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tigerkirby215 · 4 years ago

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5e Teemo, the Swift Scout build (League of Legends)

(Artwork by Riot Games)

So funny story: Teemo was originally going to be a Death Cleric and I had this massive joke about how “Illaoi was a Cleric with no Cleric levels and Lux should’ve been a Cleric but wasn’t and then the Devil himself ends up being a Cleric” but midway through writing this build I realized that another class made a lot more sense and I had to scrap like half my work.

Even on Tumblr Teemo annoys me.

GOALS

Swiftly - Teemo is literally called “the Swift Scout.” You’ll never guess what subclass we’re going to pick.

That's gotta sting - We’re going to need to fight dirty with poisons and blinds to overpower our foes.

Got a little surprise for 'em - Your enemies should never feel safe walking into your territory, knowing that a trap could be there just waiting for them.

RACE

One may think that to be a small Swift Scout one would want to be a halfling, but there are plenty of small races in 5e to choose from. This may come as a surprise but I’m actually going to suggest playing a Deep Gnome. Your Intelligence increases by 2 and you have Gnome Cunning for advantage on Intelligence, Wisdom, and Charisma saving throws against magic.

As a Deep Gnome your Dexterity increases by 1. You have Superior Darkvision of 120 feet, and advantage on Stealth checks to hide in rocky terrain thanks to Stone Camouflage. I mean, it’s not a bush but you could probably stealth in the jungle.

ABILITY SCORES

15; DEXTERITY - You don’t get the title of “The Swift Scout” by being slow on your feet. (Excluding the fact that you have 25 movement speed.)

14; INTELLIGENCE - Knowledge of guerilla warfare would be more intelligence-based.

13; WISDOM - Teemo is a survivalist, having to spend months in the jungle with nothing but mushrooms to keep him company.

12; CONSTITUTION - Even if Teemo is squishy in-game it’s still nice to have a bit of extra bulk.

10; STRENGTH - Teemo needs to be able to carry all his equipment, which is where Strength comes in.

8; CHARISMA - FUCKING TEEMOOOOOOOOOOOO. (Memes aside feel free to make your Strength lower I’m mostly just dumping Charisma for the meme.)

BACKGROUND

As a Survivalist the Outlander background is pretty good to take. You get proficiency in Athletics, but I’m actually going to suggest swapping your Survival proficiency with Medicine for reasons that are going to be clear later. Why Medicine? I think Teemo would remember to bring some health pots. Regardless you also get proficiency in a musical instrument of your choice (Spirit Blossom Teemo has a Flute so take that) and a language of your choice. (Which of course has to be Infernal kekw. But really pick whatever you think will be useful.)

As an Outlander your Wanderer feature will help you remember the layout of the map you’ve been on for 10 years, and you can find food and water for yourself and 5 other people due to your adept survival skills. Captain Teemo on duty!

(Artwork by Riot Games)

THE BUILD

LEVEL 1 - ROGUE 1

Starting off as a Rogue for the extra proficiencies. Take Acrobatics to swiftly run away, Stealth to... well, stealth, Deception to trick foes into walking onto your mushrooms, and Perception to gain vision with your traps. You also get Expertise in two skills: Acrobatics and Stealth will make you the master of hit-and-run.

Speaking of hit-and-run Rogues get Sneak Attack, allowing them to do an extra d6 of damage if they attack with Advantage, or if an ally is within 5 feet of the target they’re attacking. The attack has to be with a ranged weapon which is a good segway to talk about Teemo’s weapon. Blowguns do exist in 5e but they’re trash, so unless your DM is willing to give you a seriously strong blowgun I’d personally suggest just using a Light Crossbow... for now.

But if you meet any other Bandle Scouts out in the wild you can communicate with them using Thieves’ Cant, a secret code only taught to scouts and other Rogues.

LEVEL 2 - ROGUE 2

Hey it’s everyone’s favorite ability: Cunning Action! As a Bonus Action you can now Move Quick to Dash or Disengage, or use your passive to Hide. Of course Hiding with Expertise in Stealth and then popping out to shoot a poisoned “dart” (crossbow bolt) at an enemy is a good way to get a sneak attack off.

LEVEL 3 - ROGUE 3

Third level Rogues can choose their Roguish Archetype, and hey isn’t it funny that Rogues have a subclass called “Scout?” Scout Rogues are Skirmishers, allowing them to move up to half their movement speed away from an enemy if they end their turn within 5 feet of you as a reaction.

And remember how I told you to drop Survival proficiency? Scout Rogues gain free Expertise in both Survival and Nature thanks to the Survivalist skill! Now would be a good time to point out that D&D Beyond will let you change the proficiency in your background if you get it past level 1. Also your Sneak Attack increases to 2d6.

LEVEL 4 - ROGUE 4

4th level is our first Ability Score Improvement: for some Guerrilla Warfare take the Skulker feat to hide more easily in bushes, not reveal yourself when you attack, and see better while hiding in the brush.

(Artwork by Riot Games)

LEVEL 5 - WIZARD 1

Hey look everyone it’s my favorite class, because Teemo perpetually frustrates me! If you can’t tell this was going to be Cleric levels and I’m writing this immediately after scrapping like half my build so... a little annoyed. Yay.

Anyways Wizards at level one get Spellcasting: you get a Spellbook where you can write down 3 cantrips and four 1st level spells. Your cantrips are always ready but you can prepare a number of spells equal to your Wizard level plus your Intelligence modifier. Seeing as your INT mod is 3 that means you can prepare all the spells I list! (At least for level 1)

CANTRIPS

For a ranged source of poison damage take Infestation to both poison and confuse your foes to make it harder for them to approach you.

For a melee source of poison damage take Poison Spray for a lot of damage! What do you mean Poison damage is commonly resisted? I don’t know what you’re talking about.

To strategize with your team Message will let you keep quiet while preparing to ambush!

SPELLS

Snare is a trap spell that will let set up a trap. Not a mushroom trap, but a snare trap.

If you want to use your traps for information however Alarm will let you ward an area so you know if someone passes through it. Or you can make the alarm loud so everyone knows!

For some poisoned darts Ray of Sickness lets you do... exactly that. Shoot posioned darts to poison your foes.

Finally to Move Quick take Longstrider, which increases your movement speed by 10.

You also get access to Arcane Recovery, allowing you to recover Spell Slots on a Short Rest equal to half your Wizard level rounded up (with some finer details please read the description of the ability that I’m too lazy to describe.) Teemo has a lot of supplies to survive in the wilderness, so it’s not surprising he packed more darts.

LEVEL 6 - WIZARD 2

Second level Wizards can choose their Arcane Tradition and I’m actually going to suggest a bit of a wild card here: go for the Bladesinging subclass. Yes it’s meant for Elves only but I have never met a single DM who enforced that rule.

Regardless as a Bladesinger you have Training in War and Song for Performance proficiency, Light Armor proficiency (which you already have), and proficiency in one type of one-handed melee weapon. (Scimitars are the only Finesse weapon you don’t have proficiency in as a Rogue so that’s basically your only option.)

But the main feature of the Bladesinger is of course their Bladesong. You can activate your Bladesong as a bonus action for 1 minute. During Bladesong your AC increases equal to your Intelligence modifier, your walking speed increases by 10 feet, you have advantage on Acrobatics checks, and you get a bonus to Concentration checks equal to your Intelligence modifier.

“But Teemo doesn’t use a sword!” I hear you say. Well Bladesong ends if you use two hands to make an attack but you know what doesn’t take two hands to shoot? Well for one Blowguns, but since Blowguns in 5e suck: Hand crossbows! Get a Hand Crossbow to supplement a blowgun, and boom you’re still a ranged character! Yeah much to my surprise Bladesinger doesn’t have any restriction on using ranged weapons: you just can’t use two hands to make an attack. Regardless you have two uses of Bladesong per short or long rest.

You can also add two more first level spells to your spellbook like Detect Magic and Identify to help you know what you find in the wild.

LEVEL 7 - WIZARD 3

Third level Wizards can learn second level spells like Blindness / Deafness for a blinding dart, and Invisibility for more Guerrilla Warfare.

LEVEL 8 - WIZARD 4

4th level Wizards get another Ability Score Improvement but you know what we don’t have enough of? Feats! Take the Crossbow Expert feat to ignore the loading property on crossbows, ignore melee range disadvantage with crossbows, and attack with a hand crossbow with your bonus action after making the attack action. Stinger attack speed’s gotta sting!

Additionally you can learn another two spells at this level along with a new cantrip! For your leveled spells grab Misty Step for Flash and Enlarge / Reduce, because size doesn’t mean everything. For your cantrip Mending will help you keep your scout equipment in check.

LEVEL 9 - WIZARD 5

At level 5 you can learn 3rd level spells. You know what we haven’t gotten yet? Mushrooms. For a very expensive trap Glyph of Warding will let you put down a near-invisible glyph in an area for a mere 200 gold and 1 hour of set-up time. You decide what triggers the glyph, be it something complicated or something simple like an enemy walking near it.

When the spell activates you can choose one of two effects: the simple solution is just to make it explode for 5d8 acid, cold, fire, lightning, or thunder damage. Alternatively you could store a spell of third level or lower into it, and have it target whoever activates the glyph or the area around them. I’d highly suggest reading Glyph of Warding over in full before using the spell. It’s a powerful spell but it’s costly and requires a lot of set up time.

But you know what’s a simple spell? Fireball. Weaponize your shrooms for a big explosion of damage.

LEVEL 10 - WIZARD 6

6th level Bladesingers get an Extra Attack! Yup: that’s it! Because you’re a fake Fighter. But yeah this is primarily why we took Crossbow Expert, so you can still attack twice with a crossbow.

Well, you can also add another two spells to your spellbook. To move incredibly Swiftly take Haste. Other than that you can truly grab whatever spell you want as there isn’t much else that’s truly “in character” for such a simple character as Teemo. My out-of-character suggestion is to take Mirror Image from second level for a great boost to survivability. The only thing more annoying than one Teemo is three Teemos.

(Artwork by Riot Games)

LEVEL 11 - ROGUE 5

Back to our swift scouting ways 5th level Rogues get Uncanny Dodge, letting them use their reaction to reduce the damage of an attack by half. Your Sneak Attack damage also increases to 3d6.

LEVEL 12 - ROGUE 6

6th level Rogues get Expertise in two more skills: Perception will let you make good use of your wards, and Deception will let you make good use of your mushrooms.

LEVEL 13 - ROGUE 7

Isn’t Teemo really annoying and hard to kill? Well with Evasion he’ll be even harder to kill since he’ll take no damage on a successful Dexterity saving throw and only half damage if he fails. And your Sneak Attack increases to 4d6 too?!

LEVEL 14 - ROGUE 8

8th level Rogues get another Ability Score Improvement and you know: I don’t think we have enough Feats. Fade Away is a Gnome-specific feat that will let you get use out of your passive by turning invisible when you get hit as a reaction. You remain invisible until the end of your next turn or until you attack, deal damage, or force someone to make a saving throw. You can use this reaction once per short or long rest and it uses the same reaction as Uncanny Dodge, so use it wisely!

(Artwork by Riot Games)

LEVEL 15 - ROGUE 9

At 9th level your Scout training gives you Superior Mobility for 10 extra feet of movement speed. "Hut, two, three, four!" Your Sneak Attack damage also increases to 5d6.

LEVEL 16 - ROGUE 10

10th level Rogues get another Ability Score Improvement to help compensate for all the feats. Increase your Dexterity and Wisdom by 1 for even Ability Scores.

LEVEL 17 - ROGUE 11

11th level Rogues get Reliable Talent so any roll with a skill you’re proficient in can’t be below a 10. If you roll a 9 or lower it counts as a 10. Whenever I get this ability I like to do a tally of all the skills you have and what the lowest potential roll is, so...

26 in Acrobatics (with Advantage if in Bladesong)

26 in Stealth (with Advantage to hide in rocky areas)

25 in Nature

24 in Perception or Survival

22 in Deception

18 in Medicine

16 in Athletics

15 in Performance

And to top it off your Sneak Attack damage increases to 6d6.

(Artwork by Riot Games)

LEVEL 18 - ROGUE 12

12th level Rogues get another Ability Score Improvement and as much as I want to take more Feats (believe me I do) let’s finally cap off that Dexterity score for the deadliest darts.

If you aren’t playing with Standard Array and want some more Feats here’s a few I could suggest:

Poisoner (Yeah duh)

Svirfneblin Magic (More blinds, among other things)

Alert (To always be ready for a fight)

Observant (A half feat to spot any incoming danger)

Tough (Just because you aren’t a tank doesn’t mean that Grasp of the Undying is a bad rune)

LEVEL 19 - ROGUE 13

With 13 levels in Scout you are an Ambush Master. You have advantage on initiative checks, and in addition the first creature you hit during the first round of a combat becomes easier to hit. Attack rolls against that target have advantage until the start of your next turn, because it’s pretty hard to defend yourself when blinded. "Smell that? That's fear." Your Sneak Attack also increases to 7d6.

LEVEL 20 - ROGUE 14

Your final level is the 14th level of Rogue for a 10 foot Blindsense, allowing you to sense any hidden or invisible creature near you. Clearly they only have camouflage.

FINAL BUILD

PROS

Turns out I got a proficiency in killing - Up to three attacks per turn with a +11 to hit means it’s more than likely you’ll hit your 7d6 Sneak Attack. Not to mention the strength of Wizard spells, notably Fireball.

Wars are won with men, not machines - Rogues are skill monkies and it turns out you’re quite the asset outside of combat. Expertise in 6 skills, notably the ones to keep alive in the wilderness. And of course the ability to cast Ritual spells like Detect Magic and Identitfy.

Never underestimate the power of the Scout's code - So Teemo’s pretty annoying right? Well I didn’t realize he’d be so damn elusive! +11 to Dexterity saves with Evasion, 35 feet of movement, Advantage on all mental saves, insanely good stealth skills, reactions to get away from danger... And this isn’t even mentioning the benefits from being a Wizard! Bladesong lets you increase your AC by 3 (up to 20 if you’re wearing Studded Leather!) and increase your movement speed to 45... Oh and you can just turn invisible! As well as blind the enemy and speed yourself up.

CONS

Size is a liability - A few feats too many means not enough ability scores, yet somehow we don’t have enough feats for things like Poisoner. Perhaps reserve this build for when you can use Point Buy. Or at least ditch Skulker because you really don’t need it when you can, ya know... turn invisible?

You'd be surprised how quick fur ignites - Of course the lack of Ability Scores means that your Wizard DC isn’t fantastic. Granted most of your spells are utility but a lot of them require saves, and a lot more of them are rather weak. Poison damage is one of the worst damage types in the game and both your cantrips are poison, not to mention Ray of Sickness. Feel free to grab other spells as you see fit.

Lots to do before I punch out - Teemo is squishy in League and Wizard levels don’t help in D&D. Even with the +1 to CON you’ll likely have a little over 100 health by level 20, which easily puts you in Power Word Kill range. You’re elusive yes but a bit of bad luck and you’ll be six feet under.

But you’re not meant to be the strongest: you’re meant to be annoying. Hit-and-run, hide in the shadows, and whittle the enemy down before you win the war of attrition. You’re in it for the long-con, and not just the end game. You’re engaging in psychological warfare: tearing at your opponent’s mental state until nothing remains. You are a master of anger and temptation. You are a demon; a devil... Or you might just be a hamster with a blow gun.

(Artwork by Riot Games)

#DnD 5e #dnd #dnd build #dnd guide #League of Legends #League of Legends Teemo #dnd rogue #dnd wizard #satan

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gravityfissure · 4 years ago

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Blaze Up : Deirdre & Otto

TIMING: Current. PARTIES: Otto & @deathduty SUMMARY: The chaos crew reunites and makes some fae nonsense plans. TW: Mushroom manipulation

Deirdre always wanted to get married; who wouldn’t? A grand ceremony, declarations of love and devotion, there was nothing half-hearted about the affair. She’d read tales of the old fae, who dared to profess their feelings in these ways, bound forever to their love. She glanced over at Otto, dressed dashingly alongside her white gown. Oh, but this wasn’t that kind of a wedding. This was the more realistic sort; the drag-a-human-to-a-fairy-ring sort. And she couldn’t help but to giggle as she led him along. “I’m so glad you came, Otto,” she cooed at him, practically purring into his ear. She was beyond delighted, something inhumanly bubbly. “You’re really going to enjoy it, I know you will. And thanks for dressing up.” Not that he’d stay in those clothes for long, all the fun was in being naked anyway.

Otto had no idea what Deirdre had in store for them with these mushroom rings. In fact, he didn’t really know what compelled him to say yes to even come along with her in the first place. Though considering their last meeting had involved spawns trying to rip him limb from limb the idea of a mushroom circle hardly seemed all that bad, mushrooms could be fun. He’d gotten high on enough of them to know that much to be true. Maybe they’d get around to that naked dancing this time. But as requested, he’d dressed in a trim grey waistcoat and blazer with an accented purple tie and pocket square to offset the colour scheme and keep it tasteful. “How could I say no when you asked so nicely? And you did ask real nice, so I’d never say no.”

"That's why you're the best, Otto." Deirdre grinned, leading him around trees until they reached a clearing. The fae—mostly gnomes, pixies and leprechauns—clapped as Otto appeared in sight. Everyone was naked. Two pixies flew up and dropped a crown of flowers and dirt on Otto's head. "They're happy to see you." She smiled. The ring was right there, staring at both of them. But Deirdre didn't want this to be some rough marriage, of Otto dragged into the center and made to dance. She liked Otto, perhaps not romantically, but just enough to want to be kind to him, even like this. "Okay, Otto," she skipped to the center of the ring, leaving him. "When you're ready for the ceremony, step in front of me, right here." The rest of the fae were careful to keep out of the ring for now. This was Deirdre's marriage, even they knew that.

“You’re so sweet,” Otto laughed as they walked, really having no idea what any of this meant or really what it would mean. Admittedly, he didn’t really care either way. If it was a good time and there was some fun to be had then that was more than enough for Otto to agree. Brushing a bit of stray dirt off his face he fixed the flower crown so it sat a little straighter on his head. “Me? Ha, they don’t even know me.” Man this was weird, granted not the weirdest situation he’d walked into. New York had provided plenty of interesting environments but nakedly dancing fae and mushroom parties? There were a few gnomes - also naked sat on different levels of a nearby tree, some playing little leaf woven drums while others playing a little ditty on wooden carved flutes. It was all rather… merry. Still, he looked back to Deirdre as she skipped into the circle. Was he meant to say something? Fae custom was admittedly lost on him, but it didn’t seem all that bad really. What could go wrong? Still, with a final look around at those gathered assembly he stepped over the boundary of the circle to stand opposite Deirdre feeling a weird pulse of energy as he did so. Weird. “Do I need to say something?” he whispered but trusting Deirdre enough to follow her lead in whatever was going on.

The marriage was complete. Deirdre felt the mushroom magic reverberating around her bones. It rattled and kicked, dancing its own jig inside of her. Three leprechauns grumbled up as Deirdre took Otto’s hands in hers. She beamed at him. The leprechauns jumped up, stacking on top of each other until they were about humanoid height. They clicked and whistled through a speech, which Deirdre didn’t understand, but thought was touching. When they finished, the fae clapped and cheered again. “We’re married,” Deirdre confessed to Otto, breaking into a large grin. “You're going to be a devout husband and serve the mushrooms with me, am I clear, you pathetic human?” Otto didn’t know the mushrooms, and if she were a touch sober, she might have felt bad. But this was the way of the fae; lure them in, make them yours. “Now…” She smiled as the rest of the fae piled in the ring, dancing and creating a mishmash of music that sounded good to Deirdre, who could hear the mushroom tune in her head. “Dance for me, Otto.”

The wash of magic was weird, and nothing like the sorts of magic he’d ever experienced in the past. It almost felt as if some invisible force was wrapping its way around his wrists, around his ankles and yet as fast as that feeling settled it vanished. Distracted by the leprechauns he didn’t initially notice the change in Deirdre’s demeanor up until the declaration. Married? He looked back to Deirdre suddenly, confusion writing itself all over his features and a sinking feeling settling in his gut. “Hold up, married? As in death do us part?” Granted… Now that he looked at Deirdre’s dress and his own suit… And the flowers, he could see the potential misinterpretation and he started to laugh, nervously, “good joke Deir… real funny.” But pathetic human? “Now hold up I’m not even hum-” not fully. He didn’t view himself as just human. Yet despite any protest he wanted to make he found himself compelled to agree. "Crystal." But then Deirdre spoke a further command and some foreign power seemed to overwrite any kind of hesitation or will to question. All he wanted was to dance. And dance he did. After all, she had asked and he only wanted to please her. “Well… it’s no fun if you don’t dance with me now is it?” he said after a jump and a turn holding his hands out as he continued to move to the mishmash of music that seemed to be growing louder and louder.

"Hmm, more like fairy ring do us part." Deirdre giggled, playing with the ends of her dress, swirling about. "We're not actually married, you silly-billy. I'm in love with Morgan, and I don't want to marry anyone but her—but she doesn't like the rings and so I have to take what I can get here, you see." She giggled again, skipping around Otto. He had such a stabbable body. She could sink a knife in there or there or—she tapped his shoulder. Even there. "But we're ring-married. As in you obey me and I think about sparing your life." She hopped back around to face him, laughing as he danced for her. She jumped and clapped, doing away with her white dress as quick as she could to sway with naked purity to the beat. "You're a good dancer, Otto. But I have big plans for you. Tell me—" she didn't command him to stop dancing, he needed to continue until she was bored of it. "—what you think is a good time. Your powers are interesting. I think we can use them in interesting ways and—!" She paused to giggle again. "Let me tell you about the mushrooms. You see, they take over the mind! No more pesky thoughts for me. Only mushrooms. And at the end of it all, you'll join the mushrooms." She kicked at the ground. "As in I'm going to bury you here, but first...we have our fun."

Perhaps Otto should’ve been more alarmed than he was, dancing about under a fae’s control. Maybe he should’ve even been angry, and perhaps later that would be the case. Having his freedom violated so plainly and vicariously. And yet he couldn’t help but feel partly entertained by everything that was happening, it was all very mad hatter esque sans the tea party. And hats. Why weren’t there hats? But Deirdre was talking and he heard what she was saying. Not married? At least that was one relief to come out of this whole thing. “Is this always how this is gonna go when you invite me somewhere? Dress me up all spiffy, then try to murder me? Tell me you don’t do this for everyone Deir. I was starting to feel special...” Maybe he was special, she had invited him to get ring married, after all. He hopped and skipped and even threw in a cartwheel for good measure bouncing back to his feet with glib joy. “A good time? Oh easy, well first you just gotta break into some rich folk’s home and take all their magic stuff they think they have a right to which they don’t. Then sell it for a profit and get piss drunk on the rewards.” There was no hesitation in answering, he wanted to tell Deirdre didn’t he? Anything to make her happy. Anything at all. “That’s funny… ‘cause I don’t even like mushrooms but they’re always on pizza. Who thought to put mushrooms on pizza? It’s like pineapple but worse.”

“I do murder a lot of people….” Deirdre tapped her chin, pausing her dancing to take a jaunty trip down murder-memory lane. But she wouldn’t murder Otto, not just yet. Or, really, she hadn’t decided what she was going to do with him. And then his sprouted his ideas (after cartwheeling into a pixie, which Deirdre laughed at as the pixie flew into a tree in their confusion). Yes. Theft was good. The mushrooms liked theft. They could bring everything back here and dance around it. “You’re so smart, Otto!” She giggled, dashing up to him to join in his dancing, planting a kiss on his cheek the soonest she could reach it. “I like that! Let’s steal from people. Let’s steal a buncha stuff from ‘em! Oh! Oh!” She jumped, joyous and jaunty. “You can take whatever you want. And sell anything you want. I don’t care. But I want the toasters. Ooh, that’ll show those pesky humans! Who's gonna toast their bread now? NO ONE!” The fae cheered around her, as if her idea was the greatest they’d heard. “DOWN WITH TOASTERS! DOWN WITH TOASTERS!” She chanted, “you can stop dancing and start chanting with me, Otto!” Her decree on the end of toasters bounced around the clearing, when she grew bored, she commanded Otto to stop and continued with her disorganized thoughts. “Mushrooms on pizza are bad. You’re so right. Mushrooms aren’t for eating, they’re for worshipping. You’re like, the best fake husband ever, Otto. You’re soooo smart.”

Otto didn’t really care that he just kicked a pixie in the face, all he wanted to do was dance. But it felt good to see Deirdre happy. Yes, because all he wanted to do was make Deirdre his mushroom wife happy. They would have mushrooms all day every day. “What did I tell you I’m a fungi. Ohhh-- can I draw mushrooms on the wall? Can that be my signature? We’ll be renowned.” Anything to please the mushrooms and please Deirdre. “I can? I can!” he cheered happily, oh he would take so many things but the idea of taking toasters. “You’re a genius! We’ll toast them all why? Because we’ll have their toasters!” The urge to dance suddenly stopped, but he immediately launched into a chorus of “DOWN WITH TOASTERS!” in line with the crowd of jaunty fae-folk around them. Eventually it subsided and Otto plopped down while the other fae continued to dance, “mm. You know what we should do? We should build a shrine to them. Imagine it! A mushroom shrine right in the middle of town? Nobody would miss it. We could put lights and flowers all around it! Magic mushrooms in the town plaza! So everyone can see them!”

Of all the humans she’d brought into rings with her, Otto was by far Deirdre’s favorite. But that seem to be his legacy, he was her favorite human she’d taken to a cemetery to play Sudoku with (of which there were only two, but that was beside the point). “You’re a fungi?” She looked at him. He looked pretty human to her, and pretty pretty. “Ooh! Yeah, that’ll be really good. We can steal stuff and draw mushrooms. We’ll be the mushroom bandits---but we’re not stealing mushrooms, to be clear. Unless it’s to free them in the wild, mushrooms should be freed.” And no human, none that she’d ever stolen, gave such great ideas. “Yes,” she plopped down with him. “A mushroom shrine. That sounds perfect! Everyone can see how great the mushrooms are.” She broke into a smile just imagining it. “More!” She slapped her fist into the ground. “More ideas, husband! I don’t have long on this mushroom high and I need to make the most of my time. We need to go big! The biggest!” She gestured with her hands and fell over, giggling into the grass. “We’ll make the shrine huge. It has to be. Maybe we should hang some bodies from it.” She sat up, “what do you think?”

Otto would have been pleased to hear about his newfound position in Deirdre’s list of humans. Or well, human adjacents. Humans were so boring after all. “Yeah, I’m fun and I’m a guy. Soooo… Fungi” he grinned like it was the smartest revelation in the world. Which right now it felt like it was. “Right. No stealing mushrooms. Unless we’re giving the mushrooms mush-more-room,” he giggled as they settled on the grass. This really was pretty great all in all. “Ohhhh hm,” his face contorted in deep thought before it brightened. “Mushroom soup!” he exclaimed wildly, “ but- we fill the local swimming pool with it.” A genius idea really. And the mushroom shrine? Really there was no better idea. “Yes. Or bones. Or bodies and bones and mushrooms! Because bodies become mushrooms right? You’re so clever Deir!”

Deirdre swapped ideas back and forth with Otto. At some point the day dissolved to night, and just talking about escapades turned into actually committing them. It was then she realized that, whatever the two of them were doing---or going to do---it was a very good idea. They had all the time in the world to steal toasters, paint mushrooms, make shrines and fill swimming pools. And she imagined that there was no better pair of people up to the task. “You know, Otto,” she pulled him in close, “I think you really might be my favorite husband.”

#p: deirdre #para #blaze up #// THIS WAS SO MUCH FUN #THE AFTERMATH IS GONNA BE GREAT #toasted

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dungeons-and-divination · 4 years ago

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Battle Smith ARTIFICER - Forest GNOME - Inheritor

I think I failed to mention till now that I pick class, race and background with a random generator. I usually read a little bit about them all just so they’re fresh in my mind and I can properly focus on them while I’m getting my deck ready. Then I pick one card at a time and I take very slim notes with impulsive feedback that I get from the energy of the deck. Once I have all six, I sit down to do a complete analysis and, if the need arise, draw more tarots to clear things out a bit. For the backstory, I have good old Xanathar to help with the randomness of a dice roll on things I can’t actually gather from the read, but mostly after one or two rolls, things build naturally on their own and I have enough elements for it. And after that very long intro nobdy asked for, I’ll leave you to this cutey pie.

Name: Hadwin Ahlers (35yo)

TAROTS

Mind: Strength (reversed) Such a good card for the mind of a character that I already knew was gonna end up having a high intelligence. It really is a dead give away of Hadwin big brain; he already has the knowledge to conquer whatever he puts his mind into, he’s just crippled by the lack of confidence in his own abilities. In a sense, his mind is both is best assent and is worst enemy. Because every time he feels inadequate or reconsider his decisions, he’s just ignoring that part of his brain that’s telling him that he know the solution to the problem and that he’s not being cocky, he’s just that smart!

Body: The Chariot (upright) Despite his doubts, Hadwin is still the kind of ambitious person that never shies away from hard work. He’s very much convinced that the key to achieve perfection is to try again and again till you succeed. Even when he feels like a failure, you can bet everything you own that he will not give up on what he’s trying to achive till he actually does that thing. That the Chariot was in “body” had to immediately give this strong feeling of him travelling somewhere and somehow, so I stayed on the lookout for signs that hinted at that in other aspects of the read as well.

Spirit: Page of pentacles (reversed) While this tarot might seem as contrasting with the Chariot, it’s actually very telling that it’s what I drew for “spirit”.To me it just proves that Hadwin is willing to put a lot of work into whatever he’s doing, but on a deeper level he’s actually lost. Sure, his mind is always busy on little project, like he’s a busy bee. But he never really stopped to figure out what he wants to achieve with all of that hard work. It also brings me back to that sense of inadequacy, that makes him sometimes question himself to the point of making rush or foolish decisions. At the core of it all, I see him as someone that believes his worth is just in how smart others perceive him as, and that’s why Hadwin works so hard despite having no clue what he himself actually is supposed to do with that gifted mind. He just knows that people always had expectation because of it and he somehow have to be worth it of their praises.

Past: Six of wands (upright) Well, I was just done talking about expectations, and praises, so of course, here it is, a past filled with them in his childhood and teenage years. I can absolutely picture him being one of those brilliant kids with lots of potential that all the adults around him encouraged to try and cultivate. And nobody really knows the weight those words have on Hadwin, while he slowly is weighted more and more down by them. Really, with such an important card of success, it’s really not a surprise that Hadwin really struggles with his self-esteem. For sure, that “spirit” card now seems VERY appropriate.

Present: Six of swords (upright) I’m happy to see that I had the right feeling with the Chariot about travelling somewhere, cause, here it again! This one is actually more of an escape card actually, but I think that travelling is the very best way to run from whatever is the problem that’s afflicting you. So, it’s pretty much obvious to me that Hadwin is trying to leave his troubling times behind. This tarot also has this undertone of healing and moving forward, it speaks of an inner growth, which is perfectly in tune with that. He probably wanted to leave his past behind, forget the expectation and start to use his abilities more for himself than for anyone else. This usually requires some spiritual guidance of some kind, but in this case I’m almost tempted to think that it’s losing his usual guide that brings calm and a new perceptive to him. Maybe it’s that hint of healing? It might be that at this point I was influenced by my preconception on this, cause I already felt by now that he was gonna lose his mentor...

Future: Ten of pentacles (reversed) Well, this is very much on the nose. Of course there was gonna be a tarot related to the inheritance. Still, I feel a dispute of some kind because of it, I feel it with the lost family of the mentor, but it’s not a given since this is really up to what a DM might work up with this backstory. Not much else I could add to that, really then. What I could give is my usual suggestion on how to play the character on the future card, even if I think the “spirit” explanation was enough so… I do suggest though to think of little special moments related to the inheritance and the mentor that gave it to Hadwin, and every now and then to sprinkle them in the interaction with other people. Just to really make it something special, so that if it really ends up being used as a hook, it hits hard as a moment in game when the “conflict” comes up.

FULL BACKSTORY

Hadwin is the older son of a couple of drifters that used to live of trade and seasonal work. Despite the very dreary life-style of the very early years of Hadwin’s life, his father, Nester, decided that the family needed to become more stable and they moved into a large city after the third pregnancy of his mother, Quandha. It was obviously a good choice, because the life on the move was way too dangerous for both Hadwin, his two brothers, Xodash and Thamil, and his two sisters, Dapha and Ampash. His mother was mostly busy with being a housewife, but in her free time she kept weaving fabric to sell to the local market like she used to do when they traveled; his father mostly worked at the docks, where his silver tongue sometimes put Nester into trouble and other times was useful for getting work of dubious morals. Even in his early childhood years, Hadwin was always very bright;for one, he liked to build stuff with scraps he found around, but Quandha noticed his fascination with people that had magical abilities too. For this reason Nester decided to pay for the most expensive tuition he could afford for his son at the time (much to his brothers and sisters jealousy), in the hopes that he would get noticed by someone that could maybe one day take him as their apprentice. Despite it all, at the end of the day it was Nester’s silver tongue that allowed Hadwin to become the apprentice of Master Zyphon Volso. Zyphon (a human on the older side), had been travelling mostly alone for years, but as old as he was getting, he was in need of somewhat of a page to take care of the menial things during his travels. In exchange for Hadwin's services, Zyphon promised Nester that he would teach his son what he knew. Hadwin left his family and started following Master Volso in his travels. He mostly took care of menial things, but since he was the son of drifters, he had kind of a knack for tracking and hunting food for them both when they were in the middle of nowhere. There were times when Master Volso would also leave him alone, dismissing Hadwin with rushed excuses; most of those times he would be gone for two or three days, before coming back and pretending like nothing happened. One of those times, after a sudden grumble of “there’s something of the utmost importance I need to deal with”, he left and never came back. The only thing left behind of Master Volso was his precious book with all of the notes of his research, something Hadwin knew Master Volso had never left behind before. Curiosity got the best of him and Hadwin checked the book that had always been inaccessible to him: inside of it there was a note to him. “Hadwin, if I don’t come back in four days, I’m dead. I leave you this as my legacy. I know you can figure out a solution. Make me proud. Zyphon.”. The only problem is that Hadwin really has no fucking clue of what 90% of what is written and drawn inside the book is supposed to mean. But his Master wants him to “make him proud” and that’s exactly what he wants to do!

SUGGESTION CORNER

Suggested features Ability scores: High Dexterity and Intelligence, Low Strength or Wisdom. Skill proficiencies: Arcana, History, Investigation. Musical instrument proficiencies: any kind of percussion to your choice or some kind of flute. Artisan’s tool proficiencies: cook’s utensils. Others: as mentioned before, I suggest the Inheritance from his background to be a “book of projects” his teacher was working on. He doesn’t understand much of it at first, but with time things can change.

Suggested Characteristics Trait: I always want to know how things work and what makes people tick. Ideal: I think often no plan survives contact with reality. Easier to dive in and deal with the consequences. Bond: I owe my teacher everything for forging me into the person I am today. Flaw: I am easily distracted by the promise of a good time.

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parti-pooper · 6 years ago

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I think tweek and craig are both logical/creative, but in different ways and in different times. They’re creative on their own but with logic they take turns depending on whose acting ridiculous at the time. I wonder what happens when it’s both of them.

I agree! I mean, they say that a messy mind is a creative mind, and just look at Tweek’s room! Clothes falling out the drawers. Toys all over the floor. Legos all over his desk. Coffee cups everywhere. It’s madness! However, though this be madness, there is method in it. He is building a crazy, interesting structure with those Legos! His coffee cups have been stacked into these orderly, challenging towers on his window sill! He has snapped together this amazing-looking roller-coaster thing on his floor! Like, just look at this!

Gosh, his room is just so colourful and exciting! And I will bet his mind is exactly the same. He seems to have this very inventive, almost architectural creativity. In fact, I would not be surprised if our little Tweek grew up to be an engineer, or an architect, or something like that. I believe in him!

Tweek’s so good at acting as well though, which is very much a creative art. He could grow up to join the theatre! And he’s probably pretty musical too, because it seems he plays piano. Like, Tweek?? Since when could you do that, Tweek??Where did you learn to do that, Tweek??! Tell me your secrets, Tweek!! Tell me!!

Craig, I’m not so sure about. If someone could offer instances of his creativity, I would be appreciative. Because I’m coming up dry, pfft! I mean, come on. Look at his fucking superhero outfit. What even is that, Craig? Did you even try, boy? You even called yourself Super Craig. Super Craig. You couldn’t even come up with a cool name, could you?

Granted, Tweek was not much better here, for all his creativity. He called himself Wonder Tweek and stuck some letters to his shirt as well. But at least he made a bandanna, too, and bothered to put on gloves and a different shirt. Also he wrote approximately one (1) more letter than you, Craig, so he automatically gets more respect. (But you both get bonus points for your cutesy couple costumes. Bless!)

(I love Kenny’s ghost creeping in the background, pfft! Afterlife photo-bombing!)

Okay, so neither of them are artistic in that way. They aren’t going to grow up to be designers and open up a boutique together. Still, check out Craig’s bedroom in comparison to Tweek’s! Like, yeah. Okay. He likes space, robots, and making his bed. And?

(Sidenote: I’ve just noticed “SPACE TREK” and it’s tickled me real bad. *Snort!*)

Everything is just so neat. His closet and drawers are shut tight (unless New Kid interferes). There is not a speck on his floor (unless Stripe interferes). That bed must be taking anti-ageing cream because it is wrinkle-free. The poster above it is the only thing off. His room is straighter than he is! It’s so different to Tweek’s room. (Which is probably why they go together so well. Opposites attract, man.)

So, he’s not artistic. He’s not inventive. He’s not architectural. Maybe he’s, um… musical? He played that violin once? Or is it a viola? Or a fiddle? (Can someone who knows the difference between these instruments tell me what it is? Thanks.)

Although that was kind of just for school… Um… Oh! But he also played the pan flute that one time! (And that guitar- or ukulele-looking thing. Musicians, help me again!) Remember Peru, Craig? ‘Member?

Although that was kind of just for money. While Tweek whipped out the piano for a song he did. Which suggests he could already play it. Like, I wouldn’t learn the piano just specifically to play a song in a school assembly. I’d ask someone who already knew how to play piano. Or just make it into a speech instead of a song. The fact Tweek did this just further makes me think that playing the piano is just something he does. For himself. While with Craig, it’s more related to obligation, or gain. So maybe not too musical after all…

Urgh, I’m really coming up dry here. Everything around Craig is nice and boring, just how he likes it. Yet, I still refuse to believe that there’s no creativity in him at all! There’s got to be something… Perhaps intellectual creativity? The insults he comes up with. The ideas he has. They come from some sort of creativity, right? Maybe there is creativity in his logic. And he is definitely very logical. Robotic, I dare say. Almost as much as that robot he loves enough to put in his bedroom. Do you see yourself in it, Craig? Is that why you keep it? Is that why you gave it pride of place on your nightstand?

His room is evidence of his logic. Everything has a place, and everything is in it. Neat. Tidy. Plain. Organised. Straightforward. His thoughts will obviously be the same. And I also think he can be quite emotionally logical. That is clear enough in Put It Down, where he spends nearly the entire episode trying to rationalise everything Tweek is fearing, only to realise it is not helping, and be able to step back and come up with the most logical solution, where he validates everything Tweek is feeling. He likes reason and rationale. Things that do not make sense, he cannot compute. Irrationality invokes irritability.

(To be fair though, really, why the fuck would you? Are you okay, Dr Mephesto?)

Logic is where I may struggle with Tweek though, and again, I would appreciate instances of Tweek being logical being offered. We have seen, however, that he can come up with logical solutions to his problems when he is calm enough, ala Put It Down again. Also, there is, as I said before, a method to his madness. He is able to create structurally sound features, like his Legos and coffee cups and roller-coaster. That takes a little logic. Most of the time, however, he’s panicking over crazy conspiracies, paranoid and inconsolable. (Granted, sometimes those things do come true. I mean, underpants gnomes? Huh. Who saw that coming?)

Ah, I don’t know! Maybe the secret to them is that Tweek is the creative one and Craig is the logical one and that’s, again, exactly why they work so well together. They balance each other out. If anyone could offer a different perspective on this post, though, then I would appreciate it! It’d be interesting to hear other thoughts.

#south park #craig tucker #tweek tweak #creek #sp creek #thanks anon! <3 #i just spent like literally an entire hour writing this post instead of my essay #and it's due in two days #boy am i in trouble lmaooo #these damn other boys #guinea fucker #coffee addict

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mst3kproject · 5 years ago

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1110: Wizards of the Lost Kingdom

I only saw this episode once, while I was on my two-day binge back when season eleven first debuted – and by then I was kind of running out of binge-watching oomph, because I don’t think I paid much attention to it. If I had, I wouldn’t have been so blindsided by shit like the mermaid and her rainbow bridge or the flying lion-centaur whatchamafuckit. Wizards of the Lost Kingdom is depressingly cheap and desperately amateurish, but it's also unbelievably fucking weird.

There’s a great evil abroad in the land or something. The Castle(TM) is Attacked and the resident Bearded Wizard(TM) gives his son the Callow Youth(TM) a Magical Ring(TM) to keep safe – but of course the stupid kid drops it on the way out. After gathering a few allies, slaying a few monsters, and dabbling in casual necromancy, the boy sneaks back into the castle to retrieve the ring and do wizardly battle with the bad guy. The day is saved, the princess is rescued, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. The music attempts to convince us that this is epic and exciting, rather than corny and embarrassing.

I have rarely felt as bad for a group of actors as I did watching Wizards of the Lost Kingdom. I kept wanting to hide behind the couch so I wouldn’t have to look at the expressions on their faces as they humiliate themselves by being in this movie. Even Crabby the Crab Hat doesn’t want to be here. The whole thing looks like a third grade class put on a play starring everybody’s parents. The only person who gets out with any shred of dignity is whatever poor bastard was hiding under the Gulfax suit… oh, no, wait, no he didn’t, because according to IMDB the same actor also played Dad the Wizard.

Let’s look at our characters. There’s our hero Simon, who is about thirteen and seems to be familiar with the concept of a quest but would probably much rather be reading a book somewhere. His buddy is Gulfax, a dude who paid way too much for his alpaca fursuit. Kor the Conquerer is supposed to be a troubled alcoholic mercenary, but he really does look like Gordon Ramsay except not as badass. The wicked queen dresses like she’s trying to look sexy for the Swamp Thing. Princess Aura acts like your nine-year-old sister parading around in one of those Disney Princess gowns. The bad guy is less impressive than his own fashion accessories and can disintegrate people except when it would be inconvenient for the plot. Simon can disintegrate people, too, but saves it for non-humans despite the fact that they’re shown to be sentient.

Then there’s what all these people actually do. Despite a much more kid-friendly tone, Wizards of the Lost Kingdom is a lot like Ator: the Fighting Eagle. Both movies present us with characters who are supposedly on a heroic quest, but all we see is them wandering around the woods while random things happen. When I tried to describe this film to a co-worker, I realized I could talk about the various incidents in whatever order I liked, because none of them really contribute to the plot or even connect to each other.

Take, for example, the bit where Kor is captured by the cyclops who wants him to marry his sister (the cyclops’ sister, that is. Wizards of the Lost Kingdom isn’t that much like Ator). It comes and it goes, and that’s it. Kor had earlier said he didn’t know who this mysterious bucket-helmeted figure was, and Simon pouts a bit because that was a lie. It really, really doesn’t feel like the major betrayal the script wants us to think it was. It comes across as the cyclops’ sister being an embarrassing ex-girlfriend Kor just didn’t want to talk about, and he and Simon argue for thirty seconds and then hug and make up, completely negating whatever small emotional impact the whole thing might have had.

Or how about the part where Simon straight-up raises the dead? In most fantasy settings that would be considered a turn down a dark path, with far-reaching consequences for both the plot and the character development. In Wizards of the Lost Kingdom the corpses get up and basically tell Simon to get fucked because they want to rest, and then crawl back into their graves. This is a world where black magic exists and can claim your soul, but apparently necromancy isn’t in that category. All that happens is Kor tells Simon to respect the dead more.

What about the bit where Simon realizes the bad guy and his Crab Hat are spying on them through a magical birdbath? The kid casts a spell that makes the water explode in the evil dude’s face so he can’t see them anymore, but this has no plot consequences because a scene or two later the bad guy has simply re-filled the birdbath and is watching them again. Why did we even need to see that? Why did we need the bit with the little gnome dude who enables Kor’s alcoholism? The drinking is never a plot point because this is a kids’ movie (unless marrying the cyclops’ sister was something Kor promised to do while drunk), and the gnome promises to re-join them for the climax but when he does he just watches.

How about the part where Kor tries to save a drowning topless blonde woman in the weirdly orange river (this is the only place where I can definitely identify a shot MST3K cut, since we got one very brief look at her tits)? She vanishes only to reappear on a rock with one of those mermaid tail blankets over her legs, telling them she was testing their manhood to see if they were worthy of her help! They were, so she creates a rainbow for them and tells them to follow their hearts across the river!

Uh. Okay. So I can see how Kor was worthy, since he jumped in and all, but Simon stood on the shore yelling at him to stop because it’s too dangerous. Shouldn’t his unmanly ass get left behind?

Unquestionably, however, the weirdest thing in the movie is the fucked-up trippy vision Simon has while bug-woman plies him with drink and flower petals. This scene fascinates me. So there’s a bunch of Satanists sacrificing women on a spray-foam altar, while a voice tries to tempt Simon to the dark side. In response, he summons up the ‘forces of good’ to deal with the situation, and they appear in the form of this stop-motion… chimera… thing. Imagine a lion centaur, only both the horse part and the human part are lions, so it’s like a six-legged, two-torsoed leonine centipede abomination, but instead of arms on the upper set of shoulders it has weird veiny bat wings. It hovers there snarling while the Satanists complete their sacrifice, which summons a giant floating semi-transparent head in some scaly makeup. The head makes faces and breathes green fire, until the lion thing glares cartoon lightning at it and it explodes.

What the actual unmotivated fuck. What even was that? I want to say it’s demonstrating that Simon is pure of heart and can’t be tempted to evil but like ten minutes later he’s raising the fucking dead. What the hell is with the lion monster? Is it a metaphor for something? Is it saying that the forces of good can be just as terrifying as those of evil, like how if you read descriptions of angels they actually look like beasts from your nightmares? Was it actually supposed to be pretty and the model-makers just weren’t up to the task? What am I looking at?

Did anybody actually realize how weird this all was? One does get the impression that the writers were just scribbling down whatever bullshit came into their heads without regard for continuity or anything. Can we have a mermaid in our movie? Sure, why the hell not. Zombies? Awesome, everybody loves zombies, throw ‘em in there. A garden gnome? A goat-man playing the pan flute? A jilted cyclops with a spiral perm? Absolutely, the more, the merrier! Concepts!

And yet for all that, the single worst failure of writing in Wizards of the Lost Kingdom is the anticlimax of the ending. Through the whole movie everybody’s been looking for the Ring of Magic, which makes the wearer all-powerful. One of the wicked queen’s dwarves (played by actual little people who should all have been paid double for being in the same movie where the queen says we’re running out of dwarves) finds it, but Simon snatches it back a moment later and goes out and saves the day. Of course he does – he’s all-powerful. It’s a foregone conclusion. The only tension comes from wondering how many of those kids who were freed from prison are gonna get swords in the gut while Simon worries about making pretty special effects in his wizard’s duel.

One last bit of illogical crap. After the battle, Kor wanders off to go back to his ‘itinerant boozehound’ gig, and tells Simon to be a good king. Uh… Simon’s not gonna be king. The rightful heir is Princess Aura, who’s literally right there. Simon can marry her and be royal consort if she still likes him once they’ve both been through puberty. Is there a law in this kingdom that if you save the day you get to be in charge? That does seem to be where the last guy got his throne… and yet I have a faint suspicion that the writers just assumed Simon would rule instead of Aura because he’s got a penis and she doesn’t.

All that may have given the impression that I hate this movie but I really don’t. Wizards of the Lost Kingdom just isn’t worth the effort. Instead I just pity this movie and everybody in it. Every last one of them did a terrible job, and yet they still all deserved better. On every possible level, Wizards of the Lost Kingdom is truly less than the sum of its parts.

#mst3k #reviews #wizards of the lost kingdom #tw: incest #80s #just fuckin weird #everybody do the zombie stomp

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nilim · 6 years ago

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First kiss! Scanlan or Nott idk, whichever one you wanna do more, though i might be too late to send prompts.

So, the concept of Scanlan’s first kiss was a premise that immediately intrigued me because I never really thought about it before. Because, well… he’s Scanlan. Sometimes it feels like he materialized into Exandria fully sexualized. But he didn’t, of course. So it was fun exploring that more innocent part of his history. A character study and coming of age story, if you will.

Also, this story was inspired by Sam’s throw-away line that ‘kissing a half-elf man’ was ‘teenage years, baby.’

Warning: This thing is LONG. 11k.

Enjoy.

—

A passing cart splashed through a large puddle, sloshing water across Scanlan’s boots as he ducked out of its way. The lasts remnants of a passing rainstorm were giving way to blue skies and the city’s streets were gleaming; mist steaming off the cobblestones as they warmed up in the sunlight. Scanlan ignored the new stains to his boots, his focus entirely on the balding, well-dressed gentleman walking on the opposite sidewalk.

Making his way through the crowds, the man seemed somewhat harried trying to hurry his wife along. Decked out in a long, green coat, the plump woman was entirely too wrapped up in her own little world to notice her husband’s frustration. She wore a soft, kind smile and had ooh-ed and ah-ed at every window display, market-stall and stray cat the couple had come across for at least half a block. Scanlan knew this, because they were the reason he was crossing the street in the first place.

As man and gnome approached each other, Scanlan ducked low and removed his frayed, purple beret with a practiced flourish.

“Spare a coin, mister?” He asked, his voice pitched slightly higher to help create the impression of youthful naivety. The man gave him a quick a look - an expression Scanlan was sure he only spared for things he normally found underneath his boots - and angrily pushed past him.

“Out of my way, boy.”

Scanlan quickly stepped aside, ducking even lower while clutching his beret to his chest. “Sorry, sir!”

His voice apologetic, he adopted a mournful expression. Like that of a kicked puppy. He waited a beat and then - right on cue - looked up, locking eyes with the woman trailing behind her husband. Scanlan could feel actual tears brimming in the corners of his eyes.

He was pretty proud of himself.

“Oh, Harold. He looks hungry. Can we not spare a few coins?” The woman said, turning towards her husband with a worried look. The man looked back, flustered.

“Agnes…”

Scanlan could see they were about to get into an argument, so he interjected;

“That’s okay, miss! It’s entirely my fault, I can see you are in quite the hurry and I should never have b-bothered such nice people.” He wiped at the corners of his eyes with the long, dirty sleeve of his tunic. “I’m sure I don’t know what I was thinking…”

He made as if to leave, but before stepping off the pavement he turned back towards the woman.

“Please don’t worry about me, miss. I’m quite sure I will be able to find some leftover bread behind the bakery tomorrow. The baker sometimes throws away perfectly good loaves, you see, only partially moulded!”

A subtle expression of horror flickered across the woman’s face and she cast a look at her husband, who was staring daggers at Scanlan. The gnome’s expression of solemn sincerity didn’t waver under this scrutiny.

“Agnes, please-” The husband began, trying to get his wife moving again. The large woman could not be budged, letting go of her husband’s hand as she started digging for her purse.

“No. That’s it, Harold. I will not have this… child eat rotten foods and starve in a gutter somewhere!” She produced her purse and started counting out coins, her husband’s eyes boggling at the amount. A vein popped in his forehead.

Fidgeting with his beret, Scanlan stared down at his feet, afraid any look he might give the man might infuriate him further. Such things could tip the precarious situation into an entirely different direction.

“Here you go.” The woman said, her voice soft and caring as she held out her hand. Scanlan held up his beret, still avoiding eye-contact.

“You’re too kind, miss. Thank you very much-” As he felt the coins being deposited, he caught the flash of a golden sun on one of the woman’s rings. Without missing a beat, he added; “-Pelor’s blessing be upon you both!”

The man made a soft, disgusted noise. Maybe that last comment had been a bit much, Scanlan admitted. But he wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

Bowing, he stepped off the pavement and spun around to hurry back across the street. Clutching his beret to his chest, he weaved through the crowd of people on the other sidewalk. He walked past a couple of blacksmiths before ducking into a shaded alleyway. As the sounds of the city fell away, he found a hiding spot behind a couple of stacked beer barrels. Finally feeling secure, he opened his hands and looked at his prize.

There was gold in there. More than one coin.

Scanlan’s heart hammered inside his chest. There was enough here to pay for at least a week worth of lodging at the Silver Heron. It was a lot more than he had expected.

Eyeing his spoils in wonderment, his reverie was interrupted by a long, low whistle behind him. He froze.

“That’s a nice sum you got.” A girl’s voice whispered in his ear. Recognizing the voice, Scanlan felt relief wash over him. He quickly pocketed the money before turning around with a forced smile.

“I do my best.” He replied, eyeing the girl leaning over his shoulder. A human child, she was a couple of years younger than him, probably around 13-14 years old. She was crouching low on one of the barrels, wearing a ragged grey dress and green stockings. She had in all likelihood dropped down from one of the roofs above and snuck up on him, quiet as a mouse. Which was why it was her nickname.

“You know Aron is going to beat the shit out of you if he finds out you’ve been scamming on his turf.” She pointed out, dangling her legs off the large oak barrel, using a dirty fingernail to pick out something between her teeth.

“True…,” Scanlan eyed her briefly, then rummaged in his pockets and flipped her a silvered coin. Eyes sharp as a hawk, the girl snatched the coin from the air before it had got a chance to complete its arc. “Which is why… he’s not going to find out now, is he?”

“Hm.” She pocketed the coin and silently watched him as he fixed his beret. Scanlan wiped some dirt from his tunic and looked down at his feet. Not much to be done about his boots, for now.

“You off to that silly tavern of yours, then?” She asked as he started moving towards the street. He deemed the question not worthy of an answer, until she called after him; “I don’t know why you like that place so much.”

Scanlan stopped and let out a heavy sigh. “I like it, because there’s music.”

“Lots of places got music.”

Scanlan grit his teeth. “No… Many places have an idiot with a flute making some noise.”

He thought about the Silver Heron. The tall, leaded windows. The pipe-smoke filled hallways lit up with silver sconces. The shining, oak bannisters of the second-floor balcony, which looked out onto the crowded barroom below. The diverse cast of patrons - drinking, laughing - all listening to the single minstrell, alone up on the narrow crescent-shaped stage. He turned towards the girl, smiling:

“This place has got music, Mouse.”

She rolled her eyes at him.

—

The small barroom was rowdy, every inch of the tavern packed with people enjoying an evening of drinks and entertainment. Dodging between individuals thrice his size, Scanlan had to do his best not to get squashed or trampled by throngs of people trying to get another beer at the bar. His head was spinning with sounds and songs and, music.

Earlier in the evening he had found a tiny spot up on the balcony, his small frame making it easy to watch through the carved wooden posts supporting the balustrade. He had spent the better part of three hours watching assorted musicians take center stage down below. A beautiful black-haired woman had sang a mournful song of tragedy and lost love in the Dunrock Mountains while Scanlan observed young men weep; a young Half-elf man had played a long ballad of an old sailor lost on the Ozmit sea, weaving words so playfully Scanlan had felt like he was there among the waves; and three dwarven brothers had played joyful, traditional dwarven tunes which had gotten half the patrons up and dancing.

Thirsty, Scanlan had left his spot to acquire some drinks while down below a young lady with a fiddle had started up a cheerful melody. Halfway down the stairs he spotted his chance when a large tray carried by a sturdy barmaid bounced past him just within arm’s reach. Reaching past the bannisters, he swiped a large tankard of ale while throwing down a few coppers on her tray in payment. Shouldering his way back upstairs he protected his drink from the careless elbows and staggering legs of drunk patrons. As he was about to set down the tankard on the floor to retake his spot, a large meaty hand shot out and grabbed his right arm, jerking him backwards.

“Oi!” Scanlan shouted, splashing ale over half his tunic. A large, middle-aged man was standing over him, a scraggly ginger beard doing a poor job at hiding his double chin and red, bulging cheeks.

“What do you think you’re doing, street rat?” He bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth. Scanlan flinched, shrinking back towards the wall.

“I paid for it!” He replied immediately, his voice not so much defiant as tinged with panic. He winced at the sound and took a second to compose himself. Looking up, he met the man’s gaze with renewed confidence. “I paid for it fair and square.”

“Hrmpf,” The man straightened up, eyeing Scanlan with a suspicious look on his face. But Scanlan’s now calm demeanour seemed to settle him down somewhat. The man crossed his arms.

“You’ve had your fun, boy. Time to go. We ain’t in the habit of entertaining every hoodlum wanting to spent an evening ogling young women.”

Scanlan put his hands on his hips, cocking his head. “But apparently this business is in the habit of throwing out paying customers willy-nilly? Seems like a bad investment.”

“Guests only.” The man rumbled, reaching out to grab Scanlan’s vest - but seeing the move coming the small gnome danced out of the way.

“Well, you’re in luck! I’m a guest,” He grinned, and quickly produced a handful of gold coins. “And I can pay.”

The man glared at the coins. “You a thieving scoundrel as well, then? We don’t take no stolen money.”

Scanlan felt a wave of annoyance flare up inside of him. “I’ve never stolen a damn thing in my entire life.” He spat back, glaring at the man.

“Oh, come on, Fabien, let the boy be. He appreciates the music, which is more than I can say for half the people here.”

Scanlan peered past the innkeeper to see who had spoken up, and noticed a youthful Half-elf leaning against the wall next to the stairs. The young man had short, curly brown hair and wore a simple blue tunic with a white vest. Scanlan recognized him by the well-worn intricately carved lute slung across his shoulder. It was one of the minstrels who had played earlier.

The young man pushed off against the wall and shrugged, giving the innkeeper with an amused look. “And he’s got a point, when are we in a habit of turning away paying guests?”

Locking his sharp green eyes with Scanlan’s, he added; “I’ll vouch for him.”

The taller man - Fabien - grunted and looked between the young Half-elf and Scanlan, conflict playing out on his face. After a long pause, he finally seemed to come to a decision and swiped Scanlan’s gold from his hands. As he turned, he gave the younger Half-elf a look. Mumbling something about it being ‘your funeral’, the man marched down the stairs.

Scanlan, surprised by the entire turn of events, leaned over the balustrade to follow where the innkeeper was going with his gold. Wading through a group of customers, the man approached the bar and had a brief conversation with a stocky, short-haired woman behind the counter. She ducked down and then offered the man a large, brass key. A room key. Scanlan grinned and turned back towards the young minstrell.

“Thanks.”

The Half-elf nodded, giving Scanlan a curious, inquisitive look. “I’ve seen you in here before, right?”

Scanlan fidgeted with his vest, giving the Half-elf an apologetic grin. “Oh no, you caught me.”

“Well, try not to enjoy yourself too hard, or you might get me in trouble.” The Half-elf said, eyes twinkling as he readjusted the lute hanging from his shoulder.

Scanlan put a hand over his heart, giving the young man a severe, solemn look. “I swear it upon my honour as a hoodlum.” He said, echoing the phrase the innkeeper had used.

The Half-elf chuckled, shaking his head as he ascended the stairs, leaving Scanlan behind to enjoy the rest of his evening.

–

Three days Scanlan spent inside a small, narrow room near the roof of the Silver Heron. Obviously a former servant’s quarters, it was right above the kitchen and smelled like a curious mixture of grease and ale at all hours. A small, round window opened up to the roof outside, limiting his view of the city - but Scanlan had discovered he could just see the top of the Market Street’s bell tower over the roof of the building across when he was lying down on his straw bed at night.

He didn’t mind the cramped quarters. There was a roof over his head, dry floorboards underneath his feet and hot food waiting for him every morning. During the day he roamed the city; singing at the corner of Garden Square for passersby, or carefully scouting out the affluent Temple district for better opportunities. At night he came back, found a seat up on the balcony, ate warm stew and drank amber ale while listening to a string of musicians play. Not all were of an equal skill level - but in Scanlan’s view all were good.

And although they had not spoken since that first night, every evening the Half-elf had played, strumming his instrument with deft fingers, weaving such finely crafted melodies. Studying him on stage, Scanlan had judged the young man to be not much older than himself. He wondered where the elf had learned to play like that at such a young age.

Counting his earnings of the day, feet dangling from the balcony, Scanlan knew he should be more careful with his spending. He could probably find much cheaper lodgings at one of the almshouses on the other side of town, squirreling away the money for a rainy day. But he never had such a windfall before… and living at the Silver Heron was nice. He wanted to stretch the days and not think about the future at all.

It was like living in a dream.

“I heard you sing today.” A familiar voice spoke up. Scanlan froze with his tankard halfway to his lips, looking up towards the source. The Half-elf, leaning next to him against the balcony, laughed when he saw Scanlan’s expression change. The gnome lowered his drink and scrambled to his feet, absentmindedly straightening out some creases in his dirty vest as he did so.

“You-” Scanlan’s voice pitched up, and he cleared his throat, “You eh, followed me?”

The young man nodded and raised an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “You’ve got a nice voice.”

“Ehm. Thanks.” Scanlan was at a loss of words. Which is something that didn’t happen often. He gestured at the Half-elf’s lute, searching for something to say in reply. “You… play well.”

He winced.

The Half-elf seemed amused at his discomfort, folding his arms. “So, haven’t stolen anything yet then?”

Scanlan frowned. “I don’t steal things.”

“No, you sing for your supper. Like us.” The Half-elf nodded towards the stage and then, turning back, held out his hand in greeting. “I didn’t introduce myself before, it’s Edym. But most people around here just call me Ed.”

Scanlan took the offered hand and shook it. “Scanlan.”

Softening his grip, Edym clasped Scanlan’s hand with both of his and turned it palm upwards. He rubbed his thumb over the callouses on the younger man’s fingers. Taken aback, Scanlan studied Edym’s face for some insight into the young man’s thoughts. The Half-elf had a curious expression on his face.

“You play?”

Scanlan pulled back his hand, a soft pang of regret in his chest. Hesitating, he gave a sad smile. “I used to.”

“What happened?” Edym asked, frowning. Scanlan bent down to pick up his ale and took a long swig before answering. He could feel the cold liquid traveling down his throat, settling down deep down in the twisted pit of his stomach.

“Someone took my lute.” His voice only wavered slightly.

“That’s a grave offense.” Edym said, his voice sounding solemn. As Scanlan turned his head to meet the young man’s gaze, he saw understanding in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Scanlan shrugged, staring into the dark, amber liquid inside his tankard. “Not your fault. And I…” He hesitated. “I wasn’t much good anyway.”

He turned around, looking out over the room down below. An older man was playing a shawm up on the stage, but half his audience had gotten distracted. Conversations and laughs drifted up towards the balcony, mingling with the music.

“I mean, not like you.” Scanlan added.

“Well,” Edym turned to lean on the balustrade as well. “I was blessed with a good tutor.” Scanlan could feel the man’s eyes on him as a silence settled between them. Then, carefully, the young man prodded; “Who taught you?”

Scanlan bit his lip. It was not something he usually openly shared. But for some reason, here in this moment, he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “My mother used to play when I was young. I guess I picked it up from her.”

“Hm.” Edym answered, but didn’t pry any further and Scanlan felt thankful for that.

Their conversation was interrupted when their attention was drawn by muted applause from below, the man with the shawm bowing and leaving the stage. No sooner had he left when a red Tiefling woman in a long, flowy white dress appeared, slowly walking out onto the podium next. She carried with her a beautifully decorated lyre and sat down on a simple, wooden stool in the middle of the stage.

As she played her first few notes, a hush descended on the crowd.

Like magic, Scanlan thought.

—

Afterwards, lying on his bed staring up at the slanted wooden roof, Scanlan couldn’t even remember what the woman had sang about. His head was swimming with melodies and an inexplicable soulful yearning for a place beyond the city; divine nature untouched by humanoid hands.

He thought about Edym. And about their conversation.

After the performance, they had shared a drink and a few more words. Edym had let him play a few songs on his lute, although Scanlan had found it difficult to judge what the Half-elf thought of his skill level. After he had nervously returned the instrument, Edym had simply grown quiet, finished his drink and bid him goodnight.

He wondered what it was like, to live a life like his. To have people adore the stories you weave, to be able to enchant a room with the songs you spin with just the power of your words and the help of an instrument.

It seemed a far-off fantasy, at least for a street rat like him.

He fell asleep and dreamt about his mother.

–

The next day brought rain. Scanlan spent most of the morning outside, sloughing underneath the awnings of a butcher’s shop, waiting for a break in the weather so he could find a place with better foot traffic. By lunchtime, when the rain gave no signs of abating, he decided to simply call it quits and return to the inn.

Afternoons were cozy at the Silver Heron. There were two great fireplaces in the barroom below, and ample people coming and going, looking for rooms and lodging or a place to dry out their clothes while getting something warm and tasty to fill their bellies. There was even a shelf of books; all well-read and thumbed-through, some almost falling apart the seams. But they were free, and Scanlan didn’t get many chances to curl up by a fire and just read. He had learned that skill from his mother, and it was something he was thankful for every day out on the streets.

Fabien had given him some suspicious glances while cleaning the bar, perhaps half expecting him to run off with the entire collection of tomes. But all in all, the large innkeeper had eased off him somewhat, perhaps coming to accept Scanlan’s presence among his guests.

“So, now you read as well.” Edym spoke up behind him.

Scanlan looked up, surprised by the sudden appearance of the Half-elf. Catching the young man’s eyes, Scanlan found them to have an unreadable expression.

Edym leaned his lute against the large chair Scanlan had made his new home, and then shrugged off his coat, placing it on the chair beside him.

“Singing, lute playing, reading… Any other skills you are hiding?” Edym sat down opposite of him, holding a glass of mulled wine.

“Hmm, I’m a multi-layered onion of surprises.” Scanlan replied grinning, the words leaving his mouth before he could reel them in.

Edym didn’t reply, but just drank slowly from the wine. Scanlan felt fidgety under the young man’s scrutiny, remembering his reaction - or lack thereof - to his lute playing the night before. As the silence dragged on, he tried to focus on his book instead.

Edym put down his glass on the table and finally spoke up; “What’s a boy like you doing living on the streets?”

Scanlan tightened his grip on the book in his hands, nails digging into the soft leather. “I’m not a boy.” He frowned at Edym. “I’m not much younger than you.”

Edym sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not calling you a child, Scanlan. I’m asking why you’re singing on street corners for people who don’t appreciate it, spending money you don’t have on ale and lodgings at a second-rate inn in a city that doesn’t want you.”

Scanlan felt like he had been slapped in his face. Shame bubbled up inside him, making his throat itch. He sunk lower into his chair - an easy feat to accomplish as its massive form was already dwarfing him. Hiding his face in the book he was reading, his mind raced for a reply.

“Why do you care, Elf boy?”

“Hm… polite professional curiosity.” There was a slight cheeky tone to Edym’s reply, and Scanlan couldn’t help peeking over the top of his book to glower at the Half-elf. A stubborn sort of rebelliousness welled up inside of him.

“Not everyone can be so lucky to have a good paying job at a nice inn playing songs for drunks.” He scoffed, studying Edym for a reaction.

Edym frowned at him. “That’s not what I mean.”

Scanlan lowered his book, annoyed at the response. He crossed his arms and gave the musician a mirthless smile.

“Then please enlighten me, oh wise one.” Glaring at Edym, he could hear a downdraft in the fireplace behind him, spitting up embers. He ignored it, but noticed the Half-elf’s eyes briefly travel towards the fire.

“Hm.” Edym looked back at Scanlan, carefully considering him. For a brief moment it appeared he was going to answer his question, but then thought better of it. He pushed himself up out of the chair, leaning forward to grab his lute.

“Come on, I want to show you something.” He said, and gave Scanlan a quick wink before turning around and leaving towards the kitchens.

Scanlan, still sitting in his chair with his arms crossed, waited stubbornly for Edym to cross the room. That guy thought he knew everything.

As the Half-elf was about to leave his field of vision, Scanlan rolled his eyes and jumped out of the chair with an annoyed sigh.

“This better be good.”

—

The ‘something’ Edym had wanted to show him was not so much a thing as multiple someones. In the space behind the kitchen was a corridor leading to a backstage area and a large dressing room. Or perhaps ‘secret bar’ was more apt.

In the middle of the chamber was a large round table. Sitting at it there were multiple people playing cards, some of which Scanlan recognized as musicians he had seen perform before. Lit up by wall sconces and a large hearth to the right of the door, the room was cast in a warm, dancing glow. There were costumes hanging from a web of clotheslines crisscrossing the ceiling, and instruments everywhere people were sitting; Lutes, viols, flutes.

In the corner, at the beer-stained counter, a half-orc was playing a playful diddy on a fiddle. Next to him, a stocky dwarf was shouting at a barmaid, who apparently had brought him the wrong drink. Weaving between the tables, a half-naked woman was running around asking whether anyone had seen her headdress.

An older gentleman - the shawm player Scanlan recognized suddenly - stood up triumphantly from the large table and shouted “Ah-ha! Pay up, ye bastards!”. He threw down a hand of cards. Various groans from the other people at the table announced their defeat.

Standing in the doorway, Scanlan felt a slender hand upon his shoulder. Turning, he saw the Tiefling lyre-player leaning down towards him, her breathe hot against his right ear.

“I see Ed has brought us some new meat.” Her voice was soft was playful, and Scanlan felt a tingling sensation in the back of his neck.

“Ehm…” He mumbled, trying to discern the meaning of her words as she pushed past him. She sat down at the table and padded the chair next to her.

“You play, love?”

Edym stepped forward, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “Now, now. Be kind to him will you, Ariane?”

The Tiefling leaned her chin on her hand and pouted. “I’m always kind, Ed.” Sitting behind her, Scanlan could see a red-haired halfling woman catch his eye, slowly shaking her head in warning.

Edym stepped back around him and patted him on the shoulder. “Everyone, this is Scanlan! He wants to be a musician.”

Scanlan could feel his cheeks burning as everyone turned towards him. Various excited greetings flew his way, but he caught at least one cheeky; “Eh, your loss”.

In the hubbub of noise and activity, he frowned up at Edym.

“I never actually said I wanted to be a musician.” He hissed between gritted teeth, unsure about the situation.

“You didn’t have to.” Edym replied. Scanlan shook his head at him and looked around. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t this. He felt… vulnerable.

A large hand slapped him on his back, and one of the dwarves shoved a tall tankard of ale in his hands.

“A musician huh? You sure about that, laddie?” The dwarf grinned at him, his beard so wild and bushy some of its hairs pricked Scanlan in the side of his face. The gnome cast a helpless look at Edym as he felt himself get pulled away.

Edym just grinned at him.

—

For three hours Scanlan was guided around the room in a whirlwind of introductions and conversations, getting to know some of Edym’s colleagues a little bit more personal than he had intended to. He had learned to play at least two card games he didn’t even know existed, and had heard some interesting stories about the tavern - although none he dared to repeat among politer company. He had also discovered why shawm players were apparently the world’s best lovers.

Musicians, he decided, were not a shy bunch.

When he finally managed to extract himself from a particularly rowdy conversation - ears still burning - he quickly scanned the room. He found Edym in a corner, sitting on a bench while carefully tuning his lute. In the soft flicker of the candlelight, he was hard to spot among the revelry of his fellow colleagues. Like a moon caught in a planet’s gravity, Scanlan felt himself pulled back towards the only person he felt could save him from all this insanity.

“Are these people all playing tonight?” He asked, trying to steady his sloshing beer as he sat down next to the Half-elf. As Edym looked up from his lute, Scanlan noticed the room was spinning a little. He might have had more than a little to drink, but he couldn’t exactly remember how much since different people had kept putting new drinks in his hands before he had the chance to finish the previous one.

“Nah. Half of them come here just to hang out.” Edym replied, nodding towards an older lady applying makeup at the small table in the corner. “Some of them aren’t even musicians. Actors. Dancers.” Scanlan felt himself staring into the crowd, trying to pick out who was who. This place was ridiculous, like a secret society of artists no one knew about.

Edym played a few notes on the lute, listening and adjusting the strings. Noticing Scanlan’s puzzled look, he folded his arms and leaned on his instrument, grinning. “Fabien allows it because we bring in patrons when we play, and, well, back here we almost match his customers out there drink for drink.”

“So, you do this every night?” Scanlan said, looking at the Half-elf in astonishment. “This is… amazing.”

Edym shrugged, his grin fading. “I mean, if that’s what you want.” He turned his lute over, picking at the strings as if lost in thought. “It’s… not exactly the word I would use.”

Scanlan gave him a dumbfounded stare. “Are you kidding? You get to play your music every night for an audience who actually likes you. You get paid. You get food and a warm roof over your head.”

Edym frowned at him. “You make it sound like those are the only things in life worth pursuing.”

“Aren’t they?”

Edym leaned back against the wall, eyes narrowing as he considered the gnome next to him. “I’m not sure. But I didn’t expect you to be that easily taken in by the razzle-dazzle, Scanlan.”

He paused, and then scanned the room.

“All of this,” He gestured around, “It’s… superfluous.”

Taken aback by Edym’s attitude, Scanlan remembered the question he had asked that afternoon; what was a boy like him doing living on the streets?

Some of us don’t really have a choice, asshole.

“This might not be much to someone like you, Edym. But it is to me.” Scanlan bit back, downing the rest of his beer in one go.

“Yes, you’re having fun now. But… I don’t think this place is meant for you.” Edym said, looking at the gnome with a curious expression on his face.

Scanlan stood up abruptly, the earlier shame and anger returning. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Did Edym think he wasn’t good enough?

Edym looked at him, hesitating, but didn’t reply. Scanlan bit his lip in annoyance and turned his back on the Half-elf.

Walking away, he felt a strong desire to enjoy the heck out of all the things Edym had ever deemed superfluous.

—

The morning after brought back only wisps of memories of the night before, in addition to a pounding headache which only partially cleared up after Scanlan managed to drag himself out of bed and get some breakfast down at the bar. He didn’t see Edym that morning, and instead spent the better part of the day trying out different busking spots in the city.

He had counted his funds after breakfast, and that had sobered him right up.

The afternoon brought a chill to the weather, but he found a nice spot between two high-end tailors that seemed it might provide him with a pretty penny. By that time, however, most of the day had already been spent scouting, and when the street lamps were getting lit, Scanlan reluctantly packed up. As he made his way back to the Silver Heron, he was able to count that day’s earnings on one hand.

That evening he found himself backstage again. Most of the musicians welcomed him back with equal enthusiasm as the night before. Scanlan eased up on the ale that night, not in the least because he found that this time around, he was expected to contribute towards his own drinks.

Late in the evening he briefly caught a glimpse of Edym as he entered the dressing room to change his outfit. But just as soon as he arrived, he was gone again. Having failed to catch the Half-elf’s eye, Scanlan just leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink and thinking.

“Edym doesn’t seem to spend as much time here as some of you.” He pointed out, trying to keep his tone neutral.

“Hm.” The older halfling woman - Ronda - replied, not looking up from her hand of cards. As no further comment seemed forthcoming, Scanlan pushed a little harder.

“So… what’s his story anyway?”

Ronda cast him a look, scratching her pointed chin. “Ed? He just shows up, he plays, he goes.”

Scanlan frowned at her. “And… where does he go?”

“Who cares!” Shouted the shawm-player - Bret - from the other side of the table, aggressively putting down a handful of cards and fixing him with an expectant look. Scanlan, distracted, had entirely forgotten which game they were playing. He picked a random card from his hand and put it down. Ronda started picking up his cards from the table, shaking her head at him.

“Nobody knows. That boy’s got a restless soul.” Ronda said and started counting out money for Bret, who had somehow won the round. As she counted, her sharp brown eyes fixed Scanlan’s with a piercing look. “There ain’t ever come anything good from ‘aving a restless soul. We have it good here, and you should remember that, boy.”

“… Okay.” Scanlan replied, slightly unsettled. A hush descended on the table, and Scanlan felt like he was missing something. But Ronda’s tone of voice had suggested that any further conversation would proof fruitless, so he just slowly took a sip from his drink instead.

A restless soul? What was that supposed to mean.

Frustrated that he had not gotten any wiser from the conversation, he spent the next few minutes impatiently finishing his hand before excusing himself from the table. He could feel Ronda’s eyes on his back as he dodged another encounter with the dwarven brothers who were calling out to him from another table. Instead, he made his way to the door and back out into the tavern proper.

Back among the normal patrons, he elbowed his way through the busy barroom, looking for a sign of Edym. Moving past a large Dragonborn, he thought he spotted the young Half-elf pass by on the other side, but when Scanlan turned around there was nobody.

A drunken young man stumbled into him, using Scanlan’s head to catch his balance. Scanlan cursed under his breath, pushing the man’s hands off him. Catching his beret from falling off his head, he sighed and gave up his search, shouldering through the crowd to make his way upstairs. When he found his usual hiding spot along the balcony still empty, he sat down for a better vantage point over the room.

If he was completely honest with himself, he knew that although the backstage area was interesting, the actual magic was out here. Even if he was being used as a elbow rest by some of the patrons. It was the atmosphere. Electric.

He spent a few moments soaking in the sights and sounds. Invisible. Alone. Like a rat among the rafters, waiting.

It wasn’t long before the current musician finished his set and, just as Scanlan had expected, Edym appeared to the side of the stage, quickly bouncing up the wooden steps of the platform to take over. His hair was a curly mess and he had on a different outfit this time; darker with more muted colours. Sitting down, it instantly made his lute stand out against the firelight, blazing red, while he himself almost blended in with the background.

Not waiting for the audience to settle down, Edym’s fingers danced across the strings of his lute, launching into a polyphonic fantasia. As the Half-elf slowly increased the tempo, he started singing, and it wasn’t long before Scanlan begrudgingly found himself lost in the young man’s voice.

To him it seemed like Edym applied verses to a song like paint to a canvas, conjuring up a tale about the cradle of creation and the founding of the Dawn City, Vasselheim. His poetry made the city sound like an unreal, divine place, far removed from the view of mere mortal men.

It might as well be, Scanlan thought, staring at his dirty boots dangling from the balcony. He was quite sure he’d never get the chance to see it.

Sitting on the ledge, he pondered the Half-elf down below. Edym had a commanding sort of presence on stage, like he had grown more mature before their very eyes. He was clearly one of the more talented musicians up on that stage every night - and the audience knew it, too, hanging onto his every word.

He had called this place a second-rate inn, Scanlan remembered. If life at the Silver Heron was such a burden to him, why was he still here? It seemed like a perfect fairy tale to Scanlan, but… something gnawed at him.

Superfluous.

Distracted, he almost didn’t notice when the Half-elf bowed and took his leave, Scanlan kept sitting at the ledge and observed the people down below. Like a spell broken, he noticed all the different, small sounds rushing back into the room. Interrupted conversation restarting, laughing, the sounds of glasses. A younger human girl with a dulcimer appeared on stage; the last musician of the night.

Her music proved a simple distraction as Scanlan remained, thoughts churning.

The hour eventually growing late, the crowd was thinning, with the majority of those staying behind either mostly drunk or preoccupied with pursuing more carnal interests. It was like watching a play, where none of the audience realized they were actually the actors.

Fabien loudly announced last call, and Scanlan finished his drink and got up to head to bed.

—

Trailing his hand along the wooden panelling of the corridor towards to his room, he wondered how long before he would have to spend a night out in the rain again, if he didn’t start saving money soon. A week?

A few days?

Turning the corner, he had come upon the narrow door to his room, and he started fumbling for his key.

There was a polite cough.

Turning to look, Scanlan found Edym standing behind him, holding a key out towards him. Scanlan froze with his hands in his pockets, before dropping them by his side and leaning back against his door, suspiciously eyeing the young man opposite him.

“So, I guess I’m not the thieving one around here after all.” He said, his voice careful.

Edym arched an eyebrow. “You dropped it.”

“Uh-huh.” Scanlan answered, not convinced. He stepped forward and snatched the key from Edym’s hand. The Half-elf crossed his arms, cocking his head in amusement.

“Look, Scanlan-” He started, but Scanlan interrupted;

“Here it comes.” He said, turning towards the door.

“- I just wanted to apologize.” Edym finished, and Scanlan halted, the key halfway in the lock.

“Oh.”

“I think I might have misspoken before.” Edym started, sounding slightly unsure of himself. “I didn’t mean to imply that this place wasn’t meant for someone like you, but that… you don’t really belong in a place like this.”

“If you’re trying to apologize, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it.” Scanlan muttered.

Edym smiled regretfully, an expression that made him look suddenly young. “All I’m saying is… you can aim for more than just this tavern, Scanlan. There’s a whole world out there.”

“Oh, I’m well aware! ”Scanlan replied, still not budging. “But sometimes I wonder whether you are.”

A restless soul, he thought.

“You’ve been stuck here too long, you can only see the bad.”

“And you can only see the good.” Edym shot back, his voice rising slightly. “I want to show you how-”

“I don’t need your help, Edym.” Scanlan cut him off. Like hell he was going to get lectured to by a rich elf boy who didn’t understand the value of having a roof over your head. He unlocked his door and stepped inside. “But if you hate this place so bad, nothing is stopping you from leaving.”

Edym’s face fell. “You misunderstand.”

Scanlan shook his head, trying to gauge the other man. “I think I understand plenty.”

The Half-elf was silent, frowning at him. A moment passed.

Scanlan sighed and closed the door.

—

That night he dreamt of far off places. Dark ships sailing in the night, and a land filled with sun and sands.

—

The next day was dark and dreary, clouds blocking out the sunlight and casting the whole city in a semi-darkness. But the rain stayed away and - considering his low funds - Scanlan was eager to try out his newly discovered spot. The morning started off well, and he soon found his money pouch clinking with coins. During lunch hour he took a brief break to buy a hot sausage bun from a vendor down the street from him.

Holding the wrapped bun in both hands, the heat of it managed to warm his hands as he walked back towards his spot. Drawing near still chewing his lunch, he froze when he noticed two boys standing where he had set up shop. They wore ragged, green coats and chequered caps.

Aron’s boys.

He swallowed, eyes darting to the streets left and right of him. It didn’t seem like they had spotted him yet, so he decided a hasty retreat would serve in his best interest. He turned around and immediately bounced into a large boy standing directly behind him. Scanlan fell back, dropping his lunch as he tried to catch himself.

“Hey Scanlan.” The boy before him rumbled. He was tall, had a mess of black hair and wore the same chequered cap as the other two kids. Scanlan tried to scramble to his feet, but was instead pulled up by his vest. The kid was at least thrice his size.

“Word reached us you’ve been living in that fancy little tavern you like so much.” The boy said, grinning. He had at least two teeth missing. Scanlan clutched at the boy’s fingers, trying to release himself from the strong grip.

“Imagine our surprise, seeing as last time we ran into you, you didn’t have the money to pay us.”

Scanlan struggled with the boy’s grip, his vest choking him. “Yes, well. Sometimes people get unexpectedly lucky, Aron.” He offered, grimacing.

“Nahh,” Aron said, “You having that kind of money can only mean one of two things. Either you’ve been stealing, or…” He waved his left arm in a slow, wide arc, gesturing towards the buildings surrounding them. “You’ve been busking on my turf.”

Scanlan watched as the kid plucked his coin purse from his belt. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach. Aron held the gnome closer to his face and weighed the purse in his other hand, his grin widening. “That’s a lot of coin, my boy.”

A sudden wave of anger rolled over Scanlan. Being this close to the taller boy’s face, instinct overtook him. As he flashed Aron a vicious smile, he leaned back into the kid’s grip and kicked forward with both of his feet.

“I’m not your boy, dillweed!” He shouted.

To his satisfaction, he could feel something crunch underneath his boots. Aron cried out in anger, his grip on Scanlan’s vest lessening. Scanlan pried of the remaining fingers on his vest and managed to release himself. Falling back, the wind was knocked out of him when he made contact with the ground. His heart hammered in his chest, and he started crawling backwards. He briefly noticed the pedestrians around them giving them a wide berth, but before he had a chance to get up, a large hand reached out gripped his left arm like a vice. Scanlan was unceremoniously hoisted up in the air for a second time, but this time he could feel the bones in his arm being crushed.

“Last time I broke your stupid, little instrument. But this time I think I’ll break your pretty little face!” Aron bellowed. Before Scanlan could throw up his arms in protection, a large fist flew at him from the side and stars exploded inside his skull.

The world was spinning and pain radiated from the right side of Scanlan’s face. He barely registered rearing back for another hit. Panicked, Scanlan grabbed onto Aron’s left hand and bit down, hard. Hot blood welled up beneath his teeth. Howling in pain, Aron released him again, but this time Scanlan hit the ground running.

His right eye stinging like the nine hells, he stumbled away from his attacker half-blinded. There were throngs of people now, some having stopped to watch, and he ducked behind a couple of older women on the sidewalk. Head throbbing, his focus was on the alleyway he had spotted earlier, hoping he could at least use his size to an advantage and make his pursuers lose him among the crowd. Sprinting into the alley, his heart sank when he heard Aron’s shouting “Get him, you idiots!” not far behind. He might have miscalculated.

Vision swimming, heart pumping, Scanlan started a uncoordinated scramble up a pile of crates blocking the end of the alley. Perhaps if he got high enough, he could reach the roof of the building behind it, and then… well, he’d plan for his next move when he’d get there.

As he heaved himself up the final crate, he felt someone grab his leg from behind. Blind panic setting in, he started kicking back to prevent himself from getting dragged back down. Boot making contact, he heard someone grunt behind him and the hand released its grip.

Scanlan quickly got to his feet and turned around. Looking down he could see all three thugs below him now. Great, it’s a party.

Aron was looking at him with a furious look on his face; blood was streaming from a clearly broken nose, and his hand had a nasty bite mark. One of his lackies was already trying to climb back up the crates, having partially fallen down due to Scanlan’s struggle.

A slow, vicious grin appeared on Aron’s face as he watched Scanlan’s panicked look. “Give it up, gnome. If you make us come get you, things won’t be pretty.”

As he saw Aron’s shit-eating grin, a sudden hot rage filled Scanlan’s chest. He couldn’t stand the guy, or his stupid face. He heaved himself up tall, a surge of adrenaline spreading through his body. It was like a well of electricity building up inside of him, making his fingers tingle with nervous energy. He pointed down at the thugs below and took a deep breath.

“Listen up, assholes. Don’t even think of climbing up here. If any of you lay a finger on me, a broken nose will be the least of your problems. The city guard will need help scraping your ugly mugs of the street, because when I climb down these crates, I’m personally going to kill every last motherfucking one of you!” Scanlan yelled, his voice vibrating with pent up rage. As he heard his words bounce back to him, he scrunched his eyes shut, his head dizzying with pain and anger. His voice seemed impossibly loud to him in that moment, reverberating through the alleyway like a thousand shouts - but maybe that was just a concussion speaking.

When finally the echoes died down, he expected laughter. But silence followed.

He carefully opened up his left eye. Through a blurry haze, he could only just make out the retreating backs of all three thugs as they rounded the corner at the other end of the alley.

Hesitating, Scanlan just stood there. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do now. Slowly, his knees buckled underneath him and he sat down on the crate in a confused daze. Seconds passed.

“Wow.” Said a female voice above him, and he recognized it as Mouse. Somehow, he was not surprised. He realized she had just witnessed him cuss out Aron and his gang. An amused smile flickered across his face.

The young girl carefully emerged from behind a chimney up on the roof and looked down at the gnome from above. “I mean, wow!”

“…Yeah.” He replied slowly, staring down at his hands. Sitting there, his body felt tingly and heavy, like he expended all his energy on that one final, rage-fuelled tirade. Or maybe it was just all the adrenaline leaving him.

“You really sent them running.” Mouse said, crouching down near the gutter directly above him.

“I guess so.” Scanlan said, rubbing his aching right eye, trying to clear his vision. He unsteadily got back to his feet.

“They’ll probably be back, though.”

He looked up the gutter above him, judging the distance. He was in no hurry to climb down and follow Aron and his goons out of the alley, so he had to think of alternative exits. He flexed his fingers, bent his knees, reached up and… jumped. His hands found purchase on the slimy edges of the gutter, but his feet scrambled uselessly against the rocky wall. A couple of seconds passed as he dangled.

He coughed politely.

“You want some help?” Mouse asked, watching him from the same spot, not having moved.

“That would be swell.”

—

It was late. Very late. Scanlan didn’t know how late, and he didn’t care. He stumbled from the backstage bar, almost collapsing into the corridor. Steadying himself against the opposite wall, he noticed a portrait of a stern looking lady looking down at him. He pushed himself upright and waved a finger in her face.

“At least you don’t have to, eh… pay rent.” He slurred. He wished he didn’t have to pay rent either. That would make his life a whole lot easier.

“Scanlan?”

He whipped around. It was Edym. He was wearing a long woollen coat, and had his lute slung over his shoulder, like he had just come from outside. Or was leaving. Scanlan noticed the Half-elf was frowning at him.

“Hey, Elf boy.” Scanlan grinned. Then he hesitated. “Wait, I’m still annoyed at you.”

“You’re drunk.” It wasn’t a question, but Edym’s voice wasn’t admonishing either.

Scanlan twirled around, waving at the door he had just come from. “Well, you would be too if you had shown up for my goodbye party!” He laughed. When Edym’s eyebrow arched up, the gnome sighed. “Tonight’s the last night.”

He clumsily turned out his empty pockets, to signify his lack of funds. “So, I guess you got your wish after all, no more Scanlan at the Silver Heron.”

Edym’s lips curled up in a half smile, although it didn’t reach his eyes. “Funny, it turning out that way.”

Scanlan rolled his eyes at him. “I see you still can’t help being an asshole.”

He tried to push past the Half-elf, but Edym stepped out of the way unexpectedly, making Scanlan stumble. Edym shot out a hand to steady him, but Scanlan quickly brushed him off.

“I still don’t need your help.” He mumbled, feeling a weird mixture of annoyance and shame. But Edym wasn’t listening. He reached out again and Scanlan felt the Half-elf’s soft fingers on his face. He could see surprise flash in Edym’s eyes as he turned the gnome’s chin towards him. Scanlan realized the right side of his face must look a mess by now; he could feel the bruising underneath his eye, and the swollen, broken skin on his cheekbone.

“What happened?”

Scanlan slapped away Edym’s hand and turned his back towards him, staring down the corridor. He swayed in place, something preventing him from simply walking away.

“Like you said, Edym. There’s a whole world out there.” Scanlan laughed humourlessly. “But not everyone wants a hoodlum like me in it.”

Edym was quiet, but Scanlan felt the Half-elf’s hand settle on his shoulder. “Let me help you.”

“I don’t-”

“You don’t need my help, I know. But… humour me.” Edym interjected. “Please.”

When Scanlan turned to cast a glance at him, he caught a concerned, apologetic look on the Half-elf’s face. He didn’t seem so arrogant then. Maybe just somebody who had trouble finding the right words to say.

Which was ironic, for a poet.

For some reason it convinced Scanlan.

“Well, please has always been the magic word.” He replied. A smile flickered across Edym’s face.

–

Edym guided him up the stairs, no easy feat as Scanlan realized he had a little more to drink than he had intended. But it was his goodbye party, after all, and the other musicians had given him a proper farewell. They walked past his room, around a corner, and up another stairs Scanlan hadn’t explored before. This must be the attic, he thought. Edym left him standing in the narrow corridor as he opened a heavy, oak door at the end of the stairs.

The chamber beyond wasn’t large, although compared to Scanlan’s room everything seemed spacious. There were two long, leaded windows on the opposite wall, and a slanted roof on both sides of the room. There was a simple bed to the left of the door, with a large wooden chest at the end. A small, narrow desk was on the other side, with a shelf above it containing many different jars and pots. There were papers on the desk, and many kinds of maps and other drawings pinned to the wooden roof boards all around the room.

Scanlan stared at it all while he was guided to sit on the bed by Edym, who promptly turned around and lit a small oil lamp on the window sill. In the soft, orange glow, Scanlan could see the details of one of the drawings above the bed. A dragon, casting flames on a forest below. In the margins of the paper, there seemed to be a few lines of song verse scribbled in careful, black lettering;

In peril the knight did careful treadBold Ayla, her end in stone was setIt came upon her like a veil of dread With flaming tongues of gold and red

Edym closed the door and then started rummaging through the jars on the shelf, looking for something.

“Did you draw these?” Scanlan asked in awe.

“No.” Edym replied. Walking towards the foot of the bed, clutching one of the jars, he cast a look at the page Scanlan was studying. “Well, some… Most are from books.”

The Half-elf knelt down and opened the chest, searching through its contents. He pulled out a piece of cloth and tore it in half. Scanlan was distracted, taking in some of the maps and other drawings hanging above him. It wasn’t what he had expected to find in Edym’s room.

“Are they Inspiration? For songs?”

“Well, yes. But it’s… more than that.”

A restless soul, Scanlan thought. There was more to Edym than met the eye.

Edym removed a lid of one of the jars and used his fingers to smear some of the white, thick ointment on the cloth he had prepared. He looked up and carefully put a hand on Scanlan’s chin, moving the gnome’s face towards the light. Scanlan wrinkled his nose as the strong herb-like smell wafted over him.

“Hold still.” Edym said, and Scanlan closed his eyes. The Half-elf started applying the salve around his injured eye, obviously careful about not pressing the bruised skin too hard. The substance was cold and oily, but felt surprisingly soothing against his skin. Scanlan frowned.

“Your hands are soft.”

Edym let out a soft laugh while continuing his work. “Thanks?”

Scanlan opened his left eye. “It’s not a compliment. It’s just… I had expected different from a lute player.”

Edym’s smile lingered on his face, eyebrows raised. “Hmm. What can I say, I’m blessed by my Elven heritage.”

Scanlan closed his eyes again, snorting. “That sounds like horseshit.”

“Ah, well.” Edym finished his work, wiping off the excess. “Keep that on there for the next hour or so, it will dry up but help with the swelling and bruising.” He turned around and Scanlan peeked at him. Edym seemed different in his room. Like he had let his guard down. He watched the Half-elf return the jar to the shelf, and smirked when the young man almost knocked over a few books on the desk. Maybe he was not the only one who had something to drink.

Edym wiped off his hands on his coat, and sat down next to Scanlan on the bed. He looked around, seemingly a little lost on what to say.

“So, singing, lute-playing, reading, drawing… healing. Any other skills you are hiding?” Scanlan asked amused, mirroring Edym’s words from a few days before.

Edym looked up sharply. Noticing Scanlan’s mischievous grin, a careful smile appeared on his face. “What can I say? I’m a multi-layered onion of surprises.”

They both laughed, and Scanlan was glad he had gone with him up to his room. It seemed an intimate sort of place, and he would never have known about it if he had let his pride take over. He felt like he might have misjudged Edym. There were indeed layers there. The realization that the Half-elf wrote most of his poetry surrounded by drawings of dragons and the Feywild made him strangely endearing.

Scanlan leaned back against the bed, eyes on the ceiling. Edym watched him read some of the texts on the pictures above. A comfortable silence settled between them. Scanlan closed his eyes, thoughts wandering.

“So… Where will you go?” He asked, breaking the quiet.

There was a brief pause.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not stupid, Edym. I know you’re leaving.”

He opened his eyes and looked at the Half-elf sitting next to him. “That’s what you meant right? Before? About it being funny it working out this way. You meant our goodbyes coinciding.”

Edym eyed him carefully. “Yes.”

“Look, contrary to what I let on I don’t actually blame you.” Scanlan sighed. “All those things you said? They’re true.” He sat up and wrung his hands, staring at the dirt underneath his fingernails.

“This city doesn’t want me. So, if I could get out of here like you, I would too. But I wouldn’t last two seconds out there.”

Edym let out un unexpected laugh, and Scanlan gave him a quick, curious look. It was not the reaction he had expected.

“You would do a whole lot better than me.” Edym said, giving him a strange look. His eyes were soft.

Scanlan frowned, leaned forward and gestured at the bruised side of his face. “Look at this, Edym. I can’t even protect myself out on these streets. How can I last out there on the road?”

“Scanlan, I don’t know how to convey this but…” Edym sounded uncertain, hesitating. He licked his lips, then seemed to focus on Scanlan’s black eye. “First, tell me what happened.”

“I told you what happened.” Scanlan replied, raising an eyebrow. He felt like he was missing something.

“No, I mean, what really happened.” Edym insisted. Scanlan hesitated, but then decided to humour him.

“I got in a fight with a bunch of assholes. There’s this kid… He’s got an attitude problem.” He began, and he saw Edym’s eyebrows twitch.

“Sounds familiar.”

Scanlan laughed. “Not like me, asshole. He’s the kind that likes to intimidate people.” He shifted his weight, sinking back in a memory.

“He’s laid claim to one of the more affluent neighbourhoods, and he doesn’t like it when people try to earn an honest living on what he views as ‘his’ streets. So… he doesn’t like me.”

Edym grew quiet, but then asked; “Is he the one that destroyed your lute?”

“Yeah, like I said, a real dick.” Scanlan replied.

Edym nodded. “So, you got in a fight again. What happened next?”

“He punched me in the eye. I kicked him in the face and then I ran for my life.”

“You got away?” Edym asked, confused, like that was not how he expected the story to go.

“No… he and his friends came after me, cornered me in an alley and I… eh,” Scanlan hesitated, “Well, I shouted at them. Threatened them, actually. And they left me alone.”

“You… shouted at them, and they left?” An odd expression appeared on Edym’s face, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“I think they might have just thought I was more trouble than I was worth.”

“These were humans, though, right?” Edym asked, smiling. “They don’t sound like the sort to just run away from one measly gnome.”

“Well, who knows why they left,” Scanlan replied, growing more suspicious at Edym’s tone of voice. Like he was not understanding a joke. “Maybe they thought it was more fun to let me stew in my panic- What are you grinning at?”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Edym said, and Scanlan felt a wave of annoyance flare up in him again. Or maybe it was all the alcohol.

“You’re being an asshole again.” He pointed out and stood up, frustrated. The room started spinning and he grabbed for Edym’s shoulder. The Half-elf reached out and helped steady him.

Edym shook his head. “Gods, Scanlan. I might be an asshole, but you’re a damn idiot.”

“Well, thanks, I guess.” Scanlan said, releasing his grip from Edym’s shoulder, confused. “Very enlightening.”

Before he could move away, Edym held onto his shoulders, soft green eyes focusing intently on his. “Wait… I’m about to tell you something that’s going to change your life.”

There was a pause, and Scanlan could see a sudden hesitation appear on Edym’s face. The Half-elf looked away, frowning.

“Well, shit.”

“Wha-”

The next question was erased from Scanlan’s mind when Edym suddenly leaned forward and kissed him, hard. Scanlan blinked, the sudden move blindsiding him. He felt his cheeks flush with heat, his eye throbbing. His fingers pressed against Edym’s chest, he could feel the soft thrum of the Half-elf’s heart below the fabric of his shirt. Holding his breath, Scanlan closed his eyes, his world spinning to a single point. Soft lips. The taste of mulled wine.

When Edym finally pulled back, Scanlan slowly opened his eyes and just stared. The Half-elf gave him an embarrassed, soft smile.

“Sorry, that’s not actually what I wanted to say. Although… I have been wanting to do that.”

“Uh…” Scanlan’s brain drew a blank. The kiss had been unexpected. But… nice.

Only inches from each other, Edym grinned at him, his hot breath on the Scanlan’s face. It smelled sweet. “The thing I wanted to say, Scanlan… is you’re magic.” Edym whispered excitedly. “Your music. Your words. They have power you don’t even understand.”

A confused daze settled on Scanlan as he carefully sat back down. A few moments passed, and Edym’s expression changed to one of worry.

“Scanlan? I hope I’ve not upset you.”

“You mean, like… metaphorically, right?” Scanlan said, staring at Edym. “I mean, with that kiss and all…”

Edym laughed at him. “No, you idiot! You’re magic! Literally!”

Scanlan just fell in a deeper confusion.

“Your music,” Edym began, searching Scanlan’s face for comprehension, “it casts spells on people. You didn’t just threaten those bullies, you scared the ever-living hell out of them by enchanting their minds.”

Edym’s voice had a soft awe to it, which would have sounded endearing at any other moment. But right now, Scanlan was just trying to find the logic in what Edym was telling him.

The Half-elf watched him closely. “You’ve been doing it for a while.”

Scanlan frowned. He probably had too much to drink for this. Hesitating, he finally only uttered a single word; “Spells?”

“Yes.” Edym smiled, “You must have an extraordinary strong magic ability if you’ve been casting them without a spell focus. For someone like you it’s usually a musical instrument. That’s how I first noticed it.” He had a mischievous look on his face. “I mean, granted, you’re charming when you sing. But when you played my lute, it was… something else.”

“When you mean someone like me…?” Scanlan said, coming to his senses.

Magic. Him? It seemed like a strange dream.

“A bard. And I don’t mean like those you see play down in the tavern either.” Edym gripped Scanlan’s hands. “A proper bard, like the books talk about.”

Holding hands, Scanlan could feel the heat radiating from Edym’s soft fingers. He watched the awe in the Half-elf’s eyes. A slow, wicked smile appeared on Scanlan’s face.

“It’s kinda cute how excited you get about all this book and magic stuff.”

Edym shook his head with a soft smile. “The point is, you don’t have to be afraid of anything out there, Scanlan.” He cast the gnome a fond look. “I mean, with some-”

Edym was cut off when Scanlan leaned forward and kissed him again. If felt like the right thing to do.

If only for tonight.

—

That night he dreamt of a great battle above the cradle of creation, a city full of shouting people, and a brave Half-elf boy going on a journey into the unexplored.

—

Scanlan awoke in his room. The bright sun shone through the small window above his footboard, light hitting his eyes. As consciousness crept up on him, the last remnants of a dream left a bittersweet memory. He stared up at the ceiling above, empty of any drawings. When he turned on his side, he noticed the well-worn, intricately carved lute leaning against the wall next to his door.

He closed his eyes, unexpectedly moved by the sight.

When he got up later, he found Edym gone. He had already known. Nobody could tell him where the Half-elf went. None of the musicians knew. He had a restless soul, they told him.

You couldn’t expect someone like that to stick around.

But he found a note inside the lute, later, while playing it for the first time in a field of celandines just outside the city gates.

When he opened it, it showed lines in carefully written ink, like a verse to a song:

Into the unknown the bard did careful treadBold Scanlan’s faith no longer setThough many words are left unsaid I know of him one day books be read

END

#Critical role #scanlan shorthalt #scanlan #critfic #fanfic #I love my bard boy

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bloodyshadow1 · 6 years ago

Text

Wedding in Whitestone: Familial

Crfemslash week day 5 prompt: Family. Don’t have much to say here, more notes at the end. If you like, leave a review, a reblog or a comment please, really makes me feel better as a writer to get feedback of any kind

“You look beautiful,” a voice came from behind her.

Kaylie half smiled without turning around, “you shouldn’t sneak up on someone as nervous as me like that,” she said as she did her best to fix her hair in the mirror. Her short hair was easy to manage, but hard to do things with and she wanted to try something special, if only for today.

“I know,” Scanlan said unworried, “but it's a father's right to see his little girl on her big dad and tell her how proud of her he is.”

Four years ago Kaylie would have laughed at the idea of wanting Scanlan, her father, to be proud of her. Four years ago he was just some silver tongued asshole who had knocked her mother up and abandoned them. Four years ago the only thing she wanted to do was humiliate and kill him, but they were both better people now. He had helped save the world, had showed her how good of a man and a father he could be, and they both learned that love and forgiveness went a lot farther than the songs and stories made it out to be. It had put her on a better path, it had led her to the woman who she loved and loved her, even if Scanlan didn't know it, for that alone she'd forgive him for pretty much anything. “Thanks dad,” Kaylie said turning around and giving her father a hug, growing up she had never known what it was like to have a father's love, turns out it's pretty alright. “I mean it, hearing you say that means more than you know.” Before they could break the embrace she heard sniffing sound, “are you crying old man,” she teased because her eyes definitely were not watering up.

“Yes,” Scanlan said easily, he had learned long ago that lying to the people you cared about led to nothing good and neither did keeping things from them. “I'm just so happy for you, I know we didn't meet under the best of circumstances Kaylie,” both of them tried very hard to forget what led to him finding out who she was, “but the fact that I've had you in my life has made me a better man. I'm not sure if I'm a good man yet, but I'll never stop trying to be the father you deserve, I promise.” Since the battle with Raishan he had never broken a promise to her, and he wasn't going to start now.

“You’re getting their old man,” Kaylie said her voice dripping with affection. “I still can’t believe I’m here though. A few years ago, I was the bastard daughter of a quilter in Kymal who made her living playing flute in a band of rogues and thieves. My only goal in life was to track you down and kill you. Now I’m here, getting married to a high lady and real noblewoman, I can’t say I understand what she sees in me-,” Kaylie stated to say, but Scanlan cut her off.

“She sees someone special and amazing, Kaylie, she sees someone she loves and wants to spend the rest of her life with,” Scanlan assured his daughter. “I know it’s hard to believe how loved you are, I’ve had that problem to, sometimes it’s easier to just run than stay and figure that out,” he said ashamed. “But trust me it’s always worth it to stay, if you’re going to take anything away from me and our time together take that piece of knowledge. I didn’t learn it until a few years ago, maybe my life would have been better if I learned it earlier. Maybe I would have been a man worthy of being your father earlier. But, not more of that nonsense,” Scanlan said offering his little girl hsi arm, “shall we?”

Smiling, Kaylie took his arm, “come on old man, let's go meet my woman.” With that the two gnomes walked arm and arm down the halls of Whitestone Castle until they reached the great hall. Kynan and his riflemen lined the hall like honor guards and opened the door with a smile. They waited five beats until the music started and started their walk down the aisle. Dr. Dranzel’s violin softly sung through the air as it was played deftly by the half-orcs massive hands. The good doctor was doing his best to hold back tears of pride as he watched his two proteges walk to the altar. Esilmere and Kent playing the wedding march along with their boss keeping him in line. Zedd sat with Samson in the front row of her guests, just so Kaylie could keep an eye on them.

When she approached the troupe a few months ago to ask them to play at her wedding she made them promise none of their normal trickery shit. No panhandling or pickpocketing, no swiping the silverware and plates, just a simple easy gig and they’d be paid more gold then they’d ever get pickpocketing and she wouldn’t remind her soon to be sister in law of what happened in Greyskull. She could do things like this as the court bard of Whitestone.

JB Trickfoot and Grog stood on her side as her bridesmaids while Keyleth and Vex stood opposite of them, they were all smiling at her, Grog was crying, and Kaylie did her best to smile back. Pike stood at the altar ready to marry her and her bride to be, looking proud and angelic as always. It was the longest walk of Kaylie’s life, she didn’t want to bolt but her feet sure did, every instinct screamed to run, despite what she wanted, but she managed to get to the end of the aisle somehow. “I’m very proud of you,” Scanlan said kissing his daughter on the cheek before taking his place.

And then Kaylie felt alone up there, even though she had the most powerful people in all of Exandria in her corner. But fear wasn’t logical, even surrounded by friends and family, she was terrified and her heart felt like it was exploding. It seemed like an eternity until Dr. Dranzel started up the wedding march again, and then she saw her, Cassandra De Rolo the Lady of Whitestone and the love of Kaylie’s life walking side by side with her brother. Suddenly, all the nerves were gone and the only thing that mattered was Cassandra. She looked beautiful, a traditional long white gown that hugged her frame in a respectable manner, her long white and brown hair tied back in braids. Everything just seemed okay for the young Shorthalt now that she was here.

It felt like it took forever for them to reach the altar, but at the same time it felt like they were there in an instant. Percival kissed his sister’s cheek and muttered a, “you look beautiful Cass,” before giving a nod to Kaylie and taking his place. He didn’t need to give Kaylie a warning, he given her one already when the engagement was first announced, nothing rude or overtly threatening just a warning from a man who had lost everything and was slowly getting back what he had lost and do anything to make sure no one took it away from him again.

Cassandra ascended the dias where Kaylie and brought their hands together, “You look beautiful Kaylie,” Cassandra said sweetly, she felt no need to pretend to be a stuffy aristocrat, not now, not with her love on their day. Kaylie didn’t even hear much of what Pike was saying, Cassandra de Rolo was the only thing that mattered until Pike said, “the brides have written their own vows, and wish to share them with us. Cassandra if you will,” she nodded to the de Rolo so she could start.

“Kay,” Cassandra started, “I’ve been used my whole life, the Briars kept me as a pet, a trophy, and a tool, Vecna used me as a pawn to hurt the people who love me,” she paused, taking her eyes off of Kaylie for just a moment to look at her brother and her sisters before turning back to gaze into Kaylie’s beautiful brown eyes. “Even after I became the Lady of Whitestone far too many noblemen and far too few noblewomen sought my hand to gain a foothold in Whitestone because of my position,” she said giving Kaylie’s hands a soft squeeze. “After that day where Vecna fell and we died and came back, the world was celebrating or mourning and I felt so alone. You made a stupid joke that you didn’t mean and I took it too seriously. I’ve always had nightmares, ever since Whitestone fell, and after we comforted each other that night and fell asleep in each other’s arms I knew they would come stronger than ever. Yet when they came your voice pierced through them and chased them away. For the first time in six years since I lost my family, I slept soundly despite what we had gone through.”

“I don’t know what happened, but I knew then and there that I wanted to be near you, I wanted to hear you sing, I wanted to know everything about this strange beautiful woman that I had died with, came back beside, and brought my damaged heart to life in ways I never thought possible. I almost ruined us, my pride and my fear almost damned up, but I didn’t realize who I was falling in love with. You serenaded me every night standing beneath my balcony despite me giving you a room in the palace, when I tried to chase you away by telling you the things I’ve done, and you kissed away my tears and scars. I’ve never met someone who was so gentle and understanding Kaylie, despite how much you’re down on yourself you lifted me up. You’re the most amazing and caring woman I’ve ever met Kaylie, I don’t know why you seem so down on yourself my love, but I promise I’m going to spend every day of our lives making you realize how wonderful you are,” she said kissing Kaylie’s knuckles while her gnomish bride was struggling not to cry.

“Dammit Cas,” Kaylie said wiping her eyes on her shoulder of her dress, “I should have gone first, now I’m not going to be able to get through this without crying.”

“It’s okay darling,” Cassandra said with patented De Rolo mixture of sincerity and teasing, “you’re beautiful when you cry.”

“No, I’m not going to let you win here,” Kaylie said, recovering herself. “Cas, I love you,” she said starting to get that bardic tongue of hers to work, “I don’t really know what a girl like you sees in a girl like me, but I’m glad that for once in your life you were stupid and gave me a chance. That night in Vasselheim so long ago, we were brought back to life and I made a stupid joke when we learned that fucking lich was locked away forever. It’s kind of what my family does when we’re about to break, we make sexual jokes that aren’t funny. But somehow that night you came to my room and struck me dumb. I mean who wouldn’t, the most beautiful classy woman you’ve ever seen knocks on you door holding a bottle of wine that cost more than I’d ever make in my life, how could I say no when I desperately needed someone to just make me feel alive. So after a night, after admittedly really great sex,” there were some groans from her dad and Percy and some in the crowd, but there were a lot of laughs. Cass smiled and that was all that mattered, “I kind of expected you to be gone. I was used to being left, I was used to being treated like I was nothing, I was a flutist in a band of misfits and you were a noble lady who lived in a castle, what more could you want for me than a night, or a few admittedly fantastic hours. But you stayed, you stayed in my arms and I never felt so scared that I’d wake up somewhere awful because it was too good to be true. Hell up to maybe five minutes ago, part of me felt everything was just some ridiculous, overly complicated prank because I’m so messed up. But then I saw, in that dress walking down the aisle and all those thoughts went away because even if I had powerful enough enemies willing to fuck me over this badly, I know you wouldn’t do that to me. Cass, I’m a gnome, I’ve always been short and I always will be, but the way you look at me makes me feel like I’m the tallest person in the room. I don’t know where we’re going to go from here, but I know that I want to be your wife wherever we go.”

Now Cassandra’s eyes were watering waiting to kiss her bride to be, Pike, cleared her throat gently to remind them they were at a wedding ceremony. “By the blessing of Sarenrae,” Pike said and her wings of white light burst from her back. “By the Light of Pelor,” Pike nodded to Vex who glowed with a bright white light slightly, “by the wit of Iounn,” she nodded to Scanlan whose eyes glowed purple and a third eye appeared on his forehead. “By their words of dedication and love to each other there can be no further proof of their love., by the exchanging of the rings, ” Pike said nodded to each of them. Cassandra first,“Repeat after me, ‘with this ring, I take you as my wife for the rest of our days.’”

“With this ring I take you as my wife,” Cassandra said placing a band of gold on Kaylie’s finger and giving her gnomish bride a loving smile.

“And now you Kaylie,” Pike turned to her fellow gnome, “repeat after me, ‘with this ring I take you as my wife for the rest of our days.’”

“With this ring, I take you as my wife for the rest of our days,” Kaylie managed to say without looking away from her wife’s eyes.

“By the power vested in me by Whitestone and the Church of Sarenrae, I now pronounce you wife and wife. You may now kiss the bride,” Pike said in a loud proud voice, and Kaylie took the opportunity to dip her wife into the kiss of her life while their friends and family applauded.

When they finally broke the kiss, Kaylie and Cassandra just smiled and stared at each other mid dip. “Hey,” Kaylie said softly smiling at her wife.

“Hey, yourself,” Cassandra said giggling. Eventually she was pulled up and they faced their friends and family, leaving down the aisle hand in hand, ready to face what the world sent their way together.

I don’t really know why I love these two together as much as I do, I just really like the idea of them finding each other after Vox Machina killed them by accident. I also like how they were both missing family members of the main characters that had a hard past and I could see them getting together. Also I forgot about Keeper Yennen and Archi until the story was mostly written, they might have either performed the ceremony or gave Cassandra away, but I think Percy and Pike were kind of the right choice. I hope you enjoyed reading this.

#critical role #cr #cr spoilers #critical role spoilers #vox machina #kayssandra #kaylie shorthalt #cassandra de rolo #kaylie x cassandra #cassandra x Kaylie #crfemslashweek #critrolefemslashweek #critrole #fanfiction #fanfic

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tabletoptrinketsbyjj · 7 years ago

Text

Trinkets, Worthless, 8: These trinket are garbage plain and simple. They would be termed vendor trash or junk loot in video games. They aren’t touched by stray magic or mystery as with regular trinkets, aren’t made from valuable materials and aren’t particularly useful even if they aren’t damaged.

A box of odd beads that bear no resemblance to eyes, yet always seem to watch the nearest creature.

A wanted poster that bears the face of a terrified elf. The reward is not listed.

A bright orange, ceramic throwing star that will always miss its target.

A small pair of scissors that only cut eyebrow hair.

A glass bottle filled with multiple layers of differently-colored sand.

A dried leaf that is entirely unaffected by any sort of natural wind or breeze.

A shirt button that changes shape every day.

A map with vague directions to an abandoned gnome's house.

A small wooden box that contains a single, worn thimble.

A 1’ x 2’ sheet of white canvas upon which the words “SUFFERING IS NOT ART!” are written and underlined in blood.

—Keep reading for 90 more trinkets.

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A box of odd beads that bear no resemblance to eyes, yet always seem to watch the nearest creature.

A wanted poster that bears the face of a terrified elf. The reward is not listed.

A bright orange, ceramic throwing star that will always miss its target.

A small pair of scissors that only cut eyebrow hair.

A glass bottle filled with multiple layers of differently-colored sand.

A dried leaf that is entirely unaffected by any sort of natural wind or breeze.

A shirt button that changes shape every day.

A map with vague directions to an abandoned gnome's house.

A small wooden box that contains a single, worn thimble.

A 1’ x 2’ sheet of white canvas upon which the words “SUFFERING IS NOT ART!” are written and underlined in blood.

A mouthpiece for an unknown musical instrument.

A single newt's eye in a glass jar.

A small jar of nails that can only be driven by a glass hammerhead.

A small jar of glass nails that can only be driven by a cold iron hammerhead.

A sword scabbard that's filled to the brim with tiny wooden swords.

A fine, leather pouch that contains exactly 248 smooth stone pebbles.

A thin sheet of cooking paper that's been folded into a swan.

A decaying wooden knife inscribed by a child that reads "The Ultimate Blade of Destruction".

An old doll wooden doll in rotting knit clothing. The doll's eyes seem to follow the creature closest to it and people who sleep near it regularly suffer from nightmares

A sickly green humanoid bone.

An odd metal cog that spins on its own every so often.

A small wooden carving that depicts a naked goblin scratching his hindquarters.

A small dull dagger that refuses to sharpen.

A rusted coin that slowly absorbs oil it comes into contact with.

A long letter of complaint addressed to a school teacher criticizing his methods and general personality.

A glass jar containing a dozen folded paper frogs.

A small jar of hard candies that taste of sour apples and never seems to go bad.

A small doll with a cloak and toy dagger attached. On the back of the doll, the letters "TDG" are written.

A drinking horn with an odd rune carved on it.

A tiny pink bottle that smells of roses when it is empty.

A wooden carving of an orc doing a handstand.

A small twig that doubles as the perfect toothpick, no matter who uses it.

A gnome's hair brush.

A small painting of a horse's rear end.

A cork for an old wine bottle that won't fit in any other bottle.

A small pot of horse glue that says “NOT FOOD, SERIOUSLY” on the side.

A bamboo scroll tube containing a legal and notarized deed for a house whose address doesn't exist.

A dagger made of folded parchment, that could at best give someone a paper cut.

A wooden box containing twelve matching pieces of broccoli that have somehow remained fresh.

A bar of soap that smells like rotten meat.

A key that breaks the first time it’s used in a lock. To add insult to injury, it doesn't open the lock.

A tin of makeup that's just the most absurd shade of orange.

A magically preserved apple that tastes like an orange.

A letter from an unknown sender that simply reads, “I told you so!”. The return address is plainly labeled “Feywild”.

An undersized wooden backscratcher, for use by gnomes.

A tattered blacksmith cap full of red dwarf hair.

A small roll of leather that's been cured with giant urine.

The hollowed-out shell of a large hermit crab.

A crudely made treasure map that leads to a beggar's dandelion garden.

A small blue stone that feels like silk to the touch.

A pocket multitool with only one tool remaining in it. The remaining tool is a magnifying glass that has the words "Find the rest of me." inscribed on it.

A wooden scroll case filled with fine ash. The top of the lid sports a tiny iron spike that may have triggered some sort of combustable trap.

A fist sized bar of harsh lye soap

A homemade pan flute consisting of a dozen reeds of gradually increasing length held together by vines and dried grasses. Despite its crude origins it plays quite nicely

A dog muzzle made out of leather and steel with adjustable straps that allow it to fit most medium and large canines.

A brown leather hawk's hood that's used to keep the birds docile during periods when they are not hunting or resting.

A ceremonial headdress of similar make to one of the local barbarian tribes, with the exception that it is made entirely out of steel wiring and tin spoons. You’re not sure if this is some sort of artistic interpretation, strange inside joke or weird form of insult.

A preserved, hollowed out corpse of a Flumphling stuffed with sage.

A metal flask containing a thick concoction that smells dark and musty, like a forest after heavy rains.

An unremarkable spoon fashioned from horn.

A thick, heavily padded leather and burlap sleeve made to fit over the bearer's arm and serves as a target for animals being trained to attack.

A sealed one gallon cask of Bufo, a favorite drink of goblins, boggards, and other primitive humanoids. It is made by soaking a poisonous toad or frog (Or its eggs) in weak beer or by “milking” these animals for their poison and mixing it with the beer (Allows the animal to be used repeatedly). Some tribes use wide-mouthed jugs and leave the dead animal inside as a crunchy treat for eating once the drink is gone.

A sealed one gallon cask of luglurch ale. This pale frothy beer is found by most races to be too salty to swallow, with the exception of halfings who find it an acquired taste

A clockwork blue bird that emits a horrendous screeching sound when it is wound up.

A musty smelling, threadbare, grey towel that never completely dries. If someone attempts to dry themselves with it, they will develop a mildewy smell exactly like the towel until the creature takes bathes and dries off with a proper towel.

A purple ring box that croaks like a frog when opened. It is lined with lime green satin on the inside and smells of a swamp.

An old black cord with three matching light blue buttons, strung on it, all about the size of a gold piece.

A large piece of parchment with a tea stain in the shape of a kitten.

A rolled up parchment with a sketching of the ugliest Dwarven baby the bearer has ever laid eyes on.

A beat up, wooden compass that always points towards the bearer, never north.

A plain, wooden footstool about six inches high, with a round top about 18 inches across.

A crude, 500 piece puzzle that appears to be a treasure map, but 100 of pieces in the middle that show the specific coordinates and details of the treasure are missing

A thick braided cord made of dark leather, hanging from which is a giant's toenail reeking of cheese.

A voodoo doll of a young man that's missing it's head.

A small jar of chocolate cookies that cannot be opened or broken.

A set of crooked and yellowed dentures with teeth missing.

A dictionary with over half of the words spelled wrong and out of alphabetical order.

A brass chamber pot that was not thoroughly cleaned since its last use.

A wooden scroll tube containing the blueprints of a church that has long since collapsed.

A faux-distressed piece of parchment that is a crude map of the local area, with red circles and arcane gibberish scrawled on it. Intentionally made to look old and worn, it’s actually a simple piece of parchment that’s been singed, crumpled, and rolled in the dirt. It's obviously meant as bait to lure creatures into an ambush it appears that whatever dimwitted humanoid authored this had a very poor knowledge of spelling and grammar. Any literate creature who so much as glances at it can identify the map as a fake.

A plain thimble, with absolutely nothing particularly interesting about it.

A crude earring made from a tiny tooth, wrapped in thin twine.

A formal letter that is badly seared and charred. It’s impossible to decipher because of the damage.

A small blue candle that smells of fruit. It’s fragrance is weak and barely noticeable.

An assortment of pieces from cracked eggshells. Most are a pale creamy color, like the egg of a chicken. Some larger pieces are a deep purple.

A porcelain doll about the length of a human’s index finger. The face is chipped away.

A black flask with a gaping hole in its side. It’s covered in punctures that look like bite marks.

A silky cloth fraying quite badly around its edges. It’s almost reflective in its lustrous sheen.

A smooth, round stone about the size of a human fist. It feels oddly heavy.

A set of three clay dice, painted with black pips.

A chunk of rusted metal covered in dents.

A somewhat oval-shaped… thing. You think it might be really, really, really stale bread.

A pair of glasses whose frames look as good as new, but the lenses are stained, cloudy, and cracked.

A trio of matching bracelets, made from knotted thread. You’re almost certain there’s supposed to be four of them.

A hollow reed that creates a low, soft whistle when blown.

A hand sized figurine of a cat, perpetually coated in a layer of dust.

A waterskin filled with a slick, greasy oil. Patterns of snakes cover its sides.

A single tile that appears like it was from some type of mosaic mural. It’s a dull green in color.

A pouch of bitter tea leaves. Their aftertaste is unsatisfying and almost sour.

A jagged arrowhead, cracked into a shape reminiscent of a fox’s head.

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grogthebarbarian · 7 years ago

Text

to find purpose

its has been forever since i posted BUT i actually finished this fic so i figured i should post it

warnings: death, mild violence, but nothing really graphic

also on ao3!

He is in a forest. It seems familiar somehow but he can’t remember why. He can’t seem remember much of anything.

“Hello.”

There is a small woman, a gnome, who gleams in the dark forest air, hair white and dazzling. She smiles at him, and that is dazzling too. It almost hurts to look at her but he does anyway.

“What’s happening?” he asks her.

“You’re dead,” she says.

“Oh.” He looks down at his hands. They seem alive. “I don’t remember dying.”

“People rarely do,” she says and her hand ghosts over his, not touching but comforting all the same.

“Are you dead too?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Not quite.”

“Are you an angel?”

She laughs. It sounds sad somehow. “No.”

“Oh.” He’s not quite sure what to make of her. He’s not quite sure what to make of any of this. “What do I do now?”

She smiles and it feels bittersweet. “You find your way.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“You will.” Her form flickers, like sunlight passing through moving trees. “I can’t stay. I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright,” he says, even though he doesn’t want to be alone. “I’ll manage.”

She smiles, reaches out and vanishes.

He turns and leaves. He isn’t sure where he is going or what he is looking for but he has feeling that if he looks, he might find it.

He wanders.

Day comes, then night, then day again. Time no longer holds any meaning to him so he stops keeping track.

He passes by people and they, in turn, pass through him. It’s an odd sensation and it makes his head hurt so he avoids it.

Everywhere he goes, there’s an itch, right at the base of his skull. A vague feeling of discomfort, of things not feeling right. It drives him forward.

He feels…something in his veins. A pull, perhaps. A yearning. He doesn’t know what it means.

He doesn’t know what much of anything means.

So, he wanders.

He finds himself in field of flowers. They are bright, vibrant and varied, more flowers than he can even name, more than he even knew existed. He sees her in the center of them, just as bright and vibrant, and he watches as she whispers and a seed sprouts, a sapling grows and a tree towers over them, tall and strong.

She looks up and sees him. “The tree will help,” she says, gesturing to the flowers around them. “They talk to each other. It will help them grow.”

He nods. He does not know the ways of plants but he trusts her word. “Are you like me?” he asks.

“I guess,” she says. She places her hand on the ground and a white daffodil springs up beneath her fingers.

He sits down next to her. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“Neither do I.”

“Oh,” he says. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“It’s not that easy,” she says and another flower pops up. He doesn’t recognize it but it looks frail and delicate, with its thin petals and dark purple color. “You have to find your own way.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you have to find your purpose. Find out why you’re still here and not…You know.” She looks away. “Somewhere else.”

“Do you not like being…like this?”

She shrugs. “It’s just…not what I was expecting.”

He nods. He can understand that, at least. “Have you found it? Your purpose?”

She smiles but it is a hopeless, sad smile. “No. I’ve been looking for so long, I don’t know if I ever will. It’s like I don’t really…matter.”

She looks so sad and withdrawn that something in him aches. “I think you will, eventually.”

“How do you know?”

He thinks. “I don’t know. It just…feels like you will. You finding your purpose just feels right.” She looks confused and maybe a little skeptical. He shrugs. “Besides, you helped these flowers. You helped me. We would be less helped without you, so that means you matter. Right?”

She looks at him and then smiles. It’s a genuine smile instead of a sad mock-up and it lights up her whole face. He decides that he likes it. “I guess it does. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The itch starts up again. “Um. Sorry. I have to go find my way n’ shit.”

She nods. “Good luck.”

She hands him a flower. Flower aren’t his thing, but this one is funny looking and it makes him chuckle, just a little, so he tucks it away and says, “Thanks. You too.”

He looks back after he exits the field. She’s just a speck but he can see her fire red hair clear against the light blue sky. She waves. He waves back and walks away.

He travels.

He travels across plains, and forests, and cities, and mountains, and yet the feeling of wrongness persists, a heavy weight across his shoulders.

It’s a crushing feeling, having nowhere to belong.

He hears him before he sees him. There’s a jaunty tune, merry and light, and it makes him laugh so he seeks it out.

It comes from a gnome. He’s bright against drab streets, purple clothes and shiny flute, and his voice is brighter, loud and clear and jolly. He steps forward. The gnome spots him and smiles and it draws him closer.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” The bard says once he’s close enough. “You haven’t found your way yet.”

“No.”

The bard grins and taps his nose. “Don’t worry, you will. They always do.”

The bard is bright, almost shining against the grey cobblestone, glowing, gleaming. It leeches into him and buoys him and he can’t help but ask. “You’ve found your way, haven’t you?”

The bard beams again, teeth shining. “Yep.” He strums a little tune and then gestures across the street, to the eves of a bustling inn. There’s a crowd of people milling around, but through them he spots a pair of musicians, a large towering half-orc with a violin and a small gnome with a flute, playing the same jaunty tune that first drew him in, and he knows that it is her that the bard is here for.

The bard’s smile is soft and fond as he watches her play. “She’s doing well,” he tells him.

For a moment, he wants to ask what the bard’s purpose is, to put to words the way the bard looks at the other, but it feels wrong and invasive so he doesn’t, and instead sits and listens to the music filling the street.

Eventually, the music dies down, and the pair across the way put down their instruments, joking together as they count up their earnings.

“How did you do it?” He asks the bard, breaking the brief silence. “How did you find your purpose?”

“The music.” The bard says. “It tells me where to go. I just had to figure out how to hear it.” At his confused look, the bard laughs. “I don’t think I can help you. It’s a bit different for everyone.”

“Oh. Well, thanks anyway.”

The bard grins, bright and comforting. “You’ll find your way eventually. I’m sure of it.”

He grins back, and leaves to a rousing tune.

He tries to listen the pull, the tugging on his soul, to see where it leads him but it’s hard and complicated and too weak for him to grasp, and it doesn’t feel like he’s going anywhere. All it does is drives him forward, urging him to keep moving.

It worries him if he thinks about it, so he doesn’t. He just keeps going.

He’ll find an answer eventually.

He happens into a forest. It’s quiet and empty, and he likes it enough, but forests are unfamiliar to him, and he soon loses his way. He’s not too concerned, for time doesn’t mean much to a dead soul, but there’s no pull, no hint as to where to go. He thinks that it should concern him, for the pull to the missing, but it feels so distance that he can’t bring himself to care so he merely wanders.

He’ll make it out eventually.

“Are you lost, stranger?”

He starts, and turns to see a woman in hunting gear, a bow at one side and a towering bear at the other. He hadn’t heard her approach and he knows that she is like him.

“A bit,” He says. “But it doesn’t really matter.”

She gives him a reserved smile. “Regardless, it is my duty to help you.” She tilts her head and looks at him, as if she is seeing his very soul, and then she smirks. “Besides, I think you might need it more than you know.”

“Is that your purpose?”

“It is part of it. I’m still finding the rest.”

It hadn’t occurred to him that one could have more than one purpose, and he’s curious, but he doesn’t press. “I suppose you could help me, then.”

She smiles more broadly and turns, bear at her heels. He follows, sticking close so that he doesn’t lose them to the shadows. She walks confidently, steps sure, going along some path he cannot see. The forest is her home, her place, and he hopes that someday he will find a place that he can walk in as assuredly as she does.

After a ways, there is a rustle amongst the leaves, and he stops, alert, with a rush of adrenaline (protectdefendsave) that he hadn’t felt since the day he died.

The hunter raises a hand, calm and elegant. “Do not worry. It is only my brother.”

She smiles into the darkness, and he can see something shifting, a flash of metal, and he hears the sound of wings folding together. Yet, somehow, despite the hidden presence, the shadows seem less threatening than before.

“Come,” The hunter says. “We still have a ways to go.”

They walk in silence, the brother following like a shadow, until, like dawn, the trees break before them, revealing a sprawling snow covered plain. The hunter and her shadows stop at the edge of the tree line.

“This is as far as I can take you.”

“S’alright. I can find my way from here. I think.”

She looks at him, and gives him a wink, matched with a confident smirk. “I believe that you will. Just follow your heart, and you’ll do fine.”

From the shadows, the brother makes a clicking sound, and she laughs.

“What?”

“He said good luck, you’re going to need it.”

“Well, fuck you too, mate.”

Their laughter follows him as he takes his leave.

The pull returns, stronger than ever, singing through his veins and his bones in a bright chorus. It urges him forward, no longer pulling but guiding, his path ahead as clear to him as the tattoos decorating his skin.

It will lead him to where he needs to go, he knows, so he follows.

There is a woman, a half-orc. She has already felled two of her opponents and he admires her skill. However, three more still face her and she is on her last legs. He has seen many fights like this before.

But something is different.

There is movement behind her. He steps through the fighting and sees a human child, curled up on the ground. Blood spills out around her. She is injured.

The woman is protecting her.

Something inside of him clicks and settles. He has found his way. This is his purpose.

The women, behind him now, shudders and lifts her axe as her opponents move in. She will not survive another hit. He turns to her and places his hands on her shoulders and says, “Be strong, brave one. She still needs you.” He gives her his strength.

He feels her soul ignite.

She lets loose a cry, lunges and her opponents fall at her feet.

He turns away as she goes to the child. He has done his part. He has found his purpose. It sings in his veins, bright and dazzling. It tells him where he must go next, urging him forward. There are others that he needs help.

(As he goes, he sees a simmer out of the corner of his eye, bright and familiar, as the woman mutters a healing word to the child, but when he turns, it is gone.)

The man is young, barely even a man, and new. Newer than him. He’s sitting in the street, ink black smoke billowing out of him, through his eyes, his mouth, his hands, through the seams on his being. The crowd cuts a neat circle around, subconsciously driven off by the chill in the air.

The boy looks up as he approaches and asks, in a raw, wispy voice. “What’s happening?”

“You’re dead.”

“Oh.” The boy looks at his hands. The smoke makes a sound like a fire being doused, and vanishes, and he is viciously glad. He’s never much liked demons. The boy blinks, as if waking up from a dream, and looks up at him with bright blue eyes. He looks sunken and small, and his hair is a dazzling white, and he’s struck by how young he looks. “I-I don’t remember dying.”

“People rarely do,” he says. He crouches down beside the boy.

“Are you dead too?” the boy asks.

He laughs, “Not quite. I was like you, once, and now I’m not.”

“Oh.” The boy frowns, looks around. He seems to take being dead pretty well. “What do I do now?”

“Now? You find your way.”

“How do I do that?”

“You find what feels right.” He shrugs. “There’s not much else to it.”

“Hm.” The boy smiles, tentatively. “I think I can manage that.”

He smiles back. “Good.”

The boy stands. He seems to shine in the rising sun, white hair glimmering. He looks to him, nods, and walks away.

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ameliathermopolis · 8 years ago

Text

with hey, ho, the wind and the rain {vax/scanlan}

written for the lovely and wonderful and talented @thegoldenlocks as either a very late Christmas 2016 present or a very early Christmas 2017 present. inspired by @teammompike's excellent Pikeval resurrection fic, as well as her constant cheerleading. this is basically an excuse to write vaxlan and meditate on how bards can learn resurrect and i can’t thank her enough for the inspriation.

words: 6393

no warnings apply. spoilers through episode 81!

{read on ao3}

J’mon Sa Ord’s brass flute feels cold and heavy in Scanlan’s hands. He knows that he will never know what it sounds like now, though he is sure anything produced at the hands of a dragon, in a city like Ank’harel, can only be beautiful. Scanlan has wanted to snap it in half over his knee more than once since they’d settled back in the mansion, but before he is anything else in life, he is a musician, and he knows that the instrument is almost never at fault, never the one that is useless.

Useless. The word echoes in the back of his mind, getting louder the longer his fingers run over the metal flute in his lap. Yes, he thinks. It is not the fault of the instrument if no one is willing to play it.

The others told him he’d died. He had, Scanlan agrees, but not from the spell. Not from Raishan. Not from the ice and cold and wind. No. What had killed him was the sound of bones cracking on stone and wings desperate to fly being turned into a broken, bloody mess, with the scent of burning feathers in the air. He still sees Vax’ildan falling when he closes his eyes, but the sound of it is with him always, like a song he’s unable to get out of his head.

Why did they save me and not him? Pike was holding him and trying to speak even through her tears, trying to warm him with her armor as he shivered with cold.

“I tried,” she had sobbed. “I tried, but I couldn’t reach him.”

That’s Pike, Scanlan thinks. That’s Pike all over. Trying her best no matter the circumstances. Now it’s my turn.

They’re all huddled in the main sitting room, the same as they had when Percy had died, and Scanlan tries not to think about how many more times they may have to perform such a wake before Raishan falls in her turn. He had dozed, rested as much as he was going to. He’s never been able to move with shadows like the twins, but being in his own house, after a fashion, has its perks when one is trying to sneak.

Picking up Vax without disturbing anything is awkward. He’s all limbs, long arms and legs that rebel against every position Scanlan places them in. Scanlan knows he should ask the others for help, that there is no shame in admitting that he cannot do everything himself. Even so, he can’t shake the feeling that he must do this himself, and even if he fails, he must try, at the very least. Scanlan shifts Vax in his arms so his head is resting on his shoulder, his feet still dragging a little on the ground, and though Scanlan is not a very strong gnome, he finds Vax’ildan is not so heavy now.

There is no sound of following footsteps as he crosses the foyer to the glittering purple entryway, and the mansion door closes with a soft click behind them.

They’d stopped in the forest outside Vasselheim. It was Vex’s idea to bring him to Duskmeadow. To Her. None of them had wanted to, of course. They all wanted to bring him home, to their own temple beneath Whitestone, or even the small chapel to Sarenrae in Greyskull Keep. What they wanted, however, was of very little consequence, and they all knew the depth of Vax’ildan’s devotion to his Queen. Every soul has an anchor to this world, and Vax’s can’t be found within the walls of Whitestone.

Scanlan prays, though he knows not to whom, that this will be close enough for the Raven Queen to hear. The time shift from Emon to Vasselheim is disconcerting even in the best of circumstances, and where Scanlan expects there to be broad daylight, he finds only the moonless darkness that just precedes dawn. Perhaps that is just as well. Perhaps this desperate act is best performed in the dark, with only the stars as witness.

He finds a soft patch of heather to lay Vax down in, the purple flowers cushioning his head. For half a heartbeat, Scanlan looks at him and forgets to see death. His skin is only just fading to gray, his body only recently cold in death, but his lips and cheeks still retain a hint of rosy pink, his eyes closed as if in a deep sleep. For one moment, Scanlan puts his hand on Vax’s chest, half expecting it to rise to meet his palm. It doesn’t, of course, and the wishing it would hurts all the more.

Scanlan sits behind him cross-legged, Vax’ildan’s head in his lap. The forest is still around them, as Scanlan starts to twist his fingers into Vax’s long, dark hair, straightening and braiding back pieces that have grown untidy. In the back of mind, he notices that even the birds are quiet, as if standing in vigil with him. It is just like when you learned to heal, he thinks. Remember what mother always said. Magic is really very simple. You just have to want something, and let yourself have it.

“I used to make fun of bards who only sung of love. Did I ever tell you that?” he asks, not expecting an answer. Even in the silence of the forest, his voice isn’t loud or oppressive. It’s presses instead of breaks. “I used to laugh into my cups at their songs of longing and passion, of feeling that could drive one mad with its terror and tenderness. None of that ever made any sense to me. Now…” Scanlan laughs under his breath and looks down at Vax’s still face, fingers still running through his hair. “Now I know that every word is true. You are becoming more and more like your patroness, you know. All of your blessings have a shadow of curse about them. Listen to what they have done to me, Vax’ildan.”

Scanlan does his best not to think too hard about the music. It’s an instinct pulled from his earliest days with Dr. Dranzel’s troupe. Once you worry too much about the individual notes and shifts, you lose sight of the flow, of the overall piece. He does his best not to think about the song even as a spell, and tries to cast his mind back to one of the dozens of times Vax had been lazing about Greyskull after a drink, and asked him for a song. Even if he must appeal to whatever God deigned to hear, Scanlan will not let himself forget whom his voice belongs to in this moment.

“Under your spell again. I can’t say no to you. Crave my heart and it’s bleeding in your hand. I can’t say no to you. I shouldn’t let you torture me so sweetly. Now, I can’t let go of this dream, I can’t breathe but I feel…good enough. I feel good enough for you.”

It is three years ago in a tavern on the outskirts of Stillben. It is just the twins for now, a blade and a bow (and a slightly smaller bear) looking for adventure. He catches Vex’ahlia trying to knick a gold piece out of his purse. Leave the slight of hand off, he says, her wrist still in his hand. Words are mightier than blades, at the best and worst times. He doesn’t catch on that Vax’ildan lifted the smaller sack of platinum out of his back pocket until the half-elf boy is smiling and pushing a mug of ale towards him. Words are wind, small man.

Vax changes his tune when he sees Scanlan sing to a fetal god under the city and convinces him that it really is a capital idea to try to scratch out his own eyes. Words have power, and it is the only power worth having in this world. It is harder to wield than a blade, but much more fun. It is the first time Vax laughs at one of his jokes, and Scanlan feels himself start to tip backwards in preparation for the fall.

“Drink up sweet decadence. I can’t say no to you. And I’ve completely lost myself, and I don’t mind. I can’t say no to you. I shouldn’t let you conquer me completely. Now, I can’t let go of this dream, can’t believe that I feel…good enough. I feel good enough. It’s been such a long time coming, but I feel good.”

When did he know?

It is a handful of months ago and Scanlan is standing at the top of castle tower, looking down at two figures as they plummet to the ground. One is Vax, crawling away on his hands and knees. The other is a stranger who cannot seem to keep his form, half man, half beast, with his hands on backwards. There is no choice. Later, Scanlan will pretend that he was being noble, that he had to weigh the potential sacrifice before acting. It is a good thing that he is talented liar. He is falling before he can think to stop himself, Mythcarver in hand, more at home in his grasp than any blade before it. His legs buckle beneath him when he lands on the wet grass, but the strike is true, and in the moment the steel cuts through this monster’s flesh, Scanlan understands Vax’s devotion to dagger and sword.

All magic users are selfish, Dr. Dranzel drones in his head. Then I shall make my selfishness a weapon all its own, Scanlan replies. My friends. My family. My heart. How dare you try to take these things, he thinks as the longsword sinks deeper into the demon’s back. They are mine. He is mine. Scanlan falls onto his stomach with a loud groan, his legs and back burning with pain. He looks and sees that Vax is still down, eyes closed and body limp with exhaustion from the fall. He lifts and opens his mouth to sing, an instinct as deep as breathing itself. The healing magic twists around his fingers before shooting across the grass, a flash of purple in the black night, and Scanlan smiles when Vax’s eyes open to see him. If music be the food of love, play on.

“And I’m still waiting for the rain to fall, and pour real life down on me. ‘Cause I can’t hold to anything this good enough. Am I good enough, for you to love me too?”

It is less than a week ago and Vax’ildan is screaming at him to run. The snow is turning to steam around the goristro’s shoulders and Scanlan’s heart is beating like a drum of war against his ribs. He takes a measured step back and plants himself firm before this monster from the abyss that towers ten times his size. Get to the door! Get to the door! The ground trembles as the demon barrels forward, his eyes wild for a spot of purple and gold in all the white. His gaze finds Scanlan’s and locks as a dark, wet tongue licks at a mouth full of yellow teeth. The demon speaks no words Scanlan can understand, but the intent is clear. Move, little man. Run for your life. The right side of Scanlan’s mouth pulls up into a smirk, and he opens his mouth to sing. No. You move.

It is the first time Scanlan sees Vax’ildan punched out of the air in a flurry of black sackcloth and raven’s feathers, and it is not the last. It takes all of his practiced panache and control not to run to him, cradle his face in his hands and sing him back to consciousness. But as his feet carry him to where Grog is feeding Pike and Vax potions to revive them, the latter a little more roughly than the former, Scanlan’s mind drifts to a memory of Gilmore pushing Vax off a rampart, only to rise on his wings for the first time. He halts a good distance from where Vax and Pike are already chatting about Sarenrae’s intervention, and realizes that this is another conversation, another moment, where he has nothing to offer.

Vax flies on the wings of fate itself, and even if his heart lifts with each gust of wind Vax rides upon, Scanlan knows that he is stuck so firmly to the ground. As the snow falls its last around him, he also knows that he has never felt smaller.

“So take care what you ask of me, ‘cause I can’t say no.”

Scanlan curls forward to press his forehead to Vax’ildan’s, tears he does not remember allowing to fall burning hot on his cheeks. From behind closed eyes, he can see flashes of purple, signs of the arcane, dancing on the echoes of his song as the forest once again goes quiet. The silence wraps around them, pressing ever so gently at Scanlan’s shoulders. He counts his heartbeats and presses his hands to Vax’s chest. Please. Please, work just this once, and I’ll never ask for it again.

CAW!

Scanlan jumps and looks up. The sky has gone black. From beyond the dense leaves of the forest ceiling, there is no more moon or stars to light his vigil. There is only an inky blanket of black clouds. No…not clouds. Scanlan feels his heart jump into his throat as the blackness starts to swirl and circle and come closer, close enough to see feathers and beaks and beady black eyes. A cyclone of birds descends from the sky, twirling as if pulled down by a single thread, but where there should be a crash of bones when it hits the ground, there is only the whisper of silk upon skin.

A woman sits before him, dressed in black.

Scanlan feels the instinct to run start to stir at the back of his mind when his eyes meet hers. Blood red irises stare back at him, alarming despite their softness. There is no mask to hide the pale and wan skin, the circles just under her eyes, the large and full mouth twisted into a half smile. Whether it is a sign of how little she regards him or how much regard she has for Vax’ildan is beyond Scanlan’s understanding.

“It is not my custom to return so unusual a call in person,” she says, “but then again, this is a very special case, no?” There is still magic in the air, swirling notes of purple light that dance up through the treetops, leaving static in their wake.

“What should I call you?” he asks first, all other questions gathering silently on his tongue to wait their turns.

“Whatever you like, master bard. I have many names, much like you. Nothing so formal, if it would make you more comfortable. Nera will do,” she says. A smile starts to perk up the corners of her mouth as Scanlan stares at her.

“I don’t know how much of my history you’ve been privy to, Your Majesty, but royalty and I tend not to get on.” She laughs at that, a giggle where Scanlan expects a cackle.

“Kingslayer, then?” she asks. “Or Burt Reynolds? Or François, perhaps? The Meat Man, finally cometh? Or…” her voice trails off as her gaze darts to the sword at Scanlan’s hip. When her eyes meet his again he sees a scene out of his own memory in them – four cuts, two wings gone, and one Ghurrix falling in a city of metal and fire. Her pupils go wide, then contract as she focuses on him again, the vision fading. “Fiend Carver.” The words hit him like a blow, ringing with finality and power. “True names have great power, do they not, Scanlan Shorthalt? Bards know that better than most.”

“Is that yours? Nera?” Scanlan asks. The name feels false on his tongue, does not match the image before him. He remembers Vax’ildan’s descriptions of his Queen, of a woman impossibly tall, with thousands of golden threads weaving around her fingers and into webs. Such women, in Scanlan’s experience, exist beyond names like the ones mortals claim.

“No,” she says, crisp and clean and honest. “It was a name given to me, and it suits my purpose.” A story needles at the back of Scanlan’s mind. A tale of a sorceress who wandered to the land of the dead and a god who sought to take her for his own, losing his life, his power, and his crown in the process. A history made legend. A legend made myth. True names have great power, he thinks, even if no one living remembers them. He nods, not knowing if he is just pretending to understand, and does not press.

“Nera, then.” Scanlan looks down at Vax’s head, still cradled in his lap. His hair shines where Scanlan’s tears fell and he moves to wipe them away. “Did you know this would happen, Nera?” he whispers.

“It was always a possibility,” she answers. “For all of you, not just him, and not just because of my involvement. He was rushing ahead long before he ever set my mantle on his shoulders, was he not?” She raises her right hand and the glint of gold catches Scanlan’s eye. At first, the rings around her fingers looks like metal bands catching the light. Her fingers twitch and what at first looked solid melts and twists, different strands braiding together and spreading out from Nera’s hand and into the forest around them, until Scanlan can see them for what they are. What little starlight can find them glistens off a thousand golden strings. His gaze goes from her palm to the soft, pale gray strand that hangs limp between her hand and Vax’ildan’s heart.

“A single thread can be made to form many different tapestries, can it not?”

Scanlan does not answer. He stares at the string of fate still clinging to Vax’ildan, each individual strand unfurling from the tight braid as it loses more of its luster. Gone, then, he realizes. But not lost.

“Am I under your sway as well, Lady Fate?” Scanlan asks when he looks back up at her. Nera’s cheeks dimple as she smiles.

“No. But not why you think. You think yourself too chaotic, too unpredictable, and too wild for the hands of something as tenuous and exact as fate. However, I have found that this,” she gestures with her left hand from his hair to his feet, “is the opposite of chaotic. In this group of heroes, this family of yours, it is you, and you alone, who are the eye of the storm. Every single piece of you, every detail, is composed, practiced, conducted, and performed with a rigor and exactness even I, with all my webs, feel no shame in envying. Chaos? Oh, no, master bard. You are a symphony.”

There is a moment when neither of them speaks; only the sounds of the forest just before dawn press at the silence. Nera looks down at him, her red eyes soft and calm, and Scanlan can see no lie in them.

“Now, to the point. What do you offer, master bard?”

“What do you want?” Scanlan asks, and at once he knows it is too hasty. Nera laughs.

“Oh, no,” she says, the greens and purples and blues of her hair shifting as she shakes her head. “That is not how this particular game is played, Scanlan. I cannot dictate what you sacrifice. You cannot offer something merely because you feel it’s what the person wants. That would be the same as offering someone their own heart, and that will never do. No real magic can be made that way. You must offer your own, and not expect it back.”

“That may prove to be a problem, Nera,” Scanlan says with a smile that does not reach his eyes. “You already have my heart in hand.” He can see the laugh start to rise to Nera’s tongue, but she does not give it voice. There is a kindness in that that startles him, makes his own throat grow tight when he sees her swallow down whatever words were waiting to be said.

“Then what else would you offer me, for him?” Anything, he prays. Everything. He takes that thought and transcribes it into another, keeping the truth and changing the words.

“My hope.” In any other moment, he might have laughed at the way her eyebrows raise, her red eyes gone wide. “I love him, my lady. You must hear that so often, I know, but that does not stop it being true. I have loved him so long, I could not tell you when it started. Every time I look back on it, I realize that I was in the middle before I knew I had begun. People like him are meant to be loved, and men like me…well, we rarely deserve the love we receive.”

Scanlan looks down at Vax’s face, cold and hard and going grey, and a hundred thousand unsaid endearments spring to mind. For half a heartbeat, he feels poetry in his blood, pumping through his heart from the tips of his ears to his toes. It floods his brain with metaphors and odes and sonnets composed in quiet, lonely hours that he has never dared to put to paper or voice. They rise to his tongue, begging to be sung and spoken in impeccable verse. He swallows.

It is opening night of their debut run in Emon. We are resurrectionists, after a fashion, Dr. Dranzel says from his chair by the fire. Scanlan is young enough to still feel small. It is his first night leading the band, and he hears the murmur of the crowded tavern beyond the dividing curtain. The thought of all those eyes on him makes his throat close up, his hands go stiff, every song he has committed to memory since the half-orc found him fishing days old bread out of garbage in a city hundreds of miles behind them, suddenly fleeing from his mind. How’s that?

The goddess of death sits tall before him, and for the first time since seeing her face, Scanlan is not afraid. He thinks of stone and snow and demons, other moments like this one, and knows that now, too, there is no choice. Even with all the paths his thread could have pulled him down, there was never going to be a choice. “If you give back his life, I will give up all hope, all expectation I have ever had of that love being given in return. There is not much of it, and I would cut out my tongue to stop it from betraying my heart, but you know that words are my trade. I know it is not as noble or vast a sacrifice as you must be used to, my lady,” Scanlan says, looking down at his hands, still running through Vax’s hair. “But it is the best thing I can give. It is all I have left that is mine, and mine alone. And if you find it acceptable, it is yours, freely and willingly.”

What do we do, young Shorthalt? He jumps at the sound of a mug hitting the table and stares at Dranzel. We sing, we play, we act, we tell stories. Dranzel smiles, his eyes hidden behind the brim of his hat, bow still poised over the strings of the violin he’s tuning. Stories of what? Of whom? he questions. Scanlan does not answer as he tries to figure out the trick. Dranzel sighs and stands on his feet in front of him. It is never the here and now. The dead and gone are our charges, and we bring them back to life every night. We remember them, and in that remembrance, is there not a kind of immortality?

Nera reaches out and runs the tips of her fingers over the gray string of Vax’s fate, the golden web around them fading into nothing. “This is your bargain, Scanlan Shorthalt?” Her voice is a roll of thunder and her eyes, red and shining, pierce when they meet his. Another vision flashes across her face, too quick and blurry for Scanlan to see if it tells of the past or portents some future. When it clears, the hard set of her jaw is enough to tell him her judgment has been made.

Five minutes to show time. Scanlan feels his heart pound in his ears as the members of Dr. Dranzel’s troupe pile together, swigging down drinks and tuning instruments. Dranzel’s hand lands on his shoulder with a thump. Belief is a powerful thing, my boy. Our art depends on it just as much as the divine do. But this…Dranzel laughs and puts his other hand on the curtain they’ve affixed to their mock up of a stage. This magic we do is beyond anything even gods could dream of.

Nera leans forward and Scanlan finds himself surrounded by her long black hair. Her hands press to his neck and turn his head up so her lips can press to his forehead. Her hair gleams with a dozen shades of purple, green, and blue in the tiny peaks of sunlight just cresting through the trees.

“You may keep your hope, Scanlan Shorthalt,” she whispers. Scanlan feels her voice more than hears it, reverberating through his skull starting from the base of his neck. “It has been harder won than you give yourself credit for.” Her fingers dig into the base of his neck, so solid that Scanlan thinks her nails will spring out to talons. “Thank you for the song, master bard.”

A noise like a hurricane swirls around him. Scanlan blinks and there are only the birds, their feathers falling around him as they lift off back into the sky. By the time his vision clears, the sky is no longer the black of deep night. The stars are gone, with the barest hint of periwinkle and pink at the eastern sky beyond the trees.

Silence.

A minute passes. Then two. Then five.

Scanlan lets out all of his breath in one long sigh. He lifts his hands from Vax’s hair to bury his face in them, his whole body curling forward into a ball. Stupid, he thinks. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This isn’t your realm. This isn’t what you do. Not good enough, of course it wasn’t good enough. Still, at least no one was here to see it. That is some small mercy, perhaps.

At least Vex will never know.

Vax’ildan’s intake of breath is sharp and desperate, loud as a bullet in the stillness of the forest. His whole body trembles with a horrible spasm before his head slams back against Scanlan’s lap. Scanlan’s arms move of their own volition, wrapping around Vax’s neck as his body curls forward over his head. He can feel his heartbeat, strong and sure, in his chest, and the realization is enough to make him cry.

“Thank the gods,” he whimpers. Each shaky breath Vax takes is a symphony of music to his ears. “Thank the gods and all the fucking birds, too.” Vax coughs when Scanlan hugs him around the neck, and his hands grasp at Scanlan’s forearms with a disarming amount of strength.

“Scanlan.”

Scanlan ignores him. Every healing charm and spell Pike, Keyleth, and Vex’ahlia have taught him pours out of his mouth in a flurry of song, too fast for even him to understand all the words. The purple notes and swirls of his magic dance on his fingers before sinking into Vax’s chest to do their work. Vax tugs on his arms again, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt.

“Scanlan,” he says again and Scanlan jerks himself upright at the sound of watery Vax’s voice is. His eyes are full of tears primed to burst down his cheeks and his gaze is sharp enough to cut flesh and soul. “Was that you singing?” Scanlan’s heart stops, sputters, and restarts at double speed.

“How…how much did you…”

“Was that you?” Deception is Scanlan’s first instinct, to feign ignorance is the second. As he looks down into Vax’s eyes, wild and bright and alive again, it is like he is back on a stage of his own making. The moment between the performance and the applause. Dr. Dranzel puts his hand on his back and whispers, once more. Look upon every exit as an entrance somewhere else. It is all one, Scanlan. Our play is done.

“Yes.” The word comes out of him like a sigh and all of Scanlan’s body tenses. “How much of it did you hear?” He flinches, just a touch, when Vax’s hands reach up to press to his face. The long fingers and wide palms are still so cold, almost blue, and Scanlan has to resist the urge to press them in his own and warm them with kisses. His thumbs rub across his jaw, freezing Scanlan in place, and his eyes focus on his mouth.

“All of it.”

Vax’ildan’s eyes close just before he digs his fingers into the base of Scanlan’s neck and pulls down hard. Scanlan has less than a second to brace his hands on the ground before their mouths meet and he is completely, utterly lost.

It isn’t a pretty kiss, isn’t chaste or quick their last in the City of Brass. Their lips mash together, teeth and tongues getting in the way, and their hands scramble for purchase somewhere on the other. Scanlan doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if it isn’t what he imagined. He doesn’t care if it isn’t what he rehearsed so often in his dreams. And he doesn’t care if every story in every world wants to talk of what kisses and their relationship to true love should be. He’ll take this and be glad for it, any day, because this is the realest thing he has ever felt in his entire life.

Scanlan’s lips leave Vax’s mouth to press to his cheeks, his chin, his nose, before traveling up to his forehead. His face is wet with tears, and Scanlan doesn’t know which one of them they belong to. Vax’s fingers are still playing with his hair, though the franticness, the need to possess, is gone. Now, there is a kind of lazy exploration, full of the knowledge that there is plenty of time to take.

“Don’t do that to me again,” Scanlan mutters when he presses his forehead to Vax’s. “Never again. Deathwalker, indeed.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Vax says with a laugh that sounds a little less hollow than it probably should given the circumstances.

“Says the man who flew directly at the mouth of a very pissed off dragon and tried to cut out her tongue,” he snorts. Vax opens his mouth to respond, closes it, and sighs.

“That’s fair, I suppose. If it makes you feel better, I learned my lesson well, and you’re far too skilled at lying for your own good.”

“Now, that I did do on purpose.” Scanlan smiles and presses one last kiss to Vax’s forehead before sitting up a bit straighter so he can look him in the face. “Seems like it didn’t do much for me in the end.”

“You fooled me,” Vax says, “right to the end. You wear so many masks, Scanlan. You make it impossible to know you, sometimes.” Scanlan sighs and leans into his touch.

“It’s a work in progress.”

“When did you know?” Vax asks, voice barely above a whisper. Scanlan doesn’t need to ask what he means, and the answer comes to him with the sharp clarity of truth.

“When I saw Sylas cut you down outside the palace in Emon. And you?“

“Better to ask the sun where it first started to shine,” Vax laughs, and Scanlan bites back a joke about him being almost poetic. “But seeing you face down two demons almost single-handed certainly did the trick. Three, actually, if you count the overgrown house cat. I saw you, you know. After. Just for a second before Pike brought you back to the land of the living.” Vax’s eyes go out of focus to stare at a spot beyond Scanlan’s head in the sky above. “I don’t know what the worse, thinking you had died with me, or knowing that I might never see you again. I thought that about everyone after I realized you were alive, of course, but for that minute, for those second…gods, all I could think of was you.” Another laugh, short and sharp, brings him back to the present moment. “My sister isn’t the only twin who can be greedy.”

“You’re back,” Scanlan says. He puts his hands on Vax’s face to guide his eyes back to his own. “That’s all that matters now.”

“Yes,” Vax’ildan says with a wide smile. “Because of you.” Vax moves out of Scanlan’s grasp just long enough to get into a sitting position. Every bone in his spine pops as he shifts, and Scanlan makes a mental note that a massage might be in order.

“How exactly did you hear me?” Scanlan asks. Vax takes both his hands in one of his, its twin moving back to his hair. “Percy hasn’t exactly been talkative about what he could hear from our ritual, after all. I didn’t think you’d be…present enough to hear.” Vax is quiet for a moment, his thumb rubbing across Scanlan’s knuckles.

“There was a road. Darkness behind and ahead. Mist all around. I was following the stones I could see under my feet, and somehow I knew which way was forward and that I had to walk that way, even if I didn’t want to. It hurt to move on,” he whispers. Vax’s fingers twist deeper into Scanlan’s hair and he bows his head so their foreheads can touch. “Like someone had tied a string under my ribs and was pulling as hard as they could in the opposite direction I was being told to walk. Like they were trying to rip my heart from my chest. That was you, I suppose,” he laughs. “I’d forgotten music could do that. Your voice was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard, even in that darkness.” His eyes squeeze shut and Scanlan feels his hands being pressed in turn.

“It felt like dying all over again, being able to hear you and not being able to call back. I thought I would scream myself hoarse, but nothing would come out. You were the only thing that could fight the silence and just when I dropped down to my knees, determined to crawl my way back, no matter the pain…I saw my Lady.”

“She wasn’t like she normally is, not divine and gargantuan and powerful. She didn’t even have her mask. She was just herself. I don’t know what that means. She held our her hand and told me that I still had work to do,” he says. Fresh tears start to gather in his eyes and fall down his cheeks, happy this time instead of mourning. “She said…she said to turn around and go back. To go back and listen, because this story, my story, our story, wasn’t over yet. She was crying, Scanlan. Imagine, this goddess of life and death and fate, crying for me. For us. And then I was here, and happy to be so.”

Vax is still crying when this last smile spreads across his face. There is more joy in his face than Scanlan has seen in months. It takes years of worry and pain off of his face, the lines around his forehead and eyes smoothing away, if only for a moment. He has never looked more beautiful.

Scanlan loops his arms around Vax’s middle and places his head on his shoulder. Vax embraces him in return, one hand braced at the base of his skull, the other around his waist. “I’m happy you’re here, too,” he whispers against Vax’s armor. It is not quite the words he is looking for, not quite the words both of them dance around saying, but the meaning is all one, and that is enough for now. For a moment, Scanlan lets his eyes close as he leans into Vax’ildan’s chest. It is a good story; this tale of bard who sang with such love that the gods themselves wept and death gave up its dominion. No one will believe it, he thinks, but that won’t make it untrue.

“Come on,” he says at last, lifting himself up to stand and reach out his hands for Vax to take. “Let’s go home.”

The forest comes alive as they walk through heather and trees towards the mansion, hand in hand. Birds, sparrows and blue jays instead of ravens, flutter about their morning business of singing and worm catching. Small animals scurry away from their feet, into burrows to waiting families. More than once, they tip toe around a breakfasting deer, its fur turned to warm gold in the dawn light. It is a comfortable, ambient silence, and one that Scanlan does not feel obligated to break.

“What do we do now?” Vax asks when they reach the glittering purple door set into the trees. Scanlan looks up at him, at their hands still clasped together between them. Their eyes lock together and in them Scanlan can see a whole world stretched behind the both of them, and another leading out ahead. He turns back to the door and puts his hand on the knob.

“Now? We have breakfast. The rest can wait.” The knob turns under his hand and the door pushes open. An exit and an entrance. There is a moment of silence before they are bombarded. Before five bodies collide with them, a tangle of arms and voices that bind the seven of them together as tightly as a spider’s web. It is the kind of silence before a curtain’s rising, between acts of a play, full of possibility and foreboding and hope in equal measure. Scanlan give Vax’ildan’s hand a squeeze and smiles, and they do the only thing they can.

They play on.

#critfic #critterfic #vaxlan #critical role #thegoldenlocks #IT IS FINISHED AFTER LO THESE MANY MONTHS #but also i'm very proud of this and the new things i tried with it i hope it's as good as i think it is #my fic #art for friends

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