#syllin

[dhavaer]

Did one of these for my D&D character. She is a highly educated and charming lady who just wants to fuck and kill.

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[pastaasaladd-draws]

Happy Holidays from my Dnd Party!

[whynotfangirl]

@dhavaer

At some point we need to stop having wild conversations in other peoples posts, their poor notifications 😅

I’m not sure where the line is for what classes as fanfiction of a d&d group. Because to a level I agree with you. Jennis is my original character. If I write something for their backstory, it’s my story even if it’s not my setting. But at a certain point Emma becomes the DMs character not mine and anything I write from that point is no longer just my story and I write it outside of the bounds of what is cannon accepted as far as the game is concerned. Then it would be fanfiction, yes?

If I had, perhaps, written something about Jennis and their relationship with Syllin then it would have to be fanfic. Not just because you did not write it with me as the creator of Syllin but also because it happens outside the bounds of the cannon story they were created for. It would be my interpretation of something that doesn’t actually happen in the story. Thus fanfic. Right?

As far as your real point, does Syllin have faerie fire? Cause that would be a very helpful spell to have in this situation. Do you think slow would make Syllin normal speed? Cause Jennis can take a lot but they are only mortal 😅 They still have another 12-18hours or so invisible due to that potion and Syllin the same amount of time as though they are hasted.

Something a little more… mature under the read more.

But to be moving and thinking and talking so fast would mean every normal action and touch feels tortuously slow. For Syllin to be the one to give up control in this situation would be an incredibly interesting experiment. It’s certainly not Jennis’ preferred role but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t enjoy playing it.

It would almost be like being blindfolded without the blindfold. Not sure where exactly the next sensation might come from but each one just a little too slow, mind going 100mph trying to focus on what she can see, and hear, and taste, trying to predict what will happen and getting a touch distracted before being brought right back into the moment. Being driven right to the edge over and over but it not quite being enough… until it is too much.

I hope the ranch has decent soundproofing. Perhaps Linsi will silence them for everyone else’s sake but it just gives Syllin another level of sensory deprivation to have to work her mind through.

Imagination can be such a wonderful thing after all.

[leiflitter]

Time for some Els Lore because I have been filling out her backstory a little. It's about time because she's been around forever, but I'm gonna put in a page break because Paragraphs.

She's from the island of Alaron in the Moonshaes- more specifically, the North-Western part of the Dernall forest. She was raised by her father, Bill Woodsley.

Her mother was- when Els was born- called Syllin. Her family were in the Moonshaes for an extended period to visit friends in Sarifal. About five years in to their stay, Syllin was getting rather bored and basically decided to take herself off and have a little adventure. Then she met Bill, and was having quite a nice time having what she considered a little 'holiday fling' when Els made herself known.

Syllin's family weren't worried - she'd often send them letters, although she left out that she was pregnant, and as far as they were concerned she was just on the Elf equivalent of a gap year.

Bill, for his part, thought that they were going to be a happy little family, even though Syllin seemed a little distant he put it down to the pregnancy, her adjusting to a humbler lifestyle and probably just some sort of Elf thing.

Syllin left when Els was just about a year old, having received word from her parents that they were going to be heading home. Bill came back from work to find his daughter asleep on the floor and a note that he couldn't even read on the table. When he finally reached the nearest village with someone literate, he had expected maybe a ransom note or an apology.

Instead it simply read, "had a lovely time, must go- you can keep the baby. -S"

Syllin went on to take her adult name of Seluriel once she was home in Neverwinter, and is now (unbeknownst to Els) Lady Seluriel Gathergarden, married to Lord Æthol Gathergarden and a well-regarded Socialite.

Bill, on the other hand, was left to raise Els alone. He did his best, but a one year old takes a lot of care, and he couldn't work as fast with a baby slung on his back. Most of the time they barely had enough to eat- which is probably why Els is, overall, on the short and scrawny side.

Bill's family are Northlanders- until he met Syllin, he would journey into Gnarhelm most winters to spend them with his family once he'd been paid for the summer's work. He started this tradition again the year Syllin left- Syllin had some money, so they'd been able to weather the cold season, but with her gone and his usual wages far reduced there was no way he and Els would survive. Of course, rocking up after three years with a baby on your back- especially a baby who wasn't entirely human- was very out of character for Bill. His family weren't especially fond of Els- their perception of Elves wasn't great, and the whole Syllin debacle didn't help. Although most treated her with polite indifference, as she grew older she was generally considered the black sheep of the family. Her father stuck up for her, but between "be bullied by assorted cousins" or "die of hunger or cold" Els would always have picked the former.

Her bardic talents manifested from a young age. One of the few relatives who actually liked Els was Toothless Vio, an ancient man who called himself a Skald. Most of the others ignored him, but Els found a sanctuary in his company, and he had a captive audience. He taught her to play the lute, and told her as many stories as he could remember- and muttered the secrets of using music and speech to bend the world to your will.

Of course, once she'd learned the secret of vicious mockery, the rag-tag group of cousins found it far less fun to bully her.

She left home at eighteen, for three very good reasons.

1. It's hard to make any money as a bard when you live alone with your da in the woods.

2. Because she couldn't earn money, her da had to work twice as hard to keep them fed- and the physical labour was taking a toll on his health.

3. The previous winter one of her very distant cousins had taken an interest in her, and she knew if she spent another winter there everyone would be trying to persuade her to marry him. That simply would not ever happen, because she had never ever wanted to be either a butcher's wife nor someone who kissed their cousins, but better to simply avoid it all together.

So she left and headed to the mainland. She hasn't seen her father in the decade since, but they send each other little gifts regularly. She's mostly bounced around, doing various odd jobs and playing in any tavern that'd want a bard, and had just about saved enough coin to go home for a visit when... Nautiloid.

[the-art-blog-no-one-asked-for]

Hehe lil Drow go brrrrr

[dndestroyed]

Copyrighted

On our first day of the campaign, S, Aillian and Absinthe where walking through a forest. When Aillians player started to sing "Country roads" and the rest fell in line singing along.

DM "Well you wrote and sang country roads and its now copyrighted to you guys so whenever someone else sings it you get money."

So this is how we copyrighted "Country roads" and get royalties from it

[theolympusrp]

OOC: +18

IC: Nome terreno: Aragorn Syllin. Nome mitológico: Thranduil. Faceclaim: Denis Dang - Ator. Nascimento: 13 de dezembro de 1994. Naturalidade: Vale Jiuzhaigou, China.

Ser: Semi-deus, filho de Artemis. Nível: 02 Dormitório: Cassiopeia - 09

Twitter: @aragorn_olp Ocupação: Modelo.

Qualidades: Cauteloso, tranquilo e protetor. Defeitos: Desconfiado, crítico e metódico.

Biografia: Não se sabe muito sobre o pai do rapaz, apenas uma breve história, ou boatos vindos das florestas. Vindo de Taiwan, o homem se apaixonou por uma mulher, de aparência estrangeira. Bonita e delicada, ela o conquistou, mas aos olhos da deusa, ele não digno do seu amor e nem do filho que esperava. O homem era um boêmio, andava na noite, se mostrou agressivo e Ártemis, não poderia aceitar tal tratamento e nem deixar seu filho ser criado por tal criatura. Quando estava próximo de ter o bebê, ela viajou para uma região remota da China, onde fica o belo Vale Jiuzhaigou, habitado por ninfas.

O bebê fora entregue há ninfas da natureza, o lugar era como um grande paraíso para elas. Tudo era natural e não muito habitado por humanos, apenas biólogos e pesquisadores. Fora lhe dado o nome de Aragorn, por sua mãe e a sugestão fora das próprias ninfas. Aragon significa ‘’valor de um rei’’ e esperavam que o filho de Ártemis aprendesse os princípios que agravam mãe e ninfas. Como a deusa não poderia ficar para sempre, coube às ninfas da floresta fazerem este trabalho. Cuidaram, lhe ensinaram e viver, sobreviver, lutar usar seu famoso arco e flecha, proteger sua terra e ter respeito pelo outro, pela natureza. Mas além disso, lhe deram muito amor.

Aragons cresceu em meio a floresta, rodeado de natureza em sua forma mais pura. Quando criança, conseguia se camuflar bem por entre as árvores, mas ao crescer, seus problemas começaram. Não era possível se esconder com facilidade possuindo longos fios esbranquiçados, nem usando roupas estampadas tipicamente chinesas. E o temido dia aconteceu, um humano viu correr por entre as árvores e espalhou que dentro daquele lugar, havia um Elfo. Humanos passaram a ser muito recorrente e ninfas, temendo serem descobertas, pediram ajuda e uma solução à Ártemis. A deus contou sobre um instituto que abriga filhos de deus e criaturas, inclusive ninfas, e disse que o rapaz seria bem cuidado, mas seria um grande desafio tirá-lo dali, alguém que era acostumado com a liberdade de correr por florestas.

Com a ajuda de uma conhecida, ele teve suporte para viajar de avião, tirar documentos e mudar-se para Grécia, onde adentrara na Olympus. Seu grande desafio era se adequar em um sistema completamente diferente da liberdade que sentia em estar correndo pelas florestas. Sua aparência diferente chamava atenção por onde passava, suas roupas também, assim que pisou seus pés no ocidente, lhe ofereceram o trabalho de modelo. Orientado pela amiga, disse que seria algo legal ganhar dinheiro. Aragorn não entendia muito bem o mundo humano, muito menos o  mundo mágico longe do seu. Ele sabia caçar, lutar, sobre plantas e venenos, tinha habilidades que ainda precisava desenvolver, principalmente as habilidades em ser um humano em sociedade.

Habilidades: Nível 1: Sensibilidade mágica:  Naturalmente tendo tido contato com um ambiente natural, sendo estimulado todos os dias, Aragorn tem sentidos muito apurados. Ele consegue ouvir, ver, sentir tudo com muita rapidez e em longas distâncias. Consegue detectar pessoas ou criaturas longe de si, sente cheiros e não o esquece, tem um bom desempenho físico e nunca erra um alvo.

Nível 2: Metamorfose Sendo ele filho de uma deusa dos animais selvagens, ele consegue se transformar em um. A metamorfose em animal sempre lhe ajudou a esconder-se na floresta, sua forma preferida é a de um grande lobo branco, mas também opta pelo formato de cervo. Tal transformação lhe dá força física e deixa seus sentidos imensamente apurados, além de, quando irritado, uma raiva incontrolável.

Nível 3: Proteção lunar Claro que sob os raios solares, seus poderes tornam-se ainda mais poderosos. A lua é sua grande guardiã. Mas mesmo durante o dia, aqui Aragorn tem uma proteção exacerbada, podendo a partir de uma mágica, criar um escudo físico e mental que protege a ele mesmo, e outras pessoas.

Nível 4: Domador Por ser uma alma dentro da floresta, aqui ele não apenas conversa com animais, como também pode se comunicar mentalmente com eles. Os animais, grandes ou pequenos, podem lhe conceder seus desejos, tornando selvagens em seres calmos e dos mais calmos, transformar-lhes aos mais selvagens e agressivos.

Nível 5: Lua minguante A fase da lua minguante representa recolhimento, descanso, resistência. A habilidade de Aragon agora lhe dá o benefício de curar toda e qualquer criatura. A cura vem a partir de uma reconstrução de tecidos fibras e inibição da dor.

Nível 6: Lua cheia A fase de lua cheia representa é a fase mais intensa para humanos e animais, podendo afetar psiquicamente e corporalmente. Aqui, Aragon pode domar seres humanos, lhes trazendo calma e tranquilidade, mas também podendo alimentar a agressividade do lado humano, lhe trazendo a selvageria de um animal, beirando a loucura.

Nível 7: Lua nova Lua nova significa uma nova fase, aqui aragorn pode transformar seres humanos em animais. Assim como ele se tranforma, qualquer pessoa que ele queira também pode se transformar, podendo encarar isso como uma maldição ou uma grande benção.

Nível 8: Lua crescente Essa fase da lua significa crescimento, aqui as formas de Aragon podem crescer. Ele fica mais alto e mais forte ainda na forma humano, podendo ser classificado como um grande gigante, a magia que lhe cerca é de proteção, para si e para os outros, tornando-se uma grande muralha humana.

Nível 9: O silêncio Por ser filho da deusa da caça, uma das coisas mais importantes é o silêncio. Aqui, aragorn possui um silêncio profundo e indetectável. Podendo transitar por onde quiser, sem ser identificado por seres ou outras criaturas, como uma grande camuflagem. Os passos são inaudíveis, assim como seus movimentos, leves e silenciosos. Ataques continuam precisos, mas a invisibilidade em vários aspectos lhe ajudam.

Nível 10: Fúria animal Em seu ápice de poder, a fúria se torna sua grande arma. Quando enfurecido, assume um olhar e uma feição ameaçadora, como de um predador. Neste estado, aumenta suas capacidades, como velocidade, força,agilidade, mira e reflexos ficando quase como a Deusa Ártemis. O corpo fica ainda mais resistente, rápido e muito preciso.

[arlette-art-blog]

Long overdue, sorry about that, here’s Sylline the fem Abomination from Darkest Dungeon! Honestly not quite happy with her, but needed to get her out more then anything! One more to go then comic attempts!

[dhavaer]

I really wanted to draw this - I can picture the composition so vividly in my head - but I never learned to draw outside of a few gimmicks so I must represent it in text.

Syllin, sitting naked on a plate with her legs apart: Time for breakfast, Jennis...

Jennis, brain rebooting after stopping in the doorway: Babe, I don't think that's what 'serving cunt' means.

[pastaasaladd-draws]

doodling more dnd stuff

[cassiekayscreams]

Art Fight Art Dump

I’ll tag any of them that have tumblrs listed. If not, you can find their accounts at artfight.net/~[username]

1. FeliCa, Mssongbird93

2. Kumo, senseistrawberry

3. Ink Cap, eatpotatoes1

4. Agony, cannibaldogs

5. Mika, splendidcyan @splendidcyan

6. Caleb Desiree Plumas, KennyKreate

7. Nadaki Yiga, EpicSheikaGirl @kweendodongo

8. Three Birds, One Stone:

•Syllin, eatpotatoes1

•Aya Delanin, ArtsyKitten

•Amara Delanin, Writing4life

[sinnabunwritestuffs]

Chapter I: Not Just an Impulse?

Roughly a month after the spark of the riots in Illuskan, a human kingdom in the northwest corner of Fae’run, our questers find themselves within the capital city of Kelteroth. A fighter, a rogue, a bard, and a druid sit on the wooden crates of a shadow-soaked alleyway, the borderlands between the Sun and Moon Quarters of the city. Resting their guard in an opulent region of the city can be risky, but the gang is practiced, and this is an optimal space for pick-pocketing any wealthy idiots who wander too far from the main streets. Otherwise, they plot for their next attack. The fighter talks a lot, and quite heatedly, but says little as to a next move. The rogue sits quietly, along with the druid, but both are pensive in very different ways. The bard is strumming a lute, carefree and smiling. Business has been slow, so what better time to take a break from their weekly share of murders?

“We can’t stop now, we’ve been doing so well…!” Marchaion sprang up from his crate, unfocused energy compelling him to start pacing and fiddle with his knives. His hair shook around his dark horns.

Mival, completely oblivious to his violent edge, responded calmly, still toying around with chords. “We have enough coins to last as weeks. I think we can spare one day off to do whatever we want. It’d be good for us.”

“Personally, I want to go on a killing spree,” muttered Rolen. The blades in his hands bounced what little light there was off of each other as he shot a threatening glare at the human.

Mival ignored him and kept up with his idle ideals. “Besides, we had a chance to empty that one guy’s pockets, but you kind of let it slip, so-” His words were abruptly cut off by the sound of a knife slamming into the cobblestone alley wall, making everyone, even Rolen, jump.

Marchaion’s voice was menacing, even more aggressive than usual. “I’ll get him next time,” he promised. “Watch me.” His curly ginger hair had fallen in front of his eyes, but from the voice that emerged from the tiefling, everyone could guess what kind of expression he was wearing.

The tension did not exactly break as everyone looked away awkwardly, returning to the things they had been doing to pass time. Mival tucked his lute away and started digging around his pockets, trying to look busy in case the tiefling fighter decided to take a burst of rage out on him. All of them had grown accustomed to Jozenil Marchaion’s bloodlust, but although the air around them was heavy with silence, the notion that they were all, indeed, working with someone who had ended more lives than he could count was creeping into their minds; funny that they needed a reminder. To contrast the druid and the bard’s concern, however, Rolen took the idea with significant admiration, and he found his eyes flitting between the tiefling and the spot where the knife had struck the wall, his gloved hands still busy sharpening both of his daggers.

Mival found what he was looking for and popped out a pan flute (which had been strapped to the back of his belt all along), and began to play. Unfortunately, his musical prowess did not happen to reach the field of pan flutes, and this was brought to his attention when the rogue plucked the instrument out of his hands and snapped it in half.

“Hey, what the-” The human frowned in mock annoyance, but shut up as soon as he caught the sound of blades being sharpened. He glanced down to see the edges of Rolen’s daggers aimed in his direction.

Syllin caught onto something in the air, and the young druid’s head perked up suddenly. No one minded him. Why should they?

In any case, he looked down just as quickly, and just as silently. He began to nervously fiddle with his clothes, hoping that nobody else would catch on to-

“Damn… I bet we could get a good fill from those two.”

Marchaion’s face was lit up with anticipation, his tone secretive yet excited. At the mention of a potential crime opportunity, Rolen and Mival turned their heads to the far end of the alleyway, where a couple of passerby were consulting a map and bickering.

One was a dwarf, on the taller end for her race. Her hair was slightly reddish, pulled back into a hasty bun. A heavy backpack was strapped onto her back, and she wore no armor, which certainly drew her out from many of the other dwarves in the city.

The other, leaning down a bit, seemed like a half-blood, mixing the distinctive features of an elf and a human between fair skin, sky blue eyes, and disheveled sandy hair. He wore a cloak; and though worn and dirty, it displayed a royal crest.

“Tourists,” remarked Mival dismissively, trying to mend his broken pan flute. “They don’t seem that rich.”

“Idiot,” chided Rolen. “One of them is a dwarf-”

“So?”

“And the other is wearing the clothes of a noble!” finished Marchaion, before the dark elf with the daggers could reprimand the bard for his stupidity. He licked his lips. “They’ve got to be worth a good price.”

The tiefling turned to face Mival. “Go up to them and banter a little. Ask if they need directions or something. See if you can get them distracted; if they’re tough to crack, you know what to do. Just make sure their guard is down and their attention is on you. Then, Rolen and I will go in for the kill.” He nodded assertively at the human and put a hand on his shoulder, to which the rogue beside him looked away at.

Mival grinned and popped up in a military salute, quite eager to please. “You got it.” And he sped off.

Syllin had been staring at the pair the whole time, tuning out what the rest of the gang was saying. It didn’t matter. It would always end up the same way.

The druid’s hands hadn’t moved from the edges of his tunic. His heart was racing. He always got anxious before a kill, and it never got better, but this time it was worse than before. The meek wood elf never directly participated in any sort of crime, although he was more than willing to help out a member of his party if anyone got hurt. He shivered a bit. Why was he, a relentless pacifist, a part of the most notorious criminal gang in Kelteroth? Why was he condoning this kind of senseless killing? It was a wonder to him how lightly everyone else would take it. Sometimes it felt like he was carrying ten times the guilt that the rest of the party seemed to lack.

Usually, he kept his head down, reminding himself that a better place awaited him the moment he found a moment to escape. But this time, try as he might, he couldn’t turn away from the half-elf’s startled gaze as he discussed something with Mival, the wood elf’s old friend-turned-criminal. Between bouts of panic and senseless thoughts, his eyes flickered to the rooftop behind the passerby, where Rolen was crouched down at the edge, holding a dagger. The scenery tilted a little.

“If I had to take a guess, I’d say you two need directions?” offered the bard with a charming smile. The half-elf, relieved to find a seemingly friendly face amongst a sea of impolite strangers, nodded gratefully. Pushed against a wall, Marchaion crept closer, clutching his longsword.

“I suppose navigating a city is not as easy as navigating a castle,” suggested the half-elf, wearing a small, slightly weary grin.

Mival was taken aback. Even he couldn’t find the sarcasm in this guy’s voice, but he did not think about it too hard, and his smile didn’t waver. “Well, it gets a lot easier once you spend some more time in this fine capital. Where do you need to go?”

Rolen was positioned to jump down; he just needed the signal from Jozenil, and the bloodbath could begin.

The half-elf consulted the map confusedly, but the dwarf offered no commentary. “Ah… I believe that we are looking for…”

A split-second later, Rolen found himself falling through the air, one dagger positioned to hit the top of the dwarf’s skull. Marchaion lunged forward silently, his longsword aimed at the half-elf’s throat.

Four rushed words rang out in that same split-second, all coming from a single source. The passerby looked up to see several sharp weapons aimed at them. Their gasps would have come far too late had it not been for the fact that their attackers were frozen in place; even the dark elf was held suspended in the air.

Mival looked around curiously, though not quite surprised, as the strangers tensed up and froze in fear.

“Syllin, what the hell?”

The druid had his arms raised upwards, one palm aiming at the rogue and the other at the fighter. Before he had the chance to answer for his actions, Marchaion’s voice cut through the spell.

“PUT US DOWN, WE HAVE PEOPLE TO KILL AND COINS TO STEAL!”

“Uhh…” Syllin hesitated. He had never found it in his best interests to disobey a direct order, but he kept his arms raised.

Mival didn’t appear angry (granted, it was probably impossible for him to be), which the wood elf was grateful for. Instead, the bard had a confused eyebrow raised. “Do you know these two?” he asked, gesturing towards the stunned passerby.

Syllin’s palms started to sweat as he fumbled to find the right words. He ended up with a feeble, “N-no…”

Marchaion’s yelling rang out again. “THEN LET US  KILL THEM, YOU ASS!”

Even though the tiefling was facing away from him, the druid was still properly intimidated. Why weren’t the passerby running away? He needed to buy more time, and quickly, because he was already beginning to feel the strain of having to hold two people at once.

“Um… just don’t kill them,” he started, his voice shaking. It did occur to him that his actions were completely unfounded, and there was no good argument (besides, perhaps, the fact that he didn’t want another two dead bodies to add to the pile). The spell was beginning to waver.

The dark elf’s voice snapped through. “Syllin, if you don’t let us go-”

In the midst of a brewing panic attack, Syllin finally found the words. “I’ll let you go if you promise not to kill them.”

“EXCUSE ME!?” screeched the fighter. “YOU LITTLE SHIT! LET US GO RIGHT NOW!” His volume was now even more forceful and commanding, pounding against the spell’s walls, straining the connection. The druid prayed that he didn’t notice.

Mival, bless his soul, decided to take his old friend’s side even though he was unsure why. “I think you’d better listen to him,” he said. “His spells can last for hours.”

This was a wicked lie, but Syllin was grateful anyway. Neither he nor the human noticed, of course, when Rolen and Marchaion shared a moment’s gaze, a silent debate over their druid’s proposal. Though no words were exchanged, it was clear to both of them that they were acknowledging of the debt that they owed the healer .

Through gritted teeth, the tiefling finally mumbled, “Fine,”noticeably pissed at seeing himself bow down to the will of some weakling.

Syllin should have been more wary of trusting either assassin, but he was too exhausted to think twice. He lowered the rogue to the ground next to the dwarf, simultaneously relaxing his grip on the fighter.

Marchaion stumbled forward. Fortunately, he braced himself by using his longsword like a cane, versus the way it was intended to be used - piercing right through the half-elf. Miraculously, both he and Rolen kept their word, and didn’t attempt to stab nor even threaten the travelers, at least immediately. The wood elf finally let himself lean back on the wall, dropping his arms and panting for breath.

Marchaion faced the half-elf, a scowl on his face. “Alright, we spared your life. Now give me one good reason why we should keep it that way.”

The half-elf gulped, still rather petrified at the sight of the towering tiefling, who must have been well over six feet tall, and stumbled for a response.

“I… umm…” Technically speaking, the young noble was not accustomed to nearly losing his life, though it had been happening far more often than was preferable lately. Somehow, he had managed to evade death each time without a scratch; physically, that is.

The tiefling’s glare intensified, and the half-elf found his mind growing increasingly blank. The criminal’s electrifying blue eyes bore into him threateningly, as if trying to measure the best way to tear him apart. They were almost like blue diamonds, or a chunk of lapis lazuli, but instead of giving off a mystical aura, they radiated fierce aggressiveness. Suddenly, the half-elf felt a pull on his robes, and was grateful for an excuse to glance away.

The dwarf looked at him, despite the circumstances, in exasperation. “Remind him who ye are.”

When the tiefling narrowed his eyes at the dwarf, she shied away and tucked herself behind her companion.

Meanwhile, the half-elf faced the criminal. He was not so set on following the dwarf’s advice - his background was not his favorite topic of discussion - but he feigned confidence as he tried not to flinch while looking at those deep blue eyes.

“I am Raymladon Windrivver, Prince of Illuskan,” he declared with a self-righteous grin.

He was not sure what kind of reaction he was expecting, but the tiefling’s harsh laugh definitely wasn’t it.

“Prince? Well I know for a fact you’re not from Greatstone Keep,” scoffed Marchaion, poking sharply at the foreign crest on the half-elf’s cloak. “You think that just because you were raised in some noble palace, and just because your mummy and daddy were rich, that entitles you to my respect? So where’s that castle of yours, fancy man?”

Raymladon stifled a sigh. “Former Prince of Illuskan.” He heard a muffled groan from the dwarf beside him, but decided not to turn.

The tiefling burst into laughter.

“All the more reason to kill you and steal your money,” muttered a voice behind. Raymladon shifted his gaze to the dark elf who was leaning against his wall, spinning a dagger in his hand.

The dagger he would have killed us with, thought the half-elf with a shiver. The dark elf’s dark hair and hood covered his forehead and half of his face, but did nothing to hide his wicked grin. How many other people had he killed with that dagger?

Mival was staring back and forth between the assassins and the newcomers, occasionally stealing a glance at Syllin. The bard wished he had a snack as he sat on an empty crate to watch the show.

The tiefling drew his longsword out and jumped back, so he could aim his blade at the ridiculed half-elf’s chest. “If you really want to earn the world’s approval, if you want to survive…” His voice picked up a sudden edge and he lost his smile. “... you fight your way up. And if you can’t find the courage to kill…” At this point he paused to sneak a look at Syllin. “... you die. It’s simple.”

Raymladon glanced away to avoid meeting the tiefling’s eyes, quite unsure of what to make of his little speech but really not liking the sight of his longsword’s tip pointed at his heart. He was afraid to move. Luckily, the criminal withdrew his sword and tucked it into a scabbard on his back. He recovered his grin and stuck his hand out. Warily, the half-elf accepted the handshake.

“Marchaion,” stated the tiefling.

“Marchaion?” The question was out of Raymladon’s mouth before he could stop himself, but it really did sound more like a surname over anything.

“Jozenil Marchaion,” clarified Jozenil Marchaion, catching onto Raymladon’s confusion. “Champion Fighter of the army.”

Behind the half-elf, the dwarf bit back a sharp rebuttal. Champion Fighter, my ass. Why in the world was he living the life of a criminal on the streets. She said nothing of the sort, however, because pointing it out would probably be suicide.

Raymladon nodded sheepishly and cleared his throat, gesturing to his companion. “This is Bardryd Gorunn. She is a wizard.” At the mention of being recognized, the dwarf’s face lit up with pride.

The fighter did not particularly care for the dwarf’s name, but he gave a slight nod as he thought of something amusing. “And do you have a class?”

The half-elf hesitated. He had been wondering that himself, for a while now, but who was to say that this assassin had to know about-

“He’s a sorcerer,” answered Bardryd. Well, then.

Behind Jozenil, Rolen must have caught onto the same thing as the tiefling because he let out a sharp laugh.

Marchaion feigned thoughtfulness for a moment as he looked in Syllin’s general direction. “I see. Both magic users.” He turned back to face his would-be victims. “And yet you still needed the help of a mere healer, who has never seen the battlefield, to survive. Without him your bodies would just be another statistic. You should be ashamed.” His laugh was mocking, and Raymladon’s face and ears became warm as his pride was swept away.

Syllin caught the jest as well, and looked at the floor, his hands busy with his tunic again.

“Well…” The tiefling turned around suddenly, carelessly swinging around his sword. “It was… interesting to meet you, Raymladon.”

Bardryd could no longer hold back. “That’s Prince Raymladon to ye.”

Faster than anyone could blink, Marchaion had a knife pressed against the dwarf’s throat. “I call him what I want, Fatty.”

He withdrew the knife after letting it linger for a moment, and his tone returned to casually nonchalant in a matter of seconds.

“Anyhow, you’d best be on your way before I change my mind.” A violent glint flashed across his dark eyes. “I hope you realize how quickly that can happen.”

Rolen had taken the time to make his way to a spot next to the tiefling, and now held two freshly sharpened daggers in his hands. His gaze was sketchy and investigative, eyes focused on the sorcerer. Suffice to say it, Mival was staring at him, too, although it was difficult to imagine what a glare from him might look like.

Raymladon got the hint and turned down the alleyway, where the wood elf still had his gaze locked on the floor.

“That’s the wrong way,” said Bardryd in a guarded tone, still glancing at the assassins behind them.

“I know,” agreed the half-elf, but didn’t stop nor slacken his pace, and a moment later, the dwarf followed reluctantly, rolling her eyes.

Syllin had his head bowed down, waiting for the strangers to pass. To his surprise, the half-elf stopped in front of him and offered a smile. His hand was sticking out, and the druid scrambled to stand up, accidentally knocking over a series of crates.

Bardryd gave him a judgemental look, but Raymladon chuckled good-naturedly. Embarrassed, Syllin took his hand. It was rough, with a silver callus inside and out.

“Thank you for saving our lives,” said the sorcerer formally. “You don’t meet a lot of strangers willing to help out around here.”

The wood elf was flustered to the point of speechlessness, and to top it off, now he felt guilty at the half-elf’s praise. He didn’t deserve it. Nevertheless, he gave a slight nod and tried to return the smile.

“I don’t believe I caught your name,” noted Raymladon.

The druid was, by now, accustomed to being bizarrely reserved in social situations, especially when introducing himself, and had accepted it for the most part. But now he was even more nervous, and his mind, which should have been thinking of some clever responses, was completely blank.

“Syllin,” mumbled the wood elf. Neither of the passerby seemed to notice his voice cracking, though from the corner of his eye he could see Bardryd eyeing him in uncertainty.

“Pleasure to meet you, Syllin,” said Raymladon. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

“Hopefully,” answered the druid, looking at the floor. How was it possible to be so casual while meeting someone new?

“We’re never going to see him again,” said the dwarf curtly, running low on patience. She had never found much use for tact, anyway.

The half-elf shushed his companion with a sharp look. He was grateful for Bardryd’s company, but her lack of diplomacy was never easy to tolerate. He gave Syllin an apologetic nod, and walked past him back towards the main street, turning the corner and listening to the dwarf wizard’s hurried footsteps behind him.

[daihell]

ok I have now named the children! The oldest (18), mage qunari, is named Hissera: it means hope in qunlat, her birth father (whom also gave birth to her since he was aqun-athlok) wanted to name her something he wished he had more of. The second (13), dwarven archanist apprentice, is named Oskar they don't have a gender and loves magic a lot. The third (5), half elf/human, is Syllin he just wants to shapeshift into birds. And the baby is Garrick and only stops crying when Inquizzy dad holds them.

!!!! They are all perfect and I love them so much!!

[pirskatinkivakoti]

Kun herätys on viideltä, on ensimmäisen päivälevon aika kymmeneltä. Kissapuun reunallinen ylätaso on suosittu päikkäripaikka. Tällä kertaa sen varasi itselleen Nöpö. Nöpö saapui tänne loppukesästä 2017. Arasta sähisijästä on pikkuhiljaa kasvanut ihmisiin luottava nuoriherra. Tutut ihmiset saavat silittää ja rapsuttaa Nöpöä, mutta syllin se ei ainakaan vielä ole halunnut tulla. Nöpölle etsitään pysyvää kotia. Meiltä kissat luovutetaan koteihin, joissa on kokemusta aroista kissoista, lajinmukaisesta ruokinnasta, turvallinen ulkoilumahdollisuus ja kissakaveri. Lisätietoja voi tiedustella yv:llä. Jos kiinnostut jostain kissasta ja haluaisit mahdollisesti tarjota sille kodin, niin muistathan kertoa yhteydenotossasi itsestäsi, peheestäsi, kodistasi, eläimistäsi ja kissakokemuksestasi, kiitos ❤️ #kissapuu_com #kissahuonekalut #kissanilo_oy #rescuecatsofinstagram #adoptdontshop🐾 #instacat_meow https://www.instagram.com/p/B3oT7i2gqu8/?igshid=1238d5s2xkqje

[kaldwinwrites]

From Riches to Ruin | The Nostra Continuum

[a/n: This is long, very long. I got hit with a sudden burst of inspiration to write out Valkaer’s full backstory last night, so I wrote this in the space of about four hours.]

Words: 5466

Summary: The backstory of Valkaer Ravensong, the lilac-skinned elf, the shadow’s blade, the Hand of Oraca. Where her story begins.

           There are many names by which the Lilac-Skinned elf has come to be known. Few alive on Nostra any more still know her true name. The name she has adopted, the name she has kept the longest, is Valkaer Ravensong.

Valkaer was born to a clan of wood elves a few miles inside the forest of Shoor’síl in southwestern Sorthros. Her life was typical; she was raised by a group of four adults, along with six other children. She learned to climb trees at a young age, and learned to take the falls that inevitably came with climbing.

When Valkaer was four years old, her peaceful life was interrupted by a band of Drow, who had previously lived in the pitch black heart of Shoor’síl, but had run out of food in recent weeks, and began expanding their territory.

The Drow attacked in the night, deathly afraid of the sunlight that pierced the light canopy this far from the heart. They killed most of the clan in their attack, save for Valkaer, a four year old boy named Syllin, and a woman named Sariel, who was Valkaer’s closest guardian.

Sariel tripped over an exposed root, sending a loud crack through the air before she fell and rolled several feet. Valkaer and Syllin rushed to try to help her up, but as she put weight on her foot, pain shot through her entire body. She knew her ankle was broken, and that she would only slow the kids down. She urged them to leave her.

Valkaer refused to leave her side, but Syllin dragged her, kicking and screaming away from Sariel.

Valkaer and Syllin ran for four days, surviving on what few berries they knew to be safe. Finally, after four and a half days of running, they made it to the edge of Shoor’síl. Valkaer made it another half day before she passed out.

When Valkaer awoke, she was surrounded by stone walls, lying in a bed as the light from the setting sun shone through the window above her head. Unsure of her surroundings, Valkaer curled up, hoping this, and the events of the last few days, had been some kind of nightmare.

Minutes went by in silence, then the door opened. Standing in the doorway was a human woman with a plate of food. She made her way to the bed and knelt beside it, keeping back from Valkaer so as not to scare her.

“You poor thing,” her voice was incredibly gentle, “You’ve been through so much.” She set the plate of food on the bedside table. “You should eat, you must be famished. When you’re ready, I’ll be outside.” And with that, she was gone, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Valkaer peeked out from under the covers, at the door, then at the food. She could smell it the moment the door opened, and her mouth was watering. Bacon, roast tomatoes and toast slathered with something golden that she didn’t recognise.

Valkaer took no time to tear into the food. It had been nearly a week since she had eaten anything other than berries. Whatever was on the toast she found delicious, salty, fatty, melted into the toast itself. The bread itself was new to valkaer, more light and fluffy than the bread she was used to.

Once she was finished with the food she set the plate on the bedside table and pulled her knees to her chest and stared out of the window. She sat there for a few minutes before finally deciding that she could trust the human food lady. She hopped off the bed and moved to the door and looked through the crack.

The Human woman was sitting in a chair next to a fire reading something that Valkaer couldn’t quite make out. She opened the door a little and winced as the hinges groaned.

The woman looked up from her book with a small smile, “Did you enjoy your breakfast?” she asked, “I wasn’t sure what Elves even eat, so I thought I’d go with the basics.”

Valkaer looked down at the floor, “The bread here is fluffy,” she said quietly. She lifted her head and looked around. The room she was standing in was big, a fireplace with a roaring fire sat against the far wall, there was a door to her left, and another door on the wall to her right. Past that door was an archway into another room. Finally, on the wall to her far left was an ornate looking door with some glass panes.

Portraits hung on the walls, all of Humans. There were three of the woman in the chair, one of a middle-aged man with a bushy black beard that was peppered with grey hairs, and various portraits of a boy in various stages of aging. Above the fireplace hung a large portrait of all three together. The boy in the family portrait looked slightly older than Valkaer.

The woman traced her line of sight to the family portrait and smiled, “I remember that day like it was yesterday,” she said, setting the book down on the armrest. “Remah put up such a fuss, we had to take so many breaks. Only it is so hard to get portraits of children. They want to play and run and jump.”

She took a moment, staring at the portrait fondly, before she turned to Valkaer. “Listen to me, blabbering on about a portrait. Are you okay? In any pain?”

Valkaer shook her head, “No, ma’am.”

The woman shook her head in kind, “I’ll have none of that ‘ma’am’ lark. My name is Leanna,” she said with a kind smile.

Valkaer, slightly warming up to the situation, managed a weak smile back, “My name’s Emmie,” she said.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Emmie,” Leanna said, “I only wish it were under better circumstances.”

Suddenly, the door on the far left wall flew open, and a large man walked in. The same man from the portrait with the bushy beard.

Valkaer jumped and ran back to the room and hid behind the door.

“Marius! You scared the poor girl half to death!” Leanna said, and Valkaer heard the sound of footsteps outside, “Tread carefully, she’s terrified of everything right now. You need to treat her with care.”

A few moments went by, and there was a gentle knock on the door. “Emmie, it’s me, it’s Leanna. Can I come in?” Leanna asked through the door.

Valkaer stepped away from the door, opened it and looked past Leanna to Marius in the background, she looked up at Leanna and nodded.

Leanna stepped inside the room and pushed the door almost closed, leaving it slightly ajar again. She moved to the bed and took a seat, smiling when she saw the empty plate. “I’m sorry about that. He didn’t mean to scare you.” She said, her voice more gentle than ever, “He’s a touch loud, but he’s no threat, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

She looked out the window at the clouds passing overhead and smiled fondly, “He found you, three days ago, passed out on the road just outside the forest. You were covered in little cuts and grazes. You must have run through a patch of brambles.” She looked over to Valkaer who was looking at her arms for the scratches, “Don’t worry, love, I took care of them for you. You nearly faded from us twice, but I managed to keep you alive.”

Valkaer moved over and climbed up on the bed, sitting with space between her and Leanna, “Where’s Syllin?”

Leanna shook her head, “You were the only one Marius found,” she looked down at her hands, wringing the fabric of her dress in her lap, “I’m so sorry, dear. No child should have to go through that.”

Valkaer took a moment and hopped off the bed, went out the door and moved to the front door of the house.

“Where are you going?” asked Marius from beside the fire.

“To find Syllin,” Valkaer said, “and Sariel.”

Leanna moved after her, “Emmie please, if you go back there you’ll be in serious danger. Marius tell her!”

Marius motioned to Leanna to stay inside the house, and followed Valkaer out, keeping a few paces behind her as she marched back towards Shoor’síl. “Other way,” he said as she turned right at an intersecting path. “You want to go back to find your friend? That’s admirable.”

Valkaer huffed and moved faster, although it was in vain, as Marius, a man in his thirties was well able to keep pace with a four year old.

“I went there,” said Marius, “After I brought you back here, I went to your village.” He stopped walking.

Valkaer noticed the lack of heavy footfalls behind her and stopped walking. She turned around.

“There was nothing left,” Marius said, his head hung low, “I’m so sorry.”

Valkaer turned back to look in the direction of her home. The treetops were visible from here, peeking over the small hill near the house. She looked at the forest dance in the breeze, tears welling in her eyes.

A few minutes went by before she turned back, tears streaming down her face, trying so hard not to sob.

Marius walked up to her and dropped to his knees next to her, “You poor thing, I’m so so sorry you had to go through this.” He wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

Valkaer pressed her face into his shoulder and cried into the fabric of his shirt, small muffled sobs.

Marius carried her back inside the house and set her down on the bed in their spare room.

She spent a few hours crying into her pillow, before she passed out. That night she slept a deep and dreamless sleep. She awoke to the sound of the door knocking gently. A few moments later, a small boy walked into the room.

“I’m Remah,” he said, “Dad says you’re my new brother. Your skin is pink.”

Valkaer looked at her hands and then looked to Remah, “Yours is brown,” she said, “I’m Emmie. What’s a brother?”

“I’ll explain later, Mum’s got breakfast cooking, she said to ask if you’d help me set the table.”

Valkaer cocked her head, “set the table?” she asked.

Remah nodded “Yeah, y’know, put out plates and knives and forks and stuff.”

Valkaer was visibly confused, but followed Remah out of her room regardless. The table in the main room had a small stack of plates. Remah took them and moved around the table. “Knives go on the right, forks go on the left, ‘cept Mum’s plate, she’s left-handed.”

Valkaer followed Remah around the table setting the knives and forks in place, switching their place for Leanna’s plate. When they got to the last plate, Remah pointed and said “That’s yours!” Valkaer nodded and placed her knife on the left of the plate and the fork on the right.

“Another southpaw in the family?” Marius said from behind Valkaer, causing her to jump, “Leanna’ll like that.” He smiled wide.

“You’re going to take me in? Just like that?” Valkaer asked.

“Of course,” Marius said, as if there was any other possibility, “We’re not about to let a small boy go without food or shelter.”

“I’m a girl!” Valkaer responded harshly.

Marius moved to his seat as Leanna came in from the kitchen with a metal pan in hand that was still sizzling. She set it down on a mat in the middle of the table and moved to her seat. “Breakfast is served, everyone tuck in, there’s plenty to go ‘round.”

Valkaer took her seat and took some bacon and mushrooms and tomatoes. There was a strange fluffy yellow mound that she didn’t recognize, so she took some of that too. She also took two slices of toast. “There’s no yellow on this?” she asked.

“No yellow?” Leanna asked, confused at her wording.

“Yeah, the yellow stuff that was on top of the bread last time.”

“You mean butter?” Marius said, sliding the butter over to Valkaer.

She looked at the golden slab of butter with a knife sticking out of it and said the word again, stressing the syllables “But-ter…” She took the knife and cut a small piece off and plopped it on the toast. Not long after it had formed a puddle in the middle of the slice. She pushed it around with the knife until it coated the slice, then bit into it and smiled.

The breakfast was delicious, Leanna was a skilled cook. And the strange pile of yellow, Valkaer discovered, was Scrambled eggs. She helped Remah gather the dishes and bring them to the kitchen to soak before they were to be washed.

Not long after breakfast, Marius left the house. Valkaer later found out that he worked as a merchant in the local town of Ruundan, and that he had found Valkaer when he was on his way to hunt deer for skins and meat in the forest.

Valkaer adjusted remarkably quickly to life with the humans, though she never did take their surname, Lunabrace, opting to keep her own surname to remember her clan. She would remain ‘Emmie Feyrite’ Emmie being short for Emtranthine, something Leanna asked her about a month after she came to live with them.

Valkaer’s life was stable for years. Life with the Lunabraces was peaceful, she woke up at dawn, helped Remah set the table, had her lessons with Leanna, played with Remah in the garden, set the table for dinner, read with Leanna before bed. It became a daily routine.

When she was seven, and Remah was ten, Marius took Remah to learn how to shoot. He gave Remah a small bow that he had used as a child. Valkaer wanted to learn too, so Remah and her had to share the bow for a few weeks, until she got capable with the bow, and Marius came home from work one day with a bow for Valkaer.

Years went by in relative peace. Leanna began to get weak one year, but she appeared to push through it, until one night, when Valkaer was fourteen years old, she woke up before Remah or even Marius and went to the kitchen, expecting to find Leanna setting up the stove and the food, but the kitchen was empty.

She moved to her parents’ room and knocked before pushing the door open slightly. “Mum,” she whispered, “It’s nearly dawn, dad and Remah will be up soon.” There was no response. She shook Leanna’s shoulder lightly to wake her, but got nothing.

“Dad! Dad wake up, I think something’s wrong!” she shouted, waking Marius.

He lit a candle he had on the bedside table and looked over at Leanna’s still body in the bed next to him. She had passed in her sleep.

The funeral for Leanna was larger than Valkaer thought it would be. In the ten years she lived with them, the Lunabraces had almost no visitors. But at the cathedral in Ruundan, there were hundreds of people. Humans and Elves and Halflings, all grieving the loss of the young Leanna Lunabrace.

Valkaer took on the duties of Leanna after she died, waking up and cooking, though she was never as good as Leanna had been, Remah and Marius made her feel like she was.

When she was seventeen, Remah and Marius went out to hunt one day in late Oldrea, but didn’t return when they should have. Hours went by with no sign of them. Fearing for their safety, Valkaer grabbed her bow and quiver and headed out for Shoor’síl.

On the way there, she found Remah, limping along the main road to Ruundan, four deep gashes along his left cheek, his hand clutching his stomach with blood pooling around it. She moved under one shoulder, carrying his weight to a nearby tree, and set him down to tend to his wounds.

“A bunch of fuckin’ drow got the drop on us..” he said, and coughed up a small amount of blood, “Managed to kill most of ‘em, but..” his words caught in his throat, “Emmie, father’s dead.”

Valkaer finished patching up Remah and helped him home. That night the two grieved for their father, drinking to his memory, and taking solace in the fact that he was with their mother again.

The next morning, Remah went to Ruundan to warn the guard about the drow in Shoor’síl pushing closer to the border of the forest. When he returned, he was accompanied by a horse carrying two hefty saddlebags.

“What’s all this?” Valkaer asked, motioning to the horse.

“Father’s will.” Remah said dryly. “Apparently, he was rich.”

“I could have told you that, Rem.. Have you seen our house?” she said, “Half of the houses in Ruundan are smaller than ours.”

“No, Em. Not like that.” Remah said, untying the saddlebags which fell to the ground and kicked up a large amount of dust. “Eighty Thousand Gold Pieces.”

Valkaer’s heart skipped a beat at the number. They had been living on five gold a week the entire time Valkaer had been living there. And that was considered wealthy. Eighty thousand was unheard of.

Nine months passed with little to no remarkable events, until one morning when Valkaer awoke to a foul stench. She moved into the main room and found the corpse of a dog on the dining table, an ornate black dagger driven into its neck. On the dagger was a note written in a strange language, most of it was symbols and a mishmash of other languages. What was in Elvish and Common read like the ramblings of a madman.

“Remah!” she called out, but got no reply. She ran to his room and pushed open the door. Inside she found his room turned upside down. His bed was broken, the dresser was splintered where some weight had fallen against it, the left wall was streaked with blood.

Whoever had come into the room, Remah was waiting for them, and he put up a fight. But now neither Remah, nor the invader were in the house. There was no blood outside Remah’s room, and no trail that Valkaer could follow, not that she even knew how to track. The most notable thing was that the gold was untouched.

Valkaer made her way to Ruundan to report her brother missing. When the guard heard about the blood in his room, they ruled him dead.

Within a day of reporting him missing, there was a knock on the door. It was a banker. He was there to reclaim the gold from Marius’ will, stating that because Remah had never left the gold to anyone, and because Valkaer was never made a legal member of the family, that the gold was now the property of the town of Ruundan, as was the house.

Valkaer could do nothing, she was homeless. Eighteen years old, she had lost two families, two homes, and her safety. She fled to Ruundan, lived on the streets, in back alleys. Over the next three years, she learned how to steal, how to survive. She became adept at pickpocketing, eventually saving enough to buy a set of thieves’ tools from a shady Gnome with fiery red hair.

She learned how to pick locks and quickly became able to pick almost every lock in Ruundan. Her habits were to wait until someone reasonably wealthy left their house empty, then she would pick the lock, steal things that they would never notice missing, the keepsakes that have no real sentimental value, but will fetch a nice price, then she would leave and lock the door behind her.

After selling the keepsakes to the Gnome, who she befriended over drinks in a shady bar on the outskirts of town and learned was named Astora, she would opt not to use the gold to buy food, instead choosing to steal food from the homes she would invade.

She survived like this for three years, until one night, she was caught by the town guard while trying to break into the house of a high up in the town. She was tossed in jail, her tools, gold and daggers taken from her.

She spent the first night in the cell trying not to cry, as the hours went on and she realised that she was trapped in there with no escape, tears started to well up. That’s when she heard a voice from a dark cell across from her.

“Not gonna cry on me are ya, rookie?” The voice was the most captivating thing Valkaer had ever heard. “I can’t stand the sound of crying, so try not to make a girl upset. Stay strong, yeah?”

Valkaer sniffled and moved to the bars and looked over. The adjacent cell was pitch black, she couldn’t see in, even with her eyes.

“What’s your name, kid?” the voice asked.

Valkaer sniffled, “Emmie,” she said weakly.

“Oh that will never do, that’s the name of a softie.. You’ll never survive in the slammer with a name like Emmie.” The voice responded, “What’s your favourite animal, kid?”

“R-ravens,” Valkaer said, “Can you stop calling me ‘kid’ please?”

“You like music, kid?”

Valkaer nodded.

“How about… Ravensong?” the voice offered, “Now that’s a jail name if ever I’ve heard one.” The voice paused for a moment, “Not really a first name though is it… Hmm, what do you strike me as..”

She took a moment, Valkaer could feel the person’s eyes scanning her up and down. Minutes went by before the voice offered a name. “Valkaer.” She said, 

“You strike me as a Valkaer.” A pair of jet black hands and forearms slipped out of the darkness, through the bars. The fingers ended in sharp blood red claws. “Valkaer Ravensong. Got a nice ring to it, don’t it, kid?”

“I said stop calling me kid! I’m twenty one, I’m not a child!” Valkaer barked, her voice slipping down to its more masculine tone. Valkaer cleared her throat and spoke again, back in the feminine register, “I’m not a child.”

“You’re twenty one? Well, I’m twenty two, so I’m just gonna go right ahead and continue callin’ you kid, ‘kay, kid?” the voice taunted. Valkaer could feel the smirk from the darkness.

Three days went by without Valkaer talking to the voice on the other side of the hall. All the while, the person in the cell was still shrouded in pitch black. Finally the voice spoke up, “Come on, don’t be like this. I’m bored, kid. You gotta entertain me.”

A moment of silence went by, “Please, Valkaer.” She said, the taunting tone gone entirely just like that. In that moment, her voice went from captivating, to vulnerable, and Valkaer realised that the person in that cell was probably just as scared as she was.

“What got you thrown in here?” the voice asked. “Will you at least tell me that? Just… anything to break the silence.” The voice pleaded.

“I was caught trying to break into some high up’s house.” Valkaer answered. “What about you?”

“I was caught planting evidence,” the voice responded.

“Excuse me? Why were you planting evidence?”

“Cause that’s my job. I break into some snooty bastard’s house when they’re out, plant evidence that implicates them with a cult, and leave without a trace. A few weeks later, maybe somethin’ happens, maybe they have a little ‘accident’, you catch my drift? The guard go to investigate and find the cult shit I planted, and suddenly, the killer or killers, if there are any, are being publicly thanked for cleaning the streets of cultists.”

“You kill people?”

“No, I just plant evidence. I’m a thief. I leave the killing to the assassins.”

“But you’re okay with killing people?!”

 “What about you, why were you breaking into that high up’s house?”

“That was different! I don’t kill people!”

“No, you just steal from them. All of the hard work they did to get their things and you just break into their house and steal it from under them!”

Valkaer turned her back on the other cell. “I steal so I can eat.”

“And I plant evidence so I can sleep at night.” The voice responded after a minute of silence. “You know the injustice these bastards cause in the world, I can see it in your eyes. I can’t sleep knowing even one of them are walking free when others are suffering because of them.”

“So you kill them?!”

“So.. I found an avenue where I can help to rid the world of them.” There was a pause. “It’s not elegant, but it works. Don’t you have anyone you’d like to get back at? Someone who hurt you, who put you in a position where you have to steal to survive?”

Valkaer thought for a moment. She found herself thinking back to the banker who took her money from her, who took her home with that smile on his face, like he got some kind of joy out of stripping her of everything but the clothes on her back.

“You may not agree with what I do. But Ruundan used to be a hell of a lot worse before we came along.”

Every night in the jail was spent much the same. A breakfast in the morning, cold, overcooked eggs and toast hard as stone, and dinner in the evening, some kind of slop with… animal? Parts? Valkaer didn’t know what she was eating, but it was food.

Between the guard’s shifts, Valkaer and the voice from across the hall would talk. After two months, the voice offered a name, Netherspite.

“Netherspite? Not much of a first name is it? More of a surname.” Valkaer taunted. Netherspite’s sarcasm was rubbing off on her.

“You buy me dinner you’ll get my first name, how’s that, Val?” Netherspite taunted back.

“Careful, Netherspite, I might just take you up on that offer.”

 Six months in, in the middle of a rousing conversation about the various cracks in the wall of Netherspite’s cell, there was an unexpected slam of a door from down the hall, and a guard called down, “I thought I told you two to shut the hell up!” Heavy footfalls and the sound of a sword being drawn, “If I catch you two talking once more, I’ll start taking fingers!”

Valkaer stepped back from the bars, “Won’t happen again.” She said.

The guard sheathed his sword, “No meals for the next two days. Either of you.” And with that, he was headed back for the door he barged in through.

Once he was gone, Netherspite was the first to speak, “Well, he seemed like a cunt. I’m bored of this place, I’m gonna go.”

Valkaer looked over, confused, just in time to see the familiar black forearm snake its way through the bars holding a ring of keys and insert one into the keyhole on the cell door. The door opened, and all at once, the darkness inside the cell dissipated revealing, at last, the full form of Netherspite.

She was a tiefling, jet black skin, with large, emerald eyes, the colour covered the entirety of her eyes. Her horns curled around her ears and poked back up like ram’s horns, her hair was short and messy, blood red with green tufts here and there, and her tail was long and slender, and fully prehensile, dexterous enough to perhaps steal a set of keys from a guard’s belt while he was distracted.

Netherspite stepped out of her cell and gave a small two-finger salute to Valkaer, “Try not to die in here, kid.” And she turned to leave, took a few steps and stopped.

She waited a few seconds, knowing that every second of delay was a risk, and turned back, “You get me caught, I’m never speaking to you again, you hear me?” She moved back to Valkaer’s cell and opened it, grabbed her hand and led her through the halls of the jail, until they reached a window to the outside.

“You’re tall, look through there and tell me what’s outside.” Netherspite said, and it was only now that Valkaer noticed how short she was. Netherspite stood at a paltry 5’1”, more than a foot shorter than Valkaer’s impressive 6’2”

Valkaer peeked out through the window. Below them was a river, the jail was build right up to the river’s edge. “A river, there’s about forty feet from here to the other side.”

“Alrighty, hope you can swim.”

And before she knew what was happening, Valkaer was falling, all she saw was the jail above her, Netherspite vaulting over the window and following her down, then the water hit her and knocked the wind out of her lungs.

Valkaer nearly blacked out, she felt a tug, and then water breaking over her head as she gasped for air, trying desperately to suck back in the air that was pulled from her lungs.

“Come on, get on your feet, Val! They’ll have noticed we’re gone by now! We gotta leave Ruundan.” Netherspite said, running again.

Valkaer pushed herself to her feet and followed after her.

Part way through the town, Netherspite stopped dead in her tracks. Valkaer ran a few paces ahead before turning, jogging on the spot, “Netherspite, come on, we have to go!”

Natherspite shooed Val casually with her hand, “Gimme a second, I smell something…” She looked around and grinned when she spotted a patch of flowers. She knelt before them and plucked one and slid it into place on top of her right ear.

“Much better,” she said, and ran up to Valkaer, took her hand and sprinted on, leading her out of town.

The two traveled for two days before settling down on a farm, taking shelter in a barn.

They lay down in a pile of hay under a skylight. Staring up at the stars, Valkaer was the first to speak.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, “For coming back for me. You didn’t have to, but you did.”

Netherspite scoffed, “Of course I had to come back for you, who else was I gonna throw at the guard if they caught me?” she taunted.

“Netherspite I’m serious.”

“Oriala…”

“What?”

“My name… It’s Oriala”

“A name almost as beautiful as its owner,”

“And I thought I was a charmer!” Oriala joked, “I mean GODS Valkaer, that’s cheesy.”

The two laughed together under the stars, before Valkaer turned to look at Oriala. “Why did you hide yourself?”

“I…” Oriala turned away. “Isn’t it obvious? Look at me.”

“I am looking”

“Yeah. And you see a tiefling. The world hates us.”

“I see a tiefling.” Valkaer said quietly, “But I also see the most beautiful person I’ve ever had the good fortune to gaze upon.”

“There are times when I’m thankful my skin is black… Like now… So you can’t see me blushing.”

“Look at me,” Valkaer said, she put a hand on Oriala’s shoulder.

Oriala turned to face her.

“Fuck what the world thinks of tieflings. You saved me when you could have left me. You came back. Always remember that.”

Oriala smiled, and for the first time, Valkaer could see the smile she had been imagining for the last six months. It was more beautiful than she had ever imagined. When Oriala smiled, it was a coy half-smile that revealed the smallest hint of one of her fangs poking out over her lower lip.

“I..” Valkaer swallowed hard, her heart was pounding in her chest, “I really want to kiss you…”

Oriala’s smile dropped and a few moments went by before she reached up, placed a hand on the back of Valkaer’s neck and pulled her in for a kiss.

“I thought you’d never ask, Val!” Oriala said when they parted, “Jeez, you kept me on my toes for a minute there, thought I was gonna have to be the one to say it.”

Valkaer smiled. Unlike Oriala, Valkaer’s skin was lilac, and it was very obvious when she was blushing. Which she was. Intensely.

“Oh wow you’re cute when you blush.” Oriala said with a chuckle, and pulled Valkaer in for another kiss.

The two spent that night, their first real night of freedom, their first night outside Ruundan, lying together under the stars, holding each other, feeling the warmth of each other, and occasionally, of course, kissing.

The next morning, they set off for the city of Irontide. It was a week’s journey northeast, and the main road to Irontide was a dangerous place for two lone travelers. Riddled with cutthroats, sellswords and highwaymen. The road would be dangerous, but Irontide, Oriala promised, was where Valkaer could find a new home.

[smolspacemouse]

Wooo! I made a D&D character! His name is Syllin Auvryafin and he’s a drow (obviously.) When originally making him I was in an extreme panic because I didn’t know how all the stats work, but I got some help from other participants and the DM’s are actually pretty chill about it.  Here’s his backstory if you’re interested (keep in mind I wrote it in a panic so it might not be worded well lmao): 

Syllin was born in the Non-Elven town along with his elder sister. When he was about 17, he was kidnapped by a gang who sought to sell him to cultists for sacrifice. During this, he was able to see a bit of the criminal underworld, which oddly intrigued him for his situation. He managed to escape but not unscathed. Upon learning his family hadn't made much effort to search for him and even viewed his disappearance as a positive for their low-income situation, he became resentful of his family and became wary of others from how feeble trust can be. He went on from there by himself, relying on thievery for survival and murder, the latter more dominant in his later life. After killing the head of a small thieves guild in a coastal city, he went on the run to avoid any other members finding his whereabouts.