#i really hope this is good i have neverrrr written fic before oml

[sockablock]

From Where We Came (Ch. 1)

I couldn’t stop thinking about backstories and now I think I’m going to do a whole thing for the whole party, so here’s Jester first cause she has the most revealed ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  thanks for reading!

Word Count: 1,606

From Where We Came (Ch. 1)

Jester sits in her room, alone.

 Out the western bay window, she can see ships and boats bobbing on the gleaming waves of what Mother calls the Lucidian Ocean. Mother knows the names of everything, even of things that Jester has never seen before. Sometimes, when Mother has a chance, she lets Jester climb into her lap and together, they test out the names of all they can see in Jester’s view of  Nicodranas, from the big domed temple of the Storm Lord, to the little pastry shop right along the coast. Jester has tried the pastries from there many times; when she is good Mother will bring her doughnuts and cakes, along with gifts from “the beach.” There are many things to find on the beach, according to Mother, especially during her long walks with the people that like to come and take her away from the house. Jester’s bureau sports a growing assortment of these presents, sometimes giant clam shells or spiraling conches or obsidian mussels or bone-white starfish. Jester loves collecting the things Mother brings, and hopes one day, she can walk along the sand and find them herself.

 Until that happens, though, Jester will settle for giggling from up, up in her room, out the window at beautiful carriages and the tiny shapes of sailors and merchants and make up stories about them through the glass. She wonders if all people are so tiny like these, and if she and her Mother are the only big people there are. She will have to ask Mother this, when she comes to visit again.

 But sometimes—and Jester calls these the bad days—Mother won’t come see her for a very, very long time.

 This happens more as Jester gets older, as Mother starts forcing Jester to read all of the books that sit untouched on her desk, as Mother tells her to practice her singing and her painting, as Mother starts yelling at her and hurting her for being too loud, too disruptive, I can’t do my work with you around all the time, Jester!

 You must be quiet, she says with steely eyes. Nobody can know you are here.

 Jester doesn’t like the men and ladies that take up Mother’s time. But Mother insists that they are very nice people, and more than that, they give her all the money that lets Jester have nice things. And Jester—whose entire life is a smiling Mother who brings her beautiful dresses and lacy ribbons and shiny rings and gave her the silk sheets and the glittering inkwell and lovely toys and the huge bay window and one, gorgeous room—understands.

 So she keeps quiet. And everything, for a very long time, continues to be quiet.

 Jester sits in her room, alone.

 Now she is much older, or at least she thinks so, and asks Mother again and again when she will be allowed to leave her room. Mother never really gives her an answer to this, but always tells Jester, one day.

 Jester decides that today will be that day. Or rather, tonight will be that night.

She has been preparing for this moment. She’s practiced sneaking around the house, though she sticks to the upstairs hallway that holds hers and her mother’s room. The carpets are plush and a deep red so dark and rich it invokes a very specific feeling that Jester isn’t quite mature enough to understand yet. There are marble and silver statues lining the corridor that Jester ducks behind any time she hears footsteps coming from downstairs, or from behind her mother’s door. She sometimes musters up enough bravery to peek down the staircase, past the poles of the ornate banister, but she has never before been able to convince herself to take a step. She knows that down below, there’s a beautiful golden chandelier, smooth tiles, but nothing else.  

Dreaming of the world outside her room, Jester squeezes stuffed animals beneath her blanket in a tiefling-shaped bundle. Then she moves to the wardrobe. She knows, from things that Mother says sometimes, that not everybody will be alright with her horns and her tail. They are jealous, she assumes, but she is wise enough to know that jealousy can be a dangerous thing. So she pulls her nicest blue cloak over her head, and tucks her tail into her skirt even though it’s kind of uncomfortable. She slips on some brown boots and ties her little pouch onto her belt. She listens at the wall and can her hear mother in the middle of a song, one of Jester’s favorites, a slow and sad melody about a girl lost at sea. This song means her mother is right now showing off to a new client, and since it is evening, she will be busy for hours.

She snuffs out her candles, and slips out the door.

Jester sits in her room, alone. There are tears running down her face. It is dark.

The first hour had been wonderful, better than anything she could ever have dreamed up herself. The glowing strings of lights between the colorful buildings had looked like stars, and there were people—huge, tall people!—milling about and laughing and smiling at every corner. She had bought a doughnut off a man who looked very confused about the five gold she had paid him, and was told by a nice lady that her dress was pretty. She had stopped and smelled huge red flowers growing by the side of a building, and had watched golden birds flit across the evening sky. A nice stranger in a long cloak like hers pointed her towards “the beach” when she asked, and she skipped along the cobblestone path, under the faint warm glow of the streetlights, until she got there.

It went wrong, so very wrong, when she was caught fixing a merchant’s cart. She thought it would be funny if she mixed around the trinkets and shiny baubles he had lying around. She wasn’t stealing, she was just trying to make him laugh. But the man, hornless and tail-less, had not believed her. She could remember the anger in his eyes, the way he called her “little devil,” and the fear that churned in her chest when he picked up a large wooden stick from behind his stall and started moving closer. For a moment, his tangled black hair was beautiful deep red curls and his clenched teeth were pointed and the stick was a candlestick and Mother was very, very angry with Jester and she didn’t mean to do it, she just tripped in her room and please mother I promise I’ll be good I’m sorry I’ll be quiet—

 —and now Jester refuses to let a sound escape her. Her cloak is lying on the bed, ripped. It had gotten caught on something as she was running back to her room, from the scary man and his scary friends and something else pounding in her tired little heart.

 She wants to try and comfort herself with a song, but knows that if she wakes anybody up next door, Mother really will be angry with her. She can never know that Jester had been outside her room, let alone outside the house. So Jester buries her face into a stuffed owlbear and shakes in the quiet.

 And then a warm hand gently touches her on the shoulder. She almost flinches away, hard, but the gesture is so comforting and so peaceful that she finds herself relaxing slightly.

 And then she hears a voice, lilting and calm, echoing in the back of her mind.  

 It wasn’t your fault, Jester.

 She looks around, holding the owlbear close to her chest. “…hello?” She whispers as quietly as she dares.

 Hello, Jester.

 Her voice is barely a breath on the wind. “How do you know my name?”

 I know a lot of things. I am a god.

 Growing excitement makes her voice quiver. “A god?” she asks. “Like the Storm Lord or the Dawnfather or the Annoying Mistress or the—”

 She breaks off when the stranger starts chuckling. Oh, that’s a good one. I’ll remember that one. No, I’m not a god like they are. And before Jester can get disappointed the voice says, I’m a different kind of god. I’m not looking for servants or worshippers. I’m just looking for a friend. And you seem to be someone who might also want a friend.

Jester’s eyes widen. “I do!” she says just a little bit louder than she intended, “I want one really badly. Will you be mine? I have lots of toys and books that we can share, and oh, I can tell you all about today! It was very, very cool,  mostly.”

 I’d like that, says the voice.

 “What should I call you, if we’re going to be friends?”

How about…the Traveler?

 Jester beams, though she still isn’t sure where to look. “It is very nice to meet you, the Traveler,” she says quietly. “Would you like to hear about the flowers I saw today?”

 Why don’t you show me? A breeze suddenly stirs through the room, and a little, leather-bound sketchbook that had been lying on Jester’s desk briefly flies open. A charcoal stick rolls off a nearby shelf, and bumps into it.

 I hear you’re a very good artist, says the Traveler.

 “I am!” Jester whispers excitedly.

 She rushes over to the desk, dragging a cushioned stool to the space on her right so her new friend can watch her draw. And as her charcoal darts across the blank pages, for the first time in a very, very long time, Jester sits in her room. And she is not alone.