#tav drow

[alstromeri-a]

[sketcher20]

BG3, The Drow Maidens ——————————————

Mizri, tav/durge, belongs to Moonbun

Talice, tav, belongs to me

——————————————

gift for Moonbun

Mizri was fun to draw and Moonbun is a talent artists. I love her art style and the character pressings she makes.

[photochoco]

BG3 Elerra six months after the defeat of the Netherbrain

[alstromeri-a]

“I’d go further.” “If you went that far, I’d kill anyone who let you.” “Your past,” he repeated, the easy tone gone from his voice. “It has no right to take you away from me.”

[alstromeri-a]

It hurt. “Perfect. That doesn’t work anymore either.”

Aren let out a low, humorless huff and tossed aside the useless vial. The same fate befell a worn amulet with a dull sapphire and a scroll covered in tightly packed drow runes. These had served him well in the shadowed tunnels of the Dominion. They could heal. Once. Before he’d wandered so far from the Underdark that their magic had bled dry. He stood ankle-deep in the stream. The shallow river winding through the ruins of Lathander’s shrine was surprisingly calm.

He glanced toward the large stone on the bank where his gear lay — battered cloak, tunic, shoulder guard, gloves, boots. All of it was stiff with dried blood.

Only the lower half of his armor remained: trousers, greaves.

He took a deep breath and waded farther in, teeth clenched against the way every movement pulled at aching muscles.

Cool water closed around his shoulders, washing away the rust-colored smears. The pain dulled slightly — but didn’t leave.

Aren closed his eyes, letting his thoughts drift.

The priestess had spoken of lost memories, orchids, someone waiting for her in Baldur’s Gate. He hadn’t interrupted. He’d even asked questions—anything to avoid being left alone with the ache. Six enemies at once… That had been too much, even for him. Deep gashes, burns from spells he didn’t recognize, bite wounds.

Her magic hadn’t been enough to heal all of it.

Aren shifted, finding his balance again on the slick riverbed, mentally chiding himself for letting his guard down. ... it was strange. Strange to hear her speak like that. Strange to see her uncertain. Frightened.

She wasn’t like the women of Menzoberranzan. They had been ruthless, commanding, cunning — their secrets sharp as knives. Shadowheart… tried to be like them. Tried to hide what made her vulnerable. And yet… it made her feel more alive.

“Is this a healing method I’ve never heard of? Because I highly doubt it’s effective.”

her voice cut through his thoughts — unexpectedly close. He didn’t let it show.

“Maybe I just wanted to get the blood off,” he replied, glancing back. She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes.

“Funny. That’s exactly what Karlach said. That you came to clean your armor. But it's all there — and you’re over here. And that”—she gestured, mimicking his quiet stance in the dark water with surprising accuracy—“doesn’t really look like ‘getting rid of battle traces.’

“I could help,” she added before he could respond. Too quickly. And as if realizing it, she looked away.

“I won’t say no,” Aren said calmly. “Honestly, bite marks aren’t exactly comfortable.”

“Pretty sure Alste wouldn't agree with you,” Shadowheart chuckled.

She seemed to have more to say, but left it at that.

Aren made his way back to shore. His skin, too pale for a drow, looked almost luminous in the moonlight. Water slid from white hair, trailing cold lines across his shoulders, chest, abdomen.

Her eyes caught on the dark bruise blooming across his left side. The faint trails of magical burns across his collarbone. A web of shallow cuts on his forearms. A puncture wound at his elbow.

He had taken them all down alone.

And still he moved with that same quiet grace, as though pain held no claim over him.

Then he met her eyes. and Shadowheart suddenly realized:

She didn’t have a scratch on her.

He hadn’t just fought six dangerous enemies at once.

He hadn’t let a single one of them touch her.

[alstromeri-a]

The Price Of Mistake

Bhindra reclined irritably in her carved chair, long nails tapping rhythmically against the armrests. The sound would occasionally cease as her slender, ash-gray fingers smoothed the dark fabric of her robe, adjusting its flawless folds before reaching for the spider-shaped brooch that fastened the cloth at her shoulder. The jade was smooth, cool to the touch. Outside, the crimson glow of Narbondel—the eternal timekeeper of Menzoberranzan—was intensifying. Usually, this sight brought her solace. But not tonight. The priestess's thoughts flitted between past and present, her attempts to pinpoint the moment of her mistake proving futile. Perhaps it was the day she first saw him? In one of the dark burrows—hardly deserving the name 'dwelling'—hidden within the labyrinthine alleys, far from Qu'ellarz'orl, the affluent quarter she rightfully called home. The task had been assigned to her elder sister. Dilys and her squad were dispatched to Eastmyr—a den of beggars, exiles, and other refuse—to hunt down and eliminate rebels. The order came directly from Mez'Barris, and thus, from Lolth herself. Bhindra, who had just left the walls of Arach-Tinilith, was eager to test her abilities, thanks to which she had often heard praise even from High Priestesses. The ability to dominate. To break another's will. To sense the trembling of those who dared not meet the gaze of a priestess from the great House Barrison Del'Armgo. Young Bhindra had often volunteered to accompany her sister, and her enthusiasm was rarely met with resistance. This time was no different. …She had killed his parents too quickly. Recklessly. A single touch had sufficed to send their bodies into death throes before silence claimed them. Bhindra picked up the dagger that had slipped from the man's hand. A masterful piece. Perhaps she should have interrogated him first…

Lost in thought, she glided silently along the dimly lit walls, attuned to the muffled screams of victims and the satisfied laughter of hunters.

Until she found him in the farthest corridor.

His name was Bar'lin. A ridiculous name, much like the drow himself. Pale, with a thin scar on his cheek. And his eyes… Clear, ruby-red, naively innocent. Even drow children don't look like that. All children of the Underdark are born with an understanding of fear, cruelty, betrayal. They learn this faster than they take their first steps.But in this boy's gaze, there was no fear. No comprehension of his role. So foolish. So…unnatural. Bhindra smiled and extended her hand. A sweet tingling enveloped her wrist as magic danced at her fingertips. This time, she wouldn't rush. And he…collapsed before her, pressing his cheek to her palm. Reverently. Smiling.

Great Mother, he thought she had come to save him.

Bhindra took him with her. Not out of pity, of course. Out of curiosity. Out of a desire to test something more subtle, more intricate, requiring time. But instead, the priestess of Lolth…grew accustomed to her captive. Too quickly.

And over the next sixty years, she never harmed him. At least, in her understanding, it was so.

"I hope it was worth it."

The sardonic voice pulled her from her thoughts. Dilys had settled on the windowsill, stretching out her long legs unceremoniously. Unlike Bhindra, she was tall, sinewy, with sharp facial features. Platinum hair tied in a bun at the nape. Scars covered her arms—a testament to battles where she relied on steel rather than spells. Dilys's fingers casually gripped the hilt of a dagger, its blade broken.

"Look here, an engraving," she offered, thoughtfully running a nail over the darkened steel. The dagger was the very one that had once belonged to the drow from the slums. Dilys squinted, examining the faded runes.

"A few syllables are missing, but I think the meaning is clear."

A tense silence hung in the room.

"I've always wondered…what price did Lolth demand for this…whim?"

Receiving no answer from the priestess, her sister reached for a platter where, among thin slices of dried meat and sweet mushrooms, lay a wheel of black truffle cheese. Carefully, with slight pressure, she drove the broken but still sharp blade into the hard cheese rind, chipping off a piece.

"You can deceive anyone, but not me. It was you, wasn't it? Every time."

The drow chewed the cheese lazily, savoring not just the taste but her own words.

"He stayed. They disappeared."

Bhindra pressed her lips together.

Dilys was right.

A wayward mage. A blacksmith's apprentice. Several young drow from Melee-Magthere. And many others whose traces vanished in the dark waters of Donigarten. Including two of her brothers. Such was the price Lolth set for the life of the son of apostates. Either him, or all who dared come too close to him.

And Bhindra paid that price willingly, sometimes deciding that "too close" meant when the name of a future victim lingered in Bar'lin's memory for more than a couple of days.

Year after year, Bar'lin Armgo remained by her side—as a shadow, as a servant, as a lover. Her magic didn't touch him. Almost. Just one spell. Small, subtle, like the finest thread of a web. It erased names and faces from his memory. Wiped them from his mind so he would remain Hers. Always. Her fingers once again slid to the elegant brooch on her shoulder. At the touch of the smooth jade, a faint shimmer ignited deep within the stone.

His creation. His gift.

In this, Bar'lin strove for perfection. Weaving metal, magic, and stone with a patience rare for their house, he surpassed himself time and again. Magic, the darkness of tunnels, the search for places of power…to create the best.

For her. Perhaps it was a mistake to let him go so far? So far that one day he disappeared.

She remembered how her trackers discovered that the trail ended at a collapse in the Eastern Path tunnels. Remembered how, for the first time in many years, she lost her peace. How he returned, two weeks later. In the company of two surface elves.

What were they doing in the Underdark? She didn't listen as he spoke about it, as he told how they saved his life, how they survived together in the monster-infested labyrinth. None of it mattered. They would die anyway. He would forget anyway. And the sooner — the better.

She wasn’t listening. She just watched. The way his eyes lit up at the sight of her. The way he held out the brooch. How completely, blindly he belonged to her.

“And then your little lover ran away,” drawled Dilys, her voice thick with amusement. She smirked, twirling the remnants of a dagger in her fingers. “Ran off with those two. Broke this while freeing them from your precious ritual chains…”

The priestess’s fingers paused again, brushing over the jade ornament.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have rushed into another murder,” Dilys went on. “Or turned the ritual hall into a trophy room? Or were you just that eager to drag him into your bed after being apart so long?” She leaned in slightly. “How could you let him end up in such a wrong place at such a wrong time? Did you really think he’d never figure it out? Never remember?”

The air between them seemed to thicken.

Bhindra locked eyes with her sister.

“Unless someone helped him,” she hissed. ***

The quiet night was broken only by the steady crackling of camp fire. Such peace in their camp was rare — considering how mixed their company was. Aren wasn’t sleeping.

The drow was doing his best not to think, focusing instead on the flames slowly consuming the pitchy branches.

He heard Karlach’s steps from afar.

She wasn’t trying to be quiet. On the contrary — even her calm stride seemed to declare to the world: “I’m here, and I don’t care if that bothers you.”

“You’re up again?” she asked, and he realized — he liked the sound of her voice. Deep. Warm.

Aren hesitated a moment before answering.

“Are you always this open?” he asked with a sudden smirk, turning toward her. “You told me about Gortash. About Zariel… just like that.”

The tiefling snorted.

“What’s there to hide?” she shrugged. “Sometimes it helps — telling things to someone you trust.”

“Trust? A drow?” Aren raised an eyebrow slightly.

Karlach didn’t flinch. She crossed her arms and grinned.

“You know, I spent part of my life in the Hells. A long part,” she shook her head. “After that, trusting a bloodsucker, a chatty wizard, or a grumpy gith doesn’t seem so bad. Why not add you to the list?”

Aren looked away, but a shadow of a smile touched the corner of his lips.

“Have you never trusted anyone?” she asked.

He didn’t answer right away. His gaze returned to the fire.

“I have,” he said quietly.

He could’ve told her about Bhindra. About how Dilys had said — for some reason — that the priestess wanted to see him in the ritual hall, where males were rarely allowed, and that it was “very important.” About finding the ones who’d saved his life — chained, drugged. About seeing their belongings displayed on the altar. The sudden burst of pain. The flood of memory. Faces… feelings tied to them. About how he led the prisoners out, planning only to escort them to the surface — and then return to her, to… to what? It didn’t matter anymore. As soon as they reached the surface, he ended up on a nautiloid.

Karlach didn’t press. She simply stayed beside him. No secrets. No hidden motives or traps.

Aren stirred the embers a little, and a small burst of sparks rose into the air. Karlach noticed what he used — a thin shard of steel, clearly missing a hilt.

“Interesting piece,” the tiefling said. “Memory?”

“More like a reminder,” the drow replied.

At the base of the broken blade, part of an engraving remained. Just two syllables, clearly from different lines.

“A — ren.”