#it makes me feel bad to spare the grove

[trappedinafantasy37]

Here's a compilation of my favorite screenshots of all the Baldur's Gate 3 companions!

💜💜MINTHARA💜💜

Thank you! Let me know which one was your favorite!

[vigilskeep]

i have never thought of the bg3 paths as railroaded before but oh my god... i see your vision. i think that, for all that can be picked apart in the writing of dragon age, the worldbuilding in that series is so so interested in complicating all factions that you can envision a character who /makes sense/ while bouncing through various ideologies. and the sort of fantasy writing in (most of) the forgotten realms doesn't really allow for that.

dao is particularly the light of my life because the origins mechanic is specifically intended to let you create a character who has a distinctive perspective on the world that’s grounded in the worldbuilding. one of my favourite aspects of this is several origins having completely different codex entries on their own culture as opposed to those an outsider would get. it’s really good! it’s also a reasonably grounded world (while obviously silly) because, like, the basic fundamental premise of thedas, from which they ikea flatpack built almost every feature, is “how would people react to magical and fantastical diversity? the same way they react to human diversity.” you’re meant to feel like, aside from i guess the darkspawn, people are normal and have real motivations. sure it has to fulfil certain roles in a story, and dragon age was manufactured too quickly and purposefully for everything to land feeling authentic, but evil in dragon age should feel recognisable. and in most of the origins they give you a chance to do something that is bad, but also totally makes sense, because of the context of your character belonging to this world where these things happen

in dnd/the forgotten realms it’s a bit different because capital e Evil exists, so there are people and deities and devils (and, to open another can of worms, races) whose entire goal is to Do Evil. it’s also harder to produce grounded evil because in a world where i’m being given basically no context and just told to make whatever i want, i don’t have an inch of the kind of social information i get from for example a dao origin: what my character has been taught to believe they should do to survive, who they are willing to sacrifice, whatever. bg3 also happens to have a main plot goal that is, at least for the first part of the game, broadly selfish (“i am sick, and i need a cure”) which works really well for getting a bunch of people with vastly differing moral standards to band together for the same goal, and not so good for any kind of “greater good” type blurred morality, so that’s out too

however much the worldbuilding factors into this, bg3 specifically went for quite a clear distinction between the good path and the capital e Evil Path, and i find it pretty hard to vary up the good path. when i say railroaded i mean you either do the specific thing that gets you a quest down the line or not. i was really disappointed actually in my playthrough where i totally fucked up in the druids’ grove and caused a fight to break out, because it immediately instakilled tons of characters i knew i would need down the line. the few it spared needed some of the dead ones to stay alive in later quests, so it’s like... oh. that’s just... over. for both factions. bg3 arguably lets you do basically anything you want but they are able to do that because if you fuck around it just breaks the entire quest line from coming up again, which means playing a character who fucks up is not even really going to get me consequences it’s just going to cut content from the game. does that make sense? and then the Evil Path is just straight up evil, like... there’s no way for me to complicate and empathise, here, especially playing a blank canvas character whose motivations i would have to make up from nothing, and who faces basically no consequences for not doing this. the only neutral/cowardly/self-interested option in act 1 is to do neither path, which gets me the least content because i literally don’t get to play the fucking game

i don’t know, i’m not saying it’s necessarily bad just that it’s hard for me, personally, and how i like to create characters. especially when you have my constant restart disease and you have to do this all over again a dozen times just for a handful of different dialogue. does any of that make sense

[lets-go-hurt-someone]

I love Shadowheart. She was my bae throughout my first (unfinished) Tav run. I abandoned that run because Astarion convinced me I needed to restart as Durge for him, but Shadowheart forever holds a very special place in my… well, heart.

I’ve been thinking about the contrast between them and their arcs and the way fandom interacts with them.

They both start off as characters that by D&D standards are “evil.” Shar is an evil aligned goddess, and vampires are evil aligned creatures.

However, Shadowheart isn’t evil. She disapproves of actively evil decisions and approves of kindness to animals and the helpless. She just doesn’t like it if you seem to be putting do-goodery above your search for a cure to the tadpoles. She is fine with killing the grove, but the contrast between her at the tiefling party and the goblin party shows pretty starkly how she really feels.

Astarion starts off the game evil. I will fucking fight anyone on this. He has very very good reasons to be evil, but so does Shadowheart… and she’s not. Astarion enjoys chaos, he likes murder, he likes hurting people. He thinks being “good” is weak and stupid and that might be a trauma response, but it is how he genuinely feels at that point in his story.

And yet. AND YET. For some reason, I have never seen anyone complain about making Shadowheart a Dark Justiciar. If she likes you, you actually have to encourage her to kill Nightsong. Even on my evil run, she spared Aylin if I didn’t tell her not to. You have to either not care about her or intervene to make her evil, and right up to the end where she kills her parents and Shar wipes her memory again, she is just so miserable and resigned to what she’s been influenced to be.

But people do it to get the hotter sex scene or whatever and that’s fine.

But Astarion? The man who spends the whole fucking game begging you to help him take over an evil cult and murder his “family” so he can become a living vampire as soon as he realises it might be an option? The guy who will throw a fit and leave you if you don’t either succeed in a persuasion check or help him eternally damn 7007 people— no matter how close you’ve gotten to him?

Apparently you’re an evil piece of shit if you find his “bad” ending compelling or, dare I say it, hot.

I don’t really care which ending you prefer for either character— I think the game does a great job on its own telling you what you should think and it’s fairly nuanced for both characters. I just don’t understand why Astarion has to be so woobified and his “bad” ending fans vilified as if they’re naive morons with no media literacy.

Shadowheart, the character, hates her “bad” ending way more than Astarion, the character, hates his. And fandom can’t reflect this because I don’t know…

Oh god. It’s sexism isn’t it?

[ashprince-of-bel-air]

The Tiefling Wizard.

Baldur’s gate was bustling, more busy than you had even imagined it to be, you weren’t sure if cities were always like this as a whole or if the tadpole issue had wiped your brain. You shook your head and continued on anyway, you had reasons to be here, more than just to defeat the Netherbrain.

You had first met Rolan at The Grove, then again at The Last Light Inn, he was so prickly, and self-assure that you wanted to hit him then and there, swiping that smug smirk from his face, you refrained from doing so at The Last Light Inn, feeling sympathy that he had lost his family. Taking pity upon him in his drunken stupor as you could see the hidden pain behind his eyes, you had then instantly made it your personal mission to ensure the safety of Cal and Lia, for some unknown reason you felt a pain in your chest seeing Rolan this way and refused to let him suffer any more pain as you watched him gulp down a bottle of Arrabellen Dry, not even having the courtesy to use the glass given to him.

After the bloody assault on moonrise and making sure that Cal and Lia were going to be safe, Rolan attempted to be nice to you, it was a feeble attempt but an attempt, nonetheless. Seeing the curt tiefling scold his siblings out of pure worry for them melted your heart, smiling softly watching the situation unfold as they embraced each other gently, knowing that the hardest part of their journey was hopefully behind them. As the night waned on in the Inn, Rolan wrested with his own pride over approaching you , he didn’t want to admit his previous attitude but he knew he could not leave without at least saying a thank you. The rest of the Inn were celebrating joyfully at your successful take down of the tyrant Ketheric, offer after offer of drinks being thrown upon you as you declined them politely, wanting these people to save their money, knowing that they will desperately need it in the up coming weeks. The only drink you did not decline was a glass of Arrabellan Dry that was placed down on the table in front of you by a very familiar crimson hand. Your face shot up to look at Rolan, confused at this gesture, all he replied with was a knowing nod as a thank you before saying in his low and smooth voice “If you make it to Bladur’s Gate, promise me you will come to Sorcerers Sundries?” His voice sounded almost awkward and desperate, like he was trying to ask for something more but he couldn’t find the words to do so. As Rolan walked away back to his siblings you helped yourself to the glass of wine he left, you wouldn’t spare his coin purse like you did every one else in the Inn because you felt like you deserved the wine from him after his snarky attitude the day before. The wine being a wonderful vintage you almost feel bad that he probably spent a good deal of gold on it, smirking softly your heart begins to flutter as you watch his happy visage as he drinks with his siblings, confused at how you could so quickly go from wanting to wipe the smile off his face with a slap to now wanting to be the person who causes him to smile.

The night at the Inn ends with your party waking with a hangover that even the gods could not cure, not that you didn’t try praying to all of them anyway. It was almost mid afternoon by the time you were all ready to move on and head to Bladur’s Gate, it would be a long journey at this rate if you were all going to be this cranky, the only person not affected by the hangover was Shadowheart as she was able to cure herself, not bothering to help anyone else though as it was amusing to her seeing the rest of you suffering. You silently cursed yourself “why did you have to give the Amulet of Silvanus to Gale you idiot” glaring at the back of Gale’s head blaming him for your hangover as if it wasn’t caused by the copious amount of alcohol you drank last night.

After a few days of travel you arrive at Baldur’s Gate, hardly unscathed as you had some complications along the way, your companions were now starting to irritate you somewhat after having spent so much time in each other’s company. Each one of them had their own personal issue to deal with and they all tried to talk over each other about them, all you could do was to pinch the bridge of your nose and hope this animosity would die down once you had all found a comfy place to sleep for the night. Collectively, you all agreed to a night off for the first time in months, you all booked separate rooms at the Elfsong Tavern and agreed that you weren’t each others problem tonight, you could all seek your own fun and enjoy the city. It wasn’t a surprise to see Astarion and Shadowheart gossiping over a bottle of wine downstairs in the tavern, nor was it a surprise to see Lae’zel head to the nearest training ground for the Flaming Fist, wanting to watch their battle style so she could learn from a potential enemy on their battle strategy. You sat alone in your room contemplating what to do, the only thing in your mind was Sorcerers Sundries. A bottle of wine and a nice fresh meal should have been first on your agenda, but you just could not get that damned cocky tiefling out of your mind, you did promise him that you would go there if you were in Baldur’s Gate, is what you told yourself.

The armour you normally wore was shed for the day, as you would not require it in the city, you opted for one of your more casual dresses, secretly hoping to impress Rolan with how soft you could look outside of a battle setting, proving you are more than just a battle-hardened warrior covered in blood and filth. Sneaking out of the Elfsong Tavern was no easy feat, you wanted to avoid Gale mostly, if he knew you wanted to go to Sorcerer’s Sundries he would have happily tagged along and told you all about the books he wanted to purchase there, making sure to show you every single one and summarise them for you when you got there. No, you wanted to go alone and see Rolan, you weren’t sure why you were so desperate to see him, there was just a feeling in your gut that would not let him go, not until you could speak to him properly.

It was almost dusk as you approached Sorcerer’s Sundries, the orange light hanging over the horizon made the building look more impressive, you entered and walked up to the empty counter at the front, hoping someone would be able to help you. A few moments pass and a mirror image of Lorroakan appears, you sneer at his smug reflection , you have heard of him previously and know that he is a jumped up poor excuse of a wizard, a fact Gale loves to tell you on occasion. Your heart sinks as you don’t find Rolan, wanting to thank him for the wine at the very least, at the very most you wanted to address this weird chemistry you seem to have, you exit the store with a sullen look and ponder your next destination.

As you walk through the cool night air your feet seem to take you back to the Elfsong Tavern, on the one hand you didn’t want to be there under the scrutiny of your camp mates wanting to know where you have been and why. On the other hand you were sort of glad that at least you were near your bed for the night so could get black out drunk if you wanted to. The tavern is bustling at this point as you are struggling to get served by the barmaid, cursing mentally that they only have one barmaid present at this time of day when most people would be heading in for a drink after a long and hard day of labour. Suddenly, you hear a familiar drunken tone and you stand up on your tiptoes to see over the bar. “I want a bottle of Mallorian White!” you hear the drunken voice slur, you smirk softly and shake your head, of course it was Rolan, you chuckled lightly. You begin to make your way around the bar to him, trying to ignore the knowing gazes from Astarion and Shadowheart as they are still sat in the corner, now watching the pair of you.

Rolan is leant against the bar, trying to argue with the barmaid to give him another bottle of wine, despite the fact he is clearly inebriated already. Your hand rests gently on his back and you interject ordering the bottle for yourself. “I’ll take the wine, thank you.” You smile at the bar maid and turn to face Rolan as she gets the bottle, your face drops as you see the purple markings on his face. Its not a conscious decision but your hand cups his face gently and strokes his cheek with affection and sympathy. “Rolan, Who did this to you?” your eyes were sad as you look at him when he shakes his head in refusal to answer, the barmaid places the bottle of wine on the bar next to you, assuming you didn’t need any glasses.

“come with me Rolan, I can help with those bruises” you say softly, intertwining your fingers with his. You grab the bottle of wine you ordered and both take your time walking up the stairs to the room you have rented for the night, him stumbling and holding on to you is what is slowing you down. Rolan mumbles a lot of confessions as you lead him to your room, you don’t catch most of it other than thank you. You are not sure what he is thanking you for at the moment but you don’t care, your concern is now to get him to bed and sleep, dreading the hangover he has In the morning.

Finally you manage to walk Rolan to the room you were renting, you had faced glares from Shadowheart and Astarion as to why Rolan’s arm was around you but you just rolled your eyes. You pushed open the door to your room and helped Rolan in, closing the door behind you, you then sat him on the bed. Rolan was sat swaying softly because of the alcohol, you knelt before him and placed your hands on his knees, looking up at him before speaking softly. ”Rolan, stay here okay? I’m going to get something to help with that cut.” You point towards his split eyebrow before you walk away, looking sadly back at him. How did he look more hopeful when he thought his siblings were gone? How badly was Lorroakan treating him? You pondered these questions as you found a salve in your pack, you found Rolan where you left him, swaying drunkly on the edge of the bed. The salve has a horrible smell but it works wonders, you warn Rolan before you apply it, you had had far too may people throw up on you when you hadn’t warned them about it.

The salve now on his face you smile at him, your hand still stroking his cheek. Rolan leans against it affectionately but you are unsure of his affections as he is drunk, you enjoy the moment for what it is, smiling at him and stroking his cheek still.

[unreadpoppy]

For the flower asks: thyme!

Minthara x Galatea: Mercy

Read on AO3

A/N: This is before their relationship is established. Also, let's both pretend this ask hasn't been sitting on my inbos for a full month.

With Ketheric dead, Minthara turned her mind to other pressing matters. While one of her enemies was down, there was still Orin and many others who served the Absolute to defeat. The road towards a cure for the tadpole was long, and she would need to prepare herself if she meant to survive.

But as she went over battle strategies with Galatea, one question went to the front of her mind. 

“In the goblin camp, why did you spare me?” She asked the tiefling. 

Galatea was taken aback.  “Why the sudden interest in that?” 

“It had been on my mind for some time, but while Ketheric lived, I needed to focus on that.” Minthara crossed her arms. “But now, he is gone, and I cannot help but wonder. Every other person in that camp met their demise that day, except for me.” She took a deep breath. “If I am to trust you, I must know why.” 

In truth, the tiefling already had her trust, and maybe more, if Minthara let herself follow her feelings. Galatea had spared her from a fate worse than death, she brought her along to their battles and agreed to end Minthara’s foes. She actively sought Minthara’s advice and listened to her ideas, taking them in consideration when making a decision. Besides, the constant praise of Minthara’s prowess in battle did not hurt either. 

But the goblin camp….it confused Minthara. Why go through the trouble of killing everyone else but her? When in the depths of her trance, the drow wondered if she had been also manipulated by this tiefling since the beginning. After all, Minthara knew she was a strong ally to the party, but she couldn’t help but wonder if that had been the plan. Kill everyone in her camp, so that she would have to be saved by them, inevitably making her indebted to the group. Maybe everything, from their conversations to the compliments were all part of Galatea’s plan to entrap Minthara in her web, just to discard her again when the -

“To be honest, I am not sure.” Minthara was snapped back to reality by the tiefling’s answer. 

She furrowed her eyebrows. “So you don’t know?” She crossed her arms. “You killed my whole camp, resulting in my humiliation in front of the general, and you don’t know.”

Galatea raised a brow “That is not what I said. Allow me to clarify.” 

Minthara straightened her back, scowling, preparing herself, in case things ended badly. “Explain yourself, then.” 

“If you are looking for one, straight, correct answer, there is not.” Galatea took a deep breath. “I knew that if we were to save the Grove and the tieflings for good, we had to eliminate the goblin threat. And to do so, we needed to kill the goblin leaders - You, Gut, and Razglin.”

Minthara nodded, a silent command for her to continue. “By the time we reached you, the others had been dealt with and too much blood had been sprayed. You had been knocked out, and when Karlach was about to deal the final blow, I stopped her.” 

Galatea shook her head and took another deep breath. “I’m not sure what exactly was that compelled me. Part of me did consider that perhaps we could make you join our cause. You did give Wyll a good beating.” The tiefling chuckled, remembering how bad the warlock had been even after days of healing. “But that was not the main reason. Maybe I was tired of the bloodshed we had done, maybe I did think you were dead, maybe I just wanted to leave.” She looked at Minthara’s eyes. “Or maybe, I just felt compelled to enact one simple act of mercy, after a day filled with death.” 

The drow scoffed. “If that is the reason, then you are a bigger fool than I thought. Allowing an enemy to live could have cost you your mission, perhaps even your life.” 

Galatea crossed her arms, raised a brow and slightly tilted her head.  “And yet, it didn’t, and you stand here, by my side, making plans for the future.” 

Minthara gulped. “Still, showing an act of mercy to an enemy is a poor choice. You’re the leader, you must set the example, be ruthless.” 

Galatea listened to her words, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. She let her arms loose, and straightened her neck. “A good leader must, above all, practice balance.” She began saying. “If a king slaughters all his enemies, all those who oppose him without a second thought, he is a tyrant and will be overthrown. If a king is too lenient, too merciful, allowing his conspirators to grow in power, he is weak and will also be overthrown.” 

Galatea closed her eyes. “A good king knows when to use an iron fist and when to lend a helping hand. A good king must know this, lest his kingdom crumble.” She opened her eyes and looked at Minthara. “These are my father’s words, and although neither he or I are kings, these are the rules I follow in my leadership of this group.” 

She took a step towards Minthara. “Had I been merciless, I would not have you as an ally, and we would have lost many battles. But, if I hadn’t been ruthless when killing the goblins, Dror and Gut, I wouldn’t be standing here.” Their faces were close and it was at that moment that Galatea noticed how she was a few inches taller than Minthara. They stared at each other’s eyes, the fierce passion in Minthara’s being met with Galatea’s cold resolve. 

Minthara was impressed. It was not every day that someone was able to stand up to her. She smirked, briefly, and then said “Very well. I am satisfied.” 

Galatea nodded, taking a step back. “Good. Or else I would have believed you have a death wish.” She cracked her neck to the side, yawned and said “It is quite late, and the day ahead of us will be long. Rest well.” 

“You too.” Minthara said, and they made their separate ways towards their respective tents. 

That night, when she laid in bed, Minthara replayed the conversation in her head, thinking also of all their past interactions. The more time passed, the more Minthara began to admire Galatea. She was strong willed yet listened. She could be ruthless and still show kindness - something Minthara did not understand but could still admire. The tiefling’s intimidating demeanor was a wall she had put up to protect herself, but the drow could see its cracks, in the way she spoke with the other companions, in how she laughed and saw beauty in broken things. Minthara longed to know more about her, to tear down that icy facade until the blue haired girl was laid completely bare to her, in both body and soul. 

It was when Minthara’s thoughts began to take a turn for the carnal, that she opened her eyes, looking at her tent’s ceiling. “Straj.” She cursed to herself. Maybe her feelings for the tiefling were deeper than she had previously thought. Putting a hand on her face, she decided to think on this tomorrow and for now, only hoped for destiny to have mercy on her heart and her soul.  

[ziploc849]

Today I’m thinking about what would happen if Bells Hells and The Mighty Nein met.

Caduceus Orym and Yasha talking about flowers, and Orym silently wondering what flowers Will might have grown if he had been buried in the grove.

Beau and Ashton start a fist fight at some point. They both just think it’s friendly sparing but everyone else is worried they’re gonna fucking kill each other

FCG talking to Jester and Caduceus about faith and only leaving the conversation more confused than he started it.

Kingsley would probably think Laudna is just the fucking coolest and would absolutely adore Pate

Veth and Chetney would probably get into a real actual fist fight. I don’t know what would cause it it just feels right to me. Chetney would go full werewolf and scare the shit out of everyone

Caleb would probably get concerned seeing the lightning on Imogene arms before realizing no she’s not a scourger and calming down. He would then probably ask many, many questions.

And on top of that imagine the Nein realizing Ashton has fucking dunumancy juice in his brain??? Caleb’s (and Essek’s, if he’s there) panic and confusion (mostly confusion) about all the shit Ashton can do when he rages.

And just. Fucking imagine the Mighty Nein being told about all the moon bullshit. Imagine Beau and Caleb having a mini heart attack cause they remember that one conversation with that librarian who really liked Ruidis. Imagine the MN hearing city on the moon and just thinking “oh shit not again”.

And then imagine BH learning about what happened with the Nein. Imagine them hearing “yeah our friend died and then came back bad so we killed him and then he came back fine” all while vaguely gesturing to Kingsley and everyone just kinda. Glances at Laudna. Imagine them being told about facilitating the ending of an entire war and Chetney especially being so confused because how did he never hear about this?? That seems important (if he was still in Wildmount at the time idk)

Just. The chaos of Bells Hells and the Mighty Nein meeting makes me happy

[cabinofimagines]

A Graveyard Smash

and here is the last one of the year! Hope you guys enjoyed our shorter but still there Halloween fics :) Pairing: Platonic the seven + a bunch of other ones x reader Word count: 2k Warnings: none! -Asnyox < prev.

You didn’t know what to expect from the grove as a party destination, yet you were slightly blown away. You noticed how most of the decorations were themed around the destruction of nature- pollution was replicated by snack stashes for the satyrs (and perhaps some fauns from Camp Jupiter, you were certain you saw Don somewhere sneaking around), there were red and yellow lights all around, simulating fire and there were many skeletons (which, given how Nico had immediately left after the group call two days ago, probably was courtesy of him). You didn’t know how to feel about the possible real skeletons laying around, so you opted to ignore the possibility of Nico summoning them. 

However, you also saw that Meg and her siblings had deemed that to be a rather serious theme to decorate in, so here and there you found some more, handcrafted of reusable materials, generic halloween decorations. Except for carved pumpkins. There were so many pumpkins, but they were all uncarved. You guessed they didn’t want to show actual body horror to the dryads. There was some old-timey Halloween music playing, although you were unable to find any speakers. Guess the trees to really speak to you if you listen.  

As you saw Leo and Jason’s costumes you just knew that Leo had bribed Meg to know what the theme of the party would be like. He must have, why else would he think of these costumes? You had to admit, you didn’t know Leo owned a hat this tall, but you didn’t put it above him to have crafted it himself. 

“I don’t think the Onceler’s hat was that big?”  You walked up to the duo, “Or the Lorax’s mustache that big.”  

“I am lucky to not have to deal with the orange paint,”. Jason grimaced. Leo elbowed him. 

“Say the line Jason!”  Leo whispered, loudly. Jason sighed and deadpanned. 

“I am the Lorax! I speak for the trees!”  Jason tried to make a more spooky sound at the end of the sentence, after which Leo jumped forward, borderline belting.

“How ba-a-a-ad can I be?” Leo’s ‘be’ ended, somehow, on a S-tone so it rhymed with Jason’s phrase. He was grinning proudly. Jason tried to hide it, but he did seem to get amusement out of his friends' behavior. You laughed. 

“Jace, I have to be honest with you,” you looked at your friend, “I had a bet with Nico that you would be a tree. Will won though, he guessed the Lorax.”  

“You had a bet?”  Jason shook his head, “Let me guess, you do have a spare tree costume and want me to put it on so you win?”  You laughed again. 

“I wish,” you turned to Leo, “How is your hat staying up when it’s this tall?”  

“Support beams made out of metal rods and foam!”  Leo’s eyes sparkled, “carton in between, I can show you after the party, I swear it’s so structurally sound. Annabeth would love to know the skeleton of. this hat.”  Leo pouted,“ It’s too bad she has been so busy with school lately, she would have loved to work on this thing together.”   

“Everyone was suffering under me indeed,” you sighed dramatically, intentionally showing off your outfit. 

“Wait, you’re-“ Jason got up real close to one of your sleeves, “That’s my English essay! How the fuck did you get your hands on that!” Jason shivered, “I still haven’t heard back from it, I sure hope I passed.”  

“I shalt not say, dear Grace, whether you passed or not,”. You smiled, “However, I have my sources and thankfully an amazing artist who hand copied all of your work.” 

“Luckily I do not have anything on here,” Leo laughed, “Dying was the best decision for that.”

  —- 

You found two sheet ghosts with cowboy hats a bit further out, talking to each other. 

“But you’re so cute though!” Hazel exclaimed, “I’m sure Nico meant no harm.”  

“I know it was just weird seeing that.”  Frank sighed, “Hedge seemed really happy though.”  

“Boo!”  You yelled and the pair jumped up. After a second Frank leaned back. You couldn’t see his face underneath the sheet, but you figured he looked upset. 

“That’s our line (Y/n)!”  He faked exasperation. 

“Yeah! We’re the cow-boos after all!”  Hazel snickered while saying her phrase. 

“Cow-boo? Oh- I get it,”. You smiled, “Yeah that is funny.” 

“It doesn’t seem like that when you say that,”. Hazel sighed, “Well, what are you then?” 

“Oh, for you I have my left leg,”. You smiled deviously, “Praetor's have a lot of paperwork after all.” You held out your leg. Frank and Hazel moved their eye holes to see more clearly as they bowed down to take a look.

“Uh Frank,” Hazel hesitated, “I think we forgot something.” Hazel pointed at your knee, “I did not fill out this document which we had to hand in yesterday.” 

“I did uh, I did not either.”  

“Fuck” they said in unision. 

“Also how did you get these?” Hazel sounded panicked, “These are classified documents!” You laughed.

“Look, most of my costume is deadlines,” you added a spooky ‘ooooooohhhhhh’ to the last word, “but for you two I also choose to be a security breach. I can give you the name of the one who gave Calypso the files.” 

“That would be great.” Frank said, “Uh, Hazel, maybe we should quickly IM someone at Camp Jupiter about the deadlines we missed.”  

“Yeah, also (Y/n) you better hide your legs or we will steal your pants.” Hazel glared at you. You slowly backed away. 

“How about dinner first?” You joked, as you ran for it. 

——

You quickly weaved around the crowd, trying your best to get away from Hazel and Frank. You stumbled into what seemed to be the heart of a gathering. On one side of the circle you had Rock, Paper and Scissors. On the other side you had The Argo II, together with the seven demigod heroes who defeated Gaea. 

Except that Will was just standing on the side. You joined him quietly. 

“This was Nico’s plan?” You asked him and he sighed, 

“Yes and he stood on me being Percy.”  Will looked at you, “As if he wanted to rub in that Percy was his first crush.” 

“You look nothing like Percy though,” You laughed, “You’re blonde.”  

“Nico wanted to force me to wear a wig,” Will shook his head, “I opposed him, wigs are itchy.” Will smiled softly, “Although the Cocoa Puffs are adorable, and it warms my heart to see Hedge in his element like this.” 

“I look nothing like Will!” Percy’s voice sounded loudly. He seemed offended, “At least Frank looks really cute.”  Percy pouted. One particular Cocoa Puff puffed out their chest in pride. Nico stood in the middle of it all, dressed at what you assumed to be a Reyna costume, as Reyna stood next to him, dressed in Nico’s clothes. Nico could hardly stop smiling at the reactions to the Cocoa Puffs. You were about to ask Will something when

 “BAM!” Hege yelled as he hit you from behind with a blow-up bat, “YOU JUST GOT ARGO’ED!” 

“Amazing,” you looked Hedge up and down. He was wearing a boat around his middle, and on his head was a … Festus Hat? Hedge looked like an excited child. 

“Whatcha think, huh? Valdez even delivered on the hat!” Hedge let out an excited bleat, “Although it was all the kids idea,” he pointed at Nico, “I’m really happy to be included though! It’s been a while since all my cupcakes were in the same spot with me! And now I even got two batches! OH! I see Zhang over there, gotta hit him too!” And Hedge ran off. 

After a moment of silence Will and you locked eyes, and both started laughing. 

“He’s having a blast,” Will smiled, “Nico was right to get Hedge involved. How’s the scaring going?” Will turned to you. 

“Hazel and Frank are panicking about some forms they forgot and the security breach,” You grinned devilishly, “Jason is just mostly disappointed, and I still have to show the Rock, Paper Scissors trio my outfit.” 

—

Annabeth hated your outfit. Whether it was the fact that you got her only failing grade paper on the back, or the fact that she did not want to think about the last minute mistakes she made in two of the other papers she would not tell you. However, she did say she would find Leo to, and you quote, ‘definitely not set fire to your costume and ruin Calypso’s hard work’. Percy held in his laughter until Annabeth was out of earshot. 

“So where’s my work?” Percy eagerly looked around your jacket, and you pointed him towards  the sleeve. 

“Sally was eager to give it to me, she seems proud of your grades, even if they aren’t that high.” you said, and Percy had a bit of an embarrassed blush on his face. 

“Whenever I get a passing grade she keeps it,” Percy explained, “to remind me what I am capable of.” He was still inspecting your arm, but suddenly stopped, “Wait, is this- I wrote this when I was 7!” he was now a mess, “Please don’t tell me you read it.”

“I did, Percy.” you cackled crazily for a moment, “Percy Jackson or should I say Aqualad!  I am your embarrassing past!” Percy glared at you. 

“Just because I wrote a Aquaman and Little Mermaid crossover does not mean I wanted to BE aqualad (Y/n).” 

“I think it does,” Piper spoke up, “Also I appreciate the effort but I will not be looking for my work, thanks.”

“Aw, Pipes, come on,” you begged her but she shook her head. 

“Deadlines cannot be scary unless you face them, so I am procrastinating.”

“Unfair!” you glared at her, “Piper Mclean I will come for you! You can run, but deadlines always catch up to you!” 

After a moment of silence all three of you laughed. 

Your moment was interrupted by Meg calling for attention. She was dressed as Gollum, while Apollo stood next to her in a Frodo outfit. A bit further in the back stood who you guessed to be Grover from the satyr legs, dressed as Gandalf. 

“It is time to announce the winners of tonight's costume contest!” she yelled, and everyone cheered, “We have seen many amazing costumes, but one duo certainly blew us away.”

Percy, who still stood next to you, breathed out a soft ‘dam’.

“What? You really thought you would win with ‘Rock, Paper, Scissors’?” you whispered and he just looked at you.

“I could dream okay?”

“Please come forth!” Meg paused, “Gideon Nav and Harrowhark Nonagesimus!” After a moment, filled with cheers, Calypso and Thalia took the stage looking absolutely stunning and creepy. Calypso was dressed as Harrowhark, with intricate face paint and basically wearing a skeleton around herself. Thalia was Gideon, with more shabby facepaint, the iconic sunglasses and with a six feet claymore on her back. They both bowed, looking up smiling. 

“By my rules,” Meg continued after a moment, “You get to decide where to host next year, so where will it be?” 

Thalia and Calypso looked at each other and Thalia shrugged, “I don’t know where I will be with the hunt, so it’s up to you Calypso.” Calypso looked a bit panicked, before taking a deep breath. 

“I guess it will be at the Waystation then!” she announced, and there were loud cheers from the crowd. 

As the party resumed, you hoped Calypso would be earlier with the invitations than Meg had been. After all, working with deadlines was pretty scary.

[gloomstalkertav]

Summary: In which all of Act II is summed up in one angst-riddled chapter, and no tieflings are spared the horrors of canon.

Part 6 of 10

Warnings: Slaps roof of chapter: This bad boy can fit so much angst! TW: trauma flashbacks, semi-graphic descriptions of canon character deaths and not exactly canon but not not canon character deaths, and super unhappy sad times pretty much all the way around.

Word Count: ~8.2k

View story masterpost | Read on Ao3

“Listen —” 

But instead of saying anything more, Alfira snatches up her tankard and takes her first real drink of the interview: a long, slow, fortifying draught. When she sets it down, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes overbright, but her voice is strong and steady as she resumes:

“Listen —” 

But instead of saying anything more, Alfira snatches up her tankard and takes her first real drink of the interview: a long, slow, fortifying draught. When she sets it down, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes overbright, but her voice is strong and steady as she resumes:

“I know this part will be hard. For me, too. I don’t like to think of the Shadow-Cursed lands any more than I can help, but … it’s an important part of the story. Tav’s story. Personally, I think it’s where she sort of … came into her own as a hero. I saw a lot of her at Last Light and she was … different, somehow, than she was at the druids’ grove. Older, almost. More sure of herself. Like she knew what she was doing now. In fact, the only time I think I ever saw her panicked was when she found out you were missing.”

Alfira’s eyes flit to Zevlor’s, but his are fixed on his tankard — the contents of which he's barely sampled, nor does he allow himself to do so now: penance for the little shiver of satisfied pleasure he feels at hearing of Tav’s concern. Not that a few sips of weak ale will make a difference. Zevlor knows there’s not enough alcohol in the Elfsong to dull the pain of what he must remember next.

“Anyway,” concludes Alfira, shrugging on a brisk, business-like tone, “none of us would have made it out of that place alive if it weren’t for Tav, and we’re doing this for her, so…” The bard reclaims her quill, dips it in ink, and shakes her parchment out in front of her: her sword and shield against the trial ahead. “So, all I really need to hear is her part: how she rescued you from Moonrise. You don't have to talk about what happened when we … when you were captured. Or about being tortured or whatever else that cult did.”

The privacy curtain ripples. Alfira starts, but the dusky tail and leather boots visible beneath the velvet hem are already hurrying past. She jumps again at a sound from across the table: Zevlor clearing his throat to speak.

“Torture—”

But his voice fails. He swallows hard and closes his eyes. And when he starts again, it is not for Tav, though it is Alfira's picture of the hero she became at Last Light that lends him strength. It is for Alfira herself, and every other tiefling outcast he betrayed: another sort of penance, and one long overdue.

“Torture,” says Zevlor at last, “would have been a blessing I did not deserve.” 

Yet he longed for it. For whips or racks or needles or knives. An enemy to fight, a punishment against which to rage. But his tomb-like prison was too narrow for Zevlor to lift his arms any significant degree, let alone assault its translucent sides, and the shrouded figures that occasionally wandered across his limited field of vision did not spare him even a passing taunt. 

His was the suffering of utter stillness. The hell of frozen inaction. A doom befitting his crime...

… Screams. A spray of red, bright in the darkness. The metallic scent of blood. The thud of falling bodies all around while he stood passive and unmoving, hypnotised by the voice caressing his mind: promising power, purpose, a place in Baldur’s Gate, the realisation of every fantastic possibility he craved—

Zevlor ripped his mind free of the unbearable memory, and, in a futile effort to keep it at bay, shook his head until his neck ought to have ached. But sensation did not exist inside his prison. He felt neither hunger nor thirst, heat nor cold; his body registered no physical pain. How long had he been trapped here, fading in and out of nightmare? It felt like an age — like a lifetime had passed since he’d made the decision to lead his people through the fringes of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, since the cultists had ambushed them, since he’d heard his own voice command their surrender — but it might only have been years, perhaps mere tendays. The dim, red light outside his prison never changed. There was no way for Zevlor to mark the passage of time. Avernus had been the same...

…The blood-red sky broken only by the crackling lightning of the black Companion. Elturel’s clock tower toppled - time another blessing the gods had revoked. Life reduced to short bouts of restless sleep between the swinging of his sword, the bracing of his shield, the holding of the line against demons and devils and the risen corpses of his own fallen friends. A fight for survival he feared would never end. Perhaps it hadn’t. Perhaps the ascent and all that followed were nothing more than fevered dreams: his exile from Elturel, the road to Baldur’s Gate, the struggles at the grove, the fight against the goblins, Tav—

Zevlor’s mind resurfaced blearily. He could not guess at how long he’d been under. But outside his prison, shadows shifted in the weak, red light and muffled echoes filtered through.

“… those without the tadpoles?”

“Let them rot. The Bonedaughter wants more bodies.”

“Surely a few more wouldn’t go amiss? In case the Harpers and those bloody rogue True Souls find their way down here?”

“General Ketheric says not to worry, they’re no longer a threat. He has the Duke and the Nightsong, and he’ll be…”

The voices drifted away, leaving Zevlor once more at the mercy of stillness and silence and stewing madness, his only small comfort the knowledge he would, at least, be permitted to die. He wished it would come soon. Death would be infinitely better than the hells inside his head. He tried vainly to rally his thoughts, to pick through what he had heard — minutes, hours ago? — for useful meaning, but the words drifted anchorless through his brain, swallowed into the roiling sea of distorted memory…

“…wants more bodies...” But there were too many bodies already: his platoon of Hellriders, the soldiers for whose lives he was responsible, lay dead in heaps at his feet. Or were they his fellow refugees? Blank faces blended. The lifeless eyes all looked the same. He no longer knew which hell he was in. “…bloody rogue true souls…” True Soul. That’s what the Absolute offered him. Her honeyed voice enveloped the sounds of people — his people? — fighting and falling; her visions subsumed his sight. He saw himself entering Baldur’s Gate not a beggar, but a leader, a conqueror, a paladin once more; toppling that godless city by the river and rebuilding it in her holy image: a second, better Elturel, a home for his displaced people, and a worthy offering to any beautiful, raven-haired tieflings who would one day make their way there. Until the voice slithered away and the golden vision vanished, leaving him to cruel hands and cold chains and dying screams that rent his soul as he was dragged into the dark. “…said not to worry…” Tav’s face smiled up at him, silhouetted in the grove’s flickering torchlight, her hand warm on his arm. “We’ll figure something out. Don’t worry. Zevlor?”

Even in memory, her voice carried a tangible clarity. Zevlor blinked back to hazy consciousness again. But Tav’s voice remained.

“Zevlor? Zevlor!”

The roll of his name in her accent, strangely muffled though it was, was an undeserved comfort. As was the vision of Tav that swam into focus before his eyes: slightly wavering, but distinct, like a reflection seen through water. Was he dreaming again? He must be. Only this was not a memory of Tav he could place. She wore armour Zevlor did not recognise, her dark hair held off her face by many intricate plaits, and, though she still carried her rapier, a short sword dangled at her other hip. The steel of the two mismatched blades glinted in the dim, red light. She stretched out a hand to touch him and hit translucent barrier instead.

Tav was standing outside his prison.

Which meant madness had claimed Zevlor at last. Or death. Perhaps the gods had conjured an image of her to guide him to whatever plane waited beyond. Charitable of them, he supposed, though they might have made her look less horrified. Unfamiliar lines of fear and anguish broke like lightning across her storm-coloured face as she pounded with both fists on the barrier between them.

“Zevlor! Can you hear me?”

The thuds reverberated around Zevlor like rolls of thunder, disrupting his precarious mind’s attempts to grasp her words. One thing alone was clear: Tav could not get to him, divine emissary though she must be. Was the prison preventing his soul escaping his body, somehow? Zevlor tried to relax, to release, to follow her voice, but both it and her reflection were fading back into red shadows. Panic rattled in his brain. Little though he deserved even the sight of Tav, he could not stand to lose it. But new figures were parading past his prison now: another, taller tiefling; a slight, pale elf; two men, one sporting purple robes, the other curling horns Zevlor thought he must once have seen. The man turned his head towards the prison, and Zevlor recognised the stone eye: the Blade of Frontiers.

These were Tav’s companions, he realised, or some of them at least. Was it ... was it possible they were truly here? Had she come to rescue him yet again? Or had his sanity finally shattered? Zevlor’s vision flickered as the dark maw of delirium tugged at the edges of his mind, threatening to drag him under. He struggled against it. Muffled voices overlapped in argument — but were they real or in his head? — until Tav’s rose above them—

“I don’t give a tuppenny fuck how many mind flayers there are, Astarion, I am not going to let him die!”

—and all Zevlor's fragmented thoughts were extinguished by a hideous crush of sound. Pressure engulfed him. White steam obscured his sight. He toppled forward, his arms abruptly free but too slow to break his fall, and hit the ground face first. Pain radiated from the base of his horns to the back of his skull. Heartbeats he could once more count pulsed loud in his ears. He lay still for several of them, un-thinking, simply breathing in and out, lungs greedily accepting his ragged gasps of rank air. Then someone tripped over his prone legs. Zevlor grunted in discomfort, automatically lifting his head. And the world outside his body impressed itself upon his newly-woken senses.

It was chaos.

Shouts, the twang and hiss of arrows, a sulphurous smell of what must be some infernal magic, and the unmistakable thunks of steel striking flesh filled Zevlor’s mind. No. His ears. This fight was not a memory. It was happening here, now.

On instinct, he rolled to his side — clumsily; his body more cumbersome than he remembered — in time to see four taloned feet attached to a something his brain could not name scuttling straight for his face. He braced his hands against squelchy ground to push himself up and away, but his arms refused to bear weight. He threw one across his eyes, steeling himself for the gouge of claws that never came. A light splat of liquid hit Zevlor’s vambrace instead. He lowered it, and watched a thin rapier retracted from the top of what his eyes insisted was a four-legged brain. Then boots he did not recognise kicked the thing aside, and a tail he did brushed the limp end of his own as Tav lowered her weapons and crouched next to his face.

“Zevlor! Can you move?” she yelled over the clamour — a bellow, the breaking of glass, and the crackle of flames, close enough for sweat to bead on the back of Zevlor’s neck. “Come on, you've got to get u-ah!”

The word ended in a cry. Tav dropped hard to her knees, both blades tumbling to the ground. The edge of the short sword missed Zevlor's bare hand by a breath, and only because he succeeded in struggling to a seat: some hidden vestige of strength igniting within him at Tav’s distress. Her eyes were squeezed shut; she clutched her head as if struck from behind by a pommel. But the enemy levitating slowly towards her wielded no weapons, apart from whip-like tentacles and the razor-sharp nails of its outstretched hand.

A mind flayer. Zevlor knew the monster instantly, though he’d never seen one before; nor would it have held any particular terror for him — he'd met plenty worse in Avernus — were it not for the tentacles wriggling purposefully towards the back of Tav’s bent head. Zevlor found himself suddenly on his feet, the fallen short sword in his hand, with no idea how he'd accomplished either and no time to think of it now. He swung. Tav’s sword, sharp — but slighter than he was accustomed to — missed the meat of the tentacles and sliced the outstretched tip of one instead. Distraction enough. The mind flayer stumbled as its feet touched ground. Its small, orange eyes locked on Zevlor’s, shrieking its indignant rage — not into the shrouded air between them but directly into Zevlor’s head. He could feel the creature’s consciousness grate against his, then twist and contort, becoming less a shriek than a song: an enticing stream of notes that wrapped themselves tenderly around his thoughts, coaxing, cajoling, commanding him to lower his blade.

"Enough!" Zevlor heard himself shout, voice cracking with long disuse. "My mind is my own!"

He gripped the pommel of the sword until his knuckles popped, lifted it over his head, and brought it down on the creature’s neck where it erupted in a fury of radiant sparks — a ghost of the holy power Zevlor once commanded — and passed cleanly through rubbery flesh. The mind flayer's body toppled first. Its severed head followed, tentacles still twitching. Zevlor merely adjusted his stance and swung again. And again and again, riding the surge of familiar power until the last sparks of divine wrath were gone, and there was no coherent form left to aim at, and the silver blade of the borrowed sword was black with alien innards. Blinking drops of the same noxious fluid from his eyes, Zevlor swivelled, searching for more enemies to smite, but the battle around him was dying an equally swift and bloody death.

A few paces away, a second mind flayer corpse lay charred and smoking. A third hung pinned by arrows to a wall, uneven and spongy as the chamber’s ground. Near this violent tableau, the pale elf was bent double, tugging salvageable arrows from more fallen, oozing brains; while across from him, just visible through the smoke and dim, red light, the Blade of Frontiers and the other tiefling — Karlach, Zevlor’s brain belatedly prompted — helped another figure clamber from an eerily steaming pod. Zevlor blinked at this, his sword arm faltering as his brain made another connection, then whirled in place. An identical pod loomed behind him. His prison. The narrow, sensation-less, time-less tomb he'd been trapped in for who knew how long, where he had been so sure he would die. Where he would have died, if not for...

Zevlor let the short sword fall from his fingers as his eyes sought Tav, but she was already on her feet, tripping over bits of pulverised mind flayer to meet him. Her cobalt eyes sparkled with tears that might have been lingering headache or joy; for she was smiling: the exact smile she'd offered Zevlor in his every memory of her. A wave of dizzy unreality shuddered through him. He wet his blood-flecked lips, almost afraid to ask:

“Are you real?”

His voice was a croak he barely recognised. Tav's, too, was unusually distorted as she answered through what sounded like both laughter and a wild sob.

“Yes!” She tore frantically at her fingerless leather gloves to cup Zevlor’s gore-streaked face in clean, bare hands. “Yes, I'm real. I'm here. And you're here. You're alive. You're alive,” she repeated, as if she, too, found this miracle hard to grasp, and ran her fingers desperately over his face to prove it: her thumbs tracing the sharp, infernal ridges of his cheeks, the base of his horns, the outline of his ears, her long nails tangling in the loose, unkempt strands of his hair.

“Alive,” Zevlor echoed, hardly aware of his words or anything else that wasn’t the blissful feel of Tav’s skin against his. “Hells. I - I didn't think I was going to make it. But how did you … how—”

“They told me you were taken.” Tav's face was so close to Zevlor's he could taste each of her rapid, shallow breaths. “But when we rescued the other prisoners in Moonrise, you weren't with them, and none of them knew where you’d gone. I looked everywhere, all over the shadowlands and that whole bloody tower and I couldn't find you. I was afraid—”

She broke off: whether unwilling to name her fear or because she, like Zevlor, had become aware of footsteps behind her, he wasn't sure. Careful to do nothing that would dislodge Tav’s mindlessly stroking hands, he threw a glance over her shoulder and watched her companions tromp into view: the pale elf and the wizard from one direction, Karlach and Wyll from the other, supporting between them two new figures whose grimy, tattered tabards proclaimed the insignia of the Flaming Fist. Hope welled in Zevlor’s parched throat. If Tav had rescued prisoners, and more were alive down here, then surely that meant there was a chance…

“The others. The ambush,” he whispered against the skin of her wrist, unable to look her in the eye as he asked, “Did you find them? Did they survive?”

It took Tav a second too long to respond.

“Don't - don't worry about that now,” she stuttered, her hands sliding slowly from his face. “There’ll be time for stories and - and explanations later. First, we need to get you out of here. All of you,” she added, turning to the two new arrivals; and the loss of her warmth and her ominous non-answer left Zevlor abruptly shrunken and cold.

Battle, and the ecstasy of reuniting with Tav, had driven the memories which had haunted his imprisonment temporarily from Zevlor’s mind. They caught him up in a breathless rush — screams; that spray of wet red, bright in the living shadows; the sickening scent of spilled blood — and escorting them was a new, unconsidered horror: how Tav would react when she found him out. What would she say, how would she look at him, when she realised she had spent all that time searching for, not a victim of the cult, but a villain every bit as much to blame? Guilt, grief, and pure selfish panic washed over Zevlor so palpably he swayed. Voices rose and fell around him, but they sounded strangely distant, as if he were once again a prisoner in a pod.

“I’m sorry — you want us to climb back up that wretched hole we just spent an hour climbing down? And what — leave a note with one of those brain things asking Ketheric to pretty please pause whatever he’s planning with the Nightsong until we get back?”

“Astarion’s not wrong. Finding and stopping Ketheric has got to be our first priority, surely?”

“I’d say destroying the Absolute deserves a slight precedence.”

“And finding Zariel’s asset. Wyll’s not becoming Kyton food on my watch, soldier.”

“And we are - mmph - we’re not going anywhere till we find the Duke. I heard one of those cultists saying Ketheric’s got him somewhere below. If I can just - arrgh - borrow a sword...”

“Not to rub proverbial salt in a very literal wound, but as you can barely lift yourself, I’m not sure how you expect to lift a sword.”

“It’s that or fall on one when we return without our - urgh - charge!”

“Enough.”

Tav’s command was quiet, almost careless, and all that was needed to snuff out the other voices. Including those in Zevlor’s head. He blinked away the intrusive visions and refocused on Tav, who had reined in her frantic joy and replaced it with an authoritative calm: comfortable on her face, and as inherently comforting to see as the first hint of wisteria sunrise after an endless-seeming stretch of night.

“Gale’s right.” She addressed the unhappy female Fist doing her damnedest not to lean on Karlach. “Neither of you is in any condition to go running after Ketheric. But that’s where we were headed before we found all of you, and,” - her eyes drifted in Zevlor’s direction before snapping back - “finding him is the priority right now. If the Duke is really down there, you have my word, we’ll do everything you would have done and more to bring him back.”

Tav held the Fist’s gaze until the woman grudgingly relented, or was simply unable to stand any longer — she nodded once, then slumped against Karlach’s arm. That settled, Tav turned to Zevlor.

“Can you help them out of here if I tell you the way?”

A task. A mission. An actionable item to occupy his body and distract his mind.

“Of course,” he agreed without hesitation, and threw himself immediately into the job at hand.

While Tav and her companions collected themselves and their gear, Zevlor picked a careful path across oozing pieces of mind flayer to Karlach, and helped her transfer the Fist’s arm across his shoulders. His own muscles, no longer cushioned by adrenaline, wept at the added weight. He ignored them; his body deserved far worse punishment than this. He waited only for the second Fist to gather his comparatively steady feet underneath him, then set a laborious pace across the oddly fleshy ground. Tav hurried ahead of him, ordering her companions on in the opposite direction while she herself showed Zevlor the way out.

“Through there. Stay to the right,” — she indicated a passage every bit as dim and unpleasant as the room he was to quit — “and you’ll come to a dead end. You’ll have to climb for a bit, but Shadowheart and Lae’zel are standing by at the top. Call up, and as soon as they can hear you, they’ll help. And here. Take this.” She tucked her short sword, hastily wiped clean of ichor, carefully into Zevlor’s belt. “Just in case.”

Zevlor paused, resting the Fist’s dead weight against the ground, and shook his head. Loose hair fell past his horns, tickling his face; he swiped his free hand uselessly across it as he protested:

“You’ll need that more than I.”

“It won’t make a difference,” Tav insisted, fumbling something from around her wrist Zevlor could not see in the darkness; but he understood what it must be when she closed the short space between them, stretched on her toes and gathered the limp strands of hair from his face, fastening them behind his head. “We threw all the steel we had at Ketheric before and barely scratched his armor. I don’t think swords are going to win us this fight. It’ll have to be speeches.” Her lips twitched as she dropped her hands. “I’ll get it back from you if I manage to pull it off.”

Tav's tone was light, but, as she leaned back to inspect her handiwork, her calm assurance flickered. And for a moment, she was simply staring at him: her cobalt eyes wandering his face, as if memorising its every sharp angle; clearly worried she was seeing it, all of him, for the last time. In a way, Zevlor thought, she was.

“You will,” he said in lieu of farewell, and it rang with bittersweet surety.

For he had no doubts whatsoever. Tav and her companions would defeat the General, the cult, perhaps the Absolute itself — nothing seemed beyond her anymore. But when she returned and discovered the part he had played in his people's destruction, Zevlor was equally certain she would never again look at him like that: with such tender care and concern and, he'd once allowed himself to hope, love.

Ale dribbles down Zevlor’s constricted throat as he takes a few clumsy gulps. But this draught seems less fortifying than the first. On the contrary, he feels distinctly ill. His fingers tremble again as he replaces the tankard on the table. He wonders if Lakrissa can have put something in his drink. He’s noticed her colourful hair bob by the privacy curtain more often than strictly warranted while he's talked.

Ale dribbles down Zevlor’s constricted throat as he takes a few clumsy gulps. But this draught seems less fortifying than the first. On the contrary, he feels distinctly ill. His fingers tremble again as he replaces the tankard on the table. He wonders if Lakrissa can have put something in his drink. He’s noticed her colourful hair bob by the privacy curtain more often than strictly warranted while he's talked.

“So,” prompts Alfira, “I… assume you stayed at Moonrise after that? I mean, none of us ever saw you at Last Light.”

Despite her efforts to sound gentle, unpressing, Zevlor can tell the bard is eager to move the story on; to put the Shadow-Cursed lands behind her for good. But the awful memories he's already been forced to relive and the ones still ahead, not to mention the ale now churning his stomach, have shaken Zevlor's resolve. He imagines refusing to speak; leaving the interview here. Simply rising from the rickety wooden chair and walking out of the Elfsong's open doors into the night. Even with Lakrissa's help, Alfira could hardly stop him.

But something does. An innate sense of duty, an ingrained commitment to justice, the almost physical need to atone for his failures in some real if negligible way, keeps Zevlor bound to his seat; just as it had at Moonrise Towers those many months ago.

“Yes,” he sighs, “I stayed at Moonrise. At least, until Tav returned.”

“Zevlor?”

A voice he knew without thinking roused Zevlor instantly from a slumped and unrestful doze. Harder to identify were his surroundings.

He was seated at a long wooden table, a sword that wasn’t his laid out on the bench at his side, in a room that, in spite of its expensive windows and intricate tapestries and paintings obscuring the stone walls, had the cramped spartan beds and unmistakable stale odour of military barracks. And the memory came sidling reluctantly back. This was the cult's barracks in Moonrise, where the githyanki, Lae'zel, had assigned him to sit after leading the three rescued prisoners from the top of the ruined tower. Zevlor uncurled his spine, and hissed in discomfort. His back was stiffer than he could ever remember it being, every muscle in his body fiercely cramped. The result of tendays of disuse, followed by battle and a painstaking climb out of that mind flayer hell. And he supposed sitting hunched over and unsupported for the last few hours had not helped.

He shifted on the bench again, more gingerly, and the blanket one of the Harpers had thrown over the sticky, gore-slick armor he'd refused to remove slipped down his arms. Zevlor snatched at it automatically, but faster hands beat him there. They arranged the itchy wool more securely over his shoulders, then removed the empty plate and tin cup he’d knocked over in his doze to a spot further down the table. He dropped his eyes to the ground and watched as boots still splattered with blood and worse stepped around him to retrieve a fallen chair. It was lifted and set right at the head of the table beside him, and a creak of old wood informed Zevlor that Tav had sat down.

Neither spoke. Zevlor did not know for how long; he was out of the habit of counting time. Nor could he interpret Tav’s silence with his eyes still locked on the smooth stone floor. He contemplated asking how her mission had fared, but if she was here she had obviously succeeded, and pleasantries only delayed the inevitable: the moment she would broach the subject, and he would have no choice but to explain and to watch her wisteria face grow stormy with disappointment and disgust. He dreaded it more than he had his own death in that pod.

But when Tav did speak, it was only to ask, “Have you slept at all? I mean, actually slept? Laid down? You can’t get a real rest like that. If you don’t fancy any of the cots, you could try Ketheric’s bed. I’ve seen it, it’s quite grand. And he won’t be needing it anymore.”

Zevlor knew the younger woman well enough by now to recognise her babble for what it was: nerves. Though what she had to be nervous about, he could not fathom.

“Or, if you’d rather, I can have someone draw you a bath? Or find you something else to wear, at least, if you want to get out of—”

Unable to bear another second of sweet considerations he did not deserve and could not accept, Zevlor interrupted, his voice a hopeless rasp, “I know I don't deserve to ask, but ... will you tell me if the others … if any of them survived?”

Tav hesitated: one second, then two. Then—

“Some of them,” she admitted. “Rolan kept the children safe, and they and a few others managed to escape and find refuge with the Harpers. A few more were captured and brought here to Moonrise Towers where we rescued them. They’re all at Last Light Inn together. I can take you there. Now, if you like.”

Zevlor winced, tail spasming under the blanket, at this offer, but did not bother it with a response. Instead, he asked, “Who didn't?”

Her pause was longer this time. Too long. After a minute, Zevlor raised his eyes enough to watch Tav’s bare hands twist together in her lap. She had shed her unfamiliar armor, but, he assumed by the sweat stains and the distinctive wear on the knees of the dark cloth trousers, was still in the soft kit she had worn underneath.

“I … I don't know if that’s the best… or if this is the right time for…” Her hands flexed convulsively as she struggled for words. “I mean … does that really matter right now?”

Zevlor sat up, letting the blanket rustle to the floor, and, at last, looked Tav in the face. It was thinner, he noticed in the candlelight, the infernal ridges of her cheekbones more prominent than when they had first met in the grove. Her modest horns, too, were more obvious now her wild hair was plaited down. What had her own road here been like? Had supplies run short in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, or had tendays of battles and the worry she had wasted on him carved those hollows in her cheeks, drawn those new lines along her brow? He wished he could ask. He wished they could have a different conversation — the sort of heart-to-hearts they’d had what felt like a lifetime ago. But Tav’s heart no longer belonged anywhere near his.

And when Zevlor opened his mouth, his words were not for the friend he was soon to lose or the lover he would never have, but the leader he knew would understand:

“Would it matter to you? If it were your companions, the people you were responsible for — would you need to know?”

Tav had no argument for this. She held Zevlor’s gaze a few seconds more, then swallowed hard, nodded once, and began to recite:

“Asharak … Elegis … Kaldani … Ikaron …Okta … Guex…”

She said each name alone, giving every abruptly-ended life the same solemn space and weight. Zevlor set his shoulders and received them all, stoically. Until Tav came to, “Tilses,” when a guttural noise bubbled horribly in his throat and hot tears appeared fully formed and without warning in the corners of his eyes. He covered his face with a hand, motioning Tav on with the other. He could hear the hint of tears in her own voice as she continued, but she did not stop until she finished her list with, “Locke … Komira,” then, after a beat of sober silence, added:

“I went back for the … their bodies after we, well, neutralised the Shadow Curse — that part’s hard to explain and it isn’t important right now. Anyway. Halsin helped me, and we brought them to Last Light and … and buried them properly. So there’s a place to pay respects, if … if that’s important, too.”

Gratitude enveloped Zevlor: a more substantial blanket than the one crumpled at his feet. He had no intentions of insulting the dead by intruding on their resting place, but there seemed little point saying this to Tav; she would understand soon enough.

“Thank you,” was all he croaked into his hand.

Tav did not reply in words, but the shuffle of boots and a groan of wood sliding over smooth stone indicated she had moved her chair closer. Zevlor knew without looking what she was going to do — the same thing she had always done — and also knew how abominable of him it would be to accept her comfort. But his will had been weakened by sorrow and tears, and the memory of Tav’s frantic hands on his face, in his hair, burned bright in his mind — and other parts of him over which he had even less control. He could not move. He could not abstain from the feel of her fingers: warm, soft, and blessedly, in spite of everything, alive. But they had only just brushed the back of his hand when a rap of knuckles on wood and the creak of the door behind him brought Zevlor’s moral dilemma to an end.

He sat up. Tav, too, straightened, and let her outstretched hand fall to her knee as she peered around Zevlor to the door.

“Tav — oh, you found him, then,” came a vaguely familiar voice that sounded almost as dismal and lost as Zevlor felt. “Good for you. But do you know where the Nightsong went?”

“I think she’s still, uh … catching up with Isobel somewhere.” Tav’s eyes flicked to Zevlor’s as she said this, and, for reasons mysterious to him, a blotchy, storm-cloud blush crept across her cheeks. She returned her attention hastily to the visitor. “I know you need to speak with her, I haven’t forgotten. If she’s not back in a bit, we’ll go look for her together. Alright?”

The voice made some murmur of subdued agreement, but Zevlor was no longer listening to it. He pressed his fingers to the inner corners of his eyes to clear them, then rolled his sore shoulders and steadied himself for the debrief he could put off no longer. Tav had her own people to attend to. He had already wasted far too much of her time.

“I owe you an explanation,” Zevlor began hoarsely the moment he heard the creak and snap of the re-fastened door. “You’ve heard some of it already, I’m sure, from the others. That I … froze, or broke, or some other lie, that is kinder than the truth.”

“Cerys said you surrendered,” Tav inserted, expressionless, into Zevlor’s pause for breath.

His eyes squeezed shut of their own accord, but he wrenched them open and fixed his gaze determinedly on Tav — or, at least, a point on the stone wall beyond her left ear.

“We were ambushed by cultists,” he explained: a flat and efficient report. “We had little hope of defeating them in that damned darkness, but then ... then I heard her. The Absolute. Their false god. Whispering promises in my mind. I would be a paladin again. With a god’s purpose, a god’s power. Everything I needed to protect my people. Everything I needed to—” He stopped short. He would not downplay his failures for Tav, but she did not need the sordid details of the Absolute’s temptation, surely. He cleared his throat and resumed, “And all the while, the cult tortured them: the very people I fancied I could save. They fought and ran and died around me, while I imagined myself their saviour. By the time I regained my senses, it was too late.

“So,” he concluded miserably, “Cerys is only partially right. I did not just surrender to the Absolute. For a moment… I welcomed it.”

His final confession echoed off the room’s stark stone walls and high ceiling, then faded slowly away. And still Zevlor sat, awaiting Tav’s verdict, tail flicking in increasing agitation. He could not bring himself to look at her directly. Instead, his mind raced with visions of the form her building outburst would take: her pretty face screwed up in righteous anger … or soured in subtle revulsion … a babble of unrestrained distress spewed between tears … or her voice sharpened to a knife point as she delivered some scathing rebuke...

Zevlor flinched at the justified fury of his imagined Tav, until the one across from him said at last, all quiet, cautious sympathy:

“It sounds like you were being enthralled. You can hardly blame yourself for that.”

And her defence of him was so unexpected, so ludicrous, he laughed. Or almost laughed. The sound crawled from his throat raw and flayed.

“It would be nice to think so,” he said bitterly. “But whatever these monsters twist us into, I believe it begins in us.”

“Alright, but … don’t you think it says more about you that when you were back in your right mind you chose not to join the Absolute, whatever it offered?”

Tav’s voice remained infuriatingly gentle and measured. Her head was cocked very slightly, hands open on her knees, as if approaching a skittish colt, or a small, stubborn child. Zevlor frowned at her. But was saved from attempting any sort of response by the frenzied creaking of the door and a bang as it hit the stone wall.

“Tav, are you in — yes, you are! Ah, and Zevlor too. Glad to see you made it out.” Zevlor gave a very slight nod of acknowledgment at this, but did not turn round. “I do apologise for such an ill-mannered interruption, but, Tav, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. It is essential I speak with you at once.”

“Gale, is this life or death essential, or a really great story essential?”

“Both.”

The word practically vibrated with the wizard’s clear excitement; one which Tav just as clearly did not share. Her mouth worked in poorly-repressed frustration for a moment, then, apparently deciding it would take longer not to humour him, she sighed through her nose and pushed from her chair, bending to murmur, “Two minutes, I promise,” in Zevlor’s ear as she passed.

He did not reply. For once, Zevlor was grateful for Tav’s departure. He waited until he heard the door swing shut and the wizard’s energetic monologue start up behind it, then slumped forward onto the table, and dropped his head into his hands. He closed his eyes: grief-sick and aching, confused and, somehow, more unhappy than if Tav had just hit him.

It had never occurred to Zevlor that Tav might make excuses for his failure. Could her fondness for him stretch so far as to be willing to overlook such heinous crimes? Or was she in denial? He had considered her a pragmatic, highly competent leader, and impolitic loyalty was not a quality such a leader could afford. But, as memories of Tav at the grove played out across his eyelids, the obvious thought struck Zevlor’s admittedly debilitated brain that while Tav was a leader, she was not a military commander, or any sort of soldier at all. She was, he supposed, more than anything else, a bard. A lover of tales, and the people who inspired them. A hero who preferred speeches to swords. A magician who, when outcomes appeared immutable, pulled new possibilities from thin air — or private trunks. A musician who found the hidden notes of good in nearly everyone she met — violent gith, hot-headed apprentice wizards, archdruids seduced by shadows — and plucked them to the forefront of their individual songs.

That's what she was doing now, with him, Zevlor realised: spinning his failures, the truth of his baser nature, into a story with which he could live. And he loved her for it. Affection and admiration for Tav swelled, warm and invigorating as a bonfire, in his chest…

…and was extinguished the next second by a cold, dark wave of guilt and grief.

The metallic scent of blood. The bodies at his feet. Their last living sights their own leader, unmoved by their pitiful screams—

Zevlor's head shot up from the table. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but the scene was seared across his mind, not his eyes. He knew he would never escape it, nor should he. His peoples' deaths would weigh forever on his conscience, their blood permanently stain his hands. Nothing even Tav said could absolve him of that.

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice made Zevlor jump; her words, press his hand to his mouth, worried he might have been speaking his thoughts out loud. If he had, Tav did not acknowledge them further, only transferred her short sword from the bench to the table, then took its previous place. Beside Zevlor. She perched on the edge of the bench, one leg curled underneath her.

“I suppose this means you don’t want to go Last Light, then? Find the others and lead them on to Baldur’s Gate?”

Her sudden brisk tone, and the now multiple voices issuing from under the firmly closed door, led Zevlor to guess Tav expected additional interruptions at any time. He eased his sore body around on the bench to face her.

“Would any of them trust me to?”

It was a rhetorical question. Even Tav could not argue in its favour. Which did not stop her trying.

“Of course they would. I mean, they will. When they understand what really happened. When you explain—”

“No,” and Zevlor himself was surprised at the steel in his voice. “I won’t make excuses. I cannot make amends. It would be foolishness for any of them to trust me again, when I’ve let them down so many times.”

“Alright,” Tav conceded unexpectedly. “I still think many of those points are debatable, but if it’s too much for you now, I understand. So… will you come with me, then? With us?” It bore all the trappings of a casual, throwaway question, but Zevlor did not think he was mistaking the nervous excitement that whispered underneath. “I can't pretend it won't be dangerous. Even with Ketheric dead, we've got more enemies than ever, not to speak of the Absolute itself which is what we’re truly after, but … I could use another blade for what's ahead.”

“Only if you can trust it won’t be buried in your back,” retorted Zevlor grimly. “If it comes to a fight with the Absolute, I would be less than useless to you. Its already swayed me once before.”

“Well, actually,” said Tav, with the air of a Three-Dragon Ante player revealing their winning hand, “we've got a sort of protection against that. It's hard to explain. Gods, everything is now, when did it all get so complicated? But anyway, if that's what you're worried about, you'll definitely be safer with us.”

Tav's mouth curled, anticipating its own smile, so sure she would hear the answer she wanted; the answer Zevlor wanted to give. It would be so easy to say yes … to accept Tav's amnesty, her forgiveness … to join her cause: his new purpose the Absolute’s destruction, his new place at her side.

Everything the Absolute had tempted him with in the first place.

Zevlor closed his eyes again, and, this time, sought that wretched memory out. He forced himself to watch the bodies fall, bodies he could now name. Asharak. Okta. Guex. Tilses. He had entertained temptation before, and it was they who had paid the price. He had failed them. He could not let himself fail Tav.

“No,” said Zevlor, loud enough for the word to bounce off the stone walls; a hundred refusals in his voice. “I can't risk it. I won’t risk it happening again.”

An odd hush made the room seem larger and emptier than before. Zevlor realised the voices outside had fallen silent. As had Tav. He could not even hear her breathing. His eyes found her face without his permission, and she could not have looked more surprised or devastated if he had spat in it. Her tail drooped to the floor.

“Zevlor.” Her voice was delicate and trembling as the fingers she reached out and rested tentatively along the edge of his jaw. “I trust you.”

It took every ounce of Zevlor's self-control, and more he did not know he possessed, to turn his head, dislodging Tav's hand.

“I wish I shared your faith.”

For seconds that recalled the timelessness of his prison, the two of them sat in the dissonant wake of this exchange; together, but, it felt to Zevlor at least, wholly separate, disconnected, for the first time since they had met. Then another importunate rap at the door knocked a groan from Tav. There was a pain in it Zevlor thought too visceral to stem from the interruption alone.

“Yes, alright, I'm coming,” she called, and her words, too, contained a disproportionate grief. She uncurled slowly from the bench, then stood for a moment, as if unable to tear herself away. From the corner of his eye, Zevlor could see her face flit around the room, searching for something: a new angle or untried manoeuvre, perhaps. “Look,” she said at last, “you’ve been through something unspeakably awful. Months worth of awful, in fact. You need to sleep, really sleep, and … we can talk more about what to do when you've had some rest.”

Zevlor knew it was useless to argue. Nor did he have the energy left. To deny Tav — to deny himself of Tav — had drained the last of his strength. He could barely lift his arm to grip the hilt of the short sword and slide it along the table towards her.

“Here,” he said simply, then, “Thank you,” when Tav's slight wince made his heart ache.

“Keep it,” she said just as baldly. “You left your sword at the grove. I’ve got to go deal with … everything. But if I don’t see you before, I’ll come find you in the morning.”

Two abrupt and equally bemusing questions furrowed Zevlor’s brow. But Tav had already walked away. He had time to call out only one of them after her:

“Is there a morning in this place?”

Her hand on the doorknob, Tav turned as she wrenched it open, and offered Zevlor one last smile.

“There will be.”

“And there was, of course,” Zevlor finishes. “I saw it from the ruins of the town beyond Moonrise. I waited until most in the tower had settled to sleep, then slipped out around the side. I stayed there until - until I saw Tav and the others leave.”

He stares into his tankard, light-headed and slightly nauseous: from its contents, or the memory of watching Tav and her companions trek across the ruined road. He had recognised the pale elf lifting his arms to embrace the newborn sunlight, and Karlach's boisterous laugh, and Tav, walking alone, slightly ahead of the rest of her party; and though he could not make out details of her face, he had thought her aspect unusually sober.

“If I'd only followed her then,” Zevlor laments, “or listened to her before, perhaps things would have been ... well...” He sighs heavily. “It doesn't matter now. I thought I was finally doing the right thing. I didn't understand I was really doing what I'd always done: running from my shame ... indulging my own pride.”

“But you do … you do understand now, don't you?” Alfira ventures tentatively. “I mean, that none of it — what happened to us — was your fault?”

Zevlor shakes his head. Which isn't an answer.

“Some strategies work in theory,” he muses after a minute's contemplation, “but fail when enacted in actual battle.”

Which is hardly more of one.

“Yes, well,” interjects Lakrissa's voice as the privacy curtain suddenly parts, “strategies and battle plans are all well and good, but you can't win a fight without food. Armies marching on their stomachs, and that,” and she pushes a bowl in front of Zevlor. “Roveer's closing up the kitchen for the night, but he had a bit of pudding left over.”

Zevlor stares into the bowl. It's filled to the brim with generous slices of some sweet-smelling loaf soaked in syrup and dusted with sliced almonds, almost too decorous-looking to eat. Nonplussed, he catches Alfira's eye. By her blank expression, she's every bit as bewildered as he. Zevlor lifts his gaze at last to Lakrissa. But all she says by way of explanation is:

“Alan's ale on an empty stomach's enough to make anyone sick. And, I reckon you've suffered enough.”

[eff-plays]

from what i understand, if you're playing as astarion, he very much remembers the kidnappings, and has narration describing his memories of the event when he meets gandrel. and also, if you talk to gandrel peacefully without astarion in the party, gandrel mentions the missing children, and then... you still have no option to really ask astarion about it. it is a very "the writers were all white and didn't think this through" type of moment, imo.

he also gets super sad about sebastian when you find him, but his response to the imprisoned gur children is to make a shitty joke like "well, at least i just jumped them in an alley and kidnapped them!! i wasn't luring them with candy or anything :)" which comes off to me like he is quite deeply racist.

i think in early access astarion had a more overtly racist tone to his character, in that his whole thing was that he was human trafficking gur people to cazador as a severely corrupt magistrate, the gur beat him to death as revenge, and then cazador turned him. which is interesting, but i am glad they didn't go with that for final release... having the discourse of "excuse me, that is my poor meow meow's emotional support racism, he did that because he was sad 🥺" would have killed me irl. particularly with the way that the gur are clearly paralleled with romani people, and astarion is notably the palest elf with the poshest accent...

anyway i don't mean to harsh your fic writing vibes or anything! it's just my unsolicited ted talk. i do like astarion, but i feel like people skim over this aspect of his writing because it's very un-sexy and not charming at all, just banally evil.

Yeah I agree, even if the writing is good for the most part, it's deeply inconsistent in others. It really is a question of "Did you overlook this? Or did you decide not to look into it at all because it would say something about your fave that you didn't want to be said?"

In terms of Avatar Astarion vs Companion Astarion, I think they're also slightly different characters just because of the player being a new factor introduced in the story. Like, Player!Astarion could happily rescue the grove and the Nightsong and be a hero and that'd be canonically what Player!Astarion does, while Companion!Astarion would hate that shit.

So Companion!Astarion being aware of the Gur kids would make him deeply unlikable, so it makes sense that he doesn't, so the player doesn't despise his ass instantly. Him suspecting Gandrel was sent by Cazador also gives the player a decent enough reason to agree to killing Gandrel. However, Player!Astarion needs to have this background information in order to make a more informed decision and understand the character they're playing as. Having the context of who Gandrel is and why he's actually there helps the player decide their next course of action, be it sparing Gandrel because he's a good guy, or killing him to protect themselves.

Obviously this might just be a major cope on my part, but that's how I see it, at least. Honestly, I do wish Larian left kids alone in general. It seems they include them mostly for shock value and to raise the stakes for the player. Like they thought maybe too many players would willingly sacrifice 7000 adults for Astarion, so better put some kids in there to make sure they know it's the bad choice. How does it tie back to Astarion? Um. He kidnapped them. And they also specifically belong to a group of people he's racist against. Because that means ... Something?

Cool. Thanks.

[whitegoldtower]

If I were in the BG3 universe:

🕸️ Obviously I’d be a drow, myself. As an FTM and the eldest child in my family, I’d at least survive long enough to get nabbed by the nautiloid.

🕸️ act 1 Astarion would have to actively work to earn my trust because he and I would NOT see eye to eye and his behaviour would make me feel deeply unsafe. Again, as I said in my last post, his reaction to being told “you’re too close” would absolutely make me retaliate aggressively, and I wouldn’t just let him walk away from me after speaking to me like that.

🕸️ I would probably spend entire nights just talking to Gale and Wyll. I’d also be competing with Gale for the title of Camp Cook

🕸️ Lae’zel bossing me around on the nautiloid would rub me up the wrong way and I’d be very likely to react the same way as Shadowheart “who put you in charge?”

🕸️ I would get Scratch for Karlach but I wouldn’t be particularly pleased with having a dog in the camp.

🕸️ I’ll indulge Volo because it’s funny, but I am not letting him lobotomise me.

🕸️ If all went smoothly, I’d have some pretty deep conversations with Astarion.

🕸️ “I hate wolves” - me too, girl. Your fear is justified, and not just because of your trauma. I, too, would shit myself if Silver walked past me.

🕸️ I’d spare Minthara and then save her from Moonrise. Even though I would have some heavy disagreements with her, she would be my best friend. She would be the one person I’d seek out if I needed a second pair of eyes and/or a reality check.

🕸️ I would trust Shadowheart to do the right thing.

🕸️ Honestly, I don’t think I would even free Lae’zel from the tieflings. She would not be at my camp. I would see her in the wooden cage, see the tieflings guarding it, and keep walking. I would remember her giving me orders on the nautiloid and that would instantly dissuade me from even debating whether or not trying to persuade those tieflings to let her go was worth it.

🕸️ I would punch Aradin (and hurt my fist in the process but it’s worth it)

🕸️ I would free the spiders in the goblin camp and let them eat the goblins.

🕸️ Wyll would find me questionable at times. Karlach would get annoyed because I prefer to act subtly and strategise instead of running in guns blazing.

🕸️ I wouldn’t probe at Shadowheart. She and I would see eye to eye on a lot of things.

🕸️ I’ll let Abdirak have a go out of pure curiosity.

🕸️ I would technically save the grove but not on purpose. Yes I would take out the goblin leaders, and yes I would free Halsin. Yes, I would also help the tieflings with the druid situation. But it wasn’t my first priority. Not that I would say that out loud.

🕸️ I would rather either wait for Halsin to get to the grove to yell at Kagha and resolve the issue with the tieflings himself, or expose Kagha to the other druids. Minimal bloodshed in the grove.

🕸️ I would let True Soul Nere do his thing (I’m not getting involved in that) and then talk to the dumbass about the Absolute situation. Ideally, I wouldn’t give him the chance to run off. He’s coming back to camp with me. Better to have another ally than to let Balthazar have him. Also I’m romancing the pants off him.

🕸️ Church bells would ring when I saw Kar’niss for the first time. I would not be able to take the moonlantern from him, and as a reluctant consequence, I would turn on the harpers. I would aim to just knock him out at Moonrise because his sobs would make me feel too bad.

🕸️ Araj Oblodra would catch my hands so fast. At that point, I might not particularly be besties with Astarion, but I would defend him. Nobody should be speaking to anybody like that. One of the rare instances in the game thus far that would absolutely make my blood boil.

🕸️ Mayrina made her bed and now she can lie in it. Auntie Ethel can do as she likes.

🕸️ Raphael’s voice could convince me, but his words could not. I’m not falling for it.

🕸️ I would let Astarion bite me but by the gods I had better see him fighting tooth and nail afterwards. I am not a blood bank and I would get pissy if he wasn’t pulling his weight. A second feeding would 80% ride on whether or not I thought it would be efficient to let him do so again and 20% on the soft little part of me that wants to see him happy. But any of that “my little treat with his cheeks all flushed” nonsense and he’s not getting anything. Not unless I’d clocked that it was a bit, but I’m autistic so it would probably take a while.

🕸️ I would eventually trust each of the companions to make the big decisions - it’s not my place to tell them how to resolve their personal problems. The most I can do is support them and offer rational advice if they ask for it.

🕸️ Karlach can have Scratch, I don’t care. I’m adopting all the cats and spiders (leggy cats). Although, that one woman with the cages? I’ll let her have it with both barrels.

🕸️ When Orin decides to mess with my party, I decide to scalp her when I next see her.

🕸️ The tadpole would make me have panic attacks every night because of my medical anxiety, and I would be trying everything to get rid of it (as long as I don’t lose an eye, but if I was desperate enough I might try it. Raphael might even start to tempt me). Eventually, I think I’d become apathetic to it and force myself to stop acknowledging it.

🕸️ if the companions cared enough about me, it would probably be a nightly occurrence for them to have to stop me from downing the Wyvern Poison Nettie gave me in the grove, because even the slightest ache in my body would set off alarms. “You’re not turning into a mindflayer, you just ate some dodgy meat”

🕸️ On the nights I’m not cooking, I’m requesting that Gale cooks something with mushrooms in it. Comfort food. Routine good.

🕸️ I’ll take Minthara calling me a jaluk as a compliment, because at least she’s gendered me correctly.

🕸️ I absolutely cannot sleep alone. If I had to pick a companion to keep me safe when I’m sleeping, it’s either going to be Shadowheart, Wyll or Minthara. Shadowheart and Wyll would be comforting and reassuring, and Minthara would be vigilant and stern enough to both make me feel safe and convince me to go the fuck to sleep.

🕸️ however if I woke up in the middle of the night and freaked out, I’d be most likely to wake up Wyll. The whole time this and the above is happening, I would have Nere in a vice grip and would not be letting go.

🕸️ I would be some sort of magic user. But if push came to shove in battle, I’d take a leaf out of Astarion’s book and start biting people. There’s a time and a place for dignity, and whilst I consider myself an otherwise very dignified person, I’m not opposed to fighting dirty if it’s necessary.

🕸️ based on all this, I think I’d be some sort of neutral alignment. Probably true neutral.

[spiderwarden]

How do you feel about the rumors that Larian is working to add alternative methods of recruiting Minthara as a companion, i.e. potentially not having to turn on the Grove? If you were responsible for enacting it, how do you think you would go about it? Do you believe any of her characterization or development would be lost in a different recruitment method?

YOU'RE IN LUCK CAUSE I'VE THOUGHT ABOUT THIS! Cause I got a verse already about sparing the Druid Grove I've just yet to type it up outside of plotting. So here's the thing, I wouldn't change a thing. About any of it. Keep the story as is because in the respect of going good or /bad/ perceived moral wise. HOWEVER with that said, what I would add in in a little more content that makes it easier to keep to the storyline and still keep Minthara. What do I mean about that? Well, keep the options there, but if you decided to destroy the goblin camp, have it so Minthara SURVIVES and is unkillable in terms of mechanics this way, she can "survive" and come at you in the night when you're sleeping. This is where Tav has a choice to talk her down and she just leaves - this way the Moonrise Towers incident remains as it is, this way it leaves it open for you to know that you have more options when it comes to Minthara.

Cause that's the thing, there is so much of her needed characterization that COMES from the details around her recruitment. Between her realizing and slowly coming to herself via artifact exposure, and then you saving her life in Moonrise Towers - is SO important to keep because it allows her to turn toward another goal, another object, another faith - You (Tav), so like - What I would do, is I would keep everything the same but instead ADD ON another mechanic where she's one of those camp scenes. and it triggers said Moonrise Towers situation so we keep it all and nothing gets disrupted too badly.

IN THE END, I would not mind it at all if there was an extra option, aka another route to recruiting her (so LONG! as we don't loose the moonrise towers incident), and I trust the canon writers Emma Gregory (her voice actress) especially, because it was due to her and her working with the writers that Minthara went from being a trading card face to a full fledged person. There is no one that knows her better, so like? As long as Emma Gregory is kept invovled, I'm a 100% for whatever it is they choose to do. (I'm really excited to see the Halsin situation acted out properly in actual gameplay)

Also for GODS SAKE! Fucking give me casual Minthara kisses they're THERE! THE LINES ARE IN THE DATABASE OF THE GAME FOR HER REACTIONS!!! GIMME THAT SHIT!

lovely @hegrowth sending me things to think about.

[jimmyeatworm]

Feast your eyes on a mediocre short story i wrote

Once upon a time in a far away land of magic and mystery held captive by an evil magician, an ancient relic of untold power lay hidden away in an untouched meadow–hey you, reader, narrator here, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. As you may have surmised from the opening line and summary of the back of the book, this is indeed a high-fantasy story. The problem is, hmmm, how do I say this, well it’s not a very good high-fantasy story is the issue. Now normally I wouldn’t do this, but when I was reading over it earlier today in preparation, yeah, it was pretty rough. I just felt you ought to know going in. Feel free to close the book and do something better with your life. I certainly wish I could, but as the narrator it is my sacred duty to tell the story, good or bad, and I have to pay rent too, so I don’t have much choice here. But, I’m getting off topic. The point is, dear reader, whoever is left anyhow, it’s up to you and me to make this story interesting, the author sure as hell isn’t helping. Understood? Right then, let’s get to it. Now, where were we, Ah! Yes the exposition, an author’s chance to hook the reader in with interesting characters and world building, of course it could also be a dry, monotonous drawl that’s about as enticing and flavorful as boiled chicken. I’ll give you one guess as to which one this exposition is like. It’s honestly quite impressive really, I’ve never read so many words and still come away knowing absolutely nothing. Now I very well could spend the next however many hours describing in minute detail every single thing about this arbitrary meadow and shallow characters that are only slightly less dynamic than pieces of cardboard, but unlike a certain author I could name, I consider myself an avid enjoyer of fun. So in the interest of the sanity of everyone involved, I’ve elected to spare you that pain, and instead, give a brief overview of what’s there to know. As was mentioned above, the first scene opens in a meadow. As far as the details of the meadow are concerned, the big takeaways are that this meadow has gone unexplored and unknown for thousands of years, and somewhere in it resides a relic of untold power.  Now, this raises a lot of questions for the reader about the nature of the meadow and how it has remained in mystery for all this time, these questions might even entice the reader to keep going and find out more later in the book. Back in those sweet, blissful days before I had fully read the book, that was my first thought too, and I’m happy to tell you, reader, that the mysteries surrounding the meadow are never explained. Ever. They’re not even hinted at. But regardless of any horribly missed opportunities, the unexplored meadow is about to have a visitor. Enter the protagonist, I don’t actually remember their name and I can’t be asked to go check. We’ll call them, oh I don’t know, Piano. Yeah sure, that works. What do they look like? I don’t care, you’ll think of something, won’t you reader? Unsurprisingly, what the hell Piano is doing in a meadow that literally no one has ever been able to find is not explained, but they’re here now.

“Woah, this doesn’t look familiar,” they said in the flattest most emotionless voice you’ve ever heard, “hey! What’s that in the distance?” Sure enough, a few hundred yards in the distance was a completely inexplicably placed picturesque magical grotto. In order to get a closer look, Piano set off at a faster pace towards the grotto. Now, in a moment I’m going to describe the grotto, and I can only assume that the author doesn’t actually know what a grotto is. A grotto is a cave. This is not a cave. If anything it’s more of a grove so that’s what I’ll be referring to it as. Looking closer at the grove, Piano realizes that there’s a shining object atop a pedestal in the center of the grove. Are you familiar with the literary device known as a macguffin, reader? Well, it’s one of those. Mystified, Piano crept closer to the strange object, and discovered it to be a single pristine lemon. Despite everything I’m sure you know about narrative tropes screaming at you, “plot important item please do not ignore”, to Piano, the lemon appeared rather unassuming at first glance. But something about it felt enticing to Piano, magical even. And so Piano reached out to touch it. I’m just going to read the text out how it’s written for this next bit because I need you to understand just how infuriated it made me the first time I had the displeasure to read it. The moment Piano touched it, a strange vision inexplicably popped into their head. A vision of them and two other people Piano didn’t recognize standing in front of a third evil looking figure, Piano brandishing the lemon at them. And with that, Piano was decided, sensing that it was important, they would take the lemon with them on their travels. First of all, what sane individual finds a freaky lemon in a weird out of place grove that gives them weird hallucinations and is not only completely unbothered but decides to take it with them instead of, oh I don’t know, recoiling back, running away, not messing around in strange probably cursed objects. I don’t care that we’re in a fantasy world, no one does that! Is it too much to ask for the author’s characters to make any logical sense whatsoever? Who am I kidding it definitely is. And that vision, “evil looking figure” really? What, were they wearing a name tag that says “Hello! I am evil”. Could the author truly think of no better way to imply that this character was an antagonist? Hell, they didn’t even have to imply it at all! I don’t know if you’ve noticed yet, reader, but this story isn’t exactly vague about who the evil magician is and they’re role in the story, pretty sure you could posit a guess as to who that fourth figure was. And that would have set up for a great opportunity for a twist later down the line if it was revealed that the fourth figure wasn’t actually the evil magician at all! That would be interesting and do wonders for keeping the reader hooked, but nooooo, we can’t have that can we? Oh, my apologies, reader, I’ve been rambling haven’t I? We should get back to the story.

 Now that everyone’s favorite bland and uninteresting protagonist Piano has decided to bring the lemon with them, they decide to set out in an attempt to find out some more information about the lemon. So Piano begins the trek out of the meadow. Hopefully they’ll be able to stumble across some handy dandy information just as conveniently as they stumbled into this meadow in the first, and would you look at that, they have! Piano stumbles across a mysterious business card on the ground. A business card for someone named Mr. The Wizard, a local specialist in the field of magical lemons, the directions on the card say that Mr. The Wizard’s magical wizard tower of wizardry is nearby! Wow, what a helpful coincidence that this random business card appeared out of the blue in a meadow that, and I cannot stress this enough, no one has ever been to in thousands of years. I’m sure that’s normal. I’m not mad at all, why would you think that? But in any case, with a blissfully optimistic naivety, an ancient lemon, and a newly found destination, Piano set out on the course described on the business card. Perhaps this Mr. The Wizard character would have some answers as to what was going on. I sure hope so, I’m dying to know more of this riveting story. And it wasn’t long until Piano reached the edge between the meadow and forest where they presumably came, I don’t know it wasn’t specified. The woods were very thick, but Piano pressed on through them until coming across a tall stone tower–wait go back a minute, “The woods were very thick” is that it? Nothing else to describe the woods? Jeez, I mean I’m not an author but I bet even I could do better than that. Actually, you know what? I think I will, let’s go back a moment and I’ll do the forest scene myself. The woods were dense and dark, all light from the sun overhead smothered by the tree canopy, save for a few stray beams of light illuminating spots of the underbrush. Clearing a path through the gnarled network of ferns and roots felt like wading through honey, adding to the oppressive air of claustrophobia the forest invoked. As Piano moved deeper in they began to feel as though the trees themselves were closing in on them, a infinite organic labyrinth with no entrance and no end, but just as Piano was about give up hope and surrender themself to nature, a large circular clearing opened up before them, the middle of it housing a mysterious stone tower the seemed to pierce the very sky. So what did you think, reader? I’d say that was an improvement. When Piano went to knock on the door to the tower, it flew open before they could touch it. In the open doorway stood an elderly man with a long white beard dressed in a long blue robe. 

“Ah, I’ve been expecting you, young hero. My name is Mr. The Wizard and I’m here to give you an epic quest to save the world from the evil magician. Please, come inside my magical wizard tower of wizardry so we can talk.” Mr. The Wizard said.

“Okay! That sounds like fun!” Piano crowed. Apparently no one told them not to follow strange old men into their home by yourself. Hmmm what does the wizard say next again, I must have forgotten, you’ll have to excuse me reader I’m a little scatterbrained at the moment. Ah! Here we are, but before that actually have a question for you reader. Do you think I would make a good author? Do be honest please. I mean, I’ve always just been the narrator, not the author, I tell the stories not write them. But, well, a part of me really wants to try something different, you know? I’d like to think I’ve made this story at least somewhat bearable, haven’t I, reader? And the forest scene that I redid, that was pretty good, right? Hmm, I’ll need to think about it, but for now, I should probably get back to the story. Back to the wizard

“Ah you already have the lemon, good, that saves us a lot of time.” Mr. The Wizard said.

“What, the one from the meadow? What’s so important about it?” Asked Piano, visibly confused.

“Yes, the Cursed Lemon of Roshar, an ancient talisman said to contain the anguish of a thousand souls who accidentally got lemon juice in their eye, a horrible power indeed. The legends of old proclaim that once a century, the Cursed Lemon of Roshar will reveal itself to a suitable bearer, preferably someone with traits associated with the protagonists of high-fantasy novels, and grant them the power to seal away the evil magician once and for all.” Responded Mr. The Wizard, rambling on about—actually you know what, reader? I’ve thought the matter over for a bit and I’m decided. This humble narrator is a narrator no more, no more terrible stories and lazy authors. It’s time for me to be an author of my own. I’ve had it with this awful novel, no more! You understand, don’t you reader? If any of you are still left, I applaud you for making it this far, not sure why you did mind, but thanks for hearing me out. You’ll support me if I ever publish anything, won’t you? I’m sure I’ll find some kind of job to hold me over ‘till then. Well, I suppose this is goodbye for now reader, I’d better get to work.

[macgyvertape]

BG3 Act 3 thoughts and liveblog part 2

There were a lot of parts of act 3 where I wished I could have atleast 1 more companion, I would see something that a character in camp would obviously react to, so I would have to pause and go swap my party around

Am I getting a Halsin radicalization arc? That civilization bad because Baldur's Gate is hurting the vulnerable (wish I could say like dude what about your druids grove in your absence). (edit: shame he actually has no act 3 quests at all, definitely felt added later in development)

Gale is such a pushover for his cat its hilarious. Also he’s inviting my character to his house for an intimate dinner which she is thrilled about because it means Gale is thinking about living beyond killing The Absolute but she’s getting some mixed signals here because she’s clearly involved with Astarion but thought Gale was monogamous considering his “a pity you already found someone else to make merry with” back in act 1 and how he never followed up on that. So here she just said “you must really like me” and when Gale replied “more than you could possibly believe” she started screaming internally inside at this confusing dude. 

This is the moment where my character remembered, yeah she does care for Gale and Karlach so she should tell them the Bhaalspawn secret and work more at that “being vulnerable” thing for those she does care about.

Surveillance state woohoo! My character gave a fake name but it scanned her face. I’m not sure how this connects with what crimes the scrying eyes have see  or how you’ve interacted with them, or if I had been bothered to run around and teleport past the checkpoints if things would change. (edit: I wonder when the first time is that Gortash can see D!urge is alive)

Ok Amira made a good guess at my characters tastes, I wonder what factors is coded for calculating that

My character caught up with the dude putting in explosives in toys, and if it were not for him being in a crowded public place she would have killed him. I then threatened him so he would turn himself in, I figure my character wants to see the guy suffer more than she needs money right now

Found Raphael in the brothel and he is pushing for Orpheus to be freed, yes Lae’zel wants this, but its a bad idea to have him become archedevil supreme. My character trusts no one in this scenario, not Raphael nor the Emperor nor Orpheus who she thinks would kill her if not for slaughtering his guard then for having a tadpole in her head. 

The best option is to walk away for now, and pretend to be clueless about the Emperor’s connection being blocked. She agrees with Lae’zel better to break into the House of Hope and steal the hammer. The Raphael voice acting and mocap is so fucking good, he’s a major power player and a cunning deal making devil and he feels like it

My character missed the nymph's perception check, I redid it on another character but I think it's funny my character has her blindspots

Astarion shoving his “brother” into the sunlight to torture him for info while reveling in the fact that he wasn’t burning was such a fun fucked up scene. This is deeply personal to Astarion so I chose the dialogue options to only speak up to back up Astarion’s threats, and in context of helping Astarion with the ritual the only response of “they’ll warn him we’re coming” makes sense because we can’t kill them and we aren’t planning on sparing them. She did say “for ourselves? For yourself you mean” and she really wants to believe in Astarion’s “if I become all powerful then we become all-powerful, we are a team” My character wants Astarion to be happy, and has had this arc of opening up and learning to trust some people, and she’s never cared for anyone like Astarion before or had someone help her with the D!Urge like he did so while she’s hesitant of trusting someone aside from her with a lot of power she wants to trust him. If he betrays her I think she’ll break and go full Bhaalspawn. 

(edit: it wasn't intentional but on reread it comes together nicely how she has this lack of perception and how she helps Astarion with the ritual because she thinks he does want that, and she's gone after power so how could she deny that to Astarion who she loves)

I’ve failed several perception checks in dialogue and I think it's good way for the game to indicate me there’s more to this I'm not getting. I savescummed the one with Wyll but I found it frustrating that a critical detail about there being more to Stelmane’s stroke was hidden behind 2 different checks

My character just let Shadowheart handle how she wants to respond to Ferg about Shar. Like if it isn’t super important don’t kill the Nightsong, she’s decided to just be hands off with the whole Shar/Selune thing

Dammit, there was a bug where the game thinks I signed Rapheal’s contract so I have to reload a save from over an hour ago

So while I was spoiler-ed about The Emperor’s interpersonal manipulations I don’t think my character would have responded much differently to the conversation where he talks about Stelmane if I the player hadn't known. I went with a lot of noncommittal responses, not being friendly but not calling out the obvious sympathy gathering attempt either

Halsin asking my character if she would be interested in sex, my character’s been flirting with him since the act 1 party and she is thrilled Halsin is open to casual relationships but respects what she has with Astarion and is interested in Astarion too. Talking to Astarion about it and that’s the most genuine laughter I’ve ever heard from him when you bring it up and ask how he could tell, its great. My favorite option for reassuring Astarion was “what I have with you is wholly different and very special to me”, since that’s really true for my character. Astarion’s final line “far be it for me to hold your hunger against you” and really I love the way hunger/urges play into both character's stories.

My character would then definitely be like "wait so also about the things Gale has been saying". There's no way anything more than a one night stand would work for my character at this point if Gale didn't also express interest in Astarion, and it makes me wish we saw more of different companions interacting than just banter. Gale and Astarion have the potential to get along really well. A Halsin/D!urge/Astarion relationship would be more casual and off and on again than anything with Gale, but I think there's a lot of fun potential in "ambition and bad ideas" trio of Astarion/my D!Urge/Gale (edit: especially with how all 3 end the game)

Love a man who goes down, Halsin has big top energy. I tried the bearfucker scene and it was really funny but its also played for more than just laughs where he’s clearly nervous that he’ll get rejected for losing control

Halsin is now the 4th person my character has told about being a Bhaalspawn. I waited until now in case he got more dialogue, figure my character would think that if they’re in a romance together and he’s so non judgemental she should tell him, and the fact that he told her to be careful for her own safety who she tells was a reputation increase moment for him.

Met one of Orin’s impersonations on a dying thug my character chose the Dark Urge for putting him down, what a fun face to face reunion. Also lmao this is where Astarion’s “this group is full of weirdos” little breakdown is from!! I love Karlach’s response about how the group’s best asset is trust and 2nd best defense is herself. Jaheira is definitely suspicious about how familiar Orin was with my character, but my character doesn’t plan on telling Jaheira anything about being a Bhaalspawn. 

I found more mindflayer parasites and I'm still using them on Astarion, Gale, and Karlach since they have already consumed them in the past for extra powers. Even though The Emperor isn’t really trustworthy the rubicon has already been crossed might as well keep going

BG3 Act 3 thoughts and liveblog part 1

I couldn't stop comparing DOS2 act 3 and BG3 act 3, since act 3 is a bit underbaked in both games compared to the other acts, but wow BG3 just has so much more polish and content.

The prologue reveals my character is a Bhaalspawn, I feel like it's just so widely known at this point

Defining character moment for Astarion “the problem with what Cazador has done is he did it to me”. Since Asatarion really wants this she’d help him sacrifice his “siblings” what matters to her is that Astarion is safe, but she’s worried about the unknown details but is still planning as if its possible. The dialogue options of “a killer isn’t worthy of respect” is fucking laughable my character would never say that lmao. 

When the narrator was saying you have a bunch of options what will you do, for my character it felt best to say “when the moment comes I’ll do what feels right”, since she's more of an opportunist

Ooof that fight with the gith was rough even on easy mode.

My character wanted The Emperor to prove he was the protector, but then tried to read his thoughts anyway. She’s also very grateful Lae’zeal wasn’t around when this happened considering Orpheus is real and a renegade mindflayer has him prisoner

Learning that the protection against the Absolute comes from Orpheus being trapped really puts a damper on my character’s plans to not get rid of the tadpole and associated powers. It's too dangerous to count on Orphues being imprisoned. Also the Emperor was a successful power player in Baldur’s Gate, so she’s more wary of his plans and agenda than the fact he is a mindflayer. 

My character did turn down the Emperor’s offer to evolve her, sorry she just is too attached to how her body looks. She also thinks this is a line in the sand she’s not going to persuade her companions on, unlike the tadpole powers. (personally it's the fact that it messes up your teeth, huge personal squick). I guess had my character take on so many parasite powers it gave me a fucking 21 score roll to not evolve. 

EDIT: the next day I got spoiled on the Emperor’s seduction scene and it’s friendly manners being all a front; real fucking surprise pikachu face moment for me. That my character who manipulates, lies, and seduces people might encounter someone who emotionally manipulates, lies and will seduce people. I didn’t fully trust it and thought it might have its own agenda, but still I was a little too trusting that there might have been some genuine emotion. Like DAMMIT I was rewatching Felix rvb scenes before I started the game and he has a line “Funny how an act of sacrifice like that [getting hurt] buys you so much trust”. Which is exactly what the Emperor did, where it knelt down and made a big show of how it trusts me not to hurt it and when it calls on us for that dramatic rescue that while genuine was an excellent opportunity for it to be revealed. Apparently the 21 roll is because I used so many tadpoles which the game treats as buying into The Emperor’s promises. Its repeated lines of “just like you” and “i’m on your side” to establish common ground and then presenting itself as a criminal with “a heart of gold” in its backstory. I/my character was skeptical on some details considering it also presented itself as a major power player, but bought into it’s use of “allies” when what he meant was “pawns”.  

Gale had the comment “you’ve not taken this power for yourself… why offer it to me” and I wish I could respond like what Astarion said, that don’t want to sacrifice my body. Astarion had a whole lot to say on the subject but Karlach only had 1 line about being surprised I hadn’t taken the power/transformation. Funny to see how other companions had lines about how they hadn’t done any tadpole powers and they weren’t about to start now. 

My character’s made an enemy out of the undead lich Gith queen, whom only Orpheus can oppose, and there’s an entire Gith resistance working to free him as well. So that really kills any plan of using the Absolute for herself because she’d be better off with Orphues fighting the Gith queen

Really Astarion and my character have come so far from act 1 where he was warning me about how easily Cazador could kill me to now where he’s saying if Cazador comes for him he’ll strike back and he’ll have my character along with him 

The one group my character has been consistently nice to with no promise of reward is kids, so at this point she’s just resigned to them showing up at camp as long as there’s someone like Withers, Halsin, or Wyll to keep them from getting hurt. 

My character is helping the strange ox yet again. It won’t reveal what it is but she’s really curious, and it hasn’t seemed to kill people, so she’ll help it because it might be a useful ally in the future

I love Biscotti what a GOOD DOG (love the animal writing in this and DOS2)

I think its funny that for a while I was thinking that Astarion wasn’t that pale, but in the bright light of Baldur’s Gate he really is. I think it's due to my monitor that has super high contrast

Surprised Halsin has the most dialogue in the refugee area mostly about how he’s rapidly becoming disillusioned with the city, and I tried a earlier save without him and the other companions like Astarion or Karlach don’t speak up if he’s not there.

Community meme about Gortash: I can excuse him being the chosen of an evil god and using his power to found a murderous evil cult but I draw the line at him and his PMC making surveliance cop robots. Bane is just the god of cops and Gortash works for Boston Dynamics

I like to think a bunch of the companions have been a positive force on my character so she’s helping the refugees in her own manner (lots of intimidation), and wants to see the Tiefling refugees make it after all the struggles. That there were explosives in toys justifies her being nosy and helping

Karlach really wants to go to the circus, unfortunately my character is a vicious murderer lmao. Thankfully she’s great at [persuading] and charming. Astarion, Halsin, and Karlach seem to be the best “go to the circus” group

Incredibly cool to hear my bard character perform along with the other bard in the circus

The dinosaur and the magic cat in the circus are being mistreated, Halsin is right to be mad about it. I used Astarion to pickpocket the key, then mage hand to open both cage doors

My character doesn’t like clowns and after she felt that murderous urge there’s no way she’s getting on stage. I watched the different versions of sending Halsin or Karlach up on stage but sending Astarion up on stage really is the best version. Role playing it as after he made that comment about clowns being a horror and with how both Karlach and Halsin approve of picking Astarion while he doesn’t approve if you pick someone else; its some light hearted group teasing of a guy who usually has a joke at others expense “You love the spotlight, don’t you… here’s your big chance”. Yeah he says he’s going to kill me but he’s not seriously upset.

Astarion and my character both enjoy killing clowns, see we’re great together

My bard character was pissed about the Djinn scamming with the spin the wheel game so of course she went back to rig things to get the jackpot. 

Ok so my character gets her meteorites back, that she’s a Bhaalspawn, she’s not surrendering to the D!urge or worried about atoning, but that she’s being encouraged to slaughter her line and that its the woman who hurt her before is a opportunity for power and revenge coinciding nicely

For now the only person my character is telling is Astarion, this is a big thing to confess and she wants to play this close to the vest for as long as possible. While she did have earnest suspicions since the oubliette, she’s more afraid about standing up to a god and the loss of control. I personally like how Astarion comforts you after that dialogue a lot more, especially the way he says you must try to beat Bhaal and not become a slave.

[darkdevasofdestruction]

Can You Get Enough Of Me? - Michael Myers x Reader

"It's a nice day today, huh?" Y/N smiled up at the sky as she went back and forth in the swing. "Will you push me, Mickey?" "Sure." he shrugged as he got off his own swing and went behind her, pushing her the best he could. "Look, Mickey, I'm flying! Whooooo!" the little girl giggled without a care in the world, as Michael watched her long, beautiful hair going everywhere. "Okay, okay, I wanna swing too!" but before the girl could take her time and stop swinging, a bunch of older boys came by and roughly grabbed the chains holding the swing, which in turn, made the girl fall off and get hurt. "Y/N!" Michael gasped as he ran to her side, helping her up, and seeing the blood seeping from one of her legs and arm. "Aww, Myers's got a giiirlfriend! Look at them, gonna fuck? Girl, don'tcha know, Myers's a faggot?" the gang hollered maliciously, and Y/N could only frown, despite the tears of pain from her injuries, and clinging on Michael for support, she got up and yelled at the boys. "Leave Michael alone, jerks! You're rude!" but instead of trying to fight them off, or go in a brawl, she grabbed her friend's arm and dragged him away from there, knowing that if he were to get in trouble again, he'd get some bad detention, and that's the last thing she'd want. Besides...Two kids couldn't possibly fight those guys. "Why didn't you let me fight them?! I could've taken them on!" the blond boy glared at his friend, who only rolled her eyes and sighed at his childishness. "No, you couldn't. Besides, if the teachers find out you got in trouble again, who knows what will happen? Come on, let's go to the fountain, I have to wipe off the blood." Y/N muttered, going on ahead to sit on the rocks by the fountain and took out her handkerchief from her little bag, dipping it in the water and carefully wiping away the red liquid streaming down her limbs, hissing from the pain here and there, but otherwise, staying completely silent. "I'm sorry..." the girl suddenly heard the blond boy mutter, barely audible. "Huh? What do you have to be sorry about, Mickey?" as her eyes widened from the shock, she leaned forward, raising his chin up with her finger. "...I couldn't protect you. I suck. I'm as bad as that fuckass says I am..." he sighed, gently pulling away her hand and looking away from her. "Look at what they did to you. Could've been much worse. And yet, you stood up for me, while I did nothing. I'm a horrible friend." his voice was pitiful, and it was obvious he hated his lack of strength. "First of all, you aren't just my friend. You're my BEST friend. Okay? And nothing in this world will change that. Got it? Okay. Second of all, we're still little and weak. That's how kids are. Trying to fight those guys is like trying to fight the forces of nature...You...You can't fight a hurricane, you know? And...Violence isn't the answer. I mean...Look at our parents. There's nothing good coming out of that...But someday! Someday we'll get older and stronger, and nobody will bully us anymore! It just...It takes a while...I guess." she threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly, trying to comfort him. "That's shit! They'll see, they'll ALL pay for it! Nobody will dare be fuckers with us anymore! And when I grow up, I will make sure everyone is nice to you." he was so revolted, but his anger gradually dissipated as he felt her warmth. "Please don't speak like that. Calm down, Mickey. Things are okay now. At least we have each other, and we will always have each other, don't forget that, okay?" she leaned her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes for a while, only to hear an aggressive male voice booming through the park which made the girl yelp and tremble in fear. "GET AWAY FROM THAT FREAK, Y/N! GET HERE RIGHT NOW!" her father yelled at her and she could only whimper silently, trying to stop herself from hyperventilating. "B-But daddy, Michael is not bad...! H-He tried to protect me from those mean boys from the playground!" she spoke meekly, slowly walking in front of her father, her head hung in fear, only for the man to burry his hand in

her hair, pulling on it roughly, making the girl yelp in pain. "Don't talk back to me, you stupid little bitch! You have no right to go against what I say while you're under MY roof, got it? Home, now." Michael couldn't even retaliate in any way, knowing that if he were to cause trouble for her, she would get in even more trouble, and that's the last thing he'd want...But why did it have to be her...?

He can take it, alright...But her...That's just not acceptable. She is small, and weak, and frail, and innocent...And there is nobody who can protect her.

Nobody but him...

----

"Michael, Michael, are we going trick or treating today?" Y/N asked, skipping around him in her cutesy witch costume, while he was a boring clown. "I guess." he shrugged, pulling down his clown mask. "Come on, it's Halloween, Mickey! You love Halloween! It's your favourite holiday! And we get free candy! It's gonna be fuuun~!" she bumped him with her body, making him stumble a bit, before looking at her and groaning. "Fine, fine, we're going. I just have to tell my mum." he grabbed her wrist and dragged her to his house, but on the way, she stopped him. "Hey, how about we trick or treat all the houses on the way to yours? I mean, there's nothing bad in that, right? We're just going home! It's not even considered a detour!" Y/N grinned widely, her beautiful eyes sparkling with excitement. "...Okay, let's do that." as he said that, Michael took out his candy bag from his schoolbag and taking her hand, they went to all house from both sides of the street. "Trick or Treat!" they both exclaimed as the first grandma opened the door with a loving look on her face. "Ahh, my, my, how cute you two are! And what do we have here...A very adorable, magical witch! And...A funny clown! How lovely!" the woman clapped her hands together to her chest, admiring the two kids. "Ma'am, he's not just a clown, he is my jester! Isn't he so cute?" she threw her arms around his neck, slamming his face to hers as she grinned even wider, making the woman laugh at them. "Yees, yes, I understand! Here, darlings, you're so adorable, take all of these. Hope to see you two, cuties, next year as well! Have fun!" the grandma patted both their heads before going back to her home. "Wiiicked! Look how much candy we've got! My fave holiday is Christmas, but honestly, Halloween is a very close runner up! Our teeth will literally rot after this!" the girl giggled as she inspected each variety of candy in her bag, "I love it 'cause I can spare people." Michael shrugged simply, but he also munched on some candy corn. "Would you scare me, Mickey?" Y/N turned her face to his, her eyes widening with a glimmering, innocent curiosity. "...No. I wouldn't. But you're the only one, okay?! Everyone else, I'd scare!" he tried to sound scary and dangerous, but it only made the little girl giggle and kiss his cheek. "You're my hero! My handsome knight in shining armour, Mickey! Thank you for protecting me. You're the best." help his soul, he wasn't used to people saying good things about him... "...But I'm ugly...That's why I wear a mask so often..." he muttered, looking down at the ground. "No! That's so not true! You're very pretty, okay? I love your face! And you have the most gorgeous eyes in the world! And...And...And your hair is so lovely, I'm jealous! Please don't say bad things about yourself, Mickey, it makes me very upset." she pouted, hugging him tightly, and it was pretty clear neither of them wanted to let go. "You won't leave me, would you, Y/N?" Michael's low voice came out barely above a whisper, but it was the only time he ever allowed himself to show any kind of weakness or vulnerability. "Never. Some day, we will be together forever, okay?" she ruffled his hair playfully, which made his face flush softly. "Hey, actually...Here you go. This is yours now. This way, if you're ever lonely, you'll remember I'm always thinking of you, okay?" Y/N grinned sweetly at him as she took off her flower-charmed necklace and put in on him, hiding it under his costume, so nobody else could see it. "Mum gave this to me on my birthday, before she died. It means the world for me, and so do you. So...Don't forget that, okay? I hope you'd smile more, you have a very pretty smile." as she said that, she squished his chipmunk cheeks.

The boy said nothing - What was he supposed to do, anyway? He was overwhelmed entirely by the only person who makes him feel...Good? But he had to go home, and he already knew that home was hell, and by the time he went there, he knew he wouldn't actually be going trick or treating, as promised...And he'd have to let Y/N down again.

Stupid family.

With a very disappointed voice, he went outside of the house and told the girl that he can't go trick or treating with her, but instead of yelling or disappointment, she just smiled and hugged him.

"It's alright! There's always next year! And besides, we already kinda went trick or treating, right? Sweet dreams, Mickey! Take care!" she waved at him cheerfully and skipped back home.

But little did she know that would be the last Halloween they'd spend together, for that night, a massacre happened at his home, and deep down, Y/N knew.

She just...Knew.

It was Michael who created that blood bath. He couldn't take all that abuse anymore, and Y/N understood that well enough...And she hated herself for thinking this, but she knew she was selfish...

If Michael didn't kill his family, they'd still have been able to hang out daily, and laugh together, lick each other's wounds, and go trick or treating on Halloween...

But she had to be happy with visiting him at Smith's Grove institute weekly with his mum, and they'd chat, and talk, and try to get him out of the shell that he hid himself into...

And he wouldn't stop hiding his face behind his masks, every week, a new one, a new one, and a new one, each time, weirder and creepier and grotesque.

No matter what his mother told him, and no matter what Y/N told him...Michael didn't listen, and the more time he spent there, the less he spoke...Until he hasn't said a word to Y/N in at least two weeks. It made the poor girl tear up, fearing that he hated her, but at least he'd shake his head and clutch his shirt where the gifted necklace would be.

And she would understand.

His mother was confused, and the Dr. was confused as well, but Y/N wasn't, and she'd smile at him and wouldn't explain what happened. It was their little secret, and nobody would be able to be made aware of.

And then...After many weeks of visiting, Michael stuck again and killed a nurse, which led to his mother committing suicide, and since she had nobody to go with to visit him, the last thing she could do was send in letters weekly, hoping they will be given to him, but she had no way of knowing, since nobody wanted to tell her anything, and no reply came by.

Until she gave up writing, thinking that Michael actually hated her, and decided to go on with her life, and her father made her move away to another state to get better education.

15 years passed, and the now 27 year old Y/N was a University graduate who worked hard and was able to get her old home in Haddonfield...To think she'd finally be able to go there again, she never would have thought that.

But here she was, having found a nice, well-paying job, and she was pretty happy, albeit nostalgic, being again back...Home. By the time she returned, she had already learnt how to play the guitar too, so every Friday night, she'd sit on her porch and play a song, softly singing along, hoping not to disturb anyone.

"I was made for lovin' you baby, you were made for loving me..." she hummed, singing the song by Kiss as she looked up at the starry night with no care in the world.

It was a simple life, but it was good and peaceful - And she had quite a lot of money to do with as she pleases - What else could ask for?

"BREAKING NEWS! A psychiatric patient from Smith's Grove escaped just last night and -..." but Y/N didn't bother hearing the rest of it, because...Because... "Michael...!" she gasped, covering her mouth with both her hands from the shock, tears threatening to fall and she goes outside, looking around, left and right, down the street, hoping to see a glimpse of the blond boy she once held so dear to her heart.

And what a coincidence, tomorrow night was Halloween...Did he do it on purpose? Did he even remember the days they spent together? Or how special Halloween was for him? Did he still have that silly necklace with him? Did he ever read her letters?

So many questions that she was pretty sure she'll never get an answer to, and that thought alone killed her.

The next day, she dressed in her Kiss loose Tshirt, remembering how that was Michael's favourite band, and somewhere in her heart, she hoped to see him again, even just by a little bit. Even a glimpse at his beautiful blue eyes would be enough.

But she knew she was dreaming...

She went to work as usual, but she was so busy that she didn't realise she ended up overstaying and overworking herself until she left the place and realised it was already dark outside, and there were barely any children trick or treating - But hey, there still were a few - And Y/N couldn't help but smile and remember the cute witch and her loyal jester.

The good times...

As she hummed carefree and looked up at the starry sky, but then she heard a crack, and looking back...Nothing? Hmm...Suspicious... She continued walking, but the ominous feeling in the back of her head continued, and so, she took out her pocket mirror and noticed a man somewhere in the back, walking towards her. A colleague from work, she recognised him, yes, she remembers him. He was kicked out from the job because of his inappropriate behaviour...And him following her now truly was no good news.

Analysing the situation, she realised she was close enough to home to make a break for it, so taking a deep breath, she sprinted the hell out of there...But...things didn't go as expected.

Before she could even reach her home, for she was pushed to the ground and straddled, his hands immediately finding their way around her neck, trying to immobilise her, to stop her from struggling and let him have his way with her.

But Y/N was a fighter, and she didn't want to allow the bullying she experienced as a child to take over her adult life, but she also didn't have the body strength to go against this guy, no matter how much she tried to struggle.

However...Before she knew it, the man stopped - Almost as if he froze - And she was splattered with liquid. It was blood. The man above her was stabbed in the chest, then in the head continuously, before his body was snatched and tossed away like a ragdoll.

Great - Y/N thought - From one criminal to another, with a whimper, she tried to get up and run away, but the man was too fast for her, and he picked her up with a weird ease, getting her inside her own house and letting her fall down on her couch.

The man saw fear in her eyes, and she was whimpering, her head hung as she tried to make herself as small as possible - As if she wasn't already so small, especially compared to him - It was pissing him off, as he remembered her jackass father abusing her. He would never hurt her! He promised her he'd always protect her, so why is she so scared of him...?!

"E-Excuse me...Uhm...Mister...A-Are you...Maybe...Uhmm...Are you Michael...?" she stuttered in such a meek voice that it grated his brain. This isn't right, Y/N was cheerful and happy. This...This wasn't right... The man got a hand underneath the neck of his blouse, only to reveal the old flower necklace from long ago. "Michael...! It really is you...Michael...I can't believe it! Oh my God...You grew up so much, this is insane!" as if a switch turned inside her, the girl jumped on her couch and threw herself on the incredibly tall man, not caring whether he liked it or not.

He was her Michael, and she missed him.

"You still don't talk, do you? Well...At least take off this mask of yours. I told you, I hate it when you hide yourself from me. I want to see your beautiful face." she chuckled, pulling Michael down with her on the couch, as he stood with his hands mid-way in the air, rather awkwardly, before finally pulling up his old mask and threading with it with his hands that were laying on his lap. "There we go, as beautiful as ever." she chuckled softly as she parted his long, dirty blond hair and letting it fall down his back, so his face could properly be seen. "Oh my God, you even have a stubble. I can't believe it. Well, we are all grown up after all, aren't we? Seems like almost yesterday when we'd go trick or treating...On this very day." she kept talking of the nostalgic things from so long ago, so much that it made Michael grunt in amusement, but his face didn't sketch any emotion. It really upset Y/N, it felt like talking to a wall. "Well, at least I'm happy that you remember me. I didn't think you did. I kinda thought you hated me too, I didn't know if you got any of my letters either. Uhm...I don't really know what to say. It's weird talking to myself like that. But I'm happy to see you again." she continued speaking before stopping altogether and fidgeting awkwardly on her spot next to him, as he didn't even move, or bother saying a single word.

They stood like that for a while, until Michael suddenly started moving, and revealed a bunch of unopened letters - All from her.

"You have all of them...!" Y/N gasped in shock, taking the letters and examining all of them one by one. "Why didn't you open them?" but instead of an answer, he shook his head. "Did you...Not have them...Until recently?" Y/N tried to guess, and the answer came in the form of a nod. "That stupid doctor! How dare he?! ...You must have felt so lonely stuck there...With your mum shooting herself, I couldn't go there anymore, so I sent you letters weekly...The doctor promised to give them to you...Urgh, what a jerk. And I thought you hated me and that's why you didn't want to reply to them...But you just got them. How annoying." Y/N groaned, realising the truth of what happened, and she let the letters fall down on the coffee table.

After some more silence between the two, Michael pointed towards her shirt, and she smiled, nodding and taking her guitar before leaning on his side. "Yeah, I know it's your favourite band. I never forgot that." she chuckled, and as she started playing the same song she knew so well - And she felt a strong arm sneaking around her waist, pulling her closer to his body. It surprised her a bit, but she felt so safe and warm in his embrace.

"I was made for lovin' you baby, you were made for lovin' me. And I can't get enough of you, baby..." she sang in the same sweet, crystalline, soft voice that he loved so much, and missed over the many years they've been separated.

"...Can you get enough of me?"

[sparepartsbacc]

Have you ever thought “too bad I’m never going to do anything with this sim” about your CAS challenge sims that never see the light of live mode?

How about “I used to love this sim, but I forgot I even had them?” 

What about feeling bad for those poor spares from legacy challenges that never got the opportunity to spread their wings and fly? Or even worse, those 100 baby challenge babies that just get kicked out into the world once they reach young adulthood?

Well, I certainly have!

That is why I bring you my newest project: Spare Parts.

Spare Parts is a Build a City Challenge dedicated to the forgotten, the unloved, the spares shoved away in our libraries never to be heard of again. 

I don’t know about you, but I have ton of sims just sitting in my library doing nothing. Spares from legacy challenges, sims from CAS challenges on Simblr, sims that I just made for the giggles, sims I made to test new packs, even sims that I intended to do a challenge with but never got around to using. And not to mention the cute townie-descended sims that appear in my saves and I never have the opportunity to do anything with, or the randomly generated townies I’ve saved!

I got the idea to make an entire city from sims that had never been properly given a chance. I rolled a die to determine how many sims I would start with, and ended up with the number six, so I had to choose six sims from my library, but there was a catch: I was only going to allow myself to use those that I haven’t properly played with before. No sim that I move into this save will be a sim I’ve given any kind of limelight to, and no sim that I move in will be freshly made by me or anyone else for the purpose of this save.

If you don’t know what the BACC challenge is, I recommend hopping over here and giving the rules a looksee. They’re not completely up-to-date, but I’m going to be including the new packs best I can (which is fine because the only one that I have that isn’t included is Cottage Living).

My sims are starting off in Henford-On-Bagley, on the largest lot available (64x64). This way, they will be free to spread out as time goes by, because I will be moving any and all new sims onto this lot before allowing them to spread their wings and fly. I will also be playing rotational style, so when sims form their own households, I will be moving them out into the world, and playing with each one for a sim week, from midnight Sunday to 11:59 Saturday.

Now, for the fun part.

If you want to, and only if you want to, you can send me your spare sims. You can scour your library and find spares, unused sims, abandoned legacy founders, abandoned challenge sims, etc, and send them my way so they can get a second chance. For example, one of the sims I will be starting with is @grimheaven’s “I’m a Lover” legacy founder, Montana Grove, because she’s a lovely sim whose save file gave her Watcher no end of grief.

If this sounds like a fun idea to you, just send your sim(s) to me, either here or at @cyazurai​, in an ask or just tag me in a post; or you can just submit your sim to the gallery with the hashtag #cyazurai (along with a description if you want to). That way, I can find them. I will be checking that hashtag frequently.

I won’t be captioning these posts the way I normally do, because that’s too much added pressure. I already have 3 legacies and a Let’s Play on YouTube, and narration can be exhausting. Sometimes I might add a caption, just to clarify what’s happening, but they will be few and far between. Mostly, I will just edit the photo with things like moodlets, pop-ups, traits, actions, etc, to give you all an idea of what is going on. This way, I can keep up with my posts. I will also not be posting 10+ times a day, I will be keeping this down to 6 a day (except for the first day). 

I apologize for the lengthy read, and I will be providing a TL;DR down below for those that just want to get to the point! 

TL;DR:: Cyan is starting a BACC for unused/forgotten/spare sims from her and others’ libraries, and is allowing you to submit sims in case you want to give them another lease on life.

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

breaking it down to find a meaning

neighbours au?

this came out of literally no where. I was getting ready for bed and I had "I wanna love somebody" by We Three stuck in my head and then I opened tumbles and this just poured out of me? Yea I literally wrote this in the tumblr post option. no google doc we die like lovers.

I point this out only to say this is defs not edited lmao. I didn't even expect it to be this long it was supposed to a tiny drabble?

please enjoy!

[all images have alt text]

There are exactly three things wrong with Percy's current living situation.

1. He has far too little lounge space for his terribly long body. His shins have hit the coffee table six times today in his attempt to maneuver from sitting on the couch to standing.

2. The spare bedroom is not a good enough sound quality for his guitar or his drum practice. The bathroom is much better. He cannot practice in his bathroom forever, or ever.

3. His neighbour is undeniably, completely distractingly hot.

He hasn't allowed himself to rate the problems in order of most troublesome because he's a little ashamed about which one might take first place.

Since moving in one week ago Percy has had many opportunities to arrange and rearrange every aspect of the tiny two bedroom— or one bedroom and a makeshift studio— apartment until he could walk around it blind. He knows not to step on the third floorboard from the left wall on the way to his bedroom because it creaks unpleasantly and he thinks his downstairs neighbours are going to shove a hot poker through the roof just to brandish the annoying foot that keeps making the noise. He knows that the oven setting has to be juggled just right for it to go on. He knows the curtain railings in the living room are far too thin and brittle— he will have to replace them before the month is out. He knows you have to turn the hot tap in the shower three times and the cold tap four to get the exact perfect temperature. What he doesn't know, however, is his neighbour's name, or the colour of their eyes, or anything about them. All he knows is that they're hot.

But today, bruised shin and all, Percy is determined to introduce himself. If for nothing else but to gauge just how upset they might be when he starts up what his mother used to lovingly call "Melodic Madness".

So far it takes the reign as number one reason he's had to leave his previous living spaces. Mr Chiron from Strawberry Valley, who told the landlord the noise was so loud it made his steel kneecaps rust. Creative, but Percy isn't sure it's feasible. Then there was Minerva from Olive Grove who took one look at him and told the landlord he was a drug dealer, or worse, a drug user. He had raised a brow, couldn't stop his lip from tugging up, liking the way the ring that hugged his bottom lip stretched deliciously. He almost killed her on the spot. He would have laid lillies at her funeral and she would have risen again to throw them away. The last place, a Mr Hedge. Percy was glad to leave him behind. There were baseball bags swinging and yelling almost as loud as he played every time they crossed paths. For his own safety Percy didn't even wait for the man to call the landlord before he wad tucking his drumsticks in his pocket and high tailing it to, here.

Here being Sunset Gardens. Here being in this small apartment that fit him almost perfectly. Here being one knock away from meeting his new neighbour.

Percy wonders, as he looks at the soft cream wood of the door, if he should have worn a turtle neck to hide the snake tattoo wrapping around his throat. Or maybe a button down and a tie, to hide the swirls of ink on his arms. The black t-shirt he has on, a normal longer length to his usual cropped look, is clean and soft from use. He decides it'll have to be good enough because he can't wear button downs all the time. How ever will he afford all the ties that come with the obligation?

Percy knocks on the door.

There's silence behind it. The silence of sleepy world, too cozy-can't move. The silence that doesn't wish to be disturbed.

The door opens.

His neighbour's eyes are blue. Bright blue. Startling blue. Blue enough to make his lungs feel a lack of oxygen. He's reaching for the sky and it's getting harder to breather the higher he gets.

"Hello." Says his neighbour.

Percy is flying closer to the sun than Icarus ever will, ever could.

"Can I help you?"

He needs to stop staring. He needs to say something that doesn't make him look like a gaping angel fish. All starry eyes halos and floundering for relief from the air. Do fish know how beautiful the sky is? He imagines if they did they'd all kill themselves trying to get to it. He's doing it right now.

"Hi," He grins. Teeth white, straight, flossed because his mother forced him to learn the habit. "I'm Percy, your new neighbour."

"Jason," The voice is warm, deep. He knows if he lay his head on that spectacular chest he'll feel every vibration when this blue eyed spectacle talks. It'll be like getting into a really nice car and feeling the seats rumble beneath you.

"How are you finding the apartment?"

They're still standing on his door front. Jason won't relent his sanctuary. Percy won't toe over the line, curiouser and curiouser as he is.

"Good. Living room is causing some bodily harm," He waves to his shin, "But otherwise very good. Cozy."

"We share a wall. I don't know if it's your bedroom and mine or..." His neighbour trails off.

"It's my spare bedroom against you." They both glance to his door, light from his lounge flooding the passage in a perfect parallelogram.

"That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about." He's looking into the sky again. Watches as hair falls over that golden forehead. His hands— tattooed "amare" on his left fingers and "amari" on his right— twitch to push it back, to grasp the white strands, to know what light feels like. He tucks them into the pockets of his sweatpants. He tells them behave. The twitch in their hiding place. He doesn't let them seek.

"What about it?" Jason is frowning, in that worried way that says he's used to bad news and he's tired of it too.

"I uh," Percy's eyes flicker around the world. "I play guitar and drums. I'm using that room as my music room."

"Oh." The relief in Jason is a pointed arrow straight at his heart. Even cupid could never shoot something so potent. "That's okay. I'll use your music as inspiration when I paint."

Percy is Icarus three seconds after he believes he can fly. Percy is Patroclus when he feeds Achilles. Percy is Hercules after completing his first trial. Percy is a hero and a warrior and the luckiest person alive. Percy is alive.

"I hope you're good." Jason shrugs as if he hadn't tattooed a permanent place into the underside of Percy's ribcage.

"I hope so too." He manages to say back.

"I'll show you what I can create from you the first time and you can judge." Those blue eyes are so wide with innocence. Not the innocence of life but of words. His neighbour has no idea what he's doing to him. Has no idea that he is about to go home and make song lyrics out of all these declarations.

"I look forward to it." He smiles wide. It's ocean deep with happiness.

There are exactly three things perfect about Percy's current living situation:

1. The kitchen has a gas stove enough counter space for him to make bread and his mother's gumbo

2. His bedroom is big enough for him to fit a king sized bed easily. He is a sprawler when he sleeps and he cannot be happier to sprawl across never ending expanse.

3. His hot neighbour is perfect.