#minthara: now maul him

[lesbianbillygibson]

well now i gotta know about izz'dra and the baby draegolth

Minthara cut pregnancy content?? It's Izz'dra's now.

So, he summons a glabrezu in the Shadowlands in my canon and does conceive a little draegloth. whom Izz absolutely babies btw, the baby-Umrae'yrr (faithful protector in drow), is rarely put down and always sleeping in someone's arms. Umrae'yrr eats his weight in meat and they save whole deep rothe's for his consumption. Minthara does think it's funny when he bites her family. & he growls at anyone who is not Izz'dra or Minthara. He's mesmerized by bright colors and Izz'dra likes to teach him about mushrooms.

[aaluminiumas]

Unsettling

If you like my work, you can drop some kudos here (or read another one :)

An unnecessarily stern matron, Minthara Baenre couldn’t be called an unnecessarily ruthless soldier: she did what the current status quo required, moving sparingly, with ease and logic, ignoring a flurry of senseless remarks uttered by her less experienced companions. If someone said her cruel ways were excessive, she would issue a succinct reply: that’s how it worked in Menzoberranzan. In this unpredictable world of intrigue, even the most balanced and solidified situation could spin out of control, and Minthara Baenre was the right person to restore relative equanimity in the chaotic murk of the Underdark. She was an acme of good breeding; her aristocratic upbringing ensured that she was well-versed in all things military, and her invaluable skills, polished over the years, made her who she was now: a deadly Paladin, no stranger to the voice of reason. Those who came within her orbit rarely left it alive, but she seldom—by the standards of the Underdark, of course—tortured her captives during excruciatingly long interrogations. Drastic measures could be inevitable, but they often led nowhere, exhausted the victim, and entailed their untimely demise, no matter how creative or exquisite the torments she planned to employ were. More often than not, the cultists, now common guests in the nexus of branching tunnels, warrens, and caves of the Underdark, would only praise the Absolute and die with its name falling from their lips. She learned it the hard way; even in death, the mutilated, mauled corpses of the cultists she’d captured would repeat the words, never expanding on the topic their adored deity wanted concealed. Well, it was an interesting subject for thorough examination and profound research. Too bad she wasn’t the scientific type.

Clearly exasperated, Minthara sat on the desk, her sharp jaw tightening, thin eyebrows furrowing. Menzoberranzan, and the Underdark in general, was known as a place of iniquity to most, but it simply functioned and lived by its own rules, which could not be applied to the outer world. Baldur’s Gate, however, had recently become a reluctant rival: even drow, normally oblivious to the burdens of external denizens, heard about the city, and the scuttlebutt didn’t exactly picture a realm of universal idyll, not with the reviving cult of Bhaal and Absolutists skulking around. She'd wager Baldur’s Gate reeked of religious strife, and she wouldn’t want to find herself in the thick of it.

The woman massaged the bridge of her nose, her red eyes staring at an undisclosed point in space. Whatever she asked, she got one and the same reply, regardless of the scout she had tied to the chair in front of her. A duergar or an orc, quite a novelty in the Underdark, they were trained to provide similar answers as if someone—or something—engraved them into their brains.

“What is the Absolute?” Minthara demanded for the umpteenth time, her voice deadpan, neutral. “A god? A minor deity? What does it represent? What does it stand for?”

The cultist, a stout duergar with unnaturally pale eyes, licked his chapped lips without batting an eye. Minthara perused him from head to toe, noticing omnipresent dust stuck to every exposed inch of his gray skin—it gave him so scrofulous an appearance that she felt faintly revolted. Had he encountered her as a mere adventurer, her sword would not have faltered, but now she had to be tremendously cautious and perspicacious, for he might've used this dust as camouflage. Who knows what tricks he had in store? Years of fighting and military expedient had taught Minthara to never underestimate her rival, however insignificant, feeble, or preposterous they seemed. Even the tiniest animal could bite, and once cornered, it could become deadly.

But the drow's intense gaze didn't unnerve the duergar. The captive behaved as if Minthara did not exist, and her words were a vapid platitude with a soporific effect. Nonetheless, at the mention of the cherished name, he roused and broke into a crooked smile that grotesquely stretched the corners of his lips covered with blood and dirt. When he spoke, his face softened as if his entire being got washed with a warm wave of delight.

“The Absolute… is more than a god,” he finally drawled in an exulted, singsong tone that made Minthara's skin crawl—there was something abnormal in the way he talked, but she couldn't quite wrap her head around it. “The Absolute is… an absolute boon. A blessing. A total—”

“Enough.”

Minthara straightened up, brusque like a tight spring. Albeit her knee-jerk reaction was mostly caused by the bizarre sound of his unmodulated voice that switched between the pitches like an improperly tuned organ, she nevertheless hoped to spot a change in the duergar's demeanor and discover a tithe of information that would clarify his ulterior motives. What was his purpose? Who sent him? The Absolute itself? Were there superiors backing up the mission, or did he act on his own? Where had he headed before he was captured by Minthara's agents? The answers remained obscure, but she was convinced she would eventually unravel the conundrum.

“Enough,” she reiterated in the same emotionless voice, regaining inner composure. “I have heard this annoying nonsense too many times already.”

The cultist didn’t react. He blinked one time, another, and focused on her angular visage, finally acknowledging her presence. Minthrara suddenly felt a ghost of shiver wriggling underneath her skin, tickling her vertebrae from the inside, gingerly nicking her intestines. An unpleasant, unknown feeling; these cultists were nothing she’d seen before. The absolutists flaunted their blind faith; impervious to logic, they persisted and pursued the ultimate goal, but no one seemed to know what exactly this goal was. Lunatics, not just cultists. And every revelation she made during interrogations and raids gave more credence to the theory: these people had severely warped minds. No one, not even an impeccably trained soldier, would reduce herself to manure under their sovereign's feet. Even in the parlous times like these, soldiers had dignity. They'd rather die than end up captured and questioned. The Absolutists, however, felt no shame: they spoke at last, spoke enough for the investigator to draw conclusions, but these conclusions didn't add up in the grand scheme of things. This was... unsettling. And ineffably strange.

“What were you doing in Menzoberranzan?” she dismissed her apprehension and chose another line of questioning.

“Scoutin’,” came an expected reply, enunciated in the same blithesome tone. “Looking for new people…”

“Well, this little reconnaissance of yours went awry,” Minthara resumed, crossing her arms in her chest. “You’ve been caught. I could give you a precis if your memory fails you.”

“Oh no, it didn’t.” The duergar twitched as if he wanted to wave a dismissive hand but suddenly realized that he was tightly pinioned to a chair. “It went just as planned.”

The casual tone of the captive alerted Minthara, and she visibly tensed, a creeping sense of misgiving beginning to crest. As planned? So his entrapment was all part of the plan? How is this possible? Could it mean that she did not outsmart the enemy—it was the enemy that decided to capitulate and galvanize the entire conspiracy into action? The more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. The Underdark was a treacherous place, but locals successfully avoided traps, unstable mushrooms, and endless monsters walking completely unrestrained. A duergar prowling in the shadows wouldn't necessarily dodge a drow gifted with a strategic mindset, but these slippery creatures devised their own ploys and ruses, further refined by upcoming generations. Again, Minthara was a capable Paladin who had learned to never underestimate a duergar, no matter how frail and puny they looked. Fortune favors the brave, but it rarely stays underneath the helmet of the arrogant: they defy precautions, neglect the rules, and quickly fall victim to the most simplistic and predictable subterfuge one could imagine on the battlefield. Unsurprisingly, nearly all unjustly presumptuous—and bungling—soldiers she'd seen in combat were men.

“Why?”

The question had escaped her mouth faster than she realized what she was about to ask, and she silently rebuked herself for such an obtuse query: it lacked depth, did not expose any hidden agenda, failed to uncover subsequent assignments, and was overall worthy of an ordinary male waiting for his powerful wife at home. The House Baenre would have been scandalized to hear their brilliant daughter conducting interrogations in such a shallow, futile fashion.

Shaking off the momentary stupor, Minthara tried to dovetail morsels of information thrown into her lap, but something didn't fit. Although her mind was reeling, working frantically, she couldn't parse the duergar's intentions and solve the riddle. Being a duergar in Menzoberranzan or anywhere near meant immediate slavery: the drow were the only free race that kept many others in thrall. Was he ready to risk his freedom to save his brethren? But duergar weren't too sentimental. Truth be told, locals rarely expressed sensitivity or vulnerability: the cost was too high. However, certain races might try saving their peers, but it often ended up in the most deplorable way possible. Minthara couldn't remember a successful escape for a couple of decades. Or, perhaps, it simply depended on what one considered successful: if a drow kills you on the spot, it's definitely better than being hogtied and tortured. The Underdark is extremely inventive when it comes to punishments.

Before Minthara could smirk and extol herself, she was struck with another thought, whose powerful intensity almost confounded her. If this scout, or whoever he was, was lurking here in the shadows, a local no less, there could be others. Better suited for the role. Better trained. Better skilled. Better—

“I was sent to spread the word,” the duergar perked up, his pale eyes roving about the scantily furnished room and transfixed on Minthara’s ashen face once again. “There might be more people susceptible to the word of the Absolute. Duergar, hobgoblins, and drow alike.”

Minthara felt herself go rigid. Even an apparition of such an idea seemed horrible. If such a thing were possible, it would haunt her at night. She didn’t care about duergar and hobgoblins, but drow, responsive to… this? To the word of the Absolute?..

Menzoberranzan was teeming with Lolth’s fanatics, singing hosannas in her name, but it was nigh impossible to envision a drow—even a good-for-nothing third son who should’ve been thrown off a cliff in infancy—praising the Absolute.

“In the Underdark? Abandon the dreamworld you inhabit.” she quickly recovered, amassed her wits, and mustered a raucous laugh. “You must have lost your mind, duergar. Drow would never bow to a mere impostor of a god. It takes more to allure a drow than whispering a few words into her ear.”

“Not into her ear. Directly into the brain,” the duergar cackled in response, a crooked smile exposing a set of uneven, broken teeth. “Ah, the fickle vicissitudes of the flesh, always responding to the brain. Oh, my fair drow lady, trust me, you will beg the Absolute to accept you, to purify you. Dos shlu'ta'naut nez. It is bound to happen, and you cannot undo what has been done by the previous scouts hiding in the darkest caverns of the Underdark.”

Dos shlu'ta'naut nez.

You cannot stop the Cult's plan from succeeding.

Minthara felt her limbs freeze. Duergar spoke no Drowic; the matrons of the Underdark never addressed their slaves in the language, preferring to use the Undercommon—the less the servants understood, the better. But this man said a full sentence, a phrase that sounded like an overt threat. For the first time in her life, she felt almost at an impasse. What should she do? If she kills him now, she would testify to her incompetence and acknowledge her ignorance, wasting precious time. Why would she initiate a full-scale interrogation if she ends up executing a captive? She could have done so the moment her aide-de-camps delivered the duergar. If she resorts to torture, she might go too far and finish the questioning prematurely. Should she delegate the ordeal? No; it was of paramount importance, and she couldn't afford to fail...

But before Mithara could make an irrevocable decision, she realized that the captive had been holding forth profusely, hardly withholding anything.

...The more proselytes and acolytes, the bigger the army. Such a big army requires an impressive arsenal, and that's where Gortash comes in. The army's bloodthirsty potential would be Orin the Red's pride, led into battle by no other but Ketheric Thorm himself...

The duergar's quiet voice morphed into the predatory hissing of a snake, sending nauseating vibrations through her innards. It grazed against her bones, drumming a marching rhythm; it pulsed in her chest and scratched her ribs with elongated, tapering talons of an emotion she had never experienced before. Forcing herself to concentrate on his words rather than his susurrant rustling, Minthara used her preternatural logic—but it quickly gave way to curiosity, inadvertently raising its head.

This duergar wasn't the first captive to mention Gortash—just another male, a mere smuggler, and a mediocre slaver, pretending to have more gravitas than he had in reality. She did know of Ketheric Thorm; unexpectedly, his remarkable persona ignited a spark of faint reverence against her will.

But Orin's name whipped Minthara into senses. Not many mentioned her. She either chose to remain in the dark, or the agents Minthara seized weren't respected enough to deserve a meeting with the mysterious woman standing right beside the General. Nonetheless, those who did hear of her appeared genuinely horrified. Brainwashed cultists, afraid of no torment, were terrified to speak about this one woman. Something in her or her manners clearly made their blood curdle.

“And who’s Orin?” Minthara heard herself speak, driven by impertinent inquisitiveness she couldn’t extinguish. “Orin the Red?”

The duergar paused, contemplating, groping for the right words. In all honesty, Minthara had to admit, she was almost flummoxed to see the cultist talk so sincerely without the use of spells. But again, it could be his suicide mission: he knew he was going to die and did his best to leave a mark, wreak havoc, sow fear and doubt in her soul, precipitating her fall. Talented warrior as she was, Minthara was prone to transient but fierce bouts of paranoia, which, however, could also be an inexorable side-effect of living within perennial political intrigue.

“Orin the Red,” the duergar swallowed thickly, his hissing adopting an entrancing cadence, “Orin the Red is horror incarnate. She’s a lash that doesn’t kill at once. She’s a blade that plays with your flesh tirelessly. Her murderous blood boils with a deadly urge… She is born to kill and destroy. She…”

His voice petered out, and Minthara, preoccupied with a swarm of random ideas flitting in her head, turned to cast a fleeting glance at the duergar. She wondered what made him so suddenly clam up. Did he receive a signal that this information was off-limits?.. But before she prodded him with a question, the duergar jolted to one side, blinked, shook his head, and gurgled. Minthara turned her head to the captive in a jerking motion, but it was too late: all she saw was a convulsing body shaking like a rag in the wind. Boiling blood was frothing at his mouth, streaming from his eyes, choking him, burning his face beyond recognition. Trying to escape the viselike grip of death, the duergar clenched at the armrests, breaking the nails, but to no avail. The grisly sight evinced no answers to Minthara's previous questions, but she could safely conclude one thing: something had clearly commanded him to die.

Stunned, Minthara stared at the dead cultist: he was slung over the restraining belts, blood dripping from what remained of his face, expressing nothing but utter confusion and shock as if he hadn't even realized he was about to die. Frowning, the woman examined the corpse. The cadaver failed to present an intriguing view; she'd seen more impressive injuries—though never caused remotely—but then she spotted something. An adipose, pulsing creature was slowly making its way out of the dead duergar's ear. Unable to divert her eyes, Minthara kept staring at it, pieces of the puzzle coming together in her head. Once the drow snapped out of it, she stomped on the tadpole's carapace with visible abhorrence. It emitted a short squeak and died, its tiny legs tweaking with the final spasm of the muscles.

Minthara huffed, scanning the ugly creature. So, is this to blame? So, the Absolutists were slaves to this... this... what is this exactly? Was it the Absolute's version of the sending stone?.. How could they track a tadpole? Did they work in tow with the devils from Avernus? But what's the point? The devils could easily outdo any living creature with a flick of their fingers, they would never deal with mortals, even the most resourceful ones, unless they needed a bargain. No, that's too far-fetched; devils would never poke their noses into the Underdark. Then who?.. This Gortash, teaming up with... General Thorm? From what she knew, the General would never entrust a task to such a lackluster fellow. But then, there was this cryptic presence, Orin the Red. Did she run the ball?.. She was the wild card, Minthara was convinced. She had to know more about the woman to—

Her train of thought was interrupted by a delicate rap on the door.

“Madam, there’s a… I know you are not to be disturbed, but it’s urgent.”

“Yes?” Minthara reacted instantly, but her gaze was still arrested by the tadpole.

“There’s a letter… a missive.”

“From whom?”

A pause.

“General… General Thorm. Don’t think I know him; he’s not from us drow.

“Certainly not.”

Minthara managed to shake off the torpor, wiped her hands, stepped over the bloody smudge, and opened the door.

“Clean the mess, Chaz’Myrzen. Don’t raise suspicions; we don’t need more problems than we already have in our lap. Where’s the missive?”

“By the door. The courier says he won’t deliver it to anyone but you and mentions that General Thorm expresses great hope that you would consider his invitation with the wisdom he expects to see in a drow matron coming from the House of Baenre.”

Minthara nodded, mentally taking note of the flattery lubricating Thorm's way into the soul of the Underdark's valiant Paladin. She would remain cautious at all times, but she couldn't stop wondering why Ketheric Thorm himself, a man known for his repudiation of decency and ideals, chose to contact her. Perhaps she will regard his invitation, whatever it is, with the wisdom he expects from a drow matron. But the outcome may not be quite what he anticipates. That’s the drow wisdom: khaless nau uss mzild taga dosstan. Trust no one more than yourself.

“Fine,” replied Minthara, stepping out of the interrogation room. “Invite him in, and send Oloth to prepare dinner. Direct orders. Show him the real drow welcome.” She paused, just long enough for the silence to suggest more than her words did. The woman lingered at the threshold and suddenly broke into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “And... Chaz’Myrzen? Make sure the candles stay lit. We wouldn’t want the dark to catch him off guard.”

[blackjackkent]

Despite the gnome woman's posturing, the Guild folks don't seem to mind Rakha taking a look around the ship or looting the bodies of the Stone Lord's thugs.

One of them is carrying a maul named Corpsegrinder, and also a note:

Another note on the ship itself, pinned to a crate among its cargo:

"Sounds like a pleasant fellow, this Stone Lord," Wyll says dryly as Rakha folds the note up and puts it away.

"Mm." Jaheira grunts, her eyebrows knitted together in thought. "I have not heard tell of him. That is a new face among the city's cast."

"You keep a close eye on the workings of the city's underbelly, do you?" Minthara asks with a sardonic edge.

"I have my reasons," Jaheira says shortly.

-----

There's a tadpole specimen sitting among the cargo looted from the ship, and two more on the ship itself, which Rakha scoops up. Since we're committed to using All the Worms at this point, I gave her:

"Absorb Intellect," which now gives her the ability to heal herself by sucking away a foe's INT score.

"Mind Blast" - a conical attack of 4d8+4 Psychic damage plus a possible stun

"Ability Drain" which allows her to, whenever she lands an attack, reduce one of the target's abilities by 1 (strength for a melee attack, dex for a ranged attack, and charisma for a spell attack) ONCE PER TURN.

That latter one is pretty wild. Rakha's started using a bunch of her new illithid powers in combat, too, and I've gotta say, it's all pretty powerful. For better or for worse, the Emperor wasn't kidding about the worms being an evolution - of a sort, at least.

[play-me-a-durge]

Head Like a Hole Ep 29

Another One Bites the Dust

You taste like the sweetest poison

There is only one way left to go now: deeper in. You return to the main sanctuary and head to the wide passage beyond. While crossing the spider pit you take a moment to glance down; perhaps they could prove useful. The walkway provides ample opportunity for someone to meet with an unfortunate accident.

Directly beyond, through a broken portion of wall that has been partially boarded over, you see a large group gathered around a rather ominous throne. A hobgoblin sits leaning to one side, his eyes focused on something you can't see. That must be another one of the leaders.

Better keep that for last if you want to keep a low profile. There will be no way to take that one quietly. Instead, you slip through the open doorway to the right. Through a small library and across a deep chasm you find the drow leader, Minthara. There are only a few goblins about, and a scrying eye. Wyll and Astarion hang back near the entrance to keep anyone from getting out once the inevitable fight starts. You and Karlach approach the drow.

Her bearing is that of a commander, her voice cold and her words moreso. Her threats toward the goblin are delivered without the need for a raised voice; it resonates with you. Even her mind feels cool against yours, calculated, focused. You fall too easily into it.

You feel her words as much as hear them. "A True Soul? Praise be. Are you here to join my hunt?" The way it tempts you, drawn to the excitement that bubbles beneath her stoic façade.

"A hunt?" you ask, eyes dilating. "Who's the target?"

"Worshippers of a false god. Their existence is an insult to the Absolute's claim on this region." Her thoughts linger on victory, unbelievers' blood spilled… "There is a weapon the Absolute seeks - I'm sure those wretches have it hidden away there. We will find it amongst the dead and ashes."

Yes, blood and ash and meat, you feel a resonance with her mind, even more than with Astarion. It is a nature you do not want to embrace, but fighting it takes such effort.

But even in the midst of it, a strange anxiety takes hold - not your own, not Minthara's, but that of the artifact you carry. Somehow, it's afraid. The artifact does not want to part from you. It does not want to fall into the Absolute's clutches.

It is strong enough to pull you back from the edge of bloodlust that has almost taken hold. Though its claws are still deep in your mind, you, also, do not want to let your one source of protection go.

You are beginning to regain your senses again, head clearer now. She seeks the grove, she seeks to wipe out all who are within, she seeks to take the artifact from the corpse of whomever carries it.

Her dream of a dance of death had been so alluring, so welcoming, you are almost sad to let it go.

"Speak, True Soul," she says, and you focus on her eyes. "The hunt must begin soon."

"My hunt has already found its prey," you say, wresting control of yourself back. "You." You draw your blade and slit the throat of the closest goblin. It falls in a pool of blood at your feet.

The change in her bearing from cold to hot is instantaneous. She curses your betrayal, draws her sword and strikes you. You stumble back under the force of it, blood dripping from the gaping wound.

You count yourself most fortunate that Karlach throws herself in front of you, delivering a significant strike in return. You see Astarion from across the gap draw his bow; the arrow lands true and a sickly green aura briefly enfolds the drow.

In turn you cast a firebolt at the goblin behind him that had gotten away from Wyll. Though bloody and drained, you cannot leave Karlach to fight Minthara alone. Both are taking heavy hits but with the focus on Karlach you are able to attack from behind.

The drow is tough, but she cannot hold up against all of you. She goes down under Karlach's maul and you almost collapse right along with her. The last of your strength is spent, your power right along with it.

Is that why you do not notice that when you leave, Minthara is still alive? Barely, her breathing shallow and weak, she will likely not recover for some time, but she is alive. Is it only for your exhaustion that you did not notice, or did some deeper part of you want to keep her, keep that feeling of her kindred mind? It is not a question you need concern yourself with, yet.

next > (mature)

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[AO3]

[jestericulating]

OC Introduction - Isana

BASICS

| Full Name: Isana ???

| Nickname(s): Bloods (Karlach)

| Pronouns: She / her

| Sexuality: Bisexual (female preference)

| Occupation and Titles: Isana is an experienced fighter with a proficiency for intimidation. Previously known as the Child or Chosen of Bhaal pre-tadpole.

| Birthday & Age: 12 Eleasis ???? DR - Mid 20s (Due to Isana’s amnesia and therefore lack thereof birth date, Gale suggested she chose the day Withers revived her to signify the beginning of her new life)

| Physical description: Broad shoulders in a lean frame. More obvious muscle definition in arms from primarily wielding a longsword. Slight toning in legs, moreso sleeper build.

| Clothing style: For adventuring, Isana’s armour tends to both emphasise broad shoulders and feature a high collar around the neck. Hands and arms are always covered. In more relaxed settings she opts for comfort over fashion, choosing loosely tied tunics and relaxed trousers. Blacks, greys and golds are her usual accents of choice. Her clothing choices are most heavily influenced by the environment’s threat level; post-game Isana learns to experiment with more impractical clothing now that the threat is gone. Fond of bones as jewellery.

BACKGROUND

Isana is a redeemed Bhaalspawn. Not because she's a good person -- not by a long shot -- but because the thought of being a vessel for a God's petty whims for the rest of her life felt like a fate worse than death. She had found friends, a lover, and Bhaal wanted her to leave them all behind for -- what? A little bit of power? Power of which wouldn't even be hers, but just an extension of what he decides to grant her? He obviously underestimated the will of something with his own blood.

So Isana rejected him, was subjected to the full extent of his fury, and then felt her body stitching itself back together as Withers fished her soul out of the Fugue Plane. She thanked him, though she wasn't sure her voice carried far enough to hear, and then sat for some time staring blankly at the centrepiece of Bhaal etched into the wall. It was only when Minthara approached to gently shake her out of her daze that Isana cracked and began to hysterically cry. The weight of Bhaal, the Urges, everything that had plagued her for the entirety of their journey up until right now -- they were gone. An overwhelming dread lifted from her chest.

Isana then proceeded to clear out what remained of the Bhaalists in a fit of grief-induced rage.

She is now settled rather comfortably in a lavish, overly indulgent manor in the Upper City with her darling, Minthara. Now with full autonomy over herself Isana can spend her days doing the things that really matter: scamming the rich, stealing from the rich, and getting richer than the rich. She doesn't care for money -- she just doesn't want them to have it. Otherwise in her quest of self-discovery Isana has been heavily dabbling into the arts; she writes, she reads, and she can even play the lyre. She still regularly sees Gale, and goes out drinking with Shadowheart and Astarion. Lae'zel has visited only a handful of times, but she's busy changing the trajectory of her own race so all Isana can be is happy for her. She's starting to see Karlach and Wyll more, what with Karlach's engine looking a little more mended each day. It's a quaint life, really. Rather boring. Except for the inbetween moments where she and Minthara are working their charms in sync to be owed as many favours from as many powerful people as possible. That's quite exhilarating.

After all, who else is going to run the city when it inevitably falls again?

COMBAT STYLE

| Preferred fighting style: Two-handed Battle Master with an emphasis on strategy and strength to get her through every encounter.

| Favourite weapon(s): Longswords and mauls. Anything heavy with a high damage output.

| Special skills: Nothing in particular outside of her ability to maneouvre the tides of battle to better favour her, tough skin, and hyperawareness of her surroundings.

RELATIONSHIPS

| Family: Bhaal (Father - disowned), Orin (Sister - dead)

| Love interest: Astarion (Act 1 - Act 2), Minthara (Act 2 - Post-game)

| Best friend(s): Shadowheart, Gale Dekarios, Astarion (rebuilding)

PERSONALITY

| Positive traits: Observant, confident, strategical

| Negative traits: Rebellious, vindictive, unpredictable

| Likes: Collecting bones to fashion into jewellery, quiet nights, a good fight

| Dislikes: Authority, the cold, being alone

| Fears: Herself, losing all she’s worked for

| Guilty pleasures: Power. When unavailable, an indulgent bath

| Hobbies: Isana bounces between a lot of hobbies during the course of the game and post-Netherbrain in an attempt to rediscover who she is outside of her Urges. She tries reading, music, sewing, practicing swordfighting with companions, and cooking. Surprisingly, she settles on writing and poetry as a result of Gale's influence. She also learns how to play Minthara's lyre later on.

[abyssmarked]

* closed starter | @n1ghtwarden

the fight was going well, regardless of the fact that nepharia seriously misjudged how difficult things would be after killing gortash and retrieving his stone with the steel watch still functional. orin didn't offer her much choice, the threat of their githyanki companion's life hung in the balance. nepharia had good reason to believe lae'zel would risk her life to save the warlock if the roles were reversed, and besides — they needed orin's stone anyway.

if you would have told nepharia at the beginning of all of this that she would end up heading to the temple of bhaal to murder a literal bhaalspawn she would have laughed in your face, no way she would have had any kind of will or nerve to face such a battle, even for ultimate power. but now? the special tadpole has offered her so much, things she's still discovering about herself now that make her feel like she's invincible. like nothing can touch her, and she can better protect the people she cares about.

the people she cares about. half illithid powers aside, having people she cares for is the newest change. she would kill for these people. she has killed for these people — especially minthara. she knows she wouldn’t have made it half as far without that woman — she’s stern and unwavering, always determined, and she’s been nothing but a motivation for nepharia, an inspiration. she’s been someone nepharia has poured her fullest of trust into, never doubting that minthara would have her back in a tough situation.

the two of them are separated, having scrambled in opposite directions to avoid being caught in the blast of the malfunctioning steel watcher. astarion did quick work of the machine, duel wielding hand cross bows armed with lightning arrows. the blast had taken a number of fists with it, but some jumped away in time, and more were joining their ranks. one is headed directly for minthara, sword ready to strike, and nepharia scrambles her brain quickly thinking of a way to get close enough to her to help. it’s as if her instincts kick in before her brain is even aware of what’s happening, sharp, searing pain begins to crack through her body — her bones are breaking, and for a moment she thinks she might be turning into a mind flayer right here, right now. a rough, agonizing scream morphs into a deep, threatening growl, and she’s standing on four legs, the pain subsiding just as quickly as it came about.

her mind is enveloped with an animalistic rage, possessive and territorial, and she leaps into action. in the shape of a vicious displaced beast, she hurls herself with strong legs, landing directly in front of minthara. the fist is running with full momentum, and she’s snarling with glowing eyes, there’s fear in his face but he couldn’t stop even if he tried. the furry tentacles whip around him as he approaches, sharp, spiked ends latching on. a loud screech can be heard as they are teleported in a blink, from one spot to another, farther away from minthara. but now she sees two perspectives, living in two forms simultaneously. the rage within her doesn’t offer her a chance to make sense of it, she’s all feeling, no logic like this. all rage, all frenzy. she felt the sting of the great sword plunging into her shoulder, hence the screech, but it doesn’t keep her from mauling the man now beneath her. one form uses claws and sharp teeth, offering aid to minthara and the others as nepharia uses her main form to rip the throat out of the fist who dared threaten the only person who makes her feel safe.