#druid pol morris

[butleroftoast]

"Are you the Marquis Skullduggan?"

"Yeah, probably."

Looked at it on my phone and realised they were way too pale, so I've tweaked it (and also made it actually match the lineart).

Anyway here's a stupid doodle so this isn't just a repost.

When one half of the friendship is a druid and the other is a belligerent asshole.

#house skullduggan #druid pol morris #scribbles

[theoakandthemistletoe]

Despite his habit of hoarding food, Morris can be generous with people he likes and trusts. He will never invite someone to take his food but, as with the rats, he has no objections to them helping themselves to his supplies, even without asking. He'll simply collect more at the first available opportunity. It should still be considered a deep sign of trust for him to share in this way.

His alchemy ingredients are an exception. Not because he's possessive about them, though, as he isn't even the best alchemist in most given groups, at least when it comes to anything other than poison, and will happily delegate potion-making responsibilities. It's partly because he doesn't want any of the few rare people he likes taking anything poisonous, and partly because of a valuable lesson learned while travelling with his usual companions. The lesson is: if you actually want to get some rest during a long rest, do not let Skullduggan help themself to any sort of energising or strength-enhancing ingredient.

#druid pol morris #house skullduggan

[theoakandthemistletoe]

Beginnings

The hold was dark, grimy, and smelled of rotting fish, like home. Morris spent a lot of time down there. For one thing, it was also full of rats, and for another, not many of the crew, such as they were, ventured this deep into the bowels of the ship. The only other person present was the bard. The rats didn't mind him and he let his lute do the talking. Morris could live with that. After the initial surprise, the bard hadn't even questioned Morris's one-sided muttering.

'Should be heading home, if you can trust that cleric to navigate.'

Anyone watching might have seen a twitch of the nearest rat's whiskers, a paw flicked across an ear. Morris appeared to hear a whole sentence and responded in kind.

'Looked fine earlier. I'll check.'

He cupped a hand in front of him and tried not to feel a fool as he whispered the words, hoping that he couldn't be heard over the lute. A feeble but warm glow appeared above his palm and a breeze, fresher than any found naturally in the hold, breathed across his fingers. After six seconds the apparition vanished and he closed his hand into a fist.

'Fair skies, good wind,' he said. 'Another week, maybe. Can you find enough food until then? There's a chest in the captain's room, he kept his own personal supplies in there, maybe I can--'

He heard the discordant note on the lute before he felt the lurch. Both he and the bard scrambled to their feet, which proved pointless only moments later. Whatever the movement was, it rose up underneath him, a great swell pushing against his legs and sending both him and the rats tumbling through the stale seawater washing through the hold. It felt colder than usual, as more water burst in through the seams and doused the lantern. That was the least of Morris's worries. The rats were disappearing into their holes as panic coursed through the whole pack, and even if he could find the words to reassure them he suspected they might have the right idea. Everything seemed to be tipping to the side, almost as if something was lifting the ship from the water. The lute twanged as it bounced against the deckhead and dropped into the shadows, lost.

The worst part was the familiarity. He knew from experience, as soon as he felt the groan of timber beneath his feet, that the ship wasn't going to survive whatever battering it was taking. After disagreeing with the cleric on every course of action to date, Morris was at least prepared to agree with his assessment that the entire voyage had been cursed from start to finish. At least this time Morris was prepared. When the wood buckled, he mumbled the incantation for destroying water and held it in his mind, waiting, waiting, until the hull gave in and what felt like the entire ocean pounded through the ship. A space of air, fleeting salvation, surrounded his head for a split second. Enough, barely, to look upwards, towards the surface revealed as the wood tore apart, and gasp out the charm to misty step away from the disintegrating hull. Upwards, thirty feet, whatever it took to break the surface, to anywhere with oxygen.

As he materialised above the water, he caught a glimpse of a scene frozen in time: the ship half-submerged, the mast burning, and in the sky above, a vast, dark mass, dripping with tentacles. In the single moment of panic Morris had to process this he wondered whether something had dredged a sea monster from the depths – and then it was gone. Without ceremony, without a sound, in fact with a sudden and total absence of sound, it was gone, leaving empty space behind.

#druid pol morris #the oak and the mistletoe #smoothing over where his last d&d campaign ended/how he came to be in faerûn for bg3 #bard and cleric appear courtesy of other people in my group

[butleroftoast]

Even during downtime, when he's as certain as possible that he and the rats are safe, Morris prefers to save his wildshapes in case the rats need him. He would never forgive himself if he wasted it on something frivolous, only for an emergency to crop up.

There is an exception, of course. Once he can change into flying creatures and when he has no other plans, part of his morning routine - after casting Speak With Animals to check in with the rats - is transforming into a bird. Flying as the sun rises is wonderful in itself, but the real purpose, if he's staying on the Skullduggan estate, is to land outside the Twins' windows when he's done and start crowing/crying/screeching as loud as possible. It's only a small revenge for the pranks they pull, but it takes them some time to twig that it's Morris waking them up at an ungodly hour of the morning. They wouldn't have believed he was capable of fun.

#druid pol morris #house skullduggan

[butleroftoast]

Why Morris eats poisoned food: An Essay

Or, why don't you just ritually cast detect poison you freak

Because:

This is often happening underground, in a tunnel, in a wall cavity. Easier for Morris to grab the dubious food in wildshape then beeline it for an open space if he starts to feel unwell (so he doesn't drop wildshape inside a two-inch cavity between hard stone walls).

It requires verbal and somatic components. Again, impossible in wildshape, and even if he gets the food out without anyone eating it, the fact that someone is putting rat poison down suggests they don't want rats and a druidic nutcase who aids and abets them crawling around in that location. They might not take kindly to hearing someone casting spells there.

okay why not cast protection from poison on himself or a rat who consumes poisoned food

To ritually cast it takes ten minutes. Good luck keeping an entire pack of rats away from a tasty morsel of cheese for ten minutes while Morris sits there muttering at it.

Again, see above, verbal and somatic, he has to be able to speak, so he can't do it in wildshape and by the time he's dropped it the rat could be dead.

That said, he would cast protection from poison on a poisoned rat if he could do so quickly enough, but it can't be done ritually, so it uses up a spellslot. This is why he doesn't use it on himself - saves the slot for when a rat is in imminent danger.

If he does use a spell slot to heal himself, it'll be with lesser restoration, and he saves that for when he's caught a disease on account of living, you know, with sewer rats. You only get to remove disease or poison.

Also, the "unruly rats might eat it before Morris finishes dealing with the problem" issue remains even if he knows for a fact it is poisonous, so the original point of him setting a bad example by claiming poisoned food for himself stands. He can try and command an entire colony of 100~ rats not to touch it, and on a bad day he will literally tell them that if they eat it anyway they will die and he takes no responsibility for that, but more often than not his conscience won't let him commit to that and he ends up taking the food.

Which still hasn't quite solved the problem. Now he has poisoned food in his pockets and some of the rats like to hitch rides in there, precisely because he so often keeps tasty things tucked away for them. If he throws it away some other rats will find it. Probably he keeps a pouch for food he knows is poisoned and, once full, ritually casts purify food and drink on it.

But he can't give that to the rats because then they will think the pouch is another secret treat stash.

Maybe he saves it for when he has guests.

"This cheese is nice. Where did you get it?" "Found it on the floor next to Lord Soandso's bins." "…" "It was poisoned, but don't worry, I purified it."

#druid pol morris #the oak and the mistletoe

[butleroftoast]

The Passage

Keep your mouth shut, the Guild said. The lords and ladies of Scrantz did not appreciate being questioned, they said. They certainly didn't appreciate questions such as how they made their fortunes, or where the food was kept, or how people with so much money could make so much mess. The job of a ratcatcher was, believe it or not, to catch rats, and nothing more.

Morris thought about this, as he wriggled on his belly through a crawlspace under the floor, teeth gritted, one hand holding a pouch of poison, the other fumbling for direction in the gloom. Occasionally a rat skittered out of his way, usually some distance ahead. They weren't stupid. Most knew to run when the ratcatcher came to call. Morris was grateful for that, because those who didn't run were almost friendly, sniffing at this stranger in their hole and prepared to eat the poison out of his hand, if he offered it. He couldn't dwell on that for long without a pit of unease building in his stomach. Better to focus on something else.

Keep your mouth shut. No intrusive questions. Do the job and get out. The problem was working out what counted as an intrusive question, in Morris's experience. A little curiosity was supposed to be good for the mind, so he had always been taught. Other people, especially those with any amount of wealth, didn't seem to see it the same way, and reacted to an honest question as if he had smashed a family heirloom. Perhaps secrecy was an heirloom to some.

He had done his best while working on this estate for the past few days, with the face of the Ratcatchers' Guildmaster looming in his memory. It helped that this family were renowned for keeping their tempers on a hair trigger. The motto painted over the front door read Sola Mors Pacem, in slapdash, peeling paint, and by most accounts it was downhill from there.

It also helped that those of the family who weren't in the militia, currently deployed in the war against Enkannil, had kept out of the way preparing some sort of gathering, a wedding, a funeral, something of the sort. Whatever it was, they must have enjoyed themselves. They had returned the previous evening in a noisy, destructive rabble – Morris made sure to slip out of the back, clutching a chunk of bread donated by the kitchenmaid, before anyone noticed him – and the only clue that anybody had survived to the morning was the occasional shuffle of footsteps on the higher floors. Nobody had come down to disturb Morris's work. He was on the last section now.

Dust smeared across his face and he suppressed a cough. The stale, musty stink of rats choked the air. Lay the poison, collect his payment, and he would be free to go. Morris ran a hand through the darkness until he found a promising crack, big enough for a rat to slip through, and stretched out to empty the bag of bait beside it. Once that was done he edged backwards. Not a job for the claustrophobic, especially when something unseen snagged, sticky, on his clothes, but then--

A noise interrupted his departure. Not a soft, gentle noise, like the rats going about their business. This was raw, gutteral, torn out of the soul. Assuming it was human, of course. It sounded almost like crying, but crying with a grief born from fury at the world, deep, throaty, wet. It was the sort of cry people only made when they were certain they were alone. The only time Morris had ever heard crying like that before was from his mother, late at night, in the days after the death of his grandfather.

He backed hurriedly out of the crawlspace, leaving the crying behind. As the Guild had been at such pains to point out, his job here was to catch rats, and the last thing he wanted to deal with on top of that was someone tortured by grief. Fortunately, when he emerged in the hallway, the only witnesses were two young children, stood side by side and staring at his boots as they emerged from the hole.

Once freed, Morris straightened up, pulled a rug over the loose floorboards, and patted himself down, aware there wasn't much he could do to appear presentable when his uniform of choice was a set of grey rags and cobwebs coated his hair. It shouldn't have mattered. The faces watching him could barely have been over the age of ten, if that. Perhaps Morris was out of practice, preferring to keep his eyes on his feet when dealing with clients, but as far as he could tell those faces were identical. They were both framed by short waves of brown hair, both barely over the age of ten, and both grinning at him with eerily toothy smiles. Twins, presumably. The smile reminded Morris of something, but he couldn't think what.

'I told you it wasn't a rat,' insisted one. The other kicked them in the shin.

'It still might be. What were you doing in our secret passage, Ratman?'

Morris picked up his stick, which he had left leaning against the wall. Several rats were tied by the tail to the end of it. Rather than shrink away, the pair of children leaned in, apparently fascinated. One of them reached out and tried to poke the nearest body, until Morris moved the stick out of reach.

'Catching rats,' he said. Backed up by the evidence of the stick, this appeared to be a reasonable answer for the children, who scuffed their feet on the floor with a piercing squeal.

'Why?' asked one. Rather than encourage this line of interrogation, which Morris struggled to answer himself at times, he asked a question of his own.

'What's the room at the end of the passage?'

This prompted a buzz of whispers, before one child nodded and the other announced,

'That's Sib's room. They moved in there when they were too sick to walk.'

'They're dead now, so it's empty.'

'We had to go to the funeral yesterday, we got to march around the graveyard and then there was a party.'

'That's why everyone is still asleep, and if everyone else is asleep, that means the house belongs to us.'

Not to be perturbed, not even by the gleam of mischief in the children's eyes, Morris said,

'I heard someone in there.'

They exchanged looks.

'There shouldn't be.'

'The only person with a key is Cuz.'

'Cuz?'

'Cousin. They go in there sometimes to sort through Sib's stuff.'

'This person was crying,' said Morris. The effect was instant. Both twins screwed up their faces in identical looks of disgust.

'Nobody in our family cries.'

'Especially not Cuz.'

'They're a soldier. They've been in wars and stuff.'

'They've killed over a hundred Enkannin in this one, they said so.'

'Maybe it was a ghost!'

The spirited defence broke off in favour of excited gasps, delivered in unison. Morris was about to ask how likely this was when one of them smacked his arm, quite hard.

'Rats're boring, you ought to be a ghostcatcher.'

'We're gonna go and catch a ghost!'

They disappeared, although their screams and laughter echoed after them. It left Morris alone in the hallway, with nothing to do here except collect his fee. The only sounds of life, however, were the servants, who possessed even less money than he did, and the distant rumble of the twins running back and forth. Rather than plunge deeper into the house, he settled in to wait, examining the entrance hall to pass the time.

Scrantz architecture tended towards the sparse, even in the manors of the nobility. A few rugs woven in yellow and green, the family's hereditary colours, brightened up the hall, and a glass bottle full of red carnations sat on a table beside a wineglass, the dregs gleaming inside. A staircase led up into shadows at the back. A few boots were strewn around, mostly mismatched, a shirt was scrunched up in the middle of the hall, and there was some broken glass in a corner near a streak of wine. Hardly surprising. The servants had been arguing over whose responsibility it was to clean up when Morris arrived this morning, and whoever drew the short straw must have decided to work from the top floor down. Apparently it was taking some time.

The children's thundering footsteps came closer again. Morris wiped his hands on his clothes, leaving behind a dusting of bait, and picked up his stick, the corpses of the rats swinging in unison from the end. As he hefted it over his shoulder, something landed on the rug beside his boots and burst. Liquid spattered across the fabric, dark and damp, and delicate shards of glass sparkled in the lamplight. This time the footsteps were accompanied by giggles, much closer than Morris expected, and he whipped his head up sharply.

Through the twists and turns of the house, the twins had found a back passage and were now on the stairs behind him. When they noticed him staring, the giggling intensified and they scampered up a few steps, although not too far. This scene promised to yield great entertainment, and apparently it would be starting soon, as a door opened opposite Morris.

'Listen, you little bastards, I've got a thumping head and I don't want to be awake this early in the afternoon, so if I catch you I'm going to strap the two of you into armour and throw you to the Enkannin, you horrible little-- who the hells are you?'

Even without the heeled boots, which added at least a solid inch to the figure's height, they would have been taller than Morris. That, plus the definite sense of muscle under the silk clothes, made him question whether hanging around had been the right choice. He would have muttered an excuse and bolted were it not for the shadows on the person's cheeks, the thin redness around their eyes, and the rumpled look of someone who had fallen asleep fully dressed. Even the gold chains and rings they wore looked slept in. Morris thought back, briefly, to the sobbing, trying to square it with the haughty stare directed down at him along a nose which had definitely been broken recently.

'Morris,' he said, voice hoarse. 'Ratcatcher.'

'Oh.' The figure rubbed their face. It looked remarkably similar to the twins on the stairs. Take off ten years and they could have been triplets. 'My commiserations. What do you want me to do about it?'

'I'm finishing up. Just need the payment.'

As if they hadn't heard the second sentence, the figure's eyes drifted down to Morris's feet, where the stain continued to spread outwards from the glass.

'What have you done to my rug?'

'Your rug?'

'My rug.'

'Are you the Marquis?'

'Sure, why not.' It was not a question. They took a few steps forward, sure of themself, with the tread of a soldier atop the elegant heels. Morris tightened his grip on his stick instinctively.

'I met the Marquis,' he said. 'Never seen you before.'

Although, once again, there was a strong resemblance. Morris estimated this person at about eighteen years old, twenty at most, only a few years younger than himself, but give it thirty more, not to mention plenty of indulgence in the family's famed wines, and there wouldn't be much of a difference.

'They died six, seven days ago.' They sniffed. 'Since no one else seems to be up yet, I guess that makes me the Marquis at the moment.'

'What's your name, though?'

'I don't know. I think it begins with a G. Gwydion? Gwynedd? Something like that '

'You must know.'

'Why? I don't have to use it, other people do, it's their job to remember it. Stop trying to change the subject. What did you do to the rug?'

'It wasn't me, it was those kids.'

They glanced sideways, clearly taking in the children still giggling on the stairs, then back to Morris. Their eyes were dark and cool.

'What kids?'

'The ones you were shouting at when you walked in.'

One of the children squeaked. The other thumped the first on the back, prompting a swift retaliation in the form of a bite to the shoulder. Within seconds the fight was bouncing down the stairs as they wrestled with each other. The Marquis pressed a hand to their forehead as if totally oblivious.

'Listen, normally I'd love to fight about this with you, but I just spent a tenday at the Court arguing with people who are actually important and who I'm not allowed to hit in the face, or at least not more than once, apparently, and then as soon as I got back from that I had to go to a funeral, so if you could stop making a mess of my rug and leave that would--'

'I will. As soon as I get my payment.'

'Yeah, the thing about that is... I don't actually have two coins to rub together at the moment.'

'I thought you were the Marquis.'

'Turns out my predecessor spent most of our treasury.'

There was something there, not a note of honesty, but a note of annoyance which convinced Morris that, on this point, the Marquis was telling the truth. It didn't change his opinion in the slightest. He planted his feet firmly on the rug, trying to ignore the squelching sound and a screech from the children in the background.

'You're one of the richest families in Scrantz.'

'Yeah, sure, we are, but I, personally, stood here before you, right now, have nothing. I mean, not nothing, I'm not some kind of peasant, but my coinpurse is all the way upstairs. I'm not going to fetch that.'

'You can't just not pay me.'

The Marquis sidestepped to avoid a poorly-aimed headbutt from one of the twins, and shrugged.

'I can, though.'

'Pay me, or I get the Guild involved.'

'Fine, fine. I tell you what. I'll pay you the money, less the damages you owe me for the rug, yeah? Sound fair? Which, by my calculations, means you owe me thirteen gold.'

They extended a hand, long and slender but worn around the invisible shape of a sword hilt. A scar curled around one of their fingers. When Morris didn't immediately produce a coinpurse, the fingers beckoned, impatient.

'I don't have any money either,' he said. The Marquis lowered their hand to toy with a golden chain at their hip instead.

'Then we'll call it quits and everybody goes home happy. Or rather, you go home happy, I remain home and finally get some peace and quiet in this house which, did I mention, I could have you thrown out of if I wasn't such a kind and reasonable person.'

The chain bounced around their fingers. Every now and then, as it jingled, the flash of a gem at the end caught Morris's eye. He watched it without thinking as he turned something over in his mind.

'You were at Court,' he said eventually. The Marquis paused mid-jingle and mid-yawn.

'Yeah?'

'So you voted to continue the war with Enkannil?'

'Yeah.'

'It caused riots in the streets.'

They grinned, broadly.

'I know, I started them.'

'Doesn't sound kind and reasonable to me.'

The grin vanished. The Marquis squared their shoulders.

'I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand, but I had my reasons.'

'Like what?'

'Like shut up and get out of my house.'

'Fine. I'm going.'

Morris knew he ought to have left it there. There were rumours about the family, the sort of rumours exchanged in a whisper, in the dark, in the wrong sort of places. Even if the worst of them were lies, everyone knew that they struck first and didn't bother asking questions later. He ought to leave it there, go to the Guild, make them sort it. His feet even moved towards the door, and he heard the sigh of relief behind him.

But if he left, he would never know.

'One thing, though... did I hear you crying?' he asked. 'In that room, at the end of the corridor.'

He should have left. He definitely should have left. The Marquis's face dropped from cold to icy.

'You don't know when to shut your godsdamned mouth, do you?'

Morris made a clumsy attempt to duck away, but they were ready for it and lunged forwards. Their fist caught him on the shoulder and flung him towards the door. As he fell, he thought he saw a smile on the Marquis's face, toothy, like the twins, and realised what it reminded him of: a human skull, locked in a grin.

The impact with the floor shook the thought from his head. He skidded to a halt, snatched up his stick, and got to his feet in time to see the twins charging forwards again. The interruption was a blessing. Too caught up in their own fight to watch their surroundings, they barrelled into the Marquis's knees and landed on the rug with a joint yelp. In an attempt to get up, one tried to haul up on the gold chain at the Marquis's hip, which snapped with a metallic tinkle.

It didn't knock the Marquis off balance, even with the heels, but as they caught themself, they rounded on the children instead. The pair gazed up at them from the edge of the rug, breathless, still with their hands knotted in each other's hair and their teeth locked around each other's arms.

'I warned you!'

Feud abruptly forgotten, the twins leapt to their feet and scampered upstairs, shrieking with laughter. The Marquis wasn't far behind. It left Morris alone in the hall again, as the sound of chaos echoed away down an unseen corridor.

The golden chain lay in pieces on the rug. One link was attached to a small, round emerald. It glittered in the candlelight. Morris held his breath and knelt down. Payment owed, payment received.

With the jewel in his pocket and the house silent once more, he turned his back on the family and left the hall. As nobility went, he had experienced worse, which somehow tightened the anger in his chest. Rats were better company than most of the humans he dealt with. He trudged through the grounds with only the bodies swinging on his stick for company.

Keep your mouth shut, the Guild said. Somehow, questioning the motives of the most infamously quarrelsome noble family in the district didn't sound like something which fell under those instructions. They would probably hear from the Marquis before the end of the day, and then, Morris knew, he would be marched in front of the Guild Leader to explain his actions, again.

If they could find him. He stopped at the edge of the vineyard surrounding the house and laid his stick against a fence, the turning for the city on his right, the road into the wilderness on his left. Not for the first time. After most jobs these days he paused and waited, for what he wasn't sure, listening to the wind dancing in the treetops and the sound of birdsong. Most of the birdsong was, admittedly, the gulls screaming at each other over the harbour, and the wind in the trees was more of a rattle, Scrantz being situated in the arid southern lands, but Morris had to work with what was available.

He had never left the city in his life, but he heard, from his shadowy corner at the inn, the stories travellers told, the tall tales from dockworkers and sailors. A lot of it sounded dreadful. Certainly not the life for a humble ratcatcher. A knack for poisons was about the extent of Morris's offensive skills. There was nowhere for him to go, anyway, short of signing on to a random ship in the harbour, or running off to the druid grove rumoured to be hidden a few miles north of town.

But the wind, the birds, the unspoken promise...

Shaking his head, he picked up his stick and started walking. The Guild would be waiting, probably with a reprimand. Best hurry back.

#I know my 19% dnd 80% homebrew 1% bg3 rambling is only of interest to me and nobody else #but I have nothing else to do with this so onto the blog it goes #writing #long post #druid pol morris #house skullduggan #the oak and the mistletoe

[butleroftoast]

Word Association Headcanon (Pt. 2)

When Morris travels with an adventuring group, the rats often prefer remaining at home, despite the unease this gives him. When they do join him, however, their occasional use does not outweigh the problems they cause. Although they can move largely unseen, Morris's companions don't tend to enjoy having a camp full of rats, especially when they start investigating supplies. As for staying at an inn, well - let's just say the owners aren't best pleased with their sudden mysterious pest problem.

Most people Morris travels with can't tell the difference between the individual rats following him. The very few people who've travelled with him multiple times can usually pick them out by context - that is, they assume that if Morris is having an extended conversation with them, he's probably talking to the leader of the colony - but no one as yet would be able to select Fishstinky out of a lineup or, for that matter, tell you his name. Morris guards it as closely as he does his own first name.

Two other prominent rats are Watermould, a scout who has put up a good-natured challenge for leadership once or twice, and Saltyboots, a burly rat most often seen defending their territory. Watermould picked up his scent-name exploring the hulls of ships, and Saltyboots from scurrying around the docks and tavern floors over sailors' feet.

Currently (/pre-BG3), their territory is a network of tunnels through walls, cellars, sewers, and brushing against the Undercity. Morris finds a relatively dry spot in the upper levels of the sewers and sets up a bedroll beside an entrance hole. This allows him to have forewarning of anyone who might disturb them, and allows the rats to join him or hide down below as they please. If he manages to stay there long enough without being caught, he might add some canvas, extra blankets, and wooden crates. You know, to make the sewers more homely.

(Eventually Morris befriends - or learns to tolerate - the Marquis Skullduggan, a noble who will eventually get a background post of their own. They allow Morris to stay in an old barn on one of their family's vineyards, and in exchange he keeps the rats away from their prize fruit. It's an arrangement which seems to work for everyone, at least until Morris disappears and leaves the rats unchecked.)

Much as he cares for the rats, Morris's secret, embarrassing wish is to be able to fly in wildshape. A spell or scroll of Flight just isn't the same as being borne aloft by the power of your own body. It feels childish, petty, and silly, but he can't shake the desire.

(Even at later levels, when he learns a bird wildshape - that of a scarlet macaw, which overtakes even ratshape in his favour - he continues to struggle with flight. It only seems to come to him under duress, and very rarely does he manage to fly purely for the thrill of it. The first time he manages to fly as a bird, it's after a chase off a cliff - long story - and although he gets himself most of the way down safely, he loses control of it towards the end, drops wildshape, and lands with a thump in the dirt.)

He is also more of a cat person than a dog person. One of the few ways he does follow expectations for a druid is in respecting all creatures, so he doesn't dislike dogs at all, and will help them when he can without hurting the rat pack.

The preference for cats is probably inspired by the terriers the other ratcatchers use, most of whom don't like him. That is, the terriers don't like him, because he chases them away from their quarry and argues with them. The actual ratcatchers still remember Morris from the old days and are mostly amiable towards him, if a little baffled by his choices and the antipathy they receive from him when they cross paths. Ratcatchers understand rats more than anybody else, it's a necessity of the job, and some of them even appreciate their complex social hierarchies and intelligence - but they also recognise what a threat they pose, especially to the poorest and the weakest in society, as they destroy food supplies and spread disease. Common opinion is that Morris's work with poisons has turned him a bit strange in the head.

Back to the subject of wildshaping, Morris is not naturally free with his abilities. It's probably related to his rigid control of his emotions. Some druids will change in line with their emotions: when they're angry, when they're excited, and so on. Apparently it's a much freer, more enjoyable experience than making a conscious decision to wildshape, if occasionally inconvenient. This has never happened to Morris. He's skeptical about it even being true. The druid circle probably made it up to tease him.

(Later he learns that he was wrong. Once, just once, during a rare happy period of his life, after a certain someone has taught him to be more in tune with his own emotions and self, he's playing with the rats and it happens: out of nowhere, ratshape, not even caring, pure joy, running after them, tumbling with them, playing on their level, human concerns totally forgotten as he chases down a hole after them. The person who was with him at the time only smiles and goes back to his pipe.)

#my flight got delayed so I am back with more interminable morris #druid pol morris

[theoakandthemistletoe]

Preparation

A servant scurried past Morris and produced, from some mysterious area of their person, a metal box, which the Marquis inspected down the length of their nose. Silver filigree laced the edges, hiding a lock, into which the Marquis slid a thin key and revealed several rows of rings. Morris leaned forwards slightly as they caught the glitter of the candles, then stuffed his hands into his pockets when he noticed the Marquis watching him.

'You really are cursed to put your hands on everything, aren't you?' they said, lifting the box out of reach. As they snapped it closed, Morris caught a flash of the insignia on the chosen ring. A tiny, skeletal hand, etched into the gold band, held an even tinier ruby in its fingers, an approximation of the Skullduggan crest. The ruby matched the pommel of the sword currently resting on the table, and the wine in the bottle beside it.

With a dismissive wave of the hand, which sent the servant scampering from the room, the Marquis examined their reflection. The most prominent feature was a look of disgust. Silks, finery, and other fripperies of the nobility were not usually a part of their wardrobe, the Marquis feeling more at home in a suit of armour or bloodied travelling clothes, and they fidgeted inside the green and yellow doublet, despite how carefully tailored it was. They had already turned down a ruff. In fact they had threatened to strangle the servant with it, and as a threat from a Skullduggan was never an empty one, that servant had almost sprinted for the safety of the hallway.

Morris stood and waited for an explanation. He wasn't sure why he had been summoned to the personal dressing chambers of the Marquis Skullduggan. Some people would probably pay good money to spy on them, although in this instance they would have been disappointed. It seemed that the Marquis had at least three rooms to dress in, not counting their bedroom, and even Morris, who had witnessed them scrubbing blood from their naked body in a stream while singing a cheery song about bread, was only permitted to enter this final one, where the Marquis added finishing touches like the ring and their ceremonial sword.

Regardless of the purpose, he could wait. In such lavish surroundings it wasn't much of a chore, and there was a bowl of fruit on the table beside the wine and two ornately carved glasses. Presumably these were kept in case the act of donning jewellery became too exhausting to bear without sustenance. So far Morris had eaten a handful of grapes and taken a bite from an apple unnoticed. The apple disappeared into his rags as the Marquis turned and reached for their sword. They strung the baldric across their chest and held the straps towards Morris.

'Buckle this for me.'

It was not a request. People in the Marquis's world did as they were instructed or faced the consequences. Morris toyed briefly with the idea of ignoring them, but after a moment he sighed, stepped forwards, and fumbled with the buckles.

'Why're you going to so much effort?' he asked, as he tugged the strap through. The Marquis biffed a hand against his shoulder, which, after bristling with annoyance, Morris forced himself to consider a compliment. Normally they aimed for the head.

'What? Don't be swamp-brained. This is a coronation. I'm the Marquis of Scrantz. If I want to keep our place in the Royal Court I have to at least show up.'

'You said they all think House Skullduggan is full of rebels. Why would they care if you weren't there?'

'Well, you know. We're rebels in an... officially sanctioned sort of way.' The Marquis rubbed their temples, leaving a red mark where the ring dug into their skin. 'Look. If you want to change things, you need power, yeah?'

'And gold.'

'Who are you, the Duke of Dwylionn? All right, all right, and gold. But to get both, you need to have connections. You need to be seen. You need to work with other people, and yes, I know, not my family's strong suit, but we try.'

'Really?'

'Yes! Why do people find that so hard to believe? If we didn't, the other families would all join ranks and try to throw us out of the Court.'

Morris gave the baldric a final pull and stepped back.

'You'd enjoy that.'

'Fair enough, we probably would.' The Marquis wiggled the belt into a more comfortable position. 'But we might regret it afterwards.'

'Hard to regret things if you're dead.'

'Are you saying we'd lose?' They snorted. 'No, we'd regret it because life would be boring without the other Houses to fight. See, this kind of forward-thinking is why they send me and not one of the twins.'

They turned their back on Morris and reached for the bottle of wine, as well as the glasses. That was something the Skullduggans had to be given credit for. Although they would fight anyone over anything, when it came to their wine, there was always a second glass on hand to offer a guest, whether out of generosity or, as Morris suspected, mischief. Many an unsuspecting traveller in Scrantz had been caught off-guard by House Skullduggan's regional wine and woken up, some days later, with considerably fewer clothes, valuables, and other possessions than they started with, and only a thumping headache in exchange. Morris shook his head when the Marquis held the glass towards him and absently pulled the apple out of his pocket instead. The Marquis didn't notice. They poured half a glass for themself, drained it in a breath, and set it down with a clink.

'Right. Onward.'

They were halfway through the door before they realised Morris wasn't following. He stood in the centre of the room, holding his apple, not taking another bite.

'What do you want me to do?'

'Stop holding us up, for a start. Come on.'

'You want me to go to the coronation?'

'Sure, why not? We spend so much time running errands for fairy queens or whatever, it's time you saw a real monarch.' They glanced him up and down, tapping their fingers against their sword. 'From the crowd, of course. I don't want everyone else to know I associate with--'

'Normal people.'

'You live in a sewer. You are not normal. I'll get you through the door, then you can go and stand at the back somewhere, with the servants. Just don't turn into a rat, yeah? Come on.'

People in the Marquis's world did as they were instructed or faced the consequences. This was no exception, either. Before Morris could attempt to reconcile the image of himself, from greasy hair to grey rags, with the interior of the Royal Court, the Marquis had locked their arm into his and dragged him from the room.

#the written equivalent of doodling #wrote this a while ago trying to find their voices. still not quite there #the oak and the mistletoe #druid pol morris #house skullduggan

[butleroftoast]

[I am being totally normal and fine about postgame headcanons.]

---

Morris and Halsin don't part on bad terms. On the contrary, they both want to see each other again, desperately. But Halsin is busy rebuilding and helping refugees and Morris doesn't know where his head is any more, now that it's his again.

They do stay together for a while, learning real things about each other beyond shadow curses and tadpoles. Morris has developed various habits from living alone: muttering to himself, hoarding food, squirming in his sleep if he isn't allowed to share his bed with the sewer rats, which Halsin finds endearingly annoying while meditating beside him. Halsin's freedom with wildshaping and his rather energetic sex drive is a lot for Morris to get used to as someone accustomed to keeping his emotions under lock and key. Morris learns about Halsin's history, the pain he hides from in wildshape, and Halsin learns that Morris simply yearns to be able to fly in the wildshape of a bird. At the end of a long day Halsin will share his pipe, Morris will share his herbal teas, and they wait for sundown.

Their relationship has never been better as autumn draws to a close, and yet they both sense that this is the time to part. They don't plan it, or even want it (both think: it's what he wants). It's nearly unspoken. Morris makes a comment about hibernation, gentle teasing which is slowly becoming more natural to him, and adds matter-of-factly (quietly) that he'll see Halsin in the spring. Not long after the first snowfall, Morris slips away (to somewhere… much warmer).

(He hates this. He isn't an adventurer. The only thing which kept him going was the thought of returning home to the rats, but after what he's been through and what he's seen, the people he's met, that isn't enough any more. He never wanted a taste for adventure, but now he has one and it won't go away, a phantom itch in his brain and the less he dwells on that thought the better.)

Spring comes and goes with no sign of Morris. So do months, years, possibly decades before he's seen in Faerûn again. When he returns, it's been so long that he's not exactly forgotten Halsin, but put him in the "fond memory" corner of his mind, someone he loved once - that is, if he wasn't a cruel dream conjured up by the tadpole. Morris isn't sure any more. Besides, he doesn't like to think too deeply about it in case it awakens old hurt (love never becomes something he's familiar with), although he does pause every time he adds a spoon of honey to his tea. He definitely doesn't seek Halsin out immediately - he's got his Oak & Mistletoe plot to worry about, with Skullduggan and the Firefly Queen.

But one day he happens to be in Baldur's Gate, finishing up a quest, and realises that he has time. He has nowhere else to be. He could go to wherever Halsin was last. Not looking for Halsin, you understand, he just wants to see the results of Halsin's hard work. So he goes (secretly, denying it to himself, getting excited: will Halsin have changed? He's an elf and a druid, so he won't have aged much. Will he see the changes in Morris? Will he be surprised? Will he be waiting for him to appear on the horizon, like he promised?).

And Halsin isn't there.

He's not dead, not mysteriously disappeared, not avoiding him, just busy elsewhere through plain bad luck. Morris hates magically contacting people, it feels too invasive, so he doesn't bother. He looks around at everything Halsin built, waiting, waiting, and then moves on again himself.

At other times, Halsin goes into Baldur's Gate, searching for that balance he wanted between the city and nature. Not Morris himself, that goes against Halsin's beliefs (he tells himself), he is content to let chance reunite them only if or when that is what nature intends (so he tells himself again). But it wouldn't hurt to check up on the local rats, and if he were to ask them whether Morris has been around lately, well, that's just good manners.

Besides, Morris is never there anyway. He's always just left, or expected back soon, or travelling somewhere with the rats in tow.

It doesn't matter, each says to himself separately. Bears don't mate for life and nor do rats. They've led long and, if not happy, at least interesting lives apart. Halsin has taken many other lovers. Morris has been endlessly pestered by the Firefly Queen.

But they still think of each other, from time to time, when the days are getting shorter and the nights are drawing in.

Maybe one day spring will come.

---

No matter how long and cold the winter, it always ends eventually.

Much, much older, so old he isn't sure himself how many years have passed, Morris has been a sailor on a cursed voyage, a mind flayer's thrall, dragged through the Hells, played with and thrown away by Archfey, made friends, lost friends, possibly died and then been denied even that chance to get some rest because some god or other decided he wasn't finished with yet. He's starting to think that fate really hates him personally, and he's still a sourpuss, but on the other hand he has gained in courage and emotional maturity.

He comes home, tired and aching ("timeless body" doesn't mean he can't be bloody exhausted), promising himself as usual that he's getting too old for this and it will definitely be the last time, but the rats are excited by something. A strange person they've never met - this is many generations of rats after the Absolutist Cult - was hanging around earlier. Because the rats communicate through senses, not language, they show Morris the scent of grass, earth, sweat, and he thinks, oh, great, sounds like a druid, just my luck, they've probably come to revoke my Druid Licence after I've put in a lifetime of work on it. But then he realises there's another note to the scent, just a touch of honey.

Long forgotten memories come flooding back. Tadpoles, and goblin camps, and helping a bear in a cage purely because as much as he hated people, he would never let an animal suffer unnaturally. Bonfires, slightly too much wine, that first campsite by the river on a misty morning. Early summer. How young and stupid and petulant he was. All those hints, wilfully ignored, things unsaid spoken into shadows. Shutting him out while doing anything, everything, to keep him safe and bring him home. How young and stupid. A question on the docks by starlight, will he won't he, sneaking out of the camp, ratshape, suddenly alive again after so long alone, the shock of discovering each other in a precious moment stolen away from the nightmare.

How young he was.

He realises he's left home again, walking, searching, leaning on his stick for support. It reminds him of the old days in autumn, the excitement he barely lets himself feel: surely Halsin will have changed by now? He must be, what, four hundred years old, five hundred, more? It's hard to keep track of time these days. Does he still have the scars, the smile? What will he think when he sees Morris in his new favoured shape, a parrot? Does he still wildshape into a bear when he's excited? Will he be excited to see him?

(While nearby, somebody else thinks: does he still fidget in his sleep? Does he still mutter to himself without realising he's doing it? Has he learned not to be afraid of his own dreams? Does he ever dream of me?)

And as Morris - a druid whose devotion lies with the vermin and pests carving a niche in the human world - walks through the streets, a balance of the human city and wild nature, the first warm sun of spring lights up his old, tired face.

#no major spoilers 'cause it's all headcanon but it is postgame #the downside to romancing halsin is that I am now forever doomed to explaining that I am not Thirsty For Daddy Halsin #he was just the funniest choice for morris and then I got Emotionally Attached #also the writing choice re: halsin's experience in the Underdark was so weird #astarion: handled carefully and sensitively #halsin: lol by the way I was trapped as a sex slave for three years kinda liked it ngl anyway when's dinner #anyway I promise I'm nearly done with morris stuff on this blog #(I'm moving on to planning my next character now) #(totally unrelated: would fria be a bard multiclassing into warlock or a warlock multiclassing into bard) #druid pol morris

[butleroftoast]

Finished! A few non-spoilery thoughts:

The sound of unexpected initiative rolls will haunt my nightmares and I might set it to be my work WhatsApp message alert

The dev who works to support their cat's tuna dreams (source: thank you messages in the credits) is a hero

I can't wait to play the 65% of the game I totally missed because I'm an idiot

There are a lot of alternate choices I want to google but can't, because the previous bullet point means I'm still avoiding egregious spoilers

I will miss Morris so much

#tozby plays bg3 #druid pol morris #I'll try to keep the rest of my delirious rambling confined to WordPad I promise #glad I got it finished before I go travelling in a couple of weeks #finally I can sleep again #...except for I have SO MANY thoughts about Morris #and halsin. which I was not expecting when I followed his romance path for a laugh #(I knew exactly two things about this game going in: ''Astarion is a vampire'' and ''awkward bear sex'') #Pol ''I hate druids but especially moon druids and especially bear moon druids'' Morris has a weakness for a bear moon druid #who'd've thought? #certainly not Morris and he remains kind of pissed off about how stupidly in love he is

[butleroftoast]

Festively depressing headcanon, for no good reason.

-

Wild rats live somewhere between one and two years. Even allowing for Morris's care, guidance, and protection, not to mention fantasy healing magic, Fishstinky isn't going to make it past five years, tops, no matter how much Morris tries to find a way of extending his life. He probably loses his alpha rat status a little earlier than that, being frailer than he was. Morris doesn't interfere, that's how things go for rats, and he works hard to maintain his unusual status with the new alpha, but he remains particularly fond of Fishstinky.

One day, the group is on a quest to retrieve something -- let's say Skullduggan's sword. After a lot of failed attempts and narrow misses, they've finally got an opportunity to steal it back. One key step of the plan involves Morris's druidic magic. He has the energy for one more wildshape, having used the other for recon earlier in the day. Their monk companion goes into Morris's tent near the rat nest, to tell him it's now or never, and discovers that he isn't there.

What happened is this: Fishstinky had been ailing for several days and it was clear he didn't have much time left. Morris didn't bother mentioning this to anyone, partly because he didn't think it was any of their business, partly because he knew they wouldn't understand or care, and partly because it shouldn't have mattered, even the rats wouldn't be that concerned. Shortly before he was required for the plan, however, he knew.

He knelt beside Fishstinky: I'm here, I'll be with you. I'm always with you. Fishstinky asked: let me see you.

I'm here.

I want to see you.

Morris realised Fishstinky meant he wanted to be with Morris in ratshape, something he understood better than humans. Using that last wildshape just to comfort a dying rat would ruin the plan completely, and Morris decided that he didn't care (it wouldn't matter if it was a life or death situation for the rest of the party, honestly). He dropped into ratshape and curled up beside Fishstinky, who died shortly afterwards.

The monk only sees two rats on a cushion, not an abnormal sight in Morris's tent, and starts panicking about how he's disappeared until her cleric partner arrives. They decide to fetch Skullduggan, since it's their sword, and besides, they know Morris best.

Skullduggan catches on much more quickly. They work out the approximate time, wait alone until the hour of wildshape is up, and right on cue one of the rats abruptly turns back into Morris, still hunched over Fishstinky's body refusing to move. He won't turn round but is evidently distressed, denying anything is wrong yet shuttered in. He keeps insisting: it doesn't matter, he's just a rat, lots of them have died before. All the time he's fighting back angry, miserable sobs.

What makes it harder is of course the colony turns up to investigate and scuffles are already breaking out over who gets to take Fishstinky's place. Morris is forced to be firm and commanding with them if he wants to keep his own role, exactly what he doesn't feel able to do right now. On top of that he needs, or feels he needs, to take a piece of Fishstinky for his totem, and the last thing anyone should have to do after watching their best friend die is cut off their head with a pocketknife. And then, when the other rats are done sniffing the body, the natural way of things is for them to eat it.

This is all quite a lot to process and he really doesn't want to be around people. Skullduggan, however, is more than a little angry that Morris just lost them the chance to have their sword back: you know how you feel about your rats? That's how I feel about my bloody sword! Morris casts hold person on them to prevent them from launching at him. Feeling Skullduggan's fury even while paralysed, he prepares to drop it, but only with a warning that if Skullduggan tries anything else he will stop him. Drops it, Skullduggan charges forwards, Skullduggan is immediately shoved backwards by thunderwave.

Since it's clear that Morris is prepared to burn through all of his spellslots just to ensure himself some privacy while he grieves, and since they don't have their sword to smash his head in with, Skullduggan gives up. They'll have to find another way to get their sword back. It's a very awkward night in camp.

#death trigger warning #house skullduggan #druid pol morris

[butleroftoast]

Word Association Headcanon

Despite his bordeline obsessive desire to obtain it, Morris isn't used to actually having money. When his adventures result in him collecting any gold, he'll usually hoard it, although sometimes he might treat himself to some real food not foraged from waste heaps. On one occasion he even bought himself new clothes.

He rarely visits taverns outside of adventuring requirements, and when he does he won't drink, only pocket unattended food. Mostly Morris is a belligerent drunk, anyway (one of several reasons he almost invariably remains teetotal) - although one time in a hundred he will just drunkenly share boring rat facts with anyone who'll listen.

Speaking of, he's not bad at sewing. Living with rats, you learn how to patch up the holes. His clothes still look ragged from their scavenging for nest materials, though, and since he doesn't have access to Prestidigitation or an unpolluted river, they're not exactly clean. Every now and then, however, he will cast Create Water to stock up his drinking water supply, and if even he is beginning to notice the smell he will rinse his clothes in the excess.

(He could ritually cast Purify Food and Drink, saving a spell slot, but that isn't as much of an issue in daily life, and besides, he can't get the spell to work on the city river; apparently the Weave doesn't class sewer water as "drink".)

The other several reasons are a general dislike of the sensation and taste (with one or two exceptions) and his extreme aversion to having an unclear mind, or otherwise not being in control of himself. This is also why he hates any form of telepathy (that, and he thinks it's just plain rude to talk in someone else's head unannounced, you don't know what they were doing in there). Anyone casting Sending on Morris hoping for a reply just wasted a spell, or, if they're lucky, will have their 25 words replied to with something monosyllabic (or on an especially good day, "get out of my head").

The one exception is Beast Bond. Morris only used it after obtaining Fishstinky's consent, and even then he would prefer talking normally using Speak With Animals, but it does prove useful guiding the rats away from danger in a sticky situation.

He tries not to get too attached to individual rats, as they're prone to dying or losing their spot in the colony hierarchy, which puts Morris's own complicated position in jeopardy if he maintains a close bond with them after they've fallen. Once again, Fishstinky is an exception. Morris watches him bully his way into an alpha position, and then bully the other rats into accepting Morris, which does not come naturally to them. He transforms Morris's relationship with the colony from tentative truce to firm alliance, after which they develop an especially close working relationship, even friendship. Later, when Fishstinky starts showing his age, Morris doesn't stop a new rat assuming leadership in his place, whom he happily works with, but he does continue to take particular care of his elderly friend.

To elaborate on Morris's standing within the colony: to them, he is in an awkward spot between alpha and beta rat, made even more complicated by the fact that he personally would rather just chill with the gamma rats. They also find it disturbing that he can only be the "right" shape for two hours per day (and that's assuming he doesn't need to wildshape for other, non-rat-related reasons).

Basically, he promises never to challenge or undermine Fishstinky's authority on the sole condition that Fishstinky always does what he says. Since keeping the rats safe is his primary concern, their interests usually align and the balance works.

(Do I regret choosing the name "Fishstinky" yet? Maybe.)

To do this, Morris does have to show confidence and assert his position. No self-respecting rat would listen to him otherwise. It would amaze any humanoids who've met him - who've seen how withdrawn, passive and taciturn he is - to watch him showing the more boisterous rats who's in charge, but he does actually seem to have some small, very well-hidden talent for leadership, being firm but fair.

(To Morris, it's not so strange. He's always been sure of himself, it's just what he's sure of is that he's an unlikeable bastard. He also shows more confidence and assertion when alone with a lover he genuinely trusts and cares for, though they are few and far between [currently limited to one, in fact].)

The rats have invented a new term for Morris's peculiar role in their colony. He has no idea how to translate it into the common tongue. The closest he can get is "aberration [affectionate]".

(Aberration? Ow, quit hitting me, I'll stop.)

#druid pol morris #''oh tozby you really weren't kidding about having a lot of time to kill in hotel rooms huh''

[butleroftoast]

Full Name: Pol Morris

Race: Human

Age: Thirties

Class: Druid

Alignment: True Neutral

STR 11 DEX 13 CON 15 INT 14 WIS 16 CHAR 0 8

Appearance: Dirty, worn down, and tired. Dark-haired and dark-eyed. Mostly wears neutral greys. Often looks somewhat pallid and sickly as a result of his work with poisons.

Background: Life used to be much simpler for Morris. As a young man, he earned his keep as a ratcatcher in the city, an unremarkable and unassuming existence which made him a decent amount of coin, just the way he liked it. Slowly, however, it began to occur to him that rats were preferable to the company of many of the people he worked for, particularly the noble families. Eventually his appreciation for the rodents made his work intolerable and he was forced to give it up.

After this revelation he ventured outside the city for a while and tried to dedicate himself to a druid circle, which seemed a natural enough path to further his understanding of his four-legged friends. The druids quickly made it clear that their lifestyle was not compatible with his insatiable avarice, his apathy towards the spiritual, and his habit of asking annoying questions at inopportune moments. He persevered for a while -- long enough to learn the art of wildshaping -- but eventually this road, too, petered out into a dead end. He and the druids mutually agreed that while he was still a druid per se, he was perfectly capable of being one anywhere other than inside their circle, or indeed anywhere else they would ever have to interact with him again.

He returned to the city, into the sewers this time, and won the trust of a local rat pack, offering them guardianship and protection (and food). Whenever local landowners caused a fuss about the rat infestation, Morris would encourage them onto a ship in the harbour while he signed on with the crew, and in that way they could skip town until the heat died off. This ruse came to an end after his latest experience, which caused him to vow never to board a ship again after the betrayal and violations of nature he witnessed (a long story, and one Morris would rarely discuss even if he had anybody to discuss it with).

Recently he and the rats found a settled enough existence moving through the sewers, abandoned houses, and occasionally, with reluctance, the Undercity and the Underdark. They had very little contact with other humans or humanoids. Other than a passing awareness of the Guild and similarly unsavoury folk, with whom he had a shared understanding that as long as they all left each other alone nobody would get hurt, Morris rarely saw anyone.

[The appearance of the Mind Flayer ship was a stroke of misfortune - on a rare but necessary trip into town to acquire supplies, Morris was caught up in the chaos, and his next memory is of a rather unwelcome guest being inserted into his skull through the eye socket.]

Personality: Avaricious, withdrawn, unfriendly. Otherwise, emotionally constipated. A tendency to hoard food, gold, and other valuable shiny things -- he won't exactly steal them, in the sense that he doesn't go out planning to rob people, but if an escape through someone's cellar leads him to a crate of fresh food, well, they aren't going to miss it that much, are they?

Never introduces himself with his full name, only as Morris, and even that takes some coercing. He doesn't always say much, but he isn't exactly shy, either - after spending so much time with rats as his primary companions, his grasp on social cues has simply become so shaky he'd just as soon not bother. When he does talk he's often blunt, lacking a framework for what is considered appropriate, and if he has a question to ask then he will ask it, politeness, etiquette or general decency be damned.

A lot of suppressed anger issues, which in turn stem from guilt. So far only rats have been known to draw out his tender side, although he will show compassion and understanding towards most animals and often seems friendlier and more comfortable when in wildshape, even with humanoids. Severe trust issues. Not entirely at home in his own body.

Favourite Cantrip: Shillelagh. When cast, his staff -- a magicless old stick, the one he used to carry dead rats on to advertise his trade -- writhes with the illusion of rats squirming around inside the wood.

Favoured Spells: Speak with Animals, Create Water, Moonbeam.

Focus: A small totem worn on a string around his neck. It's the skeleton of the last rat he killed, built up with fur, teeth, and bones from rats in the pack he now lives with.

#druid pol morris #square brackets/italics is BG3 Morris specifically #everything else is true for D&D/TOatM Morris too #the ship voyage was the one-shot I played him in #no I do not know anything about D&D lore and no I will not be taking criticism on the subject at this time #the oak and the mistletoe

[butleroftoast]

*wakes up at 6am*

Morris having a Disney princess moment except instead of bluebirds and bunny rabbits it's scarred old sewer rats

#a companion being present to witness this and deciding maybe they don't want that sandwich after all thank you #druid pol morris

[butleroftoast]

Doodlin' in my travel notebook, trying to work out how to draw Morris's BG3 hair without him turning into Bruno from Encanto. Just for funsies while waiting for a flight, nothing pretty here.

I was so adamant when I created him that his features weren't long and rat-like because that would be clichéd. Now: SO LONG VERY POINTY

#druid pol morris #the cleric in question belongs to someone else in my d&d group #morris doesn't dislike clerics generally #(unlike druids) #1 is basically a squiggle but I kinda like that it looks as if he's wrapped in a blanket cuddling the rat he just saved from poison #5 is his very tranquil and composed reaction to illithid infection #also got one of him playing with a rat but I kinda want to draw that properly one day #I need to get back into practice with actually trying to draw facial structure rather than a pointy sort of circle :/

[butleroftoast]

Morris Miscellany

If Morris considers someone a friend (or an inescapable acquaintance), he will help himself to their food, regardless of whether or not they have invited him to do so, and won't think twice about it. This is probably due to spending too much time around the rats, for whom sharing food is normal and unspoken.

Probably.

It might just be because he's hungry and reckons he can get away with it.

It's worth noting that he doesn't do this with possessions - a book, a blanket, a pipe - unless extremely close to the person, and even then he will gently snuggle in beside them as a hint that they should offer to share of their own volition, much like one rat might huddle up beside another.

-

Morris isn't a bookworm by any stretch of the imagination, but he does read fairly often. A book, a candle kept alight through druidcraft, and a mug of herbal tea is a decent enough way to pass the time alone in the sewers when the rats don't need attention. Depending on the company he keeps, he may end up as the group's Designated Reader - certainly Skullduggan, Maggie, and Tozbarb won't be fulfilling the role.

He has a love-hate relationship with riddles. Sometimes his nemesis the Firefly Queen poses one to the group in exchange for favours; Morris cannot resist trying to solve it long after everyone else has given up, even while hating himself for playing her games.

When reading for personal pleasure, his options are limited by what he's found lying around in the marketplace or tavern. Given the choice, he prefers non-fiction books, particularly on the natural world and local history. He is not, however, very interested in philosophy - the debates in the druid circle about what exactly constitutes a "beast" bored him half to death. As far as he was concerned, there was only one question worth asking the people who were keen to wildshape into algae or mould spores: why?

-

Being withdrawn and antisocial does not mean Morris is touch-averse. Quite the opposite: he is very physical when it comes to showing affection, something which, again, he has learned from the rats. It isn't his fault he doesn't like many people enough to show this side of himself, or that they often have to initiate contact before he trusts them enough to reciprocate.

He appreciates a hug, despite not being very good at giving them, and will nudge or settle close alongside friends in place of asking them if they want a hand with something. Although he denies it, and it doesn't happen often, he enjoys it when people he's especially close to help comb through his hair, which tends to get dirty and bloody in a way water and his fingers alone can't fix (soap mysteriously disappears when kept around the rats for too long).

There is also one way to stop him squirming in his sleep without the rats: camp-wide snuggle pile, everyone gets involved, no exceptions. Do it right and he ends up too muffled for his complaints to be heard.

#druid pol morris