Perpetually happy

After Dammon feels he has rested enough and decides he won't go back to sleep, he pulls himself out of bed to start his day. It's hard to tell the passing of time in the Shadowlands, he has to rely on his body's rhythm. He is used to getting up before most and working late in the evening, especially when he can't sleep. Sometimes it is better that he hammers than worry about things he cannot change. He can put all his concerns aside and focus on something he can create. He debates going for a run, he usually does in the morning but since leaving Elturel it has been hard for him to find a place to keep up the habit. Maybe when I'm in Baldur's Gate and have my own forge.

He knows he has to finish this project for Rosa today. He knows he can only ask so much from her to wait and everyday that passes could be more dangerous for those taken to Moonrise Towers. Starting earlier would be better. His ability to function without much sleep comes from his time in Avernus when he didn't have a choice and sleep only came when he passed out from exhaustion. He admits he feels better after resting than yesterday even if he is still a bit sore. 

He gets dressed into more appropriate attire for blacksmithing while thinking about Rosa. He keeps visualizing her saving him and can't stop imagining the way she looked. She was fierce. It reminded him of when he first laid eyes on her. His thoughts drift to when their caravan was slowly with heavy hearts traveling to Baldur's Gate. They had only a few days earlier been driven from their homes in Elturel and blamed for the Descent.

He stops dressing and leans against his table. Tears weld in his eyes and he closes them. He takes several deep breaths. So much has happened in the past months. He swallows hard and rubs his eyes with two fingers, willing his watering eyes to desist. When I made a home in Elturel, I never expected something so horrible could happen in such a holy city. Now I don't have a home. I don't have much of anything. Only my life, which I'm more than thankful to Tymora. Everything could have turned out so much worse.

He takes another deep breath and stands up. He continues dressing and remembering when he first encountered Rosa. She had come out of nowhere and placed herself between their group and the Gnolls attacking them. Zevlor and a few others had been trying to keep them away up until then. She stood in front of Zevlor. She had turned to him, and told him to get us safety and yelled at us all to run. She faced them alone. He has never seen a braver mortal. It took him a few minutes to follow the others. He was in awe of how majestically, determined and strong she fought. She dodged the Gnolls so gracefully and sliced into them with her sword so precisely. It was Zevlor yelling for him that made him turn and run, leaving her to deal with them alone.

He had seen that bravery again from her when those winged horrors attacked Last Light Inn, and him. Though, there was more fire in her eyes this time. He could see how angry she was and at the same time she was concerned about him. One minute taking down those creatures, and the next minute caring for him. It was amazing to see and feel. She is amazing.

He grabs a biscuit, apple and cup of strong black coffee. He figures like most days it would be enough. He wonders if Rosa made the biscuits, he can't recall. He scarfs down the biscuit, it tastes delicious and he must have been hungrier than he originally thought. If she did make them, she apparently is a good cook too. Though considering much of their time is on the road, someone in her party needs to be. Gale looks like he probably could cook a good meal too.

Dammon walks down the stairs to his makeshift forge the Harpers let him borrow and takes a bite of the apple in his hand. He stops at the bottom of the stairs as he notices the coals are already lit and burning hot. He sees next to it a fire pit with a caldron of soup simmering and he admits the aroma of the vegetables smells delicious. On one of his wooden work benches he sees a healing potion. 

He smiles to himself. I can take a hint. He puts his coffee and apple down next to the healing potion. He picks up the potion and drinks it. The potion does give him a jolt of energy and helps a few of the sore spots dissipate. He stretches his arms and back muscles to help work out any stiffness. He picks up a bowl and spoon nearby. It would be a shame to let this go to waste. He brings the spoonful of soup to his lips, blows on it to cool it down and takes a sip. He hasn't tasted anything so delicious before. The vegetables taste so fresh and the herbs pare with them so well. He wonders how they found such food in the Shadowlands, or maybe they brought it with them. He happily devours the rest of the bowl of soup. It feels like a luxury to eat something so filling and good. It seems too long since he has had a decent meal.

Dammon isn't sure if Halsin or Rosa or both did all of this. Though, he is sure Rosa had some part in it. She really does care about me. It has been a while since anyone cared about me in this manner. As he eats the soup his face softens and his tail moves back and forth behind him as he thinks about how he apparently has more who care about him now at least in some fashion, besides Zevlor.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Thinking about his friend being in Moonrise Towers, he hopes Zevlor is ok. He knows his friend and that wasn't Zevlor, he had to have been charmed. Dammon understands why others are upset with Zevlor. But that wasn't him. He knows there is an explanation. His heart aches, he just wants Zevlor to be alive and well. He wishes he could be there for him like he has helped him so many times. At least the next best thing is Rosa. He knows she will find him.

He thoughts jump back to when the second time he saw Rosa. She was running into The Grove as the gate closed behind her. Her breathing was jaggged, she was covered in blood, and she was missing her left arm. She collapsed into Zevlor's arms and didn't wake for several days.

Halsin helped heal her best he could but told them she would need rest. He disappeared on a mission to find out more about a mysterious plague affecting mortals and spreading fast before she woke up.

Zevlor had watched over her most of the time after Halsin left. He had confided in him about how guilty he felt for leaving her to face the Gnolls alone. He tried to reassure Zevlor that he had no idea that would happen and that he was trying to keep them safe in the confusion.

A few times Zevlor asked Dammon to sit with Rosa while he performed some tasks. Dammon watched her breath softly as she was unconscious and her body healing. He decided to start reading to her a story he had about brave heroes fighting a Bhaalspawn hundred years ago in Baldur's Gate. He thought it might be comforting and familiar to her. He knew the children always enjoyed him reading them stories. Even on the road, especially since The Grove he made a point to read to them every day to help distract them from their current circumstances and to help give them hope for the future. He was on the last chapter when she started to wake. He had ran to get Zevlor and let him be the first one she saw when she awoken. From then, he had watched her from afar heal and struggle with her new predicament…until he finally had decided to be brave himself and approach her.

He smiles to himself as he finishes he soup. He sets down the bowl and determination fills him. He works on finishing his project. Today would be the day he gives her a wonderful gift, the only thing he knew he could do to help her.

(I just want to add that I love Dammon so much 😭🥺🥰❤️‍🔥)

Yeah, so Lymune would definitely have the misfortune of ending up with a bad ending if she had made some different choices in her life or if certain circumstances took place.

Here I want to display two scenarios of which one I actually depicted in my longfic Fleeting Dreams.

Scenario one: Lymune does not leave her mother. Lymune's mother, the drow monk Vhaidra Uoswiir, was a Lolth-sworn high priestess and first in line of her House in Menzoberranzan. Unfortunately, her house was crashed by rival families, forcing her and her daughter and half-sister to flee. Vhaidra and Lymune made it to the surface but were separated from Ulua, Lymune's aunt. Later, she and Vhaidra will find each other again and band together to reclaim their House. Usually, Lymune would be gone by then, leaving her mother to become a proper bard. She would change her name to Tav to make it more difficult for her to find her. In this scenario, however, Lymune won't leave (most probably because she gets caught before she can manage to escape). So, by the time she gets abducted and tadpoled, she has been molded into a proper drow. Thus, she will do anything to prevent being turned into a mind flayer. Anything. Meeting Minthara, she will join with the Absolutists in hopes of gaining allies for when she and her mother reclaim their heritage. She will be awfully tempted to get control over the Netherbrain, but will eventually decline because her greatest loyalty lies with her mother and her House. As for romance, she will most certainly fend off any attempts of courtship save for the occasional night of passion, aka meaningless sex. If she were to romance someone (either Astarion or Gale) it would not be an equal relationship, and she would not support any of their ascension plans to keep them at a lower position. After the defeat of the Netherbrain, she would spill no tear over them if they didn't join her to reclaim her heritage. If she and her allies succeeded in reclaiming her House, she would scheme against her mother and order her assassination at some point to become Matron herself. She would be lonely, for sure, but she would quench her loneliness with ruthfulness and trophies of pride. She would probably not live a long life. Lymune is very small even for a drow. She will only survive as long as she keeps living shields around her, but in open combat, she will be easy prey.

Scenario two: Lymune is turned into a vampire. In my longfic Fleeting Dreams which is a post-game dark AU based on my WIP Happy, Lymune is turned into a vampire against her will. This forced transition will change her completely and she will become more ruthless, more "drow-like". Her hunger for power will make her leave for the Underdark to build an imperium of her own. I'm planning to write a succession story to Fleeting Dreams, featuring evil vampire Lymune and spawn Astarion. I just have to find the time, haha.

"Why did you not tell me?" The accumulated weight of the question was audible in every syllable. "Why did you not trust me with this? I have loved you through decay and mind-shattering madness. I have loved you when you were nothing but a broken woman who could sing and barely function beneath the weight of your own fractured mind. I stood beside you when the knowledge that you had been the architect of everything—of the Absolute, of all its consequences—threatened to destroy every certainty I possessed about you, about us."

"It did shatter me," Celeste said quietly. "And I will forever be grateful for your refusal to let it define me. I mean that. I am alive because of you, Gale. I survived because of your extraordinary, stubborn refusal to abandon me."

"Why, then?" His voice broke, fractionally, beneath the strain of the question. "What could possibly have justified this? What could have been more important than honesty with me?"

Celeste set down her glass with great deliberateness, and when she looked at him again, she felt relief. The truth was out, not whole, not perfect. But close enough.

"The Code of Conduct I am subject to," she said quietly, "forbids me from sharing information. Even with a beloved spouse." A beat. "Even with you."

Gale stared at her.

And she watched, with the particular attention of a woman who knew this man's mind as well as she knew anything in the world, as the implications assembled themselves behind his eyes with methodical efficiency. Each piece finding its place, the shape of the whole emerging, the full weight of what she had done and what it meant and what it would cost both of them settling over him all at once.

He fell back into the chair he had half risen from, as though the understanding had physically displaced him.

"No," he whispered.

Celeste inclined her head with a smirk.

"Yes."

For a moment, Gale simply stared at her.

The pieces had already fallen into place—Celeste could see it happening behind his eyes with the particular, terrible efficiency of a mind that had spent decades training itself never to stop assembling information into conclusions. One certainty linking itself inexorably to the next, each answer collapsing into the one that followed, every thread she had carefully kept separate drawing itself together into things and lies she could no longer separate, laid bare between them, plain enough to touch.

And yet Gale had always possessed a remarkable capacity for resisting certain truths when they wounded him deeply enough. Not out of ignorance— he was constitutionally incapable of ignorance and had always suffered for it—but out of hope. Out of the stubborn, quietly heroic belief that perhaps there had been some misunderstanding, some crucial detail not yet accounted for that would render the situation considerably less alarming than it appeared.

She had always loved him for it, even when it complicated things.

Slowly, and with far more force than was strictly necessary, he set his whiskey glass upon the table.

The sharp sound echoed through the study.

He leaned forward. His hands came together beneath his face, fingers interlacing tightly enough that the knuckles whitened, both thumbs resting beneath his chin while his index fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose as though the physical effort of holding his thoughts in coherent formation required structural support.

For several long seconds, he said nothing, and Celeste did not press him, understanding by now precisely when silence was the only thing she could usefully offer him.

When he finally spoke, his voice had gone dangerously quiet. Not angry, not yet, but something considerably worse: the particular quality of a man approaching a conclusion he had been hoping, with increasing desperation, to avoid.

"Celeste."

His gaze lifted to hers, and there was so much disbelief in it that she smiled despite herself—not the deflecting smile, not the strategic one, but smaller and more honest and entirely involuntary.

"Please tell me I have arrived at an absurd conclusion." A humourless laugh escaped him, brief and brittle. "I would very much prefer to have arrived at an absurd conclusion."

His eyes searched hers with the particular quality of a man looking for an exit he already knows is not there, finding exactly what he had expected to find, which was nothing that helped him at all.

The silence stretched between them, and the fire shifted, and somewhere outside the city continued its midnight business without any awareness that something significant was occurring in a study on this particular street, which struck Celeste, not for the first time, as one of the more remarkable things about cities.

Then Gale inhaled. Slowly, deeply and with the careful deliberateness of a man bracing himself against knowledge he has no choice but to walk towards.

"Are you telling me," he began, each word measured with the painful precision of a scholar who has decided that if this sentence must exist, it will at least be constructed correctly, "that while I was under the impression my wife was occupying herself with harmless social engagements, charitable endeavors, and the occasional entirely reasonable criminal conspiracy—"

His mouth tightened.

"—you somehow managed to become a Masked Lord of Waterdeep?"

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