My name is Ulvira. I hail from the Underdark, but Baldur’s Gate has been my home since I was a boy. I am a worshipper of the Dark Dancer, Lady Eilistraee; in Her name, I swore an Oath of Vengeance, to slay the followers of Lolth and any evil that would threaten the lives of those of Faerûn.
…but aside from that, I’m rather fond of playing the lute and reading. Perhaps I’ll share some of my own work on here. I’m partial to writing poetry, you see.
I’ll admit I’m not sure what else to add—I’m far from the most interesting elf on the surface. I suppose I’ll post more later, if I get the time. Make yourselves at home.
two paladins sharing a moment of comfort in their tent before continuing on the treacherous journey to baldur’s gate. (ulvira belongs to me; frostbane belongs to @chaoticsnape )
There are very few moments in which a paladin is granted peace.
When one swears an oath, they do so with an understanding that this is their new purpose. A paladin swears to spend their life fighting for the sake of their ideals, even if it means losing themselves in the process. Paladins of vengeance, like Frostbane and Ulvira, set out to right the wrongs in the world, no matter what happens to themselves to achieve this. It is a heavy burden. One that the two of them had trained for years to bear.
In the dim light of Frostbane’s tent, however, that burden almost feels nonexistent. Ulvira’s light cantrip illuminates the tent, casting a soft, blue light across the two of them. For just a little while, the two paladins may experience a peace that they have earned.
“Does it hurt?” Frostbane asks, his voice hushed in the quiet air. His claws rake through Ulvira’s dark blue locks, silken in his grasp–he’d learned, by then, how to be careful with his more fragile friend. He never stopped worrying anyway. “Am I being too rough?’”
“Not at all, mirshann,” Ulvira answers, his voice lilted with relaxation. “It feels… wonderful. You always do.”
Frostbane smiles to himself. Ulvira was seated comfortably on his knees in front of the dragonborn, his head bowed and his back turned; part of Frostbane acknowledges how vulnerable of a position this is, but Ulvira doesn’t seem as tense as he so often is. He never was, when it was just the two of them together. There is an unspoken agreement between them. You are safe with me.
Ulvira lets out a low hum as Frostbane’s tail wraps around his waist. His hands come up to rest across it, idly tracing the pattern of the scales with his fingertips. He takes the hint and moves himself back, closing some of the distance between them, sharing his warmth with his closest friend.
“Is this better?” the Drow asks. Frostbane responds with a grumble of approval, resuming the careful braiding of Ulvira’s hair once he’s situated.
For a long while, the two of them sit in a comfortable, familiar silence. Ulvira liked to hum to fill the quiet, usually, but tonight, he finds himself too worn–or too comfortable–to try. His eyes flutter closed as the dragonborn works the tresses.
Frostbane marvels in that silence, though he would never voice it. Ulvira was more fragile than he would care to admit, and Frostbane had learned that the hard way, more than once. The thought that he would still submit himself to the same claws that created many of the little scars strewn across his skin never quite settled in the dragon’s mind, but who is he to complain? Ulvira’s trust is a gift, and Frostbane cherished every gift Ulvira gave him.
So Frostbane takes the task of filling that quiet for them, instead, giving Ulvira an unspoken gift of his own. It starts as a low rumble in his chest, and Ulvira’s eyes open at the sound, mildly startled–he almost turns back to ask if he’s alright, but before he gets the chance, the rumbles begin to form a deep melody.
Frostbane recalls the days when this melody would ring through the mountains, throughout the clan of dragons that occupied the peaks. Shimmering scales, war paint, eyes glimmering with the spirit of battle–this, they knew, was what they had been hatched for. Every day and night of training all lead up to the same fate of seeing victory over their enemies, or dying in the glorious pursuit. A warrior ought to face death with his weapon in hand.
Ulvira listens, his fingers stilling in their trail across the spines of Frostbane’s tail. There is power in the notes that trill from the dragon’s throat, and yet, an underlying sense of resignation. An acceptance of the fate that the clan had bound themselves to, in the pursuit of honor. He doesn’t realize the song has ended until Frostbane speaks, as quietly as he had hummed the melody.
“This is what they used to sing when they shined their scales before battle,” he murmurs. “Or so my father said.”
Ulvira lets his head fall back against Frostbane’s chest, peering up at his friend with a look of understanding. He felt the intention behind the notes, even if he couldn’t place it himself.
“It’s a strange song to sing before battle,” Ulvira responds, his voice just as soft. “Your voice makes it sound like a lullaby.” He knows he’s biased; where others heard a gruff, growling voice laced with sarcasm, Ulvira was granted the pleasure of seeing a softer side of the dragonborn.
“It’s made to comfort the young so they don’t panic. The older ones know what’s coming, though.”
Just like that, Ulvira is reminded of the suffocating burden that Frostbane has been under for the whole of his life. He doesn’t notice the way he tenses in Frostbane’s hold, the way his hands grip gently onto the dragon’s tail, as if he hoped that small grasp would protect him from the battle he is always so prepared to throw himself into, He doesn’t notice, but Frostbane does. His tail curls around Ulvira a little tighter in response.
“What’s wrong?”
“Stop for a minute.”
Ulvira blurts out his reply, and Frostbane can’t help but oblige. He releases the Drow’s hair, and Ulvira reaches back to grasp his hand before he pulls away, guiding it in front of him.
Before Frostbane can question him, Ulvira guides his scaled hand to his chest, letting it sprawl across his heart. He settles himself back against the dragon completely, holding Frostbane’s hand to his heartbeat with the silent hope that it might solidify what he says next.
“...you’re safe with me, right now,” the Drow tells him in a hush. “There are no more battles for you to fight. Not right now. It’s only us.”
When it finally clicks into place in Frostbane’s mind, he realizes all too late how affected Ulvira was by the customs of his clan. To him, it had the same weight as Ulvira telling him about him and his sister roughhousing, or his mother teaching him healing spells. Was Frostbane’s family so shocking in turn? Ulvira may not have been born for the sole purpose of battle, but Frostbane knew he himself was. Naturally, their lives would differ, wouldn’t they?
Yet, to Ulvira, Frostbane’s nonchalance when it comes to death is terrifying. One day, he fears, he will watch Frostbane leave for battle, and feel a sudden, agonizing severance when he is gone. Onc day, he will find a gaping hole in his heart where Frostbane was meant to live forever. And if Frostbane didn’t see how wrong his clan had been to deprive him of a life outside of his oath, Ulvira would be forced to face that terrifying reality much sooner than he thinks he’s ready for. He holds onto the dragonborn’s arm a little tighter.
“Forgive me,” he mutters, his voice thick with emotion. He silently curses himself before continuing. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just… wanted you to know. I wouldn’t let anything get to you, maelthra. I’ve got you. You know that?”
Frostbane feels Ulvira’s heart thrumming under his palm. Sometimes it felt like a bird trying to escape its cage, trying to leap right into Frostbane’s claws–though Frostbane was shadowed by the worry that he’d be too rough with something so delicate. Ulvira was so breakable, but so safe in Frostbane’s arms; and here he was, offering the same safety in return. “I know,” he murmurs in reply. “I know.”
Frostbane lowers his head to rest on top of Ulvira’s. The Drow leans up into the contact with a sound that’s a mix between a sigh and a whimper, his free hand rising to rest against the dragon’s snout. His fingertips always felt so warm against Frostbane’s scales.
“You have such a beautiful voice,” Ulvira says, a weak attempt at drawing the topic back to something lighter. He feels Frostbane let out a soft huff of a chuckle, and he lets himself smile again, comforted by the sound. “You do. Don’t be bashful about it.”
“Shut up,” mumbles Frostbane, moving his head to nuzzle into Ulvira’s neck. He uses his snout to lightly push the Drow’s head forward so he can continue braiding his hair, but not before giving him a squeeze with his tail to affirm the grip. “Let me work.”
And Ulvira does. He goes quiet, leaning forward to let Frostbane complete the braid, but there’s a difference in the way the dragon works. He can sense the added care, the consciousness of Frostbane’s tail’s grip around his waist, the gentle way he pulls a tuft of hair behind Ulvira’s ear as it flutters against his touch. Frostbane treats him like something precious, and when he looks in the small mirror in the corner of the tent, Ulvira’s eyes are more focused on the man behind him than himself.
“Beautiful,” Ulvira whispers, smiling at their reflection as he lays back. Frostbane’s arms surround him, just as they always do, and the Drow fits against his beloved abbil with the ease of a sword and its sheath.
There were no battles awaiting them that night. And for that night alone, Frostbane and Ulvira could allow themselves a moment of peace.
Sometimes I feel as though I’m a monster that tore its way out of the earth to be on the surface. A creature that should have fizzled out in the sunlight, but survived, in all its grotesque, abominable glory. I am no monster—Lady knows I have done my best to do good—but I cannot ignore the way they look at me. I see every glare, hear every whisper, and I know that the blood spilled by Lolth’s children stains me. I will always be a dark elf before I am a person.
I am not brave enough to face it.
It matters little what I do in the name of the heavens; in the name of vengeance, justice. The blood on my blade looks just like the blood on that of the Lolth-sworn. I may hide my face, my heritage, my very being, but I can never hide from the way Baldur’s Gate looks at me.
This, too, holds little value. Their opinions of me do not sway their worthiness of being saved, should the need arise. In Eilistraee’s name, I spread love and kindness—why, then, does the burning in my heart not fade? Why, then, do I only feel angry, and not satisfied?
I am departing for Waterdeep soon. There, I hope to follow a lead on restock on supplies before the next outing. I breathe a little easier when I’m out of the city.
I wanted to animate a little, and try some parallax using After Effects to enhance this drawing. It is of a forgotten sanctuary of Eilistraee hidden deep in the underdark that my players stumbled upon.
Frostbane here. My friend Ulvira is teaching me how to use text to speech as I am not that good at writing or typing.
I have travelled a long way from snowy mountains with my clan to live in Baldurs Gate. Me and my clan worship Hoar, the God of retribution, revenge, and poetic justice. Much like the rest of my family I am a PALADIN OF VENGEANCE. This is my purpose. The unworthy will die by my sword.
I was just told that was a little intense but nonetheless, my point still stands.
I like Frostkiss Ale, cold soup and spending time with my daughter, Soraya. A dragonborn like myself is very prideful of his family and honour.
I’ll post eventually with more “content” as I’ve been told it is. Spend your time here if you wish, but never let your guard down.
