#nightall

[smahell]

so the obey me boys aren't going to AX this year..

to absolutely nobody's surprise. yes solmare, you take away one of the most anticipated events for AX for obey me fans (at least for me; I need more fan content!)

but what I'm genuinely excited about, though I'm unable to go is..

now THIS is what i'm interested in. a new youtube audio drama project by ntt solmare: Ex and Bee: Nightfall's Coven; a mystery-centered audio drama with a dash of the dark arts and occult! am I excited just by that premise? from the little sneak peaks posted on twitter, which is the bare minimum, it's just enough to hype me up for this, yes. finally something else that might be solmare's legacy other than weird luke art and bad representation.

y'know what makes me even more excited.

look who's having a video appearance. heh. heheheh.

are they recycling VAs? yes. do I care? not at all. get that bag, Kada-san.

i genuinely think this project will be well received by those who do recognize it. with its more mature, somber theming, perhaps darker tone than obey me, it seems to still be catering to that same 16-24 age group but more to those who may be interested in psychological horror, sci-fi and true crime (aka, autistic people like me).

there's not much information i could dig from the internet about whoever else is working on the project, but i fear that the series will be reduced to 'obey me's lesser step-brother', and won't reach (enough of) its target audience, and then be completely discontinued out of nowhere after a year due to 'funding issues" (aka, not enough popularity, and daddy solmare wanting to spend his big bucks in silly dating sim game and their shitty 3D model concerts around the world (Japan and the US)).

[which is one of the reasons why i made this post. i do NOT want this project to flop just because of its relations to obey me and under funding.]

i think Ex and Bee deserves a chance its own separate fanbase from obey me... even though one of the main selling points was "hey guys!! you remember these guys??? they're gonna be here!!! please recognize them!! give us money!!!" and all that other corporate greed blabber that you don't hear from the social media managers.

conclusion: (army general voice) i want YOU to attend this panel if you are going to AX, and if you aren't, i want YOU to hype this shit up when more information comes out!1!!

[fallenbhaalspawn]

hmm, so i find it unlikely that bhaal sent cruor to orin before she took care of the dark urge, as what's left of cruor's body is in the room that was durge's and the book talking about cruor is labeled 'experiment on cruor' and not experimentS. i would assume she moved it but it does seem to be just like. a gore pile she didn't clean up and i'm not sure why she'd have the same amount of emotional attachment to cruor as helena or durge.

of course this would mean the dark urge was down in the colony under kressa's authority for like eight to nine months which is. something!

[thornsnvultures]

aud

what are you dipping in your soda

pizza crust 👉👈

[bladewarde]

𝑰𝑻'𝑺 𝑳𝑨𝑬𝑹𝑨'𝑺 𝑩𝑰𝑹𝑻𝑯𝑫𝑨𝒀!

...but she's still forever 32.

[lamortwrites]

Orin's manifesto, found on the desk in the chosen's room in the Bhaal temple! given how few dates we actually get in the game I took this to be her birthday, most likely her coming of age, but I think this is the only frame of reference we get for her

are there any canon ages for the three chosen + durge? if not, do you have any headcanons regarding their ages?

Ooooh juicy question anon thank you!

I don’t believe there is any canon evidence about the ages of any of the chosen including Durge. All we know is that Durge is at least 31 years old, because they would have needed to have been over their majority by around a year minimum (which is 15) during the events of Blood in Baldur’s Gate.

As for headcanons…

I’ll start with Orin. Durge calls them little sister so we can assume she is younger, though Durge could be anything from 30 to centuries old to literally having been blinked into existence so that doesn’t give us much. I personally think she’s in her twenties still though, probably late twenties, but again I try not to look TOO close to the lore as it starts to peel away in to difficult territory when trying to marry it to Murder in Baldur’s Gate (side note how nuts would it have been if Orin had been born after that and is only wearing the skin of an adult and you realise she’s actually a kid playing dress up?)

Ketheric is so hard to tie down across his lore because I truly don’t think we are supposed to take any of this literally. Also like. He’s dead lmao I don’t think he’s aged in about a century. But even then I think he must have been an elder, probably coming up to his 140s when he died.

Gortash. Handsome younger man? That’s a man in his early fifties to me. I feel like he’s been around the block and reinvented himself enough times that he needs some good years below his belt. But again really anything from 35-60 makes sense to the canon, I’m just going off appearances and when people generally start to come into their own at that level of politics and learning.

[galedekarios]

waterdeep's festivities & celebrations

(credit: midnightfriday)

in contrast to baldur's gate, which has few festivals and gatherings, waterdeep in contrast has a great variety of them, prompting volo to write the following about waterdeep in his chapbook about the city:

"At many times of year, hardly a tenday can pass in Waterdeep without the staging of some rite, race, or rousing ceremony of civic pride." (from: Volo's Waterdeep Enchiridion)

in this post, i want to give an overview of these holidays and festivals. some of them are mentioned in the game, like fleetswake in a banter between gale, lae'zel and wyll, but most of them are not. they give an interesting insight in the city, its history and its people.

the most used calendar in faerûn is the calendar of harptos. it's pictured above to give you an overview of how the months and seasons work in faerûn.

The days making up a tenday did not have formal names. If precision was required, the number of the day and the number of the tenday were used, as in, "the fourth day of the first tenday of Flamerule". Days of the month were typically written as the numerical date followed by the month name, for example, "15 Hammer" or "15th Hammer". Informally or poetically this could be spoken or written as "the 15th of Deepwinter". [x]

the names of the months in faerûn are:

hammer (deepwinter)

alturiak (the claw of winter, the claw of cold)

ches (the claw of sunsets)

tarsakh (the claw of storms)

mirtul (the melting)

kythorn (the time of flowers)

flamerule (summertide)

eleasis (highsun)

eleint (the fading)

marpenoth (leaffall)

uktar (the rotting)

nightal (the drawing down)

hammer 1: wintershield

Marking the start of the new year, this observance is a widely recognized day off work, when folk sip warmed ciders and broths (often laced with herbs for health and to bring on visions) and stay inside. They tell tales of what interested them or was important in the year just done, and discuss what they intend to do or should deal with — or things that everyone “should keep a hawk’s clear eye on” — in the year ahead. Such talk inevitably leads to discussions of politics, wars, and the intentions of rulers. Maps are usually consulted, and it’s widely considered lucky to possess and examine a map on Wintershield. Map sales are brisk in the tenday preceding this holiday.

alturiak 14: the grand revel

Led by the clergy of Sune, Sharess, and Lliira, the Grand Revel is a day of dancing, music, and the consumption of sweet treats of all kinds, from chocolate to red firemint candies. Although some of the dancing is wanton and performed for show, large-scale ring dances in the street for all ages are also popular. All the dancing ends at dusk, after which bards and minstrels perform at “love feasts” for families. Couples — or those desiring to become couples — slip away together to kiss, exchange promises, and trade small tokens of affection (often rings blessed by clergy with prayers of faithfulness). Even if you have no paramour, indulge a little in the dance and food of this fine tradition. The night might be cold, but your heart will be warmed.

we learn in the game about sharess, we hear a bit about sune, the goddess of beauty and her temple of beauty in waterdeep in a banter between gale and shadowheart, but lliira is mentioned only in passing: llira is a minor goddess in the faerûnian pantheon. she's called the joybringer and is the embodiment of freedom and happiness, inspiring many poets and musicians. gale does mention her in game - or at least the llirian suites that his piano is enchanted to play.

ches 1: rhyestertide

This holiday is named in honor of Lathander’s first prophet, Rhyester, a young blind boy who was cured of that blindness by the dawn’s light on this day more than seven centuries ago. That holy event occurred in the vicinity of Silverymoon, but Lathander has long had a much larger temple in Waterdeep, and a following to match. Each of the faithful dons bright garb of sunrise hues and keeps one eye covered until the next dawn in honor of Rhyester. If you want to feel like a local, catch the eye of any celebrant you see and wink. Fine friendships have grown from far less.

ches 19: fey day

The veil between this world and the faerie realm of the Feywild is thought to be weak on this day. Though this phenomenon provokes caution in rural areas (with folk avoiding woodlands, putting offerings of food on doorsteps, and the like), it is an occasion of much drinking, singing, and dancing in Waterdeep. The wealthy host elaborate masked balls, while poorer folk don costumes of their own make and travel door to door, gaining brief entry into the celebrations in exchange for performing a song or a short play. All adopt the guises of fey beings and the supposed rulers of the Feywild, such as Queen Titania, Oberon, and Hyrsam, the Prince of Fools. Those inclined to remain sullen in the face of such frivolity had best stay home, for celebrants do their utmost to evoke a smile from those they meet.

chest 21 - 30: fleetswake

This festival celebrates the sea, maritime trade, and the gods of the sea, navigation, and weather. It spans the last tenday of Ches, and includes a series of boat races, the Shipwrights’ Ball at the Shipwrights’ House, and guild-sponsored galas at the Copper Cup festhall. According to custom, the winners of the various competitions don’t keep their trophies and earnings, but deliver them to the priests of Umberlee at the Queenspire, her temple on the beach by the east entrance to the Great Harbor, at the conclusion of the festival. The last two days of Fleetswake are the occasion of the Fair Seas Festival. During this time, there is much feasting on seafood, the harbor is strewn with flower petals, and City Guards go from tavern to tavern collecting offerings for Umberlee. Collection boxes also appear at large festival gatherings. Upon sunset of the final day, the collected coin is placed in chests and dumped into the deepest part of the harbor. This festival has existed in a number of forms since the first trade-meets occurred here more than two millennia ago, and an uncountable amount of wealth remains sunken in what has long been known as Umberlee’s Cache. The area is closely watched by merfolk guardians, whose standing orders are to kill anyone attempting to disturb it. Rumors abound that the chests have magical protections; one story tells of thieves who stole some of the collection years ago and tried to leave the city under false pretenses, only to see a squall spring up as soon as their ship left the harbor. A huge wave shaped like a hand swept the thieves overboard, but spared the ship and its crew.

this festival is one of the few mentioned in baldur's gate. as stated previously gale, wyll and lae'zel mention it in one of the banters between them in act 1:

Lae'zel notes that Gale knows a lot about mind flayers. He responds with information about his training. If there, Wyll chimes in as well. Lae'zel: You strike me cleverer than most istiki, Gale. Multiple tutors, I should guess.devnote Gale: Many a wise man and woman indeed. Waterdeep is the home of myriad scholars. Wyll: Ah, the City of Splendours. Spent a whole Fleetswake there with my father. What a delight.

tarsak 1 - 10: waukeentide

This festival has long gathered a number of older holidays under one name, stretching those celebrations into a holiday season that lasts a tenday. Among the rituals in homage to the goddess of wealth and trade are these: Caravance (Tarsahk 1). This gift-giving holiday commemorates the traditional arrival of the first caravans of the season into the city. Many parents hide gifts for their offspring in their homes, telling the children that they were left by Old Carvas — a mythical peddler who arrived with the first caravan to reach Waterdeep, his wagon loaded down with toys for children to enjoy. Goldenight (Tarsahk 5). This festival celebrates coin and gold, with many businesses staying open all night, offering midnight sales and other promotions. Some celebrants and customers decorate themselves with gold dust and wear coins as jewelry. Guildsmeet (Tarsahk 7). On this holiday, guild members gather in their halls for the announcement of new policies and a celebration of business concluded for the year. These gatherings culminate in a gala festival and dance sponsored by several guilds, which lasts from dusk till dawn and overruns the Market, the Cynosure, the Field of Triumph, and all areas in between. Leiruin (Tarsahk 10). In times long past, Waukeen caught Leira, the goddess of illusions and deception, attempting to cheat her in a deal, and buried her under a mountain of molten gold as punishment. A commemoration of that event, Leiruin is the day for guild members to pay their annual dues and for guildmasters to meet with the Lords of Waterdeep and renew their charters for another year.

waukeen is a goddess and her domain is trade and wealth.

mirtul 6 - 9: the plowing and running

Rural areas around the city observe this holiday in the traditional sense of shared activities of plowing fields and moving (or “running”) livestock. But within the city, the holiday is celebrated with a series of races. Foot, horse, and chariot races are run through courses in each ward, and the winners from each ward compete at the Field of Triumph. If you really want to see the wards come to life, this is the time. Pick your favorite, wear its colors, and cheer alongside its residents. Better yet, if you’re of an adventuresome bent, register in your favored ward and compete! Who knows? Your name or visage might soon have a place in the House of Heroes.

kythorn 1: trolltide

On this day commemorating Waterdeep’s victory in the Second Trollwar, children run through the city acting like trolls, banging on doors and growling, from highsun till dusk. Home and shop owners are expected to give the children candy, fruits, or small items. Those who give no treat can expect to become the target of a trick at sundown. This mischief typically takes the form of “troll scratchings” at doors and windows. Those with more malicious intent sing screechingly in the wee hours, and hurl raw eggs at windows, signs, and the heads of those who try to stop them. Have some candy on hand or some sweet rolls, and all will be calm where you live.

kythorn 14: guildhall day

This day is a time of trade fairs. Most shops are closed, and street sales are suspended for all but walking food peddlers. Guildhall Day celebrates the fruits of everyone’s labor with revelations of new products, innovations, fashions, and signage extolling the extent and quality of guild members’ services and wares. These offerings usually take the form of glittering displays, but guilds sometimes also sponsor brief plays or other hired entertainments (jugglers, singers, magic shows put on by hedge wizards and professional raconteurs) at which prizes or free samples are distributed. Many guilds try to recruit during this time. Guildhall Day is an excellent time to browse the city’s merchandise — and it doesn’t matter if you can’t afford what you see, because you can’t buy it that day anyway.

kythorn 20: dragondown

This day in Kythorn is celebrated with bonfires and rituals to “tame” or “drive down” dragons. In Waterdeep, the celebrations take the form of parades that center around effigies built of wood and cloth and filled with straw. Each effigy is named and has a traditional depiction, for it represents one of a handful of dragons the city has faced in its history. After being paraded to a square near where the dragon was defeated or driven off, the enormous effigy is burned. The height of the celebration comes when the effigy of Kistarianth the Red is burned on the slopes of Mount Waterdeep. A dracolich version of Kistarianth is then carried up the slopes and burned as well. These proceedings symbolize the defeat of Kistarianth first by the paladin Athar, and again decades later by his son, Piergeiron. Tradition dictates that the winners of the races run during the Plowing and Running take the role of the dragons’ slayers, with the champion of the chariot race representing Athar and the champion of the horse race playing Piergeiron.

flamerule 1: the founders' day

This day commemorates the birth of the city. The Field of Triumph is the site of illusory displays that chronicle the history of Waterdeep, as well as martial exhibitions by the Guard and other worthies. Many festhalls sponsor Founders’ Day costume contests, with prizes going to those who wear the best recreations of the garb of historical personages. Once banned as frivolous and distracting, the practice of veiling Castle Waterdeep with an illusion has been reinstated. Several mages come together to produce the effect, which seemingly transforms the castle into the ancient log fortress of Nimoar. The illusion typically lasts from midday to sunset (unless someone has the audacity and magical might to dispel it) and is regarded as a stunning work of magical art.

flamerule 3 - 5: sornyn

Sornyn is a festival of both Waukeen and Lathander, and is used for planning business, making treaties and agreements, and receiving envoys from unknown lands and traditional foes. Much wine is drunk over this three-day occasion when, as the saying goes, “My enemy is like family to me.” If you are a newcomer to the city, this time is an excellent opportunity for you to engage with new partners in business or to gain financial support for some endeavor. My agreement to write Volo’s Guide to Waterdeep was signed on a warm Sornyn evening many years ago, so who knows where your own initiative will take you?

flamerule 7: llira's night

Originally a celebration held only in Waterdeep, this holiday has since spread up and down the Sword Coast. It has received a recent boost in popularity from the custom started in Baldur’s Gate of lighting celebratory smokepowder fireworks — all purchased from Felogyr’s Fireworks of that city, and utilized only by the City Guard, of course. This nightlong festival honors the Lady of Joy with dances and balls throughout the city. Pink beverages, ranging from healthy juices to deadly strong intoxicants, are imbibed. The boom and crackle of smokepowder explosions go off all night long, so you might as well stay up with the locals and enjoy the show.

eleasis 1: ahghairon's day

Many small rituals are held throughout this day, dedicated to honoring the first Open Lord. The Lords of Waterdeep toast Ahghairon and the Watchful Order, and guildmasters toast the Lords in Ahghairon’s name. Commoners leave violets (Ahghairon’s favorite flower) around Ahghairon’s Tower, on his statue in the City of the Dead, and atop the altars of the House of Wonder. Bards perform songs in honor of the wizard all over the city. The Open Lord visits taverns and inns throughout Waterdeep to wish the people well — giving short speeches, offering toasts to Ahghairon’s memory, buying rounds of drinks, or paying for meals or accommodation. Needless to say, establishments of those sorts are generally full throughout the day.

if you are interested to learn more about ahghairon - who is mentioned too by gale in passing - or rather his lost nose - you can do so here: i've written a more extensive meta about him in this post.

eleint 21: brightswords

On this day, the City Guard, the City Navy, and the City Watch — all in glittering array — conduct parades, give demonstrations of martial skill, and stage mock battles. Those desiring to join their ranks are given a chance to demonstrate their prowess, usually with wooden practice weapons in contests against veteran soldiers. Makers and vendors of weapons sell their wares openly in the markets, experts who can hurl or juggle weapons show off their skills, and the wards compete in wrestling and boxing matches. The most anticipated part of the day is when horses are cleared from the Field of Triumph and the surrounding streets so that the Griffon Cavalry can perform aerial displays over the crowds in the stadium. Members of the Watchful Order present the cavalry with illusory foes to fight, allowing the griffon riders to engage in thrilling battles as the people watch.

marpenoth 3: day of wonders

The imaginative inventions of the Gondar are revealed on this day and paraded through the city. These devices range from something as humble as new cabinet hinges to massive mechanical constructs that walk or roll about. Failure is the paramour of invention, though, meaning it is a rare year when there isn’t some notable disruption of the celebration. The flying chair of Marchell was one such recent oddity — a device that worked marvelously on the way up but was incapable of descending. Marchell was rescued by the Griffon Cavalry, but his flying chair drifted away and was never seen again.

marpenoth 7: stoneshar

Stoneshar is an all-faiths day during which folk strive not to be idle. Even children at play are encouraged to dig holes, build sand castles, or construct crude models. Waterdavians consider Stoneshar the best day of the year to begin construction of a building, either by digging out a cellar or laying a foundation. The common wisdom is that folk who undertake new projects on Stoneshar can expect blessings upon their works in the coming year, whereas individuals who do nothing constructive on this day can expect all manner of misfortune to rain down on them in the year ahead.

marpenoth 10: reign of misrule

Swift on the heels of Stoneshar comes the Reign of Misrule. This day honors Beshaba, goddess of misfortune. People of the city are expected to break trust, belie oaths, and disobey the normal order — as long as no laws are actually broken and no rift is made that can’t be later bridged. During the Reign of Misrule, nobles serve meals to their servants, children take control of schools, priests give worship to their god’s foes, and any who wish to may participate in a guild’s trade. Pranks are played by and on many, from simple tricks to those requiring elaborate planning. Sundown brings an end to the festivities, and most folk spend much of the night cleaning and reordering things for the following day. Many visitors decline to participate, but doing so often inspires misfortune rather than avoiding it. For fear of catching the bad luck of cynics, citizens do their best to avoid talking to anyone known to not have played along, or dealing with them in any way until Gods’ Day.

marpenoth 15: gods' day

This holiday observes the anniversary of the end of the Godswar in 1358 DR, when the gods of Faerûn returned to the heavens. Private shrines are brought out into the open, and many people wear holy symbols of their favored deities. A Gods’ Day tradition in Waterdeep strictly limits the use of magic, in remembrance of the wild magic wrought during the Time of Troubles. Though not outlawed fully, spellcasting is allowable only in self-defense or in cases of extreme need. At night, this holiday becomes solemn and serious, as many Waterdavians offer prayers in thanks for the lives they have under their gods. The Griffon Cavalry sets up an immense bonfire at the peak of Mount Waterdeep, honoring the fallen and the risen gods Myrkul, Cyric, Kelemvor, Mystra, Helm, and Ao who appeared here. In thanks for their defense during Myrkul’s invasion and the resulting fires that raged through the Southern, Dock, and Castle Wards, Gods’ Day is also a semiofficial “Be Kind to the Guard and Watch Day” in Waterdeep. Feel free to participate by handing out small gifts and kind words, but be aware that any gift of greater value than a few nibs might be interpreted as a bribe.

marpenoth 30: liar's night

This holy day pays tribute to Leira and Mask. To placate those deities and ward away their attention, folk of all walks of life don masks and costumes (magical or mundane) to disguise themselves and play at being other than what they are. Commonly seen mask styles include the black mask symbol of Mask and the mirror face of the priests of Leira. But there are no bounds on the disguise you don, and the more elaborate and outlandish it is, the more celebrated the wearer. The festivities begin in the evening, when people place candles in hollowed-out gourds or pumpkins carved with faces. Each pumpkin represents a person donning a mask, while the light inside represents the truth of the soul. For as long as the candle remains lit, lies told and embarrassing things done don’t sully a person’s reputation, so celebrations often descend briefly into anarchic hedonism. Misfortune is said to come to anyone who returns to their pumpkin after celebrating to find it unlit, so buy a candle of good quality and put your gourd beyond reach of the wind. Intentionally blowing out someone else’s candle or smashing someone else’s pumpkin is taboo, and risks the wrath of both gods — yet it does occur. Tricks and pranks of all kinds are common on this night, and folk expect lies and foolishness. Pickpockets are rife on this day, so few carry much coin with them, having secreted it away somewhere the previous evening. Instead, people fill their pockets and belt pouches with candies. Traditionally, a pickpocket is meant to take the candy and leave a token in return (a tiny toy, a colorful paper folded into a shape, or the like), but this has changed over the years into adults exchanging candies among themselves and simply giving candy to children who ask for it. By custom, no deals are made nor contracts signed on Liar’s Night, because no one trusts that parties will abide by them. Illusionists and stage magicians (whether through magical or practical abilities) make the rounds to entertain private parties (having been paid in advance the previous day) or to perform in public spaces, in the hopes that a good show will earn them a meal, and perhaps a place at a private party in the future.

uktar: selûne's hallowing

On whatever night in Uktar the moon is fullest, Waterdavians celebrate Selûne’s Hallowing. The goddess is the focus of worship throughout the full phase, of course, but the major ceremony on this night is a parade of worshipers leaving the House of the Moon at moonrise and moving down to the harbor, where the high priestess wields the Wand of the Four Moons in a ceremony blessing all navigators. This holy relic is said to be the mace wielded by Selûne in her first battle against Shar, and again in a fight with her sister during the Time of Troubles. It miraculously appeared in Waterdeep after the Godswar, and has since been the focus of many divine signs. You can view it in the House of the Moon at other times of the year, but only from a well-guarded distance. If you’re lucky, you might see the Wand of the Four Moons weep. Droplets said to be the tears of Selûne manifest on the mace from time to time, and are collected by the priestesses for use in potions that can heal, cure lycanthropy, and be used as holy water.

uktar 20: last sheaf

Sometimes called “The Small Feast,” this day of residential feasting is held in celebration of the year’s bounty. Small gifts (traditionally hand kegs of ale, jars of preserves, or smoked fish and meats) are exchanged among neighbors, and “last letters” are gathered for carriage by ship captains and caravan merchants — so called because they are the last to leave the city before travel becomes difficult. Of Waterdeep’s many celebrations, this one is perhaps the most relaxed and relaxing. Plan to spend a little extra on good food and enjoy a meal with those nearest you, be they dearest hearts or the folk across the hall in the inn.

nightal 11: howldown

In honor of Malar, members of the City Guard leave the city in groups on this day to hunt down known threats to farmers and travelers, including brigands, wolves, owlbears, ogres, and trolls that haunt the roads and wilderness. These hunts typically last no longer than a tenday. During the same span of time, the City Watch engages in its own rigorous hunt for malefactors within the city walls. If you’ve any reason to doubt your standing in the eyes of the law, avoid Waterdeep for at least a tenday after Howldown. With no real hunting to do of their own, the children of Waterdeep spend Howldown engaging in mock hunts of adults dressed up as monsters, and play at the killing of these predators.

nightal 20: simril

When dusk comes on this day, folk go outside to locate particular stars that were lucky for their ancestors, or that were associated with their own births. They then attempt to stay up through the night, celebrating outside with bonfires, song, and warmed drinks. Cloudy nights often draw larger crowds than clear ones, since glimpsing your star through the haze is thought to be a blessing from Tymora. Inside buildings, service folk keep roaring fires and engage in making food to keep celebrants fed throughout the long night and into morning of the next day. If you have no particular star of your own, you’ll find many vendors of star maps willing to divine which is yours — based upon your place and date of birth — and to point you in the right direction for a shard or two.

all information is taken from volo's waterdeep enchiridion.

i hope this was helpful and information to some of you!

🖤

[truly-sincerely]

Durgetash Timeline Post Be Upon Ye

Post-Tadpole Edition

Supposition 1: The Elder Brain was Crowned, and Orin ambushed and tadpoled Durge at the beginning of Nightal (Dec) 1491. Durge has been missing for 9 months (approximately 260 days). Supporting evidence: Experiment on Cruor

Supposition 2: Gortash couldn't have received his Lordship until at least Eleasis (Aug) 19, 1492 DR (the day before the Nautiloid crash). Prior to this his titles were Counsellor (as a member of to the Parliament of Peers) and Director (of the Foundry). Supporting Evidence: Narrator dialogue available to any Baldurian character. *You know the name Gortash. A counsellor with considerable influence on Baldurian industry and politics... but he is no Lord.*

Note: Counsellor Florrick is first met at Waukeen's Rest as early as Eleasis 20, but doesn't mention Gortash until Last Light Inn. Presumably she received word of his officially being named Lord from the Flaming Fist reinforcements she met at Last Light Inn, tho she's not surprised by the development because she already knew about the impending rollout of the Steel Watch.

Supposition 3: Gortash has only been living in Wyrm's Rock since after The Fall of Elturel. Supporting Evidence: Grand Duke Ravengard may have had multiple residences in Baldur's Gate but one of them was the Penthouse in Wyrm's Rock, at least part-time. Gortash couldn't have moved in until after the Grand Duke left the city, and most likely would not have been invited to move in until the Grand Duke's disappearance along with Elturel. Note: We don't know when the Descent began or ended other than that it was in 1492, and thus after Durge's disappearance.

Conclusion 1: Since Durge was the first True Soul (according to Kressa Bonedaughter), this means that all tadpole experimentation had to occur after Durge's disappearance.

Conclusion 2: Obviously he didn't tadpole his parents until after Durge's disappearance. This is already generally accepted.

Conclusion 3: A working prototype Steel Watcher (and thus the Steel Watch at large) couldn't have predated Durge's disappearance since it would require a suspended tadpole in a zombie brain in order to work.

Conclusion 4: The Emperor wasn't captured until after Durge's disappearance. According to the flashback shown to the player by the Emperor, Gortash had a Steel Watcher with him when he captured the Emperor.

See Also: The Knights of the Shield Report and The Stelmane Connection and Shield Steward Interrogation Log can all be found in the Wyrm's Rock Penthouse.

[astarionbraiinrot]

Last Call

Chapter 1: Astarion

Sequel to One for the Road

Read on AO3

It’s a few hours after dawn, and Astarion sits in the rocking chair near the bedroom window, just out of reach of the morning sun, contemplating the child in his arms. A tiny thing. Pudgy cheeks turned rosy after a successful first feed, courtesy of its mother. Pointed ears just slightly too big for its head. A mop of curly white hair in wild disarray. Pale green eyes squinting back at him with the slightly-disgruntled turnip-esque look inherent to newborns. A perfectly healthy baby boy, weighing in at just over seven pounds, and born at roughly 7-ish that morning, the first cries of this brand-new life coinciding with the dawning sun’s feeble attempts at projecting warmth into the midwinter chill of the frosty Nightal morning.

Looking back, the number seven had played a not-insignificant role in many of the major events of Astarion’s life. According to the records he and Tav had managed to dig up, he had been born near the end of Flamerule, the seventh month of the year, and he had died in that same month just a tenday shy of his fortieth birthday. He had been one of seven spawn, then one of seven thousand and seven. When he’d been kidnapped and tadpoled by Mindflayers, he’d quickly found himself part of a group of seven strangers traveling together to find a cure for the ticking timebombs in their brains. Then, almost as quickly, that group of strangers had become a party of seven friends-turned-adventurers on a quest to save the world. He’d stabbed Cazador fourteen times the night he'd taken back his life and regained his freedom, seven to kill him and seven more just because he deserved it. Their journey to defeat the Netherbrain and the Dead Three’s Chosen, from nautiloid to giant brain sinking into the Chionthar, took seven harrowing months. And he’d found out he was going to be a father for the first time just seven days before helping to crash that giant brain into the river. Now here he sat, making some rather embarrassing cooing noises he’d never admit to and gently rocking his seventh child.

Gods, his seventh child. He’d had months to wrap his head around the concept, and still, here he was, absolutely baffled as to how they’d gotten here. Even he could admit, privately, in his own mind, that seven was maybe a slightly unreasonable number of children to have. Especially for two Elves. Hells, most Elven couples barely managed two or three children over as many centuries, yet somehow, he and Tav had exceeded half a dozen in less than two decades. And while Elven children were uncommon, Dhampir were rarer still, with all sources firmly insisting that only True Vampires could sire them and that spawn were entirely sterile.

Shows what they know.

Even now, seven(!) children and almost twenty years later, they still truly had no idea why they were the exception to either rule. With their eldest, they had assumed it was a fluke of the tadpole (once he’d stopped hyperventilating long enough to have a conversation anyway). That, along with allowing him to walk in the sun, touch running water, and enter homes uninvited, it had temporarily knocked some part of his biology back close enough to “living” and whoops now they’re going to be parents. A once-in-an-unlifetime opportunity that had subsequently disappeared again along with all the tadpole’s other gifts.

It was a very sound theory too, if he did say so himself. Or at least it had been, right up until the moment Tav had informed him they’d managed the supposedly-impossible a second time. Or, more accurately, a second and third time, because clearly they were incapable of doing anything by halves. That time had coincided with some magical experimentation he’d undergone courtesy of Gale which, while not fully having the desired results, had given him an entire glorious month of being near-mortal enough to eat real food and walk in the sun. And so, once again, they’d made the (very reasonable in his opinion) decision to attribute this one to magic and unusual circumstances affecting biology in strange ways, blamed Gale this time, and got on with their lives as a happy family of five, confident in the knowledge that there was no chance of this happening again.

Of course, just over a year later when it did in fact very much happen again, they were forced to consider alternative causes to what was rapidly looking like the beginnings of a small army of children. Their friends’ theories had ranged from “killing Cazador could have made Astarion a True Vampire on a technicality,” to “the large number of lives lost in the Mindflayer invasion might have created a surplus of Elven souls waiting to reincarnate,” to the much more pragmatic “you are incapable of keeping your hands off one another and this is the expected result of such lack of willpower,” which to Lae’zel’s credit, was at the very least a contributing factor.

When the fifth one had happened a couple years later, followed rather quickly by the sixth not long after, he and Tav had decided that maybe it was time they sought out help with preventative measures. They’d paid Shadowheart a visit as soon as Tav was well enough to travel, hoping that her Clerical training and knowledge of medicine and potions would be up to the task. It was, and that had worked quite well for the next ten years, which turned out to be just long enough for them to get complacent, and now here they were again.

It wasn’t that they hadn’t wanted children, per se, moreso that they just hadn’t considered it could be an option since it wasn’t supposed to be possible, so they’d never really thought about whether they wanted to be preventing it or not until they’d already had four toddlers running around. But, unplanned as they were (and he never was good at plans anyway), he’d been relieved to find that loving them was not the arduous task he’d feared it might be. Quite the opposite, actually. He had not been prepared for just how much he could love them, these amazing little creatures that were somehow, miraculously, part him. But he did, with all the deepest parts of the heart he’d been sure he didn’t possess. Each one was a gift he’d never expected to receive, or even known he’d wanted, but gods was he so glad that they were here.

Even now, when he finds himself more and more wondering where the time has gone, one child just barely grown and most of the rest nearly there, all navigating life with grace and confidence and a drive for independence he knows they are ready for but he isn’t, happiness is the emotion he encounters the most these days. And, oh, wasn’t that just a kick to the chest? No one had told him that all the parts you prepare for, the crying, sleepless nights, toilet training, homework, sibling rivalries, puberty, broken hearts, dating, sleepless nights again, all the parts you expect to be hard, that those were actually the easy parts. No one had warned him that the hard part was having to put down the reins, letting them grow and navigate the world, seeing them try and fail and try again, fall and shake off the bruises and get back up. Spending the first half of their childhood hyper focused on keeping them safe, only for them to spend the second half excitedly forging a path out of that safety and into adventure as quickly as they can. He hadn’t known that watching his children experience life would feel like breaking his soul into pieces and setting them loose to run around outside his body discovering who they’ll be. Hadn’t prepared for an existence spent with his heart in his throat as he can only watch from the sidelines while they begin the journey of creating their own lives separate from him.

He absolutely does not get misty-eyed at that thought, and he’s only wiping his eyes because they itch, actually, and probably he’s suddenly developed a dust allergy just now because he definitely hasn’t shed even one tear over the idea of how quiet the house will be once they’re all grown and gone and he’s no longer spending his evenings pretending he can't hear the whispered giggles and gossip from their bedrooms as they utterly fail to hide the fact that they’re awake far too late for people who have school in the morning.

Gods, it must be terribly dusty in here.

Sitting here, holding his son and thinking about this family he’s built, it feels… strangely peaceful. A peace he knows will be shattered the moment the child in his arms turns his attention from scowling at his father to demanding another meal, but peaceful nonetheless. There wasn’t anything else that needed his attention at the moment. The midwife had attended to the cleanup before departing, making sure that the soiled bed linens were disposed of and replaced while he’d helped Tav to the bath and set about preparing her some breakfast. He’d sent a message to the neighbors asking them to inform the girls that their mother and new sibling were doing well and they could meet the baby when they got home from school and yes you still have to go to school today, yes really, yes I know I’m awful and mean and cruel and entirely unreasonable I love you anyway now go to school. Then he’d used their Sending Stone to ask Gale to please inform his eldest of the news and that he’d be sending funds for a teleportation circle to bring her home in a few days once her classes at Blackstaff were over for winter break, after which they’d had a brief discussion to adjust their holiday plans so that Gale’s family would now be coming to them for this year’s Winter Solstice Simril festival instead.

And so, with his to-do list cleared, he’d turned his mind to the task he’d been given by his darling wife, who was currently taking a well-earned rest in the bed nearby.

After both Tav and the baby had received a thorough bathing and a hearty meal, she’d placed their swaddled son in Astarion’s arms with instructions that their child needed a name, and since he was the one who’d insisted that they did not need to prepare a boy’s name, that meant he could do the work of coming up with one now while she would be taking a nap. And, if she awoke to find their son still nameless, she’d make the executive decision to name him after Gale. A very motivating threat, considering the man had already managed to lure away one of Astarion’s children into academia and wizardry of all things, a fact that he was not at all still minorly irritated over thank you very much, and he’d be damned if he’d let the wizard’s ego get any bigger by giving him a namesake on top of it. Absolutely not.

Thus, he’d spent the better part of the last hour considering this tiny new life and what moniker might fit him. A daunting task, really. Despite neither he nor Tav really being ones for tradition or holding to any particular religion, they knew that, for Elves, the choosing of a name was not something to be taken lightly, especially a child’s name. When they’d discovered they were expecting their eldest, finding out that they’d somehow accidentally done the supposedly-impossible and made an entire person at quite frankly the worst possible time had left them understandably quite anxious and a little terrified, so they had turned to Halsin for advice. In an effort to soothe their nerves, the druid had told them that, in Elven communities, a child’s birth was a momentous occasion, often drawing the entire neighborhood to gather and wait with eager anticipation for word of the new arrival. Once born, the child would be brought out by the new parents and presented to an elder relative, who would officially welcome them to the community by announcing the name chosen for them to those gathered. The name would usually reflect something unique about the child, or maybe convey what their presence meant to their parents, or might simply be a heartfelt wish for the child’s future. With rare exception, Elves would retain faint memories of these moments throughout their lives, even as other memories of childhood faded.

While hearing that had actually helped Tav to calm a little, it had done the exact opposite for Astarion, mostly just adding a layer of sadness to the fear coloring his already racing thoughts. The feeling that, by mere virtue of having no known family, they’d be denying their child what was apparently a core memory and treasured experience for their people, had broken some tiny little thing inside him, like a sliver off the edge of a pane of glass that leaves a weak point capable of shattering the rest. The whole thing just sounded so… nice. The thought of so many people eagerly awaiting your arrival, purely because your mere existence was a gift. The idea of being so wanted, so loved, before any of those gathered had even met you yet. He had wondered, briefly, if anyone had done that for him? Gathering around and celebrating simply because he was him and he was here. He had no memories of his mortal life, no family history to pass down or stories from his own youth that he could share with this child. Hells, he still had his childhood name, had died before he’d had the chance to even begin putting any thought into what name he might choose for himself when he came of age, what would represent who he had wanted to be.

Jaheira had told him at some point that his name meant “little star.” He’d had no idea. Had had no cause or opportunity to know it, and no one to ask even if he had. Was that how his parents had thought of him, a shining point of light, all bright and dazzling? He’d wanted to believe that there had been thought put into it. That someone had cared enough about his existence that they’d taken the time to find just the right name, one that would convey what they’d felt, hoped, dreamed for him. Though, whatever the intentions behind his name were, he was confident that he hadn’t lived up to them. He certainly hoped that none of what had occurred in the last two hundred years of his life and been on their wish list, anyway.

But, he’d thought, if he couldn’t provide this child with the ancestral welcome they deserved, then maybe the weird little family they’d somehow built out of a disparate group of traumatized worm-filled strangers could be enough. Maybe he could do for his own child what he’d decided to believe had been done for him and give them a name that was built on something good, something warm and positive, even if he was scared shitless at this whole situation.

And so, with that in mind, each of their children’s names had been chosen with the utmost care and reverence for the little life they’d made, with the hope that they would grow up feeling a connection and sense of belonging that neither he nor Tav had known, something to provide a root in the soil of the extended family they’d defied gods to build. A desperate wish that their children would always feel, no matter what, that they were loved, wholly and unconditionally, and know that home was always waiting for them.

The baby lets out a soft grunt and shifts in his blanket, at some point having chosen sleep over continuing to stare at his father while he’d been lost in thought. As Astarion takes in this tiny brand-new being, not even a half-day old, a surprise but welcome epilogue to a story they’d thought finished years ago, he tries to focus his tired mind on this important task laid at his feet. But it’s been over a day since he last tranced. The adrenaline of this whole event had kept him going for a while, but that had worn off hours ago, and while he’d pushed through the exhaustion to make sure that Tav and the baby were taken care of, he can feel himself losing the battle now that things have settled down. His eyes close without his permission. He leans back in the chair, cradling his son securely to his chest as muscle memory from the countless times he’s done this before slides over him like a well-worn glove. He inhales deeply, taking in that new baby smell he loves so much, and promises to himself that he’ll just rest his eyes for ten minutes.

Fifteen at most.

Definitely no more than twenty.

As he slips into Reverie, his mind drifts back to every time he’d been in this position over the years, and all the events that had led up to those moments, searching for inspiration. The initial fear that had reared its head less and less each time. The cautious excitement every time he first heard the faint double-time beat of a tiny heart. The wonder of feeling first kicks from a little creature so eager to make its presence known. The anxiety and thrill when there had been two. The pain and grief and terror when it had once gone so wrong. The adrenaline and panic and relief when it had once gone too right. The bone-deep exhaustion and elation and happy tears and pure joy that always came at the end when hearing that first cry. Each time, a small bundle gently placed in his arms. For each one, renewed awe that he could ever get to have something this unequivocally good. Always, a whispered introduction.

Hello, darling. It’s so nice to finally meet you.

[jessiemeows]

A Cold Comfort

A/N: Hey guys I'm back with another small little story :) It's just something short and sweet, especially with winter being around the corner this is how I think Astarion would care for his partner if they were to catch a cold from freezing temps! It also helps that in my current game, the date is Nightal so basically it is winter for them lol. Again, I'll eventually I will post my longfic but I've just been holding off on it because life got in the way :( but eventually, it will make it on here lol.

Pairing: Spawn Astarion x F! RedeenedDark Urge Tiefling, My OC Amaya, Selunite Cleric/Paladin

Word Count: IDK roughly 700?

Very fluffy and sweet, Astarion being the little sweetheart that he is behind closed doors. This takes place after Cazador and after Bhaal.

Story:

The bitter cold of the Grey Harbor's icy waters still clung to Amaya's bones. After spending far too long rescuing Omeluum and a bunch of gondians from the Iron Throne, she'd caught a nasty chill. Now buried under a mountain of blankets in their small private shared room at the Elfsong Tavern, she shivered despite the warmth of their bed.

The door creaked open as Astarion sauntered in, his silver hair catching the dim candlelight. His eyes narrowed playfully at the sight of the blanket fortress before him.

"Little love, what in the hells are you doing?" he asked, amusement dancing in his voice.

Amaya's reply came muffled through the layers. "Nothing. This happens to be the warmest place in all of Faerûn right now."

"Oh, I'm sure you're not as cold as me," Astarion drawled, a smirk playing on his lips. "But do let me in so we can share what little warmth you've managed to hoard."

A small opening appeared in the blanket mountain, and Astarion wasted no time. He shed his ruffled white nightshirt and slippers before diving under the covers. Amaya immediately entangled her legs with his, pressing her frozen feet against his.

"Tsk, I knew you were being dramatic. You're not even that col— BY THE NINE HELLS, GET YOUR ICE BLOCK FEET OFF ME!"

"You said I wasn't that cold!" Amaya protested, fighting back a grin.

"That was before you turned into a literal ice mephit!"

Amaya turned away with an exaggerated pout, only to be betrayed by a sudden fit of coughing.

Astarion's teasing tone softened. "Look, little moon, I simply wasn't prepared for you to be so cold, usually I'm the one that's frozen to the touch. But that cough sounds dreadful. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she mumbled unconvincingly.

In one fluid motion, Astarion wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her against his chest. "No, you're not. You're sick, aren't you? I knew you spent too long searching for that mindflayer. The Grey Harbor waters is treacherous this time of year—"

"Are you about to lecture me again about not taking care of myself?"

"I have never lectured you!" Astarion protested, then paused. "Well, perhaps occasionally. I just... I worry about you, that's all."

Amaya turned in his arms, nestling her head against his chest. He responded by holding her tighter, pressing a gentle kiss to her hair avoiding her horns from poking him in his eyes.

"It's just a small cold," she assured him between coughs. "It'll pass."

"This 'small cold' could worsen if not treated properly. I may be a vampire immune to such ailments, but I despise seeing you unwell. What if—"

"Astarion," she interrupted, "have you forgotten I'm a cleric? I've already taken medicine. It'll be gone in a day or two, hopefully."

"HOPEFULLY?"

"Now who's being dramatic?" She gazed up at him with those big brown eyes he could never resist, nuzzling closer with an innocent smile.

"Ugh, those eyes will be the death of me," he groaned. "You're fortunate you're so adorable. Would you like some tea?"

Her face scrunched up. "It won't be like that concoction you gave me in the Shadowlands, will it?"

Astarion rolled his eyes. "That was Shadowheart's recipe because you weren't eating properly then. I'm offering simple tea this time, love."

"Hmm... I suppose that would be nice."

As Astarion began to untangle himself, Amaya grabbed his arm. "Wait!"

"Yes, darling?"

"Can I come with you?"

"Don't you want to stay in your carefully constructed blanket fortress?"

"Yes, but I also want to watch you inevitably mess up making tea." Her laugh turned into another coughing fit.

"Ah, karma strikes swiftly," Astarion chuckled, unable to suppress his own smile. "Very well, come along. Perhaps we'll witness me somehow make tea explode."

He tossed his nightshirt to her and waited as she slipped it on, then wrapped her snugly in a blanket. After sliding his feet back into his slippers, he led her out of their room toward the makeshift kitchen that Gale created in the center of the inn's floor, ready to embark on his next great adventure: attempting to brew tea for his beloved.

_______________________________________

Some of my other small things I've written!

Underdark Trysts | Before Climbing the Netherbrain's Stem

[archduchessgortash]

Gortash week day 7: Suffer

This is a preview of part 2 of Love Is A Tyrant, my AU Durgetash Gortash redemption arc fic.

This scene is the Gortash & Orin confrontation after she attacks Durge, plus some after the changeling sods off.

The 3rd of Nightal, 1491 DR

Enver Gortash was in the Steel Watch Foundry, sitting in an office, pondering what he should have for lunch as he checked reports on Watcher performance, determining where to best allocate the massive funds that had been approved to aid construction of his army of automatons, when a red-haired gnome rapped on the half open door.

'What is it?’ He said in his gruff, authoritative voice.

‘A visitor, Director Gortash, sir,’ the gnome said nervously. ‘She's calling herself the… Chosen of Bhaal?’

‘Oh!’ He replied more cheerily, ‘Send her in… please.’ Then he pondered quietly to himself, ‘Why not just give her name?’

‘Through there,’ the gnome said meekly, then scampered away, terrified. The newly appointed lord frowned at the tone in his employee's voice.

Without looking up, Gortash asked, hearing slightly odd-sounding footsteps behind him, ‘Happy as I am that you're home early, D, why did you come to the Foundry? Did you miss me that much?’ His flirtatious grin vanished as he looked over his shoulder and saw Orin standing there, both hands behind her back, silent as the grave, smiling at him like a mad parody of a harlequin.

Standing bolt upright and turning to face her, he demanded, ‘Orin?! What the Hells are you doing here? And why are you calling yourself the Chosen? Where's D?’

Still silent, her black lips curled in a devious grin, she took her right hand from behind her back, showing him the red dagger, its stone glowing faintly. ‘Because I am the Chosen. The mantle has passed,’ she declared, still grinning.

‘Where is she?!’ He roared, taking an angry step toward her, fists clenched hard enough that the clawed fingertips of his gauntlet and rings pierced the skin of his palms.

Unthreatened, Orin raised her brows in mock sympathy and asked, ‘Did the toy get attached to his little mommy? How deliciously tragic!’ What had she done?!

She continued, holding the blade in front of her, ‘The pact between our gods stands. I'll be replacing my unworthy bloodkin,’ she announced, then wrinkled her nose as she looked him up and down, adding, ‘though not in every way. I shall be the pure, almighty voice of Bhaal in your ears now, and I require no trinkets.’ 

Taking her other hand from behind her back, she then opened it, a heart-shaped locket dangling from her fingers. He immediately snatched it from her hand, eyes wide with fury, less than an arm's length between them. Her dagger was instantly under his chin, its point a hair's breadth from his throat.

Gortash didn't blink as he vowed, ‘Tell me where she is RIGHT NOW! Or pact or no pact, I will kill you where you stand.’ He tapped her hip with what he held in his left hand at the same time as he put the piece of jewelry into his pocket to free up the other hand. Her eyes darted down for a second, growing a bit wider as she saw the small but very powerful explosive he held in a hand that slowly dripped blood onto the stone floor with a faint slapping noise. 

‘You wouldn't,’ she dared, fighting the urge to murder that flooded her at the scent of his blood, ���you'll kill us both with that thing.’

‘Maybe…’ he said, his dark eyes unreadable to the changeling. ‘You'll be just as dead.’ Orin backed down, taking the point of the blade away from his neck. 

Gortash didn't move. In a lower, more threatening tone than Orin had ever heard from him, he said, ‘Answer or die. Your choice.’ As she attempted to step back, he grabbed her by the throat, the claws of the gauntlet requiring only the slightest bit more pressure to open her veins. Her dagger was back in its former position, lighting quick, her other hand on his wrist, fighting against the one at her throat, but she couldn't move it. 

‘Last chance, Orin,’ he said as he scratched the metal casing of the bomb with the fingertip ring on his third finger, creating a spark that lit the fuse. It was lined with flint for that specific purpose.

‘I don't know,’ she admitted through clenched teeth as the fuse sizzled. ‘I humiliated her… she was alive when I left her and gone when I returned.’ Gortash shoved her away from him and twisted the fuse off the bomb as he scrambled to organize his thoughts amid the panic that threatened to rise.

Rubbing her throat as she stumbled backward, Orin said, ‘She probably ran off with her tail between her legs. A disgraced scion has no place among loyal Bhaalists. You've more backbone than I thought, toy. Try that again, and I'll flense the flesh from your bones… without killing you.’

‘Get out!’ He bellowed as he pointed to the exit, splattering a line of blood onto the floor.

Orin narrowed her eyes at him, then sauntered out of the office, slamming the door on the way out.

Once she was gone, Gortash turned, screamed in rage, and punched a hole in a wooden crate near the door. Breathing heavily, he stumbled backward, letting the fuse-less bomb drop to the floor as his back hit the wall. He took out the locket and held it in his bloody hands, noting the broken clasp. He opened it, holding his breath, then he looked inside, winced, and closed it. He banged the back of his head against the wall and slid down it until he was sitting on the floor. 

As he held the locket to his chest, he said, ‘Where are you?’ A few tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes. 

After a few moments, he got up, straightened his vest, careful not to get blood on it, and walked to a water barrel, pried the top off, and filled a bucket. His every movement was deliberate, narrowing his perception down to only the thought of the next action in the sequence. No deviation, no branching ideas. Every step was the only thing happening. Nothing else was real. He couldn't let his mind wander.

He placed the bucket on a crate and dipped his hands and the locket into it, gently rubbing his blood away from the intricate designs he'd spent weeks crafting. Surrounding the gemstone, non-flowering wisteria vines climbed from the bottom, shaped from strings of gold he had smelted, twisted, and tapped into leaves. The vines flowered at the sides of the heart, their blooms the most technically difficult part of the locket's construction, because they were so tiny. Carved flames licked the tops of each side of the heart. He made sure every detail was clean.

Wisteria couldn't flower without enough light, but it was strong and hardy; it could survive the dark and the dead of winter. In the light, it became one of the most beautiful flowers he'd ever seen. She wasn't dead. Whatever Orin had done, she wasn't dead… was she?

Gortash shook his head, pushing the thought away. He found a cloth on a small cabinet, dried his hands with it, and carefully blotted the locket. Then he tucked away his lover's keepsake in a pouch on his hip. 

He wiped his face with the cleanest part of the cloth, and walked slowly to a liquor cabinet next to the desk. He poured a glass of whiskey and drank it. Then another. And another. Then he drank straight from the bottle, until it was empty. It had started out half-full. Right before he left the office, he stopped short as he remembered. He went back to the cabinet, poured a glass of water and drank it. For her. 

As he exited the Foundry, Gortash huddled into his coat, grateful he'd brought a scarf that morning. It was nearly Highsun, the light a blinding winter bright, yet it was still cold enough that he could see his breath. He waited anxiously for the Flaming Fist mercenary that patrolled outside to see him. The merc had short brown hair and a long scar on his left cheek. He approached, glancing about, and said gruffly, ‘Afternoon, sir. Can I help with something?’

‘You can indeed,’ Gortash replied, his false cheerful tone working on the merc, who smiled. ‘You Fist mercs gather somewhere and relax, drink, and make merry so to speak, don't you?’

‘We do,’ the merc agreed skeptically, rubbing his cold hands together.

‘Not everyone in these circles is part of the Fist, are they?’ he ventured, though he knew the answer already, having bribed dozens of them over the years.

‘That's right,’ the Fist replied, then breathed on his hands to warm them before rubbing them together again.

‘I need someone found,’ the inventor said. ‘I'm looking to hire someone smart, brave, resilient, and discreet for this task. They will need to travel outside Baldur's Gate.’ He pulled a small leather notebook and a pencil from the inside pocket of his coat. Careful to keep his palms from being seen or touching the paper, as they still oozed blood, he wrote in very precise script, then carefully tore the paper from the notebook and offered it to the merc, saying, ‘Send anyone capable to this address.’ 

Once the merc took it, Gortash held up a pouch that clinked with coins. ‘This is for spreading the word. You'll get another just like it once I hire someone for the job. What's your name?’

‘Kurtz, sir,’ he replied, taking the gold.

‘Should they be successful, you'll get ten times that,’ he assured, emphasizing the increase with a hand gesture.

‘What’ll they get?’ Kurtz asked, raising an eyebrow.

‘They will be very well compensated,’ he answered, folding his hands together in front of his body.

‘I'd like to be very well compensated,’ the merc said with a smile. ‘Why not hire me for the job?’

‘Because you let the second most prolific murderer in the city into my Foundry without noticing a single thing amiss,’ Gortash replied flatly with a humorless smile, as Kurtz's eyes widened in alarm, ‘You're not observant enough for this job. Send me someone who is, and you'll be well paid for minimal effort. It's what you Fist do best, isn't it?’

Kurtz narrowed his eyes at the insult.

‘Come now, you are what you are, and you have your uses,’ Gortash said patronizingly, tilting his head to one side. ‘Pretending to be otherwise is unseemly… and unnecessary. Do as I've asked or return the gold. Simple enough.’

‘I could keep the gold and do nothing. For the disrespect,’ he smirked as he said it, his hand near his sword.

‘You could indeed. You can't swim, can you, Kurtz?’ Gortash asked, meeting the merc's eyes. His smirk wilted. ‘You stay further from the water than any other Fist who patrols down here, and you gave it a nervous glance as you approached me. The water is quite deep below this section of the pier. Scale armor makes for wonderful protection… but it is terribly heavy, isn't it?’ 

He took a step toward Kurtz, who swallowed hard but held his ground. ‘I don't care about one hundred gold, but I do care about respect. Respect is earned by one's actions. It is not given freely because a person has a title given to any idiot who can hold a sword properly. If the Flaming Fist truly lived up to what Ulder Ravengard thinks they do, speaking the truth to one of their number would never be considered disrespectful. Either you can rescind your erroneous comments about disrespect, or you are calling a War Counselor a liar to his face. Choose wisely.’

‘Apologies, s-sir,’ he stammered. ‘R-rescinded. What is… your n-name?’

‘Lord Enver Gortash.’

‘Gods!’ the merc exclaimed, his eyes wide. His whole demeanor changed. ‘Why didn't you say that straightaway? It's done, sir. I know at least three who could manage it. I'll ask them to come round tomorrow?’

‘The sooner, the better.’

‘Tonight then, sir?’ The sudden desperation to please him in the merc's tone was a change he might have relished once. Today, it inspired mild disgust.

‘Perfect,’ Gortash said with all the false pleasure the irrelevants expected from him. ‘You should learn to swim, Kurtz, as soon as possible,’ he advised. Then he glanced over the merc’s shoulder and added, ‘Come along, Silence.’

A shorter than usual Steel Watcher painted solid black, with none of the ornate details of the ones being manufactured suddenly became visible behind Kurtz. Instead of the usual weapons, the automaton had very long, sharp claws, five on the hands of its longest set of arms, though it had six arms in total. Among its other unique qualities, the construct had some semblance of a face, though metal and lacking any expression. Its sudden appearance so startled the merc that he lost his balance and teetered near the edge of the boardwalk. 

Gortash caught him by his collar and pulled him back from the edge. ‘I’m serious,’ he reiterated, ‘learn to swim.’

Kurtz nodded vigorously, backing away from the edge, a smear of the lord's blood on his armor.

As Gortash walked away from the Foundry, he said, ‘I may need you to shadow me indefinitely, my friend.’

‘Yes, sir. D is usually at your side, isn't she?’ they asked.

‘She is… unavoidably… delayed.’ He tried and failed to keep the emotion from coming through in his voice.

‘Understood,’ Silence stated, then commented, ‘Your hands are bleeding, sir.’ 

‘I know,’ he replied, and kept walking, only an occasional drop of blood falling to the wooden planks of the boardwalk. It was slowing. 

‘May I suggest you imbibe a healing potion?’ they asked, following as noiselessly as their name indicated.

‘Not until it stops hurting,’ he replied quietly.

‘Will the potion not accomplish that?’ the automaton asked.

‘It will.’

‘Ah,’ Silence paused, then inquired, ‘Shall I re-engage stealth?’

Gortash nodded. The agile, spider-like Steel Watcher vanished.

‘Shall we communicate non-verbally, sir?’ Silence asked.

‘If you like.’

‘Has Rusty reported back?’ they inquired.

‘No. Either she's still out of range, or… If Orin got to D… I can't think about… either of them. I have to plan.’

Silence wondered whether or not their master knew that when he used D's name telepathically, it came to them as a ragged, howling scream, a blissful whisper, and an almost incoherent sob all at once.

[fumbling-flower]

WIP Whursday

thanks for tagging me @funniestbitchinfaerun!! i actually saw it in time this time lmfao. i'll tag @jellyfishline and @bolognamayhem117 if you've got something you wanna show!!

from the WIP of ch. 17 of when the day met the night C: (spoilers!) things are finally looking up for my dumbass tav

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It had taken him several days to recover from what he’d done to himself, but when he finally did, he found himself looking in the mirror in the bathroom, checking his appearance. Did the green of his sweater vest match the green in his watch? He thought it did. Had he shaved? Yes, he had. The edges of his beard were clean, and he’d meticulously removed any hairs in undesirable places on his face. He was ready. He was actually the farthest thing from ready, but if he said that he was ready to himself, then maybe he would be.

Maybe.

Filch picked up the expensive bottle of cologne—the one he barely used—and sprayed a bit of it onto his neck, then a bit on his wrists. He wasn’t sure why he was going through all of the trouble. It felt worth it, somehow.

I can’t do this, he thought. No, I can do this. He felt a weird sense of déjà vu as he thought it.

He left his apartment, bundled up in a scarf and a hat, the hood of his jacket pulled up over his head. It was snowing pretty heavily today, and his boots crunched as he trudged along the sidewalk and down the street. Snowflakes muddied up his glasses and made it tough to see. He scrubbed them off when he stepped inside of Waukeen’s, but then they just fogged up in the heat. What I can’t do is deal with this weather, he thought. It’s only Nightal, and I’m already sick of it. How he was so calm given the task he was about to confront was beyond him. He was about to do one of the toughest things he’d ever done, and here he was, bitching and moaning about the weather instead. It was almost refreshing. He ordered his two coffees—one hazelnut and one honey—and made his way back out the door.

It still gave him pause when the green and white awning of The Grove came into view. It was covered in a thick layer of snow, and the middle of the fabric was sagging ever so slightly. What if he doesn’t want to see me? Filch asked himself. He had blocked him, after all. But that hadn’t seemed to have been out of malice. Well, if he doesn’t, I’ll just leave, and that will be that. He tried to pretend that wouldn’t crush him in ways he couldn’t even fathom. Oh gods, and what if Jaheira is there? I don’t want to talk to Jaheira right now. It would have been a lie to say he wasn’t still a bit angry with Jaheira. If she’d known everything Halsin had told him, which it sounded like she had, she’d willingly set him up with someone who’d quite literally killed a prominent political figure—and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. But that was a problem for later.

He had questions for Halsin, if he was willing to answer them. He had things he wanted to tell him, if he would listen. And maybe—just maybe—he could keep him from running away, and quit pushing him away. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He just missed him.

[fallenbhaalspawn]

KETHERIC THORM: A CANONICAL ORDER OF EVENTS

A battle takes place around Reithwin: Sharrans vs. Selûnites and druids. Malus Thorm is on the side of the Sharrans. (986 DR)

Melodia Thorm dies when Isobel is very young and Ketheric begins raising Isobel as a Selûnite on Melodia’s behalf, presumably having been/becoming a less pious Selûnite himself.

Dame Aylin visits Reithwin/Moonrise Towers as an emissary of Selûne, Ketheric and Isobel are initially very honored. Around the same time, Isobel and Aylin fall in love. Ketheric disapproves due to the potential power imbalance.

Isobel is murdered and Squire, the family dog, dies attempting to protect her. Oddly, Selûne’s clergy cannot or will not resurrect her.

Ketheric, in his grief and believed betrayal, converts to Shar and, before anyone is aware of his conversion, captures Aylin and has Balthazar craft the Soul Cage, stealing her immortality for himself. This may be what earned him the rank of Shar’s Chosen. He begins converting his lands to Shar and training Dark Justiciars. (likely after 1367 DR)

After the events of BG2, the war between Harpers and Sharrans starts. (circa 1369/1370 DR)

Khelben Arunsun offers surrender on behalf of the Harpers. Ketheric declines. (1369/1370 DR)

Moonhaven is raided by Sharrans under Ketheric’s command. (circa 20 Nightal, 1371 DR) The Grymforge is under Ketheric's command by this point.

Presumably, the raid on Moonhaven and the Sharrans encroaching on the Emerald Enclave has the local Druids concerned and is likely what leads them to ally with the Harpers against Ketheric. (1371/1372 DR)

At some point, Morfred, the architect of Moonrise Towers, makes a deal with Raphael to destroy Ketheric’s army in exchange for his eternal service. Raphael has Yurgir hunt down and kill every Dark Justiciar (except for one, who makes a deal with Raphael to escape by turning into a swarm of rats.)

Ketheric Thorm is “killed” and locked away in the Thorm mausoleum, and the Shadow Curse is released across Moonrise, Reithwin, and surrounding areas.

Then, of course (at some point preceding Eleasis, 1492 DR, the starting date of BG3), Ketheric makes a deal with Myrkul to bring Isobel back in exchange for participating and leading in the Absolute plot.

Sources: (Moonhaven Logbook), (Dark Journal), (Logbook XII: 1371), (Letter of Surrender), (The Waning Moon: Consignments), (Mason’s Log), (Reithwin Necrology), (Ornate Letter), (dialogue from the Infernal Mason in the House of Hope), (dialogue from isobel at camp), (dialogue from Jaheira in the initial conversation about Ketheric), (dialogue from Dame Aylin), and general Forgotten Realms lore

[janacantdraw]

For Nightaller from Twitter

[rukafais]

Nightal 11: Howldown

In honor of Malar, members of the City Guard leave the city in groups on this day to hunt down known threats to farmers and travelers, including brigands, wolves, owlbears, ogres, and trolls that haunt the roads and wilderness. These hunts typically last no longer than a tenday. During the same span of time, the City Watch engages in its own rigorous hunt for malefactors within the city walls. If you've any reason to doubt your standing in the eyes of the law, avoid Waterdeep for at least a tenday after Howldown.

With no real hunting to do of their own, the children of Waterdeep spend Howldown engaging in mock hunts of adults dressed up as monsters, and play at the killing of these predators.

Man, what's fucking wrong with Waterdeep. Why do you just have the fucking Reverse Purge going on as a holiday

[sankttealeaf]

Happy birthday! In celebration I'm gonna give you a bunch of birthday related oc questions: I know you said Rue's birthday was earlier this month: is that her birthday as a character or her in-canon birthday? Does Rue know her own birthday? Does she celebrate it at all? And how do you headcanon the whole durge birth thing anyway?

THANK YOU!!! the best birthday gift: rue time :3

the 8th of september is when i made her, so character birthday!! her canon birthday is the 21st of nightal (the day before the winter solstice) shes a winter baby in my heart, but even then that's the day her foster family found her. she doesnt know her "true" birthday!

i think during their final moments alone, rue asks gortash when her birthday is and he would tell her. so she does know eventually but it doesnt really feel right

until a few years into settling in with gale in waterdeep, she's used to not doing much on her birthday and he surprises her with a small party with all their friends and its the best day ever. theres cake and gifts and all the companions are somehow there and by the time the night ends everyone is passed out in the living room together :)

and as for durge's birth, i've pictured it as its a creature hand crafted from bhaals flesh. he gets other bodies and uses his blood to fuse it all together to make something new! very frankenstein-esque but not really? its why rue is a wild magic sorcerer - the magic in bhaals blood doesnt translate into a normal humanoid form so its erratic and unsteady!!

rue is also formed as a toddler with some basic understanding of what to do with a body so it speeds up his process of getting her to destroy the world!

[0rinthered]

Orin and Aena

Drabbles :3

In Orin's ever increasingly paranoid state, she turns to kill the only woman who ever treated her with absolute kindness. But for the first time in her life she hesitates.

How long had she been staring over this woman? Bated breath. Sweaty palms itching over the handles of the wicked blades. Toes curled over hardwood flooring and their body heat fogged the windows over. 

It had been a shockingly nippy Nightal - a winter like never felt before. Recently, the nights had left the grass snapping and breaking under the bitter ice and frost that wrapped around them. Unable to thaw out. Animals, big and small alike, either starved or froze to death. Ill-prepared cattle fell like playing cards and their carcasses stuck to the ground beneath them. The wrapped-up farmers would try pulling and tugging, with rope or without, until finally settling on just burning the animal entirely. A waste of blood. Flesh. Bone. Meat. Any that did manage to salvage the carcass was left with ruined leather and brittle meat - all of the yanking ripping the main body from frozen stuck leather. A great crrrrrrrrreeeeaeaaaaaaaak sounded out as it separated. Harrowing noise. Even the hardiest of winter vegetables struggled to grow beyond being a runt. The weather was unforgiving, unrelenting, unflinching and unpredictable. Another struggle for the less-than-fortunate to deal with or die underneath. 

This house held strong against the frost, yet groaned and moaned under vaguely warm sunlight come morning - that much was clear. Cracks in the walls, warped floorboards, misaligned glass panes… relief from a callous cold showed scars everywhere. A small cobweb hung sadly in a corner, the far left one from the door. A curled-up, rock-hard spider sat in eternal silence in the centre, and the delicate strings adorned with crystalline droplets. A glass of water idly frozen atop the small, rickety table. A handmade bedside cabinet, to be precise. Poorly made, yet done so with love. Scratchy carvings of hearts and crosses along the rims, and even a shoddily carved out heart for the drawer handle. The wood split and splintered in little areas, from temperature abuse or general wear or tear it was unclear and consistent. The bed it sat next to was also handmade by an amateur but seemed to have more experience put into it - perhaps from more attempts or even the addition of a more skilled hand. Large wooden beams constructed the frame; One much larger than the average-sized bed, and wider, too. The mattress was a mixture of straw and discarded feathers, wrapped up in a linen cover with a weak frame inside to hold shape. Like the bed, it was custom-made. It was littered with a wide selection of furs, a mixture of high and low-quality ones. The sneaking, prowling individual had paid little attention to the home she broke into, but in the anticipated silence, details revealed themselves to her. Most, if not all things, here had been crafted by amateur hands and not necessarily the same ones. Large clothing had been neatly folded on an old chair, clean tunics in warm and bright colours, suffocated underneath the blue of night. Burned-out candles and rusted lanterns, hunting knives scattered across a small desk that seemed almost comedic compared to the clothing and the bed size. This was by no means an extravagant house, but it was certainly made into a home.

The burning life of the home lay beneath the multi-furs, swaddled entirely. Large pelts layered over each other to cover this bulky woman, even tucking into her neck crook and one draped over her head. Her platinum hair leaked out from under the coverings, curling and kinking slightly yet stopping at a medium length. Her nose tinged peony from the pinching chill, and her cheeks followed suit. Specks of blue, green, and white littered her skin, thick dark eyebrows and eyelashes contrasted against such pale skin. Baby rose lips. 

And the woman breathing over the top of her, seemingly unphased by the cold… slender. Strawberry blonde hair is woven into a thick braid reaching beyond the knees. Her nose tinged peony from the pinching chill, and her cheeks followed suit. Specks of blue, green, and white littered her skin. Shaped, dark eyebrows and long eyelashes contrasted against bizarre, swirling skin. Charcoal smeared lips.

Orin the Red loomed over her clean sister. She inhaled brittle air and with it, the soft smell of Aena. The pollen mixed with a hint of sweet steel. Her breathing was steady and clear, deep and consistent. She lay flat on her back. The mattress sunk in at her sides but the bedframe held up well against her weight. Feather-filled pillows cuddled at her skull and around the furs swaddling her head. The furs and everything else surely would not be keeping her warm during such a frightful winter night, but she seemed content enough. Her body did not flinch or twitch. It did not tremble. It did not even acknowledge Orin’s deadly presence. Her nose didn’t respond to the putrid odour of her armour - one that oozed with decay and agony. Orin didn’t attempt to conceal her presence when approaching the tiny house on the outskirts. She sauntered in like she owned the place with little effort for disguises or sneaking and had been lingering ever since. In the past, when she hadn’t bothered with those details, it was because she wanted her prey to give chase. They would sense impending doom from Orin’s lurking alone; the hairs on the back of their neck would stand up straight, their eyes would begin to dart around and every little snap and crunch of twigs drawing closer and closer would be enough to set them off. It was a thrill. It was the hunt. It was delicious. Aena, however, slept through it.

 Orin raised her eyebrow. A part of her wanted to tut and even whisper “typical”, but she had no basis for that. Was that typical of Aena? Maybe, maybe not. Orin was far too young to remember many traits of Aena before they were torn apart, and it was something she actively tried to forget about. It wasn’t important to her cause, it was a detriment, and at the end of the day, Aena is Bhaalspawn.  Whether Selune declared otherwise or not, it mattered little. Bhaal’s blood ran through those thumping veins of hers, and so did the threat towards Orin’s power. Her nose scrunched up as she continued to glare down at the clueless Aena. 

She had been made very aware of Aena’s little digging and investigations into the Temple of Bhaal as of late. Asking questions, sending letters, asking about Orin. It was worrying, to say the least. Bhaal whispered fear into her ears - fear that spun into delusions of Aena usurping Orin’s title and taking it for her filthy, filthy self. Suddenly, during the height of Orin’s paranoia-induced delusion, food didn’t taste quite right. Bath salts smelled… bizarre. Even the clearest of waters seemed cloudy. Sleeping in her bed always felt like there was a pair of eyes watching… waiting for Orin to drift into a sleep she would never wake from. 

Weeks of this disturbed sleep and eating very little almost drove her completely insane. Countless murders were almost landing her and other Bhaalists in extremely hot water with a handful of bounty-hunting collectives. Her recklessness and lack of real discipline shone bright in those moments and she had to do something about it quickly. Aena could not be allowed to exist - not for as long as her blood flows red. 

Orin relaxed her face and flexed her fingers over the handles, hearing them click and pop ever so gently. The sweat from her hands had a very thin film of frost over it, adding to the crackle and a stern stickiness to her skin and the grip. Had she left it for any longer, she could’ve been peeling her palm from the blade as those farmers did with their cattle. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, stretching it over the bed and Aena’s rising chest. The chosen hovered for a brief moment, debating on if she should risk waking the victim up by seating herself on her chest, or if she should remain kneeling yet be slightly unstable…

Enough fussing.

Her face scrunched up, painted eyes closing under furrowed brow and lips parting almost in protest. How much time had she wasted here? An hour? Two? Maybe three? The glimmering sharpness of the crescent moon hung much higher in the moon when Orin arrived at the cottage. At this point, it had stooped to kiss the treetops. Too long. It had been too long. 

Both raised were held upwards into the air and Orin pressed her thighs against Aena’s sides. Corpse-like eyes glaring down through a thin curtain of tears. Everything in her mind screamed at her to plunge them down yet the bloodlust refused to spark beneath her nostrils. She could smell Aena’s pulse, true enough, but it didn’t invigorate anything within her. Instead, Orin could feel the tiny rattling of Bhaal’s prodding and poking, his vacant encouragement to dig deep into her sister's ribcage and feast on the bloody rewards. Her disembowelled sister. 

Orin shoved her leg into Aena’s side.

Wake up.

Perhaps it was because Aena wasn’t awake to feel fear. Orin couldn’t taste it in her sweat or read it behind her eyes so that wasn’t tempting her bloodlust. Of course. 

Aena groaned. She nestled herself further under the furs, undisturbed apparently. 

Orin squinted and pursed her lips, impatience lapping at her insides. Another shove, her kneecap digging into Aena’s bottom ribs.

Still, nothing.

What in the Hells is wrong with this woman? Orin could hardly believe how heavily her sister slept. Unphased by the presence of another person, bitter cold and two shoves into her ribs. Orin could be awoken by a mere squeak of a faraway bat or even the trickling of blood into the crevice beside her bed. 

This wasn’t working.

Orin lifted the blades again, this time with watchful eyes. The furs obscured Aena’s general form and made it nearly *impossible* for Orin to make precise incisions; the new plan. Cutting her open should be enough to wake her, and Orin was beyond masterful in the art of keeping someone alive during it… if she can see what she is hitting.

Frustrated, the changeling landed yet another shove into Aena’s side, and instead of watching her eyes rip open as she’d hoped, the paladin began to roll over. 

Orin squeezed at her blades and nimbly hopped off of her before she had the misfortune of toppling to the floor. The wooden boards were punishing against her bare feet. The cold started to bite and scratch at her exposed skin, tinging the tips of each piggy lilac. The blood swirling underneath the first few layers of skin slowed slightly. Bhaalist bones began to rattle. Morning was nowhere near close meaning the temperature wasn’t going to let up whatsoever… but it wasn’t like Orin had plans to stick around…

She chewed at the insides of her gums. Lingering, still. Aena huffed and puffed in her new sleeping position, unbothered. Unaware. Completely fucking useless. Orin fussed momentarily, her toes curling against the boards and blades wavering impatiently. They were impatient - Orin was impatient - but not for blood. Not this time. Instead of preparing to fight, she wanted to flee. To run away. That raw adrenaline pumping through her veins and bones and skin and muscles SCREAMED at her to get out of the house and never look back. She didn’t want to be around Aena but her brain demanded her blood over her chest and her meat inside of Orin’s stomach. It skipped past the fantasising part, too. No dreams of cut arteries, flesh falling from bone, eyes drooping and bursting. Gore ignored.

A choice had to be made.

Kill her. Be done with it all, never worry about the paladin coming to usurp her place as Father’s beloved favourite.

Run away from her. Go home, wherever that was supposed to be. Go back to bed, and forget about her.