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warlordfelwinter · 10 months

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Tales from the Dancing Sea Dragon

Part One: Dragon Heist

Chapter One: Another Day in Waterdeep & Chapter Two: Troubled Sleep

Celeste has a normal, boring day, and then a very un-normal, un-boring night.

~4k words

Celeste was… bored.

He sighed, heavily, staring at the ceiling of his sitting room. He was lounging across a soft, green chaise sofa, one hand fiddling with the stone pendant around his neck. Devil’s heart. A blood red ruby formed in the Nine Hells, wrapped artfully in gold wire, always radiating a faint heat. It had been a gift from someone he had been missing lately.

He tried, in vain, to remember what it was his love had told him would keep him away. He had said something about it, of that Celeste was certain. He was busy. He was always busy, but he was very busy. Too busy to spend time with Celeste for a while. He had said something… about something in… somewhere… He should have listened, but he distinctly remembered being distracted by watching his mouth as he spoke. Hints of sharp teeth and a forked tongue behind perfectly sculpted lips. Really it was hardly Celeste’s fault he hadn’t been paying attention to the words.

It had been weeks, at least, since he’d seen his beloved. So most days had been boring. But this day, in particular, was killing him. He was waiting. He had rehearsal tonight, again, for the Greengrass Festival. He’d been hired alongside a dance troupe for the main performance. For some reason, the proprietor insisted on having rehearsal in the evening, so Celeste had sort of been at a loss for things to do all day and had mostly ended up just staring at the ceiling.

He got to his feet with a stretch and walked over to a bookshelf, unable to stop his gaze wandering around the room. Some might call it cluttered. There wasn’t an inch of empty space on the walls, no shelves unoccupied by books or trinkets. There were plants everywhere, some hanging, others on stands. Some of them were even still alive. Not due to anything Celeste had done, certainly. He didn’t have his mother’s way with plants, as evidenced by the ones that had been reduced to brittle brown stems in his care. He wondered if the ones still hanging on had been her favorites. Maybe some remnant of that love was keeping them from giving up. It had been enough to keep him from giving up more than once.

He should get rid of the dead ones, he knew. Just like he should clean the shelves. Dust had built up between and atop all the baubles. He just couldn’t bring himself to move them. If he did, if he didn’t put them back just right, it would feel wrong. Too much like this was his house. Too final.

Eight years.

Eight years, and he still couldn’t face it.

Coward, he thought, but he ignored himself and looked at the shelf, focusing on the books. Read that. Read that. Don’t want to read that. Read that. Definitely don’t want to read that. Read that.

He sighed which turned into an exasperated groan. He tipped back, dropping into a backbend, palms flat on the floor over his head, abdomen arched. He held it for a minute or so, enjoying the stretch, and then collapsed onto the rug.

Maybe he should eat. He was probably hungry.

He got up and headed upstairs. His steps always faltered, just slightly, on the second floor. He didn’t look at the closed door across from the studio and forced himself to move quicker, almost dashing up the next flight. He didn’t look at the closed door up here either. It was habit, by now, to get into his room as fast as possible. If he didn’t see the closed doors, he wouldn’t think about it. That strategy never worked quite as well as he would have liked.

He got dressed in something that would be decent for rehearsal. A tight shirt, sleeveless for the warm weather, and loose linen pants tied up slightly at the knee. His mothers bangles on his wrists and ankles, and the ruby pendant around his neck. He braided his hair, wrapping it up so it was somewhat contained and out of the way for dancing later, and didn’t bother with shoes. It was a warm, sunny, dry day and the streets of Waterdeep were always clean.

He dashed back downstairs and out the front door. It was bright and beautiful outside, his street alive with neighbors going about their business. Every building and streetlamp was festooned with ribbons and flowers, petals drifting through the air on a breeze that smelled like summer. He took a pause, the clinging shadows of the memories in his empty house fading away somewhat in the sunlight. Waterdeep. Home.

He trotted down the steps and then paused, trying to remember if he’d locked the door. He’d forgotten too many times. He went back up and found that no, he hadn’t. He locked it and pocketed his keys, heading back down the few steps off his front porch to the sidewalk.

Celeste started walking, trying to think of what to eat. Was he even hungry? He didn’t think so, and the more he thought about it dancing on a freshly full stomach sounded like a bad idea. So rather than find a place to eat, he just kept walking, letting his feet carry him where they may, enjoying the feeling of the warm stone of the sidewalk beneath them.

The familiar bustle of Waterdeep moved around him. There was a rhythm to it all, the music of the city. He swayed as he walked, skipping and turning and spinning, dancing to a song only he could hear. Times like this, he felt a hint of that warmth and happiness he remembered from before. A muffled echo of what had once filled his whole heart, now always tinged with a bittersweet sadness.

When Celeste came out of his wandering, aimless thoughts, he found himself at the gates of the City of the Dead and his steps came to a halt.

Celeste stared at the open gate, and through to the trees and twisting pathways of the park and cemetery. So often recently his steps had brought him here and he wasn’t sure why. He always stopped at the gate, unable to force himself to go inside.

It was the guilt, he thought. His parents, his sisters, they should be here. They were buried in Elturel, he’d been in no state to figure out funerary arrangements at the time. But he should have had them moved. If they were even still there, after the city had been transported to the Nine Hells and back. He didn't want to think about that. They deserved to be here, in their city, above ground. He knew he should have them moved, but it was just another thing he couldn’t bring himself to do. Eight years and he still couldn’t face it.

He turned away from the gates, glancing up at the sun and realizing he was going to be late for rehearsal. He raced away from the cemetery, lingering regret burning away as he ran.

---

The main market square of the city was well and thoroughly decorated for the Greengrass Festival, decked out in ribbons and flowers. There was a maypole in the center and Celeste could see the other dancers stretching and warming up for rehearsal as he approached.

Their employer, a half-elven man named Mr. Grambelith, gave Celeste a dirty look as he spotted him.

“Late again, Celeste?” he asked.

“Sorry, lost track of time,” Celeste said, not meaning the apology even a little.

“Yes, well, you need to—”

Celeste walked past him, ignoring the rest of his flustered protestations. He didn’t care for Mr. Grambelith, the man made him uncomfortable for some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but he needed money and the other dancers were nice.

“Ah, there he is! Late as always!” Daara exclaimed as he approached, in a much friendlier manner than their boss.

“I promise I’ll be on time tomorrow,” Celeste said, with a sheepish grin.

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Fil’onin said.

“Places, everyone!” Mr. Grambelith snapped. “We’re running late thanks to someone, so you had all better be on point tonight!”

Daara caught Celeste’s gaze and rolled her eyes. He stifled a laugh and moved to his starting position.

The dance was a beautiful one, fluid and energetic, meant to bring to mind the beauty and warmth of the coming season. Celeste, these days, tried to gravitate more toward backup, but as was so often the case he was made the focal point. It was hard to find a better dancer to represent the sun than one who quite literally had a halo.

The other reason, apart from his celestial blessed looks, that he was often made front and center in performances was that he was very good at what he did. Celeste had been dancing since he could walk, and professionally for twenty years.

Even Mr. Grambelith could hardly find anything to be annoyed about as they worked through the choreography. He barked instructions that the dancers largely ignored, well aware that they knew what they were doing better than he did. Celeste helped the others master the steps they’d been struggling with, his energy seeming to give them the extra boost they needed to match him.

As always, when he danced, the world seemed lighter. Throughout the rehearsal, that ever-present weight in his chest eased and his smiles came easier, more genuine.

They danced through the routine one last time, perfectly, and Mr. Grambelith called a halt. The other dancers all gathered around Celeste, everyone breathing hard and covered in sweat.

“So, Celeste, you’ll be coming to the Yawning Portal with us all tomorrow night, right?” Fil’onin asked.

Celeste hesitated, caught unprepared. Before he could respond, Daara rescued him, coming up and slinging an arm around Fil’onin.

“Don’t pressure him!” she chided. “Celeste, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to, but we’d love to see you.”

“I—”

“Anyway, Fil, shouldn’t you be thinking about your footwork?” Daara went on. “You still can’t get that turn—”

“Oi, I got it well enough!” Fil’onin protested. “I’ll get it tomorrow. It only counts when we get paid—”

“You’ll get paid after the performance!” Mr. Grambelith interrupted. He went on, finding things to criticize about their efforts, but Celeste wasn’t listening he was trying to keep from laughing while one of the dancers stood behind Mr. Grambelith, silently mocking him.

He wandered off, still muttering to himself. Clearly just a small man who wished to be more important than he was.

“Maláka,” Celeste muttered, sticking his tongue out after him.

“Well I have got a very important date to get to, so I will see you all tomorrow—” Fil’onin said.

Daara looked at him critically. “A date, huh? I thought you said you were taking your mom to the spa. For her feet, wasn’t it?”

“Well, I—you—listen—” Fil’onin stammered. He wriggled out from under Daara’s arm. “I’ll see you tomorrow! Celeste, we better see you at the Portal after!”

“Say hi to your mom for me!” Daara called after him.

Celeste laughed, feeling strange. They were so friendly, so familiar with each other, trying to extend that familiarity to him. It was instinctive now for him to shy away, reinforcing the walls he’d put up around his heart.

“Right, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Daara said. “And again, we’d love to have you out with us after, but no pressure.”

“I’ll think about it,” Celeste promised. He bid them goodnight and headed off, steps instinctively carrying him home as his mind mulled everything over. The sun had fully set, the streets lit by everburning lanterns. He should go out with the other dancers after the festival tomorrow. He would, he told himself. It had been a while since he’d been out, he’d earned a night of drinking. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to be doing at home.

Someone coughed from an alley as he passed, startling him out of his thoughts. He peered down the alley, but he didn't slow and the shadows were heavy even for his eyes. He doubted it was anything of consequence. He looked around, focusing on where he was and more mindfully found his way to his home. He unlocked his front door and went inside, locking it again behind him.

The house was dark, and quiet. His halo lit his way through the foyer into the dining room, giving his natural dark vision just enough of a boost. He didn’t bother lighting the lamps, just headed upstairs to his room, exhausted and sore from the day. As he climbed the stairs he couldn’t help but smell the air, hoping to catch a hint of brimstone, but he was alone.

He changed into his sleeping clothes and crawled into bed, stretching out and quickly dropping out of consciousness.

Chapter Two

Celeste was asleep, not quite dreaming yet, only aware of where he was because he felt someone else. A presence he hadn’t felt in a while but that he recognized instantly, one that had hovered occasionally at the edge of his mind as long as he could remember.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Celeste?”

The voice was formless. Celeste tried to remember the last time Hanala had actually spoken to him. He’d felt her disapproval a few times, quite sharply the first time he’d kissed a certain someone, but the last time he’d heard her voice… It must have been Baldur’s Gate. The day he’d left, when she’d helped him remember who he was.

"You're not the same man you were last time we spoke. You've come so far, but you have farther yet to go, little light… Something is coming,” Hanala murmured. As she spoke, Celeste’s vision cleared and he saw Waterdeep, being devoured by shadow and silence. Hanala spoke slowly, as if she was describing something she was seeing. “Shadows are lengthening, growing to swallow Waterdeep, the Sword Coast, all of Toril. Aberrant folk flourish in the city, horned masks and black cloaks, moving around mortals in secrecy. What is it they want? What is it they’re looking for? Something bursts from the Nine Hells, razing the world into something new, something terrible. That’s why they’re here, they need something from the city. Something for her…”

Celeste found himself standing on his street in the North Ward. The lamps were dark and the shadows heavy. The homes and businesses around him were rubble, burning. He could hear screaming and the air smelled of smoke and blood. Someone lurched past him, wailing as they burned to death. Celeste startled away as the scene shifted and he saw more people, burning, screaming, bleeding, dying. His stomach turned but it was empty. He stumbled back, almost tripping over a burning body, his chest tightening with horror as he recognized them. His neighbor, Jezzara. Efni was near them, both dead, throats slit in such a viscerally familiar way. Their own blood, pooling underneath them, sizzled and boiled away in the heat of the fire that consumed their bodies.

“Why are you showing me this?” Celeste gasped, covering his eyes. “Please, I don’t want to see this!” he begged.

The screaming stopped and he raised his head, vision blurred. He wasn’t in Waterdeep anymore, he was walking along what might have once been the Trade Way. It was hard to tell, the landscape was blasted and barren, forests burned to cinder. A harsh, dry wind flung ash and dirt into his face. Something flew overhead, a massive monstrous shadow passing over Celeste as the air shook with wing beats.

He didn’t look up, he buried his face in his hands, trying to pull himself away from this dream, trying to wake up. He felt Hanala’s essence pull him closer. He heard the croaking call of ravens and his stomach dropped.

Celeste looked up, knowing what he would see. A familiar tent through the trees, an absence of voices and song. He could smell blood. He sobbed. Mr. Grambelith’s voice echoed in his ears, past and present tangling together, “Late again, Celeste?”

Celeste fell to his knees, curling into a ball. He cried, jaw clenched, chest tight with fear and grief and confusion. He felt the dream shift around him again.

“Something’s coming, little light,” Hanala said. Her voice sounded more present and Celeste looked up, finding himself in a featureless white space. Hanala approached him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually seen her, but she looked the same. A deva in the form of a slender, dark-skinned woman with large black feathered wings folded behind her back.

She knelt in front of him, hands gently cupping his face, her solid green eyes full of love and sympathy.

“You have a choice, to meet this darkness with your light. I believe you can change this fate, but you can’t do it alone. Pay attention to your city, things are changing and you will need help, need others,” she murmured. She leaned in, placing her forehead against his, wiping tears away with her thumbs. “It feels safe to be alone, I know. Grief and pain have hardened your heart, but that light is still there. It wants to be let out, it wants to love again. Freely. Recklessly. You have a choice to find yourself, to be someone you could be proud of. Someone Maran and Asha and Yeifah… someone Lynn would be proud of.”

A pained sob escaped Celeste and Hanala pulled him into her arms, holding him closer.

“Open your heart again, little one, and open your eyes. You won’t survive what’s coming alone.”

Celeste opened his eyes to darkness, finding himself in his bed in his room. He was drenched in cold sweat and crying. He couldn’t move, paralyzed by grief and fear. He laid awake, sobbing, for what felt like hours until exhaustion finally drove him back into a dreamless sleep.

A Tenday Later.

Celeste opened his eyes, staring at the mural on his ceiling. Swirling white and gold lines and stars against dark blue. He stretched, arcing his back up. Another dreamless sleep. He hadn’t had any noteworthy dreams since Hanala had visited him, but he was skittish to sleep now, afraid he’d open his eyes to smoke and screaming.

Those visions had occupied his mind since that night. He’d managed to perform at the festival that next day well enough, despite how exhausted he’d been. He’d declined the offer to join the other dancers at the Yawning Portal. He knew what Hanala had said about letting his walls down, but he’d been too troubled, too upset.

He fiddled with the warm stone around his neck, thinking once again about what Hanala had showed him. Something bursts from the Nine Hells. He closed his eyes, hand tightening around the stone.

“Dea… if you can hear me, I need to talk to you. Something’s coming, something bad. My guardian told me it was coming from the Hells. I’m… I’m choosing to believe it’s not you. I don’t think it’s you. What she showed me was too… chaotic. Too pointless. But if there’s something down there, you must know about it, right? Please, just… if you can hear me, I need to know what’s coming. I’m scared. Please, let me hear your voice soon, agápi mou. Mou lípis.”

He opened his eyes and waited, in vain, for a familiar voice. After a few minutes, he sat up, feeling restless. His stomach growled and he realized he had forgotten to eat dinner last night. Again.

Celeste got dressed, loosely braiding his hair, and left his house. He walked down the street, a few blocks, to his favorite bakery—Tokens of My Confections. It was where his father had worked when he’d been growing up and the smell always brought him waves of wistful nostalgia.

It was busy as ever this morning, with a line out the door waiting to order. Celeste drifted past the customers, catching the eye of Rehma, the halfling proprietor, who already had his usual breakfast waiting—a warm cinnamon roll with citrus sugar glaze on top. He handed over a few coins and she smiled and winked at him, too busy to chat.

Celeste hesitated. He usually ate in the bakery or at one of the tables outside, but it was so busy this morning he didn’t really want to stay. Before he could leave, however, someone called his name.

“Celeste!”

He turned to see a familiar face and a familiar lute and felt a smile come across his face despite himself. Mattrim “Three Strings” Mereg, a bard who often ended up getting hired for the same performances as Celeste. They had, consequently, spent quite a bit of time together over the past few years. Celeste kept people at arms length by design since he’d come back from Baldur’s Gate, but Mattrim was perhaps the closest he had to a friend. On this plane, at least.

“It’s good to see you my friend!” Mattrim said. He glanced at the pastry in Celeste’s hands. “Oh that smells incredible, what is that?”

“Best thing on the menu,” Celeste said. “Orange roll.”

“Ohh I should get one, shouldn’t I?”

“You really should.”

“I’ll try it, I trust you, though I have to say I was quite disappointed by what I got. But I’ll give this place another chance. Hey, listen, I have a favor to ask you.” As usual, Mattrim spoke quickly, hardly letting Celeste get a breath in edgewise. He was normally a bit of a shy person, for a bard, and when he’d first met Celeste he’d been quieter. Less certain of himself. Something about Celeste had put him at ease and he’d become much more confident around him over the years. He had that effect on people, he knew. They trusted him, felt comfortable around him. It made it very difficult to keep them at a distance.

“I’ll be performing at the Yawning Portal this evening,” Mattrim went on. “You know, I need the money, and it’s a busy time of year for them. All sorts of new adventurers coming around, trying their luck. I figure it’ll be a good audience. Would you come? Please? You don’t even have to talk to me, I just want a familiar face in the crowd. Moral support. Say you’ll come.”

Celeste opened his mouth.

“You don’t have to decide right now, just think about it, okay?” Mattrim said. “It’d mean the world to me if you’d be there. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to your bread roll thing. See you later, hopefully!” With that, he turned, heading back toward the counter. “Rehma! I want whatever it is you gave Celeste—”

Celeste smiled to himself, shaking his head. Mattrim always brought the energy of someone who had eight different places he needed to be all at once. He quickly slipped outside around the crowd and started walking, letting his feet carry him where they may while he ate.

He would go to see Mattrim tonight, he thought. Hanala had told him to stop closing himself off. Going out to a tavern with his friend seemed like an easy first step.

Once again, Celeste’s steps led him to the City of the Dead. He stopped at the gate, hesitating again. He took a breath and kept walking, under the arched wrought iron gate. The sounds of the city seemed to drop away behind him as he walked further into the park.

The path wound under trees, around tended flower beds and shrubs and statuary, as much a sprawling park as it was a cemetery. Waterdhavians had long since stopped burying their dead, keeping them above ground in mausoleums that dotted around the park. It didn’t feel like a place of death, it felt more like an open-air museum.

Celeste followed one of the paths, walking slowly and finishing his breakfast. It was quiet here. Peaceful. It wasn’t crowded, but he wasn’t alone.

He found a bench under a tree and sat down, watching the other people around him. There were a few others here alone but most had company. He saw a few couples, some parents with children. Some were bringing flowers to mausoleums, or little trinkets. He saw a few elves bringing rocks to place instead of flowers. Others were simply walking the paths.

Celeste took a deep, slow breath. For the first time since Hanala’s visions, he felt relaxed. The sunlight coming through the trees, the smell of flowers on a gentle, warm breeze, the quiet, distant conversations of other Waterdhavians… Even his mind felt calm. At peace.

There was something about seeing the other people here, realizing that they had lost too. Most of them were still smiling. He wondered how many of them were forcing those smiles, wearing them like a mask like he did. It made him feel a little less alone. He didn’t know any of these people and they didn’t know him, but they had all lost someone.

#long fucken post but i figured i'd crosspost chapters here bc my ao3 is locked to only registered users #anyway. here's the celeste campaign #i've got like. five ish sessions written out #these two chapters are just my session 0 which is why it's only celeste #fel's ttrpgs #dnd: tales from the dancing sea dragon #as i said. not the most creative name but i think it's cute #better than 'waterdeep campaign' lmao #oc: celeste #fic

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