✨ @vigilant-cleric | at the dream gates . . .

The dream begins with eyes blinking up at the intricate patterns decorating a vaulted ceiling — high, high above Ashen’s head, high enough that one would need wings to reach it. The longer one stares, the more the patterns almost seem to gently churn, like galaxies in the Astral lazily drifting across the blackness of space. Stars and paint, golds and glitter, close enough to feel on his cheeks, yet millions of years away.

Upon stirring — sitting and glancing around — Ashen will notice himself towards the end of a great and hallway, as if he had travelled for miles and miles with naught but the naked walls for company — at the end of a great journey he never took. One direction trails off into shadows and vanishes into the distance, while the other leads to a tall, intimidating staircase afore a door which, even if one had never seen it before, anyone could tell the importance of. Something grand surely lurks beyond the intricately-carved face of the double doors, or perhaps something dangerous. Something worth guarding, for the sake of others, or the sake of itself. Something in need of a champion.

And, indeed, that champion stands before it.

A grand figure, regal and authoritative, clad in bluish armour from his helmed head to his heavy sabatons, stands before the door with his sword at his hip and his shield on his back. He is as comforting a presence as he is intimidating, exuding the aura of one who is there to protect to the end of his life, no matter the cost of doing so. One who could kill and protect with the same hand. One whom Ashen will surely recognise.

The knightlike figure takes a wide stance, plated hands folding afore himself in a show of peaceful intent. “Welcome,” he says, and his voice carries power. “It has been too long.”

Benny: Damn that rut, I am horny.

Other muses: *Getting depressed about it*

@vigilant-cleric I hate this guy in particular

@vigilant-cleric

The mention of the Dark Gods gets a brief, but surprisingly genuine laugh out of Rakatak. The paladin's pace slows, she looks over her shoulder and adopts what could be described as a leisurely saunter, her polearm braced across both shoulders in a manner both casual and somewhat overbearing. Very much drawing attention to it, but... not threatening. Not quite.

"Conflicted indeed! Hah- that I should hear such nuance from a man of the cloth, though from what little I know of Helm, I should not be so shocked. It's as you say, there is as much necessity for evil in the world as there is good. Perhaps I might be derided for my biases on the matter," a few teeth being exposed in the joking sneer that accompanies her words, "but it is practically fact that greatness sprouts from ambition, and ambition cannot be claimed to be entirely good - nor does it do it proper service to say that all aspirations to alter the world around us are evil."

The hobgoblin rotates to face him, walking backwards as she tilts her head in thought. "But. All things in shades. There are depths even I would hesitate to plumb. Alliances the Empire itself would be loathe to forge. If the options are be hells, or go to hells, your choice is merely between the devil you can live with.

starter for @vigilant-cleric | from [X]

Ronan had no great love of cities. They were natural in their own way, to be sure, and he didn't begrudge the peoples who lived in them. It was simply that, when so surrounded by stone and cut timber, he found himself missing the brush of undergrowth, seeing the sky through a green canopy, and taking his Wildshapes without causing commotion.

So, he compromised with himself by finding ingredients for his dinner before passing through the gates. His building of a cooking fire in one of the public squares drew eyes, but Ronan focused more on not burning the fish he'd caught. Hearing an armored stranger approach, he glanced up past pale lashes. A uniform, of some kind, and guards were usually the ones to wear helmets within city walls. "If you're here to scold me about the fire, wait 'til I've eaten."

starter for @vigilant-cleric | from [X]

With the attackers all killed or fled, attention now turned to tending the wounded and making a defensible camp. Mercifully, there were no dead to bury. Rama had only been passing by when he'd heard the ruckus and found a group of tieflings under ambush, but had wasted no time leaping in to help fend the goblins off. Leaving so soon after, when his skills would be of greatest use, seemed unthinkable. Another mercy was having a second cleric at hand - one of Helm, by the stranger's garb.

Some of the tiefling children, though, remained fearful despite their mended injuries, especially as the sun set. From what Rama could see, many of the adults were exhaustedly wary as well, in a constant bracing for new misfortunes. The young girl clinging to his robes stared at her parents, perhaps afraid they might vanish or die if she looked away, while Rama healed a cut on her arm. Resting his free hand gently on her upper back, he asked if she'd like to hear a song that always helped him calm down. Though she didn't look toward him, she nodded.

Rama started fairly soft, but the song grew a bit in volume as he realized those nearby were listening. Though the lyrics were in High Calidrian Alzhedo, the melody did come across as a smooth, warm lullaby. Perhaps it was mere wishful thinking, but the sharpest edge of tension in the air seemed to fade by the end. The girl, at least, was watching him while he wiped blood from her healed arm.

After sending her off to her parents, Rama noticed the other cleric nearby and offered a smile. "All are healing well and fast, friend, thanks to your help."

@vigilant-cleric

it is hard to count the number of times that cornelius has been lost in thought over the years. the amount of minutes, hours, days, where he has not moved. a ghoul in his own home, a ghost of a man. shelled, empty. he had lived in a pain so great for over three hundred years that he could have hardly imagined anything else. until by chance he caught word of a novel. a curious mind caused foot to step from home and so much had happened since. but everyone knows those tales, would come to know of those deeds should only they listen to the closest bard.

what those songs don't sing about is the after. that those involved that lived have to go on living and life is never the same. cornelius cannot find regret in meeting ashen, nor would he even think of looking for it. there are few who he can say have taken him so roughly from his own head, shown him again that there is more to a life than haunting your own home. ( granted he almost died a few times but what is adventure without a little danger? ) but this is also the problem; he had known what it meant to care for another again, had let that love into his heart. had come to know the warmth of another person who he could wholly claim to put his soul into. to weave together destinies, to laugh with, to cry with.

( it's there in the back of his mind though always, after a drink over a fire, after a laugh shared in some wet cave, boots heavy with some unknown liquid: this cannot go on forever. )

death has always kept him company and death has always been cold and cruel. there's a heavy silence, it's obvious that something weighs on his mind. he watches his friend as he has done so for many years now. he can recall the day he first met the cleric in the grove. how young he was then and now.. for once he is a loss for words. what can be strung together to properly convey how heavy his heart is? he averts his gaze, hands at the small of his back as he stalks to lookout a courtyard beyond, colorful glass skewing vision but it is better than gazing upon the old form of his friend. " I... " baritone cracks, he clears his throat to try again. " I would not be myself if I didn't at least ask- beg- once again..." words unspoken but ashen should know; eternal life, offered before him.

Ashen doesn't seem particularly bothered by his bingo card.

𝔸ℝ𝔼 𝕐𝕆𝕌 𝔼𝕊𝕋𝔼ℝ𝕀'𝕊 𝕋𝕐ℙ𝔼 ?

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     ❝ You are not my type. ❞     Esteri said confidently without looking down on the sheet, but eventually taking a second to let pale eyes drift over it. Why would a Helmite even have a chance   ?   Ridiculous.

 Oh.

  The diagonals.

     ❝ Maybe you are my type. A little. ❞

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𝗕𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝘂𝐧𝘁𝐞𝗿:

won: 5 lost: 0

"Paladins of Tara? Clerics of Tara? ... Should I add a shrine to Tara in Baldur's Gate's Tabernacle? What would that shrine even look like?"

@vigilant-cleric

"Why a statue of yours truly, of course." She frowned and then pinned her ears back. "But that would mean being near that harlot, Mystra. I should have my own temple."

"Or if my shrine must be near hers I demand my statue be demeaning hers in some way."

@vigilant-cleric asked: ❛  that feels good, doesn't it?  ❜ (fuck it they're going to Shar's temple. i had to. LOOOL)

She was sure she could feel the goddess of loss watching them upon her altar, watching with disdain and perhaps pondering which curses to lay upon them. Most especially her, a cleric of her sister. And yet, that danger only seemed to thrill Luna more.

Folded over the dark altar, her fingers clutched at the far edge of the stone, chest flat against its cold surface, whilst her legs were spread wide for her fellow cleric behind her worshipping her. Hands gripped her hips tightly, bruising in the most delightful of ways, as Ashen's hips repeatedly met her backside with each thrust, each plunge of his cock into her.

Could Shar hear the obscene sounds wet arousal with each thrust? Did she hear Luna's whimpering moans, pathetic and soft as she lost herself to pleasure, or Ashen's groans behind her? Her head tipped back slightly then, catching a glimpse of the giant Shar statue before them and for a moment she was sure she felt that presence there.

Keening under his touch, that was when Ashen's words reached her, inner walls tightening around him briefly.

"Y-yes!" She stuttered out, higher pitched as he filled her once more, fingers reaching to tangle in her loose blonde hair. "F-feels so good, Ashen... please..."

The moment of solemness gave way to soft, tired laughter as the other cleric gave a line that Age'ian himself would have likely spoken had the situation been switched. Though the tiefling wore a soft smile, his pale eyes still held that deep sorrow of homesickness.

"How right you are... Though part of my worries stem from the fact that my past might come searching for me. Not in a threatening way, of course, but... I worry for when it finds me. How it will react seeing what I have become..."

{ @vigilant-cleric from here }

@vigilant-cleric : ”Are you feeling lonely, perhaps?” (from Ashen to Atlas - could be BG3 timeline or when Atlas was in the Flaming Fist with Ashen as their chaplain 👀)

" lonely? " an involuntary parrot, curious how such a conclusion came to be. the elf cocks his head, though his eyes do not stray from his hands in his lap, loosely clasped together. " it may be easier to say frustrated. " a pause, gathering his thoughts. " i'm not naive, father. where power gathers there is bound to be corruption on some level but.. the things i've seen in the past week alone..." he recalls the multiple bribes, overheard conversations and extortion he's witnessed. " i don't regret joining but i'm questioning whether or not i belong in the fists but moving on feels like i'm failing somehow. "

@vigilant-cleric sent

The watchknight observed Bernard's moustache for a short moment, making a conscious and visible effort to choose his words carefully. "... We all started... somewhere."

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   𝕃𝔼𝕋𝕋𝔼ℝ𝕊 .   unprompted interactions ───────────────────

      𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝘁𝐢𝐞𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝘂𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐝.      Obviously, he was not talking about the training, nor the visible trouble Bernard had at unbuckling some belts holding the Helmite's own armor together. Why does he always get the ones with these gods-awful annoying clamps   ?

He made an effort to ignore the watchknight's sorry comment ( It's not like he heard his beard being pitied for the first time ), not everyone is as biologically gifted as his fellow Helmite. Bernard got nagged on regularly, told to just shave the few hairs off, but these hairs contribute a lot to the cleric's masculinity.

No, he had high hopes. His own father reassured the man not to worry. Late blooming facial hair would lie in the family.

     ❝ It's perfectly fine. It's not always about size or thickness. It's the man behind the mustache. ❞

💋 for the OC art thing!!

𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐚𝗿𝘁 𝐚𝘀𝐤 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐞

❥ source

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💋 Draw your OC in formal wear

An excuse to give her a ponytail is always appreciated uwu

@vigilant-cleric // cont.

Pale, fiery eyes watched him closely. Haarlep took the drink without a word and lifted it to their lips. They were listening to him, they really were, but the foul taste of the beer had them spitting it back into the tankard. Wine was their main drink, more so than water, so the bitter taste had their nose crinkled and their lips curled in disgust. They moved the offending drink away from them.

Sipping their own goblet of wine, they refocused on what the mortal was telling them. The idea of going so long without intimate touches was foreign to them. Ever since they reached adulthood, sex had become a regular part of their life. The main part, really.

Haarlep let the question roll around in their brain. "A bit of both, I suppose," they answered honestly. "And, no - my nature doesn't change whether I'm in the Hells or not." They set the goblet down and ran the pad of one finger around the rim. "My kind, we need to have sex. Just like food and water, sexual energy keeps us alive." It was a bit odd explaining it to someone, something they had been taught about themself at a very young age. "We feed off orgasms, whether it's our own, with another participant, of course, or someone else's." They shrugged. "A man could lay over me and fuck his hand and his orgasm would feed me. But if I do it all alone, nothing." A pause. "I enjoy sex, too."

@vigilant-cleric

"You're right. You should have." Customarily brusque. Her palms alight, and as he gets himself properly upright she presses her burning hands to his chest. The flame hurts, like it tends to, but fills him with the energy to live as well. She'd explained the first time. Suffer the burn of failure, receive the vitality to avoid a second appearance of it.

His wounds tended, for now, she steps away, examining the blade of the Tooth. She looks... pleased. Deeply satisfied. The blood of devils catches the light, and Rakatak shows it her teeth. "The last time this weapon tasted an infernal was long before I wielded it. I hope it has retained its enjoyment of biting through other places' soldiers." Briefly, it seems she might not have caught Ashen's reaction to the appearance of the cambion, but... no such luck. After carefully wiping the blade's face clean and flicking a finger against it, she looks back at him.

"...if being flat-footed when against devils is going to present a lasting challenge, it would do well for you to tell me now. I adapted this time, but I prefer to be ready more than quick."