In which Phorg (local grung bardbarian) muses on home and the life it's had, and all its friends go "Wow you're a better person than us" because it's true
I still have not played any of these lads in an actual dnd setting but by god I love them all
~~
Phorg is sitting by the small pond in the grounds, rain pattering on the canvas awning that’s stretched over the decking. It has its feet in the pond, the water soothing away the dust and the aches of the road.
Thunder rumbles in the distance; Phorg taps its fingers against the decking in an answering rhythm and feels something settle in its soul, finally coming back to rest.
It’s home.
Phorg blinks, stilled by that thought. This hadn’t been home before. Home had always been the swamp, even after it had run away (been thrown out, whispers the voice that sounds like Karo, old and bitter), but something had changed.
It felt right.
Talons click against the wood behind Phorg, a concession from Karo, who tries hard not to sneak up behind anyone anymore.
They’d learnt not to after startling Chant too many times, her magic still volatile and destructive after years of neglect.
The aarakocra crouches just at the edge of Phorg’s vision, under the awning. “So,” they say, not removing their hood. “You came back.”
Phorg nods. There had been a moment, when the job had been done, that it thought it might... leave. It would have known the way; they weren’t so very far at all.
But the feeling had passed, with no need for Phorg to confront anyone that might have known it in the past.
And then it had come home.
“Good. Tosh would have missed you.” Karo is crouched so still they could be a statue. Their head is canted away, sharp gaze sweeping across the gardens.
Phorg hums an acknowledgement as the thunder rumbles again, just as distant.
“And your – old people,” Karo says carefully, as if the thought disgusts them. “Did you have to acknowledge them?”
“Did not go near enough.”
“Would it have helped?”
Phorg shrugs. “Help you?”
Karo huffs. “That is – different.”
Phorg croaks out some laughter. Karo relaxes their stance, almost dropping to a seated position on the planking.
“Don’t want revenge,” Phorg says. “Not like Chant.”
“Not like me.” Karo pats at the wood and then tilts forward to kneel, their wings flapping twice to counterbalance. “No. You’re better than all of us.”
Phorg frowns. “Tosh.”
“Tosh is a child. She doesn’t understand revenge.” There’s a fond undertone in Karo’s voice, though they’d never admit it.
“Razz.”
“Well-” Karo stops. “No, you’re right there. Razz wouldn’t take revenge, even though he really should.”
“Not everything solved with it.”
“I’d swear by it,” Chant says, swinging in from one side, landing heavily on the planks. She’s damp but not drenched, so she can’t have been outside for long.
“Because it served you so well,” Karo replies dryly, tense in a way that said she’d startled them and they hated that.
Chant shrugs. “It cleared out a den of evil, too. Although I did have to share.” She drops to sitting, reaching out to hit a gloved hand against Phorg’s back. “Took the high road though, did you?”
“No chance to choose,” Phorg replies.
“You would have, though. You’re good like that.”
Phorg frowns again. “Both of you say that.”
“Well, then, it must be true,” Chant says, and laughs at Karo’s horrified expression.
“Much as it pains me to admit it.”
“You know, you don’t have to keep pretending to hate me.”
“Who said anything about pretending?”
Phorg only half listens to their playful bickering behind it. It had never thought much about revenge, not even in the early days after leaving (being forced out for not fitting in right).
Maybe it should have. Would that have made those early days easier?
“Well,” Chant says, in response to something, “it would have been good in the moment. I think you would have regretted it before long.”
Phorg lets out a croak, looking around.
“Oh - sorry, was that like a rhetorical question? I can never get the hang of those.” Chant smiles. “But speaking as the only one of us who has successfully wreaked revenge, I don’t think it would help you. It’s better to – fill that with something else. Like...” Chant trails off, scratching at one of her horns as she thinks.
“Music,” Karo suggests. “That’s what they threw you out for, wasn’t it?”
“Left,” Phorg says, born of old impulse to defend its old traditions. “Not thrown. Wrong caste, so... stagnant. Hard to change.”
“That feels very...” Chant frowns as she thinks. “Splitting hairs.”
Phorg shakes its head. “Made my choice.”
Chant and Karo share a glance that Phorg doesn’t attempt to interpret.
“But yes,” Phorg says, allowing them that, “music. It is what I would fill the space with.”
Karo nods.
“I think it’s very sweet,” Chant says, falling backwards onto the decking. She braces her head on her hands to take the weight off her horns. “Gives me hope and all that.” She laughs. “Welcome home, Phorg.”
Karo clicks their beak in agreement.
“If you ever feel the need, though.” Chant reaches out with her boot to nudge at it. “We’d help. You know that, right?”
Phorg hums, letting everything lapse back into silence. Letting the rain fill out the space between them.
It was home. Its family was here now; the settlement it had come from left behind.
It didn’t need to destroy them to have its revenge, that would only help to prove their point about what Phorg was good for.
Phorg’s revenge came in doing what it loved, what it came out here to do.
… But maybe it would keep Chant’s offer in mind for another day.
Phorg grew up hearing stories of great battles and lost civilisations and the heroes that stalked the land, and decided that that was what it wanted to do. Be the one to tell those stories, to have an audience hang onto its every word. To travel and learn more and come back brimming with tales of heroic conquest that could inspire a new generation on towards greater things.
Unfortunately, its skin colour decided that it would be better served as a warrior. Phorg was given a weapon and a placement in the guard and was told to stay put. Be a good guard dog. Defend the small - or the smaller.
It put up with this as best it could, telling the stories in the barracks at night, around campfires, at any chance it could. Its first true battle was a horrific experience that was also the tipping point. In the aftermath, Phorg escaped. It ran, hoping that its platoon wouldn't follow, that they'd assume it dead.
