#doing an old tired clerical priest voice

[godslittlesadge]

Conclave book so far has been more hilarious than anything because its just Lomeli either going (shaking fist) "haven't I suffered enough" at anything his literal profession he chose asks him to do or Oversharing So Much i.e. beginning of chapter 5 which has my homie hitting me with many unneeded informations like *SLAP* I've never had sex *SHAKES* I'm bisexual *HEADBUTT* I have prostate cancer *RIGHT HOOK* I feel so alone. like. I feel like I didnt need to know all that but sure

[thronelessking]

Arlas gives the man his due silence, lets Equinox approach this at his own pace. In his hands, he still holds the medical kit with gentle care just barely brushing over the lip of it to open. Just enough for the strong scent of fresh medicines, poultices, to waft. Were it not for the way that he has seen the other man deal with mages, Arlas may have teased him as gently as he would the many children he has treated in his church. Many choose magic to the home remedy; magic has no strong taste nor smell the same way medicines do.

He does not tease Equinox in such a way. Instead he holds, waits, fingers still across the old worn kit as the cleric watches the way his partner must walk himself through the process of accepting outside help. Accepting that this foray into the Boneyard has yet again ended in failure. Arlas does not voice it, not yet, that perhaps this is a sign. It is not Pharasma rejects his death, but Equinox is bound for a greater purpose. A brighter one. There is a reason he must live yet, and he must discover it, run to it, fulfill it. Then and only then, if the other man craves the gentle embrace of the Mother of Souls still, will he find his way to the Boneyard. To her spire, to the afterlife he justly deserves.

This meaning that Arlas finds, the way he pulls it from the way that no matter what Equinox limps his way back, always finds his way to a priest of the Lady of Graves, gives him a much needed comfort. Equinox will live yet; Pharasma wills it so. Pharasma wills him to find that reason to continue. This truth he holds so close, so close, to his heart. Arlas knows not the colors of the other mans sadness, the shape of his ghosts, and he presses even less on the matter. Watches only as the man takes the time to force himself to take the opportunity to be cared for; there's a clinical way of which Arlas stares at him, the way he looks at the wounds, the way his delicate hearing picks up the sound of the way blood peels off between skin and fabric. The way injuries squelch and trickle. It is through years of experience and exposure that the cleric keeps his composure, having seen so much worse time and again and often claiming the lives so many.

The old warn box lid opens with the flick of a finger, the room filled with the mixed scents of an apothecary and a church as Arlas quietly sets to work. He lights incense, it serves little purpose beyond to soothe, a part of the magical tapestry that priests weave themselves; it gives comfort to many and more to think that steps like these are a part of the unknowable realm of the divine. The smoke that curls from the sticks starts light, ashen colors, before it thickens into a dense mass; in the tricks of the light as it wafts and weaves, the gaps between each strand of smoke show something. Someone. The ever watchful presence of the Lady of Graves takes notice of the room for a fleeting moment before the priests form dashes the smoke as he moves.

"Well." Arlas starts voice as fondly tired as always. Always exhausted but never judging. The soft cloth that wraps around the diamond in the rough that is his traveling partner, that which supports. "I think I may very well need both, else I might very well be charging you with bed rest." There's a way the priest pitches his voice, lower, softer, the loving rumble people come to think of when it comes to aged men of the cloth. "And I think you may find it more miserable for me to sit upon your lap to keep you in place." The joke is poor but doubles more as a threat; the fact that perhaps Arlas in the future may be the one to hound and chase his partner away from the dangers he runs headfirst into. It is almost, almost, an expression of worry and promise but such a thing would be salt upon wound. So he refrains.

"Let me do the best I can before I must resort to my Lady. I know I need not ask you more but do keep yourself as still as you can." Arlas looks at him with a smile so small, the tiniest raise of the edges of his eyes, the way his edges of his smile quirk. The ghost of love adorns him in its form for a moment before he sits next to the other man, moves long purple hair out of the way, lets it cascade at the side before putting trained hands to work. It is long work, meticulous work, cleaning and dressing what he can. With care he keeps the pressure light, warns when he must when it is simply unavoidable, apologizes for any wince and grimace. Scolds Equinox with care when soft fingers pad around egregious wounds.

"Be more careful." He repeats, over and over with a creeping melancholy. The realization of this desperate desire to die is not one Arlas takes lightly, but the weight of the other mans sorrows weighs as heavy as it should on his own heart. "Please." He follows the words gently as the cleric moves slowly from working on the front facing wounds; the reticence of Equinox earlier not entirely missed but in the same vein not entirely understood. For once Arlas looks the other man in the eyes, looking for something, a reason, a giveaway, something. Anything. Before his eyebrows knit together in a worry born of compassion. "If I am not there, you must take care of yourself until I can find you." 'Because I can. I will. I will find you' the words say with no voice behind them, gentle promises from a bruised soul to another. 'You deserve life.' That promise says. You deserve to live. To thrive. To find that which you are meant for.

Slowly, the man rises from his spot, gnarled and shriveled legs cracking and creaking the entire way as he towers over Equinox for only a moment; hooves clicking against old floor as he moves to work on his back. Gentle fingers part the man's hair again, from the base of the neck he uses long claws to gently tease and part, arranging it prettily enough but out of the way so he may work. What he gazes at means little to him; the signs of lost divinity, he has heard of such cases but what does it matter to a man like him? A man born wrong in the eyes of his home, a malformed creature that destroyed his mothers womb, that intruded on his parents lives. Born without their beautiful faces and long elegant limbs, flawless skin and beautiful eyes; replaced with a horrible body that reminded anyone of the inevitably of death in all its forms, a ghoulish face, cloven hooves, and claws and horns that required constant care. A cursed child, a cursed man, that of which evil settled into the bones of, has no right to look upon a man of divine nature and sneer or mock or laugh that he has fallen.

The man gets to work, as tenderly as before though he avoids the signs of godhood with care and out of sight Arlas grimaces. Medicine will do all it can, but what it can do will not be enough. Even if he had threatened bed rest, the time it would take to recover from this would be vast. More than he is certain that Equinox would agree to, and so he deliberates in silence for a moment, gently places his hands upon the other man's shoulders; these the warmth that should not flow from his skeletal body seep into the tense form of his companion. "The medicine will keep you from falling to infection, however..." Arlas trails off, eyes the multitude of cuts and bruises, the lacerations, the gashes and gouges he's certain the other man must feel. "I must rely on my Lady to close much of these. Please hold as still as you can, I must keep my hand upon you for it to work."

A moment, the smoke wafts between them, around them. The smell soothes as the strands graze over them both, the ghostly touch of that which exists beyond this reality. The teasing of the font of life itself, that which the Lady of Graves has domain over. Arlas lets the silence hang for only a moment more before slowly removing one hand to grasp the spiral, his holy symbol. "When you are ready, I will use my magic." He guides the other man through it and with it he gives the other man responsibility. With it, he gives Equinox the power to reject him and this magic. With it he gives Equinox the power to hold his care, his life, in his own hands.

There is a clearly annoyed clicking of tongue, attentive ears and eyes following the cleric. Stubborn man. Not that Equinox can say much about it, but it is easier to deal with people who just either walk away from him or figure out that not dealing with this is the best way to deal with this situation to begin with. Equinox says and thinks this, but there is a certain warmth that spreads to the tip of his fingers when Arlas confirms something he said on a whim.

"... It's not that bad." He admits to himself, almost weakly. Almost begrudgingly. If he accepts that tenderness, Equinox will not know what to do with it. It is easier to simply push it aside, so easy to understand that battered and bruised is how he should be. But there is that hint of... there is something in Arlas' gaze that is different. Too complex to decipher.

Equinox is constantly running towards his death, and it is easier to do so when there is no chance of coming back from it. He has done so before. So many times. When he was ordered to do the impossible. Came back every time, sometimes within an inch of crossing from this world to the next. Far too stubborn to die, apparently. Another thing the man cannot quite get right. "Fine." He raises his arms in defeat, in acceptance.

Sits down on a chair that has seen better days. A lot of this place looks the same. Something not quite right, not quite correct between both worlds and existence as it should be. As they both know. It is something else, twisting and fusing like a malnourished babe. And they are the only ones aware of it, apparently.

"..."

For some reason, there is hesitance. A shame that runs deep down his spine. Not the first time Arlas had tended to his wounds, but the previous ones were not as bad as these. Even if Equinox pretends he is fine. If this man sees the futile remains of divinity that scar his back, what would he think? These thoughts cloud and paint over his mind as he does away with his coat and undershirt. "Fine." He repeats, more to himself than to the man who is supposed to be tending to his wounds.

There is something else he notices, and there is something else he says. With a voice so quiet it can barely be heard.

"Your magic. I do not mind it." 'It is warm when it comes from you', he finds it unnecessary to add. But it is. Soothing, with a warmth that does not seem that it would go well with the cold touch of Pharasma. "I know you are trying an alternate way of getting to me and healing me. But if you warn me beforehand, I will try my best to not react. I do not want to hurt you, Arlas."

[mattzerella-sticks]

Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Day 1: Pray for Sam - Confessional

           “Father, I have sinned.”

           Sam tugs on his clerical collar, cardboard strip suddenly restrictive in this cramped, wooden box. Head bowed, too tall he cannot sit comfortably, he spies the younger woman through the latticed opening gazing at him in awe. “That is okay… my child,” he winces, sweat dripping from his brow. The compartment sweltering despite how chilly the church had been, at first. “God forgives,” Sam lies, “why don’t you say a Hail Mary and –“

           “But don’t you want to know what it is that I sinned about?”

           Cursing under breath, he absentmindedly runs a twitchy hand through his hair, skinning the confessional’s roof by accident. “Right,” he says, “I – if you don’t feel comfortable with sharing… whatever it is, you don’t –“

           “I think you should know, though,” she insists, leaning closer. Face pressed against the lattice, the patterned shadow obstructing her face. “Really.”

           He shouldn’t be here. They wrapped their case, ashen corpse buried under six feet of dirt since last night. Except Sam felt compelled to visit the town’s local church one last time. Thank Fr. Brown for his help, pointing them in the right direction. At least ease his concerns about the ghost of Sr. Margaret, assuring him her soul had finally found peace. Assured he had the time, since Dean and Castiel were off elsewhere that morning; a note left for Sam on the nightstand and an empty parking lot his only clues. Sam walked from his motel over towards the church.

           One of the staff told Sam he could wait in the nave, sitting at a pew, as they fetched him. While waiting, he was ambushed.

           “Okay,” Sam sighs, “if you believe so… tell me, what is your sin?”

           She nodded, leaning back slightly. Nerves returning, her stare dips away from his. Sam hopes it’s a sign whatever bravery compelled her earlier dissipated.

           Sam’s luck doesn’t work like that. “I was out, on my morning jog,” she starts, playing with her ponytail, “and while I normally don’t go past Cedar I… I missed jogging yesterday, Billy’s fever keeping me with him because my husband Fred had work, so I thought if I went a little further I’d make up for what I lost –“

           “My child,” Sam interrupts, awkwardly chuckling, “it’s not a sin to jog a little further than your usual route.”

           “That wasn’t my point…”

           “Of course it wasn’t.” He clears his throat, shifting, “Sorry. You can continue.”

           “Thanks,” she says, biting her lip. “So I was on Cedar, and it’s this tiny little street, not too many houses there. In fact, the ones that are there are all up for sale, the old buildings were ruined in a tornado so they just finished building them. That’s why, I guess, I stopped. I was nosy… Y’see there was this car there I hadn’t seen before. This big, black car that looked to be from something out of the past.”

           Scalding tendrils of recognition slip past the collar, searing the skin there with its heat. “Oh,” he says, interest piqued, somewhat. “I think I’ve seen a car like that around… being curious isn’t too bad.”

           “But it was,” she sighs, “I was. I saw movement in the car and so I went closer – I thought someone was burglarizing it while the owners were checking out the house.”

           “It wasn’t a burglar?”

           “It was a priest, just like you,” she says, “making out with another man. From the glimpse that I got they were…” Tugging on the ponytail now, she audibly swallows. “They were far past the heavy petting stage.”

           Whack! “Ow…” Sam rubs his head, checking for bumps after slamming it on the confessional roof. On the other side, the woman watches him in concern. Understanding mixed in, like she expected such a reaction.

           Not for the reasons she may think. Hearing his idiotic, horny brother making out with his even dumber, hornier best friend is old news. Sam saw how they look at each other. Noticed that the space between them fell, and under every surface would tangle their fingers together. Entered rooms ruffled and debauched like it wasn’t obvious. Like Sam didn’t know what they did. Waiting for when they will finally explain themselves so they can stop this absurd game of chicken they’re caught in.

           Although, if Dean thinks he won’t hear an earful from Sam about this… losing seems worth it.

           “Oh,” Sam manages, still wounded from before, “that… is still not your sin.”

           “It is!” she cries, a touch more frantic now. Her face fills the latticed opening again. “I saw them and I didn’t leave. I stayed… watching them like a – like a pervert.” Sam’s eyes widen, mouth stretching into a thin line as she spirals. “Since my son was born, I just haven’t felt attractive y’know? I’m always tired… and I don’t think my husband is interested in having sex with me anymore! But then I see this happening and for the first time in months there’s something stirring inside of me. I knew it was wrong – what they were doing and what I… what I was doing. But there I stood, five minutes just peering through that window until it fogged up enough I couldn’t see any more.” She quiets, slumping forward. Forehead resting on the lattice. “I didn’t know what to do, so I ran all the way here.”

           For once, Sam is glad she demanded they speak in the confessional. The urge to reach over and offer a physical form of comfort rises, and he knows it would only strengthen the uncomfortable energy circling them. He clears his throat, waiting until the woman composes herself. “It is not a sin, to feel like this,” he explains, features softening, “you’ve just had your baby right? That was probably a traumatic experience… and you’re still recovering.” Sam subtly pumps his fist, seeing his advice click by how her lips part in a sharp gasp. “Y’know what? Forget the prayers. What I recommend is for you to go home and talk with your husband. Maybe see some counseling, whether here or with a therapist. Can you do that for me?”

           She nods, “I… yeah, yeah that’s doable.”

           “Great.” Sam reaches for the sliding door nearby, smiling. “I absolve you of your sins,” he mumbles, signing a quick cross as he shuts her out. “Thank you, have a nice day.”

           “Thank you, Fath-“ Her voice cuts off, Sam alone in his silence.

           He listens, tension unspooling as he hears her exit. Footfalls lessening the longer he sits there, until it’s silent.

           Sam steps free of the confessional, phone in hand. He hits speed dial, braced by the confessional’s door handle. Dean answers, Sam overpowering him. “Dean, the next time you and Cas decide to fuck in the Impala… do it in the Bunker’s garage.”

[enkelimagnus]

A Castle in the Forest

Percy x Vex’ahlia, Chapter 4, 3337 words,

A Modern AU, in which Vex is a park ranger taking over the Alabaster Sierras post, and finds much more than she bargained for

Read on AO3

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The Lady’s Chamber is an amphitheatre, standing facing the crossroads of the second biggest crossing of Whitestone. Vex has driven by it a couple of times now, and she’s always seen a couple of worshippers there. Now that she knows the state of the Zenith’s congregation, it seems like this one is much more popular.

The theater part is domed in cream-colored stone. It’s in much better shape than the Zenith, despite the desolate patches of grass peeking out of the stones of the courtyard surrounding it. It’s winter however, so desolate grass is no real surprise.

Whitestone feels a little less like somewhere she could run away and hide in now that she’s felt the heaviness lingering in the city’s past. Vex is a little shaken by Father Reynal, his attitude and the state of his temple.

It’s mid afternoon and the sun has descended greatly on the horizon. Shadows grow as she steps closer to the door to the inner part of the Lady’s Chamber. The theater itself is empty, but she’s hoping the sanctum will at least have a priest. And with luck, this priest will be able to help her root the fiend out.

The door is made of metal and she knocks on it with the scale-shaped knocker. Someone must have been right behind it, because she doesn’t have to wait very long before it opens.

Vex tries not to let her disappointment show on her face. The person behind the door has thick white mustaches and receding white hair and looks weathered by time. He probably won’t be up for a hike and a battle with a fiend.

Fuck, what is it with this town and elderly clerics?

“Can I help you, ser?” The older priest says with a polite but not incredibly cheerful smile.

“Good day, Elder,” Vex replies in kind, before starting to explain again who she is and why she’s there. The facts haven't changed since she’s talked to Father Reynal.

She’s faced with a similar look from this priest than Father Reynal’s. A muted concern, and light dismissal. She’s already tired of this town’s clergy and she doesn’t even know this one’s name.

“Come in, for a moment,” the priest says before letting Vex into the sanctum of the temple.

It’s a simple main room with a rectangular wooden table. The legs are sturdy, skillfully carved. Contrary to the Zenith, this priest doesn’t seem to be alone. Sitting around the table, looking up at Vex as she enters, are two individuals.

With her bow strapped to her back and her muddy boots, Vex initially felt like a sore thumb in these holy places. But when her eyes fall on one of the people in this room, she suddenly feels much better about herself.

Across the table from the entrance is a goliath. Vex has never talked to one, or been so close really. She knew there were a few working for the TWC, but none that she actually met. She’s seen a couple in passing.

They must be at least seven feet tall, skin grey and heavily tattooed all over their back and bald head. A giant axe, fit for their hand, rests against the table by their left side. By their right is sitting the other figure. Next to the goliath, this gnome looks even smaller.

Their skin is a strange purple, almost brown, their hair black with a dark purple streak. It’s a charming thing really. The difference between these two is almost comical. Vex is immediately interested.

“This young ranger seems to have picked up a fiend in the forest,” the priest says.

The goliath looks up in interest. “Do you want us to go smash it for you?”

Vex chuckles lightly. “Actually yes,” she points out. “Do you have divine gifts?”

The gnome next to the goliath laughs out lightly, looking over at their companion. “Oh, that’s funny!” Their voice is high and unbelievably sweet. Vex finds herself softening a little towards them, for no reason outside of that laugh and that voice.

“I don’t,” the goliath shrugs. “I mostly can smash things. But she’s got all the divine shit you want,” they gesture towards the gnome.

“My name is Pike Trickfoot,” the gnome introduces themselves, nodding. “I’m a cleric of the Everlight, Sarenrae. And this is Grog Strongjaw.”

Oh that is definitely what Vex needs. The Everlight is a goddess of redemption and healing and that’s absolutely the energy needed to combat a fiend and save an enthralled half-elf. It’s hard enough to charm those of elven blood, so the fiend is either powerful or very lucky. Or both. Let’s not hope for that, though.

“Vex’ahlia, ranger of the Tal’Dorei Wilderness Conservation program, stationed in the Alabaster Sierra's outpost,” she introduces herself machinally. “So you’d be willing to help?”

She’s maybe a little too business-minded, but she’s just… tired, and worried about this druid out there all alone and probably in dangerous situations.

“I would need a couple of days of preparation and some more information, but I can probably do something, yes,” the gnome, Pike, replies.

“I sensed them on the western edge of the stone platform Castle Whitestone stands on,” Vex starts explaining. “It’s reachable through a path, but it does require quite the bit of walking.”

The priest, who has been silent for a few moments, shifts, clearing their throat.

“We’re up for walking,” Pike smiles. Grog nods. They seem to be working as a pair. “In two days at dawn? If that works for you.”

It sounds almost too good to be true. She still doesn’t know the name of the priest whose temple she’s come into, but their guests are planning to help her with the fiend. After Father Reynal’s pushback, she was really not expecting much from the Lady’s Chamber.

“That works,” Vex nods. “We will meet at the mouth of the path? If you have a phone number, I could give you the map to it?”

They exchange numbers, the gnome writing out ‘Pike Trickfoot’ with a sparkle emoji as her contact. Vex just puts herself in as Ranger Vex’ahlia. Simple and to the point, she doesn’t know this sunshine of a person. She’s not going to have little personal things in there.

The priest next to them clears their throat again. Vex sends them a look. They seem to be nervous about something. They’ve now cleared their throat many times. They’re either sick or they are uncomfortable. Or, third option, they’re trying to make the gnome and the goliath notice something. Vex’ eyes narrow.

Pike smiles, looking at Vex with a warm glint to her eyes. “I do hope this will be easy work and that we will not risk too much. But we never know, with these things. Keeper Yennen has seen enough of these in his days, haven’t you?” She asks the priest who sighs.

“We’re divine servants,” he says heavily. “All our paths are eventually called to cross with a fiend’s. It comes with the faith, unfortunately.”

Vex keeps watching him. There’s something uneasy about this situation. Pike seems to be referring to something the priest does not want to discuss. Yet another untold horror. This town holds one at every corner. Everywhere Vex looks, she can see one.

“You should leave now,” Keeper Yennen nods.

This feels like déjà vu. Because it is. Once again, Vex is shoved away from a conversation, from knowledge. Once again, she politely takes the cue and leaves. She’s starting to get a little tired of it.

She hopes that, in a couple of days, she can ask Pike a couple of questions about this place.

On her way out of the courtyard surrounding the Lady’s Chamber, someone bumps hard into Vex’s shoulder. She’s seen them coming, with their long blue coat and their brown boots, but she really thought there was space for them to cross without bumping. She curses at the sudden ache that radiates into her arm and chest and whips around.

“I’m sorry!” The person she’s just bumped into says, their right hand raising to rub over their left shoulder, while Vex is rubbing her right one. They seem younger than Vex, about eighteen years old. It’s hard to tell really, with this world they all live in, this world where everyone ages differently at different rates. They seem human, but they could very much be eight hundred years old.

They’re familiar in the same way Father Reynal was. Which makes sense, because Vex saw them at the same place, at the same time, she realizes immediately.

They’re about the same size and stature as Vex is. Their hair is dark brown, almost black, but streaking with white around the temples. They had been standing in front of the Zenith, speaking with Father Reynal, when Vex drove by after her very first supply run.

“It’s all fine,” Vex shrugs.

“Have a good day!” They call out as they rush towards the Lady’s Chamber.

Vex raises an eyebrow at the retreating figure. Two temples at once? Or maybe a new convert of Erathis. Father Reynal did say the worship of Pelor has dwindled in this town.

Everyone she has met in this town, except for the gnome and the goliath, has a strange nervous energy about them. They all seem to struggle with hiding secrets, as if the skeletons are too big to fit in the closets they try to force them in. The truth, or at least the story, of what has happened in Whitestone in the past few years is eager to jump out and reveal itself.

Vex wants to know. After today, there’s no doubt about it. She wants to know about this fiend and about Castle Whitestone. About what happened to the De Rolos and why they’re gone. About the empty temples and the half dead tree in the center of town.

She guesses it’s a little rich of her to want to know and stop people from lying to her, when she’s herself running from the past and refuses to tell anyone her own last name. When she’s trying to hide her own past from herself.

She drives back home quietly, without the radio on. She lets her own thoughts be loud for once, no matter how uncomfortable it is to hear her own self-reflection, to discuss her past and future with this horrible nagging thing that is her own mind.

The sun is setting over the trees, she has a cub to take care of, and she wants to rest. She wants to light a fire, make some coffee and settle by the warmth with the cub napping on her feet.

The loneliness is getting more than bearable, it’s getting enjoyable. She loves the quiet of her cabin in the evenings, when she hears that lone wolf cry out. She’s never heard any other wolf respond to it. Poor creature. She can relate to what it must be feeling.

She does all as planned, gathers her things and makes her fire and settles with a blanket. She brushes out her hair. It’s growing more than it used to. It had fallen a lot when she was in Shademurk Bog, especially in the last couple of months, when it had gotten unbearable. It’s growing again now. She’s growing again.

Right as she’s about to fall asleep, the wolf cries. And to her great surprise, a second cry answers it. She goes to sleep with a smile on her face, and the cub snuggled against her chest. She stopped making him sleep in the crate some time ago.

Vex awakes to a chill and misty forest morning. She sees the fog wrap around the trees. The ones around the cabin are a little thinner, a little younger. The forest itself gets thinner around civilisation, as if to protect its oldest, most precious mysteries with barriers upon barriers of younger fodder.

She’s halfway through her breakfast when the talkie-walkie hisses with an incoming call. The thing that’s not supposed to work, because the other half of the pair of walkies was lost with the previous ranger.

“Hello? Hello, is there anyone here?”

The voice seems a little anxious, a little hurried. Something’s wrong. Vex bolts from her chair and rushes to the dust-covered walkie.

“Ranger Vex’ahlia, speaking. Can you tell me what’s happening?” She asks, forcing her voice to stay calm and soothing.

“Yeah, huh, hi, huh,” the voice continues. “We found this and a body? In the middle of a clearing?”

A body? Vex’s heart freezes in her chest and she forces herself to swallow. She’s trained for this. She needs to call in the local authorities, which she knows to be the Pale Guard. She grabs her phone from her pocket without thinking, ready to dial as she walks.

“Can you tell me where you are?” She responds. “There should be a trail marker within a hundred yards of you, if you haven’t strayed too far from the path. I’ll be there asap.”

The walkie goes quiet then, and she waits with bated breath for the person to contact her back with a position. It takes a few horrible frozen minutes for the receiver to crackle again, and she’s given the coordinates.

“I’ll be there asap,” she repeats. ”I will be contacting the authorities too, so do not be surprised if members of the Pale Guard arrive as well.”

“Okay, thank you,” the voice replies.

Vex volts back, dialing the Pale Guard emergency number that gets her directly to someone without going through any helplines. She slides the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she straps her quiver to her thigh and grabs her bow. She puts her coat on and walks into the foggy morning.

It takes her about forty-five minutes to get to the trail marker she was given. She follows instructions and finds the camp of the person that contacted her quickly. A fire is lit in the center of an encampment of three small orange tents. She notices a crossbow resting against one of the tents’ sides.

“Hello? I’m the ranger you had on the walkie,” she calls out.

Three figures come out of the tent with the crossbow. They’re tall, two humans and a dwarf. One of the humans, tall with blonde hair, has a smaller version of a quiver strapped to their thigh.

The dwarf’s right hand is gloved, and in the glove, they hold the walkie. It’s dirty, with dark stains that Vex already knows is blood.

“Thank you for coming,” one of the humans says.

“I’m doing my job,” she replies. “Now show me the body.”

They take her a little bit further from the camp. The body is half-sat against a tree. The right side of it is burnt to a crisp and the left is wracked by large claw marks. The blood that burst from those wounds has long dried on the intact clothing.

There’s no way Vex can recognize them by looking at their face, half is charred and the other is almost fully melted from the heat, frozen now into a horrifying grimace. No wonder those who found the body sounded so tense on the walkie.

Her eyes fall on the insignia on the mostly intact part of the clothing. She swallows. It’s a triangular shape, of a burnt orange color, with the silhouette of Tal’Dorei in dark green over it. The letters TWC are written in white over the continent. Vex wears the insignia’s twin on her coat.

It’s Regae. It has to be. She doesn’t know of any other people from the TWC in the area, and the body isn’t old enough to be a previous ranger. Regae had been there for fifty years when he disappeared.

She takes a deep breath. “Alright,” she nods. “Thank you for calling me in. The Pale Guard will be here shortly to identify what has happened there.”

The human with the small quiver now has their crossbow in hand, ready to go. Machinally, Vex searches for the crossbow bolts and what they look like. She did make a promise, however unspoken, to the cub, after all.

Her sight falls on the ends of the crossbow bolts, the fletching. The pattern is immediately familiar. It’s the same one as the one she had to pull out of her sleeping cub. Her eyes narrow at the human.

“May I have your name, please?” She asks, trying to keep the anger from her voice. It seems to work, as the human doesn’t look as suspicious as he would have otherwise. She takes an arrow out of her quiver.

“Donavan Clarence,” the human nods.

“I see you enjoy hunting, Donovan,” Vex gestures towards the crossbow. “What kind of game are you after? Are you more of a pheasant type, or do you go after bigger prey? Let’s say, bears for example.”

Her voice is cold as ice now, her hand on her bow, ready to notch the arrow, draw back, and shoot.

The human stares at her intensely. “Why are you asking?” They growl.

“Maybe because it’s my fucking job to keep the innocent creatures of this forest safe from criminals like you,” she shrugs, and draws her bow.

She’s incredibly close to them, and if she shoots, it will hurt. They both know it. She hopes the Pale Guard isn’t far. By killing the mother of the cub, Donovan Clarence has committed a crime. National Parks protect the creatures they watch.

The human looks at her, full of contempt. “You have no idea what you’re doing, half-elf,” they hiss. Their hand drifts to the bolts and Vex’ hand loosens.

The arrow shoots through the hair and goes straight through the palm of the human. They scream in surprised pain. Blood gushes out of the wound and starts streaming down their hand and arm, soaking their sleeve.

Around them, the two others get their swords out, ready to defend their friend. Vex swallows. Okay, maybe she jumped into this one a little too early. With lightning-fast motions, she notches another arrow into the bow.

“You have no right to hurt the creatures of this park,” Vex continues. “The only person allowed to deal with threats in here is me.”

“It was a last minute situation, ser!” The other human tries, but their voice falters with hesitation and Vex knows they’re lying.

The cold eyes of Donovan Clarence and their total lack of remorse is enough to see clearly through this conversation. They had fun killing an innocent bear and trying to kill its cub as well. It was pure cruelty.

“The Pale Guard is on its way,” Vex reminds, taking a step back to encompass all of them in her line of sight. “You have no choice but to surrender. The one who killed the bear, if they’re not the same as Ser Clarence, will probably be arrested for poaching.”

She can see them start to shift uncomfortably. They’re calm for now, but this is not going to continue to be calm if it goes on much longer. Her bow is drawn again.

They stay like this, waiting for one of them to make a move, for what feels like an hour. It’s probably close to a couple of seconds before there’s noise coming from the path and a loud shout of “Pale Guard, put your weapons down!”.

Vex exhales. Thank the Gods for this. She knows she wouldn’t have been able to take down three people. They may not look strong enough to match her one-on-one, but this would have been three-on-one. She wouldn’t have come out of there looking good, if at all.

She gets to explain her point and the Pale Guard believes her. She’ll have to answer more questions in town, but they know what her job is, and she introduced herself when she first arrived. It also seems like Donovan Clarence has been suspected to be a criminal hunter for a long time. They’re just finally able to get some proof of it.

As Clarence and their buddies are taken away, Vex’ attention is violently brought back to the very dead body of the previous ranger. One of the members of the Pale Guard there is now crouched by the body, running spells over it to try and determine cause and date of death.

They get back up and walk back to where Vex is standing, arms crossed, looking quite worried.

“We’ve found traces of fiendish magic on the burnt side of this body,” they explain. “You have a fiend on your hands, ser.”

Vex sighs. “Thank you,” she nods. “I sensed a fiendish presence around Castle Whitestone yesterday.”

The guard looks around. “We’re quite far from the Castle Whitestone, in a completely different direction.”

That’s true, but she’s pretty sure the range of her trance would be enough to find a fiend around this area. “How long have they been dead?”

There’s more looking around and more thoughtful pondering airs on the guard’s face. They’re writing things absent-mindedly on a red-covered notepad.

“With the weather here and all… I would say about four months.”

Four months? That means there’s been a fiend around the forest for at least that long. Vex prays to anyone that can hear that Regae hadn’t been investigating other deaths from the same creature when they found it.

“Would the Pale Guard be able to lend me a couple of people to help defeat the fiend?” Vex asks after a moment.

The guard stares at her. “The Pale Guard isn’t trained to hunt creatures in the Parchwood Timberlands, ser.”

“It’s ma’am,” Vex specifies more out of habit than anything else. “Then who is trained to do that?”

They tense slightly, closing up their little notepad and shoving their hands in their pockets. “That would be the Grey Hunt, ma’am, but they haven’t really been around since…”

Has she stumbled upon another one of those untold stories, again? How many fucking mysteries are there in this godsforsaken town?

“Since what? I’m new here, I don’t know anything about the local history,” she snaps.

“Since the De Rolo massacre.”

Almost immediately after that, their superior calls for the guard she’s been talking to and they’re delighted to escape. Vex curses at the retreating back of the humanoid and stomps one foot in the soft floor of the forest.

The De Rolo massacre. What the fuck happened in this city? Why won’t anyone tell her about it? She can feel her own frustration growing in her chest. She wishes she was a black dragon, so she could spit out that angry acid.

After that, none of the guards seem to want to talk much to her. They pack up the body of Regae to bring it to their lab and verify the readings of the initial spells, and only nod at her goodbye.

She’s left alone in the clearing, with fire burnt out and the tents still fixed into the ground.

[creativerogues]

So, How We Gonna Resurrect This Bard?

The door busts open, swinging on its hinges, the metal handles slamming against the wall of the church as those that stand within turn to face the disturbance.

There, astride two steeds crafted from dark and shadow, sit a raggedy young wild-man, still covered in a layer of fresh wet soil and his veins still burning a cursed purple-green as the poisons of a green dragons breath continued to spread...

And atop the other phantasmal steed sits a tortle with blistered skin and watery eyes. He spoke through wheezing breath, his voice amplified as purple-blue sparks of arcane energy shoot and fizzle from his throat.

"We seek aid. Priest... Holy Man... Anyone...!" The Tortle spoke through coughs and splutters.

The steeds soon dissipated as the dismounted... And you almost didn't notice the haggard aaracokra man with withered feathers standing with a decayed body in his hands...

The three walked in, tired and desperate, and take a stand within the church at its entrance, blocking your leave.

"Please." The wild-man spoke for the first time, his voice rough and strained, his breathing heavy...

"He's been dead for four days, maybe five." The wild-man spoke again as he looked down at the body, the decay obvious and the stench almost burning to the nostrils, but none of the three seemed to care nor notice...

"We can pay." The old tortle spoke as a desperate attempt to sway your thoughts and give the group favor...

"We'll find a way to pay..." The wild-man spoke under a whisper, the Bird-Man carrying the corpse remaining silent, simply looking around the room.

The one of the holymen walks over, and despite the situation, knows these are not men of money, power or status.

"I'm sorry for your loss, my brethren-" The Priest uttered until he was interrupted by the Bird-Man.

"We don't want you pity." He spoke with a strain, his withered feathers hanging from the wings between his shoulders...

The Aaracokra looked up, taking his eyes off the corpse of his Friend. He'd taken so much time trying to stay alive that he almost forgot about the Friend that fell along the way.

He spoke again, his eyes barely containing a rage that could've burned hotter than the poison still in his lungs...

"You will f*cking fix him..."

So, here's the dealio. I wanted to do some World-building and DM Prep for my Players next session, which I've entitled "The Fixer-Upper" because I love to title each session and the Players are still in the process of fixing the colossal f**k-up that they caused...

And with the Players hopefully resurrecting Foot, and dispelling the magic that's held Whinny the Rogue, I thought that since the last call to action to create some Thieves worked so well, a call to action again might yield some fun results!

So what's the request?

Well, if the Players want to resurrect their Tabaxi Bard Friend, they're going to need someone that can do that: A Cleric, a Paladin, a Necromancer even?

So, I thought I'd ask the Community once again to create their own NPCs for my Campaign, since I loved the Characters made last time and I'd love to see more!

But to give you all a head start in Character Creation, let's tell you what I have on the lands of Valdor, the place the Party is currently adventuring through.

Valdor is the Country that lies east of Carthisia, over the Himmelblas Mountain Range that almost splits the Continent in two.

Individuals native to Valdor (known as Valdorians) have dusky brown skin and dark brown or black hair, having dark brown eyes.

Valdorians number many in the Silver Charge Mercenary Company of the Himmelblas Mountain Range, but far less than the numbers of Minotaurs, Goliaths and Orcs that live within the mountains on the west of Valdor's Borders.

Valdor is known for it’s many Mercenary Companies: The Shadow Hand, The Readied Blades, Brothers of the Mask, and The Slayers’ Band to name just a few.

Knights of the Knife, Gentleman of the Shade, Berespan’s Bravos, The Long Knives. They're the more of the famous Sell-sword Mercenary Companies.

The Three Biggest Mercenary Companies in Valdor are:

The Crackbone Company: A Company of ~20 Members, mainly Half-Orcs and Mountains Dwarves from Unter & Vuul to the north-west of Valdor, with Goliaths, Minotaurs and some Humans...

The Skull-Smoked-Frogs: A Company of 17 Members. Lead by a Female Tabaxi by the name of Owl on the Stone Shore. Her lieutenants are a Green Grung by the name of Osakwe, and a Kenku by the name of Dog Sneeze (’Sneeze’ for short).

Seven in Scarlet: A Company of just seven members, known for wearing only scarlet red clothing. Some say that the majority of these Members are in fact former Red Dagger Assassins who became disloyal to the Emperor of the Desert Kingdom of Rassurmurait to the South.

And that's pretty much it.

The only real "locations" to speak of are a Volcano to the far, far south that used to be a Red Dragon's Lair centuries ago, and the City of Bluemite, which used to be a small city run by a Free Noble House before said Red Dragon burned the town down to ash.

So, this is my written permission (within reason!), given to you, to create a Town, City, Location or whatever you need to suit the "Bard resurrecting" Character's Backstory. 

Maybe they lived near the Volcano, maybe they're not even from Valdor! Who knows!?

But, just like last time, I'll give a template to help everyone get started, but think about why this Character, whoever they are, would want to help the Party, and would they resurrect the Bard for nothing, for a favour, in the name of a God...?

Anyways, here's the Template to get y'all started:

Name: Race: Class: Subclass: Appearance: Personality: History: Motivation: Something Cool:

And remember, not all spells that can resurrect someone are specifically for Clerics. You're Character could be a Necromancer, a Paladin, a Cleric serving a Good God or even an Evil God.

Transmuters, Bards, Sorcerers: A lot of people can Raise Dead...

But anyhow, GO FORTH, create NPCs in Valdor and who knows, maybe the Party will gain some new allies (or enemies) in their Quest to defeat the Verdant Death that is Greshan himself...

[roraruu]

wip: soft

even more vamp au... 

Silque hates that he is right. She does see him the next phase of the moon, when it is only a fine crescent hanging in the sky. The Festival of Flostym—a celebration of spring—takes up most of her time. She attends the festival hand-in-hand with Genny and Celica and Boey and Mae. They dance and make flower wreaths and spread the Mother’s bounty of spring.

Genny wants to take a handful of flowers to the cemetery, but is too scared to go. “Will you do it for me?” She asks. Silque cannot day no to such a sweet plea.

She takes the handful of wildflowers from Genny and says she will only be a moment. Her feet carry her to the gates, stopping to admire the crumbling posts. If they had more money, more workers, perhaps they would repair the old stone and bring in new gates; but it is not so.

And, though it sends a chill down her spine, there is an eerie beauty to the forgotten ruins of the cemetery. The air is cool and chilly, and she wishes she had brought a robe or worn a thicker dress. She kneels to the earth and lays Genny’s offering of wildflowers at the cemetery gates.

“Silque.”

She looks up into red eyes. He is in the shade, hidden from the scorching sunset. She can barely make out the folds of his cloak and the curve of his sharp jaw.

“Python.”

As he’s done before, he smiles when she says his name. He flicks his head towards the town. “Ditching the party?”

“Only came as a favour to a friend.” She says.

“Ah, and here I was thinking you were all dolled up for me.” He says. “Nice dress. I like it better than the hunting one.”

“Apologies, but I am not.” She says. She picks up the bouquet. “Would you do me a favour?”

His brow raises. “Depends.”

Silque holds out the delicate bouquet to him, just before the gates. She can feel the pull of Mila’s holy hands on her body, pulling her away from the world of the dead. “Lay down some of these flowers on the graves?”

“Oh riiiiight you can’t go in.” He says.

His skeletal hand comes out from the gates. His fingers curl around the petals, avoiding hers. He’s not willing to repeat the same mistake as last time.

“Forget me nots. Didn’t know you were so sentimental.”

“It is not mine. Someone else made it.” She says. She doesn’t suspect that he’d go after another member of her priory now that they have an understanding, but she cannot be sure. Although it is not like Genny to leave the priory most days, it is still a matter of safety.

The bouquet disappears behind the gates and she turns away.

“Where you going?” He asks.

“Back to the festival.” She says, with a furrowed brow. He must have expected her to stay a while, y’all as they did before. There is a thin huff. The cemetery gates whine as his hand curls around the iron.

“I have a question for you.”

“And that is?”

“Do you intend to keep me?” He asks.

She blushes red. Clerics and priestesses of Mila are married to her and onlyher. Raising children is barely accepted even, unless they too are indoctrinated to her faith.

“What do you mean?” She asks. “I need explanation.”

The sun is fading more and more into the earth, the golden hour rapidly approaching and ending. “Well, you haven’t chased after me with that holy shit for awhile.” He says. “And we talk civilly now.”

She stays quiet.

“It isn’t proper behaviour for a vamp hunter, let alone a cleric. So I’ve been wondering if you’re planning to keep me or if you’re getting close just to plunge the dagger in my back.” His voice is low, almost a painful lull.

“I don’t know what I intend to do.” She says. “I suppose I want a little more information on your kind.”

“So you intend to keep me?”

“If that this what you want to call it yes, I’ll keep you.”

“Good.” He says. His face appears against the wrought gates. He holds out one of the forget me nots. “Come back later, bring your journal.”

“All right.” She says, and takes the flower. She turns away from the cemetery and goes back to her friends in the town square.

—

“Silque, may I have a word?”

The festival has ended. The priory is thankful further from the town, but the calls and chatter carry along the sea, reaching their little haven. It is mostly dark, some young priest having gone around to light candles and lanterns before they’d arrived home.

Celica’s voice is soft and sweet and stops Silque at her chamber door. “Of course.”

“May it be in your quarters? It’s of private nature.”

Alarm rises in Silque’s mind. “Yes, of course.” She says, opening the door to her room and shutting it quietly behind her. Celica is kind enough to use her fire spell to light the lantern on the writing desk. “What did you want to discuss?”

“I heard you talking with someone tonight.” Celica says.

Nervousness rises as Silque folds her hands together. “Mae thought you were in trouble, but I talked her down.” Celica says. “I just wanted to let you know in case you did have someone in your heart.”

Silque feels heat rise up her neck. She shakes her head quickly. Celica takes her hands, cold in hers. “Silque, it isn’t a bad thing to have someone you like.” She says, peering closer. “It is one of Mila’s tenets that we love others. To love is to be human.”

Human. Could humans only love? Terrors are not, of course, they only know fighting to survive. But does he—

Gods.

“If you do have someone, I could keep Mae and Genny closer to the priory, but only if you promise to stay safe?” Celica offers. She gives a soft giggle. “After all, there’s still that vampire, although we haven’t seen him for a while now...”

Silque thinks about her choice carefully. She nods slowly. “Yes, I’d appreciate it if you could keep the girls closer to the priory.”

Celica beams. “Of course. You know, it makes me really happy to hear you’ve found someone new.” She says. “When you came to the priory, you relied so much on the Mother—it’s important to rely on people too... Seems you’ve learnt that.”

Silque only forces a smile as Celica excuses herself from her room and Silque waits until the paces in the hallways stop and prayers fall silent.

Guilt washes over her. How can she fraternize with the enemy so easily? He poses a threat to them, should he just decide to change his mind and sink his teeth in the body of a fisherman or seamstress or—Mila forbid—a child...

She doesn’t realize her feet have taken her to the edge of the Priory, where he waits among the trees. A smile in the dark, her worries fade.

—

“Bring your journal” is a signifier that he will tell her everything he knows. Most of their meetings end with that command, save for a week where he disappears to the mainland to feed.

Somehow, he knows what nights she has patrols on, although they’ve decreased thanks to Celica’s words to Mae. The mage gripes that she wants to torch the “bloodsucker” alive and splash him with holy water so his skin burns away. She is thankful for Celica’s intervention.

They abandon the riverside darkness and instead roam out to the beach and sea. Sitting on rocks, he tells her secrets and things that disprove almost every theory in her book. A sense of pride washes over her: she has been able to tame a beast, as well as prove scholars wrong. And although too much pride is bad to have, Silque revels in it, albeit the smallest bit.

He kicks his boots through the dirt as she sips water from a skin and makes notes about holy water on the skin. She brought a little vial with her and it burnt his skin, sizzling like water in a hot cast iron pan. She’d offered gauze again but he refused, instead cussing under his breath and saying that it was a new finding.

“I want to know about your charm.” She says, eyes still on the paper.

“What about it?” He asks.

“Does it work on anyone? Or is it only women?”

He shakes his head. The corner of his lip turns up. “Nah. Anyone really.” He says. “Granted they’re not under Mila’s protection.”

“Right.” She says.

“Take off your necklace.” He says. Silque doesn’t listen. “See? Didn’t work.”

She rests her journal in her lap, her hands reaching around her neck and pulling off the necklace. He stares at her for a moment.

“Try now.” She says.

He continues to stare for a moment after she sets the necklace on the rock beside her. Almost immediately she is washed in nausea of allure. “Come over here.” He orders.

Her thoughts are muddy once again, thick and drowning out the don’t go and staythat her mind tells at her. The words become quieter and muffled as she pushes herself off of the rock and her journal falls into the sand. His order drowns out all other thoughts and actions. She feels her feet against the sand as she moves closer to him.

She must remember this, the ache in her head, the swimming feeling, the lack of control over her body. She wants to tell herself to keep all these thoughts in the front of her mind but they are all drowned out by the lull of his voice, the soft and sternness in it.

Charm, he calls it. He is attractive like a magnet and she that grains of sand on the beach.

She stands before him, looking deeply into his tired red eyes.

“Give me your hand.”

She holds it, palm up. His fingers, graze against her palm, over the soft pink flesh that was once cut by herself. It has begun to scar. She watches as his gaze narrows on the wound, then meets herself again. She feels his intoxicating touch, freezing cold against her warm body. She feels his own wound against hers, although his is not healing, instead degrading.

Her thoughts are muddy as he drops her hand. He stoops low, her eyes following his. “Go get your necklace and put it back on.” He orders and she follows. Her mind becomes clear again, her lungs filling up with a full breath. She didn’t realize how short of breaths she became under his charm.

“How do you do that?” She asks almost breathless. She fumbles with the necklace, catching between her fingers. When she turns around, her eyes widen. His fingers are on her papers. The sermons she’d wrote. Hymns for the goddess. She flushes.

“O holy divine one, let your feeble children be moulded by your hand. Guide and teach them with your love. Save them as you saved me—“ His eyes flicker to hers. “The Mother saved you?” He shakes his head. “What she come off her holy throne and dry your tears?”

She stiffens. Most everyone on the island knows about what happened to her. What is she, who she is.

“Yes.” she says. “May I have my journal back?”

He laughs a little bitterly, a little softly. “I want to know more about you, Silque.” He says.

She can only oblige. It is fair after all. He mentioned his career in the army, albeit without many details. It is only fair that she give him a little bit. “In my dreams she came to me and told me to hold hope.”

“You don’t look so destitute to me.”

“I was found at the greatport as a child.” She says thinly. His face falls from his menacing smile. “My Mother had been... like you are and before the sun rose she aimed to...”

She can’t finish the sentence. Lowly, she adds. “I heard someone calling me to the priory, and it was Mila. She saved me from that thingand delivered me to love and guidance.” She says. “I took it as a revelation to be a cleric and a hunter.”

“I’m sorry.” He grumbles. It takes her back for a moment and she glances away.

“Don’t be.” She says.

He holds out her journal and she takes it, beginning to write down her observations. She can only think of the leer he’d given her. He obviously wasn’t a believer in Mila in his last life, most definitely in this one too. She sits back against the rock and tries to focus on the paper before her and find the words to describe how muddy her mind had become, how she lost control of her body, how she almost felt like she was in a trance—

His voice breaks the air. “I have a friend back on the mainland. Sometimes when I go back to feed, I’ll go past our old encampment to see if he’s there...”

“Do you miss him?”

He meets her gaze. Then he half shrugs. “I just wonder how he’s been keeping. He’s... soft.”

“I’m sure he misses you.” She offers.

He laughs, breathy and not quite joyous or mocking. It’s... pained. “Sure he does.”

[shoe-sheriff]

So some friends and I are considering getting a D&D campaign going, and someone else volunteered to be DM, so I get to play a character. Now, I’ve been wanting to play D&D for a few years now and haven’t been able to get my fix, so I immediately start looking at 5th edition books (because I’ve only ever played 4e) and making a character. I landed on a Earth Genasi (from Elemental Evil Player’s Companion) Fighter. Of course, it being me, I also made a way-too-long background for the character.

For the first time in my life, I’d like to share the background publicly immediately after finishing it (I literally just got done like 5 minutes ago). Please, if you read it, let me know what you think. Anything that needs to be changed, added, removed, doesn’t make sense, etc.

My conception came after my parents found an artifact that acted as a gateway to the Elemental Plane, where my biological, dao, father is from. He traversed through the gateway a few months later, seeking to experience all the Material Plane had to offer. He fell for my mother, and tricked her into sex, impregnating her with me. From what I’ve gathered, he was known as Sihu the Powerful, and had a reputation of causing mischief wherever he went. Most of it was harmless, though there was an incident where he crushed a young woman beneath a boulder. After he proceeded to experience many more things throughout the plane, he left, never intending to deal with the consequences of any of his actions.

Being half dao, a quarter human, and a quarter elf, I had quite the culmination of features. My ears were slightly pointed like an elf, broad shoulders like a human, but at the same time more slender than a human. The most curious and out of place feature, however, came from my dao side. I had crystals sprouting from my light gray skin. They formed a pattern following my collar bone and around my hairline on my forehead, with a few outcroppings materializing along my upper arms and legs. Most of the crystals were tourmaline, green dissolving beautifully into pink, though I had a wide variety depending where one looked. I had honey-hued citrine, charoite with magnificent swirls of violet and lavender, and even fiery red opal. My hair was a deep black, with a faint light emanating from it where it was parted. This set me apart from others around me, but because I had beautiful rocks coming out of me, most people looked at me in amazement. I didn’t hate the added attention, but I wasn’t fond of it either, so I did my best to hide them when able.

My early childhood was filled with joy and happiness. My mother and her husband, henceforth referred to as my father, raised both me and my older half-brother. My father came from a reasonably wealthy family, my mother not so much. Together, they managed to raise us into fine members of society. They taught us how to properly value money and be happy with the things we had instead of constantly chasing happiness through the next purchase.

My father was a very experienced woodsman, regularly taking us on hikes and camping expeditions. He worked his days as a tradesman, dabbling in woodworking, metalworking, construction, and fishing. There were not many tradesmen in our town, thus he sought to make himself as valuable as he could to his community. He strived to give to his community as much as he could, while only accepting small payments for his work.

My mother worked as one of the town’s clerics, healing the wounded and spreading divine light across every shadow she encountered. Sadly, her healing magics and devotion to the lawful good divines did nothing to prevent her own illnesses. Several times throughout my childhood, she was plagued by a recurring sickness. After each bout, a different High Priest declared that the sickness would not return, only for it to do just that, poisoning her body and draining her life force more efficiently each time. The scars left by the illness covered her body, the most recent one ripping her stomach from this plane. She gave up her devotion, realizing that the divines would not help her. To everyone’s amazement, however, even through her pain and suffering, she never gave up her dedication to healing others and spreading the most beautiful light imaginable, no matter the willingness of the dark to overcome.

My brother, being older than myself and of a different race, grew up being bold and carefree. From him, I learned more about what not to do than what to do. He was caught several times sneaking out of our home to cause mischief with his friends. When he grew just old enough to be considered self-sufficient, my parents exiled him from the home, not wanting him to influence my actions. They remained supportive of him where they could, offering to pay for expenses he could not or gifting him furniture for his home. My grandparents, from my father’s side, even gave him (and myself) a large sum of coin, under the agreement that we use it to pursue a higher education or to start our own business, before using anything left over as we saw fit. We both used this to pursue a higher education. I sought to learn a series of trades, as my father did, learning the basics from him, applying that to my education, and then bringing everything together again with my father. My brother yearned to study and practice the Arcane arts, wishing to use the knowledge to provide responsible magics for the town’s benefit. Most of the way through his education, however, he had a child and was forced to put aside his education to take care of his daughter. He never went back to finish, unfortunately.

While working on my education, I had decided to learn Primordial, should I ever meet with Sihu or any genie who knew of him. I finished my education and began to make a name for myself as a learned tradesperson, creating great works and teaching even other apprentice tradespeople when they visited the town. My father retired after a year of my entrance to the trades, tired of working all day and knowing I had surpassed him in ability, due to my young, sturdy body, and thanks to the particular form of crafting I had learned, utilizing newer advancements and techniques. Though I loved what I did, especially the smile and gratitude I received from those I served, something always felt out of place. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was wrong, until roughly six years ago when I realized that I felt a part of myself was missing, having gone unrecognized.

For four years, I tried to find that part of myself and become a fuller being. I began to meditate, experience nature more fully and regularly, and used various herbs to seek that which evaded me my whole life. I felt like I had grown much, but that I was still unable to find my true self. Fearing that it may have been due to the fact that I felt obligated to not grow too far from who everyone around me knew me as, I decided to leave town. I spent many months training others to take my place as the town’s tradespersons, until I felt the town was in excellent hands. I set off to seek enlightenment of some kind, unsure of where I was headed or what lay ahead. I may return one day, though I am not sure that would be healthy for me.

Traveling for close to 9 moons, I was starting to feel fuller and more complete. I had decided not long after leaving town, that I would change my name from what the Half-Elves called me. I had been hiding from my dao ancestry my whole life, but no more. I am an Earth Genasi, and I have never been more proud of it. I stopped hiding the crystals that grew from my skin, eventually turning to them as the source of my name: Tourmaline. It was around that time that I met with a tribe of outcasts, mostly consisting of Orcs. They were not welcome in their former homes for being too calm and peaceful. They sought to live a grand life with compassion to all beings and the world itself, focusing on improving oneself to live in harmony with that which is around them. Most of them were from the same clan, but there were some like me who happened by and decided to join their tribe and follow their path.

They taught me to hunt, scavenge, and survive with the land. With them, I visited marvelous new areas and saw beautiful landscapes. To me, they were a new family, one with similar views as my own. For the remainder of two years, I had stuck by their side, using my skills in woodworking to construct whatever we needed, and a few things just for fun, like a lute. A couple of them taught me to play, and we formed a sort of band, playing for the tribe most nights, a celebration of life and our vision. We welcomed a handful of new members and wished old ones a safe journey as they departed for the next chapter of their lives. Nobody was made to feel left out or unwanted, and they were welcome to stay as long as they felt comfortable.

On the way back from a meditation session, I found the camp utterly destroyed. Bloodstained, torn tents flapped in the wind, and the bodies of most of my family lay on the ground, motionless. For weeks, I grieved for them, unable to bring myself to leave the camp, unsure of what I should do. One night, they appeared to me in a dream. I came out of my tent and they were dancing and drinking, merry as ever. When they saw me fall to my knees crying, they rushed over to comfort me. When I finally got a hold of myself, they sat down with me around the campfire and listened to me express how sorry I was that I wasn’t there to help or at least die with them in honor. The two who had been in the tribe longer than I put their hands on my shoulder and lowered their heads. They spoke to me without words, their voices thundering in my head as one. “The time for grieving has been over for some time now. You could not have known, thus it is not a worry you should burden yourself with any longer.” Their unified words of wisdom brought some calm to my nerves, but I still felt like I had been defeated. “The fact that any member of our tribe is still alive is a miracle, and miracles are rarely without purpose. There are others who need you, and a greater destiny which calls your name, Tourmaline. Go now, and bring honor to our tribe. Through memory, we will stay immortal.”

The next morning, as I awoke, I heeded their words. I put on my traveling clothes, gathered some chain mail, a greatsword, trident, and what else I could reasonably carry, and started walking. I didn’t know what destiny I was to fulfill, but I knew I had to make sure the tribe, nor their vision for a more harmonious world, wouldn’t be forgotten.

[paladin-andric]

Blackheart, Chapter 33: Heart of Darkness

(This is the final chapter, but not the complete end. Expect something soon...)

Alexander shook his head, voice quivering. “No...no, not you…”

The dragon’s twisted grin only widened. “Do you feel fear? Regret? Sorrow? Do not dwell on it. What you have experienced pales in comparison to what you will be feeling shortly.”

“Tourthun...Tourthun, it’s us. We can purify you, we can bring things back to the way they were. You just have to fight it, you only-”

The knight’s words were silenced by Tourthun reaching forward and slamming his claws down into him. Screams rang out from the others, but…

Alexander could hear the screams?

He had been crushed by a dragon. He should have died instantly.

Only...he didn’t.

“Words will not sway me. ‘Tourthun’ is dead. In his place, is your new God.”

He lifted his claws from the ground...and found Alexander, who should currently be a pile of mush, climbing back to his feet.

“What?!” Everyone, even Tourthun, cried it at the staggering knight.

Alexander wasn’t unharmed. It had hurt, and he felt like a horse had just kicked him in the chest...but he was alive. As he wondered why, it came to him.

The stone.

The “special ward” that woman mentioned. It had protected him.

“It’s gonna take more than that,” Alexander spoke calmly, sword raised. The dragon quickly recovered, breaking into a grin once more.

“Whatever you did to survive that was a mistake...you will wish you had died soon enough.”

“We’re shattering the anchor. Tourthun, get a hold of yourself!”

“A hold? A HOLD?!” the dragon broke into laughter. “Ho, you simple-minded fools...you know not the forces you meddle with. You see, I was too resilient to break through the normal process. That dullard who promised to return failed. My ‘love’ was too strong for him to warp, apparently.”

The dragon looked gleeful as he recounted what the group had missed after fleeing the cave. “They needed me broken, and they needed it quickly. Thus, they did something even they feared...they unsealed the heart of a long dead god, and forced it into me. They thought the dead god would possess my body...what fools! Now, I have infinite power, and the understanding of the darkness! I am God, now!”

“Tourthun-”

“SILENCE, WORM! You continue to exist because I wish it so. Not for any love...but because I wish to see you suffer. I wish to see you ALL suffer!”

“T-Tourthun?” Senci asked, quivering, “I don’t want to hurt you...please stop...we can help you…”

The dragon stepped forward, still grinning. His head craned down as he loomed over them, his visage striking fear into their hearts.

“I do not want your help. I want your misery. And what better way to gain it, than to show you just how hopeless you truly are?”

Leaning back, the demon-dragon’s forelegs rose as a dark force filled the room. What felt like...suction was filling the air, the group quickly covering their faces as wind began to whip violently around them.

It felt like Tourthun was sucking in the very air they were breathing...but after a few moments, it became clear that was a far cry from what was truly happening.

Alexander watched in amazement as several chunks of the room appeared to...tear away. They weren’t being torn up and sucked in by Tourthun, they simply...ceased to be, a black nothingness left behind by them.

This persisted, more and more of the room fading away, until, in a flash...there was nothing.

The knight looked around to see what was there, and...the others and Tourthun remained. That was all. The room, the stone, the anchor, the hallway, everything...it was all gone.

They were in a black void of nothingness. There wasn’t even a floor, yet they stood somehow.

“What...what’s happening?” Senci asked.

“I have erased the world,” Tourthun answered simply, “All is gone.”

“W-what?!”

“I told you...I am God. Reality begins and ends on my whim. All existence besides us has been undone.”

Lexius looked around at the void. “But, the others...the city...everything we’ve worked towards…”

“All gone,” the dragon announced, sounding like a parent telling their child something was out of stock.

“No...everyone else...everyone who ever lived...you can’t have…”

“I can, and I have. Now…” Tourthun leaned down and grinned at the four warriors remaining. “...what to do with you?”

Senci growled, sword pressed against his chest. “M-master Andric...Vok...you...you’ll pay for this!”

The warrior bellowed and charged forward, sword raised as he rushed to avenge all life.

“Oh, how cute. Farewell.”

A bright light blinded the group, and as Alexander opened his eyes…

Senci was nowhere to be seen.

“Wh-where...what have you done?!” the knight demanded angrily, the dragon still grinning like mad.

“He has joined his precious friends in non-existence. He never lived, as no one has. All that is and will ever be are you and I.”

Alexander stumbled backwards, reeling. This was worse than death. Senci, Razorwing, all of them, everyone who had ever been...all of them were gone, having never even been born. The world itself was never made. It was only them, and the void.

Leianna moved forward.

“Wait, don’t!”

The cleric ignored Alexander’s words. She marched resolutely, mace in hand. She didn’t charge like Senci had. It seemed she understood that there was no hope, and yet she faced their foe down anyway.

“Yes! Come, come to your demise!”

“Leianna, stop! We’ll...we’ll think of something!”

The cleric continued her march, looking at the dragon with a cold and fearless expression. She finally came to a stop, standing directly in front of the grinning dragon.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked, grasping onto her mace with both hands.

“Waiting? I am waiting for you to accept your end!”

She cocked a grin. “I’m not accepting anything. Come and get me.”

The dragon shifted, standing up straight. “Very well...perish in darkness!”

Tourthun rose a leg and, as he did so, Leianna turned to look at Alexander. She smiled at him, one last time, before Tourthun was upon her.

The knight averted his eyes as his claws crushed her. Why...why? What was the point of any of this?

As he lifted his claws, there remained not a body, not gore, but...ash. He held them up and blew across them, the mist scattering to the winds, vanishing into nothingness.

“Erased,” he said, gleeful malice in his voice, “Now...it seems you two are the last beings in existence besides me.”

Alexander shook his head. “Why…? I thought...you served the demons.”

Tourthun laughed. “Me, serving?! You stupid fool. I am a God. Why would I kneel to those fools? They merely unleashed me, they hold no sway over me any longer. Yes, they too have ceased to be. There is nothing but you, I and the endless abyss...the place where you will learn true fear.”

He stepped towards them, the darkness within him sending shockwaves through them. “Now begins an eternity of suffering henceforth unknown to you. Your entire being, for all of eternity, will know only pain.”

“Alexander.”

It was a low whisper, from Lexius. The knight turned to face the priest.

“You...you have to distract him.”

For the first time since his journey started, Alexander didn’t see what resisting would accomplish.

“Why? What’s the point?”

“I think…” Lexius swallowed hard. “I think I know a way to make him stop.”

He was familiar with purifying corruption...maybe he really was onto something?

“I’ve never attempted such an act. Alexander, I can’t help you, but...if you buy me enough time...we just might make him understand.”

That was all he needed. Something, anything to hold onto, to believe in.

A reason to fight.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good luck, Alexander.”

Tourthun was grinning. “Oooh, a plan? Yes, struggle helplessly. See your final hopes dashed, and fully submit to despair!”

Alexander moved towards the dragon, hunched over and filled with dread. “Why are you doing this? What’s the purpose of doing any of this? You can make anything happen...and you erase all reality? Why?”

The dark dragon chuckled at the knight, twisted malice in his voice. “The world wronged me. Now, I shall cast it away, and return its hatred tenfold. You will understand the extent of the world’s cruelty, and crumble before me.”

The knight shook his head. “Tourthun...that’s outrageous. You feel bad about what happened to you, about all you’ve lost? We’ve all lost people. That’s part of life.”

“I tire of your words,” the dragon said, disinterested.

“What about your father?!” he cried, “What would he think of this?! You think this is what he wanted?! He’d be ashamed of you!”

A twinge of pain, of fury and hatred. Alexander could see it in the dragon’s visage, as alien as it was. The demon reeled back and slammed his leg into Alexander, sending the knight flying.

He slammed into the...what acted like ground, in a heap. Once again pain wracked his body, but the sorcerer’s gift saved his life. He rose as the dragon snarled at him from far away.

“You know NOTHING of pain!” Tourthun cried, “But I will teach you...soon, you will know…”

Off to the side, Lexius was hunched over in prayer, conducting what appeared to be some grand spell.

He had to keep going. He had to stand against Tourthun, no matter what happened. He’d seen it, in the dragon’s face. He’d heard it, in his words.

There was an inkling of the old him. Of something the darkness hadn’t destroyed yet. And if there was a sliver, no matter how small...it could be pulled back to the surface.

“TOURTHUN!” the knight screamed, pointing his blade at the beast.

“Alexander…” the demon grinned.

He took a deep breath.

“I am just a man. I doubt I will survive this. Even so…I am not afraid. My dear friend…the corruption hasn’t erased you yet. I can hear the hesitation in your voice. The regret in your eyes. Within your demonic form I hear the cry of the pure-hearted dragon I once knew. Tourthun...I will save you if it kills me!”

Tourthun shifted his stance, his grin becoming a furious snarl. “Believe me...it shall.”

The dragon surged forward, Alexander throwing himself at the beast as well. He was knocked over as it barreled into him, but he quickly recovered. As Tourthun stared down at him, Alexander raised his sword, and swung down on one of the beast’s legs with all his might.

The blade made contact, and bounced off of the dark dragon’s scales harmlessly. It laughed, and laughed and laughed. The monster sent Alexander flying once more with a swipe of its tail.

“Do you see yet, fool?! I am immortal, invulnerable! I cannot be harmed, I can erase and rewrite reality with a mere thought! I am GOD!”

Clambering to his feet again, Alexander huffed and raised his sword at the dragon. “You...you can still be saved...”

“You have trouble listening.”

“There’s still time,” the knight spoke breathlessly, “Time to make things right. Time to return things to the way they were.”

The dragon’s wicked grin flashed once more. “You cannot save that which enjoys damnation.”

The beast crept forward, horrid visage still plastered on its face. “I ended the lives of your friends, of everyone you ever cared for. I plunged the world into an abyss so dark, the plans of the demons seem wondrous by comparison. Fool...can you see yet that I am your master, your tormentor?! Your pitiful words hold no power.”

The knight hesitated. He was furious. He was saddened. The beast had ended all life, all existence. All those he worked so hard to help, who he cared about and who cared for him in return...they were gone. Geralthin was gone. The sky was gone. All of the earth was gone. All because of him.

But that was what he wanted. Tourthun wanted him to give up. He wanted the man to hate him, to loathe and despise him.

Thinking back to that brief moment of hesitation on Tourthun’s part...it seemed like he was trying to keep him at a safe distance emotionally...so that he couldn’t compromise the dragon’s fury. As if the beast himself knew some part of him was still fighting whatever was controlling his actions.

“I don’t hate you,” Alexander said, “You know that. I just want to help you, Tourthun. I know how difficult it was for you. I know it seemed like the whole world was against you...but don’t you remember everything that happened after we met? The people who dropped everything to help you? The ones who cared enough about you to encourage you and ensure you were alright?”

“You left me to the darkness!” Tourthun snarled, “Do not speak of caring!”

“You begged us to leave! You forbade Senci from staying with you!”

“That would not have stopped you if you truly cared…” The dragon caught himself, shaking and snarling. “You...you DARE attempt to manipulate ME, your God and master?!”

With a guttural roar, Tourthun lunged forward, crushing Alexander again. Yet another time, the ward saved him, but he was deeply pained, his chest aching.

As he tried to get up however, the dragon pinned him back down with a claw. “Not this time. Now, you will know pain.”

The dragon, for the first time since they had met, incanted a spell. He showed no knowledge of magic before, so this must have been something from the forgotten god…

Alexander felt a blinding, searing, horrific pain fill the core of his very being. For only a brief moment, he felt a pain so unbearable that he couldn’t think, or see, or feel anything but the pain.

After the pain left him, it took a moment for his mind and body to catch up with reality, the knight screaming in the meanwhile.

As he came back to reality, he turned his head to look at the predatory demon grinning down at him.

“Just a split moment. Only a brief, passing moment. Imagine that pain. Imagine it going on...forever. That is your existence under me. That is what you will feel until you a broken, mindless thing.”

Alexander clawed his way back to his feet, glaring at the dragon. “I won’t...give up…”

The beast’s grin...the monster’s horrid grin...it flashed a gleeful, sadistic grin.

“I was hoping you would say that.”

With blinding speed, the dragon snatched him up, rose him up, and slammed him into the abyss with murderous force.

It hurt. Oh, God did it hurt. Still, the knight knew it wasn’t over, that he could-

“No.”

The moment he moved to get up, the dragon grabbed him and flung him, the knight flying and crashing back down into the darkness, rolling a bit before coming to a stop.

He barely had time to recover from the shock when a massive tail slammed down into him, hurting him further.

How long could the ward protect him? Sure, the damage slipping past it was but a fraction of what was truly inflicted, but how long until it gave out under the demon’s relentless assault?

“Oh, are you hurt? That is a shame. I have barely even begun.”

This process repeated itself, Alexander getting tossed and slammed effortlessly by the dragon. Each time he crashed back down, his pain worsened. His chest and stomach were on fire. His limbs were weak. His head spun.

I just...have to hang on...a little longer…

The dragon ground him into the darkness, sliced at him, bit down, and threw him about like a ragdoll. By the end of it, he could barely even move.

He was thrown, collapsing near the priest. He cried in pain, writhing in the abyss, before screaming out for help.

“Argh...LEXIUS!”

The priest was still performing whatever ritual it was that he planned. He look half-dead, eyes sunken and pale and sweating, just like when he had healed Tourthun.

Alexander, somehow, went on. He shakily climbed back to his feet, weaving and wobbling as he threatened to tip over.

“Impressive,” the dragon spoke deeply, “But pointless. Here it comes, Alexander...do not worry. If you die, I can bring you back. This suffering will persist for all eternity.”

The knight felt fear creep through his heart as the dragon reeled back...and spat his fire at him.

The flames were all wrong. They were discolored, green and evil-looking. The pillar of fire flew forward, and soon enough, Alexander was enveloped.

The fire boiled and burned, charring him and coating him in searing pain. He could feel his skin bubbling and nerves dying as he was covered in a sea of fire.

At last, it ended. The flames dissipated, and Alexander collapsed.

He felt the pain of a thousand pyres overwhelming him. He could feel his flesh melting away. In these moments, there was nothing but torment.

And yet…

The dragon’s laughter ceased as the knight’s arm rose...and pressed against the darkness beneath him. His other did the same, and soon, he was pushing, rising up into a kneeling position.

The knight’s armor was in ruin. Entire sections had melted. The entire thing was blackened. The boots were warped and no longer fit him properly. His helmet was a mangled mess, with a twisted visor, and one side almost entirely gone, leaving the burns on his face exposed for what was left of the world to see.

“What?!”

Alexander gasped, his voice low and raspy. “Not...yet…”

The knight was kneeling, panting and shivering as he struggled to hold on. It took all he had not to collapse back into the darkness and let it swallow him forever.

He moved his leg. It hurt. Oh, God, it hurt. Each movement brought terrible pain, and a sharp desire to stop...but he kept going.

His leg rose up and he planted his foot down, moving up and propping himself up on his knee. He breathed heavily, this shift from a kneel to a crouch feeling like a superhuman effort.

He willed himself on, using his leg muscles to move his quivering body upwards, until at least, he was at his feet again.

The dragon growled, fury in what remained of his eyes. “You WORM! You prove NOTHING! DIE!”

Another blast of flames. Alexander had the forethought to cover his face with his arms, though the effectiveness of this while being entirely engulfed in fire was dubious at best.

The flames swallowed him again, but this time, it hurt less. It was still burning him, he could feel that much, but...something was different.

There was a warm glow radiating from his hip. Not the searing heat all around him, but a pleasant warmness, a sense of safety and comfort.

He realized that was where the stone was.

It was getting warmer as the flames persisted, and after they died it, the heat emanating from it didn’t go away.

Alexander remained standing, leaving an even more shocked demon than before.

“What...what trick is this?!”

The knight took a slow, labored step forward. Then another. Soon, his body waved from side to side, his feet shuffling forward at a slow, steady pace. He looked like a walking corpse.

“Tourthun…not yet...”

The shock on the dragon’s face was barely registered by the knight. All he could think of was holding on, just a little longer, just to keep going no matter what.

The demonic dragon tensed up, growling. “You...will perish!”

Another blast of flames from the dragon’s maw, shorter in duration this time. He continued marching. Another. He kept going. Yet another. Still, he persisted.

The knight grimly marched on as the furious dragon continued to bathe him in fire. Each time, the stone got warmer and warmer, becoming scaldingly hot and being actively painful to keep on him.

Was it the ward struggling to keep up? Was it the magic it was absorbing threatening to overwhelm the enchantment? Was the knight’s only source of life about to give out?

Alexander felt fear, regret, sorrow and pain...but he marched on. Always, he marched on.

Step after step, pain all-encompassing, terror of the unknown, his last effort fading away into an eternity of unending torment…

A loud, thundering explosion brought all of his thoughts to a halt. Tourthun too was stopped in his tracks by the noise. Alexander struggled, but he did manage to turn around to face the source of the noise, his legs still wobbling unsteadily.

Lexius was covered in a white mist of divine energy, which promptly poured out all around him before dissipating into the darkness. This left only the priest with his hands in the air, head raised to the sky, motionless.

“It...is done. He...has arrived.”

With those words, Lexius collapsed in a heap, unconscious or dead. Alexander couldn’t tell which.

There was a pause. There was no more noise. There was no motion, no magic. Nothing happened.

Tourthun broke into uproarious laughter, cruelly spiting the knight with harsh words.

“He has failed! YOU have failed! Nothing has come of your pathetic plan! All hope is LOST! See now, and wallow in despair!”

For a moment, Alexander believed him. He was right. They failed. Nothing could stop him now. The new master of the universe would rewrite existence as he saw fit for all of eternity.

“Nothing has failed. I am here.”

The knight’s eyes widened as a new voice entered the area. It was a voice he had never heard before. It was a voice as soft a silk, as ethereal as a chorus of angels. It was a voice of love, compassion and understanding.

Alexander and the demon both turned to the source of the new voice, and standing before them...was yet another dragon.

This one, however, was not a true dragon...at least, not truly with them. It was semi-transparent, made of wavy, blue lights. His visage bore a soft, kindly smile, and he looked at them expectantly.

“W-what…?” the knight stared at the spirit in confusion. What was this? What had Lexius done?

“Tourthun…” it spoke, sounding almost ready to cry.

The corrupted dragon stood in shock, until he too finally spoke. His voice was different now. It was not the dark and insidious voice of a mad tyrant.

It was the voice of a frightened child.

“F...Father…?”

“My son...how I have missed you so.”

It all came crashing onto Alexander in a tidal wave. A profound understanding of Lexius’ plan. THIS is what he had put into motion. To summon the ghost of the one who meant the most of him, to shake him out of his madness…

“Tourthun...stop this. You must stop this. Come back to me, Tourthun. I know you still have it within you to regain yourself.”

The demonic dragon shook, head shaking. “No...NO! You...I will…!”

He fired a jet of his unholy flames onto his own father. Alexander watched in disbelief, his surprise only growing as the flames went out to show the other dragon, unharmed.

“My body has long since died, Tourthun. You know that better than anyone.”

Tourthun cringed, backing away from the soul of his father. “I...leave me...I am a god...I...I am…”

“You are my son.”

Those words seemed to shake the dragon to his very core. He froze, wide-eyed.

“Remember...you must remember. Remember everything I have ever taught you. Remember the love you have for this world, and its people. Remember all you have worked towards in your pursuit to make the world a better place. The darkness cannot swallow you whole. You are too strong for it.”

Tourthun’s breathing became funny. He stood in a strange pose that resembled a cornered animal. Even with the darkness warping his visage, Alexander could see the shame and heartache in his eyes.

“F-father…”

“I have always believed in you, Tourthun. I will never stop. Even as far as you’ve fallen, I know you will rise again. Your love cannot be contained by such foul entities. You are my son, and I love you.”

“Father…” his voice was comparable to the squeak of a mouse. “I...I…”

This quivering and shaking intensified, until at least, the dragon began to cry.

“...I am so sorry.”

“There is nothing to apologize for.”

“But I have...I tarnished everything. I have destroyed the world. I have brought untold suffering to my friends, to everyone who has ever cared for me! How...how could I? How could I allow this? How could I ever make amends for this?”

“Fight it!” his father pleaded. The dragon’s teeth were grinding against one another, the beast in clear distress.

“I-it hurts...I...I do not know if I can. Father, help me…”

The spirit bowed his head. “I am not truly here, Tourthun. The good priest could only allow my soul to travel here for a short time. I can offer nothing but my wisdom. There is, however, one still here to help…”

The knight could feel the eyes on him, having lowered his head as he struggled to stay upright. He looked up and saw both of their gazes fixed on him.

“Alexander…?” Tourthun asked fearfully.

“Tourthun…”

“I...I hurt you. I tried to end your life. I brought suffering to one of the few good people I knew. I...I understand if you cannot forgive me.”

“It wasn’t you,” Alexander muttered.

“I...could you...how could you help?”

“That is on you,” the spirit answered, “He does not hold the answer himself.”

“But...I can feel it again. Father, what do I do?”

“You said you were a god, correct? Tourthun...take that power, and use it for good. You know I mean, do you not?”

The dragon slowly nodded, comprehension dawning on him. “I...I do. I understand.”

“Good. That is good.” the soul closed his eyes, looking pained. “Tourthun...my time here comes to an end. I can feel it. The energy used to bind me here is coming undone. I will return to the heavens in a moment.”

“F-father, please…” Tourthun’s face was matted with tears. “Please...do not leave me.”

“I have no choice in the matter,” Tamis admitted, “Just as I had no choice the first time. Tourthun...before I leave, I want you to know that I am always with you. I have been watching over you, ever since I left this world. I tried so hard to reach you, to let you know I was there, and everything was okay. I believe I got through once. Tourthun, do you remember that dream, when you were a child…?”

Tourthun’s jaw dropped before he recalled the words spoken from his father. “I may be gone from this world, but I will always be above, watching you...”

“Be good for me...you have made me so proud already,” his father finished.

The pair stared at one another in silence, their faces saying all that needed to be said. The father and son stared into each other’s eyes for some time, a spark, an inseparable connection clearly there.

“I can feel it...I must leave, now…”

Tourthun shook. “I...I do not want to be alone...”

“You have your friends, still. Tourthun...do not give up hope yet. I know you can fix this. You WILL fix this. Tell me you will.”

Tourthun nodded hurriedly. “I...I will. I promise I will.”

“Good...that is good.” Tamis looked up to the other dragon with a smile. “Mother is with me too, you know. She has been watching as well. She misses you dearly, and is so very proud of who you are.”

“F-father...I miss her, too…”

“She knows that...but I will tell her. Tourthun...the end is here. I will continue watching from above. My son...make me proud.”

With that, the soul of Tamis began to waver, growing harder and harder to see.

“Father...father!”

“I love you.”

Those were the final words the voice spoke, until what was once Tamis was gone again, rejoining paradise.

Tourthun sat there, shaking, as Alexander stood in stock for quite some time. Eventually, the dragon turned and looked at the knight. Though he was still corrupted and unholy, his face had changed. What was once furious hatred and malicious glee was now the visage of a heartbroken creature.

“Alexander...I can never fully be forgiven for what I have done to you, and all the others…”

“I TOLD you it wasn’t you,” Alexander spoke sternly. “Although...I can think of something that could be done.”

Tourthun nodded. “What father said...this is my only chance at redemption. Alexander...abusing my powers, undoing the entire universe...I exhausted my energy. I am nearly spent. I could wait, only...the voices of darkness, even now, still scream at me. I...I cannot hold onto this clarity forever. Soon enough, I will go back to the horrible monster I once was…”

He looked at the knight, eyes narrowing. “Alexander...you would do anything to save the world, would you not? You would not hesitate to give even your very life if it meant it all came back...correct?”

“Of course.” There wasn’t a moment of hesitation. Tourthun nodded.

“Good, good...so would I. Alexander...I am going to attempt something great…but I am weak, now. I need your help.”

“Yes...anything…” the knight stumbled forward, careful not to trip. Still the pain engulfed him, and he feared that if he fell, he’d never get up.

“Alexander...I am going to use the last of my strength to rebuild the world...and it will not be enough. Lend me your strength, Knight Alexander, hero and friend, so that we may rebuild this world, together.”

“Yes…”

As the knight staggered over to the dragon, the beast moved his leg, offering the knight something to hold onto while their ritual went underway.

“There is a good chance one of us will not survive this. Perhaps even neither of us will make it.”

“I don’t care,” the knight answered, reaching out to the dragon.

“Sir Alexander. If I do not make it, if you return to the world and I am not there...remember me as I once was, not as what I have become.”

“I told you...the world will know of Tourthun, savior of Palethorn.”

The dragon smiled. “My friend...good luck. Long may life blossom in this great land.”

As the dragon stopped talking, something else happened. Alexander felt that...sensation, from before. From when Tourthun undid the world. That strange pulling sensation.

This time however, it was not the world around them that he felt being pulled...but his very being.

It felt like something was trying to tear the soul out of his body as the ritual began, immense pain and exhaustion flooding his body.

As the knight struggled to hold on, he looked and saw Tourthun appearing to be in pain as well.

The spell he was using was drawing their very essence for its power, using them as fuel to rebuild the world.

Alexander shook, and his teeth chattered. It was like his body was being stolen from him, his spirit being burned away and leaving him a hollow husk.

“Alexander...look.”

The knight looked up, trying to see what the dragon was seeing.

All around them, bits of the darkness were...fading away. While the abyss was still there, reality was bleeding back into existence. There were bits of green on the ground, and all around them the color of stone walls came into being.

“We are doing it...we are truly doing it, Alexander…”

Despite the horrific pain, the knight forced himself on. Despite everything he had suffered, he kept going.

This was the world, the future of all life. It wasn’t up to him whether he was allowed to give up or not.

“Hah...I grow weak…” Tourthun muttered, both of them being eaten up by the magic.

“Not...yet…” Alexander whispered, body wobbling.

He closed his eyes as more and more of the world returned from the brink, the knight feeling debilitating agony across every inch of his body.

Internally, his mind was spent. His will was stretched far past what he thought were his limits. He couldn’t think straight anymore, or do anything but simply be.

“Alexander...it is here...the world is here…”

The knight finally gave out, the last of him spent utterly. Before he could look to see if the dragon was speaking truth, he crashed to the ground, his mind already swallowed by the darkness.

…

Darkness.

It was all he knew.

It an endless void, his mind raced.

He couldn’t recall what had happened, or why.

How had he gotten here? Why was he in this place?

“Alexander…”

Somewhere, in the distance, a voice called out to him.

What was it? Who was there?

“Alexander…”

Again, he strained. Someplace, he could feel something. In another world, events were unfolding before him.

“Alexander!”

The knight snapped back to life, eyes opening. He gasped as air filled his lungs, the feeling of being alive a sweet nectar that egged him on.

He looked up to see the face of Leianna. She looked surprised, but then smiled.

“Ah...you’re alright.”

As she backed off, the knight instinctively tried to sit up. As he did so, he felt sharp pains all over him, eliciting a deep intake of breath from him.

“Easy, easy! You were half-dead when I got started…”

Forcing himself into a sitting position, he rubbed at his head, feeling warped and melted steel underneath his hands. “What...happened?”

“You did it, Alexander.”

Another voice. The knight turned to see a familiar face. A draconic visage, large and glittering a deep, ruby red.

“Tourthun!”

“The very same.”

Alexander shook his head. “But...how did you…?”

“Andric and Leianna. They purged me of the influence. I am...back again. It is all thanks to you and Lexius, my dear friend.”

The knight looked over to the others. All around him, his companions stood watching him with concern. Above them, Gira, Basilrin and Aurelio all perched over rooftops, watching the proceedings with vested interest.

He pointed at Razorwing. “What about...what happened to you? When you got caught behind…”

The bird crossed his arm-wings. “It’s the strangest thing. Crux and I were fighting the demons to cover your assault, when all of a sudden…”

“There was a bright light,” Crux answered.

Razorwing finished the statement. “...and when we came to, we were here, and everything was alright.”

The knight turned to look around him. They were in the square, the portal now a pile of rubble. The demons were gone, and there were no corrupted in sight. The army was all around them, and Alexander could see the rest of his friends in the crowd.

Wurie was patting a survivor on the back. Charles was watching Alexander with a wide smile on his muzzle. Senci was clutching onto Andric tightly, hugging him as if it was the last time he’d ever see him. The paladin was returning the hug.

All around them, the army and citizens smiled and celebrated, congratulating one another. The people were happy, and it seemed no one was unaccounted for.

Whatever they did, it worked. The demons were destroyed. The Blackheart was ruined. They had succeeded. It was all over.

The knight moved to stand up, but the intense pain returned, causing him to grunt.

“Hey, take it easy, dope!” Leianna shouted, “You’re lucky you’re even alive!”

“What doesn’t kill you…” he said with a shallow laugh.

“Argh! You need to relax! You nearly...your face…”

Alexander paused. He shook his hand free of his near-ruined gauntlet, letting his hand be exposed to the world. He pressed it against the opening in his helmet, and sure enough...he felt it. The waves and patterns now emblazoned on him. The permanent scars of horrid face-burns.

“Well...there goes my good looks.” he laughed again, shaking his head.

“Alexander...you still, I mean…”

“Don’t worry,” he said softly, cutting the cleric off, “...I’m sure it’ll grow on me.”

She offered no more words as he forced himself to his feet, his mangled armor and burned body mere inklings in the back of his mind. He was alive, as were the rest of humanity, and that was all that mattered.

As he climbed to his feet, he could hear something in the distance.

Church bells.

Someone had thought of the idea, apparently to celebrate their victory. While a token gesture, what happened next made it far more impactful.

It seemed to become brighter all of a sudden, and as Alexander looked up to find the source of light, he was stricken with wonder.

The fog above them, wrapping the city in an eternal darkness...was fading away. The wisps of fog thinned out more and more, until finally, as a hole in the dome of darkness formed...Alexander could see it.

The sun.

The fog died away, revealing a bright blue sky, the shining sun covering the city in a wondrous, warm light, all while the church bells rang.

Alexander could feel tears run down his face. He’d done it. They’d finally all done it. The nightmare was over. Dawn had come, and the world was saved.

All stared in wonder at the glorious sight as everyone came together, man and beast, to watch the sun burn away the darkness.

In that moment, all life was one. All shared in their struggle, their triumph. It was over.

It was finally all over.

“I can’t believe it…”

Alexander heard the voice of the prince, breathless. He stumbled over, and tapped the man on the shoulder.

“Alexander…”

The burned man smiled. “It’s time to bring these people home, William.”

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[stellarcheetah-archived]

Memories

All of my memories Keep you near In silent moments Imagine you here All of my memories Keep you near The silent whispers, silent tears

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“...How many?”

“Five more today, milord.”

Amon bit back a groan of despair at the news, weary eyes panning over what he could see of the town through the window. Anxiety twisted his stomach into knots, brow furrowed and hands unable to keep still.

“Any sign of the clerics from Aurumval?”

“Not yet.”

“I sent for them a week ago. They should have been here by now!”

“Patience, milord. The rains have made the roads more difficult to travel. They should arrive any day, now.”

“We don’t have time for patience, Father Girion. My people are dying, and I can do nothing but watch. Have there been any new cases?”

“None in the last three days. We’re containing the spread as best we can.”

The nobleman released a breath in a sharp sigh, tearing himself from the window to pace the room. The priest stood calmly in his place, hands folded beneath the long sleeves of his robe as he watched the lord fret.

“...Who did we lose?”

The question came quietly, laced with fear. The elven priest bowed his head slightly, eyes lowering.

“Ardaniel Woodsparrow. Desmond Valle. Johnathan Farthing. Briella Clairvont. And Belladonna Guivene.”

“Did we not lose a Farthing just two days ago?”

“We did, milord. Johnathan’s wife, Isabelle.”

Amon gave a soft, choked noise, sitting down upon the nearest couch. Silence fell over them yet again, the clock ticking quietly in the background for what seemed like an eternity before the nobleman spoke again.

“...Any children?”

“Briella was but seven. The Farthings leave a daughter, Marie.”

“...Is she ill, too?”

“No. She has thus far escaped the disease, but the Farthings recorded no other relatives. She remains at the temple until we are certain she is not carrying it, and then she will be escorted to the orphanage in Gribank.”

“No.”

“I... Milord?”

“No. I will not have her sent away. This is her home. She must have friends here. And for her to lose her parents and then be sent away to a strange place with strange people... don’t you wonder what that will do to the child? I won’t have it.”

“With all due respect, my Lord Amon, where then will she go? The temple does not have the resources to care for her for any extended period of time, and in the midst of the sickness it will be a strain to find a suitable new family for her,” the priest explained: slowly, gently, as though to avoid drawing the man’s ire.

A beat passed. And then, Amon spoke.

“Here.”

“Your pardon?”

“She will stay here, at the manor. The servant women and I will take care of her. I will educate her in literature and the sciences, and they will educate her in domestic skills. And when she is old enough, her family’s home will be hers, and she will live whatever life she wishes. She has faced grief enough already: she deserves to live in comfort and security, not in loneliness in some dingy orphanage far from everything she’s ever known and loved.”

“My lord... Your heart is thoughtful and compassionate, but I’m not sure that-”

“That wasn’t a request.”

The sudden ice that had entered the lord’s tone took Girion aback, left faintly gaping at the force behind the words. Regathering himself quickly, the priest inclined his head respectfully.

“...Yes, milord. As you command. We will bring the child as soon as she is ready.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“...Hello, Marie.”

His voice was as gentle as could be as he knelt before the child, clutching tightly to a stuffed rabbit almost as big as she was. She watched him from behind her toy with wide, nervous eyes, uncertain what to make of him. Her gaze moved to the servant women standing nearby, fawning from a respectful distance, and then to the priest at her side who offered an encouraging smile.

“It’s alright, little one. This is Lord Amon,” the priest informed her, a gentle hand against her back.

“You can just call me Amon. Did Father Girion tell you why you’re here?”

The girl gave the tiniest of nods, tightening her grip on the toy.

“...He said I have to live here now,” she said, her voice as small and meek as she was.

“That’s right. We’re going to take good care of you, I promise,” he told her, adjusting his posture to sit on the floor in order to be even less threatening to the poor dear.

“...But I want my Mom and Dad. I wanna go home.”

Amon swore he heard his own heart shattering at the words, forcing himself to keep his composure and fight the sting of tears at the back of his eyes as he watched her own trace down her cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart, I know... I know,” he murmured, extending an arm to coax her over into his side. She practically collapsed into his chest, beginning to cry loudly as he held her. “I wish I could give you your Mom and Dad back. But you know what? They’re always going to be with you.”

He tapped a finger to her chest, cradling her to him with his other arm. “They’ll always be right here, in your heart. They’ll keep watching over you, and they’re going to be so proud of how brave you are. We’re going to make this your new home, and we’re going to love you and take care of you, from now on. I promise.”

He scooped her up into his arms as he rose to his feet, cradling the girl and letting her sob into his jerkin. He rubbed her back in soothing circles with one hand. A polite nod dismissed the priest, and the servants began to scatter back to their duties: one stating in a whisper that she’d fetch the poor child a cup of water to receive a nod of approval.

“It’ll be alright, Marie. I promise,” he murmured, turning to carry her to the sitting room. “Do you like dogs? I’ve got three, and they’d very much like to meet you.”

He felt her nod, bringing a soft, sad smile to his lips. He quietly asked one of the lingering servants to bring the hounds to them. He had a feeling he knew just how to cheer her up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“...How is she?”

“She’s... doing as well as one can expect of her, m’lord,” the maid offered, sympathy in her voice as she looked back into the servant’s quarters where one of the oldest of the housemaids was tucking the little girl into bed.

Amon nodded, inhaling slowly. He hadn’t been surprised when she’d decided to stay down here: the other rooms were very large and very lonely, for such a small child. Even with the offer of letting any of the dogs stay with her if she wished it, she still wanted to be with the women.

“Might I... talk to her, yet?” he asked, licking his lips a little nervously.

“Of course, m’lord,” the maid conceded, stepping aside and gesturing to let him in. He hadn’t been in the servant’s quarters, before. There was an awkwardness to him as he entered, feeling very much like an intruder as he wandered over to the girl’s bed.

“May I sit down?” he asked gently, gesturing to the end of the bed. She gave the meekest of nods, holding her rabbit a little tighter as he eased down into the empty space.

“Hi, sweetheart. I know it’s been a long and difficult day, and I’m sure you’re tired, huh?” he said, getting another nod in answer as Marie rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I thought so. But before you go to sleep, I just want to tell you something, okay? I know it hurts a lot right now, but... it won’t hurt this bad forever. Your mom and dad will always be your mom and dad, and you will always love them, and miss them, but it won’t always hurt this bad. We’re here for you now. I know it’s going to be scary at first. It’s okay to be upset, and scared, and to miss your parents. I don’t want you to feel bad for that, okay? You can cry as much as you need to. You’ll be safe here. You’ll be part of a second family, now.”

He reached across to take her hand, gently as he could, and held it firm.

“I know I’m not your Dad, and I’m not going to try and replace him. I know you don’t know me very well, and you won’t ever have to call me Dad if you don’t want to. But I promise to protect you and teach you like he did. I’m going to be here for you. We’re all going to be here for you.”

The child slowly turned her gaze up to him, then around to the housemaids who offered nods of agreement and encouragement.

“...Promise?” she asked, her voice small as she looked once again to Amon.

“I promise.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Noticing the way Marie stared down at her plate, Amon set his fork aside.

“What’s the matter, dear?” he asked, his brow furrowing with concern as she looked up at him.

“How come we eat here, and everybody else has to eat in our room?” she asked, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown. He was somewhat taken aback for a moment, blinking.

“Well, that’s... that’s simply how it’s done, dear. Servants and nobles don’t eat together.”

“But that’s not fair! There’s lots of space here, and it’s just us. Why does it have to stay like that?” she cried, puffing out her cheeks.

“I know it isn’t fair,” he said gently, trying to choose his words carefully. “Sometimes... sometimes things happen that aren’t fair, and we have to learn how to deal with it.”

“But why can’t we change it? Why can’t they sit with us?” she protested. “I don’t want to just deal with it. It’s a stupid rule.”

She returned to glaring at her plate as he struggled for an answer, crossing her arms over her chest. Finally, he sighed.

“...You’re right, sweetheart. There is a lot of space here, and they’re your family now, too. You should be able to sit with all of your family. Starting tomorrow, we’ll let them sit here at the big table too. Okay?”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Amon!” the girl cried, flinging herself into his arms with a laugh. She nearly knocked him over from the force of the impact, staggering the nobleman. He couldn’t help but chuckle at her enthusiasm, picking her up to carry her back up the remaining half of the walkway to the manor.

“Oof, you’re getting big, my dear. Soon I won’t be able to carry you anymore,” he remarked, a teasing grin on his face as he did his best not to trip over the dogs as they crowded about his legs.

“You’re lying. You’ll always be able to carry me! You can wrestle a bear, and I’m not gonna be as big as a bear!” she retorted, clinging to the fur collar of his cloak.

“Have the girls been telling you stories again? I think they’ve been exaggerating,” he answered, giving the nearest housemaid a lightheartedly-accusing look as she closed the door behind them. Marie just giggled.

“Noooo,” she sang, rather unconvincingly.

“Well then, if you say so. Now what have you been up to while I was gone?”

“Gabriella took me to the market yesterday! They had all kinds of stuff there. Miss Barlow had fresh blueberry pies, but we didn’t get one. Gabi said it would be better to make our own, so she showed me how to make one this morning!” she announced, straightening up in his grasp.

“Did you now? I thought you smelled suspiciously of blueberries,” Amon teased.

“Well you smell like a bear. Gross!” she shot back, earning a very fake gasp of shock. He feigned a wounded look, resting his free hand to his chest.

“Marie! That’s not very nice,” he chided her, though he found himself unable to put any real sternness into it. She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Well you do. And you’re not getting any of the pie until you have a bath.”

“My goodness, I thought I was supposed to be parenting you, little miss sassy pants, not the other way around!”

She stuck her tongue out at him a second time, making a fart noise. He responded by leaning in to blow a raspberry against her cheek, earning a squeal as she squirmed and laughed trying to shove him off.

“Amon, stoooooooooop!”

“Oh I don’t think so. I think you’ve earned a visit from the tickle monster!”

“Noooooooo!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“...minus seven, is... eighty-five?”

Amon’s patient smile broadened, nodding. “Right! Now, what happens if we add parentheses here?” he asked, writing the edited equation in the empty space on the paper.

“Then we have to do the subtraction first,” she answered confidently, though she still looked up at him for affirmation.

“Exactly. Now, let’s see-” he was interrupted by a knock at the doorframe, both nobleman and child glancing up to give the servant their attention.

“Lunch is served,” the maid announced. Marie set her materials aside with a cry of “yay!” as she hopped off the couch, scampering past her down the hall to head down to the dining room. Amon couldn’t help but chuckle as he, too, rose to his feet, adjusting his cloak.

“Right on time, as always,” he commented, watching her go.

“Of course, Lord Amon. How goes her studies?”

“Very well. She has a good sense for math: she’s learning it much faster than I did as a youth. Well... then again, I suppose that isn’t saying much,” he muttered, the woman matching his gait to follow just slightly behind at his side as he left the study to make his way to the dining room himself.

“...Forgive me if I am speaking too boldly, but I believe you are too hard on yourself, my lord,” she said softly.

“I... appreciate the thought, Tova. Please excuse me. I shouldn’t leave Marie waiting at the table.”

“Of course, Lord Amon.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sensation of something beneath his foot made him halt, stepping back and turning his attention from his book to see what he’d stepped on. A shard of pottery stared back at him, and the housemaid moved quickly to grab it.

“I’m so sorry my lord, I tried to clean this up as quickly as-”

“How did it break?” he asked calmly, moving the ribbon bookmark to his current page as he closed the novel. Her hesitation, stuttering a few times as she struggled to come up with an answer she felt appropriate, gave him all the information he needed.

“Mm. Leave it for now. And bring Marie up here.”

“...Yes, my lord,” she conceded, leaving her brush and dustpan where it lay to retreat down the stairs. He waited until she returned with the girl in tow, Marie hiding behind her as best she could.

“Marie,” he addressed her, his voice level, “did you break the vase?”

Clutching to the housemaid’s dress, she blurted out her answer: “It was an accident! I was playing tug with Samson and Valkyrie and Samson bumped into the stand and it fell over and broke, I didn’t mean to!”

“I’m sure you didn’t. But what did we learn?”

“...Be more careful?”

“And?”

She looked down at the floor, reciting her lesson quietly. “Be mindful of your surroundings. Don’t let excitement make you careless.”

“Very good. Now what else should you have done after the vase broke?”

Her head dropped further, her fingers wringing the maid’s dress. “I should have told you right away, and said sorry, and helped clean it up.”

“That’s right. Why didn’t you?” he asked, never raising his voice.

“...I was scared you’d get mad at me.”

He hesitated a moment, considering this answer as his throat tightened. “I’m... I’m sorry that I made you feel scared, Marie. I’m more upset that you didn’t say anything when you broke it than I am that you broke it at all,” he finally said, kneeling to her level and setting the book aside. He reached out to her, beckoning her over. “Come here, please.”

A nudge from the maid, and she came over to let him pull her in for a hug. She clung to his jerkin in response, burying her face into his shoulder.

“I forgive you, sweetheart. It’s okay. I won’t ever stop loving you. Everyone makes mistakes, but what’s really important is what we do to fix them. So I want you to help clean this up, and to be more careful from now on. Is that fair?”

She nodded slowly. “Okay... I love you, Amon.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“...Amon? Can I come in?”

The soft voice brought him from his contemplation of the rug, swiftly brushing the moisture from his eye and clearing his throat.

“Yes, dear.”

She pushed the door open further to slip through it, padding across the room to sit down next to him. She searched his face for a moment, finding he would not meet her gaze, before she spoke.

“Miss Germaine looked really upset when she left. Is... everything okay?” she asked tentatively. He took a deep breath that shook in his chest.

“...Miss Germaine and I aren’t going to see each other anymore.”

“Why not?” Marie asked, sounding surprised. He slowly put an arm around her, resting his chin on her head as he pulled her in for a hug.

“...Sometimes, even if you like someone very, very much, it’s... not good for you to stay with them. And... Miss Germaine doesn’t think it’s good for us to stay together. So she broke up with me, and she’s not going to visit anymore,” he explained, struggling to control his voice and keep it from cracking.

“Oh... Is that why we don’t see Miss Charlotte anymore, either?”

“...Yes.”

There was a moment of silence as he held on to her, her head against his chest as she listened to him breathe.

“Please don’t be sad, Amon. I still love you. And I’m gonna stay here, forever and ever,” she promised, squeezing him as tight as she could manage. He returned her hug, the tears sliding down his cheeks.

“Thank you, sweetheart. I love you, too.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a lull in conversation as they ate, content in a good day and a very nice dinner. After a sip of his wine, Amon glanced over at his adopted daughter to casually drop a question.

“Sooo, who’s Joseph?”

The girl sat up straight, pink staining her cheeks. “N-nobody. Just somebody we met at the market.”

“Is that so? Just a nobody you see at the market every time you go?”

Marie pursed her lips, shooting Gabriella an accusing glare. The maid pretended not to notice, casually buttering a dinner roll as she ignored the look.

“He’s Miss Barlow’s son, and he helps her with the bakery, so he’s there almost every day. That’s all,” she finally protested, though the blush still flared across her cheeks as she stuffed a piece of potato in her mouth.

“Ah, I see. So I suppose he’s not responsible for those yellow tulips you brought back today,” Amon replied, cutting himself another bite of steak.

“Gabi!” Marie whined, puffing out her cheeks as she pouted at the now-giggling servant woman across the table. The other women were doing their best to hide their own amusement, so all she could do was huff in annoyance.

“I’m just teasing you, dear,” Amon assured her, though he was still grinning. She stuck out her tongue at him, which only served to incite more giggles. She wasn’t going to live this one down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Ladies, please-”

“I’m sorry, Amon, but we can’t stay here anymore. Whatever that- that thing is that’s been tormenting us, it killed Brutus. Who knows what it could do to one of us, next! We’re leaving,” Tova announced, pushing past him to lead the other servants out.

“Marie?” the man called after the group, desperation in his voice as the teen stopped to look in his direction. She wouldn’t look him in the eye, clutching her own pack.

“...I’m sorry, Amon, but I’m scared. I don’t want to stay here anymore either.”

“Marie...”

“I’m sorry. I love you, but- but Tova’s right. And if you’re not leaving then I have to go with them.”

All he could do was gape after them as the other ladies nudged her along with them, filing out the door. The thud as the great wooden door shut was final and echoing in the now-empty vestibule, leaving him completely, utterly, alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

It had to be here somewhere! The girl searched desperately through the stacks of paper and books, flipping over every envelope for the one she needed. She was shocked and ashamed that she’d left without it. Amon had sent it to have the chain repaired, the hinge replaced, and the locket itself polished: it had to be in the mail, it had to.

Finally, the corner of a small, thick envelope caught her attention. Snatching it up, she checked the packaging, and exhaled loudly in relief. Tearing it open, she pulled out the locket and freed it from where the chain had been neatly wrapped about a square of parchment. Clutching it to her chest, she darted back out of the room. She had what she needed, now she needed to get out of here.

When she’d realized the locket was gone, she’d panicked. She’d begged the others to go back with her to find it, but they were all too frightened to do so. They’d pleaded with her not to go back.

She couldn’t bear leaving it. It was all she had left to remember her parents. So in the middle of the night, she’d snuck out of the tavern, mounted one of their horses, and rode back as fast as the beast would take her. She’d get her locket and then return to them. She’d be fine.

Darting across the room, a sound behind her made her turn her head as she took the first step down the stairs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The servant girl’s name was Isabella Farthing I believe... from a locket of some sort she carried. Lord Amon-”

He’d stopped listening, his brain scrambling. The adventurers he’d hired had been killed. This group had found Fontane’s body. And one of his servants was dead. But-

“Isa- oh... oh, gods,” the realization made his blood run cold. Isabelle Farthing was Marie’s mother, and they’d pulled the name from her locket. He pressed a hand over his lips, holding back the scream that threatened to burst from his throat. “Marie... oh, Pelor above, please, not Marie...”

The woman sat down beside him in the grass, settling her tiny snake companion in her lap before she reached out to him, moving to lace her fingers with his and hold his hand.

“I’m sorry this is so difficult for you,” she said softly. “I’m... I’m sorry.”

His eyes burned with tears that began to pool in the corners, his throat seizing with a scream he couldn’t release. It couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense. It had to be a mistake.

“...I practically raised Marie...” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He stared down at the grass, shaking his head slowly. “Why did she go back? She should have been with the other girls. She should have been safe...”

His throat seized again, inhaling a silent gasp before he turned his gaze up to meet that of the woman beside him. Butterscotch eyes met his, unreadable as they began to blur in his vision from his own tears.

“...This is my fault, isn’t it?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’d been trying to avoid the thought. He didn’t want it to be true. But as the manor loomed closer, the weight in his chest only grew. And now, as he sank to his knees before the sheet-wrapped remains of the young girl, the reality of it finally began to take hold. His hands shook as he reached for her, pulling the bundle into his arms. It didn’t even feel like a person in there, anymore. A sob tore itself from his chest, and he finally allowed himself to weep: grieving loudly, openly, over what was left of his sweet, precious little girl.

His precious little girl: the one he’d promised to protect and to love, with all that he had. The one he’d taught to read, to write, to solve equations and to manage finances. The one he’d tried to guide to be kind, honest, gentle, and dignified. The one he’d vowed to give the best life possible.

But he had failed her.

And his Marie was gone.

[royal-writer]

The Adoption

I’m not crying YOU’RE crying....

The heat of the fire crackled warm, but the best part was where she sat; scrunched up and nestled into the familiar scent of oak trees and amber hues. Warmth surrounded her in the huddled blankets. Hugged to her, with an arm around her and the other situated in the folds of one of her lover’s cloaks as he held a hand to hers. Their fingertips gradually warmed, and his breath soft to her nape as they nuzzled lazily against each other. Limbs and bodies folding closer; unable to mold together beneath all the layers of furs and fabrics but the outline of him was still a heaven she knew well.

With his whiskers grown thicker, they felt rougher and wiry in the early brisk of winter. Essätha tried not to snicker at the way her beloved Lord burrowed himself against her upturned collar to inhale the scent of perfume dabbed to her skin. His lips were soft; tracing against the side of her throat.

Sighing, she held her gaze upon the twists and curls of the flames. A thought that had been nagging her brain tugged relentlessly. It had been a seed of a thought; sprouting and soon becoming a destructive weed ensnaring her mind.

They hadn’t had a discussion in baring children in months. Too equally nervous of their ages; Amon more openly concerned for her carrying. The commitment would cut into their travel schedules, their workload, their social requirements. The time it took to raise a child would be monumental at that.

Nobles did this sort of stuff all the time. Amon had done it once before. But it abolished routine, and it came with too much risk. The more time went by, the more danger the physicians warned it would present. The young and beautiful bore their children straight away usually. The old were left to fate and luck if an aging body could handle the strain. Especially for a first child; not used to the imbalance it would cause.

With a faint laugh at the teasing barely-there brush of his beard, Essie turned her face to kiss his forehead. His sigh was magical. Filled with content and joy as he lifted his face for her to lightly peck his charmingly shaped lips. Her eyes grinning with her smile as she looked into his darkened eyes through a collection of small, grazing kisses of sweetness.

“My handsome husband,” she breathed softly.

With a broadening grin, Amon spoke against her mouth as he murmured in reply: “My wonderful wife.”

She hummed a pleasant note at the sound of such endearing words on such a husky voice. Her body shifted; worming through the trap of comforting cloth to release her hand not held from the heat of her layers. Her fingers carded through his coal black locks, slipping around to hold the side of his face as she circled her fingers over the rise of his cheekbone as he smiled. Only the most pure and wholesome version of love in his gaze. Only the gentlest touch to her scaled hand as he slipped his fingers between her spaces to press his palm to hers.

Her nerves tried clamping down upon her mouth. She pushed past the weariness, finding safety and understanding in the searching light of his gaze. Specks of light from the hearth like starlight glistening and moving over his vision as Caesar yawned and stretched upon the floor; curling himself tighter into a ball after flopping closer to the fireplace.

“What do you think about adoption, my love?”

A peculiar lop-sided grin stretched crookedly into place. His features strained, as though trying to hold the position in place rather than frown.

“It’s… always an available option,” he cautioned.

Though the words did not rise up in his throat, she could swear she felt a small twinge of pain strike her form his heartstrings.

“It would eliminate the worry of me carrying,” Essätha reminded him quietly. “We wouldn’t need to get a child very young, either. There are plenty of children looking for loving homes.”

Watching how Amon’s face grew flat, she pressed a kiss to his cheek as she whispered, “You don’t have to hold back your opinion, m’lord Amon. If it makes you unhappy-”

His hand squeezed hers reassuringly beneath her blankets and coats.

“I think it’s worth looking into,” he agreed softly. “But we should not be rash in jumping into parenthood.”

Relief swam through her in the form of a sigh and wide-eyed look of hope. It was better than a ‘no’. It gave her something to aspire for.

Between the creases in his brow with thoughtful worry and the half-smile in place, his eyes were an endless field of thought. Some she came to understand swiftly; a sorrow like so many you could never fully shake. It sat dormant, usually, but it came and went like tides at sea. Some days the memory of his dear Marie were too hard to bear. Some days when the mention of children came up, it clouded his eyes and hung over him like a dreary storm for days.

But there was equally layers of anticipation. A yearning not quite grasped. It burdened her heart, not knowing what it was for. If he held to the idea of children in any way she did; longing and loving and wanting to hold and protect someone so small and innocent. Raise another, where they could lead a life knowing they were loved. They would always have a sense of family; always someone to protect their back, to look after them, to nurture them and be proud to watch them grow and become what they wished.

She did not wish for him to spare his feelings and happiness for her desires. She prayed he would not give in to her, simply because it was something she had always wanted.

“Let’s discuss it tomorrow, when there’s no wine still on our breathes or hazing our decisions,” Amon teased her, releasing her hand to sneak his own out and gather the one against his face. He placed a kiss to the back of her hand, before taking her chilled hand back beneath the huddle of blankets to warm them once more with tender caresses.

Essätha nodded, too overjoyed; and too anxious, for words. Her smile eager all the while, as her beloved leaned in to seal his promise with a kiss so dreamy and gentle it left her breathless for what felt like the entire night.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In the coming months, they discussed the idea on and off with serious debate. The effects it would hold, both good and bad. How the adoption process played out; what sort of age ranges they might look into.

With still questions to be had, they turned to the church of Pelor for answers.

The priests, priestess, clerics and other training figures under the name of the God of Light were all warmly gracious to their approach, and sought to their inquires with dignity and clear-cut answers like a well-sharpened blade. They were shown the foundling wheel, where sometimes babies and very young were left by parents who left their infants without the repercussion of needing to answer as to why. They met a few adopted children in the town, to speak of their experiences and with their parents.

They were asked their own questions. A few insecure eyes darted over Lord Amon’s locked jaw, chiseled features, and tight eyes. Sometimes standing too stiffly and erect; trying to mask the stench of hurt and sadness that washed over him from time to time.

Unfortunately, Briarton’s residents were all too familiar with the young lady Marie, and of her loss. They stared with pity, or a mix of that and confusion as the word spread throughout the town that they were considering taking in a child.

Some people had their viewpoints, of course. Essie was grateful most of them were offered to her, rather than Amon. Fearing his reaction, no doubt.

She listened with as much grace as she could. Sometimes it was polite; encouraging, understanding. Sometimes it was not so. Judgmental and crude; spitting on race, her values, her stature. Some called her ‘careless’, others said they were too old for such things.

Essätha held on to her faith, but not too strongly. After all, though many years of her life had been spent fondly loving the idea of having kids, she had never thought she’d truly have the chance.

This could very well be that chance.

But she watched, ever loving and always worried, to her Lord Amon. Listening for the cues in his voice that would shape the beginning or end of this journey.

What would come next, she would accept with love and empathy. It was all she could do.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Winter was mostly though when they visited the temple again for another meeting with the high-priest. There was frost bleeding into water and snowdrift melting in the streets. Amon held an arm around her; puffy swirls of white smoke like dragons ready to employ their greatest weapon ushering from their mingled breathes interlocked so closely.

Before they came upon the heavy set of doors, a priestess cleaning the steps greeted them. She ushered them inside warmly, offering coffee which they denied.

“Let me go fetch the minister; my Lord and Lady, he’ll be pleased to see you both again.”

“Thank you,” Amon murmured softly, his face appearing tired and worn.

Feeling a clinging sense of agony for him, Essätha held firmly to his hand. She didn’t relax until the pressure was returned to her, with a small smile and affection eyes.

As a robed gentleman greeted them, they were brought into a private wing of the shrine. A cleric and some devote followers were tending to some sickly patients, offering their healing words and last rites to some. Among the assistants were some older teenagers Essie recognized from previous visits. Young but not lost. Some abandoned once; others from family’s who were gone too soon, but they had found sanctuary and teachings in the place of the church.

Amon was engrossed in conversational greetings and tense discussion of their visit, when Essätha slipped away from his side. She greeted the people within the room with politeness. Held the hand of a man losing his final breath as he praised her good work in the town- mumbling something about strange it was for his failing eyes to lay upon an angel one last time (that had been enough to cause her eyes to weep, though she withheld until the widowed man had passed and was offered plenty of handkerchiefs for her runny nose). She passed treats unto the young and those hard at work and god a bit of scolding for doing so by an older priestess (she swore that woman hated her).

Stepping around a draped curtain, Essätha beamed upon the youthful woman’s backside with which she saw. They turned their head to her approach.

“Lady Essätha! Back again I see. May Pelor Light your path, my Lady.”

“Essie or Essätha works just fine, Margret,” she reminded the pale complexion of the woman with a laugh, stepping curious closer.

“Oh,” the woman murmured, turning to show what she had cradled in her arms. “She’s a new arrival. Dropped off at the founding wheel a few days ago.”

Essie stared, mystified. Before she could utter a word, however, a sharp cry jolted her from the right.

“Must be the twins at it again,” Margret sighed, offering the swaddled figure to her. “Would you mind, for just a moment, my Lady?”

“I- I- o-o-of course-”

The baby settled into her awaiting arms couldn’t be more than a few years old. Her skin was dark; much darker than her own, and she had hair black as a raven’s wing. She was large enough to fight against the blanket wrapped around her; grumbling and babbling nonsense as her dark eyes peered up beneath dark lashes.

She had pointy little ears protruding from beneath the depths of her curls. A hand reached up as she fought for her freedom, patting to Essie’s face.

She didn’t even hear the woman leave. There was something about the elf-child; or at least partial elf-child, that felt too deep.

The baby sneezed. She froze, her eyes starting to water as though frightened by the loudness of her own body.

“Oooh no no tears,” Essätha soothed, wiping at her eyes before the wailing could begin as she bounced the tiny figure up and down in her arms. “No tears now, little one. It was only a sneeze.”

“Maaa mamama,” the child mouthed, her wobbly lip disappearing as she went back to patting her face.

Oh no. Oh no oh no, she loved her. Loved the dark little freckles speckling over her nose and cheeks, loved the mostly-toothless smile and gurgling giggles.

“Essätha, my darling,” Amon’s voice carried; a hand parting aside the curtains. “The priest wanted us to…. To…”

He stared down at what was in her arms instantly as she looked up to him. Defensively as the sheet had been parted, she held the youngster tighter to her chest as though fearing someone would snatch it from her.

She studied his blank expression as her arms grew lax to let the child be seen. Her little feet kicked wildly; squirming in her arms.

“Maaama. Mamamama… Maaaa…”

Essätha snorted back laughter as the child grabbed at her mouth and nose. Curiously working her way up as she tried to scale her; prodding at the scales on her face.

Amon stepped closer. The swish of his cloak moving against the floor.

Realizing that a shadow had befallen them, the little girl craned her head back to look up at his face. Essie held her smile; a sense of worry eating at her insides. She looked between the babe’s wondering face, and the lack of expression on her beloved’s.

Tentatively, the elf reached out. Her hand managed to grab a fistful of Amon’s beard, and she yanked.

Amon grunted, teasing the tiny hand free so that it held to his finger instead.

“Strong grip,” he observed; a rasp in his voice and twinkle in his gaze.

“Daaaaa,” the babe responded with passionate excitement; holding to his finger with a white-grip. “Daaaddaaa daaa…”

The smile that stretched across his face held so many countless memories in Essätha’s mind. It softened his eyes, and drew away all signs of aging and agony from his features. Smoothed over into a sense of calm, of joy. So much happiness, that he seemed to forget about the world, forget about everything but the moment.

He moved his hand slowly, grinning wider as the little girl squealed with delight.

With an adoring smile on her face, Essie looked between her husband and the child. His arm moved behind her to the small of her back as they huddled closer, staring down at the curious umber eyes looking back at them. Her quiet babble growing louder; more boisterous as she switched her attention from Amon’s finger that curled against hers and the unique texture of Essätha’s face as she pawed at her.

She was perfect.

And she would be their first.

[saskiel]

Kaylin Galanodel

This is the background story for my cleric elf in a 5e dnd campaign lead by my boyfriend. We’ve had quite a long break and when we started (almost two years ago) it was my first proper campaign. I wasn’t all that happy with my previous character so he allowed me to make a new character.

My previous character was also a cleric and I wanted to keep that, although she has a different domain that she answers to.

As per usual, please excuse any grammar mistakes. I had no beta and English is not my native language.

Now, on with the story :)

You wake up, your head is pounding and your back feels stiff as if you didn’t move in a while. Slowly your eyes crack open and you take a look around you. Not much too see, other than flickering light from a small fire nearby and figure sitting on the other side of it. You, being the lowlife that you are, have been to plenty of smelly caverns to be able to recognize one. Even the wet feeling is here to confirm your theory.

As you try to flex your muscles to relief them a bit, you notice that your hands are tied very securely as well as your ankles. Your movement, however small it has been, has attracted the attention of the person still partially hidden in the shadows.

“Finally awake I see, I was starting to think that I hit your head a little too much and you were gonna die.” She says as she moves closer to the flames, giving you a better idea of who captured you.

Because at this point there is no doubt in your mind that that is exactly what is happening here. Hell, you’ve been the one sitting as leisurely as this woman is many times prior to this. You never thought that the places would be reversed.

“Who are you and what do you want from me? My comrades can pay you money if that’s what you are after.” Your voice is a little rough from the lack of using it for God knows how long, but you manage.

She only smiles. You are not sure if you imagined it, but there was a sadness to it. One thing is for sure, you never looked at your victim in such a way and it puzzles you a little.

“No money can give me back what you’ve stolen from me. As for your comrades, they will never even find you.” She turns her head to the side. Before she continues in a very soft voice.

“We are, after all, very alone here.”

Your buddies would often make fun of you when it came to the bravery. He’s a little scaredy-cat, they’d say, sometimes they’d make clucking noise behind your back. You were starting to understand when you felt your heartbeat rise up, panic gripping at you.

“I’ll give you anything you want, I will do anything you want - just let me go.” Although it comes out in a little higher pitch than you’d have liked, you needed to get out of this situation – fast.

For a little while, there has been no sound other than the cracking and hissing of the wood being burned. A small twig let out a loud pop and broke down to two charred pieces, falling to the ash bellow them. A tiny puff of dust rose from the bottom, only to be ignited instantly, making it look like there were fireflies. The moment seemed to stretch to infinity and you were about to start begging for your life when she finally nodded her head.

“Fine, I’ll let you leave, if you will hear my story. It would seem my life is about to change again and there is no one that I can talk to about it. After that, you’ll be free, I give you my word.” The woman speaks slowly as if she was still deciding her words.

You find it a little strange but decide not to look in the mouth of a gift horse and you dip your head eagerly.

She takes off her hood and you see the pointy ears, peaking out of her dark hair. If you weren’t sure before, now you know with certainty, that your captor is an elf. She takes a deep breath and her gaze is pointed at the dancing flames. Then, without any announcement, she starts talking again.

“My parents aren’t bad people. They are good citizens of the city they live in and they have been making money with their trades for many years now. But, as it usually is, they were afraid of the unknown.

“I was their firstborn child, nearly two and half centuries ago. We’ve been a happy family. My father used to spoil me rotten and my mother would chastise him for it, although just for show, as she’d slip me the best piece of meat from the dinner without father noticing.” She smiles fondly, and although she’s sitting not even two meters away from you, you get the feeling that she is not truly here with you.

“Ever since I was a child, I was always curious about the world, but my parents insisted that I am too young to go anywhere on my own. It’s true that I was young and naïve, but back then, I detested them for not allowing me what I wanted. Did you ever felt like that with your parents?” Her eyes bore into yours.

You, not exactly sure what answer she’s fishing for, hesitantly shake your head. Sure, your parents would forbid things to you all the time, but in the end, that wasn’t the reason you left home. Seeing your answer, your captor makes a grimace that is closest described as a grin.

“Guess you got that going for you. But with time, even I understand that my parents were not wrong. When I started showing an affinity for magic, they had me attend our community church, as we were lucky enough to have few priests and even clerics who were tired of traveling and stayed in our city.

“I was making very slow progress with spells, but Dragor, a dwarf cleric, was very patient with me. Almost three times my age, I knew he saw something of himself in me. I was always thirsty for his stories of his adventures and his ability to heal was second to no one I’ve ever met. We had good times, Dragor and me. But then the war broke and he was called to arms.” The elf’s face saddens. Although you don’t particularly care, you are just listening so that you’d be released, you can’t completely shake the feeling of empathy.

“I begged that old fool to take me with him. But he stood with my parents and denied me, just as they did. I remember being so angry with him, so much that it made my blood boil and my head was spinning. In pure rage, I hit him with my fist. It wasn’t such a hard punch, but he yelped in pain. I felt it then, the power surging through me. My parents who were witnessing this exchange started yelling at me to apologize, but I did not even hear them. I saw that look that Dragor was giving me and at that moment I understood that he knew. I turned on my heel and I ran away to the woods, voices of my parents silently echoing behind my back.

“When I returned the next morning, Dragor was already dead. Priests said that he died in the night.”

The woman stays silent for a while as if she’s collecting her thoughts. You don’t dare to say anything, just shifting uncomfortably in your spot, thinking that your back will start cramping soon probably. When she continues her story again, her voice sounds a little harder than it did before.

“Everyone thought that old age got to him, but my parents saw what happened and they knew it wasn’t the case. They never said anything to anyone, but they stopped speaking to me after that. And in just a few days, I woke up to an empty house. On the table was a letter that they can’t be around me and that if I want things to stay secret, I will leave them alone.

“For the first time in my existence, I agreed with them. That did not stop me from finding them, though. It was not hard, even without any proper experience of an adventurer, I knew plenty of tracking from Dragor. They got themselves a pretty house in Cedos, a lot bigger city than where we used to live. It hurt, but I was happy for them.

“Being all grown up now, I decided to take Dragor’s call to arms and joined the army. I knew some fighting, but what the dwarf taught me the most was healing. I was very valued, being switched from regiment to regiment. Soon after I started building a reputation for myself and I was climbing up the ranks. I am not gonna lie to you, some of those were because of man in a higher position who missed the flesh of a woman. I didn’t mind.”

Once again, she is silent for a while. When she opens her mouth again, her voice is almost void of emotions.

“I was colonel of the third regiment. I led my men to the battle of Dara’Gool.”

It takes you a second, but you remember that the battle of Dara’Gool happened almost a century ago, way before you were even born. But it is a story that gives chills to anyone even to this day. It was one of the bloodiest and messiest battles in the whole war. One, which almost lost the war for you all.

She pulls out something from below her cloak. The flames reflect on an old necklace on a chain.

“This belonged to my second in command. I should not have survived that bloodshed, but he made sure I did. To this day I hear the screams of my men.” She puts the trinket back where she took it from.

“It is not like there were any official records, but everyone thought I was dead. There were too many bodies to do a proper search in any case. I did what I knew best and I fled, like a coward, again. I wanted to see my parents and beg them for forgiveness. But I found them with another child. I had a sister. I knew that I could not possibly bring my old problems back to them, they seemed so happy. So I wandered around the world, mostly in solitude, helping out for a few silver pieces to be able to afford food and a bed. I never stayed long in one place, always feeling like I had to move forward.

“About four decades ago I stumbled upon a group of mercenaries. For a second I thought I was a ghost. There was a dwarf with them who looked just like my old friend, Dragor. I could not help myself and I asked them if I could share a meal with them. They just got their pay from a bounty they had captured so being in a good mood they did not even hesitate.”

Your captor looks down at her nails, looking lost in thoughts again. You are uncertain about what she might be thinking about, but your eyes roam around her form. She’s sitting down, so it’s little harder to tell how tall she might be, but you are guessing she is probably smaller than you. The flames are creating shadows on her coppery skin. Her hair falls loosely to her shoulders and it looks like there is a red sheen to it. You can’t be too sure, it might just be the fire playing tricks on you. It’s definitely dark though. Her eyes are reflecting the light just fine and they sparkle just like the emerald ring that your comrade stole from a noblewoman not too long ago. You pawned it for a good money.

Before you can notice anything more, she starts talking again, as if remembering that there was a story to be told.

“They were a merry bunch, you know. Always up to something and taking jobs that no one else would. I offered them my healing services and they took me in. Together we were called the Sick Ponies. For a time I felt like I had a family again. Whenever I had the chance, I would go and check up on my actual family as well as my sister. She was growing into a beautiful woman. Although she didn’t know I even existed, I was proud of her. Sometimes I would pass by her in the market, just to be close to her. She never even once turned and looked at me.

“Then, slowly, people in our party either retired or died. You can’t save everyone, you know? But we had a good run. Made a lot of money and spend probably even more, somehow. I learned a lot while traveling with them. But never once I told them about Dragor. Never once I explained why I would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming. Never once I mentioned Dara’Gool.

“Just a few years ago, I’ve heard about my little sister also choosing the adventurous life. You cannot imagine how happy and excited for her I’ve been. It has taken me a while, but I’ve tracked her down. And you know what? I felt like maybe it was time to tell her everything. That I’m her sister and try to forge a bond with her that would last our lives. She was traveling with a group named Team Pink Rocket.”

You get the sense that you’ve heard that name before. After all, such a ridiculous name is hard to forget, but you can’t really place it. On top of that, you are starting to lose feeling in your legs from your sitting position.

Your captor slowly stands up, just so that she can crouch in front of you. The fire is now behind her back and you can immediately feel the loss of warmth, but that doesn’t let you down, because she is probably almost done with her story and you will be released soon.

“I was so proud to see my little sister being a strong and powerful cleric, nothing can elder sibling make happier than to see that similarity. She looked just like a younger version of me. Now, I need you to focus. Imagine getting ready to share all of this with your sister, which you’ve loved even if you never spoke to her. Imagine finding a perfect gift for her as a token for her forgiveness for all the time lost. And then imagine seeing her dead by such a lowlife such as yourself.”

She almost spits out the last sentence and you are no longer certain if the loss of heat is because of her blocking the flames, or if there is chill emanating from her. Whichever it is, you have a very bad feeling about this and you try to squirm, as if trying to get further away from her, but your legs no longer cooperate with you.

“Her name was Shi’Larra Galanodel and you were the one who plunged a dagger into her heart.”

You now remember where you’ve heard the crazy name before. You know of whom she’s speaking about. Your eyes go wide with recognition and you want to scream, but just as you open your mouth, she swiftly covers it with her hand.

“Now, screaming won’t do you any good. I told you already, we are very alone here. I also gave you my word that you will be free. And I intend to keep my word.”

Then, you feel it. Where her skin touches yours. She is draining your life force.

Petrified, you can only stare into her green eyes.

You remember the ring again, the one that you pawned for a good coin. You think of Mad Peter, the one who stole the ring, making a clucking noise behind your back. Your memories also take you back to your parents, who wanted you to be a carpenter and marry Eva from the neighbors.

Or maybe Daisy, she was the daughter of the major. You are thinking that life with Daisy probably wouldn’t be that bad. You can feel your life slowly slipping away from you, but you can only think of Daisy. You’d work at your workshop during the day and in the evening she’d have a hot soup ready for you. She’d kiss you on your lips and thanked you for your hard work. Then you’d make love to her in a bed that you’ve made for her, as a wedding gift. You’d be happy.

A tear escapes from your eye, sliding down your cheek and touching the hand that is still clasped over your mouth. Two pricy, emerald rings are starring back at you - they are also crying. That’s foolish, rings can’t cry. You’d never make Daisy cry. You’d be good to her.

  You no longer see the elf pull her hood back and douse the fire. You don’t hear her whisper “Life for a life.” She just turns around, after picking her things up, and leaves. Soon after there is a loud thunder noise, which people from the nearby city will simply think of as an approaching storm. As the entrance to the cave gives in, the body inside slowly getting cold, a lone figure sets on a journey to find Team Pink Rocket. She would honor her sister’s life by standing in her place. It is her duty as an older sibling. She will also find out whoever was behind the death of her sister and lay waste to them.

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, KATHERINE! You’ve been accepted for the role of JUDGMENT with the faceclaim of RICHARD MADDEN. Judgment is, admittedly, a personal favorite of mine. I think that when held up in similar lights religion can look much the same as love, and you illuminated this perfectly for me. Nothing about Francis bows or bends or breaks even when it desperately wants to -- so long as they are backed by Undeath. You have shown me someone with an iron will and a need to see the way through, whether their path be cut with a sword or gently plucked apart with the most delicate hands. The balance here you have shown me with Francis is un-matchable. I believe in their faith, and what they’ll do for it -- and that, more than anything else, is awe-inspiring.

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OUT OF CHARACTER NAME: Katherine PRONOUNS: She/her AGE: 24 TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: CST, 6?? I have a full time job but I’m also working from home indefinitely/still cannot go outside, so I have the time. IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: Judgment NAME: Cleric Francis Daumantas FC: Richard Madden / Lee Pace / Kofi Siriboe AGE: 33 if Richard / 37 if Lee / 30 if Kofi DEATH: “For if we live, we live to the Undying, and if we die, we die to Undeath. So then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Undying’s.” aka: do it cowards GENDER/SEXUALITY: Non-binary / Eternally irrelevant! No ring fingers baybee! DETAILS: I love a priest!!!!!!!!! But the religious lore of Dishonored is what drew me in fully.  I love the idea of them worshipping a god that is not disguised as something wholly Good. One could make that argument for the Catholic/Christian God: that they represent all good things, and the devil is blamed for all that’s evil. I love that this god is both, and can be both at any given moment. The Christian Bible makes the fear of God positive: you fear him because he is just, and holy, and angry because we’re sinners, and fearing him makes you a more faithful person. But Undeath is feared because they can take life, and create chaos, and that is simply the Way. The idea of worshipping a God that is capable of this, and that there is no forced justification as to why-- simply because that is what they are-- is fascinating.

I love Judgment in particular because they seem to exist in a sweet spot between orthodoxy and heresy. It is said that only the High Cleric can hear the voice of Undeath, and yet Judgment hears it, too. I love the idea of writing Judgment as a character who firmly believes the voice is real, but framing it in a way so outsiders (us, the ones reading) aren’t so sure. Another fine line, between sanity and instability.

EXTRAS: TAG / MOCK BLOG

I lift up my eyes to the hills-- where does my help come from? My help comes from the Undying, harbinger of life and death. They are born into dirt, like their God before them.

In the middle of winter, they think, but whoever was there to witness it is not there any longer. All children who are born have parents, they know this much, but theirs might as well not exist at all. They grow up alone, like all the misplaced children in Tyrholm, wondering: what they were like, and why they left.

They are a nameless child, like many others. They were not given the gift of a name, nor a crest or a home, but rather seemed to pop into the world one day, like a necromancer’s spell gone wrong.

Tyrholm has no mercy for unloved children: there are simply too many of them, as part of the streets as the roads and the horses, begging for coin that nobody has and searching for food that doesn’t exist. They are brushed aside, forgotten. It seems as if there are more children in Tyrholm than there are parents, and the number in the orphanage only grows with each passing year. They are turned away, day after day: the nuns have no bed for them to sleep, no food for them to eat. They witness death long before any person should, their friends turning cold beside them, from malnourishment or neglect.

Though they grow up small and dirty and never not hungry, they grow up indeed.

So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. They know the streets of Tyrholm better than anyone, for before the Sanctum and before Undeath, Tyrholm was their home, was their god. They worshipped the dirt that housed their bare feet, prayed to the sun and the stars that lit their path, thanked the river that gave them drink. They did not know it then, but they know it now: it was always the Undying that kept them in this world.

They were made to worship Her.

It was She that found them food when there was none to eat, She that gave the river water for them to drink, She that gave them shelter in the storm. It was She that revealed the shrine to guide their way home, in an alleyway they had never seen before. Though they were tired and weary, they climbed onto the statue, wrapped their arms ‘round the figure of Undeath, and fell asleep to the sound of Her voice, clear and strong in their mind. Rest, she said, and they did. Tyrholm was drowning, but for once, they were not wet.

They are born again in summer, when they awake with their arms still holding steadfastly to Undeath. They are changed; they are better. They are no longer alone, for the voice of Undeath stays with them, guides them to the Temple. They dedicate their life to her miles before they arrive, but it is there it becomes official.

They are named, for before Undeath they had none. It is given to them by Undeath herself, taken from the pages of Her book, passed between the lips of their peers before it settles on their own. Francis, after St. Francis of Assisi, patron saint of the poor, for that is from whence they came, and Daumantas, after the saint who was so beloved by his hometown.  (Editor’s note: if Saints do not exist within Dishonored I have no problem cutting this and having it be ~symbolic~ on the OOC level.)

Through the glory of Undeath, they vow to live up to their namesake, to watch over and heal the poor and needy like Saint Francis, and to protect all of Tyrholm, like Saint Daumantas.

They are not a heretic, as many who do not understand them claim. Rather, they were chosen by Undeath Herself. They are blessed with the gift of Her voice in their head, an ever-present guiding light. They are moved by it and called to it, like a moth to a flame. Undeath led them through life, first on the streets of Tyrholm, then to the Temple, and back again, to sing Her praises and heal Her wounded.

I cry out to Undeath, to She who fulfills Her purpose for me. It is the voice of the Undying that guides them through the tenets of priesthood. Dedication is administered first, for Undeath does not care for those who defy Her.

While the others shuffle their feet, exchange wordless glances and looks of concern, they remove their ring fingers from both of their hands with hardly a cry of pain, and speak clearly the words of promise: I shall give to Her freely, and mine heart shall not be grudging when I give to her, for it is She, the Undying, who shall bless me in all I undertake.

With blood spilling from their hand, they ask for more. They need not be a eunuch, but a whisper of encouragement that only they can hear makes it so. They are nothing if not dedicated, for they are nothing without Undeath.

Dedication is the easy part. One fleeting moment of pain is an easy sacrifice to make in exchange for the life the Undying has gifted them. It is the rest that takes time. They learn to read the words of the Undying, and learn to speak them from their heart. They learn how to bind those together for eternity, and later, how to lay them to rest. They learn how to serve the Undying and the Undying only: to eliminate their worldly desires, to be free of possessions, to exist within the perfect balance the Undying provides.

It is these learnings that take time, these that take clerics years to master. Even Francis, with all their dedication, was made to learn. For a child who grew up with nothing but desire ( for food, for shelter, for family ) it took them years to learn to let go.

With the Undying’s grace, they learn.

Thine heart was lifted up because of thy beauty, thou hast corrupted thy wisdom by reason of thy brightness: I will cast thee to the ground, I will lay thee before kings, that they may behold thee. The king does not allow the orphans past the gates of the castle, does not wish to see the poor on his doorstep, so when they return to Tyrholm, as Cleric Francis Daumantas, it is they who must come to them. They do not mind the visits. They prefer them, in fact, to the company of King Septimus. They walk amongst the commoners like they are visiting old friends, hear their prayers, cleanse them of their worldly errors, clutch their hands between their own and bless them with Undeath’s love.

( They are not a spy, but they could be. They listen well, and hear it all. The King serves no one, neither his people nor Undeath, but himself. )

We ought to obey Undeath rather than men. To worship the Undying is to understand the beauty of balance. Their God is both suffering and salvation, birth and death, light and dark, and the world exists in harmony because of Her. The King does not serve Undeath. They do not pray. They do not set foot into the Sanctum unless, seemingly, by force of The Queen. They seek out chaos and do not care for peace, and Francis has no love for those who defy their God.

Do not misunderstand: Francis is not a tyrannist. They exist on this plane solely to serve the Undying. They do not serve King Septimus, just as the King does not serve Undeath.

They watch in horror as the war begins. They spend three weeks on their knees, praying to the Undying, asking for Her guidance and Her mercy. But the King does not pray. Septimus wades through death like a duck through water, unbothered, unscathed.

Then Undeath whispers in their ear, and reminds them of their purpose. Harmony. The King does not believe in it; he spits in the face of peace, sits idly by while his subjects are starved or slaughtered, and in turn spits in the face of Undying Herself. When the war ends, and the King throws a celebration, Francis makes another vow to Undeath: no more blood shall be spilt, unless it is that of the King.

EXTRA LIL THINGS I HAVE NO PLACE FOR: They may be off-putting to non-believers; their piousness and manner of speaking make for uncomfortable or even strange encounters, but parishioners know them for what they are: earnest and, at the pulpit, inspiring. Have a handful of...herbs...ready for when they must go on a spiritual journey. They do not need them to speak with Undeath, but it does help. And brings them great clarity.

PLOT IDEAS: JUSTICE: If Francis is Judgment, then Justice should be their counterpart...and yet. They do not understand where the hatred for them stems from, but for the first time, they are beginning to understand hatred. (They can’t help but wonder what Justice truly thinks of King Septimus, and what the King is like, when the doors are closed and they think Undeath cannot hear them, but they do not ask. Yet.) They try to reach out, on the odd chance Justice enters the Sanctum, but they are always rebuked. Still, an effort is made, each and every time. If they were not meant to meet, not meant to speak, Undeath would not have brought them to the Sanctum at all. (Editor’s note: hyped over the idea of existential conversations between these two.) STRENGTH: They don’t understand what this feeling is, but it is undeniably there, whenever Strength occupies the same space as them. They fear it, frankly, and push it aside as much as they can. Of course, it’s easier to ignore when they aren’t standing right in front of them. If it’s love, if it’s devotion, it is different than what they feel for Undeath, and they’ve already committed themselves to Her and Her only. They wonder if it is a test. If it is, they are determined not to fail it. THE STAR: They do not trust them. They have seen what they are capable of, but unlike with those who wield magic, they do not understand it. Where does their power come from? How they could walk into the Temple, spin a web with a song, and leave with three who have renounced their faith, they do not understand. And unlike with Strength, they do not want to. THE EMPEROR/THE WORLD: Francis tries not to judge them on the faults of their father, but it is hard not to, when they’re such a perfect mirror. (Editor’s note: I would love for them to develop a relationship based on faith, but ofc the details of it depends on each characters' faiths. It could go either way: piety, to change Francis’ mind about them, or impiety, to solidify it-- and show Francis that they are unfit to replace Septimus. Useful information to share with La Résistance!) THE HERMIT: Bound by fate from the death of The Hermit’s father. Francis heard of the massacre, through one channel or the other, and offered to lay The Hermit’s father to rest, even without a body to bury. It is not the first time Francis is disappointed by the King, and it won’t be the last, but this instance of senseless killing sticks with them more than others. THE FOOL: They can sense their suffering. They want to help. They want to tell them that Undeath is about balance: that peace cannot exist without suffering, that life cannot exist without death, but one must have both. Not just peace, not just life. Not just suffering, not just death. (Editor’s note: potential for them to team up against the King.) THE HANGED MAN: Their relationship begins as transactional, withThe Hanged Man providing wine and bread for the weekly Communion, but it’s developed into something more like a friendship. They understand one another: they both came from nothing, and became something. It’s a rare occurrence, in Tyrholm. (Editor’s note: potential for them to team up against the King as well! I love the idea of them both discussing unnecessary deaths and what they could do about it.) THE DEVIL: They’ve come to Francis before, in search of information, but they do not give in. Confessions are sacred, a bond between the sinner and the Cleric and Undeath, and are not to be shared with outsiders-- especially not ones as sacrilegious as The Devil. If Justice is their counterpart, then The Devil is their opposite. THE HIGH PRIESTESS: Touched by The Undying, Francis views them for what they are: blessed. And yet, they know the limits of a necromancer’s power. They do not spend too much time around the Priestess, to avoid illness or worse. Their relationship is purely professional-- for now-- for that is Undeath’s  way. (Editor’s note: depending on age, they could’ve been at the Temple at the same time. Also, again, team-up potential.) THE MOON: They know mages to be cursed by Undeath. One should never be wholly one thing: not just destruction, not just healing. And yet The Moon is both. Francis thinks that might mean something. (Editor’s note: depending on age, they could’ve been at the Temple at the same time.) Francis asks for their help from time to time, when meeting with the commoners who are ill or dying, in exchange for a confession, or assistance in the greenhouse. They do not have the same gift as The Moon, but they are capable enough. They whisper prayers into the dirt as they plant, and it helps them to grow. AND/OR: They are often in the library at the same time. For a man who does not believe in Undeath, King Septimus’ library certainly holds a large number of ancient religious texts, and it is a Cleric’s duty to translate them. They wonder what The Moon reads. THE TOWER: They worship two different gods. Though Francis knows The Tower’s is not real, as theirs is, they enjoy the conversation, anyway.

WRITING SAMPLE The rituals of sermon are second-nature by now, but Francis does not perform them half-heartedly. They handle them with the care and the sacrality they so deserve. Every motion is deliberate, every step and every word as meaningful as the very first day they were uttered. The Word of the Undying flows through them, as much a part of them as the air they breathe and the blood in their veins. They do not walk in the Sanctum so much as they glide, their voice clear and true as they proclaim the word of their God: “Let all glory and honor come back to You, Undeath, for You have been with us from the beginning. We ask that You balance our hearts with stillness, through the peace and chaos that You create for us.”

Francis waits to hear the chorus of amens from the congregation, a serene smile on their face. It is my honor to serve, they think to themself, and the Undying smiles back.

“Go,” Francis concludes the sermon calmly, their hands lifted in praise to the congregation, “and serve. For through Undeath, you are free.” They hold their stance while the parishioners begin to file out of the Sanctum, the sounds of shuffling feet and whispers of conversation filling the once-quiet hall. They stand still at the pulpit as the others go, flipping idly through the pages of the Book of Undeath, buying themselves time. It is selfish of Francis to wait here alone, rather than join the parishioners to shake their hands and send them off with a blessing; they know this to be true. It is an act they will surely regret later, but for now they are consumed only by their desire to be alone with Strength, who sits, spine straight, in the back of the grand Sanctum.

Their eyes meet. A feeling that Francis can’t quite place hits them in their chest, sharp and soft all at once, and they allow themselves to smile. A minuscule movement of the lips, one that they pray goes unnoticed. Whatever this feeling is, they know it is wrong. And yet-- they stay. They both do.

[thefourporpsmen-blog]

Two Brothers

Here’s a quick story based off of some old characters from a previous adventure. Enjoy!

Two Brothers

     Years had passed since the two brothers had met each other. Each of them had been captured by Drow scouts scouring the Underdark for slaves.     

     “Just don’t mess this up.” The stout dwarf grumbled under his breath. “I get tired having to bring you back from the brink of death every other day.”

     A slender dark elf stepped out from the shadows behind the dwarf. He wore cloth pants that stopped just above his ankles. Bandages were wrapped around his feet and ankles as well as his hands and wrists. His long white hair was worn up in a ponytail that hung down his back and the sides of his head were shaved down to the skin. “I can hear you Omri.” The Drow stated with a blank expression and calm tone. Omri had indeed healed the elf’s wounds many times over. Many scars could be seen all over the elf’s torso as he did not wear armor or any kind of clothing on his upper half. There was also a large gash on his forehead from a recent battle that the dwarven priest didn’t bother healing as it wasn’t “necessary”.

     “Good. Glad to know you’re still breathin’ and I’m not talkin to meself up here.” Omri responded. Omri Cinderfist was a Cleric of the highest caliber. He had saved his friends life countless times, but he was no mere priest. He was a warrior. A soldier who had devoted his life to battle in honor of his Goddess Haela Brightaxe, the dwarven patron of battle and luck. He was revered on the surface as a brilliant battle medic and could hold his own in any fight. His thick brown beard hung down to his belly as was spotted with bits of grey as he was in his third century of life. He wore chain mail armor and carried with him a shield with the symbol of his goddess, a flaming blade, as well as a Warhammer. Omri had seen many battles as was evident on his face. His left ear had the top half missing and a nasty scar ran down his face from his right temple down his cheek and across the right side of his lip stopping just before his chin.  

     The dark elf let a small smirk find its way onto his face. Neither of them had much of a sense of humor. The unrelenting world of the Underdark made short work of fools who didn’t take every day seriously. The two of them had traveled with many others before and in every case, the lighthearted, careless and overzealous had either perished at the hands of the Underdark or were left to die for not pulling their weight. But ever since they met, the unlikely duo of this dark elf and shield dwarf had battled through numerous threats over and over and had grown accustomed to banter every now and then. The elf looked down at his dwarvish companion and nodded, confirming that he was going to commence with their plan. He stepped off the ledge and let himself enter a free fall for a few moments.

     “Bloody madman you are Magnus.” Omri said as he watched his friend leap off a cliff that descended over one hundred feet. Magnus was strange when compared to other Drow. Most dark elves that were raised in the cruel depths of the Underdark were a perfect reflection of the environment they were born into. The Drow were a vile, cruel and ultimately evil race. They were known to enslave what they deemed to be lesser races and they were in constant conflict to gain the blessings of their demon goddess Lolth. But Magnus was nothing like an average Drow. He was a Monk born into a small village of peaceful Drow that longed to escape the Underdark and find a new life on the surface. Instead of learning to weave magic or brandish weapons, Magnus used the energy inside himself to push his body to the limits, becoming a living weapon. He was not as physically powerful as most Drow though so he used a pair of Kama to help give him an advantage in battle. The small hand held sickles had a straight blades that he used to open up wounds on his enemies and he would then focus his attacks on those opened wounds.

      Magnus let himself fall for about sixty feet until his target came into view. A small group of goblins had set up camp in this area. Normally the two brothers, for that’s what they were at this point in their lives, would avoid confrontation when they could as survival was always the most important thing to them. But these goblins had set up camp right in their path, and after years of traveling in the bowels of the earth, where the sun could not reach and the winds did not blow, Omri and Magnus would not let anything block their path.

     Magnus drew upon the innate magic of his race and dropped a globe of impenetrable darkness that swallowed up seven goblins. Omri looked over the edge of the cliff and raised his shield. He called upon the power of his goddess and summoned spectral guardians in the form of Omri’s clan, dwarven warriors, to surround the dark globe Magnus had created. Magnus quickly slowed his own fall by using the Ki in his body to gently land on the ground. Silent as death. Magnus had such keen dark vision from being raised in the Underdark that the darkness had no effect on him, but the goblins might as well have been blind. He pulled his kama from his belt and slashed at the goblins chest in front of him. The creature let out a screech, but was unable to do much more before Magnus stuck his fist through the breach he had created in the goblin’s chest. Two goblins tried to run away from the terror inside the darkness, but were slashed to bits by Omri’s spiritual guardians as soon as they exited the globe.

     Omri let out a low grumble of a laugh as he peered over the ledge. “Yea try and run ye little devils. I’m waitin for ye.”

     Magnus quickly searched for his next target. He swept one leg along the ground, tripping two goblins. He leapt in the air and pulled two darts from his belt as he flipped above the two prone goblins. The goblins had darts buried deep in their skulls before Magnus’ feet hit the ground. He landed behind another goblin and buried his kama deep into the creature’s right shoulder. It howled in pain as Magnus used the anchored kama to repeatedly pull the goblin into his own elbow over and over until the goblins face had turned to pulp. One goblin remained in the darkness with Magnus. The monk dropped the globe of darkness and let the goblin see him and the dead goblins at his feet. The goblins eyes went wide as it screeched in horror. It turned to run away but was stopped by the spectral dwarves Omri had summoned. The spiritual dwarf that stopped the goblin brought down a mighty hammer upon its head, not quite killing it but dazing it. Magnus calmly walked up behind the goblin and slashed it across the throat with his kama.

     Magnus crouched low and surveyed the area to be certain that all the goblins had been dealt with. He saw no movement and heard no sounds so he signaled to Omri that it was safe for him to make his way down. Omri grunted and slowly descended the narrow pathway that led to the goblin camp. He approached the monk and looked him over for a moment for any injuries. When he was, sure there were none he said “This is one for the history books. Magnus dives into a camp full of goblins and didn’t get hurt. Amazing.”

     “Hilarious.” Magnus said in dry voice. “Our path is clear now, let us continue.”

     “Aye, if those dirty Duergar were right then our old friend should be somewhere around here.” Omri said. “I wonder how the wizard’s been.”

     “Well seeing as he’s still stuck in this cursed place I’m sure he isn’t too great.” Magnus said with clear disdain for his surroundings in his voice.

     “We’re stuck down here too Magnus.” Omri reminded.

     “My point exactly.”

[qualiteadnd]

A Cult Classic I

— A WATERDEEP IRREGULARS ADVENTURE

The mysterious death of a young man involving cursed magics and the continued unrest in the city sends the party on a hunt for answers.

Actually living in Waterdeep turned out to be not so different from simply renting a room in one of its many inns. They spent the next few days working with Mara to learn a little bit more about their position with the family. And Bonu, in high key decorator mode, put both Keros and Grumbar to work at odd and random times. But otherwise the party dynamic was much of what it had been before the offer.

That is, until Grumbar left the house muttering to himself one morning with barely a glance at the other two. A quick promise to return eventually was all they got before the cleric slammed the door behind him.

“Should we follow him?”

“It’s Grumbar, I’m sure he’s fine.” Probably.

A few days later and still no sign of Grumbar, they were called to meet Mara and found her rifling through paperwork in her study nervously. After asking after the cleric and getting shrugs from the archer and barbarian, she sighed and shook her head.

“I don’t know if he’d be of help here or not. There was a tragic accident in the Castle Ward three days ago. Valuth Myres perished in an explosion. He was found among the rubble of his home with an untouched deck of cards. A wizard with the Watch recently confirmed they’re cursed, but we haven’t a clue where he got them. Earlier that afternoon, Valuth been seen bragging about these supposedly ‘lucky’ cards at a tavern nearby, but that seems to be all we have.”

With orders to check in with Kraag at the Watch before the case ran too cold, they made a quick detour for Bonu to grab a small basket of pastries from their kitchen and headed off.

It was a quick trip across town to the Watch House and the guards seemed already accustomed to Bonu arriving unannounced with pastries. Bonu, to Keros’s amusement, already knew the path to Kraag’s office and knocked before just letting himself in.

Kraag, surrounded by a pile of paperwork, sighed when the door opened. “So Lord Blackwood sent you?” Kraag asked as Bonu offered him pastries. Despite looking beyond tired, the half-orc took one with a nod of thanks. “I’ve got people missing. Continued unrest. And now people dying.”

He went on to explain that, over the last couple of weeks, people had been turning up missing in the city. Until any evidence of them were found, the Watch was at a standstill there, but Myres’s death was raising other alarms.

“We’ve spoken with a friend of the victim, Mateo Leeson, but he doesn’t have any idea where Myres got these cards. We have a dozen magic shops in the city and it could be any of them. Could be an outside merchant. Could have been a gift. Nothing’s turned up yet and I’m run thin already,” he said with a gesture to the paperwork.

Promising to do what they could to help, the two made their way out of the Watch, following a vague lead that could really take them anywhere in the city. Inevitably, they ended up at the Roaring Lamb for their usual lunch and greeted Nick with friendly conversation.

At one end of the bar an older human gentleman with long graying hair sat watching the tavern and making friendly conversation with any who seemed interested. Though there was a small keg at his hip, he kept pushing his glass back towards Nick for refills when his conversations lulled.

Plotting out their means of investigation at one of the tables, Keros and Bonu missed much of the altercation between the old timer and three younger men in the tavern. But as a fight began to break out, the two pushed aside their drinks and stood up to come to his, and the barkeeper’s, assistance.

Which, they would quickly see, was mostly unnecessary.

Though Bonu and Keros had meant to just scare the lads into backing off with a little show of force, the old timer held none of his punches and unleashed a quick flurry of blows in the face of the first thug to raise his fists. With him preoccupied, Keros rounded on the second and pulled an arrow from his hip. A flash of arcane energy flared at its head and he stabbed it into the attacking thug’s shoulder, causing him to go blind for a brief second and recoil from the fight.

Smarter than his fellows, the third simply turned tail and booked it. Bonu was quick on his feet, however, and chased after him, calling the guards as they sprinted down the main road. Keros, loathe to leave Bonu to his own devices, abandoned the old timer, who seemed just fine on his own with the two staggered thugs, and booked it after the barbarian with his net in hand.

After a brief tussle and ensuring the city guards had it from there, they took stock of the brief mess they’d made of the tavern. Before Nick could even raise a fuss over the broken glassware, the old timer slid him a couple of gold paired with a smile and an apology.

“You lads are spirited,” the old timer said, as Keros and Bonu each slid an additional gold to Nick’s recompense. “Name’s Edwin,” he said, inviting himself to their table.

Introducing themselves, they marveled at his fighting ability to which he laughed, taking a drink from a newly refreshed pint. “Just an old traveler. Nothing special. But I like the folk around here. There are enough bullies in the nobility, we don’t need to go fighting among each other on top of it.”

Against Keros’s better judgement, Bonu went onto say not all nobility was bad. The surviving Blackwoods were certainly trying.

Curious to hear those sort of sentiments, especially about the Blackwoods, Edwin reluctantly agreed. “But as long as its only them doing the ruling around here, nothing will change. That Sultlue was just on trial and nothing’s come of it.”

Taking a leap, Bonu suggested that if Edwin could help them out with a favor, maybe they could put him in touch with someone who had more power to change things than them. “We could put in a good word, but first we’re looking to figure out who killed this guy, Valuth. He sorta blew up. Kind of a pressing issue.”

Finding their investigation more interesting than a daytime bar crawl, Edwin agreed to help, especially if they could put him in touch with a lord. So they settled their tabs and headed out, with Edwin sipping at his flask as they left.

The couple of magic shops they stopped in were small and a bit skittish, having already had guards and concerned patrons poking in earlier in the day. They swore their products were up to code with the merchant guild’s magic division and that they’d never done business with Valuth Myres.

One shop they popped into was less of a magic shop and more of a general armor and weaponry shop with some magical wares within, but they stopped in out of curiosity. While there, Bonu commissioned a new set of armor and Keros impulse traded his silvered rapier for a finely crafted trident.

Duwain Bladesemer even agreed to give them a bit of a deal when Bonu yet again let slip they had connections to the Blackwoods. If they could forge an exclusive contract between House Bladesemer and House Blackwood for their armory supplies, Duwain promised Bonu even better deals in the future.

“That was productive,” Bonu said as they walked out, their purses much lighter.

Sipping from his flask, Edwin eyed the two of them. “Was it though?”

With night starting to roll in and being no closer to solving this than when they started, they split ways with Edwin for the evening. They would meet him at the Grinning Lion, the inn closer to Blackwood Manor, in the morning and try again tomorrow.

“I like him. He has a good heart,” Bonu said, leading the way home.

Keros agreed and looked up at the darkening sky. “But have you noticed everyone we work with is always drunk?”

Having left his fellows without much explanation, Grumbar found himself inexplicably drawn to the needle point tower that loomed in the heart of Waterdeep. While he had never intended to visit the Plinth, the strange dreams and troubled thoughts he had been having since he swore himself to the Blackwoods drew him closer.

A massive granite tower with spiraling balconies, the Plinth was a beacon for worshipers of the old gods whose practices were often forgotten and unwelcome. There was solidarity among the various priests, monks, and other followers within who came to remember they were not so alone. And as the last priest of Grumbar, Grumbar had planned to avoid this place with more care than he had avoided plagues in the past.

Finding himself there now, however, Grumbar’s feet brought him to a forgotten altar on the ground floor where darkness quickly overtook him. Instead of this tiny stone altar, he stood before a massive stone face, larger than any mountain and impossible to see in a single glance. Though the mouth of this face moved, its voice, rough like gravel, reverberated through his very being: 

“Hello, my child. You lost faith in me, but I do not hold it against you. I have been gone too long and too much has changed in my absence. But more change is yet to come. 

You have work to do. The land is in peril and the anima of this world is crying out. There is an evil clawing at the roots of the world, threatening to tear apart the very mountains themselves. Though you are a mere mortal, you are my only living follower in this land with even a glimmer of belief left in you. 

Yes, you have broken tenets. You have not preached in my name for over a decade. But none of that matters, because at your core, in your immovable bedrock, you were still true… just… waiting. We have both been… asleep. But even the land will shift and buckle if enough pressure is applied. Now… the earth quakes… and the world wakes. 

You have much work to do, my Chosen.” 

Grumbar woke, sobered and alone, in front of the altar and unaware of what time had passed. When he had entered the Plinth, the sun had been high in the sky. And as he made his silent way out, the sun was rising once more.

[mastersommelierjennifer]

“Commissary,” calls one of the priests from the top of the stairs of the Abbey’s wine cellar, “Commissary, you have a visitor!”

I turn away from the aging cask I’d been inspecting for leaks. We were going to transfer a batch of Malbec over from the standard oak into this, a charred oak. “Fine,” I holler. I knock on the aging cask and am rewarded by a deep hollow echo. I write a small note on the blank tag threaded around the head loop: ‘ready.’

I pick at the rubber band on my wrist. It snaps back against my skin, raising the hairs on my arm. As I walk up the stairs, I ask the young woman for the time. She tells me it is just after three bells. I sigh heavily.

“No one is on my schedule,” I tell her.

She says she knows. I raise a thin eyebrow at her and ask her to lock the door behind me. Yves is standing near the vault’s entrance. His large frame obscures the light. He looks like the breathing shadow I know myself to be. I beckon him over.

“Jennifer?” he asks. His voice is deep and resonant.

“Who is here?” I ask him as I pass by. I gesture for him to follow me.

“A tired old man,” he tells me. “Pretty thin. I think we’ve seen him at masses before, giving donations.”

I frown. “Right…” I breathe. I have no patience for this today. Ever since the exile had been liberated, I’d been tasked with overseeing the vineyards. I wanted to be back in my own bed, the silk sheets, the thick pillows. We turn a corner. Our footsteps echo off the stone walls.  We reach a heavy door at the end on iron hinges. Yves unlocks it for me and we step through it into the colored light of the atrium.

“Are you Jennifer?” the old man asks me. He is tall and gaunt; thin like me. His eyes are tired, at the bottom of dark wells. He peers at me from the depths of somewhere.

I cross the atrium swiftly, my black stitched robes hovering just above the bluestone floor. I carry myself upright, my head inclined, just as Mrs. Blackwood had taught me.

“I am,” I say. “And you are?”

“Delivering a message,” he tells me. Yves steps forward to put himself between the man and me. I hold my arm out to the side. The old man doesn’t flinch. He says, “You need to visit Henry. That’s what the man with the Dalaran Seal told me.”

I freeze. The old man produces a small slip of paper. He tries to hand it to me. Yves accepts it.

“What is that?” I ask, indicating the slip of paper.

“A map,” he says.

“To where?” I ask him. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t shift. He’s done this before, apparently.

“Give it to Henry. Tell him…” his voice trails off as he glances around the atrium. It’s empty except for the three of us. I wave him closer. He steps toward me and whispers, “Tell him that our friend needs to go hunting.”

Yves passes me the improvised map. A breath hitches in my throat when I see a short note he had written me at the bottom.

“You are sure he said this?” I ask him, pointing at the line of text under the map.

“I am,” says the old man.

I sigh heavily. I pinch my inner bicep and gnaw on the rough surface of my cheek. The man backs away.

“Fine,” I say. I purse my lips. They feel dry, cracked. I hadn’t been drinking enough water lately. “I will do as this asks. You will have your payment within the week.”

The old man breathes a sigh of relief. He dips his head. “Thank you, Jenni–”

“Commissary,” I correct him.

“Thank you, Commissary,” he says. I assure him that he is welcome. The old man turns and walks towards the nave.

I turn towards Yves. His dark, thick brows are furrowed. I hand him the map. “Bring Mister Rollins and his elf woman … Elunara is it? … by the house tonight.”

“Stormwind?” he asks me.

I sigh heavily and look toward the entrance. Two high and thick wooden doors stand open, welcoming parishioners to the nones service. I snap the rubber band around my wrist once, and then I do it again. Yves looks on impassively, but I know he hates it when I…

“Ready the carriage,” I tell him as I start towards the clerical offices. “I have letters to write. Be ready to leave at once.”

(( for: ~ @brian-wellson ~ ))