#i'll almost definitely agonize over i mean uh edit this further | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ampleappleamble · 5 months

Text

part 1 here

content warning: (imagined) dubiously consentual sexual activity, blood, consumption of gore, vomit

—

By the time he climbed into bed that night, Vatnir had read the chronicle thrice, cover to cover, and the sections concerning the Watcher of Caed Nua at least ten times over. It had been a simple matter to feign a debilitating episode of some vague malady during his midday sermon and thus forge an excuse to sequester himself in his quarters to "rest" while he devoured the book whole, over and over. He'd even gone so far as to forego his evening meal in favor of another reread, although he was too giddy to have much of an appetite anyway. Bela had spoken true for once– it was a fascinating tale, full of tragedies and triumphs and stakes that rose ever higher. Evidently, Dyrwoodan politics was much more dramatic and wrought with intrigue than he'd believed possible from a backwards nation full of hot-headed hayseeds.

He'd been surprised, too, to see a familiar name amongst the motley cast of farmers, tribals, diplomats and animancers: Glasvahl, the very man whose pilgrimage to Eir Glanfath had inspired him to sail to this deplorable iceberg all those years ago. He was just as shocked to find that Glasvahl's story was not only completely factual, but that the Watcher of Caed Nua had been directly involved in thwarting his clan's long anticipated passage into the White Void, as it turned out that she had personally sealed the Frost-Hewn Breach with an artifact bestowed upon her by Rymrgand himself. That little detail must have gotten lost somewhere between mouth and ear and had never quite made it to him in the version he'd heard, or else he simply hadn't thought it terribly important at the time and had forgotten it. He certainly wouldn't have let it slip his mind had he known then how important this Watcher really was, how powerful.

How beautiful.

He settled back into the fur-laden canoe that served as his bed and held the book as close as a lover, open facedown on his chest. There had been a few other illustrations of her throughout, depictions of her and her retinue performing various incredible acts of heroism, but it was the portrait, of course, that he pressed now to his heart, the portrait that made that heart leap and flutter inside him every time he looked at it.

Gods, what had gotten into him? His winters in this world spanned a century and then some, and here he was, lusting after some pretty young thing like a boy who had just sprouted his first wispy beard. It was utterly unlike him, and so he felt obliged to try to make sense of it. Much of her appeal, he figured, must lie in her exoticism– he'd only ever seen a handful of orlans throughout his life, and he'd had never actually had the opportunity to interact with one, so the air of mystery made her that much more alluring. Her coloration was enticingly evocative of the heat and brilliance of an open flame, a welcome change from the tedious blues and greys to which he was so accustomed, and he couldn't help but wonder how it might feel to run his hand over living fur for a change. Even putting aside her physical assets, if she had truly performed even a fraction of the deeds ascribed to her in her partial biography, then she was not only a woman of exceptional beauty, but one of strength, cunning, and bravery as well. And he couldn't help but be impressed– to the point of intimidation, even– by her many laudable accomplishments: she was a scholar, a chanter, a thaynu (whatever that meant), a warrior, a walker between worlds, a champion of the common kith, a woman who had treated with the gods themselves, a dragonslayer–

Phlegm rumbled in Vatnir's throat as he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. He knew that on some level, this childish infatuation wasn't about her, not really. It was about the idea of her, of a person with the potential to change everything for him– if only she should ever have a reason to. He didn't want her so much as he wanted her strength, her courage, her help in unraveling the twisted mess he'd made of his life. To him, she wasn't just a woman, she was a way out.

He chuckled wryly to himself as a ridiculous idea struck him. Ha! Maybe I ought to write to her. "Dear Watcher of Caed Nua: I have read of your many magnificent feats, and verily have you enchanted me. I would seek your assent to bond yourself to me in your Dyrwoodan custom of matrimony, but first I wonder if you might assist me with a small problem I have regarding an undead dragon..."

But no sooner had he dismissed the prospect as laughably absurd than he started to seriously consider it. What if, despite the puerile waste of time he knew it to be, he wrote to her anyway? What if, against all odds, she should actually answer such a missive? Gods, what if she came? What if she actually sailed to the Floe– doubtlessly in a majestic Vailian three-master that bristled with cannons and swarmed with servants– and she somehow used her incredible Watcher abilities to locate the dragon's lair, marching straight to it and boring into the very core of its monstrous soul with her piercing violet eyes before lopping off its head with one deft swing of her mighty sword?

And... what if he could then manage to convince or beg or cajole her into taking him with her when she left again? He imagined her leading him by the hand up the gangplank to her ship, inviting him into the captain's cabin for a welcoming libation. She'd pass him a bottle, take a drag off of her pipe and pass that to him too, still moist and warm from her mouth. And then... oh, then she'd smile at him seductively, her full, glossy lips parting just so, and she'd unbuckle her shining silver breastplate and let it fall, revealing the curves of her body underneath... and then...

The bandages wrapped around his hips suddenly felt uncomfortably tight.

Well, now. Not about her, is it?

He groaned miserably, the yawning void inside him aching now with want, and he cursed himself for his foolishness. No, it was not about her. It was about him. About his cowardice, his selfishness, his ineptitude. He was the reason everyone who came to this gods-cursed iceberg was going to die, crushed underfoot or blasted apart or torn asunder in the dragon's jaws– Hel, he was the reason they kept coming here in the first place– and he was too craven and pathetic to even allow himself to accept responsibility for the ceaseless slaughter, let alone try to put a stop to it. So he soothed his guilty conscience by indulging in a juvenile fantasy wherein he would somehow facilitate some impossible scenario that miraculously absolved him of all duty, all effort, all accountability, and then he generously rewarded himself for his ingenuity with a woman to gift him his heart's every desire. In reality, she'd probably sooner run him through than even think of permitting him entry into her cabin, and dying on her sword was one of the better possible outcomes of such a preposterous, futile scheme. It was far more likely he'd just get her killed too, if she bothered to answer his summons at all, and then he'd be right back where he started, his will to carry on depleted just that much more, another small part of him dying along with that distant, desperate hope.

So he clenched his jaw and tried to forget about it, tried to ignore the lingering arousal that still clung to his body like wet clothes, and he hunkered down in his little canoe, seeking solace in sleep.

He'd almost drifted off when he heard the distinctive click of the door to his quarters latching shut.

In the Land, living tended to be communal in nearly every aspect. Everything was, by necessity, shared– food, tools, medicine, fire– to conserve what scarce resources the clan managed to wrest from the ice or pluck out of the sea. This attitude extended to living spaces and clanmates, too, so no one walked alone, ate alone, bathed alone, slept alone. No one but Vatnir. He was special, different, leader and teacher and speaker for their god. It wouldn't be proper to treat him the same as any other ordinary elf. And of course, there was a practical angle to consider as well– it did no one in the clan any good to eat or bathe or sleep next to a man who turned stomachs and stoked fever simply by virtue of his presence. So it was only natural that he stand apart from the others, exalted and exiled both. In his younger years it had tormented him, this glorified ostracism, but with age had come grudging acceptance and eventually, wisdom. He had learned to cherish the privacy he had that few others did, to use it to his advantage, and so he had known that when he'd requested his personal quarters be fitted with a door, there would be no objections. In fact, he'd been given the very best door scavenged from the boat they'd used to sail to the Floe– the door to the former captain's cabin, one with a simple latching mechanism connected to the handle. But it had been installed before they'd known the severity of the iceberg's constantly growing and changing geography, so eventually the floor of the settlement warped, causing his door to latch only when very forcefully pulled from inside the threshold. So to hear his door close and latch, he knew, could mean only one thing: someone was in here with him.

Everyone in the clan had been in his quarters at least once– it was practically a rite of passage for fresh arrivals to the Watch to assist the High Harbinger when the time next came to clean his wounds and change his bandages, to acquaint themselves personally, intimately, with the living proof of Rymrgand's dominion over all. In lieu of any newcomers, the task usually fell to Valbrendhür, but Hafjórn filled in most of the time when the old man was unavailable, although everyone in the clan had done their duty. (He still cringed to remember when it had been poor, innocent Brythe's turn, how the girl hadn't been able to look him in the eye for weeks afterward.) In any case, a clan member joining him in his room after dark with neither permission nor forewarning was unprecedented and not a little alarming, so he quickly tucked his book behind him as he sat up to see who it–

Who–

Vatnir froze. It was not Valbrendhür or Hafjórn or Brythe. It was not a member of his clan at all.

A woman stood at the door to his quarters, an orlan woman with tawny skin and golden fur and fiery red hair that, bizarrely, floated about her as though she was underwater. He gawked at her, utterly stunned, his heart hammering wildly in his chest, his breath quick and shallow.

She was completely naked.

It wasn't real. It couldn't be. This couldn't be happening, it was impossible, made no sense whatsoever. This must be a dream, or a hallucination, or– or a vision, oh, gods, a real one? But what could it mean? Why her? Why–

He watched as the woman's hand slid off of the door's handle and fell to her hip. She turned slowly to face him.

And when she saw him, she smiled.

Oh gods, oh gods, oh–

It all certainly felt dreamlike, what with the eerie way she glided gracefully across the room, gradually closing the distance between the two of them. But it felt too real to be a dream, although not quite real enough to be real. Her form seemed to shimmer and shift before his eyes, and the dim light from his hearth didn't quite correspond with the shadows on her body, as though she were instead illuminated from within. Her hair drifted and swam in the air, hanging like a cloud of red smoke around her head and shoulders, mercifully obscuring her eyes, sparing him the terrible brilliance of her gaze. He could only just barely endure beholding her as she was, if he had to see those striking violet eyes looking at him, into him– oh, gods, he couldn't bear it.

A moment passed, and suddenly she was standing before him at the foot of his bed, close enough for him to reach out and nudge her with his toe– if he could actually bring himself to move at all. The most he could do was stare in abject fear and awe at the otherworldly spectacle before him, trembling in every limb.

"Vatnir."

Her voice was smooth and hot and slick, like fresh blood gushing from a slit throat.

Pleasure and terror entwined shot throughout his body like lightning, electrifying every nerve ending in him, and he shuddered obscenely in response. He did not, could not answer her.

Her smile broadened slightly, and there was something dangerous behind it, something cold and predatory. She laid her hands against her sternum, pressing them between her perfect breasts.

"I know your heart, child of dusk. Long have you yearned for the warmth of another."

A great plume of steam gushed forth from her mouth as she spoke, and it cascaded over the bewildered priest, obscuring his vision. When he could see again, she had produced a living heart, held like a sacrificial offering in her upturned hands. It burned with a flame that spat and sparked, hotter and brighter than any torch.

"You would have my heart beat next to yours. And I would have the same."

She thrust the flaming heart at him, and instinctively, he flinched away from it. Her soft laughter was like broken glass scraping stone.

"But wisely, you see that if I were to place it beside yours as it is now, it would reduce you to cinders."

She shifted slightly, and before he could blink she was in the canoe with him, one foot on either side of him. He knew orlans to be small in stature, but she seemed to tower over him as tall as any adra titan.

"You know what you must do, then, if you wish for my conjugality."

She shifted again, and suddenly she was on her knees, straddling him. This close, he could feel the blistering heat radiating from her, from the heart that lay in her palms, but the breath that brushed across his chin and naked gums was as cold as the winds of the Void. He dimly felt his teeth start to chatter.

"Smother it in the snow. Purge its impurities. Extinguish it, and my heart shall be yours, as shall I. Until the end of all things."

She forced the burning heart into his mouth.

He tried to scream, but only the hiss of sizzling flesh issued forth from him. The pain was blinding, but oddly, it only lasted an instant– and then the taste of blood filled his mouth, rank and coppery, and he choked and gagged on it as he writhed beneath her. Despite his best efforts to reject the foul meal, his body turned traitor and he swallowed against his will, a liquid warmth flooding into him, burning all the way down his throat, tingling in his joints and extremities, throbbing in his belly, leaving him feeling drunk, disoriented, sick. She cupped his face in her hands, ember hot and sticky with half-dried blood.

"You understand now the risks. Do you accept my terms, child of dusk? Will you treat with me?"

It was phrased as a request, but it was definitely a command. Her voice thundered in his ears, shook his bones, drove tears to his eyes. She gripped him by the horns that jutted from his jaws and pulled him close, closer, ever closer.

"Yes," he breathed. There was nothing else he could say. The heat of her heart inside him roiled and swelled.

"Then," she whispered, her chill breath raising goosebumps on his neck, "beg for me."

He swallowed again, thickly, choking off a groan, gasping for breath like a dying animal. She was so, so close now...

"Please–" he managed.

It was enough.

She did not fall onto him so much as into him, her body slamming into his with the force of a burning building collapsing into itself, pressing the breath from his lungs. She drove herself against him, her thighs sliding against his crotch, her belly filling the hollow of his own, her wild hair lighting on his face and crown and horns like drifting embers. She lifted her face to meet his gaze– he caught a glimpse of blue, ice blue glinting beneath the fiery locks– and then wrenched his head down to her level, crushing her mouth into his, forcing his jaw open, her breath still ice cold but her tongue red hot inside him.

And he moaned at last, sweat beading on his brow, heat and chill churning within him like a fever, the molten heat of her mouth crawling down into his stomach to mingle with the fire of her heart, and then back up through his veins to ignite the very tips of him, like how it felt when his fingers regained feeling again after the numbness of the cold had worn off. He was suddenly very acutely aware of what felt like a long, hot stone pressed into the flesh of his inner thigh, and his knees trembled as he thrusted timidly but insistently against her, his whole body aching for release, her horrible, haunting laughter ringing in his ears–

And he jolted awake as a pair of strong, heavy hands shook him hard enough to make his teeth rattle and his head snap painfully back and forth on his neck.

"High Harbinger! The Messenger! The Messenger is here!" Hafjórn's voice rang out far too loudly in the tiny room, his pale grey eyes glinting with fervor. Vatnir bit back a cry of shock, managing to only sputter and cough instead.

"What–" He could still taste her blood in his mouth, could still feel the warmth, the yearning ebbing throughout his body. "The– what? Who? The–"

Hafjórn looked at him as though he'd just asked what snow was. "The– the Messenger! Did you not feel his holy presence?" As if on cue, the structure shuddered around them as the ground rumbled and quaked from an incredible force crashing into it.

Oh, gods, it's back.

"I– y-yes, of course," he stuttered, panic rising in his gullet. "I just– I was just dreaming, just now, of... his resplendence. It– it must be a sign. A holy premonition. Of course."

Hafjórn's eyes widened with awe, then shone with admiration for his blessed leader. "Of course!" he cried, clasping his hands together in front of himself, enraptured. "Oh, glory be to Rymrgand!"

"Glory be," Vatnir echoed numbly. "G-go forth, brother, and meet our lord's servant. I must–" skyt, he had to think of something, quickly– "I... m-must tend to myself before I join you. My dream was... powerful, vivid. It... affected me. Physically." He hunched over, clutching at his stomach and throat, and gave a very convincing performance of a dry heave, praying that Hafjórn would take the hint and leave instead of, gods forbid, offering to help.

The other man winced beneath his roughly stitched-together hood– gods, did he sleep in the thing?– and hurriedly rose to his feet as the ground shook beneath them again. "Oh! Uh– certainly, High Harbinger. By all means, take your time. I, uh, I'll just... make sure the others devote themselves properly to worship until you arrive!" He shuffled awkwardly backwards to the open door, bowed his head quickly, and retreated into the hallway.

Vatnir waited for Hafjórn's footsteps to fully fade before he scrambled for the switch hidden inside the aurochs skull above his bed.

He managed to hold it together until after he'd gotten the sliding wall back into place, until he was safe, alone in his hidden room. He'd been numb and detached, his mind shocked into merciful silence and his body relying entirely on muscle memory– right up until he noticed that in his stupor, he'd unconsciously taken the fucking book with him, was cradling it against his chest again, like a child with a security blanket. His hands spasmed and he dropped it on the floor, staring vacantly ahead as the full horror of the harrowing experience struck him, little by little, piling on more and more, like a burgeoning avalanche, just waiting for something to give way–

He glanced down to see that the book had landed on its spine, had fallen open to display the portrait of the Watcher of Caed Nua.

He staggered to the other side of the room, fell to his hands and knees, and vomited.

And when he'd finished, he crawled beneath the table, thick cords of drool laced with snot and bile trailing from his ruined mouth, and he curled up into himself, shaking almost as hard as the walls around him were. What was that... that waking nightmare, that mad, spiraling delusion? It was unlike any dream he'd ever had, and Nyvardir allegedly kept his beer free of hallucinogens. He could only conclude it must be a vision, but Rymrgand had never seen fit to send him visions before, and if that was the first, he never wanted to go through another. What kind of lesson was he supposed to derive from that? What did it all mean? Was it a warning of some sort? An omen? A–

–I know your heart–

A punishment.

Vatnir twitched, and his gaze fell again on the book, still lying open on the floor where he'd left it. Of course that's what it was. Divine retribution. He had profaned this holy place with his lies, spilled the blood of his kin, traded away sacred scripture for worldly frivolites. And now he was reaping the rewards of his blasphemy– a vicious, sinister mockery of his deepest and most secret desire sent to humiliate and torture him, a message that his transgressions against his clan and his god had not gone unnoticed. Something between a sigh and a sob shuddered up out of him, and he pressed his masked face into his hands, as though he could hide from the revelation.

–smother it in the snow–

And then anger, righteous and indignant, boiled up inside him.

He had never asked for this, this clan, this body, this life. And yet, because he bore the Beast's mark, he was expected to endure without complaint, without even the most remote hope of the smallest sliver of relief, ever? That he was, in fact, expected to rejoice in his curse, to celebrate the fact that he would suffer, more and more, every day, until his inevitable death? He couldn't accept that, couldn't bear the notion that to live like this was his fate, indelible, inescapable. And as for his clan's jommydra, what else was he supposed to trade with? He had no other bargaining chips, no way to earn coin by laboring or stealing or fighting. He'd even gone so far as to weave flaws into his copies, glaring omissions and outright falsehoods to throw anyone who might actually be able to read it off his trail, to obscure and protect his clan's true lore. It wasn't as though Maribel or her customers would know the difference. And even if he hadn't, wouldn't that have been a small price for the clan to pay to afford him, their beloved scapegoat, the briefest reprieve from his constant agony? He had nothing else, barely even had the faculties to enjoy what little he could get his hands on, and now the Beast would deprive him of even his fantasies? How dare he try to take this from him, how dare Rymrgand send him a vision like that when all he had ever done since he'd first drawn breath was serve to the best of his ability, whether he'd wanted to or not–

–will you treat with me–

Vatnir sat a while, rage and fear and frustration washing over him in great waves as the tremors that shook his walls slowly grew fewer and further between. And when they stopped at last, when the dragon finally ceased its assault and again retreated back to wherever it had come from, he slowly clambered out from beneath the table and rose to his feet, his hands clenched into shaking fists at his sides.

A plan was forming in his mind.

Maribel and her sister were at least punctual, if little else. They would be back in a month. That might be enough time to come up with something. A story, backed up by some obscure myth or fable that he'd not used in any sermons yet, something to explain why this outsider has come to the Watch, why she must do battle with the Messenger. He was reminded, vaguely, of a half-remembered tale he'd once read about a messianic figure of some sort, a warrior who had befriended death and walked hand in hand with it, bringing cleansing oblivion wheresoever they trod–

–child of dusk–

Yes. Yes, he could work with that. He'd have a lot more planning to do, a good bit of reading, a little serious acting. But he was practically an expert at all that by now.

Reluctant but resolute, he plodded over to the book and rescued it from the floor, handling it with as much care and respect as his shaking hands could provide. He carried it to the table and propped it up, still open on the Watcher's portrait, so that she could inspire him as he sat down across from her and got to work, rummaging through his things for his writing kit.

It could work. It would work. He'd make it work, no matter how much he had to lie and cheat and beg. He lit a stumpy candle and fitted the heating dish for his sealing wax above the flame, carefully spread a thin slice of cream-colored leather out in front of him, and with a practiced hand and a jagged fingernail, he opened an old wound and dipped the nib of his quill into the blood that welled up from it.

The first step in his plan, he'd decided, was to write a letter.

—

"You're sure it's hers?"

Marri squinted at the vessel she'd pulled up alongside, her ledgers and cargo manifests forgotten for the moment. The enormous galleon dwarfed her tiny sloop, and although her eyesight wasn't what it used to be, she could still make out the name painted on the side of the hull: Hyridh ix Ensios.

Bela didn't bother looking up from her recently returned copy of New Legends of the Eastern Reach. "It's hers," she assured the Endings godlike, casually turning another page. "Zamar may be old, but his memory hasn't failed him quite yet. She commissioned it right after her return from Hasongo, he told me, and now it's just about finished. Distinctive name, isn't it?"

Six beady magenta eyes rolled in unison. 'It's nonsensical," Marri grunted. "And it doesn't tell us where the captain of this newly commissioned ship is, either."

With a huff, Bela slammed her book shut, shooting a glare at her decrepit sister. "You truly do think me a fool, don't you, Maribel?"

"Can you blame me?" Marri snarled, glowering right back at the bigger woman. "First, you let that horrible priest have that precious book of yours that you keep boasting about having lifted from that Waelite temple every chance you–"

"I lent it to him!" Bela protested. "And in case you haven't noticed, I got it back. And I wouldn't have had to lend it out at all if someone hadn't smoked all the good whiteleaf before we got to–"

Marri swatted at her dismissively. "Bah! You're lucky he gave it back, postenago, and luckier still he managed to restrain himself from befouling it with any of his myriad discharge." She shuddered with disgust, spitting a wad of phlegm on the floor of the cabin at the mere thought. "And then, you accepted his request to deliver this ridiculous thing to the most sought-after kith in the Deadfire– and for no extra charge!" She held the aforementioned burden aloft in her gnarled hand: a thin scroll of tanned hide, sealed with azure wax that had been stamped with the emblem of the aurochs.

Bela pouted, twisting a thin, wiry flower stem between her forefinger and her thumb. "I... oh, I felt bad for him, serre," she mumbled. "He looked worse off than usual this last time, all pale and haggard. And when it comes to him, that's saying something." She winced and lowered her voice, as though discussing a deathly ill family member just outside their sickroom: "He said the dragon came again. Killed eleven of his followers. And there I was, come to snatch away the only token he had of his sweetheart..." She smirked and gently patted the book's cover, unable to help herself.

"You're a child," Marri snapped, "and so is he. And you still haven't told me how we're supposed to track down this Watcher he wants us to give this stupid thing to." She sneered down at the little scroll, scratching at an open sore beneath one of her curving black horns. "Doubtlessly it's just some insipid love letter anyway. We should have thrown it into the sea as soon as we–"

"Calloste!" One of Bela's long doe's ears twitched, and she rushed to the cabin's open door, listening intently.

A woman's voice raised in song, clearly well-trained... a shanty, one known to be a favorite of–

Bela laughed triumphantly. "We will find her," she chirped as she yanked the scroll from her sister's knobbly fingers, "by finding her ship first, of course, and waiting for her to return to it. As she is now." With that, she rushed out of the cabin, bounding eagerly after her quarry, and Marri only sighed and shook her head as she turned to the cabin's tiny window and watched her sister flounce up the pier.

The Watcher was not difficult for Bela to catch up to, and she seemed pleasant enough, despite displaying the slightly stiff and formal demeanor befitting a woman of her station. She accepted the scroll graciously, and although her eyes hardened a bit when she noticed the symbol of Rymrgand embossed in the wax seal, she still thanked Bela, tipped her generously, and then continued on her way like any other customer. Marri noted with glee how the orlan stood just a bit too close to the dark-haired elf accompanying her, and laughed out loud when she slipped an arm around his waist after Bela had turned away from them. Ha! Serves that priest right, the little creep.

As soon as Bela stepped back into the cabin, Marri turned to her, her snaggletoothed mouth twisted into a petulant scowl. "You're splitting that money with me," she demanded.

"I wouldn't dream of keeping it all to myself, dear sister," Bela cooed, snapping a bronze ōa in half and tossing the skinny woman her share. "So you saw her? She's a magnificent little woman, ac? And her beau! So handsome, but so austere." She laughed as she stuffed the money into her coin pouch. "Poor Vatnir! Cuckolded before he could even introduce himself to her!"

"Yes, yes, it's all very amusing, I'm sure," Marri grumbled, cramming her paperwork back into her desk drawer and taking up her spyglass and sexton. "Now, if you're finished playing errand girl, can we get back to building our trade empire and earning our tickets back to the Republics, if it's not too much trouble for you?"

Bela rolled her eyes and shouted the order to lift anchor, and in minutes, their little sloop was in open water again, speeding off toward the next opportunity.

Nothing holding us back now, she thought, and a chill wind filled their sails, carrying them off into the blood red horizon.

—

#fic wip #i'll almost definitely agonize over i mean uh edit this further #and add an extra lil epilogue before posting to ao3 #but i wanted to get it out here already #so uh here's the rest of this one!#thanks for reading ♡#pillars of eternity #vatnir

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