The Ember Sovereign

I surived because the fire inside me burned brighter than the fire around me.

The Tempest and The Tether | Main Story & Blog Info:

I am not extremely active on social media nor fandom, but I am more than happy to get to know others & interact. This is not a place suited for minors, nor people with hateful heart and mind. As I grow more confident with sharing more pieces of my soul and my passion, I want to keep this corner as something quiet and peaceful. If one wishes to work on a project together, or, for some unknown and wonderful reason, even work with Deia, please hit me up, and I will make my boundaries known.

Gale & Deia's ship is named The Tempest and The Tether. I also use StormWeave and OnyxWeave for shorter variety. I am writing a story that follows the main events of Baldur's Gate 3 with my own interpretations, lore, quests, extra storylines, etcetera. I often intergrate things from general D&D 5e lore that may not be used or mentioned in the game. My character, Deia, functions as a main protagonist together with Gale, though it does not remove other companions from its relevance.

The Ember Sovereign Playlist | Gale x Deia Playlist

More Shots of Deia | Wardrobe | Small "Meet My Character" Sheet

"Ship In 5 minutes" Sheet | Sample of My Writing | Poetry Sample

Deia's Letter To Gale | Gale's Confession Regency AU

Moodboard | Deia x Gale Joint Moodboard | Intimacy Moodboard

Combat VP | High Hall VP | Deia's Dialogue if She Was a Companion

Character sheet with more information can be found here.

The list of links might update as the time goes by.

Forged in Fire and Blood.

A Tether of Silk and Storm | Regency AU TBA

Keep walking. If I look back I am lost.

Deia is a dragon-blooded sorceress and former rogue whose life was shaped more by survival than destiny, though destiny found her all the same. Her exact age is unknown, but she assumed her age to be around 28 to 30. Most of her memories are shaped by events and pain, not specific dates. Taken young and subjected to blood rituals that altered the course of her life, Deia’s magic and draconic traits were not inherited naturally, but forced into her through cruelty and experimentation. What should have destroyed her instead became part of her. Over time, she survived as thief, wanderer, and reluctant weapon before growing into something far stranger: a woman caught between mortal life, ancient dragon legacy, and myth. Though shaped by violence, Deia is not defined by victimhood.

Deia is an ex-rogue who learned early the art of theft and deception, charming her way wherever she went and, often, using her looks to get by. She lived her life as a vagabond, often stealing coin and food, until she met a tiefling-bard, who then became her first true friend and taught her how to sing and play several instruments: flute, lute and viola. She lived as a performer, then became a bartender at the tavern she performed at. Then, deciding to utilize her rogue past and magical arsenal, she became a Chassier. A monster hunter, working for coin, who only follows her own moral compass. Often, the monsters would wear a human skin.

She is a High Elf and Part Dragon due to the magical experimentation. She is focused primarily on Draconic Sorcery, fire being her only element. She has utility, mobility, and mind compulsion spells in her repertoire. Deia is pale, malnourished, possesses silver eyes, black wavy hair that reaches below her waistband, black scales dusting her cheekbones and place above the brows alongside various parts of her body. She has black horns crowning her hair with a sweep of a curve pointing backwards, decorated with silver ornaments and accessories. She also has black claws and various scars all over her body, most notable are two long vertical scars alongside her shoulder blades, as if someone attempted to carve wings into her, or a cruel concept of ones. Deia takes immense pride in her appearance, often dressing luxurious and regal, but not too much to appear pompous. She has a rough relationship with her magic. Granted she is neither a true sorceress nor a real dragon, the draconic fire magic would often hurt her, lash out at her, as if refusing to accept that someone like her is attempting to wield it. As Mystra had taken access to the Weave away from Deia, she was forced to learn to live with her volatile magic, ignoring the pain, and mostly relying on her daggers and legwork to get a job done. If it was not for Ghaedrath, an ancient gold dragon who had nurtured her after her captivity and bound her soul to his, Deia's raw magic would have burned her alive from the inside.

I must have fire in my eyes when I face them, not tears.

Deia's relationships are as such:

Gale is her lover, a fated mate, someone who has seen her scars and pain and decided that she is not a problem that needs to be fixed, but someone who is worth cherishing. They became each other's anchor early in the story, whether it was Gale who helped Deia master her raw draconic magic, or Deia who kept him grounded from ambition and shame swallowing him whole. With many trials and errors, love has grown between the two, and they continued on facing whatever the fate had prepared for them together, choosing each other and their humanity in spite of all.

Astarion is her chosen sibling. While Gale understands her struggles and self-loathing, Astarion understands her wounds and trauma on a more personal, intimate level. As they are both familiar with chains, captivity, and bodily mutilation, they had grown close. Not too fast, never that. Their trust issues would not allow a fast friendship. But through traveling together, through sharing their stories, through exposing to each other the pieces of themselves they usually would not allow, they began to consider each other as family without saying that out loud. Astarion also helped Deia reconnect with her High Elven roots, teaching her Trance to help her with nightmares, and speaking to her in Elvish language. Mostly to gossip, of course.

Karlach is her best friend. As someone who is intimately familiar with 10 stolen years, the loneliness, the rage living deeply under their skin, they had become fast friends. Deia is often described as a monster, abomination, a freak of nature and an insult to the law of magic due to her magical "upbringing", and Karlach, knowing how it feels to be called something you are not, entered Deia's life as a sister, fierce protector, and a gentle hand to heal something inner and hidden within Deia. They are both loud when together, laughing with their whole bodies, both foul-mouthed and booming with life. Karlach brought that side out of Deia, teaching her that, despite how cruel and unfair the world can be, there are sitll wonders to be found, jokes to be made, and laughter to be experienced.

Shadowheart is her close friend, sister-adjacent. Deia always respected Shadowheart's need for privacy, and she, in return, respected her boundaries. It is a quiet bond, not as loud as Karlach's or theatrical as Astarion's. They are the kind of friends that would find each other in quiet moments, claiming it was not intentional while it absolutely was. After Shar's betrayal, they had grown closer, and Deia showed Shadowheart how tenderness does not always leave one's heart unguarded. Their bond is the kind that will last for decades if the time allows and the world remains gentle enough.

Lae'zel is her sister in battle. As Githyanki and Dragons share centuries of history, mutual respect and admiration, it became their theme, too. They are not particularly close, nor especially tender, but they view each other as worthy allies, strong warriors, and someone to keep in their lives. While their friendship started on a rocky ground, they have remained deeply loyal in battle, often saving each other or taking a blow for one another. Lae'zel, while a lot kinder than she seems, would show those signs in quieter moments, dressed as discipline and necessity. Lae'zel once stood up for Deia when confronted by another gith, and told them that Deia is no istik. And that, alone, says everything about their friendship.

Wyll is her brother-figure. The gentle soul who knows exile and rumors. Deia views Wyll as someone noble, extremely kind, and often wonders how the world did not turn all of him into rot. Wyll had shown Deia care, kinship, and taught her how to wield a rapier or a shortsword to replace her daggers. Deia, in return, became comfortable and fiercely protective of him. When Wyll was turned into a cambion by Mizora, Deia understood all too well how it feels to wear the horns that do not belong to you. In an act of care, she sat him down, while Karlach and Gale watched, and began to take care of Wyll's horns, bringing golden rings and chains to decorate them. While she understood the shame and despair he felt from having them, she did that for him in an act of reclamation, taking one more thing away from the world that could have hurt him.

You praised the sun that refused to rise where I was standing.

Thank you for reading. My door is always open.

The garden is mostly dark. Not empty. Never empty. Small lights drift between the hanging leaves, blue-white and soft as trapped stars, illuminating petals only long enough to make them seem unreal before the shadows take them back. The air smells of damp moss, night-blooming flowers, and the faint mineral coolness of old stone.

Deia stands so close that Gale can feel the warmth of her through the thin space between them. Her hand rests at his shoulder, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, not holding him there and yet making departure feel impossible.

Gale’s hand settles at her waist. He does it slowly. Carefully. Gives her every chance to step away. She does not. Instead, her fingers slide higher, into his hair, and the restraint he has been holding like a glass vessel develops its first fatal crack.

“Deia,” he says, and her name is half warning, half surrender.

Her eyes lift to his. In the dimness, her silver gaze catches the little wandering lights and keeps them.

“Yes?”

He has several answers. Too many, perhaps. Something eloquent. Something worthy. Something about the ache of surviving long enough to stand here with her while the night flowers open around them. What leaves him is simpler. Ruinously honest.

“I love you.”

Her expression stills. For a heartbeat, the whole garden seems to still with her. The moth-lights pause in their wandering. The leaves stop whispering. Even the shadows lean close, shameless things. Then Deia rises onto her toes and kisses him.

It is soft at first. Almost solemn. Her mouth finds his with a care that feels like grief learning to unclench its hands. Gale draws her nearer, palm warm at the small of her back, and she answers by threading her fingers deeper into his hair.

The kiss changes. It deepens the way night deepens, by degrees, until the world is suddenly full of it. Until her body is pressed to his and his breath is hers and the garden has become nothing but dark leaves, pale lights, and the impossible fact of being wanted without fear. When they part, it is only by an inch. Deia’s lashes lift slowly.

“Say it again,” she whispers.

Gale’s thumb brushes over her hip, reverent and helpless.

“I love you.”

Her mouth trembles toward a smile.

“Again.”

He does.

And the night, generous for once, keeps every word.

Gale,

I have started this letter four times and hated every version.

The first was angry. The second was clever. The third was so full of things I did not mean that I nearly threw the inkpot across the room, and the fourth began with your name and nothing else for nearly an hour. So I suppose I will begin there.

Gale. My impossible love.

I left because I needed the road beneath my feet before I said something cruel enough to make a home in your memory.

I know myself. I know the shape of my own anger. It feels clean when it first catches, bright and righteous, almost holy. Then it eats through everything softer than itself. I did not want to stand before you and let fear dress itself as truth. I did not want to punish you for wanting something. Even if I do not understand it. Even if I fear it. Even if some stubborn, wounded part of me wants to bare my teeth at the sky and tell it to keep its hands off the man I love.

There. I have written it. The man I love. Not the archmage. Not the prodigy. Not the name the Weave knows. Not the brilliant, impossible creature who can make light move like silk between his fingers. The man. The one who fusses over stew as if seasoning might be the last civilised law left in Faerûn. The one who quotes books at inappropriate moments and looks offended when the world refuses to arrange itself into footnotes. The one who smiles when he thinks no one is looking, softer than he has any right to be. The one who once reached for my hand while my magic was still burning me, and looked less afraid of the fire than I was of myself. That is who I love.

But loving you does not make you mine to command.

I have had enough people put names on me and call it truth. Enough hands trying to shape me into something useful, obedient, safer, smaller. I will not do that to you. I will not put my fear around your throat and call it devotion. I will not build a cage out of my grief and ask you to sit in it so I may sleep easier. Your life is yours, Gale Dekarios. Even the parts of it that terrify me. Even the choices I think may hurt you. Even the road I cannot follow.

I am not writing this to bless every ambition you have ever held. Some of them are reckless enough to make me want to shake you until every book in your head falls out in alphabetical order. You have a gift for reaching toward wonders with both hands and forgetting to look beneath your feet. You know this. I know this. Every god, scholar, and long-suffering cookfire in our vicinity knows this. But choice matters. Gods, choice matters. And if I love you, truly love you, then I must love you without stealing yours.

I cannot promise I would stand beside every version of what you might become. That is the ugliest truth in this letter, and I will not dress it prettily. There may be a path where I lose you while you still live. There may be a height so far above me that my voice cannot reach you anymore. There may be a light so vast that the man I love disappears inside it, and all that remains is something others kneel to. If that is what you choose, I will not call you wicked for it. But I will mourn you. I think you deserve the honesty of that. I think I do too.

I have been trying, since I left, to imagine myself saying goodbye to you with grace. I am sorry to report I am appallingly bad at it. I make a very poor saint. My first instinct is still to dig my claws into the nearest solid thing and snarl at fate until it reconsiders. But I am trying. You taught me that too, you know. Not grace, exactly. Do not look smug. But trying. You taught me that magic can be beautiful without being cruel.

Before you, magic was mostly a scar to me. A thing dragged through my blood. A thing that hurt. A thing others had used to cut their names into my bones and call the wound discovery. Even my own power felt like a beast I had been locked in a room with. Then you showed me the Weave as if you were opening a window. Light. Music. Touch without harm. Wonder without hunger. I do not know whether I ever thanked you properly for that. I am thanking you now.

Thank you for looking at me and not seeing only what had been done to me. Thank you for touching my scars as if they were not proof of ruin, but part of the map that led me here. Thank you for never making my pain feel vulgar. I have always hated that. The way people look at suffering once they know enough of it. As if it makes a body less lovely. Less worthy of wanting. Less fit for gentleness. You never did that. You looked at every jagged thing in me and somehow remained.

Thank you for remaining. It sounds small written so plainly. It is not small. You remained when I gave you reasons not to. When I was sharp. When I was frightened. When I tried to make distance look like mercy. When I thought if I kept myself half out of reach, losing me would be easier for everyone. You stayed close enough that I had to learn the shape of being cherished. Do you understand what a terrible kindness that is? You made me want a life. Not only survival. I was already very good at survival. Annoyingly good, some might say. You made me want mornings. Books left open on tables. A garden I do not yet know how to tend. A room where my weapons are set aside because I believe, for a few hours, that I will not need them. A door that opens because I am expected, not because I have picked the lock.

You made me want to be known. That may be the most frightening thing anyone has ever done to me.

And I am angry with you, still. I will not pretend otherwise just because tenderness has found its way onto the page. I am angry because I am afraid, and I am afraid because I love you, and I love you because you are maddeningly, catastrophically easy to love once one has survived the first several lectures. But anger is not all I have. I have gratitude. I have grief. I have hope, though I resent it deeply. And I have this truth, which has followed me for miles no matter how often I tried to outrun it:

Whatever you choose, whatever shape your future takes, I am better for having loved you. That is not permission to leave me behind without consequence. Do not be insufferable. I am still me. I reserve the right to be difficult, dramatic, and pointedly unimpressed by any decision that requires marble, worship, or ominous lighting. But it is true. You gave me something no ritualist, god, monster, or memory has managed to take from me. You gave me the knowledge that I can be loved without being lessened. You gave me the courage to love in return.

So choose, Gale. Choose with all the brilliance in you, but not only with brilliance. Choose with your hands, the ones that have held books and fire and my face. Choose with your hunger, but also with your mercy. Choose with the part of you that wanted more from the world, yes, but also with the part that once sat beside me and made magic gentle.

And wherever that choice leads, know this. I will not curse you for wanting the sky. I only ask that, before you take it in your hands, you look once at the earth. At the fire. At the road. At the woman who loves you there. Not to bind you. Only to remember.

Yours, as much as I know how to be,

Deia