#v: ACT III

[idolbound]

"I hear you visited several times while I was unconscious." Sioned makes her way into Meredith's office with too much familiarity, not even bothering to knock. She's still recovering from the Arishok's wounds, but at least she's on her feet again. "Did you miss me that dearly?"

@kirkwll

The sharp tone of Kirkwall's newest Champion catches the Knight-Commander's ear long before the sound of her heavy door sliding open or that of her bootsteps; a hand comes to ball into a fist at the undue interruption. To say Meredith had not expected Hawke to be on her feet, much less in her office is an understatement.

Still, her jaw tightens as she rises to her full height, blatantly eyeing the younger woman over. The fight against the Arishok had been brutal, from what she was told by eyewitnesses, and from the very fact that Hawke had collapsed and stayed as such for days afterward.

"I did," Meredith admits; it isn't a lie, though her intent had not been out of friendship nor respect, but a matter of checking whether or not Hawke was going to succumb to her wounds or remain alive for the time being. Clearly, as it were, the latter seems to be the case. She sighs under her breath, and folds her arms across her breastplate; piercing blue eyes stare at Sioned without breaking away.

"Do not flatter yourself, Hawke. It was out of obligation. Who else would tell the City if their newly anointed Champion had perished after such an... historical victory? I am certain they would've erected a statue in your honour, had that been the case. But it appears you are... alive and well."

[a2zillustration]

tfw u come across someone else who can't remember certain things and it hits a little too close to home for a second

| First | | Previous | | Next |

[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

[they-have-the-same-va]

Lucifer from the Shin Megami Tensei series shares a voice actor with Grandpa Max Tennyson from the Ben 10 series.

Voiced by Paul Eiding

[emby-m]

What has four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs at night?

(an exploration of andreas over the course of 25 years, plus quotes)

[wonder-worker]

The magnitude of what [Richard III] did should not be played down. Edward V was not of an age to have caused personal political offence. He could not be accused of tyranny, like Richard II, or gross incompetence, like Henry VI. He had begun to reign, but he had not yet ruled. The usurpation of 1483 was of a fundamentally different order to those of 1399, 1461, or even 1485. Those, whether justifiable or not, were acts of the last resort. In 1483, uniquely, deposition was used as a weapon of first resort.

-A.J Pollard, Richard III and the Princes in the Tower

It is of course possible that Richard only advanced his own claim to the throne after he was informed by a deeply troubled Bishop Stillington that Edward V and his brother were illegitimate. It is possible, but highly implausible. The case finally put together concerning the bastardy of the princes, and enrolled in a parliamentary statute of January 1484, is theologically sound. It was that Edward IV had entered a pre-contract of marriage with Eleanor Butler before he had married Elizabeth Woodville and that this rendered his children by her illegitimate. Under canon law, had Edward IV entered a pre-contract of marriage with Eleanor Butler, all the children born of a later union, before or after Eleanor’s death, even if Elizabeth Woodville had been ignorant of the previous liaison, would have been illegitimate. In this respect the fact that Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville had married clandestinely made matters worse. Moreover, it was perfectly acceptable in law to raise objection on these grounds several years after the event. The pre-contract story, in its final form, presented a strong legal case.

There are, however, several sound reasons for doubting its truth. While it is the case that parliament was a proper body to adjudicate on matters of inheritance that resulted from illegitimacy, in England in the later-fifteenth century an ecclesiastical court should have heard the original charge. And if it were true, why was it not put before such a court so as to remove all doubts? Moreover, even if it had been proved that Edward V and his brother were illegitimate, deposition was not the only course open to the protector. The stain of illegitimacy could have been removed by the ritual of coronation. Edward V, like Elizabeth I later, could have been declared legitimate and all doubts removed. Above all, the revelation of the princes’ bastardy was so timely and convenient as to leave little doubt in the minds of contemporaries that it was but the colour for an act of usurpation.

There is, too, a suspicious degree of confusion over the precise detail of the charge of illegitimacy as it was first advanced in June. Mancini’s account of the sermons and speeches hints at a change in the story. At first the charge appeared to be that Edward IV himself was a bastard; two days later it seems that the princes were. The first official government statement appears in a letter dated 28 June to the captain of Calais informing him that his oath of loyalty to Edward V was no longer valid. Many people, he was assured, had made similar oaths in ignorance of Richard III’s true title which had been shown and declared in a petition presented by the lords spiritual and temporal and the commons on 26 June, a copy of which was to be sent to Calais for publication. Unfortunately that copy has not survived. The earliest surviving version is, therefore, that transcribed as part of the parliamentary act settling the throne on Richard. This purports to reproduce that petition verbatim, but doubts have been cast on its veracity. It is possible that the final, official version, had been subsequently amended. Even so, there is no reason to doubt that the substance of the original petition of 26 June was the same as that reproduced in January: namely that ‘all the issue of the said King Edward been bastards’

It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that Richard III usurped the throne in June 1483. Perhaps in retrospect what happened appears more controlled and more deliberate than was in fact the case. We tend to favour a conspiratorial view of the past, where often a ‘cock-up’ theory might be more applicable. Did Richard III mastermind a brilliantly conceived and skilfully executed coup d’état? Or did it all happen in confusion, ignorance and fear? Richard might well have had a plan to take the throne by one means, but found that he had to change it as events developed.

... We should not assume that the usurpation was conducted according to a timetable; but there are nevertheless several observations that can be made with some certainty. The first is that Richard took and never surrendered the initiative. It is hard to sustain the idea that he was forced into usurpation by circumstances or by his rivals’ actions. He did not need to seize Rivers and his companions at Stony Stratford; he did not need to execute Hastings on 13 June. On both these occasions experienced politicians walked unsuspectingly into a trap. None of Richard’s victims in the summer of 1483 anticipated the fate awaiting them. In modern jargon, Richard was proactive, not reactive. The second observation is that Richard acted with unprecedented ruthlessness. His enemies were executed without trial. They were not in arms against their sovereign; they were not taken after battle and slain even under the colour of the law of arms. There was no pretence of lawful process. They were murdered in cold blood. The third observation is that Richard faced little opposition. Potential opposition was removed by pre-emptive strikes. The fourth observation is that he deposed a boy of twelve, his nephew, who on his own insistence had been placed in his trust.

[sora-genshin]

Capitano

[starcunin]

@caniasfire sent: [ nightmare ] sender comforts receiver after they wake up from a nightmare

The dream is so beautiful at first——too beautiful. It’s the kind of happiness Astarion hardly lets himself believe in, let alone hope for. He and Amay are free, truly free. The shadow of their cursed pasts long behind them. No tadpoles, no hellish masters, just endless possibilities. They’re powerful, unbound, ruling their world together as they should. The sun shines down on them and Astarion doesn’t flinch beneath its light. Amay’s laughter fills the air, bright and untainted, a sound of pure joy, and Astarion’s heart swells to hear it.

But then comes that shadow.

It seeps into the dream like blood into water——dark, spreading, impossible to ignore. Before Astarion can react, he sees him. Cazador. That monstrous, familiar figure looming, his red eyes glowing with twisted amusement. There’s no escape, no chance to protect what he loves. Cazador’s hand shoots out, fast as lightning, closing around Amay’s throat. Astarion tries to move, to scream, to throw himself between them, but he can’t. He’s frozen. Helpless. He can only watch, horror gripping his chest like a vice, as Amay struggles, choking on his own pleas for help.

Cazador’s gaze snaps to Astarion, eyes gleaming in the surreal darkness, glowing like embers of an ancient fire. “Foolish, boy,” he sneers, his voice a venomous sound that crawls into Astarion’s soul. “You really believed you were capable of escaping me?” Astarion’s mouth opens, but no sound comes. He tries to shout, to cry out, but his voice has abandoned him. He can’t even tremble, pinned by the overwhelming weight of Cazador’s will. He’s back under his master’s control, just a pawn again, unable to save the one he loves, condemned to watch the life drain from Amay’s eyes as Cazador sinks his fangs into the soft flesh of his throat. Desperation claws at him, a frantic, animalistic need to do something—anything—but he remains paralyzed, a prisoner of his own mind.

Then, through the suffocating silence, he hears his name.

It starts like a whisper, distant, but it grows louder. A sudden shift in the bed, the faint rustle of sheets. The weight of the nightmare begins to slip, like sand falling from his fingers, but the terror still clings to him, thick and oppressive. The dream collapses inward as though the world itself is falling away, leaving him weightless, suspended over a yawning abyss.

Astarion wakes with a violent start, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. His eyes snap open, wide and frantic, pupils blown as he takes in the familiar room of the Elfsong Tavern. The soft glow of distant lanterns, the faint hum of the city outside——it’s real, all of it. Not a dream. Not a nightmare. But his mind is still trapped in that place, still haunted by the image of Cazador’s hand wrapped around Amay’s throat. Amay. He bolts upright in bed, hands grasping blindly in the darkness, reaching for something, someone. His fingers collide with warm flesh, and it grounds him, yanking him back from the edge of panic. His darkvision adjusts quickly, and there, beside him, is Amay——alive, safe, untouched.

Relief hits him like a punch to the gut, and without thinking, he pulls Amay into a desperate, crushing embrace. He holds him as though he might vanish if Astarion lets go, his arms trembling with the force of it. The warmth of Amay’s skin, the sound of his breathing, the solidness of him——it anchors Astarion in the present, reminds him that this is real, that Cazador is not here. A choked sob claws its way up from his chest before he can stop it, a sound so raw and broken it shakes his entire frame. He presses his face into the curve of Amay’s neck, where he can feel his pulse——steady, alive. It’s a comfort, but it doesn’t stop the flood of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him. He fights to swallow it back, to push down the terror that still lingers at the edges of his mind, but it’s too much. For a moment, he allows himself the vulnerability, clinging to Amay like a lifeline.

❛ I—❜ His voice breaks, hoarse and unsteady. He buries himself deeper into Amay’s warmth, breathing in the scent of him, trying to calm the frantic pounding of his blood rushing through his eardrums, ringing violently in his skull. He knows he should say something. An apology, maybe? For waking him, for holding him so tightly, for the nightmare that still clings to his skin like cold sweat. But no words come just yet. He just breathes, focusing on the steady rise and fall of Amay’s chest, the soothing presence of him, here, safe, and he tries again, ❛ I’m sorry for waking you…❜ He hates this. Hates how close they are to Cazador, to facing him. Hates the fear that grips him, constantly.

[accultant]

you don’t deserve to be forgotten

━━★. *･｡ﾟ✧⁺ RULE OF ROSE STARTERS

I don’t deserve to be coddled, they bite their tongue against answering, curling into a smaller ball where they sit with their shoulder pressed against Puck’s, their knees to their chest. It isn’t fair that he has to comfort them when they were the one who lied. They made the choice to hide it all from him, manipulate him. All in a futile, foolish attempt to erase their past, and themselves along with it. It was always their fault. 

“I failed you in so many ways, Puck,” they respond quietly, looking at their hands as they worry and pick at the same hole in their cloak that they mended just the night before.

It’s hard to talk so openly and honestly for a number of reasons. One of them being that Puck and Iago, as close as they’ve always been, as important as they are to each other, stopped talking a long time ago. Even before the Bhaal temple, so much was left unspoken and so much was never truly addressed. They were stuck with a horrible, rotten life and only had one person in the world to turn to - and they often failed to do even that, mistaking codependency and obsession for support. 

Now, they’re finally trying. Iago insists upon it, as difficult as it is. They have to be better.  

“I was not a good sibling,” they continue, stating it like a fact. It is a fact, in Iago’s eyes. Puck won’t ever be able to remember all the ways they let him down. He won’t remember playing lanceboard or wearing matching bows as kids, either. 

A hole rips beneath their shaking fingers and they start to wind a thread around their pinkie. 

“I shouldn’t have lied. I know that’s no way to fix that, but…” they have to add before they go on, their thoughts choppy and disjointed as they chip at the truth. They’ll never be able to apologize enough for what they did to him, but it must be said anyway. 

“But I was scared that you wouldn’t want me as I was,” their voice has devolved into a mumble, losing steam quickly as the lump in their throat grows. “I thought that I would be better left forgotten. Sometimes I still do. Maybe if you remembered what I was like -” they’re already shaking their head as they interrupt themselves.

“No. You wouldn’t agree, you’ve always been patient with me. Kind. But the truth is, you deserve a better sibling than what I was for you.” That shouldn't have been your choice to make, Iago.

[h8fuckk]

closed starter | @lordgortrash

The streets of Baldur’s Gate are quieter than usual as the succubus approaches the grand estate. Shadows cling to the corners of the city like lurking memories, and the weight of her own failures presses heavier with each step. The stone path leading to Gortash’s domain feels endless, each footfall punctuated by the ache of her unresolved longing and the gnawing terror of what she is about to do. Her thoughts race, dark and stormy as the sky that looms overhead, full of threats she can neither predict nor avoid. Weeks have passed since she last saw Gortash, since he cast her out with a fury that sent a chill through her —— and a shame she hasn’t been able to shake since.

She had failed her patron. Her father——ugh, that fucking bastard. Failed him by not killing Gortash when she had the chance, and now? Well, she either needs a miracle or Gortash’s help and the two are practically one and the same.

Nepharia stops a few paces from the towering door, her breath shallow, her heart a reckless thrum in her chest. She hates being here, hates the sensation of vulnerability coiling in her gut like some venomous thing. She had walked these streets with the confidence of a predator, but now? Now she stands before Gortash’s gates with the bitter taste of defeat on her tongue. She hates that too ——— that he had made her feel something she couldn’t define, something that had shattered her resolve when she was so close to ending him. She had wanted to sink her claws into him, claim his soul as her own, deliver it to her patron and be rid of this mess.

But she hadn’t. She couldn’t.

Her clawed fists tighten at her sides as she watches the Steel Watcher, its cold, unblinking gaze locked on her, waiting. She could almost feel Gortash’s eyes through it —— studying her from the safety of wherever he watched, probably considering whether he should order it to tear her apart where she stands. Would he? She wonders. Does he still want me dead? A flicker of fear runs down her spine at the thought, but she crushes it quickly. She can’t afford to be afraid —— not of him. Not now.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she reaches into her bloodied cloak ( still damp with the bhaalspawn’s gore ) and pulls free the two Netherstones —— Orin’s and Ketheric’s. The weight of them is strange in her hands, a terrible power she feels thrumming beneath her skin. Power enough to stand against Zymimor? Power that could grant her the freedom she’s always craved. She holds them up to the Steel Watcher, the dim light from the estate casting a faint glint over the stones’ dark surfaces.

This is her offering. Her truce.

Nepharia swallows her pride, though it feels like swallowing glass, sharp and jagged in her throat. She waits, eyes narrowing in defiance even though desperation gnaws at her bones. She wonders if Gortash will laugh at her —— if he’ll even open the door at all. Maybe he’ll leave her to rot in the shadow of his estate, let the cold take her, or worse —— send her crawling back to her father in chains.

Damned and powerless, forever bound to the Abyss.

She suppresses a shudder and forces herself to stand taller, the Netherstones held steady before her. She has no choice but to come back to him now. She’s betrayed everyone else. Stolen the artefact, left her companions to whatever fate the Absolute has in store for them. There’s no one left for her to turn to, no one who could understand her hunger for freedom, for power, like Gortash. If he doesn’t take her in, if he doesn’t listen to what she has to offer, then she has nothing. And nothing terrifies her more than being alone with the crushing weight of her failures.

[idolbound]

So, we know that Meredith has had the idol fashioned into a blade, sometime in the 3 years between the qunari attack and the beginning of Act 3.

In that time, its influence has slowly been affecting Meredith, particularly through her already existing paranoia; it pointedly starts to get worse as Orsino calls her out on seeing "blood mages in every corner" in their fight at the market. We know she has established martial law, and is acting as a de facto Viscount (a decision made in sound mind to establish control over Kirkwall), but we also know she has gotten stricter and enabling harsher punishments to those who break the law.

At this point, I like to believe that her symptoms of untreated PTSD start to ramp up. The paranoia, the hypervigilance, the startle response, the irritation/aggression. She already experienced these things, but the idol's presence ramps them up, slowly but surely; she never ingests red lyrium but it is clear that it's mere presence affects people around it. And so, over this period, her mental state is very frayed but she doesn't yet start to hear its corrupted 'song'.

That said, we know all lyrium has a "song' of the titans it is harvested from, and all templars use lyrium and therefore 'hear it', but I feel they become accustomed to it (especially veteran templars who have been taking lyrium for decades). We know it makes templars feel as if there is something missing or that they feel incomplete, but it allows them to suppress magic, and doesn't lead them astray from that duty.

This, I'm afraid, changes later in Act 3, probably a couple months or so before the end of it all. Meredith is clearly much more agitated and fails to see reason no matter what Hawke or anyone else says to her. While part of her mind and decision-making ability is still there, I like to imagine she hears the blighted lyrium's song and it is loud, and powerful, and she likely suffers from both visual and auditory hallucinations (hence the ramped up paranoia/hypervigilance) that affects how she conducts herself. Given that this has been ongoing over several years, it has affected Meredith's overall health as well: she isn't sleeping so she just looks exhausted; she's barely been eating and looks more gaunt in the face; and she just looks unwell, as if she might have a terminal illness that's slowly killing her (and honestly, it is - even if she hadn't been turned to lyrium, it probably would have driven her to suicide otherwise).

At the height of Meredith's madness, I imagine she is hearing things much like Senua in Hellblade; she still has her conscious fixed to the reality around her (hence how she reacts to Anders blowing up the Chantry), but it is what is driving her slowly insane, making her believe things exist where they don't, but it also makes her unable to believe the truth, washing her in whispered conspiracy. It's why, for example, if a pro-Templar Hawke, who supported and helped Meredith with mages is suddenly turned on at the end; Meredith seems the Champion as a threat despite evidence to the contrary, and seeks to kill them.

And in terms of the idol giving her seemingly 'magical' abilities (for the boss fight), I think it acts similar to a mage's staff, given the fact she already has lyrium in her system and can control/suppress magic - but as the idol is a corrupted item, there are... simply things that remain unexplainable. (And perhaps exaggerated a little through The Tale of the Champion - we will never know).

[heylittleriotact]

Open Invitation - Thirty-Four (We're In The Weeds Now, Friends.)

In which:

Echo thinks she may have been *too* vulnerable

There's a lot of banter-y chit-chat between lovers

Astarion tests the waters with his thoughts about the ritual...

... and starts playing games again

Excerpt:

“Did you mean it?” He demanded suddenly, any lighthearted japery gone from his voice. Her eyes flicked from his shoulder to his face at the sudden tonal change. The last person to ask her this very question was chasing after her down a crowded street as she desperately tried to avoid them because of the burden of shame that was the truth: no, she had not meant it. She had said what she said because she knew it was what they wanted to hear, and at the time playing pretend seemed so much better than the alternative… So she had wadded up their bleeding heart in the palms of her bloody hands in the middle of that bustling public market, threw it to the ground, and crushed it under the heel of her boot with agonizing intent - metaphorically, of course.  That had only been a few years earlier and at the time she hadn’t lost a single wink of sleep over it: one can’t go around offering up their heart ignorant to the fact that doing such a thing might open it up for smashing at the hands of another.  But… as Echo regarded the familiar red eyes of her vampire, keenly aware of the shadow of worry within them and the carefully guarded heart that dwelled in his chest, she knew that she could never knowingly cause him pain. To be the source and cause of any suffering he felt? She would sooner die… “Of course I did.” She answered curtly, piercing his skin and drawing the needle through.  “Then tell me again.” He whispered, his voice like silk. At this she retorted, “Bold of you to assume that I’m going to just follow you around obediently, showering you with affirmations and reassurances of affection while receiving nothing in return. I spent enough time doing the very same thing with that other asshole.” But when the words came out, they sounded exactly like, “I love you.”  Who was she kidding? She would do anything this man asked of her. He moaned a little, and she knew it wasn’t from the needle and thread because of the slow, wide smile that pulled at his lips as his eyes shut.  “Say it again?”  “I love you.” She felt him shiver slightly against her hand and she paused her work.  “Again.” He said so softly she could barely hear him. With her free hand, she took him by his chin and forced his face up. “Look at me.” She demanded, and she waited for his eyelids to lift and his eyes to find hers before saying, “I love you, Astarion,” and she brought her lips to kiss him slowly and passionately.

 Pairing: Tav (High Elf Feylock) x Astarion

Rating: Explicit

Themes: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Cycle Breaking, Happy Ending (but not without a lot of pain first), very involved archfey patron.

Disclaimer: Complex trauma delving with direct and implied reference to various forms of abuse, including rape/sexual assault, as well as implied self-harm, including suicidal thoughts/behaviour. Explicit violence. Smuuut.

[avernusfuries]

"I've got it." A very happy, very smug little Karlach (well, big Karlach) had come up with an idea of what they could do, now that they had reached Baldur's Gate. The city itself boasted an overwhelmed amount of things to do, some ranging from mild, to the downright peculiar, if one knew where to look. She did not think about something as exciting as wrestling lions, tigers, and bears, nor the romantic strolls as twilight hung overhead. Normality. Minthara had not seen the city through her eyes, only in the trudge and wander as they went from first point to second. The tiefling was positively vibrating with a giddy excitement that she did not bother to hide.

Couldn't really hide it, if she wanted to. Minthara could read her as well as Gale could those heaps of boring old books of his, word by word, page by page, chapter by chapter. "I want to go on a date. A first date. No weapons, no monsters, not mysterious voices." She paused, and her hands moved to her own hips and she stood a little straighter. Boring, mundane, normal. Fuck, she missed normal. Though, they had long since overshot the mark of slow burn. By fucking miles, actually. "Just you and me, and dinner. What do you say? Something away from the doom and gloom."

@spiderwarden / semi plotted.

[darkgifted]

arlis + act 3 : necromancy

[good--merits-accumulated]

i really need to like. make a list of all the anderperry fic ideas i want to write and know i never will and put it somewhere. maybe here

[beregosts]

arlis' casting in act 3 lacks the grace and confidence of both shadowheart & gale in their respective casting. her motions are noticeably rougher and less fluid, unpracticed and instinctive rather than nurtured & familiar. similarly, she tends to whisper rather than speak loudly during casting. the words are rushed and uneven but spoken with a potent certainty, bolstered by a natural proficiency rather than any true care.

however, her movements are more natural, thoughtful, when casting spare the dying. her hands are gentle, careful in their touch.

[bhaalbie]

closed.

the city is drowning. the red sea of blooded swaying from bhaal's will. (her father, she's come to learn. blood in her hands, his blood in his body.) and she finds a list with marks, certainly a trail to assassins that orin sent out. kills and murder tormenting the unsuspecting city, bhaal would be delighted. dahlya no longer cares, she will find the temple once more, and kill orin with her hands. make her and the rest of temple grovel, burn it all to the ground. the temple will be no more.

she walks among those she once despised, she promised to rid off from this earth. if anyone was in with her idea of bloodthirsty revenge it was @palespawn, it's fun, it's cathartic. funny the way everything has changed and it hasn't. between her and astarion something has grown. she cares for someone, she'd do anything for him. it's only fun when she indulges him as well. she walks closer to him, hand on his lower back, gentle, softer. softer than she is with anyone else. "would you like to have some fun, love?" it's a whisper, a sly grin washes over her features. across the street, walking into some obscure alley. one of bhaal's. life sometimes could be about the little things. "that man over there. with the dark hair, he's been following us for the past while." she waits for his reaction. almost impatiently. tails swinging.