makinglies | Respite

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faerun

Respite

The lake is dark and calm with a small breeze by the time they arrive at its shores. The stars above reflect perfectly in the still waters before them, and a small copse of trees lines one side, starting on their side of the river and jumping along the other side.

Chris takes a moment to re-prepare the spell he hadn't been able to cast in five years and gestures vaguely to the area around them as a suggestion for what the others can do. Gathering in the forest, sitting on a nearby over-turned log, it didn't matter to him. What he needed was an hour without interruption.

He settles down on the ground and presses his hands together as he closes his eyes to focus on the image in his mind. Within minutes, the white, shimmering outline of a large building forms in thin air. The gentle glow of its light barely spreads from the growing structure.

As promised, it takes the full hour before the slowly filling-in form is complete and finishes with a jaunty, echoing click.

Chris takes a breath, now sitting in front of the stoop that looks annoyingly like the one he'd passed earlier in the night, and gets back onto stiff legs as the glow fades away, leaving smooth, but otherwise unremarkable, white stone behind.

"Here we are. Home for the next however long we need. I'll start working on food and water next." Once they're inside, anyway, which is why he takes back his things from where he'd left them and leads them into the temple, marked only with the carving of ravens on the black wood of the double doors.

Inside is something just shy of opulence. The same polished white stone makes the walls, though black and gold veins course through the marble. The floor is the inverse, a black stone with white, shimmering speckles like a night sky if looked at for long enough. A single window faced East high up on the wall. The temple was alight with sconces at regular intervals along the walls, illuminating an open area that held all the offerings of comfort Chris could think of.

A large hot-springs-like bath, complete with a miniature waterfall, took up the left side of the room and ran into a smaller, similar bath at dog-height. Next to it, covered by a retractable screen, was a shower. Along the back wall, a raven's head emblazoned the white wall in black and watched out over a set of tables, chairs, and a couple of sofas. The majority of the center was clear for walking, but the right edge and right side of the room held a deeply inset pit of pillows, cushions, and blankets in various soft (black and purple) fabrics.

Finally, in the middle of the right-hand wall, there were two closed doors that, when inspected, revealed one room with a large, soft chair and rug, while the other room was made of nothing but stone with jars, pitchers, and plates on shelves along two walls and a cork wall perfect for catching daggers on the other side.

"I hope it works for everyone. I didn't...I didn't make separate bedrooms this time. I didn't figure we would need them tonight."

♥

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Chris says 'tell me,' and Jon relaxes, closes his eyes and finally stops trying to push everything away. Images, words, feelings, thoughts, all flood his mind, and one manages to push itself above the others. When his eyes open again, they're glowing their unnatural green, and there are more of them... far too many more of them. For a blessing, they're all distant, rather than focused on Chris, himself.

There's also a soft click nearby, and if the cleric looks about, he'll see a second tape recorder has appeared on the sofa and begun recording.

"Blessed Bane, Black Lord who conquers all, grant me your power to smite this dragon, this thing of metal and fire." The Archivist voice takes on something close to the lilting accent of Chris' homeland, but it's strained, frightened. "We are your chosen people. I am yours. I clench my fist and see my gauntlet covered in blood, the blood of my enemies, the blood of my lesser brothers. What are these twisted things of flesh and bone that frolic at the monster's feet? They are crimson and ivory, your colors, too, but nothing you would bring to us. My Lord, I am your supplicant, I am your knight. Use me.

"Why do you hesitate, my Lord? Am I not strong enough? Have I not proved myself loyal enough? Faithful enough? Have I not been damned enough, Master of All?

"No. No, my faith is strong, my Lord. I believe in you. This monster that holds the bones of children will fall by my hand. It must fall by my hand. I am strong enough for this. I won't fail like the others. I won't. I'm not afraid. I'm not!"

The Archivist draws in a deep breath, the words having come in an increasingly frantic ramble. When he speaks again, his voice is smaller.

"Lord Bane, I am frightened. My armor is pierced, my is flesh in ruins. Please... please, my Lord, I don't want to become one of them. I am yours. Render me to ash. Lord Bane? I beg you, Lord Bane. Don't let them take me." His voice cracks. "I don't want to be undead. I don't want to be only blood. Please? It's coming toward me. Lord Bane? Anyone? Please, gods, I don't want to die like this!"

There's a break again as the Archivist draws in another long breath, then his voice changes to something deeper, something far more powerful.

"You are weak, boy. How unbecoming."

The Archivist lets out another breath and the eyes vanish as his body unclenches again. "Christ... is that... Sorry." He lifts a hand to rub at his eyes. Channeling some sort of Templar of Bane had not been his expectation. But of course they'd be scared. Their god is a tyrant who loves terror.

His eyes dart from Jon's to the others about and to the tape recorder when he hears it. The latter makes his lips press into a thin line. Whatever they were, they were certainly still very tied to the things that had claim over them. It's a feeling that doubles in certainty as he listens to the account.

One of the Bane Hands...probably native to Melvaunt and her temple to the Black Lord. He could guess names, but he pushes the ones he knows aside. He doesn't want confirmation. Whichever one he was, he was abandoned at the last to the horrors that might have been the Tyrant Lord's doing in the first place. Abaonded like many in Bane's palm.

The memory of a vision flickers in his mind. The soul-deep voice passing judgment on Chris' kneeling form in His unfathomable palm. " Disappointing " he'd proclaimed...and let his cleric Fall into a waking nightmare of fire and ash and the dead of his city. The parallel is no different now as the dark paladin pleads and meets cold condemnation.

But that voice coming from his Archivist...it fills his veins with ice and steals his breath.

Was Jon hearing that through the dying paladin? Was he hearing it- was it for him? He tries to shake that thought off...if it was for 'him', it would be for the him still out there in the carnage. It doesn't stop his own fear from spiking.

He reaches both hands out to grasp onto Jon's arms, eyes wide and breath uneven once more. "How...how did you hear him? Through the Bane Hand or...or was he in your head? Is he still...?"

You are weak, boy.
Look how far you've come, just as I planned for you.
Did you think our separation was your choice? I simply opened the door for you
I offer safety. Certainty. I can protect them...you know what needs doing.

He feels sick. If they're still claimed, then Bane would notice them sooner or later; he would notice this remnant and see opportunity, maybe even power in these people from other planes. Planes untouched by the other gods, planes he could make use of. People he could make use of.

Chris' panic is expected, but Jon still flinches as he's grabbed suddenly. "I don't- Through the Hand? I think?" This is his first time channeling anything like a bloody god, how the hell should he know? As that's not particularly helpful to throw at a frightened man, the Archivist holds his tongue and takes mental stock of himself. Is there something else apart from the Ceaseless Watcher's gaze upon him? It's hard to tell in a world so vastly different from the one he's just left.

"I can't sense anything else? Can you?" He knows Chris has some ability to deal with spirits. Deities may be something beyond him, but having the cleric focus on things that he can do will, hopefully, forestall any sort of spiral. They've done that once only a few minutes ago. They don't need to do it again.

"Would he leave some sort of imprint if he were actually speaking through me?"

Slightly too wild eyes look over Jon as he half expects to see a black shadow of fingers gripping around his partner’s throat…but it doesn’t come.

His heartbeat is still racing, but his breathing gets back under control and his hands slide down to rest, loose on Jon’s legs. He sighs.

“I don’t think I’d sense anything if he didn’t want me to…but he likes letting me know when he has control over something I love…so you probably just heard it from the paladin, not him directly.” Unless it was some long game starting, something to keep him guessing…but thinking like that wouldn’t help anyone.

He brings his hands up to scrub across his face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that…I was scared he had you. I’m still scared he’ll take an interest in you all as soon as he knows I’m here. I should have planned this better.”

The last part wasn’t meant to be out loud, but he doesn’t take it back either. Bury it…there was space now.

“Thank you…for telling me. He won’t be the only one with unanswered prayers; the Raven Queen’s reapers will be busy tonight.” He needed to contact her. Commune and ask what questions he most needed to until tomorrow. “Are you okay, love?”

"No, it- I get it. God knows I've been handled more roughly for less." He offers Chris a brief, self-effacing smile before pushing up to his elbows. "And you won't be dealing with him alone. That, I can promise you. You'd protect me from Elias." Jon makes sure to meet his cleric's eye as he continues. "You are mine, and I'll protect you from him, as well."

What he can realistically do against a god is up in the air, but until he and the others are written into the weave of Faerun, there probably isn't any sort of precedent for them or what they might be capable of. Unbound by the laws of reality here.

For now.

"I'm- Yeah. I think I'm fine? Better?" He can't help a small grimace. "Sort of. Less hungry. We should head out, probably. If you're ready. I'm sure Wolfe and Amelia are wondering after us. I think it might be prudent to tell them about this and your concerns about Bane in the morning. Just so we can all mentally prepare ourselves for whatever the bastard might try to do."

Jon’s assurance about how he’s handled isn’t the comfort he or joked about he seems to be aiming for, Chris didn’t want to be anything like the people who’ve handled his Jon in the past, he had to be better. Jon deserved better.

The assurance that he wasn’t going to deal with Bane alone is slightly better and the claim on him brings a flutter of a smile to his lips. On some level, he wishes he could handle Bane alone, just to keep them all out of it…but he knew he could be braver with them, wouldn’t bend a way he shouldn’t with them at his back. He was stronger with them than without.

He would tear their enemies and those who hurt them apart with tooth and claw, he can’t deny them the same, not at this point.

“We’ll be sure to feed you proper soon. For now, I think you’re right: we should go back out and I’ll tell them in the morning. You all need to know his signs, just in case.”

He stands, stretches, and steals another fortifying kiss from his boyfriend as he makes to help him back to his feet as well.

“Shall we? I think we only half look like we’ve been crying.”

Edited 2025-10-15 01:55 (UTC)

As it turns out, Wolfe can't get to sleep, no matter how tired he is. There's too much quiet, even with Amelia breathing softly at his shoulder and the dogs snoring away with the occasional shift and jingling of collar. Otherwise, there's no sound. Not the beeping of machines and whir of central air that he'd gotten used to in the LIEs facility, nor the distant movement of traffic and city life. He'd thought it was the light at first and managed somehow to use his magic to "dim the candles" as it were, even though the light is ambient and there are no candles in sight. The intention behind the spell is the same, and the temple reacted how he'd expect, darkening the room. But it hadn't helped, and he's frustratingly awake when the door opens.

Wolfe tries craning his neck to see them without jostling Amelia and mostly manages, immediately clocking the drawn and tired looks on their faces even in the dark. He doesn't say anything of it, though. There are a myriad of things to be upset over, and continue to be upset over for the next lifetime. He's not going to fault them over it, especially with the very telling detail of Jon now wearing a sweater Wolfe knows once belonged to Martin.

It's good that they'd gotten some of it out, honestly. Wolfe had been worried Chris would bottle it up until he exploded in some other way, but in Jon's arms he knows Chris feels safe enough to crack. It used to be he felt safe in Wolfe's too, but... But that's a silly thought, one that Wolfe refuses to entertain. He's tired, not jealous, and Chris knows he never would have been parted from him if he had any choice. How could he waste time being jealous? Now? It's absurd. Jon just happened to be the one alone with him for any stretch of time since they got here.

Exasperated with himself, Wolfe just raises his arm to them invitingly. Just because he wants reassurance, general noise, and to drown out the fear that he won't be able to reach the Fade, instead casting himself into an inky black Void if he tries to sleep, doesn't mean everyone else should be kept up by it. Besides, maybe he won't, and he'll dream in the Fade like always. He won't know if he doesn't try. He decides he'll feel much better about trying with both Amelia and Chris at his sides, though, so he beckons to them with his one free arm and tries to keep himself still otherwise.

It’s darker when they step out of the room, and Jon’s immediately on edge again. Is the power in the temple failing somehow? Had Bane actually been talking through him and is now using the shadows to come to call?

He’s a bit embarrassed it takes more than a second or two to clock Wolfe and Amelia in the pillow pit. Dimmers. Chris knows what a dimmer switch is, so there’s probably one around here.

The Archivist shakes his head slightly and moves to sit at the edge of the pit, ready to let Chris crawl in first and snuggle up to his mage. He does spare a raised brow for Amelia, though, already seemingly asleep. Good for her being able to just pass out. Would that they all possessed such fortitude.

He’s surprised to step out to find the lights already dimmed, but affection flutters in his chest as he realizes the likely ‘culprit.’ Trust his mage to figure out how to work Chris’ spell.

He steps down into the pit and strips out of Jacob’s hoodie so he can set it aside. Between his and Jon’s emotions and the mucus and tears that came with them, he’d need to clean it. The normal way, unfortunately.

He snags a soft, thick blanket from the mass and crawls over to Wolfe and Amelia. The latter gets a brief kiss to her cheek before Chris settles on his side to press his back fully into the line of Wolfe’s body. His arms and the blanket are held open for his Archivist to fill. Between his boys, warm on both sides and in the safety of the near-impenetrable temple, Chris can feel his anxiety slowly start to unravel.

“Sorry we took a while, we need to discuss some things in the morning…for now we ought try for some sleep. Also: clever of you to manage the lights, love. I’m impressed.” He keeps his voice low to not disturb their rogue over much, but once all three are in the pillows, the room darkens to nearly nothing but a low, gentle glow from the raven head at the back wall.

"'Salright," Wolfe murmurs to his boyfriend now settling against him. The effect is instant. Like the click of a lock on the door to the outside, a sense of security rolls over him. He has his partners and his best friend, and yes they have so much more to talk about and figure out and there's certainly a plethora of unknowns in their future, but for right now, this is perfect.

"I just treated the room like a candle for the lights, if that makes sense? One of the first things I ever learned was to dim a candle." He yawns, curling his arm around Chris in a possessive squeeze before rolling it back out to let Jon settle in. He'll find Jon's shoulder and give him a gentler squeeze too when he settles. He may be Involved with Amelia and Chris, but Jon is his as well. They're all his, and he'd not only die for them; He'd live for them. All three of them. Even if there's temporary Tranquility in his future, he'll trust they'll find a way to overcome it. He trusts them.

"I'm proud of you, too. I know you hate to cry," Wolfe murmurs softly into Chris' hair, burying his nose in that familiar scent. He'd missed them so much he'd hallucinated his partners sometimes while he was being put through his paces. To have them actually here, now, is the most settling thing in the world. "We can talk tomorrow, like you said. I just wanted you to know that."

There's a warm and welcoming spot for him amidst the pile, and some part of Jon... hesitates. He needs to stay awake, he needs to be able to watch over them, to make certain nothing happens. And what will happen when he sleeps? It's clear the Eye still has a hold on him, but will it waver once he lets himself rest? Someone should stay awake, just in case... just in case everything dissolves around them if they're all asleep. To be watching for anything that might come for them, god or eldritch being.

His hands grip the side of the pit harder for a moment as Wolfe praises Chris. Chris needs this. He needs Jon to relax as much as he can and curl close. The Archivist knows he can keep a vigil even if he's lying down. He just can't let himself fall asleep.

With that mental compromise, he pushes off and into the pile to wade in and settle himself next to his cleric, arms curled against his chest as Jon faces him and presses another small kiss to his lips. Wolfe's hand on his shoulder is a comfort, as well, knowing the other man is there, just out of sight.

"Goodnight," Jon offers quietly to his friend, to all of them. "Be here in the morning, please." While he closes his eyes, Chris and Wolfe may be able to feel that he doesn't actually relax for a long while.

He makes a slightly grumpy sound at the praise, though it's without any heat at all. Better to just kiss Jon's forehead than acknowledge Wolfe's kind words.

"We will be, love. Promise." That, at least, was a promise he felt reasonably sure he could make. Yet he didn't doubt every single one of them would have a moment of relief to see it wasn't all a dream come morning.

Poppet flies down on her gentle wings and takes up a perch on Jon's shoulder as Chris turns his focus onto his holy symbol. It wouldn't take much, he didn't have to use the chalk, he just liked the ritual of it...for this, it could wait. The spell casts and the connection opens in a way it hasn't in five years, and Chris nearly finds his throat paralyzed at finding Commune working as it should.

Gods, he has too many questions. Would she turn him away as not actually her cleric? Would she see him as a fake in comparison? Would her curiosity allow him answers once and then no more for even a reason as simple as the fact he hadn't set out to kill every undead in the city while he'd been there? They were all likely dead now; what did it matter?

"Are we shaved slivers of the same souls we're based on?" It wasn't his most important question whispered as quietly into the night as he could manage, but it was the one burning in him all the same.

He waits a moment before the answer comes to his mind, a flicker of confusion and curiosity behind the single word: No. He breathes a small sigh.

"Is there a way to wind and collect the soul threads needed to bind these people with me to pass through your halls alone?" Another pause, though much shorter and much less confused. Yes.

Last question. He scrambles for what he should prioritize with exhaustion creeping at the edges of him.

"Is there a way to contact Mystra, Lady of Magic and the Weave, to have these people with me woven into the proper place of all magics, ambient and ambitious?" There's almost no pause this time, as if she already expected the next question. Yes.

The relief is leaden comfort in him, but he remembers to offer a quiet thank you to the fading connection before sleep steals him entirely. If the others were awake and heard him at all, they'd just have to wait until morning.

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