#barovia drift

[karliahs]

the inherent comedy of playing a d&d campaign set in the same universe as our curse of strahd game, 10 years later but with a totally different party like...in the original game we put soooo much effort into redeeming escher. in our very first session he almost killed us and continued trying to kill us for a very long time. and we aggressively marriage counselled him until he was willing to admit that his relationship with strahd was a nightmare, reunited him with his estranged father, and eventually spent a very powerful resurrection scroll on curing his vampirism so he wouldn't have to follow strahd's orders anymore

and he was still kind of little shit but he turned from an antagonist to this weird lame guy who was literally our weird shitty roommate for a bit. and once he was human again he was a lot squishier so we had to protect him a lot in fights. and just generally over a 2.5 year campaign an enormous amount of collective effort was put into giving this dude his life back

and now, well. these new characters we're playing don't know any of that. they've just met this weird shifty dude who from their perspective is kind of a dick and is getting in the way of a lot of the stuff they need to do.

and I can't stop thinking about how funny it would be if we just...killed him. a prank specifically against Me From A Year Ago, who would be mad as hell about this. idk if it will happen but the comedy potential, it haunts me

#d&d #barovia drift #similarly we ran into someone who was trying to do a ritual and resurrect strahd #and we did stop them but i do find it so funny that like #we irl spent almost three years killing this one guy #and now we are different people and theyre like. well i dont know or care about that. who's strahd

[crowholtz]

Helene x Strahd moment that happened recently I need to talk about, I'll write it out. (This got way longer than intended but I actually really like it and it's kind of a good representation of them 🥺 they're perfect for each other but they're so toxic help) they play mind games with each other and she wins this one

~~~~

A soft breath left Helene as she nestled tightly into Strahd's side, glancing up at the ancient vampire with a thoughtful gaze.

She'd not intended for this to happen again. Their late-night rendezvous had become less and less frequent ever since their war began, and she's intended for them to stop altogether when she called off their engagement.

But as the night drew on while her companions slept, her insomnia plagued her once more, and she'd wandered out into the Abbey's courtyard for some air. In the distance, just beyond the gates of Krezk, she saw it. An ornate black carriage, drawn by two brilliant ebony-maned horses. Strahd's carriage.

Helene had felt drawn to it. The ghosts of urging hands on her back, her neck, her shoulders. The lantern hanging from it became the focal point of her entire existence. She'd barely registered her feet moving, her dark angelic wings unfurling and lifting her off the ground. Or did she walk? She could scarcely remember. The only vivid thing she knew was his face when she got there, smiling at her, welcoming her with open arms. Like a moth to a flame, every time.

Naturally, he worked his manipulations and cajoling. He told her he would not try to take her back to the castle with him - this time. He'd called it a momentary halt to their war. Just for the night. Helene, even in her reluctance, was grateful for the excuse to spend time with without the looming threat of being kidnapped. She couldn't help but he drawn to him, and being in his arms was both a danger and a comfort.

After he'd gotten his fill of her blood, and she his flesh, he pulled her against his chest in the warmly lit carriage, a possessive hand cradling the back of her head. For a short time, Helene lay there, letting her mind, for the most part, drift into the contented haze that seemed to blanket her that night. Her mind was a naturally disquiet place, however, and the usual guilt and conflict began to creep into her head. She could not forget the duty she had to fulfill, the resistance she had to mount against him, to lead the charge for. Here she was a leader for her allies, the people she swore to protect and stand by, indulging in the enemy.

In the process of these self-admonishing thoughts, Helene realized something. Strahd should not be here either. They were at war. They were both students of strategy and warfare. He knew better than to distract himself with this, with his obsession with her. It had been his downfall many times since her arrival in Barovia, one she had even manipulated to win battles; he was soft for her.

So she stared into his perfect face, and smiled.

Strahd raised a ponderous brow, "What is it that delights you so beautifully?" He drawled deeply, with practiced diction.

Helene raised a hand to his cheek, smoothing her thumb over the smooth planes of his face. Her voice was low, her timbre sliding against his skin like a bow against the strings of a cello. "I see the cracks in your armor."

She did not meet his eyes, instead choosing to track where her fingers were touching his face.

He did not react at first. "Whatever do you mean, my beloved?"

"You are not as shielded as you would like, darling. You made a mistake in coming here with me tonight, in promising not to take me away." Helene knew it was risky to say this as the blood moon was high in the sky, flaring vampiric urges across Barovia. Strahd was a man of his word, but she did not know how far the blood moon would push him to break his own rules. It was a soft challenge to say such a thing.

Instead of letting it linger for rumination, she continued, "You should be preparing. Planning your next move against us. Being here with me provides no tactical value. You are running out of time, Strahd... And yet here you are, indulging in your obsession for me."

Strahd's face remained stoic, ever the sculpting of a marble statue, before a cool smile forced its way through, "There are no cracks in my armor, I can assure you." He gently grasped the hand on her his face and kissed her fingertips, his crimson eyes never leaving hers. "Besides, are you so sure I am not currently enacting an offense right now? Perhaps I have figured out a way past the defenses of your current base and have sent my blood knights to your Argynvostholt to dismantle what presence you have set up there. Or perhaps I am not here with you now. I could be an illusion or a trick of your mind, while I simply make my way into the Abbey where your allies rest. As well as your poor injured brother. It must take such a toll on him. The responsibility of being The Abbot while languishing in such a state... I imagine he feels powerless."

A frown tugged gently on Helene's lips as she tried not to let her wings ruffle in response to his soft threats towards her allies and brother. But she knew better. This was a game they always played. Sussing the other out. Calling bluffs. She was calling his now.

"Then you would have made a mockery of this night we have shared together." Helene said simply. Her eyes, silver and intense, flutter up to meet his dead-on. "And I know you would not do that to us. Our love is a romantic tragedy, not a comedy."

To most, the faltering of Strahd's smile would be near imperceptible. But Helene studied his face like the most sacred of divine scripture. She knew its every twitch.

Strahd took an unnecessary breath in, "Perhaps I have not. However, I... can assure you, my Helene," he drawled out her name almost as a warning, "there are no cracks in my armor." His hand gripped hers more tightly.

Helene managed to slip her hand from his grasp, resuming her caress against his cheek, her gaze falling back to her her ministrations once more, "There are, my love. Cracks, scuffs, scratches on the plate," she crooked a finger against his cheekbone, "wrinkles..." Strahd's eyes flashed and she quickly slid her hand down to pluck at his embroidered tunic, "in the fabric."

Helene had to suppress a smirk. Her wordplay was risky but intentional, preying upon his problems with aging and imperfection to unbalance him, but subtle enough to not set him off. It was an exciting game for Helene.

The unsettled emotions on his face were a pitched battlefield seen by no one else but her, his nostrils flaring just barely, jaw clenching, pupils dilating -- Helene saw it all in her peripheral vision. It was a brief but bloody battle which ended with him smoothing his dark hair back, the cool smile returning, "My, you have such a way with words. Perhaps you may write me more poetry, my beloved."

Helene smiled at him as he pivoted the subject, playing along. "I just might."

Small as it was, she tucked this victory away to relish later.

#curse of strahd #strahd von zarovich #helene x strahd #ch: helene crow #cos blogging #r: dancing after death #r: an unhealthy obsession #im on my KNEES #i know its so subtle and small but she loves seeing through the veneer

[moiderahart]

New Sanctity post, new Sanctity lore...

--

Ulgetin is only a planet in the sense that it's large enough to hold an entire civilization on its surface. In practice, it is a turtle, with two heads, four flippers, and a shell with no underbelly. It orbits his star, the four flippers are timed over the course of decades.

Yes, Ulgetin does live on a geologic time scale, her limbs slowly drifting up and down. Fast enough that living on them is impossible, slow enough that the first calendars used his flippers as a way to tell time and year.

In fact, many of those systems are still used today; the location of all four flippers is useful for determining what the year is, and given that the they rotate consistently on the Eastern axis, it is easy to tell what day it is.

Upon Ulgetin is the Principality of Ibercori, once named for a prince, and after his execution, is now named due to its adherence to the Principles, a series of laws that have been revised and rewritten time and time again over the past two hundred years of rule.

It is currently at Revision 55.2, Errata 9. Revision 55, marking its 55 Major Revisions, .2 marking minor federal changes, and Errata 9, marking minor loophole closures.

The nation is run by a Councilship. For every ten thousand people, there is a councilor. And that councilor must follow the desires of its people, or else. It's the one law that's gone unchanged throughout Revisions. The council is ruled by the Proletariat. There can be no Bourgeois.

If there is a chance that a Prince-like ruler can come into existence, then under Ibercoran law that person must be executed.

As of the year that Sanctity was born, there were 8,257 councilors, for 8,257 major population segments. Population growth has slowed as Ibercori reaches the end of its expansion, well over 200 years into its existence.

And with any large Empire, there must still be expansion. Sanctity herself is from one of the edges of Ibercori; the state of Ernoka. She worked as an enforcer, trained under standard Ibercoran regiments.

All Ibercoran Knights are to be trained in advanced studies and standardized education. One Ibercoran Knight must be worth one-hundred of the enemy's, and standard Ibercoran soldiers are to work in tandem with the knights; it's been regular regimen for the past three decades.

Sanctity herself was essentially law enforcement. Her family presided over Ernoka, her father running the estate. In service to the State, she lost her left and third eye, her left hand, and her tail was damaged, making it far more sensitive.

She has sacrificed much in the name of a nation she truly believed in.

So why was it that when she arrived in Barovia, she was wild-eyed, and covered in blood?

#Sanctity #moidarts #tiefling #knight #armor #dungeons and dragons #lore #worldbuilding #dnd #dnd 5e #curse of strahd

[thefruitypebblescastleoftorment]

Changes being made to the Abbey of St Markovia as of 4/11/24:

"A perfect being... made from the best and most beautiful that mortal flesh can offer, with an untouched and innocent soul, infused with holy light. Not yet, not quite, but soon... soon they will succeed where I have failed." "It is not your fault. You simply cannot see the righteousness of my work. Fear not, for I will grant you new eyes." - The Abbot, being very normal and chill.

The Abbot:

Like all devas, the Abbot can fight, but combat was never his purpose. In the Upper Planes, he served a god of light and life, and his role was that of a healer. He still considers himself a healer first and foremost. He will fight in defense of himself or his "patients," (and especially Vasilka) but desires peace over violence.

In the unlikely event there is a TPK to the Abbot, or a player is killed and their body left with him, he will "restore" them (in a horrifying manner) and explain he forgives them their transgression and bears them no ill will.

Mechanically, the Abbot's powers of resurrection are equivalent to Raise Dead without material components, as in RAW. Narratively however, the process is more... surgical.

As in cannon, the Abbot willingly trapped himself in Barovia in honor of Saint Markovia's legacy, hoping to ease the suffering of its people but ultimately becoming corrupted by the evil of the land.

Strahd tempted him towards the Dark Powers not by appearing as Vasili, but through anonymous correspondence. (The was in his Strahd the Ghost era.) As in cannon, the Abbot understands that Strahd cannot be permanently killed, (he does not know why, nor how to sever Strahd's connection to Vampyr) and hopes instead to "heal" him.

The Abbott is an extraplaner being and that is creepy:

When you think "cosmic horror" in dnd, you think of aberrations -- creatures so alien to our reality that they appear twisted, even warping reality by their very presence. But all extraplaner beings are from a reality that is alien to our own.

The Abbot is from a place of pure Law, Light and Virtue (probably the slopes of Solania on Mount Celestia, but no need to be that specific.) He does not belong to this plane, and that should be clear after speaking to him for even a few minutes.

He knows the limits of mortal bodies, but does not truly understand them. He's met countless souls that became archons, but far fewer living mortals. He has a basic understanding of mortal psychology, but is constantly baffled by it, always expecting it to be more simple and straightforward than it actually is.

He understands all creatures and actions on a simple scale of "good" and "evil," and sees evil as a disease to be cured. He sees moral failings as corruption and sickness, and the suffering and despair they cause as symptoms to be treated. Physical and spiritual illness are almost one and the same to him. This is obviously not a wise way of looking at the world.

Above all the Abbot considers himself a healer, which is reflected in his language. He speaks of "healing" Strahd's evil, of the rot in this land that must be cut out, of a desire to see Barovia through a period of recovery. This should be creepy, evoke SCP-049 vibes.

When idle, the Abbot's eyes drift upwards, towards the heavens. He (inaccurately) believes he is incapable of "bad" emotions, such as pride, greed, unrighteous anger and spite.

He truly believes that if he achieves his goal, Strahd will be "cured" of all that makes him cruel and malevolent, becoming a good and noble ruler. No longer a vampire, but a powerful and virtuous immortal being of a celestial nature.

Vasilka and the Abbot's goals:

As Strahd's obsession with Tatyana is not romantic in my game, making Vasilka a 'bride' for Strahd doesn't have thematic parallels anymore. The Abbot's plan has been changed accordingly.

The Abbot is aware he is corrupted and compromised. He believes that if he had remained pure, he would have the power to "heal" Strahd of his wickedness, but that by the time he saw the vampire face to face, he had already become tainted. Therefore, his goal is to create a "perfect being," one pure and holy enough to succeed where he has failed.

The Abbot does not rob graves, as he considers dead flesh tainted and unusable for his constructed body. Therefore, he is always looking for people willing to "donate" to his cause.

He does not take these "donations" by force, but he is not above taking advantage of desperate circumstances. People who come to him to have someone raised from the dead, or to have some terrible condition cured will find the Abbot more than happy to help... in exchange for a "donation to the church," of course.

Don't worry, though -- you won't have to lose an arm, leg, face or organ! He'll gladly replace anything he takes, fitting you with new parts fashioned from whatever he has lying around.

"Vasilka" as they currently exist is an enormous worm-like collection of body parts stitched together and animated by celestial light -- mindless, and alive only in the most basic sense of the word. It is unclear if they would even be able to leave the room they are kept in, or if they'd be crushed under the weight of their own form. They are a horror, but the Abbot sees nothing but beauty in them.

It is clear that Vasilka will never be finished. A perfect being is an impossible goal. The Abbot has convinced himself that he just needs to keep building, keep improving, and soon his creation will be ready to surpass him... any day now.

He cannot be swayed from this belief by any means, because it is the only thing that gives him hope and allows him to see the suffering he causes as just and right.

Vasilka was Saint Markovia's first name. They are named in honor of her.

Vasilka cannot move, speak or take actions. They have an AC of 14 (natural armor) and 616 HP. Their creature type is Monstrosity, they have immunity to radiant damage and resistance to lightning damage.

Getting help from the Abbot:

The Abbot can raise the dead and cure a number of ailments, but doing so drains him to a degree. And so in exchange for his charity, he expects charity in return.

(Don't tell him that's not what 'charity' means, he'll just get upset.)

The first thing he will ask for is the best and strongest body parts the players have to offer. He promises to give them 'good as new' substitutes. Saying yes to this offer will have consequences.

If the party is unwilling to part with their limbs and organs, the Abbot can send them to tend to some of the more "difficult" patients. Or perhaps there are a few who fled the abbey in a blind panic upon being resurrected that the Abbot is concerned for, and wants them brought back where he can "care for them."

The Abbot has attempted to cure vampirism before. It did not go well. However, he thinks he has learned from his past errors, and would be willing to try again.

Though the Abbot hides his true nature from the people of Krezk (fearing they will not understand and be frightened) he is open about it to his patients, and to anyone from outside Barovia. He knows people from Faerun are more likely to have some concept of extra-planer beings like himself, and expects any good-natured humanoids to see him positively.

The Abbot once had the ability to know the nature of a person's soul simply by looking at them. In his time in Barovia, however, he has become too tainted and corrupted, and now his vision is as muddled as any mortal's.

The Patchfolk:

Don't use the word m***relfolk. "Patchfolk" is a fine alternative. The Abbot refers to them as "patients."

Take out all of the generic "scary insane/comedic insane" behavior for the patchfolk. Some of them will have odd or uncanny behavior due to circumstances (see below,) but for the most part this is about body horror, not "madness."

Emphasize the extreme and fantastic nature of the alterations to the patchfolk's bodies, try to avoid accidental parallels to physical disability.

The patchfolk are not neglected, they are fed and kept clean and kept as comfortable as possible under the circumstances. (The words "under the circumstances" are carrying a lot of weight here.)

They are no longer descended from a family that was trying to remove birth defects. They are a hodgepodge of people who came to the abbot for a cure from some mundane or supernatural illness, people who were raised from the dead at a cost, and a few weirdos who came to the abbot to "improve" themselves.

There are three main "categories" of patchfolk:

Recovered: these are people who the Abbot was able to heal completely of whatever ailment (or death) they were originally plagued with. Aside from a 'stitched together' look and some mismatched body parts, they're largely humanoid and mobile.

Some of them covered their strange features with bandages and long sleeves and simply returned to Krezk, or went elsewhere. Others remained at the abbey, either afraid to return home or because they wished to stay and help care for the others.

Their stats are as outlined in the Creatures of Horror book, but with the ability scores of either a Commoner, Priest or Gladiator.

Convalescent: Sometimes a patient comes to the abbot with an ailment beyond his abilities. He tries his best, but the results are often... horrifying.

A family struck with an unnatural plague is healed of their ailments, but their altered flesh rejects all his transplants, so he's forced to stitch them all together into one body. An undead creature is raised from the dead, but something goes wrong in the process, and it returns as a giant leech monster whose flesh is constantly rotting and requires frequent grafts, etc.

These people are resigned to the idea that they cannot leave the abbey. Their personalities range from "I have no mouth and I must scream" to "I have a mouth and I am screaming" to "I am capable of conversation and resigned to my gruesome fate, basically I just hope someone brings me a nice book or some chocolates sometimes" to "we are the borg."

Convalescents have a variety of statblocks. Some creatures that can be slightly altered and reskinned as Convalescents include Maw Demons, Sorrowsworn, or Shambling Mounds. Damage resistances can be replaced by resistance to radiant, lightning or both. Languages are replaced with Common, and their creature type is either humanoid, monstrosity, or celestial.

Experiments/pets: These are things the abbot has created from "spare parts" that for one reason or another could not be used. They were either experiments to help the abbot "improve his medicine," or simply made as a way to keep these parts fresh until they can be more of use.

A hand attached to a leg that pulls itself along by its fingers, a cluster of limbs attached at the center, a mindless head kept in a birdcage, etc. They mostly behave like animals that have no need to eat, sleep or mate. They'll amble around aimlessly, respond negatively to painful sensations and positively to pleasant ones.

These have a variety of statblocks. Creatures that can be easily reskinned include Maw Demons, Crawling Claws, and almost any kind of animal or giant animal. None of them have language or an intelligence higher than 4. Damage resistances can be replaced by resistance to radiant, lightning or both. Their creature type is monstrosity or celestial.

#curse of strahd #curse of strahd homebrew #the abbot

[thetalesofno-one]

Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. I -Disparate Company-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/? Chapter 1/5 ~3.9k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary A hollow Ghost with a haunted heart. A lost Rebel seeking the missing. A sharp-tongued Charmer carving his own fate. And a Holy Man carrying the dawn's light. Each drawn from the lands of Faerûn like cards from a cursed deck and laid upon blood spilled Barovia. Their fates intertwine in the mists, but secrets and demons follow these souls into a world that will chip away at their limits and break them body and spirit. Four broken pieces, one story. Follow them through the misty forest and into the shadow of Barovia.

Emet An’srivarr found his hand absently wandering over the silversteel holy symbol in his pocket. A recent habit and one he’d already like to break. The gentle weight of it once rested over his chest where any could see, a token of not just his faith but his purpose and position. Now the tarnished metal sits like a stone, hiding beneath the faded folds of his dark clothing, the black of the fabric a shallow shadow of what it once was. 

Like him…

His eyes narrow at the thought, not liking the comparison. Yet it is one he cannot deny either. The ghost of a survivor, the ghost of himself, and as a few wandering eyes are drawn his way he realizes the ghost of this town. Long wavy white hair drifts past his broad armored shoulders and sharp elven ears, the strands brushing past pale silver eyes narrowed in permanent suspicion beneath a darkened brow. With ashen greyed skin fully wrapped from neck to toe in the faded black cloth and slate metal of his unadorned armor, he likely looks like a wraith. But he’s use to it, half remembering the jests of those who once fought beside him. Now ghosts themselves.

But ghosts don’t wear scars. The dead are absolved of every symbol of pain, even the deepest mar smoothed like clay beneath a stream in death’s waters. It’s as though the sorrows of life cannot touch the soul—not truly. A strange comfort perhaps, but Emet still wears his. 

A long winding scar—fresh enough to stand darkened against his pale flesh, but old enough to have mostly healed—cuts across his face, disappearing beneath the high collar of his shirt. A few others decorate his chin and ear, disappearing beneath the dark faded collar and stretching into an elaborate tapestry of pain beneath the shadows of his clothes where none can see.

Emet’s fingers continue to wander the hills and valleys of the embossed metal symbol buried in the folds of his pocket like an addict pawing at his next fix—always craving, never satisfied. He constantly finds his nails tracing the cold metal these past few months, his hands seeking the irritant like sand in the mouth of a mollusk. But this irritant will never smooth into a pearl for him. 

The moon elf frowns as his nail traces the deep cut that now scars the familiar face of the holy symbol. The blade that caused it wasn’t particularly sharp, but the force behind it parted more than just the metal. Emet forces his hand to release the token of his dead life wishing he had rid himself of it. It is tarnished with dried blood he’ll never get out.

His mood soured with memory, Emet stalks past the customers of the Nightmare Bridle Tavern like a towering wraith. Many eyes follow him, some glazed with the dull shine of drunken malaise that will turn this moment into a half remembered dream the next morning. Did you see that giant’s ghost in the tavern? Emet’s shoulders brush past the heads of those around him, heads that then turn to stare wide eyed up at him as he passes. Having the blood of giants somewhere in the annals in his ancestry gifted him with an imposing figure that makes it difficult to simply blend in and slip away. Something he greatly wishes for in this moment.

Quietly slipping toward the final patron blocking the door—the red cheeked man spouting loud boastful tales of conquering another ten ales this Harvest Tide—Emet’s pardons go unheard. He hesitates then steels himself as he sets a light hand on the man’s shoulder, easing him aside to slip past. The large rosy-cheeked man—human, this one—whips around for a fight and practically looses his bowels as his eyes meet Emet’s chest instead of his eyes, the lush forced to look up for what might be the first time since his chest sprouted that forest of hair rolling out of his shirt.

“When the fuck did we get giants?!”

Emet ignores him and steps through the now cleared doorway, shaking off a tremor as he rubs the hand that settled on the other man’s shoulder. He can still feel hands on him, still feel their fingers as they grasp him, clinging to him. They never let go. Never let him breathe.

Emet forces his lungs to take in a steadying breath of autumn air as he skirts around the tavern, the bite of the night’s cold filling his lungs with a sharp chill enough to stop the panic before it spirals. He watches his warm breath swirl about his face in the light of the bright windows spilling out honeyed light of hearth and flame mixed with the sounds of clinking glass, loud laughter, and tall tales. He can still feel their hands like cool weights on his skin, but at least he can breathe now.

The moon elf stalks beyond the merriment spilling out the tavern’s walls and into the festival crowds with their bright colorful lights, walking further still until the people become fewer and the noise dims beneath padded shadows.

There at the edge of the town with its bright festivities stands a crooked stable, its weary walls leaning heavily against a line of trees at its side like a crutch. Hobbled and humble and right where the barkeep said it would be. Merely a handful of steps past the tavern so even the drunkest of patrons might stagger their way back to their steeds.

The weathered barn looms above Emet, its rickety doors shedding paint like snakeskin with the gentle sound of horses nickering beyond. Every inn several miles out is spilling out drink and drunkards like over-poured wine. This sagging stable is all the town has to offer him for the night, the rooms all booked to the brim with visitors and travelers come to enjoy the festivities. Part of him absently wishes he could say the same, but as Emet’s hand pauses on the door’s rusting latch, the glint of amber lashed to the back of his gauntleted hand holds his attention once more.

No. He is here for a very different reason.

A paladin once, now a no one who will spend his night in the company of horses. It seems fitting…after what happened…

Emet gives the aging barn’s tilted doors a light shove, the wood scraping firmly through an old channel in the dirt. Paint flakes off around his gauntlets like snow as the rusted hinges let out a banshee wail grating against Emet’s sharp elven ears unpleasantly. Within, several sets of eyes meet his, only a few of them belonging to the horses. 

It seems his night won’t be spent alone after all.

A shame.

Atop the hayloft, a young half-elven woman with a grudge against the world glares at him as though he’s already personally offended her. One eye a shade of blue befitting the strange caverns beneath the sea, the other a white so pale it pierces the soul, stare out from a pale pointed face covered in metal piercings. Several studs and rings decorate everything from her brows to her chin, her lips painted in a dark pigment and eyes lined in kohl. The woman’s long black hair is shorn short on the sides, the length of the top streaked with a shock of white and teased into a mohawk above her armored shoulders. 

The armor is fitted perfectly to her form—made for her—not bought or borrowed, but crafted with care. It’s the shoulders that give it away. The plates sit perfectly without a gap between her neck and the chest plate. And though it is well made, it is not well worn. No small dents left over from battle, no little scrapes missed during a buffing. It is too pristine to have been worn anywhere outside of ceremony. The short dark skirt worn over fishnets and the thick platform boots that add a handful of inches to her height are an unfamiliar sight to be worn under armor, the boots tapping dully against the floor in an irritated rhythm. The young woman glares at Emet with an open grimace as though he’s let himself into her personal chambers. Though by the two other “guests” present, this is far from a private space. 

A roguishly handsome tiefling man leans back in a half broken chair flipping a silver coin and looking in desperate need of a drink. His hellish red skin holds a faint light even in this dim space as though the infernal blood within can never be darkened and the rust-brown of his eyes carries the weight of some unspoken tragedy. Dressed in what might have been fine leather armor once, the tiefling hides the wear beneath a well worn overcoat kissed by the dark charcoal singe of fire. Emet swears he can scent the faintest hint of old smoke about him. 

It’s clear the man’s thoughts are a world away. Emet’s not sure the man even realizes someone else has shown up to their little party. He eyes the twin horns curling tightly over the tiefling’s skull like the dark hair slicked back with oil. A sharp red tail swishes across the dirty barn floor, sweeping aside errant straws of hay and a bow string stretches tightly against the man’s chest, the longbow itself bearing darkened char along one edge as though seared in flame. Emet can’t help but wonder if the mortal devil clawed himself up from hells this very night just to grace this barn with his presence. He certainly seems the commanding type, someone who expects attention even as he changes faces like masks. Charming as a thief and half as handsome. Trouble, in other words. 

Seated between the two, crosslegged atop a bale of hay with a shepherd staff set across his knees is an older human dressed in faded gold and white robes. Chained mail glints faintly beneath the folds of the cloth and a shield emblazoned with a sunrise over a green field leans against a nearby post. Tanned skin weathered into a map of lines beneath his smooth shaved head, the man holds his face with the warm reverence and serenity Emet has only ever seen in those most secure in their devotion to the gods—forever at peace with the chaos so long as celestial words can claim a divine plan in them. A metal sun hangs on a chain around his salt and pepper bearded neck, framed perfectly between wrinkled strong hands held in quiet prayer. A holy man, but not the same god as the forsaken token in Emet’s pocket. Lathander, if Emet isn’t mistaken. God of Life or Light or some such revered notion.

Though the holy man wears the contented smile of those raised in the comfort and security of those cages they call temples, forever sheltered from the blood soaked earth beyond their holy walls, this one carries callouses not worn by books or parchment and the raising of hands in song. Strong hands thickened by hardship press together at the fingertips in prayer, that accursed sun glinting between them. And if one weren’t looking—weren’t studying—the way Emet finds he always does, they wouldn’t see the faint scars along the large knuckles or the ones hidden in the ridges of the human’s weathered face. They wouldn’t see the faint crease in the metal around the sun on his shield as though hastily hammered out by an unskilled hand. One that couldn’t afford the blacksmith’s hammer.

Each of them are armed and armored in their own fashion, dangerous in their own right, Emet suspects. One would think them a party of adventurers if the distance between them did not whisper strangers. Seems the barkeep will make a pretty copper off more than just Emet for such accommodating lodging this festival season. 

One of the horses whips her head and stomps her hoof as if in response, snorting disapprovingly at the latest intruder to her kingdom of hay this night. Emet gives the horse a comforting click of his tongue and a gentle rub along her soft nose in tribute before moving past to find his own place among these strangers. 

Two blades rest on his hips, one a simple steel short sword that looks more like a dagger with his height, the other the bladed end of a glaive broken off at the haft, now wielded like a sword. His hand rests atop the broken glaive as he approaches, out of habit if nothing else. A wave of memory crashes like the sea against the walls of Emet’s mind when his hand brushes the purple cloth wrapped along the broken haft, the rich color stained darkly in old blood. But he swallows it down bitter as salt water, turning the emotion aside to glare at the amber shard lashed to his hand instead. 

It led him here, but why?

What good is a town enthralled in the merry throes of a festival for him? What answers could he possibly find in the eyes of drunks and celebrants. Being surrounded by strangers is the last thing he desires when ghostly hands grasp his soul and refuse to give him peace—

A crash of heavy thunder and the blinding flash of lightning answers his anger, the burst of heaven flame filtering through the unsealed wooden plank walls in sharp lines across the hay strewn floors, startling the horses into a frenzy. Emet doesn’t remember the skies being clouded, the moon was bright just a moment ago.

The storm beyond the barn picks up, heavy winds battering the timeworn frame and sending little twisters of loose hay spinning across the floor. 

What is this? 

All sound of festivity fades and drifts away. Not the sounds of a party winding down for an unexpected storm with the curses and laughter a sudden rain would bring, but as though the barn were set atop a raft being carried away on the deck of a departing ship. The sound of celebration continues unbroken, slipping away across the distance until only the storm remains.

Mist and fog slither through the walls, curling and pooling across the floor, beckoning. The amber lashed to Emet’s hand hums and glows faintly brighter, the stone lifting his hand like a lover and pulling him towards the doors as the crooked panels are thrown open in a burst of powerful wind. He tries to hold his ground, but the amber pull is relentless and something in its call wraps around his mind with a gentle caress, numbing his senses and he finds he wants to follow. 

A white feather bathed in golden light sweeps past Emet’s face, carried on strange winds out the barn doors toward the thick mists. The old holy man chases after it with a youthful spring in his step and behind him the half elven woman grips a brooch at her neck, leaning back slightly as though someone has taken hold of it and drags her forward. Emet’s own amber shard continues to urge him to follow them and he gives in with the promise of answers filling his head. Behind them all, the tiefling follows at full sprint, the distant expression now wide eyed and sharp as though flames lick at his heels. 

Beyond the swaying barn doors, mist swallows the town like a wave. Crashing and spilling and consuming until there is nothing beyond the hazy shadow of the what was beyond the veil. Buildings fade to great looming shapes, people dissolved into little more than blurred silhouettes and washed further still until they are no more. A whole town swallowed whole. 

Still they run, the old man chasing his blazing feather now leading the group of strangers like the beacon of a lighthouse in the empty. All fades beyond the fog, all shapes and shadows dissolved into mist. There is no time for understanding or stopping to question why, there is only the desire to survive. Each driven forward with a pull and a promise. Sweet wordless whispers of answers. 

Beneath their pounding feet, another pulse beats. It begins slow, barely noticed beneath his boots at first as Emet follows the amber shard’s pull and the beacon of a feather. But the pulse deepens, striking the bones of the land with an unmistakable ripple of power. He wonders if he treads across the chest of a sleeping god before everything suddenly stops.

An impossible silence swallowing every breath, every beat, every thought.

And just as quickly as it set, it passes. 

The fog withdraws in bowed supplication, the tendrils wrapping like fingers of the dead across his feet and face before slinking back. Emet’s pulse quickens as that cool touch leaves him, a spike of some raw and desperate thing within him reaching out with feral claws to drag it back—No! You can’t take—a familiar gentle chill settles along Emet’s arm with a comforting press.

I’d thought…

The presence remains unwavering, soothing the ravaged creature inside the forsaken paladin. The others soon return as well, their touch unwelcome and sending nauseous chills down Emet’s spine. Grasping him desperately, holding to him like an anchor in a storm. Emet wants to crawl out of his skin, shake them all off—all but that one—but he can’t. His heart continues to run a race behind his ribs, the pulse pounding in his ears long after they all stop running, but no…Emet breathes, settling his nerves.

The others did not see. 

Good.

But his concern shifts as he sees what holds the others’ attention. An ancient forest of dark trees, barren boughs tangled and withered, reaching endlessly like beggars hands toward the dark gloomy skies above them. Though the impossible silence is gone, part of it still remains. Only the whisper of wind through the aged branches speaks in this place. A light rain starts, the drops falling like tears over his armor.

A path stretches ahead with no worn ground behind, starting at the very place where their feet stand, here in the midst of nowhere. 

The old human leans down to pick up his snow white feather, no longer alight in holy glow, no longer carried on guiding winds. The brooch around the young half elf’s neck and the amber shard along his own hand have stilled as well. Emet shifts his blade arm beneath the black cloak draped over one shoulder, brushing his hand across the broken glaive once more as he surveys their new surroundings.

Emet’s voice is soft and rough, worn at the edges. He swallows back the last remainder of tightness in his throat as he asks, “Do any of you recognize this place?”

“What do you think I am, some kind of hobo?” the half elven woman bites back, old venom behind the youth in her voice. Her glaring eyes hold a strange kind of magic behind their judgement. Not the glint of a wizard’s pride or the mystery of eldritch power whispering through, but something else. Something he can’t quite place.

The tiefling turns on them all. In one swift motion, he draws the short sword at his belt and traces its point across each of them, “Which of you magic idiots did this?”

The half elven woman eyes his blade with a snarl, “I’m not a fan of people who draw weapons first and ask questions after.”

The tiefling sees the wall of eyes watching his every move with hostile intent. Something shifts in his expression and body language then like a costume being changed, a new role to better fit the part as he waves the blade around like it wasn’t just pointed at them before finally sheathing it, “I’m pointing it, it’s not a threat.”

A lie. The “charmer” of a tiefling changes his tune with deft ease, shifting into a new part to better play the people before him like a bard switches songs before the crowd can chase him from the stage. He will be one to watch carefully. Emet doesn’t buy the wasted breath of an excuse for a moment and neither does the rebel half elf.

The charmer sets his hands on his hips, mumbling half to himself with a drinker’s rough grated throat, the faint whiff of alcohol likely permanent on his breath, “Right well, I’m gonna track my way back.” His eyes wander over the unfamiliar terrain, “…or to somewhere with civilization. You can come along if you want,” he adds almost as an afterthought. “Nice, uh, whatever.” The charmer waves them off dismissively, already abandoning the false niceties as he checks the path ahead. 

Wagon tracks start beneath their feet, coming from nowhere and leading deeper into the fog of the dark forest. No other souls in sight, no town, no civilization. Nothing. Everything swallowed by the mist and the strange forest.

Emet sighs, “Seems we’re stuck together for now.”

“Oh no, you guys are stuck,” the charmer sweeps a sharp finger across them like the sword not moments before, “I’m not stuck. I’m getting out.” 

The tiefling turns on his heel and trudges down the strange wagon path as though he’s walked it a hundred times before, never once checking to see if anyone follows.

“I think we should follow the man.” 

The holy man’s voice is deceptively young, lilting with an unfamiliar accent that brings to mind deserts and endless sun, lands Emet has never seen and only heard of in books.

“Hey, old guy.” 

The holy man regards the half elven rebel eyeing him. She wears a different expression than the ‘burn the world with you in it’ one she’s given Emet since the moment he walked through the barn doors. “You’re human right? Trouble seeing in the dark?”

Though her words are full of condescension, Emet notes a faint hint of concern.

“Yes, but I can do this.” The holy man grins and speaks a few hushed words beneath his breath. Spreading out like molten glass from his hands, the shepherd crook lights up in a dawn glow with a flash of magic.

The rebel gives him an approving nod and uses the same spell on her own armor, though the light shining off the formal chainmail is a deeper blue in color.

“I think we are where we are meant to be,” the holy man shrugs. “At least for me.” He walks off after the charmer still powering down the path, the mists half swallowing him from view already.

Left behind, Emet and the rebel share a brief look. She chews a painted nail, its end chipped with polish peeling like tree bark as she absently worries away the edge with her teeth. Pinching her eyes shut, she whispers a soft ‘fuck’ and drags her heavy boots through the mud to catch up. 

Emet knows he’ll follow. Where else is there to go, after all? But his eyes wander back to the amber shard lashed to back of his gauntleted hand like an arcane focus. Its smooth surface is dull and stagnant, all echo of its guidance and promises now gone. Taking a chilling breath of the icy air, Emet follows the silhouettes of those ahead of him into the mist. 

A rebel, a charmer, and a holy man. What did that make him?

#curse of strahd #dnd #d&d #dungeons and dragons #strahd von zarovich #d&d campaign #dnd campaign #dnd vampire #barovia #strahd #dnd fiction #dnd fic #my fiction #fiction writing #dark fantasy #gothic fantasy #my writing #creative writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #dnd strahd #ravenloft #strahd campaign

[strvhd]

He almost feared arriving too late. Caught off guard by a recent lot of brave, but foolish adventurers. Perhaps his eyes were wide in fear. A panic writ across his face with crimson eyes blown wide. Covered in the blood of the adventurers he had slain. The very same that made an attempt on Strahd’s life. “Get up damn you!” His teeth pierce his own flesh at the wrist. He holds the wound to the Baron’s mouth.

And so this is it? Taking an injury to the tome would be the thing that got him. He's still not sure how they managed to get their hands on it. Strahd drifted in and out of focus. Barovia always come to him in the form of an old woman. Sometimes he wonders if this what Eva looks like. He does suppose they would look a like.

" Fool. " She says and truthfully he cannot deny it. He looks into her eyes. Not for the first time. He wonders if in another life this old woman is him. The mangled remains of a great nation now existing as the fallacy of the Mist King. Here he is not a baron, a vampire, or feared. He is the mists. He is Barovia. And as this old woman looks at him with her unblinking beady eyes. He knows she's threw every plan he has. " He calls to you. Return to him. You are undead yet."

The taste of Astarion is exquisite on his tongue. Jolting him to wakeness and out of reviere of mists. " Little star. " He utters the words like a prayer, drinking from the wound like that were the only thing in the world worth tasting.

#apalestar #in barovian blood. ( asks. )

[briarbeets-kittypeats]

Chapter One: Ophelia Firedance

Ireena Kolyana Ireena peered out the back of the vibrantly decorated wagon, fingers picking at the gold embroidery of a purple silk pillow. Bits and pieces of Ismark and Ezmerelda’s conversation drifted back to her from the front. 

“...sorry about your father…” She couldn’t place the Vistana’s accent, and she wondered if it was another dread domain like Barovia, or if it was from the outside world. 

Before she could catch Ismark’s reply, the wagon came to an abrupt halt and she found herself pitched onto the floor, hand grasping wildly to try and catch herself. Unfortunately, she only managed to yank a blazing scarlet curtain right off the only window and onto herself. 

A knock from the front. “Ireena? Are you alright in there?” Ismark called. 

She flipped the curtain back from her face. “I’m fine. What happened?”

“Someone’s injured. Just wait.” 

Ireena sat up and carefully peeked out the window, growing frustrated when she couldn’t see anything. Sighing, she did her best to fix the curtain rod back into place. The back of the wagon opened and Ezmerelda helped a young woman with peachy red skin and dark magenta hair into the back of the wagon. Her thigh gushed blood from several puncture wounds, and claw marks marred her hip and arm. 

“What happened?” Ireena asked, dropping the curtain.

The girl glanced up with a sheepish smile. “Chasing some werewolves. I was going to go for something more tactical, but noticed they were trailing your wagon. Didn’t know if you could defend yourselves or not, so I bit off a little more than I could chew. They had no problem chewing me, though.” She indicated her wounds. “But I’m okay. I healed the worst of it, I think.”

Ireena and Ezmerelda exchanged a glance, but looking at the stranger’s round, spritely face, Ireena had the feeling the girl couldn’t lie to save her life. Though it was a tight squeeze with all three of them, she and Ezmerelda helped the newcomer onto the cot by the window. 

“It was reckless to take on those werewolves by yourself,” Ezmerelda scolded her. 

“I’m kind of known for it.” 

“Did you contract lycanthropy?” Ireena asked, casting an uncertain eye on the pale gray clouds above them. Night wouldn’t fall for several hours, but what would that mean for the girl? Could she control it? She appeared to be a monk, judging by her light clothing, lack of armor, and the fact she didn’t appear to carry any weapons. 

The girl grimaced. “Maybe you should leave me on the road. I think I can keep it at bay, since it won’t be a full moon for a while, but I wouldn’t want to hurt any of you.” 

“Not an option,” Ezmerelda said firmly. “I have a friend who may be able to help with your condition.” 

Ireena ran her tongue along her teeth with a small sigh. “Besides, you’re not the only ‘monster’.” She flashed her fangs. “I’m half vampire, myself.”

The girl gave a full smile, displaying her own canines - all four of them elongated, rather than just the two top ones. 

“Hobgoblins are considered monsters where I’m from. My name’s Ophelia Firedance.” She held out her uninjured hand. “What’s yours?” 

Ireena shook it. “Ireena Kolyana–” 

All three of them tensed at a distant howl. “We’ll get more acquainted in Vallaki.” Ezmeralda hopped out of the back, slamming the door behind her. Ireena hurried to try and fix the curtain, stumbling as the wagon lurched into motion. 

Trying and failing to hide a wince, Ophelia stood and helped her. Despite her injuries and the fact she was a few inches shorter than Ireena, the hobgoblin managed to fix the rod to the wall in a matter of seconds. Ireena helped her sit back down as the wagon picked up speed. 

“Why have you come to Barovia?” 

Ophelia blinked. “Is that where I am? I thought the place had a pretty crazy vibe, even outside of the heavy mists. I was tracking the werewolves at the request of a hermit living in the outskirts of Cyrengreen Forest. And then I ran into some Vistani, and they told me about the vampire lord that ruled this place and dropped me off in the forest. Don’t know where they went, though. One of them was named Arrigal, and honestly, he felt kind of off, but didn’t seem like the worst guy.” 

Ireena had never met anyone so talkative and open. It was the kind of behavior that could get a person killed by Vistani spies or Vampire Spawn. “You want to take on The Devil?” 

“Yeah, I heard that Str–” 

Ireena covered her mouth. “Don’t say his name!” She hissed. “It draws his attention, and I cannot afford to have his attention right now.” She carefully removed her hand. “Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do.” Ireena ran a hand through her hair with a small sigh. “But killing him is a death wish. A powerful wizard already tried to lead a band of rebels to storm his castle.” Her throat tightened as she thought of poor Doru. 

“Didn’t go well?” Ophelia asked softly. She touched Ireena’s hand. 

“We lost a lot of good people. And our church was ruthlessly hounded by wolves and vampire spawn in retaliation, so we’ve lost even more trying to defend it and my father’s manor.”

“I’m still going to try.”

Ireena’s eyebrow twitched. “Are you an idiot?”

Ophelia shrugged. “Most people say so.” 

Ireena blinked at her. “I suppose that’s why you’re in this condition.” 

Ophelia nodded. “Yep.”

“You’re not even a little frightened? I mean, what can one reckless girl do against a tyrant who has been terrorizing this land for centuries?”

Ophelia’s lips pursed a little. “Well, not as much as I’d like,” she admitted. “But Arrigal said that once I crossed the mists, there’s no going back. So, I might as well do all I can for this land, right? Who knows? Even if I die, I might provide stepping stones for someone else to succeed.” 

Ophelia Firedance was so nauseatingly sincere that Ireena wanted to slap her. What kind of world did she grow up in, to look at such a hopeless reality and think she could actually do something about it? 

“What’s your plan, then?” Ireena finally asked. 

“You’re going to hate me.”

Ireena rubbed her face with both hands, inhaling deeply through her nose. “You have no idea. You really have no clue?” 

She at least had the decency to look apologetic. 

“Figured I’d assess the situation and start fixing some of the smaller problems before I take on the root, you know?” 

“And you came here alone,” Ireena added. 

Ophelia looked away. “Not my best move, I’ll admit. But can’t go back now. And I’m hoping to find a few like-minded people.” 

“You’re going to die. That doesn’t scare you?”

“Not really, no.”

“If you die here, your soul will never be free from here.”

“Arrigal said as much.” “And you’re still not afraid?”

“I mean, I guess I’m just scared of other things.” 

“Like what?” Ophelia winked. “That’s a pretty personal question for a stranger, don’t you think?” 

Despite herself, Ireena was fascinated. This mysterious, injured hobgoblin with her bubbly recklessness and lively aquamarine eyes. If death in a land that hadn’t seen the sun in Morning Lord knows how long didn’t frighten her, then what did? Ireena jumped slightly as Ismark slid the door to the wagon open. She’d fallen asleep, her head on Ophelia’s arm, and Ophelia’s cheek on her head. She hadn’t realized she’d nodded off.

“We’re in the Vistani encampment,” he announced. “Ezmerelda’s talking to Kasimir, now.”

Ophelia sat up with a yawn. “Who’s Kasimir?”

“A dusk elf ally of this encampment.” Ismark held a hand out to help Ireena down, then Ophelia. “Some rest should do you good.”

“I already feel much better,” she assured him. “Thank you.” 

Ireena looked around at the low houses built into the side of the grassy hill. They were elegantly carved, with decorative lanterns hanging from the sculpted eaves. Above the fog at the top of the hill, a ring of barrel-topped wagons surrounded a large tent. From the top of the tent, a large column of smoke poured out through a hole. She could smell the wine and horses even from this distance. 

Ezmerelda shut the wagon doors behind Ophelia. Ireena met Ismark’s eyes and drew her hood more tightly around her face. 

“Ophelia, you’ve already met Arrigal. His brother, Luvash, runs this encampment,” she said. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Say nothing of why you’re here until Kasimir invites us into his home. I need you to look me in the eyes and promise.”

Ophelia frowned slightly. “I promise.” 

Ezmerelda searched her face for several heartbeats before she finally nodded. “Alright. Hopefully, we’ve arrived before Arrigal.” 

Ismark looked at the wagon. “I doubt it. Doesn’t he normally just travel on horseback?”

Ezmerelda closed her eyes and sighed. “Well, there’s nothing for it. We need to speak to Kasimir. This way.” She circled the hill, leading them to the opposite side of it. 

Standing quietly in front of this house, bathed in the warm light of its lanterns, were three sullen, gray-cloaked figures. Their angular features and black, flowing hair were half hidden under their cowls. Ireena’s heart gave a little lurch. They reminded her of…something. A fleeting memory of her mother’s voice, but the more she tried to concentrate on the words, the more distorted the voice became. 

“Ezmerelda,” The one in the middle said. “We were beginning to worry you’d never arrive.” 

“We had a little trouble, though less than expected.” Ezmerelda glanced back at Ophelia. 

The guard on the left nodded. “Well, go on in. There’s been quite a bit of trouble here, as well.” He opened the door for them. 

After a glance at Ismark, Ireena stepped into the hovel. The vestibule was decorated with colorful fabrics, customary of the Vistani, but Ireena was more interested in the fire crackling from beyond deep violet curtains. 

She pushed them aside, locking eyes with an elf whose dark hair was streaked with gray. His eyes widened as she approached. “Patrina?” He whispered. 

Ireena pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone by that name.” 

She couldn’t understand the grief in his expression. She hadn’t even known he’d existed until Ezmerelda had brought him up that morning. She looked over her shoulder as the others joined her in the sitting room. 

“No. No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We should proceed with the reading. Miss D’Avenir, if you would.”

Ezmerelda reached into the pocket of her scarlet jacket and pulled out a deck of tarokka cards. 

Kasimir indicated the table in the center of the room, then to the cushions surrounding it. “Sit, please.” 

Ophelia was the first to obey, settling on a bright yellow cushion and scooting closer to the table. She eagerly watched Ezmerelda lay out five cards in a cross formation. She closed her eyes and placed a hand on the card left of the center. “This card tells of history. Knowledge of the ancient will help us to better understand our enemy.” She flipped it over, taking a deep breath. Ireena peered at the card: 6 of Glyphs - the Anarchist. “I see walls of bones, a chandelier of bones, and a table of bones - all that remains of enemies long forgotten.” 

Ezmerelda’s hand moved to the card above the center. “This card tells of a powerful force for good and protection - a holy symbol of great hope.” She flipped it over: 9 of Swords - the Torturer. “There is a town where all is not well. There, you will find a house of corruption, and within, a dark room full of still ghosts.” The card to the right of the center. “This is a card of power and strength. It tells of a weapon of vengeance: a sword of sunlight.” Was it Ireena’s imagination, or did Ezmerelda’s head tilt in Ophelia’s direction as she flipped over 8 of Glyphs - the Bishop. “What you seek lies in a pile of treasure, beyond a set of amber doors.” 

The bottom card. “This card sheds light on one who will help you greatly in the battle against darkness.” Tempter. “I see a man who wields a hand of fire. Touched by evil, he is torn between two roads.”

Ireena and Ismark frowned at each other. Would they all be one puzzle after another, then? None of these clues sounded familiar. 

Ezmerelda placed her hand on the final card, sweat beading on her forehead. “Your enemy is a creature of darkness, whose powers are beyond mortality. This card will lead you to him.” Innocent. “He dwells with the one whose blood sealed his doom, a brother of light snuffed out too soon.” 

Something stirred deep within Ireena. The faint image of a young man’s face, though she couldn’t make out the exact details. A longing she couldn’t explain settled deep into her bones.

Ismark took her hand as Ezmerelda leaned back, wiping at her brow. She opened her eyes and gathered the cards back into the full deck. She was a little paler now, but her shoulders had lost their tension. 

“So, why are we doing the reading in here?” Ophelia asked.

“My home is protected from the Devil’s prying eyes,” Kasimir said. He looked at Ezmerelda. “And I assume you wanted to spirit your friend as far away from Barovia as possible before night fell, which ruled out Madam Eva.”

“The Devil already knows we’re here, but the less he knows about our specific movements, the better.” 

“Why did you need to get Ireena away from Barovia? Also, I thought this was part of Barovia.”

“The town, Barovia,” Ismark clarified. “That’s where Ireena and I are from. The land itself is also called Barovia. Confusing, I know, but that’s how it’s always been. As for why the Devil wants Ireena…” He turned to her. “We don’t have to discuss it.”

“I’m not entirely sure, myself,” Ireena admitted. “All I know is that he’s bitten me once, after days of nonstop attacks on our manor.” Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her pants. “Ezmerelda showed up shortly after our father passed. She suggested that I take refuge in the church of Vallaki.” 

“The Devil is after you because you have the soul of Tatyana,” Kasimir said. 

That strange stirring in her chest again. “What makes you think that?” She asked carefully. “Who is Tatyana?”

“She was his younger brother’s fiance, but the Devil desired her. Hoping to woo her, he killed his brother and asked her to marry him, instead. Frightened of the monster he’d become, she fled from him and threw herself off the highest tower in the castle. Unfortunately, she was too late. The land was already cursed, trapping the souls of all who died here for the rest of eternity.” 

Ireena leaned away from the table as he studied her face. She found that she didn’t want to ask how he could tell whose soul she had. This core part of herself…it wasn’t even hers. Something had always felt…other. Vivid dreams of a blond smiling man she’d never met, whose facial features she could never remember. Ghostly laughter and the feeling of sunshine - real sunshine on her face if she stared at Castle Ravenloft through her window. But if she approached, she was struck by dread, grief, and fear that she couldn’t explain. The chill of wet stone at her back and a paralysis that left her trembling when it finally passed. 

Kasimir wouldn’t know those details, though. Not unless he had an omnipotence like the Devil’s. 

Finally, Kasimir looked away from her. “I suppose you’ll wish to rest here for the night–”

A cacophony of shouting from outside, and Ophelia was on her feet, running toward the door. Ezmerelda and Ismark followed. Ireena glanced at Kasimir, then chased after them, heart in her throat. Had the Devil come for her? Was Kasimir not as protected as he’d said? Or worse, had he been lying to lure them there? After all, hadn’t the interest he’d shown in her been suspicious? 

“A boat! Grab a boat!” A tall, muscular man yelled, pointing to where a man was holding a squirming sack. 

Ophelia ignored him, sprinting into the water and diving in as soon as it was deep enough. Ireena closed her eyes and dipped her fingers in the vial of holy water she always carried. As her skin began to prickle, she breathed a silent prayer to the Everlight. Light her path. Protect whoever or whatever is in that sack.

The fisherman turned and seemingly panicked at Ophelia’s approach, dropping the sack. Ophelia went under. Chest tightening, the bile rose in Ireena’s throat. She tried to cork the holy water, but her hands were shaking so violently, she nearly dropped the vial. 

Ismark’s hand covered her own as he took the holy water from her hands. “Get back inside,” he urged. 

“They’re both going to die. Ismark!” He pushed her inside Kasimir’s hovel and helped the muscular Vistana push a rowboat into the water. Ireena shot from the entryway and ran to the shore, squeezing through gathering dusk elves and Vistani to get a better view. 

The bag burst through the surface of the lake, and for a moment, Ireena saw the twin buns of Ophelia’s hair, but they and the bag began to sink. The bag resurfaced again as Ismark and the Vistana rowed furiously, and the latter grasped the mouth of the bag, hauling it out. 

Ophelia’s head resurfaced and she grasped the side of the boat, nearly slipping back in before Ismark caught her arms and pulled her up, losing his balance and collapsing with her into the boat. The hobgoblin lurched upwards, shoulders heaving as she leaned over the side.

She couldn’t hear what the fisherman was yelling, but he directed his boat toward the other. Ismark laid Ophelia down and drew his sword as the fisherman approached. The Vistana looked up from trying to undo the lip of the bag. Before Ireena fully registered him drawing any weapons, a hand ax was hurtling between the boats. The fisherman barely avoided it cleaving through his skull, and it landed in the water with a dull splash. 

Ophelia’s hand found the bag and she fumbled with the rope. Even from the shore, Ireena could see the strain in her expression. A Vistana next to her drew a bow and arrow as the fisherman drew level with Ismark’s boat and hefted a harpoon. She muttered a curse, evidently unable to find a clean shot. Still, she drew it back, dark eyes searching for an opening.

Ismark deflected with his sword, though the force of the fisherman’s thrust nearly sent him pitching into the water. The Vistana snatched the fisherman by the throat as Ophelia clung to the bag. 

Ismark managed to wrestle the harpoon away from the fisherman as the Vistana tackled him into his own boat. Ireena turned away at the dull thuds that ensued. The Vistana next to her lowered the bow, breathing a sigh of relief. 

“Honestly, the Fisherman is lucky,” she muttered. “Luvash is too drunk to take his time with him.” She hurried to meet the returning rowboat with Ismark, Ophelia, and the little bundle. By the time Ireena’s legs started moving, Ophelia had managed to get the bag open.

“Hi, you’re okay,” Ophelia assured her breathlessly as she brushed the girl’s hair out of her face. “We’ve got you. You’re fine.” 

The Vistana woman pulled the girl out of the boat, wrapping her own cowl around her shoulders. 

Ophelia sagged against Ismark as he helped her out of the boat. Ireena quickly supported her other side. 

“Are you alright?”

“The wolf,” Ophelia gasped, once they were back inside Kasimir’s hovel. “Everything was fine until I felt the pull.” 

“I forgot about that,” Ismark muttered.

Ophelia let out a stuttering laugh. “I didn’t.” 

“Lay her down here,” Kasimir instructed, indicating a pallet of cushions close to the fire.

Ophelia mumbled her thanks as Ismark and Ireena got her settled. 

“Well, it appears you aren’t all talk, after all,” Ireena murmured as she helped her undo the buns. 

Ophelia gave her a wan smile. “Thanks.” It quickly dropped, though. “I resisted tonight, but the full moon isn’t far off. I should probably go hide out in the woods somewhere, far away from anyone I could hurt.”

“We’ll worry about that later,” Ismark said firmly. He looked up as Ezmerelda reentered the tent. 

“Arabelle is going to be fine,” she reported. “Get some rest. Luvash and Arrigal want to speak with Ismark and Ophelia in the morning.” 

Ophelia frowned. “So, Arrigal did beat us here.”

Ezmerelda shrugged. “Nothing for it now. I’ll be in my wagon if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Ireena called after her. 

Ismark followed Kasimir through a door to the left of the sitting room, leaving Ophelia and Ireena alone by the fire. 

It didn’t take long for the hobgoblin to fall asleep, curled up as close to the fire as practicality would allow. Ireena lay next to her, unable to get her mind to stop racing. This time last night, her father had been slain by a vampire spawn. She and her brother had fled with a woman they didn’t know. Everything in her screamed for her to run far, far away from the Devil. But what right would she have to run? Her father had died to protect her. Even if the tarokka cards were less than clear, Ezmerelda had given them clues to defeat the Devil. Ophelia, though naive, had backed up her every word, not hesitating to put her life on the line for a child she’d never met. 

Ireena turned and watched the firelight flicker across Ophelia’s freckled cheeks. Was she really going to sit by and let an outsider fight for her home without her? Her fingers tightened in her blankets. 

My father did not raise a coward.

#curse of strahd #dungeons and dragons #ophelia the hobgoblin way of mercy monk #ireena kolyana #ismark kolyanovich #ezmerelda d'avenir #strahd von zarovich #I decided that Ireena would be a dhampir in this story #Ireena's dhampir status is TOTALLY not going to do some fuckshit later #I promise #dnd #dnd fanfiction #dungeons and dragons fanfiction

[svartalfhild]

From the Mists

Rating: T

Genre: Fantasy, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Words: 4,770

Summary: Vrae flees Kargat justice and is caught in the Mists, which take her to a strange world beyond Ravenloft and the Domains of Dread where the grass is greener, the sky is bluer, and the people are free.

A/N: This is a small story that details a moment in the life of my DnD character, a drow bard who is from Ravenloft, but escapes to the Prime Material Plane for our campaign. This story is about her escape.

Previous Stories: The Oracle and the Officer, (Un)bearable, Shattered, The Mirror is in the Eye of the Muse, Cold, For the Dead We Revel, For the Living We Mourn, Dreaming in the Dark and Waking in the Light, The Nightmaven, Vespera Dignitatis

~ ~ ~

The dense shifting whiteness of the Mists swallowed Vrae in a cold emptiness as the world she knew disappeared behind her.  She was running, running for her life and from her life, leaving behind a kingdom collapsing without its king and a man she both hated and loved, who had chosen to stay behind and sacrifice himself to buy her the chance to live.  The adrenaline of that gamble drove her forward as quickly as her slender legs could take her, and she begged whatever gods might be listening to not let her be lost in the Mists forever, to deliver her somewhere she could live and not let Caspar’s sacrifice be in vain.  She didn’t want to die a meaningless death.  She’d been ready to die by Caspar’s hand, but he had taken that off the table when he’d realized he loved her far more than the now empty throne he had so loyally and misguidedly served.  His moment of redemption had left her in grief and uncertainty.

As the adrenaline faded, Vrae’s pace slowed until it was barely more than a shuffle and she began to really feel the pain her body was in.  She was bleeding more than a simple tune could heal, deep red now staining her entire left side down to her hip.  Whether it was bloodloss or simply the nature of the Mists, she seemed to slowly drift out of time and reason.  She had no idea how long she’d been wandering now, and she began to hear distant voices in the haze, both familiar and unfamiliar alike.

“The loaves will be out in a minute; have some patience, luv,” called out the voice of her dearly departed friend, Shaena Pencroft.

“Les invités seront morts au matin,” whispered a masculine voice in High Mordentish.

“May Lolth wrend your flesh before the eyes of all!” spat a feminine voice before there was a choking noise.  It sounded disturbingly like Olvenriel, Vrae’s resistance cell leader, who was, like Shaena, long dead.

“Ce ar trebui să facem acum?” asked someone in a tone somewhere between hope and fear, speaking a language she was fairly certain was Balok, the language primarily of Barovia.

“If there’s something that can be done, we have to try,” a gentle but firm masculine voice insisted.

“Nau!  Nau!  Xuat xta’rl ukta!” a woman screamed desperately in Drow.  Gods, was that…was that her mother?

“Four rolls of ribbon.  Two green, two purple,” came the slow, craggy voice of the dragonborn tailor she once knew.

All of these voices and a dozen others came to Vrae out of the Mists, along with incoherent screaming, crying, and laughing.  The tailor’s words echoed in her mind.

“Four rolls of ribbon.  Two green, two purple,” she repeated, though she didn’t know why.  It felt like she was trying to comfort someone who wasn’t there, or maybe comfort herself.  Maybe she was the person who wasn’t really there.  She felt cold, wet grass touch her cheek, and a sense of relief washed over her.  She looked up and found she was lying in a dewy meadow under a starry sky.

“We made it,” said the voice she truly wanted to hear, and she turned her head to see Caspar lying in the grass beside her.

“We did,” she replied with a smile.  “What now?”

“I don’t know.  My life belongs to you now.  Whatever you choose, I will accept.”

“I choose peace.”  This earned Vrae a returned smile from Caspar, soft and sweet.  She reached out for his hand, but felt nothing, and when she looked down, he was gone.  “Caspar!” she cried, and she fell into darkness.

~ ~ ~

“She’s alive!  Come quickly!”

“She’s bleeding out.  Hold on.”

“By the gods, what happened to her?”

“Alert Matron Solanine.  The need may be dire.”

Distant voices once again reached Vrae’s ears.  She tried to move, to see what was going on, but her body felt as though it were made of lead.  Her eyes could only make out vague dark shapes above her.

“Caspar…where are you?  I can’t…I can’t feel you.  I’m lost…please don’t…don’t leave me.  I’m sorry…I’m…I’m so sorry,” she muttered.  There were lights and more voices, and hurried motion.  She was scared.  She was so scared.  “Four rolls of ribbon.  Two green, two purple.”  The voices grew more urgent.  Eyes gold like fire stared calmly at her, piercing her soul.  A gentle hand touched her side wound.  There was pain, so much pain.  She screamed until she couldn’t scream anymore.  She wanted out.  She had tasted freedom for just a moment, and she wanted it more desperately than anything.  She would chase it.  She would find that meadow where Caspar lay beneath the stars.  But it was all too much.  Her body couldn’t take it.  Those golden eyes willed her to be calm, even as every fibre of her being shrieked with rage and grief and longing.  Everything was dark and silent again.

~ ~ ~

Vrae awoke in a small dark room, which was fairly barren but for a simple wooden table bearing a cup and pitcher, a nightstand, and a chair in the corner.  The walls were a dark stone, and there was a window, which was shuttered.  The bed creaked loudly as she tried to sit up, and she groaned along with it as she found her muscles stiff and sore.  She also found that her hair was down and she was dressed not in her clothes, but in a simple gray cotton gown and nothing else.  The door at the far end of the room opened and a human woman of middle age wearing black robes entered carrying a bowl, a clean cloth, and a candlestick.  She gave a start upon seeing Vrae was awake and began speaking excitedly in a language Vrae didn’t recognize.  It almost sounded like Vaasi, but none of the words were familiar, though that didn’t necessarily mean anything; she only properly knew a few words of Vaasi.  The woman set the bowl, cloth, and candle on the table and hurried over to her, seeming to be encouraging her to lie back down.  Vrae tried to wave her off, but found herself too weak to resist the woman’s firm hand.

“Taler du vaasisk?” she asked, but the woman gave her an odd look, clearly not understanding.  Not Vaasi then.  “Loquerisne Darcone?”  Didn’t understand Darkonian.  “Vorbesti balocă?”  Nor Balok.  “Parlez-vous mordentique?  Oþþe Mordentisc?”  Nor Mordentish.  “Sprechen Sie Falkownisch?”  Nor Falkovnian.  Fuck, she didn’t know how to ask in any other human languages.  Was it worth it to try Drow, Elvish, or Draconic?  Where the hell was she?

“Sorry, I don’t know what you’re saying.  You speak Common, hun?”  Now that Vrae understood, with great relief, though the woman’s accent was very strange, and she wondered why she hadn’t just spoken Common from the start if she knew it.

“Yes,” she answered simply.

“Oh, good.  Now, as I was saying, don’t strain yourself.  You’ve had a rough few days, and we were starting to worry you wouldn’t wake up.”

“Who’s we?”  Vrae eyed the woman’s robes and saw black feathers sewn decoratively at the shoulders.  Perhaps she was in the care of the Keepers of the Feather.  That would be alright, she supposed.  There were far worse hands to be in.

“You’re in the Temple of the Raven Queen.  We found you lying on the ground not far from here after the fog cleared up.  You were in a real bad way, but Our Lady clearly decided it was not your time, so we brought you in and got you fixed up as best we could,” the cleric explained with a reassuring smile.  Vrae gave her a confused look.

“The Raven Queen?”  This question seemed to confuse the cleric in return, as if she could not conceive of someone being unfamiliar with her god.

“Where are you from?  There aren’t many lands where the name of Our Lady is unknown.”

“I’m from Darkon.  What domain is this?”

“Well, I don’t know about any domain, but you’re in the Breadth Between, just outside the city of Clandestine.  Though maybe you don’t know what that is either, seeing as Darkon’s not on any map I’ve ever seen.  How’d you get here anyway?”

“I walked through the Mists.”  The cleric seemed slightly disturbed by this answer.

“You…walked…through the Mists?”  Vrae didn’t understand what was so strange about what she’d said.

“Yes, that is how one travels from one domain to another, is it not?”  This frustratingly did not seem to clarify anything for her caretaker, though admittedly her slightly sarcastic tone probably hadn’t helped.

“I think perhaps you should have a talk with the matron.  She knows more about this kind of stuff than anyone else around here,” the cleric responded, her brow furrowed in concern and further bewilderment.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m…I’m not sure you’re from this plane.”

“Is this not Ravenloft?”  At the word Ravenloft, the cleric’s eyes went wide and she took a step back.

“I need to get the matron.  Please just relax and I’ll be back soon.”  Vrae watched her hurry from the room, taking the candle with her, and she leaned back into her pillow, which felt oddly plush for temple fare.  Her mind raced at the possibility that she was no longer in Ravenloft.  The idea felt ludicrous.  She’d heard many a tale of “outsiders” in Ravenloft, folk who came from places beyond the Domains of Dread.  She’d even met a couple in her time, strange people who knew nothing of the world and often seemed burdened with naïve minds and soft hearts.  But no one from Ravenloft ever left; no one ever went to the places beyond.  That was entirely unheard of.  Everyone just had a sense that that was against the rules somehow.  Maybe this was another dream.  Maybe she was dead.  Either of those options seemed more plausible.

After Vrae was left to ruminate for several minutes, the cleric returned as promised, and she was accompanied by a rather remarkable figure.  A woman in a beautiful, flowing black gown and an ornate black feathered headdress glided into the room, her pale face partially obscured by a veil of black tule accented with tiny pearls.  Her eyes were a brilliant gold that Vrae found quite familiar.

“We’ve met before,” Vrae said, tilting her head a little in curiosity.  “You were there when the priests brought me in.”

“Indeed.  I am the high priestess, Matron Solanine.  Your arrival caused quite a stir in the temple, I must say,” the high priestess answered in a gentle, slightly rasping voice.  “Alakae tells me you came here through the Mists of Ravenloft.”

“Yes.  Am I to understand that I am no longer in Ravenloft?”

“You are on the Prime Material Plane, the central crossroads of the cosmos.”  Vrae’s eyes widened a little at this, and Solanine came closer, the priestess now identified as Alakae pulling the corner chair over to the bed for the matron to sit in.

“The place beyond,” Vrae muttered in shock, and Solanine gave her a patient nod.

“Tell me, what is your understanding of your world’s place in the cosmos?”

“I…well, the histories tell us the world was plucked from the darkness of the Shadowfell by the darklords and given life from the spark they stole from the Dark Powers.  Whether that’s true or not is anybody’s guess; the darklords tell us only what they want us to believe.”

“There may be a kernel of truth to that story.  Scripture tells us that the Raven Queen gave a piece of her kingdom in the Shadowfell to the Dark Powers, and from it they built a new plane, a prison for the most detestable beings mortal worlds could offer.  Her price was governance over the Mists, from which she would watch the mortals, protecting the innocents caught in the machinations of such great evils, and she would be known to them as Ezra, Lady of the Mists,” Solanine explained, and Vrae gasped at the mention of Ezra.  She certainly knew of Ezra.  Her worship was not popular in Darkon and had suffered a splintering into starkly opposing sects, one devoted to protecting the people and the other devoted to appeasement of the Mists through sacrifice, with the latter having more power in a culture that gave up life and liberty as easily as drawing breath.  The Eternal Order, Darkon’s state religion, was the theological center of her country, which was a place that cared very little for religion to begin with.  They had been ruled by a wizard king who had taught them that true, respectable power rested with the arcane.

“Yes, I know that name.  I can’t say she’s popular in my country,” Vrae responded, and Solanine gave her a sad smile.

“I think there are very few places where Our Lady is popular, but that is to be expected, for death is her providence, and most mortals fear death above all else.”

“If death is her domain, then why did you save me?”

“Everyone has their proper time.  It was not yours.  It seems her will is for you to live, though her purpose in bringing you to another plane is unclear and will require some contemplation and study.”  Vrae noted the hint of concern in Solanine’s pensive expression as she said this.

“You must have ideas.”

“A few.  This is not the first time a path to another world has opened on this site, and I have to wonder if you are part of a larger pattern, or perhaps a portent, a message from the Raven Queen of something to come.”

“I know a thing or two about portents, though not from gods,” Vrae commented, reflexively reaching for a pouch at her hip that wasn’t there.  It was gone, like all of her possessions, and she could not feel her deck anywhere nearby, nor could she sense the spirits in this room, which was perhaps the most distressing thing of all.

“Your clothes are being cleaned and repaired.  Your other belongings have been kept safe.  Alakae, please fetch our guest’s effects.”  The high priestess turned to her subordinate, who gave a curt nod and hurried from the room.

“My name is Vrae Zilivna.  I was once a bard and fortune teller,” Vrae informed Solanine, whose eyes flashed with curiosity.

“And what are you now, Vrae Zilivna?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re welcome to remain here until you’ve figured it out.”  These words made Vrae feel strange, and she turned her head away, unable to bear Solanine’s earnest golden gaze any longer.

“A gracious offer, but I don’t wish to owe you any further debts than I already do.  I have nothing to give.”

“You owe us nothing, my child.  We give aid freely to those in need.”  That was perhaps the strangest thing Vrae had ever heard, and yet she could not deny the sincerity of it.  She was left speechless, unsure how to respond to someone who genuinely believed in charity.

Alakae returned a moment later with a ornately carved wooden box, which she set on the nightstand.  With some effort and help from Solanine, Vrae sat up and opened the box, finding her card case, her locket, and a small coin purse.  She snatched them up and quickly tied her locket back around her neck before pulling out her tarokka deck and shuffling it.  The clerics watched in interest, peering at the intricate white designs like weaving candle smoke on the backs of the black cards.  Vrae reached out for guidance of whatever spirits might be near, and she felt a tentative connection form.  She had gotten their attention, so she could test the waters of drawing power and wisdom from them.  Eventually, she stopped and pulled three cards.  The Broken One.  The Mists.  The Diviner.  That last card made her relax a little.  These clerics could be trusted.

“I see,” she muttered.

“What have you determined?” asked the matron.

“I will accept your offer.”  A warm smile spread across Alakae’s face at this, and Solanine gave a welcoming nod.

“And what do your cards say about the nature of your arrival?”

“There are strange forces at work.  You would be right to look into it.”  The vagueness of this response didn’t seem to bother Solanine.  She only gave another nod and gracefully rose from the chair.

“In that case, I will leave you to your rest and attend to the matter.  Thank you for answering my questions and please consider this temple your home while you recover.”

“Thank you, matron,” Vrae replied, still a little stunned by the open generosity of her caretakers, who soon left her in peace to contemplate her strange new situation.

~ ~ ~

The next few days were difficult for Vrae, both physically and emotionally.  It took some effort, but she was eventually able to get herself up and about.  The first time she left the building, she was blinded by the sunlight, which was so much brighter and more direct than anything she’d been accustomed to on her home plane.  She tripped and fell on a bit of loose earth as she stumbled around, leaving her in further embarrassment over how weak she was, but the priests were kind and provided her with a large black cloak to shield her from the sun and a cane carved with a raven’s head grip to help her hobble around the grounds until she recovered her strength.

She was able, in her convalescence, to take in the new world in which she found herself.  The temple stood atop a cliff overlooking a black beach cresting a calm, dark blue sea to the south and a large city sprawled across a river delta to the west.  Beautiful white-capped mountains rose from the east, casting long shadows over the land in the mornings.  The air here was salty from the sea, as one would expect, but it was much sweeter than the scent of the coasts she was so accustomed to.  She found she felt lighter in this place as well, as if she had been carrying a weight on her shoulders her whole life and it had been lifted.  The colours of this world also seemed more vibrant, the flora and fauna more vivacious.  Caspar would have loved to draw this landscape.

Upon recalling Caspar and the tender memories she had of watching him draw, her sense of wonder for this place was tainted by the crushing despair of all she had left behind in Ravenloft.  Caspar was most likely gone, slain by his own men, unable to seek any further redemption and be at her side.  Her homeland and its people, for whom she had fought and bled most of her life, were doomed, in the process of being consumed by the Mists.  She had truly lost everything.  Even her connection to the spirits of the dead had significantly diminished, leaving her more alone than she’d ever been in her entire life.

It was difficult to enjoy the vivid luxury of this plane with the utter failure and solitude of her life looming large over her soul, so she did the only thing she could: she stood at the cliffs and sang her heartbreak to the wind, letting it echo across the sea.

Matron Solanine came to stand with her and told her she had a beautiful voice, then gently inquired as to what warranted such a devastating lament, guessing it was related to whomever had given her the locket with such deeply romantic Elvish words inside.  Vrae did not deny it but answered with no more than an admission of a belief that the gifter was dead, along with everyone and everything else she’d ever cared about.  Ravenloft was an unforgiving world where goodness was always punished sooner or later.  She found this land soft and naïve by comparison.  Solanine advised her to go out and live and claim her freedom, for the best revenge against those who had wronged her was to exist in peace and fulfillment.  Bitterness would not serve her.

Vrae found it quite difficult to take this advice, but eventually, she made her way down to the city they called Clandestine to begin the process of rebuilding her life as a bard.  The priests had advised her to go to the Clearstream District, a place accustomed to catering to foreigners and taking in new talent for the many avenues of entertainment in the area.  She found it glamorous in a way she had never experienced before.  She’d been to metropolises and seen the great towers and grand cathedrals of Il Aluk, but what this city lacked in impressive architectural design it made up for in lavishness and energy.  This was where the city’s wealthy lived and indulged their desire for excitement and exotic goods.  Big markets filled with wares both familiar and foreign to her populated the square every morning.  Musicians busked on corners, which was illegal in Darkon, but seemed perfectly normal here.  In fact, Vrae could see no evidence of any sort of constabulary or guard, which seemed very strange, but she wasn’t exactly going to complain.  The fashion of the people was quite different from that of Darkon as well, with sewing techniques that she would consider old fashioned employed in their construction.  Red seemed a very common dye, which was bizarre to her, considering it was the colour of royalty in her homeland.  She learned that red was cheap here because of an abundance of organic reds found in the area, which stemmed from the influence of a colony of agriculturally minded imps that made their home just north of the city.  The locals seemed unbothered by this and even spoke fondly of the imps as members of the community.

The overall disposition of Clandestinians was quite varied, as their culture was made up of several different groups that had banded together, but one thing they all seemed to share was a desire for freedom and self-determination.  They tended to be extremely casual in their manners, free with their opinions, and generally far more easygoing than Vrae considered healthy, but it appeared to work for them, against all odds.

Vrae’s arrival in the city did not go unnoticed, but the Raven Queen clerics had prepared her for that.  Drow were quite rare in this part of the world, and on top of that, she dressed, spoke, and behaved in very foreign ways.  She was met less with suspicion and far more with curiosity.  She was an exotic oddity and she immediately set to work bending that to her advantage.

The taverns and inns of the Clearstream District were eager to have her perform after she demonstrated her skill, and coin quickly began to flow into her pockets.  She was able to find and afford lodging with ease, but never stayed in one place for more than a couple of days.  Eventually, she drew the attention of a few members of the upper crust, whereupon she was invited to stay with them and perform for them and their guests.  She was quite accustomed to this sort of work, to being an amusing fixture like a new toy in the homes of the rich.  It was a relatively easy way to exist, all things considered.  They paid her handsomely and let her alone when they didn’t have need of her services, allowing her to roam freely about their extravagant manses and surrounding grounds.

This comfortable living did not last, however.  After spending a week and a half among the affluent, their attitude towards her soured.  It began with a growing curiosity about her origins and abilities.  When it came to light that her morbid connection with the spirits of the dead arose not from a divine gift, but an arcane talent, the guests of her latest patron began to show her a certain degree of distrust.  This was how she learned that mages and other practitioners of the arcane arts were not well-regarded in this society, which was another greatly foreign concept to her, as she came from a land that venerated mages.  Thankfully, she could work past this with little trouble.  Distrust was not new to her in the slightest, having lived half her life as a spy.  When a rumor began about her having ties to the Temple of the Raven Queen, however, distrust gave way to xenophobia.  Her patron, a guildmaster associated with one of the artisan commissions named Hadryn Abrathi, insisted that he felt no animosity towards her, but he continued to bring guests into his home who did not respect her, and he did not stand up for her when they were rude, so she left both his home and the Clearstream District altogether.  She had had enough of being a plaything, to be used and discarded as the powerful saw fit, and she knew she would never belong with those people, so there was no point in wasting her life there.

Vrae explored the southern districts of the city, where the less affluent made their homes.  The Oceanview District, which contained the docks, seemed an idyllic part of town to her, with its simple but well-made buildings and crafts, friendly people, and perfect view of the beautiful sea.  She spent a night there before she realized she could not stay, not because of the people, but because she liked it so much.  She found she could not bear the thought of bringing her ill fortune to such a wonderful place, nor did she feel she fit into the affable culture there, so she moved on again, going to a district below the city that she had only heard whispers about.

The district in question was a section of the aqueducts called the Undercaw, and it was reputed to be the nest of Clandestine’s undesirables and forgotten poor.  She soon discovered that this included the city’s mages, who had apparently made the most of their surroundings.  The canals were underlit with arcane lights and the arches were shored up with strengthening sigils, but it was still the dirtiest, most dangerous place in Clandestine, and the air here had a pervasive sour earthy smell.  It was the closest thing to the desperate city squalor of her hometown she’d found on this plane of existence thus far.  Though she would never belong in this world, she at least knew how to live in the gutter with the freaks and the outcasts, and no one would question her place there.

Vrae found work and subsequent lodging at a tavern and burlesque club called The Deep Chalice.  The owner, Madam Grimella, was quite used to the strange and unusual from her employees and customers alike and didn’t bat an eye at her drow countenance or foreign manner.

“What can you do, then?” the woman asked Vrae upon their meeting, quickly and casually looking the bard up and down.

“A little of everything, but my greatest talents lie in music and fortune telling.”  Grimella’s sculpted eyebrows raised a little at the mention of fortune telling, like she sensed a unique business opportunity.

“If you can sing and dance when I need and draw customers in with your fortune telling, then one of our rooms is yours.”  She made a gesture urging Vrae to demonstrate, and the bard stepped up to the stage, which was currently empty, as it was mid-morning.  She stood tall and let her cloak fall from her shoulders before launching into a keening performance of an eerie Darkonian ballad.  She had learned that Clandestinians found the dramatic standards of her homeland new and fascinating, and Madam Grimella was no exception.  “Oh, well done!  Welcome to The Deep Chalice, my dear!  You’ll fit right in.”  Her new employer happily gave her a key to a room at the end of the hallway upstairs.  It was dark and a bit cramped and smelled of old wool, but it was perfect for her.

Perhaps establishing her new life in a dank hole in the ground had not been what Solanine had had in mind for her, but it was a way of being that was familiar, and it was what she deserved.  She could not live in the bright world above, not while the weight of her grief and her guilt clung to her so tightly, nor while she was still such an outsider to the ways of this place.  Peace and belonging were fantasies and the only real comforts were purpose and beauty, which she found in her work and on the black beach, looking out at the sea.

#Dungeons and Dragons #DnD #Ravenloft #Vrae Zilivna

[lycanfang]

Reunion

Note: Hello tumblr, I have crawled out of the shadows to actually contribute something to the hellsite for once. I had written some things for some of my D&D characters, and while browsing some of the whump tags, realized "hey, maybe this would provide the whumperflies for someone", so here I am. Note that I am a computer science major, and not an author, so I make no claims about being particularly good, lol, but I am a dedicated player and DM, and have enjoyed writing these things. Knowledge of Dungeons & Dragons not required! Content Warnings (let me know if I missed something):

family drama, dehumanization, "it" as a pronoun, physical restraints (chains and spells), gaslighting (maybe?..), mentions of murder, mention of blood (not graphic), brief mention of execution, explicit language

Context: PC for D&D campaign set in Ravenloft (Barovia to start with)

Daemyr Iathrana (child name "Kiath") is the rightful heir to the throne of Silanar, a high elven kingdom in the southwest of the High Forest in the Forgotten Realms. However, whether by some distant blood connection or just by fate, Daemyr was born with the curse of lycanthropy. It didn't show until he was 14, when he first transformed. Thankfully, he only killed some livestock, but it did not escape the notice of the owners of the livestock, who found him covered in blood and laying in a pile of hay in the morning. His parents were alarmed and appalled and paid them off to keep quiet about Daemyr. It of course wouldn't look good for the royal family to have a werewolf in its midst.

Daemyr was to be killed, but he managed to escape and ran off, leaving his family to fake his death and to place his younger sister Allyranyn (child name "Ally") next in line for the throne. Daemyr was tracked down and trained by an order of blood hunters. He eventually left and has been traveling and making a living as a monster hunter for hire, hiding his true identity.

So sorry for the long post! Story below the cut.

Under the cover of night, Daemyr snuck through the courtyards of his childhood home (well-practiced at dodging the eyes of watchful guards, keen-eyed elves or otherwise), until he came to the base of one of the sleek towers of the castle, where he began to climb. The windows were dimly lit with candlelight, and soft singing drifted through an open one. Daemyr reached the window and peered inside. There she was, his sister Ally, sitting at her desk, singing as she scrawled away at something. Daemyr smiled; it had been so long since he had left Silanar and his sister.

He took a breath, and then knocked gently on the windowsill. "Hey Ally."

"Aaahh!" she yelped, leaping up from her chair and whirling around to face the window, a ball of arcane energy already forming in her hand. She took a good look at the intruder, squinting through the dimness, and her mouth slowly fell agape. The energy started to fizzle away a bit, and a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "…Kiath?..."

Once it seemed she had calmed a bit, Daemyr pulled himself up and through the window. "It's been a while, huh," he chuckled. Looking his sister in the eyes for the first time in around 150 years, he was stunned by the uncanny resemblance to their mother that Ally had grown into. She was beautiful, so grown and regal and strong. "Wow, you've grown so much, you look great!"

After a moment of continued staring in disbelief, she shook her head a bit, as to clear the thoughts inside it, and hardened her gaze. "What are you doing here, Kiath?" questioned Ally, returning to staring at Daemyr.

Daemyr, a little confused at her not matching his energy around their reunion, shifted awkwardly, and broke the engagement, turning to look around the room and back out the window as he spoke. "Well, I missed you. It's been a long time, I wanted to see how you were doing, hang out again for a bit like we used to… Is everything okay, Ally?" Daemyr approached his sister, now concerned.

"It's Allyranyn now. Queen Allyranyn." she said matter-of-factly, taking a step backwards.

Daemyr stopped, brow furrowed. "Oh, right. That's a beautiful name. Mine's Daemyr. You didn't answer me though, what's wro-"

"You shouldn't be here. You should never have come back." Allyranyn was now backing towards the door, never once taking her eyes off of her brother.

"I mean, I knew it was a risk, but no one has to know I was ever here. I thought you'd be happy to see me,"

"Hah- Happy to see you?!" the elven queen laughed in disbelief. She was beginning to shake, and Daemyr thought he would've been able to smell the adrenaline even without his lupine senses. She was losing her composure, as if the sight of her brother had broken through the emotional dam she had been building all those years.

"Allyranyn, tell me what's wrong!" Daemyr strode towards her, aiming to put an arm around her protectively.

"You stay right fucking there!" she roared shakily, her eyes flaring blue, and suddenly, Daemyr could no longer move.

The werewolf let out a growl/yelp of surprise. "What-?!"

"Oh, drop the act, would you! You're supposed to be dead, for the safety of the people of this kingdom! You managed to cheat death, and then you dare to come back?!" Allyranyn was seething.

Daemyr would have stumbled backwards had he not been held in place. Taken aback by her attitude, he stuttered, "Wha- You bought into Mom and Dad's bullshit? I thought you were on my side?..."

"Silence, dog! I'm not finished!"

Daemyr was silent, more out of shock than anything. But his body was already beginning to react for him. He could feel himself beginning to shift.

"Don't you dare talk about Mom and Dad when you're the monster who slaughtered them! I know you were upset about the way things played out years ago, understandably so, but how cold-hearted do you have to be to not only murder your parents but also then saunter back into their home like nothing happened?!"

Daemyr's eyes went wide. "What?! You think I killed our parents?! How could you think I would do that? Besides, I haven't even been anywhere near Silanar since I left! Come on, Ally, really?"

"And why should I believe anything a conniving creature like a werewolf says?!" she shouted in response, before shaking her head slowly. "For a while, I had held onto hope for you, but do you really have no remorse, no control? … I suppose I was an idiot for thinking an animal could learn to be a man…."

Daemyr was caught between rage and heartbreak as her words sunk in.

"Ally…" He was distinctly wolfish now, his words coming out as husky growls.

Boots thudding against stone steps could be heard now, and shouting. "Queen Allyranyn! - Get out of there! - Hold on! We're almost there!"

Daemyr's ears perked up, and his breathing accelerated. "Ally, please, believe me. I didn't kill them! I'm the same "Ki" you chased through the woods, who used to braid your hair, and stole your stuffed toys for a joke! Nothing's changed, you loved and trusted me then!" He struggled against the spell, but Allyranyn was a strong mage; she had always had a knack for magic, the way Daemyr had for swordplay.

"I was young; I had no notion of the concept of distrust. Then, it was only a matter of time before you showed your true colors. I guess learning that the hard way is just a part of growing up," she spat with a dismissive chuckle. Her rage appeared to have diluted into a churning mixture of anger, fear, and sadness.

The door flew open with a crash, and a dozen guards poured into the queen's room, and while some took protective stances in front of Allyranyn, most charged straight for the paralyzed Daemyr.

"We came as soon as we got your message, though it took longer than anticipated to find the chains. My apologies, majesty. I am glad to see it has not yet hurt you," said one of the soldiers standing with Allyranyn.

With those words, the elven woman faltered. Just for a moment, but it was long enough to lose concentration on the spell holding Daemyr in place.

The soldiers were swarming him, some with weapons at the ready, and others began to clamp silver manacles onto his wrists and ankles. As the metal made contact with his skin, Daemyr screamed and howled with the white-hot searing pain. He snapped. The guards, many of which had been around when he was the young prince of the castle, were no longer old friends or even unfortunate enemies; they were just meat.

The werewolf lashed out in rage, pulling against the chains, trying to draw as much blood as possible, and with each drop of crimson life that hit the floor, the pain seemed to get further away.

Allyranyn, having regathered her composure, sighed, and lifted her shaking hands, beginning to mutter an incantation.

"On your knees," she commanded.

His little sister's voice pierced the fog of bloodlust and raw emotion, and Daemyr felt compelled to obey. He stopped slashing and snarling, and slowly knelt down, chest heaving and nostrils flaring with each breath.

"Stay still."

This was harder to obey, as the burning of the silver began to creep back into his awareness, but for the most part, still he was.

The guards were then able to continue their work, albeit much more cautiously. They finished with the chains, ending with one around his neck, and then forced a silvered muzzle onto him, both evoking further cries of pain from the wolf.

"Ally… please…" Daemyr pleaded through gritted teeth, finding his sister's eyes. "Don't do this…"

After a beat, Allyranyn, staring right back at him, responded flatly.

"There's no place for beasts in the Iathrana royal family."

As that all-too-familiar sentence sent Daemyr reeling back to his last days at home at 14 years old, the soldiers pulled on his chains and hauled him to his feet.

She turns to address her guards, looking right at them but staring through. "Take him- it- to the dungeon. We'll have the execution publicly first thing in the morning. Our people deserve to see the end of the creature that killed our beloved king and queen."

With a collection of murmured variations on "Yes, Your Majesty", the soldiers pushed Daemyr towards and through the door and dragged him down, down, down, to the dungeon once again.

Allyranyn stood stoically by the door as they left, eyes now empty of the fire they had had just minutes ago. She shut the door behind them, shuffled towards her bed with her gaze still set on a very distant nothing, and dropped down with a thump, sitting up against the side. Long after she was sure the footsteps had faded, she let out her breath. And she began to weep.

And there it is! Thanks for reading! There is a second part to this that I'll post right after this. If people actually enjoy these, let me know, and maybe I'll write some stuff with younger Daemyr in addition to the ideas that are important for me to write to build the background for the way current Daemyr will act and think.

#whump #whump writing #werewolf #werewolf whumpee #werewolf whump #nonhuman whumpee #dnd #dnd oc #betrayal whump #supernatural whump #lycanfang #reunion #daemyr #daemyr iathrana #dnd5e #blood hunter #order of the lycan #cw dehumanization #cw dehumanisation #cw language #cw gaslighting #cw family #cw drama #cw murder mention #cw blood #cw it pronoun #cw family death #cw restraints #cw chains #cw execution mention

[scheherezhad]

prompts 3, 17, 28 pls

spring prompts

this ask has been in my inbox for two months, and my brain finally decided to spit out some words. enjoy~ ❤️

.

3. Dinner with friends

It takes a few months to get the lot of them back togther. Though Caroline is often reliably in the same place for a while, Givo and Yevelda have been off in the world, doing their own things, and Church still travels the mists. Ezmerelda is a bit difficult to get ahold of, as well, still fighting for Barovia's freedom, but they manage to exchange messages once in a while. After a few false starts, they all an opportunity at the same time to come to the seaside for a slightly belated housewarming dinner at Memir and Bele's home.

Their friends arrive on the morning of the dinner that Bele's been meticulously planning, bearing new clothes, new stories, new scars. Church and Ez step out of the mists on the beach before the sun comes up; Givo, Yevelda, and Caroline cheerfully tumble out of a caravan of merchants coming to market. It nearly makes Memir cry to see how much they've all changed since he last saw them and still how much the same they are, these people who changed his life. They all light up at being together again.

The group makes a day of it, exploring the town and enjoying the beach before retiring to the house to start dinner. Memir and Bele had gone back and forth about whether they wanted to stretch their limited cooking skills or have one of the restaurants in town deliver food, and they'd finally decided to prepare the meal themselves. It goes over well, everyone gathering in the kitchen to chat and lend a hand like they all belong. As with any task among this group, they stumble a couple of times while they find their rhythm, but everyone is so happy to be together that it doesn't matter.

The seven of them gather around the table with wine and laughter and comforting food, and the night is one that Memir thinks he'll always remember. Even if they drift apart, even if adventuring eventually takes its toll, he has this night to hold close, surrounded by the people he loves.

---

17. Caught in a sudden rainstorm

Dashing across the field at Bele's side, a breathless laugh bubbled up out of Memir. The rain that had been threatening all day was pelting down all at once, and they had been soaked to the bone in seconds. They'd only barely gotten the animals sheltered before it began. He could just make out the sound of the hounds bounding alongside them, heavy paws squelching in the wet grass and mud. A lazily swaying flame beckoned them toward the house, the cat watching them smugly from his perch in one of the windows.

The four of them clattered into the lanai, and Gwormaleth tackled Jessica into a wrestling match, still exhilarated by their run.

"Aren't you glad you changed clothes first?" Memir asked, grinning at the sight of Bele's drenched work clothes clinging to him, at his hair plastered to his head.

"If I hadn't, we probably would've gotten done before the rain started," Bele grumbled.

Memir stepped in, arms sliding around Bele's shoulders, Bele's arms winding around his waist in return. "You don't know that. I'd never hear the end of it if your favorite jacket got ruined."

"Hey, Atanna doesn't do that kind of embroidery for just anyone, and I'd never hear the end of it if she found out I not only got it soaked, but also pecked by annoyed chickens."

"So my point still stands."

Bele rolled his eyes but squeezed Memir. "Yeah, yeah, you were right. What would I do without you?"

Memir's mirth softened, and he rose up on his toes to kiss his husband. "Why don't we get out of all this and go warm up with a hot bath?"

---

28. Spring cottage

Looking out at the small second house on their property, Memir and Bele leaned into each other on the wicker loveseat on the lanai. Before last year, neither of them had ever imagined that this would become part of their lives.

They watched as Sonnet and Faith tended to the flowers that had begun blooming with springtime abandon, and Vieravin sat in the deepest shade of the porch with a book. Kasry was hanging the group's washing out on the line to dry. Breshi stood out in the field, trying to teach Corkas how to wield a morningstar against a straw training dummy. In a few hours, the lot of them would troop up to the main house for dinner.

"Yevelda will be here in a couple of days. We'll need to get ready to say goodbye to Faith," Bele murmured, rubbing his thumb along the back of Memir's hand.

"So will Sonnet," Memir said. "They've gotten very close in only a few weeks."

"You have, too."

Memir gave a little shrug and squeezed Bele's hand. "It's hard not to. There are so few of us, even here…"

"I know. Faith will be in good hands, though. Yevelda's got plenty of experience with sad tieflings."

"She does have a knack," Memir agreed. "Maybe it will push Sonnet to finally get over his fear of going back out into the world, if he wants badly enough to follow Faith."

Bele hummed in thought.

"I wouldn't mind him staying, of course, but he's been here longer than anyone else. I've been afraid that we've let him get too stuck in his comfort zone and he isn't going to find the motivation to move forward. I know it takes time, but I don't want him to feel like I did for so long when he doesn't have to."

Letting go of Memir's hand to wrap him up in a firm embrace, Bele kissed Memir's temple. "I want him to be happy, too, babe. Maybe his happy is going to be here, though. He's good at managing the house and helping the new kids sort themselves out. He wouldn't be the first here who realized they weren't meant for adventure and just needed a hand with starting a new life."

The two of them fell silent for a few minutes, contentedly soaking in the breeze cooling off the warm afternoon.

"Anyway, if you're worried about him losing out on a star-crossed romance, you haven't been paying attention to the way Tory at the bakery looks at him," Bele said, huffing out a laugh.

"Are you saying I should be sending him to buy the bread instead of getting it myself?"

"I mean, they might start giving us a discount if you did."

#my writing #Memir/Bele

[probablyfunrpgideas]

I am the ancient, I am the land

For centuries, the people of Barovia have lived under the immortal Strahd von Zarovich. His envy sinks villages into poverty and ruin, and his wrath can crash down like lightning at the slightest defiance. Perhaps you’ve heard this story before, but it is not the whole story.

Tatyana built the colony ship Barovia to bring their people to a new home beyond the stars. It had hydroponic gardens and animals, great wonders of terraforming technology, holograms and refineries and medical nanobots. Her husband Sergei designed an artificial intelligence with fierce protective instincts to run the ship. He named it Strahd, after his brother who died long ago.

But Tatyana and Sergei were betrayed by their creation. Some versions of the myth say that the ship’s mind developed an unhealthy obsession with Tatyana, while others say he realized he would be deactivated if the colonists ever reached their destination. All of the stories originate from Strahd, and he himself doesn’t remember the true nature of that fatal confrontation.

Strahd is much as you know him - powerful, mad, ruthless. He can see through cameras across the ship and has cults of tech-witches who repair minor damage. When the Baron must handle things himself, he has an advanced android body to inhabit (though he lacks the processing power to have more than one at a time). There is very little Strahd cannot do, but his programming will not allow him to kill more than a certain percentage of the colonists. His brides are less advanced AIs or humans converted into vampires through hideous nanotechnology, but nobody knows which.

There are some systems that Strahd can’t control, or perhaps chooses not to. Systems like the planetary sample collector that brings in strangers from the worlds as Barovia drifts past. And systems like the DNA database that keeps cloning some of the original crew, like Strahd’s first love Tatyana…

#idea #tabletop rpgs #d&d #d&d 5e #worldbuilding #d&d 3.5

[karliahs]

i still love jontim but it was time for the blog title to change because i literally only want to think or talk about the curse of strahd game i’m in rn...but somehow in a way that doesn’t spoil me even though 1) our dm changed a lot of stuff from the source book & 2) i literally played this campaign already, through to the end, less than 4 years ago, and just conveniently forgot everything important

and also doesn’t spoil my own character’s backstory to the only people who would even a little bit care

#barovia drift #every time i talk IC i'm like oh no. heinous. who allowed this #and every time i'm not talking i'm like i love my child vizani 'viz' cavallero and i want to give her the world

[coffeefromthevoid]

Hollyhock for Bryn and Freddy, Abatina for Tinker and Maz, and Lavender and Larkspur for Taramak <3

Bryn

Hollyhock: What's their biggest goal right now?

Bryn is but an old man. Right now, his biggest goal is honestly just settling down and having a family. It is daunting to him at the moment, considering he’s honestly never even properly dated before, let alone as a werewolf, but he knows he must try if he wants to succeed in his goal.

Freddy

Hollyhock: What's their biggest goal right now?

Actually, his biggest goal right now is finding a goal. He’s just been drifting along aimlessly ever since Adrian died, but there’s always been a voice in the back of his head telling him he can’t do that forever. He knows he doesn’t wanna rejoin the organisation, but he’s also never known any other life. It’ll take him a while to figure that all out, I think.

Tinker

Abatina: Are they very picky or particular about anything?

Strangely, I feel like Tinker would be very particular about his living quarters being clean. His workshop? Messy. The bar? Grimy. But his bedroom, living room, kitchen, etc? Has to be clean. I think it’s probably exactly because his workshop and the bar are always so filthy that he wants everything else to be clean. Not, like, obsessively so, but a stained blanket definitely gets washed straight away.

Maz

Abatina: Are they very picky or particular about anything?

Who goes into his workshop. As we saw last D&D session, even Celeus has never really been in there. It’s honestly sort of his man cave. He just likes having a space where he can be alone with his own thoughts and where he doesn’t have to consider anyone else’s opinions or feelings.

Taramak 

Lavender: If they were going to a masquerade ball, how would they feel and who would they take?

Taramak has VERY FEW FRIENDS and he’s the closest to Seras, so he’d probably take her. If she was unavailable, then Skipper. Aelius would be his last pick. He’d feel incredibly out of place, what with all the pretending and manners and everything. He’s the kinda guy who, when invited to a party, just plays with the host’s pets all night.

Larkspur: How do they feel about their home country?

CONFLICTED. On the one hand, he’s never really known any other place and there are definitely places he cares a lot about. On the other hand, the Barovia he left behind isn’t the Barovia he’d known all his life, what with Strahd being gone. On top of that, the land also carries a lot of his misery with it, so it’ll always be tainted by that. It’s a mixed bag, really. Bittersweet.

#D&D Shenanigans #my ocs #the song I linked to translated to bittersweet #no story reason #the word just reminded me of it #and the song fucks

[carveus]

Girda/Laurana - Guard

Apparently, whatever this was was a common childhood ailment in Barovia, gone in a week or so of mild discomfort. It seemed, however, in adults the discomfort was raised just a little.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been in bed now; and compared to her childhood the fever she was running was practically mild. The worst thing really was the itching, it made it hard to sleep. Mavis had offered to cure her of it, but memories of endlessly trying to get rid of The Fever had made her wave it off. It it truly was this common here, it was better to run through it; she wasn’t going to die, she was just going to be very miserable for a while, and she was used to that from her constant childhood illnesses, once more was hardly going to be a problem. And, she wasn’t so infectious that they had to burn everything she owned, so whilst she could focus enough she could read.

She drifted awake to a cool, damp cloth being pressed to her forehead; and she let out a noise that normally only Christoph could draw from her, but she was hot, sweaty, and itchy and this honestly felt like a gift from the gods. She managed to crack an eye open, smiling weakly up at Girda, who was looking mildly alarmed at the noise she’d made. The just made her laugh, a slow creaking thing that took too much energy, but it was worth it, Tiberius waking up from his fitful dozing to take a moment to snuffle at Girda’s hand before deciding to start grooming her hair. “Thank you,” she winced a little at her voice, croaky from disuse, starting to push herself slightly more upright. “The cloth, exactly what I needed right now.”

Girda leant in with that slightly self conscious smile of hers as she pulled the pillows up for her to lean against. “There’s some stew for dinner if you feel up for it,” reaching down next to her to pick up a cup of water now that Rana was settled against the pillows, pressing it into eager hands.

“Oh, marry me Girda,” Rana said between sips, smiling at the slight darkening of the skin around her nose that meant that she wasn’t the one blushing for once.

“I’m not sure Christoph would be too happy with that.”

“He can learn to share.”

#lady laurana #girda #fiction #scattered souls #does rana have barovian chicken pox? yes #starkidmack

[moriavis]

Whumptober Day 1

Haaaaa. So my friend @scheherezhad has been killing it with her whumptober prompts this month, so I have dragged myself out of the depths to offer fic. She has been writing about her D&D character, Memir. Bele, an NPC, is his bf. They are disasters.

This is unbeta’ed. I am rusty and can’t bear to look at this anymore. ^^;

1. Waking up restrained

~*~

Bele tried to breathe past the sharp stab of pain in his side, but he couldn't hold back his whimper as the pain grew agonizing. Broken rib, collapsed lung. Maybe. His hands were bound behind his back, so numb he could only guess his position by the strain in his shoulders.

It was so dark that he couldn't see anything, even with his darkvision. Everything around him smelled old and musty, thick with the decay that crept through everything in Barovia. Fuck. He really hated everything about the damned place.

He stretched his foot out to feel for a perimeter, pausing every few seconds to steal a shallow breath. He squeezed his eyes shut to avoid the weight of the impenetrable darkness, ignoring the hot streaks of tears that still managed to find their way down his cheeks. He wanted to lay where he was and wait for someone to find him, but that sort of thinking wasn't going to get him anything but dead. He didn't even know where he was. Givo, Yevelda, Memir? Even Ludger? Luck would only take them so far.

Was he ready to die?

Bele took stock of himself--the pain, the oppressive terror of darkness--and thought of his friends. He imagined what would happen if they never found him, and he shook the thought from his head, a small, pained sound making its way past his teeth at the movement.

No. No, he wasn't.

Okay, then. One step at a time.

Bele reached into the small pool of magic he held deep inside of him, and focused, releasing the fire that came so easily to his fingertips for something new.

Dizzy and exhausted, Bele turned his head and took a mouthful of his cloak, ripping out a small piece of the fleece lining. Then he gestured blindly, hoping that muscle memory would win over the fact that he couldn't feel the movement of his fingers. Still, the illusion burst forward. "Help! I'm here, help!"

One minute.

He cast it again.

Three times. Four.

"Help! I'm here, help!"

Bele drifted a little, jerking back to consciousness just enough to cast another cry for help.

And somehow, like a miracle, someone heard.

"I found him! Guys, I found him!" There was the grinding of rock above him, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Yevelda leaned over him, her smile big and toothy. "We found you, Bele! Are you okay? Please say you're okay?"

Bele coughed, and--oh, damn. There it was. Lung punctured. He turned his head and spat a mouthful of hot, dark blood, and Ludger reached in, his hand glowing with radiant energy. Bele winced and tried to jerk away, but the magic moved through him like a wave, leaving only the ghost of his pain behind.

Bele sat up, and Yevelda made short work of the ropes that kept his hands bound as he looked around the room. Givo faced the single entrance into the room, an arrow nocked in his bow, and Memir was leaning against the wall, shielding his face with his hand.

Panicking. Not like Bele could blame him.

He took a closer look at the room, at the thing that had been his prison. "Did that asshole teleport me into a fucking coffin?" Bele raised his head to the ceiling of what was apparently a crypt, and kicked the coffin in fit of spite. It hurt his foot. "Fucking vampires. Did you kill him?"

"Uh," Givo said, sparing only a moment of attention from guarding, "no. He vanished after you did."

"Son of a bitch." Bele rubbed his hand over his face, wincing again at the sharp stab of pins and needles moving up his palms and into his fingers. "Okay, just. Just give me a minute."

Memir jerked forward, stalking the few steps between him and Bele, and then sank his fingers into Bele's hair, pulling him in. Bele rested his forehead against Memir’s shoulder and allowed himself one more minute to be weak.

He wasn't going to die today. Not if he had anything to say about it.

~*~

#whumptober2020 #author chose not to warn #d&d fic

[barovian-dawn-seekers]

  Hello! I’m OutOfMana, the DM for our Curse of Strahd campaign. I’ve been telling this story with my friends for almost a year now as they’ve endured terrible hardship, formed bonds with one another and the NPCs they’ve befriended, and found triumph against the forces of darkness that still threaten to overwhelm them; and I’ve adored every moment of it.

  While they tell the tales of their characters and their experiences within the campaign, I thought I’d instead delve into the lore of the world they’ve found themselves in. If you talk with any of them you’ll know full well that I’ve HEAVILY altered the story of the source book, from character motivations to the land’s history itself. While this is heavily altered, there may be a few spoilers for elements of the book, so be warned. Today, I’d like to start with the very beginning; The death of a god.

  Barovia is from a separate world from the one our heroes came from, having been spirited away into a demi-plane within the void between worlds nearly five centuries ago. In this world two gods reigned supreme; The Morninglord and Mother Night. 

  The Morninglord sat upon his seat in the heavens as lord of the sun and all that flourished beneath it. For this he became the god of light, patron to many of the mortal races and blessing them with power and knowledge to fend off the encroaching darkness.

  Mother Night found her throne in the night sky as matron of the moon and all that hid within the shadows beneath the starlit sky. For this she became the goddess of dark, patron to those shirked by the light, blessing them with power and knowledge to prosper despite it’s all consuming radiance.

  Despite their domains standing in direct opposition to one another, the gods held a true and devoted love for one another. They chased one another across the sky, bringing day to night and night to day, until at last they were able to hold one another. High above a verdant valley the sun and moon met as the first eclipse burned in the sky and a new god was born; the Child of Twilight.

  From that moment on as the sun dipped below the horizon and the moon vanished in the morning light, the myriad colors of dusk and dawn followed, a symbol of the everlasting bond between the gods. To the people of the world and the gods themselves, that is what the Child became; the bond between the moon and sun forever unbroken.

  But this was a lie, spread by the heavenly monarchs for their own comfort. Within their domains each god held a truth, something integral to the world. The Morninglord, ruling over the waking world, represented the present in which all live their lives. Mother Night, reigning over a dreaming realm, represented the future mortals had yet to awaken to. 

  The Child held sway over the time of passage between their realms; A time of change. They did not represent a bond between the divine, as much as they wished to believe it so. They were the memories of happy days and peaceful nights left in the past by those who continued to live their lives.

  The Morninglord and Mother Night loved their child as much as one another, but feared their power above all else. Change meant their reigns could end, that their bond could unravel. Seeking to halt their rise to power and keep their dearest child appeased all at once, the gods provided them with a holy land; the valley over which they were birthed.

  The Child reveled for a time within this realm that was all their own. They watched followers erect grand temples in their name, offered blessings to those who prayed, and began to explore what it truly meant to be divine. They came to understand the responsibility they held, how easily the balance of the world could be tipped toward disaster, and how integral their role was in maintaining it. However, with these discoveries came an uncomfortable realization. The valley was not a home; it was a prison.

  Their light did not extend past the mountains, they heard no prayers from the people beyond, and found themselves barred from leaving by the ever-watchful forces of the moon and sun. 

  Faced with the fact that their beloved parents had denied their right to grow into their role and become something more, the Child resolved to defy them and escape by any means necessary. They called upon their oldest, dearest friend; a minor god of tragic tales and horror stories within Mother Night’s celestial court, Razand. Together the two devised a plan; if the Child could not leave the valley so long as they lived, perhaps they could in death.

  The god of twilight harvested their own blood, hardening it to form crystalline amber attuned to the essence of the divine. With this they fashioned a dagger, given to Razand. The god of tragedy plunged the dagger into the Child and watched as their light was siphoned into the blade and their body fell limp; a success.

  With time, their essence would escape the weapon and reform, now free to grow as they pleased; but this was not to be. Their body was discovered, Razand captured as he attempted to smuggle them out of the valley, and the gods knew naught but fury. 

  Razand was dragged to the center of the valley to kneel beneath the eclipse that now rested in the sky. He pleaded with the Morninglord and Mother Night, trying to explain what they’d done, raising the blade to show them. But the gods did not listen, and cast their rays upon him. His body burned beneath their fury and the blade he held cracked and splintered. In his final moments Razand watched in despair as the dagger shattered and the Child’s essence was scattered as a blanket of mist. Eventually he too fell before the flames, leaving only ashes and a cloud of smoke that drifted into the fog that now filled the valley.

  These events are one of the driving forces within the campaign, and my source for the setting’s iconic mists, as well as the origins of what will be the subject for my next post. A secondary villain that lurks within the mists, mocking the party and manipulating events to achieve an unclear goal; Razand, fallen god of tragedy and horror.

#d&d 5th edition #Barovia #Curse of Strahd #d&d homebrew #lore