enchiiridion

[enchiiridion]

RANK UP! Dwarf -> Subgiant ( nov 5, 2024 )

Congrats, Volo! You’ve met all the requirements for Subgiant rank! As a reward, you’ll be able to use the cantrip False Arcane Eye. In addition, your Ring of Rejuvenation will be returned to you, but it will have no special properties at this time. You’ll also receive your choice of a Mountain Bike, a Skateboard, or a Wheeled Hoverboard. Keep reaching for the stars!

They've been casting this spell for twenty minutes now. Mending can be very useful, but Volo has always preferred a more hands-on approach to the things he owns. Not to mention, this is a spell of his own devising! It's nice to be able to show off his craftsmanship once more.

Not to mention, the ring! Oh, how he missed it. Don't tell Elminster, but he's been run ragged without it; not for its properties, but for the meaning it holds ( oh, his dear friend El does care about him! ).

Ah, but this . . . skateboard thing? What a curious object indeed.

[enchiiridion]

100 NONVERBAL PROMPTS -> @viladlind said: 14 + 09 <3

For the first time in a very long time, Volo wanted nothing more than to stay inside with some good company, make a meal, and sit comfortably doing absolutely nothing together. He took up some space on the couch, switched his phone on to play a mindless little puzzle game, and Fiyero took the space beside him to do something as equally (non)productive as him.

He could see, from the corner of his eye; Fiyero's lids growing heavy, body leaning on his. So he'd offered his lap, guided her gently to rest, as she comfortably snuggled in her spot. Back then, on the road with her and her oddly-assembled camp, full of misfits, he can remember. The way her brows furrowed, the heaving breaths of a long journey stretching onwards into an even longer one; how even a night's rest seemed so impossible, with death so close at all their doors it mattered not who's side the gods were on. The Shadow Curse, encircling the camp like crows.

It all seems to fade here, in what Volo calls now his 'home' of sorts, a place to return to. Not this apartment, as cozy as it is. Not Spirale, for its cruelties. But here, nestled beside Fiyero, on a lazy evening, when danger seems so far and impossible that one can find peace in doing nothing for a day. Volo sets their phone down, yawning, before laying their hand on FIyero's side and leaning back on the couch. A nap seemed like a wonderful thing at the moment, and so they shut their eyes for a few winks of rest.

[enchiiridion]

He's all too used to that look. The weary eyes of a battle gone worse than intended, the weight of decisions hanging heavy over the heart. To watch one's companions die, be revived, to stretch out life hanging on by a thin thread. The way she smiles and laughs, in the privacy of their tent, washing away the tension in her shoulders when every other part of her is so drained that joy is hard to find. The Leader, a role relegated to her on accident. He Who Carries the Burdens. Their hearts beat loudly, a reminder to one another, thump, thump, thump. You're here. You're still here. Volo hears just the twinge of anger. A promise broken. But he's here, isn't he? Whether it be by the will of the Stars or the gods, here he is, heart beating under Fiyero's hands.

What was it like, to see Volo's eye's go dark?

It feels gentle, the way his hands trace the soft pink outline of the scar, as though Volo is fragile, a simple misstep shattering him. It runs deep, the raised skin so thin, burning as though the gauze is still embedded within. <DC10 SUCCESS!> The tune, so soft and gentle, so familiar; Volo would join with him, so used to sharing in the joy of a gentle song, would whistle beside him if he wasn't so focused watching the way Fiyero presses his lips so gently to yet another tally mark on Volo's life. Their hands move, from Fiyero's sides to his back, holding him close. It matters not that the wound still feels fresh. He needs Fiyero close, to feel the warmth of his body, just as much as Fiyero needs to hear his beating heart.

"Don't," Volo speaks softly. You did all you could. "You needn't apologize for anything." For her, it has been days. But for Volo, it was both an eternity and yesterday; events still so fresh, and yet centuries apart. The paradox of breaking a promise still kept. "I'm here now, aren't I? And you stayed, didn't you?"

If nothing else, Volo is known for his wishful thinking; why else would anybody in his position be so willing to leap into danger headfirst ( even when anybody else with sharper wits would be walking in the opposite direction ). Volo laid there silently, focusing on the weight of his body on theirs, staring up at the ceiling. Was it he, Volo's guardian angel, who had revived him? Would they still have woken up in bed had it not been for Fiyero? Was this just dumb luck?

Volo reaches a hand, carding fingers through Fiyero's hair; repeating the gentle hum from earlier. He will share her sorrow as much as her joy.

they look at each other, like this. checking in, keeping track, gazing at each other's expressions. it's not the first time they've been in this type of position, fiyero perched on top of the mage, and it reminds him of things much gentler than this. the crackling of a campfire further away. the soft chatter of their friends, dulled by the fabric of a tent. warmth and closeness and joy. it's different now, and part of fiyero almost feels petulant to try and regain some of it.

   that won't do, though, not when volo needs him to remain just as he is, calm and steady above him. not when he needs volo beneath him, to know that he didn't fall asleep and this is merely a dream, or a nightmare. maybe the gods finally took note of the tiefling and decided he hasn't suffered enough just yet.

   it seems an absurd thought when his hands finally move again. ' you shouldn't say such things, ' he mumbles, voice pitched low enough to not be audible to anybody other than the two of them. that's what you said a few days ago, when you were bleeding out under me. you died anyways, despite your promise.

   his touch is warm— it's always warm, blood of the hells lending itself to him now more than ever. planting his palms against volo's shoulders, he reaches for the scar more pinkish in colour, fresher than the rest. focusing his attention on just that one helps a little, distracts from the sheer amount that volo is covered in. tracing its outline, as though to get the both of them used to the sensation at first, fiyero starts humming a soft song out of habit.

   he doesn't have cure wounds, not right now. not even a healing word. but perhaps the melody is soothing anyways, so he keeps humming as the pad of his index goes over the inside of the scar. mostly a straight line, only a bit jagged towards volo's collarbone. deep enough to return that soft furrow to his brows. but it seems to have healed well enough, if that's what you can call it, healing. the muscles and tendons underneath move as they're supposed to when fiyero brings volo's shoulder up and back down again, so incredibly gentle about it. he can't really help himself. leaning down, closer, he presses a tender kiss to the scar, breathes against it quietly.

   the song stutters and dies in his throat. pausing, listening, he then presses his nose into the side of volo's throat. he can feel his pulse there. it's faint, but it's there. just like him.

   fiyero shudders a soft sigh and relaxes into the mage. ' sorry, ' comes another mumble, and for a moment he even fools himself into thinking he's talking about the sudden touch. he's not. the weight of his own failure sits heavy on his shoulders. ' i'm sorry. '

[enchiiridion]

"Not to worry, The Stars have been generous to bless us with a mystical artifact that will aid us in ways that the common coin cannot!" Volo beams with pride, for having knowledge above that of the most-renown Elminster of Shadowdale; in Spirale, they were equals. Or perhaps, with the time that's passed since he'd seen the old wizard, Volo had a case to say they were above him ( though they'd never say it aloud; that's a very quick ticket to becoming a frog again ). They led him out of the Annals, looking around briefly before continuing onwards in a familiar direction. The Star Trail wasn't so far from here.

"I trust they've given you a phone, yes?" Out of his pocket came the curios metal rectangle, a small lanyard hanging from it. "This curious little thing is paramount to your time here!" Volo paused in his tracks, pulled Elminster at his height, and raised his phone high. He snapped a quick photo of them before waiting to let Elminster gather his wits, and then tapped away at the screen, sending the photo to Fiyero with no other words attached. He brought the phone for Elminster to see, the photo of the two of them. "And just like that, I needn't call upon the arcane for a perfect capture of the two of us together!"

While Volo was understandably upset he had no access to a spell he created, he couldn't deny that using the phone was just as simple ( if not a little bit limited ). Volo continued to walk and expected Elminster to follow easily. "The currency of this realm is within this device, so your pockets needn't be so heavy with coin. Convenient, don't you agree? It's made recording my time here much easier. Perhaps if Faerun adopted such a thing, we could even do away with sending stones and pigeons! They certainly have here--"

Even if El wanted to, there was no denying the obvious fact that Volo looked like anything but a prisoner here. In fact, while he'd clearly run up in a kind embrace that put El right back into a temporary bubble of familiarity, Volo appeared to be so confident that one could mistake him as the owner of this library- then again, perhaps that was just the Geddarm Specialty, to instill confidence until people assume that he knows more than he lets on. Right now, though, Volo held the answers. Elminster didn't dare interrupt Volo, it appeared the bard had much to say and little time. "It's alright, old companion- let us venture to this location that can provide sustenance so easily- alas, I am without currency in this place, other than what I carry in my mind; Ah, but if 'twere enough to use here, I could be as rich as kings!" He shook his head, gesturing to the exit. "Let us talk as we dine, and then I shall show you where I woke from my, well slumber I suppose, and from there we might begin to create a plan to exit this place immediately- Mystra's fingers elude mine here, but like all challenges, I shall assuage the proper authorities and we will be merry once more in that e'er fickle Faerun!" He let out a slight chuckle, clapping Volo on the back with his kind, but feeble, hand. That's right- Volo was, in fact, the guide.

[enchiiridion]

It all did sound awfully familiar... in the sense that he's pretty sure Fiyero had done all these exact things ( and when it came down to the eye thing, he had very quickly turned down the offer of a potential parasite cure ). <DC10 FAILURE!> Though it didn't quite process just how similar it all seemed, and so he figured perhaps Isthari was on the unlucky end of someone else's knitting needle-- and potentially that of an impostor's. They say that imitation is the best form of flattery, but Volo's had that happen one too many times and that certainly pissed him off a little bit ( even if people thought Volo was incapable of being irritated in any such way ).

"Quite an adventure you've been on then!" They didn't seem at all unnerved by the fact that Isthari seemed to be blaming the eye on them! They'd never do any unwarranted poking about in the ocular region, so it didn't feel as much a slight on them, but it did concern them just a bit that someone using Volo's namesake ( and perhaps even their fabulously good looks ) would do such a thing.

"But... unfortunately no. I haven't the slightest clue who you may be. Perhaps you're mistaken?" He offered an awkward grin and shrug, but it only seemed to imply that Volo did know Isthari, somehow ( Volo is a most renown stretcher of the truth, has used that to get out of many situations, but this is not one of them ).

"Who - Are you serious?!" Oh, this had to be good. There had to be a perfectly understandable explanation about this, otherwise things were going to get complicated very quickly.

Still. They had to be in control. Even if it was just from the growl threatening to surge up from their chest. Carefully, they brought their slow wagging tail to a stop, as they shifted their bag to be held by one arm, and using the other to point with their hand at the glass eye sitting in their face - that very much contrasted with their normal red one.

"Isthari. You know - with the grove. The goblin camp rescue. The experiment you tried on me resulting with me losing an eye - and having to replace it," he said - his voice kept steady compared to the outburst that had happened earlier. "... Ring any bells?"

He sure hoped so.

[enchiiridion]

𝟏𝟎𝟎 𝑵𝑶𝑵𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 .    (  a  collection  of  100  nonverbal  action  prompts .   mature  and  potentially  triggering  themes  are  present .   add  “ + reverse ”  to  swap  assigned  roles . )

∗ o1﹕ sender  tucks  hair  out  of  receiver’s  face . ∗ o2﹕ sender  offers  receiver  a  bite  from  their  fork . ∗ o3﹕ sender  places  their  feet / legs  in  receiver's  lap . ∗ o4﹕ sender  offers  receiver  an  earbud  to  share  their  music . ∗ o5﹕ sender  comforts  receiver  in  the  aftermath  of  a  nightmare . ∗ o6﹕ sender  gives  receiver  company  in  the  hospital . ∗ o7﹕ sender  wraps  their  arms  around  a  hysterical  receiver  to  calm  them . ∗ o8﹕ sender  shows  up  at  receiver’s  home  late  at  night . ∗ o9﹕ sender  falls  asleep  leaning  against  receiver . ∗ 1o﹕ sender  wields  a  [ gun / knife ]  at  receiver . ∗ 11﹕ sender  runs  their  fingers  through  receiver’s  hair . ∗ 12﹕ sender  invites  receiver  to  dance . ∗ 13﹕ sender  takes  a  [ picture / video ]  of  receiver . ∗ 14﹕ sender  places  their  head  in  receiver’s  lap . ∗ 15﹕ sender  and  receiver  make  eye  contact  across  a  busy  room . ∗ 16﹕ sender  pushes  receiver  against  a  wall  to  kiss  them . ∗ 17﹕ sender  and  receiver  cook  together . ∗ 18﹕ sender  comes  to  receiver  after  being  injured . ∗ 19﹕ sender  sits  in  receiver’s  lap . ∗ 2o﹕ sender  lifts  receiver's  chin ,  invoking  eye  contact . ∗ 21﹕ sender  overtakes  receiver  in  combat . ∗ 22﹕ sender  finds  receiver  [ injured / bloodied ] . ∗ 23﹕ sender  straightens  an  article  of  receiver’s  clothes . ∗ 24﹕ sender  crawls  into  bed  with  receiver . ∗ 25﹕ sender  rolls  their  eyes  at  receiver . ∗ 26﹕ sender  lights  receiver’s  [ cigarette / joint ] . ∗ 27﹕ sender  is  caught  wearing  receiver's  clothes . ∗ 28﹕ sender  strikes  receiver  with  a  pillow . ∗ 29﹕ sender  writes  a  note  on  receiver’s  skin :  [ note ] . ∗ 3o﹕ sender  wraps  a  blanket  around  receiver’s  shoulders . ∗ 31﹕ sender  runs  and  jumps  into  receiver’s  arms . ∗ 32﹕ sender  shoves  receiver  out  of  anger . ∗ 33﹕ sender  hovers  over  receiver’s  shoulder  as  they  complete  a  task . ∗ 34﹕ sender  is  found  by  receiver  somewhere  they  shouldn’t  be . ∗ 35﹕ sender  curls  up  against  receiver  in  their  sleep . ∗ 36﹕ sender  is  found  drunk  by  receiver . ∗ 37﹕ sender  throws  an  item  of  sentiment  bitterly  at  receiver . ∗ 38﹕ sender  joins  receiver  in  the  shower . ∗ 39﹕ sender  is  caught  following  receiver . ∗ 4o﹕ sender  traces  one  of  receiver’s  [ scars / bruises ] . ∗ 41﹕ sender  twines  their  fingers  with  receiver’s . ∗ 42﹕ sender  barges  into  receiver’s  home  unannounced . ∗ 43﹕ sender  kicks  receiver’s  shin  beneath  a  table . ∗ 44﹕ sender  aggressively  shoves  past  receiver . ∗ 45﹕ sender  kisses  receiver’s  [ forehead / cheek ] . ∗ 46﹕ sender  pulls  receiver  out  of  harm’s  way . ∗ 47﹕ sender  is  found  sobbing  by  receiver . ∗ 48﹕ sender  locks  receiver  out  of  their  room . ∗ 49﹕ sender  brings  receiver  [ coffee / tea ]  in  the  morning . ∗ 5o﹕ sender  rests  their  forehead  against  receiver’s . ∗ 51﹕ sender  plays  a  song  for  receiver  that  reminds  them  of  them :  [ song ] . ∗ 52﹕ sender  takes  a  [ punch / stab / bullet ]  meant  for  receiver . ∗ 53﹕ sender  buys  receiver  a  drink  at  a  bar . ∗ 54﹕ sender  needs  receiver’s  help  getting  in  the  bath . ∗ 55﹕ sender  and  receiver  cross  paths  in  the  kitchen  late  at  night . ∗ 56﹕ sender  twists  receiver’s  arm  behind  their  back . ∗ 57﹕ sender  winks  at  receiver . ∗ 58﹕ sender  is  found  collapsed  by  receiver . ∗ 59﹕ sender  prevents  an  injured  receiver  from  getting  up . ∗ 6o﹕ sender  claps  a  hand  over  receiver’s  mouth  to  silence  them . ∗ 61﹕ sender  cages  receiver  against  a  [ wall / the floor ]  with  their  arms . ∗ 62﹕ sender  storms  away  from  receiver  during  an  argument . ∗ 63﹕ sender  is  found  by  receiver  sleeping  in  receiver’s  bed . ∗ 64﹕ sender  [ applies / touches up ]  receiver’s  makeup . ∗ 65﹕ sender  throws  receiver  into  a  wall  during  combat . ∗ 66﹕ sender  dances  sensually  with  receiver . ∗ 67﹕ sender  strikes  receiver  across  the  face . ∗ 68﹕ sender  places  their  hand  on  receiver’s  leg  while  driving . ∗ 69﹕ sender  pulls  a  chair  out  from  under  receiver . ∗ 7o﹕ sender  catches  receiver’s  wrist  when  they  turn  to  leave . ∗ 71﹕ sender  leaves  an  intimate  mark  on  receiver . ∗ 72﹕ sender  beats  receiver  in  a  video  game . ∗ 73﹕ sender  and  receiver  stand  in  stunned  silence  after  a  fight . ∗ 74﹕ sender  cares  for  receiver  while  they’re  sick . ∗ 75﹕ sender  and  receiver  go  on  a  hike . ∗ 76﹕ sender  is  caught  snooping  in  receiver’s  things . ∗ 77﹕ sender  and  receiver  cuddle  while  watching  television . ∗ 78﹕ sender  throws  something  aggressively  at  receiver . ∗ 79﹕ sender  creeps  up  behind  receiver  to  scare  them . ∗ 8o﹕ sender  and  receiver  go  shopping  together . ∗ 81﹕ sender  helps  receiver  [ dye / style ]  their  hair . ∗ 82﹕ sender  draws  receiver  into  a  kiss  by  the  back  of  their  neck . ∗ 83﹕ sender  is  discovered  having  a  panic  attack  by  receiver . ∗ 84﹕ sender  accidentally  injures  receiver  during  sparring . ∗ 85﹕ sender  grabs  receiver  roughly  by  the  hair . ∗ 86﹕ sender  brings  receiver  to  their  knees  during  combat . ∗ 87﹕ sender  shows  receiver  evidence  of  a  lie  they  told . ∗ 88﹕ sender  winks  [ seductively / mockingly ]  at  receiver . ∗ 89﹕ sender  yells  at  receiver  to  put  their  hands  in  the  air . ∗ 9o﹕ sender  helps  receiver  patch  up  a  wound . ∗ 91﹕ sender  holds  receiver  as  they  cry . ∗ 92﹕ sender  silently  and  angrily  points  receiver  towards  the  door . ∗ 93﹕ sender  gestures  for  receiver  to  sit  down . ∗ 94﹕ sender  pulls  receiver  into  their  lap . ∗ 95﹕ sender  cradles  receiver’s  face . ∗ 96﹕ sender  tackles  receiver  out  of  the  way  of  danger . ∗ 97﹕ sender  has  hidden  an  injury  from  receiver ,  and  receiver  finds  out . ∗ 98﹕ sender  confronts  receiver  about  their  unhealthy  behavior . ∗ 99﹕ sender  proposes  to  receiver . ∗ 1oo﹕ sender  has  just  died ,  receiver  finds  out .

[enchiiridion]

Volo preened under the praise, unable to contain the pride he felt. The job of chronicler hadn't been his first idea, but a passion that festered and grew into what's now a lifelong career spanning over centuries. One could fill a library with all the things he's seen in his time, but he will settle for filling a single bookshelf first. Guidebooks take a long time to compile-- not to mention all the months and even years of travel for decent research ( that he's been getting better at, if Elminster's words in his Guide to Monsters was anything to go by ).

Dutifully, with their tongue sticking out, Volo wrote down all the relevant details.

<DC15 FAILURE!> The top of the page featured Aurelius' name perfectly well, but when it came to the rest of what he'd said, Volo stopped writing just about the point when he'd mentioned νοσταλγία, scribbling out the poor attempt at writing those syllables and replacing them with a crude sound-alike ( he'd like to learn the language of this island, but he's been short of the resources as of late ).

"Fascinating! And can you recall the hue you'd turned at the time? How it made you feel?" This was the real interesting bit. Volo hadn't managed to learn very much of the paint's properties during his time covered in blue ( and a melancholic red ), most eager to get to the bottom of it. Perhaps it could reveal a secret of the island of which he could uncover in his book.

「✧」 So rare it was to find a mortal(?) who actually applied himself to his talents that Aurelius was quite happy to volunteer for this impromptu talk. Besides, he'd never been interviewed—being the one usually asking questions, so this was a refreshing reversal.

"Of course. I'm pleased to see someone putting their effort into meaningful tasks."

As the interviewer eagerly introduced himself, Aurelius stared curiously at the traditional paper-and-quill setup of this would-be chronicler. A traditionalist, it seems. He didn't dislike that fact.

"Aurelius Vane-Tempest," he began on cue. "After the city turned dreary, I took to the streets for amusement and in finding none, created my own."

"I believe it was at νοσταλγία—the Star Trail in Archimedes—where I first sought to act. The people there lacked purpose; it was good to unite them under a common goal."

[enchiiridion]

It is a wonderful day indeed! Volo has enjoyed getting back into doing commissions as he used to, making decent enough Dust for something nice as a weekend treat. There were many things to discover still in Spirale, and many more to document in the days to come, but it had been a long time since he'd met any other people that have come from Faerun such as himself. A dragonborn in Spirale was practically unheard of, save for a few special cases, but none so familiar to Volo ( not that he recognized Isthari in the slightest; they simply noticed that he was of a more familiar origin ). Volo seemed excited and positive as ever, something that Isthari may recognize.

<DC10 SUCCESS!> Glinting in the light, Volo recognizes that mismatched eyeball; his Ersatz Eye, the one he'd purchased ( or rather, stole ) from deep within a cavern adventure. Was this where it had gone, when the Stars had taken it from him? Given to some random wandering stranger? He'd ask for it back, but it would be a great deal of trouble to pull it out himself ( if that was even possible ).

"Why, yes, it is me!" Perhaps word had traveled fast of Volo's work. Not only a chronicler or a wizard, but now an artist too. They smiled widely, and bowed deeply, a hand humbly ( for the most part, at least ) over their chest. "Volothamp Geddarm, at your service. And who may you be?"

The venom was not lost on Volo, he knows when individuals are less than savory towards him, but it's always good to keep an air of pride about. There's no telling just how much good such a thing can do; sometimes, all an antagonist wants is to make Volo feel small. And he wasn't about to allow such a thing!

@enchiiridion liked for a starter

Isthari was having the distinct feeling he did not like this world. So far, it was proving to be more of a headache than anything else. Maybe it was the lack of magic. And the new annoying technology. And being in a house full of strangers, while worrying about everything else going on behind the scenes.

Probably the combination of all of them. Which didn't help of course, but it was true. A sigh escaped them, as they walked around, carrying a bag back. This was ridiculous. He had no idea what half these food items were. Or anything at the market. It was overwhelming, in many ways, and he had ended up with a satchel he had filled with many different items he had bought with 'dust.'

Still, the shopping hadn't been too bad. Could have been worse. A lot worse. Something could have gone wrong interacting with others, there could have been a need to do something wrong, or-

Or there could be that damn not-a-bard that he'd run into on his way home.

Of all the people he could have run into from what few memories he had... it had to be Volo.

"... Oh. It's you." Isthari didn't even try to hide the venom in his voice, staring down the distinctly not-bard, tail wagging behind him - not the polite wag of a dog's either. No, more like the whipping of a cats - to and fro and low to the ground.

A rational part of him knew he probably shouldn't be that mad. He really shouldn't. The wizard had tried to help him to get the parasite out. And inevitably, he had ended up with a greater gift in the end, right?

A bigger part of him said no, no. Just because it hadn't turned out worse It had still cost him an eye ultimately. And with magic being on the fritz in this place, whatever lingering magic in the eye probably wasn't working either.

He had every right to glare at the man. Yes. Even if it would only last for a brief amount of time.

[enchiiridion]

He so easily sees through it, the thin veneer over their racing mind, a cloth too thin to hide much of anything to someone like Fiyero ( what is an instrument good for if not to play music? ).

She frowns, an expression that weighs heavy in his soul ( both their scars on flagrant display, with such casual ease, staunch reminders of how thin the veil between the living and dead is ). They do him the kindness of stilling trembling hands, placing them on a worn and travel-weary companion. Scarred shoulder aches with the movement, fingers fingers pressing as if to test the sensation ( cold, getting warmer, the texture of fabric against fingertips ).

"Okay."

The dark is not real. It is an absence of something that does exist, a lack. Intangible. There are creatures that lurk in shadows, secrets hidden in them, and one could wander aimlessly in the dark. But so too can someone in light, even guided by a torch, trapped in a maze with no exit. Just because flowers grow on the hedges, that doesn't make an exit any more possible. But it is a comfort, to see the flowers, bask in their beauty. Fiyero's weight on his lap is a bright lantern through a cavern, unable to provide him an exit, but all the more willing to show him where he is ( here, now, heart beating ).

"I'm here," he echoes, watching Fiyero's expression, watching as her eyes trail the twisted map of the long roads Volo has taken ( through the undermountain, past countless dungeons, under a sea of stars, in a tavern ). Volo has forgotten what it's like to be taken care of, to have someone else licking the wounds. So used to casting cure critical wounds that it had become second nature to do so once a week. "I promise, I'm not going anywhere."

If the scars weren't so fresh, it would be difficult to pick them out of the litany scattered across Volo's skin. A story sunken deep in every single one ( broken bones repaired too hastily, the claws of an Owlbear, the gaze of a Beholder, magic missiles finding their target in the dark; how many times has Volo just barely scraped by the jaws of death? how many times has Fiyero? ). Some have seemingly faded with time, only highlighted by the lamplight with their thin cast shadows. Others are too deep to be forgotten, times when one could truly wonder how is it that the foolish Volothamp Geddarm still stands breathing?

It is a question even Volo finds difficulty in answering ( often shortened to I'm quite clever, aren't I before he wakes in a cold sweat at night pondering his latest escape from death ).

focus comes to him and slips away again, but it's easier to keep awake and aware with volo finally here. he watches, hands twitching with concern, as they come back to themselves. taking note of their injuries, or what's left of them now that they've returned from what this island calls death. in what seems to be some amount of restless anxiety, volo slips their shirt over their head, revealing a litany of scars that frankly does nothing to soothe fiyero's worries.

   volo is covered in scars. only their upper body is revealed, but there's too many, and plenty of them look like they would have been life-ending injuries. and fiyero is no fool, knows the cost of a revivify scroll, how much effort goes into bringing somebody back who's been gone for longer than a minute. he's intimately familiar with the toll that dying takes on you, drawing your own soul back into its body. the deep scar across his throat, exposed for the first time in front of volo, is proof enough of that. to think of the amount of times volo would have had to go through that ...

   fiyero frowns. he's starting to grow aware of his own headache from nights spent awake, blinks slowly as he slips into the empty spot volo left behind. watches, intently, as the man rummages around in their drawer, pulls out a thread and needle and gets to work.

   his hands are trembling. that won't do.

   slowly, deliberately, leaving little room for protest with his intent so clearly on display, fiyero reaches out. his hands find volo's, pull them away from the shirt in their lap, spread them apart. enough so to make space for fiyero as he plants each of his knees around volo's thighs, lowering himself on their lap. he keeps himself upright, a steady picture in front of the mage. leading volo's hands to his waist, fiyero sits carefully, gaze attentive as he keeps it on their expression.

   ' put your hands here. i'm warm. ' he'd be lying if he said it was solely for volo's sake. feeling his friend alive, knowing that they're here, underneath the tiefling, it does a lot to soothe the clumsy beating of his heart, his own weary concern. but he also sees the attempt at keeping busy, at distracting themselves. anything to not think about it. he understands— he simply wishes to give volo something else to focus on. something warm, something gentle.

   ' let me look at your scars. i want to make sure they healed well. you can touch me— i'm here, i'm with you. '

[enchiiridion]

There were many secrets of Spirale he had yet to uncover; the otherworldly creatures, it's inhabitants who may seemingly at random come and go, The Stars and what they do to the island on occasion ( be it for pleasure or for work ). But Volo's interest in them dwindled slightly now that his friend was here. Surely, Volo could be safe from harm now. While Elminster was likely depleted of a majority of his powerful magic, he still had his guidance, even if Volo deigned not to listen to it at most times. He cleared his throat and puffed his chest a little bit, seemingly proud that he looked as though he'd settled in quite nicely ( and the food got only half the thanks for it ). "Yes, yes, the books are wonderful, aren't they?"

They vaguely gesticulate to the walls of shelves, only a handful of them having been read by him, and many more in the catalogue of things to read. "I've found work here," ( not work that pays, mind ), "to help aid in my next guidebook. I'm certain you'll find it quite enchanting. I've never written of another realm before!"

( and a small mercy that was ).

While he certainly only partially appreciated how 'nitpicky' Elminster was with his guidebooks, there was no doubt that Volo's books were better off for it. And while he did have an inkling of relief to be able to write his books without such attention, Volo did prefer someone as wise as Elminster to proofread his works than anybody else he knew ( and it wasn't like any of the friends they'd made in Spirale were of poor taste; Volo just preferred a long and shared history ). "I've busied myself with gathering testimonies from this island's inhabitants on some strange recent events... things unheard of in Faerun. The entire island was shrouded completely in gray! And the inhabitants, me included, were..."

Volo struggled to put completely into words the experience, hands moving in a stuttering motion. "Ah, but it's a lot to take in on one's first day here. Please, you must show me to where they've assigned your living quarters," ( so that I can bother you in the evenings ) "and I'm sure you must be peckish by now! There's a lovely place that, somehow someway, is capable of serving just about anything and everything of this realm and beyond, including Faerun. I have little doubt that you'll enjoy just as much as I have."

Had this been any other person, in any other place, Elminster would have surely given some crotchety response to being pulled into a hug- something about how 'unseemly it was to embrace before proper greetings have been exchanged', or how 'a place of learning was hardly a place of reminiscing'.

Having said that, this was not just a stranger, it was Volothamp Geddarm, and against all odds, he was here, in this... Spirale. So instead of trying to bad him aside, Elminster only took his right hand and also patted the man on his back- no doubt the most direct physical affection he'd ever shown the bard before today.

"As I live and breathe- if I am indeed still in a realm where my faculties are truly still working and my senses do not deceive me. It is good to see you too." Alright, we shall dispose with the hugging now, he told himself as he let the man dote over him. Fortunately, El appeared to be the same man as before, if not a little less grand in his attire. "However, I think I might believe you more than you would suspect... this is a strange realm, and an empty one in the ways that matter..."

Ah. So Volo had certainly experienced exactly what El was. Of course- what a cruel place, to pull someone from their lives and remove them of their faculties! "Your assumptions are correct, old friend- this land has taken far more than I could ever forgive." He looked around at the library, lost in thought. "Remove a man of his gear, a shame. Remove a man of his purpose and his people, an even greater shame. But to remove the very essence of magic from someone who has devoted their many years to its defense and upkeep? Well now, that is a most cruel trick."

"But enough of me," He said, offering a kind smile once again, "For you seem to be less of a travelling passenger and more of a man of import! I should not be surprised- it is always the way of Volothamp Geddarm to, er, *attempt* to understand a subject so thoroughly that he practically dwells within said subject. I see you also find refuge among the books."

[enchiiridion]

Volo has adjusted considerably well, given that his use of magic is sparse in comparison to other wizards ( and it wasn't like Volo has many spells one would call useful in a place like this when phones exist ). And it wasn't like he was lonely; there was Fiyero and her camp mates. He was homesick, something he hadn't felt in a very long time, something he'd once thought impossible to feel for a person like himself ( and there's no kidding when he misses what home is to him; the friends left behind, young Emmeros growing from boy to man. How do you cope with that? ).

Work isn't so much as 'work' to Volo. It doesn't pay for anything, yet they're more than happy to take space at their desk and go through the notes of the day. There was plenty to write ever since the island's color-shift, after all.

There were quite a few records in the Annals already, and Volo was keen to make their guidebook all the more insightful, but it wasn't a nicely-bound spine that had caught their attention nor a well-titled tome. Of all the people to find wandering aimlessly in a library, of all the prayers the gods could answer, it was for him to see his dear friend Elminster again. The book in their hands made a loud thud once it impacted the floor, eyes wide. Volo wasted very little time in closing the distance between the two of them, arms wrapped around Elminster in a great big hug. After the week he's had, he's glad things are looking up.

"Oh, Elminster!" While Volo was a little partial to Spirale by now, it would be hard to admit that he didn't feel so homesick. Perhaps Elminster was here on Mystra's orders, to bring them back to Faerun? And by extension, the others trapped here too? "You will not believe just how much I have missed you, old friend!" They didn't pay much mind to whether or not Elminster would even accept the hug; not like Elminster would have the power to turn him into a frog here. Volo had made some very good friends in Spirale, had been able to reunite with Fiyero's odd little party, but there were few Volo had missed more than Elminster.

"How are you faring in this odd realm?" Finally, after a few minutes embracing, Volo peels back. Both hands stay at Elminster's shoulders, almost as if to take in that familiar face, to look over any wounds that may have been inflicted on such a long journey to Spirale ( if it was, indeed, Elminster who made the decision to trek so far ). "They must have taken things from you, yes?"

@enchiiridion liked for a starter!

If there was one thing that Elminster hated, it was not knowing things. The old wizard, left with nothing but the a modest cloak and hat and a wooden sword at his side, was more confused than he'd ever been. That was saying quite a bit: El was no stranger to visiting realms and planes of existence that absolutely confounded him, but he'd always (well, most times) had an anchor: the weave. A tether of magic that permeated and surrounded all things at all times, the fuel for arcane life and the source of magical power. His patron, Mystra, Goddess of Magic, had always wrapped the weave around El like a caretaker tucking in a child... but there was little to feel here. Nothing was as it should be- he found that he could cast "Shield", which meant that there was *something* to this place. His understanding, however, was simply far too little. If the weave was here, it was spotty and random like an artist flicking paint at a canvas in hopes of making a unique design. There was no beauty to be found in that for Elminster, however. Only fear. What good was a wizard without his powers, or the knowledge that he'd spent thousands of years trying to better understand? He could recount untold wars and alchemies, the natural and unnatural world as he'd known it was as much his playground as it was his own canvas. Here was just... confusion. He'd seen so many people already- royals and fighters, people who appeared to be from a time and place close to his and yet also those of varying shapes and sizes. None of it made sense... this realm was chaos. Perhaps that was why his brain sent him going to the only place that made sense: the library. Surely even in a place as chaotic as this, hallowed halls filled with works from learned scholars would reel him back in like a feisty fish on a line! It had taken asking many people, likely confusing many with his confusion and desperation, but eventually he was pointed to the Spirale Annals. "Good," he said aloud as he entered, "I shall find myself as many books as these old bones can carry, I shall obtain sustenance for my research, and I shall begin all over again. I have conquered the mysteries of many a realm before- what is one more under my repertoire?"

[enchiiridion]

Watching the eclipse disappear suddenly fearing for the integrity of their guidebook.

[enchiiridion]

Their moustache curls with interest, head tilting just slightly. With no publisher, Volo didn't have many avenues for PR, and that really mattered in a place where his name held no weight ( whether it was good or bad ). Volo made a sound of thought, making a display of rubbing his chin. He didn't know anything of this stranger, but he did seem like the type to attract ( good ) attention. "Hm, well... if you do say so, then..."

Volo looks at their surroundings, careful of any prying eyes, and brings the book closer for Hawks to inspect. He flips to a few earlier pages, detailed sketches of places in other wards, and descriptions of other such things. To one page is a rating system key, with little drawn tankards and daggers. How good a tavern is based on what they serve, a danger rating for the dark alleyways among other things. "It's fairly bare bones as of right now... but I do intend to document all that I can! It is my specialty, after all."

Volo's chest puffs in pride. While the likes of Elminster may argue otherwise, Volo knew he did rather extensive and detailed research. At the very least, much more than others did ( take for example his Guide to the North, a tome so filled with knowledge even Elminster himself admitted so! ). "You don't happen to know any... secrets to Spirale, do you?"

｢𓆄｣ "Isn't independent publishing all the rage right now?" He managed to sneak glances of what Volo here haphazardly covered up.

Then, they mention something akin to spreading the good word, now...That sounded familiar. And Hawks was used to displaying bravado and exaggerating his own persona.

"Spreading the good word, you say? Well, it's not something I haven't done before." So, with a grandeur stretch of his arms, accentuated with the following flare of his wings, his expression turned coy, "Well, I've gotta read it first. Really drum up that PR and marketing behind it, especially if you go the indie route."

"I could be a useful asset in advertising this piece for you."

[enchiiridion]

Dazed and a little confused, Volo takes a look at their tattered clothing and pouts. But the mere thought of casting a spell worsens the headache, and he would really rather get busy with a sewing needle than to call upon the arcane. He missed that, mending his own clothes by hand. Oh, but the stains! That would require quite a bit of tending to, and it's barely been a few minutes since he rose from the dead so-to-speak ( if death is even possible where it is impermanent ). And then there was all the note-taking and catching up he'd have to do. How long has he been drifting? How long has it been since he'd been in that awful ambulance, with all the bright lights and the blaring siren? It's nice to be back, but it's terrible to know all the fuss he's caused.

They aren't incapable of being sucked in by the dark pit, the horrifying thought that just a few days ago, the entity named Volothamp Geddarm would cease to be. It's a thought that will fester, and continue to grow in the coming days, but he is doing all in his power to avoid it ( deflect, deflect, deflect. It wasn't so bad. He got back from a long rest. It needn't be more complicated than that, right? ). It is not the wrath of the gods or the torture of the devils that Volo fears most in death; it is the infinite, ever expanding nothingness. The fugue plane. A place where one could wander without wonder. That is what's most horrifying of all.

"I..." Lifting his head, away from the newly-acquired tally marks, Volo blinks distantly a few times. Fiyero's gentle touch is a fireplace in the winter, one in which Volo wishes nothing more than to curl up in front of. The pain is hard for him to put words to; it's as though the pain had deeply embedded itself beneath his skin, like it's still fresh and torn open, as if the scars are a mere illusion. And yet he only has his pained winces and torn clothes to show for it. Volo takes a deep breath, sighs, and grimaces. "Feel... a rock has been wedged into my skull."

( a statement with a little too much truth to it )

"But you..." ( you look worse. ) Brows furrow in concern, shoulders slack. "Come here, please?" He makes a small sound, lifting his own weight to make room on the bed. It's already not very big, but he hopes that Fiyero doesn't mind it so much, patting the small empty space left. Volo fumbles with the buckles of his shirt before being able to take it off, then reaches into the nightstand for something. It's awfully cold, but he'd rather not think about that; he just wants his shirt mended and his friend close. Out from the drawer comes a small sewing kit. Volo searches for the switch to his lamp, getting to work right away.

"You should rest," ( please stay ) "you seem..." ( troubled, weary, distraught, worried ) "as though you haven't... a single wink in days." Their voice is quiet, weak, and yet restless; even if the body begs for it, in every stabbing sting of pain, in every beat of its pulse in his skull, Volo cannot find the will to sleep ( too afraid of finding that endless void, too afraid of finding out this may just be a dream, of waking up in the ambulance, in a place where the gods are unable to reach ). The needle moves with purpose, methodically, the thread a shade not befitting of the fabric.

( Even under the dim light, he can see; the stains, of his own blood, so much of it there is barely the original color left. Many would call this a fruitless task, that the garment would never go back to its original design. Not without extensive hand-washing, not without the use of mending, not without all sorts of trouble. But Volo was not looking to restore it completely. He sought to calm the trembling of his hands with monotonous, familiar work. )

fiyero doesn't really know what he's seeing at first.

   it's been three days; he's barely slept. no real sleep, at least. he's been sitting in this chair and every now and then exhaustion got the best of him, his vision blurring enough to doze off. it never lasts terribly long, fiyero startling out of it each time, as though he'd missed something. he didn't. the bed remains empty.

   sometimes his eyes play tricks on him and he thinks he sees a figure tangled in the blankets, a head of curls. each time, when he blinks and looks properly, he discovers he'd been imagining things. the mattress undisturbed, the book at its pillow not touched. at some point he slips off into the bathroom, glad for the lack of company as he pads across the hallway, gets himself a glass of water. he's not hungry, the kitchen too far away, so he doesn't eat. the golden band usually around his throat is discarded eventually, too tight on his throat, exposing the only scar on his body to nobody at all.

   the chair is uncomfortable. everything aches. he busies himself with the berret in his hands, feels its fabric and texture. it's very soft. fiyero didn't see any blood on it, but he cast prestidigitation on it at some point anyways, just to be sure. he would wash it properly, if he could leave the room at all. he can't. he stays.

   when volo appears, fiyero isn't all there. even with his darkvision, it's hard to see properly. mostly colours and shapes, and when he thinks he sees volo, he doesn't trust himself enough to believe it. maybe the medics lied to him, to soften the blow, stop fiyero from causing more of a ruckus than he already has. maybe they won't come back at all. it's a horrifying thought, one that he has to abandon immediately if he doesn't want panic to grip him by the throat.

   volo touches him. fingers against his face, nudging him towards them, eyes shifting back into focus. fiyero?

   ' volo, ' he breathes, his voice gone. he doesn't freeze, his reaction only delayed from days of doing nothing at all. it's when volo starts sitting up that fiyero shifts as well, sitting up properly, leaning towards them. one of his hands is put against their back, steadying them, the other rests on their shoulder. they're still not as warm as fiyero would like, but at least they're not so terribly cold anymore.

   ' hi, ' he mutters, and his voice cracks with the attempt at making an actual sound. he hasn't spoken in a while. when was the last time he sipped at the glass of water? blue eyes that shine in the dark of the room track volo's expression, go to where the shirt that fiyero had cut reveals a scar. not a wound, a scar, even amidst the dry blood.

   fiyero breathes out. (they could've at least done them the courtesy of giving them new clothes to return in.)

   ' don't move too much. you just got back. ' got back from what? ' how are you feeling? are you in pain? '

[enchiiridion]

@cerberice ✶ INTERVIEWS

"Please, stay still--" Their tongue sticks out, one eye closed, and Volo scribbles a little more in the notebook. "Ah, okay. Let's begin, shall we?"

They're at his desk in the Spirale Annals, a few scattered pages with scribbled notes and hastily-drawn portraits of his other interviewees. Volo gets comfortable, setting the notebook down, a sketch of his current one at the left of the page. "You were involved in the events the other week, yes? In a manner of speaking. May I ask what hue you were and how it affected you?"

[enchiiridion]

@hollowfaith ✶ INTERVIEWS

It's getting a bit late now, but Volo has never been one to delay an interview. They pull a seat out for their guest at the dining table, and sets down a glass of water. With almost giddy excitement, Volo sits at the other end with his notebook open, chair scraping as he scoots closer to the table. "It is very nice of you to reach out to me!"

"I'm a quite well-known chronicler of my realm. Your testimony will be very useful in my endeavor to catalogue all the strange happenings of this fine city." He flips to an empty page, quill scratching against it. "Now, may I get your name and where you were when the city turned gray?"

[enchiiridion]

“ Someone's cuddly today. ”

UNTITLED EMBRACES

What would they do without Fiyero? Trusted friends were hard to come by in Faerun, and that was no different in a place like Spirale. Volo valued friends like one would a stash of gold coins, keeping them close and well-guarded ( or as well-guarded as someone like Volo could ). She has decidedly been keen to keep a close eye on him ever since his ( first ) death in Spirale, and that didn't seem like it was going to change anytime soon. Not like Volo minds so much the attention, with some minor exceptions. He quite likes being doted on and protected, despite believing ( rather foolishly ) that he can take care of himself just fine.

With her tail wrapped around him, there is hardly a more comfortable place to be than in her gentle embrace, and the couch has ample space for it. It hadn't taken much more than for her to sit beside him for the invitation to be handed, arms wide open for him to lean back cozily and almost purr with the contentment. It's silent, but he asks her don't get up just yet and it's been that way for a good few minutes now. "Very much so," he agrees, forehead resting on her shoulder. He'd stay there all day, if allowed to do so. "Hard not to be, with you."