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wormy-business · 10 days

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Calliram, Drow Cleric of Lolth.

Calliram is one of my Tav's in Baldur's Gate 3. He is a drow, and a war domain cleric of Lolth. I decided that he would be from Menzoberranzen, like Minthara is, but unlike Minthara he didn't have a reason to leave his home and travel all the way down the Sword Coast to near where Baldur's Gate is. So instead, I gave him a little extra trauma, as a treat! I'll add a few pictures of him at the end of the post (as well as translations for the drow-words used).

Calliram of House Maelith, thirty-second house of Menzoberranzen, was taught many things by his mother, Aundryl of House Maelith. Amongst those many things, he was taught that as a male he was inherently lesser, that he should be subservient, that denying the request of a woman (unless she request something to harm his own house) would be to deny Lolth Herself. Calliram was soft-spoken, well behaved, gentle tempered, skilled in the breeding of spiders, skilled at playing the harp, well read on scripture and the histories of Menzoberranzen, and he was of age to be married soon. Very soon, if the formal event Aundryl was hosting within a ten-day should go well.

On this particular day, Calliram was sent to the market streets. He was sent for certain supplies pertaining to a ritual he and his mother would conduct in Lolth’s honor. Such a task is unfitting for even the mildest mannered servants to undertake, and so he was trusted in the procurement of these items. He would not have failed this task if not for three sisters of the forty-fifth house of Menzoberranzen. They knew of his mother’s formal event, they knew of his sisters Laniss and Viconia’s fierce battle tactics, supposedly rivaling those of the highest houses. They desired to have such a power, to tear down House Maelith and take their place in Menzoberranzen’s hierarchy. They knew as well how Calliram was raised, their own brothers and cousins were raised the same. To deny a woman is to deny Lolth.

“You, jaluk!” One of the sisters called from a particularly darkened alleyway. Calliram, who walked with shoulders broad, head high, spine straight, and eyes focused ahead stopped in his tracks and turned his head to where the voice called to him

“Yes, alur?” He spoke in a clear voice, yet one that was still soft and subservient to the women who beckoned him.

“Come here to us.” The other sister spoke this time, her voice a harsher hiss than her sister’s. “We require your assistance.”

Calliram complied. Not only due to his teachings, but of the knowledge that he is soon to be wed. It would be unbecoming of his house if word spread that he had dared denied women of another noble house a request. He merely said the words “of course, madams. Whatever I can do to assist you, my hands shall be your tools.” He stepped from the busy streets to the alleyway, which he found nearly as crowded. The buildings on either side left little room for four people to stand. The tallest and eldest of the sisters glared down at Calliram, who dared not make eye contact with her should he spark her ire.

“Harl’il’cik.” The eldest’s voice was the harshest and meanest sounding of the three sisters.

Calliram, a sense of fear shooting through his heart, did as he was commanded and knelt down before the three women, who began to encircle him like vultures. Even as they drew nearer, snickering with malicious intent, Calliram did as he was told. He did not question the sisters, he did not complain his clerical robes were dirtied by the filthy streets, he did not urge them that his matron had sent him to gather supplies for a sacred ritual, he only sat in submissive silence.

The sister with the sweetest voice tied a blindfold tightly around Calliram’s head.

The sister with the spider-like hissing voice stuffed a dirty rag into his mouth, and tied rope around his mouth to keep it in place.

The eldest sister with the harshest voice kicked Calliram in the ribs, knocking him onto his back. He was flipped by the two younger sisters, who held him as he struggled so their sister could tie his hands behind his back.

A hand, to which sister it belonged was unknown to Calliram, grabbed a fistful of his soft white hair and yanked him to his feet.

Calliram, so docile and ignoble, now thrashed and cried and panicked. He tried to speak, but only swallowed chunks of dirt and stray fabric. As his stumbling feet were forced forward, one of the sisters would often punch him in the side or kick at his shins. He cried for his mother, for his sisters, for his House Matron, he cried for Lolth herself, yet all were unaware of or silent to his cries. Finally, the eldest sister spoke again. Not to him, but to someone he could not see.

“Take him to the surface. Beat him if you wish, but under no circumstances should you kill him. I don't care about anything else you do, but I need him to find his way back down here eventually for this to work. You can throw him off the caravan while it’s moving for all I care, just don’t kill him.”

Calliram’s heart pounded in his ears. Who was the woman talking to? Why did she need him alive? Why was he being taken to the surface? Who was taking him there? What plan did she have regarding him?

There were more sounds, clinking muffled by fabric, an exchange of coin.

“This is only 500.” A deep, gruff male voice griped.

“And you’ll get the other half when you’re done!” The middle sister hissed at the man, her tone impatient and almost childish.

There was a lot of grumbling and moaning of whoever was being given possession of Calliram, but eventually stout hands that grabbed at his bindings from below shoved Calliram onto the floor of a wagon.

Calliram heard a whip, the whine of a rothé, and a dialect of Dwarvish being spoken as the wagon began moving. He had been kidnapped by noble drow, and passed on to duergar to do their dirtier work.

It was not long before Calliram felt a sharp kick dig into his back. Just as they had been given permission, the dwarves beat Calliram until he was bloodied and bruised. With each punch, kick, and stab Calliram cried to his Goddess for her mercy, for her forgiveness, for streea.

He received nothing but what may have been hours of torture. And at the end of it, just as they had been encouraged to, the dueargar shoved Calliram from the moving wagon to the dirt road.

Calliram cried out, a sharp pain shooting through the arm he landed on as he rolled onto his back. Even with the blindfold still covering his eyes, he could sense the brightness of the surface. He tried to stand, but his legs were weak and one of his arms had certainly fractured during the fall from the wagon. He felt blood in his throat as he tried to breathe, and forced himself onto his side. With the rag still in his mouth he could not spit the blood from his mouth, but he felt it dribble onto his chin mixed with saliva. He whined as he crawled off of the road, ramming his head face first into a tree, only furthering his pain. Using the broad, sturdy trunk he leveraged himself into a standing position.

It took another hour of struggle, but he managed to escape from his bindings. The blindfold was the first to come loose, but when the bright surface sun hit his eyes for the first time in his over a hundred years of living, he wished he had kept it on. The light was blinding, it stung and pained him to look at his surroundings. The surface world was foreign to him, he had only ever once traveled outside of Menzoberranzen to the city of Mantol-Derith, the rest of his life had been spent in the caverns, in his mother’s temple, and his home. This place was alien to him.

When he had finally managed to slip his wrists from their bindings he could finally remove the rope and dirty, now bloodied, cloth from his mouth. He then fell back to the ground, shielding his eyes from the sun, like a child, and he cried, like a child. He had hardly any magic, no focus to cast from, and no components to form spells with. He clutched a holy symbol around his neck, feeling the sharp pointed legs of a spider, Lolth’s symbol the same as was tattooed on his forehead, and used what little arcane power he could gather to heal only some of his injuries. He then fell into exhaustion. He curled into as tight a ball as he could, draped his ragged and bloody robes over his body, and fell into a sleep that was almost as foreign to him as the world around him.

When Calliram woke night had fallen. He was grateful for the darkness it brought, he could see clearer now. He was still in pain, but less so after hours of rest. He whined as he pulled himself onto his feet, and shivered in the cold breeze as he began to walk aimlessly through the wilds. He did not know what direction the wagon had come from, or where it had gone after he was dropped from it. In fact, he had lost the road entirely. He did not know where to go to get back to his home. He was surely going to die out here. As Calliram entered a clearing, he dropped down to offer a prayer to Lolth. While he was preparing, before he could begin his prayer, a sound in the sky caught his attention. Something like a ship was crossing the sky. In abject horror, he froze and watched as it approached him, and something like a tentacle seized his body, and once again, Calliram was taken.