#tamasvi

(My theory more than a Prologue

The game “Hearts before the arrow” and Aphrodite design made by @messymoonmad

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Continuation of this post.

Galene, Melia and Tamasvi belong to @moonlight-dreams912 (they should throw a party some time-)

Been writing a lil meet cute between Gortash and Tamasvi.

“They disgust you too, don’t they?” The cloaked man next to him mutters, “they take this as a mere japery and do not understand what we are about to witness”.

                Enver Gortash does not bother to hide how his mouth twists into a sneer. Nobody can see his face under the ceramic mask he and the others have been asked to wear, and the anonymity has made others in their little party act out like giddy louts. They are clearly young, excitable and the dangerous allure of what they are about to witness is clearly beyond their comprehension.

                ‘Perhaps the group will get lucky, and it is these idiots that form the main performance of the night.’ It is a grim thought that he does not bother to share.

                Their guide is also cloaked, such is the fashion of the lower city when the fog rolls through the darkened streets of Baldurs Gate. When they had met under on the corner of the Blushing Mermaid, safe under the dreary lamplight, he had been barely able to discern the violet veil that obscured the face of the person that wore it. There had been no words spoken, and Gortash had made a point to show the figure the bloody gash that his contact had insisted he carve into his thumb as proof of patronage.

                Now, they were descending into the undercellar. The maze of corridors that all look the same. Its all glistening, pale stone and uneven slabs beneath their feet. There’s a stale smell of ale that lingers in the air and mostly masks the sharp undercurrent of iron and sweetness that betrays a more sinister use for the tunnels. To human eyes, he would be stumbling and cursing at the dark, and he can see the louts ahead doing exactly that as their initial excitement wears off. Enver is not a stupid man, and it took little planning to down a potion of dark vision on the way here.

                Their guide leads them to a circular room, four metal fire bowls are ablaze at the corners of a platform that is only slightly raised from the floor. There are seats, and the guide motions to them as the group filters in. The crackling of logs seems to feed a tension that tightens his jawline and clamps at his shoulders. To be seated means to have his back towards the dark, and in Bhaalist company, it feels foolish.

                They sit. Once the scraping of chairs finishes, all that can be heard is the infernal flames that burn, and the mouth breathing of whoever sat next to him. Nobody moves to take off the masks and cloaks, at least on that he is not surrounded wholly by idiots. One figure opposite leans forward, and Enver imagines that he can feel hunger emanating from them as they wait in the dark.

                A drum sounds. Quiet at first. It rumbles into an insistent beat that grows louder and louder and fills up the space in his chest where his thundering heart beats to the point of pain. His throat is dry, muscles like a vice that refuse to loosen at his command. The drum grows louder. Something sweet attracts his attention, a pungent, smoky scent of incense that blurs the senses further.

                It was mistake to come here. The drumbeat rumbles on. He can barely think. His mind reverberates with a pounding, relentless rhythm that demands all of his attention. Someone starts to cough. His own throat itches but Gortash knows that he has suffered worse, and so he endures.

                The beating gets louder, a cacophony of noise he cannot believe would go unnoticed by the Fists. He quells the panicked thought that this is a trap and grits his teeth. The drums are unbearable now, he is a slave to the beat, unable to sense himself beyond it. He did not come this far to run away like a frightened dog.

                A shadow moves. The drumming ends.

                In the sudden, gutting quiet. Gortash remembers to breathe.

                There is a rustle of fabric. He straightens his back as his eyes dart to the source and all he can see is the silhouette of a humanoid figure gliding behind the seated men to his side. It must be the effect of the incense, of the dark and of their ritual garb as the being seems to glide like a wraith as they move. In the poor light, even with his enhanced vision he isn’t able to make out more than what has been chosen to be revealed.

                “Welcome” A feminine voice rings like a bell and the crowd instinctively sits up to attention. “It is a pleasure to be among you”.

                It is not death he thinks of first, but sex. Gortash is no stranger to using both to get what he wants, but when one thinks of the High Primates of Bhaal, well, he doubts many of Bhaal’s priests sound this… divine.

                The figure moves into the light like a dart. A man sitting, once masked and cloaked, is revealed as he makes a wet, gargling sound of panic as his hand raises towards his throat. The firelight is bright enough to see the young man’s face. He watches as it twists from shock to fear, the eyes glazing over as the smell of blood fills the room and corpse that was once a man slumps forward to the floor. Its head falls first, rolling over the platform and leaving a bloody trail behind it.

                It is a woman’s body in the ritual garb that steps forward. She is a short creature, but not unusually so for an elf or some humans. He sees the curve of her hips first, then admires how the fabric clings to her lithe thighs and backside like a jealous lover. When she turns, he is not greeted by a mask or veil. Instead a large ceremonial crown sits atop her head obscures her eyes, ears, and nose. There is a coy smile on darkly painted lips as she appears to appraise her audience.

Part 1

Maybe not everyone favorite but here it is:

Hesychion have never felt hate once in his life.

He’s gone to that state where “it’s just a continuous flow, fate. Something the gods can control at times, but mostly… even they can’t interfere with it”

He’d mourn/be sad more than be angry, disappointed could be the perfect terminology!

Lil notes!:

Hesychion isn’t very present in the palace as he basically overworks himself and stay closed in his man cave, forging metals, swords etc! But when he comes back as I mentioned in his backstory, he always make sure to bring something to his girls! They all love his as an older brother and make sure he’s ok!

Its very common to see one of them sneaking out to Hesychion to bring him food and water, since sometimes while working he forgets he needs those to live! (He’s very healthy thanks to our beloved maids!)

His regular wear/chiton, without the apron, covers his chest mostly cause he’s self aware that he’s not as tanned as the rest of his skin, since working near fornace and fire have this effect! He has the usual black smith tan 😌💕

HIII IM ALIVE.

Just burned out cause of Uni!

I’ve made 3 new suitors and another servant!