#ramazithsfinest

🌑 . . . ╰──╮ Being chosen by a higher power was intoxicting.

Everything Shadowheart had ever dreamed of & prayed for had finally come to pass, and now he was... happy. Or so he told himself, though it did sadden him to know he would have to sever ties with those he'd come to call friends. Lady Shar did not share one's heart with others.

Still, such feelings were pointless and foolish ; things meant to be discarded in Lady Shar's embrace.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤAs the DARK JUSTICIAR stepped into Sorcerous Sundries, he wasn't wearing his justiciar armor, of course. One couldn't forget that Sharrans weren't particularly... welcome and secrecy was among the highest commandments. Yet those who had known Shadowheart before would notice something had changed. There was an air of cold superiority about him now, though that wasn't everything...

❝Rolan?❞ His brows lifted when he recognized the tiefling behind the counter & a genuine smile touched his lips. ❝Well, well. Will you look at that! You actually made it and with all your limbs still attached, no less.❞

After the night they'd shared, Shadowheart had found himself hoping Rolan would survive. He'd even prayed to Lady Shar for his protection, knowing that killing Selûne's daughter would likely dispel whatever wards protected Last Light Inn. He told himself it wasn't sentiment. It was pragmatism.

They needed allies with useful connections & this Lorroakan seemed to represent exactly that.

ㅤㅤㅤHis prayer, it seemed, had been answered.

Black-rimmed green eyes swept over the tiefling, taking in his battered and bruised state with more amusement than concern. ❝....Though clearly the journey wasn't without its challenges, hmm? You like you've wrestled a troll. Need a cleric~?❞ He grinned, playful & dashing as he'd been the last time they'd been together.

CONT. | @ramazithsfinest

SYLVERIAN’S JOURNEY TO BALDUR'S GATE had been fraught with challenges and horrors, and the once-sheltered, pampered lordling had grown from an utter coward ( albeit one with a hero complex ) into someone who might just be called valiant.

Still. That didn’t mean he had learned to live with the weight of taking a life, no matter if they were foe or monster —— however, the thought that he had put an end to someone else’s pain did offer him a sliver of peace.

ㅤㅤHe knelt by Rolan, his hands glowing faintly with healing magic as he hovered them over the bruises ; warm and soothing.

“I know you think this is something you should bear alone, but that is nonsense.” His voice was as tender as his touch. “Rolan... Listen to me,” he whispered with more resolve, “there is no shame in what happened. None. The shame belongs to those who hurt you, not to you for enduring it.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sylverian took Rolan’s hand into his own, his own fingers trembling ever so slightly from the battle they had just fought.

ㅤㅤㅤ“Allow me this. Let me ease your pain, just a little.”

STARTER FOR : @ramazithsfinest

The stench of blood and death hung thick in the air.

Sylverian had been so desperate for this nightmare to end that, had he been able to form a coherent thought, he might have called out to Oberon and pledged his soul to him.

Now, he lay shackled to a cold stone altar in Bhaal’s temple, his wrists raw where the metal bit into them. Orin had clearly amused herself at his expense, draping him in a revealing, flimsy robe she had plucked from his belongings — as if to showcase every cruel mark she had left upon his delicate skin which was now marred with bruises.

Light burst behind his closed eyelids.

Distantly, he registered the cacophony of battle ; shouting, ritual chanting, the clash of steel. Familiar voices cut through the noise, but they felt distant, unreachable. He could do nothing. Not fight, not even cry. The darkness kept claiming him, dragging him under, again and again...

Only when Orin was finally dead did the fog over his mind begin to clear, and the horrifying weight of his reality crashed over him. His breath hitched and a panicked sob broke free as he began writhing in his unyielding shackles.

Months had passed, and for a time, the future had seemed bright. Sylverian was a celebrated hero of the Sword Coast. Rolan had claimed his rightful place as the renowned Master of Ramazith’s Tower, a title he had more than earned. And whatever they shared had bloomed into something deeper, something steady.

But then tragedy struck.

Word arrived of his mother’s declining health, and with it, the heavy expectation that he would take up the mantle of Lord of the House far sooner than he had ever anticipated. It was a duty he had assumed would remain a distant thing — a burden for a future version of himself to bear.

He was grateful beyond words that Rolan had chosen to stand beside his side. Not only as a lover and friend, but as the wizard in service of the House, a position that granted him authority within the estate. That appointment alone had spared Sylverian from an immediate collapse; without Rolan’s influence, his sheer ineptitude with finances might have already sent the family into ruin. Worse still, he lacked the ruthlessness required to navigate the brutal political games of Amn.

And so, on this night, he did not come to bed.

Instead, he sat hunched over his desk, a glass of wine forgotten at his elbow, drowning in paperwork. Gods, he was not made for this. The splendor of his palace, the gold, the marble floors, the luxury that he so enjoyed, it all felt dulled beneath the crushing weight of responsibility.

And now this.

The document in his hand was not mere tedium, not some dull ledger of taxes or trade agreements. It was a formal request from a slaver seeking to rent space at the harbor to “unload his freight.”

His stomach turned.

He had always known, in some distant, willfully ignorant way, that his family was involved in such... dubious dealings. But to see it laid out so plainly before him — to be expected to sign off on it — was horrifying.

What would Rolan think?

Every fiber of his being screamed that this was wrong. But he was not a fool. To deny this request would mean opposing someone backed by the other five council members, men and women who cared for nothing but profit. He knew the dangers of standing in their way.

And yet… could he live with himself if he simply let this happen?

The top-floor study of Ramazith's Tower had never felt so empty, nor so quiet. The stillness of absence. An absence he was glad for, to be sure, but an absence nonetheless. Forced recent habit itched at him, a needless reminder to man the counter in Sorcerous Sundries. Every glance away from a tome's title was to a window or the balcony, fixed on the sun's gradually reddening glow, despite knowing the night would be peaceful now. He'd watched Lorroakan's end with his own eyes, yet fearful tension still clawed up his battered back. Rolan hoped movement might help. He'd set about dismantling that absurd throne of books, one small stack at a time back to their proper shelves. All the while, he tried to let the fact settle in: the bastard was gone, for good. His knees were trembling. The tower was Rolan's, and he could finally learn. He could bring his family in, have a proper meal and show them the easiest way to the kitchens. He could sleep, for a full night even. His steps swayed. Lorroakan was gone. It was over. As he returned for another stack, Rolan's vision swam and his knees buckled. Had he heard hurried steps? Before he could catch himself, someone else got there first. Rolan couldn't help wincing at the forearm pressed to his bruised stomach. As he grasped the other's shoulder and startlement cleared his sight, he saw who'd come to help, and embarrassment crept darker red onto his cheeks. "Master Dekarios...?! Er, thank you." Rolan got his feet under him, then let go of the other man's shoulder with a tinge of reluctance. "And my apologies; it was just a little dizziness, I think." The end of his tail curled slowly side to side, despite his flustered look. "I didn't expect you back so soon. Did you need something?"

He knew curiosity was probably his worse hubris next to ambition. Never being able to leave well enough alone, always having to poke his nose into anything and everything that caught his interest or his fascination, or in this case his concern. They'd defeated Lorroakan, Dame Aylin was safe back at the Elf Song and reunited with her love, and yet it seemed to Gale that there'd been one who was overlooked.

While the others had all banded together to plan the next steps, Gale excused himself, citing a need for some fresh air and some quiet to clear his thoughts. But his footsteps had brought him back to the Tower. Rolan was still there, Gale could only assume, and after what had happened... he didn't feel right leaving the young wizard alone without someone there for him. As he reached the top floor, he could see that his assumption was correct, and that Rolan was busy dismantling the presumptuous throne of books his former teacher so proudly displayed. Arrogance. Wizard's Arrogance. Was not a one of them immune to it?

He didn't have much time to think on it when he saw that Rolan was about to fall, from exhaustion or pain or both he wasn't sure. Without much thought, he used a quick Misty Step to get to the tiefling and catch him before he could tumble. "You are quite welcome, Rolan. And please, Master Dekarios is my father, you can just call me Gale." The human said with a smile as he helped Rolan to get righted on his feet before answering his question.