Post by Varga on Nov 17, 2022 13:12:04 GMT
Best read to The Angry River by which it was inspired.
Clouds gather in the Sea of Tears for the first winter storm. Near Port Ffirst, one of the wave breakers of the Tri-Tooth Wharf rock stands closer than others to the open sea. Metal-grey waves reflecting the rock-grey clouds hit against it repeatedly, breaking up into off-white foam. Varga climbs on this this lonely rock, strong wind cooling her skin and worrying her red hair. She’s chosen this picturesque outcrop near the lighthouse for her meditation. She has a lot to think about. Things to reconcile.
The half-orc lowers herself onto the cool rocks as the first rain drops started to fall. She doesn’t mind the rain. The warm maritime climate is a bit too much for her anyway. And there are fewer people out and about in bad weather. This way it feels more like home. Only the mountain and the tapping of raindrops on the wind-worn stones.
Sitting cross-legged on the edge of the cliff, the half-orc takes out her horn. Its mournful call melds with the roaring winds. Varga feels shadows rising behind her. Five, ten, a dozen… The past of her clan, warriors who covered themselves with enough enemy blood and battle glory to earn their place in the halls of Nishrek. She cannot hear them speak, but she knows their voice. And she knows they’re watching.
She closes her eyes and lets the crushing sounds of the waves and the sad moans of the wind carry her thoughts. They are in a disarray, like puddles of rainwater struggling to join together. She battles her mind, trying to focus. Her etiquette teacher used to say it wasn’t a proper battle if the rivers don’t run red with the blood of your enemies. Varga briefly wonders what would he think of a continent with no rivers…
It's a difficult concept for her to explain. Why it's important, what’s the meaning, what separates a glorious battle from a mindless slaughter. Besides, so few people understand manners. Faust looked like he’d never begin to grasp the concept of battle etiquette: sat out every fight, reading his poetry book. And yet, he went out gloriously: no weapons, no armour, just his fists and a poetry book against a man who almost ascended to godhood. Varga couldn’t wish for a better death. That’s why she hadn’t a sliver of doubt before organising a proper warrior’s wake for him. People can be like that sometimes. Claim to know nothing about manners, but so many understand them, before the end.
Cory understood.
Varga lets the memories flow before her eyes, like a river. She and Cory didn't have much time together, but the time they had was… good. Varga wouldn't call it nice, because she actually enjoyed it. The aerotaur bard might have been a bit more of a show-off than the real deal, but he understood how honourable it is to go into battle with no armour and barely able to hit anything, not to back down. Even if he couldn’t show strength, he clearly could appreciate it. She hoped he’d sing songs of her victories.
He wouldn’t.
There was something utterly draining about not seeing him fall, and just reading his name on a stupid list. Made her feel… empty.
Cory was good with words. Varga isn’t. She briefly recites a prayer for the fallen in orcish. That'll do for the last goodbye.
The memories rolled on as the light dimmed by the dark-grey clouds and an oncoming wall of rain. On the outcrop, stray raindrops and remnants of water foam begin to swell and join together as the proper downpour starts.
After Cory’s death, Varga promised herself she wouldn’t wait until she figured out how she feels about people anymore. She fancied Iorverth from far away way too long. Of course, herself and Iorveth were very different, probably too different to be interested in each other. In fact, there hardly were two people in Kantas more unlike each other than a gruff easy-going half-orc and a shiny elf who would weave an epic story out of a shopping trip. Although he wore way too much armour, Varga quickly realised in his case it was not a drawback: armour did jack shit for him, she couldn’t remember an encounter in which he wouldn’t go down. What amazed her that despite his absolute ineptitude in battle, he had all the sensibilities of a warrior: the draw to glory, the enjoyment of the fight, and a wish for a glorious death. Conventions be damned, Varga had promised herself she’d ask Iorveth out next time she saw him!
The next time she saw him, he got his wish.
At least she saw him go, and could tell his tale. Maybe Cleaver could write a nice poem in his honour. But it probably wouldn’t be half as good as the one the bladesinger would write himself. Such talent was singular. The loss of life is inevitable, the loss of a story is… regrettable. The irreversible nature of it left a bitter taste in Varga’s mouth.
After Iorveth died in Hells, she was a bit distracted and only realised they left Yniade behind when they teleported back to the Fort. Varga briefly contemplated using her Soul Coin to get a ride to her, after all, a rescue from being locked up in Hells would have been quite romantic. But she half-suspected it wouldn't be welcome. The friendly fight they had in the Fort courtyard was great: the woman definitely knew how to dual-wield and seemed enthusiastic to spend some quality time together. But the next time they’ve met Yniade acted like she didn’t even know Varga – cold and distant, barely exchanged a dozen words with her. Yniade’s brother was warmer to Oziah, whom he hadn't even met before. Varga wasn’t smart, but she thought she’d take her hint now rather than wait until she gets burned again.
She shivers a bit, her wet tunic catching on the scar with words in infernal on her side. That was… a brief and interesting non-relationship. She remembered Zola pointing the place where Rahmiel was killed as they strolled along that particular part of Phlegethos. And from the paladin’s words, the red-haired fiend went down fighting. Varga felt irrational pride over that fact. She sometimes wondered how would everything go if either her or Rahmiel were less concerned with following their respective gods’ paths.
Gods. Gods are strange. They’re like the winds, blowing the rocks down the mountains. Varga thumbs a crude chess piece she cut out of a gargoyle remains, a reminder of her little crisis of faith on the Ambulatory Mountain. A plaything in the hands of the giants. She looks up, as if expecting an enormous hand to reach down from the sky and pick up the wave breakers of Tri-Tooth Wharf to shift into another plane of existence. She can almost feel the pull. Like gravity, tugging the river to flow towards the sea in a bizarre lace-like pattern.
A zealot’s path is a lonely one so far from a clan. Varga thinks of her friends. Celina and Kelne are often in Port Ffirst, but their paths rarely cross these days. Velania and Sorrel are following their goddess in their little Selune club. Oziah is spending time with the fancy Fort Ettin folks, like Veridian and Jaezred. People drift away, as if pulled apart by the current she can’t control. And that's fine.
At least she still has Thicc Bois. That was a capital idea, Ivan is a veritable genius for establishing their club. She chuckles a bit. They’ve got a couple of new joiners. Sparks, of all people! And the new guy from Kul’Goran, Keros. When Beets mentioned he’s a bulky minotaur that goes into battle wearing only his trunks, the description caught Varga’s interest immediately. There were very few people even among her fellow Thicc Bois who would forego armour completely, so she wasted no time inviting the new guy to a couple of rounds of arm wrestling to know him better. He was a good sport, with a dark streak, dark past and bright future – a veritable dream. Varga didn’t regret giving him her ghost ring. Hopefully, he’ll meet a lad who would appreciate all his best qualities as she did.
That brings on some other embarrassing memories. She just knew Taz as a really capable war lord of the sea who looked good even in armour (although it was a pretty cool armour, Varga got it in hell herself). She didn’t know he had a boyfriend! At least he was nice enough to inform her off the cuff, not just completely ignoring a formal invitation like that Huntsman guy from Nicnevin’s court. Did he consider himself that much better than her because he served in a fancy palace, and she came from a mountain village? Maybe she just didn’t understand some fey customs? It was similar with Stanley from the Plane of Music. They were just on different… frequencies. Huh.
The raindrops keep falling as Varga relives the old regrets and losses, and lets them wash over her, mix with the rainwater, burning her skin like poison: just enough to remind her that she’s alive, and thus has a duty to remember both the good and the bad. Memories mean nothing if not honoured, and she only knows one way to honour a memory. There are no rivers in Kantas, but she feels a flow of emotions, experiences and memories inside her merge like streams into a familiar river of rage: wild, varied, exalted, and therefore glorious. That’s a current she can control.
She raises her eyes, raindrops heavy on her lashes. Feeling the spirits meld into the rain behind her, she whispers the old prayer of her clan, and clasps the dragon claw pendant on her neck with an eye symbol etched on it.
“Give me your worst.” She grins into the roaring tempest.
“Soon,” the tempest replies.
A lonely rock stands off the coast of Kantas as the grey waves hit against it in the first of the winter storms.
Clouds gather in the Sea of Tears for the first winter storm. Near Port Ffirst, one of the wave breakers of the Tri-Tooth Wharf rock stands closer than others to the open sea. Metal-grey waves reflecting the rock-grey clouds hit against it repeatedly, breaking up into off-white foam. Varga climbs on this this lonely rock, strong wind cooling her skin and worrying her red hair. She’s chosen this picturesque outcrop near the lighthouse for her meditation. She has a lot to think about. Things to reconcile.
The half-orc lowers herself onto the cool rocks as the first rain drops started to fall. She doesn’t mind the rain. The warm maritime climate is a bit too much for her anyway. And there are fewer people out and about in bad weather. This way it feels more like home. Only the mountain and the tapping of raindrops on the wind-worn stones.
Sitting cross-legged on the edge of the cliff, the half-orc takes out her horn. Its mournful call melds with the roaring winds. Varga feels shadows rising behind her. Five, ten, a dozen… The past of her clan, warriors who covered themselves with enough enemy blood and battle glory to earn their place in the halls of Nishrek. She cannot hear them speak, but she knows their voice. And she knows they’re watching.
She closes her eyes and lets the crushing sounds of the waves and the sad moans of the wind carry her thoughts. They are in a disarray, like puddles of rainwater struggling to join together. She battles her mind, trying to focus. Her etiquette teacher used to say it wasn’t a proper battle if the rivers don’t run red with the blood of your enemies. Varga briefly wonders what would he think of a continent with no rivers…
It's a difficult concept for her to explain. Why it's important, what’s the meaning, what separates a glorious battle from a mindless slaughter. Besides, so few people understand manners. Faust looked like he’d never begin to grasp the concept of battle etiquette: sat out every fight, reading his poetry book. And yet, he went out gloriously: no weapons, no armour, just his fists and a poetry book against a man who almost ascended to godhood. Varga couldn’t wish for a better death. That’s why she hadn’t a sliver of doubt before organising a proper warrior’s wake for him. People can be like that sometimes. Claim to know nothing about manners, but so many understand them, before the end.
Cory understood.
Varga lets the memories flow before her eyes, like a river. She and Cory didn't have much time together, but the time they had was… good. Varga wouldn't call it nice, because she actually enjoyed it. The aerotaur bard might have been a bit more of a show-off than the real deal, but he understood how honourable it is to go into battle with no armour and barely able to hit anything, not to back down. Even if he couldn’t show strength, he clearly could appreciate it. She hoped he’d sing songs of her victories.
He wouldn’t.
There was something utterly draining about not seeing him fall, and just reading his name on a stupid list. Made her feel… empty.
Cory was good with words. Varga isn’t. She briefly recites a prayer for the fallen in orcish. That'll do for the last goodbye.
The memories rolled on as the light dimmed by the dark-grey clouds and an oncoming wall of rain. On the outcrop, stray raindrops and remnants of water foam begin to swell and join together as the proper downpour starts.
After Cory’s death, Varga promised herself she wouldn’t wait until she figured out how she feels about people anymore. She fancied Iorverth from far away way too long. Of course, herself and Iorveth were very different, probably too different to be interested in each other. In fact, there hardly were two people in Kantas more unlike each other than a gruff easy-going half-orc and a shiny elf who would weave an epic story out of a shopping trip. Although he wore way too much armour, Varga quickly realised in his case it was not a drawback: armour did jack shit for him, she couldn’t remember an encounter in which he wouldn’t go down. What amazed her that despite his absolute ineptitude in battle, he had all the sensibilities of a warrior: the draw to glory, the enjoyment of the fight, and a wish for a glorious death. Conventions be damned, Varga had promised herself she’d ask Iorveth out next time she saw him!
The next time she saw him, he got his wish.
At least she saw him go, and could tell his tale. Maybe Cleaver could write a nice poem in his honour. But it probably wouldn’t be half as good as the one the bladesinger would write himself. Such talent was singular. The loss of life is inevitable, the loss of a story is… regrettable. The irreversible nature of it left a bitter taste in Varga’s mouth.
After Iorveth died in Hells, she was a bit distracted and only realised they left Yniade behind when they teleported back to the Fort. Varga briefly contemplated using her Soul Coin to get a ride to her, after all, a rescue from being locked up in Hells would have been quite romantic. But she half-suspected it wouldn't be welcome. The friendly fight they had in the Fort courtyard was great: the woman definitely knew how to dual-wield and seemed enthusiastic to spend some quality time together. But the next time they’ve met Yniade acted like she didn’t even know Varga – cold and distant, barely exchanged a dozen words with her. Yniade’s brother was warmer to Oziah, whom he hadn't even met before. Varga wasn’t smart, but she thought she’d take her hint now rather than wait until she gets burned again.
She shivers a bit, her wet tunic catching on the scar with words in infernal on her side. That was… a brief and interesting non-relationship. She remembered Zola pointing the place where Rahmiel was killed as they strolled along that particular part of Phlegethos. And from the paladin’s words, the red-haired fiend went down fighting. Varga felt irrational pride over that fact. She sometimes wondered how would everything go if either her or Rahmiel were less concerned with following their respective gods’ paths.
Gods. Gods are strange. They’re like the winds, blowing the rocks down the mountains. Varga thumbs a crude chess piece she cut out of a gargoyle remains, a reminder of her little crisis of faith on the Ambulatory Mountain. A plaything in the hands of the giants. She looks up, as if expecting an enormous hand to reach down from the sky and pick up the wave breakers of Tri-Tooth Wharf to shift into another plane of existence. She can almost feel the pull. Like gravity, tugging the river to flow towards the sea in a bizarre lace-like pattern.
A zealot’s path is a lonely one so far from a clan. Varga thinks of her friends. Celina and Kelne are often in Port Ffirst, but their paths rarely cross these days. Velania and Sorrel are following their goddess in their little Selune club. Oziah is spending time with the fancy Fort Ettin folks, like Veridian and Jaezred. People drift away, as if pulled apart by the current she can’t control. And that's fine.
At least she still has Thicc Bois. That was a capital idea, Ivan is a veritable genius for establishing their club. She chuckles a bit. They’ve got a couple of new joiners. Sparks, of all people! And the new guy from Kul’Goran, Keros. When Beets mentioned he’s a bulky minotaur that goes into battle wearing only his trunks, the description caught Varga’s interest immediately. There were very few people even among her fellow Thicc Bois who would forego armour completely, so she wasted no time inviting the new guy to a couple of rounds of arm wrestling to know him better. He was a good sport, with a dark streak, dark past and bright future – a veritable dream. Varga didn’t regret giving him her ghost ring. Hopefully, he’ll meet a lad who would appreciate all his best qualities as she did.
That brings on some other embarrassing memories. She just knew Taz as a really capable war lord of the sea who looked good even in armour (although it was a pretty cool armour, Varga got it in hell herself). She didn’t know he had a boyfriend! At least he was nice enough to inform her off the cuff, not just completely ignoring a formal invitation like that Huntsman guy from Nicnevin’s court. Did he consider himself that much better than her because he served in a fancy palace, and she came from a mountain village? Maybe she just didn’t understand some fey customs? It was similar with Stanley from the Plane of Music. They were just on different… frequencies. Huh.
The raindrops keep falling as Varga relives the old regrets and losses, and lets them wash over her, mix with the rainwater, burning her skin like poison: just enough to remind her that she’s alive, and thus has a duty to remember both the good and the bad. Memories mean nothing if not honoured, and she only knows one way to honour a memory. There are no rivers in Kantas, but she feels a flow of emotions, experiences and memories inside her merge like streams into a familiar river of rage: wild, varied, exalted, and therefore glorious. That’s a current she can control.
She raises her eyes, raindrops heavy on her lashes. Feeling the spirits meld into the rain behind her, she whispers the old prayer of her clan, and clasps the dragon claw pendant on her neck with an eye symbol etched on it.
“Give me your worst.” She grins into the roaring tempest.
“Soon,” the tempest replies.
A lonely rock stands off the coast of Kantas as the grey waves hit against it in the first of the winter storms.
