#“YOU WORSHIP THE MOONMAIDEN TOO

[basketobread]

MY POOKIE PRINCESSSSSSSSSS THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR DRAWING MY GIRL ❤❤❤❤❤ ALSO THAT LAST DOODLE MADE ME LAUGH SM FDISUHFIUSSDUI <3333

little doodle of @basketobread ‘s lunara!! i love their art and comics <3 lunara is also very cute, she deserves all the pretty women

bonus doodle with one of my tavs, aelyn, who is also a cleric of selune

spiderman pointing meme at each other

[oathkeeper-of-tarth]

Moonmaiden's Reconstitution

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, minor appearances by a few supporting OCs Length: ~10000 words Rating: T, for angst and references to canon-typical violence. Summary:

"We have grown up on tales of your exploits, hearing about the Sword of the Silverlight. It is a nigh-unimaginable honour to be able to thank you in person. On the eve of a grand ceremony, no less, here at the heart of Our Lady's worship!" Unimaginable, Aylin thinks to herself with a rising bitterness, casting another glance over the large hall, skirting over heads and faces, failing to find the one she yearns for. How long need one be gone for, to pass even from imagination?

A year after the defeat of the Absolute, their travels take Aylin and Isobel to Waterdeep, to the House of the Moon, where they are both driven to confront things they were trying to avoid.

Contains various flavours of angst, dealing with trauma, and emotional hurt/comfort, as well as a bath. Also contains the author thinking the House of the Moon is cool, while also finding it very convenient and fitting that it has very detailed writeups and maps… that are about 100 years out of date in-universe, save for one little addition and a brief mention in one 5e adventure. This started off as a bit of a followup or companion piece to With Tremulous Cadence Slow before growing completely out of control.

Written for day 4 of Aylin/Isobel Week 2025, for the prompts: Returned to the fold of time | Hero worship, smitten, argument, anger

Also on AO3.

—

Moonmaiden's Reconstitution

Dame Aylin is ill at ease.

Even here, in the mightiest citadel of her Mother's faithful, where Her face gazes down on Aylin from statues and reliefs and frescoes around every corner. Where the night is as bright as it should always be: lit gently with motes of moonlight and pale droplets embraced in the petals of a flower-garden; lambent silver filling fountains and pools, shining from secluded chapel niches and lofty domes alike.

The House of the Moon is as magnificent as any palace other than Argentil could ever hope to be. White stone intricately carved, tiled marble; blue and silver everywhere one looked, topped with gleaming gold. Why, if Aylin felt like it, she could don her armour, stand stock-still next to a line of statues, and the visitors passing her by would surely be none the wiser.

How could anything here be wrong, be out of place, when the entire complex was built not to align with the crisscrossing of streets and city infrastructure, but to provide views on the moonrise and moonset on those special days when Selûne would climb highest in the sky and bless Her faithful with Her direct light and loving gaze the longest? The entire brilliant arc of the moon's nightly travel could be comfortably beheld from underneath the temple's domes, enchanted to become transparent when touched by moonlight.

Aylin has been here many times over her many years in her Mother's service, indulged in many chances to come to know it well in all its occasionally overwrought splendour. She has always been welcomed, too; each of her visits proclaimed a portent of blessings to come - or as a timely warning to shore up the defences before an imminent threat reared its often shadow-wreathed head. The welcome has not faded, even after more than a hundred years of absence and a transition in leadership.

With the familiarity comes also the disquietude of all the changes a place goes through in a century. It's at least doubled in size, for one; Aylin cannot muster any complaints about that. But then there is the frustration of a hallway she'd trod down dozens of times suddenly leading her to somewhere completely unexpected, of finding rooms whose functions she'd once relied on confusingly repurposed, or the disorientation of an entire silver-tiled wing she doesn't recognise at all. Domes and cupolas looming over her where before there was nothing but a view of the sky and sea.

Isobel only ever visited here when she was very young, with her mother, and what little she can recall from then is so vague as to make everything more or less new to her. Her delight every time she exits onto a sea-view balcony is contagious, and a most welcome distraction. The thrilled glimmer in Isobel's eyes when they first stepped into the temple's grand library and she realised she could levitate up into the air remains unmatched. The sight of her simple joy at the not-quite-flight, taking both of Aylin's hands in hers and pulling her along until they faced the very tops of immense bookcases, is something Aylin will treasure for the remainder of her eternal life.

As for the rest of it, well, Aylin wrestles with her odd bouts of rudderlessness and feels a tiny prick of envy.

And then there is that tremendous, eye-catching tower that Aylin will, of course, be flying a glowing trail around during the upcoming ceremony of, as they've chosen to term it, the Moonmaiden's Reconstitution. The very tallest in Waterdeep! the High Priestess proclaimed it while leading them around on a tour upon their arrival. As befits Our Lady of Silver, one of the silverstars flanking her agreed with great enthusiasm.

High, high, high above the city, remote, untouchable, quietly watching from afar…

Fitting, is it? Aylin feels her gut churn whenever she catches sight of it, and says nothing. For better or worse, nobody seems to notice.

-

Since their arrival, the two of them have helped with everything from rite-related formalities and daily services, to all the practical aspects of worship the temple housed and offered. They've blessed, healed, advised, trained, studied maps and records - there is more than enough here to fill their days, even without venturing into the fabled city of splendours proper.

But even as occupied as she's been, Aylin's thoughts keep catching on the one prominent effort expected of her in the future, and the cause for their invitation and detour to Waterdeep in the first place - the ceremony. Official-looking correspondence from the House of the Moon had found them, somehow, in the midst of their travels; a summons written in an elegant script, in a dark blue ink with silver residue set in for a sparkling effect. The House has always been somewhat ostentatious, which Aylin can't say she dislikes.

For some unknowable reason, the perfectly benign and even likely to be lovely occasion has felt like a sword hanging over her head ever since, a strange shroud over her near future.

It was publicly proclaimed and announced not long after their arrival, underneath the very Dome of the Moon, weeping its silver haze brightly over the gardens. Aylin didn't mind the ever-present chill there, but she'd noted with some gratitude Isobel was dressed in a new and warm set of robes. The High Priestess, meanwhile, was in her fabulously grandiose outfit, and yet still looked so small and unassuming when stood next to Aylin herself. The joy and approval from the crowd were immense and swiftly and raucously demonstrated - though the promise of a grand feast or two somewhere in the proceedings may have played a part in that.

But the one thing Aylin remembers most prominently from that day is not listening to and approving the various plans for celebrating the blèssed return of the Moon Daughter, nor is it the speech she herself delivered, as heartfelt as always, for she knew no other way to be. No, she remembers barely making it through the formalities due to being impatient and almost giddy with the anticipation of showing Isobel a part of the temple she'd yet to visit, and one of Aylin's all-time favourites. For, oh, if Isobel's eyes lit up at the sight of the sea, she was going to adore this!

She remembers taking Isobel's hand in hers as soon as could possibly be considered polite, giving it a quick kiss, then pulling her along out of the jubilant crowd and down the first set of stairs, towards the magical, unique spectacle that was the fabled Hall of Wind and Waves.

She remembers stepping into the enchanted area first, immediately exclaiming in joy at the sensation of the salty spray on her face, the excitement of the fresh sea breeze in her feathers, the rocking and creaking of the ship's deck under her feet. Knowing it to be an illusion had never made the rush of it any less real.

She remembers when the part of the experience that included a spell-wrought sense of solitude fully set in, somehow concealing even Isobel's hand held in hers. Aylin found herself fighting a tightness in her chest utterly out of tune with the freedom and exhilaration the illusion had ever evoked in her, lurching forward and marching on to exit the enchantment as quickly as her feet could carry her.

She remembers she'd felt such a fool for forgetting that part. Later, when she'd reached some sort of calmness once more, when a flushed and thoroughly, endearingly windswept Isobel found her again, quiet and leaned against the library wall. When Isobel, now awash with concern, looked askance at all of Aylin's claims that she'd merely left to let her properly experience all of the conjured sensations for herself, but remained quiet.

How very unlike her, to forget - it sticks in Aylin's mind still, days later, like the tiniest pebble stuck in her boot and refusing to be expelled. The fastidious nature of her memory has ever been a point of pride. It stings, that it has let her down in this way, and that it has led her to this… embarrassment. Weakness.

What Aylin has not forgotten since is to plan her way around the third floor of the temple carefully, never even brushing against the limits of the enchantment.

-

The ceremony is only a day away.

Returned to the fold of time, Aylin called herself once, in the turbulent times of the Absolute crisis.

Returned, bit by bit over the past year, to the midst of many of the richly varied communities under her Mother's guidance and protection, as scattered as they are devoted. In her search, she has found that some have been lost forever, and found some that have changed enough to be unrecognisable.

Aylin had known so many of their particularities, once; all the fascinating local twists on how worship was to be performed, how respect was to be paid, how the moon was to be honoured in each of her phases. And be it ceremonies or feasts or celebrations or blessings, she was all too happy to participate and contribute. Rejoicing and basking in her connection to her Mother, gladly acting as a conduit for whatever was required, Aylin has never dreamed nor dreaded that it could be otherwise.

Now there is this foul, niggling thought, insistent on making itself known at the most inopportune of times - do the people, does this world, even want her back?

In a century, some of them have been born and died. Villages and towns have sprung up, others have disappeared. A century should never have mattered so much, or been so long and impactful a time for an immortal. But it seems to Aylin sometimes that every moment of the past hundred years is carved in her mind in grand and disproportionate scale as well as detail, and it drags her down like the clawed hands enforcing her imprisonment in the Shadowfell.

Most of all, she remembers the faces. And after each and every face, a death.

Will these people, feasting in her honour now, welcoming her with open arms, turn against her as easily as some in Reithwin did? Or will they hang on until the very last, desperate moment, and give in only then?

Aylin feels unpleasant, cool perspiration gather on her neck, and wants to curse at the way it stains the pressed collar of her fine shirt.

None of these are the people she once considered allies, comrades-in-arms, even friends. Heroes she used to adventure with, her contacts in temples, in enclaves, the soldiers she had led into mighty battles, and out of them into moon-blessed triumphs. Where are any of them now? Surely some of them still live - those of elven blood, at the very least. Shar could not have gotten to all of them, though she'd have doubtlessly tried. Where to even begin with tracking them down? When?

And what has Aylin done, in that time?

Died. Suffered. Raged, with futility as endless as her lifetime is to be.

Brow furrowed in frustration, Aylin gazes at her pristine reflection. Outwardly, she is the very picture of splendour in her silvers and blue brocade, outfitted to match both the occasion and the premises. Her wings remain tucked away for the evening, which she now regrets agreeing to.

"Brooding again?" Isobel interrupts. Clad in her fine new dress-robes, she wraps her arms around Aylin from behind, and peeks around her at the image of both of them in the mirror. "I understand. The smaller enclaves seemed so much more… manageable."

Aylin shakes her head. "It will be fine," she says, tugging a finely embroidered sleeve into place. "I am ready to leave. Shall we go?"

-

The crowd gathered in the refectory for the feast on the night before the ceremony is far larger than anything Aylin anticipated, filling up the great hall even with many of the long tables removed. Isobel, guided away by a veritable flock of white-and-silver cloaked priestesses as soon as they stepped foot into the hall, remains nowhere to be seen.

A senior cleric, drunk on a combination of wine and awe, has cornered Aylin and is regaling her with a lively tale of how she herself turned a sordid, ill-omened winter into an illustrious triumph over a band of marauding Sharran assassins. Striking in the dead of each icy night, in utmost silence, they'd driven several towns almost to extinction - until, of course, the Moonmaiden sent Her radiant daughter to dispel the darkness, leaving them nowhere to hide to escape retribution.

They rattle off names of the villages Aylin saved, then point out with particular pride the one they themselves hail from. Aylin nods along, sips at the drink in her hand - a tasteless thing she does not recognise, thrust upon her as, she supposes, another honour. Only, she remembers it hadn't been winter at all, and the Sharrans had been the very antithesis of subtle - they'd left a trail of burning wreckage along a narrow mountain pass, first cutting the villages off by causing a large rockslide at its end. Aylin, and her wings, had been the people's quickest hope for reprieve - and so reprieve was gladly and swiftly granted.

An entire generation of accomplished devotees to Selûne stemmed from there, the cleric claims, pride mounting. A fine crop of acolytes sprouted from the seeds of inspiration sowed by Aylin's own deeds.

"We have grown up on tales of your exploits, hearing about the Sword of the Silverlight. It is a nigh-unimaginable honour to be able to thank you in person. On the eve of a grand ceremony, no less, here at the heart of Our Lady's worship!"

Unimaginable, Aylin thinks to herself with a rising bitterness, casting another glance over the large hall, skirting over heads and faces, failing to find the one she yearns for. How long need one be gone for, to pass even from imagination?

It was her, yes, and those were her deeds - more or less. But tonight she feels such a gaping, yawning divide between herself and that radiant paladin, not yet so blemished by world or duty. Something has appeared between them, vast and unforgiving. Something that, for better or worse, seems not quite so obvious from outside.

Aylin has never felt such an odd jolt at the concept of affirming yes, I did that, with a simple nod and scarce few words. "I do indeed recall the region, as well as the incident. I am pleased to hear it has recovered."

"More even than that! You saved so many: not just the lives of those who were there to shake your hand afterwards, but the lives that sprang from them, that flourish there even now. It is a thriving community, you know - why, I would not dare to impose, but if you have the time, if some quest or another takes you near there, I would urge you to visit and witness for yourself."

And yet nobody came for me for a hundred years, is all that Aylin can think suddenly, bitter bile peaked in the back of her throat, the pettiness and unfairness of everything, of everyone here, herself included, of the entirety of the Realms and beyond, making her want to scream, or retch, or curse, or a hundred other unbecoming things.

"You will have to excuse me," she mutters instead, providing no excuse at all, and extracts herself from the conversation as quickly as possible without manifesting wings to fly directly upwards. "Moonmaiden's blessings!" She thinks at the very last moment to throw over her shoulder at the poor, faultless cleric, her insides already steeped in guilt.

There are two behaviours a rowdy Selûnite crowd exhibits when confronted with Dame Aylin. The first is being almost magnetically drawn to her presence, pushing against each other to come as close to her as possible; to graze and touch, perhaps, a gleaming pauldron. The other is to part before her like an awed, scurrying sea, and it is this second one Aylin is relieved to experience tonight.

It makes it easier to reach the stairs, to make quick and steady progress towards where she and Isobel have been put up in a place of honour on the fourth floor, overlooking the garden.

In her retreat, Aylin's hand brushes against a smooth white wall, and she remembers, vividly and with a jolt, orchestrating fine marble being brought over all the way from Reithwin to complete both a reconstruction after some Sharran-inflicted damage and an expansion of the premises. A sign of our enduring faith, Ketheric Thorm had spoken so proudly over the heavily laden ships departing downriver, the very ground under our feet offering up its riches to honour the Moonmaiden, entwining two places of utmost dedication to Her, forever.

Forever.

-

Isobel returns, eventually, from wherever the celebration had taken her, or wherever she had squirrelled herself away to avoid the worst of the crowds. Aylin watches her slip into the small but elegant antechamber of their quarters, and watches the polite, refined mask slip from her face at the same time. Every step she takes after kicking off her shoes, every little bit closer she inches to where Aylin is sitting, brooding on the edge of their bed, makes a small weight lift from her shoulders.

Isobel takes one look at Aylin, takes in her moody slouch, and meets her gaze with an exhausted smile. "There you are. I was half-convinced you'd still be down there, enjoying the ruckus - perhaps causing some of your own."

"Not… not today," Aylin replies, sounding as tired as she's ever heard herself be. Isobel kisses her temple, then sits next to her, and doesn't say anything like you would have loved this, once.

"I am hardly at my best, either. They asked me to lead a prayer in blessing of the ingredients intended for tomorrow's part of the feasting, and I just froze. All I could produce were horribly shallow platitudes. Hope prevails! I stammered out over some leeks and potatoes, Light conquers darkness! And then I realised, gods, isn't it odd, to quote one's own engraved epitaph? Would it be considered in poor taste?" Isobel grimaces, then chuckles at the absurdity of it all. She draws closer to Aylin, leaning against her shoulder in a way almost conspiratorial, eyes widened in mock-curiosity but still crinkled with amusement at the edges: "What if it's not the done thing in the big city?"

Her laughter at her own jokes is bittersweet but contagious, and Aylin gladly joins in, shaking off a bit more of whatever shadows seem to be clinging to her with every chortle and titter and giggle either of them produce.

"Their wine is rather strong. And I must have lost my stomach for both wine and grand events and loud crowds somewhere along the way," Isobel says, then shrugs. "Perhaps along with my actual stomach. Who can tell?"

It is horrible, yet also hilarious. Aylin wants to protest, in between guffaws, even thinking about that grim period, seeing what was once the person she adored most in the world be interred in cold marble. But Isobel makes it so… palatable. Light, but darkly amusing - for a precious moment, it's like it happened to someone else, like there is enough distance between them and it all to allow them to breathe freely.

"Let's go to bed. I feel like I could sleep for a century." Isobel winces and drags a hand down her own cheek, clears her throat of something unpleasant. "Ah, no. Awful phrasing. Just horrible. Please pretend I did not say that."

Aylin nods solemnly, then wraps her arms around Isobel's waist and tips them both backwards onto the covers in one swift movement. Isobel's little squeal of surprise turns into giggles soon enough. Though increasingly breathless, the giggles - Aylin notes with some satisfaction as she keeps fuelling them by pressing feather-light kisses to the parts of Isobel she knows to be most ticklish - do not turn into coughs that night.

-

As the day of the ceremony dawns, the first rays of sun find Aylin already awake. It is hardly Selûnite custom to rise so early - the moonlit night belongs to them, after all - but her reason is simple enough: she hasn't slept at all.

There were no night terrors jarring her awake in a sweat, nor shades of the past clinging in their nightmarish wake and denying her respite; no coughing fits from a guilty, apologetic Isobel, rousing them both. The night went by peacefully, quietly, with the mellowest rays of the almost-full moon filtering hazily into the room, setting Isobel's softly and regularly breathing figure all aglow. A rarity, such uninterrupted peace.

And yet Aylin spent it restless for reasons she still cannot name or explain. It felt, at moments, like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin and exist, for at least a little while, as something else.

She would have gotten up, and gone for a flight - anything to dispel this nervous, gnawing energy. But with Isobel so sweetly asleep on her chest, when she'd had such a trying few months on the road - Aylin did not have it in her to even risk jostling her beloved.

So here she is, and here she must sit with herself and her own thoughts for company. And there are few things Dame Aylin despises as much as having nothing to do but think, with simple acting being out of the question.

Her salvation finally comes in the form of Isobel squirming, mumbling sweetly against her skin, nuzzling into her as if looking for more warmth to leech - Aylin welcomes her to it, always. She tightens her arms around her, and digs them both further into a nest of duvets and blankets.

"Good morning, my love," Aylin whispers into silvery hair, to a charmingly unintelligible reply as Isobel entangles their legs further, then makes no other moves towards awakening. But she seems to melt against Aylin with the added warmth, and Aylin feels some of her miserable concerns melting alongside.

-

The gnomish youth walks up to them in the cheery daylight of the sunny morning, in the middle of their stroll around the outer temple concourse. He seems nervous but excited as he approaches, clears his throat, then wipes his hands on his robes. Their light grey colour and half-moon trim proclaim him an acolyte.

"Excuse me for the intrusion, but I… If I may have a moment of your time, Nightsong, I—"

Aylin whirls around on him in an instant, stepping closer only to loom over him terrifyingly, threateningly. "What did you call me?"

"Aylin," Isobel says in a hiss, herself yanked to a sudden stop, then places her best attempt at a calming hand on Aylin's arm. Aylin shrugs it off, somewhere at the periphery of her perception.

Nightsong nightsong nightsong is all she can hear - the dismal soundscape of the Shadowfell. Knives in the dark; cowards staying just out of reach of a woman bound but never helpless; taunting, mocking, jeering, cutting, stabbing. Killing.

"One of her lackeys, are you, slipped through the net?" Aylin manages through teeth clenched so tightly her jaw twinges with pain. "Thought to follow me here and catch me unawares? In my sleep, perhaps? Ho, but would that suit your yellow-bellied sort so well!"

There are visible beads of sweat on the acolyte's forehead as he tries to stammer out a reply, frozen in appropriate terror. "P-please, I, I only meant— I didn't, I didn't mean anything by it—I heard—"

"What?" Aylin roars into his face, eyes ablaze, arms thrown wide in a futile attempt to encompass the whole of her rage and the whole of her disgust. The insistent but weak pull on her sleeve she barely notices, now. "What did you hear? That your dark lady had a captive waiting for your blade? That easy sport was to be had, her fickle favour earned with but one display of wretched spinelessness? No more! No more, and never again!"

"No! No, please, I— your honoured titles, I thought it was just… just a title, I—"

"Aylin!" Isobel is there, suddenly. In front of her. Her Isobel, darling Isobel. Larger than her slight stature would suggest - or is that merely how far Aylin's vision has narrowed? Her clear, sweet voice is barely audible over the sound of Aylin's heart drumming in her own ears.

Two small, familiar, ever-cherished hands take Aylin's trembling one between them with aching tenderness. Sunlight warms Aylin's face, a breeze tickles her cheek, carrying over the smell of fresh bread and the damp of morning dew. The tension rushes out of her so rapidly Aylin fears, for a moment, she might just collapse into a heap on the ground then and there.

There are people around them, hushed, frozen stock-still, staring. There is a quivering young man behind Isobel who looks to be in tears.

Isobel takes in everything about Aylin in one long look - she sees and understands, as always, far too much. Aylin swallows with some difficulty, mouth unpleasantly dry, and a bitterness slowly but insistently crawling up her throat.

Isobel turns to the acolyte, voice so very soft, careful, and gentle: "Are you unharmed?" Oh, Isobel. Isobel, Isobel, Isobel, the calm in any storm.

"I-I think so, yes," the man - the boy - answers in a thin, reedy voice. But there were boys in the Shadowfell, too, near the end of Ketheric's campaign; no less doomed for their callowness, and no less determined in their efforts. He is pale, his robes visibly stained with sweat, and his wide-eyed gaze does not leave Aylin. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean any offence."

Aylin wants to speak some kind of apology of her own, but her lips manage only soundless, futile movements. And, herself the coward she was just accusing this man of being, she surrenders to it, averts her eyes, and hides behind Isobel - avoiding the glances she keeps shooting Aylin's way.

"That is a relief to hear," Isobel says sweetly, soothingly, taking and smoothing over the entire unpleasant situation with enviable and practised skill. Her voice, now that Aylin's own mind allows her to hear it, is truly a balm for every ill. "A great relief to us both. Please do not worry, we know it was a misunderstanding. Can I help you, perhaps, with whatever it was you needed?"

"It's… it's nothing really important. It is to be my first attendance at a formal ceremony and I had some questions. And, and the, uhm, Dame Aylin," he enunciates it so very carefully, "Dame Aylin is known for her open, welcoming nature, and willingness to instruct and share her great Mother's blessings. My teacher told me, they remember, from. From before."

Isobel's friendly smile is strained in that subtle way that, Aylin thinks, only she can recognise. "Perhaps another time, hm?" She asks, head tilted charmingly, and who could ever disagree with her? "Dame Aylin has been on some very trying missions of late - we should let her rest up and recuperate, so that she is at her best for the ceremony."

The acolyte nods, bows deeply, and leaves on still shaky legs.

Isobel takes her hand without another word and guides them back towards their quarters. Aylin does not protest.

-

She and Isobel take their light lunch in their room, trays set upon the unmade bed, legs tangled in feathery duvets.

Quiet companionship. That is all.

And then Isobel gets up to leave, off to participate in midday prayers. Mercifully, after one good look at her, she offers to excuse Aylin with some white lie or other.

Aylin, in her misery, doesn't even notice the chafe of her pride as she agrees.

-

Isobel does not return for quite some time. It is long past the chimes ringing out to mark the end of the daily devotions, fast approaching the start of their preparations and meditations in advance of the ceremony.

So Aylin gathers herself, shakes off the soft temptation of cowardice, and ventures out.

Her first guess, the temple's grand library and one of Isobel's favourite hideaways, does not produce any trace of her beloved. But the search does not take long from there; a little ways further down the quiet hallway she hears Isobel's voice from one of the unused chambers in this array of housing quarters.

"There is… something…" Isobel stammering, hesitating like that is highly unusual. Aylin's attention is arrested on the spot, and she steps closer to the door cracked only slightly open, listening keenly. "Some foul residue of death, some rot, still within me. I have failed to expel it on my own. I have tried prayer and ritual and herbs, but…"

"What would you ask of me?" It is the voice of the High Priestess; serious, but with a definite touch of concern.

"A blessing," Isobel sounds, to the untrained ear, perfectly composed and polite. But Aylin senses an undercurrent of uncertainty, even fear, in her words. A tremble so slight it is barely perceptible. "A restoration, or rejuvenation of some sort - perhaps a retaking of vows? Any vows you and Our Lady would deem fit. It is only that… none of my own spells have had any effect, and time has not truly helped."

Every word out of Isobel's mouth feels like agony. Like a hot, searing knife of shame cutting into Aylin's belly - that she is so weak, her dearest Isobel would prefer to suffer in silence rather than burden her, and wait for so long for an opportunity to seek help. If her own stalwart champion could not help her bear her burdens, keep her happy and hale - what was the thrice-damned point of her?

Aylin clenches her teeth and tries to calm her breathing, resting the back of her head against the wall - it would not do to alert anyone to her presence, to interrupt Isobel's doubtlessly hard-won consultation. The High Priestess was always a busy woman, and especially so in times surrounding celebrations and grand occasions, holy days and rituals.

"As for the, ah, incident… word has doubtlessly reached your ears—"

As soon as she tries to focus on the conversation again, Aylin freezes, aghast at the realisation they are talking about her, about her failure in broad daylight in front of half the temple.

The High Priestess is choosing to stay quite diplomatically comforting. "Rest assured no harm was truly done - save for the harm that was already there, that remains to be dealt with."

Isobel's sigh is deep and long. Though Aylin cannot see her, she can picture so very clearly that way she holds her hands together and runs her thumbs over the seams on her gloves when she is thinking. "I am… not sure how."

"You love, and care, and listen. And intervene against her worst, unwise impulses. I should think that will suffice, eventually."

"Eventually," Isobel repeats, as audibly disgruntled as Aylin has ever heard her allow herself to be in company. And it stabs at her with mild and bittersweet amusement, that in some way her darling is running out of patience, wearing it desperately thin, just as she is.

"We are rich in experienced clerics here," the priestess continues, her voice gentle but not quite descending into pity. "We have seen such things many times, alas. I am afraid time, and care during that time, have proven the only reliable cure for ills like these."

"I worry. For her. For myself."

"It is only natural. You love her."

"I do," speaks Isobel with the determined, silky softness over that core of steel - her darling will not be daunted. Aylin almost wants to grip at her chest, with how her heart swells in its eternal home. "And… well, we have tried rest. We have tried travel and pilgrimage. We have tried removing ourselves, a bit, from everything. Perhaps that was my mistake. Being back here has been… challenging in ways I did not quite expect."

"Look up," Aylin herself follows the High Priestess' instruction - the ceiling, growing slowly transparent as moonrise draws near, still has visible designs of all the moon's phases running around it. Round and round and round in their destined cycle. Forever. "Our Lady shows us many faces. But Her fiercest countenance She shows towards Shar, the ancient enemy who would sink us all into darkness. Fierce battles must be fought, when your opponent will not stop or deign to show mercy, when they are hell-bent on your eradication. Is it not then right, if we must fight, to have those who are trained and taught to do so lead the charge?"

"I suppose so, yes," Isobel sounds cautiously uncertain of the point being made.

"The Sword of the Silverlight is our best defence, after all, as they say - a good offence."

"She is," Isobel agrees. "And she loves being this. She genuinely enjoys her duties and does not wish to be excused from them - and I understand."

And that is the beauty of it, Aylin thinks with yet more warmth blooming in her chest, for Isobel does. Even with the concerns she has voiced over the years, on some fundamental level she sees Aylin like none other ever will. For Aylin counts herself blessed to have been granted clear and glorious purpose, to have been born to do such good, to take up arms for a cause so worthy and noble and right. Not many can claim this. Her oath is no great burden foisted upon her, no tragic anchor weighing her down - it is one of the precious things that kept her truly alive and holding together the pieces of herself throughout her captivity. She takes great pride in all that she is, and great satisfaction, too, and wishes to relinquish none of it.

What is troubling to her, in fact, are those rare occasions when the satisfaction wanes, when the joy of her gladly-borne duty slips just a bit out of reach—

"For all of her singularity, she was not— you were not meant to be set apart. Not from the world, or from the faithful, or, I should think, each other. You have suffered a great injustice, during this century of sundering, and now the most immediate parts of it have been undone. Now there is a sense of moderation to be found, a balance to be struck, and you have yet to hit upon it. From everything I have seen, I believe you will, as surely as I believe that I will look upon the sky tonight and be graced by the light of Our Lady's face."

"So you must also understand why I worry for her," Isobel insists. "A century may not be long in her seeing of the world, her understanding of time. But the wounds are so fresh. No matter how many times she rises after being felled, how far she flies to enact Selûne's holy will and keep Her faithful safe, or how much genuine joy she gains from this, eventually she needs healing and rest like all of us do."

"How fortuitous, then," the priestess' smile is audible, "that she has a skilled cleric at her side."

"For as long as I am able, I swear it," Isobel states, voice slightly raspy with unpleasant reminders. "Though I might not be… oh, never mind."

"Spoken as if you were the paladin of the pair. Very well, Isobel Thorm. You have already dedicated one life to serving Selûne. I myself do not see the need for this reconsecrating - but since your resurrection was unusual, to say the least, and you yourself feel the need, I have no objections. You have my blessing, and you will have it at the ceremony." Then, far more pointedly: "For all to see."

Isobel did not bring up the tongues wagging in ugly gossip, the venom injected into the name Thorm whenever it was spoken, or the cruel rumours; those and all other reasons for her not exactly hiding, perhaps, but keeping so often to either their chambers or the quiet library after the first few days of their stay. That this has not failed to escape the High Priestess' notice was, perhaps, to be expected. "Thank you," Isobel says quietly, only slightly embarrassed. 

Aylin's glare was usually enough to silence any unjust insinuations aimed at Isobel for the sin of her parentage, but she couldn't be everywhere at once. And the cruel words seemed so often to resume once her back was turned. Perhaps a different demonstration could indeed help quell this utterly misaimed ill will - or perhaps it is, once again, a question of time, and of memory. Aylin is not blind to how often Isobel has introduced herself using nothing but her given name this past year, but has not commented upon it, either.

The conversation seems to be reaching its end, and Aylin realises she feels wretched. She cannot undo her intrusion, she cannot unhear what she has heard - so she does the one thing that befits an honourable paladin. She waits quietly until Isobel is finished, and when she exits the chamber, Aylin steps out from her hiding place, head contritely bowed, ready to accept her judgement.

Isobel understands immediately - her face drops in a way Aylin finds agonising, especially since she is the cause - then she closes the door behind herself rather pointedly. She tries to muster up a more characteristic, wry little smile, but the frustration in it makes it crooked. "I assume there is no point in asking how much of that you overheard?"

"A thousand apologies, my love," Aylin lowers her head further, reaches for Isobel's hand slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. But she does not, and Aylin heaves a sigh of relief as she brings it up to her lips for a gentle kiss. Her thumb rubs little circles into the cool hand, hidden beneath the sturdy leather of Isobel's gloves more often than not. "It was not my intent to intrude, and yet— and yet I did."

"I do not want nor need to be coddled, hovered over, or put under a fancy glass-crystal bell. I would like to remind you of this, Aylin," Isobel does not raise her voice, but her words carry a distinct sharpness.

"But it is my own most hideous failure that you do not feel you can confide any of this in me. Doubly so when I add my own burdens to yours, I…" Then, a rush, something actionable. "If I can somehow prove to you that—"

"Aylin, stop," Isobel is quiet but tense, brows furrowed in visible irritation.

Aylin bows her head again, swallows, re-centres herself in silence for a moment, and speaks the truth. "Then I want you to know that I hope, deeply and ardently and with every fibre of my eternal being, that you get whatever it is you desire out of the ceremony. I hope your burdens are eased, even if I am not the one to ease them. That is all."

Isobel's mouth is still twisted downwards in quiet anger, but she relaxes a bit with a long exhale. "Thank you, Aylin. Now, our bath awaits. Let's not waste the time we have been given, and have the attendants say they emptied the chamber for nothing."

-

It is difficult to remain at all tense or displeased when immersed in hot water. The steam rising from the clear surface seems to form a wall between Aylin and the rest of the world, with all its troubles and concerns; a pale shielding dome, much like those oft conjured by Selûne's servants.

Isobel, herself visibly mellowed by the warm, finely-scented water, is letting it wash away the worst of her foul mood, and is focusing on inhaling the damp air deeply and slowly. Aylin still feels horribly guilty over it all, and so they sit, uncharacteristically, at the opposite ends of the shallow recessed pool. It is a rare treat and privilege still, to have a bathing chamber so large all to themselves.

For the guest of honour to prepare for the ceremony in privacy, ostensibly, was the reason Isobel gave for this arrangement yesterday. Aylin thinks Isobel simply knows her too well, and is far too crafty for anyone's good.

With a heated head set against cool tile, Aylin's thoughts seem to swim against each other lazily. Not much is expected of her tonight, honestly - all of it is so very far from any challenge to her abilities. A swoop across the Dome, like a shiny bird of prey. A bright trail around the tower. A proclamation in Celestial, with some rather rote blessings. But visibility is the goal of the endeavour, first and foremost, and being noticed is something Aylin knows how to accomplish all too well.

It is horrible to imagine that rat Lorroakan being alive still, or going along with the initial plan of convincing him Aylin had been killed. Horrible to think of there being more of his ilk, and with Aylin drawing attention to herself like this—

She shakes her head with a growl, damp hair whipping against her face - what a preposterous thought to even begin to indulge! Dame Aylin hiding, cowering, obscuring her very existence - out of what, fear? She, who is meant to be a beacon in the thickest, vilest darkness!

For the ceremony is above all a signal to Shar and her followers, whose schemes against her Mother and Her flock Aylin was distraught but unsurprised to find out had escalated severely in her absence, as word of her disappearance spread. It is crucially important to send a message: the Selûnites are protected once more, the Sword of the Moonmaiden returned, as sharp as ever.

Only it isn't quite, is it?

Which nobody can know. Not even Isobel, Aylin would have said - but it has always been impossible to truly hide anything from Isobel.

"Aylin," Isobel's voice comes, suddenly, from right next to where Aylin has reclined. She startles, a bit - she hadn't even noticed her wade over closer.

"I am sorry," Aylin speaks up at once, turning to meet her eyes. "my intrusion was unbecoming—"

"It was," Isobel is determined, merciless, but there is a slight rueful smile dancing around her face. "And I was a fool - we are both fools for attempting to hide from each other, all in the name of supporting the other. We will achieve nothing this way."

"Agreed," Aylin mutters, wincing just a bit at the contents of her most recent thoughts.

Isobel moves even closer, until they are sitting thigh to thigh, still comfortably immersed up to their shoulders. Aylin notes, to some relief, her smile seems far lighter and brighter already. "I demand recompense, then, Dame Aylin, and I will consider the matter settled for now."

Aylin immediately sits up, causing the water to slosh out onto the stone tile. Fresh alertness blows away the last traces of her warm haze. "Whatever you would ask of me, you will have," she exclaims ardently, taking one of Isobel's hands out of the water and running her lips along the damp skin. Then she pauses, hesitates, swallows in trepidation. "Only, do not ask me to leave your side or be apart from you. I could bear a great many things, but not that. Never that."

"Oh, Aylin, my darling. I couldn't bear that, either," Isobel wraps her free arm around Aylin's neck, clings so closely to her she is almost sitting in her lap. Aylin makes no move of her own, but simply basks in her presence. "All I ask is that, to make us even, you share one of your troubles with me. Whichever one you want - goddess knows you have been stewing in them this past tenday, and have told me nothing at all."

Aylin's teeth worry at the golden scar that bisects her lower lip, and she considers the arrangement as Isobel's hand traces a comforting pattern down her neck to her shoulder and back up again, smudging droplets in its wake. Then she inhales deeply until her ribs strain, and exhales slowly, watching her breath disturb the curtain of steam before them. Finally, she begins. "I would have gotten utterly turned around looking for the old bathhouse, had you not led me here. If I let my mind drift or wander for even a moment, I end up lost, staring at some unfamiliar chapel in a dead end hallway. It is maddening that I cannot even trust my footsteps in this, a temple to a goddess of guidance and navigation and my own holy mother. More than a hundred years out of date," Aylin scoffs at herself, letting an agitatedly gesturing hand drop back into the water with a splash. "Perhaps they were right to call me a relic."

"Don't say that!" Isobel doesn't take those words very well, and Aylin herself is not sure just how jokingly she'd meant them.

And Aylin remembers, in a rush and with a wince, the sight of Isobel stowing away her cherished robes that very morning. Darling Isobel, as displaced as she. The Selûnite vestments found around the Heartlands haven't changed very drastically, but what is different became noticeable as soon as they first left Reithwin behind them, all those months ago.

Isobel has not made any alterations to her robes. She carefully mends what she can when she needs to, and has acquired a new set in addition, from one of the first enclaves they visited. The point was, according to her, to alternate depending on company and comfort levels, and to not wear out her original, precious set quite so much.

She touches them and puts them away so carefully and reverently every time - one of the rare surviving bits of a Reithwin one hundred years ago. Some parts of them, Aylin remembers being told, originally belonging to Isobel's mother in her youth.

Aylin leans down so their foreheads can press together, and closes her eyes.

"Perhaps it would help if you told me how it was before - something you were particularly fond of," Isobel suggests, a gentle, soothing hand running up and down Aylin's upper arm. "Or, better yet, something you hated that they've now fixed - surely there's some of that, as well?"

Aylin hums, casting her mind back, combing through a thousand little fragments. The kitchens have clearly gone through some well-thought-out changes, considering the lovely fare they've been serving - or perhaps, a small part of Aylin pipes up, it is merely that she has still not had her fill after a century of unwilling fasting.

She shakes her head, as if to physically direct her thoughts down different avenues. "The addition of the tower is… altogether too much, in my view. But the newly expanded east wing, with that row of inner terraces that look out across the gardens - that is truly lovely."

Isobel huffs out a small sardonic laugh. "You know, I myself have grown quite wary of people who strive to build very tall towers, claiming this is meant to honour Our Lady. When instead, all it feels like is them trying to reach for Selûne herself, for whatever their own selfish reasons."

Their peace is suddenly interrupted by the clear ring of a set of silver bells, and a polite summons from just outside the door - a reminder that their time here is up, and their duties call once more.

-

The ceremony goes by without incident. Afterwards, very little of it seems inclined to stick in Aylin's mind - like so much running water, it has passed her by in a blink, and it would be futile to try and retrieve it. But she has done it, and it is an immense relief. There is even a tentative sense she has captured some small piece of herself that had been floating around aimlessly, and slotted it back in its proper place.

Because throughout the proceedings, however long or short they had truly been, thousands of pairs of eyes stayed on her, rapt, and Aylin sensed from them nothing but hope, and joy, and amazement. No covetous glares, no ill intent. A great many of these people wanted a great many things from her, but none of them anything Aylin was not willing to give.

It is a good, much needed reminder of a truth Aylin has always known: there is no faith without the faithful. The people are what truly matters, and her place is among them.

Formalities done with, they all proceed to the festivities quickly enough. Aylin is congratulated, thanked, praised for her efforts as they go. She shakes so many hands, dispensing yet more blessings amongst the crowd as she navigates the grandly decorated hall.

She is trying, as always, to find the one person she would not hesitate to say matters above all others.

The one moment of the evening Aylin can picture clear as day, as if it were engraved in her memory, is this: Isobel, radiant, receiving acknowledgement, crowned with silver blessing to a great and roaring cheer - and, hopefully, finding at least a fragment of whatever peace has kept eluding her.

But Isobel is nowhere to be seen, again. Aylin takes a deep breath and allows herself to plunge into the crowd, tries to focus on drawing on that sense of connection she'd felt so keenly while up in the air, doing a showy loop for them all.

She finds her first target quickly enough, even though he is small enough to get lost in a crowd all too easily: the young gnomish acolyte who'd performed his role as the main altar attendant with gumption and gusto and relish.

Aylin stands a politely pronounced distance away from him, and extends her hand when he turns and notices her. She is relieved to see him only nervously hesitate for a blink before stepping forward and taking it - a slight, sensible amount of nervousness that Aylin is well used to.

"I wish to congratulate you on duties well-performed. As well as reassure you I bear you no ill will. My ire this morning was entirely misaimed," Aylin says, quietly, drawing a bit closer to him for some semblance of privacy as the crowd continues to be rather loud in their rejoicing. "And I was entirely at fault."

"Thank you, Emissary. Bearer of the Silverlight. Dame Aylin," the acolyte rattles off only some of her numerous titles, enthusiastically shaking her hand with both of his. "I apologise for my disrespect, and I swear it was not my intent. It was merely something I overheard and mistakenly counted among your long list of accolades. It sounded, forgive me, poetic enough."

"The Nightsinger has her moments, her sick amusements," Aylin tries to wave it off, and finds her teeth gritting in mounting anger - now with nobody to aim it at. "How were you to know? I have been gone for a miserable century. That moniker has spread far enough, even with much of its true meaning lost along the way. Once a thing like that takes hold, takes any root at all… well, let us just say I will have a time of it, disabusing people of the notion."

He nods, rapt, hanging on Aylin's every word, a low fire burning behind his eyes. Still, Aylin notices to her amusement, holding on to her hand and shaking it. She extracts it with a light tug and curls it into a determined fist between them. This gesture, too, is mirrored, and Aylin smiles sharply.

"Rest assured, and mark my words well: I am, have ever been, and shall always be Dame Aylin. Nightsong was only ever a curse, and foul Shar's attempt to claim me as her own. She has not, and will not succeed."

"Selûne willing," the acolyte agrees, a matching passion mounting in him as well. "May She guide our hands. I, for one, will not allow Shar or her lackeys to steal any more from any of us."

"A comrade after my own heart," Aylin claps a heavy hand on his shoulder. His knees only buckle for a moment, and Aylin's grin widens. A moment of brilliant clarity comes over her - a segment of her birthright, as well. "We will meet again. An illustrious future awaits you, I have no doubt - my Mother will ensure it. Continue your training here. Dame Aylin, the Nightsong-no-more, shall await your stalwart companionship on a quest of great import, one day. Together we will do Our Lady most proud. May I have your name?"

The acolyte beams, straightens his back, and squares his shoulders. The half-moon brooches on his ceremonial garb, polished with great care, catch the light as he moves. "Glint, my lady. Not two moons out of my novitiate, so I fear it may… it may yet be a while before we do anything of the sort."

"An auspicious name, Glint," Aylin nods, and then speaks a reassurance for the both of them, infusing it with every measure of certainty she can. "Worry not; there will be time enough for everything, now."

-

They are comfortably away from the world, sequestered in their quarters, long after the night's festivities have ended. The moon has sunk out of sight, and the first tease of grey dawn has started to bleed into the sky.

Snuggled deep in the cocoon of soft blankets and coverings and feathers that has become their usual, they are twined around each other so tightly it is difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. Neither of them would have it any other way.

That is when Isobel dares ask her question, in a voice so quiet Aylin fears she would have missed it, were she not so utterly attuned to perceiving and absorbing everything about precious, cherished Isobel.

"Do you sense… anything different about me?" When Aylin doesn't respond save for a brow furrowed then raised in question, she amends: "The ceremony - do you think it changed me in any way? Did the blessing… take?"

Aylin is quiet for a while. Leans back as far as the thickest duvet will allow to almost feign taking a better look at Isobel. Peels away a few layers of soft coverings and runs a light hand over a bare shoulder, down a pale arm. Closes her eyes to hear better, then takes a deep breath of the incense-infused air.

"I do not sense any change," Aylin can only ever be honest, though the way her words seem to cut gaping wounds into Isobel makes her want to spout deceits worse than a conniving devil. "But I did not notice anything off about you before it, either. You know this, Isobel. You know I cannot lie to you, and I would not even if it was within my power."

Isobel smiles, then the chuckle she produces turns into a tearful hiccup. "I think I pinned too much hope onto one silly thing - I think I somehow convinced myself this one simple miracle would solve all my problems. And the truth is… I do not feel any different at all, either."

"I think the miracle we both received is a little more complex than a single temple blessing, no matter the loftiness of the premises," Aylin replies softly. "Even if we are both still grappling with its many aspects."

There is a long quiet. A trouble for a trouble, Aylin thinks, remembering their arrangement.

"I did not want them to know," Aylin manages, finally. She hates how subdued and defeated she sounds suddenly; how small. Still she continues. "I did not want anyone to know. Not even you, who I cherish above all others. But it is impossible to hide from you."

"There is no shame in it—" Isobel begins.

"But there is," Aylin insists immediately, and curls tighter around her, the feathers in the duvet rustling in tandem with her wings. "It is shameful, it is a fallibility, it is a weakness. A year, and I am still like this. A year, and I am undone by a single word. I could have gone too far today, hurt an innocent for the crime of a phrase overheard, a mere misunderstanding."

"Perhaps you could have. But what matters is that you did not."

"Because you called me back from the brink. Isobel Thorm," she murmurs into Isobel's hair, trails fingers beneath a thin camisole, across the skin of a sharp hip and a soft belly, warm and real. Grounding in a way nothing else could ever be. "Witness to my wax and wane."

"As you are to mine," Isobel murmurs back, just as quietly, the sound almost stifled against Aylin's collarbone. "I did not want them to know how I felt," she says, mild rasp audible in her voice. "I did not want you to know, I did not want Selûne to know."

Aylin guffaws wetly, hides her tears in Isobel's hair as she feels her own skin grow damp where Isobel's face burrows against it. "What a pair we make. What a match."

"We always were, were we not?" Isobel laughs as well, soft, barely-there, and yet it feels more genuine than any other sound she has made today. She takes one of Aylin's hands between both of hers, presses a soft kiss to the knuckles, and holds it to her chest. "Nothing can change this - no matter how we ourselves might change."

"She is always so wise, my Isobel," Aylin whispers, feeling a bone-deep exhaustion slowly but surely settling into her, weighing down all her limbs.

"Yours," is all Isobel replies, as both of them sink into a deep, dreamless sleep.

-

They leave Waterdeep by ship.

Isobel seems, outwardly, her elegant and composed self, but Aylin can see the way she is thrumming with thrill and delight as they climb aboard in the chill that clings to the air just before dawn. Her previous excursions were only ever confined to little river boats and the Reithwin lakeside - Aylin, meanwhile, was more used to flying to her destinations. The joy of the two of them sharing a novel experience is buoying, making Aylin's insides leap far more than the waves rocking the still-moored vessel would justify.

Once they've deposited their belongings in their tiny cabin belowdecks, they return above to witness the departure and bid their silent farewells to the city. Suddenly, instead of resting them against the railing, Isobel throws her arms around Aylin's neck, feet tiptoeing just barely on the swaying deck. "Pretend the strength of that last wave surprised me - it's not like I have my sea legs, after all," she whispers against Aylin's lips. "Clearly I should have practised more, in the hall."

"Clearly," Aylin smiles into each salt-tanged kiss Isobel punctuates her sentences with, and holds her close. This time, the wind and waves and briny spray are real, and Isobel is not going anywhere.

"Thank you for indulging me," Isobel murmurs, before letting go and slipping down to find her balance again. She stays pressed against Aylin's side as she does, one arm around her waist.

"Hardly an indulgence," Aylin waves it off. "Perhaps you will decide you hate it within the first day of travel. Then we shall simply have to make our excuses and apologies to the captain, and rely upon my wings again."

"Why would I ever hate it?" Isobel looks up at her, both eyebrows raised.

"I admit, I have my concerns. The incessant rocking to and fro… the cramped cabins…"

Isobel smirks and presses, somehow, even closer. "I can think of worse things."

The cries of the crew start up around them before Aylin can think of an appropriately heated reply; a spectacle of ropes snaking about, anchors rising from the harbour's depths, and sails unfurling in the wind.

Aylin takes another deep, fresh, bracing breath as she looks up. She meets the face of the moon preparing to descend below the horizon and surrender the sky to ruddy, golden daylight. The wind turns just so; the ship cuts sleekly through the sea below, and leaves the pier far behind within moments. "We have a fine journey before us," she states with great certainty.

Isobel hums her agreement as the lights of the city slowly disappear out of view.

[optiwashere]

Please write your thoughts about the importance of Shadowheart for Shar/Selûne :D

I FEED on character analysis.

SO!!!! This got long as fuck and also morphed into what you asked + a general character interpretation.

I relied on a combination of 2nd, 3rd, and 5th edition D&D lore, R.A. Salvatore novels, and of course BG3 as sources. Shadowheart's characterization adds up the most coherently on the purely romance / "get her away from Shar" path, and that is what I'm using as a basis for this post. Even when you're playing an "evil" route, she behaves in ways that betray a lot of what I get into under the break. This post, however, is biased towards the "good" path of her personal quest for the sake of my sanity and a somewhat reasonable word count.

First, a preamble for people that are maybe less knowledgeable about Forgotten Realms lore.

One of the biggest characterizations of Shar and Selûne in the Forgotten Realms is that they are twin sides of the same thing: night. Night as an aesthetic is symbolic of, among other things: mysteries, being lost without guidance (such as in faith or purpose), and finding oneself when one reaches for the truth. I.e., reaching light from the moon, stars, or daybreak (which is itself a symbol as the natural conclusion of darkness being light for redemption following suffering, goodness defeating evil, finding faith, etc.)

Shar and Selûne are sisters that also share the Night domain in 3e, a sort of fulcrum they both work around — Shar as the "malevolent" darkness with Selûne as the "benevolent" night. There is even a recognized heresy called the Dark Moon heresy in both cults/religions that Shar and Selûne are actually the same goddess playing one gigantic trick on Faerûn (this comes from a 3.5e splatbook called Power of Faerûn) but it's been pushed time and time again that the two sisters are, in fact, two separate entities. But duality of divinity, and how worshipers interpret their god, is a theme we see played up a ton in BG3.

What we know about Shar is that she despises her sister. Loathes her. Not only does she loathe her, she tricked Selûne's followers during the Time of Troubles, about 140 years before BG3, into worshiping her instead of the Moonmaiden. The Time of Troubles was a period when gods walked the Realms, rather than tossing avatars around everywhere. This lead to the formation of a fanatical group of cultists that followed the real Selûne, called the Lunatics (I'm still proud of managing to reference them in a goddamn Explicit PWP fic)

Meanwhile, Selûne is seen as a calming force. She wars with her sister every single night, and does not like her one bit, but she does it as a means to protect others from her sister rather than as a spiteful game. She's not as omnipresent in people's lives, she is just a natural force to a lot of her followers.

How does any of this relate to Shadowheart? Spoiler stuff and the actual character analysis under the break.

We know that Shadowheart was a "chosen" of Selûne as a child, per her parents' dialogue under the House of Grief. However, it's important to note that most religions in Faerûn name potential clerics as "chosen" ones of gods and goddesses.

We know that, throughout the game, Shadowheart learns that she is being manipulated by the Lady of Loss to do acts that go against some sort of internalized moral code that Shadowheart has. We see her approval go up when you do good acts (as long as you ask for compensation, or if it's to help helpless people/animals) and we see her disapprove when you press her boundaries or act unjustly cruel. "Unjust" is left so vague because she does not behave at all according to how the vast majority of Sharrans behave. There are numerous other flags for approval/disapproval such as her enjoying playful chaos, or disliking when you're too trusting of other companions when you first meet them, but we'll focus on the first set I mentioned.

We also know that Shadowheart was continually subjected to memory erasure via the cult of Shar in Baldur's Gate. This gets mildly restored here and there via the tadpoles and Dame Aylin, but her memory is mostly gone. So this moral code is something ingrained in her somehow, because Sharrans don't have kindness training. There's another entire character analysis to be written about Viconia's role in this as it relates to her own character in Baldur's Gate 2, but let's ignore that for now.

In the cloister under the House of Grief, there is a note you can find that outlines the squad sent to find the artifact that protects everyone from the Absolute's domination. The squad has a leader, and it is not Shadowheart. She is listed as "healer" and the text before this explicitly states that the entire squad is expendable. None of them matter to Shar.

BUT!

Divine visitation by a goddess is incredibly rare. It usually only happens to high level clerics, which Shadowheart isn't really even at 12th-level, and to those that the goddess has an extreme, vested interest in. If you free the Nightsong/Dame Aylin instead of killing her, Shadowheart is wrenched out of the Material Plane and made to suffer for an indeterminate amount of time. That, plus literally meeting Shar in the conclusion to her personal question, is very odd given what we know about Shadowheart.

If we presume that Larian did their jobs, and I'm going to because I trust them, then there is an immediate dilemma presented here. Either Shadowheart matters to Shar (she is not expendable), or she is just another zealot (she is expendable.) There is no half-truth in that logic table that really works for Shar, she's an absurdly dogmatic goddess. See: literally any Sharran you encounter in BG3 that isn't Shadowheart. It's possible that the writer of the note didn't know what they were talking about, but I think that's a lazy out that doesn't hold water with the rest of the evidence.

So, which is it? This being the part where I'm mostly in interpretation territory, Shar views Shadowheart as the perfect puppet, a toy to needle at her sister, not because she is important at all as a person, but because she's a representation of Selûne that Shar can mold to suit her image as she did in the Time of Troubles. We hear that in the game when Shadowheart basically says that she was just a thing for Shar to use. She's beaten into (what Shar believes will be) submission for not becoming a Dark Justiciar, but it only serves to sever the tie between cleric and goddess.

Shadowheart is Shar's answering play to Selûne beating that trick from the Time of Troubles, and there will be another Shadowheart after her eventual death. Shadowheart is both incredibly important and utterly worthless to Shar in the same way that an abuser uses affection and trust to hurt their victims. Love bombs in the form of divine power, sending her on this important mission, and offering the title of Dark Justiciar are followed by pain when Shadowheart displeases her. As if, on a whim, all that supposed mutual respect could turn into non-consensual, extreme violence.

Shadowheart is an objectified opportunity for Shar to fuck with Selûne for the entirety of a single half-elf's lifespan (anywhere from 150-200 years) and nothing more. A plaything to discard when all is said and done after a microcosm of time where a goddess is concerned. Whatever Shadowheart thinks she's benefiting from with Shar, it's all a trick. It's a massive delusion with which she's been brainwashed into participating.

And deep down, deep deep way deep down, Shadowheart knows this even in Act One. She spouts random sayings and the sorts of 2edgy4me one-liners that you would expect from a somewhat goth-y, slightly sassy Stock Evil Cleric in a fantasy RPG. For a good portion of Act One, you wouldn't be wrong to assume she's extremely one note and a total zealot. That is, unless you know two things:

That Shar is a fucking menace in Faerûn, and nothing good ever comes naturally from her cult. Anyone that knows FR lore was probably like me when they first interacted with Shadowheart. I know I basically said, "What the fuck, you're not a Sharran lmao. Either Larian goofed hard, or something's fishy here."

That extraordinarily devout people tend not to babble in verse, prayer, and all that unless they are also trying to convince themselves to have more faith in a set of beliefs that they're not entirely sold on. This isn't 100% of the time, but it's something you see in people whose faith is not very strong. People who have ironclad faiths and hold consistent ideologies tend to rely more on personal interpretation of faith, for good or ill. You see this all over BG3 in the people that are more confident in their beliefs, as well. Isobel, Orin, and Z'rell are three wildly different angles on that, for example. It's really all over the game in the NPCs.

That second point is the more important one here. Shadowheart, in Act One, is constantly talking about her goddess. If she's not hiding the artifact from you, she's couching an event in concern over what Shar would think of how she behaved. Like she's still a scared child who doesn't know how to handle what's happening around her despite being completely capable in scenarios as hectic as melee combat with ogres. The difference shines bright as day if you play a follower of Selûne and push back on her beliefs, though you do of course get a lot of vitriol in the beginning. Even so, it's clear that Shadowheart knows something is off about Shar whenever confronted with actual Sharran activity/belief, but she's been brainwashed and abused so horrendously that she constantly tries to "correct" herself to appease her abuser.

Selûne, however, isn't really a "part" of Shadowheart's quest in the same way as Shar. The Moonmaiden is not an active participant, she is not a guiding hand or even a faint idea in Shadowheart's thought processes because of how intense the memory blending got for her. The most we ever really get of Selûne's opinion comes from external sources (pretty much entirely from Shadowheart's parents, Isobel, and Aylin when she's not PROCLAIMING DIVINE RIGHTS.) To the Moonmaiden, Shadowheart is really just another of her many, many children spread throughout the Realms. Yet, Shadowheart retains that sense of inherent goodness that Selûne instils in her followers.

Unlike the Lady of Loss, Selûne's indifference isn't hateful or spiteful at all. For Selûne, the ultimate goal of any of her followers is to find themselves. To illuminate who they are meant to be by moonlight. Two of her domains in 3rd edition are Protection and Travel, and in 5e she has Knowledge as well, while one of her "mantles" (the domain equivalent for psionics) is Freedom. She wants to give her followers the ability to freely tread whichever road will lead to self-actualization.

Selûne demands almost nothing of her own followers so long as they act according to the basic tenets of a traditionally Chaotic Good deity. She accepts flaws, faults, and failures in her clerics as much as she rewards strengths, virtues, and victories. There is no divine intervention from Selûne because she accepts Shadowheart intrinsically as long as Shadowheart finds herself. All it took for Selûne to take Shadowheart back after forty years of being a fanatical Sharran was saving one person, and trusting one of two people that we know she's let in for that forty years (the PC, as well as possibly Nocturne) — Selûne sees that she's an abuse victim at the heart of it all.

Side-note: Selûne's primary holy symbol is two eyes surrounded by stars. She is always a passive witness to her clerics' deeds. I don't think I need to get into that symbolism.

Whenever given the chance, Shadowheart values freedom incredibly highly. Even in someone she can take the entire game to warm up to, such as Lae'zel. Her dialogue after Lae'zel denounces Vlaakith speaks directly to this. It's seen repeatedly in her comments on other characters' personal quests such as Astarion, or Karlach, and with Lorroakan's intent on imprisoning Aylin in Act 3.

Once Shadowheart is pulled away from Shar's influence in the end of Act 2/early Act 3, she is... not a completely different person, but she is absolutely a calmer individual that also allows her emotions to surface more intensely. If you're romancing her by Act 2, she confesses that she wants to be with the PC (forever) IMMEDIATELY after being punished horrifically by Shar; she progresses the romance far faster once Shar is out of her brain; she cries, alone, in front of the PC if she chooses to listen to her parents and spare herself from Shar while also killing them. She's known this entire time that she's purposefully holding parts of herself back, and this is her immediate reaction to being set free.

Of course, it's a video game and things aren't always perfectly paced, especially considering the implementation of the Long Rest system. Much of this interpretation requires you to accept that.

After the small dialogue about Shar's intervention after the Gauntlet, the narrator comments that you're not sure if telling Shadowheart where her divine power now comes from will break her spirit forever. That's interesting, and it makes her almost manic change to "I have to be with this person forever" in the romance so utterly sad. Shadowheart is an almost textbook depiction of someone who struggles immensely with vulnerability and emotional openness due to childhood neglect and abuse. Even worse, she's been suffering that neglect and abuse for forty-plus years and she cannot remember what life was like before the time when she constantly yearned for the approval of her abuser. When she's set free and given the appropriate space to manage her feelings (all of the times she asks to be given space/asks the PC to respect her boundaries), support from friends and loved ones in the way Larian handled the camp crew's reactions to everyone's personal quests, and a purpose in life that extends beyond her abuser, she flourishes almost immediately.

To Selûne, Shadowheart is simply another person finding themselves in a world that's incredibly difficult to navigate. Under Shar's domination, Shadowheart will never be anything more than a useful puppet that dances happily whenever her goddess asks, pleased to be what she thinks is useful as she wears the false title of Dark Justiciar. With Selûne watching but not pushing, Shadowheart can be free of everything but her own choices, her own mistakes and victories. Her own person, freed from expectation.

P.S. "Breaking out of toxic thought patterns" is a common thread in the companion romances and quests. In a similar way to how Astarion uses sexuality to mask a part of himself in his romance, Shadowheart sees all this time she's spent holding herself back as an excuse to reverse course and accelerate ridiculously fast by comparison.

My point is, she is a U-Haul Lesbian.

[jessiemeows]

Underdark Trysts

A/N: Hello! Although I am holding off on my long fic. I decided I want to write more little drabbles that I believe I'll eventually add to my long fic. I want to let everyone know I never really written anything with smut so this is my first time lol. I hope it's at least decent enough. I made this in Astarion's POV because throughout my upcoming fic I want it to be divided from Eris' prespective and Astarion's :)

R: E for explicit!!

Content Warning: fingering, PIV, cum inside without protection, hints of him maybe becoming overly jealous?? a little too dominant at one point

Word Count: 1300

Pairing: Spawn Astarion x F! Dark Urge Tiefling, My OC Eris, Selunite Cleric/Paladin

Summary: After completing the Soverign Spaw's quest to rid the rot of duergar that killed his young, Eris and Astarion are looting a small hut together. Astarion gets turned on and wants to have a quickie. His simple plan fell apart weeks ago (even before the tiefling party) but he's refusing to realize it and keeps blaming his tadpole for any feelings he gets.

Eris scrunched up her face, nose twitching in distaste. "Ugh, do these duergar eat anything but mushrooms?" She rummaged through wicker baskets and rotted crates, her eyes scanning for anything of use. Astarion stood with his arms crossed, his lean frame leaning casually against the rough-hewn wooden planks, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched her and her furry friend, Scratch search the hut. A short respite after he and his companions had just finished defeating a group of Absolute-worshiping duergar who had slain the young myconid followers of Sovereign Spaw, and were forced to kill the rogue myconid Sovereign Glut, who had sought to overthrow Spaw. 

Astarion chuckled, shaking his head. "I don't know, darling, we are in the Underdark. I'm pretty sure that's all they eat."

Eris spun around, a pouty look on her face. "Well, it's gross. I don't think I've ever liked mushrooms and that's saying something since I don't remember much. One of these days I hope we can find a nice dessert. Maybe a chocolate fudge cake!"

Astarion's smile grew. "Hmmm, I'm not sure that will happen, my sweet but maybe." He couldn't help but find her pout adorable.

Eris turned back to face a couple of shelves, but they were just out of her reach. "A little help?" she pleaded, looking back at Astarion. He snorted and sauntered over, pulling down the book and holding it just out of her reach. "Go on, take it."

Eris glared at him. "Astarion, I swear by the moonmaiden’s grace I will smite you if you don't give it to me." He laughed and relented, handing her the book. "thank you" she muttered, rolling her eyes and stashing the book in her bag of holding. Scratch followed her as she moved to the next area of the small hut.

Astarion's breath caught as he drank in the sight of her. The warm glow of the mushrooms illuminated her freckled now blood-stained skin and fiery red eyes. Her blood soaked low-cut armor and form-fitting corset accentuated the swell of her breasts, just staring at her he could feel his trousers begin to tighten as his arousal grew... He needed her. Now. Straining to listen, he heard the others down by the Ebonlake. Lae'zel and Shadowheart were arguing about the artifact yet again, while Karlach, Wyll, and Gale discussed what they suspected lay across the lake - likely more Absolute cultists. This was wonderful because no one was paying any attention to the two of them.

He turned to her, trying to sound casual. "Darling, turn around I found something." Eris spun around, curiosity in her eyes. And then his lips were on hers, needy and demanding. Without hesitation, he let his hands wander down her waist and firmly grasped her ass, giving it a gentle squeeze. He could tell she was startled, but she leaned into the kiss, letting out a little giggle at his eagerness. 

"Astarion," she warned, but he deepened the kiss. "They are all busy, no one will know," he muttered against her lips. He trailed kisses down her neck, feeling the slight bumps of the bite scars he had left the previous night during their nightly trysts, when he drank her blood. Gods, she was so sweet, allowing him to drink from her each night. He was fortunate she was a cleric, and that he gifted her the amulet of Silvanus back at the grove or she would have been left exhausted every day. A soft moan escaped her as he kissed her collarbone, his hands squeezing her breasts.

"Shhh, pet, as much as I adore your sweet moans, those sounds are meant for my ears alone. But, do you want more?" he whispered against her skin. She nodded and he pulled back, looking at her. "hmmm what was that? I'll need words, little love."

Astarion smiled as Eris whispered, "Yes, please, Starry, I want more." He pressed his lips against her skin, then murmured, "Good girl."

Astarion swiftly scooped up Eris and placed her on a somewhat stable, broken desk. He shooed away Scratch without delay. With deft fingers, Astarion quickly unlaced and pulled down Eris' trousers and pink laced underwear. Eris was already so wet, but Astarion wanted her to beg just a little more. His icy fingers found their way into her folds, pumping slowly inside her, moving rhythmically. As he kissed her neck he quickened his pace. Hearing her quiet whimpers, he paused the kisses to see Eris concentrating on not being too loud.

Astarion placed his free hand over Eris' mouth. "Moan for me, my little moon. I'll make sure no one hears you," he whispered smugly. He savored watching the writhing tiefling submit to his dominance, reveling in her willing surrender. Only he was allowed to do this, no one else- not Gale, not Wyll, not Lae'zel, no other tiefling that had hit on her back at the grove, only him. His simple plan was succeeding tremendously.

"A-Astarion," Eris mumbled through his fingers. 

"Yes, love?" Astarion cooed. "I need you to use your words. You know how dearly I adore your sweet voice."

Eris struggled to force out the words, "P-please.". 

"Love, I don't know what you want," Astarion teased. Eris pleaded, "I want you, Starry. Please, I need you."

He wasted no time unlacing his own trousers and pulling Eris close. With a covetous murmur, "Only because you asked so sweetly," he plunged his hard, aching cock into her folds. Eris squealed, but Astarion quickly covered her mouth to stifle the sound. He began thrusting slowly, allowing her to adjust to his length, before gradually picking up the pace, pounding into her harder. Eris' tail curled around his leg as her long nails gripped the collar of his jacket.

Astarion could feel Eris's body tightening around him as they neared climax. Her fingers were now wrapped his curls. "Fuck, you feel so good," he muttered breathlessly. His thrusts grew sloppy and ragged as he reached his release inside her.

Both breathing heavily he rested his head against her shoulder, still inside her. She played with his curls, then gave him a small but sweet kiss on his forehead, just as she had done back at the tiefling party. That simple gesture grounded him, keeping his mind from wandering as it had then. He didn't want to wander; he wanted to savor this time with her, for he truly enjoyed it. Cazador wouldn't whisk away this sweet, lost, murderous fool of a selunite. They were both safe. 

Astarions ears perked up when he heard soft foot steps moving closer to them, giving Eris a nervous look the two quickly jumped apart, hurriedly pulling their pants back up and trying to look nonchalant. Shadowheart entered the doorway, saying, "Hey, are you guys almost done looking around in here? The rest of us are ready to head back to camp. I don't know about you, but I need a bath after that Mushroom got his guts all over me."

"Haha! Yes, we're done. Just give me a minute to organize my bag, and we'll be out," Eris replied quickly, her face flushed with embarrassment. Astarion chuckled to himself, amused by her discomfort.

"Okay, I'll be out here with Gale. The other three have already started making their way back," Shadowheart said, her confused expression clearly indicating she didn't want to know what had just happened. With that, she left the doorframe.

Astarion looked at Eris smugly, teasing, "Look at you, you little minx of a Selunite, lying to your best friend. Maybe the Sharran and I are bad influences on you."

Eris lightly punched his arm. "I really don't think she wants to know what just happened," she teased back.

"Probably not. Alright, let's go, before you make me want to go for another round," Astarion said, his voice low and seductive.

Eris walked through the doors ahead of him, and Astarion paused for a moment, his stomach filled with butterflies. He quickly shook off the feeling and followed Eris, muttering, "Stupid tadpole is playing tricks again."

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

Lap

Zevlor asks Bea to sit in his lap, and she has a bit of a crisis. SFW.

Zevlor thought it was a reasonable request.

He simply asked his lover if she would sit in his lap.

“Zev, are you out of your mind?!” Beatrice cried, a horrified look on her very pretty face. “I’m not just taller than you. I’m quite a bit heavier—" I’ll crush him! Crush his poor legs!

He sighed. “I realize that. However, I still would like you in my lap. Please.” Zevlor added with a wink, hoping she would surrender to his charm.

Hands now on her hips, she groaned. “What if I—”

“I was a Hellrider, sweetheart. I can take it.”

WHAT?!

“D-Did you really just say ‘I can take it’ regarding having me sit in your lap?” She asked, eyes narrowed. “I…Zev…” Her then contorted into what Mum calls my “very sad face.” “I’ll hurt you, and I don’t want that.”

He rose from the chair and took her hands in his. “Bea darling, you won’t. How about this---we’ll sit on the bed, you can have your legs over my lap, and I hold you? Is that better?”

Much. At least I won’t crush you. I’m sorry I’m not a petite little thing. I’m sorry I’m too tall, too fat, too big, too—

As a tear slid down her cheek, one of his hands let go of hers and brushed the tear away. “What’s wrong, my love?”

She shook her head, more tears falling. “I’m sorry I’m too big.”

“Sweetheart, you’re not.” He positioned her the way he described with her long legs over his lap, an arm around her waist, and his tail curling around my legs.

Breathe, Bea.

I’m in Zev’s arms.

I’m safe.

“You’ll never be too big for me. Never.” He kissed her neck just below an ear as his hand on her waist went under her top, kneading her softness. “I’m more than enough man to handle my pulchra,” he lightly nipped at her neck before soothing her with more kisses. Moonmaiden take me. He’s perfect and lovely and amazing and I want him so badly please. “After all, dear…it takes a man to please a goddess like you.” He purred as he littered kisses on her jaw.

OH?!?!

With a strangled moan, she managed to get out, “You’ve…you’ve called me that before…a goddess…”

He chuckled. “Because you are, Bea.”

“Is it because I’m…well, you know…” She trailed off, her brow creasing.

“Plush? Plump?” He needs to stop saying it so sensually, or I’m going to combust. “Perfect? You’re a goddess, darling. My pretty, voluptuous goddess…” The hand under her top drifted upwards, squeezing and caressing as he went. “A goddess deserving of worship.”

Oh.

Oh wow.

Heart pounding in her chest, she was breathless when she spoke again. “I…I don’t know what say…”

His movements slowed. “Is this too much, darling? If you’re feeling uncomfortable or overwhelmed, then please tell me.”

She squeezed her brown eyes shut and snuggled closer to embrace him. Zev. My Zev. I love you so much. More than you’ll ever know. “No. I…it’s all very new. But I…I like it.”

Did he just purr?! “I’m glad.” Purring Zev is so adorable. “I like holding you, pulchra.” His tail curled around her waist. “All those awful thoughts about being too big for me…let them fall away, my angel…I have you, Bea. I have you.”

Beatrice released a shaky breath she had no idea she was holding.

Breathe.

“I have you.”

Breathe.

She tightened her hold on him, opening her eyes so her gaze could meet his. I love you. “We have each other.”

“That we do, pulchra. That we do. Now,” Ooooh that’s his tail tickling my leg. “Let’s enjoy our time together before you must return to the Elfsong.”

Right.

Fuck.

She frowned, leaning her head against his. And minding his horns. I’ve accidentally bonked myself more times than I care to admit. “I wish I didn’t have to.”

The tiefling hummed, not loosening his hold on her. “I promise…when all this is over, we’ll never spend another night apart.” Never. “Imagine spending every evening together. Waking up together every morning.” They sat in silence I don’t know how long before Zevlor spoke again. “You’re a beautiful woman, darling. I only wish you’d see it.”

You and me both, Zev.

Beatrice snorted softly. “Well, there’s lots of people who don’t think I am and have told me so.” It’s partially why I took every assignment I could in the temple. That way I wouldn’t have to endure the looks and comments from Baldurian high society. And then after him, I entirely avoided events, functions, balls, you name it.

“They have no taste.” He said in a clipped tone that she had rarely heard from him. “You’re a goddess. A vision of beauty, heart, and faith---not only in Selune but in your fellow man.” Zevlor shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Including this one.”

She tilted his chin up to properly see my handsome Zev and smiled. “Especially this one.”

“A benevolent goddess with such faith in me. I’m touched.” He teased, brushing the tips of his clawed fingers against the softness beneath her top.

Her lips touched his in an instant, and she moaned into his mouth, “You deserve pleasure, Zev. You deserve it all…want to see you smile…be happy…I’d do anything for you.” I mean, to be fair, I’ve already done a lot, starting with killing the goblins at the grove. Then killing more goblins. And then killing those Shadow Druids. And then we killed every goblin in the camp. That’s a lot of fucking goblins I’ve killed. Beatrice bit her lower lip as she watched him freeze in stunned silence. “I…I love you.” I love you, Zev. I killed so many fucking goblins. So many.

“I-I had no idea you felt so strongly, so deeply, towards me—”

Zev, we are not doing this right now.

The half-drow grabbed his face in her hands and silenced him with a passionate kiss that left him breathless. “Of course, I bloody do, Zev! I love you!” She laughed, holding him tightly against her. Relax, love. Relax. Rocking them gently, she kissed the base of a horn. “You make it so easy to love you, Zev. One look at you, and I just wanted to kiss you…” Smooches for my Zev! “Hold you…touch you…make you laugh…all of it.” One more smooch. She reluctantly released him and shifted to lay down. “Now, come here and let’s have a cuddle before I go, love.” She grinned and held out her long arms.

I swear the flames in his eyes got brighter.

“Yes, pulchra.” Zevlor drawled as he settled into her side. He reached for one of her hands and held it gently his, resting them both on her belly. “I love you, Bea darling. You know I’d do the same for you as well. Anything, my beloved. Anything.”

Sighing, she closed her eyes. “I know, love.”

Anything, Zev.

Months later, when she and Zevlor were cuddling that same way in our own bed in our own home, Beatrice felt no fear or shame or embarrassment.

Only love.

[bladeweave]

Golden Generosity

Shadowheart & Wyll, 2k words

“I suppose it was too fanciful a notion to hope these would go away after it all ended,” Wyll sighs, looking up at his horns.

Shadowheart can’t say she agrees. With everything that has happened to all of them, it wouldn’t be so outside the realm of believability to think one last miracle was possible.

“Is there truly no way to be rid of them?” she asks.

“That’s what the contract said: they can’t be removed by any means short of divine intervention,” Wyll recites rotely, “But it’s not as if I’ve ingratiated myself with any gods, have I?

The phrase makes something inside of her come to attention.

Being granted Selûne’s favor had been exhilarating and frightening in equal measure. With so many years spent fruitlessly laboring away for approval she would never get from Shar, receiving such a gift from the Moonmaiden after not even a month in her service feels undeserving somehow. Shadowheart sometimes feels like she’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to come out and say she’s not worthy of such a blessing.

“It’s too bad we didn’t let Gale take the crown, then. He might have done you a favor,” she murmurs in reply, her mind elsewhere.

She had intended to save her opportunity to plead for Selûne’s help to use against the Netherbrain, hopefully turning the tide if things went poorly. Of course, it happened that she hadn’t even been asked to join the party for the final fight. She and Wyll had stood outside the High Hall, heads craned back to watch the effects of the skirmish happening so high above. They flinched at each crash of light and flash of noise with the worry that it spelled their friends’ defeat.

But everyone had come out the other side no worse for the wear, and then the question of what to do next came up.

“He’s a better friend to us mortal than in Elysium, Shadowheart,” he scolds her gently. Not willing to betray that infallible moral compass even for a joke, which is so very Wyll.

It’s not an idea she would even consider if she were still in the service of Shar; The Dark Lady would never be so kind.

But Selûne? She was once the patron of beauty, and Wyll is certainly a handsome man. He considers his additional features a flaw, which few others do, but if removing them made him feel more beautiful…

Selûne had also overseen purity and joy. Shadowheart has never met anyone remotely close to as pure of heart as the former warlock, and he’d certainly be overjoyed to have those infernal reminders gone.

“Wyll, can I try something?” she asks. He nods immediately, so trusting.

Shadowheart moves to kneel on his bed beside him, holding her hands over the front of his horns. She concentrates on how he used to look, on the idea of those horns disappearing and the ridges smoothing.

There’s a little cosmic twitch. Some minute recognition of her intentions that feels somehow attentive yet distant.

Wyll waits patiently until she pulls her hands away and sets them in her lap.

“Is something on your mind, Shadowheart?” he asks.

“Would you truly want to be rid of them completely? Horns, ridges, bumps, prongs and all?”

He makes an ugly face at her wording but replies, “Yes, of course! I’d get them gone in a heartbeat if I knew how.”

She takes a deep breath. “I think I could do it. Or at least, I’d like to try.” She lets a touch of magic out to emphasize her meaning, the glow of silver light emanating from her fingertips.

“You’ve healed me plenty of times before,” Wyll says, looking at her hand, “And it never fixed any of this.”

“This is something different. I’m going to pray for her intervention.” She doesn't need to lean hard on the ‘her’ to make it clear who she means.

“Why would Selûne do that for me?” he asks, all wide-eyed and wondering, “I’ve never done anything close to worshipping her in a way that would warrant her succor.”

“She would do it for me. I was granted a boon, the promise that she would intercede when I needed it most. But the time for that has come and gone, and I find that I’m unsure of what to do with it now.”

Wyll pushes away from her like he’s afraid she’ll do it at once, pressing his back against the headboard.

“You shouldn’t waste an opportunity like that on me! There’s so many more deserving people out there in much worse positions than I am,” he rushes out.

“I don’t really believe that, Wyll,” Shadowheart says plainly.

“You could…” he shakes his head like he’s trying to chase something away, “You could bring your memories back.”

Shadowheart sighs. “They’re not happy ones. It may be cowardly on my part, but I don’t want to remember the person I was then. Who I am now is who I’m proud to be.”

The fond, awed look on his face is exactly what she was trying to provoke.

“That’s not cowardice, Shadowheart. There’s so much strength in making that choice, in knowing how to forge a new path and find the new you,” Wyll says in that horribly earnest way of his.

She tips her head to the side. “So if I don’t want to use it for that, what could I? Travelling across the world in an instant instead of by foot? Smiting enemies that I no longer have? It’d be a waste of her gift, I think.”

She leans closer, not letting Wyll escape her gaze.

“But giving you back your humanity is something that only she could provide. If she grants me this– if she grants you this, it would be the best possible use of her power that I can imagine.”

“If you’re sure,” Wyll murmurs, “If you’re absolutely sure that you don’t want to keep it for yourself.”

“In all honesty, I was thinking of going to the temple tomorrow and asking her to… take it back. Such an offering feels like too much to be carrying around in my back pocket.” The only thing that had stopped her doing so today was the fear that doing so would make her seem ungrateful; she’s anything but. Taking a lighter tone, she adds, “So if you take me up on my proposal, you’ll save me the trip.”

“Okay,” Wyll accedes, “You can try. But there is a chance it won’t work, correct?”

“There’s a chance that something else will happen, but I don’t know what,” Shadowheart admits. Selûne’s magic is not like Shar’s. It’s not less complicated – in some ways is more straightforward, more even-keeled – but it’s a complex power nonetheless. She’s still getting used to it.

“Okay, I’m ready whenever you are,” Wyll blows out in a shaky breath that doesn’t hide the tentative excitement in his voice.

She raises her hands again and calls upon her goddess, concentrating on that little node of magic that’s been living under her heart.

Selûne’s presence meets hers in a surging tidal wave of influence. She is so acutely responsive in a way Shar never was that it nearly brings tears to Shadowheart’s eyes, but she dismisses that rush of emotion quickly. She’s on a mission.

Shadowheart focuses all her concentration on the image of Wyll as he was when they’d met, on supplicating her Lady’s kindness in returning him to his former glory.

There’s a wavering moment of consideration, of her goddess studying Wyll with cool regard. Then, there’s a rush of power like nothing else she’s ever felt before. Selûne’s grace pouring through her feels like all the force of a raging river with none of the harshness, like a straight shot of pure divinity suffusing her entire being.

Shadowheart steers her mind back to the thought of Wyll as he originally was, of his authentic self not marred by devilish magic. Selûne responds, threading so much arcane energy through Shadowheart’s veins that she’s humming with it. Her hands move as if of their own accord to skim the surface of Wyll’s horns. He makes a sound, says something that she must ignore to keep her control.

She thinks on his entire body being restored. She lets her goddess’s magic stream through her, using her as a conduit. She remembers his easy confidence and how much it hurt to see him lose it. She wishes for him to be whole and himself again. A final surge of Selûne’s grace pushes a gasp from her mouth before the connection drips down to nothing, like closing off a faucet. Despite the slow recession of it, she still feels breathless for the loss.

“Oh my Gods,” Wyll gasps.

Shadowheart doesn’t remember closing her eyes, but when she opens them she sees exactly what she’d been hoping for.

Wyll’s hands are roaming his face, feeling over his unmarred cheeks and smooth forehead as if in shock.

“It worked,” she says. He looks at her and tears well up in his eyes, the good one now pleasantly white and brown.

“Oh my Gods,” he says again as he pulls her into a tight embrace. It must be such a relief to him, not having to worry about racking her with his horns as he does so. He trembles under her hands, as if the elation he's feeling is more than he can handle.

“Everything’s alright? It all went right?” she asks hazily, still coming down off the buzz of so much magic.

He squeezes her shoulders as he chokes out a warbling, “I’ve never been better, Shadowheart. Oh, how am I ever going to repay you for this?”

“You don’t have to, Wyll. Invite me ‘round for tea every so often and we’ll call it even.”

“Consider it done.” He releases her from his grip to wipe hastily at his face. More tears stream down his cheeks to replace them. Shadowheart shifts back to lean on the footboard to give him some space to breathe.

“What’s going on over here? We heard a commotion,” Gale calls out as he and the rest turn the corner by Shadowheart’s bed. Upon seeing Wyll, he exclaims, “You look like… yourself again!”

“I am,” is all Wyll can say before another sob catches in his throat.

Gale goes to his side to hug him around the neck, leaning down to rest his head against Wyll’s.

“Hey, I remember that face!” Karlach says as she jogs over to join them. Wyll laughs at both her rejoinder and how she puts an arm around both men and shakes them.

“Was this your doing, Shadowheart?” Lae’zel asks.

“I asked Our Lady of Silver for her generosity in removing the marks of Wyll’s contract. It seems she was feeling generous,” Shadowheart says, intentionally too light. Her friends don’t all need to know she’s still reeling from the experience.

“Who knew our Shadowheart was so generous?” Astarion teases as he leans against the wall.

“Perhaps some of Wyll’s soft-heartedness has rubbed off on her,” Lae’zel says. Shadowheart pretends to swat at the gith even as she’s too far away to reach.

“I’m plenty tough enough for anything you want to throw at me. But I think we’ve all earned a little kindness after everything.”

“Yes, we definitely have,” Astarion agrees with an odd look on his face. When Karlach and Gale step away, he crouches by the bed, putting one arm around Wyll’s shoulders and briefly touching their cheeks together.

"Lae’zel, do you want to be the odd man out?” Shadowheart asks archly.

“You don’t have to hug me if you don’t want to,” Wyll says, as accommodating as ever.

Lae’zel rolls her eyes. She steps over Astarion, ignoring the vampire’s indignant outburst, and presses her forehead to Wyll’s.

Their eyes are closed as they breathe each other in.

"A celebration is in order," Lae'zel announces when she stands straight again.

"I can certainly get on board with that!" Wyll says. Everyone else agrees.

Shadowheart feels her spirit finally settle, leaving her oddly aware of her own body.

The experience was strange, she thinks, as she listens to the chatter of her friends planning what sounds like a raucous party, but entirely worth it. For her, for Wyll, for all of them.

[blackjackkent]

OC Codex Prompts: 3, 8 and 17 for Hector? c:

(OC Codex Prompts) for Hector Carlisle!

3. a report written by your OC’s teacher or mentor

Notes from the diary of Enric of Trielta, Silverlight Monastery, 1449 DR Gavin Carlisle's boy turns ten this week. I must confess, Moonmaiden forgive me, that I resented the responsibility of caring for the child when Gavin abandoned him on our doorstep, and certainly did not expect that, ten years on, I might take such pride to see his progress. Let this be yet another proof that no emotion need be given more credence than it warrants. Hector is, as always, an attentive student, calm and polite; he takes our guidance to heart regarding self-control and the introspection which worship of our Lady requires. He does begin to show a certain restlessness, as is perhaps to be expected at his age, when he has grown up with only a single set of four walls. In light of this, I think it best that we begin to expand his activities despite his youth. He has expressed interest in exploring the library and has been deeply excited during his chaperoned visits to pick out books; I believe that training as a scribe would serve his curiosity well - and the monastery, as well, for Brother Kendrick grows very old indeed and his sight is beginning to fail. Best he take an apprentice at once while the Moonmaiden's light still shines on him. Should he wish it, I will also recommend that he be allowed to join Brother Ventiss occasionally on his trips to the city market for supplies. While I would not generally wish Ventiss's company on anyone, I believe Hector would do well to experience a taste of the city air on occasion, that he may compare it with our own rarefied atmosphere and draw his own conclusions, whatever they might be.

8. your OC’s doctor/healer talking about their injuries

"He'll be fine," Shadowheart mutters. "You're sure?" Karlach shifts her weight restlessly from foot to foot. "Sorry. Fuck. I know you've got so much other shit on your mind, but I just-- you're sure, yeah? That bone motherfucker cut him up real bad..." Shadowheart lets out a long slow breath and, with visible effort, wrestles herself out of the swirl of dark thoughts consuming her. "Hector will be fine," she says more firmly. "Not that it wasn't touch and go there for a minute. Myrkul's attacks..." A pause. Gods, she's tired; the words come slowly, reluctantly. "It's called bone chill. A necromantic effect. It prevents healing by magical means, and it takes time to wear off." "Ah. Right. Okay." Karlach looks relieved. "Yeah - I felt that too, I think, when I got up too close. And when something makes this old girl feel cold--" she thumps at the glowing metal under her breastbone with one fist "--you know it's serious." She manages a slight, rueful smile. "You've seen it before, then?" Shadowheart hesitates. "It's... not unheard of as a tool among Sharran agents," she finally says carefully. Karlach squints at her thoughtfully. "Right," she says. "So he'll be fine?" Shadowheart can't help it - she smiles, very slightly. It's something; she'd been starting to feel like she was never going to be able to smile again. "Yes," she repeats gently. "He'll be fine, Karlach. I promise. His back will scar pretty badly, I suspect, since I couldn't heal him at once, but that's the worst of it." Karlach grins, her indomitable good humor reasserting itself at once. "Ah, well. Not so bad then," she says. "Thank the gods." "Some of them, at least," Shadowheart murmurs.

17. a description of your OC’s family by a future historian

The identity of Hector Carlisle's mother is still something of a mystery. His father, Gavin - a monk at the Silverlight Monastery northwest of Baldur's Gate - provided no information on her when he left his infant son on the monastery's doorstep in early 1439 DR and vanished into the night. The note attached to the basket holding the boy read simply, "I leave you the fruits of the peak of my folly. - G Carlisle" An unwanted fifth son of minor nobility in Baldur's Gate, Gavin Carlisle was summarily dispatched to a monastic life at the age of eighteen and never took to it particularly well. Records of his time at the monastery are fraught with reports of sneaking out, carousing, arrests in the city, and general debauchery; it is clear that the disciplinary practices of the monks had little effect on his tendency towards hedonism. Given the relatively wide casting of Gavin's proverbial net, it is impossible to make a precise assertion as to the identity of the mother of his child who would one day go on to save the city. The most pervasive theory, however, gives the role to Florence Beaumont, daughter of a milliner in the Lower City. No records exist that specifically connect Florence and Gavin romantically, but there is record of Florence dying of a nebulous "fever of the lungs" around the time of Hector's birth. She is also recorded in her father's diary as having striking bright blue-grey eyes, a feature which is also mentioned repeatedly among contemporaneous accounts of Hector's activities. Hector himself never expressed particular interest in learning of his family history. In his own eyes, the monks of the monastery - and, later, the adventuring party he became more directly associated with - were his true family.

[ecofear]

not counting the ones who show up in bg3 story, which bg1/2 npc would you want afhiri to meet? :0c

im going to use @ratscrap's art for this because to me that's the canon for the characters like. i know the bg1 characters AS rev's art..... not their canon art...... and in terms of not counting bg3 story, this would cut out only jaheira, minsc+boo, and vic.. and out of those it's minsc because afhiri and minsc are the same fucking person. to me. thats platonic idiotic soulmates baby . also no bg2 companions as i've not played it yet!!!!!!!!!!!! and it has a lot of bg2 only exclusive companions (most of them!) so ^_^

edit: for some reason the image formatting isnt working? i dont know why? it looks fine when i edit the post? so uh. sorry huge images.....

TIAX / RASAAD / ALORA BAELOTH / GARRICK / EDWIN

ok so i'll explain now. hehe

When asked about his past, TIAX ignores you entirely, preferring instead to loudly proclaim what is in store for his future. He obviously worships Cyric, but also seems to share a touch of his madness. Tiax unquestioningly believes that he is destined to rule the world, and his fervor makes him blind to the ridiculous nature of the goal. He seems harmless enough for now.

tiax is a fucking . maniac hes a chaotic evil gnome whos a CLERIC/THIEF who worships CYRIC who is the fucking prince of LIES who holds domain over things like tyranny murder lies illusions etc. and ok cyric is really cool but worshipping cyric is. Okay. hes absolutely HILARIOUS to talk to and is completely unhinged from reality and i think afhiri would find him so fucking funny like thats her best fucking friend he might be a lil evil and wanna rule the entire world but hes not achieving none of that hes just a silly little guy. i think they would play into his madness COMPLETELY like pretend to worship him as their leader bowing down to him and calling him fun titles he LOVES ..... sigh.... afhiri deserves to have tiax....

When asked about his past, RASAAD speaks sorrowfully about losing his brother, Gamaz, to the Shadow Thieves of Athkatla. Both Rasaad and Gamaz grew up in the Monastery of the Moon in Calimshan after a Sun Soul monk rescued them from the streets of Calimport. There the young boys had barely eked out a living as pickpockets after their father died in the Arena Efreetum, where he had been consigned for his debts. Despite the tragedy of his upbringing, Rasaad seems to have found peace in his order's teachings and their worship of Selûne, the Moonmaiden.

rasaad is a lawful good sun monk (one of my fav subclasses) who worships selune (one of my least favourite gods but we make do) and he doesn't SEEM like the type for afhiri .. in the same way candor doesn't. do you see my vision. i think things might have gone differently if a character like rasaad was in the main bg3 cast. he has such a lovely accent i think they'd want to listen to him alllll day and i genuinely think he would pull afhiri away from gale in some ways.. i do think ultimately gale would pull her back because magic shiny but rasaad teaming up with candor to bring afhiri to a good path ... man it could really fucking work. i think he'd be a brilliant influence on her. plus, i think they'd help rasaad a lot with his deep sadness . i think they'd be good for each other

When asked about her past, ALORA reveals that she was originally from Iriaebor. As a child she was cute, outgoing, and dangerously curious, causing no end of trouble for her parents. They tried to curb her lunatic behavior, and encouraged her to be content with home and hearth like other halflings. Alora found this unbearably stifling, and left to explore the world. She quickly found herself falling into all sorts of trouble, going to the wrong places and angering the wrong sorts of people. Eventually she found herself in the city of Baldur's Gate, and it was there that she discovered her future profession: thievery. Wealth was never her chief concern; it's just that too many interesting things are behind locked doors. Her unassuming temperament makes it easy for her to hoodwink the authorities, and her sweet nature has saved her from a jail cell numerous times.

ok so alora is so fucking special. so . i didnt know about alora before i made afhiri. not at all. and then rev told me about alora. and then i read her wiki. then i got into her dialogue in the nearinfinity tool which lets u rip open games in this engine basically. and uh. alora is afhiri. read that fucking bio. theres differences, yes, afhiri didn't get into trouble, she's not a thief. but everything else? her whole personality? the way she TALKS? THE FACT HER BEST FRIEND IN THE GAME IS A SUPER EVIL WIZARD WITH GRAND AMBITIONS AND SHE TALSK CUTELY TO HIM AND HE, WHO HATES PRETTY MUCH EVERYONE, FINDS HER CHARMING AND REALLY LIKES HER COMPANY? come the fuck on. like . this was an accident. but i fucking copied alora. the difference is alora is a thief and a halfling BUT ALSO THIEF HALFLING AFHIRI SOUNDS LIKE IT WOULD BE FUCKING AWESOME?? i hate this. i love this. i love alora so much i could SCREAM. here's some of her dialogue:

"Please be nicer. You don't want me to pick up any bad habits, do you?" "Hey, I think everyone would be happier if we were a little nicer!" "Isn't this great? All of us, doing nice things, being happy. It's great!" "I don't think you're the type of people I should be hanging around with! Goodbye!" "Careful, everyone! Play nice!" "I like the bustle of the city! So many interesting people!" "What a great day for adventuring! In fact, every day is a great day for adventuring!" "I'm so sweet I've got rotting teeth and gums!" "C'mon, people, now, smile on your brother. Everybody get together; try to love one another right now." "I don't think you're happy enough! I'll teach you to be happy!" "Smile more often, Edwin. It looks good on you." "Well, everyone is basically decent, once you get them to unwrinkle their faces." "Play your song again, Garrick. That one I like. Please?" "Awww! It's just the cutest little hamsty-wamsty! Who's a fuzzy Boo?" "Why must you be such a grumpypuss?! Cheer up!" "I've heard that if you go too long without smiling, your face will crack!" "It must be hard work to be negative all the time!" "Oh, someone needs a tickle. Someone needs a tickle! Smile already! Yeesh!" "You needn't be so mean! I'm nice to you!" "You are mean, mean, mean! No wonder people don't like you!"

ok thats a lot of dialogue. but. that's fucking afhiri. you see this too right. what the fuck happened here. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN HOW DID I DO THIS. anyway alora and afhiri are fucking soulmates too this is insane in fact i've lowkey not really canon but playfully so headcanoned that afhiri and alora are related like afhiri is a few generations down lmaooo it makes NO SENSE in canon cuz halfling.. tiefling.. but man its so funny. afhiri is bg3's alora

When asked about his past, Baeloth Barrityl, or "Baeloth the Entertainer" as he prefers to be called, claims to be a drow sorcerer of some repute. While he keeps some of his earlier exploits vague, he brags excessively about his most recent endeavor, the Black Pits. While it all ended in failure, he maintains that it was "the best show in all the realms." The circumstances of his defeat within the pits are unclear; he claims dishonesty on the part of his combatants was a key factor.

i think the fucking bio really sells why i want afhiri and baeloth to meet like bro is the ENTERTAINER. hes a fucking drow but hes a SILLY CUNT just like afhiri likes . hes also evil. and i like afhiri with evil cunts. and god does he serve cunt. hes also stupid as all hell. he thinks hes so cool and is actually lame as shit but i think afhiri would be SOOOOOOOOO into it and him and be all starry eyed for his lameness. i think afhiri would absolutely LOVE to "perform" in the pits and then she's like haha wait its combat? :} ? my poor clown LMFAOOO but no yeah i think they'd be a fucking BLAST like. yeah. god . bg3 needed a blacks pit dlc or update so fucking bad bro

When asked about his past, GARRICK explains that he was part of a celebrated acting troupe called the Dale Wind Troubadours. They traveled the length of the coast from Neverwinter to Amn and often played to Dukes and other nobility. Indeed, few others could afford the cost of a performance when the group was at its peak. Garrick does not speak fondly of this time however, as the direction the group was taking left him dissatisfied with their conduct. He apparently discovered that performances were being used as distractions for thievery and declared he would have nothing to do with it. Rebuffed by his comrades, now he wishes simply to travel and play his music for those that will listen. He seems a bit young and naive, and a touch too ready to take the word of a stranger.

ok so i garrick post a bunch i think so its clear i'd want my baby to meet him. but read the fucking bio. they'd work WELL. he was in a TROUPE, AFHIRI WOULD HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS!!!!! she'd be so jealous. they would wanna know everything.. they'd talk about making a troupe WITH garrick just the two of them and he'd be like umm a troupe needs more people but she'd already whisked herself away in this daydream and would drag him along with her and he'd be utterly powerless.. sigh.... god..... he would have such a crush... he's so hopeless with girls and i think afhiri would ruin him entirely without meaning to like if garrick was in bg3 i do not know if afhiri would set eyes on gale at ALL because garrick is a BARD he was in a TROUPE he likes to recite (BAD) POETRY he likes to write SONGS for pretty girls he likes to PLAY SONGS WHILE YOU WALK!!!!! I'M SORRY BUT THEY WOULD BE BEYOND INSUFFERABLE AND I THINK AFHIRI WOULD HAVE A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT LIFE IF GARRICK WAS IN BG3 HOLY FUCKING SHIT MAN THAT. THATTTTTT. WOULD BE A HAPPILY EVER AFTER FOR AFHIRI. my fucking god. just thinking about it has me fucking sick to my stomach I WANT TO MAKE THIS AU, YOU UNDERSTAND? jesus fucking christ

When asked about his past, EDWIN sneers that he has no intention of revealing such information and that it is none of your business. He further states that you are lucky enough to simply share his company, and then mutters something about leaving whenever he wishes. He obviously cares little for the camaraderie of others, and seems to take more pleasure in speaking to himself than in interacting with the party. His attire brazenly displays the colors of the Red Wizards of Thay, though why a member of that organization would come so far west is puzzling. Edwin does not seem forthcoming with any information.

actual evil as balls red fucking wizard of fucking thay. the man who has broken my auto correct and is why my phone corrects a perfectly typed that into thay. every time. i really like edwin. now remember everything about alora . edwin is the evil fucking wizard she likes and who likes her in return. u see. edwin would fucking like afhiri. edwin would not be able to help it. put edwin in a party with alora and afhiri and i think his brain might just implode. he also fucking talks to himself and pretends you can't hear him like he's fucking. my god. he's so fucking special LMAO his fucking quest has him forcefemme'd and hes called edwina it's so fucking good i don't care what anyone says i LOVE edwin and everything about him and surrounding him even if hes an evil fucking cunt. he's iconic

"Elminster this, Elminster that. Give ME two thousand years and a pointy hat and I'll kick his arse!"

[linka-from-captain-planet]

If you feel like it: Aylin and Isobel - together or apart, for A, K from the NSFW alphabet and K, Y from the SFW!

I always feel like talking about women!

NSFW A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

We all share the same vision. They're theeee sappy couple. Cuddles, kisses, probably some snacks, back rubs. They're not reinventing the wheel here but it's very cute and loving.

NSFW K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

I typed out a really long paragraph explaining myself but ya know what? I'm just gonna come out and say it. Isobel literally steps on the Moonmaiden's daughter and Aylin sucks her toes. Because it's hot. But also see Y below, it's a little role reversal thingy too.

SFW K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

They don't strike me as hot and heavy kissers tbh, like they don't often make out, as much as they come off as a couple that would crawl into the other's skin if they could. They kiss constantly though - pecks on the lips, cheek, neck, ears, knuckles, shoulders.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Isobel can't stand being coddled or treated like she's made out of glass. As much as she loved her father growing up, her independent spirit often felt stifled by his doting, so it's the last thing she wants from a partner or friend. Aylin feels very strongly that while she's magnificent and should obviously be admired, she should not be worshipped - that's for her mother. She may be larger than life spiritually and in personality, but she's among the people to be among the people.

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

When appealing to Ketheric on the roof of Moonrise, he says:

“If Melodia could see all I've done, she'd know... she'd know her husband died long ago, with Isobel. Unlike Isobel, he could not be brought back. [...] I haven't forgotten her embrace. Melodia's. Nor Selûne's. But the Moonmaiden did not intervene when my life was dismantled piece by piece. And when I tried to buy it back, it cost me everything - everything. We are copper pieces in their belts. Tokens to be traded for scraps. You have beaten me, True Soul. But the gods beat me first."

I genuinely think Majexatli understands and for a moment they are truly eye to eye. Because like. Majexatli a worshiper of Malar more or less because Silvanus didn't intervene to save them when they were dying. And the feeling of "I already lost, long ago" is something that reminds me of Majexatli's reflection on Baldur's Gate:

What is Baldur’s Gate, really? So many at camp walks forward in homecoming, as though the city a person who’s warm embrace is synonymous with home. I alone walk knowing I am approaching corpse. It has been 30 years, by my count, since I last saw this place. By the time I left, the Baldurian child I was had already died, now they have long since decayed. The runaway child died too, as did the shy teenage druid, and the young adult with a home and a family. I am 4 lifetimes removed from this place. I am not returning home, this is not my birthplace, this is the place that signed my death certificate before I even left the womb, this is the the birthplace of the first domino that fell and lead to every nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

[faereun]

THE FEYWILD. ( arc. i, pre - baldur's gate )

you're still a young'un when your mother becomes cold. she stays locked up in her temple for days at a time, drowning herself in worship and prayer. your father is oft away at war, but he still is more present than she. he visits you and your sister whenever he can, ruffling your spring - soft hair and kissing your forehead, bringing you all manner of toys and trinkets. you and your elder sister find solace in one another; she comforts you when your mother leaves her temple to find you playing house instead of studying scripture, her cold hands   a  cruel  sting   across the pink of your summer - warm cheeks. you take the blame for her when your mother finds tomes of worship for a goddess other than her own, that which she believes to be the only true god. heretic, she cries, when you can take the fall for your sister no longer. heretic and dissenter, she calls your most beloved friend, as her hand cracks down like thunder 'pon her trembling visage. she's your older sister, but in the wake of your mother's booming rage and unkind hands, she's never looked smaller. if the nightsinger is the path to your salvation, you wonder, why is it the moonmaiden's magic that salves the stinging wounds left by your mother's rings?

still, you are nothing if not a diligent child. you keep your head down, lest provoked otherwise  —  you find that you cannot keep quiet when your mother's fury is directed at your sister, your dearest efru; your protector and closest companion. you practice your archery, ready yourself to heed   the  nightsinger's  call   should it ever come. should your mother ever call upon you to   spill blood   in her lady's name. your sister and you grow distant, for a time, though not of your own volition. efru buries herself in her studies, surviving off of scraps of selunite scripture and tomes their mother thought had been lost to time, buried within the recesses of their estate's library. she only wishes for your safety  —  every time she sees you suffering at your mother's hand in place of her, another scar is carved into her soul. she cannot exist with you as her   living  voodoo  doll   any longer. especially not when her rebellion has grown tenfold; mother ripping up the floorboards of her quarters to find tome upon tome, scroll upon scroll of selunite worship. she confiscates most everything, but it's pointless, anyways. she's nearly memorized everything she's ever read, and that which she hasn't is copied down in her journals thrice over.

still. as hard as things are at home, things are … okay. your father comes home to visit more often these days, off fighting whatever stupid war your mother seems to be raging in the depths of the feywild  —  spilling blood merely for the sake of spilling blood, you're sure. his smile is warm and worn, the skin around his eyes crinkling up like crows' feet when he sees you and your sister. for an archfey, he looks so old. too old. it would seem that the feywild agrees, for one day, when he comes home  —  well, perhaps it is that he doesn't come home at all. not really. you're with your sister, head in her lap as she murmurs hymns to you under her breath, when you both hear the solemn thundering of marching boots and a moaning, melancholy tune :    a  funeral  march   . you scramble to your feet, racing through the halls and down to the dining hall, where you know you'll find what you fear most; you're sure of it, a sick, sinking feeling that eats away at your stomach. your father, laid bare before your mother, with only the barest breath of life still on his lips. she does not weep. tears are already gathering in the corners of your eyes, dropping to your knees as the truth sinks in. the air is acrid with the stench of blood , a trail of it already drying brown against the white of the marble floors. 

your father is going to die. and there is nothing you'll be able to do about it. except  —  efru pulls out her staff, the mutterings of an incantation humming to life with ancient, glowing magic. she's a naturally gifted cleric, always has been, and a sigh of relief catches in your throat when your mother hisses a counterspell under her breath, flinging efru's staff from her hands, where it clatters against stone; it is a hollow, thudding sound. you feel your heart crack like glass.   'please. mother, this is ridiculous, i can save him—'   she begs, but to no avail. your mother spits at her, gathering your father up in her arms.   'silence. your craven, tainted magic will not touch him. not so long as i live and breath, and am the sole lady of this house,'   she hisses, every word dripping with venom. like efru is nothing but a gnat to be swatted from her line of sight, a spider to be crushed underneath the heel of her boot. efru moves to reach for her staff, hands trembling with desperation, but a booming wave of thunder knocks her prone, the carved willow rolling well out of reach. you feel it in the marrow of your bones when his heart stops beating. a gut - wrenching cry tears through your chest, ripping out from your throat and past bleeding lips, ones you'd been gnawing at so fervently you hadn't even noticed when you'd broken skin. 

slowly, verdant green curls are awash with an aching azure storm, streaks of white tickling the nape of your neck where sage flesh has gone death - blue, the freckles adorning your cheeks like speckles of moss suddenly blindingly white, like specks of snow across the bridge of your nose. it feels as though your heart has frozen over, succumbed to the harshest feywild winter you've ever known. you don't think you'll ever smile again.

[zorkaya-moved]

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:

Current Name: "Zarina Hawke" or “Zarina” the Moonseeker Child name: Eira (no longer used) Previously “Adult” name: Eilistraee (no longer used) Age: Unknown due to the Astral Plane’s absence of time Spent time in Faerun: Around 250 years Class: Sorcerer Subclass: Lunar Sorcerer Race: Elf (?) Subrace: Astral Elf (?)  Current patron deity: Sehanine Moonbow Alignment: Neutral Evil Occupation: Owner of the White Night Tavern in Baldur's Gate (current), Informant (on hold), Leader of the "Frigid Moon" syndicate (on hold as she’s considered dead), Investor (on hold), Merchant (on hold), Mercenary (former), Entertainer (former), Researcher (former), Graveyard keeper (former). Background via game mechanics: Criminal Unique fact(s): Does not remember her 'true' name and goes by 'Zarina' because she chose that name for herself back in the Astral Plane, has been prophesied to become divinity with her talents, Elminster knows her personally and knows of her knowledge/powers all too well + knows she’s been to every dead gods’ isle in the Astral Plane, she possesses several legendary relics from gods’ isles in her hidden headquarters that you can get while doing her quest, she has always nerfed herself pre-tadpole and tadpole acts as her power’s limitation.

𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐒/𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄:

Researcher of the Dead Gods Keeper of Gods' Graveyard The Prophesied One Slaughterer of Her Kin Death’s Lullaby Multiverse Traveler Winter's Apathy Silver Mistress of Secrets Hiemal Maiden of Lament Lunar Maiden Mistress of Polar Nights The Woman Lady Silver Lily Lamenting Moonmaiden Owner of the White Night Tavern The Frigid Moon

𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓:

An elf you encounter during your study of the Nautiloid. She is a charming, confident and undeniably assertive woman who knows what she wants and knows how to get it. It’s noticeable that she has a way with words but there hides something dangerous, something deeply disturbing and cold. 

Zhentarim upon hearing several words from her suddenly treat you with respect, alas with a tingle of worship when they glance at her smile. 

Pragmatic beyond simple words, she encourages you to make allies with people who’ll be useful to you in the future. Her powers are a mystery, but she refuses to say anything until you get closer. Can you find the truth in this blinding yet chill light of the moon? 

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃?

Zarina can be found on the crashed Nautiloid, specifically in the area where Tav and Shadowheart first encounter enemies. However, unlike the two companions, Zarina isn’t being attacked as she’s not engaging in battle under an invisibility spell.

After you kill all enemies, she will make herself seen and softly chuckle about how she’s seen Tav, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart on the ship (or depending on how your muse as Tav muse acted out on the ship). Zarina explains that she’s been in the hiding and watching their every move, impressed by their abilities; thus, seeking them out to see if they, too, are having an issue with connecting through tadpoles. 

Zarina explains she is interested in reaching Baldur’s Gate after dealing with the tadpole issue, offering to join the campaign of Tav for the future. If you recruit her, she is a powerful sorceress, but you may notice further down the line that her skill-set is rather unique for a sorcerer. Especially if your Tav is a wizard or a sorcerer themselves. 

𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘:

“Zarina” was not born in Faerun nor was she any close to it. She was born to a wonderful family in the Astral Plane within a community of Astral Elves. They lived in seclusion on the isle hidden through illusion created by their goddess whom they worshiped: Sehanine Moonbow. A secluded collection of astral elves made it their path to study what there is and to pray to their goddess. Zarina was known as the brightest mind in the community, reaching heights not many expected even the most genius of their own. Her skills in sorcery were of prodigal status and her mind worked faster than those of fellow children. The elders of the community spoke proudly of the young girl, but they also noticed the lack of warmth in her eyes. Zarina spent many days away from other children closer to her in age, preferring books and choosing a company in those who could meet her intelligent mind face-to-face without making her sigh. Because of that, she was chastised for her arrogance and taught how to interact with others better. It helped because her younger brother was there to help her out get along with other kids. 

As years go by, the community changes their perception of Zarina quite a lot, letting her travel outside of their community as she showed great interest in research. Her status in the community was higher than ever, her smile gentle and calm as she would teach others whenever she came back from her travels. Her adult name was chosen and she’d gather far more knowledge than anyone ever expected. Only her family knew the truths to her core self, still never changing apathy remained deep inside her soul and it only turned to feelings around them - her family. Not the community, but those she deemed her family. Her father and her brothers. 

The days of her travels hid away the talents that started to bloom fully. Astral Plane allowed her to travel for long periods of time, gathering knowledge of other stories and other races living in the Astral Plane. Knowledge of war, of magic, of politics, of selling and buying, of praying and of breaking out of religion. During these travels, Zarina did not need to hide away who she was - ambitious, calm, perceptive, observant, and assertive. There was no need to pretend to be a gentle soul before others, her hand could kill as much as save. The sensation of power was growing and so did her magic. It allowed her to study the isles of dead gods. Each one of them, every single one of them. Her study of them was as in-depth as one could go, but how was she allowed to travel through them if they were guarded? That’s where her powers would come in. Illusions, disguises, stealth, and more. The divinity would still shine there and it would respond to her so tenderly, but the Astral Elf did not know at that point just how much was she changing over those years. Each isle granted more powers, more relics, more reasons to wonder just what else is out there. Countless diaries were hidden through magic, stored somewhere where only she could reach. To her, surviving on those isles was exciting, interesting, and fascinating. She never destroyed them, never took more than she needed, and never left a big enough mark to let others know she’s been there. However, the beings there would always remember her: the Keeper of Gods' Graveyard. 

The undead fell, the powerful entities responded to her, the enemies were dominated to let her do what she wished for. She was overwhelmed with power, but on her way home after studying the last isle, Zarina found herself disliking the way her talents prospered. The words spoken from the last isle’s habitants made her wonder if she was still herself or if she was something else. Concerned filled her mind as she started to notice how apathy and boredom would start to cloud her mind, making everything else seem dull and uninteresting. The passage of time didn’t exist in the Astral Plane like it did in other worlds. Her knowledge was passed to certain people, she met with those who will know the history of Faerun. Such as Elminster, exchanging legendary relics and discussing Dead Gods’ isles. They were sages who sought out knowledge, but Elminster did tell Zarina to return to her home before it’s too late for her. What did he mean by that? The power coursing through her veins was flowing, but it was slowly erasing something within her.  

And so, Zarina returned to her community… 

Before her arrival, let’s speak about those who do visit the remote community of the Astral Elves. Travelers, sages, mages. Those who do not bear ill will to their community outside of it are let in, the Moonbow’s blessing protects them endlessly through illusion. However, the words spoken by the travelers after they saw who the community considers their “beloved priestess” have shaken the community. They spoke about the fears, the blood, the winter’s apathy, the cold aura, the eyes of gold shining. They were tested on truth, they were tested and they were proven right… Even though they did not leave the community’s grounds for a way to get the information’s trustworthiness came from spells used. 

By the time Zarina arrived, there had also appeared a prophecy. A prophecy that made her family immediately find the silverette and drag her to their shared house, stating that they must leave their community. While Zarina was away, the prophecy spoke of something catastrophic happening and the traveler who arrived only made the elders go along with their terrible path… But was it really terrible from their perspective? They only wished to protect their goddess’ shine and their community’s safety. 

“Daughter of the Moon shall taint the image of brilliant and pure light, her sins will sink deeply into the future for she has tasted the power she’ll use for her personal gain. Her ambition has corrupted her and she lost her purity. The one with eyes of gold and hair of silver shall become the evil goddess, one who’ll lose her humanity and become the end to those who love her the most.”

The family pretended that they’ll be loyal to the decisions of the community, but they did not wish to see their kin killed. They loved her, they loved her more than anything and they knew that she was not going to turn into a monster as long as she has those she loves around them. While they are there, there will be warmth in her heart and she’ll be gentle. There will be fluffy snow instead of sharp icicles, but the community did not think so. The ‘traitors’ were found and they were dragged out. Zarina begged in tears to let them go and that she’ll do whatever they wished as long as they didn’t touch her family, she’ll leave but they did not have it. The traitors were deemed as those who were tainted and who were corrupted, dangerous to their community and to the future. If their deity gave them this prophecy, they did not wish to go against it. The evil must be exterminated, they must protect their community, their home, their families, their faith. 

And so, the blood of ‘traitors’ was spilled before the very golden eyes of one who was the center of the said prophecy. The Prophesied One did not remember exactly what happened after, but she remembered the stench of blood. Pools, pools of blood. It looked like a horror picture, a grotesque showcase of cruelty and evil. Every single elf was dead, their expressions frozen in fear, no kid and no elder survived. No cattle and no animals, nothing and no one. A weapon in her hands was light and she felt her lungs burn, but she felt empty. She felt nothing but emptiness. The apathy filling her mind and soul, she felt nothing when looking at those corpses and that bloodshed. The only moment she felt something when she found her family’s corpses, breaking down in tears. She tried to use the spell to speak with the dead, but they all told her one thing: go on, live, leave us. It was the last time when she was ever seen in her community, her home was destroyed and erased from reality with her spells. 

Her next target was the group of travelers who led to this outcome. And she found them, and she killed them. It didn’t make anything better. She still felt empty, hollow, void of any emotion. It was too late.

PART II: Travel to Faerun to be added. PART III: Life in Faerun to be added.

[myrkulsapxstle]

random headcanon question! how did ketheric's faith/devotion to his gods change and develop from selune to shar to myrkul? and perhaps even after them all, in your companion verse? would love to hear any thoughts on that :3c

𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐡𝐞 | 𝐔𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐀𝐬𝐤𝐬.

Oh, Sean, you spoil me with this ask. It's probably gonna get long.

Check it under the cut.

So, it's worth starting with Selûne.

Ketheric comes from a proud line of Selûnites on his father's side, who had been worshipping the Moonmaiden for as long as he can remember - and his mother converted to Selûne after marrying his father ( much to the dismay of her older brother, black sheep Uncle Malus the Sharran ).

He devoted himself fully to her as his parents had - and eventually swore an Oath of Ancients to her and became her Paladin -- leading her armies into battle and calling upon her power to smite her enemies.

Selûne was his strength, and brought him many blessings that only deepened his faith -- she brought him closer to Melodia, and blessed them with their daughter, Isobel. The Moonmaiden even sent her own daughter to bless their town after he built Moonrise Towers in her honor.

But Shar?

Shar was rot. Sapping away Ketheric's strength. And he didn't even realize it.

So when Isobel and Melodia died - and his prayers to the Moonmaiden went unanswered? In comes Uncle Malus to offer him solace in the Nightsinger.

His dedication to Shar was never so deep. It only served him as far as it would take his pain away. Which it never did.

Shar couldn't bring his family back. She couldn't even make him forget them. Let him live in blissful ignorance - like she had with so many others. He imprisoned the daughter of the Moonmaiden in her domain for her, and yet she still wouldn't let him forget.

So his faith to Shar didn't last long. He was killed as one of her faithful, but rose again as the Apostle of Myrkul.

And in a complete turn, Myrkul was the most devoted Ketheric had been to a god since his youth - face turned towards the full moon in awe. He desecrated his family mausoleum for him. He would have razed the whole of Faerûn for him. Sent an Elder Brain across the whole of the Coast and controlled its populace with mindflayer tadpoles for him.

Why?

Because Myrkul gave him back his daughter.

It was always about his family, for Ketheric. His god isn't his identity. Maybe it was, once upon a time. But deep down - his true identity lies in his family. Being a strong father, a caring husband.

So who is he without that?

He can live without Selûne, or Shar, or Myrkul. But he can't live without his family. He doesn't know how.

And he'll claw at anything to get it back, even if it means making himself a monster in the process.

But - onto your last part -- who is he without a god?

Even though that isn't his main identity - Ketheric doesn't know who he is in a deity's absence, either. He's a Paladin, for gods' (ha) sake. He's always belonged to a deity in some form or fashion. But all that's left is him and his anger. His grief.

He'd want to return to Selûne. He knows he would. But he's still too mad for her ignorance to his cries for help re: Melodia & Isobel when he's freshly recruited to even consider it. I don't even think he'd actually try until after game is over. Stays an Oathbreaker for the rest of the game with no force powering him but his own spite.

But for once - he's running on his own power. Not a god's. And he finds he is strong. He is capable of protecting people without a deity's power.

And maybe that's all he needs for the time being.

[optiwashere]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @amorficzna last week to share whatever I'm working on. I'll tag... @siyurikspakvariisis and @grousebrood if y'all have anything you're willing to share! Anyone that sees this and feels like doing it can consider themselves tagged by me.

I don't have a WIP I can share prose-wise, so instead here's a wall of Asheera character notes! My love and light, my weirdo who likes objectively bad poetry.

This is basically written to be notes for me, so it's like a behind the scenes more than anything. Also, the second chunk of this relates to a post I made last week, so CW: Character death.

Asheera's age as of BG3: 32 (33? She was 35 in old notes last I checked, but that was 14th century DR and for a 3.5e game so her age is kinda up in the air at this point)

Height: 6'7" (~201cm)

Weight: around 260lbs. (~118kg)

Eye color: Brown (described as ruddy brown, like darker red clay)

Hair color: Black with faint blue streaks (not dyed, a fun lil extra happenstance from her Gondian transition)

Dialogue snippets from Asheera when talking to others about Shadowheart:

To Zevlor. "Do you remember what it was like to take your oath? How you felt suddenly right, and whole, and everything made sense? Don't get all puppy eyes at me about it, but yeah... it's like that with her." (author's note: from Zevlor's perspective, Asheera is explaining a relationship in a way that finally makes sense to him. She should be speaking slowly, as if to savor the words.)

To Aylin. "Oh, she's stolen her fair share of things, perhaps killed a person or two in the name of her former Dark Lady, but aren't we all monsters in our own way? A little redemption never hurt." (author's note: Asheera is an Oath of Redemption paladin in canon but in-game I couldn't pick it; she is explaining to Aylin how their relationship ever started. Asheera is trying to joke, badly, and it doesn't really work on Aylin. Probably followed by Aylin trying to rationalize all her evil deeds as necessary to find Selûne.)

To Isobel. "Is she devout? Eh, that's a question for her. I know she keeps little trinkets of the Moonmaiden around. I've made some for her, too. But if you're expecting her to join you in prayer or something, I'd temper that." (author's note: Isobel is excited to hear about Shadowheart's Selûnite worship. She is decidedly less excited after this conversation. Asheera finds this hilarious, and Isobel probably chides her for it.)

To Rolan. "No, listen. She didn't steal your books. Why would she want them? It's all magic gobbledygook anyways, what use would she have for them?" [back and forth] "And? I love her, but I wouldn't just lie to your face about her. I've an oath to uphold." (author's note: someone stole books from Sorcerous Sundries, and Rolan is somehow convinced it was Shadowheart. He trusts Asheera, but still thinks she's lying.)

To Gale. "I can't believe you haven't had Shadowheart over for dinner yet, especially since I was already coming." [Gale explains he has, but Tara was unhappy afterwards and it's been a whole thing.] "Oh? Didn't Tara like her? And why didn't she tell me she was here?" [Gale, after rambling for a long while on the meal he cooked for them all, explains that Shadowheart called Tara a cat. Not once, but twice. The second was accidental.] "Oh. Oh, I see. Yeah, no. That makes sense. Gods, I can't wait to ask her about tressyms when I get home." (author's note: Asheera should be just about bouncing on her seat with this information. Razzing a supposed once-master Sharran spy for social faux pas is way too much fun.)

To Astarion. "I wish she'd join us for these chats. I know she misses you terribly, even if she won't admit it." [Astarion makes a snide remark about how he doesn't miss Shadowheart.] "Whatever you say, but I'll remember that next time you ask how she's doing." (author's note: apparently Astarion and Asheera hang out often? Again, Asheera is an Oath of Redemption paladin, so redeeming a vampire spawn is like crack for her.)

To Karlach, should they ever meet again. "OK, OK. You're crushing me." [Karlach finally lets go of Asheera after a bone-breaking hug.] "She's coming, the whole ritual exhausted her and she needed a rest while you two came back." [Karlach razzes Asheera hardcore about her "tiring out" Shadowheart.] "I did learn that magic circles require all sorts of interesting components..." (author's note: this would be whatever the fuck would lead to Karlach and Wyll being pulled back from the Hells to have a normal, happy existence on the Material Plane.)

To Wyll, same as Karlach. "I wouldn't worry about Shadowheart." [Wyll says something to the tune of stinking like the Hells because of all the time he's spent fighting alongside Karlach.] "Seriously, I don't think Selûne is going to demand she pester you about it. She's not Isobel Thorm. Let's go celebrate, you've nothing to fret over! Seriously." (author's note: essentially, Wyll is even more worried about losing himself similarly to how he talks about not feeling like he can be the heroic figure he wants to be as in-game. If it's from his POV, he doesn't believe Asheera. He goes with her to celebrate with Karlach and Shadowheart, but he should be distant and withdrawn.)

To Lae'zel, same as the last two. N/A (author's note: they wouldn't talk about Shadowheart. Asheera & Lae'zel are on respectful terms, not friendly ones. Pretty much they'd only talk about how beating Vlaakith's ass is going. Fuck the Lich-Queen.)

Age of death: 94; extended lifespan due to the way Gond "rebuilt" her for her divine transition/gender affirmation. (I headcanon Shadowheart as early fifties, so she would be early 110s when this happens)

Dialogue snippets from Shadowheart after Asheera passes. A lot of this is melodramatic because I love melodrama:

“I lived fifty years without her before, I can manage it again.” (author’s note: she is lying poorly to whoever she’s speaking to with this line. Anyone remotely insightful should see this.)

“Sixty good years. Sixty-one and eleven months we had, when some have a fraction of that or never find it whatsoever. If ever there was a woman that could make those years feel effortless, it was her. But now it’s only the road and the care of strangers and their pets and livestock for me. It’s a quiet life, and I like it.” (author’s note: Shadowheart seems to lose herself, fall into herself when she’s talking about how long they were together. Logical brain trying to hide her broken heart. Whoever is hearing this should realize that Shadowheart has those years practically memorized. Memories are so important to someone who didn't use to have them before. When she speaks about her current life, she does seem content if cold. It’s different, and she is alone, but she’s happy with doing good, simple work. Pressing the matter of loneliness will just make her annoyed/angry/generally upset.)

“It was the thirteenth day of Eleint, 1554 by... by Dale Reckoning when she left me. No, that’s wrong. She didn’t leave me. That was the day she was taken from me. I couldn’t move her until the nineteenth, and I slept almost not at all. She’s buried near the sea, by where we lived together. I thought she'd want to be by her parents, but no. She wanted what she wanted, and I couldn't deny her anything. Ever. I visit whenever I pass by. I'm due for a visit with her youngest brother.” (author’s note: Shadowheart is clearly broken by this, but she must soldier on regardless. Wistful. Listener/reader gets the sense that Shadowheart always "just so happens to" pass by. Whoever is hearing this dialogue cannot comfort her at all about this, and trying to do so will make her very angry. She's been through this for decades by this point, she can't go through it again.)

If I were to tag this like a fic, it would have the "Angst with Happy Ending" tag. Interpret that however you wish until I make a fic about this.

[ravingard]

midnight hangs heavy over the campsite, black as pitch in the absence of the moon. wyll still finds himself at awe of the difference in his sight, the greyscale shapes he can make out far more clearly now than he could before, so far from the fire's light it is . . . strange.

blade and armor put to rest in his tent ( the dagger tucked into his belt is a staple in the night, one can never be too careful, after all. and the blade of frontiers can hardly risk being caught unaware. ) wyll settles uninvited, careful to sit, putting @nerimoi on his bad side, it is better with some of their companions, so they know when his stare is purposeful.

“ is she kind to you ? ” in honesty, he need not ask, not when the answer is the same through every pantheon, every god. even the moonmaiden in all her goodness had turned her back on faerûn in their time of need, the lady of loss ? he supposes she must be different than the rest, if only because their pain may be prayer, worship at her altar. ( he can in some ways respect that, the honesty of her domain, though he knows little of the practice. but he may assume her followers know to expect their prayers to fall on deaf ears. )

“ or . . . i mean — ” hesitation is not the cause of questions restructure, wyll had meant what he asked, but knowing shadowheart - if one can ever truly know shadowheart - he may need to adjust for a more achievable answer.

“ — are you happy ? ”

[captainpriceswife]

Goblin Camp ; Maydra and two of her companions

(This is set after two big events; Astarion's first feed + Maydra reacting positively / defending him from the others and Gale's first romance scene, with the weave.)

Maydra wandered through the Goblin Camp, quietly taking note of everything she saw until her eyes graced a statue of her precious goddess, Selune. They had fought hard to defeat the goblins and now, the last little bit of regret was gone as she stared at the statue intently. Her stomach tightened, her eyes looking up towards the statue. She swallowed hard, feeling her heart rate pick up as she finally saw her lady's holy symbol upon the wall. She grasped her chest, feeling her heart ache as she saw how defiled the sanctuary was.

The first one to notice the change in her demeanor was Astarion, he had grown accustomed to the heartbeats of his traveling companions and now hers was racing like a deer trying to escape a hunter. He wasn't good at words, wasn't good at trying to comfort others. He stared at her for a moment before moving to touch Gale's shoulder, directing his attention. It was a small kindness, they both had to take care of each other somehow.

Gale looked towards Astarion, noticing he tilted his head nonchalantly towards Maydra. He looked at her and a pang struck his heart as he saw that tears were forming in her eyes. He gave the vampire a nod before carefully touching her shoulder, murmuring to her softly. "Are you okay?" They had been getting closer and he felt like she could lean upon him if she desired it.

Maydra leant against his touch ever so slightly "This was... a place of worship for my lady, the Moonmaiden. The goblins destroyed so much of it-" She started to cry in earnest, feeling Gale gently gather her into a hug. He soothed a hand over her back as she cried, looking towards Astarion who had taken up watch. "I can't believe they would do this..." She says softly, wrapping her arms more around Gale.

They're quiet for a moment before Gale clears his throat, "I will help you carry anything worth saving back to the camp, it doesn't matter how heavy. I'm sure Karlach would love to help too." Maydra looks at him, face flushed from her tears, "Thank you Gale, you're truly someone wonderful."