#totyranny

[relentlessgrief]

BALDUR'S GATE IS UNFAIR! GORTASH IS IN THERE! STANDING AT THE CONCESSION! PLOTTING HIS OPPRESSION!

[unagreeablegirl]

immediately sentenced to death by 10000000 arrows to the face.

[saccageurs]

throws a rock at his face

wait no i didnt mean it

[freedomscall]

@totyranny | inquis!anders starters

❝ TYPICALLY visitors don't go about wandering the depths of the fortress, you know. Much less foreign mages whose arrival already has several of my men up in arms. ❞ Voice echoes in dusty corridor, another length of Skyhold's underbelly left mostly unoccupied and unexplored. It is a curious thing, the sensations the mage feels: the continuous sparks of pain in left palm, the disbelief that still lingers in him as body trails after familiar stranger in their request to come with them for just a moment, the anger of it all that still pulses in his chest of being tricked in such a way. To know now what it feels like to grieve for that which you thought dead only for it suddenly enter your life again with no pleasing explanation.

❝ In fact, most like to stay well above ground. But you never were that sort, were you ENVER? ❞ Anders could still remember, as how could he not, being dragged by the other's hand--- down into the maze of tunnels beneath Kirkwall through sheer whim alone. He supposed this was much the same, though with potentially much less serious consequences... Depending, of course.

His joints would have much more preferred just sitting down to talk.

[nobodyexpectsthe]

spotify wrapped starters: 71, the other side - greatest showman

Were they not so desperate, were their need not so great, the first shipment of armaments would have been turned right back and returned to their generous benefactor. Though the Inquisitor is new to the ways of human nobility, he is no fool. He did not need Vivienne in his ear, breathing caution, to recognize someone using their cause to uplift their own standing.

Creators knew he had enough of those begging for his eye in the hold already.

Yet they were not in a position to decline any aide. Not when getting help from Ferelden and Orlais was like pulling teeth. Entrapped as Lord Enver Gortash's aid was, it was still aid. He told himself they would deal with the strings when they decided to pull taunt.

"Ser Gortash?" The name comes out as more of a question than he intends it to. A sideways glance is cast to the attendant as if to confirm the identity of the man before him. "... My apologies, I did not realize you were set to arrive today."

Or at all. Never could he have imagined that the request to visit would be made good on. He had asked, of course, but nearly all of their benefactors would as a courtesy. Then they would send an envoy, pat themselves on the back for their good deed, and return to however it was they filled their days.

The elf's smile is calm and courtly as he rises from his throne, not a whit of the unease he feels with any who hail from Tevinter slipping through the cracks.

"Skyhold welcomes you, friend. Please allow me to show you the grounds."

[rubistella]

@totyranny || plotted starter

Bedsheets sat close to the spawn's hips. Modesty, as practised by Astarion, was a hollow sort of ritual— a nod to humanity's decency, or perhaps a token defiance against his master's commands. His body had never been his own, but any pretense of discretion added flavour to the performance. And performance it was. Enver had seen all of it, touched all of it, worn it down until it gleamed like polished stone.

Pretty things, the disgusting rasp of Cazador’s voice echoed in mind, were made to entertain.

This one, though, had crawled free from the grave of mere decoration. A twist of fate, cruel or kind, left Astarion alive where others rotted.

Unlike his usual marks, Cazador had dealings with Gortash, some shady exchange written in the inky script of power over the annals of Baldur’s Gate's underworld. What better emissary than his finest creation to strengthen this alliance? The spawn was an offering, a coin of flesh and wit to barter favour from one tyrant to another.

On the bed’s edge, Astarion was found seated, a static figure caught in time’s slow dissolve. A mirror across the room reflected Enver’s form, lean and triumphant, but its reflection whispered lies… so many lies. No ghost lingered beside him, no faint outline of another presence either. Astarion’s absence was its own kind of scream— a reminder of what he was. Void where a man should have been.

Monster. The word tasted bitter, even unspoken.

Reaching for the moon, fingers stretched to cage that white light in the heavens. It stared back at him, unblinking and impassive, a celestial voyeur to his grim existence. Astarion’s lips twitched, caught between longing and mockery, until movement shattered the moment. Enver stood before him, a king without his crown, the dominance emanating from that man etched into the lines of his poise. The blood red skies in Astarion’s eyes climbed like ivy, leaving the moon behind to settle on the man who stood too close.

“Haven’t had enough?” Astarion’s tenor was an ode to what angels singing must have sounded like, and a smirk pulled at a single corner of his mouth. His hand, pale as moonlight, reached out to seize Enver’s hip, hauling him closer. That little hollow below the jut of bone of his loins became the center of Astarion’s world. Lips brushed it, soft as a whispered confession, then lingered, nuzzling, savouring the pulse of that living man. “Can’t say I’m surprised…” He murmured against skin, apple sweet, temptation in disguise.

The night yawned wide around them, vast and unwritten, waiting for what came next.

[maestrojax]

@totyranny sc.

The mercenary leader sat with his feet kicked up on the humans desk. How had he gotten in? That's for him to know and no one to find out. He had opened one of the bottles of wine he carried with him and poured himself a glass. An empty glass sitting on the edge of the desk next to the bottle of wine.

"It took you long enough to return." He said looking at him, using the magic of his eye patch to examine him. Oh delightful.

[idolbound]

Idk if there's a specific reason that were telling you you're amazing but I'm down.

You are fucking amazing, the love and care that you put into building up this powerhouse wlw asshat is unparalleled. Every single time you post a thought, theory, or headcanon I'm beyond thrilled to read it.

When I came back to the rp sphere and da rp in general I knew there would be a lot of dead blogs and people I would miss seeing around, your blog was on that list and I was SO happy to see you around and still kicking ass.

Overall 10000 / 10, im rooting for you in the corner while trying to think of a way to clink our muses together like haunted antique porcelain dolls.

@totyranny hello hi! It was kind of part of the @darpadvent2024 event which is run by the wonderful @valorcorrupt !! but also I've been sending out things to everyone on my dash just because.

Gosh, this is so nice, I truly am glad y'all enjoy my insanity and essay writing on Meredith!! It's so nice to have this community and so many different muses in it.

Please, I DO have a baldur's gate verse - it's not fully fleshed out since I haven't done much in her PT but she is a lawful evil oathbreaker paladin who will be stanning the Absolute so, there's plenty of options!!

[relentlessgrief]

Proceeds to pick up @silvertiefling and @totyranny by the scruffs of their necks.

[archonoclasm]

@totyranny asked: ❛ you look like you've got something to say. ❜ &. 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐬: still accepting.

"I always have something to say. It's what makes me so popular at parties," Dorian replies, the pluck in voice so painfully exasperating. He should school himself a little, better to knot his pretty tongue like some cherry gone cantankerous with a willful stem. He'd delight in it, too, should ever this nudnik suggest as much. Think: Pondering on my tongue that imaginatively, are you? he'd jest. Huff. I'm impressed, but you've always (repeat, always) thought yourself a visionary.

Dorian's a bloody menace. Dorian's more thorn on his gentler days. Moving, the mage thumbs his chin for some scholarly affectation. Yet, vexing, of course, is where he lands. "You'll have to be far more specific, I'm afraid. Are you perhaps referring to the knot in my sculpted brow, or to the inquisitive line in my tensing jaw? The former suggests I'm thinking seriously of supper. On the other hand, the latter illustrates how I'm weary of you."

[debtorsfolly]

Stares directly at him and pushes the wine bottle off the table.

@totyranny is trying my patience.

IT HAD BEEN AMUSING THE FIRST HUNDRED TIMES. The defiance with which Enver struck out had always been so juvenile as to be laughable. The inconvenience overshadowed by the undercurrent of fear and resentment wafting from his most amusing young debtor. Damned by his parents, this child thought to defy him even when he was sick with terror over his predicament. Perhaps, Raphael thought, he'd been too lenient in his punishments. Not wanting to break such a deliciously unmarred toy, he hadn't quashed these hot streaks of rebellion. There was so much misery to be eked from one so young. It may one day be a problem.

As of now it was merely becoming a nuisance. The thousandth time was nowhere near as amusing as the first hundred. Dark claws pressed into the parchment he'd been reading - a freshly drafted contract - at the sound of the sudden crash. Raphael's lips, once calmly settled in pleasure over a recent success, twisted in a cold snarl. Tail flicking, irritable golden eyes locked on the Infernal Mason tucked in a corner of the room where they'd been sharing what he'd thought to be a pleasant dinner. The Mason jerked into action, a rag in hand.

He was first forced to bleed into the carpet, tightly grasping shards of glass as they were plucked from the rug. He wasn't allowed to keep his pain private, lips a-quiver with whimpers and senseless babble. When all of the glass was removed, the rag pressed into the growing stain to soak it up. Next, of course, he would be forced to drink from the rag...

Raphael's gaze snapped to Enver, contract lowered to the table with a quiet rustle. "Do you feel better?" It was hardly a question; more a threat. "Or did you need something?"

[rubistella]

' tell me, does the blood taste differently depending on the god? bhaalists, probably, they are what they eat and that tends to be corpses. but what about other gods? does worship change the flavour? '

@totyranny || unprompted

“Do you honestly think I’d waste my time asking someone’s religion before sinking my teeth into them?”  How dreadfully anticlimactic that would be. “I honestly couldn’t care less about such things.” 

And yet, Gortash’s musings had a way of rooting themselves in Astarion’s mind. Shadowheart’s blood, with its subtle sweetness, the Dark Urge’s, viscous and heady. Creed or kind, species or sacrament… was it their god or their very nature shaping the taste?

Astarion’s lips curved, the thought twisting into curiosity.

“I have, however, noticed a few delightful little nuances. Blood types, for one. Each with their own quality.” Pale fingers twitched, as though tracing the veins of memory. “Hydration, now that makes a difference. You’d be surprised with what a few extra sips of water can do for the flavour. Blood’s far less... sludgy when they’re diligent about it.”

Leaning back into his seat, Astarion recounted the memory as if speaking of fine wine pairings.

“Herbal remedies, though? Eugh, those tend to leave an absolutely vile taste behind. It’s like licking the bottom of an apothecary’s cupboard.” People really ought to consider their diets more carefully, the vampire thought.

And the Bhaalists? Astarion spared a glance toward their favourite draconic murder machine. “Well, as far as the blood of divine cultists goes, I’ve only had the pleasure of tasting that one.” Canting his head sideways a touch, crimsons narrowed in playful scrutiny. “Either he hasn’t been near a corpse in a while, or cannibalism does surprisingly little to alter the flavour. Curious, isn’t it?”

[dcvium]

@totyranny liked for a starter!

"I'm not what you remember, I'm sure..." Not that she remembered, but everywhere she'd gone, anyone she'd spoken to that had known her--- well, it was made clear that she was changed. Not as bloodthirsty. Not as violent. Well, typically... the Goblins she'd slaughtered might've had a different view on that. And then the carnage she'd left in her wake at Moonrise. "I think it just means Bhaal doesn't own me now. He doesn't control my thoughts. I think I see clearer now." She wasn't supposed to be here. She wasn't supposed to be trying like this. But she had to.

[freedomscall]

@totyranny | memes

‘it always comes down to this, doesn’t it? to us.’

❝ TO US. ❞

Their relationship, or perhaps the now lack there of one. He had thought Enver dead, after all, and now in the exhuming of it…

❝ You don't regret it, do you? ❞ Anders wonders. There is a disquiet in him that lingers, when he thinks upon it. How dependent at times Enver was upon him in Kirkwall, as a patient. As a friend. As a partner. He is likely close to ten years the man's elder, a fact irrelevant now, BUT…

❝ I can understand if you might. I was a wreck, back then. ❞ An emotionally stunted wreck searching for scraps of validation, of a more understanding camaraderie than just what Hawke's crew offered. Desperate and yearning and later utterly besotted by the younger man.

[azzagrazt]

@totyranny rolled 64 for a Spotify wrapped starter — Burn Your Village, Kiki Rockwell

Deep within Wyrm’s Rock, a mirror was doing something it should not have been. Basic principles of light and reflection should have mandated that the polished glass simply reflect the room back to itself, as mirrors were known to do, but its surface had gone strangely dark and murky like the harbor waters at night. It was a dark darker than dark, that seemed not to reflect but consume the light around it, and only when the very newly-coronated Archduke of Baldur’s Gate entered his office would it change.

          Graz’zt seemed to dissolve out of that blackness, eyes glowing and his face marked by a lazy grin.

          “You are very good, Your Grace.” The honorific was not quite a sneer; the man had earned it in spades for being clever and bold enough to claim it, but the question wasn’t in the claiming. It was the keeping, and that was going to prove much harder. It always did when gods and monsters were concerned, and Enver Gortash had entangled himself thoroughly with both. The Brain was stirring, and he was losing control.

          “But your grasp on the situation is… slipping. And you are running out of time.”

          The Prince disappeared from the surface of the mirror, and then there was Luz in the flesh, emerging from an inky corner in black silk and fine leather boots. Two different faces, but the same eyes—the same smug, unbothered smile.

          “As much as playing the hero suits you… three days. Three days is all it will take to untangle everything you’ve worked for. And your Lord leaves you scrambling like a rat in the dark while the Temple of Bhaal collapses on itself.” Thorm dead, Orin now followed. It would be Gortash they came for next, but he already knew that.

          “Whatever could your plan be?”

[relentlessgrief]

what if I ask politely for a bone?

NO.