#moonmaidenboy

⏾⋆.˚ I'll be writing quite a bit today on this lazy Sunday, so MUTUALS please LIKE or REPLY for a tiny starter ⭑.ᐟ

Cont. / @moonmaidenboy

LORROAKAN ARCHED HIS BROWS — and then exhaled a laugh through his nose, tilting his head back slightly ; regarding Bram as one might regard a street performer who had just attempted a backflip and landed flat on their arse.

❝ Ah... You must be joking. Surely even you aren’t foolish enough to challenge a man who has conquered death itself, hmm~? ❞

He didn’t seem angry. Only extremely amused.

❝ You should count yourself exceptionally fortunate, ❞ Lorroakan drawled condescendingly before Bram could reply, ❝ that I’m feeling generous today. I could very well cast you from my balcony for this.❞ A languid hand swept toward the open archway, where the magnificent view spilled out over Baldur’s Gate and the river Chionthar pouring into the sea.

❝ . . . But I am nothing if not gracious~ Especially to those who once shared in my suffering. ❞

Lorroakan smirked, insufferably pleased with himself, and stepped aside, motioning for Bram to exit the chamber. Both the tailor and Aylin were now watching, the tailor visibly uneasy, and Aylin… well, her expression was unreadable, though it was clear she wasn’t pleased to see Bram.

❝ Why don’t you join me, and perhaps we can have a civilized conversation over a fine glass of wine~? ❞ he offered, his voice syrupy with mock generosity as he gestured grandly toward the sitting area by the hearth. ❝ A courtesy, of course, since my newly acquired status has brought an avalanche of responsibilities, and I usually don’t waste my time — even though I now have it in abundance — on uninvited guests. ❞

Avalance of Responsibilities. Like commissioning new robes and indulging in the finer things life.

She knew the blood wasn’t hers—not entirely.

It clung to her as though it belonged, soaking through torn silks and the pale curtain of her hair, pooling beneath her. The scent was thick, metallic, and still warm, as if the ground had only just begun to drink it in. Her body was leaden, her limbs soaked in ritual and exhaustion, but she was not dying. She was spent.

The corpses lay further back, scattered in the clearing behind her like broken marionettes. Three of them. Cloaked men—smugglers, or maybe slavers—dressed in patchwork armor and marked with the faded insignias of a dead house. Armed, angry, and already halfway to violence when they surrounded her on the road. They hadn't come for coin.

When she screamed, it wasn’t in fear. It was in invocation. Her magic poured from her like a tide—a raw, violent bloom of power drawn from the blood in her veins and the ones she tore open. One drowned on dry land, lungs filled with his own insides. Another burst from within, ribs cracking open like overripe fruit. The last tried to run, but his shadow caught him—and never let go.

They died screaming. She made sure. The trees had not yet stopped echoing.

And she had simply collapsed where she stood.

The moonlight didn’t soften her. It only exposed her—the silver sheen casting a sacred glow on the grotesque aftermath. Blood slicked her arms to the elbow. Her pale linens, now hung in tatters, soaked through with gore. Her face was smeared, streaked crimson down the line of her jaw and across her lips.

Then came the voice.

Miss? Is all of this blood yours or...?

The man’s hand on her shoulder startled nothing in her. Her awareness returned like a curtain slowly drawn.

She laughed.

Not aloud. Just a soundless, tremoring thing behind her half-closed eyelids—a cracked kind of mirth that rattled in her throat like a secret. She opened her eyes with the slow certainty of someone returning to themselves. She saw him—tall, fire-scarred, moon-marked. A cleric of the lady Selûne, that much was obvious.

"You’re not the Reaper," she said, voice hoarse and cracked. "Shame."

Her gaze flicked toward the path behind her. "They’re dead. I made sure."

A pause. Her fingers flexed in the mud.

“I tried not to draw that deep.” Her voice was flat, almost apologetic. “But it listens better when it’s hungry.”

Then she looked at him fully—warily, wearily. A soft flicker of something human, buried deep beneath the grime and aftermath. Her head lolled back briefly. Above, the sky was pale with moonlight. Her hair—wet and silver and streaked with gore—fanned out like a river of ghostlight dragged through a battlefield. The magic still hummed under her ribs, residual and resentful. Blood always lingered. It didn’t like to be spent.

“I didn’t mean to use that much,” she said, almost to herself. “I never do.”

She shifted, slowly, rising onto her elbows despite the protest of her iron-dragged body. Dress clung to her thighs and belly, plastered with drying blood. Not just sprayed, but woven in, as though the weave itself had been replaced by vitae. The air stank of ozone and slaughter. Beneath the blood, she was beautiful in the way ruins are—still standing, but at great cost. Her voice dropped, quieter now. Her eyes caught his, sharp and clear beneath heavy brows. Amber, she thought—fiery golden, echoing and distant but strangely radiant.

The moon's grace was hard to hide.

⏾⋆.˚ BRAM LIGHTWOOD ⭑.ᐟ— adventurer, mercenary, devout disciple ⁀➴

#MOONMAIDENBOY: an independent, private, semi-selective, roleplay blog for an original selûnite war domain cleric bard tav from larian's ˗ˏˋ BALDUR'S GATE 3 ˎˊ˗ long- form writing. oc, au, & crossover friendly. 21+ to interact. minors will be blocked. personal/non-rp blogs, do not interact.

content warnings: adult themes, trauma, sexual themes, religious elements, crime & corruption, blood & potential gore.

loved by bellie (she/her), 25+. est. june 2025.

Follows from @darlingbardling

other bg3 / d&d side blogs: @feralthorns

⁀➴ about | headcanons | open starters

RULES below the cut ⭑.ᐟ

Serenei blinked, slow and long, as if testing the shape of his name in the dark of her mind.

Bram. A warm name. Too warm.

It sure didn’t suit the blood-drenched grove or the haunted ruin of a girl curled like a snare in its center. But it suited him. The molten-gold eyes, the steady pace, the unwavering stature. Gentle, light-wrapped, sure in his movements even when fear ghosted the edges of them. Moonlight pressed into bone. She exhaled, low and shaking. The breath snagged in her throat on the way out.

“I know what shock feels like,” she murmured. “This isn’t it.”

She didn’t say what this was. Didn’t have to. Her muscles were still coiled, ready, too alert. That was the thing—there was no pain yet, only heat and thrum, the aftertaste of magic raw and thick in her blood. It hadn’t left her body, not really. It just sat there, licking at her ribs, pacing under her skin like something caged.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And she did something she rarely did. She let him closer.

Serenei nodded once—barely a motion, more a soft drop of her chin—and lifted one arm, slow and shaking like a truce offered across enemy lines. Her skin was pale beneath the gore, marred by shallow cuts and blooming bruises, the kind that only bloomed after the fight had already ended. Her hands bore the remnants of spellwork—lines of her own blood that had been drawn with surgical precision along her palms, then smeared away in violence.

“If it’ll soothe your conscience,” she rasped, not unkindly. “You can look.”

Her lips twitched again, a flicker of grim amusement. “I think my brain’s still inside my skull. Just rattled.”

Another breath, deeper this time. Her body trembled faintly as if the adrenaline were beginning to burn off—leaving only the hollow, the ache, the question of what came next.

His venom-spat words lingered—the ones spoken like a blade hidden behind gentleness. Those fuckers didn’t deserve a warning. A quiet truth. Serenei almost smiled at that. Not fully—just the smallest curl at the edge of her bloodied mouth, like something sour turning sweet on the tongue. She thought of the men—what was left of them—and felt nothing soft. No flicker of remorse, no pang of doubt. They had come with knives and hunger. They had spoken in the tone men use when they think pain is a woman’s destiny. A grim, crooked smile touched her mouth, small and terrible. No, they didn’t. Mercy was for the broken who could still be bent toward something good. These men were rot dressed in flesh, and rot had only one end.

“You're right, they didn't.” She had given them more than they deserved. A warning. A chance. They'd spat it back at her. "Now their insides fed the soil. Let it."

Her gaze lifted again, sharper now, moon-bright and tired. She let that hang there and then turned her eyes back to the ground. Her hair clung to her cheeks in wet clumps. Somewhere behind them, the trees stood solemn witness. The dead did not speak.

“Serenei,” she whispered, the name tasting half-forgotten on her tongue. “That’s mine.” For once, she offered it freely.

Her gaze dragged back to him, slow and hollow, a thing dredged up from the deep. Her voice cracked open around the next words, low and rough, as if they had been rotting in her throat for years.

“Will you take me to the river?”

𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 . | @moonmaidenboy

LORROAKAN HADN’T MEANT to grow close to them. Truly. They were tools, temporary allies. Yet something insidious had happened on their journey and after many battles faught side by side. His heart had softened.

He had even told them of his plan — well, the version he wanted them to hear :

That with Aylin’s divine power, he could save them. Purge the parasite once and for all. That he would use her power only to defeat the Absolute, and then let her go immediately.

A LIE. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t save them. But he could save himself. If removing it would kill him, well... he’d simply resurrect!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤHe was IMMORTAL, at last!

Most of his companions turned on him the moment the truth became clear, and perhaps, if the taste of victory wasn’t still so sweet on his tongue, he might have felt regret, or even shame. However, so far above the tides of fate, knowing that he had shattered his mortal chains once and for all, he found himself not caring about them so much anymore... Frankly, he no longer cared about the Absolute either.

At the very least, Lorroakan could have ( should have, by all accounts ) spent the first days of his newfound immortality diving headfirst into arcane research and devising some elaborate plan to assist his former companions and keep THAT part of his promise.

Instead, the wizard sat reclined upon his book throne, glass of wine in hand, while a tailor unrolled another bolt of deep green brocade before him.

❝ Oh… now this is rather lovely, ❞ he mused, fingertips grazing the embroidered fabric. ❝ What do you think, my dear? ❞ he asked with a teasing lilt, directing the question toward Aylin — bound and seething, off to the side in her magical prison. ❝ Emerald hues do bring out my eyes, don’t they~? ❞

She didn’t reply, of course, save for the sudden, angry jerk of her shoulders against the glowing restraints, which caused him to sigh with exasperation.

❝ Aylin... must you insist on making this harder than it needs to be? ❞ He tutted, his tone patronizing and weary, as if he were speaking to a stubborn child.

❝ You’d find your stay far more agreeable if you simply——— ❞

Suddenly, the faintest noise caught his attention from beyond the open archway. His eyes narrowed, and he slowly rose, glass of wine still in hand, making his way toward the adjacent chamber.

❝ Stay there, ❞ he told the tailor, ❝ I’ll only be a moment. ❞

Neither Miklaur nor Rolan were supposed to be in here...

——— Bram. Trying, rather unsuccessfully, to wedge himself behind a bookshelf the moment Lorroakan opened the door.

A pause. There was no outrage, just a look of annoyance as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

❝ . . . Tell me, is there a particular reason you’re skulking about my tower like a rat in a grain cellar? ❞

⏾⋆.˚ Despite Bram’s large stature and intimidating appearance, he is actually an outgoing, jovial man. He enjoys good conversation.

⏾⋆.˚ Will relentlessly tease. He’s insufferable.

⏾⋆.˚ He used to drink heavily, but stopped once he realized he reminded himself of his drunkard father. Since then he only drinks occasionally and within reason.

⏾⋆.˚ Bram used to be a manwhore heavy flirt and a bit of a casanova. But with the burns on his face, he’s grown a little self-conscious of his appearance.

⏾⋆.˚ Will arm wrestle anyone at any given time.

⏾⋆.˚ Snores like a chainsaw.

⏾⋆.˚ Has tried to reduce the usage of swear words in his vocabulary, is also failing at it.

⏾⋆.˚ Is trying his hand at fostering more meaningful connections (especially in the bedroom).