#red copper miniatures | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

causeimhappinesss · 1 month ago

Text

Rome's Devotion (part 12)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, slight non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 4,3k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Masterlist

Days later

The Colosseum hums with the fevered energy of tens of thousands of souls, each voice adding to the deafening storm of sound that crashes against my ears. The scent of bodies pressed together, of spilled wine and perfumed oils. My fingers brush the silk of my stola, embroidered so finely it feels like liquid against my skin, yet the weight of it, the opulence, suffocates me. It is not my own. It belongs to them. At that moment, Geta stands at the edge of the balcony, wrapped in white and gold, the embodiment of imperial grace. The sun catches in his hair, turning the curls to bright copper, and the laurel on his head gleams with the weight of power. Below him, the Colosseum swells with voices, a sea of hands lifted toward their emperor, their devotion so easily given in exchange for the promise of bloodshed.

I stay beside him, on his left, my movements careful, deliberate. Around me, those granted the honor of these seats settle into place, such as Lucilla, draped in silks so sheer they are almost scandalous, offers me a brief glance, a flicker of acknowledgment before she returns to her idle conversation with her husband: General Acacius. The soldier’s face remains unreadable, his scars catching the light like old battle relics. Behind us, with Acacius and Lucilla, Macrinus watches everything with the sharp eyes of a man who trusts no one.

The Colosseum’s arena, transformed into a vast lake, glistens beneath the sun. The sight steals my breath. A feat of engineering so impossible it feels like magic. An entire battlefield drowned, turned into an ocean fit for war. On its surface, miniature warships rock with the motion of the water, the men aboard them nothing more than figures waiting to be swallowed by history.

The people chant, hungry for the violence they have been promised. They don’t care for the spectacle of the water itself. They don’t marvel at its creation. They only want to see it turn red.

A pulse beats at the base of my throat. How can such cruel game exists? Why people are so entranced? Life is too precious and none of them seem to realize this…

“You’re amazed.”

Caracalla’s voice, smooth and dark, cuts through the noise like a blade.

I refuse to turn my head, to grant him the satisfaction of my attention.

“How could I not be?” I half lie.

Of course, the Colosseum, filled with water, is splendid. However, I hate the idea of war so close to me…

His laughter barely carries, a low, amused thing meant only for me. He leans in, his breath warm against my temple.

“There are sharks in the water.”

The words crawl down my spine. I blink and focus on the shadows beneath the surface. They glide with unnatural ease, dark shapes slipping between the wavering reflections of the ships. A sharp taste rises in my throat.

“You’re lying…”

Caracalla shifts closer. I can feel the heat of him, the power coiled beneath his skin like a lion at rest.

“Am I?” He chuckles, his gold tooth shining under the sun.

I don’t know. That’s what unsettles me most.

A trumpet sounds, slicing through the chaos, and the entire Colosseum stills. Quickly, I sit on my eat, next to Geta’s one. The crowd holds its breath as if the gods themselves demand silence. The gates at either end groan open, and the combatants appear, stepping onto their assigned ships, their armor gleaming, their weapons ready. Some of them are slaves. Others, condemned men with nothing left to lose. None of them will leave unchanged. If they leave at all.

Geta lifts a hand, and the hush deepens.

My chest tightens.

He is going to announce it. My betrothal. My fate. My future, decided without my consent.

The crowd waits, eager for his words.

And all I can think about are the sharks in the water.

The cheers are deafening. The Colosseum, already a sea of restless bodies, erupts into a frenzy of shouts, stomping feet, and clashing fists against wooden benches. The people love a spectacle, and today, I am the center of it.

My breath catches in my throat as Geta rises from his own seat, the sun striking his golden tunic, the red fabric flowing like the robes of a god. His presence commands silence before he even speaks. His hand lifts, and the roar of the crowd quiets, not out of obedience, but in anticipation. They wait for him to give them something, a promise, a reason to continue their feverish adoration.

He gives them Rome. He gives them the future.

“Rome stands eternal,” he declares, his voice strong and unyielding, carrying over the vast amphitheater. “An empire that stretches beyond the edges of the known world. A force that will not falter, that will not crumble, but only grow.”

The people erupt again, fists pumping in the air, the echoes of their shouts rolling through the arena like a storm over the Tiber.

Geta waits, unshaken, allowing them their moment before raising his hand once more. Silence descends again, tense and expectant.

“No ruler, no empire, stands alone. Strength lies in blood. Strength lies in legacy. And I will give you that legacy.”

His fingers tighten into a fist. A murmur spreads through the senators seated in their reserved places. The equites lean in, their whispers barely audible over the distant clang of preparations for the naval battle below. The people catch on slower, but soon, the Colosseum vibrates with excitement, hands clapping, voices shouting their approval.

My blood turns cold.

I know what he is about to say before he says it.

“I will take a wife.” Geta announces, turning to me. “Rome will have an empress.”

A fresh wave of cheers erupts. A name passes through the mouths of the people before he even speaks it.

“Aurelia!” they chant. “Aurelia!”

My stomach twists. Geta’s hand reaches for mine. He doesn’t hesitate or ask. The world blurs for a moment as he pulls me to my feet, the weight of thousands of eyes pressing down on me, their scrutiny stripping me bare despite the silks and gold draped over my body. His fingers enclose mine, firm, possessive, unyielding.

“Lady Aurelia, daughter of Senator Aurelius! Your future empress!”

The ground seems to shift beneath me. The walls of the Colosseum feel impossibly high, the sheer number of people suffocating. The roar of their approval crashes over me like a wave, drowning out my own thoughts, my own voice. I am no longer a person to them. I am a name, a symbol, a decision already made. I force myself to stand tall, to keep my shoulders squared even as my heart hammers against my ribs. Lucilla moves first, stepping forward in a rustle of expensive fabric, her expression carefully composed. She reaches for my hands, her grip cool and deliberate. Her lips curl into a smile, but her eyes remain sharp, searching, assessing.

“The gods smile on you,” she says smoothly, her voice meant for the ears of the crowd as much as for mine. “And on Rome.”

There is something in her tone, an unspoken warning. I barely have time to process it before General Acacius approaches. His armor gleams under the sun, his posture rigid with military discipline. He inclines his head in deference to Geta before turning to me.

“A wise choice.” he remarks. He studies me for a moment, then adds, “An emperor needs an empress who can endure.”

Endure.

The word settles over me like a weight.

Macrinus follows, his expression unreadable, though something flickers in his gaze, something calculating. His mouth curves into what might be amusement. Or something colder.

“May the Fates weave you a strong future, Lady Aurelia.”

The applause swells again, louder than before, a deafening thunder that makes my pulse pound in my ears. I stand beside Geta, my hand still locked in his. I don’t smile. I do not bow my head. I meet the eyes of the people, the senators, the warriors, the men who will decide the course of my life from this moment forward. I don’t let them see how my hands shake.

When I turn my head towards Caracalla, this one is still seating, his legs shaking, while he bites his lower lips, his darkening blue eyes on me. At that very moment, I know he’s thinking what the wedding will grant him: access to my body, as his mind creeps into mine.

The horn’s blare reverberates through the Colosseum, a sound so deep it feels as though the stone itself hums beneath us. The crowd surges to its feet, their cries of anticipation rolling like thunder. Beneath the open sky, the great amphitheater is alive, a beast of marble and bloodlust. The arena, turned into a shimmering lake, reflects the golden light of the afternoon sun. Warships, their wooden hulls adorned with snarling sea creatures, glide into position, oars cutting through the surface in perfect rhythm. The men aboard, clad in gleaming armor, prepare for battle, gripping their weapons with grim determination. The scent of damp wood and burning oil mingles with the sweat of thousands of bodies packed together. Excitement thickens the air, stifling, suffocating. I shift in my seat, my silken robes heavy against my skin, my pulse hammering beneath layers of gold-threaded fabric.

Geta sits beside me, his posture relaxed, the white and gold of his tunic pristine despite the dust that clings to everything. His expression remains impassive as he watches the scene unfold. He seems utterly at ease amid the chaos, as though he were born to preside over such violence. The second horn sounds.

A brief silence falls over the Colosseum, a hush filled with bated breath.

Then, the battle erupts.

The first clash of metal against metal rings through the air. Arrows streak across the water, slicing through the sunlight like falling stars. The warships collide, sending up sprays of water as soldiers leap from deck to deck, swords flashing. A man lets out a guttural cry as he is struck across the chest, his blood fanning out in a bright arc before he tumbles into the water. I stiffen, my breath stuck in my throat, as my fingers grab the armchair.

Another warrior is shoved overboard, his arms thrashing wildly. The crowd roars with approval, fists pounding against wooden benches. Some chant for their favored side, others laugh at the doomed men struggling in the depths. A third man, young, no older than myself, is struck down, his helmet rolling across the deck before his body crumples lifelessly beside it.

My stomach twists.

I lower my gaze, hands clenched in my lap, but the vision of death lingers behind my eyes. The water, once pristine, darkens with spilled blood.

“Are you well, little lamb?” Geta asks with his smooth voice, edged with amusement.

I swallow, forcing myself to meet his gaze. His dark eyes flicker with something unreadable, as though he finds my discomfort… endearing. Or perhaps simply expected.

“I…” My throat tightens. I nod, though the motion feels unnatural, stiff.

The corner of his mouth curves, showing he doesn’t believe me at all.

“You will have to grow accustomed to this, it is part of the empress’ role.” he murmurs, fingers brushing idly against the gold cuff at his wrist.

A wave of heat rushes over me, though it has nothing to do with the sun. Another scream shatters the air, high and strangled. A man, wounded and desperate, attempts to hoist himself onto the wreckage of a shattered ship; he doesn’t get the chance. The water beneath him churns violently. Then, in the space of a breath, he’s gone. A song of whispers spreads through the crowd, a mix of delight and awe. Caracalla leans towards me with a huge smile on his face.

“These sharks are doing a good job.”

My body goes rigid as the ginger man chuckles softly, pleased by my reaction, and leans back in his seat. Geta, still watching me, merely tilts his head, as though curious to see what I will do. Instead of flinching, I stay still, I don’t allow the horror to twist my guts are enough me to show on my face. Unfortunately, my hands shake against my lap, and deep within me, something fragile cracks. I press my lips together. Then, with as much composure as I can summon, I fold my hands tighter and cast my eyes toward the heavens.

The people of Rome delight in this carnage.

But I won’t.

I offer a silent prayer to a God they don’t know, for the souls of the men slaughtered at their feet.

The Colosseum keeps pulsing with energy, the air thick with sweat, heat, and the stench of blood. The games are still raging when the change comes, subtle at first. The rhythm of the crowd falters, their cheers turning to something more uncertain.

Then, a sharp whistle cuts through the din.

Before I can react, the arrow strikes.

It buries itself into the carved wooden balustrade just behind the emperors, right between them. The force of impact sends splinters flying. My breath catches in my throat.

For the briefest of moments, everything stills.

Geta and Caracalla turn their heads, their expressions twisting from boredom to something utter fear. Their eyes meet, then flick to the arrow quivering between them. They yell and quickly moves. Everything happens really fast.

The Praetorian Guard surges forward, armor clanking, blades flashing. A hand seizes my wrist. Geta.

“We must move.”

Everything happens too fast.

Lucilla is already standing, her expression sharp and unreadable. Macrinus and Acacius bark orders, his voice lost beneath the roar of the chaos. A shield rises in front of Geta, another in front of Caracalla and another one in front of me. Strong hands guide us back, pushing us toward the safety of the inner corridors. The passage beneath the Colosseum is cool, damp, the scent of smoke and earth thick in my nose. The flickering torches cast jagged shadows against the stone walls. My heart pounds, my pulse a frantic rhythm in my ears.

Then Geta exhales, almost amused.

“I do believe someone just tried to kill us, brother.”

Caracalla leans forward, elbows on his knees, lips curling into something too close to a grin.

“Or perhaps they meant to warn us.” His fingers trace the polished wood, stopping just shy of the arrow’s shaft. “A bold statement, wouldn’t you say?”

A scream erupts from below. Then another. Panic spreads through the arena like wildfire. People shove against one another, spilling out of their seats, hands raised in desperate gestures. Dust kicks up, choking the air. Caracalla is the first to break the silence.

“I want that man found.” His commands, his voice low, laced with something dangerous.

His hand full of golden rings flexes at his side.

“Alive, if possible. But I won’t grieve if he arrives in pieces.”

A guard bows his head.

“It will be done, my Emperor.”

Geta exhales, brushing dust from his tunic.

“It could have been anyone. A poor shot. Or a message.”

His gaze slides to me, lingering.

“You’re quiet.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight as I blink, not sure what I should answer.

“Would you rather I scream? I didn’t know it’s what you’re expecting from your future Empress.”

If his lips twitch, he doesn’t answer, while his twin laugh, applauding me for being bold with Geta. Lucilla choses this moment to step closer, before she clears her throat.

“The people saw.”

Caracalla licks his lips, scoffs and shrugs.

“Let them.”

His eyes gleam in the torchlight, his smirk sharp enough to cut.

“Rome forgets quickly.”

The morning light spills gently through the windows and casts a soft glow over the room. The seamstresses are already busy, their hands move with practiced precision as they arrange fabrics across the long wooden table. The smell of fresh linen and wool fills the air, mixing with the faint scent of lavender from the small vase beside me. I sit at the edge of the table, as my fingers shake slightly while I take in the array of choices before me.

The tunica recta is to be my wedding garment, the most sacred of all the attires a Roman bride could wear. White wool, simple yet elegant, the embodiment of purity and chastity. It seems such a small thing, this simple dress, but it feels like the weight of the Empire itself rests upon my shoulders as I sift through the fabrics. I touch each one, testing its weight, its texture, until I find the perfect piece: a soft, almost ethereal wool that will sit lightly against my skin.

Beside it, the saffron-colored flammeum catches my eye. The veil. It will cover my hair, hide my face from the gaze of the crowd, a symbol of my transition into something more. Something the people will watch. It’s so delicate, the fabric like sunlight, almost translucent but still holding a subtle strength in its color. The pale yellow hue is the color of fire, of burning passion and sacrifice. It is fitting.

But it’s not just the garments I must choose. My heart sinks a little as I reach for the Hercules knot, a reminder of the role I am about to assume. A symbol of my fidelity to Geta, to Rome. The knot is intricate, woven with delicate strands of golden thread. It will hold the fabric of my tunica together, but it will also bind me. Bind me in ways I’m not sure if I’m ready for.

I pick it up and my fingers brush the smooth, silky strands. The room feels suddenly too warm. Too small. The weight of what I’m about to become presses down on me like a stone. The door opens behind me, and I barely have time to look up before Geta steps inside, his presence filling the room like a storm. The seamstresses immediately bow their heads, offering him their deference. He pays them little mind, his focus entirely on me.

“Ah, there you are!” He comments with a smile, his voice low and rich.

It’s the same voice that’s been haunting my dreams, the one that holds the promise of power and control.

“Are these your choices?” His words are easy, but his gaze is sharp.

As soon as he asks that question, he moves toward me and presses a hand lightly on my shoulder. His touch feels warm, familiar. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, not trusting my voice to remain steady. He looks over my choices with care, his eyes scanning the fabrics. The tunica, the veil, the knot. His approval is clear in his expression, though it doesn’t feel as reassuring as it should.

“Good taste, just like me. The tunica is simple. It speaks of grace, of purity. And the veil…”

He pauses as his fingers brush lightly against the edge of the saffron fabric.

“It will suit you. You will be perfect.”

His eyes catch mine then, and I see a flicker of something in them. Something I can’t name.

I swallow hard. The fabric beneath my fingers feels suddenly too heavy.

“And the knot?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I don’t know why I ask it. I know it must be part of the ensemble. But there’s something about it, the knot, an element that feels like a chain I can’t undo. He looks at the knot and his eyes suddenly gleam.

“It is a symbol of our bond, a reminder of what is to come, what we are about to begin. It looks perfect to me.”

I glance down at it, then back up at him, unsure how to respond. His gaze doesn’t leave mine. There is something unsettling about it.

“I have no doubts you will wear it beautifully.” He adds, as though it’s already decided, as though it’s already written in stone.

I force myself to nod, but it feels like I’m being led into something I can’t escape.

Geta turns toward the table where the jewelry is laid out. There are necklaces of gold and silver, bracelets set with precious stones, rings gleaming with emeralds and sapphires. All of them are exquisite, all of them are meant for someone who belongs to the Empire. And yet, as I walk toward the table, it all feels like another world. A world I’ve never truly known.

“These will look well on you.” Geta says, picking up a delicate bracelet from the table.

The gold gleams in the soft light, and I can’t help but reach out to touch it. He’s right. It would look beautiful, resting against my skin. But it feels too much. Too heavy. He turns to me, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes me want to pull away. But I don’t.

“The golden hue will complement the white and saffron.” He explains, his voice smooth, so smooth it’s a privilege. “It will show everyone who you are. What you are becoming.”

I nod again, though I don’t feel like I’m becoming anything at all. I feel as though I’m betraying other people, servants, but also God. He places the bracelet down and picks up a necklace, one with a gold chain and bright green emeralds, their deep color reflecting the light in a way that makes them seem almost alive.

“What do you think of this?” He asks, turning toward me with the necklace in his hands.

I look at it, the way it catches the light. The way it would rest against my neck, marking me, claiming me.

“It’s beautiful.” I admit with a shy smile.

He smiles too, though there’s a glint in his eyes that makes me feel small, vulnerable.

“It is beautiful because it is meant to be worn by you, the most beautiful woman of Rome.” He declares, his words low, almost a whisper. “It is meant to mark you as mine.”

I feel a chill run through me. I don’t know how to respond to that.

I look away, my gaze falling to the floor. The weight of what I’m about to become, of what I’m about to do, presses down on me. It’s not a future I chose, but one that’s been thrust upon me.

Let’s hope I’ll be able to use my power to help other people, to soften these cruel Emperors…

“You will shine. Everyone will see your radiance. And they will know who you are.”

Unfortunately, I don’t feel radiant, most like I’m about to be swallowed whole. With these words, he presses a soft kiss on my forehead, his soft lips so warm against my burning skin. My heart hammers wildly in my chest. A sigh escapes my mouth, as it feels too good, too kind, to be true. Is he able to love someone else? Except his mother and his brother?

“Follows, I want to walk with you.”

Soon, the warm sun in the garden warm my skin, the kind of warmth that feels both comforting and unsettling all at once. The gardens stretch before us, a riot of color and scent, but it’s almost too much. Too bright. Too perfect. It only reminds me of how little I belong here, how little I understand what is happening. Geta walks beside me, his pace steady and confident, as if everything is exactly as it should be. His arm brushes mine, but it’s a casual touch, probably meant to reassure me. I look at him, at his face, but there’s nothing there that tells me what he’s thinking.

“You don’t have to worry about anything else, you know.” He suddenly says. “A month’s time, that’s when we’ll be married, after the Kalends.”

A month.

Right after a religious celebration dedicated to the gods and the coming month’s prosperity. It was also a day for settling debts.

I can’t even wrap my mind around it. A month until my life changes forever, until I am no longer just Y/N, a servant, but something else entirely. Something that belongs to Rome. The weight of that responsibility is heavy on my shoulders, and though I try not to let it show, I feel the pressure building inside me, crushing me little by little. The words are still heavy in the air, hanging between us like a barrier, and I can’t stand it any longer.

“Days ago, I forgot to ask… What about the Senate? Has the Senate actually validated our marriage?”

At the sound of my voice, Geta stops walking. I can hear his shoes scuff against the gravel path, his figure pausing just ahead of me. For the briefest of moments, I think he might be irritated by my question, but then he turns to me, a slight smile curling the edges of his lips.

“Of course, my heart. Two days before the naval battle.” He explains with a casual shrug, as if it’s nothing at all. “I submitted my plan to them. They had no choice but to accept. What else could they do? It was done, and they couldn’t argue with it. Not after everything that’s happened.”

He tilts his head slightly, looking at me with something like amusement.

“And anyway, you’ve become the perfect candidate. The daughter of a senator. The people love that. The Senate has no reason to deny it.”

The words hit me like a slap, and I have to force myself to breathe. The perfect candidate. That’s all I am in his eyes, in the Senate’s eyes. A piece of the puzzle, a move in the game. His smile is so easy, so practiced, like he’s made peace with all of it. But me? I’m not sure if I can.

I hope you enjoy this chapter! I know not much is happening, but I’ve been dealing with nonstop migraines lately, which has really impacted my writing. On top of that, I’ve decided to focus on writing the upcoming smut scenes before Lent (it’s my first time doing this, and I don’t want to fail)! I absolutely have to finish before midnight tomorrow… Wish me luck! lol

That's why the next chapter may take a little longer to come.

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

⚔️ Taglist: @duckyhowls @babey-fruit-bat, @punk-in-docs, @t6gse370, @angelcloudxxsblog, @miragens-para-uma-vitoria, @himikoquack, @chloe-skywalker, @bocreep, @littlemissholy, @yeoldebytche

Ask to be added in the list! (or to be deleted)

#emperor geta #geta x reader #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #geta x you #joseph quinn geta #emperor geta fanfic #emperor geta fanfiction #emperor caracalla #caracalla x reader #caracalla x you #fred hechinger #emperor caracalla fanfiction #joseph quinn

90 notes · View notes

berrypass-de-murdler · 7 months ago

Text

2 - 4 A Locked-Room Mystery

You telling me I have to WAIT for new designs you kidding???

I have some 'neat plans' for MOTLE, idk might include New Fucked-Up Lore because what else is the cartoon for?? But I'll have to see

DON'T READ THE EPISODES WITHOUT READING THE BOOKS!!

Little Logico wanders outside, and is immediately grabbed!!

LOGICO: OH FUCK NO, I AM NOT A STUFFED ANIMAL!

As charming as that is, that’s not why the people picked him up. He’s under arrest! He’s thrown in a little jail cell - this is NOT the luxury prison Gico is used to.

COPPER: THERE you are you little PRICK! LOGICO: OH GOOD GOD!

Yep, she’s here, alongside Champagne and Bluski.

BLUSKI: Hey. CHAMPAGNE: Hi. LOGICO: Of course, of COURSE the usual suspects are following me. WHY AM I HERE?? PERSON: A prisoner has been murdered and you’re the murder person. LOGICO: Good to know. I blame Officer Copper. COPPER: Chillax, my brother. I’m not a psycho cop anymore. Heh, around here, if they thought I looked at a guy wrong they’d put me down as a ‘bad dog’. LOGICO: Right.

In what appears to be a miniature theater for watching interrogations, Logico digs a scrap of paper from under a beautiful couch.

“In a street fight, ten people always beat one.”

Champ checks the passage.

CHAMPAGNE: This is from the Big Red Book. Major Red wrote this. LOGICO: Do you know who that is? CHAMPAGNE: Heh. Yeah. Don’t wanna get yourself in with him. [walks away] LOGICO: ...Care to share ANYTHING else??

Logi explores a phrase Irratino always whispered to him - the tallest suspect has the cheapest pen. Now just by looking at them, Champagne is the tallest guy in the room, but by legal standards, Bluski is supposed to be taller, so his pen is very cheap.

LOGICO: It- It makes sense if you look it up.

Seeing that Logico ‘caught’ his pen trick, Bluski heads to the elevator and travels way up.

LOGICO: How big is this station? CHAMPAGNE: 25 stories. Final floor, they’ve been known to throw people out the window. LOGICO: This is horrific. I’m starting to miss the luxury prison. CHAMPAGNE: We all do mate.

Irratino is back home, asleep. He is dreaming of a human police woman wearing boots. I guess something different happens in the dream, and he shifts and giggles. But don’t worry, Logico got the clue somehow. This obviously means Copper kicked the prisoner to death! She shakes her head madly and spits all over the place.

COPPER: HOW CAN IT BE ILLEGAL IF A COP DOES IT???? LOGICO: I hate you so much. COPPER: NO, YOU HAVE TO SAVE ME! I’M A ‘BAD DOG’! I’M- LOGICO: Oh. OH, YOU MEANT LIKE THAT- PERSON: No, no.

A couple humans walk over and start creepily petting and patting Copper.

PERSON: There is no need for a consequence - it was only a prisoner. COPPER: Huh. Kinda like these guys~ LOGICO: I hATE this so much. Can I leave now?!?! COPPER: Whatever, man.

Logico tears away. He needs to get to the violet isles as soon as possible… for some reason.

The end!

Let's try to ignore Copper flirting with some background humans

(ok slight rant but I've saved it for the end so as to not ward people off, you can skip it)

I know it sounds petty but like I swear to god if anyone posts a murdle artwork, the entire tumblr fandom will notice (which is great btw!), but then if I post an artwork it's only the same three or so people who might look at it and it's just...

is it really THAT bad?? like... what am I doing wrong... ngl it's starting to feel less like the art quality and more personal...

but um... yea. i'm trying my best i guess

Uh chonkers jumpscare

The power of Goat Lord compels you!

See you next time murdlers!

#murdle #cartoonmurdleverse

34 notes · View notes

pixel7777 · 1 month ago

Text

The First Worshipper: Ch. 3

The naughty version of the beautiful artwork commissioned from the incredible misfitlunatic (https://x.com/misfit_lunatik or https://bsky.app/profile/misfitlunatik.bsky.social) can be seen in all its glory here.

If you want to read from the beginning, searching my blog for #myfic will bring up all my fanfic posts. Link for Chapter 1. Link for art discussion post.

Read this chapter below the break here or on AO3!

Chapter 3

18 years AB

My dearest darling,

You'll never believe it - our little Karlach is expecting! Well, I suppose she's not so little anymore, is she? The way she waddles around the forge these days, she's practically a small mountain. Don't tell her I said that. I value my undead existence.

I've taken it upon myself to plan the most extravagant baby shower Baldur's Gate has ever seen. The Copper Crown will be transformed into a veritable paradise of ribbons and baubles. I've already commissioned tiny mechanical mobiles from Dammon's apprentices - they spark when you wind them up. Fire hazard? Perhaps. But what's a tiefling baby shower without a touch of danger?

And oh, you should see Gale's face—well, how I imagine his face, since he rarely deigns to appear in person—whenever I pray about the party preparations. "Oh most divine and radiant one, which shade of crimson better suits the nursery - blood red or hellfire scarlet?" He tries so hard to maintain that godly composure, but I can practically hear him grinding his celestial teeth.

Speaking of divine intervention, your murderers send their regards from various corners of the afterlife. Three down now—that sniveling merchant who laundered their coin, the fence who supplied their weapons, and that particularly nasty spawn who thought he could hide in Wyrm's Crossing—seven more to go. I'm taking my time with it, savoring each moment like a fine vintage. The Cathedral's construction provides such an excellent cover for my, shall we say, extracurricular activities?

You'd be proud of my restraint, actually. I've been quite methodical about it all. No messy scenes, no public spectacles. Just quiet disappearances and carefully crafted accidents. The Guild is absolutely beside itself trying to figure out the connection.

I do wish you could see the Cathedral plans, though. The spires will pierce the clouds themselves. Gale pretends to be above such material displays of devotion, but I bet our little godling has been secretly studying the architectural drawings with that familiar spark of ambition in his eyes.

Must go now - I have a meeting with the decorators about floating lanterns for the baby shower. I'm thinking we suspend them just high enough to look like stars fallen from heaven. That ought to make our resident god roll his eyes.

Forever yours,

P.S. - Do you think it's too much to ask Halsin's orphans to sing lullabies during the gift-giving? No, I thought not.

* * *

Gale's attention snapped to the material plane as Astarion's voice filtered through the divine ether, carrying its usual blend of charm and calculation.

"O most ambitious of gods, whose wisdom surely extends to matters of social significance..." Astarion's prayer dripped with theatrical formality. "I find myself in need of divine guidance regarding the impending celebration of our dear Karlach's spawn-to-be."

Gale settled into his observation, amused despite himself.

"Should the mechanical mobile feature miniature devils or tiny hammers? Both seem thematically appropriate, but one might send the wrong message about embracing her heritage. And the cake - I'm thinking three tiers, decorated with flames, but is that too on the nose?"

The questions continued in rapid succession. Color schemes for the decorations, seating arrangements to prevent diplomatic incidents between various guild representatives, and whether serving blood pudding would be considered tasteless given the host.

"And of course," Astarion's tone shifted subtly, "your presence would lend an air of... divine legitimacy to the proceedings. Not that I'm suggesting you break any cosmic rules, but surely a small manifestation wouldn't attract too much attention from the other gods?"

Gale fought back a chuckle at Astarion's transparent attempt at manipulation.

"Oh, and speaking of divine matters, I'll be announcing a surprise about the cathedral's completion at the event. Wouldn't want you to miss the unveiling of the plans for a rather impressive series of statues..."

The bait dangled temptingly. Gale felt the pull of curiosity about these statues, even as he recognized the ploy for what it was.

"The guest list is quite selective," Astarion continued. "Shadowheart sends her regrets - something about a mission for Selune. But her parents will come, so Emmaline can give Karlach some motherly advice. Wyll's confirmed, and he's bringing that absolutely dreadful wine he's so proud of. You remember the vintage, surely? The one that made you snort it out your nose at that dinner party before you took up the Crown?"

Memory tugged at Gale - laughter shared around a table, the burn of dreadful wine, the warmth of friendship before divinity had placed its barriers between them.

Astarion's voice dropped to a more intimate tone. "It would mean something to Karlach, you know. Having you there. Even if it's just... a sign. A breeze. A particularly ambitious-looking cloud formation."

Gale's chest tightened at the genuine note beneath the manipulation. Eighteen years of godhood hadn't made it any easier to maintain divine distance from those he'd once called friends.

Gale massaged his temples, a habit from mortal days that persisted despite its pointlessness now. The prayers trickled in constantly, each more outlandish than the last. Just this morning, a merchant had asked for divine intervention in pricing her competitor's cheese stock out of the market.

I should have known Astarion would turn worship into a networking opportunity.

Three separate guild masters had already cited "Lord Astarion's recommendation" when petitioning for success in their ventures. A young noble sought blessing for her first season at court, claiming Astarion had assured her that the God of Ambition had a soft spot for social climbers.

And now he's trying to drag me into party planning.

But the mention of Karlach's celebration struck a chord. These moments—births, deaths, celebrations—they anchored immortality to something real. Something worth watching over.

And someone needs to keep an eye on his revenge plotting before it spirals.

Gale had observed Astarion's methodical dismantling of the conspiracy. Three down, seven to go. Each death appeared accidental, perfectly orchestrated. A slip on wet stairs. A mysterious illness. A robbery gone wrong. But Gale recognized the cold precision behind each "mishap."

He's getting better at hiding it, which might be worse.

The construction of the cathedral provided perfect cover - meetings with builders, suppliers, and officials that no one questioned. Who would suspect a prominent patron of the arts, so publicly devoted to his god, of orchestrating elaborate assassinations?

I could drop in. Just for a moment. Remind him that his god might have opinions about vengeance served quite so cold.

The rules about divine intervention had a certain amount of wiggle to them. Ao cared more about maintaining balance than micromanaging every godly interaction. A small manifestation at a celebration - that could be justified as building a divine portfolio. Especially if it came with a chance to counsel one of his few genuine worshippers.

And I do miss them. Even Astarion's ridiculous schemes.

What could go wrong?

* * *

I surveyed the Copper Crown's main hall with satisfaction. The mechanical mobiles from Dammon's forge spun and chimed overhead, catching light from hundreds of enchanted candles. Perfect. Well, nearly perfect. The centerpiece still needed adjusting.

"No, no—tilt it just a bit more to the left," I directed the serving staff arranging the tiered display of candied fruits. "There. Now it catches the light properly."

The door creaked open, and I whirled to see Karlach ducking through, her belly preceding her by what seemed like miles. I rushed over, taking her arm.

"Darling, you're glowing! And I mean that literally—is the infernal engine running hot?"

She laughed, the sound warming the room more than any number of my enchanted candles. "The baby kicks like they're trying to break out of Avernus. Dammon says they've got my fire."

"Naturally." I guided her to the cushioned chair I'd had specially brought in. "Now sit before you melt my ice sculptures."

The door opened again, admitting more guests. Wyll arrived with his promised wine—I'd have to keep an eye on that. The last time he brought his "special vintage," three members of the nobility ended up naked in the harbor.

I checked the window for the hundredth time. Still no sign of a divine presence. Perhaps the mechanical cherubs had been too much? No—if anything, they weren't grandiose enough for his tastes.

"Astarion!" Karlach called. "Come back here and say a proper hello."

I settled next to Karlach, adjusting her cushions. "Now then, are you comfortable? Not too warm? I can have them bring fans—"

"Astarion." She caught my hand, her grip warm and strong. "I'm fine. More than fine." Her eyes crinkled with joy. "Look."

She guided my palm to her rounded belly. Something shifted beneath—a tiny foot or fist pressing against my cold hand. My throat tightened.

"Strong," I managed, forcing a smile. "Like their mother."

"Want to know a secret?" Karlach leaned closer, her voice dropping. "Dammon's convinced it's twins. Can you imagine? Two little devils running around the forge?"

The image hit like a blow—two small tiefling children darting between workbenches, leaving chaos in their wake. Just like—

I withdrew my hand. "Wonderful. Though you might want to child-proof those weapon racks."

"Already done. And we've got plans for—" She paused, studying my face. "Oh. Oh, Astarion, I'm sorry. I didn't think—"

"Don't." I waved it away, standing abruptly. "This is your day. No need to walk on eggshells around the vampire." I smoothed my jacket, voice brightening with practiced ease. "Now, shall we start with the games? I've devised this delightful little competition involving magical baubles and—"

"Sit." Karlach patted the cushion beside her. "Just for a minute more."

I hesitated, then sank back down. She took my hand again, and I let her, though every instinct screamed to pull away.

"She would have loved this," Karlach said softly. "Mol would have been stealing all the presents, reorganizing the games to favor the thieves—"

I gently pulled my hand free, stood again with what I hoped read as a light smile, and turned back to the gathering crowd, producing a stack of carefully prepared cards with a flourish. "Attention everyone, time to begin! First, we have a delightful little game involving guessing the baby's weight using various fruits as measurements—"

My eyes darted to the window again. Surely Gale wouldn't miss this. I'd practically gift-wrapped this opportunity for him to meddle in mortal affairs. The decorations alone were worth divine commentary.

"And then," I continued, "we move on to a charming tradition where guests attempt to fashion baby clothes while blindfolded. I expect nothing but disasters, which should be tremendously entertaining."

The room filled with laughter and chatter, but I kept watching the shadows, waiting for that telltale gleam of celestial light. (Come on, Gale. Even you can't resist this much spectacle.)

A flash of divine light, and there he was—our resident god of ambition, materializing with his usual theatrical flair. I allowed myself a silent sigh of relief. The guests gasped and cooed appropriately, which made me smirk. Honestly, sometimes managing mortals was like directing a particularly predictable play.

I watched as they fawned over him, bringing offerings of wine and treats. (As if a god needed mortal refreshments.) Still, the whole scene was deliciously perfect. Nothing drew Gale's attention quite like an appreciative audience.

The gift-opening proceeded exactly as planned. I stood beside Karlach's chair, providing running commentary on each present.

"Oh, another blanket. How... conventional." I held up the offending item. "Though I suppose one can never have too many, considering tiefling babies and their tendency toward spontaneous combustion."

Karlach snorted, but I noticed Lady Silvershield's pinched expression. (Mental note: remove her from the next three social gatherings.)

After the last gift—a truly inspired mechanical cradle from Dammon's apprentices—I cleared my throat and tapped my glass.

"If I might have everyone's attention? Now, I know this day belongs to our dear Karlach and Dammon—"

Wyll's derisive snort cut through the air. "Since when has that stopped you?"

"—but I have a small announcement of my own." I paused for dramatic effect, noting Gale's suspicious squint. "By popular demand," (my demand, and I'm very popular), "I am to become the high priest of the Church of Gale!"

The room erupted. Gale's jaw dropped in the most gratifying way.

"The cathedral will open precisely one year from today," I continued, beaming. "I do hope you'll all attend the consecration. The architecture alone is worth the trip—I designed it myself."

"You what?" Gale sputtered, his divine composure thoroughly shattered.

Karlach chose that moment to inhale her punch, sending Dammon scrambling to pat her back as she choked and laughed simultaneously.

"Did you know about this?" Gale demanded of no one in particular, looking utterly scandalized. Perfect.

I couldn't help but grin as Gale's divine composure cracked further. "You know, for an all-seeing deity, you seem remarkably surprised. Weren't you watching me plan all this?" I gestured at the cathedral blueprints I'd tucked into my jacket. "Or were you too busy rearranging stars to spell your name?"

"Astarion—"

"Speaking of appearances, I've been meaning to ask: for the clergy robes, what are your thoughts on silver? I know gold is perhaps more appropriate for ambition, but silver would complement my complexion so much better."

Gale's eye twitched. (Delicious.) A faint crackle of divine energy sparked around him—nothing dangerous, just his godly equivalent of grinding teeth.

He grabbed my arm, steering me toward the kitchen door with perhaps more force than strictly necessary for an immortal being.

"Oh! Before I forget," I called over my shoulder to the gathered guests, "do remember to address the envelopes for your thank you notes from Karlach. Must make it easy on the mother-to-be. I've left templates by the door!"

The moment we were in the hallway, Gale released me and opened his mouth. Then closed it. Opened it again. Closed it once more.

"Having trouble finding the words?" I smoothed my sleeve where he'd gripped it. "That must be new for you. Usually, you can't stop pontificating."

He drew himself up, divine light flickering—then deflated slightly, clearly trying to rise above my provocation. The fact that he was visibly struggling with it made everything even more entertaining.

"You—" he started, then stopped again.

"Yes?" I examined my nails, the picture of innocence. "Something on your divine mind? Perhaps about the cathedral's color scheme? I was thinking midnight blue and silver, but I'm open to suggestions. From my god."

His expression was absolutely worth every minute I'd spent planning this.

* * *

"The cathedral can wait. We need to discuss your other activities."

"What, the party favors? I thought little pamphlets instructing everyone on how to claim one blessing from Gale were more than generous." Astarion adjusted his cuffs. "Though I suppose we could amend them to specify two—"

"The murders, Astarion. Three suspicious accidents in as many months?"

"Accidents do happen." Astarion's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Even to the most careful of people."

"Look around you." Gale gestured toward the main room where Karlach cradled her swollen belly while Dammon hovered nearby. "There's new life beginning. Hope. A future worth investing in."

"How wonderfully sentimental." Astarion's tone turned brittle. "Shall I start knitting booties?"

"You could try living for something other than vengeance."

"Says the god who can't stop watching my every move?"

"Because I care about what happens to you, you insufferable ass." Gale fought to keep his voice low. "This path leads nowhere good. Trust me, I've watched enough mortals destroy themselves seeking revenge."

Astarion's mask slipped for just a moment—a flicker of raw pain that even Astarion couldn't smooth away. Gale recognized that look. He'd seen it countless times in the prayers of the grieving, though none had cut quite so deep as watching it cross his friend's face.

"And what would you have me do instead?" Astarion's voice carried that dangerous edge that usually preceded violence. "Plant flowers? Take up needlepoint? Perhaps start a book club?"

"I'd have you stop pretending that each death brings you closer to peace."

"Peace was never the goal, darling."

"Then what is? How many more need to die before you feel it's enough?" Gale pressed, knowing he was pushing dangerous ground.

"Seven. Seven more need to die." Astarion's fingers traced the rim of his wine glass. "Then it will be done."

"And then what? Will it bring them back?"

Astarion's glass fractured in his grip. Wine dripped through the cracks, around his fingers, and, unnoticed, to the ground. "Don't."

"They wouldn't want this for you. Tav wouldn't-"

"If you finish that sentence, I will find a way to punch a god." Astarion's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "Even if it takes me centuries."

Gale's divine sight caught the flash of the ring on Astarion's finger as he gestured. The enchanted band that had given him back the sun, Tav's gift, their second year in the city.

"If she hadn't given you that ring, I'd strip it from your finger myself. Curtail your plotting. For your own good."

Blood rushed to Astarion's face, a violent crimson that made Gale's stomach turn. His friend's feeding habits had grown concerning lately.

But just as quickly as the rage appeared, it vanished behind an unsettling calm. Astarion's lips curved into a sharp smile.

"How thoughtful of you to worry." He set the broken glass on a table and twisted the ring with deliberate slowness. "Though I'm afraid taking it wouldn't help much. The rest of my quarry scurried down to the Underdark weeks ago."

Ice formed in Gale's chest. The Underdark. Where the most dangerous of Faerun's creatures made their home. Where a vampire spawn could hunt with impunity.

"Astarion—"

"Now if you'll excuse me," Astarion cut him off with an elaborate bow, "I have more party games to oversee. Can't disappoint the mother-to-be."

As his friend glided back toward the celebration, Gale fought the urge to reach out and physically shake him. The ice in those red eyes spoke of someone beyond reason, beyond help. Someone willing to dive into darkness to satisfy his revenge, no matter the cost.

For the first time since his ascension, Gale truly feared for his friend's soul.

Gale followed Astarion back toward the party, his avatar slipping closer than strictly necessary. "At least promise you'll call if you need help."

"What happened to not interfering in mortal affairs?" Astarion's voice stayed low, though his shoulders tensed.

"I can still listen. Still offer guidance."

"On proper vestments and temple décor?" Astarion sidestepped a table laden with a three-tier cake.

"On staying alive in the darkest places of the world." Gale let his presence brush against Astarion's consciousness—a touch of divine warmth. "Just pray for real help if things go wrong down there."

Astarion paused, his hand resting on the back of an empty chair. "You really are worried."

"Of course I'm worried, you dramatic idiot."

A flash of genuine emotion crossed Astarion's face before his mask slipped back into place. "These aren't innocent victims, you know. Every name on my list had a hand in premeditated murder."

"That doesn't mean—"

"I'm not prowling the streets for random prey." Astarion's voice hardened. "I'm removing threats. Calculated, careful removal of specific threats."

Gale sensed the truth in those words, along with something else—a flicker of consideration. Perhaps his concern had reached through after all.

"Fine." Astarion rolled his eyes. "If I find myself in mortal peril, I promise to waste a prayer on something other than cathedral paint schemes. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Gale replied dryly, though relief coursed through him. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

The celestial plane shimmered into focus around Gale as he withdrew from the mortal realm. Stars wheeled in impossible patterns, their light casting strange shadows across the ethereal landscape. He'd grown used to the overwhelming sensations of divinity, but tonight they grated on his nerves.

"Damn you, Tav." The words echoed strangely in the divine space. "You weren't supposed to leave him like this."

Memories surfaced—stolen glances across campfires, the brush of hands reaching for the same spellbook, wine-soaked conversations that stretched until dawn. He and Astarion had circled each other like wary cats, both pursuing the same prey. The competition for Tav's affections had been fierce but oddly intimate, culminating in one heated night neither Gale nor Astarion had spoke of afterward.

Then Tav had chosen, and Gale had stepped aside, from both of them. He'd seen the way Astarion looked at her, recognized something deeper than his own intellectual attraction. The vampire needed Tav's love more than Gale did and Gale's friendship more than anything else Gale might have had to offer.

Now, watching the threads of fate twist through his divine sight, Gale questioned that choice. Would Astarion have been better preserved from this spiral of grief if he'd never known such profound love? Or would he still be the broken creature Cazador had shaped, never learning to trust or care at all?

The answers slipped through his grasp like smoke. Even as a god, some mysteries remained impenetrable—especially those closest to his mortal heart. His power to see potential futures felt inadequate when it came to the people he cared about most.

Gale traced the golden threads of destiny surrounding his friend, trying to make sense of their tangled paths. The pattern remained frustratingly opaque. Divine sight or not, he couldn't tell if his intervention tonight would help or harm in the long run.

Gale changed direction, reaching into the past instead, memories shimmering like dew in divine light. Strange how a few months could weigh more than centuries. They'd fought mind flayers together, shared bottles of wine in camp, competed for Tav's attention with increasingly outrageous displays of wit and magic.

They'd saved each other's lives so many times the debt became impossible to calculate. Every shared danger, every whispered secret, every argument and reconciliation had forged something deeper than mere companionship.

That one night they never spoke of haunted him still—not for the act itself, but for the raw vulnerability they'd glimpsed in each other. Astarion's mask had slipped, revealing centuries of pain beneath his careful artifice. And Gale had shared his own desperate fears about the Netherese orb consuming him from within.

When he'd found the Crown of Karsus, Astarion had been the first to understand what it meant. "Go on then," he'd said, managing to sound both dismissive and proud. "Become a god. Just don't forget us little people when you're arranging the cosmos."

But Gale had done his best to forget, hadn't he? Wrapped up in divine responsibilities, watching from afar as his friends lived and loved and died. He'd told himself it was necessary, that new gods couldn't meddle in mortal affairs. Yet here he was, breaking his own rules—and bending Ao's to the breaking point—because he couldn't bear to watch Astarion spiral into darkness alone.

Perhaps that was the real debt between them—not the battles fought side by side or secrets shared in the night, but the simple promise to witness each other's struggles. To remember who they'd been before divinity and immortality changed them both.

He only knew he couldn't stand aside and watch Astarion destroy himself. Not after everything they'd been through.

* * *

My darling Tav,

Do you remember when Mol was ten, and she decided to "improve" your collection of historical art pieces? The little devil replaced each one with perfectly crafted fakes made of painted wood and bits of colored glass. Then she sold the real ones to fund a feast for her Brats.

I caught her counting coins in the garden, surrounded by stolen relics like a tiny dragon with her hoard. The look on her face—pure innocence, as though she couldn't fathom why I might be concerned.

You were furious. I was... proud. (Though I pretended not to be, for your sake.)

Gods, the way you lectured her about respect and historical objects while she sat there picking her nails, already planning her next scheme. Just like her father, you said. That made me prouder still.

The paper's getting wet. Damn it all.

I had to sit there today, watching Karlach glow with that insufferable (beautiful) maternal radiance, listening to her dreams for her child. Had to smile and nod while she talked about teaching them to forge, about family traditions and future birthdays. About all the things Mol will never...

How dare Gale judge me for what I'm doing? One and done for her. Three for you. Seven more to go. Seven more who took you from her, who stole happiness from the years she had to live. Let him sit on his divine throne and disapprove—what does he know of justice? Of vengeance?

They robbed her of her mother. Then her life ended, before it truly began. The price must be paid in full, with interest.

I don't care what it costs me. I don't care if it darkens whatever's left of my soul. They will all pay, one by one, until there's nothing left but ash and memory.

Would you hate what I've become? Perhaps. But you're not here to stop me, are you?

Forever yours,

[I fold the letter precisely, touch it to the candle's flame, and watch it curl into smoke. Maybe this time it will reach you.]

#bg3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion #gale of Waterdeep #bloodweave #myfic

10 notes · View notes

talonabraxas · 10 months ago

Text

Planetary Magic Practices: Mars

Today we continue with our series of short practices for connecting to each of the traditional planets on each of the days that they rule. Tuesday is the day of Mars. Attuning to Mars can be energizing and activating, and also sometimes challenging. It can bring up harm, frustration, or rage, which are difficult emotions—but those are places that we need to feel in order to heal.

Mars is considered the malefic of the nocturnal sect in Hellenistic astrology. Mars severs and separates, the planet of action and taking charge. It is associated with aggression, conflict, and war. As a malefic planet, it can present difficulties, specifically denying, refusing, or challenging the significations of the other planets. It is associated with the warrior. Mars rules the signs of Aries and Scorpio, and is exalted in Capricorn.

For today—or any Tuesday—you might make a small altar for Mars with the things you have available. You can look to the list of correspondences below for the kinds of colors, stones, numbers, and tarot cards you might incorporate. Add things that you associate with Mars—maybe red candles or things made of iron or steel, like nails or knives, even miniature soldier action figures. Once you build your altar, take some time to be with it as an aesthetic experience. Notice how being with this altar makes you feel. Drop your attention down into your body and observe what sensations arise as you observe the objects you’ve gathered for Mars.

Mars

Day: Tuesday Number: 5 Colors: Red Metals: “red copper and all kinds of sulphur” (Picatrix)

Stones: “part of glass and premonada, and bloodstone and part of carnelian and onyx and in all stones that are red and tawny or speckled” (Picatrix)

Chakra: Manipura, the Solar Plexus Chakra Mantra: Om Sri Angarakaya Namaha

Mudra: Because the thumb is associated with Mars, and because of Mars’ active quality, I use prana mudra for stimulating and focusing energy, bringing the tip of the thumb to the tips of the ring and little finger, with the index and middle finger extended. There is also a mudra called angaraka mudra which is used to depict Mars in Indian dance traditions.

Tarot: Knights, especially the Knight of Swords, but I will often meditate on different Knight cards depending on what triplicity Mars is located in. So, for example, as I write this, Mars is in Virgo—and earth sign—so I might spend time meditating with the Knight of Pentacles. (In the Golden Dawn tradition, Mars was associated with The Tower card.)

Mars Portal by Talon Abraxas

26 notes · View notes

mazovshanka · 11 months ago

Text

Yesterday I finally took some photos of Caspar and the raven. I decided to show Caspar as a fighter. He's skilled with daggers and sabre. He's a wanderer so he has to protect himself from villains and dangerous creatures. He also has a mysterious guardian - a raven watching him from afar. That raven has metallic shiny feathers and ruby eyes. Caspar doesn't know why the bird follows him but somehow he feels the raven's not evil.

I have to say it's very tricky to find decent props at a good price. Since I couldn't find 1/4 scale daggers, I had to use some metal charms. The miniature replica of Polish sabre from 1921 looks much better, though it's too heavy for the doll to wield it. The raven's also too small for my boy. I suppose the perspective can do the trick in the photos. I customised the bird a little. I used copper antique paste on its feathers and painted the eyes ruby red. Well, it's actually more magenta but since natural rubies do have such hue, I guess it's OK. Nevertheless, I like how it all turned out.

#bjd #doll chateau #lafal #ball jointed doll #legit bjd #dollchateau #bjd oc #doll collector #original character #doll photography #dollprops #sabre #figurine #raven #skull #bird

28 notes · View notes

vagabondfandoms · 1 year ago

Text

Falls on Me

Day Four: Morning

Rating: Teen

Previous Chapters: Chapter One , Chapter Two , Chapter Three , Chapter Four

Characters: Gale Dekarios, Shadowheart, Karlach, and F!Tav: Copper

Warning: Gale POV, Mentions of Chronic Pain, Gale x Female Tav

Gale is hanging out around the campfire waiting for the scouting team to come back when he has a flare up of pain.

—

Day 4- Morning

Gale was out by the campfire, enjoying his small talk with Shadowheart. He found it fascinating to hear the cleric’s devotion to her goddess, even if it was an evil one. But Gale finds himself more captivated by the shadows reflected in her deep green eyes.

The other half of the team was out scouting the goblin camp so they could figure out their next plan of action.

Only himself, Shadowheart, Karlach, and Copper were currently at the camp. The four of them are being paired up more and more to allow the sneakier team members to scout for danger, which is perfectly fine with Gale. He despises crouching. It hurts his knees and he feels it's an unfitting position for a former archmage.

Shadowheart chuckles softly and it draws Gale's attention to the direction of Copper, Karlach, and their furry camp companions. A dog named Scratch and a newly orphaned owlbear cub they rescued from a goblin raiding party.

“I was worried that the smelly little beast was going to eat us, or at least the dog,” Shadowheart says fondly. “But it looks like everybody’s getting along over there.”

Gale and Shadowheart watch the women throw a red ball for Scratch while the owlbear follows close behind, joy emanating from the wild little creature.

Karlach also had a big smile on her face that made her appear more lovely than usual, Gale thought.

After a few moments of silence, as the two spell casters watch the game of fetch unfold, Shadowheart excuses herself to her tent. But before she could get that far, Karlach enthusiastically waves the cleric over to see the owlbear cub and the Sharran seemed happy to oblige.

Karlach starts talking excitedly to Shadowheart, asking her what she thought a good name for the cub would be. While the two other women debate between Owlbert or Dark Feather as names. Copper drifts away from the girls allowing them to have their fun.

Gale watches the strong graceful form of the young monk, her auburn braid swaying behind her as she walks towards him. Realizing he was staring too long, Gale quickly busied himself, gathering up his book and pretending to read to cover up his gawking.

“Gods, I’ve been away from society too long.” Gale scolds himself, staring extra hard at his pages just as Copper stands next to him. “I’ve been acting like a besotted schoolboy to every attractive person I see.”

Copper doesn’t start a conversation with him, taking his nose in the book at face value and leaving him alone to read. Instead, she starts slicing apples and places them in the cooking pan to warm.

As the young monk cooks, Gale actually finds himself relaxing and ends up flipping to the exact page he was reading earlier. Sinking further into the comfort of an old hobby, Gale only rouses when the scent of spiced fruit is right under his nose. Looking up, Copper is smiling down at him.

“I was just about to give up,” Copper jokes, setting the cooked apples next to Gale, as she settles down next to him. “It seems feeding your mind is more important to you than feeding your stomach.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I skipped a meal for academic pursuits,” Gale says good-naturedly, reaching for a slice. Both pleased and vexed that the young woman decided to feed him. “Tara often had to put herself between me and the pages to remind me to head down to dinner.”

“So what’s so engrossing about that book?” Copper asks, taking a slice for herself.

“Well, it’s a primer on Mythical Beasts.” Gale describes. “I was reading the chapter about miniature giant space hamsters.”

“Sounds like a contradiction.” Copper scowls, biting into another piece of fruit.

“They sound like fascinating little creatures. Apparently, they choose well-muscled human males as their steeds when visiting our realm.” Laughing slightly at the absurdity of such a creature existing, Gale playfully flexes his bicep and adds. “Sadly, I don’t think I’ll ever meet one.”

“You need to train a little more in strength to achieve that goal.” Copper gives him a shy smirk that she tries to cover with her hand.

“Alas, I think my considerable talents are best… Aughhh!” A sharp pain shoots down Gale’s arm, cutting off his sentence as his orb acts up again. He quickly clutches his hand to his chest. His fingers tingle and stiffen within seconds of the pain starting.

“Here, give me your hand,” Copper says quickly and with authority that it startles Gale and he complies with the command with only a little hesitation. The monk already was activating her Ki and the soft glow engulfs both their hands.

Copper starts applying pressure to the palm of his hand in a circular motion and the stiffness lessens while another pulse of pain hits Gale. He grits his teeth, as the woman works. Pulling and rubbing at his fingers while applying her Ki to combat the degradation Gale’s orb was causing him.

After a few minutes, the attack ebbs away and Gale finds himself just watching Copper’s tan hands in his, as she massages his hands. “Warm, Strong hands,” he admires the contrast between her lightly scarred hands and his delicate long-fingered ones.

“She’s definitely seen battles before, unlike me where battle spells were for show.” Gale thinks, frowning at how much his life has changed since he got inflicted with the orb and how he got kidnapped by the illithid while in search of magical items for said infliction.

But if Gale was being honest with himself, his adventuring out of his tower in Waterdeep was more of a sacrificial journey than one of hope. He didn’t want to drag Tara, his mother, or even Waterdeep itself into his destruction.

If he were to die it was to be alone…but now he dragged his (somewhat) innocent travel companions into his trouble since he was too weak and too scared of the tadpole lodged in his brain to venture off on his own.

“Gale, are you ok? Does it still hurt?” Copper asks, concern in her grey eyes. “You look upset.”

“No, I’m fine,” Gale says coldly, before realizing his tone and smiles at the monk to make up for his attitude. “I’m better now, thank you,” he says pleasantly. “But I think I want my hand back even if it was lovely of you to hold it.”

“Ok...” Copper says hesitantly before giving Gale’s wrist one last squeeze before letting go. Gale almost regrets the loss of the strong gentle pressure anchoring him down but he mustn’t get dependent.

He needs to be strong. He needs to be useful. Above all, he needs to be Gale of Waterdeep, Chosen of Mystra.

Not Gale Dekarios the fool that lost it all.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #oc: copper #shadowheart #karlach

27 notes · View notes