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terminallydepraved · 7 years ago

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Epithymy Chapter One

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When it came to bar fights, Chrollo had a couple of rules of thumb. They were simple rules, really. Almost more like universal truths than actual guidelines he expected to meet. The first was to avoid them at any costs, the next to get out as quickly as possible. When both of those failed, he had only one rule left to deal with the aftermath: Don’t fall asleep anywhere without a lock.

This rule had come about over the course of the past month, and if Chrollo were asked why, he would have to answer that it was frankly just common sense. Bar fights lead to grudges. Grudges lead to ambushes. Perhaps it wasn’t the same for conflicts between surface dwellers, but Chrollo had walked these grassy lands far too long to trust that anyone up here might stay their hand should they find him defenceless and vulnerable in some field or communal area.

It was because of all of those reasons that when Silva limped his way out of the bar, Chrollo in tow, and decided to make camp in some clearing not even a stone’s throw from the wrecked bar, Chrollo had vehemently put down his foot and told him in the kindest possible way to think again.

“Oh, it’ll be fine ,” Chrollo muttered under his breath, sitting with his back against a tree so he could keep an eye on as much of the makeshift camp as possible. “You worry too much. No one would walk the five minutes towards the woods to kill the Drow lurking in their midst.”

Silva let out a muffled snore, not awake but somehow still seeming to know that he was being mocked. The hunter had collapsed into his bedroll the moment they stopped moving, a bit bloodied around the knuckles but boasting not a single injury of his own. Chrollo had no idea what to think of this man he had attached himself to, but at the very least he worried him an idiot if he fell asleep so easily after downing half the bar’s men in a fist fight started on Chrollo’s behalf.

Chrollo sighed, closing his eyes to the darkness that seemed as bright as day. It had been hours since they had settled down to rest. Hours of nothing but hooting owls, rustling leaves, and the other performers in the night’s orchestra. Exhaustion didn’t cling so heavily to Chrollo’s bones as it did to Silva’s, but he could admit to the day taking its toll on him regardless. It was hard to brush off instinct and caution. This new world above the loam didn’t trust him, and Chrollo would be hard-pressed to trust it in return.

Silva was shifting now, his breath coming a little faster. Probably on the verge of waking up, if Chrollo had to hazard a guess. Silva was definitely the first human to lower his guard so easily in front of him. Trusting a Drow to sleep at his side. What an odd man he was. Odd, but waking. Chrollo bundled himself tighter in his cloak, finally letting himself give in to the sleepiness tugging at his eyelids. It was an unspoken guard shift, but it was enough to help him relax enough to rest.

There was a resounding of pops and cracks as Silva forced himself up, and then the shifting of fabric as he stood. Chrollo slowed his breathing and let the quiet sounds soothe him, proof as they were of Silva being awake.

He was on the verge of sleep when he felt Silva’s eyes on him. Chrollo kept his breathing slow, trying not to let it bother him. He had just been watching Silva too, so fair was fair he supposed. Grass crunched and Silva let out a tired sigh. “Still asleep? Figures.”

Well, that was a little rude, all things considered. A flush of light teased Chrollo’s eyelids as Silva stirred the dying fire. Its warmth teased Chrollo. It would be alright to sleep now, right? Just for a few hours. Silva made no move to shake him to his feet, so Chrollo took it as a yes.

The soft breeze teasing through his hair made it all too easy to give in. Chrollo drifted off, chin tucked against his chest, letting Silva do whatever it was he did when he woke up. With his eyes closed, it seemed like Silva was pacing. Perhaps he was cleaning up the camp? The quiet hiss of a drawstring being opened was nearly buried in the shifting and cracking of the fire.

Chrollo’s ears twitched at the sound of clinking glass. That was an odd sound to be hearing now. Did Silva have some in his bag? It was hard to imagine given the man’s work that he might carry something like that around with him. Chrollo did and he could attest to it being one of the more challenging things to keep from being jostled, especially in fights. Silva was muttering to himself, his voice tugging Chrollo from his doze.

“Gotta be something here,” the hunter was saying under his breath, punctuated by another round of clinking glass and furtive, shifting sounds. “Where are you from, brat? You have to have something on you.”

Who was he talking to? The only one here was Chrollo, and there was no way… He opened his eyes, angry beyond words. Chrollo looked through the darkness, knowing instinctively what he would find in front of him. Silva was on his knees, wrist deep in Chrollo’s satchel. Brow furrowed and mouth tight, the human looked intently into the depths of Chrollo’s bag, rooting around inside as if he had a right to invade a person’s privacy any time he so chose.

What did he think he would find in there? Chrollo narrowed his eyes and let his hand fall to his thigh, fingers brushing over the six daggers sheathed in their small pockets. He pulled one loose and palmed it, letting his cloak fall to the ground in a silent heap. Silva was holding one of the small vials up to the wane light, taking in the clear liquid inside. He was going to get himself killed if he didn’t stop rooting around in things not his.

In one swift motion, Chrollo stood just behind Silva. With one hand he snatched up the vial, and in the other he held the small dagger to Silva’s throat. Silva went stiff, his hands letting go of the bag to let it fall roughly to the ground.

“Good morning, Silva,” Chrollo murmured, turning the blade to follow the movements of Silva’s head when he twisted slowly to meet Chrollo’s eye. “This isn’t how I envisioned our first day starting.”

Silva managed a tense smile, and in the next moment, had Chrollo’s wrist seized in his iron grip. He yanked hard and threw Chrollo off balance, but Chrollo rolled with the fall and took Silva down with him. The dagger and vial fell harmlessly to the grass, narrowly avoiding being crushed in the scuffle.

“What do you think you’re doing, brat?” Silva hissed, using his considerably size to his advantage. Chrollo was fast but it didn’t mean much when off his feet. Silva snatched up his other wrist, rolling himself to hold Chrollo down with his body. He was warm, nearly burning against Chrollo’s skin. After nearly a month of being on his own, Chrollo could barely handle the proximity.

“W-what do you think you’re doing?” Chrollo gasped, shelving that thought for never. He tugged at his wrists but, failing to free himself, met Silva’s eyes instead. His face felt so warm. He hoped the human couldn’t tell. “I certainly didn’t pay you for this.”

Silva gritted his teeth at that. “You attacked me,” the human grunted, as if that excuse was justification enough for pinning his employer.

“You were digging through my things,” Chrollo bit, narrowing his eyes into a pointed glare. “Is this how you treat all of your clients? Get off me before I hurt you.”

Scoffing, Silva did just that, letting go of his wrists first and then climbing off of Chrollo. The moment he could, Chrollo sat up and rubbed at his wrists, feeling bruises already beginning to bloom. “You couldn’t hurt me,” the mercenary muttered, leveling himself onto his feet to go kick out the meager fire, extinguishing the thought of breakfast with it. “Fucking brat.”

What a pompous ass. “I heard that,” Chrollo said, grabbing his bag and checking inside, making sure everything was safe and accounted for. His clothes were a bit rumpled, his poison vials out of order, but thankfully none of them had been cracked by Silva’s rough touch. Biting his lip, he pushed them all to the side, ignoring the disorganization for the moment. Was it still safe? Chrollo dipped his fingers past the flat inner pocket, feeling for the hard shape hidden just out of sight.

“I didn’t take anything,” Silva said, jolting Chrollo from his thoughts. “So if you’d like to get your shit together, I think it’s past time we get moving.” Chrollo looked up and Silva glared back down at him, his bag and weapon already shouldered. All that was missing was his foot tapping to show that he thought Chrollo was wasting his time.

“I don’t appreciate being spoken down to,” Chrollo muttered, gathering up his bag and bedroll, wrapping himself in his cloak. The morning was cool, if it could even be called morning yet. Darkness still outweighed the light, but if Silva thought himself able to see enough to progress, then who was Chrollo to argue? The grass was still slick with dew. Shouldering his bag, Chrollo wrapped his arms around himself, glaring at the human.

“You paid for protection, not conversation,” the hunter grunted, stomping out the remains of the fire.

“I paid for a partnership,” Chrollo interjected, walking in front of the hunter to glare at him properly. “Not for you to treat me like an idiot you can push around.”

Silva laughed. “I work alone, brat,” he said, shaking his head as he shouldered his large axe. “No amount of money can buy yourself a place as my partner. You’re a tagalong, if anything. I don’t plan on restructuring my life around you, so get used to being disappointed.”

Maybe embroiling Silva in a bar fight so soon after meeting hadn’t been the best way to endear himself to the hunter. Chrollo frowned and kicked at the dirt, letting the conversation die.

At least the rest of the world wasn’t as inhospitable. Chrollo could travel the surface three times over and still never quite quantify the amount of green the world held. Burgeoning light climbed up the far horizon, painting the sky with pinks, golds, and purples, the sun warming his chilled skin in a comforting wave. Birds sang, insects chirped, and despite the clinging, lingering darkness, morning took root as it always did. Chrollo smiled softly as he walked, counting out his footfalls in time to his breaths. Not even the hunter’s sourness could spoil the joy he felt in the wake of all before him. There really was nothing quite like this down below. The Underdark stole its color where it could get it, but up here, beneath the sun, the surface overflowed with abundance.

Not many of his kind ever saw this kind of beauty. Chrollo had to wonder how many of them cared, or if they even thought about the loss. Probably not many.

The sun had risen high in the sky by the time Silva saw fit to break the silence his rudeness had imposed.

“So,” he began, startling Chrollo from his thoughts with a gruff voice. “What is a Drow doing above ground anyway?”

Chrollo wrinkled his nose and held tighter to the strap of his satchel.“You sound like you’ve been holding that in for a while now,” he observed, noting how Silva’s jaw went tighter. “Did your little rummage through my clothing not give you the answers you wanted?” The human didn’t balk though, holding his head high and glaring back at Chrollo without much heat. Defensive, really. Chrollo wondered how used to company Silva was.

“I’d think anyone would be curious,” the man said, hefting his axe higher onto his broad shoulder. The metal shined dully in the mid-morning sun, the worn engravings along the head Dwarven in design. “I can count the times I’ve seen a Drow on one hand and still have fingers left over. You’re a rarity up here.”

“Careful,” Chrollo sighed, “or you’ll make me blush.”

“Just answer the question”. He slowed his quick pace a little, angling towards Chrollo once they were abreast of one another. “You wanted to travel with me. The least you can do is be a little forthcoming about yourself.”

Chrollo raised a brow. “And how forthcoming have you been, Hunter Zoldyck? I hardly know much about you outside of your reputation. Why don’t you give a little first, break the ice as they say.”

“There isn’t much to say,” Silva said in a way that told Chrollo he was purposefully being obstinate. “I’m a hunter. I go around hunting bounties.”

“Yeah, but where are you from?”

“Around,” Silva grunted.

Chrollo frowned. “How old are you?” he tried asking, crossing his arms. “I can’t tell if you’re old or not. You humans age so weirdly.”

“You can’t tell?” Silva laughed a little, giving him an odd sort of look. “I guess I can’t tell your age either. I’m forty.”

Only forty? Chrollo cocked his head in disbelief. “That’s not old at all. I’m way older than you if that’s it,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he thought on it. “Is that old to you?” How long did humans live, anyway? It would be a problem if he just wasted his money on a human who would keel over if a stiff breeze rolled through. It would probably be too late for a refund at that point. What a bother.

Silva shifted his pack higher onto his shoulder, letting out a tired sigh. “It’s old enough to feel. Are you going to answer my question now, or are you content to bother me about my age for awhile longer?”

“Why?” he chuckled, nudging Silva’s arm with his own. “Are you sensitive about it?”

“Don’t get cocky, brat. I’ll knock that grin off your face in a heartbeat,” the hunter warned, cold blue eyes flashing dangerously in the bright morning light.

Chrollo couldn’t help it. He laughed into his hand. “You are!” he exclaimed, dodging the wide swipe Silva made for him easily. “You’re so sensitive. What a treat. It’s good to know I didn’t hire a gargoyle instead of a partner. What a waste of money that would have been.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that we aren’t partners until it sticks?” Silva said stonily, stomping off ahead of Chrollo, making him jog a little to catch up. “You aren’t working with me. The way I see it, you’re just a brat I have to put up with until you get bored of this.”

This again? “There’s not much you can to if you don’t plan on working with me,” Chrollo huffed, glaring at the man’s broad back. “I’m not going to just sit patiently and wait for you if you feel like running off to chase a bounty.”

“You will if you expect to keep traveling with me. There are rules I expect to be followed. Rules you agreed to abide by when I took your money.” Silva eyes were heavy when they landed on Chrollo. “I’m in charge. What I say goes, and that means that if I tell you to sit and wait for me to finish a job, you will sit where I point and stay. I’m not a babysitter. I’ll leave you behind if you can’t keep up. I’ll ditch you if you refuse to listen.”

“I can see why you don’t do these sorts of jobs more often,” Chrollo scoffed, sending a stray pinecone flying with an annoyed kick. It soared up ahead, skidding along the dirt and grass and disappearing in a patch of weeds. “You’re actually a beast, aren’t you? No concept of proper etiquette in you.”

“I don’t want to hear that from a Drow.” Chrollo startled a little when another pinecone went shooting past him, traveling far further than his own had. He turned and stared at the smug looking hunter. Silva didn’t grin, but it was a close thing. “And there are more rules. No sassing me, is another. Don’t test my patience. Don’t try to get chummy with me. I’m not being paid to be your friend.”

Chrollo grimaced. “You don’t have to worry about that,” he simpered, batting his lashes just to make the human scowl. “I wouldn’t dream of befriending a man like you. Even I, a dastardly Drow, have better taste than that.”

Silva’s face was hilarious, frozen in some mixture of shock and anger as it was. Chrollo laughed and kicked another pinecone, nearly tripping when a hand snatched him by the collar and yanked him back before the kick could connect. “What did I say about sassing?” Silva asked tersely, holding Chrollo by the scruff like a disobedient cat. “I’ll charge you a fee for every infraction. Don’t think I won’t.”

Chrollo shrugged his hand off his collar, fixing his cloak around his shoulders with a frown. The cool air teased his bare shoulders beneath it, and he hurriedly covered back up, the morning air too crisp for that just yet. “As if I couldn’t afford it,” he huffed, rolling his eyes. “How much would I have to pay to change your temperament entirely? Another hundred? Two?” He shot Silva an unimpressed look. “You don’t intimidate me. If you think that’s how you’re going to deal with me, you’re very mistaken.”

“Rich brats like you are exactly why I have rules in the first place.” Silva upped the pace even more, passing Chrollo with nary a backwards glance. “You think you can do what you want, that nothing applies to you so long as you’ve enough money to throw at the problem until is disappears.”

“I’m not rich,” Chrollo shot, jogging after him, refusing to be left behind.

“Then how did you get the money to pay me?” Silva slowed up a little, but not much. His curiosity seemed to do it, or his disbelief at least. “Did you steal it?”

Chrollo held his bag closer to his side. “I’ve things to sell,” he said stiffly, dearly wishing Silva would drop it.

A pale brow raised. “So you did steal it,” he chuckled. “Leave it to a Drow to pay me in stolen coin. No wonder it was real gold.”

“Excuse you,” Chrollo shot, stopping in his tracks. “My lover likes to spoil me, and a lot of the gifts he gives are worth a lot of money. Some pawnshops don’t care where they get their wares, even if that means dealing with a Drow. So stop making assumptions about me. You don’t know anything about me.”

Silva gave him a look, one that Chrollo wasn’t quite sure he liked. “Sounds like quite a lover.”

“He is. He’s a far more impressive man than you are.” Chrollo looked at the dirt, at the rocks along the road. “He’s skinned men alive for daring to look at me, let alone speak to me the way you’re doing now.” Silva gave a mirthless laugh, not intimidated in the least. “Why did you leave if you had all of that down below?” he asked. “Seems to me I’d stay down where my lover has all the power instead of trusting all my safety to some rude human hunter.”

This really was the last thing Chrollo wanted to be discussing today. “Because for all the gifts he’s given me, he still doesn’t seem to understand what I really want,” Chrollo said sharply. “Can we change the subject? I don’t want to talk about him right now.” Not to some human who looked at him so judgmentally. “And what of you? Do you just go around killing people for money, then? Don’t judge me for how I get my coin when you took it eagerly enough.”

“I don’t kill them unless it’s more profitable,” Silva said, failing to rise to his bait. “And it’s almost never more profitable. I’m no saint, brat. I don’t care where you get your gold so long as its real.”

Chrollo took in Silva’s rugged appearance. The way he moved was slow but purposeful, no waste or excess to his stride to suggest he ever did things that went against his habits. It showed conviction. Intent. Silva caught him staring and returned it evenly, his jaw going a little tight at whatever it was he saw.

“If you’ve got something to say, then say it,” Chrollo said evenly, wondering what he could be fixated on now. His gaze wasn’t on Chrollo’s body. It stayed upwards, not quite meeting Chrollo’s eyes but close. “Something wrong with my ears?”

“What are your earrings made of?” Silva asked flatly, walking a step closer to Chrollo to get a better view.

Chrollo frowned, his hand coming up to cover the one closest to Silva. “Why?” he shot back, curling his fingers around it carefully. “What business is it of yours?”

Silva’s look was patently unimpressed. “I’m curious. Humor me.”

“Turquoise,” Chrollo said in a clipped tone, wondering if he shouldn’t have taken them off. No one had bothered to look too closely at them, usually too focused on them rest of him to bother. “They were a gift.”

“From that lover you ran from?” Silva asked, his voice breezy in a way that Chrollo didn’t like one bit.

Before Chrollo could reply, the sound of muffled voices filtered past them on the wind. Given the distance they had traveled from the last village, Chrollo hadn’t expected to see others on the road, but a look back forwards showed him the outlines of just that up ahead. He wrapped himself all the tighter in his cloak and tugged the hood over his face when Silva gave him a pointed look. Annoying, but probably a good idea to avoid attracting attention.

Chrollo followed Silva towards the side of the road, giving plenty of room to let the group pass. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business at all,” Chrollo grumbled, crossing his arms to look at Silva, keeping his face away from the people nearly upon them. “I’m not selling them.”

“I wasn’t going to say you should,” Silva said, arching a brow in annoyance. He kept glancing at the oncoming travelers, putting a hand in front of Chrollo to push him behind him, letting the hunter meet them first. There looked to be five of them, adventurers if their weapons were anything to go off of.

Chrollo glared down at Silva’s hand and pointedly shoved past it, walking at his side nearest to the men. He lowered his voice, but he didn’t bother softening his frustration. “Then what were you going to say?” he asked, ignoring the men even as their voices began to grow closer, their raucous laughter rending the air.

“I don’t know, brat, maybe if you stopped assuming the worst I’d be able to tell you.” Silva glanced at the oncoming men but sighed, moving back to Chrollo. “They’re too fancy to be flaunted like that,” he said, his words muted. “Don’t wear them up here. Or at least take them off when you take off your cloak.”

Chrollo could feel the brush of someone’s cloak against his leg, but he ignored it. “They’re not even that rare,” he argued, gesturing with a hand towards his covered ears. “Don’t people walk around in far fancier things up here? It can’t possibly be that out of place t–”

A hand fixed itself over Chrollo’s mouth before he could finish his tirade. He let out a smothered cry as he was torn from his feet and into the arms of one of the passing men, the others converging like vultures on a corpse to brandish their weapons at Silva.

Despite Silva’s gruff, cantankerous personality, Chrollo had to give the man credit for being all business when it came down to it. The axe was off his shoulder and swinging before Chrollo had gathered his wits, hewing through one of the bandits as if he were made of paper. The man crumpled in a spray of gore, his companions flinching in the face of Silva’s brutality.

“What the hell do you want?” Silva shot, brandishing his axe to keep them at bay. “You picked the wrong group to rob if you want an easy mark.”

A chorus of laughter rose up around them. Chrollo struggled, twisting and fighting against the one holding him. “That’s cute,” the man holding him chuckled, punctuating his jeer with a knife against Chrollo’s throat. “Exceedingly cute, but I think we’re going to be the ones getting what we want today. Try to behave, old man. I’d hate to make you watch your little friend here bleed out.”

“We’ll take your money now,” another said, his long, greasy hair bound into a ponytail at the back of his neck. Chrollo couldn’t see his face from this position, but he had a startling notion that the man was as ugly as his personality suggested. “All of it. Toss it down in the dirt with that axe.”

“That goes for you too,” the one holding Chrollo crooned, his tone painting him as the leader. “Don’t do anything stupid, now. I’ll slit your throat before you have time to regret it if you try.”

Cutthroats and bandits, what mysterious abound on the surface. Chrollo gritted his teeth and tried to keep his face pointed down. “I don’t have any money,” he murmured, tucking his hands beneath his cloak as slowly as he could.

The leader clicked his tongue, tapping the blade teasingly against Chrollo’s skin. “Somehow I doubt that,” he said. He wrapped his arm around Chrollo and shoved it beneath his cloak, patting along his body as if in search of a money pouch. Chrollo went stock still and flushed, meeting eyes with Silva. Panic was becoming hard to avoid.

Chrollo’s cloak must have jostled somewhere along the way, because a moment later one of the men was staring at him, his eyes going wide with something more malign than just glee. “Is that… Holy shit, I think it’s a Drow, boss!” the ginger man crowed, his ruddy cheeks flushed with shock. “This geezer is runnin’ around with a fuckin’ Drow!”

The leader let out a grunt of surprise. His hand stopped its groping and he peered around, trying to see beneath Chrollo’s downturned hood. “You’re shitting me,” he breathed. “What the fuck is one of those doing up here?” When he failed to see under the cloak, he resorted to just tearing the hood from Chrollo’s head. Chrollo closed his eyes to the bright light, but the man was already braying out a laugh, his knife tracing Chrollo’s cheek with glee. “So it is!” he declared, and Chrollo opened his eyes when the hand that had been on his hood dropped to his ass, the man groping him roughly, tearing his cloak from his shoulders. “And such a pretty one, too. We don’t see many of you around here, do we, boys?”

There was a general murmur of assent nearly overtaken completely by Silva’s furious growl. “Get away from him,” Silva ordered, his voice so low that it rumbled like thunder.

All of the blades turned towards Silva but the one aimed at Chrollo’s throat. “Don’t get cocky,” the ginger snapped, his sword pointed at Silva’s spine. “You’re out of your league, old man. Don’t be an idiot.”

“It’s fine, Silva,” Chrollo told him, teeth clenched as the hand moved a little higher, skimming along his bare lower back. “Stand down.”

For a moment, Chrollo didn’t think Silva would listen. He glared daggers at the leader holding Chrollo, his hands tight around the shaft of his axe. Chrollo held his breath and shook his head, imploring him not to get himself killed. Silva closed his eyes tight and let his axe drop to the ground, his shoulders hitched tightly from his barely contained anger.

The bandit’s hot, rotten breath coated the back of Chrollo’s neck as he laughed. “There’s a good man. Smart of you to stop. Are you paying him, beautiful? Bet you aren’t paying him enough to risk his life for you.” The blade dug into Chrollo’s throat as the man began to drag Chrollo backwards, off the road and towards the forest’s thick embrace. His companions stayed on Silva, keeping him from following.

“What do you want?!” Chrollo hissed, struggling despite the pain. Blood trickled down his throat but he didn’t care. “I’ve done nothing to you people!”

“Ah, but we happened to overhear you two chatting,” the bandit explained, and when he buried his nose in Chrollo’s hair, breathing in loudly, Chrollo shuddered. “You’ve got some pretty earrings there. Why don’t you be a lamb and hand them over, along with any other valuables you may have?”

“Just do it, Chrollo,” Silva called out, his tone clipped and his fury muted. “We’re outnumbered.”

“You heard him, beautiful,” the bandit laughed, tapping the flat of the blade against his clavicle like a warning. “Listen to the old man and don’t make us do something nasty.”

“My… my lover gave me those,” Chrollo said shortly, staring at the ground. “There’s no way I’m giving them to scum like you.”

The man’s fingers were hot as they toyed with an earring, tugging on it gently in a way that made Chrollo’s ear twitch. “Is that so? A lover who buys you turqouise earrings. Gold mounted too, by the look of it.” He glanced over at Silva with a grin. “Are you the lucky man? You don’t look the type to be able to afford this sort of thing. Or, you know,” he said, his free hand wrapping around Chrollo’s hip in a grip that was far too friendly, “someone like this.”

Silva let out an angry growl, his fists tightening at his sides. “No,” he bit, looking ready to break someone in half. “I’m not the one he’s talking about.”

The leader let out a knowing laugh, squeezing Chrollo’s hip. “That’s certainly interesting, but who am I to judge. Your lover must be awfully worried about you, beautiful. Probably worried sick if you’re expecting someone like this to keep you safe.” The bandits all looked at each other with glee, an unspoken agreement passing from the leader to the others. “A rich lover would pay a pretty penny to have you back too, wouldn’t he? Boys, I think we’ve found something a right side more valuable than a few shiny baubles.”

Chrollo stopped breathing. This was a complete nightmare. “I’ll bite my fucking tongue off before I let you take me,” he swore. Silva was staring, his lips curled into a snarl. “You’re going to die if you don’t let me go right the fuck now.”

“You think so?” the man mused, holding tighter to Chrollo as he addressed his men. “You guys hear that? This little Drow thinks he can kill us.” They all laughed and Chrollo’s mind went blank when a warm, disgusting tongue licked a stripe up his cheek. “Just you try it, kid. Think your lover will mind if we rough you up a little? Pretty as you are, he probably won’t care much so long as you still end up back in his bed.”

They didn’t know Hisoka at all if they thought he would be okay with them breathing Chrollo’s air, let alone touching him. “Your fucking funerals,” Chrollo whispered, narrowing his eyes at Silva. They would only have one shot at this, so he hoped Silva was ready to fight. Chrollo wrenched his head away and stomped down on the bandit’s instep, ripping himself from the man’s arms before he had time to shout, let alone hurt him.

“What the fuck–”

The bandit went down when Chrollo aimed his next kick for his groin. The others near Silva made a move towards Chrollo, weapons drawn, but Chrollo was in no mood to play. His daggers were in his hands in an instant, snatched up from their customary place on his thighs.

“You little bitch!” one shouted. “How dare you–”

Chrollo didn’t bother to wait to hear what he was daring to do. He flung out a dagger and watched it fly, embedding itself in the man’s throat before he made it more than a step away from Silva. Unlike the leader, Chrollo didn’t waste his time on naked blades. The poison worked faster than the penetration. A thick white foam coursed out of the man’s mouth as he dropped like a stone. His companions balked at the sight of his twitching form, but their hesitation just made them easier targets.

“Silva, feel free to help!” Chrollo spun and threw another dagger, this time hitting the ginger bandit in the thigh. He swore under his breath and backed up, the poison needing longer this time to get to working. A sword pointed at him and Chrollo nearly tripped in his struggle to evade. He closed his eyes and heard a wet, bone-chilling sound. When he opened them, he saw the ginger sans his head, Silva panting over the corpse with his cheeks flecked with blood.

“You little bitch ,” the leader hissed behind Chrollo, rallying from the blow he had already been dealt. He rose up from his pained slump, face contorted with rage. “You think you can just do what you want, a Drow bitch like you? You’ve got another thing coming.”

Poison was too kind of a way for this man to go. That much was clear.

“Take care of the rest of them, Silva,” Chrollo said, not bothering to take his eyes off the man before him. “I’ve got this.”

“Oh, do you?” the leader jeered, his pockmarked cheeks flushing. “Let me see it then. Let me see what you can do.”

Chrollo tossed the dagger aside. He had plenty more where it came from and he wouldn’t need it anyway. Not yet at least. They stared at each other for the span of a breath, and then Chrollo was darting towards him, ducking under the man’s lunging arms to cut away at the distance between them. Brawling was as common as breathing on the dark lit streets of the Underdark. This was nothing new. Evade, distract, strike– Chrollo delivered a sharp blow to the man’s ribs and then struck him beneath the chin, sending him to the ground in a gasping, stunned heap.

“How’s that?” Chrollo snarled, kicking the man onto his back. He straddled the man’s chest to keep him down. “You like that?” He balled up his hand into a fist, hitting the bandit leader in the nose, feeling the bone break against his knuckles. “You disgusting excuse for a person.” He drew back and hit him again, and again, and then again, losing track in his need to hurt, in his desire to make the man bleed. He though he could drag Chrollo back to the Underdark? He had another thing coming entirely.

“Chrollo,” a low voice called out from across the road, Silva wiping the blood from his axe on the grass. “Chrollo, you need to stop. He’s unconscious.”

Chrollo pretended not to hear, pulling out another dagger and readying it to slit the man’s throat.

“Goddammit, Chrollo! I said get off him!” Chrollo bared his teeth and stabbed downwards, the blade just barely kissing the leader’s skin before Chrollo’s hands were torn away. Silva grabbed held him in a grip as firm as iron bars, refusing to let him kill the disgusting creature between his thighs.

“Get off me, Silva,” Chrollo hissed, trying and failing to shake off the hunter’s grip. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Normally I wouldn’t give a shit what you did with scum like this, but if you want to waste a hundred gold, do it on your own time,” Silva shot, his hands tightening around Chrollo’s wrists and making no move to loosen. He let out a rough breath and lifted Chrollo bodily away from the prone man.

Chrollo protested the moment his feet left the ground. “Let me go!” he ordered, shoving at Silva until he deigned to set him down a few feet away. He ripped himself free of the hunter’s hands and tried to fix his clothing, his breath coming too fast to really calm down. “Don’t do that. And don’t tell me what to do. If I want to kill him, I will!”

Silva loomed over him, crossing his arms in a way that was meant to intimidate. “You won’t,” he argued. “That man has a bounty on his head, Chrollo. One I intend to claim.”

“Then we can turn in his corpse,” Chrollo hissed, refusing to be cowed by a man who did next to nothing that whole fight.

“And get half the reward? Like hell I’ll let you lose me that much gold.” He dug into his bag for a moment and drew out a crumpled piece of parchment, shoving it against Chrollo’s chest before turning back towards the prone man. “I don’t care if he hurt your pride, or insulted you, or whatever it is you’re feeling. This is business, not vengeance. Learn the fucking difference.”

Chrollo glared daggers at the hunter but unfolded the parchment, seeing it as the bounty Silva was talking about. It had a vaguely sketched likeness of the man lying in the dirt along with a bulleted list of his various crimes. Thief, highwayman, drunkard, murderer. The list went on and on, punctuated with a large set of numbers that boasted the reward for his capture. It was a lot of gold. Almost as much as Chrollo had blown on hiring Silva.

Looking up, he saw Silva already binding the man with rope from his bag, looping some sort of manacles around the man’s limp wrists. “And you think that it’s better to just give this man to the authorities than end him for what he just did to us?” he demanded, stomping over to give the unconscious thief a good kick to the ribs.

“If I held a grudge for every time I had someone try to cut my purse or rob me on the road,” Silva said, looking up with a put upon air about him, “then I would never turn in a single bounty. He’ll get what’s coming to him when I sell him to the sentries. What happens to him after that doesn’t concern me.”

Chrollo bit his lip, the logic of it all warring it out with everything he his mind was telling him to do. “That’s not how Drow do things,” he said quietly, taking a step back as Silva hefted the bandit onto his shoulder, standing up with a muted grunt. “If we were in the Underdark, we would flay him alive for trying to do what he just did.”

“Then I’m glad we’re up here,” Silva huffed, nodding towards his axe still on the ground. “I’d hate to have to deal with the clean up that would entail. Grab my axe, would you? Unless you’d rather carry this guy’s fat ass all the way to the nearest guard post.”

“You’re really doing this,” Chrollo said flatly, his eyes widening when he grabbed the axe and hefted. His muscles strained as he struggled to lift it from the ground, dragging it up and nearly tipping himself over when he tried to settle it on his shoulder the way Silva carried it. How did Silva make it look so easy? This thing had to weigh more than Chrollo did.

Silva laughed a little, smiling as he watched Chrollo sweat. “I really am,” he said, nodding his head in a seemingly random direction. “Now come on. We need to get away from these bodies and get you someplace off the road.”

Chrollo took a step, and then another. He tried to make a rhythm with his movements to keep him from unbalancing under the foreign weight. “Aren’t we going to the sentries?” he asked. The unconscious bandit was hanging like a limp doll, jaw slack and temple bloodied. What an ugly sight.

Leading through some tall grass, Silva slowed down a bit so Chrollo could catch up. “No,” he said slowly, enunciating as if speaking to a child. “ I am going to the sentries. You’re going to sit your ass down and wait for me to get back.”

The axe thumped to the ground, Chrollo giving up on trying to lug it. “Excuse me?” he asked. “You’re not leaving me behind. I told you that already.”

“And I told you that there are rules to this arrangement,” Silva said, turning around to glare at him. He wrinkled his nose irritably when he caught sight of how Chrollo had dropped his weapon. “You think I can just walk up to some armed sentries with you in tow and expect them to hand over gold to me?”

Chrollo felt his lips curl into a pronounced frown. “I’m not a burden for you to abandon at will,” he said, glaring hotly at the hunter. “I held my own against them better than you did. I can keep up with your precious work.”

“This isn’t about that,” Silva said, and Chrollo’s anger stuttered for a moment at the almost begrudgingly proud look Silva wore. “You held your own. I was surprised by it, sure, but you did. That’s why I’m not throwing a fit about leaving you alone here. But I’m serious. I can’t walk up to some sentries with a Drow. They’d kill you on sight and then move on to me for not doing it myself the moment I saw you.”

The grass was thick beneath his feet. Thick and green and speckled with wildflowers. Chrollo stared down at it as his ears burned. Praise was the last thing he expected to hear up here, let alone from someone like Silva. He looked up when Silva cleared his throat impatiently. Chrollo swallowed. He didn’t want to stay behind. He didn’t, but it wasn’t a bad call to make.

“Fine,” Chrollo sighed, plopping himself down onto a patch of soft grass. “Don’t think this is going to be a common thing, though. I’m not going to let you leave me behind all the time.”

“Whatever, brat.” Silva bounced the man higher up onto his shoulder reached down for the fallen axe, navigating it onto his back. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone,” he said en lieu of a goodbye, turning on his heel and making off towards the road.

He was acting like he knew well enough where he was going. Hopefully that it wouldn’t be a long wait. Chrollo watched him leave, letting out a breath once he disappeared over a hill.

Waiting had never been Chrollo’s forte. He wasn’t patient and he wasn’t accustomed to being kept waiting. For a moment, he pondered following Silva anyway, but in the end he decided against it. As rude as Silva had been in saying it, the fact that the sentries would kill him on sight wasn’t an exaggeration. Being on the surface had taught Chrollo a few things, and near the top of that list was not to trust people to be kind when they had no reason to be, especially to someone like him.

It was just so boring to sit here. Chrollo kicked at the dirt and let out a sigh, throwing himself down onto his back to stare at the clouds as they rolled by. That at least was something novel, the clouds. He had never really seen them before this trip to the surface. They looked unbelievably soft, like spun spidersilk wound in airy little tufts. Chrollo reached up a hand as if he could touch them, smiling to himself. If he managed to hold one, he doubted it would feel like spidersilk. That was something for below. The sky deserved better.

Hours passed slowly, Chrollo giving in to the urge to doze. Lights danced behind his eyes, the soft breeze rolling over his bare skin like a cool, considerate touch. He shivered a little and bit his lip, rolling onto his shoulder as if he could shake off the thought. His hips ached a little from Silva’s rough grip, his shoulder from the bandit’s yanking. It seemed like every touch he got up here was mean. Every touch but the wind’s. What was Hisoka doing right now, he wondered. Chrollo didn’t need to wonder much on what he would be doing if Chrollo were still there.

It took awhile, but Silva arrived without much fanfare eventually. He made his presence known loudly enough to jostle Chrollo from his partial rest, at any rate. Silva stomped his way into the makeshift camp, axe balanced on his empty shoulder and a weariness about him that looked a bit more pronounced than what a simple hike should have prompted.

Chrollo sat up straight and looked at him. “Did it go alright?” he asked. “Did he stay out the whole time?”

“Unfortunately,” Silva said, rolling his eyes. “I would’ve made him walk himself there if he had. Lazy bastard.” He grumbled under his breath like the cantankerous man he was, approaching Chrollo. As he walked, he reached into his pocket, pulling something out that was nearly hidden in his large hand.

“Here,” Silva grunted, dropping a small pouch into Chrollo’s lap. It jingled when it landed, heavier than he expected it to be.

“What is this?” he asked lifting it up. He tugged at the drawstrings as Silva took in the grass around them, tossing down his bag and then himself with a groan of exhaustion. The pouch opened up and the sunlight reflected off the gold in a blinding display. Chrollo’s jaw fell open.

“Your cut,” Silva called out from his slumped spot, dragging his bag under his head as a pillow. “For the bounty.”

“My cut? I get some?” he breathed. “But I thought this was your job, not mine.”

Silva grunted and rolled onto his shoulder, turning his back to Chrollo. “Yeah, well, you took down those men. It’d leave a bad taste in my mouth if I took all the reward for a job I didn’t fuckin’ do.” He sounded rueful, as if he hadn’t expected Chrollo to be capable in a fight. “Now, shut up. Don’t say anything about it. I’m going to take a nap. Keep watch, would you?”

“Yeah,” Chrollo laughed, emptying the pouch out into his hand. As the money settled in his cupped palms, Chrollo had to smile. “No problem.”

Perhaps this arrangement could work after all.

#drow au #silvakuro #hisokuro #check warnings on ao3

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melzan-of-bregan-daerthe · 7 years ago

Text

Adventures in Faerun

For weeks nightmares of shadow dragons and Thayans woke Melzan from his meditation. Finally, a clear image of travelers in front of a fire came. Eilistraee walked to him and smiled. Her naked form almost making Melzan look away. She came up to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek before looking in the direction of the figures at the fire.

“One of them is open to me. You need to show them who I am. Bring him to have faith in me,” she purred and then the flames died out and the people were gone.

A large dragon roared to the side and Melzan turned his head quickly and saw the dragon and a crystal clear image of a man.

“You must kill that evil man. He’s done things worse than even worshipers of my mother. If you find them,” she motioned back to the campfire which existed again. “You will be in the right position to kill our enemy. Help them, rid this world of these evil people… Go now.”

Melzan gasped and came out of his meditation. Immediately, he got up and began to pack his bags to go on his journey.

“Ellana, we have to go,” he said softly and she moved to lay inside his hood, curled up in his long soft hair.

Completely covered he headed out. He only paused to eat, meditate, and also other necessary actions. Someone managed to transport him closer to his destination and soon he only had a few more days before he would meet these new people. No doubt they weren’t Drow. Realizing he shouldn’t just expose himself due to the mistrust it would bring, he stayed away from them for most of the night.

Without trying to be stealthy, he approached.

Sure enough, they spotted him. All of them tensed up and began to chat. Some appeared to ready their weapons. One of the shadowed figures disappeared, or maybe they weren’t even there to begin with? He tilted his head and focused more on them. Due to the campfire their faces and bodies were completely in shadow. Finally, they settled realizing he wasn’t whoever they were expecting. Melzan raised his hands to show he was not arming himself and meant to come in peace.

“Well met,” Melzan said softly.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” one of the men started.

To Melzan they all looked skinny. He’d seen wizards with more muscle on them and it worried him. Could they really be the people his Goddess wanted him to help?

“Will you remove your hood?” another to the side asked.

“I’m here to fight. With you. To assist you in your fight against the Thayan wizard or sorcerer and a dragon. The message for me to come wasn’t really clear,” then he turned to the man who asked him to remove his hood. “You don’t want me to do that. It would be worse than me leaving it on.”

For a while, they appeared to think about it.

“May I approach?” Melzan asked, his hands still in the air. “Sit with you by the fire?”

“It’s rude not to remove your hood,” the man to the side of the fire asked.

“No.” Melzan stated.

“Yes, come and join us. Jerky?” a man asked holding out a piece.

Melzan held a hand up to pass on eating it. If he removed his lower face mask they’d all know who he was.

“I”m iliad, this is milo, Samuel, and Igor,” iliad said motioning to each person as he introduced them. “We’re currently waiting.”

“W-we’re su-supposed to just be us. He w-wont like it if there are more here,” the stutter and fear in his voice almost made Melzan smile.

He’d be so easy to fight and- No. Melzan can’t do something like that. He wasn’t Graz'zt’s anymore.

“Yeah, you’re right. You three might need to make yourselves scarce.”

Melzan had no reason to argue so he nodded and wandered back to a tree where he came from. While waiting for the dragon Melzan observed them. The group appeared scared in general. Especially when the Thay finally showed up.

“Hello, oh where’s your little friend, Nessa” The Thay asked approaching, but stopping about thirty feet away.

“She got arrested. They thought she murdered someone,” was that one Milo Melzan wondered? Or was that Iliad?

“Good, it worked,” the man laughed. “Why don’t your new friends come out? You over there.” He looked directly at Melzan which made him shudder a little. Since he’d been spotted there remained no reason for him to hide. “Now I hope we can resolve this civilized. You don’t approach within five feet or I will consider it a threat. You should leave now, get out of here.”

“What do you mean it worked?”

“Me, I took her form and killed someone. I’m glad. I had a little bit of worry that it wouldn’t work, but she’ll be there when we destroy that tribe now.” The man said.

Melzan had no idea who this Nessa was.

“We-we’ll le’leave w-when you all get the f-fuck out,” the stuttering man tried to be tough.

“You all are weak. You don’t want to stay here and-” he lookd down at a little pebble that got kicked towards him. “Are you really going to do this? THreaten me? I can summon the dragon here if you want to die so bad.”

“We don’t want to do that. We’re not going to go unless you go.”

“No one has to die here,” the Thayan said.

“Yes they do,” Melzan said and pulled out his sword. “You do.”

“Come on, we can do this peacefully. You leave. We leave.”

Melzan turned to them. “You cowards.”

At around that point, the shambling gnome began slapping the image of the Thayan.

“I told you any actions like that would be considered threats,” the image disappeared.

So his new allies could see Melzan cast Dancing Light. Suddenly nearly fifteen shadows began charging at the group. Melzan managed to handle his own, and no one appeared to get too badly injured. A little red haired halfling also appeared. That must have been Nessa Melzan realized.

A roar in the background was startling. Once the shades were gone, another roar sounded. Closer this time.

Frost began to cover all of Melzan’s form. Everyone else prepared for the dragon. A glowing red gem fell from the sky and the moment it hit the ground a fire elemental roared loose. The blaze came up in front of Milo. The man reacted bravely and hit the elemental at the cost of his own skin. Everyone began to blast it, while also keeping their distance.

A scream rang out “I GAVE YOU A CHANCE TO LEAVE! Now you will DIE”

The dragon pulled back before dark flames burned across the area, killing the the elemental and the human dropped down unconscious, burned even more than usual.

Melzan and Nessa appeared to hurry towards the felled man. Magical chains refrained them, they couldn’t budge an inch.

This caused Melzan to turn and glare at the wizard. The man who offered the food stayed in front of the dragon barely breathing. It was a miracle he even stayed on his feet.

Ellana hurried to Melzan and tapped him to dispel the hold magic and flew to Milo. She hugged his neck as best she could and Melzan felt his power drain a little. Yet the man opened his eyes. That’s what he’d intended. Turning back to the wizard he fired his eldritch blast.

The wizard of the group began to fling spells at the dragon as quickly as they could.

The Halfling continued to struggle. Ellana, the little pixie, held tightly to Milo as the man took cover behind a large rock. Iliad attempted to drink something, but the dragon took the opportunity to hit him.

These people were useless and Melzan could hardly believe what he had to do. Rushing up he moved and spent his last large power to place his hands on Iliad and heal the man’s damage. Sure enough, he left Melzan to the dragon’s mercy. He cursed in undercommon.

Melzan hurried to do his best to get out of the way. Those claws hurt even if they barely hit them. Each attack froze the dragon’s claws and when it placed it’s foot back down the finger would shatter and send a huge shock of cold up the dragon’s body. The dragon had a limp now at least. When the blond, Milo? came back out from around the rock he took to one side of the dragon. Iliad even went to stand back in front of the dragon.

Quickly, Melzan moved to the side of the dragon, out of the way of any sort of breath spell.

The halfling finally broke free and a giant beam of light appeared pushing down the dragon and only grazing the Thayan’s shoulder. It continued to push it down, weakening it.

Iliad got caught in a darkness the dragon exhaled and when it began to fade Melzan noticed him back on the ground dying. Ellana rushed to him and touched his cheek to heal the man. Sure enough his eyes opened and when the dragon got distracted Iliad rushed as far away as possible.

Melzan continued to attack the dragon, hitting through the scales and breaking through. Milo began to hit the dragon some more as well. If they could kill the pet the wizard wouldn’t be difficult to kill at all. The dragon fell over dead. Once again the wizard attacked, chilling Melzan’s should to the core. He almost lost his footing as the skeletal hand dug its bony fingers into his shoulder.

The thayan screamed. “LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS AND WALK SOUTH FOR A DAY”

THe order didn’t hit Melzan or Ellana, but the others dropped their weapons and began to walk to the south. He couldn’t help them, but Ellana could.

He rushed to follow the Thayan as he tried to fly away. The mage hit him with a few more magic missiles making the man lose a bit of flying height. It allowed Melzan to hit him even harder, throwing spell after spell.

Ellana managed to restrain Nessa and Milo before hurrying to go and try and prick Iliad to end the spell using pain. The man used his own spells to attempt to break MIlo out of the spell, but not Nessa. The halfling broke through the entangling roots and the human had to rush after her. The halfling began to dodge or stumble and the human just couldn’t hit her to snap her out of the command.

The Thayan fell from the sky finally, landing and snapping his neck as his fly spell ended. Melzan panted a bit and pressed a hand against the rotting flesh he would have to heal from the Thayan’s spells but for now he needed to make sure the man was dead and if he had anything on him.

A staff, didn’t need. A set of magical armor, but they might not be as good as his own. They felt very similar to his detect magic. A cloak he put on automatically. Then he found the other items, which he should share. They did act as physical shields for him a few times. They deserved something. Not the Grimoire though. Melzan took that and with his body aching, sat down and began to look through it. Ellana cooed a bit and flew back once she’d successfully brought Iliad out of the suggestion spell. She moved up under his hood and cuddled up in his soft hair again.

It made him smile.

#adventures in faerun 2017 #entry 1

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magicrobins · 7 years ago

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The Toy Dragon

Valas Telenna & various others [see below]. Dungeons & Dragons [Band of Misfits]. 4,272 words. More under the cut. AO3.

Summary: Valas’ past and present collide.

Other characters: Meiros Vanhorn, Zintra Rastor, Dominic Crawford, Eve Crawford, Evanora Crawford, Elizira Vanhorn, Hai Li, Rihiri Valtari (@jellyfishlovesloki), Zaegar Steelheart (@nutellanewt), Sefhana Brenlynn (@bxtgrl), & Bilbo Swaggins (@theoneandonlyfloozyjesus).

Note: Set in a world created by our wonderful DM (@iodine-kisses).

His ears were ringing. Valas turned on Dominic, annoyed by the young man’s proud grin. His friend’s wavy dark hair had been put up in a bun – the fact that the bard had taken the time to tie his hair up during a fight was irritating in itself. Meiros was already at Valas’ side, searching the drow for injuries to heal.

“Next time you blast a dragon off of me, how about you warn me to cover my ears?!” from the way that Dominic laughed and Meiros winced, Valas guessed he was yelling. It took Meiros a few minutes to get his ears to stop ringing.

In the meantime, Dominic was looking down at the carcass of a dragon and still grinning widely. “I killed that.”

His twin sister, Eve, rolled her eyes. “We helped.”

“But I landed the killing blow!” he countered, causing his sister to roll her eyes again. “I can’t wait to go home and tell my daughter her daddy’s a dragon slayer!”

“Baby dragon.”

All party members looked to Hai, who was the next to get Meiros’ attention, though he often fought from a distance and thus avoided most harm. The sorcerer’s familiar, a raven named Obsidian, sat for once quietly on his shoulder.

Dominic’s grin was starting to fade. “What?”

“You killed a baby dragon,” Hai stated matter-of-factly, nodding toward the carcass.

Dominic didn’t look all that proud anymore. “Well – well you guys helped kill it!”

Eve put on her best sympathetic sister act and clapped Dominic on the shoulder. “But brother, you landed the killing blow.”

“You’re the great dragon slayer!” Elizira chimed in, exchanging a grin with Zintra, who shook her head.

Valas thought Dominic looked like he would cry.

“I didn’t want to kill a baby!”

“It did attack me,” Valas pointed out. He felt Hai sling an arm around his shoulders – the sorcerer’s other arm rested across Meiros’ shoulders. It was an affectionate attempt to keep both men near him, though it also prevented Meiros from walking over and healing the other members of their party.

“Well we couldn’t have that,” Elizira teased and chuckled at the unimpressed look Valas shot her.

Zintra picked up her shield, slinging it onto her back, signaling that it was time for their group to continue farther into the cave. After all, they had a serial murderer to hunt. As she passed Dominic, she patted him on his arm, “Don’t worry. We’ll tell your daughter you slayed an evil adult dragon.”

No, no, no. This couldn’t have been happening. Not again. Not again.

Valas’ hands shook, covered in blood – in her blood, in his blood.

Just a few feet away, her body lay lifeless. She was looking in his direction, arm outstretched as if to beg him to stop, lips parted in a silent plead to spare her brother. Her eyes were wide with shock and tears stained her cheeks, marking her with the heartache, the pain of betrayal. But her eyes were also dim, lifeless. The midsection of the dress the alchemist wore, once a beautiful shade of green, was darkened and soaked with crimson. He could see where the blade had pierced her from behind all the way through to stick out the other end. Perhaps if the blade had been left in, she would have had more time. More time to struggle to live. More time to helplessly watch her brother die.

Just a few feet away, Eve stared lifelessly at him, lips parted as if to ask why he knelt over her brother’s dying body.

Underneath him, Dominic was dying. He was dying fast, the blade having pierced his heart from the front. The blade was still in him. That blade – Valas’ blade.

Valas’ hands shook as he removed the blade. Leaving it in wouldn’t have made a difference. The others were too far away. Meiros was too far away. He wouldn’t get there in time to heal Dominic. None of the others even knew what was happening. None of them knew of the danger. None of them knew about the death and the dying.

He frantically took his cloak off and bunched it together, pressing it against the wound. Dominic whimpered against the pain. Valas felt his heart tear. Tears were in the corners of Dominic’s eyes – some escaped. Valas didn’t even register that he, himself, was crying too. He didn’t register that he was practically sobbing.

Not again.

For a split second, he didn’t see Dominic underneath him. He saw an older man – a drow with short silver hair, not quite white. He saw his hands around the hilt of a dagger. The drow reached up, touching his cheek with bloody fingers. He felt his mother’s presence behind him, looming over him. He saw the disgust on his father’s face beneath him.

“I should have killed you. You should be dead.”

And suddenly it wasn’t his father but Dominic underneath him. Dominic, staring up at him with sad eyes, but still with that caring look of a young father, of a friend, watching someone break. Dominic reached up, his arm shaking with the effort, his fingers and hand bloody from trying to hold his own wound and stop the bleeding he knew in his heart wouldn’t stop.

He weakly cupped his hand against Valas’ tearstained cheek. Valas’ eyes snapped from the wound to him.

“It’s going to be okay,” Dominic managed to get out, his voice quiet, weak. Each word was a struggle, but he looked determined not to die and leave them unsaid. “It’s not… your fault.”

Valas became aware of his own sobbing. “I’m so sorry.”

Dominic tried to shake his head but didn’t have the strength to. “Now you’re fond of me.” He put on his best smile but it wavered. He looked afraid of dying. He looked like a man desperate to live but with no cards left in the deck, no more moves to make.

Valas wanted to tell him he thought of the bard as one of his best friends but the words caught in his throat. He choked out a sob, gently grabbing Dominic’s hand and holding it against his cheek.

“Valas,” Dominic stressed, “Promise me… Promise me you’ll see my daughter.”

Valas started to shake his head.

“See my little Evanora,” he insisted, “She’ll need her – she’ll need her Uncle Val to show her…” He coughed up blood but refused to stop talking. “Show her how to survive… How to survive this cruel world. Tell her – tell her about her Auntie Eve. Tell her about the hero she was, smart and brave…” His words became slower, his eyes dimmer. “Tell her… Tell her that her daddy was a dragon slayer…”

Though he wanted to refuse, Valas slowly nodded. “I’ll tell her about the hero he was too.”

That made Dominic smile. “I always wanted to be a hero…”

With that, Dominic took his last breath.

It had been roughly one year. For roughly a year, he had tried not to think about Dominic or Eve, about any of the others he’d left behind. He’d chosen to run and had never stopped. He had sometimes taken odd jobs – assassinations usually – to earn money so he could feed himself and Spite – the spoiled spider had quite the appetite. But he was used to those jobs requiring only himself. It had been roughly one year since he’d worked in a party.

Now he found himself surrounded by strangers – Rihiri, a tiefling druid; Zaegar, a half-orc monk; Bilbo, a halfling rogue; and Sefhana, a half-elf ranger who he was fairly certain was the most annoying half-elf he’d ever met. Of course he pretended not to remember their names – he didn’t plan on sticking with them for long. They just needed to slay this beast, this… Well he remembered their names, not the beast’s. It was progress.

Still, those memories lingered in his mind. When battle began, his first instinct was to turn to Elizira and give her the mischievous grin that she knew was him asking her to lay down cover fire so he could get close to the enemy as safely as possible.

But Elizira wasn’t there. Instead when he turned he met Sefhana’s gaze. He’d just met her not too long ago, but he assumed it was safe to say they weren’t going to get along.

Where he expected to see Zintra charging into battle, sword drawn, he saw Zaegar, reigning his fists down rather than a blade. Where he expected to see Dominic and Eve concocting some crazy plan that might get everyone killed but hey, at least they’d look good doing it, he saw Rihiri throw Bilbo and the halfling land ungracefully with his face against the ground. Where he expected to see Obsidian swooping down and pecking at enemies, he saw a large bear that had accompanied Rihiri.

And where he expected to see his lovers taking up the rear – Meiros with his crossbow, Hai with his staff and magic – he saw nothing but an empty space. Trees stood where he thought his lovers should have been.

He decided he didn’t like it here with these people early on. It was too familiar yet foreign, working with a group yet a group he had never known before. He’d learned to work in sync with his previous party, with his… friends.

He thought back to that party, to those faces he’d learned to affectionately call his friends – a couple of them more than friends. He thought back to first meeting Zintra, to hunting down that monster. He thought back to being by Zintra’s side as she recruited each of the others. He thought back to the nights they’d spent around a campfire, Dominic creating lyrics to songs on the spot that made no sense but made everyone laugh.

He thought back to Eve, staring lifelessly, silently pleading at him to spare her brother. He thought back to Dominic, to making a promise he couldn’t keep.

He decided that he wouldn’t allow himself to enjoy it here with these people. He wouldn’t allow himself to get close, to stay. He would leave them behind as soon as he collected his money. He didn’t need any more friends. He didn’t need anyone caring about him. He didn’t need the blood of those he cared about on his hands anymore.

He looked around at the group of strangers he didn’t want to get to know. He thought that if he wasn’t in their lives, then certainly their lives would be longer.

Valas stared down at the toy in his hand – a small, wooden dragon. It was clearly a child’s toy, and he had no clue why it was on a corpse unless… He stood up and turned from the corpse, not wanting to find out if it was of a child or an adult. He stared at the little dragon, stirring a memory he’d tried hard to push down.

He saw Dominic using one of his daggers to carve a twig into a crude tiny little spear. He carved it too thin, of course, and it just fell apart the moment he tried to stab a piece of meat with it. Eve playfully rolled her eyes.

“You should leave the woodcarving to the, well, the woodcarvers,” she teased.

He saw himself snatch the dagger back and investigate the blade. “Keep taking my daggers and you’re going to dull the blades.”

Dominic shrugged. “If I want to be a woodcarver, I need to practice.”

Zintra looked up from her meal and cocked an eyebrow. “You want to be a woodcarver?”

Dominic grinned cheekily. “Maybe, maybe not.”

Eve playfully shoved him. “If you were a woodcarver, Evanora would have more toys than she does.”

“She has plenty of toys!” Dominic protested, “Her Auntie Eve spoils her.”

This time it was Eve’s turn to grin. “Well I have to be her favorite relative.”

Dominic barked out laughter at that.

“You should make her a toy dragon,” Elizira chimed in, “After all her daddy’s a dragon slayer.”

Dominic opened his mouth to agree when Eve added, “And it’d be small enough to be a baby dragon.” Dominic shot her a sour look and the party erupted in laughter around the small campfire they had built.

And suddenly Valas was staring at a small, wooden toy. A little dragon in his hands. And he was back in the cave with a different party, a different set of faces. The only familiar thing was Spite, perched on his shoulder, staring at him with her multitude of eyes. For the first time in roughly a year, he slipped the toy into his bag with one thought on his mind.

Evanora would like this.

You’ve got to be kidding me, Valas wanted to say, staring defiantly at the half-orc in front of him. Was it truly the only way to get what they needed? Couldn’t they just kill them all and go about their lives? Did he really need to give this up?

Of course he did. He mentally reminded himself that this was life and life was never kind, at least not for long. Anything kind would surely be taken away from him – kind gestures, kind moments, kind people. It would all become memories soaked in blood. It always had.

He thought he saw Sefhana look like she was going to try to swipe it from him. Which would have been ridiculous in his opinion, trying sleight of hand out on a rogue. But then Zaegar had his attention again – he told himself the monk could easily get his attention just because he was shirtless. He refused to think any farther into that.

The next words out of the drow’s mouth was a price. It was a ridiculous price that anyone in their right mind wouldn’t pay. It was a silly item that wasn’t even worth half that amount. At first he didn’t think he’d heard correctly when Zaegar agreed. But as he saw the coin, he realized he’d somehow walked right into a deal that should have greatly pleased him. He’d never reluctantly taken money before. But as he put on his best cocky grin and traded the small item for the gold, he felt just that – reluctance.

He watched as the wooden toy, the little dragon was given away so they could continue on and finish their quest. He told himself it was for the best. He didn’t ever plan on seeing the Crawfords again. He hadn’t even been there for Dominic and Eve’s funerals, having ran away as they had been traveling to take the bodies home.

He told himself he didn’t deserve to take such a gift to little Evanora, who would be eleven by now. He didn’t deserve to hand her a toy with the same hands that had been soaked in her father and aunt’s blood. He didn’t deserve to see her smiling face again, to be graced with her presence again. He didn’t deserve to have such innocence in his life.

He told himself it was for the best.

He pretended that celebrations bored him, but rather they made him uncomfortable. He didn’t think he deserved to be celebrated, and he guessed the townsfolk might have felt odd, having a drow in the party they were cheering on. Or perhaps it was such a small town that they didn’t care. He found it hard to keep track of every place that despised his race.

He watched the others have fun, mostly sticking to the shadows or eating when he felt hungry. Receiving gifts from the townsfolk wasn’t something he was used to or expected. All he’d wanted was to get paid so he could leave, but free food was free food.

He rummaged through the gifts, not quite caring about them and halfheartedly putting them away in his bag. He froze, though, when he noticed a small, wooden toy. It lifted the little dragon up and inspected it. He wasn’t sure if it was new or the same one. But either way, somehow he now held a toy dragon in his hands. He glanced around, trying to figure out who was responsible for it – it couldn’t have been a coincidence. But to his knowledge, no one was giddily watching him, waiting for him to see the toy. To his knowledge, no one cared.

He glanced to Spite – he guessed that if spiders could shrug, she would have – before carefully placing the toy in his bag.

He wondered who he would owe for this. It wasn’t a coincidence, he was sure of it. And nothing in life came free. Someone knew about the toy, knew what it had meant to him though he hadn’t spoken it. Someone had gone out of their way to get either the same one or a new one and give it to him. He thought someone clearly wanted something from him, but what? He didn’t know, and he wasn’t looking forward to finding out.

He knew this city. He realized that the instant his stomach dropped and he felt sick. He’d been traveling around with Rihiri, Zaegar, Sefhana, and Bilbo for a little over a year now, and he’d been praying to the goddess that they wouldn’t journey to this city. Perhaps this was Lolth’s way of punishing him for not being devout.

It was a big city, but he doubted luck was on his side. He pretended not to know where shops or inns were. He pretended not to know the city, but he was quieter than usual. This city brought back memories that should have put a smile on his face but instead tore at his heart. This city made him look at his hands and see red.

He stood outside a vendor, one he recognized and resisted the urge to groan. He remembered almost punching this vendor for trying to swindle him out of his money while stating not so kind words about drow. The only thing that had kept him from decking the man had been Hai, gently but firmly grasping his arm and pulling him away. He remembered also hearing the man scream something about his hair being on fire.

His hair had clearly grown back – he looked as irritating as ever. He eyed Valas, but kept most of his attention on Rihiri and Zaegar, though technically Bilbo was the one talking to him. The man’s eyes were nervous glued to the tiefling and half-orc, who looked intimidating from his angle. It probably didn’t make the man feel comforted to see the party was trailed by a bear and a wolf.

Valas, however, hadn’t realized he’d neglected to put his hood up. Every now and then the man glanced at him as if he thought he might have recognized him before his attention snapped back to the druid and monk. Valas was tempted to tell Bilbo to steal whatever he needed while the merchant was preoccupied.

“Uncle Val!” he heard a familiar shriek and felt something – or rather someone – collide with him and refuse to let go. He looked down to find a twelve year old girl with wavy red hair tied up in pigtails. Though he hadn’t seen her in a few years and hadn’t expected her to recognize him, he knew instantly who she was.

Evanora.

She released him from her hug and his eyes darted around, searching the crowd for the face of her mother, Amelia. He didn’t see her which both relieved and concerned him. He didn’t think he could face her – the last time he’d seen her, she’d told him and Zintra to bring her husband back safely. However he also didn’t think Evanora should be out without her mother.

He knelt down in front of the little girl, not quite sure what to say. She looked up at his companions and gave a small wave with a big grin before her attention was back on him. Her grin wavered.

“Do you remember me?” her voice cracked, setting off alarms in his head. She was pure, innocent, a child. She didn’t deserve to be sad.

“Yes – Yes, of course I do!” he said quickly, watching with relief as a smile returned to her face. He swallowed down his emotions and tried to put on a smile of his own, cupping her face in his hands. “Look at how big you’ve grown! Why you’re practically an adult!”

She giggled at that. “Mommy lets me go grocery shopping by myself!”

He doubted that was true. Amelia was a protective mother, even though the city was fairly safe and most in it knew and were fond of the Crawford family. “Does she now? You must be so brave to walk these streets alone!”

She grinned and bounced up and down, her pigtails bouncing with her. “I am! I am!” It was clear she had her father’s energy. When she stopped bouncing, she looked at him as if searching for something. “Where have you been?”

He felt like she’d stabbed him with one of his own daggers. If only, he thought.

“I uh…” he tried to think of something, “I’ve um – I’ve been on a secret mission.”

She gasped. “A secret mission?!”

“Shhh, Evanora,” he gently hushed her, “It’s a secret.”

She made a big O with her mouth and quickly nodded her head.

“I’m actually still on it,” he explained. He didn’t like lying to her, but he thought lying was one of the things he did best.

“Why are you here?” she asked curiously.

He thought of that small toy and swung his backpack off his shoulder. “I’ve got a gift for you.” He reached in and gently took the dragon toy out, handing it to her.

She gasped and took it, grinning from ear to ear.

He smiled, genuinely and affectionately. “Now when you look at this,” he spoke up to get her attention again, “I want you to remember you daddy, okay?”

“My daddy?”

He nodded. “You see, your daddy and Auntie Eve, they were brave, brave heroes. The bravest this world will ever know! And your daddy – Why, he was a dragon slayer!”

Her eyes widened. “He was?”

Valas found himself mirroring her grin. “He was! I was attacked one time by this evil evil dragon, and your daddy saved my life!”

“Can I tell Mommy that story?” she asked eagerly.

He thought that it was only because she was young and distracted by her excitement that she didn’t ask him to come with her. “Of course!”

She threw her arms around him, and he found himself hugging her back and not quite wanting to let go. He didn’t want to leave her in the past again. But he had to let go. If he stayed, she would only get hurt. And she would hate him if she ever found out the truth. He stood up and watched her bounce off to find her mother.

He felt eyes on him and, unsurprisingly, found the others had been watching. He didn’t blame them. In their shoes, he probably would have watched too.

“She’s the daughter of someone I knew,” he explained without needing to be asked.

“A friend?” Rihiri asked. During their nights spent together, he had opened up to her a couple of times, though he’d kept majority of the details to himself.

“I don’t have friends,” he stated firmly, though he was fairly certain the look Sefhana gave him translated to bullshit. “Not… anymore.” He didn’t think he’d ever admitted that he’d once had friends before. At least not to anyone but Rihiri. He thought the silence that followed was awkward and uncomfortable. “You can ask what happened.” His own voice sounded demanding even to him, as if he wanted them to accuse him of what they didn’t know had happened.

Zaegar smiled softly at him – Valas thought he smiled too much, and on that note, flexed too much too, not that he would ever tell the monk to stop. He liked watching him smile and flex. “You’ll tell us when you’re ready.”

Valas pulled his gaze away. He wanted them to accuse him. Murderer. Monster. Traitor. He wanted those words screamed at him, spoken like the truth they were.

“He died,” he stated it, his voice cold yet shaking, the sorrow he’d never allowed himself to grieve threatening to shatter the ice he’d put between himself and his heart. “He died with his sister. They were murdered.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo spoke up before the others could, but it was clear that even Sefhana sympathized.

Valas found he couldn’t stop talking, speaking words he didn’t want to. “When we first met, I… I was on a quest to avenge them. I’ve sworn to kill the man who killed them.” Before any of them could offer to hunt someone down, he added, “It’s something that I must do. And eventually I’ll get the chance to. Until then, it doesn’t matter.”

“If we run into him, tell us and we can help,” Rihiri promised, and Valas looked away.

He didn’t have the heart to tell them they had already met that man.

“Thank you,” he said instead, “But I’ll kill him… When I’m strong enough, he’ll die.”

He didn’t have the heart to tell Rihiri that this was linked to the bandages she’d seen around his arms and wrists. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that this was linked to the scars and cuts she’d seen on his arms, wrists, waist, and thighs. He didn’t have the heart to tell any of them that he was talking about himself.

#dungeons & dragons #Dungeons and Dragons #d&d #dnd #fanfic #c: valas telenna #s: band of misfits #v: let's go on an adventure #oc #my writing #other's oc #jellyfishlovesloki #nutellanewt #nat #theoneandonlyfloozyjesus #iodine kisses #i'll tag other characters tomorrow #and add this to my fic masterlist tomorrow ok #*mine

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zippdementia · 6 years ago

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Part 65 Alignment May Vary: Twists and Turns Part 3

Aldric lies in a crumpled heap on the ground, his head a pool of blood and brains. Blackrazor lies silent beside him. Imoaza, still in her Drow disguise, instantly understands Zaeintar’s intentions. The man had to kill Aldric in order to fool the House Captain. Otherwise, all three of them would be attacked. Imoaza doesn’t have human empathy, her entire race could be described as “for the greater good,” (though that good is often for snake-kind, not for most others). Now that same mentality causes her to feel no grief, no remorse, as she follows Zaeintar’s lead in deceiving the House Captain.

“We found him wandering the halls,” Zaeintar is saying.

“Then why didn’t you detain him?” the House Captain, Raznika, asks sharply. Imoaza is quick to step in, as Zaeintar fumbles over his words.

“We tried, and the coward ran. We chased him all the way here. He’s not alone, either. He has companions, all of them working to destroy you.”

As if on cue, there is a tremendous explosion that rocks the whole pyramid. Zaeintar shoots Imoaza a look. Carrick must have succeeded in destroying the portals.

With the help of this, and some decent deception rolls, Imoaza is able to convince the male guards to go with Zaeintar to check out the explosion, while Imoaza escorts the House Captain to her chambers. The hardest part of all this for Imoaza is convincing the House Captain that she’s seen her before, as the House Captain knows all of the Drow in her service.

DM Notes: we never actually finish addressing this in the game as things move too fast, but behind the scenes I figure that Imoaza made her disguise based off of the dead Drow female that Zaeintar killed during their command center fight. That’s the “official” reason why Raznika trusts her. She thinks they are the same Drow!

Of course, this eventually leads to a fight. At the very top of the pyramid, right outside of Raznika’s chambers, Imoaza launches her attack while Raznika is distracted looking out onto the destruction and chaos that Carrick’s actions have created.

“You dare to strike a member of Drow royalty? You dare to strike a follower of the great Azor Khul?! My poisons will course through your veins and drag you down into your own personal hell.”

“Your poisons will be be like a pleasant, warming fire inside me.”

Imoaza is a vicious opponent one-on-one and immune to drow poison. The House Captain soon retreats into her chamber, slamming the door behind her. Imoaza gives chase and a blast of fire emanates from the trapped door, engulfing her.

Meanwhile, Aldric sits in the hallway, breathing deeply. “You ready to get up, man?” Blackrazor asks him. Aldric nods and looks at the blood that had sprayed onto the wall and floors of the hallway. It is slowly disappearing as Zaeintar’s illusion spell wears off, his final bid to get Aldric and Imoaza within striking range of the house captain. So Aldric, very much not dead, gets up and finds his way through the hallways, following the sounds of Imoaza’s magic. He arrives in time to see her hit by the trapped door, pushes her aside, and leaps through the fire, charging Raznika. Raznika is crouched behind a hastily kicked over desk, firing small poisoned bolts at him that he ignores, even as they pierce his armor. Then the two lock blades, Aldric swinging Blackrazor in arcs that seem to tear apart even the air itself, and Raznika swinging a longsword in one hand and a whip of nine-tails in another.

Aldric backs off after the first volley of attacks, surprised by the tenacity of his opponent. The Drow circles him, waiting for any opening. Aldric kicks the over turned desk at her and in the brief moment of respite, grabs his horn and blows it, summoning the souls of the Green Company.

A dozen ghostly warriors burst into the small room, solemnly calling out the songs of the Green Company while they descend upon the bewildered Drow. The House Captain fights bravely, even takes three of the spirits down, but eventually she falls to the axes and blades of the company. Aldric crouches by her and rips the blue stone marker from around her neck.

The fight over, the Green Company gathers around Aldric. “Commander,” they ask, “what are your orders?”

Aldric stares out over the varied faces and figures of the Company, recognizing everyone. There is Beanpole, the lanky fighter who lost an ear fighting a troll. Hazelbrush, the loud mouthed female halfling who could outdrink Aldric even on a thirsty night. Jacques, a foreigner to the main continent, who spoke little but always knew how to make Aldric laugh. A dozen men and women before him, and he knew all of them. As they look to him as their new commander, Aldric feels nostalgia wash over him and a pain grips his heart. He knows that these are just shadows, phantoms born of his own memories. And while solid enough to harm his enemies, his destiny lies not in holding onto the past but in creating the future and a new company. He wipes away tears and tells the company that the group needs to get inside the silver monument and that the armies below must be kept distracted. The company roars its approval, Hazelbrush leaping down from the Drow’s fine table where she had sat her fat rump and leading the charge out of the room and down the side of the pyramid, a ghostly army rushing down to do battle against the enemy of their commander, Aldric.

As they descend, Carrick appears, leaving his gaseous form and staring down with the other two over the scene of devastation. All is chaos below. Drow fight the company while the hordes of hobgoblins try to regather themselves as the portal device continually. But before they can, there is a massive explosion (one of Zaeintar’s traps, set for his own kind?)

The whole scene goes crazy at this point: a chasm runs down the cavern, splitting the earth around and underneath the Yuan-Ti pyramid. The pyramid buckles and begins to sag, cracks appearing all down its length as its tremendous weight is pulled into the chasm. From the chasm climbs the beast from below, the strange long limbed creature. It howls and rushes into battle.

The players fly (Imoaza’s magic spell) over this destruction and down to the silver monument. Aldric spots a slot in the monument’s door and inserts the blue stone key then removes it. There is a sound like a soft bell and the door slides smoothly open, revealing a white passageway. Aldric ducks inside quickly. Imoaza hesitates, looking back out at the battle and beyond it, to the pyramid that is slowly beginning to break apart.

Carrick sees her look and stops, not sure how to comfort the Yuan Ti, unsure even of how to read the look in her snake like eyes. “We have to go,” he says softly. She nods and then turns and brushes past him without a word. Carrick looks into the white passageway and fights off a sudden and almost debilitating feeling of deja vu, like he’s been here before. Then he enters and the door slides shut behind them.

The Surveyor and Carrick’s Past Life

“I am Azor Klhul. Did you really think you could enter my sanctum without me noticing? But worry not: for now you interest me and as long as my interest continues, so too shall your life.”

“Oh piss off,” Aldric said, staring back at the face that seemed to be magically covering the walls and ceiling of this rounded entrance hallway. “I already killed one of your dragons.”

“And I destroyed your little portal out there!” Carrick added in. Aldric nodded.

“Yeah, it isn’t great out there. Would you like to join us and take a look? Your army is completely falling apart.”

Azor Khul’s face hesitated and his eyes closed for a long moment, his face twitching as if he was reacting to something none of them could see.

“No...” he said slowly. Then the eyes opened and they were full of fury. “You insignificant little worms!” he shouted. “How DARE you disrupt my plans? You only delay the inevitable by this! You think you have saved your little valley? We shall regrow! We shall recreate!”

“But the path to the surface is cut off,” Carrick said.

“Which means you are stuck here with us,” Aldric said.

“And we don’t intend to let you leave this place. It will be your tomb,” Imoaza said.

“No,” Azor Khul said, and this time there was no denial in his voice, only a promise. “I shall go on. And so shall you, though it will not be pleasant. You humanoids are always seeking eternal life, are you not? Well, my god can give it to you!”

“We know better than to believe the lies of Tiamet!” Carrick retorted.

“Tiamet? Haha, that weak little bitch, trapped by the devils? No, the Hobgoblins and the Drow may believe I worship Tiamet but that is only because their minds would break if they saw my god’s true form. It is easier for them, simpler if they don’t try to understand too much.”

“Who do you serve, then?”

“I serve a true arbiter of life and death. You shall meet them soon enough. You will be killed now, but you won’t die. I’ll bring you back, with my god’s power, and you shall become part of our eternal study. Everlasting life, however unpleasant, will be yours. But for now I will say farewell.”

At this, the doors at the end of the hallway opened and the companions found themselves facing down four humans, wielding guns--reminiscent of the ones that Zaeintar carried, but much larger. At their sides crouched four black beasts, like smaller versions of the one Aldric fought at Brindol, ridden by the Goblin who once rode Regiarix, the Black Dragon. These were not dragons, however. They were something new.

“Men, unleash the Grendelspawn and shoot down any of the intruders who survive their attack.”

One of the men, taller then the others, with a receding hairline of short cropped black hair, barked an order and the black beasts rushed forward. Carrick unleashed his fire whip in preparation and suddenly the man who had given the order called out one more word:

“Commander?”

Within seconds of the word, the men all turn their weapons on the Grendelspawn, blasting them into oblivion while the players crouch in readiness and some confusion. Then the leader of the men strides forward and welcomes Carrick back to his ship.

Obviously this leads to some more confusion but we finally get some of the back story for what’s going on with Carrick as the man (who calls himself Bob) tries to explain.

Carrick was once known by another name: The Surveyor. He traveled the stars bringing human life to planets where he felt it was appropriate. He did this via the use of crystals, which he would implant in the earth and which somehow gave birth to new life. When The Surveyor arrived on Toril, he found other races already there and especially bonded with the Yuan Ti (why is uncertain). He shared his technology with them but when they learned of his plans to populate Toril with human life, they became suspicious of him, believing that he meant to place their civilization under human rule. Thinking of themselves as a master race, they turned on The Surveyor and he was forced to flee the planet, leaving behind many of his crystals, which would later be found and harnessed by the Gulug, precipitating the War of Seven Sorrows.. which leads into Karina’s backstory.

The Surveyor had one gem, a huge jade stone, which was filled with a dark essence, a Star Spawn from beyond the veil of reality. Unknown to the Surveyor, this gem had been in communication with the Yuan Ti and had lent them some of its power to build their hex blades. It also had subtly directed them to construct a device by which they could summon it into the physical world (the same device the players found in the basement of the pyramid). When The Surveyor boarded his ship and left Toril, the Yuan Ti activated this device and called for their new god. And he answered.

The Surveyor’s ship was taken over and directed back own to earth. In a panic, The Surveyor ejected the jade gemstone from his ship, where it broke apart in the atmosphere and spread around the world. But it was too late: the Star Spawn was able to manifest and directed the ship back to Toril, where it crashed into the Yuan Ti’s valley with the force of a comet, destroying all but their temple (and burying that deep underground). From the ship emerged the Star Spawn and he began wantonly slaughtering all he found, mostly the Yuan Ti. The Surveyor survived the crash as well and faced off against the Star Spawn. In the culminating battle, The Surveyor was killed and the Star Spawn so grievously wounded that it fell into a deep hibernation. With its gemstone broken and scattered, it could not reawaken.

The ship’s crew, Bob and others, hunkered down to wait out the milenia for the return of their master. But when the ship’s doors next opened, it was to admit Azor Khul. Drawn by the slumbering but still active mind of the Star Spawn, he immediately directed that a search begin for the jade gemstone pieces. He brought with him a host of drow to help and they soon captured and subjugated more creatures into his service. They began searching the world over for the gemstones and, more quickly than might be imagined, found them. Many had been carved into relics of power by civilizations that recognized their power (if not exactly where that power came from or what harnessing it could mean). As the gemstones were gathered, Azor Khul began directing his forces in a attack against the Elsir Vale, setting up portals so that he could send massive armies quickly into the Vale without having to traverse the far flung hallways of the Underdark. His plan was to take over the Valley and establish a new society to worship him and to, eventually, spread beyond the Vale’s borders. He was on the very edge of success.

And then, unexpectedly, The Surveyor returned as a new life, named Carrick.

This story is made somewhat humorous by the inability of the characters to grasp some of the concepts discussed. Spaceship? What’s that? Well, do you know a sailing ship? And do you know the sky? This is like a ship that sails a really big sky. The more the characters try to understand, the slower and more simple Bob becomes in his explanations, describing RE-AAA-LLY BIIIG SKY SAAAAIIILING and THEY COME FROM BEYOND THE CLOOOOOUDS. It’s communication at its finest.

While the story is being told, the players have been taken to a scientific bay to be healed by a scary looking dentist chair called the Enervator and they get to meet the scientist running this area, a woman with shoulder length brown hair and an easy smile named Fiona. Fiona and Bob also fill them in on the party’s best next steps.

A Gross Gamble

“Azor Khul has taken refuge in the command center,” Fiona said, running her fingers along one wall and quickly scanning the symbols and pictures that appeared there. “He’s locked down most of the ship and he’s rerouting power. Massive amounts, though I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”

“Hey, maybe you could show me how to work this thing?” Aldric said, moving closer to Fiona. “In return... I could show you my sword.”

Fiona blinked, not comprehending. “But I can already see your sword. It’s there in your scabbard.”

“You haven’t seen it unsheathed,” Aldric replied, winking.

“We don’t have much time,” Bob said, cutting the innuendo short. “Whatever Azor Khul is planning, it won’t be good for any of you. Commander, what are your orders?”

Carrick stared back for a moment before realizing Bob was addressing him. Then he looked around awkwardly, as if waiting for someone else to speak. When no one came to his rescue, he cleared his throat and spoke: “Well, this is my ship, right? Then it’s time to try and take it back.”

Bob nodded. “Then I have some weapons to help you.”

“And don’t forget the slugs,” Fiona added, looking past the hovering Aldric.

“Slugs?” Imoaza asked. “What are we supposed to do with slugs?”

Bob and Fiona start handing out weapons. Aldric gets dual pistols with a high critical range. Aldric gets an anti-matter rifle. Imoaza gets a rifle with a grenade launcher and number of other attachments. None of them know at all how to use them and a little pandemonium hits when Aldric decides to test his weapons by firing them at the floor, sending lasers bouncing all over the room. Those will come into play again.

Three more important things happen this session. First, the players opt to be infected with Slugspawn, living pieces of the Starspawn which will wrap around their brains and protect them from Azor Khul’s psychic energy and attacks but which also runs the teensy weensy risk of causing their heads to explode as the slugspawn matures and takes over the host’s body. Still, they decide to go through with the risk because (a) it’s a huge payoff to be able to avoid psychic attacks and charms, and (b) because it’s epic as hell. The implant process is pretty harrowing, as the slugspawn finds the nearest orifice and burrows into the body (for Aldric, it burrows through his right nipple).

The second thing that happens is that they are attacked on the way to Azor Khul. They use the spaceship’s vents to bypass all the doors Azor Khul has locked but are found by his Grendelspawn. Aldric wrestles with one, finally blasting it multiple times in the head with his laser pistols, and Imoaza launches a grenade (accidentally) at a group of others, blasting apart the vents and dropping them outside of and beneath the ship (saved by Imoaza’s fly spell), where the third important thing happens.

For here, beneath the ship, is the source of Azor Khul’s energy, the power he is pumping back into the spaceship. Here lie row upon row of tubes wherein float bodies that are very familiar to the players. They see the generals of the Red Hand, Varanthian, and the Dragons that they fought throughout their campaign. The tubes are pumping out piles of goop which then form into clones of these figures, rising up to face the players (and explaining where Azor Khul’s infinite army comes from). But before they can fight, the goop is sucked back into the tubes and the tubes all empty, shooting their contents up huge pipes into the spaceship and the spaceship comes alive above them, rumbling as it shifts in the cavern and lights begin turning on all over it.

Blackrazor goes a little nuts down here, realizing that the tubes are replicating souls. He tells Aldric that they could stay here forever, devouring this endless supply of artifical souls and growing ever more powerful. Aldric finds himself actually disturbed by the concept and for the first time a thin sliver of doubt crosses his mind as to whether he wishes to remain attached to Blackrazor. The blade becomes completely incensed when the tubes shoot their energy into the ship above them, screaming out that they are stealing his souls!

Only one of the bodies is outside of a tube and remains behind after this, that of an eviscerated and dissected Bronze Dragon, still sickeningly alive, its brain visible and gyrating as the thing shakes in its bonds: a number of wire plugged into its remains that feed up to the ship. The poor creature stirs when it sees that Aldric carries the Rod of Storms, for this is the same dragon who gave that rod to Karina what seems like years ago (but was actually about a month or two). The Dragon desperately relays a message: “The trade I made you... the time for you to get the treasure I promised has come... you must retrieve it now before it is too late! The winged one has already learned the secrets of the crystals. Soon he will be unstoppable.”

Before the Dragon can say more a massive power surge pulls his life force from him and up through the wires into the ship. The cavern begins to collapse and Imoaza uses her fly spell again to lift them up and up and up, past an airlock and back into the ship, rising up through its innards towards...

... towards the Starspawn.

The massive beast lies dormant inside a huge glass tank. The wires and plugs that extend inside the tank are sparking with energy, yet the creature does not move. Carrick grimaces as he sees the beast and for the first time he recalls dying at its hands.

But the players rise past it, onto a bridge that leads into the control room. The doors open with the blue stone rectangle that Aldric still carries and they come into a long room filled with desks and computers and other equipment that they do not recognize the purpose of. And there, at the far end of the room, standing before a huge wall of glass that looks out onto a dark cavern, stands Azor Khul.

The muscular Dragonborn turns as they enter and he snarls. “Too late,” he says, and slams his hand down on a button on the console nearest him. The ship rumbles and the cavern outside the glass speeds past them as the ship tears through the underground, bursts from out of the earth and heads up and up and up.

Until they all see they have left their world behind and entered the big big sky. They are in space.

“Now, we can talk,” Azor Khul says.

Next time, the Final Fight. At least, the Final Fight of this world.

#dungeons and dragons #DND 5e #Azor Khul #spelljammer

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hermanwatts · 5 years ago

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Sensor Sweep: Hellboy, Andre Norton, Clive Cussler

D&D (Jon Mollison): fter nearly forty years of tabletop gaming, it can get a little hard to recapture the fresh weirdness of Gygaxian fantasy. Particularly true in this day and age when the majority of D&D creatives believe that the height of creativity is something along the lines of, “just like before, only WOMEN!” or “just like half-orcs, but half-demons/half-dragons/half-drow/half-kitchen-sink”. So it was with some relish that a friend pointed out What Happened at Wyvern Rock.

Genre Ponderings (Wasteland & Sky): Not too long ago I wrote a review of two different adventure books. This was done to emphasize the small ways men’s adventure stories had changed over the years. The first was a Dirty Harry-inspired ’70s romp that leaned on hopelessness for drama, and the other was a post-apocalyptic trek where misery lurked under the surface as an inescapable reality. The creeping doom had been slowly consuming adventure fiction for a while.

RPG (Hackslash Master): Fantastic creatures are stories and manifestations of ideas we have that represent our concerns or fears. I will list a few to illustrate my point. Werewolves are about fears of alcoholic behavior, giants are about our experiences of adults and our fears of them as children. a lich is a monster who denies your ability to achieve autonomy over your life, because the men before you refuse to die and make way for their children, vampires represent our fears and concerns over rape and death, zombies represent our fears of rampant consumerism and a loss of identity.

Writers (Karavansara): Clive Cussler was a man that wrote book about sea adventure, and used the proceeds to have real-life sea adventures – and to collect classic cars. He projected a certain joy de vivre that made me like him even when I staggered to finish Valhalla on the third attempt. And later I found out I liked his other series much better – and I absolutely loved his memoirs about treasure hunting and relic salvaging.

Fiction (DMR Books): As it so happens, Mr. Powers’ first novel in 1976 was a planetary swashbuckler titled The Skies Discrowned. He hammered it out for Laser Books and got his first paycheck as an author. Tim quit his job at the pizza joint and has never worked a “real job” since. The Skies Discrowned is solid, but it does show the marks of being a first novel and of being written in some haste. Here’s Tim remembering the writing of that novel.

Fiction (Dark Worlds Quarterly): A girl is killed on the links of Harrison, NJ’s finest country club, her body covered in scratches and her head battered to a ruin. De Grandin and Trowbridge examine the body as well as several others, a boy who claims he was also attacked–by a gorilla in a tuxedo, and a young man named Manly who has a bullet wound in his shoulder. De Grandin puts all the pieces together when he connects the events with an escape lunatic, Beneckendorff, who had turned children into ape-like monsters during the War.

Horror Fiction (MarzAat): “The Horror-Horn”, E. F. Benson, 1922. The story opens with the narrator on winter holiday at Swiss mountain resort near Mt. Alhubel. (This may or may not be a real place – I definitely see a Mt. Alphhubel in Switzerland but no Alhubel in a web search). He is there with his cousin Professor Ingram, an expert in physiology and a mountain climber. In an English newspaper, Ingram reads a report about the yeti (though that name is not used).

New Release (John C. Wright): Colonel Preston Lost didn’t think of himself as reckless. He believed in preparation, proper equipment, and patience in stalking the prey. But, in reality, he was not a cautious man. Having followed a spaceship into the black storm clouds above the Bermuda Triangle, he flew through a time portal to the end of days, and crash-landed on Pangaea Ultima with few supplies and no way of returning home. Lost is a man of many talents, though, and anything should be possible for him. Having found himself in a world at war, he decides to embark on a journey to set things right.

RPG (Monsters & Manuals): Neutral Evil is the easiest to explain in this way. Here is a character who has no interest in the furtherance of anything beyond himself, and especially not in the grand conflict between Law and Chaos which permeates the multiverse. He is completely self-centred and devoted to his own pleasure and success. That this can turn to evil is obvious. The more difficult questions are where Lawful Neutrality and Chaotic Neutrality turn to evil. Lawful Neutrality – the absolute insistence on the letter of the law and the preservation of order – can clearly have negative consequences where it results in harsh or unmerciful application.

Appendix N (Brain Leakage): But I think after reading cavegirl’s post, I have what I’d call my “5-Minute Knife Fight” version of Appendix N: pre-supposing a brand new player—one who has no prior knowledge or experience of D&D, fantasy, or roleplaying games—what three books would I give him to teach him about D&D’s underlying concepts to help him understand and run a game quickly?

Fiction (Goodman Games): Born as Alice Mary Norton in 1912, Norton started writing while she was still in high school in Cleveland, Ohio. In fact, she completed her first novel while still attending high school, though it was not published until later in 1938. Wishing to pursue writing as a career, in 1934 she had her name legally changed to Andre Alice Norton, and adopted several male-sounding pen names so as to prevent her gender from becoming an obstacle to sales in the first market she wrote for: young boys literature.

Art (DMR Books): Frazetta had been approached by George Lucas to do concept art for Star Wars. Frank, who made several house payments by way of his movie posters for Hollywood in the the early ‘60s, wanted the same deal he was getting from every other client by the mid-’70s: creative freedom and ownership of the originals. Lucas wouldn’t go for it. His loss. The producers of Battlestar Galactica were more accommodating. As Frank put it in 2001.

Fiction (Patheos): This is why we invited science fiction and fantasy legend Tim Powers to be one of our keynote speakers at Trying to Say God. Powers has won the World Fantasy Award twice for his novels Declare and Last Call. Disney optioned his book On Stranger Tides for a Pirates of the Caribbean movie. (I recommend you skip the movie and read the book.) His novel The Anubis Gates is one of the seminal works of the sub-genre now known as “steampunk,” sci-fi narratives marked by the use of 19th century fashion and technology–steam power–in anachronistic settings. Along with K.W. Jeter and James Blaylock, Powers is considered one of Steampunk’s founding fathers.

Fiction (Rough Edges): You won’t find a better examination of the genre than Fred Blosser’s new book SONS OF RINGO: THE GREAT SPAGHETTI WESTERN HEROES. Blosser knows these movies very well and probably has seen more of them than anyone else I know, and he writes about them extremely well, discussing the actors, writers, and directors who made them and tracing the evolution of the genre over the years of its popularity. What you get is a very readable volume that’s both informative and entertaining.

Comic Books (Inverse.com): If you’re a comic book writer working today, the ultimate goal is to see your creations brought to life in a big-budget movie with celebrities in skin-tight leather suits

Mike Mignola has lived that dream. The prolific artist and writer created Hellboy in 1993 for Dark Horse Comics (DC passed on his pitch) and has since spawned an entire “Mignolaverse” of connected superheroes and villains, along with three movies (two from Guillermo del Toro starring Ron Perlman and a third featuring David Harbour as the Hell-spawned anti-hero) plus multiple animated films, video games, and even a reference on The Simpsons.

Sensor Sweep: Hellboy, Andre Norton, Clive Cussler published first on https://sixchexus.weebly.com/

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snatent · 6 years ago

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Wurzt Day Ever 2: Even Wurzt

Months went by in a vicious cycle. Bratwurzt ordered assassins on the robed drow, and a tenday later they would return in pieces. Bratwurzt would skulk and pace and snarl and demand Selex send another. Rinse and repeat.

And while Selex had at first been eager to encourage this newfound bloodlust, he began to worry that perhaps their target was untouchable, and he was wasting perfectly good men for nothing.

The latest taunt from Alolo had come in the form of an immaculately-wrapped box that Fitlei had brought to the throne in the main hall. Amburrla snatched it out of his hands, tugged at the string, and stripped away the cover. Inside was the assassin’s dagger, bent and stained in blood that the priestess was certain didn’t come from the dagger’s intended victim.

Tied to the hilt of the weapon was a small card, on which Alolo had inscribed: “xoxo.”

Amburrla snarled and flung the box off the dais. Fitlei bent over to inspect it.

“At least he was kind enough to wrap it this time.”

“Does Selex not have anyone better?” Amburrla spat. “It should not be so hard to kill one man.”

Fitlei picked up the gift, raising an eyebrow at the candid note. “That is a conversation for you and him, priestess.”

“Then bring him to me.”

Without another word, Fitlei exited the room. In his absence Amburrla paced and growled and stewed. Finally the priestess sat down in the uncomfortable thrown, letting the stiffness of the iron stoke the flames of their growing rage.

Before long Selex entered the great hall. Fitlei did not enter with him; the two were alone. The captain of the guard strolled casually, irreverently towards the throne. He did not so much as incline his head when he stepped up onto the dais and stood over the priestess.

“That was your last chance,” he said stoically.

Bratwurzt all but clawed their way up the throne, standing on top of it to bring themself closer to Selex’s height. The air of the priestess disappeared, but the snarl remained.

“My last chance? You talk like I’m the one who’s been failing over and over.”

Selex did not recoil. If it weren’t for the fact that he spoke, Brat would have thought him a stone statue.

“You have failed,” he said. “Failed to recognize when it’s time to give it up.”

“Every minute that man is alive is a continued disgrace to House McRib,” said Bratwurzt.

“We can’t afford to posture like this,” snarled Selex, placing a hand on Bratwurzt’s shoulder and pushing them back down onto the throne. “Not yet.”

Brat crossed their arms tightly over their chest and scowled.

“I must admit I hadn’t expected you to get so into character. Murder over a petty secret. So what if that drow tells all of Menzoberranzan that you’re Rinara? Daughters leave their mothers to start houses all the time.”

They flinched. “My name is Bratwurzt.”

“The point stands.”

Bratwurzt could feel their arms tightening across their chest. If Selex knew the whole of it-- the curse, the shapeshifting-- he’d put Brat out for good.

“Fine,” growled Bratwurzt. “I’ll drop it.”

With a raised eyebrow Selex lingered close to Bratwurzt, his nasty breath once again assaulting their nose. Bratwurzt had gotten better at jutting out their chin and staring him back in the eye.

Selex narrowed his eyes.

Bratwurzt mirrored him.

Selex sniffed.

Bratwurzt sniffed.

“Stop doing that.” “No.”

With an exasperated growl Selex pulled himself away, his hand shooting up to find the side of his head.

“If you’re hiding something,” he began, jabbing a finger at the other. But the moment he noticed Bratwurzt opening their mouth and putting up a finger of their own, he stopped. Unamused, Selex whirled around and made for the exit, leaving Bratwurzt to their thoughts.

---------

“And so-- get this -- he sends my assassins back. In pieces.” Bratwurzt took a large swig of their drink and slammed the stein on the bar counter. If the place hadn’t been so dim, perhaps they would have noticed how much they’d spilled. “I mean, can you believe this guy?”

The man sitting beside Brat stared off for a moment, his exaggerated features never betraying more than a twinge of the exasperation he felt. The Arbiter of Friendship was a clonn, a type of humanoid with pale skin that reddened around his nose and cheeks and ears. Arbies, as Bratwurzt had taken to calling him, was a younger clonn, dressed sharply in suspenders. His red hair spiked around his head like a crown of fire.

Finally, Arbies spoke: “Have you tried not sending your goons after this guy?”

Arbies made a good drinking buddy up until he started giving advice. Brat liked the way the clonn’s nose and cheeks started the night flushed, as though he were perpetually inebriated. Close observation would tell one that believing so was no stretch.

“Alright, smart guy, how would you handle the situation?”

The clonn rubbed his chin. “This is assuming I was dumb enough to get myself blackmailed by a foppish, self-obsessed drow in the first place?”

Bratwurzt waved their hand.

“I’d send my goons after him.”

“And if that didn’t work?” Brat pressed.

Arbies shrugged. “I’d be fucked. Want another beer?”

Scowling, Bratwurzt gulped the last of their drink down, never breaking eye contact with their companion. When they were done, they passed it to the bartender for another.

They were in Mantol-Derith, a trading outpost that lay in the middle of three major Underdark cities. It was a few days’ travel from House McRib. Bratwurzt made the dangerous trip every so often to combat the absolute boredom of being Selex’s perfect priestess. Whether Selex was aware that his wayward ward was sneaking out every time he went away on business, he never let on. Perhaps he did know, and he was merely allowing Bratwurzt to think they were duping him. Brat desperately needed a win.

“I thought it would have gone without saying,” continued The Arbiter after paying the bartender, “that maybe you should be keeping your little condition to yourself.”

“I didn’t tell him!” shouted Bratwurzt. “I think he could just smell it on me. Besides, I told you, and that turned out okay.”

Arbies responded by taking a sip of his beer.

“What?”

“The only reason I don’t sell you out myself is because I can’t get anything out of it.”

Bratwurzt grinned. “Why do you think I picked you to tell?”

“You like to torture me?”

“I like hanging out with you.”

“Same thing.”

Bratwurzt had been coming to this particular hole in the wall for almost a year. On their first trip they had picked out the least threatening person they could find and attached themself immediately. In a sea of scowling drow and stalwart duergar, Bratwurzt would have picked The Arbiter of Friendship’s rosy cheeks and inebriated disposition every time.

House McRib, like most drow houses, was a wine family. This meant that Bratwurzt hadn’t had the opportunity to try most other kinds of alcohol. As a result, when the duergar at the counter told Brat they couldn’t get red wine at the counter, Brat waited until someone placed an order so they could double it. Cue The Arbitrator of Friendship: a clonn from above ground with a penchant for lagers.

Clonn didn’t normally make their homes in the Underdark. Arbies was here on business. What kind of business he would not divulge to Bratwurzt, no matter how many lagers he had, which was usually a lot.

“What are you going to do about it, then?” asked Arbies.

“I was kind of hoping you’d clear that up for me,” said Bratwurzt.

Arbies swiveled his seat to face the rest of the bar. “I’ll start looking for a new drinking partner, then.”

The bar was a standard, grimy place. Arbies was surveying tables of customers, mostly of Underdark races, drinking away what was very likely all the money they’d made in town that day.

Bratwurzt let him carry the joke of stroking his chin and sizing up several of the loners for just long enough before slapping him on the back.

“Alright, pal, quit it and help me figure this thing out.”

Arbies turned back in his chair. “You know the consulting fee.”

With a heaving sigh, Bratwurzt signalled the bartender and put in another order.

Only when the drinks were placed firmly in front of the two did Arbies begin to muse.

“You could run away,” he suggested.

“Again? I’m running out of places to run away to.”

“Upstairs?”

“I’d rather die.” “You probably would.”

It was Bratwurzt’s turn to rub their chin. “Then I have to stay and fight.”

Arbies nearly choked on his beer. “Fight. You?” He laughed. “Bratwurzt, you can’t even use a knife to cut up a mushroom. What makes you think you can cut up a guy with a sword?”

Bratwurzt found themself wishing they hadn’t missed those particular classes at Arach Tinilith. It had also been decades since they’d had any practice with a sword. At this point, could they even still use one?

Brat swiveled around to face their drinking partner. “I could take him.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He doesn’t look so tough.”

“What does he look like?”

“Well, he’s tall. Very tall. But skinny, like most drow guys. And I didn’t see a lot of muscle on him either.”

“You were looking?”

Bratwurzt felt their ears get hot. “There wasn’t much else to look at!” Arbies raised an eyebrow. “I mean the guy barely wears any clothes. Just a robe, and he doesn’t do so great a job of keeping it shut.”

“Who said I was trying?”

The very sound of the voice behind Bratwurzt McRib made them stiffen like a board. In front of them, The Arbiter had his eyes fixed on some point higher than the tip of Bratwurzt’s head, his expression a strange mix of fear and amusement.

Bratwurzt felt their seat being forcibly turned so that they were facing forward. Whether The Arbiter had done it out of politeness or the newcomer had moved it himself, they didn’t know. Out of the corner of Brat’s eye (they dared not look at him straight), they could just make out the bemused expression of Alolo.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, already straddling the barstool and leaning over the counter to flag down a drink.

Bratwurzt kept their jaw clamped shut and their fingers stuck to their own barstool with an iron grip. They stared straight ahead, catching a glimpse of the bartender’s uneasy glances toward the three of them.

“That’s it for me,” The Arbiter said suddenly, finishing his stein and leaving several copper pieces on the counter. “Important meeting tomorrow. You understand, Bratwurzt. Next month? Same time, same place.”

Bratwurzt barely even saw him leave. Sweat dripped down their face like they had just taken a shower.

“He seems nice,” said Alolo, stirring the ice in his drink with a straw. Bratwurzt couldn’t tell what he was drinking, but it definitely wasn’t a lager.

Bratwurzt gathered up the courage to finally turn and face his new companion. Sure enough, it was him, in the flesh, unscathed by anything, much less the dozens of swords Bratwurzt had sent after him.

“I didn’t realize they let you out of the house, Bratwurzt,” he continued. “You’re a long way from home.”

“Nobody lets me do anything,” Bratwurzt spat. “I do what I want.”

Alolo flashed a pitying smile and took a sip of his drink. Making a face, he handed the glass to Bratwurzt, who accepted it. Then he counted the zippers on the left side of his robe, selected one, and unzipped it as slowly as he could. He never took his eye off the bartender, who was occupied several seats down.

Bratwurzt stared at the glass in his hands. It had a greenish tint to it.

“I didn’t think they served stuff like this here,” Brat said aloud.

“They do if you’re me,” said Alolo, pulling out a small vial of salt and one slice of some green fruit. “Give it here.”

Bratwurzt reluctantly handed the drink back to Alolo. The robed drow promptly plucked and discarded the straw. He ran the fruit around the top rim of the glass and then painstakingly sprinkled the salt over it. Bratwurzt noticed none of it hit the counter. Finally Alolo raised the glass to his lips once more and drank. Much better, said the expression on his face. “Just because we’re in the Underdark, doesn’t mean we have to drink like it,” he muttered, stuffing the contents back in the pocket of his robe and pulling the zipper shut.

“So,” Bratwurzt tried with a nervous laugh, “are you gonna kill me before or after you finish that?”

Alolo grinned. “Kill you? Don’t tell me that’s how you were planning on getting out of our little agreement.”

As Bratwurzt searched for something to say, Alolo was struck by some realization. He set his glass back down and went back to fussing with his robe. Bratwurzt noticed he hadn’t even bothered tying it shut this time, and they had to work extra hard not to let their eyes wander too far.

Alolo smiled like he knew.

A moment later, Alolo had identified the pocket he wanted and zipped it open. What he pulled out was a dark, hooded cloak, a piwafwi, the signature cloak of the drow.

“I thought maybe you’d like to have this back.”

Bratwurzt took the cloak, turning it over in their hands. The gold fastener was fashioned to depict the house of the owner. Without a doubt this had come from one of their assassins, for on this cloak was the unmistakable golden arches of House McRib.

“That was the only one I could salvage,” said Alolo with a sympathetic look.

Bratwurzt narrowed their eyes. “What are you trying to do?” they asked.

“I could ask the same of you,” was his response.

“Get rid of you.”

Alolo laughed. “You should try something else.”

Bratwurzt huffed and directed their gaze to behind the bar, pretending to be interested in reading the liquor labels when what they really needed was a break.

“Do you know why I’m here, Bratwurzt?”

“To torture me?”

“Because I like hanging out with you.” Bratwurzt inhaled sharply and continued their assessment of the liquor bottles behind the counter.

“And I’ve figured it out,” said Alolo, reaching out to grab the tip of Bratwurzt’s chin. He tugged the younger drow’s face towards him. “What I want from you.”

Bratwurzt could feel their nails digging into the bottom of their wooden barstool. They wanted to run, far away, but they couldn’t so much as flinch from Alolo. Aside from the fact that it would be pointless, Bratwurzt knew that showing weakness could only hurt them.

“Your wish is, ah, my command,” they said, as bravely as they could. The response earned them a bemused smirk from the older drow, who leaned in closer just for the sake of watching Bratwurzt squirm.

“I want you to take me to House Lv’Arden,” he said. Brat could see the hunger in his eyes, like a panther stalking its prey. “I want you to take me to see your mother.”

Bratwurzt tore themself away from Alolo so hard they fell out of their chair.

“You want me to what?” they cried, massaging their now-bruised backside. Several of the patrons started to look on. Bratwurzt flung them a snarl, and they all quickly minded their own business, or at least pretended to.

Brat picked themself up, dusted themself off, and once more reclaimed their seat on the stool. “I’m sorry,” they said after a deep breath. “That was rude of me. You want me to fucking WHAT?”

“You heard me the first time,” said Alolo, rolling his eyes. “You’re just being a brat about it.”

“Why the hell would anyone voluntarily walk through those doors?” Bratwurzt shouted. “What do you possibly hope to gain from talking to that self-centered, stuck-up, two-faced wraith of a woman?”

With each word, Bratwurzt’s voice grew louder and louder until what felt like all of Mantol-Derith was looking. Alolo let them do it, too, turning away from their rant and fishing one last ice cube out of his glass.

“You get your subtlety from her, I see,” he said dryly.

Bratwurzt jabbed a finger in Alolo’s face. “We had a deal, pal, and your IOU collection’s only condition was that we leave my mother out of it.”

Bored, Alolo crunched on his ice cube.

“You don’t get to change the rules whenever it suits you,” Bratwurzt continued. “You have to honor your word just like everybody else.”

“Bratwurzt?”

Brat was really getting tired of being watched in this bar. They turned around not a moment too soon and stood face-to-face with a sullen drow whose rage was unmistakable.

“Selex!” Brat said sheepishly. “Fancy running into you here.”

A strong arm lashed out and grabbed Bratwurzt by the cloak. “I should say so,” he growled. “It’s about time I took you home.”

The snarl he shot off to the rest of the bar was a thousand times more intimidating than Bratwurzt had mustered previously. Several patrons even went so far as to leave the establishment, Mantol-Derith, the Underdark, never to return.

As Bratwurzt opened their mouth to argue, Alolo stood up.

“Time sure does fly, doesn’t it?” he said to the pair. He leaned down until his lips were nearly touching Bratwurzt’s ear, so his words could land on their chosen target and no one else.

“Our agreement stated only that I could not drag you there myself as long as you did as you were told. I would think long and hard about what you’d like to say to Mother Dearest if I were you.”

He straightened back up, winked at a scowling Selex, and made his exit.

Selex dragged Bratwurzt out through the back of the bar. He had had enough of the foppish merchant, and he wasn’t keen on exposing the man to Bratwurzt any longer.

“I thought I told you to remain at the castle,” Selex said as they embarked upon their journey back home.

“I just get so lonely when you’re not there,” retorted Bratwurzt. “What were you doing in Mantol-Derith anyhow?”

Selex declined to answer. Instead, he stopped in his tracks and whirled on Bratwurzt. “What does that maniac want from you?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” said Bratwurzt. “He just gets off on freaking me out.” Selex’s challenging stare bored right into Bratwurzt, but they volleyed it right back.

“I am not your enemy,” Selex said. “If House McRib is to stand, there must be no secrets between us.”

“Then tell me what you were doing in Mantol-Derith,” said Brat.

Selex studied them for a moment. His mouth opened and closed as he processed a response, but he thought better of it and turned back around.

The pair moved in silence for several more minutes before Bratwurzt tried another angle.

“You called me Bratwurzt back there.”

Selex sniffed. “I wouldn’t call a child causing a scene in a dive bar Amburrla.”

“Yeah, well,” said Bratwurzt. “I appreciate it.”

Selex grunted in return. Bratwurzt only smiled.

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