Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nott doesn’t know what town’s alleys she’s currently skulking down, but she does know that it’s in the opposite direction as Felderwin. And that’s all that matters, really. She’s about to dart down another alley, when she hears a young girl’s voice shriek; “But Mummy! I don’t want it anymore! It’s broken!” There’s a smash, and then the voices start to fade away.

Nott waits until there’s silence once more, and then peeks into the alley. It doesn’t take long until she sees what caused the crash- a porcelain doll.

She slips forward, and picks up the doll, dragging it over to a shadowed corner. It’s an unnerving white color, with a frilly, lacy dress, and blood red lips. The porcelain is cracked all over, although Nott can’t tell if that’s from the girl throwing it, or from before.

The bottom half of the face is crooked- she could probably rip it off with her bare hands. As she stares, she realizes that it could fit her. If she got creative with some string, maybe, a mask?

It wouldn’t be enough to fool anyone looking closely, but from far away- she could pass as a, a gnome. Or a dwarf. (Or a halfling)

She rips it off, the porcelain shattering further, and scurries away before anyone comes to investigate the noise.

Fitting that her mask should be something thrown carelessly away. Who would want her?

Chapter Text

Bren has been on the road for- for a month. Thirty days, 4 hours, 43 minutes, 7, 8, 9, seconds. His face is smeared in mud, and his coat is showing signs of wear. He is camping on the outskirts of a small town, and he is staring into his campfire with dull eyes.

He hasn’t had a full night’s sleep since he escaped. Since his mind was cleared. Since he remembered-

He is lonely. It is a stupid, stupid thing, he does not deserve-, stupid-, he misses Frumpkin. A cat that was too old when he was a child, that died the summer before he was accepted to the Academy-

Orange. Soft. Too-thin, but got by on mice. Bren loved Frumpkin so much. When noises were too loud, or his clothes too- too scratchy, wrong, or Bren just wanted to be comforted, he would scoop Frumpkin up and run his hands through his fur. Sometimes Frumpkin crawled up his shoulders and wrapped around his neck like a scarf. 

It takes a while, the searching, the stealing. Often, Bren thinks that he shouldn’t do this. That he doesn’t deserve it, that it would not work anyways, but Bren is horrible and selfish, and so he summons a cat and makes it his Frumpkin.

When he summons him, it’s the middle of the night, in the woods, and Bren has not bathed in months. (72 days, 1 hour, 78, 79, seconds)

His hands shake as he forms the circle, as he pulls out the components, his voice trembles and cracks as he speaks arcane words. But the ritual works, and when Bren lies on the ground at stares at the sky, he is running his hands through orange fur.

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Beau is sixteen years old, sitting in the library of the Cobalt Soul Monastery, and absolutely certain, she’s about to be sent home.

This is the third instructor that has decided Beau is, “Not fit in temperament nor attitude to join our order.”

Curled up in the window seat she’d claimed when she first arrived here, she knows she should be happy. She won’t have to spend all day in a library, won’t have to deal with the snotty looks from other trainees in the hallways, won’t have to deal with the condescending teachers.

But, she also has to go home. She won’t even have the wine-selling to distract her anymore. Instead, she’ll be stuck doing accounting and being told how much of a mistake she is. If they even take her back. What happens if nobody wants you? she wonders. Maybe she could live in the wilderness, like a druid.

She snorts before she even finishes the thought. She has no idea how to live in the wilderness. She’s so lost in her thoughts she doesn’t notice one of the Monks walking up to her. She hears the snap of fingers and turns around.

There’s an elf standing in front of her, shaved head, same turquoise vestments as the others, although- they’re not exactly the same. Cut differently. More freedom of movement.

“Beauregard. Come with me,” they say, and turn in the direction of the library doors. Beau scrambles up to follow them, jogging a little to catch up. “What,” pant, “the fuck are we doing?”

They don’t respond, and instead lead Beau to the gym. Beau’s never actually been inside. She’s been here a year, and she walks past the plain wood doors all the time, but she’s never been allowed inside- the Monks tell her that once she has a better attitude, she’ll be allowed. She thinks it’s bullshit, but she has yet to figure out a way to sneak in.

The elf stands on a mat, and faces Beau. “I am Expositor Dairon. Defend yourself.”

Chapter Text

Bryce is crouched behind a smoking wall, cursing as Bailey applies the bandage. When they first see the silhouettes heading in Alfield’s direction, they hope it isn’t merchants. Insufferable in normal circumstances, like spooked horses during a crisis. Well, actually, that isn’t fair, horses can be trained to be ridden into battle. Merchants just whine about their goods, nevermind that they were alive.

Well, as the people get closer, Bryce can see weapons- a sword, although an unfamiliar style. A monk, Cobalt Soul going by the vestiges, a greatsword, barbarian? and a crossbow, two unarmed, presumably casters, although no, one has a handaxe on their belt.

Mercenaries.

Normally, Bryce would prefer not to deal with all the paperwork such people entail, but there isn’t really time for such things now. They grit their teeth and wave them over, and work out a deal. 30 gold an ear is good enough pay, apparently, and Bryce picks up their morning star and gets back to work, ignoring the pain stretching causes. Here’s hoping the mercenaries come through.

They did it. A manticore. Survivors. After giving the group- the Mighty Nein, hah- their payment, Bryce slumps behind their small desk. Their midsection still hurts, although it’s thankfully not as deep a wound as Bailey originally thought. Bryce can’t get the group out of their mind.

Three humans. Two tieflings. A half orc. And a halfling?

There was something about them, Bryce can’t put a finger on it. But as the days pass and the group moves on, the name sticks in the back of their head. The Mighty Nein.

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Vex can hear what sounds like an elephant trying to breakdance on the top floor of their apartment, or at least, if elephants swore loudly and passionately. She stretches out on the couch, Trinket with his head on her lap. It takes about five minutes until she can hear Vax stumbling down the stairs. She has no idea what makes makes him so clumsy, he positively flies when he’s on the rink.

She laughs, like she always does, at his Derby outfit. It’s the most over-the-top emo thing she’s ever seen, completely him. He wears a cloak made out of “raven” feathers (she’s ninety percent sure they’re fake) that hangs just past his shoulder blades, and that’s not where the feather theme ends. He’s dressed head to toe in black, feathers, and faux leather, a true Bringer of Death.

(Although he’s got flowers from Keyleth braided into his hair and cloak, that bring some color to the ensemble)

They head out after he grabs something to eat on the way- the rink is surprisingly close to their apartment. They’re not the first ones to arrive- Grog and Percy are waiting for them. They’re both dressed up as well, Grog is wearing fur leggings and not much else, covered in body paint. It’s Percy thought, who her eyes linger on perhaps more than would be considered friendly.

Vax notices of course, and rolls his eyes at her. He runs over to Grog, and is lifted up in a customary bear hug. She takes her seat in the audience next to Keyleth, Pike, and Zahra. It doesn’t take long until the teams come out in full.

As usual, theirs is better dressed. She’s not actually sure how the costumes started, only that they’d grown in intricacy to a truly ridiculous extent.

Scanlan, in his bright pink monstrosity, Grog is his- armor? they’d never actually clarified that, but there were a lot of skulls. Percy, with his bird mask and fancy coat, Gilmore in a truly alarming amount of body paint, and her brother, in a feather cloak and leather, “The Raven Queen” emblazoned on his back.

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He uses a piece of coral one of the sailors had given him as a gift (a dismissal). He holds it up to his mouth and thinks, It’ll be worth it. Thinks, humans don’t have tusks.

It takes a long time. He starts when the sun is bright in the sky, alone in the bathroom of a pub that’s always empty. He doesn’t want anyone to find him. If the supervisors at the orphanage knew what he was doing, they’d take it away. Not because they care. They get in trouble if the kids get hurt.

He has to stop a lot. It hurts. It hurts so much. He didn’t think you felt your teeth all that much, but maybe tusks are different, or maybe he’s scratching other things, softer bits, but either way, it hurts, like fire, and there’s a lot of blood. He wonders if anyone will clean it up.

When he starts, the coral is a pretty whitish-bluish-grey. When he’s done, it’s stained a dark red-pink, and as he’s walking back to the orphanage, he tosses it into the sea. He used to love that piece of coral- thought it was exciting, a piece of the ocean he’d sail one day. Now looking at it makes him uncomfortable.

It makes a nice ‘plop’ sound when it hits the water, at least.

In the days after, he mumbles a lot. It’s weird, not having the tusks to talk around. He never liked them. He was a good talker, he could smile and make most adults like him, could make them forget about his greenness. But the tusks made that harder. Made his voice warble weird, made the greenness stand out. But now that they’re gone, his tongue slides right over the nubs. His mouth moves faster than his brain, his words come out when he means them too. He doesn’t mumble for very long, and the taunting lessens.

(Sometimes he misses his tusks. Sometimes he stares at the file- not coral, anymore, a file he’d borrowed from the communal bathroom and kept hidden away- and wonders if maybe he should skip this particular ritual. And then he thinks about the voices, the insults and taunts, the words that stuck in his skin like needles, and brings the file down and swallows the blood away. It’s fine. He’s normal.)

Chapter Text

Yeza walks into their mostly-constructed apothecary and looks around. “Veth?” he calls, walking cautiously forward. There’s a creaking noise, and then he hears his wife’s voice from- up?

He looks up and, indeed, Veth is lying across a rafter beam, grinning down at him. From what he can see, she’s got a stack of snack beside her, and he wonders how long she’s been up there.

“Hello, honey. Are you doing anything right now?”

He can’t help but smile. “Not really, I finished ordering all the new vials we need,” he replies, tilting his head at her. Before he can do much more than gasp, she laughs loudly, and falls off the beam she’s been holding onto.

He panics for a moment, thinking he’s going to have to catch his wife, because he is not a strong man, but instead, Veth is simply hanging upside down in front of him, long hair streaming, ankles wrapped around the wood.

She parts her hair like a curtain, chuckling like the madwoman she is. “Hello,” she says, and kisses him.

(It’s an interesting experience, kissing his upside down wife, but not necessarily bad. It’s positively hilarious when she pulls away, a sheepish look on her face, and says, “I think I’ll need your help to get down.”)

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Scanlan is making his way through a swamp, grumbling quietly to himself. He doesn’t know why Kaylie is in Wildemount, let alone a swamp, of all places, but he said he would visit and dammit, he will. He’s pretty sure he’s- halfway there when he hears something like a- like a chirp? He pauses, listening.

And there it is again, a chirping. Almost like a bird, but something is slightly off. Granted, he’s no expert in birdcalls, he’s not Keyleth, but he knows a little something about music, and it almost sounds like- like humming? But if a bird was humming, which makes no sense at all.

He shrugs to himself, and starts wandering that direction instead. It doesn’t take long until he comes across the source of the humming. It’s- it’s a bird person. A tiny bird person, which is impressive, given he’s not exactly tall himself. They’re hopping along, humming some tune to themselves, occasionally fluttering their little wings.

“What the fuck?”

The little bird person jumps, and whirls around at him, brandishing a- twig. A twig. He can’t help but laugh, although he stops once he realizes how scared the tiny person looks.

“What?” they say, except they say it in his voice, the exact way he said it.

Ah, shit. He remembers now. Kenku, bird people, speak only in mimicry. He looks back at the bird. “Do you have a name?” he says, and then facepalms himself.

“Name!” they say, and Scanlan pulls out a notebook and holds it out. “I hope you can write, or we’re getting nowhere fast.”

They can write, it turns out, and she’s called Kiri. Scanlan ends up barely making it to the tiny swamp town Kaylie wanted to meet in on time, and shows up to the tavern with a tiny bird in tow.

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Pumat-sol is not like his sisters. Or his brothers. Or his cousins, or his other cousins, or his Mom, or his other Mom, or anyone else in his clan, really. Everyone else likes living in the woods, likes drinking herbal tea by campfire and just… drifting around. And, well, Pumat-sol guesses that the tea isn’t that bad, but he doesn’t… he doesn’t like the drifting.

They don’t have a goal. Or anything to do. They just. Are. Whenever he asks his Mom about it, she says that they live like nature does, and to go wandering under the leaves until his mind clears. His Mama tells him if he’s feeling unsure about something, he could always consult her smell-bag. (He doesn’t like the smell-bags either. He doesn’t deny that they’re magical, but he’s not a druid like the rest of them, he doesn’t have leaf-magic, or breeze-magic, and all he smells is faint spice and ozone when he sniffs the bag.)

Once, Pumat-sol and his Mom and some of his Uncles all go into town. They’re near one that knows them, that is willing to trade. It’s not that they’ve never heard of money, but firbolgs like his Clan don’t really have a use for it. Why would you charge your family? (Pumat-sol likes money. He doesn’t tell anyone this, they wouldn’t understand, but he does. He thinks maybe he wants to be a shopkeeper, or a merchant, but-)

Pumat-sol, even though he doesn’t have the nature-magic, likes magic. He thinks it’s wonderful, but not in the way his Clan does. (Pumat-sol is not like his Clan. He thinks thoughts like this more and more often, as he thinks about what he wants, about how none of his family really understand him.)

Pumat-sol doesn’t want the nature-magic.  He wants the wizard magic. He’d called it book-magic, before he’d learned the proper term from a traveler in a town. He wants to study spells, but even more, he wants to make magic items. He wants to have a front room and a back room and make all sorts of enchanted things and sell them and get money.

Pumat-sol doesn’t know how he’ll do all of this. How to get a shop, or learn wizard magic, or enchant items. But Pumat-sol knows he can’t do any of it with his Clan, so he writes a note, and leaves it in his Moms’ bags, and heads toward a city.

A city called Zadash.

Chapter Text

“-Oh yeah, and then there was that drinking contest over in Hupperdook!”

Yeza looks up at this. Jester and Veth have been filling him in on their adventures, and he has to take a minute to digest this new nugget. “You were in- a drinking contest?” he asks, “In Hupperdook?”

Yeza knows full well how that usually goes for outsiders- they get a fair amount of disgruntled travelers on their way up to the cities who talk about the crazy gnomes. And the parties they throw.

Jester beams at him. “N- Veth won the whole thing for us! We were tied with this other group, right? And Veth had to go up, one on one, against this old gnome, super gross looking, who was a winner for like, the past month! And she won! Wasn’t even wobbly after!”

He turns to Veth, wide-eyed, to see she’s got her head in her hands. “Jester…!”

“Wait, did you really?” he asks. She nods, face still in her hands, groaning with embarrassment.

“My wife’s amazing,” he breathes, and hugs her. Jester starts from the beginning, definitely embellishing a little, and tells him about the whole thing.