Speaking With the Dead, Running From the Living

This blog documents our Dungeons & Dragons campaigns. 

Our newest campaign generally follows the “Phandelver and Below: The Shattered Obelisk” book.  

I use this blog to record the sessions in narrative form. The entries are written after play, based on what I can remember happened at the table. Disclaimer: our sessions are played with beers on the table to loosen up roleplay. This tends to impact record-keeping and memory. 

My character is Roux Illomen, a Chthonic tiefling spirit medium who began as a fraud and ended up genuinely haunted. He survives on charm, bad judgment, and the ability to run when necessary. He is not a hero. He lies, avoids responsibility, and has a talent for making powerful enemies. The story is told from his perspective, with all the bias, excuses, and gallows humor that implies.

Please find below a short backstory to introduce the character. I hope you like it.

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I knew I was in trouble. I’d known trouble was coming for six or seven months. But it’s easy to pretend you are not in trouble when trouble isn’t about to shank you in the gut and twist your nuts off.

Last week, two ladies of Lady Mirabar’s Coterie of the Dark Veil delivered two beautiful, healthy babies. Both had rosy lavender skin, tails, and nubs on their heads that would one day grow into proud horns. Of course, they would blame me: Roux Illomen, the Voice bound to the Elder Dead. Those kids would need another spirit medium to talk to their late tiefling dad.

I ran into Fast Jax this morning. According to him, Felton Hawkes had caused a bit of commotion at the Beached Leviathan. The shipping broker was asking people to come to him with tips regarding the whereabouts of a certain lavender tiefling. But Felton Hawkes wasn’t the problem; that man had never gone beyond the Neverwinter docks. No, today whispers were doing the rounds about a lavender-coloured cuckoo that had landed in the nest of Baron Olofor. There weren’t many people in Neverwinter who were a worse choice to anger than the baron. I’d heard of his reputation, but his daughter Iarfina—a curvy, raven-haired beauty—had made the risk seem worth it.

Fast Jax wanted to leave as soon as he’d passed on the news. Afraid to be associated with me. That should tell you everything you need to know.

And if only it stopped there. Lady Mirabar would not be amused either; her protégé had just gotten three ladies of her coterie with child. This would reflect badly on her and her social standing. But that might not be the worst part of her disapproval of me. She had been trying to lure me into her bed for almost a year now. I’d been claiming migraines from communing with the spirits, but that excuse had now been disproved. I would probably have to “perform” in private sessions with the old lady. Maybe getting caught by Baron Olofor was the better outcome. Dwarves are kinky; they can make devils from the fourth layer of the Nine Hells blush.

Maribel Pinkering was calling me a shit and a bastard.

When I started out performing séances, I’d given myself the title “The Voice bound to the Elder Dead.” It was all fake, just sounds and flashing lights, until I picked up a prop from a store of knickknacks and trinkets. They had this crystal skull. Either they didn’t know what they had, or the thing was cursed, and they were looking to dump it on the first unsuspecting soul that came by. I think I may have pierced the veil by channeling magic into the thing during one of my shows. Since then, my title has been real. Spirits seem to stick to me; they are always around. Maribel was one of them.

She had been able to hold on to her anger for quite some time now. Spirits are shades of people’s lives, a distilled fraction of a person that stays behind when they pass on from this world. Their emotions are quite one-dimensional. Sometimes they flare in response to what is happening around me, but usually they reset to their “standard” demeanour much sooner. She was riling up the others as well. Elise seemed to share Maribel’s anger. Father Seamus was quoting scripture from the Tome of the Morning. Walt Reinhard switched between laughing diabolically and speaking coherently.

Communing with spirits had opened the doors to the upper echelons of the city’s elites. Privately, they were loud, intrusive, and impossible to ignore. I should practice shutting them out.

If Fast Jax’s fear was anything to go by, I needed to get off the streets. Baron Olofor wasn’t coming after me himself. Unless his men announced themselves covered in Olofor heraldry, I had no way of knowing who they were until they grabbed me. I needed to get my stuff and hide somewhere.

Lady Mirabar had arranged a small but comfortable apartment for me out in the Blacklake District. From my windows, I overlooked the lake; my front door led out onto a plaza with inns, shops, and a small theater. The apartment was a golden cage, somewhere Lucretia could trap me away from prying eyes. After she had shown up in the middle of the night, I had started sleeping at other people’s places, which had led to my current predicament. This whole situation was basically Lady Mirabar’s fault.

There were a lot of people outside, but no face in the crowd looked familiar or paid unusual attention to me. Next to the headache, my guts seemed a bit disagreeable, and my bottom puckered as well. I walked as fast as I could without running. No need to draw more attention to myself. The alley leading up to my door was empty—no mob of angry husbands with pitchforks and torches. So far, so good.

There was something smouldering on the cobblestones next to my door. Someone had stuck a sheet of paper to the door with a dagger. A pressure gripped my chest, but no hidden assailants jumped out with blades drawn. I looked around. There was nothing else to do but read the note.

Damn. I was too late. Lady Mirabar, in language you would not expect from a lady, shared her thoughts about my character. The locks had been changed, and the smoking pile on the street was what remained of my belongings. Worse, Lady Mirabar stated she would enter my name into the Book of Grudges of the Hillborn Clan. Having grown up around dwarves, that was bad. Those bastards took that book seriously. When you looked like me, changing your name meant nothing.

No, I needed to vanish fast.

My best option to get out of sight in Neverwinter was the Chasm District. After the eruption of Mount Hotenow, the district was half-collapsed, lawless, and avoided by the watch. Nobles did not go there, and I could disappear among the scavengers and refugees. It was dangerous, but it worked.

I just needed to steer clear of the old Arcanist Quarter. They say the Scar in that area still glows with blue fires and warped reality. Knowing my current luck, I’d walk up to the Scar with my spirits, and some eldritch horror would reach out and pull me down.

I took the fastest route out of the Blacklake District into the Chasm District: the half-rebuilt Dolphin Bridge. I was wearing my lovely bright red cloak with gold trim. In the slums, that would get me beaten, stabbed, and robbed faster than you could blink. So, while walking, I quickly bundled it into my pack. Looking up my nose walked straight into a fist. I landed flat on my ass. Tears blurred my vision, and my hand came away bloody.

“Today must be my lucky day. Yours… not so much,” laughed a gravelly voice.

A seven-foot giant was towering over me. His face appeared to have been sculpted with fists, and something had bitten off half an ear.

“There is a baron offering gold for your head, hell-spawn. And I intend to make that gold mine,” he said with a grin that revealed a collection of brown and black stumps.

I sat up, holding my bloody nose. I planted my other hand on the ground and grabbed a bit of loose dirt. He moved in to grab me off the floor, thinking I was cowed into submission. I looked him in the eye and said: “Wow. You make a plucked owlbear’s ass look pretty.”

My words carried a sliver of power, and the giant flinched as if struck. As he hesitated, I threw the dirt into his face, rolled over, jumped up, and sprinted back the way I had come from. My little ruse had given me an opening, but no more than that. The colossus was pursuing me, spitting curse after curse. There was no way I could outrun this guy; one of his strides was double the length of one of mine. I’d have to use his size against him.

The Blacklake District’s streets are a sensory overload of noise, vibrant activity, and pungent smells. The narrow, winding streets during daytime teem with hawkers, wandering livestock, and overloaded carts. Wooden tables and carts were pushed up against buildings to display wares, merchants shouting advertisements for their food, textiles, and ironwork. I was able to weave my way through passersby without falling. The giant bowled over a monk of Lathander and a boy carrying fresh pastries, leading to angry shouts from the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two Greycloaks looking my way. As my pursuer dumped someone onto a market stand holding fish, they grabbed their cudgels and followed.

“Not good!”

I managed to dodge between two packhorses, that were blocking most of the passage. The stallion was agitated and tried to kick me. I slapped him on his hindquarters and yelled at the top of my voice. My infernal scent must have spooked it badly, because it reared like a warhorse and charged toward the onrushing giant. With nowhere to escape to he spread his arms wide, attempting to scare off the beast. He got kicked in the face, rotten teeth flying everywhere. It wasn’t like he could get any uglier. 

I didn’t wait for the Greycloaks to catch up and detain me for disturbing the peace.

I quickly made my way east to the River District—my place of birth. A place I hadn’t been back to since I had managed to escape it.

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The River District was bustling with every type of humanoid. You were as likely to walk into a goblin as you were to bump into a human. Tieflings were rare in the better parts of the city. Here, I could spot several variations of tieflings among the crowd, but no one I recognized. Good, better to stay anonymous.

I’d grown up in the dwarven quarter. My parents had found an apprenticeship with an old skald named Thorga Silvermane. She was fun, knowledgeable, and kind. I learned a lot from her about telling stories and taking people on a journey through their imagination.

Alas, when she got drunk, she fancied herself a heroine from legend and started to pick fights. She’d picked a fight with bad dragonborn. They’d done the dragon thing and roasted her with dragon breath. Her cittern was the only thing that was salvageable from her remains, and to this day I’ve held on to it. 

Her neighbours had been good folk. The Rockseeker brothers were miners who allowed me to sleep at their place when they were in town.

I decided to look them up. Maybe they could help me out. The Rockseekers were not of the Hillborn Clan and generally looked down on those posh assholes. So there was little chance they’d hand me over to them.

My old street looked just like it did ten years ago. It’s funny how your feet just find their own way back without thought. A new family had moved into Thorga’s house. A woman standing in the front doorway was looking at me with distrust. Tieflings get that look a lot. I greeted her and walked up to the Rockseekers’ place and knocked. It stayed quiet, so I knocked again. The woman was still staring at me.

“Gundren! Tharden! Nundro! It’s me, Roux!” I tried.

“Tharden and Nundro are out. But Gundren should be in,” the woman offered.

“Thanks,” I replied. I was about to knock again when some stumbling noises arose from behind the door. The door swung open, and Gundren looked up at me, his face creasing when he recognized me. He flashed a grin like a problem had just solved itself.

“Roux, my boy. You’ve gotten tall. Good. You’re here. That’s damn near perfect timing.”

“You were expecting me?” I hesitated.

“Yes. No. Of course not. How would I know that you were coming?” He looked at me like I was mad. Without waiting, he turned around and went inside, waving me to follow.

“I’ve got a solid lead. Not a rumour, not tavern talk—something real. This is the one.” He lowered his voice just enough. “Tharden and Nundro are already there.” The room we entered was more office than living quarters. Gundren walked over to a desk, poured a drink, and pushed it across the table.

“Your timing is impeccable. I need men I can trust.” A pause. He downed a shot and added in a measured voice, “If you’re interested, we talk details. If not, finish the drink and forget I said a word.”

I smiled and downed the drink. “Gundren, like you said—damn near perfect timing. I think we can help each other.”

Introspection. A meditating elf

Preface:

In this newly started DnD 5e campaign I play the role of Ash'tar, a Shadar-kai elf monk that has the ability to meditate instead of sleeping, meaning he rarely closes his eyes.

This section is an inner monologue from Ash'tars' perspective in which he reflects on the past couple of days.

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Introspection

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As a young elf, I always slept at night. It felt natural to do so; nearly all my fellow clan members did, so why shouldn’t I? Truth be told, I almost never really slept. Much like Lorsan, a somewhat older guy whom most looked up to. He was also an elf, but his skin was much darker than mine. He was convinced we needed no sleep.

"All elves are born with the natural ability to ignore sleep, but we too need to rest," he said.

Unbeknownst to me, he was talking about meditation. Meditating, or the subtle art of looking inward with your eyes open, much like I’m doing at this very moment.

There is not just a desire to reflect, but also a need. The last two days have been the most bizarre of my life, which is saying quite a lot for someone who grew up the way I did. With a severe lack of schooling, food, care, attention, and proper etiquette, one tends to be completely forgotten.

I nearly died twice. Not like getting beat up, but more like sharp object through skin, bleeding all over the floor, fainting due to blood loss kind of dying. On both occasions, just as I was about to pass out, I heard this soothing voice and all was fine. I must have simultaneously angered and pleased some gods, potentially even at the same time.

Just three days ago I was with the clan. Stealing some food, messing about, mixing with the people, more stealing, preparing for a fight—the works. Life was predictable. Hard, but predictable.

When I made my narrow escape from the fighting pit and had nowhere to go, for the first time in my life I felt lonely. Knowing full well that some people gave their lives for my escape, I owe them big. I will repay them, though—with interest at that!

I managed to land myself a quick job (at least, so I thought) protecting a caravan on its way out of Neverwinter. The bustling city life, constant noise, and strong smells of market stalls—or more like sewage—were left behind and replaced by singing birds, fresh breezes, warm sunshine, and the scent of grass. It took no more than thirty minutes of riding by ox to forget about the city. Odd, but remarkably serene.

I didn’t get to protect this cart all by myself. Three others had volunteered, each with their own stories to tell. A fellow elf who is superb with a bow and knife. He too prefers tactical approaches over pure strength. I reminded myself not to mess with this guy.

Then there is a tiefling entertainer of sorts. He talks in weird sentences, and I swear I can sometimes hear him whispering whilst he’s at least ten feet away from me. He seems to inspire the others a great deal, though, which is probably more than can be said of me. He’s not a great warrior, and I haven’t seen him use weapons, but he does have some tricks up his sleeve. There is likely more to him than meets the eye.

Then there is this half-elf woman. She doesn’t talk very much, has some shiny armour that must have cost a small fortune, and keeps referring to her religion. She does things with prayers. Remarkably, she’s also a lifesaver. I understood from Roux that she healed my very body and soul with a single laying on of hands. I’ve never seen anything like it, and she quickly became my favorite team member.

Team member. Now that’s an odd description. I blindly trusted these people with my life, something I’ve only ever done once before, and that was more than twenty years ago. They also gave me a description. They called me a monk. I never did think of myself that way, but I guess it fits.

I see the others are starting to slowly wake up. It’s time for me to finish my reflection. I feel rejuvenated by this meditation. There is a strange source of energy that I can feel flowing through me.

It is time to redeem myself.

Survival is tough, but I’m slowly getting tougher.

 

Changing dice and character

 Changing dice and character 

For the last two years we have been playing a DND campaign, three, later four, companions on a quest.Travelling just a small distance on the map our Dungeon Master has drawn out, still our characters made a journey of a lifetime. 

The campaign ran off after two false starts, in which different builds of alter egos were tried. The third time, expecting the same result as before: three or max four sessions than a restart, I chose to create my ‘next hero’ with all attributes ‘wrong’: a wizard (I hate fireballs), a gnome (Slightly allergic to the Rien Poortvliet books about them) and female (..). More or less inspired by the Dutch lawyer Inez Weski, I named her Inez and made her solicitor, well, daughter of one. Elera was her second or middlename, probably because that was the initial name I had in mind, and Systemix her family name; a funny (well I thought so at the time) reference to an ill fated project at work. And that was that, I felt at the time, an ‘anti-character’ to play for a few evenings.

To my, and probably our, great surprise the campaign went on for one and half year, for a total of nineteen sessions! And now it is paused, cliff-hangered, waiting to be continued in a far future. And perhaps as an even bigger surprise, I fell in love with this character!

Inez became a true alter-ego, growing on me and in personality! Greatly enhanced by the interaction with her companions, Finn, Jonathan and later on Murk. She grew as wizard and the role of wizard, especially an envious, self doubting one as Inez, grew on me. Writing her diaries and reading the retellings of Finn to Roslynn, became a ritual that took more time than playing! And then there was the part of being an object of attraction, well, let’s not go there. (Sorry, Jonathan and above all, Finn).

As Inez’s story paused, so did my time at my current job. The timing felt symbolic: a new chapter in both my professional life and my D&D adventures. It was time to change campaign, character.. and dice... and job! The latter may look not really related. However, I received a very, very nice set of dice as a farewell gift! Not only are the dice beautiful (and readable); they came in a lovely box! To die for! (Very bad joke deleted). A big THANK YOU to my former colleague Coco who arranged and constructed all of that! 

And a new character: Valandra. Once more a lady, perhaps prompted by Ginny Di’s remark that it would be strange if your fantasy worlds are only inhabited by males. This time I chose all the cool stuff: ‘a half-elf paladin’. At least, that was cool when I was at university... My plan was to join the ‘red team’, be a hunter of wizards doing bad stuff, like hurting innocent shopkeepers, with a particular gnomish one in mind. And to make it an evolutionary step, having several attributes and background features alike. Red hair, middle class, ambitious.

Then, how does this all work out? Perhaps it’s too early to tell after three rounds. Valandra is not the natural match Inez was. Rigid, almost fundamental in her ways and decisions, she felt and feels limited and one dimensional. Somehow there’s a disconnect between my ideas and plans and the way Valandra as Paladin plays out. Or perhaps I underestimated how hard it is to be fully truly convinced of your rightfulness and never be in doubt of your decisions. (That’s why I never became a manager...?)

So what to do? Reimagining and rewriting her backstory, done that. Helps a bit, wonder if it's enough. Reading and watching Paladin stories and guidelines, done that too, hope it will help. Playing and finding a way to truly play her role, hope that will work out. Writing about this and perhaps even blogging our campaign in some form, don't dare to commit to that. Keeping you all posted, sure, fingers crossed!