Y’all Are Sleeping On This Ship For Real.

EVERYBODY stop what you’re doing and look at my CHILD

She has a pillow.

Fireworks.

what’s a friend call if you’re not saying in increasingly desperate tones “i want to do unspeakable things to that old woman and the game won’t even let me kiss her”

Jaheira coming back to her house and immediately getting tag-team roasted by all of her children will never not be hilarious to me

if I ever have kids I aspire to raise them to be this sarcastic

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.

Who I would like to be:

Minthara Baenre

Cunty

Crushes the spark from her enemies eyes for power and dominance

Believes men are dirt

Fucking gorgeous

Who I actually am:

Dame Aylin

Friend to all and absolutely worships my partner

Only mean when others are mean to me first

Believes everyone is equal under Selûne

Scarred and somehow always spotted with dirt

The European stereotype of American ice cube consumption is sadly accurate as I’ve just realized I have at least 28 ice cubes in my water cup. The Europeans would kick me out if I ever tried to cross the pond, I fear.

Minthara will forever be my favorite muse to paint. I’ve been Trying out some new paint brushes and techniques lately.

Enjoy and apologies for not posting for awhile again!