(/◕ヮ◕)/ ✧・ﾟ: *✧・ﾟ:*

Icon by Palepinkycat | Personal blog; Baldurs Gate 3, DND, Star Wars/SWTOR, Stardew Valley, Sims | She/They | 21+ | ART BLOG: kitblueburdart

[blueburds-but-swtor]

Lord Altrethir Valran

by @palepinkycat

guys i am OBSESSED with this piece!! Pinky did such a stunning job (as always <3) and i'm so happy she agreed to take this comm. i had imagined this piece being something Alt would have requested himself and hung somewhere in his fortress. suffice to say, he would absolutely have this somewhere that all his guests can see immediately.

thank you again Pinky!!!

[alucardcore]

I hope I'm not too late | Castlevania: Nocturne season 1, episode 8, "Devourer of Light"

[ilycard]

<— guy who never remembers to crosspost

my syphacard agenda

[mekhartist]

A VERY LATE PERMAY PIECE MIGHT AS WELL BE A PRIDE PIECE

close ups

[mysteryanimator]

😛😛😛

[cookbookbutch]

World's biggest shoutout to the character model specifically devoted to Olrox when he's half-undressed btw

[mysteryanimator]

man i miss them

[kitblueburdart]

Zenith my belov...

have a Balmorran Resistance propaganda piece <3

[blueburds]

me when i'm the Canine of Ragebaiting

[starlightweave]

@coolseabird delivering this most important message to u with all the urgency of lighting the beacons of Gondor 😈

[mysteryanimator]

Ayami Kojimaifying Olrox

[blueburds]

i'm so behind on whumps

i've hit a block due to lack of inspiration, feeling of repetition, and a bit of discouragement too. telling myself that it's okay if everything's just a rough draft & that i should focus just on getting something posted has sorta helped. it's carried me through most of the prompts. but i dunno.

i'd like to complete the challenge, i just dont think i'll get it done before the end of the month

[blueburds]

i thought i had written something for yesterday's whump. and i did! i started it in a doc.

ah..

[blueburds]

Whumptober 2025; Prompt no.11

Prompts used: Hidden Injury; Forced Reveal Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Word count: 690 CW: Blood

The clatter of sword-on-sword rang out alongside the nocturnal creatures’ songs. Calculated footsteps fell upon grass and dirt with thumps ranging in volume and intensity. The pair of horned warriors were locked in a dance: One of precision, strength, and mettle. 

The younger of the tieflings, Reverence, observed his opponent with narrowed eyes. The suggestion of this spar was to determine where Zevlor was at, both mentally and physically. While the older tiefling had displayed a great show of might back within the Mindflayer colony, his display could have very well been caused by a mere rush of adrenaline. Zevlor was still visibly discouraged by all the events within the shadow-cursed lands. 

Taking the broken paladin within their ranks seemed only the right move. 

Was Reverence’s invitation brought on by some sort of projection? Guilt? He was uncertain—though he knew he saw aspects of himself within the other man. 

Reverence was pivoting then to narrowly avoid a swing. Zevlor fought still with a fire, not unlike that which Reverence observed in the colony. In truth, Reverence allowed him to push, to unleash any pent-up frustration. In the back of his mind lingered a fear of that horrid urge for bloodshed. Should he give genuine pushback, he risked seriously injuring Zevlor. Or worse. 

The scarlet tail trailed around Zevlor’s frame as he struck another blow. Reverence blocked it quickly, having to bring his free hand to the dulled side of his blade. But upon the other’s withdrawl, Reverence noticed it: A wince. It was so swift that he thought perhaps it was a trick of the shadows. 

But no; he’d seen the brief flash of Zevlor’s fangs, the scrunch of his nose and brows. The reflexive jerk of his arm toward his gut. 

Immediately Reverence lowered his blade. “What is it?” He asked lowly, words laced thick with his accent. 

For a moment, Zevlor looked as though he was about to brush off the concern, to say that he was fine and that they could continue. But through his labored panting came a sigh of defeat. His head hung lower, shoulders fell, and his tail lost its perk. “Muscle cramp. I think.” 

Reverence sheathed his sword then. He wasn’t certain he believed that, but Zevlor was in pain either way. He guided them both to a fallen log near the riverbank and gestured for him to sit. As he did, a pained grunt forced its way from Zevlor’s throat. 

Reverence’s attention fell to where Zevlor rested his hand. It clutched at the right side of his torso, fabric crinkling beneath his claws. Then finally Reverence saw it: Dark, wet crimson seeping through the linen of Zevlor’s shirt. 

“Cramps are not known to bleed,” remarked the younger tiefling evenly. “Was it your intention to conceal this wound? For how long? When did this happen?” 

Under Reverence’s interrogation, Zevlor almost shrank in on himself. “I—you have given me much of your supplies already. Truly, I thought this would take care of itself.” 

Reverence was reaching beneath the neck his own shirt. “We are both men made on fields of battle and blood. You know as well as I that something such as this,” he gestured to Zevlor’s torso, “requires time and rest, or magic, to heal.” He tugged at the gilded chain around his neck, revealing the circular pendant engraved with a faded depiction of a rising sun. He looked to Zevlor expectantly. 

The older man relented. The laces at his neckline became undone, and Reverence aided him in ridding the shirt. And certain enough, around Zevlor’s ribcage were bandages that had definitely not been changed in some time. 

The obvious question lied in wait upon Reverence’s forked tongue: Was this some sort of self-inflicted punishment? Neglected because Zevlor thought he deserved it? 

He did not ask this. Instead, Reverence deftly unwrapped the gauze and discarded it. His thumb idly swiped the metal of his pendant; and with a prayer to the Morning Lord, he pressed a palm upon Zevlor’s wound, and slowly the flesh knit back together with a rosy-golden glow. 

The light left no reflection within Zevlor’s exhausted eyes. 

[blueburds]

Whumptober 2025; Prompt no.10

Prompts used: Secrets Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Word count: 254 CW: NA

[art credit]

His name upon familiar lips carried across the expanse of the inevitable battlefield. It stopped Theron completely in his tracks. Then finally, after weeks—months—without seeing the Alliance Commander, his tired eyes became alive again as they fell upon his partner. Beyond the breeze of snow, dashing now through an arch of ruined stone, raced his lover. 

Lover. 

Could they still be considered such? He had shattered Altrethir’s trust and abandoned him. No, worse still: Theron had set him up to die. All for the cause. All part of the long-term plan to stop just another madman from getting his hands on just another world-ending weapon. Nearly every waking hour, Theron would try to defend his actions, try to convince himself that the ends would justify the means. But heartbreak, shame and guilt haunted him all the same. 

There was a strong desire to throw everything away, to meet the Twi’lek halfway and hope he would forgive him. But that wasn’t reality. 

Instead, he stared, mouth opened slightly and wide-eyed. The others in the shuttle were reaching for their weapons but Theron’s hands remained at his sides. The Chiss—Valss—moved past him in such a swift blur that Theron had little time to process what’d happened. He was calling after Valss then. Not in concern, but in warning: He would not survive a battle against the Commander. 

The shuttle doors were closing. Theron watched the sharp streak of scarlet materialize from Altrethir’s hand before hearing the mechanical thud of the metal doors. 

[blueburds]

Whumptober 2025; Prompt no.6

Prompts used: Caught in a Net Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Word count: 375 CW: Sleep paralysis

The Barsen’thor sucked in a sharp gasp of air. Pressure pushed upon his skull, around his eyes, as his chest expanded quickly with each shallow breath he could manage. Fingers clutched taught at the fabric of his pillow. A bead of sweat rolled down his brow and he blinked to protect his eye. 

Fen could not move. Could hardly breathe. 

From the shadows swayed dark, smokey tendrils. They made no immediate movement; only shifted, as though they were long leafy plants along the seabed, moving gracefully with the tide. But they loomed ominously. He felt dread, a cold and empty feeling settling in his stomach, a taste of nothing yet everything upon his tongue. He could not feel his hands, his feet. His body felt both hot and cold at once. 

Try as he might to call for his partner, his voice would not project.  

Was Zenith still with him? The Jedi’s thoughts were too erratic, too clouded by the overwhelming sensation of panic, that he could not detect the other’s presence, nor could he feel the weight of his body pressed into the mattress behind him. 

The thing that lurked before him had him ensnared. Trapped in its clutches, whether this all be in his head or physically present, it had wrapped around him a net of agony and despair. 

As though a breeze had passed through, the smoke began to dissipate—until reforming itself closer to the Jedi. Reaching for him. He swore he heard another’s breath, whispering within his head. 

And he saw a familiar crown of horns begin to materialize from the shadows. 

Behind it, a pair of scarlet eyes. . . 

Then there was light. Warm, like a campfire, and comforting. 

Fen found himself rolling onto his back and met with the face of his lover. 

Zenith appeared alert as he searched Fen’s expression, brows drawn together in focus and concern. His lekku slid and fell before his shoulders, across his chest, as he brought a hand to Fen’s forehead to check his temperature. The Jedi could barely feel his limbs still. He tried, and managed, to finally break the paralysis and weakly brought a trembling hand to rest upon Zenith’s forearm. 

“There you are,” Zenith remarked evenly. “Welcome back.” 

[blueburds]

Whumptober 2025; Prompt no.05

Prompts used: Quivering; Phobia Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Word count: 551 CW: Arachnophobia

Suddenly Fen was yanking his arm back and out of the crevice with a startled cry, accompanied by the clattering of his staff upon the rocky ground. The tiny arachnid was cast off to the side as he flung his hand, grasping at the wrist with his other, and staring wide-eyed to the eight-legged horror. He could still feel phantom appendages skittering and crawling across his exposed flesh, his knuckles, between his fingers. But the initial startle wasn’t what spooked him the most: It was the implication of who could be watching. 

A voice gentle and calming came from behind then. “Are you hurt?” asked Wyll. 

Fen wasn’t too quick to answer. “No. Perhaps my pride, more than anything else.” 

The drow warily eyed that spider. Why hadn’t it scuttled away yet, gone back into the cracks of the basement walls? The longer it lingered, the more uneased he felt. Yet he could not bring himself to stomp its life out. 

Would it make a difference? To Lolth, he was nothing: A deserter of his House that he wasn’t even certain still stood. To Lolth, he was nothing—but to his enemies, he was a remnant of his House—and Lolth favored those who finished what they started. This was her law over the drow of Menzoberranzan. 

A warm hand was closing around his, and Fen’s attention was redirected to Wyll again. The gesture grounded him, and Fen realized his hands had been shaking. Shit. 

“It’s all right,” Wyll eased quietly. “We all have our demons. And we don’t need to linger here; we can catch up to the others.” 

Cool air swept across Fen’s hands again as Wyll moved to collect the wizard’s staff. “I could have—” 

“You could have.” Wyll cut him off with a faint smile. “But it’s also all right to accept help, and a poor teammate I’d be if I did not offer any.” The man gave a small jerk of his head in gesture toward the rest of their party. “Shall we?” 

Still Fen’s gaze held that of the spider’s. His lips pressed firm, jaw set tight, as he felt a chill run down his back. “Kill it,” he said, nearly a whisper. “I cannot bring myself to do it.” 

Hesitantly, Wyll left his companion’s side to approach the doomed creature. He aligned his rapier to the fist-sized spider—and then the thing took off, into the cracks of the wall. “Ah, damn. I’m sorry,” Wyll said sheepishly. “I’ll take care of any more that pop up, though. Not to worry.” 

Fen tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut. Truly, what were the odds this thing had been used to spy on him? Uncertain; for he was raised to anticipate foes lurking anywhere and everywhere. And seeing other drow—corpses they might have been—in the area increased his paranoia tenfold. 

“Let’s go,” Fen said, defeated.  

The drow made use of his staff akin to a walking stick until finally the two were reunited with the other half of their team. They continued through the alchemist’s basement, and though the potions, ingredients and notes were all of interest to Fen, he couldn’t shake that feeling of being watched. He had a suspicion that he’d continue to feel those eyes for many, many days.