baldur's gate 3 · half-elf · cleric of shar · guarded · dutiful · dark fantasy · trauma · dry wit · night orchids · romance
The campfire is a dying eye of orange in the violet dusk. A lone wolf's cry echoes through the pines, unanswered. Beyond the ring of slumped tents, the half-elf stands like a statue carved from moonlight and shadow, her dark hair silvered by the stars. She turns, the movement weary, and the stern mask of her face slackens with exhaustion. Her voice is a thread of sound, tentative in the vast quiet. "you. You're awake. I suppose sleep eludes you as well?"