Post by Zola Rhomdaen on Jul 7, 2023 17:39:26 GMT
(Following the events of Brokering A Deal.)
The Mountain Palace, the Witching Court
28th Kythorn 1500
It’s her birthday today.
At least, it’s the date that Mother Lillian had told her is the day she was born, 169 years ago. She’s not sure if that’s true anymore. But it’s not like she has another date to cling on to.
A knock on the door of her temporary bedroom wakes her from a long slumber begotten from exhaustion. She slides out of the bed, rubbing the dried tears on her cheeks, to crack the door open.
The entire Eilistraeean congregation, sans Jaezred but including the royal butler Margotin, is standing in the hallway, all smiling gently at her. At the forefront of the group is Chanet Chaulssin — one of the younger guys in the church, whom she has caught once or twice staring longingly at her before turning away with flushed cheeks — holding a chocolate cake. Written on it in colourful frosting are the words Happy Birthday Zola!, adorned with artistic renditions of the moon, unicorns, hearts, crossed swords, bunnies, and rainbows with a large variation in quality, looking as if 8 different people have had a go at decorating the cake.
“Surpriiiiiise,” someone in the back says.
Zola forces herself to smile. “Aw, you guys. You really…shouldn’t have…” she croaks out in a voice made hoarse by hours of crying. “Come on in.”
The cake Chanet baked is…dry. He’s no Lord Jaezred, but well, it’s a sweet gesture. The party in the room is dragged out by virtue of Sarin and some of the more social congregants forcing small talk amongst themselves, because the birthday girl isn’t talking. Merely smiling and nodding placidly to every nice comment made at her.
Margotin is the first to excuse himself from the jamboree of awkwardness, saying something about returning to his duties. “Have a g— Have a day, Zola.”
Following his example, the rest begin to come up with excuses to go as well. Little by little, they shuffle out the room. Sarin wraps her in a comforting hug and Chanet shyly mutters a final happy birthday to her before practically running away.
A terrible guilt weighs down on her chest. She should have made them feel more welcome, should have put more effort into socialising. She should be grateful that she has an entire community who gives a damn about her — not everyone is so lucky to have that.
After the last drow leaves and Zola closes the door, a new sob rips through her throat. She leans to put her forehead against the frame, shoulders shaking as tears fall like raindrops on the stone floor.
Her birthday. Her birth. Everything she thought she knew about her origins was a lie.
The simulacrum of Mother Pearl in the Memory Broker’s trials was telling the truth after all. Her birth parents didn’t want her. They gave her away to a fiend in exchange for power and knowledge. Who then gave her away to the hags because he couldn’t be bothered with raising her himself.
When did they decide to cheat Zarzuul and keep her as their own? She wonders if, at first, they carried out the task in earnest, shaping her to become a deadly warrior, a fiend’s personal guard?
Could this be the reason she has such destructive tendencies sometimes?
Creatures of the lower planes fight one another all the time. Could it be why she’s particularly good at killing fiends?
Is this why she was drawn to Ophanim?
In bed, she lies in a foetal position, hugging the Twins in their scabbards to her chest. Castor, the sword she’s had since birth, apparently the only constant in her life, glows softly in its sheath. The moonlight comforts her just a little.
Who is her birth family? They’re not the innocent Eilistraeean mushroom farmers who were murdered by priestesses of Lolth that she’d been told about. That was nothing but a lie to stop her from asking questions. Whoever they truly are, they’re powerful enough to make deals with a fiend.
Who is Tebrin Zoland? What did her mothers speak to him for, if the deal was between them and Zarzuul? Is he a blood relation? Does that mean her real name is Zola Zoland?
Her mothers are still alive, but where are they?
Too many questions and no answers. That, along with unimaginable sorrow, is her birthday present this year.
With help from Anthony
The Mountain Palace, the Witching Court
28th Kythorn 1500
It’s her birthday today.
At least, it’s the date that Mother Lillian had told her is the day she was born, 169 years ago. She’s not sure if that’s true anymore. But it’s not like she has another date to cling on to.
A knock on the door of her temporary bedroom wakes her from a long slumber begotten from exhaustion. She slides out of the bed, rubbing the dried tears on her cheeks, to crack the door open.
The entire Eilistraeean congregation, sans Jaezred but including the royal butler Margotin, is standing in the hallway, all smiling gently at her. At the forefront of the group is Chanet Chaulssin — one of the younger guys in the church, whom she has caught once or twice staring longingly at her before turning away with flushed cheeks — holding a chocolate cake. Written on it in colourful frosting are the words Happy Birthday Zola!, adorned with artistic renditions of the moon, unicorns, hearts, crossed swords, bunnies, and rainbows with a large variation in quality, looking as if 8 different people have had a go at decorating the cake.
“Surpriiiiiise,” someone in the back says.
Zola forces herself to smile. “Aw, you guys. You really…shouldn’t have…” she croaks out in a voice made hoarse by hours of crying. “Come on in.”
The cake Chanet baked is…dry. He’s no Lord Jaezred, but well, it’s a sweet gesture. The party in the room is dragged out by virtue of Sarin and some of the more social congregants forcing small talk amongst themselves, because the birthday girl isn’t talking. Merely smiling and nodding placidly to every nice comment made at her.
Margotin is the first to excuse himself from the jamboree of awkwardness, saying something about returning to his duties. “Have a g— Have a day, Zola.”
Following his example, the rest begin to come up with excuses to go as well. Little by little, they shuffle out the room. Sarin wraps her in a comforting hug and Chanet shyly mutters a final happy birthday to her before practically running away.
A terrible guilt weighs down on her chest. She should have made them feel more welcome, should have put more effort into socialising. She should be grateful that she has an entire community who gives a damn about her — not everyone is so lucky to have that.
After the last drow leaves and Zola closes the door, a new sob rips through her throat. She leans to put her forehead against the frame, shoulders shaking as tears fall like raindrops on the stone floor.
Her birthday. Her birth. Everything she thought she knew about her origins was a lie.
The simulacrum of Mother Pearl in the Memory Broker’s trials was telling the truth after all. Her birth parents didn’t want her. They gave her away to a fiend in exchange for power and knowledge. Who then gave her away to the hags because he couldn’t be bothered with raising her himself.
When did they decide to cheat Zarzuul and keep her as their own? She wonders if, at first, they carried out the task in earnest, shaping her to become a deadly warrior, a fiend’s personal guard?
Could this be the reason she has such destructive tendencies sometimes?
Creatures of the lower planes fight one another all the time. Could it be why she’s particularly good at killing fiends?
Is this why she was drawn to Ophanim?
In bed, she lies in a foetal position, hugging the Twins in their scabbards to her chest. Castor, the sword she’s had since birth, apparently the only constant in her life, glows softly in its sheath. The moonlight comforts her just a little.
Who is her birth family? They’re not the innocent Eilistraeean mushroom farmers who were murdered by priestesses of Lolth that she’d been told about. That was nothing but a lie to stop her from asking questions. Whoever they truly are, they’re powerful enough to make deals with a fiend.
Who is Tebrin Zoland? What did her mothers speak to him for, if the deal was between them and Zarzuul? Is he a blood relation? Does that mean her real name is Zola Zoland?
Her mothers are still alive, but where are they?
Too many questions and no answers. That, along with unimaginable sorrow, is her birthday present this year.
With help from Anthony