The Price of a Sunset: The first-born. I wasn't sure if I was going to be a good parent (aka writer of fics), but I jumped in anyway to assuage the pain of losing a job I loved and to ensure I continued to practice and hone my craft well away from AI and its little tendrils creeping their way into everything. I made a lot of mistakes and there are many things I'd do differently, but I'm still proud of how it turned out, and I can never seem to fully quit Alyss and Gale - they are my OTP.
The Worldweaver: My middle child. It's not the type of fic most want to read, but it was important to me to let Alyss and Gale start their true story and earn their ending as legends, adventurers, and true loves. It was also important to me to give Gale closure from Mystra without forcing him to give up the status he had fairly earned and would likely need to survive a life with Alyss. Also, I just wanted to write it and I had fun doing it.
To Err Divine: My rebellious child. The one that I didn't exactly choose to bear, so much as it insisted on being born. Much more high-maintenance than its older siblings and raising it to maturity is going to take much longer than I anticipated. I can't help but love it, even when it's giving me a great deal of trouble, and especially when it's bringing me down with its high level of angst and an extremely long stretch of darkness in the middle.
Further Research Required: My youngest child and the one that brings me joy when life with its older sibling grows emotional and dark. If To Err Divine is my emo adolescent, this one is my sunny little toddler that's always up for a little bit of fun, and maybe a tiny bit of mischief.
Softly tagging @tynithia, @fireflyeyes, @amuletspore, @asorceresswrites - only if you're interested!
Thanks @thesanguinesonnet - love these little activities :)
Some questions to get to know me. No pressure tags to: @glitterandmoondustofficial, @87000beesinapersonsuit, @optimisticgrey, @alliskit, @lolthwoven, @rdekarios, @unovafarm, @tynithia (if you haven't done this and want to, otherwise feel free to ignore).
1. What’s a small BG3 detail that you always notice and love?
The views. I love to get up high and look all around. The view from Ramazith's tower is a good one.
2. What’s one piece of reference material you’re currently obsessed with?
Not for BG3, but I have an original fiction I've been working on for ages. It takes place in an alternate version of England, so I've spent an inordinate amount of time studying the features of wool market towns, abbey ruins, and Anglo-Saxon geographical terms.
3. Share a snippet or visual from your current project that you’re quietly proud of.
Writing for BG3 is the first time I've written combat. I find it really challenging, but my "in" has been to show the relationships between the characters in how they fight together.
He whipped around and tried to sidestep, but the creature surged forward and a jet of high-pressure water caught him across the chest, sending him staggering backward. A crushing tightness seized his chest, followed immediately by sharp pain. He tried to breathe but couldn't get enough air, and there was a disturbing grinding in his side as he stumbled away from the myrmidon.
Radiant heat warmed his face as the fire myrmidon, freed from the ice, turned toward him as well, its flames building. He raised a shaking hand—trying to ignore the stabbing in his side as magic gathered—but his fingers felt clumsy and the words wouldn't come.
Wren appeared between him and the advancing elementals. Her hands came up and a shimmering barrier of force snapped into place. The fire myrmidon's flames crashed against it harmlessly.
She spoke a healing word that did nothing. "Gods be damned," she swore, in furious, impotent frustration. "Potion," she ordered tersely, as more bolts sprang from her sphere to strike at the myrmidons. "Now."
He fumbled for the pouch at his belt, each small movement sending lances of pain up his sides. After a minor eternity, he managed to find the right vial, pull it out, and drink it. The cold burn swept through him, healing the worst of the damage. He gasped at the ruthless speed of it, missing the feel of Wren's hands on him as his body knit itself back together.
He looked up to find her shield beginning to crumble under the myrmidons' assault. "Tempestas!" His voice rang out, strong again. As his hands began to work—their function fully restored—he took command of the winds streaming in through the demolished window and drove the myrmidons back toward the walls.
Wren turned toward Lorroakan, her sparks snapping, and her wind caught Gale's, whipping around them both. She drew two more whirlstars from her belt and sent them flying at the wizard. One sank into his chest, another into his shoulder. He shrieked in fury, blood spreading in dark stains across his gaudy robes.
The whirlstars exploded on impact. One with a crack of thunder that made Lorroakan stumble, the other with a brilliant flash of lightning that left scorch marks across his flesh. He screamed again, more in rage than pain, and his staff came up.
"Arde!"
A massive fireball erupted from the staff's tip, streaking toward them both. With a quick set of gestures and a cry, Gale's shield spell flared to life and deflected the worst of the blast. Heat washed over them, singeing hair and cloth, but did no real harm.
Cast with me, he sent, and felt Wren's immediate acknowledgement along with a fierce delight in fighting at his side. She called her lightning to her while Gale gathered his winds. Their magic recognized each other, coming together like dancers who'd practiced this routine a thousand times.
4. What’s something you’re looking forward to creating or finishing soon?
My "Tale of Three Gales" one-shot! It's been pure fun to work on, but I'm looking forward to getting it finished and getting it posted.
5. What’s a fun or silly tradition you have with your OCs/Tavs?
Hmm, I'm not sure if I have any traditions, but both of my BG3 OCs were played before photo mode existed, so I've been having fun going back and doing photo shoots with them. In particular with Wren - I deleted her save, so I've been recreating her story with pictures. I don't use any of the fancy photo mode mods, so my images are middling at best, but I have fun getting creative with the tools I have.
6. What’s a BG3 NPC you’d love to see in a completely different outfit or setting?
I'd love to see a cowboy Gale, his look fits it so well, while his personality absolutely does not. Also Gortash is made to be an early 2000s LA guy in a small band that plays clubs on Sunset and thinks that makes him maximally desirable.
7. What is a BG3 collab project that you would want to do?
Honestly, any! I love to collab, so if anyone has something they really want to do, all you gotta do is let me know.
8. What’s a tiny headcanon or detail you’ve added to your Tav/OC that brings you joy?
For Alyss: I think it's her mischief and her love of teasing. I just have so much fun writing her and Gale's more lighthearted scenes and coming up with different ways for her to tease Gale.
For Wren: It's the fact that she's a woman of few words most of the time. It's honestly relaxing (especially as a Gale writer) to write dialogue that's terse and plain-spoken.
9. What is something you want your followers to know about you?
This is my first time writing fan fiction, and being part of a community like this. I have loved getting to know everyone's OCs, stories, and art. Talking to y'all and seeing how you work has been really inspiring to me. Thanks for being such a supportive and welcoming community!
collected WIP tags from @kt-catt @gloura @rdekarios @thesanguinesonnet and a reverse tag from @arlynx
Thank you, dears! Uno reverse for all of you 🫶
I am a bit behind on stuff, life has been a lot. Please poke me if I missed a tag!
I ate the stew because my body required nourishment.
I wasn't hungry but I had begun to understand that meals served purposes beyond merely sustaining the body. Sharing food was an act of companionship, a ritual of closeness people performed almost instinctively. It mattered to them, and increasingly, that meant it mattered to me.
The wizard had spent a surprising amount of time preparing the stew and appeared even more invested in everyone's reaction to it than strictly necessary. He informed us—twice—that it was based upon a family recipe, though circumstances had forced him to substitute several of the original spices. He spoke of this as though it were a tragedy of moderate significance.
I nodded dutifully, thanked him for the meal, and refrained from mentioning that the combination of rosemary and thyme reminded me vaguely of bathwater. Some observations are best kept private.
Besides, he was so pleased with himself that I lacked the heart to diminish it.
After dinner, I gathered the dishes and carried them to the stream.
The water was wonderfully cold. The summer air still lingered warmly around camp, but the stream flowed down from higher ground and carried with it a pleasant chill that numbed my fingers as I worked. I knelt by the bank, cleaning bowls and spoons while the sounds of conversation drifted faintly from the fire behind me.
And, despite my best efforts, my thoughts wandered once more to the lute. The instrument rested in my tent, yet I found my gaze seeking it whenever the opportunity arose. Even now, separated from it by distance and canvas, I was thinking about it again.
The fascination annoyed me. Something about that lute lingered. Not insistently or aggressively, simply present, like a half-forgotten thought refusing to disappear entirely no matter how often I turned my attention elsewhere.
I rinsed the final bowl, set it aside to dry, and stared into the water for a moment.
Perhaps there was magic involved. Perhaps not. Whatever the cause, I found myself increasingly curious in a way I could neither explain nor dismiss.
The reality was simple enough: we might die tomorrow.
At that point in our journey, death felt less like a distant possibility and more like a scheduling conflict we were attempting to postpone. We carried mind flayer parasites behind our eyes. We had no cure, no answers, and only the increasingly fragile hope that one existed somewhere ahead of us. For all I knew, I might transform during the night, and whatever remained of me by morning would have very little interest in lutes.
Under those circumstances, there seemed little reason to ignore a mystery simply because it was small.
I placed the cleaned bowls into the crate we used for storage and rose to my feet.
The lute had occupied my thoughts all evening, it seemed only fair that I finally discover why.
And if the answer proved disappointing—well. There were certainly worse ways to spend what might potentially be one's final night as oneself.
I lowered myself onto a log someone had thoughtfully placed near the fire and began to tune.
The instrument was out of alignment, each string a little too sharp or too flat, as though it had been neglected for some time. I closed my eyes and leaned in, adjusting by feel more than thought. It came as naturally as breathing, familiar in a way I could not yet account for or even understand.
Around me, the camp remained still, no one spoke.
Only the fire did—its steady crackle, the occasional shift of embers—accompanied by the distant sounds of night settling into itself.
I heard movement at the edges of perception. Fabric brushing, careful footsteps, the soft clink of dishes being set aside with exaggerated caution. They were trying not to disturb me.
It was… unnecessary and oddly considerate.
When I was finally satisfied with the tuning, I rolled my shoulders back, stretching my neck until it gave a sharp, unceremonious crack. A few heads turned at the sound.
I did not care.
My fingers found the strings before any conscious thought could intervene and the first melody arrived without invitation. Not chosen or constructed, simply remembered, as though my hands had been waiting for permission my mind had not yet given.
The lute felt familiar beneath my fingers in a way that unsettled me. Not because I remembered it, but because I did not. Every movement came naturally, every adjustment of my hands instinctive, yet I could not recall learning any of it. There was no memory attached to the knowledge.
I plucked a few strings, listening to the notes ring through the evening air. A simple melody followed, my fingers finding it without instruction or conscious thought. The motions felt as natural as breathing.
And then did I open my mouth.
Singing, too, was not a decision.
It simply… happened.
I tested it cautiously at first.
I had not intended to. My mouth simply opened as the melody unfolded beneath my fingers, words rising unbidden from somewhere buried deeper than memory. A soft ballad emerged, gentle and melancholic, carrying the sort of longing that seemed older than I was. I could not recall where I had learned it. I could not remember hearing it before.
Yet I knew every word.
Every note.
Every pause.
The realization stole my breath for a heartbeat.
My voice carried effortlessly, rich and clear in a way that startled me. It was not merely pleasant. It possessed weight, presence. The sort of voice that naturally drew attention without ever demanding it, capable of filling a room not through volume but through simple certainty.
I felt it immediately. Not in my throat or my lungs, but in my soul.
The sensation struck with such force that my hands nearly faltered upon the strings.
I had done this before.
Not once or twice or even hundreds of times, but thousands. I knew it with the same certainty I knew how to walk or breathe. This was not something new. This was not a talent discovered by accident beside a cold stream on a night that might have been my last.
This was a piece of myself. A piece I had lost.
The realization settled over me slowly and all at once, the way certain truths do—arriving gradually until suddenly they are simply there, fully formed and undeniable.
For so the last days, I had stumbled through my own life surrounded by fragments; missing years, missing names, missing pieces of myself that existed just beyond reach, close enough to sense but never to hold. Every discovery had felt foreign, like uncovering evidence of another person's life and being told it belonged to me.
This felt different.
This did not feel like a stranger.
This felt like me.
Before I could stop myself, I smiled. A genuine smile. The sort that arrives before you realize it is there, before you have decided to allow it.
My fingers continued moving effortlessly across the strings. My breathing adjusted instinctively to support the song. My back straightened, my shoulders relaxed and every part of me settled into place with the ease of something returning to where it had always belonged.
For the first time since waking aboard the nautiloid, I was not discovering something I had lost.
I was remembering who I had been.
And for one brief, precious moment, I was not lost. Not a woman carrying a parasite behind her eye and a lifetime of missing memories behind her smile.
I was simply a musician.
And somehow, despite everything, that felt more like myself than anything else.
Storm dreams very Durge dreams nearly everynight, red, bloody, full of screams, fear and violence. However, there's still parts of him in those dreams. Namely, his tendency to wish for death is often very present, and that comes from him, not the Urge. There's also fear and guilt, and those emotions are entirely his, too.
I wrote one of those for my Conflicts of the Mind fic, where Natavriel shares his dream via tadpole, so I'll just paste that here
He climbed, the cloak on his shoulders heavy, blood soaking the fabric a little more with each step.
"Saabi, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. This is the only way, now."
He didn't look at those he had left behind. Fear and despair were the only things he would find there, and he did not need any more of that. It was their blood dragging him down, he knew. Their blood, begging him to kneel under the weight.
Still, he climbed.
"This is the only way."
He couldn't stop now. He couldn't. Not after everything.
The steps under his feet were already crimson, an endless upward path paved with corpses, their blood mingling with that of the ones he had left behind. More, and more, the weight on his shoulders grew.
Still, he climbed.
The knife, firmly gripped in his hand, was cold. Blood would see to better that once more, soon enough.
A young tiefling woman stood in his way. And in, went the knife. The tumbling fall of her body barely slowed him down. Blood spilled, warm on his hands, just as he had wished. The weight grew.
And still, he climbed.
"This is the only way," he said to himself.
Two men watched him come. One of them, the young one, had shaken his hand, once. Or so he thought. And he'd wanted to deliver the boy. In, went the knife, doing just that. Bodies fell. The weight grew.
And he climbed.
The dragonborn was next. In, went the knife. Blood spilled. The weight grew.
There would be others. No matter. In, would go the knife. And still, he would climb.
This was the only way. The only way.
The first ones to die had been the lucky ones. Anything was better than to live in a world where he continued to exist.
"I'm sorry," he kept whispering, the words like a prayer on his lips.
The end of the climb was near. And there stood people that he recognised. People that, foolishly, he had come to know by name.
Gale. In, went the knife.
Lae'zel. In, went the knife.
Wyll, Karlach, and Shadowheart. In, and in, and in, went the knife.
Astarion. In, went the—
No. No, he didn't want to. He didn't want to. But this was the only way. He couldn't stop now.
In, went the knife. Blood coated those silver curls that so often glowed in the sun when Astarion fell, the colour matching his now lifeless ruby eyes.
Tav stood there, too. The last one still standing on the steps in front of him. And behind them, an altar where his own body laid unmoving. Waiting. At peace. Finally. The only way, this was the only way.
In, needed to go the knife.
Something fought for control. Instinctively, he fought back.
"This is my body," said Tav calmly, standing before him. Their mouth stayed shut. But it was their voice, in his mind. Their strength of will, fighting his own with a fierce desire to help that he could feel buzzing in his own bones. "Let me in."
He was them. Or, rather, they were him, in this moment. His steps halted. At his command, or at Tav's, neither of them could have been sure.
Such was the weight on his shoulders, if he stood still, he trembled under it. When he stopped fighting, Tav's body moved, closing the space between them both. Their fingers brushed his wrist, his skin slick with the blood of those people he knew. And those he didn't. And those he had forgotten. Mostly, those he had forgotten.
"Let go, love," they whispered.
He did. The knife fell. And so did he, crumbling under the weight.
Tav occasionally gives him herbs to block dreams, but it's not super effective on him, so after the first few times he stops taking them.
He does start to dream dreams that are entirely his own, little by little. The first time was when he started pining after Astarion, and that was a big suprise to him, to learn that he had the capacity to dream about something other that violence.
Slowly trying to get used to blogging. Starting with sharing my beautiful artworks of Gale and Sumi (my monk Tav) by wonderful artists.
This one is by @vireja
I found the Act 2 part where you convince Gale not to sacrifice himself (at the end of the Illithid colony) to be underwhelming, so I re-imagined it with more drama. 😩
A discord discussion inspired me to also interpret this as Sumi embracing him right as he was blowing up. One desperate final act of love before they die together. And that is an even more tragically angsty interpretation which I absolutely adore.
Friday wasn't great, so I did the second Gale as a treat.
✨Astarion / Jaheira / Shadowheart / Wyll ✨
Yapping and progress under the cut.
Gale also got an immediate far-side-of-the-face job once I merged the layers down. Maybe one day I will catch the wonky perspective during drawing.
Gale's story is most important to me because to me it is mostly about the relationship of a man and his beloved craft. If you are passionate about something - no matter if it's painting, music, learning a language and being able to express yourself in it - and you get better at it, it can be bliss and become mentor, muse and friend to you, and quite easily your whole world. You might even feel beloved and blessed by your craft herself. Otoh a phase of stagnation might feel like your craft is a cold, unkind mistress, dangling the secrets you desperately need just out of reach - and you have to do everything in your power to climb to those heights because otherwise, you are nothing but the sum of your failures.
I feel the internet does not make it easier because while it offers inspiration and community, it also forces constant comparisons with all the masters of the past and present on to you - there might even be a handy metric to put numbers to your self esteem. So you can easily feel like you have to proof something. Especially if you pursue your thing with professional ardour, this can send you down a very negative feedback loop and make you hunt down those "three little tricks" instead of just enjoying your slow but frustrating growth.
I guess, what I am trying to say is, that it makes me so happy to have Gale patch up his relationship with magic. So he can enjoy it again in a healthier way in which it doesn't consume his whole being, in which he can share his passion with his students and inspire them to greatness while also encouraging them to enjoy the journey, or in which he does not have to limit his interests but can follow his curiosity to another adventure.
Thanks for the tags @optimisticgrey and @gortashsrighthand
What passes for self indulgence with me…is making the magic make sense. My sense of Gale’s whole story arc is that the Act 2 “celestial canvas” scene is the most important scene in his character arc. It’s everyone’s favorite and the devs say it’s the best work they’ve ever done.
I, being me…count the spell slots and the amount of concentration spells and am..annoyed. Nonetheless, DnD 5.5 circle casting to the rescue ! One mage can hold the concentration for another, so I give you…the horniest…filthiest thing in wizardom…the intimacy of casting together.
From Marginalia at the Edge of the Divine
~ Intermezzo
I reached for a familiar volume from the side table. “This one here is called The Art of the Night. It details the first thousand nights of a newlywed king and queen.”
Lily laughed. “You’re going to read me dirty stories from Amn?”
“They turned everything they did into an art. The art of conversation. The art of taste. Time-honored and newly acquired. What say we take a page from their book?”
I opened the volume between us and laid my hand upon the page.
“Let me show you.”
She placed her fingers beside mine.
The Weave answered us at once.
It rose through the spell in luminous strands, first along the lines I had prepared, then beyond them. Light ran through the terrace stones and climbed the balustrade in branching filaments. The music from the piano softened, each note acquiring colour and shape until the air itself seemed strung with harmony.
My magic had always possessed architecture. Even in passion, I sought pattern, correspondence, the hidden geometry by which one impossible thing might be joined to another. I opened that design to her carefully, revealing each working as I might reveal the pages of an arcanabula no hand but mine had ever touched.
Lily entered without hesitation.
I had expected to guide her.
Instead, she answered.
Magic lived in her according to another law. It did not gather itself into ordered formulae before obeying. It moved with the instinctive precision of Corellon’s ancient art, with thought and body joined so completely that distinction between them became meaningless. Where I had built structure, she found music. Where I had drawn boundaries, she moved through them and made them part of the dance.
The spell changed around us.
Not weakened. Not broken.
Completed.
The walls of the tower opened into immensity. Waterdeep fell away beneath us, its lights becoming stars, its streets the shining lines of some vast celestial sigil. The terrace remained beneath our feet, and yet we stood also beyond it, suspended where distance and flesh had surrendered their ordinary authority.
I felt her presence within the spell, unmistakable and undiminished.
That astonished me more than anything.
The Weave is capable of swallowing the unprepared. It overwhelms the senses, strips thought of its mortal proportions, and makes even accomplished practitioners seem small before the immensity they seek to command. Lily did not vanish within it. She shone more clearly.
I had brought her into my magic.
She found me there.
Her hand rose to my chest.
The orb stirred beneath her palm, a dark hunger awakening within the radiance. Karsite power tore a wound through the harmony, its appetite reaching instinctively for everything I had conjured.
Lily did not recoil.
Her fingers spread over the mark. Her magic answered mine, holding neither the orb nor the Weave in submission, but holding fast to me between them.
For the first time since that ruinous fragment entered my body, I did not experience it as a secret carried alone.
I drew her closer.
The distance between us vanished in every form at once. Her body met mine upon the terrace; her spirit moved beside mine through the spell. A hundred luminous reflections unfolded around us, possibilities given shape, each touch echoed through another configuration of light and longing.
I told her everything in words, in touch, and most of all in magic, the language we had shared before either of us dared trust words or touch.
She answered without fear or pretense.
I released one careful measure of control, enough that the spell might have faltered.
She caught it.
The Weave gathered around her hands and passed back into mine transformed, silvered by her presence, carrying the bright, fierce cadence of her soul. Magic moved between us as breath did, given and returned, until I could no longer say with certainty which of us sustained the working. My casting entered her spell without diminishing it, giving weight to grace, structure to song. I felt, absurdly, exposed. Not because she had taken anything from me, but because the spell had received me so naturally, as though some part of her magic had made room before either of us admitted what we were becoming.
I’m freaking reblogging this just because the “mature” tag irritates the crap out of me. There is literally nothing mature about this….I’ve posted much more salacious shots before that didn’t get tagged.
An unyielding resolve, an indomitable positivity, and a determination that knew no surrender. Together, they became the light of a lighthouse. That light shone even into the dark sea consumed by suffering; it was nothing short of a miracle.
Thanks for the tags @optimisticgrey and @gortashsrighthand
What passes for self indulgence with me…is making the magic make sense. My sense of Gale’s whole story arc is that the Act 2 “celestial canvas” scene is the most important scene in his character arc. It’s everyone’s favorite and the devs say it’s the best work they’ve ever done.
I, being me…count the spell slots and the amount of concentration spells and am..annoyed. Nonetheless, DnD 5.5 circle casting to the rescue ! One mage can hold the concentration for another, so I give you…the horniest…filthiest thing in wizardom…the intimacy of casting together.
From Marginalia at the Edge of the Divine
~ Intermezzo
I reached for a familiar volume from the side table. “This one here is called The Art of the Night. It details the first thousand nights of a newlywed king and queen.”
Lily laughed. “You’re going to read me dirty stories from Amn?”
“They turned everything they did into an art. The art of conversation. The art of taste. Time-honored and newly acquired. What say we take a page from their book?”
I opened the volume between us and laid my hand upon the page.
“Let me show you.”
She placed her fingers beside mine.
The Weave answered us at once.
It rose through the spell in luminous strands, first along the lines I had prepared, then beyond them. Light ran through the terrace stones and climbed the balustrade in branching filaments. The music from the piano softened, each note acquiring colour and shape until the air itself seemed strung with harmony.
My magic had always possessed architecture. Even in passion, I sought pattern, correspondence, the hidden geometry by which one impossible thing might be joined to another. I opened that design to her carefully, revealing each working as I might reveal the pages of an arcanabula no hand but mine had ever touched.
Lily entered without hesitation.
I had expected to guide her.
Instead, she answered.
Magic lived in her according to another law. It did not gather itself into ordered formulae before obeying. It moved with the instinctive precision of Corellon’s ancient art, with thought and body joined so completely that distinction between them became meaningless. Where I had built structure, she found music. Where I had drawn boundaries, she moved through them and made them part of the dance.
The spell changed around us.
Not weakened. Not broken.
Completed.
The walls of the tower opened into immensity. Waterdeep fell away beneath us, its lights becoming stars, its streets the shining lines of some vast celestial sigil. The terrace remained beneath our feet, and yet we stood also beyond it, suspended where distance and flesh had surrendered their ordinary authority.
I felt her presence within the spell, unmistakable and undiminished.
That astonished me more than anything.
The Weave is capable of swallowing the unprepared. It overwhelms the senses, strips thought of its mortal proportions, and makes even accomplished practitioners seem small before the immensity they seek to command. Lily did not vanish within it. She shone more clearly.
I had brought her into my magic.
She found me there.
Her hand rose to my chest.
The orb stirred beneath her palm, a dark hunger awakening within the radiance. Karsite power tore a wound through the harmony, its appetite reaching instinctively for everything I had conjured.
Lily did not recoil.
Her fingers spread over the mark. Her magic answered mine, holding neither the orb nor the Weave in submission, but holding fast to me between them.
For the first time since that ruinous fragment entered my body, I did not experience it as a secret carried alone.
I drew her closer.
The distance between us vanished in every form at once. Her body met mine upon the terrace; her spirit moved beside mine through the spell. A hundred luminous reflections unfolded around us, possibilities given shape, each touch echoed through another configuration of light and longing.
I told her everything in words, in touch, and most of all in magic, the language we had shared before either of us dared trust words or touch.
She answered without fear or pretense.
I released one careful measure of control, enough that the spell might have faltered.
She caught it.
The Weave gathered around her hands and passed back into mine transformed, silvered by her presence, carrying the bright, fierce cadence of her soul. Magic moved between us as breath did, given and returned, until I could no longer say with certainty which of us sustained the working. My casting entered her spell without diminishing it, giving weight to grace, structure to song. I felt, absurdly, exposed. Not because she had taken anything from me, but because the spell had received me so naturally, as though some part of her magic had made room before either of us admitted what we were becoming.
What’s a small BG3 detail that you always notice and love?
That I am still discovering new things about it after multiple play throughs and over a year in fandom. The lore drops in books I find in new places each time I play. The buried lines of dialogue if you click the right buttons. The different possible endings, most of which I still haven’t seen or discovered. Every time I think there cannot be more, there IS. It feels like my choices matter every single time.
What’s one piece of reference material you’re currently obsessed with?
Aurora's album The Gods We Can Touch. It's a combination of the lyrics screaming Gale/Mystra, Gale/Phina and the fact that I listened to it for the first time a lot during my early BG3 obsession, so it always has a link for me to the game, but honestly if that music comes on and I'm out on a walk, my head is fully transported into my silly little story.
Share a snippet or visual from your current project that you’re quietly proud of.
My favourite part of chapter 1 of my fanfic:
In his former years - the ones tied to accolades of his magical prowess, scored by the praise and commendations of his mentors and rewarded in the embrace of his goddess - he’d have scoffed to think he’d ever end up in a situation like this.
For the great Gale of Waterdeep to have been kidnapped by mindflayers at all would have been unlikely, for a start. With silver fire at his fingertips, he could’ve taken down the Nautiloid the instant it burst through the skies of Yartar, giving the thing scarcely a moment to wield its fleshy tentacles and snatch him up.
But even if he had been caught - body held fast by the Nautiloid pod, unable to do anything but watch as a tadpole writhed its way sickeningly behind his eye socket - at the very least he would’ve landed on solid ground with more dignity and grace than this.
What’s something you’re looking forward to creating or finishing soon?
I have a really beautiful, sensual 3D render idea in mind that I want to bring to life very soon. I got as far as the pose so far!
What’s a fun or silly tradition you have with your OCs/Tavs?
I don’t know if it’s a ‘tradition’, but I do actually chat to her while interacting with her in the game.
“I know, darling, it’s very scary but you got this!”
“I promise he’s flirting when he says he says you smell, you get married eventually, it’s gonna work out.”
“Oh dear, yes, summoning a cambion by mistake probably wasn’t very helpful during the already intense Ketheric fight, but it’s okay hon, you’re doing good!”
“Please can I put you in this new dress mod, it’s so cute— oh you still don’t like having too much leg showing? sigh 🙄 Alright, alright, I get it.”
“Sorry I made you into a vampire. You look hot though, okay? It’s fine. Just an AU. Back to regularly scheduled demure Phina tomorrow I promise.”
What’s a BG3 NPC you’d love to see in a completely different outfit or setting?
Okay, it probably comes as no surprise that I am obsessed with regency AU Gale. Give the man a cravat and a top hat. Please. I’m begging you.
What is a BG3 collab project that you would want to do?
Honestly, I’d be down to collab on anything that lets me be creative and has me chatting to a fandom friend about the beautiful intricacies of this game… especially if it has anything to do with Gale 😜
What’s a tiny headcanon or detail you’ve added to your Tav/OC that brings you joy?
She LOVES how all the festivals and holidays are celebrated in Waterdeep. First of all, it is Gale taking her to all of them during their first year in Waterdeep together - and he has fun rediscovering the city of splendours for himself. But then every year after that Phina’s like “Gale put down the research, we’re going out!”
There’s a holiday basically every other day in Waterdeep, so that poor man’s getting no rest 😅
What is something you want your followers to know about you?
I really, really mean it when I say, please don’t be shy to chat to me. I have self esteem issues that hold me back from reaching out to people first, so I love it when someone else reaches out to me instead. I'm trying to get better but my default is to assume I am annoying, so I talk myself out of it a lot.
I also LOVE to help people, so if you have a question about something I did, I am so down to chat and help ❤️
I was tagged by @deianestormborn , @litsenn, @perpetualmaladaptivedaydream , @lucretiouswept and @bladesingerlily for a lil WIP <3
Having a bit of a more social heavy weekend (who am I? I am drained) so I didn't write that much but I did start on chapter 2 of Papillon. (And restarted again because Aradin was getting too poetic, man isn't going to poetically ponder something, what was I thinking?)
The agony of Wyll as he had been plunged through the Nine Hells, the desperation of Karlach in the Blood War, the empty past of Shadowheart, the lingering darkness of Astarion, the devouring orb of Gale and Lae'zels bloodsoaked memories. Every memory or emotion felt like they were her own, like her own fear that they had felt when they had seen Raphael. Nothing would be able to take that away.
If she was smarter, she wouldn't have stepped a foot out of the camp. The bulette was still out there, awaiting another time to pounce yet she felt pulled to walk further. The darkness here felt different, felt more at ease here like an old friend that had made its home here a long time ago. She also realized that it didn't mean that she should feel at ease, there were many things that were hiding inside of it. The Underdark was a harsh place and it had shown its real face the moment that they had stepped inside of it.
The scattered bones of the Selunites that had died defending this place from something, still laid down. Far away from the eye of the moon and their goddess, she wondered if they had felt forsaken when they drew their last breath. She wondered if something they had felt at peace with their death, if there was a difference if you died in service of something.
"Ya got a death wish?"
Gently tagging @carnivaley , @dynamicducks , @cinder-rellish181 , @saylofwaterdeep , @fireflyeyes , @toomanyfamiliars , @theendofanerror , @asorceresswrites , @unovafarm , @dapperpossum , @elinorbard , @ele-millennial-weirdo and lil flip it and reverse it to the lovely people who tagged me. <3
