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ftb-writes · 2 years

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Hey, everyone! Guess who has two thumbs and didn’t update you all Sundays like they said they would? It’s me!!! But here’s the ‘Novel.’

Though it is more of a DnD campaign. I did have a few more potential encounters planned out, but I rolled a d20 for every potential encounter, and only four of the big five made it in, and the rolls I was making for the adventuring party were actually really lucky. The big encounters were ended peacefully.

*briestling - the drider word for a youngling, one who is niether a child of yours nor a younger sibling, but something not dissimilar to either. It is most often used by teens who have taken a young child under their wing and implies one has become attached to the youngling despite trying not to.

Wanted:

Adventurers with no Reservations on the Species of their Employers, and Knowledge of the FeyWildes

Three retired Adventurers and their charge scion child seeking passage and protection through the FeyWildes. We three were a cleric, rogue, and bard, and the child is a budding rogue themself. One of our number seeks to contact family for instructions on the lifting of curses. Help greatly appreciated -- 100 gold, 50 upfront, and 50 upon arrival in the city of Mag Tureah, along with any share of riches stumbled upon during the journey, as decided upon by the hired -- employers will not need a share of these riches. We three are willing and able to pull our weight should needs arise. Applicants should meet in the backroom of the Rosehip Inn and Tavern in New Sharandar. Serious applicants only, please.

The notice is begun with large, bold print, attention-grabbing as the promise of a hundred gold a-piece to all applicants hired. Underneath, in smaller letters, read the details of the assignment. The parchment it is written on is of middling quality, near imperceptibly thicker in some places than others, but the ink is even and crisp. The author of the notice is familiar with his letters, but the family crest is not one you recognize, with the look of someone unused to it. You interpret this to mean it must be a relatively new crest, featuring a spider in a four-point web.

Your curiosity (and perhaps your greed) is piqued, and you have arrived at the Rosehip. The inn is a large, cozy building made of sturdy stone bricks and thick slate for the roof, and the main room is full of light from three roaring fires paced around the room and several large tables loaded with food and drink, and patrons of the establishment crowd around the table singing and toasting and playing various games of cards and dice. You are directed toward the backroom by a distrustful-looking barkeep, a large orc woman with ruddy cheeks and a constellation of freckles complimenting a handful of scars and thick, dark hair. “Best those four strangers leave as soon as possible,” she grunts. “They’re making my other customers nervous. Feh! Lucky for them, I ain’t called the guards.”

Entering the room, you are greeted by an odd sight: A cloudy-eyed drider perches in a corner of the ceiling, cradling a small being swaddled in so many layers it is impossible to discern any race or species. Leaning over the table in the center of the room, consulting a roughly-drawn map of the FeyWildes, are a hulking, green-scaled dragonborn with a broadsword nearly as tall as himself strapped to his back, and a slender tiefling with purple hair and lavender skin, and the unmistakable pointed ears of elvish ancestry. The tiefling has a bulky instrument case slung across his shoulders, a sharp dagger and a slim rapier at his belt. The dragonborn and tiefling look up as you enter, and the drider cocks his head curiously in your direction, though he and the being he holds do not turn their faces away from each other. You notice that the smaller being is tracing letters gently onto the driders arm with a small, rounded stick poking out of a loose sleeve, and they are using this communication to silently describe you and your party to the drider.

The dragonborn nods a greeting to you, and the tiefling smiles winningly and turns from the table to give you and your party an elegant bow. “Hullo, there, friends!” he declared. “I trust you are here for potential employment?” You and your party agree.

“I am Ryvon, and this,” he motions to the dragonborn, “is Stramonium. A better man you will have trouble finding, if you ask me.” The dragonborn snorts in amusement. “And this,” Ryvon continues, motioning to the drider, “is Ixthus, a more lovely creature you will not find, on this plane or another.”

“He is like this,” Ixthus murmurs, his voice hissing between his chelicerae. “You’ll hopefully forgive him that.”

“Stramonium agrees with me!” Ryvon stutters, to which the dragonborn rolls his eyes with a fond chuckle.

“That I do, Ryvon,” Stramonium admits, “but you bards are a bit extravagant in your praise. These people do not need to know what you think of your husbands’ assets.”

“And what wonderful assets they are,” Ryvon snickers, a lewd smirk and hip sway directed toward Stramonium. “But, as I was saying,” he clears his throat, “the final member of our group is our... child, though even that word is not a perfect one. Common does not have a good word for what little Faker here is to us.” Ryvon smiles again at you and your party and sweeps his hand to encompass the four of them. “We are a clan of four, and it is Ixthus’s family we are going to see.”

When you make a cautious joke about Lolth being needed to cure a drider, Ixthus frowns. “I do not seek to end my time as a drider,” he tells you, sharply, “and I rather prefer this form. It is easier to protect my loves and my briestling* as I am now. No, the curse I seek to lift is a powerful one, cast by a paladin who serves one of my goddess’ enemies. I have been blinded, rather permanently, by her magic, and I find myself missing the sight of my husband’s smiles, my briestling’s mischievious little pranks, and the alter with which I can commune with my Lady. I must have my sight back, if I am to practice my trade and cast my magic properly. My grandmother knows of curses, both the casting and lifting of them, and I would seek her knowledge and aid.”

Stramonium growls low. “And we have never known Ixthus as anything else. We love him, as he is, and we simply wish to cure him of the most recent Blight. Powerful magic, can gods help their paladin’s cast, and even more powerful curses. The paladin believed in her god far too strongly, as well, and so we found that only the high priestess of Ixthus’s goddess may be able to lift this curse. Imagine our great luck, that it is our lovely Ixthus’s family matron.”

Ryvon, his arms crossed over his chest, mutters a swear in Infernal. “We are willing to pay, Sers. Please, ignore my husbands’ foul moods. Both of them have been rather tense ever since that paladin attacked us. I, at least, can keep a level head.” To Ixthus and Stramonium, he grumbles fondly, “Calm down, you two. These folk have come to offer their help in getting us to Mag Tureah. We need all the help we can get, right now, especially with Ixthus’s abilities compromised. It would not do us any good to chase off our potential allies.”

Faker, from where they are curled in Ixthus’s arms, coughs quietly. “We thinks,” they hiss in a voice that makes you and your party’s skins crawl, “that perhaps, it best if they’s coming. Ixthus not be see now, not magic well. Ixthus need helpses. We needs them.” Faker’s grasp on Common is clearly not as strong as his strange fathers’, but the other three seem to understand what they’re getting at anyway, and nod along.

“You are right, of course,” Stramonium tells Faker, clearly proud of Faker’s thinking. “I apologize, friends. Please, excuse my testiness. I am rather protective of my clan -- overly so, as Ryvon occasionally must remind me. If you still are willing to help guide our way through the Wildes, this is a rough map of the layout of the Wildes currently -- though, any who know the FeyWildes knows they shift around a bit. Mag Tureah is here -- one of the few places that stays in place, and this over here is the city of New Sharandar in the FeyWildes, so you can orient if you need to for after we pass through the portal.”

The map is a larger one, although maps of the FeyWildes were always made to be easier to read. You were able to get an idea of the routes the group were contemplating taking. They clearly wanted to remain unnoticed by some of the more dangerous denizens of the Wildes; the routes were probably chosen to be the safest ones you could take at the moment, not that any route was safe in the FeyWildes.

Ixthus coughs gently and lowers himself gracefully to the floor. “We will be able to find our own way home,” Ixthus murmurs as he approaches, but the wary steps give away how nervous he is about letting Faker close. You cannot blame the men for being cautious, having strangers near their youngling. “However, if you wish, you are welcome to hang around in Mag Tureah while we meet with my grandmother and come back along the path with us. Going back will likely be safer as well, since some of my family is bound to come with us and make sure I and my clan arrive back in New Sharandar safely. My grandmother, while not understanding how these two and Faker make me so happy, recognizes that they do. She loves me, even if she does not understand, and will not wish harm to come to us.”

You and your party agree to accompany the odd group to Mag Tureah, and you all set out toward the portal to the FeyWildes.

Upon entering the FeyWildes, however, you realize that this will not be as straightforward as you had hoped, quickly discovering that the FeyWildes had shifted again, probably recently. The paths discussed would no longer be safe, and the city of New Sharandar was now an island of relative safety. The area now located around New Sharandar was one of the more dangerous of the areas seen in the FeyWildes. This would be an interesting trip, indeed.

The very first thing you do is see if there is a path that seems easier -- and hopefully quicker -- to traverse but are dismayed to find that it will be bushwhacking no matter which direction you leave for Mag Tureah from. The only easier path you can see is one that has clearly been habitated by large beasts, and not even that close to the city walls.

The bigger the creature in the FeyWildes, the less likely one was to walk away from them.

“At least you have us?” Stramonium grumbles testily, trying (though failing) to lighten the souring mood. “Well, no helping it now. Which way do you want to go? If we want to go quickly, and therefore spend less time having to risk running afoul of anything here, we can go toward the cleared area over that way and hope it’s something powerful enough that whatever it is ignores us. Or we can spend the first day of travel cutting our way through the forest, and possibly have to spend our first night in the forest. That may not be the safest option either, not that either are.”

After discussion, you make your way out of the city toward the clearing, cutting your way through the brush, and make relatively good time, all things considered. Stramonium is a knowledgeable ranger, even if he had not ever had the misfortune of finding himself in the FeyWildes before. The group tells some interesting stories, from before their retirement, and try to at least keep the mood as light as possible. Faker, meanwhile, is looking around in interest, but hissing occasionally from under their hoods and scarves. They did not appear to like the FeyWildes, which was a smart dislike on their part.

Ryvon sighed quietly, about midday. “As nice as this is so far, please keep an eye out. My father and his family live here, in the FeyWildes. Archfey. We.... do not get on. I would rather not run into him. Get along better with my mother’s family, to be honest.”

Ixthus growls quietly. “He’s a git.”

“Ixthus, please,” Ryvon mutters. “I would not be surprised if he could tell you’re speaking ill of him. Seems like an Archfey-ish thing to be able to do. Let’s change the subject, if you would. What kind of stories do you all have?”

Just before nightfall, you reach the clearing and discover a tarrasque curled up, fast asleep, in the middle of the cleared space. Its snoring is loud enough it covers any sound your party may have made coming through the forest. You and your party freeze.

“Well, great,” Stramonium whispers, as Faker begins tracing letters hastily across Ixthus’s back where they ride. Ixthus shivers.

“I will see what My Lady says about this. It’s too late to try to find somewhere else to shelter for the night. What do we do?” The last part seems directed more to the drider himself than any of you.

“Ixthus, we need to go,” Stramonium hisses. “We can’t stay here. If that thing wakes up, we’re dead.”

Ryvon has drawn his rapier, and Faker warily draws a dagger from somewhere between all the layers he is in.

Ixthus sways left, then right, and silently turns and makes his blind way into the trees. The drider weaves through the forest a short way to find a cave -- empty, luckily, and large enough for all of you to sleep in. It will provide plenty of shelter.

Ixthus shakes his head, as if waking from a trance. “Thank you, My Lady. You grace me with your sight. Thank you.” He drops his voice to begin muttering prayers and gratitudes in Undercommon. At the mention of the name of Lolth, however, a shiver runs down you and your party’s spines.

“Mr. Ixthus,” one of you asks. “Who is it you pray to?”

Ixthus turns unseeing eyes onto your party and smiles. “What a curious question,” he murmurs. “You know Lolth worship is frowned on in most places!”

“But not by the Drow,” you counter, and Ixthus’s smile turns venomous. “If we have become the unwitting pawns of Lolth, we should like to know.”

“Please, friends,” Ryvon interjects. “Ixthus has worshipped the Spider-Goddess for years. His faith has never once been a cause for concern. Indeed, Lolth seems to like him; she doesn’t have many Clerics willing to listen these days, at least not outside the churches. As a drider, and an adventurer at that, Ixthus was very valuable to Lolth, and so she gives him some help every now and again, yes. But truly, the only payment for her aide that Ixthus ever needed to do was occasionally root out any members of Lolth’s church that would use their high standing to further themselves instead of Lolth.”

The cold ring of Stramonium’s greatsword echoes loud in the cave as he draws it. “If you wish harm upon my husband, I will not take it lightly.”

“Gasssss,” Faker hisses quietly to Ryvon.

Ryvon jolts, as if struck. “Thank you, Faker. I can smell it now that you mention it. Please, friends, there is a magical gas, it is clouding our judgement, turning us against each other. We need each other out here, fighting will just get us all killed. Get us to Mag Tureah, and you will have your gold and can be rid of us, if Ixthus’s faith bothers you so!”

With a tilt of his head and a muttered incantation, Ixthus’s eyes widen. “Ryvon and Faker are right. I had not noticed it before, my love, my briestling. Here, I will dispel it. a bit of rest will perhaps calm riled tempers, but if it really bothers you, I will not call on her for the rest of our time working together.”

The next morning, Faker slips silently back into the small cave and holds out a single tarrasque tooth. “Gone,” they rasp, and offer the tooth, like a peace offering, to your party. You choose to take the tooth and pocket it, and although none of you can see through all the fabrics and darkness obscuring the young one’s face, you get the feeling that Faker is smiling at you.

“They like you,” Ixthus says from behind you, and your party turns to the drider and his husbands. Now that the gas has dissipated, you all feel a bit embarrassed and sheepish, and your unlikely new companions all look so as well. You all apologize, and you explain that you feel a bit silly for being upset about Ixthus’s religion, as there are many you can think of that have even worse reputations than Lolth. He and Stramonium admit that the gas did make them react a bit more strongly than they would ordinarily, and your party shakes hands and puts the whole event behind you all.

Outside, you find, following the path back, that the tarrasque is indeed gone -- and none of you care where, as long as it’s a ways off. Faker darts out into the open space and scoops up another dropped tooth, before running back and excitedly offering up this one to their fathers. the trio laugh quietly and Ryvon gently takes the tooth and tucks it away for safekeeping. “Thank you, Faker,” he says, and pulls out a piece of chocolate, carefully pokes it under the hood Faker wears. You swear you see a long tongue slither out to take the chocolate and retreat, but it’s so quick you’re sure the Wildes’ light is playing tricks on your eyes.

Now that there is a new ease between your party and the four, the time passes more enjoyably as you regale each other with tales of previous exploits, and though Faker does only rasp out a word or two along with their fathers’ stories, they do pay rapt attention to you and your party’s stories. With only a few interruptions from mostly weaker monsters, you make it out of the edge of the forest and find a road and signpost. Praising your luck, you all turn and follow the road toward Mag Tureah. In the distance behind you, you hear a tarrasque roar.

You are about halfway to Mag Tureah when your party first notices the attention your odd group has garnered from one of the local Archfey. You are being followed by a stately elk, and it’s rider is an equally noble-looking man. He catches up to you easily, on foot as you are, and swings the elk around to block your path.

“I believe I told you last time, you are no longer welcome here, boy.” This, he directs at Ryvon, who does not look happy to see him.

“We are just passing through,” the tiefling tells him coolly, “Elder,” he adds like an afterthought, his tone reeking of distaste.

Your party tenses, and you step forward to clear your throat. “Tis true, sir,” you say, shooting a questioning look towards Ryvon. So far, Ryvon has been the most diplomatic and welcoming of your four companions if a bit eccentric, so this show of disgust for a man who clearly holds some power here is surprising. “We are making for Mag Tureah, and these roads seemed the safest and fastest route.”

“If I’d known we would pass this close, I’d have suggested a different one,” Ryvon mutters. “I apologize for this, friends,” he tells your party. “This is the Elder of my father’s clan. My father’s family and I -- we don’t get on well, obviously.” He shoots a look up at the Elder and spits, “Because they are bigots.”

The Elder reels back and startles, as if Ryvon had physically struck him. “Now that,” he sputters, “is a baseless accusation--“

“Father picked making them happy over sticking around for Mother and I,” Ryvon sighs. “We’re only passing through, Elder, so may we pass? We are going to visit Ixthus’s family, who adore me, by the way, unlike you lot.”

The Elder looks furious, and you’d really rather avoid a fight with an Archfey right now. “Please, Elder, may we go? It’s very important that my party and I reach Mag Tureah as well, and these four are paying us to bring them along, since we are already going that way.” Your lie is an easy one, and the Archfey does not comment on it if he sees through it.

The Elder looks down his nose at you and sighs resignedly. “I suppose,” he drawls, “Since some of you actually have manners. Be gone. Do not come back.”

“Thank you, Elder,” you say, and fix Ryvon with a warning look as you lead the way back down the path.

“And keep those beasts on tight leashes,” the Elder calls after you.

“I don’t think he’s only talking about Ixthus,” one of your party whispers, but Ryvon has turned quiet and taciturn.

“Doesn’t like Faker or Stramonium, either. Racist pig.” Ixthus picks at his nails and sighs. “I am sorry, my friends. We didn’t realize the clan was in this area right now, or we would have had us go around. It would have taken longer, sure, but most times his father’s family and Ryvon run into each other, we get into a fight. Ryvon loves us, so their comments get to him very easily. You handled that well, I’m sorry.”

“Something about him is slimy,” one of your party murmurs. “Let’s keep an eye out and make sure we’re not followed.”

Coming over a rise and seeing Mag Tureah in a huge open cavern below you, your party are all glad to see the end of the journey. Ixthus gets you all through the gate with a bit of gold for the guards, and Stramonium pulls out a bulging bag of gold for each of your party members.

“Like we said, if you’d like to have us on the way back, we would be grateful,” Ixthus informs them. “But we aren’t sure how long our business here will take, so if you’d like to shake hands and part ways, then let us do so as friends, yes?”

You agree that it would be safer to travel back with the four and ask if they would mind asking Ixthus’s family about places for lodgings as the group of you all make your way through the streets of Mag Tureah toward the large church dominating the landscape. The cavern is full of buildings to the point where the walls of the cavern have homes and businesses built into the stone, with bioluminescent mushrooms and mosses cultivated in the cracks and crevices. Ixthus’s grandmother, when you reach the church, insists you stay there, in the church itself, and offers a hearty meal as thanks for getting her four family members here safely.

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