By Greedy Handfuls

Queen's Bauble (A role-reverse AU for forrestertailor}

2026-03-27T16:00:04Z

By all rights, Luka should have taken this position in the tactical tug of war he's currently engaged with. He'd attacked in small hours of the morning, dark enough that his vampire officers could safely drive the human infantry, light enough under the full moon and clear starlight that not too many of those men would break their ankles in the charge or stab each other in the dark. The time his opponent's forces are most likely to be sleeping.

Instead, just as his forces broke into the charge, the sun came up. An impossibility, sure, unless the world had spun violently forward on its axis. But his eyes cannot possibly deceive him: a bright white light breaks above the enemy camp, swelling and gleaming...and turning almost his entire officer class to a fine, lavender-colored ash almost faster than they can scream. It blinds the eyes of the human soldiers and without anyone to lead them, they panic and scatter. Mounts shriek and throw riders and careen away from the battlefield.

It is embarrassingly easy for the opposition's men to hunt down those that remain, confused and frightened.

A further insult to his dignity comes when Luka's position is surrounded. Held at bay, he kills so many with the wild swings of his blade but there's simply enough numbers for crude strategy to prevail: he's occupied facing one way, leaving his broad back wide open. He has only a moment to register the sudden pain and the eruption of an ironwood stake from the front of his uniform for what it is before that damnedable magic that bewitches his dead flesh is forced at last to play by the rules. Torpor takes him and he's hauled back across the lines of opposition like an enormous slab of disanimate meat.

When he wakes, he's certainly trussed up like a side of beef, with a leaking, aching hole in his chest where the stake had been, pulled out for the express purpose of waking him. Whoever brought him here would have him alive to rub his defeat in his face. His neck itches where something chafes at it. How long will he struggle before he realizes it's robbed him of much of his inhuman strength?

The man before him is of similar stature: an absolutely massive man in both height and the width of his powerful shoulders. But this man is entirely human, if an unusually large one, with an enormous mane of brindle-colored hair, grizzled and streaked with gray, blending with his long, partially-braided beard. He's wearing a leather uniform trimmed with large quantities of wolf fur and his hands are stained with blood. Not a man who leads from the back, clearly. He sits in a smokey war-tent, not so much on a throne as a prominently placed chair, only slightly elevated on a wooden dais as much to give him a vantage for speaking as to indicate his rank. His honey-colored eyes have no warmth at all despite the color, like the eyes of a hungry wolf.

Beside him in a chair draped with more black wolf-fur sits a woman built like a tiny silver knife, dressed from neck to ankle in black, ermine fur-trimmed wool, the voluminous skirt and an equally voluminous horned hennin to cover her hair giving her little white face the look of the moon at midnight. Her face is drawn, the circles under her eyes green-gray and she seems slumped in the chair, only a little more animate than Luka himself.

"Ah, the dead man wakes. I confess, I did not think that would work." The big man says, when the soldier presents him with the bloody stake. "Magic is strange and suspect to me, but it does have its uses. I have also been told you are no more dangerous than a tame draft horse in this moment. Still, I'll hang onto this, just in case." He clasps the stake and shows it to Luka, waggling it a little with an ugly smile.

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[DRAFT] BG3 Character Sheet

2023-11-10T18:20:15Z

Eligre, The Lady Crow

pronouns

She/Her

Origin
High elf with green dragon ancestry

Class

Sorceress
Green Dragon Ancestry
Her great-grandfather was a green dragon, her great-grandmother a treasure hunter
Warlock
Pact of the Fiend
Pact-holder: Abraxas, The Unfathomable

!!item!!

!!answer!!

Romances

Started the game romancing Astarion but he left her after his Ascension when she refused an eternity of subjugation as his spawn.
Heart-broken and outraged, her hands soaked in the blood of 7000 souls, she ran straight into the arms of Minthara.

STR

DEX

CON

INT

WIS

CHA

!!your content here, four or five lines of text max!!

positive

Cunning, ambitious, tenacious

neutral

Pragmatic, intelligent

negative

Greed, hubris, vengeful

height5 ft

build!!answer!!

hairBlack, falls to below mid-thigh. Usually braided up out of the way.

eyesGreen

background;

Eligre had been enjoying a period of relative peace and luxury, living in her well-appointed apartments in Baldur's Gate, living off the takings from some particularly lucrative treasure-hunting engagements. Reading forbidden books and tinkering in her sorceress' laboratory during the day and indulging in all the pleasures of the city by night.

What a time to get snatched up by fucking mindflayers and have a worm shoved in her brain.

Act 1

!!your content here!!

Act 2

Despite being tempted by an extremely handsome tadpoled Flaming Fist named Marcus, who interceded to protect her from Jaheira, Eligre didn't assist him in kidnapping Isobel. Instead, she ratted him out to Jaheira and left for Moonrise. A pretty face won't get you everywhere with her, especially when you're weirdly vague about including her in your plan.

She rescued Minthara and was immediately struck by the way the drow soldier's crisis of faith seems to have transferred her devotion from her own gods to Eligre. What could this portend for the two of them?

She agreed to go and aid Balthazar in his search for then Nightsong but killed him immediately upon meeting him in order to learn more about the Nightsong on her own.

Upon finding the Nightsong, she stepped in to stop Shadowheart. Having no use for the arbitrary morality of the gods, she would much rather have a powerful ally like Dame Aylin and the survivors at the Last Light Inn over whatever Shadowheart perceives herself as gaining from pleasing Shar.

For some reason, Astarion thought knee-deep in the meat dungeon was an appropriate time to pour out his cold dead heart. Eligre is aghast that their relationship was intended to be transactional and his vicious, sensual personality merely a front. She agrees to stay with him to "give him time", mistakenly believing he'll "come back around" to his "old self", unwilling to let go of the commonalities between them (not understanding that it was merely him reflecting what she wanted to see). She struggles with the loss of intimacy, perhaps encouraging his feeding on her a little too much in substitute (that Bloodloss debuff just becomes permanent).

Killing Kethric and the avatar of Myrkul was extremely fun for a woman who has "kill at least one god" on her bucket list.

Act 3

I suppose the defining choice of Act 3 thus far for Eligre has been the Ascendance of her lover, Astarion and their subsequent breakup.

Her rebound has been to throw herself straight at Minthara, perhaps to drown her sorrows in Minthara's simple devotion to her, believing her to be a lover who would never discard her.

Killed Lorroakan to protect Dame Aylin. While her alliance with Aylin is almost certainly a tenuous one, she'd choose the daughter of a goddess over a wizard any day.

Disabled the Steel Watch, killed Gortash despite the uneasy alliance suggested by Minthara. Eligre wanted Laz'ael back more than she wanted his promises of aid. She needs her bruisers, dammit.

Killed Orin, rescued Laz'ael.

Uneasy alliance with Gortash, who now waits for her below the city.

She is currently wildly disinterested in/suspicious of The Dream Visitor and has zero intentions of destroying her beauty for his benefit, no matter how much he tells her that last tadpole will "help". She plans to free Orpheus almost entirely to piss him off...but will also likely turn him into a mindflayer.

{{Currently wrapping up all side quests before moving on to destroy the brain.}}

Wilde(r)/Nightingale. CST . DMs are open

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Profile, Permissions and Perversions

2021-03-15T20:03:54Z

PROFILE:

Name: Eligre Kaivodulin, the Lady Crow
--> Her surname and her title are both self-styled because what war-mage wouldn't want to be called "The Corpse-Bird" ("kaivodulin" can be "crow" or any other carrion eater that follows the battlefields). She has a brand and she leans into it.
Canon:
Origin: Elf
--> with a tiny bit of green dragon mixed in a few generations back. This gives her innate magic, influences her appearance and has been blamed for her disposition
Age: 50+
--> I usually play Eligre at 50 human years or so. D&D elves experience significant slowdown of physical aging when they reach maturity, so she'll look like she's in her 30's for a while yet.
Gender: Cisgender lady

Appearance: She has a somewhat odd face, with very green eyes that are just a little too big and just a degree or two too far apart, emphasizing the draconic parts of her nature when paired with the faint pattern of mica-fine scales that scatter here and there across her skin. She's a standard she-elf otherwise: quite short at only a hair over 5ft, and very slight of figure. Her pale skin shows the marks of her reckless life in all manner of scars, including visible stretch marks on her breasts, hips, stomach and thighs from an unplanned pregnancy she kept trying to steal someone's crown.
When times are good, she dresses in velvet and black wolf fur and silk, favoring plunging necklines, tight bodices and full skirts. But she's not above tucking these things away and putting on her lightweight armor for the battlefield, or donning her well-mended adventurer's attire from years ago.

Personality: Eligre is ambitious, tenacious and unbothered by morals. If something unpleasant needs doing, she can do it without batting an eyelid. Avaricious in both a hedonistic and materialistic sense, her world revolves around power, pleasure, coin and finery. Her downfall is her own pride: she gets herself into bad situations trying to one-up everyone else and she never learns her lesson. In an adventuring party, she tries to keep herself in check for the sake of the job, so she knows how to present herself pleasantly. She has to: being physically small and brittle, she relies on obtaining the favor and goodwill of a well-equipped bruiser to keep herself alive.

Class: Sorceress x Warlock ("war-mage") [D&D Beyond Sheet]
Pact: The Fiend (Abraxas, The Unfathomable)
Occupation: Mercenary

Related Characters: bastard_crow || Her half-elf son by a previous employer, raised to be an instrument of his mother's petty vengeance.
Trivia: Eligre was my very first D&D character 15+ years ago, when I was a daft and ~edgy~ teen. I don't think that first draft of that character would appreciate that I've tried to make her "edginess" more of a joke or a consequence of over the top "branding" as a mercenary. Poor dear, she could be a tropey, overpowered, queen of darkness type but I keep viciously hamstringing her with her own bad decision-making (because, let's face it, that's what happens with her personality type) and relentless hubris.

PERMISSIONS

Backtagging: ABSOLUTELY.

--> I have responded to tags that came in a full year after my last reply. I’ve got a 9-5 job + misc freelance writing + AFK hobbies plus an occasionally debilitating mood disorder. Sometimes time and will and inspiration escape us! Come back later, I’ll wait for you. Or don’t! That’s also fine, shit happens. Judgement free-zone. The only reason I might not reply is that I had utterly lost the voice of the character in question.

Threadjacking: No thank you
Fourthwalling: No thank you

Romance: She's not especially inclined, she fell in love exactly once and vowed to never do so again.. Arrangements that will give her access to things she wants are more likely.

Sex: Let's chat about it first but she loves sex so she'll probably go for it. Limits and such are under the "Perversions" cut below.
Violence: She's absolutely down to fight, though she tries to keep her physical distance. She's also very likely to get herself into situations where she might be overpowered and roughed up, possibly interrogated. She'll put up a hell of a fight though. Let's negotiate! Sexual violence is almost certainly a no (see kink list).
Torture: Ask first, I've got some hard limits that
Killing this character: If we happened to gin up a storyline where this made sense/wanted to reset the ‘verse like this, we can talk about it. TBH I wouldn't be shocked if she got herself into a situation so bad she couldn't get out of it.
Magic use, up to and including torture: Let’s chat about it, the answer is probably yes unless the reasoning really skeeves me out. It’s okay to use mind-reading with Eligre but just let me know your character can do it. In a similar vein, let’s negotiate for any mind control scenarios. In both cases, she’ll fight it with her own power and we’ll see if it works or not (I usually do a dice roll).

( Perversions (kink permissions etc) )

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[Fiction] Hubris

2020-01-11T00:13:39Z

{tw: intimate partner violence}

Wine-red drops of blood on blinding white snow. Tatters of black wool and silk like the scattered feathers of a wounded bird. Pieces of the sorceress left behind as she stumbled and crawled through the knee-deep snow. The icy wind raked claws across her back, bare where her fine garments had been torn apart by the unrestrained violence with which she had been flogged, tearing fabric and flesh alike to bloody ribbons.

She was struggling across a sea of white, knowing that somewhere-- probably a mile yet, maybe more-- there was a road, but not knowing if she would live to get there, or what she would do if she did.

She was followed by a massive gray warhorse ridden by an equally massive man looking down at her with an expression of disgust. A many-tailed whip was in his hand, dripping more of the sorcerer's blood into the snow. For now he moved at an unhurried but steady pace, intent and inexorable. She understood that he knew there was no need to chase her: she could barely move on her own, never mind run, never mind gain any distance at all that would allow her the quarter to attack, or even so much as defend herself.

"How could you do this to me, you wretched beast?!" Eligre shrieked, voice hoarse with crying. "You coward--! To choose your wife over me, the woman who carries your heir."

He lunged his warhorse at her, bloody snow churning as she scrambled away on hands and knees to avoid the great lethal hooves. He glared down his high-bridged nose at her.

"You're lucky I'm letting you go, witch." Wulfsige said, breath making heavy clouds in the air. "I could have stripped you naked like the whore you are, strung you up and slit you open for all my men to see." His wolf-yellow eyes show no emotion. "Show your face around camp again and make no mistake-- I will do so without hesitation. And when I've spilled your insides in the mud, then we will see if what you say is true. If it is true, then that half-breed will die with you, and I will deny any claim to it or to you."

Eligre cowered in the snow, curled around her belly, clutching the remains of her cloak as if it could protect her from the chill of the wind or the coldness of his eyes. Her blood boiled with helpless rage, but pain and cold seem to dull whatever impulsive surge of magic she felt: she would have to save her strength for the long walk to the road and whatever lay beyond it. The life she would have to rebuild. The child she would have to...deal with, somehow.

"Count yourself lucky that I will leave you alive, you and that bastard which you claim to carry." He leaned down low in the saddle, smiling his lupine smile. "Say 'thank you', witch."

She felt bile rise in her throat. For a moment, she imagined turning the bile to poison, mustering her draconic birthright and spitting in his face. He would be dead before he hit the ground, but his personal guard-- standing now some yards off, watching their lord hunt her through the snow with perverse amusement-- would catch her and tear her apart before she could steal his horse and fly.

She ground her back teeth together and saved her magic.

Her silence angered him and he hit her in the face with the whip, narrowly missing her eyes and leaving a welt on her cheek, sending her onto her back in the snow, the blood freezing on her bare and welted skin. She curled into a ball, certain he would lunge the horse at her again, to crush her beneath the hooves the size of dinner plates.

"Get up, you stupid slut--!" He roared and-- with hot tears of shame burning on her face-- she got to her feet and stood shivering in the snow. He flicked the handle of the whip up under her chin, forcing her onto her toes, for she was so much shorter than his mount.

"Say thank y--"

"Thank you." She whimpered.

"My Lord."

"W-what?"

He hit her again but would not let her fall.

"Say 'thank you for my wretched life, my Lord.'"

The rising bile feeling again, mingling with the copper taste at the back of her throat from a nosebleed. Perhaps he had broken it this time.

"Thank you for my wretched life, my Lord." She said, and she felt very wretched indeed, been chastised like a slave, made to plead not to be killed and thrown away. It occurred to her only later that he had only ever seen her as such: a concubine who only happened to be very good at killing handfuls of his enemies with her mind.

"There." Wulfsige sat up again, his yellow eyes looking across the expanse of snow before them. "Now you may go. Must go. If any of my men catch sight or sign of you by the next dawn, I will hunt you down myself." He pointed across the white and empty drifts.

She realized she was afraid to turn her back on him. Afraid he was going to attack her again, just for his own sick amusement. Tormenting her to regain the upper hand.

Had she even had the upper-hand for him to take it back? She wondered if she had been wrong about that, as she had been wrong about so much.

She moved away from him in a humiliating sideways limp, trying to watch him and his small pack of staring, glaring men and retreat at the same time. Unable to watch her footing, unable to keep track of her uneven, ragged garments, she tripped and went over backwards in the snow. They laughed, the sound harsh and grating in the snow-silence, but did not pounce on her as wolves do, seeing their prey stumble. Just stood there, watching her struggle in the snow, the way she fearfully braced herself trying to rise, protecting the child she wasn't even sure she wanted, the child which had taken from her all the power she had possessed, the child conceived in her own immense and all-consuming arrogance.

They were laughing still when she turned on her heel and ran for her life.

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