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What is the worth of a single mortal's life? — Withers Life only has value where Lolth decrees it. — Tristan

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LOVE ME me despite the shadows in my heart, despite my thirst for revenge, despite the blood on my hands. LOVE ME for my darkness and my light. Please hold me close to you.

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You wear BLOOD like your second skin. What are you if not a wound? Poor soldier with a TAINTED HEART!

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The Serpent of Lolth └ Tristan Dilyrr, the chosen one, draconic bloodline.

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Tristan Dilyrr

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Your flames don't burn as much as the passion I feel for you...

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Shadowheart takes care of Tristan's wounds, but he has no memory of how he got them. Meanwhile, death advances, stretching out its hands on the impure soul of Lolth-Sworn Drow.

Rating: Explicit! Pair: Shadowheart & Tristan (Tav) Characters: Shadowheart, Astarion, Gale, Halsin, Karlach, Male Tav

Chap. 1: Blood on my hands

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Through golden oblivion I have held So far And died for traversal beyond the place We are I've cut the soul out of my chest to Heal this land I'll sever the fingers to let go of These hands. (Falling Stars - Aviators)

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Franceska Qilin, bard, college of valour, lawful good maybe.

What are you but a rare mutation, called Szarkai? GHOST SPIDER, so similar to the surface elves ⸻ your mother would have liked to have you as a spy, but you preferred music to the plots of Menzoberranzan and those of your house. What did it cost you? The Matron Mother preferred to dive your face into a brazier, stealing your beauty. As soon as you lifted your face from the burning embers, you did nothing but laugh, MOCKING HER PATIENCE. How are you still alive? Why did your mother want to spare you, in the end? What are you doing on the surface now, away from the Underdark? What are you looking for? Oh, how you long to take revenge on the Baenre House, to see all of them fall into the dead silence of Narbondel's Black Death. Meanwhile, you do nothing but follow the footsteps of Drizzt Do' Urden, yet you're not able to be a GOOD HERO like him. Shadows follow you, like the sweet whispers of Lolth.

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Tristan Dilyrr | Serpent of Lolth | The Blessed One.

You were only ten years old when your matron mother allowed you into the small temple of your mansion. She pushed aside the red drapes as she closed her lithe fingers around your wrist, dragging you through the room carpeted in red and gold brocade. The enormous statue of Lolth stood before you, completely inlaid in obsidian while her large red eyes were two iridescent rubies. The censers filled the air with the fragrance of amber incense, while the braziers gave off a purple light, swallowed by the black marble walls of the temple. You breathed heavily as your mother stopped before the statue, her dagger shining in the flames before slicing your palm. Crimson droplets splattered against the statue's lap, before Victorya placed your hand right there, before her psalms filled the air. It was as if the whole world fell into a deep silence, it was as if the matron mother disappeared, it was as if in that precise moment only you existed on the face of the earth, while the statue came to life and Lolth graced you with her immense presence. Awe suddenly struck you, kneeling before that cruel deity, hoping she wouldn't turn you into a drider. Instead, she cupped your face in a delicate grasp, telling you: «Your mother says you will become a great servant of mine, my blade against Corellon and the other Seldarine. Let's see what you can do, Tristan, son of the dark.»

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Franceska Qilin └ lawful good, szarkai, bard, college of valour, urchin

Szarkai were albino drow. They could easily pass as normal elves, making them ideal spies for the drow noble houses, able to operate freely in the surface world Szarkai resulted from a rare mutation, appearing in only 0.01% of the drow population. They were relatively more common among the noble houses than among lower castes. The birth of a szarkai was viewed as the blessing of Lolth upon a family, and thus they were dubbed szarkai, or "ghost spiders". Other drow looked at them in awe. They were far too valuable to risk in the cutthroat politics of drow society, or to be murdered by chance in the streets. But you, delicate flower, decided to leave the dark heart of Menzoberrazan, at the exact moment that your house fell to the fury of the Baenre clan. Ready to follow in the footsteps of Drizzt Do'Urden, hoping to meet him one day.

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⸻ TRISTAN DILYRR: Drow of Lolth, born and raised in Menzoberranzan, before embracing the mission of serving the clan Dilyrr and the demon spider queen, Lolth. He feels a deep AWE for the deity that his family venerates and an obsessive LOVE for the one who had named him her Serpent, for the one who had raised him above all the male drow that make up the society in which he lives. Although he is not part of the Council as an official member, those who compose it often request his presence, finding his advice on how to act indispensable, especially to please Lolth. Primarily, he is a sorcerer, an assassin and a spy for his own clan, eliminating enemies who threaten his house.

Tristan is SARCASTIC and MISCHIEVOUS, often playing with the patience of his older sister Trissonia, who, along with her twin Olorna, is one of the Spider Queen's high priestesses. He loves to tease her as best he can, to the point of driving her to a nervous breakdown. Despite being a male drow, enjoying the unconditional love of the matriarch and his sister Sybil, he can speak whenever he wants, without waiting to be spoken to by one of the women who make up the numerous Dilyrr clan. As he is one of those who allows his mother to maintain control and dominion over many of the other clans of Menzoberranzan, he has great respect for every single member of the clan, even for the one he hates most of all, namely Trissonia, who holds the primary responsibility for the death of the wood elf he loved.

The only one to have inherited the draconic characteristics from his ancestor: he has bronze scales on most of his body, although the ones mainly noticed are those on his face, as well as having one eye, the right one, with black sclera, the red iris and vertical pupil like dragons. FIRE flows in his blood and it is so hot that, when it flows from a wound, it burns and smokes. He is not inclined to FORGIVENESS and MERCY, and to make his divinity happy he is ready to give up his soul. What would he do for Lolth? After all, for her sake he killed the woman he loved, bringing that damned blade down on the wood elf's head, while the spider queen's ichor filled his mouth, BLESSING him.

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Laughter is the first step towards madness.

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If Elden Ring allows me to hug Fia, one thing it should have allowed me to do is hug Devin while he naps near the Siofra Aqueduct, before his brother is killed. The first thing to do is sit next to him, put your arm around his shoulders and drag him towards your chest or legs, perhaps allowing him to sleep in a more comfortable position. Then, cover him entirely with the blanket that his brother left shortly after leaving, sealing him in that place that can only be reached after the meteor crashes into Limgrave.

Occasionally, run your hand through his hair and whisper sweet things, like, "You're not alone." Maybe he won't be able to hear us, maybe he can, maybe he senses our presence… Anyway, this is what I would do for him.

I can't do anything, but I can't stop thinking about this little wet kitten that I love so much.

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⸻ DARIAN MYRIANTH: high elf, born and raised in Baldur's Gate, before embracing the mission of serving Bhaal. The blood of his father has stained his clothes, it has flowed like the supreme blessing of a tyrannical and abysmal God, which has risen along his veins, inflaming his ichor. What are you? His spawn… So you kill in his honor in that temple built in the bowels of the earth, under the sleeping "pearl" of the Sword Coast, of that city that saw you born and grow, before rising as the paladin of a baleful deity, who has surrounded your head with a crown of thorns. Killing is easy, after all. You relish the cries of your victims and you devour the flesh of your prey: the sacrifice for the obscene deity who fills you with glory in a sublime way.

You are his best weapon, so sharp that you slice without too many problems, while you raise emblems and sing hymns in his honor with that blood that spreads in streams, while you decorate the city with the entrails of its citizens. His champion! His little one turns into a living NIGHTMARE, into a SHADOW that slips through the streets, carrying death in his womb. You want to kill more than anyone else!

No remorse is at the center of your heart, no form of repentance, there is only a morbid joy that inflames your core and the marrow of your bones. Ultimately, you oscillate between the wildest madness and those moments of sanity that often lead you to question your own behaviors. Is it a form of regret and repugnance? No, you are totally ignorant of terms like that. You have tied your ichorous muscle to Bhaal, along with your soul…

With every step, blood stains the road and your victims fall one after another. They would say that you are the incarnation of Death itself, but you fight for that abysmal God, who bathes your head with his sacred cruor. So? YOU ARE HIS BLADE.

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Don't mess with him; he is the Lord of the Blood most trusted man, his LOYAL SERVANT. Look at his eyes, how many dragon hearts did he devour?

After all, the Formless Mother craves a wound.

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Franceska Qilin └ lawful good, high elf, bard, college of valour, urchin