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barovianbitches · 3 months

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sicut pluit - Constantin Vasiliev

As the Barovian spring unfurled its first breath after the weary grip of winter, the land bore witness to a subtle yet profound transformation. Winter's icy fingers relinquished their hold, releasing the last vestiges of snow to melt into rivulets that trickled through the rugged terrain. In this desolate expanse, a tentative resurgence began; the skeletal arms of ancient oaks, once stark against the gray sky, now sported the delicate greenery of burgeoning leaves.

The cold, frozen ground yielded to the gradual thaw, softening underfoot and hinting at the promise of a nascent season. Anastazija Zenik was a woman reborn. It had been just over a year since the siege upon Ravenloft, led by her ex-husband. A year since she had witnessed him beat her son half to death. Few souls returned, she had heard. It didn’t matter, though. She was gone the evening Nikolai had left the gates of the churchyard. She did not allow the cruel man’s words to haunt her any longer. She had packed her and Constantin’s things, leading him away long before the news of Nikolai's presumed death arrived at the gates of Argynvostholt.

The days were not always easy, even to Barovia’s standards. While she was accustomed to flitting about the land, relying on only its resources and herself, it proved much more difficult with someone else relying on her. Constantin was by no means incapable, especially when it came to combat, but his hands were rough and worn even at the age of seventeen. Despite all her efforts to teach him gentleness during his upbringing, it was always difficult beneath Nikolai’s watchful eye. A soldier could not be gentle, as it would prove a deadly weakness in battle.

And yet, she did her best to care for her son and herself, teaching him the recipes created of the land, which of the wild roots and mushrooms were edible and which ones were poisonous. How to trap wild game, and how to sense when a predator greater than themselves was stalking just out of sight. He simply had, to put it gently, difficulty understanding the natural landscape. Leaves were crushed in his palms, senses beyond a ten foot radius around him dulled. He lacked the eye for finer detail, missing animal tracks in the dirt or the disturbed earth surrounding a rabbit’s burrow.

It hurt her, to see how much Nikolai had worn down anything that wasn’t useful to wield against another living thing. It made her angry, furious even. But she always did well to hide it, if not for his mental state. In the boy’s mind he had disappointed his father, not understanding that it wasn’t his fault but instead the fault of the man who helped rear him.

Anastazija Zenik sat perched upon a fallen log, nestled within the confines of their makeshift camp. The remnants of daylight lingered, casting a gentle, fading glow upon the rugged terrain. Her weathered hands moved deftly, weaving the needle through the fabric of her skirt, intent on remedying a tear that threatened the garment's integrity.

Amidst this quiet task, the tranquility was broken by the arrival of an unexpected visitor. A raven, its glossy ebony feathers shimmering in the waning light, descended gracefully to land beside her. Anastazija paused, looking at the creature for just a moment. She could tell that the bird was a young female, lovingly cared for, and she bore a message clasped in her beak.

Startled but undeterred, Anastazija extended a cautious hand toward the raven, offering a silent invitation. With a swift movement, the bird relinquished its precious cargo, the rolled parchment gently placed within her outstretched palm. The navy ribbon held the message securely, its hue stark against the fading light of the encampment. Unfolding it to read, she absentmindedly scritched the raven’s ruff, the bird cawing happily. Having completed her task and received her pets, she flew off as quickly as she had come.

Anastazija lifted her head from the words on the page, looking across the clearing to wear Constantin diligently chopped wood for this evening’s fire. A chilly wind blew through the trees, causing her to pull her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “Costica, my boy. Once you are done we must pack in preparation for tomorrow. We will leave at first light.” She called gently, folding the parchment and tucking it into her skirt pocket.

Anastazija's insight was true, as it often was. Nikolai Vasiliev had, through years of strain, violence and tutelage, hewn the spirit and body of his only son from that of a young man, into a weapon. Even now, as daylight waned and the forest sparked to life with the chatter of errant bugs and beasts, he trained. He stood across the clearing from his mother, giving her a wide berth. It was, perhaps, more for his sake, as he swung a hammer around viciously. He maneuvered through practiced rotations, swinging the heavy instrument like many would swing a sword.

Finesse was not something that suited the young man, but his mother's lessons did take some hold, in the form of his footwork. Where he once stood sturdy, ready to weather any blow rather than even attempt to dodge for fear of a clumsy misstep, he now danced around the small circle he trained in. The boy's deft footwork and vicious swings came to a halt as he exhaled deeply, wiping the sweat from his brow and looking to his mother.

"Mama, where are we going tomorrow?" He asked plainly.

"North." She responded. "Not very far, I promise. It seems... An old friend has called upon me." His mother stared a bit into the developing canopy of leaves overhead, seemingly lost in thought. Shaking her head, she stood, making her way across the camp to draw closer to Constantin. As she walked, she smoothed her heavy woolen skirts, the freshly mended stitches now invisible in the fabric due to her precise handiwork.

Constantin set his hammer down, leaning on the handle as it rose into the air. He tracked the woman as she crossed the clearing, smiling weakly as he heaved ragged breaths. Moving a hand to his face to wipe some of his dark hair from his eyes, he raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What do they want?"

Anastazija chuckled softly, humoring the boy's many questions. Seeing as he was done swinging the hammer around, she dared to enter the circle of which he had practically dug with his footsteps. "They do not desire anything from me, my boy. I am simply being called upon to honor my word." She pulled a small handkerchief from her pocket, gently dabbing at his brow.

"Now come. I should be putting on dinner by now, and you have been working so hard, no?" She smiled up at the boy, who had already surpassed even her impressive height. "Our traps snared a rabbit today. I can finally get some meat on your bones of yours." Anastazija chuckled, turning on her heel to walk back towards the crackling firepit.

Constantin looked down at his arms, frowning at the comment. Shaking it off, he hiked the hammer up over his shoulder with ease, trudging towards the fire. "If you're being called upon to honor your word, that sounds like they want something." The young man said plainly. His tone wasn't challenging or aggressive in any way, moreso he was simply stating a fact to the air, as he often did.

He took a seat near the fire, setting some more wood into the flames, and quietly tending to their light and heat source.

She shook her head, setting two busted up pots over the building blaze. "No, this is something different. One cannot want something when they are dead." Anastazija hummed back, setting to get their supper going. Constantin watched as she peeled a shriveled clove of garlic with a small knife, still persistent in her desire to create a delicious meal from seemingly nothing. They didn't have much leftover from the winter, but the blossoming of spring had blessed her today with a small bounty of various wild vegetables. Water glistened on the surface fresh and cold from the nearby stream they were washed in.

"Mhm." The young man mumbled almost inaudibly, as he stared into the fire. His mind was occupied almost entirely by thoughts of his father, the memories bearing the sting of loss.

Nikolai had never been a particularly gentle father. From an early age, he drove Constantin to the limits of his strength, forcing him to train like his life depended on it. As the boy grew older, Nikolai grew colder, and more brutal. One of his last memories of his father was a horrific beating. Nikolai had come at him with blade and fist, in a training exercise which had turned sour. Constantin hadn't been strong enough.

Anastazija knew that Constantin was a victim of hellish brutality at the hands of his father, but the boy did not see it the same way. As he sat there, stewing over his memories, staring into the flame, all he could think of is how completely and utterly he'd failed Nikolai. He wasn't strong enough, wasn't ready, wasn't capable enough to go to Ravenloft with him. And so, Nikolai had given him a taste of what would have befallen him. A final lesson from his father.

His wounds had healed, but the sting of his father's anger still burned, a dull pain in his stomach.

She watched on, her expression soft and sad. Anastazija cursed herself for bringing such a thing up, even if it wasn't related to the devilman. She should have held her tongue. Her hands worked deftly, simply vegetables being transformed into a rich red stew with the help of some sachets of herbs and spices she kept on hand. In the other pot, she began to work together a simply corn porridge, nice and warm to stave off the cold.

"I am to help a young girl travel along to the East. It is her mother's wish." Anastazija relented after a moment, stirring the stew together.

This caught Constantin's attention, snapping him back to reality. "How far east?" He asked, perking up with a curious expression on his face, eyes alight with more life than they'd had in weeks.

A pretty smile crossed her face as she watched him, wiping her hands on a rag. "Near Vallaki, we may explore there, if you wish. Though we must be careful, they are not very kind to travelers." She hummed, turning and trying to hide her hopeful expression.

Constantin deflated slightly at the mention of being careful, but shrugged. “We live in an unkind world, Mama. Best to be kind despite it.”

"You are very right." Anastazija turned back to him, now holding two tin bowls. "It is the one thing that keeps our spirits afloat, no? If we are not kind, we are no better than our enemies." She dished up the porridge, layering the stew over it. The fragrant scent of sweet paprika permeated the chilly air, the bowlful of hot food warming her hands as she offered one to Constantin.

Constantin took the bowl gingerly, setting it in his lap. "Спасибо, мама." He muttered, picking at the bowl for a moment, before deciding to tear into the meal. He ate quickly, and quietly. It looked more akin to a soldier scrambling to get a meal before an attack, rather than a teenager eating dinner. The weapon mindset ran deep, and Anastazija could see it as clear as anyone.

Taking her own bowl, she sat beside him, leaning her head against his tall shoulder as she looked into the fire. "You know, this was my favorite when I was growing up. I would ask my mama to cook it for me all winter long, but she would only relent when the snow melted." Anastazija hummed, stirring hers together.

It was rare for Constantin to hear much of anything about his mother's side of the family. Her past was as elusive as a wild fox running through the wood, glimpses of its vibrant orange fur only barely visible between the brush. Anastazija had done well to keep her past self locked away in a little box, Constantin's questions going unanswered.

I am not that girl anymore, my son. Now run along and play. This was the first he had ever even heard of his maternal grandmother spoken so plainly.

Setting his spoon back in the bowl, he slowly turned to look down his shoulder at her. He hummed a contemplative note, before speaking. "You never speak of Babushka. Why?"

She shook her head a bit. "Baba." Anastazija corrected gently. Looking up to him, her blue eyes mirrored his, shining brightly in the firelight. "I fear that I am a stranger to you, my son. I may have birthed you, but you know nothing of me. Nothing of who I am beyond mama." Tears gathered in her eyes, to which she offered a meek smile, scoffing to herself quietly and turning away to wipe them. "Ah- I'm sorry. I do not wish to cry-"

"It's not as if I do not care." He mumbled in response. "I only stopped asking because you'd always answer the same, and then.." He trailed off. "I had my duty, and it is- was, I guess, my life. But now, with Father gone... I don't know what I am anymore."

"I'm sorry, mama. I won't press it." He said, looking back to the fire.

"No, Costica, do not think for a moment that any of this is your fault." She murmured, doing well to keep an even keel to her tone. Anastazija turned back to him, placing her hand over his as she looked him over. It was difficult to guess that he was hers. His skin was paler than cream, facial structure resembling that of the man she wouldn't dare speak of at this moment. And yet, the softness that hid in his expression, behind mirror images of her eyes, was all that she needed.

"Look at me, little bear." Anastazija reached her hand up to gently hold his cheek, turning him to face her. The crackling flames danced fervently within the heart of the campfire as she studied him. Amidst the flickering amber and orange hues, shadows took form and danced across the rugged features of his face. The glow of the light bent and twisted reflecting in his eye, casting a soft, golden glow. The gentle dance of the fire played across his youthful features, accentuating the angularity of his cheeks and chin. Dark, elongated shadows stretched and draped themselves over his face, arching down over his cheek and chin.

"You are still my son, I made you from the very clay of my life. You are sweet, and kind. You try with all your might in everything that you do. I am so very proud of you, and you must never forget that."

Constantin, never one to receive a compliment well, sat silently, staring blankly back at his mother. As she studied him, he in kind studied her.

Anastazija, in the early stages of her late thirties, possessed an enduring beauty that captivated those around her. Her deep tan complexion carried the delicate etchings of time—a scattering of fine wrinkles, notable crows feet at the corners of her eyes as well as smile lines curving up her full cheeks. These subtle signs of age painted a portrait of a woman who had embraced the passage of time with grace. Her dense, curly black hair cascaded down her back, half of its voluminous mass skillfully woven into a fine braid, held together by a golden clasp at its end.

Eccentric black tattoos adorned her skin, weaving a mesmerizing tapestry across the expanse of her chest and cascading down the length of her arms. However, most of the time she kept them covered by modest robes and dresses. Yet another facet of her person that she rarely spoke about. Unlike most of the men and women who served in the church, Anastazija and Uncle Dima were among the few who had such prominent ink.

As she spoke so kindly of her son, he blinked a few times, to stave off the emotion that overwhelmed him, ill-prepared for the kindness. Rather than saying anything, he simply gently bumped his forehead against his mother's, a common show of affection from the otherwise reserved young man.

She smiled, nudging her forehead back against his, closing her eyes with a soft sigh. Anastazija took these moments when she could. Perhaps Constantin could be changed, given a gentle hand and her guidance. It was all she hoped that her boy would be able to blossom outside the churchyard walls. It would take patience, and who knows how long, but the spark in his eye gave her hope. Hope that buried beneath the chainmail, was the little boy who clung to her skirts all those years, asking every question under the cloudy Barovian sky.

____________________________________________________________________________

As the first tendrils of dawn delicately brushed the horizon, the pair rose from their rest, greeted by a somber canvas of a cloudy, overcast sky. The threat of impending rain loomed overhead, casting a pall of gray that seemed to deepen the shadows around them. Undeterred by the dreary forecast, they bundled up the few things they had, setting on foot northward, each step marked by the squelch of mud beneath their boots.

Their progress was slow and deliberate, navigating through fields turned muddy by the previous night's downpour and traversing under the canopy of trees adorned with glistening raindrops. The air was cold and misty, dense with the scent of damp earth and petrichor, a tangible reminder of the imminent shower promised by the brooding sky.

Emerging from the dense embrace of the forest, Anastazija and Constantin found themselves standing at the threshold of an expansive clearing. The transition was palpable as they stepped onto the border, leaving behind the sheltering canopy of the woods for the open expanse ahead. Before them lay a picturesque scene—a tranquil haven disrupted only by the lively babbling of a brook, its clear waters shimmering in the subdued light, meandering through what would have been tall, verdant grass in a different season. However, the grass now appeared subdued, flattened by the weight of the passing winter and the early stirrings of spring.

At the farthest reaches of the grove, barely discernible against the backdrop of the landscape, two figures stood. The distance obscured any distinguishing features, rendering them as mere silhouettes, barely visible atop a sturdy, deep brown horse. Amidst the subdued surroundings of the grove, nothing in particular stood out about these distant figures. Their silhouettes merged seamlessly with the muted tones of the environment, the folds of their cloaks blending into the natural tapestry of the scene. The horse, a steady presence beneath them, bore no distinctive markings or adornments, adding to the sense of anonymity that cloaked the duo.

Anastazija's steps faltered, her heart leaping to her throat as her gaze fixated on the distant figures. A surge of emotion washed over her, a mix of surprise and uncontainable joy that lit up her features with an almost childlike exuberance. Her eyes sparkled with a glimmer of anticipation, her lips curling into an eager smile. "Stay here, my boy. Beneath this oak," she instructed Constantin, her voice carrying a blend of excitement and determination. Her tone held an underlying urgency, a need to attend to something important yet undefined. With a reassuring glance directed at her son, she conveyed both trust and a promise of swift return.

Constantin nodded solemnly, grimacing with concern at the instruction to stay behind. Cast in the shadow of the ancient oak, he did his best to cut an intimidating shadow, holding his hammer at a low ready, tensing his shoulders to exacerbate the already brutish presence of his broad, muscular frame. He glared in the direction of the onlookers, bouncing ever so slightly on the balls of his feet, ready to leap forward at a moment’s notice. What may have looked to some to be a titanic bodyguard, lurking in the shadows of the forest, was merely a boy worried for his mother, who watched as she took off towards the strangers.

With a nod and a tender pat on Constantin’s cheek, Anastazija set off towards the distant figures. Her movements were a graceful dance, effortless and agile, each step measured and deliberate as she arrived at the edge of the water. The little creek’s gentle murmur almost greeted her as her feet found purchase on the flat stones that bridged the waterway. Not once did she falter or hesitate, moving with an ethereal fluidity that spoke to her deep familiarity with the terrain.

Across the field she darted, closing the distance between her and the riders with a determination that belied her graceful demeanor. Constantin watched as she extended her hand upwards, waving to the two that were just out of his view. One after the other, they dismounted, the taller of the two approaching his mother quickly. In an instant, she hugged the taller figure, practically throwing herself into their arms. They seemed to exchange a few words between themselves before she turned her attention to the other person there. At this point, the scene was mostly obscured by his mother, one of the figures, and the large horse.

Constantin stared on, with a dull glare. His distrust of these people was painted all over his face, and he grit his teeth, tensing his grip on his hammer as the situation became obscured from his vision. He seemed almost scared, if one were to look beyond the simple visage of closely-restrained frustration.

Anastazija engaged in conversation with the cloaked figures, the words that they exchanged seeming to stretch into an eternity as they spoke. Amidst their discussion, the shorter of the two figures paused, a momentary break as they gathered a small bundle of things out of the horse’s saddle bag. An understanding seemed to pass between the figures before the shorter one, previously obscured by the cloak’s veil, began to move purposeful towards Constantin.

As the figure drew nearer, Constantin discerned the subtle contours of the features hidden beneath the hood, slowly revealing the visage of a teenage girl. She appeared to be around his age, perhaps slightly younger, her gaze bearing that of guarded apprehension.

Her strides mirrored Anastazija’s earlier gratefulness, hopping lithely from stone to stone, traversing the waterway effortlessly. With each step, the gap between her and Constantin narrowed.

Constantin’s grip on the hammer loosened, as it fell into the ground beside him, coming to rest near his foot. His glare softened into a confused, curious expression as the two approached, and he jammed his thumbs into the belt-loops at the side of his chain shirt, waiting for Anastazija to speak. It was a common occurrence for Constantin to clam up and go silent in the presence of strangers, and today was no different.

The girl arrived at Constantin’s side, moving around him with distinct avoidance. She casted him a single glance in his direction before silently setting down her belongings beside another tree. There was a noticeable lack of small talk or attempts at conversation from her end, an aura of reserve enveloping her like the cloak she wore. She pulled it tighter around her slender frame, seemingly seeking solace within its folds and using it as a barrier from the young man beside her.

Though most of her features remained concealed by the deep hood of her cloak, Constantin could discern certain details. Glossy black hair, its length hidden from view, was partially revealed by long, blunt-cut bangs that cascaded over her eyes, perhaps a touch overgrown.

Constantin glanced at her perhaps a moment too long, studying her features, that which he could see. He then turned back in the direction of his mother, looking at her expectantly, waiting for someone to say something. The way he shifted from side to side ever so slightly was a strong indicator of his discomfort with the ordeal, and his silence spoke volumes, especially to one who knew him as well as Anastazija would.

From a distance, he was able to see his mother’s conversation seemingly draw to a close. As she spoke, her gaze intermittently drifted over her shoulder toward the pair– Constantin and the girl– standing together by the treeline. They both could see the subtle expression of both concern and reassurance in her gaze, a silent acknowledgement to the awkward interaction between the two.

She looked back towards the remaining hooded figure, leaping forward to give them one last hug in farewell. They reciprocated the gesture, a tense moment as they stood there. The figure was the first to step away before they bowed respectfully to Anastazija, a gesture of gratitude for the encounter. With a fluid motion, they mounted their horse, righting themselves in the saddle. They raised a hand to wave from across the pasture, the girl perking up to wave back.

The horse, obedient to its rider’s command, turned and trotted back into the embracing shadows of the forest path, carrying the figure away from view. As they disappeared into the distant mist, Anastazija waited for but a contemplative moment longer, as if bidding one more silent farewell longer to the fleeting visitor before she turned back. Walking back the way she came, she slowly crossed the pasture once more, the spring in her step absent this time. The moment her boots hit the grass of the near side of the creek, she looked up to the two youths before her.

“Well? Shall we go, then?” Anastazija smiled, tucking a curl of her hair behind her ear. The girl stood quickly, answering his mother with her actions instead of woods. She hitched her pack on her pack, walking ahead. East.

Constantin, not one to be outdone by the other nonverbal teenager in the small group, hustled to grab his hammer and rucksack and follow along. He fell into step with his mother, giving her a questioning glance. “Who were those people?” He asked, a rumbling baritone echoing between the trees.

“Someone I have not seen in a very long time. Treat her kindly, won’t you? I know you will, my son, but now is a difficult time for her.” She murmured, keeping her voice low so as to not alert the girl to what she was saying. “Do not be offended if she does not speak during her time with us. Her anger… Is very much warranted.” Anastazija picked up her things as well, offering a reassuring look to Constantin before following the girl’s footsteps.

Constantin scoffed quietly, shaking his head. He fell out of direct step with his mother, dropping back into a rear guard. Always, with the misdirection and incomplete answers. He thought. Does she not trust me?

Throughout the day long journey east, Anastazija, Constantin, and the girl traversed the rugged terrain in silence. His mother offered small talk and quiet songs. On the other hand, the girl remained steadfastly silent, her demeanor untouched by the passing moments. Constantin watched on as Anastazija moved with purpose along the path, pausing occasionally to collect herbs that lined their route.

As the hours unfolded, the morning bled into the afternoon, the sun’s arc behind the clouds tracing a path across the sky. The passing of time seemed to stretch endlessly, each step an unending trudge through the cycle of the day. Anastazija’s herbal collection for that evening’s dinner continued, a ritual that wove a distinct rhythm into their journey.

The day eventually yielded to dusk and the sky darkened, the atmosphere between the trio remaining enveloped in a more or less unbroken silence. The heavy clouds overhead finally relinquished their burden, the first heavy droplets of rain beginning to fall to the already muddy ground. The downpour eventually grew in intensity, the patter of raindrops filling the once-quiet air with a steady cadence.

Constantin’s feelings did not evaporate as the day went on, and his mind raced with less than pleasant ideas as the day went on. My own MOTHER does not even trust me with the identity of this person she is to safeguard. The grimace painted on his face as he trudged along the muddy road betrayed his emotional state quite clearly.

As the rain intensified, its force grew into a relentless downpour, a deluge that pierced through the layers of cloaks and clothing, unyielding in its quest to drench everything in its path. The one muted patter of raindrops evolved into a cacophony, assaulting the three with its torrent.

Anastazija appeared unfazed by the storm, almost embracing the onslaught of rain with a sense of reverence. She almost seemed invigorated by the elements, the water cascading down her form as if it were a long-awaited embrace from nature itself. He watched as she reveled in the rain.

Contrasting sharply, the girl who accompanied them was one of discontent. The rain caused her cloak to cling uncomfortably to her frame, her wet hair plastered against the contours of her face. With a frown etched upon her features, she resembled an unhappy housecat.

Constantin was no stranger to training in the rain. It was a common tradition around the church to see the young Vasiliev training in ill-fitting plate armor in the pouring rain. To this end, he was probably the least comfortable out of all of them. After about an hour of running through the rain, he jogged forward, to catch up to the girl. Silently, without a smile nor any sort of emotion, he offered her a bundled cloak. Heavy, woolen, and fur-lined, it would protect well against the elements. One wonders why he was not wearing it himself, alas, there he was, offering it to the girl.

She perked up a bit at the approaching, thunderous footsteps, looking back at Constantin. In the dark it was difficult to see her expression, though he was able to catch a look of disbelief in her eyes before she glanced down to see what he offered her.

She thought about it for a moment before taking it. “Thank you.” The girl responded, the first time he had heard her voice despite having traveled together all day. It was quiet, but held a distinct edge, giving him the impression that perhaps she did not express gratitude often. She clasped it around her shoulders, sinking a bit into its fur.

Anastazija watched on as Constantin did this, a soft smile curling at the corners of her lips. What a kind soul. I’m glad to see that his father did not snuff it entirely out.

Each droplet found its way through the worn fabric of their clothing. It seeped into boots and chilled skin, though, fortunately, less so for the girl. Despite the adversity, Anastazija’s evident appreciation for the storm stood in stark contrast to the younger two’s visible discomfort, the downpour serving as yet another unwelcome companion on their shared path through the tempestuous night.

____________________________________________________________________________

A few days had slipped by since the girl had joined Anastazija and Constantin on their journey through the wooded expanse of Barovia. Constantin remained unsure of their destination, uncertain of his mother's intent with their newfound companion. Per the usual, she was tight lipped. The girl, much like him, was sparing with her words, offering only the essential replies—'yes,' 'no,' 'please,' and 'thank you'—maintaining a quietude that mirrored his own reluctance for idle chatter.

The relentlessness of the spring rains had momentarily subsided, granting a reprieve on this particular day as they settled by the river's branch, choosing it as their campsite. With the clouds parting ways, the evening descended, unveiling a vast night canvas adorned with countless glittering stars.

While Anastazija took charge of preparing their evening meal, disappearing into the nearby woods in search of roots and herbs, the girl settled by the crackling fire, tending to its flames with a distant gaze. Constantin's borrowed cloak, soaked from the day's downpour, hung limp in a nearby tree, left to dry under the fleeting respite from the rain. The girl’s much thinner one accompanied it, dwarfed by the sheer size of the other.The atmosphere remained serene, the river's gentle murmur accompanying the quiet exchange between the flickering flames and the star-studded night sky above.

Constantin sat near the fire, the burning glow reflected in his icy eyes. He sat with his knees to his chest, resting his elbows on them as he stared into the warm glow. He cast a sideways glance to the girl, the mysterious companion, and his brow furrowed ever so slightly. Who is this girl? Why does my mother not even trust me to tell me who she is? He scoffed silently to himself, burying his gaze in his crossed arms to wipe sweat from his brow, before looking back up to the fire.

Be kind to her. Now is a difficult time. For Her.

I’ve lost my family too, but Mama treats me like an outsider. It’s not fair.

Constantin looked back to the silent girl. He’d hardly spoken to her, at his mother’s insistence to not bother her, not be offended if she spoke. Before he could look away, his impulsiveness took over, and he spoke. “I’m Constantin.” He blurted out. “What is your name?”

She perked a bit, glancing over to Constantin like a spooked animal, frankly surprised he was going to say anything at all. For the briefest moment the girl eyed him with a partial glint of piercing blue, unsure of her answer to the simplest of questions. He watched as she glanced towards the woods where Anastazija had left them, then back to Constantin.

“... Valeska.” She replied after a moment. “Nice to meet you.” The girl managed, her gaze awkwardly darting back toward the fire where she prodded a smoldering log with a stick. “I didn’t think you liked to speak, what with your, well, silence.” She admitted after a moment.

Constantin smiled weakly, his gaze warming ever so slightly, if but for a moment. The smile faded, as he looked back to the fire, pointing to a small log for the girl to poke, for everything to compress slightly and burn better. “She was firm in her suggestion to offer you... Space.” He said glumly. “I figured you did not like to speak either, in honesty.”

He paused, thumbing a small link of chain at the end of his steel shirt. “You are not wrong, though. I am not one for a lot of speaking. I have little to say, and what little I do is... Not very engaging or insightful.” He chuckled weakly.

She only shrugged a bit in response, following his direction and poking at the log. “I do not usually enjoy pleasantries.” Valeska stated plainly, staring into the fire. “But I may as well be kind, at the very least. Given your hospitality. Not very common in these parts.” The girl’s tone and inflection mirrored his own. She seemed entirely confident in herself, yet her words were cautious.

After a beat, she gave a quiet sigh. “If I’m being frank, I never see the point of them. You are going to be treated how those you meet decide to treat you, whether or not you discuss such mundane things like the most recent harvest.” She rested her cheek on her balled up fist, the flames dancing on her warm skin. Valeska didn’t seem entirely there. Perhaps even bored. But not by Constantin. By something he couldn’t quite place.

“Is that what people talk about?” Constantin asked incredulously. “Morninglord, how dull.” He exclaimed, shaking his head and turning back to the fire. “All Father ever encouraged me to speak of and read was martial discipline and warfare theory.” His sentence fell off, and he heaved a sigh. “It does not make for pleasant conversation.” He shrugged. “My mama has tried to get me to, how you say, branch out? Teach me of nature, the world, all that, but I... I don’t know if it’s meant for me to know.”

Constantin let his arms hang at his sides, leaning back against his pack. “She talks of the nature, the plants, the beauty of it all, and it makes me feel stupid, I don’t know half of what she says.”

Constantin could see her visually ruffle at the mention of the deity’s name, and yet she didn’t mention it. “It is a different skill set. War and battle strategy compared to the earth’s gifts, it is two different worlds.” Valeska hummed, the fire crackling and popping.

“You should not feel bad, though. It is not quite my forte either. Life seems to crumble in my hands.” She continued, staring deep into the heart of the blaze. The blackened centers of the logs glowed a deep, hellish red, which reflected in her eyes.

A dull, dry chuckle escaped the young Barovian. “Perhaps we’re not so different then, Valeska.” He mused, grabbing a small stick of his own to poke at the other side of the fire, agitating the hellish glow.

There was a point of awkward silence. Constantin had already, in his mind, gone a bridge too far talking to the girl, no matter how well it seemed to be going. There was a question that hung in the air, one that would remain unspoken.

Instead, Constantin elected to reach into his pack. He pulled out a small, leather bound journal, offering it over. “It’s… Incomplete. Not much, but something to read, if you need to occupy the mind.” He smiled weakly as he presented the tome.

Valeska glanced at it, offering the meagerest of smiles. “Oh? A diary?” She raised an eyebrow, her tone almost indicating a joke. Nevertheless, she took the offered journal in her hands, cracking it open carefully.

The modestly sized leather-bound book bore the telltale signs of frequent use. A simple loop of twine served as its closure, holding its contents securely within. Pages upon pages were filled with handwritten entries, the ink slightly faded in places. The concise descriptions of various plants were scrawled across the yellowed parchment in Constantin's steady, if not slightly messy hand. Each entry was a brief, practical account, noting the plant's characteristics, habitat, and uses in a no-nonsense manner.

Valeska’s expression was hard to read. The dark of the shadows clung to her features, her hair acting as a curtain that both framed and hid the rest of her face. All Constantin could see was the subtle movement of her lashes against her blunt bangs, signaling how fast she was reading.

Nestled between the pages were delicate treasures—pressed flowers meticulously preserved within the journal's confines. Their vivid colors, now faded with time, added a touch of fragile beauty to the otherwise utilitarian pages. Constantin's descriptions, though succinct, captured the essence of each specimen, serving as snapshots frozen in time.

“Perhaps we are still different all the same.” Valeska noted. “This is wonderful.” She looked up to him, Constantin’s eyes meeting her partial gaze.

“I regret the trail of ruined flowers left in my wake.” He said, smiling in a notably more warm manner at the girl’s compliment. “Mama insists I be gentle, but it does not come easily with such delicate life.” He shrugged. His gaze lingered on Valeska for a moment, as if studying her and committing the image to memory.

Without the cloaks to hide her, he was able to get a slightly better image of Valeska. Long strands of dense, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back, framing her face with an untamed elegance. She wore unassuming clothes, the attire of a commoner, devoid of any extravagance. The fabric bore traces of wear and tear, evident in the mended holes adorned with dark blue stitching.

He idly flexed his fingers, watching as the worn leather joints of his gloves bend and splinter ever so slightly, the material work from years of rough abuse. He trailed off, his words falling away to the sounds of a crackling fire and the living woods around them.

“I can only agree. Try as I might, but things requiring such a degree of care wilt when I’m around. You seem to handle them well enough, though. I applaud you.” Despite lacking vocal indicators, Constantin could tell that she was being genuine. She leaned over, carefully setting the journal beside him on the log he sat.

“Thank you.” He replied, setting another small log on the fire. “I’m hoping to catalogue as much of Barovia as I can before I run out of time.” Constantin poked at the fire, glancing up and around the clearing, eyes locking on the cloak. He pointed to it with the smoldering stick.

“Hold on to that.” He said. “It’s yours. Warm, good quality. The stitching should hold against the worst of this place.”

Valeska raised an eyebrow at the statement. “Keep it? But it must have been expensive, no?”

The firm expression she had held all evening cracked ever so slightly. A little glimmer of something shone in her eyes, reflecting like the stars above. “I cannot accept such a gift. Then I would owe you, and I do not like owing people I will never see again. It leaves a bad taste on my tongue.”

“Expensive? No. Time is a currency I spend freely. That cloak, to you, is a gift. To me, it is a memory of time spent with my mother, learning to manipulate a needle delicately enough to form strong stitching. A memory of my father, teaching me to hunt, and a memory of my uncle, showing me how to truly honor the gift nature gave me.”

He held his gaze on Valeska as he spoke, a gentle firmness in his voice. “Please. Take it with you. I cannot promise it will keep you safe, but I can promise it will keep you warm when you need it the most.”

Before she could protest on the grounds of debts, Constantin continued. “A gift does not beget a debt. If it did, would it truly be a gift?”

There was a spark of anger that crossed her face, like one of the bits of ignited ash that floated through the air. But it was gone quicker than it came.“Hmm.” She hummed simply, fixing Constantin with an amused look. “You are surprisingly persistent for a man who has nothing insightful to say. Fine then, I accept your gift.”

Valeska rolled her eyes, though it was more dismissively playful if anything. “Perhaps one day I will have something to give you in return. Then, the Fates may allow us to see eachother again.” Sarcasm laced her voice as she stood, offering Constantin another half-smile.

“I am going to turn in early tonight. This smoke is giving me a headache.” She brushed off her hands onto the face of her skirts, giving Constantin a final once over glance. “Sleep well, Constantin.” Valeska offered a wave, turning towards the small tent she had set up for herself.

“You as well, Valeska.” He replied, his gaze following her as she stood, and turning back to the fire as the girl walked away. It was there I’d remain in silence, tending the flame as he waited for Anastazija to return.

As the evening wore on and the girl retreated to her tent, Anastazija emerged from the woods, a basket teeming with her foraged treasures slung over her arm. Inside were an assortment of spring vegetables, their earthy roots still coated in specks of soil. “So sorry, little bear. I didn’t mean to take so long. There were the most wonderful stone formations just due southeast-” She paused upon seeing that Constantin was alone. “Where did she go?” She asked quizzically, a mother’s curiosity evident in her voice.

Constantin jerked his head in the direction of her small tent. “The smoke was giving her a headache. She retired early, not long ago.” He replied quietly, prodding at the fire. “We should visit the stone formations after we deliver Valeska to her destination.” He continued, trying to muster any sort of cheerfulness in his voice.

Anastazija perked up a bit, the briefest mote of confusion flickering across her expression. Just like Valeska before, though, the emotion disappeared. “Ah yes, of course. There were the most beautiful hellebore beside them that would make for a wonderful addition to your journal. They were all sorts of purples and plums-” She prattled on, content to discuss flowers. Making her way toward the riverside, Anastazija settled by the water’s edge. With purposeful movements, she emptied the contents of the woven basket onto a flat rock. The vegetables, a colorful array of greens and vibrant jewel-tone hues, lay scattered before her. There was a beat of silence as she worked, allowing her voice to trail off.

Dipping her hands into the cool river, Anastazija began the task of cleansing the earth from the roots. Each one was carefully tended to, the dirt rinsing away under the gentle flow of the water. Her motions were methodical, a rhythm of washing and inspecting, ensuring each vegetable was pristine and ready for their evening meal. “Poor dear.” She murmured to seemingly just herself. “I should bring her a plate once I am done cooking. It is not good to turn in before supper.”

Constantin sat in silence, rubbing at one of the knuckles on his leather glove. Heaving a sigh, he spoke. “You looked surprised when I said her name. Like I wasn’t supposed to know it.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, rather one of hurt. “I understand you not telling me what happened, but you can’t even trust me with our companions name? Why?”

She was standing the instant she heard the hurt in his voice, looking towards him sympathetically. “Oh my boy, it’s not that at all. You see- It’s-” She gathered up the vegetables, bringing them over as she desperately searched for the right thing to say. “It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just- Things are difficult right now. You are in a fragile state, I do not wish to disturb you with that.” Anastazija sighed softly, her sad blue eyes meeting his.

“Everything that happened with your father- With the church…” It was the first time she mentioned Nikolai directly in so long. “Then- Then we left. I uprooted you from your home because I thought it was best. I still don’t know if I made the right decision. Even now, all these months later, I worry that you are not ready for some of these things in Barovia. The things you were sheltered from for so long.” Anastazija steeled herself, cursing at herself mentally to maintain her resolve.

“I feel as though I must mitigate the burden between the world and you. Your father gave you all too much. He told you the gruesome details of battle when you were much too young. He burdened you with knowledge no child should ever have to bear. I cannot take that burden away from you. I thought, maybe… I could lessen what is added.” She admitted, defeat evident in her voice.

“If Father had not prepared me, I don’t think I would be alive right now.” He mumbled. “I wasn’t ready to be the weapon he needed, and now he is gone.” He shrugged dismissively, an unconvincing attempt to seem, well, to seem okay. “I understand, mama. I’m sorry.” He said, looking to end the conversation likely more for her sake than his. He smiled weakly, and added more wood to the fire, supplementing it with kindling.

She looked as though she wanted to continue, opening her mouth to say something that would truly console the boy. Her mind couldn’t muster it though, reserving herself with a sigh as she brushed past him, planting a kiss on his head. “It will get better, my boy. I promise.” Anastazija murmured into his hair, squeezing his shoulder as she set to work.

With the aroma of a hearty stew lingering in the air, Anastzija served the meal to COnstantin and herself. The rich fragrance of the food filled the evening air, wrapping around them like a cozy blanket and a taste of home against the encroaching night. Once finished with her own portion, Anastazija prepared one more serving and quietly disappeared into Valeska’s tent. She reappeared moments later, just as discreetly.

The evening wore on, and soon the dead of night unfurled its curtain over them, casting a serene tranquility over their campsite. The sounds of nature emerged in a quiet, symphonic harmony, lulling the conscious to sleep. The rustle of leaves, stirred by the gentle caress of the wind, created a soft melody that intertwined with the rushing melody of the nearby river. In the distance, an owl's haunting call echoed through the night, adding to the nocturnal chorus.

As the night deepened and weariness settled upon them, Constantin and Anastazija bid each other a quiet goodnight. Constantin retreated into the sanctuary of his tent, the fabric flapping softly in the night breeze as he ducked inside. Doing little other than removing the bulkier outer layers of his garb, he crawled into his bedroll, the dense lining providing a meager defense against the creeping chill of the night air. Wrapping himself tightly within its folds, he cocooned himself in its embrace as he settled in for the night's rest. The fabric formed a protective barrier against the cold, offering a modicum of comfort amidst the darkness that enveloped the outside world.

The atmosphere outside the tent was serenely quiet, the only audible sounds of those of the natural world embracing the dark Barovian night. Within the comforting embrace of their shelter, the trio settled into a peaceful stillness, the night enfolding them in its soothing embrace as they sought solace in the darkness.

____________________________________________________________________________

As Constantin stirred from slumber, the tent's interior was dimly illuminated by a muted, gray light that filtered through the fabric. The gloomy Barovian sun made a feeble attempt to penetrate the thick clouds, casting a somber hue across the campsite. His internal clock nudged him with the realization that he should have awakened earlier; a sense of unusual tardiness lingered, as he typically rose before even Anastazija.

Emerging from his tent, Constantin surveyed the quiet camp, the stillness seeming out of place for the hour. The absence of bustling activity heightened his sense of unease. Something felt amiss.

A glance toward where the girl's tent had been revealed an emptiness, a void where it once stood. Its absence, coupled with the disappearance of the cloaks that had been hung out to dry, struck a dissonant chord within Constantin. The realization that she and her belongings were gone, vanished without a trace.

The camp's silence seemed heavier now, as if the missing presence had carved out a void within the tranquil setting. Constantin's apprehension grew, an unanswered question lingering in the air: where had the girl vanished to, and why?

Constantin instinctively reached for his hammer, thundering in the direction of the tent with a sudden fury. He paused at the threshold of the space, his momentum dying off. “Mama!” He shouted, a booming declaration in the crisp morning air. Slowing his roll, Anastazija’s lessons came fresh to his mind as he paused to investigate the scene rather than trampling it. He looked to the ground, scanning for signs of a scuffle, or footprints in the dirt.

He dropped to a knee, surveying the ground closely even as his heart pounded in his chest, concern bubbling over into outright anxiety at the troubling silence of the camp.

Constantin scrutinized the surroundings, searching for any clue that might shed light on the girl's sudden departure. Other than the conspicuous absence of her tent and belongings, the campsite appeared undisturbed. The packed earth bore faint outlines, mere impressions of the stakes that had anchored the vanished tent.

Fresh imprints adorned the dew-kissed grass, tracing a short path towards the tree where the cloaks had hung, then back again, leaving behind a cryptic narrative of her last moments in the camp. Each print etched a story of her fleeting presence and subsequent departure, a trail that raised more questions than it answered. Amongst the remnants of her presence, a lone stick lay abandoned—the same stick she had used to tend the fire the evening prior.

At the abrupt sound of Constantin's shout, Anastazija jolted awake from her slumber within the confines of her tent. Her senses immediately heightened, a surge of urgency propelling her into action. With hurried movements, she scrambled to untangle herself from the embrace of her blankets, the chill of the morning air sending a shiver down her spine.

In a flurry of motion, Anastazija hastily pulled on her overdress, its fabric draping hastily around her frame. Her fingers fumbled with the garment's fastenings as she emerged from the tent, her gaze scanning the campsite with a mixture of concern and alarm. “Costica! What is wrong, are you hurt??” Fear was evident in her voice, adrenaline running through her veins.

“She’s gone.” He called to her, gripping his hammer tightly. “GONE!” He shouted, and the faint smell of ozone simmered in the air as the head of his warhammer began to crackle with violent static. “The tracks, they lead nowhere. She must have been taken.” He stalked in the direction of the tracks, searching for answers to the absence of the woman. “Who would take her? We didn’t get to Vallaki, this wasn’t the place, was it? Was Vallaki our destination, or more misdirection, more secrets?”

“Where is she?”

Anastazija went rigid, her eyes widening at both the information and his roar. She was a confident woman, and never did she cower. But for the briefest of moments, Constantin reminded her of someone all too close to them both. Glancing to the side, she realized he was right. Valeska was gone. She did her best to shake away the feeling, the terrible voice and face of a ghost. She stumbled over herself to pull her boots on, looking all around.

“N-No, we are nowhere close to Vallaki! It is at least another day and a half walk!” Anastazija checked all the same places Constantin had, tracing her fingers over the outlines on the ground left by the tent, the small footprints from the girl’s boots, the seemingly serene little walk she took towards the tree. “All her things are gone, she couldn’t have just been taken…” She whispered, her eyes wide as realization set in.

Constantin stopped his desperate pace, the crackling of static dying down as the adrenaline coursing through his system dropped off. “What?” He asked, taking a hesitant step closer to his mother. “Mama, what is it?” He asked again, a note of worry rising in his voice.

She straightened up, looking at him with wild eyes. “When she told you her name, did she say anything else? Did she seem scared? Anxious? Any reason at all for her to leave? When I went in, she was sleeping– I, I didn’t get to talk to her all evening–” Her speech was getting faster, the pitch of her voice turning shrill as she began to dash around the camp in a way Constantin had never seen his mother. Normally she was so calm, so collected, so level-headed.

Constantin’s brow furrowed with concern as he watched his mother panic. “No, she commented on how… How life seemed to wither away in her hands? Something like that. We spoke idly, I showed her the plant journal, gave her the cloak. She took it with her.”

Constantin paused. “Mama, please, do not keep things from me like this, what is going on?”

“I do not know!” She cried out, her voice pained like a wounded animal. Tears threatened to fall at her eyes. Anastazija's frantic search intensified as she scanned the campsite, her eyes darting from one spot to another in a desperate quest to locate the missing girl. Anxiety tightened its grip on her, an unsettling fear creeping in as she struggled to suppress the threatening tears that welled in her eyes. Despite her efforts to maintain composure, a flicker of distress shadowed her features, betraying any composure she tried to maintain.

There was a subtle shift in her demeanor, a sudden recognition that seemed to flicker across her expression. Her gaze, previously scattered in search, seemed to hone in on a specific realization. A moment of recollection sparked within her before she turned to Constantin, her voice trembling with a mix of urgency and apprehension.

"Your journal—You said you let her see it? Where is it?" Anastazija's words emerged in a rush, her tone threaded with distress.

Constantin blinked twice, before reaching into one of the pouches on his belt, producing the journal from its hiding spot. “Right here, Mama.” He said with a tone laced with pure and utter confusion.

He offered it out to her. “I.. I don’t understand. The ravens wake me with their chirping but… How did I sleep through an entire takedown of camp?”

Anastazija took the offered journal from his hands, fingers swiftly tracing the worn pages, flipping through the entries until she reached the final pages. Constantin knew that he hadn’t filled it out that far, and yet she was reading something. There, amidst the familiar botanical descriptions, her eyes landed on a distinctive entry penned in curling black writing—a note, concise yet poignant, etched in handwriting not his own. It was a goodbye note, a quiet departure tucked within the pages of the journal.

Thank you for the journey. I’ll take it from here. Walked far enough. Best wishes.

No name, no signature.

Alongside the farewell message lay a pressed hellebore flower, delicately preserved between the pages. Its petals, once vibrant, now bore a muted beauty, a silent remnant of the girl's presence. Anastazija's eyes lingered on the flower and the farewell note, quiet tears slipping from her eyes.

Constantin loomed over his mother, making use of his height to read over her shoulder. His eyes fell on the flower. “Huh.” He muttered. He didn’t have much else to say as he stood there, staring down at the precise handwriting.

“How did you know to look there?”

“She was always… A precarious child. Hiding things in plain sight like that.” She murmured. Unlike a few moments ago, her tone now fell flat. Anastazija heaved a sigh, wiping her eyes carefully with the sleeves of her overdress. “If she would like to travel the rest of the way she can. Perhaps once we arrive in Vallaki, I can see if she arrived safely.”

He watched as she righted herself, seemingly turning back the clock on her panic and before his eyes she went back as if everything was perfectly normal. “Ah, what a fright she caused.” Anastazija sighed, a weak chuckle trailing after her words. “Oh well. I suppose we should begin taking down camp then, shouldn’t we?”

Constantin nodded, turning to walk towards his tent to begin taking it down. As he worked, he called out to his mother.

“You speak of her with familiarity. How did you know her?”

Anastazija closed the journal, leaving it out on a stone for Constantin to take. “I… Knew her mother. She was like me, before I came to Argynvostholt. She was a free spirited woman with a hunger for life. We kept in touch over the years. She died much too young.” She offered the anecdote, a mere sliver of the life that Constantin knew nothing about.

“I see.” Constantin said quietly. Another evasion. He wondered to himself if his mother would ever tell him about herself, or if all he’d ever know is her name, and that she gave him life.

Perhaps that was enough. Perhaps not.

As the morning progressed, dark rain clouds loomed overhead, threatening to unleash another downpour. Anastazija and Constantin worked in silence, dismantling the campsite. Where Anastazija would usually hum a tune while packing, today, a heavy silence enveloped her, casting a somber veil over her usual demeanor.

Anastazija's subdued air was palpable, her silence a stark contrast to her typical cheerful nature. It was evident that Valeska's departure had left a wound, a weight upon her shoulders that she chose not to burden Constantin with. She carried the ache of the girl's absence quietly, shielding her emotions from her son's gaze. Despite the looming rain and the air of melancholy that lingered, the tasks were carried out efficiently. Each movement was purposeful, a testament to their practiced routine.

A deafening crack of thunder reverberated overhead, heralding the imminent deluge. Fat raindrops plummeted from the sky, plummeting to the earth in a relentless downpour. The once-packed ground quickly turned to muddy slush under the assault of the rain.

The heavy rain began seeping through Constantin's outer layers, dampening his clothes. However, the warmth of his fur-lined gambeson provided a reliable barrier against the biting cold that threatened to invade his being. Despite the downpour, he found solace in the practicality of the garment, grateful for the shield it provided against the inclement weather.

As the rain drenched the landscape, soaking everything in its path, Constantin's thoughts drifted momentarily to the gift he had given the departing girl. Even amidst the relentless downpour, he harbored no regret for his act of kindness, content in the knowledge that it might bring her comfort on her solitary journey ahead.

#lore #backstory #constantin #constantin vasiliev #d&d #curse of strahd

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barovianbitches · 3 months

Text

Part of Your World - Thalassia Pier-Wave and Constantin Vasiliev

In a forest clearing, somewhere in the middle of the Svalich Woods, a party of adventurers stopped to rest. A Druid in a torn up shirt shivered in the cold forest wind as the others set to make camp. Off the edge of the clearing, a worn Paladin with a golden eye angrily chopped wood, a small axe hewing logs into kindling, the silence only broken by the KRAK! of the axe on tree chunks.

Still haggard from the earlier kerfuffle, the half orc of the party downed as much water as she could find, anywhere she could find it. Finally feeling just a little bit like herself again after a particularly refreshing pond, she took a count of the party's condition in her absence. Soaking and with a grateful smile, her eye catches a shiny something on the ground. Before she could investigate, a piece of bark interrupted her- smacking her shoe in its furious departure. The motion brought her back to reality, where she suddenly felt a pit in her stomach about the recently resurrected paladin. She'd never really heard of anything like that; Thalassia believed he would be cured, not... Actually brought back. Everyone had told her he wasn't dead. That was why they fought so hard. Why she had. But he still suffered. These thoughts threatened to storm over the forefront of her mind... so she redirected. Carefully walking over, Thalassia scooped up the shiny. It was a coin. Just a copper. "I always liked the brown circles more," the half orc woman spoke up. "They're prettier because they don't try to stand out, in my opinion. But they're always there when you need them, like right now!" She'd continue cheerfully, staring at a tree in front of them. "They just are what they are. And they're okay with it." Turning with an innocent grin, she seemed to move past the strangely philosophical observation. "What do you like that's simple, Constantin?" The question was similarly simple, though her tone seemed to encourage honesty.

Constantin drove the axe into the stump that served as a platform for the firewood. He heaved a sigh, running his hands through his loose-falling hair, tying it back into a rough ponytail with a strap of leather. He turned to face the woman, fixing her with a quiet glare. If there was any anger in it, it melted as recognizance filled his mind.

“Simple…” the Barovian muttered. “The flowers that grow in the fields near Argynvostholt. They are the brightest and boldest colors I have ever laid eye upon.” His unnatural gaze was locked on the Warlock. Where once his left eye may have seemed a bit off, maybe misaligned at times, it now stared true, a small golden pool where an icy blue iris once sat.

“Why?” He inquired plainly, a note of deep tiredness tinting his voice.

Though the eye was new, Thalassia was not deterred. She held the coin up high. "That's just the thing about life. Some simple things..." She stooped down again, this time nearly tipping over... but realigning at the last second as she reached upward again. Held in her hand was a piece of rock. Jagged and mimicking the stormy clouds above, she held it up with pride. "Tend to hide right where you'd least expect them." She turned it over, revealing a vaguely eye shaped crystalline structure. "Basically..." her smile twitched towards a frown. "I don't care what happened. I don't need to know the process if it hurts to recount. One way or the other, you're simply here. And I'm happy about that," she clutched the stone, her gaze turning to the grass around her. "And if you ever want to know, I have a million things I think are pretty neat I could tell you about. If that'd make life any brighter..." She'd pluck a blade of grass idly, unsure if she was exactly saying the right thing... certain topics like this were really hard for her to broach at all. However, it felt... important somehow. Like a regret she'd have in the future if she didn't try.

Constantin turned away from the woman, looking down to his axe. A long moment of silence filled the air between the two, before he reached for the axe, sliding it into a loop on his belt for retention. He turned to Thalassia, shrugging lightly.

“Tell me.”

Thalassia's eyes seemed to light up. "Okay, look at this!" She quickly grabbed a leaf that she'd been eyeing in the trees. Bringing it closer, it was obvious it had little bite marks. "Every part of the world is alive, just like the ocean. And I find that just... incredible. It was one of my favorite parts about the sea. And then look at this!" Bounding away for a moment, she then grabbed a relatively normal beetle. "This thing is hard as a rock but it moves!" That seemed to be all she had to say, but she was staring intently at it. "I dunno. I think everything over here is... well, it's dark, dreary, cloudy... but good company can totally turn that around. Or maybe just focusing on the little brilliant parts of the world." The beetle began crawling up her hand, and she gently put it down as it began to roam. "I'm just grateful I get to live the way I do now. It used to be... really different," she admitted, watching the beetle scuttle off into the unknown.

Constantin watched the woman monologue, a crease forming in the corners of his eyes as a faint smile emerged, still hidden by his bushy beard. He spared a glance to the beetle that had just been uprooted and whirled about, poor bug.

“Different?” Constantin asked, as Thalassia spoke of her old life. “Different… How?” The man asked, reaching down to catch a small spider that tried to scuttle away, allowing it to crawl all over his fingers, exploring the new world.

Thalassia's spark dampened, just a bit. "For one... I didn't have a voice. I couldn't... talk. And that's why I take advantage of it now. It was a gift given to me. Just like this," She'd pull the Flood Falchion's handle out, sparkling in the light. The glass like surface reflects faintly in the murky light, and Thalassia rubs her hand against it nostalgically. "I used to have much, much less. I have everything to be thankful for." The half orc sighed, her smile hovering between thoughtfulness and regret. The topic made her throat feel like she'd drank sea water... The poor half orc had no idea this was normal, and so grabbed one of 5 minimum bottles of water she keeps with her to chug.

Constantin stepped closer, to inspect the Flood Falchion. As he did so, his gaze tracked up to Thalassia’s face, and he smiled gently, cupping the spider in his hands and looking down to inspect it. “Life is a gift. Even little life, like the garden spiders.” He set the arachnid on the grass, letting it dash away, before looking back to the woman. “A voice, a face with which to smile… All gifts.” He rested a hand on her shoulder, offering a supportive squeeze. “You too, are a gift, and I am glad to know you.” He said quietly. “I will speak of this ordeal someday, but for now… Please, show me the things you have found, that you enjoy. Enlighten me to the magic of this little clearing.”

Thalassia couldn't help but smile as well, though there was still a trace of sadness in her eyes. "A gift, yes. But deserved?" she faintly whispered. His mentioning of her being a gift instantly parted some of the clouds, and she gave her best smile again. "Getting the chance to know everyone in our little band... That is something I will always be thankful for," she'd reply, standing up at his request. Eagerly nodding, her eyes scanning her surroundings as she found things that enamored her. Her turquoise hair shimmered as it hit rays of sunlight, and in her mind she was partially thankful for the distraction from stormy ideas. With clumsy hands and feet, Thalassia somehow ended up with quite the collection of items.

The showcase was plentiful and surprisingly diverse. Bugs, leaves, possibly enchanted floating rocks... All of which was perhaps discarded too soon. It seemed she was excited, but getting caught up in her emotions. Thankfully, she seemed to tire and slow her pace. The sun seemed to set fairly quickly as she spent her time rambling about various items, getting lost in their qualities. A part of her was bracing for Constantin's disapproval. Or some measure of negativity. However... Nothing like that happened.

Constantin was, for the first time in a long while, possessed of a smile. He followed along, squatting to observe the insects, rolling the rocks over between his fingers, observing the patterns in the leaves.

The sun was dipping in the sky, but it was not yet dark, as Constantin released yet another bug into the grass. He looked to a nearby tree, finding a loose piece of bark. He gently peeled it away, gesturing for Thalassia to look. A small colony of the little bugs went about their business in the wood. “They make their homes in the Svalich trees, where they are mostly safe.” He said quietly, setting the bark back down. “The ravens will leave them be, for the most part.”

He reached into his pack, offering Thalassia a small book. On each page was an assortment of flora, gently pressed into the book with Barovian script scrawled around them. “This is… It is how I catalogue the beauty of this place, what little is left.” He chuckled weakly, smoothing his rough beard with a free hand. “From my home, in the west, the flowers are as bright as I think colors can be. I hope I am able to show you, someday.”

Thalassia's smile was undeniable as she led him through her world. At his gesture, her attention paused on the small bugs hiding in the safety of the bark. Amazed, she gazed up to find any ravens nearby. "But what if they get hungry?" she'd ask, curious and with a hint of worry. Still, she seemed almost like a child caught up in her excitement.

These feelings subsided when he brought out the book. Thalassia was unmistakably interested, but doubly hesitant. However, she let Constantin speak, reserving her question until later. Especially because every component inside was fascinating and pretty. She had a vague understanding of the background of Barovia... Something happened that made it bleak and cloudy like it is now. "I think I'd like to see those flowers!" she replied. "But, uh... Is that, 'writing', Barovian?" she'd ask softly, the word writing said foreignly.

“Yes.” Constantin replied. “книга растений - book of plants.” He continued, pointing to the foreign script. “The writing is not important. Mostly cataloguing, descriptors of the plant and from where it came.”

He points to the gently pressed fern on the open page. “What truly matters, you don’t have to translate. You can see it there.”

Intently watching the plants, she nodded. "You are right- I don't even need to know how to read," The half orc observed, sitting criss-cross applesauce. "Sorry- I'm sure the writing isn't important but... I have never learned," she admitted, her mouth crinkling in embarrassment. "I wish I knew what words belonged to each wonderful thing here. How pretty the words themselves looked," she mused, starting to stare very intensely at the words above the fern.

Constantin sat down with her, holding out the book for her. He pointed to written words, above the plant. ‘Западный папоротник’, written in a remarkably fine penmanship. “Zapadnyy paporotnik.” He said slowly, sounding out the words as he went. “It is, how you would say, western fern.”

He smiled, the corners of the expression turning up the edges of his new, bushy facial hair. “Perhaps I could teach you.” He said. “You are smart, and have an aptitude for learning. Perhaps you’d write better than me in a short time.”

Flicking through the pages, he paused on one with a pale flower, surrounded by writing. “Names are… Strange. They are a noise, a noise that commands our attention, that gives us identity. It is a sound, but *our* sound. Some even have multiple. Like this one. There is another name for it wherever you go, but each sound belongs to it. Like, say. *Thalassia.* That is you. But when one speaks that name, be it with adoration for your kindness, love of your spirit, admiration of your tenacity, it is you. Others may bear a name similar, but that is *yours.*”

He paused. “Before you could speak, in the world before… Did you still have a name?”

The half orc's eyes shimmered. Grateful for the chance to hear what each word was, she nodded with excitement. At his offer, she looked dumbfounded. "Teach... Me? You'd do that..? But wouldn't it be a burden for you?" While she appreciated his vote of confidence, she shied away from being a problem. Still, if he offered... She would have to be dead to say no!

Thalassia absorbed what he said about names with some thought, rubbing her chin and nodding while she listened. A wave of emotion washed over her as he continued. Subtly wiping away a tear, she seemed choked up for a moment. At his question, she blinked away her tears. "Uh, not really. But sort of..? Not in traditional terms, but it sort of sounded like this," she paused, then suddenly tried to emulate the clicking of a dolphin. "Dolphins give each other 'names' that can be heard for miles. I was given one such name, at one point. But I hardly want new people to know me as click click!" she'd emulate again, and smiled softly. "It's... a lot more pretty underwater." The half orc assured, smiling a little brighter.

Constantin smiled at the woman, but as she tried to emulate the clicking of a dolphin, his face morphed into one of pure, unfiltered confusion. He sat there for a moment, trying to ponder what exactly he'd just heard. He glanced down at his book, turning to another page, before looking back up.

"What is a dolphin?" He asked plainly.

Tilting her head, Thalassia's eyes went wide. "Oh! Yeah! You haven't seen the ocean?" She'd confirm, though if she was wrong she would feel pretty bad. "Dolphins are like... big fish. But they breathe air through a hole in their heads!" She'd gesture a hand over her own head. "They are really smart too, and some of them taught me how to actually use vibrations to talk. Uh, kind of like people though, some dolphins are 'bitches'. Maybe I can show you them someday, like you've shown me things about Barovia," She'd offer, getting lost in thinking about how different it's been in Barovia.

Constantin smiled at Thalassia’s description of dolphins, chuckling at the insinuation that some were ‘bitches’, but the mention of showing him someday caused his smile to falter, if not for but a single moment.

“Perhaps indeed. I would like that.” He said quietly.

Thalassia said with a nostalgic grin, "I think I would too. Before too much time passes-" she'd start, and then kind of cough to hide her statement. All of the sudden, she heard Tyyran's voice. "THALASSIAAAAA, CONSTANNNNTIIINNN!!" she couldn't help but laugh at the silly dragon man's scream. "Everyone must be looking for us!" She'd realize, and then offer a hand down to Constantin should he still be sitting. She had shot into a stand when she heard Tyyran, almost cartoonishly.

Constantin took her hand in a firm, slightly shaky grip, rising to his feet. He picked up some of the nearby wood he’d been chopping, hiking it over his shoulder.

“Shall we?”

Thalassia's nod was firm, and she felt just a little bit more sure of herself after this event. Maybe she really could make it.

"The food better be good!"

#lore #d&d #thalassia #constantin #constantin vasiliev #curse of strahd

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barovianbitches · 3 months

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Amity - Rorali Caspian and Constantin Vasiliev

Finally able to settle down for a well earned rest, the complaint filled, fatigued air of the Barovian wilderness soon began to filter into an easy, peaceful breeze of chatter. Familiar banter and conversation between the quaint party occupied their tired and hungry minds as they took up putting together a cozy base to kick their feet up and enjoy a hot meal or perhaps a short nap.

Long accustomed to the partitioned responsibilities of setting up camp, everyone fell into their roles quickly, resulting in the swiftness of tents being popped up, gear being dropped off and sorted, gold being counted, weapons sharpened tuned, scratches or dents being polished and buffed out of armor. It was an easy process for the traveled group, a comforting sense of familiarity that eased their wary nerves just enough to turn their backs the haunting depths of the forest.

Rorali, who had shed just a few layers and buckles of her thieves’ leathers for her own comfort, had happily reclined into her position as party banker. She dutifully counted out each amount of coin that had been dished out to her, making a record of each member’s addition to the pot and splitting whatever discrepancy there was equally between the five of them. She also took up the organization of their belongings since her menial task to tally up their coin was… not very difficult given their apparent lack of wealth. She took the time to properly pack the other’s bags, clearing their clutter of haphazardly tossed in loot, old clues, expired and crushed ration packs, as well as whatever wild hairs that might have found its way into the wildness of their belongings. Of course, as she always did out of the pure sweetness of her heart- absolutely not because she refused to be seen with a gaggle of hooligans, she paid special attention the the threading and edges of leather on their bags, patching it up with her own needle and thread if necessary.

Constantin had spent the past several days either in Hell, or something remarkably similar to it. Craving any semblance of normalcy, the bustle of a camp being set up rang in his ears as a familiar cacophony. Thankful for the refuge from the insanity he’d been embroiled in, the Barovian set about organizing wood for a fire. Freshly-cut logs were laid out and stacked inside a small circle of rocks, and Constantin shoved a small pile of kindling under the assembled wood pile.

The man rose to his full height with a sigh, stretching out and rolling his shoulders. Reaching up to his head, he pulled on a small leather strip, tugging it away from his hair, allowing the shaggy, unkempt mop to drape down over his shoulders, casting dark curtains around his pale face, that as well which bore a fresh beard, an impossible amount of growth in the three days Constantin had been, for lack of a better term, dead. He scratched at it idly, having not a full day before chopped it down to a manageable length, using only a somewhat sharp fighting dagger.

For what it’s worth, he only looked slightly more awful than normal. Constantin grunted in annoyance as he tugged a knot out of his long, wild hair, before reaching into a pouch on his belt. Pulling out a knife and a small piece of flint, the man set about starting the fire he’d so motivatedly set up, and before long, an orange glow painted the dim clearing in which the party sought refuge.

Distracted from her current task of sewing a peeling patch back onto Tyyran's backpack by the vast shadow that was cast by the lumbering Barovian, Rorali glanced up to catch a glimpse of the crackling fire that was just beginning to roar to life at his feet. Pleased by the idea of a warm meal soon to come, she quickly moved to turn her eyes back to her project at hand when his horrifying actions caught her attention. Her stomach dropped and her gut wrenched as she saw him dig his deft, dirty fingers into his knotted locks and she winched at the sound of his poor threads of hair ripping apart under his wrath. For a moment she just stared in terror, then in disbelief. There was simply no way this man had not learned to care for his own hair. He had traveled all over the cursed land on his own, and at least to her knowledge, had never struggled to keep his mop short- and not in that terrible of a cut. Hells, he had never had much of a beard before either- so why the hell was he content on marching around with a matted mane and a beard cut to a square end?

“Constantin!” She hissed, rushing the last few stitches left to secure the patch, hurriedly discarding the pack in the pile she had created just beside her.

“C’mere- I told you I was gonna fix your…situation.” She huffed as she scoured through her belongings tucked away into the depths of her tent, flicking her wrist towards the man in a motion to his horrendous hairstyle as she turned her back, raising her voice so she could continue to be heard.

“And I mean it! Over here. Now.” She ordered, plucking a carefully kept roll of leather that almost looked akin to one of her thieves’ tools kits, until she opened it to reveal a set of sparkling, precisely sharpened silver scissors of different shape and variety.

Constantin’s attention was grabbed firmly by the sharp hiss, and one of his large, brickish eyebrows raised questioningly as he turned his mismatched gaze to the Tiefling. The log he was carrying he continued to haul, setting it down on the slowly growing fire. At Rorali’s insistence, he dropped the next chunk of wood he had meant to throw to the flame, lumbering over in her direction to sit on a nearby rock.

“It’s not that bad.” He mumbled, a thick Barovian accent tinting his speech with a layer of indecipherability. Constantin went to run another hand through his hair, pushing thick strands out of his vision, and before Rorali’s very eyes he began to fight with another knot.

Giving up the battle against the particularly entangled hair, he attempted to smooth his beard out, the monstrously square cut making any sort of combing difficult. Such was the result of grabbing it and hacking away nearly a foot of beard with a knife. He grumbled something in Barovian, before surrendering to yet another haircut foisted upon him by more fashion-forward individuals.

“Gods! Stop doing that!” Rorali snapped as she batted at the hand with a comb she had picked up when she spotted his attempt to once again pick a fight with his tangled locks, “My skills only go so far with this barber business- Don’t make my job harder.”. She moved to swing a spare rag across Constantin’s shoulders, protecting him from having to fish out hair clippings from his clothes for the next few days. After beginning to wet his hair with some water from her canteen, she then plucked through an array of differently colored bottles labeled with chemical formulas scribbled on yellowed tape stashed in one of her packs. She searched through multiple different solutions, occasionally glancing back and forth between the bottles and the paladin’s hair- brows knit together in concentration as she debated unknown variables to herself. Eventually, she settled on a thin, green container of aromantic oil that smelt of rosemary and lavender, pouring a few drops onto his scalp- which she then rubbed in briefly with her hands before taking up a brush and comb duo to carefully untangle the knots of his hair.

Constantin seemed content to sit in silence, unmoving as Rorali waged war against his hair. This did not seem to be the first time someone had forcibly cared for his hair. He sat stone still, almost a statue, save for an idle cough here and a deeper exhale there.

After a few moments, he spoke up, a low rumbling mutter. “While I was… Dead. What happened? The church, the little man getting knocked out, talk of demons? What happened?”

Constantin’s questions were met with a dry chuckle from the tiefling painstakingly picking through his matted hair. For someone who had been in a strange magical stasis for the past three days and woke up in a dank, absolutely torn apart church room next to one of his party members in a similar state with strange pendants hung around their necks- he was… surprisingly unbothered by the ordeal. She couldn’t tell if it was a form of shock, denial or genuine lack of care- but she couldn’t help but find some humor in the absurd ordeal.

“Well…In all honesty- a lot, big guy.” She laughed as she doused his hair with just a tad bit more water before resuming her work brushing out his hair, retelling the past few day’s events absentmindedly. “After you died, we loaded you into the cart and tore off to whatever that place was.” Her combing paused for the smallest moment as she jerked one of her thumbs down the path they had spent hours walking down, in the direction of the cursed chapel. “Though it wasn’t before finding Yvan knocked out and Ireena in a magical slumber, so we had to deal with that first. But, we made it to an inn- oh gods how am I even going to begin to describe all this- lean back and dunk-”

It was apparent that Rorali now was starting to lose herself in the recent tales of their adventure, only disrupted by her pointed determination to solve his hair conundrum. Just before her she held out a bucket of clear, cool water, her instruction brief and unmistakable, barely a break from her rapidly complicating web of descriptions and ass backwards explanation methods.

“So while we were traveling to the inn, this freaky monster came out of the woods and when I say freaky I fucking mean it. It was fucked.” On each side of Constantin’s head, she flared her hands out into a curling claw shape, one still clinging onto the comb and brush with a practiced clamp of fingers. “It has these scary ass long ass limbs with huge claws and this skull head and- Gods! It was awful. It did this weird mind shit and tried to get us to jump off the back of the wagon-kept saying, “come into the darkness” or something- I don’t remember. I just know it was not fucking cool.” She moved on from the horrifying retelling of the monster they had just so happened to stumble across on their adventure fairly quickly, resuming her work on brushing out the fairly easy knots and tangles before she settled down to work on the more troublesome ones.

“And then we got to the inn and we loaded you into the room and then this dude named Sterling walked in after us. He had this goofy hat, and these stupid boots and spurs he was in some pretty basic leather armor. But get this-” She parted the paladin’s hair with her comb, sectioning off pieces with a couple of large hair clips that she had clamped onto one of her pockets. “He had these weapons I have never seen before- ever. They were these cylinder things at one end, and the other almost looked like a crossbow handle? It had a trigger and the usual, well, you know handle, but no arrows, no string, no nothing.” As if the tousled hair itself owed her money, Rorali began to methodically tear down its defenses, slowly unwinding it until a small tuft of compliant strands were left in its wake. “He used them like a crossbow but he only needed one hand, and holy shit- it was so much more powerful than any bow could ever be and it was loud. He also had these flashbang things- those aren’t really new but they were again in these refined containers that I've never seen.”

Unsurprisingly, a few poor soldiers had to be sacrificed- leaving Rorali no choice but to snip out the unsavable chunks of hair, dropping it into a pile at her feet to be swept up later and hucked into the fire. Though once those sins were done and dealt with, Rorali was content with the state of Constantin’s hair and began to prepare to move onto the cut.

She continued her explanation as she moved back into her tent, again raising her voice so Constantin could hear her as she took a moment to tie the straps connected to the leather roll containing her scissors around her waist, creating an effective apron. She returned to the Barovian soon after, re-wetting his hair just a bit more before she began to start trimming down the length to just below shoulder height.

“So naturally, I got the innkeeper to lie to him and say that the only room available was a honeymoon suite and it was waaayy too expensive for him and he slept outside in a tent. Oh-and we dragged you into the inn and laid you out on the floor and Yvan almost forgot you in the wagon.” Rhythmic snipping followed Rorali’s movements as she moved quickly, yet precisely through the sculpting of Constantin’s hair, an aire of concentration falling over her face even with her constant speech. With her practiced movements and steady, confident hands, it was easy to assume that she had some experience tending to her own hair for most of her life.

“So, the next day we decided to take Sterling with us I guess and then we ended up in that last town and it was like- a ghost town. No one was there and it was weird. Nothing about it was particularly uncomfortable or out of place but… It just didn’t feel right.” The snipping stopped as she did a quick look over her work, running a hand through the hair briefly, chewing her lip in thought as she slowly switched her pair of scissors to another, her inquisitive eyes searching the developing, nicely done shag for any error. After a few long moments of her verifying that her result is up to standard, she moved on to thinning out the heavy mop of raven hair.

She continued on to fill in Constantin on all of the…‘festivities’ that went down in that terrible town, telling him everything from the reason they ended up there in the first place, down to the ominous mystery of the cult’s locked away room of monstrous carcasses matching the exact image of the very thing that attacked them in the woods just the night before they arrived. She told him about the changeling children, the tunnels under the city, even Bettany and Sterling’s… less than friendly relationship, all the while just peacefully snipping away at his hair, finding herself more and more pleased at how it was shaping out. While still not particularly charming due to considerable grime, it wasn’t a disheartening block on the back of his head any longer. Once she found herself going around in circles, picking at incredibly negligible amounts of hair, she decided to move onto fixing his beard situation.

Less than unfamiliar with territory, Rorali settled on a smile shaping- just anything to get that harsh edge off of it, gods. Back to work with her scissors, she carefully chipped away at the mass, slowly sculpting it into a more appropriate shape.

Going through the motions, she lathered his chin in a foaming gel, then went in with a thinner, refined blade to clean up the edges of his beard, leaving behind an admittedly impressive boundary for her first time working with this sort of subject. “Okay. So, we come to find out that Sterling made a deal with this succubus worshiper of this goddess of demons to use us as sacrifices for her ritual in exchange for information on his missing wife- then ran away. Bettany chased him and then noticed something off about you in the church and went in to find this underling demon girl stabbing you over and over again, tried to fight her, failed and got knocked out and then… you two woke up with those weird medallions and you look like this now? Um… Did I miss anything-? I don’t even know anymore. Does that make sense? Any of it?” She sent a quick glance down at the paladin as she finished up her story, trying to gauge his reaction to see if he followed any of what she just told him.

Constantin sat in silence, taking the entire tale in, pondering it as Rorali worked through his disaster of a hairdo. He hummed and muttered phrases in Barovian to himself as she spoke, following the story as best he could. He seemed to get hung up on Sterling’s weapons, incapable of understanding the idea of a loud, powerful crossbow without a string. Shaking his head, he let Rorali carry on. As she finished her tale, the story hung in the air, as the Barovian processed it.

“So... This strange man with the powerful crossbows betrayed you all... But I am still alive, and a demon has been slain, and presumably, he has now saved his wife?” Constantin hummed contemplatively. “I do not see the issue. All is well that is ending well, yes?” He asked, before shrugging. “It is all the nonsense of a fairy tale, but I believe you.”

As antsy as the Barovian had proven to be when people put hands or blades around his neck, he was staying remarkably calm and still as the Tiefling worked. Perhaps exhaustion had set in, or perhaps it was a silent expression of trust. Either way, Constantin was all but statuesque.

Rorali’s was just as nonchalant to Constantin’s undisturbed reaction to the downpour of jumbled information as the paladin was to the entire dying and coming back to life ordeal. Both of them being arguably the most well traveled in the group, they have come to learn at the end of the day, all they could do was accept the turmoil with good humor and be sure that one day it will all come back to bite them. Burden was far too common to carry with a heavy heart, so you learned how to pack light. And pack light the pair of them did- sitting in an easy silence when the air between them was not filled with racing thoughts and faltering storylines, comforted by the fair distance from the other.

“Well, we have no idea if he saved his wife or not. He just kind of… fucked off I guess.” Rorali shrugged, moving to brush the trimmings from Constantin’s shoulders before starting a quick 360 of the seated man, inspecting her work carefully. Once she decided that she was in-fact, done, she reached out and retrieved the rag slung around his massive shoulders, shaking the remaining hair from it. “But I mean, yeah. It all turned out fine. We’re surprisingly- intact for what we all went through. Including you.”

Stepping away from the man for just a moment, Rorali turned to undo the brass clasp on the front of a small wooden box, retrieving a simple hair tie from its contents of pins and clips. “What do you want, big guy? Half up-half down or man bun?” She asked as she returned to her spot, shuffling her hands through his freshly cut hair to shake out any stray shavings.

Constantin was a man of tension. His dense musculature was often obscured by chainmail, but that fact notwithstanding, observant eyes could still tell. The ridge of his brows, often knit in a tight frown. The iron-rigid set of his jaw, teeth clenched tightly behind his trademark thin-lipped grimace. Here and now, with so much of his torso exposed due to his ruined clothing, that permanent tension was clear and apparent. The key indicator came in his shoulders, the muscles tight and poised, as if the man were always prepared to lash out, arms resting in the same way a cobra coils, appearing docile, with thinly-veiled brutality.

“It all turned out fine. We’re surprisingly- intact for what we all went through.

Including you.”

Rorali was a remarkably observant woman. In her line of work, it was critical. It was unlikely that she would have missed Constantin’s seemingly subconscious response to her affirmation. The man’s shoulders, held in such a high, stoic position, lowered. The tense musculature carved across his back loosened, and as the man exhaled softly, almost imperceptibly, he relaxed, as if he’d just let go of a great weight.

The silence held for a moment, as when the Barovian went to respond to that, the words caught in his throat. Left unable to formulate a response, his mouth closed as he sat quietly, pondering the woman’s inquiry. “I don’t know.” He mumbled, before taking a somewhat deep breath.

“I trust you.”

#lore #d&d #constantin #constantin vasiliev #rorali caspian #rorali #curse of strahd

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barovianbitches · 6 months

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Mother Bear - Constantin Vasiliev

Nikolai’s blade came crashing down against Constantin’s shield. The teenaged Vasiliev cowered under the broad chunk of wood, as his father unleashed a barrage of crushing pommel-blows against it, pushing the boy even further back. “On your feet!” Nikolai demanded, hardly affording the boy a chance to comply. Constantin rolled away from a downward strike, hopping to his feet and sprinting past his father, towards his hammer where it lay on the ground, discarded.

“Too close, boy.” The priest snarled, his sword sweeping out to batter Constantin in the side of the head. It hardly touched the young Barovian’s forehead, yet onlookers could see a stripe of red ichor slowly start dripping down his face. From the wings, where Anastasia Vasiliev stood watching, a voice rumbled from the shadows. “That’s not a training sword.” From the darkness emerged a plate-armored giant, near seven feet in height and a warrior’s beard to match his intimidating stature. Dima, one of Nikolai’s trusted inner circle stepped up to Anastasia as he made this realization. “He’s going to kill him, going on like this.” Declared the man worriedly, looking to the boy’s mother.

"I see that." Anastasia's eyes were dark, like storm clouds over a blue ocean. She watched on, secretly hoping her eyes were deceiving her, that the red spatter across her son's forehead was a trick of the light coming through the stained glass windows. Deep down, she hoped that the monster her husband had become was not real. "A moment, Dima. Just a moment." She murmured, though she knew what was going to happen already. Her hand reached for her belt, eyes never leaving the form of the two before her.

Constantin, to his credit, was holding up remarkably well. Nikolai was a deeply talented swordsman, and he showed no signs of holding back. His son, who held advantage in height and weight class took blow after blow after blow relentlessly, soldiering on through the onslaught. He brought his shield up in a parry as he swung his hammer out towards his father’s knee, alas, his high grip on the handle caused it to fall short, and Nikolai brought the pommel of the sword around to slam into Constantin’s cheek with a sickening crunch. The boy’s stance wavered, and his weapons fell from his hand.

“Not good enough, mal’chik.” The priest spat, throwing his sword aside and raising a gloved fist to strike his son, a commonplace punishment for failure in Nikolai’s training halls. Constantin’s face darkened, and as the punch came flying in, it met a large palm, which caught the fist before it could land on the already bruising cheek. “You… insolent little-“ Nikolai growled before kicking out at Constantin’s straightened knee. The boot met bone, which shattered almost immediately from pure force, driving Constantin backwards onto the ground. Nikolai fell with him, slamming a fist into his nose. “Not-“ A crushing blow. “-good-“ Another one. “Enough!” He shouted, accentuating each word with a punch. Constantin’s mouth filled with blood as it also streamed from his broken nose. Another armored hand clamped down on his throat, forcing the last of his breath out with a pained wheeze.

“THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO WEAKLINGS, CONSTANTIN!” Nikolai roared, slamming his fist into his son’s face three more times, as his consciousness started to wane. “They die like dogs, unable to muster the will to fight back.” With his horrific declaration, Nikolai raised a gloved hand, likely to deliver what could possibly be a killing blow.

Anastasia bristled, her eyes widening as a snarl curled at her lip. She was done. She should have left when Nikolai had hit him the first time, her and Constantin leaving. Only then would she return in the night to cut him throat to groin, spilling his guts and tossing the remains to the dogs. But no. She foolishly hoped. Hoped beyond hope that this wasn't what had become of her husband, the father of her child. It was her fault that she let this grow to this extent, allowed Nikolai's anger to boil like a kettle on the stove, spilling over and tearing what was left of her family apart. There was no time for the ifs, should haves, and would haves, though. The veil had been lifted, the truth laid bloody before her. He didn't want a son. He wanted a soldier. An emotionless, indomitable spirit just inhuman enough to follow him to the field of death that was the gates of Castle Ravenloft. It was finally time to put her foot down.

In a split second, the glint of a blade caught the sun, and another moment later had it already left her hand. A dagger soared through the air in the blink of an eye, in the single beat of the heart. Dima had barely seen her even twitch, the only evidence of her throwing it being her outstretched hand. The blade found its mark, cleaning slicing through the back of Nikolai's hand, cutting cleanly between the bones of his palm and protruding out from the other side, the only thing having stopped it from going all the way through being it's cross-guard. The dagger bore a blade as black as night, it's shape wavy and almost giving the illusion of a spiral.

"I have seen enough. Dima, please tend to Constantin's wounds. Nikolai, if you value your other, more valuable appendages, you will cease this madness." She stalked out from the shadows, her words almost more painful than her blade, her eyes burning with pure hatred and rage. Anastasia did all she could to manage an even tone, despite everything in her screaming to unleash her fury.

Nikolai shouted in pain as the blade pierced his hand, recoiling away. He shot to his feet, a furious glare focusing down on his wife as she spoke to him. Below him, fading into unconsciousness, Constantin gurgled a weak breath as the hand left his throat, a fountain of ichor spilling down his cheek. Nikolai glanced down at the mangled mess of his son, and roughly kicked him onto his side, the ocean of gore pouring from his mouth onto the smooth stone. Constantin went fully limp, blacking out from the pain. Nikolai looked down at his hand, and back up to Anastasia. He went to say something, but recoiled at her fury, turning to storm off towards their shared quarters.

She gritted her teeth, practically seething in anger. Anastasia followed after him, her hands balled into fists so tightly that her nails made red marks in her own skin. "Oh, Costicǎ. My son." She murmured, her eyes softening as they grazed over her boy. It cut her deeply to look at him, tears beginning to well in her eyes. Hate simmered in her heart, complete *disdain* washing over her as she looked back up to Nikolai's retreating form.

Briefly, she stooped beside the unconscious teenager, brushing hair from his face and kissing his forehead. Anastasia straightened, looking back to Dima. "Take care of my Constantin, while I take care of him." The spat the last word, a predator's gaze fixed to the doorway where he exited. "When you are done, see to it that Constantin packs a bag. I am finished with this forsaken place." Her voice was barely above a mutter as she walked away, sparing one more glance back to her child.

Dima had never seen her angry, let alone murderous. He had always known Anastasia as a fierce woman, but with endless patience when it came to those she loved. He could tell that there was nothing left for the priest, only the cinders of the bond he burned when he first raised a hand to Constantin. The preacher would be lucky if he made it through the night with what he had done.

Dima nodded slowly, looking past Anastasia to Constantin with a pained expression. He walked over, placing a massive hand on her shoulder. “I will care for him.” Dima muttered, his voice taking on an uncharacteristically shaky tone, as if he were himself on the verge of tears at the sight. “His anger knows little bounds. Please, be careful, Docha.” Said the behemoth, gently squeezing the woman’s shoulder before kneeling to meet Constantin’s level. Placing a hand under his head and another around his chest, he pulled the boy into a firm yet gentle embrace. As he lifted Constantin into his arms to carry him away, he whispered something only he and the void could hear.

“You’re safe now, little bear. I promise.”

In his quarters, Nikolai paced angrily, staring at the knife still piercing through his hand. He muttered furiously in Barovian, before grabbing a glass from the table and shattering it against the wall in rage.

It wasn't long before Anastasia threw open the wood with enough force that a small dent in the stone wall was left from the knob. "What were you thinking." She seethed, glaring harshly at Nikolai, rapidly approaching and tearing her own knife from his hand. "That. Is. Your. Son. You spilled YOUR OWN blood this evening!" Anastasia snarled, pointing the end of the blade directly at him. "You could have killed him, and then I would not have hesitated to kill you myself." She roared in anger as stared him dead in the eye, only an inch or two shorter than he was. "Just like you did not hesitate to raise your hands to him in such a way!" She sheathed the dagger into her belt violently, throwing her hands into the air.

“I must make him strong, Anastasia.” He growled. He grabbed a rag off the dresser, wrapping the torn piece of clothing around his wound. “He brings shame to the Vasiliev name. No man of the bloodline has failed so consistently, has been so boundlessly weak.” There was no love in his voice. Not for his ‘son’.

“If he would die so horribly on the field of battle, it is best that he instead meet his end in the company of those who have his best interests at heart. Sancus requires warriors. The Vasilievs hold ancient oaths, and this is my ONE chance at a suitable heir to my duty.” He fixed Anastasia with a glare. “You coddle him like you’ve just given birth. He is old enough to know pain, and he should become familiar with it while he has the chance to learn to overcome it. Not that *you* would understand what’s at stake.”

"He does not bring shame on the name, Nikolai. You do. You think your ancestors would approve of you nearly killing your own flesh and blood? In the name of your god Sancus? If he brings you so much shame, I will no longer force him to bear the name Vasiliev. You forget that he is a Zenik, too, as am I. I am done with your games, your violence thinly veiled by "religion" and "duty". You are a disgrace to anything holy." She snapped back, pulling her wedding ring off of her finger. "You are not the man I married. That man is long gone." To punctuate the statement, she threw it right at his chest.

"He will not die in battle. He will not be your heir." Anastasia snarled. "If I had known this is what I would throw my life into, I would have never sought sanctuary. I would have never even spared you a glance. You do not deserve him, or his faith in you as a father."

“He knows what must be done. He chose to bear the burden. I’m *sorry you feel this way*, my love.” He said, the term of endearment utterly hollow. “He may be a Zenik, as you say, but the righteous duty of the Vasilievs is eternal. Take him from this place, and you take his only chance of surviving and overcoming Strahd’s hatred. Those villagers would have crucified you if I did not give you sanctuary.”

He let that hang for a moment, his anger flaring and then petering out. “I would never have denied you sanctuary. The Morninglord would not have let his light be eclipsed… Sancus has old bonds. He will come for the boy, and if you’re foolish enough to take him, I hope you’re prepared to sign his death warrant!” He suddenly thundered, sweeping a hand to slap an ornate candelabra off the table, the brass slamming against the floor with a loud crack.

“The man you married is still standing right in front of you. I have merely adapted to the demands of the church, and of the god who has my bloodline in a chokehold, Anastasia.”

Nikolai began to pace. “He will die in battle. Perhaps not at the gates of Ravenloft. But he will die standing. That is his fate. His burden. We created life with a target on his back. You take him from these walls and you offer him up to Strahd on a silver fucking platter.” the priest snarled, fixing Anastasia with an accusatory glare. “Would you do that to him?”

"Don't you dare turn this on me, you monster. A real father and husband would never even think of doing what you have done." She didn't even flinch at his anger, staring back with just as much fury. "You will not speak of his fate, it is not yet written. I almost feel sorry for how blinded you are by your anger and self-hatred for your own bloodline." Anastasia turned, going to the wardrobe and throwing it open, gathering Nikolai's things from it.

"You speak nothing but hypocrisies. If I am to take my own son away from this hellhole, I am the one offering him to Strahd? And yet you wish to storm the gates of Ravenloft yourself. You serve nothing but yourself and those closest to you to Strahd, and not even he would feed on your tainted flesh. Surely, he would leave you to his dark servants, torn limb from limb while you beg and scream for mercy because you are all bark and no bite." The look she threw over her shoulder was poisonous, almost appearing like a visage of the dark lord herself. Every word dripped with venom, her syllables sharper than the swords carried by soldiers.

“I- we will drag his entrails across the battlements of his wretched fortress, and the sun will rise on Barovia.” Spat Nikolai. “Argynvostholt is safe. This church is consecrated ground. We leave for Ravenloft in days.” He continued, his tone laced with dull venom.

“If you wish to continue this tantrum, promise me you will at least keep him here. It is safe here. When I return, and this land is free, you can do as you wish, but Constantin will make his own choice. You are his mother, not his master.” Nikolai grabbed his sword and belt from the bed, and reaffixed it around his waist.

“If you do leave, when you’re cradling him as he dies, consider prayer. You may have forsaken the light of the Morninglord, but he would not forsake the loyal servant to whom you gave birth.”

The door slammed hard enough to crack the wood behind the priest as he departed.

She scoffed loudly, pulling the dagger from her belt again, lodging it in the now closed door. "YOU WILL SLEEP OUTSIDE, SINCE YOU WISH YOU ACT LIKE AN ANIMAL!" Anastasia called back, opening the window and throwing his things as hard as she could at the muddy ground below. "The Light of the Morninglord, BAH! His light has never shined once on any of us. He is a pacifier for weak men who wish to call themselves heroes while hiding behind their own cowardice." She huffed, continuously throwing things out the window to the earth several stories below. Deep down, she hoped he wasn't right, that he wouldn't return like the savior he so desperately wanted to be. That she would never have to look him in the eye ever again.

She would no longer bear the weight of this tyrant's name. Glancing down at the ring left on the floor, she picked it up, hucking it right out the window with the rest of that man's belongings. She would no longer be his wife, no longer a Vasiliev. She came into this world Anastazija Zenik, and she would die that way, if only to spite the monster her son called "father."

Multiple cenobites of the church would report that Nikolai was denied entry into the infirmary shortly after the altercation with his wife. He was met at the door by Dima, who nearly struck him. The priest did not stay long, relenting under the threat of violence from the Great Bear.

Inside the infirmary, Constantin was laying on a table, battered truly within an inch of his life. Dima sat by his side, gently tending to him. Combining traditional healing practices with holy magic, he worked to reassemble shattered bone and disfigured face, all the while humming comforting hymns. Whether for himself or for the unconscious boy, none would know.

Anastazija felt exhausted, her body drained of all energy as her rage had torn through her. She wrapped herself in a shawl, making her way through the keep. She floated through the halls like a vengeful spirit, all those crossing her path quickly making way. It didn't matter, though, all she wanted was to see her son.

She stood at the doorway to the infirmary, the hollows of her cheeks and the bags under her eyes appearing deeper, darker than before. "How is he?" The Zenik murmured, barely being able to look in the bed where he lay. "Still fighting, I hope?"

Dima turned to face her, standing and stepping away from the table. His great bulk sought to block the sight of her mauled son from her tired, sorrowful eyes. "He is... Stable. He was wounded badly, a few seconds more of his windpipe being crushed... I'm not sure where he'd be." The Great Bear murmured. Without his plate armor, in simple, homespun brown robes, he looked more a monk than a mighty warrior. The carved lines of age set deeply in his face melded with the lines of sorrow across his features. "I'm sorry, Docha. I should have done more, when he first turned to anger like this..."

His hands fell limp at his sides. There was no making up for what the chief of his order had done to Anastazija's son. He brought a giant hand to his face, to wipe his brow and eyes. "I just need a few more moments, and he should be conscious... If you wish to remain, and speak with him." He gestured to a seat near the table, far enough off to be spared the worst of the sights, but close to her son.

"And I should have left when he first struck him. He changed. You should have heard what he said to me, Dima. He did not hesitate. He did not stutter. He meant every word." She murmured, blowing past him like a cold winter breeze. There was a hollow look to her eye, and deeper, the cinders of her hatred still burned. She took her seat, pulling the shawl around her tighter. "I took off my wedding ring. I threw his things out the window. As soon as Constantin is healed... We are leaving." She looked up to him, her gaze mournful. "You should too."

"You're.. Leaving?" Dima murmured in confusion, and shock. "Docha, where will you go? Barovia is a dangerous place, and Constantin is...." He looked sadly to the boy, before glancing back at the woman he repeatedly called 'Daughter'. "Forgive me, for I mean no ill intent... He is weak." He rested a hand on Constantin's bruised shoulder. "He is not ready to face the evils that befall this land, and I refuse to entertain the idea of you facing them alone. Allow me to come with you, to safeguard you both. He needs training.. A gentle hand, not the fist Nikolai taught with."

"I appreciate your offer. All you have done for my family." Her eyes faced the ground. "But I wish to cut all ties with this place." She murmured. It was clear that she meant no ill will to him, quite the opposite. "And... I would not want to sever you from your faith. It would be wrong of me to ask you to do such a thing. You know me as a Vasiliev, a kind woman taken in by the church, the mother of this beautiful boy. But you do not know Zenik, who I was for the six years I braved Barovia alone, and even the time before then." She paused, sighing deeply. "You do not know what sort of evil I have looked in the eye, Dima." Anastazija glanced up to him, a knowing look in her eye. She was trying to communicate something to him, something she didn't even want to say out loud. "Constantin and I... We will be fine. He is so close to eighteen... Then, once he has become a man, I may finally show him all that he has missed while I raised him here."

Dima's gaze rested on Anastazija for several moments, silence ruling the room. The age on his face truly started to show as he processed this declaration of hers. He opened his mouth, as if to offer a rebuttal, but closed it again, shaking his head and resting it in his hands. The giant sat next to Constantin, making the tall, muscular Vasiliev look like a lanky child in comparison. He returned to his work, laying hands gently on his face and tending to the multitude of fractures and wounds he'd sustained.

"If that is your wish... I would not do as Nikolai did and stand in your way, or fight you. In his mother's hands, the boy is safest." He murmured. "I will... I will go to Ravenloft with the army. See to it that as many walk away alive as I can. If you find yourself in grave danger.. Seek me out. You will always have shelter in my home."

Constantin suddenly shook with a heaving, agonized breath, groaning in pain as consciousness flooded him. "Shhhh, shhhh, Mal'chik. Breathe slowly, do not tense." Dima ordered firmly yet gently. "I am almost done tending to your wounds, little bear." He said, working with more haste than he already was now that Constantin was awake, and writhing in utter hellish agony.

As he woke, she murmured one last thing to the man, the one who had watched over her son for his sixteen odd years of life. "Thank you, Dima. Remember... Nikolai does not write anyone's fates, including you. To follow him closely would be suicide..." She stood, signaling the conversation between them was over. "Costicǎ, how do you feel, my boy? Can you hear me?" Anastazija went to his side, her hand petting his head as delicately as she could. Her heart ached as she looked down at her son, observing the horrendous state he was in. Furrowing her brows, she made a silent promise. Fates willing, Nikolai would never see Constantin again.

Constantin opened his eyes, recoiling from the light in the room. His gaze trailed up to his mother, and he nodded weakly, to affirm that he could hear her.

She breathed a sigh of relief, taking the shawl from her shoulders and gently laying it over him. "There you are... You must rest. I am so sorry that I did not stop him." Anastazija leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead. "We will take care of you, hmm? Soon you will feel good as new..."

Constantin heaved a choked breath, more a sob than anything else, though he seemingly did not cry. “What did I do wrong?” He muttered. “I did exactly as father asked…. I thought I did it right…” he trailed off, as Dima continued to do his work. He looked to Anastazija, shaking his head sadly. His father had nearly killed him and all the boy could think of was disappointing him.

His mother's jaw worked, choking back angered words and vile curses upon the man. She looked to Dima, rage etched into her expression. It turned on a dime though as she kneeled beside Constantin's bed. "No, my treasure, you did nothing wrong, nothing at all. You have worked so hard... But, his standards are built upon an unstable foundation, doomed to crumble. It is not your fault..."

“You did good, my boy. Good enough. Any more was too much to ask.” Dima intoned gently.

“Thank you, uncle.” Constantin said weakly, wheezing a heavy exhale. “Will I be able to go with father to the Cas-“

“No.” Dima cut Constantin off firmly. “You are on bed rest until your mother releases you. Am I understood, little bear?” The man demanded, in a firm tone, but one with more fatherly grace than Nikolai had ever used.

“Y-yes, uncle.” Constantin said, smiling weakly. He reached out for his mother’s hand, grasping it with all his strength… That of maybe a toddler. The pain radiated through his eyes, strong enough almost to be felt by an onlooker.

“I’m sorry to have made you worry, mama, uncle.”

"Do not apologize to me, my son." She took his hand in hers, holding his cold palm to her warm cheek. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

The boy sniffled, before coughing again. His consciousness waned once more, and Dima’s lack of alarm seemed to indicate this was expected. The giant rose to face a nearby window, putting his face in his hands for a moment, to cover the anguish etched on his features.

“Anastazija, I beg you… Please, reconsider. I know it to be deeply selfish..” he trailed off, before turning to look at the small woman. “I cannot bear the thought of the two of you in danger. I trust you, but… My home is here no longer. My faith is shaken, all I know is my care for you and the boy.” His face broke into a sorrowful frown, hidden mostly by his bushy gray beard, yet unmistakable tears formed in the corners of his eyes. The Great Bear had a reputation for fierceness and stoicism, but in this private moment, such facades burned away.

She watched him go, sighing deeply as she hung her head. Anastazija ran her hands over her face, begging to be rid of this form that was forced to carry so much anguish. "I cannot let you... It is my wish to show him life beyond these walls. I believe they have hindered his spirit's growth... I alone may be his guide. Blood runs from the mother, and it is my burden to bear." She looked up to him, her expression soft.

"Thank you... For all you have done. You were more of a father than Nikolai ever was... You were my family when I had none left, walking me down the aisle on the day he and I wed. For that, for everything... No words could ever be enough to express my gratitude. Perhaps one day, the threads of our lives may cross again." All she could offer was a sad, tired smile to him. "But promise me one thing, won't you? I only ask for one last thing..."

“Anything.”

"Do not lose yourself to this man and his selfish desires. I do not believe he cares what will happen to you all when you arrive at the gates. Strahd is not a man who shows mercy to just anyone..." She held herself, an unseen cold seeming to grip her. "If you see that you are marching to your own deaths, tell me you will leave that place at once."

“If I am to die, Docha, it will be at great cost to the forces of evil. We will see what the fates have in store for these old bones.”

A heavy tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek. The normally reserved man held his arms out meekly. “Would you humor an old man his sentimentality, for one last farewell?”

She heaved a sigh, too fatigued to cry. Anastazija nodded, rising to her feet to meet him in the middle. "Of course, Dima. Anything..." She murmured in response, hugging him tightly and burying her face into his chest.

Dima wrapped her tightly in his arms, holding on as if it were his last chance. After a moment, the feeling of a small silver chain came to rest around the woman’s neck, as the man snuck a gift before pulling back. Hanging around Anastazija’s neck was a necklace with two charms. A hand-carved visage of a wolfhound, and a bear. The bear was unmistakable in form, a barbarian’s totem.

He wiped his eyes, looking at the woman.

“The bear.. Give it to Constantin, when he is ready. If the way of the Morninglord is not for him, let him find strength in the bear. As for you, the wolfhound will guard you. Go tonight. I will distract Nikolai, he will not know of your departure.”

He planted a fatherly kiss on the woman’s forehead, before turning for the door. “Be swift, and be safe, mother bear.”

With that, the Great Bear left the two in the safety of the infirmary, with the clock ticking.

#constantin #constantin vasiliev #Nikolai Vasiliev #Dima #lore #backstory

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barovianbitches · 6 months

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Stasis - Constantin Vasiliev

FOREWORD

Death is a funny thing. It’s terrifying, even when peaceful or violent. In the real world, it is a primordial fear, the end and the death is what brings us all together, makes us equal. In Dungeons and Dragons, however, it takes on a different form. Death is often impermanent, when powerful Clerics and mighty Sorcerers can wrest life from death, in pure or necromantic form. In the case of this game we’ve all come to love, countering death is beyond the party’s ken, by a long stretch. This turns death from a triviality into a crisis. The death of Constantin Vasiliev marked itself as the first great tragedy to befall the Fellowship of Freaks, a moment that forced the party members to come to grips with the danger of a foreign land, as well as the loss of one of their companions. For the players, it was a reminder that no matter how attached we may be, how deep a backstory goes, death comes for all.

Constantin’s death hurts me deeply. I have written probably almost a hundred pages of lore about this young fellow in the time I’ve played this beautiful game with you all. Watching his tensions spike with Yvan, his protectiveness over Tyyran blossom, his friendly rivalry with Rorali, adoptive older-brotherhood of Bettany and growing adoration of Thalassia develop has been an utter joy. Sending him off is bittersweet, but in D&D, death is more than an end. It is also a beginning. The birth of story, the foundation of development. I trust that Constantin’s passing will lead to character growth on all sides, even for those not the closest to him, as they have now been forged in the crucible of crisis.

I want to thank you all for engaging with Constantin, reading and giving feedback on his stories, and accepting him as a member of the Fellowship of Freaks family. Playing him for these months was one of my greatest joys as an actor, writer, D&D player and gamer in general, and I hope that you all look back on our time with the Barovian Brick as fondly as I know I will. In time, Sterling will (hopefully) be warmed up to, but even I know that Short King Sterling cannot fill the void that Constantin Nikolaevich Vasiliev leaves in the hearts of the party, as he does in mine.

With this, I present to you Stasis. The final Constantin Vasiliev story.

Yeah, lol. I lied. CONSTANTIN LIVES!

Stasis

The void is unforgiving. Pitch black night, all-encompassing, darker than a Barovian night and colder than the most brutal Balinok mountain winters. The void, often reserved for the souls of the damned and the restless dead gave host to a new resident, a foreign object floating in the great nothing. Constantin Vasiliev simply... Was. He was and was not in equal measure, his grasp on reality waxing and waning in the all-encompassing dark. A voice rang through his mind, a brutal sneer, a blade driven straight to the core of his soul. “Really? A Night Hag? You swore an oath to destroy Strahd Von Zarovich, and all it took to kill you was a Hag?” The memory was hazy, but he felt a burning pain from his neck. Bringing a hand to it, if he even had a hand anymore, he could not feel a body, nor a wound, but there was pain. Constantin knew he was real, but he could not see himself. There was nothing. A spirit floating lost in the worst, starless night.

As Constantin existed, memory began to return, slowly but surely. A stone room, a tattooed man, no, God, chained to the rock floor. His hateful gaze, contempt unknowable save for Constantin, the victim of a God’s ire. The curse spat towards him, admonishments of weakness, and the promise of a boon. “As my Ward, I must give you at least ONE blessing. This is it. Your time is not yet over. This is your second chance, Vasiliev.” A second chance. Was Constantin dead? This was no normal sleep, that much the man knew, and as the pain in what should have been his neck seared white-hot, his soul sought to scream, but there was no mouth with which to do so. The blackness faded away to memory, charging headlong to meet the Hag Matriarch, multiple failed attempts to knock her over with his mass... He wasn’t strong enough.

I wasn’t strong enough.

Never strong enough.

The images of his last moments flashed in his mind. A Hag in front of him, a Hag behind. Scorching flesh, melting chainmail. Constantin was dead on his feet, surely, but he raged. Raged against his own fate, against those who would see his friends, his family dead before their feet. And then in a flash, searing agony, the worst he had ever felt in his entire life, and then nothing. As far as he was concerned, and as far as it surely must have appeared to his friends, he died immediately. Was there even anyone alive to save him? Had Sancus given him the blessing of eternal purgatory as a cruel joke, a punishment for his shame disguised as a godly boon? Panic crept at the ends of Constantin’s mind, worming their way past his steadfast demeanor to settle in the heart of his uncertainty. Tyyran, Bettany, Rorali, Thalassia, Yvan...

Yvan.

The last words he would ever say to his brother, his best friend, was an admonishment. A childish outburst, in both measures of genuine worry and juvenile jealousy.

The way Yvan so simply formed relationships, allowed himself to become attached to people. It gnawed at Constantin, seeing how quickly so many melted to Yvan’s charms, how brazenly Yvan loved and reveled in life, in spite of the ever-present danger. The ways in which he was free. The last words he ever said to Yvan were full of anger and spite. How horrid an end to such a bond. Constantin’s spirit shook, as if having suffered a fatal blow at the mere thought.

I hope.... I hope you will forgive me for such an outburst. I should not have spoken out against you so openly, when you’ve done no wrong, to me or to Tyyran in the loving way with which you treat him. If only I was strong enough to confront my own feelings, rather than lay that burden on you.

I am sorry, Yvan. I love you, brother, and I am so, so sorry. I pray you will not carry the burden of my memory. I pray it will not weigh on your heart in the way Estella did. If there is a merciful God that watches over us both, let it be so that my anger towards you resolves itself in spite, and that you may cast my memories aside and be free of sorrow. Sing to the Heavens that I earned my fate, and carry forward with your new companions, towards the adventure you always seek.

I only regret that I did not get to say goodbye.

Failure weighed heavily on Constantin in life. The failure of his ancestors, of his father, an everlong list of Vasiliev men who had struck out against the Dark Lord and died. Flashes of memory came to Constantin, legends of his forebears told by his once-loving and gentle father. Stories of mighty men sacrificing everything for the people of Barovia, unsung heroes lost to history, save for the traditions of his family. As these thoughts raced through his mind, form came to being. The dull, throbbing pain in his neck found a home in a gaping needle-wound, tendrils of magical poison spreading through his neck and down his shoulder. He felt the weight of splint mail lay itself across his chest, as thick leather boots landed heavily on uneven ground. His hands drooped with the weight of a steel shield and a battle mace.

All around him, sound exploded. Beasts screeching, men yelling commands and requests for aid, the din of warfare deafened the young man, as he found himself thrust into warfare. Looking to his left, he saw a man in black plate armor, his shield bearing the symbol of a golden hawk. Behind him, back to back, another man fought alongside him, the same mark emblazoned on his chestplate. Four of these titans of black steel surrounded a cloaked figure. Deep red fabric flowed down his shoulders, cape clasped with bright gold. From under the cape lifted a mighty hand, grasping a glowing sword. A magical relic blade, of indistinct make, likely lost to history. The man strode forward, tearing his helmet from his head to reveal a mop of dark hair and a bushy beard surrounding carved, ancient features. As the battle raged around him, a ghoul passed through Constantin, startling the man back to ‘reality’ as it charged one of the imposing general’s honor guard, cut down without a second thought. The man issued a challenge, yet no sound left his moving lips, none that Constantin could understand.

Constantin’s spirit knew this face. This face was inscribed in ancient holy scrolls. The Great Ancestor. Constantin’s father had told legends of the first of the Vasilievs to rise up against Strahd’s control, mustering the great armies of Argynvostholt against the Vampire, a conquering army sweeping across Barovia to fight at the gate of Castle Ravenloft. History would not tell if this legend bore any truth, as over six generations had passed with multiple failed revolutions, some ending in sackings or destruction of the Vasiliev holdouts. It mattered not, as Constantin knew deep in his heart he looked upon a vision of Anton Vasiliev, the Solar Hawk. Hailed as a champion of the Sun, he was heralded as the Church’s greatest weapon against Strahd. Constantin watched as his Honor Guard escorted him through the tide of war, before fanning out to form a defensive line while Anton tore through Ghoul and specter alike, stepping to Strahd Von Zarovich in single combat.

With heavy swings of the gleaming greatsword, Anton took the fight to the Count, reaping heavy, crushing blows across the vampire’s ornate chestplate, which earned a sneer and a response of fang and claw. Sharpened talons met reinforced chestplate and sparks flew, as the respective champions exchanged blade and bite, fist and talon. The battle seemed to slow around them, as all eyes fell upon the mighty leaders at the center of this doomed revolution. Anton’s blade swung wide, the deft vampire ducking low and stepping to the side, forming his hand into a blade and driving it through the chestplate. Anton’s eyes went wide, his face turning pale as the vampire count tore his heart from his body and crushed it in his bare hand. Their General defeated, their revolution at its’ end, Constantin could only watch as his ancestors’ warriors were savaged, mauled and cut down en masse, a desperate retreat not nearly enough to save them the wrath of the summoned undead.

Failure. A long line of failures.

Constantin was a Vasiliev, through and through. From the deepest recesses of his spirit, to the broad features carved into his face, there was no doubt of his heritage. Was it a heritage of failure and weakness? Was it truly Constantin’s fate, that he was born to die in agony and defeat, never truly rising against Strahd and his minions? Perhaps there were worse fates. As the battlefield began to fade away, the sound of water dripping on stone echoed through all that Constantin knew, as through the darkness, a stone hallway formed. Heavy, pounding footfalls rang with the trademark jingle of plate armor segments colliding together. Turning towards the sound, the incorporeal Constantin saw his father sprinting towards him. Sword gripped tightly, the elder Vasiliev beat feet down the hallway, with a wild emotion in his eyes. Panic. Fear. Abject, pure terror. A deep sickness spread through Constantin, a feeling of pure... Illness. Seeing his father, the titan of strength of his youth, reduced to a panicked, fleeing soldier, it turned his stomach.

No. This is not real. Sancus tortures me further. My father did not die a cowardly, fearful death.

A second set of footsteps echoed down the hall as Nikolai Vasiliev found himself trapped. A dead end. One of what Constantin presumed would be many in the twisting maze of Ravenloft, where Strahd could pursue his prey and lead them to their doom. Nikolai hit the wall, turning with a wild glare at his pursuer, who slowly stalked from the gloom into view. Tall and imposing, with sharp, angular features. Eyes glowing a deep red set into a sunken, pale face, curtains of black hair framing it as the monster bared its fangs. Strahd. Constantin watched in horror as his father brandished his sword, driving it towards the Vampire. In response, Strahd surged forward, moving faster than any normal being should have been able to, rippling through the space between them, disappearing in one blink and reappearing, his hand gripped around Nikolai’s throat in the next, slamming him into the wall.

The Count whispered something to Nikolai, the priest bringing his hands up to try and guard himself, to strike at Strahd, something, but he could not muster the strength. Constantin could not hear their conversation, sounds echoing as if he was underwater. Drowning. Constantin watched as Strahd bared his fangs and tore into Nikolai’s neck. He tried to turn away, but this purgatory had other ideas. He was forced to watch as his father slumped to the floor, lifeless. Ghouls appeared from the darkness, having followed behind Strahd, surely, and on his command, began to drag his father’s corpse away.

Sancus did not lie.

Constantin could not know if what he saw was reality as it happened, but to the man, nothing was more real. A sense of defeat washed over the Barovian as his vision faded to blackness again, once again floating in nothingness. More than anything, Constantin felt... Weak. What use was mighty bulk, or channeling the light of the Morninglord, when he was trapped in the eternal void between life and death? Yvan always spoke of the great tapestries, sure, and in this moment, Constantin knew his thread was fraying. His spirit flickered. An indistinguishable amount of time passed, in pure nothingness.

Reality warped and flexed around the suspended Vasiliev, as sense and feeling began to reform. He saw and felt thick hair on his chin, cheeks and upper lip. A collar. Tight, but not choking. Looking at a reflection of himself, Constantin watched an older, more priestly image of himself tend to a member of what was presumably his congregation. He took the elderly woman’s hand, wrapped in bandaging, in his own. Unraveling the cloth binding, he looked down upon a nasty little cut, a kitchen accident. Shaking his head slightly with a smile poking through his bushy beard, Constantin clasped his hands over the wound and with a faint flash of holy light, pulled away, revealing a mended wound. The old woman bowed her head, muttering rapidly things Constantin could not hear. All he caught was a faint “Спасибо, батюшка Васильев.” ‘Thank you, Father Vasiliev.’

Constantin stared intently, in confusion. This had never happened. Constantin was no priest, and he did not know this woman. Was this, perhaps, another life? Something that could have been? Certainty never found him, as reality waned again.

Was it seconds? Or could Constantin have missed the rise and fall of Empires, the birth and death of Gods? No one could know. He once again found himself slammed into reality as he realized his fist was bearing down on someone’s face. Not just someone... Father? Nikolai dodged the punch, reaching out with one of his own, tapping Constantin in the gut. It hurt... But not badly. “Excellent try, son. Care to go again?” The man intoned with a warm smile, and Constantin could not help but grin. “Yes, papa. I think I’ve got it this time.” He replied, stepping into a martial stance, raising a fist and lifting a flat palm, a posture of discipline and preparedness. With a deep exhale, Constantin launched forward, leaning into his forward foot and throwing a series of rapid punches at his father’s heavy chestplate. His fists almost seemed to move unnaturally fast, and as they impacted the plate steel in several places, the armor began to vibrate and ring harmonically, forcing the Paladin to stumble backwards with a chuckle. “Khorosho, Constantin! Your stunning strikes are coming along nicely. You are well on your way to mastering the ancient martial traditions.” Nikolai declared, patting Constantin on his bare, muscled shoulder. Constantin inclined his head in quiet thanks, before turning to look to his mother with a smile. The slender woman smiled warmly, lithely descending from her perch on a stump to stalk over to her son, leaping at him with a laugh, to catch her son in a hug, patting him gently on the back. “Amazing work, my son.” She said with warmth to her husband, the armored titan of a man who crossed his arms, looking on with a twinkle in his eye. “We should make camp.” Constantin said, patting his mother on the back as she hung from his neck, toes barely touching the wet grass. Nikolai nodded, walking towards the caravan.

Reality set low in the pit of Constantin’s stomach. This was a life he could not have. His family. Happy, together. Constantin allowed to pursue martial discipline and fitness, without the burden of being a holy warrior like his father. Nikolai, free of the burden of Sancus. Anastasia... There. With them. Happy. Constantin felt a few ethereal tears streak down his incorporeal cheeks, as he shut his ‘eyes’, returning to the void, as he could not bear the jealousy he had towards the spectral image of him.

After a split second of eternity passed, Constantin could hear again. He felt rough stone under him, grass poking through holes in his chainmail. His eyes shot open to a cloudy, stormy sky, and a hand reached out towards him. This hand was attached to a massive body, a positively giant man smiling at him from behind his helmet. “Up, boy! Now is no time for rest!” The man shouted mirthfully, and there was no doubt he was shouting, as for the second time since he died, Constantin could hear clearly. He recoiled from the sound, before taking the hand and being yanked to his feet. The man took a moment to observe familiar sensations. He was himself again, shield in hand, bedecked in chainmail. He was handed a warhammer, a familiar weight catching in his grip.

Constantin looked up to this man and squinted, attempting to conjure any sort of recognizance, yet it escaped him, save for a dull familiarity.

Around him, various sorts of undead crashed against a small army of men in various states of armament and armoring, while four black steel statues dashed between groups of undead, slaying as they went. The giant patted Constantin on the shoulder, before hefting an immense Greathammer from a nearby rock. “Come, boy! The Dark Lord sends a scouting force to repel us, he fears our arrival at his Gates!” He roared, before heaving the massive bludgeoning weapon in a wide arc, and Constantin watched as it crashed into the side of a ghoul’s head, causing an explosion of gore and skull fragments as the body dropped limp. The monstrous man took several heaving steps, throwing himself into the movement, swinging his hammer left, right, left again on the backswing, before leaping into the air, propelled by the tree-trunks he had for legs. Hefting his Greathammer high with both hands, Constantin could smell the ozone and hear a crackling, as lightning streaked across the head of the implement. As the hammer came crashing down on an armored Vampire Spawn, a deafening thunderclap exploded across the battlefield, accompanied with a storm of holy lightning, a divine smiting delivered to the unholy monstrosity.

Constantin’s jaw fell slack as recognizance forced its way into his cloudy mind. It was not the face, nor the weapon, but the technique. He knew it as well as he knew his own hands. His father’s voice rang in his mind, and years of training and study came rushing back to his memory as the realization set itself in his mind, like a warrior-king returning to their throne after a long, long war.

Grandfather.

In the ashes of his weak, dying heart, embers glowed. Watching this spectral visage of Anatoliy Vasiliev wage war, in the same ways his father had imparted on him, from the ash, something began to rise. A renewed fury was stoked in Constantin. He was NOT READY TO DIE. Sensation rushed through the young Vasiliev as an impassioned flame roared in the engine of his heart. Hurtling himself towards his grandfather, Constantin swung his hammer wide, collapsing the skull of an undead soldier as he rushed the front line. This was as real as Constantin had felt in what seemed like eternities. Bursting through a phalanx of skeletal warriors, the young Vasiliev sprinted with the fury of a thousand men, racing to catch up with his immense Grandfather at the heart of the combat.

The young man’s eyes were locked on his ancestor, watching his father’s father unleash ruin upon Strahd’s undead army. His eyes widened in surprise and awe as he bore witness to something he could hardly believe. His Grandfather held the Greathammer with a tight grip, his right hand near the head of the hammer, rendering a wide swing near impossible, but as he tore the Hammer across the body of a large ghoul, Constantin watched as the hammer slid out from his grip, slingshotting forward to what was almost the end of the haft where he again white-knuckled it, catching the beast off-guard.

It was as if Constantin’s Grandfather spoke to him from beyond. Reaching out through the veil to teach him something his Father never could. And as any good grandson would do, Constantin imitated. Swinging his own hammer from a close grip, allowing it to slide through his grip wide, he caught an armored skeleton from an angle which it clearly did not expect as its skull exploded into a thousand fragments. “Excellent, my boy! You learn well!” The shout exploded from Constantin’s left, where his periphery captured the image of Grandfather Vasiliev tearing through a horde of zombies, as with all of his ancestors, four plate-armored men at his side, though it almost seemed as if he was there to protect them, rather than the reality of the situation being the inverse of such an idea.

The sky slowly darkened, the torches at the ends of the war-camp as well as the flames of a warzone illuminating the battlefield and casting fell shadows as the undead force was slowly yet surely repelled by the army under the Vasiliev banner. The fury of the men waned under the relentless assault. Priests and Clerics set up holy wards, guarded by strike teams of Paladins who held off an endless tide of the living dead. Constantin stood with a small group, forming a shield wall with three other men as a young woman scrambled to draw holy inscriptions on the ground in salt.

As a band of skeletons crashed against the shields, Constantin heard a scream from behind. Craning his neck as far as he could to see without lowering his shield, his eyes fell on a Dire Wolf tearing the priests apart with claw and fang. The men at his sides nodded to him, and as Constantin backstepped, their shields slammed together, closing the line as the young Vasiliev whirled around on one foot, letting his hammer slide through his grip to slingshot out, extending his reach to catch the giant beast in the ribs.

The beast yelped, thrown from its prey, before another leapt for Constantin, driving fangs into his neck before he could even react. The towering general of the forces of the living turned around, shouting a command at nearby soldiers who almost moved in slow motion, dragging through the air as if it were water, maneuvering to respond to the order and aid Constantin. He collapsed to the ground, a gaping wound in a very familiar place, as his vision began to blur.

Anatoly and a woman in priest’s robes knelt over Constantin, as in the corner of his vision, he saw Anatoly’s bodyguards fighting tooth and nail to give him time. Anatoly planted his hands on his grandson, and channeled holy light. There was a mighty glow, and Constantin felt pure agony. Grandfather Vasiliev looked on with a somber expression, as the priestess frowned and looked to him, shaking her head. “Tch.” Anatoly scoffed frustratedly, exchanging quiet words with her. All Constantin could hear was ‘out of time’ and ‘peace’. “I don’t want to die...” He mumbled. “Rest, mal’chik.” Anatoly rumbled. “Now is not your time... You do not belong here.” He said, looking at Constantin with surprisingly piercing eyes. Looking through his body straight to his soul. All the young man could see as his sight faded to blackness was the somber, grandfatherly gaze of the old man, the creases in his eyes an accessory to a sad smile.

The void again. Complete and total sensory deprivation collapsed around the maimed form of Constantin, as visions of bloodshed left his eyes. Tears silently streaked down his face, or did they? He couldn't tell. The anguish burned in his chest like acid, tearing away at what remained of his spirit. Had Sancus lied to him? No, certainly not. This was his blessing. Purgatory instead of Hell. A chance to return, for his friends to save him, undeserving as he was of such a thing. He had failed to save them from danger, why should they risk themselves again? These questions ran through his mind as the spirit of the Barovian merely.... Was. No longer could he smell the iron-rich scent of bloody battlefields, the mildew of the stone halls of Ravenloft's basement. For someone who was so deeply engaged with his world around him, such deprivation, senselessness, it was torture. After what seemed like hours, days, years, or perhaps mere seconds, a warmth began to creep around Constantin's shoulders and neck, before the feeling of curly hair draping down his right side and a gentle chin resting on his shoulder snapped him back to as close of a reality as he could snap back to. A familiar feeling, a presence.... Mom...?

Before he could even see her, he was entirely enraptured with a scent all too familiar. One he had not experienced in seven odd years. Black raspberry, bergamot incense, and a subtle yet sweet dark vanilla at the very bottom. His mother's perfume, of which she kept in a delicate red bottle at her bedside. "Costicǎ." An old nickname, one of a boy who had been snuffed out long ago. "My son. How you've grown." She looked just as she did all of those years ago. Thin stress lines set into her strong features, crow's feet stamped at the outer corners of her glimmering blue eyes. Her hair fell in long, dense curls down her back, many set into small braids. The edges of her form blurred a bit though, as if he was looking at her through water. A reminder of how long it had been since he had seen his mother. She took his face in her hands, looking Constantin over. "You look tired, ursuleț. Tell your mother what is wrong."

Constantin turned to face her, still feeling the phantom of her embrace. He could not meet her gaze, and he choked on his first inhale, a shaky breath. "I was not strong enough to save them, mama." He replied weakly. "I left my friends to... To die." He brought hands, again vaguely corporeal, to his face, as tears began to well at the corners of his tired, sunken eyes. "I broke my promise to them. I failed in my oath to Sancus, I failed my father... I failed you." He choked, still unable to look his mother in the face, even as she held his face in her hands. "I lost focus, I was not ready, and now I am... Here. Here in this nothingness. I don't even know if they are alive, if they are trying to save me, why would they? I've given them nothing but another burden to carry."

"Oh my son. You are far too hard on yourself. You could never fail me, I am your mother. You blossomed from my very bones." Anastasia tipped her head, her dark brows furrowing a bit at the pitiful display. She wiped the tears from his eyes with her thumbs. "If anything, my boy, I failed you. I should have whisked you away from that church long ago, once your father became someone I didn't recognize." Something crossed her blurry features, a pained expression as it seemed she herself held back tears. After a moment, it melted back into her steadfast features.

"All of that is said and done now. Regrets are left with the earthly body, as they may not pass into the next realm. Come, let us walk together one last time." Her hands fell to Constantin's, the many delicate rings across her fingers feeling cold against his skin.

Constantin heaved a shaky breath. “Father became what Sancus demanded of him.” He said weakly. “He needed a warrior. Not a parent or a husband. A warrior.” He looked up to meet his mother’s ethereal gaze. “What would have become of me if you had taken me from that place? Who would I be…?”

The young man’s thought trailed off as his mother took him by the hand. His grip fell gently over hers, as if cradling a delicate flower as he relented, following as Anastasia led.

"You recognize his folly. Good." Her voice fell into a whisper, almost a reassurance to herself. "I'm glad." Anastasia stole a glance over her shoulder to her grown son, leading him along an unwinding path that faded further and further from the battlefield hellscape behind them. "I do not wish the same fate for you. You are already a better man than he was. When war consumes all of you, it leaves nothing left for the things most important. For him, that was his family. We were left with the scraps of his affection that only ever followed his misguided anger. You are half his age and you already understand more of what truly mattered than he ever did."

She paused, standing before a looking pool assembled from the roots of an ancient tree. Looking down, she fell quiet. Before them, stretched across the surface of the inky black water, was a blurred scene of fire, smoke, and combat. Unlike the battlefield before though, this was enclosed in a cluttered room, the ceiling coming down around the colorful faces surrounding the point of view. Constantin recognized it as what he last remembered, just before the icy pain and the world fading to blackness.

"You gave yourself for what mattered to you. Your friends." She gestured down to the sequence. "You could have been more careful, more reserved with your actions for the sole purpose of preserving yourself and your own quest against Strahd. And it very well may have ended with one of them in your place." Anastasia finally looked up, glassy tears welling in her eyes. "You do not understand your sacrifice, my son. It will not go unnoticed."

“I could have done more. Sancus, my… My friends. They needed me to be strong. To bear the weight of the danger collapsing down on us. I should have brought the mother hag down but I couldn’t break her stance. I was weak.” Constantin muttered, shoulders shaking as he silently choked back more anguish.

“All my life I have fought to be enough and have always barely escaped coming up short. When those undead ambushed us and you nearly died, I barely managed to save you. When Father left for Ravenloft, I was hardly the warrior he had tried so hard to raise…”

Constantin turned his gaze to his mother. His eyes drying, taking on an almost empty gaze. A man who had no tears left to cry, nothing left to give. The raging embers in his heart, so recently stoked by the visage of his grandfather, they began to dim again. “I had nothing left to give when they needed me the most. If they had sense, they would have left me there and carried on in their mission with Ireena…”

Constantin placed his face in his hands, wiping his eyes and hiding his sorrowful, shame-ridden gaze from the visage of his mother.

She simply shook her head, her full lips pressing into a line as she turned away from him. His heart squeezed, an awfully familiar feeling snagging at his throat. Disappointment. He could feel the cold claws rake across his skin, drawing crude purple lines across his flesh. Anastasia took a step, and then one more, drawing away from Constantin and piercing into the yawning darkness in front of her. He was losing her once more.

Another step.

No. This time, she was leaving him.

He was growing colder, the shadows whispering at his back. Suddenly he felt like a child again, afraid of the dark and of all the unseen things that only the presence of his mother could ward away. He had to follow her, to chase the warmth. He had been so long without it, the longing to be held and safe tearing up his insides.

Constantin shivered, feeling the cold creep over him. “I don’t want to die.” He mumbled almost inaudibly. He looked up, face wrought in pain and fear as he watched his mother walk away. He took off after her. “That is it?” He spoke, as he moved to catch up with her.

“You come to me… To tell me I was enough and then leave? Why?” He pleaded. “What is the meaning of this, mama?” Cried Constantin, calling after his mother. “I never should have left you, mama. I’m sorry. Please, don’t go.” He reached out for Anastasia desperately, nearly tripping over himself in his desperation.

His hand passed through hers like a ghost, her palm dissolving into mist momentarily before reforming. She was fading, and fast. Anastasia took off into a sprint, that of a rabbit. Desperate, wild. She lifted her long skirts, darting back and forth like a spark from a fire. Constantin soon realized she wasn't from him, but searching for something instead. His mother seemed to radiate light while the darkness tried to consume him, her aura the only thing keeping clammy hands of shadows at bay.

The void surrounding them morphed into more tree roots, tangling into each other to form solid walls, a small, cramped hallway. It was nearly pitch black, save for the dim light emitted around Anastasia. She barreled down the hallway, as if her very life depended upon it.

Constantin was strong. But not particularly fast or dexterous. Even in this spectral form, he was clumsy and crashed after her in desperation. Luckily, by pure length of leg he kept a relatively solid pace.

Constantin was a stoic man, a man of grit and tenacity. But in this moment he ran with fear and desperation. He felt the clutch of death, the pain in his neck and chest, rippling through purple veins. His mother was his lifeline and by the Gods above and below, he wouldn’t let her go.

He just wished she’d slow down a bit.

She turned sharply, allowing Constantin to slam into the gnarled root wall. The hallway began to narrow, the walls closing in and the ceiling dropping lower. As he turned and recovered, his eyes fixed on the visage of his mother, standing still at the very end of the small passageway. He was so close. Closing the distance between them, he watched as she grabbed at a cloth covering the wall. A curtain, perhaps? He didn't have the time to process as she tore it from the wall, spinning as she did. The fabric engulfed her, and the sheet fell to the floor, Anastasia nowhere in sight. Constantin was alone with a dark mirror, staring into his reflection. That of a dead man.

A single violet, unblinking eye met Constantin's, the iris foggy from oxidation. Pallid skin peeled off muscle like wallpaper, revealing oozing purple masses beneath that had consumed most tissue it could get a hold of. The body was fairly far into the decomposition process, and it looked like it may have been left somewhere forested. Fungi already took to making small shelves along the cheeks of the corpse, and the acidic decay of the poison had not stopped carrion beetles making home in every orifice they could reach into. Insect activity had already eaten up much of the soft tissue, taking the other eye and exposing the bone of the skull behind it where Constantin could see more purple veins ebbing their way across the body. Despite the terrible condition of the body, it was still so easy to recognize.

The haunting eye was only present for a moment, though, as it faded into the silver backing of the mirror. He stared into his own blue eyes, dim light still occupying his gaze. "They mourn you." Anastasia's voice reached his ears, barely above a whisper. She was behind him now, tipping her head. "Look and see."

Constantin stared in horror at his own corpse. Truly it was a pain worse than death to see your own fate after you died, and Constantin bore witness. As the image of his death mask burned itself into his mind, the idea of his corpse being abandoned in the forest to be reclaimed by Barovia filled him with dread, an ache burning in his heart where flames of passion and hatred once roared in equal measure. As his mother’s voice whispered to him, he turned to look her in the face, sorrow stricken across his visage as he looked upon his mother. He could not bring himself to look away, tears welling in the corners of his dull, sad gaze. As she nodded for him to look again, he cast his eyes back to the mirror.

The corpse now gone, Constantin watched as his own reflection warped, moving and changing. Soon, it looked as if he was sleeping, eyes shut and hair tousled like any other night in the camp. The heavy silence that hung in the air was broken by the echo of voices, warbled in nature and extremely difficult to make out. Images formed slowly around his sleeping reflection, forming into the faces of his friends. Each of them were starting in different stages of grief. The scene became clearer- They sat around him, staring down in horror at him. The mirror's surface rippled, shifting to the group splitting. Tyyran and Rorali made their way down into darkness, their shouts being swallowed up by the void. Thalassia, moving out of the hut with two forms in tow, one of Constantin and one of Bettany. Scenes continued to appear across the mirror, bombarding Constantin with overlaying cries, conversations, and hushed whispers. He watched as they carried his body through thick and thin, out of the rain, tucking him in the wagon, and even allowing him a bed in an unrecognizable location.

"Can't you see? You meant so much more to them than you realize."

“I… I did not know.” Constantin murmured, staring blankly at the reflection. A stream of tears flowed down his sullen cheeks as he watched Tyyran’s anguish, the Dragonborn cradling his burned, poisoned corpse.

“Was I.. Was I enough for them?” He asked, turning towards Anastasia once again.

She nodded slowly, giving him a soft smile. "Plenty, ursuleț. As much as you could in the little time you all bonded. You deserve to rest." Anastasia murmured. Constantin could feel a soft glow of light on his back, and upon looking at the mirror again, the surface glimmered with a warm, holy light.

“What? Mama, what is this? Sancus… He gave me a chance. Another chance. Did they not help me? Did it… Did nothing work?” Constantin looked hesitantly at the light, before fearfully gazing back at his mother. “What is happening?”

She shook her head wearily, looking over his shoulder to the light. It lit up her deep tan skin, her eyes glimmering like ice in the sun. "It is time, my dear. Time to join your ancestors." Figures barely stood out against the bright backdrop, peering with indiscernible faces, all of their eyes resting on Constantin in wait. Constantin pulled his mother tight into an embrace. He cast his eyes away from his ancestors, denying their gaze. “No…” he murmured, a choked cry escaping him as he buried his face into his mother’s small shoulder, like he was again a child. Faced with death, his reality laid bare, Constantin could not help but grasp one last moment with his mother. If this was to be his death, he would spend his last moment in the arms of someone he loved.

The images of his companions echoed in his mind. The warm embrace of the afterlife called to him, as the Hag’s poison snaked its way into his heart. But where the poison sought lifeblood and flesh to rot and bring ruin, it met a burning ember. Constantin heaved a heavy breath. “I’m not ready to die.” He murmured, still locked in his embrace with Anastasia. As he made his declaration, sorrow melted to the heat of an indomitable fury. “They need me.” He said, pulling away to look his mother in the face. He turned to his ancestors behind the veil, breaking free of his mother’s arms. As the flames of his spirit roared in the engine of his heart, he shouted. “I’M NOT READY TO DIE!”

Anastasia watched, concern and pain in her features before an eerie serenity consumed everything. She observed silently for a beat, before her form liquidated into pure shadow, pooling on the floor. It stayed like that for several moments before a tall figure rose from the blackness, stretching to an impossible height in the cramped space to the point he had to curl and contort his body to fit. His piercing eyes, two wells of reflective green-white, regarded Constantin with little emotion. The figure's presence was cold, like a black hole threatening to absorb all astral light it came across. "Sancus's ward. what a curious creature you are."

Constantin was consumed with a righteous flame, his spirit burning bright as it possibly could in the darkness. “Who speaks?” He demanded defiantly. The flames flickered, but did not die. His heart ran hot, and his eyes were full of an impassioned rage

The man chuckled, a hollow noise that reverberated through Constantin's very bones. "An old friend of your patron. He called in a favor to me. You are fortunate he is able to maintain such connections despite his... Situation." His eyes narrowed a bit as he held out his hand, a large bident gleaming to life in his very palm. The man was like no god Constantin had observed across Barovia's faiths, much like Sancus.

“You are a friend of Sancus?” Constantin challenged. “I know not how he could keep friends.” he continued. “But it seems I should be grateful to you.”

"The ties between gods are concepts far deeper than you could perceive, child." He hummed back, seeming almost bored with the conversation. "Your gratitude is superfluous, I have come here out of obligation to an equal. If it had been my decision, your soul would have already been harvested for its next vessel. I'm making an exception." The way he spoke was entirely unnerving. "Do not worry, though. We will meet again, perhaps in a week, perhaps in a decade." The man stated. It sounded like it was supposed to be... Comforting? But the intention was more or less lost by his serene, monotonous tone.

“I will come bringing the head of a vampire.” Constantin declared boldly. “Tell me. Who are you?”

The roots around them began to unravel, leaving them in an endless black expanse. He rose to his full height, towering over Constantin, who was able to observe the rest of the man. Cascading black robes wrapped and fastened around his person with clean chains. The collar of the garment was alight with green flames that licked at the air around him, a similar glow at the bottom hem that dragged in the shadows.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Tread carefully, child. Not many receive a second chance. No one gets a third." His deep voice rumbled as he lifted the bident, allowing the blunt end to click at the ground. Constantin felt whatever that was beneath his feet give way, allowing him to freefall down, down, down. The man did not spare him even a wave, only following the Barovian's descent with his keen eyes.

#constantin #constantin vasiliev #lore #death #backstory

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barovianbitches · 6 months

Text

A Dance With The Devil - Taliyah Whiteoak & Blackstarr

A young woman with copper skin clad in thick green fabrics and animal furs walked through a thick patch of berry bushes. She picked berries leisurely, replenishing whatever she took with a wave of a slender hand. Sparkles of light the color of grass flooded from her palm, and violet berries grew rapidly back to the buds where they’d just been plucked. The woman hummed slightly, a melancholy tune as she worked. Pick, replace, repeat. Her small wicker basket quickly filled to the brim with ripe berries, yet she continued her walk, using her witchcraft to mend any damaged branches she came across.

“That’s quite impressive,” a strange accent purred from the woods.

The woman took no time in drawing her blade, aiming it directly at the intruder's throat, the silver tip just pricking his Adam's apple and making a droplet of red blood run down his neck, dribbling onto his ruffled collar.

“Speak.” The woman demanded, her hazel eyes narrowing at the man. The man only grinned, his eyes flicking down to the blade and back to meet her gaze. He pushed the blade away with a single gloved finger, causing the woman to draw another, pointing it at his throat once more.

“Forgive me,” the man tilted his head, his eyes shining golden in the sunlight “I’m merely traveling in the woods and felt entranced by your beauty. The name is Blackstarr.”

The woman showed no care towards the stranger calling her beautiful, she knew she was, and anyone else’s input didn’t matter. She snorted, “Blackstarr? Is that name supposed to impress me?”

He frowned, a psychotic glint of malice in his eyes, “No, but it should scare you.”

The woman removed her dagger, sheathing them both in a swift motion. She tucked long black hair behind her pierced ears, the beads that lined the braids around the crown of her forehead jingled as she crossed her muscular arms. “I don’t startle easy. Not in my forest. Whatever power you have out there,” she pointed her lips to the area behind him, “Doesn’t apply here. When you are here you are a guest of this land, do not forget that.”

Blackstarr nodded with a sly smile, “Of course, I mean no disrespect.”

He took a step back, holding his hands up in a humbled gesture. He tossed his head back, flicking his straw-colored hair from his eyes. He slowly declined his head downwards to meet her eyes once more, his grin illuminated in the evening sun. “What is your name?” he smiled, outstretching his hand in a bow with the intention of kissing her hand. “Taliyah Whiteoak of the Aspen Grove.” She responded, looking at his hand with distaste, “You may not address me as such, however, as we are not familiar.”

Blackstarr remained un-waivered as he stared at Taliyah. Unbothered by the woman’s clear desire to not communicate with him he continued. “Tell me, where did you learn that power?” he asked, a hunger in his voice, like a wolf stalking a rabbit.

“From the earth,” Taliyah said, emotionlessly as she made to move away. She wouldn’t humor this stranger any further. “Hey!” Blackstarr snapped, grabbing her by the wrist, his grip as strong as steel. “Please, tell me.” He demanded of her. Taliyah struggled against his hold, though she was much more physically muscular than him, he contained a wry and unruly strength for someone of his size and slim stature. “Come now, dear,” He murmured, his voice like a charm to her, “I would love to be able to do the things you can do… I’ve watched you from afar for weeks, waiting so patiently to see how to do what you do… won't you tell me?” There was something slimy about it… a velvety and seductive venom in his tone made Taliyah pause. Though every part of her wanted to spit in his face, she stayed. Taliyah felt like her body had been turned to stone as he stroked a loose strand of dark hair away from her cheek, she tensed, breathing sharply from her nose as her neck went rigid, her eyes following his hand.

“Tell me,” he instructed again, his eyes twinkling with danger. He was a dangerous man, that much Taliyah knew. She feared him, but she would not show him that she was afraid. Taliyah looked over her shoulder, to the path towards her village. Towards her people… she couldn’t risk leading him back to them.

“Yes. It’s from the earth. A gift I was given at birth, a gift only those who truly love this land can harness.” Taliyah explained, softening her shoulders in an attempt to appear more “ladylike” whatever that meant. Something that she’d unfortunately been taught by the older women of her village from a young age… Men like this simply felt entitled to women like her, as if she were nothing more than a precious gem or a satchel of gold.

“I inherited it from my father, he passed the gift down to me, and my love taught me to harness it.” Taliyah held her chin high, with as much confidence as she could muster. Blackstarr nodded, looking at her with intense curiosity. His unruly beach-blonde hair curling around his ears, “So… would such a power be passed down?” He prodded. The question made Taliyah deeply uncomfortable, she felt her heart thud in her chest at Blackstarr’s insinuation.

“If the child had respect for nature and the will to wield it, then yes,” Taliyah answered. Blackstarr smiled, his gaze darkening with greed.

“How interesting,” he spoke, his voice almost sing-song with glee.

“Have you any younglings of your own?” He inquired, his eyes piercing into her, daring her for a response. “No,” Taliyah said, her voice coming out as a brisk exhale. Blackstarr roughly moved his hand from her face. “Shame.” He said, slinking around her and squatting her basket off of the ground, selecting a single berry as he stood up once more, rolling the berry between his fingers as he spoke… his voice a low grumble. “You do have the hips for it.” Taliyah felt her blood boil as the bushes around her began to prickle, spikes elongating towards the man as green light emitted from her fingertips. “That is your village about a mile or so to the east, correct?” Blackstarr asked, a blank expression on his face. The magic left her palms like water pouring from a goblet, the thorns quickly halting their progress. Taliyah felt her heart constrict. She truly was a rabbit… a rabbit in the clutches of a wolf. “What-” Taliyah murmured. “Come now, Taliyah, don’t make me ask again,” Blackstarr said, looking to her.

Taliyah nodded slowly. “I assume you would be… very upset if anything were to happen to your people. Such a thing-,” Blackstarr crushed the berry between his fingers, causing scarlet-colored juice to run down his fingers, “Such a thing would be heartbreaking, no?”

“Do not hurt them,” Taliyah spat, standing with her back rigid as Blackstarr approached her like a predator, practically licking his lips. “I don’t relish in violence, my sweet.” Blackstarr said, “So please don’t force my hand.”

He bent to kiss her knuckles, and Taliyah reluctantly obliged. Blackstarr grinned, “Good girl.”

He stepped away, his demeanor fluid like water reflected onto a dark surface. “Now. What you will do,” Blackstarr instructed, turning back to the young woman with his hands clasped behind his back, “Is collect your things. Pack lightly. Speak to nobody of this, do you understand? I want your name to become a ghost story, Taliyah Whiteoak. Vanish without a trace, and tell nobody where you are going. Meet me here at dusk. Do not dare to run… I am watching you, and I will slaughter every last insignificant life in your pathetic little village as you watch. And then I will kill you.” Taliyah felt her lip quiver with anger, taking a slight backstep as Blackstarr approached her, sneering down at her. “Have I made myself clear?” He asked. Taliyah nodded, keeping her eyes firmly locked on her assailant, doing nothing to hide her hatred in her face. Blackstarr only grinned. “Good,” Blackstarr smirked, grabbing Taliyah by the jaw and pulling her into a kiss. A kiss that felt all wrong, a kiss of want and desire, but no love or softness. A hunger to have her. Taliyah didn’t kiss back but didn’t pull away out of terror of what the man might do. Blackstarr chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest before he pulled away, looking to her soft lips, dragging his thumb slowly across her bottom lip. “Though you may not appreciate my generosity now, I assure you that you will come to love me in due time.” He whispered to her. “Now scurry away, little rabbit.”

So Taliyah scurried. As fast as she could, racing to her home and closing herself into her sanctuary she began to weep.

Curling into herself, she wept.

Wept for her home.

And for her freedom.

#Bettany Blackstarr #Taliyah Whiteoak #Blackstarr #lore #dnd #Bettany

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barovianbitches · 6 months

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Would You Like Me A Little Bit Better? - Bettany Blackstarr

“I don't… I don’t have the money for that.” The young man admitted, shuffling in his worn-in leather boots. The Orkish barkeep glared down at him with a fierce gaze, his nose wrinkling in distaste. “Mummy didn’t give you your lunch money, eh, kid?” He snorted, large tusks extruding from his bottom lip as he laughed a deep rumbling noise. His eyes glinted with malice. “Please, I just need it for one night, that’s it,” Bettany begged, his legs wobbling from his long travels. The last town he’d stayed in had been over 16 hours away, and he’d walked straight from there.

“Tough luck, lad,” The barkeep chuckled, “you’ve mistaken my place of business for a fuckin’ charity. What’s a young thing like you doin’ out at this time of evenin’ anyway? Didn’t you see the signs, or can you not read, either?” He jabbed a green thumb toward a wooden plaque that read: 18 and unders will be kicked out NO EXCEPTIONS!

I’m not a kid! He wanted to scream.

His slender frame and bad posture led many to think he was a young teen, thus many treated him as such. As if he wouldn’t be able to handle more “adult” subjects of conversation.

“I’m twenty,” Bettany muttered, voice barely above a whisper as he frowned at the sign. “Right, and Imma pixie,” The orkish set down the glass he’d been polishing with a dull thud, he gripped his hands on the counter as he bent to Bettany’s height. “You can’t pay? Then get out of my FUCKING bar!” He roared, spittle splattering across Bettany’s face. “And for god's sake, cover that disgusting face of yours. You’re going to scare off my PAYING customers.” Bettany winced, his lip trembling furiously as a lump raised in his throat. “Please,” Bettany whispered once more, his nervous eyes looking to the spot on the counter between the Ork’s giant hands. “Are you STUPID or somethin’? OUT!!!” The barkeep bellowed, jabbing a furious finger past Bettany’s face and towards the door. Bettany scrambled backward, stumbling towards the door. Bettany hung his head low as the other patrons of the bar watched him leave, their curious whispers following him as he retreated.

The door slammed behind him, and the minute he left a joyous roar of laughter erupted from the grimy windows, as the guests of the establishment quickly jumped back into their festivities. Rain pounded the dirt streets, mud pockets burbling up from the earth as the storm thundered above. Bettany exhaled sharply, trying to stop tears from running down his face

He slouched away from the tavern door, trying to keep to the shadows as opposed to walking in the lantern-lit streets. He just had to find something to sleep under, some shelter from this rain that had already soaked him to the bone.

Bettany managed to find a somewhat covered alleyway between two of the larger structures. There were even bins of trash for him to look through for something to eat. He began to forage through the trash, desperate for anything to quelch the hunger that hollowed his stomach. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and Bettany realized he wasn’t alone. He slowly glanced over his shoulder, spotting a large half-wolf that smoked behind an alleyway.

“Hey!” The man called to Bettany who turned back to his foraging, twitching with irritation. He was tired and didn’t have time for this. “You lost, kitty?” The guy snorted, flicking the cigarette out of his teeth as he stomped on the bud. He was far older and larger than Bettany. “I’m fine,” Bettany said, not turning towards the man, keeping his body submerged in the shadows. The man grinned a pointed smile at him, lumbering towards Bettany.

“Pretty thing, aren’t you?” He purred, “half of you, at least.” Bettany tensed as he felt a clawed hand touch the small of his back, cold fear racing down his spine. He froze as the man reached a hand up under his chin, roughly turning Bettany’s head to meet his eyes. “The name’s Gonk,” He muttered, looking exclusively at Bettany’s mouth, inhaling deeply through wolf-like nostrils “And you, kitten, are the best meal I’ve yet to have.” Bettany squirmed, but Gonk’s grip was as strong as steel.

“Let go of me,” Bettany hissed, his eyes ablaze with anger, his eyes watering as the stench of Gonk’s matted fur filled his nostrils. A scent like wet dog and hot oil. “Come on, play nice, kitten.” Gonk tutted, “You’ll do perfectly.”

Bettany tried to summon a spell, anything… But he was too tired, and the blue energy faded from his eyes as his throat was clutched by the wolfman.

“No,” Bettany groaned, his head feeling dizzy as Gonk’s claws gripped into his neck, the man grinning as he deeply inhaled at the base of Bettany’s neck. “Like vanilla and clove,” Gonk slobbered, smelling Bettany’s skin deeply. Bettany knew he smelled far from vanilla OR clove, but he was too paralyzed with fear to mention that at the moment. “HEY! Shithead!” a voice rang out, causing Gonk to loosen his grip on Bettany. Dark red tiefling wearing dark leather armor nodded in his direction. He was much taller than Bettany, with dark black hair slicked back into a short mullet. His pointed tail twitched as his green eyes narrowed at the sight of the wolfman.

“Ah, little hero is back from his adventure?” Gonk snarled, bearing his teeth at “fuck off Kaiper, leave me and my date be.”

“Not to stick my nose in yeh business, but I’m pretty sure a date implies both parties are consenting, yeh?” The tiefling, Kaiper, looked to Bettany, “You okay there, lovey?”

Bettany shook his head rapidly. Kaiper nodded, unbuckling a long sword from its hilt. “That’s what I thought,” Kaiper said, tossing the blade in the air and catching the grip. He waved the blade at Gonk.

It was an ornate hilt of black iron and silver rings that twisted in a snake-like pattern, the cross guard splayed into spikes, like the spine of a dragon. The pommel was encrusted with a shimmering emerald carved to a faceted sphere. The blade was leaf-shaped, tapering off into a fine point.

“You see that, bruv?” Kaiper sneered, “Silver that is. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but silver tends to fuck up blokes like you, yeh?”

Gonk growled as the point was brought to his throat. Kaiper’s eyes narrowed at him, and he jutted his chin out. “Come on now, fuck off,” Kaiper instructed.

Gonk roughly released Bettany, shoving the small man into the wall harshly as he lumbered out of the alleyway, murmuring profanities under his breath. “Thank you,” Bettany coughed, Kaiper offered a gloved hand to help him back to his feet. “Come on, lovey, let’s get you somewhere safe, yeh?” Kaiper said as Bettany gratefully accepted his offer, struggling to his feet.

Kaiper, despite being so brutal to Gonk, held Bettany very gently, leading him down the street and into a small flat. He led Bettany into the backroom, the bedroom, and walked him over to a mattress in the corner. Kaiper hefted Bettany into the small bed, a cloud of dust poofing upwards as Bettany’s weight fell on it.

“Sorry ‘bout the mess, I only just rolled back into town.” Kaiper explained, “My crew and I were off fighting a mind flayer off the sword coast. Nasty business.” Kaiper noticed Bettany wasn’t exactly in the talkative mood, so he pursed his lips. He put his hands on his hips and bounced on his heels slightly. “You can sleep here for the night, don’t worry about old Gonk, he’s a clown, but he won't bother you anymore. Kaiper said, shrugging off his gear, and walking to a wardrobe where he collected a large knit blanket made up of colorful tetric designs.

Kaiper handed it to Bettany, looking down at the small druid as he snuggled under the blanket. Bettany was seemingly unbothered by his sodden clothes, but Kaiper didn’t want the man to get sick. “If you give me your clothes, I can wash them for you,” Kaiper sighed, his pointy ears flattening for a second as his tail twitched, “You can keep on your unders of course, and I won't watch you undress, so don’tchu worry over that.”

Bettany blushed almost as red as Kaiper, he nodded silently as he began to unbutton his blouse, Kaiper kept to his word and turned his back, his tail swishing as he stared at the wall in front of him. Bettany folded his discarded clothes into a neat pile as he set them at the foot of the bed, pulling up the blanket to cover any of his bear skin that might show. “Okay…” croaked Bettany, golden eyes peeking over the edge of the blanket as Kaiper turned around. Kaiper swiftly collected the clothes, moving to the closed door with grace. He put a clawed hand on the handle, opening it with a creak before he turned around to face Bettany again. “I won’t bother you again tonight, I’ll bring these back in the morning, yeh?” Kaiper spoke firmly, but with compassion.

“Okay,” Bettany responded. “I’ll see you in the morning, lovey,” Kaiper said before quietly closing the door behind him.

Bettany tried to keep his mind alert, sure Kaiper seemed like a nice guy, but trusting people got you nowhere… He struggled to keep his eyes open, noting every last detail of his surroundings, down to the web-like cracks in the plaster and the faint drip from the ceiling in the far right corner of the room. But eventually, his exhaustion won out, and the pounding of the rain on the windows lulled Bettany into a deep sleep.

Bettany stirred, jumping at the sight of a horned figure standing at the foot of his bed. Kaiper froze, Bettany’s freshly laundered clothes in his hands.

“Sorry, lovey, I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just returning your goods,” Kaiper explained, nodding to the neatly folded fabric he held.

“Thank you… Kaiper,” Bettany hummed, his body perfectly comfortable in the lumpy bed, feeling warm and safe for the first time in ages as the morning sun trickled through the windows. “Don’t worry about it, I didn’t catch your name by the way,” Kaiper let out a twinkling laugh, shaking his head, “I swear, I usually would buy a guy like you a meal and ask his name before I bring him back to my home.”

Bettany felt his heart skip as he laughed nervously. “That’s okay, hah, I uh… Blackstarr. Bettany Blackstarr.” He introduced himself, color flooding to his cheeks as he blinked at Kaiper. “Nice to meet you, Bettany Blackstarr, I’m Kaiper Whitlem.” The fighter extended a hand for Bettany to shake, Bettany took it cautiously. A wave of electricity ran down his arm from where he touched Kaiper, like a buzz. It took everything he had not to jerk his arm away immediately.

“Pleasure,” Bettany muttered. Kaiper grinned as he removed his hand, studying Bettany with curious green eyes, a gaze that made Bettany’s stomach churn. Kaiper grinned at him, nodding his head over his shoulder towards the door in the corner. “Come on, lovey, let’s have some breakfast.” Kaiper slunk from the room, his red tail flicking around the corner. Bettany followed him out into the rest of the flat. It was a bit dusty, but covered in maps of the sea, banners of different ships hung victoriously from the shelves which were filled with oddities collected from years of travel. Bettany felt particularly interested by a statue of a golden bat with a blue icosahedron gem that was clasped in its delicate wings.

“you want coffee?” Kaiper asked from where he was clanking around in the kitchen. Bettany was too distracted to answer.

“that one tickling your fancy, yeh?” Kaiper asked, having silently appeared behind Bettany, who jumped.

“Oh uh, yeah I like the… detail,” Bettany explained, feeling intimidated by the taller man.

“Took that lad from a band of thieves. Been meaning to return it to it’s village, but it’ll stay here for now.” Kaiper had a distant look in his eye as he observed the small figurine.

“Coffee?” He asked again, turning back to Bettany.

“Oh- no, I’m fine,” Bettany smiled, looking up at Kaiper who nodded.

“I get it, when I drink it it’s mostly rum anyways,” the young tiefling smiled a wry smile, leading Bettany to the kitchen, “come.”

Kaiper say Bettany in a rickety wooden chair, setting a bowl of porridge the color of fog in front of him. He patted Bettany’s shoulder, his touch lingering for a second longer than needed before he sat across from Bettany at the table.

“You ever think about adventuring?” The pirate asked, crossing his arms. Bettany shook his head wildly, “No! It’s definitely not for me, I uh… I much prefer staying safe.” He admitted sheepishly, smiling shyly. Bettany poked around at his porridge, but didn’t eat. “Not much safe about wandering a strange town at night, Bettany,” Kaiper countered, “there’s an adventurer in you. You just haven’t unlocked it yet.”

Bettany felt doubtful, but he merely shrugged in response. “Maybe…” He concluded.

“Yous a spellcaster, right? I saw your eyes glowing in the alley,” Kaiper asked, “Warlock or something, yeh?”

Bettany shook his head, “no, not a warlock, I’m a Druid.”

He conjured some magic to his hand, summoning a small dandelion that he set on the table in front of Kaiper, his cheeks blushing.

Kaiper smiled excitedly as he snatched up the flower, “a man of nature, impressive. I never had the talent for magic, it’s why I stick to these.” Kaiper referred to the many weapons already strapped to his person this early in the morning.

“I tell yuh though, you don’t need spells to charm.” Kaiper grinned, his voice coming out as a purr. Bettany flushed again. It wasn’t like what Gonk had done last night, Kaiper was kind, and his cadence was nothing but respectful.

“you gotta lady wherever you’re from,” Kaiper asked, a rouge fang extruding from his lips, “or maybe a fella?”

The tiefling raised his eyebrows, his emerald eyes twinkling.

Bettany coughed, shaking his head, “no… neither I uh… no.”

“That’s a downright shame. I’d say you were quite the catch…” Kaiper hummed. Bettany felt himself sweat. He needed to leave before he did anything irrational. Even though his every instinct was screaming to leave, he couldn’t help but look at Kaiper’s lips, surprisingly soft for a pirate.

“You staying ‘round in town much longer?” Kaiper asked, reclining in his chair as he twirled a dagger between his fingers.

“I’ve got to get going…” Bettany explained, “It’s best if I don’t stick around in one place for too long. Besides, you’ve got to get back to your crew… thank you though, this was really lovely.” Bettany stood, his chair screeching against the wooden floors. He began towards the door.

“Wait!” Kaiper called. Bettany paused, turning back towards his new friend. Kaiper reached a heavily ringed hand up to Bettany’s cheek.

“this okay, yeh?” Kaiper muttered, his eyes flicking to Bettany’s for clarification. Bettany nodded eagerly, his mind racing.

“yes,” Bettany replied.

With a smile, Kaiper brushed a loose strand of hair away as he leaned in and gently kissed Bettany. Bettany’s heart thudded like it was being shaken in a jar, closing his eyes as he leaned into the kiss. Kaiper playfully bit his bottom lip before pulling away, grinning as if he’d just snagged a satchel of gold. Bettany kept his eyes closed for a second, still shaken by the suddenness of it all.

“For luck,” Kaiper grinned, “Lemme know if you ever change your mind about the whole adventuring gig. We could always use a druid like yourself on the high seas.” “Th-Thank you, but I-,” Bettany blushed madly, shaking his head to re-orient himself from the sudden kiss, “I don’t know if I’d fare well on a boat. I tend to get nauseous standing on land.” Kaiper let out a bark of laughter, jovially bumping Bettany’s shoulder, “Still, you’ve got a place on my crew, okay, mate?” Bettany nodded, “I’ll keep you updated.” Kaiper grinned, “You ever need something? Check out a tavern, most know me by name. Ask for me, just make sure you say you’re a friend, yeh? They should tell you where I am, or direct you to someone who knows.”

Bettany nodded, “Thank you, Kaiper, really.” “No problem, Bettany. With a name like yours, it really is a shame you aren’t a pirate.” Kaiper whistled, before taking a swig of his coffee. “I’ll let you get moving, see you around, lovey.” Bettany turned, offering the tiefling a smile before he left the flat, his cloak whipping behind him as he ventured off into the unknown again.

#Bettany #Bettany Earlwin Blackstarr #Bettany Blackstarr #lore #romance #Kaiper

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barovianbitches · 6 months

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Pick Your Battles - Constantin and Bettany

The Barovian morning was surprisingly pleasant as the adventuring party made their way towards the town Constantin had told them of. The wind was cold, as a thin veil of fog dampened everyone’s clothes, their boots sloshing in mud. The weather was perfect by Bettany’s standards, as he tilted his head upwards to feel the mist on his cheeks. A light smile graced the druid’s face as he closed his tired eyes for a second. He sighed as he re-oriented his head to look forward at the stretch of land ahead of them with no town in sight. He was briefly startled by the sight of a burly man with long black hair, not dissimilar to Bettany’s, marching through the woods with an intense purpose. Constantin was back… seemingly reanimated alongside Bettany. They had both been all but dead less than 24 hours ago, only to awaken with no wounds, and twin medallions hung from their necks. Bettany came back normal, and more or less the same. But Constantin had come back… wrong. With shoulder-length hair and a long beard.

A golden eye with a nasty scar snaking across his face. Had Bettany and Constantin looked different before, now they looked like one and the same. The change was sudden, and upset Bettany, he generally disliked surprises of all kinds. While being slapped awake by an alive Constantin had been a welcomed one, his new look wasn’t as pleasant. Bettany hadn’t had a chance to speak with Constantin yet… not a real conversation at least.

The closest contact they’d had was Constantin punching him in the head. Albeit Bettany had poked him in the eye, but only to see if it was real. He’d been so startled by Constantin being alive that he didn’t handle it well. Everything was far too complicated, and it still didn’t feel like the last day had happened. One minute Bettany had been chasing a traitorous cowboy, abandoning his search when he smelled Constantin’s blood being spilled, being murdered by one of the nuns, only to wake up as if nothing had happened.

All in all, it was slightly uncharacteristic for Constantin to not even offer Bettany a nod of encouragement. He wasn’t a warm and cuddly person by any means, but Bettany knew that he cared for him- in what could be described as a fraternal way. Bettany could really use some reassurance right now, just to know he was doing the right thing… that he was going to be okay.

Bettany crept up behind Constantin, never really being one to initiate conversation, so he lurked a foot or so behind him as he waited for his presence to be felt. Constantin trudged in silence, heaving the pack of salvaged supplies as he walked in the company of his traveling companions. Long raven hair flowed down his exposed shoulders, his shirt torn to tatters by the brutal knifing he'd received from a nun he didn't even know existed. While Bettany had been rendered simply unconscious by a thrashing delivered to him by the very same woman, Constantin had been... Dead. His friends may have left him dying. with the nuns that betrayed them, but by his best estimations, he had surely died.

He noticed the small presence in his vicinity, and he elected to slow his pace, allowing the others to accelerate past him absentmindedly, following his given directions.

"You were foolish. You could have died, for nothing." Constantin grumbled, finally addressing the Druid. Bettany blinked as he felt tears well in his eyes, which wasn’t uncommon for him. It didn’t make it feel any less embarrassing. The smaller man frowned, his brows tightening in the middle. “I- I know,” Bettany muttered, his hands found their way to each other, and his fingers began to entwine together like the legs of a spider. “I behaved irrationally. In a way you would’ve chided me for had you been-” If you’d been there. Bettany’s voice caught as the images from the cathedral flooded his mind. Villamina covered in Constantin’s blood, grinning at him as she licked it from her fingers… the image burned in his memory, clouding his thinking even now. The cackles of the spirit guardians as their small claws tore into his flesh, weakening him as he fell to his knees. He’d been weak. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I was trying to save you.” Bettany said, keeping his gaze firmly focused on the ground at his feet.

Constantin huffed angrily. "Everything I have tried to teach all of you, it goes out the window. I don't know what the world is like where you are from, but it is not safe to play the hero, to try and save the day. I made my choice, in that windmill. I knew the risks and I knew the price to pay, for you all to leave."

"That is my right and my duty, as a servant of the people of Barovia. Your duty is to go home. Alive. And when I am not there to guard you, that should be your first priority."

Several more minutes passed, the Barovian marching in silence. He would not speak, and the look on his face was one of discomfort and frustration. After some time, he spoke up.

"Thank you." He grunted. "For not leaving me in that windmill... Or in that infirmary." He did not turn to look at Bettany, his eyes locked on the road.

Bettany shook his head, “ I wasn’t trying to play the hero. You’ve taught me a lot of things. But you also taught me to fight, especially when there’s danger. I was just trying to…” Bettany faltered, “I don’t know. I smelled blood. We’d just been betrayed, so I wanted to find you.” Bettany staggered on the uneven ground, his body still tired even despite slumber. “I needed to make sure you were okay.” Bettany chewed on the thought for a second, “And for the record, I did a pretty good job taking care of the nun. She looked rough when I… when I died.” Bettany’s heart pounded in his throat, the taste of sawdust filling his mouth.

He’d died. His hand reached up to touch the gold medallion that hung from his neck, fearing that he’d drop dead if it was taken off, though he was terrified to leave it on. It clanked against his bony chest, each metallic tink like a clock ticking the seconds down on his mortality.

"You wouldn't have died if you waited for the others. Or if you'd left like you should have."

Constantin sighed.

"This is my failure. I should have taught you how to pick your battles before I instilled the warrior's spirit within you."

“Don’t you understand, it was my battle!” Bettany snapped, uncharacteristically sharp. His gaze finally turned away from the damp grass and up to Constantin, his golden eyes narrowing in frustration. “You say my duty is to go home? Bummer, I don’t have one.” The words stung him as he said them, a childhood of happy memories overshadowed by the sight of a brown feather disintegrating in his hands, “The party is my home… without that… I have nothing. I couldn’t lose you too, don’t you understand that?” He conjured a handful of magic and threw it in front of them. It sailed through the air and burst into sapphire sparks a hundred feet or so in front of them, Bettany made a noise between a chortle and a growl, his hands curling and tightening into fists. “That’s why I went in alone, okay?” Bettany flipped his head back towards the ground. His lip quivered like it always did when he started to feel mad or frustrated.

His entire life he’d been told he wasn’t enough. Not owl enough, not smart enough, not big enough, good enough. He’d never been enough. With his friends, he’d finally felt like maybe he was worth something, more than just a sewer-dwelling creature who lived off of rats. Now he was being told yet again.

He’d disappointed Constantin, the person he’d been protecting until his last breath. Constantin thought he was stupid, a petulant child for trying to take on a nun. He doesn’t think I’m strong enough, Bettany thought, his shoulders heaving with quickened breaths. He shook his head as his eyes flared blue, trying to calm down before he caused any more problems.

“Strength is nothing without strategy.” The Paladin preached. He finally turned to look at the Druid as he walked, and where his voice was tinted with anger, his eyes betrayed only worry.

“You are stronger than most give you credit for, but what is the sharpness of a blade’s worth when one does not know when to swing?”

Constantin shook his head. “It is not my place to admonish you for such choices. I feel as if I am responsible for your well-being as if you were my charge. That is unfair to you.” He trailed off, shaking his head and looking back to the road.

“I see myself in you. Brash, angry. I did not have someone to guide me as I needed, to temper the boldness and fury into a cautious warrior. Those lessons were learned through pain and loss. I simply wish to spare you the same, медвежонок.”

It took Bettany a second to translate the Barovian, he’d been studying the language as much as he could, but it was still not his strongest skill.

Bettany figured out the meaning of Constantin’s speak, and for a brief moment felt slightly taken aback at the name. A name that had recently been used to toy with him now settled him. The fiery blue magic faded from his eyes as his shoulders sagged. “I asked you for guidance, you know? After the windmill. I tried to reach out to you, and you told me to use my strengths…” Bettany admitted, still unclear on whether or not he’d dreamed of the conversation he’d shared with Constantin or if it’d simply been an illusion. “I tried to do what I thought was the right thing but I messed it up.” Bettany admitted, “I thought you would be proud. I thought I was being brave and doing something you would’ve admired. I was reckless, and I understand that. But I was desperate, and look where it’s gotten us.” Bettany conjured a small daisy into his hand, twirling it between his fingers absent-mindedly. “I messed it up. I got us both killed, and now you have a beard.” Bettany frowned.

“Is the beard really the worst thing?” Constantin asked, bringing a hand up to the eyelid that concealed his marred, golden eye. He scoffed, shaking his head again.

“It is possible to be proud of someone and also think them foolish. Ask my mother, should we ever find her.”

Bettany paused, “your mother…”

He thought to back in the inn the night before they headed to seek out Mother Rhonna. How he’d reached out to his own mother, how she had encouraged him to seek his father’s help for how to save Constantin. Only for no sign of help to appear.

“I spoke with my mother,” Bettany frowned, his head hurt when he tried to recall her face. She always apeared blurry when she reached out to him. He’d always end up loosing memory of her features after a few days. “I… reached out to her spirit. I wanted her help, and she told me to seek my father.”

Bettany turned to look at Constantin, “clearly that never happened… when you spoke of the woman you met by the lake. I’d hoped it had been her… it’s stupid, I know.”

“I do not know the woman at the lake.” Constantin muttered, his gaze becoming distant. “I… let us not speak of it. Not now.” He trailed off. Something about the ordeal didn’t sit well with him, clearly.

“You said… We spoke?”

Bettany nodded, “I thought we did… I’m not sure if it happened or not.”

The Druid thought back to his dream, the twisted landscape that swirled like fog, blurry and out of focus. Constantin appearing to him in the monochromatic environment dressed in strange black armor before the image changed itself into a more familiar form.

“I was hoping it’d been real. In case we were too late. At least I’d have gotten to say goodbye in some sense.” Bettany dropped the flower he was holding, crossing his arms over his exposed chest, shivering slightly as the cold bit at his skin through his tattered clothes.

“Tell me what happened.” Constantin intoned quietly.

Bettany shook slightly, intimidated by the softness in Constantin’s voice. He licked his lips, pursing them before he spoke.

“You didn’t know me… not at first. You weren’t able to recognize me. Once I told you- well, it wasn’t really you, it was like a recorded message. You were speaking in commands. You asked me what I was seeking from you.” Bettany faltered, unsure of how to proceed.

Constantin mulled it over silently, pondering Bettany’s words. He trudged down the muddy road for a few minutes, wordlessly. Eventually, he spoke again. “What was it that you sought?”

“Guidance,” Bettany admitted, his voice quiet. Bettany’s hand found the sharp point of the sickle strapped to his belt. The golden blade glinted in the gray light. “I wanted to learn how to be stronger… to protect the party. I asked you to teach me to fight but you refused.” Bettany sighed. “It was a long shot, to be fair. I didn’t expect you to even be there, let alone teach me how to use these.” Bettany patted his sickle. “But you did…” Bettany stopped for a moment, feeling awkward about recounting this dream to Constantin. It was personal, and he didn’t want him to be offended or find anything Bettany said to be childish. “You offered me encouragement. You told me I didn’t have to be strong like you. I just needed to use my strength. My strengths… my nature.” Bettany muttered, shrugging slightly, not in a way of indifference or dismissal, just to have something to do. Bettany also recalled the hug. He chose to leave that out. Constantin thumbed the belt loop of his Warhammer, scratching the leather with a fingernail, an idle activity as he walked.

“Is that all?” He asked gruffly, coughing once to clear his throat. Bettany nodded, pursing his lips. “Mhm. Yep.” He lied, “So… where we’re going, You said they’d have armor, but will they have just regular clothes?” Bettany shivered. ‘I’m flattered that you see me as your… trainee of sorts, but I don’t think I’m a chainmail person.” Bettany rubbed his slender arms, knowing full well that if he even tried to lift chainmail he’d probably be sore for days.

Constantin did not answer Bettany’s question. He instead fixed the Druid with a piercing gaze. An eye of blue. Icy, familiar, looking almost beyond Bettany’s eyes, to the soul. An eye of purest gold. Different, strange. The iris and pupil, all gilded, abnormal. The gaze still somehow penetrating. Perhaps it was the nature of Constantin rather than the nature of his eyes.

His gaze was that of inquisition, a silent interrogation that offered merely one chance. If there is something you have not yet said, now is the time to say it.

Bettany squirmed under the gaze. Even from a friend, there were few things in all of Faerûn that made Bettany cave under pressure as easily as eye contact. He sighed, the tips of his ears and nose flushing with a tinge of pink, “You may have hugged me in the dream.” Bettany admitted. He felt stupid and pathetic, childish. He’d been so easily comforted by a hug that hadn’t even happened, was he really that desperate for any form of affection?“In the dream. Which didn’t happen, so…” Bettany grumbled, trying his best to not appear as vulnerable as he felt sharing that information. Constantin’s expression darkened, for a moment. “This specter. You say it did not recognize you but spoke with my voice.”

“How did it appear to you? Spare no detail.” As unsettling as it was for Constantin to suddenly speak with such urgency, it relieved Bettany that he seemingly didn’t care enough about the hug to bring it up. Bettany thought on it for a second, struggling to recall the finer elements of the specter’s appearance. “He was tall,” Bettany looked up at Constantin, realizing that the man would probably need more clarification, “taller than you… Black metal, iron I think?” Bettany’s face scrunched in concentration, “Helmet. He had a helmet on, shoulder paldrons. Dark red leather tied some of it together. I don’t know… gloves? I don’t know, Constantin… I don’t know the technical armor terminology, if I did I’d be more detailed.” “He looked like you, when he took his helmet off, just less tired… not as pale,” Bettany recalled, remembering how coldly the figure had treated him at first, almost sizing him up for a fight. Analyzing him for weaknesses. He looked back towards Constantin with a frown, feeling anxiety creep into his shoulders. Had he done something wrong?“Why?” Constantin mulled the description over.

“The helmet, a sharp, pointed visor? Ridges on the skullcap? Large pauldrons, with.. Almost blades on top of wide curved panels?”

Constantin pressed for details as if he was seeking confirmation of something.

“I guess maybe? Yes, You could call the ridges on top of the paldrons blades, I suppose. Large silver buttons on them too,” Bettany was feeling especially concerned now. How did Constantin know this? “What’s going on?” Bettany asked again, his frightened eyes flicking up to meet Constantin’s miss-matched gaze.

The Barovian frowned. “My grandfather wore that armor. It is entombed in a mausoleum below the cathedral in my home.”

“He was nearly a giant. Larger than me, so the story goes.” He huffed a sigh. “But once you were recognized, the ghost spoke with my face.”

Bettany shook his head, looking around in confusion, “That… that doesn’t make sense? Why would I see your grandfather? I never met him.” Bettany’s brow furrowed with confusion, realizing Constantin had asked him another question he snapped back into his right state of mind. “Yeah, you- he… once they’d realized who I was they… changed. He got smaller, and the armor vanished. It turned into your gambeson. It was you. Wasn’t it?” Bettany asked the last question to himself more so than he asked it to Constantin.

“When I was wandering purgatory… I came upon a hall of mirrors.. No, windows. Windows into my past. I saw memories, but I also saw you, in a forest clearing, speaking to this specter. It wore my grandfather’s armor, but it was not me.”

Constantin hefted the rucksack higher on his shoulder. “It is said that the Vasiliev men are possessive of an ancient spirit, the essence of a warrior. One that came to my grandfather’s ancestor in great need, and finds home in the heart of my bloodline. Perhaps, in searching for me through your dreams, that was all that remained of my soul, at the time.”

“You… You saw me?” Bettany asked, his head tilting slightly. He blinked slowly. “So… I did see you, then. At least, a part of you.” Bettany looked down at his hands, unable to ignore the hideous scars that engulfed almost the entirety of the left side of his body due to all of his clothes (including his gloves) having been torn to ribbons. His left hand bore no black nail lacquer like his right hand, as he usually covered it with elbow-length gloves. His skin was grotesque, a sickly shade of blue as ribbons of marred skin made their way down his entire left arm. Scars spiraled and tapered up and down like the groves of a tree. He tensed and flexed his fingers to watch as the damaged skin pulled tight over his knuckles. He frowned, taking the (surprisingly still intact) silver and onyx ring off of his pointer finger and sliding it into his pocket. Wearing it with a glove was one thing, but the band kept catching on his skin, pulling and pinching it. “So. You saw me in a field… anything else? Did you see anything else of me besides that?” Bettany asked, curious over why his death experience had been so drastically different than his friend’s. All he’d seen was… black. The complete absence of anything.

"No." He replied. "I did not linger on it, as my time in the realm was running short. It was shortly after that I found myself on the shores of Lake Zarovich." Constantin continued.

"I do not believe you saw me, rather, a facet of the Vasiliev spirit. Whether it haunts or guards us, or whether it is a manifestation of our will, it is hard to say."

“But I…” Bettany faltered.

It didn’t make any sense. It’d have been more plausible if it had just been simple wish fulfillment from his subconscious.

The idea of seeing a fraction of the Vasiliev spirit was just confusing…

Then again, Bettany was haunted at night, something he’d known since he was a child.

“Do you remember the night you found me in the woods?” Bettany asked, “Do you remember why I was out there?”

"I am possessed by a case of the brain fogging. I apologize." Constantin said plainly. "I do not remember. Death does strange things to a mind."

Bettany nodded, not expecting that response but understanding the answer.

He sighed, that night’s terrors had been particularly bad. A series of memories, overcut by screams of anger and terror… terror of him. “It’s okay, I had a dream.” Bettany explained, scratching at the back of his neck, “It was something I’d lived before…” He sighed, “My Ma… died. She died and it was my fault. It was my fault. My… Mom- Arteana blamed me for it… she looked at me like I was a monster, told me I wasn’t her son.” Bettany’s voice shattered, it’d been the worst day of his life. Arteana’s shrieks still echoed in his head, the scars on his body reminded him of it at every turn. The scars etched the truth into his flesh, that he was nobody's son, monsters didn’t deserve a family. “When you died… And I wasn’t there, I was scared. I was scared that the party would turn on me like Arteana did. I’m still scared. Scared that if what I truly am is a monster… I’ll be destined to be alone. That I will not be able to love or be loved.” Bettany coughed, not crying, but definitely choked up. The last few days had been hell, and he hadn’t even been the one walking through it.

"That is... Unfortunate." Constantin said, with as much of an apologetic tone as the Barovian could muster. "You have known them longer than I. I don't understand why they would turn on you. In any case, if our roles were reversed, it would be more likely. With them, you are not alone."

“Did my mom not know me? She turned on me, turned on me after being my mother for 20 years.” Bettany countered, biting his lip. He was exhausted, “Honestly just forget it. As far as I can tell you’ve never even experienced fear. You’re not weak like I am, And I don’t want you to try and suggest I’m ‘strong in other ways’. Save your soul the sin of dishonesty for the day.” The words rang hollow in the woods, only the rustling of the wind could be heard as the two walked.

"You think I don't experience fear?" Constantin grunted, stopping in his tracks and fixing Bettany with a sharp gaze. His golden eye almost glistened in the faint Barovian light, his brow furrowing. "You must be the jokester." He snapped. “I haven’t ever been described as funny,” Bettany frowned, glancing to look at Constantin before realizing the bigger man had stopped. He turned around completely, stopping to study his glaring friend.

Something was disconnected in his gaze, the heavy set of his jaw and the cover of his brow didn’t reach his eyes. Even through the harsh landscape of the rest of his face, Bettany could see the softness in his eyes. The exhaustion, and how they didn’t stay still for longer than a few seconds, always attempting to gage their surroundings.

“You’re afraid?” Bettany asked, confused as to how a warrior as strong and consistent as Constantin could experience anything close to a true spine-tingling fear.

Even after being revived from death, he first turned to anger… Oh… Bettany knew what this was, he knew this all too well. The masking of fear under a different emotion, one easier to express. Before the party, when he’d been isolated Bettany turned to indifference when he experienced fear… a cold mask. In times of his own uncertainty, Constantin turned to anger.

“You are afraid.” Bettany realized.

“If you doubt I am afraid, then you have lost your grip on reality.” Constantin said through grit teeth. “What do you think I felt, when my skin was melting off the bone and I knew that night hag was going to kill you all?”

Constantin scoffed. “When my father beat me within an inch of my life, and threatened to have me expelled from my home because I could not manifest divine power. What, little man, do you think I felt? My whole life has been driven by fear. Fear of failure. Fear of death, of not being strong enough, a fear that was vindicated.” He fixed Bettany with a glare that was beyond angry, but fell short of entirely hateful. Even under the burning gaze, Bettany could tell that he was not the target. It was distanced, unfocused, as if trying to look inward. Constantin hefted his hammer over his shoulder and began to walk again, shaking his head and muttering to himself in rapid Barovian.

Bettany followed, skulking behind Constantin like a stooge with his shoulders hunched in shame. He shuffled along in silence, listening to the furious Barovian speak in his native tongue. “Мне жаль,” Bettany spoke up, looking back up to his friend. Knowing that the best way to reach Constantin’s attention would be to speak in Barovian.

“It was a foolish thing to say, and I’m sorry,” Bettany fumbled over his words, “It’s selfish of me to assume that just because you don’t show fear the way I do you don’t fear at all.”

Bettany was desperate to get him to stop marching, though it proved to be no use. Constantin kept moving forward, his stomping echoing through the woods as Bettany grimaced uncomfortably. “You know that you’ll be able to figure it out? I can help you, we can figure out what’s next.” Bettany tried again, feeling more and more out of his depth by the second.

"Вы прощены." Constantin replied flatly. He did not stop walking, but he turned to look back at Bettany, noting the absence of the sound of footsteps, instead a quiet, dull shuffling. "Come on." He said, his tone softening just enough to hopefully reach the Druid instead of making him cower, albeit with an undertone of frustration.

"We cannot plan our next steps in the middle of nowhere, without shirts. I fear you will simply die if you catch cold, little man."

Bettany scurried forward, the mysterious new medallion clanking on his sunken chest.

“I’m fine.” Bettany insisted though his sniffled, wiping his nose. “Shirts is easy… shirts is a plan, isn’t it? We can do shirts.” Bettany suggested, gripping at his arms. He recalled something he hadn’t thought of in quite a while, not for years. “Something my Ma would say is to plant one thing at a time. You can’t plant everything in one season, because some plants aren’t meant to be planted in certain weather conditions… so you’ve got to focus on the seeds that need the most attention.” Bettany stuttered, unsure if his metaphor was fully understood. “What we need to plant first is shirts, then you need weapons, and then we need to find Yvan. There, that’s three seeds,” Bettany tried to gague if Constantin was following.

"Hmph. Yes." Constantin nodded.

"We need new clothing. Then I need armor. Yvan will find us, that is his seed. We must find food and supplies." Constantin countered.

He then fell silent for a few moments. "Your Barovian is improving, медвежонок."

“Спасибо брат,” Bettany smiled wider than anyone had seen him smile in a long time before he sheepishly brought a hand up to his mouth, “I’ve been working on it when I can.” “I could still use a teacher, though,” Bettany suggested, “Albeit it isn’t the most pressing thing we face right now, but I’d appreciate the help.” He twisted the leather cord between his fingers, waiting for a response.

"You would not like the way I teach," Constantin said plainly. "If you wish, however, I will teach you."

He paused. "I would speak Common to you less each day until I only spoke to you in Barovian. This transition would take place over the course of five days."

Bettany nodded, “That would be a welcomed strategy.”

The druid pursed his lips, considering his next statement very carefully before he spoke. “I might have another seed we could plant.” The boy said.

Constantin waved a hand. "Just say it, little man. You are beating off of the bushes, speak your mind." “You really need a haircut,” Bettany stated, “I don’t know how committed you are to the beard and the hair but I really just don’t think it’s for you.”

He winced, waiting for whatever reaction Constantin would have, good or bad. "You are allowed to have that opinion." He brushed a loose strand of long hair out of his face. "I am also allowed to disregard it."

He continued walking, picking up the pace. "At least, until we are seeing of the look on Yvan's face. Then we will discuss the merit of this idea, yes? Good, I am glad you agree." The Barovian said, without waiting for the approval he seemingly had.

Bettany nodded, snorting slightly as they continued walking through the woods. “It’s not the worst thing that could’ve happened,” Bettany admitted, “I mean… you could’ve come back as a zombie, all decayed and rotten. We don’t really know how you came back still, it wasn’t any of us or the nuns.”

Bettany frowned once more, “Are you a zombie?’ The color drained from Bettany’s face as he patted down his collarbone, “Am I a zombie?”

"We are not undead," Constantin said sharply. "You would have lit like a flame within my senses if you were." He explained, nearly taking off in a jog to catch up to the others.

"We are going to be fine, Just have faith." He said, with a little less faith than usual, if one could sense it.

“Faith… right,” Bettany said, allowing Constantin to pass in front of him, watching with an attentive gaze as Constantin rejoined the rest of the party at last. Bettany sighed, placing a hand on his chest to ensure he could still feel it beating before he too ran to catch up.

#Bettany #Bettany Earlwin Blackstarr #Bettany Blackstarr #constantin #constantin vasiliev #lore #Dnd

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barovianbitches · 6 months

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In the Shadow of the Svalich Woods -Nadia cel Tradat

Death had followed Nadia like a plague since her birth. Mama had been gone for so long before Nadia saw her again, leaving something else to take her mother’s place in raising her. She was but a baby when she was left with her uncle, the Beast of Barovia, Vasile cel Tradat, where she was raised among the warriors and magicians that made up the Untamed. Vasile, who never married or had children of his own, was happy to take in his niece and care for her as his own. He was never opposed to the idea of children, but he never had the time or patience when the possibility of conquest loomed. What better to share the fruits of the warpath than with an impressionable child?

The Untamed were known for their indomitable spirit, not their seasoned child rearing techniques. Nadia had no children her age within the clan, leading to the young girl spending much of her time either by herself or observing the rigorous training of her aunties and uncles. Idle hands were the devil’s playground, and even at a young age she proved it right time and time again. However, Vasile was much more of a… Nontraditional parental figure. He firmly believed in exploration, independence, and self-discovery. After all, it was how he found his love for the blade. This ideology left Nadia to her own devices for long stretches of time.

Her uncle was not the man, or, well, thing that truly raised her, though.

It began with dead things. Barovia has its fair share of predators and prey, wolves kill deer while looming creatures snatch travelers from the road. Such is the way of life. But a five year old disappearing for an afternoon, only to reappear after dark and clutching what looks to be a femur? Not a common trait for a child so young to not only return, but to be completely unharmed and unaffected. While other children would play make believe and spend their time beneath the feet of family members, Nadia enjoyed searching the forest surrounding the campgrounds, leaving for hours on end and somehow managing to find what was left of a mountain lion’s meal. Birds, squirrels, rabbits, and various small prey all found their way back to the camp.

“We have a little hunter on our hands!” He proclaimed when Nadia returned one evening, her skirts and palms slicked in animal blood, cradling a feathered lump in her arms. “A very nice catch, little micek! Soon, you will run with the rangers and great soldiers of the Untamed, hunting the monsters of this land, and soon, Strahd himself!” Her capabilities were celebrated that evening with song and dance, earning her the nickname “kitty” from her uncle. Vasile simply chalked it up to Nadia’s unconventional upbringing, even by Vistani standards. She would grow out of it soon enough, perhaps picking up the sword or bow.

The years passed. In the blink of an eye, she was no longer a child, but a blossoming young woman. She was quieter than Vasile had anticipated, never quiet coming out of her shell while around others. Given that she grew up around such a rowdy bunch, her uncle assumed she might have become a man of the people, like him. But, no such luck. He was not going to push his one and only niece, if she enjoyed her books and time alone, so be it! Vistani tradition described the women of their clans as great seers, the keepers of the knowledge of the Fates themselves. With such knowledge, they would be the great guides and leaders of the clans. By extension, such was Nadia’s fate as well.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Her morning began like any other. Nadia was both an early bird and a night owl, never sleeping more than intervals of six hours. Late in the evening, she would read and write her thoughts, long after the festivities of Vistani evenings were complete and the other warriors were asleep. Then, she would rise long before the Barovian sun rose behind the thick blanket of clouds. It was quite a bit of time for one to be awake. Almost too much time spent wrapped in her own thoughts. She kept herself busy enough, though. On the days that the clan wasn’t traveling, she would explore the area, keeping extensive notes on the areas of land of which they stayed.

The rich, velvety tones of plum and cobalt dominated the space, casting a deep, mystical aura that beckoned all who entered. Lengths of patterned fabric, each a unique tapestry of intricate designs, draped across every available surface, creating a sense of warmth and intimacy within the small space. The interior walls of her caravan were adorned with artful crown molding, intricate designs that seemed to dance along the periphery of the room. Glistening gold metal accents occupied around the perimeter of the small windows, catching the ambient light like distant stars in a midnight sky. These golden embellishments lent an air of regal elegance to the otherwise humble surroundings, blending seamlessly with the tapestries that covered the caravan's walls.

Trinkets and curiosities covered nearly every available surface, creating an eclectic and captivating atmosphere. A collection of items from dozens of places that the clan had visited. Animal bones, delicately arranged in mysterious patterns, adorned shelves and tabletops. Specimen jars filled with exotic plants and preserved creatures, suspended in ethereal preservatives, added an otherworldly touch to the caravan's interior. A faint glow was cast off of these jars, possibly from some bioluminesce, creating soft lighting even with the curtains drawn and candles snuffed.

In the corners of the caravan, stacks of books awaited curious minds. These tomes were bound in leathers of a multitude of different shades, their pages filled with mythology, religious studies, and knowledge of the arcane. Ribbon bookmarks of various colors and lengths protruded from the pages, each hinting at her favorite parts. Every time they passed by a town with a bookshop, her uncle made sure to bring her at least three new additions to her treasure trove.

Incense burned in a small dish, filling the room with the scent of a delicate, sweet aroma, tinged with hints of exotic spices and earthy undertones. The scent reminded her of her mother’s perfume; a blend of pear and raspberry, middle notes of osmanthus, vanilla, and cinnamon, burning from a base of cedar and wine. She didn’t mean to leave it burning, but judging by the open book beneath her pillow, Nadia had fallen asleep in the middle of a chapter.

She felt the beginnings of a headache creep from her temples into the corner of her vision. Nadia had not eaten since the evening before yesterday, a careless mistake that she made frequently when settling into a new area. There was simply too much to explore, too much to unpack.

An audible groan left her lips as she stretched out in her bed, the silky sheets begging her to lay there for just a bit longer. But she couldn’t. It was a perfectly good morning, the cold air of the late fall attempting to slither in from a crack in her window. She was thankful for the coming winter. Soon enough, it would be time to leave Barovia, get ahead of the frigid blizzards that would rake the lands for at least the next six months. While she adored the silence of the snowfall, the breath that mother nature held in those dark days, she much preferred the milder season outside of the demiplane.

Rising out of bed, she lit a long matchstick, using it to light a beautiful circular lantern that hung from the wall beside her bed. The glass, a light purple, illuminated the interior of her little home further, allowing her to see the colors of her interior design. The interior of the caravan had transformed over the years, evolving in sync with the woman who had spent her youth and adulthood within its intimate confines. It had grown with her, like a living entity. Little hints of her past were scattered throughout, like time capsules of her memories.

A well-loved black bear stuffed animal, perched on a cushioned seat, stood unblinking, only retaining a single button eye. Its faded fur and worn features were testaments to the countless hours of companionship it had provided her in those formative years. Alenka, she recalled calling the bear when she was younger. The presence of the toy, tucked amidst a sea of rich colors, spoke of a youthful innocence that still lingered within her.

Nadia reached for a well-worn kettle, the flicker of another match slowly bringing the small wood stove to life. While the water began its slow journey to a boil, she selected a quaint teapot, one adorned with intricate patterns that matched the caravan's aesthetic. The fragrant aroma of tea leaves filled the air as she carefully spooned them into the teapot, a hint of anticipation in her movements. Her fingers moved deftly, as years of experience guided her in this ritual. She listened for the telltale bubbling of the water in the kettle, and as soon as it reached the perfect temperature, she poured it into the teapot. The gentle clinking of porcelain and the satisfying sound of water meeting leaves filled the space.

As the tea steeped, she reached for a single mismatched teacup, made from a fine bone china from a far off city. Blue roses curled around the cup and its saucer, intertwined with brambles and pinecones. The scent of brewing tea mingled with the memories that clung to the caravan's interior.

She slipped off her nightgown, trading it for a warm chemise. On went the tall wool socks which fastened to her garter belt, standing and stepping into her boots. Her outer layers were followed by several heavy skirts and a wrap-style bodice that was lined with soft animal pelts. Smoothing the fabric, she pulled a beautiful triangular shawl over her shoulders, carefully tying it in the front. It was a gift from her mother, embroidered with small black birds along the hem.

She glanced at the strip of worn leather that made up the covering for her eye. Nadia paused, looking over it momentarily, before leaving it where it was neatly folded. It was early enough, she didn’t need it.

Picking up her perfect cup of morning tea, she made her way towards the door of the caravan, passing a small altar created on her dresser. She sipped from the cup, the warm liquid soothing her very soul as she looked over the picture she observed hundreds of times before. Several snuffed candles surrounded a yellowing portrait of herself as a baby in the lap of her beaming mother, her uncle poised behind them with a hand on her mama’s shoulder. Despite its fading colors and disintegrating corners, it was still one of her prized possessions.

Nadia smiled to herself, kissing the pads of her middle and pointer fingers before placing it to the picture. Nadia was the spitting image of her, right down to the sharp downward slope of her nose and full cupid’s bow. Vasile always said it himself. You look so much like her, misek.

She couldn’t help but feel a sharp tug at her heartstrings. Nadia missed her so, not a single day crossing her mind that she did not think of her. It was difficult growing up without her, without any knowledge of her father, only having her uncle and the clan. It took a village to raise a child, and yet she still longed for some semblance of maternal protection.

“Good morning, mama.” She murmured under her breath, picking up a golden starburst necklace hanging from the picture frame. Fastening it around her neck, she held the locket between her fingers, running a thumb over the points of the star.

Finishing her tea, she gently set the cup aside to clean up later, high on a shelf. From there, she gathered her essentials for mornings like these. A small journal, a bit of ink, and a quill. Whether to write her observations or compose something herself, her moments of silence were precious. Soon enough, when the sun rose, her uncle would rise, and so would the rest of the camp. Quickly, she made her way around her caravan, snuffing candles and incense, putting everything she could back in its proper place.

Moving to the door, she retrieved her belt, looping it around her waist and fixing several pouches and pockets to it, as well as the sheath concealing a dagger. Next came the cloak, a heavy item from her thirteenth birthday from Vasile. Despite it having been seven some odd years since then, she still was swimming in the obsidian colored fabric, it enveloping her whole. Finally, simple leather gloves to keep the nipping cold away.

As she went to unlock and open the door, the metal stuck a bit, frost laden across the plated exterior of the caravan. At Vasile’s request, all wagons in his fleet were armored with great plates of green-purple metal, forcing the image of large beetles. Nadia’s breath floated in the air before her as darkness still engulfed the camp. She heard the soft huffing of the ox, still sleeping off their fatigue from the last week of travel. Instinctively, she paused, perched on the stair step of her wagon, one pointed ear perking a bit and simply listening.

In the early hours of a late fall, almost winter, morning, the world around her little bubble was wrapped in a hushed stillness. The darkness outside was punctuated only by the soft murmur of the world awakening. The gentle rustling of leaves, long surrendered to the season's chill, hinted at a world in transition. The distant call of a solitary bird, an early riser like her, broke the silence with its plaintive song, a reminder that life persisted even in the cold. A soft breeze whispered through bare branches, creating a gentle, intermittent rustling as it passed.

Just how she liked it. Nadia stepped down onto the ground, quietly closing the door behind her with a click.

Moments like this where she was entirely alone was the only time she was able to go without her eyepatch. No one could see her, no one was going to judge her for her looks. It was perfect, this moment was perfect. Nadia wondered what it would be like to travel the land alone, to be on her own wholly and truly. Would she be lonely? She didn’t think so. Already, she spent so much of her time alone and to herself, what difference would it make? But something small whispered to her that she would miss her people, her uncle, all of the wonderful Vistani who raised her with everything they had.

Nadia stepped out of the cozy caravan and into the biting cold of the dark frosty morning. The frigid air rushed to greet her, causing her breath to materialize in soft, misty puffs. The caravan's wooden steps creaked faintly beneath her as she descended, a sound that resonated in the silent pre-dawn stillness.

The world was draped in an icy shroud, and a crisp chill permeated the atmosphere, numbing her cheeks and fingers. The darkness still held dominion over the land, the sky adorned with countless glittering stars, like diamonds strewn across a velvet cloth. A faint, silvery moon hung low on the horizon, casting a subtle glow over the frosted landscape.

If you asked her, she would know every single constellation, having spent an entire year of her youth charting the stars of Barovia.

The forest, stretching out in all directions, beckoned to her with a mysterious allure. Its tree branches, adorned with delicate ice crystals, glistened in the faint moonlight. The world was a silent tableau of winter's beauty, a stillness that seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the first gray light of the Barovian day to awaken it. As she stood at the threshold of her home on wheels, the forest's call was impossible to resist. It whispered of untold adventures, concealed within its depths, and she felt the irresistible pull to explore the secrets it held. With a shiver of excitement, she ventured forth, her footsteps creating a soft crunch in the frost-covered grass.

With each step, she ventured deeper into the Svalich Woods, their trees standing tall and proud, stripped bare by the relentless onslaught of the season. Despite their stark appearance, the forest held an undeniable allure for her, a familiar and comforting presence that had been her solace for as long as she could remember. The ground crunched beneath her boots, the remnants of frozen leaves and twigs yielding to her gentle presence.

The citizens of Barovia whispered tales of horror about the Svalich Woods, weaving stories of terrifying creatures that lurked within its depths. But she paid no heed to their fears. To her, the woods had always been a friend, a sanctuary that embraced her with open arms. She knew the pathways intimately, the trees seeming to part and guide her way, their ancient trunks whispering secrets that only she could understand.

The frosty air carried a crisp scent of pine and earth, mingled with the subtle aroma of snow. The ground beneath her boots crunched with every step, the sound muffled by a carpet of fallen leaves and frost-kissed grass. The silence was broken only by the occasional caw of a distant crow, echoing through the forest like a melancholic melody. Despite the chill, there was a sense of tranquility in the woods, a peace that settled over her like a comforting blanket. As she ventured deeper, the woods enveloped her in a quiet embrace, their twisted branches forming a natural canopy above her head. The patterns of shadows and moonlight danced on the forest floor, lighting her way. In this serene haven, she felt at home, her heart attuned to the gentle rhythm of nature.

It was places like this where she felt at peace, where she was able to commune with the force that had called to her and guided her for so many years. A gentle voice that spoke to her, something that had kept her company even in her moments alone. Nadia could hear it speak, an ancient voice that at first didn’t seem to form words and yet she understood all the same.

“Are you here this morning, oh great one?” She smiled, a bit of sarcasm playing in her tone. There was a distinct pause as she spoke to the dark stillness of the woods surrounding her, nothing for miles besides the camp in the direction she came from. Nadia was alone by all detectable means, but she knew better.

She chuckled, humming a bit as she moved through the undergrowth, brambles clawing at her skirts. “You have been so quiet lately, I was worried that you may have left.” The Vistana continued to no one in particular. “Won’t you come out?”

Nadia waited another moment longer, her keen eyes searching the woods around her for any hint, any sign of the being she chatted to. “How surprisingly coy of you. Are you angry with me?” She prodded, looking up towards the sparkling sky curiously.

Finally, a voice broke the silence.

“No, my dove. I would never be angry with you. Did you rest well?”

#Nadia #Nadia cel Tradat #Curse of Strahd #Dnd #Lore

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barovianbitches · 6 months

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Hell's Coming With Me - Wynona Colt

“E-Excuse me- I’m here to uh, to pay my mama’s bail.” Wynona wrung her tail in her hand nervously, looking up at the two guards that stood chattering at the gates of Fort Faithful, the stronghold of the soldiers who served the local lord. They barely spared her a glance. They couldn’t be bothered by a scrawny teenager at their doorstep, mumbling something under her breath.

It had taken her weeks to scrape up the money, selling furniture, antiques from the farmhouse, and the scrap metal that was left when her father’s workshop burned down. Bertram helped some, moving heavy items for her and acting as a bodyguard. The warforged was the last thing she had left from her father, besides the crumpled notebooks and plans she had stowed away to save from the flames. She had worked so hard, and she felt as though she was on the brink of tears as she made the walk to the fortress.

“Excuse me-” The young Colt dared a little louder, standing up a bit straighter so they would notice her. She was met with a scornful gaze, a guard sneering from beneath his helmet. She felt so small in that moment, the high towers of the fortress stretching high above her, the iron portcullis resembling the maw of a monster from the fairytales her father read her.

“What is it? This is no place for little girls. Make it quick.” He spat, his shift partner chuckling wryly at the remarks the other man made. Despite the fact that she was clearly a thorn in their side, she refused to falter. Wynona was here for one thing, and one thing only.

“I wanna pay my ma’s bail, if you please, sir.” She continued, feeling her spirit break under his hateful gaze. He scanned over her, spotting her tail held in her hands nervously and the stubby horns that sprouted from her golden-blonde hair. She was unnaturally tan, a coppery sheen to her skin that almost glittered in the sun. Her eyes burned a bright green, one that might glow in the dark. This was no human child.

“Tch. You think this is the spawn of that big one we brought in, Rurth?” One guard scoffed, looking to the other man, gesturing to Wynona’s devilish features. Anxiety formed a ball in her throat, tears threatening to fall. They weren’t taking her seriously. The men didn’t understand what was on the line for her. They didn’t understand how in a few mere weeks, the rug was swept out from under her and everything she had known for her fifteen years of life was gone.

“Her name is Hera Serrano-Colt, sir– You brought her in a few weeks ago-” She was cut off by the butt of a spear being jammed into her cut, causing her to double over and cough in the dirt.

“You speak when spoken to, kid.” The other guard, Rurth, snapped at her, retracting his spear before looking back to the other man. “The Infernal? Think so. Don’t think any of the other prisoners woulda kept a halfblood brimstone baby.”

Anger swelled in her chest. Life on the ranch was lonely at times, but at least there she was protected from the ignorant humans that plagued all of Faerun. It was just how her mother liked it, as she experienced all too much of that hate while in the fighting ring. She bowed her head, gritting her teeth. Her fangs felt sharp in her mouth, and for the briefest moment, she imagined what it would be like to tear their throats out with her very own teeth.

“Don’t call me that.” Wynona choked out, trying to maintain her resolve. She hated that she cried when she was angry. She so desperately wanted to lash out, to make them fear her, but what could she do? She was a child, freshly orphaned by the cruel hand of a greedy noble. Not once in her life had she ever been on her own. Her wounds were all too fresh, still oozing blood, guilt, and grief.

The men paused, sharing a look. A brief kindling of hope sparked in her chest before they both burst out laughing. “Or what, brighteyes? You’re gonna bite our ankles? Watch out, Stren, she’s gonna sick her big scary mama on us. Oh, oh wait.” Rurth smirked, looking down at her with an evil glint in his eye.

Wynona balled up her fists, tears spilling down her cheeks as she lunged for Rurth, her hands aimed for his throat. Stren countered, bringing down the length of his spear across her back to swat her out of the air like a fly. She hit the ground hard, gasping for breath and rolling over on her back, clawing at the ground. Her lungs were empty, rib cage rattling desperately as she struggled for air. After a moment she gasped hard, coughing harshly.

“That’s what I thought.” Stren muttered, delivering a rough kick to her side with an armored boot. The guards showed no mercy, their faces twisted with sadistic pleasure as they pummeled the youth. Each strike left marks on her skin, welts that would soon blossom into bruises. She curled into a pitiful ball, trying to shield herself from the onslaught.

She felt weak and frail, meek cries drawn out of her as she struggled to stay conscious. Her nerves were fried, begging for her to just go to sleep and forget the rest. As the minutes stretched into eternity, the beating continued. The guards exhibited a merciless brutality, fueled by some unseen rage or malevolence. She bore the marks of their cruelty, her face swollen, and her body battered and broken. Tears mingled with the blood that stained her bruised face, but not once did she beg for mercy.

For a moment, she thought maybe she had passed out, but a single word managed to reach her ears.

“Stop!”

She felt the guards pause over her, clanking metal as they stood upright. Footsteps approached, and she blinked a bit, looking up to the blurry figure before her. She couldn’t process the portcullis of the fort raising.

“F-Father Alderbran! This delinquent-” Rurth stuttered, glancing down at the bloody teenager covered in dirt. Wynona tried to lift her head, but fatigue had set itself into her bones. Everything ached, and she could feel that at the very least she had a broken rib or two.

“And what do you think you are doing, gentlemen? Do you believe that Lord Haldric pays you to beat a mere youth half to death? I think not. You are both dismissed for the day.” The man scoffed, leaving both guards flabbergasted. “I said that you are dismissed.” He repeated, prompting Rurth and Stren to hightail it in with their metaphorical tails between their legs.

“What is your name, child?” Her savior spoke, reaching a hand down to pet her head. The touch wasn’t entirely welcome, but she wasn’t in a position to protest.

She coughed a bit, blood staining the dirt. “Wynona… Colt, sir.” She managed after a moment. The man nodded, gesturing something to several other guards to do something. She watched vaguely as a stretcher was brought out and placed on the ground beside her, pain shooting through every limb as they tried as carefully as they could to move her onto it.

“Fret not, Miss Colt. We will take care of you inside.” He nodded, the guards lifting her. As she past, she was able to observe the man. She realized as she briefly looked over him, he was a holy man. The priest was a middle-aged man with a kindly demeanor. He had a slightly stooped posture and salt-and-pepper hair, which framed his gentle face. His dark, warm eyes held a wisdom that only years of serving his community could bring. He wore a traditional black cassock, and a simple silver coin dangling from a chain around his neck.

“Thank you, sir.” She managed to murmur, her consciousness finally slipping with the sense of security she felt, something her mother would scold her for.

You can never let your guard down, ‘Nona.

Her ma’s words echoed through her mind as she shut her eyes once more.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

Wynona awoke some time later, her wounds healed with but small scars leftover. Some type of magics, she thought to herself. The priest sat across from her as a cleric left the room, leaving them alone. He watched her with an intense curiosity, one that made her squirm in her cot. She never liked holymen, what they were shucking was as good as snake oil. Her pa was a man of science, and her ma was a devil, enough said.

“Wynona, was it? I extend my deepest apologies for my men. Some of them… Well, are nothing but soldiers, and have trouble separating foes from civilians.” Father Alderbran spoke, his dark eyes never leaving hers.

She tried to sit up, wincing in anticipation as she fully expected fiery pain to burn through her limbs. Fortunately, though, she felt as fresh as a foal.

“Ah yes, do not worry. Our lovely clerics have fixed you up good as new. You should only walk away from this with a few minor scars.” He smiled kindly. It was a disarming smile, one that made her feel comfortable in her seat. One that goaded her to confess all of her sins to this man she barely knew. Wynona remained silent. For a split second, Alderbran’s smile faltered. “Do not worry, my child. You are safe. Now tell me, what has brought you to Fort Faithful.”

She fixed her eyes on him, something not quite sitting right with her as she shifted nervously. “I came to pay my mama’s bail and take her home.” Wynona said finally, waiting and gauging his reaction before she spoke another word.

“Ah, I see.” He nodded, smiling a bit. She could see his eyes dart up, fixing on her small horns. “Your mother, is the Infernal, I presume? Golden skin, four arms, sturdy as an ox?” He had described her mother in perfect detail. She was here, she had to be.

Wynona did her best to hide her excitement, her eyes widening ever so slightly at the description. She didn’t like the way the man said infernal, but she couldn’t expect much from a holyman who didn’t understand. “Yes… That’s my mama, Hera Serrano-Colt. I wanna pay her bail and take her home.” She repeated, the words tired in her mouth from how many times she was forced to repeat herself.

“Ah, yes. The demoness, wife of the great inventor, Arthur Colt.” Alderbran continued. “She is new to the fort, yes? It has only been… Five weeks? I recall the night she was reprimanded.” The way he spoke about her parents’ capture was all too casual for her liking, and despite her fatigue, she could feel anger bubbling in her gut.

“Yes sir.” Her teeth grit, still trying to maintain some modicum of politeness. “My pa was captured six months ago, then you took my ma last month.” By all means it was an accusation, a clawed finger pointing at the man before her. Something was wrong with this man, but she couldn’t quite tell what. Her intuition was telling her to run, to get up and get out as fast as she could. Get away from this fort, circle back and try again later.

“Correct. Now, you see, my child, with what money would you be paying her bail with?” The Father asked, his tone cool and even. He raised his brow, ever so slightly.

“This money right here, sir-” She reached down to her hip, aiming to grab her satchel that she had carried there the entire way to the fort, the satchel that held her mother’s bail, a whole five hundred gold. “Where’s my bag, sir. It’s gone.” Before she even asked the question, she already knew the answer.

“Your bag? Oh, yes, that bag. We had to confiscate it, of course, when we brought you in. Who knows what you could have been carrying.” He brushed it off, a cold smile working its way into his features.

Her hands curled into fists. “I’m gonna be needing that bag, it’s all I have, sir.” Wynona spat the last word, her composure starting to give.

“I’m afraid that is not going to be possible. You see, we will consider it to be a charitable and ever so generous donation to the Silver Hawks and Lord Haldric. Someone will have to pay for Sir Rurth and Sir Stren’s time off. Besides, in a turn of events, your mother has been imprisoned without bail due to her crimes against his lordship. Not only was she an accomplice to your father’s efforts, but she killed three of my men while resisting her arrest.” Alderbran tutted her tongue, looking at Wynona. “We will have to be sending you home now.”

Rage burned in her lungs, her vision becoming blurry. “You- You tricked me! I thought, I thought you were going to help me!” She snapped, rolling out of the bed and to her feet, baring her teeth at the priest.

He smirked, standing as well. The Father towered over her, fixing her with a sinister expression. “Please, we would never let a devil like that loose in Faerun. Who knows what destruction she would cause? She is an Infernal beast that we will be locking away for a long, long time.” Alderbran chuckled, moving to leave the room.

Wynona’s chest began to heave, her claws leaving marks in the skin of her palms. “You, you, son of a bitch–” She yowled, her anger boiling over as she lunged towards him. He was visibly weaker than the guards outside the gates, and wasn’t wearing armor. Perhaps if she clawed his face off, left him a bloody pulp, she would be arrested to- Then maybe, just maybe, reunited with her ma.

“Manere.” Her thoughts were cut short, a purple warding rune blooming from the floorboards beneath her at the spoken word and capturing her in a magical glow. She hung suspended in the air, caught lashing out at the man. He rolled his eyes, turning towards her, his hand held out as he maintained the spell. “You insolent spawn, how foolish can you be? Leave this place, and never return. There is no hope for your fiendish parents. Guards. Seize her and throw her out.” He turned, releasing the spell as two more armed men entered the room, grabbing her by her biceps.

Wynona did everything she could, screaming, shouting, clawing, and biting, but her anger fell on deaf ears. Alderbran didn’t speak another word, silently moving down the hall. In the opposite direction as she was dragged towards the large door leading outside.

“I’ll get you, you son of a bitch! I’ll get you, I’ll get everybody in this damn building! I’ll gut you like a fish, THEN you’ll see who’s fucking fiendish!!” She snarled, digging her heels into the floor.

Alderbran turned, briefly glancing over his shoulder with his hands folded behind his back. “Yes, I’m sure you will, Miss Colt. I’ll send your regards to your mother. I’m sure she would love to know how her foulblooded spawn miserably failed to release her from her chains.” He chuckled, turning again and disappearing down the hallway.

“I promise, I’ll be back when you least fucking expect it, you monster! I’m gonna burn this place to the ground! You’ll see, you’ll fucking see!” All who heard her cries wrote them off as the ramblings of a feisty teenager, empty promises fueled by grief. Oh how wrong they were.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

It had been a year since that day, a year since she made the promise to that ignorant preacher that she would be back. The weeks and months that dragged on caused everyone to forget the mad cries of that teenage girl as she was thrown out, the portcullis closing firmly behind her.

As Alderbran forgot her face, she spent her time pouring herself over her father’s schematics. Since she was little she knew how to fire everything from rifles to revolvers to flintlocks, but she had never tried her hand at building one herself with a severe lack of guidance. Not only was she building weapons, but connections. She cashed in one favor to get an old copy of Fort Faithful’s building plans, another favor for white phosphorus and lime. One more for some insider information, that the plans for Hera’s move to the main city fell through, and that she still remained there all this time. Then finally came the day that she would make good on her promise to the Father.

Since she had last visited the fort, she had grown some. In that year she had found her mother’s old riding gear, a pair of fine red leather boots with golden spurs and a dusty black cattleman’s hat. It wasn’t much, but it brought her some amount of comfort, and she thought it fitting to save her ma in style. Not only did she sport new leather, though, but twin pistols on either hip. Sol and La Luna, she called them, named for her father, the moon, and her mother, the sun.

Fear never gripped Wynona Marybeth Colt as much as it did at that moment. Her pockets clinked and jangled with the sound of glass. Adrenaline filled her veins as she dashed through the open doorway, ducking around two guards that had been looking for the teenager that had broken into the fort in search of her mother. They shouted after her, poising crossbows right in the soft spots of her joints. She caught their gaze, her emerald eyes wide like an animal as she hucked a bottle at their feet, smashing on the floor between them. The moment the orange liquid met wood and oxygen, it ignited, green sparks flying into the air and using the wood as fuel for a blaze. The men let out cries of terror, hollering for reinforcements.

She wasn’t looking their way, though. She was looking down at the crumpled piece of paper in her hand, the floorplan and layout of the various floors of the floor written in smudged ink. Holding cells were in the ground floor, but they kept the more dangerous folks down in the basement. Lets see the stairs– Left left, right left. Should be a door. Wynona’s heart beat in her throat, damn near choking on her own air. She was so close to the first step of putting her life back together. First she would get her mother, then with their combined power they would arm themselves with everything left at home to retrieve her father.

Wynona still remembered the look in her pa’s eyes when they came to take him first.

It had been a late night in the shop, her and her mother having gone to bed in the farmhouse. She had woken when she heard her ma shouting profanities on the porch, and as she ran to the window she saw the soldiers storming her father’s workshop. In nothing but her nightgown, she tugged on her boots and ran out to do what she could to help. By the time she reached them, four grown men were mustering all of their strength to restrain Hera, each of them taking one of her arms as she roared in anger.

Wynona watched on as her father, beaten bloody, was dragged from the double doors of the shop through the mud of the ground. “Pa!!” She cried out, the scream making her throat sore. Hera was having none of it. They would not take Arthur, not with her around. He was hoisted to his feet by two guardsmen, another delivering a brutal right hook across his jaw. His glasses fell to the ground, shattering on impact. He spat blood as his wife shouted for him, murder in her eye.

“Don’t hurt them, my love! They don’t understand! I’ll, I’ll be alright!” He coughed, lifting his head weakly to look at his wife and daughter. Wynona lunged forth, trying to hug him, but she was caught mid-air and roughly shoved to her knees. “Leave them out of this, please! It is not their work, it is mine!” He thrashed in their hold as they wrangled him into the back of a cart, slamming the door closed and locking it after him. He threw himself against the bars, making eye contact with his daughter.

“Wynona, you listen to your mother, while I’m gone, alright? Help her! Remember, don’t lose your spark! I’ll, I’ll be back in no time!” He reassured her, the lie bitter on his tongue. He knew wherever he was going, he would surely die there. But that was not a thing to admit to his wife and child.

“Pa!! Pa, don’t go!” She cried, trying desperately to free herself from the guards’ painful grip on her arms. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling down her freckled cheeks. That night, she had lost her father.

She choked back a sob, refusing to cry at such an important moment. The waterworks were for after she had her mother back. Wynona hit a corner hard, pivoting left on a dime and dodging an arrow that sailed from down the other side of the hall. The second found its mark though, lodging painfully in her shoulder. She yelped, stumbling forward but catching herself before she truly fell. She had to get ahead of them- She wouldn’t be able to concentrate on lock picking if they were hot on her tail. Her eyes fixed on a heavy bookshelf and a suit of armor that decorated the hall, stealing a glance behind her to see them closing in.

She hucked the bag off her shoulder, letting it fall to the ground. She dug her heels into the floorboards, her spurs digging into the wood as she came to a screeching halt. Wynona turned fully, staring down the hall directly at the several guards chasing her. Wait a second, one more. Just a little more, c’mon c’mon c’mon-

As soon as they were close enough, she gripped the bookshelf, heaving it down onto the satchel sat in the middle of the hall. It only took three heavy books to fall out, the crushing of glass heard a mere millisecond before enormous green flames erupted from the bag, at least six some flasks of alchemist's fire igniting at once.

The shockwave of the explosion sent her and the guards flying down opposite ends of the hall, to which her back slammed into the wall. It knocked the air from her lungs, but she didn’t have time to think before she was up and moving again. The green flames started to spread, burning heat following her as she ran. Left left, right left. Left left, right left. She repeated over and over in her head. Left left, right left. Left left, right left.

Just as the plans had said, she found herself standing before a door. Hope swelled, her eyes wide with excitement. Without a second thought, she burst through, expecting a staircase, but instead coming face to face with coal-black eyes.

“Well well. Look who is back. Have you come for your mother?” Father Alderbran snarled in her face, shoving her back. She was caught off-guard as she tumbled back to the ground, shock evident in her expression. “What, you expected to be a hero today, didn’t you? That you would barge right into MY fort and somehow get out unscathed? You’re more foolish than you look, Miss Colt.”

The plans. The plans said this was the stairs to the holding cells. The plans were wrong. She had been done in.

“It’s been a whole year, you son of a bitch. A lot has changed. I’m here for my mother.” She snapped back. Something was different now, Alderbran observed. Something had changed within this girl. No longer was she a meager mouse, heart broken by a cruel system. He was too absolved in his thoughts to see the boot flying for his knee as she kicked sharply out, forcing him to crumple to the ground. Her other foot swept his cheek, sending him careening into the wall.

Wynona jumped to her feet, her eyes fixed on the man. “Where is she.” She snarled, baring her fangs with true ferocity, reaching up and ripping the crossbow bolt from her shoulder and dropping it to the ground in front of him. “You better start talking, Father, before I get bored of you.”

She had broken his nose, blood pouring down the bottom half of his face. He collected himself, looking up to her with a smirk. “You really think she is still here, after all this time? You think you are so smart, infiltrating us like that. But we were always one step ahead.” Alderbran chuckled, collecting himself. Without another word, Wynona reached toward her waist belt. “Manere!!” He shouted, holding his hand out as the same purple rune blossomed. Wynona froze, eyes widened and hand poised over her hip.

“You have nothing against a spellcaster, you little wretch. You will soon understand your mistakes.” He went to stand up, bowing his head for a moment. As he began to move, though, he felt cold metal pressed between his eyes.

“And yet I’m the devil that you forgot, father.” She snarled back, an odd contraption poised in her hand, pressed against his skin. She had held strong against his spell, faking him out and allowing him to let down his guard. Her thumb flicked over a curved piece of metal, the device making an audible click. “Any last words?” Wynona drawled, her voice low and gravelly. Her tone sounded bored, like a cat growing tired of a mouse.

His eyes widened, fear taking hold of him. “Wait, you do not know what you are doing! You will unleash something far worse on yourself if you do this, child. Where will you go now? Your mother is gone, sent to the city. You have burned this place to the ground, and everyone knows your name.” The preacher spat at her boots, glaring up at her.

She rolled her shoulder idly, wincing a bit from the pain the bolt caused her. “Just taking out the trash.” Wynona replied, pressing the barrel harder against his skull. “What, you’re not gonna beg for mercy? Your last words are gonna be telling me what I can and can’t do? Not very smart of ya, father.”

Alderbran grit his teeth in response, his nails digging into the floor. “You want to know why they were captured, don’t you?? Who’s to blame?” He offered, a last ditch attempt to buy him maybe a few more minutes. “Your father was a clever man, he wouldn’t have made such a careless mistake, neither would your devil of a mother.”

Wynona furrowed her brows. He was right. Arthur Colt was a genius, an arcane engineer that fused corporeal and incorporeal components to create inventions no one had ever seen. He wouldn’t have put those weapons into the hands of the unsavory, not willingly. She hated it, but Alderbran was right. It would give her a new name to add to her list.

She bowed her head, sighing, but she didn’t move her hand. “Fine then. Go ahead and explain it to me, then maybe I won’t blow your brains to kingdom come. You have a minute, Father. A minute to convince me you deserve to still walk this fucking earth with all the things you did to me.”

The preacher’s eyes widened at his chance, fumbling over his words. “The Hawks had found evidence of your father’s designs as far as the deserts of Anauroch.” Wynona wrinkled her nose in response, digging the metal back into his skin, coaxing more from him. “T-That’s all they found! But they were your father’s weapons, the guard had only ever seen such craftsmanship from him.”

“Not good enough.” She snarled. Perfect, they found weapons in some shithole desert, what a big fucking deal. Wynona poised her finger over the trigger, beginning to squeeze. Behind her, the popping sizzles of wood had caught up with her, flames licking at the walls from where she came from. “Shit.” She muttered, looking back at the preacher. “I’ll send your regards to my ma when I get her out.” She snapped.

“Wait- There was a fugitive- Winchester- '' He eked out, his eyes wild and frantic as he tried to back away. Her finger was faster, as with another click of La Luna, the insides of his skull painted the floor behind him.

“Son of a bitch.” Wynona snarled to herself, holstering the pistol. A fugitive? That never boded well. There were hundreds of fugitives and wanted men all across just the Sword Coast, let alone stretching all the way out to Anauroch. She didn’t have time to reminisce, though, as the hallway began to burn around her, the heat licking at her back. She dashed into the preacher’s chambers, looking for a quick escape. The green flames licked at the walls, eating up the wood like a starving dog.

Wynona glanced around, spotting a small square window high up on the wall. On the opposite end of the room, though, piles of papers. She had time. Maybe in that stack, something about her parents was buried there and about to be burned up.

She dashed over to the desk, keeping a watching eye on the green flames that mirrored her irises. The acrid smoke wafted through the room, gathering at the ceiling in burning black clouds. Sifting through papers as fast as she could, she found several vague letters and correspondences between Alderbran and other officials, discussing the recent removal of an Infernal from the premise. Bingo.

She gathered them up in her arms, dashing for the window as the flames chewed at the edge of the desk, getting too close to comfort to her leather boots. She jittered open the lock on the window, busting it wide open and throwing the window outward. Positioning herself on the windowsill, she stole one more glance back, her eyes fixing on the burning body of Alderbran.

He was slowly becoming nothing but a set of charred remains, the flames burning away any recognizable features. Wynona wrinkled her nose at the awful smell of burning hair and flesh. From her pocket, she pulled a flat gold tin, opening it. She placed a rolled cigarette between her fingers, leaning over and lighting it on the burning curtain.

“Good riddance.” She muttered, spitting in his direction. She placed the cigarette to her lips, breathing in through her mouth and letting smoke billow out from her nose before folding the papers under her shirt and holding onto her hat before she pushed herself out the window.

While the fall wasn’t pleasant, she was cushioned by the roof of the horse stable, falling through and onto a bed of hay. She was met with a distressed whinny. Wynona startled, looking up to see a rearing horse. She got to her feet, quickly trying to sooth it. Outside, chaos ran amuck, guards either fleeing the flames or attempting to put them out as the fort came down in green cinders around them.

A quick glance around made her realize this was the only horse left, his reins tied to the post of his stall with no saddle in sight. He was large and clearly unhappy with the nose and smell of smoke, his black hooves stamping at the ground.

“Woah woah there, boy, calm down-” She soothed, holding her hands out to him. He was skittish, trying to back away from her. He strongly resembled that of a friesian, his black coat bearing warm brown undertones around his belly. His black mane was tied into braids to keep it out of his face. “You’re gonna be alright, boy, hear me? I’m gonna get you out of here.” Just for a moment, her heart ached, yearning for the memories of her taming the wild horses that roamed the ranch. However, it was not the time for reminiscing about fonder times.

“C’mon, lemme get you untied, we’re leaving.” Wynona reached around him, pulling his reins loose from the post, her other hand placed on his neck and trying to sooth him. He settled ever so slightly at her touch, still nervous from his surroundings. “There you go. You gonna let me up on ya? We’ll see.” She mumbled to herself. With a lack of saddle and stirrups, she set her foot onto the edge of his water trough, pulling herself up and onto his back.

He knickered, trying to rear and buck her off. “Woah there, c’mon, now’s not the time, boy, gotta get out of here first, yeah?” She patted his neck, her eyes fixed on the open portcullis across the yard. She gripped the reins, snapping them and digging her spurs in. “Let’s go!” Wynona barely had time to process it before the horse burst through the stable door, bolting across the yard. He was faster than she expected, her hand reaching up to stop her hat from flying away.

Another surge of adrenaline followed, her eyes wide with youthful excitement. The guards didn’t have time to process it as she sailed right through the gates and down the dirt path, putting distance between her and the burning fort.

While the horse did his job, her mind wandered. “Winchester.” She muttered under her breath. Her itchy trigger finger didn’t give the preacher man enough time to finish his sentence, but she didn’t know what his word was worth anyway. But, she had a name, and a place. Winchester of Anauroch. Whoever he was, he was gonna be a dead man in due time.

#Wynona #Wynona Colt #lore #d&d #Wynona Marybeth Colt #Hera Serrano-Colt #Arthur Colt

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barovianbitches · 6 months

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Our Dnd Sessions are available on youtube!

They are unlisted, unedited and pretty raw. However, they're available for viewing if anyone is interested in hearing the sessions and understanding the context of some of the stories on this tumblr;

#Dnd #dungeons and dragons #D&D podcast #Dnd Youtube #sessions #fellowship of freaks #links #lore #videos

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barovianbitches · 7 months

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Tyyran-y - Constantin & Tyyran (Villain AU)

Years had passed since the Bard College at Ayrenza had banished a young Tyyran Drachedandion from their halls. His comic acts and mirthful melodies had thrown the patrons of the academy into a rage, and in their pearl-clutching fury they'd sent the young Dragonborn away. Since that time, he had gotten drunk, partied, played songs and told jokes... And he had also found himself in the dark realm of Barovia. The land of mists. There, with a Tiefling, a human, a strange Warlock with a crab friend and a few locals in tow, they adventured through the land, gotten into trouble, and through some unfortunate events… found the spark of motivation to return. Marching through the mists, the triumphant, talented Dragonborn marched into the halls of his old academy. He had been forged in the crucible of Barovia, and was no longer the timid young comedian he once was, rather, a charismatic, sly and noble bard of great skill and wit, and with him he brought the wrath of the Land of Mists in the form of Constantin Vasiliev, a towering behemoth of a man. If Tyyran was the body of the revolution, Constantin was the arm that bore the sword, and with it, the Dragonborn quickly found himself at the seat of his own empire, an academy which he was set to run his way, rather than the prude ways of his forebears.

Thus began the Age of Tyyran the Tyyrannical. Ayrenza, once a school of noble import and a respected institution, now devolved to a happy house of jesters and bards, with an utter clown at the seat of authority, and a dark shadow looming at his side.

Tyyran had it. After all that time he had spent wallowing in self-pity. After all that time he spent in Barovia, he had finally figured out what he needed to do. He'd seen so much brutality, so much bloodshed that he was numbed to it. He was bitter and he wanted the revenge he deserved for being exiled and humiliated. He returned in the cover of night with his secret weapon... a maddened brute of a man who hungered for power just as Tyyran did.

They found Shirren. Asleep in the high tower of Tyyran's old bard school. This was the Noble who had ripped the future from him. This was the noble who cast him away for such ludicrous reasons. Tyyran was about to get his sweet sweet revenge, and according to tradition, once he killed Shirren, he would become the new noble of Aryenza. The two had taken care of the guards at the door and crept into the room with an aura of bloodthirst. Constantin was quick and precise. A small grunt of surprise and then a pool of blood dripping down from the bedside. Tyyran emerged from the shadows, scars covered his scales and a deranged smile glinted in the moonlight. Shirren was still clinging to life as the blood left his body. Tyyran grabbed one of the noble's horns and shook him once while he muttered,

"No more jokes and japes here. You created this monster, Shirren. I'm as serious as you wanted me to be." His smile grew wider, "Now die. Alone and surrounded by enemies." He threw the noble's head back and it hit the bed post. Shirren lulled to one side and eyes turned milky as his gurgling last breath escaped.

The next day, he announced his take over with his silver lute. Commanding all in his Presence to love and fear him. He basked in his new position. For the first time he was getting what he always wanted. Love from crowds of people. Respect from complete strangers and dear friends alike. Power to change what he didn't like. Then... his father showed up.

There was a spark of something primal in Tyyran. Something that snapped him out of his power-hungry state when he saw his dad. He wanted to run into his father's arms. He wanted to cry and say how much he missed him. However, when he glanced over at Constantin... He was reminded that his father did nothing for him when he was exiled. His father left him to fend for himself and the anger returned in full force.

"Father." He addressed calmly.

"Tyyran. My son. What has happened to you?" Rhorrin asked with a tremble in his voice.

"What do you mean what happened to me, dad." Tyyran snarled, "I was humiliated and cast into a world of curses and death. And you." Tyyran pointed at him with a glare, "You did nothing for me. You stayed here with your books and stayed quiet."

Rhorrin's expression changed from concerned to indignant, "Tyyran. The whole time you were gone, I was campaigning against the decision. I was doing everything in my power to get the decision reversed. I had to do it by the book though in order to make it a lasting change-"

"PAH! You're weak, RHORRIN. You should have done what I did and just TAKEN what you wanted. Guards, get him out of here. I don't want to see his face again. Put him in jail if you have to." Tyyran spat.

Rhorrin's eyes shimmered in the dim candlelight. The hurt on his face was undeniable. Tyyran felt that pang again. He hated it. He didn't want to think about it. These feelings... he had to fend them off with rage and anger. That's where they stayed... Behind the broiling fires of his hate.

He turned to Constantin, "Now it's time to fulfill my promise to you, my friend. Let's gather that army."

Constantin stared on with a dark glare as Tyyran monologued and made fun of his victims, and exiled his own father to the prisons of the college. The dragon bard Constantin once knew had long since died. He was right, Barovia killed Tyyran the kind, innocent and joyful, and gave birth to an angry, spiteful monster. Charisma, once natural and pure, became a sharpened weapon of word and wit.

He noticed, every now and then, the looks he received from his new ‘lord’. The sideways glances, often before major decisions to be made. Perhaps the Barovian acted as a motivator, a reminder of the price of power. Yet he remained silently loyal. As time went on and Tyyran the Tyyrannical established his claim, he acted as a silent enforcer, the right hand balled into an iron fist.

His focus returned to the moment as Tyyran addressed him. “If I may, my lord.” He grumbled, bowing his head in reverent deference, a reprehensible act but necessary to maintain the image of authority. “You move too hastily. You have your vengeance. To muster an army now would raise suspicion and opposition in equal measure.” The Barovian had found himself a forked tongue, it seems, as the once-noble Paladin schemed with the bard.

“You must cultivate loyalty, form alliances. To march on Ravenloft with the army of a fool’s academy -“ He paused, catching on the presumed insult. “Without, of course, the reinstatement of your discipline and education, as well as allies from other lands… It would be suicide.”

Tyyran reveled in his newfound power yet when Constantin spoke, he found it hard not to listen, "Yeah. You're probably right." He rubbed his chin in thought, "Why don't we invite some of the neighboring tribe's nobles and rulers out for a nice little dinner?" Tyyran cracked a malicious grin. Thinking about the way he could use his lute to influence their decisions and loyalty.

I know this is what needs to be done.

Another voice broke through in an annoying meek way, Remember Yvan? Would he have liked to see you this way?

Tyyran outwardly squirmed and tried to correct his posture again.

Shut up shut up shut up shut up! Yvan is gone! No point in thinking of that now!! I am a vicious ruler. One who will prove to the world he was deserving of love and respect for his talent!!

Yvan loved you for the way you were...

Tyyran got up abruptly and rubbed his brow, "What do you think, Constantin? Should I send the messenger now or wait a few days?"

He had to focus on something else lest this worm of guilt consume him.

“It will be several days travel. Send them now, my lord, if you desire their presence on the first of the week.” Constantin said. “We must make haste as well, lord Tyyran.” He continued, gesturing a black-gloved hand to the door. “You have an appointment with the former chief of the academy guard. He hopes to petition you for his position.”

Tyyran glanced over at the door, "Yeah yeah. Send him in." Tyyran whispered out of the side of his mouth, "Let's see who this buffoon is gunna be." And rolled his eyes as he shifted in his ... throne? Large imposing badass evil chair? Whatever. It was big, fancy and made him look menacing. He was excited to get on with more of his berating.

The armored giant stood next to the throne, and tapped a massive, wicked glaive against the marble floors, signaling the doors to open. Two of the academy guard ushered in a hooded figure, who strode down the marble hall to stand before Tyyran.

“Kneel.” Constantin commanded gruffly, slamming the butt of his glaive into the floor once again for emphasis. The figure dropped to a reverent knee, prostrating themselves before the new Lord.

“Announce yourself.” The Barovian ordered.

Tyyran eyed the new figure in his court. His build was slender... He noticed this dragonborn had jet-black scales with... hints of purple... Tyyran almost choked as the figure looked up from his kneeling position. The hood fell back and the face of a more mature Arrhin stared back at him, "Lord Tyyran... I'm not sure if you remember me... But I'm Arrhin... we met-"

"I know who you are." Tyyran said in a low tone, "What? Do you think just because you were kind to me once you get your position back?"

Arrhin stammered, seemingly flustered at the Tyyran that stood before him now that was nothing like the young exile he met in Bracklewhyte, "No. Not at all. When I heard you had come to power... I-" Arrhin took a breath, "I respect you, My lord. It would be an honor to serve under you." There it was again that gnawing aggravating voice.

Arrhin respected you as you were...Now what will he think of you? Tyyran waved the idiotic thought from his brain and stood up from his chair with a noble flair, raising his chin into the air, "I think you will have to prove yourself to me. Play me a funny song. Immediately."

The Dragonborn looked on, stunned. Constantin offered the tyrant a subtle, questioning side-eye, but said nothing. Silence filled the hall. “Do not defy him!” The black-clad behemoth bellowed, pointing the jagged blade of his glaive at the kneeling Dragonborn. He looked to the guard standing at the petitioner’s left. “Fetch him an instrument of his choice. We will at least play fair, as is the nature of our benevolent Lord.” Constantin snarled.

Arrhin shuddered under the shout of the Barovian. It was a rare sight to see Constantin Vasiliev, even rarer to hear him speak. Legends abound of Tyyran’s dark enforcer, a warlock of a long-lost land who had made a pact with an evil god for revenge against another. Within Ayrenza, the man was simply the dark shadow of the new tyrant, a bodyguard to soothe the Bard’s paranoia and an example of his connections.

Rumors further ran of his true capabilities. Whispers came of dissenters seeing a shadow at their window in the night, and then being found utterly savaged the next morning. Never had anyone seen Constantin execute someone, but all who looked upon him did not doubt he was capable. Having earned the title of the Tyrant’s Lapdog for his unwavering fealty, few would argue what he would do for his Lord.

The Dragonborn grabbed a lute that was offered to him by a nearby guard. He strummed it softly, clearing his throat.

“From Larsten to Dregnaught… This music shall be sought… Try not to start choking… When I am done joking….?” He sang weakly, fearfully, eyes flicking between Tyyran and his bodyguard.

Tyyran froze. His body going as stiff as an old corpse. He turned his head slowly and a rush of feelings and memories came flooding into him. He cried out in a fit of emotion, "STOP"

The room went dreadfully quiet and it felt as though everyone was holding their breath.

"No. no. no." Tyyran mumbled wildly as he strode toward Arrhin. He hated thinking about the past. He hated every moment it stood there in front of him. Mocking him. Tyyran grabbed the more slender dragonborn by the neck. Tyyran was a flaming mass of anger and regret. As he held Arrhin by the throat he considered that this is almost exactly what Shirren had done to him... with a little less violence... Tyyran's anger flickered into realization and he dropped Arrhin to the ground, the other reptilian spluttered and gasped.

"You aren't Tyyran... huff anymore... cough…are you?"

Tyyran had his back to the other dragonborn at this point, casting an eerie shadow over him. Constantin stood watching with narrowed eyes in the background, clearly seeing the madness filling his lord's eyes.

"No. No I'm not" Tyyran giggled. He began to laugh maniacally, "You know... that was a pretty funny song." He turned back, "But the old Tyyran wrote that." He then strode back to his chair, sat down. One leg lifted over the other and he rested his head in his hand, "Throw him in with my father."

The guards complied silently, dragging the screaming Dragonborn away to the prisons, in the cavernous undercroft. Constantin offered a stern glare to the guards as they departed, before turning to Tyyran. “Respectfully, my lord, he was the most qualified individual presently in the academy to command the Guard Corps. Who do you intend to appoint in his stead?” The man intoned flatly.

It was uncommon that Constantin directly challenged one of Tyyran the Tyyrannical’s decisions, but there were ground rules. It was always in private, and the man had a track record of being right. As in, he only stepped up with total certainty, preying on the trust formed in the lands of Barovia and hoping it would prevail over the tyrant’s seeming madness.

“Many of your detractors will see this as powerful ammunition.”

Tyyran took a breath trying to build his walls back up again, he glanced up at Constantin acknowledging his input, "There's another dragonborn who I remember was ruthless at the school." Tyyran uncrossed his legs and leaned forward intertwining his fingers, "His name is Gherro. If he's still in the Guard Corps, and you think he's up to snuff, promote him." The manic Lord sat back up, rubbed his brow and pointed a finger at Constantin, "Oh, and send that messenger for the dinner immediately. I'm going to go have a glass of wine."

Tyyran got up and made his way to his private study.

“As you command.” Constantin muttered, turning towards the door. Outside, he barked a command to a guard to find this ‘Gherro’ and have him report to the training field.

Tyyran’s office was well-decorated, the former occupant leaving behind a great deal of finery as well as an excellent wine selection in the cabinet, that which Constantin had beaten the lock off of. There was a large plush chair ripe for the sitting behind the fine mahogany desk.

Tyyran flopped into the chair. He held back tears of frustration. He was going mad he was sure of it. He flung the doors of the cabinet wide open and grabbed the first bottle of wine he could reach. He hastily pulled the cork and shakily filled a glass with the dark red substance. For a moment he imagined it was blood, pouring all over his hands and he had to take a swig of the bottle just to remind himself it was just wine.

What am I doing to these people who loved me? A whiny quiet voice rang inside of him.

A much louder booming voice came through, "I'M A NEW PERSON! I'M GETTING EVERYTHING I EVER WANTED! NO ONE WILL STAND IN MY WAY."

Tyyran began whispering aloud as he gulped down his wine, "shut up shut up shut up shut up"

Roughly an hour passed as Tyyran mired in his sorrow and drank his grief away. As dusk fell on the Academy, the glow-globes in the office cast a dull amber light over the surroundings, and just as the room fell to total, utter silence, a figure materialized in the corner of the office, one left empty for seemingly no reason.

Tyyran jumped and cursed when Constantin emerged from the shadows, "Fuck, Constantin. You scared the living shit right outta me." Tyyran took another swig trying to half pull himself back together, "What did Ghorrin say about taking over the position." He slurred.

“I tested his mettle.” Constantin grunted, stepping into the light. His armored fists were soaked in blood, and a faint line of crimson ichor trickled down his nose. “If I was not here to ensure your safety, my lord, I would not trust him. However, he is suitable for the position. He has been given the honor of guarding your halls.”

Tyyran could likely tell, even in his stupor, that Constantin likely did not ASK Gherro about taking the job.

Tyyran eyed the man for a second and nodded, "Good. Good. This is why I appreciate you, Constantin. No nonsense. You know what to do and you do it right." Tyyran grabbed the bottle in front of him and swirled the last little bit of liquid. He pushed a handkerchief towards Constantin with the other, "You got a lil... Somethin somethin right uhhh" Tyyran gestured toward his whole body.

The Barovian behemoth stared Tyyran down, sniffing slightly, before wiping the blood from his face. He stared Tyyran down, a piercing stare, even with his dull, sunken blue eyes. He stood silently, looking around the room. His eyes locked on a picture frame, on the corner of the desk. He could not see it, but he knew what it held.

A photo of several figures. A Tiefling, a large, blue woman, a short, golden-eyed man, Constantin, Tyyran, and a large, handsome man with his arms wrapped around Tyyran. Constantin stalked over to the desk, taking the frame in his hands. "The messengers have been dispatched." He said, staring at the picture with a gaze of contempt, turning away from Tyyran to pace as he observed the portrait.

"You swore to me that we would raise an army. We would march again on Barovia, drag Strahd's entrails across Ravenloft's battlements, yes?" He asked suddenly, casting a gaze over his shoulder to the drunken dragon.

Tyyran's face grew dark as well seeing the way Constantin observed the photo... It made him angry again. Tyyran growled and slammed the bottle to the floor, glass shattering everywhere, "Don't doubt me Constantin! I'm just as driven as you are to make this a reality. I, too, want to rip Strahd to shreds! I-" Tyyran realized that Constantin had seen the way he'd been acting today and that he was trying to remind him of why they were here in the first place. Why they had even come back at all from Barovia. They were here to be relentless, gather a powerful army and avenge their fallen friends. Tyyran kicked some glass shards out of the way in a huff and walked past Constantin trying to avoid looking at the photo, "I'm... tired. I'm going to my bedchamber to sleep off this alcohol. Tomorrow, we'll discuss plans for our 'dinner.' "

Constantin’s massive hand shot out and caught Tyyran by the shoulder, in a firm grip. Firm enough to be a reminder of his bone-crushing power, but restrained enough to not hurt. “Remember who we do this for. His death wounds me as deeply as it does you. The only way we can avenge him is through focus.” Constantin snarled. His eyes glowed with an unnatural fury. “Rest, my lord.” He said, the deferent title seeming a bit…. Empty. “We will discuss this once you are again sober.”

With that, the dragon was released and again Constantin simply disappeared into the shadows.

Tyyran shivered then gave an angry scowl. Of course I'll focus. I'll be the most focused. The best at being focused. He turned away to walk to his bedchambers. The bands of moonlight that filtered in from the tall windows illuminated him in beats as he strode briskly down the stone hall. With each bright cadence Tyyran's expression went from anger to complete maniacal madness.

‘What have you done?’

‘I will kill you.’ ‘Shut up SHUT UP. LET ME FOCUS.’

‘You'll kill me?’ ‘I am you or maybe the better you.’ ‘You've become a monster.’

Tyyran stumbled in a streak of pale illumination and fell back into a wall holding his head. The alcohol was making everything swirl. His sense of self breaking down. Images of Yvan began popping into his head. No. No stop.

"STOP!" he cried aloud and began booking it to his door. He threw it open and crumpled to the cold stone in his room. Crawling forward he grabbed his silver lute from its stand.

He strummed a few chords and suddenly, his world went quiet. He took a deep breath and began to quietly hum a tune. That's where he sat, leaned up against the lute stand until the gentle rays of sunlight danced over the horizon.

Constantin had retired to an office of his own, a dark oubliette deep in the pits of the academy. Lit only by dim candles, Constantin found himself face to face with a magic mirror, and as he looked on his mangled, sickly face, relics of years of war against the dark powers of Barovia, another dark power took form in the mirror, a snarling glare fixed on the Paladin-turned-Warlock. A voice, like nails on a chalkboard, ripped into Constantin's mind.

"You waste time with this foolish dragon-lord while I battle the forces of Death AND the laws of Order. Do you understand, Vasiliev, the price I paid to tear your soul from Barovia?" The voice demanded.

"Yes, I am well aware-" Constantin spat, whirling around to face away from the mirror as he spoke. "- of the great price paid, my Lord. I have paid in kind. Strahd will die! I just need TIME!" He roared, planting a boot against his desk, splintering the wood explosively and sending papers and inkwells flying.

"The Dragon is a weakling. If you want to keep in my good graces, you will eradicate this distraction and return to Barovia with haste." The eldritch voice continued, as Constantin's arms began to crackle with sickly green lightning. "That was not our deal."

"I wrote the contract, and I can change it, little bear." The voice said sarcastically. "Fine. Keep your last little friend. You have a month to return to Barovia before I reclaim my powers and allow your soul to disintegrate. Am I understood?"

"Yes, my Lord." Constantin growled, not yet looking at the mirror. "Look at me when you speak." The voice snarled, and a spike of pain shot through Constantin's head, forcing him to a knee, where he then turned to the mirror, his glare rising to the glass. "Yes... My Lord." The man grunted again. With a satisfied smirk, the face disappeared, and Constantin collapsed, heaving a shaky, rageful breath. The Tyyrant's bodyguard was not again seen until morning, when a knock, knock, knock landed on Tyyran's door, shortly after first light.

Tyyran bolted at the knocking, nearly dropping his lute to the floor. He grasped it in panic and got up to put it back on the stand. Whew, that was close... Can't afford to lose this lute. He thought, wiping sweat from his brow. The dragonborn had a splitting headache and the way he slept had him sore from head to toe. Tyyran went to the door and opened it just a crack to see who was there. A dark, imposing presence sat at the door, one that instilled fear and exuded death and danger.

So, Constantin.

Tyyran opened the door fully, "Ah. Constantin. I assume you've come to talk details about our plan?"

"If that is your will. I see you've not slept." The man said bluntly, not yet entering the dragonborn's quarters. He looked past Tyyran into the room, noting the mild state of disarray, before he locked his eyes back on Tyyran. "You must present yourself with confidence, efficiency and nobility. You have more enemies than you know, and they look for any weakness to manipulate." He said, a bit more truth in his words than he'd let on. Tyyran smoothed his hair back and took a deep breath in and breathed out, "Yeah. Yeah. I know. I know. Give me a second to clean myself up. I'll meet you downstairs in the Council Chamber." Constantin nodded, walking away.

The morning glow warmed the cracked stone of the old building as Tyyran made his way downstairs. He had put on his best suit today, brushed his hair back and stood with an air of superiority. Today he had his lute with him, strapped to his back in a protective cover embroidered with purple and gold. He stepped into the Council Chambers, the creaking of the doors echoed through the vast hall. Constantin was already standing next to the round table. A large map set upon the wall. Tyyran briskly made his way over, focusing on the tribes and countries marked, "I see you've already set things up." Tyyran remarked, pretentiously swinging himself into the biggest chair possible.

"Time is too valuable to waste with setup." Constantin replied, holding a long swagger stick in his hand. He used it to refer to the map, as well as tap his palm idly. Once Tyyran had settled in, and the retinue of staff and servants had made their ritual of offering him any manner of food, drink, ottoman to rest his feet on, a glass of wine, a pillow... They disappeared into the wings once the head of the staff noticed Constantin's twitching eyelid and grit teeth.

"If you are satisfied with the service, my Lord, shall I begin?"

Tyyran chomped loudly on a piece of toast and took a small sip of the wine, "Yes."

"Lovely." Constantin replied, through grit teeth, a long, thin smile stretching across his face. The Barovian titan turned his attention to the map, and began to deliver a monologue on the various nation-states and wandering tribes that inhabited their region of the Sword Coast. He went on for nearly two hours, detailing everything one could possibly want to know about them, as well as information about how best to curry their favor, or in certain cases, manipulate them. He finally turned back to Tyyran, to gauge how well he had followed along.

Tyyran tried really hard to pay attention. He really did. but it was SO BORING. The dragonborn sat fiddling his claws and staring out the window. He got some info about some guys to the east being the most powerful ally for resources? And then some warlord who was notorious for having a well-disciplined and strategic army? Constantin turned back to him and he perked up, "Soooo, it sounds like we just need to invite... those guys." Tyyran gestured to the map vaguely.

“Yes... I have done this.” Constantin said plainly, with a note of tired annoyance in his voice. “My Lord, if you are going to simply laze about during these briefings, swill your wine and dream of the flower fields... We do not have to have them.” Crossing his arms, he stared down at the dragon in his little chair. “I would not waste your valuable time. I understand your desire to remain informed, but perhaps... Perhaps I issue a shorter briefing, and simply take charge of decisions at this level?” The man inquired.

This was a clear and obvious power play. Constantin was suggesting that Tyyran relinquish authority over international, interorganizational and public relations to the Barovian with violent tendencies and anger issues. Decorum was not particularly Constantin’s strongest suit, and Tyyran knew this... But think of all the time he could have to drink, play his lute and try not to think of Yvan while Connie did all the dirty work…

Tyyran looked offended, "I'm here, aren't I? I'm not 'LAZING' about! Sure I want a glass of wine here and some breakfast... and perhaps these meetings make my brain hurt." Tyyran gritted his teeth a bit, frustrated with how Constantin saw him. Though, he partly knew Constantin was right, "Fine. We'll be brief with these meetings. I think I remember most of the names of those who will be at the dinner. At least then I can put into play what I am good at." Tyyran gave a mischievous smile, "And that's charming my way through to a crown."

“Precisely.” Replied the Barovian, with a sharp smile. For a moment, something in his eyes softened. A familiar gaze showing through. Constantin. Not the executioner he had become, but Tyyran’s old friend. “T-“ He caught himself. “My lord. I mean no offense. Your talent and aptitude lies in charm and charisma. Duties I could never fulfill. I simply suggest you allow me to handle that of which I am capable, to allow you to direct your focus to your talents.” He pauses. “With such efficiency, we can redouble our efforts to avenge our friends…. And to resurrect Yvan.”

Tyyran could feel his heart skip at the mention of Yvan. However, every few short happy memories of the two together was replaced with bitter sorrow from the aftermath. Tyyran focused upward with a glint in his eye, "I agree, Constantin. Let's be more... efficient."

As Tyyran wandered away from the briefing, Constantin leered over the map. A voice whispered in his mind, a sickening sneer. “Tick, tock, Vasiliev. You are running out of time.” Gritting his teeth and bringing a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, the man cursed in hushed Barovian. The taunting continued, and as a guard poked their head in to ask after the Lord’s bodyguard, they witnessed him drive his fist through the map table, shattering the entire display into splinters with an enraged shout. The guard disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived once Constantin established eye contact, a murderous glare in his dull, blue eyes. Leaving the wreckage of his briefing, the man stepped into the shadows, again disappearing, this time for nearly a week.

Several days had passed since Constantin had sent out dinner invitations on behalf of the dragon Bard. Ayrenza was alight with hustle and bustle, students, servants, staff all doing their best to stay out of the way of everyone else. The guard was thoroughly stressed, as their new commander and inexperienced staff did their best to process courts, retinues and organized parties from all across the Sword Coast. An Ennari delegation from the Elven highlands, Spirit-seers offering their foresight to any who would listen, essayed into the dining hall where their chief, Eldrad took a seat at a table. The barbaric warlords from the northlands, somehow bringing a civilized retinue and presenting gifts of weapons and fine furs. Thallax Gorechild escorted away from the head of the table, to a seat a few chairs down. In Tyyran's house, only he sat at the head of the table.

Several more processions and delegates essayed their way in, before the final guest arrived. A drifter, in a cloak of leather and a dark hood, known only to the Ayrenzan Academy Guard as... The Desert Wind. He was offered a seat at the other end of the table, as the others vied for proximity to Tyyran. As servants loaded the table and served wine, Constantin stomped through a door, his heavy footfalls echoing across the marble. Armor black as night, seeming to consume nearby light, his voice echoed, distinct Barovian accent tinting every word. "Presenting the grand, noble, mighty Lord Tyyran Drachedandion. Master of Ayrenza, First of the Reformists. Honored be his name." With such an introduction, all rose, the Desert Wind last to join them.

Tyyran swept in with an elegant air. His chin held high and his posture strong. The dragonborn was elaborately decorated in silver, gold and purple hues. The suit he wore was embroidered head to toe in magnificent floral patterns. The lute he cherished strapped to his back. He made his way to the head of his table, his reptilian eyes scanning those who had come. Almost everyone had cloaks on because of the cold weather that was persistent in this area. However, Tyyran's eye caught one figure whose cloak obscured his face. He immediately became suspicious but rubbed it off for now. Once he was able to perform for everyone at this dinner, they'd all be wrapped around his claw.

Tyyran stood next to his chair. He raised a goblet full of wine, "Welcome, valued guests. As the new Noble of Aryenza, I intend on getting to know all of you as esteemed neighbors and, hopefully, as friends. Drink and be merry as I play a ballad for all of you." Tyyran began to extract the silver lute from its holster. The gathered delegation applauded politely, and all took their seats at the table. As they sat, the man at the end of the table brought hands subtly to the sides of his head, looking to smooth his hair under his hat. Tyyran held the attention of the room, save for Constantin, whose eyes scanned across the gathered nobility, ready to leap at the first sign of trouble.

The gathered delegation applauded politely, and all took their seats at the table. As they sat, the man at the end of the table brought hands subtly to the sides of his head, looking to smooth his hair under his hat. Tyyran held the attention of the room, save for Constantin, whose eyes scanned across the gathered nobility, ready to leap at the first sign of trouble.

Tyyran took to a small stage at the head of the room. His eyes glinted with mischievous intent. Tyyran began to play the lute. A new song he wrote specifically for this event;

A ballad of bravery.

Of sadness and memory.

A Vengeance turned stone.

And rising to the throne.

As Tyyran strummed on the little instrument, a haze fell over the audience. The crazed Noble smiled with glee as he focused on everyone in the room, imparting a feeling of loyalty and respect.

We worship the master of song!

A reign that will last and is strong!

A power that rings like a sound.

He sure would look good in a crown!

Tyyran put his all into the performance, trying to keep everyone mesmerized. Watching all of them to make sure the spell was working. He couldn't let any of them get away in case the charm didn't work. He eyed Constantin making sure he also was watching the assembly... He surely was, glaring at the assembled delegation, faint wards glowing over his ears. What good would a warrior be if he were charmed by every little song? The gathered nobles were enraptured with the song. At least, it looked that way. All of them applauded loudly and raucously, all except for one, who offered a polite measure of applause, not yet looking up to meet Tyyran’s gaze. Leather-gloved hands gave out a muted applause.

Tyyran made his way down from the stage, examining everyone's faces, "Thank you. Thank you. You're all too much!" His already toothy grin cracked farther, as he posed a question to test how the spell worked, "Now, how do we all feel about forming a union? One under my rule?" Everyone at the table hooted and hollered, even the most stony and beastly leaders were compelled to shout “YES YES! MAKE TYYRAN OUR KING!” Tyyran could feel that little annoying voice in the back of his mind get drowned out by the cheering crowd. This is exactly what I've always wanted. I love this. I want this all the time. I love this power. I deserve this power.

“You really have changed, Silvertongue.” A voice drawled from the end of the table. Needles of familiarity poked at the back of Tyyran’s mind, yet they did not knit a picture just yet. “I mean, not really.” The voice continued. “You were always the charmin’ sort, but it looks like you went mad fer’ power, and you brought the walkin’ corpse along for muscle.”

Tyyran froze where he stood. He eyed the cloaked figure who had drawn the attention of the whole room. ‘Where have I heard that voice before?’ Tyyran began to play the lute on one continuous finger pluck as he spoke, hoping the spell's effect might amplify. "I know you...You're-"

“The Desert Wind, silvertongue. It’s been a while.”

With a wry grin, the stranger revealed his face, lifting his hat from his head. A handlebar mustache, well-kempt sat under a large nose, and gleaming green eyes stared down the Dragonborn. A long-lost face, likely thought lost to time, or the Mists. It was that man he’d met so long ago. Rough, uncouth, outright rude… But a helping hand. A hired gun.

Sterling John Moses Winchester.

What he was doing here, none could tell. He was no noble, no great leader of men. How he’d made the dinner list was a mystery to all, even Constantin, who stared on with no sort of recognizance whatsoever. Tyyran grew frustrated. His tune clearly not wrapping itself around his target... Sterling!! ‘No! It had been so long... How is he still alive??’

Tyyran spat at the old acquaintance, "YOU SAW HOW CLOSE ALL OF US WERE! YOU KNOW THEY'RE ALL DEAD NOW, RIGHT?! This is what comes when evil begets evil."

Tyyran kept strumming the lute to keep everyone in the room calm and orderly, "Moreover... STERLING... You're outnumbered here." Tyyran laughed and nodded to Constantin while he commanded those in the room to attack the cowboy.

"Sorry, son. Ain't gonna be that easy." The Cowboy’s pistol twirled in his hand, a dexterous spin as it was drawn from the leather holster on his belt. The man fired three shots. The first, aimed at the lute. A classic Sterling technique, a disarming shot. The next two, walked up the fretboard of the instrument, as the man was intent on disabling Tyyran's control over the crowd. Constantin was slow on the uptake, reaching for his glaive, as if all of this seemed to happen in slow motion. Tyyran felt the hard ricochet of bullets off the lute, the fretboard shattered under his fingers which caused him to drop the instrument entirely. Tyyran cried out in both fear and grief, "Constantin! Grab the gun from him!"

Constantin leaped into action, hefting his polearm and tearing off towards Sterling, but before he could make it, two cloaked figures leaped out from behind pillars. Dragonborn, with longswords and parrying daggers. Their hoods were torn from their heads as they met the dark giant in combat. Prisoners escaped from their cell, Rhorrin and Arrhin. They swung at Constantin's knees, Tyyran's father catching an armored boot to the face while Arrhin caught a vicious swipe from the glaive in response. They did not survive long, but the escapees had fulfilled their task. They'd given Sterling time. "Sorry to hear about yer' friends, and yer' boyfriend. Sure they woulda' known you were better than this. Sorry, buckaroo. You went about it wrong, and I can't let it continue." Sterling drawled, the barrel of his gun still smoking from the rapid burst. "For what it's worth... I really liked you when you weren't a maniac. You were a real good singer. Shame it had to end this way."

Click... BANG!

Everything happened in an instant. However, to Tyyran, it seemed the world slowed down. He witnessed how Constantin tore through two of the people he knew he loved but didn't want to face... Echoes of the past booming with the sound of a revolver... a little voice that sang quietly in the back of his head... And something warm began to flush in his chest. He looked down to see vivid red dripping through his dress shirt. He'd been...shot.

‘Tyyran, what have you become? You're going to die as a monster... you idiot. You stupid lizard-’ Tyyran fell to his knees making painful eye contact with Constantin for a brief moment and tears began to form in his eyes... In this moment, He was no longer a power hungry tyrant... he was no longer mad with guilt and grief... For a moment he was Tyyran. The Tyyran that was banished from this very school for being a goof... The Tyyran Yvan loved. The Tyyran of the before. With a raspy gurgling breath Tyyran wheezed to Constantin, "I'm sorry, Constantin... I couldn't do it..." Then he crumpled... his head swirling with last thoughts and distant memories. The laughs and long conversations with Rorali. The moments of reflection and healing with Bettany. Fighting and singing alongside Constantin. Learning new things and exploring with Thalassia... plus... the sweet tender morning and evening kisses with Yvan... All of it was fading to black..

Constantin's eyes flared with a sickly green glow, rage filling every ounce of his body. His opportunity, his chance at revenge... His friend. Dying. With a series of rapid hand gestures, Constantin channeled a healing spell, directing it at Tyyran. One that would bring him back from death. Sterling ripped a scroll from his jacket and yelled a word of power. The scroll glowed and incinerated itself, as Constantin's magic fizzled. The bastard had brought a Scroll of Counterspell. As he watched Tyyran bleed out, incapable of conjuring more than one healing spell due to his dark pact, he screamed with rage, turning and hurling the glaive across the table. The Cowboy ducked as the polearm went to impale him. Constantin stepped to Tyyran, attempting without any success to conjure more healing magic. He was a Paladin no more, and that was the price. "He will pay." Constantin swore, as he spoke to Tyyran, kneeling by him in his final moments. "Be at peace." He mumbled, before disappearing in a coal-black cloud.

Sterling was on the run. Bursting through the dining hall archway, spurs jingling with every pounding footstep. Every turn, a look thrown over his shoulder, waiting for the big man to catch him. He turned back to face the direction he was running, just to nearly run into the Warlock as he appeared from a cloud of shadow, reaching out with a spikey, gloved hand, a grab for the throat. The short man ducked under it and kept going, drawing his pistol again and firing six shots at the Barovian, all of which ricocheted off of his heavy armor. The man tore off after the assassin, footfalls cracking the marble floor as he raged after the murderer. He had done it. He had laid low the tyrant that put the entire Sword Coast at risk with his charisma, control and power-hungry madness... But now he was probably going to pay with his life.

He burst through into the campus courtyard, blowing past a handful of panicked guards and students as he raced for the bridge. On the other end, a Half-elven woman with striking red hair held a portal open, gesturing panickedly for Sterling to hurry as the Barovian behemoth came bearing down on him. When he reached the end of the bridge, he stopped. He grabbed the woman by the shoulders, saying something inaudible. They shared a look, a kiss, and then the woman was shoved through the portal, the rift closing behind her. The night was falling on Ayrenza, the academy under attack, their new lord and master staining the tiles of the dinner room with his lifeblood. Constantin came to a stop at the far end of the bridge, staring the cowboy down as he looked away from the college, towards the direction of the now-closed portal.

The sun hung low in the sky, the western sky ablaze with the warm palette of a summer sunset, hues from orange to purple struck across the clouds and open air, a painting worthy of the gods of art. Sterling did not yet face his enemy, who roared furiously. "YOU TOOK MY ONLY CHANCE!" He raged. "MY ARMY. GONE! MY FRIEND! DEAD! WHAT DID YOU SEEK TO GAIN FROM THIS?" The Barovian screamed, taking another earth-shaking step forward, hands crackling with green flame. "Tyranny cannot stand, big man. You woulda' said the same, all those years ago. Before that poison or wha'ever got to yer' mind. I remember yer' friends, how hard they fought to save you, they would not have wanted thi-"

Sterling was cut off by a shockwave of anger rippling from Constantin's position. DO NOT SPEAK OF THEM!" He howled. "I challenge you. Death. Here and now." Sterling spat on the ground. "Fine, that's how you want it, Vasiliev? That's the way it'll be." Sterling turned to face Constantin, his hand hovering over the pearl-handled revolver in his right-hip holster. A crackling of energy formed violently in Constantin's right hand, as they stared each other down. The sun dipped lower in the sky. Overhead, a raven's wing-beats broke the silence, with a loud caw. The tension built, built, built... To a palpable level. Neither man moved, until suddenly the silence was again broken by the screech of an angry, desperate Eldritch Blast...

And the sure-fire crack of a Deadeye's gun.

Fin.

#Villain AU #Villains #constantin #constantin vasiliev #Tyyran #Tyyran Drachedandion #d&d #lore #Sterling #Sterling John Moses Winchester

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