#writing: vesuria

[iironwreath]

Diplomat's Pouch: IV [Vesuria]

[25-26]

Tomorrow’s the day we tackle the Betrayer's Rise. I've been told this might be the most dangerous leg of our journey. Not a lot of people come out, it's like a changing labyrinth. But it's where our "fate" is pulling us.  I don't like feeling like I'm not in control of what I do. I thought following this lead was taking my power back after feeling like I’d lost it from getting kicked out. I know actions speak louder than words, but it’d still be nice if mother could express that plainly. I wanna share my adventures, but it’s hard when I didn’t choose to have them.  I’ve written and scratched out a lot more to say, but none of it feels right. I don’t like being terse but I’m still raw over everything. I love you, but it’s like that love is what’s hurting me.  -Ves

Hey Firebrand, I know I'm not as good at this as Kyv is. Writing and speaking was never my strong suit. I still struggle with processing my emotions with everything that happened. The anger and the disappointment. Holding myself and my family to a higher standard is all I've ever done, all I've ever known. It's how it always was growing up for me in the City of Brass and even though I left it, I guess a part of it never left me. But regardless of that, no matter what ever happens, you will still be my daughter. My spark in the darkness. I hope my love will be a warmth on the coldest of nights. The Betrayer's Rise...I've heard stories of the dangers you face. A dark bastion cursed by the very gods, a bastion of evil. I know not what fate would draw you to such a cursed place. But if there is one thing I know is that you have never been one to follow orders forced upon you. Regardless of my intent, for better or worse, you have always forged your own path. No fate could could contain or stop you. I have faith that whatever obstacle is put in your path, you will overcome it. Sending you my prayers, Reva

[iironwreath]

Shell [Vesuria]

In an effort to conquer her fear, Vesuria stormed towards a beach in Jigow. It swept north of a set of piers, where boat masts huddled and the occasional bell tolled the air.

The sand was a dark, damp brown, cool and gritty against her toes. Shards of white shell sprinkled the ground like bits of pulverized bone and all Ves could think was—the ocean broke those down. It gathered them in its waves and thrust them back out onto land. There were whole and half clams, too, scalloped and facedown like ears pressed in to listen. 

It was loud, she thought. Or was that the blood in her ears? They sounded similar. The ocean looked quiet from afar, but it was anything but up close, never silent even at its calmest. Her resolve fizzled, and she stood paralyzed and sweaty.

The worst part was Ayo was there. Not close enough to read her face, but Ves spied her signature aquamarine skin, scarlet cloak, and short, messy bob whipping in the wind further down the shore. Jigow wasn’t as large as Asarius, so the odds of running into each other were pretty decent, but Ves still prickled. She wanted to pick a fight, redirect her fear outward, but more than that, she couldn’t let Ayo see her eyes dart to the water during a confrontation. She would’ve been distracted, and any decent rival deserved her focus.

She wondered if Ayo feared fire the way Vesuria feared the ocean. Probably not; the bossy blue bitch was annoyingly starry-eyed but she had guts when it mattered.

A wave clipped her toes and she jumped. She left—first backing up to not turn her back on the ocean, then retreating when her feet reunited with dirt and grass.

[iironwreath]

Limpet [Vesuria]

[2]

The maze walls were half her height. Half of Jigow were goblins, but the other half were orcs—Vesuria was surprised they hadn’t built the makeshift walls higher with them in mind. Their loss.

Jigow was the furthest north she’d been. Every step north, further than before. In late summer, the midday sun wasn’t enough to keep her as toasty as she liked anymore. She’d have to start investing in warmer clothes, but it was impossible not to be in high spirits—it was as though the whole town had poured out onto the streets and the collective joy and bustle filled her like a song. The salt from the nearby sea sharpened the smells of the festival: the packed dirt, the savory pies, the flowing ale, the woodsmoke. The several medallions clinking at her hip were a cheerful reminder of her spoils, proof of her aptitude, and a promise of future entertainment at the closing ceremonies. 

In the maze, she was quick to notice she had someone attached to her side in the shape of Varis. A handful of them had formed a loose group by virtue of showing up to the same games at the same time: her, Hamish, the cloaked drow, the weirder-drow-with-feathers, the giff, and Varis.

Ves was more used to Varis’ harengon appearance than any of their disguises. There was always a consistency to them, though—snowy hair, gleaming red eyes. It didn’t seem to matter how common or uncommon a trait they were in whatever race they chose to don. Ves, for her part, had always found the red-eyed glow comforting. It was among the most common colours from home, a partial mirror to her own.

She glanced down and around at them, a single eyebrow cocked. They met her gaze with a level stare. Either they noticed her getting a good look at the maze from the outside or somehow knew there was a benevolent rando in her head offering instructions. Luckily the disembodied voice didn’t mind Ves declining, but she didn’t relish the idea of Varis knowing about it.

In the end, what did it matter—she could figure out the solution to the maze. If anyone asked, she’d give the truth: she was competent, and there were fucking hyena tracks in the mud she couldn’t ignore.

“Looks like I’ve got my own limpet,” she teased. Varis didn’t react and continued to follow.

[iironwreath]

Rotten [Vesuria]

[31]

The initial betrayal crushed her more than the weight of drowning. It flattened her chest cavity, taking her heart and lungs with it. 

She never thought she'd feel so sick with that kind of hurt again, too large for her body. It was actually worse. Her mothers loved her—for the rivals to threaten them, they had to have never liked them at all. 

Was everything a lie? The care and devotion between Ayo and Dermot and Varis, the caravan, the festival, teaming up against the Gloomstalker, rescuing Maggie from her own alcohol-induced demons, the gifted flask and book, the flipping each other off and laughing. 

No, it wasn’t right. Children didn’t fake their friendships just to carry them into adulthood and nothing about the rivals had ever screamed ‘fake’ to Vesuria. She climbed to her feet. Instinctively, her knees widened into a stable, guarded stance, and that felt like another betrayal to the others in kind.

Even at a distance from lower ground, Vesuria sensed the rivals were off. Something stank. She smelled it as rotten and oppressive as offal—and boy, she'd gotten familiar with a smell like that. 

She held onto that with all the strength of her body and soul. She hadn't promised Ayo she would make it out alive, but Ayo had promised her. She hoped—prayed, given where they were—that her promise extended to Vesuria.

[iironwreath]

Bared [Vesuria]

[29]

One by one, Vesuria watched her companions raise a hand to the stone wall and disappear into its embrace. With only riddles as to what was on the other side, she was stranded, a storm of turmoil building inside her. It was as good as a procession of them dying. 

She hadn’t realized the power of their presence until its absence. These people made her feel taller, stronger, less doubtful. Without them she was cold and depleted.

By the time Question surrendered herself, Vesuria made up her mind that she had to follow even if she knew she’d resist. She’d rather be together with her friends—yes, friends—in death than alive and alone. She could make new friends, and she’d had friends in Vuthos, she’d never been friendless, but those bonds weren’t forged in fate. 

She framed it as a challenge—could she accept death and its hollowness? She was flame to her core, an ever-burning wick of vivacity. Fires died deprived of oxygen, but they could always be rekindled. Maybe she’d live on, in her own way. 

The Betrayer’s Rise wouldn’t allow an easy death of its victims, but an earned one, more glamorous and bloody than willingly stepping into a stone tomb. At least, that was her theory. Maybe some rationalization happening there. The surface reflected a hole in her schooling; she could know a lot but until she had firsthand experience, it only went so far.

Death, again. It was becoming quotidian. It wasn’t the cultists or the bandits or the demons this time, but hers. Not imagined and not quite real, but closer to real. It was closer than when she was bleeding out on the ground under the Gloomstalker or swallowed Irvan’s blades between her ribs.

She’d die someday, and that was a simple truth. It wasn't the pain or what came after that scared her, it was the when. The crux was being ready now, when she hadn’t spent a full season in the sun and her first real adventure was incomplete. She hadn’t reconciled with her mothers or lived up to her full potential. There were foods she hadn’t tasted, streets she hadn’t walked, laughs she hadn’t laughed, punches she hadn’t thrown, sunsets and sunrises that hadn’t touched her skin.

A glimpse of aquamarine in her mind, a flask passing hands—people she hadn’t kissed. 

Accepting death meant accepting wanting to make amends. She wanted to die having forgiven her family. She wanted to love and be loved without bad blood.

The wall showed a bite of resistance, then she glided through on an exhale. She gasped on the far side, relief, dread, and anger coursing through her in laps. All that buildup only for it to be over in a handful of heartbeats.

The hall of mirrors was a disorienting space. Gone was the musty crypt and old blood, replaced with a vacuum of sound and smell. She didn’t know what she was looking at until her image beckoned from down the hall beside everyone else’s. 

They were already a skilled bunch, so their mirrored selves painted an annoyingly impressive picture. It was their idealized selves, possible futures or alternate presents. There were pieces from hers she wanted now: control and authority, someone worthy of her peers and a dragon’s blessing, but the robes weren’t the Order’s. They were draconic-themed, but unique, like she could either belong to the Order or to herself, the only certainty that she was whole and peaceful in that choice. 

It was their souls laid bare, naked and vulnerable. It was an intimacy she’d never known. They were beyond skin and muscle and bone, plunging into memory and wishes and fears. Pressure built behind her forehead trying to absorb everybody else’s while staring down her own. 

She had punched glass before; it was refreshing not to have the shards catch in her fist like reverse brass knuckles. Her mirror-sona fractured and collapsed. She knew what to expect from everyone else’s, and sure enough, her worst memory began playing out in mock theatre. 

She could read her own emotions and body language this way. The resigned set of her shoulders, the flinch, the tremble to her eyes. Pity and shame coated her throat. She wanted to smack some sense into her, but also wrap her in a hug.

This is what her parents saw. Her mother had to have seen the same emotions, lucid as ever. But, crucially, she’d chosen to confront them with words like a spearhead. 

The memory evolved into a new beast. Other-Vesuria’s markings splintered into the angry, cracked lines of uncontrolled lava flow, her eyes burning, red consuming the golden irises. She lunged with a snarl at her—their—mother, unseen, but the punches were vicious and unrestrained. 

Vesuria reacted. She struck again and this time her fist went beyond glass and connected. It lured her doppleganger’s attention away from their mother. Vesuria was grateful her mother was invisible in this play—she knew what a face looked like after a beating like that. 

She imagined fighting a true doppelganger would be worse. This one fell under a few decisive blows, ending with her grabbing the skull and breaking the nose over her knee, destroying the scene. It wasn’t a flawless victory—her double didn’t keel without delivering a heavy, fire-laden strike to her gut.

She vanished again and reappeared in the next room, free of mirrors. She turned to the wall. Bracketing her head with her arms, hands planted against the stone, she bowed her neck, catching her breath, her hair creating a warm partition around her face. Everyone else seemed to need at least a minute, too. Question had dissolved to the floor in sobs. 

Vesuria collected her awareness into her breath—in, and out. Extending the exhale through the mouth. Her dishevelled thoughts reached a semblance of calm, and in it lied a glimmer of clarity like a gold nugget among sand.

The real Vesuria had reacted to defend her mother. Maybe not all of her impulses were bad? The worst and best of her went head to head—the worst acting on years of resentment, the other her instinct to protect. Attacking could look the same when examined from one side, but it served a fountain of uses.

She had protected her mother from herself. In a twisted way, it reminded her of all the times she’d swallowed her tongue, bit back a heated remark, strangled her pride in a headlock. Maybe her more negative urges were the child of trying to bottle herself up, excess leaking over an overfilled cup. Setting her loose on the surface had given her a wide plain to let off all that energy.

Maybe it was about experiencing the impulses and choosing which to act on rather than doing away with them entirely. 

She couldn’t remember if she’d ever wanted to physically hurt her mother. With words, yes, and the occasional throwing off a hand and refusing her touch, but nothing so violent. Maybe it was one of those secret wants hidden deep inside a cleft she couldn’t see and the mirror had simply plucked it out and showed it to her. 

Even if she had unknowingly wanted it, thoughts and impulses weren’t sins in isolation. She’d only attacked her mother in a warped mirror made by Torog—the real her hadn’t. She could trust her memory. The note in her bag wouldn’t have come from a mother who’d been tackled and sentenced to her fists. She reached into its pocket and brushed her fingers along the parchment’s leafy edge.

She’d have to digest it all—including the other’s—later. Or not—drink was always an option. 

She straightened, shoving her hair back with more force than necessary. The Betrayer’s Rise would continue to goad, and test, and punish. They were in a spiral where the only way out was through the finish.

[iironwreath]

Diplomat's Pouch: I [Vesuria]

I've arrived at the surface in Xhorhas. -Ves

[iironwreath]

Flinders [Vesuria]

[11]

Vesuria’s mom had insisted on forging Ves her first and very own sword. By then she’d already started training her in smithing tools, and Ves proposed teaming up for it. They’d tried a few, but eventually her mom slapped her knees and raised her hands. Not impatient with Ves, but not wanting her to go without any longer. 

“Any sword from the Order will be strong,” she’d said, “but it won’t be mine. When you’re better at your craft, you can improve it.”

Fire giants were fast and exquisite crafters, but also long-lived. They could make twice the weapon in half the time, but they valued the strength and longevity of something crafted with patience. Nothing was too insignificant to shape into a work of art as beautiful as it was potent. 

With her mom’s other weapons and machines taking priority, it took her about a week. It would’ve taken longer if it weren’t a shortsword.

Her mom knelt and offered it to her, her smile radiant. Hot flinders from her hair darted out like a snake’s tongue, dissolving before they could bite. Ves admired the sword; in her mom’s hands it looked no bigger than a butter knife, but it was bespoke to Vesuria’s fingers. Its brass blade was straight and keen as an arrow and the crossguard swaddled a single red gemstone. It wasn’t an enchanted sword, but the moment felt magic. Any dredges of disappointment at not being able to help evaporated.

Her mom had always taken extra precautions with Vesuria. When Ves was born, she spent all of her time not at full size, a fact she recounted warmly. She always watched her step at home, would palm Ves out of the way of danger or shield her with her body. Her prosthetic limb was a testament to her love, protecting her purely on instinct—but also a testament to Vesuria’s forever foolishness.

“Curiosity is a virtue in a child,” she’d said, eyes flaring bright. “There’s no need to mourn my arm. I would sacrifice it again and more.”

Ves sometimes wondered if her fire genasi mother resented her for her mom’s lost arm. It was an ugly, intrusive thought, and didn’t paint her mother in the most generous light. She’d never had the courage to ask, only wonder.   

Ves lifted the sword and swooped it in a figure eight. It was light as an arrow, too. Her heart soared.

“We don’t usually train with real swords,” she said with a grin.

“I know.” Her mom chucked her lightly under the chin. “But you will use it. Wield it well, my firefly.”

Campfire smoke gusted into her eyes and she blinked out of her memories. It didn’t sting—not as much as it should have. The inhale reminded her of home, of the aftertaste of bellowing out fire.

Ves shuffled further down the log, resuming wiping down her shortsword. The smoke followed, leaden particles giving chase to fan across her and dive up her nose. Maybe it would absorb or replace the lingering blood smell. Varis had cleared most of the blood from her clothes using magic, but she wanted to take care of the sword. It deserved maintenance even as every cloth stroke reminded her of its maker. A hot iron poker got her somewhere between the ribs anytime she thought about it for more than a second; she was resistant to fire, not immune.

Ves held the sword up to the light, batting away smoke. She’d never named it even though her mom suggested it, gave names to all her machines—even if later they took on mortal souls that likely already had names. She flipped through ideas: sverd would be funny if nobody knew Giant. Hjerte for heart, maybe—no, that endearment belonged to her mother. Treasure? She sheathed it and tapped a nail against the scabbard.

Ettin, maybe. An affectionate nickname from some older members of the order. Runt.

[iironwreath]

Diplomat's Pouch: III [Vesuria]

I've arrived in a town named Bazzoxan in our hunt for more information on being fate-touched and the Jewel of Three Prayers. "Our" being me and the group I've been travelling with to get here. Not the caravan folks, but a new group. We're pretty formidable, all things considered. -Ves

—

My Dearest Ves, I hope this letter finds you better than your last one. It’s good that you have this group to see the world for what it is. For all of its beauty and all of its painful flaws. For better and worse, there is only so much you could experience with us staying under the mountain. Let me get to the interesting thing first. I checked the available public books for a few days and confirmed that we did not learn anything about the Apotheon or the Jewel of Three Prayers. We did find some general information on the term “fate-touched”. It’s a term that seems to mostly be used to refer to heroes or those who have been blessed by or spoken with gods. The texts weren’t clear if it was something given by a god or something one was born with that they recognized. It refers to those with a “powerful fate” and the power to change the course of history. Thankfully, while the general books did not have much information for us, Reva went to speak with Cimbarinth and got permission to look through books kept in his private collection from the time of the Calamity. It was there where we found mention of the Jewel of Three Prayers. The Jewel, which was also referred to as the Hope of Man, was used by the Apotheon during the Calamity. It was blessed by three separate deities and granted power to a single champion. The Apotheon was said to be a Champion of The Moonweaver, The Changebringer, and The Arch Heart. Being blessed by all three, it was said that by the end of the Calamity he was nearly a demigod in his own right. The Apotheon fought in a number of battles across Wildemount and Tal’dorei, but the most famous was the last one he fought in Ank’harel near the end of the Calamity. The conflict was near its peak and it’s said that Gruumsh, who despised the old civilization on that continent, wanted to sunder it like what happened to the Shattered Teeth. But as he brought his spear down upon the city and its people, the Apotheon was there to ward off the blow. The clash was cataclysmic. It’s said the lush forests that once covered the entire continent were turned to ash, the desert left in its wake. But the continent and its people survived and Gruumsh was held back before being banished by the Prime Deities. That is the last mention of the Apotheon or the Jewel in recorded history. This tale came from a first hand account from a dusty old leather bound journal in the horde. The author either never put their name or it has since faded from the cover. It sounded like an ally of the Apotheon who searched for the rest of their days for any sign of him, but nothing was found and recorded in the journal. Cimbarinth commented cryptically that it’s odd that no other historical records from that time would make mention of such a critical figure, but he wouldn’t say more. You should know that Reva spent just as much time reading and looking into this as I did, if not more. I know things ended on a sour and tense note for you both, and talking about her feelings plainly has never been her forte. She doesn’t know I’m adding this last bit, but I think you should know how worried she is for you and how much she still loves and cares for you, even if she isn’t the best at showing it all the time. No matter what, we’re still your family. I see in you a brilliant gemstone, but raw and freshly mined. Your travels in the surface world will change and shape you. Cut and polish you until you shine brighter than the sun. I know you can do amazing things. Just take care not to let the world grind you down too small or have you break. We all have a weak point and not everything can be perfect, but if you let yourself come together with others, they can help protect you and pick you up at your lowest and most vulnerable. But only if you let them. You’ve always pushed yourself for your own sake, but please be careful. No one survives on their own for long, especially in the surface world.

I’m happy you’ve found those around you that you can trust and depend on. Guard them well. We look forward to hearing about many more adventures from you, my little firefly. With love, Ky

[iironwreath]

Blush [Vesuria]

[22]

Sure, Vesuria had grabbed the saucy book thinking of Ayo, but she hadn’t meant anything by it at the time. Ves meant to broaden Ayo’s horizons, get her reading outside her comfort zone, get her adventuring both in the waking and written world. Flustering her was fun, but it was fun in the way Ves enjoyed flustering any of her friends. It wasn’t meant to be a hint at deeper or more base desires. It wasn’t like she hadn't shared smutty novels among pals before. 

But like a trap sprung from Ayo's words, it snared her mind with an unbidden pouring of thoughts and images—how deeply her skin could blush blueberry, how she would sound soft and quiet and private. It made Ves sputter instead of laughing or running to defend herself, and then Ayo had darted off before she could recover. Ves sulked into her ale.

Attraction she understood—she could accept attraction. It had always lived beneath her initial frustration with Ayo. The proud shine to her eyes drew people in like the tide.

She rejected anything else for now, so early. There were too many issues pressing her group’s attention. She wasn’t sure she should clarify if she got the chance, either—it would make her look desperate or potentially hurt Ayo. But saying nothing, being the flustered one, that was as good as admission, and she had a whole table of witnesses. Hamish’s laughter drummed against her ears, adding more heat to her face. 

There was no winning now. Damage done. She thought she was being clever, but all she’d done was complicate their dynamic. She’d miscalculated because she hadn’t calculated at all, just acted. Like usual. 

Part of her flaked away like old paint under examination. So many books were about finding love during the height of adventure. They were exactly the kind of mush Ayo seemed drawn to, would hold tight to her chest. Ves had thought them fiction for a reason—but she also hadn’t lived an adventure til now. 

She gulped down her drink and flagged for another. There weren’t answers at the bottom of her cups, but a glorious nulling of thoughts she could take with her to bed.

[iironwreath]

Accost [Vesuria]

[13]

Vesuria had hoped to never know what drowning felt like.

The vision of Apotheon drowning didn't belong to her, but now it was lodged in her memories as if it did.

[iironwreath]

Five [Vesuria]

[11]

Killing a person wasn’t how Ves imagined it. Because she had imagined it, plenty of times. Not in a daydreamy, sicko kind of way, but a practical, questioning way. Would it make her upset? Would it feel good? Both? Neither? Would those feelings co-exist peacefully, or cause her strife?

It was never a matter of if she’d kill someone, it was always a when. But she’d always pictured it happening underground, in her domain, or away on a mission—some hideaway the Order had sniffed out and then swept through like a pyroclastic flow. 

It was over in thirty seconds. She expected a stab of emotion when she yanked her blade free of the first bandit that keeled over, but there was only an intense, honed focus that left scant room for anything else. After that, her body fell into raw instinct, her movements supple and devastating. She chained the kills, spreading herself like a wildfire but striking with the strength of a mountain. One became five. 

She rose out of her focus with the final thug impaled on her sword. Her free hand was reared back, hand poised in a claw to strike, but he slid backwards off the blade, life draining from his eyes. She stood stunned a moment, then waited a breath for a feeling to kick in. Nausea? Remorse? 

Nothing negative. In fact, there was a thrill. She felt fire. She straightened out of her stance and bounced on the balls of her feet. She could’ve kept going. Her euphoria would’ve been alarming if she wasn’t so damn giddy. 

Maybe it was worse to feel good, but they were bad people, robbing folks and happy to kill them if they didn’t comply. They got what they deserved. It wasn’t like she was a demon diving at travellers and then circling her bevy of corpses, luring in more. She’d saved future, less capable people the grief of having to deal with them, potentially even saving lives. Did it matter how she felt when the end result was the same?

It wouldn’t have been all that different if she’d killed the cultists she was trained to fight—she stopped cultists, she stopped future problems. An unleashed Desirat would've started an epoch of untold calamity. 

After her recent brush with near-death, the rush of power was welcome. Needed. She was more herself again, glowing. She privately hoped the others would support her, tell her that she’d done good and encourage her. She felt purpose. 

The thrill faded slowly. As her breathing evened, there was a shift in the wind, in her gut. She felt a stronger bond to her companions. She didn’t kill independently—they did it together, as a team. They’d taken revenge for a mutual kinship with the caravan folks and helped Hamish end his brother for good. Wrongs were righted. 

She didn’t know if she would've called it friendship yet—she knew more about their shadows than basic things like their favourite foods or gemstones. But if they kept at it, that could change.

There were the monks she imagined herself killing beside, and then there were these people—those who were actually there. She’d been pushed out of her nest, but she’d landed among a decent group. Their differences made them collectively stronger. 

As they reconvened, the shift was palpable, seemed mutual. There was a problem she didn’t anticipate, though; nobody had taught her how to wash so much blood out of her clothes.

[iironwreath]

Right [Vesuria]

[letters here]

[9]

When Ves tucked her note into the Diplomat’s pouch, she didn’t expect a reply so soon, within the same watch. She’d used it exactly once, back when she stepped into the Xhorhasian sun, just to write she’d arrived. She almost hadn’t—she caved when her fire giant escorts pinned her under reproaching glares and refused to leave until they’d watched her do it, but she’d also promised. She could keep her promises even when furious.

The bag rustled against her hip like it had an animal trapped inside. She snatched it and yanked out the missive, only to hesitate unfurling it. Exhaling a slow breath through her lips, she smoothed it open with her thumbs.

Her mom’s writing unspooled in blocks of Giant, the page coloured ochre by the campfire—much how the parchment must’ve looked when her mom’d written it. Relief rushed through her. The sibling pouch traded between three sets of hands: her mom, her mother, and Cimbarinth. She wasn’t sure who she’d written, but it wouldn’t have changed the contents much. Of the three, her mom was the one she’d hoped to hear from. 

Reading it still felt like she’d inhaled a bee’s nest, thorns sprouting down her throat and expanding into her chest. It was sweeter than she expected or deserved, given the guilt-trippy tone she’d used. It was written by the mom who hadn’t sent Ves away. Ves struggled to reconcile them as the same person—it was easier to divide them into a before and after, but the proof laid in the ink. Her mom loved and missed her. 

But her mom also stood by her decision. 

It had been easier to stomach her punishment by tricking herself into thinking none of them loved her. The truth and complexity of it was heavier. Anger had helped carry her through heartbreak those first few weeks. She’d avoided writing because she wanted to make them worry, but also because she’d wanted to ignore it. 

Fury and guilt and an aching for home crashed together inside her like waves. She missed the immutable warmth, the raw-metal and hot stone smell. She missed the natural springs, the steadfast rock, the lifts, of giant ingenuity and artful structures. She missed the faint sizzle and hiss of her mom’s hair and mechanical arm, her embrace that could cover her whole, her kisses that spanned cheek to shoulder. 

She didn’t miss her mother’s imperiousness. She didn’t miss feeling small in the eyes of her peers. 

Stay safe. She'd almost died.

A spasm of anger reacted first; she crushed the paper into a ball between her hands against her chest. In a fit of panic, she quickly picked it back open like a flowerhead and ironed it flat against her lap. It was permanently creased, but legible. She read it again, then folded it more carefully, the way it had arrived, and stowed it in her bag. 

She bounced her leg, staring into the dwindling flames. Everyone snoozed around her save Rae, perched on an ineffective lee. A circle of wasteland around her was venous-red in her darkvision, brightening closer towards the fire. The wind whistled cool, and she drew her cloak in tighter, wishing she had some wine to keep her company. 

More she wanted to write writhed inside her. She’d bound out on Xhorhas with her chest thrust out and her chin held high, but she was parched for praise. She wanted to know if she was on the correct path, doing the right thing by pivoting from the task they’d forced her on. Part of why she leapt into it was rebellion—she was technically free. She could do whatever she wanted without a draconian mother huffing smoke down her neck. She didn’t have to return at all.

It was easy to believe in her choice when she’d made it. But like most things she did, it was made on impulse. Now, without a drink or another monster to fight, she second-guessed herself. Home had shunned her, so she’d tried to shun it back and resent it.

If she had to be on the path at all, she at least wanted to know she was doing it right. She wanted to know if the divergent path could still end with home.

[iironwreath]

Diplomat's Pouch: II [Vesuria]

[credit to my dm for writing the response!]

[9]

Nothing like a near-death experience to make you write home, eh? I don’t actually know who’s holding onto the other end right now, but I figure it’ll get seen by someone important. I write because it'd be nice if someone knew the general area of where my body is if I really kick the bucket. Xhorhas is no joke. I've seen more dead bodies in the last few days than I have my entire life. I left for Asarius after reaching Xhorhas. I joined a caravan to Jigow. But in Jigow I found out I'm “fate-touched” and now I'm headed back south again, on the Emerald Loop.  I was wondering if we had anything in our records on someone named Apotheon and an artifact called the Jewel of Three Prayers. -Ves

—

My firefly, I'm sorry you've had to go through so much so quickly. Lives on the surface world go faster than here, embers that burn bright and get snuffed out. It can be cruel and overwhelming. I wish I could hold you close and protect your flame as any parent would, shield you from this. But I also know how strong you are and you can emerge from this stronger. The metal must burn hot to be forged into something greater, and these hardships will become a link in your armor some day. I'm not aware of what a fate-touched is and I've never heard of a person named Apotheon. The Jewel of Three Prayers though does sound familiar. I will ask Cimbarinth for a book from his horde. Stay safe, -Kyveli

[iironwreath]

Confidence [Vesuria]

[8]

The truth was, Vesuria had never killed anyone before.

She still hadn’t—but the thought sparked across her mind when she’d fought off some bandits and again later when her motley group came across the hoard of corpses. Death had never been prevalent in her life. She’d thought of it abstractly, something she knew happened but not to her. She understood she had the training to kill, that’s what it was for—killing cultists—but she’d never faced them.

When she picked bar fights, she never thought of killing. Just fighting, living in the moment, buzzing with a thrill. But sometimes the other side of a fight meant death, not just a split lip, some broken bones, and bloody knuckles. Her will to live had to outmatch whatever wanted her dead.

The Gloomstalker was new, wrong, against what she knew. She liked to think she knew what made a dragon, having one’s essence inside her, and the Gloomstalker was devoid of that, a presence that consumed rather than poured outwards. It was a living cyclone of smoking shadow that speared right at her after she’d tickled it with the edge of her fire breath.

Monsters didn’t fight as predictably as people. Ves braced herself like she would’ve for a person, loosely joining her arms from wrist to elbow and throwing them above her face. It dulled the blow, inky claws slicing against the tough skin of her forearms and ribboning part of her wraps. But a second blow came faster than the first, the full force of jaws snapping around her waist below her arms. She felt the impact more than pain, and with it an explosion of white and black that swallowed her consciousness.

She woke with her cheek scraping the ground, heart galloping, still too adrenaline-pumped to feel more than an echo of pain. She rolled backwards to her feet, her clothes weighed with her own blood. Her balance wavered when she bent her knees. Pain hadn’t caught up to her, but her body behaved like it was injured, jittery with shock.

Beside her adrenaline and each pulse of anger: fear. It was a wake-up call—she was fallible. Tiny again, except in a world of giants, she was a beetle in a landsea of monsters. 

Part of her confidence was hard-won and earned—she knew how to fight. She’d proven it to herself. But her confidence was incomplete. Some deep-rooted coal wedged in her heart belonged to her mother. A voice in her ear that wasn’t hers chastised: not fast enough, undisciplined, rash.

Did confidence matter out here? She’d lived beside the vestiges of gods and thought herself among them. Myopic, stupid, childish. It almost got her killed. If she was fate-touched, was she supposed to feel this fragile? Would the gods let her die?    

Is this what Cimbarinth and her mothers imagined for her when they sent her away?

[iironwreath]

Phobia [Vesuria]

[3]

Vesuria had hoped—no, assumed—that the final competition would be a good old-fashioned brawl. Wasn’t that how all decent parties ended? Her knuckles itched for a fight, her body craved a bruising. But no, it was out in the ocean. Fucking thing.

The surface had endless novelties and the ocean was among them. When it resolved out of the horizon for the first time, an icy shard of dread shot up her spine from her tailbone. She didn’t get why—it was objectively gorgeous, and her mothers had taught her how to swim. She’d stared into unfathomable caverns in the Underdark and only been told to move away from the ledge.

But the Underdark, for all its dangers, was sheltered and familiar. She’d grown up with stone above her head. The ocean was a vast, open plain, larger than any giant or dragon—all she could think about was how she could fall through into the dead drop of infinity. She’d always hand land beneath her feet and she could always breathe. Looking at it made her chest tight like it was already robbing her of air.

Ves closed her eyes to it as she stripped her cloak and sash and bundled all of her hair into a single bun. Wouldn’t do to get caught on anything. The breeze on her skin, damp with sweat and salty spray, made goosebumps erupt all over. She could only devote a sliver of her attention to pretending she was unbothered, the rest worked wrestling her fear under control.

She couldn’t back out of the challenge after so much build-up. Ayo would never let her live it down. The only thing that would be settled from their dispute was that Ves was a coward who couldn’t overcome fear, irrational or not. She had to try. Even if her team won without her, she’d lost if she didn’t try.

Deep breaths. Vesuria used to scoff at the mental side of her training, but she always inevitably fell back on it when she needed to quiet her mind.

Ves held up the potion of water-breathing to the waning light. Liquid swirled in the glass without her touching it, refusing to settle, endless as the surf even with the gentlest wind. She hoped the jellyfish forming from the bubbles were for show only and it wouldn’t be pulpy on the way down. Her stomach was wrung in knots, still rocking with the boat that carried them to the scraggly pebble of an island.

She drank last, draining it fast as a stein, and tossed the empty bottle onto her pile of things. She followed the group, eaten up by the pool. The almost-cold slap of water against her shins worsened her chill. Cold was death. Heat was her home. The ocean was a graveyard.

She sucked in water immediately and gave her lungs over to the ocean. She crept her hand along the wall, kept her eyes closed until she was fully submerged. She opened them to a blurry, blue-tinted world.

Once in the caves proper, it wasn’t as bad. She wasn’t relaxed, but the pealing bells of anxiety were silent. She could focus on winning. She could pretend she was under the mountains again, only free-floating this time. All she had to do was kick, breathe, and swim with the others.

[iironwreath]

oc source inspo

whether it be individual characters or a series for vibes! a lot of inspo I sort of pull from along the creation process rather than deciding beforehand

ada: undyne (undertale), pirates of the caribbean, assassin's creed black flag

azul: heather (silent hill 3)

cadiana: the iron lords (destiny)

cihro: kal'reegar (mass effect), miguel (the road to el dorado), nick wilde (zootopia, minus becoming a cop)

crow: odysseus (greek mythology), loki (norse mythology), crowley (good omens), the nazgûl (lord of the rings), phantom of the opera

genevieve: castlevania, devilman, eskel (the witcher), huntara (she-ra), eivor (assassin's creed valhalla)

iona: little women, li shang (mulan), mr. darcy (pride & prejudice), haldir of lothlórien (movie version, lord of the rings), ead (priory of the orange tree), artemis (greek mythology)

koda: kermit the frog (the muppets), po (kung fu panda), steven (steven universe), samwise gamgee (lord of the rings)

nepenthe: gomez (the addams family), striga (castlevania), breakdown (transformers prime), sevika (arcane), httyd (for the many hosts of igrathad)

orla: rose (downton abbey), georgina darcey (pride & prejudice), hercules (disney version), madoka kaname (madoka magica)

surina: kratos (god of war), geralt of rivia (the witcher), game of thrones

vierna: silent hill 2, lady evelyn (yellow jessamine by caitlin sterling), morticia (the addams family), the night sisters (star wars), moira (overwatch), silco (arcane)

union: emiel regis (the witcher), pearl (steven universe), aziraphale (good omens)

vesuria: tai lung (kung fu panda), jobu tupaki/joy wang (everything everywhere all at once), amara (borderlands 3), whirl (transformers mtmte), violet (arcane)