Solace just cemented his position as third party member to physically strike Romar, the second to do so out of the unbridled fury he provokes, and also cemented his utter hatred of him! Great position to be in when you’re in a tight-knit party together and rely on each other to stay alive.
[Image: a digital comic drawn in black and grey, depicting a conversation between Romar, a strongly-built human man with a topknot, covered in tattoos, and Solace, a very gaunt drow in a heavy wool coat and hat.
Romar stands, self-righteously delivering his point: “no, slaves are beasts of burden, they don’t have souls-“
He’s then cut off by Solace, gesturing in outrage with his walking cane in hand, who says, “so you mean to tell me that upon emancipation I was just suddenly bestowed one?!”
Romar enthusiastically answers, “yes!” His face then contorts comically as the handle of the aforementioned cane is swung into it at speed. End ID.]
They then exchanged a few letters, after Solace recognised that he should nip his fury in the bud before Romar drove him to commit anything even more violent and impulsive, and stomped away to seethe on his own. Those are pretty amusing, and under the cut.
The first letter has no image, but its text read:
“Romar,
I wanted to acknowledge having struck you with the handle of my cane. While I do not shirk responsibility for letting my temper get the better of my judgement, I also do not believe that you had no part in sufficiently and deliberately agitating it to such an extreme, and my opinions on yours remain in unchanged abhorrence. I cannot say I am inclined to like you in any great measure, and must admit that itself is a generous phrasing of the fact. I nonetheless owe you an apology; wanton violence is an unintelligent and ineffectual way to resolve disagreement, and I do not wish to be in truth or rumour the kind of man who resorts to it. Your words struck a nerve, and I faltered, and for that I am deeply ashamed and sorry.
I do not need your forgiveness, but I do hope we can go forward from this incident in a gentlemanly manner.
Yours finitely,
Solace Petrichor.”
The second letter is a reply from Romar (which I was delighted to receive as an image from his player, my friend Chris):
[Image: the second letter. It’s typed to look handwritten, in elegant red text on aged-looking paper, with a bloodstain in a suspiciously similar red colour in the bottom right corner. It reads:
“Solace
It is well understood that those that resort to violence as a last resort of debate know are only showing frustration in failure. It is clear that the realities I spoke were for you recognised as uncomfortable truths you were unable to reconcile between your emotion and intellect, which were clearly at odds with each other bringing on self hate. Unwilling to accept the truth you struck out for this I bear you only pity and no ill will.
However, to suggest that my words were but trivial agitation, likened to the mercurial mistreats of Allva is a profound insult to my church and true faith Such an affront, as transgressions of others I have already recorded cannot be readily forgiven. Therefore at a future time when opportunity presents itself there is a debt in kind to be paid.
Yours patiently
Romar”
End ID.]
Solace was, understandably, only further perturbed. He then scrawled out a rebuttal, though never actually delivered it. (I hand-wrote his response, thoroughly charmed by the effort Chris had put into Romar’s.)
[Image: the third letter. It’s handwritten (digitally) on similarly aged-looking paper, with dark ink, in Solace’s near-incomprehensible scrawl. It reads as follows:
“Romar,
I would like to congratulate you on earning the title of second-most infuriating man I’ve ever met. I understand now that a favour to you is not an exchange between equals, but a system of blackmail with which you lord power over your contemporaries at the excuse of showing toward them any feeblest action of goodwill, and indulge the sick fantasies revelling in the pit in your soul moulded in the negative image of conscience. Consider the favour I supposedly owe returned in the undue respect I have, up to this point, shown you. Consider it paid. Should I prove myself foolish enough to be found in your debt again, know that I will resign from this position by doing you the kindness of restoring any stolen symmetry to your face by striking it from the other side.
Yours resentfully,
Solace Petrichor.”
End ID.]
Solace balled up the letter and tossed it across the floor, hoping his temper would have been sufficiently caught in the words or creases to collect dust in tandem. Even through the red haze, he knew how futile it would be to deliver it, and that his straws would break long before the camel’s back. No, he told himself. Anger has no seat at this table. There is work to be done; waste not your oil on burning daylight.
He leant back on the bed of the inn, conscious that he should be making the most of the chance to rest while there was still more than a couple inches of bedroll between his weary bones and the cold, callous earth. If he wanted to sleep so close to daisy roots, he’d do it grinning up at them from the solace of his grave.
Familiar fragments of poignance swam in his mind. The stars were winking at him through the gap in the curtains, and the air outside had handled the evening as gently as its bitter chill could do. It would be foolish to waste such mercy on anything but appreciation.
He drew his instrument and began, with masterful quiet, to tune it, and then to play, letting the feeling guide him along nebulous melodies and distant, glowing chords, charting through the fog to familiarity and meaning. Though it hung heavy in the air, he could feel it about to clear, and some ray of sunshine - however fleeting - waiting patiently to fall on him.
