out flowers for a bouquet to gift Isobel early in their courtship, just as they weren't the ones to help with the delicate petal-cups of the moonflower arrangements for her funeral.

If she thinks of what has happened, what must be happening to the ones who she hasn't faced here, the rage mixed with the bitter bite of failure threatens to overwhelm her utterly. They were hers to protect. Just as Isobel was.

She can't reach the accursed arrow in her back to pull it out. The sting mounts and mounts and meets the agony driven deep in her heart.

-

"Moonmaiden, hear me. As You guide the lost back onto their paths, as You set before our feet roads out of darkness, I pray. For my path is winding, never-ending, yet I have ever heeded--"

How much more? How much, how much, howmuch…

The spear to the heart she would have taken for one of the quick and merciful ones - but no. Because the Sharran misses, curse them, and then stops to deliver a tirade - before being swallowed by vicious, hungry shadows.

"The tides turn, inexorably," she mutters, half-dazed with blood loss, stumbling to her knees. "The tides, they… in Your strength, as all things, they…"

Aylin's head lolls forward, proud chin meeting chest, prayer cut short. "Enough. It is enough. I have borne--" What, she cannot say. Penance? Some crucial holy burden? Instead, she ekes out syllables around the agony in her chest, where the spear is still lodged. The spear left in her in disgust, once the acolyte realised it was a mere inert replica of the artefact they sought, incapable of delivering true death, of elevating them beyond a mere ordained assassin. Before their own fate was sealed so very efficiently.

One does not become the Chosen of a goddess by choosing themselves, after all.

"Please."

In the silence, she scrabbles with bloody hands and pulls the spear out herself, inch by painfully slow inch. Throws it into the abyss with a roar of fury and disgust, for she has no use for a weapon here. She cannot fight and tear and kill her way to freedom, a sword that cannot cut itself free. The best she could achieve by destroying her captors here and now would be oblivion, to be forgotten here. 

Lost.

"Mother," she whispers, and feels burning shame at prayer being reduced to pleading. "Mother, please."

Nothing.

-

The necromancer visits again, when she is barely recovered from the last freshly-made justiciar, still catching her breath and clutching at newly-unshattered ribs.

Aylin has goaded him before. Barked out whatever insult came to mind, every threat and vow of vengeance most bloody on both him and his coward of a general, who so adamantly refuses to come face her. But this time - she will find she cannot remember, after, what it was she said that led to this - if she even said anything.

But whatever she does or mutters or simply is right then crosses some threshold, unfathomable to her. Something that permits such aimless, gratuitous cruelty, justifies it in the mind of the truly monstrous. 

Balthazar is uncharacteristically silent, the usual sick gloating absent, when he gestures for the hands to pull her to her knees, to hold her in place; when they grip her neck and claw her head back and rip her jaw open against all her mighty strain, as if she is not even trying to resist. When she tastes the rust of the blade and then the rust of her own blood.

Her mouth burns, jaw and chin and palate aflame, agony spreading from the carelessly cut lip down to her throat. She spits blood, and blood, and blood, but it will not stop, and it chokes her. Dizzying, mortifying. Hunched over after she is released, one hand clenched in the dirt of her rocky prison, barely holding her up, the other scrabbling at her neck.

She cannot speak aloud the words that old and young, great and small throughout Faerûn know will bring the Moonmaiden's keen-eyed, loving gaze to them. But then, she has never really needed to. Selûne has ever kept watch over Her daughter, Her sword.

Mother. Aylin tries to think, upwards, upwards, imagining flying up to pierce the shadowy dome. Mother, hear me, when they would silence me.

Nothing. 

Balthazar shuffles into her blurred view, doing something with a jar, and silver-flecked muscle and--

And what will he do with it? What does he do with all else he steals from her? It is a horror she does not want to contemplate.

Her tongue, made for poetry, made for battle cries and striking fear into the unworthy and the wicked, into the scheming and the twisted. Made for jubilation and proclamation, made for testifying the glory of her Mother and the good, righteous cause she championed so gladly. Made to argue and philosophise. Made for joy and pleasure taken in the mortal and worldly and wondrously, preciously, divinely mundane: tasting fine wine and succulent food and the sweetest of lips and the softest of skin and most cherished of flesh, all hers, once, all of it -- all of it taken, gone.

Lost.

Instead, violation and violence. A cut throat, and spilt guts. And here comes one with a cruel mace - atypical, for Sharran clergy. She would laugh at herself, a half-mad thing, at the spark of absurd, sick excitement at being murdered slightly unusually - but what else is there? What is there, here, in the void?

Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing. Pain, or nothing.

Her.

Aylin does not attempt to pray when she next rises. She screams curses and barely-coherent tirades against her hated, hateful aunt, if only for there to be something, anything else.

"Silence," comes that rarely-heard voice. Despised, yet known. "My sister spawned a rabid dog, it seems."

A gleam of feeble triumph warms Aylin's heart. A response provoked. A goddess' hand forced, even if in a matter so very small. She stands, as tall and proud as she can in bloodied rags. "I was chosen to bear her light, to be her sword, to champion her cause--"

"She did not choose you," the voice cuts her off, growing louder and closer, echoing in the endless chasm of its domain, surrounding. "She made you. And what a pitiful job she did of it, too." The disdain is palpable, radiating out of every wisp of shadow swirling around the lonesome platform. "She whelped you to hunt down my faithful."

"She charged me with protecting her own." Aylin glares into the darkness, turning this way and that, trying to fathom where to best aim her fury from her perch in the eye of a growing storm. 

"She who seeks always to steal from me, to supplant me, she who knows no measure, whose ambitions know no end."

The raging shadows swirl ever closer, angrier and angrier still. But Aylin refuses to be cowed, refuses to yield, faced with the one who gives her purpose. For the Sword of the Silverlight is a necessity, yes, but it is not Selûne who makes it so. It is her spiteful sister and her misguided followers, ever prowling and looking to harm.

"You lie, as always, Lady of Loss. She wishes only for peace, for her faithful to be left to make their own way, to flourish. Without your schemes, there would be no need for my service at all."

A clap of thunder behind her; Aylin turns, but not in time to see the grasping shadows that rush towards her, wind around her legs and arms, around her neck and chest. Restraints nothing like the eerie, necrotic claws, but just as cold and cruel and unmoveable.

"Ah, so my sister needs to bind her paladins with chains of bloodline to ensure they serve her?" The voice is mocking, and so very, very near. As if Shar herself is standing there, speaking in Aylin's ear as her shadows mercilessly pull her down. "Perhaps, for once, she is right. For I have claimed a prize from her already, and he has brought me you."

"I am not bound," Aylin spits out, pulling against her fetters, grinding her knuckles to dust and bone on the cold stone of her prison. "I am not bound. I choose, I serve, I am faithful--"

"You are a failure."

"I am-- I am Dame Aylin Silverblood, Sword of the Moonmaiden, Moon Daughter, Bearer of the Silverlight. When I am free, there will be a mighty reckoning. I will bring it on wings of silver, on the edge of my blessèd sword, in the name of my Mother, and in my own name."

"You are a failure," the darkness repeats, unphased, calm, certain, factual, "and so you have been discarded."

"I am," Aylin starts, barely forces out, then stops, gritting her teeth against the burning pressure, the rancid atmosphere cloaking her prison. "I am--"

"I am the Nightsinger and you are my Nightsong, and so it is mine to silence you."

The darkness becomes tangible, cloying, suffocating. Aylin tries to draw breath but finds that she cannot. Cannot see through the thickening murk even to the sickly blazing runes of her prison-circle.

"The moon does not shine its foul light here, and it never will. Here, in my perfect dark, we are gloriously free of it. Howl your foolish prayer-ditties, Nightsong - they will fall upon no ears. Your ever-whimsical, capricious mother has abandoned you to my care."

The shadows tighten and Aylin chokes on darkness like she choked on blood. Her back burns with phantom pains, spiking up and down her shoulder blades, and every wound and indignity feels visited upon her again. A scream feels like it should tear itself from her throat, but there is only silence.

"In the creation of my army, I have given you purpose. Much more than my pathetic sister ever has. And once that purpose is fulfilled, I will silence you forever."

She finds herself sprawled on the ground, suddenly free of the restraints, as the final, threatening proclamation rattles through her muscle, deep into her bones.

"The loss of a daughter," Shar sounds amused, almost, a cruel smile tainting her words, "is devastating, I hear. It will make a fine gift for my deserving kin. Now rise. One approaches who must prove their worth."

Aylin's mind is flooded with Isobel, Isobel, Isobel, and her chest feels like it will cave in on itself.

-

The air rushes in, finally, and Aylin tastes blood in her mouth from a bitten cheek, feels a pounding in her head - and very little else. A cool balm, a much-needed distance has been put between her and the red-hot thornvine of the past century, and it allows her to breathe.

She blinks, and knelt before her is Isobel, alive and whole, in a simple nightgown, hands aglow with the remnants of a freshly cast spell.

"Aylin?" She asks, cautiously, with the telltale downturn of the corner of her mouth that means she is concentrating. Her eyes are wide and filled to the brim with such tender concern, the restrained but clearly pained tremble in her voice more agonising than any Sharran knife. She keeps her distance, though the tension and the need to leap forward, to be close, to hold, is palpable.

"You were… I tried to wake you, but you weren't responding. It was like you were lost to me."

Lost.

"I am…"

Aylin stops, because she does not know what words could follow and not be lies.

"This will only last a minute. Please, stay with me, Aylin. Alright?"

Aylin nods.

"Breathe with me." 

Aylin does.

"May I touch you?"

Aylin hesitates, where she should have roared her enthusiastic consent. But her entire body still feels raw.

"...yes," she says only when she truly feels it to be true, and Isobel seems… proud?

The lightest, gentlest hand comes to rest on her cheek and jaw. Familiar, loved, ever so slightly colder than… than before. Isobel.

She would have nuzzled into it happily, usually, pressed a kiss or two to the soft palm. It is a bit much at the moment, though, just that little bit too close, and so Aylin slowly pries it off her cheek and holds the hand between both her own instead.

Then the minute is up and the spell wears off, and the veil that was between her and what seems like the rest of the world abruptly falls away. Aylin draws air in with mounting effort, then lets it out in a hiss at the flood of sensation.

But the hand between hers serves to ground; Isobel's eyes, luminous in the moonlight that seeps into the room, hold her own and seem to encompass her entire.

"Should I cast it again?" Isobel asks softly, free hand already rising towards Aylin's temple.

She moves to decline, muster up some sort of casual air, but stops herself at the last moment. Digs down to the soldierly disposition that has been a help to her, an ingrained way to make sense of so much. It does no good to overestimate one's own capability. Her mind rattles off, almost of its own accord. A correct measure of one's strength is key to all engagements.

"Once-- once more, please, my love," Aylin asks, and is mildly surprised at the complete lack of shame and nauseating sense of inadequacy that had, for a time, become her stalwart companions.

"As many times as you need," Isobel says reassuringly, already leaning forward and reaching out with both hands. "There is no shame in accepting help."

It is a song and dance they both know well by now. The words Isobel has spoken what must be hundreds of times, in an effort to make them real and true to Aylin.

Her touch on what feels like the sides of Aylin's troubled mind accompanied by a murmured incantation take all of a second, but the coolness and numbness and the slight drowsiness ripple outward and encompass her again. The separation from herself, the distance from everything, is always mildly discomfiting and ever-so-slightly reminiscent of the Shadowfell - a reassuring fact, as Aylin takes it to mean she is in no danger of craving it, or growing to depend on it.

It is but a moment of reprieve each time. But it is just enough to buy her a chance to shore up her own defences, when they have been so cruelly torn down by the workings of her own unconscious mind. She places her hands over Isobel's own once again, breathes in time with her, and thinks, very deliberately, of little else.

This time, when the minute runs out, the shock of being plunged back into the world is barely noticeable. 

There is no brand-wound placed on her by Shar, like brave Shadowheart still bears. And yet it still feels so often like her aunt's cruel grasp is lying in wait behind every shadow, waiting to snatch her up and pull her down, down, down, until her knees meet the cold rune-inscribed rock in the heart of the Shadowfell.

It makes Aylin still want to laugh at herself, sometimes. Her knees are, in fact, resting on the finest mattress of the grandest bed Waterdeep's House of the Moon could provide. Her legs are entangled with duvets filled with the softest down, with sheets of finest silk. And yet, and yet.

But she does not let out any bark of bitter, self-deprecating laugh, for even after everything, there is Isobel. The anchor. The crux of everything. The eye of a swirling storm. A beacon of light so blessedly blinding it washes out all else, all pain and sorrow and acrid, biting memory.

Isobel, whose mere presence drowns out the roaring winds of the Shadowfell, fills up the Lady of Loss' cursed silence that steals and numbs everything it touches.

Isobel, something to focus on when all else is too much, or too little. Who scuttles closer to Aylin on the bed once she sees her calmed enough, and leans in until they are pressed shoulder to shoulder.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Her thumb rubs small, delicate circles into the back of Aylin's hand.

Aylin sighs. "I cannot possibly begin to explain… to put into words…"

"Could you try? For me, my love, and for yourself?"

The only thing silencing Aylin now is she herself. 

Truth and honesty, ideals to strive for - and the light that chases away any Sharran shadow. Aylin draws in a deep breath, as much as her chest that still feels cramped will allow. Squares her shoulders as if preparing for combat.

And still her words come out hesitant, almost meek. "I would not have wanted you to bear witness, then. To… to their crimes, their sins against me. To my shame. And so I do not want to make you a witness to them now, even if it is only through my telling."

She feels reluctant to expose Isobel to any of it. Even when, yes, she is an accomplished cleric and a healer and has seen and dealt with her own share of horrors, but…

"Aylin," the palpable pain in Isobel's wide eyes is already too much as she reaches out a gentle hand again, turning Aylin's face towards her. "You are the woman I love, and the chosen of my heart. Nothing will ever change that."

"It has been nigh a year." Aylin knows she sounds petulant. Knows she would have thoughtlessly blinked away the meagre span of a single year, before.

"Compared to a hundred?" Isobel shakes her head, looks at her almost pleadingly. That way she does, the way she seems to have reserved for whenever Aylin insists she should think nothing of the way she hastily exited a too-tight or too-dark space.

"Fine. Fine, my love, for you," Aylin breathes out. "But… outside. Let us first recover somewhat, in my Mother's light."

Let Her hear as well.

Isobel rises, takes her by the hand, and pulls her along, gently, out onto the balcony. Theirs is a spacious, luxurious suite situated in the prime spot of the temple complex housing wing, overlooking the luscious inner gardens in the House of the Moon. Usually, neither of them care for the pomp and circumstance their visits tend to invite in Selûnite spaces. But this time Aylin feels grateful for both the privacy and the position under the moonlight dome, as she does little but breathe in the scent of the moonflowers, freshly opened for the night, each cupping a little mote of moonlight and embracing it in blue.

For a good while, until Aylin feels ready, Isobel chatters, hums, softly fills any second of silence. She has come to understand so much, and Aylin is so grateful as she lets the sweet voice buoy her heart, carry her. 

It felt near-blasphemous, at first, these calls to a goddess over things she would have once called trivial. But the joint efforts of her Mother and her beloved have convinced her they are anything but. 

Mother? Aylin sends out the simplest of thoughts as she gazes upward and feels the moonlight bathe her face, fill her heart to bursting, settle around her shoulders like a blanket.

I hear you, daughter. I see you. I hold you under my gaze, safe.

This, too, is her birthright. Simple reassurance.

Under her Mother's silver eye, guarded in the circle of Isobel's arms, Aylin speaks. Once her words run dry and she is left feeling drained, scoured out, head dizzyingly feather-light, Isobel finally moves from her side. She returns within moments, wraps herself around Aylin and wraps them both in a star-embroidered coverlet. 

"Never again," Isobel whispers, all moon-bathed steel, as she presses a dozen soft kisses to Aylin's face, then holds her to her chest. "I will not let anyone harm you again."

It is a heartwarming, if impossible thought. Aylin doesn't have it in herself to do anything but believe it.

The moon continues on her path across the sky, her Tears shining bright, as the night descends into a silence that is both warm and comfortable.

[random-introverted-blog]

No More [Selunite!Shadowheart x F!Reader/Tav]

NOTE: THIS IS A CONTINUATION OF FLICKERS OF LOSS. Yes, I did it, thank AO3 you cowards.

Honestly, I planned more but like where it ended too much to drag it out [sandcastles next time?]

Continuation/Part 3 - Shadows of Shar

Intended Audience: Mature [it gets a teeny bit questionable but that's why the teens will ignore this rating anyway]

Who be smoochin?: Shadowheart x F!Reader/Tav (I got tired of y/n, broke my writing immersion)

The Bit: It's been a month since Selunite!Shadowheart and you escaped DarkJusticiar!Shadowheart. You haven't been sleeping well, and are struggling to adjust. It doesn't help that the wound she left on your hand, binding you to her, still torments you. Or the nightmares you have nearly every time you lay down. Or that you have few memories of your prior life with Selunite!Shadowheart to guide you.

Warnings/Advisories: Fluffy hurt comfort. You're going through it, lingering Stockholm Syndrome is making your thoughts questionable at times, one of your nightmares gets pretty spooky, you're still pretty damn brainwashed and your girlfriend is mega supportive. Mildly graphic detail of a relived memory, a distinct lack of sandcastles (sorry guys it was mostly written by the time it was suggested BUT... maybe next time? NO PROMISES)

Words, all the word (count): 2,583, baebeeeee

Link to the AO3 page if you prefer reading there

MINIMAL EDITING - WE FORGET AND DIE LIKE SHARRANS (AGAIN)

Providing a continuation I didn't think I'd actually write I'm 3...2...1...

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Absentmindedly, your fingertips brushed over the wounds on your hand, staring into the darkness of the night surrounding the cottage. The rough texture of the log you've perched yourself on helped keep your mind from wandering too far while the chirping of crickets and hooting owls provided a beautiful, calming melody.

Dawn would break in two or so hours. You think. It was still odd, having to relearn things that came so simply to others. There was no need to memorize the lights in the sky when you seldom found yourself beneath them.

Twinkling and bright, they soothed something in you. Sure, the moon was beautiful, and you'd always be eternally grateful for everything Selûne has done. After all, it was her amulet around your neck that provided enduring guardianship over you. But sometimes... you just wanted the sparkling freckles scattered along the dark canvas of the night sky.

But your mind always wandered back to where it shouldn't. Or maybe it should. It was still so hard to tell. Even as you trace the shapes scarred into your flesh, something inside you... ached. Was that man hurting her? Does he make sure she has her black velvet tea stuff in the morning? Does she miss you?

Like you miss her...

Gods, how pathetic can you be?

A searing, throbbing burst of pain surges across your nerves from your hand, spreading up your arm and finally subsiding at your elbow. The scars-turned-sigils flickering a brief violet, while you wince and hiss. You were getting better at tolerating the pain...

Familiar footfalls crunched the leaves and twigs leading to your log. The first time, you jumped and darted into the woods. Found only when your wound flared so intensely, you screamed. The times after that, you jumped.

You've started to relearn the feeling of her presence, like a warm embrace that lingers in your memory. Differentiate it from what you were trained to know.

She took a seat beside you, positioning herself on your right. Close enough, you could feel her, distant enough to avoid suffocating you. The soft rustle of her clothing barely registered amidst the ambient songs of the evening. Silence enveloped her but was not unexpected, as she occasionally left you to your own musings. Just by being there, she effortlessly offered endless support. Provide soothing reassurance, an attentive ear or a warm shoulder - Whatever you needed, she would make sure you had it. It was one of the first things she taught you.

Though... recovery was still difficult. Part of you wanted to hear her. Scoot closer until you could feel her warmth. All you had to do was ask. Reach out for her. You weren't sure how to do much of that yet, but you wanted to try... you wanted to so badly. "I... don't want to sleep anymore." The words escape your lips in a hushed murmur, echoing the reason behind your presence in this place, reminding you why you're out here in the first place. And you fought desperately to shut it out.

"I know." She whispers, tone brimming with empathy. As you glance sideways, you can see her eyes locked on you, watching your every move. "But you need to. Running from it won't heal you, my love." Her hand moves closer to you, silently asking for permission.

All you do is return your hand to your side on the log, and Shadowheart does the rest. Her fingers delicately traced the contours of your hand as she slid hers over yours. You hesitantly meet her eyes, feeling a surge of nervous anticipation. All the warmth and happiness you wanted so badly was now laid bare and raw before you. Ready for you to come to your senses, get over yourself and...

Again, but worse this time. Your arm throbbed intensely, the pain spreading from your hand and into your shoulder, igniting a blazing fire pulsating through your entire body. It felt as though invisible knives were mercilessly carving your skin, prompting an involuntary cry of agony for just a fleeting moment before you quickly stifled it by clenching your teeth, your eyes screwed tightly shut.

You're barely aware of Shadowheart's hands clasped around yours, closer to you now, her soft-spoken words of affection and comfort. "Shh," she coos warmly, trying to soothe you. "It'll pass... just breathe. Shh... I'm right here, listen to me and breathe, love..." As your hand relaxes between hers and your breathing finds a steady rhythm, she can't help but smile. "There... See? Already passed." Shadowheart adds, placing a delicate peck to your temple, sending a warm tingle down your spine.

"Mine is bound to..."

"I know..." She cuts you off gently, rubbing soft circles on your hand. "This is the most she can do to you now. And the more you reclaim of yourself, the less this will matter. I promise."

Giving your hand a gentle squeeze before rising to her feet and gently pulling you with her. You don't fight her.

Leading you back inside, she playfully shoos away a dog lingering at the door, giggling quietly as it scampers off. A frown briefly creases your lips, wishing you could recognize the animals as much as they recognized you.

As she led you up the stairs to your bedroom, she made sure to keep your hand in hers, providing a constant sense of comfort until you reached the bed. She lifts a cat from your side of the bed and settles it on the floor before reaching for you to help you in. But she reads the look on your face, smiles almost apologetically and settles for just holding your hand until you sit on the edge of the bed.

Once you appear to relax, she gracefully rounds the bed and climbs in on her side, the mattress sinking slightly beneath her weight. Her eyes burning into your back as you sit there, hesitating. "Love, please..."

Her fingers lightly graze your exposed shoulder, causing you to flinch involuntarily. Shadowheart pauses, and you cringe at the hurt you sense radiating from her now still hand. But she tries, so slowly and timidly. "I'll be right here, sweetheart. Whatever comes, you won't face it alone this time. I swear..."

The tenderness in her voice is so different from the harsh commands you've come to expect. It's like a balm to your wary mind and you carefully ease yourself down to rest your head on the pillow.

For a split second, you're staring at the dark ceiling of that place and your core twitches in anticipation, ready to give everything and anything she wants of you.

A warm hand settles over yours, its touch so gentle that you don't notice your own trembling until she holds them steady. "You're safe here." Shadowheart reassures, voice barely above a whisper beside you. Nights have been difficult for the entire month you've been here, beset by restless sleep and haunting dreams. Surely it was wearing on her, this constant need to comfort and ground you... But here she was, just as patient and present as she was the first night. Not so much as implying a single complaint, passive or otherwise. "Can I hold you?" She asks, voice deliberate and measured, like the very words would startle you into the woods.

You offer a subtle nod, the faint sound of your affirmation barely audible in the room. As you do, you notice her cautious shuffle, the soft rustling of her moving across the bed. The moonlight through the window behind the bed casts a gentle glow, illuminating her hands, which she purposefully positions within your line of sight. You can sense her deliberate awareness, her conscious effort to ensure her actions remain visible. Gradually, she encircles you with her arms, her touch conveying a tender and guarded embrace. The scent of her envelops you - lavender and night orchids - adding a touch of familiarity.

She would never have... your body was hers to suit her whims...

"You're safe here..." Shadowheart whispers into your ear, returning you to the cottage. The present. Her nose gently presses into the crook of your neck, the warmth of her breath a soft caress you fixate on as your eyelids drift closed.

The initial darkness is hushed and welcoming, like a gentle whisper in the night... until it's not.

Until it's frigid and gripping at your limbs so tight, you almost lose feeling in them... Until they're pulling at the seams of you, tearing at you and boils your blood hot enough you swear your skin is melting off your bones like wax off a wick. You would scream if your mouth were allowed to open. "You've strayed, pet..." the icy voice scolds, her tone low. From the depths of the darkness, a faint silhouette emerges, steadily approaching you. "And we both know deep down that's not your honest desire."

Closing the distance between you, She emerges and looms above, her presence dominating. You realize now you're on your knees, with a sense of vulnerability washing over you.. Wearing her black robe you could still vividly envision even without seeing it. "Recall your prayer of contrition, when you first came to the Nightsingers' embrace."

You do, and the sharp pang of unmitigated anguish shoots through you. "When you wavered at the altar, when you turned away from her and hesitated to send Nyxara to her endless dark." It's as if a floodgate opens, and the memory of your first friend in the cloister rushes in. And your first act of wickedness to earn your place in it.

How She had to take your hand and drive the blade into her chest. The ghostly touch of tears streaming down your face lingers, as if they were shed just moments ago. You could almost still feel her heart beating its last into your palm through the dagger, as if you were still holding it. Could nearly feel the warmth of her life ebbing away in your hand.

You were permitted a pass only because She needed you initiated as soon as possible. But you had to pray for hours, the soft murmurs of your pleas mingling with the soft rustle of her robe as She circled you. Watched over you. Ensured your prayers were offered with utmost deference and reverence. Punishing you with your wound if you slipped in fervor.

Before you were called again to sacrifice Umbric, your only other friend. Your last one. Both a second chance to do it properly, and to repent of your failure... No more attachments. Only Shar. Only Her.

You knew better than to make friends after that.

Her slow crouch brought her eyes, icy green and intense, to meet yours, leaving you feeling completely powerless, entranced and held captive by her gaze. "Recite it. Recite it and repent for forswearing your faith to Lady Shar." The demand feels impossible to ignore, your mouth returning to you and an expectant glare follows.

"Mistress Shar, in the shadow of loss, I beseech your forgiveness. Forgive my faltering..."

"Tav!"

Your body lurches forward, drawing in a deep breath that fills your starving lungs. You feel your entire body trembling until warm, comforting arms encircle you. Offering a sense of security and safety. "I've got you, you're okay..."

"F-forgive my faltering faith, Mistress Shar—"

"Tav, no," Shadowheart says firmly, "come back to me, my love, I know you're stronger than her..." the stifled tremor is enough to clear the fog in your mind. "You're more than a puppet for her amusement. You always have been..." pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head before nestling her nose in your hair. Drawing you deeper into her arms.

Recite it.

"I... don't want to..." Finally you break, the intensity of your training and your hunger for this new way of life conflicting so fiercely it overwhelms you.

Without further clarification, she amazingly understands. "No, my love, you don't have to. Not anymore... Never again." Shadowheart mutters into your hair. Holding you tighter when she feels the wet warmth you're bathing her shirt in. "Gods, I'm so sorry," she mutters, her voice filled with a self-reproach. "I should have done more, planned better, gotten to you sooner..."

You don't think, not really. You just act. Like you know already. The motions are a blur, but you know you pull back just enough... then your lips are on hers. She takes a moment to gather herself, but eventually eases into the moment and reciprocates. And it's unbelievably amazing.

The way she kisses you is sweet and tender, as if she wants to savor every moment with you. How she touched you, looked at you, now kissing you, like you were the most cherished and adored person in the world. Her lips against yours is so soft and electrifying that it sends wonderful shivers down your spine, and your body tingles in bliss.

There's no teeth, no pain, no blood. Only the warmth of her mouth moving slowly with yours like a delicate caress. Her hands are soft on your back, maintaining the security her arms provide you. It's everything beautiful that your stunted memory can recall of her kisses, and more... and you never want her to stop, craving for more. How have you gone this long without realizing how indescribably incredible she is?

But surely she does, if ever slightly. Neither of you seems ready to fully disconnect from each other. Your eyes remaining closed. "No more..." you whisper quietly.

"No more..." Shadowheart echoes just as quietly. Her lips twitching slightly, one hand brushing away a few lingering tears from your cheek. "Not anymore." Pressing a small kiss to your lips. "Never again." And another before her smile spreads wider.

Shadowheart gracefully maneuvers you both again to lie down in bed. This time you're practically on top of her, your face nuzzled into her shoulder. You gently weave your fingers through her smooth, flowing white hair, which partially cascades over her other shoulder, eliciting both a smile and a small sigh of appreciation from her. Mesmerized by her beauty, you can't help gawk in awe. Bathed in the ethereal glow of the moonlight streaming through the window, she looks absolutely radiant.

Her hand, still playing with the hair behind your head, guides you to rest on her shoulder. Securing you against her with her arm.

The memory crosses your mind and though you tense a moment; it doesn't... hurt as much as you've come to expect. Shadowheart gently tightens her arms in silent reassurance, and you respond by wiggling impossibly closer to her. The last thing you want is for her to think you feel or appreciate nothing she's done.

Instead, you gently drape your arm over her waist, feeling a sense of belonging and protection, as your mind wanders to Shadowheart... Your Shadowheart, savoring how your body melds so perfectly with hers. The adventures you must have shared. Wondering if there's a way to get those memories back.

Shadowheart fills all the dark corners of your thoughts, leaving no room for her to overrun your peace of mind. Before long, the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, her steady breathing, has created a soothing lullaby that lulls you back to sleep.

This time, you're welcomed by a soft radiance and a soothing warmth.

In your fragmented memory, you can't recall a time when you've slept as soundly as you do now, peacefully drifting into a deep slumber.

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A/N: Wowowow okay hi. I didn't honestly expect to write anything beyond where it ended. Nothing public anyways. But AO3 asked very nicely (thanks!) for a continuation. I honestly intended this to be a beefy one but really liked the vibe and way it ended. Ya get what ya get. Quality over quantity, yeah?

Thanks again to everyone who likes, reblogs, replies, supports this little project in anyway you deem worth your time! And with that... Unpopular writer, awayyyy...

[kyberphilosopher]

Tenebrous

Tenebrous/Tenebroum : shut off from the light : dark, murky. tenebrous depths... hard to understand : obscure. Word Count: 2362 NO WARNINGS Shadowhearts' mind is a weathering storm, but a storm is no match for one simple flower. A/N: Will be slowly returning to writing. I've been out of it for at least a year so my quality may not be what it used to, but I don't think it's that bad really. It's sorta proof read this time (not really)! Yayyyy.

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There are many changes in life that could be considered… unwelcome. Life in itself has a tendency to be such a complicated journey, weaving and webbing and entrapping all that it can; much like Lolth’s loyal, spindling spiders. Such arachnids, for example, shed their skin to allow for their growth. Flowers bloom up and down, all around, before they die. Even a body of water might change its height, day by day. None of these things, of course, possess a conscience. Only a human might possess that, and humans, miserably, are more often ticking time bombs than not. 

Shadowhearts' change was difficult to pinpoint. She’d shed her skin and dawned a better, holier mantle, and yet she did not shine anew. Her skin did not glimmer or reflect- only absorbed and denied. Her hair was black like loneliness, her eyes mossy shadows. The young woman, though previously punished and whipped, now rewarded with understanding. She understood how she’d come to choose the name Shadowheart for herself, and now she understood how she’d finally earned it. She was a living weapon. An envoy for The Dark Lady’s will. A Dark Justiciar. Shadowheart should’ve felt on top of the world for such a feat. 

You… well, all of you could still very clearly remember the look on Nightsong’s face when she was slain. Shock. Shock, surprise, fear. Shadowhearts' arm was heavy with muscle and willpower. There was no hesitation in her sage orbs as she brought down her Spear of Night. Then the Nightsong sang no more. 

“I did what had to be done,” the half elf had spoken about it after. “No point in fretting over it, is there?”

You watched her. Not always- not while she slept like a creep. A sneaking glance or two was all you needed. Shadowheart was a (somewhat) kind hearted, devout, and intimate woman who displayed a deep interest in bleeding something to dry as well as tenderly curing it. Few things seemed to matter as much to her as her faith- when there was a sky full of stars and constellations, an open emerald field dappled with lavender, a lost temple- she was always there, praying. Praying to her mother, who she did not know. Who she had no memory of. Who rarely answered her when Shadowheart thought up a question. Praying to the Lady of Loss. That never changed. 

You watched her. The morning light rose over the horizon, then the deep maroon leaves circling overtop the camp. Although Shadowheart had prayed this morning- early- she had not stopped. The young halfbreed sat with bent knees and clasped hands since before the sun had risen. Her peach-y pink lips muttered repeatedly to herself again and again, only pausing when she looked… pained? Or perhaps deep in thought?

She opens them. 

Your gaze turns to the gauntlets you fit around your arms. They are heavy, though not as heavy as Shadowhearts' eyes. When you glance over upon her once more, she pushes herself to her feet and then locks eyes with the ground for a long time. 

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There was much of Faerun that you had neglected to see, as you came to find out. There were lands covered in blankets of deep shadow and physical fear, bogs that would take the appearance of groves simply to trick all those who enter. There were tears in the sky that melted every night, according to Lae’zel. Astarion had described the many gothic manors and mansions that he had visited and admired. Gale of Waterdeep took no joy in restraining himself from speaking of his many accomplishments- most of which involved seeing something so beautiful, so rare- that he risked the Gods smite. 

Your boots were from Baldurs Gate, and they were not necessarily made for the mud that you trekked through. They were scratchy and tight, but the laces were coming loose. If you ever saw the city again, you swore you’d get a new pair. What an ‘if’ that was. But you were no complainer. You swallowed dryly, shouldered your bow and sword and continued onward silently. 

“Need something, friend?” a voice called from beside you. A smile creeps over your lips at the voice. 

“Do you, Astarion?” you look at the elf now walking close on your left. He’s taller than yourself- mostly due to his long and prodding neck. You supposed he used such a feature for snooping and being nosey. 

Astarion scoffs out a chuckle, before his tone turns to defeat. “Oh, you caught me. I must admit, friend, I’ve grown quite bored.”

“Look at my shoes,” you sigh. “I’d rather be bored than inadequately dressed.”

“Mmm. Yes, how unfortunate. You know, I must say I would’ve thought you smart enough to get your own well fitting shoes by now. This little adventure hasn’t exactly been…”

“I know,” you tell him. “Say, what did we do with those boots from the Underdark? The red ones, with the little black and silver designs.”

Astarion is briefly silent in thought, though it’s not him that breaks it. 

“I’ve them.”

You and your elven companion turn your heads over your shoulders. Shadowhearts' face is solemn and gaunt- nothing out of the ordinary. Still, a certain regret lingered in her deep, dark eyes. Her beauty was matched only by the background behind her, which was nothing but darkness. Hair, long and inky, fell over her shoulder lazily. 

“Ah,” Astarion smiled wide, showing off his pointy canines. “I was just wondering when you would join our conversation. So tell us, what is it you’ve done with the things?”

Shadowheart stayed silent. Her pace quickened, her own greaves and boots were metal and solid in the mud- built for it. On your right, she materialized like a dream, though she did not turn to look at you. 

“I took the boots,” Shadowheart explains matter-of-factly. “They grant the wearer intense bouts of speed and pursuit- hardly a trophy to simply leave behind. I might loan them to you… should you require them.”

You blink, trying to find your words. “Might?” you settle on. 

One step, two step, three and four. The upward hill you battle to hike reaches its peak, slanting downwards once more. From up here, you can see only a bit more than you might’ve thought. The lands your party currently crossed through were completely devoid of light and life, and so although you could confirm the sight of a large lake, you (nor any other member of the party) was able to register the important details of the environment before you. You all continued walking downhill without skipping a beat, unbothered at the thought of imminent death. 

It happens in an instant. Your armored knuckles brush against the metal of Shadowhearts' own hand. No, not a brush- a touch. It reverberates up your fingers and straight to your brain, where it’s stored deep in your memory without you even realizing it. It even produces a soft, but undeniable noise. 

Your eyes snap to hers, wide and alert. “Apologies, my lady,” you urge quickly. “I did not mean-”

Shadowheart stops suddenly. She stands in front of you, Astarion and Wyll wandering onward seemingly unaware- or perhaps simply uncaring. Now shorter than you at the incline, the young woman looks up at you with her piercing orbs. 

“You need not worry on it,” Shadowheart tells you, and for some reason it seems, at this moment, that she is only ever talking to you. Your lips part, looking back at her. The Justiciar’s own light green gaze is flitting between your own eyes, and you can’t help but feel yourself growing distracted off her face alone. 

The woman’s face was porcelain pale, delicate but well put together. Her cheekbones were high and soft, dappled with freckles that Shadowheart hoped no one would notice. Her lashes were generous and thick- just the same with her eyebrows. Her lips were shaped like a heart. Gods, her lips. They were tantalizing, even chapped and chewed on like now. Not even the scar cutting across her cheek and nose was enough to deter from her otherworldly beauty. How were you supposed to resist such a temptation so close by?

You cared too much for the young woman to trample in on her faith. You had traveled with Shadowheart long enough to see it was one of the few things that she cared for. Shar this and Shar that… You were no Shar. What pain could you possibly alleviate of Shadowhearts’? What void could you introduce her to? The answer was simple: none. You were no match for the Dark Justiciar, and even if you were, she would not allow you to be. 

“I apologize again, my lady,” you tell her, a firm whisper. 

Shadowhearts' eyes shift between your own for another moment longer, brief and fleeting. “You might wish for some healing, if it is to be a while before we see those boots again.” She slips a glove from her lithe hand- you catch a glimpse of the plum wound buried in the center- and says, “May I?”

You swallow dryly again. Water, your brain wishes. Instantly, your prayers are answered as saliva flushes your mouth. 

Shadowheart presses the palm of her hand to the base of your neck, where your armor leaves a sliver of your skin exposed. Her hand is cold, colder than anything you’ve ever felt. Yet, your body warms as her lips begin to chant.

You can feel the blood rush to your feet. Blisters that have lined your heels and toes and soles for weeks diminish in seconds, leaving your feet to settle more comfortably in your wear. The two sore heaps previously referred to as your legs alleviate themselves instantaneously. Even the sweat, stinking and insidious, brewing beneath your armpits slips away silently to the wind. 

Eyes could not be torn from the half elf in front of you if they were taken straight from your head. Your gaze is locked and fixed on Shadowheart, though you cannot find the words. Shall you thank her? Ask for her hand? Attempt to engage in a heart to heart conversation? No, control yourself. You bite down on your lip, hard, but with Shadowhearts’ healing hand lingering over your sternum, the blood does not stay for long. You watch her finish her prayer. 

“There,” Shadowheart looks up at you once more through her dark lashes. “You just seemed a little… parched.”

The Dark Justiciar holds your eye for a few seconds longer. Then she steps away. 

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Before Selune blessed the Earth with the light of the sun, there was nothing. Faerun, and everywhere else, was well a part of Shar’s domain of darkness. When her ethereal twin betrayed her by inventing life sustaining fire, the change was instant and could not be ignored. 

Shadowhearts story seemed the opposite. She had been close to the light once, she supposed- closer. She’d resented herself for it at the time; so, Shadowheart chose to bring herself closer to the dark. She chose to be as close as she could. She wanted to sit side by side with her mother, spear in hand, and quench her thirst on the blood of moonmaidens. Though, no such feat had come to pass. Shadowheart was not foolish. She understood it was a change that would take time to see such accomplishment. But had she not made it clear that there was no doubt? Shadowheart would slaughter a thousand nightsongs if it meant being Shar’s chosen. 

And yet, she felt more unhappy with herself than she had before. She resented herself. 

In the mornings when she’d wake early, Shar’s voice might whisper instructions in Shadowhearts’ pointed ear. 

“You are to suffer,” the low voice would guide. “To hate until you are released to loss, child.”

Shadowheart obeyed. 

In the nights when Shar’s power rose strong, her Justiciar would feel Shar’s thoughts as if her own. 

“You are to breathe in the darkness,” the low voice would guide. “To ponder on your wrongdoings until you might see clearly.”

Shadowheart obeyed. 

It was what she had wanted. But now that she was alone, Shadowheart was lonely, and not even herself was reliable for comfort any longer. 

Luckily, there is always you. 

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“Shadowheart!” you cry, lurching forward. “Wait!”

Alarmed, the cleric whips her head to yours. Shadowheart had not sensed anything more out there besides vague harm- certainly nothing close enough to warrant such urgency out of you. You need to catch up with the two boys, lest you end up hunting monster and monster hunter simultaneously. But your face shows no such concern for those things. Your eyes lower slowly from Shadowheart to the ground by her feet. 

Yes, there, beneath the greaves spattered in blood and leather soles reeking of death, was a flower. 

The thing was light, almost glowing, and a beautiful wisteria shade. It grew somewhat tall, with sharp leaves and petals like bells that only grew more midnight and lilac colored the deeper they went. Shadowheart let a small gasp slip from her lips. 

Slowly, as if you were dealing with a skittish, stray cat, you bend down into the dirt. As you pluck the flower from its stem, the smell of vanilla and musk swells the air. You stand eye level with the young woman in front of you, whose stare flits between the flower to your armor. 

“A night orchid,” you say. Shadowhearts’ favorite. “May I?”

The holy warrior looks at you sharply. 

You press it, holding her gaze with a soft and warming smile, to her palm. You can feel her heartbeat through her skin, excitedly in time with your own. Finally. 

“I…” she begins, but you turn your head to the side, waving her off. 

“It’s nothing,” you insist as you step away. “Wouldn’t want you to step on your favorite flower. I’m sure your Goddess would understand.”

Shadowhearts’ green eyes dance, though not with any emotion you’ve seen before within her. 

You smile again. “Let’s get you to Baldurs Gate.”

The young woman watches intently as you continue down the hill, clutching the purple flower tight in her hand. 

[amarmeme]

Talking about drafts that'll likely never be finished in the galeheart server, and here's a little bit that I still like but probably won't turn into anything more.

An ungrateful cleric WIP

What was she to do? The more Shadowheart learned of their situation, and the people at her side, the less certain she’d become of her mission and the need for isolation. Why, only a day before, Tav had handed over an idol of Shar, and didn't shame Shadowheart to take it. She wasn't used to acceptance. Then they'd arrived here, in the shadow-cursed lands and the rightness in her belly raged as bright as her holy light through the shadow-cursed Harper Yonas.  It was as if Lady Shar had placed her here, delivered in the cup of her beautificent hand. But, if this gesture had a catch, it was the loneliness of her Lady’s blessing. No one in their ragabond party had shown any interest in Shadowheart's fortune, especially not when Tav cried out from lingering too far from her light, nor when the Harpers split off to mourn their lost colleague.  Shadowheart knew her future; she understood becoming a dark justiciar meant following a path of solitude, but still, it was as if she'd cast silence over the party and stood at the outside of the spell just yearning to be in.   So with this conflict in her mind, Shadowheart followed Tav up the stairs of the inn, watching the sway of Gale’s hips and the jaunty step of joy in Karlach’s stride. Both Gale and Karlach bore their recent bad news better than she carried her signs of portent.  Gale had been told, in no uncertain terms, to kill himself, and yet he had found enough enthusiasm after their battle with the shadowy creatures to proclaim his renewed… vigor. Shadowheart blushed to recall it, the way his eyes gleamed in the golden light of her spirit guardians, his chest heaving with recent exertion. He’d stumbled inelegantly through a way to connect his intellectual pursuits to more passionate ones, but there was no doubt the intention in his words.  I might die, but at least I can fuck again.  It was absolutely absurd, but her throat had grown terribly parched at the idea. Which was just another indication of her failure. He'd been looking at Tav anyway, which was well and good since Lady Shar’s punishment would be great indeed for bedding one of Mystra's chosen, even a disgraced one.  Thoughts wandering in dangerous places, Shadowheart ran headlong into Karlach's backside as the tiefling stopped at the threshold of the upper quarters.  “Awe, Shad,” Karlach joked, “if you wanted a hug, all you had to do is ask.”  And maybe concern was still etched across her brow, because Karlach frowned and murmured a come here, and Shadowheart did accept a warm, but not scalding, embrace from the woman.  It felt too good by far. Warmth spread bodily, and not from Karlach's infernal engine but from the part of her own heart she'd been trying desperately to ignore. Pain struck her hand near-instantly. The warmth became ice shot through her veins, her head throbbing with pressure. The pain nearly eclipsed all other sensations and Shadowheart pulled back instinctively, but with great willpower she fixed a smile to keep Karlach from realizing her struggle. The hug was kindly done. When the bite of her Lady’s ire faded, Shadowheart locked eyes with Gale entirely by accident, and looked away just as fast. Her imagination ran ahead of her, but Shadowheart thought she saw something sorrowful in his gaze. Tav broke the tension with a laugh and a jest, which was just their way. Even Lae’zel wasn’t immune to the warlock's charms.  “If we're still doing hugs, bring one over here for good measure,” Tav said to Karlach. They launched themselves at the red tiefling with abandon, and quite like a fairy tale, she caught them in her outstretched arms while barking out a surprised laugh. 

[vampiricgf]

☆ MOON SHADOWS

⤷ hc request for @schadowheart as part of my headcanons for gaza which you can find more about here! If you can donate and would like to receive a hc in exchange too please do <3

mother superior/dark justiciar shadowheart non sharran reader/tav angst relationship. sfw. toxic relationship dynamics.

despite how much she cares for you her dedication to shar trumps everything else, it has to if she's in the position of mother superior/dark justiciar. shadowheart isn't blind, she knows it's not a "have your cake and eat it too" situation

but she would still try, in her own way. I think she would keep you at arms length when it comes to anything explicitly about her activities in the cloister, not to be secretive but to spare you the burden of knowledge, to give you deniability. sharrans hunt selunites as well as mystra and lethander worshippers, you don't need to know details of things like that or of the methods used by justiciars for information gathering or punishment

she knows you're not blind either and you are already aware of the more gruesome things shar demands of her faithful but it's her own bare bones attempt at protecting you and hopefully allowing you to maintain a distinction between your version of her and the version of her that can commit acts that are less than merciful for her faith

it's an intense source of shame when she's with you and it plants a tiny seed of resentment in her mind. it's hard to keep in her head that it isn't your fault, she's the one constructing your relationship this way, but still. you inherently make her question her faith and if this balancing act is worth it, which digs a deeper hole in her heart because it's clear to her that she can't have both you and shar

but she still wouldn't be jumping to throw in the towel, not after experiencing real care and love with you after being starved of it for so long. so the internal battle would continue and as it does it'll become more and more difficult for her to keep herself together

there would be more arguments, more irritation, more unclear communication as she doesn't want to directly blame you for whats going on in her head or speak words of doubt into existence regarding her faith, and the walls of separation would soar higher and higher in tandem with her faith bound duty until eventually nearly all of her is walled off to you

but even then she wouldn't be willing to let you go. you can learn to lick love off a knife if it's all you have and she's had a lifetime of doing it for shar, she'll do it with you too. it doesn't matter how explosive or volatile arguments become, she'll say whatever she thinks is necessary to soothe you in the moment and keep some peace until the next storm blows through

it's an uneasy arrangement but eventually it becomes second nature to navigate emotional outbursts or the times you beg her to just talk to you. depending on how many years it's been it also becomes easier for her to simply answer with a "you know I can't" and keep her heart detached against any tearful displays from you

if you do finally attempt to leave I think she would snap, little by little all these cracks and fissures have been forming and that would be like the final step across an icy surface that's too thin to hold up and plunging into subzero water. she wouldn't go full delusional yandere but you're not getting away from her so easily

would frame it constantly as you giving up, being the weak one, being the one unwilling to sacrifice for mutual happiness and her own resentment from her self imposed strain would make the words come out like poison dipped arrows. to her you would be weak and unwilling because she's already done so much, put herself under so much stress just to hold onto you and yet you can't handle even a fraction of the same?

it would be impossible for her to see that it isn't the case, that saying those things to you or about you isn't completely correct because her own view of the relationship has become so warped and years of that stress from her near constant crisis of faith would spill out like floodwater

but, per shars tenants, she would give over that pain and use it in her acts done in shars name. detached brutality or particularly vile subterfuge would become easy for her. there would no longer be any separation between who she is and her role in her religion. it would all become fully one in the same and her faith would only deepen because she would view it as either being rewarded by the goddess or favored by her in some way for remaining faithful despite the difficulties in your relationship. her reward for no longer being burdened by the unfaithful

all her pain and sorrow over your relationship would never be properly dealt with, not even close. it would remain a sore spot, a twin to the wound on her hand that burns constantly no matter how "rewarded" she is by shar for brute forcing her way through it to continue her duty

[nachtspeer]

“Dieses Artefakt ist von großer Bedeutung, Schattenherz. Sobald du deinen Sold erfüllt hast und du das Artefakt in unsere Hände gebracht hast, werden deine Erinnerungen als Belohnung wiederhergestellt. Diese Mission wird dich unsere verehrten Nachtsängerin näher bringen und deinen Glauben stärken. Diene Ihr, vollbringe das Werk, Schattenherz. Shar wird dich reichlich belohnen.“ (....)

      ⸻ “blessed nightsinger, witness our adoration. See how we serve you, only you. We have emptied our hearts of falsehoods. We have vanquished your foes. In darkness, we see your truth. Embrace us, your loyal warriors. Cloak us in your shadow. Guide us to your victory. Shar's will shall be done. As sure as night will fall.”

(....) Ich erinnere mich nur schemenhaft. Aber die Gedanken und Gefühle sind verschleiert. Ich verstehe nicht was in meinen Gedanken vor sich geht. Aber Shar will mich vor was bewahren und bringt mich auf den richtigen Pfad zurück. Alles was ich tue ist für sie — für die Nachtsängerin. (baldurs gate 3: original portrayal of shadowheart, a whorshipper and cleric of shar. She was sent on a mission to find the mythical artefact to use it against the absolute cult before she got captured by mindflayers, german & english)

spoilers: I'm not at the end of this great game but you should know if you free her from shar, she becomes a selunite cleric. I play her in both ways as a cleric of shar/dark justiciar or a cleric of selûne.

[sky-kiss]

Eeeee Shadow Raphael anon here! I'm so happy you're inspired by it! I have two options you can choose from.

1) platonic - them having a chess match and it just being a wity banter off and them enjoying riffing off of each other so much. Maybe this is at the inn/brothel lobby so other people can be there if you'd like.

Or

2) Them having a one night. I don't really have specifics but my brain is barking and screeching because I'd imagine anything explored via your writing will be so good and so much to chew on so I'm up for ANYTHING really!

Thank youuuu!

A/N: Ok, so this is so rushed, and I’m sorry about that. I want to do stuff with these two SO BADLY. Anyway, Dark Justiciar Shadowheart. Post game. Raphael received the crown. 

Shadowheart/Raphael: Meetup

"Raphael—I'm not surprised to find you here."

The half-elf slides into the seat across from him, lips turned up a charmingly self-satisfied smirk. It takes Raphael a moment to recall her name—she is, in truth, only tangentially referenced in his mental library, one of Tav's many delinquent compatriots. He leans back, humming, before he says, "Astutely observed, my dear, though perhaps less impressive than you hope. The Caress is nothing if not my home away from home." 

"I've no interest in impressing you, devil. 

"No, only in interrupting my meal, it seems," his voice dips to a velvety purr, cataloging the minute shift in the Sharran's posture. She arches a brow, gaze flicking to the empty table. Raphael indicates the crowded hall around them. "My hunting grounds, my meals, priestess. Every moment you linger is an opportunity wasted."  

Shadowheart scoffs, drumming her fingers on the table between them. The pretty creature tips her head to the side, regarding him through artfully lowered lashes. "You were more civil before." 

"Your intrepid leader had something I wanted—and our business has long since concluded." The cambion clucks his tongue. "Where is my Mouse these days?" 

She stiffens. "I wouldn't know. Tav…she took her leave some time ago." 

"Oh?" 

"I've no need to explain myself to you."

"None at all. But you were a precious little pair, weren't you? Haarlep does so regret being unable to…collect you both." Raphael lifts his right hand, inspecting his nails. "One fair turn for another…tell me the truth of your parting, and I will hear your request." 

Shar's Chosen regards him coldly. "My Dark Lady demands the whole of my heart." 

"How selfish. I almost admire her." Oh, but he likes that flush of color in her cheeks. Power radiates off her, different, colder than many of the god's chosen toys. Shar has given this one a shocking amount of play, provided she remained a loyal little dog. No slipping her leash. "Tell me what you need, my dear." 

"An enemy of Lady Shar has gone to ground. I'd have him found." 

"Simple enough—hardly requiring my talents. Or worth incurring my cost." Raphael smiles with teeth, curiosity piqued. "Who is this erstwhile quarry?" 

She paints him a picture: one of Selune's most beloved champions, a lycanthrope, long fled from the city. His trail and his scent had long since gone cold. The damned creature had very likely fled to a different plane. 

The devil considers the offer, taking in her appearance again: beautiful, dark. Some trace hint of Tav's scent still lingers on, perhaps in spirit rather than reality. It's intoxicating. Her eyes glitter with dreadful ambition and determination—it calls to an echoing spirit festering in his own breast. 

"No contract," Raphael drawls, tracing the rim of his glass. He has ordered wine for them, richer, deep, and red. "Let us consider this…a favor between friends."

"Very generous of you. Suspiciously so."

 "Is it? I've always found it most advantageous to conduct my business in a more...relaxed fashion than your dear Lady. The first taste, as they say, is free." He raises his glass in a toast. Shar's Chosen returns the gesture in kind, lips turning in dark satisfaction. 

~~~~~~

She comes to him months later. 

“The first taste was free,” Shadowheart grumbles, leaning back. “So, name your cost.” 

He scoffs. “My dear, where is your flair for the dramatic? Tease out the tension! Savor the give and take, bargain…” 

“...you make it sound like seduction, devil.” The Justiciar’s tongue flicks out to wet her lower lip, so sweetly, ignorantly satisfied. Oh, but she is young. All her power, violence, and inexperience still hang about her like stray traces of baby fat in a youth’s cheeks. 

“If you like. I prefer to think of it as a dance—coming together, stepping apart, together…all to our mutual satisfaction.” 

Shadowheart’s eyes glitter in the half-light, intrigued. 

~~~~~~

She comes to him again. 

And again. 

Again. 

They work surprisingly well together. And her goddess turns a blind eye. 

~~~~~~

“How sweet,” he purrs, sucking her lower lip between his teeth. They’ve recently started conducting their business in the Den rather than the common room, and the added privacy has led to this. Shadowheart walks him backward, hands already at his belt. The half-elf whimpers against his lips, the delicacy of the noise contrasting with the natural authority she carries. “You still taste like her, pet.” 

She chuckles, flicking her tongue along the seam of his lips. “You never tasted her.”

“No, but…” Raphael’s grip is bruising on her hips—she fails to so much as flinch. “Haarlep is so eager to indulge me—I wager I’ve had her more frequently than you.” 

“Ah—a poor man’s imitation.” She stands on the tips of her toes, tracing his nose with hers. The half-elf leans back, smirking. “We should compare someday…see how your counterfeit compares to reality.” 

He laughs despite himself. “It could be arranged." He presses his lips to the shell of her ear, pleased at the way shiver. "I’d quite like to watch them fuck you.” 

“I’d like it too. But for now…” she pushes Raphael back on the mattress, crawling over him. “I shall have to be content with you.”

[keldae]

C. A moment’s respite.

The Last Light Inn was a small bastion of safety in the shadow-cursed lands, the darkness held at bay by Isobel's magic. It was a welcome reprieve for the party of adventurers seeking to take down the Absolute and the cultists in Moonrise Towers – the fairy’s blessing had provided protection from the shadows, but it still was good to have a safe harbour to retreat to.

Having tucked herself away in a corner, Devi sat on a rickety chair, watching the tieflings, the Harpers, and her friends mingling about the inn’s common room. Every once in a while, she could hear Karlach's laughter as she conversed with Dammon, or a shout as Wyll cleaned some other hapless dice player out of their gold with a good-natured grin. Yet her gaze kept travelling back to the wizard in the next seat, sipping on a cup of wine and intently reading a scroll that he had found on one of the bookshelves in the inn. Gale appeared to be completely lost in thought, a little furrow lining his brow, his hand sometimes abandoning his wine cup on the table to stroke his beard as he considered something.

It made for a lovely picture, the wizard so lost in thought, focused on the words before him and not on his surroundings. A man reading really shouldn’t have been that interesting – and yet, Devi found herself transfixed. Something about the angle of his brows, or the set of his jaw, or the way his long fingers moved in the lamp light made her want to study him, committing him to memory.

Because Mystra ordered him to become a memory, a little voice in her head muttered. When we find the Absolute, he's going to follow her damned orders to blow himself up taking it out. That made her look away, gazing into her own wine, lips pressed together tightly as though she could avoid having them tremble, betraying her feelings on the matter. Damn the gods for throwing them all into this predicament, and damn Mystra in particular.

A nudge to her side got her attention. Her heart leapt when she saw Gale's smile at her; he'd apparently lost focus on the scroll. “I'm surprised you're not playing against Wyll again,” he commented with a chuckle.

Devi snorted. “And lose even more gold pieces to him? That bastard’s too damn good at dice.”

Gale smirked. “Have you forsaken your goal of winning the pants off of him in payback?”

“It's taking a temporary pause. But I will say, if his left boot goes missing tonight, I had nothing to do with it. I'll get one of the tiefling kids to give me an alibi.”

That got another chuckle from Gale. “Ah, the mark of a wise criminal. As I would not like to have my own boots stolen in payback, rest assured, I'll keep your secrets intact.”

“Smart man.” Devi grinned and sipped her wine, then gestured to the scroll with her cup. “Find anything interesting in that?”

“Not as much useful information for our predicament as I'd hoped for, but it’s still very fascinating reading.” Gale looked back down at the scroll. “Apparently, if we can make our way to the cellar of the inn, we may be able to find a Selûnite refuge, hidden away from the Sharran Justiciars. The former innkeeper, before the shadow-curse took over, was apparently sympathetic to the Selûnites.”

“Huh. Interesting.” Devi nodded thoughtfully. “Shadowheart might get a laugh out of it, at least. I’m just happy she and Isobel haven’t had a spat yet.”

“Yet being the operative word,” Gale muttered. “Still, Shadowheart does recognize that not all of us have the protection that Shar lent her, or the pixie’s blessing, and Isobel is invaluable for everyone’s safety. Regardless of their… disagreements on their goddesses, they’ll keep the peace for now.”

Devi nodded again, watching as Gale rolled the scroll back up. “Sorry if I’m distracting you from your reading,” the thief said. “I know you love your books.”

“Think nothing of it,” Gale chuckled. “You are quite pleasant company to have around, even if you are quite a bit quieter than usual tonight. A gold piece for your thoughts?”

“That’s the most anyone’s ever offered to hear what’s in my head,” Devi laughed. She looked over at the sound of dice clattering, and Wyll gracefully accepting a rare loss with a seated bow to a triumphant-looking tiefling, raucous laughter drifting over to the corner. “My mind’s all over the place tonight. I’m just…” Thinking about you and how unfair it is that Mystra’s ordered you to your death. No goddess deserves that level of devotion! Forgiveness isn’t worth that much. “I’m thinking about how good it is to see everyone relaxed and safe for the moment.”

“It is pleasant to see,” Gale agreed, looking away from Devi to survey the rest of the inn’s common room. “Would that we could see this more frequently, with everything happening to us. The tadpoles, the Absolute…” He shrugged. “But it could be argued that the rarity of these moments of respite make them that much more valuable, when we do get them. We more fully appreciate them.”

“I think I’d appreciate them fully, even if we got them more regularly,” Devi grumbled. She heard Gale chuckle, then looked back at the wizard. “So… found any more interesting reading?” Usually any books that she found while exploring were immediately handed to Gale or Shadowheart – Devi could read, but she struggled in making sense of the markings on the pages. She lacked Gale’s ability to easily comprehend the written words. Education was more valued for a wizard prodigy and not a back-alley Baldurian thief.

“Quite a bit,” Gale said with a smile. “I have a small library growing in my tent from the books that we’ve found on our travels. If you would like, I could read some of them to you.”

“Would you?” Devi perked up, interested by that prospect. “Any chance that book you mentioned about, uh, stimulation is in your library?”

Gale chuckled. “Alas, no – that particular book is in my tower in Waterdeep. However, I do have a few other tomes in my collection here that may be of interest to you.”

“Consider me intrigued,” Devi said with a grin. She finished off her wine, watching Gale set his own empty cup on the table. “Shall we go investigate?”

“Precisely where my thoughts were, my dear.” Gale grinned and stood up, offering her his arm like a proper gentleman. “We’ll leave the others to their revelry for now. Time spent with you is always a pleasurable experience.”

“Even when we’re both covered in blood and gods-know-what?” Devi laughed and took Gale’s arm, letting the wizard lead her out of the inn and back towards the party’s camp, set up on the lawn outside – all the rooms in the inn had been claimed by Harpers or tieflings.

“Even then.” Gale’s smile made Devi’s heart skip a beat. “Although a peaceful moment like this is always preferable.” “You won’t hear me arguing that.” Devi smiled, savouring the moments she could spend in Gale’s company, in relative peace and quiet. Gods help me, I will talk him out of sacrificing himself to destroy the Absolute. He deserves to live, and I want him to live. She offered up a silent prayer to any god that would listen (except Mystra) – let Gale live. Even if he never loves me the way I do him, let him live.

[ponylamp]

I demand more Alvin updates!

Alvin, my beloved idiot Durge with a silver tongue and a heart of--well he has a heart in his hands that he ripped from someone's chest (they probably deserved it.) He's made it to the Gauntlet of Shar after slowly killing everyone he can in Moonrise without tipping his hand. He needs to since he gave into the Urge at the promise of gifts and killed Isobel and the whole Last Light Inn so no Harpers to help in the upcoming battle.

It's okay though because Jaheira won't know its his fault, and that night Lae'zel and him became an item for real. Mostly because she thinks, rightfully so, that she can control him and direct his urges to more convenient targets. And also because he finds her hats to wear.

He got a hair cut, thinking it'd show up in his Slayer form and he's a little disappointed. It's why he refuses to use that form that much, even though he says it's because of Lae'zel's discouraging him (his bestie Astarion boos when he refuses to go Slayer.) He's already forgotten about the Shadow Curse so that's not gonna get taken care of. Shadowheart's probably going to end up a Dark Justiciar by the end of the night unless she surprises me.

Anyway, here's the two love birds that smooch like 3 times each night while covered in gore while everyone tries to ignore it.