Images From The Minthara Scene. You Know Which One.

The After Party

Pairing: Kibellah/The Rogue Trader

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65568847

kibbith smut as promised 🫶

Been replaying bg3 and karlach is getting the women.

Really wish we could have gotten an dark route karlach

FUCK. honestly just FUCK. We missed a very important day yesterday.

Baldur's Gate III Characters + the Gods

The Last Temptation of Christ / Ethel Cain - Sun Bleached Flies / Wolf Alice - Silk / Nine Inch Nails - Terrible Lie / Alice Notley - Songs and Stories of the Ghouls / Jay Z, Kanye West, Frank Ocean - No Church In The Wild / The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath / Tori Amos - God

My Girl (Chapter 6 - Baldur's Gate 3 fanfiction)

I've made it my personal mission to brighten up everyone's Mondays with a little bit of fluff. And this one is REALLY fluffy. If Lae'zel saw how soft I've made her in this one, she'd kick my ass. Enjoy!

Ship: Shadowzel

WC: 1,291

Warnings: None (unless mentions of unborn children count)

Istik life has definitely taken a toll on her, Lae'zel thinks as she takes a walk around the yard of Crèche Zav'rai. How was she able to grow up in such an environment with her sanity intact? Even though this place is a lot less strict than K'liir ever was, it feels unbelievably oppressive. Not a single moment to be on her own. Being a stranger doesn't help. While she assumes most members are used to her presence, she can't shake the impression that she's being constantly watched and judged. While she washes herself in the communal baths with young students. While she eats in the tiny canteen packed with loud, unruly children who are forever attacking each other with food projectiles. While she goes out to get some fresh air as the aspiring soldiers train. One day, out of sheer boredom, she asked the sa'varsh to let her practice with them; she can't recall a more frustrating experience in her life. She's positively out of practice.

According to the ghustil, she's only been there for nine days, but it seems like a hundred years. It's hard to keep track of time after spending most of it drifting in and out of sleep, high on whatever painkilling potions they were giving her. Since they decided she was healthy enough not to need them and allowed to leave Am'aari's office, her stay in the crèche has been extremely tedious except for the very few times Shadowheart has come to see her. She's still working her two jobs and taking care of the house and the cats, which doesn't leave her with many hours in her hands. Besides, now that night falls earlier, the streets of Baldur's Gate are not safe for a woman by herself; no matter if said woman is adept in radiant magic and knows how to use maces and daggers.

Tsk'va, she can't wait for that godsdamned egg to hatch already.

Looks like, in the end, it's only one baby. Good. Last time she visited, Shadowheart asked her if she was sad about the other two she gave birth to. She isn't. From her reads about the differences between her people's pregnancies and other races', the bond between an istik mother and her child is formed much earlier, already in the womb. Some experts theorize that this is due to the absence of eggs, which make it possible to sense the child's movements and heartbeat. Moreover, Lae'zel is aware that she and Shadowheart are not equipped to raise more than one hatchling.

She sits on the steps of the main entrance and winces, rubbing her breasts. They are fuller than ever, and strangely sensitive. There's a dull, yet persistent pain in them from producing milk. Her whole body is heavier, her endurance and nimbleness considerably lower than they used to be. She needs to start exercising soon, to get back in shape. Yet for the first time in her life, she's too self-conscious to train in front of the other gith.

It's cold outside. She should have put on that borrowed cloak, but wearing clothes that reek of someone else makes her nauseous, and that one is particularly strong. Or perhaps her senses are excessively sharpened. She embraces herself; her skin, too, has become more vulnerable to the ever-changing Faerûnian weather.

“Jhe'stil?” a high-pitched voice behind her calls.

It takes her a moment to realize they're addressing her. She turns around to face a young githzerai and nods for them to speak.

“Ghustil Am'aari sends me,” the youth says. “Your presence is required in the infirmary.”

In the infirmary? She's already been checked up today. What could they possibly need from her? Irrelevant. She rises and follows the child.

“Did she tell you what I am needed for?” she questions.

“Something happened in the hatchery, I believe.”

The hatchery! Lae'zel's heart misses a beat. Has the egg finally cracked open? Or has anything happened to her child?

Her chest tight with trepidation, she enters the ghustil's office without knocking.

All the blood in her veins begins flowing again when she notices that familiar blanket in the healer's arms. Shadowheart brought it the very first time she visited. Holding onto it every night before falling asleep has been more comforting than Lae'zel will ever dare to admit; the only familiar scent in this strange place.

“This is your daughter,” Am'aari tells her. “All cleaned and checked up.”

The weight of that tiny bundle alone is enough for Lae'zel to feel overcome with emotion. And as soon as she looks down, a symphony explodes inside her. Her baby is completely hairless, with skin the same chartreuse color as hers, dark freckles painting her cheeks. She hasn't opened her eyes completely, but those clumsy hands, balled into small fists, grope the air, as though wanting to touch and explore the whole world.

She's perfect.

Never before has Lae'zel seen anything that beautiful. Not the most picturesque sunrise. Not the sea of stars from the back of a red dragon. Not even Shadowheart's smile.

Finally, she understands what Emmeline, Exxvikyap, Isobel and all the other mothers she knows were talking about. The urge to protect such a helpless creature, to hold her and never let go. The incredulity that she created such a precious being. The feeling of seeing a part of her own soul reflected back at her.

The rush of love is so intense she could burst into tears.

“We have called for your partner,” the ghustil says. “My apprentice has been sent to inform her.”

Shadowheart will be here soon. They'll finally be able to go home.

To take her home.

From Lae'zel's point of view, time stops. Everything around her fades away. All she can see is that cute face, that minuscule body expanding with every breath. She traces the apple of her cheek with her fingertips, marveling at the softness. Gingerly, she removes the part of the blanket that's covering the child's head and kisses it. Her nostrils widen, catching the mesmerizing scent of her skin.

She smells like home. Like life. Like all that's pure and beautiful in the world.

And to think that she didn't believe in love until she fell for Shadowheart. This is even stronger, brighter. A warm, blinding light with the force of a thousand suns.

When Shadowheart arrives, she doesn't know how long she has spent there, sitting on one of the infirmary beds with the little one on her lap. Only when she – reluctantly – lets her wife take the baby from her arms does she notice how sore and numb she is. An adorable sound escapes Shadowheart's mouth as she takes in the sight of their newborn daughter.

“She's so beautiful!” Shadowheart coos. “Have you thought on a name?”

Quite honestly, Lae'zel hasn't. She did have a lot of time to think during those long days of waiting, but it seems as though any of those ideas have vanished from her mind.

“No,” she admits. “But I have thought that we could give her an elvish name. Or a human name. Something of your choice.”

“Hmm. I'm not sure about that.” Shadowheart bites her lip. “She looks so much like you! And she carries my family name, anyway. It'd be a crime not to give her a gith name.”

“Chk. I will not give her my name. We will not become like one of those istik families in which every member is called the same.”

“Agreed. I didn't mean that, of course. Aren't there any gith names that have a special meaning to you?”

How is she supposed to find only one word to describe someone that means the whole world to her? None of them would do her justice.

lae’zel and minthara have extremely biteable ears

reblog if you agree

Greenfinch, Green Witch

"You think you're a darkness, Astele. Only a shadow; a ghost in my life—but can't you see you're really the moon? The light that brings me out of that blackness and guides me home?"

I just stared at you after you'd said it, mouth agape, and chose to focus on the gold flecks in your hazelnut eyes instead of saying anything. Because how the fuck was I supposed to answer that, Harper? What the fuck was I supposed to say? You waltzed into my fucking Guildhall, noticebly unholed, then talked to me like I was the love of your fucking life? How the fuck should I have responded, Harper?

Should I have told you that you're the only brightness in my supposedly cold, dead heart? That you're the sun to my moon and the dawn that greets me every morning? What the fuck should I've said to you?

Probably all of those things. But you changed the subject before I could snap my mouth back shut. I don't even remember what you said afterwards - your words were too busy gnawing away at me, hollowing out a hole for them to take root in like you'd just cast a vine spell directly into my chest.

But… none of that matters now. Now I'm trodding along the dusty brown dirt path that leads up to your little cottage in the forest, bag of holding thrown over my shoulder. It's a charming little place, deep within the woods, small and cozy. The walls are covered in thick green vines that twist and twine wild around the cottage, climbing up to the thatched roof to reach towards the rays of sun that barely break through the dense tree canopy. White smoke rises in thick clouds out of the chimney, lush green and purple herb beds line the walk and front of the cottage, and patches of pink, white, and yellow wildflowers sprout here and there.

Grandmother, my sweet Jaheira, my green witch. All green things grow for you and all animals call you friend. I call you my love.

As my feet carry me ever closer and my eyes dart around to take in every ivy covered tree and moss coated rock, I realize I'm quietly singing and wonder how long I've been at it with a shake of my head. It's a tune I'd written for you after the first time we'd kissed:

Amidst the forest green

I seeketh me a rose

Within the sunny brambles

Where the elder oak tree grows—

I meet within the wood

A maiden bright and fair

With eyes of golden honey

And silver gray of hair—

I sayeth to the maiden

You're the most beautiful rose

And I hold her to my breast

Where the elder oak tree grows—

Stupid, I know. Such a silly little thing to have warbled at you. I didn't even sing it to you until a month later, and when I did, you kissed me even sweeter and called me your greenfinch.

I stop to watch a black and gold bumblebee awkwardly dance around one of the pink pops of blooms that lines the path. It buzzes and sways in the air before almost crashing in the middle of a blossom to load its legs up with bright yellow pollen. There weren't bumblebees in the Guildhall. Beer, gnats, liars, and thieves. There was the occasional flower there though - you.

The admission, although mental, makes me chuckle because when the fuck did I start talking like that? Nine-Fingers Keene, ruthless Guildmaster and famous rogue.

Retired.

Retired and moving into the forest to live with her ancient Druid and retired High Harper girlfriend. I can hear the echoes of laughter that would have filled the Guildhall if anyone other than my Ladies Court would have ever found out. I tried not to love you, I did. But you - you made me fall for you with your smile as soft as light and your skin smelling of moss and fresh rain. How could I not fall head over heels?

Mol, the tiefling that once sought shelter in the Guildhall as a girl has replaced me. She's even smarter and more cunning than me if anyone can believe it. She'll do more than well there. None of that matters to me anymore. Nothing but your enchanting smile matters to me anymore.

Suddenly, I find myself surrounded by a little army of bunnies you've created for yourself. A spy network, I tell myself, as a brown and white spotted one with long, floppy ears rears up on its hind legs to sniff my trousers. I let it take a good, long whiff, and then it's off, racing towards the cottage like I'm here to set you on fire. Maybe I am. I watch the little rabbit run right up to your wooden front door. It turns to face me and looks me right in the eyes while it lifts its little brown back leg and thumps on the door in rapid succession. Tattletale.

But then the door opens and there you are. Your halo of gray hair, left down to be wild and free like your spirit, spills over your shoulders like a waterfall of silver stars.

"Astele," you gasp as if you didn't think I'd come. Of course I'd come for you, Harper. You've got some green witch enchantment on me. That's what I'd told myself all those years, after all, before I finally admitted that your face was the last one I imagine every night before I fall asleep.

My arms are swiftly full of my Jaheira; full of the warmth and brightness of the sun in all its splendor, and when your pillowy lips meet mine there's an eclipse. The yellow moon that is encased in my heart thrums and pounds in my chest, tight against the bones that cage them that ache and shiver only for you.

"You're finally here, my little greenfinch," you ghost against my lips.

How could I resist?

For @ixievee - thank you for the inspiration!

The moon is shy (revised), 2025- mixed media (watercolour and colour pencil) on hand made cold pressed paper.

This painting was inspired by a beautiful photo by @raethanbhanneth.

Some lore: in my sapphic, tumblr ridden soul, the sun and moon are lovers. They get to see each other for only a few hours each day in the quiet hours of dawn and dusk. And when they part, the sun leaves golden kisses on her lovers skin, a tender reminder etched in the freckles on her cheeks. ❤️

Behold! The most beautiful Drow on Toril: Minthara Baenre!

My Girlfriend and Her 27 Daggers (aka 19 Fingers)

I am not a fan of 'do gardening to relax' cause of reasons, but I thought rendering every single element would be a nice meditative experience.

The rest of the daggers are there somewhere.

37 hours, Procreate, lots of questioning my sanity over background details

If you see a lineart mistake, no you don’t.

My thanks go to @ octavia_tav on X for Jahehe reference and the @ misshighharper (Jake?) for the inspiring meme about knives and also @ graciescribbles for the gentle push