Heartcrystal’s Assorted Ramblings

War Upon the Heavens (Revenge Ending)

You have claimed the Crown. For a moment, the world waits beneath you: bruised, trembling, obedient. Baldur’s Gate kneels in smoke and silence. The gods, distant as ever, watch from their jeweled thrones and call it judgment. But you have known their judgment. You prayed in the dark. You begged beneath knives. You called to names that did not answer, and learned that divinity is often only another word for absence. No longer. You lift your hand, and the Crown answers. Dragons hear you across planes, across old blood, across the marrow-song of creation. Gold and silver. Brass and bronze. Onyx, emerald, sapphire, storm. Wings unfurl in the spaces between worlds. The heavens split. Let the gods look down now. Let them see what neglect has made. Let them feel the heat of every unanswered prayer as it claws upward through their gates. Once, they abandoned a child to monsters. Now the child comes for the sky.

The Draconic Conquest (Tyranny Ending)

You have claimed the Crown. The Material Plane lies open before you, soft and faithless, crowded with cities that call themselves eternal because they have never seen a dragon wake hungry. Baldur’s Gate burns first. Not all at once. You are not wasteful. You let the people see the shadows pass over them. You let the towers tremble beneath wingbeats. You let kings, dukes, priests, and patriarchs understand, in their last clear moment, that stone was never power. Gold was never power. Crowns were never power. Only fear tells the truth. At your command, dragons descend. They do not raid. They claim. Temples become roosts. Palaces become hoards. Streets run black beneath ash, and the old banners fall beneath talon and flame. The age of small folk ruling over borrowed earth ends screaming. They called you beast. Abomination. Failed experiment. Now they will learn the mercy of correct names. Stormborn. Sovereign. Dragon. And the world, at last, belongs to its oldest blood.

Queen of the Ashes (Ruler Ending)

You have claimed the Crown. And still, the ache remains. No throne fills it. No obedience softens it. No chorus of enthralled minds can drown out the memory of chains, of cold stone, of human hands cutting divine silence into your skin. You look upon the city you saved and see only mouths that would have condemned you if the story had been told differently. You see nobles fattened on suffering. Priests selling comfort beneath indifferent gods. Soldiers following orders. Cowards surviving by looking away. Humanity disappoints you one last time. So you make the disappointment simple. Fire takes the Lower City first, running along rooftops like a hymn learning anger. Then the Wide. Then the docks, the counting houses, the temples, the high estates where the powerful finally discover how small their screams are. When dawn comes, no bells ring. You sit upon a throne of cooling stone and blackened bone, your hands clean only because the fire has eaten everything else. The survivors do not speak your name. They have no need. All know who rules what remains. The Queen of the Ashes smiles. And the world lowers its eyes.

The Dragon-God Ascendant (Godhood Ending)

You have claimed the Crown. Power floods you, vast and bright enough to murder thought. Mortal flesh was never meant to contain such hunger. But then, your flesh was never merely mortal. It was written over in blood, broken open by ritual, bound to dragonkind, touched by gods who thought their touch would be enough. They were wrong. Bahamut calls it blasphemy. Tiamat calls it theft. You call it inheritance. The Crown reshapes the living into worship. Minds bend. Armies rise. Thousands kneel with empty eyes and speak your name in a single voice until the planes shudder with it. The old dragon gods stir. Let them. You remember the first lesson Gale taught you of the Crown: that divinity is not born from goodness, nor mercy, nor worth. It is born from power that refuses to remain mortal. Once, such knowledge frightened you. Once, you looked at Gale and begged him not to mistake a throne for healing. But that was before Ansur’s soul burned beneath your ribs. Before Io’s blessing sang in your blood. Before Bahamut’s favor crowned you with a legitimacy even the heavens could not easily deny. Before you understood that gods are not greater because they are good. They are greater because the world agrees to kneel. So you make it kneel. You have been child, weapon, exile, supplicant, survivor. You have worn every chain the cosmos could offer and broken each one with your teeth. Now you will wear divinity. Not granted. Not blessed. Not permitted. Taken. And when the first prayer rises to you from a throat that no longer has a will of its own, you understand the final cruelty of godhood: It does not matter whether they love you. Only that they answer.

The Last Fire (Given Up ending)

You have claimed the Crown. But victory arrives too late. The city cheers. The companions look to you. The world waits for command, for mercy, for the shape of tomorrow. You search yourself for hope and find only ash. Too many hands. Too many gods. Too many years beneath the earth, and too many mornings spent pretending survival is the same as being whole. The Crown hums against your thoughts, eager as an open wound. It offers dominion. It offers revenge. It offers silence. Silence, at last, is tempting. You turn toward Baldur’s Gate. Fire blooms. Not conquest. Not justice. Not even hatred, in the end. Only exhaustion given form. Streets vanish beneath white-gold flame. Towers fold inward. The river reflects a second sun and carries it trembling out to sea. Those who loved you call your name. Perhaps you hear them. Perhaps that is why you smile. When the blaze has eaten half the city, you lift your face to the smoke-veiled sky. No god descends. No answer comes. Of course it does not. So you give yourself the only answer left. The Crown cracks in your hands. The fire turns inward. And for one breath, brighter than dawn, the girl who survived the dark becomes the light that ends her.

P.S: I was rather bored and recorded myself actually acting out one of the endings in voice, as if I am the narrator. It was... fun. Do tell me if you want to hear it, I will send it privately. :]

We were drunk on mulled wine, laughter, and love.

Not merely intoxicated, but drunk in the deeper sense of the word—so saturated with happiness that the world itself seemed softened around the edges. Life felt impossibly sweet then, rich with wonder and possibility, and I had the extraordinary privilege of sharing it with two people I loved beyond reason.

Looking back, I do not think I appreciated how rare such moments truly are.

We wandered through Waterdeep with no destination in mind, hands constantly finding one another, kisses stolen between conversations, a bottle of mead passed back and forth whenever one of us remembered we were carrying it. Around us, the city blazed with life. Lanterns hung above the streets like captured stars, music drifted from open tavern doors and merchants shouted over one another while children darted between crowds with sticky fingers and sugar-coated smiles.

And the smell.

Gods, the smell.

Only Waterdeep can somehow fit half the known world into a single street and make it fragrant. Roasted chestnuts and spiced apples mingled with evergold baklahva, monkey balls, niangao, grilled fish, candied nuts, fresh bread, snowbread, mulled wine, and a dozen other delicacies whose names I never learned because I was too busy eating them.

Lucia spotted something sweet being sold from a nearby stall and immediately declared it essential. Aron disagreed, or perhaps he merely wished to continue walking. I cannot remember. What I do remember is their good-natured argument beginning beside me while I laughed and surrendered Aron's hand.

The sensation arrived so suddenly it cut through wine and merriment alike. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, my smile faded and I stopped walking.

At first, I could not identify why. Only that something felt wrong. Not dangerous, not exactly, but familiar in the way old scars ache before rain.

I felt watched.

The sensation was unmistakable—as though someone's gaze had settled between my shoulder blades with enough weight to become physical. So immediate, so intense, that I turned before I consciously decided to do so.

The crowd moved around me in a blur of color and motion. Hundreds of faces, laughter, lanternlight swirled in music.

Yet my eyes passed over all of it.

Searching, seeking and finding. Across the street stood a small tent. Bright purple. Closed. Entirely unremarkable.

And yet the moment I saw it, something deep inside me tightened.

There was a pull. Not curiosity, not quite, but something stranger. Recognition without memory. A form of certainty without understanding.

I stared at the tent and felt the world around me recede. The music grew distant, the voices blurred and even Lucia and Aron seemed suddenly far away.

I vaguely remember one of them speaking to me, perhaps both. I recall myself nodding in response to something, agreeing automatically while my attention remained fixed entirely upon that impossible little tent, as I was already moving.

Crossing the street without thought, drawn forward by something I could neither name nor resist.

The tent stood waiting and before I could question my own actions, the entrance flap opened. Not by wind or a visible hands, it simply opened and I stepped inside.

The world vanished, the cacophony of sound and smell behind me fell away in an instant.

Cedarwood struck me first. Not the pleasant trace of it one finds in wardrobes or carved furniture, but something dense and overwhelming, thick enough to feel tangible. Then anise. Cinnamon. And smoke. And Incense. Dozens of scents layered atop one another until the air itself seemed alive.

I drew a breath and immediately regretted it.

The fragrance flooded my lungs so completely that my chest seized. My head spun, the floor shifting beneath my feet as though I had stepped onto the deck of a ship caught in rough waters. Hands settled on my shoulders—gentle, unexpectedly strong—and before I fully understood what was happening, I found myself guided into an impossibly soft chair.

The tent's interior was dimly lit, shadows dancing across richly colored fabrics that concealed every visible wall. Candles flickered from impossible corners, their flames strangely steady despite the absence of any obvious structure holding the tent upright. The scents lingered heavily in the air, bordering on suffocating.

"Good, good. Here you are, child."

The voice emerged from somewhere beyond the haze clouding my thoughts. Thinking had become unexpectedly difficult. Each thought felt slow, dragged through molasses.

"So kind of you to stop by. So very kind."

An old woman shuffled into view, leaning heavily upon a walking stick fashioned from twisted wood, its grain curling upon itself like frozen smoke. Her robe was surprisingly simple—a plain purple garment devoid of embroidery, jewelry, or ornamentation. It contrasted sharply with the extravagant surroundings.

Her hair caught my attention immediately. Far too red. Not dyed red or vibrant red, but the sort of red that seemed fundamentally unwilling to acknowledge age.

She lowered herself into the chair opposite mine and before I could react, my hands were in hers. I never saw her reach for them. One moment they rested in my lap, the next, she was turning them over beneath the candlelight, tracing the lines of my palms with weathered fingers.

"What do you—"

"Ah." The old woman cackled softly. "Ah, yes."

Her fingers stilled. A delighted smile spread across her face—the smile of someone finding exactly what they expected. It unsettled me more than anything else in that tent.

"Interesting."

"What is?"

"Something is coming." She tilted her head. "Not a person. A mind." Her thumb brushed across my palm. "There is a weight waiting for you. A very large one."

I laughed nervously. "I suspect that describes most people's futures."

"Oh, no." She sounded genuinely amused. "This one is different."

For the first time, she looked up. Her eyes were startlingly clear. Clear enough to make me wonder if she had ever truly been old at all.

"It will change the direction of your life," she added quietly. "And the lives of many others besides."

The smile faded slightly.

"I see difficult choices. The sort that leave scars regardless of which path is chosen."

Something cold settled in my stomach.

The old woman continued studying me. "Two influences." She frowned. "No. Not influences." Her eyes narrowed. "Two men, perhaps." The words sounded uncertain, as though she disliked them. "They are important." A pause. "Powerful in their own ways." Another pause. "And very different from one another. A man and an elf."

I swallowed. She seemed not to notice.

"Neither will walk your path for you. They cannot." Her grip tightened slightly around my hands. "But both will change it."

The silence stretched as she studied my hands.

Finally, the old woman released them.

"Be careful whom you allow to guide you, child."

I rubbed my palms automatically. "I thought you just said they couldn't."

A crooked smile returned to her face. "People have a remarkable talent for convincing themselves that their choices were entirely their own."

For a moment, neither of us spoke, my hands still caught in her grip.

"Neither of those men — nor your father — can choose for you," she laughed as if I had told the funniest story.

"Oh, but that is tomorrow's problem." She waved a dismissive hand. "Tonight is for mulled wine, bad decisions, and whatever handsome fools are currently wondering where you've wandered off to."

I blinked — and found myself outside.

The noise hit me first, music and laughter and the warm chaos of a city celebrating itself. Then the smells. Then Lucia's voice, sharp with relief, and Aron's somewhere close behind her, both of them calling my name through the crowd.

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