sogurikur - Tumblr blog

[sogurikur]

So, here’s the thing. I wanted to do Kiss Week for a few friends, but I’m notoriously slow and have been feeling funky. So this is going to turn into more like Kiss Month.

I had to do one for @s0tc first, because she has indulged me in my first SWTOR plotting in like 5 years, which I’m super appreciative of and having a blast with.  We’ve barely written anything with them yet, but I… had to….

So here’s some illicit Jedi sap from when our pair were wee babies. They’re just friends. Really.

OC Kiss Week 2018

Day 1: first kiss | forehead kiss (Both?) With my Tosch and @s0tc‘s Aya.

A sharp inhalation of breath through clenched teeth broke the silence between the two Jedi. Tosch sat dutifully still, his hands balled into fists upon his knees, and his eyes closed to block out the heatless golden glow just on the other side of his eyelids. Not that he could open both of his eyes just then, anyway. He had long ago gotten used to the feeling of Aya’s hands on his face, the miraluka frequently taking time aside to graze fingers across his skin to “see” him – but now it was hard to find familiar comfort in the gesture. Now Aya stood over his seated form, a palm pressed firmly to the side of his face, as she drew upon the Force to heal the gash that split open most of his brow and cheekbone. The gentle light was offset by the always disconcerting feeling of his flesh slowly knitting back together, and at another shift and another sharp sting, Tosch swore quietly under his breath.

“Stop being a baby,” Aya scolded him, but he could hear the smile and the mirth in her voice without needing to see it. So, he reached up to catch her by the wrist, craning back so that he could shoot her a wry look with the eye that wasn’t, well, swollen shut.

Keep reading

[sogurikur]

Tagged by @s0tc, let’s do this again!

Bold any fears which apply to your character. Italicize what makes them uncomfortable. Copy/paste as new post. Do not reblog.

From SWTOR, Tosch:

the dark. fire. open water. deep water. being alone. crowded spaces. confined spaces. change. failure. war. loss of control. powerlessness. blood. drowning. suffocation. clowns. the supernatural. heights. spiders. rejection. abandonment. loss. the unknown. the future. not being good enough. scary stories. speaking to new people. poverty. loud noises. being touched. forgetting. being forgotten. being mind controlled. being haunted. dying. being misunderstood.

From D&D, Ebon:

the dark. fire. open water. deep water. being alone. crowded spaces. confined spaces. change. failure. war. loss of control. powerlessness. blood. drowning. suffocation. clowns. the supernatural. heights. spiders. rejection. abandonment. loss. the unknown. the future. not being good enough. scary stories. speaking to new people. poverty. loud noises. being touched. forgetting. being forgotten. being mind controlled. being haunted. dying. being misunderstood.

(Lot of similar ones, whoops. Also lol, ‘being haunted’ is a very recent one for him.)

Tagging: @s0tc, @b-e-m-l-t / @damarlegacy, @heychief, @adamnhippie, @stonegolem, @teme-xuha, others from my D&D group that it’s not letting me @, and whoever else feels like doing it!

[sogurikur]

What’s up guys, I haven’t forgotten about this blog!

November was a clusterfuck month leading up to me being in a wedding, and I’ve been on-and-off unhealthy since then, lmao.

I’ve been kicking around some writing prompt lists, though, and I’m gonna try and scrape a few together into something fun to do.

[sogurikur]

POTA - Prayers.

Yet another RP log from our PotA campaign, in which Ceryl prays to his newfound deity and gets some answers. Mostly narrative on my part!

Things had a way of repeating themselves, didn't they? In essence, isn't that what all of this came down to?

Those questions were at the front of Ceryl's mind as he found himself alone for the second time that week, exhausted and spent, having just escaped a life-threatening crisis, and left with questions plaguing him that he just didn't have answers to. As before, he knew he should sleep -- in the morning, they would dive right back into the abyss, and the chance for rest would be gone -- yet his fatigue had competition from his anxiety over the matter of the altar. His body felt sluggish as he laid out his pack, but his mind raced this way and that, trying to find solutions that weren't there.

In that moment though, as Ceryl extended an arm to smooth out his bedroll, his eyes fell upon the piece of tusk affixed to a cord around his wrist. At that, he finally stopped. And for the second time that week, he also found himself taking to his knees in the still and the dim light, reaching out to whoever was listening.

"I was luckier than most kids, you know. I didn't want for much. I was never hungry... But it was hard -- everyone had to work hard for that. It wasn't easy getting through the ice, especially in the winter -- we didn't have the big ships the guilds did. And it wasn't easy to fish when most had already been caught up in Ten-Towns. But we managed."

The genasi paused, turning the bit of bone over in his fingers, before he continued.

"I don't know what to do... Neither option is wrong. If we leave the altar, then it might be abused again with no one able to stop it -- or it might not. But even if we destroy it, even if the seeds are enough to keep Goldenfields going, people are still going to starve... It'll be the poorest first, the ones who already have to beg for bread as it is. Then it'll be the people like my family." And then, bitterly: "What's the point in saving the world if a quarter of them are going to die anyway?"

There was another pause, before Ceryl sighed. "I can't do this. I can't make a decision like that on my own."

He couldn't help but feel foolish doing this -- it made him feel like a dumb teenager all over again, going to his parents for life advice. And that touched on another, more selfish feeling that had been an undercurrent in his mind the whole evening. He missed his family. It wasn't like he hadn't been away from them before, for months at a time -- but something about this altar crisis, and Teresiel's elderly hand taking hold of his, had been a painful reminder. The past weeks since he'd seen them felt like an eternity. 

The longer Ceryl sits alone in the room with his thoughts in the mild air and the Vale’s safe walls, the more the feeling grows: a familiar one as he thinks of home and his family. Warmth. A hearth. A crackling fire after the snow's storm. Someone is listening.

A thread of thought is tugged like that old wizened hand taking hold of his. Memories of family have been with you, even when much was missing, they were always there. Through all your troubles, they made things better. No matter how dire things got.

The seeds come to mind, and Teresiel's words. Older magic. Things that endure. Trust in things that are older than an elf's arrogance. People have been enduring long before now, and will endure long after. Trust the old ways. Trust the Gods.

Relief of several different sorts washed over the genasi in waves, as whoever reached out to him and brushed his mind with the answers he sought.

It began with relief that he had been heard and answered at all, removing any lingering doubts he'd had that his answer in Summit Hall was something he'd dreamed -- his exhaustion making him hear what he wanted to hear. There could be no doubt this time, and he closed his eyes to allow that warmth to soothe him and guide his thoughts. It should have felt foreign to him -- he'd never prayed, never been a godly man, this whole thing should have felt strange and baffling -- but, somehow, it didn't. The entity was right, the thoughts of his family were never far, and something about this exchange felt like... like his mother smoothing his hair when he'd run crying to her with skinned knees as a child. Relief. In the quiet of the room, Ceryl exhaled enormously.

And the magnitude of his relief at the answer itself couldn't be measured. People have been enduring long before now, and will endure long after. Trust the Gods.  Where before, Ceryl had been kneeling, now he sat back on his heels and slouched -- his hands falling to rest upon his knees, the piece of tusk cradled in an open palm.

"It will be all right, then?" he asked, into the dark. "If we destroy this thing, there's still a chance for all those people?" It was not disbelief or distrust in his voice, nor did he seek some concrete promise that everything would be perfect. It was hard not to feel hopeless in the face of crises and beings so much bigger than himself, however, and a confirmation that there was hope at all would rid him of many further concerns. 

There’s no real guided answer to the question, only the continuing warmth. It changes though: a crackling, cosy fire begins to feel like the heat of late summer sunshine on his back. Familiar thoughts of days aboard boats surrounded by gently washing waves aren’t far from the thoughts offered to his mind. The whispering is a field of wheat, waist high, swaying in the breeze and ripe for harvest. The laughter of boatmen and farmhands are indistinguishable. None of it is lush and overflowing, but it is alive. It is enough. Some day Ceryl might stand among a field at harvest time and know the scent of turned earth well, and the tickle of chaff floating on the breeze.

Almost as though it’s here now, a tickle where the scrimshaw piece sits close. There’s something there now, fresh beside his own carvings, etched into the surface. Something important to this valley. Delicate wheat, carved finer than any mortal hand might do, almost flowing in a breeze amongst the patterns Ceryl left on his holy symbol long ago.

His eyes still closed, Ceryl allowed his thoughts to be guided along. It wasn't hard to remember what Goldenfields had looked like -- the barren fields stretching endlessly in every direction around the abbey. So the genasi's relief was only doubled at what he was being 'shown' now, at the warmth and the promise of life. In the darkness of the room, he exhaled deeply, committing those images to memory, so he could revisit them if his doubts returned. It is enough. That was the most he could ask for. That was all the reassurance he needed.

... mostly. The greatest of his concerns assuaged, it allowed a smaller one to rise from where it had been lurking in a far corner of his mind. Would his family be all right? Through these horrible journeys through Tyar Besil, there had been an uncomfortable certainty that he would need to make some... greater sacrifice to end the crisis. That this would not be a mission he would return from. That did not bother him, surprisingly -- he would do whatever it took to end this and keep everyone safe. He only worried that his family would manage in his absence, that they would understand and not be too hurt.

Then there was the tickle from the piece of tusk in his palm -- and he opened his eyes again, and did not speak those particular concerns aloud. It felt jarring now, to find himself sitting in the dark when the sunlight and the warmth had felt so real only a moment before. But he raised the holy symbol close, and the sight of the delicate wheat interwoven with his early clumsy carvings made his chest tighten and his eyes sting. A tangible sign that this had all been real.

One final question remained. It felt rude to ask. It felt rude not to ask. "Who are you?" he said aloud, wanting to put some identity to this presence, that he might give them the proper respect.

Images begin to fade in Ceryl’s mind, but that comforting thought of family lingers. A mother smoothing down a child’s hair, cooling a fevered brow, guiding them by the hand: all things that Ceryl has known and another child will know again.

The fine pattern on the scrimshaw reminds him, the wheat grows, the harvest comes, the wheat grows again. And just like a Mother, a name is not important to the children she bears. The earth will grow again, and they’ll be there when it does.

As the presence of his newfound guardian began to recede, Ceryl fought down the urge to hold on to the connection, feeling childish -- a toddler trying to cling to his mother's fingers, not wanting to let go and stand on his own. Still, they were gone -- and the genasi felt far more at ease than he had in days, now that his concerns had been answered. His prayers had been answered -- something he never would have imagined, ever, not in his life.

It would be interesting to tell Garrett of it later, he thought, if they had a chance to speak again.

It took a few long moments for Ceryl's mind to fully return to the present, where he still knelt upon the mossy stone. It had surely only been a handful of minutes, not even long enough for his knees to become sore -- yet while the deity's warmth still remained, the room around him suddenly felt that much darker and emptier for it. And while the fatigue of the day was weighing down Ceryl's body, the longer he looked at the bedroll he'd laid out, the less he wanted to actually sleep there, alone in the silent dark. He sat there a few moments more, running a thumb over the new patterns on his piece of scrimshaw and weighing his few options. Then, at last, he began to gather up his things -- he knew what he needed to do, though it made him feel just as childish as before.

[sogurikur]

POTA - Garrett & Ceryl, Round 2.

Here’s the other RP log from our PotA campaign. As before, Ceryl is mine, Garrett is @b-e-m-l-t‘s NPC.

This thread was more narrative and serious than the last one. 

To say that Ceryl felt tired would have been an understatement -- he had been tired before in his life, from a long day's journey or a hard day of work, but never like this. Their encounter with the medusa and whatever other entity had spoken to them in those depths, and their arduous flight back to Summit Hall under the darkened sky, had sapped him down to his soul, it felt like. The genasi knew he should take his rest while it was available -- their time was shorter now than it ever had been, and the world waited for no man -- but he couldn't. Not just yet. Instead, it was that shortness of time that weighed on Ceryl like an anvil, and pulled him towards the barracks the moment his words with Ashir had ended.

Bone-weary as he was, whatever energy he could spare as he weaved through paladins and priests in the halls went into presenting himself as at-ease, calm and collected as he always was. It was a ruse that could not hide the shadows gathering under his eyes and the sagging of his shoulders -- but a necessary ruse, all the same. Ceryl had come to realize, in recent days, that people expected him to always be the level-headed and cool one. With the world ending outside and everyone's hope resting on the shoulders of the three of them, they couldn't afford to see him break down or not have his shit together. So he gave a half-hearted smile as he made his way into the barracks, sparing a moment to check in with Seta before heading towards the man he sought.

His father wasn't exactly easy to miss, after all.

"Garrett," Ceryl said, by way of greeting. "Got your hands full here, it looks like, but can you spare a minute?" Or an hour, he thought, though he half expected the man to dodge him again.

Though he had made himself scarce whenever in a room with the lord commander, there was no Ushien Stormbanner ruling the barracks to make him shrink against a wall. He was indeed hard to miss. While clerics and initiates bustled around, tending to more than just their unconscious guest, serfs and townspeople still reeling from Beliard, Garrett stood stock still. He was not a healer, he couldn’t tend to the Feathergale Commander, but he could do something as well as any Paladin.

Behind a hastily put up sheet to shield Thurl from view, Garrett stood stock still a few paces from the end of the sleeping man’s cot. Healers had cleaned and closed wounds and left the Red Lance to stand vigil, and he did so. He hands were folded close to his chest, holding his longbow on end. Two arrows were clasped ready between his fingers. Garrett remembered what had been said of the man in the bed. He would take no chances, not after the last time Felsi, Ashir, and Ceryl had been at Summit Hall. A hundred pounds of force travelling all of eight feet quicker than a breath would end any trouble before it began.

He didn’t look up at first as the genasi approached. He quirked a brow, then turned his head when the voice registered to a face in his memory and he tipped his chin up, lips pressed tight. “He’s not waking up any time soon. What do you need?” He angled his head towards a stool against the wall, occupied by a healer not long before.

For just a moment, Ceryl couldn't help but catch himself staring at the man before him, as he moved past the cleric into the space behind the makeshift curtain. It dawned on him that it was the first time he'd really seen Garrett in his element, or something akin to it. Not putting on an act of being bawdy and drunk, nor cowed underfoot of the lord commander, nor hunched behind a table and scrolls. No, here the man looked like the war cleric that Ceryl knew him to be -- straight backed and at attention, not unlike a chess piece himself. What else was his father really like, he wondered, ringing true to what he'd come there for.

Then his mind registered that yes, idiot, the man had asked him a question -- so he shook it off and ran a hand down his tired face.

"Oh," Ceryl said, started. "No, I don't need anything, it's not that. I just wanted to speak with you a bit."

Nearly the moment he was behind the sheet and out of sight from the rest of the barracks, whatever shreds of his ruse still remained melted away from him. It was just him and Garrett now, so there was no need -- well, and Thurl, but that one wasn't likely to notice. Still, though Ceryl looked like he sorely wanted to just fall upon the stool like a ragdoll, he stopped just before it -- and turned to look at Garrett as though asking for permission to stay.

"Look, I know we agreed to hold off on talking until all this is over, but--" But the sky is black, and the world is ending. But I just watched my friend cut off his own arm, and we aren't even finished yet. But this may be the last chance we get. Ceryl managed to push back those thoughts and wrest up something resembling his usual humor.    "-- ... Well, things have changed now, haven't they?"

Garrett had pointed out the stool that Ceryl took for just the one reason- so he could keep both the genasi and the dormant knight in his eyeline. And somehow that was easier, giving a place for his eyes to fall when looking at Ceryl somehow became difficult, and the moment words left his mouth, it did.

“Things have changed now.” Garrett agreed. His hands tightened on the tip of the bow, fingers unfurling and recurling on the arrows he grasped. The first time Ceryl had come to him like this, and indeed the second, he might have wished for someone to gift him with a hundred pounds of armour piercing bodkin point steel, if only for a quick exit. But that was childish. Time among other clerics and stoic paladins had reminded him that pretense was only so useful, and its use had run out that first day back in Red Larch.

“I thought I'd hired in three casual mercenaries who'd go into this Valley and find all those people camped out in bad weather.” His brow creased as he looked at some point in space between himself and the foot of Thurl’s cot. “They said I could hire myself an army if I wanted. That'll teach me to choose restraint I suppose.” He remembered himself and let out a laugh. “Of all the times I could have chosen to stick to the fucking doctrine.”

Garrett patted the emblazoned red steed on his tabbard by way of apology to the Knight, and finally glanced back to the genasi sagging in his seat. He looked tired. And Garrett couldn't decide if the man looked anything like him or not.

“Let's talk then.”

For his part, as Ceryl near collapsed onto the stool he'd been offered, Thurl may as well not even have been there at all. He spared a glance at the unconscious knight -- the clerics had certainly done a better job taking care of the man than he had -- before his eyes found their way back to Garrett and stayed there. The genasi didn't seem to have the same problem that his father did, instead paying rapt attention to Garrett, as though he was afraid he might miss something if he didn't. Somewhere dimly in the back of his mind, he knew he was probably making the man uncomfortable. Still, he watched.

And he listened. Ceryl had come there that night -- was it night? -- for honesty, and yet had expected it to be largely one-sided. Getting truth from Garrett over the course of the mission had felt like pulling teeth at times, so it was a surprise to hear the man being so frank now. The genasi wasn't sure if it made him feel better to hear Garrett speak of the mission that way, of the should haves and could have beens, and almost started to argue -- after all, if he'd thrown them unknowingly into the fire, so had everyone else. The Harpers had sent him in blind and dumb -- and here Ushien did have half an army, and yet allowed the three casual mercenaries to face horrors in the dark alone all the same. But the 'let's talk then' chased all that away in a heartbeat.

"All right, then," Ceryl said, shifting to sit more upright, but his whole brow creased and he seemed to flounder for a moment. "To be honest, I'm... not actually sure where to start. I don't know anything about you, or who you are, and--"

He stopped himself abruptly, suddenly realizing how childish he sounded and felt, voicing aloud these concerns he'd had for some time now. Still he didn't look away, but gave Garrett a sort of defeated shrug. "I'm sure that seems like the least important thing right now, with everything going on out there. But if not now, then when?"

Looking at the sleeping man was definitely easier than meeting Ceryl’s pleading eye. The longer he glanced at the genasi each time, the more Garrett was able to realise-- yes, he did look like his father.

“You don’t need to play it down, lad.” He tipped his head just slightly.  “I’ve no scrolls to write or people to run off and see.” And that was a truth. The infirmary was growing quieter as the minutes passed, the sag of more than just Ceryl’s shoulders giving away the late hour of the day. “Don’t worry about how a thing’s going to sound, just ask it anyway. The only ones we need explain ourselves to are the gods.”

He pointed a figure upwards, and at last looked over to the younger man. “I’m a Red Lance. Not the only Red Lance, but I’m not bad at the job.” His brow creased even as the corner of his mouth twitched. “I wage a good war and I shoot a fine arrow. Shame those weren’t what’s needed here.” He lifted his chin at Ceryl. “There. That’s a start, isn’t it?”

It's the comment about the gods that causes the first break in Ceryl's focus -- for the first time since arriving, he glances away from Garrett and an odd unsure look passes over his face.

Still, it was fleeting, and the genasi's eyes were back on the man once he began to explain himself -- he truly did not want to miss anything. And it wasn't long before Ceryl was arriving as the same conclusion that his father was. Before, when he'd stared, it was to judge reactions, but now that he was really looking, he too could see the resemblance. It’s the nose, he thought, but the moment Garrett's forehead wrinkled, the genasi had to stifle a smile. There really was no denying it.

The later comment is what gets a genuine reaction out of Ceryl though, a dry and incredulous laugh. "Are you kidding? Those are exactly what's needed here. I wish you'd been with us the last two times we've been down there." It's out of his mouth before he's really registered what he's said, but he pressed on all the same.

"But yes," he says. "It's a good start. The Lord's Alliance dwarf from the delegation, he said--... Well, he said they dread it when you show up because you're called in when things are serious. Is that true?" He paused, tapping his fingers together in thought. "And that can't be all, I assume you're not just a Red Lance." It was a statement laced with implications, but the genasi wasn't sure how to breach that topic just yet.

Garrett drummed his fingers around the well-worn end of the yew bow he held, filling the moments it took him to compose an answer and decide to abandon anything he constructed anyway. He frowned fully at the sleeping form of Thurl.

“A Red Lance isn’t a lot of things, lad.” He pressed his lips together. The three of them had witnessed well enough. Ushien, paladins, and now that damned dwarf, they’d all had few things to say about Garrett and most weren’t a shining review. “I’m a strategist more than a warrior. Asking you to go and flush out that earth cult, sending you into the valley as our back up plan. Hell, even the delegation to begin with was a strategy to make sure I never have to turn up at anyone’s door again.”

He abandoned the train of thought, unsure where it would lead, and finally glanced at Ceryl. “People don’t like me turning up because when I’m right it means they can’t do whatever they want, and when I’m wrong…” He looked to the window and muttered something fluid under his breath in Elvish, before speaking in Common again. “When I get it wrong, the stakes are very, very high. I have a lot of responsibilities to fulfill but Red Lances believe in following fair rules to do it, nothing more than that.”

The half-elf shook his head and looked back at the unmoving charge. “I don’t know if I could have saved that boy’s hand down there, Ceryl, but I’m starting to figure out what the Red Knight would tell me to do next, unyielding wench that she is.” He patted his tabbard again fondly. “Pray, and carry the fuck on.”

If there was any skill Ceryl had cultivated the most over the years, it was listening -- oh, how many nights he had spent sitting around fires, absorbing others' stories and committing them to memory. So, as Garrett spoke, the genasi listened to every word -- though he managed to look a bit chastened as the man went on. Ceryl had a feeling he might have hit on a poor subject, though in truth he'd only meant that Garrett seemed to have more importance in the world than even his son thought. Still, he listened, and did not argue until the man was done.

"You can't blame yourself for all of this going wrong -- it's on us just as much," Ceryl said, and it was spoken not a plea, or a play for pity. Only a fact. The genasi's eyes drifted to the window as well, at the blackened sky, and he shook his head. "We were close -- we could have stopped that medusa's ritual, I think, if we'd been a little faster. If we were any good at strategy. I guess-- " He cut himself off then, seeming to debate what he'd started to say, and a frown darkened his face -- looking so dour did not sit well upon a face so accustomed to smiling. "-- ... I guess it was meant to happen. But you're right, there's nothing to do but keep going."

At that, Ceryl tore his gaze away from the window, and if anything he seemed to deflate further where he sat as he looked back towards Garrett.

"You know, a week ago, saying that wouldn't have bothered me?" he asked the man, gave a wry grin that held absolutely no mirth. "You heard me last time -- things happen for a reason, things always have a way of working out, and so on. I've always thought that, and it's been true. Hell, I still don't think learning about you now was a coincidence. But this shit out there..." He lifted an arm to gesture at the window, before folding them both across his chest. A moment of silence passed before his brow furrowed again, and he looked at his father thoughtfully -- and near reverently. “How did you find your faith? Was it when this all happened before?”

The way the genasi spoke pulled Garrett’s eyes from the prisoner- ward, patient, whatever he was- and though he didn’t meet Ceryl’s eye he returned the courtesy and listened. But that look in the young man’s eye when he looked to the Red Lance made him turn away again.

“Just because you’ve seen some some shit doesn’t mean you’re suddenly wrong, if that’s what you believe.” Hell, at least the kid believed something. Anything. Garrett shook his head, but the corner of his mouth lifted. “I don’t have a sermon for you, kid. You’ll have to wander down the hall for that.”

He sighed though, and his shoulder shrugged with the gentle knock of plate armour.

“I had all kinds of faith as a kid, more than I probably should have. But this?” He knocked the hand holding arrows to his chest, to the red knight, and held it there. “There was no Lord’s Alliance back then, not like it all is now. People fought each other for the pettiest shit and I was a kid that thought if everyone was gonna fight, then they should at least fight fair.

“I yelled about it a lot, so some old Red Lance trains me up and it all kinda fits. Maybe it was coincidence, maybe I was just yelling loud enough for a god to hear. Maybe,” he pointed toward Ceryl. “Maybe it was meant to be or some shit like you said, I don’t know. But when this happened the last time, it happened fast. I had a god who could help me make my choices, that’s all they do. It’s different this time but there is still time. Different people are fighting now. Different choices.”

As though he’d realised how long he’d been speaking, quietly and looking at nothing in particular, he shook his head. “Shit, take this with a heap of salt, kid. One boot doesn’t fit ‘em all.” He almost scowled until he realised the expression wouldn’t do anyone any use.

“How about this. When shit gets bad, someone’s usually listening.I found faith when I yelled about. When I asked for it. When you need it most.”

The sermon comment succeed to summon up a quiet laugh from the genasi, but otherwise as Garrett spoke, he simply listened once again. That time, though, Ceryl's focus seemed more distant -- his gaze remained on the other man, and yet he seemed to be looking through the knight rather than at him. And that thoughtful and reverent look still hadn't left his face. Everything Garrett said rang true, and yet felt utterly foreign at the same time -- how alike and unalike they were.

But Ceryl wasn't lost in thought enough to not be paying attention, and at the last bit, he nodded and managed to look genuinely grateful.

"So, just pray and hope for the best, then?" he asked, and accompanying it was the first genuine smile in some time. Tired, but genuine. "Here I thought you might have some secret wisdom for me. But no, I understand -- I think -- and I appreciate it. It hasn't been like any of that for me -- my parents were just simple folk, you know, not really the godly sort--" Ceryl stopped abruptly, once again realizing far too late what had come out of his mouth, and he cringed, and he closed his eyes, and he exhaled slowly. The genasi had adjusted to his newly discovered sire well, but somehow speaking of his... well, his real parents in front of his real father made his stomach turn into knots.

"Anyway," Ceryl continued a moment later, but it was his turn to avoid Garrett's eyes this time, staring at some point on the floor instead. "At most it was just... you say thanks to this god for the spring thaw, and you say thanks that one for a good haul, meaningless shit like that. For my part, I've always believed in fate -- sometimes I might even spare thanks to Istus. But that's not really the same as faith. How can I just... sit by and leave things up to fate with something like this? With all those people out there?"

It was the genasi's turn then, to realize how much he'd been rambling and going on about himself, and his eyes rose back to where Garrett was standing. "I guess it can't hurt to yell and see who's listening. Not for me, but for them."

Garrett made a face a little way through Ceryl’s words, at the name of a god, and when the genasi finished speaking he sighed and shook his head. “You know, those fucking fate gods. That’s a long wait for a horse that never shows up. People give them so much damn credit for the shit that just happens and--”

He took in a sharp breath and looked at Ceryl. Finally, properly looked at the genasi-- his son-- and met his eye. “You’ve got the right idea, Ceryl. Even the gods need people, they’ve got no one to meddle with or help or ignore if there are no people. Far as I’m concerned, you’re doing the right by keeping up with all this shit for people, not gods.”

The half-elf looked back at the sleeping man in the bed, and after a moment’s steadying breath he stepped back and sat heavily on a chair behind him. He set the arrows on the floor and propped the longbow between his knees and scrubbed a hand over his beard. When he spoke again, it was almost quiet, but a little of the brevity had returned.

“There’s always listening. That makes shit like this--” he gestured to the hall, to the paladins of Tyr, and the distinct lack of justice they had seemed to be dealing out in the valley. “--harder to see, because it’s not that their god’s not here. He’s just doing nothing. So fuck the gods, Ceryl. Believe in people.”

Shadowed and tired though they were, Ceryl's eyes widened at Garrett's initial outburst -- but it wasn't until the other man finally truly looked at him that the surprise bloomed across his expression. He'd gotten so used to looking at the side of his father's face, used to the man only glancing at him sidelong, that for the first few seconds, he wasn't even sure how to react. But he listened, and this -- moreso than anything else the man had said so far -- rang true to Ceryl, and hit close to home.

Even as the genasi watched Garrett finally stand down from his position and seat himself, Ceryl was quiet, mulling over that moment and committing it to memory. That sort of... validation from his father felt strange. Unexpected. He hadn't known he'd needed it until it had happened.

Ceryl was shaken from that when Garrett spoke again, and whatever mystified expression still remained on the genasi's face gave way to something far more warm. "I do believe in people," he answered immediately, and truthfully. "I really do. It's hard for me not to."

He hesitated, shifting on the stool to lean forward towards Garrett with his elbows upon his knees, seeming to weigh something in his mind before speaking again. "It feels... odd... talking about them here, but. When my parents found me abandoned, they had no reason to take me in. But they did -- everyone in that village did. Fuck, if I wasn't blue, I'd have never known I wasn't theirs, they cared for me so well." He folded his hands and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, thinking. "And I joined the Harpers because, aside from my family, my mentor is the kindest old bear I've know. Not a single person on this earth he doesn't receive like they're his brother."

For several moments, Ceryl didn't say anything else, only sat quietly and ran his thumbs over each other and kept gazing upwards, seemingly lost in memory. When he finally did speak again, he looked back to Garrett with an odd focus and a bittersweet look on his face. "There's a lot of shitty people in the world. But when there's people like that -- and like you -- that’s all that matters to me."

Garrett let his head rest back against the cold stone wall and for the first time watched Ceryl properly as the genasi spoke. Even when he was unsure, there was verve to his words. There was the occasional glance towards the unconscious bedridden Thurl, but for long moments Garrett didn’t tear his eyes away.

Until Ceryl had finished, and the half-elf lifted a gauntleted hand to point at the younger man. “There’s your faith, kid.” He closed his mouth and his brow creased as she looked at Ceryl a little longer. He gave himself no credit at all for the man sitting across from him, but something close to relief passed over Garrett’s face. “You’re gonna laugh and call me preachy but if you’ve got it, it’s always been there.”

He settled his hand back in his lap and smiled. “Hey, can you do me a favour?”

The longer Garrett stared at him, the more it occurred to Ceryl that no, it didn't feel strange to suddenly have the man's attention. It was a dose of reality to think he'd only known this man for a few days -- a few hours, really in their snatches of conversations between missions. Like his parents stumbling onto him on the bank, Ceryl really had no reason even to give a shit about the father that sat across from him now, staring at him. It would have been easy to ignore him, or resent him. But this, making peace -- he loved his parents, but this felt better than he'd ever admit aloud.

So Ceryl smiled right back, and gave a quiet laugh, and looked far less tense than he had when he'd first slumped into the barracks. "It hasn't always been there, I promise. But-- sure, anything. Ask away."

Garrett glanced around at the otherwise empty room, even on the other side of the sheet, a paltry excuse for privacy, the infirmary had quieted down in the very late hour. “Alright, small lie, two favours.”

The half-elf leant a little closer, because even if it was quiet, there were more reasons for a hushed tone than just personal conversation. “The next time you see Bjorn, tell him he sent exactly right person for this.” He narrowed his eyes. “Tell him he’s a shit because he sent someone who would remember exactly what I would forget about.” The people. The small picture. A human agenda, if all the races of the sword coast would pardon the phrase.

Garrett leant back to settle fully into his seat, and reached for the arrows again, balancing them across his lap. “Second thing, go the hell to bed, kid.” He smiled, the irony of sending Ceryl to his room not lost on him. “Get some sleep, you look like shit. We all do.”

Ceryl looked somewhat confused at the sudden need for secrecy, given the nature of the conversation they'd already been having at full volume. Even so, he leaned in close as Garrett did, his eyebrows creasing together -- and his smile turned into a full grin at what the other man said.

"Why am I not surprised you two know each other?" he asked, shaking his head. A whole conversation about shirking fate, and now this. Small world. "I won't tell him he's a shit, I love that man -- but I'll tell him the rest. I swear it."

It was the second request that the genasi hesitated on, making no move to stand and leave, even though he was weary to his core and knew very well that Garrett was right about him looking a mess. Not for the irony, which wasn't lost on him either -- but because, for all his fatigue, his mind was still filled with all the things he had meant to ask before the two of them had gotten carried away. It was a reminder that time was not on their side.

"As for the other one," he continued, still smiling but looking at Garrett somewhat more seriously. "I will, if you'll do me a favor too."

Garrett narrowed his eyes in a wholly feigned look of skepticism aimed at Ceryl. He drummed his fingers on his bow, and after a long moment of insincere hesitation, he smiled. He couldn’t wll deny Ceryl a request after the genasi had just agreed to two. And, also, the entire marching into a valley of death on his request.

“Alright, you’ve got me. Go ahead and ask.”

Not unaccustomed to putting on an act, Ceryl followed suit and mimicked Garrett by tipping up his chin and giving the man an overly exaggerated insistent look, with an unspoken 'you'd better do it' air to it. It broke the instant Garrett did, and he laughed quietly -- but then sat up straight again to look at his father in earnest.

"I don't know what's going to happen from here on," he said, his voice gone low. "Make sure this isn't the last conversation we have. And I'll do the same."

Though his smile was still there, a little of the mirth in Garrett’s eyes dulled at the words. “I can’t promise that one, and neither can you. But I’ll give it a go.” He was quiet a moment, before smirking. “Wait. we’ll both be around in the morning getting ordered around by Ushien. So I can promise that one. Now go on, go the fuck to sleep, Ceryl.” He lifted a gauntlet and beckoned the genasi out.

In truth, Ceryl had already known what the answer would be, even before he spoke the request -- Garrett hadn't filled his head with empty promises or platitudes through their conversation, and the genasi doubted he would have started just for that. But Ceryl still managed a laugh at the dig upon Ushien, and put on another act of bowing his head and looking scolded, like a child being sent to bed without dinner.

"Yes, father~" he crooned dryly, but when he finally went to stand, it all vanished -- he'd stopped paying attention to how exhausted he was until he had to haul his tired carcass upright again. With a terrible grimace, Ceryl swore colorfully under his breath. "Fuck me, I lied too, you can do me another favor and help me off this stupid stool."

With some effort though, he got to his feet and shuffled to leave, though he paused next to Garrett to reach out and clasp the man's armored shoulder. He said nothing else, and after a moment, he went on his way -- though he had one more stop to make before he could finally sleep.

[sogurikur]

POTA - Garrett & Ceryl.

I got permission to share some RP from our Princes of the Apocalypse campaign, so here we go.

Ceryl is mine, Garrett is an NPC played by @b-e-m-l-t. In this thread, Ceryl finds the answer to a question he’s been asking most of his life, and Garrett’s colorful past comes back to haunt him.

It was not like the genasi to be unsure, even if his brand of confidence manifested differently than most people -- not brash, only the relaxed calm and ease of someone who genuinely believed everything was working out just fine. That particular evening, however, the only thing Ceryl was sure of was that he'd been... less than subtle about how unsure he felt. His conversation with Felsi a few days earlier had done a lot to smooth his doubts over what they'd found in the Water Temple -- but, really, it had just cleared the way for that last and greatest uncertainty to barrel right to the forefront of his thoughts.

Doubly so, when the source of it was suddenly in the same room with him.

Like waves eroding a shoreline, Ceryl had managed to talk himself into -- and back out of -- speaking with Garrett at least half a dozen times over the course of that day. He'd tell the man once they arrived at Summit Hall. He'd tell him after the discussions with the knights ended. After they helped the refugees settle in. After dinner had wrapped up. On and on, he'd waited for an opportunity to catch the knight alone -- yet each time the chance arose, Ceryl would second-guess until it had passed. Until dark had fallen, and they'd all retreated to their respective quarters, and the genasi was kicking himself for being an idiot -- and feeling wholly and utterly unlike himself, for the first time in his life.

I'll tell him in the morning, Ceryl thought, before we leave. Still, something in his stomach sank. No, he'd surely find some fresh excuse, then the party would depart -- and after that, nothing was certain anymore, not for any of them. This happened for a reason, he found himself thinking, not for the first time. This happened NOW for a reason -- he would only be an idiot if he allowed it to pass by. Thus, he found himself outside Garrett's door once again -- satchel of flasks in tow, hesitating before raising a hand to knock upon it -- and steeling himself for what was coming.

"Ey, Garrett?" he called, through the wood. "You passed out already, or can we talk?"

Garrett hasn't been far from the three of them for most of the day, first with the knights and then with the refugees, plying his healing magic where he can a rough brand of humour as medicine where he can't. Seta hasn't been out of sight much either, much more settled into a healer’s role than an almost-slave.

When night has fallen and the genasi is at his door, the gruff sound that echoes on the other side of it from Ceryl’s knock is almost inaudible, and then it rings louder, a very distinct “Hmmnm” of a half asleep man.

“Yes and yes. Come on in, kid, it's not locked.”

On the other side of the heavy door, Ceryl had to stifle something between a cringe and a laugh at the word "kid" from the other man -- the irony not lost on him. Casting a quick glance up and down the hallway to ensure he wasn't observed, the genasi then ducked into the room... though he lingered in the threshold, in spite of the invitation.

"I can come back in the morning, if you need your beauty sleep," he offered -- grinning, but having the good grace to look guilty all the same.

“Trust me, if I haven't gotten any more beautiful by now I never will.”

Garrett lay on the bed, boots discarded beside it and his arm over his eyes even though the candle still burns on the rough looking bedside table.  “What can I do for you?” He peers out with one eye from under his arm for a moment.

“...the big lass not with you?”

"Just me, I'm afraid," Ceryl answered, stepping fully into the room and shouldering the door closed behind him, as if to prove his point. It was only a few steps between the door and the bed, where he deposited the satchel before the other man -- the glass of the flasks within clinking jarringly in the quiet.

"That's for you, from Goldenfields," the genasi offered, almost an afterthought as he sank into the nearby chair. Leaning forward, elbows upon his knees and his whole brow creased, at once he seemed more pensive than usual.

"There was something else we found in the Temple," he went on, after a moment, looking at Garrett earnestly. "I wanted to tell you... away from the others."

He doesn't look particularly disappointed, just flumps his arm down on the straw mattress and nods, shifting enough to sit up and see the genasi a little better. He raises a brow as the door shuts, but fishes the the strap of the bag close with the toe of his boot and takes a look inside. He smirks.

“Go on then, what did you find?” He doesn't look at Ceryl his his shadowed eyes as he sorts through the flasks and sniffs each one.

Ceryl, for his part, was the opposite -- eyes never leaving Garrett's face, his own brows going up at how casual the other man had reacted. Still, he brought his hands together before him, and tapped the pads of his fingers together as he cast about for where to begin.

"There was a fountain," he started. "Old one -- fair deal older than anything else down there. And it... implied that anyone drinking from it would get the truthful answer to any one question."

He chuckled then, recognizing how ridiculous it was. "Sounds like bullshit, I know. But... well, it did show us things."

Garrett momentarily pauses in his sniffing of the flasks long enough to glance at the genasi across the room.

“Old like that damned book case you showed me? Because I'm not accustomed to shitting my breeches in front of acquaintances, lad.”

That might have gotten a laugh out of Ceryl any other time, except that he too vividly remembered the look on Garrett's face when they'd spoken that afternoon. The look when Ashir had shared the rubbing he'd taken. So the genasi folded his hands, his brow creasing further.

"Well, I'm no stonemason, but..." he said, pausing in thought for a second. "Old like that door with the eye. And it... called to me, even before any of us touched it. Just me."

Another pause, and then: “Don’t shit yet, though, that’s only half of it.”

Garrett frowned again. He slowly lifted a flask to his nose and took a very slow sniff. Then a long swig. And a he winced. “How about you just out with it, come on boy. There's been enough weird fuckery already today.”

Ceryl raised his shoulders in acquiescence at that, then drew in a deep breath himself and sat up straighter -- visibly steeling himself again for what he was leading up to. Easy and amiable as he usually was, he did not wear that newfound dourness well.

"It showed me you," he said then, bluntly. "The vision, it involved you. Way I figure, the easiest way to tell if it's bullshit or not is to just tell you what I saw -- and you can tell me if it's true. If not, no harm done. If so... well, then we'll have more to talk about."

His brows furrow at that and rather than any familiar blanche there's a notable darkening to his expression at the implication that he's got a role in anyone's truth.

“...sure. How much of this grog should I drink right now?”

"Suppose that depends on if it's true," Ceryl answered, honestly. "But I'd at least finish that one."

At that, he reached to fish a flask out from his back pocket, the sole one he'd saved for himself -- raising it in a mock salute towards Garrett that lacked any humor. Without preamble, he drank long from it, and blotted his mouth on the back of his sleeve -- but didn't put it away before he continued.

"Right then, out with it," he said then, and then his brows furrowed as he drew on the memory he'd already been thinking over and over. "It was you and this... aquatic woman. You were younger, but it was certainly you. And she was unnaturally tall and shapely, but beautiful -- like the water itself had taken form. You were... intimate."

He hesitated a moment, and then spoke in the voice he reserved for reciting his ballads, but hazy -- as though someone else was speaking through him. "He came to the sea when she called, and nought could resist such a bountiful sight. 'Til the morning and the break of dawn did they dance, 'til the waves shone and gleamed, beneath the red night."

Then he halted, and simply looked at the other man, waiting with clear trepidation for what the answer would be.

At the first sentence, Garrett let out a short chuckle. Aquatic woman could have meant anything. Sailor. Sea wench. Mermaid. He couldn’t remember a mermaid. But the more Ceryl spoke of her the more his expression dropped to something fairly close to dumbstruck neutral.

“That’s uh...that’s quite the rhyme.” He tipped a flask up on its end and empties the contents into his mouth, not swallowing for a good few moments, narrowing his eyes at the sting on his cheeks. He reached for another. “Well I suppose that fountain doesn’t lie after all. I ought to have words with it.”

Ceryl certainly thought he had prepared himself for whatever Garrett's answer might be -- and he had known that a confirmation would only give rise to even more questions. Still, hearing the man affirm it aloud, Ceryl was similarly dumbstruck. He couldn't repress the stunned burst of laughter that came out, nor hide the sort of half smile that overtook his face, somewhere between shock and elation -- at finally having what he'd sought for so long sitting right before him.

Then the rest caught up with his reaction, and he finally sat back in the chair, the tension he'd had giving way to a sort of boneless acceptance and a newly re-furrowed brow. He followed Garrett's example, and downed the remainder of the flask he held.

"You should," he said, sounding somewhat distant. "Don't know what the other two asked the thing, but Greenfoot managed to get some insight about our mission from it. Couldn't hurt."

He inhaled deeply once more, and looked Garrett in the eye again. Stop stalling, Ceryl. "Well, I suppose I should tell you what I asked, then. Probably want another drink before that one. Or several."

Garrett widened his eyes at the genasi’s response to his quip, and quickly shakes his head, uncapping another flask. He emptied that one into his mouth too, checking it had really run dry, giving it a shake over his open lips. “Fucker.”

He sighed. “I don’t know what bush you’re beating around here kid but looking up a man’s conquests is no real way to flirt. One watery type was enough for me in my lifetime, thank you..”

To say that response caught Ceryl by surprise would have been an understatement. His whiskey was already well swallowed, but he choked all the same, sitting bolt upright in the chair and looking mildly horrified at the implication.

"No-- by all the gods, that's not what--" he blurted out all at once, and then exhaled, rubbing his palms over his face and trying to wring back his composure. After a moment, he dropped his hands into his lap again, but failed to look quite as resolute as he had before.

"I asked it to show me who my parents were," he said, with all the earnesty he could muster. "Imagine my surprise when it showed me you, of all people. And no, that's not a joke."

Garrett’s brow rose for all of a moment while Ceryl jumped in his seat, and he watched the genasi shed and fail to fully regain his usual composure. He watched, and he listened, and he met Ceryl’s eye. He turned a little green.

His shoulders shrugged up suddenly as whiskey made a sudden resurgence for a second taste. He pressed a fist to his mouth and shuddered as he whispered. “Sweet, merciful Lathander.”

Just as Garrett watched him, Ceryl kept his eyes trained intently on Garrett's face as he delivered the news. It was hard to believe he would be using his Harper training for this, but the genasi watched the other man's reaction -- his father's reaction -- intently as he could. And certainly there was an ounce of guilt for making the man ill... but more than that, there was such relief that Ceryl just about sagged where he sat, like a puppet with strings cut.

"You didn't know..."

The half-elf shook his head vigorously and closed his eyes, swallowing very slowly and very hard. He immediately found another flask and upended it into his mouth. He took a breath. “I surely did not.” He glanced at Ceryl quickly, then shut his eyes again. “Shit, how old even are you?”

It was just as well that Garrett wasn't looking at him, because the longer Ceryl had to absorb the fact that this was all true -- the fact that he was looking at his father -- the more he reacted the opposite. He looked as though he might laugh, if for no other reason than how absurd and improbable this was.

"I'm fourty-five... ish?" he answered, giving a shrug. "Something around there, I don't actually know when my birthday is."

Still, then he sobered up, and even though he still looked more pleased than he had any right to be, he leaned towards Garrett and reached out for his arm. "Listen, I'm sorry for springing this on you. I know it's... a lot."

Garrett put down the bag of flasks as Ceryl answered him and he screwed his eyes shut even tighter before flumping an arm over them. “Evil ancient eye is opening up, towns getting burned down. Consequences of me ploughing some djinn down south forty years ago crawling out of the woodwork? Sure. Why not.”

He sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Ok kid.” He scoffed. “Kid. Fuck me. Ok how about… how about you gimme twenty minutes. Or maybe an hour. Shit.” He took a deep breath. “How about we talk about this in the morning, over breakfast or some shit?”

It's the word 'consequences' that seems to finally take Ceryl's elation down a peg, the tone of it visibly taking the wind out of his sails. Where he'd reached for Garrett a moment earlier, he withdrew again and seemed to sober up a bit further, his brow creasing the way it had when he'd first entered the room. He only nodded sympathetically at the other man's request.

"I think we're off again in the morning," he said. "If you catch us before then, sure. If you're not, well... You don't owe me anything, you know."

For a second, Ceryl ran his hands down his legs and looked at the door, as though debating whether to leave as he'd been asked. Then he looked back to the man, the dour shadow over his expression back again. "I wasn't going to tell you until after all this was over. End of the world is the bigger priority. But then, the fire, and it dawned on me we might not both be here when it's over. I don't believe in coincidences, and this--" He gestured between them. "-- can't be one. But you don't owe me anything, and it won't take away from the mission. I just wanted you to know."

Then, finally, he stood as though to leave.

When Ceryl turned around he took his moment to begin rummaging through the bag of flasks again and began emptying the entire contents one by one into the clay jug beside the bed. “Don’t worry about it, if crackpots a hundred years ago can do it, then it can definitely be stopped now.”

He didn’t try to meet Ceryl’s eye, or stop him as he went, only lifted an empty flask to the genasi’s back and with a waveringly dry tone said, “Thanks for the hooch, son.”

Ceryl halted just as he reached for the door handle at the word "son", and paused to chuckle at it, some of the renewed tension dissipating. He half turned back to Garrett, only then catching the gesture and the flask being held out to him.

"You're welcome, dad," he said, wryly -- and then, with a few gestures of his fingers and a few whispered words, watched the flask fill with clear liquid. "Try not to get too hung over."

With that, he turned again, ducking into the hallway and closing the door behind him.

[sogurikur]

(Temp) Cast list.

I slapped up a temporary OC page, until I can code a fancy one, but I figured I’d also put it in a more obvious post.

Here are my CURRENT various D&D OCs, in order of how much I’ve played / RPed them.

Ebon Shadestep. – Drow. – Rogue (assassin) / ranger (deep stalker).

Former assassin, current vigilante. Follower of Eilistraee. Party Dad. Extremely stubborn and suspicious. Loyal for life – once it’s earned. Never compromise on ideals. The best plan is a well-thought out plan. Forever chasing redemption and worthiness. Kind and friendly externally, dour and melodramatic internally. "Fake it ‘til you make it" world champion 2016-17. Did the raven aesthetic before that other rogue.

Ceryl Gavian. – Water genasi. – Bard (valor) / cleric (tbd).

Harper – for now. Folk singer, ballad writer, Sword Coast wanderer, scrimshander. Upbeat and chill – until recently. Dad issues. Family is who you choose. Never far from water. Look out for the little guy, no matter how big you are. Put everyone before yourself. Go with the flow, try everything at least once. Everyone has a story to tell – but a story’s no good if no one lives to tell it. Redheads are great.

Artis Vedane. – Half-elf dhampir. – Druid (homebrewed circle).

Nomad, hermit, herbalist, traveling apothecary and healer. Half kind, half monster. Never settle anywhere long, never put down lasting roots. Plants are preferable to people. Corpses make great fertilizer. Beautiful but broken. Delusion & denial central. If you are considered evil, evil is what you eventually become. Occasionally the hunter, but always the hunted.

Gideon. – Changeling (fey). – Warlock (archfey) / bard (glamour).

Fey swapped at birth. Gingster trickster, sly cad, shameless hedonist, never without a grin on his face. Genderfluid shapeshifter, body varies day to day. Charms with music, figuratively and literally. Boundaries are a social construct. Loves a good prank, bargain, or challenge. Loves everyone almost as much as he loves himself. 

Khirad Gwaithir. – Half-elf. – Cleric (knowledge).

Scholar and high-society noble by day, cultist of Vecna by night. “A thousand eyes, and one.” Spy, blackmail, know your enemy and destroy them unseen. Don’t mention the human half. Better than everyone, do not touch him. Has in wealth what he lacks in personality. Cruel, but utterly aloof. Never without gloves.

[sogurikur]

So. Some dialogue and events in our recent D&D session inspired me to write some backstory for my drow. Just a little drabble, I thought. Short little thing.

Nope. It got away from me, it’s long as fuck. (Like 2.5k words lol.) It’s less character stuff and more scene-setting, but I had fun with it, so I’m posting it anyway. EVEN THOUGH IT’S 10PM AND NO ONE’S AROUND. o|-<

Mood music. || Art credit.

     It was surprisingly difficult to maintain the act of being a messenger from a goddess while surrounded by reminders of his own mortality, Ebon discovered.

    He listened quietly as the woman before him stumbled to explain what the group had found in the werewolves’ den, unable to keep his eyes from sliding away to the cages ringing the cavern. From within each one, dirt-stained and fearful faces of children stared back – kidnapped, the woman explained, to kill each other for the privilege of being given the gift of lycanthropy.

    The familiarity of it struck Ebon deeply. Bile rose in his throat, and unbidden, Lily’s question from earlier that same day rose to the forefront of his mind.

    ‘Come on lad, didn’t you and your brothers fight this way?’ the half-orc had asked, a look of vague amusement on his face as the party watched a group of mongrels scuffle for dominance.

    They had. But like these abducted children, it had hardly been a game.

Keep reading

[sogurikur]

This morning, he walks the silent ground, gazes upwards, and sees nothing.

But can you blame him: the child watching the leaves that fall down, trying to make it all out – depressing winds, shrouded silence.

Forgive me my absence. Forgive me.

——–

Anyway, here’s a really long aesthetic post for my drow rogue, [redacted] aka Ebon Shadestep. o|-< I like the “backstory” one better, whoops, lol.

[sogurikur]

2, 4, and 20 for Ebon :> (i'msuperinterestedinyourd&dgrouptbhhaaaa--/watchesfromafar)

Ahhh thank you, that’s so flattering to hear. o|-

I hope you’re ready for some Elf Angst™, because you managed to pick the questions that hit all of this guy’s Big Sad buttons. So sorry these are a bit lengthy LOL.

2) What hobby would they like to be good at?

Creating things with his hands, I think. I could get really meta here about how he feels like everything that comes from his hands is destructive or deadly – and it’s true, one of his main downtime activities is crafting poisons. But he also follows a goddess who values making beautiful things, and he’s starting to embrace her teachings more wholly lately. His ability to create art somewhat diminished when he lost his eyes, but I think he’d love to pick up something like whittling wood or carving bone. End-game I could see him eventually taking up sculpting, but for the moment the guy is too practical to entertain hobbies that can’t be taken on the road. 

(Why sculpting? Because, even though he can technically “see”, it’s not the same thing as literal sight and he’s afraid his memory will eventually fail him and he won’t remember what things – or people – looked like. Whoops.)

[11:12 PM] Chief: take some fantasy playdo on the road

Thanks Colin. 

He’d also like to train birds, like he’s started doing with his pet raven. He’d claim it’s for their stronghold’s aviary, but in reality, it would be like those people who breed puppies only to become too attached and keep them all. Just surrounded by dozens of fat spoiled birds that barely listen to him, and don’t obey anyone else at all. The Dream.

4) If they could go back in time and change one thing, what would they change?

I’m choosing to believe this means events in their life, not just… any time in history LOL. But: Ebon is a Man Of Regrets, and probably has a list a mile long of moments he would like to change. The biggest (non-spoiler) ones are:

A) Leave the Underdark sooner. He spent literal decades down there conflicted about morality, but didn’t think escape was an option for a lot of complicated reasons. (Mainly brainwashing.) Hindsight being 20/20, obviously now he realizes he could have left at any time, and he’d change it so that he bailed muuuuuch earlier. 

B) Decline the job offer to go into Barovia. He values the people he met via the job, IE his current party, and it would hurt him a great deal to alter something that would mean he wouldn’t have known them. Still, he would find it a worthy sacrifice because he feels his presence in Barovia did more harm than good. (This isn’t actually true, of course.)

C) Fucking (try to) stop that big idiot Kasimir (an NPC in our campaign) from going off to Castle Ravenloft by himself (where a bunch of mysterious shit happened and he was murdered, and the party wasn’t there to witness it or help). Talk him out of it, handcuff their wrists together, tie him to a tree, maybe all of the above. Kasimir sarcastically went “Okay, dad.” at Ebon once, but dude, you haven’t seen Dad Mode yet. Fuck you, you’re grounded.

20) What would be the worst thing someone could say to them? 

“House Rilynar survived.” or “You haven’t changed.” or that any of the party has died.

[sogurikur]

7, 11, and 17

Who’s ready for more WAY TOO LENGTHY D&D character questions?

7) If they didn’t have to adventure, would they stop? 

This one is a little complicated to answer, for a few reasons.

First of all, we aren’t the sort of campaign that’s about slaying dragons and rescuing princesses for gold and glory and all that. Backstory-wise, Ebon was kind of a lowkey assassin-vigilante. And currently, the party as a whole is sort of more about… intrigue and supernatural horror, to paint it in broad strokes – so they don’t really “adventure” in the classic D&D fantasy sense, haha.

Second, I can’t speak for the others, but Ebon doesn’t really HAVE to do any of it. He doesn’t need gold, he’s not obligated to do it for any reason – in fact, he’s been offered the chance to walk away repeatedly, and has turned it down each time!

So, bearing those in mind: The answer is still no, he wouldn’t stop.

Ebon is absolutely a person who sees there are a lot of wrongs in the world that need righting. He knows he’s just one dude and obviously can’t single-handedly fix everything, but he would be remiss sitting on his laurels and not doing what he can – whether it’s killing some evil asshole or helping someone who’s been downtrodden, etc. (I jokingly called him Drow Robin Hood, but… it’s not wrong.) And all of that is dialed up to 11, at the moment. Now that he’s fallen in with his current party – and now that they’ve all been sort of exposed to the greater Bad Juju currently going down in the world – he absolutely could not “retire”. There’s too much at stake.

Let’s say, ideally, years pass and all the Big Bads have been slain and everything is resolved and peaceful. Cool. He still couldn’t quit or settle – he’d go right back to what he did before, helping on the small scale. Both for his own personal moral / ideological reasons… and also just because he’d be too bored living the quiet life, lmao.

11) Diplomatic or aggressive? 

The former… in theory.

Ebon will almost always try to approach a situation diplomatically – but his definition of “diplomatic” is a bit skewed, ahaha. Obviously, he’d much rather talk his way out of a situation, and his first instinct is always to approach people kindly and respectfully – even if they’re sketchy or don’t seem worthy of it, he at least has to try. But he’s also not above employing some of the “dirtier” sides of diplomacy like abusing politics, spying, blackmail, that sort of shit – if it’s necessary, if being polite clearly isn’t going to work. He doesn’t consider that sort of thing aggressive… even though it kind of is.

However, that sort of goes out the window if the subject is just genuinely a bad person. Ebon’s a firm believer in redemption and ~guiding the lost back to the right path~ and whatnot – after all, he lived it himself. But if a person is legitimately evil or a monster, he jumps directly from 1 to 10 on The Diplomatic-Aggressive Scale, and that person just Needs To Go.

17) Where would they like to be in ten years time? 

Alive.

No really, that’s it.

After a youth spent with the threat of death hanging over his head every second, told that he was pretty much disposable, Ebon learned early not to plan very far ahead or entertain that sort of long-term goal for himself. That hasn’t really changed. If he’s learned anything at all since joining his current party, it’s that the world is extremely unpredictable and the rug could still get snatched out from under him any time. It’s not in the “WE COULD BE DEAD TOMORROW, SO LIVE FOR TODAY” sense, he’s not careless – he just knows better than to entertain thoughts of a distant future for himself.

Plus he has a deep-seated idea that he’s cursed because he’s a drow, and so SURELY if he ever thinks of something he’d like to happen in his life, it’ll turn to ashes before him… or some equally melodramatic thing like that. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[sogurikur]

It’s party time

[sogurikur]

vecna’s finest.

[sogurikur]

Ebon Shadestep for Doran, by Tom Rhodes. (@rndfantasy) With progress + biography video.

Aka 500 years later, I finally asked permission to post this here. Might as well share it for Drowcember!

Tldr: Tom Rhodes has a weekly art lottery where he’ll draw your tabletop character, and I won a few months back – I still cannot believe it. SO naturally I got him to draw my drow rogue/ranger. I gave him sort of free liberty on outfit design, and boy I could not be happier. o|-<

(If you’re curious about him or his party, there’s deets right over here.)

[sogurikur]

D&D doodles for D&D group during D&D game

One day I’ll do the 37 cool NPCs

[sogurikur]

Everyone’s Least Favourite Day

[sogurikur]

My player’s good good characters.

Ashir is @heychief‘s, Ceryl is @dourden‘d, and Felsi is @adamnhippie‘s.