Post by Roscoe ⚔️ on Sept 20, 2024 18:27:30 GMT
(Following the events of Grave Concerns. Co-written with Crow • ᚴᚱᚬᚴᛦ , with input from Alex )
Roscoe doesn’t linger at the shrine that night. They were promised answers and all they got was a cloak with a tendency to flutter about at opportune moments. The ravens follow them back to the Order compound, trailing behind Roscoe, their cawing both grating and soothing at the same time.
They mean to stay away, mean to continue to ignore the whole mystic bullshit. Mean to tell Baine to stick it up his own arse, and never return to the shrine of the Ravenqueen, mean to ignore the call. But the days are getting shorter, and as dusk shrouds Daring Heights in suitably dramatic velvet Roscoe’s feet have a mind of their own. They carry Roscoe back there, and they find someone waiting for them: an older man garbed in a dusty hooded cloak sitting on the steps, an ashwood staff in one hand.
Most notably, there is a raven perched on his right shoulder, and it is looking straight at Roscoe.
Roscoe stops a good thirty feet away, blinking sullenly. “What’s this then?”
The man rises as though in greeting, leaning tiredly against his staff.
“The birds tell me that somethin’ has changed. A seeker come to the house of Hel, seeking. Hello again, Roscoe.”
Now that Roscoe has a better look of the face under the hood, it is unmistakable. It’s the strange, quiet boy they once knew as Crow — except he looks decades older now, a full, greying beard covering his jaw, and with a loop of leather over one eye.
A number of emotions flash across Roscoe’s face, ranging from exasperation to bewilderment — and taking a quick detour via desperate interest — before landing firmly back on Sullen.
“If I ask you questions, are you gonna answer ‘em? Or are you gonna turn into feathers as well and fuck off mysteriously?”
“I have little desire to become a pile of feathers,” he replies. “Ask, and I shall answer to the best of my knowledge.”
“Yeah, that’s what the last one said as well,” Roscoe mutters, but takes a couple of steps closer. Then another few steps. The process is a slow one, because Roscoe is of the age where showing enthusiasm is a cardinal sin. Eventually they take a seat on the bench, one knee drawn up to rest an elbow on.
“So. The fuck happened to you? Sold your youth in the Feywild or summat?”
“I gave my eye to drink from the Well of Knowledge. It has given me sight and wisdom, and this, I suppose, is the form that wisdom takes.” The man takes the raven from his shoulder into one hand. “My Memory has likewise been returned to me.”
Roscoe squints in mild incomprehension. “Uh. Sure. Alright. We’ll just… not unpack that. So you remember somethin’? Didn’t know you had memory loss. Just thought you were a bit depressed and strange.”
“Somethin’ like that. Though there was one thing I remembered clear as day, and it was the reason I was afraid of speakin’ to you: I remembered wakin’ in the earth, feeling cold — so cold — for I had been dead.”
He tosses the raven, Memory, into the air. It flutters and lands on the bench, next to Roscoe.
Without really meaning, Roscoe draws a shaky breath and lets it out on a wobbly exhale.
“No one buried me,” they say eventually. “I died in the gutter. I woke up in the gutter.”
Above them the ravens have begun gathering, as they always do when Roscoe stays in the same place for longer than a minute. “Dunno why I woke up tho’. Dunno why I was brought back. I was tired at the end — tired of bein’ hungry and runnin’ from the Watch and stealin’ everythin’ I could get my hands on. Wouldn’t have minded… not wakin’ up.”
They reach out to Memory with two careful fingers and touch the glossy feathers gently. It purrs at their touch.
“So. Why aren’t we dead, Crow? Uh… it is still Crow, innit?” they add, awkwardly.
“I have as many names as there are ways to die. Call me Crow if you so wish.”
The man goes to sit down next to Roscoe, his bones almost audibly creaking. “Do you also think that you’re better off dead, sometimes?”
“Aye, I used to think that.” Roscoe’s expression turns downright affronted. “But now. I’ve got a decent thing goin’ with the Order. Egg’s there. Whistler’s alright. The paladins are annoyin’ as fuck, Baine especially. But it’s- It’s fine. I guess. Whatever. An’ I feel like,” they continue, hesitantly, stumbling, “there’s work for me to do. Or somethin’. We was down in the crypts here last week. It really bothered me that there was undead. And that they were disturbin’ graves. Don’t know why I give a fuck but I do.”
“Purpose,” says the man. He seems much older than even his aged appearance. “You’ve been allowed to return, but not without purpose.”
Roscoe closes their eyes and sighs again, but a bit steadier this time. In a quiet voice, like they’re hesitant to even entertain the notion should they turn out to be incorrect, they say, “So it was Her? The Raven Queen? She sent me back and now she’s got a job for me?”
He looks up at the ravens circling above their heads. “Já.”
Roscoe nods slowly, and eventually opens their eyes. “So what’s all this to you then?”
“I’m seekin’ somethin’ meself. Me other raven, Thought. A friend, a… seeress has told me that I’d be able to find him with you.”
The squint of mild incomprehension returns. “I don’t ’ave your bird.”
In a tree above them, a raven caws loudly. Roscoe looks up bewildered, looking between Crow and the flock above their heads. “They’re not mine! They just follow me about like fuckin’ stalkers. Is one of them your bird? Have it.”
The man laughs. It is an odd sound, one Roscoe could never have imagined coming out of Crow. “No, not that one. Or that one, or that one… or that one, for that matter. He is, I believe, in Hel. What you call the Shadowfell.”
“Which one’s that? That’s like, the bad Feywild, innit? Grey and sad and depressed or summat.”
“Aye, that’s the one.” He sighs. “I was hopin’ to never return, but alas, it seems that I must… Would you help me, Roscoe? Are you willing to journey into the ‘bad Feywild’, and find your answers?”
“Uh. Sure. Why the fuck not. But I’m still confused about the bird. How is the bird with me and also in the Shadowfell? Not that the bird is with me. But still.”
“The first step towards wisdom is to accept that there are things beyond your understandin’,” the man says blissfully. “But I am glad that you’ve accepted so readily. You will do your order proud.”
“Urgh. Don’t say it like that. Makin’ me out like I’m all… pious an’ shit.” They roll their eyes with as much distaste as possible, to make it very clear that while they carry the insignia of the Order of the Crimson Fist, stay at their compound, and are officially one of their recruits, they aren’t With Them.
“What, do you not wish to make your friends proud? Not even Little Egg?”
They squint at Crow with silent, angry incomprehension. “That’s a low blow.” A sly smile creeps slowly across his face. “Shut up before I change me mind. Now, do I just… go there? Trample about the Shadowfell until I find your bird? What am I lookin’ for? Reckon it’s a fairly big place.”
“I’m still waitin’ for a sign meself. When it is time, I shall come to you. Be prepared until then. ‘Nether and north lies the Hel-way…’ Ain’t that right, Memory?”
“Yes,” the bird answers, in a humanoid voice.
“What, like… under the Angelbark?” says Roscoe, glancing wearily at the raven.
“That’s one way we could go about it, aye.” And Memory caws in agreement.
Roscoe makes the face they always make when they could spend energy on bewilderment but actively chooses not to. “Fine. Come find me. You know where I’m stayin’.” They get to their feet. “Or send a talkin’ bird, or whatever. Gods know there are enough magical animals at the compound. Won’t draw too much attention,”
He smiles as he stands up. Memory flies up to reclaim its place on his shoulder. “We will see each other again, einheri.”
When he turns and begins shuffling away, the circling ravens follow him. All but one. The last feels as familiar to Roscoe as their own shadow.
And as the hooded man leaves the cemetery, they hear his voice carried on an ancient wind:
“Cows die,
Family die,
You will die the same way.
But a good reputation never dies
For the one who earns it well.”
ᚼᛁᛚᚢᛁᚴᛦ
Roscoe creeps back into the compound under the cover of darkness, but Baine is leaning against the door to the bunkhouse. He’s eating nuts. They crunch loudly between his teeth.
“Go well?” he asks, mouth half-full.
“Did what go well, Ser?” Roscoe asks flatly.
The single raven flutters down from the roof and lands on an upturned bucket a few feet away, looking between the two of them. It caws once, loudly.
Roscoe glares at Baine. Baine grins knowingly.
“Fuck off, Ser.”
Baine throws a nut up in the air and catches it with his mouth.
“Time for bed, I reckon. As you were, Squeak.”
Fin.
Roscoe doesn’t linger at the shrine that night. They were promised answers and all they got was a cloak with a tendency to flutter about at opportune moments. The ravens follow them back to the Order compound, trailing behind Roscoe, their cawing both grating and soothing at the same time.
They mean to stay away, mean to continue to ignore the whole mystic bullshit. Mean to tell Baine to stick it up his own arse, and never return to the shrine of the Ravenqueen, mean to ignore the call. But the days are getting shorter, and as dusk shrouds Daring Heights in suitably dramatic velvet Roscoe’s feet have a mind of their own. They carry Roscoe back there, and they find someone waiting for them: an older man garbed in a dusty hooded cloak sitting on the steps, an ashwood staff in one hand.
Most notably, there is a raven perched on his right shoulder, and it is looking straight at Roscoe.
Roscoe stops a good thirty feet away, blinking sullenly. “What’s this then?”
The man rises as though in greeting, leaning tiredly against his staff.
“The birds tell me that somethin’ has changed. A seeker come to the house of Hel, seeking. Hello again, Roscoe.”
Now that Roscoe has a better look of the face under the hood, it is unmistakable. It’s the strange, quiet boy they once knew as Crow — except he looks decades older now, a full, greying beard covering his jaw, and with a loop of leather over one eye.
A number of emotions flash across Roscoe’s face, ranging from exasperation to bewilderment — and taking a quick detour via desperate interest — before landing firmly back on Sullen.
“If I ask you questions, are you gonna answer ‘em? Or are you gonna turn into feathers as well and fuck off mysteriously?”
“I have little desire to become a pile of feathers,” he replies. “Ask, and I shall answer to the best of my knowledge.”
“Yeah, that’s what the last one said as well,” Roscoe mutters, but takes a couple of steps closer. Then another few steps. The process is a slow one, because Roscoe is of the age where showing enthusiasm is a cardinal sin. Eventually they take a seat on the bench, one knee drawn up to rest an elbow on.
“So. The fuck happened to you? Sold your youth in the Feywild or summat?”
“I gave my eye to drink from the Well of Knowledge. It has given me sight and wisdom, and this, I suppose, is the form that wisdom takes.” The man takes the raven from his shoulder into one hand. “My Memory has likewise been returned to me.”
Roscoe squints in mild incomprehension. “Uh. Sure. Alright. We’ll just… not unpack that. So you remember somethin’? Didn’t know you had memory loss. Just thought you were a bit depressed and strange.”
“Somethin’ like that. Though there was one thing I remembered clear as day, and it was the reason I was afraid of speakin’ to you: I remembered wakin’ in the earth, feeling cold — so cold — for I had been dead.”
He tosses the raven, Memory, into the air. It flutters and lands on the bench, next to Roscoe.
Without really meaning, Roscoe draws a shaky breath and lets it out on a wobbly exhale.
“No one buried me,” they say eventually. “I died in the gutter. I woke up in the gutter.”
Above them the ravens have begun gathering, as they always do when Roscoe stays in the same place for longer than a minute. “Dunno why I woke up tho’. Dunno why I was brought back. I was tired at the end — tired of bein’ hungry and runnin’ from the Watch and stealin’ everythin’ I could get my hands on. Wouldn’t have minded… not wakin’ up.”
They reach out to Memory with two careful fingers and touch the glossy feathers gently. It purrs at their touch.
“So. Why aren’t we dead, Crow? Uh… it is still Crow, innit?” they add, awkwardly.
“I have as many names as there are ways to die. Call me Crow if you so wish.”
The man goes to sit down next to Roscoe, his bones almost audibly creaking. “Do you also think that you’re better off dead, sometimes?”
“Aye, I used to think that.” Roscoe’s expression turns downright affronted. “But now. I’ve got a decent thing goin’ with the Order. Egg’s there. Whistler’s alright. The paladins are annoyin’ as fuck, Baine especially. But it’s- It’s fine. I guess. Whatever. An’ I feel like,” they continue, hesitantly, stumbling, “there’s work for me to do. Or somethin’. We was down in the crypts here last week. It really bothered me that there was undead. And that they were disturbin’ graves. Don’t know why I give a fuck but I do.”
“Purpose,” says the man. He seems much older than even his aged appearance. “You’ve been allowed to return, but not without purpose.”
Roscoe closes their eyes and sighs again, but a bit steadier this time. In a quiet voice, like they’re hesitant to even entertain the notion should they turn out to be incorrect, they say, “So it was Her? The Raven Queen? She sent me back and now she’s got a job for me?”
He looks up at the ravens circling above their heads. “Já.”
Roscoe nods slowly, and eventually opens their eyes. “So what’s all this to you then?”
“I’m seekin’ somethin’ meself. Me other raven, Thought. A friend, a… seeress has told me that I’d be able to find him with you.”
The squint of mild incomprehension returns. “I don’t ’ave your bird.”
In a tree above them, a raven caws loudly. Roscoe looks up bewildered, looking between Crow and the flock above their heads. “They’re not mine! They just follow me about like fuckin’ stalkers. Is one of them your bird? Have it.”
The man laughs. It is an odd sound, one Roscoe could never have imagined coming out of Crow. “No, not that one. Or that one, or that one… or that one, for that matter. He is, I believe, in Hel. What you call the Shadowfell.”
“Which one’s that? That’s like, the bad Feywild, innit? Grey and sad and depressed or summat.”
“Aye, that’s the one.” He sighs. “I was hopin’ to never return, but alas, it seems that I must… Would you help me, Roscoe? Are you willing to journey into the ‘bad Feywild’, and find your answers?”
“Uh. Sure. Why the fuck not. But I’m still confused about the bird. How is the bird with me and also in the Shadowfell? Not that the bird is with me. But still.”
“The first step towards wisdom is to accept that there are things beyond your understandin’,” the man says blissfully. “But I am glad that you’ve accepted so readily. You will do your order proud.”
“Urgh. Don’t say it like that. Makin’ me out like I’m all… pious an’ shit.” They roll their eyes with as much distaste as possible, to make it very clear that while they carry the insignia of the Order of the Crimson Fist, stay at their compound, and are officially one of their recruits, they aren’t With Them.
“What, do you not wish to make your friends proud? Not even Little Egg?”
They squint at Crow with silent, angry incomprehension. “That’s a low blow.” A sly smile creeps slowly across his face. “Shut up before I change me mind. Now, do I just… go there? Trample about the Shadowfell until I find your bird? What am I lookin’ for? Reckon it’s a fairly big place.”
“I’m still waitin’ for a sign meself. When it is time, I shall come to you. Be prepared until then. ‘Nether and north lies the Hel-way…’ Ain’t that right, Memory?”
“Yes,” the bird answers, in a humanoid voice.
“What, like… under the Angelbark?” says Roscoe, glancing wearily at the raven.
“That’s one way we could go about it, aye.” And Memory caws in agreement.
Roscoe makes the face they always make when they could spend energy on bewilderment but actively chooses not to. “Fine. Come find me. You know where I’m stayin’.” They get to their feet. “Or send a talkin’ bird, or whatever. Gods know there are enough magical animals at the compound. Won’t draw too much attention,”
He smiles as he stands up. Memory flies up to reclaim its place on his shoulder. “We will see each other again, einheri.”
When he turns and begins shuffling away, the circling ravens follow him. All but one. The last feels as familiar to Roscoe as their own shadow.
And as the hooded man leaves the cemetery, they hear his voice carried on an ancient wind:
“Cows die,
Family die,
You will die the same way.
But a good reputation never dies
For the one who earns it well.”
ᚼᛁᛚᚢᛁᚴᛦ
***
Roscoe creeps back into the compound under the cover of darkness, but Baine is leaning against the door to the bunkhouse. He’s eating nuts. They crunch loudly between his teeth.
“Go well?” he asks, mouth half-full.
“Did what go well, Ser?” Roscoe asks flatly.
The single raven flutters down from the roof and lands on an upturned bucket a few feet away, looking between the two of them. It caws once, loudly.
Roscoe glares at Baine. Baine grins knowingly.
“Fuck off, Ser.”
Baine throws a nut up in the air and catches it with his mouth.
“Time for bed, I reckon. As you were, Squeak.”
Fin.