Noone's favorite person.

Deia’s gaze moves slowly over the room. The books come first. Of course they do. Towers of them on the desk, on the shelves, stacked against the legs of furniture as if at some point Gale had simply surrendered to gravity and hoped literacy would organize itself. Then the paintings, the little arcane instruments, the sculptures, the rolled maps, the candle stubs, the half-finished notes, the amethyst glow of some artifact she suspects has been placed there less for utility and more because Gale likes the look of it. Her mouth curves.

“Dragons really would like you.”

Gale, seated at the desk, looks up from beneath a loose fall of hair.

“Hm?”

“The book hoard. The paintings. The statues,” she gestures vaguely around them, black nails catching the candlelight. “You seem more draconic than I ever did.”

“I shall choose to take that as a compliment.”

“You should. Though your organizing skills are…” her eyes drift to a precarious stack of papers beside his elbow. “Questionable.”

“Questionable?”

“It looks like a storm came through here.”

His brows lift. The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Well, technically…”

He begins to raise one hand toward her. Deia’s eyes narrow. A beat of realization crosses her face, as if she just remembered she is named Stormborn after all.

“Ooh-kay,” she says at once, rolling her eyes, though the grin gets away from her. “Absolutely not. I heard it before you said it. Pun denied.”

Gale lays a hand over his heart.

“Cruelty. In my own home.”

“You invited the storm in, Dekarios. That is on you.”

Still smiling, Deia turns from him and wanders closer to the desk. It is easier to look at things than at him. Easier to let her fingers hover above the parchment, the quills, the little scatter of ink-dark thoughts he has left exposed in plain sight. There is something almost indecent about it, being here. Not because of the room itself, but because she understands, suddenly and with unpleasant clarity, what it means.

Gale Dekarios does not merely live here. He returns here. The thought quiets her. Her grin fades by degrees until only the ghost of it remains. She touches the edge of the desk, very lightly, as if the wood might object.

“You told me once this was your favorite place.”

Gale’s expression softens.

“The tower?”

“The balcony,” she says. “A place that brings you peace.”

She looks around again, slower this time. The books. The candle. The papers. The chair he has worn into comfort. The room built around the shape of his mind. Then she looks back at him.

“And you brought me here.”

His teasing stills. Deia’s brows draw together, not in anger, but in that little worried crease she gets when affection cuts too close to old damage.

“That seems unwise.”

“Does it?”

“Gale.”

“Deia.”

She gives him a look for using her tone against her. It does not hold. Her hand tightens on the desk edge.

“You have so few places the world has not taken from you.”

His face changes then. Quietly. Completely.

“And you think I should keep you outside of them?”

Deia’s jaw shifts. A clever answer rises and dies behind her teeth.

“I think,” she says carefully, “that I am not always gentle with sacred things.”

Gale rises from the chair. Not quickly. Not to startle her. He comes around the desk with that infuriating patience of his, all soft footfalls and unbearable certainty.

“My love,” he says, “you mistake the matter entirely.”

She looks away.

“Do I?”

“Yes,” his hand finds hers where it rests against the desk, his thumb brushing once over her knuckles. “This place brings me peace. That is precisely why I wanted you in it. A sanctuary that cannot hold the woman I love is a rather poor sanctuary.”

The words land too plainly to dodge. Deia’s throat moves. For a moment, she looks almost younger, caught without armor in the warm clutter of his life.

“That is a dangerous thing to say to me.”

“I know.”

“I might believe you.”

Gale smiles, small and devastating.

“That is rather the hope.”

(This is a very early WIP stage)

We were drunk on mulled wine, laughter, and love.

Not merely intoxicated, but drunk in the deeper sense of the word—so saturated with happiness that the world itself seemed softened around the edges. Life felt impossibly sweet then, rich with wonder and possibility, and I had the extraordinary privilege of sharing it with two people I loved beyond reason.

Looking back, I do not think I appreciated how rare such moments truly are.

We wandered through Waterdeep with no destination in mind, hands constantly finding one another, kisses stolen between conversations, a bottle of mead passed back and forth whenever one of us remembered we were carrying it. Around us, the city blazed with life. Lanterns hung above the streets like captured stars, music drifted from open tavern doors and merchants shouted over one another while children darted between crowds with sticky fingers and sugar-coated smiles.

And the smell.

Gods, the smell.

Only Waterdeep can somehow fit half the known world into a single street and make it fragrant. Roasted chestnuts and spiced apples mingled with evergold baklahva, monkey balls, niangao, grilled fish, candied nuts, fresh bread, snowbread, mulled wine, and a dozen other delicacies whose names I never learned because I was too busy eating them.

Lucia spotted something sweet being sold from a nearby stall and immediately declared it essential. Aron disagreed, or perhaps he merely wished to continue walking. I cannot remember. What I do remember is their good-natured argument beginning beside me while I laughed and surrendered Aron's hand.

The sensation arrived so suddenly it cut through wine and merriment alike. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, my smile faded and I stopped walking.

At first, I could not identify why. Only that something felt wrong. Not dangerous, not exactly, but familiar in the way old scars ache before rain.

I felt watched.

The sensation was unmistakable—as though someone's gaze had settled between my shoulder blades with enough weight to become physical. So immediate, so intense, that I turned before I consciously decided to do so.

The crowd moved around me in a blur of color and motion. Hundreds of faces, laughter, lanternlight swirled in music.

Yet my eyes passed over all of it.

Searching, seeking and finding. Across the street stood a small tent. Bright purple. Closed. Entirely unremarkable.

And yet the moment I saw it, something deep inside me tightened.

There was a pull. Not curiosity, not quite, but something stranger. Recognition without memory. A form of certainty without understanding.

I stared at the tent and felt the world around me recede. The music grew distant, the voices blurred and even Lucia and Aron seemed suddenly far away.

I vaguely remember one of them speaking to me, perhaps both. I recall myself nodding in response to something, agreeing automatically while my attention remained fixed entirely upon that impossible little tent, as I was already moving.

Crossing the street without thought, drawn forward by something I could neither name nor resist.

The tent stood waiting and before I could question my own actions, the entrance flap opened. Not by wind or a visible hands, it simply opened and I stepped inside.

The world vanished, the cacophony of sound and smell behind me fell away in an instant.

Cedarwood struck me first. Not the pleasant trace of it one finds in wardrobes or carved furniture, but something dense and overwhelming, thick enough to feel tangible. Then anise. Cinnamon. And smoke. And Incense. Dozens of scents layered atop one another until the air itself seemed alive.

I drew a breath and immediately regretted it.

The fragrance flooded my lungs so completely that my chest seized. My head spun, the floor shifting beneath my feet as though I had stepped onto the deck of a ship caught in rough waters. Hands settled on my shoulders—gentle, unexpectedly strong—and before I fully understood what was happening, I found myself guided into an impossibly soft chair.

The tent's interior was dimly lit, shadows dancing across richly colored fabrics that concealed every visible wall. Candles flickered from impossible corners, their flames strangely steady despite the absence of any obvious structure holding the tent upright. The scents lingered heavily in the air, bordering on suffocating.

"Good, good. Here you are, child."

The voice emerged from somewhere beyond the haze clouding my thoughts. Thinking had become unexpectedly difficult. Each thought felt slow, dragged through molasses.

"So kind of you to stop by. So very kind."

An old woman shuffled into view, leaning heavily upon a walking stick fashioned from twisted wood, its grain curling upon itself like frozen smoke. Her robe was surprisingly simple—a plain purple garment devoid of embroidery, jewelry, or ornamentation. It contrasted sharply with the extravagant surroundings.

Her hair caught my attention immediately. Far too red. Not dyed red or vibrant red, but the sort of red that seemed fundamentally unwilling to acknowledge age.

She lowered herself into the chair opposite mine and before I could react, my hands were in hers. I never saw her reach for them. One moment they rested in my lap, the next, she was turning them over beneath the candlelight, tracing the lines of my palms with weathered fingers.

"What do you—"

"Ah." The old woman cackled softly. "Ah, yes."

Her fingers stilled. A delighted smile spread across her face—the smile of someone finding exactly what they expected. It unsettled me more than anything else in that tent.

"Interesting."

"What is?"

"Something is coming." She tilted her head. "Not a person. A mind." Her thumb brushed across my palm. "There is a weight waiting for you. A very large one."

I laughed nervously. "I suspect that describes most people's futures."

"Oh, no." She sounded genuinely amused. "This one is different."

For the first time, she looked up. Her eyes were startlingly clear. Clear enough to make me wonder if she had ever truly been old at all.

"It will change the direction of your life," she added quietly. "And the lives of many others besides."

The smile faded slightly.

"I see difficult choices. The sort that leave scars regardless of which path is chosen."

Something cold settled in my stomach.

The old woman continued studying me. "Two influences." She frowned. "No. Not influences." Her eyes narrowed. "Two men, perhaps." The words sounded uncertain, as though she disliked them. "They are important." A pause. "Powerful in their own ways." Another pause. "And very different from one another. A man and an elf."

I swallowed. She seemed not to notice.

"Neither will walk your path for you. They cannot." Her grip tightened slightly around my hands. "But both will change it."

The silence stretched as she studied my hands.

Finally, the old woman released them.

"Be careful whom you allow to guide you, child."

I rubbed my palms automatically. "I thought you just said they couldn't."

A crooked smile returned to her face. "People have a remarkable talent for convincing themselves that their choices were entirely their own."

For a moment, neither of us spoke, my hands still caught in her grip.

"Neither of those men — nor your father — can choose for you," she laughed as if I had told the funniest story.

"Oh, but that is tomorrow's problem." She waved a dismissive hand. "Tonight is for mulled wine, bad decisions, and whatever handsome fools are currently wondering where you've wandered off to."

I blinked — and found myself outside.

The noise hit me first, music and laughter and the warm chaos of a city celebrating itself. Then the smells. Then Lucia's voice, sharp with relief, and Aron's somewhere close behind her, both of them calling my name through the crowd.

Show us what you are working on!

EDIT: not me forgetting to add the template LMAO

2- What's your oc's orientation? (Romantic/sexual/platonic alterous ect) Do they have opinions about it?

Syryth is bisexual and heteromantic, he's also probably somewhere on the aromantic spectrum. He wouldn't use labels personally and has no opinions on his own sexuality. He kind of does have the understanding of sexuality that a 150-year-old would, but without the potential bigotry given that his loose opinions about else that people find "immoral," whether justified or not.

Izzeth is gay across the board, and he'd actually say that once he learned the word for it. I think it's quite nice for him to have a label, and he thinks of it as both a personal and a social identity.

Lyn'ethe is queer with a preference for women. She doesn't think about it too hard.

7- Is there something that could cause your oc to question their identity? What?

Not really, especially with Syryth and Lyn'ethe. I do think if you tried to tell Izzeth his orientation might stem from his hatred of matriarchal society and attitudes against female drow, he'd have a rough day or two of crisis before going "actually, I think I just want to date men and you're wrong." Which is demonstrably true.

11- Is your oc open about their identity? Are they more lowkey or more blunt about it? Why or why not?

Syryth doesn't feel the need to hide his identity, but he doesn't feel the need to state anything directly about himself either. He feels he doesn't owe mortals shit.

Lyn'ethe is quite open and extremely blunt. She's always been a very outspoken person, including in her gender transition, so it stands to reason that sexuality would be similar. She loves everyone and they love her, why hide it?

Izzeth is also very open and very blunt about it. He loves having a thing that he's a part of that's actually him, and to put it plainly, he likes to hit on guys. Sort of hard to hit on guys as much as he wants if he's in the closet.

15- Do any of your ocs use neopronouns? Which ones?

My current dnd character uses all pronouns, which could does include neopronouns

21. Free ramble card wee