#dromon

PROMPT :  baldur's gate 3 sentence starters.    /   STATUS :  accepting !   /   @dromon

❛  i'm not being sour,  ❜ he mumbles, sourly. ❛  it's just...  ❜ valarr winces as the speakers begin to blare out another earsplitting cacophony. he barely manages not to drop the bottle he's holding, already made slick with condensation and the sweat of his palm, and throw his hands up to cover his ears. surely no one can actually enjoy this, he decides, watching the writhing mass of people jumping up and down, though it would be extremely generous of him to call it dancing. his brother is in there somewhere, having the time of his life, probably dripping with sweat and reeking, and if he thinks he's getting in valarr's car at the end of the night he's mistaken. the "song" changes abruptly, prompting a collective cheer from the masses, and his shoulders creep up towards his ears as he fights every urge to violently recoil. ❛  ...loud,  ❜ he finishes, barely a whisper, and certainly lost to howling of the partygoers. the worst part, he thinks, is that daeron is probably blacked out in one of the copious bathtubs in the house, not even participating in his own out - of - control birthday celebrations. he turns his frown on aegon, who's watching the festivities with rapt attention, though valarr can see at least a dozen things in his line of sight alone that he's far too young to be bearing witness to. he can't believe even daeron would be irresponsible enough to leave egg to the wolves like this—

hang on.

egg?

❛  ...aren't you supposed to be staying the night at uncle rhae's place, with aelor and aelora? i thought i remembered uncle telling everyone you were expressly forbidden from attending this party.  ❜

Another Digivolution-Line! This time from FlyDmon. It’s Baby-, In-Training- and Championform named Dromon, Paramon and SpyDmon (yes I’m very creative with names I know)

Name: Paramon Level: Baby Attack: Bubble

Name: Dromon Level: In-Training Attack: Bubble

PROMPT :  baldur's gate 3 sentence starters.    /   STATUS :  accepting !   /   @dromon

❛  yes, that is what one generally feels after being caught lying by their lord father.  ❜ a pause, valarr's head tilting thoughtfully. ❛  or so i would imagine.  ❜ he wouldn't know, truly, he's not in the business of deceiving his father — nor being caught, in fact, on those rare occasions where he does tell a white lie or two, usually to spare his father's feelings. honestly, he would've thought, given egg's propensity for it and the frequency with which falsehoods spill from his lips, he would be better at it by now. there's no judgement to be found, in his tone or the steady gaze he fixes on his little cousin, and valarr goes as far as to reach out and tousle egg's hair, as he might his own brother's unruly mop. a father's disappointment, however brief, must be a heavy burden, and valarr would alleviate it, if he can.

❛  perhaps a slightly less outlandish tale, next time?  ❜

Arya imagined Artos and their cousin Benjen would hardly mind her getting an early start to the tourney grounds. After all, it wasn't as though she hadn't left any explanation to where she had gone. She very clearly left an eloquent note detailing her whereabouts and plans along with her braided locks hacked off in a go that read:

Dear brother, I'm merely commencing on a early start towards the Ashford tourney to ensure no one changes their mind. Worry not, I'm not traveling alone. I found a friend. I've borrowed some silver moon and stags to ensure a smooth journey. With love, your sister.

It had been an exciting coincidence to have found a likeminded friend in Egg. He'd caught her practicing with Needle near the stables and was kind enough not to laugh. The two had gotten talking and hatched their scheme together.

his chin tilts, a horizontal, incrementary motion as his lips press, thick silver white brows tugging inward as he kneels, right knee rest solidly against the stones - the other propped up, upon which he settles his left arm. his eyes never leave his youngest son, while not quite angry, there is a sterness to the steadiness of his stare ( his panic had cut any sort of frustration the prince had had as to the circumstances off at the knees. even though he stands infront of him now, alive and well, he could not forget the drop in the pit of his stomach when he realized, upon finding daeron, that he was gone - as if someone had fitted his sternum too tight inside the column of his chest )

yet he understood, in a way. why. how restless he must have become waiting, knowing that his brother had intended to keep him from serving as a squire as the boy had long wished, until the tourney had ended. he would have missed his chance, had he not took it, and yet, now... for his involvement - an innocent man would die ( yet, that did not say as to what would have been done to the puppeteers if he had not. an act of cowardice of which his second son stood the catalyst his fourth, the savior ) his son was watching him now with wide, violet blue eyes that looked at his sire as if he held the capacity to shatter his heart in the palm of his hand; fearful, and suspiciously bright.

" it does not matter what you meant, " the words are straightforward, and flat, and yet, not entirely unkind, " you erred, yes, but now you need to fix it. it does not serve to dwell too heavily on it. your life will pass by, and wounds will fester in the stretch of years, and you will need to atone for worse, " there was yet time still for his little boy to be forgiven, but less as the hours ticked and dawn neared, closer, and closer. maekar did not intend to allow either of his sons to die on the morrow; and whether or not ser duncan would be declared innocent was a ruling he would accept - either way the wind turned. but they would not die. aerion would yield, he would if it came to it, if he was given the chance.

if he was the hedge knight, he would give neither of his sons the chance for what they had done. but that was why he needed fight. why his involvement was a thing that would never, in truth, be in doubt. because they needed him. right or wrong, they needed him, " i was a day's ride, from coming, you know, " he says, " i would have found you, and you would not have missed past the second day. i would have entered myself, and you could have served me, for the time. you did not need to run off, " the corners of his lips had begun to curl downward into the start of a frustrated grimace, glancing up at the top of the boy's head, " or shaved off all your hair. what, might i ask, led to that ? "

he glanced down again, his eyes meeting his son's, and silence fell and stretched. his jaw tensed, words working behind his teeth that rose and sputtered and died upon his tongue, and yet. finally, a hand reaches to rest upon the boy's arm. a near awkward attempt at gentleness, " the business with your brother and the puppeteers had nothing to do with you, " the man murmured, " it would have been regardless, whether or not you had, should he have happened upon them. it could have likely been worse, had you not involved yourself. you didn't do this, aegon, " and then, a note of softness. a crack in the thick iron shell, a glimpse beneath the hard, unyielding exterior. your brothers did. and now he needed fix it. even if he was damned to the lowest circle of the seven hells for it.

the man's frown deepened, " nor did your hedge knight, " he would admit as much here, to his son, " i won't kill him, but that is all i can promise. the trial needs happen, the fight will be had, and men might die within it. daeron and aerion have disgraced themselves, by word and by deed. unless they choose to rescind their claims before the sun rises, it is the only way to wash out the stain of their dishonor. it will help your ser duncan as well, " should he live, he thinks. though he had little to fear from daeron, and himself, and should he tell the kingsguard not to kill him, the only threat to him would be aerion, and the two of them would duel as they always should have done. there was no need for any of this. and yet he had called for it knowing they could not deny it.

" you could be a bard rather then a knight, " the words come as the tip of a pointer finger taps gently upon the side of the flute, knocking it the slightest bit out of place - not enough to make it fall, but enough to get the boy's attention as the elder continued, voice low, half earnest, half tease, " with how skillfully you play that awful thing, " though it would be for the benefit of the headache that the prince had been contending with all morning were it completely silent, the elder likes to see the continued joy at the attempts to irritate him. the way he would pause to grin, and his eyes would cut over to watch, to see if his attempt had resulted in any sort of real and visible success.

" you might enjoy it more, you know. the horses all smell horrendous, and the swords are dreadfully sharp. and unless there's another rebellion, you aren't like to do much as knight, except for ride in the lists, and there's no risk to you, " there never was for princes. near all of the lords and noble knights outright refused to joust to their fullest potential against one of the blood of the dragon. it often made it an easy win. even he had won at least once, and he was an awful competitor. though many had claimed otherwise, he knew better. he saw a surfeit of blood every single time his eyes closed for the night, he saw no reason to seek out more of his own will, and did not, only lest it was at the behest of their father.

the prince's eyes closed for a brief moment, head leaning back against the cushioned seat. the motion made his lashes worryingly heavy, yet it relieved a bit of pressure upon his lids. it is with them shut he says, " and there never will be. even if you tell your opponent to play true, many of them are too afraid of our uncle and lord father to listen. " it was an added layer of cruelty, he thinks, that his eldest young brother had grown to master. he won, yes, but at what cost ? what could be savored in ill won victory ? and yet... he was praised. always he was praised the better sword, the better lance.