Here is a snippet of what my party's favourite rogue got up to during their time imprisoned in the Dreamweaver's hivemind!
Words: 3, 251 TW: Alcohol misuse, violence, potentially distressing behaviour: unhealthy eating habits, brief mention of suicide ideation
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The cloaked rogue slumped back into the makeshift bar seat, the worn wood which once belonged to a fruit crate creaking uncomfortably upon his return.
The air was thick and warm, a nauseating blend of overcooked food, sweat, and smuggled ale pressing against his skin like sap and stuffing his lungs. Someone exclaimed from a nearby table, which was then furiously overturned a moment later. Playing cards flew in every direction like doves, and bets in the form of lacklustre trades scattered across the ground. Half a dozen patrons from neighbouring tables immediately dove from their seats, knocking over barrels and each other as they snatched up anything they could get their hands on.
A spherical rock had cracked open from the impact to reveal a cluster of crystals reminding him of salt. One half rolled toward him and fell to a stop at his boot, dull-side up. He caught a gruff-looking kobold in the corner of his eye, sprinting toward it, before their eyes darted up and caught recognition of who he was. They reared back in an instant like a mouse from a viper, snatching a glance at the latest unfortunate victim of the rogue's temper.
It was a bugbear this time; he was lucky enough to have been knocked out after attempting to pick a fight over his seating. He lay in a twisted heap between two collapsed tables and broken barrels, the only indication of life being the occasional exhale brushing against a blood-soaked beard.
Hadeon did not bother to look up as he kicked the rock back toward the creature and ignored the three desperate scavengers who immediately descended upon them.
Instead, he reached across the counter and claimed an abandoned glass from a previous patron, considering the pieces of his last one were now embedded in the side of the bugbear's face.
There were no dregs of beer to cadge this time – such things were considered a luxury here – so he pushed his glass forward to signal to the bartender once he had finished yelling at the brawling patrons to take it outside.
Yet once his attention fell to him, his battered face and swaying head, he only frowned and shook his head.
"You've had enough."
He averted his eyes as he said it.
Hadeon could have jumped the counter, and he wanted to. He could have let loose the sour words that surged toward his tongue. A thousand reactions flooded through his swirling mind, but all they did was wither.
His fingers tightened around his glass, but rather than do with it as he did before, he spoke. Slowly. Severely.
"You owe me."
"Owed you." The bartender corrected. "Not anymore."
Hadeon scowled, to which the bartender pried further.
"I can give you another," he continued with a shrug as he picked up the glass, "for a favour."
That was it. Without hesitation, Hadeon slammed his fist into the sticky counter and used it to push himself up onto his feet. It all surged into him at once, the churn in his stomach and the twisting of his vision that threatened to upturn anything he had ingested.
"Fuck you," he spat, the words dragging on his lips far longer than he would have liked.
As he found his feet, a skinny grey dog lifted his head from the ground and scampered up onto his. He briefly stopped to sniff at the unconscious bugbear's face, his lip peeling back in a small growl, before he scurried after the rogue.
Rocks stayed close, his prominent ribs brushing against Hadeon's calf with every step as they braved the crowds beyond the tent.
The hour brought the night-goers with it, and he found them far less reasonable than those who roamed their approximation of day. They were as cold and harsh as stone, desperate fish swarming in a stagnant pond who would seize any opportunity to escape before the hawk-like guards seized them instead. In many ways, this hour suited him — he was one of them, after all.
And for most in this underbelly of a makeshift city, he was one of the worst.
The eyes that would usually glare would swiftly find something else to leer at. The sharp shoulders that typically disguised a swipe to one's trades-bag suddenly found another victim to shove.
Most knew not to speak, not to haggle, not to get in his damn way.
Most.
A hand broke through the parted crowds and caught his shoulder, followed by a voice that forced a waft of sour breath in his face.
"Hey, hey," the hand pulled him back, and Hadeon saw desperate, bloodshot eyes swaying in his vision, "a favour for the dog."
He shoved it away and tried to keep moving, but the hand grabbed him again, harder this time. A body leapt in front of him, a haze of colours.
"Two favours," the voice persisted, "c'mon, help me out here."
The bloodshot eyes pointed down towards Rocks, and Hadeon overheard it try to whistle to catch his attention.
The other hand reached toward his snout so he could sniff it, but he never got the chance. Hadeon grabbed the wrist, twisted until a yell rang in his ears.
"You fucking touch that dog," he hissed, spitting as the words once again dragged on his tongue, "n' I'm gonna fucking stick your head under a waterfall 'til the guards find you!"
One hand seized, the other slapped uselessly at his arm. This body was far more drunk and far older than his. The lack of sunlight had weakened the bones, paled the skin, and filled the veins with beer. There were tears in those bloodshot eyes. The way its head nodded frantically, babbling, made Hadeon feel sick, as if he were rocking on a boat.
He shoved, and the body struck the hard stone. There was a groan of pain— red pooling between the bricks like rivers. A hand clutching at a temple, drenched in the colour.
To heal that would be another shackle.
Onlookers rushed forward, and the body was dragged off, writhing and moaning. Perhaps the removal of this obstacle might be considered a favour fulfilled, and grace them with another chain unlocked.
The smarter ones simply backed out of his way.
Hadeon, the thief, the keyholder, trudged all the way to that small door at the end of the Central Hallway.
The eladrin guarding the door lowered his head, but Hadeon paid him no mind. The sight of his frosty hair threatened to break him.
As the door opened, a hush seemed to wash over the hallway for a moment. A thousand eyes fell to him in silent envy as he displayed what held him above all others.
The ability to leave.
Countless stumble into this place, one way or another. To escape being woven, to live a life of supposed freedom, it mattered not. Within a day, they were just another anchor.
They owed it all to him, and he owed them nothing.
The magic seal within the door brushed over him like a silk curtain, and for that moment, Hadeon let it caress him. For those as lucky as him, it was as gentle as an embrace. For most, those far less fortunate, it greeted them like a brick wall.
Once the door shut behind him, the seal muted the shriek of voices, the stench, and the staring eyes.
Now, before him stood a small dark hallway. The air was damp and equally suffocating, yet lured him toward something more. Better.
The moss growing between the cracked brickwork was plentiful, squishing like a sponge as he careened against the wall. In the faewild, it seemed to glow slightly. Or perhaps he was imagining it. He took a fist of it and revelled in the sound of its roots tearing from the crevices, how it squelched between his knuckles.
Rocks pattered across the damp stone, using one paw to scrape the brick at the supposed dead end.
Hadeon could hear the trickle of water, the chill of it prick his skin. The urge to press his face to the stone crossed his mind, lick the water from the bricks just to taste something cool. Clean.
He stuffed the fistful of moss into his mouth like a toddler would do with something new, and chewed like an animal. With a diet composed of beer and bread, his stomach welcomed something remotely plant-like. He hoped to stuff it to silence, that it was enough payment to convince it not to lurch any further.
It was like grass, in a way. Gritty. Freeing little pockets of cold water from its leaves that he gulped at with reckless abandon.
In truth, he could have stood there and picked the walls clean all night.
Yet something spurred him ever onward, shushing clumsily as Rocks whimpered impatiently. He stumbled into the bricks at the end of the hallway, fumbling mindlessly until his hand pushed into a protruding stone and the wall sighed.
Pushing his weight against it, Hadeon slipped through and beneath the archway of wisterias, finally exiting into the winding tunnels of the docks. Rocks wove between his legs, his overgrown claws scratching at the ground with every step.
Just like all the nights that came before it, the pair of them moved in separate directions, yet knew exactly where to go.
They both knew the guards below the kingdom were unresponsive while the Dreamweaver rested. One could pass them without consideration and only be met with a blank stare, like that of a doll. They only had to worry about the bridges and outside the palace, where the guards remained on patrol, but Rocks' path never strayed within their view.
Hadeon didn't bother going after him anymore; he knew where he was going, and he was always waiting for him when he finally found his way back.
Whenever he tried, he always found himself at the same place. A small, humble marble home stood at the edge of the trading docks.
The first time Rocks tried to approach the firbolg they once knew as ZuZu, he was met with a kick.
Now, he didn't dare bother him when he was awake. The windows held no glass, nor was the door locked, so entering in the dead of night was easy. Whenever Hadeon peered inside where two dolls stood dormant by the fireplace, he saw the small grey dog curled up at the memory's hooves.
Rocks turned a corner, the patter of his feet echoing down the tunnel before fading to silence.
Hadeon stepped out beneath the overhang at the edge of the azure-blue water. The water rippled and shifted distantly, the shadows of fish flickering below the glowing surface.
He collapsed to his knees and craned over the edge to scoop the water into hands cupped like a spathe flower. The water glowed faintly in his filthy palms, or maybe he was simply imagining it.
All he knew was that it was cool, and it was clean. He tipped his head back with his hands clasped to his mouth, over and over, until it trickled down his neck and left him breathless.
That perfect, glass-like surface shattered as he plunged his hands into it. Splashes echoed all around him like thunder, rattling ever downward through the tunnels.
He scrubbed it into his face, into his sore eyes, up his arms—anything to wash away the scent of confinement.
He heaved for air, perhaps even sobbing.
He drank until it hurt.
Finally, he pressed his hands to his face and slowly drifted back again.
His soaked curls dripped into the silent lake, a dozen ripples widening like smoke rings until the bed of flowers submerged beneath grew warped and angry.
Hadeon dragged himself back onto his feet and very nearly toppled over the edge in the process. Part of him wondered if he would even bother trying to reach the surface if he did.
The thought of the cold blue submerging him did not scare him anymore, and the promise of a soft bed of flowers to catch him at the bottom was almost pleasant. A quiet, peaceful end to a life of noise.
Then she crossed his mind, and the thought was no more.
He continued, using the wall to steady himself.
Hadeon maintained some semblance of stealth as he ascended the stairs up to the kingdom. For a drunken mess such as himself, he moved with shocking silence and agility.
Much like Rocks, he knew his path by heart. The top of the staircase led out onto a walkway, which then eventually branched into a tall, stretching bridge. Peering over the side, it made the water he had almost sunken into appear distant and smeared, a mere shape set to cast the bluish hue across the underside of the marble architecture.
This bough of a passage was one of four, a two-mile-long endeavour in which all other bridges converged. They framed the centre of the kingdom like a diamond, a beautifully labyrinthine mess. Two secondary bridges formed a cruciform at their centres, where the very heart of this waste of space displayed a large, extravagant fountain beneath a gazebo.
They were as convoluted as they were genius, a marble-carved equivalent of an open field with no cover. To cross these during the night as he did was a matter of timing.
The guards walked in pairs in perfect, eerie unison in cycles of five minutes. On such a long, continuous trek such as this, those minutes could never pass slowly enough, but they were easily predictable. Not a breath of small talk was ever exchanged to fill the silence, nor did they ever look beyond what was directly in front of them. Once Hadeon learned to predict them, they were nothing more than window dressing.
He could easily evade one by briefly diverging his path into a tertiary bridge and ducking down against the balustrades. So long as he did not break the continuous pattern of pillars by blocking out the light peering in between, they would simply carry on.
He was sure it would be laughable.
Yet as useless as they were, the bridges were invaluable for a single reason. At each point of the diamond, they would converge into a temple of glass and marble. They were undoubtedly magnificent, the ornate glasswork and the swirling carvings which framed it nothing short of the embodiment of one's imagination. Yet that was not why Hadeon came here each night – he could have walked into it as nothing but rubble, and it would still hold the same worth to him.
So long as she was here.
Once he finally slipped past the last guards, he was rewarded by the same wondrous sight.
Eight expertly carved pillars held a grand glass dome, with marble shaped like fruit-bearing tree branches winding between each intricate panel. Similarly-designed balustrades enclosed the spaces between each pillar, built tall enough to prevent sightseers from accidentally toppling over the other side. A waterfall perfectly framed the right-most segment of the intercolumniation as though they were created in tandem with one another. It draped like a turquoise curtain, illuminating the entire temple with a rippling sapphire aureole.
The air was utterly silent save for the waterfall, but this temple housed almost one hundred people.
Hadeon scanned the dozens of motionless figures until his moss-green eyes rested on the waterfall as it always did. There, just like every night, was Viola.
He slipped expertly between the silhouettes with extreme care so as not to disturb them. Some sat despondently at metal-frame tables, and empty teacups rested in frozen fingers. Others accumulated in small groups as though in conversation.
He always found Viola by the waterfall, and she always stood alone.
And just as always, there was still that foolish hope that, maybe this time, she would wake up.
Hadeon slipped past her, another wave of pain washing over him as his eyes found her face. As he clumsily perched himself upon the balustrade, the waterfall spraying droplets across his cheek, he looked at her, her empty eyes. She did not move, she did not speak.
Before they came here, he had grown used to the way she smiled at him. The way her eyes would find him in any room, any space, and pinch ever so slightly in the corners as her face lit up. He never thought the sight of him could ever warrant an expression so lovely.
He took it for granted, in the end. She didn't smile the same way anymore. Her smile never reached her eyes.
Her eyes never found him, never saw worth in him anymore. Hadeon remembered when they used to gaze upon everything with inquisitive wonder, how her glasses minified her irises into polished gemstones. His favourite sight would be to gaze at her while she was focused on something, when the setting sun would catch perfectly against her face. That rich, warm, kind, wonderful brown would glow like crystallised amber preserving a life's worth of history, like pools of honey that made his heart throb.
Now, in the draining lustre of blue, her eyes appeared deeper, near black. Like a hollow void; devoid of soul, devoid of life.
The same went for her skin. He could reach out then and feel the warmth in her hand, see the pink in her fingertips and how it tinted her deep-brown skin like rosewood.
If he reached out now, her hand would be as cold as porcelain. The light drained her of that warmth, the countless shades of deep, pinkish browns across every part of her skin now blotched into a single-toned silhouette.
Viola's hair had been pulled into a crown braid, which wrapped around her head without a single strand out of place. It was neat, in an imprisoning way. Nothing like the free, springy coils he loved to feel brush against his knuckles when he cupped her cheek in his hand.
Hadeon brought his knees up to his chin and pressed his pounding head into them. He pulled his cloak closer for warmth, solace. What he wouldn't give to have her look at him like he meant the world, hold him like he meant even more than that.
He would never reach out and take her hand, no matter how badly he yearned to. The thought of taking something from her, even so little as a single touch, when she had not the mind to accept or reject him, turned his stomach more than alcohol ever could.
Instead, he spoke.
No more than a whisper, just barely loud enough for her pointed ears to hear beneath the waterfall.
"I-I still can't find Cyra anywhere in th-... the, um, outside," he murmured as tears finally pricked his eyes, every word stumbling and slurring from just how much he'd drunk. "I think it confirms that he's in the palace...b-but we knew that..."
This is how he survived.
Hoping that she could hear these little updates, hoping they might travel far enough to give her some shred of hope.
"Saw Hopkins a couple, um, days ago... he k- kicked me again, but I guess I get it... m' probably creepy..."
Viola stood in silence, her expression empty, her body gently swaying. Her eyes stared at the same pattern in the tiled floor, just as it did every night.
"Mm'... m' gonna get a group together... get to the tapestries..."
Perhaps she was listening. Perhaps the Dreamweaver was instead. Perhaps nobody was listening at all, and he was rambling alone.
Perhaps there was some part of her that found comfort in the waterfall. Perhaps she only stood there because it was merely an unoccupied space.
Hadeon's lip trembled as he watched water droplets accumulate on his arm. He was cold now. He wanted warmth.
"M'sorry..."
He wanted Viola.
A small sob escaped him before he even realised, but it had already pushed him over the edge. He wiped forcefully at any tear that dared to fall, his throat squeezing closed as every breath began to shudder and stutter.
As he scrubbed away another tear and gave a sniff, he saw Viola's finger twitch ever so slightly, but he was probably just imagining it.
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While I imagine there may not be many people reading this outside of my campaign, here is some context!
One of the arcs my party went through involved a self-appointed fey king known as the Dreamweaver who imprisoned (known as "weaving") the entire city and subsequently the party's consciousness in tapestries depicting their worst, eternal nightmares so he could essentially play dolls and run a kingdom with complete control. Hadeon was the only one from the party who was not woven and escaped into Saltgultch, a secret palace the previous rulers created that essentially acted like a nuclear bunker. It was discovered by those trying to escape being woven and thus became a vigilante town. The place has no currency or trade, and the inhabitants must grant one another "favours" to get anywhere. These favours can be whatever the other person decides them to be, which creates an extremely destructive cycle which is almost impossible to escape from. Unfulfilled favours will prevent someone from leaving Saltgultch due to its magic seal, so a person must be clear of debt to leave.
Context aside, I hope you enjoyed this! I apologise if it's messy or has some mistakes, I will fix them as I see them!
Thank you for reading! <3