lydamorehouse | Entries tagged with elf barbarians

Last night I reprised my elf barbarian, Idyril. We are always allowed to switch out our characters, but I'm pretty sure I bent the "house rules" by playing both characters at the same time. This is something we do quite often in my regular Star Trek game, but, so far as I know, is not the done thing with this D&D group. I have not yet talked to Jeff about this, but I'm sure it's not that huge of a transgression since we're in a kind of not-really-combat set of competitions. Our party is currently been recruited to compete in a city-wide Olympic games (or bread and circuses, depending,) kind of arena style battle of strength, fortitude, wit, and valor. I have been complaining that 5e has shortchanged the monks. They're just not all that much fun to play, honestly? So, I brought back my barbarian, despite the fact that he is not terribly stable in terms of "what if, raging?" and the party might have to tackle him if it seems like he is going for the jugular.

But, because it's me, I can't not play a little role-play as Idyril being Ave's very protective OLDER brother. And, then, because it just sort of happened, I started defending my friends to myself (as it were) as Ave... and yeah, last night I played two people at the same time, kind of by accident. Luckily, their personalities are night and day so it wasn't difficult to know who I was embodying at any given time. If there is happy chatter = Ave; if sullen, dark staring = Idyril.

Anyway, here is Idyril's letter home about this (mis)adventure. He is writing to his business and romantic partner, the Witch of the West Marsh, owner of the Sloshing Boot (under the cut, of course, because gods forbid.)

( Read more... )

Most of this will be under the cut. I haven't updated Ave's letters home in some time mostly because I've been trying to finish a novel, but enough had happened that I decided to write up a quick one this morning.

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October 12
The Foolish Bachelor Inn & Tavern
City of Kavari
Ceyan Empire

Dear Dumb Brother:

Okay, so, yes, it’s been a few months since I remembered to drop you a note. Did that really necessitate coming all this way in order to give the concierge a sending stone so that he can be your SPY? Idyril, you scared the living shit out of this poor man. I don’t think you realize that not only are you giant for an Elf, but also genuinely intimidating when you’re in big brother mode. Also, why not just stay and say hello? I could have introduced you to Hana! Did you think you were being sneaky, you barbarian oaf of an Elf? Did it not occur to you that I might already be paying off the staff to spy on MY behalf? We have the same Mother, after all!

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I designed Idyril's sister character around a throwaway line in the Player's Handbook for D&D 5e, in which is is noted that Elves, being long-lived, declare their own adulthood, normally around 100 years old. Previous to that they have shorter, chibi-like names. (As I think I noted in a previous discussion of this I've decided that Idyril, who actually prematurely declared himself adult at 80, was once known as Rei.) So, Ave is the child name of his sister who has, previous to this point, refused to grow up.

Please note how she signs this latest missive...

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( boring little D&D fic, don't sprain yourself scrolling by )

The moral question of ambushing a bunch of human bandits under the cut.

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( Read more... )

We have had the third session now of nothing but role-play. I am in heaven, but I worry about my fellow players.

Because the actual session was a little disjointed and thus hard to distill into a singular narrative, this letter also goes off on a tangent about how weird the world would be if we really lived by the rules of 5e. Because of a Cleric character I have waiting in the wings, I've been thinking a lot about death in a world where revivify (and other raise the dead) spells exist. Like, revivify is pretty common, so long as you have a diamond (or diamond dust) worth 300 gold or something like that. This made me think that it would be fully possible for a bunch of aristocrats, like Ave's social class, to make dying and revivifying into a party trick/social fad. Which helps explain why she was so shocked to discover murder was a crime!

If you're curious about how Ave might have participated in that, read under the cut!

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( elf murder party shenanigans )

So, our GM introduced us to a city that is run by a god that fosters "healthy" competition among merchants. Ave wants this god dead.

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June 15
The Foolish Bachelor Inn & Tavern
City of Cavri
Ceyan Empire

Dear Idyril and Sierra:

We finally met Simon’s Professor Daddy and he didn’t impress me. What passes as intellect here in Cavri is very different than what I’m used to among the sages and scholars of The Beech Wood.

I had gotten the sense from Simon and, as it happens, the concierge at The Foolish Bachelor that Dr. Dad was some kind of bigwig at the University--or at least someone to be reckoned with. The concierge didn’t know he’d moved here for the professorship, but he did mutter in a way that made it seem as though it was expected for a Great Man, like Simon’s dad.

I tell you, Dr. Dad must be hiding his light under a bushel because all I saw was a crabby old man in a cramped office in a dusty, dark corner of his college’s faculty building who, like literally all the men with whom I’ve attempted to discuss my alternate SpellyJelly ideas, completely dismissed me. At least my chatter helped distract the stupid little professor long enough for Rakke to “liberate” a couple of old books from the irritating man.

Not that Rakke takes me any more seriously than any of the rest of the human men. I doubt he even knew that I was intentionally helping him. I’m just a silly little thing, after all, chirping away. No one expects that I watch everything like a hawk on the wing.

It’s a woman’s natural defense, after all: being underestimated!

( cut 'cuz fic haters gonna hate )
( cut 'cuz fic haters gonna hate )

I'm actually very pleased that we rolled almost no dice last night. I have a feeling that several of the other players strongly disagree with me, but role-play for the win!

Below is Ave's rambling synopsis of the session.

======

June 8
Red Maple Lodge
Ceyan Empire

Dearest Idyril and Sierra:

Anges is trying to convince me not to rob Simon blind. She says, “Taking advantage of people is wrong.”

There is no question that Anges is Very Hot, especially when she gives me that stern look, but her logic is faulty. She thinks we’re supposed to feel bad that Simon is a terrible businessman with an equally atrocious ability to judge character. Apparently, just because he gave us all massively expensive uncommon and/or rare items from his magical stores (my Bracers of Defense are very sparkly!) for free, it’s “poor judgment” on my part, not his, to continue to take advantage of him.

I could not disagree more.
( Cut, lest your scrolling finger becomes sprained and unusable... )

The group of people that I'm playing D&D with has a tradition of mini-arcs in a campaign where they switch to alternate characters, presumably so no one gets bored playing a particular race or class or personality type for too long. As someone who is both, generally, a novelist rather than short story writer and who is in it for the roleplay and not the mechanics, I was initially very dubious about this approach. Like, haven't we all just finally learned each other's character names and are starting to form relationships? But, after playing a session (I missed the first one being on the road,) I kind of get why people enjoy this. With a whole new cast of characters, the entire vibe of the party shifted.

We went from fairly somber and serious to giggly and frivolous.

And I'm honestly here for it.

I'm now playing Ave, Idyril's younger sister. Like him she is a high elf, but unlike him, she's not a racist. She has no preconceptions that elves are any better than humans or tieflings or what have you. She also has zero sense of chivalry or honor. She is, in fact, attempting to live a life FULLY bereft of responsibilities. Ave's dream job is no job at all. She is a wild child, in every sense of the word.

Because, I based her character entirely on a throwaway line in the description of elves in the 5e Player's Handbook. It said in the handbook that elves declare, for themselves when they are adults. Their names when they are children are shorter, cuter, like Ave, and when they are adults their names sound more like elven names with too many 'y's and consonants, like, say, Idyril. Ave has decided that one way to live her dream is simply to never agree to growing up. Just full stop. No adulting. It's not for her. She's 125 year old and has said no to adulthood FOREVER. Her adult name would be something akin to Averylia but she's Ave and will, if she has a say in the matter (and, as it happens, she does), always will be Ave. (Just as a sidenote, I decided Idyril's childhood name was Rei. Despite how I spell it, I pronounce Idyril's name: ID-ray-el, so this make more sense when you're dyslexic, trust me. I could figure out how to better spell his name, but I have decided that Elvish is like Welsh or Irish, it's spelled Idyril and is simply said ID-ray-el.)

So, that's her in a nutshell. Also, if by chance, you have been following along you also know from the one mini adventure I played as her previously, that her backstory is simple. When Idyril was disgraced, the pressure was on to turn the spare into the heir. (Harry has to become William and no one likes it, particularly not the spare!) Ave continued to resist the whole grown-up responsibly thing and so Mother Dearest sent her off to a monastery to learn discipline, and, hopefully, in the Travorian family matriarchal tradition, adopt the Way of the Shadow and become an assassin. Ave hated every minute of it, and if she learned any lessons at all from the ninja goon squad it was when she attempted to escape and was hauled back, over and over again. One time, however, she finally made it over the wall without the ninjas noticing. She then ran straight into the arms of a Drunken Master, whose ability to evade the ninja squads while also partying like a boss aligned perfectly with Ave's lifestyle. She considers this woman to be her true teacher. And now is actually actively learning to be a monk.

That's far more than you need to know to appreciate what comes next. I will note that I'm NOT trying to make these letters self-contained, so if this is your first one, you might just want to skip, anyway. There's probably too much backstory to ever hope to make sense of it. It's cool. I'm posting these for fun, anyway.

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( Cut because fic is so very boring, I wouldn't want to offend your eyes for even a millisecond )

The campaign is winding down. Idyril's life choices are coming home to roost.

Also, see previous entry. I'm going to have to miss next session, so this is the reason for my absence. Idyril is finally, seriously going rogue. (With full approval of the actual players, just to be clear.)

===

April 27, upon the eve of war,

Eagle’s Fort

Ave,

Everything I’d made peace with has been thrown into question.

When Zavala handed over the Queen of Autumn’s Heart to Captain Philip, he did so with these words: “Receive the gift of your mother’s heart.”

Your mother.

You could have heard a pin drop when he said these words.

I, myself, felt betrayed. This whole time that I had believed Captain Philip to be nothing more than a skilled soldier fighting an unexpected and unknown enemy, his own mother was part of the Fey factions that oppose the Queen Below. This is not some distant Fey relation as he led me to believe when I noted his Eladrin heritage. This is his own mother. He acted as surprised as the rest of us, but for all I know it could be just that: an act.

I’m not shaken in my belief that the Queen Below is the enemy of good. This, I have seen with my own eyes. However, it’s now obvious that the Fey are playing both sides.

This is not a clean war. It’s dirty.

The comfort that I’d given myself as I slaughtered my own bloodkin was that, at least, the side I had chosen was unsullied by Fey influences. I had presumed that Captain Philip was his own man, or at least in so much as a soldier serving the crown can be. I thought his motivation was only to keep the Prime Material free of invasion from the Fey, but now I can’t be so certain. As I have written before, we know nothing of the Queen of Autumn or her motives. She may well be making her own play for annexation. Her son is installed in a major fort, after all. Overtaking or opening her own gate in his keep, especially now that she rules his heart, is not beyond the realm of possibility.

The irony is that Philip is sending The Caravan on a mission to destroy one of the Queen Below’s gates. This portal to the FeyWild is being guarded by the Prince of Rhyme and Frost, an ArchFey whose presence we can feel even here in Eagle’s Fort, where the ice and chill has settled unseasonably early on the fields and cobblestones.

The Caravan is taking Philip at his word and is currently drawing up battleplans to firebomb the trees that hold up the arch of the gate.

Meanwhile, I’m making my own plans.

Speaking of a mother’s influence, I would not be the Trevorian heir if I didn’t seize the opportunity to parlay. When we make our way to the Prince’s encampment, I will surrender. I will tell those gathered that I’m a double agent. Hopefully, Mother’s name and my previous actions will be enough to convince the Prince that there might be some truth to such a claim. I intend to speak to him in honest, good faith. Any magicks he might employ to detect deception will fail. I don’t know which side I should stand on, after all. If he and his allies can convince me that the Queen Below has done what she must out of desperation in the face of a more powerful and evil enemy, then I’ll join them. If they can not--well, then I’ll be in a perfect position to assassinate the Prince, won’t I?

Yes, this is very likely a suicide mission. Regardless of the answers I receive.

I think I’ve known that fate would lead me here for some time.

Yesterday, when Grigor went to the Temple of Ioun, I followed him. Initially, I’d intended to see what it was that drove Grigor so hard that he presented himself to his order at every opportunity. I uncovered nothing. It seems that he is simply a very devout monk. However, Mother has always taught us to respect the gods and so I inquired as to an appropriate offering to Ioun at the Temple gates. I was told that I could leave a secret in the alms box or give a confessional of sorts, a kind of information dump, to one of the priests.

I chose to do both.

Thus, as I head out to this final confrontation, it’s with an unburdened soul. I’ve given the Ioun priests every last piece of knowledge I own. They know my history. They know my plans. They know everything I’ve suspected or feared. I even told them that I love a human witch and that my only regret in choosing this path is that I might never retreat into her soft embrace ever again.

As for the secret I left with them, it’s one I suspect I’ve kept only from myself: I’ve never stopped loving Mother and wanting to please her.

And thus, I remain, your ever foolish elder brother,

Idyril

As I just emailed my GM, the plot that is thickening in the letter is purely apocryphal. Idyril is just spinning his own tales, although the bits about the glass heart of the Lady of the Unbowed Oak are all in-game. The rest? Yeah, I spend a lot of my time (in general, but also while playing D&D,) fully in my own imagination.

==

April 13

On the Isle of the Twinned Oak,

South of Brekenfort

Dearest Ave,

I’m hesitant to write to you about the recent turn of events given that you are no longer in The Beechwood to personally receive these letters. I don’t trust Mother’s secretaries not to be opening our private correspondence and reviewing it for any useful tidbits. I can only hope that between my disgrace and your… flounce, we’re considered a pair of wastrels and Mother has since told her people to find better uses for their time.

Because, Ave, I have seen the beating glass heart of the Lady of the Unbowed Oak, Queen of Oaks and Autumn and you and I both know that Mother would never hesitate to capture such a prize for herself.

According to those tasked to protect it, the Lady of the Oaks apparently had her Heart moved from the FeyWild in order to protect it from the Queen Below. For some time, the glass heart has been residing in the protective bosom of an ancient witch oak, but now, with the forces of Driftwood Ethel poised to attack, The Caravan has been tasked to fly away with it… possibly into the arms of Captain Philip and his military forces for safekeeping.

I can’t say I entirely approve of this plan. If we’ve heard nothing of Captain Philip and his army, it’s how stretched and overworked they are. However, the decision is not entirely in the hands of The Caravan.

The Elven ranger we rescued, Evee, brought us to this island by magical means and the help of an Elven Druid named Nyx. Gathered here beside the witch oak are the meager if stalwart forces loyal to the Queen of Autumn. Among their ranks are not only FeyWild Elves, as to be expected, but also some local, Prime Material troupes, including two of Eladrin Elves of rank, known to our family.

You may remember, specifically, Ranger Elanril, as during one particular, official dinner party I offered to hang him by the balls if he wouldn’t stop looking at you as though you were something good to eat. I believe you then informed everyone at the table that such a meal had already been thoroughly enjoyed… or plans to do so were in the works. Regardless of your part in it, the event was memorable for me on many levels, not the least of which was that it was one of the very few times that I was scolded by Father. I received an important lesson that day about expectations for Elven gentlemen and the affairs of women, and how very, very, VERY little we have to say in such matters. There was also some long and tedious lecture about rank among the nobility, which I have fully ignored for most of my life, but the thought that in my misguided attempt to ‘protect’ you I had insulted you has haunted me forever. Fortunately, your quick response schooled me very well, and, regardless, perhaps, of Father’s full intention, the lesson I most took to heart was that it was immensely inappropriate of me to even entertain injecting my opinion of your, or any woman’s, affairs, either literal or figurative. I’ve striven to never lose my mind in such a way since… with a decent amount of success.

I am, as you well know, not entirely well suited to live a life worthy of an Elven gentleman.

Speaking of, the other noble you may know less well, as she is the rather stuffy and taciturn Knight Aolis, who is old enough to be our grandmother and seems to remember Mother as ‘that upstart whippersnapper,’ which is, frankly, terrifying.

On one hand, I was grateful to see an elder here, since most of the rank and file of the Autumn Queen’s loyals are FeyWild, and thus have as much grasp on Human politics as I do. Even so, our Ioun monk, Grigor, seemed to know far more about the Duke that Captain Philip serves than anyone else present… which, frankly, does not bode well.

I would have offered the aid of the House of Trevorian to suss out the politics of this situation, but I am no longer its heir, and, far more importantly, I have no idea where Mother’s loyalties lie in regards to the Queen Below. I asked her, directly, once. I wrote to her.

Given what I have since learned of the Queen Below and her penchant to employ those who would infect Elves and others with Infernal potions, it seems telling that Mother didn’t even send a single spy with a warning. Not that I expect Mother would care to spare me from the Queen Below’s clutches, but more that I foolishly thought that there might be certain lines that even Mother would be loath to cross for the sake of all Elvenkind.

Apparently not.

Moreover, it’s far too easy for me to imagine Mother worming her way into the Queen Below’s graces with the full intention of stealing the Autumn Queen’s heart for herself. Honestly, Mother’s involvement would make a certain amount of sense, particularly given how much detail Chittering Lucy’s notes seemed to include of our family’s lineage and the large array of potential marriage partners the Queen Below’s faction had arranged for me had I turned coat on the Prime Material. I had even noted at the time, how much like Mother’s hand Lucy’s had felt.

There’s a sobering thought, and one that I’ll keep in mind as we begin this new undertaking.

Know that I am thinking of you wherever you roam,

Your brother,

Idyril

...and me without my Pokeball. :-)

But, yes, so the plot of the Annexation War continues....

=====

April 6

Just outside of the enemy encampment,

South of Breckenfort

Dearest Ave,

Yesterday, as we surveyed the Fey military encampment, I spotted a figure that I long feared I might see in the enemy’s ranks: an Elf. As strange as it may sound, I was grateful to see that she was a prisoner.

I, of course, insisted that we not leave any Elf behind.

The Caravan hesitated, however. To be fair, the odds were not in our favor. This was no small outpost. Below the vantage point of the ridge we’d snuck along, we could see hundreds of troops, including cavalry. It was noted by Zavala, that while we might easily free a prisoner, getting away from mounted riders would be another feat.

Besides, what guarantee did we have that this Elf was friendly? Also given the sheer numbers we faced, wasn’t it smarter to return with Philip’s men? Or simply abandon her to her fate? No one said the latter, at least not out loud, but I could sense it in their continued reluctance. To be fair to them, I, too, had a brief moment when we scanned the enemy's banners where I wondered if the Travorian sigil might be flying among them, and if so, what would I do? And the desire just to run was high.

My heart could not be moved in this matter, however.

Especially since the way the form leaned against the iron bars, it was clear she suffered. I made my case that, friendly or not, this was an enemy of our enemy. That, in itself, should be sufficient reason to free this captive. After all, they would have intelligence we could use, one way or the other. We could always sort the rest out later, if it came to that.

And so it was agreed that with the aid of Nyrs’s invisibility spell, Bellamy would approach the prisoner and try to determine allegiances. I will tell you, Ave, as I waited in the shadows of the trees with the others for Bellamy’s report, I was making plans for what I would do if The Caravan chose to leave this person behind for failing a test of loyalty. It’s one thing to ask me to slaughter Fey, but quite another to turn my back on an Elf, full stop.

But, to my grateful surprise, Bellamy returned with the former captive in tow. Getting a closer look at her, I could see she was a dark-haired High Elf. Papa Bernard healed her and fed her goodberries. I gave her extra rations for her pack and the cloak from my shoulders. She was finally able to introduce herself as Eva… and I was startled to hear a child’s name. I tend to forget how unusual it was of me to have declared my own adulthood at only eighty. It’s always difficult to tell with our kind, but perhaps she was in her fifties? She was already very jaded and hardened by war, it seemed, because, though it was clear it broke her heart, she was willing to leave behind her familiar.

Again, I would not. And in this, the Caravan was in full agreement.

Once Eva confirmed that the hag, Ethel, was not present in the encampment, we decided to attempt to sneak into the command tent to see if it was possible to retrieve her fire lizard familiar.

If I needed further proof that the followers of the Queen Below are evil, it was made abundantly clear when we discovered both Eva’s familiar and a púca vivisected in the hag’s tent. I had already been on the verge of one of my furies, Ave, but seeing this brutality… ignited a burning desire for revenge. As we released the poor, dead creatures from their final disgrace, pinned like specimens to a board, I scrawled into the dirt floor my vow that, for these unconscionable crimes, the hag would die by my hand.

Eva was, of course, inconsolable. Poor thing.

We took what we could of value from the rest of the tent, including the treasury box and any battle plans we could grab. There was a brief skirmish with an animated bearskin rug, but my only memory of that was Grigor’s voice cutting through the battle fog telling me to put away my weapon as Nyrs, who was trapped inside the rug, seemed to be taking injury every time we struck true to the beast. I apparently had enough wits about me to switch to ripping at the beast with my bare hands. With heroic effort from the entire Caravan, Nyrs was freed and the… rug defeated.

As I write these words, it all sounds so ridiculous. Try not to laugh at the image of your brother fighting an animated rug and trust me when I say it was a harrowing fight. Yet, when the rug bit me, I will say that I briefly wondered if there was such a thing as a were-rug, and whether or not I might find myself on a full moon, laid out flat, adoring some hallway.

We found our way out of the tent and discovered that the hag had been terraforming the Prime Material. To feed the mounts, which I have previously failed to mention were giant Fey toads, she was growing a vast garden of mushrooms, tended by a mushroom-person. Opting against subtly, Zavala let loose a fireball and, we hope, struck a crippling blow to the maintenance of the invading Fey army.

Papa Bernard, who had chosen to stay outside with his dog sled team, led the goblin guards on a wild goose chase from all accounts. We were only able to guess his location due to one of his terrifying spells--one which echoed with the sound of a wolf howl and caused a beam of moonlight to focus a kind of death ray on the pursuant goblins.

But, with his distraction and that of Zavala’s fireball, we were able to make a clean escape.

My companions are sleeping now without the comfort of a fire, as Eva and I trade off keeping watch through the night. With the need to stay silent and alert, I have not yet found the time to truly talk with her. I would love to know more about how she came into the service of the Autumn Queen, the Fey ally that you wrote to me about, especially as Eva is clearly from this plane of existence, her village being local to this area. Are there other Elves in this war, after all? Have they allied with the Autumn Queen of the Oaks?

And, if the local Elves have made a stand, where is Mother in all of this?

Which reminds me, I should probably warn Eva that the cloak around her shoulders is fastened with a clasp of the obsidian dagger and silver ouroboros of the House of Travorian, in case that might be troublesome… or of some use. As I fully intend for her to keep it, it occurs to me to note that I’ll be finally rid of everything that connects me to our family.

Ah.. yes, I neglected to tell you my last letter, but I secretly left behind my signet ring with the Witch of the Western Marsh. Not... in the way you imagine, though I would, of course, be honored if she were to accept such a love token from me. But more, again, in case it might be of aid to her should the winds of war shift.

After all, you and I both know that no matter who ends up on the top of the heap at the end of all this dirty business, Mother will be there in the shadows behind the throne.

I hope that wherever you are right now, you are well away from any fighting. Seeing Eva here, curled in meditative sleep, one hand unconsciously reaching towards the body of her lost companion, I can’t help but think of you and what I would do to anyone who caused you this kind of distress.

Your ever protective, older brother,

Idyril

I didn't really get a chance to try out the new runic sword's power very much, but I did discover that with a 0 (1, -1) on a wisdom saving throw, Idyril can be turned by a Turn Fey spell....

=====

March 30

Somewhere in the forests to the south of Breckenfort

Dearest Ave,

I may have decided which side I’m on in this war, but the gods seem far less certain.

When our paladin lifted his holy symbol to repel the Fey this time, I fled alongside the Faerie-Goblin horde. Yes, Ave, me. I, who usually runs headlong and unafraid into the gaping and blood-soaked maw of battle, found myself scrambling away from Papa in abject panic and fear. I would not have stopped running either, had not Nyrs’s water-colored magical blast hit me in the back of the head, knocking sense back into me.

As I walked back some near hundred feet to rejoin The Caravan, I watched the other fey folk scattering into the woods. I could have taken a swipe at them as they fled, but why? They are so clearly my kin that we were both affected by the same spell.

I can hear your protests. How can this be? Elves--even High Elves, like ourselves--are not normally affected by this particular ‘turning’ magic. I can’t explain it, Ave. Perhaps the strange FeyWild powers that flow during my mindless battle rage are a sign that some part of my soul has been irreversibly transformed.

The gods are cruel, Ave. This is the only thing I can ascertain. Why else would they reveal this profound, new kinship to the Fey only after I have finally made a kind of grim peace with the fact that I am bound in service to the Prime Material? It’s a knife twist, nothing more. A final reminder that while I may serve Humankind, I’ll never be one of them.

Of the rest of our adventures, what can I tell you? It’s been Fey-Goblins and Redcaps all the way from the cottage of the Southern Marsh Witch. We thought to ambush one patrol, and that went well enough, particularly now that Zavala can cast a ball of fire from a great distance. At least it all went fine until our far too kind-hearted monk sought to bully a goblin into surrender, but did not bind or grapple the creature. Being part Fey, it vanished into the woods the second Grigor turned his head.

I’d previously described Grigor’s personality as ox-like, but I’ve grossly mischaracterized him. He is, instead, a raven. Like them, he’s smart and talkative. And, like a raven, he goes after prey far too large for him with much bluster and squawking. Yet, he seems careless at times, as well--too casually trusting, like how the birds will sometimes wait almost too long before fleeing before a hunter’s bow, as though always expecting themselves to be the cleverest and boldest in the forest. He collects like a raven, too. He’s been keeping RedCap boots as battle trophies--or, perhaps, because they’re shiny.

At any rate, Gigor’s misguided kindness cost us nothing. We were able to follow where the escaping Goblin fled and thus found the next patrol troop.

It was a that next crossroad that not only did Papa cast his fearsome spell that bled all courage from my heart, but also where Nyrs unleashed a phantasmal darkness that swallowed the RedCap and Goblin soldiers in an unearthly void, like some shimmering window into the deepest of oceans. I can not say I found that sight particularly comforting, either. If Nrys’s powers are in some way Infernal, I will not be surprised.

But no mind. I’m with ancients and devils, it seems, in an alliance against my forebears.

What comes next, I’ve no idea. Surely, we will continue to uncover the secrets of the Queen Below and her part in this war. Where will it lead? Am I to find myself, one day, sword at the throat of this Archfey Queen only to see our Mother standing in some shadow, behind her? What then? Does this tragedy only end when I’ve slaughtered every last Fey and their allies? And by then, what will I be? Will Papa Bernard achieve the power to Destroy Fey, and, after I have soaked myself in the blood of my kin, will I be disposed of as easily as I was turned today?

I don’t know.

For the moment and for the sake of what remains of my sanity, I shall cling to a fantasy in which I’m allowed to retire with honor from this walking nightmare and settle in with a Southern bog witch who likes me well enough that I might rest in her arms from time to time.

Until such time, I remain,

Your brother

Idyril

A good session last night. As is discussed below, my elf barbarian has picked up a magic sword. For all you rules lawyers and interested parties out there, our GM is using Milando's Guide to Magical Marvels as a supplement, particularly the section on runecrafting. The sword Idyril picked up has the rune Naudiz inscribed on it. According to the book, "The Naudiz rune signifies endurance and perseverance," and when added to a weapon, this is what it says: "When you hit a creature with an attack roll using this magic weapon, you gain temporary hit points equal to your proficiency bonus." Even keeping in mind that temporary hit points don't stack, my proficiency bonus is +3 and, when I rage, I end up adding +7 to every attack roll. It's really hard for me NOT to hit what I'm aiming at these days. Plus, when I rage, I take half damage of most of the traditional types of damage (bludgeoning, slashing, piercing, etc.) I'm sure I'll burn through +3, anyway, especially since I've got no immunity to a whole bunch of other damage types and a tendency to go reckless (giving my enemies an advantage on their attacks against me), so getting a new temp +3 every round will help tremendously.

I really could become Idyril the Unkillable. Ha!

Maybe this idiotic elf barbarian can win the heart of a human Bog Witch, after all.

===

March 23

Cottage of the Witch of the Southern Marshes

Dearest sister,

If I live so long, I may ask this witch, who staunchly (and wisely) refuses to give me hers, to consent to take my name.

I wonder what this woman who is incapable of lying would say to such a proposal? I’m sure she’d laugh at me. There’s no reason at all to presume on our one night together. Even so, as the Caravan and I once again found ourselves at her doorstep with a gift of chickens and goats and news and mail from the wider world, I indulged in a private fantasy: what if this gorgeous, brilliant woman allowed a space for me in her life? What would it be like to always be welcome, or, better yet, to have a seat saved especially for me at that well-worn kitchen table, full of drying herbs and brewing tinctures?

It’s impossible to imagine that a witch so powerful as she has need of any man for very long. Ah, but, Ave, what I wouldn’t give to be the exception. I would even gladly agree to be one of many, as I’m sure I already am, just to know that the door would open for me whenever she might choose to have me.

It is, after all, how I would expect to be with any Elven wife.

But even so simple a dream is a foolish one. I’ll be lucky to survive. After all, the last foe we faced was a Redcap strong enough to lay our paladin low. If the enemy can take out Papa Bernard, hampered, though he was, by his selflessness, what chance have I got?

Well, perhaps a little bit better now that I’m carrying a runic sword that seems to temporarily breathe life into me with every blow that strikes true. Perhaps, if I earn the name Idyril the Unkillable, I can fancy myself a worthy companion to the Witch of the Southern Marshes.

But, let me backup and tell our tale in full.

I’m not sure I ever told you of the ghost girl in the sewers. One of Bedeview the Black’s infernal-Fey hybrid creatures, a kind of Killerpiller capable of minor illusions, attempted to draw us into its lair with the image of a young girl in trouble. We were immediately suspicious of this ruse, but it turned out that the likeness that this Faerie-Fiend projected had been a previous victim. When we returned from the FeyWild with the corpse of Chittering Lucy in tow, we also stopped to retrieve this child’s body as well, in the hopes of learning her name and informing her family of her untimely death.

The half-orc blacksmith in Brendelfort knew of this girl, as he had been commissioned by her family to craft a runic blade for them. From him, my companions got her surname and directions to her family’s homestead.

It was on this grim quest that we set out yesterday morning.

The half-orc blacksmith had told the Caravan that the reason he dealt with a child so young was because the parents refused to do business with him, due to his orcish heritage. As we traveled towards their farm, we discovered that these people were not well liked--though no one had a bad word for the poor, hapless daughter. Everyone was deeply saddened to have heard of her passing.

As we approached the farm, we began to see signs of trouble. Goblin footprints were visible on the footpath, as were the unmistakable footwear of a Redcap.

Of course, as usual, what happened next has been lost to the bloodrage.

The only clear memory I have is of our cleric, Theophania skidding between my legs in order to reach out to inflict some kind of wasting curse upon the Redcap. It’s here that Papa proves his nature. Rather than leave Theophina in harm’s way, he took the time to shove her, bodily, behind us a goodly enough distance to keep her safe. A truly selfless act it was, because the RedCap then unleashed its fury upon Papa and laid him low.

I thought perhaps Papa Bernard might be dead, but he was only knocked to unconsciousness. When the fight was finished, Theophania was able to restore much of his health.

Unfortunately, what we discovered in the aftermath was that the child’s parents had, themselves, become victims of this Fey war. Given the cooking gear that the Goblins had, we presumed that the parents might have been consumed, in fact. Eaten. Such an ugly business, war. Though hardly unexpected when one makes allies of Goblins and their ilk.

It was then that I came across this poncy little sword and its life preserving runic magic. I’m still not sure I like it much. Of course, I can use it. Thanks to Mother’s insistence, I’m fully proficient in the art of the longsword. Grigor reminded me that I was not beholden to use it properly. I could, if I liked, weld it two-handed. Nothing, in fact, would give me more pleasure. The idea of bashing a weapon of the nobility around like a woodsman’s axe warms a very twisted, bitter part of my heart.

And its magic is too good to waste.

So, for the moment, I have strapped the greatsword to my back and am keeping the silly little longsword at my side, closer to hand.

It was then that the Caravan turned to the problem of the now abandoned farm itself.

After we buried the girl in her family’s plot and a recovered Papa ceremoniously put her to rest, we wondered what should be done with the cattle, the goats, and the chickens who all looked to us for food and water. Being a farm boy himself, Bellamey reached out to the neighboring families. It was determined that the care of the land and the animals would be divided up accordingly. We took only a few chickens and goats for the Bog Witch, and a horse for Zavala..

We had thought of her because we'd been intending to turn south to meet those who might be seeking to assassinate me head on. Since she had also been written about in the insane ramblings of Chittering Lucy, it seemed wise to warn my one-time paramour, the Witch of the Southern Marshes.

Just seeing her again tending her garden… my heart did all sorts of palpitations.

Knowing that she can’t lie, I feared I might get a look of disappointment and a “I thought I saw the last of you.” Instead, I was greeted with a smile and later, she even consented to a kiss. She even told me she hoped for my continued health. You see why I entertain such ridiculous notions?

She flirted with Zavala, but I can hardly blame her. Anyone would do the same, given half a chance. I suspect that the desire to coax a smile out of such a comely person is simply a factor of being alive and in any way attracted to human men. I prefer my men a bit older and more experienced, but if the Witch wanted us both, and Zavala was willing, I wouldn’t mind such a tumble in the least. It’d be no hardship at all, given Zavala’s sheer beauty.

I’m not sure I can say the same of any of the rest of the Caravan.

Nyrs is so alien that I’m not even sure I would know how to please a woman like her. Do Tritons have the same… expectations? I can only imagine that love-making on land is so much more clumsy when one is used to the weightless sensation one has underwater. Regardless, it’s clear she only has eyes for Zavala.

As you know, Ave, I’m attracted to competence and intelligence and so Theophina would be a possibility if I didn’t feel the weight of her judgment any time I ran off and did something foolish that endangers her precious cargo, Zavala. She reminds me of Mother in that way. That alone quenches any desires I might have.

Papa Bernard is far too terrifying. Full stop. Even if he were more my type and less… smelly, I would never. Simply never.

Bellamy is… I still don’t fully understand that halfling. Anytime I think I know him, he seems to become someone else. There’s no hope there.

Grigor, unfortunately, has the personality of an ox. He’s passably handsome, but one never knows with monks. Is there a vow of celibacy to Ioun? How do you ask that question without seeming like you’re immediately coming on to someone? Oh, I’m sure you have an answer to that, my sister. I have no doubt that you’ve slept with as much of your monastery as was willing, vow or no vow. Honestly, I respect you for that. I’ve never been so free a spirit.

It’s all idle speculation, at any rate. My heart is lost to a witch.

You would love her, Ave, as would Father. Mother, of course, would despise her--unless somehow the Marsh Witch became a power player in the war. Then, we might get a small nod of grudging approval. But Mother would never accept a permanent attachment. Like the denizens of the Other Side, I am only valuable to Mother as a piece of political real estate.

Especially now that you’ve wandered off to be some kind of Drunken Master.

Good gods. The House of Travorian must be in an uproar, with me disgraced and you… being so you.

I wonder if Mother’s eye is turned back to our elder half-brother, the Bastard? I’m still surprised she’s let him live, knowing he’s made his way back to the Prime Material despite her best efforts to keep him trapped in the FeyWild forever. I mean, he’s still no Travorian, being Father’s little mistake. But, Mother must be getting desperate. It’s autumn, almost time for Winter Court. Do you think she’ll adopt? There’s that weaselly Elrohir she’s forever doting on. That rat would make a fine spymaster’s heir. Far more in her likeness than I could ever be.

Of course, Mother is not yet too old to conceive again. However, Father would never consent. He’s made it clear that given the treatment of the Bastard, you were the last full Trevorian. But, it’s Mother’s name, not his, that matters in the end. Do you suppose if either of us should ever return to the Beech Wood, we might find a completely different set of Trevorian heirs in our place as though we simply never existed? And some new prime consort, Father having been as easily replaced as us? Though possibly not quite so easily, given all that he represents and the treaties that would be broken should he be cast off. Even so, I wonder which of her other consorts she would choose to gain full favor? Gods forbid it be that scheming sorcerer Aoibheann.

Ah, I’m sure you’re bored with this talk of the politics of home. Similarly, it’s clear that relaxing next to a warm fire, listening to the stories of my companions and the gentle, sweet laughter of my lover, leads me to all sorts of wild speculation.

Next, we are off to meet my would-be assassins in the field. The Caravan and I are in full agreement that it’s too dangerous to civilians and innocents in this war for us to wait for the battle to arrive at our own doorstep. The plan is to take the fight to them. Wish us luck and strength so that I might remain

Your surprisingly wistful and romantic brother,

Idyril

When Ave reads this letter, she's going to be muttering to herself, "Drama king, much, brother??" Idyril is the perfect barbarian because all his feelings are so very, very BIG.

========

March 16

The Sloshing Boot

Brendlefort, Kingdom of Shira

Ave, my sister--

Where am I meant to send these letters now? I suppose I might as well continue to direct them to our home in The Beech Wood. Mother has spies everywhere, after all. Once she or her secretary scans our personal correspondence for secrets that she can later use to manipulate us, my notes can be sent to your hidden monastery of the assassins of Lesh. Perhaps Mother is even capable enough to track down your wandering drunkard of a master. I would put none of it past her.

It seems typical of my luck lately that we were both adventuring in different parts of the FeyWild and yet managed to miss each other completely. I’m particularly saddened to have missed your hug.

I could sorely use it.

In fact, if I could, I’d move heaven and earth only to see your face again, Ave, to watch your dancing eyes, and to bemusedly listen to your chaotic spill of delightful conversation. I, too, fear that when next we meet, I’ll be counted among the dead. That feeling has only been heightened by recent events.

The news of Chittering Lucy’s death has already spread like wildfire among the Fey. We were scarce hours returned to Prime Material and already confronted by an ice-wielding FeyWild spy intent on killing me, it seems, in particular.

Apparently, the information about Lucy’s death is incomplete. While I may have struck the final blow that ended her life, I’m in no way capable of countering such a powerful hag on my own. It took the combined forces of the Caravan, of course, but in specific it was the massive power of our cleric, Theophina, and the fire she could call down from the realm of the gods themselves that lay the witch low.

Yet, I understand how it is that I came to be the sole target of their ire.

They see me as a traitor to our race.

Ironically, despite my once divided loyalties, I can hardly deny such an accusation. Its truth is born out by the fact that as my companions shopped for new wares and sold off the spoils of war to various apothecaries, alchemists, and witches in town, I was called upon by the town guard to act as translator for a FeyWild captive--the very cartographer turned assassin who had attacked me.

I suspect that because I’m quick to anger and the fact that his man did me grievous bodily harm, Thompkins' guard presumed me a good bet, an ally. I was wounded by this IceFey, after all. Perhaps I had a beef with him?

But, everyone misunderstands what fuels my fury. I hold no grudge against anyone who raises a hand to me. Or, perhaps, it’s more accurate to say that I feel there is no blame when a soldier fulfills their duty.

No, what lit the unquenchable fire in my belly was that I was asked to stand in a room while they tortured a man who looked very much like me, who cried out for mercy in the language of my heart- a language shared by no one in the room but him and me.

And even as I grew angrier and angrier at this cruel twist of fate, the gods betrayed me by sending out dark tentacles of Wild Magic, causing dancing Faerie lights to encircle my form and, Ave, even the floor of the stone prison itself erupted, briefly, into gnarled, ancient roots of oak and ash. And to what end? Why do the gods curse me so? Do they delight in the irony? Is it some fine trick to them that it was my very Fey ancestry that so perfectly served to terrify the Faerie captive that he spilled every secret he’d sworn to keep for the Queen Below and laid them at my new masters’ feet.

For surely my fate is sealed and bound by force to the Humans now.

Where once I might have turned my gaze toward our most ancient of homelands, I have no choice but to stand firm where I am, here on the Prime Material. I’ve done too much for them now, Ave. I have served them far too well. There’s no going back.

So rejoice, my sister. If I fall in battle now, it will be from a Fey arrow, aimed true, cutting straight through my heart.

Your brother,

Idyril

...and other obvious drawbacks, by Idyril Travorian.

I have some other thoughts about the game, but I may talk about them separately tomorrow as it's late for me and battery is dying. Here's the latest letter home:

======

March 1

The Sloshing Boot

Brendlefort, Kingdon of Shira

My beloved sister,

Chittering Lucy Slopworth is dead.

Theophena’s steely and unerring hand laid low the hag with a mighty rain of holy fire. The rest of The Caravan contributed to Lucy’s demise, but there’s no question that our quiet, always practical cleric dealt the vast majority of the damage.

I’ve made a silent vow to leave a substantial offering at the altar of whichever god or goddess Theophena worships. The truth is, Ave, we were sorely outmatched. None of us should have survived that battle.

And we would not have faced the hag so soon, but for my impulsiveness.

We were continuing our way through the sewers, battling sentient slime and satyrs. As we made our way through the warren of ceaseless tunnels, the ring that I recently assumed to be nothing but a sham lit up. Searching for the source of this sudden magical activity, we came upon Lucy and her armored guard. She stood before an unearthly portal and, before we could attack, she stepped through.

In the sober light of day, I realize the depth of my foolishness. I had no idea where that portal emptied out. It could’ve hurtled me into the heart of some Infernal hellscape. It could have dumped me, sprawling, directly at the feet of the Queen Below, herself. Even if it took me only to some part of the FeyWilds that was innocuous by the standards of that deeply dangerous place, I had no guarantee at all that I could return. I didn’t know if the ring worked as I hoped it might--or, even if it did, that we could come back to the same place… or time that we’d left.

I had no thoughts in my head at all, however, Ave, only rage.

Seeing the hag slip away, I screamed into that chamber, running at full speed, and threw my great sword at the guardsmen. I don’t know what passing insanity possessed me to fling a two-handed weapon at someone far too far away. Yet, it left my hand like an arrow, struck true, and then returned to my hand of its own volition. I can only guess that this new ability was granted by whatever strange Fey magic leaks out of me whenever the battle tide overwhelms my senses.

My companions joined the fray, but I continued to barrel forward, grabbed the nearest guard and hauled both of us through the gate.

Directly into the Feywild.

I stepped into a place I must’ve been to before because the name “Brairdown Forrest” flitted through my mind. The hag fled on her broom, but my newly flying sword, Bellamey’s crossbow bolt and Zavala’s magic stopped her in her tracks. She turned to face us. A move that, much to everyone’s surprise, proved to be the end of her.

Do I regret it? I’m uncertain. It still makes me uneasy to slay my own kind. Standing there, in that place…it felt as homey as it did alien. I’m conflicted as I ever was.

However.

When we carried Lucy’s body back through the portal to the Prime Material, Nyris uncovered a personal journal of sorts among the hag’s belongings. Lucy had filled the pages with her fantasies of what she’d do when the Queen Below annexed the Prime Material ands. As you know, reading is difficult for me, but I can recognize my name, even in Slyvan. Her notes were riddled with plans for me--how many elves I might persuade to join them… even who I might be married off to in order to politically strengthen the FeyWild and Infernal noble houses.

They knew our entire family tree. Your name was there as well as Mother’s. The bastard seemed missing from Lucy’s notes. But, given that our great spymaster mother seems unable to track our half-brother down, perhaps that’s no surprise.

While we battled, Lucy seemed particularly angry at me for having chosen the wrong side. Clearly, the Fey Court had plans to use my lineage.. politically. I can hardly speak coherently when he blood rage takes me, but, had I had the ability, I’d’ve had nothing to say beyond disappointment to discover that no matter which side I chose, my fate would be the same. I was born, it seems, to be nothing more than a pawn in a game played by powerful women.

It seems, as well, I’m slated to forever be a disappointment.

Your brother,

Idyril

So, mostly we continued our dungeon crawl in-game, but we managed to have several side conversations about gods and fate.

===

February 16

In the Sewers of

Brendlefort, Kingdom of Shira

Dearest sister,

I thought I would feel more when The Caravan finally confronted Riccardus in the basements of his establishment.

I expected to regret using my blade against a half-Elfish brother-of-blood. Yet when the cutting was done, I felt only pity and a kind of… emptiness. He called out to me, Ave. That duplicious cat of his had left him with the impression that I’d be quick to run to his side. Yet, when Riccardus said that he thought I should be standing with him against The Caravan and the rest, I found myself with nothing to say. I had no response but that the only way out for him was through us.

The abominations we faced, Ave. They might have been Fey enough to be turned by Papa Bernard’s hand, but they were… not…. No, they were far more of something else, something putrid and unholy.

Riccardus did this to them. Knowingly.

Captain Thompkins’ guards asked us to bring Riccardus in alive, which we managed--albeit only barely. I carried his body out of that foul place, myself, and watched as they clapped manicales on him and dragged him, still unconscious, to prison.

I slept soundly and without guilt or remorse.

In the morning, when we went to give our full report to the captain, Thompkins refused to let us speak with Riccardus. She has some plans of her own, it seems, to pry information out of him and didn’t want us muddying the waters, as were. It’s probably just as well. I’m uncertain what I’d say to him. Though I do find myself churning over several details that don’t add up--at least not to my mind.

The foremost among them is: Why? Why these horrible experimentations?

When I spoke this question aloud to my colleagues, the ever sensible Theophina suggested that perhaps it was simply a matter of manufacturing soldiers, a numbers game, if you will. But, because so much of my own connection to this storyline centers around the suspicion granted to me by simply being an Elf, I could hardly forget that Elves joined the fight on the side of the Queen Below in the last war. Surely, if the Queen could make her case to reasonable people once, she could do so again.

It is true that Captain Philip and his soldiers forced the Queen Below into retreat. Perhaps that crushing blow has made it difficult for the forces of the Fey Realm to recruit the local Elves back into the Queen’s service once again. But if her cause was reasonable--something I feel I simply must assume, since reasonable people chose to die for it--then what is the value of allying with something so… repulsive that anything less than a zealot like Riccardus would turn away in horror?

I know that you and I disagree about the cruel nature of the Fey themselves, but this thing we fought, Ave, this Soul Brood Mother or whatever it was called…. It was a very different kind of awful.

I wish that before wizards tear his mind out or whatever it is Captain Thompkins has planned for the poor, misguided sod that I could ask Riccardus what he was thinking, what he thought he was doing, and whether or not it was truly in her service and by her command that he did it.

I also wish I could be there to see his face when the captain informs him that the portal to the FeyWild that Riccardus thought his Queen had provided him was nothing more than a high level illusion. Worse, it seemed clear that the Queen Below never intended to keep whatever bargain she’d struck with Riccardus, as behind this illusion were pots of Fey plants that sprayed a deadly poison everywhere. She clearly meant not only to deny him a retreat, but also to murder him.

But, again… why?

Why squander the faith of such a zealot?

I can almost hear your admonishing voice. Yes, yes, I remember that the Fey are fickle. This is not terribly unlike them--to lead someone on in such a way, only to pull the rug out for no other reason than that it amuses them. However, she is planning a war, Ave. Surely, if Theophina is correct and soldiers are in such short supply, you would not waste a single one of them. Especially not The very one providing such a steady stream of drones, the warped warriors for the cause!

It makes no sense.

Perhaps I am a fool to try to assign meaning to anything the Fey or ArchFey do. I have, after all, been wrong about so many things. For instance, I have been laboring under a misapprehension that the ring I wear is the very love token that the Queen is missing, for which she sacrifices many scouts to attempt to reclaim. It seems I am as much of a dupe as Riccardus, as he wore one exactly the same. Unlike mine, his ring came off easily. Perhaps the one I wear will, too, when I am as near to death as Riccardus was. At least now that I know I wear a sham, I won’t be so foolish as to assume it is as valuable as the lives of my companions.

I still feel very much adrift. Of no surprise to either you or I, Mother never returned my letter begging for guidance. I know not where the Travorian Matriarch, Kingmaker and Duchess of Shadow and Spire stands on the matter of the Queen Below. It will not shock me either if, no matter which side I end up on, it will be, in her estimation, the wrong one.

Ah, if only I still had Aiyu to talk to.

I know, I know. That cat is as much part of the problem as any of the rest. Still, he was a good listener.

It’s funny how much, even though we are longer apart than we have ever been, I can hear your responses to my complaints with such clarity. This time, I’m certain that you would be encouraging me to make friends with The Caravan and talk to them about my conflicted loyalties. I swear I’m trying… in my own way to forge more connections. I mean, the Paladin scares me a bit, now that I have heard his command to Turn more than once and felt it echoing in my core. However, as we trudged through the slime and the muck, I had somewhat of a foray into philosophy with the Iounian monk, Grigor. As you know very well, Mother didn’t raise us to look to any specific god for guidance, but rather to loosely court them all, much as she does her own earthly political alliances. And, so I asked Grigor a bit about how Ioun worked--how the goddess moves through the world. It seems Ioun does not judge knowledge as good or evil, but rather compels her followers to pursue any and all of it, regardless of its nature. I would think this would be a rather amoral way to view the world, but Grigor is by far one of the more insistent when it comes to the preservation of life. He is forever attempting to talk our enemies out of their wicked ways.

This bodes well for me, perhaps, should I succumb to my darker impulses in regards to the FeyWilds.

Bellamey will cut me down without hesitation, however. Not that I’ll see it coming.

Papa Bernard seems willing to use his prodigious faith to have my back in a fight, but I have zero doubt that he’d strike directly for my heart, should it ever waver. He is after all not only a Paladin, but Paladin of the Ancients.

Theophina, Zavala, and Nyris are wildcards. At a guess, Theophina would do whatever is the most practical and wise. Zavala… my sense of him is that my fate would depend on the whim of his Goddess. Nyris will follow in whichever direction the Changebringer sends Zavala.

It’s difficult to know the mind of a Goddess or which choice will be wisest, so it’s impossible to know if I’d be outnumbered or not. I wish I knew the heart of the Queen Below. Is she simply a craven villain willing to go to any means to win a plot of land in the Prime Material, or is she someone of merit that other Elves once listened to and followed? I’m so conflicted, Ave, that I even left an offering on the altar of The Raven Queen whose secret shrine we uncovered in our underground ramblings. Perhaps, thanks to this small kindness, Death will smile upon me and guide my hand in my time of need.

Once again, I am uncertain if that’s a good thing or a bad one.

Your brother,

Idyril

As a player I am now facing the Big Bad without any rages left! It should be fun next time. I will probably die! Wish me luck.

But, the story continues, thusly, with Idyril having yet another complication to his Big FEELINGS around the war brewing with the Fey.

======

February 1

Beneath the Sloshing Boot

Brendelfort, Kingdom of Shira

Dear Ave, my sister,

I have exhausted my rage.

I would have thought that this wellspring of anger was bottomless, but it seems not so. As my blade clove through the last of the hideous, malformed Fey-Infernal hybrids, the Soul Suckers, I felt the white hot ire leave me. I feel nothing now--nothing beyond a cold and empty soberness. I couldn’t summon even a drop of the battle madness when we accidentally awoke the Soul Spinner. Nay, I faced that creature clear-eyed and without the strange Fey powers I’ve been manifesting around me. And so it seems, I must continue this way.

Perhaps the blinding fury will return to me no more.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

Let me explain.

After our near-arrest, we brought eight of the City Guard to the Sloshing Boot. A deep and thorough investigation of the premises commenced. A hidden escape hatch was found in Riccardius’s chambers that led to the roof--most likely his means of escape, as it overlooked an alleyway behind the tavern.

Leaving the guard to the tavern proper, the majority of the party continued to explore. In the cellar, Grigor found a corked bottle containing a clawed finger and an eyeball, which Papa Bernard later identified as being of an Infernal nature. Whether it is a potion or a weapon, we still don’t know, though Grigor keeps it upon his person, even now. Papa hisses at it and exclaims, “Witch!” whenever he sees it, but I am beginning to suspect this simply means “bad,” just as “squirrel,” seems to have many meanings.

A hidden staircase led us deeper underground. Going deeper and deeper below ground, we discovered some clerical robes of some kind. It seems the Queen Below is gathering members for some kind of cult worship. That we found enough for all of us to go in disguise is perhaps a bad sign, as it may be an indication of numbers.

In another chamber we met up with two former friends. At least, we recognized Jackson, one of the bouncers from the Sloshing Boot. I was not close to Jackson, as I preferred the company of Aiyu, but he was a familiar enough face ~~though I would have sworn his name was Bob.~~ Friends became enemies as they rushed to battle us, but we managed to defeat them without killing them. We took the time to remand them to the custody of the guardsmen that stayed at the tavern above. As we hauled them out, Nerys and Grigor asked Jackson why he would betray the Prime Material. He had only one answer: “There’s no point. She will be victorious.”

The Queen Below.

Now, in my newly sobered state, these words haunt me. Initially, while still in the thrall of the blood madness, I didn’t fear this outcome. However, that was before we met the Soul Suckers and the like. These creatures I mentioned above, Ave, they were once Fey. I can only presume Bedeview the Black, at the behest of his Queen, mutated and perverted them into the hideous, pitiful things with which we grappled.

As you know, I am of a very divided mind when it comes to an UnSeelie Queen’s desire to rule some portion of the Prime Material.

For my money, the Fey have as much right to do so as any army has to hold a colony in a foreign land. UnSeelie or Seelie, it matters not to one such as I, raised in a court of secrets and twilight. But those thoughts, even complicated as they were by my friendships and loyalties to this land, were easier to entertain before I saw these creatures who were once Fey.

It makes me angry to see anything Fey twisted so.

I knew that some of the previous fey folk we fought had been experimented on, but the turning point for me was when Papa Bernard called upon his Ancient Gods to give him visions of undead or infernal… and he could not see these creatures. Despite the awful experimentation, they were more Fey than anything else. That was the moment I had an epiphany.

Now that I have the ability to think clearly, I realize that what I am loyal to above all else is the Fey.

A Queen who would pervert the Fey is no Queen of mine.

If Bedeview is acting on his own, the Queen Below could still hold my favor. But, if she sanctions this in any way, I can not brook with it.

Your no longer raging, but still angry brother,

Idyril

I've been inspired to return to art thanks to a number of things, but I think largely due to playing D&D again. I've been trying to get a good picture out of my head an on to paper of my ridiculously angry/stupid barbarian High Elf. Not happy with my attempts so far, but this one was my latest.

It's still very sketchy and will probably remain so.

elf barbarian

Idyril contemplating murder, probably.

The thing that I'm struggling the most to portray is the fact that underneath his hastily acquired leather armor are the really fancy silk clothes he left home with, most of which are now torn to shreds, spattered with blood and gore, and covered in dirt. The ouroboros is meant to be part of a design on what is essentially a haori/silk over-jacket.

Anyway, I thought I'd share this attempt.

Right, back to my pajama day. Hope you all are having a great weekend.

Okay, there's the elf! Look away, if you are not so inclined. The adventure continues to unveil it's party member's deep, dark secrets....

=====

January 18

Brendelfort, Kingdom of Shira

My dearest sister, Ave,

You will not believe this.

All this time… the whole time that I have walked as a fellow traveler among The Caravan, I have been in the presence of a paladin who follows the Oath of the Ancients.

Let me begin at the beginning, so that you may feel the same shock as I did. Varneolwa--or Brown Branch, as my companions call him--had, as you may recall, agreed to sell out his master, Bedeview the Black. Armed with the location of Black’s encampment and the blessings of the city’s Captain of the Guard, we set out to investigate.

I suspect most of my companions and I were in silent agreement that Bedeview the Black is quite likely a foe beyond our capabilities. Thus, it was with grim determination that we strode out towards what we imagined to be our doom.

This part of the country, Ave, is populated with low, undulating hills. It is not uncommon to find yourself winding your way through the narrow valley pathways between tree-covered hillsides, like a river. Shadows of the trees are deep and haunting, and the land rises around you like great waves of stone and wood. Perhaps, this is why the fair folk are so covetous of this region and hope to claim it as their own. It likely reminds them of home. My dim memories of the FeyWilds that you and I traveled with mother are of eerie landscapes not unlike this, with moss covered boulders and the vibrant green of bracken and fern that I have seen in so very few other places. Dim echoes of that ancient wildness can be felt in these lands.

Grigor, our monk, appointed himself our scout, much, it turned out, to his detriment. It may be difficult to imagine such a seasoned and perceptive person might suddenly find himself in the middle of a horde of mutated goblins, but as I have noted these valleys are deep and dark and twisted, almost canyon-like, in the way in which they funnel travelers in a certain direction. The goblin fiends used the terrain to their advantage and were on top of Grigor before the rest of The Caravan even knew he had been ambushed.

Though he did nearly lose his life in the ensuing battle, we fortunately heard Grigor’s pained cries at a distance and rushed to his aid.

Again, my memory of the battle itself becomes murky and lost to the blood rage, but… strange things continue to happen to me when I fight. I would swear to you, as ridiculous as it seems, I was able to summon pixies from the FeyWild itself. Stranger still, these pixies would then explode and cause damage to anyone nearby. My rage is such that I am nearly mindless when taken over by it, but, normally, it comes with its own sort of danger sense. Because of this, I have a memory of being injured myself by one of these strangely combustive fairy folk.

Am I so conflicted by my own heritage that my anger can rip the very fabric of the universe? And drag from it unwilling Fey victims, literally rending them to smithereens by the force of own self-loathing?

A chilling thought.

I do wonder what my companions make of these strange new occurrences.

Especially the paladin. But more on that in a moment.

Despite Grigor’s near death experience and the fact that these mutated goblins were able to inflict some strange form of mental injury that my blood rage could not lessen the impact of, we took only a short rest before pressing onwards to Bedeview the Black’s abode.

I will tell you, Ave, while resting on the incline of this hillside, I was in some despair of our ability to withstand even a minor tangle with Black and his blink dogs. As Papa Bernard skinned the black bears that had, apparently, come to the aid of the goblins, I told my companions that, should it come to it and I found myself the last one standing before this FeyWild knight, I would trade the Queen’s love token, the ring I wear, for their lives. I have the sort of visage and demeanor these days, dear sister, that makes these sorts of declarations seem threatening, but it was intended as a promise. I would surrender the ring if it would save my companions their lives.

It never came to that, as fortune--or perhaps the will of the Ancient Ones--would have it.

I am not one for gods, Ave, as you well know. I prefer to imagine that fate is a thing a warrior forges for themselves with muscle and steel. However, it is clear that Zavala and Theophina’s goddess, Avandra, moves pieces on the chess board of my life, and now…

Now I must contend with gods older than the Elven race itself.

We knew that we had come to Black’s hideout when that creeping sensation came over us as we stood atop a particular mound of earth. You remember this sensation, Ave. We have felt it together, you and I. It’s the one where all of a sudden your skin prickles. Your senses heighten and you notice that you’re alone, in a clearing, standing upon a hill covered in clover the color of emeralds, white and red spotted mushroom caps sprouting like tiny hats in a circle at your feet, and those strange juts of standing rocks, craggy and old--so very old--that seem… alive, watching you.

Yes. We were atop a faerie hill.

And, foolish though we all knew it was, we planned to enter it.

There is something about passing into the earth, over a living threshold that feels… dangerous, as though you are making a conscious choice to enter darkness, and leave behind the light of the living. This sensation is ten times worse when you know you’re entering a place claimed by the Fey.

I fully expected to come out to discover some thousands of years had passed.

Or… more likely, to never emerge again.

My companions and I pressed bravely onward, however. The first den we entered belonged to the blink dogs. I had been under a misapprehension that Black might have one or two loyal blink dogs at his side, but we stumbled into a full pack of eight or more of these monstrous animals. Seeing their slobbering mouths and those tell-tale elongated and pointed ears, I girded my loins, thinking that, perhaps, this was where I would die.

That is when Papa Bernard revealed his true nature.

This man… I mistook his antlers and furs for something far more common, a simple Druid. I can look back and say that I knew that there was something primal about Papa’s bearing, but I would be lying if I said that I suspected this goofy, puppy-like fellow to be a holy warrior called in the service of gods that have no names because they are prehistoric and unknowable.

When Papa Bernard held aloft his holy symbol and spoke… Ave, I felt his words not just in my bones, but in my very marrow. Even on the cusp of the rage as I was, it shook me. No, more than that, it felt as though the earth beneath my feet heaved and split and out of it rose something terrifyingly primordial… in the shape of Papa Bernard.

Like the other fey creatures in the den, I was cowed and quivering, or would have been if Papa Bernard were not my ally and my rage not, in its own way, so fathomless and unintelligible.

It is in a daze that the rest of the events follow.

I have a sense that we formed a mighty phalanx of mutual aid and fought more of these creatures twisted by the infernal experiments of Bedeview the Black. Likewise, I remember we uncovered papers and alchemical texts and herbs, all of which we gathered in the room where a faerie gate stood. But much like Bedeview himself, we chose to beat a hasty retreat to regroup. We left behind a token effort to forestall reentry from the gate with cold iron filings and booby traps… but, as important as all that is, it is not the thing that occupies most of my thoughts as I sit here in the familiar main room of the Sloshing Boot, while my companions sleep.

What do I do now, Ave?

In the countless fantasies I’ve entertained of fully embracing my own Fey ancestry, I never factored in a paladin. Period. Much less a paladin of the Ancients.

In sudden and great consternation, I remain

Your wayward brother,

Idriyl

So, yesterday, the weather SUCKED. We shifted the game over to Discord, though we didn't last long over there because everyone from the group is out of practice playing online. (Kind of the opposite for me? Most of my gaming groups are still either on Discord or are playing via some other video conferencing program.) But, the DM was having a lot of trouble parsing all the chatter (which is fair, since it included a chat stream) and so we quit early. That was only a bit of a bummer because it took nearly half the time just for everyone to get on the voice channel and to get the Dice Maiden working properly.

Ah, well, it was still, as usual an action (and angst for poor Idyril) filled night.

Oh, and should any of you D&D/RPG playing nerds need or want it, I found a good English to Elfish online translator: https://funtranslations.com/elvish

Also, because I'm like this, I asked Google if there was an official term for a group of pixies. The answer: troupe. Apparently, a group of goblins is either a malignity or a horde. I've adjusted the previous letters accordingly, because I feel like Idyril would absolutely be the sort of person who would use the correct word.

--------

January 4

Brendelfort, Kingdom of Shira

Dearest Ave,

I fervently wish that Papa Bernard, Grigor, and the others of The Caravan were not so kind-hearted. If we would but slaughter all of these wretched Fey creatures quickly and cleanly, I swear none of this would weigh so heavily on my heart.

Now, thanks to Theophina’s clever bargain, I am complicit in enslaving my own kin.

Despite my better judgment, The Caravan agreed to aid Anathi Varmi, the Halfling innkeeper and meadmaker. It seems something invisible had been running off with mead and other foodstuffs from her larder. After some argument over how to surprise the little thieves--half of our party lying in wait and, comically, Zavala, the Chosen of Avandra, hiding in the outhouse--we nevertheless quickly found ourselves in combat with a small troupe of pixies.

These creatures seemed armed with arrows capable of striking fear even into a heart like mine, which normally feels nothing in battle but a thirst for blood. I may have lost a dagger in the battle, having been forced to throw it as I could not will my feet to move forward against the enemy.

The sprites fled as soon as Zavandra’s magics burnt one of their kind of a crisp. Not that I blame them, entirely. They seemed to be little more than supply thieves, working for a more powerful boss. All of those we fought in the streets escaped. That is, except one wretched soul that Papa Bernard tackled with his great mass, a wee pixie named Brown Branch--or as it is said in Sylvian, Varneolwa. Some other pixies, spotted by those who lay in wait in the inn, made off with a bottle specially marked by Theophina, which she hopes to use to track the wee ones to their lair.

A clever precaution, though one we may not need. As, since we had a captive in tow, I acted once again as translator and chief interrogator against my Fey cousin.

From poor Varneolwa, we extracted much information. We got from him the whereabouts of the rest of his troupe and that he greatly feared his master, a fellow whose name we’ve heard bandied about on the roads--Bedeview the Black. Bedeview is a warlock, it seems, who travels with a pack of trained blink dogs. Varneolwa spoke of “experiments” and pixies the size of halflings that purportedly are the results of this unholy medicine or magicks.

Unlike with the Dream Squire, The Caravan did not see the wisdom in simply letting Varneolwa go after our grueling interrogation of him. Instead, I was enlisted to broker a deal, a Bargain. In exchange for Varneolwa’s life, he would become a spy for us. We would take responsibility for his well-being, but he would act as an informant.

This fey, much like myself, has been conscripted into turning on his own kind.

You have no idea, Ave, how difficult it was for me to translate Theophina’s words into Sylvan. My tongue was heavy with guilt; my teeth clenched with rage. If Bellamy had not shown a quickness in study of the Sylvan language, I would have been sorely tempted to tell Baruolwa to fly to his Queen and inform her that Idyril Trevorian holds her love token and wishes to meet for parlay. But, it’s clear that my companions are beginning to be familiar with Sylvan, despite its complexities of syntax and tone. I dared not take the risk this time.

I know you disapprove, my dear sister. You think me foolish to even entertain any allegiance with the FeyWild and their chaos. But, again, in the heat of battle, I felt a strange surge of Wild Magic seize me, move through me… consume me. I am Fey in my blood, Ave--in my very bones.

And so I remain,

Your brother,

Idriyl

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Day in the Life of an Idiot

Journal of Lyda Morehouse

Entries tagged with elf barbarians

Angry Elf Returns!

Other Updates But First, a Fic

Ave Grows Up

Murder Hobos be Murdering

Into the Woods

The Invisible Hand of Commerce and D&D

A Day Without Fighting

Now the Sister Has Her Turn

Upon the Eve of War

A Thickened Plot

A Wild Elf Appears!

TURNED by "Turn Fey"

An Elf in Love

Big Barbarian FEELINGS

Rages Makes Barbarians Chaotic Wildcards...

Talk of Gods and Goddesses

A Change of Heart?

Returning to Art

Surprise! Paladin

Quisling Fey

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