#minthara's ire: (one fear)

[avernusfuries]

karlach vc: i need to go into witness protection, i just taught my girlfriend's son the F word for his first word

[blackjackkent]

Entertained myself a little, thinking about what Lae'zel's reaction would be to Minthara arriving and immediately seeming to bond with Rakha right out of the gate. (Because Lae'zel is wonderful but very young and does not, thus far, have a history of handling her relationship with Rakha very smoothly.)

-----

“Welcome, istik,” Lae'zel says warily. She stops in front of Minthara's tent and squints at the drow as if she were an interesting zoo animal. 

“Ah. Yes. The gith,” Minthara says. She was in the process of examining her boots curiously to determine how they've fared in the months since Rakha stole them off her unconscious body. Now she looks up, eyes narrowed, and then stands, lurching with military sharpness into an attentive, waiting posture. “We have not been properly introduced.”

“Lae'zel of Crèche Kliir,” Lae'zel answers, a little too quickly. “I already know your name, Minthara Baenre, for I heard you whimpering it in the prison of the Absolute.”

Minthara stiffens. “You mock me. By what cause?” she asks coldly.

“Is it mocking to recite a fact?” Lae'zel asks. She shrugs. “You are one of us now, and you will find that we all carry scars of torment. You are not special, in this regard.”

A flash of mental connection. Images whirl between them of the alien zaith'isk construct, of Lae'zel's vision whiting out with a wave of agony. Minthara's head snaps back and she blinks rapidly. “I see,” she says.

Her eyes narrow as if reappraising the younger woman. “We have shared suffering, and I sense we share ferocity as well. Yet you come here with a blade in your tone. Do you fear my betrayal? Your leader and I have sworn a bond of allyship.”

“Rakha has given you her welcome, yes.” Lae'zel smiles, an expression that shows her pointed teeth. “But you are not her ras'til, her ally, not yet. Nor mine. That is a position those at her side have earned. It is not bought with words.”

Minthara raises one eyebrow slowly, analyzing the young gith's words and the weight behind them. Then she smiles faintly. “You speak possessively. Does Rakha know of your feelings for her?” 

Lae'zel flinches. “My feelings do not concern you.”

“Then you might do well to make something subtler of them.”

Lae'zel hisses softly. “I will not be told my business by one who has not traveled with us twelve hours.”

“You spoke to me first, Lae'zel of Crèche Kliir.” Minthara squints thoughtfully. “You need not fear my competition for her affection, child. The bond we share is one of broken minds and vengeance. Why do you not turn your ire towards the boy with whom she locked lips before retiring?” She jerks her head to indicate Wyll's tent. 

Lae'zel's skin flushes a deep olive. “There is no ire,” she mutters. “Rakha made her choice and I abide by it.”

Minthara's lips twitch. “I see. In Menzoberranzan, we would rarely see a woman capable of wielding word and blade, surrendering to a male with no fight.”

“You think me a weakling?” Lae'zel growls.

Minthara laughs. “I think you a young pup who has come to show her claws and assert her place in the pecking order. I am not without admiration for you, little one, based even on the little I have seen, but I care nothing for the schoolyard quarrel you wish to pick. It is based in fear and jealousy and it fits you ill. If you wish to hate me, hate me for cause or do not waste my time.”

Lae'zel studies her for a long moment in silence. When she speaks again, her tone is more subdued - but also resonates with deeper conviction. “Break the pact you have sworn to Rakha and I will break your neck.”

Minthara smiles. “Much better said, child. And I take you at your word.”

[tacticalgrandma]

minthara, “you don’t mean that, do you?”

The devil Mizora is unexpectedly merciful and tells Wyll Ravengard when his father dies. Minthara would have thought to dangle the hope before him, leave him in the agony of uncertainty, drive him to beg just to know. But perhaps Mizora has decided to truly be done with the man once their business is concluded. Minthara can see the wisdom of that as well. Finally, Wyll Ravengard is a man one can be afraid of. 

He does not act it now. He weeps into Karlach’s arms. The poor girl just holds him and looks lost, and tells him every truth she knows: that his father would not want to trade his life for Wyll’s, that Wyll’s father didn’t deserve him after everything he’d done to Wyll, that Wyll deserves life. Only the last one gives him pause, and Minthara thinks that it is no comfort. Karlach is fleeting proof that deserving life matters very little. 

He asks for space when the spawn tries to speak with him. Astarion assents and watches Wyll as he leaves their suite, even as the others tactfully look away. 

“What the hells do you think you’re doing?” Astarion spits as Minthara moves to follow Wyll. 

She does not respond. She does not fear him. When he scrambles up to her and puts a hand on her shoulder, Minthara does not turn around. 

“I will speak to him,” she says. “You should let me.”

Astarion drops his hand. Minthara thinks she hears a disgusted noise as she closes the door in his face. 

She finds Wyll on the tavern’s rooftop garden, because surfacers’ habits are entirely predictable. They always believe being up high, high enough to see anything coming, will save them. Minthara tilts her head to the highest point of their view, Wyrm’s Rock, where the new Archduke was crowned by Ulder Ravengard. She follows Wyll’s gaze down to the Chionthar. Mizora had said his father’s body fell to its bottom. 

“You should not feel ashamed,” Minthara says. Wyll looks over his shoulder at her. Minthara had been expecting his righteous indignation, but he just looks tired. 

“Shouldn’t I?” he says. “After all, he didn’t die by own hand. I’d think that’d be embarrassing in drow culture.”

It shocks a chuckle out of Minthara. He does not so much as smile. She sits down beside him. 

“Sons are not held to the same standards as daughters,” Minthara says, “and patricide is never as potent as matricide.”

“I suppose I killed my mother too,” Wyll says. Minthara stares at him. “She died in childbirth.”

She was a fool to get her hopes up. The statement is too stupid to scold him over, and in any case his self-flagellation is half-hearted at best. Someone has already disabused him of this fantasy, and he is tending to scars instead of fresh wounds.  

“Your father drew the ire of a god’s Chosen and a devil,” Minthara says. “He was a dead man the moment the tadpole entered his eye. Even if you had somehow found the man and wrested him from Gortash’s clutches, Mizora would have hounded the both of you until he was dead.”

“I could have protected him,” Wyll says. “I could have killed her.”

“More likely he would have died regardless.”

“Can you leave?”

“Not yet,” Minthara says, “but you’re right. Such speculation is pointless. Your father is dead and you are alive.”

“Please go,” Wyll says.

“You don’t want that, not truly,” Minthara says. “You need me. I am the only person who, when I tell you I do not judge you, you will believe me.”

Fresh tears well up in Wyll’s eyes. Minthara refuses to hug him. She doubts she would be as good at it as Karlach, in any case. She waits until his sobs have subsided somewhat, and she thinks he will hear her.

“Your father did not blame you for your mother’s death,” Minthara tells him. And Wyll nods. 

“He didn’t talk about her much,” Wyll says. “But I think the times he told me I took after her, those were the times he was proudest of me.”

Minthara scoffs. Her mother had only ever identified the ways Minthara was still inadequate compared to her. It had told Minthara what to train, how to surpass her. It had made her strong. 

“How soft of him,” she says. “Were you a drow daughter and he a matron in Menzoberranzan, you would have triumphed there as well.”

Wyll studies her for a moment, then nods.

“I miss him too,” Wyll says. “They’re going to keep telling me he didn’t deserve me saving him, after what he did to me. And that’s—” He half-laughs, half-sobs. “I fucking hate that.”

“They will say many stupid things in the coming days,” Minthara agrees. “Nothing they can say will make you feel any better about anything.” 

“Okay,” Wyll says. He wipes tears from his eyes.

“Nothing they say will change anything.”

“Yeah. Okay.” 

Minthara stands and dusts off her trousers. “Your father is dead and you are not,” she tells Wyll. “Once you accept that, come downstairs. We will be waiting.”

[wormy-business]

Calliram, Drow Cleric of Lolth.

Calliram is one of my Tav's in Baldur's Gate 3. He is a drow, and a war domain cleric of Lolth. I decided that he would be from Menzoberranzen, like Minthara is, but unlike Minthara he didn't have a reason to leave his home and travel all the way down the Sword Coast to near where Baldur's Gate is. So instead, I gave him a little extra trauma, as a treat! I'll add a few pictures of him at the end of the post (as well as translations for the drow-words used).

Calliram of House Maelith, thirty-second house of Menzoberranzen, was taught many things by his mother, Aundryl of House Maelith. Amongst those many things, he was taught that as a male he was inherently lesser, that he should be subservient, that denying the request of a woman (unless she request something to harm his own house) would be to deny Lolth Herself. Calliram was soft-spoken, well behaved, gentle tempered, skilled in the breeding of spiders, skilled at playing the harp, well read on scripture and the histories of Menzoberranzen, and he was of age to be married soon. Very soon, if the formal event Aundryl was hosting within a ten-day should go well. 

On this particular day, Calliram was sent to the market streets. He was sent for certain supplies pertaining to a ritual he and his mother would conduct in Lolth’s honor. Such a task is unfitting for even the mildest mannered servants to undertake, and so he was trusted in the procurement of these items. He would not have failed this task if not for three sisters of the forty-fifth house of Menzoberranzen. They knew of his mother’s formal event, they knew of his sisters Laniss and Viconia’s fierce battle tactics, supposedly rivaling those of the highest houses. They desired to have such a power, to tear down House Maelith and take their place in Menzoberranzen’s hierarchy. They knew as well how Calliram was raised, their own brothers and cousins were raised the same. To deny a woman is to deny Lolth.

“You, jaluk!” One of the sisters called from a particularly darkened alleyway. Calliram, who walked with shoulders broad, head high, spine straight, and eyes focused ahead stopped in his tracks and turned his head to where the voice called to him

“Yes, alur?” He spoke in a clear voice, yet one that was still soft and subservient to the women who beckoned him.

“Come here to us.” The other sister spoke this time, her voice a harsher hiss than her sister’s. “We require your assistance.” 

Calliram complied. Not only due to his teachings, but of the knowledge that he is soon to be wed. It would be unbecoming of his house if word spread that he had dared denied women of another noble house a request. He merely said the words “of course, madams. Whatever I can do to assist you, my hands shall be your tools.” He stepped from the busy streets to the alleyway, which he found nearly as crowded. The buildings on either side left little room for four people to stand. The tallest and eldest of the sisters glared down at Calliram, who dared not make eye contact with her should he spark her ire. 

“Harl’il’cik.” The eldest’s voice was the harshest and meanest sounding of the three sisters. 

Calliram, a sense of fear shooting through his heart, did as he was commanded and knelt down before the three women, who began to encircle him like vultures. Even as they drew nearer, snickering with malicious intent, Calliram did as he was told. He did not question the sisters, he did not complain his clerical robes were dirtied by the filthy streets, he did not urge them that his matron had sent him to gather supplies for a sacred ritual, he only sat in submissive silence. 

The sister with the sweetest voice tied a blindfold tightly around Calliram’s head.

The sister with the spider-like hissing voice stuffed a dirty rag into his mouth, and tied rope around his mouth to keep it in place. 

The eldest sister with the harshest voice kicked Calliram in the ribs, knocking him onto his back. He was flipped by the two younger sisters, who held him as he struggled so their sister could tie his hands behind his back. 

A hand, to which sister it belonged was unknown to Calliram, grabbed a fistful of his soft white hair and yanked him to his feet. 

Calliram, so docile and ignoble, now thrashed and cried and panicked. He tried to speak, but only swallowed chunks of dirt and stray fabric. As his stumbling feet were forced forward, one of the sisters would often punch him in the side or kick at his shins. He cried for his mother, for his sisters, for his House Matron, he cried for Lolth herself, yet all were unaware of or silent to his cries. Finally, the eldest sister spoke again. Not to him, but to someone he could not see.

“Take him to the surface. Beat him if you wish, but under no circumstances should you kill him. I don't care about anything else you do, but I need him to find his way back down here eventually for this to work. You can throw him off the caravan while it’s moving for all I care, just don’t kill him.” 

Calliram’s heart pounded in his ears. Who was the woman talking to? Why did she need him alive? Why was he being taken to the surface? Who was taking him there? What plan did she have regarding him?

There were more sounds, clinking muffled by fabric, an exchange of coin. 

“This is only 500.” A deep, gruff male voice griped. 

“And you’ll get the other half when you’re done!” The middle sister hissed at the man, her tone impatient and almost childish. 

There was a lot of grumbling and moaning of whoever was being given possession of Calliram, but eventually stout hands that grabbed at his bindings from below shoved Calliram onto the floor of a wagon.

Calliram heard a whip, the whine of a rothé, and a dialect of Dwarvish being spoken as the wagon began moving. He had been kidnapped by noble drow, and passed on to duergar to do their dirtier work. 

It was not long before Calliram felt a sharp kick dig into his back. Just as they had been given permission, the dwarves beat Calliram until he was bloodied and bruised. With each punch, kick, and stab Calliram cried to his Goddess for her mercy, for her forgiveness, for streea. 

He received nothing but what may have been hours of torture. And at the end of it, just as they had been encouraged to, the dueargar shoved Calliram from the moving wagon to the dirt road. 

Calliram cried out, a sharp pain shooting through the arm he landed on as he rolled onto his back. Even with the blindfold still covering his eyes, he could sense the brightness of the surface. He tried to stand, but his legs were weak and one of his arms had certainly fractured during the fall from the wagon. He felt blood in his throat as he tried to breathe, and forced himself onto his side. With the rag still in his mouth he could not spit the blood from his mouth, but he felt it dribble onto his chin mixed with saliva. He whined as he crawled off of the road, ramming his head face first into a tree, only furthering his pain. Using the broad, sturdy trunk he leveraged himself into a standing position. 

It took another hour of struggle, but he managed to escape from his bindings. The blindfold was the first to come loose, but when the bright surface sun hit his eyes for the first time in his over a hundred years of living, he wished he had kept it on. The light was blinding, it stung and pained him to look at his surroundings. The surface world was foreign to him, he had only ever once traveled outside of Menzoberranzen to the city of Mantol-Derith, the rest of his life had been spent in the caverns, in his mother’s temple, and his home. This place was alien to him.

When he had finally managed to slip his wrists from their bindings he could finally remove the rope and dirty, now bloodied, cloth from his mouth. He then fell back to the ground, shielding his eyes from the sun, like a child, and he cried, like a child. He had hardly any magic, no focus to cast from, and no components to form spells with. He clutched a holy symbol around his neck, feeling the sharp pointed legs of a spider, Lolth’s symbol the same as was tattooed on his forehead, and used what little arcane power he could gather to heal only some of his injuries. He then fell into exhaustion. He curled into as tight a ball as he could, draped his ragged and bloody robes over his body, and fell into a sleep that was almost as foreign to him as the world around him. 

When Calliram woke night had fallen. He was grateful for the darkness it brought, he could see clearer now. He was still in pain, but less so after hours of rest. He whined as he pulled himself onto his feet, and shivered in the cold breeze as he began to walk aimlessly through the wilds. He did not know what direction the wagon had come from, or where it had gone after he was dropped from it. In fact, he had lost the road entirely. He did not know where to go to get back to his home. He was surely going to die out here. As Calliram entered a clearing, he dropped down to offer a prayer to Lolth. While he was preparing, before he could begin his prayer, a sound in the sky caught his attention. Something like a ship was crossing the sky. In abject horror, he froze and watched as it approached him, and something like a tentacle seized his body, and once again, Calliram was taken.

Translations:

Jaluk - Derogatory term for a male drow

Alur - "Superior"

Harl'il'cik - "Kneel"

Streea - To die in service to Lolth

[whitegoldtower]

Angry, pissed off Tam’lin below the break. This is how I think it would go down the first few hours of having Kar’niss in the camp. The szarkai isn’t pleased with the hypocrisy.

As a character, Tam’lin is usually the quiet one. He does what he needs to, he tends to avoid dialogue that could possibly upset the other party members, he’s generally a very relaxed person. Imagine the reaction, then, when he finally loses his shit.

He automatically rolls Nat 20s for insight, intimidation and persuasion on this one.

“Stand down! Stand down.” The szarkai snarled, at the group of people he called ‘friends’.

A group of misfits and outcasts, rough and disorganised, constantly warring, either with themselves or with him.

“Get back, now. All of you.” Tam’lin rarely showed such intensity, such fervour, nothing like the state he had worked himself into as he stood outside of his tent, defending the drider. Protection was a strong instinct he had cultivated and nurtured since he’d discovered his autonomy. He didn’t want to hurt his friends, but he would, if it came down to it.

And they must have known; Tam’lin saw the way Gale backed off immediately, the way Astarion defensively picked at the hilt of his dagger, anticipating a fight.

Tam’lin pointed at him.

“I’ll pretend I did not see that,” the ranger said, lowly, his white hair wild and messy, “I intend to hear him out. And you should, too. By the gods, hear him if nothing else, just as I heard you. We have all wrestled with ourselves and one another, unearthed secrets that should have been revealed upon our meeting. I remember you, in particular,” Tam’lin rounded on Astarion, “thanking me for looking past your condition and reassuring you that you were not a monster.”

He turned to Wyll, “I remember you, so fearful and vulnerable, ready to saw those horns right off your skull.”

Finally, he rounded on Lae’zel, “And you, how you advocated for the occasional ‘capricious murder’, as if that was not something of a monstrosity in itself.”

Perhaps he was going too far. Perhaps not.

“All of you have, in some way or another, fought with yourselves for a scrap of understanding, a glimmer of hope that you will not be seen as monsters. Why is he any different?” The szarkai eyed up his camp, “Is it because he looks less human than the rest of us? Is that it?”

Disappointment momentarily overtook his ire as he looked upon Karlach and Gale,

“You two, I expected better. Especially you, Karlach. Everyone thought you were a fucking cambion before learning the truth.”

The curling of Minthara’s lip, however, only threw oil on the fire, and Tam’lin met her gaze for the first time in his life, his gaze piercing right into her skull.

“Ilharess, my sweet dear cousin, this is the only time I will ever defer to you. Know this. This is not Menzoberranzan, here and now. I will speak to you on your own level, just this once. Put your pride aside for one small moment and consider; as a former pawn of the Absolute; is he not entitled to his revenge?”

Minthara’s visage hardened, a hot flush rising to her cheeks from her neck. Tempered rage. Perhaps the only reason she did not smite him, there and then, was because he was right.

“You, better than anyone else, should know how it feels to betray Lolth. To be used as a puppet. Does he not deserve better? Either one of us, both you and I, could have suffered this fate for our alleged sins against our people. And I count us lucky that we were not, although we still could be. His circumstances were a product of injustice.”

He tore his gaze away from her.

“I welcomed all of you as friends, despite your flaws. I intend to welcome Kar’niss in the same manner. Before you confront me in this manner again, like a pack of fucking wolves,” he spat, looking pointedly at Shadowheart, “Consider finding a shred of the decency within yourselves that I once showed you.”

There, then, was something akin to a silent respect in Lae’zel and Minthara’s auras; he was finally showing that authoritative streak. There was fire, there. Something that could be respected, even admired, by Astarion, too. The ambition impressed Gale, and the fierce passion tempered Karlach. Guilt crept in, somewhere along the lines, when he looked upon Shadowheart and Wyll, seeing perhaps just a hint of fear, but he did not back down. He was ready to defend Kar’niss, tooth and nail, and upon realising the fact that he was simply trying to protect a vulnerable being, Wyll’s posture relaxed.

The entire party was in shock. Perhaps it was for the best. Tam’lin resisted the urge to turn on Kar’niss, in that moment, to seethe that the drider had better not make him regret the decision to stick his neck out for him and possibly make an enemy of his friends. He slowed his thundering heart, bit at the inside of his cheeks.

He looked poised to chew off his own tongue. He’d won them over, for now, at least. He could see that much in their faces.

[spiderwarden]

Minthara does not move when he steps forward, does not falter when his eyes try to put on some sort of blaze of flame, yet all she saw were cinders from the remnants of a once raging inferno. Orin was gone, this one had made himself weak, there was nothing left to fear in this world besides the Absolute itself. "We have left from insecure overcompensation and have moved on to accusatory statements. Take your blind ire elsewhere, it is not I who forced you to weaken yourself."

"heh heh," a chuckle follows. "My little finger holds more worth than the decisions you have made today. You may try and goade me, little one, but we both know who the better warrior is this day." Then a relax expression turns fierce. "Choose your next words wisely or my blade will be the one removing the thought from your skull before you can even think of raising a hand against me."

A small huff came from the Dragonborn and he narrowed his eyes slightly as the slightest bits of anger began to fire through him. He had been kicked while he was down before, but a comment coming from her about that wasn't... exactly confidence-raising. In fact, he would say it actually was leading him to be exactly who Minthara wanted.

A cold-blooded killer. (Or at least it seems that way-)

❝I am no lap dog and I am not to be bossed around by the likes of someone like you,❞ he spat and took a step or two forward, red eyes blazing with fury as he glared daggers at Minthara, ❝If you truly want bloodshed so bad, then perhaps I should start by removing the worthless head from your body!❞

[korcariiwitch]

Curious.

In between various displays of uninhibited violence and ebullient musical numbers, never in their time together had Velwyn witnessed Tae be so deferential, so diminished. It appeared as though all the vitality had been drained from him and astral projected into an unknowable plane.  

It was fear. Blatant and tangible, Velwyn recognized as her eyes darted between both him and Minthara. Noting the way in which the cultist seemed to revel in his immediate submission, her stature puffing as if Minthara had anticipated nothing less than his subjugation. The exchange crawled under her skin in a way she couldn’t quite explain, a suppressed ire boiling to the surface the longer she observed. 

Before she had time to consider the ramifications, Velwyn stepped between them, effectively cutting off Minthara’s line of sight and forcing the drow woman to gaze only upon her. 

“He is not anyone’s.” 

This dance felt familiar if not exhilarating. As if she had been a learned player in this game before, one that she knew required a delicate balance between intimidation and cunning. 

“Besides, are we all not but equals in the absolute’s eyes? Anyone of us could be chosen for ascension. Isn't that right, sister?” 

Velwyn crossed her arms fortifying her stance, stepping an inch closer to Minthara as if to dare her to look anywhere else.

The woman's accent sliced through the air, a familiar tone that sent shivers down his spine. Tae instinctively positioned himself behind his companions, knowing all too well what that accent meant – a Drow. And not just any Drow, but a damned high priestess, or at least she used to be before a tentacled intruder took residence in her mind. The mere notion of that tadpole causing her skull to burst into a grotesque display of tentacles brought a twisted comfort to Tae's troubled mind.

Yet, that reassurance unraveled when her crimson eyes locked onto his, a gaze filled with such disdain it felt like being regarded as an accidental misstep in a particularly repugnant pile of filth. Her voice dripped with disgust, each word a venomous echo that clawed at his sanity.

The moment her gaze bore into him, his heart stalled in an attempt to escape her scrutiny. A creeping coldness slithered over his body, numbing his senses. His fingertips, touched by an icy phantom, felt as though they were being sliced by unforgiving shards of frost.

In that suffocating moment, the very air seemed to withdraw from his lungs, rendering him unable to breathe. The oppressive weight of her disdain bore down on him, leaving Tae gasping for air in the grip of her chilling presence.

[alicelufenia]

Damn I wish so bad

I want to recruit every member of Team Tadpole and friends on my next playthrough (my chosen of Eilistraee tav)

And at the rate I'm going with my first run, I worry I won't be able to start that before they add that controversial ultimatum scene that forces you to choose.

Specifically between Halsin being alone or Minthara suffering a fate worse than death - she literally tells you she'd rather die, and to kill her quickly should she return under the Absolute's control.

Not exactly equivalent choices in my opinion.

I say, let Halsin still find it in himself to overlook his own discomfort for the sake of others. Say he decides he trusts Tav's judgement more than his own.

And then, because she doesn't sugarcoat her opinions of others, Minthara out of everyone else, calls Halsin out on his habit of capitulating and brushing aside his own feelings because "something something balance in all things". She doesn't believe in that, and she thinks his refusal to acknowledge his own emotional needs is just going to distract him, and his enemies will take advantage of that. It makes him a liability.

Halsin is naturally taken aback by this, and can lead to more toxic interactions to rival Shadowheart and Lae'zel (this can be before Halsin joins as a companion in act 3). The culmination can be Halsin confronting her on her past and designs against his grove. At which point she can point out that she was the Absolute's puppet at the time and dismisses his concerns, and then he says the corruptive nature imparted in her by Lolth is what truly disturbs him, the thing that reminds him of the torment he suffered in the Underdark, and he won't remain silent on that any longer.

At which point she surprises him by saying he is right to be fearful and cautious if that is what happened, and if he hates her for that, then so be it. She has no qualms about being hated. But his true enemy remains the same people who wronged her, and so long as his ire remains directed at them, she will continue to back him up regardless of his feelings towards her.

And at THIS point we can have the ultimatum, with Tav able to side with Minthara or Halsin against the other, except now Tav can Persuade Halsin to let their feud be, which he will reluctantly honor, but now his shell has been broken somewhat.

They are both candid in party banter once Halsin joins permanently, but when the camp is infiltrated by Orin, the mood shifts. If either Halsin or Minthara get taken, the other will express concern, including Halsin as he realizes no one deserves to be at the mercy of their tormentor again, not even Minthara. After the Orin fight, their relationship starts to heal.

(I don't know what else happens in act 3, so extrapolate from the above. I don't even know how much interaction the non-origin companions normally have with each other, but I assume not much more than what I plotted out.)

Halsin and Minthara

Can I ship them