loucryb
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Lucanis lost a bet. Now Spite gets to have a date with Rook. Because Spite likes Rook, too.
Bookmarked by loucryb
24 Nov 2024
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marble-heavy, a bag full of god by manicpixiedreamgirl
Fandoms: Baldur's Gate (Video Games)
11 Oct 2024
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Astarion pulled Killian to his feet and caught him when he swayed, his head finally buzzing empty – no headache, no thoughts, no dark urge.
He couldn’t smell the stink in the air any longer. Face buried in Astarion’s neck, he breathed in something citrus, something earthy, something sharp. He breathed and clung and let his empty head buzz with nothing and nothing and glorious nothing for he knew not how long. Eventually the sewers faded away and like waking from a dream, he was out on the street again, the day all too bright and loud and bustling merrily on, oblivious to what had happened below.
The bag full of Orin was still slung dutifully over Astarion’s shoulder. Killian looked to Shadowheart, the cleric, and then Jaheira, who could probably see the good in anyone, if she had found it in him.
“Come on,” he said. He was steady on his own two feet now. He was sure. “We're going to give her a funeral.”
~
Or, the Dark Urge has feelings about narrowly escaping a death cult, and gives his sister the funeral I think she deserved.
Bookmarked by loucryb
30 Oct 2024
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And Just Like The Rain (You Cast The Dust Into Nothing) by neadevar
Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games)
19 Aug 2024
- Words:
- 53,696
- Works:
- 11
- Bookmarks:
- 39
Bookmarked by loucryb
19 Jun 2024
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His eyes scan the campsite, looking to see who wasn’t already talking to someone. Astarion was by himself, but Gale still isn’t entirely certain about his own attire, and that isn’t how he wants to find out that it’s inadequate – not so soon. Jaheira and Shadowheart are chatting around the wine, and he supposes his own goblet has gotten rather empty. It would be normal, he theorizes, to strike up conversation while refilling his drink. Right?
or, jealousy: a study in gale.
or, reality sets in and gale realizes he has friends.Bookmarked by loucryb
09 Jun 2024
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You kick a squirrel so hard it shatters into pieces against the tree. That should have been your first sign. That brief, blacked-out moment of utter glee. You kill a squirrel and no one thinks anything of it and you stare at the viscera dripping down the bark and you don’t remember.
But everyone laughs it off, and so do you, and you should have known better. You should have recognized it then for what it is— that familiar itch in the back of your skull that has you warm at the thought of the blood scummed along the bottom of your boot.
You don’t remember. And that, you think distantly, is only half the problem.
Bookmarked by loucryb
06 May 2024