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Mar 18, 2018

A Great Escapade

In which Arthos Sevrin has an interesting day.

Arthos is not mine. The story and secondary characters are though.

A Great Escapade

Emerald light filtered in through the trees. Morning had come and with it the melting of the snow. A clump of soaking fluff hit Arthos on the face, startling him off his branch. He fell to the ground, hands and tail flailing wildly. A pseudodragon chirped in concern.

This was not the ideal way to wake up, but the tiefling would just have to deal with it. He sat up, snow falling from his elegant horns. He blew a strand of black hair out of his face. He checked for potential wounds and sighed, the tip of his tail twitching in annoyance. He glared up to the sky with glowing eyes.

One of his pets flew down from the leaves, perching perilously on one of his horns. It chirped softly, burrowing into his hair.

That was one way to start the day.

Swearing, he climbed back up the tree and retrieved his things. He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder, hung the lyre on a hook at his hip. He gathered his food and other miscellaneous things he needed. He dropped back down to the ground, the talons on his feet trying to dig into the snow despite the shoes. A shiver rocked its way up his spine, and he pulled the cloak tighter around his shoulders, the mask higher up on his face. If it wasn’t for the hood over his ears he was certain the little points would have frozen off his head.

He picked a direction at random and started walking.

/*\

Winter was a dreadful time of year. Though he didn’t much care for the company of other people he could certainly use the money. Random adventurers liked the furs and leathers he sold, but during winter he wasn’t as likely to happen upon them. Even when he did, those people were more concerned with saving their money in case disaster struck in the middle of a snowed-out forest. Not unwise, but not exactly beneficial for the tiefling. It wasn’t that big a deal, Arthos was perfectly capable of surviving on his own. He’d been living by himself for a while, and he was an excellent hunter, gatherer, whatever.

That said, it was cold. Arthos would have loved to have enough spare change to rent a private room somewhere, even if for just one night. Amid the freezing winds and dealing with the cold slush leaking in through his boots, he would have done almost anything for a hot bath. After stepping in a particularly cold puddle, he caught himself growling. He didn’t like boots on the best of days. They felt odd against his skin, too tight around some parts of his feet and too loose at others. They didn’t work well with his talons, so he found himself routinely patching up holes in the toes. They were constricting, uncomfortable, and in some ways impractical. It was as though they’d been inexpertly made by someone who didn’t know how to work with anything other than a normal human foot.

“Now there’s a thought,” he muttered, “I could learn how to make boots. Tiefling boots. Tabaxi boots. Shoes for people with unconventional feet, made by people who know what they’re doing. I’d make a ton of money. I’d rent out nice rooms for the entire winter and never deal with the snow again,” he turned his head, “How’s that sound Estelle?”

The pseudodragon only chirped, burrowing herself deeper into the cloak. The other seven creatures adorned the rest of his body, seeking warmth. Estelle on one shoulder, two on the other. One of them hung on to his horn beneath his hood, and the remaining four had hidden themselves in deep pockets on his shirt.

Sometimes, having eight pets could be stressful.

But that wasn’t the point. The point was that it was fucking cold outside and he was stranded in it. As Arthos jumped fallen trees and skated around herds of deer, he found himself in a familiar situation. He was lost.

Unworried he continued walking, wandering over to his next destination. There was no telling what would happen when he got lost. It was both part of the appeal and the drawback to living the way he did. Occasionally he’d end up someplace he shouldn’t be and must fight something off for survival. Sometimes he wound up in interesting places, like hidden cities or guild camps. Places he could learn from and explore.

As Arthos pushed aside brush and tripped over buried sticks, he heard something. He stopped, cocking his head. There was the sound again.

He took out his knife. If there was an animal, it would prove useful. His food stores were running low and excluding himself he had eight mouths to feed. He’d be happy for an excuse to make a fire. He moved in the direction of the sound, careful not to make any noise. He crept closer, closer still. The bush rustled again. It seemed like something big.

Arthos was just about ready to slash away the leaves when a sound he’d never heard from any animal rang out. The bush was sniffling. Carefully, Arthos pulled aside a branch. There was no rabbit or boar hiding in the branches.

It was a child.

She was tiny, and not dressed for the cold. An old, ratty cloak had been wrapped around her shoulders, contrasting harshly with the silk dress she wore. Her fuzzy clawed feet recoiled from the snow, entirely bare as she curled into a ball. A tail with one tuft of fluff on the end was wrapped solidly around her body, and delicate horns rose from her scalp. A tiefling.

She shivered, tears streaming down her face as she looked up at him. She opened her mouth like she was screaming, but only a choked breath came out as another shudder rocked its way through her body.

As he looked closer he realized that her little dress was torn near the bottom. It was also stained with blood, and the girl was plainly terrified. Arthos wasn’t entirely certain what course of action he should take, but he knew one thing: he wasn’t going to just leave her there.

“Hey,” he said, “hey it’s alright, I won’t hurt you. What’s your name?”

“I-it’s Viara.” She squeaked, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Arthos. Are you okay?”

“Define okay.”

“Well, are you hurt?” He pointed to the blood on her dress. The girl shook her head.

“No. None of it’s mine.” She looked down at the ground, her fluffy brown hair falling into her face.

“Alright, that’s a good start. What happened?”

“I-I was with my mama. We were in a carriage. We had to leave town, and–”

“I see tracks leading this way!” A voice called from the distance. The girl gasped and curled in on herself further.

“That’s them.” She whispered. “Those are the people who attacked us.”

Arthos peeked around the tree to see four human men and one woman on horseback. They were headed towards the girl, following little cave-ins of snow. Her footprints. Normally Arthos would have been able to take them on in a heartbeat, even if he might not have necessarily wanted to. He was a good fighter, he could do it, but if he had a child to protect then that could very well be a different story.

He made up his mind quickly. He tore off his cloak, swathing the child in the warm fabric, and lifted Viara up into his arms. He bolted in the opposite direction.

It didn’t take long for him to hear scandalized shrieks, calling to follow the larger tracks.

/*\

Arthos did not appreciate being cornered.

He knew who these people were. He recognized the crests on their cloaks, their equipment. These people were slave traders. They were going to throw this coddled little girl up onto the slave block in a city where it was legal. She would earn them a nice chunk of gold after all. Just looking at her, anyone could tell that she’d grow up to be extremely pretty.

Arthos was almost shaking with rage. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so angry. He knew people like this existed, had seen them before, but he’d never engaged them. It had never fully processed in his mind the kinds of things they did until he was forced to speak with them.

They tried to promise him a share of the money, enough coin to be comfortable for several winters straight. They insisted that it was fine, it wasn’t like he knew this child personally. He was not moved in the slightest.

The bard was quick to draw the knives from his hips and the ringleader, a burly human fighter, whistled. He almost sounded impressed.

“Calm down music-man.” He placated, raising his hands up. “We just want the kid.”

“You miss the point.” Arthos answered, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t like slavers.”

The fighter looked on helplessly to his friends for help, but none came. They all glared at the bard evenly, anticipation brewing in their eyes. The tiefling got the feeling that they wanted this to end in a fight, so that they’d have an excuse to hurt him.

Perhaps enslave him too?

But he was ready. After all these years of living on his own, hunting with knives instead of a bow, he had his fair share of skills. If he didn’t love music so much, he might have chosen a different path in life. Arthos sent Viara climbing up a tree as his opponents drew their weapons. The fighter, throwing his hands up after failing at diplomacy, charged him.

Arthos was ready. The fighter had strength, but the tiefling was agile. He was much faster than the fighter, and so dodged the sword strikes easily enough. It wasn’t until he’d tripped the man with his tail and landed a harsh blow to the fighters’ side that the human threw his head back laughing.

“Good trick music-man.” The human complimented, investigating the gash, “Get rid of that lyre and you’d make one hell of a rogue.”

He said nothing as the fighter retreated and beckoned the other four forward. It seemed now that the real battle would begin.

Swords from opposite directions came at him, and Arthos just barely kept from having the tip of his tail cut off. He swung out at each man, hoping to catch fingers or wrists. Anything that would hinder them even just a little. The third man approached from the side, trying to creep up on his blind spot, but the bard wasn’t stupid. He whirled, catching the man by the front of his shirt and slamming the slave traders face into his right horn. Blood spurted from his nose and he fell to the ground, dazed.

As he fought of his adversaries, Arthos noticed that the woman had yet to attack him. She was taking the time to bandage up the fighters’ wounds. Not a healer then. Good. He danced and twirled away from the swords. Finally, he whistled, and the eight pseudodragons came flying out from the pockets in his clothes.

They attacked the assailants with no abandon. They blew flames at their clothes, scratched at their eyes. The tiny dragons kept them sufficiently distracted while Arthos took a moment to analyze the woman.

She was a quiet creature, taking just as much time to measure him up as he did her. There was no telling what she was capable of as she took off her hood and drew a pair of knives from her belt, not too dissimilar from his. She twirled them in her hands, and got into a stance, ready for her turn to face off with him.

Arthos’s tail twitched nervously. He’d taken on four slave traders – three at once – and had won thus far. He could still hear the cursing and agonized yelling as the pseudodragons managed to land some hits.

“The fucking things just blinded me!”

“It’s fucked up my face!”

But that wasn’t important. The woman attacked.

Arthos tried to keep with his strategy of dodging, but soon realized that wouldn’t work. Like him, she was fast, and she’d managed to slice up his arm pretty good. He shook off some of the blood but did not relent.

He went on the offensive. He didn’t want to kill her, just incapacitate her. As much as he wanted to save Viara, who stared down skeptically from her branch, he was scared that the woman wouldn’t leave him much choice. They slashed at each other in a demented sort of ballet. As they swung and dodged and swung and dodged again it almost appeared choreographed. The woman, throwing everything she had at him with a glinting knife. Arthos, just barely ducking before she was able to take out his eye.

They were almost equal. It became apparent quickly that Arthos wouldn’t be able to take her down as quickly as the others. It would require patience, skill, and maybe some luck. That became more and more evident with every move she made. Arthos realized that she was no longer trying to hit him, rather, she was herding him.

The realization didn’t quite sink in until she had him backed up against a tree, the bark scraping his back and her knife against his throat. He raised his hands up slowly, dropping the knives as his brain raced to find a solution, any trick or strategy to get him out of this alive.

The woman wore a smug look on her face. She opened her mouth as if to say something, and that was when his opportunity arrived. A snowball soared down from the branch and the woman, startled, glared upwards.

“L-leave him alone!” Viara stuttered.

“Why you little brat–”

Arthos took the opportunity to grab her head and slam her face into his knee. She shrieked in surprise before being thrown to the ground, quickly losing consciousness as blood streamed down her face. The tiefling looked around. He’d been lucky, he incapacitated them all. Two were unconscious and two more moaned in pain. The fighter grimly looked on. Arthos retrieved his weapons and, as calmly as he could, walked up to the wounded man.

“If we don’t hand that kid over, music-man, we’re dead.” He stated, his face pleading. Arthos pointed the knife at the fighter.

“If you ever come after this little girl again, I will find out. And when I do, I’ll come for you myself.”

/*\

Viara had been quick to fall asleep. Arthos carried her in his arms, as she lacked proper footwear. She was exhausted, and probably didn’t feel too well being covered in blood. He wasn’t sure where the next town was, but he’d already resigned himself to only having one meal a day so that he could feed her until they found some sign of civilization.

He’d hugged her close, reassuring her that the bad people wouldn’t come for her anymore. She’d clung to him like a lifeline, trying desperately to calm down. After some brief words, trying to distract her from her terror, he found out that she was half elf. He was delighted to find an in. Elven music was one of his specialties. He sang a lullaby for her, hoping that it might calm her. It worked. She’d remarked that it was the one her mother used to sing her. The child, getting warm and comfortable, fell asleep on his shoulder soon enough. She’d liked the pseudodragons too, letting half of them curl up on her stomach as Arthos carried her through the snow. She was content to scratch them under the chin or rub their little paws as she managed to relax and drifted off, the tears little more than stains on her small violet face.

Arthos quit singing and resorted to humming, trying to make the time pass quicker. The girl wasn’t heavy, but he wasn’t used to carrying other people around. His arms tired soon enough, and he wasn’t sure when he should stop. He knew that those people would be back with a vengeance, unless their leader deemed it a lost cause, but he didn’t think that was a risk he could take.

This had been a weird day, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. He was ill-equipped to take on full-time responsibility for a kid, but he couldn’t leave her out here either. It was abundantly clear that she had no survival skills of her own, not that he’d have left her if she had.

Arthos sat down on a log, almost breathless. The gash on his arm stung, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out. He took a moment to carefully lean the sleeping girl against his shoulder, so he could check his supplies. He wondered how to sort out the bedding situation. He didn’t want her to get frostbite, but he didn’t want frostbite either. That was when he heard it. Horses, traveling along cobblestone.

He picked Viara back up, peeking around bushes and trees to make sure it was no one hostile. Arthos saw a traveling merchant, slowly making his way through the snow on horseback. He was traveling west, and Arthos considered asking for directions when he saw it. A spire jutted out through the trees, and he realized he could smell smoke. From fireplaces perhaps?

It was worth a shot, and excited at the thought of society being so close – ironic, for someone who so disliked other people – he quickly leaped out onto the road.

/*\

The town wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small either. There were bakers and blacksmiths, and a shop for clothes even. Things made of silk and other luxurious textiles. There was a church, the source of the large spire, and houses littered the outskirts of the town. Places with garden boxes or goats. One home even had a cow, lazily digging through the snow for some grass.

Arthos wasn’t sure where he needed to bring the child. He wondered if maybe he should look through the neighborhood, to see if there was anyone willing to take her in. He discarded the idea quickly enough. Maybe the church? Sometimes they had dormitories for young orphans. The criteria well-described Viara, but the bard wasn’t sure if he was comfortable with that. Viara wasn’t a normal child, she was a tiefling. He hesitated to leave her with people who would more than likely tell her that she was evil, that her very existence was an unnatural abomination.

And if they accepted her? He dreaded the thought of the young girl getting brainwashed into being a cleric or something like that, forged into a religious weapon rather than a person, but it wasn’t really his decision to make. She wasn’t his kid. He hadn’t even known she existed until a few hours ago. Who was he to make those kinds of judgements? He didn’t even know these people, especially not enough to know what they would do. Reluctantly, he climbed the steps into the steeple. The devout annoyed him.

Especially when he got splashed with holy water.

Carefully he knocked on the door and waited, apprehension building up in his stomach. He wasn’t even sure what day of the week it was anymore, but churches weren’t institutions with set hours. There was always someone there, ready to take in the poor, the hungry, the homeless.

Anyone, except for people like him.

Slowly the door opened, and the worn face of an old priest in white robes greeted him. White eyebrows flew up in surprise.

“What’s this? A tiefling with…another tiefling?” The old man asked, bewildered. He cocked his head at Arthos. The bard assumed he must have seen something – a look on his face, the tensing of his muscles – to tip him off. The priest hid a little further behind the door, wary. Arthos could see someone, a paladin maybe, staring at him through the cracked opening. He had a hand resting on his sword. As much as that grated on the bards’ nerves, he had to play nice.

“I’m not here for a fight.” Arthos reassured, his voice even. “I’m here because I know some churches take in orphans.” He gestured to the girl in his arms. The priest opened the door a little wider.

“I see. You’d better come in then. Do you like tea?”

Arthos was startled by the question.

“Yes, I’m fond of it.” He answered cautiously.

“Good, good, I’ll put on the kettle. Lyana! We have visitors!” He called into the building, waving the man and child through the main hall. Arthos realized the old priest had a cane, as it started clicking with his steps against the grayed stone. The tiefling followed.

Perhaps this would not end as badly as he’d feared.

/*\

The old man led him into a small yellow kitchen. There was a large bay window with plain white curtains tied back. There was a table, just big enough for around four people. To the side there was a small stove, accompanied by a slightly larger counter. There was a large closet in the corner, for food perhaps? The old man insisted that Arthos have a seat, and he managed to relax some as the old man took notice of his arm, while his granddaughter took care of Viara. At least Arthos assumed it was the priest’s granddaughter. Or were priests the ones who remained celibate? He couldn’t remember.

Lyana was a pretty woman he supposed, a human girl with dark hair and a witty tongue. She was dressed in holy raiments as well, but hers were black instead of white. She was immediately taken by Viara. The moment she’d walked into the tiny kitchen she’d cooed excitedly at the sleeping child. She asked her name and if she could get the girl changed into clean clothes. In that respect, Arthos was happy to let her take over.

As Lyana scrounged up some fresh linens for Viara, he recounted the story to the priest. He told him about how he found her, the slavers, everything. The old man hummed at intervals, never looking away from Arthos’s arm. The bard explained that he hadn’t had time to patch up, he’d been too busy running away with the little girl. The priest nodded sagely, standing up to retrieve some bandages.

“I’ve never liked slavers, lazy cowards the lot of them.” He spat, “Preying on the meek and selling them. You never see them go up against soldiers or sorcerers. It’s not right I tell you. Here, put some of this on that cut.” He handed Arthos a jar of salve.

“What is it?”

“Ointment, to make sure the wound doesn’t get infected.”

Curious, Arthos investigated the substance. It was white in the jar, but clear and waxy on his fingers. It smelled sweet, like honey and lavender. As soon as he spread it on the wound, the bleeding seemed to stop. The priest hobbled back over, a bundle of gauze in his hand. He asked a few more questions about the incident as he wrapped the cut.

“That poor girl. She must be hoping that this is a nightmare, and that she’ll wake up soon.”

“No kidding,” the bard agreed, “I feel bad for not being able to do more for her.”

“Son,” the priest said, “You did more than you think. Not a lot of people would have stopped to help, especially considering her blood. Something tells me you know a little bit about that.”

“Perhaps,” Arthos answered, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation seemed to be going. The priest opened his mouth, as though to pursue the subject when Lyana came back.

“Alright, she’s all settled in. I made sure she hasn’t got frostbite and got her all sorts of blankets.” She said.

“Good,” the priest answered, “I’ve almost got her friend fixed up.”

Lyana wanted to know what happened, but Arthos wasn’t in any mood to recount the story for a second time. He managed to get out of it when the tea kettle whistled. The priest was about to stand up, but the bard stopped him. He offered to make the tea while the priest filled the woman in.

The old man was reluctant, but eventually allowed Arthos to do as he pleased. It was probably better for his legs, back, whatever he needed the cane for to continue sitting down. The bard didn’t like the idea of the old man breaking himself while the tiefling was here. The way his luck rolled, they’d probably blame him if the priest hurt himself.

He hunted cabinets for tea leaves while the two humans spoke softly among themselves. He filled up the teapot and prepared the tray while they speculated on what might have happened.

“So, her mother isn’t alive anymore?” Lyana asked once Arthos sat back down, distributing tea cups.

“I don’t know, but I felt it was safer to assume not.” Arthos answered, not pausing in his task. “She was already being pursued by those slavers, and she was covered in someone else’s blood. I was just concerned with getting her out of there.”

“Fair enough.” The woman answered softly, sympathetically. He couldn’t help his eyebrows. He wasn’t used to sympathy. He wasn’t sure he liked it either. He opened his mouth to reply when the priest spoke.

“What do you think we should do here, Lyana?” He asked. The woman grinned.

“I sent word to the Morningdawns.”

“Lyana, the poor thing hasn’t even woken up yet.” The priest scolded. Arthos tried not to flinch at the word, “thing.”

“Who are the Morningdawns?” Arthos asked, lifting his teacup to mask the concern on his face.

“They’re a couple in town,” Lyana explained, “A tiefling couple. They recently discovered they cannot have children, I thought they might be a good fit for Viara’s needs. Temporarily at least.”

/*\

The Morningdawns seemed nice. The husband – Taeryn – was huge maroon man, two inches taller than Arthos (not including his horns) and twice as wide. Hooves clacked on the ground, and a speared tail swished excitedly back and forth. Black braids fell from his scalp, pointed ears peeking through, and bright green eyes glimmered as he greeted Arthos.

His wife did not match him in the slightest. Mrs. Morningdawn was a slim blue woman by the name of Avala. She barely came up to her husband’s chest. She was the shortest person in the room even with her curved horns, ornamented with silver rings and fragile chains. She looked like she could be related to the child, with the same wild bronze hair and a gentle fanged smile. She had dragon claws for feet, and a small tuft of fur on the end of her tail.

Avala was the first to inquire about the whereabouts of the child and expressed concern for her wellbeing. She asked when they could meet her. She glanced over to Arthos, an intrigued expression on her face when they mentioned that he was the one who saved her.

“It’s nice to meet you, Arthos Sevrin. It’s not often we meet other tieflings.”

“I know the feeling. I couldn’t tell you the last time I saw another tiefling and here I’ve met three in one day.” He stated wryly.

The presence of others like himself set him a little more at ease, especially when he realized that the two humans were entirely unbothered by them. It wasn’t like they were tieflings, but other people too. It was an odd thing to see, though not exactly unwelcome.

They chatted amongst themselves, Arthos taking the time to have another cup of tea. He wanted to make sure that Viara would be well cared for. He saved her life, and so was responsible for what happened to her now. The warmth inside the church was also not uncomfortable.

He discovered that the couple had come here from far away. They’d been adventurers, raiding dungeons and killing monsters with their friends. They could protect her from her enemies, teach her how to protect herself. They eventually decided to settle in a quiet little town they’d come across in their travels. This settlement didn’t have issues with tieflings the way that many others did. They were happy here and were more than willing to offer Viara that same opportunity.

“We can’t offer her regular gifts of silk or jewelry, but I think we’re perfectly capable of giving her a good life.” Avala said, staring at Arthos hopefully. She was waiting for him to voice his approval it seemed, and her husband sat with an arm around her shoulder. He stared at Arthos carefully, perhaps waiting for the same judgement.

The bard was a little uncomfortable. He didn’t feel qualified to make this decision at all, but he realized that no one else was either. Being the one who saved her, who’d spoken with her, who knew her in any real way, he was the one who had the power. He decided whether she got to live with these people, and he knew that his time was running out.

Luckily, however, Arthos was a very good judge of character. This couple seemed genuine, and he knew that they wouldn’t mistreat her for the way she’d been born. They’d been born the same way. That mattered more than almost anything else.

Arthos told them that he thought they’d be a good match for Viara.

/*\

The Morningdawns offered to let him stay the night while the wound on his arm healed, the magic salve doing its work. They wanted no money, as his allowance of their adopting Viara had been the greatest gift of their lives.

When morning came they let him take some of their food and outfitted him with better boots. They told him about a bootmaker in town who was kind enough to make custom shoes for Mrs. Morningdawn, so that her claws didn’t poke through the leather. If he mentioned their names, he should be able to get a discount.

He thanked them for the advice and set back out on his journey. He couldn’t deny that he was still a little concerned for Viara and her fate, but it was moot now. It was time for his next adventure.

#arthos sevrin #mackenzithart #d&d #fanfic #not my dude #he's cool though

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