every note says "please" and every chord says "turn my way"
@elinorbard
30s, she/her β¨ BG3, dnd, and fantasy nerd; avid reader and writer β€οΈβπ₯ elinorbard on AO3 β¨ pfp by infernaldaydreams β€οΈβπ₯ adults only
Hi, I'm Elinor! Baldur's Gate 3 and the Dark Urge x Enver Gortash still has me in a chokehold. My writing is on AO3 (also as elinorbard), mostly rated Mature or Explicit.
β¨ recent fics: β¨
Heaven Is Not Fit to Hold Us (Explicit, Ch. 8 / ??, post-canon) The brain is defeated, Baldur's Gate is burning, and Ta'av is reeling in the aftermath. With her last link to her past severed, she faces an impossible choice: does she try to be the hero that others seem to think she is, or does she defy fate and the gods in pursuit of her heart's desire?
Body Count (Mature, 1k, during canon) Elegy, the Dark Urge, paves her path back to Baldur's Gate with corpsesβand lovers. A 10x100 drabble sequence.
That Deathless Death (Explicit, 5k, pre-canon) Elegy, the Dark Urge, seeks out her ally, Enver Gortash, and finds his god waiting for her instead.
The Heart Cannot Be Broken (Mature, 2.5k, post-canon) The Netherbrain was defeated, but Archduke Enver Gortash rules Baldur's Gate with an iron fist. In the face of betrayal and tyranny, Wyll chooses resistance and hope. (A gift for incognito_ghost!).
β¨ elinorbard's masterlist: β¨
series: sex and violence, one is just the other (Dark Urge/Gortash) β¨
I Knew You When (Mature, 8.6k, Act 3) Ta'av, the Dark Urge, confronts Gortash and discovers the truth about their past.
A Banite and A Bhaalist (Mature, 5.1k, pre-canon) Gortash meets a captivating Bhaalist who is nothing like he expected.
Bad Idea (Explicit, 10.7k, Act 3) Ta'av gambles on her newly discovered connection with Gortash and makes things messier than ever.
get in my bed, I wanna kill you (Mature, 7.9k, pre-canon) Gortash tests the boundaries of his alliance with the Dark Urge - and the limits of her temper.
A House, A Home (Explicit, 21k/3 chapters, Act 3) After visiting the House of Hope, Ta'av lets Gortash draw her back into the mystery of their shared past.
our strange duet (Explicit, 8.4k, pre-canon) Gortash hires the Dark Urge to assassinate one of his rivals in a way that happens to require a night at the opera.
what she came for (Explicit, 7.6k, pre-canon) Gortash finds his life disrupted when the Dark Urge decides to bring him three gifts. (Gortoween: A Bloody Mess)
Guilty Pleasure (Explicit, 8.4k, Act 3) One bad decision gets Ta'av arrested. Several more get her brought before Gortash to beg for her freedom.
Blood, Iron, and Rot (Explicit, 13k/2 chapters, pre-canon) Gortash and Ta'av travel to Moonrise Towers to forge an alliance, and their partnership is irrevocably changed.
Dead Girl Walking (Mature, 8k, Act 3) Ta'av descends into the Undercity for a long overdue reckoning with Orin the Red, and Gortash finds her in the aftermath.
Marked, Mine (Explicit, 2.3k, pre-canon) Ta'av makes sure her lover will always know he belongs to her. An expansion of a flashback from A House, A Home. (Durgetash Week 2025, Day 2: Domestic/Bondage)
A Little Prayer (Explicit, 5.8k, pre-canon) Gortash's work is interrupted when Ta'av seeks out his help with a new kind of uncontrollable urge.
Masquerade (burning faces, turning heads) (Explicit, 2.7k, pre-canon) Ta'av and Gortash attend a masquerade ball in celebration of a momentous victory. (Durgetash Week 2025, Day 4: Masquerade/Voyeurism)
the best of you belongs to me (Explicit, 2.9k, Act 3) Unable to sleep, Ta'av goes for a walk in the middle of the night. Gortash isn't pleased.
Chosen (Explicit, 11k, pre-canon) Gortash and Ta'av achieve their greatest triumph⦠and Gortash meets the Chosen of Bhaal, again.
Choice (Mature, 1.8k, Act 3) Ta'av and Gortash confront each other while Baldur's Gate sits on the edge of ruin. (Gortash Week: Ruler/Redemption)
Heaven Is Not Fit to Hold Us (Explicit, Ch. 8 / ??, post-canon) The Netherbrain is defeated, Baldur's Gate is burning, and Ta'av is reeling in the aftermath. With her last link to her past now severed, she faces an impossible choice: does she try to be the hero that others seem to think she is, or does she defy fate and the gods in pursuit of her heart's desire?
series: death and politics (Dark Urge/Gortash, modern AU and canon) β¨
Deadly Ambition (Explicit, 55k over 13 chapters, AU) U.S. Congressman Enver Gortash eagerly accepts Governor Richard Bhaalβs invitation to join his presidential campaign as his running-mate. In the process, he discovers the true mastermind behind the campaign: Bhaal's daughter, Elegy, who is as ruthless as she is charming. Together, they will do anything it takes to win the electionβ¦ but will their web of deals and deception fall apart when they find themselves relentlessly drawn to each other?
Congressman Gortash's Office (Explicit, 2.7k, AU) Elegy Bhaal stops by the office of Congressman Enver Gortash; smut ensues. (Gortash Week: AU/Dealer's Choice)
Cold, Cold Heart (Mature, 4.3k, pre-canon) Gortash is confronted by the leader of the cult of Bhaal, and he is determined to find her again, despite her warnings. (Durgetash Week 2025, Day 1: First Impressions)
The Lamb and the Knife (Mature, 3k, pre-canon and canon) A story of Orin the Red, her sister Elegy, and the tragedy that befalls all children of Bhaal. Written for the Dead Three zine, Blood, Bones, and Tyranny.
That Deathless Death (Explicit, 5k, pre-canon) Elegy, the Dark Urge, seeks out her ally, Enver Gortash, and finds his god waiting for her instead.
Body Count (Mature, 1k, during canon) Elegy, the Dark Urge, paves her path back to Baldur's Gate with corpsesβand lovers. A 10x100 drabble sequence.
other fics β¨
The Heart Cannot Be Broken (Mature, 2.5k, post-canon) The Netherbrain was defeated, but Archduke Enver Gortash rules Baldur's Gate with an iron fist. In the face of betrayal and tyranny, Wyll chooses resistance and hope. (A gift for incognito_ghost for the BW3 fic exchange!)
revenge tastes sweet and so are you (Dark Urge/Gortash; Mature, 1.5k) Gortash reunites with his favorite assassin. A companion piece to Black-Eyed Susan by flamemittens for the Love in Faerun exchange.
Hunger for Blood (Dark Urge/Astarion; Explicit, Chapters: 8 / ??) Astarion and the Dark Urge discover they have a hunger for each other and a hunger for blood.
My other loves include: D&D 5e; Critical Role; Kushiel's Legacy; The Witcher; Buffy the Vampire Slayer; Ninth House; Stardew Valley; LOTR; ASOIAF.
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"Six weeks into the term, I assigned my rhetoric and writing students a 20-page article. It was the same length I had assigned for five years and the same length I had read without complaint as an undergraduate a decade ago. Not one student finished it.
When I asked why, a student answered honestly: It was too long, and she kept losing track of what the paper was about. This was not a remedial class: These were students who had cleared the admissions process and written essays good enough to get them here. Yet a routine academic reading assignment had defeated them.
Every generation of professors has complained that their students cannot read. The lament is usually overblown, but data have caught up to anecdote, and what I am seeing in my classroom is no longer a hunch. There is a measurable, generational collapse in sustained reading and writing, and the academy is responding to it with improvisation and exhaustion rather than the structural overhaul it requires.
In February 2024, Adam Kotsko, who teaches in the Shimer Great Books School at North Central College, wrote in Slate that students who once handled 30 pages of reading per class meeting now seem βintimidated by anything over 10 pages and seem to walk away from readings of as little as 20 pages with no real understanding.β Crucially, he added that this is βnot a matter of laziness on the part of the studentsβ but of underlying skills they were never given a chance to build.
The Chronicle of Higher Educationβs 2024 investigation found the same pattern across institutions as different as the Stevens Institute of Technology and Wellesley College, where the average SAT exceeds 1400. Nicholaus Gutierrez, an assistant professor at Wellesley, told The Chronicle that the baseline for what students consider a reasonable amount of work has dropped so noticeably that he has cut his readings accordingly; a 750-word essay now strikes many students as long. At Stevens, the science and technology studies associate professor Theresa MacPhail described following the mantra of βmeet your students where they areβ for so long that she has begun to feel βlike a cruise director organizing games of shuffleboard.β
Worse, the national data tell the same story in colder language. On the 2011 National Assessment of Educational Progress (NAEP) writing assessment, which is the most recent comprehensive writing benchmark, only 24 percent of 12th graders reached the Proficient level, and just 3 percent reached Advanced; another 21 percent scored below Basic. The reading side of the ledger is worse, and getting worse fast: The 2024 NAEP results released in September 2025 show 12th-grade reading scores at the lowest level recorded since the assessment began in 1992. Thirty-two percent of 12th graders now score below NAEP Basic in reading, meaning that, in the assessmentβs own language, they likely βcannot draw general conclusions based on concepts presented explicitly in a text.β And yet more than half of these same seniors reported being accepted to a four-year college. That last sentence is the whole problem in one line: We are admitting a cohort that cannot read at a college level and are pretending otherwise.
Why is this happening? One reason, of course, is smartphones.
I came into teaching as a skeptic of the anti-smartphone argument: I had a phone in my pocket throughout high school and college in the 2010s, and I read long books anyway. I now think I was wrong, because the neuroscience has caught up. In a 2017 paper, Adrian F. Ward and colleagues at the University of Texas at Austinβs McCombs School of Business showed that the mere presence of a participantβs smartphone β whether that be face down, powered off, untouched, or across the desk out of vision β measurably reduces available working memory and fluid intelligence on cognitive tests, with the largest effects on the most phone-dependent users. A 2022 study by Motoyasu Honma and colleagues at Japanβs Showa University used near-infrared spectroscopy to compare reading on a smartphone with reading the same passage on paper, and found that smartphone reading produced overactivity in the prefrontal cortex, suppressed sigh generation, and led to general lower comprehension scores; the authors argued that the sigh inhibition and prefrontal overload were causally linked to the comprehension decline.
So when a student tells me they βkept losing trackβ of a 20-page article, I have to acknowledge that they may be describing a measurable neurological condition. The neural pathways that support sustained attention are built by use, and they atrophy without it. Your body is a use-it-or-lose-it system, and the brain is no exception.
Another reason for the decline in student reading capability is increasing reliance on generative AI. In June 2025, Nataliya Kosmyna and colleagues at the MIT Media Lab released a preprint titled βYour Brain on ChatGPT.β They divided 54 participants into three groups writing SAT-style essays β one using ChatGPT, the second group using a search engine, the last group using nothing β and monitored brain activity with a 32-channel EEG. The ChatGPT group showed the lowest neural connectivity of the three, with up to 55 percent reduced connectivity compared with the brain-only group, and βconsistently underperformed at neural, linguistic, and behavioral levels.β Eighty-three percent of LLM users could not quote a single line from essays they had written minutes earlier. When the LLM group was forced to write without AI in a follow-up session, their brain activity did not bounce back to baseline; the researchers coined the term βcognitive debtβ for the lingering deficit.
This is the first neurophysiological evidence that early reliance on LLMs measurably alters the brainβs engagement with writing tasks, and it is consistent with what those of us in front of classrooms are watching happen in real time. When I assign analysis, I am not trying to extract a polished product; I am trying to put the studentβs mind through resistance in order to make it stronger. Offloading the struggle to a chatbot does not βfree students up for higher-order work.β It deprives them of building the strength to do any substantial cognitive work at all.
There is a final factor that is contributing to this decline in reading skills, and that is that the students arriving in my classroom today are the first cohort to have experienced Common Core-influenced reading instruction across the entirety of their Kβ12 schooling. Whatever the standardsβ original intent, the on-the-ground implementation in many districts replaced sustained reading with the practice of pulling βevidenceβ from disconnected short passages, the same format used on the standardized tests that increasingly determine school funding. The education scholar Natalie Wexler, among others, has documented this pivot in detail: Students drilled on βfinding the main ideaβ in two-paragraph excerpts never build the stamina or background knowledge that longform reading requires. The pandemic then added fuel to a fire that was already burning. NAEP scores for 13-year-olds dropped sharply in 2022 and have not recovered. A 2023 EdWeek survey found that 24 percent of secondary-school administrators described pandemic learning loss in English and language arts as βsevere or very severe.β
In July 2025, the journalist Mary Harrington argued in The New York Times that βthinking is becoming a luxury good.β The ability to read deeply and reason at length is fragmenting along class lines as ultra-processed digital media replaces text in everyday life, much as ultra-processed food has replaced cooking. Her longer treatment of the subject in First Things makes the more provocative case that we are witnessing the end of print culture itself, and with it the end of the cognitive substrate on which modern liberal democracy was built.
I see this stratification in the classroom and on the page every week. My students from districts that protected sustained reading through small class sizes, strict phone policies, and faculty who refused to teach to the test all arrive with their attention relatively intact. My students from districts that surrendered to devices and standardized testing arrive cognitively winded. A democracy that requires a literate electorate is now training one fraction of that electorate out of literacy while marketing to the other a βdeep workβ lifestyle as a luxury good. The students who cannot read a 20-page article today are the voters who will not be able to read a bill, or the jurors who cannot follow a closing argument, tomorrow.
I do what I can in my own classroom to address the problems. I break 20-page articles into two halves and assign the first half with explicit analytical tasks. I require exploratory writing before formal drafts. I model (visibly, on the board) how to track an argument across pages or distinguish a sourceβs claim from my own analysis. I make structured peer review explicit, because the workshop format I used to take for granted now collapses into βthis is goodβ and βmaybe add more detailsβ the moment I step back.
But I want to be plain about the limits of what an individual instructor can do, and all of these solutions have costs. Scaffolding a 20-page article into halves compromises the integrity of the argument I am asking students to engage, just as modeling note-taking in a credit-bearing rhetoric course is using a college slot to teach a middle-school skill. None of the syllabi I teach are designed to deliver this type of cognitive rehabilitation, and pretending otherwise has produced credential inflation. We cannot keep conferring degrees on students who cannot do what the degree is supposed to certify.
Iβm afraid I donβt have answers. I do, however, have some questions that may point us in the right direction. If higher education is going to respond to the reading crisis as a structural problem rather than a private burden carried by composition instructors and adjuncts, it has to stop avoiding the following questions: If a majority of incoming students cannot read at a level the curriculum requires, are we admitting students we cannot serve, or offering a curriculum we cannot provide?
Why are first-year writing and reading-intensive general-education courses still the most adjunctified, lowest-paid, highest-load corner of the university, at the precise moment when their work has become the most important work the institution does? What is the responsible institutional response for AI usage: Is it a syllabus statement, or a sequencing principle that requires students to demonstrate the cognitive work themselves before AI assistance is permitted?
Why are most college classrooms still phone-permissive by default? Kβ12 districts from Florida to California are now banning phones bell to bell; higher education has somehow lagged behind the public schools. Universities benefit from a pipeline they did not build and refuse to repair. What would it mean for a university system to invest seriously in the reading instruction happening in the high schools that feed it, rather than treating remediation as something to be quietly outsourced to first-year composition instructors?
The thing I am no longer willing to do is pretend this is a temporary adjustment period, or that βstudents will adapt.β They will not adapt on their own. The conditions that produced this collapse are still in place: the phones, the algorithmic feeds, the test-prep excerpts, staffing models that load the reading-intensive work onto the most precarious faculty, and now the chatbots that finish studentsβ sentences before theyβve even begun to think of them. If we want literate citizens, we will have to rebuild the conditions for literacy deliberately, against the grain of every incentive currently pointed the other way. I know the academy has the will to do that. It also has the obligation."
β Tyler Jagt, 1 June 2026, "My Students Canβt Read"
The generational collapse in literacy is measurable, persistent, and likely to get worse.
Gods and Lovers: Sine Qua Non
Night One of Six
by arlynx
6,7k words
Gortash Week, days 4 and 5: Sacred/Blasphemous and Public Persona/Private Life
*Convergence, the act of moving toward union*
They really should have someone watching the roofs, Ophelia thinks as she surveys the scene below.Β
The bridge is drawn at this time of night, two Steel Watchers stand motionlessly on either side, like peculiar statues, and a Fist walks back and forth between them. Sometimes he walks a little farther into the street, and sometimes he stops right by the edge and peers down. A well timed Thunderway would be- She shakes her head.
Lights flicker all about the fortress. Some are staticβtorches. And some are more Fists patrolling the perimeter. It doesn't take long for a pattern to establish itself. For her to find an opening.Β
Counting in her head, she disappears into the darkness of her roof to look at her destination. The river glints blue and silver in moonlight. A lonely ship appears, catching in the light. She backs up several steps for a running start.Β
The familiar but still just as exhilarating feeling of falling makes her heart skip a beat. She lands softly on the cold grass, then, hidden from the Watchers, makes her way higher. She's hidden from their view, however, her destination is hidden from hers, but the numbers shouldn't lie.Β
The window is tight, she waits until the pattern loops, before flying higher. There are no surprised Fists greeting her with the wrong end of their weapons, just as she didn't expect there'd be, but it's not a reason to linger. Not on this, what exactly, mission? Adventure? Quest? She does seek answers after all.Β
A level higher, the heavy steps of a Steel Watcher give it away; give her the needed time to hide from its view. After all, they're anything but subtle. Which might be the point. It turns and walks away, and by all her estimates, this is the above where Gortash's office is located. The unsubtle man guarded by his metal army, wearing gold, and calling her his partner.Β
She turns her head as she flies higher still, momentarily getting captivated by the distant view of the Lower City. It costs her a few valuable seconds to notice hooded figures who seem to be going where she is.Β
"Shit," one of the hooded figures says.Β
Indeed.Β
As fast as she can manage, Ophelia draws her bow and ducks to avoid eating a dagger for dinner. The figure who threw it darts sideways, accidentally triggering a trap. Her arrow hits the other one, an ice surface spreading on impact, making them lose balance. She sends the second arrow through their heart, before turning to the stunned would-be assassin. They go down without recovering their wits.Β
"Shit," she repeats aloud. A quick search reveals a note. Orin. Tasking the two with killing Gortash.Β
Her assassins hunt you even now. They are very efficient killers. Even someone with your talents should take heed.
Judging by this particular display, they're either, well, shit, or she's just too good; and she knows which answer she prefers. But the more important part is that Gortash owes her now for saving his life.Β
Carefully stepping across the body, she approaches the door. Once inside, there's nowhere to go but forward. A giant bell hangs in the middle. An ugly portrait of Baneβshe scrunches up her nose, it canβt possibly be meant as an offering of devotion; an insult, on the other hand, sureβis on the left, and a draw down ladder is straight ahead.
This indoor balcony space around the bell gives her an excellent view into the quiet and dimly lit room below. Shouldn't there be guards? Is Gortash even here? It would be a little awkward to come all this way only to learn he goes home to sleep. If he even has a home. He has to have a home, why wouldn't he have a home or two?Β
Even horror has a home.
Shaking her head, she steps over the short railing before sitting down on it for a moment. Aside from the sounds of one, no, two or even three Steel Watchers stomping outside, it's deathly quiet.Β
Soundlessly, she flies down.Β
Six busts form a rectangle, dominating the space. Now is not the time to explore, but she glances at one plaque at random. A pirate. Nice, if very unexpected.
The antechamber leads to what seems to be his office, like he said. Elaborate mechanisms hang on the walls. Too ugly to be decorations, and too similarβidentical in factβto the contraptions in the audience hall below; somehow she knows they're his inventions. Just how paranoid is he? She counts them, just in case. One too many, doing something nasty, probably.Β
The moon is at the exact right spot to have its light stream through the windows. The far end of the long table catches a bit of it. Aside from the small assortment of candles, writing accessories, and a bottle, it's tidy. Too tidy. Everything important or compromising tucked away.Β
Unease stirs inside. Still, there's nothing to do but continue. It'd be silly to turn back now.Β
At least not without ringing the bell and waking up everyone in Rivington. And blaming it on the newly appointed Archduke, of course.Β
She shakes her head. Maybe later.Β
To her left, there's a small elevated area housing a writing desk, a wardrobe, and some bookshelves. She wonders if any of them are under lock and key. To her right, Ophelia spots a piano. Interesting. Then a giant stuffed bear, then a bed.Β
And finally, the man himself lying on it.Β
What she doesn't see is a backdoor. Considering the only accessible windows overlook a steep cliff, that's a terrible design flaw.
On silent feet, she closes the distance. A blanket covers Gortash, his chest rises and falls in even intervals.Β
This is stupid, she thinks as she leans against a large, gilded chest to watch him. Also dangerous. For him, not her. She can easily kill him right now. Take his stone, break the window, and fall into the night.Β
No one would know.Β
So why doesn't she?
We share so much history.
Maybe.
He will twitch you by the sinews, a puppet jerking and jabbing at his command.
No, thatβs definitely not why. That's nonsense, in fact, she's nobody's puppet. Except, of course, the Emperor's. No sighs or vague feelings of exasperation come from within, so heβitβseems to be true to its word and gives her privacy tonight. A little unexpected, but also not entirely unsurprising. She's not the only one who has history with Gortash.Β
Does Gortash even know the illithid he lost is alive and plotting against him? Probably not. She should tell him. It is a dreadfully hilarious turn of events.Β
"How long are you going to stand there and watch me sleep?" his voice, completely clear, almost startles her. Almost.Β
"Depends," Ophelia says. "How long are you going to pretend to sleep?"
With a chuckle, Gortash slowly sits up on the bed. He's wearing... pants. Just pants. It definitely affords her a nice view, but also presents one too many questions. Some of which she isn't sure she's ready to have answered.
She focuses on the most pressing one. "Where's your pretty, pretty gauntlet?"
He pointedly flexes his right hand. "Safe."
Her eyes narrow. The lack of guards in his chambers, the cleared out table, the pretending to be asleep, the missing stone. The Archduke of Baldur's Gate expected her to pay him a visit tonight. He isn't afraid, but he is cautious. She has no idea what to do with this information. Nor the fact he is very deliberately half-naked.Β
She shakes her head to clear her thoughts. "It's under your pillow, isn't it?"
A corner of his lips lifts in a smirk. "Funny," Gortash says evenly. "As always."
"Ah, yes." Pushing off the chest she's leaning against, she walks to the window. The moonlight envelops her. If SelΓ»ne's watching, she needs to look away. This show is not for her entertainment. "As always. You see, it doesn't mean a thing to me right now."
"Might that be exactly why you came to the only person who can shed some light on your past?"
Turning to face him, she lifts her hands in a scale imitation. "My options are rather limited at the moment. Ask someone who called me his favourite. Or someone who called me soft and weak and broken."
He crosses his arms over his chest, which does absolutely nothing to emphasise the muscles in his arms because she is not looking at them. "A most difficult choice indeed. But Orin talks too much and has no idea what she's talking about."
"She seemed certain about poking a hole in my brain," Ophelia complains. "What did I ever do to her?"Β
"You raised her," he deadpans.
"Oh." The pause grows as the words try to sink in. Surely they cannot be talking about the same person. Surely she couldn't have fucked up that badly. How hard is it to raise a kid anyways? Feed them, clothe them, hug them once a tenday? Twice a tenday? "I'm a crap mother. Lovely. What in the bloody hells do you mean I raised Orin?"Β
Gortash lifts his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. "What other meaning could there be? You came to the Temple of Bhaal when Orin was but a young girl, and you took it upon yourself to raise her."
"Why?"Β
"I would assume you did it because she was a child living in a temple full of grown adults whose day job, pardon, night job was murdering people?"Β
Now he said it out loud, it's no wonder Orin is, well, Orin. All the hugs in the world wouldnβt be enough.Β
"So was it love or pity?"Β
"Perhaps both?"Β
That's worse, she thinks. "If she ever did, she holds no love for me now. Nor you. You owe me your life, by the way. She was going to have you assassinated tonight."
A cool mask slips onto his face. "And exactly how, pray tell, do you know that?"Β
"Why, she told me, of course, how else?" She rolls her eyes. Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers. "I ran into them. Flew into them, I went through the roof. Didn't expect to have some late night target practice. The bodies are still up there if you don't believe me." She waves Orin's note before throwing it at him. He catches it easily. "And they had this on them."
Frowning, Gortash skims it quickly. "She must have had one of her doppelgangers at the ceremony."
"A doppelganger?" She presses a hand to her heart. "A disguised spy of Orinβs spying on you at your grand ceremony of power consolidation? And you didn't see it coming? I'm dreadfully shocked."
For whatever reason, Gortash chooses not to take the bait, yet the way he looks at her makes her uncomfortable. Like he can foresee her every move, every word. Every snide remark. Perhaps, not precisely, but close enough.Β
He looks at her like he knows her.Β
Frustration and anger mix in the pit of her stomach, demanding immediate release. To hide the feelings in case they're showing on her face, Ophelia turns to the window. "Maybe she's me."
"She could never be you."
The way there's no hesitation in his answer makes the frustration worse. The way it implies history makes her heart ache. "Then maybe she's actually been you the whole time. Maybe, she usurped us both."Β
"If you really thought so, you wouldn't turn your back on me."
"Well, maybe I just don't care anymore."
"You don't mean that."
Anger wins over frustration. It needs an outlet and he's the perfect target. Also the only target. "Because you know me so well you can predict my every move? Because we were partners and such good buddies in crime?" With a smile she faces him again. "What a shame your pretty words donβt mean a thing."
He blinks at her, surprised. "Whatever makes you say so?"Β
"Oh, just everything you said earlier today. There she is, crawling back from her bloody disgrace. Orin made a fool of you." The more of his words she recalls, the hotter the flames roar. "We are but servants to our lords. I was dead, and you called it a disgrace. I was tadpoled and tortured and you wouldn't meddle."
Gortash makes to say something, but she doesn't let him. Taking a step forward, she thrusts a finger in his face.
"Discarded. Betrayed by my sister. Abandoned by my god, my father! Abandoned by you! So do forgive me if I'm feeling a little skeptical about your, oh, so loud proclamations of our beautiful partnership."
Chest rising as he takes a deep breath, his expression remains carefully controlled. "I understand why you're angry-"Β
"Abandonment tends to cause anger."
His lips press together, jaw tensing. He's getting angry with her. Well, tough, she got angry with him first. "It was never my intention-"Β
"Your intentions don't-"
"Of course, they matter!"
"Not to me! The person actually trapped in a mind flayer pod. Kept like a- like a-β Thoughts jumbling together, she grits her teeth. Gortash frowns. βWhite, fuzzy, looks at you judgingly as you make it do things?β
βA lab rat?β
Ignoring him, she presses on. βDid you know I was the first True Soul? Did you know that you used the knowledge derived from experiments on me?" A thought, a most terrible thought occurs. "I was right there in that vile necromancer's lab. My mind and body dissected and played with while you were right across the hall, dissecting and playing with other people's minds and bodies." Ophelia laughs bitterly. "What if they brought you my brain in a jar?"Β
Pain, unmissable yet it brings her no satisfaction, flicks across his face as he shakes his head. "No."
"What. If. They. Brought. You. My. Brain. In. A. Jar?" Their eyes lock. His throat moves. "Answer me!"Β
"If I'd known, if I had the slightest inkling-"Β
She doesn't let him speak. Not interested. Nothing he says can possibly change anything. "But you hadn't! You just accepted- accepted Orin! You didn't look for me. Or if you looked, you didn't look well enough because, oh there I was! In bloody Moonrise Towers all along!" Unless... Why should she believe anything he says now? "Or- or how do I even know you didn't find me there? How do I know you didn't see me in a pod and walk? Her god doesn't want her, and neither do I! She's more trouble than she's worth! I can replace her with a metal man! It won't talk back!"
"Ophelia," Gortash begins, a warning, but her name on his lips only pisses her off more. It pisses her off more than anything else he could've said.Β
The fragile equilibrium inside her that carried her all the way from the nautiloid to Baldur's Gate breaks at the sound of her name. Closing the short distance between them, she shoves him before he can react or brace himself. "You have no right to say my name," her voice rises. "You want to carry on as if nothing- as if you didn't abandon me!"Β
"Stop this."
Another shove, but he's ready. Her palms collide with his bare chest, failing to move him, but that's not the point any longer. His mouth twists into a scowl, eyes flashing a warning she's beyond caring about. "But I've proven myself by surviving this far, so I can still be useful! Oh, how wonderful! Thank you, thank you, my generous Lord Archduke!"Β
She moves to shoveβor is it to hit now?βhim again, but this time, quick as lightning, Gortash catches her wrists. Twisting, and pushing, and turning. A gasp later, she's trapped in a cage of his arms wound tight around her body, her back pressed to his chest. "Must we really do this?" he says, sounding like he's trying to make her angrier.Β
"We must!" With all the force she can musterβwhich isn't muchβshe attempts to slam backwards into him.Β
He's not wearing shoes, so she stomps on his foot, but the bastard seems to anticipate it and jumps away, jostling and pulling her with him. His grip doesn't relax for even a second. "This leads nowhere," he grunts, voice rough, almost pained. But clearly not physical pain.Β
Good.
His hands aren't close enough for her to bite into, so she pushes backwards again, futile as it may be. "Nor your sugary words, but if we were quitters, we wouldn't be here, eh?"
"What did you expect?" he asks through gritted teeth. "Hugs and kisses? You walk in and I fall down to my knees, tears streaming down my face."Β
How dare he?Β
"At least it would've shown you actually cared," she cries out, amazed at how his words only infuriate her more.Β
The circle of his arms tightens around her. "I'm nothing to you!" Gortash thunders. Anger matching hers, he gives her a shake. Every word is a declaration of war. "At best. At worst, I am your enemy. You look at me and see nothing, or you see the man responsible for all your newfound troubles. But I look at you and see the woman I-" his mouth snaps shut.Β
Despite the rage, Ophelia holds her breath.Β
The woman he what?
Is this a manipulation? Could be. Must be.Β
What if it isn't?
What if they aren't? Weren't.
He recovers quickly. "I see a decade of history. I see my friend, my closest ally, coming back from the dead with no recollection of everything we'd been through, everything we'd worked towards. Worse still, potentially ready to dismantle it instead. So do forgive me if I'm not in a hurry to throw myself onto your dagger."
Breathing heavily, mind replaying the sentence he didn't finish over and over, she tightens the muscles in her arms. His grip proves unyielding.Β
"So you're trying to find out how much is left of the woman you knew?"Β
"And can you blame me if I am?"Β
"I can do whatever the hells I want."Β
Blunt nails dig into her skin. "Can you remember me?" An insistent jostle draws a sound from the back of her throat. "Can you?"Β
She wants to lie. She cannot lie. "No. I can't." The helplessness rises, a yawning pit in her stomach. A massive hole in her brain. She hates it. She hates him. And Orin. And her father. And every single soul in this wretched world. "Or maybe I just don't want to!"
Gortash huffs. "Of course. Of course, we're going to ignore the fact that were it truly so, you would have no need to resort to sneaking into my office in the middle of the night to get answers."Β
"Well, maybe I don't want answers." Another angry push backwards has him tightening his arms until it becomes hard to breathe. Until his arms might be the only thing keeping the pieces of herself from scattering all over the stone floor.Β
"Ah, so this is a social call then. In the middle of the night. Careful, people might get the wrong idea."
Instead of answering, she wiggles inside the circle of his arms as best she can, back and forth, and side to side.Β
"I see you're not ready to behave just yet," he says, voice strained. Strong as he's proving to be, this must be taking its toll nonetheless.Β
But it's taking a toll on her as well. The anger doesn't burn as bright. "Is that what I did in the past? Behaved? Like a good little doggy?"Β
To her surprise, Gortash snorts. "Gods, no. However, you acted rationally. What you are doing now is counter-productive and will not help you achieve your goals, you must realise that."
"Guess I don't. Guess the brain damage turned me into an idiot. What'll you do then?" Instead of pushing back, she tries to wriggle down. He sighs and lifts her up. Seemingly effortlessly. It annoys her too, just in a different way.Β
"Then, I will tell you that the only thing you are achieving is pissing me off." He tightens his arms again to emphasise his last words. "But, of course, if that's your goal, congratulations, job well done. You haven't changed at all."
An unexpected rush of amusement catches her by surprise. It's... familiar. Easy. Like the same familiarity with which she uses her bow despite having no memories of ever learning.Β
Muscle memory. He is her muscle memory.Β
Her heart skips a beat.Β
Breathing out harshly, she focuses on the anger. Whatever's left of it. "See, more lies. How can someone who pisses you off be your favourite anything?"Β
He murmurs something, so fast and quiet, she fails to catch it. "Begrudgingly," Gortash says louder. "What can I say, I'm positively full of surprises."
"You're full of shit is what you are," she says, annoyed at how half-hearted it sounds.Β
"And you are assaulting and insulting the first in history Archduke of Baldur's Gate," he says low, the tip of his nose brushing her ear. A shiver runs down her spine, where skin touches skin through a slit in her dress. He's so close. βBut given the dire circumstances and my near boundless generosity, Iβm inclined to overlook your outburst.β
Oh.
She can headbutt him.Β
So she does.Β
Gortash narrowly avoids it. Very narrowly. His arms, having loosened a little, tighten around her again. "Cease this nonsense at once!"Β
More frustratedβwith him, with herself, with the past, and the present, and the future if only so it wouldn't feel left outβthan angry, Ophelia does the only reasonable thing she can think of, she growls.Β
"Or you can do that. See how well growling will work out for you."
She growls again, mostly out of spite.Β
Gortash says nothing. His arms remain as they are, shifting slightly to grip her more comfortably. She refuses to say anything either. In the ensuing silence, the only sound is that of her harsh breathing, but slowly it evens out as well.Β
Suddenly, she notices his thumb moving ever so lightly, where the edge of her dress meets her skin.Β
She notices just how many points of contact there are between their bodies. He's shirtless and her dress is rather revealing. Pressed so close together, they'd both fit in a large shirt.Β
Damn him.Β
Damn her.
Another long moment passes. Quite frankly, it's becoming a little awkward. He seems to feel it too. "Are we done with this foolishness?" he asks, low but friendly.Β
We? It's nice he's including himself in this foolishness, she supposes.Β
Standing perfectly still, Ophelia waits a beat, then another, and another. "No."
"Alright," Gortash says, almost cheerful. He shifts behind her. "It's a beautiful sight, isn't it? The Lower City isn't as bright as I'd like it to be, but all in good time."
The view is beautiful, but he's saying that just to be annoying. And the worst thing, she's rather all out of anger. Mostly out. Speaking about scenery while they stand like this, after everything that's happened today? Oh, hells no.
Wiggling her shoulders, she makes to move forward. "For crying out loud, let go of me."
To her surprise, he actually does. Perhaps he can senseβor he knows her too wellβthat she's done fighting him. As she turns and brushes her hands down the leather of her dress, he takes a step back. "Much better, isn't it?"Β
On the other hand, maybe she isn't done fighting him.Β
She narrows her eyes at him. Pointedly. "I need a drink. A bottle. Two bottles."
"Why stop at two, three?"Β
"Make it four, just to be sure."
His mouth moves enough to give away the fact he's biting the inside of his lip. Half turning, Gortash gestures back into the main area of the room with his outstretched arm.Β
As invitations go, this one will barely do. Chin lifted high, Ophelia stalks past him like a petulant baby. Fully aware of it too. He follows in silence. Suddenly, all the candles burst into flame, lighting up the room. Nice trick.
A thin-necked but thick-bottomed bottle sits on the table. She grabs it, pulls out the cork, and takes a sip. It's good. It burns her throat and soothes her soul at the same time. On a small table pushed to the wall, stands a tray with fruits. The green grapes call to her.Β
She pops one, then another in her mouth. The delicate skin breaks into a waterfall of flavour.Β
"Wine and what wine used to be," Gortash murmurs behind her. She turns to see him lift the same bottle to his lips. His eyes don't leave hers as he tips it.Β
A not quite kiss.Β
She can't bear to look.
"Are you hinting at something in particular?" Another grape, and another, and another. With no more green grapes, Ophelia grabs the purple ones. If only to focus on something else. Anything else. If she was a wine, what wine would she be?Β
Behind her, judging by the sound, Gortash sits down. "I don't hint. If I have something to say, I say it."
When she glances back, he does sit in a chair at the head of the table. Lounges, more like it. Still half-naked, arms loose, right ankle resting on left knee. Like he owns the place.Β
Does he own the place? She's not entirely sure. It's a publicβgovernment evenβbuilding. Although, of course, he might just be it, the new government. She shakes her head, honestly, not the time.Β
βSo you wanted to make a comment on fermentation?β
His lips twitch. βSeemed as good a topic as any, donβt you think?β
She says nothing. If he wants to be confusing by saying things, she can be confusing by doing the opposite.
"You must still have questions," he says after a moment, when the pause grows too long.Β
Out of grapes to eat again, she drags a chair to sit opposite him. "About wine? No. Not really.βΒ
βI meant questions about your past, of course.β
βI'm not sure I have any questions left. I seem to be quite caught up already." He still has the bottle, so she leans forward, opening her hand in a silent request.Β
Gortash's eyes focus on it as he takes a sip. Easily, he sends the bottle sliding across the polished wood. It stops when it hits her palm. "Oh?"Β
She drinks, then begins to count on her fingers. "Letβs see. I'm a Bhaalspawn. Apparently, I was made to kill everyone, to be the last soul alive." A humourless chuckle falls from her lips. "No pressure, huh? What else? Me and my best friend in the whole wide world concocted this Absolute hoax. It backfired spectacularly, but only on me, and my assassin sister, who was raised by assassins, failed to actually assassinate me. For some reason she got rewarded with Chosenhood for her failure. Chosenship? Whatever. So, she failed to kill me, but succeeded in tadpoling me. And here I am." The fist closes, she shakes it. "Did I miss anything?"Β
Gortash's expression remains grim. He lifts an eyebrow, before mirroring her pose. "Ah, yes, the greatest hits. What's missing is only a whole lifetime. A decade of partnership."Β
A decade.Β
After a moment's hesitation, she sends the bottle back to him. "Maybe it's a good thing I can't remember."
"You don't mean that," he says, completely confident, and drinks. "And even if you did, it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't change the past. And it certainly doesn't change the fact your past isn't done with you. Nor your father."
His words fan the embering flames. If only a little.Β
Rising to her feet, she lets the chair scrape the carpet. "Ah, yes, Bhaal. My god. My father. Daddy dearest. Who did nothing as my sister was poking my brain full of holes and stuffing them with tadpoles." A piece of knowledge comes to her; where from, she has no idea. "But I suppose that's just what Bhaal's children do. Kill each other. What's one more? What's one fewer?"Β
Orin didn't even manage to do that. Why? Why?Β
She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. If he wants me back, after everything that's happened, he'll have to send me a really big fruit basket."
Alfira. Sceleritas Fel directing her to kill Isobel. Spending the night she doesn't quite remember, tied up by her traveling companions. If only refusing him was as easy as saying the words. No, powerless as she is, she can still make it as difficult as possible for him.Β Spite is a dreadfully strong motivator.
If Father didn't want an angry daughter, Father shouldn't have abandoned his daughter. Simple as that.
The same can be said about the man who calls himself her friend.Β
"You should too, actually." It's so much easier to be mad at him than her sister or her father.Β
Gortash chuckles. "You already are eating my fruit and drinking my wine. Is it not enough?"Β
"For abandoning me? Not even close."
"I never abandoned you," he says, eyes and voice hard. Like he's fed up with having to defend himself. Well, she's fed up with feeling empty and alone.Β
"Could've fooled me."
"You can't bring a person back to life-"Β
"Not with that attitude."
His voice rises. "Not when they're a god's Chosen, his child, and have disappointed, one might even say failed their father."
Is he even hearing himself? Incredulous, she stares at him a moment. "So you did write me off as a lost cause. Just like my father did. Maybe you two should hang out."
A fist slams into the table, making a quill lying nearby jump. "You're not listening! You haven't been listening. I had a plan," he says but cuts himself off, eyes boring into hers as if... as if he's imploring her to read his mind. Like he can't say it out loud.Β
But why? Who's listening except her?Β
Who could be listening? A name comes to mind. Invoked. Invited.
She searches his eyes. If she ever understood this not-quite language, right now it's mostly gibberish.Β
"Alright," Ophelia says softly. What does it matter? Except she aches. It does matter. She hurts and she wants him to hurt too. "Let's not talk about that anymore. It's not going anywhere, and it's pissing us both off."
Looking away from her, he grabs the bottle. She watches his throat move as he swallows. Drinking it like one might drink water. Is he an alcoholic? Not that she's going to judge.Β
Moving slowly, she approaches the table before sitting on top of it, one foot planted on a chair. "I disappointed my companions today."
He nods gravely. "When they learned of your role in the rise of the Absolute."
"No." Not quite, at least. "No, when I told them I wasn't sorry. And I think I'm going to disappoint you, too." Their eyes meet. He tries to drink again, but the bottle seems to be all empty now. "I'm not sorry about what I've done." She knows she should be. Why isn't she? "But I'm also not going to finish what we started. At least not in the way we intended."
"Then that makes us enemies," he says slowly, every word a drag.
"Calling us enemies makes you an archidiot."
He huffs a humourless laugh. "Is that so?"Β
"Yes. Just ask Ketheric. Oh wait, he's dead. I killed him after he transformed into a giant skeleton with a really, really, really, really big scythe. Ah. It was over nearly before it even started." Almost irrationally pleased with herself, she swipes the hair back from her shoulder with a flare and a chuckle. "Honestly, I wish you hadn't left so fast. It was glorious."
"What do you mean left so fast?" Gortash asks. She blinks. It's not the part she thought he might focus on.Β
"Under the towers." She points a finger at him and waggles it. "A rogue True Soul flaunting it under your nose all this time, and you ran from her."
For a moment his face remains carefully blank, then his eyes close, and he slides a hand into his hair. "You... You saw us in the mind flayer colony before Orin and I left for the city?"Β
"Yes."
"And Ketheric knew you were coming. He knew you were coming." He looks like he just put the timeline in the correct order. They could've reunited days ago.Β
She frowns. "Obviously he knew I was coming. We'd met before. Twice. When he sentenced Minthara and casually asked me to kill a bunch of goblins, and when I kicked his arse the first time."
Instead of saying anythingβat a genuine loss even, perhapsβGortash simply looks at her.Β
"Maybe he thought that if he told you, you'd stay and, I don't know, run out to greet me? Fall down to your knees, tears streaming down your face? Team up against him and Orin? Oh. Oh, that could've been fun. I think we could've taken them on."Β
"Gods," Gortash says and rubs both hands on his face.Β
"I would've revealed myself, of course, if only I'd known I was your favourite. But I hadn't, at the time, and fighting all three Chosen seemed rather unwise." Their eyes meet, she gives him an apologetic smile.Β
Without a word, he rises and stalks towards the small table against the wall to grab another bottle. A very good idea. Perhaps they're both alcoholics; how else would one be a dark god's Chosen if not shitfaced drunk most of the time?Β
The thought makes her chuckle.Β
"You find it funny? No, don't answer. Of course, you find it funny." He sounds tired as he speaks. He looks tired as he walks back to the table. Bottle still in hand, Gortash mirrors her, not sitting but leaning against the edge, so close she barely needs to reach out to touch him.Β
Even if she's not laughing about what he thinks she's laughing about, he's not wrong; she does find it funny. Another thing he knows. But then does he? The chuckling sort of gave it away.Β
The bottle sits on his thigh, his fingers wrapped around its neck. Without looking, Ophelia grabs it. Their hands brush.Β
There's no sparkle or crack of lightning; a ridiculous idea she knows but doesn't remember reading or hearing about. There's just the warmth of his skin for a second before the bottle passes from his hand into hers.Β
She drinks.
From the corner of her eye, she sees Gortash turn his head. The ache returns with a newfound force, drowning out the amusement.Β
"Tell me something about me only you'd know."Β
He doesn't miss a beat. "You know exactly how many traps there are in this room. One exit. It makes you feel cornered. Walking past that bell gave you ideas you're itching to act upon."
Incredulous, she meets his eye. That's how she thinks. There isn't much in her head, except the instincts. Except some unidentified core of what she is, whether she remembers it or not. And he... "How do you-"Β
"I know you, Ophelia," he says, irritation clear in his voice. But also exhaustion. Like it's a fight he's ready to give up on. "I'm deeply sorry the villain of your tale turned out to be the partner you can't remember. Unfortunately, it's a fact you'll just have to find a way to live with."Β
She swallows hard. Whatever he's reading in her expression, in her eyes, has him sigh deeply and close his for a second.Β
"You are a pain in the arse," he blurts as if it's impossible to keep the words inside, holding her gaze captive much like he held her body earlier; she can't look away. "Your favourite colours are cherry red and sunset orange. You never wear rings on every finger because you hate the clanking sounds they make. You thrive under pressure and create chaos for amusement; good or bad, it doesn't matter, as long as it makes you laugh. Even when it's ill-advised. Especially then. You snapped a babe's neck at the market; within a tenday, its whole surviving family was slaughtered by debt collectors. You smuggled a litter of puppies into the city, forged Ravengard's signature, and 'borrowed' the ducal seal to issue the formal permits to those who bought them for exorbitant prices; he could never walk that back. You love to sing. When you're angry or frustrated, you take it out on other people, but when you can't do that, you bake. You hate this city. If it were up to you, you'd leave and build a house by the sea. Or a large lake; just as long as you couldnβt see the opposite shore."
Breath catching, she tears her gaze away. Her eyes sting, even as they remain dry as a desert. For a second, she seriously considers bolting. But there is only one exit, and she'd have to bolt right past him.Β
Silence stretches between them. Not uncomfortable, but strange. She should be saying something. Giving him some response to what he's just said. Some details of her past revealed. Good and bad, funny and horrifying. Yet, nothing comes. What can she say?Β
That he does know her? That she doesn't know him?Β
His words from earlier come to mind, how he is nothing to her, and she pushes everything else away to focus on them alone. To put herself in his place, to imagine how it might feel to have a partner for years, working towards such a grant hoax, only to lose him. To have to carry on with their plans, while the person who ruined everything takes his place.Β
She imagines standing on the dais with Ravengard as Gortash walks towards her. Doesn't remember her. Doesn't know her anymore. Looks at her like sheβs a stranger. And he has other people by his side. Perhaps, he's even developed feelings for them. Companionship. Care. Love.
A wave of emotions crests and covers her whole. What emotions exactly, Ophelia dares not to examine too closely.Β
Even without her memories, merely imagining it is unbearable.Β
"How old am I?" she asks, half out of genuine curiosity, and half just to fill the silence, to distract herself from the feelings.Β
A moment passes before he answers. "You turned thirty eight on the twentieth."
A lump forms in her throat. Multiple things fighting for attention at once. She's young, terribly young by her race's standards. They must be close in age. "The nautiloid crashed on my birthday," she says dully. "My present was a fighting chance."
Gortash says nothing. She wonders what he's thinking. She wonders if at one point she was able to tell.Β
"I think you should go," he says suddenly, quietly. Startled, she turns to look at him, but he is staring resolutely ahead.Β
The words slip out before she can even think. "Of course. I wouldn't want to be where I'm not wanted."
"Do not put words in my mouth. You are the one who has to make a choice. Now that you have a fuller picture."
Right. The choice.Β
She's made that choice already.Β
Clearing out her throat, she straightens, then moves the chair back in its place. He stands, shoulders squared, face carefully neutral, waiting.Β
"Well," Ophelia says, "I suppose I do have some thinking to do. You probably do, too." Instead of what could be an awkward handshake, she hands him the bottle. He takes it. "Thanks. For the wine."
"You're welcome."
"And the grapes. And you should probably deal with the dead bodies upstairs. Or not. Whatever you want."
"I will deal with them," he says, soft, but flat. Emotionless.Β
Why doesn't she just go? She should go. But there are stolen pieces of her scattered all over this damned city and she needs them back. She needs them back.Β
And heβs the only one who might know where to look.Β
Something pinches her throat from the inside. "Alright, good night."
In silence, not looking back, she walks quickly towards the large doors. They open with a bit of effort. The closest patrolling Steel Watcher stops to catch her face, then continues on its way.Β
She breaks into a run towards the battlements. Without slowing down, Ophelia jumps.Β
Thank you so much for reading! I would appreciate hearing your thoughts, what moments made you smile or laugh or sigh at these two idiots, still in love and both of them hurting π
Durge confronting Enver about "not meddling" is like catnip to me
Fun little thing: the "I'm sorry the villain of your tale turned out to be the partner you can't remember" line was one of the first things I knew about this fic. And the very last picture exists in probably, uh, 8-10 different versions, lol
Less fun thing: the babe at the market moment was directly inspired by Caprica Six from Battlestar Galactica, a terrible, cruel kind of mercy in a way
Love letter tagging @saylofwaterdeep @ele-millennial-weirdo @gortashsrighthand @elinorbard @asorceresswrites @faeriiefire @unovafarm @carnivaley @wasteful-sam @purpleasters-inseptember @defira85 @optimisticgrey @chatdaeosea @baelthi @micnicmabel @grandninjamasterren @archesa
Discovering Gale's scathing critiques of the companions if you cheat on him, or if you flirt with other people before him at the tiefling party, is like damn can you imagine how fucking EVISCERATING he must've been towards his colleagues and other wizards pre orb? When he was chosen of Mystra, one of the greatest mages ALIVE???
I cannot fathom how INSUFFERABLE he must've been within the wizard community π. Walking into every room swinging his dick like "lmao look at these losers. Imagine never being as cool as me? TRAGIC."
And yet, at the same time, he was also incredibly charming, surely bc 1) he's charming af in BG3 from the moment you meet him 2) why ELSE would he have been sought after to trip the light fantastic at many a Blackstaff ball π?
I can't π He's such a Jane Austen love interest π
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
β Live Streamingβ Interactive Chatβ Private Showsβ HD Qualityβ Free Actions
Free to watch β’ No registration required β’ HD streaming
Like, this is both obvious and revelatory: The people who create and participate in The Discourse are people who look at twitter/threads/whatever and say, "This Discourse seems healthy and productive. I shall participate."
So the only people we end up hearing from on twitter are people who want to post to twitter. which is to say they are definitionally weird.
