Dalamus has a handful of nicknames he has been called over the years.
Obviously, the most frequently used is "Dal". Several people in camp call him Dal. At first, he was frustrated by the assumption of familiarity, but quickly became tired of fighting it. A few camp members, like Gale and Wyll, still say his full name.
His older brother, Nilaufein, occasionally called him "lothinlu'thi", a Drowic word meaning "grub." It is considered a term of endearment and affection towards children--mostly said in private (if at all) in Menzoberranzan.
Karlach initially would occasionally call him "soldier" as she does others, having been part of an army, herself. It is a way she shows camaraderie. Dalamus, however, vehemently disallowed this. He was not a soldier, and would not be compared to the same sort of brute as his brother, Orgoll.
So, she came up with the nickname "Sunshine". Mostly for the irony. He begrudgingly allows this, not wanting to find out what the next name might be if he refused.
Lae'zel sometimes refers to him as "Drow" to his face, or "the drow" when referring to him with others.
Minthara, if recruited, prefers not to refer to him at all. Male. Silversmith. Anything but his name, because that would be acknowledging him a bit too much.
Nedvyllanna's nicknames for him were things like "Xi'hum" (zee-hoom, pet/plaything), "Seriso" (seh-rees-oh, lover), "Ste'kol" (steh-kohl, toy), "Ussta ssinjin" (ooh-stah sin-jihn, my sweet), etc. Any number of other names that, on the Surface, might be perfectly affectionate, but in cultural context of Menzoberranzan, labeled Dalamus as weak and subservient.
As for what Dalamus calls others, he tends to be.. condescending at first. Before learning names, he will substitute their race or class or some other trait for a name, such as "human". He might call someone "kivvil," meaning "surfacer". "Kivvin" is the plural form. "Mage" for Gale. "Old Man" for Belthan. "Vlos'dritalur" (vlose-drit-uh-lure) meaning "blood drinker/vampire" for Astarion. Etc etc.
Soft and affectionate nicknames are rare from him, considering how he grew up. He can very, very rarely be caught referring to Haleth as "lothinlu'thi" (lohth-in-loo-thee) or "grub", an affectionate nickname for children. Also rarely, if one is able to catch him talking to his cat, Alantha, they might catch him calling her "kutt'chud" (koot-chood), meaning "mold spore." This is affectionate, too.
When he realizes he loves Gloria, he still prefers to use her name over most sorts of nicknames. He might think of some affectionate names over time, though.
If your characters have any names or nicknames they call Dal, put them in replies <3 They do not have to be nice or affectionate :'D
I think Belthan probably sees Dalamus as like... one of the many tests he's been sent by Eilistraee. LET ME EXPLAIN it's not bad!! But for Bel, Dal is a stand in for the children he had that he wasn't able to save. one of the kids he was never allowed to treat as his child and care for. and now that he (kind of) knows how, he feels like he has that chance. and, bel sees it as mutually beneficial: *he* gets to do something to atone for what he did at his matron's behest, and dal gets put on a better track! he sees this as an absolute win.
Awwww ❤️
Ngl it gets me a little emotional knowing Belthan is thinking "I can save this one. I can save him. I have to try." For the sake of the ones who came before, and the sake of the ones who will come after. If he can just end the cycle of violence for one drow, that's countless generations of future drow that don't have to know that violence anymore.
He sees Dal's fright and confusion and knows exactly how that feels, and knows it can't be undone with brute force, but ALSO is aware that there's a time limit between now and when Dal might try to return to Menzo, and that puts stress on things--on top of the whole tadpole stress--so sometimes it's understandably frustrating.
Dal is just so attached to being a Lolthite that he views it as a core part of his identity, the load-bearing pillar of his being that, if removed, will reduce him to nothing. So having it chipped at is so frightening.
I still think about their interaction where Belthan put his hand on Dal's shoulder in sympathy and how for a moment there was a connection. And I think it wouldn't be too difficult to get Dal to admit his fears to Belthan in a way that can be concretely addressed. Whether Dal believes what Belthan says or not is unfortunately a mixed bag--he'd probably be inclined to insist against anything Belthan says, on principle, and then think on it later :')
And no doubt Belthan is going to be someone Dal goes to as he adjusts, for reassurance that he's on the right track.
"I've not had many friends in my time, but I'm glad to count you among them." From Belthan!
Dalamus is visibly caught off-guard, ears tilting downwards, crimson eyes immediately seeking signs in Belthan's face that he is lying.
But he finds no deceit.
Arms cross over his chest in what he thinks is a show of nonchalance, but what most understand as a sign of discomfort. He does not know what to do with sincerity--other than mock it.
"I suppose the Surface has made you soft. You should hate me."
Should, should, always should. As if people cannot choose for themselves. A test. He watches the older drow's face again.
Hatred makes sense, he thinks, since Belthan defected from Lolth while Dalamus remains loyal. Hatred would be easier. Simpler. But though he and Belthan have argued, Belthan has shown patience, too. Confusing.
He should not be making friends with a traitor to Lolth. He cannot deny the common threads of kinship. But he should.
A short fic featuring @roquenxnar's Haleth, taking place after this interaction with a sick Belthan.
As Dalamus exits the tent, a sound gives him pause. Pulling the hood of his piwafwi over his head casts a shadow on his face, relieving the glare from his vision, and donning his gloves hides his hands. Sensitive ears pinpoint the sound—Haleth, sitting quietly by herself, occasionally sniffling. Beside her is a little basket filled with long-stemmed white flowers and pine needles, and every now and then her hand disappears into it to grab more.
Allergies, perhaps? Or is she ill? This is exactly why such a young child should not be brought to the surface, he thinks. Aside from being robbed of her chance to become a respected Priestess, between exposure to the sun and exposure to illness she is not accustomed to, it is only a matter of time before—Haleth wipes at an eye with a little hand, then sniffles again, and Dalamus’ mental tirade subsides.
She is upset.
…Well, it is not his problem that she is upset. It is Belthan’s fault for pushing himself, getting himself into this position. If he had not gone into that swamp, he would not be in this situation, and Haleth would not be upset. It is not Dalamus’ responsibility to console her.
“Xal Usstan s’tharl ghil?” he asks. May I sit here? The small girl peers up at him and nods. Redness around her eyes tells him she has been crying, yet the lack of others to console her tells him she has kept it to herself. How very drow, to not alert others to her upset. Frankly, Dalamus is surprised no one else has volunteered to keep the child company, regardless of her emotions.
Dalamus gingerly lowers himself to sit beside her. Haleth’s little fingers work at the stems of the flowers to chain them together, eyes rarely leaving the task at hand. Repetition is an excellent distraction from discomfort. No need to think, or stir the heart, just breathe and keep moving. Muscle memory takes care of the rest. Dalamus knows the feeling. He does the same with his gem polishing.
But her shoulders stiffen as a worry breaks through her concentration, and little hands slow as she tries to push it to the back of her mind again.
“…Haleth,” he says quietly, and the girl lifts her face to him again. A twinge of emotion plucks at his heart as he looks upon her pout and shining eyes. Dalamus clears his throat. “Belthan orn tlu tenu. Zhah ilyithiiri. Zhah gareth.” Belthan will be alright. He’s drow. He’s strong.
Haleth sniffles again and wipes at her eyes with the end of her sleeve, further irritating the sensitive skin. But her little pout eases, and the ghost of a smile tips up the corners of her mouth. She nods in agreement, and returns her attention to her craft.
Several times, Dalamus thinks about leaving. The light and heat are weighing on him. Perhaps get some stones out to polish and get lost in his own craft. But something compels him to stay, and so he remains, rooted to this spot next to the sniffling child. If he had some clean cloth on him, he could at least get her to blow her nose. Alas.
A few minutes later, Dalamus feels a tug on the edge of his cloak, and turns his attention towards the girl again. She proudly presents the end result of her flower chain, a circle of white flowers with long petals and bright yellow centers, the ring a little larger than his palm. He glances from the flower ring, to her, and back again.
“Zhah whol dos!” she chirps. It’s for you!
“…Ussa?” Me?
At her enthusiastic nod, Dalamus carefully takes the ring of flowers from her and examines its craftsmanship. They are simple but charming with their large, fuzzy yellow centers, and the long white petals hide most of the stems. Hiding the connections and joints in jewelry helps it appear more cohesive, though whether this was a conscious thought on the part of the young girl or simply a coincidence, he does not know. Upon closer inspection, the stems appear to have been threaded through each other to create the chain, with the final loop being larger to encircle a flower and act as a fastener.
He removes his right glove and slips his hand through the flower bracelet. A bit big, perhaps, but donning his glove again assures that it will not fall off so easily. The delicate structure holds surprisingly well considering, or perhaps because of, the softness of the stems. Still, it is unlikely to last any significant stretch of time, and will eventually wilt and dry up. But the smile which alights on Haleth’s face right now, in the present, brushes away his thoughts on the ephemeral nature of the little flowers.
“Bel’la dos, Haleth,” he says, thanking her for the bracelet. Again her eyes shine, but not with sadness this time. Rather, a spark of pride and happiness ignites a wide smile and even a small giggle. It is a far cry from the puffy-eyed girl he sat down next to just several minutes ago. It is not his job to console her, he thinks. She is not his responsibility, he reminds himself.
But he does prefer this over her tears.
“…Xal Usstan xo’al?” May I try? He asks. No sooner had he finished the question than Haleth moved the basket of flowers between them, where both could reach.
She picks out flowers and begins showing him how to weave them together. She shows him which flowers are best to use—the ones with longer, more flexible stems, as short stems do not have enough room to split, and dry stems will break too easily. She shows him how to use the sharp end of a pine needle to poke a hole in the soft stem of a flower, like creating the eye of a needle through which another stem is threaded. The process is repeated until the chain reaches its desired length. The final stem must be long enough to accommodate a split which can fit the head of a flower without breaking open entirely, completing the closure.
The result is a large but delicate circle of flowers. To one used to working with metals, it feels flimsy and unfinished in his hands. He wants to embellish it more, to figure out how best to strengthen the chain to last a little longer. A single wrong tug will have this undone in an instant. He could try to double up the chain and weave more flowers in, but does not wish to deplete Haleth’s inventory.
He turns and gently places the large flower ring atop Haleth’s head, white and yellow flowers standing out against her dark hair. A perfect fit, of course. Like a crown.
She beams brightly again, stirring an unfamiliar warmth in his chest, and the determination to keep her from harm—or sadness, if he can help it. He does not know why. Not his child. Not his responsibility. If he cared at all about House politics, he might consider her a rival to his own House. But, well… He is no longer a part of House Strighym, is he? It is not his problem.
Dalamus announces that he is going to return to his tent, to get out of the sun, and Haleth nods understandingly. What he did not expect, however, was for her to follow him there. He sits at the only stool available under the cloth overhang, and Haleth seems fine with standing, placing her basket on the corner of the desk while she watches him. Dalamus makes a mental note to advise her to steal Shadowheart’s stool if she begins to appear tired.
In the spirit of returning favors, Dalamus explains his craft to Haleth and demonstrates with different stones. Though slightly more complicated than flower braids, he does his best to explain in a way she will understand. To shape a stone, one must grind it against grit that is harder than the stone to scrape away the material. As the stone becomes its desired shape, the stone must be cleaned and the grit must be changed, so that it removes less material and the scratches are smaller. Eventually, the grit is so small that scratches are unnoticeable, and a polishing material can be used. Such is the basics, at least, though in camp his materials are not exactly ideal.
He shows her a few different stones and names them, and Haleth makes her best attempts at pronouncing them.
Granite. “Granite!”
Agate. “Agate!”
Quartz. “Korts!”
Feldspar. “Fel… Feldsar. Felsbar!” Dalamus chuckles a little at this.
Dalamus takes a small, circular turquoise cabochon, nearly finished in its polishing, and sets up the final stage for Haleth to try her hand at it, just as she had helped him to create a flower chain. She takes the stone and scrubs it against the grit the way Dalamus showed her not moments before, though he suspects she may not have the arm strength to really finish it off. Once she gets tired, he finishes the polishing, and then hands it to her. She gave him a flower bracelet, and now she may keep the stone she helped to polish.
“Bel’la dos, Dal’mus,” She says brightly and throws her arms about his shoulders, and Dalamus cannot help the shocked gasp which escapes him at the sudden embrace. His eyes immediately seek out Belthan’s tent, worried the older drow might deem this unacceptable. He does not know the rules around the children of other Houses, or if Belthan would apply them here.
When at last he remembers how to breathe, and he is assured that he will not be smote by the Drowic Paladin, Dalamus brings a hesitant hand up to rest upon the girl’s arm, as much a return of the embrace as he can manage at this angle. He is reminded of when his younger sister embraced him, and he had gently pulled her off, discouraging her from doing so again. Not because it was unpleasant—although he was, and is, unused to the contact—but because it is discouraged in Menzoberranzan to show such affection openly. Softness. Weakness. Exploitable. But as Haleth snugs against him, he begins to wonder… why. What is so terrible about this that it must be discouraged?
That is a thought for a different time, and he shoves it to the back of his mind to be dealt with later.
“Dos ph’al’doer, Haleth.” You’re welcome, Haleth, he answers gently.
She releases him and leaves his side. For a moment, he believes she has gone to show Belthan the stone, but a quick scan of camp reveals she has gone to Karlach’s tent to borrow her stool.
Oh. Uh-oh. Haleth is showing Karlach the turquoise cabochon he gave her, and she has pointed to the flower crown on her head. Karlach beams widely, tail swishing with delight as she peers up in an attempt to catch Dalamus’ gaze from across camp, but he tilts his head back down towards his work, allowing his piwafwi hood to hide his face.
By Lolth, she is going to think him soft. All of them will, now.
But as Haleth makes her way back to the desk with wooden stool in tow and places it next to his own, the slight is forgotten. She climbs her way atop the seat, pulls her basket towards her, and begins weaving more flowers together, explaining that she wants to make one for her great grandpa, and maybe it will make him feel better. Dalamus does not argue against this idea of hers, flawed though it may be. Instead, he grabs a stone, and begins polishing.
They sit together in companionable silence—well, aside from the grating of grit against stone—comforted by the repetitive motions of their crafts and, perhaps, by each other.
‘ as you can see, i am not dead. ’ (from Belthan!)
"Not ready to stick your other foot in the grave just yet, hm, old man?" The hint of a smirk appears from under his piwafwi hood. His words seem more playful than anything.
Dalamus observes Belthan's miserable state with mild scrutiny. The older drow's yellowed eyes betray his flagging health, not that it could be kept a secret with his whimpering and groaning and sweating. His voice is weak and painful. He is going to need more than a simple cup of water to replenish everything. Not that Dalamus cares, of course.
"I have ideas," he admits a little too easily, too readily. "Compared to your current state, it might even be a mercy." But he makes no move to touch either of the daggers at his back, his hands and a couple bandaged fingers instead folded in his lap. Even as Belthan shifts and struggles to push himself into a more comfortable position, Dalamus offers no help.
You did not have to bring me water, he says, and Dalamus has half a mind to stand and leave the tent in that instant. The bristling defensiveness is immediate, shoulders tensing, and he is unsure why. Perhaps because Belthan is right--he did not have to bring the water. He could have asked someone else to do it. But he did not. Heat rises to his throat and the tips of his ears in embarrassment.
"Well, I did bring you water, and you are welcome. Sweating like a cave pig and looking more like a damned ghoul every second, you are liable to give Haleth a fright."
Drow. White hair. Red eyes.
He accosted me at the Grove, interrupting as I attempted to retrieve what was mine, gems taken from my pocket by a devil child. He introduced himself, but I recognized him. I knew of him as a paladin from a proud noble House. Now he lives on the Surface as a traitor. Worse, he has stolen a child.
He tells me he serves Eyeless Tree, sworn to help lost drow. But I am not lost. He has joined the group.
I will keep an eye on him.
Haleth
The drow child Belthan has brought to the Surface. I do not know why.
In Menzoberranzan she could be powerful. Revered. Here on the Surface, she is just a child. She displays curiosity and intelligence, but already trusts too much.
That said, I am interested to see what comes of the stones she offered me. Perhaps she will turn out to have an eye for quality gemstones.
“I refuse to discuss the matter further.” From Beltran :3
"Why?" He spits the question in Drowic with petulant frustration.
"You must know the way, yes? Once the parasite is gone, why would you even care what might happen to me should I return? And if..."
He trails off, a momentary pause, thinking on Belthan's previous words whenever Dalamus would bring up Menzoberranzan. The Paladin is so certain Dalamus will die, and as he ponders the evidence for the older drow's claims, he finds it now difficult to refute.
He has taken too long to speak. He feels it happen--a hairline fracture appears in his once seemingly unbreakable beliefs. ...He does not want to die.
"And if my death is Lolth's will, then so be it," he finishes quickly, saying what he knows he should, the correct thought, the right answer. But it does not mend the crack. It does not quell the fear, nor cure the shame he feels at his own hesitation. That he has strayed from Lolth even for an instant is unforgivable.
