#evil elf autumn

[kettlequills]

okay okay 26 mayhaps.... im very curious how would this go... 👉👈 for vira and elenwen ofc

tw: grief and death. kiss 26: "sure just interrupt me in the bath i was supposed to take alone, then."

Eleven days have passed since Lord Sinahl's death, and the house is too quiet. A pall has settled noticeably over the estate, muffling every voice and hushing every footstep. 

Unbothered, the estate's glass towers sparkle in the light of the sun. Bright, glaring beams of light peel through the hallways like an interrogator's eye, searching for weakness. The air is sweet with the balmy scent of roses, and the plush carpets that pool like shadows over the sprawling floors are the rich red of flayed tongues. Everything is gold and crimson, like blood on fine elven armour. The mausoleum glows whitely out of every window. Lady Sinahl's sister has company there, now, and without Faseladil striding around his family home making loud demands on his wife's time, the estate is silent. It is an eerie, perfumed quiet, like the tense confusion of the audience when the velvet curtain rises, only to find the stage empty and dark.

Elenwen is not sure what to do with herself. She hovers awkwardly in the palatial house she has only ever visited and tries not to touch things too much. She isn't quite sure why she's there. Lady Sinahl hasn't explained, hasn't even spoken to her since brusquely telling her to present herself to the house staff for a bedroom. Her orders were, admittedly, difficult to misunderstand, but that doesn’t mean Elenwen grasps what she is supposed to do.

The Sinahl estate is imposing in its forbidding luxuries, and Elenwen hides in the bedroom she has been told to stay in. She is terrified of breaking something that cannot be stuffed in a drawer and forgotten about. Sometimes, she paces, digging her heels into the soft carpet and revelling in a room bigger than the barracks she's used to sharing with a dozen other recruits just for her. 

It's a little lonely, by the second day. By the fourth, she starts venturing out, hoping to catch sight of anybody. By the sixth, she gives up on that and spends her days training in the grounds until her body goes numb and trembling. She stays within earshot of the house, in case anybody wants her to do… anything.

Nobody calls on her.

The servants duck out of her way when they see her coming, bowing their heads and shrinking back from the eagle on her breast. They know who she is. They know what she does. They want no part of her presence. The hall goes quiet whenever she enters the servants quarters to fetch her meals. They avoid her eyes, a polite but firm snubbing. She isn't one of them. They won't even talk to her in passing. 

Except one. 

Anisse bustles up to her on the eleventh day, a towel and a bar of soap in her arms. "You,” she says, and Elenwen starts. She wonders if Anisse knows her name. 

“Ma’am,” says Elenwen, awkwardly, and Anisse gives her the flat kind of look that tells her she may as well shove her best politeness up her asshole, for all she cares.

“Go bathe," she orders, "Second door, fifth floor." 

Elenwen manages to receive the soap and towel without dropping anything. She hesitates on questioning Anisse, but too used to her mistress' ways, Anisse simply turns around and hurries off without an explanation. 

Left standing there in the hallway, Elenwen looks down at the bundle in her arms, and wonders if she has to listen to Anisse or not. It's possible she could be passing on a message from Lady Sinahl, but she thinks that Anisse would have said. Maybe she assumed that Elenwen would know. Elenwen hopes she did. The silence from Lady Sinahl is beginning to unnerve her. 

With a sigh, she sets off in the direction of the fifth floor. She’s never been in that particular bathroom before, washing herself in the outside showers by the training areas she has used before, as a visitor. Her chest pangs anxiously; she feels that they all know she was too worried to use the indoor facilities, that she washes up in the nightstand of her bedroom before she goes out, like she was taught at home. But Lady Sinahl’s estate isn’t the barracks, and they expect finer things from her.

She really isn't sure where she stands in the hierarchy of the house, but she doesn't feel like pushing her luck today. 

She isn't the noble family of the house, and she isn't a servant, but something else that doesn't have a name, between both. She wonders, again, what Lady Sinahl plans for her. If she has planned anything at all, or if she has just forgotten about Elenwen hovering in her house. It has been over a week. Surely, she will have a purpose for her, soon? 

Elenwen tries not to pay attention to how plaintive the thought feels, even to her.

She opens the door to the bathroom quickly, like ripping off a bandage. Steam rushes out, warm and soupy in the way of very hot water left to boil for a long time. She edges her way in, confused; perhaps Anisse already drew a bath? She is beginning to wonder if she has seriously misjudged how positively Anisse feels towards her when she sees the foam of white hair across the water and freezes.

The bath is not empty. 

Lady Sinahl breaks the water with a twist of her shoulders, combing her long, soaked hair out of her face. Her skin is flushed red from the water, and her hair steams gently. Her eyes are sharp chips of stone in her implacable face. She is as composed as ever, but Elenwen can’t help but think she just looks … tired.

There are bags under her eyes, like she hasn’t been sleeping. Her lips are thin, her face pinched. Even her posture isn’t as proud as it should be, her shoulders weighted by an invisible, incredible sorrow.

“I’m so sorry, Lady Sinahl,” Elenwen blurts, “I didn’t mean-”

She holds up one hand. It trembles slightly, but Lady Sinahl doesn’t appear to notice. When she speaks, her voice is rusted, creaking like she is out of practice, and so quiet Elenwen can barely hear her over her own breathing.

“Who told you to come in here, girl?”

“... Anisse,” says Elenwen, having very few compunctions about dropping Anisse in it. Her palms are sweating, and not from the heat. She can’t even think of how beautiful Lady Sinahl looks with the water lapping over her bare breasts. This is the step too far that is going to get her killed, she knows it. 

Lady Sinahl’s faltering hand waves, like she does not care either way. She settles herself against the low seat at the lip of the bath, the water around her ribs. Dully, she stares down into the water. Lady Sinahl is always quiet, but it feels … different. Exhausted.

It has only been eleven days since the murder of her husband, Elenwen recalls, and feels her cheeks sear in a sharp, embarrassed flush.

She hesitates. She does not know what to do. Lady Sinahl hasn’t told her to leave, but she hasn’t exactly invited her to stay either. In fact, now her idle curiosity is satisfied, Lady Sinahl appears to barely notice her presence at all. Grief lurks like a terrible weight in her solemn face; it makes her look older.

Suddenly, Elenwen very badly does not want to leave her alone. She wonders if anyone has spent any time with her, at all, since Faseladil’s death. She wonders what Lady Sinahl has been doing all this time that Elenwen was hovering, unsure of her purpose; she wonders how many hours she’s spent slowly scalding her skin in a bath the heat of which she doesn’t even seem to feel.

She turns her back and begins to remove her clothes. Her heart is thudding very quickly in her chest, and she feels incredibly watched, though when she risks a glance over her shoulder she finds Lady Sinahl isn’t looking at her at all. Elenwen bites her lip, and hopes she isn’t making a terrible mistake that will just make everything worse.

She hisses when she touches the searing water, sharp spangles of pain juddering up her nerves. Lady Sinahl looks up. Her colourless expression does not shift, but her eyes skate up Elenwen’s body. Silently, she moves over, so Elenwen would have room to sit beside her on the bench.

Taking the silent invitation, Elenwen gingerly sits down, wincing at the heat. For a moment, she can’t focus on anything but wresting control from her screaming body, urging her to leap up away from the blistering water before she burns herself. She relaxes into the pain slowly, muscle by muscle, as she has been taught, and calms her heart with deep, smooth breaths. The temperature shock ebbs when Elenwen’s body realises she isn’t going to listen to it.

Beside her, Lady Sinahl inhales, opens her mouth like she is going to speak. When Elenwen looks at her, her words seem to fail her, and her mouth closes. Her eyes drop from Elenwen’s face and her shoulders curve inwards, like she is too tired to keep up the pretence anymore. 

Muscles electric, Elenwen gently nudges their shoulders together. She closes her eyes, pretending not to feel Lady Sinahl against her, not moving away. Her heart is beating hard and loud, and her skin burns, but she still hears the catch in Lady Sinahl’s breath. It is the slightest hitch, not quite a sob, but when she sneaks a glance at her, she sees that Lady Sinahl is dull-faced and tearless.

She wonders if Lady Sinahl has let herself cry at all.

She is shorter, smaller, up close against her body like this. More reachable, mortal, with lines on her skin and bags under her eyes, naked without her fine clothes. It is harder to see her as she normally is, an imposing and powerful presence, godlike in the devotion she inspires. She is simply… smaller. She has freckles on her arms and wrinkles on the loose skin of her wrist. There is a scratch on her breast from an errant pin. 

It strikes her as woefully insufficient, all they have done for her. Her husband is dead, and no one will come for her to help her make arrangements, write cards, send flowers, or make sure she has eaten, save her employees. Her son is gone, spitting abuse with his parting words, and she has no family to come and hold her until she cries herself out. She is Lady Sinahl. Her very self forbids such showings of emotion. But she is also Viraneminwe, a grieving woman, vulnerable in the bath, and all she has is Elenwen.

She can’t bring herself to quite be grateful to Anisse for risking her life like this, but a small, warm root of something soft is cracking in her heart, and she thinks maybe she is a little glad that someone is here. It may as well be her.

Pinning her courage to the sticking place, Elenwen raises her arm and drops it around her shoulders, tugging her closer. Viraneminwe resists at first, stiffening in outrage, but Elenwen avoids her gaze. She stays silent, staring out over the steam as if nothing is happening at all. She knows her well enough to know that she needs the pretence, now more than ever, that openly offering comfort would just be too much.

Elenwen wants her to take it. She wants to help.

Eventually, Viraneminwe bends - in increments. Inch by inch, she curls slowly into Elenwen’s chest, resting her cheek over her heart. Her long white hair tangles over her shoulders; she flinches when Elenwen touches it, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she shivers very hard, once. 

Her tears are completely soundless. If Elenwen could not feel the way her breath is hitching and shuddering through the movement of her shoulders under her arm, she would think her utterly unmoved.

Gently, Elenwen presses a single kiss to the top of Viraneminwe’s head. She hopes to imbue the strange, soft feelings that settle so strangely in her chest into the movement, let her know, as burningly as Elenwen feels it, that she is not alone. She doesn’t know if Viraneminwe understands; she goes rigid and her hands seize into claws around Elenwen’s leg. Her nails are digging cruelly into Elenwen’s thigh, but Elenwen dares to think that for once, Viraneminwe is not trying to punish, but simply holding on.

Elenwen isn’t sure if this is exactly what Lady Sinahl had in mind when she told her to stay, but she knows without a doubt that it is why she is here. She has blood-stained hands, not gentle ones. She is a torturer, an interrogator, a servant of violence. But she knows that Lady Sinahl will not accept softness from any place that does not understand the bitterness of forging strength through pain. And she knows that Viraneminwe needs it, possibly more than she has ever done in her life.

So Elenwen holds her. She holds her through her silent tears and her proud grief, while around them their skin grows wrinkled, and the bath grows cold.

[pseudogirlie]

there's something else wrong with me

had to take a break from main game because i couldn't figure out who to romance.... so i made a 'good' dark urge druid until i decide<3

[elfy-elf-imagines]

To Meet Under the Stars | Thranduil

▹ Pairing: Thranduil x Elf!Reader

▹ Genre: Fluff

▹ Words: ~3k

▹ Summary: In light of the stars, Thranduil finds himself entirely enchanted by a mysterious masked woman.

▹ Notes: I love masquerade balls, that is all. Unedited because we die as men.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

The light of starlight was something sacred to the elves. 

In the times of old, before the moon and sun had been created, Varda placed the stars in the sky, illuminating the world for the elves to see. For all other races, stars were just light that guided their way at night, but they were so much more for the elves. They held the promise of life unsullied by the evil of Morgoth. A beautiful display of glistening diamonds that held the light of creation. To honor the stars was to honor Varda herself.

Under the canopy of stars, the wood elves of Eryn Galen celebrated the first night of the autumn equinox. The moon was full and high in the sky as lords, ladies, and commoners alike gathered for the party. The echo of minstrels ensured there would be no corner of the kingdom not lit with joy. Dragonflies darted across ponds, and crickets hid in the forest, chirping to the beat of the lute. There were festivities all throughout the kingdom, but the main attraction was the masquerade ball held within the palace of King Thranduil. Only guests of high esteem were invited to dance under the lush canopy in the company of the royal family. 

And there you were, with summer in your hair and winter in your eyes. Dancing through the crowd, illuminated in the silver light of the moon, you were the vision of a goddess. A soft halo shone upon your silver-gold hair, pinned in an updo with stray pieces that cascaded down your back. Flowers in purple, blue, and silver hues were placed upon your head like a crown, creating the silhouette of a queen. A silver mask encrusted with enough jewels that it glittered under the light concealed the top half of your face, two holes allowing your eyes to glow in the dark. A grin born of pure ecstasy was outlined by the lipstick on your lips. 

No one could recall who you were nor when you’d arrived at the celebration. It was as if you were always there, lying in wait and dancing with the ghosts of the open-roof ballroom. A laugh rivaling the minstrels' songs hung in the air where you stood and followed your every sweeping move. 

From the high table, with a glass of wine precariously hanging in his hand, Thranduil watched you. He couldn’t help it. It was as if you were weaving some sort of spell, casting it upon all who watched, paralyzed by your song and enraptured by your dance. You were beautiful, quick as a whip, and light as a feather. Each step seemed calculated and purposeful, yet so loose it could only be natural.

Thranduil couldn’t recall ever meeting you, so certain he’d know your laugh even if he couldn’t see your face. His advisors tried to make idle conversation as Legolas spent his time with the other members of the guard, drinking and laughing. Thranduil couldn’t be bothered to even pretend to listen, intently focused on the way your summer blue dress flowed like water around you. It nearly felt sacrilegious to directly look at something so beautiful, like staring at the face of Varda herself. 

“It is a beautiful--” his advisor beside him began to speak, talking so slowly it made Thranduil’s lips curl in slight irritation that was hidden by the goblet he held. He watched as you threw your head back in laughter, finding amusement in whatever the elf lord you were speaking with said. It took all his willpower not to roll his eyes as he drank more sweet wine. 

The elf lord offered you his hand, which you gracefully accepted. Instead of dancing through the crowds alone, you twirled in the arms of another man. It made Thranduil’s stomach turn in a way it hadn’t for centuries. 

You and the elf lord you danced with would flit in and out of his vision, yet the merriment never left your expression, and when the face of your dance partner would face Thranduil, he could see just how enchanted the man was by you. His grip on the goblet tightened, knuckles turning white. 

The song seemed endless, drawing out the end of it for as long as possible. Part of Thranduil was tempted to bark at the minstrels to begin a new one in hopes you would once again be left alone, but he didn’t. A king needed to maintain his composure, even if everything inside was screaming not to. It seemed silly to be so taken by a woman whose face he couldn’t even see. 

“Have you tried one of these cakes yet? They’re quite--” 

“Galion.” Thranduil interrupted the man previously speaking, gaining the attention of his butler. The advisor that had been interrupted scowled yet said nothing else as Galion stepped closer to Thranduil. 

“Yes, my king.”

Thranduil pointed at you, Galion’s eyes following his finger. “Who is that?”

His eyes narrowed as Galion leaned closer to try and get a better look at you. Yet not a glint of recognition twinkled in his eyes. Did anyone here know who you were?

“I’m afraid I am unfamiliar with who she is. Would you like me to fetch her, my king?” Galion asked, his attention returned to Thranduil, whose eyes furrowed in mild annoyance. 

“That will not be necessary, Galion.” He waved his hand, and Galion returned to his previous seat. It would be easy to bring you to him, he was the king, after all, but he didn’t want your meeting with him to seem forced upon you. He already had enough of a reputation as a cold, unfeeling man; it wouldn’t do any good to give you a reason to believe them. 

The song ended, and you stepped away from your partner, lowering into a curtsey that he returned with a bow. Thranduil stood, the legs of his chair scraping on the floor; he didn’t bother giving a weak excuse for his exit. If he doesn't act soon, you might slip from his fingers. Thranduil took long strides down the platform and disappeared into the sea of elves. 

He pushed his way through the crowd, most too lost in the magic of the music to pay their king any mind. He could see you, dancing alone with your eyes shut. The grin on your face was wide, never wavering in the slightest. The distance separating him from you was dwindling, the anticipation making his palm sweaty. The crowd parted, and he could’ve pulled you into his arms if he wanted to. 

But as he opened his mouth, you disappeared into the crowd, so preoccupied you never saw him coming. Thranduil’s eyes narrowed, his misty eyes searching the crowd for you, but you were nowhere to be seen. Had you merely been a figment of his imagination conjured by the trickster spirits rumored to hide in his forest? Perhaps you had been, but Thranduil was determined to comb through the crowd hoping to see you again.

Then, a flit of blue brightened the corner of his eye. He turned, seeing you dart from dance partner to dance partner, now on the other end of the room. A cat-like grin appeared on the edges of his mouth; he’d found you. Once more, he pushed through the crowd, not moving his eyes from you for one second, afraid you’d disappear without a trace if he did.

The crowd would pulse, and you would get closer to him before suddenly spreading out towards the treeline. Thranduil would get close enough to smell your floral perfume, but you'd dart in another direction before he could take your delicate hands in his. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was on purpose; you probably hadn’t even noticed him. Your eyes never locked with his that never strayed from you.

But the gods seemed to smile upon him that night, and as the crowd came closer, Thranduil snatched your hand. Your body twisted to face him, the grin on your face never faltering. The perfume you wore was distinctly jasmine, vanilla, and something sweeter, tantalizing enough to bring him closer to you. His hand was rough in comparison to yours, much larger too. 

“May I have this dance, my lady?” His voice was velvet smooth. Thranduil stood out like a sore thumb as the only one in the crowd without a mask. 

“You may, my king,” you curtsied before placing your other hand on his shoulder as his hand found its place on your waist. Wasting no time, the two of you twisted and spun through the crowd in an airy waltz. You had the grace of a swan, maintaining a poised elegance with a child-like grin. Thranduil felt himself falling deeper into whatever spell you had cast. 

A witch, that’s what you had to be. There was no other explanation for the hammering of his heart or the delight your touch elicited. 

One step back, one step forward, one to the side, and repeat. Another spin, extra flourish added for flavor, and the movements continued. Neither of you spoke, eye to eye, unable to look away from one another. Thranduil found himself counting the flecks in your eyes, convinced they held a thousand little stars in them. 

Perhaps you hadn’t been an illusion placed to taunt him but a gift from the Valar themselves. 

All too soon, the song ended, and the dance was finished. As he watched you do before, you stepped back from Thranduil and lowered into a sweeping curtsey. He wanted to ask you to stay with him, not only for the night but the rest of eternity, but he found himself tongue-tied.

“It was an honor to dance with you, my king.” Your voice was soft and warm, like the spiced tea he would drink before bed. He wanted your name, to lift the mask you wore and lay his eyes upon your face entirely. He needed to see the face of the woman that would surely haunt his every dream. 

Thranduil blinked, and in the brief time, his eyes weren’t on you, you’d disappeared. He half expected for there to be stardust left where your feet had been, but the only proof you’d existed was the imprint of your heels in the grass. His eyes scanned the crowd, twisting his body and craning his head, yet you were nowhere to be seen. But this time, instead of seeing flashes of your dress or silver hair, you were nowhere to be seen. You’d disappeared entirely.

Thranduil stood in the crowd a moment longer, hoping for a glimpse of you before deciding to return to his seat at the table. Perhaps from the high crowd, he could ascertain where you were. Thranduil returned to his seat, acting as if he hadn’t suddenly rushed from the table to dance with you, ignoring the questioning glances from his advisors. His goblet of wine in hand, eyes on the crowd, Thranduil sunk into the music and lost himself in thought. All of them were plagued by you. 

And there he stayed as the hours ticked by, seemingly in a trance. No one at the table bothered to strike up a conversation with Thranduil anymore; it was like trying to converse with a brick wall. So they settled in silence, occasionally remarking about the party with the other guests. 

“My king,” Galion returned to his side. “The lady you danced with has stepped away to the gardens.” Galion’s tone was even as if he were merely commenting on the weather. Thranduil side-eyed him, noticing the tinge of mirth on Galion’s smile. Thranduil tilted his head to the side, then slowly nodded. 

“Perhaps I should ensure our guest is enjoying the festivities.” 

Thranduil stepped away from the table and followed the path toward the garden’s you just slipped into. He took long strides to reunite with you sooner. This time he was determined to get your name and to peek beneath the mask you wore. 

When he finally stepped into the garden, he saw your back turned to him, fingers dipped in the fountain's water. Your posture was relaxed, hair loose and flowing, no longer pinned in the updo it once was. It flowed like liquid silver, furthering his conspiracy that you were a celestial being born of the gods. Precariously hanging in your hand was the mask you’d been wearing, thumbs rubbing against the ribbon that tied it in your hair. The minstrels were now a distant hum, the flowing water, and the chirp of crickets the only song in the gardens.

He stopped a few steps from you, trying to find the words to say. It’d been so long since he’d been made to feel like a shy elfling, nervous about approaching his first crush. A king should be dignified and confident, but he felt all of that crumble in your presence. 

Your ears twitched as Thranduil shifted in his spot, head raising at the sudden intrusion. Slowly, you turned, unsure who to expect would intrude upon your solitude. But of all the people you imagined stepping into the garden, you never anticipated it would be the king. He nearly seemed awkward and unsure in his place, fingers smoothing wrinkles on his robes that weren’t there. 

Immediately you lowered into a curtsey, but the king didn’t acknowledge the movement. His eyes were wide and mouth slightly agape as he stared at you. As he looked upon your face, this must’ve been how the first elf to gaze upon the stars felt. The curves and lines of your face were soft and delicate, the vision of beauty. Your eyes seemed even brighter in the dim lighting, an unsure, shy smile curling on your lips.

“My king.”

He remained silent, too wonderstruck to speak. 

“If you require to be alone, I can--” You began to walk towards the exit, but as you passed Thranduil, his hand reached out and caught your arm. You turned to face him, uncertain. Thranduil’s hand trailed down your arm and intertwined with yours, a soft smile on his lips.

“Of all the people who desire my presence, yours is the one I desire most.”

You swallowed thickly, your mouth suddenly dry. You’d been close to the king only hours ago, sharing a dance with him. Yet the privacy of the gardens and the sweetness of his words, it all felt much more intimate. 

“Then I shall stay.”

Thranduil’s grin widened as he guided you further into the gardens. The flowers were vibrant and lush, a true testament to the skills of the elves. A canopy of trees diffused the moon's light, reflecting off the fountain and casting a spotlight on you. 

“I have a confession.” Thranduil suddenly stopped, eyes intently watching your face, noticing how your lips slightly parted and your eyes glowed with curiosity. “I have found myself quite enchanted with you, my lady. It seems foolish, not knowing your face until this moment and not having your name.”

“It’s Y/N, my king.” You interrupted, a charming smile curling your lips. The hammer of your heart matched the tempo with Thranduil’s. 

“Y/N.” He muttered your name quietly, your name on his lips making your stomach curl. Of all the ways you anticipated this night's end, strolling the garden with the king was not what you could’ve predicted in your wildest dreams.

“Y/N. If I may be so bold, I would like for this to not be the last time we meet. I desire more of your company.” 

Thranduil stepped closer, the heat he radiated warming your chilled skin. Gossebumnps followed where his hands touched, a shiver rushing down your spine. Subtly you pinched the back of your leg, convinced this was nothing more than a dream. Yet you didn’t wake; this moment was real. 

“If I may speak freely, my king?”

Thranduil nodded his head. “Please, you may call me Thranduil. No need for such formalities.”

You tipped your head at him as the smile on your face brightened. 

“If I may speak freely, Thranduil.” You corrected, with an almost mischievous lilt to your voice. “I would much desire more of your company as well. I have heard many rumors of your cold and detached demeanor. I’ve heard of how harsh you can be, yet I have seen nothing of that.”

“I’m glad the whispers of the court haven’t scared you away, my lady.” 

The smile on your face curled into a teasing smirk, eyes illuminating. “You’ll find it’ll take more than malicious rumors to scare me away.”

Thranduil's finger twirled around a lock of hair that framed your face. He seemed relaxed and more at ease than you'd have imagined. 

"A strong will and a fair face, Varda herself must've crafted you."  

His words made your face flush red, so deep it was seen in the dim lighting of the garden. 

"Pretty words you speak, my king; I'm eager to learn if your words match your heart." 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Tags: @jmablurry | @lunatichaotiche | @aearonnin | @emiliessketches | @vibratingbones | @moony-artnstuff | @ranhanabi777 | @kenobiguacamole | @ceinelee | @thranduil | @samnblack | @abbiesthings | @Strangebananabatranch | @bitter--fruit | @keijibum | @lifestylesleep | @themerriweathermage | @im-a-muggleborn | @sweetheart-syndrome | @boyruins | @AwkwardBecomesYou | @delyeceamaitare

[spacebarbarianweird]

Hey! It's my birthday today and it's been really good but it's been kind of the first birthday I've ever properly celebrated with my chosen family and friends in a long time since a lot of trauma/ab*se, and I really hope it wouldn't be too much to ask (take as long as you need obvs) for some headcanons with a Tav that isn't going to celebrate on their birthday, but Astarion makes it special for them somehow and maybe they agree it's Tav's 'first' birthday 🥹🥹🥹👉👈

I love all your work and eagerly await your posts, they make my day 🥰🥰🥰

Hi! Hope you will like it! Now, Tiriel's birthday is also in autumn!

Birthday Gift

Summary: Tiriel has no idea when her real birthday is and she's never receieved birthday gifts. Astarion finds it outrageous.

Pairing: Astarion x OC (Tiriel)

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, post-game, named Tav, established relationship.

Thanks @themadlu for beta-reading!

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

TW: a mention of abuse

Tiriel looks around.

Autumn.

Leaves are turning red and yellow, the winds are cold and promise winter. 

It’s beautiful, though the barbarian feels uneasy – the childhood memories. Winters are merciless in such wild places as the Sunset Mountains. Hunger, sickness, death… Sometimes her stepfather, a cruel chieftain, would order to leave certain people outside (too old, too weak) – to let them die and not waste scarce food. 

He would often pull Tiriel outside when the autumn winds were particularly harsh and say: “Look at this, pixie girl, I can just order not to give you any food and you will die like a stray cat. But I am merciful – I told your mother I’d save your pathetic half-blood life!” With these words, he would let her go and Tiriel would run to hide somewhere dark and safe.

She was lucky there were no harsh winters during her childhood. She would be the first to be deprived of food and warmth.

Only half a human. The result of an affair between her mother and an unknown elf. She still wonders why she was spared in the first place. It would have been so easy to murder a newborn girl.

They didn’t.

They kept her.

Maybe it was a superstition that elven children would become evil spirits once they died, or fear that Tiriel’s elven relatives would return. 

Those are questions without answers, Tiriel knows that.

Maybe there was a moment when her mother loved her. Maybe there was a moment when Tiriel’s stepfather really did forgive his wife. 

Tiriel doesn’t have happy memories from her childhood. It’s all too dark and miserable.

And autumns like this remind her of it.

“Hello, darling,” Astarion grins, returning to the road from the woods. His shirt is stained and he licks his lips. 

“What was it?” she asks.

“A boar. Didn’t expect I’d jump on it from the tree.”

Tiriel smiles as she wipes his face from blood and brushes his messy curls. Astarion doesn’t see himself in a mirror and, of all forms of intimacy, he especially cherishes being taken care of. Brushing his hair, cleaning his face, making sure he looks beautiful.  

Two years. Two years of her own happy memories. Where she has a person to talk to, to hold, to love. Astarion is a troubled person, but Tiriel loves him at his worst and at his best.

Astarion rubs her ear, forcing her to giggle.

“Let’s go?” he suggests. “The weather is getting worse, I want to spend the next few days somewhere warm!”

“It’s five miles to Longsaddle if I’ve read the map properly.”

Astarion takes her hand, and Tiriel feels how warm it is thanks to the boar blood. 

“Then we will meet the sunrise in a comfortable bed!” Astarion chuckles. “And in each other’s arms.”

“I doubt they have good beds there, so far from Luskan and other big cities.”

“We have low standards, you and I. As long as there is a blanket and a bed, we are fine, Besides I love using your breasts as my pillow.”

Tiriel bursts into laughter and receives a peck on the cheek.

Unfortunately, it can’t stop bad memories.

… Her siblings asked her to help them with something on a cliff. She followed them, only to be violently beaten by her older brothers. Tiriel even thought for a moment they were going to rape her, but, instead, they pushed her down to certain death.

Tiriel woke up in dirt and blood, with her arm broken in half, shivering and coughing. 

And with a cave bear ready to murder her. 

That’s when Tiriel felt rage for the first time.

It filled her veins with fire. Tiriel barely remembers what happened that night but she knows she killed that bear– and was left with facial scars. Then she came back, limping and bleeding. She thinks she fought someone, maybe one of her brothers or the chieftain and then she ran.

She ran into the mountains woods – no armor, no weapon, only rags and bare feet. 

Then she collapsed on the ground, hurt and scared in the middle of the woods, forever lost.

Tiriel remembers that moment vividly. 

A young girl who had barely hit puberty (because half-elves grow slower) woke up all alone and cried like a child. Then she got up and walked, dying of cold and hunger. 

Two days later she was found by a group of adventurers who sort of adopted her as their party child. An old halfling washed Tiriel’s hair and healed her wounds. A water genasi cooked the girl food and offered the warmest blankets. 

And the tiefling paladin asked Tiriel what her name was.

“My sweet, I thought it was me who tends to wander into dark thoughts,” Astarion squeezes. “Remembering your misfortunate youth again?”

“Yes. Just – similar. To what it was back then. The same autumn when I ran from home. The same autumn when I got my name.”

Tiriel, the little girl told the party. My name is Tiriel.

Astarion does the same thing he always does when he wants to support Tiriel.

He gives her a hug.

“Hush, Tiriel,” he murmurs. “You will never be alone again.”

Triel relaxes. That is her Astarion – a simple hug, a kiss, an embrace, and her nightmares perish.

He pulls away and Tiriel catches his most adorable smile – he doesn’t pretend, doesn’t show off, doesn’t perform. That’s real him.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

She nods. They don’t have to ask permission to do things with each other. Kisses, hugs, grabbing hands, touching intimate parts – but they still do.

Tiriel asks if she can kiss Astarion.

Astarion states he wants to kiss her.

Simple as that.

Permission and declaration.

Astarion grazes her lips. He is in his predatory mood, when Tiriel just needs to accept whatever is going to be done to her. His strong hands grab her shoulders and tug at her.

Astarion finally breaks the kiss and stares at Tiriel for a few moments.

“I am not going anywhere,” Tiriel murmurs.

“I know, Tiriel. You are mine and I am yours,” Astarion presses his forehead to hers. 

They go down the hill and find themselves on a road that connects scarce towns and settlements far from the Swords Coast. The road is more or less walkable but it soon will be washed out due to rains. Tiriel notices Astarion’s visible disgust.

“Honestly darling, we should have stayed in Baldur’s Gate and lived a life of comfort!” he chuckles.

“You would die of boredom – besides I thought you’d had enough of that place.”

“True, but there are many other comfortable places! Tiriel, you deserve to wear a nice gown made of the best fabrics and sleep in a huge master’s bed where I will ravish you till you beg me to stop.”

Tiriel turns around to see her partner better. “And then I would die of boredom. Astarion look at us – I am a nomad and you were enslaved for so long you deserve to see the world.”

“It doesn’t mean I can’t whine and complain!”

“You can whine and complain all day long, Astarion. Why even bother to be in a relationship, if you can’t do this?”

They bicker and laugh for the next hour until they see a town ahead. Despite it being close to midnight, the town doesn’t sleep and is rather festive.

“What is going on here?” Tiriel asks a passerby as they enter the town. “Some local celebration?”

“It’s our duke’s first son’s birthday,” the woman shrugs. “Not like we care about the spoilt brat but you can’t say ‘no’ to a celebration right?”

The woman disappears in the crowd and Tiriel points at the stalls.

“Astarion, look! So many sweets! Oh, and there are fireworks!”

Astarion looks distant, as if something plagued his mind.

“Love, what is it?” She asks and feels a wave of anxiety. What if it’s too much? Feasts like this used to be his hunting grounds, what if he has a painful flashback?

Two years against two centuries is almost nothing.

“Tirie,l” he finally asks. “When is yours?”

“What?”

“Birthday. I know this is a huge deal for humans and the ones who grew up with them.”

“I don’t know.”

Astarion looks at her with shock.

“You… what?”

“I don’t know when mine is, I was never told. Neither a date nor a month.”

“Oh,” Astarion didn’t expect this answer. “Well, at least you know the year, right?”

“I don’t.”

Astarion raises his index finger as if wanting to point at something, but then he shakes his head in disbelief.

“We have been together for two years and you are telling me now that you don’t… how old you are?!”

Tiriel ponders a bit.

“Well, I know it was 1472 DR when I ran away, I was told by the party who adopted me… and I had had my first blood only two months before that. But I am a half-elf and it took me longer to grow up… So I think I was… fifteen? Maybe, sixteen… Or fourteen? Definitely not sixteen… Because my older brother was sixteen… Damn, I don't really know. Don’t bother.”

“Darling, I can’t not bother with the fact that I don’t know how old you are!”

“You say it as if I was one of those little girls who look older than they are and get their one-night stands in trouble!”

“It’s not that, Tiriel! It’s just… I don’t know… wrong!”

“It probably is.”

“It is wrong.”

“I cannot do anything about that.”

The wave of sadness drags her to the bottom of her dark thoughts.

Beatings.

Insults.

Hatred.

Pain.

All at once, since she was born.

Suddenly, she is a little girl again – a little girl thrown outside in the autumn rain, in the wind, wearing only a nightshirt. Tiriel thinks she hears her stepfather's laughter from behind a thick wooden door as a seven-year-old half-elf who cries and begs him to let her in.

Tiriel stops. Tears prickle her eyes. Her face burns, and an adult half-elven woman who fought gods and demons starts ugly crying like a child. 

She collapses on her knees not caring about the dirt, wailing and sniffing.

“Tiriel!” Astarion drops his sack and kneels beside her. “Did I do… Did I ask… Oh, hells.”

He puts his arms under her shoulders and presses her to himself, lulling and swaying side to side. He murmurs all the words of love and care he is capable of.

“Let’s take you somewhere warm,” he finally says, helping her to get up.

Despite the fest, they manage to find an inn with a free room, a cheap and simple one. Tiriel has to go inside first to invite Astarion, and then he takes everything in his hands again making sure the innkeeper brings warm blankets and prepares a bath. 

“Love,” he says. “Look at me.”

Tiriel tries not to think about how bad she looks right now with her puffy face and snot but obliges.

“That's much better, now let’s take you to the bath”

An hour later, Tiriel submerges herself into the hot water and expects Astarion to join her, but instead he goes straight to the exit.

“Astarion!” she calls him out.

“I will be back soon, just relax while I am away, all right?”

Tiriel hates being alone. Too many dark thoughts, besides, now she feels guilty. Astarion went through hell and she dares to complain?!

Her past isn’t that bad in comparison with his. She has no right to pity herself. 

Time passes slowly, and Tiriel feels restless. What if something happened? What if there was a vampire hunter? Or something else…

When she finally decides to get out of the bath, Tiriel hears familiar footsteps.

“Close your eyes, little love.”

Tiriel obeys and then feels something soft and plush in her arms.

“Open” Astarion places his chin on her shoulder.

A plushie-owlbear.

Soft and cute, it’s a toy appropriate for a little girl to cuddle with. 

A toy she never had.

“Well,” Astarion explains. “Since you don’t know when your birthday is, it can be… today. 17 of Uktar. Happy birthday, love,” he kisses her cheek. “And I suppose we should decide how old you are.”

“Thirty-eight,” Tiriel says, doing mental math. “Let it be thirty-eight”

“Happy thirty-eight birthday, my lovely, darling girl.”

Tiriel feels like crying again. It’s just a toy, a plushie, a thing for a baby. But she was never treated as a child, she was never given toys or dolls. And this gift… is the best she could have received.

“Do you like it?” he asks carefully.

“Yes… I do love it! Thank you! Did you steal it?”

“I won it from the toymaker. Played cards with her.”

Astarion sits on the edge of the bathtub and Tiriel wraps her hands around his waist tugging him into water. He lets out a laugh.

“Darling, you know how long it will take to fully dry?”

“Eternity! And we will spend this eternity in the inn warm and safe,” Tiriel says. “Astarion, please! I don’t want to go back on the road now, so many bad memories!”

He sits in front of her fully in the water. “Ok my sweet, what else do you want for your birthday? Maybe I could return the favor and let you ride me in some place from your traumatic memories? I’ve seen a rather terrible-looking dirt of mud.”

Tiriel thinks for a while and then says. “I don't mind riding you, but maybe in the bedroom?”

“Whatever you say, darling!”

**

It’s sunlight outside, and Astarion feels the tugging feeling in his undead chest. He misses sunlight, that's true. 

Tiriel is asleep in his arms. They actually didn’t make it to the bedroom and had the first round in the bathtub, and now Astarion needs to repair his shirt and find missing buttons from a doublet. 

It causes him anxiety, but he shrugs it away.

He can lose all the buttons and rip all his clothes, and the only reaction he will receive will be Tiriel’s jokes.

Tiriel hugs him from behind, placing her cheek on his mutilated back. The plushie is pressed between their bodies as his warrior-love has decided to sleep with it. 

He actually didn’t expect her to like the toy. Initially, he was panicking and looking for something appropriate for Tiriel. A ring? A bracelet? Maybe a weapon? Maybe just something sweet? 

Everything he was putting his eyes on was off. Jewelry Tiriel would never wear, a weapon she wouldn’t fight with. 

And then he saw the toys. An owlbear plushie for a woman who is always treated like a brave hero. Who didn’t have a proper childhood? 

The first birthday gift for someone who has never had a birthday.

And Tiriel loved it so much she pressed it to her chest the moment they stopped ‘celebrating’. She wanted to give it a proper name, and they spent at least a few minutes discussing their ideas before they settled on Big Eye.

“Tiriel,” Astarion mutters knowing she is asleep and won’t wake up. “I love you. You will never be alone, I promise. I will be with you unless you grow tired of me, and I am sure you won’t. Thank you for … finding me. Saving. Helping.”

Suddenly he feels her wet lips on his scars.

“I will never grow tired of you,” Tiriel promises.

--

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[ttrpg-smash-pass-vs]

DROW

VS ELADRIN

Next is the Drow, a cursed elf with magic to create light and patches of darkness. Most are cartoonishly evil to the point of parody, but that's not actually innate, their goddess just personally has the good ones killed and tries to manipulate/torment them to be even more evil. So there are actually nice ones, I mean they used Drizzt as thier only example photo and he's the poster child for that. Though most drow that survive to adulthood are going to be sadistic and dominant, since Lolth randomly sets even her priestesses on fire just to keep them on thier toes. Primed and ready if you're into manipulation and being used! Or someone with a hell of a lot of trauma.

Eladrin are whimsical magical fey! All of them, since as a PC race they are elves (not fey), are nearly identical, and change only when they want to for all sorts of reasons. Plus the only difference in ability is that autumn charms people when they teleport, winter frightens, summer damages, and spring can teleport other people. I guess the winter still tends to be more dour/gloomy, summer angry/confident, spring joyous/mischievous, and autumn peaceful/generous. But for the PC version here that's not really a requirement since they didn't want to force players into set personalities.

[oubliette-odette]

The Reluctance of Love Pt. 15

Orc Male x Half-Elf Male, Fated Mates, Forbidden Love, Slow Burn Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14 Word Count: 2257 (average 17 min read) Content Warnings: mention of mating, homophobia, fantasy racisms. Steamy scenes will come to those who are patient. :) All orcish is from orcishdictionary.com, created by Matt Vancil.

I had found being safely tucked into a corner behind a pillar was the most comfortable place for me in the room. The shadows kept me from drawing attention and Doxxah stood only a few feet away making nice conversation with the people around them. They would occasionally glance my way, but never brought anyone’s attention to me. How Doxxah had ever managed to make friends with these people, I don’t believe I would ever know. I felt completely ostracized and alone in this place and I didn’t feel safe to speak with anyone.

My eyes were unfocused as I looked around the room and took in the crowd - the swarms - of people dancing and mingling. Some were holding votives of wine, others were admiring the space. I looked around too, but my head was too full to retain anything that I saw. I had been standing here for a long time, watching and weaving my eyes through the crowds to spot Altan, and everything felt different, slower, where I stood. 

I was brought out of my daze when there was a loud banging and everyone stilled  and looked up at the stairs at the top of the Grand Hall. 

“Presenting, Duke Taliesin Valdemir Hilmar and his son Altan Hithranri Hilmar.”

I jerked my attention to the center of the stairs and found him, standing stiffly and so uncomfortably next to his father, but I did not see an Altan I recognized. His face was dim, his eyes were downcast and he seemed like he was folding in on himself. He was dressed in black, a colour he should never be allowed to wear. I found that all breath had escaped me and I fell against the pillar as I gazed upon Altan. 

Where was his radiance? His glow? I found my hand pressed against my chest, holding the pounding of my heart in place inside me. I didn’t know what had come over me, but it was a painful sensation. 

“Good evening, my most honoured and welcomed guests.” The Duke announced. His voice had been magicked to amputate it and extend it across the entirety of the large space. No one would miss his commentary. “We once again come together with friends across many lands to celebrate the coming of the Autumn Season where our crops will again be gathered, prepared and stored for the coming winter. We in Berdusk feel fortunate to be hosting for so many of our neighbors to provide this celebration of life and renewal.”

“But there is something about this particular year’s celebration that makes it especially unique.” He turned and brought his aarm was around Altan and he pulled him up to his side. “It was 200 years ago that my ancestor Dafydd Hilmar defended this land - our beautiful land - from the dangers of the evil folk who lurked South of us. Since Dafydd’s time, the Hilmar name has continued to promise prosperity and protection for the people of Berdusk and I am pleased to present my son as my heir to continue that legacy. The Hilmar family will continue to protect and guide these people through years to come. When there are those who would bring danger and change to our land, I can promise you that the Hilmar name will be the first to defend our tradition, our way of life.”

I noticed the way Altan’s gaze lowered as his father continued. His hands were worrying and fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. Even as people clapped and applauded his honour and position, I could see the way he shrunk at all of the attention.

“And not only will the Hilmar legacy continue through my heir, but there is a promise of prosperity in continuing the name onward. My son has agreed to be wed.”

Cheers erupted, but I heard none of it. I saw the Duke’s mouth moving - continuing his proclamation. I heard nothing he said, only the sharp ringing in my ears.

 I saw Altan, the way he stiffly stood as the Duke ushered a small, girlish looking woman to stand next to them. She smiled shyly at Altan and then to the crowd I ached as he smiled in return. The girl immediately clung to Altan’s side as they waved and bowed to the crowd. She looked like she couldn’t be older than seventeen or eighteen years old and she was petite, and blonde and pale. Everything about her looked smooth and glassy, like porcelain. She watched Altan with a nervous smile. The Duke stood behind the couple, his face pleased.

I could only lean against the pillar with my fingers clinging to the vial.

Celebration and congratulations were exclaimed, but my lips were tight. I caught Doxxah’s eyes on me, they didn’t say anything, but I saw the empathetic gaze in them and I looked away, blinking back the rage that was settling in me.

My hand was on the vial, my fingers playing with the stopper. 

Altan…I watched him as he descended the stairs to join the crowd and the way his smile didn’t quite meet his eyes. Was he mine to claim? With that vial, I could have him if I chose, force our bodies together and take him away from all of this. Lordhovid could fix all of this. 

But perhaps…this was for the best. This union between two people. She could give him comforts I never could. She looked good next to him, just the right size and disposition. Perhaps I was foolish for believing someone like me ever really had a chance to be loved.

Perhaps this was truly what made me broken all along, that I was only meant to love what I couldn’t have.

Yet, I would look at Altan and I would see the light gone from his eyes. He didn’t choose this, did he? He didn’t agree to this, did he?

I couldn’t bear to watch anymore as they wandered through the crowd. I kept my eyes down. 

“Not exactly the news we were hoping for, eh?” Doxxah sidled next to me and handed me a glass of wine. “Drink, it will help.”

“Not interested.” I responded. 

They pushed the glass into my hand. “I know what’s best right now for a broken heart, you thickhead, and right now you need a good smack of alcohol to help you forget the pain for a bit.”

I looked down at the red liquid, no different in shade than the liquid inside my vial. Either one could help with the pain…but I couldn’t bring myself to do either. 

I handed the glass back and shook my head. “I’m not interested in removing the pain.”

Doxxah rolled their eyes. “You romantic folk are always so melodramatic. More for me, I suppose.” They took the glass and downed it in one. 

I looked back up at where I last saw Altan and watched. I was doomed to never look away.

“Don’t trust for a minute that he chose this, Drunrag.” Doxxah said. “He’s not one to move on so quickly. This has the Duke’s scent all over it.”

I glanced again over to the crowd of nobles and noticed that indeed The Duke seemed to be the most exultant of the gathering and the one who continued to push Altan towards the girl. I was too far to tell, but I could have sworn I saw Altan’s eyes shifting and looking out, as if he were scanning the crowd, looking for someone. 

Possibly me? I could only hope. 

“Excuse me?” A voice broke through. 

Doxxah and I both turned to see a young boy - an adolescent, no more than fifteen - standing before us. I jerked back when I recognized that it was Altan’s younger brother.

“Selhar!” Doxxah exclaimed. “A pleasant surprise.” They lowered themselves to meet the boy’s height and said softly, “What can I do for you?”

Selhar darted their attention between Doxxah and myself and finally shuffled towards me. “Actually…I was hoping I could speak with you.” He looked up at me, eyes nervous and expectant.

I felt my own eyes widen in surprise and I quickly darted to Doxxah for guidance. But they were no help as they only shrugged and stepped back, letting the boy approach me.

I bent my knees and leaned down to the boys level. “How may I serve you?” I asked, formally.

His eyes were on me, taking in every detail of my face. It usually was uncomfortable for me to be so closely observed, but Selhar’s eyes were not so far from mine and I could read his reactions so carefully. His lips parted, a look of awe as he took in my rough skin, marred with scars from my childhood days, my tusks that protruded from my lower lip. I waited for the awe to transform into fear, but he took a step forward with a look of determination on his face. His hands were clutching each other tightly. ‘Are you the one my brother loves?”

I felt a shudder, a cool shudder run down my spine. It felt like a small little vibration that if it spoke would whisper yes, yes, yes, that is me at those words. I was stunned that he knew me.

I hesitated but finally gave the boy a slight nod. 

Selhar’s eyes widened and he broke into a nervous smile. His smile reminded me of Altan’s making me ache inside. “I knew it. I saw you from over there and I just knew it was you. You know, you’re all he talks about when he’s alone.”

Another trill of pleasure and affirmation coursed down my spine, “Really?” I asked.

He nodded and swiveled to look over to where his brother was, “He’s…I don’t…” He paused, collecting his words. “Don’t let him marry her. Please.”

I looked at this boy - so close to becoming a man - who looked so much like his brother in many ways but also possessed an array of qualities that made him totally different - and I beheld how courageous he was for coming here to speak with me.

I nodded, “I will do my best.”

He shook his head. “No, please. If you don’t take him away, my father will control him for the rest of his life. I don’t want that. My father doesn’t understand my brother, he won’t ever.” 

He appeared to be pleading at me and I wasn’t sure what to say, what to even do. If he only knew how badly I wanted to stop any wedding from happening for Altan. How close I was coming to downing the vial around my neck and letting my lordhovid control me and overtake us both and breaking everything in my path to get to him.

“I don’t know what to do.” I finally said.

His eyes fell and he nodded, “I understand what you mean.” We both gazed in Altan’s direction. “Can you at least promise me that you’re not going to hurt him or forget him? No matter what happens?”

I hadn’t pondered anything quite to this extreme when it came to Altan. I knew there was something pulling me to him. Something I desired in him. Even with lordhovid gone between us, I still felt a deeper, more deep pull that melded my soul to his. Something about it all scared me profoundly. But I also understood that part of that entailed my desire to never hurt him, to never lie to him. I could never forget him, not in all of the days I had left in this mortal life. I was doomed to remember him - only him. 

I nodded my head, “I promise, young lord.” 

I felt relief as he broke into a smile. “That will make him happy, thank you.”

Doxxah cleared their throat then, “Selhar, you best get back to your father. He appears to be looking for you.” 

Selhar’s back straightened and he gave me one last pressing stare before turning back and weaving through the crowd. I watched him sidle up to his father’s side and with nothing more than a few words was left alone by his father and everyone else. 

I somehow knew what it was like to be Selhar. I was neither the oldest or youngest, and I often found myself drifting between being too much in the way or completely invisible. But I saw the way Selhar’s eyes watched and took in everything around him. He was more aware of the reality of the situation than probably anyone realized. 

Altan reached for his brother and the two conversed for a moment and my heart stopped when I saw Selhar lift his hand to point towards me.

Altan’s eyes lifted and met mine. I felt the weight, the distance between us and knew he felt it too. In so little time we had found each other’s presence to be more desirable than any other person’s, but there was so much between us keeping us apart. I wished that things could have been simpler for us. Maybe if I had trusted our lordhovid I would have been better at keeping him near me. I wondered how our lives would be different if I had acted sooner.

I kept hoping to see his eyes brighten, but they only returned to me with a dim grief. 

“What do I do?” I breathed out and I looked to Doxxah. 

“You fight for him,” Doxxah answered, their eyes holding me in their gaze. “You fight for him no matter the odds.”

[boghermit]

Tagged by @ineed-to-sleep. Thank you for the tag!

Name: Salem Rekaviðrsson

Nickname(s): "The Dark Urge” before Wyll shortened it to “Durge” or “Dirge.” Now that he’s remembered his name, everyone just calls him "Salem."

Pronouns: He / him

Star sign: Scorpio

Height: Between 5’5” and 5’7”? Maybe shorter? He’s shorter than Astarion, but I keep hearing mixed answers on Astarion’s height. The Githyanki in-game says he's 5'11", but I think an official source said he's 5'9"? T'is a mystery.

Orientation: Bi

Race: Half-elf (wood elf)

Romancing: Astarion

Favorite fruit: Astarion He likes berries and apples a lot.

Favorite season: Autumn and winter. Whichever smells the most like dead leaves.

Favorite flower: Henbane, due to its real life hallucinogenic “berserking” effects; lavender, because he likes the smell; and honeysuckle, because he likes the smell and taste, and thinks it looks pretty.

Favorite scent: Sea spray, dirt, decaying leaves, cloves, Astarion’s weird cologne.

Coffee, tea or hot chocolate: Coffee

Average sleep hours: Oof. About three hours? His sleep SOMEWHAT improves after the end of the main game.

Dogs or cats: Both!

Dream trip: The Moonshae Isles

Amount of blankets: One very thin and fluffy blanket. His temperature runs a bit hot due to health and stress problems.

Random fact(s):

He was already going blind in his left eye when he gave it to Auntie Ethel.

He has lots of tattoos, most of which are related to the Cult of Bhaal, but he also has a lot of tattoos, scars, and brands meant as protective wards against (ironically) evil. Most of them are in the style of Icelandic galdrastafir. These include the ones on his face. (I don’t think the in-game scarring CANONICALLY means anything, but it appears to be at least inspired by galdrastafir.)

He wears his hair long and in a loose braid, but there’s nothing that really fits that in BG3. His mustache is also not nearly as thick as it is in the game. That being said, his in-game look has really grown on me.

He is 100% named after the cat from Sabrina the Teenage Witch.

Rekaviðr is old Norse for “driftwood.”

He’s both a bard and a druid, but I haven’t really been able to make a bard/druid multiclass viable in the game. :[ Maybe on explorer mode?

He was originally a stand in for the player avatar in MGSV. Then, he was an OC for The Arcana, then after that, the protagonist for an original world I was working on. But because the original world’s storyline centered around a plague, war, and political upheaval, and the 2020s exist, I shelved that story for the most part.

[elfydrell]

Autumn had covered the land of the White Elves with its mantle of leaves. The princess was 9 months old today. A banquet had been held at court to celebrate the birth and survival of my dear Elerinna. In those few months, I had caught a glimpse of her baby face and her radiant smile. King Lomion had expressly forbidden me to approach his offspring. His words were clear: "See to it that the half-blood stays away from my daughter". Ugh… What a nutcase! Yet one day, that didn't stop Lady Amarië from breaking that rule and introducing me to Elerinna on a clear night. She was sleeping peacefully in her cradle. I touched her sweet face. How beautiful she was! It was a sweet revenge I treasured in my heart.

The party was in full swing and the guests were enjoying an exceptional feast. Humans and elves mingled with interest. The humans saw it as a way of consolidating their exchanges with the elves, and conversely, the elves as a way of monitoring the extent of human power. Politics… Not for me! I was perfectly content with my position, but knowing that Elerinna was being paraded around like a trophy by her father only accentuated the gulf between us! What's more, she was the heiress of a constellationist by birth. Their blood was the envy of the whole kingdom, and an alliance with the Elves guaranteed the survival of the central lands.

Evil took advantage of this evening of opportunity to strike. My body, on the lookout, alarmed me of imminent danger. I might only be half-blood but I was half-elf after all. Intruders had infiltrated the domain of the king and queen and I could only see the shadow of their august thoughts. They struck in the darkness without a sound with speed and agility. A smell of smoke presaged a fire starting, leaving strategic points abandoned by the guards busy putting out the fire. In the tumult, soldiers and servants joined the world of the dead without even seeing the reaper descend on their existence. The party in honor of the princess turned into a bloodbath.

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Vampyre Hunter: Dimas

A/N: I’m back after a bit of a hiatus. I will be keeping updates to a minimum. Yes, the title is from Witcher. The Witcher-esque idea has returned after I made Daelora the Wood elf. This is set in the same universe as her story, maybe in a different part of a different town.

Relationship: male monster x gn (gender neutral) reader

Tags: gore, violence, lots of blood, swearing, angst-filled.

Word count: 3k

Part 1    |    Part 2

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Silver for Monsters

-

The snowstorm poured in from the north, chills mixed with the howling gale, screams neither belonging to those living nor dead.

Steunzen had the worst winters: for hundreds of years the town had stood, yet it barely survived a winter or its storm. You had to be blessed with a bountiful autumn before it was swept away with chills and deaths.

The Saints could’ve brought a better harvest by year’s end. You thought, finding yourself gathering more wood in the shed. A simple tailor, you lived a comfortable life, yet winter came and ruined everything, including your sales from far out of Steunzen.

You had enough to get you by, though it was not much to keep your home warm. This year’s storm must’ve been the worst in your twenty-four years of living; cursed the people whispered, Steunzen was cursed from some malevolent evil.

Gossip spread along the wind with ease, from house to house, business to business, and people spoke of what evil it was. Some saw it, some guessed: a being that snuck at night into people’s homes, draining them of their blood similar to the Vampyres of the West.

Foolish, you thought, just to keep children behaving. There would be no such thing.

But people grew restless with their accounts. Starting small: missing chickens, a dead household cat, before the worst came to a vicar living near you.

A wild beast, you thought, still in denial, though your fear had not heightened.

You sighed, wiping the frozen sweat from your brow, still warm to the touch despite the coolness. The temperature had dropped dramatically, meaning you had to get back inside before the cold reached your hearth, and it would take forever for you to bring the flames back.

From the howling winds, the trees seemed to look like figures, swaying harshly as everything around you screamed. It was only when you thought you had been dreaming: a moving shadow, a tree that had come to life.

No, it was far from that.

He sat on a pale horse, its rider as dark as Death itself, lurking through the blizzard like a whispering shadow. He appeared before you like an apparition, his horse silent as he looked upon you.

He was dressed all in black, disguised in the darkness that you did a double take to the stranger.

It was hard to guess his features, a cowl covered his face from the cold, though the one thing visible were his eyes: intensely red, startlingly bright, like a bloody backdrop for carnage. They burnt like flames, tired and worn, yet they hid something only he could’ve witnessed. The hardships of man can be deadly, and even more so to those who have lived it.

It was only through your staring that you comprehended the muffled words coming from his covered mouth. “I’m sorry?” Your scarf blew the wind to bristle against your skin, pebbling with goosebumps.

“Would you take a humble stranger into your home?” his voice was rumbled and deep, smooth as a skipping stone, making your heart leap from the suddenness. “The cold had taken me off course.”

You blinked at him, wiping away the snow and sleet, before nodding hastily as you grabbed what you could. Any foolish homeowner would send him on his way with a curse defiant on their lips, but you were brought up to be kind to those, no matter what. Silently, the stranger dropped from his horse, keeping the poor animal sheltered, whilst he solemnly followed a few paces behind you.

“My grandmother always said to be kind to strangers.” You called over your shoulder, heaving the wood through to stand beside your hearth, burning brightly. “What brings you to Steunzen then? Unfinished work?”

“I was called for trouble,” he pulled the cowl off his face, revealing a mop of a brown-red beard, enveloping most of his face from its messiness. “I travelled for six weeks to get here in time.”

“Six weeks is quite impressive, I must say. We haven’t seen a stranger for quite some time.” You offered to take his coat, which he gave hesitantly, watching you put it on a nearby hook. “That was before the storm came in.”

The stranger made only a noise, a deep hum in the back of his throat. Not much of a talker, huh? You observed, resuming with what you could, hoping the snowstorm would die down to allow him to continue on his travels.

You watched as he looked over your small home, not much to keep many in, but it was quaint and homely for you and you alone. Strewn silk and wool decorated mannequins, pins marking places where cloth stayed in place. The stranger didn’t need too long to put two and two together to realise your work had been put on hiatus.

This man must’ve seen lots. You thought as an uneasiness settled when under his reserved, deadpanned stare.

“Are you in need of products, sir?”

“Products?”

“Yes—er, how should I say it? Razors, soap… a bath? Merhaps that would be good to keep yourself warm from the cold outside, hmm? You have been travelling for some time after all.” Your words are careful, careful not to offend him. He was, after all, caked head to toe in mud, something else was stuck to the leather of his waistcoat, and it did not look like just mud and dirt.

The stranger pondered your words in some time of silence before he grunted in agreement, with his lack of words. “That would be generous of you.” He finally uttered cumbersomely.

You readied yourself in prepping him the water upstairs, grateful to have some time not to be stared at by him. It had been some time since you had someone visit you, let alone stay in your home.

The water took some time to gather, but it was a great comfort as you dipped your fingers over the surface, bubbles prepared with the best-smelling oils you had. Razors you provided for an older brother you kept for safekeeping, it would’ve been useful if he decided to shave the heavy messy mop that was growing from his face.

You slipped past when you told him it was ready, and the stranger awkwardly waited outside before shuffling past with a nod your way in thanks, shutting the door with silence following. You worried for a second before a pregnant pause settled and you decided that yes, maybe he had had a bath before and didn’t need supervision.

Saints forbid if I were to see a man naked. Your cheeks rouged, thoughts unbecoming filtered in your mind but you shook them away as you settled to make a meal not now just for you but for extra.

You left him for some time whilst you prepped for dinner, occupying yourself as you scolded yourself for inviting a random stranger into your home. He could’ve been the beast that was killing people in their beds! How foolish do I need to be to not realise that?

Heavy footsteps descended down your narrow stairs, and with your back towards him, you called. “Is rabbit okay for you?”

“Yes.” His voice was sharp and roguishly deep. You were head-deep in the bowl you were mixing as you turned around. “I suppose we should be lucky we’ve gotten so much—oh wow.”

“What?” He was mid-way drying his face, water droplets cascading down from his head. You now knew his long hair wasn’t a dull dark brown, but was hidden a bright red colour, red as his eyes and brightly reflecting the flames off with the light. His scruffy beard was gone, now replaced with angular features and smooth pale skin. There was a boyish, youthful look to him once that fox’s pelt stuck to his face was gone, as if to hide his true age; now he had seemed no older than you.

“No—you look… it must be nice to have a bath again.” You averted your gaze when your eyes drifted, realising his shirt and doublet had been removed, his shirt hanging around his shoulders, walking around in his drawlers not even tied up, barefoot on your carpet.

At least he’s clean. You could only be satisfied with that, and you don’t think the stranger would’ve been grateful for being nagged at similar to his mother.

“Is there a name I can call you by?” You asked, situating to chopping more vegetables.

There was silence for a brief second, before he answered. “Dimas, just Dimas.”

You nodded as you told him your name, your life living here and what you did if he didn’t notice. You spoke and spoke for him to listen as if you had gone so long without speaking to another. All he did was listen, and give small grunts of approval he was listening, but not once, did he utter anything about himself. It was as if he was keeping it hidden on purpose, even if you asked a question, he would only give one-word answers.

There was a harsh knock on your door, startling you as you looked out the window. The wind is still howling, who could be out here? You wondered, fearing another lost stranger had come looking for shelter.

“Stay there, I’ll be right back.”

Rushing to the door, the hooded man gave no response, only watching from the corner like a gargoyle perched at the door, hunched as if ready to pounce when it finally opened.

The door slammed and shuddered against the doorframe when you pulled, a force much stronger than just the gale. There, standing before you, the wrinkled kind smile of your neighbour you’d known since you were little.

The old woman carried nothing to keep her against the cold, nor did she look affected by it, rather, she stood as if it had been the height of summer, dressed simply in a shift white dress, ready for bed. The townspeople whispered and gossiped, telling one another she was slowly losing her mind.

You stared back at her owlishly, ready to usher her either back to hers or through your door. “Ms Beckett, you shouldn’t be out here in this weather—where is your son?”

“My son?” She was still smiling when she asked, though there was a sinister nature to how she sang it. “Oh, the fool went to bed, it’s a surprise I kept him around for so long.”

You looked back behind her, to her house, nothing out of the usual stood in its path, though the door swung open back and forth with the force of the wind, dark and desolate stood the inside.

“Tomir, is here hurt? Must I go get the doctor?” Prepared to run over, you were ready to brace for the storm.

“No, that won’t be necessary. He’s been dead for some time.” She said matter-of-factly.

You hadn’t had one foot out the door before something in your mind was telling you, screaming at you to not leave your home. You stared at the old, frail woman in front of you, eyes in horror. “He… he’s—”

“Yes, oh yes, he’s fucking dead, finally. I popped his head clean off his fat body, squishing it like a melon, ripe and tasty. Oh, by the Saints was he delicious. I couldn’t help it, how delicious he was.” She swayed with the blizzard as if entranced, her demeanour and words as twisted as the Hells themselves.

Her eyes never left yours as she continued sweetly. “And when those little flames to your lovely home die down and the cold settles in your bones, I will come for you and bash your pretty fucking head in just like his, and every other fucking piece of shit in this shitty town-”

You didn’t know if it was your conscience that was pulling you back or the harsh current of the air, but there was a strong force on the back of your scarf, pulling you back and away from the door. Appearing as a ghost once again, the red-headed stranger was striding out in strident steps.

From his open palms, you watched as a ball of molten flame appeared, bright and burning as if he had picked up some from the flames of the fireplace, lifelike and smouldering. He was muttering something close to it, and as soon as he spoke the words, the ball of flame flickered with more life, the ball appearing bigger, stronger, before-

With a grunt, he threw it with a long throw, and you watched it land not far at the feet of Ms Beckett. The flames licked up the hem of her nightdress, and soon enough, it was spreading upwards, faster and brighter.

Before your eyes, the flame burst and she was engulfed from her bare feet up to her chest, her screams were silent as she stood in her spot, eyes aflame.

“What are you doing?” You screeched, grabbing at his hands in anger, confusion and fear for witnessing a murder. But when you looked back to the old woman crumpling to the ground, the flame begin to die down and cinder, did you realise her skin had turned to look like leather.

Her body fell like a piece of sheetrock, limbs thrown around her legs, twitching and groaning. Her body was bare, an unpleasant sight as you watched in horror as her legs and arms snapped up in awkward and broken positions, cracking not in the right place, groans and moans leaving her mouth.

Her body grew in size, her leathery skin grew dark to appear greyish-purple, and spikes sprout from her back as her ribs broke. In your vision, appeared something horrific, one from the Hellish grounds.

You didn’t have time to gawk and be frozen, moving not on your own as you were dragged into your home in time to see Ms Beckett’s back snap and curl, a vicious cry screeching into the darkening sky.

“She… how-” Your words were dry in your throat, and you found yourself being sat by the fireplace, instructed by Dimas to stay away from the windows, the same ones he covered with the curtains.

“She is not the woman you once knew. It was never her.” He was moving around you in a blur, moving with not knowing what he was picking up or using.

You stared back up at him, tears spilling down your cheeks. “What… what did you do to her?”

“I spoke in the tone of the Elders. Used to banish the tarnished soul from the body they’re using as a vessel to keep them grounded.” Dimas explained, and you witnessed him pull from his back a sword.

It sung when he unsheathed it, the metal was bronzed and long, humming with life drawn from who knew what but only the Saints. Dimas turned back to you one final time, eyes burning with determination.

“Keep that flame burning, no matter what.” With that, his fiery red flaming hair was the last thing you saw before he stormed out the front door, rushing with a cry as screams followed.

You clung to yourself for comfort, trying to keep an eye on the flames as you could only hear the sounds of screeches and metal clanging, sharp and ear-deafening.

It was hard to not see what was happening with the curtains drawn, you could only listen. The creature once your neighbour cast a shadow against the window, large and hunched, spiked and possessing a look of slime, grabbed another by their throat and with a yank, its shadow grew large, growing bigger in seconds before the sound of glass breaking brought a scream to leave your lips.

Dimas flew back inside through your now broken window, following with a claw, spindly fingers, trying to grab for him by the throat as he swung wildly back and forth with his sword. He got two swings in, black blood pooling as the creature cried once more, dropping the redhead to the ground as he crumpled like a ragdoll momentarily.

You found yourself crawling in an attempt to grab him to pull him back, but he noticed you approaching, eyes turning back to look at you, screaming, “Get back from the window!”

You obeyed, looking back and forth to the window and source of heat in the room, with no sight of the creature anymore. “Where is she?”

A large thump drew both your heads to look up suddenly, large and making the floorboards churn and creak. You looked back at one another, fear slicing through your body like a chill. “By the Saints.”

“Get behind me.” He grabbed you rougher than intended, pulling you behind him as you gingerly held onto the back of his shirt, staring around and everywhere at once, trying to figure out where she was. You caught the scent of the oils you dropped into the bath for him: elderflower and chamomile – it worked great in soothing you, trusting the man in front of you.

The sounds above shifted with the creature moving inch by inch, every second ticking by dragging. The sluggish movements finally stopped right above your head, and silence followed.

Dimas moved to hold his position, whilst you waited in dreaded doom, eyes casting to look over in time to realise why the room was suddenly becoming cooler.

The hearth was perishing with its flame diminishing.

Suddenly, with a cry, the floorboards above cracked and exploded open with a rush, time moving slowly as you and Dimas were separated, falling different ways to the ground, avoiding splintering wood flying around your head.

You felt the splinters get caught in your arms and legs, pricking as if charring you from a fire. You screamed out, catching a glimpse of the beast in front of you. It moved as if it had no bones, his lower body it dragged with its many gangling arms. The head looked like a human skull, though it looked like it was melting like the rest of its body, skin blistering and burnt from the flames that caught it.

Whatever it was, it was staring right at you, its sights set on you and only you.

You scampered back on the floor, moving as quick as you could before your back hit the wall to the door, watching as it dragged its body towards you. You watched with wide eyes, its skull-like head opened its mouth, bigger and bigger, needle-like teeth protruding from its jaw as if ready to swallow you whole.

You shut your eyes tightly, giving a prayer to the Saints that your death would be quick. But instead, it did not give a cry or the pain followed. For instead, you heard the sound of metal, burning as it stuck into something. The creature gave a long cry and when you opened your eyes, Dimas was stood above it, the pointed edge of his sword stinking in its unhinged jaw. The sword point stuck out the other side, and you watched the remaining life roll out of its blank eyes, body going limp.

Pulling his bronze sword forth, black blood pooled as its crashed to the ground, quickly transforming into the same colour of its blood, a large ball of slime screeched so high-pitched that it nearly shattered your eardrums, before slipping into the cracks of your floorboards, heat returning back into your home once again.

The silence in your home was deafening, staring up at the redhead in a mixture of confusion and awe. “What… what was that?”

“A Bezkost,” Dimas replied nonchalantly, wiping the blackened blood from his sword, sheathing it back as he pulled something from his pocket, placing it down in the exact spot the creature left through. It appeared to be a silver coin, with an odd, unfamiliar symbol facing upwards. “Keep this as protection in your home always. It will drive any evils from returning.”

You sat on the floor in silence, no words forming before Dimas moved close to you, sympathy in his eyes as he offered a hand for you to take. You slapped it away, harsher than expected, answers ready to be asked with no way of saying them.

“You… You are not who you say you are,” There were tales of them from old, travelling from as far as the town built on Dwarven ruins Bolsveen, to the city of Monalin, to barren Briar. Their sights were now seen as close to the gates of your quaint town, Steunzen. Nothing came good when they appeared in one’s town, nor were the people proud to have one visit. “I can’t believe I brought a fucking Vrah into my home.”

The word was simple, yet it held the doom and fear that carried when men spoke it. Slayer.

Vrah were built like the monsters they pursued: tormented to harsh experiments, boys and girls as young as six are robbed from their mothers, never to be seen for decades or centuries, until they’re living lives as long as the earth itself.

He was no different, a monster borne amidst chaos.

“I do what I must to protect those, for the people of this town.” Dimas’ words were straightforward and he did not raise his voice once. It was alarming to see how calmly he spoke, yet his eyes held the most bitterness, the most for heartbreak and forlornness. “Steunzen was cursed with the Bezkost feasting on your neighbours for decades.”

You couldn’t wrap your head around his words, denial and stubbornness wrought in your veins. Before you registered what you were saying, the words were spat out with such malice. “We lived just fine before you showed up. All you bring is death and annihilation.”

His face broke to show he was hurt by them, but it was a sad acceptance in his eyes you saw too. He’s heard those words many times before, over and over again. All from people who were too scared to understand or to thank him. It was expected in his long life.

“Get out.” You uttered, not wanting to dare look over at him. It hurt to know you felt deceived, but you also had to remember that he saved you and everyone else in your town. Who knew if you would’ve been next to meet the fate of Ms Bennett’s son, but your anger had not melted, burning bright.

Dimas spoke your name softly, hurt present in his words and movements, skittish as if dealing with a petrified and injured animal. “I won’t say it again. Get. Out. Of. My. Home.”

The redhead looked back at you in silence, gathering his things as he silently and defeatedly moved out to leave, leaving out the front door before you could only hear the crunching of snow, his footsteps receding as he got to his horse, leaving with only you left, crying softly into the scarf that smelt of ash and decay.

[kettlequills]

As a Breton, Tisibet is not an evil elf in body, however, as a messy little individual, she qualifies as one in spirit.

Evil Elves Plus Tisibet, my favourite category of oc.

[geladriel]

〝 Lothlórien is the fairest of all the dwellings of my people.   There are no trees like the trees of that land.   For in the autumn their leaves fall not,   but turn to gold.   Not till the spring and the new green opens do they fall,   and then the boughs are laden with yellow flowers;   and the floor of the wood is golden,   and golden is the roof,   and its pillars are of silver,   for the bark of the trees is smooth and grey. 〞    (Legolas in the Fellowship of The Ring, p. 349).

It is dusk,   the autumnal air brings a slight chill,   though no greenery or Elf is in frost,   for everything is in bloom in Lórien.   The Mallorn trees,    with their golden leaves,   glow even brighter under a delight of aureate hues from the casting sun;   the Telains built on trees now shine a silver light,  the star-light glint of Caras Galadhon.   The city is alight and songlike.    For all the Elves of the fair Lórien cast their worries away in an effervescent melodic song,   just as the day comes to a close,   in preparation to feast for an evening meal,   and later blend living night and deep dream,   as is the way with Elves.

Amidst the joyous festivities of light and song,   the Lady Galadriel is in her study.   A room adorned with beautifully crafted wooden shelves,   each with their own unique design of Elven-make,   filled with literature survived from her days in Valinor,   each thought a remnant of the Years of The Trees;   of her childhood.    The desk and chair in which she currently occupies are handcrafted with the best materials of wood, intricately placed and tailored.   It is embellished with vines of effervescent green,   a harmonious contrast between the richness of mahogany.   A gift,   from Celeborn,   for he too is of the cognition that the Lady does not tire of her pursuit of knowledge.    The halcyon glow of the sun sets a halo on her golden tresses,   luminescent even further from the starlike silver of her mother's own hair.   It is in this study she most inhabits,   sleep evades her,   even in her most tiresome of days.   For as long as there is evil in Middle-earth,   she does not rest.

She gazes at a map reposed on her desk,   her eyes,   reflecting holy light   -   starlight  (a sign of her high birth in Aman under the light of the unstained White Tree and the Golden flower)   scrutinizing every inch of Middle-earth.   She is interrupted,   though not by speech or movement.   A sharp glance,   she perceives it before it occurs,   minutes before a knock is heard on the door of her study,   before a palace guard utters 〝My Lady,   we have found a human in the forests of Caras Galadhon.   He is semi-conscious and wounded.〞 It is a gift,   after all,   one she's had in the earliest of her years.   It is known that Elves possess keen sight,   bestowed upon them by Eru Ilúvatar upon their creation,   however,   the Lady Galadriel's gift of foresight and telepathy is one unmatched,   this,   united with the Ring of Water (Nenya),   nestled on her finger,   forms the Lady one of the greatest forces to remain in Middle-earth.   And for as long as she possesses the ring,   Lórien is kept pure and alive,   and no evil is permitted to penetrate it.

The Lady stands,   to the full height of her stature,   golden tresses cascading behind her back as if the great waves of Anduin are flowing through it.   The ivory in her gown casting a celestial light.   She speaks to her guards in thought,   and what they hear in their minds is the voice of their Lady,   commanding yet serene,   melodic yet succinct, 〝 I will see to this myself,   I do not wish to be followed. 〞at once,   they obey,   for they discern that no human can defeat the might of the Lady of Lothlórien;   and swiftly she moves through the aureate halls of her dwelling,   down the white stairs,   through the golden Mallorn trees,   the luminescent moon her company. She is inquisitive of the human's arrival in Lórien,   and how one might have unearthed her dearly guarded land.   At last,  she reaches him,   faint and leaning on a Mallorn tree,   his hands clutching a wound on the side of his stomach,   covered in crimson.   At once she hears him,   his voice an echo in her mind.  He is in pain,   disoriented in his dwelling;   he is of no threat to Galadriel or her kingdom.   In this,   she is prescient.   She moves to be beside him,   her ivory gown now heaped on the earth.   With her hand,   she tucks a stray black lock from his forehead to his ear.   She speaks gently.

  〝 You are far from where you have come.    I see no force of corruption in you.  You will rest in my kingdom. 〞

[lodichi]

(Lodi's) Icewind Dale: Rime of the Frostmaiden - A Primer

The year is 1497 DR on the continent of Faerûn. Approximately three years ago, a group of adventurers called The Dawnbringers unwittingly unleashed a group of evil beings called The Dark Powers, who had been previously trapped in a series of pocket dimensions called Domains of Dread.

Shortly thereafter, thousands of miles to the north, the Icewind Dale became ensnared in an endless winter, caused by the goddess Auril the Frostmaiden for reasons yet unknown. Though the Dawnbringers were able to defeat the Dark Powers and bring relative peace to southern Faerûn, Icewind Dale remained trapped in the dark, cold embrace of Auril's winter...

Party members below the cut! All character art is courtesy of the lovely and talented Lydia, who plays Maydene.

The Party

Dahlia Tidesong: a half-elf cleric and sister to Kairos, Dahlia has lived in Ten Towns all her life. Originally from the town of Lonelywood, she and Kairos moved to the much larger city of Bryn Shander after the death of their parents. While there, she encountered a group of traveling worshippers of Lliira, the goddess of joy. She quickly became a convert. As her day job, she works at a tavern called The Northlook.

Kairos Tidesong: a tiefling ranger and brother to Dahlia, Kairos has likewise grown up in Ten Towns. He is Dahlia's younger sibling. Rather than take up a traditional job like his sister, Kairos became a ranger, traveling from town to town doing odd jobs, though he always knew he had a home in Bryn Shander. During one of his more recent hunting trips, he came across a strange egg half-buried in the snow, which hatched into the large lizard-like creature he named Thorn.

Nevarth Elverquisst IV: an astral elf mage who fell into Icewind Dale after the moon was destroyed due to actions caused by the fight between the Dawnbringers and the Dark Powers, Nevarth is VERY proud of his lineage. Refined and more than a little entitled, Nevarth detests the poor living conditions in Ten Towns, and he quickly ran out of the (sizeable sum of) money he had on his person when he was displaced from the moon. He runs a magical curios "shop" in Bryn Shander. A little less than a year ago, he encountered Maydene on the verge of death in the snow, and took her into his care. She now works as his "assistant".

Maydene: a Drow mage who stumbled into Icewind Dale after leaving the Underdark. Before she could freeze to death, Nevarth happened to find her, and she now "works" for him. Quiet and reserved, the only person who knows much about May is Nevarth, and even he doesn't know much. The other creature who knows May well is Luna, the small black cat who is Nevarth's familiar. Though she has not revealed this to the party, May appears to be plagued by some kind of strange visions.

Lorelei Longuemare: an Eladrin gunslinger fighter who fell into the Icewind Dale through mysterious circumstances. We know that she came from The Feywild, the parallel plane that sits above the Material Plane, and that something had been chasing her when it happened. Though she is one of the older members of the party, she is strikingly naive about the social mores of the Material Plane. Even worse, ever since falling into the Material Plane, she has struggled to keep her season in check, and has been flipping wildly between spring, summer, autumn, and winter forms.

In addition to the player characters, two other people are currently traveling with the party.

Vee: a mysterious man that the party found trapped in an iceberg. He was still alive after they unthawed him, but he had no memory of who he was, how he got there, or even what his name was. He was also completely naked save for a necklace around his neck, which had a charm with an intricate magical rune etched into it. Without anyone else to turn to, he decided to travel with the party. After a short time, he came to believe that his name must started with the sound "V", and the party has been calling him that ever since.

Cain: a nomadic warrior who encountered the party when they visited a Reghed Tribe's camp. Apparently, Cain used to be a member of the Wolf Tribe, but he has since been outcast. He originally joined the party only temporarily in order to help neutralize the threat of a raging Yeti, but was tricked into staying with the group when Lorelei asked if he was too chicken to explore a mysterious ruin. For some reason, he just hasn't left yet.

[knightlight0800]

AND NOW, THE MOMENT YOU ALL HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR.......

IT'S FINALLY TIME TO MEET THE MEMBERS OF THE STARLING SAVIORS!!!!!!!!!

(so so sorry for not posting this on the 20th, Tumblr ate the post so i couldn't get it out in time 😭😭😭😭)

so, without further ado...

MEET HELIOS, THE LEADER OF THE TEAM!!!!!!!!!!

being the leader, he's very cocky and brave. he rarely shows weakness in front of his comrades, but he will at his lowest. besides being a cocky bitchass sometimes, he's kind and will do anything to protect his friends.

MEET ORTHUS THE ORC!!!!!!!!

as you can see, he's the biggest and tankest one out of the team. he's mostly serious half the time, but when he isn't, he's a gentle giant and respectful to the environment around him. he'll also help the goblin of the team as a great duo for attacks.

MEET ILLYDIA THE ELF!!!!!!!!!!!

she's simply a sweetheart. she's kind, graceful, and she can play music on her harp to make enemies fatigued. she's never really been in battles before, but she tries her best for the team. plus, she can slow dance really well. who doesn't love that!?

MEET QUILL THE HUMAN!!!!!!

one of the eldest of the team, they don't show emotion or even talk due to something terrible that happened in their past. no, their white hair doesn't mean their old - it's actually because of their cleric abilities. they can use said abilities by commanding swarms of white butterflies and moths to heal people!!!!!!

MEET LEYVN THE FAIRY!!!!!!!!!

i know i showed him already, but i'm showing him again for the sake of the roll call. anyways, he's a bit of nervous wreck at points but he is a sweet boy nonetheless. being the youngest member, his witchcraft abilities are admirable. he's shown to be quite useful during battles, so nothing scares him! ... well, almost.

MEET EXAGORA THE TEIFLING!!!!!!!!!!!!

despite drawing her main power from the chilly autumn season, she's tough and a girlboss respectively. when helios isn't around, she'll do the work for him by making sure everyone gets the job done. she means BUSINESS. but she is chill nonetheless.

MEET SHYFT THE CHANGLING!!!!!!!!!!!

by being a changeling and a rogue, you can guess stealing loot is super easy. but thieves like him also have morals, and that's only stealing from enemies that have been defeated, and unguarded treasure! if he is feeling mischievous, he'll probably steal a few coins from members for a laugh, then return them.

MEET TALISAEN THE ROBOT!!!!!!!!!!!!

modeled after a half-elf, it's unknown where they came from, and their purpose. but they know their true purpose is to stop evil and make some strange concoctions. they can literally make potions from nothing, the bag belt around their waist makes them able to mix ingredients together on the go, so it's super easy if quill needs a little help healing the team.

and finally...

MEET BELCK THE GOBLIN!!!!!!!!!!!

belck is...well, belck. in short, it's the comic relief the team needs. it's always on high energy, even in low moments, so a couple terrible jokes and being gross (mainly belching in the teams faces, hence it's name) can make everyone laugh and smile real easy. but even on stealth missions, it can try to stop moving, but the chaotic nature can't be tamed!!!!!!!!

phew!!!!!! that's everyone!!!!!

i hope you guys like them........

[druidx]

Seven Snippets, Seven People

Thanks for the tag @eli-writes-sometimes <3

Tagging back: @aalinaaaaaa @thewriteflame @wildswrites @aquadestinyswriting @artdecosupernova-writing @autumnalwalker @blind-the-winds @eli-writes-sometimes @hannahcbrown @oh-no-another-idea @rhikasa @swordsoulwrites @winglesswriter @andromeda-grace @writingmaidenwarrior @wispstalk @late-to-the-fandom @athenswrites

Rules: post seven snippets and tag seven people.

Once again, all these are from Alexis Dalliance vs the Evil of Titan, in my unending quest to edit the damn thing.

One

The other elf… Now he was a conundrum. He stood, ramrod straight, directly in front of the Captain's desk. He'd yet to change into any issued armour, and still wore what amounted to peasant rags – a tatty, oversized, undyed shirt and brown woolen trousers darned to an inch of their life, the whole ensemble held together with rope suspenders. Alexis squinted, sniffing suspiciously. Yes, there was also a faint miasma of animal dung from his direction. An elven farmer was a distinctly unusual thing. One to keep an eye on, that was for sure…

Two

On her way to the mess hall Alexis ran into Ithanor and Richard. It was Ithanor who heard her yelling to wait, where Richard would have sleep-walked on. Richard's limbs drooped, reminding her of a weeping willow, but Ithanor was as bright and alert as a holly tree in Autumn. As they made their way to the mess hall, Alexis told them about Captain Hengar. "I don't think he's fit for duty," she said. "But the townsfolk need organising to start work on repairs. I think I can convince him to eat and sleep. Richard, after last night you'll have their respect. You should coordinate the people." "Me!" Richard stopped coming alert as if he'd been slapped. "But… I don't know how. I wouldn't know what to do or what to say or-" "I'll do it," Ithanor said, holding up a hand to slow Richard's panic. "It's fine. They saw the three of us together, so if they respect and trust Richard, it should carry over. We'll get you to do a little speech and then I can take over giving the orders." "Good plan. If you see Yazty, send him my way?" Ithanor nodded. "Right then lads, let's get it done."

Three

Between the three of them, they managed to wrangle Hengar into bed, get the townspeople motivated, and begin work on the town’s reconstruction. Soon the air was filled with the sounds of workmen calling, rubble being shifted and sawing as seasoned timbers were brought out of storage. Once Hengar was deeply asleep, thanks to some concoction from Yaztromo, Alexis took any spare hands from the militia buildings to help with the town's efforts. Of Victor and Bastet there was no sign. But it didn't matter; Alexis knew that now Zagor was dead, they had some loose ends of their own to tie off.

Four

Following the Quartermaster's directions brought Alexis to a long room, filled end-to-end with bunk beds. A human with black hair and lieutenant's stripes held a slate, marking off filled bunks as he directed the recruits to their new sleeping places. Alexis froze in the doorway – there were so many people, so many sounds, so many smells. Talking and laughing, the tang of metal polish and reek of bodies. "Next! You there, don't dawdle." Alexis looked up at the lieutenant, eyes wide. "Not seen anything of the like before, eh?" he asked. Alexis nodded. "You'll get used to it, lass. Sixth on the right, against the wall." He squinted down at her. "Lower bunk." "Yessir," Alexis squeaked, and made her way to the assigned bunk.

Five

A half-elf followed shortly after, arriving as Alexis was trying to figure out which chest was hers. "You're my bunkmate, huh?" he asked. "Yeah. Alexis Dalliance." She held out a hand. He shook. "Holger Brodanic. I think that one is your chest," he added, pointing at the one against the wall. "Ta." "So how come they let a kid in? You lie about your age?" Brodanic asked as he put his own equipment away. "I'm not a child, I'm a full-grown adult." "You're awful short. You got some kinda sickness?" Alexis balled her hands, then released them slowly. "No. I'm an eshen. I'm actually tall for my kind." "Huh." Brodanic perched on the edge of the lower bunk with a lopsided smile. "My mother used to tell me stories about your lot. Mostly that if I didn't stay close to the village, an eshen would turn me into a tree." Alexis gave a puckish smile and wiggled her fingers. "Who's to say I won't?" For a split second Brodanic's face dropped, then he gave a tittering laugh. Alexis winked. "Nah, that's not something we can do." Brodanic stood, chucking her on the shoulder before bouncing up to his own bunk. "We're gonna make great bunkmates, Dalliance."

Six

Alexis smirked as she finished putting away her gear. Her ears twitched, making her stop and listen. Through the general hubbub of the barracks came the sound of angry, raised voices. Ensuring she could remember which bed was hers, she left, following the sounds of conflict back outside. In front of the the awning where the human had been taking in the recruits, an elf and the half-orc officer argued. The human – she’d overheard some of the other militia say he was the Captain of this outfit, a man called Hengar – sat back in the chair watching the kerfuffle. Also joining in on the argument was another human, tall and broad, and another elf. Abruptly the Captain stood up. "Enough." He laid his hands flat on the table. "I won’t have dissent in the ranks before we’ve even gotten anywhere. Vrog, take over. You three come with me." With that he left the half-orc standing there, striding towards the entrance. Alexis tried to back away, not wanting to be in trouble already, but she wasn’t fast enough. "You there," Hengar pointed at her as he approached. "How much of that did you hear?" "Nothing, sir. You stopped as I arrived." Hengar grunted. "Where were you before?" "In the barracks, sir." An eyebrow raised. "Good ears on you, eh? You too then, come along." Alexis gulped, but dutifulled trailed along after the group, as Hengar lead the way to his office.

Seven

The end of the sewer pipe lead into a small alcove filled with long brushes and leather gauntlets and aprons. Quietly, they used these tools to remove the effluent from their legs. "I should scout ahead," Alexis said. "No offense but I’m less likely to make a lot of noise while doing so, and I suspect my senses are more keen than yours." Ithanor glanced at their companions. No one disagreed. "Very well," he said. "We shall await your return. If you run into difficulties, holler, and we will come." Alexis nodded, her mouth set in a grim line. In a moment she was gone.

[kaesaaurelia]

Made little Hero Forge guys out of every single character I've ever played at least one session of in a TTRPG. (The ones with closeups I've played for more than one session.) Details under the cut.

Top Row:

Literally Just Terezi Pyrope, Pathfinder; half-orc Investigator Made for a Pathfinder oneshot wherein my friend was playing a Vriska-inspired character. I feel the need to disclaim that we did not kill or maim anyone out-of-game. I don't even remember if we killed anyone in-game because I remember it being pretty puzzle/trap-focused?

????; Ryuutama; Crafter/Autumn Sorceress I'm kicking myself that I don't remember her name. She was a seamstress, and in the specific world we were playing in we were the descendants of space colonists, so I decided her ancestors would be from a culture with really pretty fabric patterns.

Ylva Truehand, D&D 5E; half-orc monk. A herbo if ever there was one. Accidentally became the figurehead of a coup d'etat at home and had to Leave Right Now Immediately. We only got to the part where we all met at an inn before outside circumstances meant the campaign fell apart.

2nd Row:

Katja, 3.5E D&D; human cleric prestige class (maybe a Radiant Servant of Pelor?) My very first TTRPG character! I played her in a high school friend's historical-fantasy-inspired homebrew setting campaign he ran one summer in college. She was meant to be an army doctor for Fantasy Imperial Russia and we were doing an escort mission across a desert that was, iirc, disputed territory between three superpowers? Mostly I remember killing a lot of ninjas and then stumbling across a magical oasis where the water was magically pacifying, finding the mineral that was responsible for this effect, grinding a bunch of it into powder, and then making our GM's life a living hell by slipping it into NPCs' drinks whenever we wanted something from them.

3rd Row:

Safira, Stewpot; Paladin/Artisan. This one's pretty obviously an expy of my angel OC Vehuel. Stewpot is a game about retiring from adventuring so the character concept for her was "Holy warrior chosen by prophecy to kill a great evil with a magic sword; accidentally fell in love with the great evil. Eventually killed it anyway. Deeply traumatized."

Yarrow Tunneler, Mausritter; Acorn sign wireworker. Yarrow came out so cute here! A lot of stuff in Mausritter is randomly assigned and I think her class was one of those things, but I liked the wireworker thing (basically she's a mouse electrician) and one of her starting bits of equipment was a spool of wire. There weren't any good wire spools on Hero Forge, but I managed to make a battery-looking thing for her to carry around on her back.

Esca Glowfin, Ocean Tides; mermaid. Yeah so the game wanted me to choose whether she was going to be a mermaid or pirate but I wanted to be both so I made it work. The actual character concept I had in my head does not look much like this but turns out one of Hero Forge's weaknesses is deep sea benthic horrors with needle teeth. So I just made her hot. Sorry, Esca, you probably deserved better.

4rd Row:

Minu Darzi, Shadowrun 5E/Definitely Not Shadowrun At All; elf face. This one's an expy of my demon OC Nisroc, but like, a very very tiny sliver of Nisroc's whole schtick. I tend to describe her as "what if Grendel's mother was a shitty grifter who wanted to be an influencer?" but she shoots a lot of people so I feel like her sphere of influence is powerful but limited to like. Influencing people to die.

5th Row:

Royse, 5E D&D; Aasimar rogue. Another Vehuel expy, this one much younger and less traumatized. Royse was made for a West Marches group I didn't really vibe with. The one session I played was great but the out-of-game downtime stuff felt like a part-time accounting job and I don't have any interest in accounting. Anyway Royse was fun and she was gonna be a Swashbuckler.

Pandora (& Scylax), Worlds Without Number; mage (Necromancer/Beastmaster). For the oneshot group I'm part of we've started doing a test combat session at the end of Session Zero to make sure our characters aren't going to die immediately, and after that our GM decided we should be using the Heroic rules. In the combat trial, Pandora used her one (1) spell slot to mind-control one of the wolves that were attacking us and it killed a bunch of the rest of them, so given the opportunity to add another 1/2 mage specialization I picked Beastmaster and gave her a wolf. I really liked some of the lore for this game but oof, it's super unforgiving. (I think it might be a good starting point if you wanted to play a Locked Tomb campaign, though?)

Zamira the Magnificent, Blades in the Dark; slide. This character was a disgraced stage magician who accidentally killed her assistant (maybe sawed them in half?) and I liked the concept but our Blades in the Dark party really didn't end up doing much RP, even though we are a very RP-heavy group; I kind of wish the game had facilitated it more.

6th Row:

????; Tempus Diducit; Weird Scientist. Tempus Diducit is a no-prep chaotic game about a time travel crisis where a lot of things are randomized; mostly I remember there being superintelligent octopi and making strong acids, and also me having a lot of very annoying ideas involving my specialized knowledge of both cephalopods and chemistry.

????; Subway Runners. I remember very little about my Subway Runners character but basically this is a no-prep game where your character sheet is entirely randomized and every character is probably at least a little Done With This Shit because every Subway Runners PC is a gig economy worker whose shitty gig job is fixing an urban fantasy public transit system full of extremely weird shit. I think by the end of the session all our characters had cat ears.

Miriam; You Awaken in a Strange Place; marine biologist. Once more my specialized cephalopod knowledge comes back to bite me in the ass! (Also, this is the second Miriam on the list; 'Zamira the Magnificent' was a stage name.) YAiaSP is another no-prep chaotic game; you also get to make up all the skills your characters have, and Miriam was good at Identifying Marine Animals but bad at Working Under Pressure, which was great because they were in a locked submarine murder mystery and identifying marine animals was basically of no use whatsoever. I think in the end she failed a Using Scientific Equipment roll and then bluffed that she had actually gotten the DNA results to get the murderer to confess. This is unethical if you're in law enforcement; if you're a professional marine animal identifier it's still unethical but I think it's also kind of impressive. Only I forget if it actually worked, so maybe it wasn't.

7th Row:

Heshky, Pathfinder 2E; half-orc investigator. I have literally only ever played half-orc investigators in Pathfinder, which is very funny to me. [Edit: This is no longer true! I have a dwarf ranger now.] Heshky here is not much like the Terezi expy, though. He is an expy, but of one of my OCs rather than someone else's and his backstory is that he's a former mob accountant whose boss died in circumstances that were technically not his fault, so he had to leave town for a while. I would absolutely love to play him somewhere else; he was made for my one-shot group but we ended up stretching that Pathfinder one-shot out to like 5? 6? sessions and I got very attached. (If I played him again I miiight not start him out as an investigator though, because he almost died like 3 times.)

8th Row:

Zirane, I'm Sorry, Did You Say Street Magic, baker. ISDYSSM is a cooperative worldbuilding game so I kind of forgot there was a character I played in it, but apparently I did! This guy lives in a fantasy city and works at a cafe owned by some mystery person (possibly a vampire?) but he's not worried about that. He is good at baking, but likes experimenting with weird combinations of flavors, which sometimes means his extremely well-made baked goods taste regrettable.

Kjersti, Session Zero; war-witch deserter. Session Zero is a character creation/development game without character classes; it can actually be played solo as a writing exercise too! So I just kind of went wild here. I really like the concept I ended up with and keep meaning to post what I wrote up for her; over the course of the game she went from annoyed arcane college student to spoiled rich girl to army deserter trying to survive a magical war crimes-induced apocalypse and daydreaming about overthrowing her own government in no time at all.

Edie, Genesys; dwarf mad alchemist. The setting we decided on for the Genesys one-shot was cyberpunk fantasy, a bit like Shadowrun but if magic had always been in the world, so I decided to pull out one of my old, old LJRP characters (Ed Espis) and repurpose her. Edie grew up a third- or fourth-generation corporate citizen and very privileged, but when her parents died under mysterious circumstances and she was fired shortly thereafter, the company decided she had to pay off all the resources they had invested in her entire family so now she's broke and has to do crimes (petty) instead of crimes (war) to live. She ended this session by shooting a guy in the head but listen, he extremely deserved it.

[horseshoehate]

Into the House of Elrond Gandalf Goes

a/n: This is part 3 of my Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, and Phish fan fiction. It's getting a lot more serious in tone haha

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Gandalf steps out into the soft grass leading away from the concert venue. He hears cheers as the band comes out. He quickens his pace, not particularly happy to have to miss a good show, but nonetheless unwilling to risk the corrupting influence of Evil Trey's awesome licks.

Gandalf walked past his own van, a 1991 Toyota Previa, sitting in the parking lot, knowing he could not drive it as it would draw too many unwanted eyes. He begrudgingly sold it on the lot to a strung out hippie for a week's worth of grilled cheese sandwich rations. Gandalf slipped out on foot unnoticed by the sentries of Voldemort that now patrolled the lots at the behest of Evil Trey, selling nitrous to anyone who was desperate enough for it and causing no small amount of trouble at the drop of a hat. "No doubt the influence of Sauron caused that one!" scoffed Gandalf.

So Gandalf journeyed over many days and lands far and wide, coming ever closer to Rivendell, the land of Elrond the Wise. Gandalf knew that Sauron would stop at nothing short of total domination of Middle Earth. Wise as he was, he still could not see all ends, and needed the help of the very best counsel he could conjure.

================================================

As he arrived in Rivendell, Gandalf was welcomed with warm smiles, but he could see behind the mask of friendliness, there was a certain warriness. It was as if the elves already knew why he had come, or at least that it was no pleasure visit to the land of Elrond.

"Come elf-friend Gandalf, we have a seat prepared for you at our feast." a welcoming elf said, adding "Elrond will meet you when he is ready to do so."

"Very well, though this matter is urgent and cannot wait much longer," Gandalf said "I'm afraid that this matter is of the upmost importance. It concerns the black keeps of the Dark Lord."

A look of of terror flashed in the elf's eyes, but was soon replaced once more by a friendly smile. "Very well," the elf said, "right this way."

================================================

As Gandalf sat at the table, finishing the last of his elven wine. He had eaten enough to feed 3 elves at least, having had naught but old grilled cheeses from the lot for the last 10 days.

Hearing quiet footsteps behind him, Gandalf stood from his chair and bowed to the esteemed figure of Elrond, the wisest amongst the elves, whom even the greatest wizards seek the counsel of.

"Gandalf," Elrond said with a smile, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Elrond my dear friend, I'm afraid that i am not here at my own leisure." Gandalf said with a worried frown.

"What troubles you, friend Gandalf?"

"It is Trey Anastasio. I believe that he is under the influence of the Dark Lord Sauron himself." Gandalf said heavily.

Elrond turned his head dismissively, "You know I left this life behind me after the 2.0 years. How do I know that the Phish community has not just soured on its own once more, like milk left to spoil?"

"This is not that. Those were dark times, yes, but these stand to be far worse than even Coventry." Gandalf said forebodingly. Gandalf went on to explain everything that had happened.

"Very well, Gandalf. What would you have me do?"

"I need your help friend, advice. What power do we now possess that can break the hold on Evil Trey's mind and break him from his mental prison which he now resides?" Gandalf asked.

Elrond thought for a few moments before turning to Gandalf, "I may have an idea," he said slowly. "But it will require some… subterfuge."

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Elrond started with a serious look in his eyes, "On Durin's Day, the last day of your Autumn, we elves celebrate our alliance with the Dwarves of the north."

Gandalf interjected, "I hardly see how tha-"

"If you'll allow me to continue," Elrond said sharply, raising an eyebrow, "each year we host a festival of bands from across Middle Earth in a celebration of cultural diversity. It would not be unconventional for us to book a musical act from the world of men."

"I see," Gandalf said, thinking it over, "and they won't find this suspicous?"

"I would think that playing this far in the heart of elven territory too bold for even Sauron, but they may credulous enough to think that their evil jams will turn the hearts of elves. It may seem a tempting victory waiting to be snatched from us before the war has even begun." Elrond considered.

"Very well then," Gandalf said slowly, "it is decided. Phish will headline Durin'sFest. It is not without risk, but I trust your judgement, Elrond. We must act quickly if we are to save Trey."

================================================

As the day of Durin'sFest neared, preperations underwent for the festival. Already, the campgrounds were starting to fill and stages being built. Countless food stands were set up, selling anything from Lembas bread bratwursts to potato and rabbit stew.

As the day drew nearer, Gandalf grew restless. He thought of his tour buddies and wondered then how many of the had already been lost, either succumbed to the darkness of Phish's new evil jams, or been killed at the hands of Lord Voldemort's nitrous mafia. He wept for his friends, but held out hope that he could, at the very least, save his favorite band from the clutches of Sauron.