“i can’t do this anymore” says a girl who is not only going to do it but do it well

Your writing is soo goood

Raphael & Jaheira: You All Meet at an Inn

A/N: I had to get an intro out of the way before proper sassing down the line. And apologies, I'm out of practice with writing.

R & J: Let's be honest, his taste in wine is so much better than hers

Like many of his kind, the devil was a series of contradictions. 

Handsome but not striking. Languid, but only on a cursory inspection. A more pointed observation would showcase the taut muscles in his shoulders and thighs, hinting that the lazy rolling motion of his wrist was intentional rather than instinctual. And, perhaps most importantly, despite the ostentatiousness of his garb, rich blues, reds, and golds, which demanded attention and respect, few of the Last Light’s patrons truly saw him. 

Jaheira did not fault them for the oversight. The High Harper noted it with a world-weary amalgamation of affection and exhaustion. Few prey animals noticed the hunter until it was upon them. Man and beast were not such disparate creatures. 

She shifted, rolling her shoulders to alleviate some residual tension—the aches that never seemed to properly fade these days, which had faded until only a decade prior. She should turn him out. And aye, much like the aches, even a decade ago, she might have done something about his presence—but where was the harm? He stuck to his corner and played his games. 

In the darker stretches of the night, his attention shifted away from the lance-board and his books towards the door. The devil waited. 

Jaheira waited, too.  

The devil lifted his head, eyes flicking from the Mystra piece to the Harper. He made a show of it, eyes widening, lips turning up in a smile—noticing her, seemingly for the first time. She snorted, arching a brow. He shrugged, expression relaxing into something more neutral and more genuine, motioning to the seat across from him. 

“You know, I rather wondered which of us would bring our little dance to its close,” he began, voice warm and rich. His lips twitched, expression colored with so many masterful little notes—presumed intimacy, natural familiarity…they might have been old friends meeting for drinks in any alehouse. Easiness and charm…the domain of all his kind. His eyes glittered in the firelight. 

The half-elf sunk into the chair, holding her arms out wide. “Shall we continue circling each other like coquettish maids?” Jaheira waved him off. “Who has time for it?”

“Certainly not you, High Harper. All this,” he motioned around them, attention flicking to the window and the shadows just beyond. “Resting on your shoulders…such a weighty calling.” 

“You offer to take it from me?” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it. You are so…uniquely equipped for these travails.” 

Jaheira snorted. “Let us call it experience—hard won over many years of life.” She tipped her head to the side, regarding him closely. Without a room of distance between them, she could appreciate the more minor details of this mortal form: wrinkles near the corners of his eyes, hints of sunspots across the back of his hands, and streaks of gray brightening otherwise dark hair. He felt fully manifest in a way so many of his ilk failed to recognize—the little things grounded an illusion in reality. “Come, tell me what to call you. In my head, it is ‘devil this, devil that’...tedious.” 

His eyes widened. “You shall have to forgive this lapse in manners—it’s the setting, you see. One really isn’t at their best.” He mimed a bow, someone still regal despite the confines of the chair. “I am Raphael—very much at your service.” 

“A pleasant name! Well-suited to this pleasant face.”  

Raphael hummed. With a snap of his fingers, the lance-board disappeared. In its place, a bottle of brandy. She did not recognize the label’s language. “A devil in your house, and yet…we are rather blase.” 

“Do not take it personally.” She ghosted her fingers across the table. “Gods of death, demon princes…after these things—” his muscles drew taut, eyes narrowing as she spoke. “ —your feathers are very pretty, but… you make for a much smaller bird.” 

To his credit, Raphael laughed. He poured them each a glass of wine. As if in concession, he took the first sip—no poison. Jaheira bowed her head and followed suit. The wine’s bouquet blossomed across her tongue—rich and deep, a hint of cherry and leather giving way to softer, more subtle notes. It reminded her of Calimshan—pleasant evenings before the true weight of adventuring settled on her shoulder…when she’d been young, Khalid at her side. 

The knowing glint in his eye said he’d anticipated such a reaction. A smaller bird, perhaps, but cunning. I have survived so many years, his gaze said, and I have thrived for good reason. 

“To walk so freely on the Prime is no small thing. And you do not seem the sort to bind yourself to the whims of mortals…” she tapped her chin. “A cambion, then.” 

“Are we to trade parlor tricks, my dear? Shall I ask if your house qualified you as a ‘princess’ or a ‘lady’ in Tethyr?” 

“A lady, though my youngest will argue that point till she is blue in the face.” Jaheira held up her glass in salute. “Do not take offense—it was a compliment, one mongrel to another.” 

Raphael chuckled. “One mongrel to another.” The cambion sighed, relaxing back into his seat. He stroked his chin, fingers teasing across the whisper of stubble—not quite a day’s growth, perhaps a matter of hours. A testament to his dedication and vanity—over the past week, he’d never moved from his seat by the window. “Shall we be honest with each other, ladyship?” 

“It depends. Will honestly not make your skin itch?” 

“You wound me. I am a paragon of virtue to friends and clients both. And the honest truth is I am awaiting a favorite distraction of mine.” He sipped his wine again. “I dare say they might even solve the lion’s share of your problems. Interested?” 

She hummed. Jaheira settled more comfortably in her chair. “Sing me your song, lovely bird. Perhaps…we may yet benefit one another.”

website

||Anew || Rolan x Reader ||

SUMMARY: Rolan and the reader find themselves searching for a fresh start after the master of the tower dies.

Word Count: 676 (short lil thing)

Lorroakan's demise came in a freak accident, or so the Fists believed. It wasn't uncommon for wizards to meet their end in mysterious and unusual circumstances, often attributed to their infamous hubris. She had spun the tale artfully for them, weaving a narrative of his countless minions turning against their master, perhaps a fitting end to a wizard of his stature. Lying didn't come easy to her, yet she would not point her fingers at his murderers, his demise had been a gift, and no way she would blame Tav, or Gale for that matter, and there was no starting blaming the child of a deity. The city had quickly dealt with the aftermath, Lorroakan's body was already five feet under, and it wouldn't be long until every other proof of his life would soon be gone with him. They began small, dismantling his traps, scrubbing away his extravagant lists of tasks that lined the walls, and packing up his prized personal belongings. It was a meticulous process, but each removal felt like shedding layers of the past, clearing the space for something new to take root. Healing. God knew they needed that. With the departure of the tower's master, the bruises on Rolan's face could finally begin to fade, and the trembling in his hands, which had long been a constant companion as he managed the store, could finally ease. She, had perhaps, shamefully so shed a tear after his passing. Not because she missed, but because she regretted her wasted time spent with him. She recounted the time, she fell under his apprentice, naive, and insanely smitten with the wizard. Starstrucks, would have been a better word, and any respectful wizard would have seen it for what it was. A confused young girl. But he had taken every advantage of it he could. It had been a gruesome, long, and lonely relationship. Not too long ago, Rolan had arrived with a sense of optimism, but it was swiftly extinguished after a week of enduring Lorroakan's apprenticeship. She empathized with him, firstly attempting to offer support from a distance. Then she found herself lingering longer at the store than necessary, flashing him a smile even though it was difficult for her to do so. At first, Rolan found it difficult to accept her warmth. He was too consumed by frustration to notice the genuine concern in her eyes. But she persisted, offering small gestures of support day after day. Eventually, her kindness broke through his defenses. One afternoon, as he struggled to organize the shelves, he felt her hand on his shoulder, offering to help. Surprised by her offer, Rolan hesitated before accepting slowly erasing the loneliness he had felt since arriving at the tower. Now they had been much closer, they had to be, too move on. There was perhaps some twisted joy to be found in being the last two standing. The tower would be hers, perhaps the only good thing coming from their relationship. And she could do with it as she pleased.

She scoured his wall-high bookcases for anything salvageable. With each dusty tome she pulled out, she couldn't help but lament his questionable taste in literature—a red flag she should have noticed years ago, before becoming entangled with him. "Rolan," she called out, turning away from the bookcases and balancing on a stool, gripping the shelves with her left hand. She observed him, surrounded by mage hands, as he hurriedly shifted boxes of unused scrolls to one corner of his room. Beads of sweat adorned his forehead, and his once-neatly tied-back hair began to loosen from the strain of lifting.

A quiet and distracted "Hmm" echoed from his direction before he turned to meet her gaze.

"You can slow down if you'd like," she softly spoke.

He looked at her, a little surprised, then relief washed over his face.

"Sorry, I'm not quite used to—" The rest of his words faded into the air as he breathed out a long, tired sigh, before sitting down on one of the boxes. It must have been difficult for him, she thought, to take a breather without facing any consequences, to sit right down without asking for permission. He wiped the sweat from his brow before rubbing it on his robes.

She stepped off her stool, dropped the books she was holding on the floor, and then walked over to him. She sat down next to him, the box, wobbly underneath her, but she tried to relax anyway. As they sat amidst the scattered remnants of Lorroakan's reign, she felt compelled to break the heavy silence between them.

"Rolan," she began softly, her voice carrying a soothing tone, "it's okay to just be you now. No one will hurt you anymore."

Rolan looked up, meeting her gaze. For so long, he had been conditioned to endure, to push through the pain and uncertainty—in Elturel, the Grove, the Shadowlands. He couldn't quite believe his pain was over, at least for now. As she spoke those words aloud, he sensed that she believed them to be true for herself as well.

I'm trying to move past many years of Lorroakan influencing every minute of my life. It's strange to move around without feeling watched. It still feels surreal to wake up and feel safer than I ever have before," she confessed.

Rolan listened, his heart heavy with the weight of her words. He couldn't fathom the full extent of the years she had endured in the towers, but he admired her strength. Sitting next to someone like her made him feel safer than ever.

Slowly, he moved his hand towards her, reaching out. A simple touch, no longer prohibited, now a bridge between two people who needed it most. He squeezed her leg ever so softly.

"What now?" he spoke, uncertainty clouding his thoughts. He had stayed around to help her, but he had no clue what life would bring next.

"We move on somehow. I think we made a great start already," she replied, gesturing around the room. He found himself nodding in agreement.

"And if you want to stay..." she continued, her smile widening ever so slightly, "well...I'll gladly keep you around."

His heart skipped a beat at her words. Stay? The thought hadn't crossed his mind until now, but the idea of building something new together filled him with a warmth he hadn't felt in years.

"Really?" he asked, searching her eyes for confirmation. "Really.'' she said.

PROTECTOR. [1/?]

Help me out. The Nightsong? Dont read if you haven't finished the game

So I am wondering, how did Aradin and his gang know where to look for the nightsong initially? Since they were looking at the Goblin camp right, because it has an entrance to somewhere deeper, but that's not leading to the nightsong at all, just the underdark. So what were they doing there? It's not logical for them to be there at all. Could be that I missed something here. I usually punch Aradin, and that's where my interaction with him ends. If the nasty bitch Lorroakan knew what and who the nightsong was, shouldn't he have sent them straight into the shadowlands instead, because he knew of her immortality, did he than also not know about Ketheric holding her? Its a little strange to me, and a big ass plothole I can't figure out yet. I just need to put some pieces together for a little fic that I am writing.

pov: we are going to beat you to death

accept thy offering

Would you all be interested in a femDurgexGortash multichapter?

YO WRITERS

Stop what you’re doing right now and go write 3 sentences of your story.

Every time you see this, write 3 lines.

Reblog so other writers will do the same, let’s finish these damn stories.

a quick list of things i think zevlor deserves

a soft hand to caress those high cheekbones, follow the long line of his ears, maybe scratch at the base of his horn.

a sweet voice to tell him he’s a handsome man, he has beautiful eyes and noble horns; but also that he’s a good man, too - he’s doing everything he can for his people, he’s honorable and strong and amazingly kind and thoughtful with everything he’s gone through

(and it doesn’t matter if he retakes his oath or not, he’s a good person either way)

a good cup of tea, something warm and spicy and soothing, maybe with a dab of honey. something that calms the soul late in the night, that’d help ease him to sleep

a hearty meal, something meaty he can sink his teeth into that’d warm the belly through the night, something he doesn’t feel guilty about eating when his people are scavenging to survive

a good book to occupy the early evening hours as the grove winds down, or some uninterrupted time to work on the autobiography he has sitting near his bedroll. he won’t let his people’s story go untold.

someone either sharing his space. this man sleeps all alone in a secluded rocky chamber, far from all the other tieflings - he deserves a warm presence at his side at night, so he can fall asleep knowing someone has his back.

or even better, someone who can share his bedroll. someone who can curl up around him, someone he can hold through the night, so the night terrors stay a little further away, and so he can wake up to whispered comforts and maybe soft kisses

honestly? a good old-fashioned make out session. overly-eager kisses, horns bumping foreheads, that awkward but adoring laughter that occurs as two people learn to maneuver with and around each other. something sweet and clumsy that helps him feel young again.

Green lighting at its finest 🤌🤌

zevlor would kneel for you, y’know? despite his sore joints and creaky knees, he’d kneel for you. he wouldn’t be the type to tease, but he’d let the build up speak for itself. helping you out of your clothes, pulling down your trousers or hiking up your skirt, hands ghosting over your hips and thighs, gently feeling over meat and muscle. he’d let his talons dig into your skin a little, if he knew you liked that. just enough to sting, maybe leave red marks, but never enough to bleed. he wouldn’t be the type to feather kisses, either. each press of his lips to your skin, the inside of your thighs, the v of your waist- long, sweet, dragging, fluttering over smooth skin with a faded tongue. maybe even biting a little, letting his teeth indent your flesh, leaving marks behind. i think that’s what he’s indulge in the most, actually. leaving marks, mouth-shaped bruises peppered along stomach and thighs, anywhere the skin was soft enough to bruise and you moaned or whines as he sucked and nibbled. leaving proof he was there, he was the one who made you feel good, something you’d see and think back on and flush about every time you undressed.

daily affirmations

some zevlor being a dad for your timeline