The Embrace of Love and Death

"She is an absolute monster."

My dear friend, beta reader and lore domme recently said that about Celeste and, honestly? I have rarely been more proud.

I've been an avid roleplayer for the better part of twenty-five years. That said, I've never particularly enjoyed D&D as a roleplaying system. I much prefer skill-based character progression over class-based mechanics. That's entirely a me problem—especially considering I somehow fell hopelessly in love with a fictional woman I created within this exact system and setting. I own that.

There has never been much of a method to how I create characters.

I scroll through options, flip through sourcebooks, browse artwork. Either inspiration strikes or it doesn't (much to the dismay of my GMs, but that's a story for another time).

So when I started Baldur's Gate 3, I did exactly the same: I clicked together something that felt "good enough" and started playeing. Sometimes a character finds their story; sometimes they don't.

(Thoughts and prayers to all the unnamed Tavs who never made it out of Act 1, forever trapped by a lack of inspiration or hardware failure.)

When I created Celeste—fully embracing my teenage excitement to play a draconic bloodline Dark Urge—I went looking for a name. A D&D name generator suggested Celestia. It didn't feel quite right at the time, but it was close enough. Derived from the Latin caelestis, meaning "heavenly," it simply became Celeste.

That was over two years ago.

And more than 2.2 million words ago.

(No, that is not an exaggeration.)

Since then, her story has grown far beyond anything I ever imagined. Her name has settled into itself. She has changed. Her character has deepened, flaws have emerged, old wounds have healed while others have opened, and trauma has slowly unfolded into something I never could have planned from the beginning. She is horrible in most parts, cunning and calculating, but has a gentle, vulnerable and sweet side she offers to those she loves.

She speaks to a part of me that is still deeply teenage, still a little childish, still utterly fascinated by stories about broken people who keep choosing kindness anyway. She gives me hope.

Writing her life fills me with immense joy. Seeing her name still makes me smile. And knowing there are people in this fandom who are genuinely invested in my wonderfully broken girl means more to me than I can properly put into words.

Something was off in camp tonight. Ever since they had entered the Underdark, Lae'zel had made it a habit to keep track of each and every of her allies, such was her task as deputy in this strange yet familiar place. One of the few things in her life that had not changed. Hshar'lak. The word burned in her mind and soul like red-hot steel, and she sought a distraction from the pain it brought by patrolling the cavern their leader had chosen for their war camp. He had chosen well. Limited entrances, fresh water, edible mushrooms, and a decent amount of the magical radiation called “faezress”, which, according to their guide and leader Imrae, would protect them from divination magic. It seemed to put the vampire Astarion at ease, which meant that he was less of nuisance than when agitated. Despite his whinging about being parted from the sun, he still feared his master and found comfort in the thought that he would not find him here by magical means. Right this moment, he was playing with a dagger by his tent, tossing the blade “for fun”. He sent her an annoyed glance when he noticed her presence, to which she continued her round. Nearby, Shadowheart was watering her herbs, trying to keep them alive in this place without sunlight, but at least the plants were quiet about it. The same could be said of the half-elf, as Lae'zel had expected incessant gloating by her about the failed attempt to purify themselves at the crèche, but she had abandoned her efforts after two comments. Wyll and Gale were sitting together with Karlach, who was roasting little morsels of food in her burning hot hands, as their leader had forbidden making campfires as they had held it on the surface, much to half the band's dismay. The tiefling offered Lae'zel a mushroom that Imrae had confirmed as edible, yet the other two had gagged at, but a githyanki was not as picky as these istik. Chewing it down, she nodded in approval. The mushroom's subtle taste and chewy consistency reminded her of the roasted stalks of infinity vine back on K'liir.

The druid Halsin was whittling, the canine Scratch was resting by his feet, and the k'chaki Volo was writing into a book, same as the corpse Withers. Normal behaviour for all of them. When she reached the spot Imrae had chosen as his workspace, a rock serving as their map table and his desk, she noticed what was off. Each other evening, he had been humming while studying his manuscripts after his trance, but tonight, the only sound coming from him the soft tap of his finger on parchment as he was staring out into the vastness visible from the small opening in their hideout, where the soft glow of the sussur tree in the distance illuminated the larger cavern. Were the averse effects of the plant still bothering the mage? No. They were too far away, and none of the other magic users in camp had complained. Was he in pain after the battle with his kin who had lived there in company of monsters called hook horrors? She could not recall a moment in which he had been struck. Her and Shadowheart had drawn their foes into close combat as usual, splitting the herd for an easy victory, while Imrae and Astarion had backed them up with arrows and crossbow bolts. They had played it safe, for the sussur tree interrupted magic, even the soothing kind cast by the Sharran. No, Imrae was simply deep in contemplation, she told herself. He was strong. He was stone while she was steel. A good combination. A fine alliance. An alliance she desperately needed. Shoving down that degrading thought, Lae'zel returned to her tent to sharpen her blades. They would explore more tomorrow to find their way to the exit towards Moonrise Towers that Imrae knew about, held by Clan Bitterroot. Grey dwarves. They would be no match for Lae'zel of Crèche K'liir. The only reason her name would be unknown in the Underdark would be the lack of survivors of their battle.

She was useful, well-trained in combat in the close spaces of tunnels. She was useful. She still had purpose. Even though her eyes betrayed her in this darkness. Even though tunnels were familiar, these were once again alien. Even though her mere presence invited pursuers. She stopped her thoughts and her sharpening before she could ruin the blade. Perhaps this was her cue to get some rest. Settling on the furs by her tent, she stared at the cavern ceiling. Without the weather on the surface of Faerûn bothering their operation, she could rest however she wanted. The view reminded her of K'liir, too. She quickly closed her eyes. Sleep did not find her. Not even after it had become deadly quiet in camp. When she felt movement beside her and the qua-nith psionic detector being placed into her hand, she opened her eyes to see the white glint of Imrae's in the darkness, the dim light in the cavern catching in them. “Speak. What is this?” Lae'zel asked, sending him a stare of disappointment. “There is something I need to do. I will be back before you know it.” Lae'zel sensed sorrow, but no lie in his words. “Alone? Chk. Your rules were clear. Nobody goes alone.” “I- Yes. I did say that.” Imrae's gaze fell to the side, and he took a deep breath before he dared to look at her again, his mien more open than before. “Very well. Will you guard me, Lae'zel?”