#sonofbhaal

[spiderwarden]

"Please tell me that you at least appreciate my beard. Or, if that's too much commitment, that you don't oppose it, at the very least. I'll have you know that I have no intentions of shaving it off - I will not succumb to the pressure of those in favor of that - but! It would be nice to have one person on my side in this debate. Which really shouldn't be one, might I add." (from Gale)

In the span of twenty seconds, Minthara has learned several things about the gracefully combusting camp wizard. That one, even as she stood in silence, bowl in hand, awaiting the rest to get their fill so she may indulge herself in the food- and had the unfortunate luck to land next to Gale of Waterdeep - the man sought conversation. Welcomed, or unwelcome, he would seek it. The second being, even as he rambles on with no help or comment from the Drow herself - and her gaze slowly turns toward him within his commentary, - he would continue to share his inner plight regardless of what she would say. Gullible as he is, there seemed to be some sort of camp debate he was trying to draw her in on the state of his facial hair.

Minthara takes the wooden spoon in hand as they step forward in unison toward the cauldron. Tapping it quietly on the wooden bowl while her head tilts with the eye of the fire - briefly wondering if Gale had some sort of ulterior objective to this ploy he had against her. Was there more than the apparent fragility beneath that beard he loved so much.

With the line of questioning - or rambling more like, a crimson gaze darts up to his face to look over the beard in question. "I do not condone altering the image of one's person for the sake and comfort of those who can barely call themselves your allies." She starts, "The proportions of your face are in the correct position, the hair makes your lips pucker when you speak, and the beard itself is clearly well tended to. With the right oils, I imagine it will flourish and flourish well." She would almost say dashing, but they are not that close - he could be plotting her demise for all she knew. "Shave it, however, do not be offended if I assume wrongly that a child has entered our camp."

@sonofbhaal / Gale rambles to someone who's been here only 5 minutes.

[lanternlit]

@sonofbhaal said: «SPELL-BOUND» for the sender to use a spell to entrap the receiver. (I haven't moved him from my BG blog, but may I send this from Gale to Astarion? ☺️)

capturing a muse starters / ACCEPTING ↷

“Shit―”

He begins to back away once he realises Gale is awake; he’d rather not fight (what would be the point ― he’d either end up dead, or alone, and alone isn’t ideal with a parasitic tadpole squirming around in one’s brain); but, he doesn’t have the time to try and explain himself. Gale’s magic coils around him like rope, pinning his arms to his sides; Astarion stumbles, not properly back on his feet, and ends up losing his balance, falling on his knees in front of the other man.

Not the most dignified night he’s had. But not, by far, the least dignified, either, and maybe he can use it ― widen his eyes a little, look how pitiful I am, how could he possibly be a real threat, like this? No need to attack him at all.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear.” It’s exactly what it looks like: he’s tried to... sneak a little taste. Who can blame him! He’s tired, hungry (prey’s been sparse when he’s had to sneak around about it), he only wanted a little taste... He’s never drank the blood of thinking creatures before, and Gale’s powerful... He had a moment of weakness, sue him.

He puts on his best pleading puppy-dog eyes, not even trying to fight the binding magic.

[vascend]

"We've been travelling together for quite a while, and I'm just now realizing I don't know all that much about you." (from Gale)

Quirking a brow, Astarion placed his hand on his hip as he eyed Gale, "Well, whatever could you mean? Are you saying you didn't pay attention during all those long walks we took together? I'm hurt." The vampire frowned, placing a hand over his heart in mock hurt, "You wound me so." In truth, Astarion barely paid any mind to half the nonsense he spouted during their little trip, but Gale always seemed like the type of person to pay attention even if he didn't look it.

[reflectingchaos]

INBOX ANSWERS.     @sonofbhaal.     |     “ pick up your weapon. ” (from Sarevok for Drizzt)         meme.

nothing quite says desperation like a man willing to go to a drow for protection,  even if he had finally begun to make himself his own reputation among the folk of Ten-Towns.  and so when the poor soul found him,  begging for help,  how could Drizzt turn him away?  his story had touched the drow warrior’s heart,  Drizzt supposed.  he didn’t completely understand the mess surrounding these Bhaalspawn,  but he knew the man was terrified.  someone,  or something,  was after him.

so here they had lingered for some weeks now,  the man growing increasingly excitable and ill-tempered as time went on.  it was the wastelands of the North,  far enough from Ten-Towns to keep the people from any potential harm.  he’d tried to learn the man’s story,  but could only get bits and pieces.  no name,  the man was too paranoid.  but over time,  Drizzt was able to get a rough image.  he was born cursed,  he said.  haunted by evil that he could not escape.  these words were fearfully familiar.  was that why Drizzt had offered his services so readily?

he knew that fear.  the fear that somehow this evil was inherent,  a poison in his blood that would destroy him.  or destroy those around him.  so he sat,  and he waited,  and he tried to talk.  but when the moment came,  it all happened so quickly.  first quiet,  then commotion as the man ran into the cave and clutch annoyingly at Drizzt’s.  “he’s here!”  he fellow is nearly sick with fright.  but this only empowered Drizzt’s curiosity as he sword his scimitars and strode out into the icy wastes.  the man was a mountain but Drizzt met him without delay.

               their first clash of blades went surprisingly to say the least.  minutes into the battle,  the man managed to disarm one of Drizzt’s scimitars.  he looks at where it comes to rest,  partially impaled into the frozen ground,  and shoots a glance back to the aggressor.  but he doesn’t move.  instead,  he motions to Drizzt’s blade and...  offers him his weapon back?  of course,  Drizzt doesn’t trust him,  but he’s not about to squander the movement and darts to retrieve the scimitar.

                         the fellow liked to play with his food,  evidently.  Drizzt could deal with that.

[epicballads]

Hi ಠ◡ಠ

Hi (◕‿◕✿)

[epicballads]

sonofbhaal replied to      Office life is dangerous, I have a paper cut…...

You’re not supposed to make out with the printer paper.

I thought this is what they mean when they say love hurts

But you made me google sexy paper and the results were.... interesting

[epicballads]

Over the Hills and Far Away

@sonofbhaal​ [Anomen]

     Jaskier’s hand slipped on the rough surface of a tree’s bark, dirt and blood mixing on his palm. There was no time to mind a minor injury, no time to stop running. There was, however, time to scream as if the tree had bit off his hand. Not the smartest reflex to have when you were followed by a madman with an ax.      Sure enough, he could still hear the man somewhere not to close behind him, screaming profanities and proclaiming the end of his life was drawing closer.      Running into the forest had felt like a good idea at the time when he’d first seen the stranger, hearing him yell that he was come to chop off vital parts from Jaskier the bard. Unthankful townsfolk, immediately pointing fingers at him, revealing who he was.      What he did know about the reason behind this assassination attempt wasn’t much but he couldn’t exactly ask a lot of questions either. Someone had paid the man, a mercenary, to kill him. Someone noble. That was it. There were so many people he could think of, he had no way to tell who it might have been.      The forest was a hard terrain to rush through on foot by day but it was nighttime now and that made things a lot worse. Branches were whipping into his face, the roots of trees, massive and gnarly, were trying to trip him, rivers and steep slopes were denying him passage. He came upon such a slope and he nearly fell down. Stones and dirt were tumbling down the side of it, clanking against bigger stones and trees on their way down as Jaskier managed to stop right in time not to die from being bludgeoned to death on his decent.      Jaskier’s side started to burn and his lungs would too, soon. He had to find a way to escape that was more elaborate than running as fast as he could. This wouldn’t get him anywhere far enough. This was just exhausting him, getting his clothes bloody and torn, and ruining his shoes.            The thunderous thud of a small ax hitting a tree somewhat close to Jaskier’s head reminded him that standing around was an even worse plan than running. He took off immediately again, running to his right to try and find a way down the slope or to somewhere safe. But what could that be?          It wasn’t a minute after that thought when Jaskier could see the faint smoke of a fire. A camp could mean scoundrels worse than the man behind him but Jaskier was at a point at which taking chances was the only chance he had.      He ran towards the fire, making out the light of it more and more as he came closer. Whoever was there had to hear him come because he wasn’t exactly quiet as he ran around a large tree and, finally, one of the forest’s roots managed to trip him. He caught himself before falling into the flames of the fire he had been seeing. Next to it sat a man on the trunk of a tree that probably had fallen some time ago. It was overgrown and half-swallowed by the earth below it.      Jaskier looked over and met the man’s eyes over orange dancing flames. The heat radiating off it was unpleasant. 

     “So... sorry for barging into your... lovely camp,” he began, words torn apart by how out of breath he was. Jaskier almost felt sick from running. “But,” he began anew, putting both his hands on his hips. “There’s a man — trying to murder me, and I could use some help. Urgently.”

[ofcandlekeep]

               ▒█▐ ❝ And there I thought you would embrace                                 the COMFORT the closeness of family brings.                                 Seeing as you have so little left. Dry your tears,                                 Dyna. Imoen was a klutz and a burden all her life.                                 She was born weak and she died weak - you are                                 better off without her.                                       At least now you can stop worrying about her                                       fate. She is, at last, reunited with her beloved                                       GORION. ❞ There was not a crumb of com-                                       passion in Sarevok’s voice, his lack of interest                                       in the young sorceress’ passing evident in eve-                                       ry syllable.

       THERE IS fire under her skin. She refuses to turn her eyes to  the corpse. It is cold. There is nothing there that once belonged to her slain kin. An empty vessel that mocks her agony. No longer is Dyna flesh and blood -- she is the murderous  legacy of a God. She  will strike at Sarevok for his insolence. Rip him apart with sharpened teeth and hatred.  Long fingers will curl into fists. Cuts made as  nails dig into flesh. Harder and harder. She does not feel the sting.

"Shut your mouth!" Words are a bestial snarl. She spits them out as  though they are poison on her tongue. "You are nothing to me -- a remnant that I have ALLOWED to remain on this earth. Speak to me of my family again, and I will kill you where you stand."

The tears that stain her cheeks are but a memory in the wake of her  rage. There will be no satisfaction to be had in watching her cry.  She will not allow it.