#she was my DM so she knows Jarlaxle but

[tiny-huts]

I am really am lucky to have a roommate that is more than happy to listen to me chatter incessantly about a fantasy DND series from the 90s

[roguishlyridiculous]

A Long Rest

How does Keanu feel? This one goes out to my DM. 

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Keanu’s stomach lurches uncomfortably when Jarlaxle’s feature shift into those of Zardoz Zord, a familiar and uncomfortable face. If he wasn’t sweating before, he is now as a dinner invite rings through the cavern. His face flushes as his heart tries to pound out of his chest and he immediately turns on his heel and flees.

What are the fucking odds?

Once they’re out of the tower and away from the guns (he hates the guns) he rushes into an alleyway to vomit. Nerves and discomfort and that familiar edge of panic rush over him and his body responds in kind. When he’s finished he feels sufficiently empty, heart still thumping uncomfortably even as the party splits and Ziegfried slings and arm around him, Beverly holding his hand.

It has been a rough fucking day. He’s going to be richer than he’s ever been in his life, but it has all been a lot.

Keanu is reluctant to leave Ziegfried, Beverly, and Eberos. They insist Jarlaxle could send his men to slit their throats in their sleep and they’re probably not wrong. But he hopes that Jarlaxle wouldn’t stoop so slow for the sake of a 25% higher cut of the gold. And secretly, he hopes that Jarlaxle lives up to the prestigious reputation that precedes him. Keanu remembers the stories growing up, that while he was deadly he was also charming. Though his deeds could be circumspect they never seemed evil.

As he leaves his friends and begins the uncertain trek home he reflects on an exhausting day. He met a dragon, which was never something Waterdeep trash like him should have even been able to experience. Yet here he is. He encountered a legendary rogue, someone whose stories he reenacted with friends on the streets as a child, and found out he’d already had dinner with him once. Shit, he’d even tried to steal from him.

He also found out that his gut instinct about Zardoz Zord was right, and it bolsters his cautious confidence in his own abilities to recognize skill when it is in front of him, albeit disguised.

Keanu stops in the middle of the street where he’s walking and ignores the shove of someone behind him pushing him roughly out of the way. He touched a dragon and met Jarlaxle, what the fuck.

Ducking into an alley he rests his forehead against the cold stone of one of the buildings and takes a few deep breaths in. He needs to get home, needs to bathe, to clean the blood out of his clothes, and process. He needs to stop thinking about Zardoz Zord and Jarlaxle and the split feelings he has about everything, all of it.

Once he settles enough, he continues his walk home, letting the familiar clamor of the city soothe him. He climbs up the side of his building, unlocks his window and slides inside. His home remains the same as it ever is, a constant in a sea of uncertainty. Small, but his, and as safe as anyone can really be in the city.

He pulls the barking box out of his bag for the first time since he acquired it. It gets set near the door, not yet activated, but he plans to let it run while he sleeps. It won’t likely stop a drow assassin, but it might at least alert him that his end is coming.

Drawing runes in the air with his hand, his dancing lights appear and float up to the corners of the ceiling. They illuminate his little home and he glances at his wash basin. It has been a few days since he was last able to change the water. It’s a little dingy, but it’ll do. He uses it to first wipe the dried sweat from his skin, then to soak his bloodied shirt.

He watches as the red seeps out and turns the water pinkish, and knows he really has to change the water eventually. His armor, he realizes upon inspection, now has a lovely hole where the projectile pierced it. Sticking his finger through he frowns, but soon he’ll be able to buy new armor. His studded leathers are left in a pile in the corner of his room as he goes about the rest of his routine.

Tea is made, with a tea kettle full of thankfully clean drinking water. He has a small wood stove he can light will a well placed bolt of fire and it heats the kettle efficiently, along with his home. Tonight, he makes chamomile, a blend his mother purchased for him during the last leg of her illness.

“To calm you, my love,” she said softly as she ran her fingers through his hair. He was in a chair by her sickbed, head in his arms on the bed. She had paid someone to fetch it from an herbalist who was known for high quality tea. It had probably cost more than his mother should have spent.

“You should have saved the money for your treatments,” he grumbled into his arms, having to fight back tears. “Not waste it on me.”

“Keanu,” now, as he recalls the memory, he realizes he can barely recall her voice. At the time, he looked up from his arms, eyes no doubt red-rimmed and wet. “More money, more treatments, none of that matters now. What matters is the time you and I have left together, and if there’s one thing I want you to remember it is to take care of yourself.”

So, he stares out the window and sips chamomile tea. Soon, he’ll have enough money to take care of everyone. To buy this building from his tired old landlord, to buy loyalty, and bolster Frostwind’s influence. He’ll buy new armor, and maybe an enchanted dagger, and then he’ll get back to work.

His mind wanders as he thinks about dinner, about an invitation by Zardoz-turned-Jarlaxle. Was he serious when he made the offer? Or just taunting? How about when he called Keanu darling and his feet moved of their own volition, driven by an endearment that sounded so kind in a world full of unkindness. Could he dine with a legend? He knows that’s not all he wants.

Immediately he shuts those thoughts off. They’re fruitless. He has too many things to do between now and whenever that might happen, and one of them includes sleeping. Finishing his tea he sets up the bark box and crawls into bed even though tendrils of light still curl across the sky. He drags his blanket up over his head, releases his dancing light spell, and sleeps.

[feadae]

So I got a Secret Encounter(TM) at my last D&D session

And as I record my D&D sessions and take notes obsessively, I had everything I needed to write my Secret Encounter in prose form with the dialogue the DM & I actually said, as well as his descriptions, with Bonus My Character’s Inner Monologue. And lowkey I’m kinda proud of it? I’ve been meaning to get back into writing for a long time now, and this bit reads kind of flat and technical to me, but I’m getting back into it, and I had fun!

Context and the actual writing under the cut

Context: My character is a Tiefling Bard named Melaena Eukleides, who grew up in a small town full of humans and halflings. She has a 3-year-old son named Remembrance, born out of wedlock with a Drow called Una Mentira who wooed her, took her to bed, and left, and when Remy was born her parents agreed to take care of him once he was weaned but forbade her from seeing him again. She discovered several months later (during our campaign) that Una Mentira isn’t Una Mentira; he’s a mob boss in Waterdeep (Jarlaxle Baenre, for anyone who’s played Waterdeep: Dragon Heist). After we finished WDH, we moved into homebrew territory where we are now, and he’s kidnapped their kid, so the party is on a rescue mission. We passed through Mel’s hometown on the way to find a ship to follow Jarlaxle, so Mel decided to drop by her parents’ house and ask if they knew anything about where he had gone or at least why he had taken their kid.  When I told the DM that Mel was going to do that, he asked the rest of the party to leave the room, and my heart rate skyrocketed. Without further ado, this is what ensued.

-

Mel watches her allies’ retreating backs, then takes a deep breath and runs to the house where she grew up. She runs inside and...the house is abandoned. There’s no one there; in fact, most of the furniture is gone.

“Mother? Father?” No answer. Mel goes to her parents’ room and looks around. Everything’s gone. It doesn’t look like there was a struggle, nor does it seem so in the front room. She finds a note on the ground in the front room. It’s addressed to Mel.

Melaena-- He gave us all we ever needed in life--gold... We had to give him to him. I know that you may never forgive us for what we’ve done, and we can’t blame you for that. But when we came to this land, we wanted something better for ourselves, something better for you. Don’t try to find us. You’re no longer our daughter.

It’s signed by both of Mel’s parents.

Mel stands in shock, staring at the note shaking like a leaf in her trembling hand and willing herself not to cry. Her parents essentially disowned her when Remy was born; this isn’t a huge change. But it is. It didn’t even cross her mind that they would leave voluntarily and leave behind only a note saying she’s not their daughter anymore. She’s had many an intrusive thought, worrying that she’d find them dead in the front room, killed by Una--Jarlaxle--in order to kidnap Remembrance. Or that they’d be there alive, saying they did everything they could to defend their grandson, but Una was too powerful. It even occurred to Mel that they might have given Remembrance up willingly, but she dismissed that thought almost immediately. Finding out that they gave him up for gold and didn’t even have the decency to stick around and explain themselves in person is just...too much.

Mel is jolted out of her stupor by a knock at the door. She folds the note up, jamming it in her pocket, and draws her rapier as she opens the door. It opens on a human man with curly red hair poking out from under a wide-brimmed hat.

“Uh, excuse me, um...Do you own this house?”

Mel peers at him, racking her brains as she sheathes her rapier, but doesn’t recognize him. She hesitates.

“I--I live here. What happened?”

“Oh, well, I was just interested why you walked in; it’s been for sale for some time. The original owners, they recently left. If I remember correctly, they were heading...north, I guess?”

Mel processes this and decides to deal with it later, though she knows she doesn’t want to try too hard to find the people who abandoned her and her son. Still, out of habitual politeness, she says, “Thank you.”

The man looks around Mel at the empty house she stands in. “Mind if I come in?”

There’s a second where Mel wants to tell him, No, get away from my house and leave me alone, but there’s really no reason to; everything she remembers is gone, as is everything she loves. Is it really hers? She spreads her arms wide as if to say, Fuck it, come on in. The man says, “Thank you,” and makes his way in.

Mel stands at the threshold, trying to decide whether to rip the thorn out and leave now or stick around and investigate more--maybe ask this man if he saw Una and his men leaving with Remembrance--but before she can make a decision, the door closes on its own. Instinctually, Mel whips around to face the man, drawing both her blades as she does so, half-expecting the familiar Drow visage of Una Mentira to stand where he stood. But it’s not Una. It’s Gilgamesh, the Arch-Fey who posed as Xoblob the Waterdevian shopkeep and killed Asha for fun in exchange for the eyestalk of his taxidermized Beholder. That seems like lifetimes ago now, rather than months. What is he doing in Sintas? What is he doing in Mel’s childhood home?

He turns to Mel and says, “I can’t lie; I’ve been watching you in your travels for some time, and...you don’t need those.” He nods at Mel’s weapons, both still drawn and ready. “I don’t mean any harm.” Mel keeps her eyes trained on him and slowly, silently straightens from the defensive stance she’d taken, putting her swords back in their sheaths. He seems to take the silence as an indication to keep speaking. “So, this is your house,” he says, giving the front room a polite yet cursory glance. Mel nods. It feels strange enough that she’s here without anything that made it home when she was a girl, and stranger still that she’s here talking to an Arch-Fey, of all things. It doesn’t feel right.

“Looks spacious. Fun,” Gilgamesh continues, voice light. This time, Mel manages a small “Mm-hm.” Images flash in her mind of the countless hours she spent as a girl reading, writing, playing make-believe with herself, practicing violin, in this house which now stands empty and lifeless, looking as barren and pathetic as she feels. As if reading her mind, Gilgamesh comments, “A little bit--empty.”

Mel’s heart is heavy as she replies, barely managing a whisper, “Seems so.”

The Arch-Fey peers at her, not unkindly. “I don’t mean to poke fun at you or jest,” he says, sounding almost sad. “That’s not my plan here.”

“What is it?” Mel croaks, only half-caring about the answer.

Gilgamesh looks even more closely at her, not moving from where he stands. “I see pain in your eyes. This is loss--loss that...” He trails off into thought, and as Mel looks at him, there’s a moment where the high, otherworldly status he naturally exudes seems to diminish into something closer to a mortal one. He continues, “I know that. It’s not easy. And it doesn’t get easier.” Mel nods. She’s not a stranger to loss, however new it feels now and however much she wishes she were; she knows this already. But Gilgamesh isn’t done speaking.

“But I can make it easier.” Gilgamesh holds out his hand, and standing on his palm is a small, humanoid sprite which comes to life and looks at Mel with understanding in its eyes. Gilgamesh says, “Be mine, and I can make this pain go away. I see the pain you feel. I offer you something that...unfortunately, I hate to say, your songs and tricks cannot help you with.”

Mel had walked a bit closer despite herself to get a better look at the little sprite, but at the words “Be mine,” she reflexively stumbles back and folds her arms to conceal the fact that her hands are shaking. Una had called her his. Sometimes his something--his darling, his little pirate, his songbird--but always his. The idea of belonging once again to a man about whom she knows nothing save that he is much more powerful than she turns Mel’s blood to ice. She wants desperately to feel something other than this painful loss that feels like the heaviest nothing inside her heart, but the more she thinks about the bargain, the less it sounds like a good idea.

“When you say ‘be yours...’” Mel begins suspiciously, letting it trail off. “What do you mean?”

Gilgamesh seems to know once again what she’s thinking, because he replies, “Not like that.” He searches for the right words, then starts again. “Be my...protégé. My eyes and ears through this...desolate land. You’d lose some of your abilities, of course. You’d...change a bit. But it might be for the best,” he finishes as he fixes on Mel’s eyes a gaze that carries a note of something darker than the consolation he’s offered thus far. The sprite flutters out of Gilgamesh’s hand and zips closer to Mel, hovering in front of her face like a hummingbird. It looks at her with those eyes of understanding, and a small smile comes across its face, a smile that seems to say, Come with me and everything will be all right. As Mel looks back into this small creature’s face, unsure whether she wants to change who she is and work for this strange man--this entity--Gilgamesh’s voice cuts through her contemplation.

“Your choice.” After a moment, he adds with a tremor in his voice, “And I’m so tired of being alone.” Mel shifts her eyes from the sprite to its master. He still stands in that almost mortal stature, and she sees the weight of hundreds, probably thousands, of years of loneliness in his face and on his shoulders. A small voice in the back of her head tells her, He said it that way on purpose; he’s manipulating you, but still. Her instinct is to go to him, to assure him he won’t be alone--and had he made this offer at any time but this, she might have done it. But her parents’ note, telling her that they sold her son to Una Mentira and that after all their years of loving her and all her years of loving them she is no longer their daughter, seems to be burning a hole in her pocket much like the hole it’s burnt in her heart. And all she can think of is herself, and how she needs to protect herself from the trap of trusting anyone, because what has it gotten her? Her first heartbreak, her first (and now second) betrayal, countless sticks and stones and curses hurled at her from the day she learned to walk, a son born out of wedlock to a world that has already given him more danger and fear in his three short years than most people see in a lifetime, rejection from the only two people she’d thought she could trust, and expulsion from the only place she has ever felt safe. Not to mention the scores of times it’s almost gotten her killed. She should have learnt this lesson four years ago when Una Mentira vanished with only one trace, but ultimately it doesn’t matter. She’s learnt it now.

After what feels like aeons, Mel gathers the courage to speak, though not to look directly at Gilgamesh. Her eyes dart away from his face as she says, “I’m sorry. But...I’ve belonged to someone before.” She steels herself and looks directly into his eyes again. “And I’d rather deal with the pain.”

The Arch-Fey’s eyes harden and his expression goes stony. The sprite, still hovering in front of Mel, glares at her then flies back into Gilgamesh’s palm. He closes his hand into a fist, and the resulting crunch makes Mel wince. He opens his hand again, and there’s nothing there.

“I would say you made the wrong decision, but...” His mouth tightens into a thin line as he shakes his head and shrugs almost imperceptibly. “It’s your decision.” He snaps his fingers and disappears with a soft, swift whoosh.

He’s not gone for three seconds before Mel hears his voice in her head. “I was trying to hide this from you.”

Mel blinks, and when she opens her eyes, the house--her childhood home--is gone. She’s standing in a torn-down, demolished pile of rubble on an abandoned lot. No more house is there. She blinks harder, faster, and rifles through her pocket, pulling out the note. It’s as solid in her hand as it was before; it wasn’t an illusion. Everything else...not so. As Mel looks around, there are no thoughts in her head; only the heaviest emptiness she’s ever felt. In her head and in her heart, there is nothing but pressing pain and searing loss. Her legs go weak, and when they fail and she falls to her knees, she makes no attempt to stay standing. The tears come hot and fast before she can think to stop them, and she couldn’t stop them even if she wanted to.

And for the first time, the thing she wished all her childhood is true: no one in Sintas pays attention to her. She is invisible, kneeling in a pile of rubble, sobbing among the fractured remains of all she’s known.

[emalynde]

Dwin’orrel and the Dinner Date 1

BACKGROUND:

So we’ve gone over the basic relationship between Emalynde and Thalandril--for the most part. (http://emalynde.tumblr.com/post/156271641901/new-elf-boyfriend-campaign-character-the-oc-of)  This RP is following an encounter I ran for our usual DM--since he plays Thalandril.  TL;DR some old dude disgruntled with the city’s progression and tolerance toward the drow who defected from Lolth to Eilistraee throws a tantrum.  Basically, the Queen, with Jarlaxle’s help, relocated a whole drow house into Leuthilspar and not everyone is onboard with their assimilation.  The old dude in question happens to be a senator with great influence within the governing body of Evermeet, since he’s the head of the Defense committee, essentially.  Now, the drow are Evermeet’s biggest threat; making friends out of the nice ones is not in the best interest of this senator, Dwin’orrel.  Doing so chips away at his preservation of power.  So, in order to pivot the inclusion of drow to his benefit, the wizard strikes a deal with Lolth: she gives him the knowledge and her blessing to create Chitine and  he punishes the renegade drow for disrespecting her.  Chitine are the result of painful, horrific sacrifices of surface elves to Lolth, who infuses them with her ‘spark’ to create these humanoid spider things. 

Occasionally, a purer, better version will result from the ritual, a pony-sized, sentient spider called a Choldrith.  Dwin’orrel intended to amass an army of these creatures and loose them upon Evermeet, scapegoating the drow in the hopes it would have them relegated back to hated enemy status and kicked from the city.  Emalynde got tangled up in this mess on accident, as Dwin’orrel was a client of hers whom she and Thalandril suspected of some wrongdoing, but nothing of such a scale as this.  Thus, she likely stumbled upon too much or was unprepared for a confrontation of the situation and ended up as a sacrifice.  She, of course, was discovered by Thalandril before the ritual was complete, as the intelligence agent had started looking for her after realizing just who the last client on her schedule was.  The following linked RP explains their last interaction and therefore some of Thalandril’s misgivings, along with context. (http://emalynde.tumblr.com/post/156267244801/elf-boyfriends-dd-game-rp) Of course, the dashing rogue saves the day (although admittedly I almost killed him in combat on accident :X) and submits the traitorous mage to the senate to be tried for his crimes.  This RP begins when Emalynde comes to.  She knows nothing of what occurred.  Enjoy <3. *** Given the magnitude of response to the discovery of Dwin'orrel's treason, the 4 surviving elves--including Emalynde--were rehabilitated by the end of the day.  Regenerating that much blood was a task requiring just about the highest level clerics, but it was not impossible.  The downtown temple of Corellon Larethian was bustling with its current occupants: intelligence agents, some of the Queen's personnel, and the resident clerics.  Two of the women were older than the redhead, perhaps middle aged, hovered over by elves with notepads who were scribbling furiously away.  The smallest elven girl was less than a hundred and was taking the longest time to recover; she looked like one of the younger priestesses of Hanali--little more than a child.  

Emalynde, however, had color back in her cheeks.  The marks upon her body had not yet been washed away, but the incisions along the length of her forearms were healed.  There wasn't even a scar.  Each victim had their own room, what appeared to be quarters for devoted pilgrims or other such guests.  Stirring slightly, the redhead heaved a deep sigh, still attempting to discard the veil of unconsciousness.  Her brows contract a moment, only to smooth again.  With a slight groan, she lifts a hand, resting the extremity against her forehead and temple as fingers rubbed gently at freckled skin.  Squinting, the courtier peeks through lidded eyes, seemingly somewhat sensitive to the even muted sunlight streaming in from the window over her bed. ***

Emalynde would notice a few things as she was looking around at the diminished light of the hospital room.  The area she was in is bathed in a softened light, as though the sun were coming through a dense cloth, blocking some of the brighter ray, casting an odd, almost eerie, light across the faces moving about.  The room she was in had walls made of some sort of plastic-looking lining with runes inscribed all over them, some of them glowing and spinning on the surface of the quarantine walls.  People moved about in an ordered fashion taking notes of the other figures lying on beds in the room, monitoring their eyes, heartbeat, and analyzing the words written on all of the elven bodies.

Standing right next to her, speaking quietly, is a face colored in hues of deep indigo and black, stark, ivory hair pulled back under a hooded cloak.  The drow priestess smiles reassuringly as she speaks, her accent thick as though she was struggling to put the right words in order.  "Do not worry, madam, I am not here to startle you!  Please just lay back, I am only making sure you are taken care of.  My name is Priestess Elvan’shalee, here to watch over those infected by Lolth--and to bring you back to the world of the living."  The drow priestess reached out for Emalynde with a wet cloth smelling of rubbing alcohol to remove the marks on her body.  "I was told by a little birdy that you would be able to keep secret about my helping out, no?"  The ebon-skinned elf tried to be as calm and reassuring as possible, all while still going about her duties purifying the courtesan before her.  "You were the first to wake; the others have not stirred yet.  They will not know I was here; but for now... Shhh"  She placed a finger to her mouth with a wink in her eye.  "I am training the other priests and priestess in how to deal with this before I must be off at the waking of the others… who might not take too kindly to me."  Elvan’shalee would go about her duties cleaning up and monitoring Emalynde while explaining to the other healers how to treat the curse and magics at play.

Behind the drow, Emalynde would see Thalandril's second-in-command waiting in the back of the room, making sure everything was going smoothly and keeping his eagle-like eyes on every movement within the room--his ears open for anyone coming, as he was ordered.  He makes eye contact with the redhead, and gives her a knowing look.  She knew the agent well, having spent almost 50 years as his partner during her youth.  He was a good man who had this position due to his loyalty to the crown and to Thalandril personally.  The slight, blonde-headed elf approaches and asks her how she is feeling.  Ethren almost awkwardly makes small talk before informing Emalynde that Thalandril  had been immediately called into a Senate meeting by the Queen to make emergency preparations and decisions based on what had transpired.

***

Emalynde's vision adjusts in increments--blurring in and out for a few moments before the redhead really gets a bearing on her present location.  Worry creases the delicate lines etched into the courtier's face as Ema comes to the realization that she knows not where she is.  The ebon-skinned visage appears before the enchantress' eyes, causing her to start somewhat-- although the reaction manifests mostly as a sharp intake of breath.  As the drow speaks, Emalynde does just as requested of her--lying back onto her pillow with only slight trepidation playing across her feminine features.  

While the priestess applies the sodden cloth to her skin, Emalynde glances down slightly, noting that she was both naked and covered in odd markings--which the woman seemed to be cleaning away.  At the mention of an informant, puzzlement furrows the enchantress’ brow momentarily, still not having quite enough information with which to place the individual.  But she spies the familiar face of Ethrend.  The puzzlement and worry eased from the contours of Emalynde's face, drawing in a deep breath of relief.  It didn't matter that she had no idea what was happening.  Thalandril's fingers were dug deep into whatever this was, given that Ethrend was here.  

Her caretaker spoke of others, the information prompting Emalynde to glance over to the three women who were receiving similar treatment--although without drow aid.  Curiosity piqued the redhead's interest, allowing her gaze to alight upon her darker-skinned counterpart.  "You are quite lovely," the freckled elf states almost matter-of-factly.  Her tones were sweet and complimentary, attempting to lift a hand to brush against the priestess' face--presumably--but couldn't quite manage the movement.  It looks like she lifts a hand toward the woman but the gesture is weak and wavering.  This fatigue was sobering.  Never had Emalynde felt so thoroughly exhausted by such a small motion.  The courtesan cracks a smile at her limited motion, instead offering,  "Thank you."    

As Ethrend journeyed to her side, the freckled elf made no show of covering herself or otherwise even taking note of her bare figure.  She would appear much as Ethrend remembered her, almost 100 years ago.  At the kind inquiry, the redhead favors her former lover with a beguiling smile dampened only be her weakened state, "Well, now that you have come to visit me."  Her digits twitch slightly in his direction, seeking his touch.  Emalynde would effortlessly engage in small talk, asking of his own life's events as well.  She never made herself the topic of conversation unless pressed--which was sometimes what was required of her.  Many of her clients--for whatever reason--reveled in simply listening to her speak, fascinated with her person.  

At the news of Thalandril, both crimson brows loft in muted surprise.  "Senate meeting?  But he so abhors such formalities.  And with the Queen, no less."  Golden eyes flick toward Ethrend, slightly narrowed and appraising, "What has happened, Ethrend?"