Ilinarie (by Lea)

27, BG3 enthusiast, proud handler of Dark Urge Ilinarie

[parkouringrabbit]

Playing with shadows

[ele-millennial-weirdo]

Romance chart

Tagged by @arlynx and @fireflyeyes Thank you lovelies!!! <3

I have a whole playlist for Suna obviously (and also more than one for her x her tyrant), but this is hands down the song that vibes the most with her imo.

Back to Gort jail now! (I say while struggling to complete the lil thing I started for Gortashweek. Wish me good luck!)

The gentlest of tags (no pressure intended!) for @cinder-rellish181 @unovafarm @bladesingerlily @perpetualmaladaptivedaydream @ilinarie @victoria-strangelove @gortashsrighthand @dynamicducks @archduchessgortash @defira85

[wasteful-sam]

ᴛᴀᴠ: ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱʟʏ ᴏɴ…

Thank you to the creator of the original game @bhaal-battle-beer-bard (original post here) and please mention the OG creator and link their post if you participate! <3 Also thank you for the tags @deianestormborn @faeriiefire @onlytavs @charmedtenderness @purpleasters-inseptember @arlynx for the tags! <3

DEVILMAN CRYBABY TIME!

MORE SHOW IMAGES, REFERENCES AND OC EXPLANATIONS UNDER THE CUT.

Sooo, Devilman crybaby is one of my favorite anime of all time! <33

The first images reference its opening:

I also made images from the episode itself. I... am not very happy with them xDDD However, they took a lot of time to complete, so I am sharing them anyway xD And I experimented a lot with different things, so I guess I learnt something new??? 🫠

References:

For the VPs, I used characters from my Miresworn universe, so you barely know anything about them, as I don't post much about them and I barely have anything written about the Miresworn himself. xD However, the Miresworn AU is far darker than my "Worthy" universe, and it was far more fitting for this tag game. You can read a shortstory (it is very short I promiseeee, 1k words T_T) about the Miresworn here.

The characters are:

Eryndor

Meli

Rolan the Miresworn (well, you know ;))) )

No-pressure tags (I am so sorry if you already did this and I missed it or forgot about it, I am very late with my tag games T_T ): @cursed-nyxan @optimisticgrey @ele-millennial-weirdo @litsenn @bladesingerlily @emmyandthetieflings @starlit-serpent @liubovricci @ugh-my-back @adrielmancy @thesanguinesonnet @smokepotgivetop @victoria-strangelove @mercymaker @valannamizarym @doomedlamb @ilinarie @vakariansyndrome @the-shadowfell-darkroom @arcanearcherayz and ANYONE who wants to join <3

[ele-millennial-weirdo]

Tav Goes to the Movies

Tagged by @dynamicducks and @tynithia Tysm!!! 🫶

tag game: Recreate a VP of your Tav as the main character or your fave character from your favourite movie — within the limits of photo mode, of course. Make a whole entourage if you like.

Not a Tav in this case, but a Durge.

My VP skills are kinda...meh, honestly (I'm lazy af and have little patience when it comes to anything vp or graphic design related), plus most of the mods available on PS5 suck, buuut...at least I have talented moots who often gift me with awesome pics of my OC I would never be able to create myself (I'm looking at YOU, @optimisticgrey Tysm for this vp of Suna!!! <3).

Her pose here reminded me of Maleficent, Mistress of All Evil, which sounds...kinda appropriate for someone like her :D

Tagging (no pressure!) @optimisticgrey (author of the pic above <3) @perpetualmaladaptivedaydream @saylofwaterdeep @ilinarie @fireflyeyes @gortashsrighthand @arlynx and anyone who has VPs and OC pics to share (no idea who's been tagged already, open tag for anyone who reads this, then!)

[ele-millennial-weirdo]

OC Zodiac/Sign and birth chart palette - Suna

Tagged by @perpetualmaladaptivedaydream and @fireflyeyes for OC Zodiac and by @bladesingerlily for "Your OCs Astrological Sign/Birth Chart palette". Thank you!!! 🫶

If you've given your OC a birthdate (or even an approximation), look up their astrology and tell me how alike or different they are from their sign. If you haven't given them a birthdate, tell me what zodiac sign you think they'd be and why! And heck, if you feel like it, throw in some fanfic, VP, or art.

I know little or nothing at all about astrology, but this looked fun to do, so I indulged in some birth charts/astrology websites exploration for my OC Suna.

VP by @optimisticgrey :3

In my original plans Suna was born (or, to be more precise, created from daddy Bhaal's gore) between Kythorn 25 (June) and Midsummer (Flamerule 30 - Eleasis 1, July-August), so she would be, technically speaking, a Cancer or a Leo.

But the more I explored her character, the more she looked like a Scorpio to me (she has most of the main Scorpios' traits), so in the end I chose a different (presumed) birth date for her, and went for Uktar 10 or 11 (November) 1456 or 1457, thus making her a Scorpio Sun with Leo Rising, Gemini Moon and Capricorn Venus.

The reasons? Well, according to my research, Scorpios are usually secretive and mysterious people, who love to embrace their dark side and are excellent at keeping secrets. Here are a few additional infos:

SCORPIO

RULING PLANET: Pluto (& Mars)

ELEMENT: water

RULING HOUSE: 8th - Sex, Death, Loss

MODE: fixed

COLORS: shades of red, and black

LUCKY STONES: coral, ruby, carnelian

Scorpios also are:

known for their intensity (appropriate for both her versions, before and after tadpole/lobotomy)

their primary motivation is not prestige or authority but real power instead

they have plenty of willpower

the darker side of life intrigues them, and they are not afraid of getting their hands (but also bodies and minds) dirty

they're not in the slightest intimidated by anybody or anything (especially appropriate for her before lobotomy)

trauma seems to follow them wherever they go

they possess amazing regenerative powers, and also the power to heal, create and transform (these last two points are 100% her after memory loss/lobotomy)

can be described as passionate, perceptive, determined and sacrificing, while the most negative keywords associated to them are: vindictive, paranoid, destructive and possessive, and their ruling house is the 8th, which seems to be the house associated with sex, death and loss (all very durge-y things imo).

Scorpio seems to be the zodiac sign of extremes and intensity. Self-reliant, stubborn and unpredictable, the natives of this sign are usually very deep and intense people, who tend to dominate and control anyone that lets them, or anyone they find weak (100% Suna in her durge years before lobotomy).

Last but not least, this sign is associated with colors like red, crimson and burgundy, and also with sexual activity and the transformative cycles of death and rebirth, which makes Scorpio an almost 100% accurate sign for Suna.

Here are also the infos I got from the website realmshelps.net and her birth chart palette (link here pantonecolors.net ). Pls note I've not yet decided if she's 36 in 1492 (instead of 35 yo), so the year of her birth might end up changing from 1457 to 1456 for fanfic purposes).

While a few infos sound a lil incorrect for her, the birth chart palette colors match her fiery nature (and draconic bloodline) perfectly, just like her ascendant sign (Leo Rising, a fire sign).

Here are the main traits for Scorpio Sun, Leo Rising natives:

they are a powerful mix between a warm, fiery exterior and and mysterious and deep core

they have a striking apperance and a magnetic personality

they tend to hide parts of their life from others

they are very independent in love, but at the same time also deeply devoted

they experience lots of conflicts between their inward and outward selves

This took me a little because I had to do some research first, but it was really fun and I think most of the infos I found match Suna's character beautifully 😁

Most of my moots have been tagged already, so I'm not sure about who to tag in this...anyway, the softest of tags of @ilinarie @ixiagrey @dynamicducks @arlynx @optimisticgrey @wasteful-sam and @archduchessgortash <3

[ilinarie]

Gortash's and Ilinarie's little visit to the House of Hope is now on AO3!

[ilinarie]

A bit more Gort POV writing. The Chosen visit the House of Hope to discuss relieving Raphael's dad of his crown. Just exploring their dynamics and the ambiance and such--wouldn't even call it slowburn because it doesn't get an actual burn. CW for cannibalism!

Some 4.000 words under the cut:

As soon as one steps into a portal to the Hells, their vision is swallowed by darkness. For a good few seconds, swirling black and golden flames are all one can see, and distant wails of suffering are all one can hear.

By the time I realised my eyes could open, I was already standing in the House of Hope’s lavish foyer, at the edge of the inverted mirror of the portal we had walked through. Even indoors, the air was hot and stagnant, everything smelled of burnt ash and sulphur. The sky’s blood-red glow shined through the tall windows of sulphur-stained glass, bathing the room in a warm golden light. A dry and metallic taste clung to my tongue. I could not say I missed the physical sensations of Avernus, but they did hit me with a feeling of almost nostalgia.

Raphael was particular to cambion motifs in his architecture and décor. Bronze statues of horned and winged men with bitter grimaces held up the tall ceiling like columns. At the far end of the foyer, they flanked a pair of heavy doors, extravagantly engraved with the title ‘Iron Doors to Hope’.

Ilinarie was standing beside me, eyes closed and lips apart, swaying on her ankles. I tapped her arm and she snapped into attention, her eyes shot open and she surveyed the room with quick jerky movements of her head.

“Huh. It’s too hot. I don’t like it,” she grumbled, pulling at her dress away from her skin.

“Don’t bother, this air can’t cool anything down,” I laid my hand on the small of Ilinarie’s back, under her braids and her cloak, and guided her across the foyer. “Do you like the décor, at least?”

“No. I don’t loathe it. Not everyone can have an estate like mine,” she shrugged and walked with me, still attentively looking around. Her face shifted in a curious frown, her red lips curling in on themselves as she licked over her inner cheeks and teeth. “The air tastes pretty good. If only it weren’t so damn hot,” she concluded.

As we made our way through the foyer, a dwarven woman’s spectral projection flickered into existence. She waved her arms and bleated loudly: “Oh me, oh my you’re back! I didn’t hope you’d be back! You got away and now you’re back! I hope you get away again! I hope I get away with you!”

I ignored her and kept walking as I had many years ago.

“What’s that?” Ilinarie pointed at the apparition.

“That’s Hope. Don’t mind her, she’s—”

“I am HOPE! I AM A GUTTERING CANDLE IN A UNIVERSE OF NIGHT!” the projection yelled and hopped in the air, echoing a distant rattle of chains.

I hastened my step and pulled Ilinarie along. “She’s a fixture of the House.”

Ilinarie’s eyes pinned at the apparition, but kept her step.

“PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE ENVER! I like your pretty friend! Tell her to free me! TELL HER TO GET ME OUT HERE!” Hope shrieked and wailed then, with a crack like breaking bone, vanished into a puff of smoke.

The Iron Doors to Hope remained closed as we approached. Very unusual—Raphael always stressed the importance of hospitality for the House’s mortal visitors, and of keeping the door’s mechanisms operational. We crossed the last acceptable threshold for the automatic opening sequence to commence, and then I stopped to think.

“Odd,” I muttered, “it was supposed to register our presence by now.”

Ilinarie snapped her fingers twice at my face, then pointed to the bronze stand at corner of the foyer. “What is that?” she asked.

“The guestbook, why don’t you go take a read? I’ll have a look at the mechanism,” I dismissed her with a pat and walked up to the doors.

There was nothing visibly different about them, the machinery’s physical and magical structure was wholly unchanged. I laid my hand on the engraved iron’s familiar surface—warm like the outside of an oven, faintly pricking the skin that came in contact with it. It wouldn’t have fallen under disrepair under my watch.

Ilinarie snapped her fingers twice at me. “I’m on the guestlist,” she said, pointing at the open book. “Last line. It says Prophet of the End. I get boudoir privileges.”

“It’s in Infernal, isn’t it? Maybe the title is also used by a devil—”

“No, it’s my title. Your name’s right above mine,” she drew a line on the page with her claw, “Enver… Flymm? What’s that written after your name?”

My stomach tightened as I laid eyes upon the page’s script—bright read and elegant. There it was: Enver Flymm. Boudoir privileges. Between parenthesis, the word damned and a question mark.

“What’s a Flymm?” Ilinarie asked me.

The Iron Doors of Hope clanked, then creaked open, revealing the open gallery that led into the House’s main structure.

“Seems the door has worked,” I hurriedly grabbed Ilinarie by the waist and pulled her through—she complied.

The welcoming corridor past the foyer resembled a short causeway, flanked on both sides by pits that dropped to the House’s dungeons. Raphael’s trapped souls swirled at the corridor’s wings, little more than spectral energy faintly coalescing into vague visages of anguish. As we passed, Ilinarie pulled to the side and leaned across the railings, sticking her arm into the vortex.

“No dear, don’t do that,” I warned, pulling her off the edge.

“It felt nice,” she giggled. The sickly green energy clung to her arm, dissipating back into the vortex quickly as she rubbed it with her hand.

“Let’s not steal our host’s things. Raphael is sensitive about his property,” I cautioned her.

“What are we doing here then, if we can’t take anything?”

“Across the planes, there’s nobody that covets what we’re looking for more than Raphael. He has been seething for the chance to have it ever since it was whisked away to the vaults of Archduke Mephistopheles—Raphael’s father, incidentally.”

“So, the crown is with his dad?”

I confirmed with a nod. “That’s right.”

“Why doesn’t his dad just give it to him, then?”

I glanced at Ilinarie to gauge how serious was her confusion—she just held an earnest gaping stare.

“His dad clearly doesn’t think it’s very important, since we’re gonna steal it and get away with it,” she insisted.

“It’s not in his nature,” I said, “Mephistopheles is foremost an archivist and an obsessive scholar. He hoards his artifacts, for study and—”

“My father would give me any of his artefacts if I asked,” she cut me off, waving her father’s dagger in the air to make the point.

“Not everyone can have a father as doting as Dread Lord Bhaal, dear.”

“What about Ketheric? He’s only helping us because he wants to resurrect his daughter. Mephistopheles wouldn’t do that for your devil—if he doesn’t even give him the Crown.”

“Ketheric’s circumstances are very particular.”

“My father had hordes and hordes of spawn before me—they were all failures and embarrassments and disappointments, so they didn’t get anything. So, what I can see is that—very unlike Ketheric’s dead daughter—your devil is an embarrassment and a disappointment to his dad.”

“I won’t say you’re incorrect—”

“I’m not.”

“Mephistopheles are our host have competing goals, more than they have familiarity.”

“Only because your devil is a failure and an embarrassment and a disappointment—if he weren’t, his goals would be his dad’s and his dad’s would be his.”

I let out a weary sigh and decided to drop the matter, as we crossed the gallery’s threshold into the House of Hope’s grand feast hall. Raphael would receive important prospective clients there. He’d never eat, nor conclude any deals in that room—no, he’d just offer his prospect a lavish dinner, tempt them with his threats and promises, and ensure they would return to the House of Hope eventually, at the right time.

When not in use, the dining room and the rotting remains of the feast were abandoned to the flies, the ayperobos, and other vermin. And it was like when we found it—piles of mouldy breads and maggot-ridden meat oozing filth onto the mahogany table, beneath extinguished golden chandeliers, overlooked by multiple balconies. A ceiling-length richly framed portrait of Raphael himself watched over both the feasts and the rot with its prideful red eyes, as he stood triumphant, sceptred and armoured in the wastes of Avernus. The fireplace still burned gold and violent under his portrait, its light mingling with the dull glow that shone through the windows, framed by embroidered curtains.

“Ew,” Ilinarie balked, “does your devil not have any servants?”

“In the House? Just the jailer, the archivist, and the incubus, in the boudoir. Several warlocks on fieldwork, of course, his assistant Korrilla is the one that routinely comes to the House. Cleaning is left to the house-guests—the debtors, is the in-house term for them,” I explained, guiding her to the exit on the left, towards the archive. “And they only clean when Raphael finds it important, otherwise they just—”

A shriek of sheer agony echoed through the corridors. It was one of the debtors. He stumbled into our view at the rightmost staircase leading out of the feast-hall—merely a man’s silhouette against the dull orange glow.

“The rats! ARGH, the RATS!” he howled, clawing at his stomach, pulling at his hair. Another shriek, and he stumbled away.

Two silhouettes appeared after him, one waltzing, the other crawling like a dog. They waltzed and crawled towards the shrieking debtors—he shrieked again, and the waltzed and crawled away.

“That must get so annoying,” Ilinarie grumbled.

“It’s among the pointless inconveniences, yes.”

“Can’t they be killed?”

“Not exactly—their souls are bound to the House. If one were to kill their physical form, they’d still manifest as ghosts. Some contracts stipulate that they’d turn into lower devils,” I explained, and continued to walk.

After a flight of stairs, we emerged at the main corridor. The semi-circular hall circumscribed the feast-hall and connected to the important rooms of the House. It was furnished with plenty of chairs and tables, and also served the main gathering-spot for the debtors, both spectral and in-the flesh. Their wide, bloodshot, faintly glowing eyes fixated on us. I figured they recognised me—I found that some of the faces were familiar, though one could chalk that up to the debtors all having the same visage of permanent suffering. “Hello? Hello?” one of the ghosts whimpered, flickering in and out of view. That man from before stumbled past and shrieked again.

“I know what you want, I know what you’re looking for,” Hope sing-sang, flickering into view at the corner of my eye.

“Just ignore her, she can’t help us,” I pulled at Ilinarie’s waist.

“The Crown, you’re looking for the Crown,” Hope whispered, pretending to creep up towards us—though her projection did not, and could not move. She then screamed: “IT’S NOT HERE! Heavy is the crown, heavier is the hammer Raphael will SMASH into your head if you wear the crown.”

“How does she know that?” Ilinarie hissed.

“Because RAPHAEL KNOWS THAT! He KNOWS it and once he knows you’re here YOU’LL KNOW you won’t ever NOT be here ever again—back to the hammers, might I dare to make a request? Please? Please please please please,” Hope’s voice grew fainter. Without a scream or a sigh, she vanished again.

“She doesn’t know it,” I said, “Raphael thinks he knows—because all he thinks about is the Crown. There’s an old-saying on nails and hammers—”

“The hammer. In the Archive,” Hope flickered for a second, whispered and disappeared.

“Anyway, the point is we shouldn’t worry about what Raphael knows or not.”

“I’m not worried,” Ilinarie deadpanned, “I want to know where the devil and his House got their information from. We’re on their guestlist.”

“Likely an illusion, the House plays tricks on its visitors.”

I hastened my step and guided Ilinarie through the main corridor. The debtors made way for us—even the ones that seemed to not even notice our presence seemed to instinctively shamble, waltz or crawl away. Others watched from the shadows, planted in place, grimacing and blabbering. That shrieking man screamed again.

A few paces further and we reached the door to the archive—lavish, but inconspicuous within the standards of the manor. I opened the door, and stepped inside first. Raphael’s archive was curated like a library and a museum. Its main exhibit was the Orphic Hammer, a ruby-headed weapon of his own creation, proudly floating above a pedestal. Skeletal debtors shuffled across the checkered floor, eternally clearing dust from the shelves.

A familiar voice cut through the background noise: “By the Hells, he got you again?”

Korrilla Hearthflame lounged on a reclining chair at the left corner of the Archive, holding a book on one hand and a glass of liquor on the other. She set both items down on the nearby rosewood desk and stood to her feet— her dwarven stature barely reaching up to my chest.

The chief-archivist—a scrawny and hunchbacked tiefling man—shuffled over to retrieve the book, muttering to himself: “Highly irregular.”

“Of course not,” I retorted, “I’m paying a visit.”

Korrilla studied me up and down with a discreet frown, as she smoothed her gilded robes and pushed the curls of her dark hair into place. “Well, you should know by now most visits to the House of Hope become permanent—especially when it’s unexpected.”

I kept my tone light and asked: “Oh, so you weren’t expecting to see us?”

“One moment, I shall consult the visitors’ schedule,” the chief-archivist sighed, and closed his eyes to read over the schedule—carved within his eyelids, as was the House’s custom. “Hmm… hmmmmm… most irregular. The schedule is clear today.”

“Yes, we know you little fusspot,” Korrilla said, then nodded at Ilinarie. “Who’s your escort, Enver? You know what, don’t tell me—”

“Plausible deniability,” Korrilla and I said in unison.

“That’s right,” she chuckled, “I guess you learned some things after-all.”

“Enough to get out of here and come back.”

“Coming back implies you didn’t learn as much as you should.”

“Dreadfully hopeless way of looking at it, isn’t it?”

“You know it. How’s your hand?”

My gauntlet tightened on Ilinarie’s waist—then relaxed as she squirmed under the grip. “Very good, thank you. I spoke with Helsik, by the way, she told me to send you her regards.”

Korrilla rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Helsik’s regards are received, and archived.”

Ilinarie tugged on my coat, and pointed to the open balcony at the far-end of the right-wing of the archive. “I want to watch the scenery. Can you see the Blood War from here?”

“If you’re lucky,” I let her slip out of my hand, indulging a discreet parting pat on her hip and a warning: “Just don’t take anything, dear.”

“Well,” Korrilla said, “if you’re lingering here then I believe this is the cue for us without an eternal-torment wish to take their leave.”

“That’ll be for Raphael to decide, I suppose. After-all,” my heart raced, I prepared to enunciate as clearly as a speech before the Parliament of Peers, “we’re here looking for the Crown of Karsus.” Korrilla’s face froze, wide-eyed. A book fell from the Archivist’s hand. Time slowed for a moment—the air became thicker. The Master of the House was coming.

****

The air twisted and swirled, but everything went still. All the debtors went quiet. A blinding heat pulsed behind my eyes; my own boiling spit scalded my tongue. A searing pain shot from my hands, crushing my bones within my muscles.

“The crafty weasel chewed through the locks,” Raphael’s voice rolled from the House itself, grand and incorporeal. His breath was hot like an open blast furnace, his tongue, wet and velvety, seemed to scrape at the outside of both my ears,“and weaselled out of the fox’s House.”

Cherry, musk, and sulphur assaulted my nostrils. Two clawed red hands closed in from the flanks of my vision—and then came down.

I braced myself and stood dauntless, enduring as his magic crashed upon my psyche.

The pressure in my muscles eased—my cane clattered on the floor and my eyes snapped open. I was still in the Archive. I whipped around to face the flaming eyes and the looming grin of the Master of the House.

“He weaselled his way right back to the fox—who knew he remained no more than a mouse,” Raphael finished the poem with a flamboyant bow. His wings unfurled wide and red, dominating my view, and his jagged horns threatened to tear through my throat.

I took a step back, gathered myself and chuckled: “Raphael. How long have you been practicing that for?”

With a wheezy laugh, Raphael straightened up to his towering stature, adjusting the golden buttons of his doublet. “Until it was perfect. Why, did you expect to find me unprepared for your weaselly return?”

“Yes. Didn’t I find you unprepared for my departure?”

In a heartbeat, his visage twisted into a grimace of sheer rage—then shifted back into a smirk. “An insufferable blot as you ever were, Enver Flymm. Shame on me for expecting gratitude from your sort.”

My jaw clenched; the gauntlet’s fingers pierced my palm. I strained my smile in-place. “That’s no longer my name.”

“Is that so? I see your hand is doing well.”

I glanced to the sides at the empty Archive and cut him off: “Where’s Ilinarie?”

“Who? Oh, the ingenue courtesan you so rudely brought onto my home without so much as a proper introduction? Were she not of such a cavalier house, I’d have taken great offence to her uninvited presence in my home,” Raphael hissed, then tipped his chin to the exit towards the Archive’s balcony. “She’s watching the Blood War.”

“I will fetch her then, so we can discuss business that I’m sure are of your interest,” standing tall, I straightened my coat and marched on, ignoring the discarded cane.

“Oh don’t, she’s enjoying herself so, so much,” Raphael chuckled and snapped his fingers—the entire House rotated beneath my feet and brought me back before him. “Do you not hear it?” he whispered.

The House went silent again, a thin haze covered my eyes. A single noise pierced through the hush—a moan, breathy and high-pitched. Ilinarie’s bare white hips rocked as she straddled and dripped on the velvet-draped balustrade. Though glazed, lidded eyes, she watched over the landscape of fire and blood. The troops march through the torn ground—hordes surrounded a cohort of devils. They fought to their last stand. Her lips parted with rapture.

“Right, that’s enough!” I snapped. The visions faded away—I could still hear the noise coming from the balcony. “Keep your lechery between you and your incubus—”

 “My lechery?” he balked, scandalised. “Have you not read The Ecstasy of Murder?”

“I fail to see the relevance. My duties leave little time for that sort of literature.”

“Do you not know anything about your companion’s proclivities?”

“I know they don’t get in the way of matters of actual importance.”

“Do you feel inadequate that she’ll always prefer father dearest? On the matter of penetration, one cannot compete with Bhaal.”

“Raphael,” I raised my voice, shoving a finger on his chest, “we are going to get the Crown of Karsus.”

The devil went quiet. His eyes darkened despite his smug smile. He had to consider the possibility of our success. “Far be it from me to keep you and your eternal torment apart,” he spoke. “What is it that you wish from my House of Hope then?”

I breathed out and steadied my voice. “The outcome of our mission is of your natural interest. We should arrange the means to facilitate it.”

Raphael sighed dramatically, and produced a pocket-watch from his doublet. He opened it, then languidly checked for the time. “The feast-hall must be ready,” he declared. “Are you hungry, Enver?”

Before I could respond, he snapped his fingers. The House shifted—its floor and walls slid around and through us. My stomach slammed on a hard corner, and I fell backwards and breathless onto a padded chair.

“Nooooo! I was watching the battle! Ugh!” sitting across from me, Ilinarie whined and thumped her fists on the table.

“The Blood War will still be there once we’re done, dear,” I groaned, clutching my stomach.

Cleared off the rotten refuse, Raphael’s dining room now held an elaborate feast—breads, cheeses, fruits and meat, fit for how the most extravagant of patriars receive the most impressionable foreign lords. My reflection shifted in the bottles of fragrant liquors, the coloured glasses reflecting the glow of hellfire from the candles and the chandeliers.

“I was watching the battle,” she snarled through gritted teeth, kicking under the table.

“Why, I expected more refinement from a sinner of such fine breeding. There are many more interesting torments in the Hells than gawking at how Zariel’s armies throw themselves at the Abyssal hordes,” Raphael drawled, sauntering from behind Ilinarie’s chair. He had shifted into his human form, middle-aged, aquiline and bronze-skinned—wingless and hornless, but still clad in his fanciful doublet. He bowed and offered Ilinarie his hand.

She looked him up and down, keeping her hands on the table, then addressed me: “Is this your devil?”

His face shifted to a seething sneer, then back a smirk. “A devil, yes, but no one’s in particular. Call me Raphael, I am the Master of this House of Hope. Very much at your service,” he retracted his hand and stood straight.

“The son of Mephistopheles, at my service? I don’t need another butler. Report to my Tribunal if you wish to serve my father.”

“I will overlook, for now, the lady’s lack of manners and invitation. After-all it’s not every day one gets to host such a prolific savant of the sanguine arts.”

“A true bloody honour for you, yes,” Ilinarie pushed her chair back and sprung to her feet, then declared: “We’re here for the Crown of Karsus. I want details of your dad’s fortress in Cania, information on the vault where the Crown is kept, the full list of security measures, arcane and—”

Her chair yanked itself towards the table, knocking her back on the cushions.

“—and infernal, devils of interest to watch for and eliminate, as well as reliable way to get in and out of Mephistar and Cania itself,” Ilinarie continued and concluded.

“My, and will that be all? Anything else to ask?”

“Murder does not ask,” Ilinarie bared her teeth in a wide smile, “Murder is here.” She clawed at the table and shoved, but her chair stayed fast in place. Then, she crossed her arms and pouted. “I wanna go back to your balcony and watch the Blood War.”

“You see the harbinger of the end is not accustomed to being denied,” I said, settling back onto my chair, still aching from the impact.

“Well, she’s hardly in position to dictate terms, is she?”

“There are no terms. We’re not making deals with you,” Ilinarie growled.

Raphael exhaled dramatically, then snapped his fingers to the corner of the room. “Korrilla, is the special roast ready?”

She consulted on a scroll’s spectral projection and answered: “Yes sir, do you want it brought now?”

“The matter of our collaboration,” I recentred the discussion, tapping the table for emphasis, “is one of mutual interest that, frankly Raphael, you are forced to recognise.”

Raphael took his seat by the table, unfolded a napkin on his lap. “Without the proper order and decorum? No, I’d not debase me so. We will discuss the Crown as befitting our status, upbringing, and education. Korrilla—the roast, if you may.”

A fiery pit opened in the table before Ilinarie. Its flames quickly dissipated into an aromatic and succulent roast of ribs, dripping on a silver platter. The bones amidst the crispy browned flesh were broader and shorter than a pig’s.

“Let us partake and enjoy our supper,” Raphael said, casting a low glance at Ilinarie, “I hope you enjoy the roast, Daughter of Bhaal. I’ve heard it is your favourite.”

Ilinarie grabbed the roast with her hands and dropped it on her place, then tore off a rib and took a bite off the meat. She hummed appreciatively for a second. Then her eyes bulged wide and she tossed the meat away—retching.

“Disgusting!” she shrieked and flipped the plate over the table. “Horrible, miserable absolute damned shit!”

Raphael tapped a splash of sauce off his doublet, then slammed his hands on the table: “You ungrateful, brat—”

“It’s alive! I do not eat things that are alive,” Ilinarie screamed over him, thrashing, kicking and spitting from her stuck chair.

“It’s the House’s specialty, you contemptible creature—it’s a slice of Hope, a delicacy of torment.”

“And it tastes like crap if you don’t kill it! Shouldn’t even have bothered cleaning this table if you were going to serve me this filth!” she spat and swung her purse over the table and grabbed her butler’s lunchbox.

Serving myself with the actual food, I shook my head and sighed: “See where your theatrics lead, Raphael?”

“Oh, far be it from me to expect an associate of Enver Flymm to be anything but a boorish, thankless, snotty little tyrant,” Raphael hissed.

“That stupid word again, what even is Flymm?” Ilinarie asked.

I clinked a liquor glass with my knife, grabbing their attention. “Enough, isn’t it? Let’s discuss the Archduke of Cania.”

Raphael sat back down and poured himself a cup of blood-red wine. “Yes. Of course. I’ll be most glad to send you both to die in that glacier,” he took a sip, and set the goblet down. “Then let us discuss.”

[facetheworldbitch]

Tᴀᴠ: Movie Star ⭐

Tagged by the lovely @bhaal-battle-beer-bard @deianestormborn & @purpleasters-inseptember

Tag game: Recreate a VP of your Tav as the main character or your fave character from your favourite movie — within the limits of photo mode, of course. Make a whole entourage if you like.

I just had to do an old classic for this...

Taarna from Heavy Metal (I originally saw the movie but there is also a whole comic book series)

This exact scene always had me transfixed as a child so I had to remake it (yes I watched this when I was a kid and I know I shouldn't have LMAO this movie was truly a fever dream)

This is my favorite vp yet‼️‼️‼️‼️

It feels really fitting to do her original inspiration for this... 👀

TAARNA MY BELOVED 😫😫😫

Tags for my wonderful moots ✨️

@optimisticgrey @ilinarie @rdekarios @doomedlamb @thesanguinesonnet @floflochique @ilinarie

[facetheworldbitch]

Oc Template:

Tagged by @starlit-serpent @deianestormborn @optimisticgrey & @ilinarie

Had to do all four of my bois for this

I think these came out all right for a first try (I might redo these later)

Open tag

[doomedlamb]

so bitey <3

[faeriiefire]

TYSM @saylofwaterdeep & @deianestormborn for the tag! ❤️✨ This was fun to play with! Albeit, I'm still learning who these kids are. I realise neither of my girls have 'nicknames' ... 🥹 it'll come to me someday.

You can find the template here!

Gentle NP tags 🏷️ for my lovely moots @purpleasters-inseptember @nasaiki @doomedlamb @unovafarm @theya-art @wasteful-sam & @thesanguinesonnet

[ilinarie]

OC template

Tagged by @ele-millennial-weirdo! Thank you!

Tagging @faeriiefire, @ann-bg3-lol and @doomedlamb in return.

Made two of those, pre and post-canon. She changes a bit!

Template:

Post by @cparrisart · 2 images

💬 5  🔁 326  ❤️ 836 · 🌟 About this character sheet 🌟 ·  Hi! Looking for my character sheet template? Here are the two original full size ver

[wild-surge]

Redesign Game: Haarlep

I have more design games up my sleeve but let's go with something spicy.

This one is purely self indulgent and can steer into NSFW territory depending on where you go with it. Did your TavDurge make the ...'deal' with Haarlep? (on a meta level, I'm not sure I ever could say no to it, making fun of Raphael is always appreciated). And even if they didn't - think about it for a moment and, just like them looking just slightly different to Raphael, design Haarlep using your OCs form. Put them side by side with your blorbo to show the minuscule differences. Have fun, go wild.

note - this is not a prompt to talk about whether they would take the deal or not. Just have fun with CC and maybe add note why did the character ultimately accept the proposal (even if they didn't in your canon)

And immediately tagging @the-red-drow, @ilinarie, @elceewunjo, @karpowskaja, @ann-bg3-lol, @nasaiki, @rebelangelplays, @faeriiefire, @rdekarios

Tumblr is being weird on firefox and I'm not even sure if the above tags work.

Surprisingly enough, Val has a pretty friendly relationship with Haarlep with the latter of course using her body as they claimed they would.

Thing is, partial ceremorphosis, healing from it and then Emperor leaving took a toll on both her rewired brain and body and left her - at best - numb to many stimuli. Haarlep's answer to that was experiment with the form, annoyed by lack of response which ultimately resulted in them getting first frustrated and then bored.

There was no fun in tormenting someone, who didn't really react to anything. Thing is, that annoying little tiefling that still kicked Raphael's ass was interesting and observing her for so long made Haarlep actually develop a bit of fondness to the scrawny little thing - so they started following her more closely.

Her dying meant the contract has been fulfilled so while the incubus still kept the body, there was no longer risk of getting Val embarrassed in public at least.

I like to think that them and Kind Shadow actually develop a weird, frenemy-like relationship (and Haarlep might use that to torment one undead half-drow later on). And potentially grandma Tealith invites herself to their meetings for wine and gossip.

[ilinarie]

Wrote a brief accompanying piece to this (Gortash POV) on their respective arrivals to Moonrise. Mostly focused on establishing some ambiance and some basic character dynamics with the three original chosen. Got to exercise the writing muscles

We had been sailing for a tenday in complete darkness when the pale lights of Moonrise Towers finally pried themselves out of the fog. So deep into the Shadow-Cursed Lands, not even the best simulacra of a devil’s sight could see more than vague shapes of the Reithwin river’s shores. Save for that milky glimmer on the horizon, everything beyond the ship’s gunwale was drowned by the miasmic haze, thick and black as oil.

Even the sounds were muted. A sailor would not find familiarity in the blowing breeze or the lapping currents. Only foul gusts of winds occasionally moaned from the shores. On the ship, the principal sound was ticking. I had made sure to amply provision the vessel with clocks, indispensable for maintaining order and discipline even in normal circumstances, and especially so when venturing through a land where there’s no distinction between night and day.

During that travel I had grown to find the dismal murk an outright pleasant sight. Though I loathed to be idle, the outside gloom was an invaluable respite from the inescapable flickering pall of the ship’s moonlanterns. The entire deck and each room of the ship had to be permanently illuminated by those lamps. They provided no warmth in that chill and stagnant weather—that felt as if always on the verge of a weak sleet—but they did prevent the shadows from taking hold of the vessel and the crew. When looking overboard, one could see its hungering shades clinging to the outer hull, and that was a strong-enough encouragement to brave through the inconvenience of the illumination. Though it did not come to it, I figured any threat of a keelhaul through the shadows would at least serve to dissuade any attempt at mutiny.

“Sir”, the captain reported at my quarters, “we’ll make landing in three hours.” I dismissed him to his duties.

I took the next hour to get ahead on some pending matters of my business back in the city. At two hours until landing, I shelfed the papers and the documents. I made myself presentable to my expecting host—I donned my finery, I polished its filigree, I tightened the rings of the gauntlet that held my right hand together, I draped myself in a fur-lined coat against the cold. At half an hour until landing, I paid homage to the Black Hand on the shrine atop my work desk.

As I walked out onto the deck, Moonrise took shape against the pale light. The marble and stone building stood proud atop an islet, piercing the sky and overlooking the river, though it was clearly more of a ruin than a fortress. Its main tower stood out as an impressive work of masonry, sharply discordant with its own wretched state—and of the land around it. Its lines were wracked by decay, and yet fundamentally delicate, fit for a palace, with tall windows of stained glass and lofty balconies at the upper floors.

To the bottom, the palace gradually transformed into a fortress—its walls thickened, its windows narrowed into slits, battlements and parapets crowned its balconies. Massive moonlanterns hung from the iron poles that jutted out from the turrets, bathing the tower in their pall, and a tall bridge connected the tower’s patio to the ruined town atop the northern cliffs.

The cursed land it sat upon twisted at its foundation, sprouting misshapen tendrils of tumorous rock and roots that clung to and deformed the bastion’s walls. Ruined remains of other structures piled by the shoreline and mingled with the cursed earth, some still keeping recognisable shapes of old chapels or flanking towers—but parting to make way for a well-equipped set of loading docks.

Two men stood and waited by the jetty: a corpulent figure in black robes, with hands clasped over his stomach; and the General, a decrepit, grey-bearded elf swallowed by a heavy suit of armour. They were flanked by a small contingent of a dozen skeletal soldiers in rusted armour and rotten tabards.

The ship reached the towers’ docks at the expected time, and I disembarked to greet them: “My most esteemed hosts, we meet at last! I trust I did not keep you waiting.”

The portly robed man stepped forward and met my gaze. The face under his hood was the colour of an old bruise, its skin oozed a dark and waxy blood from the glyphs and lacerations carved into its surface, forming the shape of an inverted triangle that sloughed at the seams as he smiled. In that monstrous face sat a pair of bright golden eyes, alert and strangely mesmerising.

“Lord Enver Gortash,” the man greeted me, outstretching his arms, but not bowing. His voice came off as clear and sophisticated, with a slight incorporeal echo to it. “I’m glad to finally meet you in the flesh after so much correspondence. I am Balthazar, chief servant of General Ketheric Thorm—and I welcome you to Moonrise Towers. I see my moonlanterns have served you well.”

“A very ingenious creation, indeed. A pleasure,” I kept the smile and returned the bowless flourish to Balthazar and Ketheric.

The elderly general stood tall and stiff. His armour was shaped like bones and teeth, a steel ribcage embracing his body, adorned with a black tabard embroidered with a danse macabre. He glanced at me with heavy bloodshot eyes and spoke in his general voice, in a low, authoritative boom: “Where is the other?”

“Why, yes, the Chosen of Bhaal. She is on board, isn’t she?” Balthazar asked me and gestured to the ship, as the crew disembarked the cargo of weapons.

“Oh no, no—I could not supply her special needs. We opted to travel separately. A servant of her father would drop her off by airship, and she’d complete the rest of the journey by land.”

Ketheric sighed and signalled for his skeletal soldiers to help with the cargo—they shuffled obediently to his command. “I do not wish to deal with your associates’ delays, Gortash.”

“You’ve waited a century to rise from the grave and didn’t learn the virtue of patience?” I prodded with a chuckle, Ketheric’s scowl deepened. “Very good, I can respect that, perhaps our alliance will be fruitful after-all.”

“I’ve informed you, Lord Gortash, that the chosen of Bhaal did not respond to my missives. It is vexing that you did not guarantee her arrival,” Balthazar complained.

“Don’t worry yourselves about Ilinarie, she’s very reliable for matters of her father’s interest.”

Ketheric grumbled in his throat. “The warning remains.”

“Oh, it seems we won’t need to wait long,” Balthazar spoke up, pressing three fingers to his left eyeball—a spectral energy swirled within his carved glyphs. “My spotters report a carriage coming through the Reithwin town ruins. Let’s see, yes, they are crossing the bridge. It seems Gortash’s associate is reliable after all.”

“Oh please, we’re all allies here—she’s General Thorm’s associate as much as mine. Shall we go meet her?” I signalled for them to take the lead.

Ketheric gave a quick nod and marched off with his clanking steps, Balthazar signalled for me to follow them. We climbed the crumbling staircase that led from the docks to the fortress’ patio at the tower’s north face. The path upwards was corroded by the twisted growths that sprouted off the earth, and several of the steps were more recently carved from the spongy tumorous rock.

Statues depicting Ketheric’s old soldiers loomed over the patio, their stone armours eroded from their features, revealing rusted-eaten metal skeletons beneath. Moonlanterns hung from their marble halberds. The tower’s northern face was also its main entrance, featuring an ostentatious flight of stairs leading up to a pair of tall iron doors. Something about the architecture struck me as familiar, in its shape and style.

Ketheric slowed his step as we reached the patio. His eyes fixated on the trudging delegation that arrived at his tower. “What in the Grey Wastes is that?”

At the centre of the procession was a rectangular palanquin, the size of a very opulent bed—or a small prison cell—draped in a tall canopy of violet and black fabric. Engraved pillars marked each corner, each with a pronged metal rod jutting outward. At the base of each rod, a human corpse was impaled through the ribcage. At each tip, a moonlantern and an incense thurible hung from jingling chains. The litter’s sides were covered in curtains, fashioned from banners and hanging corpses. A pair of heaving strongmen in top hats and tailcoats carried the front of the litter, while the back was supported by a trio of whimpering gnolls—also dressed accordingly. Ilinarie’s shapeshifter sister and fiendish little butler both led from the vanguard, travelling on foot.

“Ah, there is she. General Thorm, do prepare to meet the Chosen of Bhaal,” I stepped up to his side to witness their arrival.

The butler was a hideous creature, a hunchbacked goblinesque fiend with a shrunken head for a face and a beak for a nose, always clad in a frayed black tailcoat and red cravat, matched with a gibus hat that he kept adorned with a snake’s skeleton and the feathers of some carrion bird. He barked and signalled frantic orders to the servants, only stopping when he spotted us—at which point he opened a needle-toothed smile and declared: “Milady will be with you shortly!”

Ilinarie’s sister Orin was the only one not dressed like a servant, instead clad in a red carapace of fleshy hard leather, held together with silver pins and chains, partially complemented by scraps of fabric. Her grey changeling skin shifted and swirled behind the gaps in her armour, and her straw-coloured hair swung in a floor-length braid at her back, tipped with the head of flail. I counted myself fortunate for having few dealings with Orin—or at least few that I knew of. Orin could disguise as anyone, although Ilinarie assured me she loathed to do so.

“This is a circus,” Ketheric grumbled.

“The temple of murder does have its flair of dramatics,” I conceded.

 Under the butler’s instructions, the heaving and groaning servants rotated the palanquin in a ninety-degrees turn and then, finally, set it down. There was little time for rest: the two strongmen at the first sprung into activity and hurried to open the trunks attached to the sides.

“The exalted and most vile scioness of the Dread Lord of Murder, his prophet of the end and bearer of his urge, shall now present herself!” the butler announced, skipping over to the palanquin.

The frontal curtains ruffled and then unfurled. Ilinarie—clad in a two-piece scant negligee of red silk and with a seething sneer to her crimson eyes—revealed herself atop the cushioned interior of her wheelless carriage. She was a peculiar type of albino tiefling, porcelain-white of skin, mottled and marbled with vascular flushes at her extremities, and bold red at her throat like that of an exotic bird. Crested with a pair of sickle-shaped pronged horns, her white hair trailed down in a cascade of elaborate braids reaching to her ankles.

“Hideous,” she glanced at the tower and spat then, helped by the butler, stepped out of the palanquin.

Ilinarie outstretched her arms as soon as her bare foot reached the stone floor, and the servants were upon her to not quite dress, but adorn her. Her arms received loose sleeves of fraying red silk, her feet and calves put into delicate filigreed boots one at a time, chains of burnished silver were wrapped around her bare waist—two severed hands were attached on their right side and, on her left, she herself sheathed her father’s crimson dagger. A cloak of reddened feathers was draped under her braids and fastened at her sternum with a string of heavy medallions, bearing her father’s crest. Finally, the upper half of a rotten dragonborn’s head was attached to her horns and her sister was allowed to crown out the outfit with a mounted halo of teardrop-shaped rubies.

Ilinarie always had a look on face of utter contempt for all things, but she seemed to be in a particularly bitter mood as she felt sufficiently ornamented and strode forth towards us.

“I hate this place,” she declared before I could greet her, then addressed Ketheric. “Are you the general? Are you going to make my trip to this backwater worth it?”

“You are no longer speaking to the mad dogs of your little cult, Chosen of Bhaal. Do find it in you to scrounge up some scrap of respect.”

I stepped up between them and held Ilinarie’s shoulder. “That is indeed the general, dear—our fearsome Ketheric Thorm.”

“Fearsome corpses in armour guard my Tribunal’s halls. Does this one also speak in rhymes? How did that go, Orin?”

“Present me well from gifts thine own; Or I shall rend thy flesh from bone,” the sister recited.

“And if thy offering is found to lack, thou’ll face a fate most bleak and black.”

“Let’s skip the poetry dear, you know I’m not particular to it,” I said, holding her back, “please don’t feel sour about Ilinarie’s irreverence, general. I can assure you it does not come from disrespect. She has in fact been quite enthralled reading all the details of your campaigns…”

Ilinarie shivered under my touch; her lips strained open in a wide sharp-toothed smile. “Very, very exciting reads,” she drawled, high-pitched and airy. “It was the least one could for me when making me lug through this barren wilderness with nothing to kill—at least I know this general can assure proper bloodshed even when he’s humiliatingly defeated.”

“Do not speak of my defeat. You know nothing of what I’ve fought through,” Ketheric snarled.

Ilinarie ignored him and suddenly pushed past us toward Balthazar. She snatched her claws on his robes and hauled his bloated form up to his tiptoes. “And what is this thing? What in the Grey Wastes is wrong with it?” she demanded.

“Argh, let go of me at once, you—” Balthazar protested, hands up to avoid touching her.

Ilinarie’s servants gasped loudly. The butler shuffled towards his liege, shrieking: “Were you about to insult the lady?”

I stood before the butler and answered calmly: “That is General Thorm’s advisor. His name is Balthazar—”

The servants gasped again.

“Do not speak that name in my presence,” Ilinarie suddenly snapped to face me, shoving a clawed finger at my face, letting Balthazar clumsily stumble back. She then snapped her fingers at Ketheric and commanded: “You, general, change its name.”

“This is ridiculous,” Ketheric groaned.

“It is of utmost importance that it be changed,” the butler insisted, “that name is shared with a long-dead traitor most foul of milady’s dreadful house. It causes her such distress…”

“Remarkable,” Balthazar said, straightening his robes and clearing his throat. “You see, I have his ribcage—the old Balthazar of Amkethran’s, that is. Salvaged from his tomb and repurposed for a higher purpose. It appears milady can sense it.”

“I can feel the filth inside its body,” Ilinarie hissed through sharp teeth, glaring at Balthazar from over her shoulder.

“We should carve it out and burn its bones at father’s altar, bloodkin,” Orin proposed to her sister.

“We should eat it, so it returns to dear father’s fell embrace, bloodkin,” Ilinarie said through a giddy giggle, then her expression abruptly shifted to her pouty look of contempt. “But not today. The general and his lackey remain useful. You’ve my blessing to keep the ribcage, lackey, as my courtesy for having desecrated it.”

“I did not intend to part with it—” Balthazar huffed, and Ilinarie cut him off.

“We’ll retrieve it someday. I’ll let you keep the name too. But I still don’t wanna hear it.”

“We will do our best to avoid saying it,” I held Ilinarie’s shoulder again and gently pulled her away from Balthazar. “Shall we retire indoors, Ketheric? We have much to discuss, don’t we?”

“We do,” Ketheric said. “Come inside,” he grumbled and marched up the stairs.

Ilinarie dismissed me and signalled for her sister and her butler to accompany us inside. We all followed the general up to his fortress.

Balthazar’s undead sentries hurried to his wordless orders, and pushed open the groaning iron doors. Passing by the zombies, I realised the particular way their faces were cut open: an upright triangular section was carved off their visages, with angles at the forehead and each cheekbone, removing their noses and eyes. Only slack hanging mouths remained of their features. Their smell was mercifully faint—rotten, but less offensive than a regular cadaver, with a dusty quality to it. Perhaps that too was muted by the Shadow-Curse.

Past the foyer, a flight of stairs descended into a once-grand hall, still impressively spacious but, much like the rest of the tower, littered with rotten banners and corroded rock. Sheets of cobwebs clung to the debris at the corners, leaving open only the corridors for the undead servants and soldiers that shambled around the place.

“Say, Ketheric, who built this tower for you?” I asked. “The style strikes me as familiar.”

“The Reithwin’s masons guild,” the general strained out the answer, a tad more forlorn than irritated.

I studied the hall’s vaulted ceiling, its marble pillars and supporting arches. I could swear I remembered a project in that design. “Were they particularly prolific back in your day? Commissioned from outside Reithwin perhaps?” I insisted.

“No,” Ketheric answered and nodded to the double doors at the end of the hall.

Balthazar’s servants opened them and made way into an audience chamber, where Ketheric would’ve once held court. The benches for the petitioners and courtiers were long disintegrated into piles of rotten wood, but the general’s stone throne still stood strong in its place of honour, flanked by new curtains and by stairways that would lead to the tower’s upper levels. Looming above the throne was the symbol of his newfound allegiance to Myrkul, God of the Dead: beams of blackened steel arranged in the shape of two inverted triangles, superimposed upon a larger upright triangle.

Ketheric marched across the chamber and dropped himself on his throne. Balthazar stood by his side and ordered his servants to bring a pair of dusty padded chairs for myself and Ilinarie.

“So,” I dismissed the zombies and took my seat, “we’ve been told you have something powerful and important in this tower. Care to drop the mystery?”

“There’s meat in the walls,” Ilinarie declared. She didn’t sit down.

“What?”

“There is meat in the walls,” Balthazar clarified, “one of lesser discernment could call it that, at least.”

“In the Underdark beneath this tower there is a sprawling illithid colony,” Ketheric said, hunching on his throne. “It has been festering unattended for well over five hundred years. A century ago, long before the curse, its tendrils were already reaching the tower, and we blocked its infiltration onto the temple beneath my family’s mausoleum.”

“We estimate it is the most powerful illithid conglomeration in the Sword Coast. All controlled by a single Elder Brain,” Balthazar explained.

“It smells terrible, ugh,” Ilinarie stomped her shoe on the stone floor. “I hate those things. Slimy and hollow, and bleeding silver.”

I rhythmically tapped my fingers on my thigh. “It sounds like it’d be a waste to simply exterminate such a colony.”

“And also so, so boring,” Ilinarie plopped on her chair, draping her bare legs over the armrest.

“That is precisely the point,” Balthazar said, “the Elder Brain controls a horde of psionically tethered thralls, it has entire fleets of Astral-faring vessels. Were we to enslave the Elder Brain we could—”

“Put those vermin to use. Command a horde fit to butcher worlds upon worlds,” Ilinarie giggled coarsely and sprung from her seat.

“How do you reckon we dominate this Elder Brain?” I asked.

“This falls under your purview, Chosen of Bane,” Ketheric said. I opened a smile. “Naturally. Ilinarie and I will study the colony’s structure. If the findings are propitious, I may have a way to bring the brain under our control.”

[ilinarie]

Need to call off work to catch up on my tags

[ele-millennial-weirdo]

OC template

Tagged by the lovelies @optimisticgrey @arlynx and @saylofwaterdeep <3 (love ya all, babes!!!🫶)

Alright, it probably sucks but my skills (and patience) for graphic design are little or non-existent at all, and most of my recent screentime has been devoted to editing (which is currently kicking my booty spectacularly, but I will never give up, because I have far too many ideas cooking 😤).

Yeah, this could have been much better, I KNOW!

But do I really want to increase my daily amount of screentime to improve? Absolutely not. It's summer and I deserve all the rest I can get. I'll make peace with it, I suppose :3

Post by @cparrisart · 2 images

💬 5  🔁 318  ❤️ 811 · 🌟 About this character sheet 🌟 ·  Hi! Looking for my character sheet template? Here are the two original full size ver

Tagging (no pressure!) @sakesword @ixiagrey @ilinarie @unovafarm @afilmnoirdetective @archduchessgortash (feel free to skip this if you've been tagged already!)

[ele-millennial-weirdo]

OC lore dump

Tagged by @fireflyeyes Thank you!!! 🫶

VP by the phenomenal @optimisticgrey <3<3<3

Sorry this took me so long, but summer weather is taking a toll on my energy levels, ugh

Basics

Name: Suna Ilahe Amryn (her surname, Arquelyn, belongs to her adoptive parents, a couple of half-elves named Thalan and Eala. She never uses it in-game, preferring to go by name only. Her first name is the only one she still remembers (but Gort, luckily for her, has good memory 😏).

Aliases: The Dark Urge, Durge, little spark (Gale), dancing flame (Gort), eyes of gold (among Amnians)

Race: tiefling

Background: haunted one

Gender: female

Sexuality: pansexual, demiromantic

Pronouns: she/her/hers

Other

Family: Bhaal (father/creator). Orin the Red, Sarevok Anchev (relatives). She ignores if she ever had a real mother or not, and whether Father simply created her from His blood and gore, or if an unnamed tiefling woman, possessed by Him, was used as a tool to sire her, and later killed.

Her foster parents were a couple of half-elves, Thalan and Eala Arquelyn, whom she slaughtered during her first ever killing spree.

(I’m still busy writing about her life, both before and after game, so no spoilers here, but Gale becomes her family after the game events, at least canonically, while her fic ending is going to be much different). She will never get to meet her (and Gort’s) daughter, Jessamine, because Orin offers her unborn child to Bhaal right before lobotomizing her but, at least in fics, she's going to have a son, Erkan (born far from Baldur’s Gate, somewhere near Murann, Amn’s second-largest city and seaport).

Birthplace: Baldur’s Gate

Job: assassin/serial killer (her main occupation as a Bhaalspawn), high-primistress of Bhaal, surgeon. Later adventurer, then healer, potion master and alchemist (she will join Amn’s largest alchemists’ guild in Murann).

Phobias/fears: distressing and intrusive thoughts are obviously a common occurrence for someone like her, but she mostly fears losing her grip on reality, and is literally terrified about losing control over both her body and her mind and ending up hurting/killing those she loves the most.

Hobbies: botany, crafting poisons with magic, potions brewing, experimental magic, watercolor painting, and sexy times :3

Morals

Alignment: chaotic evil (before lobotomy). After lobotomy, somewhere between true neutral (always seeking for some kind of balance) and chaotic neutral (she remains mostly an individualist, who holds personal freedom above all else).

Flaws: (before lobotomy) self-centered, manipulating, obsessive and almost paranoid, control-freak, not afraid to use fear/violence to control others, tends to push people away when they get too close, handles criticism poorly and uses the silent treatment as a coping strategy when she feels overwhelmed. Post lobotomy she tends to appear secretive and almost aloof, her intense inner conflicts often lead her to emotional withdrawals, she doesn’t trust her own feelings and prefers to suffer in silence instead of asking for help.

Virtues: smart and resourceful, dedicated, passionate and intense, both before and after lobotomy. But especially after, she becomes far more compassionate and caring, and slowly learns how to trust people again.

This or That

Introvert/Ambivert/Extrovert, Organized/Disorganized, Closed-minded/Open-minded, Calm/Anxious/Restless, Disagreeable/In-Between/Agreeable, Patient/In-Between/Impatient, Outspoken/In-Between/Reserved, Leader/Follower/Flexible, Empathetic/In-Between/Apathetic, Optimist/Realist/Pessimist, Traditional/In-between/Modern, Hard-working/In-Between/Lazy

Tagging (no pressure) @unovafarm @faeriiefire @cinder-rellish181 @archduchessgortash @ghost-of-a-dream-girl @bladesingerlily @saylofwaterdeep @arlynx @ilinarie (pls ignore this if you've done it already, brain is not properly braining in summer weather 🫠)