#oc: zilvala

[wowgivemethemoney]

Bleeding is weird, huh?

[camelliagwerm-archive]

From the prompts "You are losing my interest, and that's very dangerous"?

thank you Emi. I apologise that this has taken so long to getting to but writing is [gestures] not my strong suit right now. Anyway, fuck it. Veszila time. CW for gore mentions. AO3 link here.

When the summons come, straight from the grotesque, snivelling creature the Chosen calls Sceleritas Fel, or "that Butler", Zila merely smiles, sets aside her flaying knife and leaves the bloody work to the other Bhaalist beside her. She smooths her robes down, but does not bother plucking the chunks of viscera from the fabric — let Bhaal’s Child see she has taken to this unholy work well.

Being summoned to the Chosen's chambers may be an honour, or a death sentence, and the outcome may be so fickle that it varies by the minute, and whether the unholy guarantee of murder has taken control of the Chosen’s body. Zilvala knows that much — she is no fool. After all, she had heard the whispers after the Chosen had plucked her from Moonrise Towers — wanting her all to themself rather than let her serve the Absolute — and brought her to this bloodstained temple. You would do well to please them, drow. Defying the Prophet begets death.

The butler is waiting for her by the chamber doors, talons nervously clicking against each other, beady eyes flitting from side to side to spot her arrival. He doesn’t say anything, only gesturing for her to enter before he disappears in the blink of an eye.

She does not expect them to be sitting at the edge of their bed, a hand barely covering a gaping wound in their side, panting heavily. Their eyes, bloody Bhaalist red against sclera as dark as the Demonwebs, flick up to Zilvala and speak only two words through gritted teeth. Dortho us’aa.

She approaches them, aware of the heavy stone door that leads to the centre of the temple closing behind her with a heavy thud and the groaning of chains; she stops in her tracks as she reaches the apex of the small dais where the Chosen’s bed resides. Zilvala kneels beside them, and gently she pries their hand from the bloody mess of a wound, the scent of their gore thick in the air, glistening on lifeless grey skin. They must be drained of their magic until their next communion with Father Bhaal.

What in the Demonwebs happened? She wants to ask, but she knows better than to query the favoured Bhaalspawn with trifling questions: losing their interest is a dangerous thing, unless she fancies having her brain-juices dashed across the chamber floor.

“Do what you must,” they say, this time in the common tongue. Their Drowic is rudimentary at best, gleaned from fragments of the Echo Sendai's speech, their pronunciation questionable. “Just get it done.”

She nods, and focuses on the well of magic inside of her being to bring forth a gentle, radiant glow from her fingertips. Zilvala treats the healing magic like needle and thread, making gestures similar to embroidery to shut the wound. It will leave a scar, but that will not bother them. A scar in the name of their Unholy Father is just a testament to their devotion to Him.

There is a sigh of relief, and a large hand brushes against her jawline, a thumb covered in calluses from decades of wielding their sacred instruments of death reaching beneath her chin. They tilt her head up so she is brought to look at them. A slight grunt of pain as they lean down to place a kiss on her lips, uncharacteristically tender without a hint of the ravenous lusts she has become used to from her summons to their chambers

“Bel’la dos,” they murmur huskily, the pronunciation a clumsy attempt at gratitude, before putting another kiss to her brow where the white ink dots her skin. “My Divine Soul.”

“As always, I am at your beck and call,” Zilvala replies. She comes to a stand between their spread legs, tentatively reaching out to run her fingers through the fuzz of their undercut. They snake their arms around her waist, broad hands finding where the edge of fabric meets bare skin. Fingers press down and she smiles. “Do you have any other need of me tonight, my Chosen?”

The way they pull her to the expanse of their body, hot and still sticky with blood and sweat, is answer enough.

[camelliagwerm-archive]

23, 20 and 5 for act 1 asks? 👀

Thank you!

5. Do you remember the first humanoid enemy your Character killed? Was it the first person they've ever killed, in your opinion? Would they have been bothered by it?

It was some bandits in the old chapel. They didn't stand a chance, and it certainly wasn't Veszeth's first. Dark Urge, Lolthite cleric, it doesn't matter what came first to them — they have killed time and time again before the events of BG3 and enjoyed it. Revelled in it.

Who knows who or what Veszeth's first kill was?

20. How did you deal with The Artist - Oskar Fevras? Did you even encounter him?

Well. Veszeth offered to buy him off the Zhentarim, but things got a little...Messy. It broke out into a full-on bloodbath with the Zhentarim and I believe Oskar was pretty scarred from the experience.

23. What are your Character's thoughts on the dream visitor?

They can't remember them, really. With all those clouded memories, it's hard to put a name to a face. But Veszeth recognises their bearing, the way they act. It reminds them of the priestesses of Lolth, so they've taken to referring to her as Zilvala — roughly meaning 'forgotten / unknown priest'. It is as good a name as any, until they recover more of their memories.

But Veszeth wants to trust them - that connection is there, and an undeniable attraction. For all they know, they conjured Zilvala up as a fantasy: the perfect Lolth priestess, beautiful. Regal. Deadly. They'd be a fool to trust her entirely, but maybe... maybe they're willing to let her in.