#bardchoices

@bardchoices inquired: ‘ excuse me. I have to go make a scene. ’

@bardchoices asked : ❛ i had it under control. you didn’t need to do that. ❜

a thud echoes off the walls of the cave as a body slumps between them , astarion's knife still clutched in his hand as he watches the would be bandit crumple at his feet . eyes study the corpse as he lowers his dagger , blade wiping against his trousers , taking care to not cut the fabric . a frown graces his lips as he turns his attention to liana . " and here i thought i might elicit a small thank you for saving you the trouble . "

The outburst is met with a long stare. The bottle loosely clutched between his fingers makes the slow journey to his lips, where he takes a swig, all while maintaining eye contact.

“Okay, let’s see if I’ve got this right, then.” He blinks, finally, ticking off fingers as he lists his observations. “You fucked the man that’s singlehandedly responsible for the cultist army now threatening to destroy one of the largest cities on the Sword Coast. Who is now—not by coincidence—the unequivocal ruler of said city. Who is also responsible for the worms in our heads that could turn us into soulless monsters at any given moment.”

He licks his lips and shakes his head. “No, sorry, let me rephrase that—you had a relationship with him. Meaning, Gortash wasn’t just a bad case of morning-after regret, but you actually… did things with him. Non sex things. Spent time together watching sunsets or…” A sudden stop as he wrestles with the concept. He takes another drink from his bottle, giving a thoughtful smack of his lips.

“—I guess I’m just struggling with the whole idea that he isn’t just some mustache-twirling villain who sits in his office all day scheming about how to steal candy from babies. What does someone like that do for fun, anyway?”

It’s all in good humor, of course—as it always is with Solomon. The wizard can be a merciless tease, but he isn’t completely without tact. He watches her for a long moment across the fire, then his expression slowly softens. “Honestly, I’m not one to talk. I’m the king of bad exes.” He rattles the bottle in his hand, checking to see how much wine is left—and once he’s satisfied there’s at least enough for a very full glass, he tosses it over to Liana.

@bardchoices asked: ❝i like myself just the way i am.❞

“But where is your ambition, Liana?”

The growl of his voice rattles through the room, punctuated by the crackling of the fire in the silence. His office is smaller than he’d like; the humble office of an old warehouse, dark and stained with the decay of time. He’s done his best to dress it up to his liking—draped curtains over window with an uninspiring view, stacked bookshelves with his vast collections. A rug sprawls over the uneven floorboards, once lavish, now dingy and threadbare. A sofa sits facing the hearth, shining with fresh upholstery; it does well to disguise the worn cushion, a lumpy seat abused by too many years of service.

He is not rich, nor is he especially powerful. But someday he will be—and that’s what matters above all else. Until the day he claims his crown, he’ll live like it’s already in his hand.

Liana, though, has started to exhibit a marked hesitation regarding his plans. Once upon a time, she feasted on his ambition—laid with him at night, watching him with eager eyes as he described his schemes. At the time, it seemed as if he’d found himself a match. A woman who adored him, who was clever and resourceful—who had the potential to become a true partner in his life’s work.

That work is well underway, now. And suddenly she’s found it’s not to her taste.

“I will not keep living like this—in squalor, pretending I’m a prince among paupers.” He catches the back of the newly upholstered sofa and flips it onto its back, pacing across the stained rug like a tiger in a cage. In spite of his best efforts, it’s trash, and he knows it. They’re just things, after all—he’d sacrifice them in a heartbeat if it meant getting what he wanted—but it’s the status they represent that frustrates him. Or rather—the lack thereof.

“I won’t settle for just anything. I mean to have everything. And if you haven’t the stomach to come with me, then—” he freezes, fists clenching and unclenching. Something wrenches deep down inside; a raw, animal longing that fears waking up in the morning without her warmth at his side.

@bardchoices inquired: i can't tug it loose without tearing it.

Part of him wonders if they should be disturbing this place at all — something about it makes the hair stand on the back of his neck. And yet —— nor can he leave it alone, because the scroll pinned in the crumbled part of the wall is apparently of some import, and so he exhales a sigh. " Of course nothin' can be easy. Here, let me in. "

@bardchoices inquired: “ Where were we? Who am I? What day is it? Why do my arms hurt? ” / narrator outtakes

" Easy, easy, " he murmurs, low and quiet, though it comes paired with a chuckle that is also relieved. The fight had been terribly brutal, hard, swift. " You took quite a hit. Coming back from the brink of walking the void — " He shakes his head, puffing an empathetic exhale, " —— it's always terribly discombobulating. Here —— "

“I feel like we’re not taking a moment to consider the potential positives of what I’ve accomplished here.”

From their vantage point at the top of the elevator, they’ve got a perfect view of the druids diligently casting their ritual. He purses his lips as he eyes the illusory copy of the idol he left behind in its place. He’s fairly confident that it’s an accurate recreation, but it isn’t as though he had a lot of time to refine the details. It should do fine—so long as nobody looks too close.

The real Idol of Silvanus, meanwhile, is burning a hole in his backpack.

“Arabella wasn’t wrong, you know. She just didn’t have the—finesse, shall we say, to pull it off.” His argument, already loaded and ready to fire, cuts short with a quick intake of breath as a druid approaches the fake idol down below. The moment slows to a crawl as the distant figure pauses, considers. She reaches toward the idol—

—and her hand passes harmlessly through the illusion.

A shout pierces the morning air. More shouts. The druids break from their ritual and jump to their feet, drawing their weapons.

“It’s more trouble than it’s worth, really—just a hunk of unattractive wood—” He’s backing away from the ledge as he speaks, ducking into the shade of the tree. Agile hands loosen his robe just enough to reach inside and touch the magical tattoo wrapping around his shoulder and onto his chest.

“Omni occultantur!” With a sharp gesture, magic erupts from his fingertips and his image warps and shifts. Suddenly it isn’t Solomon standing before Liana, but a tall, blond druid. He clears his throat and hoists the pack on his shoulders.

“As I was saying—everyone’s better off in the long run. Now the tieflings can stay, the druids can rethink their bad decisions, and we’ve got a powerful magical idol that, provided Gale doesn’t gobble it up while we’re all sleeping, is probably worth a lot of money. Which we would only put toward the greater good, of course.”