D&D Report and Idryl's Letters Home

[lydamorehouse]

 Last night's D&D went very well. There was a lot of fighting, which, even though I tend to prefer character moments, was very exciting. Like, I came home kind of in an adrenaline haze, like you do sometimes. I'm sure dozens of people have talked about this before, but it's fascinating to me how a story can give you all the feels of real life. Like, it's actually very heart pounding, even when the only "threat" is imaginary creatures called pukwudgies that someone sitting in a comfy chair is telling you about with word pictures. 

That's kind of cool.

It's not like I don't believe in the power of story, but D&D (and other role-playing games) totally combine the thrill of improv theater with storytelling. 

Anyway, all you longtime gamers, including me, already know all this. I'm just reveling in it.  

Without further adieu, for those who are enjoying this weird bit of fiction, here's the latest letter home:

October 26

Deep in the den of the Puk-Wudjies, Outside the Port City of Brekenforth

Dearest Ave,

Anger consumes me. A vague memory of bloodlust satisfied flits through my fevered mind. But then after a touch by Xavala, bringing a welcome rush of vim and vigor, comes only a maddening inability to connect to anything solid. All my swings wild, finding only roots and clumps of dirt.  And now…. my thoughts a jumble. The fever compels  me out another pukwudgie and crush its skill with my barehands. Grind bones to dust under my foot.  Snap quills from porcupine-like backs. Crush the life from throats. Fill this dank cavernous space with strangled, choking death rattles….

No, I must begin again. This is not the sort of language for a refined High Elf lady’s ears. Let me take a breath to organize my thoughts and steady my pen. You must excuse any blood upon the page. The battle is only newly won. 

Timeline… There is a timeline to the events that brought me here. I must reconstruct it. 

How had this started? My mind is still a haze, but I believe we defeated a bear--yes. Yes, that was it. Then, there were some bloodhawks feasting on a deer, clearly dressed by hunters’ hands. It took us a bit to clear the field. After the last of them fled, by blind luck, I alone of the party spotted a trail  that led us northeast. We followed the faint dragging marks until we heard a voice from the trees calling us to halt our advance. 

Papa Bernard spoke reason to our potential enemies as always, but I… 

Ah… I…

As much as it shames me to admit, dear Ave, Mother might be right about me. 

I have no patience for diplomacy. None whatsoever. I wish I understood what drives the beast in me to rise from its slumber. Perhaps a dark tendril had already begun to unwind during the previous skirmishes, as all I could do was snarl insults into the trees, fully intending to provoke violence. 

For, somehow, I knew. I knew those hidden in the trees must be fey.

When, on impulse, I spat an insult in Slyvan, the little ones called back in the same language. Ave, I can not tell you how much the sound of those words set my teeth on their very edge; how immediately my muscles tensed at the sound of that lilting, familiar tongue; how each syllable they uttered filled me with an overwhelming desire to strangle their tiny throats until they could speak it no more. 

Yet, believe it or not, I managed to fight this battle without losing my mind. 

For me, the trouble began once Papa Bernard grappled one of these poisonous spined hedgehog-like little ones and we spoke to it, hoping to gain information as to the whereabouts of the missing hunters. 

I just wanted to kick it. Repeatedly.

Gregor, the monk, as usual, expressed his opinion that it would be wise for the puk-wudjie to concede to our demands. Once again, the usually cheerful farmer, Bellemy, and I shared a glance that seemed to be in agreement that a bit more torture and a lot more information extracting would be the most satisfying course of action. Yet, Papa Bernard’s cooler head prevailed and a bargain for the pukwudgie’s freedom was struck. 

Fortunately, for my roiling and building anger, it was not stipulated in our agreement that the little one be set free while still conscious. It was my great pleasure to relieve him of his senses with a satisfyingly hard crack to the jaw. 

Here, Ave, is where things become murky. I know that the puk-wudjie’s information led us to a cave that seemed to have been forged by some large digging animal. A pet to these fey? Or, worse, perhaps this Under or ‘Dark’ Queen that the puk-wudjie served…? I can not say for certain, though I’m sure we will find out soon enough.

I don’t know what happened after that. 

There were blue mushrooms, ocean-colored blasts of unearthly light, archers, and more of these poison spouting puk-wudjies that enrage me so very much. Shamefully, I charged thoughtlessly and headlong towards the battle with no greater desire than to murder anything I could reach with the edge of my broadsword. 

Ah, that’s another secret I must ask you to keep. Please don’t tell Mother that I have abandoned the traditional bow and short sword for a heavy, unsightly, uncouth two-handed chunk of sharpened steel. All those hours of instruction wasted. But, I can’t tell you, Ave, how good this sword feels in my hand, how right.

Many of our so-called kin, fey puk-wudjies fell today. Not nearly enough by my broadsword, however… and I feel… unsatisfied, unsated--which is why, I suspect, this fury lingers, like a low growl in the back of my throat. I’m sure it will clear in a minute, but its redness tinges everything, even my attempts to relate this story to you.

The Caravan is a good team, at least. 

Despite our shared values at times, the halfling, Bellamy, might be the only slacker among us. I never saw him once the fight started. He may have run away in cowardice. He disappears a lot. However, the tentacle weapon of our Triton friend has a deadly aim, like some kind of half-sized rogue assassin. Very strange. Our monk hits with wicked consistency for such a holy man. It is rare that Gregor misses. Speaking of unusual occurrences, I must tell you that once peace-loving Papa Bernard enters a fight, he is a terrifying sight to behold--even giving me a moment of pause. The ever handsome Xavala, too, had several unexpected tricks up his sleeve, though his healing touch seemed to have put me off my game. Did his comeliness distract me? No, it seems more likely that pain fuels my madness.

And deep in this madness, I truly am. 

I would ask you to pray for me, my sister, but I fear my only god now is some monstrous dark diety made of blood and ire. Even now, I want nothing more than to feel the heft of the blade and the satisfying sensation of flesh resisting rending, but which yet caves, inexoribly, to my howling rage.

A beast in the shape of your once beloved brother,

Idyrl