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Thought Eaters were quickly climbing up Orym’s list of least favorite kinds of creatures to fight. They were quick, heavy hitting, and, worst of all, could turn him and his friends against one another. If there was one thing Orym hated more than anything else, it was having to fight his friends. Unfortunately, it seemed to be a recurring thing with this group.
It had been especially rough fighting Letters, their eyes the usual clear blue yet they were still chasing after Bell’s Hells with the buzzsaw. Orym had needed to use his Ashari training to help him refocus and gain a second wind after knocking them out, the unconscious form of their metal friend safely secured in Ashton’s arms.
The psychic attack had come out of nowhere. It sent him down to his knees, clutching at his head as the world seemed to slide out of focus.
“Orym! Orym, snap out of it.” Fearne’s voice may have been accompanied by someone shaking his shoulders. He wasn’t really sure, though; he and his body weren’t really on speaking terms right this moment.
“Greater restoration, does anyone have it?” Ashton’s voice, steady as a rock in an earthquake, “Fearne, do you?”
The frantic tones of Fearne’s voice responded, “I don’t know!” She continued, but her voice… changed somehow. It was undeniably Fearne but there was something profoundly different in her tone. “Is that even a Druid spell?”
“It’s also a bard spell.” Another voice, one he’d never heard before and yet it sounded so familiar.
Dorian’s a bard. He thought. And who just spoke? He wasn’t sure, but it certainly wasn't one of the Hells. The Thought Eaters didn’t speak, and none of the locals were around this part of the caves.
He heard himself say aloud, “Well Dorian? Do you have it prepared or am I swinging for the other team today?” Funny, he didn’t feel like he’d open his mouth to say those words, didn’t feel the very words pass his lips, but somehow they were said. Still, the hazy darkness covered him like a blanket. He tried to blink his eyes, to reconnect himself to his body as he fought his own mind for control.
For just a moment, he almost swore he saw Dorian standing in front of him, reaching out for him, his gentle blue face pained. Then, the tightness in Orym’s chest - the cuts, hits, and slashes he’d taken - all suddenly came roaring back. The pain overwhelmed him and his eyes fully slid shut. But instead of a welcoming blackness, he saw a polished brown.
Orym sits up. Strangely, he finds himself on a beautifully lacquered table, with some kind of polyhedral symbol etched into the center. After staring a bit longer, he realizes there is the outline of a sword through it.
“Dorian,” says the still-disembodied voice that Orym can’t place. It seems to be coming from behind him, but he’s too tired to turn around. “Do you know Greater Restoration?”
Orym, sprawled across the table where he landed, finds himself looking at eight people, all humans, seated directly in front of him. His eyes scan over them faster than his mind can process what he is seeing. Each seems to have a seemingly random assortment of strange objects in front of them: strange flat book-like objects, various assortments of knickknacks, and many, many dice. He thinks he could take them all in a fight, if he had to. He hopes he doesn't have to.
None of them seem to notice him.
The man who responds with Dorian’s voice is wearing a wide-brimmed hat. It’s a very nice hat, he thinks, almost hysterically, Dorian would look nice in a hat like that.
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” The man in the nice hat is frantically tapping and touching a strange looking object, thinner than an open book but sharing the same width. The woman next to him leans over, pointing and murmuring. Staring at her, Orym can’t help but think she looks like Keyleth. It makes him feel a little ill, comparing the Voice of the Tempest to this strange hallucination of a person, and he can’t help but stare. As he listens to her, he realizes that something about her tone reminds him of Laudna, though her accent sounds nothing like her. The juxtapositions make him almost dizzy.
The man in the hat throws up his hands, “Ahhh, no I don’t, sorry!”
“Oh no,” laughs a woman with dark hair and glasses, she is smiling at the man next to her. He shakes his head, expression much more sober, but also gives her a quick, small smile. “Probably a bad time to have just used Second Wind then?” Her voice was familiar, with just a touch of a familiar twang. It feels wrong, to hear that voice from someone without lavender hair. Orym shakes his head, but instead of the real world resolving, his vision focuses in against his will on these strange people.
“Orym,” Orym freezes upon hearing his name from the mysterious voice behind him. Had he been spotted? “You’re up, with Fearne on deck.” Deck, but they weren’t on a ship? He was about to turn around when…
“Feeling overwhelmed, Orym is just going to lash out at the closest person, which is Fearne.” The man who just spoke reaches into a tray of dice in front of him, casually rolling one, as if Orym’s very blood didn’t curdle at the sound of his voice. How did this human man sound just like him? How did he know Fearne’s name?
“Does a 23 hit?” He addresses the blonde woman a few seats down.
She smiles wryly, “you know it does. How much damage?” Orym shakes his head. Her voice sounded like Fearne, but lacked that musical quality that Orym always associates with those who had spent time in the Fae Realm.
The man who sounded like Orym… no, Orym wouldn’t even let himself begin down that thought path. That man picks up a few other dice, rolls them, and says, “that’s 13 points of slashing damage with Seedling for the first hit…”
He keeps going, quantifying Orym’s abilities into numbers that Orym had never even dreamed of. The sick feeling in his stomach gets worse as the numbers get tallied. Terms that Derrig and the other Tempest Guard trainers had drilled into his head are spoken casually, thrown around before a throw of the dice counts up strikes and slashes like they’re nothing more than a child’s counting game. After the third strike is tallied, the blonde woman shrugs and says, “I’m down!” All heads turn towards that man.
“Orym, does that end your turn?” Even with all the strength in the world, Orym didn’t think he could drag his eyes away from that man.
That man nods, “yeah, I think I’ve done enough.” Orym grimaces.
“Alright. Fearne, could you please make a death saving throw?”
The blonde woman - Orym realizes all of a sudden that she has been clutching a stuffed toy that bears a striking resemblance to Mister and he is not letting himself think about that at all - takes a moment to consider the dice in front of her, before picking up one of the largest ones, and rolling it into her little box. She shakes her head, “fail, that’s a three.”
A hiss of displeasure goes around the table. Orym’s eyes go wide.
“Get rid of it, it’s been rolling badly all night,” says the bespectacled woman next to her. Her voice has lost most of Imogen’s natural twang as she gestures at the offending die. Orym wonders if Imogen could imitate her accent as effortless as the woman seemed to be able to slip into Imogen’s. He shudders, the idea of his friends being replaced by these mimics frightens him almost as much as Otohan does.
“Okay okay okay,” replies the blonde woman, placing the die on the center table a little ways in front of her. Orym watches it, wordlessly. His head feels like it’s swimming.
The formless voice behind him says, “Alright, that’s one failed death save for Fearne.” Something about that statement felt so final, so solemn. Orym closes his eyes briefly, trying to pull himself together. The voice continues with a narrator’s tone and diction, “Brought low by her closest friend as Bell’s Hells struggles to fight both the enemy in front of them and the enemy within,” A pause, then, “on that cheerful note, I think this is a good place to take a break!” The eight people sitting around the table groan.
Orym’s head quickly scans from one end of the table to the other. No one really seems surprised or upset. They clearly knew this moment was coming. Orym’s breath begins to come faster. “We’ll be back here in a few. See you shortly.” There is more grumbling, but the people begin to leave, one by one.
Orym, now staring at an empty table, desperately wants to leap over the table to look at the various papers and other objects left behind. What secrets about the Hells could they hold? That small wooden house over there looks an awful lot like Laudna’s birdhouse. There was a little statue of FCG on one end of the table. And those little dolls nearby look not unlike the ones Fearne has of her family. He began to reach out to them, to touch anything that would ground him in this strange, unfamiliar place.
But then that voice, the mysterious one that didn’t belong to any of the people at the table he could see, began to speak again. “Oh. It looks like you’ve seen more than you should have. Hm, well that isn’t too surprising, given your passive. Orym,” yes, he was being addressed directly. That spotlight made his whole body flush and tremble at the same time. There was no hiding now. “What are you looking for?”
Orym tried to turn around, but found himself still stuck. “H-how..” He begins to ask, voice trembling.
Halflings are small folk to begin with, and Orym wasn’t exactly tall for his people. But he rarely feels small. Something about being addressed by that voice though… he struggles to place the feeling into words. It almost reminds him of when he had communed with the Wildmother, when the sensation of something much larger and grander encompassed him. But even that embrace had left him feeling safe and cared for. Here - in this moment, in this strange place - he feels exposed, like a hundred thousand eyes are all watching him.
He clears his throat and tries again. “How do I get home?” His voice breaks a bit on the last word.
“Well, I’d say it’s in your power, but you do seem a little stuck. What about…” The voice shifts, and “ Orym ,” says the Wildmother.
Or at least, someone who sounds so very much like the whispers he’d felt when his sword was blessed. But, like the woman who sounded like Fearne, there is something lacking. This voice is hollow. The weight and magic that had suffused her words seemed… absent.
“You’re not her,” he whispers, “and,” he points to the empty table, to the spot where that man, the one with his voice, had sat, “he is not me.” There is almost a growl to his voice, a feral rasp as he tries to separate these imposters from his friends.
The voice of the Wildmother is gone again, replaced by the same formless one, “I am, and I am not, this is true. But these are not the answers you seek.” Orym absolute does not have the time or mental stamina to even begin to unpack that now, he shakes his head as the voice continues, “Have you tried willing yourself to leave?”
Orym shakes his head, “I’ve tried, but I think I’m stuck here.” He hesitates, eyes still locked on the empty table. “The… the woman who,” he trips over the words, “who sounds like Fearne.” It feels taboo to say his friends’ names here, but the need to return home overrides anything else. “She rolled something?”
There is a hint of surprise in the voice. “She did. She rolled a D20, a twenty-sided die. You actually may have seen one before, they’re often used in-“
“Rollies.” Orym says softly, cutting him off. “Yeah, yeah I seen them before.”
A soft chuckle. “Yes, I thought you might.”
Orym reaches out across the table, taking the die that the blonde woman had set aside earlier for rolling badly. “Do I just… roll it?”
He could hear the voice smile. “You can certainly try.”
Orym picks up the twenty-sided die, turning it over in his hand a few times. It is a beautiful purple, with some kind of glitter in the center. It takes him a moment to realize that the glitter moves as he turns the die. He thinks how much Fearne would love it. He shoves that thought away.
“Oh, Orym?” Says the voice. “Before you go…” something slide across the table. With his free hand, he picks up a glass vial. It is stoppered and contains a few seemingly random assortment of dice, all of which are red. “For Fearne.”
Orym’s head felt like it was spinning, a million questions all fighting to be asked. But manners prevail. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice stuck in his throat. He rolls the die.
It comes up a six.
The voice behind him gave a short, sharp inhale. “Ah. I’m afraid you likely won’t remember this. And…” he hears the sound of several dice being shaken. “You take,” the dice land heavily, “10 points of damage.” A sharp pain emanates from his sternum, as if he’d been swiftly punched. “You’ll have to roll again, I’m afraid.”
Cautiously, he picks up the die again. 11.
A sigh of relief. “That’s just high enough. Goodbye, Orym of the Air Ashari.”
A swirl of magic envelopes him.
---
He opened his eyes, though he didn’t remember closing them in the first place. Dead eyes stared back at him.
“Helllllllllooo Orym?” Sang Laudna, “are you back with us or do I get to hit you again?”
He groaned, “hey, Laudna. Sorry about all that.”
“Ah, we’ve all done it at one time or another,” she dismissed with a cheery little wave. “But I think an apology to Fearne is in order, better still if you’ve got a healing potion?” Suddenly, he realized the thread of anxiety underpinning Laudna’s cheery demeanor. Her smile never left, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, which constantly flicked over to nearby where Fearne lay in a heap.
Fearne. A bolt of fear struck Orym. For some reason, the words failed death save floated in his mind. “Fearnie?” He called, as he scrambled to his feet. She lay not far from him, slash marks covering his torso - perfect matches to Seedling’s sharp blade. He involuntarily drew a sharp breath.
“Fearne!” He stumbled towards her.
All of a sudden, he noticed a weight in his jacket that he didn’t remember. He fumbled through his pockets, pulling out the object. A healing potion stared back at him. Strange, he thought he’d given his last one to Imogen just before this battle. Still, he wouldn’t question this little miracle, not with Fearne down. “Here Fearne,” he gently lifted her head, feeding her the potion. Not a moment later, her eyes flickered open. They were unfocused at first, staring off into space, until they focused in on his voice, taking in his face.
She smiled a little and managed to mumble, “hey best friend.”
An almost sob-like sigh left Orym, “hey Fearnie. Sorry about that.”
She pulled him into a weak hug. “Don’t do that again!”
He let her cry against him, pulling him into her chest as if he were Little Mister... no. She didn’t hug Little Mister like that, why would he think that?
As he let himself be held by his best friend, he gave himself a moment to think. The feeling of unwillingly turning against his friends was horrible, but there was something itching just below that, something he couldn’t figure out. A feeling of smallness, of helplessness, that he couldn’t quite place. Just for this moment, he let it wash over him, the feeling released as he sobbed with his friend. Surely, it was because he had had his agency taken from him? He could still feel the sensation of the Thought Eater digging into his brain, moving his limbs, moving his mouth - no. No, it was just his limbs as he attacked his friends. As he damaged Fearne, his best friend. Damaged her enough to put her in death saves…
He almost doubled over in pain, clutching his head. He’d tugged a string, something fell loose in his brain and he couldn’t place what went where or where he was and that voice would send him back, promised to send him back but where was he-
“Orym?” Fearne’s voice from just above his head. It rang out with her usual musical tones, that touch of the fey that wasn’t an accent, more like an overtone. He relaxed into her and the pain subsided. He was safe - well, as safe as any of them could be here on the moon. But everyone was alright and he was here with Fearne.
No, attacking Fearne was something he would never willingly do. But still the doubt lingered in his mind. He pulled away, wiping his tears.
“Sorry, it still hurt a bit. But I’m okay.” She looked at him skeptically. He just smiled back, trying to will her - and himself - into believing it, “And I’ll try not to do it again. It’s good to see you up again.”
She smiled back, teary eyed. “Of course you won’t.” She said it matter of factly. “And it’s a good thing you had that extra potion, what with FCG already exhausted. And Dorian’s healing can’t do much.”
“Right…” Orym frowned. “The potion…”
The nagging feeling in his mind pushed him to look at the potion bottle. The red liquid was gone, of course. It seemed to just be an empty, ordinary bottle. His thumb found a little maker’s mark along the bottom. Flipping it over, he saw a little polygon with a line through it. What an odd mark, he thought.
The others began to crowd them, joyous in the aftermath of their successful battle. He quickly tucked the bottle back into his pocket to join them.
Still, something lingered in the back of Orym’s brain. The moments where he wasn’t in control were fuzzy, as if the memory itself was clouded or tainted. He pulled at it a bit as the Hells began to move on, wondering if doing so would provoke anything, would remind him of anything.
The ghost of a whisper passed through his mind, you can certainly try.
---
He stops trying to remember.