Erik – he was going by Erik again these days – didn’t believe in doing things half-heartedly. If he did, he wouldn’t have built his and Creste’s cabin by hand out on the thawing planes of the Dale’s tundra. Now that the seasons were back in place, he was reminded of it every spring: the cabin’s perfect positioning up on its little hill, the way it faced the woods and the distant mountains of the Spine, the stream carving its way along the flatland nearby… The moment the ground unfroze it would be time to start planting again, and that would get done in time, for certain.
But first, Erik had something else in mind.
He called a halt to the dogs pulling the sledge as they neared the house. Just close enough that he could start unloading the logs himself. They’d need to be split. Then cut. Then refined. Then sanded down into useable planks before he could start using them to add another room onto the cabin. It was a lot of work, but nothing he couldn’t do. A little side project to keep him busy between the other chores...and to work off that pudge he always managed to develop over the winter.
Though Creste liked his pudge.
Creste was at the kitchen window, working on lunch no doubt, and at the perfect angle to see him when Erik pulled up.
He frowned at the sight of the logs.
“Does a portion of the house need repair?” he asked, calling through the open window. It was midday, so the air had a crisp chill to it rather than a blistering cold. The perfect temperature for working in, then snuggling later next to a fire.
“Nope,” said Erik, unable to contain a hint of a smirk peeking through.
Creste frowned.
“Extension,” Erik explained, patting Zeus’ head at the front of the dogline when he nuzzled into his hand.
Of course with Creste an obvious explanation was not always that.
“Got that letter from Dagger,” he said. “He and Hengar wanna come visit end of summer. Said they had a surprise for us.”
“Yes,” said Creste, still flat and confused. “A surprise that, quite clearly, is not meant to be revealed until their arrival.”
“I know what it is.”
“You do?”
“Yep.”
Creste waited, perfectly patient, for Erik to explain how he had suddenly developed powers of clairvoyance. Which...he didn’t...but his smirk grew wider, barely able to contain his growing sense of knowing excitement.
“We’re gonna need more beds.”
“More...beds?”
Erik nodded, and held up his hands a few feet apart. “Little ones.”
It still took Creste a moment.
“Oh. Ohhh…”
His bewilderment was adorable. Erik laughed, full and hearty, and unloaded the rest of the logs with renewed energy.
He couldn’t wait.
OC-tober, Day 10: The Quiet One
Move in the shadows.
Let the silence swallow your sound.
They can’t hit you if they can’t see you.
They can’t stop you if they don’t hear you coming.
Words Kodou lived by. Tenets that had been drilled into his head since he was old enough to hold a bow. Not just words to live by, but words to keep on living by. Ever since his training had begun, Kodou knew what the drow meant for him to do. What role he would take up in their society. They were hardly secretive about it, and if it made him valuable...allowed him to survive...then there seemed little other choice in the matter.
Especially since young males in Menzoberranzan didn’t know any other way.
Stealthing through the shadows. Attacking quick, and fast, then darting to a new position. Never letting the enemy know where you were. Never getting pinned down. Ambush. Assassinate. Hit and run. That was life. That was purpose. That was survival.
Living in the darkness wasn’t just a way of life for the drow...it was life. Darkness was everything. Most other races – especially those on the surface – feared the dark, and for good reason. But when one trained with the drow, darkness became something else. It was safety. It was shelter. Concealment was the best way to survive in the Underdark. Sometimes the only way. And even though Kodou couldn’t see as well as a full-blooded drow could in the absolute black, he compensated for it in other ways.
Being able to bear bright light, for one thing.
But it wasn’t just the darkness that meant his survival. It was also the quiet. Make no noise to draw attention to himself. Voice no words of argument or protest. Those things meant punishment. Those things meant pain. A threat to survival.
He learned that even quicker than he learned the bow.
Dassian reclined in their chair. Resting easy, legs crossed, draped in the lightweight, colorful silks that were their preferred lounging attire. The room was dark, but they didn’t need much light to see. What spilled in through the tall stained glass windows from the ambient glow outside was plenty, highlighting the various shapes and textures that moved about the room.
The one advantage of being headmaster of the conjuration tower in Halcyon...you never, ever had to worry about being alone.
Dassian sipped a cup of sweet wine in one hand. Extending their other, a feathered serpent alighted upon their wrist, curling its body around the length of their arm before coming to a gentle rest. Dassian smiled and petted it, casting their eyes over the rest of their entourage: rumbling manticores, simmering elementals, scuttling imps, watchful homunculi. The headmaster’s private chambers resembled a petshop more often than not – not a zoo, none of these beautiful creatures were ever allowed to be caged – and Dassian was fine with that. Who needed mortal company when creatures from other planes were so much more delightful?
And beautiful.
And sensible.
More enjoyable in every way, really.
It also dissuaded all but the most determined of students from coming to bother them after-hours. Which saved oh so much time and energy. Why spend all that time and effort on crafting warding circles and magical traps around your office when a few well-trained hellhounds would do just as nicely? A glance (or three) from them would send most first years running. Those who didn’t...well, those would be the students truly worth Dassian’s time.
Dassian broke off a bit of sweet cake and let the feathered serpent lick it from their palm. The creature made a pleasant trilling sound: a noise that layered in so nicely with the rest of the room’s ambience. Purrs. Chirps. Now and then a yawn or snip of birdsong. Dassian sighed, and basked in it.
Yes. There was no doubt.
Beasts from all the planes over were so much more preferable to people.
OC-tober, Day 8: The Mechanic
Juri hummed as he worked, half disappeared under the guts of a tank-like vehicle.
“Moon shining down through the palms,
Shadows moving on the sand…”
The music playing came from a record player set up on the bench in his workshop. (Well, it was really the whole settlement’s workshop, but he spent the most time in here, so it wasn’t wrong to think of it as his.) The player had been broken when he’d gotten it, but he fixed it up just fine. Same as when he fixed everything up. The music that played now had a bit of scratch to it, but he liked that. He didn’t trust things that were too clean. Too new. They didn’t feel real.
“Freeways flickering, cell phones chiming a tune,
We’re riding to Utopia, roadmap says—”
He kept humming a few beats after the music abruptly stopped. It took him a moment to notice. He’d twisted around on his rolling board, reaching for a tool that was just a little too far away for his arm. It slid toward his hand anyway with minimal effort, landing neatly into his glove.
Then he stopped, blinked, and pushed up his work goggles as he slid out from under the vehicle.
Borus was there, holding a large metal pipe and looking...well...not happy.
Juri gulped, and froze where he sat up, instantly on edge. This wasn’t good.
“Rigg,” Borus sighed, nodding to him.
Rigg. What people around here called him. A play on his name. Juri Rigg, haha.
“O-Oh. Hey boss. What’s hap—”
“I know,” said Borus, ever one to get right to the point. “I know about you and Rosie.”
Juri’s blood went cold. He started eying that pipe again. Weighing it against the distance to the gently flapping entryway to the workshop. He could maybe make it, if he sprinted. But where would he go after that?
“I want you out.”
“But—!” Juri’s eyes went wide, snapping back to Borus. “Boss! It’s wasteland out there! Where am I gonna—”
“Don’t care. You’re the best mechanic this place has ever seen, and we were good friends. That’s why I’m letting you go. Can’t take to someone messing around with my girl. People will start to talk.” To his credit, Borus turned away, shouldering the pipe as he went. He didn’t look back. “You’ve got one hour. After that...”
He didn’t have to finish. The moment he was gone, Juri was up and collecting his things. It wasn’t a hard choice, exactly. Especially when it had already been made for him. Certain – and very public – death here, so Borus could keep his reputation and people in line. (It wouldn’t be fast, either. Borus would have to make an example of him.) Or only maybe most likely certain death out in the wastes.
Guess he’d have to take the wastes.
He couldn’t take the record player with him. It was too big. Too heavy. But the song remained, playing in his head as he ducked out through the plastic flaps of the entryway, settling his goggles back into place to face the harsh, blistering sands that blew on a cold wind outside the settlement.
Sune was beauty. Sune was loveliness. Everyone knew that. Those that knew her even better knew that the loveliness she cherished most was more than skin deep. Sune prized beauty in all things: inward, outward...whether it was the one physical feature a person was most proud to possess, or the inner beauty that was identity. One’s sense of personal security. An ironclad self esteem. There was always room for improvement in a person, no matter what, and that was truly what Sune embodied. What she epitomized. Because no amount of outer beauty could compensate for a truly cruel or hateful inner self.
Ilmater knew this, and he knew it well.
Which was why he made his pilgrimage every year to her shrine at the border of the Great Golden Wood, where the veil to the Feywild was thin...so thin it frequently bled over into the Material Plane, causing a mix in the scenery and landscape between the two. Rather than to its detriment, these differences seemed to only highlight the strengths of each, combining them into a greater and even more unique whole. The end result was a singular beauty there that couldn’t be found anywhere else in either realm. That’s why it was his favorite.
He could have journeyed there in an instant, of course. The roads of godspeed were immaterial. But that wasn’t his way. A journey made easily didn’t mean as much as one traveled with great effort: how you arrived was the greater part of it. So for this pilgrimage especially he walked, much like a man, clad in threadbare rags. His sandals falling apart. Leading a dirty white donkey by a rope beside him. His bent and stooped posture and many visible wounds led most he passed to assume he was some kind of leper, and gave him a wide berth.
That was fine. He didn’t bear them any ill.
It made those who stopped to offer him water or aid all the more special.
He never begged, but accepted what the generous gave, whispering his blessings upon them in return as they parted. Sometimes it was difficult to dissuade the persistent: no, they could never fully heal his wounds, no matter how they tried. One may as well try to heal the suffering of the entire world, from the smallest of gnomish slaves worked to death in a mine, to the greatest of rulers bearing the weight of anxiety and distress for their people. It would never fully go away. But that they tried made him smile.
Eventually, he made it to Sune’s shrine. As he always did, trailing footsteps pockmarked with drops of blood shed along the way. It hurt – it always hurt – but he climbed the slope to the greatest of her golden statues, straightening his bent-backed posture just so he could look up to her face. The smooth-carved perfection of the effigy paled in comparison to her true radiance, but then...it wasn’t an everyday matter to capture the face of absolute love.
Grunting, pausing a moment to cough into his hand, Ilmater lay down the gift he’d brought: a small bouquet of tiny white flowers. Unimposing. Unimpressive. No different than the thousands he’d passed growing on the roadside during his journey here. They were bent and uneven and some had begun to wilt. But they were his favorite. They were common enough to be easily found, and could be made into a reliable medicine.
He lay the offering at her feet, and then leaned down – with great effort and strain – to kneel before her image, closing his eyes as he gently kissed the ground upon which her statue had been built.
OC-tober, Day 6: The Evil One
Kivuli grabbed the man by his collar and shoved him into the alleyway, up against the wall and out of sight of the main road.
“Hey!” the man, a human, struggled, but Kivuli moved just a little too fast for him. Was just a little bit stronger.
“Hey nothing,” he snapped, indicating the badge on his chest. “Do you know what this is?”
The human’s eyes landed upon it, and his protests eased somewhat, though the tension remained in his stance. The way he caught his breath.
“You’re city watch,” he grumbled. Reluctant surrender.
“Damn straight. Now you’re gonna answer a few questions for me. Starting with what you and your friends were looking for in that warehouse.”
“Fuck you.”
“Aww. Don’t be like that. After all...” Kivuli’s smirk was a slash of white grin in the night, and he grabbed the human’s chin to force his face towards him. Locking their eyes. A press of power into the human’s mind. A stab of sharp teeth in Kivuli’s mouth when he did it. (That always happened when he did this.) “There’s no reason not to tell me.”
The human’s resistance promptly melted. His shoulders went slack. He leaned back against the wall, no more alarmed than if he was chatting with an old friend.
“Now, go on,” Kivuli prompted, drawing a tongue over his teeth. He loved watching the charm spell take effect. Loved watching the confusion on their face in that moment before everything seemed to make sense again. When they looked back to him for what he was: the one in charge.
And the human told him everything. It was easy. When he was done, Kivuli nodded, satisfied. His report would impress the squad captain – how did he do it, they all wondered back at the watch house – and he drew a knife from his belt, angling it juuuuuuuuuuuuust right before he gashed open the human’s throat.
There was a bit of a struggle then as the magic broke, but nothing he couldn’t handle. Nobody would miss this lowlife. Why not grab a snack? Once he’d gorged his fill he’d stick the knife in him a few more times then dump the body in the harbor. Just another dockside deal gone bad.
Kivuli wasn’t stupid enough to bite his meals directly. That would be too obvious. The last thing the city needed to know was there was a vampire prowling around, let alone one wearing a badge.
He whistled to himself as he strolled away, back into the night, licking blood off the tips of his fingers.
Arelan watched the group at the table below him. The group that had no idea he was there. It was late enough in the tavern that most had cleared out, offering them what they felt was enough privacy to unroll their maps and discuss their plans. None of them bothered to glance upward, into the thick shadows that hid the rafters. Then again, he hadn’t given them any reason to.
Little flock of quail, he thought, almost pitying, toying with a single arrow shaft between his fingers as he watched them. None of them had any idea how exposed they really were.
“I”m just saying,” one of them was currently growling, pointing at the map laid out across the table, “the quickest path anywhere is a straight line. There’s no border patrol. No barriers. Why can’t we just walk on in?”
That one was large. Armored. Carried an enormous weapon on his back. Probably used to solving his problems with brute force.
When all you have is an axe, every problem looks like a tree, Arelan thought.
Another one wearing robes and carrying a staff and looking slightly more capable of subtlety put a hand on the first one’s shoulder, offering a reassuring pat.
“It’s not always as easy as that,” she said. “Barriers aren’t always visible. Nor are guards. We shouldn’t announce our entrance so brazenly.”
“Who are we gonna offend?” the first one grunted. “A bunch of trees?”
“We’re gonna offend someone before we leave, that’s for sure,” said a third. The smallest. Carrying a bandolier of knives and a habit of pocketing the tavern’s best silver. “There’s treasure in there, and it’s going to be ours. One way or another.” That one grinned and rubbed their hands together.
The robed one rolled her eyes.
“While I’m sure you’re correct, this is the biggest job we’ve had to date,” she said, grasping for patience. “It would be best for all of us if we don’t screw this up massively and right away?”
Before the others could retort, Arelan shot an arrow down into the map, striking precisely the spot they were arguing over. Curses flew and weapons were drawn as the three of them jerked back, attention finally drawn into the rafters. Probably wondering exactly how long he’d been there eavesdropping.
The mage cast a light to illuminate the shadows. All they saw revealed was a half-masked face, and two sharp, focused eyes that made no effort to hide the truth: that shot didn’t have to miss.
“None of you have been to the Feywild before, have you,” he said in a low voice. It wasn’t really a question, and he didn’t wait for an answer. “You won’t last a day. But I can show you where you want to go. For a price.”
That, at least, made them stop. And think.
OC-tober, Day 4: The Grump
Samael Lightbringer lay on the cool grass of the forest floor, one hand pillowed behind his head. The other brought a cigarette to and from his lips as he idly smoked, listening to the distant sounds of Myrdin and Miss Ebra attempting to bathe in the river. He had less than zero desire to join them in that particular endeavor, and – judging by the loud exclamations they made about how cold the water was – it seemed the right call.
He watched the sky instead. Watched the clouds drifting. Watched the last few leaves cling to mostly bare branches in the gentle wind. Watched that same wind carry away his smoke as he exhaled, taking in the minute details of it all.
It was getting into autumn in this part of the world. The trees ran rampant and wild in their colors. The breeze had a cold crispness to its edge that hinted the approach of winter not far behind. The forest surrounding them seemed calm. Content, for the most part. Busying itself and its occupants with all the preparations that need be made for the cold months.
This time of year always made him think about falling.
Why was it the nature of things to only ever fall?
Everything on the Material Plane fell. Stars from space. Rain from clouds. Leaves from trees. Living things fell to become grass and dirt when they died. Any given civilization eventually collapsed on a long enough timeline to make way for the next.
Souls could fall, too. Angels became mortals. Mortals became devils. Even gods couldn’t forever stand against the inevitable march of time.
You never heard about it the other way around.
Oh, for certain, a few individuals tried. Every Sundering or so, a mortal got it into their head to ascend to godhood. Some runaway lich or overly ambitious wizard. But how often did they succeed? And even if they did, were they still the same as the rest of the gods born naturally from raw, utter creation?
Sam didn’t think so. They would always be...somehow...lesser.
Because that was the nature of things.
Things could only fall.
Just like it was his habit to fall into these contemplations until Myrdin and Ebra’s antics eventually spilled over the riverbank and dragged him into it.
Some things were just inherently and forever true.
Wanted to do something for OC-tober anyway, and since still weathering the after-effects of Helene, it just made sense.
Original prompt list not mine. Found it on the internet.
Combining days 1 and 2 because limited internet access...
OC-tober, Day 1: The Caretaker
Kayen swept his gaze from one side of the valley to the other. The heat from the volcano made it difficult to see. He had to squint against the smoke, holding up one arm to shield his eyes from the wind. The ash and black clouds spewing into the sky blocked out all light, save for the dull red glow of the magma creeping steadily down the mountain slope. Right towards the outer wall of the city.
He didn’t have much time. The eruption’s flow would eat right through those walls. Through the buildings beyond. Through each and every single person who was still there. There hadn’t been any warning. No time to evacuate.
His eyes darted, thinking fast.
There was a river that flowed through the valley. By itself it wasn’t enough to block the flow, but it might slow it down. He could divert it, but he would need more than just water. There had to be something else. Something else he could throw at the lava to quell its voracious hunger.
The only other things he saw that wouldn’t immediately give way to the heat were other mountains.
...welp.
This was going to royally hurt.
Without taking his eyes from the sight of the magma snaking its way across the blackened landscape like some kind of primal fire serpent, Kayen shoved a hand into his pouch and felt around until he pulled out a single feather. A long one. White and gold banded. Dark brown at the tip.
He shoved it into his mouth, biting down to break the spine and muscling his way past the awkward sensation of the thing until he swallowed it. He felt the magic pool immediately at his back, grabbing onto the railing of the balcony to hold on and brace himself as the change took place.
He’d half to knock down one of the mountains, and somehow combine that with the river’s flow to pile up a barrier strong – and big – enough to stop the lava flow. Or at least redirect it.
He clenched his eyes shut tight and grunted through the small rip of pain as two massive wings burst from his back. He stretched them out high, then flapped once...twice...to get a feel for them.
“If I live through this,” he said, huffing a laugh to no one but himself, “it’s going to make an amazing story.”
He shot off like a golden arrow towards one of the mountains bordering the valley – the one nearest the volcano – gathering what momentum and power he needed along the way to cause the first of what would probably be many avalanches.
OC-tober, Day 2: The Crazy One
Bare feet run through the forest. Crunching. Stick-breaking. Moss-slipping. For a while hooves. Then feet. Then hooves. Then feet again. Frost-bitten. Rock-cut. Mud-stained.
Fear chases behind like cold winter’s breath: prickling, piercing, pursuing. Always pursuing. Now and then he stops. Freezes still. If he can move his ears, he stops in the open, turning them this way and that. North. South. Southeast. Back to north. He listens intently for That Which Chases, snorting breaths of hot steam into the air. Sometimes he hears the forest: small animals creeping, scurrying, hiding. Tiny claws making homes of the trees. The trees themselves whispering conspiracies and gossip among each other.
Sometimes he hears nothing.
Especially in winter, when the snow and cold eat all sound up as greedily as a fire would fallen leaves.
If he can’t move his ears, then he hides behind a tree, gripping the rough bark with cold-numbed fingers. Trying so hard to hold his breath as he peeks around it, eyes wide and darting all directions at once.
Like a rabbit. Run run run run. Runrunrunrunrunrun. Always run. Always be tense. Always be ready.
There! A sound.
It’s nothing. A dead twig snapping from the passage of a squirrel. But it sets his heart sprinting again, and with a yelp he bolts away. Barefoot through the woods. Then hooves. Then antlers. Then a single, high scream through the still tops of the trees. It carries across the water of the lake. Disturbs a flock of resting loons.
Something scratches his flank. Maybe claws. Maybe a bramble. He doesn’t turn to look. He screams again. Sometimes that makes the Thing go away.
He can’t go directly back to his tower. Then he would know…
Then HE would know…
He has to run. Has to hide.
He has to wait for THEM to arrive. Run. Run. Runrunrunrunrunrun. Always run. And wait.
Wait for the Anvil...wait for the Lost Cub…wait for the Chalice That Caught The Forgotten Blood...
Ummm I tag. I tag @castillon02 and @windsweptinred and @dsudis and @fangedprinx and @lamburrito and @binomech, no pressure at all and also tag urself in and say it was me if I’ve missed someone who wants to share their photo roll gratuitously.
All the BG3 male companions should be soft. Astarion was a magistrate, not a model. Gale was in a depression funk for over a year so there's no way he'd look like a bodybuilder (unless it's illusion magic, which I'm willing to accept), and Halsin should look less like a sculpture and more like that -actual- strong man beef bod build.
The only one who should look like an athlete is Wyll, because he's an actual practicing swordsman/adventurer.
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