Reflection Ruesday
Tagged by the incredible @alstromeri-a, @cursed-nyxan, @emberstormrage and @saylofwaterdeep.
Thank you so much, you sweet, talented people. I apologize for the late reply it was....well, let's just say, Christmas spirit has yet to settle.
Instructions: Go through your WIP folder and find something unfinished to share! It could be something you’re not planning on working on again, or something you’ll continue later, but share whatever you have!
This was a concept I explored for a while and eventually discarded. The premise as a female BG3 player who switches bodies with their Tav. Mildly NSFW.
gentle tag for @asorceresswrites @rdekarios @toomanyfamiliars and @fireflyeyes, as I assume you will like this.
Gentle hands wrap around your hips, pulling you closer to the unmistakable heat of an already half-erect promise pressing against your back. A contented sigh escapes your lips as you sink into the moment, the warmth of the sunlight streaming through unseen windows bathing your face.
Soft lips begin to trace the curve of your neck. A hand brushes a stray strand of hair aside with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.
“I apologize for waking you, my love,” a deep, familiar voice whispers, so soft and reverent it sends shivers coursing down your spine. His words are accompanied by a hand that cups your breast, teasingly brushing over the peak in a way that’s both delicate and insistent, exactly the way you love.
"I fear I must ask you to shorten your visits to Reithwin in the days ahead. The truth is, I cannot bear to be apart from you for so long,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips barely grazing your ear.
Your foggy mind stirs, registering the richness of his voice.
Gale Dekarios.
Your breath catches.
You’ve dreamt of him countless times, in countless ways, but this… this is unlike any dream before.
It feels too vivid, too visceral.
His hands are warm, his touch sure yet patient, his growing arousal pressing into the small of your back.
The scent of him surrounds you, exactly as you’ve always imagined: sandalwood layered with the comforting dust of ancient tomes, a faint trace of soap, and the lingering, earthy sweetness of black tea.
“I missed you too much…” he hums, his lips trailing lower, his tongue teasing the curve of your earlobe.
The sensation pulls a soft moan from your lips.
He chuckles in response, a low, rich sound that vibrates through you and threatens to undo you entirely.
His hand begins a slow descent down your stomach, his fingers mapping every inch of your trembling body with an agonizingly deliberate slowness.
Every nerve in your body comes alive under his touch.
Your legs part instinctively, inviting him to explore further as his fingers reach your navel.
“I can tell you missed me as well,” he whispers, his voice a mix of affection and playful confidence.
Turning your head, you find his lips waiting. They meet yours with a fervour that is both tender and consuming, his tongue brushing against yours in a dance so achingly intimate that it sets your entire being alight.
His kiss is unlike anything you’ve ever known—devastatingly gentle yet unbearably honest in its yearning.
It ignites a fire deep within you.
This dream is perfect.
You don’t question it, instead leaning into him, your hand reaching back to explore him. Your fingers find their way to the tip of his length, and he shudders against you, his breath hitching sharply.
“My love,” he rasps, his voice thick with barely contained desire. “If you touch me like this, I won’t be able to control myself.”
You chuckle softly, the sound carrying warmth and mischief. Your fingers apply a little more pressure, moving in lazy circles that make him groan. His lips find yours again, the kisses becoming needier, messier, as he fights to keep his composure.
But his hand doesn’t falter. It finds its way lower, parting your folds before pressing against your clit, the movement so precise and practiced it pulls a gasp from you.
He presses his forehead to yours, his breath hot and ragged.
“Gods, I’ve missed you,” he pants. “Tav…”
Tav.
The name stops you cold.
Your mind stumbles, jarred by the incongruity. That’s not your name. It’s never been your name. The spell shatters as you yank yourself upright, the intimacy of the moment torn apart by confusion and the gnawing edge of reality creeping in.
Your eyes snap open, and you realize with a jolt that you’re sitting on the cold tile floor of your kitchen.
****
The hum is faint but insistent, threading through Tav’s sleep like the whisper of a lute string stretched too tight. It resonates in her chest, a sound so low it feels alive, almost tangible, like the purring of a cat, but impossibly deeper, as if the earth itself were breathing beside her. She reaches out, half-lucid, expecting to find the familiar warmth of Gale.
Her fingers grope only cold, unyielding air.
Her eyes snap open.
The first thing she notices is the dim light. A gray, lifeless glow filtering through slatted wooden blinds. It’s not the soft, golden spill of a Faerûn sunrise, the kind that filters through enchanted glass or dances off the faintly shimmering weave of protective wards. This light is harsh, unwelcoming.
She jolts upright. The bed beneath her is unnervingly narrow and lumpy, its fabric scratchy against her skin. Her hand flies out instinctively, seeking her dagger. Gale hates the fact she stores it in bed or close by. There is no dagger. Instead, her palm smacks against the jagged edge of a small table cluttered with strange objects: a black, glossy rectangle that hums faintly in tune with the sound she’d awoken to, and a round cup bearing the remnants of some bitter-smelling liquid.
Her breath quickens as she takes in her surroundings. The room is tiny, the walls a dull, peeling beige. A battered door with a brass knob stands to her left, beside a rickety wooden dresser. To her right, a window reveals a world like nothing she’s ever seen. Gray towers reaching for the sky, wreathed in fog and steel. Down below, carriages with no visible horses crawl along streets of black stone, their strange, blinking lights slicing through the gloom.
This isn’t her room. This isn’t Baldur’s Gate or Neverwinter or Waterdeep. This isn’t Faerûn at all.
Her stomach twists as the hum deepens, a faint vibration now prickling at the edges of her consciousness. For the first time, Tav notices her reflection in a fractured mirror propped haphazardly on the dresser. Her face is her own, almost, but there’s something different, something sharper about her eyes. A faint glimmer of unfamiliar magic lingers there, like the afterimage of a spell gone wrong.
"What in the Nine Hells..." she mutters, her voice a rasp.
The hum cuts off abruptly, and the silence that follows is deafening. The world outside seems to pause, the stillness pressing against her ears like the aftermath of a thunderclap. Tav sits upright and swings her legs over the side of the bed, instinct overriding confusion. But as her feet touch the cold, uneven floor, she looks down—and freezes.
This is not her body.
Her skin, once unmarred save for the faint, silvery streaks of old battles, is alive with ink. Tattoos snake up her legs in intricate patterns, a riot of symbols and shapes she cannot decipher. Some resemble constellations, others geometric shapes that shimmer faintly as she shifts in the dim light. The ink feels alive, as though it’s rooted deeper than her skin. She runs a hand over one of the designs on her thigh.
Her breath hitches when she registers her attire. Manly, coarse, utterly foreign. An elastic-banded pair of shorts clings awkwardly to her hips, the fabric light and strange, with no belt or fastenings. Her tunic is soft but plain, its short sleeves and lack of embroidery utterly strange. It’s the kind of clothing a dockworker might wear, hastily patched together for practicality rather than beauty or formality.
Her heart pounds, fear threading into her confusion.
“Gale?” she asks, the word catching in her throat. It’s absurd, she knows, but the hope is an anchor in the storm of her thoughts. He would never play a joke at her expense, not like this. But if anyone could explain the impossible, it would be him.
Silence answers her, heavy and uncaring.
She exhales shakily and stands, the strangeness of her body and surroundings pressing in on all sides. The room is cramped, smaller than even the meanest tavern room she’s ever rented. The walls are bare save for smudges of age and neglect, and the air smells faintly of stale beer and something metallic. A narrow, crooked doorway stands to her right, leading into what appears to be another room.
Her hand instinctively grazes her hip, but of course, there’s no belt, no sword, no pouch where she might keep a dagger or spell components. Even her usual rings are gone, the comforting weight of their magic absent from her fingers.
Still, she needs to move. Staying still feels like giving in to panic, and Tav has never been the kind to let fear win. She steps carefully, her feet bare against the cold, worn floor, and approaches the door at the far side of the room. It creaks as she pushes it open, revealing another cramped space. This one dominated by a chipped counter and a strange metal contraption humming faintly on one side.
The kitchen, if that’s what this is, feels even more strange than the bedroom. A small table sits shoved against the wall, its surface littered with crumbs and a few oddly-shaped bottles. One has a bright yellow cap and bears strange markings. Words, perhaps, though none she recognizes. Another, made of dull green glass, smells faintly of vinegar and something tangy.
Her stomach twists. Hunger, fear, or something else entirely, she can’t tell. She runs her fingers over the counter, pausing when she touches a thin, rectangular object with rows of black squares on its surface. It’s unnervingly smooth, like polished stone, but far lighter.
A noise catches her attention. A metallic clink from beyond the closed door leading to what she assumes is the hallway. Her breath quickens as the knock returns, more insistent now.
She sets the strange object back on the counter and takes a step toward the door, her movements slow and deliberate. She doesn’t know this world, this place, or her own reflection in the mirror, but one thing hasn’t changed: Tav is a survivor. Whatever lies beyond that door, she’ll face it the same way she always has—with fire in her heart and steel in her eyes.
Her fingers graze the cold metal of the door handle, but she hesitates, a strange prickle crawling up her spine.
Something about this place feels wrong. The air is too still, too heavy, as though it’s pressing down on her. Tav takes a step back, instinct whispering that she cannot face this unknown without protection.
She raises her hand, palm outward, her fingers curling with practiced precision as she murmurs an incantation under her breath. The words flow easily, a familiar song on her tongue. A simple spell. Nothing grand, nothing taxing. A flame to light the way, or even a familiar, some small creature bound to her by magic.
The incantation ends, and she waits.
Nothing happens.
The silence is oppressive now, pressing against her ears like a weight. She frowns, her hand trembling slightly as she tries again, this time summoning an image of flame into her mind’s eye. Fire, bright and consuming, a flickering tongue of warmth to chase away the unfamiliar chill of this strange place. Her voice grows more forceful, her words carrying the authority of someone who has bent the weave to her will countless times before.
Still, nothing.
Her fingers twitch as she feels… emptiness. A void where magic should be, where it has always been. Her connection to the weave, as natural and ever-present as the air she breathes, is gone. Not blocked, not suppressed—absent.
Her heart thuds painfully in her chest. It’s as if someone has reached inside her and taken an essential piece of her very being. She feels hollow, unmoored, and for a terrifying moment, she wonders if this is what it feels like to be dead.
“No,” she breathes, her voice shaking. “No, this isn’t possible.”
She presses her hands together, trying to summon even the smallest flicker of power. A cantrip. An illusion. A whisper of light. Her voice cracks as she mutters the words to Prestidigitation, the simplest spell she knows.
Still… nothing.
Her breath quickens, panic bubbling up in her throat. She stumbles back from the door, her legs brushing against the edge of the chipped counter. She grips it for support, the cold surface grounding her in a way her own magic no longer can.
She’s too focused on her hands, turning them over as though the answer might be hidden in her palms. But all she sees is flesh—no shimmer of arcane light, no hint of the power that has defines her. Her tattoos shift as her muscles tense, the strange symbols mocking her with their alien familiarity.
“This can’t be real,” she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper. “Where is it? Where is my magic?”
She swallows hard, forcing herself to take a slow, steadying breath. The panic isn’t helping. If she can’t summon magic, then she’ll have to rely on something else—her wits, her instincts, anything. Tav has survived without magic before, though it feels like another life, one buried deep beneath years of sorcery and power.
Her hand returns to the door, this time steady. She steels herself, whatever fire she has left burning stubbornly in her chest. Whoever is out there knows her name. It’s time to find out who—or what—they are.