#era: moonrise

[monstermp3]

be lazy is really that queen................ "don't worry about meals i'll take care of them // just rest there i'll do it all"..... HUH..... okay king wonpil........

[elizabethrobertajones]

why is it that on my Dark Urge play I end up with my poor Durge lying dead on the floor outside sorcerous sundries while Minsc and Karlach are in the eeby deeby and Shadowheart with her negative charisma is being arrested for crimes Durge committed and is banned from the wizard shop forever, and all I wanted to do was sell some junk from our inventory

[erme-maererme]

necromancers can't do anything these days

[bee-snail]

BACK AT MY BULLSHIT FOLKS

Indeed I was trying to draw some goth outfits (the middle one is a bonus, hah.) They are ALL Zhan Tiri and I LOVE HER okay she is SO COOL (commits regicide cutely)

I did say I was making a series of Ziti outfit designs >:) my reference for two of these came from this post !!!

DEMANITUS IS SUCH A LOSER !!!! NO LONGER HAS A HOT GOTH GF !!!!

[deadmegumi]

orin's lobotomy skills are so unique durge is a complete amnesiac besides 1. vague blurs of blood and violence 2. extremely extremely extremely distinct pristine memories of fucking gortash and ketheric

[jeansworld16]

My favourite movie mixed with jegulus omg I could die

Happy Valentine’s Day!

I don’t celebrate it but it was a good excuse to draw the lives of my life as characters from Moonrise kingdom

[thyras]

→ of yearning & longing

PAIRING → halbrand | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 4.9k words

SERIES → of sauron & the moriquendi

WARNINGS → just LOTS of yearning and longing (y'all are probably sick of that by now), angst

SUMMARY → as fate draws you both ever closer, you can't help but feel the aching of centuries apart and what they have done to you.

AUTHORS NOTE → there is a sneaky celebrimbor x reader in this just cause ya know you do not spend five centuries hanging out closely and not have some non-platonic thoughts at times. i may be going on a little hiatus with this for a little teeny bit due to school starting this week. i have lots of homework and will not have time to devote to this, i have a plan for the whole story but i just need the time to execute it and that may be a couple of weeks. outside life calls.

PARTS → one // two // three // four // five // seven

“Is that really where you came from?” The little voice chimed, trembling with wonder. Her luminous eyes, wide as the moonrise over the woods, looked up at you as though you carried the secrets of the stars in your gaze. Her delicate hands clutched the hem of your robe’s sleeve, and in that touch, you could feel her burgeoning curiosity—a flame that, with care, would burn for centuries.

Your fingers traced the edge of an ancient, weathered page, its texture rough yet familiar, like the bark of the trees you once wandered among. The book felt alive in your hands, a relic of a bygone era, steeped in the whispers of the past. You had carried it through fire and shadow, across the tumultuous escape from Beleriand, a treasure nestled beside your husband’s intricate designs and other tokens of a life left behind. This book, though—it was more than mere parchment and ink. It was a fragment of your soul.

The illuminated script told of your people’s beginnings: the Moriquendi’s deep bond with the earth, their whispers shared with the roots of ancient oaks and the flowing rivers. It recounted the tale of Thingol and Melian, whose love was like a song woven into the fabric of Arda itself. It painted a picture of the grand realms of Beleriand—Doriath’s shadowy, enchanted forests; Gondolin’s shining spires hidden amidst the mountains; Laureandor, golden and resplendent under the eternal sun. Every page sang with memory, each word resonating with the cadence of forgotten voices.

“I came from the earth itself,” you murmured, your voice soft but rich, like the hum of wind over a meadow. “Awoke when Eru sang me into being.”

The little girl’s lips parted, her breath catching as she turned the words over in her mind. Her brow furrowed, and her tiny fingers fluttered in the air as she counted, her thoughts as transparent as the clear forest streams. “But that would make you…” she paused, consulting her fingers again, “over five thousand years old.”

A smile spread across your lips, slow and indulgent, tinged with the mischief of centuries. “A lady does not reveal her age, little one,” you said, tilting your head with mock severity. “It is very impolite.”

Her eyes widened, and her small voice rushed to apologize, faltering with earnestness. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Before she could finish, you placed a hand gently atop her head, the warmth of your touch silencing her in an instant. The faint scent of the forests clung to her hair, and it brought memories of younger days. Leaning down, you pressed a soft kiss to her brow, a benediction as ancient as you were.

“There is no need to apologize,” you said, your tone tender, carrying the weight of countless ages. “I have lived many lives, seen the rise and fall of kingdoms, and passed through the shadowed woods of Middle-earth. Yet, it is my purpose to pass on what I know, as I was created to be a keeper of memory and a weaver of stories.”

Her wonder deepened, her small face lit by an unearthly glow as if your words had planted stars in her heart. The weight of the book in your hands seemed lighter now, for in her awe, you saw the continuation of the tale, the promise of futures yet to be written.

“Telling wild stories to young ears again?”

The familiar voice carried a hint of amusement, smooth as silver ringing against stone. You turned your head, and there he was—Lord Celebrimbor. His soft brown hair caught the light as he approached, and a genial smile touched his lips. His presence was steady and reassuring, and your own lips curved into a fond smile at the sight of your old friend.

“They are not wild stories,” you retorted, a playful edge sharpening your tone. “They are histories, Celebrimbor.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich, and continued his leisurely approach until he stood beside you. His eyes flicked down to the little girl perched beside you on the stone bench. She had been listening with the rapt attention only the young possessed, her small fingers clasped tightly in her lap.

“May I borrow her for a while?” he asked, his voice gentle but carrying a trace of mirth.

The little girl hesitated only briefly before nodding. She turned to you, her eyes luminous with hope and longing. “Can we continue tomorrow?”

You smiled softly, your heart swelling at her eagerness. “Same time,” you promised, inclining your head.

That was all she needed. With a delighted grin, she slid off the bench and ran, her fair hair catching in the soft breeze, flowing like a stream of gold as she disappeared down the path toward the town. You watched her go, warmth flooding your heart, an ache sweet and bittersweet settling in your chest.

All you had ever wanted was a family of your own—a child to hold, to nurture, to guide with the wisdom and love you carried in your light. Yet, unlike Melian and Thingol, such a blessing had never come to pass for you and Mairon. It was understandable. The shadow that lingered on the edges of his soul was not a burden that would be easily tempered. Still, in all the centuries and ages that had passed, the absence of that dream was a hollow place in your heart, a place no other joy could truly fill.

Even if the possibility of his darker nature manifesting more strongly in a child had weighed on your mind, you knew it wouldn’t have swayed your desire. You would have loved them fiercely, shielding them with your light and guiding them toward a brighter path. To nurture, to cherish, to offer a soul unyielding warmth—that was the essence of who you were.

Celebrimbor’s voice broke through your reverie, his tone soft with understanding. “You’re still thinking of it, aren’t you?”

You glanced up at him, surprised by his perceptiveness, but his gaze held no judgment. Only the quiet companionship of someone who had shared lifetimes and understood the burdens carried through them.

“It is a thought that never truly leaves me,” you admitted, your fingers brushing absently over the ancient book still resting on your lap.

He nodded, his expression solemn but kind. “Perhaps, in some way, you already have what you seek. In the little moments, the stories shared, the light you give to others.”

Your lips twitched upward in a bittersweet smile. “Perhaps,” you murmured, though in your heart, you knew the longing would always remain.

For now, you let it rest, soothed by the lingering warmth of the little girl’s trust. It was enough, if only for today.

“Elrond has returned with news from the Dwarves,” Celebrimbor announced, with a gentle smile.

You rose smoothly from the bench, the ancient book pressed to your chest as though safeguarding its secrets. The weight of it was comforting, a tether to times long past. Without hesitation, you moved to step alongside him, your robes swaying with each deliberate stride.

Together, you walked, the rhythm of your footsteps falling into an easy harmony, as if the centuries of shared purpose had been etched into the very earth beneath you. You hoped Elrond had brought good news, because the project was dangerously behind schedule. And there was only so much time left.

With each sway of the ship, Halbrand let the movements cradle him, like a lullaby he could not quite hear. He tried to lose himself in it, to let the rhythm of the waves wash away the heaviness in his chest. Yet his mind wandered relentlessly, tugging him back to places he could not escape. Memories, sharp and vivid as the stars reflected on dark waters, flared to life—pulling, aching, longing.

The burn of this mortal form was sharper, more immediate than the last. Where once he had armored himself against emotion, now they coursed through him unchecked, raw and consuming. He ached for you. For the touch of your hands, the solace of your voice, the brilliance of your mind. His soul felt unmoored without you, a drifting fragment searching for its other half.

When he had awakened in this new life, the frost-laden air of winter biting his skin, his first thought had been of you. He had reached out across the unseen threads of the world, yearning to feel even the faintest echo of your presence. He had scoured the vastness of Arda with his mind and heart, desperate for a whisper, a glimmer, a trace of you among the living. But there had been nothing. The silence was deafening.

The thought of your absence had carved an emptiness into him. You, who were among the first to walk this land, who carried the songs of creation in your very being. It was possible—heartbreaking, unbearable, but possible—that you had faded into the earth itself, surrendered to your grief for him. The thought sent shards of pain through him, sharper than any blade.

Yet, as the days turned into weeks and his strength returned, faint signs began to emerge, like footprints in the snow. In dreams, he found you. Glimpses of your face, your eyes—those luminous, eternal eyes—would appear to him, soft and shining, filled with the golden light of Laureandor’s unending dawns.

In these dreams, you were radiant as you had been in the days of your joy. He would see you wandering among the gardens of that sacred city, the eternal sunrise painting your skin in hues of warmth. He would reach for you, yearning to touch the softness of your shoulders, to trace his fingers along your arms, to hold you as he had in those golden days. He would try, so desperately, to drink in the memory of your scent—jasmine, lilac, and the faint sweetness of raspberries—an essence burned into his soul as deeply as your name.

But it never came to pass. Before you could even acknowledge that he was searching for you—and you almost had, on more than one occasion—the shadows of Morgoth’s curse would rise, relentless and cruel. They dragged you away from him, shrouding your presence in darkness and sending him back into his own mind. Each time, the pain surged through him like a tidal wave, dropping him to his knees in the prison of his thoughts. He would cry out, his voice raw, begging to touch you, to hold you, to feel even the faintest trace of your light once more.

It was not until he had regained moderate strength, his resolve steeled against the ever-looming shadow, that he managed to push past it and reach you again. This time, the veil parted, and he saw you.

The scene unfolded like a long-lost dream: you, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, your beauty ethereal and untouched by the years. You sat at your dressing table, a brush gliding through your hair with deliberate, graceful strokes, and your lips parted slightly as you hummed a melody. It was a song he knew well—one you had sung in the golden days of Laureandor, when life felt eternal and untainted. He had heard it many times, lying in bed and watching you with quiet reverence, soaking in the warmth of your presence, your radiance.

“Mori?” His voice trembled as it left him, his shadows quaking around the edges of your sanctuary, a fragile boundary between worlds. Yet you did not turn. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment met his call.

Moments passed, heavy and laden with hope and despair, until your movements stilled. The brush in your hand hovered above the table, and your gaze fell to the small jewelry box resting there. Your fingers reached out, trembling ever so slightly as they hovered over the box’s delicate clasp, hesitating as though the act of opening it would summon something too painful to bear.

He stepped closer, his presence behind you a silent echo of who he had been. As you unclasped the box, the faint creak of its hinges seemed to reverberate through the room, a sound both tender and haunting. Inside, nestled in the velvet lining, lay a chain and a ring—the very ones he had forged for you.

The sight of them hit him like a blow, a torrent of emotions flooding through him. The memories surged—of molten metal and careful hands, of pouring himself into the craft, shaping his love and devotion into something tangible. He had made the chain and blue jewel to rest lightly against your skin, the ring to shine as brightly as the Two Great Lamps that they were forged under, unknowing of why he yearned to craft a marvel. All when he was your Mairon. Your sweet Mairon.

He reached out, his hand trembling as it hovered just behind your shoulder, yearning to touch you, to reclaim even a fragment of what they had once shared. But the shadows still lingered, cruelly mocking him, as if to remind him that he could watch, he could ache, but he could not hold you—not yet.

You slammed the jewelry box closed and turned away, the sharp snap echoing through the room. The pain of your mark flared again, forcing you to retreat from the part of him that had once been poured so fully into that ring and chain. The sight of your reaction caused his anger to flare, a shadowy frustration that burned hotter as his eyes drifted to your wrist. The mark there pulsed with darkness, black tendrils crawling like living veins up your skin, a visible reminder of Morgoth’s curse.

But then, in a moment that stole his breath, your hand rose instinctively to the golden chain around your neck. Your fingers brushed over the crimson jewel nestled against your skin, caressing it softly. As if in answer, the darkness on your wrist began to fade, the tendrils retreating as though repelled by the warmth emanating from the chain.

His chain.

It seemed to bring you no pain, even in the face of the shadows. Unlike the jewelry in the box, this piece of his work had not been tainted. He realized with awe that the elven hands that had enhanced it in its making had infused it with a power greater than he had imagined. It radiated warmth, a steady comfort amidst the storm of darkness and shadow that plagued you both.

He remembered the night it was placed around his own neck, a gift for a moment of unity and love. He had been hesitant, even fearful, as the chain hovered above him. He had known its nature—that it would burn him if his soul was not pure of light. The stone would have seared his skin and marked his darkened fingers if the darkness in him had prevailed.

But that had not happened.

In your presence, beneath your unwavering light, he had bathed in something he had thought lost to him. The darkness had been pushed back, retreating into the recesses of his being. For that fleeting time, he had become whole again. He had become your Mairon.

You had turned his heart pure, if only for a moment. And in that moment, his whole being had prospered, the shadows receding as the brilliance of your love and light filled the void within him. Even now, the memory of that time was a beacon in his mind, a reminder of who he had been and who he might yet become.

He had pulled away from your mind, granting you a brief moment of solace. But his absence was only temporary. He returned, filling your mind with his deepest, most desperate desires. Shadows crept in again, curling around you as he reached out, hoping—aching—that you might welcome him this time. Welcome him with your warmth. With your light.

“Nightmares again?”

The voice pulled him abruptly from his reverie. Halbrand’s gaze shifted to Diarmid, whose head had lifted from his makeshift pillow, the dim glow of the ship’s lantern casting shadows across his weathered face. The old man’s eyes were sharp, even in the low light, watching him with a curious, almost knowing expression.

Halbrand hesitated. His instinct was to keep his thoughts buried, locked away where no one could reach them. Yet, there was something about Diarmid’s persistent, uninvited concern that made resistance seem futile. The old man had a knack for prying, for picking at the seams of Halbrand’s carefully guarded silence. At times, it irritated him to no end.

But tonight? Tonight, he found himself willing to entertain it.

“Something like that,” Halbrand said at last, his voice low and rough, as though the shadows in his mind lingered still. He leaned back against the ship’s support the cool air brushing against his skin, though it did little to quell the heat of the turmoil within.

Diarmid’s brow furrowed slightly, his curiosity sharpening. “Dreams, then? Or memories?”

Halbrand’s lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Does it matter?”

The old man shrugged, sitting up more, but his gaze remained unwavering. “Only if you think it does.”

Halbrand said nothing, his eyes drifting around the cargo hold. The waves lapped against the hull, their rhythm both soothing and relentless, much like the memories that refused to leave him. He could still feel the ghost of you in his mind, the ache of what he’d shown you, the fragile hope that you might yet answer his call.

He exhaled slowly before speaking. “I’ve done evil,” Halbrand admitted, his voice low and rough, his gaze fixed on the shifting shadows of the night instead of the old man beside him.

“All of us have done things we care not to admit,” Diarmid replied, his tone laced with a quiet understanding.

Halbrand chuckled bitterly to himself. If he only knew. His mind drifted back to you, to the weight of his greatest sin: the evil he had cast like a shadow over your life. Even now, he could feel the heaviness of your hairpiece tucked into the waistband of his pants, the cold metal pressing against his skin. It was a token he could not part with, tarnished by time and freezing temperatures, yet priceless beyond measure.

He had gone back for it, braving danger and decay to retrieve a piece of you. To him, it was a relic—a tangible fragment of the happiest memory he possessed. He clutched it like a lifeline, wishing with every fiber of his being that he could bask in the light of that moment once more. But that light was gone, and the darkness of his choices had set a path that could not be undone.

His plan, even now delayed, was in motion. And with every passing day, he drew closer to you.

“That trinket you carry,” Diarmid’s voice cut into his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. “A family heirloom? Or perhaps a token of a lost love?”

Halbrand’s eyes darkened as they snapped to the old man, his glare sharp and unyielding. But then, to his own surprise, he spoke the truth.

“It was my wife’s,” he murmured softly, his voice a shadow of itself.

“Lost, then?” Diarmid asked, his expression solemn but kind.

Halbrand shrugged, the gesture dismissive, though the pain in his chest betrayed his indifference. “I am unsure.”

Diarmid nodded slowly. “Did she know of this evil that you had done?”

Halbrand’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. The truth of it was inescapable. You had known. You had always known. And despite that knowledge, you had remained devoted to him, loving him with a fierceness that sometimes bordered on blind faith. You had stood by him, willing to follow wherever he led, even when it cost you dearly.

To be worshipped by the one he loved—by you—had been a divine feeling. One that lingered even now, haunting him.

“Then do not dwell in what was,” Diarmid said after a moment, his voice calm and steady. “For all is forgiven to her.”

But Halbrand knew better. Forgiveness was a lie. He had burned your world down, not once but countless times over. He had tried to repent, to make amends for the ruin he had caused, but when the cost became clear—eternal separation, eternal damnation for the both of you—he had fled. He had run from the truth of what his true repentance required. Not able to accept the words of beings that had once hunted him down like an animal.

“Now you must find forgiveness in yourself,” Diarmid continued, breaking through the silence. “You are here, with the hope of seeing her once more, wherever she might be. All because you have chosen good on this day.”

“And what of tomorrow?” Halbrand asked, his voice heavy with the weight of his doubts.

“You choose it again,” Diarmid said simply. “And then the next day, and the day after that, until it is part of your nature.” A soft smile crossed the old man’s lips, his words as gentle as the first light of dawn.

Halbrand said nothing, his mind swimming with memories of what he had once been.

Mairon had been good. He had loved, deeply and without restraint. He had danced in the light, sung with his whole fëa, and devoted himself to the one who had been his guiding star. Day after day, he had chosen to be admirable, to be worthy of the love you gave so freely.

Sauron, though… Sauron was irredeemable in the eyes of all but one.

Yours.

You had clung to the hope that the light could penetrate the shadow once more. You had believed in him when no one else did, holding on to the belief that the spark of goodness within him still existed. And he had told you once, long ago, that his light was embedded in you, waiting to return to him when the darkness had faded.

But the darkness had never faded.

And now more than ever it crept even closer, begging to swallow him further.

Over the weeks, you had lingered in the hazy solace of your dreams, refusing to wake from the gentle caresses and whispered promises of your husband. His touch, his voice, his presence—it all felt so real in the quiet sanctuary of your slumber. You clung to him desperately, even as he faded, unwilling to release him to the waking world. For when you did, you knew you would wake to the cold emptiness of your bed, the hollow ache in your heart once more reminding you of the loneliness that consumed your days. The sunlight seemed dimmer now, as if mourning alongside you, its warmth unable to pierce the sorrow that wrapped itself around you. His words of patience echoed in your mind, but the longing you carried was shifting—slowly, insidiously—into grief once more. And the shadows whispered to you, their call growing ever louder.

“Everything well?”

Celebrimbor’s voice broke through your reverie, and you startled slightly before turning to him. He stood across the small forge, his keen eyes watching you with gentle concern. You offered him a cheerful smile, though it barely masked the weariness tugging at your features.

“Yes, of course, my lord,” you replied, trying to sound lighthearted.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I can tell when you’re lying, Thilwen.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you quickly turned back to the parchment before you. The last bit of correspondence for the day was nearly finished, and you placed your quill back in the inkpot with careful precision. Blowing on the ink to dry, you focused intently, determined to ignore Celebrimbor’s prying gaze. Though he rarely ventured into matters of your personal life, he worried for you on occasion. He had seen the signs: your faraway stares, the way you flinched at the faintest creak of a door, the late-night strolls through the courtyard where you seemed to murmur to no one.

“I am fine—” you started, but Celebrimbor crossed the room in a few strides and placed his hand firmly on the parchment, cutting you off.

“Go,” he said, his voice gentle but resolute. “You look exhausted. I will finish this.”

“But—” you began to protest, but he shook his head.

“No buts. You’ve been working harder than ever, and I need your mind sharp once the forge is complete. We’ll have plenty of work ahead of us.” His expression softened as he added, “Rest, Thilwen. Truly rest.”

You hesitated for a moment, but the warmth of his concern and the firmness in his tone left no room for argument. But instead of rising you only sat back in your chair as you moved to rub your eyes, you wanted to rest more than anything but it would only make your grief and sorrow flourish.

“Thilwen?” Celebrimbor prompted with a raised brow.

“I can’t sleep,” you murmured, a shred of truth in the words. Celebrimbor moved to sit across from you. “I keep having dreams.” You paused, hesitating wether or not to even tell Celebrimbor, but he was one of your oldest friends and was always full of wisdom, even more than you. A child of Ilúvatar.

“Nightmares about your husband again?” Celebrimbor’s voice was careful, yet tinged with the barest hint of curiosity. It wasn’t entirely off the mark, though to call it a nightmare felt wrong. If one could call being driven to the edge by the ghostly caress of your husband’s touch a nightmare, then perhaps he was right. But that was none of Celebrimbor’s business.

“Some nights I see the white towers burning,” you began, your voice steady though your chest felt tight. “Others I see fellow elves—”

You didn’t have to finish. Celebrimbor��s hand reached across the small space between you and settled gently on your arm. His touch was soothing, an anchor in the storm of your words.

You weren’t lying. There were nights when your husband’s presence didn’t soften your dreams, when his whispers didn’t guide you into a fragile comfort. Instead, there were nights when the weight of old memories and distant faces overwhelmed you.

You saw them clearly—people you had loved, places you had walked—now all reduced to ruin. The brilliance of their existence snuffed out beneath the crushing weight of your husband’s oppressive hand. The burning white towers haunted you, their light extinguished by shadow, and the faces of those you cherished twisted with pain and betrayal.

Celebrimbor’s touch tightened slightly, grounding you. “You are not alone in this grief,” he said softly, his voice as steady as his presence. But in your heart, you knew your grief was far more complex than he could ever understand.

Because no one but you could love the hand that had wrought such destruction—and still long for it in the dark of night.

“It is alright; all is in the past. We have endured the darkest of days with our kin, and now we look to craft a brighter future,” Celebrimbor said, his voice steady and filled with quiet conviction. His hand gave your arm a gentle squeeze, a small gesture of comfort before his tone turned teasing. “But please, do go get some rest—you look awful, my dear.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound lightening the heaviness in your chest as you stood and pushed your chair neatly under the table. Stepping closer to him, you placed your hand on his cheek in a warm, familiar gesture. Celebrimbor’s smile softened at your touch, a warmth radiating from him that you had come to know so well over the centuries.

For five centuries, you had known his affection. Though it was unspoken and never crossed into anything beyond platonic, it was evident in the way he treated you. Others had noticed, whispering of how his gaze lingered on you longer than it did on anyone else, how his words carried a gentler tone when they were meant for you, and how his kindness toward you surpassed what he offered even his closest smiths.

But no matter what others said, Celebrimbor knew your heart belonged to another. He carried on with his immortal longing for greatness, his own ambitions burning brightly. Perhaps, somewhere in the depths of his heart, he held a quiet yearning for you as well. Yet, he had always respected the boundaries of your devotion, never once letting his affection compromise the steadfastness of your bond.

For your fëa sung for only one being.

The melody you shared with your husband was eternal, unshakable. It was a song that no other could replicate, a harmony woven in the light that existed between only the two of you. Even in his absence, even in grief so profound it threatened to consume you, you knew you would never betray that song. To do so would be to betray yourself.

“I will try to do so,” you said, letting your hand fall back to your side. You turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at him. “Good night, my lord.”

“Good night, my lady,” Celebrimbor replied with a small bow, his voice soft and reverent as you stepped out into the quiet night, carrying with you the weight of an unyielding love and the memories of what had been.

[cheerioskid]

moonrise au mumbo and grian doodles bc they are so silly ft. a quote by the lovely @germworms when we were exploring their dynamic

little bit of explanation below!

basically after grian disappears from his position as a god he lives in disguise on "square earth" and eventually finds his fav human, mumbo! (the moon prophet)

being so detached from the land of the humans leaves grian really curious about almost everything (yes like the little mermaid but w mcyt gods)

so he's pestering mumbo w all his questions and just generally never leaving him alone, mumbo is slightly annoyed by this and tries to get him off his ass by giving him random objects to inspect or he starts a fire for him to stare at for hours

grian is naturally very warm (sun god tings) and mumbo is naturally cold being the moon prophet so grian sometimes just hangs close by to make sure he doesn't die of hypothermia (red winter era, very cold brr) even though mumbo doesn't mind the cold as much

mumbo also has no idea grian is the sun god (remember no human has seen him in this form other than his prophet) so he starts complaining to bdubs about this weird guy who keeps following him around and is too frustrated to notice bdubs giving him suspicious looks

for more info about bdubs go check out Sea's character sheet for him!! also check the hashtag for other posts!!

[accultant]

"That's the kind of question that lands both of us in trouble," Iago replies, straightening up the best they can without putting too much weight onto a slowly healing leg. They don't know the prisoner or why he's here. Usually, they make it a priority to gather as much intel as possible in a new situation, but they're admittedly off their game at the moment.

Not so much so that they lose their natural sense of mistrust and paranoia, thankfully. "If you're hoping to make a deal with me, I'd at least like to know your name first. Perhaps what landed you here, even. Then you can make your proposal."

It is both a shock and a relief that Iago doesn't ignore him like the rest of the guards. Being held prisoner is far from enjoyable and having no one to talk to only makes it worse. It is difficult to tell the passage of time with no outside light and no one to talk to. He honestly would've been convinced he was put into a void dimension if not for the guards' dutiful pacing. Iago actually turning to look at him makes things feel a little more real and a little less lonely.

What is even more of a shock is the presence of a pet who casually wanders the space, hair tie carried in her mouth. Gaze softening as he looks at the cat, he rather reluctantly shifts his gaze back to his captor. Interestingly enough it seems like from his position that he can see the cat but Iago can't see the cat. How peculiar... Perhaps he can take advantage of this. "I'm good with animals. I'll help you if you help me. Are you open to making a deal?"

[aramblingjay]

The weave of your hands (part 6/6)

Tags: Aragorn/Legolas, friends to lovers, canon era, braiding Words: 16.6K (finished)

“Forgive me. But I will not allow myself to deceive you.” Aragorn reached out, meaning to take Legolas’s hand, his arm, something, just to feel as though his very life was not crumbling before his eyes, but Legolas stepped back. It hurt worse than if Legolas had taken a knife and driven it straight between his ribs. “I did not wish for you to find out like this, on the eve of battle. But—” Legolas’s eyes closed. He seemed at war with himself. “I have heard the gulls.” Or: 5 times aragorn does legolas’s braids + 1 time it’s the other way around

previous parts

-

+I. Minas Tirith

The thought first came to him on the fields of Pelennor, a fleeting idea conceived in one breath and dismissed in the next in favor of more immediate priorities. Legolas looked radiant as he dismantled the Mûmakil, bow aloft, hair billowing elegantly in the wind—the first traces of what if drifted into his mind at that exact moment, then slipped away with the next Orc to come into view.

He did not think of it again until hours later, busy in the Houses of Healing tending to his people. For those who were physically wounded, he helped apply bandages and salves. For some, his mere presence seemed to give them strength and spirit, little though he felt he had done to deserve such an honor. For Éowyn, there was nothing to be done but wait, for hardly anything was known about the effects of a Nazgûl upon the body. He lingered at her bedside each time he made his rounds, wiping the sweat from her brow, praying to every Valar he could name that breath return to her body. She, who had saved them, deserved most of all to live.

Éomer remained faithfully at his sister’s side throughout the day, holding her hand, speaking to her in quiet undertones in hopes his voice might reach her. Once, Aragorn glanced from a few beds down to see Éomer running his hand so carefully through the strands of her hair, so gently, that even if Aragorn had not known them to be brother and sister, Éomer’s affection would have been impossible to miss. Éomer did it again and again, brushing out the golden strands until they lay on the pillow like a crown around her head, and the gesture tugged at Aragorn’s heart in a way that nearly hurt.

Legolas had never touched his hair, and Aragorn had a fair idea why. What if—would Legolas—

He did not even complete the thought before someone groaned in pain a few beds down and he was called away.

The thought came again as he saw a couple embrace in relief upon finding each other alive; again as a woman wept uncontrollably beside a body covered with a white sheet; again as Pippin brought Merry into the tent to be checked, shaking with equal parts relief and terror. There was no more profound place to experience love than in the aftermath of war—love in all its beauty and horror, the sweet and the bitter.

Aragorn did not sleep that night. Even if he had been afforded the time, he did not think he could have with the echoes of men’s cries in his ears and the knowledge of how many had died to keep Minas Tirith from falling. He was kept company by the single, constant thought that had finally taken full shape in his mind, that of what the future would look like for him and Legolas.

Éowyn woke sometime after moonrise, a victory in itself, but there were scores of men who needed tending, and few hands were as skilled as his. It was not a boast; few in Minas Tirith would have even heard of the Lord Elrond, never mind had the opportunity to learn the healing arts under his tutelage.

There was enough work to be done, therefore, that he did not see Legolas until the following morning, when Mithrandir summoned them all to the throne room to decide what would come next.

Even as their eyes met across the room, he could tell that Legolas did not look his usual self. He appeared diminished somehow, pale and wilted like a plant starved of light. Dread seized Aragorn like the talons of a Nazgûl beast. It occurred to him then, as sudden and terrifying as a lightning strike, that victory against Sauron himself would feel no different from failure if something had happened to Legolas.

But in front of all these eyes, what could he do? Aragorn bade his tongue and focused instead on the problem at hand.

To assault the Black Gate in the hopes of lending Frodo time was a crazy, foolish plan, and one likely to leave no survivors, but he could not see another path froward. When Legolas spoke in that unwaveringly direct manner of his—a diversion—and put Aragorn’s idea into simple words, not a man protested further. They had come this far; with the fate of Middle Earth at stake, they had no choice but to see it through.

After the plan was agreed, Mithrandir and the others slowly began to leave. There were preparations to be made, men to be rallied, goodbyes to be said.

Aragorn lingered, making his way to Legolas.

As a rule, they did not lie to each other. To his knowledge, they never had.

But not lying was not always the same as telling the whole truth, and of obscuring the entirety of a situation, keeping private thoughts and emotions that would have great bearing on the other, they had each been guilty exactly once. Their secret had been the same secret, and its eventual revelation in the bowels of Helm’s Deep had brought forth the greatest joy of his life.

In this instance, there was no such luxury to wait and allow the truth to unfold. If all went to plan, and certainly if all did not, they were not promised a single minute past the following dawn.

Four words. A simple, monumental request. There was no more time left, so he would ask, come what may.

Aragorn came to a stop. Up close, it was even more obvious that Legolas was suffering, dark shadows under his eyes and within them, his usually indomitable spirit shrunken as if under some great weight. “Are you hurt?”

Legolas lifted a shoulder, deflecting. “I do not wish to lie to you, meleth nîn.” Aragorn’s heart skipped a beat at the new endearment, then dropped at the raw vulnerability of the words. Even Legolas’s voice was thin, weak. “Please, do not ask me to lie to you.”

“Very well.” He trusted that if Legolas were gravely injured from the battle, or otherwise in imminent danger, he would not make such a request. Perhaps it was only natural that the weight of the last several weeks had taken a visible toll on Legolas; he had been strong for so long, but even Elves had a breaking point. Though he disliked letting this go, he resolved to revisit the topic at a later moment.

Legolas stared expectantly at him, clearly having realized he had more to say. Aragorn stared back. His tongue felt as though it had been twisted into loops more complex than the ones in Legolas’s hair, and the words he needed stilled on his lips.

“Estel?” Legolas prompted. “Are you well?”

It was the preposterousness of such a question, when Legolas so clearly looked the worse of them both, that spurred him onward. In his heart of hearts, he knew that Legolas would never ridicule him, whether he embraced or rejected Aragorn’s request. He knew, too, that Legolas loved him, and did so with strength enough to stand at his side on the morrow in face of certain death.

Still, his heart was pounding so loud he was certain it could be heard throughout all of Gondor. Aragorn took a deep breath. Four words. “Will you braid me?”

Legolas’s eyes widened. It took a long time for him to speak, and when he did, the words were careful. “You have braided me many times. Do you know what it would mean for me to braid you in turn?”

Aragorn did not know for certain, but he had an inkling. The same inkling that had followed him doggedly since the battle and all through the night, that had taken hold of his heart and refused to let go.

“I can see in your eyes that you know,” Legolas said, reading him perfectly as ever. Then, quieter, “Say it, so I may not have to.”

As Legolas spoke, Aragorn found that he did know, with greater certainty than he could have imagined just a moment ago. “It would mean we were wed.”

After another long pause, Legolas nodded, looking miserable in a way Aragorn had never seen. “Forgive me,” he whispered. His voice broke. “Estel, forgive me.”

A cold, sinking feeling spread through Aragorn’s bones. What had he done? “Legolas—”

Legolas held up a hand to forestall him, and just as well, for Aragorn had not the faintest idea what he could say to fix this.

“Forgive me. But I will not allow myself to deceive you.”

Aragorn reached out, meaning to take Legolas’s hand, his arm, something, just to feel as though his very life was not crumbling before his eyes, but Legolas stepped back. It hurt worse than if Legolas had taken a knife and driven it straight between his ribs.

“I did not wish for you to find out like this, on the eve of battle. But—” Legolas’s eyes closed. He seemed at war with himself. “I have heard the gulls.”

The world itself came to a halt.

“Oh, Legolas.” Aragorn surged forward and took Legolas’s hands in his own, desperate to have him close, desperate to hold him. This time, Legolas did not pull way. “Oh, Legolas, by the Valar. How—when?”

Legolas did not open his eyes. “At Pelargir, when we seized the corsair ship. As soon as I saw the shore, I could feel the song of the sea in my heart.”

The way Legolas looked, haggard and frail, suddenly made sense. Aragorn had heard many tales of Elvish sea-longing over the years, usually told in hushed tones by the friend of a friend of a friend of someone who had purportedly experienced it. It was said to be a force of unimaginable might, powerful enough to pull even the most legendary of Elves back across the sea to Valinor. If Legolas had been fighting such a pull for days—

Aragorn could feel his heart splintering into pieces even as he asked the question, but he could not stomach the thought of Legolas in pain for his sake. “Are you—are you sailing?”

He could hardly bear to hear the answer.

Legolas squeezed his hands hard enough to hurt, as though he too needed something to hold on to. “No. No. I will not leave you to stand alone against Sauron.” Aragorn’s traitorous heart calmed just a fraction—he had nearly been preparing himself to have to put Legolas on a ship before supper. “The sea calls to me, yes, but its pull is not so strong yet.”

Aragorn heard what was not being said. “You believe the pull will grow.”

Legolas nodded. Still his eyes were closed, but a tear leaked from the corner and carved a path down his cheek. Aragorn longed to brush it away, for he so hated to see Legolas cry, but he did not wish to let go.

“I do not know how long I can give you. Perhaps years, perhaps only days. So you must forgive me, Estel, for I dearly wish to braid you and wed you in the way of my people, but I cannot.”

“I thank you for telling me.” Legolas made to pull away, but Aragorn did not let go. Where in the past he had been blind to Legolas’s inner thinking, this time, he felt certain he understood what was happening. “But if you think this changes my desires, you would be wrong.”

“How could it not?” Legolas asked.

“Has the sea-longing replaced what you feel in your heart? Or do you still—do you still love me?” And though he was sure, almost entirely sure, that he knew what the answer would be, still his voice wavered.

Legolas’s response was immediate, and forceful. “You are my Elven mate, Estel. I love you, just as I will to the end of my days in Valinor.”

Aragorn released a breath. Somehow, it felt both fitting and jarring that they were having this conversation in the throne room of Minas Tirith, before the very seat he would be expected to ascend if all went to plan. “Then that is all I need.”

“Only in children’s stories is love always enough. I implore you to set that aside and think rationally. We may not have long. Even in the little time we have, I may continue to grow ill. That is no life for a King, Aragorn.”

Where he had thus far in the conversation been Estel, the switch to Aragorn felt pointed, landing exactly where Legolas had likely hoped it would. What Legolas described certainly was no life for a King, or the husband of a King. But with Legolas, he had never been Aragorn, heir to the throne of Gondor—only ever Estel, a young boy alone in a large world, desperate to belong.

“We may not live past sundown tomorrow, meleth nîn.” Aragorn was pleased when Legolas melted a little at the endearment despite the situation, the lines of his face softening. “The forces of Mordor may destroy us long before the sea parts us. It matters not to me. Whether we enjoy this happiness together for a day or for a lifetime, it will be worth it.”

“Elves mate for life,” Legolas pressed. “If I—if the sea calls to me, our customs would prevent you from ever wedding another.”

“I do not want another. And I do not want forever. I want only you.” Aragorn cupped Legolas’s face and stroked the rise of his cheek, demanding that he hear these words. “Legolas, open your eyes.” Legolas did not. “Lassë,” he whispered, a plea and a prayer. “Open your eyes.”

Legolas opened his eyes. They were filled with tears, and a pain so deep it cut Aragorn to the bone.

“I want only you,” he repeated. “So I ask you again—Legolas, son of Thranduil, will you braid me?”

“For us to be wed, you would wear my style,” Legolas said. “Is that—is that what you wish?” Is that what you wish still, he was asking, as though he thought that Aragorn could ever want something else.

“Yes, I wish that.” Aragorn’s voice did not shake. He had never been so certain of anything.

The ensuring seconds might have been the longest of his life. Every heartbeat thudded in his ears.

Finally, finally, Legolas smiled. The pain in his eyes did not dissipate, but nestled alongside it now was an equal part of joy. “Then I shall braid you by my hand, as you have braided me by yours. Let the weave of our hands tell of our love, and let us be wed.”

The happiness that burst forth in his chest could barely be contained. Unable to help himself, Aragorn leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Legolas’s lips. “Let us be wed,” he echoed, giddy with the prospect of it.

Aragorn remembered his promise to himself in the gardens of Imladris, that he would endeavor to savor the moments of peace and happiness that otherwise too easily slipped through his fingers. Each moment with Legolas was even more precious now that there remained no guarantee how many more would be coming, and if their fleeting time together would have to sustain him for a lifetime, he was determined to commit every single detail to memory.

Indeed, he did not think it would ever be possible to forget the way Legolas reached forward, never once looking away from Aragorn’s face, and deftly fashioned a braid at each temple. His fingers brushed lightly against Aragorn’s skin as he worked; each point of contact left Aragorn tingling from head to toe. With each twist of the braid, Aragorn felt as though his very fëa was changing, shifting and growing to make space for another. The feeling of the moment was indescribable—headier than the strongest strongwine, warmer than the blazing heat of a fire, gentler than the lightest caress.

“It is done,” Legolas said, in a voice that sounded as though it came from the very earth, and so it was. Bound together forever—Aragorn could not imagine a better fate.

And so it was that the Estel who had long lived inside him, searching for a home and a family of his own, knew peace.

And so it was that when Aragorn rode upon the Black Gale to battle Sauron for the very soul of Middle Earth, it was with Legolas at his side, Legolas’s braids at his temples, and Legolas’s fëa in his heart.

[sankttealeaf]

LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE

it's easier to never acknowledge the situation between them both. why let it burden them? why allow feelings and care to seep in when they will soon be seen as gods?

cracks start to form in the foundation of their alliance. it will destroy them.

or: a collection of interactions between bhaal and bane's chosen, leading directly up to their respective downfalls.

1. BEFORE | A CHILDHOOD SO SWEET

⤷ "I thought you might want to be friends." She remembers her manners and sticks her hand out for him to shake. "My name is Ruelle."

He considers it for a moment and takes her hand with caution. "Enver." 

2. A REQUEST OF ALLEGIANCE

⤷ Bhaal's Chosen and Bane's Chosen make contact for the first time.

3. "BHAAL'S BLOODY HISTORY"

⤷ The Hall of Wonders is wonderful place for a first date. Nothing draws people closer together than the sweet embrace of Bhaal!

4. REUNIONS AND NEW UNIONS

⤷ Past connections click into place like a puzzle Gortash has been missing pieces of for years.

5. A YEAR

⤷ A year passes by and the two fall into a routine with each other.

6. DOMESTICATING A BHAALSPAWN

⤷ Enver Gortash's guide on how to make a Bhaalspawn come crawling back to him every time!*

*He cannot be held responsible for any unwanted feelings that may arise. He would greatly appreciate any tips on how to combat these feelings.

7. THE FIRST REFUSAL

⤷ Her nature is not to be refused, yet Rumour finds it rather easy to do when it's Gortash asking for her not to kill for one night.

8. CONSEQUENCES

⤷ Actions have consequences only worsened by time.

9. THE DAWN OF A NEW ERA

⤷ The Gods deliver an important message that cannot be ignored.

10. THAT UNWANTED ANIMAL

⤷ An adjustment needs to be made between them to prevent them from breaking under the weight of the ever growing tension.

11. WHERE IRON MEETS FLESH

⤷ Advancements are made with personal projects and God-driven projects.

12. THE CHOSEN OF THE DEAD THREE: UNITED

⤷ The Chosen of the Dead Three meet in person. There's something hidden deep in the walls of Moonrise Towers.

13. TWO HANDS LONGING FOR EACH OTHERS WARMTH

⤷ Plans begin to form to start their journey to Godhood. Does it matter anymore when all she wants is to be by his side?

14. THE HEIST

⤷ Cania is quite lovely at this time of the year

15. KILL YOUR DARLINGS

⤷ Dreams can be read as warnings, depending on how one interprets them.

16. BEFORE THE STORM

⤷ Cracks start to form in the foundation of their alliance.

17. GODS OF THE NEW WORLD

⤷ Godhood awaits.

18. THE SURRENDER

⤷ She should've seen this betrayal coming.

19. THE BETRAYER

⤷ A betrayal so perfect, why would she feel guilty?

20. THE MOURNER

⤷ They promised each other they would never leave. So why is he alone now?

21. HAUNTED BY THE GHOST OF YOU

⤷ Gortash always knew, deep down, he would do this alone.

22. A LOYAL DOG WILL ALWAYS COME HOME

⤷ Returning to the city unlocks a wave of memories Rue is unsure she wants to relive.

23. ONE LAST TIME, PLEASE

⤷ Rue finds herself drawn back to Gortash, over and over again. He holds secrets and she wants to understand them all.

24. SWINGING BY MY NECK FROM THE FAMILY TREE

⤷ The daughters of Bhaal reunite.

25. CHANGE THE PROPHECY

⤷ It's hard to bring the dead back

26. IN THE DARKNESS I WILL MEET MY CREATOR

⤷ Death's cold embrace grasps Rue tightly. She's alone.

27. YOU BELIEVE ME LIKE A GOD, I BETRAY YOU LIKE A MAN

⤷ He’ll get her to understand it’s them against the world. It always has been.

28. AFTER | PICK IT ALL UP AND START AGAIN

⤷ Final goodbyes and a new beginning.

COMPLETED

finally dropping my durgetash fic links here. it's very self-indulgent but i feel like i should promo it more considering how much of a labour of love it is. featuring my durge, rue [tiefling wild magic sorcerer] (cool gifs of her can be found HERE i really should make more of them)

[apollosgiftofprophecy]

THE COMPLETE COPOLLO MASTERLIST

Desperately looking for fics to satisfy your obsession with the RRverse's most dumpsterfire of a ship? Look no further than this post :3

I have Copollo fics ranging from Ao3, FF.net, and here on tumblr! Each fic will be linked, and if the author has a tumblr (that I know of - if you know their tumblr let me know!), they will be tagged.

Also, before we begin, I would just like to say that when I say every Copollo fic I can find is on this list, I mean all of them. This includes fics that are canon compliant, crack, aus, and those with darker tones. If that isn't your thing, all you have to do is avoid clicking on said fics. They're all organzied very nicely if I do say so myself. Nothing more to it :3

Look below the cut for the list! If you have any fics that slipped between my grabby fingers let me know so I can add them! :3

Roman Empire Era

A Cruel Occasion by @seductivegrapethrowing

Grapes and Blood (German) by Buttons_Buttons (Rated G)

Fairness by mothmansaysgayrights (Rated G)

The Death of Emperor Commodus by LusiaLovegood (Rated G)

Long Life to You by kitatyourservice (Rated G)

Call Me Commodus / Today I'll Be Your Ruler / I'll Also Die Here by kitatyourservice (Rated G)

Of Broken Promises by @money-and-dandellions (Rated G)

Keeping Warm by @soleil-in-retrograde (I reread the Copollo part of this over and over :3) (Rated T)

vow by @daisy-mooon (Rated T)

my teeth will only cut your lips, my dear by localcryptidlivinlife (Rated T)

Always Told You Not To Love Me (Now Look What You Made Me Do) by anxious_tofu (Rated E)

ghost of mine (you're taking up all my time) by anxious_tofu (Mainly perpollo, but there is Copollo :3) (Rated E)

i’ll break your little heart in two by Anonymous (Rated E)

By me

Death's Embrace (Rated G)

When the Day Met the Night (Rated G)

When Everything's Wrong, You Make It Right (Rated G)

no one can say what we get to be (Rated G)

drunk off that love, it my head up (there's no forgetting you) (Rated G)

blood on my shirt, rose in my hand (blood on my shirt, heart in my hand) (Rated T)

Trials of Apollo

Canon Compliant

As Far As I'm Concerned, You're Just Another Picture To Burn by @solahflare

It Isn't Love, It Isn't Hate, It's Just Indifference by @solahflare

A Pity by kitatyourservice (Rated G)

forget - me - not by localcryptidlivinlife (Rated G)

Song of Apollo by @tsarinatorment (For the Copollo crumb within :3) (Rated T)

Fractures of the Mind (Heart) by me :3 (Rated T)

The Devil Within (His Mind) also by me (Rated T)

Chapter 5 of some ToApril drabbles because my head is as empty as Meg's by orphan_account (Rated T)

Divinity, Fire, and Former Lovers by @seapinecone (Rated T)

Aus

All's Fair in Love & War by me (Rated G)

It'll Be Okay by Apollo4612 (Rated Fiction T)

i loved you dangerously (more than the air that i breathe) by @okathleen (Rated T)

i will only break your pretty things by localcryptidlivinlife (Rated T)

i'm a bad liar (with a savior complex) by me (Rated T)

@daisy-mooon

Taunt (Rated G)

Outnumbered (Rated T)

Blindfold (Rated T)

Spark (Rated M)

By ifyouseemetellmetogostudy

and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started (Rated G) (nom nomming)

God of Truth (He Never Knew) (Rated G)

you make this place hell (Rated G)

Humus Ericius Diem (Rated G)

Triumvirate Wins Au by bacchis

to eros, in secrecy

den of the lion (Rated E)

there are a couple more fics in this series if you're interested but only the two above have brief Copollo moments (i will admit this au lives rent-free in my brain)

AUs

Winds of Ruin by me (Rated G)

The Moon Brooch by @trials-of-apollo-my-beloved (Rated G)

Coward by @nyaningthroughlife (Rated T)

Moonrise by me (Rated T)

And historians will call them close friends, besties, murderers of each others’ souls by Ifyouseemetellmetogostudy (Rated T)

The Human Within The Sun by SassyTrio130 (Rated T)

Veruca by cactusstudy (Rated M)

Hazbin Hotel nonlinear AUs

Stayed Gone by me (Rated T)

Hell Hath No Fury by me (Rated T)

Crack (when i say every fic, I mean every fic)

It's a Fun Time in Commodupolis! by Anonymous (Rated M)

Dark

Nothing Like The Sun by Cola_bubblegum

Day & Night by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash) (Rated E)

TAG LIST: @moodyseal @plastikstarz @hazardous-lightdas12 @worlds-oldest-teenager here it is! :3

[lerihon-posts]

Dark Urge and Grieving Gortash

This might be a bit disjointed cuz I'm typing this instead of sleeping but thinking about Durge and the aftermath of Gortash's inevitable death. Especially in endings where the party breaks the alliance and kills him. Especially a Durge that's been fairly successful in their quest lines. (Keeps Isobel from being kidnapped, saves all the Tieflings and Zevlor ECT from moonrise)

Do we think Durge even realizes at first that they are grieving? Like yeah absolutely they are aware that grief is a thing and maybe they've felt something they thought was like it about Alfira. But being aware of something is one thing and experiencing it a whole other ball game. Like thinking about it pre-amnesia they're this peak, hand designed by Bhaal Bhaalspawn right? Literally designed to deal out death in droves. Grief would be a pretty useless and largely if not near entirely unfelt emotion by Durge at this point. Grief is something they inflict not experience.

Then you get to Durgetash era, weather platonic or romantic, and it's all kinda agreed by fandom that Gortash is the first person not only to care about Durge but the first person Durge themselves actually care about. A friendship and/or romance so impactful it freaks Durge out. This is what got me thinking; if this is Durge having a crisis over feeling attached to someone and reluctant to kill them for the first time theres no likely way they would have gotten to the point of truly mourning someone before or at least not since climbing the ranks to be papa bhaal's favorite prince/princess.

Now just thinking about an end game Act three resisting Durge standing in Gortash's office with Karlach and very likely their new LI (mine was Gale), deed done and looking down at Gortash's -"no, Enver, he's Enver to us" that persistent voice a the back of their head says- body and feeling that first bit of cold numbness spreading from their heart throughout their chest. Pressure behind their eyes and nose as an Urge, not to harm but to cry, build just as slowly. If it's another character that got the killing blow in maybe unable to look them in the eye with out feeling this sense to *Scream*. A Durge recently born a new free of Bhaal but not their lingering past self, still new to being a honest to gods person and not knowing what was *wrong* with themselves??. They cast speak with dead and hear Bane from Enver's lips and suddenly their body feels like something they have to pilot remotely, their throat burns with a vague wish to be sick.

Do they go to Halsin or Shadowheart later once back at the Elfsong tavern and forcing themselves through whatever this is to comfort Karlach? Chest aching and something all together bitter they don't want to admit to churning in their gut. Do they seek a one of them quietly to ask for a magical heal for this obviously physical poison they must be suffering from only to be told nothing seems to be wrong with them? Do they go through their symptoms confused and feeling numbed and overwhelmed at the same time only for Halsin or Shadowheart to finally reach in through their tadpoles to see what Durge is feeling and then have to explain to Durge that " oak father preserve you, but yours is but a profound sadness; your grieving," Halsin says, or Shadowheart with "you suffer no mere flesh wound im afraid, but that of a much deeper experience; Loss."

Just. All those posts about the dark urge coming to grips with what Gortash actually meant to their old selves, the only people that understood and cared for each other, the only two people who mattered. But then also with the added angst of someone navigating that sadness for probably the first time with no knowledge of how to do that while surrounded by people who wouldn't be able to really understand why you felt that way about someone like Gortash and also yeah there's no real time to process this you gotta fight an elder brain in the morning.

[deadmegumi]

Ashra realizing the sexy evil drow lady she really didn't want to kill is actually alive and completely willing to ignore her betrayal and come back to camp with her:

[tacticalgrandma]

I keep having Thoughts about Dread’s world state post-game. I don’t know if I’ll ever write a proper fic for it—if I did, it’d be a rambly multiperspective thing and I’ve never written one of those before. But here are the thoughts I have now:

After defeating the Netherbrain, Dread and Minthara want to take control of the Absolute, everyone else doesn’t. Tense standoff until Isobel offers to True Resurrect Gortash in exchange for Dread destroying the brain. Dread agrees, Minthara could become Absolute on her own, but chooses not to.

As they’re falling, Dread starts losing her illithid powers. She absorbs the astral tadpole fully, keeping her partial illithidication. Wyll and Astarion, who partook in a worm or two, go back to normal. So does Minthara, who also chose partial ceremorphosis.

Immediately after Minthara is furious and lost—especially after seeing that Dread’s retained her psionic powers while she hasn’t. She leaves for Menzoberranzan. Dread promises her they’ll meet again, Minthara tells her if they do she’ll kill her.

For the next few months, an assassin stalks the streets on Menzoberranzan, killing drow who carved out pieces of Minthara’s estate. The spree ends with the death of the Baenre matriarch and the descrecation of the House’s shrine to Lolth. Minthara then leaves the city for good.

Dread stays in Baldur’s Gate to see Gortash resurrected and Wyll inducted as the new Grand Duke. Aware that the people she loves most have, at best, mixed feelings towards her at the moment, she leaves. It’s the first time in her life she’s ever actually alone.

Dread returns to the illithid colony under Moonrise Towers. She picks up on Gortash and the Myrkulites’ study of psionics, and ends up establishing a psionic monastic tradition since WOTC isn’t going to. Us is her assistant.

Gortash leverages his knowledge of the Baneite strongholds to try to keep Wyll from exposing him to the Gate. Wyll realizes Gortash would only be making that offer if the Baneites were a danger to Gortash. Wyll agrees, under the condition that Gortash bring him his father’s remains so he can try to resurrect him.

Gortash reminds Wyll that a resurrection has to be willing, and asks him if he really thinks his father will come if he calls for him. Look my brain’s just kind of been stuck on a Wylltash hate hookup for a while. We’re probably doing Wyllstarion endgame here. If I ever write a postgame thing I’m probably not even doing this at all. I just think they could really fuck each other up in some neat ways and I keep thinking it.

Gortash got a taste of torture in the Banehold and will do fucking anything to not go back.

Wyll realizes he’s better than his father ever was at politics and it devastates him.

This is a bit of group hc with some discord folks—Wyll ends up hiring Astarion as his personal aide (secretary) to help with some of the legal and bureaucratic issues he’s unfamiliar with. Astarion thrives in his Joan Holloway era.

Wyllstarion drama where Astarion idealizes Wyll and feels like if he’s honest about some of the skullduggery he does on his behalf, Wyll will reject him and he’ll have to go back to the Underdark. Wyll worries he can’t live up to the image Astarion has of him, especially as he has to make hard, morally gray decisions as a leader.

Wyll becomes a tempest cleric of Bahamut post-warlock, to try to carry on Ansur’s legacy. He’s probably able to give Astarion some level of sunlight protection so people just think the grand duke’s bf is being dramatic with his umbrella and big floppy hat.

Lae’zel goes off with Orpheus to free the gith. The egg hatches soon after. Lae’zel immediately hands the kid off to Orpheus. Orpheus leads a revolution wearing a baby bjorn.

Minthara appears at the illithid colony one day, knowing it’s where Dread was most likely to go. Minthara doesn’t kill her. They reconcile. Minthara doesn’t have paladin or illithid powers so she’s an Eldritch Knight fighter now. She’s just like really shredded. She’s so jacked guys.

Realistically Karlach left the party when Dread agreed to work with Gortash. Knowing she’d either die from her engine or become a mindflayer without the artifact’s protection, she solo’d the Iron Throne. Gortash thinks no one survived it, but she managed to free a handful of the prisoners. Mizora made sure Ulder wasn’t one of them.

Gale’s bloody hand is still in Dread’s inventory.

Jaheira tells Wyll that as a Harper, she has a responsibility to hold those in power accountable and this will limit her ability to be a true friend to him. Wyll intellectually understands, emotionally feels like he’s constantly being abandoned and doesn’t handle it with as much grace as he could have. They probably reconcile somewhere down along the line and have a more Nine-Fingers-y dynamic. Just without the fucking.

Oh also more classes: Lae’zel is a blade warlock (great old one) with Orpheus as her patron. Astarion is a College of Lore Bard because I like having two people with Healing Word in the party. I mean because it’s in character. Jaheira’s a multiclass Gloom Stalker and Spores Druid. I still need to nail down Shadowheart but I think she’s a Beastmaster—I keep thinking of her postgame as a cleric bc Asheera fics, but I think in a Dread-helmed party she’d turn from gods more. Karlach was an Oathbreaker, in the NADDPOD antipaladin sense—not actually a fallen paladin, just a hellish version of one. Minsc is a wildheart barbarian with the aspect of the hamster.

[rinwellisathing]

Hi! I want to ask about your WIP:

Papa Bhaal's House of Horrors

:3

Thanks for the ask! So this one is very fun because it's inspired by 70's and 80's horror tropes and like exploitation horror in general as well as some of my favorite horror from all eras. So in the story, Sarevok Anchev is the patriarch of a sort of murder family in the hills. It stars Sarevok, Sceleritas, default Durge, Orin, and then Sentry and my Bhaalist OC family as like Sawney Bean/Firefly Family/Texas Chainsaw Massacre style serial killers in the isolated Moonrise County. They have business dealings with the corrupt Judge Thorm and his accomplices Sheriff Z'rell and Balthazar the County Coroner as well as a sleazy big city mover and shaker, Enver Gortash who keeps offices at the county line. The main plot follows their encounter with Wyll Ravengard and his friends as they drive to the City of Baldur's Gate to fix up his father's old house....and then of course, their car breaks down near the old Anchev homestead...