Ascension - Sorrel Darkfire
Jul 4, 2021 19:40:03 GMT
Merla, the Daughter of Summer, WillJ, and 2 more like this
Post by stephena on Jul 4, 2021 19:40:03 GMT
As the Feywild ceremony unfolded around her, Sorrel felt strangely conflicted. Her fey blood surged, sparkling with strange energy and bubbling through her with a curious musical resonance like a chorus of mischievous children singing songs from a time before memory began. That part of her she’d often sought to hide – bullied for it in the back streets of the docks, looked down upon by the House’s pure blood human aristocratic clients – belonged here and it sang along with the throng of celebrants.
And yet, as she looked around the distant perfection of the gathered fey lords and ladies and struggled to keep time with the effortless harmony of the fair folk’s revels she realised she had never felt more human in her entire life. Where did she belong? Was there ever to be a place she felt at home?
A strange noise caught her attention. Rising from the earth came a great stag, crowned with antlers branching out into a mighty tree, a creature more noble than any Sorrel had seen. Suddenly, from nowhere, an arrow flew through the air and pierced its heart. Sorrel gasped as the leaves and branches began to wilt and die. A wall of darkness surrounded it, shadowy archers appeared everywhere and although Sorrel could see they were tackled and slaughtered, other beasts emerged from the darkness.
Thick clouds of fog filled the amphitheatre, and Sorrel moved instinctively towards Velania, notching an arrow to her bow and searching the mist for threats. Suddenly Tolven loomed from the mist, which cleared briefly to reveal a tiny party – most of whom she knew. There was Varga, the ferocious half orc barbarian, Breeze, the nonchalant bard and Faust Greybeard, an elegant older gentleman Tiefling she had seen around Daring Heights and whose ballads she’d heard sung at closing time across Kantas. With Velania beside her, she felt comforted and when Tolven beckoned them all through a portal he seemed to summon from the mists, she checked there was tension enough in her bow string and followed the others through.
--
They found themselves standing in thick woodland on a bright autumn day, the gentle sun filtered through a thick canopy of leaves. Immense trees towered above them, so vast that sturdy fey dwellings sprouted from their roots and lower branches. The trunks coiled like tightly wound ropes, each fibre another intricately woven bough with silver grey bark that glowed in the soft light, dappled rays creating the illusion of rippling waves playing up and down as if the trees were spinning tornados on the verge of tossing the sprawling fey town at their feet.
The effect was enhanced by the panicked crowd of woodland creatures surging back and forth, some terror stricken, others revelling in the chaos. Tolven regarded the party gravely for a moment, then his deep voice rumbled slowly, like roots tunnelling through the moist earth.
“The spirit of autumn has been contaminated by an evil that seems to have permeated the life giving water, corrupting the trees and threatening to bring our world crashing down,’ he thundered. “My slow magic needs time and place to cleanse and purify. We must gather this foul excrescence into one place that may sing the old songs of dawn and rain and wash its malign stain away.”
Varga was already searching the area and, with a proud shout, hauled a large wooden bucket from beneath a mallorn tree. Sorrel joined her, diving into the pools and scooping malignant tendrils into the containter. As the bards sang powerful magic, luring and twisting the darkness and Velania blessed the waters and their labours, they eased the greatest part of the darkness into one pool at Tolven’s feet.
The wise Treant, face grimly set, began his song. As he did, the mass of corruption somehow rose from the lake, a writhing collision of smooth, oily, whale-like surfaces and tentacles that curved inward toward each other, thrashing through the air like ugly prehensile paws, the pulsating body having no face but only a suggestive blankness where a face ought to be.
Tolven chanted some rhythmic, guttural patterns and the bark peeled back from one enormous tree to reveal two strange collections of bark and branch that uncoiled and stretched out into two tree creatures who blinked in the light then turned towards the seething, coiled abomination.
“Sweet Lovecraft, what is that thing?” said the first.
“Bit racist to bring up Lovecraft mate,” the second raised two bark eyebrows.
“I was thinking of the stories, not the poetry,” the first shrugged. “At least we’re not in a Call of Cthulu game. That’s like an RPG based on a Leni Riefenstahl movie.”
“That’s a little harsh - are you sure it’s not the low hit points you really object to?” the second sniffed.
“When you’ve finished with the post-modern fourth wall breaking, we do have a giant monster attacking us,” Tolven rumbled.
As he spoke, the darkness uncoiled a mass of writhing tentacle that wrapped around Varga and Velania. The cleric’s holy armour resisted its stain but welts of shadow appeared on Varga’s skin.
Just before the poisonous blackness struck home, Sorrel opened fire – hauling at her bow string with all her might and speed, sending two arrows in rapid succession into the heart of the arms that struck Varga. To her satisfaction, they withered and fell onto the surface of the pool where Tolven’s song erased them.
Then Varga screamed in fury and the battle was joined. Breeze and Velania hurled spells at the evil shade, which – swollen and bubbling – threw the magic back, stunning the entire party.
The tree creatures, positioned on either side of the lake, sighed with a touch of irritation.
“Have yours gone down?” said the first.
“Like logs,” said the second.
“Bit tasteless,” said the first. “My uncle is a log now. Nasty business.”
“Surprised you could tell the difference,” the second snorted. “Not exactly a mover, your uncle.”
Tolven’s sigh shook the ground.
The tree creatures tutted insolently and attacked, launching offensive melodies of a distinctly earthy bent, causing the corruption to contract and harden.
Suddenly, as if manifesting from beams of light, a kingly Archfey appeared on a throne, hovering above the battle. His beauty was dazzling and he seemed to embody the purest water. Sorrel felt relief flood through her. She could sense the power emanating from his presence. An ally! And then, she was surprised to hear Faust spit. “Ulorian,” he muttered with deep contempt, the first angry words he has spoken.
Perhaps thanks to the Archfey’s arrival, Sorrel felt her limbs and mind release. She clambered back to her position next to Tolven, guarding him as he chanted the shadow away. Her heart swelled as she saw Velania rush forward to stand beside Varga, the two women unleashing all they had in a blaze of magic and steel. She could hear Breeze cackling a harsh discordant spell and Faust, taking a blow from a foul tentacle, unleashing a fiery rebuke.
In the face of this fury the foulness fled, then gathered itself and flowed towards Faust and Tolven, reaching out to engulf the Tieflings body. At this, the Archfey blinked out, having offered precisely zero assistance. As the gentle, elegant bard fell to the ground, the poison sucking his life away, Sorrel felt an old rage building up inside her – an anger she thought had died with the last of the creatures that had killed her companions in Elturel. The murderous fury filled her again, the insistent yearning to destroy those who sought to harm those she cared for.
She pulled her bowstring taught, her eyes taking in the brave half orc, always the first in the charge whatever the peril, the radiant Aassimar, defiantly at Varga’s side, hurling spell after spell in the face of the creatures powerful magic resistance, the skilful bard whose songs lifted her spirits and gave her focus and determination and finally the beautiful fallen Tiefling, his carefully tailored jacket smeared with mud and filth, his eyes staring blankly into the void.
The arrow hurtled from her bow and, without waiting to see if it hit home, she dropped the weapon and snatched her rapier from her belt, charging forward with a guttural howl at this filth that dared to infest her friends. “Not while I live, you worthless amateur compost heap,” she screamed, standing astride Faust, her eyes blazing with fury. Varga stormed up beside her, shattering another obsidian arm with her hammer.
The beast reared over her, its two remaining tentacles pawing at Sorrel and Varga. Sorrel felt a shock, feeling poison creep into her blood as droplets of corruption trickled across her skin and sank into her veins, fuelling rather than quelling her rage. She leaped forward, the rapier’s blade a blur as she carved the symbol of the goddess into the bubbling, oily surface, screaming “you do not touch my friends, you filth,” at the top of her lungs.
The mass imploded, its tentacles falling to the surface of the pool, and Tolven’s song dispersed it. Sorrel stood there, breathing hard, aware of the rest of the party looking at her warily. She gathered herself, coolly wiped her blade on her cloak, inspected it for stains and sheathed it carefully then watched as the Treant’s magic destroyed the last traces of darkness.
Breeze muttered a swift incantation and she smiled affectionately as Faust’s jacket was restored to its former glory, the bard offering a low bow of gratitude. Suddenly she realised – these were the people she was willing to die for. This eccentric collection of brawlers, devotees, musicians and poets… these were her people, and this strange continent… she took a deep breath… this was her home.
--
The next hour passed in a blur. She knew the party passed through another portal and were back in the amphitheatre. She heard words spoken off in the distance, and a vote was called. She suddenly realised she, along with all those who had passed into the Feywild, were being invited to take part and she knew the honour that these folk were bestowing… but she could not feel it and she understood it even less. She cast her ballot at random. She had no idea who she had voted for or what they would become. In truth, she didn’t care. Some part of her belonged to this place and, in time, perhaps she would grow to appreciate it. For now, her only concern was her comrades.
She realised the crowd was flocking to a celebration. Drinks were flowing and songs echoing. She rose to her feet and almost stumbled over the tree creatures.
“Oi, fleshy, watch where you’re putting that meat on your feet,” the first sniffed.
“Meat on your feet?” the second rolled its eyes.
“Look, it’s not easy being light relief during the apocalypse,” the first huffed. “Especially when the word light itself is a mixed blessing at best for anything wooden.”
“Oh yeah, by the way weirdo with the sword, we’re supposed to give you this, all your mates have one,” the second chucked something at Sorrel and wandered off. Sorrel stared at the finely wrought choker and the pulsing gem it held.
“It does magical shit,” the first smiled. “Nice blade work, by the way. Now fuck off to the party.”
And yet, as she looked around the distant perfection of the gathered fey lords and ladies and struggled to keep time with the effortless harmony of the fair folk’s revels she realised she had never felt more human in her entire life. Where did she belong? Was there ever to be a place she felt at home?
A strange noise caught her attention. Rising from the earth came a great stag, crowned with antlers branching out into a mighty tree, a creature more noble than any Sorrel had seen. Suddenly, from nowhere, an arrow flew through the air and pierced its heart. Sorrel gasped as the leaves and branches began to wilt and die. A wall of darkness surrounded it, shadowy archers appeared everywhere and although Sorrel could see they were tackled and slaughtered, other beasts emerged from the darkness.
Thick clouds of fog filled the amphitheatre, and Sorrel moved instinctively towards Velania, notching an arrow to her bow and searching the mist for threats. Suddenly Tolven loomed from the mist, which cleared briefly to reveal a tiny party – most of whom she knew. There was Varga, the ferocious half orc barbarian, Breeze, the nonchalant bard and Faust Greybeard, an elegant older gentleman Tiefling she had seen around Daring Heights and whose ballads she’d heard sung at closing time across Kantas. With Velania beside her, she felt comforted and when Tolven beckoned them all through a portal he seemed to summon from the mists, she checked there was tension enough in her bow string and followed the others through.
--
They found themselves standing in thick woodland on a bright autumn day, the gentle sun filtered through a thick canopy of leaves. Immense trees towered above them, so vast that sturdy fey dwellings sprouted from their roots and lower branches. The trunks coiled like tightly wound ropes, each fibre another intricately woven bough with silver grey bark that glowed in the soft light, dappled rays creating the illusion of rippling waves playing up and down as if the trees were spinning tornados on the verge of tossing the sprawling fey town at their feet.
The effect was enhanced by the panicked crowd of woodland creatures surging back and forth, some terror stricken, others revelling in the chaos. Tolven regarded the party gravely for a moment, then his deep voice rumbled slowly, like roots tunnelling through the moist earth.
“The spirit of autumn has been contaminated by an evil that seems to have permeated the life giving water, corrupting the trees and threatening to bring our world crashing down,’ he thundered. “My slow magic needs time and place to cleanse and purify. We must gather this foul excrescence into one place that may sing the old songs of dawn and rain and wash its malign stain away.”
Varga was already searching the area and, with a proud shout, hauled a large wooden bucket from beneath a mallorn tree. Sorrel joined her, diving into the pools and scooping malignant tendrils into the containter. As the bards sang powerful magic, luring and twisting the darkness and Velania blessed the waters and their labours, they eased the greatest part of the darkness into one pool at Tolven’s feet.
The wise Treant, face grimly set, began his song. As he did, the mass of corruption somehow rose from the lake, a writhing collision of smooth, oily, whale-like surfaces and tentacles that curved inward toward each other, thrashing through the air like ugly prehensile paws, the pulsating body having no face but only a suggestive blankness where a face ought to be.
Tolven chanted some rhythmic, guttural patterns and the bark peeled back from one enormous tree to reveal two strange collections of bark and branch that uncoiled and stretched out into two tree creatures who blinked in the light then turned towards the seething, coiled abomination.
“Sweet Lovecraft, what is that thing?” said the first.
“Bit racist to bring up Lovecraft mate,” the second raised two bark eyebrows.
“I was thinking of the stories, not the poetry,” the first shrugged. “At least we’re not in a Call of Cthulu game. That’s like an RPG based on a Leni Riefenstahl movie.”
“That’s a little harsh - are you sure it’s not the low hit points you really object to?” the second sniffed.
“When you’ve finished with the post-modern fourth wall breaking, we do have a giant monster attacking us,” Tolven rumbled.
As he spoke, the darkness uncoiled a mass of writhing tentacle that wrapped around Varga and Velania. The cleric’s holy armour resisted its stain but welts of shadow appeared on Varga’s skin.
Just before the poisonous blackness struck home, Sorrel opened fire – hauling at her bow string with all her might and speed, sending two arrows in rapid succession into the heart of the arms that struck Varga. To her satisfaction, they withered and fell onto the surface of the pool where Tolven’s song erased them.
Then Varga screamed in fury and the battle was joined. Breeze and Velania hurled spells at the evil shade, which – swollen and bubbling – threw the magic back, stunning the entire party.
The tree creatures, positioned on either side of the lake, sighed with a touch of irritation.
“Have yours gone down?” said the first.
“Like logs,” said the second.
“Bit tasteless,” said the first. “My uncle is a log now. Nasty business.”
“Surprised you could tell the difference,” the second snorted. “Not exactly a mover, your uncle.”
Tolven’s sigh shook the ground.
The tree creatures tutted insolently and attacked, launching offensive melodies of a distinctly earthy bent, causing the corruption to contract and harden.
Suddenly, as if manifesting from beams of light, a kingly Archfey appeared on a throne, hovering above the battle. His beauty was dazzling and he seemed to embody the purest water. Sorrel felt relief flood through her. She could sense the power emanating from his presence. An ally! And then, she was surprised to hear Faust spit. “Ulorian,” he muttered with deep contempt, the first angry words he has spoken.
Perhaps thanks to the Archfey’s arrival, Sorrel felt her limbs and mind release. She clambered back to her position next to Tolven, guarding him as he chanted the shadow away. Her heart swelled as she saw Velania rush forward to stand beside Varga, the two women unleashing all they had in a blaze of magic and steel. She could hear Breeze cackling a harsh discordant spell and Faust, taking a blow from a foul tentacle, unleashing a fiery rebuke.
In the face of this fury the foulness fled, then gathered itself and flowed towards Faust and Tolven, reaching out to engulf the Tieflings body. At this, the Archfey blinked out, having offered precisely zero assistance. As the gentle, elegant bard fell to the ground, the poison sucking his life away, Sorrel felt an old rage building up inside her – an anger she thought had died with the last of the creatures that had killed her companions in Elturel. The murderous fury filled her again, the insistent yearning to destroy those who sought to harm those she cared for.
She pulled her bowstring taught, her eyes taking in the brave half orc, always the first in the charge whatever the peril, the radiant Aassimar, defiantly at Varga’s side, hurling spell after spell in the face of the creatures powerful magic resistance, the skilful bard whose songs lifted her spirits and gave her focus and determination and finally the beautiful fallen Tiefling, his carefully tailored jacket smeared with mud and filth, his eyes staring blankly into the void.
The arrow hurtled from her bow and, without waiting to see if it hit home, she dropped the weapon and snatched her rapier from her belt, charging forward with a guttural howl at this filth that dared to infest her friends. “Not while I live, you worthless amateur compost heap,” she screamed, standing astride Faust, her eyes blazing with fury. Varga stormed up beside her, shattering another obsidian arm with her hammer.
The beast reared over her, its two remaining tentacles pawing at Sorrel and Varga. Sorrel felt a shock, feeling poison creep into her blood as droplets of corruption trickled across her skin and sank into her veins, fuelling rather than quelling her rage. She leaped forward, the rapier’s blade a blur as she carved the symbol of the goddess into the bubbling, oily surface, screaming “you do not touch my friends, you filth,” at the top of her lungs.
The mass imploded, its tentacles falling to the surface of the pool, and Tolven’s song dispersed it. Sorrel stood there, breathing hard, aware of the rest of the party looking at her warily. She gathered herself, coolly wiped her blade on her cloak, inspected it for stains and sheathed it carefully then watched as the Treant’s magic destroyed the last traces of darkness.
Breeze muttered a swift incantation and she smiled affectionately as Faust’s jacket was restored to its former glory, the bard offering a low bow of gratitude. Suddenly she realised – these were the people she was willing to die for. This eccentric collection of brawlers, devotees, musicians and poets… these were her people, and this strange continent… she took a deep breath… this was her home.
--
The next hour passed in a blur. She knew the party passed through another portal and were back in the amphitheatre. She heard words spoken off in the distance, and a vote was called. She suddenly realised she, along with all those who had passed into the Feywild, were being invited to take part and she knew the honour that these folk were bestowing… but she could not feel it and she understood it even less. She cast her ballot at random. She had no idea who she had voted for or what they would become. In truth, she didn’t care. Some part of her belonged to this place and, in time, perhaps she would grow to appreciate it. For now, her only concern was her comrades.
She realised the crowd was flocking to a celebration. Drinks were flowing and songs echoing. She rose to her feet and almost stumbled over the tree creatures.
“Oi, fleshy, watch where you’re putting that meat on your feet,” the first sniffed.
“Meat on your feet?” the second rolled its eyes.
“Look, it’s not easy being light relief during the apocalypse,” the first huffed. “Especially when the word light itself is a mixed blessing at best for anything wooden.”
“Oh yeah, by the way weirdo with the sword, we’re supposed to give you this, all your mates have one,” the second chucked something at Sorrel and wandered off. Sorrel stared at the finely wrought choker and the pulsing gem it held.
“It does magical shit,” the first smiled. “Nice blade work, by the way. Now fuck off to the party.”