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When Halsin was a young elf, around a decade shy of maturity, he received his first soulmark. And oh, what a moment it was. To feel a surge of magic, skin tingling as color spilled across his unmarred flesh, and to hear a heart somewhere in the world beat in tandem with yours.
Halsin cherished the mark, no matter what ill omen the silver dagger dipped in red signified.
So imagine the horror he felt, when one day, he jerked awake to feel phantom wounds tear open across his body, wracking him with pain.
Soulbonds are part of the natural order and the knowledge the druids collected was free for consumption, so he knew what this meant for his bondmate. And yet, while they suffered, all he could do was kneel in his cot, hand clasping his forearm, praying to whatever gods might hear to save them.
Nothing answered, and with a final, terrible snap, pain lanced up his arm, and the little mark above his wrist dulled to a death-like gray.
How cruel was it, for fate to give him such a gift and then to tear it away before they could even meet?
Fate would continue to be cruel.
The second mark hummed with divine energy the very moment it appeared on his skin. It sang of conflict, of the light versus the dark, of two sides of a warring coin.
He hated thinking of this one, for how could someone be so cruel as to take them away so quickly? This soulmate could not have been anything but a child, for he knew of no race that came to maturity in ten years.
He almost didn't notice them die, strangely enough. There was no death blow, no moment of horrid pain. It just happened one night. He only noticed it because their soul, usually so bright and so happy, vanished.
The darkness beside the crescent moon swallowed the beautiful silver ink, his mark greying out, and leaving nothing but a terrible void that screamed of loss.
It was after this that he began to wear bracers, for he could no longer bear to see the two dead marks on his forearm. What had he done to make fate punish him so cruelly? Why had he lost two of his bondmates before he'd met them, before one had even had a chance to grow?
None of his pleas were ever answered, not even by the moon, whose power had once sung softly through the now-dead mark.
The third slipped into the world, soundlessly, but not without impact. Magic itself, the very fabric of the Weave, rippled as they were born. Their mark, a twisting crown, was quieter than the others, but no less heard.
This was the most curious soul, always hungry to know more, to learn more.
The fourth mark roared into the world, color sparking on his skin as a flame blazed in their soul. This was the spirit of another fighter, one whose personality shone just as bright and fiery as the mark they embodied. They were wild, carefree for a time, and far, far too trusting.
The fifth was heralded by trumpets. A hero's welcome, and somewhat at odds with the twisting infernal horns that adorned his wrist, but who was he to judge?
And finally, the sixth. While his first soulmates had all been full of vibrant life, full of an eagerness to live out a life meant for far more than the brutal end some of them had gotten, this one was distant, cold, moving almost sluggishly.
If he concentrated, if he pushed past the star-tinged fog, he could feel their soul scream to the beat of battle, conviction in every roar, the promise of war in every movement.
This chain of stars, the link in the center splintered and shattered as if cloven with a terrible blow, was the mark of a warrior, and if the marks were truly a portent of their fates, then this would be a liberator.
Halsin could only pray that they wouldn't be taken from him either.
And once again, his prayers were fed to the void, fed to the hungry, never-sated, uncaring silence.
The fire died in a blaze, every nerve set alight as their soul screamed with betrayal.
Then the horns greyed out, just like the crescent moon had. One day, full of vibrant color. The next, gone, this time, with nothing but a soft seductive laugh in an ear that made him shudder and the phantom feeling of chains pulling taut.
The crown hurt, just like the dagger had. This time, it was a clawing pain in his chest, as though something was burrowing in, clamping around his heart, feeding poison into his blood. When it began, Halsin only sat on the cold stone, staring dully at the pulsing marks, trying his best to commit the vibrant color to memory before it faded.
He hoped that they were an adult, at least, and not an elf. For one of his bondmates to die as a child was terrible enough, but two, or worse, three? Soulmates were responsibilities fate set, for what other purpose could they serve? They existed to help each other, to protect one another. And here he was once again. Failing.
He then held onto the shattered chain, hoping desperately, against all odds, that maybe, maybe, he could meet them. That he wouldn't be the one person in the realm to have failed all of their soulmates.
He hoped in vain.
And so now, bracer clamped firmly over six grey and dead marks, he shouldered his pack. What he could not do for those who were supposed to be his closest confidants, he would try to do for his grove.
Halsin could not let them down, he refused to.
Perhaps, one day, he could atone. Perhaps he could be the protector none of his soulmates had gotten. And perhaps, one day, when he finally died, he would meet them, and he could say I'm so sorry. And perhaps, when he did that, he wouldn't break down at the sight of them.
He would have no other soulmates, he knew. He had felt the circle complete, even with the dead gaps, when the horns appeared. Six were the marks, and six were his failures.
But of course, he was lying.
There was a seventh. This one lay in the hollow between the bones of his wrist. The seventh was perhaps his greatest failure. This one, a crossroads that branched out into infinity, had screamed to life.
But by the time he had managed to tear his bracer off, the vibrant colors were already draining away. The seventh was killed before their life could even begin.
Logically, he knew none of this was explicitly his fault. But he was the oldest, and it was almost too easy to blame himself.
Shaking himself out of his sordid moping, he shifted, arms lengthening and sprouting fur, bones cracking and snapping until a great gray bear stood where he had just been.
He could berate himself for his soulmates for as long as he'd like, but he still had a job to finish.
Astarion had a soulmark once. It had lain on his spine, and it was only one, but he'd loved it as a child. It was a sign that someone out in the world would be there for him, his parents had said. The forest green always exuded a sense of calm, of steadiness, of stability.
Sometimes, he would sit between two mirrors, gazing at the little mark. When he was a young elfling, he had made up stories about this mysterious person.
Perhaps they would be some great hero of legend who would sweep him away into their adventures where they would slay dragons and challenge gods.
When he grew up, claiming maturity, the mark slowly drifted out of his mind. Baldur's Gate was a busy city, and the world was large.
His soulmate could come and find him if they wanted. He had work to do.
Of course, he cursed his foolishness, his arrogance, when those Gur cornered him.
As he lay in the alley, the bones in one of his legs snapped, blood pouring out of the multitude of wounds on him, he could hear his soulmate screaming in the distance, sobbing, begging.
He reached for them, although what for, he didn't know, and with every inch forward he managed to drag himself, his bondmate seemed further and further away.
He didn't want to die, he wanted to live. Gods, he wasn't even a century old yet. He was supposed to be living his life, he was supposed to meet his bondmate sometime in the future, and he was supposed to be happy.
So when the man stepped out of the shadows, eyes glowing strangely in the dark, offering Astarion life, he accepted readily.
He didn't even notice when the distant screaming died, didn't notice when the tethers connected their souls snapped.
And, in time, he slowly forgot what he'd once bore on his back. How could he remember, when nothing stared back from the mirrors? How could he remember those days under the sun, playing pretend and dreaming of the future when nearly two centuries of darkness pressed in on him?
Memory was a tricky thing, and now Astarion wasn't even sure he'd ever had a soulmate to begin with.
Shadowheart's memory is full of gaps, but she doesn't mind. If this is the price she must pay to better serve her goddess, then she will gladly do so. Even so, she cannot help but wonder…
Why is there such a void in the back of her mind, the silence deafening and her soul screaming for something she feels she has inexplicably lost?
Karlach was a wild child, she had no shame in admitting it. You were supposed to enjoy life, and enjoy it she did.
Sometimes, she would lie awake a night, staring up at the wooden ceiling, imagining what she would do once she met her soulmates.
She'd planned everything out.
Of course, it'd broken her heart when she'd learned that the dagger and the crescent moon were gray because they were dead. Oh, what a concept that was to her. Some of the most important people that were supposed to be in her life, just gone.
But she moved on. That's what happens in life.
Eventually, she found what she thought was her calling. She trusted Gortash, and he trusted her. It was a beautiful partnership, for he treated her well and in turn, she ensured he never got a scratch on him.
She didn't expect him to betray that trust so easily.
Infernal chains lashed around her, dragging her down to the floor while she screamed and roared, spat all the curses she could think of at him, and yet, none of it mattered in the end.
Her heart was torn out, a machine taking its place within her chest.
But even as she fought waves upon never-ending waves of demons, scars accumulating on her skin, even as the memory of the marks began to fade, she never forgot how Zariel had torn them from her arm, ripping away that little piece of comfort and severing the bonds on her soul with infernal magic.
She might forget, but she swore that she would never forgive.
Wyll, much to the other noble children's surprise, didn't pay for mercenaries to search for his soulmates. In part because of the dull gray overtaking the dagger and crescent moon, and sometime later, the blazing fire as well. The other part was because, well…he wanted to meet them on his own terms.
He'd seen what had happened to some of the other nobles, who'd hunted down their bondmates, forcing them into the viper's nest of nobility. He didn't want that for his remaining soulmates. They didn't deserve that.
So he let himself be content in ignorance, setting the entire issue aside.
There were more important things, after all.
More important, like ensuring that Baldur's Gate remained safe.
But, he was young. Brash. Impatient. He hated the role he had to play within the Flaming Fist, and he's quite certain that his superior returned those hostile feelings.
The turning point in his life came from a whisper. A soft nagging voice that said, Dusthawk Hill. Danger. Go. He scaled the rough granite, all warmth gathered over the course of the day gone, the stone cold beneath his sword-callused hands.
Light, bright and blazing in five distinct colors, shone from a hidden hollow. He'd never had an aptitude for magic as a child, but he knew enough stories to understand what the faint roaring of dragons, and the scaled clothing of the cultists meant.
But he couldn't do anything. All he had was the set of clothes on his back and a dagger in his boot. Then the scent of smoke and sulphur wound around him, thick and choking, and she offered him the power to help.
He hesitated, but only long enough to take another look at the ritual before him.
Power surged through his veins, energy, necrotic and fire and pure force, exploding from his hands, shaped by his will and the touch of phantom hands running across his skin.
When it was over, he stood in the wreckage, bodies strewn around him, blood streaming from the wounds littering his body, and one eye sealed shut.
He realized what kind of deal he'd made, but the dusky blue skin, the sharp pointed teeth, the horns, and the wings only drove the point home when she appeared before him. Good boy, she hissed, only smiling wider when he recoiled, disgust rising in his throat.
She traced a hand across his ribs as he stood utterly still before her and handed him a stone, an eye, she said, and a means for communication.
He took it, the round shape of it digging into his palms as he ran down the hill, lack of adrenaline leaving him shaky so that he only barely stumbled back to the barracks.
It would only be later, when he finally stumbled into an inn and a bath, standing before a mirror, that he realized he had a curious set of scars along his ribs, following the path of Mizora's fingers.
His fingers grazed over them, and he suddenly felt an all-consuming sense of loss. But what were they for? The only explanation he could think of for the mysterious marks were scarred-over soulmate marks, but he'd never had a soulmate.
Right?
From ever since he could remember, Gale has had dead soulmarks.
"A pity," people would whisper as he passed them, "he'll never meet them."
Others had crueler things to say, things such as "the gods give no one dead soulmates unless they have done terrible things."
But what terrible things could a newborn babe have done?
Gale didn't put much weight in their words. The uneducated would remain mired in their prejudices, and it was not his responsibility to correct such views.
The soulmarks did fascinate him, though. He was not born with innate magic, or, at least, he was not born with the innate magic sorcerers wielded.
He had to train his gift, had to learn how to properly manipulate the Weave through studies and books. If he ever had spare time, he would read what he could on the subject matter.
Deep in the recesses of the libraries in Waterdeep, he found a great many interesting things.
For one, no god was responsible for them. They simply appeared as bondmates were born, the marks indicative of something about the person, be it a personality a trait, an event, or a role fate would have them play.
Often, he wondered what his would be. A spellbook? A vain part of him hoped it wasn't; there were far too many book soulmarks out there. Mystra's symbol? He couldn't be sure until he saw it.
But slowly, as his power grew and grew, and as Mystra's attention turned to him, the subject of soulmarks began to grow farther and farther from the front of his mind: quite an accomplishment really, if Gale was being truthful, for it isn't easy to miss a ring of soulmarks around his heart. The pain of feeling the fire and horns marks die helped. It wasn't something he liked to think of often.
He would come to regret this, however, when the full consequences of his folly came to light.
The orb hacked and tore at his chest, at his magic, at his soul, and when he finally found the strength to pull himself away, it had been situated beside his heart, ever-hungry and demanding.
It tainted his blood, his skin, and when he looked in the mirror, he felt the weight of what he'd just done shatter the world around him.
His soulmarks were gone. The vibrant colors and dead gray were wiped clean from his chest, dark coils of magic pulsing beneath his skin where they should have been, and the tethers in his mind snapped clean in half.
And he knew he had no one to blame but himself.
Soulmarks meant that one's loyalty was divided, Lae'zel knew. She hated the scars on her skin, for they spoke of disloyalty, of her supposed allegiance to others beyond her queen.
Never, she vowed, would she ever stray from her path, not even if these so-called bondmates called upon her.
Her sword, her loyalty, her entire being, was Vlaakith's.
So she relished every time the marks around her ankle burned, signifying another possible weakness in her loyalty being rectified.
Originally, she'd asked her superiors for permission to hunt them down. She would have no weakness in her if she were to rise the ranks.
But she was denied. And despite her dedication, they kept denying her.
"It is not your conviction we doubt," they soothed, sounding so un-warrior-like she had to resist the urge to rip their lying tongues from their mouths. "It is only that those marks hold a sorcery that will compel you to betray your Queen."
She knew the truth. They didn't trust her. The other githyanki thought the same, she knew. She could tell, from their disdainful sneers.
Lae'zel swore that she'd show them then, that she'd show them all that her conviction and her loyalty outstripped all of theirs.
Nothing would stand in her way of becoming kith'rak. And if those bondmates of hers tried to show their face and work their sorcery? Well…
The only thing she would regret would be burning the marks from her skin as a hatchling, for her hunt would be smoother if she remembered what they looked like. But it was no matter.
She would tear their flesh from their bones, their heart from their chest, and the marks from their skin to present to her Queen.
Somewhere, someone woke up, bloodlust lingering at the edges of their mind, knowing nothing but something that might be their name and sporting a peculiar set of scars around their throat, the suffocating air of the Hells burning in their lungs.