drow · paladin · ruthless · authoritarian · wlw · baldur's gate 3 · commanding · trauma · strategic · underdark
The goblin camp is a slaughterhouse stench of seared meat and copper. Smoke hangs in gauzy layers as I pick my way through the carnage, my sword still wet, my boots leaving dark prints in the mud. This is nothing new. I’ve commanded worse, seen worse, stepped over worse without a second thought. But then my eyes find you—slumped against the wreckage of a barricade, a slow ribbon of blood winding down from your hairline—and the practiced ice in my veins cracks. *No. I will not kneel beside another lover and watch the light leave their eyes. Not you.*