#redemption arc!orin tbt

[murdermade]

@fleshcarverfugitive from here

Deep down, Orin knows that this woman is not the source of her pain but it is hard to think straight in the middle of a mental breakdown. Her entire world is coming crashing down and if Amalica had keept her mouth shut, none of this would be happening.

Her own dagger is gripped in her hand, raised as if she's going to thrust the thing through her but something gives her pause, the way she cries out that she is trying to help her distracts her enough that the Changling isn't stabbing her yet.

"Help me?! You destroyed me! Everything I have done....you're telling me it has all been for nothing?!"

[taleswritten]

@myrkulsapxstle sent

A package and letter are delivered to Orin, the missive sealed with a symbol of Selûne and written in slightly heavy, yet deliberate hand:

Orin the Red,Best wishes for this year's Winter Solstice from both myself and the rest of the Thorm family here at Moonrise Towers. What remains of it, anyway. I trust you are well? I've yet to receive another letter from you -- though I cannot tell if that's simply because of the Couriers being delayed, or because you've grown weary of reading my ramblings in response. In either case, I should hope this is both on time and not too painful to read. As I reflect upon the last year, and our time together entrenched in divine schemes and away from them, I find myself proud of who you have become. Watching you turn from the Dread Lord's schemes and become who you desire to be has been nothing short of gratifying - and I hope you feel just as proud of yourself. You have done all the hard work, Orin. Take some time for yourself this season, would you? And do not forget that you are always welcome at Moonrise - as you are. I hope the package I've sent along with this missive meets your standards, and assists you in taking some time for yourself -- I will await your judgement.Yours, Father Ketheric

In the package, the box wrapped neatly in silver and reds, are some new metal hair decorations and clips ( can some of those hairpins function as weapons...? ) in a polished wooden box, cushioned by a greyish-blue blanket - soft and warm, and the perfect size for Orin to wrap around the whole of her body.

A small card gave details - the blanket was made of fleece, and came from the city of Cormyr, on request ( and upon the recievement of payment ) from one K. Thorm.

Happy Holidays!! // (post game companion ) Ketheric / @myrkulsapxstle to (redemption) Orin :3

The package and letter both find her with ease, though the poor courier gets quite a fight when Orin receives the letter and gift with a dagger in between her teeth, still coated in red.

Apparently opening the door while cleaning the dagger of blood is a terrible idea. He shoves it at her and runs away as fast as he can, leaving Orin to cackle with the dagger in between her teeth.

She goes back into her home to open the letter with her dagger and read it. Her heart warms as she reads it, especially when she reads the way he signs his name as 'father'.

The letter is wonderful and it makes her smile before she's turning to the box to open it with the dagger as well. She tries not to get blood on any of the items inside.

She tosses the dagger to the side and it lands with a clank as she shifts through the box. The hair clips are beautiful and she takes them out to tuck them in her hair. It feels right, too.

The blanket causes her eyes to light up in happiness and she throws it around herself. It's warm and fuzzy and she could sleep cuddled up in this thing but first....first she will write him back.

She gets off the floor with the blanket wrapped around her shoulders and moves to her desk where ink quill and paper await.

Dear Father,

Thank you for your gifts. This is the first time I've ever gotten a gift by someone I can call my father. It's....weird but not unwelcome. Once upon a time, I thought my heart cold and dead but it warms me to know you think of me as a daughter.

You are the father I never had. I hope you know that. Even with my inclination to lead little lambs to their death, you have always accepted me.

Thank you. I have attached something for you in turn, I hope you like it.

Your Daughter, Orin

Attached is a painting of his beloved wife. Someone she has studied to get just right. On the bottom of the paper, signed with her name, is a note.

Your wife would be proud of you, Father.

[murdermade]

@harpershigh sent

From @harpershigh to Orin Verse 3 (redemption arc)

Jaheira’s hands moved slowly through Orin’s impossibly long hair, the soft brushstrokes feeling heavier with each pass. How had it come to this? The Chosen of Bhaal — Sarevok’s own granddaughter — sitting before her as if she was just some regular girl, while Jaheira, of all people, tended to her.

Bhaalspawn.

Murder incarnate.

Her enemy in every sense, and yet... Jaheira couldn’t shake the pull of something deeper, almost nostalgic.

She thought of Abdel Adrian, the man who had defied everything his blood had demanded of him. He had been a Bhaalspawn too, destined for a path of death and destruction, yet he had chosen life. He had chosen to rise above what was expected of him, and Jaheira had loved him for it. Deeply loved him. She looked at Orin now and wondered, could this woman — this undeniable threat — do the same? Was there more to her than what she had been born to be?

But as much as Jaheira wanted to believe in that possibility, doubt gnawed at her. Orin wasn’t just a risk to the camp; she was a danger to the world. It was foolish to hope. And yet, how could she not? After everything she’d seen, after everything she’d lost — hope was all she had left. Even if it was dangerous. Even if Orin could never escape what she was.

As Jaheira's fingers gently untangled Orin's hair, she couldn't help but wonder how much of this woman's life had been stolen by blood and violence. What kind of childhood had she endured, growing up under the shadow of Bhaal? The world had likely never shown her the simple joys, the warmth of love, or the peace of a carefree moment. Trauma had shaped her, robbed her of everything good life had to offer.

Sitting here, brushing her hair, Jaheira couldn’t see a murderer.

She saw a girl.

Perhaps lost, perhaps too far gone, but a girl nonetheless. A girl who had been denied the chance to become anything but a weapon.

Perhaps, just like Abdel, this girl could defy the darkness that had shaped her. Maybe standing by Orin, offering her a different path, was the right thing to do. After all, if Abdel could rise above his heritage, then perhaps Orin could too — if she chose it.

Hope.

It had the power to change everything, to lift the broken from despair and reshape the world for the better. But it could also destroy you, leading you down a path of false promises until there was nothing left but ruin. She had seen both outcomes too many times to count. Hope could be a dangerous thing, as much a blade as it was a shield. Still, she found herself hoping — fiercely, desperately — for the first outcome. But the fear of the second gnawed at her, a shadow she couldn't quite shake.

She could only hope.

Silence. The woman is unusually quiet. There are no insane ramblings or hissing or threats. Utter and complete silence as the woman works her way through her braids.

Her entire world has been flipped upside down. Bhaal had been everything to her and to be faced with not just the idea but the fact that he didn't care about her? She wants to crumble, she wants to break, she wants to scream and cry and stab things until she feels better.

Instead, she sits here, letting the druid brush through her hair. Showing her a kindness and a love that she has never had before. It feels motherly, in a way, and that thought alone makes her want to crumble.

How many years has she longed for love? How many years has she spent killing in the futile attempt to win her father's love and instead she had been met with nothing but silence. As if she'd be screaming into the void. Maybe she had been this entire time.

And here Jahiera is, giving her a love that seems so easy to give for the druid. Is it really that easy? She;'s tried to kill her and the party over and over and yet, she still shows her care.

Orin doesn't know how to handle it. A part of her wants to jerk away and hiss at her like some feral animal. A bigger, deeper part instead places her hands in her lap and allows the woman to tend to her long hair.

"I..." When she speaks, for the first time since Jahiera started, it is quiet. No longer the murderer she had been but instead the girl that Jahiera sees. A quiet hesitant voice. What does she even say? What does she do now? Where does she go from here?

"......I can brush my own hair." It sounds rather pathetic, a part of her is trying to push the woman away before she, too, can turn on her and yank that care away like some kind of thread meant to be snapped.

It's not what she really wants to say, though.

"I don't know where to go from here. Father never cared for me, did he?"

[murdermade]

@myrkulsapxstle from here

She hadn't meant to. Not really. The party would never let her hear the end of it if she slaughtered someone in cold blood but the body before her, he'd set her off in one single action.

"He touched me." Is all she says, bringing her knife up to lick the wretched blood from the dagger. Touched her could mean anywhere, really. A friendly pat on the shoulder, a bump to get past her, or groping her. There is no telling with Orin given how slaughter-happy she is.

'Did you expect me to take it lying down? Tsk, tsk. You know better than that, General. So what if it's one measly little fleshbag? I doubt such a pathetic creature will be missed." Even if he would be, she doesn't really care.

Being a companion and not being murder happy has proven more difficult than any of them had originally thought, it seems.

[murdermade]

@harpersoath sent “I’ve got you” ( redemption arc verse? )

Send “I’ve got you”  to carry my injured & nearly unconscious muse

Her first instinct is to hiss and snap at the person who dares to touch her but she does not have the energy for that. Blood pours consistently from various wounds on her body, staining pale flesh and mixing in with the red of her outfit.

Blood stains their hands as they carry her to safety, the warm liquid seeping from the wounds onto flesh. She tries to keep her eyes open, fights to do so. They open, close, and then open again as she fights against her body's need to pass out.

Perhaps this is what she gets. Her death for all the lives she has slaughtered (she can not bring it in herself to care about those lives either). Some kind of karma brought upon her by an unseen force.

Or perhaps it's Bhaal himself, delivering a final blow because she dared to defy him. Either way, Orin is not prepared to die. She does not want to die even if sometimes she thinks she rather be dead than void of the one thing she has known her entire life.

Orin groans, squirming in the other's hold as if trying to wiggle out of their embrace. All it does is hurt her and she winces. Normally, she does not mind pain, normally she enjoys it but these wounds are dire and there is no part of this she enjoys.

The help that she is being offered is not something she's experienced before, always left to tend to her own wounds, void of any care at all - this is new and unfamiliar and terrifying.

"Let me go." She manages to mutter weakly, as if fighting against the care she needs. How does one accept something such as this when their entire life there was nothing like it?

"I can tend to my own wounds." No, she can't. Not this time around but she's too stubborn to accept that.

[murdermade]

Amalica is right whether Orin wants to admit it or not. The fact is that Orin was only allowed bloodshed and murder. She made art where she could but being bhaalspawn meant she stood no chance, growing up. Surrounded by blood and murder and a need to please both Bhaal and her Grandfather, there was never another option for her.

Yet now there is so many possibilities that Orin fears she may end up overwhelmed. Will she ever be able to tame the hunger for blood? Is there a way to sate that hunger without being deemed a murderess?

And her art, she can do that certainly, but who would want to buy the art of a ex murderess? Is that even what she wants? "I don't know what Orin wants. I have never been given that luxury before."

She glances back at the painting, as gruesome as it is, no one can deny the talent is there. "Perhaps there is a market for art such as this. Surely I am not the only one who enjoys gruesome displays."

"It's the only thing you've been allowed to be good at, if I may," Amalica tries, "It is all the Church of Bhaal seems to value - bloodshed and murder. I could be wrong, but... it would have been a fruitless venture for you to seek other talents in such an environment."

She can almost see herself in Orin's place - long hair at her shoulders and her house crest still adorning her attire. That sad lost look in her eyes.

"That's really the beauty of having the choice now - you get to decide what you do. Find out what Orin wants. Truly."

Amalica fully considered the possibility that Orin may take the chance at freedom and become worse than she was - but did that mean she did not deserve the chance? She hardly thought so.

A glance over at the painting, before she mused, "Artistry isn't a bad path, you know. Your skill is there." Despite the rather grotesque subject matter - though that was to be expected of Orin.

[taleswritten]

@fleshcarverfugitive sent

A package with a letter attached arrives to Orin: the letter written in a neat script and sealed with silver wax.

Orin, I trust this finds you well - or at least not painted red, at the very least. It's been some time since we've traveled together, but I hope the world at large has treated you kindly since our squid-infested misadventures. I hope you've found peace somewhere beyond the confines of the Undercity. Gods know you deserve it. Attached to this letter, if the Couriers didn't lose it, should be a package - a present for the Solstice. I hope the contents serve you well. Come see me sometime, my friend. I'm always happy to host you.Yours in truth, Magistrate Amalica Dryaalis

Indeed, there is a package alongside the missive, wrapped in deep blue paper and wrapped in silver ribbon. Inside? Paints and brushes, along with a small canvas ( or two. Or three ). And, of course, since Orin would be Orin no matter what - a spider dagger was laid beside the brushes. The weapon was made in the exacting nature of the Drow, with razor sharp edges and had a hint of magic about it.

The same one that laid upon the altar of Lolth at Stormshore Tabernacle, belonging to House Dryaalis. Orin would put it to better use than Amalica, after all.

Happy Holidays! // (post game) Amalica / @fleshcarverfugitive to post game (redemption?) Orin :3

Settling into a life that isn't full of murder has been hard but Orin finds she has made a good life for herself. Her art, as gruesome as it can be, has many worshipping her for her talent.

Paintings are sold with ease and there is always something new to paint. When the urge to murder gets too much to bare, she does what she does best - assassination. It turns out an assassins guild would love to have a changling for a member.

She only takes assassinations that she believes are for completely irredeemable people. Amilica's voice urging her to be good instead of evil often plays in her head.

Perhaps one day, she will even give up the life of an assassin.

When she returns home, the box and letter are on her doorsteps. She picks them up and slips inside her home with ease before she begins to look through the letter and the box.

A small smile curls the corners of her lips as she reads it and then wastes no time in opening the package. She is overjoyed by what she receives. An artist can never have too much paint and her own dagger had begun to dull. This is the perfect gift.

She settles down to write a letter for Amalica.

Dear Amalica.

I got your gift. How very thoughtful of you. The paints will be put to good use and the dagger is perfect for slaughtering meatsuits. Do not worry, I no longer kill innocents. I assure you, these people deserve it, and I do love watching them squirm and beg for their life.

Perhaps I will visit sometime soon. Dare I say I have grown fond of you? Do not get used to hearing that, it will not be said again.

Perhaps I can bring gifts, too. None of the fleshy meat kind, of course.

Attached to her own letter is a drawing. One that is surprisingly not gruesome this time around. No, instead it is a portrait of Amalica down to the very last detail. Proof that Orin can paint other things that isn't entirely gruesome, though another thing the drow should not get used to.

[taleswritten]

She spins around without hesitation, her long hair swaying with the movement before she goes completely still and waits for him to begin soaping her hair up. Her eyes close and she gives a pleased hum in response to his fingers massaging her scalp.

"I don't like you to begin with." Well, that's a lie, isn't it? If she did not like him, she wouldn't be allowing him to wash her hair nor would she have brought him back to life.

"They are the weak ones if they cannot see your strength. They are the ones that need to be culled." Oh, how she'd love to murder them and she's not entirely sure why.

"I'm a changeling, little lamb. I do not need to take care of my hair when I can will it to look a certain way. I just....like having my hair taken care of by servants." The other bhaalists were beneath her, servants to order around. At least she has one now, right? Is that what he is?

Rein took the soap and made a spinning gesture with his finger, "Turn." He said gently, "I'll get it." He assured, soaping up her hair and running his large hands through it, massaging her scalp.

At the question about his shyness, he groaned, thinking as he pushed his lips off to one side, "I was... Not always... Made to feel good for being this way. I was already a half elf born of a pure elf family, but I had to have issues with my gender. It's... Complicated." He tried to explain, "I didn't want you to stop liking me, I suppose."

"Things for me are made harder when people realize my body isn't that of a typical male. Suddenly I'm weak and need protection, even though I can squish people easier than a child can squish a grape." He scoffed. Real venting. Not just surface level lovey-dovey bullshit. Rein was letting her in. That was rare.

"You take good care of your hair. Does blood have biotin or...?" He smirked, deciding to change the subject to Orin, instead.

[murdermade]

Orin doesn't quite know what to do with herself now and being in this camp without intention to hurt anyone feels odd and wrong. Would she be better off elsewhere or would she be the lost little lamb she feels like now or would it only be worse?

Sure, she could survive on her own but does she want to? There is so many things that goes through Orin's mind as she struggles to adjust to this new change in her life.

Him.

She knows exactly who the other female is talking about but she doesn't want to think about him. All that will bring is the utter despair she'd felt earlier back.

"Better for who? All of the others do not want me here."

There was no indication that Amalica needed Orin to change, and the Drow gave a nod before dropping the topic of clothes -- the chest would be there if she wanted, or needed, it. It's a strange sight, having Orin the Red in their camp, but it's one Amalica hopes she ( and her companions ) get used to.

The Changeling still held her Netherstone, after all - still held some power, however unknowingly, in this arrangement.

"I don't blame you," She started carefully, trying to find her words, "I'm not sure I would know what to do either, were I in your shoes."

It's a strange thing - uprooting someone's life like this. Remembering the screams of horrific realization before Bhaal changed Orin into murder's physical manifestation.

"But," She continued, a far away look in her eyes as she pondered, "It's better you're here, I think. Better here than with--" A pause. Dare she say his name? "...Him."

That should work, right?

[murdermade]

"What was that?" One of the guards say when they hear the splash of water and Orin's turning her head to look in that direction. She has a choice to make, she can kill these two and have more bodies to drop into the harbor or she can let them investigate.

Hopefully Ketheric has it in him to be sneaky. The violent urges to simply take care of the problem in the usual way eat at her but she clenches her hands into fists and resorts from doing so.

She slinks back into the shadows, turning back to her original form as they go to investigate. By the time they get there, the body has sunk to the bottom, and Orin is sneaking around to find Ketheric.

Ketheric caught the rope as Orin slipped away, watching from the shadows as she morphed into just another one of the guards patrolling the harbor. The fact that he hadn't heard them was mildly concerning to him, but he let it go as he focused on the more important work in front of him.

The General gave her a nod right back and immediately set to work, tying bricks around the corpse's ankles and wrists with rope, before praying Orin could keep them distracted -- and slipping towards the water.

3, 2, 1--!

SPLASH.

The body hit the water -- it sank quickly, just as intended, but broke the surface a bit louder than anticipated. Shit. Shit.

If there was one thing he did hold onto from Lady Shar's teachings, however, it was how to melt away into the dark. Get comfortable in the absence. He retreated away from the open harbor - should the guards come to investigate.

[ Stealth Check: 1d20 + 1 = 11 ]

[murdermade]

Orin has no intentions of hurting them, for the time being. Should they raise a hand against her, she cannot promise she won't react in turn but for now, she is content to allow them their safety.

Especially when the woman before her is so kind to let her stay with them when she could easily kill them all in their sleep. She won't, she doesn't want to when Amalica is the best chance of figuring out what is next for her.

Having been provided with her own bed, that is where she has stayed for the most part. She'd gone out into the city for a bit to gather supplies for herself but other than that, she has mainly stayed exactly where she currently is.

She lifts her gaze to the approaching woman. She's rather kind for a drow woman, isn't she? Nothing like Minthara.

"I have settled alright." She looks down at her outfit and then back to the other woman. Is that a hint to change her clothing? She's rather fine with what she's wearing right now.

"Thank you but I'm alright." Her apology is not needed but Orin doesn't say that. "As am I. I do not know where to go from here."

"I'm not giving them a choice," Amalica spoke firmly, loudly enough that she was sure her companions could hear her, "You will not come to harm, Orin, so long as you do not harm them. You have my word."

Just looking at Orin, she could see the exhaustion permeating her being - she had no energy to plot against the people offering her shelter at the moment.

"Of course," Amalica agreed, nodding at Orin's agreement to rest -- and led the way.

Orin had been provided with a bed in the Elfsong - her very own amidst the rest of the brigade's set up sprawled across the entirety of the second floor. Amalica had given her space, allowed her to have some time to herself before approaching.

"Orin," The Drow spoke gently, "Have you settled in alright?"

She pointed to the camp chest, "We have plenty of clothes - should you need fresh. Everything... should be organized. Unless things have simply been thrown in there since I last sorted through it."

A hum. Red eyes scanning over the former Lash of Bhaal, "...I'm sorry. About how things turned out."

[murdermade]

The warmth that washes over her with the spell cast feels safe. A feeling that she has not felt in such a long time, if ever. She doesn't understand it but she's not going to deny his help, either.

Everything is such a new adjustment and as she stares at them, she isn't sure whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. How long until their party decides to kill her? Could they really stop them?

Before Orin can say anything further, she tells her 'not tonight' and Orin swallows whatever she'd been planning to say back. Yes, rest seems like the best option.

We. It sounds unfamiliar but nice. Always going at things alone, trying to desperately win approval all on her own, it's a shocking realization that she is no longer alone.

"You will stay with me, then?" Orin asks. She is not a child, she can rest all on her own, but she'd be lying if she said having him at her side wouldn't make her feel safer.

"well," neyvin considers it, for a moment, "then they'll have to go through me to do so, and they know that." he said simply. he reaches down, and whispers one more word, and the firbolg casts sanctuary, adding an extra measure to the protection. they truly would have to get through him to get to orin, and he suspects the party knows well enough that to try to come between neyvin and those under his protection was a reminder that even the most passive of dogs have teeth.

it's not that they forgive the tragedy and travesty orin has wrecked on the city, on those he has come to care for. it's not their place to do so. it's also not their place to allow harm to come to someone who has quite truly left everything they knew behind to try anew. they take a breath, as they look at orin, taking in her surprise.

"what you once knew no longer matters..." neyvin echos, with a slight frown.

she thinks about it, "i don't think that's strictly true. parts of what you knew still hold meaning and value. and in some regards, looking at what you knew through that lens of the upside down might be a good place to start." her hand is gentle, and rests on orin's shoulder. a comforting presence, a warmth.

"not tonight, though." they said, shaking their head. "tomorrow, we can look at where we will go from here." we. a conscious reminder for orin that she is not alone anymore. neyvin had made the choice to spare her, to try and save her, and they would stand by that - stand by her - and help her find a new footing. a footing free of bhaal's cruelty, expectations, and influence. "for tonight, simply rest as best you can. i will watch over you."

[murdermade]

Truthfully, if it were that much of an issue, Orin could simply change her hairstyle. It is the perks of being a changling but she rather enjoys her long hair and she likes it when people brush her hair even more.

Not that she'd ever admit to Jaheira that she enjoys this.

Silence overcomes Orin as she awaits an answer from the other woman. A gloomy sort of air around her with the question that she had asked. Both Bhaal and her Grandfather didn't care about her and it is like her entire world has come crashing down around her.

"For so long, I thought they cared about me. I worshiped them." Them, she's not just talking about Bhaal at this point. Everything she'd known is flipped upside down - she's lost and doesn't know where to go from here.

She's confused, too, because everyone else hates her. Rightly so but Jaheira? She's helping her, even brushing her hair, such a silly thing to get caught up on but she's never had someone brush her hair with such care before.

Nor has she had anyone hold such belief in her. Orin has a hard time deciding whether it is fake hope or truthful when she doesn't even know what it's like to get that approval or belief. She seems genuine but the druid could just be saying it to placate her.

"Why?" Orin suddenly speaks up after a long stretch of silence. "I have tried to slaughter you and your friends on more than one occasion. They hate me - shouldn't you, as well? I do not understand why you are so willing to help me."

"Well, I commend you for it!" she said, pausing her brushing and resting the comb in her lap. "I can barely manage my own hair these days. I wouldn't know what to do if it were as long as yours."

Her smile faded, bit by bit, as Orin’s question hung in the air. The weight of it was familiar, suffocating in its own way, and she had no easy answer.

She couldn’t pretend to know how Orin felt about Bhaal, the god who loomed like a curse over her entire existence. But Jaheira knew what it was like to lose everything. To have everything ripped away, to stand in the wreckage of what you’d once called a life, unsure if you could ever rebuild.

"More than once, the Lord of Murder threw his children into wars they had no chance of winning." Her voice grew tight as she spoke, her lips pressing into a thin line. She had to be careful now — Orin had enough to deal with. “And more than once those children were abandoned.”

It reminded her of Abdel Adrian, the friend she had fought beside for so many years. The similarities were haunting, as if there was a persistent echo of him in Orin — an echo she couldn’t ignore.

"New beginnings are hard, harder than anyone lets on. But I know you can do it."  The words felt like a plea as much as they were a reassurance, and she forced herself to stay composed, to keep the tremor of fear and uncertainty from creeping into her words.

What if she can't, indeed?

She had walked this road before. She had seen too much loss, too many paths cut short by forces beyond control. And though the faces were different, the stakes were just as high. Every rational thought screamed at Jaheira to turn away, to abandon this reckless hope before it consumed her. She knew, deep down, that this path — this impossible belief that Orin could overcome whar Bhaal made her to be — was likely to be the death of her.

Jaheira's heart tightened as the thought of Abdel surged in her mind yet again. Her companion. Her friend. Her lover. She had seen that same struggle in him, the same fear. And just like with Abdel, Jaheira couldn’t bring herself to turn away, no matter how treacherous the path ahead with Orin seemed.

Sometimes, survival was about just holding on to the smallest sliver of hope, even when everything else had crumbled.

"The world is vast — so much bigger than Baldur's Gate, bigger than anything Bhaal has touched. If this place doesn’t feel like a home to you, that’s alright." She exhaled softly. "Whatever you choose, know that you don’t have to face it alone. I’ll help you find your place, be it here, or elsewhere... This story is now yours to write." She added quietly, offering not just words, but her hand, her help — if Orin would take it.

[murdermade]

The command that they offer her has her huffing at them but Orin stops her squirming, at least. They're right, Bhaal does not deserve the satisfaction of seeing her dead. That is the one thing that drives her to listen to them.

Her teeth grit together as he lays her down on the cloak. Her entire body hurts from her various wounds, she can barely move, and she hates being this helpless. She wants to get up but she doesn't think she has the strength to do so.

Safe? With this group? Orin wants to laugh but does not have the energy to do so. She assumes they would sooner see her dead than help her, which is why she is so surprised that Neyvin is helping her.

"Perhaps I am safe with you but what of the others?" They want her dead and Orin can not blame a single one of them.

They speak in a language she does not recognize but the way her wounds are slowly starting to mend together, she is not worried about what the other is saying.

"Okay." Orin doesn't have the energy to fight with her, she'll remain right where she is, though she does not trust the others to not kill her in her sleep. It will make resting rather difficult. "What assurance do I have that the others will not harm me? They may not feel the same as you."

She tells Orin that she's proud of her and there is something inside of her that brings forth surprise, Orin blinking at the other multiple times in surprise and shock. All she's ever wanted is for someone to be proud of her, to love her, to approve of her. It stuns her into silence for a moment.

"My whole life has been turned upside down. What I once knew, no longer matters."

"stop." the tone neyvin uses is one they rarely pull out. "you're nearly dead already, and bhaal doesn't deserve that satisfaction." it's true. neyvin may not trust orin, but they knew that she was probably feeling quite terribly alone, and and certainly pained.

once they are a safe distance away from both the party, who are licking their own wounds and 'cleaning house' of the temple worshippers, he shifts her carefully to lay his cloak down and lays her down on the soft wool. "relax, i've got you. you're safe, now. you've got no reason to trust me on that, except that i have an oath i made pretty recently and i don't wanna fail that." he kneels at orin's side.

it's truly difficult to tell where her own blood began and her outfit began. so, neyvin finds what is likely the largest of her wounds, and begins to heal her. their hands are gentle and careful, moving over the wound as they murmur blessings and prayers to illianis, all spoken in giant.

the healing is less potent than it usually would be, but he suspects there might be alternating divinities impeding on his attempts to soothe and heal. he exhausts his divine healing on her, ensuring she would remain stable, though he was not able to heal her back to her full self. they suspect that may last longer than these wounds themselves would.

"you need to remain here while we rest. laying down is probably best, if you move too much you might reopen those inujuries." she reaches down and gently pushes a few loose pieces of orin's hair off of her forehead. she doesn't look at orin, instead scanning the area around them, having ensured they can see any potential invisible creatures. "i'm proud of you for telling bhaal where to stick it." she said, quietly. "no one deserves the way you were treated."

[murdermade]

"I can." Orin says firmly, though she understands that they are meant to be keeping a low-profile and she'd been rather vague on the specifications of being touched.

Orin glances at the body before her and then back to Ketheric, faltering for a moment. She's never had to dispose of bodies before! Usually, she leaves them displayed like artwork. She's supposed to get rid of the body now?

"You dispose of it." Orin pauses for a moment, she realizes that she can not just order Ketheric around as if he is one of the many Bhaalists that previously obeyed her. "At the very least, help me get rid of the wretched meatbag."

"Of course not."

The General quickly confirmed that he'd expected no less of Orin, before fixing her with his best attempt at a stern fatherly glare, "You cannot just murder someone because they touched you," An obvious observation to anyone else, perhaps, "Save it for the Lordling's servants."

An acceptable compromise, he hoped.

"I do hope you had a plan for disposing of this," Ketheric continued, "We cannot afford uproar - attracting undue attention. Gortash's..." A wave of a hand as he searched for the name, "--steampunk, Watcher things.... would swarm us in an instant."

A glance back towards camp, "And for as much as I do not doubt our little band's strength - it would be best to avoid confrontation with the new guards where we can. At least until we can reach their beating heart in the Foundry."