#enrhysmion

[oflolth]

that is your great gift. but it's a curse as well. (I love all of your oc so hit me 💜)

" are you about to tell me something about great power and great responsibility working together to stab me in the eye? " her arms are crossed over her chest. they stand with their backs to one of the buildings they've built their camp around, and sen is looking out at their comrades, expression as bland and sharp as a handful of uncooked nettles.

her eyes linger most on jaheira. the lecture sen had received the night before - though to be fair, the decision to take it as a lecture and not support had been sen's. sen is stubbornly refusing to acknowledge - though she does know, on some level - that jaheira means to help, not to control. that her father wants the opposite.

but gods, she hates being told what to do. hates the bloody condescension.

" would you like to know who it was that gave me this gift? " she says, tone sickly sweet - there's something poisonous about it. " who it was who created me? would you like to know why jaheira can't stop fucking staring at me? "

( to be clear, jaheira is not staring at her. this is blatant projection. )

[recitedemise]

asked by @enrhysmion:

He was not warned about the damn punch. He tastes nothing like booze, really. He can't get enough of it; if anything, it's sweet. He wants to join the rest of his friends in celebrating since it's such a beautiful occasion. He continues to sip on this fruity beverage without realizing how much alcohol he is really consuming. The world around him eventually gets… brighter. All appears feasible, and all his surroundings are dazzling like a dream. His never-ending remorse momentarily escapes his thoughts when this unwavering wall surrounding his reality collapses. Finally --- freedom to do as he pleases and to spend time with whoever he pleases. It must be a dream, after all, if it feels like one... Like many nights prior to this one, he sees him in his dreams, ambling around as though he owns the place. This one man, the source of both his anguish and yearning. Even if Rhys has a unique bond with the wizard, he typically lacks the courage to give in to his desires. For him, every day is a source of both joy and agony as he longs for his companionship yet is terrified to hear more about his supposed goddess. Mystra, Mystra, damn you! --- she has no right to call him her 'chosen one' and yet treat him so poorly. How dare she! He will also choose him and treat him far better than she ever could. 

With a voice softer than silk and warmer than the sun, Gale addresses him once more. But this name, this damned disgusting name, is all he can hear. Mystra, Mystra, Mystra—he's sure that there are a gazillion more lovely things that his friend's mouth is capable of. Like groaning, or perhaps moaning. He can't help but wonder how the other man sounds when he moans as his thoughts begin to race with ideas of how to make him shudder with utter pleasure. Yes, exactly — that sounds incredibly delicious but might not be achievable for the time being. He doesn't dare cross this boundary just yet, even if it's only a dream. But what about sharing a kiss? Rhys bets he's a good kisser because his tongue is always so swift. Maybe this dream may provide the best chance to verify his theory. Rhys touches Gale's torso without thinking twice, right over his orb. His fingernails sink in just a little bit, like he's attempting to pull the orb from his chest or cover Mystra's scar with his own. His other hand reaches for Gale's nape, and he hesitates a moment before pulling him in for a kiss. However, it's not a charming, innocent kiss—rather, it's passionate, ravenous, and bordering on beastly. With a fervor that is unlike him, the devout and consistently kind preacher is devouring up the other man's mouth. He is biting Gale's bottom lip, and he quickly deepens the kiss by putting his tongue into his mouth. He holds on until they both run out of breath, sticking his tongue out to taste the dripping saliva on his partner's chin and bottom lip. "You deserve to be kissed every day and every night." As he finally releases the other man from his hold, he just whispers those sincere words to him. So far, this dream has been incredibly vivid and quite… well, exquisite.

He can feel the weight of that gaze. About the bare of his neck, back turned toward their watchful cleric, Gale notes the simmer of his coiling nerves. Wordless, he looks to his manual, but the words don't meet him.

This is... different. Novel, he confesses. Their healer has, and to perhaps the awareness of most everyone else, fancied his glances toward this Waterdeep son. Gale's sensed it on many of their far-gone sunsets, even in those nights where their shadows were long, and each time, he admits, it'd stirred in him a maelstrom--anxiety like butterflies, like bees in a field. He likes him, he had realized. Their companions slip away for their slumber, their sherry bottles left about the logs of their seats, and it is moments later when he hears purposeful footsteps. Gale, turning, looks on up.

"Rhys," Gale starts. Your eyes. The way want flashes in them--! Oh. "What are you--"

He is upon him. Gloriously. Gale makes a noise, embarrassingly undignified, that spills handsomely, prettily, and startled off his lips. His heart swallows it with haste, his great hands strong against the curve of Gale's neck, but sat about that chest, his other palm lays, and that orb, thundering, ripples a-glow. I'm yearning, it sings. Like storm. Like thunder. The way he tastes--it is lavish vineyards. A color spills past that hand, something cross between violets and amethyst jewels as Gale, mortifyingly, knows he is had. He's only being grabbed. Gosh, only being kissed. But to be kissed and grappled is a delicious feeling, and it's been long, an eternity since he's last whined. He has never been touched. Never by Mystra, there in her planes. Now, it's as though he's an adolescent once more, quivering to hands both strong and greedy. He hungers, he knows, but not like this. Gale feels teeth, tongue, and he startles on a gasp. He pulls away, face red, and his exhale harried.

You deserve to be kissed every day and every night.

Something in his ribcage growls and wails.

"That's enough." His pulse hammers. There is something wicked bellowing in his bones, unearthing yearning and desire in frightening droves. Gale feels ninety ways uprooted, a thousand ways relieved, but despite the joy of knowing he is clearly desired, there is a million more ways that he feels wrought. He wants to kiss him. Gods know he does... but looking at the color smoldering those cheeks, Gale, swallowing, grabs those wrists. No more. "Not now. Not like this." His fingers are warm against that skin, and Rhys' is crushingly handsome.

Please. "I'm afraid you drank far too much. Do not misunderstand me. I have imagined your hands on many nights," he starts, "more than my pride will allow me to ever confess, and they are eager, always kind, but more than that besides, they are sure."

"Another night, perhaps, if you'd still desire me." He backs away, yearning. "But when you are there in mind and only then. Your body is not enough, not for me."

[avernusfuries]

Finding some infernal iron took some time, but the effort paid off. What Karlach has been through over the past ten years is beyond his comprehension. She is among the most amazing people he has ever met, yet she bears such a huge weight; life is just so unjust sometimes. He wishes things were different and that he could help her repair her heart more effectively. But for the time being, all he can do is support her.

"Come here." The previous few years have been tough for him to express physical touch. It reminds him that he hardly owns this body in the first place. He has no right to be here, breathing and alive. Yet for now, Karlach's second chance at life is more important than his discomfort. He gives her a bashful but kind grin as he spreads his arms wide. This is what she has been waiting for—her first human interaction in ten years. She is deserving of all the compassion and loyalty in Faerun. "Welcome home, Karlach."

Disbelief is the first thing she really feels. She can tell that the engines cooled enough based on how it sounds. It does not roar as it once did, but purrs instead, and for the first time since the bastard thing had been thrust upon her, everything feels a little too quiet. She regards her arms, first. She's still running warm, but as the seconds pass by, one after the other, she realises that she feels almost cold by her own standards. She does not blaze, but instead feels the surprisingly alien feeling of the hairs on her arms and the bareness of her shoulders prickle with goosebumps. They have done it. They all have. All those hours of endlessly hunting through nooks and crannies of long forgotten shells of houses. Seen her burn brighter through the first piece of infernal iron.

"So did it work?" Karlach's voice is eager, almost riddled through with nervousness. If her heart was still there, she knows it would be racing. Thundering. Though, if her heart were still there in the first place, she wouldn't exactly be in this mess, would she?

"Only one way to find out." Dammon is watching her now, too, his eyes eager, and Karlach's gaze flits from face to face. She's almost scared to touch them on the off-chance that it'll hurt them. Ten years without touch, and here she is, lingering and wondering which one she might potentially harm in her eagerness.

Karlach knows Rhys isn't one for touching. She's never questioned it, really; not everyone is like her, yearning so desperately for the comfort of a pat on the shoulder, or the brief brush of fingers over her forehead as someone pushes her hair from her forehead. This is it. Now or never.

She sinks into that hug as though she were sinking into a hot bath. Like everything she has suffered over the past ten years was leading right up to this moment. A part of her waits for the tell-tale, ah, ah, ah - hot, too hot. Seconds pass, and it doesn't come. Those few seconds may as well be hours. Strong arms wrap around him, and suddenly, everything happens all at once. Relief. Happiness. Elation. Pure, unbridled, fucking JOY. Suddenly, she feels her eyes stinging. She's always imagined what she might do if this time ever came. She joked to herself and to others that the first thing she would do is to get under someone, then on top of them and from then on it would swap, but crying?

Oh, she never imagined that she would cry of all things.

People are funny like that, weren't they? She doesn't bother to hide her sniffle, nor chase away the fact that her voice breaks. Gods, it's good to be her, right now. Good to be alive, to have friends she adores.

"Thank you."

who's been cuttin' onions. / @enrhysmion.

[spiderwarden]

«  I don’t know much about the drow culture. Can you tell me more about it, please ? »

Minthara's head shifts ever so slightly away from the heavy tome balanced in her hand. A half hearted dart of a red gaze to the surface elf - the iblith as those less sympathetic would refer to all those who were, not drow. Or in some cases even fellow drow. First to meet his gaze, then to look his expression over before moving down his person and just as she takes all over him in, there is a blink with the flick of her eye back to his face. The Drow makes a hum and then turns away from him with the drop of the volume onto the small table next to her tent - it makes a low thud as she flicks another page and begins to look it's contents over; Death & Divinity - A Godly Guide.

"I would inquire toward which subject that inspires such curiosity, but I half expect you to find some sort of succor in a foreign culture in the face of all we stand against. I will tell you now, you will find none. It is a society that thrives because the strong feed on the weak. Men are seen as little more than pleasure servants - for their lack of prowess compensates in beauty. And there is much to be proven even if you were to seek the favor of the High Born."

Then there is another shift of her eye back to him, always watchful of those at her back - always keen to fight at a moments notice no matter who stood in his position. "And before you ask, yes. You would fit right in."

@enrhysmion / random ic asks.

[inkyembers]

callum rests with his back against a tree, picking idly at the strings of his lyre.  he's not necessarily playing anything in particular at the moment, but he looks lost in thought. . . as if he is composing something.  or if he is trying to remember how to play altogether.  he knows he had played once in prayer toward a god  --  something about the songs that came to him in dreams were clues to that.  still, he could not think of anyone in the pantheon that he had served.  it is increasingly frustrating to have next to know of his memories, and this tadpole makes his head ache almost constantly.

( why did it seem like the others were not plagued with this headaches in the same way? ) 

callum glances across camp, painted lips pursed together as he continues to pluck.  he takes in each of his companions before settling on rhys.  something about the cleric brought out the worst in him.  callum almost couldn't control his rage sometimes.  he didn't think it had to do with rhys himself.  could it have been selûne?  perhaps she had wronged him in the life he cannot remember.  either way, callum knows he should at least try to be more friendly with him, even if he is rather secretive.  the bard sighs and places his instrument down.  he's standing a moment later, and he approaches rhys.  "i wonder what gale is cooking tonight.  smells... interesting.  though, i s'ppose beggars can't be choosers in the wild."  it is a poor attempt for conversation. / @enrhysmion

[vlaakithswill-a]

❛ grief and growth live hand-in-hand. ❜

— shitty horoscopes; @enrhysmion

she turns the matter over in her mind and parses it for wisdom. her lessons in grief had come rapidly, unwillingly; such knowledge, she expects, is rarely learned by choice.

"yes," lae'zel agrees, as slow and purposeful as releasing a lungful of sweet smoke. "i grieved vlaakith's betrayal like a lost limb. yet in the absence of loyalty, my eyes were opened." one loyalty had soon supplemented another, and lae'zel was once more a devotee. it had come as a relief, this freedom from uncertainty. but even before, before the knowledge that she would give her life gladly to see the prince of the comet ride once more, lae'zel must acknowledge that there had not been a complete dearth of meaning. she had been outcast, yes, but not wholly alone.

"now i embrace a new purpose. and," she adds, with the inclination of her head, "a new pack."

[bruinescence]

@enrhysmion cont. (fdk;i lost the link 8'( ...)

The dawn of the first day without the shadow curse felt...well, he wasn't sure what it felt like entirely just yet. So long he had lived through the horrid blight's clutches that to consider it now a memory seemed like a cruel trick that would ultimately lead to him waking from a hopeful dream only to find the shadows still lurked across the lands despite all their efforts and sacrifices. To breathe in the fresh air as the palest pining of dawn touched it...he knew the curse had run its course, and yet he still fell into line with the party with his head bowed and ready to accept any indication that the curse had not yet been dispersed. Though with every step made towards Baldur's Gate, his stiff, untrusting movements relaxed further into themselves until he was a century younger again, limbs swinging and not so heavy under the weight of his duty to return the lands to their former state.

As the party advanced, he lingered here and there- hand reaching for a vine at one point to fondly observe the pink bloom of a morning glory attached. Such was a flower that would remain shut tight without morning's first light, and to see it open and drinking in the light put the druid's spirit at ease. Enough so that he wrested one blossom free and held it between his fingers as he followed the rest of the party down the rocky, beaten path so that he might look upon it in brief glances and smile under its reassurance that the light had returned and the shadows were no more. His idling earned him a spot by Rhys who always seemed to lag behind the rest, though whether or not it was because the cleric was simply acting in faith of a watchful shepherd, or because he was just as distracted as Halsin was over the new life breathed into the land, he couldn't be sure.

Observing how the cleric's soft smiles seemed to soak in their surroundings as pleased as the morning glory, Halsin found himself drawn in as the morning light was to the new flora, and after striding alongside his company for an odd moment or two, the druid reached over to quietly tuck the bloom beneath a loose braid by Rhys's ear. There...a splash of color against the night of the other's dark hair.

"I still owe you many thanks for what you have done here. Truly, I was not sure if I would find the right set of circumstances in my remaining centuries to see the dawn of this day." His fingers brushed the scar along Rhys's cheek as he withdrew them from his task of attaching the bloom, and he gave his clerical company a sly smile at the suggestion that druids ought not pick flowers. "Respecting nature as careful not to pluck a few petals now, are you?" The druid chuckled, shaking his head to disturb the few beads hidden in the occasional braid about his ears.

"A flower needs no further protection than the body of the plant and its roots bestow. It is a frail hope at the mercy of the elements. A sight of endurance for all to draw inner strength from...quickly fading, not soon forgotten." As his gaze drifted over to regard the color staining the other's cheeks as much as the pigment in the flower's petals, Halsin smiled knowingly before setting his gaze upon the road ahead. "...I will certainly not forget what you've done for me so soon. I've aligned my roots with yours so that I might help you find what it is you're looking for next. That is...if you do not mind the extra company?" Where they were going, it would be hard to leave the newly restored nature behind in favor of walking cobbled roads where at most only weeds thrived in the indentions of wagon wheels, but...a flower would endure. His roots were already deep enough.

[revyved]

@enrhysmion said: No matter where their journeys lead them, the moon's devoted followers are all united in their hearts. Rhys hasn't met many clerics of Selune despite spending so many years traveling with his instructor, and he must confess that Isobel intrigues and inspires him. She embodies hope in a way that he could never imagine being able to; her brightness cuts through the deepest darkness. She keeps everyone alive and protects the integrity of their souls. It's a blessing—no, a miracle—that her personal adventure brought her here in the midst of all this madness.

He determines that it's the ideal time to approach her now that the others are unwinding from the attack on the Last Light Inn. Rhys has often pondered the reason for the moon goddess' unwavering confidence in him. He is a deceiver; he is a shadow that hides the radiant light, yet Selune favors him and bestows upon him powers that are not rightfully his. He considers whether the goddess might be planning something special for him. Perhaps she believes he will assist Isobel. Even though he has a lot of questions racing through his mind, he decides to ignore them. He can't put extra strain on Isobel's shoulders when he doesn't even know her. It is up to him to maintain and resolve his dilemma.

"I wish I could be of assistance. Sadly, I lack such powers, and I worry that my light is too weak to drive away the shadows. I apologize sincerely, Lady Isobel. I demonstrate that I am a poor ally and a terrible devotee of our Lady." He leans on the balcony rail, his mouth curled into a sorrowful smile. His healing skills are almost useless in this scenario, despite his usual confidence in them. Since practically everyone has already passed away, who can he pretend to save? Shadows long for souls, not bodies. He doubts his ability to deal with them.

she’s earned a moment to rest, she thinks. a quiet few minutes to settle her nerves after marcus’ abrupt appearance. even now her heart dances in an uncomfortably chaotic rhythm, not quite steady, not quite right. she still feels the earth once caked in her chest obstructing the motion. isobel should have known this would happen. such an attack was inevitable, yet she let her guard down nonetheless. foolish. if not for the new arrivals, she’d likely find herself tossed at ketheric’s muddied boots.

pale, moonlit-stricken eyes look up the moment rhys shares the balcony with her. the cold yet stale air keeps her senses sharp, still on edge after hearing the reason for marcus’ approach. ketheric wants her back — partially to doom the innocent lives here, and the other reason too distressing to think on in present time. it’s surprising to hear rhys apologize for such a thing. his words bring her from her thoughts, quietly coughing into her fist before smiling.

“ a poor ally ? while i understand your fears - such a place oft draws them out - i must also assure you of your importance in all of this. the shadows here are no ordinary magic … as you’ve readily learned. the darkness is permeated into the very land, yet i wouldn’t have offered my guidance if i figured you a lost cause. there is far more for you to achieve here than you think. “

her smile warms akin to a starry night. “ our lady of silver has a path for you, one she knows you have the means to walk. she shares our dreams and our hopes, our sadness and fear. you may discover more about yourself when tested so… “ she speaks from her own experience. dying and descending into empty darkness, nothingness, until violently woken. “ i don’t think it’s a mere coincidence to meet a fellow devotee. it would bring me joy hearing more about you. i do insist though — you have nothing to apologize for. “

[elkenbulwark]

Rhys hates the smell of blood. He even finds the aroma considerably more repulsive whenever he transforms into a wolf. His lungs boil, and he feels as though a thousand daggers are ripping through him and leaking his guts all over the place. It conjures up images of the horrific night his family perished—a mound of mutilated bodies covered in snow. He will never forget the sight, and nearly every night he is haunted by a nightmare. The wolf just knows that there are fresh corpses around. The beast is driven insane with horror and revulsion by the thought of someone hauling human parts throughout the woods.

Rhys makes the decision to pursue the smell until he locates its source. The wolf is positive that the half-orc, who looks to be sitting close to a bonfire, is the source of the foul smell—that is, his rucksack. The animal would normally be more cautious and less inclined to draw conclusions, but in this particular situation, he can't help but growl as he approaches the stranger. His intentions are obvious; he is ready to assault his opponent at the first sign of aggression because he is blinded by pure hatred.

Where the body parts had once served those who had perished along the road by ever-roving bandits- wolves even, they now served another. Better to be wrangled from the debris of collapsed and half-burnt wagons and toted along at his side where they'd see a bit more action than to just lie rotting in the dirt. Perhaps he was just denying some scavenger an easy meal by his actions, but Birvor didn't believe in easy meals. Everything had was hard earned or hardly earned, and the subtle ache in his lower back that flared up on occasion always reminded him of that whenever he began to think otherwise. Although the spare limbs had their uses in battle, he also enjoyed the fact the growing stench of his bag had all but forced the rest of the camp into their tents and allowed him first if not most of the night watch as nobody wanted to emerge later when the sour scent of rot had time to heat up by the fireside.

His eyes had been mostly trained towards the tent he and Ren stored their things, wondering briefly if the other had snuck out the back to piss him off as usual when the growl from behind bid him rise and turn halfway towards the encroaching night, a palm already pressed to the handle of the great axe on his back. When the wolf came into view, and a rather large one at that- he scoffed, figuring it was a lot more interested in the growing smell than hoping to drag one of his companions out of the camp by their ankles. Just to be sure, he let his hand drift away from the handle in favor of signaling a small spark with the snap of his fingers. "Loqui ut tibi placet-" He grumbled, not exactly in the mood to get into another argument with the damn wildlife, but it was slowly becoming a thing for him...an annoying thing that never failed to disappoint.

"What's your deal then, Scruffy? Lookin' for table scraps, are ya now?" Squeezing his hips briefly, he gives an annoyed shake of his head before reaching down into the knapsack at his side. A bloody hand emerged clasped in his as if he were going to pull Gale out of the bag like he had that rock from earlier, but instead of a wizard at the end of the grip- there was only an arm severed at the elbow with a distinctive moon pattern tattooed along the wrist. "Right, here's a prize fer your snoopin'. Now-" With a harder chuck than he meant, the arm flew towards the wolf at a speed that might bop it in the snout if it didn't recoil fast enough. "-be a good fleabag and bugger off, wouldja?"

[dreadgloom]

D - I - O

a-z nsft headcanon prompt . . . accepting . . . @enrhysmion

D - Dominance: Are they into those types of power dynamics? Or do they like to stick to whose topping and bottoming? If they are into it why? If they aren't why not?

Dionisia is very much into power dynamics and is a switch. It's something she learned about herself after leaving the Underdark and learning more about surface cultures and sex practices. I personally headcanon that the ideas of sexual dominance are different between most races and Lolth-sworn drow due to them being a matriarchal society. Outside of the bedroom though? Absolutely not. You are equals and she is not afraid to remind you of that.

I - Intensity: Do they like intense scenes? Or are they more a slow and take their time kind of person?

It depends on her mood, but she in inclined towards more intense scenes due to some of her kinks (knife play, blood, choking, primal). That does not mean she is not satisfied with slow and passionate sex, just that sometimes she needs something a little rougher.

O - Open: Do they enjoy having things in their mouth? If so what are their favorite oral fixations? (fingers, toys, giving oral, etc.)

They absolutely have an oral fixation and I wouldn't be surprised if that is why they got their tongue pierced. Giving oral, regardless of gender or anatomy, is her favorite. It's also a bonus they don't have a gag reflex.

[avernusfury]

❛ can’t sleep? ❜

⊹. a long breath would come in through her nose. . . drinking in the fresh & lush green of the grass & the trees, the crisp & cool night air that caressed fiery skin. it had been a while now since she made it out of the hells, & still she couldn't help but find herself getting lost in the beauty. even the night sky showing far more color than she could imagine. . . gods, how tired she was of looking at orange & red & swirling ash. so despite the ever growing pain within her chest, she found herself thankful to be alive yet again- in this little moment of peace.

❛ oh- heya. ❜ a flash of canines as she greeted the other with a grin, motioning with a nod of her head as to offer him the spot next to her. she supposed it was a bit unlike her to be up so late. . . after all, she was usually the one to pass out as soon as she hit the bedroll. but tonight. . . ❛ engine's burnin' up something fierce tonight. damn thing's robbing me of my beauty sleep. ❜ it wasn't necessarily that karlach didn't like expressing her problems. anyone who knew her, knew well enough that she had no problem saying what was on her mind- throwing it all out there on the table, no sugar-coating or sweet talking it. truly a woman to wear & bear her scars. . . but damn her if the thought of dying didn't still scare the shit out of her. the grass & the trees were green, the moon was still pretty & the air was still fresh, but she was still dying. ❛ should cool down soon though! just one of it's- fits, i guess. but what about you, soldier? seems like i'm not the only night owl tonight. ❜

[recitedemise]

"Sa magie est puissante et toxique. Tu es un papillon pris dans un filet, qui ne peut pas s'échapper… qui ne veut pas s'échapper. Tu es à elle. Entièrement."

( it's about mystra (: and it's painful (: and it's probably not something he'd say before act 2 or even 3 but hey, i'm always here to destroy some feels. )

"Why are you--" This dialect... Gale wracks his mind, thinking of his scant manuals in this Elven tongue.

With some time, surprise, he finally speaks. "Bien sûr."

Gale's heart, heavy like the ocean, like grey Eleasis mornings, howls darkly in his chest. He hadn't, well, expected so raw an observation, or perhaps, worse yet, so brutally true. Book in his lap, he stares upon a passage; yet, Rhys' presence is what's won his thoughts. A butterfly in a net, a trifling insect... He can conjure Mystra's face, her cold, cosmic-bright eyes, and he tastes a resurgence, throat flavored with rejection. He feels his ill-blighted veins pump with poison.

Why come to him with all but her name, he wonders?

Gale fingers his pages, thoughts ravaged and mussed.

"Tout ce que je suis, c'est grâce à elle."

[ofandrastes]

@enrhysmion; ❛ you can always ask me for help if you need it. ❜ // caring prompts

"How incredibly Selunite of you," Erys says wryly, wincing slightly as she hovers a glowing hand over deep laceration on her forearm. For as powerful of a spellcaster as she, healing has never been one of her strengths -- something that Rhys surely knows at this point in their adventure, or at least can guess by how poorly her magic is stitching up the open wound. "Fine, if you could..." she mumbles, sticking her arm out towards him, "it seems the Zhentarim are incredibly unforgiving with a blade when it comes to their precious cargo being stolen. Who would have guessed?"

[spiderwarden]

"I have a curiosity, if you would indulge me a moment." Minthara starts, awaiting for Rhys to approach proper before she spoke. She could not put it off any longer, not when a certain memory plagued her thoughts in her meditations. There were many things that she had done in the name of the Absolute - and such deeds were slowly coming back to her in the wide array of empty spaces that now existed in her mind. But one such memory was Rhys, their ever fearless leader, standing over her. With every intention in his demeanor, his face, set on killing her - hovering over her with that look in his eye and that blade in hand. And - he withdraws. Wearing an expression that she cannot place.

"When we had met, I was in the claws of the Absolute. Their will was my own, and I had shown zero compliance in my madness toward any sort mercy. Thus when our swords crossed in battle.." She goes silent - refusing to note a defeat. No. Minthara does not consider it so - not when she was under performing by her standards. Regardless of how it had led to her freedom now. "Yet you." The Drow continues, hand lifts briefly in a gesture toward him. "You had given me.. Mercy, were I in your shoes I would have killed you without a second thought then resurrected your corpse and gone on to destroy the Druid Grove after extracting every detail I required of you. I would have thrown your corpse to my spiders and let them have you - you would have been forgotten." Her hand lowers slowly, "So why. Why spare me - when I would have killed you."

@enrhysmion / gets a plotted starter.

[refabled]

MUSE BODY LANGUAGE.

Italics only means the behavior isn't as prevalent as others; rarely happens or they only tend to happen in specific situations, or are just not as common. Bold only means it's much more common to see on her; frequency is somewhere in the middle. Bold & Italics mean that the behaviour is effectively one of her glaring "tells" and can easily be associated with her; guaranteed or almost always guaranteed to happen.

DEFENSIVENESS: arms crossed over chest // crossing legs // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // karate chops // stiffening of shoulders // tense posture // curling of lip / baring of teeth

REFLECTIVE : hand-to-face gestures // head tilted // stroking chin // peering over glasses // taking glasses off — cleaning // putting earpiece of glasses in mouth // pipe smoker gestures // putting hand to the bridge of the nose // pursed lips // knitted brows

SUSPICION : arms crossed // sideways glance // touching or rubbing nose // rubbing eyes // hands resting on weapon // brows raising // lips pressing into a thin line // strict, unwavering eye contact // wrinkling of nose

OPENNESS & COOPERATION: open hands // upper body in sprinters position / leaning in closely // sitting on the edge of a chair // hand-to-face gestures // unbuttoned coat // tilted head // slacked shoulders // droopy/relaxed posture // feet pointed outward // palms flat and facing outward

CONFIDENCE : hands behind back // hands on lapels of coat // steepled hands // baring teeth in a grin // rolling shoulders // tipping head back but maintaining eye contact // chest puffed up / shoulders back // arms folded just above navel

INSECURITY & ANXIETY : chewing pen or pencil // rubbing thumb over opposite thumb // biting fingernails // hands in pockets // elbow bent / closed gestures // clearing throat // “ whew ” sound // picking or pinching flesh // fidgeting in chair // hand covering mouth whilst speaking // poor eye contact // tugging at pants whilst seated // jingling money in pockets // tugging at ear // perspiring hands // playing with hair // swaying // playing with pointer / marker // smacking lips // sighing // rocking on balls of feet // flexing fingers sporadically

FRUSTRATION : short breaths // “ tsk ” sounds // tightly-clenched hands // fist-like gestures // pointing index finger // running hand through hair // rubbing back of neck // snarling // revealing teeth / grimacing // sharp-eyed glowers with notable tension in the brows // shoulders back, head up - defensive posturing // clenching of jaw / grinding teeth // nostrils flaring // heavy exhales

tagged by: @shentacles & @wizofwaterdeep <3 tagging: @selunight @enrhysmion @cambius @lastlght @devi1lute @oathwilled @shemurder @vampiyrus

[callidusdryadalis]

@enrhysmion asked:

Meeting druids usually gives Rhys an odd feeling, particularly when he has no time to prepare. Nature itself serves as a reminder to him that he can't let his past go --- after all, even when an oak tree is brutally chopped, its roots remain firmly planted in the ground. He wants to believe that he has grown beyond his druidic heritage, but encounters like this one cause him to feel uneasy. Perhaps he could have evolved into a free-spirited druid with nothing but love and goodness in his heart if the world had been kinder and gentler to him. "If you're exchanging potions, we could use a few more." Despite the maelstrom of doubt that is currently shredding his heart, he smiles modestly and politely like a cool summer wind. In spite of the fact that he knows nothing about Sorros and is simply projecting his own anxieties onto him, Rhys still feels as though he is conversing with a better version of himself. It disturbs me in an odd way. "We don't have much to offer but I'm sure we can come to an agreement." Despite his apparent calmness, he is beginning to feel a strange anguish in his heart. It's nothing more than an irrational fear of nature's fury, much like a mother might punish her son for leaving her so many years ago.

"You're welcome to whatever you need, 't is why I make and carry them." Sorros is knelt down, pulling some several vials of various potency's from within the satchel bag in which he carries alongside him wherever he so went. Some were healing, some were anti-inflammatory, some were antiseptic; it was always useful to have a full spectrum of healing items. One never knew what lay around the corner, after all.

"Some half hour aside your campfire would be welcomed, in truth- I'm still drying out from the heavy downpour I was caught up within an hour past." Once having stood again, Sorros offers the various vials and small tubs to his company and gives a small smile; "I can also make more, or whatever you might need, in the mean time if you'd like? The offer is there."

Though he rarely came across others 'pon the road - for the male took routes that oft went through the thick brush - and though he had grown much more cautious and uncertain since having left home rather many years prior, he still enjoyed offering what he could do to those that were willing for conversation and not just violence.