𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘀.

—ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴍʙʀᴀᴄᴇ ᴘᴀɪɴ.

[grief-worn]

#𝖌𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖋-𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖓 an independent, semi-selective blog for ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡʜᴇᴀʀᴛ of 𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐝𝐮𝐫'𝐬 𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝟑. 𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐨; 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐲, 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡.

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RULES. ABOUT. PLAYLIST.

traversing alongside: @rubistella, @bloodtwin

this blog will contain 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 and 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐫𝐬 for bg3. big content warning for themes of 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐮𝐦𝐚/𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭/𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

coveted by addi. (they/them, 25+) 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩.

[grief-worn]

i have been whisked away out of town to visit in-laws ... happy holidays everyone! stay safe 🙏🙏🙏🙏 see you next week!

[grief-worn]

💔

Peace and quiet. It's all she's ever turned to in times of trouble. Mother Superior hailed miserable patience above all else. Trained her to wallow in deep meditation, to dance with demons in the darkest recesses of her own psyche. It's the only process that ever truly mattered, to Shadowheart.

Things were different now. Everything was different. Where there was once silent grief, now sat a ravaging hunger for retribution. A violent chasm that demanded answers for all she's been made to withstand.

Without meditation, she's forced to adopt a new coping strategy. Steel gauntlets pummeling against cobblestone, chips of granite pebbling at her feet.

Shadowheart held great capacity for stress, even in the worst of times. But now she felt brittle. Ready to snap.

Punch after punch, she drilled with all her strength. Raw knuckles underneath scraping armor, and finger bones that rattled with each strike. Wisps of sweat-slicked white hair clung to her jaw, out of place and unsightly. Her normally sculpted appearance felt wild, eyes warped into some crazed expression.

A scuffle of feet cut through the ringing in her ears. The cleric jolted, stunned into a defensive stance with arms raised and chest twisting. It was only Alaara. Maybe the only face Shadowheart wouldn't be tempted to bash into the ground right now. Her arms dropped, but shoulders remained squarely tense.

"Is there something you need?" Shadowheart nearly growled, clearly communicating that she felt rudely interrupted. "This is important. I can't let myself grow soft. Not now. There is too much at stake."

Tomorrow she intended to confront her cloister within the House of Grief. With or without help. Would she be forced to take down the cult alone, she'd do so without question.

"I'm not strong enough. I need to be strong enough." Shooting a jagged left hook, Shadowheart's hand crunched against the wall once more with a sickening scream of metal on stone. "Damnit!" She recoiled, cradling her palm into her chest, her wrist throbbing. "Useless! This is useless! I'm—!"

Her throat split into a cracked wail. A brick thrown in water, she collapsed to the ground, wrenching a fist between her eyes, furious tears gathering behind dark lashes.

"How long have they been down there? How long have I been too blind to realize they're suffering? And I've just been … gallivanting about like some idiotic waste! Are they even still alive? Are my parents still …?" Words fell, ashes through fingers. Thoughts too unbearable to speak.

"… would they even want to see me?"

[rubistella]

Shadowheart’s words sounded like something people might toast to after a hard-won battle.

“For better or worse.” Astarion echoed them, drawing her in, an arm looping around her shoulders to settle her close against his cold, undead form. That quip about corpses earned a low chuckle from him.

After all, that’s what vampires were, weren’t they? Death’s own parody, corpses on the loose.

“If I could, I’d drink to that,” he murmured, tenor as smooth as unholy communion wine or spilled blood. Hell, even if he couldn’t, he’d still toast to it. Hunger, that was the most relentless thing about a vampire, second only to the savage beauty of their eyes. A gaze that could draw blood; a thrall even the gods might struggle to resist. “To us heathens and nonbelievers!”

There were only two things in this world Astarion could ever bring his mind to believe in— himself, and the power of gold. Influence. The gods? Nothing more than glutted monarchs presiding over kingdoms of fantasy, hoarding wealth in temples, nurturing power with the fervour of desperate followers willing to bleed for a distant promise. It baffled him, that kind of servitude, to give without expectation.

Dedication to a deity was just another collar, as far as he was concerned.

Pressing a kiss to the half-elf’s temple, Astarion tempted intimacy. “I think self-sufficiency wears you well,” a smirk pulled at his lips. All boyhood and mischief. “But there goes all my chances of corrupting the only religious woman in camp.”

Oh, the fiend that he was.

[grief-worn]

This vast and oppressive dark was not the backdrop Shadowheart might've envisioned for a night of passion. She'd prefer the warm depths of an herbal bath, or the sweet, star-sullen summer moon rising into view of a private balcony, shared with a lover whose heart beat as quick and lively as her own.

Yet here she was. Tucked against the wing of a walking dead, sat atop ashes of bones long powdered mixed within the mire of a fathomless shadowland. Maybe the location never mattered. Maybe she would only ever need the right partner.

And what of Astarion? Was he the man for the job?

"What a shame. Does that mean I no longer appeal to you? Do you only earn points if you sully someone prim and proper?" Banter was always a good precursor to skinship. They batted at each other like kittens with string; playful, and delightfully morbid. "I suppose you could still drink. The option isn't outside the realm of possibility."

A comment made without survival in mind, for once. Maybe she still had things to live for, ambitions to keep her afloat. But they were all lost to her tonight.

Maybe the only usefulness she felt she might provide is one last happy memory for the man she'd dare to call her friend.

"If not a taste of my blood, perhaps just the flesh. Whatever whets your appetite better." Astarion was offered a choice. Lately, she was better at doing that for him. Providing the illusion of freedom. The opportunity to accept or refuse.

"Now that I'm nothing but a sinner, might as well start acting the part." One hand ghosted just a hair above his collarbone, slipping just beneath the ruffling of his collar, smoothing over the ivory of his chest. "Shall we give the gods a little show?"

[memesfortehsoul-blog]

random injury/injured scenario memes !

send a symbol to find my muse —–

🌌 - suffering from blunt force trauma ( a hard punch to the face, hit with a bat, etc ) 🔪 - suffering from a stab wound 🔑- sitting on the ground, wheezing & coughing 💔 - crying & taking their rage/sorrow/etc out on a wall with their fist ✴️ - trying to tend to bad burns somewhere on their body 📢 - having just been in a fight & is now dizzy, ears ringing ⬇️ - throwing up from a sickness or injury they have ⛓ - chained to a wall/floor/ceiling & beaten bloody

[grief-worn]

"You can't swim??? (Gasp) ME NEITHER!"

There was always something about the little seamstress that Shadowheart felt drawn to. Maybe this was it.

"I knew I liked you for good reason, Babsi." An arm wrapped around the fairer woman's shoulders. Far be it from her to initiate contact so readily, but kinship was so desperately helpful in times of trouble. The trouble, of course, being that everyone was bullying the cleric. Boo hoo.

"At least now I'll have a friend to keep me company when we're left ashore by the rest of these hooligans."

It seemed they'd not be invited to any future pool parties. Not like Shadowheart would have any interest in such folly.

"…that does beg the question, though," a curious squint of greener eyes. "would you sink? Or float?"

[grief-worn]

Visit Original Link

the fuck is the context for this 😭😭😭

[grief-worn]

"I... I think I may have fallen for you."

What follows is a snort. Light, a thrumming of air passing through nostrils. How cute. Was that meant to be as funny as it is?

It came out of practically nowhere. The pair had been wandering the outskirts of Baldur's Gate, beyond sunset, gathering crumbs of intel while the whole of the city slumbers in silence. A petty reconnaissance mission, sans the bulk of the others' company.

Shadowheart took it as a joke. After all, what else could it have been? Astarion treats everything like a joke.

"Pick yourself up, then. I know it's rather easy to tumble head over heels in my presence, but do try and behave."

Her eyes swivel, sprouts of green muddled under nightfall, searching for Astarion. He blends so easily with shadow, wears it like a second skin, it takes more than a moment for Shadowheart to find him.

He isn't smiling. He looks rather sad, actually.

"Ah—oh, don't look so down. It was funny. A good joke, you know." Clumsy, desperate to comfort him, despite how clueless she remains. A shuffle. A step closer. A tilt of her head, hoping to salvage a glimpse of ruby reds; a pair of eyes she's grown unnaturally comfortable around.

"…it…was a joke, wasn't it?"

[grief-worn]

Maybe it had something to do with the grub squirming through her skull. Or some concussive side-effect after surviving the crash. Maybe it was sheer idiocy.

Shadowheart felt optimistic. Cautiously so, but optimistic nonetheless.

In fact, it might've had something to do with the mountain of a woman she had picked up along the way. Towering, fierce, and gleefully willing to lend a hand wherever possible. Useful. The strongest chance she had at survival, anyhow. No harm in taking advantage of a lucky draw. Opportunity was a luxury not often given to people like Shadowheart, and to waste it would be utterly foolish.

Fate intertwined them up in that accursed nautiloid, and now, with nothing but a splitting headache and sand in their boots, they carved a path through the coastline, desperate for an answer to their affliction. It would take more than your run-of-the-mill healer to purge a mindflayer's parasite. Normally Shadowheart would feel quite grim, considering the tragedy of their situation …

And yet, Shadowheart felt optimistic.

"…do you hear that?" Paused mid-step, Shadowheart was quick to shoot out an arm, blocking Anthelion. (Not that she'd realistically be able to stop the aasimar if she wanted to.)

In the distance, beyond a thicket of dry shrubs and curly birch trees, sounded the unmistakable echo of a shout. A few shouts, actually. Desperate and shrill.

"Best to avoid whatever squabble might be happening up ahead. It's nothing to do with us."

Staying in one's lane has been what's kept the Sharran alive after all these years … she only hoped her newfound acquaintance shared the same idea.

(closed starter for @warwaited.)

[grief-worn]

dating service. 🤭🤭🤭

"What can I say? I exceed every expectation."

...

"...hold on, what were you expecting?"

[grief-worn]

*looks around mischievously* *bends down to kiss her on her little nose* :3

Rare was the opportunity to catch Shadowheart off-guard. She's normally so steadfast. Alert. Rigid, and shielding the softer parts of herself from those who wished to unfurl her. But Puck has proven himself a nasty influence time and time again. He often disarmed her. His presence enough to shed the hard chitin and reveal things she had thought she'd lost a long time ago.

Humor. Whimsy. Admiration. Affection.

She stood beside him, torn between a vial of powdered mandrake and a pouch of aged oleander. Quite the stubborn decision, for she only had such limited coin on hand. And even more limited time to wrap up this errand within Rivington's apothecary.

"We've had our hands full with quite a number of undead. Oleander would find its use one way or another. But then again …" Her voice hushed out, like the late summer's breeze. She never used to voice her thoughts out loud before she met Puck. She never used to do a lot of things.

"No, you're right, it'd be prudent to buy the flower." Puck hadn't said a word. "You're always right, of course." No he wasn't.

"That settles it. We'll go with the—"

She's not allowed another word. Not before tallied lips found its mark upon her skin. It took her breath away, even more so than a punch to her chest. Yet it felt so much softer.

One finger was brought up to touch her nose, reaffirming its memory in her heart.

"You know, there are more polite ways to tell me I'm rambling again." A smile, just faintly. "Best be careful, Puck. Everyone will think you're courting a Sharran."

With that, Shadowheart paused. Dusky eyebrows wove together, met with a crease. The cleric shook her head, strands of white falling over her cheek.

"No, I suppose that's not what I am anymore. Who I am. It's strange how so much has changed, and yet so often I feel like the same person I was before all this began." Gripping her arm, she brushed a thumb pad across her elbow, throat closing around a sigh.

"… we should get going. I'm sure they're all waiting on us."

[grief-worn]

"Shadowheart, why are people calling you a fish? I was led to believe that you couldn't swim."

Word spreads fast, apparently. One might think these idiots would have more important issues to concern themselves with, between cataclysmic cosmic horrors and cortex-chomping worms wriggling about their skulls, but it seems even the best and brightest among them can't resist a spot of good gossip.

"I can't swim." Shadowheart snips, attempting to funnel all her attentions into the scroll pinched between fingertips. "It was merely a joke coined by that oaf, Halsin. Something about my unreliable memory. Entirely unfunny." Gods above, if this fish nonsense turns into any more of a problem…

"Wait—" The cleric swivels on a dime, glaring knives into the poor wizard's soul. "People? Who else is engaging in this slander?!" They should've left that druid to rot in that cell.

"If I catch you joking about this with anyone else, I swear I'll set fire to all your rarest tomes!" To drive her point home, a pointer finger is jabbed squarely into his chest, drilling at the scar that houses his netherese demon.

"Do I make myself clear, Gale?"

[grief-worn]

points. at Her. "Fish."

Angry wouldn't begin to describe the torrent of emotion bubbling within her. Of course no one had come forth and claimed accountability yet. Whether it be a mishap of druidic magic from Jaheira, or a stray bolt of magic slung from Gale's staff, the crew had a lot of explaining to do.

And Shadowheart had no say in the matter. Literally! She couldn't speak! (and no one had volunteered to be the translator...)

The tiny, umber fish swam in frantic circles, slamming her body against the glass of her bowl; a temporary prison until matters were sorted out. Or until this curse decided to fade away on its own.

It could be promised that had she full control of her vocal mechanisms, Zandi would be treated to a vast array of very nasty words.

As it stood now, he was short one handsomely beautiful cleric ... and in her place, he now possessed one frighteningly pissed off goldfish.

[dunerover]

fish.

[grief-worn]

HEY WHAT IF I CRY AND EXPLODE.

[grief-worn]

points. at Her. "Fish."

Angry wouldn't begin to describe the torrent of emotion bubbling within her. Of course no one had come forth and claimed accountability yet. Whether it be a mishap of druidic magic from Jaheira, or a stray bolt of magic slung from Gale's staff, the crew had a lot of explaining to do.

And Shadowheart had no say in the matter. Literally! She couldn't speak! (and no one had volunteered to be the translator...)

The tiny, umber fish swam in frantic circles, slamming her body against the glass of her bowl; a temporary prison until matters were sorted out. Or until this curse decided to fade away on its own.

It could be promised that had she full control of her vocal mechanisms, Zandi would be treated to a vast array of very nasty words.

As it stood now, he was short one handsomely beautiful cleric ... and in her place, he now possessed one frighteningly pissed off goldfish.

[moojije]

I'm so inspired. Here's the Shartfish.

[rubistella]

@grief-worn || continued x

Shadowheart’s words cut deep, but Astarion had learned not to crucify someone over that kind of pain. For once, it wasn't about him. The shadows had caught up to her at last, dragging with them the full burden of a thousand fears she’d kept at bay. He bit down on the corner of his lip, a fang worrying the skin as he swallowed his usual snark. Even he could see it— this moment, whatever it was between them, hinged on how he chose to react. She carried the air of someone standing at the edge of a burning bridge, and if she had the strength to deny her goddess, it wasn’t far-fetched she might deny his company next, should he push too far.

So instead, the vampire sat beside her. Quiet, drinking in the darkness as if it were more than just a backdrop. It was part of him, had always been.

“Vicious.” The word slipped out, detached, not meant to wound but to show he hadn’t taken it to heart. A casual acknowledgment of the sting, nothing more. “I mean, I wouldn’t know the first thing about worship— when I prayed to the gods, none of them really answered.”

That much was true. He’d long since given up on the idea that anyone, celestial or otherwise, would raise their head to listen. But now? Now he wondered, just a little, which gods might turn their ears to him if he dared to pray again, now that his path was his own.

“But it seems they answer you at least,” he added, voice softer, reflective. He could feel the depth of her loneliness, the kind that stretched far beyond what anyone in camp, least of all him, could hope to mend. This was not the loneliness of the heart; it was religious. The kind that came from having one’s entire purpose unravelled, leaving nothing behind but the hollow echo of devotion. 

The absence of a deity, he understood, was a void some people couldn’t fill. The absence of life itself.

“I say to hells with it! Try your luck again,” Astarion offered, smirk returning, though this time it was smaller, quieter, like a shadow of who he usually was. “Give it a go if you must… if that’ll make things better. Who knows who might answer your prayers this time?”

Or perhaps none would. And she’d be left a heathen, just like him.

[grief-worn]

Defying all expectations, Astarion seemed to pitch the idea of flippant optimism. How unlike him. Shadowheart perked her chin upward, sparing him a glance, a connection of eyes that melted into something softer. Warmer.

"Awfully strange of you to suggest such a thing." There's a shift in her countenance. The lilting rise of her voice. Curiosity, and desperation to hope again. "The gods answered me sure, but it appears they seek to use me as a means to an end." Light and dark a parallel to the squares of a chessboard. Has she been nothing but a pawn sent forth to further a grand design?

"Maybe divinity isn't the answer." Forest-woven eyes darted away, cast towards the moon above. Who among the mighty watches them now, she wondered. Shar? Selûne? A compelling show of puppetry tonight must have been. "After all, it's not god nor goddess who sits with me now, is it? I'm forced to rely on the amity of a corpse." Said with unmistakable fondness.

"No. I don't believe I'll pray. Not for a while longer." Eyes found him again, aching for the solace of pale skin and cold resilience.

It was neither moon maiden nor Nightsinger that fought by her side. Since the destruction of that damnable nautiloid, who was it that grinned at her from across the battlefield? Who was it that chased after cults and goblins and omnipotent devil men? Not once leaving her side?

"… I think for now, I'll take a page from your book, Astarion. I could certainly learn a bit of self-sufficiency. Perhaps you could —"

Words were extinguished before they're allowed to take spark. Retreating, Shadowheart shook her head, frustrated. Conflicted.

"Well, regardless, I don't believe the gods deserve the attention. From either of us. We've nothing but each other. For better or for worse."

[redemnation-deactivated20250604]

you may have to walk back your opinion of druids. flower crowns are an artform. the dexterity to manipulate a dagger doesn't translate to stems. halsin's hands are nigh twice the breadth of yours. he bent and wove flowers with grace.

"gods--fucking--eh?"

into the corner of your eye, a butterfly wing peeks. "i thought you were a hair! you go around tickling everyone's ear then? aye, that i do. been told they're chairmin. wait, since i have you. thoughts?"

the sad excuse of a flower crown is presented for appraisal.

[grief-worn]

You hold aloft a weave of blossoms. Shabby, awkwardly knit together, but in a way, endearing. Shadowheart isn't entirely confident on whether your query is meant for the insect, or for someone else entirely.

Perhaps it could be her?

"It looks as if it was crafted by a goblin." she chimes in, a pointed glance veering towards your direction. "I'd have thought someone of your skill set could handle something so simple … but I've been wrong before." Harsh words, yet carried with a lilt of light hearted humor, clearly meant to tease, not belittle.

She watches the perched butterflies flex their wings, still nestling against your person. They look rather comfortable. If only they knew the blood that stains your shadow.

"Mind if I have a seat?" She gestures to an empty spot of ground beside you, waiting with tentative breath. Is she desperate for the company? Not particularly. But she's vying for the chance all the same.