#oc: theoven derenge

[offsidekineticist]

So I've been thinking about what KC Qweck would look like...under a cut because spoilers for the WOTR secret ending

I have a fairly detailed idea of how some parts of her crusade would go, but it would take awhile to explain all of it, and it might shift once i get around to her playthrough, anyway. Instead I will say she will be my ascension run, and here is my first draft of what she's like as a god.

Qweck (also called the Profane Saint) the goddess of family, rage, and protection, a being of demonic and angelic power in one. Her followers include people who struggle with self-control, especially when related to innate powers or outsider influence. Others of her followers are those seeking power to protect loved ones. Qweck teaches a kind of balance: using the power available to you to protect the ones you love, but never allowing that power to consume you to the detriment of your loved ones. Her followers often practive forms of meditation that use anger or rage as a focal point, and her paladins are granted the ability to turn their righteous anger into power in the form of a berserker rage.

Her domain is called the Fortress, and is a place of shelter, reprieve, training, and preparation guarded zealously by sentries both angelic and demonic, neither of which are permitted inside. Only her fallen followers and closest allies (those she elevated when she ascended) are permitted in the Fortress, for only they are worthy of her highest protection. The souls of the worthiest of her followers, after much preparation, ascend to become one of the Fortress's protectors, sacrificing their place in the Fortress to preserve it for the sake of others.

Herald: the Pale One and His Shadow. The herald of the Profane Saint embodies the duality of their goddess. The Pale One is compassionate and comforting, sometimes appearing to followers of his goddess in times of great loss when anger is not enough, helping them to find the peace and strength to carry one. He takes the form of an unnaturally pale, white haired old man of whichever ancestry his charge would find most comforting. But when the Pale One walks among those who would harm his goddess's followers, all those whom His Shadow crosses are stricken dead. When His Shadow crosses the goddess's faithful, they are filled with empowering rage and zeal which they use to pursue and strike down their enemies.

Edicts: protect and care for your loved ones, embrace your power, learn to harness your rage

Anathema: prioritize rage or vengeance over loved ones, refuse to use your power out of fear or pride

#pwotr pals #pathfinder wotr #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #oc: qweck #knight-commander oc

[offsidekineticist]

Ohhhh this took forever, and it was genuinely painful to write at times, but I did it. Mind the CWs, this chapter is less "fantasy action and True Love's Kiss" and more "watching a loved one struggle to adjust to a new disability really fucking sucks, doesn't it?" Although those who have played the Hell's Rebels AP will probably have fun with the references.

CW: debilitating chronic pain, medical gore/hypothetical body horror, rationing of medication, doctors one after the other saying they can't help, implied suicidal ideation, looming possibility of unmedicated chronic pain, loss of religious support, subversion of due process, toxic family dynamic, mentions of bookburning and purges, and the desecration of remains and exploitation of tragedies for the entertainment of the Public

Excellent Work

You wake to the sound of pained hisses and groans and whimpers, almost as exhausted you were when you went to sleep. You slip out of the oversized bed and walk to the other side. Theo is burrowed into Giliys's chest, arms crossed over his own chest with his eyes squeezed shut, tears sliding down his face. Giliys, wide awake, is cradling Theo's head in his arms. He glares at you.

"Is the pain bad enough now?" Giliys demands accusingly. You ignore him as you retrieve the bottle of flayleaf extract. Theo was doing better earlier. You had thought he'd be alright until morning, but the chill of the night must have brought the pain back with a vengeance. You measure out an amount you hope will be enough to let Theo go back to sleep–or start sleeping, if he never fell asleep in the first place.

"Theo, can you hear me?" you ask, holding the spoon of flayleaf extract in your hand. He nods with a whimper. "Alright, I have some medicine to help with the pain. Open your mouth?"

He obeys, keeping his eyes shut, and you bring the spoon to his mouth. He swallows the extract, and you take back the spoon. It takes a few minutes, but the sounds of pain gradually become less frequent, and then stop altogether as the exhaustion puts Theo to sleep.

"I told you, you don't have to ration it. If they won't believe you're a healer, I can get more," Giliys hisses.

"The last thing we need is one of us getting arrested for drug smuggling," you snap. "And I don't trust the quality you'd be getting, either. We need to make it last until I can find a healer who can fix his hands."

"If you haven't found one yet, you're not going to find one without heading to Absalom. You need to figure out a way to get him regular meds–he can't live like this."

You take a deep breath to avoid snapping. You know this isn't tenable. You're a goddamned healer, of course you know Theo can't live like this. But you're already doing the best you can. It's been a month, and the best you've been able to do for his hands is immobilize them in crude splints made of bandages and tongue depressors. Your healing magic is useless because his bones have been crushed to the point that you can't set them without surgery, and you can't use healing magic on bones that haven't been set right because that's how you get bony growths piercing through skin and creating a constant infection risk. You've tried to find a healer who can help him–almost every day since he's been strong enough to walk, you've dragged Theo up to Temple Hill, going from temple to temple looking for help. It always ends the same way: another healer, face drained of color, apologetically explaining this is beyond their ability to heal while you carefully re-splint Theo's exposed fingers and pretend not to notice his tears.

Giliys is right, though. Theo's pain is too intense for you to manage while also rationing your remaining supply of medicine. You keep overestimating how much he can go without so you keep having to give him even larger doses to bring his pain back under control. It's become a vicious cycle that's depleting your supply far more quickly than you expected. Something needs to be done.

"I'll contact the church," you finally say. "If I can get the priests to vouch for me, I can get the credentials I need to order more medicine legally. Then it will just be a matter of finding the money."

Giliys gives you a disbelieving stare. "It can't be that easy. You'd have done it by now if it was that easy."

"I was prioritizing finding a permanent solution so we could use our money on the permanent solution, but since that solution seems farther away than expected, I am reprioritizing."

"They're gonna be pissed at you, aren't they?" Giliys asks, eyes widening in realization. "Shit, Qweck–you don't have to go back to them, I'll figure something out–"

"I'm a cleric, not a slave," you snap, too exhausted to deal with Giliys conflating accountability with abuse yet again. "I won't be flogged for returning after an…error of judgment."

His expression closes off at that. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say, princess. I'm gonna get some sleep." He closes his eyes, and you get the feeling he would have rolled over to face away from you if he could move without disturbing Theo.

You return to your side of the bed, but you don't sleep. You haven't just been avoiding this because of priorities. You aren't a slave and you won't be flogged, but that doesn't mean reporting to your former colleagues after abandoning your duties to commit a novel's worth of crimes will be pleasant. Especially not when you need something from them. 

You lay awake through the telltale signs of morning–first the moonlight disappears, then you hear the sound of dockworkers leaving their homes to go to work. Then you hear children giggling on their way to school. It is only after you hear the shouts of the newscryer that you see sunlight peeking through the windows. The sun rises late in Kintargo–it takes time to rise past the peaks of the Menador Mountains. You still aren't used to it.

You don't stir until Theo does. You're too afraid of waking him, given how little he sleeps these days. You would guess it's about an hour after sunrise when his eyes open with a groan. Giliys wakes immediately, and the three of you begin what has become your morning routine. You put on a pair of flowy trousers and then tie a sash around your waist over the chemise you wore to bed before beginning to prepare breakfast while Giliys, still only half-dressed himself, helps Theo get dressed. You were surprised at first to see how adept Giliys is at this task, easily managing Theo's clothes and disarming his pride with unexpectedly earnest assurances of "allow me" and "here, I've got that" and so on.  

"Shave?" Giliys asks as he does every morning. 

"No," Theo says flatly as he does every morning, apparently unbothered by the patchy, scraggly not-quite-a-beard on his face. He used to shave daily, absolutely meticulous about his appearance. You suspect he doesn't trust an assassin to hold a razor blade to his throat. Then again, he won't let you shave him, either.

There's no table or chairs in your apartment, so the three of you sit on the floor to eat the rest of yesterday's leftovers, preserved with the same magic you were taught to preserve corpses. You know there are other spells that can conjure food out of thin air–you ate such food regularly during your days as a novice training at the monastery before your ordination–but you never learned such spells. According to Giliys you never learned to make food without magic, either, though he usually keeps his opinion of your cooking to himself until he's at least tasted the food, which usually isn't until after Theo has finished eating. Theo rarely comments on the food at all. Instead he just gets more irritated as Giliys has to spoon feed him because he can't hold anything with his hands splinted as they are. 

You finish your meal before Giliys is even halfway through spooning the leftover shellfish stew for Theo. You put your empty bowl on the cold stovetop–Giliys will take care of washing the dishes while you're out–and slip on your shoes before offering your farewells and heading out the door. 

Hocum's Phantasmagorium has been abandoned since long before your arrival in the city, apparently created by a man allegedly eager to spread joy and wonder in the wake of the then recently ended Chelish Civil War. You were born too late to have seen that time, but given the dark looks and sullen silence you got whenever you tried to ask Theo about that time as a child, you feel it is safe to assume joy was in short supply in those days.

Whatever the intent of this Mr. Hocum, you can't help but feel the downfall of his business was a boon to the city. Walking through what's left of the exhibits, the degree of misinformation and shameless, voyeuristic exploitation of tragedies (such as the Temple Hill Slasher's murder spree) strikes you as tasteless at best. Let the Opera house and dancehalls bring joy to the city. They do not display the remains of sasquatches - intelligent humanoids - for entertainment.

You idly wonder if there is some way of laying those bones to rest, some family of sasquatches that would be grateful to have their remains returned, as you approach the reason for your trespass in this supposedly abandoned building: a statue of Aroden nestled in a small alcove. The god of prophecies is dead and hears prayers no more, but you are not here to pay tribute. You have to climb up the statue to reach it–this place was built by tallfolk–but on the statue's chest, circled by Azlanti runes, is Araden's holy symbol, the eye of Aroden. Blind as it may be, it still has its uses. You turn the pupil of the eye, pointing it from rune to rune, until you have spelled the name of the Master of Masters whom Aroden once called friend: IRORI.

With a groan of stone scraping stone, the statue moves, and you release your grip on the dead god's arm to leap back to the floor outside the alcove. The statue stops, revealing a spiral staircase to the basement below, and you descend to the only place in Kintargo dedicated to Irori: the Many-Steps Monastery

You had always intended to visit this monastery. Built from the basement of Hocum's museum after it closed, it served as a treasure trove of pre-Thrune art, literature, and history. Its existence was not commonly known in the church of Irori, but Giliys caught wind of it through contacts with the Bellflower Network, so he passed the information onto you. That is how you first came in contact with the Sacred Order of Archivists–the order of Irorian scholars dedicated to preserving Chelish history and culture–a connection that proved fruitful through the years until they suddenly went silent. The only explanation you received was that their sudden silence coincided with "The Night of Ashes" and the late Barzillai Thrune's crackdown on Kintargan dissidents.

If you look closely, you can still see evidence of Thrune's raid–scorch marks on walls, occasional burgundy stains on the floor–but for the most part the place seems ready for scholars to return. Based on the Message you received not long after your arrival in Kintargo, they already have. Or, rather, one has.

You find Corvinius Basad in one of the scholar's cells, standing over an open book laid out on the desk in front of him. He holds his hand, glowing pale blue with divine power, over a book, opened to a section where pages have been torn out. He is older than you remember from your days as novices–the long braid looped around his neck, typical of the Irorian priesthood, is streaked with gray, and his face is now lined from age–but that is to be expected. That was a quarter of a century ago, and humans age so much faster than gnomes.

"Just a moment," Corvinius says, not looking up from the mutilated text before him. Before you can reply, the tattered remains of one of the torn out pages begins to shift and then grow. You stare in awe as the book seems to heal before your very eyes, and a single page, ink and all, is restored.

"How did you do that?" You blurt out as Corvinius straightens and wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. He grins.

"Wonderful, isn't it? A little trick I picked up from a friend. She uses it for somewhat less altruistic purposes, which is likely why it can only be used to restore a single page at a time." He grimaces. "It's slow going, but the alternative is to allow what the Asmodeans destroyed to be lost forever. In any case, it is good to see you again, Sister." He bows his head slightly in greeting, and you return the gesture with some embarrassment.

"And you as well, Brother. Forgive my rudeness–I did not expect to see a miracle performed today."

Corvinius snorts. "I heal books one page at a time, sister. You heal bodies with a single spell. Which of us is the miracle worker?"

You nod politely, trying to keep the flare of guilt from your face. You wouldn't be here if you were a miracle worker. 

"I am, nonetheless, glad you are so intrigued," Corvinius continues, sitting down at the desk and, with loving care, gently setting aside the book he was repairing. "Because this work is why I contacted you."

That surprises you. You had assumed that Corvinius, as the nearest representative of the Church, had been tasked with convening a hearing that would determine the severity of your Censure for abandoning your post, and you tell him as much. Corvinius seems surprised, and then strokes his chin thoughtfully.

"Of course–I had assumed news would have reached you, but in retrospect, things being as they are–" he pulls himself from his thoughts and meets your gaze. "An emergency hearing was held without you. Very irregular, but, under the circumstances, politically necessary."

"Politically necessary," you repeat.

"Well, yes. Thrune wipes out an lrorian order for hoarding banned books, and just over a year later an Irorian priest rampages through a hellknight citadel to rescue a dissident also accused of hoarding banned books? The church in Cheliax has been walking a tightrope for years now. They can't be associated with the most wanted woman in Cheliax."

A yawning void opens in the pit of your stomach. There's only one way the church could avoid being associated with one of its priests. "I've been excommunicated, haven't l?" 

To be excommunicated is a priest's worst nightmare. It is to be barred from participating in church life or holy rituals, no longer entitled to the support or assistance of the church. It is a punishment reserved for those who have committed unrepentant anathema against their god, usually only enacted after Irori himself has expressed his rejection by taking back their divine powers or cursing them for their blasphemy. It is a punishment always handed down by a council of elders after lengthy deliberation that always includes the testimony of the accused. To excommunicate someone in absentia when they have neither committed anathema nor been subject to divine punishment would be a travesty–it should not happen.

And yet, even before Corvinius answers, you know that it has, and you understand why. 

In a gesture far too nonchalant for the situation, Corvinius holds up his hand and wiggles it in a "so-so" type motion.

"You've been excommunicated in Cheliax. I doubt anyone outside Cheliax will care, assuming lrori hasn't taken back his power–he hasn't, has he?"

"No, of course not!" you say, momentarily losing your composure at the mere idea that you would commit a sin egregious enough that Irori himself would take notice.

"There you go. And, for the time being at least, Kintargo is not in Cheliax. So when l ask if you would be willing to join me in rebuilding the Sacred Order and its collection, I am a servant of Irori requesting assistance from a fellow servant of lrori."

Still reeling from your excommunication, it takes a moment to process what is being asked of you–long enough that Corvinius continues. "Ultimately I'd like to renovate the building above so the entire complex can be a temple. True, it's not Temple Hill, but I personally see that as a boon. We will be accessible to those who need us most. That's all in the future, of course–until we know we are safe here, we'll continue to keep the order and the monastery secret. We can't risk the church being associated with even more dissident activity. For now the most pressing matter–"

"You realized I abandoned my flock, yes?" you interrupt. "Politics or no, I should be censured for my actions."

Corvinius shrugs. "I am less inclined to judge you for that. There were extenuating circumstances. And even if there weren't…I am attempting to restore an entire library of damaged books one page at a time. I need help. And, given the circumstances of your alleged excommunication, I thought you and your compatriots might be interested in our work. Or at least in a place to stay rent-free in exchange for fixing books."

You can feel the blood drain out of your face at the thought of that. You can't ask that of Theo–he's too lost, too fragile. He won't see the danger, won't see how precarious Ravounel's independence is, how easily history could repeat itself. You can still see him as he was when you found him, emaciated and exhausted, body battered and wounded and covered with dried blood and filth, hands mangled and crushed and the haunted look in his eyes–

"Absolutely not," you say with more vehemence than you intend. "I'm not here so you can draft my f–my friend into a doomed secret society when he can't even turn a page on his own." 

Corvinius's eyes widen in surprise. "Obviously it would be his choice, I have no intention of-"

"No. He's not–they had him for weeks, do you understand? Do you have any idea what that does to a person? What they do to people? He can't go through that again. It would destroy him."

"May I ask–no, nevermind."

He backtracks quickly, and so you are intrigued. "Ask what?"

"Nothing–the question would have been inappropriate."

You squint at him warily. "Now I have to know what it was."

"I don't–"

"Just ask the goddamned question, Corv!"

Corvinius sighs. "Fine. I wanted to ask who are you trying to protect? Him or yourself?"

Rage blooms in your chest. How dare he? "I gave up everything to save Theo, and you have the gall to question whether I'm trying to protect him?" 

"I only meant–"

"No. Nuh-uh. Stop. I don't give a fuck what you meant. The answer is no. I'm not here to let you prey on my father when he's too weak to stand up for himself, I'm here to get a representative of the Church of lrori to vouch for my credentials so I can get him the meds he needs for his life not to feel like a tribute to Zon-Kuthon. Now can you do that?"

He looks almost regretful. "The Church of Irori can't officially be in Kintargo until the situation has stabilized–it could put all of our brethren at–" 

"Yes or no, Corv?"

"No. But I–"

"Fine. Thanks for nothing."

You think you hear him calling after you as you storm out, but you're not inclined to listen. You're fuming the whole way up the spiral steps and back through the tacky so-called museum. How dare he try to take advantage of your situation? How dare he try to recruit you immediately after revealing your excommunication? How dare he reveal that and then dismiss it as nothing?

The most galling part is that if he hadn't been so slimy about it, you would probably have agreed–not to recruiting Theo, of course, but to joining him yourself. It's not as if you hate the idea. You were close as novices, and though you've both changed, it would have been nice to have the chance to catch up. And while you'd hate spending your days casting the same spell over and over, spending days restoring a single book, you believe in the cause, and you're willing to endure tedium for the sake of your beliefs.

But dragging Theo into it? When you're still not certain Ravounel will be able to maintain its independence, and Corvinius is rebuilding the order in the same place Thrune already raided? Theo is already so broken from what happened in Rivad, and Corvinius has the gall to ask more of him? You should be planning your escape in case Ravounel is reoccupied, not joining a secret society that has already died once! 

Still furious, you return to the apartment to find Theo and Giliys in their usual places. Theoven sits cross-legged on the oversized bed, slouched forward to read a book laid flat in front of him, Giliys sitting beside him, dutifully turning pages at his signal. Giliys turns at the sound of the door opening and gives you a perfunctory nod. To your surprise, Theo looks up from his reading at the sound of your entry. 

"Welcome back," Theo says, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end because it's the most like himself he's seemed in weeks, but it's so unfamiliar to you now that it feels like a trick. "Giliys said you were going to speak to the Irorians about your credentials," he continues, and you relax slightly–the other shoe has dropped. “How did it go?"

"The Church of lrori does not have an official presence in Kintargo, and it will not until Ravounel's independence is more secure," you recite. Theo does not let his emotions show on his face, but it's not hard to guess his thoughts on the matter. 

"And unofficially?"

You shouldn't be so transparent to those outside the church, especially someone with such a big target on his back, but, truthfully, you're beyond caring. If Theo is going to have to resort to Giliys's black market contacts to manage his pain, he deserves to know why. "Unofficially they're setting up a monastery at the headquarters of a lost Irorian order."

"The Sacred Order of Archivists?" Theoven asks, and you have to stop yourself from gaping.

"How do you know about them?"

"Giliys mentioned them, years ago."

You roll your eyes with a sigh. "Of course he did." It's a silly thing to be upset about at this point, but it still galls you just how blatantly Giliys ignored your admonitions to leave your family out of your resistance work.  

"The guy already had more illegal books than I'd seen in the rest of my life fucking combined," Giliys explains defensively. "I just thought he might want to–"

"You knew about the books?" you interrupt. Giliys freezes for a second before doing his best to feign nonchalance.

"I mean, I didn't know just how fucking many he had. He just kept trying to lend them to me before he figured out I couldn't fucking read–"

"When you destroyed one of them," Theo says, and you can tell his patience is beginning to fray. Giliys slouches slightly.

"I said I was sorry," he says with a meekness that seems wrong coming from him.

"Sorry doesn't bring back priceless artifacts of pre-Thrune Chelaxian culture," Theo observes, the claws beginning to come out.

"But you found out–it was an accident?" you interrupt, because you need to know and the conversation is going to die with the last of Theo's patience. "Like you went through his bag when he wasn't looking or–or something?"

Giliys looks uncomfortable now. "No, he, uh, he just loaned me a book and said to be careful cuz it was very rare and also incredibly fucking illegal."

You don't know what to say to that. Theo had never even hinted to you that he owned anything untoward, but he just handed the evidence of a potentially capital crime to an assassin because he thought he'd enjoy some light reading?

Clearing his throat, Giliys starts again. "So, uh, yeah, I thought he might be interested in getting in touch with the order, but he said you'd get more use out of that, so–"

"You told him first?!" 

"I am sitting right here, if you would like to lodge a complaint," Theo says, crossing his arms, an unusual edge to his voice. "Not that you have much of a leg to stand on, given how adamant you were that I never find out about your resistance work."

You don't physically flinch, but your insides recoil at the accusation. "I was trying to protect you."

"Yes, excellent work on that, by the way."

There is something inside you–something steadfast and solid that has been straining to carry you through this ordeal. You can hear it crack under the force of that jab.

"She did her best, Thay," Giliys says quietly as you listen to the cracks spread.

"It doesn't really matter when her best leaves me unable to feed myself, does it?" Theo retorts flatly, not even glancing in Giliys's direction and holding up a bandaged hand for emphasis, and you feel a flare of frustration.

"It's not forever," you insist. "We'll find you a healer who can fix your hands, you just have to be patient."

Charcoal gray eyes flash dangerously as he speaks. "Patient? I have been nothing if not patient while you drag me from useless healer to useless healer because your pride can't stand the idea that maybe there's something you can't fix."

Corvinius's words echo in your ears. Who are you trying to protect? The anger flares in your chest anew. "You have no business lecturing me on pride, not with the stunts you've been pulling."

Refusing to eat because he can't stand being spoon fed; routinely soiling himself for days before breaking down and accepting help with the toilet; almost killing himself trying to shave–the past few weeks have taught you that Theoven Derenge is nothing if not proud.

"Forgive me for not being the perfect patient. I had assumed it was acceptable to be imperfect considering I am being cared for by a blatantly imperfect priest."

You almost snarl at the jab at your commitment to your faith, but your self-control wins out. "Would you rather I let you die in Rivad so I could be a more perfect priest?"

He has the audacity to shrug. "At the very least, I'd get some peace and quiet."

You gape at him. "I abandoned my calling to break you out. Giliys and Kob almost died before we even found you. And you're so determined not to show gratitude that you'd say something like that?"

"I never asked anyone to do anything for me. That was your decision," Theo retorts, voice chillingly even. "Nobody is stopping you from going back to your calling. Perhaps you'll actually be useful there."

"Okay, maybe we should all just shut the fuck up now before someone somehow says something even fucking worse," Giliys interjects, finally regaining some of his usual bravado. Neither of you acknowledge him.

"Useful?!" You exclaim voice rising. "Who healed your wounds? Who splinted your hands? Who has been measuring out your medicine?"

"You refuse to give me enough medicine to get me through the night and expect me to be grateful?"

"I thought it was enough!"

"Because you were too much of a coward to face your church if you didn't have to."

It feels like a slap in the face, the even tone he says it in just rubbing salt in the wound because he seems so damnably calm. The cracks spread, loudly.

"I don't have to put up with this," you say, working hard to keep your voice from cracking. "You understand? I don't have to stay."

"Then don't. There's not much of my life left to destroy, so your work here is done, isn't it?"

The cracks go silent as that thing inside you finally shatters, and everything suddenly feels clear for the first time since hearing of Theo's arrest. You turn and pick up your doctor's bag from its resting place next to the door before turning back to Theo and holding eye contact.

"I will be back in two weeks to take off the splints," you say. "Unless you decide you'd rather take them off yourself than trust an imperfect coward." 

If Theo has any visible reaction, you don't notice it before you turn and go out the door. You make it perhaps five steps down the rickety flight of wooden stairs before you're stopped by a desperate cry.

"Qweck! Wait!" It's Giliys, racing out the door after you, closing the door behind him before hurrying to your side and speaking in hushed tones. "That's not him–it's just the pain talking. You know he doesn't mean that. You know–"

"No, Giliys, I don't," you say, your voice louder than his–you don't have it in you to care if Theo can hear you. "What I know is I've given up everything to help that man, and he still thinks of me as an arrogant coward who ruined his life."

"He doesn't think that! He's just–he's scared. He knows we're almost out of meds, and he knows what that means, and he's fucking terrified."

"And I can't help him. I tried, but I don't have a way of getting him more medicine."

"I can take care of the meds, but I need your help to take care of him–I know I'm usually the one helping him eat and read and wipe his ass, but you help him by being here. I swear–he hates me, Qweck. You're what makes the situation bearable for him."

You stare at him incredulously, your mind replaying the scene from last night: Theo desperately clinging to Giliys for comfort while the pain steals his ability to function. "Giliys. A blind man could see that he doesn't hate you. He's just too broken to love well."

It's a cruel thing to say, but you're too exhausted for compassion. Giliys's face shifts from pleading to angry. "You take that back. He's strong, he'll heal, it's just going to take time, and he needs us."

"Then maybe he should treat us better." You take a deep breath. "Like I said, I'll be back to check on his splints. Maybe the time apart will help."

"And where will you go?" Giliys demands. "And don't say the Sacred Order, you're on a short enough fuse these days that there's no way you didn't fly off fucking the handle when they told you to fuck off."

Damn him. Damn him for knowing you that well. "I don't care. If I need to sleep on the street to get a break from his bullshit, I fucking will." 

Giliys face falls. He closes his eyes and takes a breath before bringing a hand to his forehead. "Okay, okay. Look. If you're that sure…go to the Long Roads Coffeehouse in the Villegre district. Talk to Laria, tell her Giliys sent you. She'll probably expect you to work but…you might find the work more familiar than you'd think."

She's a Bellflower contact, then. Some of the heaviness in your chest lifts at that–the thought of working with the Network again, doing work that matters, feels like a balm to your soul. It will be nice to be useful again. You nod. "Thank you, Giliys."

His hand shifts upward from his forehead to grip his hair. "Yeah, yeah. I, uh, I'll try talking to him." You're certain that he won't–he's too afraid of upsetting Theo–but you appreciate the sentiment. "Maybe this will be a wakeup call."

"Maybe," you say, but you don't know. You normally would expect Theo to own up to his mistakes, but you would also never expect him to be like this in the first place. "Look…whatever flayleaf you find, bring it to me before you give it to him, OK? I'll make sure it's safe and show you the right dosage–and don't give him more than I tell you. If he needs a higher dose, come find me, and I'll tell you what's safe, ok?" You sigh. "I'll…probably be back. Not probably, I will be. I just…I need a break."

Giliys nods, relief plain on his face. "Yeah. Will do. Take care of yourself, OK?"

"You too, Giliys."

You continue down the staircase. You look back up when you reach the street to find Giliys still there. He watches you go until you are out of sight with what you suspect might be longing, and you wonder with some guilt how long until he leaves, too.

#the (completely platonic!) breakup arc #part 12 #pathfinder wotr #pwotr pals #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #oc: qweck #oc: corvinius basad #sorry guys

[offsidekineticist]

I (mostly) finished part 15 of the Breakup Arc. Here are some pictures I made in Heroforge of Theo and Giliys being happy together, instead.

#pwotr pals #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #finally got into a writing groove again #yay

[offsidekineticist]

I (finally!) finished my first OC Kiss Week fic! A little familial bonding between Theoven and @silversiren1101's wonderful OC Minovae for the prompt "Lost."

CW: Grief-driven depressive episode, implied child death, referenced chronic pain, reference to an angry outburst resulting in violence against furniture

You were not expecting visitors, so it takes you a moment to get to the door. The second it swings open, you are blinded with an explosion of sunlight shining past the silhouette in the door. Wincing, you raise an aching hand to block the sunlight from your eyes, but it’s no good. Even if you weren’t blinded by the flaming ball of gas in the sky, you haven’t been able to find your glasses since you threw them at the wall in frustration about ten minutes ago.

“Agh–damn. Sorry. I left my glasses inside–who is this?” you ask.

“It’s Minovae,” the figure replies, and you’re at once confused, concerned, and horrified. Confused, because ever since you reconnected with your brother, Gilly has been adamant that he not be allowed to know where you live, lest he and his wife tell the Order of the Rack where you are. You pushed back by pointing out–several times–that the Rack could probably find you on their own, given that you live in the apartment above Gilly’s alchemy shop; his name is literally written on the side of the building. Nevertheless, Gilly was insistent, and everyone involved thought it better to humor him than waste time arguing. For Minovae to be here, either he finally caved or–and this is the source of your concern–something has gone very, very wrong.

On the other hand, you are horrified because you stayed home for a reason! You are not in any state to be seen today, especially not by Regill or his wife. Your hair is unwashed and clumped together from greasiness; you haven’t shaved in days; you probably smell awful; and you don’t even have the energy to bother with proper facial expressions. You’ve been absolutely miserable to be around the past few days, constantly holding yourself back from snapping at people, including the kids (thankfully you haven’t slipped–yet), and so you chose to spare everyone that experience. Let Gilly take the children to a picnic with Aunt Mino and Uncle Regill. Give your family a break from walking on eggshells around you. Nobody was supposed to come to your house in the middle of your temper tantrum.

“Is everything alright?” you ask.

“Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Giliys just found these in his pocket and thought you’d need them. I volunteered to bring them so he wouldn’t have to cut the outing short.”

‘These’ were a pair of black fingerless gloves she was holding out close enough for you to see. The very gloves you’ve been raging about not being able to find. You remember now–Gilly had dragged you out of the apartment for a walk a few hours before the heatwave finally broke, so it felt too hot to keep the gloves on. The children had taken your bag at the time, and your usual clothes don’t have pockets, so you gave the gloves to Gilly for safekeeping.

It would have been nice of him to remember that before he–

You cut off the thought. You’re being unfair again. It was an honest mistake, one that he immediately took steps to rectify. You would have preferred Minovae not see you in this state, but you know Gilly doesn’t trust her or Regill enough to leave the children alone with them, and you’d rather suffer a little embarrassment than cut short the children’s fun.

(Though you’re not sure that leaving Regill and Gilly together unsupervised was a good idea. Hopefully Harper will be able to keep them in line–your daughter has them both wrapped around her finger)

You reach out with a shaky hand and take the gloves. “Well, thank you. I appreciate it. I won’t keep you any longer, then. I’m sure you’re eager to return to the picnic.” You begin to close the door, but Minovae’s arm shoots forward and holds it open.

“Actually, it was a pretty long walk here from Kite Hill. No shade the whole way, and I forgot to grab a waterskin. Could I come in and sit down for a second? Maybe get a drink of water?”

She expects you to believe that she’s tired and thirsty after walking–without armor–for less than two miles in pleasantly warm weather. You want to slam the door on her arm for her obvious excuse to stay here any longer, but that would be rude. You step back into the apartment and gesture for her to enter. You almost close the door on her tail because you can’t see it without your glasses, but it (thankfully) springs forward at the last second and (less thankfully) almost slaps you in the face. It takes your eyes a moment to readjust to the darkness in the apartment–you’ve closed the curtains trying to reproduce the heat of the last week to stop your hands from aching–but your heart sinks when they do. This floor of the apartment is a single room, with a kitchen and dining area in the half nearest the door and a den area in the other half. Minovae is staring at what used to be the den. You can’t see it very well, of course, but you don’t need to be able to see it to know what she’s looking a: chairs overturned, books strewn across the floor, a bookshelf on its side, broken glass scattered by a pile of copper pieces, toy blocks spread across the floor. You know it’s all there without having to see it because you’re the person who made it like that.

“Oh. Yes.” You pause as you consider how to explain, and settle for understatement. “I was a bit overzealous while looking for my gloves. I was going to clean that up before anyone came home, but…” you gesture towards her. “Anyway, you wanted water.”

“Ah, yes, that would be lovely. Is it alright if I sit here?” You think she’s pointing at the dinner table, but she could be pointing at the bookshelf you knocked over. You don’t care which it is.

“Oh, that’s fine,” you say, moving towards the sink and taking a glass from the counter to fill it. When you turn around, a full glass in your aching hand, Minovae–or at least a large blob you assume is Minovae–is, indeed, sitting at the kitchen table. It’s a comical sight once you come closer. You have furnished your apartment with furniture made for smallfolk, so she is sitting in a chair too small for her, her knees poking above the top of the table. “Here you are,” you say, sliding the glass towards her before retreating to the wall opposite her.

“Thank you,” she says, taking the glass and taking a long sip. “Oh, that’s nice after a long walk.”

You stare at her flatly. You’re fairly sure she invited herself in because she found your appearance concerning. Now that she’s probably even more concerned, you’re morbidly curious as to what excuse she’ll make for why she still can’t leave.

“So, you did all that just since Giliys left with the kids?” Minovae asks, gesturing towards the den.

Ah, so she’s dispensing with subtlety entirely. Then you can do so, as well. “Despite my appearance, I am not so senile as to need a minder. You should go back to enjoying the day with your family.”

“You’re my family, too. And…” she hesitates “...I’m worried about you.”

“Because my face is blank,” you say. There are other reasons, you’re sure–your appearance, the den, your missing glasses, your absence from the picnic–but you’re not willing to discuss any of them, so you ignore them.  “Believe it or not, this is my natural level of expression. After the bleaching, my emotions became…muted, but also disconnected. My face doesn’t naturally express much emotion. People find that unsettling, of course, so I learned to put on a face for them. Best not lend any credence to the idea I didn’t have emotions anymore.”

“Don’t tell me people believe that nonsense!” she exclaims in disbelief.

“One of my childhood best friends became completely hostile towards me because she believed it. Tried to get me fired several times. Even tried to steal Qweck away from me once,” you say, and while she does a good job of keeping it from her face, the way her tail is squirming in agitation tells you she’s furious on your behalf. 

“So you learned to put on an act for them, because otherwise they would treat you like a pariah,” Minovae says, and you think you hear a note of bitter sympathy as she does.

“It’s not exactly an act–I think of it more like speaking a foreign language. My thoughts are in my native tongue, but my native tongue won’t be understood. So instead I speak as the locals do. Through facial expressions.” You briefly put on a wry, if somewhat melancholic, smile before again dropping the mask. “I just don’t have the energy today, I’m afraid. The change in the weather aggravated my hands. Better I stay home and rest for the day.”

“It’s not just today, though, is it?” she asks with a gentleness that feels patronizing. “You’ve been feeling…off…for awhile. Mayhew let me look at his sketchbook. And I accidentally saw–”

“His artistic impression of his father moping at the kitchen table,” you say, and you are glad she can’t see how exposed you feel by that.

Mayhew’s style is unusual, especially for a child of his mental age. He senses people’s emotions as naturally as you hear sounds, and that colors the way he sees the world to such an extent that “realism” to him means conveying feelings even at the expense of physical form. He usually does this through his use of color, choosing colors based on the mood. Mayhew’s most recent portrait of you, however, was more than just a recolored portrait. He drew your face, shattered and distorted like a broken mirror, against a dark red background, with black seeping through the cracks in your face like some kind of anti-light.

“He said that he made it to show you that your feelings are lying to you,” she continues.

“Did he now?”

Of course he did. Mayhew is a child–your child–and he’s idolized you since the day you met. Gilly calls him Junie–short for Theo, Jr–and it’s not just because of the resemblances in your coloration and mannerisms. Mayhew thinks the world of you, dreams of being like you, and this is the time of year when you remember just how unworthy you are of his esteem. Of course he thinks your feelings are lying. 

You hadn’t realized that was what he was trying to show you, though. It felt like a very correct portrait to you, so you had assumed he finally saw through you.

“He’s worried about you,” Minovae says. You lean back against the wall with a soft sigh through your nose.

“I know. I know he is.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Well, stop that,” you say, almost immediately kicking yourself for it. She isn’t used to deadpan Theoven. “That was a joke,” you clarify.

“I’m serious. You don’t seem alright.”

You close your eyes, bracing yourself. Clearly, she isn’t going to leave until you've given her some kind of explanation. You choose your words carefully before you open your eyes and speak. “It’s nothing permanent. It’s just a few bad days–entirely expected. It should subside sometime next week. Anniversaries of mistakes prompt reflection. And reflection is not always a nice experience.” You force a friendly smile to cap off the reassurance. “But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that.”

“I want you to be alright.”

“My dear, you are several years too late for that.” You can’t see her expression from where you’re standing, but the lack of reaction tells you the joke fell flat. “That was also a joke,” you clarify.

“One that you believe.”

“Of course. Those are the best kinds of jokes.” 

She sighs heavily. “Just…is there something I can do?”

You shake your head. “No. It is too late for anything to be done. I checked. It can’t be helped now.”

“I meant to help you.”

“I know.” Because what else could help you? You are like this because you are guilty. The only way to get rid of the guilt is to pluck out its source–and that can’t be done.

“Are you sure nothing can be done? I’m willing to help–there are things I can do that most can’t.”

“Yes, things such as running the first successful Mendevian Crusade in decades, closing the worldwound, and convincing my brother to marry. But even the great Knight-Commander herself can’t resurrect a soul that’s already been judged.” The bitter words slip out before you can stop them. You stop to center yourself before–

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Do not patronize me!” you snap, and you immediately regret it. You close your eyes and breathe in deeply. Balance, you remind yourself. She is tearing open old wounds. She is trying to help. Both can be true. Both are true. Let that guide your words. “I’m sorry. That was rude. And uncalled for. I just…I don’t like that phrase. It…” 

You search for words to explain safely, but can find none. There is no safe way to explain the way it grates for other people to apologize to you for a loss that is entirely your fault. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” she asks.

“No.” Of course you don’t want to talk about it–you haven’t even told Gilly about it. He assumes this annual pity-party is about your arrest. He’s right, partly. It’s just that it’s not the arrest itself that haunts you.

Leave Mister Theo alone!

Minovae doesn’t hear the cry echoing through the years. She only hears the silence that rings after you say no. Perhaps now she’ll understand that you want her to leave.

“You’re going to need help if you’re going to clean this mess up before Giliys and the kids get home.”

“By the gods, do you ever stop?” you demand, fixing her with an exhausted glare. “What do I have to say to make you go? Are you going to stay until I tell you about her? Is that it? Gilly gave you our address, so now you’re entitled to see me bare my soul to–” you cut yourself off. You’re putting words into her mouth, expecting her to read your mind and know you want her to leave when you haven’t told her that’s what you want. “I’m sorry. That was unfair of me. What I’m trying to say is that I need to be alone today.”

She doesn't answer right away, seemingly needing a minute to deal with the whiplash of your outburst and immediate apology. You can’t blame her. 

“Would it be alright for me to clean up while you rest?” she finally asks.

You stare at her, trying to search her face for sincerity but unable to make out her facial expressions without your glasses. She seems to have gotten her tail back under control, so the only clue you’ll get to her intentions (without squinting and moving closer like an old man in the comedies, at least) is her tone. “Why?”

“Because Mayhew is worried about you, and I think coming home to something like this will make it worse. And I don’t think you’ll be able to do it by yourself in the state you’re in.”

She’s right. She’s absolutely right. You’re a mess, and it’s hurting the children, and you can’t fix it yourself. And even if being alone is what you want, it’s not what’s best for your children.

Maybe it’s not even best for you.

You lean your head back against the wall and do your best to swallow the lump in your throat. “I’m sorry,” you finally say. “You shouldn’t have to spend your day off cleaning up after me. This is why I didn’t go today–none of you should have to put up with this. Especially not without warning.” 

She gets up from her comically undersized chair and approaches you. She’s short for tallfolk, but you’re so small that she still towers over you. She puts her hands on your shoulders and looks down at you with an expression of earnest care.

“I understand if you didn’t have the energy, or if you didn’t want to be seen like this. But if it’s for our sakes, I think both Regill and I would rather that you let us help you.” She hesitates, and then says “I would rather that you let me help you.”

You don’t want that. You don’t want to be a burden. But you also know that mentality isn’t healthy–and how many times have your attempts not to be a burden hurt the people you were afraid of inconveniencing? You take a long, deep breath and remind yourself: when you feel the urge to do something self-destructive, do the opposite. 

You bow your head, staring at the floor. “I think I will work on the mess. I don’t think lying in bed will help me much.” You have to fight yourself to get the next words out. “If you…want to help…I would appreciate it. Just…” you pause, wanting to make sure you say the right words, wanting to be fair but firm. You raise your head, looking her in the eye as you speak. “Do not ask me about it anymore. I don’t want to discuss it.”

She leans over and kisses you on the crown of your head. “I understand. I’m sorry for pushing.”

You take another breath. Breathe. “You were–are–worried. I can’t hold that against you.” You turn your head towards the mess of blurry shapes that used to be the den. “You know, without my glasses, it looks much less intimidating from here. We should consider cleaning from here. And if we find my glasses it might be effective to re-lose them. It may be easier.”

There’s a moment of silence, and for the third time you’re kicking yourself for forgetting she’s not used to picking your jokes out from the rest of your words without tone markers. You’re about to clarify–“that was a joke”–when she snorts.

She isn’t fluent in your native tongue, but you think she might be learning–and that means everything.

#pwotr pals #pathfinder wotr #friend's oc #oc: minovae arangeir #oc: theoven derenge #ockiss24

[offsidekineticist]

Here it is. Part 15. I have outlined the rest of the arc, so I think we're more than halfway through now. Looks like there will be a total of 25 parts.

CW: child death, crippling guilt, despair, magically induced suicidal ideation, internalized ableism, vomiting, emotional abuse, emotional breakdown

It's Still Not Enough

You lose track of time sitting on the bench by the river. Something about it was soothing in a way few things have been lately. There’s something beautiful about the sound of running water. Maybe it’s because it reminds you of home, of growing up and living on the banks of the Brastle River. Or maybe it goes even further back, to before you were in Brastlewark, when you and your mother trekked across the deserts of Katapesh. Water is life, and in those days water was scarce. You don’t remember seeing a river or brook in Katapesh, but you spent the last few months of your mother’s life in a gnomish oasis town called Finderplain. There was, in the center of the town, a pool filled with water from a natural spring, and every day you would go down to the pool with a bucket half your size that you would fill with water before dragging it back home. The pool wasn’t a river, but you fondly remember the sound of the water moving into your bucket - especially when you dallied and dragged the bucket back and forth, trying to generate a wake, or dunking the bucket into the water to create a short-lived vortex.

Water is life. Water is safe. And maybe…maybe water is healing, too.

“Hey, Thay?” You break out of your reverie to see Gilly eyeing the now overcast sky nervously. “We should probably go. It’s getting pretty late - don’t wanna be caught after dark.”

You certainly do not. There have been rumors circulating around Redroof of vengeful ghosts stalking the streets at night. You’re skeptical of the details of the rumors, but you know for a fact something is preying on the people of Kintargo. The other day you happened to overhear a couple talking about a family down the street from you whose son was found, his head removed, after he stayed out playing too late.

You hop off the bench and give the river a last fond look before pawing the strap of your bag over your shoulder, less irritated by how much you struggle with it than you’ve felt in some time. Less angry about how hard it’s going to be for you to walk home. Less bothered.

Yes, water is healing. You should try this more often.

You are about to set off back the way you came, when Gilly speaks up. “I think I know a shortcut,” he says, more subdued than usual - the river seems to have affected him, too. “It could get us home with less walking. I think. Might get us home before dark.”

“That would be preferable,” you say dryly before gesturing to let him pass. “Lead on.”

(You really should have known better. Giliys is good with maps - he has to be, given the life he’s lived - but he doesn’t have a map of Kintargo.)

Gilly leads you down a series of side streets. It makes sense at first, but the more turns he leads you down, the more like a maze things begin to feel, and the longer the shadows grow.

The first time you stop for breath is when Gilly says he needs to stop to get his bearings. For once, it doesn’t seem to be an excuse.

“You have no idea where we’re going, do you?” you say once you’ve managed to catch your breath enough to speak.

“Of course I do! We just - the fucking streets - well, I know where they were supposed to go!”

He has no idea where you’re going.

“I think we should double back and start again from the waterfront,” you say, the calm from the river beginning to fade. Gilly looks rankled, but nods with an exasperated growl.

“Ugh, fine. We’ll try it again another time when it’s not so late - I’m telling you, there’s a fucking shortcut somewhere around here.”

“I’m sure,” you say as you turn around and begin backtracking the way you came.

The trouble comes at the first intersection. You turn right. Gilly turns left. Neither of you notices until you’re both across the intersection from each other.

“Where are you going?” you call.

“Back to the fucking bench! Where the fuck are you going?”

“Back the way we came - I thought we said no more shortcuts.”

“This isn’t a fucking shortcut, this is how we got here!”

“No, we came from this street and turned left!”

“No, that’s two whole fucking blocks back this way that we turned left!”

“We went down three blocks before making this turn!”

And so on. You do eventually close the distance and take the dispute to the side of the street when you notice passersby staring at you.

(You should have told him to shut up and just asked one of the passersby for directions. Why did you indulge him like that? Were you so desperate for normalcy that you forgot safety? That you forgot who he is?)

Five minutes of back and forth solve nothing except to make you both less certain of the correct way back. You realize, with dawning horror, that you’re lost at dusk in a city that becomes markedly unpleasant at night.

“Ok, look. We know Redroof is southeast of where we are cuz there’s no fucking way we walked far enough from the waterfront for that not to be true. So we just turn south and east until things start smelling like shit and then figure out where we are and get home.”

You cross your arms. “Which way is south?”

Gilly looks up, about to reckon the direction from the sun’s position - only to realize the sky is overcast.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Ok, fine, you got me. You got any bright ideas?”

You open your bag and start reaching for books. You don’t remember having any books that would have a map of Kintargo, but it’s worth a shot when the alternative is wandering around in the dark. Unfortunately, your hands splinted as they are, you’re just pawing at the contents of your bag while the passing tallfolk occasionally take a moment to stare as they walk by.

(Of course, that’s why you didn’t ask for directions - the passersby were all tallfolk. You’re used to being the shortest person in town - you’re not used to being shorter by this much, and, frankly, it’s intimidating to attempt to flag one of them down. But Giliys is used to being among tallfolk. You should have made him do it.)

“Ok, look. I say we pick a direction and keep going till we hit some shit we recognize cuz we’ve been there or it’s a landmark or some such shit. Worst case we just wander till it’s so fucking dark we can see the fucking stars if we get away from the fucking lanterns. Either way, we figure out where the fuck we’re going. Yeah?”

You close your bag with a huff. “Fine. Next time we go back the way we came.”

Gilly chooses the street neither of you thought was correct, and you follow him.

(You agreed on which street you should have gone on, you only disagreed on which direction–why didn’t you just flip a coin and travel the street until you had gone far enough to figure out if it was the right way?)

You follow the chosen street until you come to a strange sight: a model building–some kind of prison?–at least as tall as you are in the middle of a field. There’s a distinct sense of foreboding, of unwelcomeness, but something about the situation piques your curiosity. After all, it’s not every day you find a foreboding model building in the middle of a field. You move towards it to examine it more closely.

“I think we should turn back, Thay. Thay? Thay!”

You pay him no mind. As you approach the building grows to full size. The sense of foreboding feels even stronger now that the building is looming over you. With black walls and barred windows, you recognize with a terrified lurch this isn’t someplace you want to see–this is a place of pain and punishment.

Exactly where you belong.

You’re suddenly hit with a wave of memories–cruel words to Gilly, outbursts at Qweck. You see your old friend Cei, back before your being a bleachling turned her away. You see her trying to help you through what you both thought were your last days, and you see yourself snapping and belittling her for refusing to leave you to die miserable and alone.

You see your brother as he was the last time you spoke to him, back when your hair was orange and your skin russet. You see him staring at you, pain written across his face, and you see the moment when you finally pushed him so far he couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. You see him whimper. You see his mortification at allowing that expression of weakness. You see him break away, tearing across the living room of that house in Brastlewark that’s home to neither of you, now. You see him flee the home he’s known his entire life, watch him escape your rage for the “safety” of hellknight training.

You see your every flaw and foible. You see your anger. Your anger that you can no longer control. You’re a danger to everyone, you realize with horror. You lash out, and not only can’t you control it, you can’t even take responsibility for it. It always feels like you’re on the outside looking in, watching your body and words lash out, but it’s not just your body; it’s you!

But even when you are in control, it’s still not enough, is it?

You see the library. You see children cowering as hellknights clap you in irons. You see yourself freeze. You shouldn’t have frozen. The children were afraid. It was your responsibility to soothe them. Your responsibility to keep them from doing something foolish.

“Leave Mister Theo alone!”

She is so small, and the hellknights are so tall, but still little Pel rushes towards them without hesitation. Of course she does–this is what you taught her to do. You taught her–and all of the children you’ve ever taught–to stand up for what she thought was right, even when it’s scary, even when nobody else would.

You taught her to die.

She hits the bookcase and falls to the floor and doesn’t move and there’s so much blood–

And it’s all on your hands.

She might not be dead! You don’t know–they dragged you out before you could see–

It makes no difference. She could live. She could die. In either case, you are equally guilty. Justice demands penance.

You understand now. This is where you belong. This is where you will pay. This is where you will die. The only thing left is to face it with dignity. It is finally time for you to learn the lesson you taught to Pel. You had so many chances to improve, to be better, and you wasted them all. Now it’s time to answer for–

Something barrels into you from behind, wrapping its arms around your waist, knocking you to the ground. Your face hits the cobblestone with a crunch of pain in your nose, but that’s irrelevant. The pain is a fraction of what you deserve–and justice demands that you continue. That you do the right thing, even if it’s terrifying. You need to move forward.

You try to wriggle away, but whatever has hold of you, its grip is solid. It picks you up off the ground and begins running, even as you struggle against it, shouting at it to let you go, clawing at its arms with your still splinted hands because justice demands penance.

You struggle to the point of exhaustion. You feel sick to your stomach from exertion. And then the stench returns.

It’s too much. You throw up on the ground, on the arms around your waist, on your uselessly kicking legs, on your shoes. You are suddenly free, falling onto the cobblestone street on your hands and knees, your stomach still trying to empty itself. You're vaguely aware of a figure kneeling by your side, a gentle hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. It’s Gilly.

The adrenaline begins to subside and some clarity returns. The magnitude of what you just tried to do hits you, and then the shock hits. You almost went back. You almost, willingly, went back to being buried alive and, you’re certain, mercilessly tortured.

“Gilly?” you ask wearily, confused. Gilly takes a long deep breath.

“Yeah?”

“What happened?”

“A piece of fucking hell is sitting in the middle of Kintargo,” Gilly says, trying to be gentle but his anger clear in his voice. “Some kind of trap to lure in poor fucking bastards and drag them back to the rest of hell. Fuckers almost got you.”

“But they didn’t get you,” you say slowly. “Why?”

Giliys goes very still, but the circles continue. “Not much point in trapping what you already own, is there?” he finally says.

You’re exhausted. You’re disgusted. You’re breathing in the stench of corpses and your own sick. You’re so busy just existing that you have nothing left to stop yourself. “Hm. Convenient.”

The soothing circles stop as Giliys’s whole body stills. “What?”

You take another gulp of air–you almost taste the stench, but it’s not as bad as through your nose–before repeating yourself. “Convenient. The whole situation. How incredibly convenient.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence that you chose a route that would lead us straight to an infernal trap that you were immune to, but I would need to be rescued from by some heroic hellion.”

“Wait–”

You don’t let him speak. It’s like all the times before–all the times you saw–it’s you, but it doesn’t feel like it’s your choice. You don’t know what you would choose if it was. “Did you really expect me to fall for that? That just because we had a nice afternoon–because you’ve been starving yourself–I would forget what you are? That I would trust a word that you say when you try to tell me that you didn’t know that trap was there?”

The hand withdraws from your back. Giliys reels back.

“I didn’t–”

“You decided to take the shortcut! You chose the direction when we were lost! You led us straight to the trap, and you expect me to believe it was an accident?!” You’ve sprung up, still kneeling on the pavement but now sitting upright. You’re shouting. You’re causing a scene in the middle of the night when people are trying to sleep, in a neighborhood where unknown forces are preying on fools caught outside after dark, but the part of you that is aware of that isn’t the part of you that cares about things. That part of you is screaming and can’t stop. “Were you hoping I’d buy it and just be so overwhelmed with gratitude that I’d forget what you did? Or were you trying to remind me just how lucky I am that you think I’m different from your prey?” He doesn’t say anything, and that just makes you angrier. “Good job on the trap, by the way! Intriguing, excellent craftsmanship, strong sense of foreboding - all top-notch, fantastically theatrical. Much more efficient to trick a city to walk themselves into a prison than to damn souls one by one. Your masters must be thrilled.”

(You know he didn’t set up the trap. Giliys is frighteningly clever, but breaking the fabric of reality to summon a piece of hell to Kintargo is well beyond his ken. That doesn't make you any more able to stop.)

“We should tell someone,” he says quietly, finally speaking up. “About the trap.”

“Oh, so you can be the hero of the hour for discovering the trap you set? Well of course, by all means! Because of course a man, completely lost, running for his life–sorry, running for his ‘friend’s’ life–would be able to remember where the authorities could find this hell prison that he accidentally stumbled upon. Obviously. Certainly nothing suspicious there! Of course this known agent of hell has nothing but the best of intentions towards the city and had nothing to do with a piece of hell itself coming to Kintargo! I mean it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Giliys doesn’t say a word. “Isn’t it?!”

“Okay,” he says softly.

“‘Okay?’ That's all you have to say for yourself–‘okay?!’”

“What do you want me to say? Tell me, and I’ll say it.”

You don't know what you want him to say. You want him to say something that will fix this, that will fix you, that will make this anger go away, that will make you stop, but you don't know what would do that. You don’t think anything can do that.

“I don’t want to be placated! I want you to be sincere! But you wouldn’t know sincerity if it hit you over the head with a brick, would you, Giliys? You just say what people want to hear! ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘I love you,’ ‘I’m here for you’ they’re all just words to you! Buttons you press to get people to do what you want, to get them off your back! And I was an idiot to fall for it again.”

You force yourself to your feet. The stench is back, which means you’re back in Redroof, and now that you know that, you recognize this street. You’re on Old Main, the road that runs from the western end of Old Kintargo to the eastern end of Redroof. Up ahead the road will split three ways: left will take you to the top of Temple Hill, straight will take you to Bridge Street, and right will take you to the northern end of Devil’s Nursery, the poorest neighborhood in the already impoverished Redroof. You’ll be turning right.

You start walking. A few moments later, you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t look back. It’s just Giliys.

You manage to get home and drag yourself up the flights of rickety stairs to your apartment without making any stops, even if you are completely out of breath at the top. For a moment you allow yourself a moment of triumph for the feat.

Then you realize you still have to open the door.

Still gasping for breath, you start pawing at the door, trying to grasp the doorknob between your hands so you can twist it and open the door. It doesn’t work. This apartment was built for tallfolk. The doorknob is almost as high as you are tall, and your hands are still splinted and aching like hell with every attempt to curl your immobilized fingers around the knob. Every time you think you’ve got it, every time, it’s started to turn, your hands slip, and the doorknob turns back to where it started.

You bang on the door with your palm in frustration, hissing at the jolt of pain it causes. The anger rises to a fever pitch. You kick the door in fury, and then you kick it again. Again and again, you kick the door, your grunts of effort getting louder and more bestial with every impact. Your breathing speeds up, but you barely notice, kicking the door for refusing to open.

You finally scream. It’s not a high-pitched scream of terror. It’s a roar, like a bear’s, of anger and frustration from your chest, as you slide down the door into a pile on the ground. Why does everything have to be like this? Why are you so damn useless?

Because you deserve it. Justice demands penance.

Giliys steps forward. He doesn’t look at you. He takes the knob in one hand and opens the door before entering the apartment. He doesn’t shut the door behind him.

#pwotr pals #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #part 15 #the (totally platonic!) breakup arc #i'm so sorry #this hurt to write

[offsidekineticist]

I'm still taking a break from aeon Theo, but I was going through my random untitled documents and found what I wrote about his first night ever in Drezen and I need to tell someone about this.

Cw: sort of suicidal ideation (of the "determined to go out in a blaze of glory" variety)

So Theo is tiny, even for a gnome - like, based on the 1e height tables, it shouldn't be possible for a male gnome to be as small as he is. He's closer to average halfling height than average gnome height because childhood malnutrition is a bitch. But what this means is that he gets to Mendev, and literally none of the crusader orders will take him, Steve Rogers style.

But Theo doesn't really have anywhere else to go. His library burned down and his home is in the middle of a civil war and he ran away. He can't bear to go back and face the people he tried to abandon - especially not the kids. So when none of the orders in Kenabres will take him, he decides to go to Drezen on his own and convince someone there to let him fight.

In the end, he arrives in Drezen a couple of years before the Second Crusade and impresses Staunton Vhane (by punching him really hard after Staunton laughs at the idea of him being a crusader). Staunton tries to get Theo a position in the garrison, but Commander Verstol is like "aw, I love the enthusiasm, little guy, but this is no place for a little fella like you!" Staunton immediately goes Qui-Gon Jinn mode and is like "Theo is now my squire!" Which is the only reason Theo is allowed to join the crusade (and is also funny because Staunton is a paladin and Theo is godless so it's really not a good match).

Here's the part that made me go like "I need to post about this": before Staunton pulls the squire uno reverse big brain plan, Theo is already planning what he's going to do now that this hasn't worked out. And his plan was to try to join the Hellknights. Because, yes, he hates them, and he'd be a terrible hellknight, but the idea of going home after running away when home needed him most is so awful to him that he'd rather be a massive hypocrite and try to make himself into something he hates (or at least pretend he's trying long enough to die heroically).

And now I'm imagining an AU where Theo does join the hellknights and his mentor is one of the original five of the Godclaw. He's "killed" pretty early on, but this version of Theo gets it together enough to "die" in a manner worthy of a hellknight, so when the Godclaw gets their citadel and, like, a plaque with the names of their fallen, Theoven's is at the top as the first member of the Godclaw to fall in the line of duty. And Regill spends his entire time in the Godclaw in the shadow of his brother's sacrifice, not sure what made Theo change his mind about the hellknights, but determined to live up to the standard Theo would have surely held himself to.

And then Theo isn't dead, and he's also a complete fucking mess and just terrible at everything Hellknight related except having such low self-esteem that he's willing to throw his life away for the Mission. And Regill is pretty sure this is some kind of demonic trick to undermine morale by sullying the memory of the Godclaw's first fallen, but also this version of Theo is much more familiar than the legend of Hellknight (posthumous) Theoven Derenge and at some point he realizes Theo is only remembered as he is because he's a vicious fighter with a death wish who "died" before he washed out, and his mentor leveraged the "heroism" of his death to recruit hellknights to the Godclaw, and, uh, Regill has no idea what to do with that knowledge.

#pwotr pals #oc: theoven derenge #pathfinder wotr #regill derenge #knight-commander oc #staunton vhane

[offsidekineticist]

FINALLY

I mentioned in another post that I was going to split the next chapter into three chapters and...uh...I lied. It's Giliys's Terrible, Horrible, Awful, No Good, Very Bad Day, and splitting it into three parts just kind of messed with the flow. So, uh...sorry it's so long...

CW: Hurt people hurting people (dysfunctional/abusive family or relationship dynamics); problems eating; poor bedside manner; migraines; rotting body parts; use of a gendered slur; cops being jerks; mass casualty incident; loss of control/blackout; suicidal ideation; saying goodbye

What I Said Back In Brastlewark

Everything comes to a head the day Qweck returns to check on Thay’s hands. The day starts off miserably. The day before was one of Thay’s Bad Days, when he couldn’t manage the energy to leave the apartment, which meant he couldn’t eat all day because of the Stench. The night was also bad. He pretended to sleep, but by now you can tell the difference from the way he breathes–soft, shallow breaths when pretending, long and loud when asleep. 

Despite being hungry and exhausted, Thay forces himself out of bed at dawn. You’d rather he save his strength for later, so you can get him to someplace where he can eat, so you put a hand on his shoulder.

“Thay, I think it’s ok if you stay in bed–I think she’ll understand, on account of bein’ a healer–”

“I will not have her thinking I’m bedridden,” he snaps through grit teeth, swaying in place. He is unsteady on his feet, but he is standing. He looks around the apartment. “Where’s the incense?”

Your brow furrows in confusion. You had brought home some incense you swiped from Temple Hill the other day, hoping it would cover up the stench so Thay could eat at home. Turns out that layering two strong smells on top of each other just gives Thay migraines. “It’s in the cabinet, but why–?”

“Light some.”

You should know better. You should know better by now, but you argue with him anyway. “Uh…Is that really such a good idea, Thay? You’re already having a rough day, and last time–”

“Shut up and light the damn incense,” Thay snaps, even sharper than usual. You feel the fire in your chest, the whispers almost too quiet to make out–how dare he speak to you that way? How dare he tell you what to do, like you’re just–

Instinct takes over, pushing away the fire. Shame and guilt at having disappointed him replace the rage and indignation. “Of course. I’m sorry,” you say softly, bowing your head slightly as you retrieve the incense from the cabinet and put it in a bowl on the table to light. You can tell as soon as you’ve lit the incense that this was a bad idea: Thay’s skin goes from stone gray to ashy, and his jaw tightens as he’s determined not to be sick. But you don’t say anything. You don’t offer to put out the flame.

You help him dress, and then he settles down on the floor. “Fetch me my book?” he asks, and you retrieve his latest book from his bag. It’s one of the ones he got from Rivad, you’re pretty sure. He’s been reading through them near constantly since arriving in Kintargo, and it became even more intense once Qweck left. You think this book is about summoning circles, given the illustrations. Every time he reads it, you want to ask him to read out loud so you can follow along, but you know better.

You open the book to the bookmarked page and hold it up in your lap for him (“What do you think you’re doing?! You do not ever lay a book flat! You’ll break the spine!”), and you can immediately tell Thay is only pretending to read. His eyes are unfocused, staring straight into the book instead of moving back and forth across the page. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and you realize he probably can’t read with that migraine of his. He’s just going through the motions so it will look like he’s reading it when Qweck arrives. He her to find him at the start of a cheery morning reading his book. He doesn’t want her to know how much he’s struggling. He doesn’t want anyone to know. 

(Except you. Everyone gets his best face except for you.)

It’s hard to judge how long the two of you sit there like that–you usually judge the passage of time by how many pages he’s asked you to turn–but eventually there's a knock at the door. Thay flinches at the noise with a slight whimper. You gently close the book and set it down on the floor in front of him as softly as you can before getting the door.

Qweck looks well, for the most part–less tired than she did last time you saw her. She’s paler than usual, but given how she’s covering her mouth and nose with her hand,  you can guess why.

"Why does half the city smell like rotting flesh?” she demands without preamble. 

“Nice to see you too, princess. Settled in so well to rich folk life that you forgot what the rest of us smell like, have ya?” you say, stepping aside so she can get into the apartment. Her ear twitches in frustration.

“We both know it didn’t smell like this before I left. What happened?”

"Fuck if I know, I just live here. You try asking the shiny jackdaws about it? Maybe they’ll care once someone from uptown asks.”

(The answer is that Hell doesn't let its holdings go without a fight. Hell is coming for Kintargo, and the birdbrains who “liberated” the city can’t fucking stop it.)

“Giliys, stop antagonizing our guest,” Thay says with false gentleness. When you turn to look at him, it’s all you can do not to gape, because there he is: it’s the old Thay, his mild disapproval of your antics evident in the way his bottom lip slightly juts out like a disappointed pout, but an affable twinkle in his eye assuring you he isn't angry. For a moment you're back in Brastlewark, and the last several months have all been a bad dream, and you have to remind yourself of the truth. Even knowing how skilled Thay is at disguising his feelings, it’s still shocking to see just how good he is at it.

Qweck stares at him a moment, and your heart sinks. She won’t see through it. She’ll think he’s doing great, and still nobody will know except you.

“Is that incense?” she asks.

"Helps cover the Stench,” Thay explains with a wry smile.

“And that isn't making things worse?” Queck asks.

"Hard to get much worse than corpse stench, isn't it?” Thay says with a chuckle as he stands up, and gods, the migraine must be bad because he actually winces. 

“It’s actually giving me a headache,” Qweck says. Thay slips for a moment, his expression freezing.

“Giliys!” He hisses.

“Yes, Thay,” you say as you hurry to put out the incense.

Recovering himself, Theo returns his attention to Qweck. “How shall we do this, Healer?”

Qweck looks at Thay suspiciously and then looks at you as you hurriedly smother the burning incense. Your eyes meet, and you search for any sign that she knows that this is an act. Any sign that she sees through this and knows how badly he’s struggling. 

The moment passes, and she returns her attention to Thay. “I just need something flat to rest your hand on. A stack of books will do.”

He grimaces at that before he puts back on the cheeriness. "Promise I won't leak blood or pus on the books?”

“Have you been leaking blood or pus?”

"No.”

"Then this won't change that. Where's the bag?”

"Here,” you say, holding up Thay's biggenlil bag. One by one, you take out books on infernal hierarchies and arcane geometry and the construction of summoning circles and whatever else the Order of the Rack deemed too subversive for public consumption until you've made a stack tall enough that Qweck won't have to bend over to reach Thay's hand while she works. She and Thay both settle by the stack of books, and she takes out a small pair of scissors to cut through the bandages she used to make her makeshift splints. 

Thay does a spectacular job of hiding it, but the tightness in his jaw is giving away the fact that this hurts. It doesn't stop him from making small talk or chuckling at Qweck's dry sense of humor.

Halfway through working on his second hand she decides she's had enough. "You don't have to pretend for me, Theo. It's alright if you're in pain.”

The expression freezes on his face. "Well, the last time I let you see how much pain I was in, you left, so you'll forgive me for being skeptical.”

Your heart sinks. She sees through him–at least enough to know his hands hurt–but it doesn’t matter. She’s not coming back.

Qweck’s face tightens. "I see,” she says, cutting off the last bandage. "Should I bother asking how they feel, or are you going to lie to me about that, too?”

He slowly opens and closes both hands, ignoring the barb. "It's fine,” he announces. He pauses before looking sheepishly at Qweck. "Genuinely, it's fine. My affect is not a deception, I just. I didn't want to be misunderstood.”

“Is that what you think happened last time? I just misunderstood because you didn't put on a performance for me?” Thay freezes, and you can see him struggling to find the correct answer through the pain. Qweck must see it too because she closes her eyes with a sigh. "Your hands have atrophied, and you're going to have to learn how to use them again. Giliys can show you where I'm staying. I want to see you twice a week for conditioning.”

“Twice a week–I'm sure that's unnecessary.”

"Of course you are. Wealdays and Stardays at noon. Don't waste my time by skipping.” She turns her attention to you. "Do you have any flayleaf you need me to measure out?”

“Forgot to pick up the new batch yesterday, so I'm going to take care of it today. Figured I'd stop by the cafe this afternoon,” you say.

(“Thay, I have to go–it's just for a couple of hours, but she's gonna be here tomorrow and I need to get the medicine before–”

“Please–please don't.”)

Qweck rolls her eyes. "Of course, because I couldn't possibly have had my own plans for the afternoon. Fine. I'll see you in a few hours.” She turns back to Thay. "I don't know why you're lying to your healer about your health, but I do know that your hands are not, and probably never will be, back to normal, so don't strain them by pretending they are.”

"It really isn't so–”

"Theoven,” she says sharply. "Your hands are holding together by a thread. Do not ignore the pain. If something aggravates it, you stop, and if that's too much for you, let me know, and I can save us all a lot of grief by just amputating now. Is that clear?” 

Theo nods but you can't tell how much of that got through to him. You hope he got it because otherwise you'll have to be the one enforcing this bit of doctor's orders, and judging by how he responds to your limiting his flayleaf dosage when he has a flare up, that won't be fun. Qweck, however, seems satisfied with that–or at least satisfied that if Thay loses his hands he won't be able to blame her. She picks up her doctor's bag and stands up.

"Well, if that's all, I'll be off.”

"It was wonderful to see you again,” Thay says, as if that can somehow salvage the situation.

"I'm glad. It would have been nice if I could have seen you too. Remember: Wealday at noon.”

It is only after the sound of her steps on the stairs has faded that Thay suddenly doubles over and lets out a half groan, half roar of pain that turns into violent but futile retching. You hurry to his side and, seeing that he's shaking and gasping for breath, you scoop him up in your arms and carry him back to the bed. It’s not hard; he is disturbingly light these days.

You gently lay him on the bed. You turn away, but he reaches out, with a hiss of pain, very weakly grabs your sleeve.

“Don't go,” he gasps.

You were just going to shutter the window. The light makes the migraines worse. You know it will be better for him if you go and come back–

–but he said no.

So you climb onto the bed, carefully shielding him from the sunlight from the window as best you can, gently stroking his hair as he whimpers and gasps in pain and he buries his face in your chest, and you wish he would just let you help him right.

It is early evening when Theo finally falls asleep and you're able to leave to find his medicine. You need to be quick–hell's influence is at its strongest after dark, so the less time you spend out at night, the better. The sun is almost touching the horizon line, ready to sink into the sea for the night when you leave the apartment. By the time you've arrived at the fisherman’s supply shop by the harbor, delivery in hand, the sun is gone.

You have to pound on the door three times before it opens.

“Shh!” hisses the dwarven tiefling at the door. You're pretty sure she gave you her name at some point, but you just call her Ears because of her huge, bat-like ears. She glares at you with beady eyes. “Are you insane being out after dark?” She ushers you inside.

“Shit don’t stop needing to be done just cuz the sun got lazy,” you snap. She laughs.

“All that halfling luck's gone to your head if you think you're not bullshitting. Good to see you, I guess. Was beginnin’ to think the guard got to ya,” the tiefling said, crossing her arms. “Them or the ghosts.”

“Yeah, well, they didn’t.” You set down the bloody bag on the counter, mood soured more than usual by the old 'halfling luck' line. “All three are in there.”

She opens the bag and immediately chokes on the stench. “Fuck–how long have you had these?”

“A couple days. Shit came up so I couldn't get to you right away. Didn’t realize they were rotting that bad.”

“How the fuck don’t you notice this?” She demands, still gagging.

“All of Redroof smells like that.”

“You poor bastards. Fuck.” She ties off the bag. “Drop it in the river on the way out, will ya? Gonna have to light some incense or something to get the smell out, shit.”

“Did you get me the good stuff this time?”

Ears’s tail flicks in irritation, and she rolls her eyes as she turns back towards the shelves behind her. “I did what I could. Best I could manage was more raw stuff.”

You grit your teeth, ignoring the heat in your chest. “That wasn't the deal.”

“No, the deal was you take care of my competition, and I do what I can. Look, you want the stuff so bad, you break into the castle and take it.”

You clench your teeth. Supplies are limited in Kintargo. Trade has been disrupted so that anything that relies on imports has become absurdly expensive. It's even worse when the goods in question are medical in nature–any medicines that can’t be easily brewed from local herbs are now kept and dispensed by the City of Kintargo. It was one thing to break into a mostly empty mansion and take a few of the less notable baubles; it would be another to break into the headquarters of the provincial military, the city guard, and the local hellknight order to take highly valued medicine.

(You could pull it off, you’re sure, but only if you weren’t planning on staying in the city after)

So instead you’re stuck knocking off petty criminals so a kid with delusions of grandeur and a connection in the docks can give you the stuff that's too shitty to sell to alchemists. You’re just able to wrestle down the heat in your chest when you see the size of the herb pouch Ears is holding.

“What the fuck–that’s nowhere near enough!”

“That's what I got. You have any idea how much that little bag is worth in this city right now?” She gets a sly look on her face. “Now, I might be willing to stick my neck out a little for a full-timer.”

There it is. Ever since she realized you were a professional and not just some goon with a knife, she’s been trying to get you to agree to being the lieutenant of her “crime empire” of pickpockets and muggers. “I’ll think about it.”

“You always say that.”

“I’m always thinking ‘bout it.”

“Aww, Lucky, I’m flattered! But I’m gonna need an answer soon. This is a lot of effort to go through for a man who won’t commit.”

The innuendo startles you, and without instinct to tamp it down the rage burns in your chest. How dare she try to ensnare you? How dare she mock you? How dare this waif, cursed with a speck of hellishness, mock the vessel of hell itself?

You force the fire down through sheer force of will. You ignore how the flames roar in fury, robbed of sustenance.

I am hungry, hellhound!

You snatch up the herb pouch out of her hand, ignoring the fire. “I’ll be by when I need more,” you snarl as you go to the door. She doesn’t resist, only grins smugly at you–she likes unsettling you, likes reminding you that there’s nowhere else to go.

The fire burns, and it takes all you have not to let it consume her for her insolence.

“Don’t forget the hands!” Ears shouts after you.

“Don't forget it yourself, you fucking pussy!” you shout over your shoulder before slamming the door behind you, holding the fire in your chest so it doesn’t spread. Once you're sure you're not going to catch fire, you take a deep breath and begin walking.

Qweck is staying with Laria Longroad, who runs the Long Roads Coffeehouse in the Villegre. The Villegre is Kintargo's university district, situated against the city's northern wall–on the opposite side of the city from Ears's supply shop. You don't exactly like having to cross a helltouched city at night, but you don't have much choice.

You never put much stock in the "lucky halfling" myth–you always figured that if you were really lucky, you wouldn't ever have been a slave–but considering you make it to the docks, catch the ferry across the river, and make it as far as Alabaster Academy without seeing any trouble, maybe there's something to it. The hair on the back of your neck is just starting to settle down when a shriek cuts through the air and rattles your bones. You flinch and cover your ears. You'd heard rumors about this–a phantom that screeches through the night, uttering oaths and curses in dark languages. You think it's Infernal that she's screaming, but you don’t understand the meaning. You don't know what the phantom–ghost–wraith–thing wants, but you don't intend to find out.

You sprint down the street, and you feel the warmth spread from your chest down towards your legs, driving you faster and faster. You will pay for that when you stop, when the fire won't die back down and hide in your chest anymore, but the creature's wails are in your ears, and you need to find shelter now.

You ignore the CLOSED sign in the window and barrel through the door. A halfling woman with fair hair–Laria Longroad–startles from her work cleaning the countertop and looks up.

“What the fuuu–oh! It’s you.” she says, eyes widening in surprise before she smiles like she’s happy to see you.

(Laria always smiles when she sees you. You have no fucking clue why. You’re just as much of a dick to her as you are to everyone else who isn’t Thay, but for some reason that doesn’t faze her.)

“Yeah, sorry to show up so late, I just gotta talk to Qweck about something,” you say.

"She said you might come around. But you're outta luck," Laria says, disappearing behind the counter again before walking around it to get to you. “Qweck’s gone to bed. Early sleeper, she is, but I suppose that’s t’be expected, what with her being Irorian and all.”

Shit. “Well, I guess I better go wake her up.” You move to walk towards the back, toward the stairs that you know lead to the apartment upstairs, but Laria steps in front of you.

“If you give me the medicine, I’ll see that she gets it and brings it to you tomorrow. She needs her rest. Today was rough on her.”

You huff at that. “Sure it was. She spent less than an hour with us. I think she can handle five minutes with me to get Thay’s pain down from excruciating to torturous.”

She doesn’t react right away. Then she reaches out and takes your arm. “Come sit down, Giliys. There’s something I’d like to talk with you about.”

You almost tell her to fuck off, but you’ve always had a soft spot for Laria. You knew her when she was first on the run after beating a slaver to death with her bare hands, and you got to watch her grow into the tiller she is today. She thinks you had something to do with that. Maybe you did; you did check in on her a lot when she was getting established in Kintargo. And you were maybe a little more honest than usual with her about your history when you caught her crying over the blood on her hands.

The point is, you never had a sister, but if you did you’d kinda hope she’d be like Laria. If Laria says she wants to talk to you, well, you gotta make sure the guilt isn’t getting to her (she’s not as used to it as you are, on account of being an all around better person than you). So you let her lead you to a table and you both sit down across from each other.

“Everything ok, Kid?” you ask.

“I should be asking you that,” she says. “We haven’t talked since you arrived, but from what Qweck has told me, you’ve been on a rough ride the last couple of months.”

You wave her off. “I’m fine. I’m not the one who got tortured for a month.”

“That doesn’t mean it hasn’t been hard.”

You shrug. “It is what it is. You said there was something you wanted to talk about?”

She hesitates before nodding. She's thinking through her words before she speaks, and that's not a good sign–Laria has never been afraid to speak her mind, at least not to you. “It’s funny," she says, looking over the shop. "Most days I’m used to it, but every now and then I stop and look around and think ‘this is my place. My shop. My home. I own this.’ And it’s just…for a second I don’t believe it. It’s like the Laria from before just popped into my body, and she just can’t grasp the idea of having any of this.”

You relax slightly. She just wants to talk about her feelings, and she's hesitating because they're about the Old Times. Nothing too bad, you just gotta listen and nod and not be a dick. “Yeah," you say with a nod, "yeah, I think I get what you mean. Not that I have a coffee shop or anything, but…yeah. I know that feeling.”

(You used to get that feeling when you’d visit Thay, when you’d sit on his couch with a mug of hot cocoa and realize you have a friend, that this beautiful, wonderful soul was your friend and chose to be your friend, even though you had proven to him from the moment you met that you didn’t deserve–)

“It gets me thinking, sometimes,” Laria continues. “Reminiscing, I guess you could say, about how I got here. Remember the first time you visited after I set up the shop?”

“The time you fucking poisoned me? Yeah, I remember that.”

She chuckles at that. She didn’t actually poison you, she just gave you a cup of coffee on the house, and that was how you learned that you fucking hate coffee. “I remember I mentioned I was thinking of hiring some folks to help out–another server or two. And I said I thought maybe it could be a way to help the slaves we freed. Give them a job, help them get on their feet and figure out who they want to be now that they’re free. And I remember you said something that stuck with me. You said not to make a server out of anyone still learning how to be free, cuz the customers will act like masters and make them forget they're free.”

“Yeah, I remember that, too.”

“And it's funny, because even all these years later, sometimes I catch myself falling into that–not often, but if it's been a busy few days, and I've got some cranky customers who haven't had their coffee yet, sometimes the old scars start aching, and I catch myself saying sorry to some snobby brat screaming at me in my own shop, you know?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s been a couple decades since the last time I had a real job–well, ok, I've never had a legit job, but, you know, a job with a boss–but yeah, I remember what that was like.”

She pauses for a long moment, and you begin to wonder if you’ve said something wrong. And then, disturbingly gently, she says, “It’s not just a job that can make us feel like that, though, is it?”

She's not here to talk about her feelings. There's something specific she's fishing for, and you don't like it. You can feel your expression harden. “Get to the point, Kid.”

She sighs. “I just want to make sure you haven’t forgotten that you're free. Because Qweck said some things that have me thinking that maybe you have.”

Your jaw almost drops.

“Ex-fucking-scuse me?!” you demand. “You–hold on. I–wow. Okay. So, just on the word of sheltered kid who lived in a cloister until a month ago, you’re accusing someone you’ve never met–someone, I will add, who has more goodness in his thumb than either of us have in our whole fucking bodies–you think he’s acting like a master cuz his ungrateful cunt of a daughter said so?”

“It’s not about him," Laria says, eyes wide. "It’s–”

“But it is! Of course it is! People don’t just forget they're free when they feel respected, do they? Not when they're decades removed from slavery. So she thinks he’s taking advantage of me? Of course she’d think that–she despises him!” You don’t notice your voice rising, or how it shapes itself towards the highborn Egorien of your youth. “As long as I’ve known her, all she’s ever had to say about him were backhanded comments about her guardian–never her father–her guardian, the collaborator, how he burned books for Thrune and was just as complicit as any hellknight. He took her in, raised her on his own, and she has nothing but contempt for him–and so she started pouring poison in your ear and you just believed her?!"

"That–that's not–"

"You did! You didn't even question it, you just accepted it as divine prophecy! But of course you did–she’s a pretty face, isn't she? She's someone new and exciting and we both know you–”

The phantom's wails cut through the air like a knife, and you hear her Infernal vows of vengeance against the adventurers who killed her.

You understand her.

The shock of it knocks you out of your tirade, and suddenly you realize you’re standing up, your chair overturned behind you. You tower menacingly over Laria, both hands on the table in front of you–hands flaring with sparks as smoke rises from under your palms and fingers. She stares at you in silent terror, right hand reaching for a dagger you taught her to keep in her bodice. It’s no use, though–the fire in your chest has spread through your body, and you know from the siege camp that a knife in your chest will just make things worse–

So you run. You bolt across the cafe out the door, Infernal words that you can understand pounding in your ears, trying to get her out, out, OUT! But still the woman wails and still you understand, and still the fire roars and demands escape because you promised.

The heat grows and grows in your chest and your hands and your feet, and you realize you need to get as far from people as possible because you can’t hold it in anymore and people will burn. You race towards Villegre Park–not even nobles are crazy enough to go for a walk in the park after dark.

You make it. With desperate effort, you make it to the center of the park–or close enough. You drop to your knees and wrap your arms around yourself. You feel the fire rising inside you. The scar on your chest glows red under the drawstrings of your shirt. You squeeze your eyes shut and clench your teeth with a growl and then, with all your might, you let go–

–and nothing happens.

You’re left panting and sweating from exertion and heat and emotion, but there is no relief. The fire in your chest still burns, still spreads and demands release.

I want my souls, hellhound.

You sit on the ground uselessly, shaking with anxious energy, feeling like you want to tear off your skin and escape the confines of your body. The fire burns without warmth, leaving you to shiver in the cold of the night even as your insides are consumed by an inferno.

It's hard to say how long you sit there, wrestling the hellfire under your control. It’s harder to say how long you would have remained were you not interrupted by someone grabbing your shirt collar and picking you up off the ground.

“And what’s your business here?” It’s a guard–two guards. One of them, a tiefling with curled horns, holds you up by your shirt, while the other, human by the look of them, searches you.

“Stop,” you grind out, while the fire roars in your ears.

“Hey now, what have we here?” the human guard says triumphantly, snatching the pouch of flayleaf from your belt. They open the bag and take a quick sniff. “Flayleaf–the actual leaf? Got ourselves a connoisseur, we do!”

“Fellas at the harbor must be doing a good job of keeping out the hard stuff if he’s resorting to that shit.” He drops you on the ground and puts his foot on your back before you can react. He bends over to handcuff you and he puts weight on your back, and–

And–

And it’s dawn. You’re not in the park anymore. You're still in the Villegre–you can see the academy's tower to the west–but you are on some street surrounded by smoldering ash. There are piles of ashes and scorch marks on the sides of buildings, and you suspect they form a trail that will lead you back to the park. You don't care to test that theory. You are covered in ash, your clothes are scorched, and your hands sting when you move them, burned with hellfire. The rage is gone. The flames are silent.

She is silent.

Maybe halflings are lucky–after all, you woke up. She lost grip on you–took too many souls at once–and while you don’t remember how you know this, you know she would never have let you go if she didn’t have to. You might have been lost forever if she hadn't gorged herself. You were lucky.

This has to end. You’ve kept her at bay for years, but that time is over. Next time she won’t let you go. Next time she’ll know better, and she’ll never wake up. She’s silent now, quieter than she’s been since you arrived in Kintargo, sleeping off the feast of the night before. If you’re going to end this, now’s your chance.

The sun is rising over the city. It makes the water shimmer, and it’s beautiful. It’s all beautiful. You wish you had seen it before. You wish you could see it after. You are glad you see it now.

You don’t remember the walk back to Redroof, your mind in a haze. This is the third time you’ve resolved to cut to the chase, but something about this feels different. It feels real this time. You hate that your last kill will be with that stupid decorative dagger you swiped from an idiot noble–you’ve sharpened it until it could do fucking surgery if you wanted, and it still cuts wrong. Maybe you just miss your old dagger. Maybe there’s only so much you can do with a weapon that wasn’t made to be used. Maybe you should throw yourself off the bridge like you planned when you first got here. Or maybe Qweck will agree to slit your throat for you.

You arrive, and Thay is awake. He looks at you in alarm. Right–you're badly burned, dressed in scorched clothes and covered with ash. "Gilly–what–"

"I'm dying,” you blurt out. Thay freezes. "Or–no. I need to die. The devil–I’m losing control. She’s been getting stronger since we got here, and I can’t–I can’t hold her back anymore, and someday soon she’s gonna take over and I won’t ever come back, and fuck if I know what she’ll do but she just burned a path through the Villegre and killed gods know how many people, so I know it won’t be anything fucking good. So…so I have to die.” Thay doesn't say a word. His face doesn't shift. So you do what you always do when you’re anxious about the silence: you keep going. "I thought you should know, so…y'know. You could patch things up with Qweck and make arrangements before–”

"No,” he says softly, almost keening.

“It'll be fine, Thay. She loves you, she'll–”

"I'm not losing you again!” It's an animalistic snarl, feral and harsh. The sheer intensity of it strikes you speechless for a moment before you find your words and carry on.

"You...you have to, Thay. It'll be alright–you don't need me. I haven't really been helping much, anyway. You'll be fine without me.”

"I won't!” he exclaims, and there’s a naked desperation in his expression you don’t recognize. “I won't be fine without you–how could you think–” He stops short, trying to collect himself. “I'm sorry–I know I've been awful, I'm trying, I swear, but it's just so hard, and it's not working, but I'm trying, I–please don't give up on me, Gilly, I won't survive it, please!” His expression shifts, and it takes a moment to quash the hope you feel when you realize he has an idea. “The contract–show me the contract! There must be a way to break it, there always is, and we can–”

“There’s no contract, Thay,” you answer wearily.

He seems to almost recoil in confusion. “No contract–as in you lost it?”

“As in there was never any contract. I just let her in, and she’s stayed ever since.”

“But–but that doesn’t make sense! What kind of devil–there has to be a contract, we just have to find it. It might take some time, but–”

“We don’t have time, Thay. She’s gonna wake up soon, and then she’ll want more souls.”

“Then give them to her! We live in Redroof, for Aroden's sake, surely you can find someone who won't be missed!”

It takes a moment for you to process–to understand what he wants you to do. When you understand, you have a moment of sickening clarity: there is something very wrong with Thay, and you've been making it worse. He’s been so twisted up inside that he’s starting to become like you. You need to leave for his sake as much as for the sake of the souls you'd have to reap to stay.

"I'm going to go tell Qweck,” you say as gently as you can, “so she knows to come see you. I don’t have much time, so I probably won’t be back before…yeah. I just want you to know…I’m so, so sorry for…for lying to you. For tricking you into helping me, and letting you think I maybe…might be….almost good somewhere deep fucking down. I’m so fucking sorry. And…And…” Oh, how these next words catch in your throat. “And I meant what I said back in Brastlewark. About why I couldn’t let you volunteer. I meant it. I fucking meant it, and if you don't believe anything else I’ve ever said–and I sure as shit haven’t given you much reason to–please, for the love of all that’s holy and good, please believe that.”

You allow yourself a moment–barely any time at all, just a moment–to look at him, and for this moment, and only this moment, you believe with all your heart that halflings are the luckiest of creatures, and you are the luckiest of halflings, because surely only the luckiest of the lucky ever behold beauty like this.

The moment passes. It's time to go. You hear his voice behind you, hear him sobbing, begging you to stay, but it's no use. You've already seen him for the last time. As much as you'd like to stay and stare at him forever, it's time to go.

You step out from the shade of the apartment into the brightness of your final day, and you don't look back.

#pwotr pals #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #oc: qweck varnaj #the (totally platonic!) breakup arc #part 16

[offsidekineticist]

For owlcatober prompt #6, "family"

CW: grief, loss of a family member, referenced nonverbal episode, estrangement, lack of closure, spiders mentioned

The Sixth of Lamashan

You hate this day: the sixth of Lamashan. You hated it when it was just Ascendance Day to you, just a day when Iomedae's faithful ran around with toy swords to celebrate their goddess passing the test of the Starstone. But now you hate it for what it does to Thay every year.

"A birthday on Ascendance Day–that must've been rough when he was a kid."

"Not really–it wasn't nearly as popular in Brastlewark as it is here, so his birthday easily overshadowed it."

He always takes today off from his storytelling. Instead he comes downstairs and quietly prepares a cup of tea for himself before returning to your room. He doesn't speak during this process, even if spoken to. Sometimes you think he's lost in memories. Sometimes you think it's one of his nonverbal episodes. Whatever the case, it is in silence that he goes to your room and settles down in a rocking chair with the same book he reads every year: On Fighting Demons, by Regill Derenge.

"Wait–you have a brother? What the fuck–I've known you for thirty fucking years and you never told me you have a fucking brother?"

"Well it hardly matters now that he's dead, now, does it?"

You hate it. You hate seeing him in pain, but you especially hate seeing him in pain over someone who doesn't deserve it–and from everything your husband has told you, Regill Derenge doesn't deserve shit from Thay. Even ignoring the fact that he was a hellknight (though you're not sure why you'd ignore that), the guy apparently sat down to settle his affairs and didn't think Thay deserved so much as a notification of his death. Thay only found out because one of the other expats from Brastlewark heard about it from her sister and offered her condolences. Because apparently the local newspaper in Brastlewark got a notification and an obituary to publish, but Thay? Why the fuck should he be told his little brother was dead?

"Don't hold it against him–we parted on difficult terms. I was rather cruel to him. I understand why he wouldn't want to see me again."

"He didn't have to see you again. He just had to write a fucking letter for you to read after he died."

Thay still hasn't read that obituary. There's something in there he's afraid to see. He won't say what, but from the way he tenses up when you ask about it, you can guess: it has something to do with Rivad.

"Was he there? Was he there, Thay?"

"I don't know. If he was, I don't want to know."

So every year, like clockwork, you send the kids out to play at being knights with the Iomedaeans while you sit in the kitchen and stare at the wall and wait, because your husband is mourning his asshole brother who didn't bother reconciling and might have fucking tortured him.

"It's my own fault–I tried writing to him once, but the letter came back and…I gave up. I should have tried harder to find him."

"Thay, you lived in the same fucking house for a hundred fucking years. You're not the one who should have tried harder."  

It's always long after dark, the kids sound asleep, by the time you hear the door open. His eyes are always dark from crying–they don't get red because his blood is gray–and he always apologizes for keeping you up so late. You sometimes answer with words. You always answer with a hug.

"Does it help? The book, I mean."

"I don't know. I can't hear him when I read it. Maybe I'm not listening closely enough. Maybe I've forgotten what he sounded like. Or maybe he changed so much that I just don't know what he sounded like anymore."

You lead him to bed and let him rest his head on your chest. He falls asleep listening to your heartbeat while you card your hands through his hair. Sometimes he quietly cries himself to sleep. Sometimes he tells you stories as he drifts off–the time Regill made Thay sneak into a pub for their first drinks, or how Regill used to just lay down and take naps wherever he felt like, or how Regill was terrified of spiders, and whenever he found one in their bedroom Thay would carry it outside and then regale his brother with tales of the itsy bitsy spider's grisly grisly death.

"You never actually killed them?"

"Of course not. I considered them my friends."

"..."

"I was a very lonely child."

You always stay awake until he's sound asleep, keeping vigil against some unknown threat, some monster made of grief. And every year, lying in the dark listening to the sound of Thay's breathing, you become more convinced that Thay deserved a better brother, and Regill deserved worse one. You know not every hellknight goes to hell after death, but if there's any justice in the world, Regill did. And every year, on the sixth of Lamashan, you hope the devils of hell are as creative as you are, because he deserves to suffer for what he's still doing to Thay.

#owlcatober 2023 #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #pwotr pals #pathfinder wotr #hey look i actually did an owlcatober #and to nobodys surprise #its ANGST #also Regill doesnt have a canon birthday afaik so I decided its today #youre welcome #regill derenge

[offsidekineticist]

△ Theo, can you ever forgive Giliys?

ooh, straight for the jugular! I think this one needs 2 ratings cuz Theo is in such severe denial and willfully misinterpreting his emotions right now that he doesn't actually realize how much he doesn't want to think about this. He thinks it's kind of a 6/10 - he definitely wouldn't willingly discuss this with a stranger, but if Qweck asked him this he would try to answer the question (albeit begrudgingly).

It's actually a 10/10. Because the truthful answer to this question is something he is lying to himself about so effectively that he doesn't actually know that's what he's doing. In other words, he's not even willing to broach this topic with himself. So even though he's answering the question honestly in the sense that he is explaining his feelings as he understands them...he doesn't actually understand his feelings well enough to be truthful.

Putting the answer under a cut bc it's about forgiving and/or loving someone who did something terrible and feeling like someone you loved was a lie that never existed. idk how to put that under a concise CW, but I feel like there should be one.

Theo sighs through his nose before answering. "It's not my place to forgive him. Not for everything, at least. He hurt - I don't even know how many people it was. It wouldn't be right to pretend that he hadn't done that. That he's probably still doing it.

"As for what he did to me specifically - I don't...who would I even be forgiving? I don't know who he is. He pretended to be someone else - someone selfless - for decades. I was best friends with someone who doesn't exist. It feels like asking if I could ever forgive a fairytale for not being real."

He stops, and for a moment you think he's done. But then you see the intense concentration in his eyes - there's something more, something he's determined to put into the exact right words. "Sometimes I forget there's anything to forgive," he finally says. "Because it felt real. Its still feels real. But it isn't. He looks like Gilly, even acts like him most of the time. I forget that it isn't really him - that he never existed. Gilly never - he would never do what Giliys did. But I can't - my feelings don't understand, and so I keep feeling like these feelings are towards Giliys when they're actually towards someone who isn't real - because of course they are. Because Giliys is despicable. He's done unforgivable things, and I could never love - " he stops abruptly. "But my feelings don't understand yet. They will. But they don't yet. Maybe I'll be able to think about forgiveness then, when I can see who he really is and not who he pretended to be."

(Someday he will realize this was not the truth. Someday he will realize the truth was "I already have, and I am ashamed.")

#pwotr pals #oc: theoven derenge #ask game #Nearly wrote an essay in the tags about this one #so there will probably be a followup post #thanks for the ask! #like seriously this was very helpful in reminding me where Theo's head is at these days

[offsidekineticist]

This one is unusually short, but it feels the right length.

CW: estrangement, ableism, chronic pain, lack of access to medication, very negative self-talk.

Without Results

Qweck has always reminded you of your brother. Her eyes–those bright, golden eyes–were so much like your brother's eyes. Her intensity could easily match your brother's at his most obsessed. Neither were the type to stand aside if there was something out in the world that needed fixing. Qweck was barely 13 when you were struck by the sobering realization that she would leave Brastlewark just as your brother did. At first you were so afraid you would lose her the same way you lost him, lashing out in pain when she left you forever, so you resolved that this time would be different. You had decades to come to terms with her place being beyond Brastlewark, to teach her that her path was hers to tread, and you would love her wherever it led her. And it worked–when she left, you accompanied Qweck to Ostenso, supported her as she petitioned to be accepted into the monastery, and then, when she was accepted, you said your goodbyes and returned home. She didn't write as often as you'd hoped, but you understood: she had her own life now, and you were relieved–and proud–to realize you didn't resent her for it as you had resented your brother. Qweck had left, but she wasn't lost. She still visited you. Still wrote to you. Still loved you.

And now you've gone and fucked it up.

“Pathetic. No self control, no discipline.”

He is not like he was when he left Brastlewark. Like you, he has lost much of the expressiveness of your youth, and what was once a frenetic energy demanding expression through fidgeting and pacing now appears as a coiled spring, carefully controlled but ready to explode at a moment's notice. But his voice is the same. His cadence is the same.

“I'm sorry,” you choke out, and it’s such a pathetic fraction of what you should tell him after what you said all those years ago, but it’s all you can manage when just the sight of him makes your hands hurt and your heart pound and your ears ring.

Your brother sneers at you. “‘Sorry’ means nothing without results. You’ve already proven you can’t change. You just hid behind the bleaching and pretended you had.”

He’s right. He knows he’s right, and so do you. It’s why you never bothered apologizing for your outbursts–how can you say you’re sorry for something you know you won’t stop doing? But you can’t accept that. You’re too broken to accept that, so you feel the rage rise up in you and take control and–

“And you hid behind your armor and your ‘duty’ and just abandoned your people to build a world where we can’t live!” you hiss through grit teeth. “When exactly did you decide you hated yourself so much that anyone like you didn’t deserve to live?”

But your brother is not who he was when he left Brastlewark. Your words don’t pierce him as they did then. He doesn’t fear your disapproval anymore. He doesn’t love you anymore.

“We both know,” he says, rolling his eyes, “that you are wildly extrapolating from your scant knowledge of Axis to justify why my leaving upset you. Why don’t you tell the truth for once, Theoven? Admit what it is that really frightens you?”

A coldness grips your heart, but still you barrel forward, hearing yourself repeat your worst mistakes. “Nothing frightens me anymore! I am a bleachling–the worst thing I could imagine has happened to me, and I’m still here. What do you think you could possibly do to me that would be worse?!”

“‘The worst thing you could imagine?’ Really?” He arches a brow sardonically. “The bleaching was never your worst fear. Your worst fear is one you have, by some miracle, avoided all these years: chasing away everyone who might have been willing to tolerate you. But even miracles must end. You’ve lost Brastlewark, and now you’ve lost Cleric Varnaj in the same way you lost me. How long until you’ve chased the halfling away, I wonder?”

You would clench your fists if they weren’t splinted. “Shut up,” you growl.

“You act like he’s beneath you,” your brother continues. “The fact that he hasn’t left you for that alone is a miracle. Given your reaction to his declaration of love, he likely holds even less affection for you than I do. Most likely he is held here by some guilt over his lies, or some obligation to care for you when you have nobody else. But how long do you think he will last now that he has to tolerate you alone?”

“I said shut up!”

“He’s going to realize soon that he can do better for himself. That he doesn’t have to stay and be treated this way. And when that happens, he will leave. You will be all alone, helpless, worthless, useless. Do you know what I think of that, Theoven?” A shark-like grin spreads across your brother’s face. “I think you’ll deserve it.”

The rage is too much. You need to get it out, but your body isn’t strong enough–it never was before the bleaching, either. That doesn’t mean you won’t try. You spring forward from your bed, reaching for your brother's neck to grab and squeeze until that disgusting smile slips from his face and he realizes what a mistake he’s made becoming your enemy.

You are awake. Arms are wrapped around you as you squirm, what was intended to be a howl of rage instead only a whisper.

“Hey, hey, it’s ok! You’re ok, Thay. You’re ok. It’s just me.”

“Regill?” you whisper.

“It’s me, Thay. It's Gilly.” You relax. Another nightmare, that’s all. You should have realized–words always became too heavy to speak when you saw him in Rivad, of course it was only a nightmare. You’ve already begun to forget what it was about, beyond the fact that your brother was there. You’re safe. Gilly is here, so you’re safe.

Gilly holds your head to his chest, one hand carding through your hair with the other on your shoulder, holding you close. “You’re alright. You’re alright,” he whispers softly, over and over, and you melt into his arms. You’re safe. Gilly is here, so you’re safe.

And then you remember why that should make you feel bad.

During the time apart, you had hoped that in time your feelings would fade. You don’t know if it’s because of everything that’s happened or if you are just innately weak, but you’re even more attached now than you were before. Even beyond the fact that he dresses you and feeds you and assists you in everything including basic bodily functions, you can barely bring yourself to sleep without him. When he goes out to buy food or takes a job, you spend the whole time on the edge of panic, curled up in a fetal position on the bed, wondering if he will come back. So far he always has.

You can’t be like this. You need to be stronger. Someday–someday soon–it’s going to be time for him to ‘pay rent,’ and he will damn another innocent to hell. You refuse to be party to that. You need to be strong enough to tell him no. You need to be strong enough to do the right thing. You need to be strong enough to send him away.

There’s a sudden, painful spasm in your right hand. It’s so intense, even compared to the usual ache, that you can’t help the half strangled moan that comes out of your mouth.

Giliys freezes. “Hands?” he asks. You nod into his chest.

“Hurts,” you whimper, disgusted with your weakness. “Medicine.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry, Thay. I can’t give you more.” You growl at that–actually growl, like an animal. You know why he says this–you don’t have access to medicinal flayleaf, so he’s dosing out an illegal recreational drug for you as a substitute. If the dosage ever goes too high, the drug will start working as intended and cause hallucinations. And given what you tend to see when you hallucinate, it’s probably better to endure the pain. But your hands don’t understand that, and neither does whatever takes over when you get like this.

“Then what use are you?” you watch yourself snap. Giliys starts carding his hand through your hair again, but you’re not having it. You push him away and settle on your side with your back to him, wincing at another throb of pain from your hands.

You hear a quiet sigh. “I’m sorry,” Giliys repeats quietly, almost defeatedly.

“‘Sorry’ means nothing without results,” you say, a faint sense of deja vu washing over you. “Now shut up and let me sleep.” There’s a long pause.

“Okay,” Giliys finally says. “Sleep well, Thay.”

You take a deep breath before closing your eyes. You will sleep through this pain. You will sleep through this anger. You will sleep without his comfort. You will learn to live like this. You will learn to live without him. You have to, or you’ll die.

#pathfinder wotr #pwotr pals #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #knight-commander oc #The (completely platonic!) Breakup arc #part 13

[offsidekineticist]

It Almost Feels Like a Good Day

I'M ALIVE!!!!!!!!!

Hey everyone, sorry I've been radio silent on here for awhile. Needed to take a bit of a step back from social media. No guarantees I'll be super active outside of breakup arc updates, but hopefully I'll be a little more consistent with it going forward. In the meantime, here's part FOURTEEN of the Breakup Arc (dear lord this is going to be a full-length novel by the time I'm done, isn't it? ugh).

CW: Mention of torture, food insecurity, recovering from/living with long-term effects of torture, internalized ableism (Theo has a lot of bullshit to unlearn), toxic relationship dynamics, sensory issues related to scent/taste, reference to vomit

There was no more sleep that night. Ever since Qweck left, much of South Kintargo (including the rickety apartment you're trying to call home) has been engulfed in corpse stench. Nobody knows what is causing the stench, though everyone seems to have a theory. Yours is that this is the natural consequence of leaving the management of citywide infrastructure in the hands of the Silver Ravens, a band of adventurers-turned-revolutionaries who think sewage systems are for sneaking about unnoticed and hiding unspeakable horrors best forgotten, but nobody has cared enough about what you think to ask you. In any case, the stench makes the already daunting task of sleeping through the pain in your hands downright impossible. Instead, you lie awake, staring at the wall and slowly watching light seep in through the cracks in the wood as the sunrises.

You drag yourself out of bed, and Giliys follows immediately. He didn't sleep either, though whether that's because of the stench or some other reason is an open question. He helps you dress with that infuriating patience you had never realized he was capable of, before surveying the empty shelf above the stove. He turns towards you.

"Up for a trip?" he asks. 

(He asks because you have had days when you couldn't drag yourself out of bed, but he doesn't have to rub it in your face)

You pick up your bag - a clumsy feat with your hands still splinted - and pull the strap over your shoulder with a glare. "I'm not an invalid."

He bows his head slightly. "Right. Sorry..." He trots over to the door and opens it. "Shall we?"

You hate that you need him to open the door for you, but you don't let it show. You just walk out the door, barely acknowledging him as you go. You hear the door close behind you, and Giliys's obnoxiously cheerful footsteps grate on you as he catches up.

"Same place as last time?" Giliys asks.

"That is acceptable," you say. 'The same place as last time' is a street by the docks in the north of Jarvis End, a neighborhood a little ways northwest of your apartment, where a fishmonger sells six oysters for a copper. It's far but that's the point. The stench makes it so anything you try to eat at home comes right back up - if you can even force yourself to eat it in the first place. Jarvis End has escaped the curse of the Stench, and raw oysters are cheap enough not to break the bank. The flavor is a bit stronger than you'd like, but without the Stench, you can eat it and keep it down. 

The trouble, of course, is the distance. It's only half a mile, but you were locked in a closet and only alloved out to walk twenty feet to a walk-in closet of pain for about a month. Your body has decided anything further than a hundred feet is an expedition. But the only way out

is to power through it - the one good part of Qweck refusing to accept that your hands can't be fixed is that it forced you up and down Temple Hill regularly, though you had to take an embarrassing number of breaks to catch your breath along the way.

"Hey, Thay? Think we could slowdown? I'm gettin' kinda winded," Giliys asks from behind you. You scowl because you know he's lying. You're not even halfway there, and Giliys never asks for anything for his own sake these days. It's infuriating. You want to tell him to shut up because it's just a little walking, but you're breathing so hard you can barely say anything.

"Fine," you manage to say after a moment, shooting a vicious glave his way. He bows his head in contrition.

"Sorry, I'm just gettin' old, I guess. Middle age just kinda sneaks up on ya, ya know?"

(He babbles when he lies. He's worse at it than the literal children you worked with at the library, and you don't understand how, with the life he's led, he can be this bad at lying.)

"Seeing as I bleached when most gnomes would consider me scarcely more than a child, I can't say that I do."

His face falls, and whatever cheer he had gained from his successful gambit is immediately lost. His shoulders dip as his head bows even further.

"Sorry. I, uh- I didn't think."

"No, you didn't," you snap.

"Sorry, Thay," he says, quietly this time. You turn towards the road ahead, and the distance that still lies between you and your destination. Giliys's feigned middle-aged moment has given you a moment to catch your breath, but it's time to push on. You'll never get better if you keep making excuses for yourself.

"Let's go."

It is only when you are half a block from the fishmonger that you stop again, huffing and puffing, but this pause of your own accord. You've been here enough over the last weeks that the fishmonger - Molly - has started to recognize you and make small-talk, and you don't want her asking why you can't breathe. Giliys says nothing, only offering you a waterskin, which you take, guzzling the contents greedily. You take a huge gulp of air once you're satisfied and pass the skin back to Giliys. Taking another moment to catch your breath, you straighten up and nod to yourself. You can do this. It's just small-talk with someone who's barely a stranger anymore. So you take a last deep breath and round the last corner towards Molly's spot.

Molly doesn't exactly have a stand. Every Morning, Molly wheels out the various shellfish - oysters, cockles, mussels, clams - which her grown children pulled out of the Yolulibus River the night before (you suspect her children are not properly licensed to dive for bivalves in the river, hence the reduced price). There's no awning to shade her or keep her dry when it rains, but every day, rain or shine, she is out there hawking her wares, smiling without complaint. 

Today is no different. As you approach, hands behind your back as if clasped to avoid questions about them, she stands in her light brown dress, an apron hanging from her neck to keep the dress tidy. She seems to perk up at the sight of you.

"Well, if it isn't Sers Theoven and Giliys!"

"Molly!" you return, the prescribed grin on your face, "how's business?"

"Same as it ever was, ser, same as it ever was. But I'm sure you're not here just to see little old me. What can I do ya for?'

"A dozen oysters," you answer.

"Oh, just your luck! Kiddies brought in a bit too much last night, so I'm running a buy one, get one free sale, just for today." You look at the cart dubiously - it doesn't seem any more full than it usually is. Molly seems to follow your gaze and read your dubiousness because she then adds "Wasn't even able to wheelit all out here, that's how much they caught! So if you'd take two dozen off my hands for the price of one, I'd greatly appreciate it."

Giliys hands her two coppers before you can inquire further. "Well, if ya really need us to, I guess we can make the sacrifice." 

Molly grins and scoops the oysters into a sack without actually counting them out. "Oh, I knew I could count on you boys!" She hands Giliys a sack of what you're fairly sure is more than two dozen oysters. "Now you'll want to eat them while they're still fresh. You got any left after dinner tonight, you cook em in a stew or toss em back in the river so the kids Can catchem again, got it?"

"Loud and clear, Alive-O!" Giliys says with a jaunty salute as he takes the sack and, almost giddy with excitement, pats your shoulder. "C'mon, Thay, let's eat!"

You give Molly one last suspicious glance before giving her a courteous nod and "Have a nice day" and following Giliys.

"You know she was lying about the extra catch?"you hiss to Giliys as soon as you're out of earshot.

"No, Thay, I don't fucking know it, and even if I did, I can't fucking live on six oysters a day, so let me actually eat a full fucking meal for once," Giliys snaps. A look of regret and something else crosses his face. "Fucking shit - I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap, I just - I'm so sorry - "

"You've been going hungry," you clarify, the guilt sinking into your stomach. Of course he's been going hungry - halflings have a surprising appetite given their size, and Giliys is enormous by halfling standards. "Why didn't you say something?"

Giliys shrugs."Not like there was anything we could do about it."

"I could have gone with less!"

"Fuck no! You're underweight and healing. I'm not stealing food outta your mouth."

"You're not stealing anything if I'm offering!"

"Use whatever fancy wordplay you want, I'm not lettin' ya go hungry on my account"

"But you'll damn souls to hell on your account." The words are out before you can stop them. You're right, of course, but being right and being relevant or useful are two different things.

Giliys's face falls. He looks away. "Could we argue about this another time? We have enough food today-more than enough. We can fight over who goes hungry another time. Just - let's sit down and eat and enjoy shit for once?"

"Of course, Giliys, silly me, how could I possibly waste my time and energy on worrying that you've been starving yourself, when I could instead be looking forward to the tantalizing prospect of needing to be spoonfed again?"

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Okay. Fine. Can we wait until we've both had something to eat? Because I don't think that's helping either of our moods."

He's right. You don't like that he's right, but he's right. You've also arrived at your usual spot: a wooden bench overlooking the waterfront. "Fine," you say as you climb up on to the bench. Giliys follows after you before producing an ornate dagger from an indeterminate pocket and using it to shuck the oysters.

(You don't know where he got the dagger. If he had it before your arrived in Kintargo, he never showed it to you. You suspect you don't want to know.)

Giliys tries to offer you the first oyster, reaching towards you so you can slurp it from the half-shell. You turn your head away. "You take the first one," you insist. You can almost hear him scowl as he mutters to himself, but you also hear the sound of slurping as he eats the oyster.

"You're eating the next one," Giliys says, his mouth still full by the sound of it, and you hear the sound of his dagger working at an oyster shell. You nod - he said it with that tone that tells you he's going to fight you if you push back, and you see little point now that the point has been made.

The two of you eat mostly in silence, watching the ships go by on the river and enjoying the warm weather and sunlight. It is...pleasant. Even him having to feed you isn't so bad. In other circumstances...It might even be a pleasant -

No. You can't think like that. There can be nothing there.

Still. It's nice.

You eat your fill first. You eat the same as usual, and Giliys keeps going while you resolve that in the future he'll eat more than he's been eating. You should have realized sooner. Giliys is so much bigger than you - of course he needs more food than you do.

Eventually Giliys, pockets stuffed with oyster shells, ties off the bag of remaining oysters and approaches the riverbank. He turns back to you, a mischievous look in his eye you haven't seen in so long you don't actually know when you last saw it. "You ever skip rocks?" he asks.

"I grew up next to a river. Of course I've skipped rocks." You slightly regret the sharp reply, but if Giliys took notice of the harshness he makes no sign, instead barrelling forward, high on the energy of his first full meal in weeks.

"What's yer record?"

"Seventeen skips." You almost smile at the memory. You and your brother used to skip rocks on the Brastle river for hours. Or, rather, you would skip rocks while your brother stubbornly kept throwing rocks into the river. Lad was all raw strength and could barely manage a single skip, no matter how many times he made you explain how to do it.

Giliys grins, hefting an oyster shell in his hand. "Betcha I can beat that." He turns around and tosses the shell.

It plops into the water with a splash. You raise an eyebrow. He looks at you, slightly embarrassed. "That was a warmup. Yep, yep, a warmup. Here, eighteen skips, coming right up!" He whirls around and throws the oystershell overhand.

It disappears into the river with a slightly bigger splash.

And so begins the cycle: Gilly insists he's going to beat your record, tosses the oyster shell into the river, watches it sink without even a hint of a skip, and then he makes some excuse for why it's not his fault. After the fourth or fifth time, you hop off the bench, putting the sack of remaining oysters in your bag.

"Your technique is all wrong. Here." You walk up behind him and putyour hand on his. He draws in a sharp breath, and you pull back - you've startled him. "Sorry, I should have asked - I was going to show you how, but - "

"Uh, nah, you're good," Giliys says hurriedly. "That's, uh - yeah, you're good. What were you gonna show me?"

You close the distance and put your left hand on his. "You keep throwing over your head like this-" You guide his arm upwards, standing on your toes to reach, "which means all the momentum is going straight into the Water. You want it to just skim the top of the water, so you want to throw more sideways and then add a little wrist flick -" again, you direct his arm in the proper motion " - like that."

The shell flies. It skims across the surface of the water, skipping once, twice, thrice - before it slices through the surface into the depths of the river. 

"There you go!" you say, patting Gilly's shoulder in congratulations (ignoring the pain in your hand) as you step back from him. "It's not too bad once you know how to do it, right?"

"Uh, y-yeah," Gilly stammers. You look up to find that his face is flushed.

"Are you alright?" you ask, concerned. He's just had a better meal than he's had in some time - is it possible it was too much? Is he sick?

"Yeah, sorry, I just - uh - well, I guess I was surprised cuz, uh...well, y'know, I've never actually skipped rocks before. Kinda didn't really believe people actually did it? Kinda just figured it was some bullshit parents told their kids to keep them out of their hair until they wised up."

He's still flushed, but he seems to be back to himself now. Maybe it was just a trick of the light? You decide to let it go. "If you didn't think it was actually possible, why did you say you could beat the record you didn't believe I set?"

Gilly shrugs. "I mean, ok, I knew it was a thing people did. Just didn't really get it, right? Like when you know something but don't know it, you know?"

You do know - though you probably wouldn't phrase it that way. Nevertheless, you nod. Giliys nods back, as if reassuring himself. "Yeah, so. Uh. I'm kinda done with skipping rocks - uh, shells, I mean. Yeah. So. Ready to go?"

You're not. You're feeling more energetic now that you've eaten, but the prospect of walking all the way home still feels daunting. And the river is calming. Yes, there's the bustle and noise of the docks and the streets, but underlying all of it is the rushing water that doesn't care about any of it, traveling its destined path unbothered by those that seek to profit from it.

"Could we...perhaps...I'd like to stay for a bit, if that's alright," you say tentatively, backing up and then hopping up onto the bench. Gilly is unreadable for a moment, and then he nods before joining you on the bench.

It's nice to have this time together. You shouldn't think so, but it is. It almost feels like a good day, and you have so few of those -

You'll hate yourself for it later, but for now. It's nice.

#part 14 #pwotr pals #oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #the (completely platonic!) breakup arc

[offsidekineticist]

So Regill is handling the demon AU well.

#oc: theoven derenge #pathfinder wotr #knight-commander oc #pwotr pals #regill derenge #demon path au

[offsidekineticist]

💎💎💎 if you are still doing these! I’d love to hear Theo’s thoughts on either Lariel or Zrise 💕🥰💕

Absolutely still doing these! They're a little shorter than some of the others I've done because Theo failed his insight check for both of them (crit failed in Zrise's case), so I'm including them both.

Zrise Theoven's cheeks darken into a deeper shade as he starts scratching the back of his head. "O-oh, Zrise? Oh, he - he's - I mean, I - I mean - those eyes - and his tattoo - his hair - and those abs - Fangs shaaaaaarp." He sighs wistfully, a strange smile on his lips. "Yeeeeeeeah."

Lariel "Lariel? I worry about her, honestly. I mean...she's very kind. But...she's kind of naive? Sorry, I feel so mean saying that, but, like, she seemed surprised when Woljif ran off - like it really hurt her, like somehow she wasn't expecting that from him? And then he convinced her that she should just take him back with zero consequences? And if that's how she is with Woljif, imagine what would happen if she ever met, like, an actual manipulator, or if she had a crush on someone. I mean, it hasn't happened yet, but I really worry because she assumes that deep down, everyone is as good as she is. I guess she hasn't met many bad people yet. I just worry about what happens when she does."

#oc: theoven derenge #pathfinder wotr #knight-commander oc #pwotr pals #ask game #friends' ocs #Zrise #Lariel #Please remind Zrise #That Theo is 1/6 of a human by bodyweight #Not much blood #Please leave some for him

[offsidekineticist]

New breakup arc chapter!

CW: aftermath of torture, description of injuries, gore, monster, dark and cluttered claustrophobic space.

Brastlewark's Official Dinosaur Skeleton Day

You really hate Qweck right now.

She hasn't done anything wrong, of course, which is the problem. For once, she was a complete badass. Two people went into that room, and only one came out covered in blood and viscera to toss a signifer's mask at Thay's feet and reassure him he was safe for the first time in weeks. She was perfect, except that you had wanted to rescue Thay like a fucking white knight from a fairytale and sweep him off his feet and–

Which is fucking stupid, of course–first thing the guy says to you is "are you happy now, Gilly?" Last time you saw him he said he'd fucking kill you if he ever saw you again. But somehow you thought he'd be happy to see you? That he'd see you as his hero sweeping in to save the day? That he'd, what, apologize for treating you that way, for misjudging you somehow? Fuck no. Thay fucking hates you now. Of course it's his fucking daughter that saves the day. And you're a piece of shit for being jealous of his fucking daughter. 

Neither of them say a word to you. You're a third fucking wheel in the middle of what was supposed to be your operation. But your plan nearly got you all killed, so it's probably fair that they're ignoring you. 

The three of you make it to the top of the stairs, and Qweck opens the door. You all squint in the suddenly overwhelmingly bright light, but your eyes adjust quickly, and now, finally able to see him properly, you're struck by how terrible Thay looks. At some point they must have taken his shirt–you suspect you'll find his back covered in lashmarks–which makes it impossible to miss how thin he is. He's lost weight–a lot of weight, which is concerning because there was never much of him to begin with. You can tell from how his veins protrude from his skin that he's dehydrated. His face is gaunt, his eyes sunken in. On his right cheek you see slashed flesh that's healed oddly, like it was never treated, and has stitched itself back together as best it can into what will soon be a mess of jagged scars. You suppress a shudder at the thought of how many times screaming must have reopened those wounds. He's grown a sad, patchy, not-worthy-of-the-name beard on his chin, which explains why he was always so careful to keep himself clean shaven. 

"Giliys!" Qweck hisses, interrupting your assessment of Thay's appearance. "What now?"

"Why the fuck would I know?" You demand.

"You're the subject matter expert here!"

"Yeah, and my subject matter expertise are telling me that we're trapped in a fucking hellknight citadel with no weapons, no getaway driver, no idea how this fucking place is even laid out, so we're fucking screwed. So why don't you see if your path to perfection doesn't have a detour through a secret tunnel or some shit?" you snap.

"Shhhh!" Thay hisses, waving his hands. He struggles to get more words out, but you already hear what he hears–someone's coming. You push him down the corridor away from the sound, careful not to touch his wounds, barely able to keep from shivering because your hand is on his back with nothing between his skin and yours.

"Where are you going?!" Qweck demands, half jogging after you.

"Away from here!" You snap, and then abruptly stop, putting your arm in front of Thay to stop him. He hunches over, hands on his knees, gasping for breath–of course he does, they haven't been feeding him. "Shit," you say.

Right in front of you, the left wall of the corridor disappears, granting you full view of the training grounds–and, if you continue, granting the knights in the training grounds full view of you.

You frantically look for a solution. To the right–there's a door to your right. You try the knob. It's locked. You take out your set of lockpicks.

"Where were you hiding those?" Qweck demands.

"Shut up and keep watch!" It's a tricky lock. There's magic involved, much to your chagrin. You can break it, but that would mean using–

"Halt!" Your pursuers are finally within sight. With a primal growl, you summon hellfire and burn away the magic holding the door shut, wincing as it burns through the wrappings protecting your hands, still healing from the last time you used it. Before it can consume anything else you call back the hellfire. It settles in your chest, uncomfortably warm. 

That's the trouble with hellfire. It won't return to hell empty handed. You'll have to damn a soul before the day is out.

You ignore the questioning look Qweck gives you as you open the door. She pulls Thay's arm over her shoulder and half drags him through the door, managing to give you a side eye as she passes. Again, you ignore her as you follow and slam the door behind you.

You are almost too eager to escape your pursuers to be dismayed when you realize the door leads to another set of stairs spiraling deeper into the earth. You hear Thay desperately trying to catch his breath, see his feet stumble and skip steps, Qweck's iron grip the only thing keeping him from tumbling down the stairs. You hear the knights behind you shouting.

At the bottom of the stairs is some kind of storeroom. It reminds you of Thay's attic, but huge. Aisles of shelves turned into tunnels of clutter, so narrow that surely tallfolk weren't expected to traverse them, magical lights casting pale blue light as far as they could before the shadows cast by the clutter snuffed out the light. And the clutter itself–

Mummified body parts. Cursed looking wands. Books with covers made of tanned human faces.

"What the fuck," Qweck breathes, even her composure breaking at the miasma of cursed magic she could surely sense.

"Less horror, more hiding! And don't touch anything!" You exclaim, pushing Qweck forward. She says a quick prayer, and a mote of light appears in her left hand. You're almost able to run through the tunnels of stuff, being careful not to touch any of the obviously cursed artifacts, eventually pulling your charges into a nook made by stacks of books and crates next to a shelf where the ambient magic felt less dangerous.

"Cover the light but keep it handy in case we have to run," you whisper to Qweck. "And for the love of the gods, don't touch–"

"Qweck!" Thay interrupts excitedly with more energy than you'd expect given how much he's been gasping. You turn to see him taking something off the shelf behind you.

"Thay–no–!"

"It's the biggenlil bag!" he whispers gleefully, holding up his mother's bag. It's an old and faded canvas satchel, lovingly mended with little happy little embroidered bees and spiders and beetles. "I thought–you can't track it, see–anti-scrying charms because mother–well, mother was a monster hunter, you see, and–" he stops suddenly, looking at the stack of books you had taken shelter by. "My books! Not all of them–I mean, I think all my books are here but–so many books–new books!"

And then he opens the bag and starts pulling it upside down over a stack of books. Because half-starved, bloodied, wheezing and running for his life through a vault of extremely cursed shit, obviously Thay's top priority would be getting new books.  

Qweck starts desperately trying to convince him to stop, but your mind has begun turning. If you've stumbled across Thay's things, that means this isn't a mere vault of cursed things. You've discovered the evidence rooms of the Order of the Rack. This is where they hide the shit too scary to leave in public but too important to burn on the pyre. Like Thay's books, apparently.

Gods, these assholes' priorities are fucked.

But if the shit down here is evidence, there is probably something you could use. Something that could perform violence on the scale of killing the half dozen hellknights you can hear carefully clanking through the aisles, but that could do that without also unleashing a small apocalypse. Something that's cursed, but only a little cursed. Or maybe just enchanted, like Thay's bag.

You let some of the fire in your chest flow into your right hand–not so much that it burns, but enough that your hand glows as you ignore the pain of burning fire under your skin. You inspect the shelf behind you, reaching out with your sense of magic as you visually inspect the contents. You recognize some of it–uniforms almost certainly taken from the corpses of Reclamationists; holy weapons and armor blessed by Iomedae; letters and books of ciphers and maps. It seems that there is some sort of system to how this mess is organized after all, and the idiots think Thay's in league with those jumped up altar boys. And of course none of the fuckers they took this shit from used daggers or hand crossbows or anything you'd find fucking useful. 

You're going to have to venture farther afield, back into that cloud of cursed magic, away from the oasis of holy magic the Reclamation armor created. Pressing your lips together you turn to Qweck, still trying to convince Thay to stop gleefully collecting new books.

"Stay here. I need to check something."

"No–don't split up! That's a terrible idea!" You hear her whisper loudly as you ignore her and continue your search. Away from the Iomedaean collection, the magic is heavier, like a cloud of thick smoke. So much potent magic you don't dare touch because you don't know what it will do to you. You search for something weaker– something that might let you figure out what it is before it eats your soul.

You stop at a small crate, locked with magic. The magic is potent, the arcane equivalent of wrapping chains around a chest, but you don't sense anything inside. You reach out with your glowing right hand and let your fire burn away the arcane lock. You ignore the wrath of hell roiling inside you, demanding satisfaction, and open the crate.

It looks like a small model of a dinosaur skeleton. It barely comes up to half your height, bones and skull made of what looks like clay, hooked together with little metal wires that seem to have been baked into the clay bones. It's the kind of thing you'd expect to see on Thay's desk in the library right before he explains matter-of-factly that it is Brastlewark's Official Dinosaur Skeleton Day and that, yes, that is a real holiday celebrated in Brastlewark for the past three hours because one of his kids adores dinosaurs and another loves bones and another loves sculptures. But there is something peculiar about it. It doesn't feel magical, but it doesn't quite feel mundane, either.

It's only one you see tiny ribbons of flame trying to escape through your fingers towards the skeleton that you realize what it is. This is a golem, or the skeleton of one, currently dormant, but very hungry. When activated, it would call nearby magical artifacts to itself and use them as flesh and fuel. You're not entirely sure why someone would want a golem that indiscriminately eats any nearby magic items, but you do know that such a device activated here, in a vault of cursed magic, would be pure chaos. 

Right now you could use a little chaos.

You take the skeleton out of the crate with your left hand, careful to keep the burning hellfire of your right hand away until you're ready. You briefly think of Thay, so happy to be reunited with his mother's bag. The anti-scrying enchantments Thay had mentioned should protect it from the golem's notice and, therefore, its appetite. If it doesn't, well, hopefully it will at least buy you time to get him somewhere he can mourn its loss in safety.

You take a deep breath and then let it have the hellfire it has been trying to drink from your fingers. Fire begins to swirl in its ribs and its skull like you imagine a soul might, and the skeleton begins to move. You hear the crates around you begin to rattle, and you cut off the flow of hellfire and run.

You rush back to the nook as quickly as you can. "Run!" You shout. A swarm of holy longswords flies off the shelves above your heads, missing you only because of your small stature.

"What did you do?!" Qweck demands.

"No time, just run!" You grab both gnomes by the shoulder with either hand, pushing them down the aisle as fast as you can as the shelves and boxes begin rattling. You hear the breaking of glass and cracking of wood as crates and trunks and cases cannot contain the magic within. Enchanted stones, cursed jewelry, blessed weapons–all manner of magical items–burst from containment towards the strange skeleton you activated. You are barely able to escape from the aisle in time for the shelves to crash down as its contents explode towards the rapidly self-assembling monstrosity you've unleashed. 

The golem's reach extends outward, tremors spreading through the library and the ground itself begins to shake under the sheer force of hundreds of magical artifacts dragging themselves across the room to sate the beast's hunger. You push your gnomes under a table pressed against the wall that seems unaffected by the madness–just an old table holding some old books and a crate of mundane items–sheltering there while the creature takes shape and the knights begin to shout.

"What did you do?!" Qweck repeats, shielding Thay with her body and straining to be heard over the roar of a hundred cursed objects joining themselves into one.

"Watch!" You shout back, pointing at the scene unfolding: shelves falling, crates cracking, things breaking, hellknights screaming, and a dark figure taking shape at the center of it all. The creature roars, standing on two legs, a tail sweeping out and crashing into hellknights unfortunate enough to find themselves in its path.

"And this accomplishes what, exactly?!" Qweck demands. The golem snaps its jaws at a hellknight. Its teeth, an array of magical daggers and shortswords, punch through the knight's armor like foil as it shakes its head like a dog with a ragdoll before tossing its toy aside and snapping at another knight. This one jumps back quickly enough that the golem's teeth only slice her neck. Her body falls while the golem keeps her head.

Blood running from between its teeth and down its jaw made of amulets and jewels, the golem freezes, as if it has heard a distant sound. It stands a moment like a prairie dog tasting the wind before letting out a terrifying roar and charging, magic items still chasing it like a comet's tail. It lowers its armor-laden head and hits the wall with an earth shattering crash. The wall cracks and the rock behind it splits as the golem crashes through the earth leaving a tunnel in its wake.

You smirk at Qweck. "After you, princess."

"You want us to follow that thing?! Did you see what it did to those hellknights?"

"Would you rather stay here?"

She almost says yes, but just before she can you both hear the sound of clanking armor and concerned shouts as more hellknights rush down the stairs. She growls in frustration. "You are the worst subject matter expert!" she hisses at you as she hurries into the tunnel. You just help Thay to his feet and chuckle, still smirking–until Thay roughly brushes your grip off his shoulder.

Right. He still hates you. A cursed chaos golem won't change that.

He almost trips rushing to catch up with Qweck–rushing to get away from you. She puts an arm over his shoulder and leads him forward into the dark as he leans into her, accepting her support without a second thought.

You know you're only proving him right, but you can't help it–you really hate Qweck right now.

#oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #oc: qweck #pathfinder wotr #pwotr pals #part 8 #The (Completely Platonic!) Breakup Arc

[offsidekineticist]

(I apologize for this but I'm too curious how he'll answer) Theo - Have you ever lost someone close to you? Who was it? How did you cope with it?

This took me so long to pin down what he'd say. Putting this one under a cut for CW: "think of the children" style bigotry, dehumanization, harassment, bigotry ending a friendship

He smiles, but it is not a happy smile. "I think it might be easier to list the people close to me that I haven't lost. Almost everyone I've ever been close to I've lost. Qweck and Gilly are the exceptions for now. I should probably clarify that most of the people I've lost did not die. Most of them are still alive, they're just...out of reach.

"If I had to pick one to talk about...Cen Walfwaffle. Yes, that should be lurid enough to satisfy you. Cen was a neighbor who lived two doors down from me, originally from Iceferry. She became my best friend after Regill left. She put up with a lot - I wasn't the most stable person in those days, and I could be very selfish. She probably should have given up on me, especially once the bleaching took hold. She tried so hard to stop it, and I was just ready to let it take me, so I lashed out at her a lot. None of that ever chased her away. She was still visiting me daily when it ran its course and I was still there.

"Nobody in Brastlewark responded well to the change, and that hurt. People I'd known for years couldn't bear to look at me - and those were the polite ones. Cen was not one of the polite ones.

"I was convinced for years she would eventually come around. I hoped so - I was finally pulling myself together enough that I could love well, and after all she had done for me, I wanted to be the friend I should have been before. So I trained myself to seem normal - not just for her, mind, but...I had hoped if I could be a gnome who survived the bleaching instead of a bleachling, things might go back to how they used to be.

"The last straw was her interfering with Qweck. Cen doesn't think bleachlings have feelings, you see, so she had already tried to get me fired because she thought I would hurt or corrupt the children somehow, but she became obsessed with 'saving' Qweck from my 'emotional neglect,' despite never having so much as spoken to her before. At one point she pulled Qweck aside and told her 'Theoven has changed his mind, but you can live with me now, instead.' Fortunately Qweck has always been assertive, so she marched up to my door and, on the verge of tears, asked that she be allowed to take her favorite stuffed dinosaur. I didn't much care for reconciling with Cen anymore after that."

There's a faraway look in his eyes as he pauses. He sighs through his nose, and then, with a practiced gentleness, he continues. "I suppose the point I'm trying to make is...there are many ways to lose a loved one. They might live two doors down, but still be beyond your reach because of prejudice or circumstances or wounded feelings. The hurt from that kind of loss...it's not any less legitimate than losing someone through death. It's a different kind of hurt, but it is still a loss, and it's alright to grieve the loss, even knowing they're alive and well."

#oc: theoven derenge #pathfinder wotr #pwotr pals #ask game #thanks for the ask!

[offsidekineticist]

All those headcanon posts inspired me to write something! I find it mildly amusing that the thing that cured my writer's block was writing the (Completely Platonic!) Breakup....

CW: brief reference to slavery, implied torture/abuse, and hell is involved which is its own content warning. And implied sad Theo.

The Last Damnation

Here's the thing about your friendship with Theoven: you didn't earn it so much as steal it from him. There's a secret you've carried with you since your youth, one that would cause any decent person to hate you. So you kept it to yourself. You didn't see any reason not to when you first met Theoven–he was just someone you met in the course of your travels. But then you met him again. And again. And again. And–

You told yourself it was fine–that because you were Just Friends you didn't have to admit the truth to him. That's nonsense. Perhaps he would be willing to have a passing acquaintanceship with someone like you, but this friendship you've built? The trust that you share? No. He would never trust someone like you the way he thinks he trusts you. Never love someone like you the way he thinks he loves you. So you said nothing, hiding the truth of yourself so you could continue stealing the friendship he'd never have given you if he had known. 

You had to know it couldn't last. That one dark night he'd learn the truth, and then it would be over.

You enter his home through a second storey window on that night. You always climb through that second storey window–originally to keep your visits "subtle," but by now it's really more of a joke combined with habit–but on that night there is something different. You don't notice the line of chalk drawn on the floor beneath the windowsill, but the moment you cross that line, you feel an invisible noose tighten around your neck.

You can't breathe. You struggle against bonds that aren't there. Thay. Thay will know what to do. You need to get to Thay. You stagger towards the door. Your vision is spotty. Your legs are jelly. You collapse just out of reach of the door.

"Gilly? Oh gods, Gilly!" Theoven. He rushes past you and does something just out of sight. Your neck is released, and you cough and gag and gasp as you find yourself able to breathe again.

"Pharasma's fucking tits, what…what the fuck was that?" You choke out, pushing yourself up on your hands and knees as you gag and cough. Theoven doesn't answer. You turn to look at him and find his back turned to you as he inspects some chalk marks on the floor. "Thay?"

"Giliys," he says, slowly turning towards you, and if you couldn't tell from his tone that you were in deep shit, 'Giliys' would've told you. "Why did a holy ward targeting infernal agents nearly kill you?" 

Your heart drops. He knows. After twenty-three years, he knows. "Shit. Is that what that was?" You gasp between gulps of air, trying to buy yourself some time because you're on the cusp of a conversation that has haunted your nightmares and fears for more than two decades.

"Yes. Given the recent busyness of Thrune's lackeys, additional wards seemed prudent," Thay says as you force yourself to your feet, and you can hear beneath the usual cool dryness a tone of fear. Is he afraid of you? Or does he fear this conversation too, even ignorant as he is to what it will reveal?

The silence stretches too long. "Giliys," he repeats, "Why did my ward identify you as an agent of hell?" 

"Why do ya think?" you snap, voice hoarse, and he flinches. "It's an old agreement. Master was about to give me to his daughter as a birthday gift, and she was a sadistic bitch who said I was special. I needed out. So I did what I had to, and I got out."

He doesn't look at you with pity, which is something at least. "And what, exactly, did hell take in return for getting you out?"

"Oh, the usual," you say with forced nonchalance, as if you weren't approaching your worst secret. "My obedience in life, my eternal soul in death–standard devil shit." The declaration hangs in the air as Theoven stares at you with fear and horror and–yes, there it is, finally his pity. You can't stand it, and so you decide to fill the silence. "It's not so bad. I'm allowed to do as I please as long as I…well, let's call it 'paying rent.'"

Theoven's gaze hardens. "Giliys, that had better not mean what I think it means."

You fucked up. You had his sympathy, and then you opened your damned mouth. "Let it go, Thay," you say, barely able to keep the pleading out of your voice. "Please. You don't need to worry about this."

"All those times you came to me, bloodied and exhausted," he says suddenly, "I assumed it was from your work with the Bellflower Network. Was it? Or was I helping you to 'pay rent?'"

You rub your forehead. You could lie–but you can't. After so many years of lies, you owe him the truth. "You're assuming they're not the same thing."

And now he sees. You know he sees because his face goes from cold to livid–but also pleading. "You didn't. Giliys, tell me you didn't."

"I didn't. Not usually."

"'Not usually?!'" He repeats, his voice pitching so high he's almost squeaking. "No, no, no. The correct answer was 'of course not, Theoven, I would never even think of exploiting my position in the Bellflower Network to harvest souls for hell!'"

"Most crops got safely to Andoran, as promised. It's just every now and then–"

"They trusted you," he says, eyes wide in horror. "You promised them freedom–"

"And I fucking delivered!" You snap, because your soul may not be your own, but this work is. "Do you know how many people I've led to freedom? Hundreds. The souls I damned are nothing in comparison. Their sacrifice is why I'm allowed to keep freeing slaves."

"Don't you dare call it their sacrifice. It's not their sacrifice if they're slaughtered like sheep. You betrayed them, and gods forgive me, I helped you–"

"There's no such thing as a free lunch, ain't that how the saying goes? I free slaves. Every now and then, I need to pay for them with souls."

"Then use mine."

The demand is so unexpected–so abhorrent–that you think at first you've misheard. "The fuck did you just say to me?"

Theoven stands, fists clenched, somehow both spiteful and righteous at once even as he trembles slightly. "You need souls to pay for the slaves you free? Fine. I volunteer. Keeper knows I deserve it more than they did, complicit as I've been. Give me a few days to put my affairs in order–"

"I'm not gonna fucking damn you, you moron!" You would damn all of Golarion to something worse than hell before even thinking of doing that to him. The thought of hell getting its claws into that beautiful soul–

"Why not?" he demands, semingly angry that he won't be damned. "You were so ready to damn the others."

"Don't act like that was easy for me–you have no idea–"

"Why is mine a bridge too far? Hmm?" He asks, an almost mocking edge to his voice.

"Don't make me say it." 

"Say what, Giliys? That you didn't think of them as people? That you treated them like cattle just as much as their 'masters' did, and now that you've been asked to damn a real person–"

"How fucking dare you," you hiss, and you can't believe that's what he thinks is giving you pause. "Of course they were fucking people to me! I remember their names–I remember their dreams–I remember their fucking faces when they realized–" you cut yourself off before your voice fails you.

"Then why not me? Why not–"

"Because I'm in fucking love with you!" 

The room is silent except for the sound of your breathing. This is not how you wanted to tell him. On your worst days, when your resolve wavered, you let yourself picture it, let yourself pretend this secret didn't stand between you, and it never looked like this. It never sounded like this. He never stared at you the way he stares at you now, face so full of conflicting emotion that you can't read it until it settles into a cold, simmering rage. 

"Get out," he says, voice soft with anger.  "I don't want to see you again. I don't want to hear about you. I don't want to know you exist. If I ever see you again, if I ever hear of you working with the Bellflower Network - no, if I ever hear of you again period, I will fucking kill you, do you understand?"

You almost object–almost tell him that your work with the network is your business. But you realize, seeing Theoven's fists clenched by his side, that if you say that you will not leave this place alive, and you would like to live. So instead you nod, lips curled in a snarl.

"Yes, sir," you say, and you take your cap–the cap he made for you–and throw it at him. He doesn't flinch, even when it hits his face before falling to the floor. "Have a nice life alone with your fucking books."

He says nothing. His face reveals nothing–his expression is completely blank, and for the first time in years you cannot read him. 

You leave his house the way you came in–it is the last time you will ever see that house–and descend to the street below. You walk out of Brastlewark into the gloom of the night, and you do not look back.

#oc: theoven derenge #oc: giliys #Theoven×Giliys #pwotr pals #pathfinder wotr #The (Completely Platonic!) Breakup Arc #Part 1