#dalamus story

[dalamusrex]

Shor's Stone

(Content warnings for: abuse mention; descriptions of blood, gore, and corpses)

“‘Hop over to Shor’s Stone,' they said. ‘It will only take a couple hours,’ they said,” Dalamus grumbled to himself atop his horse. The palomino mare below him ambled along the cobblestone path, tired from a short skirmish with a small pack of wolves. The Rift’s woods were full of them, and Opal was not a warhorse. Thankfully, the wolves had been easily dissuaded with a well-aimed horse kick. The rest immediately fled in a panic. Hopefully they would tell the rest of their brethren not to bother with this adventurer.

“I am sorry, girl. I will be sure to get you a treat once we are back home, hm?” He reached forward and petted the side of her neck in an attempt to calm her. Just a bit longer and he would be able to get out of this blasted sun…

During a routine visit to buy alchemy ingredients, Elgrim had asked Dalamus a favor. The miners of Shor’s Stone had fallen ill, and they needed medicine. Elgrim is too old to be traveling, and hardly trusted a soul. But he has known Dalamus long enough to know that the mer could handle himself should trouble arise. Not that trouble will arise, of course, Elgrim assured. The mer was given a box full of elixirs to deliver, which he balanced before him while seated in the saddle.

Shor’s Stone--a mining village just North of Riften, between the Velothi Mountains and the mountains which contain Redbelly Mine. The mine from which the village makes its income. Unfortunately, mining is a dangerous job in many ways. If one did not get crushed by collapsing tunnels, they risked being choked by fumes of unearthed gas, or accidentally set aflame by torches lit in gas-heavy chambers. The constant chipping of stone and ore fills the lungs with dust, often causing breathing issues. Such is the issue this time, as well. Without the miners, their income has slowed to a crawl.

It will only take a few hours, Elgrim said. Just drop off the medicine and come back. Simple as that!

But when was anything as simple as that…

Another half hour passed and Dalamus finally saw the peaks of houses appear before him. Filnjar, the blacksmith and unofficial leader of the community, stood at his forge staring distantly into the embers. It was not until he apparently heard Opal’s hoofbeats that the Nord looked up. Filnjar did not smile, but some tension leaked from his shoulders in relief when he noticed the box of medicine.

“I presume you are the delivery man for Elgrim.” Filnjar spoke as Dalamus carefully dismounted his horse, attempting to keep the box level as he did so. Once on his feet and the box secure, he could face Filnjar.

As much as Dalamus hated being thought of as a ‘delivery man,’ he could hardly argue. He handed the wooden medicine box to the Nord. “For today, I am. Here are the elixirs. Give each miner one elixir to drink over the course of a week. Hafjorg sends her well wishes.”

Filnjar took the box from the Dunmer’s hands and placed it on his workbench. Grabbing a nearby tool, he pried the box open to inspect its contents. Sure enough, at least eight peach-colored potions sat inside, compartmentalized with thin wooden slats and wrapped in parchment to prevent breakage during transit. Filnjar smiled, shoulders sagging with relief. “Thank you for coming all the way out here, lad, even though I suspect it’s not your day job. Before I set you off with your coin, may I ask.. Are you a mercenary? A blade for hire?”

Dalamus’ hands hesitated on Opal’s reins, anticipating a new request if he were to answer affirmatively, and inwardly groaned. He just wanted to get home. The heat of the sun was thinning his patience. And yet… “I can be, for the right price. Why?” He turned his piercing glance back to the blacksmith, and could have sworn the Nord shrunk a little.

“Well…” Filnjar began. “We haven’t seen the guards from the nearby watchtower in quite a while. They’re probably just in a drunken stupor and sleeping it off, but if something has gone wrong, no one here is equipped to deal with it. Since you’re already here, would you mind checking on them? I will give you what money I have left to spare, plus what I owe you for the delivery.”

Dalamus mulled it over for what seemed like an eternity. Even Opal nudged him impatiently, as if asking him to make a decision already. He did not want to do more. He had already done the job he promised. He wanted to go home. But.. if the guards were just being lazy, it would only take a moment. And he had not yet been paid. “...Fine. I will check on the guard tower.”

“Thank you, lad.”

Dalamus scoffed. This was supposed to be a quick delivery job. Deliver the medicine, Elgrim said. Now he was trudging off to a watchtower to investigate. Hopefully, the guards would be completely fine, and he could leave.

But as he approached the tower, he quickly realized that the worst had happened. The smell of old blood and active rot filled his senses and immediately placed him on alert. He approached with caution, hoping that perhaps the guards were not the source. Perhaps they had gone hunting and this was the smell of their kill. Judging from the pit near the entrance which had not seen fire in at least a week, this seemed unlikely. The mer scrubbed his face with frustration.

“Hello?” he called out towards the tower. This was stupid. Why did he have to do this? Anyone else at the town could have called up to the tower just as easily. But the lack of response was concerning…

...No, it was not! Dalamus did not care about these people. He was not invested in their safety. He was delivering the medicine for money. He could assume the guards were dead, and return. There were many ways he could lie.

...But what if townspeople come looking for bodies to bury?

Why did it matter?! It was not his problem! He did not owe anyone this investigation. Except, he had agreed to it. And his payment might get withheld if it was discovered that he lied one way or the other. And he was already here.

...Fine.

“Hilye,” he said, ordering Opal in Dunmeris to stay put while he approached the tower. The smell of rot hit him like a wave once he reached the abandoned fire pit. It had not been lit in many days–no smolders, no fresh ash, no trace of food or utensils nearby.

As he turned towards the tower, he spotted a guard. Or… what used to be one. Leaning against the side of the tower’s entrance was the corpse of a guard, pale and rotting. A sword wound split the man’s chest nearly from shoulder to hip, and various insects clung to the putrefying form.

One guard found… Two to go.

He made his way to the tower’s entrance and onto the stairs. With each step, the stench of decay grew greater, straining even Dalamus’ sensory tolerance. He could not hear any heartbeats, nor sounds of movement, and could only conclude that the worst had happened.

Two Riften guards lay slaughtered on the top floor, one with an arrow through the skull, the other stabbed in the back multiple times with a bladed weapon. Their armor appeared ill-fitting, their corpses filled with putrid gasses causing bloat. Judging by the lack of a struggle, the guards were likely attacked at night. Perhaps the guard meant to keep watch had fallen asleep, himself, allowing their quick demise.

A letter sat on the table next to their last meals, now molding.

Akar,

We’ve word of a band of Legion soldiers advancing on your position. Reinforcements are on their way. Talos guard you.

A black brow rose on the vampire’s face. So they had had a warning, yet still fell? Filnjar had implied that the guards partook in revelry if not frequently then consistently. Perhaps they really had imbibed too much on the night of the attack. Fools.

The sound of rustling in nearby trees froze him. He kept low to the floorboards and crept over to the ledge to peer down. Were the soldiers back? Had a brigand come to loot the bodies? No… It was much worse.

A large troll had followed the scent of the blood and rot--and possibly Dalamus’ yelling--straight to the tower. It grabbed the corpse at the side of the tower, picking it up with the ease of a child lifting a doll. In a gruesome display of strength, the troll ripped a limb off the body with a sickening crack and squelch. It put the arm in its mouth and peeled the metal armor off with its teeth before spitting the inedible material aside. The wet sounds of chewing were occasionally punctuated by the loud crack of a bone.

“You must be fetching kidding me.” He cursed under his breath in disbelief at his rotten luck. Dalamus dragged a hand down his face again. What now? He could wait and hope the troll leaves once it had its fill. What if the body out front was not enough to satisfy its hunger? It might ascend the stairs to consume the two corpses here. He could drop down the other side of the tower, but would still need to cross the troll’s line of sight to get to Opal and return to town.

The sound of Opal’s nervous whinnies pulled him from his thoughts and into action. The troll had noticed her and was advancing towards her, hoping for a large, fresh meal. Opal, Divines bless her, was dutifully waiting for Dalamus to return despite her terror.

“Miraga!” he yelled from the top of the tower, commanding Opal to flee and find somewhere to hide, giving her permission to escape by whatever means necessary and get to safety. “Miraga!”

The mare turned and ran, and the troll attempted to follow but was stopped by Dalamus landing upon its shoulders after leaping from the tower, and sending them both tumbling. Dalamus immediately rolled to his feet in time to dodge the swipe of a massive clawed hand. The troll roared, sending spittle and loose food flying, enraged that its meal had been interrupted.

Another swipe from the creature aimed to take Dalamus’ head clean off his shoulders, but he ducked and thrust a dagger upwards into the troll’s arm. Its skin was thick and leathery, extremely difficult to cut or pierce. Even his ebony-steel could not find purchase in the troll’s arm. Dalamus leaped backwards to avoid the second hand, but misjudged the length of the creature’s arm and was snagged by sharp claws and sent off-balance.

A backwards roll brought Dalamus to his feet again, adrenaline coursing through him and allowing him to temporarily ignore his wound in favor of strategizing a way to either win or escape. Trolls were generally slow but persistent. There was no guarantee it would not follow him back to town should he turn and run. The miners were in no condition to defend themselves, and he did not want the guilt of a town massacre on his hands. He was not heartless.

One slip up and Dalamus knew he would end up in two pieces on the ground. And, of course, this battle just had to take place in the middle of a beautiful sunny day–his wounds would heal slowly, if at all. Bumps and scrapes were the least of his worries though.

For once, Dalamus wished daggers were not his weapons of choice. Normally he enjoyed getting up close and personal with his enemies in combat, but not when it involved getting within grabbing distance of a troll with rancid corpse breath.

He kept the troll at a distance, circling the small space behind the tower. Dalamus could feel the troll’s eyes sizing him up, possibly mulling over which limb to separate from his body first. Vampire flesh tasted terrible, but trolls were not picky.

The troll lunged, and Dalamus ducked, bringing a dagger straight down into one of the beast’s feet. It roared, but before Dalamus could pull away, he was lifted from the ground by his middle and forced to leave his dagger embedded in the troll’s flesh. The giant hand surrounding him threatened to crush his rib cage. He felt a bone crack in his side, then the troll’s other hand grabbed his left arm and began to pull. A scream tore from his throat as another rib cracked and his left arm dislocated from the socket. Through tears and searing pain, Dalamus reached for his second dagger still in its sheath at his hip, and with as much force as he could muster, he thrust the ebony steel dagger straight into one of the troll’s eyes.

It dropped him immediately, clutching at its face and roaring, stumbling backwards in agony. Dalamus had only fallen a few feet, but he felt as though he had been tossed from the top of the watchtower to crumple to the ground. Everything hurt, but he could not afford to stay still. He was now entirely unarmed, and his left arm mostly useless, not to mention the sharp pain which bloomed in his side with every movement. Though he needed no breath, mild panic brought the habit back, and to his detriment. Every gasp invited stabs of pain.

The troll, now finished with its anguished bellows, pulled the dagger from its eye and tossed it aside far too distantly for Dalamus to ever dream of reaching. If he got caught one more time, he would be killed.

So, Dalamus kept his distance once again, he and the troll circling the small clearing. Even the brutish creature was hesitant to step within fighting distance, the dark blood spilling from its eye a grim reminder that this Dunmer was no simple prey. Drips of crimson began forming a circle as they strafed their small battlefield. Normally, a troll might leave this battle. Wounds severely diminished its ability to hunt. Certainly losing an eye did. But there were three corpses here, and it was not about to let so much food go to waste. It drooled with anticipation and frothed with anger.

After the dripping blood had created three quarters of a full circle on the ground, the troll lunged. Dalamus dove to the left, landing on his shoulder and the pain forcing a cry from him. Red eyes searched for his destination, one of the fallen guards’ corpses. Another hasty leap had the vampire practically landing in the stinking corpse’s lap. Putrid flesh and offal smashed under his weight and stained his clothing with rot.

He could hear the thuds of the troll’s feet stomping in a rush towards him while his back was turned.

In a decisive movement, Dalamus grabbed the fallen Nord’s sword, pivoted, and stood, bringing the blade straight up, right through the troll’s lower jaw and into the skull. Its rage ceased instantly, but momentum brought it forward to collapse on top of Dalamus, and the corpse. Pain exploded everywhere at once as he was pinned to the ground between two stinking masses. He did not know which was worse, the rank troll drool and dark blood now dripping to stain his front, or the faint sensation of slimy rot and wriggling creatures against his back coming from the corpse below him.

After what felt like an eternity, Dalamus managed to wiggle his right arm free to lift the shoulder of the beast off him. Then he continued to wiggle until he could get his knees up and kick the troll body away from him. He crawled to a clear area of ground and laid back down to process what had happened and assess the damage. Two, maybe three ribs broken, left shoulder dislocated, an open wound on one side of his abdomen. Blood stained every inch of his shirt, and he was pretty sure some degloved corpseflesh clung to his back and maggots were crawling into his hair. Somehow, it was the best case scenario after a fight with a troll in the middle of the day. He would not heal if he continued to lay in the sunlight though, and after all this, he deserved his damned payment. Oh, and the villagers would probably like to know what had happened to their guards. But first he had to at least take care of his shoulder.

“Opal?” Dalamus called, hoping she might be within earshot. After a painful moment of waiting, he heard the crunch of leaves under hooves, much to his relief. She had taken refuge in the nearby trees, waiting for the battle to subside.

With more than a few winces and grunts, Dalamus got to his feet and all but hobbled over to his horse, taking her reins and leading her to a tree with a fork at his chest level. He put the tree between himself and the horse, and the reins over the fork in the tree, wrapped around the wrist of his dislocated arm. The goal was to have Opal help him relocate it.

“Bivi. Re’aldis.” He told her to back up, and slowly. Opal obeyed, moving backwards step by step, slowly lifting Dalamus’ arm up and over the fork in the tree. He clenched his jaw to tolerate the pain and braced himself against the trunk. Opal continued until he was pressed up entirely against the tree, but once there was resistance in the reins, she stopped.

“Bivi,” the mer ordered again, too tired to remain patient. Opal was reluctant.

“Bivi!” he shouted, and the horse, startled, pulled backwards as commanded. All his frustration evaporated as pain rushed to fill its place. A shout was forced from his chest, and Opal rushed towards him in concern.

Reins no longer taut to hold him up against the tree, Dalamus fell backwards onto the ground, white hot pain ricocheting up his side and shoulder as he caught himself with his now relocated arm. The reins were relinquished and his horse snuffled at him from above, disheveling his hair in a supposed attempt to soothe or perhaps apologize. Dalamus was too exhausted and in too much pain to care about his hair, or his ripped clothes, or the corpse jelly that clung to him, or the maggots on his shirt, or how he reeked, or how much blood was oozing from his side.

Although he would not die of blood loss, at least not any time soon, the more blood he lost, the sooner he would need to feed in order to replenish it. And with the sun still high in the sky, his wounds would not close. The longer he sat here, the more of a danger he was to the people of Shor’s Stone and Riften when he returned. Perhaps it would be best to feed from an animal between here and there. With a groan that eased into a whine, the mer slowly pushed himself to his knees, and then his feet, placing a hand on Opal to steady himself.

“Juli, Opal,” he rasped out in praise, giving her neck a stroke. His hand left a smear of dark blood on her coat. Whoops.

Dalamus trudged slowly over to the troll’s corpse, a sneer lifting his lip to reveal a threatening fang at no one in particular. Despite thirst scratching at his throat, the dark, stinking blood pooling around the dead creature was anything but appetizing. He was here for something else…

The sword he had used to impale the troll was still seated firmly in its skull, blood seeping out of either end of the wound it had created. With a few shoves of his foot, Dalamus managed to roll the hulking creature onto its back, then braced the foot against its chest in preparation to remove the sword. His muscles protested and burned, broken bones sending electric jolts through him with every strain. Through gritted teeth and a whimper of pain, Dalamus pulled the sword out, the flesh squelching as it released the steel.

He grips the sword hilt in both hands, brings the blade up over his head, and swings the sharp edge down hard into the throat of the troll. Again. And again. And again. Blood and odd slivers of corpseflesh flung into the air and onto Dalamus himself. Swords made for terrible chopping tools, especially once it reached bone–but perhaps he would get an extra reward if the townspeople knew the trouble he had been through for their ‘simple’ errand. With every swing of the weapon, his body screamed at him. Even more so when his arms absorbed the shock each time the blade bit into the ground.

Once the majority of the flesh had been hacked away from the spine, Dalamus changed to a more delicate approach. He used the point of the blade to try and slip between the segments of neck bone, stabbing the rubbery disk until finally it gave. Then, with a final chop, the troll’s head rolled free of its body.

Dalamus grabbed the troll’s head by a fistful of fur—hair?—and lifted it to peer into the dead eyes of his enemy. The jaw fell slack, still oozing foul saliva and stinking blood. If he did not get compensated for this… He sighed in exasperation, triggering a jolt of pain in his side.

Dalamus glanced at his horse and his shoulder throbbed in response. The mere thought of pulling himself up into the saddle caused discomfort in his shoulder, and the slowest of gaits would still jostle his broken ribs as he kept balance and time with the horse's movements. Walking, it is.

The only consolation—if one could call it that—was the sun still hanging in the sky. It meant he still had time before the vampirism began knitting his body back together. If it were to heal back wrong, such as during physical activity with the body in motion, it would have to be re-broken. Such was a fate he wanted to avoid if at all possible.

After gathering his daggers from the area and placing them back in their sheathes, blood and all, they began the trek back to Shor's Stone. Opal walked diligently beside him, allowing him to lean against her flank when pain halted their progress. If paused for too long, she would reach back and snuffle him with her big soft nose and remind him they still had a ways to go. Walking the path uphill was surprisingly laborious, but he knew it meant they were close.

As they crested the small hill, Dalamus could see the miners of Shor's Stone lining up to get their medicine from Filnjar. They looked and sounded terrible, a step away from draugr. Constant coughing had left them completely exhausted, their entire bodies sore, evident in how they shuffled forward. Darkened eyes and unkempt hair spoke to their lack of sleep. One face in the line stood out to him, and he felt the hairs on his neck bristle and his posture stiffen.

A scarred older Dunmer with greasy black hair falling to his shoulders stood halfway down the line of miners. His eyes were tired, barely open, and trained on the ground in front of him. He did not see Dalamus approaching, and this gave the vampire confidence.

Leaving Opal's side, Dalamus strode past Filnjar towards the line of sick miners. The Dunmer in line glanced up at the commotion, locked eyes with Dalamus, and all exhaustion in his body was replaced with terror. Drevain was flung to the ground before he could get a single word out—not that Dalamus would have listened to anything he had to say.

The vampire's previously dislocated arm threatened to fall out of its socket once again, the joint screaming at him, but the pleasure of landing a perfect punch across Drevain's face was too good an opportunity to pass up. The world around him ceased to exist and all decorum dissolved once he saw Drevain on the ground, frightened of him. The sick older mer was weak, thinner, exhausted, and Dalamus drank it in like ambrosia.

The vampire grinned, a flood of victorious adrenaline surging through him and pushing his own pain to the back of his mind. It could be dealt with later. But right now? He had Drevain at his mercy, and his head swam with the possibilities.

He knelt over Drevain like a sabre cat over a felled elk. His fangs caught in the light, and at this angle only his father could see. Dalamus' arm came down again, this time gripping Drevain's throat tight, pinning him against the ground. With every movement, every attempt to escape, Dalamus squeezed tighter. His fingers bit into Drevain's flesh like a blacksmith's vise; he could feel a pulse under his fingertips, struggling against the pressure. The vampire's lip quivered with barely restrained rage, his father's gasps and whimpers music to his ears.

Then, betrayal! He was being pulled off of Drevain! He struggled against the weak hands and arms, but it reminded him of his own pain and exhaustion. It took at least four people, but he was thrust back into Shor's Stone, where his revenge could not take place. Where he was surrounded by witnesses who did not know of Drevain's atrocities. Who only knew him as a miner now being assaulted.

He resisted the urge to spit and hiss and bite, to fight back, to throttle the closest person for daring to come between him and the revenge he had dreamed of for years. Instead, while being restrained and questioned, he explained himself, his words dripping with venom. “That mer, that fetcher, is my father! He is filth. Rot. Liar. Abuser.”

Stunned speechless by the accusations, all the restraining hands left Dalamus, although they remained close just in case intervention was necessary again. Dalamus moved to stand over the fallen Drevain, the rest of the townspeople hovering around him like a cage ready to close.

Dalamus' face twisted into a contemptuous smirk, and his voice lowered to a growl. “Look at you. Feeble old mer. I could kill you right here, right now. It would be so easy.” The townspeople tensed, ready to leap into action, but such was not Dalamus' plan.

“But I will not. Because I am not you. I am better than what you made me. I even brought medicine.” His voice darkened and his red eyes seemed to glow with malice. “I hope you choke on it. I hope it burns. I hope it sits heavy in your stomach and nauseates you, knowing that I saved your life. I hope it eats at you for the rest of time knowing that. You. Owe. Me. That you live because I will it. Because I am better than you.”

Dalamus turned his red eyes to Filnjar, who visibly startled. Only after recovering was he able to hand the injured Dunmer the money he was owed--and he seemed more than eager to get rid of it, all but flinging it into Dalamus' hand. Dalamus weighed the heft of the coin pouch and, satisfied, nodded. “Unfortunately, your watchtower guards were killed by passing Imperials. I killed the troll that had begun feasting on their bodies. It should be safe to reach them for burial, if you wish, but I warn you the sight is.. not pretty. Oh. And, Father~” he called, locking eyes with the other mer for a final time, his sing-song tone not enough to disguise the venom on his tongue.

“If I see you anywhere near my family, I will tear you into so many pieces that every animal in the Rift will get a bite.” It was Drevain's turn to live in fear. He tossed the troll's head towards the downed mer as proof of his prowess in battle, proof of his strength.

Dalamus then pushed himself up into Opal's saddle and they began their trek towards home. Every broken bone in his body screamed in time with hoof beats, but it was important to Dalamus that Drevain see him leave strongly. He had to make an impression, even if it meant searing pain. He had to appear strong. Triumphant.

It was only after he was certain they were out of eyesight that Dalamus curled in on himself in the saddle, gripping at his side, sucking in air through his teeth in a vain attempt to somehow stabilize himself. The adrenaline was wearing off and the pain came rushing back. He felt as though he had been run over by an entire herd of horses. Twice. And the sun was getting low. He needed to get back to Riften quickly. The sooner he could lay in a bed and get everything stabilized, the sooner he could heal correctly.

But it was not just the physical pain that engulfed him. The confrontation with his abuser left him trembling despite his own clear upper hand. He had felt so powerful in the moment, but now he was wracked with fear. Were there going to be consequences to this? What if Drevain did not believe his threats? Had he just endangered his family rather than protecting them? He slumped in the saddle and fought the urge to sob, clenching his teeth to prevent any sounds from escaping. Nothing could prevent the sting in his eyes. He had come so close to killing Drevain. So why did it feel like Drevain had still won?

When he got back to Riften, he would warn his loved ones of Drevain’s presence in Shor’s Stone.

“Ruhn,” he told Opal. The word for “home”. He just wanted to get home. Everything hurt.

Everything hurt.

#missy writing #dalamus story #shors stone #aka Dal and the Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day #copy/pasted directly from LibreOffice so please for the love og god Tumblr don't mess up the format lkjdhfg #drevainrex #abuse mention #not described just mentioned #descriptions of blood and gore #descriptions of corpses

[dragonbleps]

Heart of Stone

You wake.

Stars still twinkle overhead, and the crickets chirping around you promise several more hours before dawn. Soft breaths and the occasional snore from your various companions puts you at ease. No excitement for tonight.

Heard even over the sounds of the nightly insects is the grating rhythm of stone against grit. Dalamus works at his tent, grinding a piece of agate into a cabochon. Unlike the others, Dalamus had set up his tent far from the center, presumably to have a full view of the camp, either out of protectiveness or distrust. You presume the latter. He never left the tent for long, not even to sleep. Do Drow sleep?

Astarion is awake, as well, yet remains at his own tent, implying that nocturnal camaraderie is not the reason for his and Dalamus' overlapping watch. Why, then, waste sleeping hours? A generous onlooker might interpret their tandem watchfulness as an overabundance of caution, having backup should a problem arise. The occasional annoyed glance from Astarion in Dalamus' direction pushes the thought from your mind.

Sounds of grinding stone and crunching sand stop as Dalamus inspects his gem for scratches and inclusions. He takes a moment to observe his surroundings, red eyes scanning the campsite and beyond for any signs of disturbance. For your protection? Or his own? You cannot say for certain. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment your pulse quickens, filling with apprehension from a source unknown and unwanted. Unfortunately, you cannot say it is wholly unwarranted, either.

Dalamus' gaze leaves your face and he returns to his task, allowing you the chance to breathe. If any would-be attackers felt half of the apprehension you had in the gaze of your supposed companion, none would dare approach. Dalamus cleans his work station with some water and lays out the next level of grit, wets the agate, and begins grinding once more.

There is a groan of exasperation from Astarion, followed by him complaining about the grating noise. Dalamus is unfazed and, decidedly unwilling to give the High Elf the courtesy of eye contact, responds lowly in Drowic. "Dosst ssivah jaaele mzildur."

Astarion makes a scandalized huff. Whether he understands Drowic or simply assumes insult, you do not know. Either way, he settles back into his tent with a sour expression, arms crossed, and you cannot help the amusement that tugs at the corners of your mouth.

You roll onto your back and stare up at the stars again, closing your eyes. It takes a moment for Dalamus' red eyes to fade from your memory, but you force yourself to relax. You should be safe at least for tonight.

Chips Away

You wake.

Clouds obscure the stars, but the moon's glowing silhouette directly overhead assures you there is still plenty of time to sleep. Most of your companions doze quietly around you. One person turns from their back onto their side, but does not wake. It is peaceful.

The steady rhythm of stone against stone tells you Dalamus is polishing yet again tonight. Something green, judging by the flashes in the torchlight. His tent remains far from the center where everyone else has gathered, but you suspect it is to prevent disturbing the others' sleep. Perhaps.

Except for Astarion, also awake, reading a book at his tent. Or trying. It seems he and Dalamus are both night owls, and refuse to give up their nocturnal quiet time to the other. You suppose, in the end, two pairs of eyes are better than one for keeping watch in the dark.

Sudden silence, as Dalamus picks up his stone and cleans it of grit to determine his progress. He peers up from his work to survey the grounds, making sure his focus on his hobby does not blind him to dangers. His eyes come to rest on your face, and he tilts his head slightly, perhaps wondering why you are awake. If only you had an answer for him. Instead, you smile.

Dalamus' pointed ears prick upwards ever so slightly, but he looks away, unsure how to respond. His attention returns to the stone in front of him, but not before you catch him glancing furtively in your direction once. And then again. He scrubs the grit from his stone with a small brush and some water, resetting his work station to begin the next stage of polishing. It might be a trick of the light, but you could swear his shoulders are not as stiff as before.

Astarion pushes himself to his feet and asks how much longer the accursed screeching will last. Dalamus regards him with a mild scowl, but answers. "An hour at most. You will survive."

The High Elf drags a hand down his face and begins walking off, mumbling about getting something to eat. Now that he mentions it, hunger is beginning to gnaw at your stomach, as well. But the call of sleep is stronger.

You wriggle yourself into a comfortable position on your side and close your eyes, trying to imagine what shape the stone will take when Dalamus is done. The sound of stone polishing is far from melodic, yet it is familiar, and therefore comforting. It means he is awake, and watching. And you feel safe.

To Reveal Gold

You wake.

The stars are bright in the sky, and the moon full enough to light the camp without the need for fire. Grasses sway and trees rustle in the cool midnight breeze. The only thing punctuating the relative silence is the soft snore of a companion opposite the snuffed campfire from you. It is too quiet.

You sit up and wipe the sleep from your eyes. Gone is the grinding noise which you had begun to find comfort in. Dalamus' tent is set up, and his stone polishing materials are out, but the Drow himself is nowhere to be seen. The only thing keeping you from fearing the worst is Astarion, awake and relaxed at his own tent.

The sound of faint crunching reaches your ears, of dirt and grass under boots, and you look over your shoulder to find Dalamus approaching. At his side is a small waterskin still dripping from immersion in the nearby river. He stops once he notices you, red eyes scanning your face. "Is something the matter?" he asks, possibly the first time you have heard him express explicit concern for another outside of injury in combat.

"I'm fine," you assure. "I'm so used to hearing you work, that when I awoke to silence I became worried. I didn't know where you had gone, is all."

Dalamus appears surprised at your concern. After all, there are plenty of others in camp. Astarion is awake to keep watch. He knows you are capable of defending yourself.

"I am here," he says finally, but confusion colors his tone, as if he has never considered his presence might be desirable. Not in a genuine sense, anyway. Useful, perhaps, with his darkvision and heightened hearing. But this is not that. He senses it. And he does not know what to do with it.

"I'm glad you're here. Goodnight, Dalamus."

His eyes widen and his pointed ears swivel away. Rather than say anything and risk revealing emotions he has no name for, Dalamus nods and begins towards his tent.

You lay down on your back and close your eyes, listening. He is at the final stage of polishing for tonight's stone; no more harsh grinding. But it is enough to know that he is there.

You hear a teasing comment from Astarion, followed by an exclamation of pain and a clatter from something small Dalamus has thrown at him. You smile. You are safe.

......

You wake.

It is the early hours of dawn. The moon and stars have almost disappeared entirely, but the sun is not yet risen and neither have your companions. The birds are beginning their calls as the air begins to warm.

A glint of light catches your eye and you turn your head to find a brilliantly polished opal cabochon beside your bedroll. A gift. Even more astounding, Dalamus sleeps facing you but a few feet away. You have never seen him sleep until now. Sleep meant vulnerability, and Dalamus trusts almost no one.

Except you.

You dare not touch him for fear of breaking this trust. Perhaps when he wakes he will distance himself again. But for now, he is here, and he is safe.

#I wanted to experiment with the 2nd-person point of view like the narration of BG3 #so here's a story about an unspecified character observing Dalamus throughout a period of.. idk. weeks? #going from stranger (Heart of Stone) to friend (Chips Away) to close (To Reveal Gold) #the general repetition is purposeful to highlight the subtle changing of Dal's behavior #i have to keep the setting/timeline vague bc.. i haven't gone past the Emerald Grove yet :'D #missy rambles #missy writing #my oc #dalamus drow #drowamus #i guess i could use his (previous) full name so that i have an official tag for him. even though he doesnt have the surname anymore #dalamus strighym #bg3 #OH. and as for what Dal said to Astarion in the first part: ''Your voice grates more'' lmao

[noamuth]

Escape

[Continued from this story]

Dalamus wakes to the stinging of insects gnawing on the edges of his wounded flesh, forcing him awake and alert. With the scent of blood in the air and no way of knowing how long he has been out, it is only a matter of time before larger creatures search in the hopes of fresh meat.

The energy web has dissipated, and the jade spiders are nowhere to be seen. Why had they not killed him? Was it not their goal? Were they commanded to return before they could finish the job, or had they intentionally left him here?

He moves to hide himself, bracing against the cave wall, crouching against the stones there to obscure his presence from as many angles as possible. Only then does he begin brushing himself off, banishing the crawling things back to the dirt from whence they came, sending them scattering in alarm. The insects on his face and throat are not deterred so easily, refusing the give up their pound of flesh. One by one he pulls them off. Some are more stubborn than others, biting or stinging in defense, or clamping down harder on the edges of his wounds, leaving them even more ragged.

The lacerations on his face and throat still bleed, agitated further by the previous gnawing and bloodletting saliva of the insects, but they are not deep. Blood drips into his mouth, filling his senses with wet iron, but it is not clogging his throat or lungs. His breathing is unobstructed, and his vision is clear.

Dalamus removes his bloodied shirt and begins cutting ribbons from it with a dagger. Using the already soiled portions, he wipes and mops up as much blood from his wounds and skin as possible, then hides the bloodied cloth amidst some stones and mushrooms nearby to serve as a potential decoy. If it is not mistakenly eaten by some beast or insects, the mycelium will likely claim it. Afterwards, he wraps clean strips around his throat and face injuries to the best of his ability, ending the blood trail.

From here, the only way to go is up. Easier said than done. Dalamus has never been beyond the Upperdark, has never even glimpsed the surface. He has heard stories and read books, of course, but never seen it with his own eyes, nor walked the paths required. Rather than taking part in a surface raid as most drow do for their coming-of-age test, Dalamus' Blooding involved a Displacer Beast being captured for the ritual and brought underground.

Menzoberranzan is two miles under the surface, but the tunnels can stretch much longer, twisting and winding and looping on themselves like the coils of ill-mannered snakes, or spread out like the spokes of a drunken spider's web. At least ten different tunnels breach the surface, but he knows not which ones, and casual exploration is a luxury he cannot afford. Getting lost in the Underdark is a guaranteed death, as is returning to Menzoberranzan so soon after being thrown out. His best bet, to his disgust and apprehension, is braving the surface at least until his wounds have healed.

By some blessing of Lolth, Dalamus has not had his piwafwi taken from him, allowing him to use the cloak for much-needed stealth. He draws the hood over his head, invoking the magic within, and he becomes invisible to the naked eye. His bleeding has mostly stopped, but he still needs to be careful. An infection can quickly kill the most resilient of people, and drow are no different in that regard, unfortunately. The makeshift bandages will shield his wounds, at the cost of friction agitating them.

A few minutes of walking reveals his first obstacle. Two drow foot soldiers walk side-by-side, baleful red eyes scanning the darkness and any passageways for potential threats. Dalamus crouches by an outcropping and observes patiently, his piwafwi concealing him flawlessly. He assesses their strength. One carries a sword and shield while the other sports a glaive, together covering close and mid-range combat distance.

Were it just one soldier, winning a battle and obtaining some armor might be possible, but the presence of both a shield and a polearm made his chances of getting close enough to kill extremely slim. The risk is too high. Dalamus can only watch with jealousy as they disappear into the darkness towards Menzoberranzan.

As the distance between himself and the city grows, the tunnels and caverns become more alive. The most abundant flora within the Underdark are mushrooms, molds and lichens, growing in every shape, size, and color, with varying levels of hostility. Lichens and mosses appear in patches on the ground or clinging to rock faces, providing soft turf, slowly breaking down stone, and holding soils together. Molds are often found where condensation drips from stalactites, or near other rare sources of water in the Underdark.

Some, like the Bonecap and Rogue's Morsel, are small, and sport shades of black and brown to match the soil. They are often gathered to create poisons, or potions of healing, respectively. Dalamus picks a few Rogue's Morsels whenever he passes a cluster of the unassuming mushrooms, shoving their caps in a pouch at his side. Though he has not the tools for true alchemy, if he can find the ingredients for a crude suspension, the resulting paste may still provide some benefits.

Torchstalks are clusters of round, orange, bulbous mushrooms, some as tall as a person, ready to explode at the lightest touch or breeze. The intensity of their glow warns passersby when they are getting too close, and disturbing one risks igniting a chain reaction of any nearby Torchstalks. Timmasks are common, starting as small, radially striped bulbs the width of a barrel which grow and open up into table-shaped mushrooms. Unlike other mushrooms which might explode or spew acidic spores, Timmask spores are expelled in a cloud which induces extreme confusion, often causing a victim to double over in bouts of hysterical laughter until the spores disperse. Best to avoid all of them if he is to remain hidden.

The largest mushrooms tower even above minotaurs, some as tall as, or even taller, than buildings. Usually blue or orange in color, they line often-trod paths within large caverns, their gills glowing softly with bioluminescence, their caps acting as giant lampshades. Though large mushrooms are few and far between in tunnels, they provide helpful cover from creatures which lurk above.

Creatures with limited strength--or higher intelligence--often rely on stealth in the Underdark, such as Dalamus, who painstakingly makes his way from mushroom to mushroom, using them as cover in addition to his piwafwi's magic. One can never be too careful. Deep bats of all sorts hide in crevices, Darkmantles disguise themselves as stalactites, and Lolth-forbid he should wander too close to a psionic creature like an Aboleth.

He hears the telltale buzzing and buffeting of many wings and knows that a thirst of stirges are nearby. Nasty creatures the size of a large bat covered in short red fur, with two membranous wings and four eight-jointed legs which ended in sharp pincers. The pincers can rend flesh, but are usually used to hold onto their prey while their long needle-like mouthpiece drains a victim of blood.

Numbering at least ten, they are headed in his direction, drawn by the scent of the blood which has stained his bandages the color of old rust. Although not the most fearsome creatures to encounter as individuals, stirges are terrifying in a swarm, determined enough to bring a minotaur to its knees if blood has been spilled.

His piwafwi hides his physical form and heat signature, but cannot hide his scent. He needs to disguise the scent of blood somehow...

Dalamus moves with utmost caution away from the swarm, but they buzz faster than his feet can move him without revealing his position. He stops amidst a patch of mushrooms, hoping the dank, musty scent will confuse the swarm. But it does not slow their curious but hungry approach.

In a final effort to hide his wounds, Dalamus grabs a cluster of Swarming Toadstools, ripping the caps off to rub the gills and spores over the surface of his bandages. Swarming Toadstools are an ingredient in the favored sleeping poison often used by drow. Dalamus is immune to any potential effects the raw mushroom may have, but the smell deters many creatures from consuming it. Hopefully it will prevent him from being consumed, too.

The stirges swarm closer, still following a trail in the air, and he worries it will not be enough. He crouches among the mushrooms, careful not to crush them and indicate his presence, and watches as the swarm moves ever closer, like a vampiric cloud of angry syringes. His heart picks up speed, preparing him to either fight or flee should he be discovered, and he forces his breathing to stay even despite every muscle screaming at him to run.

But the creatures slow, and eventually stop just a few paces away. They have lost the trail. Dalamus almost sighs in relief. After a few moments of confused hovering and humming amongst themselves, the stirges return from whence they came, and the droning in his sensitive ears finally stops... only to be replaced by the sound of footsteps.

Another drow patrol, this time a single soldier on a riding lizard, sporting a glaive to attack while in the saddle. The lizard is large, a dull green, and long in the neck and tail. No surface is safe from a riding lizard, as its specialized toes allow it to walk on walls and ceilings, and the saddles were made to hold their riders even while upside down.

Nilaufein had often spoken at length about the creatures--their diets, their behaviors, their personalities. And while he had enjoyed taking care of them, he did not enjoy the method with which the lizards' loyalties were cemented, a magical compulsion which overrode the lizards' natural instincts. On rare occasion, Nilaufein had joked about stealing some eggs to raise for himself, vowing to treat them better. To Dalamus it seemed foolish. Why change a method that works so well? ...He wonders if this lizard is related to any that Nilaufein had had a hand in raising.

The soldier's red eyes scan the area, drawn by the commotion of the stirges. They do not swarm without purpose, and they only consume blood, often leaving a carcass behind full of useful materials like scales, or hide, fur or bones. And yet, to the soldier's eyes, there is nothing here which should have drawn the stirges. He narrows his eyes and gives the area beside Dalamus a few test jabs with his weapon, and Dalamus has half a mind to grab the glaive and kill the rider with it, but restrains himself from the opportunity, knowing it would likely anger the lizard. Dalamus ducks under a sweep of the glaive, and the rider relents, spurring his lizard onward.

Anyone else? He thinks sarcastically, glancing down paths and tunnels for potential threats. Bats? Giant centipedes? Cloakers? Bulettes? Gricks? Beholders? No? Dalamus allows himself one long sigh of relief, even if his heart does not agree that he is safe. One is never safe in the Underdark. But he carries on. He has no choice.

Dalamus continues his stealthy trek through the caverns and tunnels, clinging to the shadows, stepping lightly, pausing patiently whenever there is a disturbance. Darkmantles shift on the ceiling, pointing their tentacles to appear as stalactites, biding their time to drop upon unsuspecting prey. He avoids moving directly underneath them.

A small space just off the path provides a place to rest; a small, hollowed out area within the rock wall that has been hollowed out thanks to dripping stalactites. Within the hollow are Bullywug Trumpets, mushrooms that favor moist, dark areas, and whose shape facilitates the collection of water dripping from above. Finally, water...

Finding a boulder with a shallowly concave top, Dalamus reaches into his pouch and pulls out the Rogue's Morsel caps, and begins grinding them against the boulder with a smaller stone. The dry, brown mushrooms crumble under the pressure until he is left with.. well, it is not a powder, but it will have to suffice. He removes a handful of large pieces for good measure.

Taking his dagger, he carves a few pieces of flesh from a Trumpet, and places it among the powdery remains of the Morsels. He then returns to the Trumpets and begins scooping water from them with his hand, bringing the handfuls to the boulder and wetting his ingredients. It is not the cleanest water, but he may not get another chance to create a suspension. He glances out of his hiding place.

Ahead, a couple of Hook Horrors exit their lair, followed close behind by several hatchlings, each a foot tall. One of the small horrors is in the process of shedding its exoskeleton, leaving a trail of white flakes. Instinctually aware of its vulnerability, it remains on the heels of its parents, occasionally bumping into one's leg with a surprised squawk. No doubt the parents are bringing the younglings out to teach them hunting skills. Dalamus will have to wait until the coast is clear to exit. He returns to his task.

With the small stone, Dalamus crushes the flesh of the Trumpet within the Morsel-muddied water, creating an acrid tincture so pungent he has to blink tears away to watch its progress. A small spider crawls up his arm as he works, likely having been disturbed from its place in one of the Trumpets, and Dalamus sees its presence as a sign of encouragement. Lolth smiles upon his ingenuity, his will and ability to survive.

After a thorough grinding, Dalamus is left with a stinking green paste. In a proper alchemical setting, the ingredients can be purified and distilled into a potion of healing, but he does not have the luxury. Scooping up the paste on his fingers, he lifts his bandages just enough to slather his injuries in what should encourage healing. His wounds scream at the intrusion, and Dalamus sets his jaw to prevent any sounds from escaping him. After several long, painful moments, the stinging subsides, and he peers out of his pocket in the wall to check on the Hook Horrors. They are gone.

In their place is a small number of Azmyths flying about, fairly intelligent serpentine bat-like creatures. Not inherently hostile, as their diets mostly consist of plants and insects. Their presence assures Dalamus that the Hook Horrors have indeed moved on, and he must, too.

He exits his hiding place and continues forward, piwafwi hood drawn, passing below the playing Azmyths. With their ability to turn invisible at will, and their telepathic communication, it is likely they can sense Dalamus' presence. He keeps himself calm, and the Azmyths remain calm. A few pass close to him in curiosity, close enough for him to hear their telepathic whispers buzzing against the edges of his mind like static between two layers of fabric, but he cannot understand what they are saying.

Then the buzzing becomes urgent. The wingbeats frantic. Dalamus can feel his heart rate climbing as he readies a dagger to defend himself. It agitates the Azmyths even more, and they begin buffeting him, pushing at him with their bodies and their minds. A wing gets tangled in his hood and it falls, releasing the invisibility magic concealing his form. He slashes at the Azmyth responsible and manages to sever part of its tail as it flies away.

Then, a roar.

The Azmyths disappear up into the ceiling of the cavern, leaving Dalamus alone. He turns towards the sound of heavy footsteps. It is not him which had panicked the Azmyths.

Quaggoths. At least three of them. Seven feet of pure muscle under shaggy white hair, Quaggoths are fearsome beasts with intelligence enough to hunt in groups. Some use weapons, but many prefer to use their teeth and claws. And they really, really hate drow.

Though exhausted, Dalamus breaks into a run, adrenaline supplying him with energy he did not know he still had. But he is at a disadvantage. He does not know the layout this far from the city, he is running blind. His pursuers are well-rested and can run on all fours. He can hear them gaining, and it sounds like his death catching up to him.

The only thing he has going for him is his agility, which he uses at every opportunity, vaulting over barriers, turning corners with speed, climbing, dropping, and yet the Quaggoths do not relent. His lungs and throat feel as though they have caught fire, his heart threatening to burst. His legs betray him and he can feel the muscles start to give out. Not now. Not now, please, he pleads. Pathetic, really, having to beg. As if Lolth would come to the aid of such whimpering.

He is on his own. And he is going to die. The footsteps are getting closer and he cannot run any faster. Soon he will be nothing but nutrients to the inhabitants of the Underdark caverns, assuming the Quaggoths leave anything for others. He can hear the panting of one behind him, can practically feel the moist breath against his neck.

Claws catch his shoulder and throw him to the side, off his feet, and his vision goes white with pain as he lands among stalagmites. Were it not for the lack of blood at his abdomen, he might have assumed impalement. But he is not dead. Not yet.

The Quaggoth is eager to change this. It seems to smile as it lumbers in his direction, teeth prepared to snap his neck, claws itching to tear open his ribcage. It drools in anticipation.

In a last ditch effort to escape, Dalamus closes his eyes and casts Dancing Lights in the direction of the Quaggoth, and the creature roars and brings its meaty hands up to its eyes, shielding them too late from the blinding brightness now filling the cavern.

Dalamus rolls from atop the pointed stones and attempts to make a run for it, but his legs collapse from under him, and his back refuses to support his weight, throbbing as though struck by a Minotaur's club. Out of desperation, he crawls. His eyes are drawn to bright, silvery moths before him, a species he has not seen before. They quickly flutter towards a crevice in the stone wall nearby, one that he might be able to squeeze himself into. The Quaggoths certainly cannot fit, and the Dancing Lights will not last forever. He must move now.

The angry roars behind him spur him to move faster, and he manages to shove himself into the cave wall. Whimpers escape him as he forces himself to stand, to force his legs underneath him and propel him through the tight crevice. He hears the scrabbling of claws and the scraping of stone against stone as the Quaggoths attempt to widen the gap behind him. Dalamus pushes onward, following the faint light of the moths until the crevice opens up into another tunnel.

And he sees light. Not the light of glowing insects, nor the light of luminescent fungus. This is different.

He all but falls out of the wall, catching himself on his palms, and looks up at the exit of the tunnel.

He found it. The surface.

And it is fucking bright.

[To be continued]

#missy writing #strighym backstory #IM DONE. IM NOT WORKING ON IT ANYMORE LKJHSDFG #i have the continuation in my brain already

[moonlightpaladin]

Since your character is so new, are there any tropes/scenarios, etc. that you're hoping to explore with them over the course of ffxiv's story? Are they the sort of person who adapts well to hardship and strife?

This is such a good question I had to take a couple days to think on it, and still am not sure how to sound coherent about it, so I figured I'd just go ahead and answer haha

So many!!

His story is obviously a massive work in progress but, the reason Dal is in Eorzea is because his tribe was affected by Dalamud's descent and Bahamut's escape. His tribe worshiped Dalamud before the fall but in a peaceful manner. As it fell, however, they gradually became more fervent and even violent--presumably becoming what he would later come to know as Tempered.

Dalamus, himself, was inexplicably immune to the changes for reasons he did not know, but what he would eventually assume to be due to the Echo. But he could not calm his family nor stop their increasingly violent actions. He had to leave. Maybe he could find a way to help them. Or at the very least, he could find a way to help prevent others from suffering the same fate.

Eventually, I want to write out the slow descent into near-madness that his tribe experienced, and Dal's thought processes as he watched it happen and what was the breaking point that made him decide to leave. I also want to write about the moment where he's told by Thancred that Tempering is permanent, and there's no cure, and what that means for the future of his family.

I want to write him making friends, definitely. He's quite the stoic fellow, and after leaving the tribe he withdrew a lot. A lot of Xaela tribes are extremely close-knit at the exclusion of everyone else, and Dalamus' tribe was similar. Perhaps because of that, lone Xaela tend to draw glances and stir whispers, but he's learned to ignore that and keep to himself. But I think that would make friends more valuable; having other perspectives, more knowledge, sounding boards for ideas, and having people to rely on and who rely on him would help him feel closer to home again. I'm a sucker for Found Family.

It'd be fun to write him in a moment of weakness, when he's normally stoic and quiet. I love when a strong, silent type is forced to--or even better, finally decides to--open up to someone in order to heal.

I'd love to write his potential reunion with his younger sister who was thankfully too young at the time of Dalamud's decent to be strongly affected.

He draws a lot, something he was taught by his father, an herbalist, to help keep notes on plant life that's useful (or harmful), as well as the occasional wildlife or landscape. I've toyed with the idea of him drawing people he's met or those who stuck out to him in one way or another, and keeping "notes" on them in that way, too, haha. He preserves tons memories in a single portable book this way.

He's never shown anyone the sketchbook, and never really had a reason to, but I think it'd be funny if someone caught him drawing them.

With him being so stoic and quiet, I like the idea of him eventually having a group of friends who make a bet on who can make him smile and/or laugh first. It takes a while. Dal is mostly oblivious to it, though, which I think makes it even funnier.

In general I think Dalamus adapts well to hardship. His tribe was largely practical and he's very much a "It is what it is. So what do I do about it now?" kind of person. But in a way, I think it's also bad for him, because the strife is still there, he just shoves it down to deal with it later and then "forgets" to deal with it later. Maybe that's why he enjoys combat a little bit too much? It's a way to offload feelings in a non-obvious manner, or the adrenaline supersedes anything else. I'd have to think about it more

I know the FFXIV world is full of strife and Dal's backstory has already given him a head start on grief, so I just think it'll be nice for him to find people he can be soft around, or at the very least provide him a soft place to land :)

#ough i rambled so much #i try to avoid/ignore spoilers so this will likely be tweaked as time goes by but. yeah :3 #thanks so much for letting me ramble!! #ask #answered #gatheredfates #missy rambles #ooc #missy writing #misc

[xanican-exile]

I'm gonna ramble a bit. God I've really had story things on my mind lately. Venix's, and the other characters you lovely people haven't met yet.

I don't know if you guys know this but I do hope to one day write books about the world he's in. I'm hoping that the revamped blog coming in about a month will push me to flesh it out more, experiment with more characters and hopefully fill out their stories early portions and motivations as much as Venix's is.

There's so many scenes I got in my head, maybe some time I should try posting them here and see what people think, but I know that they'll end up being l o n g. Some of them will be easy to digest; Venix finding Garmr after his pack dies, Dalamus's final exam at Audivo to become a full magus, Alaric claiming the Adamantine Throne in a swift coup. And if people don't mind long reads maybe I'll post some of those here eventually.

Maybe I can even have Thetri and Dalamus answer questions about the world later if people ask them~

I guess I'm just looking forward to sharing more of my world and stories than the small window people have gotten through Venix over the years.

#ooc

[dragonbleps]

I wanna draw.. dal's eyes........... A gradient from when he's angry, to normal, to when he's sick, and show some in-betweens.

I think that'd be cool

#missy rambles #dalamus strighym #i also wanna write the story of him actually escaping the Underdark #Menzoberranzan is only 2 miles underground #but the tunnels will be longer and there's a lot of tunnels and a lot of danger #so what would take like. an hour at max in a straight line. ends up taking half a day #i gotta do an outline

[noamuth]

Would you say Dal leans more towards Good or Bad Drow?

I understand why the perceived dichotomy exists, but I don't subscribe to it. People aren't born Good or Bad, and an entire group of people can never fit neatly into a box with such strict labels.

Dalamus is a person born into a society which is pretty explicitly subjected to the manipulations of a literal goddess, and has been for centuries. Gods and goddesses arguably exist outside of mortal senses of morality, but some can be considered inherently Evil.

She causes chaos and infighting on purpose (I call her the Goddess of Causes Problems On Purpose)--partially so that the Strongest, Cruelest, Most Loyal survive and remain in power for her to manipulate, partially so that less loyal subjects don't get plentiful and powerful enough to challenge her, partially to prevent them from leaving and finding a better way to live, and partially just for her own amusement. They're victims of something largely beyond their control, and it's gone on for so long that many of them don't even realize or question it. In a way, it's quite literally generational trauma.

They're not born evil, otherwise the draconian way in which parents treat their children to "prepare them for the harsh world" wouldn't be necessary. This cruelty is taught, and encouraged, and treated as Normal by 99% of the population of the city. It's not innate, it's heavily influenced by environment, and when your environment is.. Like That, it's not difficult to see why many Drow turn out the way they do.

That doesn't mean they don't commit evil deeds, and that doesn't mean people are wrong for being wary of them. But someone can be a victim worth saving and also a perpetrator who deserves consequences at the same time. Them being ushered by an evil goddess doesn't give them a pass to commit surface raids. But if the goddess hadn't been there to make that their revenge-fueled Way Of Life, would they still do it? I have my doubts.

Dalamus isn't Good or Bad/Evil, he's reactive and defensive and opportunistic. Sometimes that means he's an asshole who does things people probably shouldn't tolerate or forgive. But that also means that he can learn to be different, especially now that his environment has changed. He just has to get through the transition period first.

In case it wasn't obvious, I heavily enjoy redemption/domestication stories for grumps and assholes.

#ask #Anonymous #strighym info #i just woke up. does this make sense. #i think it sounds a little too preachy but i didn't mean it that way lkjhksjhdfg #i just love my boy very much and you gave me an excuse to ramble about him some more

[noamuth]

Calling Horns Inn

[Continued from this story]

Another day and night passes after meeting Elara, the hoofed, drider-like child. The handful of berries she offered has long since been eaten, and his stomach growls both in anger and wanting--the food is both new, and not enough. Today Dalamus travels while the sun is out, burning precious energy and increasing his thirst but also, hopefully, increasing his chances to find water and shelter sooner rather than later.

The sharp pain in his spine has settled into an ever-present but dull throbbing and soreness, his back one giant bruise both inside and out. His face and neck are tight from the swelling of the whip wounds. He does not need to touch them to know they are hot and tender, likely scabbing. His mouth, nose, throat, and even eyes are irritated, the hot and dry air of the World Above baking him alive.

Pointed ears swivel towards a sound straight ahead of him. The sound of a river! He rushes as quickly as his battered, dehydrated body will allow, until the babbling water comes into view. Slender hoofed creatures, some with tined antlers, lap at the water until they spot Dalamus, then scatter. Their departure spooks other, smaller creatures nearby, who retreat up into the trees, leaving him in peace with the water all to himself.

Dalamus lowers himself to his knees carefully at the riverside and brings water to his mouth in desperate, cupped handfuls. With every movement he spills more onto his skin, his trousers, and the ground beneath him, table-manners be damned. He splashes the water across his body, cooling his overwarm skin with a sigh of relief.

After a few more unceremonious mouthfuls of water, he gingerly pulls at the makeshift bandages on his head, then uses a dagger to cut the ones encircling his throat. Caked in dirt, crusted with mushroom paste, and now soggy with water, they must be removed. The “salve” prevents the cloth from tugging directly at the flesh, but it will have to be removed, too. It has done its job, facilitating the beginning stages of healing and shielding from dirt but, impure as it is, it will eventually rot. Rotting mushroom paste is the last thing he needs in his wounds.

He wads the cloth and dips it into the relatively clean river water, then uses the least soiled portions to dab at the caked mushroom paste. The inflamed flesh protests as he wipes. He sets his jaw and continues.

The paste flakes away, staining the cloth strip brown despite its frequent dunks into the water, and eventually, red, as he reaches the raw flesh. Holding a clean, moist part of the cloth to the bleed for several minutes allows it to stop again, and he repeats the process with his throat and the claw marks at his shoulder, gritting his teeth and hissing at the reawakened sting.

Dalamus splashes his face again for one final cleanse and wets his hair to rid it of debris. He attempts to clean the little puncture at the small of his back, wincing at the soreness around his spine. The threat of infection has been dealt with. His thirst is sated. His body cooled, for now.

To the west, beyond the forest, along the winding river, he spies a settlement. Perhaps it is the one Elara mentioned…

With a grunt, Dalamus stands, knowing that soon, he may rest in a bed, and eat an actual meal aside from berries—whether it will be a good meal is yet to be seen. He pulls the hood of his piwafwi over his head, pulls the cloak tightly around himself, and walks out into the sunlight. There is an immediate temperature difference, the heat warming him uncomfortably, spurring him faster. Reflections and glares of light bouncing off the nearby river water force him to squint. Just a little longer, he thinks.

…

Dalamus follows the river West until he comes upon a path, then follows it North towards the settlement. The tiny village stands at an intersection on the other side of the river, comprised of rows of single-story log houses, with roofs of shingled bark. Overseeing the rest of the settlement is a large fieldstone structure atop a ridge. Tall, sturdy trees surround it like the protective towers of a castle, and attached to either side appears to be a stable for the boarding of adventurer’s steeds.

At the entrance to the village are a couple of guards, although they look more like sell-swords—one, a hulking dragonborn with scales of brass, the other a red tiefling with dark hair and sweeping horns not unlike a deep rothé. They speak casually to one another until Dalamus approaches, then turn their attention to him. The dragonborn is difficult to read and stands stoic, but the tiefling smirks and leans on their sword, the point of the blade stuck into the ground.

“You look like you ended up on the wrong side of a troll’s claw, my friend.”

Dalamus frowns at the overly familiar tone, the sunlight burning away his already thin patience. “We are not friends. I seek the inn I have been told is in this area.”

The tiefling’s smile disappears, replaced by mild exasperation. They look up at their dragonborn friend and the two share a glance and shrug before regarding Dalamus again. “If you’re looking for Calling Horns Inn, you found the right place, sunshine. It’s the large stone building beyond the intersection. Try not to have too much fun, a smile might crack your face even more.”

There comes a rumble from the dragonborn, presumably subdued laughter, before the behemoth sobers and addresses Dalamus with his voice full of gravel. “Do not mind them. They mean nothing by it. Please, enter. You will find Tamalin Zoar will be glad to offer room and board so you may rest. Welcome to Calling Horns.”

The two resume their posts, and Dalamus enters the village, pulling his piwafwi tighter around himself. Nothing soothes this feeling of vulnerability, this displacement. The only thing keeping his hand off his dagger is trying to keep his cloak closed to avoid stares.

At the middle of the village is where two paths cross, one from across the river, one parallel to it. The intersection is marked with a tall mound of stones and the skulls of some large, sharp-toothed humanoid creatures. Likely a warning to the townspeople, to keep them in line. The skulls and stones are old. Some have crumbled and chipped, and others are held together solely by moss and lichen.

A human woman approaches Dalamus and he pauses, immediately tense, red eyes watching intently. He does not trust her smile, for he can see the strength in her arms and knows her life has not been full of the pleasantness she shows. Just before offering her hand in greeting, she pauses, too. Dalamus gets the feeling she has not only seen drow before, but battled them, and is assessing him just as thoroughly as he is her. Her eyes drift from his face to his jewelry and his piwafwi.

“Do I need to fortify the defenses?” she asks, implying that he may be a scout or spy. Ridiculous. A scout in the middle of the day, without a functional piwafwi? Drow are not so impatient or foolish as to attack during the day.

“I am only here for the Inn.”

The woman’s smile returns, and she offers her hand. “In that case, welcome to Calling Horns! The name’s Tamalin Zoar. You’re looking a little rough, but if you’re willing to help around town, I’m willing to let you stay for free.”

Dalamus stares at her hand, then lifts his gaze back to her face and reiterates, “I am only here for the Inn.” Perhaps she had not heard him clearly, he thinks. He has no care for these people, only for what services they can provide during his temporary stay.

She appears taken aback by his blunt refusal to be a part of the community, however temporarily, but maintains a somewhat pleasant smile. “...Well, the Inn is the large building in the back. Have yourself a meal and a room. Make yourself at home; I promise we don’t bite if you decide to stick around.” Not a moment later, Tamalin is pulled away by a villager with some sort of complaint, and Dalamus is left to his own devices.

For all their praising of the Inn as in impressive building, it pales in comparison to the structures in Menzoberranzan. There is no faerie fire here to offer color, he supposes because the sun provides all the light they need. It is drab, visually cold and boring, nothing like the calcite towers he is used to, but it appears sturdy enough for his brief stay.

As the doors to the inn swing open, Dalamus is greeted with curious stares and furtive glances. He ignores them, striding confidently across the room to greet the innkeeper with as much dignity as he can still muster despite feeling like a Bulette’s discarded chew toy. The innkeeper, a frail old man with graying hair, tries to appear positive, but concern slips into his expression. “You’re looking rough,” he says, and Dalamus wonders if everyone on the Surface is so rude. “I don’t have any healers around, but I have plenty of beds. How long you staying?”

“I require a room for the rest of the day, tonight, and tomorrow morning.” As he speaks, Dalamus pulls a couple gold coins from the pouch at his side and places them on the counter before him. Each are adorned on one side with the emblem of House Strighym, a dragazhar. “Will this do?”

The innkeeper glances at the odd coins, then at Dalamus, then back at the coins before lifting one for inspection with a bite test. How dare he put House Strighym’s gold in his filthy mouth? How dare he dent it between his teeth? Dalamus burns with anger and his nose wrinkles with disgust, but remains rooted in place so as not to betray his poor condition. The promise of rest coaxes aside other thoughts in favor of exhaustion.

“Gold’s gold,” the innkeeper says simply. He offers Dalamus a steel key with a weathered hand and gives directions to the room. Up the stairs and to the left, he says, pointing vaguely. The innkeeper then begins listing the evening’s dinner menu, but his voice fades as Dalamus is already walking away.

After days of traveling on foot without adequate rest, stairs prove to be an unexpected challenge. His thighs burn trying to push him up the steps, a hand ever-present on the guardrail to keep himself upright. Dalamus finds and enters his assigned room, shuts the door, and locks it, jiggling the handle to confirm its security before turning around to assess what he will be working with tonight.

The room is small and quaint, decorated in bland neutral colors. On the wall opposite the door is a single window with thick dark curtains, still open. To Dalamus’ left is a single-person bed with small nightstands on either side, with candles in brass holders on each surface. The wooden headboard of the bed rests flush against the center of the wall, while the foot of the bed intrudes into the center of the room. It will give him a clear view of both the door and window. On the wall opposite the bed is a wooden dresser, with a full-length mirror to the left, tucked into the corner to prevent too much reflection of sunlight into the room.

Dalamus crosses the room with the intention of tugging the window curtain closed, but a glimpse of his face in the mirror draws his attention instead. He steps closer, horror bubbling up from his stomach to grip his heart. His face… The first time he has seen his face clearly since it happened.

All but split in half from the right side of his forehead to the left side of his jaw, his face weeps clear serum from the center of the wound, unsightly in its healing state. It is suddenly no wonder why people have been reacting to his appearance—aside from being drow.

The bleeding has long since stopped and been washed away, revealing the pink of his flesh underneath dusky blue skin. Around it, the area swells, making his nose feel too large for his face, and it pulses with pain at the slightest touch or movement. A dark violet half-circle has appeared under his left eye where fluid has collected under the skin. The wound at his throat seems to be in much the same condition--raised, weeping, and sore.

Dalamus pulls off his piwafwi and turns to look at his back, and his heart sinks at the sight. Purple bruises dot the expanse of skin like mottled spore prints, heavily concentrated at his lower spine around a swollen knot of a bruise and a small cut. Not only does he feel like an overripe luurden fruit, he looks it, too. Every part of his back is sore, if not from bruises then from exertion, and none of it tolerates being pressed upon.

He sighs and turns from the mirror. What a pathetic sight—his beautiful skin marred, his body beaten and exhausted. But he has survived. That is strength, yes? Surviving, despite everything? And if he wishes to survive even longer, he requires rest, and to heal. He distrusts even drow healers at the best of times, and certainly is not going to let his insides be manipulated by the magic of a surface dweller. No, this will take time. And perhaps a few potions.

Dalamus continues crossing the room and drags the curtains closed, bathing the room in blessed darkness. He checks the bed for any and all possible undesirable qualities, from splinters to a weak structure to pressure plates, but finds no cause for alarm. Satisfied, for now, he situates himself upon the bed atop the sheets.

Even against the soft fabric, his back protests, between the bruises and the knot in his spine, there is no comfortable position. Now that the full weight of his body lays relaxed, heaviness sets in, heaviness in everything, from his limbs to his eyelids. His entire being feels like one giant bruise laying on the bed, and every touch of folded or knotted fabric deepens the ache.

He does his best to ignore it, or, perhaps, the exhaustion has simply caught up with him and he no longer cares. Thoughts of home, of Nedvyllanna, of Lolth, of failure, all swirl in his mind as he stares at the ceiling, hoping that something he sees within his trance tonight will guide him in the right direction. He places his arms at his sides and closes his eyes, preparing to trance.

And for the first time in nearly two hundred years, he falls asleep.

[To be continued]

#missy writing #strighym backstory #EYYY LOOK WHAT I FINALLY FINISHED LAST NIGHT

[dragonbleps]

If it's ok for me to ask on your personal, which version of Dal do you think has the longest journey/arc as a character?

It's totally fine! I don't mind :)

It's gotta be Dalamus Rex, his original TES self. He's been through so much, not just backstory-wise, but also in the RPs and short stories I've written on his blog. He's the version I've written the longest (it's been 12 years, isn't that wild??) even if writing has slowed down significantly over the past few years, and especially with my interest in writing his BG3 version.

His life has been a veritable roller-coaster of emotion.

He started out life in a bad home to a terrible father and a mother who tried her best despite it all.

He escaped and made his way to Skyrim, having learned to only look out for himself, jaded and angry.

He gets sick, and has to rely on someone to take care of him, falls in love, plans a life with her, starts to mellow out as he lives with her.

At her behest, he tries to help mercenaries clear a vampire den, but gets knocked out and unknowingly infected, himself. No good deed goes unpunished.

The vampirism wakes him and he kills his to-be fiance. This shatters him quite thoroughly. This is the first person he has loved, and he's killed her.

He goes into hiding and vacillates violently between being guilt-ridden, feeling like a monster, and being drunk with power, determined to be the monster people see him as.

Multiple times he has almost been killed by vampire hunters.

This goes on for several decades until he starts to even out and reach a relative equilibrium that allows him to infiltrate towns seamlessly and choose his targets that way, be it for thievery or blood.

This is where his blog comes in!

He starts talking to people, initially to lure them to be his dinner, to manipulate them, but inadvertently begins bonding with people instead. This is a terrifying liability.

A few people catch him doing Vampire Things and yet are forgiving (either out of fear or curiosity). He isn't sure what to do with that.

He starts making friends, people he sees regularly who care about him and his health and safety and happiness. It has been a long, long time since he's had that. They even give him gifts? It's incredibly overwhelming.

He accidentally finds a father figure who attempts to be the father that Dalamus' father never was, mending wounds with patience and understanding, firmness without cruelty.

He makes friends with people he would have never thought he'd connect with--dragonborns, other vampires, bandits, werebeasts, even vampire hunters who know he's a vampire.

He falls in love again, gets married, has a child, gets an actual job to support his family (if the Thieves Guild is considered an Actual Job lmaoo, but he occasionally does mercenary/bodyguard work, too. He's just picky about it. To be fair, his wife's job was Assassin, so). Raises a daughter!

He fucks it up. Old habits rear their head and he forgets to communicate with his wife to figure out boundaries, and ultimately damages her trust beyond repair, testing the strength of her forgiveness until it snapped. Even his daughter leaves, hurt by some of his behavior.

This shatters him once more, he falls into a deep depression, and it takes all of his friends and found family to keep him afloat until he can get back on his feet again. He even goes to the temple of Mara to try to ease his guilt and worry, despite not being particularly religious.

He starts learning new skills, like cooking, despite being unable to eat most foods, himself. It is something he can provide for others. He starts reading Teachings of Mara in an attempt to better himself, learn to be more sympathetic and empathetic, more open-minded, more willing to accept when he is wrong and when he has hurt others.

He reconnects with his daughter, and finally stops feeling like his world is ending.

He connects with an Agent of Mara, who has been a stalwart and resilient friend throughout Dal's marriage troubles, and they begin courting. They are now partners, and their relationship is healthy

Amidst all this, in no particular order (I'm terrible at timelines and chronology), he's also had to deal with:

moral differences between him and his friends/family, trying to figure out how much of him can change before he loses who he is, and the cost/benefit of it all

mixed feelings about his vampirism, whether it makes him a danger to his friends, or allows him to protect his friends better

having his vampirism suddenly taken away via magic, and dealing with the terrifying reality of being mortal, having had all his senses and skills changed. and then--having it suddenly returned after he was getting used to being mortal.

hurting his friends, emotionally and sometimes physically, because of his temper, and seeing whether or not he can repair those relationships and improve himself

the reality that many of his friends are mortal, and the risks that come with that--example: he's had his best friends nearly killed in a werebear attack, and one of them became a werebear himself

people coming to him for advice and him realizing that he actually has experience worth sharing to help others

trying to be a reliable friend, good boyfriend, and good father

realizing the one who turned him into a vampire did so on purpose to toy with him. Dal eventually managed to kill his Sire

As a newly turned vampire, he was once subjected to cruel experimentation by necromancers, a large factor in why he fears magic with such intensity

realizing that the world, in general, is not black-and-white, and most people are in the grey area, everyone is complicated, and you just have to take it a day at a time to figure out if someone is trustworthy--I mean if a vampire hunter can be close friends with him as a vampire, then surely anything is possible.

he has battled a werewolf, Vigilants of Stendarr, a Vampire Lord, a Troll, his Sire as previously mentioned (not all at once of course)

still struggles with trauma given to him by his biological father and the sometimes self-destructive behavior that comes with it

being a good person is not something you Just Are, it's what you Do, and requires effort. It's a lot of work but is often worth it. Being mean and evil is simpler, but comes at a great cost

Despite all the pain he has endured, he is happy with his life as it is right now. Nothing is perfect, but he is surrounded by loved ones he never thought he would have, and at one point, never thought he deserved. But, thankfully, it's not up to him. Get loved, idiot!

He's definitely gone through the most trials and tribulations of all his versions, the benefit of being the Original, I suppose! And the oldest! TES Dal is 250, as is Modern Dal. BG3 Dal is 200. FFXIV Dal is only about 30ish, having a human-comparable lifespan.

Dal's FFXIV and Modern selves are more tempered. While tragedy and a cycle of violence is often a theme in all of his verses, they turned out slightly different.

FFXIV Dal, for instance, had a happy, healthy family until the Seventh Umbral Calamity forced him away from home to seek a solution to the changes that Dalamud caused in his tribe. This version of Dal probably seems like an odd one out, because he didn't have to deal with the angst of vampirism nor an abusive home.

Modern Dal, while he is a vampire like his TES self, chose the vampirism on purpose, as a means to get revenge on his cruel father and save his mother from the household. Unlike his TES self, he got to save his mother and live with her for the rest of her natural life, tempering his rage and aggression and allowing him to heal sooner.

BG3 Dal is not a vampire, but is a Lolthite drow born in Menzoberranzan, where he is brought up under those twisted and cruel practices demanded by the Spider Queen. His is a story of trauma and conditioning, but he is too close to the problem to even see it--until he is exiled and forced to work with Surface Dwellers, and starts to see how the rest of the world functions. Let's just say it's Culture Shock to the extreme lmao.

I have a feeling BG3 Dal's journey will be just as fraught with peaks and valleys of emotional realizations and healing of trauma as TES Dal's was. I sure hope so :3

#ask #Anonymous #idk if a timeline of events was exactly what you wanted but I was more than happy to provide it either way xD #my oc #dalamus rex #missy rambles #missy writing #long post

[noamuth]

Time for Tea

Dalamus wakes from his trance in the early hours of the morning, eyes bleary and ears swiveling to take in the sounds outside. Insects are still singing their nightly song, filling the air with rhythmic trilling. Shadowheart called them crickets. At first, Dalamus found their high-pitched chirps to be irritating--especially when attempting to trance--but now they are simply the sound of the night on the surface.

He stretches his arms out to his sides with a yawn, noticing with some interest that his back is not aching. There is no pulse of pain when he pulls on his shirt, no spike of electricity racing up his spine as he stands and lifts legs to don his trousers, no warning soreness as he straightens himself and sets his piwafwi about his shoulders. Even lacing his corset and bending to lace his boots cause only the slightest twinge which quickly fades as he stands again. He feels fine. That, in itself, is suspicious, but he accepts the reprieve.

The pouch of dried Underdark mushrooms sits atop his journal. He has not used it since it had been given to him. Perhaps now is the time to change that, he thinks. He feels good. Why not make some tea and improve upon that?

He grabs the pouch and exits his tent.

All other members of camp continue to slumber in their tents, the occasional snore or mumble reaching Dalamus' sensitive ears above the chirping crickets. Even Astarion, as nocturnal as he is, appears to be in trance--he, like Dalamus, chooses times when most others are guaranteed to be asleep. The early morning is his alone to enjoy as cool, dewy air fills his lungs. Many surface dwellers seem to fear the dark, but is far more preferable than the stabbing light of the sun.

He sits on a nearby log with the mortar and pestle Gale often uses for herbs and spices, and sets several pieces of dried mushrooms into the mortar to begin grinding into powder. Dragon's Egg, Rogue's Morsel, and Funguswood will produce a bitter tea with just the right amount of spice. While its bitterness is the main draw for Dalamus, the tea also helps with minor illnesses. Nilaufein used to make this for him until he could handle the boiling water on his own, and since then, Dalamus has hardly gone longer than a week without making some. It never quite tasted the same as his brother's though.

Where Gale normally puts the cooking pot, Dalamus places the iron kettle. He pours the powdered mushrooms into the kettle, tapping the side of the mortar against the lip to ensure every bit is removed. A carafe provides the needed clean water for the tea, and then Dalamus flips the hinged lid shut and coaxes the fire to life. After boiling, at least an hour is needed for it to steep properly and obtain the bitter flavor Dalamus desires. He watches the surroundings and the sky as he waits.

He is still not used to the stars. Small, twinkling spots in the sky, like gems glistening in pitch dark stone, or glowing insects on the ceiling of a cave. Stories say that surfacers navigate by the stars, but he does not see how that is possible. How does one know which star he is looking at when there are so many? He knows vaguely of the Astral Plane, but thinking about it makes his chest tight with unease. He misses when his world was small and bearable, when all of the other peoples and Planes were so far removed from being his problem that they may as well not exist.

In Menzoberranzan, the time of day is shown by Narbondel. The Archmage heats a circular band of the stone to cause a glow, which moves upwards throughout the day until it reaches the top and dissipates entirely at midnight. On the surface, time is measured by the sun and moon, and to a lesser extent, the activity of animals. At night the crickets chirp, but as the night shifts closer to morning, the birds start to sing until only the birds sing and the crickets can be heard no more.

Soon the stars begin to fade and the sky changes color, clouds being lit from underneath in oranges and red as the sun peeks over the horizon. As the sky brightens, Dalamus finds that looking at it both hurts and still elicits a dizziness and nausea in him. He pulls the hood of his piwafwi over his head and focuses on the tea.

Once it has finished steeping, Dalamus stands and quells the fire--the iron kettle will keep it plenty warm over the next hour or so. Dark liquid pours smoothly into his mug, and the smell reminds him of home. He takes a sip of the bitter drink and thinks of business days started early and bazaar stalls lined up neatly, of people from all walks of life--poor, wealthy, Menzoberranyr, colnbluth and kivven alike--browsing Drowic wares with great interest, and of sick days soothed while his bother, Nilaufein, checks him for fever. And although the tea is not as good as the tea his brother once made, it warms him all the same.

A familiar yawn reaches his pointed ears, one swiveling to listen more closely. Gale has just awoken, and judging from the crunch of grass underfoot, he is heading this way. Dalamus does not allow his approach to disturb him, although he stands a bit too close for comfort.

"Do not stand behind me, Gale," he warns coolly.

"Right, sorry, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Good morning, Dalamus." Gale moves to inspect the kettle, taking in the aroma. Curiosity quirks his brow. "What sort of tea is it, if I may ask?"

"Dragon's Egg tea," Dalamus answers, taking another sip as he watches the wizard. Although Gale is far from harmless, Dalamus is slowly realizing that the man is more excitable than he is violent. With his eagerness to indulge curiosity, but deliberate refusal to anger severely, he makes himself an easy target for mischief with low risk of retaliation. Amusing.

Gale's sleepy eyes suddenly light up. "Like the mushroom? Fascinating. I've certainly had my fair share of teas--herbal, floral, and fungal alike--but don't believe I've had any made with mushrooms from the Underdark."

"If you have not had tea made by Drow, you have not had Drowic tea."

"Of course. Which begs the question... May I try some?" Gale hesitates so slightly, but his brows lift with hope.

Dalamus glances at the wizard, red eyes scanning, scheming. Letting Gale try some tea might prove entertaining. "Are you allergic to funguswood?"

"...Not that I'm aware. Why..?"

"I would hate to be accused of a murder I did not plan, is all." A sip from his mug exudes nonchalance.

"Ah. Your concern for my well-being is truly overwhelming, as always."

"By all means, please, have some tea."

Rather than appearing glad, Gale's mouth quirks slightly in suspicion. He tilts his head and crosses his arms. "...I expected more resistance. You're unusually quick to share this morning. Is there something you're not telling me?"

Dalamus lifts his face from his tea and smiles at the wizard in a show of sincerity. "And why not share? Today is a good day. I slept well, and now I get to share a taste of my home with my.. unlikely companions." His voice is smooth, polite.

Suspicions ease, albeit hesitantly, and Gale relaxes, grabbing himself a mug. The tableware items in camp are worn, obviously secondhand. Possibly third or fourth hand. But despite their chipped edges and faded designs, they do the job well enough for the ragtag group of survivors.

"It smells almost medicinal," Gale says, gently wafting the steam towards his face. His nose scrunches slightly, but he brings the mug to his lips, blows gently to cool it, and takes a sip. It is bitter. It is very bitter, and distinctly fungal, with a slight kick of spice. At no point is there any hint of sweetness that might smother the desire to spit it out.

He swallows, almost reluctantly, as if his very body wants to reject the liquid. "Well!" Gale exclaims with feigned pleasantry. "That'll wake you up. It's, uh.. well, it certainly is pungent. Suppose it makes sense for a people who rely on various fungi in their cuisine to have a taste for it. I'm afraid my palate isn't quite suited to the.. flavor. Perhaps it'll grow on me. Y'know.. because it's... Anyway. Tell me more about it. If you don't mind, that is." He brings the mug to his lips again, continuing to drink the bitter liquid even as the flavor elicits a frown.

For a moment, Dalamus is unsure how to feel as he watches the wizard sip at the Dragon's Egg tea. Despite obviously disliking it, Gale continues to drink... Why?

He is also increasingly aware that others in camp are beginning to wake. A few have wandered over within listening range, but presumably have no interest in trying the tea for the experience in the same way Gale is.

"It is a tea one of my brothers taught me how to make, especially good for slight illnesses of the throat and nose. The combination of mushrooms can help alleviate minor pain and reduce fever, as well as ease stomach upset. Funguswood allergies can be deadly, however. There is a small amount of funguswood, some Rogue's Morsel, Dragon's Egg..." He peers up at Gale's face before continuing. "..Bonecap."

With a shocked sputter, Gale immediately and unceremoniously spits out the tea, wiping his lips as his face pales at the thought of being poisoned.

A bark of triumphant laughter bursts from Dalamus, and on the other side of camp, Astarion erupts into cackles and giggles. Some other camp members smirk, while yet others roll their eyes at the display.

Gale recovers and wipes at his face, brow furrowed and tea dripping from his beard. He aims a glare at the chuckling elves, exasperation tempered by relief. "Having a laugh, are we? Hilarious. Well, I think I've had my fill of tea and Drowic hospitality for today, thank you, and will be returning to my books until someone needs me." The wizard half-stomps his way back to his tent, shaking tea from his hands and exclaiming about errant droplets having stained his robe.

Dalamus simply grins triumphantly to himself and sips from his mug. Delicious.

#missy writing #strighym story #drowic spoken #colnbluth = outsiders #kivven = surfacers #nilaufein #gale

[noamuth]

Dalamus Strighym

Biography || Writings || Screenshots || Art

A Lolth-sworn exile who has found himself on the Surface World, host to a mind-flayer parasite, and forced to play nice with strangers in the hopes of removing the tadpole and return home to the dark. How will he cope with traveling a world that seems hostile to his very existence?

Blog-canon companions at camp (aka those I feel comfortable writing myself in prompts):

Astarion

Gale

Lae'zel

Shadowheart

As Dalamus' story progresses, this will be updated for quick reference. Currently in Act I.

#missy rambles #ooc #pinned post

[noamuth]

The High Forest

[Continued from this story]

An exit to the World Above.

It may as well be a portal to another plane, sunlight on stone creating a white frame through which he glimpses an alien green world. The light is far more intense than any bioluminescence, torch or lamplight, and he squints his eyes against the radiance. It is painful to look at.

Roars from the Quaggoths are quick to seize his attention once more. They chip at the edges of the crevice Dalamus had escaped through, using their stone tools as crude chisels and hammers. One barks an order in a language that could be considered Undercommon, if only just: "Around!" A pair of footsteps rush off to find another entrance to Dalamus' tunnel. His time to make a decision is running out.

A shock of pain stabs at his lower back after only a few steps, forcing a surprised shout from him and threatening to send him to his knees to recover, but he does not have the time. With smaller but no less hurried steps, he makes his way to the short climb out of the Underdark, drawing his hood to protect himself from the light which floods the World Above. Its magic seems to wane and flicker in the sunlight.

Reaching over his head, Dalamus finds handholds sturdy enough to hold his weight, and he begins hauling himself upwards. The tug of gravity on his lower half sends another shock through him, and leaves a burning sensation in its wake. His back, his legs, feel weak and exhausted, but he is so close. He can barely get a leg up to plant his foot in a foothold, but sets his jaw and forces his body through the pain. Another good pull and heave, with a shout of exertion for good measure, and he is thrust into the world of the light, and immediately blinded.

He kneels in the dirt and grass, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught, further covering them with a hand. Even from under the hood of his piwafwi everything is too bright. Afterimages color the backs of his eyelids, as if he has stared into the heart of a fireplace for too long. Not only that, but it is warm, hot even, a dramatic shift from the relatively stable coolness of the shadows underground. Stifling. Suffocating. There is a reason Surface Raids take place at night.

He has to move. Without a shirt to shield his skin, every inch not concealed by the piwafwi is subject to the sun's rays, and they are quickly becoming uncomfortable. Dalamus slowly lifts his hand from his squinted eyes, and attempts to take in his surroundings.

The openness is dizzying, almost nauseating. No cavern walls in sight, just openness, occasionally interrupted by trees or a distant building or mountains even further off. Anything could come from any side, at any time. Exposed. Vulnerable. He looks up and immediately regrets the decision--not only is the sky too bright, but what he glimpses before having to shut his eyes causes an immediate, intense vertigo to wash over him. No ceiling. He bows his head again and grips at the ground, the only stable surface to hold onto, and waits until he no longer feels as though he will fall upwards.

As the dizziness starts to subside, Dalamus lifts his squinted gaze towards the shaded forest before him, and begins pushing himself onto his feet. Every bend of his back, every too-quick movement, any step that hits the ground with too much force lights a spark of pain in his lower spine. Even when he adjusts his movement, there is tingling, like static ready to zap when the right contact is made. He manages to shuffle his way into the forest past a couple trees, slowly sliding himself into a sitting position with his back against a sturdy trunk. Dappled light still peeks through gaps in the leaves, but most of him is in the shade.

As the adrenaline wears off, and as his vision recovers, every bump, bruise, and injury he has obtained over the past several hours begins begging for his attention. The whip wounds are no longer bleeding, but his face and neck ache. Slight swelling in the left side of his face indicates the beginnings of a black eye although the eye, itself, is not injured. His right shoulder burns and bleeds from the Quaggoth's claws. Dalamus reaches under his cloak to gingerly prod at his back where he had been thrown onto the stalagmites, finding only a small cut where a blunt edge of stone had split his skin even through his piwafwi. It bleeds slightly, but most of the damage is underneath, out of his reach.

Aches creep into every part of his body, seeping into every muscle, every limb, like too-cold water soaking into his bones. His throat burns, and he regrets not drinking from the Bullywugs while he had been making his healing salve--if it can even be called that. The grass, paper thin blades protruding from the ground, are dry, unlike the moss which carpeted patches of the ground in the Underdark. There will be no squeezing anything drinkable from it.

Dalamus reaches into his pockets and pouches to assess his inventory. The crushed remains of fungus are less than useless, and he pours them out of their pouch onto the ground if only to free up more space. Various coins and loose cabochons may be able to buy him a meal, or perhaps a shirt, whenever he finds a town. If he finds a town.

He rests during the day and travels at night, keeping the forest on his right side as he follows its edge. The hope is that, by observing the native fauna, he will learn which plants are edible. Unfortunately, even hidden from direct exposure, his piwafwi's magic has depleted under the dappled sunlight and moonlight after only a few hours, and animals are quick to avoid his line of sight. Were he not so afraid to move, he would hunt. Instead, he is relegated to what berries he can find, or what animals leave behind when fleeing.

Travel is not as quick as he hoped it would be. His soreness only grows as bruises bloom across his body, making him feel like an overripe Luurden fruit, like if someone touched him, his flesh would yield. The pain forces him to rest frequently, yet no position is comfortable. The morning after his escape from the Underdark, it is all he can do to keep quiet as a muscle spasm wracks his lower back, immobilized in the shade of a trunk as he waits for it, and the day, to pass.

As he attempts to minimize his writhing, he spots the largest creatures he has seen since arriving on the surface. It is drider-like, but rather than its lower half being that of a spider, the elven torso is fused to the body of a hoofed creature, something more athletic than a rothé. The legs are long and slender, with a barrel-like body to house large lungs. Built for powerful speed. There is a large one and a small one, presumably an adult and child. Dalamus wonders which god they have displeased to be turned into such unappealing creatures.

Without his piwafwi's magic to hide him, Dalamus remains low so as to not draw unwanted attention. If they are even a fraction as aggressive as driders, being spotted while unable to move quickly will put his life in peril. The creatures are unaware at first. They seem to be foraging, harvesting plants from the forest, until the small one turns in his direction and freezes at the sight of him. It then begins trotting towards him.

Dalamus feels his heart beating at his rib cage like a drum as he attempts to stand, but he moves too fast, pain stabbing at his back and forcing him to the ground again. He pulls out a dagger and aims it at the smallish hoofed creature, burning with shame at being so weak, so cowardly. But it works. The creature, the girl, stops in her tracks, aware of his hostility and distrust, yet does not move away.

She stands at over half his height, taller than the age she looks thanks to the long legs beneath her. Her hair is brown and plaited, long enough to sit over her shoulder and show the weaved flowers in front. Her skin is fair, much like the coat of her animal body, and she wears a fur vest over her Elven torso. Her concerned brown eyes scan him with some horror. He must somehow look even worse than he feels.

"Hello?" she calls out from several paces away, which Dalamus knows she could leap in an instant with those legs. Her voice is small, befitting her childlike stature, and she speaks in Elvish with an accent he has not heard before. "You look really hurt. Can I help?"

"No," Dalamus answers with his thick Drowic accent. "Leave me be and I will do the same."

The girl seems hurt by his words for some reason. He does not understand. She has no reason to help him, and he has no reason to trust her. And yet, despite his insistence, the hoofed girl reaches into a pouch at her side and pulls out a handful of red berries wrapped in wide leaves. Dalamus recognizes them as edible.

"Here, you can have these. There's lots more over in the bushes over there if you want them." She places the berries on the ground on their plate of leaves, warily watching his dagger. The girl fidgets with her fingers a moment. "Maybe the people at the inn can help you. If you keep going North, you'll see it!" She points in the direction he has been headed. So that is North.

Dalamus says nothing, keeping his dagger trained on her, trying to hide his labored breathing. There is nothing to say. He does not know if she is correct, or telling the truth. He did not ask for this information. He will be heading that direction either way, and will discover for himself the truth.

There is a call from the adult creature deeper into the forest, calling the child's name. Elara. She calls back, informing him of her imminent return, then glances back at Dalamus. He is unsure what to make of her expression. Sadness? Concern? Pity? A spark of anger simmers in him, being looked at like a kicked pet.

"I hope you feel better soon," she says. "Sabbas!"

And with that, she is gone as quickly as she appeared, her hoof beats slowly trailing off as she disappears back into the forest. Dalamus lowers his dagger and sheathes it with a sigh of relief, leaning against the trunk of the tree with a groan. Straightening his spine does nothing to ease the cramping in his back. His muscles squeeze relentlessly, refusing to relax.

Attempts to Trance are fruitless, too distracted by his aching. Instead, he watches the sun set, and notices for the first time the changing of the sky's colors. Thinking about the infinity above him still makes him feel physically ill, and he keeps one hand on the tree's rough trunk to ground himself while he admires the soft warm colors.

Pinks and oranges blend into one another in combinations he has only seen in art, as seamless as a master painter's brushstrokes. Colors of such softness that do not often appear in the Underdark are crystal clear here on the surface. He does not want to look away. Light rims the clouds in silver, then gold, like gossamer before lamplight. The hue deepens to red, like the purest ruby, yet gentle, as the sun dips below the horizon, leaving purples and dark blues splotching the darkening sky.

Blackness envelops the land, and Dalamus finally feels a sense of familiarity mix with the awe. A coolness settles over everything, relief from the light and heat, and he can see again, breathe again. Between the dark expanses created by the clouds, stars glimmer with a silver light, reminding him of glowing insects on a cavern ceiling, but brighter.

An ache begins in his throat, and a tightness squeezes his chest. His eyes sting as he thinks of Menzoberranzan, the people he had met, the trade he enjoyed, his gemcutting which has been his life for decades, his consortship which he had just earned. The food, the art, the architecture. All beyond his reach now.

Just then, a moth gently descends from above, as if one of the stars has come to greet him. It is silver, with a faint glow--the same kind which he saw in the tunnels. Had he not followed them, he might have been set on the Quaggoth's dinner table with his rib cage cracked open like that of a boar.

Dalamus reaches for it out of curiosity, and it lands itself on his outstretched hand, perching delicately on a finger. He brings it close for inspection. Spiders were of Lolth, not moths. Is it merely coincidence that he sees the same insect twice so soon, after having never seen this species before?

His thoughts calm. He will return to Menzoberranzan soon, he tells himself. He just needs to heal and prepare to brave the perilous journey through the Underdark again. That is all. It should not take long. He just has to survive. He has survived up until this point, what is a few more weeks?

The moth picks its head up after cleaning its fuzzy antennae, and with a few tiny wingbeats, lifts itself from Dalamus' finger and flutters North.

As the moon rises, so does he, forcing himself to stand despite every limb begging him not to move, using the tree as support. Just before stepping away, Dalamus spares a glance at the berries the drider-like girl had offered. He searches one of his pouches and finds two similar cabochons to use as payment, one for the berries, the other for the information about the inn, and sets them on the bed of leaves after gathering the berries in his other hand to eat as he walks North. Debt repaid, now he can move on.

He must move on so that he may return. It is what he tells himself, but it does not ease the ache of his heart.

[To be continued]

#strighym backstory #missy writing

[dalamusrex]

"Did you ever meet a pirate?" [Asks Amelie, who doesn't know Dal is a vampire but probably goes around asking everyone she knows this question after being read a bedtime story about pirates.]

Ah, a friendly face. One who did not know of his battle with a troll and, certainly, did not need to. The mer did his best not to raise suspicion or alarm, although it meant moving and speaking carefully.

"Let me see... I have, indeed, met a pirate! His name was... Amon, I believe." Technically a sailor, Dalamus was pretty sure. Same difference. It served the same purpose for this story.

"We were not close friends.. as he sailed often, you know. Pirate things to do. He was a Redguard. Dark hair and beard." Dalamus made a gesture as if stroking facial hair, which he did not have at all.

"He liked to drink, ah.." He did not know how much Amelie knew about liquor, and did not want to be hunted down for giving her too much of a curiosity about it. "He enjoyed juice." What kind of juice did Skyrim have?

This story was quickly becoming an impromptu fairy tale. But it was distracting him well enough, aside from the breathing he had to do.

EDIT: BONUS PIC--

#ask #boarchasers #i drew it so small i couldn't do details well orz but she's doing happy kicky feet!! #missy art #dalamus pic

[dalamusrex]

(Tommy) “All of this running and hiding has made me so miserable.”

"Yes, I.. I imagine it would." Could he compare stories? Should he? Dalamus ran and hid for a time, but it was after willingly leaving a terrible home.

But Tommy had a family that he loved, that loved him, and it was wrenched away from him, suddenly and violently, in blood and flames. Dalamus had nothing at all that could compare to that.

"Listen... I know others have offered the same, and perhaps better. But, I hope you know you are always welcome in my home if you need respite or rest, Tommy. It is the least I could do."

#ask #beastlyburden

[dalamusrex]

“Not a word of this to anyone. Got it?”

Dalamus put his hands up in placation. "Understood. It is not my story to tell."

#ask #scoundrelsfolly

[dalamusrex]

Is there any in-game music (or, if not, any other instrumental piece) which you associate with Dalamus?

Thanks for the question! I’m not particularly good at picking out soundtracks in games, so I went to listen to the soundtrack to give my thoughts better. I wouldn’t assign any of them to Dal in particular, but I can let you know what certain tracks make me think of as I listen!:

Here’s a link to the soundtrack on Youtube that I used! Timestamps to each is in the description: The Elder Scrolls V Skyrim | Full Original Soundtrack

From Past to Present is particularly nostalgic for me, and beautiful enough for me to want to sit and just listen and let emotions wash over me. It’s a slow song, calm, but also contemplative. Taking time to rest but also knowing that one can’t sit still forever, they have to move forward even if the future is uncertain. But just… 5 more minutes, okay. Then we’ll go. It makes me think of Dal–who came from decades and decades of living a life on the move–now having a permanent residence, and occasionally taking the time to sit down and realize how far he’s come. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, but sometimes it’s nice to have the luxury of just being able to pause and take in everything around him. It’s difficult to regret a past that brought him here.

Unbroken Road actually seems to match how I feel Dal’s energy is during Guild Jobs. He’s in his element but also careful. It’s energetic but not chaotic, tense but not panicked, suspenseful but predictable. He knows what he’s doing but can’t afford to let down his guard.

Silent Footsteps makes me think of a nocturnal hunt. A vampire in the night, hiding in shadows, eyes reflecting light as red eyeshine if seen at just the right angle. Soft footsteps you think you hear, but when you listen they suddenly stop. The feeling that you’re being watched, and that danger is imminent, although you can’t pinpoint the source. The deep sort of rumbling bass in the background makes me think of how, when frightened, sometimes you hear a rumbling that drowns out everything else and creates a sense of unease. As the song fades out, it’s as if the threat has passed, although you’re not sure how you know, just that suddenly it feels safe to breathe again. Into Darkness has similar vibes.

Secunda sounds like the relief of returning home after being away, either on a Guild Job or other occasion that took him away from Riften for a prolonged period of time. When things are still on his mind and the action is fresh but he just wants to lay in bed and decompress, perhaps hug a loved one and hear them say “Welcome back.” Seeing smiling faces and warm expressions, knowing he can relax. The Streets of Whiterun has a similar vibe.

Towers and Shadows makes me think of approaching a destination for a Guild Job, apprehensively making a plan and scouting out the area.

I can’t find hardly any instrumentals in his playlist, sadly, which is somewhat ironic because his Modern Verse self absolutely loves listening to instrumentals and classical music. I tend to listen for lyrics that tell a story or describe feelings, and attach those to him. When I do listen to something without lyrics, I tend to associate him with violin and piano, and slow somber rhythms to reflect his angsty mindscape. But the pieces with faster beats are good for action like battle. Here are a few I found that I really like!:

ReallySlowMotion - "Pandemic" : Makes me think of preparation for battle, very determined and strong beats.

Really Slow Motion - Sunder: Starts out somber and contemplative, makes me think of a quiet moment between beats of chaos when he feels low or overwhelmed by emotion. Takes a moment for himself to actually feel it in private. Then it’s time to get up and get shit done.

Audiomachine - Tangled Earth: Makes me think of him and his loved ones, his friends, family, and what he’s willing to do for them. The ups and downs. How far he’s willing to go to defend them, protect them. How much he’s willing to go beyond his “nature” to keep them safe. I think of battles and bloodshed, when thoughts of his loved ones and going home to them are what’s able to keep him fighting and make sure he wins despite exhaustion.

Twelve Titans Music - Monolith: Kinda makes me think of a battle, but in a “Villain Reveal” sort of way for Dalamus, where an enemy has pissed him off sufficiently that he drops all guise of being mortal and the enemy suddenly realizes they’re not just dealing with an ordinary dark elf. Not quite Boss Music but definitely heading into that territory.

I also like the sort of "haunting" tone and buzz that comes from a Hurdy Gurdy when playing darker music, but can't find one I'd associate with him in whole.

I’m realizing late that these might not count as “instrumental” but..... it’s all I got, boss!

#missy rambles #ooc #info #music #dalamus music #the pitfalls of eternity #apparently i couldn't keep a consistent music tag on this blog lmao #so have 3