i originally posted this here on an ask from @definitelynot-darcy (thank you so much again it means the world) but i'm also putting it here! as always any and all feedback is appreciated
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He woke up with the taste of old blood in his mouth.
Eyes squeezed shut against the memory of burning sun he felt the ragged gums where his fangs used to be.
He breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the almost familiar sensation of air in his lungs. The pulse at his throat, his wrist, the warmth under his skin new, and yet an old ghost.
He fumbled for the false set of teeth on his nightstand. As wretched as it felt to have that sharp memory in his mouth against his tongue and lips, it stopped the dryness at the back of his throat, the way he felt like screaming in pain he hasn’t truly felt in centuries.
Opening his eyes, he still jumps at the sight of sun spilling onto the sheets, onto his skin. Wearily, he sat up, feeling an unfamiliar ache at the nape of his neck. Sleeping was something he had forgotten over the years, never indulging in the rest he had in life. Previous life. Undeath always had that strange phrasing to it, never quite distinct enough to discuss, blurrier still now that he had removed himself from it. Or removed it bodily from himself, if he were to be honest.
Honesty still hurt.
Lying had come naturally, like a compulsion he couldn’t help but wrap himself in and let it seep into his skin. It was so much easier to drink of and mangle the body of truth when it came knocking. And though he had never heard it spoken, as so many of the rules of his undeath had been quietly learned, he was never quite sure if the lies were part of him, some joke meant to plague those who reveled in it less, or if he had just always been that way, and it had been exaggerated in the transformation.
Humanity had not always been so strange to him. Once he had been a child, as most things have been, and he had bled and breathed and bounded across the stages of life. He was sure there had been an old family, though he no longer remembered the name they had given him. They had mattered so little after he had been bitten.
Where the memories of youth and life shine so bright, the time before he had fully transformed had always been gray and hazy. Just the pain of being drained but the unnatural fulfillment brought by the trance he had been under.
He had never taken thralls. It was a cruelty he couldn’t quite stomach. Or perhaps it had been the threat of responsibility.
And the sharpness of transmogrification. The way the world itself had become more angled, more vicious to even look at. The comfort in the dark and the biting fire of attempts to exist under the sun. The pain so great and terrible anything he had ever felt and would ever feel would pale in comparison.
He wasn’t sure if undoing the change had hurt more, or if the act had simply reminded him what suffering was.
The wall ahead of him blank, he reeled his thoughts away from the memories. Stopped himself from the same spiral he fought every morning. Slowly, he climbed out of the bed, bones groaning without the old strength holding them up and muscles straining without supernatural aid. He sipped the water he had left for himself the night before, swishing the taste of copper out of his mouth.
He turned, glancing at the window, curtains shoddily drawn across. The bookshelves, less dusty than they had been in innumerable decades, almost new bedsheets despite their age, carpet from centuries prior only now seeing foot traffic.
And the door, still locked from the other side.
He closed his eyes again, feeling his weight on his feet. Letting his shoulders slump and his chin fall against his chest, he breathed. In, out, air still the stranger in his lungs as it had been when he had woken up every day since he tore the fangs from his mouth and the bloodlessness from his veins.
He readied himself for the wailing at his door come dusk, for the books he would more likely than not read time and time again until mortality at long last claimed him.
For now, he felt the sun on his skin, and reveled in the aches and pains in his body, and opened his eyes, unflinching in the light.
this is eventually going to be a larger project but for now this is some character backstory for two of the dnd characters im currently playing! for some frame of reference zoril is a tiefling eventual warlock of the fiend (his patron is a plotpoint that hasn’t come up yet in what i’ve written bu o do know who it is) and ildien is a fallen aasimar shadow sorcerer and yes the “lore” gets a bit weird but they’re both for one shots its about fun not accuracy
anyway both of these are on the longer end and the format is a bit weird so im putting the first section of each character above the cut, but they’re separate in their (almost) entirety below the cut
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Zoril was never a truly quiet child— he was never going to be anything else. In a different life, a different time, perhaps. But in this one, his life was chosen first by his mother when she left him to be raised alone by his father.
It was no fault of hers, really. It can be difficult to co-parent a child when the other parent in question is one of the kings of the nine hells.
But this is not a tale of unlikely parents. It is of unlikely children. And first, is Zoril.
Zoril was raised bouncing between the hells, never staying particularly long in one before he was passed to the next, although his time in his father’s domain was always the longest. The other rulers didn’t quite understand why the tiefling child was left to live very long, much less run amok among the denizens of the underworld.
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Ildien had often wondered why his parents had left him. Many would have been grateful to have the celestials near. He often came to the conclusion that he had never looked precisely good-bringing. He had never really looked precisely human, as far as he could remember. Not that he was, but he had heard of others like him who could blend in with ease.
He had been told by those that had raised him that his parents had come to the church stammering and clutching at themselves like madness had overtaken them, muttering strange things about their child. The church Elder had asked to see the child, only for it to be thrown into her arms as the couple backed away and never returned.
Of course Ildien was only told this when the Elder had died.
Zoril was never a truly quiet child— he was never going to be anything else. In a different life, a different time, perhaps. But in this one, his life was chosen first by his mother when she left him to be raised alone by his father.
It was no fault of hers, really. It can be difficult to co-parent a child when the other parent in question is one of the kings of the nine hells.
But this is not a tale of unlikely parents. It is of unlikely children. And first, is Zoril.
Zoril was raised bouncing between the hells, never staying particularly long in one before he was passed to the next, although his time in his father’s domain was always the longest. The other rulers didn’t quite understand why the tiefling child was left to live very long, much less run amok among the denizens of the underworld.
But Zoril’s father had his reasons. Zoril hoped this was the case, anyway. His father was the only one who never seemed to, at least overtly, cast him away. And so, despite bouncing between others, he was always Zoril, Prince of the Hells and Heir to Mephistopheles’ throne, should he ever leave it.
He had his tutors in the form of the souls who had made bargains with his father, though they always seemed to be removed whenever they attempted to reveal any regrets they may have had about the deals they made. He made friends with the passing imps and quasits, coercing devils into joining his games.
But there were also the lessons of his father, beginning as Zoril grew into his horns. Lessons taught within the palace walls. Never to perform a task without proper payment, to always know when respect and treachery are due. To know that even though his mother had given Zoril fire when he lived in a realm of ice and his nature was freer than the strict hierarchies of the hells, he was a Prince of Cania, that he was owed his rights to the world. But also to know that these rights must, at times, come second to the end goals of ambition.
And as Zoril continued to grow into these lessons and his adolescence, he was allowed and encouraged to begin to venture into the material planes, however he could. To witness the mortal lifespan he was left with, and the mortal souls he may one day be able to take.
His time on the surface was yet another teacher. Of want and desire by those who were raised with mortality. Of the passion it brings. As well as how to remain in the shadows, and when to leave them. How to grow close to another and leave them behind, desperate and ready to make a bargain.
But many of these required quiet, and as he grew taller into adulthood, Zoril found that endless energy again boiling underneath his skin, tired of being taught.
And so he found what he considered the second-best thing mortals had ever dreamed up: brawling.
He was always faster than he was strong, charming more often than fighting, but he could never argue against an adrenaline rush.
His trips into the material plane began bringing him more scars than potential souls for the devils of his home, and as he marched, smiling, into the palace of Cania, Mephistopheles had laughed, a great deep thing, gesturing with one clawed hand toward serving devils. And so his weapons training finally began.
It was not too many years after this that he was one of the top fighters at a ring he had come to frequent. Despite its allowance of magic, Zoril had taken to maces and flails rather than learning spells, letting the illusion of strength and slowness keep his opponents surprised.
It was a night like any other at first. He had been on a roll, undefeated for a week. But the whispers around the room as he readied himself spoke of a newcomer, some challenger from out of town, apparently desperate to fight someone who could pose a threat.
He wanted to laugh as he checked the leather grip of his favoured weapon. Instead, he volunteered to be the one to graciously defeat whoever this mysterious newcomer was. Then he laughed, joining the others around him as another fighter clapped his back and Zoril stepped into the ring.
If he had any less composure he was sure the newcomer would’ve knocked the grin right off his face as his laughter trailed off and he swung his flail up over his shoulder, barely thinking enough to not himself.
They were tall, towering even over the elaborate spines and curls that Zoril’s horns had grown into. Long dark hair tumbled onto pale purple-grey shoulders that sloped gently up into a set face and bright-burning purple eyes. Elaborate red acolyte’s robes draped over their frame, giving away their origins.
At least to anyone watching— Zoril himself was utterly lost in the newcomer, looking them up and down, barely catching himself as a wave of fire was hurled in his direction.
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Ildien had often wondered why his parents had left him. Many would have been grateful to have the celestials near. He often came to the conclusion that he had never looked precisely good-bringing. He had never really looked precisely human, as far as he could remember. Not that he was, but he had heard of others like him who could blend in with ease.
He had been told by those that had raised him that his parents had come to the church stammering and clutching at themselves like madness had overtaken them, muttering strange things about their child. The church Elder had asked to see the child, only for it to be thrown into her arms as the couple backed away and never returned.
Of course Ildien was only told this when the Elder had died.
He had been 12 at the time. Until then he had been told that the elder, Elder Calla, was his mother. Then another acolyte had snidely commented that he didn’t have the right to mourn, after all, she wasn’t even really related to him. He had been told the real story later that night.
It was not long after that when Ildien’s magic began to change. It had always been something they could do, it came naturally. But light grew to darkness, the blossoming healing abilities seemed to wither away as he began to drift farther from human, even away from the celestial blood in his veins.
It was then, too, that Hadrariel became as distant as the light that once surrounded him.
Until that point, Hadrariel has been a constant companion, whispering kind words and gentle guidances, a second parent. In young Ildien’s eyes, another liar.
Truly it was not Hadrariel’s fault— though perhaps it was not Ildien’s either. It had been a long day, the day of Elder Calla’s funeral ceremonies. The loss was still sharp, and the leering gazes of older acolytes and unspoken words were constant needles, pressing into his skin. He had been the last to speak to the Elder, and was, therefore, the last to bid his farewell before the body was burned.
The memory of it was still a burning sear. The peace in the lifelessness of the corpse, another deception. The pitying eyes of her replacement. The ever-pressing gazes around him, narrowed eyes and silent laughter. And then the faint weight of Hadrariel’s gaze, an invisible hand on Ildien’s shoulder.
Shadows had lashed out of him, tipping the room into the grey of twilight, before the sudden pitch black of night as pain had ripped through him, tearing him to pieces.
Then as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. The shadow fled from the room, slinking back to the soles of Ildien’s feet as he gazed at the skeletal remains of his wings, on display of their own accord. The absence of the weight of their feathers echoed in the void left behind by Hadrariel’s flight and the strange stillness in his chest.
He had looked on, to Calla’s body.
It was the last time he cried.
The following years were long— Ildien was yet an acolyte of the church of [], he had his duties and still lived within the church. But the laughter that may have turned to friendship instead turned to fear and quick glances. The new Elder was not kind as Calla had been. Ildien was labelled a bad omen, banned from certain ceremonies.
Most ceremonies aside from funerals, in fact. At these he was allowed, if only so no one else had to be near the corpse.
When not being put to the undesirable tasks, Ildien remained in his room, watching the torch fire make shadows dance across the wall as he read himself to restless sleep. Time seemed to pass slowly and quickly all at once, slipping through his fingers as he gazed on, indifferent.
He knew the church would release him once he was of age, no longer obligated to keep him as their ward. The only thing that had stopped them from throwing him out sooner was the new Elder’s idea of image.
But as he grew closer to this release from the church, it grew impossible to passively be feared. To allow the world to pass him by.
So rather than read himself to sleep watching the shadows, Ildien looked at what cast them, studying the flames licking at the air. He let his magic follow it’s new call into fire and shadow, falling in love with it. He let himself smile for the first time in years as fire danced across his shoulders as his feet moved in the rhythm of the shadows below him.
Ildien had not thought the new Elder, Varif, cared enough to pay him mind outside of when necessary, but when he was called to speak in front of him it was not long before the Elder’s intentions were revealed.
Varif had, in fact, been watching Ildien, and he had deemed worthy of the grand gesture the church needed to make to bring the community back into the fold.
Ildien only learned when the gesture was as it was happening. He was kept in a room away from his own, with only his shadows for company in the weeks leading up to the event.
When the door to his chamber opened as his eyes adjusted, Ildien was pulled and shoved into flowing ceremonial garb layered with dust, a uniform he hadn’t seen before. A scroll was pressed into his hands as he was pushed to an altar.
He remembered blinking the setting sunlight out of his eyes, looking to Elder Varif, grinning, and to a figure opposite him on the altar, decorated in the bones of an ox, eyes closed. The face of one of the newest acolytes in the shadow of the ox’s skull.
Ildien had looked down at the words on the scroll, the idea of this gesture clicking place in his head. He glanced once to the other acolyte, their eyes blearily opening, panic raising their eyebrows. He glanced to the Elder, grin settling into smug satisfaction.
He stepped towards the acolyte, putting them within arms reach, letting a smile of his own stretch across his face as he snatched the ox skull, planting it on his own head and swinging to face the Elder, outstretched arms coming together to hurl fire at the Varif.
It really was only meant to maim, for the most part. But as the Elder’s body hit the floor, the spark that had ignited his rebellion quieted, and there was an utter silence the same as Calla’s funeral.
He felt his heart beat once in his chest.
And he ran, the air on his face reigniting him— a grin stretched across his face as he threw layers of the constraining upper garment off and let the flowing skirts fly in the wind as his feet pounded stone and dirt.
He ran through the city, taking unfamiliar turns, whooping as he clutched the stolen skull to his head, not even quite sure why he took it. He did mean to stop before he ran into any buildings, but he was looking over his shoulder as his feet carried him into a small, dimly lit tavern, tumbling through a swinging door on the back wall into a somehow much larger space.
He was only able to pull himself to a stop just before he would have slammed into a wall of muscle glowering up at him.
A blur of questions were asked, lies flowing quicker out of his mouth than he could think about what he was saying and the next second he stood in a ring with wooden walls and a packed sand floor, the most stunning tiefling he had ever seen standing across from him. Their skin was dark red like deep flame, pitch coloured horns reaching into the shadows above their head, a flail was swung over shoulders covered only by a light tunic, black sleeves billowing ever so slightly as Ildien’s eyes were drawn down to the tiefling’s cloven hooves and then back up to gleaming eyes and sharp fangs poking out of a rakish grin.
Ildien felt his breath rush out of him, fire leaping out of his fingertips, his instincts remembering that this was meant to be a fight seconds before he remembered he hadn’t said he was here to gawk at the fighters, instead he had let himself lie that he wanted to be one of them.
Mourn for the child that I was and the person I could have been.
I remember when I was 11 and first thought that I would be better off if I didn’t exist and I mourn no longer.
Instead I want to hold that child in my arms and whisper that it will get better and they will be okay and remind them they don’t have to be so angry at the world. I want to take their hand and show them my room my hair the clothes that bring me the most joy. I want to tell them it passes and they get help I want to see them smile I want to tell them how proud I am.
I cannot mourn for myself, I am still here against all odds.
And I am so proud of the child I was and always will be.
I want to tell that 10 year old me that it is okay to cry and that they will not be lesser for it.
I want to tell the too-tired 12 year old that they are worth more than their understanding of math, that it is okay to be confused and ask for help.
I want to tell the 13 year old that there is so much left for them, that it will pass, that they are not alone. I want to hold them close and tell them about our name and the progress we make. I want to show them my favourite boots and tell them stories about our friends. I want to remind them how to laugh and tell them how wonderful their laugh is.
I want to look my 9 year old self in the eyes and tell them it is ok to be different and to take joy in it.
Look at my hair look at my clothes look at how many books we have.
I want to hold all these past iterations of me and hold them close and tell them I am so utterly proud of them.
So I cannot mourn. I remember and try as hard as I can to rejoice.
The library of Caleb’s tower was quiet. The rest of the Nein was elsewhere, relaxing for the few hours respite they had.
They had only just gotten to the Vurmas outpost, but it had not taken much of Jester’s convincing to find Essek and pull him into the tower. And it took far fewer words from Essek to keep anyone out of the room Caleb had set up in.
It felt somehow far away. Only an hour or two ago Essek had been staring down inane piles of paperwork, which granted he had done to himself by gently suggesting he required some time away from Rosohna in order to conduct research in peace and de-stress from uneasy peace, but it was almost worth it just for the sight of the Mighty Nein again.
Almost.
It was worth it though, to see Caleb again.
Even if it made a pit yawn open in his gut every time he thought about Caleb and what the other wizard thought of him, he was ever the sight for sore eyes. Especially eyes sore from paperwork.
It had taken an almost embarrassing amount of self-restraint to not leap from his desk and rush over to him, but thankfully Jester had reached Essek before he could have done anything, sweeping him into a surprisingly strong hug.
And upon entering the tower he couldn’t help but be struck by the beauty. All of it so stunning, a reflection of what he had always seen behind Caleb’s eyes.
But now it was just him and Caleb in the library. Caleb had apologized for any lack of reading material, as it was only what he had memorized, but it was astonishing nonetheless. It is impressive enough how accomplished Caleb is in the world of the arcane, it is even more so knowing how much information he has continued to retain outside of it. It made Essek’s heart swell in the way only sharing joy can.
But for now, he was simply reading a book, curled in a chair, with Caleb in a similar position in the chair beside him. In all truth he was not paying particular attention to the book. It was fascinating, of course, it was all transfiguration theory, but as a graviturgist he was far more fascinated by the very close and very pretty transfiguration wizard.
Of course he wasn’t staring, but it was hard not to glance sideways at Caleb, eyes roving between him and the book. There would not have been a problem with this had Essek not been entirely preoccupied with far too much on his plate and not had enough time to maintain himself and by doing so make sure his hair was how he liked it and it had grown far too long in his personal opinion—
“Do you want something to tie your hair back, Essek? I— it looks, in a way, like your hair is getting long enough to interrupt your reading.” Essek started at the sound of Caleb’s voice, low and cautious in his offer. “Forgive me if I sound rude, it is simply an observation.”
“I—” His voice seemed to dry up in his throat as he tried to think of a reason to say no other than the fact that Caleb even having noticed his appearance made his heart pound uncomfortably loud in his ears. “Yes, I suppose you are right, and I would certainly not mind it. Something to pull my hair back, that is, although I don’t know if it is long enough to be able to be tied like yours is.” And he was rambling and mentioning that he had also noticed the appearance of his companion. Perhaps he was as stressed as he had pretended to be to get out of Rosohna.
Caleb gave a small smile, exhaling slightly as he set his book to the side and pulled a piece of cord out of his coat before turning again to Essek. “Do you mind?” Essek blinked, furrowing his brow at the question. “It will probably be easier if I do it for you if it being too short is a concern.”
“Ah,” Essek hoped desperately that the heat he felt rushing to his face was not as visible as it felt. “No, I don’t mind at all, here—” He set his own book down and sat up. “Is this better?”
Caleb nodded, standing and moving over to Essek. He stood for a moment, looking down at him, something unfamiliar in his gaze. “Perhaps— Could you look down slightly?” His voice was gentle, the way it sounded when he was figuring something out, turning it in his mind.
“Of course.” Essek bent his head, and almost went into shock from the feeling of the other wizard’s hands in his hair. For as rough as they had looked they were gentle, carefully pulling his hair into place.
The space between them is so small in the quiet moment as Essek desperately hoped that no one else would walk in and, in a much smaller and hidden part of his heart, that Caleb was not simply doing this as an aid to a friend. That would be— unfortunate. He tried not to audibly sigh at the possibility, instead focusing again on the warm sensation of Caleb’s hands in his hair.
“Could you look up for me, please? I want to make sure I got everything.” Again, that gentle voice of Caleb’s making his heart swell in his chest as he carefully tilted his head back up to look at Caleb.
The world seemed, for a moment, almost to freeze as if under the influence of magic rather than simply Essek being frozen by Caleb’s gaze, his lips parting slightly despite all intention.
Essek almost surprised himself when he broke the silence.
“Can I kiss you?’
Caleb blinked, red rising in his cheeks as look away before again meeting Essek’s eyes.
Cold. That was what they knew. Then darkness, and, slowly, the grey light of a heavy fog. Strangely hollow in a hanging silence. Then the low wind, and the sensation of swaying.
Darkness again, blinking in and out.
Blinking. That’s what it was called.
Their thoughts felt slow, something yet missing from them. Some feeling that they couldn’t quite place. A strange otherness about themselves as through steadily clearing sight their surroundings began to take form.
That heavy fog— yes, they knew that. Narrow trees shooting up around them, erupting suddenly from a strangely distant powder white snow. An unfamiliar streak of slick black on a tree near them, an unfamiliar smell, bitter against barely awake senses, an unfamiliar sensation pulling at their skin, something coming from behind them the shadow looming on the ground below.
The wind whistled as a dark mass fell silently past them.
The world shook as the sound of metallic scraping rang through the air.
The world slowed again.
The legs of the mass below curled inwards. Five, uneven limbs. Places where there should be more missing.
There— searching eyes find one, then two, and three unattached limbs.
Eight legs.
Spider— again, slow, but remembering more.
Remembering the feel of web on skin.
That was the sensation. Web on skin and pain in every inch of them and memories flooding back and screaming and loss
And the sound of metal ringing again through the air.
ok so i’m dming a small party in dnd and i homebrewed my world which then led me to homebrewing a pantheon and im still working out a lot of it but this is a small section of some of the stories of the gods. also as a note all the gods are nonbinary, and the ideas were inspired by an ask from @definitely-darcy on my main @clockworkfall
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This is a story from long before the Time of Return, before the Iron Wars, before the Age of Odona. This tale is of the days of the Wild, when the gods were new and mortals had just begun to roam. When the divide between divinity and the common folk of the world was far smaller than it is now, and the gods yet walked Aria, serving creation and destruction.
It was not long after Balan had created Above and Below, homes for the gods away from the material plane and the realm of mortals, that our tale takes place. It concerns Lian, keeper of knowledge and passion, and the youngest of the gods, Aankeen, teacher of magic.
Lian was young yet, looking down from Above. They had only just gifted language to mortals, both in common and secret tongues. It had been an experiment, and they had watched as the peoples beneath them both unified and divided over words. They laughed, in a gentle way, at the complications of mortal lives. Mortals had so little time, yet burned so bright. Some, however, have burned brighter in the eyes of the gods.
Aankeen had not caught the attention of many, but they soon had the eye of Lian. As words had begun bubbling from them, Aankeen had sought to learn every language that had been gifted to the mortals. As time passed, even with all the words of the world at their fingertips, it was not enough. They began to seek the language of trees and of the wind, and on learning these, the languages of all the creatures of Aria. Even this was not enough, and as Aankeen walked the lands searching for fresh things to learn, Lian came down from Above.
Lian had fallen for Aankeen, as deep as if pushed by Itran, the god of love. Aankeen, at first, was not ready for the eyes of divinity. But as time wore on with Lian refusing to leave their side, it was as if Itran had pulled the pair to each other.
Lian did their best to sate Aankeen’s hunger for knowledge, and Aankeen captivated Lian with fantastical ideas and strange trains of thought. Soon enough, Odona, keeper of nature and the moon, noticed the pair as she walked among the forests and rivers of the growing world. In secret, she aided Lian and Aankeen in their marriage, and as a show of her support, gifted Aankeen with the language of magic and, with the assistance of Lian, granted them divinity.
Soon after, the now married Lian and Aankeen moved to Above— Aankeen was utterly captivated with the home of the gods, and for a time, was satisfied to live and learn by their lover’s side. But as they looked down on what had once been their home, pity struck them; how was it that they of all mortals had captured the eyes of the gods, how was it fair of them to deprive mortals of such a gift as magic? Helad, god of order and balance, heard of this desire and demanded that the peoples of Aria remain without magic, for it would bring them too close to divinity.
And so it was in the black night of a new moon, when even Odona was turned from the world, that Aankeen crept out from Above and returned to Aria. Slowly, they began to walk the old paths through the woods, searching for their former people. But Helad was suspicious, and had not turned a blind eye.
Instead he swept down from Above, intent on destroying Aankeen for fear of them disturbing the balance of the world. He chased them across Aria, and as Aankeen ran, they passed through rosebushes. As the thorns pricked their skin, their blood dripped into the earth, sowing magic wherever Aankeen ran. As the sun began to rise and Helad came ever closer, Aankeen transformed into a rabbit, driving between the roots of a rowan tree and hiding in an abandoned burrow. As Helad passed them, Aankeen crept in rabbit form to Below, where they beseeched Uthoriel, god of death and caretaker of Below, to let them stay.
Uthoriel, in the kind fashion of a gentle death, allowed that they remain, so long as they told no one, at least for a time. And whenever any gods from Above should be in Below, Aankeen was to hide, at least for a time. It is said that even to this day, Lian and Aankeen can only meet under the new moon, when Odona has closed her eyes to the world and even the most suspicious can be deceived.
They called it a Famine. It wasn’t a typical famine, however. Not the exact thing.
Instead of our crops, it took our memories. Came in the night and stole them, removing us from ourselves. Erasing our names and families and souls.
It left our food but it barely left us.
You see, it was named for the feeling of trying to recall something that has been lost. It is like starving, reaching for something you know isn’t there. Something that you can feel the ghost of at the tip of your tongue. It is an unending hunger, trying to remember the impossible.
We saw our faces but had no names. We had each other but no reason to connect, to hold or comfort or listen.
Instead we rebuilt ourselves from the instruction manuals we made for our children, wobbling in the absence of expertise. We built our walls like we thought we once did, redrawing shapes against the sky in desperation. Children, drawing on walls. Animals gnawing at bones.
The shape of our existence took the shape of what we pretended to know. We read words we knew how to read but couldn’t put to example, studied theory we had no reference for. We hungered for more, searching for answers, for the names we couldn’t recall, the faces we no longer knew.
At least some of us did. Some pawed at the remains of what had been, ever looking for remaining meat on the carcass.
Some of us, however, felt light without knowing. We knew our words and our strides, but saw new bodies with new eyes, found new names for new people.
Our shoulders were unburdened, our smiles stretched across reborn faces. We saw what was left and reshaped it, taking the clay of the world in our hands and refusing to put it in a dying fire.
We savoured the air in our lungs, tasted the flavour of new life.
It was a cool glass of water on the hottest day of summer, a warm meal on the coldest winter night.
We did not scratch at the bones left behind, search the empty fields. We planted new crops, found a new source to feed that unending hunger.
They may have found a Famine. But we had found a Feast.
anyway this is another dnd character backstory but this time its for a campaign set in wildemount which is very exciting but also terrifying
It wasn’t supposed to be a lonely childhood. There just happened to be a missing father and a mother who cared more for her youngest son who looked exactly like what she’d lost. That and a quick sparked ambition for just once some recognition for the work put into things made for rather nonexistent friends. Not that Thala minded that much. Despite their mother, Elandiel Malonnan, not paying mind to anyone except their younger brother Dia, the siblings were close. Something about the absence of any sort of other figure just— Thala could never really explain the feeling, but they knew that they had to protect Dia, even they only had two decades or so over him. Maybe it was that Dia was around so many more people than Thala ever cared to be in a room with. But even so, that ambition drove anyone else away, and when Dia was busy Thala had far better things to do than play nursemaid. So they were alone. More people would have meant more people wanting to know their whereabouts. Their whereabouts more often than not being following any inkling of magic they saw.
They couldn’t say what drew them to magic. Maybe the promise of power or recognition maybe it was just fascination and awe or maybe it was a deep well of hunger for any knowledge that could get them what they wanted. Not that they really knew what they wanted, other than knowledge and the abilities than allowed such wondrous and dangerous things that arcane scholars were capable of.
Their fascination hadn’t always been magic, it had begun with the music of the Gallimaufry. Their home had been close to the line drawn between the Gallimaufry and the Firmaments, and their younger years had been spent picking up how to play the fiddle, the only remnant of a missing parent, from street musicians. They weren’t a prodigy by any means, but they loved it. That feeling of music deep in the soul, seeming to temporarily fill voids and soothe wounds, even at times changing people when wielded by incredible musicians.
Perhaps that was where the hunger for magic came from. A want to permanently fix and change, to touch the very weave of reality with learned certainty. Music was good, music was wonderful, but it did not hold that same certainty that runes and symbols in stark ink or woven in the air did.
So Thala took to following the traces of magic they saw, wherever that led them. And sometimes it led them to places they definitely weren’t supposed to be. Places with powerful wizards, practising and learning and teaching. And occasionally being careless enough to leave simple notes out, enough for Thala to copy into a simple book. Or pick up and memorize just by watching, if the spells were simple enough.
It was by necessity of sneaking about and by association that they picked up a note of paranoia. Not a terrible amount, their ambition far outweighed it, but as their small collection of spells began to grow, it became increasingly worrisome that they could be caught or followed and what little magic they had ripped from them. But still. That hunger and ambition let them continue as they did, even as they declared adulthood a few years after the end of their first century, renaming themself Auriel Malonnan, and the consequences of discovery were heavier now that they were no longer a child.
But they got perhaps a touch too comfortable with sneaking around and learning quickly and quietly. Just enough that every so often they forgot to really watch their back, so engrossed in trying to get enough of a glimpse to take something away. Despite their acquired paranoia. They knew that they could be quick enough to lie their way out of a minor situation. At least when they were paying attention.
And maybe they got so distracted with sneaking off and watching and learning that they began to drift away from Dia. Dia had friends, he shouldn’t have noticed Auriel’s absence. But apparently he had. And Auriel hadn’t noticed being tailed. It wasn’t any special day. It made it easier to forget to pay attention. And they had. So when Dia, inexperienced in stealth compared to Auriel, slipped up and made his presence but not identity known, it was a reflex that threw a spell. A survival instinct, no intent behind it.
It wasn’t supposed to be Dia. It was supposed to be someone, anyone else, someone who didn’t matter and wasn’t still just a child. Not that Auriel noticed that it was someone who did matter and was still just a curious child until Dia’s corpse was in their arms, nothing to be done.
It was instinct, careful movements and intent silence abandoned, that dragged sobs and screams from their throat. That alerted those they had been watching.
And they were caught, spy and murderer. Corpse clutched in their shaking hands, clear intent of taking information from their position.
Being yet young and surprisingly good at not being noticed, Auriel was given a choice. Execution, or, service as an agent of the Bright Queen and the dynasty. Serving penance, and the potential for that long-yearned for recognition and knowledge was a simple choice to make.
So they trained, briefly, to work as an agent of the dynasty. They were allowed as much knowledge of the arcane as was useful and an amount of weapons training. And as they entered the field, working to earn worth and maybe the respect and knowledge they craved, they began to pay penance.
It wasn’t a bad life, by any means. Harsh, and at times unpleasant, but far better than what they had before.
