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— [ … ] THE MOST ANXIOUS, FINELY DRESSED NECROMANCER IN THE WORLD ; independent, private, selective multi. ft. occtis tachonis + essek thelyss from critical role and briar of candlekeep, an original dnd / fantasy character. penned by hamlet ( thirty3, she / her )
CARRD / MEMES
wip:]
YOU SEE THIS DISTANT STAR — independent, private, selective multi - muse, featuring essek thelyss from critical role, campaign two. penned by hamlet ( 30+, she / her ) ©
this is a weird fucking forest, and atticora doesn't like it.
he doesn't put it that way out loud, because stating the obvious is a good way to get expositors looking at you sideways. it would sound unforgivably whiny, when he's here to keep seth safe more than the other way around. a portal is, properly, a mage's problem. his own magical abilities being so negligible, he keeps as close to seth as comfort and necessity allow.
the monsters the portal spills like sewage? those are his problem.
he gets them both out of the way of the first charge, and keeps his focus on dodging the horns and the red mist. at this size, what damage atticora could inflict with bolts or knives would only make it angrier. it sees them both as targets to follow. he tries to give it just one. a moment after atticora ducks behind a tree, he feels the impaled trunk shudder against his back.
that's when he should roll out of the way again. instead, he's thinking, if i can do that again without getting gored, maybe i can aim right at the portal, until a terrible groan of splintering wood interrupts him. he knows the danger of that sound from home. trying to run, atticora's unlucky foot catches a root. he goes down hard, the tree falling the same direction, just as fast.
until it doesn't.
the woods fall eerily silent after the tree crashes. the branches snap and leaves rattle, but eventually they settle. it seems to take a long time for the music of evening crickets and owls to grow louder than the blood in atticora's ears.
did he just see what he thought he saw?
"well," he echoes. a wince, a smile that comes out shit-eating. "my tailbone may be bruised, but my pride is intact."
so much for being the bodyguard, not the guarded. seth sinks to the ground, giving atticora plenty of leave to stay on the forest floor, too, thank you very much. but he does leverage himself up onto his elbows, regarding the little human.
(his real problem, it isn't fighting monsters any more than it's checking out magical portals. his problem is the empire, and enemies to it. especially the secret ones.)
he rubs the shaved back of his head—looking rueful, but not suspicious. not even too curious. "saved my ass with that spell. thanks."
he's relieved to hear the injuries are minor. they're still painful no doubt, and essek starts rifling through his pack on account of them. “ pfft, ” he says, with a dismissive wave, “ you had it, you had it. ” as if the only thing he has to be concerned about is assuring atticora he'd done well. “ um . . . here. ” he offers him a purple, velvet pouch. there's seemingly no opening, and it holds something inside that feels firm yet gelatinous. “ for your bruises, if you want. if you squeeze it, it'll go cold. ”
he leans back, then starts looking through his pack again as he speaks. maybe he can tempt atticora to some lunch. “ anyway, like i was saying, this looks like fey magic. probably unseelie. and the timing of the monsters feels really random. like, seemingly purposeless. either this is a grand scheme beyond my machinations, or it's exactly what it looks like — the makers are getting rid of problems as they encounter them by dumping them on us. ”
essek winces. “ ooh. they're in for a nasty surprise. ” aka, the angry return of one two-headed bull.
Haven’t watched Projekt Funball (planning to tomorrow on Beacon!) but I hope Essek got a chance to cling and bawl after all the commotions died down
@proelio-procusi sent : “ just tell me what happened. ”
he was as still as a startled deer, save for the tremor in his body. this was hell. he'd made it to the hells. this was the nightmare scenario.
his father and he were attending a ball held by weylyn's father. tristan had been paired with another visiting noble — a princess who his father likely wanted him to forge a connection with for a future alliance. tristan had fumbled through his words, and at one part of the dance, stumbled into her. she seemed to find it funny. his father had promptly taken him by the wrist to a secluded area. the quiet, harsh words cut into him like a serrated blade.
afterwards, tristan had retreated to the first empty room he could find. he didn't make it to the waste basket, and was sick on the floor instead. gods. gods. he can do a cantrip. he'd just learned it. he can clean this up. but his hands were shaking, and none of his attempts were successful. he had to find a mop. he didn't want to make the servants deal with this. but when tristan went to open the door, there was the crown prince.
“ n- n- n- ” he started, “ s- s- s- ” he took a breath. his stuttering was always at its worst in times like these. there was nothing for it but the truth. “ i m- m- made a mess. i'm s- s- so sorry. i was looking for a m- m- mop. ”
that's- he's really good. very good.
considering that the kid had looked like he was hiding, cameron finds that particular caveat less than reassuring. though he sizes up the owl, he does so with no less bemusement than before — and with no less distrust than the creature stares back at him with. what is one supposed to do when presented an owl? a dog one might scratch behind the ears. but an owl?
it feels stupid to nod to the thing, and rude not to acknowledge it, and in the mix of such contradictory impulses cameron's left with no choice but to pick up a tool as if suddenly remembering a time-sensitive task left too long. anything for an excuse to look away first from that unblinking gaze.
❛ if not hiding, you mind telling me what you were doing crouched down behind that table? because it sure looked like hiding. ❜ something strikes him in the phrase called on, something that makes the boy, for all his royal blood, seem no more than a subject in his family's own hold.
tristan sees the other's discomfort and lowers his arm. he's messed this up. teacup's usually a winner. except with his father, of course. “ i . . . a- apologies. i was hiding, b- but- he didn't see me. i- i think we should be alright now, if he comes this way. ”
not content with her changed seat, teacup flaps her wings and takes flight. she perches on whatever surface she can find that's both close to cameron and above him. now, she can look down on her suspect.
“ i'm s- s- sorry. we can leave, if you don't feel safe, ” he says. “ i'd- ” haphazardly, he tries for the courtly charm, smiling. “ well. we're making a t- terrible impression on you, aren't we? ”
Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in The Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. 3. (1923-1927)
comfortable. for a moment, she forgets the limitations of her current physical form, and the laughter that bubbles up through her throat resembles more the screech of some eldritch creature than the bitter irony of a person. fittingly enough, she supposes, though the sound catches her enough off guard, horrifies her enough, to shock her back into silence.
and it strikes her, then, that perhaps it is not her comfort alone that ought to be considered. she can be here only sparingly, he has warned. even sparingly, her presence can be nothing but unsettling at best and... she hesitates to add the at worst. a sigh sounds heavy in his mind, and she gestures to communicate permission, but not instruction, to continue. what is it to her, anyways? she considers, but does not ask, whether he expects his efforts to maintain, to hold when inevitably she fades and he summons her once more back from that brink of oblivion.
she has always known more patience than she feels now, though she had never properly appreciated the finite nature of time. lessons learned too late.
she would rather think of anything but the damage he seeks to conceal ( for she does not fool herself that it is more than superficial — perhaps one day, but not yet, and even this she dares not truly hope ). and if there is nothing to do but to sit... she eyes him, instead, considering his demeanor, considering the place that prompted him ( that allowed him? she wonders ) to call her into undeath. ❛ and what of you? ❜
he feels a little drop in his stomach at the laugh. how old is gaya? she feels older than him — a weary soul indulging the childish hopes of a young man. at the permission, occtis continues to sew. is this pointless? his senses are dulled, but he can still feel discomfort. what's more, it hurts his mental health when he feels like his body is coming apart. maintenance helps him, he'd thought it might help her. but maybe she'd been dead for too long. maybe she feels nothing at all.
there's a moment of confusion at the question. “ uh . . . i'm going to . . . i was going to fix my arm later, ” he says. an idea occurs to him. he's not sure if it'll help, but he's too tired for complex thought. he just knows the idea feels right. “ but . . . ” occtis undoes the top buttons of his shirt — not deep enough to betray modesty, but just exposing the top of the silvery closing in his chest. “ i've worked on myself before. th- thaisha's helped. ”
i'm like you. we're the same.
nothing like a near death experience to get me attached to a character
for many years, caleb has had one goal, and has told himself that all his other pursuits circled it—even when he knew, underneath, that they were the signs of new growth. tree rings grown around the rotten core of his selfishness.
his anxiety has driven out his appetite, though perhaps anxiety is not the term. a goal is a cannot-eat, cannot-sleep kind of affliction. even from his first cantrip, he used to lie awake at nights, conjuring the same lick of flame over and over. is his goal the same as it was? the plan is sound. he's as sure of that as he can be. his mouth hasn't stopped silently shaping the words in his leatherbound journal since he threw up the dome and settled in, deep in his coat.
but at essek's offer, he finally glances up.
"i see. then i suppose i had better not wait around to receive another."
the dome keeps a heat steadier than any campfire, but caleb has not stripped off his fingerless gloves. his hand as he meets essek's lightly is dry and warm.
he smiles, but with a twist of curiosity (surely that, he hopes, more than narrow-eyed suspicion).
"are you scheming to put me out of a job?" he asks mildly, after another long lapse from speech. he points from one of them to the other. there is still a dab of purple cream on his fingertip. "i thought, ehm, i was the worrier."
he's sure nothing shows on his face when their hands brush, but he finds himself trying to repress the flutter in his heart as well. it's a feeling he doesn't deserve, just like the taste of the pastry on his tongue. he chuckles. “ oh, i have you bested there, i'm afraid, ” essek says, “ by about thirty-seven years at least. ”
caleb has a good memory, and essek knows it's likely he'll note the reveal. essek had lied when he'd told the nein he was one hundred and twenty. the deception had come automatically at the time, and it'd been remarkably foolish. the dens may judge him for his youth, but for the nein, seventy would've still been an impressive number.
his pulse accelerates, unsure how his next words will be received. there's no way to bring this up without looking hypocritical. but this isn't about judgement, it's about protecting caleb widogast.
“ i was just wondering if we are . . . only here for discovery? ” he asks, lightly.
"I now know that I can be healed, but only to the exact point where I died. So this... stays this way, but the damage I did to myself just now, you fixed, which is great." "So you'll always have a hole?" "Apparently." CRITICAL ROLE · CAMPAIGN 4 — EP12 “The Giant's Belt” +
about occtis : before he died, occtis put his hand on ethrand's arm — not even trying to stop him, just seeking comfort in that awful moment. ethrand ripped his hand off with a disdainful look.
occtis
“Kind…” Julien was actually grinning at him with a sharp glint of delight in his eyes. “Kind?” He repeated, then threw his head back laughing so hard he had to cover his face to keep from causing a scene. He wasn’t sure if it was as funny as all that, perhaps it was just he couldn’t remember actually laughing in days, or weeks. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had laughed without bitterness. “You truly are hopeless, it’s almost adorable,” he finally said, trying to compose himself as he wiped tears from his eyes. “That girl was flirting with you, Occtis.”
He snorted again, still smiling as he distractedly took another bite from the food, temporarily caught off guard by the unexpected flavor blooming in his mouth.
“Oh?” he raised his eyebrows, “Are you telling me you could do this all along? I don’t know if I’m mad or impressed…”
occtis looked mystified at the laugh before giving a mild huff at the hopeless comment. julien was messing with him again. his eyebrows raised at the reveal, and he'd blush if he could. really? the thought was flattering, if intimidating. she was pretty, and nice too. but he didn't know her, and thus, he knew he wasn't going to approach her.
his attention went back to julien, and a subtle pride lit his face. he'd done something right! not only that, but with julien — a rare occurrence. “ y- yeah, i guess i . . . didn't really think of it before, ” occtis said, “ there was always something going on. ”
like beer slipping through the cracks in his chest.
“ you don't really think she was flirting, do you? ” he said, while checking to see if she was watching. his tone made it clear this would be a bad thing. what if she had been, and had seen him give her gift to julien? he hadn't meant to hurt her feelings.
