HTA’ZITH!

※ when i’m gone i won’t be missed. but i don’t want to die like this. i want to heal. i want to . . . hurt. feel. taste. real. blood. spill. love. kill.

𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐒 ! shkath zai, everyone. this is a very low activity roleplay blog for the one and only Lae’zel of Crèche K’liir from Baldur’s Gate 3. independent, private, selective, multiship, multiverse. this might also be just a temporary / tester blog as i am still not 100% confident in my capability of writing this absolute boss of a githyanki bitch. but all of my portrayal will be fully inspired by both canon lae’zel and the heavy amount of research i am doing on githyanki culture that is available online. this blog will no doubt contain mature and triggering content ( violence, sex, fantasy racism, etc. ), so please do not interact if you are under the age of 21. by nyx — 31, she / they.

DOSSIER — ASKBOX PROMPTS — HEADCANONS.

OTHER BLOGS: @graylust

The stars above stretch silver and still. Lae’zel lies naked beneath them, her skin kissed with sweat, the aftermath of combat not of war, but of flesh. Her body aches—not with injury, but with pleasure, with something dangerously close to contentment. Muscles hum in the silence. Her limbs are sore, spent. Satisfied. And yet her mind is anything but.

The night air brushes along her bare shoulders, prickling them with chill. But the warmth beside her grows—creeping, crawling, slinking. His touch starts small, subtle. Foolishly subtle. As if he believes he can go unnoticed by her, a githyanki warrior trained to sense the softest footfall, the slightest shift in wind. She hears the rustle of grass as he moves closer. Feels the brush of his arm as he inches forward. And then his arm snakes around her.

Her body stiffens, breath held sharp in her throat. A sound rises unbidden from her chest—a low warning, more beast than woman, the harbinger of refusal. She should pull away. She should spit a curse, bare her teeth, shove him back with a growl and remind him of his place. But… his skin is fire against hers. His chest, firm and furred, presses into her back with unbearable gentleness. His breath ghosts against the nape of her neck. Warm. Steady. Alive.

She exhales slowly. The tension bleeds from her limbs like a sword sliding back into its sheath. Without thinking, her body leans back into him, her spine curving into his embrace. Her hand comes to rest on the arm he has draped around her waist, her fingers curling instinctively, as though anchoring him there. She had warned him before—told him, bluntly, that there would be no cuddling unless he proved himself worthy. Perform well, she had said, almost mockingly. She turns slightly in his arms, eyes meeting his. She narrows her gaze, but her voice, when she speaks, is lower, quieter than it ought to be. ❛ I was hoping you’d forget what I said before. ❜ The words come grudgingly, shaped by pride, but not backed by it.

❛ I said I would consider this. If you performed well. ❜ A pause. A beat. ❛ You performed well. And I have considered it. ❜ Her lips twitch at the corner. It is not quite a smile, but it is something gentler, something less armed. She shifts further, burying herself deeper into his embrace. Her body presses flush against his now, every scar, every beat of her pulse aligned with his warmth. Her ear settles against his chest—and there it is. The heartbeat. The rhythm of prey, of excitement, of… affection.

She should not be here. Should not feel this. She is githyanki. She is the blade born to sever the neck of weakness. And yet… ❛ My queen betrayed me, ❜ she murmurs, the words raw on her tongue. ❛ My own people hunt me, call me hshar’lak. ❜ Her voice trembles—not from fear, but fury held too long in the cage of her throat. ❛ I should be enraged. I am enraged—❜ The growl returns, cracking the air between them. But it is a dying thing, spent quickly as her large eyes rise to meet his.

The air is still behind the inn. Taut, as if it, too, waits to exhale. The torches have long guttered in their sconces, their light smothered by the creeping veil of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, where even silence feels like it has claws. She does not flinch from the dark. No, she was born in death — molded in it. Yet now, for the first time, it stares back at her with pity.

Her breaths are measured but shallow, as if drawing too deeply might let loose the scream behind her teeth. Vlaakith. That sacred name once carved into her bones like scripture — lies. Every breath she’s ever taken was in service to a throne of rot. She had thought herself a blade. A purpose made flesh. Now she feels like nothing more than the hilt, discarded.

She told him to stay behind. He didn’t listen. Chk. Stubborn. And yet—she doesn’t send him away. She hasn’t turned to look at him since she stepped out here, but his presence is a gravity she has already surrendered to. His closeness is a kind of defiance she no longer has the strength to resist.

When she finally turns, her ochre eyes find his with the intensity of a warrior reading an enemy’s stance before the first strike. But this is no battlefield. Her expression is unreadable — iron forged smooth — but her eyes betray her. They shimmer faintly, reflecting a sheen that could be mistaken for rage, if not for how soft her gaze has become. Like she’s looking upon something sacred, yet wholly hers. Lae’zel is silent for a long beat. Then, she speaks — and her voice is not the voice of a conqueror. It is low. And raw. A confession spoken as though she were biting through it with her own teeth.

❛ It feels as though my heart, still beating, has been torn from my chest. Crushed in the fist of Vlaakith herself. And yet…❜ She blinks, once. Her jaw tightens, as if fighting the instinct to scorn the admission, to spit on her own tenderness. But she doesn’t. She holds it. Lets it live. ❛ Yet with you near… it does not feel like I am dying. ❜

Her hands uncurl at her sides. Her whole posture has shifted — no longer ready for war, but for something else. ❛ I do not know what this feeling is. This ache. This warmth. Perhaps it is weakness. Perhaps it is madness. But if it is, I will not be cured of it. ❜ She breathes in, shallow. ❛ I am glad you are not sorry. ❜