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Chapter Text

Delilah possesses a memory that is nothing short of extraordinary, a mental tapestry woven with threads of experiences both significant and trivial. Throughout the course of her life, she has traversed a vast landscape of moments and milestones, each one leaving an indelible mark on her being. Yet, amid the many chapters that compose her story, it is the select few experiences that resonate most deeply within her heart—those that have fundamentally altered her perception of the world and her place within it.

The first truly significant moment in Delilah's life, rather surprisingly, did not unfold during her formative years as one might expect. Instead, it manifested later, during a time when she was navigating the often monotonous existence of an only child born into a lower-middle-class family. The days of her childhood were frequently painted in shades of gray, and the predictable rhythm of her life dulled her spirit, leaving her yearning for something more. That longing was fulfilled one fateful day when she met him—the man who would irrevocably change the trajectory of her life.

Before their paths ever crossed, Delilah had known of him through the lively tales spun by his younger sister, a girl whose vivacity filled their conversations with stories that painted her brother in a light vastly different from the man she would ultimately come to know. Those childhood anecdotes, rich with the innocence and imagination of youth, could scarcely capture the essence of his true character. However, when Delilah first laid eyes on him, it was as if the very fabric of her existence had been altered. In that moment, she swore she saw color for the very first time, vibrant hues illuminating the world around her as if a long-dormant part of her soul had awakened.

The next pivotal event that would become indelibly etched in Delilah's memory was her wedding day. It was an occasion brimming with love, laughter, and joy, yet, when viewed through the lens of her entire life, it felt almost overshadowed by the tumultuous events that would follow. While the ceremony was filled with the warmth of family and friends, the challenges that awaited them loomed larger than the bliss of that moment.

However, the most profound experience of her life—one that she held closest to her heart—was the birth of her son. The journey of bringing him into the world was a harrowing yet exhilarating whirlwind of emotions, culminating in the moment she first held him in her arms. After enduring hours of labor, when she finally cradled her baby boy against her chest, a wave of love washed over her, one so powerful and transformative that it felt as if her heart had momentarily stopped, only to restart with a new rhythm—a rhythm that now pulsed solely for him. In that instant, Delilah underwent a metamorphosis; she transitioned from being an accomplished archmage of the Cerberus Assembly to a devoted mother, her thoughts and dreams consumed by the well-being of her family.

Her son, Parzival Silvanus Delta Briarwood—a name intricately woven with her own, her husband's, and his father's—became her pride and joy, a radiant beacon in her life that outshone all else. Delilah would often find herself sharing stories with anyone who would listen about his brilliance, his laughter, and the way he seemed to carry a spark of magic within him. With her brown hair and his father's stunning eyes, which danced between shades of blue and green, he was a living testament to their love, a tangible manifestation of the bond they shared.

For two precious years, Delilah held her son close, cherishing every fleeting moment, each one a treasure in her heart. But fate dealt her a cruel hand when her son was suddenly ripped from her embrace. The anguish that followed was overwhelming, a tidal wave of sorrow that swept through her life and left her gasping for breath. She wept for countless nights, comforted only by her husband as they navigated the depths of their shared grief, mourning the loss together.

Yet, even as her heart ached with sorrow, a flicker of hope remained nestled deep within her. She clung to the knowledge that her son had not perished; rather, he had been taken from her by unknown forces. On the night of the full moon, a spell could reveal whether he still lived, but it could not uncover his whereabouts or condition. Each year, on his birthday, Delilah and her husband would hold a private vigil, weaving spells and charms around a lock of his hair—preciously safeguarded within a chest—as they hoped to protect him from afar.

But Just as Delilah began to come to terms with the devastating loss of her beloved son, a new wave of despair crashed over her life like a tempest, casting shadows that seemed insurmountable. She had barely begun to navigate the treacherous waters of grief when her husband, Sylas, fell gravely ill, succumbing to a relentless affliction that bore the unmistakable weight of terminality. Despite her fervent prayers and desperate attempts to cling to hope, the reality of his condition loomed large, leaving Delilah feeling utterly helpless and consumed by a potent sense of desperation that gnawed at her very being.

For countless nights, she found herself curled beside Sylas, her heart heavy with sorrow as she wept silently, her tears soaking into the fabric of their shared memories. In her frantic search for a cure, she threw money at any healer who dared to cross their threshold, their promises echoing in the hollow silence left by their failure. She summoned an array of individuals—both mortal and magical—each one eventually banished from their presence, their inability to identify the source of Sylas’s illness haunting her in the stillness that followed. With each passing day, she watched in anguish as he trembled and sweated, wracked by pain and illness, her heart fracturing anew with every agonized breath he took.

As Sylas’s condition worsened and the specter of despair clawed at her throat, Delilah found herself in the grips of a profound desperation. Yet, amid the darkness, she heard a voice—a whisper that promised salvation. It was a voice that claimed it could save her husband, granting him a second chance at life and assuring her that they would be reunited with their son. This promise ignited a flicker of hope within her, a fragile light pushing back against the encroaching shadows that threatened to engulf her.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Delilah became a devoted disciple of this newfound power, following its guidance even as it led her down a path fraught with ostracism and banishment. The bond between her and Sylas deepened as they forged a new life together in one of Sylas’s ancestral homes nestled in the vibrant community of Port Damali. At the behest of the Whispered One, the voice that had woven itself into the very fabric of her being, they embarked on a fateful journey across the lake to Whitestone.

On their second visit to Whitestone, the moment finally arrived for them to meet the De Rolos, the esteemed ruling family of the city whose influence loomed large over the community. Their initial trip had been a mere reconnaissance mission, designed to familiarize themselves with the city’s culture, its people, and the intricate web of politics that held it together. This preliminary visit was crucial, laying the groundwork for alliances that would further the grand and intricate plans of Vecna, the enigmatic entity to whom Delilah had pledged her allegiance.

As she approached the De Rolo family, Delilah was filled with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, hoping to gather the insights and information that would prove invaluable in her future dealings. The anticipation for this second meeting was palpable, as she envisioned it as a pivotal moment that would unlock new pathways toward the ambitions set in motion by Vecna. However, as the meeting unfolded, she quickly realized that the outcome diverged from her expectations, revealing to her the unmistakable mark of a gift from Vecna.

The encounter with the De Rolos unfolded seamlessly, surpassing her initial hopes and fears. Every word exchanged felt imbued with significance, and she found herself eagerly anticipating the prospect of a third meeting that could solidify their burgeoning relationship with the powerful family. Yet, the catalyst for her growing intrigue was not merely the political maneuvering but rather a small boy who captured her attention during the gathering.

He was no more than ten years old, standing timidly behind his parents, Johana and Frederickson De Rolo, alongside his elder siblings, Julius and Vesper. The boy appeared bashful, almost dwarfed by the powerful presence of those surrounding him. Yet, what drew Delilah’s gaze was the striking resemblance he bore to her own family. His brown hair mirrored her own locks, and his innocent eyes sparkled with a light that reminded her so vividly of her beloved husband, Sylas.

As she watched him, a wave of nostalgia washed over her, sending her spiraling back through the corridors of her memories. She could almost see the beautiful blueish-green of Sylas’s eyes flickering in the boy’s gaze, a poignant reminder of the life they had shared. But that was before the vampirism, before Vecna had bestowed upon her the power to transform Sylas, forever altering those once vibrant eyes into a haunting amber gold. This transformation marked a turning point in their lives, a bittersweet reminder of both the gifts and the burdens that accompanied their allegiance to Vecna.

In that moment, standing amidst the De Rolo family, Delilah was struck by an overwhelming realization: this boy, small and bookish, who resembled Sylas’s younger siblings more than the De Rolo children, was, in truth, the child she had lost eight years prior. The child she had cradled lovingly for two years before being forced to relinquish the role of mother and settle for merely being a wife. As she gazed upon him, her heart ached with recognition; she knew without a doubt that Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the third was not his true name. Deep within her now darkened heart, she recognized this boy as her stolen son, Parzival Silvanus Delta Briarwood.

Fueled by a fierce determination ignited by the pain of her loss, Delilah vowed that the De Rolos would pay dearly for the theft of her son, even if it meant sacrificing everything she once held dear. Her resolve solidified into a singular purpose, one that would guide her actions and decisions as she navigated the treacherous waters of power, grief, and vengeance. The flicker of hope she had once felt transformed into a burning flame, illuminating the dark path ahead as she prepared to reclaim what was rightfully hers.

Chapter Text

Sylas Briarwood was the sole heir to the illustrious and noble house of the Briarwoods, a prominent family within the expansive Dwendalian Empire. His lineage was steeped in tradition and expectation, and the weight of his ancestry rested heavily upon his shoulders. Sylas's father, Sylvester Briarwood, was the only child of his esteemed parents, the previous lords of the Briarwood estate. Sylvester had entered into marriage rather late in life, taking as his bride Sylas's mother, Silvia Briarwood, who was born Silvia Quendal. Their union was one crafted by the hands of ambition and familial duty, an arrangement devoid of any romantic affection. The love that one might expect to flourish in a marriage was as absent as water is from oil; they existed together, yet remained fundamentally separate.

Throughout their years of marriage, Sylvester and Silvia seldom expressed any feelings of love or tenderness toward one another. Their relationship was characterized more by obligation than by passion, and this emotional distance extended to their children as well. Despite having seven offspring, only three of the Briarwood siblings would ultimately survive to reach adulthood. Sylas, the eldest, took on the mantle of responsibility from an early age. His younger sister Rowena followed him as the second eldest, while five younger siblings rounded out the family. Tragically, the Briarwood household faced the heartbreaking loss of four of its children, who succumbed to various ailments and misfortunes between the tender ages of six and ten.

When finally Sylvester tired of the title of Lord and passed the mantle of the family down to Sylas the now young adult vowed easily not to fall into a similar marriage as his parents.

And it was easy he found when he met Delilah Wintals who he was enamored with upon their first official meeting.

Their connection that ultimately brought them together was Rowena.
Rowena had left home at 16 to study under the Cerberus Assembly and at the time the only person she wrote too was Sylas.
She often would tell him of her days, lessons and the spells she learned beside her classmate.

The two eventual partners would not meet face to face until later in life after Rowena, a mage with a great talent and possible future as an ArchMage of the Assembly, was sent out on a mission to retrieve a Magical Artifact.
She died on the mission and it was at her funeral that Sylas and Delilah met.

Sylas took some time before he finally asked Delilah for her hand in courtship, the relationship progressing quickly and being consummated as quickly as was societally appropriate. The two lovers only allowing their marriage to be delayed so as to keep their family names from being tarnished due to impropriety.
And despite the urging and pressure from both of their families they waited to have children, Delilah was just beginning to adjust to her new positions as ArchMage of Antiquity and Lady Briarwood and Sylas respected her choice to advance her career before they considered children.

The conception of their son was an accidental event, after a celebration thrown on what they later realized was Moradin’s Holy day. The 18th of Unndilar
The two lovers were blessed with their Son, and the change of their own beings was so profound.
Sylas before their son’s conception was a private and isolated man whose focus was solely on keeping the briarwood estate in proper condition and devoting his remaining time to his wife.
And while none of the truly changed he became less reclusive and was seen more often walking about the town with his son held in his arms.
He spent any time not with his wife or attending to his estate with his son, reading to the boy who would watch with his father’s eyes and listen to the voice of his father reading aloud.

Sylas was a devoted father, a man who cherished every moment he spent with his child. He firmly believed that his son should sleep in their bedroom, wrapped in the warmth of familial love, rather than in the cold, desolate nursery that stood ready and waiting, untouched. It was a testament to his commitment to creating a nurturing environment, one where his son could grow and thrive, surrounded by the love of his parents.

But on that fateful day, it was Sylas who first sensed that something was terribly wrong. The house was quiet, unnaturally so, and as he called out for his two-year-old son, his heart began to race with a mix of confusion and dread. The little boy, just beginning to form words and communicate, had a penchant for innocent mischief, yet he had never ventured far from the safety of his parents' watchful eyes. Sylas frantically searched every corner of their grand manor, tearing through rooms and hallways with a desperation that consumed him. He could feel the panic rising within him as he thought of his son—his laughter, his babbling, the way he would cling to Sylas’s leg while trying to take his first steps.

Despite the turmoil swirling inside him, Sylas was a man molded by the harsh teachings of his upbringing. From a young age, he had been instructed to suppress his emotions, to be strong and stoic, a pillar of resolve in the face of adversity. And so, he held back the tears that threatened to spill over as he vowed to exact his revenge against anyone who dared to harm his family. With a fierce determination, he threw his considerable wealth and influence into the search for his son, scouring every inch of the city and its surroundings for any shred of information that might lead him back to the boy.

The only lead he managed to uncover was chilling: a servant who had unwittingly played a part in the theft of his child. She had been the one to carry their son away from the safety of their home, delivering the innocent boy into the hands of a mysterious figure cloaked in dark enchantments and heavy robes. The servant claimed she knew nothing of the man’s identity, only that he was acting on behalf of an unknown party who had paid her a substantial sum to snatch away the briarwood heir, their precious son. Sylas wasted no time dealing with her; she was swiftly imprisoned in the dank, shadowy cells of the manor's basement, a mere footnote in the tragedy that had befallen his family.

Sylas continued searching, refusing to stop until he was forced to stop by his body contracting an illness.
His normally spry and quick body was weakened by illness, bedridden and forced to lay through tests from many mage and doctor and watch his beloved wife lose herself further and further to desperation as she fought not to lose him alongside their son.

Slowly he found himself incapable of even opening his eyes as the illness took his strength and life. He was unaware of the extent of his wife’s suffering during those harrowing days, and when he finally awoke, feeling a spark of vitality returning, he was greeted by her presence at his side. In that moment, all he wanted was to hold her tightly, to promise that he would never allow himself to lose a loved one again.

When his wife was guided by a new Deity to the town of Whitestone, Sylas followed her, driven by an unwavering commitment to stand by her side. It was there, in the presence of a young boy, that Sylas felt an undeniable connection. The truth washed over them both like a tidal wave: this was their stolen son, the child who had been taken from them so cruelly.

Every encounter with the family responsible for the abduction ignited a fierce anger within Sylas, a burning desire for retribution that simmered just beneath the surface. The lies that flowed from their lips were unbearable; he could see how they whispered deceit into their son’s ears, sweetening the poison with words that dripped like honeyed milk. Sylas’s blood boiled at the thought of their treachery, and he vowed that he would not rest until justice was served and their falsehoods were laid bare. Until he’d be able to hold both his wife and son in his arms again and just revel in the way their hearts beat against his own cold and still chest.

Chapter Text

Percival Fredrickstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the Third held onto a vivid memory that would forever shape the trajectory of his life—the day he first encountered the enigmatic Briarwoods. It was an ordinary day, one that seemed destined to blend into the tapestry of his childhood, yet fate had other plans in store. The Briarwoods arrived precisely an hour before noon, descending from a lavishly adorned carriage that sparkled in the sunlight and seemed to beckon attention. As they stepped forward to greet the de Rolo family, Percival couldn't help but notice the stark contrast between their elegant appearance and his own family's unexpected state of dress.

His parents, as he soon deduced, had not anticipated visitors, a fact made glaringly obvious by their attire. His father, usually the epitome of noble sophistication, was dressed in what could only be described as lounge attire fit for a lord of Exandria—still richly made, yet comfortable and devoid of the restrictions typical of formal wear. His mother, on the other hand, was clad in her fencing gear, a stark departure from the flowing court dresses she typically donned. Despite the impropriety of the situation, they quickly brushed aside any sense of awkwardness, adopting a facade of calm and welcoming demeanor as they greeted the Briarwood couple. Percy stood quietly behind them, his siblings gathered at his side, all of them aligning themselves with their parents as if this encounter had been meticulously planned.

From the moment they introduced themselves, a peculiar sensation washed over Percival, a deep-seated feeling that somehow, in some distant past, he might have known these strangers. It was an unsettling notion, as he had never laid eyes on them before that day. Their names were still unknown to him, yet an inexplicable instinct tugged at his consciousness, whispering that there was more to their presence than met the eye. The Briarwoods presented themselves as amiable travelers—nobles from a neighboring city eager to establish trade and foster new alliances. Their smiles were warm, and their conversation flowed easily, but Percival couldn't shake the feeling that there was something beneath the surface that was yet to be unveiled.

While the Briarwoods engaged his parents in conversation, Percival noted their peculiar interest in him. They seemed to scrutinize him with a curious intensity that both fascinated and unnerved him. He had always been considered odd by those around him, particularly by his older brother, Julius, who often remarked on Percy's peculiarities with a mix of jest and genuine concern. However, Julius's comments were frequently dismissed by their parents, who would tell Percy that his brother's words were nothing more than expressions of sibling rivalry, stemming from jealousy rather than truth. Percival had learned to navigate the complex dynamics of family life, where love and rivalry often intertwined in a delicate dance.

Reflecting on his upbringing, Percival acknowledged that, for a significant period during his early years, the spotlight had been squarely on him. His parents, though undoubtedly loving, had focused their attention on his well-being, particularly because of his frail health. He was acutely aware of the toll his sickness had taken on his family; he was paler and thinner than his siblings, a fact that he could not easily overlook. While he understood that their intentions were rooted in care, he felt the weight of that attention, mingled with a sense of guilt for the unintentional neglect of his older siblings.

Curiosity led him to inquire about genetics—a topic that had piqued his interest after his sister Vesper had teased him about inheriting the "bad genes" of the family. When he was six years old, he had approached Professor Anders, their family tutor, with a fervent desire to learn more. In the quiet confines of their private lessons, Percival found solace in the pursuit of knowledge, a stark contrast to the boisterous chaos that often enveloped the household as his siblings engaged in roughhousing and fencing practice.

His mother had insisted that he learn the art of fencing, declaring it essential for a young nobleman to be able to defend himself. The insistence puzzled him; after all, he was a member of a noble family, surrounded by guards and soldiers whose sole purpose was to ensure their safety. Yet, he understood the importance of adhering to his mother’s wishes, for he had learned the hard way that expressing doubts or concerns about family practices could lead to stern admonishments. On one occasion, he had carelessly voiced his thoughts aloud, and his mother had responded with a firm reprimand, imposing a week-long ban on him from attending Professor Anders's extra lessons until he could perfect the many positions of fencing.

Another incident had similarly earned him punishment, this time for a minor misstep in his interactions with the household staff. After mistakenly saying something that was perceived as disrespectful to a servant, he found himself barred from his beloved laboratory for an entire month—a consequence designed to instill discipline. The stinging disappointment of losing access to his cherished space served as a lesson in humility, as well as a reminder of the social intricacies that governed life within a noble household.

As he stood there watching the Briarwoods charm his parents, Percival couldn’t shake the feeling that this seemingly ordinary day was the prelude to something far more significant, a moment that would alter the course of his life in ways he could not yet comprehend.

The Briarwoods quickly became cherished friends of the De Rolo family, forging a bond that deepened with each visit. They frequently graced the De Rolo residence, engaging in lively discussions with Percy’s parents and becoming integral participants in the many joyous celebrations that the family hosted. Their presence added a touch of warmth and camaraderie that was both refreshing and comforting, creating a sense of belonging that Percy had not previously experienced.

As time passed, the Briarwoods’ interest in Percy seemed to blossom. This was particularly evident during their long conversations with him, which often extended well into the night. Percy found himself enraptured by their tales and insights, especially those shared by Sylas, who was deeply knowledgeable about various subjects. However, the atmosphere turned somber when Percy inadvertently questioned them about their past, particularly their lost son. Delilah’s reaction was one of visible distress, prompting Sylas to explain later that their grief was still fresh, and Percy's resemblance to their deceased son stirred painful memories.

Understanding the weight of their loss, Percy offered his condolences sincerely, realizing how his mere presence could evoke such emotions. The Briarwoods, however, did not shy away from him; instead, they requested that he spend more time with them, a request Percy was more than happy to oblige. He found great joy in these interactions, especially with Delilah. At some point, she had revealed her magical abilities to him, and he was captivated by her talent. They would often spend hours in the library together, surrounded by the smell of old parchment and the soft glow of candlelight. Delilah would read from her extensive collection of spellbooks, while Percy immersed himself in his own studies. She often ran her fingers through his hair, creating a comforting atmosphere as they shared knowledge and laughter.

Delilah took delight in demonstrating her spells for him, and on occasion, she would lend a hand in enchanting some of his experimental inventions. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and Percy felt a sense of wonder each time she performed one of her magical feats. Meanwhile, Sylas became a mentor of sorts for Percy, particularly in the realm of combat. For Percy’s twelfth birthday, Sylas gifted him a beautifully crafted sword, and from that moment on, every visit became an opportunity for Sylas to teach Percy the art of swordplay. Their sparring sessions were filled with laughter and friendly competition, instilling in Percy a sense of confidence and skill that he had not possessed before.

However, the Briarwoods’ favoritism towards Percy was unmistakable, and it created an unintentional distance between him and his siblings. While they showered him with attention and gifts, Vesper often received old jewelry from Delilah, and once, she was gifted a magical grimoire after expressing her own interest in the arcane. Sylas, too, made it a point to engage with Percy’s brothers, teaching them the ways of combat and ensuring they each had a sword of their own when they came of age. It was clear that the Briarwoods enjoyed nurturing the potential in all of Percy’s siblings, but their connection with him was distinctly special.

The Briarwoods also took a particular liking to Percy’s youngest sister, Cassandra, who was the apple of his eye. While Percy adored her, he found himself drifting further away from his siblings, preferring the reclusive lifestyle of a scholar. He devoted his time to learning, conducting experiments, and immersing himself in books rather than joining in the roughhousing and playful escapades of his younger siblings. Vesper would often sit with him in his lab, working on needlepoint while he toiled away at his various projects. When she wasn’t busy learning the intricacies of being an advisor to their elder brother, she would find solace in Percy’s company. Cassandra, too, would sneak away from her tutors, drawn to the comfort of her brother’s workshop, where the sounds of bubbling potions and the rhythmic clanging from the forge masked her presence.

Despite his parents’ disapproval of the close-knit relationship between the Briarwoods and their family, Percy found it challenging to care. Unlike his own family, the Briarwoods did not perceive him as fragile; they embraced his unique qualities and supported his pursuits without imposing any burdensome expectations. This freedom allowed him to flourish in ways he never anticipated, but it also distanced him from his siblings. He began to accept this emotional chasm, unaware of the profound regret that would later envelop him.

As the years passed, the bond between Percy and the Briarwoods deepened, but so did the rift between him and his family. Unbeknownst to him, this choice would haunt him in the future, as he would find himself homeless and alone on the unforgiving streets after the devastating betrayal of the Briarwoods when he was just sixteen. The guilt of abandoning his siblings would weigh heavily on his heart, a constant reminder of the familial bonds he had willingly allowed to fray in pursuit of acceptance and companionship. In those dark moments, he would reflect on the love and support he had once taken for granted.

He would eventually grow reluctant to allow anyone to come close to him, to give them an opening to betray him as the Briarwoods did. And if vengeance became a fixture in his life that he couldn’t and wouldnt shake for a long time he didn’t find it in himself to care.

Chapter Text

Delilah and Sylas had crafted an elaborate plan, one that had been simmering for far too long beneath the surface of their gracious pretense. As they played the role of courteous guests in the opulent halls of the de Rolo estate, Delilah felt her patience wearing thin. The air was thick with the scent of lavish feasts and hollow laughter, and all the while, Vecna’s impatience loomed over them, a specter haunting their every moment. Despite their careful observations, they still lacked crucial pieces of the puzzle, unable to confirm with certainty the existence of the Ziggurat, a structure Vecna insisted was vital to their ambitions. Delilah was convinced that once they seized control of the city, the knowledge they sought would unfold before them, as if it had been waiting for them all along.

Their original strategy had been to execute the coup shortly after the grand dinner party, taking advantage of the family's post-feast lethargy. They envisioned a scene where the family, their bellies full and senses dulled by indulgence, would be too sluggish to react swiftly. But Delilah was acutely aware that they needed to keep the family alive; extracting vital information from lifeless bodies was an exercise in futility, and she had an insatiable thirst for answers that demanded to be quenched.

The coup was meticulously timed, set to commence after the younger children had been lovingly tucked into bed, her beloved son Percival among them. The plan had been to feign a discussion about politics, a ruse that would allow her and Sylas to retreat with the parents and the eldest two siblings into the father’s study. It was a space they believed would provide the illusion of privacy, a sanctuary where they could speak freely without interruption.

However, fate had other plans. An overzealous mercenary, unable to contain his eagerness, launched the attack prematurely. While the situation spiraled into chaos, it ultimately played into their hands, even if it meant Percival would witness horrors that no child should have to see. At just fifteen, he was on the cusp of adulthood, yet still far too young to bear such a burden.

In the initial moments of the assault, Delilah, her husband, and their associate, Dr. Anna Ripley, attempted to maintain the facade of assistance, pretending to help the terrified family fend off the unexpected onslaught. But as panic took hold and the family sprang into action, their heightened awareness made it increasingly challenging for Delilah and Sylas to maneuver unnoticed amongst them. Yet, in the midst of the chaos, Delilah spotted an opportunity. She engaged in what appeared to be a struggle alongside the family, all the while inching closer to the mother and Sylas, the father, ready to incapacitate them with precise and calculated strikes.

Delilah had hoped that somehow, against all odds, she might keep the parents alive long enough to extract the information they so desperately needed. But as the fray intensified, she realized that hope was slipping away. Sylas managed to take down the father swiftly, though Delilah could see that he had made an attempt to preserve the man’s life. But the father, caught in shock and struggling, moved just enough to shift the trajectory of the blade, leading to a fatal wound that pierced upward through his vital organs. One potential source of vital knowledge severed, she turned her focus to the mother, determined to keep her alive.

In a fierce dance of combat, Delilah found herself battling back-to-back with the taller woman, each of them fighting for survival. In a moment of desperation, she managed to cast a ‘hold person’ spell, effectively freezing the mother’s movements in place. As she stood there, breathless and filled with hope, she thought they might finally have someone who could provide the answers to their myriad questions. But her triumph was short-lived; another mercenary, eager to prove his worth, released an arrow that pierced through the mother’s throat, silencing her forever.

As the dust began to settle and the chaos of the attack subsided, Delilah’s eyes widened in horror as she became aware of the bodies mounted upon the walls. They were small, innocent, and all too familiar. Whitney, Oliver, and Ludwig—her heart sank as the realization hit her. A screech of fury erupted from her throat, freezing everyone in the room. She had explicitly ordered that the children be left alive; how could this have happened?

Her eyes then fell upon the headless body of Julius, the young boy who had been trying to reach his father only to be attacked from behind. A sickening wave of dread washed over her as she began to count the bodies scattered around her. Hope flickered in her chest as she realized there were still three de Rolo children unaccounted for: Vesper, the second eldest; Percival, her own son; and Cassandra, the youngest of the de Rolo lineage.

In a blind rage, she sought out one of the mercenary leaders, demanding that everyone scour the estate for the last three remaining children. Her fury reached a boiling point when she learned that Vesper had been thrown from the highest tower, and she unleashed her wrath upon four nearby men, cleaving through them with frantic strikes before Sylas managed to intervene and restrain her.

In the midst of the turmoil, Percival had the instinct to flee. Unbeknownst to him, he ran straight into the arms of one of their allies, Professor Anders, who had managed to lock him away in the room he used for the children’s lessons. Meanwhile, Delilah’s heart raced as she realized they could not find little Cassandra; the young girl was nowhere to be seen among the heaps of slain servants and guards.

With no evidence of Cassandra’s fate, Delilah ordered that every mercenary be mobilized to search the castle and its grounds for her. Simultaneously, she instructed that Percival be taken to his room and locked inside. The poor boy had just witnessed the brutal murder of those he thought were his family. He remained blissfully unaware of the truth that lay beneath their masquerade.

Delilah knew that they would need to tread carefully to reintegrate him into their family and reclaim the trust that had been painstakingly built over the years, trust that was now shattered. But she held onto the belief that it was not lost forever. After all, he had once considered her a mother, and she was determined to restore herself to that position in his life, no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Sylas had spent countless years navigating the intricate and oftentimes tumultuous landscape of his marriage to Delilah. They had weathered storms together, faced challenges that would have torn apart lesser couples, and yet never had he felt such a profound sense of regret as he did in this moment—an overwhelming wave of remorse that threatened to drown him. The weight of his decision to withhold the truth from Delilah pressed heavily upon his conscience, gnawing at his insides with an intensity he had never before experienced.
This was not simply the burden of a straightforward lie he had told; rather, it was a careful curation of facts, an artful manipulation of the narrative that allowed him to obscure the harsher realities of their precarious situation.

In the past, he had managed to convince himself that these small deceptions were harmless enough. When Delilah would question him about mundane matters that seemed trivial in the grand scheme of their lives, he would deftly sidestep the truth, spinning a web of half-truths and omissions. “No, Delilah, he did not forget to do that paperwork,” he would assure her, infusing his voice with sincerity. Or when she sought validation for her efforts, he would smile and say, “Yes, Delilah, he truly appreciated the culinary masterpiece you created for him a fortnight ago.” These were small lies, insignificant in nature, that seemed to smooth over the rough edges of their daily lives, preserving the affection they shared. Yet, this time felt alarmingly different.
The stakes were incredibly high, and as he witnessed the profound grief and realization etched across Delilah’s face while she communed with the lich—a creature of dark ambition and unyielding will—he found himself consumed by a desperate wish: if only he could turn back time. If only he had not allowed his emotions to cloud his judgment, ultimately leading to the tragic demise of the Patriarch of the de Rolo line at his own hands.

The coup had unfolded with a ferocity that Sylas had never expected, igniting a tempest of emotions that spiraled far beyond his control. It began with a moment steeped in envy and rage, a cocktail of feelings that consumed him as he replayed the patriarch’s voice in his mind—a voice that droned on relentlessly, echoing the praises he heaped upon his third-born son, Percival.
Sylas could almost picture the scene: the patriarch, chest puffed with pride, extolling Percival’s supposed virtues, illuminating how inventive and destined for greatness his son was. Yet, beneath the surface of these lofty accolades lay a series of backhanded compliments, each one a subtle jab that belittled the very achievements he claimed to celebrate. “If only Percival would pay more attention during his lessons on running the city,” the patriarch had lamented, his obliviousness to Sylas’s simmering resentment palpable. “The boy is too far in the clouds most of the time.”

In that moment, the flames of jealousy had flared within Sylas, igniting a reckless thought: perhaps Delilah could find a way to spare the patriarch's wife, extracting the vital information they needed without the patriarch’s survival. It was a fleeting notion, a desperate longing for a future that now felt foolish and misguided.

Yet, as the moral dilemmas twisted and turned within him like a relentless storm, one singular truth crystallized: he felt no regret over the patriarch's death. To Sylas, the elimination of that man had cleared the way for him to assume the esteemed role of father figure to young Percival, a position he had long yearned for and envisioned. However, the weight of the boy’s current predicament pressed heavily upon his heart.

Locked away in his room, chained and heavily guarded, Percival had become the sole witness to the horrific massacre of the de Rolo family—a tragedy that would undoubtedly cast a shadow over his life, haunting him for years to come.

The plan they had crafted, meticulously designed and rooted in secrecy and deception, had envisioned a different outcome. They had aimed to keep all children under the age of eighteen blissfully unaware of the coup, tucked safely in their beds while the adults were met with a swift and brutal fate. The strategy had relied upon the element of surprise, allowing Sylas and his conspirators to interrogate the surviving adults in the shrouded dark, extracting the answers they so desperately sought.

It had been their intention to forge letters attributed to both the Patriarch and Matriarch, a cruel yet necessary maneuver intended to transfer lordship and custody of the children to Sylas and Delilah. It was a desperate ploy born out of a vision for a future where they could finally build a family of their own—one where they would raise Percival alongside the younger children, molding them into proper Briarwoods who could carry forth the legacy they dreamed of creating.

Yet, much to their dismay, that dream had not taken root as they had planned. The echoes of their son’s disappearance from years past haunted Sylas as he held Delilah tightly, her silent tears soaking into his cloak as she mourned the needless deaths of those who could have been their new family. Luck had smiled upon them, however; Parzival—now known as Percival—had managed to escape the initial chaos, fleeing at the first hint of danger.

Sylas felt a flicker of gratitude towards Delilah for her foresight in recruiting a few of the de Rolo’s staff, particularly the man who had been instrumental in teaching their son much of what he knew.

As Sylas unlocked the boy’s room later that evening, he had hoped for some response, any sign of life from Percival. Yet, the boy stood silent, illuminated by the disappearing and slanting rays of sunlight that filtered through the barred window. Not a word was spoken, not even when Sylas gently offered to take him to the library or invite him to share a meal. Percival remained resolutely quiet, his demeanor distant, as if he were trying to shield himself from the reality around him.

Earlier that morning, Delilah had attempted to reach out, her voice tinged with motherly concern. But her words had only led to despair, and Sylas had found himself helpless as she wept at his feet while he struggled to find sleep. In the aftermath of that emotional turmoil, Delilah’s demeanor shifted. She transitioned from the loving mother he had always known she could have been into a fierce and formidable figure, her jealousy and frustration simmering just beneath the surface barely restrained and quick to jump to the forefront.

Sylas, in an attempt to counterbalance her hardened exterior, endeavored to embrace kindness, continually offering his companionship to the young boy, yet he too quickly found himself embodying the feared vampire that Percival had quickly take to fearing. Their contrasting approaches did not stir quite a reaction from Percival, but their approach as Vampire Lord and Necromancer definitely did albeit not the one they had hoped for. Yet, they took it as a victory knowing that eventually they could mold that fear into a form of love eventually. They rejoiced at fact that at least they were eliciting some kind of response, no matter how painful or stark it might be.

Chapter Text

Percival had never experienced a hatred as profound, as all-consuming, as the searing inferno that blazed within his chest. This was not a hatred that sprang forth from the void; rather, it was a dark fruit borne of years of what he might once have called love. It had roots that ran deep, intertwining with memories of pure, untainted trust and affection that had flourished over the years. However, that innocent love had twisted and contorted into something unrecognizable, the transformation catalyzed by a single, harrowing night. Betrayal had watered the seeds of his love, and the despair brought on by death had drenched them in a bitter light, giving rise to an insatiable loathing that now consumed him.

It was certainly something that kept him going daily. Especially with the knowledge that he could possible be the last of his family to still draw breath.
They still had yet to find his youngest sister, Cassandra, something that gave him much trepidation and hope.

He didn’t listen to the traitorous monsters when they asked him for help finding Cassandra, refused to listen when they tried to spoon feed him fantasies of the four of them as a family.
He couldn’t listen to them. Couldn’t give that seed of yearning for the return of their previous relationship any room to take root and grow.

There were days he wished they didn’t know all of his hiding spots. As time passed and his family’s massacre was moved past, whatever plans Delilah had for his home put into place, they grew more lax in watching his actions.
Sure there was always one of them nearby, probably so that they’d always know if he tried to stir up trouble, but he was granted free rein once more of his home. He took advantage of this often, trying to remain obedient and scared and hide his bitter anger from them, but no matter how many times he tried to find a way out or spot they didn’t know they always found and stopped his attempts.

In the first few weeks after the massacre he had thought that maybe he could have an ally in Sylas, that he was just as much a victim of a poor deranged woman obsessed with recreating her lost family. But it became clear when Percival continued to refuse his invites that Sylas was just as deranged as his wife.

And then they lost patience with him. Claimed he was being disrespectful and cruel, Sylas going as far as to tell Percival that he was the cause of his mother going to sleep crying. Everytime Percy responded with the reminder that he no longer had a mother because they had killed her.

It was during one of these one sided fights that Delilah grabbed his arm and dragged him down the stairs and into a cell turned laboratory. There a woman puttered around dancing across the room and muttering to herself.
“Anna, a moment of your time if you could.”

Percival had encountered several of the Briarwoods' accomplices over the years, many of whom he had grown up alongside, sharing childhood memories and laughter. However, this woman—‘Anna’—was unfamiliar to him, and he instinctively recoiled from the thought of getting to know yet another monster. As Delilah spoke, he watched Anna freeze momentarily before turning towards her with a peculiar, feral glee and a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“Do you have another for me, Delilah?” she asked, her voice laced with anticipation.

Delilah sighed in exasperation, shaking her head. “I do not, no. This is my son—”

Percival growled at the woman, suddenly trying to wrench his wrist free from her grasp. “You’re not my mother!”

Delilah pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration before whirling around to slap him, the force of the blow sending his head flying to the side. “Silence, Parzival.”

Anna observed the entire exchange with silent amusement, her eyes glinting with a perverse enjoyment. “As I said, this is my son, Parzival, and he seems to have forgotten his manners. Nothing I have tried seems to have broken through to him. You are of a similar kind to him; perhaps you can reach him and show him the proper respect his mother is due?”

Anna nodded eagerly, a notebook suddenly appearing in her hands, a quill poised to dance across the pages. “I shall prepare…a lesson plan then?”

Delilah’s response was carefully measured, but beneath her composed exterior lay an undercurrent of urgency that was unmistakable in her voice. “Yes, but Anna, I implore you to keep things under control and within reasonable limits. I have heard whispers about some of the methods you employ, and I genuinely wish for you to ensure that he remains intact and in good health. After all, he is the son of your employer.” There was a note of protectiveness in her tone, a silent plea for compassion amidst the grim circumstances.

With a nod of reluctant agreement, Anna took a purposeful step forward. In a swift motion, Delilah pushed Percival toward the scientist, her resolve seemingly hardening as she made her exit. Just before disappearing from view, she cast one last anxious glance over her shoulder and uttered a firm warning: “Minimal hurt, Anna. I do not want to see a single mark on him.” With that, she left, the tension in the air thickening as Percival was left standing in a tangled web of confusion and dread, the weight of her words echoing in his mind.

“So, Parzival, was it?” Anna inquired, her gaze sharpening as she scrutinized him with an intensity that made his skin crawl and his heart race. Her eyes glinted with a mix of curiosity and malice, as if she were sizing him up, trying to determine just how much she could push him before he broke.

“Percival!” he snapped back, irritation bubbling to the surface like a volcano ready to erupt. The very sound of his name twisted into something unrecognizable by her lips ignited a flicker of defiance within him.

“Parzival,” she continued, her tone dripping with condescension that only fueled his anger further. “I understand you’ve been rather disrespectful to your parents—”

“They’re not my parents!” he spat, the words bursting forth like a dam breaking under pressure. Anger coursed through him, fierce and unrelenting. “My parents—” But before he could complete his thought, he was suddenly struck by a whip that seemed to materialize out of thin air. The sharp crack resonated through the room, echoing off the cold, sterile walls as his cheek stung from the impact, leaving him momentarily stunned.

“Even so, they are the ones taking care of you now, regardless of how they came to be in that position,” Anna retorted, her voice smooth yet chillingly indifferent, as if she relished the power she wielded over him.

“They’re murderers,” he hissed, the weight of his accusation hanging heavily in the air, thick with the bitterness of betrayal and a deep sense of injustice.

“Ah, but we all become murderers in someone’s eyes, Parzival,” she replied, a twisted smile creeping across her face, her words laced with an unsettling amusement that made his stomach churn.

“Percival!” he shouted defiantly, clenching his fists in a futile effort to regain some semblance of control, but the whip struck him again, a searing pain radiating through his body, sharp and biting like ice.

“Lesson one,” Anna said, her grin widening with sadistic delight as her eyes glinted like a predator’s. “Respect your elders and don’t interrupt them.” Each word dripped with malice. Percival trembled at her tone.

Chapter Text

In the months that followed Parzival's introduction to the enigmatic Anna Ripley, Delilah made a conscious and deliberate choice to ignore her son as if he were merely a ghost haunting the grand halls of the de Rolo ancestral home. This decision was not simply a momentary lapse in maternal instinct; it evolved into a way of life for her, a silent pact with herself to distance emotionally from Parzival. Whenever someone had the audacity to inquire about her cold demeanor towards him, she would respond with a steely resolve that echoed in the air, asserting that he must earn back her attention and affection after what she perceived as months of his slight against her. The weight of her words felt heavy on her tongue, yet she clung to their supposed truth as if they were lifelines in a turbulent sea of emotions. Meanwhile, Sylas, her devoted partner, tirelessly worked to bridge the widening chasm between mother and son, striving for Parzival's favor with the hope that his efforts would rekindle the bond that had once flourished between them.

During the sporadic, forced interactions that arose from their interconnected lives, Delilah chose to overlook any signs of distress or discomfort exhibited by Parzival, particularly during and after his lessons with Anna. She convinced herself that this discomfort was merely a phase—an essential part of his development that she must navigate through, guiding him toward becoming a more disciplined individual. After all, she reasoned, it was necessary for a child to experience some pain and hardship to grow stronger and eventually flourish. This self-deception became a protective veil, shielding her from the uncomfortable truths that lingered just beneath the surface of their fractured relationship, truths that whispered of a deeper emotional rift.

When Sylas confided in her about the disturbing realities of human experimentation he had uncovered, she brushed aside his concerns with a practiced ease that belied the turmoil within her. She reiterated her own justifications, anchored in her unwavering belief that hardship serves as a crucible for maturity. The very notion that her son might be suffering under the immense weight of her expectations and the stringent rules imposed by Anna failed to penetrate her consciousness. Instead, she clung to the idea that any change in Parzival's demeanor was merely a sign of his maturation—a sign of him stepping into his identity as a Briarwood and shedding the remnants of his past as a de Rolo.

As time unfolded, Delilah discovered that Anna, now a formidable figure of authority and influence in her son's life, had imposed strict regulations on Parzival. The rules echoed familiar themes of child-rearing techniques she recognized from her own upbringing in Wildemount. Yet, instead of questioning the appropriateness or potential harm of these impositions, she accepted them as necessary measures for guiding her son toward the ideals she held dear.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, Delilah watched with a mixture of pride and unease as Parzival began to transform before her very eyes. The bright, exuberant child who once radiated innocence and joy dwindled into a mere shadow of his former self. The laughter that used to fill the castle with warmth and light was replaced by an unsettling silence, an absence that echoed through the corridors of their home. Delilah found herself grappling with the unnerving realization that the boy she once adored was fading away, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

In the recesses of her mind, she attempted to convince herself that this new version of Parzival—one who adhered to the noble standards of Wildemount—represented the ideal child she had always envisioned. Instead of succumbing to her growing concern, she took it upon herself to invite Anna for tea, hoping to gain a deeper understanding of the ‘lesson plans’ the woman had meticulously crafted for her son.

When the long-anticipated day of their meeting finally arrived, Delilah found herself seated across from Anna, her heart pounding with a mix of excitement and trepidation. It became immediately apparent that Anna had meticulously crafted an entire day brimming with a series of demanding activities for her son, Parzival. The detailed nature of this rigorous schedule shed light on why Delilah often felt as if she scarcely glimpsed her son outside of mealtimes or during those rare moments when she and her husband, Sylas, actively sought him out. Anna had structured Parzival’s days to commence at the crack of dawn, far earlier than either Delilah or Sylas had ever deemed necessary for a child of his age.

Parzival would awaken to the sound of Anna’s voice, calling him to join her in the laboratory, where he would immerse himself in what felt like endless hours of intense study and experimentation. The only break in this grueling routine came for breakfast, a brief respite that seemed insufficient to replenish the energy he expended. By the time he finally sat down to dine with Delilah and Sylas, it was agonizingly evident to her that he was perpetually starved—not just for food, but for the warmth and connection of family. The first meal of the day had become his only reprieve from the relentless demands of his morning schedule, a stark reminder of the childhood he was missing.

Following the fleeting joy of breakfast, Parzival was swiftly whisked away once more, this time for lessons with Anders, who imparted knowledge on subjects that ranged from history to mathematics. His education continued with combat lessons under the watchful eye of Kerrion Stonefell, a man whose stern demeanor left no room for error. The day would then culminate in further instruction from Anna herself, who seemed to expect nothing less than perfection from her young protégé. The structure of his day was unyielding, and a gnawing sensation settled within Delilah, a deep-seated fear that this was more than just a comprehensive education; it felt like a form of conditioning that systematically stripped away the carefree childhood she had once envisioned for her son. She found herself rationalizing it, convincing herself that it was merely a lifestyle Parzival had been introduced to a bit too late in life. After all, she reminded herself, she had begun her own learning at an earlier age than Parzival had, a sentiment her husband Sylas echoed with a nod of agreement.

As her tea with Anna progressed, however, it became increasingly clear to Delilah that any mistakes Parzival made throughout the day were not overlooked. Those errors were reported to Anna without delay, and while she encouraged immediate correction, the true punishment seemed to manifest later during his lessons with her. There, the scientist would dissect his mistakes with a scrutiny that felt oppressive and stifling, leaving a heavy weight on his young shoulders.

For the next few months, a sense of pride and joy ignited within Delilah’s chest when her son began to actively seek her out during breaks in his rigorous schedule. Bit by bit, she felt herself reconnecting with the boy she had longed to embrace, the child she had started to open her heart to before she had resolved to eliminate the obstacles that had kept them apart. Parzival began to ask her to read from her spellbooks, to share glimpses of magic with him. His eyes would light up with wonder when she placed him in a dreamlike trance, a state where his imagination could roam free. When she inquired about what he saw during these trances, he would describe visions of their family, always reassuring her with the sweet words that she was, indeed, his mother.

As the nights wore on, Delilah found herself waking in the middle of the night, often wandering the halls with her husband, Sylas. To her delight, Parzival would join them, a small shadow trailing behind as they walked together. Slowly, the vision of her perfect family began to materialize into reality, and she knew deep down that this blossoming connection was due in large part to the influence of her patron.

In her enthusiasm to reclaim her role as a mother, Delilah threw herself into her work with increasing fervor. She immersed herself in the magical arts, often neglecting any signs of discomfort or unhappiness from Parzival. Any lingering acts of disobedience on his part were met with swift punishment, a misguided attempt to mold him into the perfect son she envisioned. She ignored the fearful hesitations that flickered in his eyes, convincing herself that such reluctance was merely a remnant of the guilt that had lingered from the early days when he had resisted her authority at every opportunity. After all, he had been living under the facade that he was a de Rolo, and she believed it was her duty to steer him back onto the path she had chosen for him. In her mind, she was not just reclaiming her title as his mother; she was forging him into something greater, something she believed he was destined to become.

Chapter Text

Sylas didn't get to see his son, Parzival, often in the days following the teenager's introduction to Anna.
he certainly didn’t see the influence her lessons seemed to bring about. Like his wife, he had convinced himself they were all good changes, convinced himself that whatever hurt he went through was necessary.
Sylas refused to willingly recount the times he walked in on a lesson his son would have with Anna, when he would witness the near-inhumane and cruel punishments she inflicted on the young adolescent boy, eyes never quite landing on the battered body on the ground. He ignored the growing collection of scars he occasionally caught glimpses of, The times he would walk in on Parzival bandaging his injuries.
They wouldn’t speak of it afterwards, but he made sure to show his son the proper way to self-administer medical care. Part of him wished he could pass on his vampiric self-healing abilities but what remained of his humanity would never wish the curse- a curse cast out of love, he knew, but a curse nonetheless- on his son. Perhaps someday when he was older, and more mature, though he knew that day was long ahead of them.
teaching Parzival how to hide the extent of Anna’s punishment from his wife was all he could do, the sorceress had enough on her plate as it was, restoring the ziggurat for their Vecna.
the time he was awake and not spending with his family, Sylas ensured, was dedicated to the upkeep and compliance of Whitestone and its citizens.
He did his best to keep Parzival unaware of his true nature but there was only so much he could explain away to remove suspicions. However, any vampire had its needs to meet. He was able to sustain himself through the citizens, any disobedience was curbed by his feeding. He kept those alive, after all you couldn’t learn a lesson if you were dead. Villagers who tried to leave Whitestone were bled dry; The weak didn't survive.
Back when he first became a vampire, such senseless acts of violence would have had him feeling sick for a week. It had taken Delilah herself bleeding people dry and feeding him the blood in wine bottles to keep him well.
Some days he wondered when he’d just accepted his new nature, but he found he didn’t care all that much if it was needed to ensure his wife’s goals. Especially when he knew one of those goals was the restoration of their family.
When he was alone without his wife or son to accompany him he walked the castle repeatedly and attempted to find any and all secret tunnels, looking behind tapestries and bookcases like some sort of cliche in an attempt to locate the missing de Rolo girl.
She’d been his top priority next to his son and wife’s comfort, if she had managed to get out of Whitestone unseen she could very well garner support from any of the neighboring cities leaders.
Sylas knew his wife hoped to convince her to be their daughter, but he knew the likelihood of that happening was slim. The easiest option he could do for both his wife and son's sake was to find her and send her to the astral plane quietly, and mercifully.
He’d taken to mapping out the secret tunnels when he could, ensuring he didn’t check a single one twice if it wasn’t necessary.
He was sure she was still in the castle, as elusive as a field mouse the youngest was no rogue.
He was sure he’d heard her sneaking around in the shadows but try as he might he was unable to track her down. He did know that she’d been getting food from the kitchens, at first sneaking it behind the cooks back and later from the hands of the cook himself.
He’d…spoken to the cook about how important it was that he report any mice found in the kitchens and the cook was convinced to show him where he’d been leaving the food for her but he was still unable to find her.

He’d begun doubling his efforts handing off certain duties to their underlings so that he could try and find her. He and Delilah were due to visit some associates of theirs, fellow followers of Vecna to discuss trading shipments needed to restore their Patrons temple.

It’d be a, at minimum, two month trip and he knew Delilah was already anxious about them leaving Parzival behind. They’d just gotten back and the last time she’d willingly parted with him for a day he’d gone missing and only found ten years later. Now they’d be parting with him for almost a whole season.
She didn’t need the stress. He didn’t need the stress. But he would deal with it so she didn’t have to face the disappointment when her desire for a bigger family didn’t pan out as she wanted.

Sylas paused in what he knew looked to be aimless pacing by anyone not within his fold to study the wall behind him.
He knew he had heard a sound like that of stones being shifted or the rustling of fabric so faint he couldn’t decide which was the most likely. Walking to the wall he began feeling along the groves.
He’d mapped what he thought were all the secret passages in this castle, and he had studied all texts the family kept on them. None mentioned anything about a passageway in this hall.
Feeling along the walls he found a loose stone and pushed on it lightly. The stone didn’t move but was definitely loose. Gripping the corners he dug his fingers in and finally pulled the stone loose.
The brick fell from the wall and into his hand. Looking at the spot the brick had been he found a dark empty chasm behind it. Testing the rest of the wall he growled when it gave no give, holding firm and taunting him. Turning the brick in his hand he found it had been hollowed out and a piece of paper was folded and placed within.

Pulling the paper free he unfolded it, the message immediately making his growl again crumpling it in his hand and shoving the brick back into place stomping away. He threw the note in the nearest fireplace he found and fuming sought out his wife.

Chapter Text

Percy was a bundle of nerves and anticipation, his heart racing with excitement. The Briarwoods, the cruel pair who had taken so much from him, would soon be leaving their current stronghold, his families ancestral home that they’d gained through the cruel massacre of his family. As he paced the dimly lit confines of his room, his mind raced with possibilities, pacing back and forth and ignoring all the piles of books he’d brought back to his room from their library. IT was mostly books in Vampires and Necromancy alongside the few books about his family’s history. He would not allow them to erase the de Rolos from Whitestones past.
With the Briarwoods leaving this could be his chance—his opportunity to finally attempt an escape or, even better, to locate his sister, Cassandra. The thought of reuniting with her sent a thrill through him. After everything he had endured, he felt a glimmer of hope.

In the end, he would reclaim something he had long since lost: either his sister, who had always been his shadow, or his own freedom, which had been snatched away so ruthlessly. If he were honest with himself, he would be content with either outcome.

Yet, doubt gnawed at him like one of the Briarwoods relentless hunting dogs. He found himself questioning the whispers that floated around the castle like ghosts. He couldn’t help but wonder if it could be true that Cass was still alive? He desperately wanted to believe it. He clung to the hope like a lifeline. Every night before he went to bed and every morning when he woke up he asked whatever god might be listening for her to still be alive.

She was the one member of the de Rolo family who had an intimate understanding of the castle's secret passageways, always choosing to explore instead of sit in her lessons. To anyone else they’d be just a labyrinth of hidden routes, but too her they were routes that could provide a lifeline in times of danger.

He hoped as hard as he could but the thought that she might not know them well enough to outsmart the Briarwoods filled him with dread and tainted that hope. The very idea that she could be trapped or worse, not even alive still, was a weight that pressed heavily on his heart.

Still time was of the essence; he needed to act swiftly. The walls of his prison were closing in, and the urgency to find a way out of his torment grew stronger with each passing day. He had been forced to confront a disturbing truth about the couple who had so brutally severed the ties to his past.
The two were murderers, plain and simple! He had seen the aftermath of their heinous acts having been in the room with them, and the scars they had left on his life and now his body. Yet, there was an unsettling conflict brewing within him. Their façade of kindness and the constant paternal affection they showered upon him, whether he wanted it or not, made it difficult to maintain and build his righteous anger. They genuinely seemed to believe he was their son, and their twisted perception of family was starting to seep into his psyche.

The constant torment he endured at the hands of Anna Ripley had only strengthened his internal struggle. Day after day, he faced systematic abuse, a relentless punishment designed to break his spirit and reshape his very identity. Whenever he faltered, whenever he dared to show even the slightest hint of defiance or individuality that deviated from their warped ideals of perfection, Anna was there to remind him of his place—often in the most brutal ways possible. He had learned quickly that calling Sylas and Delilah anything other than “mother” and “father” would incur their wrath, and this knowledge had begun to warp his thoughts. He found himself grappling with an unsettling reality: the more he was forced to adopt their labels, the more he felt his resolve wavering.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when his perception began to shift, but he knew deep down that he did not like it—not one bit.
The Briarwoods were not his family, and he refused to allow himself to forget the truth of what they had done. Yet, the psychological games they played were insidious, leaving him feeling confused and conflicted at the end of each day.
Percy steeled himself, looking into the mirror in his room straightening the cravat he wore and nodding to himself, he was determined to hold onto his sense of self, even as the shadows of doubt loomed ever closer. He knew would find a way to escape this nightmare, to reclaim his identity as a de Rolo, and if possible to find and save the sister he loved dearly. No matter what it took, he would not let the Briarwoods win.

He took a deep breath and approached the heavy wooden door, its surface cool to the touch. Before he pushed it open, he paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts and bracing himself for what lay beyond. On the other side, he knew, lurked the two familiar yet terrifying figures who had become an inescapable part of his daily routine. They were like shadows that followed him everywhere, always waiting just out of sight, ready to accompany him to breakfast as they did each morning.

He could already envision the scene: the two of them occupying the seats that had once belonged to his parents, their presence a constant reminder of the loss that hung over the estate like a thick fog. He, on the other hand, was relegated to the old seat of Julius, the one designated for the heir, positioned to Sylas's right, with Delilah sitting across from him. It was a seat of power, but it felt more like a throne of thorns.

Taking one last steadying breath, he swung the door open wide, forcing a smile onto his face that felt all too practiced. The expression was a mask, but he wore it well, determined to project an air of ease and familiarity. “Good morning, Mother. Good morning, Father,” he greeted them, his voice steady despite the internal turmoil that churned within him. He pushed aside the nagging voice in his head that screamed at him for being insincere, even as another part of him insisted that he was simply fulfilling his duty as the heir to the Briarwoods Estate.

As they settled into their routine, the three of them gathered around the table for breakfast. He took a moment to admire his usual plate—a generous serving of perfectly cooked eggs accompanied by rich salmon, with a side of cheese and a dollop of sweet jam. Delilah, as always, partook of her own meal, a similarly delectable combination of salmon, cheese, and toast. Sylas, however, had a more austere breakfast choice, opting for nothing but a glass of deep red liquid that glinted ominously in the morning light.

Percy swallowed hard, forcing himself to believe that it was merely wine, a comforting thought that helped him avoid the darker implications that lurked within his mind, which whispered that it could just as easily be something far more sinister—perhaps the blood of a poor servant.

As they began to eat, the silence at the table was palpable, filled with unspoken words and hidden tension.
“Parzival…”
Percy barely hid the cringe he felt viscerally at the name. They’d taken to calling him that, he assumed it was the name of their son, the son they seemed to believe he was. He could see how they might be confused… he had brown hair like the both of them, they all had different eye colors but he assumed his were similar to this Parzival.

They called him by their clearly dead son’s name so often that he would have to remind himself he wasn’t their son. His name was Percival Frederickstein Klossowski Von Musel De Rolo the Third! He’d woken up too many times in recent weeks needing to write his name, his true name not the one they’d christened him with, over and over again until his hand cramped and then he’d continue.

Percy looked up at Sylas who’d spoken.
“Yes father?”
“As you know, your mother and I shall be embarking on a three month journey. We expect you to conduct yourself as is expected of a future lord of the Briarwood estate. You shall be under the care of Dr Ripley, she will be sending us reports of your progress every three days. Do not think we will be unaware of any tomfoolery you will definitely undertake.”
“And Parzival if you are good, we shall do our best to bring you back something nice. Maybe a good book or some other Knick knack.”

He nodded responding with what he hoped was a respectful “Yes Mother”
He’d have to keep a lid on too much of his plans if he would be under the eye of Dr Anna Ripley. She was much too observant.

Chapter Text

Delilah felt a wave of anxiety wash over her as she stepped into the waiting coach, its interior dimly lit and filled with the faint scent of leather and wood polish. She took a deep breath, determined to mask her worries behind a composed expression.

The last thing she wanted was for her son, Parzival, to see the turmoil swirling inside her. She knew all too well that the next three months would be incredibly challenging for him. After eight long years apart, they had finally reunited and embarked on the complex journey of relearning their relationship. It had been a rollercoaster ride of emotions, filled with moments of joy and connection, but also marked by misunderstandings and struggles. Now, as they faced yet another separation, the weight of her concerns settled heavily on her heart.

Delilah couldn’t shake the gnawing fear that Parzival wouldn’t cope well with this upcoming absence. She envisioned him alone in the vastness of the castle, grappling with feelings of uncertainty and loneliness that would only grow in her absence. It was crucial for her to find someone trustworthy to be by his side during this time—someone who could offer him the support and understanding she wished she could provide herself.

She imagined a friend who would look out for him, someone capable of guiding him in ways that his Tutors, with their rigid lessons and stern faces, simply could not. She longed for a companion who would understand the complexities of his heart and mind, someone who would be steadfast and loyal, always ready to stand by him, no matter the circumstances they faced.

As these thoughts swirled in her mind, she turned to her husband, Sylas, who sat beside her in the coach, looking out the window with a distant expression that betrayed his own concerns. He nodded in response to her unspoken worries, his gaze fixed on their son, Parzival, who stood in the courtyard below. Even from this distance, Delilah could see the tension etched across his young face, the anxiety stark and undeniable despite his best efforts to conceal it.

It broke her heart to see him so troubled, and she wished she could reach out and reassure him in that very moment, to tell him that everything would be alright, that he was not being abandoned and that they’d return to him. Surely he worried about that, after all they had disappeared from his life for ten years. Surely he had trauma and anxiety from such an event.

As the coach began to move, she felt a mixture of sorrow and resolve. Behind them, three additional wagons followed closely, laden with the basic necessities for their journey, as well as a group of mercenaries who had become their trusted guards. But all her focus remained on Parzival, her lovely boy, who was now a small figure in the courtyard, slowly becoming a blur as they traveled further away from the castle.

She kept her eyes locked on him, silently pouring all of her love and encouragement into that gaze, hoping he could somehow feel the warmth of her affection despite the distance growing between them. It was a mother’s love, fierce and unwavering, and she wanted him to know that no matter where they found themselves, he would always have a piece of her with him.

As the castle faded from view, swallowed by the landscape behind them, Delilah felt a deep ache in her heart, a mixture of longing and hope for her son’s journey ahead.

She couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of regret at the thought of missing his birthday while they were away. It was a milestone she would surely lament, but she resolved to find a way to make up for it—a gift to bridge the gap of her absence. Perhaps a friend could serve as that gift, someone who could bring joy and companionship to Parzival during her time away.

But she knew she needed to discuss this idea with Sylas before making any further plans. As the coach rolled onward, she began to mentally compile a list of possible qualifications she would want in a friend for her son. This person would need to have experience and be able to defend Parzival from any threats that might arise, but they should not simply be a babysitter, hovering over him without allowing him the freedom to grow and explore. It was essential that this companion be someone who could always be by his side, ready to report any matters of concern to her or Sylas, someone trustworthy and vigilant.

Moreover, she wanted this friend to have the ability to teach Parzival things that she and Sylas could not impart, knowledge that went beyond what his Tutors presented in their formal lessons. The thought of her son being guided by someone who understood him on a deeper level brought her some comfort.

The trip to their associates manor was long, Delilah forcing half of the staff to travel through the night and rest during the day while the remaining half rested at night and traveled through the day.

She remained awake while Sylas slept and Sylas awake while she slept, the two sharing moments together at Dusk and Dawn.
When they arrived at the Manor after a long two weeks of travel, they immediately began discussions and planning.

She, as expected, received a letter from Anna Ripley every three days, letters she’d excitedly read to her husband before they retreated to their bed for the night. In some Parzival would pen a small note towards the end, addressed to the both of them and she would take glee in reading them.
In between meetings they searched for the best present for their son.
They ended up with a large stack of gifts in one of their extra wagons all while keeping an eye out for a friend for their son to bring back with them.

Chapter Text

Sylas could hardly contain his excitement at the thought of returning home. After spending an extended period within the imposing walls of Whitestone castle and prior to that, living a life of relative comfort in the bustling city of Port Damali, he had grown somewhat spoiled. The luxuries he had become accustomed to were now starkly contrasted by the reality of needing to hunt for his own blood—a task he found both tedious and beneath him. The very notion of having to go out of his way to ensure he had a sufficient supply of blood was a source of annoyance that weighed heavily on his mind. The only reason he refrained from drawing sustenance from the servants who tended to their needs was because Delilah had specifically requested that they keep a low profile and not attract undue attention to themselves.

However, the same could not be said for the farmers living in the outer regions of the land. Their lives were often overlooked, their struggles ignored by those in power, and Sylas felt no guilt in seeking out their blood for his own needs.

Delilah, his devoted partner, made the most of their time away from home. Every chance she got, she would venture out into the local markets, purchasing gifts for their beloved son, who was eagerly awaiting their return. With each passing day, the collection of presents grew larger and more daunting, forming a small mountain of colorful packages in the shadows of their borrowed bedroom. It was a bittersweet sight, a reminder of the time lost, but also a symbol of hope for the future they envisioned.

Their days were filled with discussions of business and family, with meetings that began in the early hours of the morning and stretched late into the night. These gatherings commenced when the last rays of Catha dipped below the horizon, plunging the world into darkness, and resumed again in the hours just before dawn. This rigorous schedule meant that their journey, which they had initially anticipated would last no longer than two months, extended well into the third and final days of winter.

It was after the second thaw of the season, when the world began to awaken from its icy slumber, that they finally set off again. Their travels took them past the enchanting elven city of Syngorn, where they spent a night among the haughty elves, who were as elegant as they were insufferable. Yet, even during this brief respite, they managed to add more gifts to their ever-growing collection, each one meticulously chosen to reflect their love and thoughtfulness for their son.

As they continued their journey, they passed through numerous towns, each stop presenting a new opportunity to find another perfect gift. With every town they visited, they agreed that their efforts were a way of compensating for the eight long years of missed birthdays. Their son had never ventured beyond the protective walls of Whitestone, and it was their mission to bring the wonders of the world to him in some small way.

They hurried through Zephrah and Westruun, their excitement palpable as they traveled through Stilben. They made it a point to stop in every bookstore they could find, scouring the shelves for tales of adventure and magic, and visiting blacksmiths to seek out unique and meaningful trinkets. Each gift added to the pile was another step toward fulfilling their promise to their son, to show him that life existed beyond the confines of their home.

However, it was during the final weeks of their journey that they stumbled upon the perfect gift, a treasure that filled them both with uncontainable joy. With their hearts racing, they set off for Whitestone, eager to reunite with their son and present him with the bounty of their love and devotion.

They just knew that when they saw their son again he’d finally be their perfect son and they would finally have their loving family back.
It would take some time they knew for him to adjust to worshipping a new god, one that would need their help ascending but the rewards would be great they knew.

Chapter Text

Percy hurt
He hurt
He was hungry
He knew if he did as she said he’d be given food.
He’d be allowed out of this dank dark closet they’d forced him into after the Briarwoods left.
He wanted to give in but he needed to stay strong.
He wanted to be Parzival but needed to be Percival.
His life had been reduced to the two conflicting desires.
He was hungry.
His stomach rumbled.
He couldn’t see anything past his own nose.
It was cramped in the closet, and he was sure he could hear them eating just beyond the doors.
“Just tell me your name little lord and you can join us at the table. I know you know your name.” She taunted. He just knew she was grinning at the door.
He remained silent. He needed to be Percival. He wouldn’t let them win. Let them take away him.
He would escape. He’d escape and he’d find Allie’s and he’d return and he would destroy them.
But for now he curled up his arms wrapped around his aching stomach and repeated his name over and over again.

Chapter Text

Delilah could easily say that she disliked foreign gatherings of any sort. Both before she became a mother and afterwards. It was just so petty, so incredibly mindnumbing having to speak with fellow nobles who so obviously relished in their seats of luxury rather then learn to earn their places. The ones that believed in no gods she found were the worst. That had the highest levels of arrogance she’d ever see. It was rather embarrassing if she did say so.

Despite having clear evidence of the fod existanece they still believe. In nothing. They disgusted her frankly. During her trip to see and discuss with some of the more bearable nobles, nobles who followed the same patron as she, she spent more time deliberating on gifts for her son rather then the task at hand. She needed to find enough gifts to make up for the aight years of none.

She found several books in the neighboring villages that they didn’t possess in Whitestone that she immediately bought. They were added to the gift pile amongst several beautifully crafted tunics and coats she’d find, all in the colors of the briarwood family colors. There were a few small trinkets as well as the occasional fur coat or smithing tool or book she’d find. Parzival had taken an interest in blacksmithing she knew, before the coup. she hoped to reawaken the passion he’d had when describing the process and skills needed for such tasks with her gifts.

When they finally ended their negotiations and had begun to head home, Delilah insisted on stopping in every town they came across in hopes they’d find something to gift parzival. She’d found books from every hobby she could ever remember Parzival expressing interest in, tools for the hobby or simply cute little trinkets she found.
One of the towns they passed through, a skeleton of a village really with no real history or importance upon their first impressions ended up resulting in what Delilah was sure would be the best present they could have gotten for their son.

The town, Bryodam Delilah thought was the name, had two young half elves lingering on the outskirts of the woods bordering it. The two Half elves, when stopped, told Delilah that they’d come from the village behind them and had lost their mother.
Immediately, without pausing to learn what Sylas might think had offered the two siblings a job.
When they initially declined she told them to think it over before offering them a ride to the next town.

The twins didn’t get off at the next town.
Or the next.
Or the next. Eventually Sylas gave them an ultimatum.
Either leave there and then or take the job.
They took the job, though she could not say if the golden glow in their eyes afterwards was from Sylas or from the way the moonlight reflected off their iris’s.

She was too exhilarated ti mind either way. Her baby would now have two friends, and maybe someday two people he could look up to for guidance in all things.
They stayed with the servants, insisting on helping the staff when they could, in between Delilah calling them into their coach to tell the Twins all about her beloved Parzival.
When they arrived in the next big city, they made sure to outfit the two in better clothing much to the brother’s slight protest. He gave in at seeing his sister’s delight but made sure to grumble the entire time.
Finally with multiple types of gifts and two new friends Delilah and Sylas began the final trek of their journey home to Whitestone and their son.

Chapter Text

The city felt different. They’d been gone for more than a season he knew so changes would have occurred but something felt off in the air as they rode through the city gates. He couldn’t place what it was, couldn’t exactly look through the curtains either as they’d arrived back in Whitestone during High Noon but he could tell just by being here that some major change had occurred and it was putting both himself and his wife on edge.

His heart, if it still beat, would have been hammering away in his chest, a sentiment his wife willingly voiced and he knew just by looking at her that she was concerned.
Concerned that something might have happened with Parzival while they were away. When they finally arrived in the courtyard of De Rolo castle, the driver pulling the coach into the Stables so Sylas would be able to avoid the sunlight, the two immediately hurried into the castle and sought out their son.
They found the boy in his room, his body thin and shivering as he sat at his desk. His hands shook as he held a quill attempting to write something on the parchment.
Anna Ripley stood beside him looking over his shoulder. She looked every inch like the tutor they hired her to be for him, a sight he was sure fooled Delilah but did not fool him.
Unlike his mortal wife he could smell the blood in the air, smell his fear. He couldn’t place what also smell the leather of the braided switch just barely hidden by the tutors thigh concealed from Delilah but not from him.
Sylas stopped Delilah from calling to their son, Instead Gently, he pushed her away from the doorway, instructing her to prepare the presents for the boy while he entered the room himself. He announced his presence with a quick, “Parzival?” But the boy didn’t respond; he remained utterly still, his body so tense that Sylas wasn’t even sure if he was breathing. Had it not been for his heightened senses, he might have missed the barely perceptible movement of Anna’s arm, a signal of some kind, just before Parzival drew in a sharp breath and turned to face him.

The boy’s chapped lips cracked into a wide, forced smile, but his eyes were devoid of the sparkle they once held, appearing blank and dull. Sylas shuddered at the hollow way Parzival called out to him, no longer addressing him as “Lord Briarwood” as he had before their departure, but simply “Father!” Despite the seemingly joyous tone in the boy’s voice, Sylas could see through the pretense; he could smell the fear that the boy was desperately trying to mask.

“Hello, Son. Your mother and I are home,” Sylas said, his heart aching at the quick nod Parzival offered. The twitch of the boy’s lip betrayed a joy that was anything but genuine. “Come with me to the entry hall to greet your mother, yes?”

Parzival nodded, rising from his chair with a hesitance that betrayed his discomfort. As he pulled down the sleeves of his shirt, Sylas couldn’t help but notice the slow, deliberate movement, as if he were trying to hide the roped scars that marred his wrists. A wave of anger began to brew within Sylas, a mixture of frustration and concern as he waited for his son to gather himself. When the boy was ready Sylas turned on his heel and walked away listening to the awkward and uneven shuffle of feet that sounded behind him. It sounded he realized as he listened closer like the boy was dragging one of his feet more then he was walking, his gait that should have sounded like an even Click, clacking pattern sounded more like an uneven Click Draaaaaaaag-Thud pattern, the sound being drawn out on the right leg and normal on the left.
He almost turned around, anger and concern brewing within him at the sound. Instead he carried on guiding the boy towards the entry hall where Delilah stood looking up the staircase at them.
Sylas was just barely able to hide the twitch of his lip when he noticed his wife almost bouncing in place with her excitement.
Just behind her was the pile of presents they’d accumulated all stacked nicely together. He hadn’t seen the amount she’d actually bought all in one place before so like Parzival who’d come to stand beside him his eyes widened in slight shock.
“Parzival! Come! come!” Delilah shouted up at them. Sylas began his descent pausing and turning when he realized his boy wasn’t beside him.
“Well Par-Zi-Val?” Anna taunted standing behind his son. Sylas grit his teeth at the slight tremble who could see in the boys hands as he lifted his leg and began to lower it down to the next step.
Sylas immediately by his side, uttering some kind of excuse of which he wasn’t sure before taking his son into his arms and lifting him up, carrying him down the stairs.
He looked behind him just briefly to glare at Anna who just gave a sweet smile back at him. Walking down the stairs he motioned to a servant to fetch a chair ensuring it was padded before placing the teenager down.
The boy, who’d struggled initially against him just slumped into the chair. At Delilah’s confused glance he made up another excuse that the boy should be sitting for his presents.
Delilah readily agreed and motioned for a servant to begin bringing the gifts. Sylas did not miss the concerned glances the servants cast at their son, he knew many of the older staff were more loyal to Parzival then they were to either he or Delilah but in the moment he found he didn’t care.
The first present was placed in Parzival lap and he began to unwrap it.

Chapter Text

So!
Hello!

Sorry it’s been forever since I updated.

I’ve been doing the dreaded research trying to plot out the best way to write all this stuff.

So: Percival de Rolos birthday as I have decided (with no help from canon)  will be in the 10th month of the Exandrian year Cuesaar which I’ve figured is the equivalent of our month of October. 
Furthermore! Percivals specific day that’s celebrated as his birthday is the 16th of Cuesaar. 

However!

Parzival Briarwoods birthday is the 18th of Misuthar which I’ve figured was our equivalent of February. He was conceived on the 18th of Unndilar or Deep Solace the holiday of Moradin or the All-Hammer. (Pretty fitting I think)

the reason I’m giving the Exandrian months an IRL equivalent is one so I can tie in the Sabbaths (Imbolc, Ostara, Beltane, Litha, Lammas, Mabon, Samhain, and Yule) festivities and their practices and use them in case I need to write an Exandrian holiday.

for a timeline so y’all can follow along here’s some major events that have happened so far that I’ve figured out the months for. 

so

• the Whitestone Coup happened in Dualahei or March equivalent. 
  
  
• Percy meets Anna in Brussender or June Equivalent. 
  
  
• finally the Briarwoods diplomatic meeting takes place towards the end of Duscar or November(+)December equivalent and extends three months ending towards the end of Misuthar or February equivalent. 
  
  

I’m aware that Exandria has 328 days and only 11 months so I’ve improvised and made Duscar (which along with Sydenstar are the longest months with 32 days), be the equivalent of both November and December. 

Hopefully I’ll have a new chapter soon. Currently having to do a lot of development and relearning what I’ve already written lol. 

Chapter Text

Parzival, the boy paused thinking before coming up short mentally, no his name was Percival-he refused to succumb to their mental manipulation of him-the boy, Percival-he couldn’t help but paused and repeat his name back to himself as a reminder, watched as the carriage drew further and further away from him until it was little more than a speck on the horizon. The further away it moved with its wooden wheels noisily clacking against the dirt road, the easier he felt it was to breathe.

Percival….. he muttered his name under his breath a few times as he watched it go and with it the Two people who caused all his problems.

When it was finally gone, taking with it the feeling of knowing and cruel eyes, he took a few extremely deep breaths, his chest hurting from the sensation.And then someone cleared their throat behind him and all the stress that had bled from his form returned.He turned hesitatingly before cursing himself at his weakness.

The puppeteers might have left, but they hadn’t taken all of their puppets and this one in particular carried a cruel and sadistic streak. He looked at Ripley, unable to help the twitch of his fingers that he quickly stashed into his pocket to try to hide.

Unfortunately for him, she had keener eyes than him and she immediately grabbed his hand, pulling it from his pocket and gripping his wrist tightly.She surveyed his hand oddly for a few minutes, watching it twitch with nerves, and Percy squirmed when her eyes turned to his face.“Well, Parzival…it’d seem like it’s just you and I for a while.”He swallowed.“You are to answer when spoken to.”She suddenly struck his wrist with a thin wooden rod he recognized as one of her stirring spoons. He gasped at the stinging feeling and let out a quiet whimper.“Ye-yes ma’-a-‘am.” He stuttered out, finally wincing when the stinging feeling returned stronger than before as she struck him.“You will refer to me as Doctor Ripley or Doctor Parzival. Am I understood?”He nodded.“A boy of your standing ought to know it is improper to nod your head in Leu of an answer.” She snapped, switching from striking his wrist to striking his palm.“Yes…yes Doctor Ripley!”She studied him some more with her eyes narrow and seeing all. She sniffed.“Better, but not perfect. You are the child of a Lord and Lady of high standing on the Wildemount continent. High expectations rest upon you; you must be perfect. We have some work to do.”He mumbled agreement, uncertain of his assent, yet compelled.“That’s a good lad. Now, let us return to my workshop for your next lesson.” She patted his cheek, her palm lightly slapping against his face before she pulled away and grabbed his other wrist and pulled him into the castle.Understanding that resistance would only intensify his suffering, he hesitated, taking in the peaceful scene with Catha. He attempted to remember how the lights shimmered in the sky before she guided him into his family’s home, while the Briarwoods’ mercenaries sealed the doors.

—————————————————————

“The Briarwoods left on Conthsen, the 17th of Duscar.” He rocked forward, “my name is Percival Fredrickstein von Musel Klossowski de Rolo III.” He rocked back, his head hitting the wall. I’ll be 17 soon.” He muttered, rocking his body forward again. He tried to ignore the sharp stinging of the cuts on his arms and the ache in his spine.He repeated his mantra, forcing himself to articulate each word with clarity and precision. Ripley had drilled it into him: “You must speak clearly and articulate your words. You must strive for perfection.” She would say, driving her point with another struck if her whip. She was partial to whipping and dragging a giant meat hook through his skin.He will. He’d be perfect; He’d make them proud. He would not Parzival. Not The briarwoods son. He would. Him, the last child of the de Rolo family. he would, the hostage and not the rescued son.

As the mantra echoed in his mind, he clutched his knees tightly to his chest, trying to ward off the hollow sensation gnawing at his insides and the dryness that clung to his throat like a choking fog. He whimpered softly, the sound barely escaping his lips, as the rough fabric of his tattered, unwashed clothes rubbed against the fresh wounds on his arms. The sleeves pressed uncomfortably against his raw wrists, each movement serving as a reminder of his unfortunate circumstances.

He tried counting the days, but they’d tried to do what they could to disorient him.They ceased bringing him out of the dungeons around the fourth day, and they ended his routine meals around the fifth. By the sixth day, they had abandoned all pretense of formal tutoring and lessons, resorting instead to constant torment and torture.He heard the clanking of keys and shrunk in on himself, making himself as small as he could and stilling, sitting as frozen as he could, barely even breathing as he waited for whoever it was to approach.He knew it was useless to fight, but he’d also learned he could prolong the time between his lessons if he let his body go limp. He could double the time it took to get from his cell to Ripley’s workshop.He flinched back- no matter how hard he tried to suppress the urge- when his new visitor called out his name. Despite the feverish haze of malnutrition and the cold cell, he recognized the voice.He knew who it was, could picture her in his mind’s eye. She sounded so much like Vesper, like his mother, that he wanted to cry. But he also knew she was just a hallucination. Any hope he’d had of finding her and escaping had gone out the window when they dropped the ruse of furthering his education.She was probably dead, her corpse rotting some place within the many secret tunnels of the castle walls.And then small thin hands were gripping his chin, pulling his head up, and he froze. He closed his eyes quickly, squeezing them tightly, hoping and willing the hallucination to go away and stop giving him false hope.The false Cassandra let out a slow desperate moan, her voice sorrowful and afraid.“Please brother. I need you to get up so we can run. We don’t have much time. I heard that woman say she’d have guards bringing you up soon.”

Percy let out a bitter chuckle, tinged with despair. “I don’t know if you’re a hallucination or an illusion conjured by her pet mage,” he muttered, his head lolling to the side as he cast his gaze at the unforgiving cell wall. “But I would appreciate a moment of peace without torment, if I could, please.” His voice was barely a whisper, a fragile plea in the face of overwhelming hopelessness.

He couldn’t bear to name her, it, the apparition of his little sister. If he named her, named it, it would become real, and he’d have to deal with the fall when the consequences became known.

He could hear the slight whistle of the apparition’s noise of despairing breath escape from its mouth and had to give props to whatever created the illusion, his mind or Anna’s. Whatever the source, the hallucination was extremely realistic. He averted his gaze, eyes closed, as its hands reappeared, his head turning at its prompting.“Please Percival! Look at me!”She gave a few more pleads, each one growing more desperate as she continued. Finally he gave in, even it was just a hallucination. It was still his sister, his little sister who he held when she was newborn and pledge he would hold and protect no matter what. He looked at her and saw the slight changes to her features—subtle changes only time could account for.Her face was thinner, cheekbones sharper, eyes shadowed. Hoping to dispel the illusion again, he shook his head a little. She didn’t disappear, and he cursed under his breath, scowling when she gave a pitying look to him as if he had any right to be a recipient of that look. She was only 12! 12! And she, like all the others, died within the halls that had seen the birth and death of generations of de Rolos. She likely had died that night, as did the other members of their family. Probably from a wound received during the initial attack and subsequently made her way into the tunnels before she died. He whimpered at the thought.

“Please Percival, you must believe me!”He gasped and- using what little strength he had- pushed out at her, shoving her back some, but not enough to really unbalance her.“WHY WON’T YOU GO AWAY!” He couldn’t help but screech out. In a smaller voice, he whispered, “why can’t you just leave me to my torment?”She grabbed his upper arm again, grabbing and pulling on him with all her strength. Whatever sorcerer cast the spell to create her was a strong one. He’d been able to contact her body and she his, as if she was real. He shuddered and tried to fall back down, only to be pushed into the bars of his cell.He grunted at the impact and looked at her flushed face.“Just Listen to Me Percival! IM REAL!”He sighed and gave in. It was clear she wouldn’t leave until he played whatever little game Ripley decided on. Finally, he nodded and allowed her to grab his arm and pull him along.

Chapter Text

“Please Percival, you must believe me!”


He gasped and- using what little strength he had- pushed out at her, shoving her back some, but clearly not enough to really unbalance her.


 “WHY WON’T YOU GO AWAY!” He couldn’t help but screech out.

In a smaller voice, he whispered, “why can’t you just leave me to my torment?”


She grabbed his upper arm again, grabbing and pulling on him with all her strength. Whatever sorcerer cast the spell to create her was a strong one. He’d been able to contact her body and she his, as if she was real. He shuddered and tried to fall back down, only to be pushed into the bars of his cell.
He grunted at the impact and looked at her flushed face.


“Just Listen to Me Percival! IM REAL!”
 He sighed and gave in. It was clear she wouldn’t leave until he played whatever little game Ripley decided on. Finally, he nodded and allowed her to grab his arm and pull him along.
As they stumbled along down the hall, Percival offering no resistance but also no support merely acting like a limp sack of sand for her to drag along.
As they went, Percy occasionally finding himself pushed against the wall, allowing his body to be pushed and pulled as needed. At one point he heard a group of soldiers pass by and found his heart pounding in his chest, torn between hiding and delaying the inevitable and finding out if the guards could see his illusion too.

Finally they arrived at a wing of the dungeons that Percy recognized, both from having hidden here many times while he was a child as well as belonging to the family tombs.

With a little confusion he began to follow in earnest, curiosity winning out against the resigned following he’d been doing. He began to take more notice to his surroundings instead of them passing in a blur.
And then hope flared in his chest when they stopped in front of a very familiar torch, one that looked much the same as the rest lining the walls. The only difference being a secret only a member of the de Rolo clan knew, the secret panel on the brick beneath the torch that was marked with a small engraving in the top left corner, a carving of the de Rolo crest imperceptible to anyone who did not know it was there.

When she pulled the brick out before pushing it back in and activating the mechanism to open the door he found himself fully convinced that she was his sister and not a hallucination. As soon as the door open however they began to run as the sound of guards footsteps echoed down the hall towards them.

In his terror Percival ended up taking the lead, guiding his little sister out of the tunnel and into the winter storm beyond. The blizzard howled around them, a swirling tempest that threatened to engulf them both. The snow was cold against the soles of his feet, biting into his skin and penetrating his senses. Everything felt frigid; the wind lashed at his face, a stark reminder of the world outside the castle walls—one he had almost forgotten existed. As they plunged into the swirling white chaos, he realized that, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, hope flickered within him like a fragile flame, ready to be nurtured into something more. He pushed any discomfort or pain from his mind, a single focus become the sole thought on his mind.
“Ensure Cassandra’s Survival.”
He whispered his goal under his breath, quietly enough she could not hear it but loud enough that he could. He pulled the younger behind him and mindlessly sprinted for the woods he could see in the distance.

He could hear Casssandra gasping desperately for breath as he pulled her through the frigid landscape, his feet sinking into the wet, heavy snow that blanketed the ground like a thick, suffocating shroud. Each step felt like a battle against the elements; the sharp, biting, cold air stung his lungs with every frantic inhalation. Yet, he knew he had no choice but to keep moving forward—every second counted, and with each passing moment, the distance between him and danger narrowed. he could hear the uneven, heaving gasps of his little sister struggling to keep pace with him. He supposed he might have a slight advantage over her in stamina despite nearly a month in the dungeons, before the briarwoods had left he’d been made to attend sword lessons with one of the Briarwood’s lackeys. But the sound of her footsteps, muffled by the thick layer of snow, like his own, reminded him that he wasn’t running for his own life—he was running for Cass’s life. He knew Sylas’s wasn’t sold on Delilahs plan to adopt Cassandra, knew that she could end up dead if Sylas learned she still resided in Whitestone.

As he dashed onward, a chilling realization crept into his mind, a gnawing doubt that their escape had perhaps been too easy. He knew there was a chance that Ripley somehow knew of Cassandras rescue attempt but there was still the lingering doubt that he wasn’t really outside, that this was some kind of illusion crafted by Ripley to lull him into a false sense of hope and calm. And then in the distance, he could hear the unmistakable sounds of pursuit: the crunch of snow beneath heavy boots intermingled with the low, ominous growls of the Briarwood wolves echoing through the trees like a dark omen. The Wolves he knew wouldn’t be affected by the cold and snow, being creatures of unnatural origin, likely raised from the dead by Delilah at some point. They would not stop in their pursuit especially if they had the scent of their prey, something Sylas most likely had insured they had before they’d left on their trip.

Frustration boiled within Percival as he cursed under his breath. They had slipped away from the dungeons with little resistance, but now it seemed the guards had finally caught wind of their escape—and possibly Ripley, too. Panic surged through him as he squeezed Cassandra’s small, delicate hand, seeking reassurance in her grip. Perhaps she sensed his fear, for she squeezed back. With fierce determination, he pulled her forward, trying to ignore the sharp pain that coursed through his body from the many cuts and half-healed lashes crisscrossing his exposed skin. He could feel her trembling—though it might have been him—both of them shaking from fear and cold. The wind howled around them, the surrounding trees standing resolutely yet offering no protection from the biting chill.

The wind whipped his white and brown hair into a frenzy. The wolves were gaining on them, their unnatural growls deep and menacing and carried to their ears through their ears. Parzival’s heart raced as he stumbled over a hidden root, the snow giving way beneath his feet. He barely managed to regain his balance, pulling Cassandra along with him, trying to shield her from the cold and the terror that threatened to engulf them both while also attempting to swiftly navigate the bumpy terrain of a snow covered Parchwoods.

“Quick, Cass! There’s a river ahead! They won’t be able to follow us through the water!” he shouted back, urgency threading his voice as he tried to instill a flicker of hope in their desperate flight. His mind raced at the thought of the icy river—a possible refuge from their relentless pursuers, whether it would carry them to safety or become a sealed tomb to thwart the Briarwoods’ wicked schemes.

Before he could finish his thought, a sharp whistle sliced through the air, followed by a thudding sound as an arrow whizzed past them, embedding itself in the snow just a few feet away. Percival’s heart sank, a heavy despair settling in his chest as panic washed over him. In that moment, he couldn’t help but curse under his breath, unleashing a torrent of frustration and grief that had long been pent up. His words were far from idle; they echoed the very curses he had once heard from his now-deceased older brother—raw and emotional, a stark contrast to the polished speech expected of a nobleman.

He could almost hear his mother’s sharp intake of breath, as if she were there to witness his moment of despair. The thought of her disappointment stung more than he cared to admit, but it was overshadowed by the overwhelming grief that enveloped him like a shroud. She was gone, just like his brother and the rest of their family—victims of the treachery and malevolence of the Briarwoods.

“Keep running!” he urged, his voice strained yet resolute as he focused on the path ahead. The river was their only hope for escape. With each step, the weight of their losses pressed down on him, but he pushed aside the fragile hope for freedom that dared to bloom. There was no room for hope, guilt, or grief—only determination. All that mattered was survival, and he was determined that he and Cassandra would not share the same fate as their family. They had to survive. They had to be free. He needed to break the chains that tightened around him daily, erasing his identity as the last son of de Rolo and replacing it with the hollow echo of Parzival Briarwood.

Just as his resolve solidified, he heard Cassandra’s cry—a tone of distress he had never heard from her but recognized all too well from himself. He turned back in horror, his heart racing as he searched for her through the snow, only to feel a searing pain stab into his gut, followed by a jarring impact in his shoulder that sent him stumbling. He fell into the snow, frantically scanning for Cassandra. When he finally spotted her, he gasped, barely registering the bolt embedded deep in his own flesh as he struggled to rise, desperate to reach her. Panic surged anew, dread pooling in his stomach at the sight of three arrows lodged in Cassandra’s small back. His lip trembled with anguish, but a fierce resolve quickly took its place. He no longer cared what happened to him—survival or death, Percival or Parzival; all that mattered was her safety.

He stumbled the remaining distance to Cassandra’s limp body, cradling her against him as he turned and pushed deeper into the forest. He could hear the pounding of horses’ hooves on the snow, the heavy breaths of the guards, and the chilling growls of the wolves.

He gritted his teeth against the pain that burned in his body—a mix of past lessons and the fresh agony of the arrows embedded in his skin—but he refused to let it deter his faltering steps.

At last, through the swirling snow and chaos, he spotted his goal; the cliff loomed ahead, and just beyond it lay the river he sought. It was iced over, as he had anticipated, yet beneath the clear surface, he could see the rushing water, the current flowing downstream—a glimmer of hope that offered a chance at salvation. He stumbled closer, approaching the edge when a sudden, sharp pain erupted in his ankle, causing him to stumble and loosen his grip on his unconscious sister.

In horror, he watched as she rolled, the arrows snapping and driving deeper into her flesh before she disappeared over the snowy cliff and into the icy depths below. He thinks he cried out for her but the next moments were a blur of guilty relief and despairing horror. With half a mind, the half not blinded with emotions and agony he managed to push himself up into a crawl and begin to crawl away hoping to distance himself from the cliff. He collapsed a little distance away and leaned back against a tree, laughing to himself some.

That is how Ripley found him, watching the river with amused relief, the knowledge that his sister’s body was no longer in the reach of the Briarwoods. She, unlike him, was free and distantly he wondered what it was that had him so convinced that she was dead, nor why he felt it was a good thing but logic had fled him long ago and elation at his partial success had made its home in its place.

Ripley just sighed, disappointment with curiosity in her eyes as she observed him before squatting to grab him by the hair to make him meet her gaze.
“Hm, it’d seem little lord Parzival has begun to lose his mind” she stated before letting him go and directing the guards. “…three of you, get him on a horse and bring him to the Castle, put him in his old room. One of you ride ahead to have a staff-member start the fire in his quarters.”
She paused and studied the river. “The rest will come with me and the mutts, see if we cant recover the little lady’s body for Lady Briarwood.”

Chapter Text

Temple Archive of Erathis, Whitestone Chapter
Misuthar 20th, 806 PD
By Hand of Orderly Record-Keeper Tamsyn Vale, Healer of the Woven Sigil

—

[Original Entry]
Summoned to the castle on the sixteenth by Doctor Ripley herself. An unusual request. She offered no preamble beyond, “The patient is to be treated with discretion and efficiency. I will be observing.” Her tone was iron. Her eyes sharper.

[Margin – AR: “Strike flourish. Begin clinically.”]
[Margin – TV (pencil): “Noted. Retaining original phrasing in side copy.”]

The guards led me to an old wing long thought abandoned. Cold stone, dark halls. But what I found within that final chamber was stranger still:

A boy.

Pale, half-cloaked in frost, swathed in bandages poorly done. His hair disheveled, face gaunt—yet unmistakably a de Rolo. I knew that face from the temple murals and the silver bust in the town archives. Lord Percival Frederickstein Klossowski von Musel de Rolo the Third. Thought long dead since the fall.

He was not dead.

But he was broken.

[Margin – AR: “‘Broken’ is inaccurate. Remove judgment. Clinical terms only.”]
[Margin – TV: “Amended in second version. Language preserved here for archival comparison.”]

⸻

Physical Condition:

Three crossbow wounds, all in varying stages of closure:
• One deep in the right lateral abdomen, perilously close to the linea semilunaris. Entry clean. Exit jagged. No infection, miraculously. But the muscles beneath are torn—he winced even under light palpation. Risk of future hernia and digestive complications likely.

[Margin – AR: “‘Miraculously’—not appropriate. Use ‘unexpected’ or ‘uncomplicated.’]
[Margin – TV: “Corrected in second draft. Maintained original language for context.”]

• Second in the right scapular region. Arm lift limited. Possible rotator cuff involvement. No pneumothorax.

[Margin – AR: “Breath ‘hitch’ was anecdotal. Remove.”]
[Margin – TV: “Omitted in redraft. Presence of involuntary breath still noted personally.”]

• Third, through right calf. Limp noted. Not acknowledged by patient.

[Margin – AR: “Avoid implication of deception. Rephrase.”]
[Margin – TV: “Updated: ‘Patient ambulates with modified gait.’”]

Scarring from lashes across dorsal region. Application of comfrey and marrow balm begun. Patient flinched at pressure.

[Margin – AR: “Define ‘flinch’ clinically or omit.”]
[Margin – TV: “Reworded to ‘recoiled upon contact’ in amended notes.”]

Moderate frostbite on extremities. No necrosis.

[Margin – AR: “Add recovery plan specifics.”]
[Margin – TV: “Done. Oils, insulation, and pressure regimen outlined.”]

⸻

Internal Condition:

Ribs visible. Muscle atrophy pronounced. Skin cold, dry. Poor circulation.
Delayed secondary sex characteristics. Possible gynecomastia.

[Margin – AR: “Avoid diagnosis not confirmed. Note only symptoms.”]
*[Margin – TV: “Diagnosis removed from summary. Details retained in observation for tracking.]

Spoke in a clear, noble tone. Too measured for age. Cadence unsettling in its control.

[Margin – AR: “Control is strength. Not unsettling.”]
[Margin – TV: “Disagreed. But reworded to ‘measured and composed’ in official copy.”]

Avoids mirrors.

[Margin – AR: “Omit irrelevant observations.”]
*[Margin – TV: “Retained in side scroll. Possibly symbolic.]

⸻

Summary:
• Three healing wounds (abdomen, shoulder, leg)
• Moderate frostbite on feet, legs, and dominant hand
• Severe nutritional deficiency
• Scarring from repeated physical punishment
• Signs of hormonal imbalance — further observation required

⸻

Treatment:
• Refeeding through broth and marrow
• Muscle stimulation through gentle therapy
• Limb warming, insulated wrappings, and regular movement
• Scar softening balm with calendula and bear tallow
• Monitoring of development — no arcane or divine intervention unless ordered

[AR: “No clerics unless I authorize. Keep emotional language out. Final warning.”]
[TV: “Understood. Side notes archived separately for continuity.”]

⸻

Final Addendum:

[Original Note, crossed out]:
He lives. That much is fact. But I will say this—clinical objectivity is not the absence of truth. It is a lens. And sometimes, lenses are fogged by breath.

[AR: “Irrelevant. This is not a fable. Remove. —AR”]
[TV margin pencil, faintly: “Left in margin. For me.”]

— Tamsyn Vale

[Revised, Approved Copy filed. Original annotated version retained under restricted archive clearance per internal protocol.]

Chapter Text

Something was wrong. She could feel it when Sylas sent her downstairs, not allowing her to see her son. She knew deep down. That something was not as it should be. She tried to shake off the feeling in favor of being excited and giddy to present to her son, his presents. The ones that she had so thoughtfully gathered and found , however something would not let her stop thinking about it as she began to hopefully arrange pile our presence, the servants had taken in from the caravan of carriages, ensuring that the two friends that she had found Would be presented as the last of his His guests She tried not to think about what her husband might have seen or smelled. she knew he could smell more than she. It was one of the many gifts. His vampire vampire nature had bestowed upon him. She wondered what he might have heard because he had seemed tensed long before they had Reached his room as she continued to observe and direct the placement of his guest. The two friends standing beside her in clothes she had so thoughtfully arranged for them to have occasionally finding some imperfection about their outfit that she was quick to fix ruffling the girls skirts, tucking the boys shirt in Moving the girls braided this way, and that or plucking that tasteless blue feather from behind her ear, that she insistently kept on putting back and she really didn’t know how she continuously grabbed it. She placed it in one of the many pockets that Delilah had in her own skirts Hidden pockets, each time in a different pocket each time. When she took the feather from the girls hair, she swore she saw the brother twitch or grimace in displeasure. She was tempted to try and curb him of that but knew it would be good in the long run for her sweet son‘s growth to have someone challenge him And set him to right when he was wrong. Someone she could rely on to be honest when giving her reports, she had high hopes for them and for her son, she knew that they would not disappoint her but if they disappointed her she would immediately be seeking out new friends for her son. As many replacements as needed, as many enchantments as needed all to ensure her son was able to grow into the man he could be. she wasn’t sure if she would’ve introduced them to her patron. She knew she ought to set them on the right path for their future as well and she knew she had a duty to them as well as her baby boy now that she’d taken them into her home, entrusted her baby’s care to them, but she was unsure if they would be ready for that immediately, maybe someday if they proved themselves.

And then finally her husband appeared in the entryway to the family wing of the castle, her son slowly walking behind with Ripley beside him.
Excitedly she smiled up at them both, calling for her son. When he responded with an expression of surprised awe her heart leapt for joy.
She’d put that expression in his face. Because of her efforts a small smile had twitched to his face before it disappeared again.
“Parzival! Come! Come!” She called again growing more pleased when he reacted to his name, the name she’d given to him and not ignored her instead like he had so often.
Sylas began his descent down the stairs, pausing when Parzival hesitated after him.
Delilah looked away, trying to figure out which gift she’d give him first. She’d just decided on the Navy wrapped box a little ways up the pile. She would save the Twins for the last present. For now they’d stay just a little ways back feigning the role of servants as they handed her presents.
Nodding to herself she turned back around, the first present in her hands to face her husband and son. Only to eye her husband uncharacteristically caring move. She knew Sylas loved their son, but she also knew the guilt of letting someone steal him away all those years ago had changed him.
He remained distant, kept back both by his guilt and his vampiric nature.
Now however he held their precious son in his arms and after the servant had placed down two chairs, the first being Vetoed by Sylas before the second was approved.
When Sylas had set Parzival down and stepped back, finally meeting her eyes he claimed it was keep their son comfortable during the unwrapping of his presents. She allowed the excuse but saw the way he would send scathing glares at Anna.

She’d get to the bottom of that later.

Instead she waved off her concern and handed him her first present stepping back and watching eagerly as he slowly looked between her and the present before beginning to unwrap it.

He took his time on the presents, unwrapping them with care, thanking them each time for the present before setting it too the side and accepting the next.

Sylas handed over the occasional present, the ones he had helped pick out, and would occasionally help when Parzival wished to put a piece of jewelry on or allow him to try on the various jackets and cravats that Delilah had picked out.

There was only one that didn’t fit as well as it should have, too small around the shoulders that she would have to find a seamstress to alter for. Occasionally a servant would bring in a snack or glass of tea or water for them, always so caring of her son. She insisted she helped him eat or drink when it was needed, his hands shaking too much or his breathing in an elevated state for whatever reason.

She did make sure to ask Anna why he reacted in such a way the first time it happened but the doctor always claimed it was because if a training accident that ended with the nerves in his hand being too hurt or something.
She was quick to ask Ripley to create a balm of some sort to help him with that. The woman agreed and she returned to help her husband with handing out the gifts.

Chapter Text

Vax couldn’t be sure what to think when the Weird Noble lady approached them after their carriage drove by them and nearly covered them with mud.
The 26 year old Half-Elf was further confounded when the carriage had stopped and a woman had stepped out and called out to them. They didn’t immediately approach her as she commanded them to do, why would they, they’d left their father for similar reasons, they’d decided long ago they wouldn’t be tied down, AND she almost ruined their clothes which they’d finally managed to scrape together enough money to even buy.
He liked this cloak.
She of course didn’t appreciate them not doing as she bid and had some of their guards bring them forth. Vax just barely didn’t return the shove that did send him hurtling forwards into the mud.
It was only Vex’ahlia’s sharp glance as she helped him up that stopped him from going for his daggers.
They allowed themselves to be picked up and frogmarched to the woman who’d stepped out of the carriage properly and was now waiting for them to come closer.
The first thing she did was grab Vex’ahlia’s chin, turning her face this way and that before roughly letting her go and doing the same with Vax. Or trying to. He pulled from her grip and almost began to curse her out when he noticed his sister flexing her jaw, likely from when the lady had grabbed her jaw.
He growled when the guard, mercenary really, the fool was heavily scarred and wasn’t wearing any sort of uniform that he could recognize, took advantage of his distraction and grabbed the back of his head. The brute turned it a few times in a rougher mockery of what the woman had wanted to do with his chin.

He growled at her when she began to assess him, baring his teeth and grew annoyed when all it did was make her infinitely more amused as he did.
“Feral thing you are.” She chuckled.
“Is he always like this girl?” She asked his sister next to which he couldn’t help letting out an offended scoff. His offense grew when Vex’ahlia took a long while to answer.
When she did she denied the Ladies claims but he knew she purposely took a while to think on her answer to mess with him.

“I am Lady Delilah Briarwood, acting custodian of the City of Whitestone. What are your names?”
The lady, now officially named Delilah but always would be referred to as ‘The Rude One’ in his head, looked at them waiting for an answer.

Vax looked at his sister, who looked at him and they both couldn’t help the snort that escaped their throats.

“Sorry….m’lady, but what kind of name is Whitestone?”
“Yeah we were schooled briefly in Syngorn and I do not recall being taught anything about a ‘Whitestone’”
Delilah sniffed at them.
“There is both a city, and a mineral that share the name of Whitestone, one is named after the other. I am the lady of the City that is the main provider of the Mineral.” She says with an almost bored sense of pride.
Vax shrugs.
“And that concerns us why?”

“That depends on how much you annoy me going further. May I elaborate or shall you continue being inconsiderate plebeians like I thought you were upon my initial passing of you?” She asked.

Vax and his twin shared a look.

“I know that look. Before you make a decision on how you wish to proceed with this interaction let me just put out there that I wish to offer you a job.”

Vax shrugged the mercenary’s hands from his person and pulled his sister free as well tugging her a few feet away so that they could converse. Eventually they came to an agreement and turned back to Lady Delilah.

“Well?” She asked with a raised brow.
“We are low on funds at this current moment in time and as such have decided to hear you out.”
“I am looking for a companion or two for my Son. He is becoming too sullen and withdrawn for a boy of his station. He only has myself and his Father and his tutors in his life as good influences and as such I have decided to hire him some friends. Someone he can learn from and grow alongside of.” She stated, her tone plain and serious and as delusional as she looked.
“He is a bright boy, though partially misguided I believe. He went through a period of grief recently, some family friends of ours died in a very tragic manner while we were guests one night and he unfortunately saw them as extended family members. Saw several of them slaughter in front of his very eyes even.”
She looked away, bringing a small handkerchief out to dab at her eyes though Vax, having trained with the clasp could see the vindictive glee in her eyes and knew immediately something of what she said was false. If not every word.
“he’s not been the same since. He’s withdrawn and reclusive. He used to be so curious.”
Vax shared a look with Vex, one they’d both learned to interpret as a subtle sign to be on guard.
“You’re hiring babysitters?” Vax asked in disbelief, his tone tentative.
She looked at him then, her gaze intrusive and unbearably seeing.
“Not babysitters, friends or companions if the term is more amendable to you.”
“And what would you expect these…,” Vex looked at Vax briefly before putting her next words in finger quotations, “companions to do? Besides babysitting him?”
“Well I’d imagine you would accompany my boy on his little adventures, maybe teach him what little you know of life. Make sure he remains safe and guarded and be what his Parents cannot. And report any misbehavior to me or his tutor so that they may be corrected of course.”
“And by corrected what is it do you mean?” Vax immediately narrowed his eyes hands twitching to his knife. Only one thing could be meant by that phrase, he’d heard it too often from Slydor after all.
He would not stand by any youths being mistreated by their parents, noble or not.
“Well I am unsure of what methods of corrections his tutor uses exactly though she has told me that she does impose a hefty and strict schedule upon him the demands of which change depending on what misbehaviors he has committed the day before but I often have to leave him locked in his room if he shows a modicum of disrespect or attitude.” She says with a sympathetic tone that came off as mocking.

“His father is much to soft-hearted to punish him and so it often falls to me and the good doctor to correct that needs to be corrected.” She paused casting a glance back at the carriage where Vax assumed this ‘husband’ still sat.
“If we accept we want you to ensure there is no physical punishments of any kind.” Vex demands. She immediately gets a scowl of offense from Delilah who sputters out something akin to never willingly hitting or laying any sort of hand on her precious son.

Vax just scowls. “Just because you don’t intend it to hurt does not mean it won’t.”
Delilah immediately stops her protests and nods to this. “I do suppose I can see the logic in that statement and I can reassure you that none of mine nor his tutors methods are intended to be physically lasting.”
The twins exchange a glance, a long one filled barely held back suspicion before finally it relents to acceptance, looking back at Delilah in curiosity.
“How much would you be paying us?”
Delilah looks taken aback at first before nodding to herself. “I did say hire didn’t I. Yes well…how does 500 gold sound? 500 and food and bed. Shall that suffice?”
Once again the twins retreat talking amongst themselves. They know they’re gonna take the job. Regular meals and a place to stay that isn’t a moldy inn isn’t something they’ll willingly pass up on. They however have learned to keep potential employers on their toes if they pretend to debate.

Finally they turn back to her and nod, they receive a nod in return and the two mercenaries, now with much gentler movements guide the twins to the Servants wagon.

Chapter Text

So…I foolishly decided to look up how long it takes to get from Bryoden to Whitestone and now I need to reevaluate the route and travel time of the Briarwoods trip. The original travel plan was intended to be 91 days and it’s looking closer to be 100+ days and that’s not taking into account the travel time of their carriages.