#second was me fucking around as durge

[mittthrawnuruodo]

:: Ezolhrin | The Dark Urge ::

[drowmoment]

More Baphy's.

[michanvalentine]

So, I started my second playthrough as Astarion. Partly because I wanted to try romance with Shadowheart (I'm not sure I would have succeeded with the vampire available at the camp, lol), partly because I wanted to understand Astarion's character even more deeply. Fortunately, having already played the game I'm going significantly faster (and therefore my husband probably won't ask for a divorce). At the moment I don't want to talk about this second experience of mine, but only express some of my reflections regarding the character of Astarion. I certainly won't say anything new, but bear with me, I'm of a certain age and I only finished the game recently! xD

Astarion: It's not fair, darling, I wanted to be the only one holding knives to other people's throats!

Browsing the web I often read that Astarion is evil. I think instead that judging him is all too easy, if we consider his vulnerabilities. And yes, that's exactly what it's about: vulnerability. Because Astarion doesn't have the means to defend himself or approach the world in a way that we would consider healthy. For example, Tav/Durge could easily take advantage of him and Astarion would let him do it, which is uniquely sad (spare me, I only saw it on YouTube, I would never dream of doing something like that to him). As much as he tries to disguise it with his charm and his sharp tongue, Astarion is a victim. At the beginning of the game he still thinks and acts as if he had never left Cazador's pleasure chambers, despite the freedom he has gained. One of the very first things he does is prostitute himself for Tav/Durge's favor, hell! And if they wants, Tav/Durge can act towards him as a surrogate master who decides for him (what he can or cannot eat, whether or not to bite the perverted blood merchant, etc); and, again, Astarion will let them do it, because he is used to it that way. And when things go differently, he is surprised and doesn't know how to react. Astarion knows nothing else. He is literally incapable of anything else. Cazador himself says it, in a truly chilling way. Because it's damn true. And sad. In the mind of the abuser, the one who created and shaped him, it is clear as day: without a figure to refer to, for better or for worse, Astarion does not know what to do with his life. Not anymore. Not after Cazador made him his obedient puppet. For 200 fucking years. In fact, Cazador is certain that without the presence of Tav/Durge (the alternative) Astarion will return home to him. Even if it means sinking into a nightmare again. Or even die. Because Astarion has nothing and no one out there for him. And it's such a real concept that it breaks my heart, because even in real life abusers scorch earth around those who are unfortunate enough to end up in their clutches. So that they can never escape from them.

Astarion: I mean... five minutes ago I was in the kennel... and now I have to save the world without even a bit of therapy?!?! Of cooourse, what fun!!!

Yes, Astarion was once a magistrate. And no, not a corrupt magistrate; there is no evidence of this in the game and as far as I know the old concept for his character has been discarded. On the other hand, I have the clear feeling that he was a rather severe and intransigent magistrate, yes, which may have led him to the tragic night of the attack by the Gur. In any case, the person he once was is dead and buried. Cazador took it. Eradicated in 200 years of torture and replaced with another existence: the vampiric one. And we know well what the rules of vampiric society are: Vellioth passed them on to Cazador and Cazodor to Astarion. So the magistrate (with all his wealth of experience) is no longer a part of him that Astarion can appeal to extricate himself from the complexity of the situations he suddenly finds himself experiencing, free from the control of his master. The boy doesn't even remember what color his eyes were anymore! And that's why he is completely defenseless. And scared. Even the possibility of finally being able to decide causes him deep anxiety.

By defenseless I mean that he does not have the skills (or at least a shred of self-esteem) to manage relationships or situations in an adequate and healthy way, let's be clear. Therefore on many occasions he acts or reacts (and it is how he behaves, let's underline it, not what he is) selfishly or even cruelly. Often just to give himself a tone and not always feel miserable as usual.

So I wonder if someone who has just begun to live again, to rediscover the world and himself, can be called evil. At the end of his quest Astarion himself will declare in front of his tomb that he must figure out who he is and what he wants. So the Astarion we met at the beginning can't be the real Astarion, right? It cannot and must not be the Astarion on which to base an objective judgement. Not to mention that being evil and performing evil acts are two completely different things. Wyll is a good guy, yet he made a deal with a devil, for example. In extreme situations even the kindest and most sensitive person in the world could find themselves carrying out controversial actions. None of us will ever know what we are capable of, for better or for worse, until we find ourselves in similar situations.

If we then consider the context in which the character of Astarion moves, I wonder more about why there is such a stir. In Faerûn killing, threaten or deceiving are the order of the day. For everyone, including heroes. Lady Ailyn is literally a beacon of hope, a demigoddess daughter of a good deity, yet she can be terrifying. The way she punishes the wicked is inhumane, violent. Outraging the body of the downed enemy is not a good deed. It even goes beyond punishing the evil one in question. For us in the real world it is a crime punishable by law. For her it's a personal matter, of course, we know this from her story. So why can't Astarion enjoy violence and blood? He is a vampire, he cannot eradicate certain instincts. And it's great to hear him say it in his own voice, point out the hypocrisy and the double standards: "It turns out no one actually cares about murder, as long as you murder the right people." And after 200 years of impotence, tasting power and enjoying it seems to me at least the least. Of course, it's not a good thing when it comes to bending others to your will. But, as stated, carrying out an evil action (or boasting about it, because Astarion often barks and doesn't bite) does not necessarily mean being evil.

Astarion: I see you there, stumbling. Pathetic. Leave room for the professional, who better than a rogue can move lightly on the thin line between good and evil?

I think that saying Astarion is evil is completely flattening his character. People are not that simple, nor are circumstances or where we come from. At the beginning of the journey he behaves like an asshole, yes, and exceeds in his base instincts which he must learn to control. But he is willing and able to learn and that makes all the difference in the world. Of course this depends on Tav/Durge, on the player himself, the only one who can show him another way. Or not.

I also add another consideration; and I get involved too because I'm human and not a saint. In living everyday life we ���​are much more similar to the character of Astarion than to the classic hero. In small things, of course, we mind our own business, we try to avoid trouble, we compete with others to achieve a goal to the detriment of competitors, we don't risk our lives for complete strangers, at most we call the police; effectively letting someone else deal with it. All this while having a normal life, without having to fight for survival. We lie, we talk badly about someone behind their back, we hurt the people around us. Then maybe we'll apologize... but I'll tell you a secret: Astarion is also capable of doing it! So I wonder if sometimes it's so easy to be so hard on him because in him we see the worst traits of human beings, our worst traits. The ones we reject. Just as Astarion is harsh towards those who share his same fate, because: "I just... I never want to see these little scraps of misery again. The world doesn't need to know my shame."

To top it off, the game and interactions change depending on how the player approaches their adventure. The choices I made in my heroic playthrough probably led me to see a part of Astarion that was decidedly human and not very monstrous. And despite my heroic (and rhetorical, lol) acts, his approval was always pretty high. Let's say I had fun defeating him with my patience, unconditional trust and so much kindness. I will never forget his line at the brothel: "Eugh, dont' be so nice to me! It makes me want to be nice back." Priceless.

[animentality]

Your post about Gortash being embarrassing and cringe and not realizing it is SO real to me. I think he is perfectly suave and charming to everyone except when it comes to someone he ACTUALLY likes, at which point his usual mask is useless because he has no idea how to cover up Real Feelings. The way he 🥺 and grins and blabbers nonstop to Durge at the coronation reunion is exhibit A for this of course. Personally I think he had no idea what was happening on his face during that, it just earnestly happened, and he probably THOUGHT he was being chill but he so wasnt. He is a 40 or 50 year old teenager with a crush and he’s clueless that it gets him acting like an idiot. Important Gortash characterisation (to me!)

It just makes sense to me given his history and overall emotional immaturity that he does not know how to express casual affection for something, let alone someONE. (And yeah the whole thing where he and Durge are both really smart people capable of near-flawless teamwork but they also genuinely make each other kind of stupid when they’re around each other. It tracks.)

He wooed Jannath with unimpeachable charm because he did not actually care about or love her (im really sorry Jannath 🫣) so he was just being a fake bastard, and thats easy. But real affection? Real love? He has no framework for that. Catch the Chosen of Bane in the most unbecoming act of ducking his head to hide his stupid smile after taking Durge’s hand in his. Embarrassing!

ANON, your mind.

It's powerful.

I am gnawing on the wonderful idea, because I love the concept of, Gortash is the perfect gentleman, he's great at copying others, at pretending to be a patriar, and exuding this carefully constructed charm.

He was raised by DEVILS. He was in a GANG.

He has Raphael's bullshit charm, and all these rough edges.

But he smooths them out, when he's trying to seduce rich women or arms dealer.

But that act doesn't work on the Dark Urge, of course, and he would never even try that sort of thing with them anyway.

Because anyone who seduces people for a living knows, not everyone reacts to the same tricks.

BUT.

Maybe he starts out trying to seduce them, by being cold and practical and intelligent...but then, surprise surprise.

it ends up not being an act. he finds the dark urge is warmer and more receptive than he thought they'd be, after decades of being alone.

and they have things in COMMON.

And he IS honest with them, as his partner.

And then, when he's NOT trying to seduce then....he accidentally seduces them...by being such a fucking nerd.

And THEN.

as you said.

He is SO dorky and cringe...because he's being honest, for one thing, AND he doesn't know how to act, when he genuinely likes someone, and isn't just trying to seduce them.

And he's THRILLED that that's what gets the Dark Urge hot under the collar.

The biggest freak in all of Baldur's Gate, meets the second biggest one, and they don't know how to act "right," but their version of right ends up being healthier than anything else they might have ever been capable of.

UGH, anon.

Do not SEND ME DOWN THIS RABBITHOLE.

You couldn't pry soft dorky lovestruck idiot Durgetash from my dead claws.

I think they committed horrible atrocities together.

I also think they were so sweet on each other, it would make Bhaal gag.

[celestialholz]

Be still made, my beloved crossbow (or 'let's talk about Durge's other other weapon... and maybe a bit about Stillmaker too')

You've read this post, friends. You know it's true, I know it's true. (And it's bloody beautiful by the way, lovely job @darkurgediaries.)

But wait, there's more.

Let's have a quick chat about the Hellfire Engine Crossbow, because if Stillmaker is Durge's blade from Gortash, this is Durge's side-bitch from him... or it was meant to be, anyway. Man never quite got around to piecing it all together.

Okay, let's start with er... I mean look at it. It's white, has a phoenix head on it - a creature that symbolises resurrection, rebirth and immortality, how very Durge, and is also associated with sun gods when Gortash is this easy to turn into a Lathanderan and that guy brings light to each new day - and it's also embossed with Gortash and the Steel Watch's black and gold motif.

And then you take a mechanical look at it and... hang on.

What are you doing here, Lightning Arrow? The Steel Watch don't have Lightning Arrow, but you know who does have Lightning Arrow? Rangers - archery experts, usually - at level nine and up. And who can we consider that's on level nine and is really good at archery?

And who can we consider who might run out of lightning-basic magic in the heat of battle; who is white, and has a theme of rebirth either by rejecting Daddy Bhaal outright or embracing them anew, and knows a sun-coded Radiant guy, and may once have had business in the Foundry?

Well hello The Dark Urge Vanilla Edition, our old spicy friend. There's also the lovely addition of Reposition Malefactor - Lightning Arrow, grab, Stillmaker stab. Classic Baldurian efficiency.

You know what kills me about Gortash's Radiant coding and Durge's Lightning? The first thing you see of lightning is its flash, its brilliance, and the second thing you see is its destruction. The light isn't the part that hurts you, but it's inextricably linked to the thing itself, just as you can't have the destruction without the light. Symbiosis. Gortash could have been thunder-coded, but... no. Thunder isn't destructive, not usually. It doesn't happen at the same time in the storm.

It's not symbiotic... it's not equal.

... Yeah no, I'm fine, not emotional at all. No sir, could not be me. Despite being level nine too, Gortash doesn't have Lightning Arrow. Why would you need lightning, when your beloved has it in their veins, when you've made them a crossbow specifically for it? You just bring the 'light' part, don't you?

Symbiosis. Peace and love on planet Faerûn. Anyway...

If we must consider the application of Lightning Arrow as a helpful aid to the depleted Storm Sorceror, we should probably consider Stillmaker's equivalent.

Hold Person. Hold. Person. Which, yes - very useful bit of utility for our lovely Durge to have, 100% - but then you consider the fifteen separate dimensions of romantic overtones in Durgetash and you just can't help but feel: Hold Person. It's a bloody hug. It's support. He's made it easier for you to slaughter people, which at least used to be your favourite thing to do.

So Gortash has A. made your murdering life much more fun because you can savour the kill and B. made sure you can still kill from a distance if anyone else happens to be around and you're tired.

What a complete fucking simp. 🥺❤

On the subject of Stillmaker in fact, much as the Fabricated Arbalest to the Hellfire Engine, it's rather different to Durge's main dagger, Bloodthirst.

This is pure function. Made to please Papa in the most gruesome way possible, whichever hand you feel like using to wield it.

Whereas Stillmaker... it's got an attached hug. It's got a wavy blade, perfect for the task of slicing and dicing - one that's very difficult to forge, that must have taken time and care.

... Well. Must have taken a mortal time and care. Because lest we forget, it's not the only wavy blade Durge owns.

... Seriously, Larian. How are you going to make both of them wavy. I'm on your ceiling fans.

It's two separate dimensions to Durge's life, in two blades with the same nastiness to them - absolute utility, versus actual care.

This is literally more intricate than the thing presumably given by a god. That's going to tear like a bitch, truly. And it's even got Bhaal's delightful countenance up front and centre. What was that devnote, about convincing the child of a god that they're not a monster? Mm...

Oh, I don't know. It's almost like, for a while anyway, Durge's connection to Gortash was more important than the one to their father. Maybe they wrote something about that very thing, in fact. Imagine. 🥲

I'd like to take this opportunity to also note the very violent and Thunder-mentioning text attached to the Hellfire Engine...

... And the fact it's found in three parts, because y'know, Dead Three.

There's only one minor flaw in this whole thing, really. One teensy little tiny problematic detail.

Sorcerors, unlike Gortash, can't use Heavy Crossbows.

... But, then, they can't use shortswords either.

I'll let you be the judge, shall I?

[y-rhywbeth2]

Incidentally, if you've ever wanted your Durge to fight like Bhaal for some reason - or would like to have Bhaal hunt them down in person if they resisted him - Bhaal's usual in-person tactics are wandering the area in stealth assassinating a bunch of guards (usually sowing panic, sometimes allowing them to scream leaving the bodies on display or even giving them a slow death so their comrades can watch them die) and then entering open combat with what little is left and then just really casually killing them all.

Knives is good, but killing people with your bare hands is best. Never be ashamed to just fucking punch people.

Bhaal also flat out doesn't care about healing, as you may have seen in the feral ending, and will keep fighting until the physical body collapses. Also gets more aggressive when an opponent manages to land a hit: he kills you, not the other way around.

Furthermore: be unkillable. Just fucking refuse to die no matter how many killing blows your opponents give you until they're literally yelling 'why won't you die??' at you. So ultimately all hitting Bhaal back does is make him murder you harder.

For textual illustrations, I collected some sections of Bhaal's fight/assassin scenes because I could. Also Cyric and his beloved pony:

"There's something beyond the outer curtain," he said, trying to gain Cyric's interest. He removed his scabbard and placed it upon the dusty banquet table. "Or so the watch says." Cyric had little concern for what lurked outside the walls to frighten his men. He decided to change the subject and asked, "How is my pony? That fellow carried me well, considering how hard I rode." "With rest it'll recover - provided someone doesn't kill it first," Dalzhel said, returning to the fireplace. "There are those who grumble that it has eaten better than the men." "It's proven more use!" Cyric snapped. The pony had carried him nearly one hundred and fifty miles over the last three days. A war-horse could not have done better. He considered threatening death to anyone who touched the pony, but rejected the idea. The order would breed resentment, and someone might take up the challenge.

You hear that, Cyric. 'Someone.'

I like to imagine Mask is laughing her head off in this scene, considering she's almost definitely aware of Bhaal lurking in the shadows spying for Myrkul and murdering two guys and listening to this conversation, and she knows exactly what he's going to do having heard that.

Sometimes Bhaal doesn't even kill them. Immediately.

Two of the men were pointedly looking away from the well. Since it still provided water, it was the one item the castle's periodic inhabitants kept in good repair. A moan, low-pitched and feral, issued from the well's depths. Tied to the blood-smeared crossbar was a gray cord that descended into the dark pit. Dalzhel stepped forward and grabbed the cord. Without speaking, he began to pull. An anguished scream rang out deep down the well. Dalzhel allowed the cry tocontinue for several seconds before dropping the cord. "What was that?" Cyric asked, peering into the black depths. "Edan, we think," Dalzhel reported. "He's still alive," Fane added informatively. "Every time we try to pull him up, he screams." Though he had seen many slow deaths, and had caused one or two himself, Cyric's stomach turned as he tried to imagine what had happened at the other end of the rope.

Cyric peered inside. Alrik faced the corner, kneeling in a pool of his own blood. He held his hands cupped in front of his stomach. A barbed, wooden tip protruded from his lower back, suggesting that a stake had been driven through his body. Because of the barbs, the stake could not be removed without dragging Alrik's intestines out with it.

"No!" A high screech followed. It did not fade, even after the man's throat should have gone hoarse. Cyric turned toward the gatehouse, unsure of what he would find. Few humans were capable of the efficient brutality with which Alrik and Edan had been tortured. Still, the thief moved at his best pace. If he appeared frightened of the murderer, his men would no longer be afraid of him - and that was an invitation for mutiny - Dalzhel and Fane followed close behind. By the time they reached the gatehouse, the scream was no longer audible. A dozen men had gathered in the stairwell, standing in a line running up to the second floor. Their torches cast a flickering yellow light on the walls. The men did not even notice Cyric when he arrived, so Fane bellowed, "Out of the way! Stand aside!" When the onlookers made no move to obey, Fane muscled a path up the stairway. Cyric and Dalzhel followed, eventually reaching a doorway. Five men stood inside, staring at a crumpled form in the center of the room. A dark pool was spreading about their feet, and the barest whisper of a croak came from the shape on the floor.

-

Cyric and his lieutenant were thinking along the same lines. During his life, Cyric had known many evil men. Not one was capable of what he had seen tonight. "Have the men gather in groups of six," the thief ordered. "One group in the great hall-" A terrified whinny sounded from outside, interrupting the instructions. "The stable," Dalzhel observed. The men mumbled, but stood still and waited for their orders. Again, the pony whinnied, this time sending chills down Cyric's spine. "We'd better have a look," he said, cringing at the thought of what they would find. The men on the stairs reluctantly started to ward the stable, Cyric and Dalzhel close behind. By the time the hawk-nosed man reached the ground floor, the pony was quiet. As Cyric stepped into the courtyard, a ghostly wail whistled through the castle. Outside the stable, ten men stood with their swords drawn, peering inside and clearly reluctant to enter. Cyric slopped his way across the ward and pushed them aside. Grabbing a torch, he entered the stable, his sword arm aching with the desire to lash out at something. The pony lay dead in its stall, a withered and puckered hole over its heart. The lips of its muzzle were twisted back in horror, and one eye stared directly at Cyric. Dalzhel approached and stood next to his commander. For a moment, he observed in silence, wondering whether or not Cyric was mourning the beast's death. Then he noticed something on the beam over the stall. "Look!" A circle of drops had been drawn in blood. Cyric had little trouble recognizing the Circle of Tears.

This is exactly how I play BG3 from the perspective of areas full of not-yet-hostile enemies:

"Milord, Captain Beresford bids me inform you that two guards are absent from the outer curtain." Deverell frowned then asked, "Is it still raining?" The page nodded. "Aye. The drops are as red as blood and as cold as ice." The boy could not keep his fear from showing itself in his voice. Deverell stopped whispering. "Then tell Beresford to worry no more, and we'll discipline the derelicts come morning. I've no doubt the guards are hiding from the strange weather." [...] The page entered again and approached Lord Deverell. In the room's silence, it was impossible not to hear his whisper. "Milord, Captain Beresford orders me report the absence of three sentries from the inner curtain." "The inner curtain?" Deverell exclaimed. "There, too?"

-

The halfling had no idea what it was that the guards were fighting, but he knew that it had torn through them with frightening speed. [...] The guards knew little more about their opponent than Sneakabout. Orrel had seen something crawl down a dark corner of the inner wall. A moment later, a timid-looking man had stepped out of the shadows and walked nonchalantly to the keep's entrance. Orrel and another guard had stepped out of the foyer to challenge him. He had knocked their halberds aside, then slipped a dagger out of his sleeve and killed them both with a single, long slash. A third guard had yelled an alarm, which had also proven fatal. The stranger had thrown a dagger through the guard's throat, silencing him in midscream. Fitch, the sergeant, had ordered the survivors to retreat inside. He felt foolish for running from a lone attacker, but the smooth efficiency with which the man killed left no doubt that he was no ordinary assassin. Because their assignment was to protect the keep tower, Fitch thought it wisest to retreat and bar the door, then send a man to call for help. His strategy didn't work. The doors were thick and heavy, designed for strength instead of manoeuvrability. As the sergeant and a guard pushed them into place, the stranger stepped out of the foyer. The guard died an instant later, the attacker's fingers wrapped around his larynx. Brandishing his sword, Sergeant Fitch yelled his last order to the men on the stairs. "In Azoun's name, keep him downstairs!"

To Adon's left, the stairs descended in a gentle, clockwise spiral. Five feet down, another torch hung in a sconce, casting its dingy light upon the cold stone steps. Where the stairwell curved out of sight, the shadows of four Cormyrians were retreating up the stairs. Each silhouette held a polearm. Judging from the shadows, it appeared a single man was pursuing them. One of the Cormyrian silhouettes lunged. A flurry of activity followed then a weak chuckle rolled up the stairs. An instant later, a man screamed in agony. The other three guards retreated another step. Their chain-mailed backs were visible to Adon now, but the attacker remained unseen. Adon could not believe a single man pressed so fiercely, but the shadow appeared to be nothing more. [...] A clamor arose outside the tower as word spread that the keep was under attack. The tattoo-headed man turned to listen for an instant then calmly returned his gaze to the two guards in front of him. The stranger stepped forward, slapping their halberds aside as if the weapons were no more than sticks.

He also has stupidly high AC:

The remaining live soldier shifted to the other side of the landing, then raised his sword. The guard was deliberately giving the god an opening so Adon could attack. Heedless of the trap, Bhaal stepped forward, and Adon swung his mace at the avatar's head. The god easily ducked the blow. Before the Cormyrian could slash, however, the Lord of Murder punched him in the abdomen. The man barely retained his balance and stumbled back on the landing [...] The Cormyrian obliged with a vicious overhead slash. Bhaal sidestepped it easily, moving backward toward Midnight's chamber. The magic-user's door flew open. Midnight stood in the entrance to her room, dagger in hand. She had been watching the battle in silence, cursing the loss of her spellbook and waiting for an opportunity to strike. Finally, it had come. She thrust the blade into the avatar's back. Bhaal's eyes widened in surprise. He started to turn, and Adon seized the chance for an easy attack, smashing his mace into the avatar's ribs. The god's knees buckled and he tumbled down the stairs, roaring in a rage. The avatar came to rest six steps down, Midnight's dagger still planted in his back. "Is he dead?" Midnight asked. Bhaal rose and glared at the magic-user, cursing in a language no human could duplicate. Without paying any attention to his wounds, the Lord of Murder jumped for the landing. The Cormyrian yelled and leaped to meet the avatar, blade flashing. Bhaal met the guard in midair, blocking the soldier's swordarm with a bone-crunching blow and simultaneously driving his fingers into the man's throat. The avatar reached the landing with the guard's gasping body in his hands, then dropped the corpse down the stairs without a second thought.

Bhaal lifted a hand and felt the wound. His fingers came away bloody. Without so much as turning around, he kicked backward, catching the cleric in the ribs. Adon flew into his chamber, crashed into his bed, then crumpled to the floor gasping for breath and wondering how he would ever pick himself up.

If you don't have a knife at hand, stabbing them with your own broken wrist bone is fine:

Without warning, Bhaal stopped and spun on his pursuer, jabbing at Cyric with the sharp bone protruding from his severed wrist. The fallen god followed the jab with an open-handed strike from his other hand. [...] Cyric was at Bhaal's back. The thief attacked with a vicious slash he hoped would cleave the avatar down to the breast bone. But Bhaal heard him coming and, easily breaking free of Dalzhel's hold, pivoted out of the way. The God of Assassins caught Cyric's arm, then used the thief's own momentum to throw him ten feet into the brush. As Cyric sailed past, Dalzhel snatched his sword off the ground then plunged the blade into the avatar's rib cage. Bhaal snarled and kicked the Zhentish soldier in the stomach.Dalzhel fell backward and landed with a crash. The Lord of Murder casually plucked Dalzhel's sword from between his ribs and tossed it aside. Then he leaped onto his opponent's prone form, thrusting the splintered stump of his wrist into Dalzhel's throat. Dalzhel screamed once then fell quiet.

Just wholesale beating the living daylights out of an opponent is also good, and I think this might be one of Bhaal's favourite memories (and fyi Cyric did not win the fight between them. Mask did):

Cyric slashed. Bhaal easily dodged, slapping the thief's sword hand aside. Cyric kicked, hoping to keep his attacker away. The avatar blocked the foot, then stepped in close and clipped his opponent's jaw with a fist as hard as stone. Cyric's ears rang and his head swam. He tried to swing his sword, but Bhaal hit him once more. The thief felt his body going limp. The Lord of Murder struck his jaw again, then his stomach, then continued pummeling Cyric until he dropped his weapon and flopped to the ground in a half-conscious heap. While Bhaal battered Cyric, Adon and Kelemvor rushed toward Midnight.

[daemon-in-my-head]

Sometimes I like to indulge in this fucked up idea and religious imagery that durgetash is literally just a devil tempting an angel, hear me out.

Durge is positively divine, Bhaalspawn are very much just aasimar with extra spice (meaning instead of devas they get a fiend as butler and instead of being predisposition for good alignments they're on the other side of the spectrum).

And then you have Gortash, who does everything to spite Raphael and, in turn, becomes very similar to him, proposing deals, being all frilly, literally using infernal machinery.

There's just something intriguing about a Bhaalspawn being corrupted by a Banite. Corrupted in a twisted way, where they once were devoted to their faith and slowly but surely the devil shows them there's more. Leads them away from Bhaals path.

Am I making sense? Idk. But I do like the idea of durge being that pure, innocent (in a twisted way) good faithful and then along comes the devil as a banite leading them astray purposefully.

Time to go scream into my pillow again

Edit; I know Durge would technically be considered a Titan (in terms of deity rank, not so much race) but no true "Titan" (e.g. Kraken, Empyrean, etc....) fits Durge. Cuz BG3 lore making sense ain't happening around here. Well unless Gortash scooped Durge out of the Chionthar or Bhaal is suddenly from the upper planes and we have a second form so hidden not even Durge or Bhaal know about it.

[downwithpeople]

bg3

bg3 was good. even if it wasn't good it's hard to deny that it became a key facet of my life for the past two weeks.

i'm gonna say bg3 isn't smart. it's like ordering a family meal from a fast food restaurant and slowly eating the whole thing yourself. it's a deeply stupid game and if it wasn't for how well it generally carries across the spectacle of the thing i think i would have written it off as a shameful attempt to remaster dragon age inquisition. the opening cutscene, with the nautiloid plowing into hell pursued by dragons, really got me hype for the whole thing.

i came into bg3 halfway through my second rogue trader campaign and bg3 feels much sloppier in the moment to moment play. this is because much like dnd 5e itself, bg3 is trying to be a simulation which sometimes makes moving around the map feel like herding four stupid cats. the plus side of this is that sometimes you can move and interact with the environment in a way that kinda feels like rennfaire hitman.

the mystery of the tadpole and all the weird mindflayer shit is cool. that it eventually becomes a fight against three evil power rangers combining their evil powers is a mark against it. i think the story as a whole suffers because instead of just focusing on the mindflayers, the emperor and maybe the githyanki, we have a separate bad guy for act 2 and two more completely different bad guys for act 3. it's like when an OVA for an anime comes out and it's all original story; yes the main plot is still important but let's spend 90 minutes fighting THIS guy! i also felt like the final choice the game presents you, to either side with the emperor or set prince orpheus free, is completely artificial. the emperor isn't stupid and he knows everything about you. he repeatedly insists that he wants to be your ally and your friend. all that, but he's still awfully quick to flip allegiance on you and embrace assimilation into the hive mind. for what? he's wrong about orpheus and stupid if he hasn't seen gale cast Magic Intercontinental Ballistic Missile.

i found most all of the companion characters to be very likable. i romanced shadowheart and wasn't disappointed. i was set up to hate astarion and gale but the latter is fine and the former is one of the most well-written, well-acted characters in the whole thing. i didn't care much for halsin, because he's a boring druid guy. i also didn't care much for jaheira, who doesn't join your party until the final act of the game and who i know nothing about because i haven't played bg1 or 2. the same is true of minsc, but minsc is fun and not a fantasy CIA agent.

the pacing of the game is a little odd. act 3 should by rights be the shortest act in terms of mandatory boss fights. the reality is that if you're even remotely completionist you're going to spend half of your playtime there. it's densely packed with sidequests and punchlines for set-ups from 50 hours ago, and if you're invested in the characters at all then you feel obligated to see their shit through. you also have some of the worst fucking quests and setpieces in the game in act 3, like oskar's stupid ghost mansion or the disappointing fight against orin.

i just started my dark urge playthrough and i'm ready to durge all over these suckers

[majorasnightmare]

thinking about isobel and ketheric, and my durge and ketheric, and isobel and my durge

like ketheric whos entire personality is centered around being a failed father, dirge who lives solely and exclusively for a father who does not love him, isobel being horribly violated for the sake of fatherly love in the name of a person shell never be again like excuse me this trio of people makes me go insane

ketheric and dirge like!! zealot recognizes zealot, ketheric knows what its like to be devoted wholeheartedly to a god who will discard you and thats explicitly why he has a businesslike relationship with myrkul, who KNOWSSS ketherics heart isnt in it but doesnt care, ketheric who never fully believed in the absolute plan but carried it out nonetheless, ketheric who nonsensically traded the death of the world for his daughters life, who in reality most likely traded his afterlife for isobels life, knowingly condemning himself to never see melodia again, to an eternity of torture at myrkuls hands, just so isobel can breathe again. dirge knowing with perfect clarity his own father would never do that for him. ketheric knowing that kind of hopeless devotion and willful blind ignorance leads to a kind of iron will that makes dirge genuinely dangerous but pitying the poor fool nonetheless because despite dirges clear intelligence and skill, despite his overwhelmingly obvious power, hes shackled to a self destructive idiot whod bite off his own arm just to spite the world who couldnt give a single fuck about dirges mental state or how that affects achieving bhaals OWN goals and fulfilling his OWN desires, because ketheric understands perfectly well a god will be stupid and selfish first and reasonable and measured second. dirge hating ketheric not just for being a wishywashy traitor who cant settle on something to be devoted to, but because ketheric has the shit figured out. its a zero sum game. theres no winning, only different types of losers, and embracing that truth means acknowledging his entire life has been a pointless self destructive waste that will never give him the satisfaction and actualization dirge craves, so its easier and more stable to just interpret ketheric as a coward. except hes going to kill himself for isobel. going to go through hell for her. theres a level of devotion and love and care there that dirge has only experienced once in his life and the memory of it is enough to drive him to madness, but despite it all ketheric IS competent. is level and measured and powerful and capable of looking past his own self interest to the far horizon of victory, is tactical and clever and willing to wade into the fray. so dirge hates, and admires, and envies, and pities, and reflexively seeks out and avoids ketheric in equal measure. wants to carve him up until he finally breaks, screaming for a god that wont hear him as just rewards for his insolence (because dirges loyalty will SURELY be rewarded, loyalty to his god and to his father, certainly), cant stand the idea of working alongside anyone else, hates being around him but hates doing things without him, falling into old habits of depravity just to get away from the cacophany of emotion and the introspection it tries to trigger.

and then ketheric is doing all of this for someone who doesnt really exist. the isobel he wants to revive isnt real. its a version of her thats stripped hollow of the things that make her, HER. he wants an isobel that doesnt love aylin, he wants an isobel that is content to remain in place and be protected by him, where he was the center of her world. he wants an isobel that hasnt existed for over a century. he wants an isobel like he remembers thinking of the days before melodia died. its why despite everything he gives up for her, if ketheric gets his hands on isobel he tadpoles her. the tadpoles are just a convenient tool for cutting away the unnecessary parts of a person, things they dont need and wont want afterwards. isobel mourns the father she had after her mother died, but ketheric wants the isobel she used to be when melodia was still present in their lives. the isobel after melodia died eventually left him for aylin. grew up and became a person outside of their small family and community. had interests and desires and goals that took her away from him. she doesnt need aylin, doesnt need anything besides family. thats whats important, thats whats worth ruining lives over. everything after isobel was just a failed copy, not even worth reminiscing over. everyone beyond isobel doesnt matter. desecrate the family tomb, abuse your son, drag your aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters out from the grave just to see if it works, if it sticks, because the whole world revolves around a little girl who stopped existing long before she died, because she became someone else someone new and left you floundering alone. youll get them back even if it means you burn in hell forever, those few precious moments are worth it, itll all be worth it, its already worth it. kill yourself kill the world because the only god worth dying for is the one found in between poorly scratched letters on a paper rotting from age that say "love you papa, -I T". live every day with the smoke and the rot knowing that your father loved you so much he cant even look at who you are now. live every day knowing its a gift you cant return to a man who doesnt see you, knowing that all youll ever have are ghosts that seek to hollow you out and play pretend with the shell. hes awful. hes horrible. hes a monster. hes your dad and he loves you so much its killing you. will kill you. has killed you. has killed everything you could ever want in your life. hes your dad. he read you stories when you were small. kept you from falling apart when your mother died. your rock in stormy seas. he wants to read you another story. its dark outside. its scary. this story has a happy ending. its just for you. the girl in the picture book has your name but doesnt look like you at all. its written in silver blood. theres an ache that wont leave, a rot that refuses to mend, a scar that wont close, and its all for love

thinking about dirge being the one to drag isobel from her coffin, to bring her back for the sake of sealing a pact that will end the world, going against his entire religion the whole reason for his existence just for the sake of fulfilling his own fathers dreams. children living at the behest of their parents, denied death for their fathers selfish whims. isobel autopsied and opened, layers peeled back. gortash and ketheric never exhumed a body, never prepared it for the grave, never made such an intimate study of death. gortash unwilling to bloody himself unnecessarily, ketheric unwilling to look past the deathmask to see isobels interior, so its dirge, it has to be him, the only one willing to bite down his own desires for the greater good. an unforgivable violation of autonomy, but the only one who thinks of it as such is the scion of the murder god. she cant consent. she cant choose to be apart of this, to sacrifice herself for a cause greater than herself. he has to inflict this upon her. life is suffering and madness and delusion. death is peace, and he is the holy vessel of transition from one state to the other. this? this is blasphemy. she has already fled this horrid blighted world for a better one, and here he is participating in blasphemous ritual. its for the sake of their plan, its for the sake of enacting his fathers dreams (as all children know, you are naught but a vessel to achieve the goals they could not in their time), but she cannot even take glory in the knowledge of her sacrifice, cannot even know she is a sacrifice until its too late to go back. carves open and peels back the picturesque skin, preserved by gloom and arid darkness and sealed stone to keep away the rot. peeling away the mask of Isobel Thorm to see the visceral rotting insides of a person ketheric cant stand to see.

clearing away the ruin and decay so something new can take its place. corpses are objects fled of souls, no longer a person, no longer anything and thus free to toy and play with as boredom and curiosity desires, but this is not a thing. this will again be a person, a vessel to trap someone inside of, to force them to suffer and persist and delude and live and he cant even ask if shell do it. do it to help him break the world and put an end to this madness forever. cant convince her of the rightousness of it, the necessity of it, cant help but use her for it. to gortash she is a token exchanged for power, to ketheric she is a snapshot of a better world he wants to go back to, but only here on this dirty bloodstained table with a bhaalspawn elbow deep in her organs is she a person, whos autonomy and personhood is being irrevocably violated. his nature is to free them of these shackles, to snip the cords and revel in the ensuing destruction, and here he is binding her again. the humiliation, the horror, of being set loose from this hellscape only to be brought back. to be dragged, kicking and screaming, back into living. to be subject to such awful blasphemy. here in the dark and the quiet where there is no voice to speak back to him, when there is no rushing blood or beating hearts to call forth his purpose, there and then does armageddons prophet desire forgiveness, only in this shadowed purgatory can someone truly see. when all the world lies dead at my feet, i will beg forgiveness from no one but you. lamb on the altar, holy blood, if such desecration was not necessary for the cleansing of suffering, i would never deign to subject you to it. to you alone do i tender my apologies, my blessed father may forgive this sin in light of the retribution it will call forth, but cruel fate has chosen you without your knowledge to bear this disgusting violation, and the only salve i can offer is that, gods willing, you will not suffer long. to live in a world that could give rise to something like me is a torture i would not wish upon anyone, and for the sake of my father i inflict it upon you nonetheless. when you rise, my only thoughts will be of murder, holy and pure. but here in the dark, when you are at peace and i am not, i think of you, and what youd want, and how no one would ever, COULD ever, ask for what i do to you here. here in the quiet i breathlessly whisper a prayer meant only for your ears, a second sin i cannot stop myself from committing, here where you cannot hear me but God surely can, a wish that i will surely pay for dearly, a punishment i endure willingly and without complaint, a smallest fraction of the torment i knowingly inflict upon you. i live, and soon so shall you, and for that, i will never know peace.

im so sorry. i did it for love

[cats-obsessions]

Dark Urge/Gortash

Just a Drabble I cant get out of my head- Durge is able to recover more of his memories along his travels back to Baldurs Gate, and Orin doesn’t bother telling Gortash that her kin has returned.

“Hello, Lordling”

The Dark Urge, Son of Bhaal, Nox leans back against the old, mahogany desk in his dear friend, Gortash’s office where he’s been waiting, ever patiently, for the tyrant to arrive.

It’s luxurious to a point Nox had once found gaudy, but the room gives him a warm feeling in his chest now.  Some parts of his memories echo through his empty brain as mere feelings and impressions. Some remain vivid, yet the bulk of what he could access shows glimpses of his life only in the months before Orin’s attack, but he knows they go deeper. Flashes of late night scheming, shared heists, interrogations, pools of blood, carefully plotted assassinations, then, the smell of avernus clinging to their skin amidst a first kiss. All of it went back to him- Gortash, not Bhaal. Not his fathers wishes or the Urge or even the temple. Everything in Nox’s empty brain was bringing him here.

He let his companions greet the new archduke on their own, but he watched from the shadows, the disappointment in Gortash’s eyes betraying the tyrant, but this was a meeting better had in privacy. The very same newly coronated archduke stands in front of him now for the first time in only the gods know how long.

“Fuck off,” Gortash grumbles, a tight frown on his face. The large double doors of the office swing closed behind him. As their eyes meet, Nox can see the extent of exhaustion that permeates the tyrant’s being. Circles much darker than usual shroud his near-black eyes. His hair had grown in the past two months, resting on his collarbones in disarray. Even the way he breathes sings of discontent.

Nox tilts his head, unmoving from his spot on the lord’s desk “Not the welcome home I was hoping for. I can understand your anger, but-”

“-Orin” the duke hisses sharply, “I have better things to do than this. As do you. Make yourself useful for once.”

Orin. Something in Nox’s chest sinks with the realization, “She’s been mocking you with my face? Gods- I’m going to kill that inbred little bitch the second I see her” he growls.

That earned a raised eyebrow from Enver, but the duke keeps wary eyes trained on his assassin “I’m not playing your games this time” he sighs.

“I assure you, Enver, I am not here to play games.”

Nox watches as Gortash moves across the room to his liquor cabinet against the wall, fine wood gilded in gold. The duke’s eyes stay trained on him, even as he begins to pour a glass of fine, amber whiskey. “Yes, yes, you will slash me in two, bathe in my blood, and what was it-” Gortash pauses to take a long, slow sip, sighing once again “-wear my intestines as a scarf? No matter- all the same, uncouth drabble with you.”

“Not until the end. And not like that. I won’t kill you until- unless we are the last two living in all the realm. First you, then me.” Nox clenches his fingers, his jaw tightening and untightening as he feels the images of Enver’s death set in behind his eyes. The Urge whispers for him to take the Banite now, but he knows better. He takes a slow, deep breath, reaching instinctively to the band around his wrist. He focuses on the feelings to ground himself for a moment before continuing. “I believe that was the promise I made you before- Well, things are hazy- a lobotomy does that to you.”

Enver stops, his glass half raised to his lips as his eyes widen. Nox can nearly see his thoughts, debates. He’s questioning if Orin could have such knowledge, if Orin could keep calm this long in a conversation, if Orin could push down her Urge. Nox gives a lopsided smile as he continues. “I don’t remember everything, but I remember you. I came back for you- to stand by you. As we are meant to be.”

It only takes a few seconds for Gortash to cross the room, his glass crashing into the golden tray below it, well abandoned; and Nox smiles, allowing his shirt collar to be grasped tightly in the duke’s hands. Gortash crowds his space, leering at him. There’s venom in his expression, but just below that lies hope.

“Prove it or die.”

How many times had Orin tried this? How many times did she dangle Nox in front of Enver? Did she pretend to return to him just like this? Or simply take his form to berate the tyrant lord? The thought makes the teifling’s blood boil. But he will save that rage for later.

Nox huffs out a chuckle, “If I were Orin, I would have my fucking dagger, and this goddamn tadpole wouldn’t be in my head, Enver.”

His words are enough, and Gortash yanks the collar of his shirt forward until they are pressed against each other, their lips colliding in a rough, forceful kiss that dissolves into desperation. For Nox, it’s familiar and new all at once as if he were acting out a scene he had only seen in a play; he knew Enver’s taste, his smell, the way he was rough and gentle all at once. Yet, feeling it rather than seeing it through a haze of lost memories and confusion was enough to make his knees weak.

“You have a tadpole in your head. You gods damned idiot.” Enver smiled against his lips, words devoid of venom. His hands move up to cup Nox’s face, warm gold of Gortash’s gauntlets pressing against his cheeks. “I have missed you so, my dearest.”

“I missed you, too.” Nox chuckles, and his cheeks warm up as if the words were meant to stay inside his mind- as if he was supposed to be ashamed by such thoughts, but the way Enver pulls him closer makes him think perhaps it is okay not to be ashamed about some things. Perhaps, whatever lingering worry circles in his mind from before does not matter anymore.

[baldursgrave69]

Bite

Rating: NSFW - MATURE, MDNI

Pairing: Enver Gortash x fem!durge (named)

Word count: 1.2k

Tags: MDNI, afab!durge, unprotected sex, piv, vaginal fingering, fingering, biting, mentions of blood

While writing this I was listening to: Sugar by Sleep Token

Enver turned the corner into the throne room, his eyes falling on Agnes, stark naked on Ketheric’s throne, a sly smile on her face.

“Hello, Enver,” Agnes purred, spreading her legs so that Enver could see how wet she was. She brought a hand up to cup her breast, her eyes trained on his as she rolled her nipple in between her thumb and forefinger. Enver smirked, walking towards her in the throne room as he watched her head loll back, her free hand trailing down her body towards her clit. Enver watched her slender fingers tease at her entrance, his mouth hanging slightly open as he began to stroke himself through his trousers.

“Did I say you could touch yourself?” Agnes growled, pulling her hand away and snapping her legs shut. Enver let out a huff, his hand coming back to his side. He walked over to her, placing his hands on the armrests of Ketheric’s throne, leaning his face towards her.

“I am so very tired of these games you keep playing, bhaalspawn,” Gortash murmured against her lips, leaning forward to kiss her. Agnes placed her hand on his chest, keeping their lips from connecting.

“You’re a terrible liar, Enver,” Agnes teased, her hand sliding up to his throat. She could feel his erection pressing against her core as she tightened her grip around his throat. “You were hard before you even walked into the room, my dear tyrant,”

Enver tried to hide the smile on his face as Agnes slightly loosened the grip she had on his throat, her thumb tracing circles on the side of his neck. He leaned into her touch, leaning his head towards her.

“Now, kiss me sweet,” she whispered, hovering her lips over his. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to hers gently. Agnes sighed against him, sliding her hand to the back of his neck. Her eyes trailed from his down to the ground, raising an eyebrow at him.

Enver rolled his eyes, leaning down and scooting himself between her knees, his hands wandering across her naked body. He pulled back, eyes trailing from her face down to her breasts. Enver leaned forward, his tongue darting out to swirl around her nipple, his other hand sliding up her thigh to her hip. Agnes let out a moan, her fingers threading into his hair. Enver closed his lips around her nipple, his other hand pushing Agnes’ legs apart as he sucked.

“Enver,” Agnes breathed, spreading her legs for him. He pulled his head back, eyes trailing down to see her folds glistening. He smiled, bringing his fingers up to wet his fingers with her need.

“You’re so wet for me,” he groaned, slowly slipping a finger inside her. Agnes huffed as he languidly pumped his finger into her, smirking up at her as she whimpered. He added a second finger, picking up the pace as he leaned forward and begin pressing kisses to her stomach. He trailed his lips down her abdomen, nipping at her sides.

“Fuck, Enver please,” Agnes murmured, chasing his lips with her body as he pulled away from her.

“What is it, pet?” He asked as she writhed against him. He knew what she wanted. She wanted his teeth. But he wanted to hear her say it.

“Bite me,” she whispered, looking down at him as he continued to fuck her with his fingers.

“Mmm,” he hummed grazing his teeth across her thigh. Agnes shuddered under his touch, his fingers repeatedly hitting the sweet spot inside that made her tremble. Enver pressed a gentle kiss to her thigh before sinking his teeth into the flesh. Agnes moaned loudly, tightening her grip on his hair as he pistoned his fingers in and out of her, her wetness dripping down his wrist.

“Oh gods,” she cried, the feeling of his teeth piercing her skin sending pain and pleasure through her body. Enver could taste the sweet iron of her blood on his tongue as he pulled back, lapping at the beads of red dripping out of the wound. “You’re delicious,” he purred, feeling how close she was to coming on his fingers. Agnes groaned as he removed his fingers from her, bringing them up to his mouth to lick her need off of them.

“If you want to come, it’s going to be on my cock, pet,” Enver grinned, standing to remove his trousers. Agnes leaned back in Ketheric’s throne, watching as Enver pulled his trousers down, his erection straining against his small clothes. Agnes was breathing heavily, eyes half lidded as she watched him pull off his underwear, his cock impossibly hard, the tip pink and wet with pre-spend.

Agnes propped herself up, her legs spread and ready for him.

“Ah ah, turn around,” Enver smirked, gesturing for her to turn away from him. Agnes narrowed her gaze, contemplating whether or not she was willing to delay her own pleasure to deny him his. She huffed, slowly standing and turning to face the back of the throne, placing her hands on the back rest. She spread her legs slightly, swaying her hips as she looked over her shoulder at Enver.

“Hells,” He hissed, walking towards her and bringing a hand forward to grab her ass. He dug his fingers into her flesh, groaning as she leaned into him. He pressed the head of his cock to her entrance, collecting her need with his fingers and wetting his length. Agnes whimpered as he slowly pushed his tip into her, her walls stretching around him.

Enver began to thrust into her, one hand gripping her hip as the other braced himself against the throne’s arm rest. He leaned against her, pulling her back onto his cock. Agnes rested her head on her arms, gripping the head rest of the throne as Enver thrust into her.

“Gods, you’re so tight,” Enver moaned, resting his head against her back, his fingers digging in to her flesh. He kissed her between her shoulder blades as he fucked her, bringing his hand around to circle her clit.

Agnes could feel her climax approaching, Enver’s thrusts and his fingers circling her clit bringing a wave of pleasure over her. He could tell she was close, leaning forward so that his lips trailed along her shoulder.

“You can come for me, can’t you Agnes?” He whispered, teasing her skin with his teeth. Agnes was beyond words, moans and grunts falling from her mouth as he begin to nip at her shoulder. Agnes’ orgasm rushed over her as Enver sank his teeth into her shoulder, both of his hands moving to her hips. He stilled his thrusts, his teeth buried in her flesh as she came on his cock, her walls clenching around him. Enver felt his own climax rushing over him as he was buried inside her. He came with a grunt, biting down harder on Agnes as he spilled into her.

Enver pulled out of her, taking a step back to allow Agnes to steady herself.

“Ketheric is going to be so pissed,” Agnes smirked, turning to face Enver. He had a drop of her blood trailing down his chin as he looked at her, breathing still ragged. His tongue darted out of his mouth to lap up the blood, causing Agnes to let out a groan. Enver raised an eyebrow at her, watching her mouth hang open as she zeroed in on his lips.

“Seriously?” He asked, still trying to catch his breath, his hands resting on his hips.

Agnes smiled at him, her lip tucked between her teeth as she slowly nodded.

[moonstone-blues]

Rambling about the Weave Scene because I swoon every time: FT crap quality gifs and my pretty Durge:

This shot is genuinely so fucking funny to me. When Gale propositions this scene, he has a bit of a flirty tone. Then if you talk to those in camp EVERYONE is like "oh yeah, you're totally fucking later". So my Durge (Sylphona) finally approaches him, her mind set on fucking this man only to see him looking longingly at a projection of his ex. The fucking pan over to her looking so done is the best.

Not going to lie: this gif is the whole reason for this post. I'm a slut for walking around each other while staring into each other's eyes. The tender smiles. I was wrong, they are fucking but with their expressions.

The Narrator says here: "A slither of Weave that tastes sweet on the tongue." And Sylphona LOOKS AT HIM. Not just at him- she glances at his lower face for a split second too! Girl you want him so bad.

"There's something like the anticipation of a kiss." Gale's turn to be down bad. Sylphona even does a little double take when she notices Gale looking back at her.

But of course our boy turns away when Mystra is mentioned by the Narrator. Sylphona has only smiled genuinly in three circumstances: Petting animals, thinking of muder and this. Her smile is strange and awkward but genuine. Also Gale's happiness at sharing this experience with someone. Sylphona is a bard so she knows how magic feels but now she's feeling it the way Gale feels it. They're in harmony.

Nothing really to say here, just wholesome :)

"The night suddenly feels cold and lonesome." Even though Gale seemed receptive to her intrusive thoughts about smooching, she didn't feel a confirmation. Whether this is due to them loosing concentration on the magic or Mystra meddled. (Mystra. When I catch you, Mystra- Mystra when I catch yOU, MYSTRA)

His little "Oh..." when the magic goes. He was enjoying himself :( and THEN "How easily things slip away from us." You can't tell me he didn't want to stay in that image of them together for just a bit longer. And Sylphona just giving him the biggest puppy dog eyes in response.

The fact he keeps his eyes on her as he backs away. They want each other so bad it makes them look stupid. Especially since Gale, babes, I don't know why you're leaving- we're at your tent.

In conclusion: I love this scene. Gale X Durge my beloved.

[wafflerageface]

Hello! I'd love to hear about any OCs you want to talk about, and any durgetash fic ideas you're thinking about!!

First and foremost I’m in love with the name 😭 it’s so good

Secondly I have SO MANY OCs to talk about it’s kinda hard to pick one… I’ve been writing little short stories since I was seven (albeit they haven’t always been of quality) so there’s so much lore I could vomit about. To keep on brand with the user name though I could definitely talk about my Durge for hours.

She’s my pfp currently (I’ve got some good screenshots of her somewhere around here) Her name is Aria, and she’s a necromancer bard who plays the violin to channel her music! Literally when creating her just thought “It’d be cool to have a bard raise the dead while playing danze macabre on a violin” and thus she was born

She’s my favourite little fucked up character. I think that, out of all of my OCs, she’s my second most favourite. The only reason she doesn’t take #1 is because that’s for my first ever character who will forever remain the heavy weight champion of stupid and fucked up.

My favourite tidbit about Aria is that, when creating her, I wasn’t entirely sure how to make her look. She’s a half elf (given the other parent is a god) but aside from that I was completely stumped. Since music is her entire theme, especially given her name and that she was born from the concept of playing violin, I actually decided to look up where the violin was invented, which is northern Italy! During the 16th century even. So I based her appearance off the stereotypical (according to google no one @ me I’ve never left my country) Northern Italians. With the lighting I feel like it’s hard to tell sometimes but she’s meant to have a very rich golden tan, she’s super freckle head to toe, gold curls, and very green eyes.

As far as Durgetash fics go… I have several in mind I’ve wanted to write. I love writing. So I really want to do a big fic following their entire journey from Aria meeting Gortash to the entire adventure with the Tadpole Party to ending of the story and how they resolve everything. I also have a few AU ideas that I think would be fun to play around with, like what if Gortash found Durge before the rest of the party, what if Gortash was the Durge and Durge the Chosen of Bane, a regency era AU… I could go on. I’ve always liked writing fanfic, even if I never posted it, but this is the first time I’ve ever really been gripped so tightly by the characters and story. I’ve never wanted to do AUs before so it’s almost overwhelming just how much I want to write about my two idiots, but for over a year now they’ve been my favourite two idiots

[justsierrasart]

ORIN IS THE DARK URGE’S DAUGHTER - HEADCANON

Lycoris and Orin

Alright guys. This one’s going to be a woosy. I do not like the Orin incest plot line. I hate it, in fact. And I also do not like the lack of proper connection between Orin and The Dark Urge. The Dark Urge lore itself is a bit plot-holey (I highly recommend reading this reddit thread by u/TheLaughingWolf to understand the rest of this rant, and supplementary, this one by u/Thelmageworks to become an Orin sympathizer.)

My point is - I love the Dark Urge’s grim past and uncontrollable urges. I don’t love the final version of their lore. So I fucking rewrote it for myself, and wanna share my hyper fixated art within this headcanon of mine, so I’m going to explain it. This headcanon is specifically written for my drow Durge - Lycoris, but I’m fine with people using it for their Durges with modification. It doesn’t make sense for the original Durge (Dragonborn). To reiterate - the incest made me uncomfortable and the lore felt incomplete so I rewrote it for myself — not trying to step on any toes. This somehow still contains incest because I made it up before finishing my Durge run and didn’t realize he was actually related to Bhaal, literally and not figuratively. But it’s less than what we have in canon. Let’s go.

I’m assuming you know the canon Durge lore and have read the reddit thread above.

1. The Durge (my Lycoris) is a Bhaalspawn born like other Bhaalspawns, in 1357 (a year before Bhaal’s death in 1358). Genetically, he is half his biological mother’s genes and half Bhaal’s genes (not a half drow because Bhaal’s race doesn’t change his spawn’s race because he’s a deity, not a human). However Bhaal’s essence duplicated itself in him, instead of splitting like it did with the other Bhaalspawn. This was part of Bhaal’s plan - he intended one of his spawns to be superior (like in canon - the Durge is made of his flesh). This also makes it so bhaal’s revival makes sense despite Lycoris being alive — he’s not holding any of his divinity as he has his own. He is raised outside the cult like canon Durge and joins later on.

Young Lycoris, pre-cult

2. When he joins the cult, later than his siblings, he quickly rises up in ranks and is revealed to be the superior Bhaalspawn. Lycoris is, like in canon, Bhaal’s favorite, and is also Bhaal’s stallion as said. But he does this “breeding” (which still sounds gross) outside of the cult, to further spread Bhaalspawn into the world. Sarevok sees this and because he thinks very highly of himself, wants his blood to mix with Lycoris’. He’s somewhat infatuated with his absolute vile sadism, and being the weirdo he is, wants to breed with him. Obviously can’t do that because they’re both male, so decides to breed his daughter, Helena with him. Here’s where I accidentally did incest again - Helena is technically Lycoris’ half-niece (Sarevok is his half-brother through Bhaal). This is in the 1450s-60s.

3. 1465 Orin is born out of Lycoris and Helena. Lycoris has always had somewhat of a soft spot for kids (as ritualistically murderous as he is, he doesn’t enjoy murdering kids for no reason like he does adults). He also had never stuck around and seen his spawn be born and exist. The second he sees her, he’s absolutely in love. She becomes the center of his universe. Classic evil evil father daughter where he’s a vile maniac and has no morals, except for loving his daughter to the moon and back. Helena, on the other hand, is quite cold to Orin from the get go. She loves her, but in a distant way. She knows loving a bhaalspawn child is useless, Lycoris does too, but doesn’t really care. Additionally, he loves her so deeply that his urges cannot get to her.

4. As per canon, Helena attacks Orin when she’s 7, causing her to make her first kill. Lycoris, though generally a very loving father, is also a murder cult leader, so he’s quite proud of her for this. From there on, he teaches Orin his ways, and watches her bloom into the absolute erratic maniac we know and love. He’s amused by her artistic approach to murder like a dad is amused at his child’s art - something Bhaal doesn’t necessarily approve of but tolerates (as Lycoris is his favorite).

Orin, Lycoris, and Helena. Orin is 14, Lycoris 98 (when Orin is born), Helena 35 (when she is killed by Orin).

5. Orin, as a child, loved her father very much, much more than her mother or grandfather, whom she respected more than loved. Their bond was beyond that of any bond seen within the cult. Sarevok, who was the reason she existed, thought this was completely unjust. Because he can’t let people be happy, he starts planting the seeds of envy and hatred in teenage Orin. That, combined with the competitive nature of the cult and the sheer amount of spoiling Lycoris subjected her to (he was a loving father but not necessarily a good parent with healthy boundaries - he never punished her, never said a mean word to her, never set any boundaries - she grew up thinking the world is her oyster.) resulted in her wanting all of his power for herself. She didn’t really want to kill him — she did love him deeply, but she was also very envious and her only coping mechanism with anything, ever, had always been murder. Lycoris welcomed this enthusiasm, and did not feel concerned about her threats of violence. He encouraged her to hunt him and murder him if she thought she could. He knew she couldn’t.

6. She couldn’t. Many, many times, she tried her hand at assassinating him, only getting slightly condescending constructive criticism in response. However finally, in 1492, she gained the upper hand on her father, almost killing him, but hesitating, and leaving him in his tadpole-amnesiac state we seem him as in the nautiloid. She deemed his love for her a weakness, and raised a bet that he would, as an amnesiac, resist his urges and become a weakling (be a decent person). She believed her existence had already been enough to debase his authority — he was not the Dark Urge that came to rise up the ranks and hold power that he was before. She was as powerful as him, if not more. Her oversight, of course, was that she was also as weak as him. She loved her father and could never kill him.

7. He remembers her now after getting his memories back, and he’s desperately searching for her (wants to turn her to redemption too). Because I made sure he’s nice to every single kid he meets (being a papa bear deep inside all along), Yenna is at camp and Orin kidnaps her. Because how dare you take my dad. Also to be extra mean to a Lycoris - you think you can replace me? Nope. I’ll steal that one too.

So that’s where that’s at. I haven’t gotten to the Orin boss fight in this run yet and so haven’t decided if I should give her a, potentially cheesy, redemption arc or if I should be absolutely vile to Lycoris and make him murder his baby girl. Haven’t decided yet 🤭

If you don’t like my silly angst headcanon please just scroll by, don’t be mean! <3 Thanks for reading this nerd shit if you did!

Credits : Lycoris’ face design is a custom preset by the incredible Toarie on NexusMods, specifically Petric Body Type 4.

[animentality]

I saw this tweet in the wild today, and I'm rolling my eyes.

a few things.

1) If your Durge is a lesbian, then don't ship her with Gortash.

easy as that. nowhere in the goddamn game does it force you to make out with him. it's entirely up to you what you imagine your Durge doing. in fact durgetash is so obscure, you can miss it entirely.

2) You canNOT tell me that durgetash fans are hounding you and telling you your lesbian Durge is legally obligated to marry Enver Gortash.

no one on the planet cares about your oc more than theirs. they're out here shipping their GAY Durges with Gortash. world doesn't revolve around your character, I'm so sorry to tell you. other people made their own characters to fuck Gortash with.

please try not to faint or vomit as you remember that other people play baldurs gate 3 other than you.

3) Stop pretending/implying that people who like Gortash are morally bad people. You just don't like the ship or Gortash. and that's fine.

literally 99% of the fandom agrees with you.

the straight male audience which makes up most of the BG3 fandom totally agrees with you. go be friends with them.

Gortash love is such a niche fucking freak thing, like, really? there are literally dozens of us. most everyone hates him for being evil or ugly or both. you jabbing at us while pretending to be the victim when you are, in fact, the majority is laughable.

I just don't get these tweets because I know for a fucking fact that durgetash is an obscure fucking crack ship.

I know for a fact that Gortash lovers are just a small but passionate group of freaks, that are in no way the majority.

I also just don't believe for five seconds that anyone is out there telling you that you have to ship durgetash.

just say you don't like the ship or move on.

keep shipping your Durge with Astarion or Shadowheart.

God knows they've never done anything wrong in their lives.

and finally 4) No one who is a fan of Enver Gortash thinks he's not a piece of shit.

I hate Twitter. fucking clout chasers.

why don't you grow a spine and have an opinion you actually stand by instead of aiming at easy targets so you can feel like people like you

[bitethedevil]

I’m having fun on my “fuck the emperor (no not literally this time)”-run

The Emperor: And now you’ve come to murder me…

My Durge: Why does everyone always think I want to murder them? :(( I just want to talk

*Around 30 seconds later*

My Durge: *stabs him* >:)