#highsun

[hexblooddruid]

When going through my Bryn tag for the OCs in the threes post I realized I first posted about her on August 24 last year, so I’m thinking about making the equivalent date her canonical birthday, meaning that she turns 50 right after escaping the nautaloid.

[galedekarios]

waterdeep's festivities & celebrations

(credit: midnightfriday)

in contrast to baldur's gate, which has few festivals and gatherings, waterdeep in contrast has a great variety of them, prompting volo to write the following about waterdeep in his chapbook about the city:

"At many times of year, hardly a tenday can pass in Waterdeep without the staging of some rite, race, or rousing ceremony of civic pride." (from: Volo's Waterdeep Enchiridion)

in this post, i want to give an overview of these holidays and festivals. some of them are mentioned in the game, like fleetswake in a banter between gale, lae'zel and wyll, but most of them are not. they give an interesting insight in the city, its history and its people.

the most used calendar in faerûn is the calendar of harptos. it's pictured above to give you an overview of how the months and seasons work in faerûn.

The days making up a tenday did not have formal names. If precision was required, the number of the day and the number of the tenday were used, as in, "the fourth day of the first tenday of Flamerule". Days of the month were typically written as the numerical date followed by the month name, for example, "15 Hammer" or "15th Hammer". Informally or poetically this could be spoken or written as "the 15th of Deepwinter". [x]

the names of the months in faerûn are:

hammer (deepwinter)

alturiak (the claw of winter, the claw of cold)

ches (the claw of sunsets)

tarsakh (the claw of storms)

mirtul (the melting)

kythorn (the time of flowers)

flamerule (summertide)

eleasis (highsun)

eleint (the fading)

marpenoth (leaffall)

uktar (the rotting)

nightal (the drawing down)

hammer 1: wintershield

Marking the start of the new year, this observance is a widely recognized day off work, when folk sip warmed ciders and broths (often laced with herbs for health and to bring on visions) and stay inside. They tell tales of what interested them or was important in the year just done, and discuss what they intend to do or should deal with — or things that everyone “should keep a hawk’s clear eye on” — in the year ahead. Such talk inevitably leads to discussions of politics, wars, and the intentions of rulers. Maps are usually consulted, and it’s widely considered lucky to possess and examine a map on Wintershield. Map sales are brisk in the tenday preceding this holiday.

alturiak 14: the grand revel

Led by the clergy of Sune, Sharess, and Lliira, the Grand Revel is a day of dancing, music, and the consumption of sweet treats of all kinds, from chocolate to red firemint candies. Although some of the dancing is wanton and performed for show, large-scale ring dances in the street for all ages are also popular. All the dancing ends at dusk, after which bards and minstrels perform at “love feasts” for families. Couples — or those desiring to become couples — slip away together to kiss, exchange promises, and trade small tokens of affection (often rings blessed by clergy with prayers of faithfulness). Even if you have no paramour, indulge a little in the dance and food of this fine tradition. The night might be cold, but your heart will be warmed.

we learn in the game about sharess, we hear a bit about sune, the goddess of beauty and her temple of beauty in waterdeep in a banter between gale and shadowheart, but lliira is mentioned only in passing: llira is a minor goddess in the faerûnian pantheon. she's called the joybringer and is the embodiment of freedom and happiness, inspiring many poets and musicians. gale does mention her in game - or at least the llirian suites that his piano is enchanted to play.

ches 1: rhyestertide

This holiday is named in honor of Lathander’s first prophet, Rhyester, a young blind boy who was cured of that blindness by the dawn’s light on this day more than seven centuries ago. That holy event occurred in the vicinity of Silverymoon, but Lathander has long had a much larger temple in Waterdeep, and a following to match. Each of the faithful dons bright garb of sunrise hues and keeps one eye covered until the next dawn in honor of Rhyester. If you want to feel like a local, catch the eye of any celebrant you see and wink. Fine friendships have grown from far less.

ches 19: fey day

The veil between this world and the faerie realm of the Feywild is thought to be weak on this day. Though this phenomenon provokes caution in rural areas (with folk avoiding woodlands, putting offerings of food on doorsteps, and the like), it is an occasion of much drinking, singing, and dancing in Waterdeep. The wealthy host elaborate masked balls, while poorer folk don costumes of their own make and travel door to door, gaining brief entry into the celebrations in exchange for performing a song or a short play. All adopt the guises of fey beings and the supposed rulers of the Feywild, such as Queen Titania, Oberon, and Hyrsam, the Prince of Fools. Those inclined to remain sullen in the face of such frivolity had best stay home, for celebrants do their utmost to evoke a smile from those they meet.

chest 21 - 30: fleetswake

This festival celebrates the sea, maritime trade, and the gods of the sea, navigation, and weather. It spans the last tenday of Ches, and includes a series of boat races, the Shipwrights’ Ball at the Shipwrights’ House, and guild-sponsored galas at the Copper Cup festhall. According to custom, the winners of the various competitions don’t keep their trophies and earnings, but deliver them to the priests of Umberlee at the Queenspire, her temple on the beach by the east entrance to the Great Harbor, at the conclusion of the festival. The last two days of Fleetswake are the occasion of the Fair Seas Festival. During this time, there is much feasting on seafood, the harbor is strewn with flower petals, and City Guards go from tavern to tavern collecting offerings for Umberlee. Collection boxes also appear at large festival gatherings. Upon sunset of the final day, the collected coin is placed in chests and dumped into the deepest part of the harbor. This festival has existed in a number of forms since the first trade-meets occurred here more than two millennia ago, and an uncountable amount of wealth remains sunken in what has long been known as Umberlee’s Cache. The area is closely watched by merfolk guardians, whose standing orders are to kill anyone attempting to disturb it. Rumors abound that the chests have magical protections; one story tells of thieves who stole some of the collection years ago and tried to leave the city under false pretenses, only to see a squall spring up as soon as their ship left the harbor. A huge wave shaped like a hand swept the thieves overboard, but spared the ship and its crew.

this festival is one of the few mentioned in baldur's gate. as stated previously gale, wyll and lae'zel mention it in one of the banters between them in act 1:

Lae'zel notes that Gale knows a lot about mind flayers. He responds with information about his training. If there, Wyll chimes in as well. Lae'zel: You strike me cleverer than most istiki, Gale. Multiple tutors, I should guess.devnote Gale: Many a wise man and woman indeed. Waterdeep is the home of myriad scholars. Wyll: Ah, the City of Splendours. Spent a whole Fleetswake there with my father. What a delight.

tarsak 1 - 10: waukeentide

This festival has long gathered a number of older holidays under one name, stretching those celebrations into a holiday season that lasts a tenday. Among the rituals in homage to the goddess of wealth and trade are these: Caravance (Tarsahk 1). This gift-giving holiday commemorates the traditional arrival of the first caravans of the season into the city. Many parents hide gifts for their offspring in their homes, telling the children that they were left by Old Carvas — a mythical peddler who arrived with the first caravan to reach Waterdeep, his wagon loaded down with toys for children to enjoy. Goldenight (Tarsahk 5). This festival celebrates coin and gold, with many businesses staying open all night, offering midnight sales and other promotions. Some celebrants and customers decorate themselves with gold dust and wear coins as jewelry. Guildsmeet (Tarsahk 7). On this holiday, guild members gather in their halls for the announcement of new policies and a celebration of business concluded for the year. These gatherings culminate in a gala festival and dance sponsored by several guilds, which lasts from dusk till dawn and overruns the Market, the Cynosure, the Field of Triumph, and all areas in between. Leiruin (Tarsahk 10). In times long past, Waukeen caught Leira, the goddess of illusions and deception, attempting to cheat her in a deal, and buried her under a mountain of molten gold as punishment. A commemoration of that event, Leiruin is the day for guild members to pay their annual dues and for guildmasters to meet with the Lords of Waterdeep and renew their charters for another year.

waukeen is a goddess and her domain is trade and wealth.

mirtul 6 - 9: the plowing and running

Rural areas around the city observe this holiday in the traditional sense of shared activities of plowing fields and moving (or “running”) livestock. But within the city, the holiday is celebrated with a series of races. Foot, horse, and chariot races are run through courses in each ward, and the winners from each ward compete at the Field of Triumph. If you really want to see the wards come to life, this is the time. Pick your favorite, wear its colors, and cheer alongside its residents. Better yet, if you’re of an adventuresome bent, register in your favored ward and compete! Who knows? Your name or visage might soon have a place in the House of Heroes.

kythorn 1: trolltide

On this day commemorating Waterdeep’s victory in the Second Trollwar, children run through the city acting like trolls, banging on doors and growling, from highsun till dusk. Home and shop owners are expected to give the children candy, fruits, or small items. Those who give no treat can expect to become the target of a trick at sundown. This mischief typically takes the form of “troll scratchings” at doors and windows. Those with more malicious intent sing screechingly in the wee hours, and hurl raw eggs at windows, signs, and the heads of those who try to stop them. Have some candy on hand or some sweet rolls, and all will be calm where you live.

kythorn 14: guildhall day

This day is a time of trade fairs. Most shops are closed, and street sales are suspended for all but walking food peddlers. Guildhall Day celebrates the fruits of everyone’s labor with revelations of new products, innovations, fashions, and signage extolling the extent and quality of guild members’ services and wares. These offerings usually take the form of glittering displays, but guilds sometimes also sponsor brief plays or other hired entertainments (jugglers, singers, magic shows put on by hedge wizards and professional raconteurs) at which prizes or free samples are distributed. Many guilds try to recruit during this time. Guildhall Day is an excellent time to browse the city’s merchandise — and it doesn’t matter if you can’t afford what you see, because you can’t buy it that day anyway.

kythorn 20: dragondown

This day in Kythorn is celebrated with bonfires and rituals to “tame” or “drive down” dragons. In Waterdeep, the celebrations take the form of parades that center around effigies built of wood and cloth and filled with straw. Each effigy is named and has a traditional depiction, for it represents one of a handful of dragons the city has faced in its history. After being paraded to a square near where the dragon was defeated or driven off, the enormous effigy is burned. The height of the celebration comes when the effigy of Kistarianth the Red is burned on the slopes of Mount Waterdeep. A dracolich version of Kistarianth is then carried up the slopes and burned as well. These proceedings symbolize the defeat of Kistarianth first by the paladin Athar, and again decades later by his son, Piergeiron. Tradition dictates that the winners of the races run during the Plowing and Running take the role of the dragons’ slayers, with the champion of the chariot race representing Athar and the champion of the horse race playing Piergeiron.

flamerule 1: the founders' day

This day commemorates the birth of the city. The Field of Triumph is the site of illusory displays that chronicle the history of Waterdeep, as well as martial exhibitions by the Guard and other worthies. Many festhalls sponsor Founders’ Day costume contests, with prizes going to those who wear the best recreations of the garb of historical personages. Once banned as frivolous and distracting, the practice of veiling Castle Waterdeep with an illusion has been reinstated. Several mages come together to produce the effect, which seemingly transforms the castle into the ancient log fortress of Nimoar. The illusion typically lasts from midday to sunset (unless someone has the audacity and magical might to dispel it) and is regarded as a stunning work of magical art.

flamerule 3 - 5: sornyn

Sornyn is a festival of both Waukeen and Lathander, and is used for planning business, making treaties and agreements, and receiving envoys from unknown lands and traditional foes. Much wine is drunk over this three-day occasion when, as the saying goes, “My enemy is like family to me.” If you are a newcomer to the city, this time is an excellent opportunity for you to engage with new partners in business or to gain financial support for some endeavor. My agreement to write Volo’s Guide to Waterdeep was signed on a warm Sornyn evening many years ago, so who knows where your own initiative will take you?

flamerule 7: llira's night

Originally a celebration held only in Waterdeep, this holiday has since spread up and down the Sword Coast. It has received a recent boost in popularity from the custom started in Baldur’s Gate of lighting celebratory smokepowder fireworks — all purchased from Felogyr’s Fireworks of that city, and utilized only by the City Guard, of course. This nightlong festival honors the Lady of Joy with dances and balls throughout the city. Pink beverages, ranging from healthy juices to deadly strong intoxicants, are imbibed. The boom and crackle of smokepowder explosions go off all night long, so you might as well stay up with the locals and enjoy the show.

eleasis 1: ahghairon's day

Many small rituals are held throughout this day, dedicated to honoring the first Open Lord. The Lords of Waterdeep toast Ahghairon and the Watchful Order, and guildmasters toast the Lords in Ahghairon’s name. Commoners leave violets (Ahghairon’s favorite flower) around Ahghairon’s Tower, on his statue in the City of the Dead, and atop the altars of the House of Wonder. Bards perform songs in honor of the wizard all over the city. The Open Lord visits taverns and inns throughout Waterdeep to wish the people well — giving short speeches, offering toasts to Ahghairon’s memory, buying rounds of drinks, or paying for meals or accommodation. Needless to say, establishments of those sorts are generally full throughout the day.

if you are interested to learn more about ahghairon - who is mentioned too by gale in passing - or rather his lost nose - you can do so here: i've written a more extensive meta about him in this post.

eleint 21: brightswords

On this day, the City Guard, the City Navy, and the City Watch — all in glittering array — conduct parades, give demonstrations of martial skill, and stage mock battles. Those desiring to join their ranks are given a chance to demonstrate their prowess, usually with wooden practice weapons in contests against veteran soldiers. Makers and vendors of weapons sell their wares openly in the markets, experts who can hurl or juggle weapons show off their skills, and the wards compete in wrestling and boxing matches. The most anticipated part of the day is when horses are cleared from the Field of Triumph and the surrounding streets so that the Griffon Cavalry can perform aerial displays over the crowds in the stadium. Members of the Watchful Order present the cavalry with illusory foes to fight, allowing the griffon riders to engage in thrilling battles as the people watch.

marpenoth 3: day of wonders

The imaginative inventions of the Gondar are revealed on this day and paraded through the city. These devices range from something as humble as new cabinet hinges to massive mechanical constructs that walk or roll about. Failure is the paramour of invention, though, meaning it is a rare year when there isn’t some notable disruption of the celebration. The flying chair of Marchell was one such recent oddity — a device that worked marvelously on the way up but was incapable of descending. Marchell was rescued by the Griffon Cavalry, but his flying chair drifted away and was never seen again.

marpenoth 7: stoneshar

Stoneshar is an all-faiths day during which folk strive not to be idle. Even children at play are encouraged to dig holes, build sand castles, or construct crude models. Waterdavians consider Stoneshar the best day of the year to begin construction of a building, either by digging out a cellar or laying a foundation. The common wisdom is that folk who undertake new projects on Stoneshar can expect blessings upon their works in the coming year, whereas individuals who do nothing constructive on this day can expect all manner of misfortune to rain down on them in the year ahead.

marpenoth 10: reign of misrule

Swift on the heels of Stoneshar comes the Reign of Misrule. This day honors Beshaba, goddess of misfortune. People of the city are expected to break trust, belie oaths, and disobey the normal order — as long as no laws are actually broken and no rift is made that can’t be later bridged. During the Reign of Misrule, nobles serve meals to their servants, children take control of schools, priests give worship to their god’s foes, and any who wish to may participate in a guild’s trade. Pranks are played by and on many, from simple tricks to those requiring elaborate planning. Sundown brings an end to the festivities, and most folk spend much of the night cleaning and reordering things for the following day. Many visitors decline to participate, but doing so often inspires misfortune rather than avoiding it. For fear of catching the bad luck of cynics, citizens do their best to avoid talking to anyone known to not have played along, or dealing with them in any way until Gods’ Day.

marpenoth 15: gods' day

This holiday observes the anniversary of the end of the Godswar in 1358 DR, when the gods of Faerûn returned to the heavens. Private shrines are brought out into the open, and many people wear holy symbols of their favored deities. A Gods’ Day tradition in Waterdeep strictly limits the use of magic, in remembrance of the wild magic wrought during the Time of Troubles. Though not outlawed fully, spellcasting is allowable only in self-defense or in cases of extreme need. At night, this holiday becomes solemn and serious, as many Waterdavians offer prayers in thanks for the lives they have under their gods. The Griffon Cavalry sets up an immense bonfire at the peak of Mount Waterdeep, honoring the fallen and the risen gods Myrkul, Cyric, Kelemvor, Mystra, Helm, and Ao who appeared here. In thanks for their defense during Myrkul’s invasion and the resulting fires that raged through the Southern, Dock, and Castle Wards, Gods’ Day is also a semiofficial “Be Kind to the Guard and Watch Day” in Waterdeep. Feel free to participate by handing out small gifts and kind words, but be aware that any gift of greater value than a few nibs might be interpreted as a bribe.

marpenoth 30: liar's night

This holy day pays tribute to Leira and Mask. To placate those deities and ward away their attention, folk of all walks of life don masks and costumes (magical or mundane) to disguise themselves and play at being other than what they are. Commonly seen mask styles include the black mask symbol of Mask and the mirror face of the priests of Leira. But there are no bounds on the disguise you don, and the more elaborate and outlandish it is, the more celebrated the wearer. The festivities begin in the evening, when people place candles in hollowed-out gourds or pumpkins carved with faces. Each pumpkin represents a person donning a mask, while the light inside represents the truth of the soul. For as long as the candle remains lit, lies told and embarrassing things done don’t sully a person’s reputation, so celebrations often descend briefly into anarchic hedonism. Misfortune is said to come to anyone who returns to their pumpkin after celebrating to find it unlit, so buy a candle of good quality and put your gourd beyond reach of the wind. Intentionally blowing out someone else’s candle or smashing someone else’s pumpkin is taboo, and risks the wrath of both gods — yet it does occur. Tricks and pranks of all kinds are common on this night, and folk expect lies and foolishness. Pickpockets are rife on this day, so few carry much coin with them, having secreted it away somewhere the previous evening. Instead, people fill their pockets and belt pouches with candies. Traditionally, a pickpocket is meant to take the candy and leave a token in return (a tiny toy, a colorful paper folded into a shape, or the like), but this has changed over the years into adults exchanging candies among themselves and simply giving candy to children who ask for it. By custom, no deals are made nor contracts signed on Liar’s Night, because no one trusts that parties will abide by them. Illusionists and stage magicians (whether through magical or practical abilities) make the rounds to entertain private parties (having been paid in advance the previous day) or to perform in public spaces, in the hopes that a good show will earn them a meal, and perhaps a place at a private party in the future.

uktar: selûne's hallowing

On whatever night in Uktar the moon is fullest, Waterdavians celebrate Selûne’s Hallowing. The goddess is the focus of worship throughout the full phase, of course, but the major ceremony on this night is a parade of worshipers leaving the House of the Moon at moonrise and moving down to the harbor, where the high priestess wields the Wand of the Four Moons in a ceremony blessing all navigators. This holy relic is said to be the mace wielded by Selûne in her first battle against Shar, and again in a fight with her sister during the Time of Troubles. It miraculously appeared in Waterdeep after the Godswar, and has since been the focus of many divine signs. You can view it in the House of the Moon at other times of the year, but only from a well-guarded distance. If you’re lucky, you might see the Wand of the Four Moons weep. Droplets said to be the tears of Selûne manifest on the mace from time to time, and are collected by the priestesses for use in potions that can heal, cure lycanthropy, and be used as holy water.

uktar 20: last sheaf

Sometimes called “The Small Feast,” this day of residential feasting is held in celebration of the year’s bounty. Small gifts (traditionally hand kegs of ale, jars of preserves, or smoked fish and meats) are exchanged among neighbors, and “last letters” are gathered for carriage by ship captains and caravan merchants — so called because they are the last to leave the city before travel becomes difficult. Of Waterdeep’s many celebrations, this one is perhaps the most relaxed and relaxing. Plan to spend a little extra on good food and enjoy a meal with those nearest you, be they dearest hearts or the folk across the hall in the inn.

nightal 11: howldown

In honor of Malar, members of the City Guard leave the city in groups on this day to hunt down known threats to farmers and travelers, including brigands, wolves, owlbears, ogres, and trolls that haunt the roads and wilderness. These hunts typically last no longer than a tenday. During the same span of time, the City Watch engages in its own rigorous hunt for malefactors within the city walls. If you’ve any reason to doubt your standing in the eyes of the law, avoid Waterdeep for at least a tenday after Howldown. With no real hunting to do of their own, the children of Waterdeep spend Howldown engaging in mock hunts of adults dressed up as monsters, and play at the killing of these predators.

nightal 20: simril

When dusk comes on this day, folk go outside to locate particular stars that were lucky for their ancestors, or that were associated with their own births. They then attempt to stay up through the night, celebrating outside with bonfires, song, and warmed drinks. Cloudy nights often draw larger crowds than clear ones, since glimpsing your star through the haze is thought to be a blessing from Tymora. Inside buildings, service folk keep roaring fires and engage in making food to keep celebrants fed throughout the long night and into morning of the next day. If you have no particular star of your own, you’ll find many vendors of star maps willing to divine which is yours — based upon your place and date of birth — and to point you in the right direction for a shard or two.

all information is taken from volo's waterdeep enchiridion.

i hope this was helpful and information to some of you!

🖤

[dhampling]

ivory tower 18+ ASCENDED!ASTARION X AFAB!READER, 4.6K

Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city; but you want this.

woah boy! my first ascended astarion piece, so please be kind! dal is back babey! woooo! thank you to @bhaalism and @lipstickghoulie for dealing with me while writing this i love you both endlessly. wc: 4.6k cw: afab reader, female language used. breeding, mind-control, p in v, ascended astarion, public fingering, private banging, great times all round, as always if there are errors no there aren't, creampies, yippee

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep. Not really.

She sometimes slows just enough to find some purchase amongst the muddle, though - tiptoes lazy through highsun in soft linens, the burgeoning swell of soap suds and sunny rosemary through wide open wooden shutters. Lingering - sweat-soaking worn leathers, the sore of the flex in the arch of your foot splayed over cobble. As if to grasp at the memory, your fingers stretch out from your side and on to the dark oak of the armrest, in a moment of sheer jubilance. Summer. The sun. Wide bright mornings. Hopeful and hot as a bated breath. 

The city ambles onward this evening, no different despite the inclement weather and the din of an early darkness. Half-lidded through dark streets as rain smatters the roofs with wet, glistening something dozy under the tall oil street lamps and swirls of ever-present heavy fog. Gurgling whilst each drain fills with water and swallows deep into the sewers. 

Scatters the hay, bears the slip; sings a slow drunken stutter of thunder-wind whiling at the windows into the small hours. There’s a comfort to be found in it. 

The harbour bell will go on to toll for every sail weary ship coming in from the fog; the crescent caress of the Gate’s waiting arms lit low with oily dots of amber. That even this late into the night the bands of trawlers on the dock work crates and barrels into cargo holds with worn hands and ruddy cheeks. The gulls and their scattering squawks. The flapping of their fat feathered wings up into the clouds. 

From where you sit in the Ivory Tower you can hardly see anything at all. Fog obscures the streets to a point, other than the light patches under the oil lanterns out on the ramparts. The window runs dripping wet with condensation. Pools under the pane. 

A hideaway of sorts within the manor. Newly reclaimed by Astarion in some deal with the quivering council in order to keep him sweet. Not that he has any armies of undead in his retainer to command as yet, but they don’t need to know that. There’s time. You’re still blessedly mortal and able.

Astarion. 

He should be skulking the halls somewhere below with that unnerving silent step he’s taken to using. Your cheeks grow warm, the blanket over your shoulders pulled closer into your chest as you allow your mind to run wild; the scald of bliss to your brain like that of some ironmonger’s poker, split straight to the core. 

Your love. Your lover. 

Amongst his many newfound desires and passions seemingly includes the impetus to redesign a centuries-old palace from scratch, and while you doubt he has the want nor willpower to take the project anywhere near to completion you’re more than happy to indulge him during this burst of creativity. A designer’s eye. Lavish yet not ostentatious, he tells you. Your own private wing of the palace, and one you’ll share together. He has no need for his own private chambers. You’re the only one he wants to be beside. You understand that at its essence, it isn’t even necessarily a want to design for creativity’s sake, it’s important to you both to have every memory of the residence’s former owner gone. Every threadbare tread of carpet, every scuff on the wall; every painting being demounted by workers downstairs and shipped to the auction house first thing in the morning. You can hear them if you still enough, heart still beating in your chest and the low chunter of layman gossip.

The version of him you knew before his ascension was so very scared. Beautiful, but wavering. You loved him of course; and you always will  - it was that version of him, the one lost in the wilderness that you fell for, and gods; you fell hard - frenetic and whiny, fleeting as light snow never to settle on the forest floor. Wild-eyed. 

But this Astarion - the real Astarion, as far as he is concerned - has you completely and utterly enraptured each day you wake together, the same as ever, from the second your eyes open. Wrapped in those Daerlunian-import plush linens atop your gargantuan newly-installed four poster bed. Face of marble with those cattish dark lashes and eyes of carnelian crush. Enchants every room he walks into, as he always has. 

You don’t know he’s with you until a hand ghosts your shoulder, sinewy; with those deft pale fingers deep encroaching on your collarbone in his grasp. 

“I didn’t hear you, lover.”

“But I heard you.’

He circles round the velvet armchair, resplendent in his home finery. Not a crease to be seen. Voice soft, yet laced with a bristling concern.

‘Why do you insist on sitting up here?”

You err for a brief moment. 

“I can hear the rain on the roof, here. See some bustle when the fog clears. The city goes on.” You shake your head with a smile as he crouches beside you, nestling his head in the crook of your arm.

“But it’s cold. Dark. Come down - I can light the fire in our sitting room if you like?” 

“We have so many centuries yet to see together! What sense is there in not observing the world as it is now? Keeping record of the city as we saved it?”

His head lifts and his eyes meet yours, some churlish quirk of a brow in the low light.

“An archivist, now? Is that to be your profession alongside me? Whilst you raise our young?”

“If I wish it to be, yes.”

He laughs, a gentle low hum.

“Then an archivist you’ll be - the most renowned in all the lands. We’ll make it so.’ He stands once more and takes your hands from your lap, bringing them clasped to his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. 

‘I’ll begin planning on your archives - I presume you’ll want a library? Or something similar in your wing, maybe even an office. Who knows?”

Astarion looks to the room around you, the shapes covered with old canvas and the rickety floorboards underfoot. Cobwebs in the corner. There’s no grimace nor displeasure. He simply surveys as cool as still water. Objective.

“I’ll have some of the merchants relay their contacts come morning too. If you insist on expanding your territory up here then it must befit you.”

“Befit me?” You grin now. His hold on your hands remains secure.

“If you want me to say it, then I suppose I will. As many times as it takes to get it through that heavy skull of yours.’

His smile reaches his eyes as he circles back behind your chair, fingers splayed over your shoulders once more in a deep round kneading pattern.

‘There’s nothing you won’t have if you want for it. Nothing too good for you to covet, my solace; Saviour to the whole Sword Coast and every plain mite within its bounds.’

There’s a small pause as he bows to kiss the top of your head.

‘And I thank the stars every day that I can provide for you. That you saw the potential in me and lifted me higher, to such profane glory amongst the swill of common man. That my gold, my influence, and terror, and each lift of my blade is at your command and yours alone. That you stayed at my side.” 

He doesn’t like to mention the gods, hence the stars. Pointedly brings the grimace back into play, occasionally even furrows with the slightest twinge of anger brewing at his brow. The gods had no role to play in your shared victories. No divine intervention saved him from two hundred years of torment, from certain death after the crash of the nautiloid along that sun-soaked span of rocky beach;-

You did. You with your strange inclination toward the weak man he once was. The shell he lived in like a hermit crab on the shore, nothing more.

-

On bright days, you thank him for giving you time.

Time to live, time to breathe with full lungs. Time to allow you to burn your eyes in the beating sun with a silver pot of fresh coffee and whatever ridiculous spew the papers hold between the pages today. 

You know as you sit in comfortable silence that your time dwindles, and that your turning is inevitable. Your eternal wedded bliss is to be alongside him and will be as vivid in nature as all the colours of the astral plane, if he’s to be believed - and there’s no reason not to see his word as gospel. You can see each moment as crystalline as sea glass on sand. Forever with the man you love more than you’ve ever felt inclined to love anything. The bridal ceremony is but a drop in the vast ocean of your lives together. 

He thanks you too. Often alongside you with eyes closed in some dozy recline, forearm hanging lazily whilst he takes the sun on his skin like a blessing. A loose linen shirt akin to the one he wore back at camp at the start of your journey together, strings wide open, a blaze of blinding flesh at the corner of your eye each time he shifts.

The veranda on a clear day. Astarion has assured you he’ll never take this from you. He’ll never take anything that you don’t willingly give him with a clear heart - and why would you give him your ability to bask in the sun, like a street cat in days-warm dust? What purpose does that serve either of you, beyond making you a less useful weapon in his prized arsenal?

At one point, all you wanted was to talk to him - and it rings true even now. The want to be the bearer of all his tales. To learn about him, to be close to him; to hear him tear the world apart with that dulcet snarl, walking alongside each other on the barren dirt trails out in the wilderness. Hop-skipping to keep up with his quiet gait. Giving him back as good as you got. The glimmer of his hair in the sunlight, the way he’d sometimes just stop.

Close his eyes. Feel the heat. The gentle burn of highsun on tender flesh. A soft inhale.

That morning out in the clearing after your first night together. Arms outstretched in a welcome to the light. It had taken a few minutes for it to click as you’d silently watched on, why his sun salutation was so fond. So open.

It’s to be a long engagement with regard to your transformation whilst the manor undergoes renovations. Reason after reason as to why now isn’t the ideal time to commit you to eternity. You know why he wants to keep a hold on your precious mortality for the time being, of course; and that keeps you from the forever embrace of his Dark Kiss. It never changes. 

You’ll allow him to sire your children. You want him to. Crave it. Him.

Your very own lineage together, he whispers; frenzied by your ear as his fingers crawl the bare span of your thigh. He can breed you full like fate intended and you’ll have something - besides him - that’ll also last forever. Something of your own surpassing the death of all of your contemporaries. The Vampire Ascendant and The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate, flesh-on-flesh, skin smacking skin; his debauched groans and lewd whimpers as he buries himself inside you, your cooing breaths;-

You’ll wed normally too, for the interested eyes of the city. Some dull ceremony with the elites adorning all tables as gilded pieces might some decorative chess board, deceptive vows. Legally it makes things easier should anything befall either of you but the hassle almost makes the whole thing undesirable - gods, especially because he already treats you as some smitten newlywed might. Adores you. Follows you around the manor, stalking; like some wolf cub after its mother. Carries you to bed each evening and ploughs you senseless, until spit gathers in the corners of your wet, wanting mouth and you can’t see straight through grey-blear eyes.

He likes the idea of you taking his name by law. Melds with your own like it were meant to be, from the starter threads of whatever cosmic tapestry pulled you together, the marriage of your first name to his last, interwoven by a scholar’s hand in gold-shining delicate point.  

Ancunín. The House of.

Tapestries. Large, spanning the halls. The Sarsantyr's over in Waterdeep - they’ll be able to create what you’re picturing. 

A familiar gaze meets yours. It’s then that you realise you aren’t alone in your mind once more

“If you want tapestries, you only have to ask.” 

“In fairness - you didn’t give me a chance to.”

He hums, tilting his head a little in the sun’s glare.

“I’ll send for them. The Sarsantyr's, yes? Have them pack up all their little-’

He pulls a face and lifts his hands in some kind of puzzled shake.

‘Sewing bits? Textiles? I’ll send carriages. They can come and stay in the lower rooms. Create the masterpiece you envision.” Astarion sniggers a little at the thought of putting them in the old dormitory while you remain lost in thought.

“Okay. Check them through first though, yes? 

The real event - the wedding - will give you total ecstasy beyond your wildest preconception, you know this. Unfettered and euphoric. Books and books on the topic stacked clumsily beside your bed, reds and greens; the turning of a vampire bride in leather bound prose. You know what to expect in florid detail. You know to trust your lover, that the rabid creature you’ll become is only a temporary mental state precursing an eternity alongside him. 

And yet, you wonder about the children. They’ll be here by then. However many he decides is enough, naturally; assumedly under the care of some hired help whilst you engage in your thoroughly bastardised pastiche of a wedding ceremony. You laugh now. He’s still in your head, mulling over your thoughts as soon as you can think them. 

Will you miss them? Will they be your last thought before you pass away; Astarion unable to complete this ritual alone as he was unable to before? Will your death lead to his, leaving your dhampir offspring to ravage Baldur’s Gate unsupported by the windfall of knowing parents? There’s still no hesitation, though. You will bear his young. You want to. The consequences either way are vast and long-lasting, and you’d rather be at his side than facing his ire- 

“Love, what are these thoughts? What on earth is going on in that very pretty head of yours today?” His voice is a low drawl, pitying yet laced with affection. He sits straight in his chair whilst a hand lazily searches for yours atop the sun-warmed table; beyond the scope of the ramparts wall the low meander of city life continues on.

“Mulling things over.”

“You don’t need to do that, pet. Come now.’ He beckons you onto his lap and wraps his arms around your middle, hand searching for the soft pillow of your chest as your ass backs up to his abdomen.

‘You want me to make it better?” 

You nod gently, the sun catching your eye in a particularly bright beam and making you squint. 

“Please.”

“Poor thing. It’s okay.” As he coos; one hand finds the curve of soft flesh at your chest, holding the weight of your breast firmly as he starts lightly thumbing at the nipple through your nightshirt.

“There, now. Good girl.” Your head falls back onto his shoulder, a deep sigh as he lulls you into a new state of calm astride him. Birds sing overhead whilst you nuzzle his neck.

“I will miss this warm flesh of yours, you know. Terribly so.’ His other hand moves to your nightskirt, gently hitching the material bit-by-bit up your thighs until you sit exposed to the air. Nobody can see you from here - the faceless crowd little but colourful dots below; Astarion giving a small tense laugh as he feels your pulse quicken against him. 

He toys with your skirt, edging ever nearer your exposed cunt; and your eyes flutter closed. 

‘But the greater purpose… I just can’t let it go. Us. Our lives together. I sincerely doubt you want to wither away to age; to lose your extraordinary beauty-’

A gentle groan as he feels your warmth.

‘Do you, my most precious flower?” 

“Of- Of course I don’t. I want to be with you, as we are; forever.”

“Then we’re going to need to make a concerted start on the only thing setting us back, are we not?” His fingers gently tap on the crux of your pubic bone, threateningly close to your clit. You feel the familiar seep of your slit leaking onto the bunched skirt fabric and you think of honey. Some kind of sweet glaze.

“Yes.”

As you sink further into him his fingers move down just a little to meet your clit; and in response to your delighted sighs he very lightly begins to stroke either side of the engorged flesh. There’s no urgency to his movement nor his demeanour; just a treacle-thick teasing grin as he turns his head to kiss your blazing cheek.

“Good.”

There’s something borderline celestial about the gentle way he touches you, coaxing more of your slick from you with every gentle jerk. He deftly motions ‘come hither’ with a soaking middle finger dipping lightly at your hole then brings your arousal up to wetten your clit once more.

“You want this, don’t you?” A finger slips down to your cunt, this time slipping and nestling deep inside as you feel yourself writhe on him. One arm scrambles around the back of his neck to support yourself while he begins to curl at your spongy spot, and the anchor of your arousal shifts free.

“I’ve been rifling through that glorious mind of yours these past few days and I see you now. You want comfort. To comfort. To seek shelter in those warm lights on the horizon, to know you aren’t alone in the late hours.”

You nod furiously, wincing, desperate to feel him deeper. Thicker. You need more, your fox-eyed paramour giving only the barest minimum he can do to watch you squirm.

“You, with my babe in arm;- oh the image alone does things to you, doesn’t it?”

It’s as if he’s creating the visions in your head as he speaks them, bringing them to the forefront of your mind in hushed coos and silent gasps. As if by magic, the only thing on your mind is a primal need for him to fuck you full. Nothing else, no mind for coffee nor completed manor renovations. 

You will be round. You will brim with life before he turns you, and you’ll take to his seed the minute he offers it to you. You’ll accommodate him like no other across Toril could hope to. You wonder if he has the power to decide how many, as he adds another finger to your unbridled torment. If he could choose to speed the process up with a celebration of twins, triplets. An heir and two spares. Maybe he’d wait instead until the first was born, just to ensure the viability of his bloodline. A test.

He’s doing this; you become starkly aware as he withdraws his fingers, spiderwebs of glistening drool clinging to your inner thigh as he brings them between his lips and suckles. He’s giving you these ideas of grandeur because he can. Because you are his. Because you wouldn’t want to belong to anyone else, to be tied to any other notion of whatever a fulfilling life is, if it weren’t one shared wholly by him. With him.

“Let me take you inside, sweet one. Let’s take care of you properly, shall we? Curb this fever, hm?”

Please, you think. Please take this burning hole in my womb and make it full with you. Extinguish the flame with your unholy spend and give me children. Give me oud and orchids and a life of warmth, however long we both may live.

“Use your words, my love. Tell me you want this.”

“I want this. Please.”

-

On the bed you now lie, the room cool and dark; balcony doors open wide with light-billowing curtains. Sweat consumes you as your thoughts run wild, the smell of your arousal, clammy hands and deep breaths in the low light. Astarion approaches like something from a dream, shirtless now; smirk plastered cheek-to-cheek as he leans over your trembling form with confidence - your lust-addled fingers reaching for his steady form like a ship to harbour. 

“You want to feel it, little dove? Feel how you set me alight?”

He pries your wrist from him with gentle urgency, taking your hand under his and skating both downwards; down the plane of his tight torso, slowing to a stop just above his pelvis.

“Tell me - do you want to feel it?”

A small smirk plays at the corner of your lips, but he doesn’t seem to notice - watching the way your hand twitches under his.

“Hm?”

His groan is guttural. Thick. He doesn’t even try to mask it, eyes wide as his hand shifts yours just a little further down and over the blistering burn of his heavy cock through loose linen trousers. A hazy sigh as he moans a small whimper at your touch.

“Please, Astarion. I beg you.”

It’s like his fingers are enchanted, the way they reduce you to this sodden mess. Unable to think unless guided delicately by his superior whim. 

“I need to bury myself inside you fully for this to take. I need your full attention, submission; your devotion to our lives together. Do I make myself clear?”

He’s giving you one final chance to withdraw. Your head clears for one sweet moment and you can do little else but stare at his bulge with heavy lids and your mouth agape.

“Crystal. I ache for you. Please, give this to me.”

You lift to meet him in a soft kiss, jaw slackened and cunt ablaze. Nothing else matters, no complications, nor possibilities of horribly mangled spawn from your womb as a result of your copulation. This scalding stupor that sends you insane won’t go away until he quenches it with his seed. 

Your response has satisfied him, if the way he stands sharpish and unties his trouser laces is anything to go by. The glassy head of his cock stands purple at his stomach, leaking wild at the slit and red-hot as your hand reaches blindly for him in your hunger.

He gently taps you away and back down onto the sheets. 

“Magic?” You hear yourself mumble, still amazed at how surely swollen he must feel with how sore he looks. Has to be. 

“Just me.”

There’s a tenderness in his eyes as he crawls back over you, legs instinctively parting and lifting at the knee to accommodate him. Something that compels him to hold your face in the hand that isn’t supporting his weight and just look at you, fondly; for what feels like an age.

Then he shifts once more to angle himself, decidedly spending no more time on preparation. The heat of his cock against your slit is unlike anything you’ve ever known, dizzying yet pleasurable; hard and yet still yielding, and as he thrusts a shallow dip into your core you swear you see angels overhead. Yes, you’re ready. You’ve never been more ready for anything than you are for the sheer ecstasy you know he’s about to give you, and he’s going to give you it in droves. Seismic tremors as he shifts a little and you adjust to him once again.

He nods. He hears you. 

Then, he snaps once more; and he’s lost.

Each glub of his cock meeting your spill as he ruts into you; the way you feel it running downward in long dribbles, with each and every mindless hump of his hips eking more honey from your cunt in spades. 

You hear the sounds of your shared carnal pleasure and it makes you clench around him in some kind of self-perpetuating cycle. Groans and whimpers and moans and hisses and the frequent egregious slaps to your thighs whilst he chases his high. 

He’s perfect like this. Halo of curls above you, voice silken as he calls you every pet name under the sun, his, always. Your legs ache already from being wound so tightly, interlocked around him, and you think of the prespill inside you already. How each fangy showman’s smile means he’s twitching at your cervix and leaking molten gold inside you with every thrust. 

It’s not until he nuzzles down to your neck that you remember to offer it, potentially for the last time on this mortal coil. 

“Are you asking?”

“Well, you didn’t offer.”

The immediate pang is one of violent nausea, subsiding quickly into a wooze coating the bottom of your stomach in black tar as he fucks upward. Unease. There’s something in his spit, you assume. Something that makes the gaping wounds a little more bearable, a little less raw as he kitten-licks the flesh between swallows. Ice courses your veins with adrenaline as it always does.

Astarion chokes down his first sip with an eager cough. The burgeoning panic wracking your limbs turns into a numbed haze as your lover feasts, big neat gulps whilst he clutches at your ribcage with fingers splayed deep and cock buried to the hilt, like a man starved. His hair tickles  at your jaw, the smell of something herbal. Slightly lemony. 

He splutters that he’s close and you feel yourself nearing your peak too.

There’s a profane desecration in what he’s doing, painting your walls in an attempt to get you pregnant. Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city. No villages to raise them, no cards nor flowers from friends or family; but you want this. 

You want him to taint you in his particular shade of crimson, visibly; so the realms know who made The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate come to heel. The man who compelled her through sheer love alone and to whom she gave everything. The indomitable force for whom you’ll die, only to resurrect forever as his.

Visions of your turning don’t scare you - all lightning and thunder, the cries of your dhamplings in some nursery down the towering halls of your palatial wing; and yet you’ll be safe in his caress. He wouldn’t let a single thing happen to you. He won’t. 

And as he cums; he calls your name.

Some rhythmic prayer over and over again; and with each kick of his cock he loses some of his bedroom charm and hurtles back to earth, humbly enraptured. More candid. His weary muscles tighten as yours threaten your own release around him.

“Cum for me, now. Milk me.” in a heavy whisper whilst he strokes the soft flesh of your cheek; and you do. You cum harder than you can remember ever before. Each wave of sheer pleasure some blackout tidal wave as you writhe, staccato in his arms. 

If you die during the ceremony, you’ll die happy. Should the younglings bite their way through your womb, it won’t matter.

You’re loved. He loves you, in soft kisses and gentle arms carried all the way to the waiting washtub. In the way he sponges your aching shoulders and brings a washcloth to your dazed face.

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep, not really.

But tonight it will, in the patient, visceral bliss of calm before a summer storm.

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

Let's celebrate Trolltide in Baldur's Gate!

On this day commemorating Waterdeep’s victory in the Second Trollwar, children run through the city acting like trolls, banging on doors and growling, from highsun till dusk. Home and shop owners are expected to give the children candy, fruits, or small items. Those who give no treat can expect to become the target of a trick at sundown. This mischief typically takes the form of “troll scratchings” at doors and windows. Those with more malicious intent sing screechingly in the wee hours, and hurl raw eggs at windows, signs, and the heads of those who try to stop them. Have some candy on hand or some sweet rolls, and all will be calm where you live.

Rainbow dragon once again brings this Autumn/Halloween ask game. The rules stay the same. Send me asks with one of the prompts written bellow, ideally one that contains all three types, and I'll bake you an ooky-spooky ficlet with any character from Baldur’s Gate!

🎃Dialogue🎃

"what do you mean you've never gone tricks-or-treating?!"

"you're like the toughest person i know! am i really supposed to believe that a horror film is enough to have you cowering into my lap?"

“You’ve got leaves in your hair.”

“What are you reading?”

"Here, take my sweater/jacket/coat."

"Your hands are cold."

"Are you scared?"

"You look cold, do you want a hug?"

"I bet you can't catch a leaf."

"You're soaked through!"

"Pumpkin spiced latte, please."

"You think anyone's ever died here?"

"It's sweater season!"

👻Actions/Scenarios👻

carving pumpkins together

baking halloween sweets

going to questionable lengths to decorate their house/apartment

throwing a halloween party

comforting the scaredy cat amongst them

putting an inordinate amount of effort into planning their costume

going to a pumpkin patch

exploring a graveyard

blackberry picking

trick-or-treating

apple picking

🕸️Prompts🕸️

Local bakery

Black cat

Thunderstorm

Coffee date

Fall-mark AU

Cabin retreat

Warmth

Crunching leaves

Halloween party

[y-rhywbeth2]

Elves: Time and Growing Up An Elf

Link: Disclaimer regarding D&D "canon" & Index [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. There's a lot of lore; I don't know everything. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest. Frankly these posts may get updated now and then. etc]

Physiology and quirks | Names & Clans and Houses || Pan-Cultural things: Social life | Time and 'Growing Up an Elf' | Homes | Language | Art | Entertainment | Technology || Elven 'Subraces' still a wip || Philosophy and Religion & Pantheons || Half-elves | [WIP]

Featuring elven time measurements and age as a social construct within elven culture, also the education system and retirement. Humans in the Realms would say you're an adult when you hit puberty: Elves say you're a real adult when you're in the equivalent of your 40s, puberty means nothing. Also; please don't use the period of elven youth and the human concept of childhood interchangeably, it annoys the elves.

-

Concept of Time:

'To the elves, measuring historical time by years would be as if calendars noted everything in months or tendays.'

Elves, left in isolation, supposedly don't really bother with tracking time, though they 'politely' adapt to the calendars and time measurement systems of others where necessary (so an elf in Baldur's Gate is going to be using the Calendar of Harptos and counting the breaths (minutes), bells (hours) and tendays and using terms like 'highsun' to communicate with their neighbours and keep on top of events and the working week.)

Due to many holy days being seasonal, and especially lunar-cycle based, elves do at least have a sense of time keeping terminology around those, and elven farmers need to track the seasons for the sake of their crops.

There are also archaeological time measurements of time called rysar, analogous to 'generation' or 'era,' measuring the length of an elven ruler's reign. So the reign of King Zaor Moonflower was one rysar of Evermeet, and when his wife Amlaruil succeeded him that started the next rysar of Evermeet. Each rysar is broken down into four-year cycles, formally called Aeloulaeva ('When Peace Meets') or, somewhat more colloquially, Pyesigeni ('four snows') which is the cycle around the holy day of Cinnelas'Cor, later celebrated by humans as Shieldmeet. These dates would be written 'the [nth] Rysar of [Realm], and the [nth] Aeloulaev of the Coronal/Iyilitar [Name].'

Elven terminology for time measurements:

A moon (a month)

Nelath (a season)

Tenwinter (a decade, probably actually a human term)

Pysigen / Aeloulaev (a four year period)

Rysar (a generation, era, period)

-

'Maturity':

(Physical aging was covered back in physiology, here we're talking about the elven social constructs (not to be confused with the social constructs of human society). This also ties into the Road of Life described in the philosophy and religion write up.)

Humans might compare the period of elven adolescence to childhood or teenage years, though elves will be offended by the comparison. Humans would also most likely see a young elf as a fellow adult.

Elves do have a notion of a period of life where somebody is considered too inexperienced to be without guidance or expected to carry full responsibilities and the goal posts for what makes you a mature adult shifts for beings with a psychology that considers the passage of centuries where humans see years.

Traditional models of elven culture will consider an elf to be immature at least up to age 60. And an elf over 60 is still not formally considered mature until they're into their 'third or fourth' century of life. Presumably, up to that age they're equivalent to a young adult being fully released into the 'adult world' for the first time, though I suspect the elves would find this comparison an insulting and poor analogy too. The specifics of growing up and how children are raised and what they're taught varies by subrace. A moon elf, a green elf and a dark elf will have very different histories, but for the gist:

At least the first 50 years of life will be focused on education, and popular belief says that a young elf, with their flighty human-like psychology, is at their most impressionable age there and so it's important that this window of time is used wisely. As a rule: sun elves, drow and conservative moon elves (especially nobles) are keen to see their children 'shaped' towards a certain outcome, while green, wood and the majority of moon elves prefer to see their offspring develop organically, growing the way their own choices and nature dictates by chasing their own whims.

The elven term for the stage where an infant is this weird pudgy thing learning to walk and talk that many call toddlers is 'veorean' (I assume the singular to be 'veoren' based on similar grammar patterns seen elsewhere).

Until age 10-20 an elf is educated by an elderly family member or respected community elder, covering literacy, faith, history, clan and culture (as well as an idea of the larger world). They are also taught about the natural world, and - in the case of surface elves at least - encouraged to explore it and engage in physical activity like swimming and climbing. Sex ed is likewise on the curriculum, both because the Realms doesn't share Earth's religious mores about sex, and because elven youth are known to be temperamental, impulsive and horny so you might as well try and make sure they're safe while they're being stupid. On the plus side, according to one source elves aren't fertile until their second century so unplanned pregnancy isn't on the list of consequences at least (I'm not sure whether or not there's anything published that contradicts this, if there isn't then it's canon).

Elves at this age are encouraged to mingle with others (conservatively this will be other elves, more liberally this may include N'Quess) Some elven communities have schools specifically for this purpose. All elves receive a basic education in magic, and are expected to spend at least a year studying it and being tested for the Gift, even if they don't ultimately become mages. Furthermore all elves are to receive a basic martial education and are expected to be able to defend themselves and their homelands. For elves on the surface this includes the longbow, rapier and bows (long and short). Underdark-born dark elves favour the shortsword, rapier and crossbow.

If you grow up in an elven settlement you can generally expect to be shipped off to the temple of Corellon for the elven equivalent of 'sunday school', even if your parents aren't religious. Or possibly to the local druids, for the more sylvan inclined. Lolthites have one of the family priestesses handle the children's religious education. If you don't have a temple then your family teaches you or I'd imagine you probably still have a local community 'sunday school,' seeing as elven diaspora often maintain cultural and community ties and run businesses that cater to elven and half-elven clientele for this purpose.

From 10-50 the elf will learn from their elders, their family members and any tutors their house can afford, and past 20 is generally the age range where you start looking into academies and formal training. 25, more specifically, is the age at which the children of Menzoberranzan's nobility are sent to the Academy by law and some sources have extended that to all drow.

Many elven settlements will usually have schools for mages, artisans and warriors, and this is also the age range where you can engage in serious theological education at the temples. In many dark elven city states it's expected that their children will be trained in all three (priest, mage, warrior) to at least some degree, and it's possible some surfacers share the sentiment. While commoners may access magical education, usually only nobles are automatically accepted into various mage organisations where the lowborn elf must have a sponsor from within the organisation.

Nobles and those who can afford it are very eager to expose their children to the best they can get, and private tutors are also on the table.

By 50 it's expected that an elf will have developed a solid identity and set of skills and inclinations, which will help them decide what path to take in life and the next decade is spent essentially polishing those skills, essentially moving towards the second stage of the Road of Life, although some elves will linger longer in the first stage.

Of course we can't all be priests, soldiers, artists and wizards: many elves will be employed in their house's business as famers, sailing on their family's merchant vessels, running the family tavern, working as a dockhand, etc. There's not much detail on that because the nobles are hogging all the published wordcount. The good news is that in a society where people are fully awake 20 hours of the day-night cycle and all businesses are open all the time, you have a lot of free time.

An elf cannot hold an office of power or inherit any titles and such until they've completed their education and gained sufficient (elven) life experience, usually at around 90 years old.

Elves can be very sceptical of letting the youth run off adventuring during the first century of life (or ever as far as sun elves and conservatives are concerned), though that's never stopped anyone.

Complaints about elven youths - or 'younglings' as their elders address them - include:

'...nearly humanlike in their impatience and inability to see beyond the immediate consequences of their actions.'

Moody, impatient, reckless, bad-tempered, horny idiots. Often actually more emotional than non-elves.

Clumsy*

Selfish and prone to criminal activity.

No respect for elven culture and traditions or their elders, insist on living like a human instead

'[they] mate with nonelves.'

Non-elves on the other hand apparently find elves of their own age to feel more mature than them.

For the most part their elders just sigh and leave them to it. Elves engaging in evil shit are usually given a pass, as said claim it's just the inexperience of youth, the 'restless young ones'/ardavanshee will outgrow it in a century or two.

*The grace and dexterity elves are famous for is apparently the side effect of their long lives, lack of aging, and the self-reviewing in reverie allowing them to 'get to know' their bodies, its capabilities and limitations, to a deeper level than the average human. Young elves are not so graceful in comparison, though they do have that 'dancing' gait from walking on the balls of their feet.

According to some sources you're not a full fledged 'adult' until 'between 250-300 winters.' And sources that have elves physically mature slowly have them take 80-145 years to fully physically mature, so elves definitely do not count physical maturity as elven 'adulthood.'

250-300ish years, incidentally, is listed as the elven equivalent of the start of the 'middle' age category. (Though to be fair, a 30/40 year old is usually much more of an adult than an average 20 year old who's new to this whole thing.)

Leading up to 700 an elf is old, and generally won't be required to work nor expected to be climbing trees (provided they live in a treetop settlement). Instead the elderly, respected for their years of accumulated wisdom, are usually given the role of educators so that the youth can benefit from them and they can feel like they're still caring for their community. (Dark elves in the Underdark are usually dead by this age.)

Aged elves are rather deadpan to talk to and possibly slightly bored, having seen or heard of it all over the centuries.

At this point you're allowed to quit work and hang around the house, being supported by your community and educating the children and muttering about 'back in your day' while you wait for the Seldarine to give you a call.

Elves are noted to start properly showing their age past 800, but can live into quadruple digits which is interesting because one elf has been mentioned to be over 3000 years old, and they do sort of... keep physically aging and 'withering.' Of course they stay sexy and neurologically healthy and keep a full head of hair because they're fucking elves of course they do.

'When he looked up, he found himself staring into the tiny, shrunken face of the oldest elf he'd ever seen. Her long silver-white hair brushed the tiles below her slippered feet and her skin seemed draped over her bones . . . bones so petite and shapely that she looked exquisite rather than grotesque, despite the fact that except where her diaphanous gown intervened, El could almost see her skeleton.'

Another long aged elf, Ahkskahala Durothil is over 1200 years old, and over level 20, and a dragon rider, and is still capable of beating the shit out armies in an emergency. She spends most of her time doing the elven equivalent of napping in her chair letting people think she's dead until the idiot younglings trigger a disaster that requires her attention (i.e., 'semi-permanent reverie').

[vivaciousdomo]

Vegan BG3

I've been doing a vegan play through of BG3. Like, I'm still a durge, and evil, but I try not to kill animals, and I don't consume meat or cheese. Is anyone else doing this? Any mods to add more vegan items? Also, am I missing the beans? Ye olde europe would have eaten a bunch of beans, right? How do I get protein if no beans?

List of Vegan Foods

apple/half eaten apple

bagel

baguette

banana (how is this in in europe?)

bread/stale bread

cabbage

carrot

courgette

fragrant fungus stew

garlic

glow cap mushroom

good berry

grapes (green/purple)

gruel

horseradish

kiwi

lemon

lettuce

mushroom soup

onion

onion soup

orange

pale mint

pear

potato/boiled potato

potato porridge

pumpkin soup

pumpkin

raspberry

red pepper

sourdough bread

split pea soup

sun melon/half a sun melon

sweet potato

vegetable broth

walnut

(I accidentally ate the supply pack, but it has cured meats in it and "smells distinctly of smoked ham", so I won't make that mistake again. Let's just say Lae'zel ate them 🤷 Also can't eat the berry tart because it's got butter in it.)

Maybe Vegan?

biscuit (seems to be an oatmeal raisin which can be made vegan)

everything soup (description is "named for the halfling tradition of frantically raiding the pantry or garden upon the unexpected arrival of a guest")

puff pastry braid (unsure if butter was used here)

sunflower seed bun (unsure if has butter)

treacle tart (maybe butter?)

Drinks

amnian dessert wine

arkhen's hoard (wine?)

ashaba dusk (wine)

baldur's grape (wine)

blackstaff

barrel-aged callidyrran (…whisky? rum?)

carafe of wine

chultan fireswill (wine)

common table wine

eigersstor noblerot (??? probably vegan?)

esmeltar red

highsun liqueur

ithbank (wine)

mermaid whiskey

mug of beer/pitcher of beer

plum fizz (wine?)

port sherry

rolling deck rum

tyche pink (rose?)

wine (regular wine???)

Non alcoholic drinks

the water from the well outside the Hag's house (can't bottle and carry in your pack though and maybe has dead human bodies given the smell 🤔)

health potions? (can't long rest with them tho :<)

tea

coffee

I'll update this if/when I find other vegan foods and drinks, for your RP pleasure.

I'd also be so down to try and make a vegan bg3 cookbook. I know the lady with the big pot of gruel says she can't find salt easily, so maybe easy on the salt, but we have garlic and onion, so we have at least some flavor 🤔 oh, and there's a red pepper, so we can have some spice, maybe. brb, starting a Vegan Baldur's Gate 3 cookbook?

[swordbisexual]

(Chapter one is this prompt fill I did for Shaxibis, which makes for a nice little prologue.)

Excerpt:

Rolan pushes off from the balcony and clears his throat, irritated and irascible. According to Lia, that’s simply his natural state of being, but he knows himself, and knows that something is terribly, horribly off. There’s a tightness in his chest when he thinks of the date on the calendar, and what appetite he had to break his fast of a morning suddenly evaporates. He could blame it on the fish-laced harbor air, but he’s known that air for half a year now, and only in recent days has the act of breathing itself turned his stomach. Perhaps he’s dying. He’s long overdue for a stroke of ill luck; why not now? It would be timely, what with this last stretch of Highsun marking a year since he and his siblings stayed in that accursed druids’ grove with their fellow refugees, and a year since he met the woman who’s been the harbinger of his hapless misfortunes ever since. Shaxibis.

[word-ghost]

sunspots // 2

Gale squeezes his left shoulder, glaring at the book propped open in his lap. It’s not yet highsun and he can’t decide what to do with himself, other than sulk by the water’s edge and wait for what isn’t coming. 

Idle. Useless. 

He didn’t have to abide Ysara’s request that he remain behind. The choice bordered on irresponsible.

Lae’zel might keep the group on track, if she and Shadowheart can refrain from provoking each other. The ‘Blade of Frontiers’ boasts considerable skill and greater power, but Gale can’t help but wonder what the latter cost. Most definitely more than an eye.

He doesn’t have to wonder why the lad boasts. Wyll’s admiration for Ysara is as obvious as it is untimely. Yes, Gale can admit she’s good in a fight. Agile—rather graceful, if he wishes to be forthright—and stronger than her slight build would suggest.

Despite that, had he not witnessed it, he’d never believe she—the one always wandering off the path to pluck flowers or consult with a bluebird—could convince the interim First Druid to hear reason.

Ysara ensured a child’s safe return to her parents’ embrace and asked for nothing in return. Graciously declined her mother’s meager offering. 

Gale hates how much he hates her for it. 

That spot in his chest throbs, and he wishes he never laid eyes on that damned locket. 

As if it might make a difference. 

It’s been six days since he could placate the insatiable darkness dwelling within him. Gale can’t be sure how many more might lie ahead. Or how few. 

And she’s left him here, where there’s no chance of finding anything that might ease the worsening ache beneath his ribs. 

Gale huffs and turns the unread page, nearly letting out a frustrated groan when the rustling of someone’s approach further impedes his nonexistent concentration.

He expects to find Astarion, weary of his own company, coming to force it upon him instead. Of course it would be the object of this moment’s loathing, covered from braids to boots in a mess of dirt and dark blood. 

keep reading

[adorationmajestic]

Little to Do With Love

Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death Relationship: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Minor or Background Relationships, Pash | Our Lady of the Passion & Varun the Eater, Gideon Nav & Pash | Our Lady of the Passion Characters: Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Gideon Nav, Palamedes Sextus, Camilla Hect, Cytherea the First, Ianthe Tridentarius, Coronabeth Tridentarius, Pash | Our Lady of the Passion, John Gaius | Necrolord Prime, Varun the Eater Additional tags: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, no beta we die like cavs, Major Character Injury, the major character death is gideon but she gets better, Temporary Character Death, Necrophilia, Cannibalism, the tridentariicest is not central to the story but it aint hidden, Pining, Useless Lesbians, Literal Sleeping Together, Touch-starved harrowhark, Deaf Character, Sign Language, Masturbation, Bad Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Ableism, (the internalized kind and i guess systemic) Chapters: 26/? Completed: no

Summary:

A story taking place in my original universe I created for my cyberpunk (genre) AU. Lieutenant Adept Harrowhark Nonagesimus is one of the most accomplished mages of her generation, but every necromancer needs a cavalier and she does not have one. Any dead body will do—she is far skilled enough to hold her own in a fight, but she needs a name on paper and a reanimated hunk of flesh to hold a sword. Gideon needs to get out. She's been trapped for too long in this hellhole of a life with no escape. Not even death will release her from it. But there is an opportunity to be had in this creepy little goth soldier—perhaps escape is possible with a little help. ⚔ Author has no solid plan, but some definite paths to follow. He kind of knows where this will end up. Beware the tags and the chapter-specific content warnings. Has no update schedule. Chapters release when they release.

and because i think you guys are awesome, here's an excerpt from the twenty-sixth chapter! (under the cut)

16 Highsun 1478 D.R. Written in shorthand. Gideon Nav has revealed herself. Previous observations (found on pages 83 through 85 and on page 90) now have basis. The hypothesis posed on page 85 can be scrapped—alternative, “Gideon Nav, A.K.A. Kiriona Gaia, is the daughter of the Emperor and therefore half-deity. Proposed options: aasimar, demigod, sorcerer.”

[scandistar]

I am obsessed with drawing clothing and accessories. I like how you can go pretty crazy with the designs, but you still have to keep in mind the functionality of the outfits.

Anyway, here is a quick rendition of what I HC Charrelin wearing during the events of the game. I think she might dress red-ish most of the time (to spite Figaro for no good reason)

And I had to make her casual/camp style too. I might make her an epilogue outfit as well, but I’m not sure if I should go for something with a pair of pants or a skirt. Does she seem like a dress type or costume type?

And in addition! Charrelin’s sun clothes! Like with most her apparel, she made the jumpsuit herself, but the hat is her dad’s work. He made it for her when she was a kid, as she was always out during highsun. It’s a precious belonging. (Luffy coded, I know)

[my-favourite-zhent]

New Tricks - Chapter 8

Status: Work In Progress

Version: 1.01

Pairing: Rugan x AFAB!OC

Rating: NC-17 (This chapter NC-17)

Genre: Adventure/Romance

Summary: Misadventures of Rugan and the original Zhentarim Gate's crew before and during the year of three sailing ships.

Table of Contents

Read Here on AO3 as this is an *adult* chapter.

Milder excerpt below the cut.

New Tricks - Chapter Eight Excerpt

The Prow was quiet tonight, the highsun action having scared off most of the regulars for the time being. The place still smelled faintly of soot and ash even with the fires long since extinguished. 

Rugan watched his own reflection in the amber liquid of his glass. He had meant to have that conversation with Olly. The whole way from the warehouse he had meant to have the talk. Crossing bridges, passing statues and other landmarks while Olly chattered away about this and that. Some famous Waterdhavian that had been commemorated by this plaque, or whatever battle that happened ‘round the corner from where they stood.

“How'd you know all that lad?” He had asked, his voice far away, not really paying attention.

“Bought a book in Elturel when Zarys said we were coming up this way. One on the Tradeway too.”

“Clever that.” He had replied distantly.

What he should have said was: ‘Olly, we need to have a chat.’

But the words got stuck in his throat every time. The lad was enjoying himself, why spoil his vacation?

Thinking about the talk they needed to have also made him remember the events Zarys had called to mind. Events better left forgotten.

“Sorry, am I boring you?” Her voice was soft and lightly teasing.

He looked up from his drink to Izzy, shaking himself from his reverie.

“Forgive me, lass. I've been a poor date.”

“Everything alright? You seem a bit down.”

He had expected her to be annoyed with him, instead her tone was kind, compassionate even.

‘What’s a sweet lass like you doing with me?’ He wondered idly. 

He had figured her for a troublemaker when they met, he liked troublemakers. She was a troublemaker in some ways, but she was more than that too.

“Not down.” He lied. “Just tired.” He must’ve sounded it too based on the pitiful look she gave him.

“Fight taking its toll on you?” She reached over and gently stroked his cheek.

“Something like that.” He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand.

“I can go if you’d prefer, I wouldn’t want to impose if-”

“No, Izzy. No, I like your company, so long as you don’t mind mine.” He clasped his hand over top of hers, opening his eyes. Her smile looked relieved and she slid over in the booth till she was pressed up against him.

“We could go upstairs, have a lie-down.”

The way she said it, so agreeable, so innocent, but he knew if he took her upstairs he would be anything but.

She was too sweet for him by far, yet that didn't mean she wouldn't be an adequate distraction from his thoughts. More than adequate, even.

He released her hand and snaked his arm around her waist instead, pulling her closer. Rugan pressed his lips just behind her ear, enjoying the shudder that passed through her at his touch. She smelled of sweat and smoke and her skin was salty to the taste.

“Well, I certainly wouldn't mind having you on your back.”

Read the rest on AO3

[razrogue]

Ilina Gavren (Gan) | Wood Elf | Rogue | She/They | 138

What is your Tav’s…

favorite weapon: Bloodthirst

most prized possession: a pendant

deepest desire: to have power; not the political or royal type but the type that the minds and hands behind them have

guilty pleasure: none cause if she enjoys it she doesn't feel guilty about it

best-kept secret: that she was an assassin wayyyyy before the tadpole happened to her

greatest strength: being highly observant

fatal flaw: tends to poison or stab first when very very VERY annoyed

favorite smell: cedarwood, sandalwood, pink peppercorns

favorite spell or cantrip: disguise self/infiltration expertise

pet peeve: when people complain about her services being too expensive or not wanting to pay at least half upfront

bad habit: killing people for a living lol

hidden talent: can sing but will only sing at home and never in public or around crowds

leisure activity: whittling

favorite drink: nonalcoholic - tea; alcoholic - Barrel-Aged Callidyrran, Blingdenstone Blush, & Highsun Liqueur

comfort food: plum tart, venison stew, fresh bread

favorite person(s): Astarion, Minthara, and Shadowheart

favored display of affection (platonic and/or romantic): platonically - laying her head on your lap or letting you lay on hers; romantically - sitting behind you and wrapping her legs around you

fondest childhood memory: learning to swim with her siblings

Tagged by @bhaalbaaby (TY 💙)

No obligation tagging: @raysoffrost @meishuu @omgkalyppso @tuxedo-rabbit @the-eldritch-it-gay and anyone else who wants to participate!

[suitetarts]

cloud nine (part 1)

Astarion x Original Female Character, Dark Urge Tav (Good) Angst, Comfort, Fluff, Eventual Smut (Link to AO3) A much needed discussion about freedom and what it means for two rebellious spawns (Bhaal and vampiric, respectively) in the aftermath of Lorroakan's defeat. They are both free to discover their own desires, and Delilah really wants to fuck Astarion in running water while she still has the chance.

The intention was to just write beach smut where my OC Delilah and Astarion get sunburns but it completely went off the rails. So here's part 1, the angsty lead up to a smutty smutty part 2. You can go to the AO3 series for the other gen one-shot fics I have for my OC, or click here and there.

The second floor of the Elfsong was scrambling to quickly don armor, fill bellies, and otherwise prepare for the day’s events, which happened to start with chasing Aylin through the city streets during the small hours of dawn. The aasimar’s whereabouts were no puzzle to solve, however; she had rather loudly announced her plans to storm Ramazith’s Tower and confront Lorroakan under the spell of her mother’s moonglow. The logistics and planning blur into Delilah’s memory of the fight itself – the crackle of her storm magic piercing through the summoned elementals like a hot knife in butter and the Sword of the Moonmaiden cleaving the wizard’s torso from shoulder to hip.

All at once with earth shattering speed, the tower was quiet, save for heaving chests and the sheathing of weapons.

Once the adrenaline of battle wore thin, Aylin appeared to lose her strength and resolve. A numbness falling over her that even her darling cleric could not mend. The sudden loss of her inner fire seemed to cast a gloom over the party, although the others did their best to move past it. Gale accepted Rolan’s thanks to the party, trying to leverage some assistance in retrieving artifacts he desired. Karlach and Shadowheart mulled about on the promenade and gossiped in the passing clouds. Astarion, though…

Where was he?

A half smile pulled at Delilah’s features as a location came to mind, tempered only by the mood at the top of the fallen wizard’s tower. She immediately made the executive decision to take the rest of the day off even though the sun had not yet reached its highsun crest. The others barely noticed her slip away to the portal, and if they did, they must have thought little of it.

The vampire and drow were rarely apart, if not constantly on top of one another. If one wandered off, the other would not be too far from their heels. And for the rest of the tadpoled adventurers, they were better off not having to be subjected to the constant public display of sickening and often off-putting affection.

Her boots raced through the Basilisk Gate and through Wyrm’s Crossing, down the path winding around Ilmater’s church. The fresh air caressed her like fine spider silks as she found her way to the bay, a markedly more welcome scent than the dead fish and industrial waste of the main city port. She veered away from the visible shore onto an animal’s path snaking through trees and eventually approached a stone wall overlooking the churning waters where the fresh muddy Chionthar met the salty clear Sea of Swords. With an incantation and a wave of her hand, she floated over and down to her favorite secret: a small sandy beach, far away from the stink of Baldur’s Gate.

Delilah looked down as she flew, the two pairs of crimson red eyes locking together as Astarion smirked up at her through the flapping of her skirts. Blood rushed to her face as she made a show of it, swinging her knee out in a curtsy motion and flashing him with what she hoped would be a better glimpse of her underclothes.

“Don’t you think it’s rather early to be so forthcoming?” His usual flamboyant and chiding tone did not match his body language as he caught her gently by the waist. He recognized the incongruence, and so to compensate, shifted his grip around to her ass as her feet met the ground.

“Saer, I’m just being polite. What are you implying?” She played along with his temperament, her arms twisting loosely around his neck to pull him close. “That it's forthcoming to offer you my respect and deference?”

He genuinely laughed, a hearty singular ‘ha’ escaping his chest. “When have you ever been deferent to me, my dear?”

Delilah faltered for a moment, the response to their banter withering on her tongue. When had she been deferent to him, indeed?

Her tadpole writhed against her eye as flashes of her other life splattered across her vision like so many bloody victims of her gruesome crusade. She had previously obeyed her “mother” and the Spider Queen, her true father, his dreadful blood coursing through her veins, and, to some extent, apparently even Gortash. The memories she could recall of them were surely a drop in the ocean compared to what she had forgotten, and she knew she was better for it.

More specifically, when it came to Astarion, nearly every suggestion of his was taken with a grain of salt. Not for a lack of love and care, he was just consistently not thinking things through and seemed to overall acquiesce to her preferred methods without too much complaint. But… Truly the one thing he ever seriously asked of her, to help him complete the ascension ritual for himself, and she basically said no. The pinched fury in his brows and the way he tensed around her in Cazador’s grand chambers in the immediate aftermath still haunted her. He later insisted that he was grateful for her clarity, for saving him from himself. But anxiety chewed through her resolve and made her question herself.

She sighed around a bitter smile as she returned to the present, shielding her eyes from the morning light as she looked up at him. “I can’t recall, my love.”

The jesting tone between them had evaporated in the bright sun, which drenched the small stretch of sand in a near blistering heat if not for the breeze coming off the harbor.

“Yes, right,” he said, clearing his throat. 

The pair of rebellious spawns stood in silence, neither of them sure how to start the inevitable post-battle discussion that was sure to cause more painful memories to bubble to the surface. 

“Astarion… Why did you leave us in the tower?” she asked tentatively, cautiously, as she took a step away from his embrace and pulled him down to sit on the warm sand with her.

“To be dramatic, of course.” 

He waited for Delilah’s eyes to roll before softening, combing through the granules of sand with his hands as he avoided her gaze. 

“It’s just… It’s hard to see someone go through that. It’s unfair, to feel so empty after finally getting what–” He cleared his throat with a purse of his lips. “What Aylin wanted. Like justice denied.”

Delilah was tempted to say that she understood, but truly she didn’t. She wasn’t sure if it was even possible to get a chance to face Bhaal the way that Astarion and Aylin were able to face their tormentors. She was honestly a touch jealous, but she also couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like to bring upon the end of those who hurt her so deeply. At least it made sense that an entity as untouchable to mortals as the God of Murder would be difficult to extract closure from. And yet, on the other hand, it was so impossibly unfair for someone like Cazador to die swiftly in the face of multiple human lifetime's worth of suffering.

Instead of speaking, she simply leaned into him as they watched the crystalline waves lap at the shore. He mirrored her, resting his ear against her shoulder.

The biological warmth of her pressing against his head mixed with the radiant, near overwhelming heat from the sun and its reflection off the sand felt like a drug, the anxiety and numbness sloughing off of him like molting snakeskin. The manifestation of his greatest desire, for Cazador’s death at his own hand, had not been what he dreamt of, but it still happened. His sire was still dead, while he was now richer than his master had ever been, even with the entirety of Baldur’s Gate at his gilded fingertips, thanks to the tadpole’s gift of the sun and his friends and lover at his side. He and Aylin were still free.

“Still,” he said after a minute of rest, his tone steady and composed. “The Nightsong’s fair-haired fool is done. That’s what matters.”

Her thoughts lingered on her predicament with her father. 

“Is it?”

Astarion’s brows pulled together in confusion but kept his head tucked under her ear. A mocking tone entered his voice as he spat, “Surely you don’t think that charlatan twig could possibly come back to life after being cut in half.”

“No, not like that. I…” Delilah’s words trailed off as she began to lose the nerve to give her thoughts weight by speaking them aloud. She set her jaw and pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Whatever.”

He made a frustrated sigh. Even after all their time together, he found that she still took him too seriously at times. “My love, you know I didn’t intend to silence you.” 

“I know.”

“You make it so easy to give you grief.”

“I know.”

He pushed more of his weight into her for a moment, allowing the two a brief sway. “Go on then.”

“Fine,” she said with a heavy sigh. “You said Lorroakan is done. And that’s what matters. So is killing what matters?”

Astarion waved his hand with a non-committal yet affirmative, “Well…?”

“I– I don’t know. Aylin looked so tired. And I’m tired. Killing is what I’ve always done, endlessly. Even now that I’m trying to change and be better, I’m still killing. And I’m still enjoying it. I don’t want killing to matter to me anymore. I want what happens afterwards to be what matters.”

Delilah emphasized her final point by taking his hand, intertwining their fingers with a firm grip. 

Astarion’s involuntary response was for his heart to jump into his throat at her implication, before it dissolved into a warm fuzziness spreading from his chest to his toes. In his old life, there was never an “afterwards” worth having. After they’d used his body up for all that it was good for, if they weren’t already drained of their blood by Cazador or left in some dungeon to rot for centuries, who could possibly want him after finding out what a monster he was? 

But everything was different thanks to the tadpoles. He began to think about it all, became overwhelmed, and deflected. 

“I really do think you’re making a stink out of what I said. Killing and revenge can be mutually-exclusive actions, but they are so delicious when served together.” 

“Perhaps,” she murmured, letting out a small breath from her nose.

Taking her response at face value, he continued. “Honestly, don’t worry about all these Dead Three worshippers. Enjoy their blood if you want to, I sure am.”

She slowly stilled, her breath light enough to not disturb a feather.

His voice dropped as he doubted himself, “Listen, with–”

“I put on a good show, Astarion, but I’m tired,” she interrupted him softly as she laid her head on top of his, wiping her smudged eyeliner into his white curls.

His lips pulled to a taut line, unsure of how to best respond. His first choice was always to make a joke, and she was morbid enough to enjoy his humor, but definitely not at this moment. He could offer to do all the killing for her; he wouldn’t mind, although the battles to come as they approach the Absolute may prove overwhelming without her participation. 

Or, going against his learned nature to please above all else, he could tell her hard truths.

“We’ve got at least two cults and an elder brain to contend with before we’re done with all of this.” Astarion took his other hand to cup their conjoined fingers. “But we’re so close. Don’t give up just yet.”

“Who said anything about giving up?” She bristled, her voice rising as she spoke. “I’m just looking forward to a morning where I leave my trance without being terrified I’ve hurt someone again.”

“Being tired, giving up. Six of one, half dozen of another,” he retorted, meeting her volume as his hands pull away from hers to gesture, only to return to her hold as his voice lowered. “You can’t lie to me about this… I know it far too intimately.”

She hummed, a light airy thing that contrasted heavily with the tense hold of her muscles.

Silence. 

Neither made an effort to disentangle from the other as they sat in their anger. 

Until he twitched.

“Gods, I hardly need a reflection when I’ve got you,” Astarion breathed, the affection in his voice strong enough to choke him unconscious. “A complaining, stubborn, impatient little wretch.”

He always knew how to make her smile.

“I promised that we will get your freedom, like you helped me get mine. We’re close. Just be patient,” he asked, petting the back of her hand. A twinge of guilt threatened to churn his eternally empty stomach, as it did every time he told this sweet lie of a promise that he knows he can’t guarantee. Her freedom wasn’t as simple as vampiric chains between sire and spawn.

“It’s hard to be patient when there’s so much to look forward to.” Delilah pulled him in closer by his waist, the words turning sour as she said them aloud.

When did imagining the future become so painful?

It had started in the wilderness of the Sword Coast, when she was at her most lost and before he even cared for her in the slightest, in part as an exercise to keep spirits high and hope alive. The first idea he had shared with her was an exaggerated tale of another loveless and passionate tryst, except in a feather bed with Cazador’s head on a spike. The dreams became less grand and more real as feelings progressed, and simultaneously more terrifying. 

She was the first person he truly cared for, the first person to truly care for him. And yet, mortal peril was stalking them both around every corner, snuffing out their dreams before they could even give them life as spoken word. Why would Delilah tell him that she will forsake every god on every plane to be at his side, on adventures or in domestic bliss or whatever else he wanted, for the rest of her days? Why would Astarion tell her that after a brief mortal life and 200 years of slavery, he had so many more firsts to experience and he wanted all of them with her? Saying such things would only cause them more pain should they fail.

She cleared her throat.

“But I will be patient. We’ll figure it out,” she stated with an impostor’s confidence. “And I’ll– I’ll do what I need to do.”

She pressed her ear further into his hair, holding onto his thigh for balance. “Once they’re all dead and we’re free, we’ll have so many nice mornings.”

“Ooh, interesting,” he sang, ever the opportunist, seizing upon a chance to shift in the mood in a less self-pitying direction. A dramatic grimace painted his elegant features as he continued, “I’ve heard the rumors. I don’t even want to think of what sort of hedonistic rituals come after a mass killing with you Bhaalist freaks.”

“I– What? Gods, just–” She thrusted her shoulder up in aggravation, hitting it against his ear rougher than she intended. He yelped and clutched at the side of his head, but even so he seemed proud of himself for riling her up. “Get your mind out of the gutter for five seconds, Astarion.”

“Five seconds?” After a brief moment of dramatized thought, complimented by a hand gesture and a flick of his wrist, he continued the countdown.

“Four…” 

He made a show of removing his gloves, an act that always got her undivided attention. 

“Three…”

Delilah generally had an even and intimidating poker face. However, at this moment, she was failing to keep her amusement and desire under wraps. 

“Two…” 

Astarion firmly grabbed her arms with his trademark mischievous grin.

“One…”

Don't fret, I've already got over 2300 words written for Part 2. Coming soon!

[y-rhywbeth2]

Lore: Common Phrases & Words

Accuracy Disclaimer & The Other Stuff [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

Abeir-Toril Why it's called the "Forgotten" Realms History | Time & Festivals | Lexicon [1] [2]| Languages | Living in Faerûn [1] [?] | Notable Organisations | Magic | Baldurs Gate | Waterdeep | The Underdark | Geography and Human Cultures --- WIP

Translating some earth phrases and words into their Faerûnian equivalents, plus some words specific to Faerûn; Here's how make friends and insult people in Faerûn. Also they have coffee, guitars and health insurance.

Also included a handful of Waterdhavian phrases and words.

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Phrases and curses:

"Before all the gods..." - "I swear to god..."

"Well met" - default greeting; hello

"Well again" - greeting between acquaintances, business partners and friends.

"Well enough" - agreement; "ok", "that's fine with me"

“Never undress in a room with a window, a Harper may be near!” – "Be careful what you say, you don't know who's listening. an interesting warning courtesy of Waterdhavian noble matrons.

"Haularake!" - The polite way to say "gods fucking damn it!" while in front of small children.

"Hrast!" - Damn it!

"Hrasted [thing]!" - Damned [thing]!

"[Deity]'s Blood" - eg "Cyric's Blood" Religious oath, rather like jesus christ. Contracted version of Blood of [deity]

I swear that I have seen "Umberlee's Teats" and "Cyric's Balls" said somewhere...

"Being an ox-haunch" - "Being an asshole"

"a breath" - a moment, a second; "wait a breath"

"A breath or two" - A moment/second; eg, "give me a breath or two to finish this."

"A goodly breath or three" - a minute. (Waiting for a notable amount of time, maybe ten minutes, but not that long.) -- The dwarven variant is "but a little while" -- Halflings call it a "long song"

"Counting like a halfling" - Being contrary just to be difficult Most of the Realms counts on their fingers starting with the thumb, halflings do it the other way around.

"Naeth!", "Naed!" - Shit!

"Sabruin" - Fuck you, Fuck off.

"Lay down [good] coin" - "pay [a lot] for something"

“Resourceful as a bard”

"Life's better when you're not a frog." - "Avoid wizards."

“Sweet water and light laughter until next we meet” - A goodbye said between nobles. Technically an elven farewell, but human nobility decided it made them look cultured or something.

"Gone to Daggerford" - Waterdhavian phrase meaning to hide from the law by lying low outside the city

"Black as a black opal" - used to describe people who seem evil, but aren't really. (Especially if they'd dislike you saying so)

- Faerûnian Lexicon:

Scorchkettle - a Karen.

Dining-house - a Restaurant

Glim - Eye-catching, beautiful, flashy

Kaeth - Coffee ~Fireswallow - a colloquial term for Coffee.

Yarting - acoustic guitar

Short scroll - Newspaper

Nandra - mediocre, meh.

Dael, daelin - a year, years

Saer - a term to address nobility when you don't know the proper title, or when they're children

Lackwit - Idiot

Roundskull - a prejudiced idiot who doesn't use their brain; "often applied to local folk who sit drinking in their tavern displaying prejudices and repeating the words of their parents and grandparents, rather than making their own judgements about changing conditions around them, and new concepts, items, and customs."

Handfast - an engagement (to be married) Handfasted - engaged

Goldnose, Goldnosed - Haughty. aka. "Has a stick up their ass." Highnose - as above

Lackcoin - a derogatory term for those living in poverty.

Darkmorning - the early morning hours between midnight and sunrise

Highsun - Midday

the Eavestrough - the Gutter

a Bell - an Hour

a Candle - an Hour

Festhall - a type of establishment found in the Realms. A kind of fusion between an inn, laundromat, spa, night club, brothel and casino. I'll explain these in another post. Suffice to day that BG3 is the most accurate portrayal of how damn horny this setting is that I've seen in a CRPG so far.

Blesséd - an elven loanword referring to immediate family.

Harhand - a labourer (minimum wage employee)

Healthshield - Health insurance, also known as a "healing-bond"

Fire-bond - Fire insurance

Rivvim - horny

Dawnfry - colloquial term for breakfast A common breakfast, especially for travellers at camp, is to quickly fry the leftovers from last night's meal.

Highbite - colloquial term for lunch Long variant is "Highsunfest."

Latebite, Evenfest - Dinner Abbreviation of "Eveningfeast."

the Art - Magic

Lackspell - a weak, or novice wizard

Aloft - Upstairs; "she went aloft/upstairs."

High-coin - Expensive; or referring to a high paying job Low-coin - Cheap; or paying minimum wage

Finework - intricate and valuable metalwork. Silverware and jewellery, for example

Finesmith - a smith who works with precious metals.

Hiresword - Mercenary

Stareyed - naïve

Shraehouse - a type of very small tavern

Fastmud - Cement

a Swords out - a brawl or violent argument

a Smur - a light, misty rain

Beast-men - common word for ogres

Big Folk - Term used by gnomes and halflings to refer to the other races

Longears - term for an elf

Little man - insult aimed at dwarves

a Blackstick - something like a grease pencil. A writing utility made of a stick of thorden (juniper) wood that can be sharpened on one end, which is then slightly charred and used to write with.

a Blandreth - a three legged cooking pot

a Boot - a Traveller

Dadacky - Rotten, Decayed

Heartstop - a Heart attack

Coin - Money; "I've got no coin until I get paid next week."

a Broad Cry - Headline of a newspaper/broadsheet

Holy hand - a temple guard

Tenday - equivalent of a week (10 days instead of 7) Other, less commonly used terms include; an "eve," "hyrar", "ride" or a "domen".

the Elf day - the Weekend. The tenth day of a tenday, sometimes a day of rest.

House storming - a burglary; home invasion

the Realms Below - the Underdark

a Black Robe - a magistrate [Waterdhavian dialect]

a Sun - a platinum coin [Waterdhavian]

a Dragon - a gold coin [Waterdhavian]

a Shard - a silver coin [Waterdhavian]

a Nib - a copper coin [Waterdhavian]

[sequesteredbhaalspawn]

Orin being like "I killed a family in Rivinigton at highsun" and like no, dummy, you're suppose to kill at the darkest hour of night. That's what your religion says to do.

"Bhaalists were required to deal death once in every tenday during the darkest period at the heart of night" (Faith & Avatars) Written in past tense because Bhaal was dead in the setting at the time the book was published.

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Moon Four - Highsun

Sedgeclan has no deputy! Sedgeclan has no healthy medicine cats Coniferstar meets a pair of loners named Streak and Bolt. Streak has been badly wounded by another cat. Coniferstar offers them shelter, on the condition they take on clan names. Mated pair Harebolt and Snowstreak join the clan.

Harebolt- Female - 102 moons Former Loner Confident Lore Keeper & Great Teacher

Snowstreak - Female - 103 moons Former Loner Nervous Eloquent Speaker

The year has been unusually harsh; a hard, cold wind races down the open plain, kicking up drifts of dry, icy snow. Bolt peeks her head from their hollow, eyes squinted almost shut. The blowing snow cuts through her pelt like needles; slices the inside of her nose, as she tries to scent the sterile, freezing air. But the den at her back is over-warm; even half-outside, Bolt can feel the feverish heat of Streak's pelt. Even in the wind, she can smell the other molly’s sickness; a carrion-scent. Vulture-food.

Bolt glances back at her mate, huddled in a ball around her injured leg. Her mouth is open, panting, her green eyes clouded. “You need water,” Bolt says; a useless fact, if true. “I’ll be alright.” Streak’s voice is an awful rasp; almost swallowed up by the tearing, howling wind. “It’s– it’s foul out, Bolt, you can’t. I’ll be fine until the wind lets up.” “And how long ‘til then?” The wind gusts; Bolt shivers, pelt fluffed against the cold. From outside the burrow, someone says: “Well. It could be days, at this rate.” Bolt’s head snaps around, at the strange voice; a dark, marbled tom sits just a hare-leap away, watching her with cool, blue eyes. She bristles, automatically, baring her teeth– but the stranger seems unperturbed. “Peace,” he says, voice strangely high, and touched with an accent Bolt can’t place. “I believe we can help one another.” “We can help ourselves.” Bolt unsheathes her claws, heart pounding. She’s aware of every shift, in the den behind her; Streak slow and stiff with her injury. Helpless even to stand.  “Leave us alone. Or–” But the stranger only dips his head. “I’ll go,” he says, soothingly, “if that’s truly what you want. It’s only–” he scents the air, mouth opening to show sharp, even teeth. “I thought I smelled infection.” A shiver goes through Bolt’s fur, that has nothing at all to do with the cold– though the wind howls, still, all around them, as if set to tear her paws from the earth. “It’s just carrion. Our dinner. And we’re not sharing.” “Is that so.” The stranger studies her, for only a moment more; and then shrugs, seeming to buy her story. Relief buzzes up through Bolt’s stomach, like she’s eaten honeybees. “Well then. I suppose I should go.” And the stranger turns, as if to leave, stretching his hind legs, languidly. His claws flex sharp as thorns, just for a moment. “A shame,” he says, offhand. “I must have been wrong, about the signs.” Bolt frowns, but says nothing to encourage him; he doesn’t seem to need it, carrying on: “if you do see a cat named Bolt, struggling with her mate’s infection in this storm– tell them Coniferstar is searching for them. I believe they’re meant to join my clan– and I’ve been sent the knowledge to heal them.” Bolt freezes, The fur prickling along her spine. “How–” she says, softly. But the stranger is already leaving. His long, black-tipped tail swishes behind him, as he walks away, pace leisurely– unbothered, despite the terrible wind. Bolt swallows, her mouth dry as scoured stone. Behind her, Streak shivers– her teeth chatter, audibly, despite the feverish heat of her pelt. “Wait!" The stranger- Coniferstar?- pauses, and glances back over his shoulder. “You–” Bolt squares her shoulders. “What does that mean. Who sent you?” The strange tom purrs, and turns around. “Curious after all,” he says. “Well. I’m very glad you asked.”