I've been chewing on this Astarion/Player Character relationship dynamic that exists in my head a li

Note: I named my player character 'Uggie' at character creation and we all just have to live with that.

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Uggie relented eventually, as Astarion had known she must.

She was the kind of person who could be easily persuaded as to the advantages of sitting perfectly still under a tree and focusing on '''inner balance''' for seven hours without even a break to piss, but who could not be tempted out to a party for love or money.

While Astarion liked to think of himself as a manipulator of the highest order, he also knew that he had exactly one, totally foolproof, silver-bullet fallback tactic, and he used it now to convince his dear... darling... much beloved... something-or-other to come out with him.

He took his clothes off and just kind of assumed that all Uggie's grey matter would leak out her ears and he'd be able to persuade her to do anything he wanted while he was getting dressed again.

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More of Astarion and Uggie, I'm afraid. This time they're at a party.

I was thinking about how I want Astarion to retire to a lifestyle of looking pretty and leading people on before gleefully turning them down.

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Astarion smiled. Like a knife.

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On Banishing Merlin

The day Arthur finds out about the magic is the day Merlin is banished.

A lot of stuff actually happens between those two events, but it's less significant to Merlin. Arthur gets saved from the glare of a gorgon and they cleverly turn her to stone, for one. There's also a lot of yelling—a lot of yelling—about the floating mirror that Merlin employs to help with this.

Probably the worst thing Arthur says is, "I thought, if you were a rubbish servant, at least you were loyal!"

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I wrote a little about how my Ghost feels about coming to Hallownest :)

For an endless moment, everything is dark and silent and still.

Then: light, golden like sunshine through honey. It breaks through in a slow drip, and then a drizzle, and then a cascade. Light, like drowning in sweetness.

There's a towering, horned silhouette, floating. The deafening clink of a chain.

And then screaming.

Somewhere far away from the source of that distant cry, a nameless little knight looks up. They turn their own horned head like a weathervane following the breeze. That way.

They can't feel it on the air, the way a bug should. No vibrations. No scents. It's not like talking. But beneath their grey cloak and worn carapace, the inky stain of their body responds. The stuff that makes them is curiously tuned, sensitive to that single note of torment.

It's not really like making a decision. They just get up, lift their worn nail, and begin walking back across the wastes, one small step at a time.

...They'll know what they're looking for, when they find it.

Probably. Possibly. Eventually.

Hopefully.

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