a moonlit dream

independent, selective multimuse & multifandom rp blog . penned by criim main fandoms : baldur's gate 3 , dungeons & dragons / pathfinder current active muses: yul karcsi (oc), astarion (bg3), pinocchio (lies of p)

will contain spoilers and dark / triggering / sexual content. 18+ only. duplicate , original characters , crossover friendly

carrd ( rules&muses )

mobile rules under cut. please read prior to following/interacting. icon/graphics credits : mirza and me

I mentioned it in the profile/backstory on my carrd, but I want to expand on it a little over here.

My headcanon for Silco is that he grew up in the brothels of the Undercity. He was the son of a prostitute, with an unknown father - his mother doesn't know who his father is, as it's most likely Silco's father was a client. Silco never cared to find out who he was, either.

As a child, while he was kept away from the sins of the brothels, he was essentially parented by many of the prostitutes - those who had days off would care for the little child. They would try their best to keep Silco from knowing the true nature of their job - but it was inevitable that he would find out one day.

When Silco reached majority, he worked both within the mines, as well as within the brothel as a worker. (He never told Vander about his second job until much, much later - in fact, the dagger he gifted Vander was commissioned with the money he earned in his second job. And the money he earned in his two jobs served as the initial starting funds of his rebellion against Piltover - as well as the information he managed to snatch. It's rather interesting, how much information is slipped behind the walls of a brothel.)

An inelegant snort came from the thinner man, somewhat disbelieving of the statement that came out of Vander's mouth. His head rested upon Vander's shoulder as he leaned back, messy black locks nearly undone from the bun he normally kept his hair in. "You know," Silco began, picking at the yellowed cloth strips that wrapped around his hand with his mine-stained fingernails. "There's probably a whole lot of people who'd argue with you." The bruise on the side of his rib echoed that statement; though he was tiny and frail looking next to Vander's bear-like frame, it was Silco who was the more aggressive one of the two.

"I'd say the man we left in that alley would absolutely argue with you 'bout that."

In Silco's defense, the trash had it coming - anyone who spoke badly of the cathouse workers didn't deserve to keep their teeth. (Sure, it was Silco who dealt the first punch, but it wasn't like any proper Undercity sump rat would tattle to the enforcers.)

He knew he had to work on his anger - this would get him in trouble one day. But at least Vander would always be there to back him. It was always Silco and Vander, since the day they met, and absolutely 'til the day they both die. He trusted Vander with his life, and he just knew it was the same the other way around.

A sigh left him, and Silco rested more of his wiry weight on Vander's arm. "... There's a lot of 'bad' in me - terrible, in fact. And I know you know it, so you don't have to lie about it." Deft fingers snatched the cigarette from Vander's fingers, bringing it to his mouth and taking a calming inhale. "Done it to live, done it to survive. And I'll keep on doing it." Icy blue eyes stared forwards, down to the rest of the Undercity from their little perch. He could spot the next shift of workers headed for the mines, pickaxes and hardhats at the ready, Piltie enforcers ensuring each of them made their way to work, using whatever needed to 'motivate' them all.

He couldn't stop himself from tensing up at the mere sight of it - even if this was a common thing to see in the Undercity. "... I'm just so tired of it. All of it." Of all the suffering, of the injustice and inequality of it all. The ever present haze and cough of pollution - to where a toxic cigarette like the one in his mouth was a breath of fresh air, compared to the regular sludge they breathed in. Of this perpetual poverty, while those up in their cushy little homes up in Piltover proper profited from the blood and sweat and bodies of everyone down below.

It was infuriating.

"...if we can change this all, Vander, would you?"

Carlo was successful in his goal of becoming a Stalker of Krat, but only just. He donned the identity of Crow, and ended up favouring the broadsword in the shape of a scissor blade as he roamed the streets of Krat alongside his best friend and the only person he considered family, Romeo. On occasions, his patrols would have him come across his father's workshop, and he would always sneer and spit words of derision in that direction. (Give him a chance, and he would cold-heartedly commit patricide. The hate to his father for abandoning him at the charity house holds no bounds, and perhaps there was nothing left in his heart for his father but smouldering rage.)

I was reading a new webtoon over my hiatus, which kind of made me think of how I intend for Yul to be like post!BG3/general D&D verse.

I fully intend for Yul to descend into a bit of madness, via becoming a devout of Cyric - however, Cyric is a trickster and a liar, and he's looking to free himself from the prison that he's currently trapped in. Yul is no Chosen of Cyric - instead, as time goes on, the skull of his mother that Yul carries with him all the time begins to whisper to him. His mother's skull speaks to him, echoing his long dead mother's words, and being the guide Yul needs in life. Unbeknownst to Yul, the Prince of Lies himself has possessed the skull with the shards of his power, tricking Yul to believing it was actually his mother's spirit.

Why would Cyric do this? For two reasons - he is in search for the keys that would free him from his shackles, and with his little power left within him, he seeks the vulnerable to do his bidding, whether knowing or unknowing. The second reason?

A quiet hum rumbled from the middle of his chest, though the sound was much more just a vibration rather than noise. His lightly scaled tail thumped upon the back of his own thigh in thought to his companion's question, with his eyes closing briefly. "... Something right now, or in general?" Yul's voice, though he spoke (just a little) to everyone in their little party, still held a rough timber, years of disuse permanently colouring his voice to something raspy. "... You have a good eye for nice looking things, right Astarion?" The hum returned as the tiefling took a step towards the vampire spawn. "I need a new box. Nice looking, not too big. Something I can easily carry."