#i saved this canvas as A WARLOCK AND HER CLERIC

[moeblob]

So uh. Eventually I'll stop drawing these guys so obsessively but not today I guess.

(DND AU where it's just these two, Brent, and Paul on a life mission to annoy Chris the GM by having the pact of "we're only here for Karen's benefit")

Karen is a warlock, Right is a cleric, Paul is a paladin, and Brent is a bard (so he can use bardic inspiration on Karen).

[choccy-zefirka]

Honk honk! I’m also in a Tav clown car lol. So you know how your mind connects with your companions when you first meet them and you see flashes of their lives? I’m curious to see what they would see in you all your Tac’s heads!

OOOO I have quite a few of them already, so I will just be firing off ideas as they come to me at random!

For my warlocks, similar to Wyll, they would see flashes of their patrons: Milo facing the towering fae with solid black eyes and twisted features and, without a moment of hesitation, offering the being a hot meal at their halfling hearth; Wilhelm, being surrounded by the cultists of Dendar the nightmare serpent, who subjected him to torturous hazing rituals before he was deemed worthy of the powers he desperately sought to save his niece; and Qar'Ereth, watching from the Astral Plane as the asteroid that should have destroyed his creche is averted by the powers of the fiend he bargained with.

Connecting to Laulu's mind would reveal glimpses of an elven bard, beautiful as she is talented, the precious darling of the people of Baldur's Gate. You would assume that Laulu is just a big fan of the bard, having attended her performance perhaps; but the truth is, it's actually a reflection in a mirror. Laulu *is* the bard; she'd just cast a Disguise Self spell before playing, because no-one would want to watch a half-orc on stage.

Roi is a cleric of Mystra, but instead of communing with the goddess or other lofty work, he's been delegated to administrative drudgery, which caused him to feel bitter, and that bitterness would be reflected in his thoughts. Perhaps a vision of him poring over boring documents in a dusty room.

Girias is nobleman's son that rejected his family's legacy, so I am picturing a flash of a lavish portrait of four Tieflings in glittering finery: a mother, a father, and two children, with the male heir's face being clawed off the canvas.

Cinder, while descended from the same family, is a half-Orc that was also kicked out into the streets and found a new life in the criminal underworld, so her memories would be filled with hazy, shadowy corridors in the noxious sewers where the Guild makes its home.

Niamh the druid's mind would be filled with idyllic images of a lush grove, where silvery willows caress a crystal-clear spring and the scent of flowers wafts through the air; but it would all be tinged with a poignant sadness, as she has no way of knowing when she will be coming back, if at all.

[jawsandbones]

The Banquet - The Mansion

Fearnot | Tiefling | Cleric | rennybu Foxglove | Half-Orc | Druid | boss-saarebas Keyr | Human | Cleric | pegaeae Lafalin | Human | Fighter | justbooker Sifra | Elf | Warlock | reassembleme Urnon | Tiefling | Fighter | lynngo-art

Part One: The Mansion

The halls are empty, and she is alone, save for one. A veil covers her face, darkened lace, a mourning gown for those she has known. A mourning gown to mourn herself, the taut skin across older bones, flesh that isn’t quite her own. She slouches on her throne, some pouting pose, fingers playing with fingers. A nail comes lose. She wrenches it from her skin, bloodless and sticky, sets it on the armrest. It stays rocks slowly for a moment, comes to rest, ashen and dead. She stares at it, her thoughts distinctly elsewhere.

“It’s time,” she says at last, “find them.” A hand on the back of the throne, the other moving to her shoulder. A touch that is meant to be reassuring, but fingertips bite into her flesh and it is control, not comfort.

“It will be done.” That touch leaves her as they go, the flame faltering as they pass. She sits, alone, and in the gloom. Her thoughts swirl, and she flicks the fingernail from the armrest. It skitters across spotless marble floors, and echoes in the silence.

She runs her finger through the dust, and a clear line appears on the mantle. The clock in the very middle has ceased to tick, some part of it broken. Neglected, and no one has bothered to fix it. She startles slightly, at the crack of wood in the fireplace, and steps back, brushing her hand against her skirts. The log splits completely, and ashes fall through the grate. Foxglove turns round, stepping from hardwood to rug, a glance that makes its way across all the strangers. The invitation burns in her pocket, and she slips a hand inside, holding the cool paper.

A woman sits nearby, her hands folded carefully in her lap. Another turns in place, fingers playing with the bow in their hair. A large tiefling leans against the wall, his arms crossed and eyes closed. The other tiefling is wandering from painting to portrait, studying the brushstrokes of each one as her hands knit nervously together. The woman sitting on the stairs is bouncing her leg, her hands in fists. A frown on her face, and she clears her throat as she stands up suddenly.

Foxglove watches as she fiddles with one of the pockets on the inside of her jacket, pulls free an envelope. A strange thing, to see a woman so comfortable in trousers. And the hat! She tips it back, as she holds up the envelope, turning it in her hands for the rest of them to see it. Foxglove knows the writing on it. The script matches exactly to her own invitation. Their permission of being in this place. “My – my name is Lafalin,” she says as she tucks the envelope back into her pocket, “what’s yours?” She asks no one in particular, in an American accent.

“Keyr.” The one who had been fiddling with their bow passes a touch against the crescent scar on their forehead, before they drop their hands to their side. Foxglove tilts her head – what beautiful blue eyes this one has. It’s as far as the introductions go, before everything is reduced to silence and stares, once again. Lafalin goes to sit back on the steps. A small chuckle, beside Foxglove.

“What a chatty bunch,” she says as she brushes off her skirts from where she’s sitting. She brushes hair behind pointed ears and looks at the rest. “My name is Sifra.” The smile hangs on her mouth, as though the introductions are the promise of this night not being a complete bore. A hand raised, and one of the tieflings steps nervously forward. Purple skin, yellowed eyes, their white hair bound and braided in rows on her head.

“Fearnot,” she says, before she lowers her hand to worry with the other, stepping back closer to the wall. Collectively, they all glance at the other tiefling. As if sensing their stares, he opens his eyes. Wordlessly, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his own invitation. It is all he gives, before he tucks it back, and closes his eyes once again.

“I’m Foxglove,” she bursts out, their heads all turning towards her. She clears her throat, blushes, and steps back towards the fireplace. “Hi.” Keyr smiles, gives her a small wave. A sigh of relief, when all their eyes move elsewhere. Shoulders easing, a weight lifted. There’s been too many stares since she’s come to the city. All at the protruding fangs, green skin. She is a proper outsider here, in this proper place.

Lafalin is standing again, but not for introductions this time. She steps onto the floor, looks up the stairs as their host begins to descend. Her hand curled around the bannister, back hunched over, the owner almost as ancient as the house itself. Wispy grey hair is pinned back as much as possible, green eyes glassy, and lipstick done by an unsteady hand. The stairs creak under her every slow step, her black dress trailing behind her. “It pleases me greatly to find that you have all accepted my invitation,” Agnes says with a slight smile. Gold glitters on each finger, a lace collar around her neck.

Finally finding steady ground, off that last step, Agnes looks around the foyer. Not at them, but at the peeling wallpaper, the wet stains on the ceiling, the dust of a home poorly maintained. “This estate has been in my family for generations. It has sheltered and protected us. Imagine my surprise, then, when I found it had become malevolent towards me.” Another smile, wistful and longing. This time, her gaze finds each and every one of them. Foxglove, Lafalin and Keyr, standing together by the fireplace. Sifra, paying rapt attention from where she sits. Fearnot and the other tiefling stand by the door, sharing a glance with each other.

“With my husband having recently passed, I am alone now. This estate is all I have left,” Agnes says, “I refuse to give it up. If you help me save it, I will reward you handsomely, with gold and more. All that I have promised each of you in your letters… if you are still willing to help me?” Fearnot moves forward slightly, her steps halting.

“Sorry, um – what do you mean by malevolent?” she asks. Agnes smiles at her.

“Exactly that. Spirits and their ilk have begun to roam these halls,” Agnes says, looking once more around the room. The portraits of those much younger, in their prime, stare grimly back at her.

“I’ll help you Miss Agnes,” Foxglove says as she pulls at her braid. It’s the first acceptance which begets even more. Muted voices of agreement, a nod that works its way around to each one of them, a pact written in a glance. Agnes hums, a pleased chime, clapping her hands together.

“Then I will leave you to it,” she says. Glassy eyes seem to clear, and this smile is sharper than all the others. She moves with ease past the foyer table, placing a small golden key upon it as she goes. The door opens at her lightest touch, slams shut behind her. All of them hear the lock turn. The nameless tiefling goes to the door immediately, reaching for the handle. The locks on the inside of the door do nothing. He tugs and pulls, to no avail. A hard shoulder shove against it, and the door doesn’t even rattle. Locked. Barred. Unbreakable.

Fearnot goes to the windows, pulls back the thick and heavy curtains. Where she might have expected glass, she finds metal. Lafalin’s hand instinctively goes to rest at her hip, over where her pistol sits holstered. “No way out but through, then,” Keyr says as they walk towards the table, and pick up the shining key. They regard it carefully, the simple thing. Much too small to fit the lock of the front door. Instead, they try the others. Three other doors in this room, and the key fits two. “Which one shall we go through first?”

Lafalin shrugs, heads through the doorway of the one Keyr stands in from. Reaching inside, she finds the light switch on the wall. Turning it on, slowly, the dining room comes to life. The lightbulbs groan after such a long period of inactivity, cobwebs slung between every chandelier. The chairs are settled against the table, properly set, and empty. A single vase sits upon the table, wilted and dead flowers in its grasp. The fireplace at the head of the room is long unused, void of both wood and ash.

Keyr moves around the table, to the other side of the room. The grandfather clock is ornate, beautiful, and broken. Opening the body of it, they find the pendulum missing. Foxglove holds her fists against her chest as she slowly walks up to the table. Dust shifts as she reaches out, a stitch between her brows, a sad downturn on her lips. She brushes fingers against darkened petals, and breathes life inside the flowers. Roses bloom back into beauty, living once again, to stay that way until death claims them once again. “Why would she bother locking us inside? We already said we’d do the job for her,” Foxglove says as she pulls her hand back, her voice echoing around the room.

“I’m not sure,” Fearnot says, stepping beside her, looking at the roses. “Perhaps she thinks we might leave before it’s completed.”

“Will she let us out when it is completed?” Foxglove asks her. Fearnot can only frown. Lafalin stands in front of the fireplace. Her arms crossed, her head turns towards a painting that’s hunt beside it. Decently level, competently done, of some nondescript landscape. It’s pretty enough, doesn’t seem to hold any particular significance. Turning her head the other way, and there’s an empty space where a matching painting should be. The nail is still fixed in the wall, but the painting itself is on the floor. She goes to it, crouches down beside it.

This one is no landscape, but a portrait. One whose face has been scratched from existence. She reaches out, touches torn canvas. Cold, unnaturally so, and Lafalin pulls her hand back with a wounded note of surprise. The others slowly make their way towards her. “What is it?” Foxglove asks.

“There’s something wrong about this painting,” she says. She grasps the frame firmly as she stands, feeling the cold bite into her palms, and hangs the portrait back where it could be. The only one not crowded around the painting is the silent tiefling, still standing by the doorway. The others watch, step back, as the paint begins to weep. It leaves the canvas, sticky over the frame. It blackens the wall as it seeps downwards, pools on the floor. Keyr is the only one who steps forward, eyes wide with wonder.

The paint shifts, begins to rise. A figure pulls itself free, a woman incorporeal and incomplete. A dress which matched the portrait. A face, intact, no longer slashed out. She wastes little time. “I am something people love or hate.” Her voice seems to come from a place far away, an echo of a memory. “I change people’s appearances and thoughts. To some, I fool. To others, a mystery. Some wish to hide me, but I will always show. No matter how hard people may try, I will never go down. What am I?”

Foxglove’s eyes are wide, searching, but after a moment, she leans forward. “Are you age?” she asks the ghost. The ghost extends her hand towards her. In her palm, a key, very much real. As Foxglove takes it, the ghost seems to smile. A sweet and distance sigh, before she closes her eyes and disintegrates into ash. Fearnot immediately speaks a small prayer underneath her breath, as Foxglove looks at the key in the palm of her hand.

“Ghosts giving us keys,” Sifra says, “how novel.”

“I suppose we can try this one on the front door, or the other rooms,” Foxglove says.

“Are there going to be more ghosts?” Fearnot asks, “more riddles?”

“I expect so,” Keyr says. They look at each other, nervous glances meeting more steady ones. A silent agreement, and together, they head towards the other room that Keyr had opened the door to. The ballroom is large and empty, save for a wall lined with paintings, a piano in the corner. This room as been all but abandoned. Sifra makes her way towards the piano, opens the cover with ease. She presses a finger down against a white key, and to her disappointment, no sounds play. The lid is propped open, and when she looks inside, she finds no strings misplaced. No gears missing. No reason it should not play.

Fearnot makes her way across the room, to the wall of paintings. They cover every inch, no rhyme or reason to the way they are hung. Mundane cityscapes, still life paintings of flowers and fruit, landscapes and portraits. She freezes, at one. Looking up at it, and it’s almost as though her own face looks back. It’s the same – but isn’t. A few slight differences, some sort of familial recognition. At the bottom of the frame is a letter. ‘F’, outlined in gold.

“This isn’t possible,” Foxglove is saying beside her, looking at a different painting. This is no portrait, but a sigil, ornately painted. At the bottom of the frame, a ‘B’. The other tiefling is looking at a different painting. A battlefield that no one else should know, a choir of angels dotting the heavens. This frame carries an ‘A’ at the bottom. He keeps his jaw clenched, swallows roughly. At Foxglove’s outburst, Sifra had come curiously. Taking note of each letter, the lack of letters at all the rest. She makes her way to the piano. F. B. A. This time, sound plays when she presses the correct keys.

The piano almost heaves breath, and a ghostly figure comes to, sitting on the bench, a foot on one of the pedals. His hands slowly leaves the keys, and he looks up at Sifra. “I reach for the sky, but clutch to the ground. Sometimes I leave, but I am always around. What am I?” Another echo. Another memory. The others come crowding, in time to hear Sifra’s answer.

“A tree,” she says. The ghost holds out his hand, and Sifra opens her palm. A key, very much like the one given to Foxglove. The ghost smiles, puts his hands back onto the piano, and fades into ash.

“I’m surprised they aren’t attacking us,” Keyr says, “ghosts aren’t usually so passive.”

“We haven’t answered their riddles wrong,” Foxglove says, pausing for a moment. “Yet.”

“Then we should hope our luck holds,” Sifra says, depositing her key neatly into the pocket of her dress. “Let’s try the other doors.” With one last curious glance back at the painting, Fearnot follows after them as they all filter back out into the foyer. Sifra and Foxglove both try their keys on the front door, find them too small for the lock. Only one other closed door on this level. Sifra finds no success. Foxglove does. She pushes open the door, and the kitchen is warm with light.

Unlike the others, this room is well used. Boxes pile in one corner, covered in dirt which spills onto the floor. The counters are covered in books, small vials, and clear potions. Sifra goes to the counter nearest, flipping through the pages of the largest book. In each page, she finds spell after spell. Her frown deepens as she reads every word – these things which should have been forgotten. Fearnot reaches out curiously to a vial near Sifra, but she waves the other away. “That’s nightshade,” Sifra says, pointing at the plant beside the vial, “that’s poison.” Fearnot immediately pulls her hand back.

“This is a book filled with rituals and magic,” Sifra says, slightly louder so other milling around can hear her. “What would Agnes want with a book of spells?”

“She did say in the invitation that we were her last hope,” Foxglove says, looking at all the boxes, “maybe she tried to get rid of the ghosts on her own.”

“Maybe she made it worse,” Keyr says. Lafalin steps up beside Foxglove, wrenches open the lid of one of the boxes with a hard grunt. She almost lets the lid fall when she sees what’s inside.

“How much do you want to bet every single one of these has a skeleton?” she asks Foxglove. The bones are… covered in dirt, jewelry and dull clothing still on their bodies. Void of skin, of hair and nail, they have been clearly dead for a long time. Which means these are –

“Grave robbing? I would not have expected that from Miss Lancaster,” Sifra says as she peers inside a box. Lafalin is wrenching open the others. Body after body, all in the same sort of condition.

“Do – do you think this is why the estate is haunted now? She desecrated graves? Brought these bodies here?” Fearnot asks. The others shrug, have no clear answer. Fearnot puts her hand over one of the boxes, says a prayer. For herself, or for the body, it doesn’t matter. The other tiefling has opened another box of his own. This one, however, is missing its skull. He glances around the kitchen, spots a skull sitting in the corner of the room. He goes to it, picks it up carefully, and places it back with the other bones.

The skull snaps into place. Something seems to gasp in it, and a ghostly figure rises from the bones. Little more than bones itself, skin hanging, features decayed. Hands place themselves on the edge of the box, and it pulls itself to stand free, in front of him. “The man who made it didn’t want it. The man who bought it didn’t need it. The man who used it never knew it. What am I?” He frowns down at the ghost.

“Are you a coffin?” he asks. The ghost raises his hand, a solid key in his palm. As he takes it, Keyr is speaking up. Their prayer is louder than Fearnot’s, no less appreciated. An echo of thanks, a sense of peace, and the ghost fades away.

“Did she kill her family or something? These ghosts we’ve encountered all look like people in the portraits around the estate,” Lafalin says.

“I would like to leave as soon as possible,” Sifra says, as she goes to slam the spell book closed.

“Agreed.” For the first time, he speaks.

“What’s your name?” Foxglove asks quietly.

“Urnon,” he says. The key clenched in his hand, he leaves the kitchen. One by one, they all follow. The stairs creak under the weight of all them, hurried steps to go upwards. The landings holds nothing special, except for the two locked doors. Sifra heads towards one of them, and tries her key. To her surprise, success, it opens. The study is warm when they first enter. Embers glow in the fireplace, dying slowly but surely. Drinks sit on the bar, a half finished game of chess at a table in the middle of the room. He goes to it, picks up one of the pieces, and turns it in his hand.

Fearnot’s head tilts at what’s on the coffee table. Picking it up, and it’s in the shape of a doll, some toy well loved. A shame, that most of it is charred. “Do we need to put that in the fireplace? Is another ghost going to pop out? It’s a toy. A child’s toy,” Lafalin asks, staring at it, up at Fearnot.

“Do we have to put the toy in the fire? I mean, it’s already burned,” Keyr says, taking it in their hands.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Foxglove says, as they pass the toy to her. Gently, she places the charred doll atop the wood. The moment her hand leaves the fireplace, it roars to life. Flames spit and spill, the burning ghost of a child stepping free. Her hands clasped behind her back, she sways and smiles at her audience.

“Oh,” Keyr says, their shoulders falling. Fearnot has her hands over her mouth, looking at the ghost. Urnon looks up from where he stands, the chess piece still in his hands. Slowly, he puts it down. Lafalin is stepping back, bumping against Sifra. Perhaps she wants to step back as well, but Foxglove finds herself rooted in place, eyes wide as she stares at the child.

“I have only two backbones and thousands of ribs,” a playful voice, a cheerful echo, “steam and metal passes over me. What am I?”

“Are you a railroad?” Foxglove asks. A pleased huff, a wider grin. Opening a clenched hand, another key. “I’m sorry.” Spoken softly, as she takes the key. The ghost reaches out, tugs against her dress. Foxglove leans over, and the ghost stands on its toes, presses a kiss to her cheek, and then falls into ash. She touches her cheek. Despite the flames, it didn’t hurt. More as if the warm touch of the sun, on a cloudy day.

“One left,” he says. The other door holds two locks. One for the key Foxglove had just received, and the other for his. He takes the key which Foxglove offers, and turns them both. It clicks, creaks open. Almost immediately, the smell overtakes them. Sickly sweet, flowered and perfumed. Fearnot holds her hands over her nose and mouth as she steps inside after them, her eyes widening at the sheer volume of flowers which threaten to overwhelm the room.

Jars of perfume sit open and empty on the vanity, seemingly dumped all over every inch of the bedroom. The fireplace is dark and unused, the portrait above it covered. Foxglove struggles to move through the potted plants, the leaves and flowers, find her way to the bed. Beside it, sits a coffin. “Over here,” she calls out.

“Another fuckin – if a ghost pops out of this, I’m going to be upset,” Lafalin says as she pushes aside flowers and plants to open the coffin. She struggles with it, can’t quite seem to find a way to open it. Urnon goes beside her, joins her in trying to open it. Finally, and with great effort, the lid creaks open. The group of them slowly peer inside.

“Is it just me,” Sifra says slowly, “or does that look an awful lot like Miss Agnes.” Wispy grey hair pinned back. Mourning clothes. Pale sunken flesh, decay beginning to set in, but undeniably their host. They all startle, jump back, when her eyes suddenly open. The corpse reaches for the edge of its coffin, pulls itself upwards. Unbacked and glassy eyed, it inhales no air, beats with no blood. Agnes turns to them, and unhinges her jaw.

“I am greater than god,” she says, her voice a rattle, “more evil than the devil. The rich need me, the poor have me, and if you eat me, you will die. What am I?”

“Nothing,” Foxglove says, “you’re nothing.” Bones crack as Anges holds out her hand. Foxglove takes the key from her. Without caring about the stares, the concern of the rest of them, Agnes goes to lay back down in her coffin. She closes the lid atop herself.

“If that’s Agnes,” Keyr says slowly, “then who wrote to us and met us here?”

“I almost don’t want to think about it,” Fearnot says in a quiet voice. Lafalin studies the key which Foxglove holds up.

“That seems like it could fit the front door,” she says, “but there’s only one way to find out.” Lafalin adjusts the belt around her waist, the hat on her head. Her boots click against the hardwood as she marches out, moving to go down the stairs. Foxglove quickly chases after her, the rest following suit. In the foyer, Lafalin holds out her hand and Foxglove passes over the key. Fitting into the lock, they glance at each other as it successfully turns, clicks.

“Would ‘Agnes’ be waiting outside for us?” Fearnot asks. Urnon raises his hand, wraps it around the hilt of the greatsword strapped to his back. Lafalin pulls free her pistol, Keyr their pepperbox. With a wavering sigh, Fearnot takes her wheelock from its holster. Foxglove takes the staff from her back, holds it tightly in her hands. Lafalin pushes open the door, and warm light from the mansion spills out into the courtyard.

Fog has rolled in from the river, drowning the city in it. Through these rolling waves, they see a dark figure, standing in the middle of the courtyard. The stones underneath their feet shift as they all step towards it. “I did not expect you to solve every riddle,” Agnes says, her hands clasped behind her back, as she looks at them all. “Perhaps you have more potential than was expected.”

“What do you want with us?” Lafalin asks, pulling back the hammer of her pistol.

“I don’t want anything to do with you. I just needed to bring you all together,” she says.

“Why?” Foxglove asks. Keyr raises their pepperbox as Agnes begins to laugh. A hunched back straightens, grey hair darkens. Horns sprout, skin darkens, and green eyes begin to glow. The night hag is still laughing, screeching, as it races forward. Sifra barely has time to step back as claws rake down where she once stood. Keyr’s aim is steady and true, their bullet catching the hag in the shoulder. Urnon stands defensively in front of Sifra, baring the hag’s way.

Frustrated, she turns her attention elsewhere. With a wave of her hand, the hag dismisses Foxglove’s spell, instead sinks her claws into her belly. Fearnot takes steady aim, fires again and again, Lafalin matching her. Keyr sheathes her gun as they go to Foxglove’s side, and Urnon swings down his sword, chopping off the hag’s hand. Bleeding, bruised and screaming, the hag staggers back. A beam of crackling energy streaks towards the hag. It engulfs the hag, the death blow, and Sifra lowers her hand, her spell having completed the job.

“Deep breaths,” Keyr is telling Foxglove as they press their hand against her belly, imbue her with healing magic. Skin knits back together, but her dress remains ruined and bloodstained. Where the hag has fallen, the body twists upon itself. Skin becomes blackened paper, bones crack and compress, skin fades. All that remains are the rags it was wearing, a clean skull.

Lafalin crouches down before the creature, roots through its pockets. An envelope. As she stands, she pulls the letter free, tosses the blank envelope aside. “Miss Agnes Lancaster,” she reads, “congratulations are offered for finding the creatures requested.” She pauses briefly, looks around at all of them before continuing, “For your service to the Court, you are hereby invited to the Royal Masquerade, next Sunday eve. Another task will be given to you there.” She lowers the letter.

“What do we do now?” Fearnot asks. Wordlessly, Foxglove walks forward, reaches down, and tears the skull of the hag from its body. Holding it up, she looks at the pristine bone, and then turns to the rest.

“We were brought here for a reason. Someone ordered that thing to find us. So… I suppose we’re going to a masquerade,” she says.