#ok hugs for wyll as well please

[blackjackkent]

Hey, Wyll. How you doing, buddy?

"Gods be damned. With that parasite in his brain, father could wreak untold havoc in the Absolute's name. Should Baldur's Gate fall to the Absolute, every one of the Coast's cities will be ripe for the plucking."

Poor guy.

I'm glad Hector and Wyll have been spending a little more time together during this arc. Wyll needs a friend, even if Hector is kind of drowning under everything he's having to carry right now.

I think Hector really respects Wyll a lot, actually. The Blade of Frontiers is supremely dedicated to his principles and willing to sacrifice himself for them, to put aside his own comfort for the benefit of others. Even now - when he would, frankly, have every right to be a little broken down, worrying for his father - he is all fire, worried for the greater good of the Sword Coast and ready to strike out against the threat.

"We're not just fighting for our cure. We're fighting for my father, we're fighting for the Gate, we're fighting for all of Faerun!"

Hector's certainly going to do his best for you, Wyll; I can promise you that.

"The Absolute's cult has Ravengard. Where will they take him?"

"Wyrm's Rock fortress. All travelers to Baldur's Gate flow through it. It serves as headquarters for the Flaming Fist, and their commander - my father. The Absolute's army's on the march. Gods forbid a tadpoled Grand Duke throw open the gates for them."

Well, that gives us a definite next destination at least. Hector is not familiar with Wyrm's Rock (or really much of the city beyond the path to the market where the monastery bought supplies), but we do have one quest whose next stop is at Wyrm's Crossing - the laughing amulet we got back at Grymforge - so that seems like a good sign also.

"What do you know about Gortash and Orin?"

"Orin, I'd never heard tell of. But Gortash I know. Or know *of*, more precisely. A self-styled 'strategic advisor' to Baldur's Gate's peers. A bit player with dreams of a leading role, the way father told it. He had no use for Gortash, and even less for his 'advice.' I don't remember much beyond that. But where these 'Chosen' are concerned, I have a suspicion we're about to know more than we'd like."

Unfortunately, that's probably true.

Everyone's stories are certainly lining up, if nothing else. The consistent image we've gotten about Gortash is that he's an upstart who is climbing into the upper class by any means necessary; he sounds thoroughly unpleasant and quite dangerous. But no one seems to know what the deal is with Orin, the Bhaal worshipper.

This is a shame because I really want to know what her deal is. Throne of Bhaal (the final expansion of BG2) ends with Bhaal dead and all his children obliterated for good, with the protag either choosing to renounce their blood and live as a mortal or become a god in their own right. There's not a lot of room there for the worship of Bhaal as he previously existed to still be going on.

(Given Hector's sage knowledge of history and the fact that he knew the historical name of Balthazar suggests to me that he knows all of this, too, and is equally perplexed by it.)

Some twist is still coming.

"Mizora said you can say what led to your pact and exile. It's time I know the whole truth."

"Yes. But first a question. If your home was under siege, what would you sacrifice to save it?"

Hector blinks. The sudden pointed reversal of questioning is not what he was expecting, and he has to consider the question for quite a long time.

Interestingly, the first point on which he becomes stuck is - what is his home? Once he would have answered Silverlight Monastery without question, but he has been through so much, for so many months... he cannot picture himself settling back into the life of the monastery so easily anymore. He has new ties binding him more strongly - to his friends, to Karlach. And in the end it is that which he considers instead, in trying to answer Wyll's question.

If your friends, if the woman you love, were under siege, what would you sacrifice to save them?

"I'd give my life if it meant keeping them safe,"* he answers softly.

"As would I," Wyll says bluntly. "And more." He straightens, looks past Hector into the middle distance with a grim expression. "I was seventeen. Father - Ulder Ravengard - had just been named a grand duke, and was called away to Elturel to help settle a dispute. That's when the Cult of the Dragon made its move."

Narrator: [RELIGION] The Cult of the Dragon - a fractured religion. Some believers hold that undead dragons will inherit the world. Others worship the dragon goddess Tiamat and intend to summon her to Faerun.

Hector nods slowly, remembering dusty pages in the monastery library speaking of the cult and its dark rituals. But one thing has already struck him more than anything else about Wyll's story. Wyll was seventeen when this happened.

"The Grand Duke left a mere boy in charge?" he asks, bewildered. "That can't have gone well."

"Not just a boy," Wyll says, his jaw clenching with determination, with a half-forgotten family pride. "A Ravengard, schooled in the four pillars - courage, insight, strategy, justice."

He pauses, and his shoulders sag a little as the memory presses forward. "A tenday after father left, I heard a whisper as I slept. 'Dusthawk Hill. The Queen of Chaos awakens. Go alone.' I grabbed a rapier and set out. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, yet not a single star was shining. There they were... gathered at the foot of the hill."

Narrator: Your head tingles. Wyll wants to show you what happened.

Allow Wyll to share his memory with you.

Narrator: In the looming shadow of the mount, five groups of five figures each encircle a lofty totem. Atop each totem, a dragon's head is carved, and a massive orb held in its mouth. The cultists chant, first softly, then crying to the starless sky. [RELIGION] There is a crack of thunder, a gust of wind - and a dragon's white head appears in the storm, the first of Tiamat's five heads. As the maelstrom howls, Mizora's lips press to your ear. 'She will destroy Baldur's Gate. Grant me your soul - and I will give you the power to save it,' she whispers.

Hector can feel the cold sharpness of the memory - of the teenage Wyll's fear and pride and determination, and the desperation that led to his answer.

His vision clears to look at Wyll as he is today; there is sadness in the Blade's face, but no regret. "She read the terms while two devils stood witness," he says. "And I said yes. One soul for one city."

Hector frowns. "Surely Mizora doesn't care about Baldur's Gate," he says, puzzled. "Why would she want to save it?"

"She didn't," Will says, somewhat bitterly. "She came on order of her mistress Zariel."

At Hector's side, Karlach flinches instinctively at the name, and her expression twists with grief on Wyll's behalf. "She never stops, does she?" she mutters. Hector can hear her voice crack. "Not for a second."

"Tiamat made a play for power. Zariel had other plans," Wyll goes on flatly. "That's the most Mizora's ever said - all that mattered was that she got her prize - another pet added to her warlock menagerie."

Hector looks at the younger man with a new respect, and more than a little pity. Seventeen years old, to be forced into such a choice, and to accept it on behalf of so many innocents without any hesitation... the courage that must have taken. He does not think that he himself would have such bravery, and certainly not when he was so young.

"Sacrificing your soul to save the city was a brave thing to do," he says gently.

Wyll tips his head to one side and looks at Hector thoughtfully for a moment. There's a slight tug to his lips in an almost-smile, suggesting that he's touched, even gratified, by the compliment. But all he says is, "I don't know that it was brave. I just know that it was right."

There's a long pause before he goes on. "The moment I agreed, I burned with the fires of Avernus and oozed the rot of Dis. The cultists choked on our poisons and burned from our flames. When we were done, all that remained were five greyed orbs atop a pile of ash."

"Is that how you lost your eye?" Hector asks. "In the battle with the Cult of the Dragon?"

"It is," Wyll says with a slight nod. "The one scar I ever bore of it. Mizora replaced it with a sending stone. She uses it to track my location and speak from a distance." His lips twitch in tight frustration. "I could flee to the Spine of the World or the depths of the Lowerdark, and still never shake her."

Hector frowns. "And what about your father, the Grand Duke?"

Wyll's face goes very still. "He returned to an unsuspecting city and a wayward son with a smirking devil at his side. I tried to tell him the truth, but my mouth couldn't form the words. I led him to the battlefield, but Mizora had swept it clean." A long silence. "After, he said only one word. 'Go.' So I did."

Hector's heart twists with regret and sympathy for the boy that Wyll was. He himself has no parents that he can remember, but he can picture the pain that would have come with being turned from his home by those he cared about.

When they find Duke Ravengard again... he hopes he has the chance to tell him of his son's bravery, and make him understand it.

-

* Slight artistic license; in-game line is "I'd give my life if it meant keeping the residents safe", but that didn't track with the thought process I had Hector going through. XD

[blkgirl-writing]

Valentine's day drabble HCs for the men of BG3 x Reader

These are a collection of small drabbles written in different styles for valentines day! Warning Gales is the longest, whoops.

Gale:

Gales cold warm hands grasped around your waist from behind, squeezing your skin gently as he rested his head on your shoulder.

"The earl grey lavender, please-" He kissed your neck softly, speaking in a quiet tone. It was a perfect day inside his tower, the rays of sun beaming through the stained glass, fluttering rainbows across the cozy kitchen. The kettle whistles quieting down as you took it off the stove.

"It's already in the mug, lovely" You gestured to his favorite mug, a heavy stoneware piece decorated with flowers of purple and pink encased in a golden heart, he said it reminded him of when he realized he had loved you. You never fully asked why, but it made enough sense to be sweet.

"How you know me so well." Gale Smiled. You finished pouring the water and handed him his extra-strong tea. He leaned against the counter, blowing on the drink a few times. "Maybe I should have told you earlier, but I do have a surprise for you."

"I thought we said no gifts!" You batted his shoulder playfully, "though I'll admit, I didn't follow that rule either."

"is that so?" Gale leaned in to kiss your lips through a smile. "We just can't seem to help ourselves."

"So what's this gift?" you asked. He set down his own mug, ducking into the pantry to retrieve a box, unwrapped and simple. He placed it on the counter and patiently waited, his excitement barely hidden in his smile.

You opened the small box to reveal a mug, a matching mug to his, but a dark blue with purple and red flowers, with a silver heart. It was gorgeous, less heavy than his and somehow it felt built to hold within your two hands.

"Oh Gale, it's perfect." You kissed his cheek, refusing to let go of the mug quite yet, the hug would have to wait.

"I had it specifically made by the same artist. Tara now has a similar water bowl as well. She felt left out" Gales hand slipped around your waist yet again. "as much as I love it when you steal my mug, I thought it was beyond time you had your own as well."

"Oh so you didn't want me using yours?" Your teasing turned into pecks, which led to kisses- "Your gift is waiting in the bedroom," You smirked, hand caressing his messy hair. "If that's ok, of course,"

"I was secretly hoping that was the case." His hand intertwined with yours, nearly sweeping you off your feet.

Wyll:

Wyll had been staring at you for some time before you'd woken up, the sun shining down on your resting face, the definition of peaceful. Wyll hadn't remembered pure peace, it had been years since he'd felt fully at rest, but with you, calmness was as easy as breathing. All he had to do was look at you, and he remembered serenity.

He had made sure he was the best man for you, the best man he could be. He loved you with all his heart and made sure you felt like a goddess above every waking moment of your lives together, however long that may be. He loved the small moments you shared, like when you'd tripped and nearly fallen, but straight into his arms. "Well I didn't think you'd be falling head over heels for me this fast," He'd said. And you'd laughed and smiled, and he swore he'd do everything to keep that smile on your perfect lips.

He remembered your first date, where he had tried so hard to reserve a seat at the best restaurant in baldurs Gate, but ended up in a dingy bar, getting more drunk with each cup, and instead of spending the night entangled in each other's bodies, you'd shared barely cohesive thoughts and stories from lives long past. He learned your favorite color, your old friendships, and the star that you felt most connected to, the smaller details that never seemed to have enough time for during your big adventure.

Or the time you'd styled his hair into braided buns, which he'd kept in until his hair was frizzy and far past wash day. But you'd worked so hard on it to be perfectly symmetrical that he never wanted to take out your work. He asked you to help him with his hair, after that, not just because you were good at it, which, hells, you'd made him feel confident in himself for the first time since he grew his horns, but because your light touch sent him into a nearly meditative state of bliss. The way your fingers carefully combed through his hair, spending time to detangle each knot with such care that he had barely noticed it at all. And eventually, you'd taught him how to do your hair, too. Eventually wearing matching styles (if he asked politely), and took turns in the "hair chair"

"Honey?" You whispered, groggy and barely awake, "have you been staring at me again?"

"Is it a crime?" Wyll asked, placing a light kiss on your forehead.

"Only if I was drooling"

"Oh, but you look too adorable when you drool." He chucked, holding you closer to his warm chest.

"Shut up..." You pouted, eyes fluttering open and closed, trying to force yourself awake. But sleep had you tight in it's arms, and so did Wyll.

Astarion:

Red was his favorite color, after all. The room was dripping with it, black, gold, and dark, burgundy. Candles dripping hot wax down into careful carafes, soon to be poured and decorating your skin. It was romantic, it was warm, and it was lustful. Astarions eyes never left you, dancing across your body in pure sin, he clearly knew exactly how your night would unfold, and the only hint he'd give you was the devilish smile on his lips.

"It's going to be a long night, hm?"

"Oh yes, darling" Astarion purred, his hand sliding into your hair and pulling downwards, revealing your neck to him. His fangs scraped against your bare skin, but not piercing it, no, that was for later, with much less clothing and a lot more sweat, when all you could see was his snow-white skin and the blood rushing through your veins.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

@shyminnie07 @makers-breath @claryvoyantfray @black-sapphic @fapqueen

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

(Consider supporting me on Ko-fi)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

[ellaria]

I did it. I finally finished my first solo BG3 playthrough.

The little head bop he gives you if you say 'Are you asking me to marry you?' So fuckin' adorable

Look at this lighting. Absolutely(hah) beautiful.

Look at how tenderly he holds your hand with both of his UGHHH

Again, with the look of utter devotion.

I love this kiss so much. How he holds Tav's head while Tav holds his shoulder. Beautiful.

Get it girl. You've earned this ♥♥♥

omfg Tara you are not getting the deets on their sex life lolol

Shut the fuck up Tara, I swear to the gods if you harm his beard I'll be helping him shave you!

Adorable.

Leaving Tara in this one for a little chuckle.

Whoa there Astarion, that was a lot of complements with no barb, are you ok?

there it is lol

Oh I'm just so happy for him, he does seem so much happier. I'm just so misty eyed over them all.

Listen, this was actually my second attempt at this playthrough and in the first attempt I was romancing Halsin. I have feelings and thoughts ok

Ohhhh he's a silly sentimental drunk lol

oh my gosh the way he sounded like he was about to cry nooooooo

Oooooo 'Some one you love' eh Karlach? You and Wyll sure have gotten close ;)

Shadowheart my girl you look soo good AND you asked me for a hug???

omfg and then she makes a jab at my weight xD wtf girl

uhhh ok...

I love this guy

Don't blame me girl, I let the gods pick our dinners.

Of course he gave an interview lol

Is this Alfira? It has to be Alfira!!♥ (I'm reading the letters, it was!)

Oh sweet sweet Dammon

oh this is adorable! Please let me reply!!!

The gang's all here!!!

pfft everyone but Gale gave me money.

I love it. My friends and allies. Also what a good well wish, 'problems worth solving'.

Well, that's it. I did it. I think the last big game I completed was I guess FFXIV Endwalker. But before that it was ME: Andromeda. There are so so so many games I've started and when I was almost to the end I quit. It's so refreshing and nice to finish a game.

[blackjackkent]

Wyll is trembling like a leaf when Jaheira pokes her head into his tent.

"I brought you some stew, cub," she says, setting a bowl down just inside the tent flap. "You will not want to come out to the fire tonight, I think." Her lips twitch with a brief flash of rueful humor. "Gale is holding forth about something or other that no one is in the mood to hear - least of all you."

She watches the Blade uncurl himself slowly from his hunched position. He wipes hastily at his eyes, his head tipped away from her in an attempt to hide his face, but she clicks her tongue dismissively. "Come now, boy," she says - and her tone is gentle in contrast to the curtness of the words. "Do you think I have not seen tears before? You have cause of crying; do not hold back on my account."

(Hypocrisy, of course. She would not be caught dead crying in his position; she would be swallowing down the tears and hiding the weakness, and she knows it perfectly well. But what use being so old, she thinks sardonically, if not to give advice one has no intention of following oneself?)

He tries to laugh but it doesn't quite come out right, a shaky, whimpering sound. "I'm-- sorry, I..." he mumbles. "I can't--"

Silence. She waits, watching, until he's ready to speak. "It didn't seem truly real till now," he finally whispers. "That they'd taken him, that my father--" He swallows. "He threw me out for listening to Mizora, and then he goes and gets himself taken by that-- that thing--"

His voice cracks and he looks down at his hands in his lap. "Like father, like son, eh?" he mutters. "I thought I'd failed him, all those years ago. That I was simply weak, that he would never have allowed anything to touch him as Mizora touched me. Seems I was wrong."

"The bitterest cut of growing up," Jaheira says with the ghost of a humorless smile. "The moment when you must learn that those who raised you are no more perfect than you are; some simply put on a good show of it." And some do not.

He nods. "All this time, I thought maybe... one day, there would be a reconciling," he admits. "And now this... he might be lost, with so much left unsaid..." He squeezes his eyes shut and she sees the glimmer of tears between the lids. "What if I can't save him?" he whispers.

She debates her answer before speaking - groundless hope or harsh practicality. "If it can be done, you will do it," she says at last. "And we will all be beside you."

She wishes there was some bit of certainty she could offer him in place of these empty words. Her own parents died in the flames of the crisis that toppled Tethyr; she has no memory of them. Sometimes it occurs to her, in vague terms, to be envious of those who know the faces of those who bore them. Other times, like now, it feels far easier never to have known.

"You should eat, Wyll," she says, gently nudging the bowl towards him. "It will gain no flavor by cooling off."

"I'm not hungry." He breathes out shakily. Then his head snaps up and he looks around with sudden wildness, starting to push up onto one knee. "I should-- I need to-- Rakha..."

"Stlarn. No," Jaheira says, and the word is suddenly so curt that it slaps him backwards into a sitting position again. "Do not trouble yourself with Rakha."

"She'll-- she'll need me, I--"

"She will keep." Jaheira frowns darkly. "The things she needs will not be found tonight, and they are a weight heavier than you need to carry. And for once, Wyll Ravengard, you will take care of yourself first, or I will know why."

He swallows. "Yes, mum," he says, and it's supposed to be a joke, but his voice cracks a little on the word.

There's a long silence. He leans over, puts his hand on the side of the bowl and drags it a few inches towards himself, but doesn't lift it. "She knew him," he mutters. "She was one of those behind the whole blasted plot, and he-- you saw the way he looked at her. And it's because of her that we have these things in our heads..."

He presses his fingertips to his temple and looks up at her with a lost, uncertain expression. "How do I look past that?"

"Wyll..." She sighs.

It is so much harder with Rakha than it was with Caden. Caden had Bhaal's blood, he stood on the precipice, but he never had the chance to truly fall into that dark god's clutches. Rakha, meanwhile, has spent her life submerged in blood; the best she can hope for is to be able to break the surface and draw a new breath.

"This is no better nor worse than what we have already learned of her," she says carefully. "The question to you remains the same. Do you hate her for what she has been, or do you love her for what she is, what she may yet be?"

She smiles ruefully. "No one but you can answer that question - and in truth I think no one would have cause to judge you if you decided it was too much. I hope you will not, but I would understand--"

"No," he says. "No, I-- I love her." He swallows and rubs the heels of his hands against his forehead. "It's just... it's just hard, that's all."

She nods. "I have loved many with darkness in their hearts," she says softly. "It is no easy matter. But you are equal to it." Her lips twitch. "Or you will be - if you will do as I say, and eat your stew, and sleep."

This startles a very low, very shaky laugh out of him, and he finishes pulling the bowl towards him and picks up the spoon. "All right. All right," he says. "I will. Blade's honor."

-----

"She was his friend?!" The flames around Karlach's body are high and wild, the highest Jaheira has yet seen them. The pale gold of her eyes has turned near blue with the incandescent heat. "She was his FUCKING FRIEND?!"

Jaheira watches the young tiefling warily, deliberately positioning her body between Karlach and the corner of the camp to which Rakha has retreated. "So it would seem," she says, her voice calm in contrast to Karlach's rage. "Though it cheapens the word to use it."

"I'll kill her," Karlach growls. "I'll fucking kill her. All this time, she was old buddies with Gortash? For how long, huh? Were they palling around the night he decided to pack me off to Avernus? Were they sitting about with a nice cocktail, talking about how my blood money paid off their first shipment of fucking worms?"

"I do not know, Karlach." Jaheira shakes her head. "Nor does Rakha."

"Yeah. Right. We sure of that? Maybe she remembers more than we think." Karlach's lips twist in a hard, manic smile; the rage is bright and blinding in her eyes. "Seems like the only thing I'm sure of right now is that she went into that fucking keep and swore an oath not to hurt him. Well, y'know what? I haven't sworn any fucking oaths, and I'm really, really, really ready to hurt someone."

She pulls the heavy sword from her back, makes a half-turn, and takes a step forward, about to break into a run.

In an instant, one of Jaheira's scimitars is out of its sheath. Without hesitation, she snaps her arm forward so that the hilt knocks smartly against Karlach's wrist.

Karlach yelps and drops her sword with a clang, shaking her suddenly stinging hand. "Ow! Shit!" She grips her wrist with the opposite hand and looks at Jaheira with wide eyes; surprise has muffled the rage for a moment, along with a hint of admiration. "Whoa."

"Do not think I do not understand your anger," Jaheira says curtly. "But I will not allow you to act on it. We both know you would regret it after."

A muscle works in Karlach's jaw with frustration, and then she spins and lashes out with a kick at the tent behind her, which immediately topples into a messy pile of fabric and poles. "Fuck..." she snarls down at it. "I can't believe we're working with that motherfucker. After everything I've been through..."

Jaheira cocks her head, looking at the young woman with no small amount of sympathy. She is all too familiar with the need for vengeance; a sudden memory flashes through her, of the sight of Jon Irenicus vanishing out of their grip deep within Spellhold, his mocking laughter lingering in the air behind him. No - she knows full well what Karlach is feeling. Unfortunately, it does not change the situation at hand.

"It is a practical matter," she says. "We have many enemies. This 'alliance' removes one of them for a time. It will not be forever." Her eyes narrow minutely and she folds her arms across her chest. "You will have your vengeance yet, Karlach."

Karlach leans over to pick up the sword she dropped, absently wiping a clump of dirt off the handle with her thumb. Her lips are pursed out, an attempt at masking her emotion but not a particularly successful one; Jaheira has seen many times already that Karlach's heart is worn firmly on her sleeve.

"I hope you're right," Karlach mutters. "But... what if she decides she likes him better'n us, huh? What if she decides she likes who she was then, better'n... all of this?" She waves a hand in a vague gesture towards the camp around them. Then her hand falls to her side and her shoulders slump.

"He welcomed her home," she adds quietly. The blue rage-glow is fading out of her eyes, and she stares at the ground next to Jaheira's boots. "Time was, not too long ago, I'd've done just about anything for someone who welcomed me home..."

Jaheira waits in silence for a moment. When she is certain that the immediate crisis has passed, she begins to slowly and methodically resheathe her scimitar on her back. "Do you trust Rakha?" she asks after a short pause.

Karlach laughs ruefully. "Ask me a tough one, hm?" She drops the sword with a low clunk on top of the pile of fabric that used to be her tent. "I think so? I mean, I did. I have. All the way through the shadowlands and all. We knew she was fighting some bad shit, but so are the rest of us, and I know Wyll loves her like fucking mad. But this..." She rubs at the bridge of her nose. "A Bhaalspawn, and now I find out she was working with Gortash too... It's just a fucking lot to take in, you know?"

"I know." Jaheira considers, then amends the question: "Do you trust me?"

Karlach's head snaps up and she blinks rapidly. "What? Of course I do, ma'am. You're--" She grins sheepishly. "I mean, you're Jaheira. Be stupid not to trust you, right?"

If only that were always the case. "Take my word, if you do not take hers," Jaheira says firmly. "This is the correct choice."

A short silence. Karlach studies her expression closely. "You're that sure of her?" she asks. "That she'll keep fighting and won't turn on us?"

Jaheira's eyes flick away.

The truth is that of course she isn't sure. Rakha is, at her worst moments, a feral animal struggling to hold onto its own leash; Jaheira would be foolish to think she is not capable of being supremely dangerous.

But... she sees snatches of someone else, buried deep in all that darkness - a curious, doggedly determined, oddly guileless, deeply frightened woman clinging onto sanity by her fingernails, a dark-mirror echo of one of Jaheira's oldest and greatest friends. She can't turn her back on that - no matter how uncertain the path.

"I would stake my life on it," she says gravely.

Karlach tilts her head, and then laughs suddenly. "Yeah," she says wryly. "Guess we all will, huh?'

-----

Rakha has dragged Lae'zel's training dummy away from the camp. She stands in the seclusion of nearby trees and another rotted-out building, and is pacing around the dummy like a stalking animal. Every now and then, with a sudden spasm of movement, she lashes out with a punch, a kick, a gripping rip to pull a piece of fabric away from the wooden frame. She has been at this for some time. Her knuckles are bloody.

As Jaheira draws near, she can hear the half-orc mumbling to herself, inarticulate phrases, frantic nonsense sounds. Her mismatched eyes - one blank white, the other pure black - glint almost imperceptibly in the dim light.

"Don't come near me," she snarls, hearing Jaheira's footsteps behind her.

Jaheira halts at once. "As you say," she says mildly.

"I mean it." Rakha's breath sounds ragged and rough; she inhales in a gasping, mewling groan, as if struggling for air. "I'm broken. Dangerous."

"You sound very certain of that," Jaheira says, keeping her tone carefully measured.

"I am. You heard him. Gortash." Rakha puts a strange twist on the name that is hard to define - it sounds like a curse, like a groan of pain. "He knew me. Blood and all, every bit on my hands. He was glad to see me. We were-- partners--"

"So it would seem."

Rakha growls hoarsely. Magic pulses around her body and then erupts outward, a thunderous shockwave that knocks the dummy ten feet backwards. It crushes the grass in a circle around her. "We were partners," she snarls. "We built this." She presses her fist against her temple, leaving a bloody smear from her knuckles across her skin. "All of it. The worms. The cult."

Again that strange whimpering gasp; she hunches over as if shielding herself from some unseen blow. "Bhaalspawn. Chosen. I wanted them all dead. Blood spattered, entrails spilled, thanking me as they died for the Absolute..."

She lifts her head, and for a moment Jaheira truly is frightened to see the manic desperation that has taken over her expression. "I did this," she rasps. "I did all of this. What happened to Wyll... it's because of me. What happened to Lae'zel... to Minthara... to you-- it's all-- because-- of me--"

Her breath is coming in rapid and uneven gasps now, hyperventilating, choking. And the words start coming faster, too, not her usual clipped-off sentences but a waterfall of terrified thought. "I could feel it, there, when he looked in my eyes, I remembered-- I remembered how I wanted to tear off his skin, how I had a greater plan, to bleed every last soul of the world into a pile of rancid carcass--"

She stops abruptly, her eyes wild, her fingers curled into desperate clawing shapes as she struggles for control. Her gaze rakes over Jaheira's body, and Jaheira is reminded all too clearly of the madness in Caden's face in the moments when the Slayer form took him. Subtly she shifts her weight, ready to dart to the side, to fight back if the need should come... but Rakha shakes her head suddenly, staggers backward and falls to her knees.

"I can't make it stop..." she gasps out. "What if I can't make it stop...?"

"You can." It takes a great deal of effort for Jaheira to keep her voice steady and even, not to betray any of the fear and revulsion that is rising in her in spite of herself. What if you can't, indeed? "You are strong enough."

"Am I?" Rakha laughs. Jaheira is not sure she's ever heard her laugh before, and certainly not like this; it's a bitter, hysterical sound full of pain. "It would be easy to give in. No more fighting. He wanted all of me, all of the broken parts. I could just give in... give in, and it would all be easy... no fighting, no wondering, just blood, and blood, and blood..."

She rocks spasmodically side to side, her fingers clawing restlessly at the uneven scar along her hairline. "Oh, gods, I can't make it stop..."

With a sudden movement that is more instinct than thought, Jaheira crouches to eye level with her, reaches out and cups both of Rakha's cheeks, wrenching her head up so their eyes meet. "Look at me. Hold on. Breathe," she snaps.

Rakha flinches back from the touch, her lips curling back from her teeth. "Why do you help me?" she snarls. "You should hate me. All of you should hate me."

Her eyes lock onto Jaheira's, desperate, feral. "Hate me."

"No." Jaheira's eyes narrow and her jaw sets, staring back just as fiercely.

"Gods. I'm broken. Shattered. Hate me."

"No." No doubt it would be easier if she could. She wishes she could, for then the path would be clear.

"HATE ME!" Rakha screams, and curls backwards into herself, her head hunching down into her arms. "Please..."

"I will not." Jaheira's pulse is thundering in her throat. She feels the delicacy of this moment, not so different from taming a beaten and frightened animal in the woods. "Those thoughts are in you, but they are not you. They do not define you. Who you were is not who you are. Breathe."

Rakha draws a ragged, sobbing breath that wracks her whole body. "It hurts..." she groans.

"I know. Look at me." Jaheira waits, carefully unmoving, until Rakha lifts her head and their eyes meet again. The frantic terror is ebbing away, slowly replaced by an exhaustion that makes something in Jaheira's heart twist to witness.

"I don't want to slip," Rakha whispers.

"I know," Jaheira repeats, more gently.

Rakha breathes in, shuddering. "I don't want to-- for Wyll--" she mumbles unsteadily.

"No." Jaheira shakes her head, just slightly. "Do not think of Wyll. Do not think of me. What do you want?"

The question seems to give Rakha some pause. She looks down at her hands, the blood on her knuckles, and then closes her eyes. "I want peace..." she says, almost too low to hear. "But I don't know where to find it..."

Jaheira relaxes a fraction, rocking her weight back. "You will not find it with Gortash," she says.

Rakha doesn't answer aloud, but raises one shoulder in a stiff shrug.

A long, long silence passes. Neither of them moves. Then Rakha shifts, and her eyes hood over again as she looks away. "I don't want to sleep in camp," she mutters. "I'll sleep out here."

Jaheira nods. "Then I will join you," she says brusquely. Without waiting for a response, she moves to the edge of the clearing and sits down with her back against a tree.

Rakha hesitates a moment. She seems as if she wants to say something, but though her mouth opens, no words come out. Then she shrugs again and turns away. Finding a patch of uncrushed grass, she lies down and curls her bulky frame into a tight ball, her back to Jaheira and to camp.

-----

Only when the half-orc's breathing turns steady and shallow does Jaheira allow herself to relax. She slumps, suddenly aware of all the weariness that adrenaline has been holding back, and rubs a hand down her face.

Ye gods... she thinks ruefully, leaning her head back against the comfortingly solid tree trunk behind her. How do I keep getting caught up in things like this?

In this brief moment of quiet, with no one to witness it, she allows herself the acknowledgment - she is frightened. This may be the second Bhaalspawn she has known, but Rakha is not Caden; that fact is becoming clearer with every moment, with every new revelation about the half-orc's bloody past.

And regardless of the confidence she expressed to Wyll and Karlach, Jaheira is not at all certain that they will win the battle for Rakha's mind.

I may have to kill her, she thinks bleakly. All of this may yet be for nothing in the end. The thought makes her scowl.

But not if I can help it. I will hold onto her with every bit of strength I have, before I will let Bhaal have her. I will hold onto them all...