#the drow political intrigue continues

[cosmicveils]

Astarion/Tav (male Seldarine drow) fic "Chasing the Sunlight" update; 31147 words @ ao3

“I’ve had so many knives stuck into me, when they hand me a flower I can’t quite make out what it is. It takes time.” —Charles Bukowski, Screams From the Balcony

>find it here on ao3

[colonelarr0w]

Promised Protector

Sypnosis - When a particularly pushy Araj begins to make Astarion revert to a past self that he had been trying so desperately to grow from, it leaves you to step in. It leaves Astarion with a small realization -- you did care for him, really truly cared for him.

Warning(s) - mature themes, foul language, mentions of abuse (physical and sexual), Araj being an ass, slightly OOC Astarion

Word Count - 1.8k

A/N - Trying my hand at BG3 fanfiction. I have yet to actually play the game, so I'm going purely based off of the playthroughs of others and random clips that I've found sprinkled around YouTube. I do plan to write more for this little vampiric shit, so y'all can leave requests for him as well!

“Must we be here darling? I’m not rather fond of dungeons with … medieval torture devices.”

You bite back the breathy chuckle in your throat as you continue forward, eyes expertly searching your surroundings to ensure that no creature in the dark would ambush you or Astarion. 

“For a creature that usually prefers the dark, you’re quite the complainer,” you bite back, tilting your head to cast a glance at the vampire over your shoulder. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, shooting you a warning glare – one that you laugh off. 

“And for a creature as clumsy as yourself, you’re doing quite well in avoiding any potential traps.” Astarion’s eyebrow raises as you now shoot him a glare. His shoulders rise and fall in a nonchalant shrug as he moves to walk in sync with you, scarlet eyes scanning his surroundings before they allow themselves to return to you.

“I am not clumsy. It was one time,” you roll your eyes, continuing forward and clenching your jaw as Astarion dares to chuckle at your side. “Rich coming from the one who threw a tantrum even after I revived him.”

“Darling, need I remind you that you dropped an entire building on my head?” Astarion whips his head to the side to face you, his eyes narrowed now in a pointed glare that only brings a wide smile to your face. In any other situation, he too would have smiled simply at the sight of your own, but your revealed teeth only make his chest twist in faux anger. 

“And need I remind you that it was an accident?” 

“In what world is dropping a building on someone an accident?” Astarion murmurs under his breath, stopping when you do. Your eyes flicker to a figure standing just a few feet in front of you – a drow. 

She turns as your footsteps and Astarion’s become more audible, curiosity painting itself onto your face as you both approach. Her eyebrows raise, and you’re not sure if her expression is one of intrigue. 

“Hello,” you say politely, bowing your head in greeting as the drow eyes you curiously, irises raking over the entirety of your figure before they curiously flicker to peer at Astarion. 

“Araj Obladra, a pleasure,” the drow returns just as politely as you, her head dipping in the same bow that you had offered her. “How nice it is to stand in the presence of a True Soul … and her paled companion.”

Astarion’s eyes roll at the nickname, you catch it just out of the corner of your eye. But you choose to ignore it for the sake of not wanting to stir up any unnecessary drama – you had come to Araj for a reason, after all. 

“I’ve traveled to inquire about your services if you’re willing to provide them,” you explain, already noticing a glint in Araj’s eye. You’re not quite sure what expression it’s meant to convey, but from the way that she shifts from one foot to another, your gut tells you that it may not be the most positive. 

Another thing you notice … how her gaze continuously flickers to Astarion. 

“But of course,” Araj replies without hesitation, angling her body so that it faces Astarion rather than you. Your eyes narrow, brows momentarily pinching together. Just what was she playing at?

“You seem … interested in my pale friend here,” you think aloud, immediately wishing that you could swallow your words the moment that you register both Astarion and Araj’s reactions. 

“It is not every day that one encounters a vampire spawn,” Araj notes, the term bringing a disgusting taste to Astarion’s tongue. His nose scrunches in that same disgust, and for a moment, a flicker of anger dares to flare up within the depths of your chest. “After all, in exchange for blood, I craft potions.”

A hum rumbles in your throat, though you say nothing. Araj continues, choosing to ignore the expression you wear – the anger that you so clearly display. 

“All I truly need is a single drop, and then whatever potion you require … well, I can brew it,” she explains, finally moving from where she stands to circle you and Astarion. It reminds you of a predatory lion, one with slit-like pupils that eyes its prey before promptly pouncing on it. 

“And with the rest of it?” you prompt with a raise of your eyebrow. “My blood, I mean.”

“I shall keep it for myself … other potions need to be crafted, as you well know.”

She steps forward, extending her hand and holding her palm out to you. For a moment, you simply think, pondering whether or not you should even trust the drow – especially considering how her eyes still dared to flicker to Astarion. Why was she so interested in him?

You can sense Astarion’s worry from over your shoulder, the feeling rippling off of him like rolling ocean waves. But even with it, you lay your palm over Araj’s. 

“There, finished,” Araj says, already stepping back from you the moment that your skin comes into contact with her own. Her eyes, once again, meet Astarion’s. 

“And now wh—“

Araj’s attention turns completely now to Astarion, who momentarily falters underneath her gaze. His worry for you morphs silently into disgust directed at the drow. 

“There’s still much to discuss,” Araj comments, a smirk just barely pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Such as your paled companion.”

Astarion glances at you, and in return, he’s met with an expression of suppressed anger and jealousy — that would be a conversation for later, he dictates. 

“He’s a vampire, is he not? Or vampire spawn?” Araj’s eyes wander over Astarion, drifting down his entire body and ignoring the way that his eyes narrow in a glare at her. She turns then back to you, once again choosing to ignore the fury that glints in the depths of your eyes. 

“He belongs to you, am I correct?”

If you weren’t angry before, you were now. Your eyes flicker to Astarion, his expression a mixture of hurt and shock – it was one that you had never seen him wear before, and with the way it made your heart positively crack, you never wanted to see it again. 

“The last I checked, he was his own person,” you turn to Araj angrily, “he does not belong to anyone.” 

Araj bites back the chuckle that threatens to crawl up her throat, lifting a hand in front of her mouth as she laughs breathily into the skin of her palm. Your teeth grind against each other, jaw setting into place as the drow regains herself. 

“Oh, you were serious?” Her eyebrow lifts, the sight of it taking everything in you to not lunge at her and promptly wedge the blade of your dagger into the skin of her neck. “It’s adorable really … if he truly believes you, that is.”

Astarion swears he could hear one of your teeth chip with how roughly you set your jaw into place. His eyes wander down to your hands, taking note of how they clench into white-knuckled fists. Your fingers itch towards the blade in its holster, but you fight the urge to remove it. 

“Does your spawn have a name?” Araj shifts her attention back to Astarion, eyeing him once again. He opens his mouth to speak, but with a speed that feels almost inhuman, you answer for him. 

“His name is Astarion, and if you dare to call him my spawn again, I will surely–”

“Now, now darling!” Astarion’s hand closes around your mouth, palm pressing to your lips as he flashes you a too-sweet smile – hoping to whatever God was above him that you wouldn’t turn your anger onto him and plunge a dagger between his eyebrows. “Let’s be civil, yes?”

You bite back the angered insult that bubbles up in your chest, swallowing your words and settling back on your feet. Astarion nods, slowly removing his hand from your mouth before he turns to Araj.

“It’s been quite the dream of mine, being bit by a vampire … spawn or the like,” Araj explains, her tone taking on an almost dream-like lull. You can already feel the bile rising in your throat.

And it seems that Astarion shares your sentiment, what with the way that his eyebrows raised and his lips curled in that adorable little scowl. 

“I’ll have to decline,” Astarion is quick to answer, shaking his head and taking a tentative step away from Araj, almost as if he’s trying to hide his body behind your own. You allow it, going so far as to then sidestep him and stand protectively in front of him – an action that he smiles gently at. 

“I’ll compensate–”

“He said no, thank you very much,” you butt in, glaring down your nose at the overbearing drow. She falters on her feet for a moment, but just as quickly, she recollects herself. “We’ll be going now.”

You turn on your heel, reaching swiftly for Astarion’s hand before promptly leaving – not once sparing a glance to the disappointed drow over your shoulder. 

< … >

“Darling?” Astarion hesitantly lifts the flap of your tent, ducking beneath it and entering. You hum from where you sit at your desk, tilting your head slightly to show your acknowledgment. “Are you alright? Your lively presence was missed. You left me to deal with … them … on my own.”

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose as you turn in your seat to look at Astarion. At the sight of your face, he falters, his expression softening. 

“You’re still upset over that vile drow, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am Astarion!” you rise from your place, throwing your hands up. He flinches, not having expected a violent outburst from you. 

“She … she thought that I had ownership of you! All because of what, the fact that you’re a spawn and not a vampire? The nerve of some creatures disgusts me! I mean honestly–!”

“Darling.”

You pause, head lifting so that your gaze finally meets Astarion’s awaiting gaze. His eyes are soft as they gaze at you, lips turned upward in a smile of equal softness. He approaches you, offering his hands to you – which you take without hesitation. 

“I want you to know that I … appreciate what you did for me today,” Astarion admits quietly, speaking low enough that you could barely hear him. “It has been many years since I was able to choose my own.”

You soften, squeezing at his hands. “Astarion, you deserve to have your own voice. Nobody should be able to control what you do besides … well … you.”

He draws you closer to his chest, arms locking around your waist as his face buries itself into your hair. You chuckle lightly, returning his embrace and laying your face against his shoulder. 

For 200 years, Astarion had never known the sound of his own voice. 

But now?

Now he knew the sound of it, and he knew that it mattered. 

[moonselune]

By the Silk that Binds Us (pt. 13)

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Matron!Minthara x Wife!reader

An arranged marriage, enemies to lovers fic: part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven part eight part nine part ten part eleven part twelve part fourteen

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The grand dining hall of House Baenre was a feast for the senses, its dim yet radiant glow casting a rich tapestry of light and shadow across the cavernous space. Flickering candlelight reflected off the polished blackstone walls, accentuating carvings of spiders spinning webs of power and intrigue. The dining table was a masterpiece of excess, heaped with a banquet of the Underdark's finest: tender rothé, glazed cave fish, and sugared fungi arranged alongside flasks of crimson wine poured into goblets adorned with amethyst spiders.

Tonight’s celebration was a rare reprieve, a moment of pride as the Baenre family gathered to honor Lira’s first kill—a rite of passage that carried with it the weight of both pride and consequence. Lira sat near the head of the table, her posture straight, her face carefully composed, but the faint tremor in her hands betrayed the thrill of achievement and the realization of what it meant. Her little ruby eyes burned with determination, a spark mirrored in her triplet siblings, Sarae and Viroen, who watched her with both admiration and a growing sense of rivalry.

The atmosphere was uncharacteristically light. Even Kyorlin, often reserved and aloof, had joined the festivities, his expression softened into a rare smile. Goblets were raised, and voices joined in a toast to Lira’s accomplishment, the sound reverberating through the hall like a hymn to ambition and survival.

Yet beneath the revelry, an unspoken truth lingered: Lira’s achievement painted a target on her back. In drow society, a first kill was more than a moment of triumph; it was a declaration of power, a signal that one had stepped onto the precarious path of political and familial ascension.

Lesaonar sat at the center of the table, his face a study in pride tempered by worry. He watched his children closely, particularly Sarae, who fiddled with her goblet, her lips twitching with the barely restrained urge to one-up her sister’s victory. When Lesaonar caught her gaze, his eyes softened, though his brow remained furrowed with a father’s quiet anxiety.

Kyorlin, seated beside him, leaned over to murmur something, his tone low and reassuring. Whatever he said seemed to ease Lesaonar’s tension, the faintest smile breaking through his guarded expression. It was a fleeting moment of familial solidarity, one that felt fragile but genuine.

The celebration held an air of inevitability. Sarae and Viroen, though outwardly congratulatory, were already measuring themselves against their sister. The rivalry between the triplets was palpable, but tonight, it was muted, their ambitions momentarily eclipsed by the unity of their house. This unity, however, would not last.

Days later, that fragile harmony shattered. The family was gathered again for the evening meal when Sarae limped into the hall, her movements stiff, her robes bloodied from a recent duel gone awry. Her head was bowed, and her crimson eyes glistened with humiliation as she took her place at the table.

The room fell silent, the once-celebratory atmosphere replaced by an oppressive weight. Melinoe, who oversaw the triplets’ training, fixed her daughter with a stern, unforgiving glare.

“A Baenre does not fail so miserably,” she declared, her voice sharp enough to cut through stone. “Especially not my daughter. I expected more from you, Sarae.”

Sarae flinched but said nothing, her fists clenched tightly in her lap. Lesaonar’s face tightened as he glanced at his wife, his jaw working silently. He remained quiet, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. Melinoe’s critique grew sharper, her words dripping with disdain.

“You will be better,” she continued coldly, “or perhaps I’ve expected too much. A true Baenre would never—”

“Enough!” Lesaonar’s voice erupted, startling even the youngest at the table. His fists slammed onto the table, rattling the silverware. “She’s still a child. How can you expect perfection from her at every moment?”

The hall fell deathly quiet. All eyes turned to Lesaonar, his rare outburst hanging heavily in the air. Minthara, seated at the head of the table, turned her gaze to him, her crimson eyes narrowing.

“Remember your place, Lesaonar,” she said, her tone icy and controlled. The weight of her authority settled over him like a shroud, a reminder of the rigid matriarchy within House Baenre.

Lesaonar hesitated, his anger still simmering, but he relented, sinking back into his chair with a look of resignation. Minthara’s gaze swept over the room, her expression unreadable, before settling back on the meal before her.

The tension, however, did not dissipate. Melinoe, emboldened by Minthara’s rebuke, turned her scorn back to Sarae.

“Perhaps she has simply inherited her father’s weakness,” she said, her lips curling into a sneer. “One would hope she would be stronger than—”

“Enough, Melinoe.” Your voice, calm yet unyielding, cut through the rising storm. All eyes turned to you as you met Melinoe’s gaze with unwavering calm. “Is it not you who oversees their training?” you asked, your tone steady but pointed. “If Sarae falters, does it not reflect on the skill and wisdom of her teacher?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Melinoe’s expression twisted with outrage, but she was rendered momentarily speechless. Minthara’s gaze flickered between you and Melinoe, her face a mask of neutrality, though a spark of acknowledgment flashed in her eyes.

“You hold her to impossible standards,” you continued, your tone softening but remaining firm. “But if she stumbles, perhaps the fault lies not solely with her but with the one responsible for shaping her.”

Melinoe’s face flushed, her anger palpable, but she bit back her retort. For once, she had no words, her authority undermined by your own and the weight of your argument. Minthara finally spoke, her voice steady and authoritative.

“The expectations upon the Baenre children are high,” she said, her crimson eyes sweeping over the room. “We all bear responsibility for their success and their failures. There will be no more blame cast without it being shared.”

Her words reestablished a tenuous peace, the family settling into an uneasy quiet. Lesaonar’s shoulders relaxed, and he offered you a small, grateful nod. Melinoe, though seething, remained silent, her gaze fixed firmly on her plate. The triplets exchanged glances, their rivalry momentarily set aside as they absorbed the tension between their parents and the house’s matron.

The meal resumed, though the air remained heavy with unspoken tension. Forks scraped against plates, and goblets were refilled in silence, the once-celebratory atmosphere dampened by the earlier exchange. Lesaonar remained quiet, his focus seemingly on his plate, though his crimson eyes occasionally flickered toward Sarae with a mixture of concern and pride. Sarae sat stiffly, her head bowed as she poked at her food, while Viroen and Lira exchanged wary glances, uncertain of how to navigate the strained mood.

It was Kyorlin who finally broke the silence, his deep voice cutting through the awkward stillness.

“I have received word from the barracks,” he began, his tone measured but tinged with cautious optimism. “The Seldarine threat might finally be ebbing. My old comrades say the extremists seem to be retreating. If it’s true, Menzoberranzan may finally see some reprieve.”

The statement hung in the air for a moment before anyone responded. Several gazes turned toward Minthara, whose expression remained impassive as she leaned back in her seat. Her eyes flicked to Kyorlin, and though she said nothing at first, the sharpness of her gaze spoke volumes.

“Reprieve?” Minthara’s voice carried a note of skepticism. She placed her goblet down with deliberate precision, the sound of the metal base meeting the table breaking the quiet. “If Eilistraee’s extremists have already joined their ranks, as we suspect, their retreat is nothing more than a feint. They won’t stop until we have every one of their heads severed on pikes and hearts served on silver plates."

Kyorlin tilted his head slightly, acknowledging her point. “Perhaps. But it’s possible their losses have weakened them enough to scatter. Not every enemy retreats with the intention of regrouping.”

Minthara’s gaze hardened. “And not every retreat is a sign of defeat. The Eilistraee worshippers don’t think like us. Their faith makes them reckless fools, but also dangerous. Until we are certain they’re eradicated, Menzoberranzan and this house, cannot afford to relax.”

Her words carried the weight of finality, and Kyorlin did not press the issue further. Around the table, the family listened in silence, each member considering the implications. Even Melinoe, who had spent much of the evening seething, seemed to pause it to nod subtly in agreement with Minthara’s assessment.

The meal concluded with little fanfare, the servants moving efficiently to clear the table as the Baenre family dispersed. Lira and Viroen left first, their hushed whispers trailing off as they exited. Lesaonar lingered a moment before gently guiding Sarae to her feet, offering her a quiet word of encouragement before the two departed. Kyorlin stood and bowed his head slightly toward Minthara, his departure marked by his usual quiet efficiency.

You, however, remained seated, your gaze fixed on Melinoe. She noticed your lingering presence and raised an eyebrow, her irritation from earlier still visible in the taut lines of her face.

“Melinoe,” you said softly, though your tone carried an undeniable authority. “A word. Alone.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded curtly, following you out of the dining hall and into an adjacent chamber. Minthara gave you a look but you murmured you would join her your chambers soon.

The room was small and dimly lit, its furnishings sparse—a stark contrast to the opulence of the hall. The quiet here was oppressive, the weight of what needed to be said hanging heavily in the air. Melinoe folded her arms across her chest, her ruby eyes narrowing as she regarded you.

“What is it?” she asked sharply, her tone defensive. “Come to reprimand me further?”

“No,” you replied evenly, meeting her gaze without flinching. “I came to speak plainly.”

Her expression faltered for a moment, but she recovered quickly, her posture remaining rigid. “Then speak.”

You took a step closer, your voice lowering. “I understand your frustrations, Melinoe. Your expectations for Sarae, for all of them, are high. And they should be. But tonight, your words went too far.”

She bristled, her lips parting to retort, but you raised a hand to stop her.

“I’m not here to argue,” you continued. “I’m here to remind you of something you seem to have forgotten. These are your children. Not soldiers. Not pawns. Children.”

Her crimson eyes flickered, a mixture of anger and something softer—something she worked hard to suppress.

“They’re Baenres,” she countered, her voice quieter now but still sharp. “They don’t have the luxury of being children. Not in this house. Not in this city.”

“And yet,” you said, your tone softening, “if you strip them of what little innocence they have left, what will they become? Weapons, perhaps. But weapons break, Melinoe. They shatter under the weight of what they’re forced to endure.”

She said nothing, her arms tightening around herself as she looked away. For a moment, the mask slipped, and you saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes.

“You are a brilliant tactician,” you said gently, stepping closer. “A formidable assassin. But you are also their mother. And they need you to be that, as much as they need your strength.”

Melinoe’s jaw tightened, but her gaze softened just slightly.

“You think I don’t care for them?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “That I don’t want them to succeed?”

“I know you care,” you said firmly. “But sometimes, in your pursuit of their success, you forget what it is they’re fighting for. They’re not just Baenres. They’re your children. And they need to know you believe in them, not just in their victories, but in their ability to rise after a fall.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy but not unbearable. Finally, Melinoe sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

“You speak as if you know better,” she said, though there was no venom in her words. “But perhaps… there’s truth in what you say.”

You nodded, offering her a small, genuine smile. “It’s not about knowing better. It’s about seeing what we often overlook. That is what keeps us alive.”

She glanced away, her expression thoughtful, and for the first time that evening, the walls she’d built around herself seemed to crack. Though she said nothing further, her silence spoke of a reluctant understanding. As you left the room, you couldn’t help but hope that tonight’s events had planted a seed—one that might, in time, bear fruit.

The long corridors of House Baenre were bathed in the dim, eerie glow of faerzress, their twisting paths quiet save for the soft click of your boots against the stone floor. One hand rested instinctively on your swollen belly, a protective gesture you scarcely noticed anymore. The baby within you shifted, their tiny movements stirring a warmth in your chest that momentarily eased the tension of the evening’s events. As you made your way toward your chambers, a particularly strong kick startled you, drawing a soft chuckle.

“Already restless, are you?” you murmured to yourself, your tone affectionate as you breathed through the sharp pang of pain, that had recently come with a bought of dizziness and a complete, albeit temporary cut off from your magic. As if the babe was taking it all for itself for a brief moment.

A faint sound from the shadows made you pause, your keen ears picking up the light tread of approaching footsteps. Turning your head slightly, continuing your breathing, you saw Kyorlin emerge from the shadows, his crimson eyes catching the faint light. His expression was unusually hesitant, a contrast to his usual composed demeanor.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice low but genuine. His gaze flickered briefly to your midsection before returning to your face, concern etched faintly in his features.

You smiled, the world coming back into focuse and the warmth of his concern a welcome respite after the tension of the meal.

“I’m fine, Kyorlin. Just tired,” you replied. Your hand drifted to your belly again as another small kick rippled beneath your palm, but this time you felt your magic return to you. “They’ve been particularly active tonight.”

Kyorlin’s eyes lingered on your bump, his usual stoicism faltering for a moment as curiosity—and something else, something unspoken—flashed across his face.

“Active?” he echoed, his voice tinged with a hint of bewilderment.

You hesitated for a moment before gesturing toward him with a small, encouraging smile. “Do you want to feel?”

His crimson eyes widened slightly, and he stiffened, clearly caught off guard by the offer.

“I—” he began, glancing away as if searching for an excuse to decline. But something in your expression, perhaps the gentle patience you extended toward him, made him pause. Finally, he nodded, albeit reluctantly. “If… you don’t mind.”

You guided his hand to your belly, placing it carefully where the baby had been kicking. For a moment, nothing happened, and Kyorlin’s unease was almost palpable. Then, a tiny movement stirred beneath his palm—a faint but unmistakable sign of life.

His breath hitched ever so slightly, his crimson eyes widening as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d felt.

“It’s… strange,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was fleeting. Almost as quickly as he’d placed his hand, he withdrew it, his expression shifting back to something more reserved.

You laughed softly, brushing off his abrupt retreat as mere awkwardness.

“Strange, perhaps, but miraculous too,” you said warmly. “Thank you for humoring me.”

Kyorlin gave a small nod, his gaze flickering toward the ground for a moment before he straightened. His demeanor shifted slightly, becoming more purposeful.

“I wanted to speak with you about something,” he began, his tone carefully measured. “It’s about the guards.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious. “What about them?”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the corridor as if to ensure no one else was listening.

“Minthara has them working endlessly. The soldiers, too. Drills, patrols, constant vigilance—it’s wearing them down.” His voice grew quieter, a rare hint of vulnerability seeping through. “I’ve seen it in their eyes. They won’t say anything, of course. They’re too disciplined for that. But it’s hard to watch them pushed to their limits.”

You listened intently, his words stirring a pang of sympathy. Kyorlin had always been closer to the rank-and-file than most within the noble circles, his years of service in the barracks leaving him attuned to the struggles of those beneath him and you valued him for it.

“You think security should be relaxed?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

“I think…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I think balance is needed. The Seldarine may be retreating, as I said earlier. And if they’re not, the constant pressure will leave our forces vulnerable in other ways. Exhaustion is as dangerous as complacency.”

You considered his words, the truth in them undeniable. Minthara’s unwavering focus on strength and readiness was admirable, but even the strongest chain had its breaking point.

“I’ll speak to her,” you promised, your voice steady. “I can’t make any guarantees, but I’ll try to convince her to ease the burden, if only a little.”

Kyorlin inclined his head in gratitude, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. You felt a flicker of guilt, you would speak to MInthara but you can already picture her response - a mocking laugh and dismissal.

“Thank you,” he said simply, his tone sincere. He hesitated for a moment longer, as if there were more he wished to say, but then thought better of it. With a final nod, he turned and disappeared back into the shadows, leaving you alone once more.

When you return to your chambers, you find Minthara standing by the window, her arms crossed as she watches you approach. The faintest trace of impatience marks her features, and her eyes narrow as you close the door.

“Tell me,” she says, her voice low, “what you discussed with Melinoe.”

You lean against the door, your expression light, keeping your tone evasive. “We spoke of family matters.”

Minthara’s gaze sharpens, not missing your deflection.

“You softened her, didn’t you?” she accuses, her voice carrying an edge of irritation, as though the very idea rankles her.

You chuckle, walking past her to set aside the robes you’d worn to dinner, shaking your head. “Oh, don’t worry, my love. Whatever words I offered won’t be able to displace a lifetime of Baenre ruthlessness. She’s still herself, still the fierce creature you know.”

Minthara watches you closely, her eyes narrowing in appraisal, and though she opens her mouth to press further, she closes it again, grudgingly dropping the topic. She relaxes slightly, a faint, amused smirk tugging at her lips as she settles back against the edge of the bed, watching you with a new intensity. But before the silence between you grows too long, you turn to her with another matter on your mind.

“Have you tried dosing me with sussur lately?” you ask casually, though your eyes hold a trace of curiosity. "I’ve been feeling… off, as if my magic is distant. Sometimes it feels almost unreachable.”

Minthara arches a brow, clearly caught off-guard by the question. She meets your gaze, her own expression shifting briefly as though weighing how to answer.

“I have been giving you doses,” she admits after a pause, “but not of sussur.”

You hum thoughtfully, mulling this over. “Perhaps it’s just an odd reaction with my magic, then. Something seems different… more restrained.”

Minthara watches you, her gaze narrowing with concern for a fleeting moment before she recovers, her voice even and calm.

“I’ll look into it,” she promises, moving closer and resting her hands on your shoulders. “But it could be the child—magic thrives in the womb. Maybe they’re claiming it for themselves.”

You can’t help the smile that curves your lips.

“A strong child,” you say, a hint of pride filling your tone. “Likely siphoning my strength already.”

Minthara’s lips quirk in a faint smile, her hands sliding down your arms in a gesture of quiet reassurance.

“If that’s the case, then we’ll have nothing to worry about. They’ll come into the world with a power to rival the best of the Baenre.”

Her confidence and calm soothe you as she continues, her hands drifting to rest on your slightly rounded belly, her gaze filled with an unexpected tenderness. The quiet of your chambers was broken by a faint, trembling cry from down the room adjacent to you. Both you and Minthara turned your heads sharply, your attention drawn to the sound of distress.

“Lythaera,” you said softly, already moving toward the door. Minthara followed without a word, her usual sharpness replaced with maternal concern.

You found the child in her room, sitting up in her small, ornate bed. Tears streaked her pale cheeks, and her tiny hands clutched the blanket around her as though for protection. Her eyes were wide and frantic, darting around the room as if searching for something that wasn’t there.

“Lythaera,” Minthara said, her voice unusually gentle as she crossed the room swiftly. She scooped the child up into her arms, holding her close. “What’s wrong, my little one?”

Lythaera buried her face in Minthara’s shoulder, her sobs muffled but still audible. You moved closer, your heart aching at the sight of her distress. Gently, you reached out to stroke her hair, her small form trembling beneath your touch.

“Sweetheart,” you said softly, crouching to her eye level as Minthara held her. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

Lythaera lifted her head slightly, her cheeks flushed and damp with tears. Her voice was shaky, her words stumbling over themselves in her panic.

“I-I was burning,” she babbled, her small hands gripping at Minthara’s robes. “It was hot, Mama. Am I still burning?”

Minthara’s arms tightened protectively around the girl, and her expression darkened briefly—though whether it was at the imagined threat or her daughter’s fear, you couldn’t tell.

“You’re not burning, Lythaera,” Minthara assured her, her tone firm yet soothing. “You’re safe. Mama and I are here.”

You nodded, brushing Lythaera’s hair back from her face. “There’s no fire here, my love. Just us. You’re alright.”

The little girl sniffled, her tears slowing as she leaned into Minthara’s chest, comforted by your combined presence. Minthara sat down on the edge of Lythaera’s bed, cradling the child against her as you settled beside them.

For a few moments, the room was quiet again, the weight of the nightmare slowly lifting. As Lythaera began to calm, you glanced at Minthara, your earlier conversation with Kyorlin still lingering in your mind.

“Kyorlin approached me earlier,” you said softly, breaking the silence. “He asked me to speak with you about easing security. He’s concerned about the toll it’s taking on the guards.”

Minthara scoffed, her grip on Lythaera tightening slightly as she adjusted the child in her lap.

“Kyorlin is a fool if he thinks we can afford to relax now,” she said bluntly. “You’re pregnant. The Seldarine threat is far from over, and those Eilistraee extremists are like vipers in the grass. They’ll strike the moment we let our guard down.”

You’d expected her response, but you still felt compelled to press.

“He’s not wrong about exhaustion being a danger,” you said carefully. “We’ve pushed them hard. Perhaps we could find a way to—”

“No,” Minthara interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. “I won’t risk it. Not for their comfort, not for anything. Let them be tired. Better that than dead.”

At the mention of the Seldarine, Lythaera stirred, her small voice piping up hesitantly.

“S-sel-dar… Sel-darine?” she repeated, her tiny mouth stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

Minthara’s expression softened briefly as she looked down at her daughter, though her voice remained firm. “Yes, my little one. The Seldarine. They’re awful, terrible creatures. They would hurt us if they could.”

Lythaera blinked up at her, her brows furrowing in confusion. “Awful?” she echoed, her voice small.

Minthara nodded solemnly, her fingers brushing a stray curl from Lythaera’s face. “Very awful.”

Lythaera’s face scrunched up in concentration as she attempted another word she must have overheard. “And Eil… Eil-is-tree?”

You hid a small smile at her mispronunciation, but Minthara’s expression darkened slightly.

“Eilistraee,” Minthara corrected. “She’s just as bad, my love. Worse, even. Her followers want to destroy everything we’ve built.”

Lythaera’s little face twisted into a scowl, her crimson eyes flashing with childish indignation.

“I don’t like that name!” she declared, her small fists clenching. “Eil-is-tree is bad!”

Minthara’s lips quirked into a faint, approving smile, her fingers stroking Lythaera’s back soothingly.

“That’s right,” she said softly. “You’re a smart girl.”

You chuckled, leaning back slightly as you watched the exchange. Despite the tension of the conversation, there was something undeniably endearing about Lythaera’s fierce little declaration. Minthara’s protective hold on her daughter spoke volumes, her usual harshness tempered by a rare tenderness.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Unfortunately, your pregnancy had worsened over the past tenday. Now at 25 weeks, the dizziness that had plagued you occasionally during your pregnancy now came more frequently, sometimes leaving you lightheaded for long stretches. The baby’s movements were strong—sometimes too strong—and though you cherished the proof of their vitality, each kick seemed to sap what little energy you had. A faint, ever-present ache had settled into your body, and even simple tasks like standing for too long or climbing the estate's many stairs left you winded.

It was Minthara who called the healers, her tone sharp and unyielding when she ordered them to assess you. Their examinations were thorough, their probing hands and incantations leaving you feeling even more drained by the time they finished. When they finally delivered their conclusions, it wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it was no less frustrating.

“Stress,” the elder healer said, her lined face calm but firm. “The pregnancy is progressing normally, but the strain of your duties is taking its toll. If you continue like this, both you and the child may be at risk. I recommend stepping back from your responsibilities—earlier than planned.”

You bristled at the suggestion. Stepping back meant relinquishing control, even temporarily, and in Menzoberranzan, even a brief absence from power could invite ruin. Yet as the healer’s words settled in, you caught Minthara’s expression out of the corner of your eye. Her crimson eyes, sharp and assessing, left no room for argument.

“You’ll do as they say,” Minthara said bluntly, her voice brooking no dissent. “I won’t have you endangering yourself—or our child—because you’re too stubborn to rest.”

Reluctantly, you agreed. Over the next few days, you began to withdraw from your usual duties as Mistress of the house. Council meetings carried on without you, though Minthara kept you informed of their outcomes. Head of staff reported to Lesaoanar instead of you and the presence of the mistress' guard became increasingly present. You had caught one of them outside of bath chamber you had visited after a bought of nausea. You were not even allowed to mentor the younger girls of the house like you used to, Minthara had insisted that their shrill tones and excited shrieks were too much for you - although you supposed that was projection on her behalf.

You hated the sense of helplessness that came with your forced rest, hated the thought that the intricate workings of your house were happening without your direct involvement. But you couldn’t deny the faint relief you felt as the weight of responsibility began to lift, if only slightly. T

The routine changed fully when an emergency council meeting was called. Whispers had spread of Seldarine infiltrating other noble houses, a potential threat that required immediate attention. You instinctively rose to prepare for the meeting - surely this was too important for you to be excluded from? But Minthara intercepted you before you could leave your chambers.

“You’re not going,” she said firmly, stepping into your path.

“I should be there,” you argued, but the weariness in your own voice betrayed you.

“And risk collapsing in the middle of the council chamber?” Minthara’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll stay here. Watch the children. They’ll benefit from your presence, and you’ll benefit from not overextending yourself.”

You opened your mouth to argue further, but the faintest flicker of concern in her gaze silenced you. Reluctantly, you nodded, watching as she swept out of the room.

With only slight begrudging, you found yourself in the family common room, resting on a plush chaise as your child kicked within you. The triplets were already there, their usual boisterous energy filling the space. Sarae and Lira sat side by side, alight with mischief as they leaned toward Viroen. He stood a few paces away, his small arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to look defiant.

“You’re going to be sacrificed to Lolth next,” Lira said to Viroen, her crimson eyes gleaming with mock seriousness. Her delicate features, so much like her mother’s, were alight with amusement.

Sarae nodded solemnly, her expression an exaggerated mirror of her sister’s. “It’s true. The Priestess already said so.”

Viroen, to his credit, didn’t falter. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared them down with a defiance that belied his years.

“You’re lying,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “We already sacrificed baby Kel’ren last tenday. Lolth doesn’t need another sacrifice so soon.”

The twins burst into laughter, their facade crumbling as their brother’s response only fueled their amusement. Even Viroen couldn’t suppress a small, smug smile, clearly pleased with his own retort.

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, their morbid humor a testament to their Baenre upbringing. It was moments like these—brief flashes of innocence amid the cruelty of your world—that you cherished most.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed a small figure approaching. Lythaera, clutching her favorite plush spider, toddled over with determination. She reached your side and tugged gently at your sleeve, her wide crimson eyes filled with curiosity.

“Play colours?” she asked, her voice sweet and hopeful.

You smiled down at her, though your body felt heavy with fatigue. The game she suggested was simple enough, and you welcomed the opportunity to keep her entertained without expending too much energy.

“Alright, little one,” you said, adjusting yourself in your seat. “Let’s play. Tell me what color everyone’s eyes are.”

Lythaera’s face lit up with delight as she began the game. She pointed to each of the triplets in turn, her tiny finger aimed with precision.

“Sarae… red!” she declared with confidence. “Lira… red. Viroen… red.”

You nodded along, your smile growing. “Very good. And what about Mother and Unlce Lesaonar?”

Lythaera turned toward the door where her mother had last been, her expression thoughtful.

“Red!” she announced after a moment, looking back at you with pride.

You nodded again, pleased with her enthusiasm. “That’s right. And now… what about Uncle Kyorlin?”

Lythaera paused, her little brows furrowing in concentration. She tapped her chin with a finger, mimicking the way she had seen adults ponder, before speaking with confidence.

“Blue!” she declared, her voice clear and unwavering. You froze, the word catching you off guard.

“No, darling,” you corrected gently, though a faint unease stirred in your chest. “Kyorlin’s eyes are red. Just like everyone else’s.”

But Lythaera shook her head, her expression resolute. “No! Blue. Kya-oralin blue eyes.”

Her insistence made you pause, the certainty in her tone more unnerving than her words. You tried to brush it off as childish stubbornness, but the conviction in her gaze—so steadfast for one so young—sent a chill through you.

“Are you sure, Lythaera?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with curiosity and a creeping sense of dread.

“Blue,” she repeated, her voice firm. “Kya-oralin blue.”

The room, filled with the distant sounds of the triplets’ laughter, seemed to grow colder. A faint knot formed in your stomach, tightening with each passing moment. You wanted to dismiss it as nothing—a child’s imagination, a harmless mistake—but you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that her words held some deeper meaning, something just out of reach.

Your hand instinctively rested on your belly, the baby stirring within you as though sensing your unease. The warmth of Lythaera’s small presence beside you did little to quell the strange, ominous tension that now hung in the air.

“Alright, my love,” you murmured, your voice soft but distant. “If you say so.”

Lythaera smiled, satisfied with your response, and toddled back to her siblings, leaving you alone with your thoughts. The weight of her words lingered, echoing in your mind as a whisper of something you couldn’t ignore, no matter how much you wanted to.

The disquieting comment from Lythaera lingered, an unwelcome shadow in the back of your mind. Kyorlin’s eyes were red—of course they were red. Everyone’s eyes in your family were red. Yet the conviction in Lythaera’s voice refused to be dismissed. You told yourself she was just a child, prone to mistakes, but Lythaera was no ordinary child. She was sharp, perceptive beyond her years, often noticing details others overlooked. Her insistence nagged at you like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

To quiet your unease, you called the triplets over.

The unease gnawed at you, refusing to abate. Finally, as if to silence your own doubts, you turned to the triplets, who were still playing in the corner of the room.

“Viroen,” you said, your voice light, masking your unease. “What color are Kyorlin’s eyes?”

Viroen glanced at you, his expression incredulous. “Red, of course, Auntie. What else would they be?”

“And you, Sarae? Lira?” you pressed, your tone remaining casual. The girls looked up from their game, identical smirks on their faces.

“Red,” they said in unison, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The answer eased you somewhat, though the doubt still clawed at the edge of your thoughts. When Lesaonar, Melinoe, and Minthara returned to the family room, you welcomed the distraction. They entered with a presence that commanded attention, their expressions grim. The tension in the air was palpable.

“What happened?” you asked, sitting up straighter despite your fatigue.

Minthara’s gaze softened slightly as it settled on you. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” she said firmly. “It’s being handled.”

You frowned, frustration flickering to life. “I deserve to know. If this is about—”

Minthara raised a hand, silencing you with a look. “Rest, my love. Stress will only harm you and the baby. Trust that we are taking care of it.”

The dismissal rankled, but you held your tongue, unwilling to press the issue in front of the others. Minthara picked up Lythaera, and from that simple act you could tell the meeting had not gone well. Minthara was not one to seek out comfort but there were ways she showed when she required it. Picking up Lythaera was one of those ways.

You wanted to continue to pry about the meeting but had no desire for an argument, so instead, you turned your attention to Lesaonar. “Where’s Kyorlin?”

Lesaonar shrugged, his usual relaxed demeanor returning. “He’s sulking in the training yard. Probably sharpening his swords or brooding over something ridiculous. You know how he gets.”

Melinoe smirked. “Especially when somebody didn't get their way in the meeting."

"But no surprise there," Lesaonar chuckled before turning back to you. “Do you want me to fetch him for you?”

You shook your head, rising carefully to your feet. “No, I could use the walk. It will do me good.”

Minthara’s sharp gaze pinned you briefly, assessing. Finally, she nodded, though her lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t overexert yourself.”

“I won’t,” you promised, resting a hand briefly on her arm before making your way toward the corridor.

The estate was quieter now, the weight of the emergency meeting casting a somber mood over the halls. Your footsteps echoed softly as you moved, your hands resting protectively over your abdomen. You were tired, but the walk felt grounding, helping to dispel the restless energy that had clung to you all day. It was silly really, checking if the brother you have known all your life actually had red eyes just because of a toddler. Call it pregnancy paranoia or a lapse in sanity, but you just had to check.

You caught sight of Kyorlin just ahead, his tall, lean frame silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. He was facing away from you, his shoulders tense as he leaned against the wall.

“Kyorlin,” you called softly, your voice carrying through the stillness.

He turned toward you, and in that moment, it was as though a veil had been lifted. His eyes—Lolth save you—were not red. Not the ones that beamed up at you when you first held him as a babe when he was brought into the world. Not the same red, you would dab tears from when your family's torment of him got too much. Not the red that had looked upon you in pain on your wedding day. They were a piercing, unnatural blue, glowing faintly in the dim light, almost unnatural. The sight hit you like a physical blow, and you stumbled back a step, your breath catching in your throat.

“Kyorlin…” The word was barely a whisper, your mind racing to make sense of the impossible. He’s not Lolth-sworn. Lolth has left him. He’s light-eyed. Seldarine. A traitor.

Before you could react, Kyorlin closed the distance between you with startling speed. His hand clamped over your mouth, muffling the cry that rose in your throat. His other hand flashed, and you felt the sharp sting of a blade piercing your side. The pain bloomed, hot and searing, as your legs buckled beneath you.

“This shouldn't have happened, not yet,” Kyorlin murmured, his voice low and regretful. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

Your magic surged instinctively, but the energy fizzled uselessly as though snuffed out. Panic flared in your chest as Kyorlin smiled faintly.

“Seems the sussur is finally doing its job,” he said, his tone almost apologetic.

Your vision blurred, and you fought desperately to stay conscious, your hands scrabbling weakly against his arm. The poison from his blade spread quickly, leaving your limbs heavy and unresponsive. Kyorlin leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

“All will be right,” he whispered, his voice laced with fervor. “Under Eilistraee’s light, we will all be free.”

Darkness crept at the edges of your vision, and the last thing you heard before the world went black was Kyorlin’s voice, raised in a desperate, panicked yell.

“Help! Someone help! She’s been attacked!”

The urgency that filled the corridor was palpable as servants and guards clustered around your unconscious form. The whispers and rustling movements of their panic blurred together, creating a low hum of chaos. Kyorlin, still kneeling beside you, played his part with masterful precision. His hands trembled slightly as they cradled your head, his face drawn with just enough worry to seem genuine.

“Quickly! She needs the healers now!” he barked at the nearest servant, his voice breaking with carefully calculated urgency. “She said she felt tired, and then she just... collapsed!”

The gathered crowd accepted his explanation without question. After all, your recent ill health had been a topic of quiet concern throughout the household. You had been seen withdrawing from your duties, stepping away from council meetings, and struggling with exhaustion. That someone in your condition might faint was hardly surprising.

Several guards lifted you gently onto a stretcher, their movements precise and practiced. No one noticed the tiny cut beneath your robes, hidden and insignificant in appearance. To their eyes, it was nothing more than another bout of your worsening fatigue.

Minthara’s appearance silenced the murmurs. She strode into the corridor like a storm, her crimson eyes scanning the scene with a mix of confusion and barely restrained panic. Her grip on Lythaera tightened, the little girl held protectively against her chest.

“What happened?” Minthara demanded, her voice cutting through the noise. Kyorlin stood, his posture straightening as he met her gaze. His face was the perfect mask of concern and helplessness.

“We were speaking,” he explained, his voice low and calm. “She told me she was tired, and then she just collapsed. I called for help immediately.”

Minthara’s sharp gaze flicked to you, now being carried away by the servants. Her jaw clenched, her usual composure cracking at the edges. Lythaera squirmed in her arms, her wide eyes darting from her mother to you.

“I’m going with her,” Minthara said firmly, her tone brooking no argument as she took a step toward the retreating stretcher.

Kyorlin intercepted her, his movements careful, his voice soothing. “Minthara, wait. Let me take Lythaera. She shouldn’t see her mother like this—it will only upset her more.”

Minthara hesitated, her maternal instincts warring with her desire to stay at your side. Lythaera, perceptive even for her young age, looked up at her with wide, questioning eyes.

“She’ll be safe with me,” Kyorlin added, his tone softening as he held out his arms. “I’ll take her to Lesaonar and Melinoe’s quarters. You need to focus on my sister right now. She needs you.”

Minthara’s crimson eyes lingered on him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. She leaned down to kiss Lythaera’s forehead before handing her over.

“Look after her,” she said, her voice low and firm.

“Of course,” Kyorlin promised, his tone earnest. He cradled Lythaera gently, his grip firm but comforting. Minthara cast one last glance at you before hurrying after the stretcher, disappearing down the corridor toward the healers.

As soon as she was gone, Kyorlin’s expression changed. The concern evaporated, replaced by a cold smirk. He shifted Lythaera slightly in his arms, adjusting his hold as he turned and began walking in the opposite direction. His steps were measured, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. Lythaera, ever observant, tilted her head.

“Wrong way!” she said, her voice filled with the blunt curiosity only a child could manage. Kyorlin’s smirk widened, but his tone remained light and cheerful.

“No, it’s not,” he said. “We’re going on a little adventure instead.”

Lythaera’s brow furrowed, her small hands gripping the front of his tunic. “Adventure? Where?”

“You’ll see,” Kyorlin replied smoothly, his pace quickening. The shadows of the estate seemed to close in around them, and Lythaera’s unease grew as the familiar halls gave way to lesser-used corridors.

“Don’t like this way,” she mumbled, her voice growing quieter as her eyes darted nervously around.

Kyorlin’s smile turned cold, his blue eyes even colder, but he kept his voice gentle. “Don’t worry, little one. Soon, everything will be better. You’ll see.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Things were getting a little bit too chummy around here. Mwhahaha!

I hope you all enjoyed it, I think this chapter is a little shorter than others but don't worry lots to come!

Please let me know your thoughts and theories down below. I really love reading them and again, they are such amazing motivators for this series! Love you all! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

Check out my redbubble shop here !

Taglist: @longjohnsilverfish @alicelufenia @m-for-musings @h-doodles @spacezombiez @les-bee @chlondykebar @coratheninth @wineredsea @thepotatoislost @gaysindistress @trappedinafantasy37 @i-must-say-thats-quite-gay @damnsupercorp @lunar-monster @cinkenn17 @surrfix @iprobneedabeard @spicyshadows

[shadowgast-recs-weekly]

Have some extra time? Want to dive into something deep, or maybe stay up until 5am reading shadowgast fanfiction? Well, this week, we've got thirteen series for you! Check them out underneath the cut, and please comment and kudos if you liked them!

Clock Hands by royalgreen (62504, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: None

Alternate take on canon where Essek and Caleb start a relationship, leading into an alternate Rumblecusp arc

Reccer says: Great pining, sweet fluffy bois, fantastic worldbuilding, and a mystery

Touching Sentiments by Chanse (SpottedEnchants) (239244, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

This slice-of-life, interconnected collection of premises explores, among many things, the concept of Essek as both touch-averse and touch-starved, and how this might affect his relationships with the Mighty Nein.

Reccer says: I love how the author handles Essek's conflicting needs, and his relationship with all of the Nein (especially Caleb). It's so soft.

Wild Magic Surges by literalfuckinggarbage (10385, General) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Character studies of each wizard turning into a child version of themself through a wild magic surge in Aeor.

Reccer says: They are so sweet and precious as children! And all of the Nein’s voices are perfect

Among the Tattered Ruins by Cardinal_Daughter (33320, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Post canon getting together in Aeor, being domestic/sexy in Caleb’s house and meeting family.

Reccer says: I liked it!

Essek Thelyss' Lingerie Collection by CircaTheKnowledgeable (19490, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek Thelyss is given his first set of lingerie and finds a confidence in it that he has not had in a long time. Caleb loves it too.

Reccer says: Hot!

Shadowgast Omegaverse by firefright (54283, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Omegaverse

alpha!Caleb and omega!Essek fall into a relationship right before the peace talks. This explores that and continues on

Reccer says: It's always wonderful to find a good a/b/o series, and this fits that beautifully

Catch A Falling Star (Critical Role) by RainyDayDecaf (32921, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn, Graphic Depictions of Violence

The Mighty Nein find more than a Beacon in the sewers of Zadash. They also find a drow wizard and prisoner of war.

Reccer says: Mostly pre-relationship, the slow build is lovely! Heart wrenching at times and amusing at others.

birds of prey by TheKnittingJedi (102785, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

A Scourger!Bren AU that has Bren and Essek playing cat-and-mouse in political intrigue, spy games, and increasingly complicated emotions

Reccer says: I liked it!

the tusk love cinematic universe by kaeda (168202, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

While in Aeor, Essek and Caleb are transported to what seems to be the world of Tusk Love.

Reccer says: Kaeda is able to take such a crack premise and make it deeply compelling and heartwarming

reflections and other illusions of control by atlasarcana (84220, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Essek and Caleb have bedroom issues and summon an echo. The Echo is from a timeline where Bren remained a Volstrucker. They make things work.

Reccer says: This fic series focuses on relationship dynamics, intimacy, repression, and vulnerability. Caleb's journey into accepting a Dom role has to do with healing from a lot of trauma, and it's wonderful watching him be taught by Bren, who inadvertently is also healing from trauma by doing so. Plus, there's cross-timeline matchmaking for Bren and his own timeline's evil Shadowhand.

Aeor is for Lovers: Prompt Fills by LessAttitudeMoreAltitude (17979, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek and Caleb in Aeor, their relationship developing over a series of whumpy incidents

Reccer says: For a whump based series, it's surprisingly soft and sweet

Ages Past Ages Hence Cinematic Universe by Athenavine (30355, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Slice of life romance fics that capture the fulness of the love blooming between two wizards in exandria

Reccer says: athenavine really captures the characters voices, and the pace the romance moves at is just delicious. the descriptions are visceral and immersive and the fic updates very reliably and regularly. the series is emotionally compelling and spicy and exciting and it takes place over a span of time that feels like i really get a peek into all the important moments between my two favorite exandrian wizards. 10/10, will scream for anybody to read it, highly reccommend

And then we have two recs for this last one!

Field On Fire (Not the Actual Events) by Defiler_Wyrm (60535, Explicit) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes, Contains a couple of monsterfucking scenes, but it’s still Shadowgast

From the depths of Aeor to a peace beyond, Caleb and Essek come together and explore their relationship—and each other—thoroughly.

Reccer 1 says: I’m entirely biased, but I like the balance of fluff and smut with a bit of humor and a pinch of angst, and how no two sex scenes are truly the same. Reccer 2 says: Top quality smut, Essek being competent as hell, Caleb being super slutty, I love all of it

Aeor is for Lovers is an 18+ Shadowgast Discord server. The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. All fics, unless otherwise specified, will primarily feature Shadowgast. Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ! Next week, we’ll be back with Sports/Athletes AUs! Let's make the noodly wizards move!

[hiddenbeks]

#7 from general and #2 from story (from the tav meme) for khaless please!

yayyyyy thank you jasper!!

bg3 companion!tav asks

putting this under a cut bc it got super lengthy!! sorry abt that hgfhfg

general #7: do they have their own personal quest that spans the course of the game? can it take different branching paths depending on the choices the player character makes?

yesss tho i'm still trying to figure it out! her story is strongly tied to menzoberranzan and drow political intrigue and since you don't go anywhere near menzoberranzan and only encounter a handful of drow in-game it's been hard to figure out how to tie her into the game's plot but anyway-

some backstory first!! basically her house fell from grace several generations ago when one member (khaless' silver dragon ancestor disguised as a drow) was revealed to be an undercover servant of eilistraee. the rest of the members quickly disposed of her to avoid the whole house being destroyed. but their reputation took a hit and ever since they've been a minor noble house struggling to survive. enter khaless, an ambitious young visionary who wants to restore house dhalmar to its former glory! she was viewed with suspicion growing up because her draconic powers and scales were a nasty reminder of the house's past. but she proves herself a cunning and ruthless and kinda fanatical worshipper of lolth and advances quickly despite it all.

khaless becomes a priestess in house dhalmar and wipes several houses out of the way and grows house dhalmar's influence. she starts to believe she is unstoppable and thinks it's a great idea to accept house baenre's offer of alliance, not realizing the baenres' plan is to betray her and destroy house dhalmar before they become an actual problem. khaless survives and flees into the underdark! she is discovered injured by a group of silverhair knights and she spends some time with them after recovering and initially thinks they are stupid and weak but it's the first time she encounters drow with a different way of life and maybe it.. leaves an impression...

anyway the knights are killed by some assassins looking for khaless. rip. she flees to the surface and gets abducted by the mind flayers and this is where we finally get to her quest phew!!

when you encounter khaless she is at a crossroads; on one hand she believes she deserves vengeance and power after everything she's been through. on the other she is becoming disillusioned with lolthite society and very deep down just wants to live without having to constantly look over her shoulder, plotting to betray others before they get to betray her.

you can either convince her to return to menzoberranzan for revenge and to continue her elimination of houses until she reaches the top as she believes she should. or you can guide her down a gentler path and help her find new purpose outside of the cycles of violence she grew up in. tbh i think returning to menzoberranzan would be the sexier and more satisfying ending but maybe that's solely because i haven't come up with an equally satisfying "good" ending yet. idk. the ones i have cooked up don't have a catharsis factor similar to the menzo ending but maybe that's like the point... sometimes there is no catharsis and sometimes a happy ending is not an epic one... you just have to move on or whatev. although coming to terms with her past and choosing to leave it behind and live for herself can be cathartic i guess?

ALSO one important thing in khaless' questline is her ancestry being at odds with her upbringing and her being conflicted about having the blood of a silver dragon who served the goddess she was raised to hate and said blood also giving her the powers that have helped her survive throughout her life. so that's one more thing to deal with lol. in her non-menzo ending khaless would fully embrace her draconic ancestry! and maybe she finds out that her ancestor is only Allegedly dead and goes on a journey to try and find her to learn more about her powers and heritage from her.

story specific #2: how do they advise the player character on raphael?

she would say something like "i hope you're not foolish enough to take this cambion at his word. that being said i think we should take full advantage of his powers and knowledge. perhaps we could even trick him into serving us..." basically find out what exactly raphael wants and what exactly he is offering and use that to the party's benefit. kinda similar to gale's advice iirc? khaless is always looking for opportunities to take advantage of more powerful people in order to get ahead. unfortunately she also tends to get in way over her head and have it all backfire on her. it's almost as if she and her 10 wis learned nothing from her disastrous alliance with the baenres,

btw speaking of gale. khaless is kinda similar to him with how ambitious she is and this drives her mad. she is Not like this nerdy ass wizard he is so lame she would've shoved him into a locker in her youth she is nothing like him she is nooooooootttt (she is)

[fsanyadarkpaw]

Livia, a half-drow warlock, deeply in love with Gale, ready to destroy the world for him

Artano asked me to write ALL OF THEM and I can't say no to them SO HERE WE GO

She was not born in Baldur's Gate, but in the Underdark. Her mother is a scientist from the Society of Brilliance (so it's not surprising that Livia herself is half-drow….).

She has a younger sister Lolrand, with whom they have a rather strange relationship.

The girl's father was never known, but Livia was very close to her mother until she grew up and realized that the Society of Brilliance is very… questionable…

^

She doesn't really believe in any gods, although she knows that they exist. But since it's hard to contact them directly, she can't really learn the "terms of the deal", so she prefers not to contact the divine: who knows what price they will ask of her.

Lola has been gifted with magical capabilities from her youth, but she does not develop in any way, only cares about becoming famous. Livia, on the other hand, was a completely ordinary child with a great love for knowledge and interest in magic. It was because of this interest and desire to help people that she made a deal with an arch-fey, receiving magical power in return.

Because of the deal, Livia was constantly rushing to different corners of Fayrun with errands from her patroness. Besides, she was glad to go to the other side of the continent to visit some library or academy.

Due to constant travelling, she was never able to get herself a pet, but after meeting Gale, she grew attached to Tara.

Sincerely believes that she is looking for ways to help everyone around, and at the same time quench her thirst for knowledge.

She was often hit on, but no one could compete with her love for science and research. She also overwhelmed anyone who talked to her with fact dumping.

She is familiar with the whole Society and many inhabitants of the Underdark. She worked for Lorroakan in his library for a very short time, but got tired of him.

Nope, no guild.

Few people knew about her, I'm sure. She doesn't like to attract attention, especially because of her background (no one likes drow).

There were no peers in the Society, but she loved spending time with them, helping them collect crystals and mushrooms.

Livia rarely gets any warm feelings for things, but she always carries a book about the language of flowers, that her mother gave her. Sometimes she sends postcards with flowers (dried or painted) to her friends and family to convey some brief messages.

As a child, she often played together with her sister and caught fireflies and lizards. Once they confused a firefly with a fairy, who screamed at them and almost cursed them, but it made a huge impression on both.

As soon as they came out of the Underdark, suddenly her Drow origin became a huge problem, and she still remembers with annoyance all that she heard about herself, not quite understanding how she deserved it.

As a child, she wanted to become a part of Society and serve the benefit of people around.

She often thinks about the moment when she left home after the deal. Her mother had quite conflicting feelings about all this, especially since Livia began to speak very negatively about Society. It was a necessary, albeit bitter parting.

She is not familiar with anyone from the highest circles, and she has never sought acquaintance. She is not interested in political intrigues, the only connections with those in power arose against the background of attempts to obtain permits for research or staying in certain places.

Initially, she studied at home, then attended several academies. In general, her whole life is a continuous learning process here and there.

No children.

While working for Lorroakan, she was targeted by vampire spawns a couple of times because she couldn't work during the day due to light sensitivity. They never managed to lure her anywhere, as she doesn't understand flirting, and she also annoyed the fuck out of everyone up with her talk about magic, and in general she wasn't interested in romantic stuff before meeting Gale.

original post with the questions here

[ask-fantasy-sanders-sides]

Roman!!! Darling!! Can you tell us about Thomas? Any legends about him, perhaps? ♥️

(Yall, this one is so long. HUGE lore under the cut)

~~~

Roman: “Any legends about Thomas??” Are you joking? Do you really not know?! He’s only got the coolest Rulership origin story known to mankind! Intrigue, adventure, romance, betrayal, all the works~!

(Roman laughs and sweeps his cape up with a flourish, sitting down on a nearby bench with one leg crossed over the other, like a teenager about to spill gossip.)

Roman: You might want to sit down, dear listeners, because this is a tale for the ages~! I will tell it how it was told to me; starting with our antagonist: The dastardly Lord Donovan Sanders…

Roman: You see, Thomas wasn’t always heir to the throne, or even in line! His family was influential, and he was always trained to be a lord of the realm and member of the council, but he had no relation to the royal family. His Uncle Donovan was a member of the council, but he wasn’t happy with that; He wanted to be King. Not just King, he wanted to be a dictator!

Roman: He wasted no effort in courting the current heir, Princess Malinda. He convinced her that he loved her, and she loved him in return, but it was clear to anyone who knew him that he was playing it up for her. Thomas noticed this, and he already knew his Uncle to be cruel and greedy, but he knew he would never have the chance to warn Malinda, or even speak with her alone. 

Roman: When the Princess and Lord Donovan got engaged, it only got worse. He played the same ‘innocent’ bit in front of his betrothed, but behind closed doors, there was something off… He was neglecting his duty as protector of the peace, and people had started to go missing in town. The palace guard were corrupt and mean, and Thomas knew nothing good was going to come from his Uncle’s rule if this was allowed to continue.

Roman: So, with the help of his exceptionally stealthy best friend Joan, Thomas snuck into his Uncle’s office! They rifled through his letters and papers, and uncovered an evil plot to take over the country and sacrifice the residents to an entity known as The Shaman, in exchange for otherworldly magical powers and an iron-fisted rule over the coast. 

Roman: The letters were written cryptically and none of them were signed, but Thomas and Joan knew what they were looking at was his Uncle’s doing, and it all lined up too perfectly with the sudden disappearances of his outspoken political opponents and activists… The problem was, they couldn’t use anything they’d found as proof. And, who should show up and discover them in their snooping but a member of the royal guard?

Roman: They fought their way free with the help of a town arcane scholar, Talyn, and ran away into the night! After a message to Thomas’s parents warning them to move away for the time being and remain safe, they were off to find this Shaman and put an end to Donovan’s plans before they could begin!

Roman: They faced various trials and tribulations on their way around the country and through various planes, gathering new allies everywhere they went: An Elven barbarian by the name of Quill, a cleric of Sune named Adri – She’s a heartwarder now, I know her! She’s lovely~ Anyway, back to the story –the fledgling Goliath knight Leo, the performative bard Terrence, the monk Dominic, the druidess Dhalia, and the fencing squire Camden! 

Roman: As their journeys continued, each of his new companions came to swear oaths of fealty to Thomas, recognizing him as their King instead of Donovan, before anyone even knew Thomas would be a king someday – this was the strength in their belief in him! At the same time, Joan and Talyn fell deeply and passionately in love~ Every story needs a romantic subplot, and let me tell you, those two are absolutely adorable! 

Roman: The ten of them worked together, facing hordes of beastly monsters, underhanded traps, and trained assassins – but slaying only who they could not first convince; You see, Thomas is a pacifist, and turned to violence only as a last resort! If he had his way, he would simply convince the Shaman that what they were doing was wrong, and needed to end. This would never be possible, but such is our sweet Thomas~

Roman: Eventually, they reached the belly of the beast. The Shaman – a giant, sharp-clawed serpentine beast with a human’s torso, serpent’s tail and head, and five dragon’s heads sprouting alongside it – stood in a bloodbath of what had to be hundreds of missing citizens and his own cultists, having sacrificed all of them to open the portal! 

Roman: Before it could be opened fully, however, our team of heroes attacked! As the others fought him off to keep his several heads busy, Druidess Dhalia used her magic to send Thomas into the beast’s head, to confront him alone in a mind palace of sorts. Thomas desperately tried to reason with him, but the Shaman was murderous, remorseless, and completely and utterly insane. And, the longer Thomas spent sharing in the space of his mind, the more it ruined Thomas’s own sanity! After all, the creature was still trying to channel that portal, and thus his mind was open to the Far Realm.

Roman: But, this effort was not wasted – while inside his brain, Thomas learned that this being had effectively turned itself immortal. He could not be killed, but he could be contained, and sealed away for eternity! Thomas released his hold on the creature’s mind, and while the fighters destroyed the body, Thomas and the other spellcasters focused on creating a Horcrux to contain his soul – a crystal of sorts, that could never be broken by mortal hands, and would be hidden in the royal vault and never see the light of day again.

Roman: Unfortunately, mad as he was, the Shaman caught on to their plan. As the last of the beast’s strength left him, the Shaman tried to cast a spell to flee. Both his spells and Thomas’s were completed at the same time.

Roman: The Shaman, his dastardly Far Realm magics, and the contaminated energy of the portal he was attempting to create were trapped in the crystal, never to be seen again; Meanwhile, Thomas and company were teleported to the place where the Shaman was trying to go – right outside a Dark Elf Kingdom.

Roman: Immediately, they were surrounded by the guards, and a Priestess was summoned to deal with them. Thomas had enough energy left for one big spell – a Teleportation spell of his own – but there was a catch: It could only take nine people.

Roman: In a heroic display of self-sacrifice, Thomas warped all of his injured companions back to his home on the surface, and faced the priestess alone. She was furious to learn that Thomas had slain the Shaman, who she regarded as her own flesh and blood, and even more furious to learn that he was the nephew of Donovan – That’s right, folks! All three of them were in on this together!

Roman: For some reason, due to his relation to Donovan, the Priestess was unable to harm Thomas. She jailed him while she sent correspondence to her only surviving partner in crime, giving Thomas time to formulate an escape! Of course, he defaulted to his signature move; befriending the people around him~ He made allies of a few fellow prisoners, and they organized a massive breakout, where Thomas was able to flee the prison. 

Roman: As he snuck alone, abandoned by the other prisoners, through the streets of the kingdom, he heard that the Priestess was furious – after all, she had just gotten his Uncle’s explicit encouragement to slay him. He heard next that she had ordered her fiercest dog after him; her most heartless, lethal man-hunter. He was called Anxiety, supposedly for the lingering dread the mere mention of his name caused in potential victims, and his sudden and ruthless attacks!

Roman: Thomas would have just teleported himself to safety, but something had happened to his magic after the thing with the Shaman, and he couldn’t get a single spell to work after that night. To this day, he still can’t cast unless he’s on his medicine.

Roman: Thomas made it to the surrounding woodlands before he was caught by the hitman, but it’s a wonder he made it that long: Thomas had been suffering from splitting headaches ever since he had tied his mind to the Shaman’s, the whispers louder than he had ever experienced in his life, and no way to quiet them. He hardly got sleep, and his own anxiety was not helped by the hundreds of daily warnings that his Hunter was getting closer and closer every second.

Roman: So, of course, he was caught. He closed his eyes against the sting of the voices in his head, and when he opened his eyes, there was a young Drow with an arrow trained on Thomas’s heart. Thomas flew into a panic attack, and who knows how long the assassin sat there, just… Watching.

Roman: Then – and every time Thomas gets to this part he looks just as surprised as he did the day it happens, you should see his little face! – the soldier put away his weapon, sat in front of Thomas, and helped him breathe.

Roman: When Thomas asked why the soldier helped him, he wouldn’t answer – just told Thomas to go get some rest, and be ready to leave in the morning.

Roman: Suffice to say, Thomas was terrified. But, he was in to state to fight the soldier, and did as he was told. The next day, when the soldier started leading Thomas onward, Thomas knew that the soldier wasn’t taking him back to the kingdom to be slaughtered. For whatever reason, he was going to help Thomas escape.

Roman: They traveled together for the next few months, and though the soldier still terrified Thomas, he slowly grew fond of him, and got him to open up. He explained, after no short amount of coaxing, that he hated his Priestesses, and wasn’t going to kill Thomas just because he was demanded to. When he had found Thomas, he was ‘just a scared, crying child, who didn’t even have a single weapon on him.’ Thomas was grateful for the compassion, though he couldn’t help but point out that the soldier seemed to be just as young as Thomas, by his race’s standards. Thankfully, that made the soldier laugh, not kill Thomas for the audacity (which only occurred to Thomas as a possibility after he said it out loud)

Roman: The soldier and Thomas grew very close. He would carry Thomas when the whispers made it too hard to move, fight off anything that threatened him, and lull him to sleep when he was too scared to get rest – Usually, here, Thomas will start complaining about how the soldier himself refused to sleep, it is very cute, if a bit hypocritical of him~

Roman: But, of course, this couldn’t last. When they finally reached a tunnel entrance back to the prime material plane, the soldier insisted they split ways, and Thomas go find his friends topside. Thomas tried to convince his new fire-forged friend to accompany him, but the soldier was still having trouble abandoning the only life he’d ever known, and besides, he had never seen the surface before. Thomas had just convinced the soldier to come with him when they were attacked by dark elf assassins, ones that had been sent after Thomas when Anxiety had taken too long to return. The soldier pushed Thomas towards the tunnel and yelled for him to run, promising he would be right behind him. Thomas knew he was lying, but he was too scared to argue. As the soldier stood his ground and guarded the entrance, Thomas fled. Thomas never heard from him again…

Roman: Thomas was found by some friendly locals outside the cave he crawled out of, and they recognized the crest on his pin, and took him to his parents. When he was reunited with his family and friends, he was informed of what had happened when he was gone:

Roman: His Uncle had tried to murder now-Queen Malinda the night of their wedding, but her and her sisters – including Lady Valerie, my relative, and new friend of Thomas and the crew – had fought him and his soldiers off, and taken control of the country with the aid of Thomas’s parents. Queen Malinda visited her nephew to thank him for all he had done, having been informed of everything by the others, and told him she had named him her heir - he would have some training to do over the next three years! 

Roman: Thomas healed from his wounds, and told the story of what happened to him after they were separated to his friends, who then spread the story of their exploits across the country! In three years time, at the peaceful passing of his Aunt, Thomas was sworn in as King – with his fellow retired adventurers among his court, minus one or two who went their own ways – and he’s been a well respected leader ever since!

(Roman stretches and smiles, as if genuinely worn out by his storytelling and gesticulating)

Roman: Ahh, such a good story! I’d tell you more about the individual adventures if I had time~! I get Thomas to re-tell it for me all the time, it draws such genuine emotion out of him! He has such strong love for all of his friends, including the ‘hired hitman turned pseudo-bodyguard.’ 

Roman: I have to admit, that character specifically was always quite attractive to me, the way he was described and all that~ Letting Thomas lean on him, protecting him, real ‘I’m going to act like a dangerous loner because I have a shady past, but actually I’m really soft and chivalrous’ archetype, like the cute bad boys in romance novels! I’ve always wanted to meet him, though I know he’s probably…. Well, not anywhere near here, if even alive.

Roman: Anyway, there’s your story~! Now you know a bit more about Thomas! And at this point, if you don’t absolutely love him, you’re just wrong, my friend~

[eruden-writes]

Pride & Prejudice & Orcs - Ch. 1

I’ve been working on this for a couple days. I may go back and rewrite this chapter, if I decide to continue this project.

The night had been long awaited. A ball at Lucas Lodge! Precisely, the first ball the new residents of Netherfield would attend. As much as the populace of Hertfordshire attempted to go about their business, making acquaintances and sharing gossip with old and new friends alike, there was an anticipatory buzz in the air. Eyes often drifted to the entryway, hoping for the first glimpse of the newcomers arriving. Even the dancers upon the floor seemed to find their attention drifting toward the door.

Or, perhaps, that was merely Elizabeth’s interpretation. Between her mother and Mrs. Lucas nearly constant chatter on the subject, sharing tidbits they’d learned from their respective husbands, and the rumors brought home by Lydia and Kitty, intrigue had certainly been piqued. The amount of new embellishments - lace, netting, and ribbon - on old gowns seemed more than a coincidence.

“He shouldn’t be hard to spot,” sighed Elizabeth as she stood amongst her sisters. “I heard he’s bringing quite the platoon of gentlemen and ladies.” 

“Four men and six ladies, I hear,” came an excited giggle from Kitty who, moments earlier, had been sizing up potential dancing partners.

There was a quiet smack as Lydia elbowed the Kitty, her voice taking on an almost annoyed tone, “I heard it was six men and twelve ladies.” 

“Either way, too many ladies,” remarked Mary, whose voice dipped low with sarcasm as she turned the page of her book. She, along with her sisters, knew the main delight in the newcomers were the prospective bachelors. Not that she cared much for such trappings. However, the more women there were, the less likely one of the new men were available.

Her words were lost as Kitty and Lydia both gave soft squeals of joy, pushing forth toward a group of friends not far away. Already, the thought of newcomers was forgotten by the two.

“However many he brings,” Jane cut in, her voice soft and filled with a delighted excitement, “I’m certain they will all be well-mannered and lovely.”

Elizabeth hummed in reply to Jane, her lips pressed together in a smile. She didn’t wish to put a damper on her sister’s unerring sense of optimism. It was part of Jane’s charm, so different from Elizabeth’s own demeanor. 

Charlotte Lucas, a homely young woman with a pleasant smile and long-time friend of the Bennet sisters, scuttled through the crowd, an excited smile barely contained on her lips. “They’ve arrived. Three men and two women.” 

“Promising,” laughed Elizabeth, sharing a look with the two sisters who remained near her.

Seconds later, the strangers entered and, with them, came a renewed slew of conversation in the room. So many suddenly animated conversations, so many people enjoying their night and paying the strangers no mind! Attentive eyes followed the party as Sir Lucas greeted and welcomed them.

A man with dark skin - reminiscent of purple calla lilies - and long pointed ears parted from the group, a brilliant smile splitting across his lips. Adorned in well-tailored clothes, that showed off his lanky, streamlined figure, and accessorized with silver jewelry, he carried himself with an air of grace and regality while maintaining a warm smile. With long white locs that fell to his hips and a tattoo of silvery swirls along the right side of his face, the man certainly stood out among the mostly human populace of Hertfordshire.

Charlotte leaned close to the Jane and Elizabeth, her voice dipping quietly, though her eyes lingered on the contingent. “The drow is Mr. Bingley.”

“And the ladies?” Jane’s soft voice barely carried over the renewed conversation around them. Her eyes had flickered to the fashionable women with him, one baring long pointed ears while the other appeared just as human as the rest of Hertfordshire. 

“His sisters, I understand. One is married to the elven man behind them, a Mr. Hurst.”

Behind the drow woman, a well-dressed elven man did, indeed, stand.

Elizabeth minutely inclined her head toward the final newcomer. “And the last?”

Standing ramrod straight with his arms folded behind his back, and taller than the rest of the room, he cut quite a figure. Broad shoulders and musculature pulled his tailored clothes taut, drawing the eye along enticing arcs of his arms and legs. Ice blue eyes contrasted against his laurel green skin, face marked by one long scar along his right cheek. Filed down tusks jutted from his lower jaw, capped with silver adornments. His dark hair pulled into a low bun, his ears hidden beneath the locks.

“That is Mr. Darcy. I’m told he’s one of Bingley’s closest friends.” Charlotte managed to say no more, as her father - Sir Lucas - waved her over. Elizabeth and Jane nodded politely after her, as she skittered to greet her father’s guests. 

When compared to Bingley’s sunny disposition, Darcy’s sobriety appeared detached and standoffish. He gave only the slightest incline of his head and the briefest smile in greeting to Charlotte as Sir Lucas introduced his daughter. Bingley, on the other hand, shot her a smile that could cleave a cloudy day in twain.

The two men were, in a way, a very visceral depiction of night and day, thought Elizabeth.

“Quite a pair, the two make,” she mused, a smile curling at her lips.

“Yes, a very rich pair!” The words announced the arrival of Mrs. Bennet, a stout and soft woman whose gaze could shrewdly size one up in an instant, as she elbowed through the crowd. After the last few days, Mrs. Bennet became a font of knowledge all things Bingley related. From his newly bought estate - Netherfield - to his wealth of five-thousand, you could hardly go an hour without her mentioning something pertaining to the man. This before he even introduced himself to Hertfordshire society!

She leaned close to Jane and Elizabeth, her whisper not quiet enough, “Lady Lucas has told me of Mr. Darcy. He’s of a mighty fortune, twice that of Bingley, and owns a great estate in Derbyshire. Such a handsome man, too!”

“Mamma, please,” Jane pleaded, her voice quiet yet firm in her discomfort of the subject.

Mrs. Bennet gave out a gasp, standing a bit straighter and completely ignoring Jane’s soft spoken reprimand. “They’re coming over. Smile, girls, smile!”

“Mrs. Bennet! Mr. Bingley here expressed an interest in becoming introduced to you and your daughters,” chuckled Sir Lucas, his face ruddy with the heat of the room and delight.

“Sir, how good of you!” Mrs. Bennet gave a curtsy, her daughters following suit. Mr. Bingley bowed deeply, that eternal sunshine of a smile still lighting his features, while Mr. Darcy remained behind him, expression stony.

“Here, we have my eldest, Jane,” Mrs. Bennet motioned to her blonde daughter. Among the Bennet sisters, her beauty and angelic countenance had always been talk of the town. Even now, among the swaths of people, she was a beacon. Mrs. Bennet’s hand flicked toward her oldest brunette daughter, who shared her mother’s shrewd gaze. “And my second eldest, Elizabeth.” 

“Mary is seated in the corner. Such a well-read little thing.” Indeed, Mary had re-positioned herself in a far corner, eyes locked to a book, utterly disinterested in the world around her.

With a final flourish of her gloved hand, Mrs. Bennet indicated toward the dance floor, where a lively jaunt and giggles arose. “My two youngest, Kitty and Lydia, are occupied with dancing.” 

Mr. Bingley’s smile never faded, his gaze flickering from Bennet sister to Bennet sister.

Not one to let the situation teeter away, Mrs. Bennet - a bit louder - inquired, “Do you like to dance, Mr. Bingley?”

“I find it one of the best joys of life, madam,” laughed Mr. Bingley, attention drawn back toward Mrs. Bennet. Somehow, his smile broadened as his lavender eyes moved toward Jane. “If not otherwise engaged, would Miss Jane do me the honor of the next two dances?”

Jane’s expression rippled with pleasant surprise, before she replied, “I am not engaged.”

“May I take that as a yes, then?” Mr. Bingley raised an eyebrow, his lips curling with an almost teasing smile.

“You may,” Jane said with a slight nod, her own lips twitching at the corners.

“And you, sir? Are you fond of dancing, too?” Mrs. Bennet turned her gaze to Darcy, her eyebrows raised and eyes gleaming.

Darcy shot a look at Bingley, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed tight. 

Bingley started at the expression, embarrassment coloring his cheeks as he motioned toward Darcy. “Oh! Forgive me. Mrs. Bennet, may I present my friend, Mr. Darcy, to you and your lovely daughters?”

“You are very welcome to Hertfordshire, sir! Do you come with the same eagerness to dance as your friend?”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Darcy inclined his head to Mrs. Bennet, his voice deep but tone detached. “I fear I rarely dance.”

“Well, I do hope that changes tonight!” Like a bird, Mrs. Bennet seemed to puff out her chest with pride, looking over the merrymaking. Elizabeth’s gaze followed her mother’s, a warm smile breaching her lips as she found all her neighbors clustered and smiling or dancing to the happy, trilling music. “I daresay you will not find music as lively nor partners as lovely.”

A beat of silence fell between the two and, without another word, Mr. Darcy gave a nod and moved away.

Mrs. Bennet blinked, shocked at his sudden departure from the conversation, her pleasant countenance dropping slightly. 

“Pray, pardon my brief leave, ma’am,” Bingley gasped, giving a brief and polite smile before darting after his friend.

As soon as the two were far enough away, Mrs. Bennet sputtered, “What a disagreeable man!”

“Mamma, he may hear you.” 

“And what if he does?” Mrs. Bennet turned to her eldest, shooting her a righteous look of annoyance. “His friend is everything charming. Who is he to believe he’s so above us, he may excuse himself from our presence without a word of warning?”

Elizabeth sighed, knowing better than to argue with her mother in this mood. She’d be lying if she didn’t feel the same prickle of irritation. Who simply walked off, in the middle of a conversation?

As she turned, to survey potential dance partners, cool blue eyes caught hers from across the distance of the room. Her heart stuttered, realizing Darcy seemed to leer right in her direction. More precisely, the distasteful gaze was upon her mother who had continued her tirade, unaware her daughters were not listening. His attention shifted slightly to Elizabeth, no doubt drawn to her movement.

Unable to do anything else, Elizabeth simply gave a slight nod and uncertain smile. He stared at her, face stony, before Miss Bingley beckoned his attention away. Whether Darcy had truly been focused upon them or not, she couldn’t determine. However, Elizabeth breathed easier as his attention shifted.

If she hadn’t known better, she’d think he could hear their conversation, in spite of the general chaos of the dance. That was silly, though, wasn’t it?

[itsomgitsgreenblogging]

Pour Over Me: A Critical Role Fanfic

All of the props for this idea goes to the Essek Fanclub Server, where it was discussed that drow TANGO. Which, obviously, of course, leads to me writing a fic where Essek prepares the Mighty Nein for a formal ball. With all of the political intrigue and yearning that comes with that. I know about nothing about the tango, so, just bear with me lol.  

Also Essek isn’t a traitor. I know that because I love him. 

Enjoy!

Read on AO3 

Preview:

"If you wouldn't mind?" Essek asked, offering his hand. Caleb took it after a single moment's hesitation. Without his levitation spell, Caleb was a few inches taller than him. Essek had to look up to meet his gaze, and the way it felt to see his blue eyes glinting at this angle from the lantern-light pulled at something low and deep inside of him. "I'll lead this time, and then next time I'll follow."

“Skysybil,” the Bright Queen called. Essek watched the ancient goblin hobble forward, her large knotted cane tapping in front of her. As always, she appeared tiny in the massive space of the Queen’s Cathedral. She was made somehow smaller by the pulsing light of the beacon. But part of that was most likely by the Bright Queen’s prudent design. If she were not larger than life, what would she be? 

“Yes, my Queen?” 

“Tell me, how do the preparations for the Day of Radiance fair?” the Bright Queen asked thoughtfully. 

"The Clerics of the Luxon have prepared for the Mass and have readied the necessary components to temporarily take down the night, and release the light," Skysybil reported. "The Guilds have, as always, been preparing for the Parade of Lanterns. In terms of the Illumination Ball, the staff of the palace continue their work on schedule. The ballroom itself is almost complete." 

"Good. Essek?" 

"Yes, my Queen?" Essek asked stepping forward from his place and bowing his head in deference to her. 

"Have the Mighty Nein invited to the Illumination Ball. I will place them on the list and have formal invitations drawn up, though I will entrust you to deliver them." 

"Of course, your majesty," Essek said with a nod. "Should they be in need of any formal wear, shall I leave it to them, or should I place it in Royal or Theylss accounts?" 

"Oh, please do supervise those choices and I'll have my finance advisor speak with you on it and give you a budget. I shall not have heroes of the Dynasty appearing in my ballroom in leather halters...again."

There was a rumble of chuckles, and Essek was about to step back into his shadows when another voice rose up from the crowd of courtiers and nobility. 

"We will be inviting the Mighty Nein to the Illumination Ball?" 

One of the other courtiers, an old stuffy fellow from Den Dwendalios asked the question. Escar was his name. A slippery individual, one of the types that Essek felt was best compared to a snake slipping through the cracks of a garden gate. He didn’t know why he was even one of the Bright Queen’s courtiers, though, Essek was sure the other courtiers would have something to say if he was uninvited to meetings. The other nobility liked him for the same reason they liked war, he kept them rich and comfortable. 

"They were instrumental to the returning of our beacon, so we could have a more glorious Day of Radiance," the Bright Queen said, eyeing Escar with a certain displeasure that even Essek felt. The courtier bowed even deeper if it were possible. 

"I meant no disrespect, your majesty. Only that they will not know our customs or our dances. Surely they would feel more comfortable at the festivities with the rest of the city," Escar said, steepling his fingers sounding oh so understanding and so very accommodating. What a joke, Essek thought.  

"They may of course decline the invitation," the Bright Queen said, though of course everyone knew you did not decline an invitation from their queen. "But I believe that it is important to invite them." 

"As my Queen commands, I shall see them fully prepared for the Ball," Essek promised, cutting in to conversation boldly. He leveled a smile at Escar that flashed his teeth. Escar's shoulders tensed, and he refused to look towards Essek. The Bright Queen’s lips quirked up in a small smile. 

"I shall leave the issue in your capable hands," the Bright Queen said, acknowledging Essek once more. 

"Thank you, your majesty," Essek said, and then returned to his spot at her side. 

The rest of the meeting unfolded in a similar fashion as usual. Essek already had been briefed on most of the information but it was always good for a refresher. Movements of the Echo Knights and war efforts lost in the jumble of excited preparation for the Illumination Ball. If people weren't itching to fight a war, they were itching to party. He supposed the urge to galavant about in pretty evening attire and show off was universal, even he wasn't immune to it. He had ordered his own clothing and knew shoes two months ago. 

How the Mighty Nein would respond to it? Essek had no idea. Interacting with them was often like interacting with a barrel of black powder with a candle in your hand and an oil lamp spilled on the floor. You never knew what would be the thing to set them off. 

The thought was on his mind as he was caught by a troop of marauding courtiers after the meeting. Escar was leading the bunch, a characteristic scowl upon his face. They all stopped as he did, like a flock of perturbed birds awaiting the nearest excuse to take off into flight.  

"Lord Shadowhand," Escar said, voice dripping with saccharin concern. "We cannot be seriously considering allowing a band of mercenaries to join us on such a momentous occasion?" 

"Our Queen is the one who has decided. I know that you are not questioning her judgement," Essek asked, eyebrow raised, looking down at him from where he floated. 

"Many of us are concerned that...personal attachments are getting in the way of clear-headed decision making," Escar said with his conniving sneer, motioning to the six or so nobles behind him.. "You are powerful and talented, but also young Shadowhand. It would be best for you not to take on more than you can handle." 

"Thank you kindly for your consideration," Essek said with his best smile. "But I shall endeavor to do all my Queen commands me, for if she believed I am up to the challenge then certainly I am. That is why she chose me over your daughter, after all." 

Escar's face when a delightful shade of maroon, his ears perked up at the challenge like an angry moorbounder sensing a challenge. 

"You…!" 

"Essek," Essek heard his Denmother call to him. The nobility froze. Escar’s face drained of the extraordinary color of his anger as he saw Lady Theylss in all of her glory. All of them bowed to her, and she smiled pleasantly. Essek, seeing an out when it was offered, smiled back at her. 

"Forgive me, gentleman, I will have to take my leave," Essek said, bowing his head and then floating off to meet his Denmother. He offered his arm to her, and she took it. Even floating, she was still a whisper taller than he was.

"I believe I am owed some gratitude," his Denmother said, giving the group of courtiers a lovely smile before they began to walk the round about the courtyard. 

"Thank you, Mother," Essek said. "You did truly save me back there." 

"Hardly worth your time," his Denmother stated flippantly, watching servants who immediately paused in their work to bow or curtsy before her. Essek resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

"Of that I'm not so sure," Essek sighed unable to help the tiredness that crept into his voice. He realized his mistake a moment too late. 

"You are sure," his Denmother said, voice cold, her fingers like cold iron upon his arm. "You have no room to be anything else. You are a Theylss, and a Theylss never bows to anyone. It would do you well to remember that simple lesson." 

"Yes, of course," Essek said automatically, looking forward with his chin high. Because she was right of course. He was Essek Theylss and whoever Essek was had to be perfect. There was no room for error. He would accomplish everything because of course he was good enough to. He had to. He had no other choice. 

"And you will of course show those no good upstarts what you are capable of," she stated, patting his arm in the charade of warmth, breaking into his thoughts as if she had placed them there. "If you need assistance I can always request your sister to come and help you."

Her tone was so sweet and cloying he was almost surprised her teeth didn't rot from her head. If you can't do it, we'll find someone who can, was the words carried beneath her sigh. If you aren't capable of doing this, you are worthless to me, is what she didn't say but Essek heard echoing in his ears. It had scared him, when he was young. But now, it was simply an inevitability. 

"As always, I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But I believe it will be wholly unnecessary, I am capable of such a small task." 

"Very well," she said simply, putting the issue to rest. 

Essek, unfortunately, wasn't so sure. 

----

Arriving at the Xhorhaus was an exercise in caution most days. Essek simply never knew what to expect when he arrived at their front doorstep.  However, he wasn't expecting to nearly get run over by Fjord and Jester tumbling out of the door and spilling onto the cobblestone road. Essek stepped out of the way just in time, and flashed an apologetic look to the neighbors. As soon as they saw the chaos, the family quickly disappeared inside their home. 

"Essek!" Jester gasped, sounding oh so delighted to see him. She waved her arms flailing about a green slime like substance. "We made sliiiiiime!" 

"And Nott got it all over me!" Fjord grumbled indignantly, picking at his shirt unhappily. "This is almost as bad as the centipolt!"

"What is a centipolt?" Essek asked curiously. 

"A thing that shoot centipedes real far," Jester said in her sing-songy tone, miming the action like a slingshot. "A kobold we knew invented it!" 

"Did we really know him if he died thirty minutes later?" Fjord asked pensively.  

"We met him in his prime!" 

"Sure," Fjord said, not sounding convinced. He shook that off quickly. "Anyways, what are you doing here Essek? I'm assuming you aren't here for slime?" 

"That I am not," Essek said, waving his hands in the somatic gesture of prestidigitation. With both Fjord and Jester now unslimed, he folded his hands before him. "I am here to discuss something of equal importance however. If you are all here, I would like a bit of your time." 

"Of course!" Jester trilled, before she opened the door. Essek followed them both inside. 

The house itself was a bit of a chaotic mess. But more in the way of how a place felt after coming back from a trip. Things were stacked haphazardly, hanging from any corner, half opened satchels were on the floor as well as a few splotches of the aforementioned slime. This was of course punctuated by the chiming of the bells by the door in a loud clanging noise. But it seemed more lived in every time he came to the home, and that filled him with a strange emotion that he couldn’t name. 

"Essek is here!" Fjord called. 

"Hello!" Caduceus said in his usual deep congenial voice. He was sitting next to Yasha with a mug in hand, who was flipping through a book. Though she didn't smile, her expression softened. Neither of them were slimed as it were, but looked oddly at ease despite the chaos around. 

"Essek is here?" Beau asked, popping her head in from a different room. Currently she was toweling her hair, probably recovering from the slime incident. “Hey Essek. Caleb, Nott, get your asses up here!” 

Nott and Caleb appeared next. Nott seemed generally unhappy as she batted her wet hair away with clawed fingers. Caleb on the other hand looked refreshed, a warm. His skin having taken on an attractive pink hue from the heat of their bath, his hair a darker shade. Essek forced himself to tear his gaze away from the curve of his neck, the way a stray droplet of water traced its way to his collarbone. He certainly did not think of how his skin would smell, or how wonderful it would be to brush his fingers through his hair.  

“Good day,” Essek said with a nod of his head. In the pocket of his sleeve he produced the invitations and held them out to Jester, who was closest to him. With a certain level of flare and a twirl she distributed them to the Nein before cooing over her own. “I will not take too much of your time. I am here today to officially invite you all to the Illumination Ball, which will take place during the Day of Radiance two weeks and three days from now.” 

“A ball?” Jester asked, delighted. She grabbed Caleb by the hands and began to spin with him before skipping one or two steps. “With dancing and socializing and pretty dresses!”

“Yes, that’s usually what a ball means,” Caleb said, with an endeared smile as he shook his head as if to relieve his dizziness. The motion was endearing, just as how almost everything he did was endearing. Or unfairly attractive. But it didn’t affect Essek obviously. 

“That sounds so nice,” Caduceus hummed. 

“Is there fighting at these kinds of events?” Yasha asked, and though Essek might have thought she was being sarcastic, her quiet inquisitive tone showed otherwise. 

“No, but there’ll probably be fucking,” Nott pointed out. 

“What the fuck?” Fjord asked, looking flustered. 

“People dress up nicely to show off and get laid, duh!” 

“All that aside why the fuck would they invite us to a fancy ball?” Beauregard asked, squinting at the invitation like it may bite her. 

“As heroes of the Dynasty, and who returned the beacon that we celebrate on this day, the Bright Queen has personally requested your presence,” Essek explained, clasping his hands behind him. “I have also been tasked with ensuring your preparation for this event, in terms of clothing and etiquette.”  

“Wait, first, what’s the Day of Radiance?” Caduceus asked curiously. 

“I believe I mentioned before that on occasion, the sun is allowed to shine in Rosohna? The Day of Radiance is a religious festival that marks one such occasion,” Essek explained. “It is an extremely festive time for us, there is a parade and general frivolity in the streets during the daylight. The Cathedral of the Bright Queen hosts the Illumination Ball after sunset.” 

“That sounds wonderful,” Caduceus said. 

“What etiquette would we have to acquire for this event?” Caleb asked worriedly. 

“Everyone who attends the Illumination Ball is expected to participate in the Opening Dance,” Essek said. “Though I am unsure of if any among you have had formal dance training?” 

“I have! My Mama had tutors teach me,” Jester said, raising her hand excitedly. 

“I have also had some dance training...though it was a long time ago,” Caleb admitted, and Essek filed that piece of information away for later. It would benefit spies to be able to assimilate into events with nobility. He would have to have a shadow of his look up more information on this. 

“Caleb and I danced a waltz once!” Jester said excitedly. “He was really drunk, but he was good at it!” 

“I am unfamiliar with that kind of dance,” Essek said, his intellectual curiosity getting the better of him. “Is it from the Empire?” 

“Yes,” Caleb answered. “It’s an old Zemnian form of dance.” 

“Well, do keep in mind that it may be different then our dancing. You all will only have to learn the steps of the opening dance, after all. Besides that, a rush order has already been placed with the palace tailor. You will all have to go and get measured.” 

“That’s awfully generous of you,” Fjord noted. 

“Her Majesty simply wishes for you to join in the celebration, She shall take care of everything else,” Essek said with his usual placid smile. 

“Wait...are you going to be teaching us the opening dance?” Caduceus asked. 

“That was what Her Majesty intended.” 

“This will be so fun!” Jester said, nearly hopping with excitement. 

Or a disaster, Essek thought but didn’t say. 

----

The day after the invitations were delivered were full of activity. The Mighty Nein went to the court tailor and by that he meant they tortured the court tailor in the way that only the Mighty Nein knew how. By the end of the appointment when he went to collect them, his room had been rearranged, some important spools of thread stolen, and the tailor had been in tears. He had told Essek, with tears in his eyes, how he brave he was to deal with them. Essek hadn’t asked what had happened. Though at some point he would be certain to. Not that he was really sure he wanted to know the answer to his questions. 

The Mighty Nein had all appeared in the Cathedral of the Bright Queen at the appointed time. The servants had taken a break for this hour, giving them enough space in the ballroom to practice with so many people. Essek was thankful to the Luxon for the privacy...since he had know idea what he would be working with. And considering the sometimes utterly chaotic actions the Mighty Nein took, it was probably better that he took on the risk alone. 

“In the tango there are two distinct parts, the leader and the follower. It is extremely important that though the follower may feel the urge to step into the lead, that they allow the leader to fulfill their role,” Essek explained, unhooking his mantle from his shoulders. He was startled when Nott screamed as he settled it off on a chair. "What?"

"You took off your clothes!" Nott screeched. 

"I'm still wearing clothes," Essek said deadpanned, motioning to his high-neck slate-grey tunic and black pants. In fact he had taken care to choose clothing that would preserve his sense of modesty. Essek didn’t like showing skin for a variety of reasons. There was nothing wrong with showing skin, of course. If anything he knew he was handsome and desirable and he could use his good looks to his advantage, and he had done so in his youth. But Essek also knew better than most that the roles one played were often helped by one’s appearance. If he appeared untouchable, then he was untouchable. It was as easy as that. 

"I thought the mantle was like a part of your skin, or that you had really big shoulders," Nott admitted before suddenly pivoting to look at him again. "But wait! Aren't you shorter than usual?" 

"Using my levitation magic would defeat the purpose of this exercise," Essek explained, pulling his gloves more firmly on. "Now? If you don't mind?"

Nott continued to look at him suspiciously as he took his spot in the center of the room. He resisted the urge to sigh or chafe under the sensation of everyone staring at him, but especially Caleb. He could nearly feel his eyes digging into the back of his neck, causing his skin to tingle in a somewhat unpleasant manner. He was so self aware at that moment that he wished he could disappear into the shadows, back under his mantle, anywhere but out in the open feeling so exposed. But there were things more important than his dignity, the Bright Queen's orders being one of them. 

"I will teach you all the leading and following steps to the dance. In total there are eight steps…" 

Essek took them all through the steps multiple times. To his surprise, Beau and Nott both caught on to the rhythm quickly, as did Caleb who obviously did have some dancing training under his belt. Jester, though she got the steps, seemed determined to add extra spins any place she could. Fjord was as stiff as a board, despite Beau attempting to help him. Caduceus would get the steps and then trip over his long legs, where as Yasha seemingly had no sense of rhythm but was happy to follow along with Jester in extra spins. 

"Very good," Essek said, noting this was probably the best they would do for today and endeavoring to keep going. "I believe it's time to partner up. I will demonstrate first, if someone is--"

Suddenly Beau gave Caleb's back a hard whack and forced him forward. Caleb began to cough, and looked back at Beau with an inscrutable expression. After a moment he raised his hand sheepishly. The rest of the Mighty Nein shared a look Essek didn't understand. 

"If you wouldn't mind?" Essek asked, offering his hand. Caleb took it after a single moment's hesitation. Without his levitation spell, Caleb was a few inches taller than him. Essek had to look up to meet his gaze, and the way it felt to see his blue eyes glinting at this angle from the lantern-light pulled at something low and deep inside of him. "I'll lead this time, and then next time I'll follow." 

"Ja--yes," Caleb stuttered, his fingers curled upon his hand. Even through his glove, Essek could feel the warmth branding him, making him light headed. But he wasn't affected, he told himself firmly. Obviously. This was just a dance, a formality, nothing more or less. 

"Very well," Essek said, schooling his tone into something polite and calm and acceptable. "First, place your other hand on the back of my shoulder. My hand is going to go on the small of your back."

Caleb nodded a tiny jerky nod. And then Essek placed his hand upon the small of Caleb's back, leaning him back,  pressing them chest to chest, Essek’s face finding the hollow of his neck and a breath’s space from his cheek. Immediately Caleb's face went a delicious shade of red, and Essek watched it crawl from his cheeks to the tips of his ears and down his neck. He wondered if all humans had such a delightful and attractive affliction. 

"You're close," Caleb gasped, sounding like he was choking on his own tongue. 

"Of course, this is the proper position," Essek explained, grateful for all of his years of court training, his Denmother's critical glares, and the Bright Queen's company because he didn't tremble. He didn't stutter or tremble. All of this was in spite of the fact that the only thing he desired was to feel Caleb's body poured over him like this for the rest of eternity. He was so warm that he could feel it beneath all of his layers, in fact, they may as well have been chest to chest...skin to skin. And that line of thought was just enough to make Essek dizzy, to wish he could lean forward and kiss--

"Is this meant to be a sexy dance?" Jester asked, sounding delighted. It broke Essek out of his strange revelry. 

"If by sexy you mean passionate and elegant, then yes," Essek said. Essek caught Caleb's gaze, felt his composure falter for a moment because had he always looked so lovely in the light? With the way loose strands of hair framed his face? It truly wasn’t fair. But no...no. He was in control. "Let us begin then." 

Essek took them through the first round of steps, but where Caleb before had been precise and had been doing well with the rhythm and the sway of the slow-slow-quick-quick-slow. However, now it was as if Essek was dancing with a creature made of iron. In fact, he could almost feel Caleb creaking in his arms with the tension. Was it so uncomfortable to dance with him? Essek thought. Or...perhaps? But no, he couldn’t think such traitorous thoughts. Not when Caleb was in his arms. 

He had the others pair up after first demonstrating the lead. Nott and Jester did a rather impressively exuberant performance, ending with a flourish of Jester nearly jettisoning Nott up and catching her as they both laughed maniacally. Fjord and Beau both snickered as the danced, before Fjord haphazardly flung Beau into Yasha’s arms. Immediately both women flushed, and began doing the most innocent and haltingly sweet tango Essek had ever witnessed. Fjord and Caduceus finished the pairings, Fjord doing his best to help correct Caduceus’ steps, while Caduceus smiled warmly at Fjord.

Essek however, after a short break, took up dancing with Caleb yet again. This time though, with the others in the Mighty Nein busy, he felt oddly assured of himself. He squeezed Caleb’s hand to catch his attention as they continued their dance. 

“Would it make you more comfortable to switch? I shall follow and you can lead?”

“Um...uh, ja, whatever you would like,” Caleb said, before Essek moved his arm to his lower back. Essek arched it, and pressed close, because this was what you did when you tangoed and for no other selfish reason. He was rewarded with an intake of breath that felt like a victory. 

“I don’t bite,” Essek told him as they quick turned. “Relax, Widogast.” 

“I just...this is very different than the kind of dancing I am used to,” Caleb admitted with a shy smile, and to his credit Essek could feel him attempt to unwind some of his tension. “Much more...intimate?” 

“Isn’t that what dancing is supposed to be?” Essek asked, face close enough that they could share these secrets and he could smell wood-fire on Caleb’s skin. If he just tipped his head up so slightly…

He waited for the pause in the dragging of Caleb’s leg, before with a flourish he brushed his leg up against Caleb’s. 

“Surely those of the Empire must know that,” Essek said, his heels clicking back into place. “Otherwise it simply can’t compare.” 

“No, it can’t,” Caleb said, voice low and hushed and for the first time, he led them into a turn that felt natural and confident. 

Essek had the acute feeling he wasn’t talking about dancing. 

Essek was nearly tingling with the touch throughout the rest of his day. Through the daily report meetings, and his assignments with the Shadows, and even in his personal daily audience with the Bright Queen herself. It hadn’t gone away by the time he returned to his home. But when he walked to his front door, he immediately knew that something was different and it chilled that wonderful-lovely feeling and stilled it beneath his skin. The windows were just too bright, there was the shadow of too much activity. Gritting his teeth, he opened the door, his hand up and prepared to cast. 

His servant Amald immediately rushed to the door looking breathless and harried as he managed to stutter out, “my lord, good evening!” 

“What is happening?” Essek demanded, turning the corner to his living room. He immediately saw her. The snow-white-skinned tiefling continued to lie down upon his chaise, dressed in a violet velvet gown that clung to everything, her fur stole arranged over her shoulders. Upon his table there were two wine glasses, a lit candle, and an opened bottle of his wine chilling in ice. 

“Essek, my dearest, don’t look so dour,” she said, holding out her hand. One of his other servants, Hadise quickly placed a tray of refreshments down, giving Essek a desperate look before quickly scurrying back with Amald. “Finally! Come, say hello to your favorite sister. I hope you don’t mind that I broke into your good vintages.” 

“Adore,” Essek sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Haven’t you anything better to do than to torture my servants and burst into my house without invitation?” 

“You are too lenient on them,” Adore said sitting up, tapping claws against the wine glass as she set it down. “Besides, is this how you treat me? I came all this way to see you.” 

“You came here to attend the Illumination Ball,” Essek scoffed before looking around. “Where’s your husband?” 

“Oh, he’s sleeping off the trip at home,” Adore said, standing up. She inspected the mantle of the fireplace, admired his crystal roses and spun his preserved world globe. “I wanted to see you, and this was the only time I could think to catch you. When these kinds of events come up, you are normally holed up somewhere. Remember when Uralin had to go and collect you for your own personal address before the counsel?” 

“How could I forget,” Essek said coldly. “He broke my favorite writing desk.” 

“Our eldest brother forgets his own strength,” Adore laughed breezily, as she paused before the mirror and inspected her appearance. Her white-gold hair was pulled back into a slick chignon that was meant to emphasize her decorated horns, there wasn’t a hair out of place though she appeared to brush at it. “He was relatively new to the minotaur body at that point. But that’s besides the point, can you imagine my surprise when I heard that not only are you not hiding in some musty dusty corner somewhere, but that you actively preparing the Heroes of the Dynasty for the event? I just had to know more.” 

“What is there to know? I’m sure you have coaxed the words out of every passerby since coming to the capitol.” 

“I do sing a very convincing song,” she said with a coquettish grin. “Don’t I, Essek?” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Essek pointed out coldly. 

“Yes, yes. Immune to my charms, I know. You have your particular tastes.” 

“Tell me, really, what are you here for?” Essek asked her as he sat down. He filled his own glass with his wine, swirling it carefully. “We both know that these niceties do not suit you, and I assume you are not here to interrogate me about my sex life.”

“I think most would say the contrary for a variety of reasons, though, niceties are what you do best,” Adore pointed out, taking her seat and leaning against her hand as her elbow balanced upon the armrest. “And though your sex life  is very interesting I am sure, I won’t lie to you and say I am here for that. Mother told me to keep my eye on you. She is afraid that you are losing your edge.” 

“I promise you that no such thing has occurred,” Essek said with his most pleasant and agreeable smile. “Mother simply worries about me too much. Please, let her know that her concern is appreciated but unnecessary.” 

“I am sure it is,” Adore said with a sip, looking as if they were both sharing a private inside joke. “We both know very well that Mother usually frets over nothing. She has always had a soft spot for you, ever since you were adopted into our family. I have complete and utter faith in your abilities, Essek. I know that you are perfectly capable of separating personal feelings from your work.” 

“Of course,” Essek said, unaffected by her usual jabs. 

“Then you also won’t mind that Mother requested that I assist you, and that I intend to do that.” 

Essek felt his fingers twitch and tighten their grip upon his glass. 

“Though I appreciate the thought, it is wholly unnecessary as I told Mother. I am sure that you have plenty you wish to do while in the city--” 

“Oh I do, but I am also the head of the Musedel College of the Bardic Arts, if I didn’t assist you, what would that say about me? Besides, I also wish to meet this fabled Mighty Nien that you seem so determined to hog to yourself,” Adore asked with the mockery of a playful smile, placing down her empty glass. Essek stood quickly, wincing at the pain in his back as he did. Amald quickly came into the room with her coat. She put it on, before looking back at Essek with a challenge in her golden eyes. “I shall have one of my servants come to gather the details in the morning. Unless there is a problem?”

“No problem, I am thankful for your thoughtfulness,” Essek said, as she leaned close to him and studied his expression. She smoothed his cloak, in a mockery of gentle concern. 

“Are you worried, perhaps? Don’t worry, Essek. I won’t steal any of your toys from you,” she promised with an indulgent smirk. “Unless they look particularly delicious, that is. I know you won’t mind.” 

“I am sure they will appreciate the expert touch you will bring to their education,” Essek said, his smile tasting sour upon his face. “Goodnight, sister.” 

With a click of her heels, the swish of her skirt, and the scent of jasmine she left his house. Essek stood there, gritting his teeth, trying to contain the wash of frustration that crashed into him like a wave. After a few moments of breathing, he managed to get it all under control. 

“Lord of Light give me strength,” Essek prayed, looking up at the ceiling, before blowing out the candle. 

[g3rmb0y]

Day 11/? Drow

This is day 11 of a worldbuilding exercise I’ve been doing to help make my D&D worlds more interesting. Currently mostly doing races, but I’ll eventually branch out into other topics. Doing Drow today.

To understand the history of the Drow, one must look to Lolth, the former arch-bio-enchanter for the elven empires. Prior to the dragon wars, the elves kept certain researchers at hand doing cutting edge work, and one of their chief scientists was an elf woman named Lolth, already in her early thousands, yet her mind was still quite sharp, although her ethical standards and restraint in her research were less so. As such, she found working on the surface, in the company of other elves who would regularly judge her to be unbearable- instead, she requested resources to build a massive settlement underground, primarily to study life in the subterranean caverns below the crust of the planet. The elven lords gladly granted this request, happy to be rid of her and her followers, a large entourage of scientists and scholars who lacked the restraint of the rest of the elven culture.

They progressed with their research, completely dependent on regular supply drops from the surface. However, soon word came down that the surface was dealing with near apocalyptic disasters due to the draconic wars, and then, nothing. Scouts were sent to attempt to make it back to the surface, but in a dragon attack, the entrance to the caverns had been completely blocked. Running out of food and supplies, many of the elves despaired, but Lolth remained committed to keep the elven race going- believing that the surface elves were all dead. Thus, she concocted a number of biological enhancements that she gave to her followers, infusing spider DNA into some, and other random splices into others- Her subjects were, in the most conservative of cases, given gray skin which allowed them to blend in with the stone better, and in more extreme cases, were fused with spider to form driders, who would serve as the hunters and guards as they fended for themselves in the subterranian hell they had found themselves in. Despite all this, they thrived and built grand cities, and set themselves to repopulating the race. Soon, drow cities began cropping up everywhere, with Lolth as the primary ruler. As she continued to age, her followers began to see her as a goddess, and after a point, she began to resemble one, her technologies having advanced to the point of resembling divine magic.

Unlike the elves, who live in prosperity and harmony, the scarcity and brutal conditions of the underground have left the drow as a largely bitter and uncaring race, fanatical in their devotion to Lolth. They are primarily a matriarchal society, seeing Lolth as the mother of the drow, and her former scientists and staff now taking on roles as high priests and rulers. Petty crimes are usually dealt with severely, but crimes of heresy and the like result in assignment as one of Lolth’s test subjects, which often results in driders, or other monstrosities.

Drow culture has many similar aspects to elven culture, sharing similar languages, a cruder and more decadent equivalent of their art, and similar music, but in other ways they are very different. Whereas elves are very cautious about building families, drow prefer to have a large number of children, as given the dangers of underground life, as well as the tendancy towards backstabbing, mortality is high, and having a large family means having a greater pool of potential allies if need be- this also means that child rearing is largely insulated, with the parents teaching their child everything they need to know about the world. That being said, after they come to age, many drow attend schools of magic, as there is a constant need for skilled spellcasters, but the academic life is even worse, where a failure to make the right alliances can be fatal, and final exams can often turn lethal, fueled by mad scientist professors who incorporate untested experiments into their courses.

Where the surface elves tend to live a timeless existence, drow are fixed in the present, savoring the moment, and find themselves embroiled in political intrigue in every aspect of their lives. Drow don’t form friendships, instead preferring allies and co-conspirators above all else. That being said, those who encounter drow often find them to be charming, and given their elven charisma, will grow to like them quite quickly, but drow are fully willing to sacrifice anyone to get their way.

Drow rarely make it to the surface, but recent excavations have uncovered a number of small caves that lead to the surface, and small drow raiding parties have been seen exploring the area. Occasionally a drow will become separated or lost, and given the reputation drow have gained due to their raids, they are usually treated with mistrust. That being said, drow occasionally do find acceptance in small communities, as drow that make it to the surface tend to be skillful spellcasters, and while they are never fully accepted into the community, they can do well for themselves. Others find the adventuring life suits them, and drow are often highly regarded as adventuring partners given their propensity for magic, although it’s common knowledge that you can not expect any loyalty from them.

[shaydh]

The Drow Story (part 1)

Oh boy, here we go. I’m splitting the story into two parts because it got long, so this first part is Sakhure and Iraedra’s story. I didn’t proofread it at all and wrote it very stupidly, so...don’t think too hard about it.

Sakhure

Back in around 1165 DR, Sakhure was born to a lesser noble house of Menzoberranzan. This house was right at the bottom of the noble house rankings and pretty much regarded as a joke. The Matron Mother was weak and too afraid to risk what little status they had in a house war. The firstborn daughter was just as ineffectual as her mother. The elderboy, Arron, was the weapon master, and actually surprisingly competent, but since he was male, he had no power over politics and no influence over the house standing. This bothered him a lot.

So anyway, Sakhure goes to Arach-Tinilith to begin training as a priestess, and because Lolth likes to do things for shits and giggles, she somehow gains Lolth's favor and just becomes like, the top of the class. As you can imagine, this made a lot of people very angry, mostly the daughters of the greater noble houses who are suddenly getting shown up by a nobody.

Sakhure doesn't care, she's having a good time, her brother is delighted, and basically the two of them make a promise to kill off the rest of their family and finally raise their house to a good standing. But as she goes through the training, she starts to notice how fickle Lolth is with her favor. As added insurance, she makes her brother teach her melee combat, and she takes to it even more than to priestess stuff.

What she wasn't interested in, however, was intrigue. Sakhure is about as subtle as a really unsubtle thing. A battlerager or something. Her classmates and teachers assume Lolth really loves her and that's why she never ended up with a knife in the back, but actually it's because she found a powerful ally in one of her classmates, a girl by the name of Neidarra.

Neidarra was common-born, and also secretly a psion. Probably someone from House Oblodra canoodled too much in Eastmyr. Anyway Neidarra offered to deal with all the intrigue and keep Sakhure at the top, and when Sakhure becomes the Matron Mother of her house, she'd kill off her sister and bring in Neidarra and basically be like "Yeah, this is my sister who is definitely not an imposter, she's been here all along, what do you mean she suddenly got shorter." Sakhure agreed. They become BFFs or something.

A great number of college shenanigans and Mean Girls drama ensues. Finally it's graduation time!

By this time, Sakhure has some serious doubts about this whole priestess business. It just doesn't seem very fun spending decades, centuries, struggling to gain rank and fighting to keep it until Lolth gets bored and you lose her favor and die. Also maybe she doesn't want to bang a glabrezu at the graduation ceremony because like, ew. She tries to vaguely hint that hey, maybe this whole system sucks, but the only two people she trusts are Arron and Neidarra, and both of them are just kinda like "What are you talking about, we are so close to our goal stop this crazy talk." So Sakhure does the reasonable thing and the night before graduation, she runs away.

Later the story goes that she grabbed a sword in the middle of the ceremony, singlehandedly banished the demon, killed a dozen males and priestesses who tried to stop her, and escaped into the night, cackling madly. This was actually exaggerated from a rumor spread by her classmate and chief Rival in order to paint her as a heretic, and simultaneously discredit Neidarra, since the two of them were together so often that Neidarra had to be involved. With that, Rival became the top of the class. Rival had no qualms about demon-fuckery. The rest of Sakhure's house is shamed and immediately eliminated in a house war.

Sakhure, meanwhile, traveled through the Underdark and made it to the Surface sometime around 1277 DR. She becomes a mercenary and goes on adventures. Maybe does the Icewind Dale stuff, definitely somehow becomes the Knight Captain. Apparently she's been doing the merc thing for like a century and she's pretty jaded and tired of it currently. But anyway, back to...

Neidarra

Who just had her girlfriend run off with no warning, at least in her mind. She is upset, not least because she knows Rival is going to try and get her killed because heresy, etc. Thanks to her psion powers, she manages to slip away, join a merchant caravan, and travel to Ched Nasad, where upon arrival she kills off the entire caravan so no one can rat her out. She sneaks into the city.

For the next few weeks, she spends her time sitting around in winehouses people-watching, except instead of watching people she scans their thoughts. Finally she finds the target she's looking for. It's a noble daughter of House Telsaerryn, a mid-ranked merchant house. Neidarra worms her way into this girl's confidence in much the same way as she did with Sakhure, basically offering her psionic aid in killing off the Matron Mother so this girl could take the throne. Conveniently, this girl had a younger sister who was basically a shut-in, never left the house. No one outside of the family had seen her in years. Her name was Iraedra.

So Neidarra and her new best friend stage a coup, successfully kill off her mother, and take control of the house. The real Iraedra is killed, and Neidarra takes her place. House Telsaerryn enjoys a few decades of prosperity, aided by the new Iraedra's information-gathering abilities. The Matron Mother makes a mistake, and becomes a little too dependent on her sister.

During this time, Iraedra had been taking over the rest of the house and gaining their loyalty. Anyone too close to the previous members of Telsaerryn were dismissed or killed, and replaced with people handpicked by Iraedra herself. She favored people who were talented and desperate. Unlike most nobles, she would go into the common areas and the slums to recruit anyone who showed skill or promise, since this would be their best chance at a better life, and they had no other allies to depend on so they'd be loyal to her.

It was a very easy thing for Iraedra to assassinate her sister, and in 1313 DR she becomes Matron Mother Iraedra of House Telsaerryn. Iraedra doesn't wish to rise too high in the hierarchy of noble houses because she might come under scrutiny and her psionic powers would be discovered, so she does what she does best and works her way into the favor of some of the highest noble houses of Ched Nasad, all of them rivals to each other. She plays a very delicate power balancing game with them, making sure Telsaerryn is essential to at least two of her allied houses at any given time. This is pretty much her idea of fun, and things go great until 1372 DR, when Ched Nasad falls.

To be continued~

[emalynde]

Elf Boyfriends D&D Game RP!

((So we have our magnificent D&D game that has been affectionately titled the elf boyfriends campaign--it’s the game that yields the D&D SSO journals from Chelyse’s perspective.  I also have another storyline woven into the campaign kinda behind the scenes that features Thalandril--Chelyse’s brand new lifemate--and the woman who would now be considered his consort.  Here’s a bit of their interactions.  I’ll be writing and clarifying what’s occurred to catch everyone up on the slowly converging story, too.  All the RP \o/)) Emalynde was lounging casually in the overstuffed armchair that sat in the corner of Thalandril's office, a somewhat coy and confident cast to her demeanor.  She was early.  Earlier than he was to arrive to his own place of work.  A write-up had been tossed upon his desk, intentionally haphazard in the way that it was at an angle compared to the perfectly positioned papers, writing utensils, and other such materials.  Because the agent would be familiar with Emalynde on a personal level, he might note that she seemed ever so slightly tired--as if she had not had the time to trance fully--and that the redhead sported a select few cuts and bruises.  The abrasions might allude to the fact that she had seen some physical confrontation recently, although the traces of as much were hastily concealed, albeit not entirely.  She was here to report in, although the enchantress did not always do so in person.  Emalynde's most recent endeavor had been to gather intelligence upon an upper-echelon noble that was suspected of allowing the drow passage into Evermeet--and not for the purposes Jarlaxle would support.  Drow infiltration was perhaps the one, serious threat to the sun elves of Leuthilspar, as the capital was a more likely target for actual damage rather than simple raids.  Whatever information the smirking elf retrieved, it seemed to have been a more difficult task than normal.  Or otherwise special in some way.  It was a delicate matter, certainly, given that the individual in question was rather high-ranking, but of dour importance given his proximity and influence exerted upon the ruling parties of Evermeet.

*** The door to Thalandril's office opened as the lithe elf walked in, nose buried into a report in his hands.  Without seeming to miss a beat, he snaps his fingers and a series of candles light across the room, giving a scented glow to the ambiance. "I assume the mission went well, seeing as you're early?"  He stated, proceeding to walk to his desk and lower the report onto a perfectly squared stack of papers.  He unconsciously tidied up after, make doubly sure everything was in neat working order across his desk.He didn't mention the fact that it was quite obvious she had a run in with one of the more notorious female abusers of the city.  She was, in fact, one of his best operatives, and had proven she could handle herself in a pinch.  Letting emotion cloud the way he treated her was exactly what he was having to bury away.  This was professional now.  Their past could not intercede with the future; this was the way it had to be.  Thalandril had a look of almost forced professionalism, as memories of what conspired upon his desk on numerous occasions flew through his brain.  He coughed politely and regained his composer. *** Emalynde arches a single, well-shaped brow, rising from her seat with feline grace--the movement fluid and graceful.  It was also sensuous in its way, every muscle of her form trained to move in the most appealing manner possible--when she wished it so.  Despite looking a bit worn, the redhead smirks, smooth steps carrying her toward Thalandril's desk, where the rogue stood.  "Well enough," she laughs, the sound light and melodic.  It was her orchestrated laugh, and he would know it.  It was too perfect.  Too well-constructed.It was unlike Thalandril to not even look at her.  His aloofness was a staple of their playful banter that the Companion relished, but it was if the intelligence agent refused to view her.  Advancing to the edge of his desk, Emalynde rests her palms upon its surface, leaning forward into the posture.  She sought his gaze, now intrigued as to what had caused this perceived change of mood (for that was what she presumed this shift to be).  "You missed me little, I see," the redhead teases, paying rather close attention to even the smallest details of her friend's reaction.  She does somber in an instant, though, allowing Thalandril only a brief moment to respond.  "Dwin'orrel did not allow me the time I would have preferred to move about his home, nor were his premises left unguarded."  A slight sigh parts the enchantress' lips,  letting her line of sight drift off to the side slightly in resignation.  "I have permit another rendezvous with the magister to satisfy your curiosity, my dear Head of Intelligence Operations."  The title was almost mocking, given their personal relationship--even if it was only as close friends.  Her golden eyes flick back up to attempt to meet Thalandril's own, quite serious.  "I hope you appreciate the gesture.  This one does not play nicely." *** Thalandri'ls golden eyes darted away at the comment.  Of course he missed her, but now he couldn't.  He had finally been reunited with the one who truly held his heart.  Lust was always a vice they shared, however, even that was too far for what he was now doing. This was for the best.  "Did I now?"  He replied coolly, not knowing how to really continue this exchange, since he would no longer allow himself to dance with the redhead so.  Realizing she was getting right into the report, he relaxed a bit, no longer worried about where to take the conversation.  He listened intently to the priestess’ words, playing them back through his head as he thought through and analyzed everything brought to his attention. "I do think that is best.  Another meeting with this man may get us what we want.  It just so happens you have an appointment with Lamruil Teth'Sol; he has been commissioned to make you a full new wardrobe.  Benefits of the job I suppose."  He tossed a quick smirk at Emalynde.  Lamruil was the best tailor in the entirety of Evermeet - maybe even all of Faerun.  At over a thousand years old, the ancient elf had perfected his craft.  His wait list is hundreds of years long for a single dress.  The things Thalandril had to do to procure this will keep the Head of Intelligence up for a few trance-less nights. *** Emalynde's heart sank slightly at the exchange.  Seldom was Thalandril unsure of himself--or of anything, really--but that's what she saw marked upon her childhood friend's face.  Or, what she thought she saw, at least.  The redhead could never truly be sure, although she would never admit as much to him.  Part of the Companion wanted to press the issue, to see exactly what the matter was--but now wasn't the time.  Emalynde cared for Thalandril and could tell that something was troubling him, but she knew not what.  She watches him while she relayed her news, appraising his mannerisms and body language.  While they were by no means officially involved, the pair shared one another's bed regularly--and that was the only time Thalandril truly let his walls down around her.  Playing along, although she was inwardly rather worried, Emalynde's eyes lit up, standing upright suddenly to clasp both hands to her chest.  "Thalandril," she purrs, still putting on somewhat of a show in keeping with their typical maneuvers, "You do love me."  Emalynde tosses a wink at the intelligence agent, relaxing into a more casual posture once more.  "An entire wardrobe, hmm?  You must be painfully unaware of just how many garments are currently in my possession."  She was toying with him plainly, utilizing the tone of voice intended to cause his hair to stand on end and his mouth to become dry--among other choice bodily reactions.  Emalynde also knew that Thalandril would recognize her rather obvious methods.  She was testing their waters, and therefore was conveying indirectly that she was aware that something was amiss and was concerned.  All without saying as much--nor making anything awkward.  Emalynde assumed the most endearing pose she could, something she had use on the intelligence agent before to curry his favor.  Having spent almost 150 years in the rogue's company in one way or another, the redhead was privy to some of Thalandril's proclivities.  She hadn't had to actually try with the blonde in what seemed like centuries; they had always danced this seamless dance that came to her as easy as breathing.  "My place tonight, then, as usual?"  Something pulled at Emalynde's chest, as if she were short of breath slightly.  Perhaps this was worse than she thought.  It was the beginnings of slight unease, the priestess always assuming that if something was wrong, it was her fault.  It was always her fault, it seemed.  She spoke somewhat softly, in a voice reserved for intimate conversations that followed their bedroom escapades.  The enchantress was sparing no punches here, aiming directly for Thalandril's heartstrings. *** Thalandril stood up and moved fluidly over to one of his immaculate bookcases, subtly rearranging this and that, as though nervously fidgeting.  "As usual?  That makes you sound predictable Emalynde.  Tsk tsk."  He smiled outwardly, but cringed inwardly.  Does he do this slow and easy, or go right for the blunt truth of the matter?  Unknowingly, he closed his eyes as he decided he had to choose now, the strain almost evident.  It was not normal for him to be like this; the rogue was normally so cool and controlled.  Why was this getting to him?  He was in love with Chelyse, and wanted to devote himself to her.  He couldn't do that with Emalynde around in their current capacity. "I think we should go for a spot of tea."  The last thing he wanted to do was hurt what was most probably his closest friend.  "It is quite stuffy  in here; a nice breeze may clear things up."  He offered his arm to her, and a genuine smile. She was ravishing, alluring, enticing... The agent stopped himself from that line of thought as his blood started to heat up.  This would be harder than he thought it would be...  Was this the right choice? *** Emalynde watches the rogue move around her, sensitive to every minute expression upon his face.  As the intelligence agent traveled to toy with the numerous books within their case, the redhead frowned.  Straightening, smooth steps carry her within an inch of his person, her freckled visage tilted upwards so that he could not avoid her rather direct confrontation.  "You, too, are rather predictable, my dear Thalandril."  It was a low blow, to say his name like that.  It was a trait she utilized with her clients: the subtle, honeyed pronunciation of their name--as if it's utterance held special weight and connotation.  She had made frequent use of it when Thalandril and herself were meeting at the monthly gala, but it had probably been only every so often--and only on special occasions--since then.  "You forget that I know exactly what makes your knees weak."  She attempts to hold his gaze, so that he knew that she knew.  The response just about baffled her, causing the enchantress to blink almost blankly at her friend before slipping her arm into his.  All this was so unlike him.  What could she possibly have done wrong?  "Later, then," she concedes, reverting back to her normal tones and behavior.  Emalynde pauses a bit, halting their progress, as she asks: "I have not seen the damage; must I spend a few more moments healing my... abrasions?  I do not wish to draw attention to them."  Tending to the marks if necessary, the pair soon head out into the streets of downtown Leuthilspar--the most active elven city in existence.  They had a place they preferred to dine, although typically for brunch or drinks.  It would work for tea.  The Companion flashes a warm smile at the waitress, intentionally acting as if she were Thalandril's consort just to spite him for the earlier rejection.  Settling down across from her friend, the redhead rests her elbows against the table, fingers threaded into one another so that she could rest her chin upon the platform created.  "What needs to be cleared up?"  Despite Thalandril's prowess at their dance, he was certainly off his game this morning and Emalynde saw no point in beating about the bush, so to speak. *** Leaning back in his chair, elbows resting on the arms with his hands together, fingers threaded with a single pair of digits sticking up, Thalandril keeps the gaze of the priestess. "Right to the point then, are we?"  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, taking in a deep breath. Upon exhalation, he opened his eyes and started up at the ceiling.  How to do this: "I'm sure you're aware I have been bound, yes?  Chelyse came back into town, and it was rather quickly that it all happened."  He looked down to see her reaction upon mention of Chelyse's name.  Everyone knew the young paladin was bound to come back at some point.  It had been 50 years.  No messages.  No warning.  He couldn't break Emalynde's cover that she had--until this morning--been under to inform her.  He knew that the Companion would worry that it was something that she had done, and thus felt compelled to explain.  That was always one of her flaws.  But could she understand?  She did not know what love felt like, and now he did.  What the two of them had was lust.  Incredible lust... but in the end it was simply companionship.  That was her job after all, and she was so horribly good at it.  He's not even sure the young prodigy of Hanali knew what love was, with the life that she lived.  He hoped one day she might find it.  Somewhere. *** The redhead arches a single brow, making little effort to conceal how perplexed she was at the mention of his business arrangement; what had it to do with her?  "Yes.  I have met the girl while acting as Companion for her eldest brother.  Sweet family, although I must admit they keep rather strange company.  That is an awful lot of sha'quessir to designate at once, much less for a single house.  What of it?"  Emalynde's mind raced through the many possible explanations for his behavior--was he simply filling her in as to some parameter of his new relationship that had soured his disposition?  Or perhaps he was cross that she had been away so long.  She softened at that thought, the slight irritation at Thalandril's indirectness ebbing away.  A silken slippered foot moves to brush against his ankle and slightly upwards, her voice more gentle, "What ails you?" *** "As much we both know, I love the game we have played.  However... I feel it is best not to play it any longer.  May I speak candidly?  As friends?"  Thalandril asked, pained by something.  Having to deal with feelings--and the way others felt--was difficult as it was, but adding to it the complexities of playing a mind game at the same time is needless.  Especially when it might end up burning the other person rather badly.  Plus, who best to help him understand himself and what was happening than Emalynde?  She was always the one that helped ground him and figure out dilemmas as would a normal person, instead of the almost mechanical being he had attempted to be for so many years.  They had probably had dozens of candid conversation, where the game was turned off and they could just discuss what was happening in their lives.  It was a logical process, seeing as the only real, true friendship the other had seemed to be sitting across the table.  He hadn't even realized that he had put pressure against the young elf's silken foot, until he got a slight jolt up his spine. She was good.  Damn her.  His face blushed ever so slightly at her touch, but he did not pull away.  His heart rate had already begun to pick up, as he waited for his companion’s reply. *** Emalynde's expression reflected the confusion that permeated her thoughts.  "If you wished to discuss something personal," she muses aloud, "your office was perfectly suitable..."  He might be able to watch the processes unfold upon her visage, putting piece after piece together to try to figure him out.  "But of course."  She gestures with her words, sweeping a hand outward in a short gesticulation.  But a smirk quickly curls her lips as she realized that Thalandril was actually blushing at her touch.  The Companion lets her gaze alight upon the intelligence agent triumphantly.  "Have you missed me so thoroughly that you cannot find it in yourself to play?"  Emalynde seemed rather pleased with herself.   "You have been rather off your stride this morning.  I daresay I win."  The rogue receives a most beguiling smile, one that's so genuine of her desire to best the most cunning adversary the freckled elf had known.  Driving her point home, Emalynde slides her pointed foot upwards along the inside of Thalandril's calf, the movement intended to be alluring.  It was mostly playful, though, as one of their pastimes is making the other blush publically.  And she had won so easily. *** Thalandril tried to focus on the matter at hand, as the elven temptress worked her trade on him, riling him up.  He coughed into a handkerchief and moved to pour some tea.  "I am not on my game today, I'm afraid.  One of those occasions, it seems."  He let out a sigh as he filled his own cup with tea--the perfect amount followed by an exact amount of sugar and milk, as he had done a thousand times the same.  "I will let you have this little victory, even if you cheat."  He winked at her as he filled a second cup with dark brown, sweet-smelling tea, going about making it the way she liked.  "I guess we should start with a story, then."  Thalandril then goes into detail about the evening he had with Chelyse and the others at the sushi bar on the shore: how it began, proceeded, and ended.  "Since then... I have felt... different . As though there was something more.  However, I cannot really grasp the whole feeling."  She could see the pain under his eyes; he was not used to being confused or not having control of a situation--that being his feelings for Chelyse.  "These feelings are leading me to desire nothing but Chelyse."  He took in a deep drink of his tea, warmed by the perfect mixture, knowing that this would indeed hurt his lovely companion, but hoped that his explanation would help her realize that it was not her fault in any way. *** At Thalandril's sincerity, the freckled elf ceased her teasing, a slight smile still hovering against her mouth, but more so fond than anything else.  She does beam, though, as the rogue admits defeat--like an eager student, almost, receiving praise from a mentor.  But she does not gloat.  "Thank you," she says gently, already leaning forward across the table slightly to cup the tea Thalandril was pouring her with both hands.  She listens attentively to the story told to her, reacting genuinely as it unfolded.  Emalynde understood as the narrative drew on.  She had been on several such outings with customers who had made a habit of continuously frequenting her company.  Those who made the most use of her companionship, regulating her--in their minds--to the role of lover.  They found actual love, broke the news to her as one would a partner--despite the fact she did not return that sentiment--and then went on their way.  Why should she be surprised when it happened with Thalandril?  But she was.  The feeling crept up on her, as she realized what was occurring, like a growing unease.  A smile remained fixed to her freckled features all the same, not daring to let him see.  Don't be silly, she told herself, it is not as if he does not wish to see you ever again.  Whereas her clients were just that--clients--Thalandril was her friend... her employer, in a way, with whom she shared a rather intimate relationship, admittedly.  Reaching out, she places a warmed hand (a result of cupping her glass) upon his own.  "I am happy for you," she remarks in softened tones, genuine in her well-wishes.  Not one to leave anything unclarified, Emalynde continues forwardly, "I shall return your... possessions that have remained at my home."  She was making sure that he did not intend to visit her in that capacity again.  Gods, why was this difficult? *** Thalandril sighed in relief. "Thank you; I guess it would be... proper to have it all returned. Although your residence is always a safe place to hide out without worrying about having my things on me..."  He mused about the tactical implications of keeping a set of clothes and toiletries at Emalynde's home, not even considering that she was meaning he might not visit her again in the way he had for so long. "I do, however, hope to keep up our regular outings; you do happen to be the only friend I can go out with, you know."  The roguish elf smiled at her, equally worried about her, but happy that she had not made an issue of the situation.  "Would you care to order anything?  My treat of course." *** Emalynde lets her fingers slide slowly free from atop Thalandril's hand, sitting up properly with the same, shield-like smile on.  She was afraid that her closest friend would see through her, but he did indeed seem very much off his game.  To her advantage, at least, she thought.  How odd this sensation was.  It unsettled her more that she could not place it, what it was.  She was unwilling to admit any jealousy.  Thalandril’s and her relationship was not like that.  Perhaps the problems was that someone else was taking up the time of the individual she had spent the last 100 years of her life with.  The smile that turned the corner of her lips upward was one of relief, almost.  "I would like that," she admits, her fear at being discarded abating somewhat.  It was just the sex, then.  Emalynde could easily replace the intelligence agent with a number of willing participants--he had just been her partner of choice for so long.  At the invitation to dine with the rogue, Emalynde politely declines, her expression somewhat unreadable.  "Forgive me," she explains, "I do not feel entirely well."  It wasn't a lie; she did feel strange.  And discussing it with her closest friend felt... wrong.  Standing, the redhead offers her friend a smile before gliding toward Thalandril's chair, bending at the waist to cup his jaw in a gentle hand.  Softly, she presses her lips to his.  If he yielded to the kiss, she would engage him more deeply for a few moments, ultimately pulling away.  The tips of her fingers trailed against his jaw, departing without another word. *** "I see.  Well then, perhaps another time.  I do hope you feel better."  He saw through this.  This was her act, her job, but why was she behaving so?  This was unlike her.  Thalandril watched as the freckled elf got up and walk over to him.  At first he was surprised at her lips touching his.  He did not, however, resist, instead letting his blood become more heated.  She was one hell of a individual.  Even with her guard up, she could make him feel lightheaded.  The rogue watched after Emalynde as she exited the establishment, hoping he still had a friendship intact.  That relationship was very meaningful to him.  Worry crept up his throat, though, at the possibility she had not left amiably; did he miscalculate?  Is that even possible? ((All this happens the day before Chelyse returns to Evermeet from Nexus for a brief stay.  Day after that, Chelyse and Thalandril have lunch and she tells him that she’s staying in Nexus permanently and in love with Kasimir.  He’s not pleased.  In fact, he storms out of the restaurant.  To add to the rogue’s bad day, Emalynde isn’t ever home when he looks for her, she doesn’t respond to his calls, etc.  She disappears.  The DM lovingly titled this bit of storyline as, “I’ve got 99 problems and bitches are all of them,” a remark by Thalandril.))