Welcome to our fifth year of Owlcatober, where we celebrate the Owlcat CRPGs during the month of October!
Do as many or as few prompts as you’d like, in whatever order you want, for Pathfinder: Kingmaker, Pathfinder: Wrath of the Righteous, Warhammer 40,0000: Rogue Trader, or any of theirs dlcs! Writing, art, music, whatever creative endeavor the prompts inspire!
Please place spicy or potentially triggering content under a Read More. For your post to get reblogged, tag @owlcatober, or #owlcatober 2025. There’s also an “Owlcatober (Pathfinder)” tag on AO3! If your post hasn’t been reblogged in 24 hours, please message this blog to make sure it hasn’t been lost.
Prompt expansion! Owlcat is also running an Owlcatober this year, and we're joining forces! Either prompt list is valid for this blog, the more creativity the better! Remember to tag @owlcatober or #owlcatober 2025 to get reblogged!
Day 29 of Owlcatober, Growth, featuring a grumbling Jhod and Arsinoe prodding him over it as the capital becomes a city.
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A growing community was something that pleased Erastil. Yet, Jhod could not help but grumble as Tuskdale’s reconstruction labored on as he strode through the streets.
He had no ill will towards the laborers, who worked to build up their community and provide for their families. Nor did he even have ill will for the ones who planned it: the intention from the start was that Tuskdale would be the barony’s capital, and that meant that it was going to grow as the seat of power. It would never remain a humble village like the one that had raised the baroness so well. And with their success, that meant growth into a city.
And soon would come all the ills. The overabundance of people crammed atop each other, the excrement left to rot rather than used as fertilizer, and no doubt people reduced to beggars as work ran out, rather than sending them to tend new fields and build new communities. Was that not why so many had come to the Stolen Lands in the first place, to seek new opportunity where there was none in New Stetven or Restov? How long until Tuskdale became the place people sought to escape from to new opportunity?
“You seem to be in an ill mood,” a soft, melodic, but precise voice asked from behind him.
Jhod stopped, turned, and saw Arsinoe’s golden eyes staring at him, wearing her white silken robes in contrast to Jhod’s humble earthen shift. She bore a slight smile even at ease.
“Archbanker,” hoping his grumbling made the silliness of the Abadaran title for a head priest obvious. “You seem to be in a happy mood.”
“Should I not be?” Arsinoe asked as she stepped up to him, looking back at the perfectly workable dirt road being cobbled. “Tuskdale grows, becoming a well ordered city. I would thought you would be happy with this young community’s achievements. They have taken a bandit’s lair, and made it a respectable place to live.”
“You say it as if it was not already,” he retorted as he shook his head. “It was not a vanity project that protected us during the Bloom.”
Arsinoe nodded. “Yet stone will resist a charging owlbear far better than layers of logs. The old fort served its purpose, and now it is time to build something greater.”
“Greater?” Jhod chuckled. “Greater is a realm that forms new communities as it expands, rather than trying to stuff more together.” He pointed towards where one burgage was being deconstructed, the family within having temporarily been given shelter elsewhere and their possessions stored and moved, both at the realm’s expense. “Greater is a realm that does not need to tear down a home to rebuild it.”
“You were there when the baroness made the decree at Tuskdale’s chartering. You know that anyone who settled inside the Stag Lord’s old fort did so aware that one day it would be rebuilt from the ground up, and that this may require moving. And you know better than I that houses are rebuilt all the time.”
He exhaled and started to move on, Arsinoe walking with him as they passed by the market. It was becoming loud, Hassuf boasting of distant wares, Verdel testing the fit of a new armor harness for a young man-at-arms who had recently finished her induction into the baroness’ retinue, and Zarcie showing off goods from Mendev to one of the crusade veterans instructing such youths in the art of combat. All as peddlers and merchants shouted of their wares, making it hard enough to think let alone talk.
He could remember when it was just those three vendors and the occasional peddler, such as a hunter come to sell his wares. It was still a hub, but most people knew each other then. You knew who to go to for certain items to trade, and they knew you. Now, it was merchants selling to an effectively faceless mass and people looking for merchants frankly interchangeable with each other.
He finally answered Arsinoe’s implied question as they reached the other side of the market. “I am aware. It is not uncommon for a house to be moved should it be damaged or renovated, especially with simple construction making it a matter of labor. Still, it is better to form new communities than cram more into the old one.”
“Ah yes, we should follow Delamere’s example and chase out the fifty-sixth soul, isolating them from their family.”
Jhod rolled his eyes. “And the Taxmasters act no better than bandits, beating up the poor for the crime of being poor.”
Arsinoe’s golden eyes widened, then she recovered and asked, “Erastil loathes sloth, does he not?”
“It is rarely sloth that leaves one unable to pay taxes. Besides, it is not the number, but the lesson within. Even the best planned city can only hold so many people.”
“This is true. Yet, with too few souls they cannot build what is needed to face the dangers of the world.”
Jhod nodded. That was also true. And he supposed that Tuskdale needed to be a city for its purpose in its wider community. The baroness’ seat of power from which she could rally the might of the growing realm to defend it. The bulwark against the Bald Hilltop, now that they fully understand the nature of that threat. And, by necessity, where many labors needed to coincide. Where their talents could be directed to face the latest crisis.
Still, he did not look forward to what would follow such growth. Nor would he ever likely approve.
Day 28 of Owlcatober, yes I know it's late, featuring Kingmaker and WotR together with Tristian and Ember.
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Tristian was used to being the other side of mortal myths, the being spoken of. Before his fall he had reveled in it, even, especially those times he had been able to openly show his power on Golarion or assist adventurers traveling the planes.
Today, though, he was the one listening to them as he watched the sermon being given in a quiet back alley of Drezen, the night lit by the heavenly aurora above and the Wardstone nearby.
He watched from the street side of the alley, well behind the crowd of former miscreants, ne’er-do-wells, and others in rusty wargear and clothes constantly repaired. The speaker was a heavyset tiefling woman with a broken horn, whom Arsinoe had identified as Toil. Toil was garbed no better than those she addressed even as she recited the words of the saint they venerated with the same fervor as Jhod did before his flock.
“Some say that being a kind person is hard work, that most people can’t do. Is that true? Look at the people standing next to you: don’t you want to love these people? Is it so hard to smile at them? To say a kind word? To share with those in need? Don’t you feel joy when you do something good for others? And isn’t it wonderful when they do the same for you? Kindness is the easiest and most pleasant thing in the world!”
Despite agreeing with what was said, Tristian could not help but feel wary at the zeal he saw, both in Toil and in the crowd, several of whom seemed to be newcomers. Old memories crawled up his spine and between his hidden wings, memories of the Kingdom of the Cleansed. False zeal he had a hand in.
He dismissed the thought. That was falsehood. This was genuine.
“These were the words Saint Ember bore into the Abyss,” Toil continued, “Lessons that sound simple, yet so many forget. You are not stupid for this, as the world is harsh and cruel. It would tear this lesson from you, to make you part of the cruelty. Once you forget, it is difficult to see the way out. Yet the way out remains! We believed our saint to have perished in the Abyss with her disciples, yet she returned in our darkest hour!”
Tristian turned away, holding his silence with some difficulty given the complete misread of their saint’s relationship with her companions. When he was far enough away to not be heard, he managed to giggle as the image of the now-angelic Knight-Commander’s bafflement refused to leave him. Or perhaps the reactions of her other companions at the sight. He could imagine it much the way Nok-Nok’s veneration and claims of being a hero had been baffling, especially in hindsight. It was a welcome distraction from darker memories the sermon had awoken.
A young woman’s voice, soft and light, came from the direction of another alley nearby. “You seem happy. Yet, sad beneath it?”
Tristian turned to see an elven woman with blond hair, burn marks across her body with several of her fingers missing from the flames. She was wearing simple but comfortable clothes and a set of particularly fluffy boots, and a magical cloak of resistance all too common on Golarion. There was also a celestial crow on her shoulder.
“Sometimes, laughter keeps us from crying,” Tristian answered, glancing around. Ember had set up her tent by what used to be a jewelry store and the outer-facing wall near it, not far from the Wardstone plaza.
“What made it funny, though?” Ember asked, tilting her head as she was sitting on the ground. “I saw you listening to the Redeemed Brotherhood, to Toil. Yet, you seemed taken in. Bit strange for an angel, isn’t it? Though, I’m a strange girl.”
“Not as strange as you might think.” He had not expected his disguise to hold up under any sort of scrutiny anyways. “Angels can make the same mistakes as mortals, and have the same regrets.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “Have you heard of the Stolen Lands?”
“The Storyteller told me about them! Showed me the book too…” she trailed off a moment before her eyes went fully wide. “Oh! You’re Tristian! So that’s why Arsinoe talked to you so much!”
She had been there to greet him shortly after he had been ‘summoned’, as the plausible deniability for his deployment went. Nominally, her assistance was what led to him answering a familiar call. In truth, he was sent because of his recent experience and that connection made it easier for it to be assumed it was by mortal hands.
“It has been a long time since I was able to visit,” he admitted as he looked around. “Do you mind if I sit down next do you?”
Ember nodded, scooting slightly to the side and letting Tristian sit next to her.
“I never answered what I found funny,” he started. “It was how Toil described the Knight-Commander as your disciple, and I was imagining her reaction to that statement, especially with how confidently Toil says it.”
“It is silly, but it seems to help them. I just don’t get why they call me a saint, though. Even if my patron is…” Ember trailed off as she glanced at Soot. “I mean, I just have normal tricks otherwise, right? Other than these mythic tricks…”
“That may be part of it,” Tristian offered as he considered it. “Though if I only heard of you, I would consider it mythical too. A woman whose tears broke one of Baphomet’s altars, even as she was the one to be sacrificed? Descending into the Abyss and convincing demons to reconsider their terrible existence? Giving hope to those who thought themselves trapped in sin?”
“You make me sound so special.”
Tristian looked at Soot, the crow shaking her head, then back to Ember. “Everyone is special in their own way. The choice given to us is what do we do with it.”
The wind blew gently, a soothing coolness washing over both of them as Tristian looked up at the light dancing in the sky, fading away as the night darkened. Perhaps much to the relief of those who wished to find sleep?
“It’s why I have to stay away,” Ember finally said. “I scared them once. What if I get angry enough to do it again? I could hurt them, hurt them the way I was, convinced I’m doing the right thing like the knights that tried to burn me. They’ll have each other, they’ll be okay. And one day, they’ll realize they don’t need to hold me up as some icon. That they’re already better than they think they are.”
“I hope you realize that as well,” Tristian added.
“Maybe one day,” Ember admitted with a shrug. “Do you think you will ever forgive yourself?”
Day 27 of Owlcatober, Musical, featuring Irovetti's use of the arts as a political weapon as he listens to another academy aggrandizement.
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“No one’s slick like Castru, no one’s quick like Castru, no one’s neck’s as incredibly thick as Castru’s! For there’s no man in town half as manly: perfect, a pure paragon!”
Castruccio Irovetti would definitely factor the butchering of his name into the grant he gave when this beardless dwarf’s performance was over, yet he could not help but appreciate it.
Truly, who was a great as Castruccio Irovetti? Who was like him, brilliant in song and a brilliant warrior with his bardiche? Gifted in the art of ruling as well as gifting to the arts?
He smiled at the praise, even as the singer tried to glorify the cleft in his chin and sung of how many eggs he ate as a youth. This was what ruling was about. Not long burdens of duty, but stopping to smell the glorious roses he had cultivated.
What else was art to do but to glorify the powerful? He had learned that lesson all too well in Numeria, singing praises of his chieftain in hopes for a scrap of favor. All it took was a sharp mind, a clever tongue, and a willingness to debase himself for another’s glory. Shameful to his Bellander kin, perhaps, but pride did not elevate them from the others, not did pride save them when the scheme with the Technic League went wrong.
Yet, unlike bootlicks such as the dwarf before him, Castruccio was not content with those scraps. He wanted to be the one giving the scraps. And he understood just how useful that was in shoring up his rule.
Without the constant praises of the bards he gave patronage to, without the Academy of Grand Arts becoming a feature of Pitax and ensuring that he had an ample supply of adulation, his rule would not be as secure as it was. It was a common trick, nobles patronizing the arts for that very purpose. Surely, his rival’s regent had realized why her father was such a generous patron to Shelyn’s church by now. Why, if she was willing to use her beauty, she could have had a host of admiring knights as numerous as long-dead Ravena’s!
Still, the addition of such an armored rose to his garden was not what mattered now. What mattered was how this bootlick was a tool of power. One that Castruccio had elevated to an art form, pun fully intended. He was well aware that much of it was of limited skill and talent, but that was not the purpose of it. This song he listened to, while having its own merits, was frankly off-tune and only really worked if one wanted to hear it, like he did. Yet, it was another mark on the bedpost in a contest of quantity.
Tell a lie once, and someone will question it but can ignore it. Tell it several times, and even if dispelled each time the idea remains. Disbelieved, but every time one thinks of it lent legitimacy to the lie. Sing the lie in every tavern, and eventually those that care will give up trying to challenge it, and those that did not would accept it. And a lie unchallenged would always triumph over truth.
A lesson he was reminded of at the Rushlight Tournament.
Annamede’s performance in the boasting contest had been one of her best, as was the work she had done to twist the nauseatingly genuine heroism of his rival into a cynical game of power (though he wondered how much of that was indirectly aimed at him). Left unchallenged, it would have been another stone removed from the tower before he played his trebuchet. Yet who challenged it but an Academy dropout, whose skillful display undid the damage before his eyes.
Castruccio… could respect Linzi’s refusal to be a bootlick and seek patronage from someone that she wanted to follow. If nothing else, it would make her a worthy foe to lie broken at his feet… or broken into a bootlick, if Briar worked that way on her.
He smirked, both at the possibility as well as the fact that the dwarf had finally finished his song. His court held their applause, waiting for the king’s judgment. It was time to play the part of the generous monarch: it was part of the performance that maintained his power.
“Rise, Lefrim,” he said to the bowing dwarf, “you have pleased your king today with your song. Pitax’s glory rises with every artist we are gifted with! We shall ensure a grant of gold shivs enters your purse, the gift of a patron to our artist!”
Lefrim beamed even with his unsightly nose obscuring it, almost kissing the floor as he said his thanks and matters of court went on.
Another showing of subservience, another debasing himself for the scraps Castruccio tossed. Where once he kissed the boot, now it was his boots that were kissed. The due reward for his grandeur.
Every prattle of praise, every aria of aggrandizement, every sonnet of subservience, was one more monument to the glory that was Castruccio Irovetti, King of Pitax.
This was his bardic magic in the art of ruling: music was his warden keeping order, his high priest building faith, his treasurer’s lament despite at a good bargain, his chancellor pacifying the people or inciting them to follow him in killing the beast. The power of King Irovetti.
Day 26 of Owlcatober, Navigation, featuring everyone's favorite feature from Wrath's fourth act.
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Arueshalae had never realized just how limiting Alushinyrra’s unique architecture was until she had to try and help guide her friends through its streets.
If it was just a dense city of people living atop each other, full of winding passages and corners as no one tried to impose any order or planning to ensure a smooth passage of people, it would not have been an issue. They could learn the streets or even try to make a map.
The problem was that in the Midnight Isles, there were pockets of warped reality where buildings and even some land masses would shift depending on how one viewed it, or at least that was the best approximation she had. A stone house might normally block the way, but in some spots if one imagined themselves seeing it from the side, the house would seem to retract inside and leave the street unobstructed. It existed, yet it did not, a contradiction that demons could navigate easily but others found frustrating. It also made it impossible to map the Midnight Isles with anything but a symbolic map of landmarks like the Battlebliss or Fleshmarkets, and that only worked with the portal network.
“So I have to view it as if I am above and to the side?” Elaina asked, the paladin staring at the stone wall in front of her.
“Yes,” Arueshalae answered as she did so, seeing the wall move out of her way and back she shifted perspective. She could do it without thinking, even after a century away.
“It’s like a shell game,” Seelah offered as she walked back, appearing to Elaina, Lann, and Regill as if she had just walked out of a stone wall. “Don’t play the game, play the player. And the Abyss is a dastardly cheat.”
“No wonder Woljif got it so easily,” Lann grumbled as he narrowed his eyes and tried again, then took a tentative step forward… and put a hand against the wall that Arueshalae could presently see was not there. “Nope, that didn’t work.”
“Try again,” Arueshalae encouraged as the wall shifted back into place to her eyes, “you need to look at what it could be, and accept that it could be that as well as what you see now. It’s a habit you have to learn, to shift with the isles.”
“How did you get around so easily?” Elaina asked as she looked at the wall. “This seems maddening.”
“This is madness,” Regill grumbled grumpily as he folded his arms, staring at the wall. “And trying to accept it is tantamount to treason.”
“In truth?” Arueshalae admitted as her wings flapped, ignoring Regill, “I flew around it, that gets you around almost all of it. And right now, only me and Ulbrig can do that unassisted.”
Elaina nodded, rubbing the back of her head roughly where her halo would be if she was not hiding it right now. Arueshalae found that it was something to see her putting her mind and will to the task, trying to broaden her insights without giving up the orderly way she saw things. Arueshalae could almost see her rearranging the blocks, trying to understand the rule (or lack thereof) at play
“Navigating the chaotic planes is no easy feat,” the Hand of the Inheritor added as he stood vigil over their training. “Even today I still sometimes stumble in Elysium.”
“Is it really like this elsewhere?” Arueshalae asked, frowning. “I thought it was a way for the powerful to lord over over the rest. The Upper City only really has this between islands.”
“It is more fair in that regard,” the Hand admitted. “The Maelstrom is just unpredictable for good or ill, while in Elysium it is usually to the benefit of the benign. Cayden Cailean’s city will always have enough room for visitors, and none for intruders. Or those who wish to rein in the festivities, even for good reasons.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, as if he was recalling some incident.
Arueshalae dared to ask. “Were you the guest, or the one with the reins?”
“Both, though I was able to discuss matters with Thais outside while the party continued.”
Elaina stepped forward, carefully putting a hand to where the stone wall was, only for her hand to go through. Arueshalae shifted her own focus, the wall moving away as Elaina stepped through and finally got it. Arueshalae felt herself lighten and smiled at the sight.
“Nice job!” Seelah congratulated at the other side as she slapped a hand on her fellow paladin’s shoulder. “Knew you’d get it!”
“Wings would still be easier,” Elaina admitted with a smile as she looked back. “Now, can I set it back…”
In the end, all of them except Regill learned how to do it, though Ulbrig offered to carry him around the ‘fey pranks’. Now that they could navigate the city itself, they had to figure out how to navigate its society.
That was not a conversation Arueshalae looked forward to, yet she was the one who knew the most. Where they could make a name for themselves to get their feet in the door, who they needed to talk to once inside, and who they might be able to find patronage with if they needed a hand inside the door.
Day 25 (late) of Owlcatober 2025, Inheritance, featuring Yaniel's internal monologue on a fact I found out about Radiance on the Pathfinder wiki...
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Radiance had been forged by Iomedae.
Yaniel was still struggling to wrap her head around what the Hand had told her as she sat at the Nexus, their sanctuary in the Abyss. Their rally point as they tried to figure out what these mythic demons were, their shelter from the abuse, misrule, and depravity of Alushinyrra.
The entire time, Yaniel had been the wielder of one of Iomedae’s holy relics. A sibling to Srithtial, even if it lacked the same intelligence, and to Heart’s Edge at the center of the sixth act. Forged upon Arazlant Mox, the tallest peak of Abaslom’s mountains where a celestial forge still remained.
And she had bonded with that weapon, what she thought was just a gift from Jorah to help her as she acted as Staunton’s vanguard in the crusade. The First Crusade, now. Poor Jorah. He had thought he just found an old magical sword during a delve, and that he was refurbishing the cold iron to fight demons. He never knew what he had restored. He had treated it with all the respect of a master craftsman for another’s masterpiece, yet had worked with something greater than he knew.
There was something special about Radiance. He had realized it as the weapon’s power grew in Yaniel’s hands, but has misidentified the cause. He thought that it was a rare occurrence, perhaps mixing with the celestial spirit that Yaniel had bonded with to have the weapon keep some of the power of that bond between uses. It had made sense to them, and they had considered it a gift from Heaven against the demons. It was, but not the gift they had expected. It was not gaining new power, but reawakening what it once had.
It also explained the sheer power she had felt down in the Midnight Fane, when Elaina had presented the sword to her. If a sword could cry, Yaniel was sure they would have drowned in joyful tears as its old power surged. She certainly had to fight them down herself to get her fellow prisoners back to Galfrey and the Hand’s position, and once more she managed to get every one of them out. Perhaps as she had awakened Radiance, Radiance had awakened her own vigor for the task at hand.
It was an old friend, and both of them still had work to do.
Yet, she understood that it was also no longer her sword. She was no longer Radiance’s wielder.
Time had not been kind to Anthoclitus, that aging priest who had once convinced Yaniel to join the crusade in the first place. His mind was going with age, and unlike Galfrey his life was not being extended. Yet she could remember what he had said decades ago, when they were sorting out the wargear of the fallen to determine who would inherit what.
A warrior could fall in battle, but their sword could still carry on their cause in another’s hand.
It was why Iomedae’s faithful did not bury their fallen with their wargear, as most others often did. It was only if the gear was so broken it could not be repaired, or if magic had made it so that no other could wield it, did it go with the body. It was only now that Yaniel understood this precept of her faith.
She missed having Radiance at her side, and the masterwork of cold iron she had been provided by Targona was a poor substitute. Yet, would she feel better with it on her hip, knowing that she was depriving another sharing her cause of a weapon they had bonded with? Knowing that if she followed through this thought, it would lie buried and unused against other evils threatening people?
No. Radiance was the inheritance of the Mendevian Crusaders. It should have been wielded over the past decades to teach demonkind that they were not the only ones with power. To reveal the bullies and sadists as the cowards they are, to show the Mendevians that they could win. Instead, the sword had fallen into a depression, and let none wield it. The sword had felt none equal to Yaniel in its grief.
Yet, eventually it had found new hands. It had bonded with the then-future Knight-Commander, drawn to Lariel’s sword and the mythic power within Elaina. From what Yaniel could tell, the sword had sensed the dire situation and needed power to wake up. Elaina had unknowingly done that, even as Seelah’s humility and earnest desire to save it had first stirred the blade from its slumber. The rest, as they said, was symbolic history as the Knight-Commander inherited what was once Yaniel’s sword, what was once the sword of many other heroes, what was once Iomedae’s.
The sword’s future, who would inherit it next? That she did not know. Nor, perhaps, was she meant to.
She just hoped it was in far better circumstances than when it passed from her hands.
Owlcatober (late) Day 24, Reflections, featuring a follow-on to the Inevitable Excess' special ending.
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Planar travel was something that Elaina was still getting used to, even with help from Targona and Lariel in navigating the Maelstrom. This part of it was floating islands above primordial existence, dreams of lofty castles and haunted towers separated by dark passages and icy flights. Filled with creatures both seemingly mundane and too strange to describe as anything but aberrations.
Still, even by that standard, what Iomedae had told them should have been impossible. How could Elaina be calling on Iomedae’s divine powers from two different planes? Especially since when she had felt it, Elaina had been in the goddess’ very presence as the Inheritor took counsel on the aftermath of the Mendevian Crusades. Yet, the call had come from a distant corner in the Maelstrom or perhaps a pocket plane with in it. They had found the site where it had happened at the start of this particular dark passage, a tumult dragon left slain on the hunt, and that had given them a magical trail to follow in turn. Unfortunately, it also meant dealing with other dangers.
At least they did not have far to go as they finished a glide from one island to the next of this passage. Elaina landed first, Lariel and Targona to her left while Arueshalae and a rather quiet Hand to her right. Another tiled hall was filled with corpses. Hellish-looking (but not actually infernal) hounds, and two more of those oversized armor turtles that spat fire. Whatever this place was, it had some weird things, weird enough that flaming the fools turning the lights on and off was sounding more and more tempting.
Not that it mattered anymore as they finally caught up to their quarry. Standing at the end of this hall by a whirlwind’s pedestal were two women, one clad in mithril plate harness with a golden longsword, both exactly like the ones Elaina wore and carried. The other was a tall woman with an architect’s sextant in hand, a modest red dress with a belt of reagents and a spell book.
Areelu Vorlesh. And… herself?
Elaina frowned, and so did her reflection with Areelu.
They were the nearly same: the same light brown hair combed back and kept in place with a circlet, the same plate armor, the same weapon (a second Radiance? How?), the same grey eyes. Even Lynet back during Razmir’s Dance of Masks had to use makeup and magic to pull off such a perfect resemblance that fooled Razmir’s agent in the lookalike contest.
However, there was one difference that was immediately apparent. One that Elaina thought she would never see again without temporary illusion magic or looking at Sosiel’s drawings of the march on Drezen. There was no angelic halo, there were no angelic wings. This was Elaina without her mythic power, before her transformation into an angel. Or… transformed back into her mortal self?
Arueshalae broke the budding silence first. “How?!”
“Suffice it to say,” Areelu(?) said, “Axis meddled when it should have stayed away. And we are done being the playthings of gods.”
“Hold on,” the other paladin(?) said and Elaina could not help but tilt her head at how strange the woman’s voice sounded. “They may not be here to hurt us.”
“That depends on your motives,” Lariel warned as he took a step forward, a wary edge in his voice. “We came at the Lady of Valor’s behest, as she heard her paladin’s call in this twisted place. A strange thing, when her paladin was at her side in Heaven at the time. Her gaze is upon our quest: do not speak falsely.”
“I have nothing to hide from her. But, Iomedae didn’t sense anything from Axis?” the other Elaina asked, and Elaina herself was still processing what was going on. Why did the other her’s voice sound so- right, Elaina’s own voice was heard in her own head. Here, she was hearing it without that.
“Evidently not,” Elaina said as she needed to say something, and put a hand out to urge everyone to calm down. “But first, we should identify ourselves. I am Knight-Commander Elaina. To whom do I speak?”
“Not Areelu Vorlesh. Her,” ‘Areelu’ hesitated in choosing her description, “Her copy, if you would.”
“A parallel plane?” Arueshalae asked, tilting her head.
“Of a sorts,” not-Areelu nodded. “Valmallos had yet another imbecilic idea about restricting magic, and for once he paid the price for grasping too hard.”
Elaina tilted her head, looking to Targona. The tabellia angel frowned, like she was thinking, hammer still in hand and ready to use. “I have heard of trouble in Axis concurrent to us storming Threshold, but it has been kept quiet and no inquiries are answered. So, what did a Primordial Inevitable do?”
“It’s a very long story, and I think it would be better if we sat down for it,” not-Elaina answered, gesturing to the pedestal that would lift them into the air to a passage at the ceiling. “We have a return portal nearby that we were trying to get to when we ran into a dragon. If you are willing, you could come with us.”
“You would invite them so easily?” not-Areelu demanded. “We are trying to get away from these schemes!”
“If they were here to destroy us, they would have done it already. Neither of us have the excess mythic power anymore, and that’s before we consider this is two against five. They want to understand what is going on. I think they deserve to know. Besides, now that they know this means others will find us too. We may as well deal with it now. We can’t run forever.”
Elaina nodded to the others, sheathing Radiance and their weapons all lowered. Then she turned to her attention to her counterpart. “Will you swear that you would give us safe passage and hospitality, then?”
The other Elaina chuckled, sheathing her (copy of?) Radiance. “I would swear by the Inheritor, whether I am one of her paladins or not.”
A bit of warmth returned to the Hand’s voice. “Given she answered your prayers against these monsters, she will give you the chance.”
“Perhaps. Nonetheless, you have my word that this is no trap, and that we will do our part as hosts. Now, shall we?”
Elaina could not help but shake how strange it felt, but she did not understand enough. At the very least, they both seemed to want to know what they were dealing with. And, in the case of her alternate self, seemed to understand her main self would want answers. Though, did she want to know the answers?
Yes she did. And by the time she was done, she was in full agreement with her Excess’ (for lack of a better name) summation of the whole matter.
Next time, Valmallos needed to get a bigger battery.
And maybe don’t give it sentience. Why was that even necessary?
Owlcatober Day 23 (late), Linzi casting Overwhelming Presence.
[Ao3 Link]
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There was no avoiding a fight with the Pitaxians. Oh, they didn’t wear Pitax’s colors, but Linzi would know the laggards and scoundrels by the cheap wine and cheaper limericks the bard in their ‘adventuring’ party used. Probably an Academy dropout like her, or more likely had passed the test of shining Irovetti’s turds.
“Look, just give us the goods, and we’ll be off,” the leader of the brigands snarled, tapping his club in his hand. The halfling had apparently literally survived a hanging going by his neck and how his head turned to look at her. “It’s not like your beast queen’s here to protect you.”
“I’m here,” Linzi shot back as she took a step forward, lute in hand. Hopefully the others would be here soon. At the very least, she hoped Octavia and Reg weren’t so deep in each other they didn’t hear anything!
It was just supposed to be some time off from court, visit some of the outlying villages, see the countryside! They had pulled up to this village in the middle of a wedding, and the unexpected visit of court members went from a potentially awkward change of plans to the celebrations getting even louder.
Linzi had performed a few songs and listened to others, Regongar had shown off some of his new abilities (pity the electrocuted scarecrow), and Octavia had fun showing the kids (non-)magic tricks. And the groom’s brother had his own show too, the ranger playing a flute as his bear companion danced on a comfortable bed of soft straw to the delight of the village’s children. Even Harrim had the ghost of a smile at that. It was nice to see a dancing bear without the cruelty too many tamers used!
Or would have been, if these brigands had not shown up. How they got past the increased patrols after Irovetti’s stunt at the Rushlight Tournament was another matter for later. What mattered now was that they had ruined the party and already wounded the ranger when he had asked them to leave. His bear was growling as he stood over his wounded friend protectively. A few militia were arming up in the houses, but they had been caught entirely off guard.
Time to be the hero! Linzi decided as she did her best to stare down the gang. Up, for most of them. Well, she looked down on them morally! And rightly so!
“You?” the leader laughed, bending over as if he could not believe her defiance. “Why spook me silly and fear Calistria’s vengeance, you think you can take us on? With a lute?”
“You haven’t met a real bard, have you?” Linzi grinned. “Music has a magic of its own.”
“Oh, I know what bards can do, and not Academy dropouts,” he jerked his head towards the one in his party. “That’s why I’m not afraid. Why none of us are. What, are we to bow before you? We already bow to a great king!”
Well, that was not her initial plan, but now that he mentioned it…
Linzi hummed, drawing on an operatic dirge as the magic flowed through her body. She could hear the musical echo as it replied, providing her choral backing as she began to chant.
“Then in place of a fool king, you shall have a bard!” Linzi bellowed as her voice warped and darkened like infernal arrogance, her hair billowing up as the magic sent the air rushing upwards, “Not tall, but beautiful! Terrible as the dawn! Treacherous as the Tuskwater! Stronger than the foundations of Pitax!”
The brigands reacted, trying to charge forward as the magic enveloped and crashed against their wills. They all tried to resist, they all struggled, and they were all overwhelmed by her presence.
“ALL SHALL LOVE ME, AND THIS BEAR!”
Yes, she was pointing with her free hand towards the previously dancing bear, which growled in confusion at the noise and light show.
The brigands had all fallen to their knees, prostrating themselves to the power of her voice just in time for Regongar and Octavia to come out as the magic faded. Linzi was out of breath from the effort, but was still standing tall as the other two stepped up (taller) behind her.
The leader’s will had managed to recover enough to break the compulsion as the rest of his gang remained humbled, and he pushed himself back to his feet, hand on his wobbling head.
“Ugh, what did… that voice…” he blinked, seeing Octavia and Regonar, the latter of whom lacked a shirt and thus his draconic wings were on full display. “… oh.”
“Behold,” Harrim’s voice cut it, audible despite the soft tone he spoke with as he stepped around another corner, “one who witnesses his imminent end. If only we all could be so accepting.”
It was a very quickly resolved affair after that. Regongar was quite excited by the idea of what he had seen.
“You’ve got to teach me how to make my voice do that!” Regongar said as he clapped her on the shoulder, causing Linzi to wince from being pushed down. “I mean, dragons make people afraid, right?”
(late) Day 22 for Owlcatober, Relaxation, featuring Anevia trying to get Irabeth to relax.
[Ao3 Link]
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Sometimes, Anevia was not sure if Irabeth knew what the term ‘relaxation’ meant. Or if she was convinced that it meant the opposite of what it was.
Just, really, the Mendevian Crusades were over. The Worldwound was closed, and they had proven that the Sarkoris Scar (as it was now being called) could heal given time. Even Galfrey had finally stepped down, or more accurately stepped up to become Iomedae’s herald. Really, that was the sign things had calmed down, especially as it meant the Queen for a Century was able to, you know, relax. In literal Heaven, at that.
Though, maybe that was what it was going to take as Irabeth was looking over Rovus’ letter again.
“C’mon, ‘Beth,” Anevia sighed, “He’s just asking for advice. We don’t have to hop over there and deal with it.”
“Can we really ignore this?” Irabeth asked, gripping the letter tightly in her hands. She was not wearing any of her armor, just a simple woolen shirt and pants suitable for indoor wear, but the paper was still crinkling like she had gauntlets on. “Lives are at stake.”
Damn it. This was why she loved Irabeth, but lives were always in danger. Should they fret that they did not take a left instead of a right at a turn when a mugging was unbeknownst to them happening down the left lane?
“I’m not saying we shouldn’t do anything, but we’ll just be extra hands to clobber the guy. Rovus just needs advice on how to break it to the locals. And frankly, that advice should be ‘get the Order of Heralds and toss the guy to them’.”
Irabeth set the letter down, staring at it. Anevia shifted closer, putting a hand on her wife’s shoulder. “C’mon, Beth, you put Rovus in charge for a reason, and that was when the Worldwound was still open. It’s closed now. Give him the advice he needs, then let’s do something nice.”
Irabeth put a hand on hers and looked up. “That has been ‘nothing’ for a few weeks now.”
Anevia shrugged. “I mean, how long were we always doing something? C’mon, gotta rest to be ready for when the next real crisis hits, right?”
Irabeth’s eyebrows raised, then she exhaled and nodded. “Alright, I’ll give him advice. If this escalates though, we’re heading to Kenabres to help.”
“Deal,” Anevia agreed with a smile.
Pragmatically, Anevia knew that Irabeth would never truly relax, not when she could still do something. And even with the Worldwound closed, Golarion had countless other crises. Eventually, Irabeth was going to look for another cause just like so many of the other crusaders.
Much as Anevia just wanted to relax and enjoy their victory, she would not have it any other way.
Though, Irabeth was not wrong about it being ‘nothing’. Maybe they needed to go somewhere that wasn’t knee deep in total war for decades… perhaps take Sosiel up on that offer of hospitality, spend a month or two in Andoran?
That could be relaxing. Or at least, any trouble should be relaxing compared to fighting demons and their minions.
Day 20 of (late) Owlcatober, Generations, featuring Octavia dealing with the downsides of reuniting with her mother.
[Ao3 Link]
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Reuniting with her mother could have gone so much worse. It was not hard to imagine herself doing something she would have regretted, let revenge consume her too far. Something would have been set on fire, and frankly nearly did anyways thanks to the war.
Still, the idea seemed more tempting with the names she had to learn. Generations of Della Fiorni to be crammed into her head like the arcane knowledge the Technic League forced into her. At least her mother made readily available the learning material and was giddy if Octavia asked for more and went right up to the attic. It was enough that if Octavia ever got herself a wizard’s tower (if only to store her spell research), she’d need a wing for the family annals. Yes, that was hyperbole, but not by much as far as she cared. It was like having another spellbook, and all the books of research that it summarized.
“Yeah, it’s a lot of pomp and family chest-puffing.”
At least Maegar seemed to get it as he set his mug down.
“I know!” Octavia exhaled sharply, gripping her own tightly. “It’s like she missed years of teaching me every ancestor and every little thing they did, and is trying to catch up on it! How do you put up with it? How did Valerie deal with it?”
“Diligent studies?” Regongar offered with a shrug. “She’s not the scrawny book type, but she’s high on her own airs.”
“So, was it like that for you?” Octavia looked at Maegar as she sipped out of her mug. “Trying to memorize generations of bluebloods and what things they did that’s supposed to make them impressive?”
“Sounds similar. Though it was a strict nanny for that, rather than my mother. She made sure I learned other important lessons.” Maegar took another drink. “Not going to compete in the misery marathon, though.”
“Good,” Regongar grumbled, though his hand fell around the cloak he had been given. “Though, maybe it’d be good to know a little more.”
Octavia’s stomach dropped as she remembered. He didn’t have any of this. “Reg! I’m sorry, I should have-”
“Ah, don’t worry about it, you need to gripe.” He waved it off and did not even wait to change topics. “So, any funny stories? I once heard about this old lord and his middle-aged wife, and a young blacksmith who was also another nob’s bastard…”
Maegar chuckled, clearly aware of which story it was. “And the old lord had basically planned it! Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. Can’t imagine that’s a fun one for that family’s annals.”
Octavia laughed. “Especially since realizing they aren’t actually descended from some legendary dragonslayer or someone who wrote a tax code. Imagine Valerie’s face if it turned out that was her great-grandmother or something!”
“And queue all the inheritance squabbles,” Maeger showed a smile with his slightly yellowed teeth all too wide. “Got involved in one of those, once. Cephal and I argued a lot, but we had the time of our lives sorting through that particular mess and revealing how weak most of the claims were.” He paused, looking at his mug again and turned to the passing waiter. “Excuse me, a refill please?”
“Sure thing, yer grace!”
Maegar sighed. Octavia sympathized: even before she was legitimized, when the palace was just the Stag Lord’s fort refurbished, some of the servants still addressed her and Reg with ‘sir’ and ‘mi’lady’. Reg did not mind it so much, but it bothered Octavia.
And that left Octavia wondering: if she and Regongar ended up making another Della Fiorni generation, was that something they wanted to raise them around? Would it have really been worth the effort that her mother had tried to go through to ensure Octavia was raised in such an environment?
Well, at least she was drinking. Always a good thing to pair with such heavy questions. And thinking about generations like this and where she fit in warranted a good drink.
For (very late) Day 20 of Owlcatober, Two-of-a-Kind, featuring Sosiel comparing two gal-paladins of Iomedae.
[Ao3 Link]
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Sosiel watched, painter’s palette in hand, as he drew the two women sparring. It would be too easy to make them essentially indistinguishable, two figures of similar archetype who were secondary to the theme of the art. A study of chivalrous valor in training, perhaps, exemplified in this case by two of Iomedae’s paladins.
However, it would be a disservice to both Seelah and Elaina to treat them as interchangeable. Each person was unique in their own way, even beyond whatever ranks in their vocation or destinies fate bestowed. He could only capture a still image of what he had observed and heard of, and learned from talking to them. They were a lesson of contradicting contrasts, yet where they aligned was what made them two of a kind.
Sosiel had seen both in Kenabres. Seelah had been easy to find, running through the crowd in her dawnsilver plate harness shouting for Terendelev. Sosiel had followed, but his services were unneeded as Seelah had found the city’s protector. He did see Elaina after she had been stabilized, and compared to Seelah she had looked mundane with her then-damaged armor harness of simple steel.
Now, Seelah looked mundane even in the same armor, even as she dodged and landed a strike with the edge of her shield on Elaina’s outstretched arm. After all, she was sparring with a (once?-)mortal angel, halo glowing and wings extending to help her back off and force a reset of their footwork before Seelah could capitalize on the advantage she had taken. No amount of mortal artifice would make her seem special in the eye of the beholder.
And, as so often was the case, the eye of the beholder seeing only the beauty without deceived itself into missing the beauty within.
Mythic power had made Elaina the center of attention, put her on a pedestal, and made her one of two keys to ending the Worldwound once and for all. It was not what had made her special as a paladin. She was a knight of an order, used to working with in a hierarchy and in tandem with larger plans. She was a healer among her peers, and spend so much of her spare time learning a wide range of knowledge and lore. It was those talents that made her stand out.
Seelah had inherited Acemi’s armor and still felt that she had to make up for what Acemi could have done had she lived. Yet Seelah’s deeds were her own, and cast their own light to those often forgotten in grand quests. An errantry that led her to Mendev, and when the task was done would no doubt lead her beyond. Nenio had called her iconic, and Sosiel was inclined to agree with the assessment.
Both wanted a better world. Both pushed for it. Both had their own methods of doing it.
If given preference, both fought with sword and shield, as favored by Iomedae’s followers, but where Elaina fought on foot Seelah would fight on horseback or foot as needed. Seelah’s flexibility meant that more often she would fight with a lance on the battlefield, using the sword as a backup weapon or even using a different weapon entirely on foot, especially when she had Finnean. Elaina stuck to Radiance and her shield, but while she was skilled her technique focused on fundamental strikes brutally delivered.
Seelah reeled from one such hit as she got her shield up in time. Radiance knew that it was sparring and so the full power of the celestial spirit residing within was not brought to bear, but Sosiel still winced at the ferocity. He paused, taking a moment to steady himself as he sympathized with the cultists and even the demons that had faced that blade and the warrior wielding it. If he was to point to where the debate between whether the mythic power was making her an archon or angel began, he would point to that. Intimidation, and not the empty kind of egregiously spiky armor.
Though as he looked to his outline for Radiance, Sosiel could not help but muse at the irony. Seelah was the better fighter of the two as far as technique went on top of being a skilled cavalrywoman, yet it was Elaina that had bonded with a weapon. And speaking of that weapon, having met Yaniel during their time in the Abyss, Sosiel wondered if it was mythic power that had made Radiance resonate with Elaina rather than anything else, as he saw the parallels between Seelah and Yaniel. Then again, he considered how Seelah treated her horse: with kindness, working with it rather than trying to bend the steed to her will as often was the case with warhorses. It was a being in Seelah’s care, and Seelah gave it the best she could.
There were other contrasts at play, discounting what mythic power had done. How Elaina was the healer of the two, able to keep channeling energy and banish fatigue with a touch when Seelah would be spent with just the latter. Both could smite, but it was Seelah’s mark they followed when fighting the likes of Baphomet, Deskari, and soon Areelu Vorlesh herself.
Yet power was only a part of it, and a surface level at that. Sosiel frowned as he looked at his painting. What he was now thinking of was simply not something his medium was suited for. It was a lesson that Shelyn’s followers took to heart early on: every medium of art was worthy by its own merits. However, those merits meant that sometimes it was easier to do something with one medium in comparison to another.
An actor could show a range of emotion (and motion) that a still picture cannot, and in turn a picture can capture a specific moment easily lost in the performance. Yet a picture could paint what a thousand words could not, even if words could tell things that one would need to infer from a painting. And Sosiel was facing the limitations of his preferred medium.
He had no doubt that he could paint Seelah in the Half-Measure Tavern, cheerily singing along with the tavern and being the joy of the party, but it would not capture the joy in her voice and how it lifted others. Of how she was refusing to let her growing rank isolate her from the rank-and-file.
He could paint his recollection of him and Elaina discussing Common Rule in a spirited but friendly discussion, but it would not capture how they had both tried to use Supreme Elect Codwin and Queen Galfrey both being Iomedae’s paladins to support their specific stances.
Nor did he expect he could convey how Seelah had been the grounding rod that had helped keep Elaina from becoming detached the way that Queen Galfrey had, held up as a symbol of the Crusades. Reminding their Knight-Commander that circumstances had not transformed her nearly as much as she had thought.
Or how Elaina had cut through the doubts and reminded Seelah that her self-doubt proved her integrity. One only needed to look at the examples set by Hulrun or Regill to see what a lack of self-doubt led to, a danger that Seelah had already avoided but now understood how she had done so.
They were two-of-a-kind, approaching the same goals from different angles, and reinforcing each other in the face of adversity. And as the sparring finished, the two shaking hands and patching up their minor injuries, Sosiel felt satisfied with his work. He only caught a brief glimpse of those he painted, but that was what his painting was. A moment captured in time, trying to look at the vast experiences of mortal life through a keyhole.
Yet, it was such keyholes that provided a window to those who could not witness what the artist had.
Further catching up for Owlcatober - Day 19, Fools, featuring foolish warriors and a foolish wizard making a very good point.
[Ao3 Link]
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Elaina blinked. “I’m sorry, Krenat, could you repeat that?”
“What was unclear?” the Kellid warrior speaking for his fellows asked. “These filthy wizards are a liability, at best. It was they who released the demons in the first place! They should be cast out of the crusade!”
Elaina had to fight to not lean her forehead into her hand, pointedly shifting her hands forward as she sat in the council room and looked at those assembled. Ember was the one who had brought these warriors in, saying that they were scared and needed assurance. Ulbrig had nodded along with the entire proposal, while Irabeth and Anevia both looked as done with this as Elaina was. Nenio was also in the chamber taking notes, along with others in attendance or just being nearby on the council chamber’s balcony like Daeran and Woljif.
Hoping to make the issue clear, Elaina decided to address the most obvious problem. “You are aware that we are fighting a war against demons, in a war of attrition against an infinite enemy, that to win we must close a planar rift to cut off the demons?”
“Which is why we should not trust the arcane, for it caused this mess!” Krenat answered with a huff. “They are dangerous, with nothing to take the power away should they misuse it.”
“And who will take away your sword if you misuse it?”
“That is hardly fair, warchief,” Ulbrig cut in, shaking his head from where he sat. “One warrior with a blade can be readily matched by another. We’ve seen Shy’s rituals gouge Sarkoris along with the demons he blasts. That is something else entirely.”
“Knight-Captain Shy’s battlefield rituals are also the combined power of a dozen wizards, clerics, and occasionally one of the druids in the ranks.” Not that there were many, but Elaina hoped they would take the hint.
The fools did not. “It is not power he earned properly. Tell me, has Mendev grown lax in dealing with witches?”
“And how should witches be dealt with?” Ember pointedly asked.
Elaina stared and both Tirabades straightened up. Where had that venom come from? Daeran also looked over from the balcony.
Ulbrig either missed it, or decided to answer the question. “We would lock ‘em up in Threshold and throw away the key. Frankly, it’s the merciful option. In smaller clans they would just be killed before they started consorting with oglins.”
“I wonder,” another voice cut in and everyone turned to see Nenio, hand to her chin in thought, “do any of you perceive a logical connection between this deplorable custom and the subsequent demise of the country in which it was practiced?”
Ulbrig scowled, while Krenat and his followers seemed confused at the blatant implication. It took a few moments, but soon Krenat began to scowl as well but said nothing. Even the fool knew he had no good retort.
"And before what tribunal do you intend to challenge my authority?"
In October I did not manage to draw every theme, that I wanted for this challenge. I wanted to do one more theme, but I have not desided yet if I will.. I'm a bit tired after all 😁
Below is the version for very important negotiations with Rogue Traders 😀
