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choccy-zefirka · 1 year ago

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Alfira's fingers dance across her lute strings, their soft glide punctuated by vigorous, gleeful pinches. Her eyes remain half-closed, and she scarcely looks down at her own hands... Or up at the excited, giggling children who have perched atop a nearby rock, and formed an ever-fidgeting nest of limbs around the only one of them that knows how to play a Fay's flute.

None of them need to look at each other. The melody that they shape together, out of rippling strums and cheery little peeps, is enough to guide them. They trust in it, allow it to sweep them off, until it grows into something much, much larger than any of them, soaring over the campsite and weaving through the Grove beyond.

But while Alfira loses herself in the music, her loyal companion — her fellow "Tiefling queen", her Lakrissa — keeps her eyes wide open. She scans the swirling, swaying, stomping crowd for awkward stragglers, for lone silhouettes on the fringes of firelight, and calls them to dance.

Her "Come on, come oooonnnn!" is very hard to resist — unless, perhaps, you are Ikaron, determined to disapprove of the merriment; or Bex, who has already drunk and laughed and flirted her fill for the night, and is now dozing on her fiancé’s shoulder, mouth open and drooling slightly. With enough prodding from her, even the druid briefly shimmies in front of the campfire opposite little Arabella, before retreating again to talk to the adventurers' dog. And eventually, Lakrissa lands on one of the more... challenging targets.

"Zevlor?" she drawls, cocking her head to the side. "Zeeev-looooor? Why won't you dance with us?"

He meets her mischievous, wine-lit gaze with a smile. It is a relief, truly, to finally have these young folk open up enough to tease him, like a weird uncle at a family gathering. He never did manage to dissuade their little group's scouts from calling him "sir" when they reported on goblin movements on the road. As if he was still a Hellrider; a paladin. As if he was still *worthy*.

He might not be worthy of being the uncle figure either — but for a moment, in the warmth of the campfire, he can imagine a home for this motley family of his. Almost like the one in Elturel, before it became so horribly, disastrously clear that he had not been doing his duty enough to —

"Ohhhh!" Lakrissa laughs. Zevlor blinks back to the present; he must have looked quite the fool, with his thoughts scattering like this.

"You must have a very special dance partner in mind! Our lovely hero went that way, I think!"

She points towards the river bank, where reeds rise through the mist, almost like a natural fence. Guarding the camp from the unknown that they will all inevitably face come morning.

Zevlor feels heat flare up under his skin. This... This is not what he was thinking about, but now that Lakrissa brought it up, he can't get his mind off — off Niamh.

The adventurer with the face of a fierce gith and the upbringing of a druid. Torn out of a peaceful home of her own and thrust into great wide open, where she has often felt confused, overwhelmed, unworthy of leading and protecting. Not unlike himself.

They'd confide in each other during her stays in the Grove in between trekking back and forth across the wilderness. She'd often return heavy-eyed, tired, with a cracked mix of dry blood and grime clinging to her like half-sloughed second skin. But she would always find a moment to drop by in his quarters. To talk. First, she thanked him for not recoiling from her like a monster; then, she gently guided him away from the brink, from becoming a monster himself, as he pondered striking Kagha down and she proposed a diplomatic resolution instead. And later on, when the druids stopped their damn chanting and the refugees managed to catch some respite at last — she would just check on him and his people. Sometimes share a story or two of her adventures; even invite them to try out the cooking of her wizard companion.

And every next meeting, somehow, the days when she was not in the Grove began to feel so much drearier than when she was there. Smiling — still such a rarity after Avernus — began requiring less and less effort when Zevlor's eyes lingered on hers. Memories of another life, when he was younger, more hopeful, more confident that he could change lives for the better, began to stumble out of the dark.

"Why not," he murmurs, gaze travelling from Lakrissa's smugly grinning face to the reeds. "Why not dance with her..."

"That's the spirit!" Lakrissa winks at him before striding off to find more dancers.

"Do enjoy the night! I know I certainly will."

When Zevlor reaches the rustling, fence-like thicket, someone else steps in front of him from the heavy milky swirls. At first, he just catches the outline of curving horns and the glint of a single red eye. And then, his dark-vision chisels out the details. The human features blending in with those of his kin. Young Wyll — now even more of a brother to them all than when he first came to their aid.

Zevlor's heart sinks, despite himself. After the drawn-out, icy, knife-twist pang of disappointment, comes the scalding burst of self-loathing. Why is he feeling this way, thinking such low thoughts?! He shouldn't! He — he should be happy for Niamh! Wyll is a wonderful, honorable man; perhaps the best possible choice for —

"Good evening, Zevlor!" Wyll smiles at him, but his eye is touched by a deep, quiet melancholy. "If you, too, have sneaked away to brood, be warned — Niamh might spring up on you and give you a pep talk!"

"You know me!" a familiar voice calls back from the reeds. "I always worry for everyone!"

"Well, you can stop worrying about me," says Wyll, with a little parting bow. "I promise, a little walk under the stars and I will be right as rain. Perhaps Zevlor here can cheer you on, instead. Before you overexert yourself making sure everyone else is happy."

With that, he leaves them one on one.

Niamh parts the reeds and steps on a dry (or, well, dry-er) patch of sand to greet Zevlor. She is barefoot and out of her armor. Her white shirt hangs loosely on her bony shoulders, and her simple camp breeches are rolled up for wading through the shallows — something she once confessed she does to calm her nerves. Her long pink hair, haloed in silver by the moonlight, is undone, cascading around her golden face like flower petals around the sun-kissed center.

Zevlor's breath catches halfway up his windpipe. He is still uncertain what this little encounter with Wyll meant — who are they to each other, is he intruding where he does not belong? — and even less certain if he has actually managed to keep the dazed little "You are beautiful" from escaping his lips.

"I am glad to see you," she breathes out, stunning him further. "I have been... making the rounds all night, double-checking that both your people and mine are comfortable, happy, well-rested... Wandered all the way out here to comfort poor Wyll. I..."

She makes a long pause, her lake-blue gaze drowning out all reason within Zevlor's mind. Maybe he underestimated the strength of that wine Moll has been cleverly peddling to the thirsty adults — but by the Hells, what he would give to find out if her hair feels as silky as it looks.

"I care for everyone here, I truly do, but has been a bit exhausting, and I feel like you will understand."

"I do," he says — sincerely, even rather gravely. His racing mind might have started sobering up... And then he hears himself speak.

"I was seeking you out in... perhaps outlandish hopes that you might share a dance with me, but if you are overwhelmed, I can just keep you company."

She lets out a little gasp of surprise. Pleasant surprise, he thinks. Not outrage, not disgust. Then again, can he trust his perception, with blood pounding so loudly in his ears? Is this what being young felt like, back in the city stolen from him?

"I admit that I do not do well with crowds — but we can still hear the music from here!"

She holds out her hand to him: long fingers the color of summer pollen, talons filed short to care for all the woodland creatures she always seems to gather round herself.

He is slow, deliberate, when lacing her fingers through his — so unused to the feeling of anything warmer and softer than weapon steel. The drumming that overtook him gives way to a gentle flutter — a caress of unseen butterfly wings. And when he places his other hand on her waist, and she beams at him, the same flutter echoing in her blissful sigh, that is when the last shadow of doubt is gone. He is not intruding. He belongs.

Her bare feet and his travel-worn boots print a delicate swirl into the sand. Like Alfira with her lute, they move without looking up or down, guided by the distant warbles of music. For him, the world fades into muted, watercolor non-existence; nothing remains except her gleaming eyes... And for her...

"By the Oak Father, you are so handsome," she says, in a hushed, almost reverent voice, sounding nearly on the verge of tears.

All of a sudden, Zevlor becomes painfully aware of his tail, which tangles around his leg, getting in the way, a tripwire of his foolish body's own making.

She catches him, one leg intertwined with his, one hand clutching his back, the other placed gently over his frenzied heart. She holds him for a moment, half-dipped to the ground, and then — far too soon — brings him to his feet.

"Did... Did I speak out of turn? I had a few drinks with Shadowheart but I did not think — "

His heart plummets once more, at the sight of panic spreading over her face. Before she can succumb to it, he rushes to blurt out,

"No, not at all! I am just... out of practice with... Really with anything that goes beyond survival."

"I hope tonight brought some reprieve," she murmurs gently. "You have come so far. You deserve it."

Their little dance has, obviously, ground to quite a ridiculous halt, but they are still holding hands. Lost in thought, she trails her thumb over his rough, scarred knuckles. Soothing his skin, the way cool fresh air soothed it on the first night free from Avernus.

"I have been thinking about the magic lights you ignited around camp," she goes on.

"One for every life you saved," he chimes in, voice cracking.

It is a tradition they brought from the depth of Hell, where the sky is either an oozing, oppressive clot of black tar or an endless whirlwind of sickening fleshy tones. No stars in Avernus. No glimmer of hope. Yet they tried, against all odds, they tried, to keep it alive, in tiny, spluttering flickers of candles and conjured mage light.

And tonight, even as they have a real sky overhead, vast and breathtaking, the Tears rolling in a lavish pearl string against its velvet, Zevlor has sparked the lights again. For his people — and for her. The one who cleared the road for them; who kept their new hope from withering, from suffocating in the Rite of Thorns, from being stomped out by a marching goblin horde.

"I wanted to share some magic of my own in return. I wanted you to see the wilds the way I see them... To maybe understand why I seek solace down by the river when being a mighty hero is too much for me."

She arches her eyebrows.

"May I?"

"Yes," says Zevlor, far more hoarsely than intended. She smiles, her most radiant smile yet, and returns her hand to his chest again.

Ribbons of ghostly turquoise weave from under her fingertips. They spill all across his torso, light made liquid, turning the grooves in his breastplate into ephemeral rivulets.

"Amicus animalis," she chants. Her voice is lowered, but each syllable is clear, almost forceful in its enunciation.

And the moment she says the words, the riverside comes alive.

Among the reeds and beyond, countless little voices whisper. The chirping of the late-night birds — or early-morning birds, at this point — the soft cricket trills, the throaty croaks of a frog chorus... It also suddenly fills with words, with meaning.

"Look at those two-leggers, making so much noise!" one critter grumbles, from somewhere underfoot. It speaks with a squeaky lisp, so Zevlor imagines a mouse. Watching him from the shadowy triangle of two grass blades bending down towards each other under the weight of dew.

"Absolutely preposterous!"

"Haven't you heard?" another, similarly squeaky voice interjects. "They are having a ritual of survival! They have escaped goblins! You know, the greedy toothy ones that roasted your cousins?"

"Oh."

The first voice grows quieter, considering.

"Well, in that case... I suppose we can forgive them. Especially if their feast has leftovers."

"Mmmm, leftovers..." the first voice sighs dreamily, and then two sets of tiny feet pitter patter off into the dusk.

Zevlor chuckles. A foolish thing, welcoming the approval of some unseen rodent — but it does feel oddly heartwarming. And... Ritual of survival does have a certain ring to it.

Niamh eyes him, holding back her breath. Curious what he thinks of her magic. But before he can open his mouth to thank her — for sharing this spell with him, for saying everything she said, for... for being herself — a shrill cry rolls across the water. Like the voice of a hawking peddler in the market.

"Mate! Mate! I am searching for a mate! I am the strongest frog here! Let me mount you, and your spawn will be just as strong! Come and mate!"

Niamh withdraws her head into the collar of her shirt, mortified. It is still buried deep, her blazing ears sticking out like a pair of autumn leaves, when she snaps her fingers and the turquoise glow fades. The aggressive advertisement turns back into innocuous ribbit-ribbit; and Niamh slowly emerges from her cocoon.

"Nature," she says weakly.

"Nature indeed. The things Halsin has told me..."

Hiding inside her shirt has ruffled her hair, and with a soft, good-natured laugh, Zevlor edges forward to brush a loose strand out of her eyes. It... It is as silky as he imagined. The sensation makes him freeze, his hand going limp against the side of her face.

She inhales, biting her lip... And upon exhaling, attempts a joke.

"Well, at least animals are straightforward with their intentions."

He feels her flush under his touch. Her voice, calling him handsome, echoes through him. His body still aches from the sweetness of being pressed against hers in their impromptu dance. This ache constricts his chest, and pulls at him, driving him to lean in. Closer. Closer. Half a breath away from her.

She is the first to kiss him.

For a moment, it feels almost alien — the push of another's mouth against his, the living warmth of tongues touching... Another remnant of another man's past, buried with Elturel, melted in the fires of Avernus.

But only for a moment.

Across the years, across an eternity from that foolhardy young paladin, with hopes and dreams and illusions of grandeur, his tired, beaten-down flesh remembers. He returns the kiss, moaning from the force of it; his hands finally sink into that flower-bright hair — and pull. Not enough to cause her pain, not enough to bring her to tears — he would never do that, never! — but more than enough to coax out a moan of her own, in that sweet voice of hers. A new music, as their dance begins anew.

She tears away from his lips and moves to his throat, down to his collar, as his pulse leaps in wild joy under her tender bites.

"Wait," he slurs feebly, lost in the net of her wandering hands. She is searching for a way to undo his armor.

"Wait... I... I have scars. I just thought that you..."

She pauses, chest rising and falling, hair wilder than ever before.

"Oh — oh no. You know me, Zevlor. You... You cannot truly think I would find that off-putting?"

"Thank you," he thinks he says, for who knows which time, and she returns into his arms, finding the elusive buckles on the back. The plate is off, then the leather. In between his Tiefling blood and the hazy warmth of arousal, he barely registers the nocturnal cold. Half of him is bared to her: red skin stretched across spiky ridges, warped and lumpy where an imp ripped into him. Or a geyser of fire erupted too close. Or a demon's blade fell between him and the children he was shielding.

She takes him in, utter awe in her eyes. Almost as if... When she looks at him, she sees the same thing as when he looks at her.

"Is there any place where it would hurt to touch you?"

He shakes his head, chest swelling with elation. And her hands return, gentle and inquisitive; as do her lips, her nibbling teeth, over his collar, down his stomach, thorough as a priestess in worship.

His breeches are undone now, and her eyebrows soar up.

"I was, um intimate with a few people in the past, but never with a Tiefling. I did not know there were... more ridges!"

"Nature," he grunts, hardly managing to form the syllables — because she is on her knees now in front of him... He glances down to discover that, while one of her hands reaches for support, the other has dived down into her clothes; the realization burns through him like hellfire, hardening him for her quick tongue to explore.

She circles around the base, along the side — leisurely, leaving plenty of space for her hand's strokes and for Zevlor's shuddering whimpers.

"Sylvanus preserve me, I want you inside of me," she exhales at last, her mouth leaving him. "Ridges and all."

"But... The measures?" he tries to ask, through the intoxicating pre-release fog.

"Don't worry!" She rises from her knees, touching him in tune with her words, and every second makes him writhe in her grasp.

"My books said, and Lae'Zel confirmed, that a Githyanki cannot get pregnant unless Vlaakith wills it. And something tells me Vlaakith does not much care about me."

"Her loss," Zevlor says.

Under normal circumstances, she might have been distressed by the casual blasphemy — making him instantly regret it. She has, after all, been trying so hard to learn more about her people, to respect their ways.

But here, tonight, all she does is push herself against him, clothes pulled down, body open and wanting.

She yowls in delight when he slips in, startled by the sensation of those ridges against her, and laughs at the sound of her own voice. He laughs as well, and then drowns that laugh in a new kiss, drinking every last drop of her, only stopping when his thrusts rob him of his breath.

"You... You are the best thing that happened to me in..." he gasps, with his fingers deep in her hair again, his forehead touching hers. "...Longer than you can ever imagine. I will always remember this."

This cannot last, of course. Soon, the dawn will break, lighting up the river brighter than the little Tiefling lights ever could in the night; and they will be on the road again, each going their separate way. Each will be back to fretting, to protecting their companions, to ensuring that everything runs smoothly, that are safe and happy, their own happiness be damned. Maybe they will never see each other again. Maybe she —

"You had better remember, because I will find you," she says, in between more kisses. More and more and more. While their bodies are still one.

"When we reach Baldur's Gate, I will find you. And we will do this again. I promise."

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #zevlor #tav x zevlor #lemon #like big juicy lemon #i mean it #original things

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lemonthepotato · 3 months ago

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Cringe warning: very bad Esperanto.

Mi povas mergi min en Esperanto čar mi ne faris multe da progreso ekde 2019. Mi kredas mi komencis lerni en 2019, sed mi rezignis dum (por?) unua jaro. Mi rezignis la hispana, la franca, la japana kaj la irlandano čar… nu, estas evidente kial. Tro da lingvoj lerni (por lerni? Lerni sentas malgxuste.)

Sed, mi restis kun la Esperanto(n?) čar gxi estas facila. Mi volas lerni lingvon por la sakeo (that’s… is that seriously the word? Sakeo? I joked once that Esperanto is 80% English words with -o and the end and 15% other languages with o- at the end, but I digress) de lerni lingvon. Homoj diras ke tio estas malbono kialo, sed, kial? Estas amuza… ne estas krimo amuziĝi.

Honeste, mi estis (estis for ‘have been?’ doesn’t feel right…) uzi Google Translate por helpi min, sed ne por lambastono. nur por kontroli se mia gramatiko estas bona. Ne estas, evidente, sed… mi estas nesekura pri gramatiko. Mi scias ke gxi ne estas bona, sed gxi estas probable pli bona ol mi sed mi ne uzis gxin.

Cxiuokaze… mi havas punkton kun ĉi tio; estas malfacila mergi en konlang! Jes, mi povus aligxi servilo de Discord, sed… la embaraso. Mi estus kiel, “Bonvolu… mi estas…” kaj havas furzo de cerba! Cerba furzo? (Googling how to stutter in Esperanto. Great.) (also I’m realising I said bonvolu instead of… oh my god? Am I seriously forgetting hello? Oh, Saluton!)

Cxu mi probable lernu la lingvon de miaj lando, la irlandano? Probable, sed honeste? Neniu parolas la irlandano en la nordo. Ili apenaŭ en la sudo. (Ne estas sude, mi ne zorgas se Google translate diras alie… ne sentas gxusta.)

Cxu mi havas punkto kun cxi tio? Ne. Sed, hej, diras al mi kiel CLAPPED mia Esperanto estas. Kaj, jes, mi eĉ ne provis traduki clapped cxar gxi estas pli amuza al ne.

Mi estas tiel malbona pri Esperanto. Mi devas fidi al tradukistoj por helpo. Mi uzas Google Translate por helpi kun tempoj kaj gramatikoj, sed la vortoj estas plejparte el mia cerbo, se tio havas sencon.

Mi ne havas kialon pri ĉi tio. Mi supozas, ke ĉi tio estas testo de miaj kapabloj. La rezultoj? Tre malbona, sed, hej, mi afiŝos ĉi tio, ĉiuokaze.

Edit: after writing this post, I got an easy, actually video about languages recommended… lol

#lemons random rants #Esperanto #conlang #conlangblr #did I mention I want to learn Toki Pona too #anyway- point is with this post- it’s hard to immerse yourself in a conlang #because podcasts in Esperanto tend to be about Esperanto- for example #I dunno.#4-5 years and I still suck #yeah I know doing one duolingo lesson a day is probably why- but you’d think I’d be somewhat good after 4-5 years #I can read basic paragraphs in Esperanto but some words fly over my head.#I could probably read and understand ‘there was a fruit that was very yellow and juicy’ but could I write that sentence? er… unlikely #I also get tio/tiu and all that jazz mixed up #same with mia/miaj/miajn and all that.#I guess it’s kinda intuitive. sometimes I look at something and think ‘this doesn’t feel right.’#I have the same problem with art where I got really discouraged because people assume I’m a beginner #I’ve done art on and off since 2018. even before that I drew a lot in 2017 and 2016.#I’m just not that good.#same with languages.#sometimes I wanna learn music too.#but I make something super generic and repetitive. and give up. because I don’t know how to structure a song.#my instinct is to just add more and more but never change the er- core… melody?#this post took 20 minutes I could’ve been working on my writing or something.#it’s not laziness. I work really hard at my writing. I just struggle to invest time in anything else because… I’m not a natural at it. also #it strangely feels like slacking off when I do anything other than write #edit or proofreading #also I’ve technically cleared the entire Esperanto course on duolingo like five times #I like skipping to all the ‘big tests’ sometimes where they don’t give hints and they’re very long #as for my Toki Pona? Even worse! I know a lot of the words but not how to structure it. suli. laso. mi. jan. a. awesi(?). kulupu. Soweli #Soweli my beloved creature. insa? look point is I know some words but not how to structure things

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