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mareastrorum · 9 months

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WIP Wednesday: TF&TS (Luck)

Here is a scene from an early chapter of a longfic I am working on.

Fanfic Summary: Mollymauk Tealeaf survived the encounter with the Iron Shepherds, but a short time later, a spirit had begun hunting him, claiming that he stole his body. This Campaign 2 AU begins with Episode 26 and continues on from there.

This fanfic will be posted on AO3 starting hopefully by Friday 7/28.

Zadash was fucking boring.

Otis had only been in town for a month, but they were running out of things to do. Half the city was off limits because it would piss off Cree’s boss. There weren’t really any rivals against the Myriad because they had gotten that good at killing (or selling) off the competition. Breaking and entering lost the novelty after a while. No one to spy on who was interesting. The city didn’t use the Victory Pit for most of the year, and with the war, it had been abandoned completely. Zoran’s nose for underground fighting rings wasn’t any good because those losers all insisted on fair fights, and what was the fun in that?

Boring.

Shadycreek Run was fun. There was always some insane bullshit going on. An Uttolot beast got loose and wreaked havoc maybe. Brawls breaking loose for any reason anywhere. Raids between the Mardoons and the Jagentoths. Gangs imploding when it turns out one of the leaders was an Empire plant. And if it didn’t happen organically, Otis could help out a bit by loosening some locks, fucking with people’s thoughts, spreading rumors, planting some forgeries or stolen seals or whatever. But the halfling didn’t know enough about the power players in Zadash for that kind of shenanigans, and the low-risk stuff lost their appeal.

Fortunately, Tyffial had finally arrived, which meant that they could get on the road to Nicodranas. Unfortunately, Cree had to handle some bullshit because her boss might get mad at her for leaving, and Tyffial immediately found an excuse to dress up and threaten people. The women had both prohibited Otis and Zoran from tagging along, so they had to wait for however long that was going to take.

There hadn’t been much to do except tail Zoran through the Pentamarket while he picked up supplies for his new two-handed maul, hanging from his belt. The weapon was larger than Otis, grooves into the sides shaped like a grate—perfect for triggering a rite with a shallow wound on skin rather than carving in deep with spikes, plus the intimidation factor. It looked ridiculous otherwise, but most people had no reason to know why that design would be useful, so it mostly just attracted confused looks if anyone paid any mind. Maybe it could be used to shave mammoths or something. Zoran would probably refuse to test that.

But anyway, those errands were handled quickly and the two agreed to get drinks at the Song and Supper and wait at the bar after dumping their things upstairs. It was loud enough that they didn’t need to talk, so Zoran could zone out and drink, and Otis could people watch and look for ways to cause trouble. The only real concern was that someone from the Claret Orders would recognize either of them, but it wasn’t that likely after so much time had gone by. Sure, there was a chance because the Orders frequented the inn, but things always seemed to go Otis’s way when they stayed there. The halfling sure as hells never told the Tombtakers that; they were each their own flavor of superstitious, and they each judged the rest for that shit, so they all just silently tolerated it.

Hopefully, the Tombtakers could get going before dark. If not, Otis had plans for messing with the temples for the Night of Asc—

A high, raspy voice cut in, “You’re Zoran Spiritseer, aren’t you?”

“Wot’s it to you?” Zoran countered before looking. Otis looked over out of the corner of their eye: on Zoran’s other side stood a tall, muscular white dragonborn with blue eyes, wearing boring clothes and leather armor. Despite the generic appearance, there were several scars along her hands. No weird veins. Clean, sturdy armor. No Raven Queen markers like feathers or masks. No weapons, but that didn’t mean much. Either a profaned soul or a ghostslayer, then, but if she recognized Zoran and knew his clan nickname, probably the latter.

Fuck. Maybe it hadn’t been so lucky to visit this time since Zoran had made a reputation for himself at the Orders. Otis kept their mouth shut and pretended not to care. The two might have looked like they had just happened to sit next to each other.

The dragonborn sat on the stool next to Zoran. Otis could barely hear her. “Not here on business, friend, but I remembered you from a job a few years back. A friendly warning, from one hunter to another: bounties have been posted for our trade.”

“Tch, s’old news, ‘friend,’” Zoran replied with some bite. Otis stifled a snicker. The goliath hated the Orders more than the rest of them combined, so it was impressive that he was being so polite. There were maybe a handful of people he tolerated from there, and the Tombtakers were a majority of that category. Then again, Cree and Tyffial would be pissed if he started a brawl here.

“It’s been around a while, sure, but they’re still collecting,” the dragonborn replied. “Whoever it is, they’re not only after those in the… organization. Whether they’re after someone specific or just want bodies, they’re taking any victims they can find.” She leaned in, whispering, “And they know about this meeting spot.”

Oh, this was interesting. Otis rolled a copper piece in their hand, muttered an incantation, and tapped Zoran with their free hand. Another layer of voices suddenly filled Otis’s mind, mostly violent, gnashing whispers from the shadows and in-between places, but one sounding just the dragonborn.

He’s not even listening, is he? Stubborn as always.

“Ain’t worried,” Zoran scoffed, taking a drink. “But ‘ow d’ya know they’re onto this place?”

Paranoid, too. Small favors.

“A few friends went missing after their hunts, and all of them had stayed here on the way to the keep,” she answered before a pause. “We’ve stopped using this place already, but I’ve been trying to bait them, and now I saw you. Figured you could use a heads up.”

Otis saw flickers of images as if through a taller person’s eyes. People, mostly human or elven, wearing draping cloaks to cover their clothes; sitting in dark corners, watching tavern folk; walking the streets after lone mercenaries in armor; brawling in alleys, sewers, back paths, all ending quickly and in bloodshed. Then one of those groups sitting together in the Song and Supper, then on the streets, then one looking in Otis’s direction from a gate. Lastly, a party of three humans—strange black lines tattooed on their arms—talking with others and then collecting a body onto a covered cart.

The halfling pulled back out of the visions, then glanced up at the bottles on the bar. No groups of three in the reflections. No one with those tattoos. Otis resisted the temptation to touch their daggers. So, those bounties really were serious if blood hunters were getting nabbed in Empire cities. Were they evading the Crownsguard, or were the authorities in on it? Regardless, the Tombtakers needed to get a move on, then. They could handle trouble, but that sort of distraction was going to be a waste of time when they already had a chase to start.

“Sure,” Zoran eventually replied, still dismissive. “Send my thanks along to ‘em jackasses that posted you ‘ere.”

Zoran Lughead, more like. Gods.

The dragonborn growled a sigh, “Listen, I don’t care why you left or what you’re up to, but this has been happening more and more as word of the payday spreads. Whoever’s doing this, fuck them. I don’t want them getting any more of us. So, if you’re staying in town, I recommend staying elsewhere, and if you’re leaving, leave under cover of night.”

Please, just save yourself. Fuck’s sake.

“Aye, I’ll keep it in mind,” Zoran replied casually as he slapped a gold on the bar and stood up. “‘Ave a drink on me.” He shoulder-checked her as he passed and walked up the stairs without another word. She snorted, but just watched him go.

Damnit. Well, I tried.

Otis stayed behind, slowly savoring their liquor. Their hands itched to move. The dragonborn shook her head, pocketed the coin, and walked off. The halfling tracked her in the reflections of the bottles, watching her take a seat at a table with a gnome, but by then, the whispers had receded. She looked frustrated, but nothing notable otherwise. After waiting a few minutes, Otis headed upstairs and into their room.

“Wot’d you get?” Zoran asked as soon as the door was closed. The goliath sat at the table, his maul already at his side.

“Nothin’ shady from her,” Otis answered rapidly as they fetched their crossbow and started checking it over in case they’d get into a skirmish. “She was serious about it. Picked her brain, saw groups tracking blood hunters in Zadash, but they got their targets before she could stop it. One might’ve spotted her. The people collectin’ the bodies got weird tattoos with black patterns on their arms.”

Zoran growled, “Seen that markin’ a few times in the capital. Them types work for the Assembly, but fuck if I know wot they do. Never seen it in the Run?” Oh, it was exciting to think about a fight with the Assembly, but it’d be more fun once Lucien was back.

Otis shook their head, but didn’t look up. “Not like those. Gang tattoos, sure, tribes’ stuff and all that, but these ones were… fancy? Too clean. Kinda like arcane symbols.”

“Aye, that sounds like wot I saw,” Zoran grumbled. “Don’t like this business, but we’re fuckin’ off to the coast soon anyway. Maybe it’ll blow over by the time we get back.”

“Maybe hide that thing,” Otis suggested as they looked over. “If they know what blood hunters can do, they’ve got an idea of what kinda weapons to look out for.” They pointed at the hook on their crossbow.

Zoran side-eyed his maul, then grunted and fished out some cloth from his pack. By the time he wrapped it up, there was a brief rap at the door—the two of them shifting their weapons to ready positions—before it opened, Tyffial and Cree striding in.

“Well, hello to you, too,” Tyffial sassed as she walked over, placed a bundle of papers on the table, and took a seat. For whatever reason, she was still dressed like a lady, even when she moved like a fighter.

“Is something wrong?” Cree asked as she closed the door.

“Someone from the Orders warned us that bounty hunters have this place staked,” Otis answered with a grin. As annoying as it was, it was still exciting to get everyone riled up, and seeing the new frowns on those two felt good.

Oh, a mood was coming on. Good timing, yes, yes.

“Wonderful,” Tyffial sighed as she reached into her pack nearby and pulled out a few glasses and two bottles of who-knows-what.

“We should leave soon, then,” Cree added. “I must attend one last meeting for the Gentleman this evening, then pick up some supplies. After that, I am free to go.”

“Said we should leave af’er dark,” Zoran noted, looking at the bottles with suspicion. He’d made the mistake of raiding Tyffial’s stash exactly once. “Not that I trust the Orders any, but s’good advice if we’ve been spotted.”

“Tonight, then,” Cree agreed. “The sun sets early as it is.”

“I’ll make my check-in brief, in that case,” Tyffial commented as she poured three glasses from one bottle, then a fourth from the other. “It won’t take me long, less time than Cree, I suspect. I already arranged for horses on my way back, so Zoran and Otis can meet us outside the gates.” She kept the fourth for herself and nudged the others away, glancing at Zoran. “It’s whiskey for you lightweights, don’t worry.”

Zoran sneered at her, but took the glass. Otis cackled and grabbed the other two, handing one off to Cree before they knocked the whole glass back. It burned good, it did.

“Thank you,” Cree replied. “It will be good to get away from this city for a while with all this mess.” She took a sip.

Tyffial took a shot of whatever her drink was, exhaled in satisfaction, then loudly set the glass on the table. “Now that that’s all settled, let’s discuss: why the fuck do the Somnovem want us to bring Lucien back as an undead?”

Otis snickered instinctively at Tyffial’s bluntness (by the Voice, they had missed it), Cree nearly choked on her whiskey, and Zoran just barked a laugh. Leave it to the soulless bitch to stab right to the heart of the matter. Cree coughed once to catch her breath and force the drink down.

“Well?” Tyffial prodded sharply. “Why are we summoning Lucien as a ghost? We can just kill the thief ourselves. I’ve got poisons. Zoran can call in favors with his Myriad assassin buddies. Otis has…” Otis cackled, and Tyffial shook her head as she continued, “creepy bullshit. Hells, Cree, your employer has connections, too. Why are we going through the trouble?”

“Aye, don’t like this ghost bollocks,” Zoran muttered. The goliath had been in town for all of a week and his mood turned sour every time undeath came up. Cree had been getting tired of his arguments, but Tyffial had missed all that drama.

Cree sighed heavily before she answered, “The Somnovem instructed me to summon Lucien so that he could kill the thief. There was— there was little time for them to explain with the spell that I used to communicate with them. So they used that time to pass that instruction and teach me how to summon him.”

Tyffial scoffed, “He has to do it personally? When the thief has been using Lucien’s blood magic that is particularly effective against undead?”

“It is not ideal.” Cree nodded in exasperation.

“Why not ask them again, then?” Tyffial pressed. “Maybe they needed to be clearer.”

“Oh, shit, well, we’d have more potions this time, Cree,” Otis blurted out with a half-mad laugh.

Tyffial narrowed her eyes at Cree in inquiry, and even Zoran raised a brow. Oops. Apparently, Cree hadn’t told them what happened.

Cree glared at Otis (what? It was her own fault for not telling them earlier) before adding, “Without the Nonagon filtering such contact, it is… a challenge to speak to the Somnovem. Damaging. It is not something to risk lightly, especially because none of you are healers or capable of reviving me.”

“Revival?” Tyffial noted flatly. “It nearly killed you?”

“You shoulda seen it!” Otis barked. “Blood everywhere, buncha screaming, and the—” Cree clamped a hand over Otis’s face and forced their jaw shut, using the tips of her claws as emphasis. Tyffial’s face contorted to agitation. Zoran shook his head and looked down at his drink, already deciding not to bother with a fight.

“Attempting to connect to the minds of the Somnovem without the Nonagon’s blessings was foolish,” Cree said definitively. “I knew the risks, but I had to do it to understand how to bring Lucien back. I learned what I needed, and I am still here. The Somnovem are not at fault for my decisions, and I will not risk it again just because the answer was not what we wanted to hear. So the details are moot.” She gave one more glare at Otis as a warning.

The vein on Tyffial’s left temple pulsed as she set her jaw, but she nodded. Zoran nodded without looking at them because he knew damn well both women would do as they pleased. Otis was tempted to lick Cree’s hand since she hadn’t released them yet, but she was the boss for now, so that kind of sass would have to wait until Lucien was back.

“Anyway, Tyffial, you found records at the Archive?” Cree asked tiredly. She let Otis go, and the halfling bit at the air and laughed quietly. Cree rolled her eyes. Oh, this trip was going to be so fun, so fun. Tyffial nodded and quickly sorted through the pages on the table, handing off stacks to each. Zoran scowled at his pile, small as it was.

Otis flipped through their stack. It was notes about a member of the Cobalt Soul, mostly a disciplinary record. It didn’t take long to go through once Otis caught the pattern: brawls, sneaking out of the monastery, sneaking in drugs, mouthing off to superiors. It kind of reminded Otis of the trouble they and Lucien used to get into at the Orders. Good times, good times!

But there were only a few important bits. Beauregard Lionett was also a member of the Nein, permitted to travel with the group by an expositor with an indecipherable signature. Didn’t even have to check in, which would make her tough to track. She was originally from Kamordah, had decent marks for research skills, but everything else was boring. Maybe she’d visit home at some point, but there was no direct route there from Nicodranas, so it didn’t matter for now, nope. One of their sneaky sneaks, basically, supposed to be sniffing out corruption or whatever. That was a laugh, especially from the Soul. The Orders had been paying off some of their leaders to keep stuff quiet for decades, and Otis had no doubt others were doing the same.

It’s only corruption when other people do it, of course, of course!

“So, which one of ‘em’s the thief?” Zoran asked before finishing off his glass, not having looked at a single page.

“Mollymauk Tealeaf,” Cree answered, slightly bewildered as she looked over a page. Otis peeked; a list of names with notes in the margin reading “Victory Pit,” something about a carnival, and “Knights of” some gibberish. “How did he come up with a name like that? Even Lucien wouldn’t try something that inane.”

Zoran snorted and shook his head, then froze after a moment, then looked at Cree, asking, “Wot?” The goliath was not very bright, but Otis had not expected a name stump him like that.

“The thief’s name is ‘Mol-ly-mauk Tea-leaf,’” Cree repeated slowly to enunciate. “As I said, it’s ridiculous.”

Zoran turned to Tyffial, who returned a sharp smirk. They stared at each other for several seconds, then both burst into a laughing fit.

“What? Is it that amusing?” Cree asked in surprise as she looked up from her papers. Otis shared her confusion. Sure, sure, it was a silly name, but it was weird that both Zoran and Tyffial equally thought something was funny. And it didn’t seem like their type of humor either; no blood or guts or torture or poison or nothing.

“That is absolutely a name Lucien would make up, if he were the thief,” Tyffial concluded as she calmed her laugh.

“I’unno, that one’s pretty bad,” Otis chimed in. Lucien came up with all sorts of obvious cover names just to show off that he would get away with it. As far as Otis could recall, none were quite as bizarre as this one, no.

“A mollymawk is a bird,” Tyffial explained with a wry grin. “There’s a mess of a sailing story about them, but the point is that it’s bad luck to kill them. It’s good luck if you see them and let them be.”

“Aye,” Zoran agreed, still chuckling. “And ‘tealeaf’ is an insult. It means ‘thief.’”

Tyffial nodded. “So his name means, ‘It’s bad luck to kill this thief. Leave me alone.’” The two erupted into laughter again while Otis and Cree looked at each other incredulously. Cree shook her head and rubbed her eyes. She was going to get sick of this so quick if she was already tired. Maybe living in Zadash had softened her up.

“Bad luck’s not that big a deal, right, right?” Otis prodded. “Still balances in our favor between me and Lucien.”

Tyffial guffawed and shook her head. “How do you figure that?”

Otis snickered and gave a wide smile. “We’re lucky.”

#wip wednesday #critical role fanfiction #the Tombtakers #otis brunkel #zoran kluthidol #Tyffial wase #cree deeproots #Otis has that halfling luck

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mareastrorum · 1 year

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WIP Wednesday: TF&TS (Tyffial)

Here is a scene from an early chapter of a longfic I am working on.

This fanfic will be posted on AO3 starting in June or July.

Tyffial Wase was not usually the type to take her time when others were waiting on her—at least, not when it was people she liked—but circumstances warranted a more gradual exit from Nogvurot than she preferred. She gracefully resigned from her bodyguard contract, paid off a few debts earlier than needed, sold off what she would not carry, and traveled to Zadash by way of the capital so that she could hire a carriage to make up some time.

It was not unexpected that Cree followed up with a few more spells to exchange messages. Tyffial was somewhat annoyed to hear that even Zoran had beaten her to Zadash. But it could not be helped.

It had been a shame to lose Lucien to that botched ritual. Losing Jurrell only a short time later had been so much worse because of it. But if Lucien could be brought back, then so could Jurrell. They both deserved better, and Tyffial was happy to spend her time and effort to bring them that opportunity. After all, she had the time to spare, and heartless though she may be, she did play favorites.

Jurrell had been a favorite to remember: soft and rugged, wild and tame, beautiful and hideous—a mess of contradictions that seamlessly flowed into each other. She had loved to live and to take life, savoring both peace and war. She embodied nature in all its glory and saw no reason to choose between the extremes that she adored. And when she had been caught by those who hated her for it, Tyffial had been unable to save her from the executioner’s block. Unable to even retrieve the body to attempt bringing her back.

At least Jurrell had died with a smile on her face.

Even so, Cree might yet find a way. She and Tyffial had discussed such things in their letters, chasing rumors and stories about ways to bring back the lost. Fanciful daydreams, honestly, yet commiserating over such losses had helped them both to continue on.

But if Lucien was back, then the Nonagon could bring back the city of Cognouza, and then such dreams could be made into real choices. Now that was worth pursuing. If it had been someone else, Tyffial would not have entertained such a notion, but the young tiefling was a natural at making things happen and stirring up others to follow his lead.

Tyffial first met Lucien at the Claret Orders, though he had not realized how early on that had been. She was one of the few trained to brew a portion of the many poisons (and they were poisons—no matter what the Orders claimed) used in the Hunter’s Bane, and she oversaw their application in one of many phases. She had not expected him to survive due to his age.

Months later, Lucien eventually caught wind of Tyffial’s skill with alchemy, first seeking to learn a few things about it and a related blood curse, then later still offering a chance to be business partners. There were an awful lot of blood hunters in need of certain types of remedies that the Orders were unwilling to provide. The clever little shit knew how to seize an opportunity and manage risk. Inevitably, when he intended to strike out on his own, he offered Tyffial a spot on a mercenary team, so she joined alongside Jurrell. Working for honest pay—well, as honest as mercenaries ever were—had been far better than poisoning orphans every few months and watching them melt from the inside out, their blood turn to sludge, or their organs necrotize one by one.

Tyffial had a heart once, a long, long time ago. The Orders would have rotted it away if she had not ripped it out already.

The Tombtakers were a far better venture. Good money, thrilling escapades, wonderful entertainment. Not an insignificant number of times, Tyffial had played along with a ridiculous plan primarily to see if Lucien would trip onto his own face, but somehow, those schemes usually ended with the outcome he had intended and that aggravatingly smug grin, as if there had never been any doubt.

Until Lucien had died. Yet, he came back, and he would again, so there was still a chance that this would end the same way. If it did, it would be a hell of a story.

Arrogant as Lucien was, Tyffial respected his cunning. He rarely lied directly, instead weaving narratives out of half-truths and strategic omissions, then presenting them with unexpected charm for a tiefling mercenary out of Shadycreek Run. Anyone who attempted to expose him could often be dismissed as rude or needlessly hostile, at least, unless they had proof. His hunting skills often translated into social manipulations and vice versa, making him a surprising threat wherever he went. He was a quick study, ever eager to learn new skills, though patience was not his strong suit.

As a result, Lucien’s charisma had saved the Tombtakers quite a lot of hassle when dealing with Empire or Uthodurnian authorities. That was the boring kind of trouble. Getting in over their heads in Veluthil Forest or Molaesmyr was far more entertaining. There was a morbid sort of satisfaction to prowling those old haunts with a team full of budding misfits.

Of course, every now and then, a con had required a partner or the target was simply not going to be swayed by a young man with… an exotic heritage. Zoran was too much of a brute to be believable, Otis and Jurrell had been far too excitable, and Cree—a sweetheart, really—did not have such deceit in her.

So Tyffial put her background to work, acting out whichever part suited the ploy at the time, whether it was an elven noble from Bysaes Tyl, a pirate from Darktow, a traveling lady from Tal’dorei, an alchemist from the Menagerie Coast, a merchant from the Kryn Dynasty, a hermit from Issylra, a small-time wastewander from Marquet, or a roughneck bodyguard from Nogvurot.

Lucien was not even aware that those were actually true. Well, Tyffial had not really been a bodyguard during her time in Nogvurot, but the rest was true. She used to have more personae that she could whip out as needed, but after enough time, some just were not believable anymore. As far as Lucien knew, Tyffial was far closer to his age and simply had met many muses that had inspired her roles. He was not wrong either, she supposed. It just so happened that all her muses were her past selves that she killed off when it suited her. Planning how to fake her own death turned out to be a great hobby.

Tyffial was not any of those people anymore. She had been reborn many times, changing her name and voice and hair as it suited her. Currently, she had dark brown hair, seemingly black in most light, hazel eyes, and lightly tanned skin. (She had a darker complexion and lighter hair years ago, but spending so much time in the dreary north had faded her skin and her sun bleached locks had grown out.) Her more recent training as a blood hunter made it easy to change her skin and face on demand, which was lovely. But those experiences were useful all the same, and Lucien was not the type to pry into anyone’s past.

The short-lived races were so charmingly self-centered. Their pride was based in ambition and improvement. It was far more endearing than the elves, who thought their age alone was a sufficient basis for respect. The young were better: they dreamt, they changed, they challenged.

Tyffial hoped to maintain her youth forever. And as far as anyone else knew, she had.

Well… There were some exceptions, and she could not be rid of them. Yet.

Unfortunately, there were certain steps Tyffial needed to take to ensure that she disappeared when needed. It was a constant project to erase her tracks wherever she went because of the Cobalt Soul’s ridiculous need to catalog everything. Offhand references to an old name were not catastrophic, but the more records she could eliminate, the better. Illustrations and descriptions were the most troublesome. Names were far easier to shed.

So, when she arrived in Zadash to hear Cree’s story of how she summoned Lucien’s ghost (which Tyffial fully intended to dig into further, though it could wait for now) and needed to track down a mercenary band that had stolen his body, Tyffial was struck with inspiration. One of the mercenaries was a Cobalt Soul monk.

How delightful.

Tyffial’s errand would not take too long, and Cree needed some time to negotiate a prolonged absence with her employer anyway. The naive dear had intended to simply bolt once the Tombtakers had gathered, but Tyffial and Zoran insisted to the tabaxi that it was better to leave on good terms when the Myriad was involved. Thankfully, Cree had not taken much convincing when both Tyffial and the knucklehead actually agreed on something.

Once Tyffial listened to Cree and Otis describe what they knew of the mercenary band, she quickly stopped by the bathhouse to clean up, then prepared for a visit to the nearby Valley Archive of the Cobalt Soul. In a little less than an hour, Tyffial had woven the proper braids into her long hair, dressed in appropriate noble’s silks and ridiculous skirts, adorned some of her jewelry, downed one of her mutagens to modify her voice and skin—taking special care to disguise the numerous scars on her hands and face, stretch marks along each limb, and spider veins scattered about—and made her way to the Archive by a rickshaw to establish a respectable presence.

The monks at the entrance were hesitant to call on anyone for Tyffial, which was annoying, but eventually they sent word for the correct Archivist. Terrible security though. They were so lax that they had not bothered to search her skirts nor sleeves for her blades, poisons, or mutagens. So much pooled knowledge and so little common sense. Zoran could probably sneak a weapon into this place, even that ridiculous mace he commissioned.

After several minutes, a delicate looking male elf with curly blond hair walked into the foyer, stopped dead, and gaped at Tyffial. Tyffial was tall for an elf, even more so in heels, so she looked down on him from afar. She could not help but smile coyly, though she maintained the rest of her presentation.

“Good afternoon, Adon,” Tyffial crooned in a saccharine alto, putting on her best charms. “It has been quite a while since I had a chance to visit. I hope you are well. Is there somewhere we could speak privately? I would love to catch up.”

Archivist Adon Zeenoth gawked at her for several more seconds before he nodded and eked, “Y-yes, ah, this way.”

He turned and led her through the hall, ignoring the monks. Tyffial smiled demurely and followed, stepping delicately as a noblewoman should. Of course, the short steps helped to avoid noise and movement from her supplies.

After a brief walk in silence, save for the clicking of Tyffial’s heels, Adon led her to a small office on an upper floor, holding the door open for her and then swiftly closing and locking it behind them. (Judging by the path, second window from the left on the east side, third floor.) A map of Wildemount covered most of one wall, with several shelves filled with books and scrolls on each of the others, a few small windows letting in daylight from the south. The desk was more of a table, numerous tidy piles of tomes and papers covering a majority of it with a small writing space left open near a chair. It smelled of dust, ink, and decaying paper.

Quaint.

Adon nervously moved past Tyffial to his desk, though he stood at it rather than taking a seat. He pulled a journal from one of the piles and began opening a bottle of ink. Tyffial pulled out a pouch of coin and left it on the desk as she leisurely walked to the map wall. It was only right to pay for services rendered, after all.

“Ah, ahem, I suppose you came with a request in mind, ma’a—I mean, miss?” Adon asked anxiously.

“Oui, I require some information,” Tyffial answered calmly as she perused the map on the wall, amused by the monstrous depictions near Xhorhas. “I need copies of all the records you have on the ‘Mighty Nein,’ spelled N-E-I-N, Zemnian for ‘no,’” Tyffial turned to look at Adon when she heard a slight hitch in his breath and his scribbling pause at her mention of the Nein, “and each of its members, as well as a list of any organizations they are members of. I take it you know of them?”

“N-no…” Adon stuttered unconvincingly, not looking at her, then he sighed, “Yes, ah, but… yes, I know them. I can get you the information.”

“Good,” Tyffial smiled sweet as honey, turning to face him squarely while she stared him down. Judging by his cowering, there was something else, so she waited. He squirmed under her eyes—only allowing himself darting glances—and did not move, probably paralyzed by fear.

The poor dear needed motivation.

As Tyffial began walking toward him, Adon stumbled, still avoiding eye contact, “Ah, um, Miss Le—oh, m-my apologies, Miss Wase, ah— it’s just… well, th—”

Tyffial hooked her pinky into the loop of her karambit and slid it out of her sleeve, the small, curved blade spinning into place in her palm as she gripped Adon by his jaw. The weapon settled lightly against his skin just under his left eye without cutting as she forced him to look up and meet her gaze. The poison shimmering on the blade seemed to sting on contact, judging by his flinch and whimpering (too much acid; less black pudding extract in the next batch).

“We have an arrangement, young man,” Tyffial all but sang in her previous life’s silky soprano, with a sharp smile. “I expect you to abide it. Respecte tes ainés.” She released him gently, spun the weapon back into the sheath hidden in her sleeve, and returned effortlessly to a prim demeanor.

“Y-yes, of course,” Adon replied timidly as he returned to his notes, furiously jotting things down and rifling through his journals.

Tyffial watched him closely, memorizing which books he referenced, which drawers he opened, which documents he consulted. She had every intention of double-checking everything herself that evening. One did not live as long as she had by trusting those who were easily bought and intimidated.

It was too bad that Lucien was not here to observe. He might have learned a thing or two.

#TF&TS #critical role fanfiction #wip wednesday #tyffial wase #the tombtakers

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