So Orin from Little Shop of Horrors is a sadistic dentist that takes pleasure in other people’s pain. And Orin from Baldurs Gate is a sadistic bhallspawn who takes pleasure in other people’s pain. Why is Orin such an evil name?
Shanaynay getting down and dirty with that nae nae #naenae #ratchet #ghetto #shanaynay #school #hughschool #afterhours #bhall #adventure @bostonhomegirl
"How frozen and how faint I then became,
Ask me not, reader! for I write it not;
Since words would fail to tell thee of my state.
I was not dead nor living."
- Dante's Inferno, Canto XXXIV
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Stasis.
She knew not how long it had been, since she'd been incarcerated here. Time had long since blurred together: the days into months, the months into years, the years into centuries, for eons. Existence was that empty place between the bitter cold and the dull sound of the wind.
At first, her rage kept her warm. She railed against the starlight walls of her prison, pure fury screaming into the empty, cold air. She cursed her queen's name: Bhall, goddess of Fire. Traitor! Murderer! Monster! The archangel of Fire's fury within had flared out around her, turning the floor of her prison to a steamy stew. Her fists pounded into the walls, but no amount of sheer force nor passion could shake them. They mocked her with their translucency, glimmering on impact and dissipating back to nothingness. She howled pure frustration, only for her cries to be lost in the vast snowy wastes.
As the uselessness of her anger set in, she quieted. She continued to seethe, fluttering above the frigid pool she created until it slowly hardened. Surely there was a way out of here? She explored her small prison, testing its strength and extent, and discovering it was an immutable bubble of divine light. No amount of channeling her inner fire into fireballs, nor arcane words of power, nor searching for vulnerabilities yielded anything useful. There was no way out from within.
Slowly, the cold began to win. She held her arms close to her, shivering. It seeped in, slowly, achingly, right to her bones. She would not die of the cold, not like the mortals did, but she could still feel its misery. She huddled in a crouch on the floor. Her burnt wings provided little shelter from the winds.
At the slightest sound, she'd call out, with the full force of an archangel's voice, pleading for help. Little would come of it, most the time. Sometimes, a creature would visit her, and be repelled by the shimmering walls. Rarely, a mortal would happen to pass through, and come to her aide. They'd try their best, hitting the walls with what crude weapons they had, pawwing the walls for secret latches, and ultimately giving up. Once or twice, a mage happened by. No amount of arcane energy could pierce the walls.
There were a few times when her would-be saviors found themselves unduly spent in their efforts to free her. She watched as they succumbed to the cold. She was helpless: all her fire, all her warmth, could not penetrate the walls. These mortals died. Again she pounded her walls, again she screamed. Bhall, murderer! Her anger could not bring back the dead.
Eventually, she stopped even trying to call for help. None could help her. She already had enough bones decorating her prison, she needed no more. She learned to ignore the sounds around her, the winds, the rise and fall of the sun. She just curled into a ball, clutching her knees to her breast, her wings resting around her like a shield. As the layers of snow erased the physical reminders of her failures, she began to envy the dead. Death was a way out, a path her immortality could not grant her. She wondered if mortals knew their fortune.
Her existence was cold, bitter white emptiness. Consciousness became a dreamy state. She remembered her previous life. She was Brigit, the right hand of Fire. She lived for her queen, she fought for her queen. Her mother. She found herself missing her kin, her sisters, and her home. Her family. What had gone so wrong? Why had they fallen? Traitor, murderer, monster... she no longer knew if she cursed Bhall or cursed herself. She knew nothing but misery.
Eventually thought abandoned her. Time crawled by without meaning. She vaguely sensed the Age of Ice as it descended, as blizzards that were more brutal than before, a chill that cut deeper into her core. She only pulled her body and wings into a tighter ball. Even the cold began to lose meaning.
Stasis.
Slowly the sharp edge of the endless winter broke. Time continued to slip, it did not matter. The melting ice did not matter. Even the approach of war drums did not matter. Nothing mattered.
The slap of feet on permafrost, drums pounding, gruff voices chanting, a dream. It stopped.
"Brigit," a surly voice shouted.
The archangel of Fire was called to attention. Slowly she unfurled her charred wings and looked up. She beheld an army of creatures, vaguely resembling the mortals she was familiar with, but twisted and dark. Cruel fangs jutting from their powerful jaws, heavy browbones, green-gray skin, carrying crude axes and hammers. There were three of them standing just outside her prison, two males and a female. They wore the holy emblem of Bhall herself on their armor.
The female spoke. "Arise, Brigit. The Clan of Embers has need of you."
These people... they were touched by her goddess, her mother, she could sense the fire within them. They needed her? Was her imprisonment finally at an end? Brigit stumbled to her feet, the flood of hope animating her. "You are here to free me?" she asked with disbelief.
"By Bhall's will, we will free you, angel," replied the female. "You will fight along our side, and bring glory to her name once more."
So it was true. Her divine mother was giving her a chance to repent. She could be free... she could have her family again. Warmth, once more. Oh, how she wanted warmth... "Yes, yes, I will lend my sword to Bhall's people. Free me."
The three conferred in whispers amongst themselves. Finally, the stongest looking of them, tall and covered in scars, walked up to the edge of her starlight prison. A look into his eyes showed the evidence of a man whose dreams were not his own. The corrupted flames of Bhall herself shone through them. She saw herself reflected in them, distorted, fallen. She remembered a time when she tried to save her queen from that same corruption. But now, those flames were her only salvation.
With a primal roar, the creature hefted his enormous, flaming axe, and brought it down on the ethereal walls. Shivers of light spread over the surface of the bubble, before bursting like a cascade of stardust. The archangel stared up at the floating motes, as if finally waking from a long, long slumber. She unsheathed her sword. The passion for life once more flowed into it, and it ignited. With a cry of joy, she held it aloft. She stretched her blackened wings, and arose into the air. "I am free!" she shouted to the heavens.
