#Damsa Adrente

[kemsyne]

Wayfarer Prompt - Rock Bottom.

And then they went to Rona.

Wayfarer IF and the king of jokes Aeran Kellis are created by the one and only @idrellegames

[kemsyne]

Wayfarer Week '24 - Promises

Cere Nalos, am I right? If you know, you know.

The Crimson Count and Wayfarer IF @idrellegames 🙌

[kemsyne]

No one stands between Vestrans and orange-scented things.

(Not confirmed in canon. Not yet 🤔.)

Cassander Inteus @redwayfarers

Aeran and Wayfarer IF @idrellegames

[kemsyne]

Wayfarer Prompt - Consequences

My MC had a lot of feels at the end of Episode 2 of Wayfarer IF by @idrellegames !

Putting those feels into a neat order was a lot like herding cats, but I did my best. Spoilers for Episodes 1 & 2.

Also, Damsa is feel first, reason later here, so don't take her too seriously on the character of other people.

“You’re going to need me in the end. You always do.”

Aeran’s words bounce around in her head long after he disappears from view. 

“How you made it on your own is beyond me.”

His marksmanship has always been a point of pride, something Damsa admired each time one of his arrows hit the target dead center.

“You didn’t survive the Spire. You escaped it.”

Of course his words would be just as precise. They were meant to hurt, after all.

“I don’t care.”

And they hurt worse than any arrow ever could.

Damsa clenches her teeth, lips trembling, her whole body trembling with an onslaught of emotions threatening to break through.

Get it together, she tells herself, throwing her head back and blinking furiously. Don’t you fucking dare to cry now, she draws shaky breaths as blood pounds in her ears. Not here. Not now. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

But Aeran’s aim was true and his strike was deep, and it broke something. White-hot anger rises in her with each heartbeat as Damsa thinks of the past two years - the joy of reuniting, the relief in seeing him alive, the heartache in seeing his scars…

The confusion at his refusal to tell her anything again and again.

“It was a mistake looking for you in Karth.”

Damsa starts pacing back and forth as years of desperate searching, years of pain, years of mourning come back to her all at once… and all that time Aeran knew where she was? All that time he let her suffer?

She wrings her hands. She wants to laugh. She wants to cry. 

How dares Aeran put this on her? How dares he blame her when all Damsa did for the past two years was try and keep him from doing something irreversibly stupid? 

She wants to scream. She wants to howl.

Two years of concessions, of walking on eggshells and keeping burning questions to herself. Two years of worrying, of caring, of trying to make sense of this darkness that he keeps slipping into… Smoothing things over, dealing with the aftermath of every impulsive action that was not her own.

Two years of trying to make herself small and invisible at his request… Just so that Aeran could lay the consequences of his actions down at her feet anyway. Just so that he could hurt her and walk away, expecting her to come searching because she didn't want to lose him. Not again…

But there is only so much Damsa can take. The rage inside her is boiling; every suppressed emotion, every unsaid word is hammering against the inside of her skull, seeping out through the gaps in her ribcage.

She is furious.

Two years of hiding her feelings, of enduring every disapproving look and snide comment, of trying to make the best of the situation with what little information she had. Two years of getting by on scraps, of letting insults slide, of letting every vermin think they could order her around.

Two years of useless hoping things would change eventually and instead they end up here, in this fucking city where everyone looks at them like they're not even people. And once again Aeran puts her front and center, lets her shoulder the demeanings and manipulations while doing what? Hiding more vital information from her?

Damsa wants to punch him. She wants to get her things and leave. She wants to burn Velantis to the ground.

She has suffered through Nova's harassment and Malsara's displeasure, Zenaida's incompetence and Quirinus' dissection of her character. She bore with the humiliation of having to surrender her weapons, of having to endure the arrogance of that mediocre servant. She played the little dress-up game, she smiled through every irritating conversation. She made Lethalis take them seriously.

She got through this evening with her head held high despite having no support, despite seeing reminders of the life that was denied to her at every turn. She tolerated every reference to her being unworthy despite being of nobler blood than half the people here and more capable than most of them.

Damsa doesn't need weapons to do damage, she doesn’t need alassar to kill and yet every mage, every pompous politician thinks they can walk all over her just because they took away something belonging to her, just because she can't leave the way—

Damsa stops in her tracks so abruptly she nearly trips. Cold realization washes over her - for the first time in a long time she is trapped. And it terrifies her.

The Crimson Count was fearsome, but he was only one man. She had her sword and she had Aeran, and they had options. Now, here in Velantis Damsa has nothing.

She is alone, defenseless, with the whole city against her. Even if she managed to get her sword back and get out of Mahanin Palace, where would she go? Velantis is built on magic. Veyer mentioned tracking magiani in the city, Quirinus said he sensed magiani presence even before Dareia had entered port. Getting out by the sea is impossible and running into the mountains without appropriate gear and supplies is just plain stupid.

Damsa doesn't trust the councillor to actually uphold her end of the deal in any significant way, and Aeran… Her heart aches. Can she trust him? After everything that came to light today, can she still trust him? Would he go with her or would he stay? What else is he hiding? What was he doing tonight? What else does he know and what else is he hiding?

Damsa closes her eyes, a cruel, crooked smile twists her lips. Perhaps she should have taken Cere Nalos' offer. After all, with him she at least knew what she was getting into. He, at least, appreciated her for more than just being a tool, appreciated her…

Stop that, she snaps at herself. Enough. Pull it together, for fuck's sake, and think.

There is no immediate danger and Lethalis needs her. At least for tonight, Damsa is safe. 

She takes a deep breath, pats a couple of traitorous tears away, careful not to smudge the makeup. All she needs to do is get through tonight. No doubt Lethalis will return her weapons and gear tomorrow. Zenaida's promise of payment and a charted ship sounds just as likely as Umbria's claim to destroy the Astrial, but it's not important. As long as Lethalis doesn't have the Astrial, they need her. And once Damsa is out of the Palace, she will have a lot more freedom. 

And if she has to go through with the plan… well, if the Astrial truly does what Lethalis thinks it does, everyone will have more pressing matters than a couple of Wayfarers.

Damsa looks up at the stars. She feels so tired. She feels so lost. 

The future is suddenly so uncertain, full of danger and risks that are not of her own doing. Navigating the political scene for just a couple of hours has already attached multiple strings to her, and stealing a Meissandic relic will undoubtedly bring trouble for years to come. She’s not sure she can keep the act of being composed for much longer. For once Damsa would like to just throw caution to the wind and not think about the consequences.

One step at a time, she tells herself and turns back towards the Palace. Just get through tonight. Get some wine, take a relaxing bath, sleep in an actual bed for once. Deal with Aeran's crap tomorrow. It will be fine.

Of course, it is not fine.

Damsa's memory of aristocratic parties is hazy, but she should have known showing up alone at the end of the night was a bad idea. 

She schools her face into a neutral expression and takes a casual look around. The urge to just turn on her heel and leave is great, but that would likely bring even more unwanted attention and, frankly, Damsa doesn't have it in her for any more Velantian socializing tonight. She needs to fake a reason for being here and then make her exit. Ideally grab a bottle of Vestran on her way out. A simple conversation should do the trick if only she could find someone to converse to. 

Damsa scowls. All evening she was hounded by people and now that she actually needs one, none of them are around? Where is that nervous little cleric? She told him to stop following her, true, but he seemed harmless enough and could potentially know something about that strange mural.

She crosses the gallery and pretends to look at the stained glass. Where is Melchior with his cryptic warnings? The illusionist has, ironically, left the least deceptive impression on her. Or even Rasmira. No one would bat an eye at her talking to the dwarf and maybe they would finally tell her where the fuck Wyernos is being held. But there are no familiar faces around and Damsa can feel tension tightening her muscles once again.

Don't panic now. There's— Damsa's thought trails off as she suddenly makes eye contact with Veyer Krellion of all people.

The elf did insinuate they could talk later, and she certainly had more questions for them, but for some reason Damsa didn't expect them to actually stay at the Gala after the meeting. Seeing them just casually leaning against an archway seems almost too good to be true.

Her hand subconsciously slips into her pocket, Veyer's ring feels cold and smooth against her fingertips.

Damsa doesn't believe this is a coincidence. Not here, not now. The mage must want something from her or they wouldn't have told her about Sirin, wouldn't have given her their ring, and certainly wouldn't be looking at her like a cat at a pot of cream.

She turns the ring over in her pocket. The two of them have been looking at each other too long for her to not go over. Whether the conversation would turn out to be useful or an elaborate trap is still unclear, but at least now Damsa has her reason for milling around. All in all, while unexpected, Veyer might not be the worst ending to her evening here.

Aeran is going to lose it, she thinks making her way towards the terrace and immediately there is a pang of pain, a flash of anger. 

Damsa briefly imagines Aeran waiting for her, asking where she had been. She briefly imagines throwing his words back at him and saying she got held up. The thought leaves a sour taste in her mouth - Aeran is the last person Damsa wants to think about right now and yet he holds a monopoly on her mind and emotions. She should focus on figuring out what Veyer's agenda is instead. While they started out acting rather antagonistic towards her, at the end of the meeting their attitude was almost… friendly? Supportive? Playful?

But the mage is confusing to say the least. The only thing clear about them is that they delight in throwing others off-balance. That, and the mutual hatred between them and Aeran… Aeran, again... Which could mean Veyer is simply using her as a way to get under Aeran’s skin, that she is an unwilling part of some mean joke that is not even about her. And Damsa refuses to be that any longer.

All her irritation bursts forth and Damsa comes into the conversation as into battle. To her surprise, Veyer doesn't fight her, doesn't defend either. As if sensing her anger is not meant for them, they are simply unaffected by it. With nothing to turn on to, the roiling emotions temporarily withdraw from Damsa's mind. She is still on edge, this could still be a trap, but she has to admit that so far Veyer has been the most forthcoming with information. They are definitely an outlier in Lethalis, an outlier in Velantian court.

The memory of Sandro Anaxas flashes in her mind, but one dying good man is not enough to counter the distaste that is the rest of Mahanin's inhabitants.

Veyer resumes the conversation. They definitely want something from her. The compliments, the careful prodding, the… agreeing? The placating manner in which they diffuse her rising anger once again, the attention to her finally pushes Aeran from the forefront of Damsa's mind. 

For the first time in months she feels like someone sees her as a person first and a Wayfarer second. For the first time in months she is bantering with a stranger and it is easy, and freeing, and it feels good. 

Maybe it is you that they want, a small, coy voice says at the back of her mind and a part - not insignificant part - of her desperately wants it to be true.

So when Veyer steps closer, she does not pull away. It could still be a trap. It will undoubtedly result in trouble. But Damsa can't find it in herself to care anymore tonight.

Fuck the consequences. When Veyer kisses her, she leans in.

[kemsyne]

Wayfarer Week '24 - Turning Point

Celebrating the 3rd anniversary of Wayfarer IF by @idrellegames by having some MC feels.

The Drendes are, by account of several people, the least toxic Vestran aristocratic family.

The oldest memory Damsa has is foggy. A memory of a dream of a memory - she is lying in her childhood bed, sweat-soaked sheets sticking to her skin, and she feels like she is burning up and freezing to death at the same time. And she remembers her mother crying, sobbing, howling into her father’s chest… 

It takes nearly three decades for Damsa to find herself similarly distraught, teeth clenched, hot tears of anger streaming down her face. And the hopelessness, the helplessness, the biting cold loneliness in knowing there is nothing she can do, nothing she could have done, to save those she cares about setting deep into her core.

The Civil War has scarred Vestra, the Spire has fallen, and Damsa is left standing alone, with nowhere to go back to.

She remembers the inside of her father’s coat. Soft silk lining and the smell of his perfume, strong arms lifting her up from the ground, the rumble in his chest when he laughs at exasperated maids who had chased after Damsa out into the fields. Softly scolding words, the underlying worry in his voice as he carries her back to the supposed safety of their summer estate. 

Damsa remembers her older brother telling the tutors he has no idea where his sister is, with a tone and expression far too grim for his years. She remembers the ever so slightly theatrical sigh as he waits for her to finally crawl out of her hiding place in the study, the whisper and smell of parchment as he unrolls old maps and intricately drawn lineage charts on the table.

And her oldest brother, twice her age, nearly a man, sitting with her in a darkened room instead of mingling with the guests in the gardens. Even then Damsa had a nagging feeling it was somehow wrong; that the two of them, both of them, should have been out there with the others. 

She remembers watching his hands weave through the air, disappointment and frustration bleeding into his warm, ever-present smile when the carefully crafted illusions have no effect on her. She remembers him calling her hard to impress, and then performing card tricks, making them appear and disappear from his palms. Damsa remembers the sounds he’d pull from a lyre as fireworks painted the night sky with bright colours outside.

The memory of her mother taking Damsa's hands into her own gloved ones is the last one with her family by blood. Damsa still remembers the rush of excitement as her mother says, I want you to meet someone and think very carefully about their offer. She remembers hanging onto Cenric’s every word.

She remembers her brothers being away that evening, her parents standing in the shadowy arch of the gate as Damsa turns to look at them one last time from her perch on the driver's seat next to the Wayfarer.

She writes to her family. She thrusts the first letter into Cenric's hands as soon as she hears about his plans to make a trip down to Trost. I am well, it says. The Spire is beautiful, and I will be learning from the Grandmaster of the Order themselves. I will continue my studies on history and languages as well. At night, I can see the sky fill up with dancing colours outside my window.

No answer comes but it is a long way from Trost to Vodena, and little need for paper letters to travel it.

The second one is passed on through Varyn when she prepares for a meeting with some Artanian merchants. I am well, it repeats. The Spire is beautiful, and I am studying under the Grandmaster of the Order themselves. I am continuing lessons in history as well as languages and politics too. Everyone speaks mostly Arathian here. I miss hearing Vestran sometimes. I miss Vestran food. I have a friend, his name is Aeran.

No answer comes but not many people have reasons to come to Trost, much less the Spire, and there are many dangers on the way.

The third letter Damsa gets to send herself, after convincing Cenric to take her and Aeran on a small supply run. I am well, it assures. The spring is different here, colder, but the air is so crisp. The Grandmaster has started training me with a sword. My language and history studies are going well. The other Wayfarers have traveled so much, they have so many stories to tell.

No answer comes but Damsa continues writing. She gives the letters to Cenric and Varyn, other Wayfarers leaving the Spire after a respite from their adventures, the innkeep at Trost whenever she gets to accompany Sero going that way.

Every month or two she sends a letter. I am well, they say. I am learning so much. I am getting better at it all. No answer comes, and gradually the letters become shorter, the time between them grows longer and longer.

I am well, they all start. 

I am good with the sword.

I went on my first hunt.

I miss oranges.

I helped take down a dangerous beast.

I am going to accompany Sero on a real job.

I might visit Vestra after graduation.

Your daughter, Damsa, they all end.

But no answer ever comes. Damsa sits to write another letter a year or so after the last one. The quill hangs over the paper but no words come to her, so eventually she slashes across the page - a dark, angry line that rips through at the bottom; and she signs it, in bold letters, Damsa Drende. That is the last letter she ever sends from Spire to Vodena.

Damsa doesn't know it, but all her letters are neatly tucked in an ornate mahogany box, adorned with silver embellishments and a lock. Each one tied with a silk ribbon, edges faded, creases folded and refolded a thousand times. Each one a memory, a story, a map of her journey down a path that should have been, might have been, perhaps was never meant to be someone else's.

[kemsyne]

Wayfarer Week '24 - Origins

Just a little something for the 3rd anniversary of Wayfarer IF by @idrellegames

The origin of Damsa's nickname, which carried over from her HotB days, so don't take me seriously on any Vestran language used here.

Damsa inhales, draws the bow and lets the arrow fly in one smooth motion. It zips through the air and embeds itself in the target, at least three palms width away from the center. The girl sighs in frustration.

“Well,” Aeran hops down from the barrel nearby and comes to stand closer. “At least you’ve hit the target” he proclaims and immediately ducks as Damsa swats the bow at him.

“I’ve been hitting it for the past ten minutes, you ass,” she smiles despite her words and reaches for another arrow. “I’m just… off.”

“Can you really say that when you’re off consistently? If I were you-” the elf shuts his mouth at the sudden warning look from his friend.

Aeran raises his hands up. “All I’m saying, as the master archer between us two-” he relaxes at the eyeroll Damsa sends his way “Is that you’re not bad at this,” he offers gently.

The bowstring twangs and another arrow lodges itself a sizeable distance from the target’s center. Aeran raises one hand to shield his eyes from the evening sun.

Arriving at the Spire together and being the youngest apprentices by far was a natural foundation to their friendship. Some two years of long lectures, rigorous training by their respective Masters, and getting into, or narrowly avoiding, trouble only built that friendship into a stronger bond.

Aeran glances down at Damsa’s feet.

“How’s your knee?” he asks, nodding towards her heavily bandaged leg. “Still can’t put any weight on it?”

“Not much,” Damsa grimaces. “Sirin says I should count myself lucky to have a knee still. And that it will leave a scar, but should be fine otherwise,” she reaches to scratch under the linens. “Itching is the worst. Why?”

“Because you fell through the floor and landed on a pile of rubble?” Aeran offers incredulously.

“Oh, I remember that,” Damsa straightens up again. “Will remember for a long time after the earful I got,” she huffs. “I’m asking why do you want to know? No one’s blaming you for it, are they?”

The elf shakes his head. “No, no… It’s just that you lean. When you draw the bow?” He mimics the motion at her questioning look. “You lean sideways to keep balance,” he points out and reaches for the practice weapon in Damsa’s hand. “Should be more like this.”

The two switch places and Damsa watches as Aeran draws the bow with ease. The arrow hits the target close to the center mark. Aeran’s lips curl into a smirk.

“See? Easy once you do it right,” he takes another arrow and spins it in his hand before notching. “Why do you want to learn this? I thought you liked the sword better.”

“I do,” Damsa agrees “But I can’t train much with it now, and Sero says I need to work on my upper body strength,” she pauses. “Besides, a great hunter doesn’t limit herself with just one weapon.”

Aeran raises one eyebrow. “I thought we were going to be Wayfarers, not hunters?”

“All wolves are great hunters,” Damsa states as a matter of fact.

Confusion washes over her friend’s expression. “What do wolves have to do with this?” he asks and looks at her as if she had just sprouted a second head.

“My name,” she offers and waits for the blank expression on Aeran’s face to change into an understanding one. “My last name?”

Silence stretches between them.

“Drende?” Damsa’s accent thickens momentarily. “Drende means wolf in old Vestran? Wolves are great hunters?” she gestures and yet, Aeran doesn’t seem sold on her path of thought.

“I think wolves are great hunters because they hunt in packs,” he finally says slowly, skeptically.

“True, but also on their own-”

“They’re big and have big teeth.”

“It’s not about the teeth, Aeran-”

“Have you ever seen a wolf? They are horse-sized!”

“Are you saying I can’t become a great hunter unless I’m a horse?”

The two are face to face now, Aeran’s arms crossed over his chest, and Damsa’s on her hips. The ridiculous nature of their argument lost on both as Aeran narrows his eyes in thought.

“I suppose,” he drawls. “Size doesn’t matter for you, because wolves don’t use weapons like we do.”

“Size doesn’t matter for wolves either, because they are the weapons,” Damsa presses. “And because they are great hunters.”

“...Right.”

“Everyone in my family is a great hunter, and none of them are horse-sized,” Damsa bristles.

“Riiiiight.”

“Aeran.”

“Right, right. You will be a great hunter,” he takes a step back. “Because your family is named after wolves. But they are all people-sized. Little wolves.”

Damsa lunges forwards and Aeran dances away, laughing. She throws a stray pebble in his direction, and then another, shouts a Vestran insult at him with a grin spreading across her lips, and watches, with some amusement, as Aeran trips over his own feet and lands in the pile of straw dummies used for training.

Aeran groans and sits up, pieces of straw sticking from his hair and undoubtedly clinging to the back of his clothes. Damsa limps to him and offers her hand.

“You alright?” she asks, bracing to pull the boy up.

“Yeah, thanks,” Aeran accepts her help. “Little Wolf.”

She lets him fall back in.