#istar of eryri.
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feminurge · 4 months ago
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fun fact, when istar goes down in bg3, she does not have a little sentence playing in the background. no "a little healing, please". no begging. no "hey look at me im dying". she just lies there, eyes to the sky, hand to wherever she got hurt, not pressing but simply touching (the wound, the blood that oozes past her fingers). the reason? there, in the mud, the urges are quiet. her mind is her own. it is peaceful. death tastes sweet
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feminurge · 2 months ago
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"the sky makes for an easy muse", she agrees readily: "distant stars, yes, they can be charming. corpses are not void of beauty." she thinks of it then: his body, without his mind. animated by no passion, no rambling, no eager desire to inform or help. it sends a chill down her spine; she does not like it. it is strange. she thinks of other bodies: halsin, for instance, heavy chest not longer rising with each breath. eyes closed or still open, but terribly empty. yes, that brings pleasure; nails that dig into wounds, looking for a whiff of the violence that brought this death. she'd breathe in the scent of blood, be it still warm or stale. she'd lick it, just the tip of her tongue, yes, hoping to read in the taste the story of his downfall. she'd straddle the corpse to open the eyelids. dead, dead, dead, she'd read the story of it in the blank stare. the wounds, then, traced one by one, searching for what worked best. attempting to determine what finally cost him his life. that is delightful. she shudders with near pleasure. but gale? she thinks of a corpse and finds herself disgusted with the idea. how trivial. how absurdly feeble of her to want him alive. she thinks of reasons; is she more attracted to halsin's stature? no, the wizard can hold his own. it has nothing to do with physical prowess. the corpse beneath her could be as fragile as a twig and she'd find bliss in witnessing its demise.
waterdeep's prodigy, though? she wants him like this: lively, talking, quick to defend his point. she wants him disagreeable and seeking truths she has no intention of admitting. how strange: to want something that is not soaked in blood, something that brings no pain. annoyance comes, then, like a safe-guard against such deficiency: she scoffs. the stars are beautiful because they are out of reach. istar isn't because the moment she is touched you are no longer attached to your own hand. she is a threat that needs no announcement. a pain that is its own warning bell. she is a name and a knife and a spell of terror. what beauty is there to find in such desolation? "those who dare usually end up dead, darling."
perhaps if she was less obsessed with her lack of desire for his untimely death, she would perceive the gravity in his words. she would know, then, that there is no convincing the wizard of her malevolence; or, more accurately, that there is no point in linking violence with repulsiveness-- not for a man whose hobby led to rot sinking its teeth into his body, claiming every inch that was not fiercely protected. he would see a biting flower and remind the world that it is a flower; even if the teeth have already sunk in the pad of his fingers. in fact, if she had not been trying to understand her own weakness, she would have realized that perhaps he is not so different from her. (hungering for a touch that anchors; finding beauty in pain done right)
it is worse than she thought, really. it is not simply that she wants him alive. she wants to reach out; a spell at her palm, so that the monster within him could feed from her. her magic the only thing not perverted by the urge to destroy, and yet still made a weapon to her whims. she wants him to have it, to sate the hunger; to be made whole and lively again. isn't that marvelous? for her to want him to live so badly she would be willing to breathe life into his mouth, once twice thrice. how horrid, that she does not see an end to that eagerness to help. what an atrocious way to feel about someone.
"you have been groveling. what else would you call it?" she holds his gaze with the aloofness of someone who has no doubt they are right-- and right she is. "your heart is an open wound you keep in such a state in the hopes that she will see and take mercy on you." her smile is a cruel line; it lazily sit atop her lips, pulls at the corners like it knows better than you do. and yet. as she stares, openly, gravely, as she drinks him the sight of him illuminated by the fire, she cannot stop the next words, nor the open hunger that comes with them; she has found that she is not a creature of shame. that whenever she walks around naked or in pain, she has no self-consciousness about what is witnessed. it is hers & remains as such, even in the eyes of the beholder. now, were he to see her-- like this, eyes a roaring ocean that demands for a drowning, eager to hold him & keep him under, well, that is simply the truth that heavily sits between them. there is no shame in that. "you are a marvel-- yes, even in such a state." mouth slightly open with the wonder of it all, "we'll keep at it-- see how magnicent you'll reveal yourself to be, once freed from her boot on your neck."
Maybe she's right. Maybe in measures he's yet to properly fathom, he has been utterly wrought by all his words. Yet, she speaks nothing journals, great monologues on spells and arcane craft. Rather, she thinks of things of more tender, of words that'd dally longly on those valleys in the sun. She has studied him closely, his ever-rampant need for the warm and real, and to see how richly he has steeped in poems — surely, from off his robes, she could see him yearn. Gosh, he is far too tender, far too addled from that cloying prose. It makes him deeply doting, romantic to a measure as to ache one's teeth. He would look upon her maw to glean something else entirely. Perhaps a smile. Perhaps a laugh. Or perhaps a passioned kiss.
Oh, Gale. She is bellowing thunder in a howling storm! What joy's to be found amidst all that fury? Who knows. Predictably, he thinks of the humble delight of a summer drench.
She giggles. He is but a wizard, and a wizard -- lest she forget -- with that power of the gods sat cradled in his hand. As it were, with joy, excitement, and that deepest most pleasure, it has been his lifelong commitment to dance with death. Yes. She would eye him cleverly, sharp and disastrous as a hungering dagger. She's lost everything but name, has been rendered all a ghost left with stakes to claim, and so what if she can bury all her talons in his body? He already knows rot. His veins throb bitter.
"Now, I'm afraid that's where you've misjudged me," Gale answers, something more serious coloring his words. Her voice treads quietly, tapering like a shadow as it suffers the woods. You would say I've beauty, a charm that's worth both prose and all your staring, but I, supplies her quiet, declare I've none. Less than none. Only squalor. No. "I may have spent my time with both Shakespier and Sir William Drake," he starts, "but I've spent about twice as many in exhaustive study. That said, I would hardly look to the night and divine its stars. Every nova, every glimmer, and all its promise..."
He breathes. "For all those brave enough to dare it, its beauty is there to behold."
In the fire, his bright brown eyes are all too earnest. Unfortunately, it deepens hers, too, offering her a gravity that could fell a church. Humorously, Gale argues it would, a fathering little flock gasping to her gaze. She sees far too readily, can glean your secrets with the barest of stares. The crowd would tremble, every innocuous sin dug from out from their bones, but tonight, there's only a wizard in lieu of congregations. He's looked at. His heart crackles in his chest as she looks and sees. He! He's a man of fierce faith, all sacraments, repentance, and holy flagellation. Yet, even with Mystra, he's never felt so gutted. Flayed. Contradictions. Gale, you are dizzyingly powerful, and yet ever uncertain. "Ha. I'm inclined to argue with you on several fronts, namely the groveling portion to be precise," ahem, "but I don't imagine you're raring for a row tonight." No. He doubts himself, the doomed fool, but she'll doubt not. "You would see so much in me." Her eyes hold roaring seas. "Gods, I could have used your company much earlier."
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sunsfade · 7 months ago
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OH DRUNKEN GODS OF SLAUGHTER pinterest link 1. pinterest link 2. baldur's gate iii, fantasy universe.
(temporary) summary: istar works as durge, even if there are. some minor differences. in short, post mystra's ""death"" a few centuries back, talos wanted to take over her realm and even pretended, with an avatar, to be the god of wild magic. knowing no god would let him (considering the god of destruction/wind being in charge of magic isnt exactly a good idea), he decided to leave a little gift for her. he created a being from all the magic that was not constrained by the weave, and then sent it faaaar away so that the child would not be found until he needs them. that child being istar. bhaal, when choosing his bhaalspawns, did feel something was different about that one. she was prone to destruction, he felt it, and decided to claim her. he did what he usually does with bhaalspawns, but he. paid special attention to her. she was an interesting weapon, not yet honed but brimming with potential. and he decided she'd be his to wield.
like all bhaalspawns, she grew up with visions, then bloodlust. she brought a certain amount of chaos everywhere she went. despite being apparently human, she did stop to age at some point. she spent some decades with a tribe of elves in a forest named eryri, which she used in order to name herself pre-tadpole. they're the ones who taught her how to control her magic. humans destroyed and set fire to the tribe to steal some of their resources, and in return istar went. bonkers….. she went on a quest for revenge, and killed every person that ever had anything to do with the orders being given, which resulted in basically wiping out a kingdom from existence. (there are legends, now, about that) at that point, bhaal considered her ready and brought her home. slowly but surely, she climbed within the cult. not because she was motivated, but because making these ruthless choices was terribly easy. compared to orin, istar is much more. calculative. her way of killing is absolutely brutal and ruthless but there is always an amount of… choice, in it. she doesn't kill for the sake of killing. she kills with purpose. it is what orin despises about her (the whole thing about. bhaal doesn't care if you kill a king or a pauper. but istar does. because istar craves power. istar craves revenge. istar wants to be in a position where no one can ever bring her grief again) which is how she even got into plotting with gortash in the first place
but istar did bring something with her out of eryri… a small dragon, too young to be a real threat. it was her tether to humanity, in a way, which made it her biggest liability. orin took advantage of that, slaughtered the creature, and it gave her the leverage she needed to take down istar, sending her with a tadpole to moonrise towers. post waking up, istar is. a little bit feral. and i do mean that in every sense of the word, even in the way she acts or moves. even the way she looks bc orin sent her on her way after cutting off most of her hair (that istar kept very long in honor of her tribe's customs) and kressa's torture, which resulted in a certain amount of scars. magically healed, yes, but still visible. anyway. shes very much a wild dog trying to remember that biting barking and growling aren't the only tools she has. sometimes works, sometimes doesnt. during act 1, her answer to everything is using intimidation every step of the way ahdjndkd which is funny when u consider that. 1. shes a 5'2 human. and 2. she's a storm sorceress with a taste for just. using her nails teeth and fists whenever the need arise. and 3. she cant wield a sword or anything bigger than a dagger aghbjdnd hmmm what else? she very much is chaotic neutral, making choices either according to what is best for her or best for her allies. while she has manyyyyy flaws at least shes loyal ig.
important meta:
istar & her magic.
istar & talos.
istar's story is a story of grief.
an evil playthrough?
my canon concerning bhaalspawns.
if you're playing durge too, read this.
an overview of her bg3 verse.
istar after her ascension. (post-game option)
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feminurge · 3 months ago
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one thing i can say about istar is that no matter the amount of pleasure she can get from killing and maiming, she cannot be an embrace!durge for two reasons: first one being she fucking hates gods & bhaal's betrayal only reinforced that feeling (which the amnesia allowed to grow even stronger). second one being that she has never ever seen death as a gift. it doesnt matter which moment of your life you take istar, be it before or after the tadpole, death has always been a conclusion. it's neither good or bad. it just is. sometimes, it's even a punishment. you can use it in your favour (and she does, which is how she even became leader of bhaal's church. when orin complains of istar's political murders, that's exactly what this is about: it's not religious. it's pragmatic.) or you can simply give it without caring who it is you hurt. but once it's done there's no more to gain from it.
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feminurge · 7 months ago
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a possessive kiss in front of a jealous third party . / WAIT IGNORE THE FIRST ONE I SENT, DELETE IT, THIS IS IT
in the house of gods, they float away. around them, the weave is near omnipotent. it is electrified, buzzing on the tip of her tongue. light swirling like water around the fake boat, inviting them for a lethal yet divine swim. oh, it was not what she had expected when he had told her that he could show her the weave; it had been an arrogant invitation at first. most certainly made as proof of his ability to channel it on a whim. still, she had come back, later that day (victoria had told her to play nice, and so she was) abrupt demand without a question mark to soften the blow. perhaps it was pride that had forced him into accepting the terms of that exchange, or perhaps victoria had asked him to play nice as well. whatever it was, it had led them here. bickering on a boat, floating in the cosmos.
the bickering was at least familiar. a day didn't pass without them throwing insults at one another, as wizards and sorcerers were bound to do. it had started the day istar had joined their merry little team, and hadn't stopped since then. there were moments of peace, of course: she never stayed in the camp itself, preferring to sleep in trees away from prying eyes. it felt safer that way, not to relish in the easy habits of community life. she knew she meant nothing to any of them, except for victoria… and that, too, was its own can of worms. wyll and karlach knew better than to extend any ounce of trust towards her. shadowheart was far too busy with her godly drama to care and lae'zel wouldn't be caught dead trusting a random newcomer. as for astarion, his red eyes followed her around long enough that she knew herself to be nothing more than a possible snack. getting comfortable was well out of the question. so, moments of peace, yes, when she remained at a safe distance.
still, she remained with them. she let herself be sent on small quests to get pieces of information from the darkest corners of baldur's gate, especially ones where people like the merry troupe wouldn't be able to navigate. they all had that clean hero-type face. grim and dirt weren't enough to make them appear as strays. only the vampire spawn fitted that description, and it seemed the price on his head made him too much of a liability. istar, on the other hand, looked perfectly at home with dishevelled hair and a bright, toothy smile that would have gotten her thrown out of any respected ball. she knew how to talk to the poor folk, knew how to swindle the drunk and to charm the gambling. she had an air of confidence that could carry her through any situation, and though her petite silhouette seemed rather frail, she had more than proven her worth in a fight. if a thunderbolt wasn't enough to knock out her opponent, she'd do it with a fist.
anyway. the boat. the weave. the smug-looking wizard.
it all comes back to her when the swirl of water quickens, forming waves upon waves. she knows what that means, even though istar is not completely aware of the origin of such knowledge. (a god shall come and thou shalt not be afraid) no need to be a genius to guess who could want to have a talk: the crown looms in the near distance, an object that they are planning to take. that mystra wants it delivered to her doorstep is irrelevant, and gale said as much-- istar overheard his conversation with victoria on that specific subject.
still, she can see the worry in the eyes of the wizard; does the worshipper find it uncomfortable to have no space for kneeling? does he despair not to find words to welcome his deity? she is coming, the weave trembles with it. good thing istar isn't made of weave. gale, on the other hand… she looks at him, but his glassy eyes are enough to tell that they have two decisions: either to panic or to act. and the sorceress is not the panicking kind. in the house of gods, mystra has all the power. moreso even than on their plane. angering her would be idiotic. and yet...
fingers find the lapels of his robe, and they tug. the wizard isn't small, but he is malleable, and with just enough force he stumbles down to meet her. he didn't expect it, that at least she knows, but it matters not. "trust me", she murmurs before impact, and she finds it interesting that she means it. he is victoria's, after all. sharing the same master they must share the same collar. the familiarity of it is tasted with an open mouth. a kiss that is all spit and teeth. whatever power is lodged in his chest it thrums under her hand when she presses it against his heart. she bites his lip when she feels him moving away, a warning, and she doesn't know if it is the shock of it or simply that she holds him too tight, but he goes willingly when she straddles him to get better access. the longer she kisses him the more the boat rattles with the waves of light.
for barely more than a passing thought, she wonders if she made a stupid choice. if mystra is in fact the type to fight for what she lost, rather than sulk about it from a distance. still, she holds him where she wants him and kisses him within an inch of his life, marking him for all to see. if they are bound to die drowning in an ocean of weave, lost to mystra's storm, she would rather remind the deity that she had to kill her dysfunctioning toy, unable to bring him back to her.
he is victoria's. and for now, for a moment, he is istar's. mystra can go fuck herself.
(a god shall come and thou shalt not be afraid)
perhaps the goddess gets the message loud and clear from all the noises they make. terribly mortal of them to be panting into each other's mouths. after a rather violent wave, it all stops. silence, defeaning, settles over them. istar lowers her face to his neck, her loud breathing echoing in the vast space of nothing that surrounds them. after a moment, just long enough to get some oxygen back in her lungs, she presses her teeth to the thin skin of his throat. the lovely red shade blooms with a little suction of her lips, and the wizard must be too out of it to stop her. good. she presses the flat of her tongue against the mark she left, soon followed by a sigh that could be mistaken for longing had anyone actually heard it (save for the wizard, yes. but what could he possibly say that anyone else would trust, hm?)
perhaps the polite course of action would be to leave his lap, but she is feeling a tad too comfortable and kiss-hazed to do so. he'll throw her out soon enough anyway. "mmh, went better than i expected." a chuckle, too light to be rehearsed, the cloud of looming death making way for the sun-lit realization that they survived another brush with danger, "glad you were mystra's boytoy and not shar's, or we would have been in big trouble."
@victo1re, @netherill
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feminurge · 7 months ago
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@starlyht "want some?", she hums, and perhaps in some other universe a voice would rise from the sleeping party to tell them to "knock it off" with the alcohol. alas none of them have survived the call for peaceful oblivion and with no guardrail for bad decisions, istar's smile is a little more blinding. "free of charge…" the bottle extended, waiting mid-air. with a hint of teeth, her hand still around it and not letting go, "--if you tell me a story." the sorceress looks particularly in her element, out there beneath the numerous stars. she is as pale as them, and quite as shiny, with all the white marks across her face and throat. delicate leaves that have yet to wilt, despite their owner's propensity at cold-blooded murder. "don't look so sour. the night's gonna be long: we might as well talk."
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feminurge · 8 months ago
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[ stumble ] + reverse!!
victoria's toy is larger in size than istar herself could carry; he is nowhere near small and the sorceress is, well, petite. though a flicker of a wrist is enough to summon enough wind to press at his sides, keeping him afloat as they gingerly walk through the back corridors of the temple, it does not mean it is a walk in the park to continue down their path. each stone, she knows intimately. a place that she would neither call home nor safe haven, but a third, more sinister thing; coffin. death usually finds her late, once all others have met their end, but if she had to bet on the place of her demise, she thinks it would be in the vicinity of these dark halls. not on the sacrificial altar, but here, away from prying eyes. bleeding directly in bhaal's guts, swimming in the dusty air of those hidden chambers.
the wizard, however, has never had the chance to walk through these tunnels, especially with what must amount to a few broken bones and bleeding wounds. (orin's knife must have made the mockingbird sing so beautifully-- victoria will be livid. if only she knew before avenging her pet. if only. but alas rules are rules and istar is not one to pass her turn.) still, she is kind enough not to press on the wounds. strange is the touch that does not harm; palm of her hand where he has yet to be hurt, not far from the thrumming orb, while the other is around his waist. holding him upward. wind softly breathing around him, a protective cushion were he to miss a step.
"keep going", she grits her teeth when he does, in fact, falter. fucking oversized wizard. "or i'll find a way to move you, dismembered if i have to." she even takes a second to think about it; a beautiful corpse. she would be moving one piece at a time, only to remake him in the most precious puzzle. a doll for vic's enjoyment. magic would animate him all the same. but alas. rules are rules. and istar suspects that victoria's illness probably spread further inane fungus in her chest: gods, she would care, were he even slightly bruised. disgusting. disgusting. and so pathetially human.
"come on. it would be… terribly… pathetic… to die here" the effort of trying to keep him upward cuts her sentence in more parts than she would normally care to pronounce. after a moment of calculating silence, she finally stops. fingers spread over his pectoral to keep both of their balance. she finally turns her head toward the man. "will you carry yourself or do i need to summon a magic hand, dear?" the nickname is all teeth, no smile. needless to say she has no desire to make it easier for him- yet the offer remains on the table all the same. what a peculiar experience it is for her to threaten with no intention to act upon whatever curse she spews.
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feminurge · 6 months ago
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the urge works in strange ways; it awakes at times that make little sense, and seems to find respite when it would be more logical for it to howl. this moment is of the former category: his retreating back has her clenching her teeth and holding her staff with more strength than necessary.
still, she follows.
when the drow drops to his knees and fails at opening the door, it is the same animosity that has her loudly dropping her pack. the whole display of annoyance is only short a sigh, which she keeps behind the wall of her teeth, as her eyes roll back and she starts taking a few steps away.
it is only when a response is offered that she turns back toward him, surprise dissipating almost as immediately as it rose within her. "well. we do deserve a break, then." then, attempting to dissipate the cold fingers the urge has tightened around her neck, she finds herself pressing against a wall-- regardless of the state of said wall. "is that a drow thing?" she asks, which isn't exactly the polite way to state such questions, but it is better than silence, or worse. (in her current state, she is afraid of what worse could entail)
he realized perhaps that he had displeased her,   but shrugged it off.  she had told him to do something with her attention.  had she expected him to plead with her to follow,  like a dog?  perhaps once he would have had to,  to make requests so pathetically,  but he swore never again.
sol'rys moved in on the bedroom door and checked the handle.  nothing stirred on the other end,  but it was locked.  frowning,  he shrugged his pack from his shoulder and onto the ground,  kneeling beside it as he rooted around for a set of thieves' tools.  finding the correct picks he inserted them into the lock and started to work on the pins.  (base roll 6 + 4 dexterity = 10.)  nothing.  scowling,  he started again.  
he noted not without amusement that he was clearly far more comfortable in the dark,  oppressive as it was,  than she.  the surface was a perilous place for a drow,  but the strange darkness had its charm for a man accustomed to using it for protection.  outside of the sun his eyes no longer ached.  “late day,  i fathom,”   he responded easily.  he did not know how or why,  simply that it felt right.  “beside,  more gold is progress enough.  i run out of arrows.”
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feminurge · 8 months ago
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the scene is, well, folkloric. istar sits, cross-legged, on a piece of furniture that has certainly seen better days. were it not for the slight frowning and the wood carving she is currently occupied with, she would be nothing but a threatening gargoyle-like presence behind the wizard who, for some obscure reason, is thinking out loud. his voice echoes within the rock walls of their hiding den, magic evident in his tone. perhaps he is lecturing her on a subject, that would explain why she occasionally rolls her eyes at him-- not that he is paying enough attention to see her do so. despite the rather sad look of the room, the easiness of the exchange would surely scratch a laugh out of your throat, were you to know how the two of them came to meet.
perhaps the rest of the scene is more representative of that violent history, for the girl rises from her spot like a disgruntled cat, only to jump to the ground with an ease that whispers of habit. her steps, quick and particular in their quiet assertiveness, bring her to the door, in front of which she stands for a breath or two, not paying any mind to the talking wizard who is lost to the world, babbling about magic (the word 'crown' is heard once or twice). after a time, long enough for a sentence to escape gale of waterdeep's lips, a tilt of her head, loud as the cracking of a bone, & then the door opens, only to reveal victoria; beautiful and deadly, apparently rather busy with trying to pry the door open. istar's welcoming smile is a wicked thing, a mocking little corner of her lips remaining upward, as if to say, really? istar does not have many things; her body is hers only when neither bhaal nor victoria claim it. most of her story was stolen & forgotten decades ago. but her magic, the dark tumult of it, the uneasy weight of a wind that comes from a place even mystra cannot reach… that is istar's. bold of victoria to think she would be able to counterspell the sorceress' lock.
alas, another thing she will consider part of victoria's disease. "my darling wizard", she says, but she is not talking to the woman. her eyes do not leave her silhouette but it is evident she is waiting for a word of ascent from gale. "i fear your babbling will have to stop. we have company." her eyes are bolder than any hands, travelling across her lover's skin, looking for scars she has yet to trace, perhaps ink she has not tasted. all she comes up with is the look in the duchess' eyes, the stance with which she faces her, the weapons and the outfit. ah.
istar's laughter is loud. "did you come to vanquish me, love?" then, with a smirk, "thought i played with your food? mh? that's not very charitable of you to think me as selfish as you." a pause, as she turns around to see both wizards. "i'd rather share." this is going to be delicious. making one uncomfortable and the other angry. sweet, sweet retribution for months of excrutiating loneliness. @netherill, @victo1re
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feminurge · 7 months ago
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magic (wizards & sorcerers) .... and istar.
istar's magic is a bit different from other sorcerers, but before i get into That, i need to put into words the difference between wizards and sorcerers, as i interpret it. the more obvious point of divergence is that sorcerers have access to meta-magic, which allows them to twist their spells in order to suit their needs, whereas wizards have their spellbooks. it shows how intimate a sorcerer's relationship to magic is-- you don't just speak something into existence, you mold it and carve it into something you want. while on the other hand, wizards have all the power of knowledge on their side.
but the real difference, in my opinion, isn't in what they do (its magic, okay) but how they do it and in which order. sorcerers call magic from within; they were born with it and their understanding of it is deeply personal. wizards learned it through trial and error, they had to recognize it and take it and wield it. the best analogy i can think of is of someone learning music with a teacher, which allows them to recognize musical notes, and someone with perfect pitch getting into music on their own. a wizard can copy someone from just reading the sheet music, a sorcerer will have to find a way to call that magic from within themselves-- just making the right gesture and saying the right words won't work.
it's also depicted in the way they cast spells: wizards dance according to a certain choreography they learned, and their power lies in knowing all these different dances. sorcerers do improv, they dance to the music without following a certain script. sometimes they might mess up and sometimes they might do something extraordinary. either way, there is no buffer between them and the dancing. no choreographer. which is why, in my interpretation, wizards have such faith in mystra and why sorcerers don't necessary Believe in her. because wizards owe her their knowledge -- in the same way you'd owe a philosopher his beliefs and writings. sorcerers don't, their magic seemingly comes from their own minds and bodies.
as for the difference between istar and sorcerers in general, it's mostly in the way she channels her magic. sorcerers call magic, istar is magic. wild, chaotic magic at that. talos crafted her from winds that mystra no longer controlled, made her a shard of howling winds that should never have been molded into a body. and then he casted her away, hoping that she would grow far from mystra's prying eyes. and she did. growing as a sorceress, she found that magic came terribly naturally. but it also came more violently and terribly than it would have for other sorcerers. istar's spells always have a bit of erratic energy, and sometimes effects that are unpredictable because they work outside of the weave's rules. a wizard seeing istar cast spells would think her barbaric, savage, because she doesn't cast them per se, she speaks them into existence without a care in the world.
to use the same analogy as before: istar knows how to dance, and she dances, but she refuses to follow any choreography, and sometimes she even evades what would appear to be the correct genre of the music heard. like, picture a classical melody, a wizard would dance to the choreography they were taught. a sorcerer would improvise a ballet, taking bits and pieces from all the ballets they like. istar though? istar would be able to dance anything (watch her waltz and jazz and hip-hop her way through mozart's requiem mass in d minor) and make it work.
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feminurge · 7 months ago
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her eyes went jet-black before the father's hold stole the last breath from her lungs, a clumsy attempt at paternal love in the form of a knot around the neck. the leash was too tight, that at least became abundantly clear when the spasms were few-- became none. in the end, the puppeteer's strings are cut with a slash as silent as the temple that welcomes victoria's limp body. only the noise of knees meeting ground can be heard: two wizards have fallen. one, in peaceful oblivion. the other, in terrifying despair.
there is a choice that has to be made, and the sorceress finds herself completely devoid of the desire to make it. satisfaction and horror mix within her chest and bubble up in her throat; victoria, there, lying pretty as a corpse could lie no more, and her lover appears delightfully broken. finally, desperately, absurdly silent. in the end, solely istar remains; with the key & with the knowledge. whatever type of monster she decides to become is entirely up to her-- and what a terrifying thought, indeed, that she is her own again, at last. victoria's hold has snapped, perhaps, with the broken light in her eyes. she will be back, istar knows that much, but it does not mean that istar has to make it easy for her. it does not mean she has to be kind.
it is a choice. will she make it?
she steps forward. whatever seethes inside her does not possess enough animal teeth to truly hurt. it barks and barks and she does not relent to the fury. her fingers find the wizard's shoulder, and they dig uncomfortably in the meat there. "pull yourself together, wizard." she commands, and in the empty temple of a now-jilted god, her voice becomes law. (isn't it amusing, too, that she spent decades in his service, and that he views her rebellion as unworthy of even a word? how pathetic.) the more gale kneels, the more she presses her fingers in his flesh, until it has to be painful.
"this is just an empty carcass. look." she moves to face him, and grips his chin with her free hand to force him into actually looking at the corpse. she will remain there until the glassy eyes have cleared. it is important that he sees. "look. she isn't here anymore." now she brings his gaze back to her, and her hold on his shoulder drops so she can hold his face. it is more comforting, almost friendly. holding all the pieces from crumbling further. "but i know where she is. will you come with me? to get her back." @netherill / @victo1re
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feminurge · 7 months ago
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the vampire spawn is something else entirely; too sharp of a dagger to be comfortably handled bare-handed. still, she finds herself minding neither the blood nor the wound: it is easier to be around him than to be around the others. to gale's good humour, to wyll's never-ending chivalry, she much prefers her friend's nasty tone. he keeps her on her toes, grounded. "rarely, yes, but not never. and the heartbreaking loss of my company would surely be such an occasion." she likes the way his ears move; the way his eyes follow every movement of hers, as if she were a prey at night. yet none of the animosity, only never-ending curiosity.
there, that twinkle of interest. a toothy smile grows around her bite of the fruit, and it only becomes more bothersome when he reaches out. his hand is soft, terribly so, and she guides it toward her lips to steal another mouthful of sweet fruit. the same hand is handed toward him next, as if any feeding of hers would lead to his as well. two sides of a same coin. the night used to be terrifying; cold sweats and blood dripping from a dagger she did not remember ever wielding. now, though, it is easier to sleep, if only for a few moments, with the knowledge that there is a monster not far from her bed, much more real than the ones in her head.
his hand holds her wrist, and that same wrist she extends toward him, an eyebrow raised. "my dessert. could be your dinner, though." she doesn't mind, not at all, but she says nothing of the sort; knows him to be more bashful than her, even if he would never admit it out loud. it's easy to offer touches when you know no one will comment upon them, and so istar says nothing. welcomes it as if it belonged to her; would offer the same, without ever the intent to fix a price upon such pleasures. whatever he wants, she gives. whatever she wants, she asks terribly loudly. makes a game of it. easy enough to refuse… but just as easy, too, to indulge.
ah, she might not be the best at this, at any of this living, but he is terribly easy to maneoeuvre, all things considered. "i'd offer some apple but last time i offered food, you almost spit it in my face, so you'll have to do with good old me." there's a grimace, there, between smile and disgust; she remembers when it had happened, some stew gale had cooked that was particularly delicious. she had wanted to share, for there was very little she did not want astarion to experience; why he had taken the wooden spoon, she doesn't know, but she remembers the disgust on his face and the spitting that had ensued. he had looked so wronged that she had burst out laughing.
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being bored was not the worst thing in the world he could be. given all this freedom, losing said freedom was terrifying to even consider. however in his little mind the thought of boredom, the thought of losing istar was more than bothersome. it rises a giggle out of him, red eyes focus on her moments, to be thought of so exactly, to be seen so precisely was foreign to him. but nothing could truly be too bad if it came from her he considered. "oh my, you are truly gracious to me." there's a playful tone of sarcasm dripping from his voice. which, could in itself be to wrap tightly around a truth. the night is no longer shameful, no longer empty with just his lonesome self to hunt. the visions that tormented haunted him still, but the moments prior were...good. and there's a part of him, that wants to tightly hold onto the good, never to let go. a foolish thought, a part of him considered, for nothing truly good lasts for him.
"-i rarely beg." he comments, as his head tilts, his ears flicker when he hears the bite out of the apple. wonders then what it might taste like, what it did taste like to him all those centuries ago. "-spoiling your appetite before dinner? or is this meant to be dessert?" his hand reaches out to wrap gently around her hand, the one holding the fruit, a ghost touch barely there. to think of himself, biting. something else. someone else. he keeps the thought, and his thumb rubs below the palm of her hand. "don't mind me." he feels brave, bold even. to have reached out. but giving touch seems to be comforting, almost as comforting as the blanket of the night keeping them away from everything else.
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feminurge · 2 months ago
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not durge!istar is a selfish asshole. everything she does is for her own pleasure or for the plot. she'll do anything (good bad truly horrendous) as long as its entertaining to her. the only way for her to act for people is if she loves these people so hard they blur into her sense of self and become an extension of her being. and then its still about her, in the end
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feminurge · 2 months ago
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bg3!durge istar has fangs. if u were to study her, you would find no creature with the exact same dentition. she wasn't born with it; they started growing when her hair turned white and her eyes started glowing-- which is to say, when her use of magic surpassed what "humans" were normally able to do. it aligned with her fifty or fifty-five birthday, also driving home the fact that she had not aged for near thirty years.
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feminurge · 3 months ago
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istar might not be default durge but bhaal going "you must destroy this world. it is what you were made for." is literally the truest thing that has been uttered. ever.
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feminurge · 7 months ago
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beautiful, she says, and for a moment istar thinks-- it is heavy, isn't it? it weighs on her chest, like hands pressed above the ribcage, not digging for organs, simple pressure, the intensity of it making her bones sing. is it relief? yes, yes, relief. a peculiar feeling it is, such relief at watching the dagger lodge itself in the wood behind her head rather than the tender flesh of her throat. relief at the gentleness that usually does not come with being seen. the violent litany stops against the wall of her teeth; she had naught but a fight, and therefore finds herself barren of anything to say.
at the red's mention, istar's eyes refocus. she holds victoria with a stare, perhaps just as intimate as it would have been, had she done it with her hands. just as intimate as if she had choked her to death with her bare fingers. pressing, pressing. relief, isn't it? oh, how it kills. "she took khairos too. used his scales for her armor." every word is difficult to pronounce, grief soaking each. istar never had feelings; could watch empires rise and fall without batting an eye. but when khairos was born, she smiled; bright and beautiful, like the morning sun. that, too, orin took from her. she had no right. "you weren't there." she doesn't know if it's a finger pointed at victoria (your fault, your fault, that too is your fault) or if it's another admission (i lost you too).
either way, it is heavy (she is back)
“ i don’t, ” you say, because how could you? istar is beautiful always, in all her gore and rot and sharp edges —. all the things she did not choose but bears with the strange, ancient power that informs the way she tastes on your tongue. you have always thought so, but today, your possessiveness [ how dare the usurper violate what is yours in this way? she has taken so much, so much that does not belong to her, overreached in such countless variations and you want to rip her throat out in the cage of your teeth and swallow it whole ] takes on a sour edge. your lord’s suggested resolution, the red tide swelling in your skull even now, puts bile in the back of your throat.
“ you are beautiful, ” you say aloud, in extension of the sacrilege istar has always been to you — finally ready, in the relative privacy of your own mind, to admit to it. “ she had no right. ”
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