makinglies | The Shadowfell

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faerun

The Shadowfell

Shadowfell

During the early, blue dawn of the morning, a hole opens in the Material Plane. The energy hums no differently than it had in the facility in Duplicity that had brought them here in the first place. This time, however, just before breaching the glowing white surface of light, a chill greets those who pass through. One, two, three, four shadows step through the light before it closes with barely a pop of energy beside the austere white marble of the recently recast temple.

Waiting on the other side of the gate is a land of barren monochrome. Plants like ash, rivers with the consistency of blood, and pools of thick, dripping ichor decorate a land of black and grey stone that connects to an equally grey sky. The life, like the color, seems gone from the land, and where there should have been unearthly silence, there were low murmurs and ominous creaks and noises that didn't quite make sense at the periphery of everything.

The landscape, at least, could not be called flat. Great, black mountains broke the dim, grey sky like blotches of ink on canvas. Even the group of armed visitors stood now upon a tall, but sloping hill marked with a single, gnarled tree. At the foot of the hill, ahead of the group, sat the hazy, black scar of what was once a city.

Spires of buildings stood as broken bones in the place Melvaunt had as its mirror, with the shattered docks even dipping into a charcoal ocean beyond it. Maléfell, once a town inhabited and infested in equal measure with ghosts, gasts, dopplegangers, and malice, now festers with a malevolent haze that visibly shrouds the city. At its edges, just outside the haze, is a pulsating mass. It's upon closer inspection that the mass gains definition: bodies. Undead. Skeletons. Ghosts haunting black ooze and rotted corpses that press at the Darkland's edges, daring to neither venture in nor go too far from their home.

Hundreds of the displaced mill about, gorging on more of the black ichor that fills the waterways into the city. Here they wait, trapped, the sounds of them muffled and nearly silent in the blanketing nothing of the Plane around them.

♥

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Amelia crumples and Wolfe reaches out with his free hand, the one attached to the arm emblazoned with her leaves. Champion of love indeed. He's inked with it, etched into his skin, a constant declaration, and its that love that spurs him to hold tight to his two partners now.

He can tell Chris is going to cry through that touch. He has a specific tension to him, a silent but full body groan in how much he hates to cry but knows that in some particular instances he can't avoid it. He always fights it anyway, but this time at least its not very hard. Being told you're wanted - needed - by the object of your faith is too much of a relief to combat.

It takes Wolfe a moment to pull his attention from their little knot to the question their Matron has asked, but even when he does he doesn't know how to answer. What do they need? So much, but She's already given them a much needed boon. It seems like greed to ask for more. But She's asking...

Unsure, Wolfe squeezes Chris' hand, but looks to Amelia, and then to Jon. If there's anything to ask for that She could grant in Mystra's steady it wouldn't be their place in the Weave, nor does he think She has the ability to keep them whole when their power fades, but perhaps something that they can use so they're at least not at all disadvantage.

"If you would honor us with a simple boon, Jon and I don't speak this world's Common language, and I fear we won't be able to learn fully before we no longer have the benefit of our waning powers. Is there a way we could be granted that gift? To communicate in this world's tongue?"

Each of her loves - because they are, they must be if it feels so right to have them with her like this - reach for her and she finds she doesn't have the strength to grip them in return. All she manages is to rest a few fingers over theirs as she tries to hold it all in, to keep herself together until they're not in the presence of a god who's granted them so much and yet made her feel so insignificant.

It's not the Raven Queen's fault. Less than two days ago, Amelia thought she was from a different plane, from a city where she had grown up, lost one family then gained another, and become a skilled leader. Now she's a copy - Taken and copied and copied and twisted and found. - and she can do nothing, nothing about it but grieve for what was never hers and once again cast wishes for things to be different into the void.

Balance restored, She says, but not for the rogue. Her shoulders tremble and she shakes her head. There is no balance in her, there never was. It's why hearing Enough simply... wasn't that.

'Who am I? Who am I supposed to be when all that I was, all I believed of myself, was a lie?'

She can't find the strength for the words. It's not her place to ask anyway. She doesn't need to know. She'll find a way through this because she has to. Her family needs her to be whole again, and so she'll make it happen. Someday.

Someday.

Edited (slight clarity in internal questions) 2025-12-05 07:26 (UTC)

Amelia is spiraling something awful. With the Raven Queen's overwhelming presence, the Archivist isn't getting as much off of her as he might, but anyone with eyes can see it. Chris being brought to tears by the Matron's acceptance, by Her welcoming him home and calling him one of three--three siblings, one branch--Her Omen Caller, isn't surprising, but it does pull at him. He wants to kneel down with the rest and pull the cleric into his arms, but that's for another time.

Now? Now his tape recorder has been magically enhanced, granted a power source that won't run out. It's already a boon, but Wolfe asks for more, and Jon can't help wondering if they should be offering something in return.

"Common is just the start for us, for me, at least. Imagine the memories and stories I could collect- we could collect with more languages. I need to be able to understand and speak to ask the right questions, tease out the most interesting things. Common will let me collect some, but I'll keep studying. Elven, Dwarven, any language I can hear. I want to learn it. And... when we come to your halls at the last, they'll all be yours. Everything I've managed to collect on this"--he lifts the tape recorder again--"will be yours. Grant us the language we need to start, my Lady, and you'll have more for your collection."

The Matron of Ravens considers her fledglings, the strings tying her masks to her head shudder, and maybe it was a laugh if a laugh could be ethereal. In a blink, she is twice her own height once more, arms and wings spread wide open. A gentle rain of black and gold droplets of possibility flutter as snow over the group to stick in hair and on skin like the same chilly substance it emulates.

'Individual. Unique. Grow and change and affect and be affected. Learn deep and delve, and then return. Return and share and revel and do it all again.' Along with her words comes a Knowing, and understanding that she does not say but imparts within them: what Common she grants is that of a child's grasp, but what boon she grants is ever more useful: the ability to learn and learn terribly quick. What might have taken years is a trifle of months or weeks in the grand scheme of Fate.

'Until the nest calls for you. Until need beckons once more. My magic to my death to my fledglings. Shine pretty. Soar high.'

Her will is balm and booming proclamation within their souls all at once, and as quickly as she had arrived, the Raven Queen vanishes into shadow.

He can't look away from her even as her attention shifts to all of the group as a whole. As he listens to and hears Jon and Wolfe's suggestions. They're good suggestions...but the Raven Queen helps those who help themselves, and as the gold and black glimmers of possibility fall on them like the most divine stardust, he already suspects she's answered their request the way she wants even before the soul-deep knowledge of her boon comes to him.

She was ever one to hold to her own rules, but she could be equally kind as she could be wrathful, and there was certainty in that. Comfort.

He barely offers a small prayer and word of thanks before she's vanished back to her castles. Her nests.
And now they need to leave. The shadowlands are ever dangerous, especially so close to a Darkland.

His wing arches out from his back to curve behind Jon and pull him in close, and it doesn't stop touching him as Chris casts his Word of Recall to tug them back to the fresh, chilly air of the lakeside camp and their temple refuge.

As if it had all been an odd dream.

Even once there, he doesn't stand, just shifts back with gritted teeth until he's sitting fully on the ground. They all likely needed a moment.

The feeling of deific pressure leaves at once with the echo of birds in flight but the sense of having been touched, having been changed remains in his soul more than in the shimmering droplets still stuck to his skin. The oppressive darkness remains, though, and he's glad with Chris covers them with his wings. When they recede, he can breathe again.

Thank you, he manages silently, a wealth of gratitude he couldn't give voice to in the moment but hopes she can still receive now. It remains as a little golden knot of emotion lodged in his throat as he turns towards the present and the immediate problem.

Chris' chest is still bloody, or looks it with hsi shirt stained dark just under his breastplate.

Wolfe brings the hand that's holding Chris' tightly down against the wound, the back of his hand cool against the torn barrier of fabric over the skin as he awkwardly applies pressure he knows is needed to stem the flow from the angle at which he's sitting, unwilling or unable to let go of Amelia and use both hands. "Can you heal yourself?"

He'll do it in a heartbeat but Chris isn't moments from death or anything so dire, and if Wolfe did heal when Chris still had it in him to do it, Wolfe knows he would get chastised for not using his magic wisely. Its easier to concentrate on caring for Chris' injury in the moment, though, than in how his words still catch in his throat, and how he's trembling just a little not from the battle but from the encounter and the ramifications of what was done, both by their Queen's hand and what Wolfe may have done to himself in saving Jon's life.

It's not for her, the blessing bestowed on the party. It's for Jon and for Wolfe, to help them on their journey to mastery of a language they need to know to survive. She's grateful for that, distantly, because that piece being given to them is going to save them, all of them, headaches and heartache from bruised egos and the metaphorical banging of heads against walls. It should be enough. It is enough.

Why can't she feel like enough?

She's only vaguely aware of the return to the lake. Everything feels far away after their meeting with the Raven Queen, as if the mundane things in life simply don't affect her anymore. Only they do because she notices the tug at her hand when Wolfe reaches for Chris as he should, the cleric is injured and the chill of the air settles over her entire body, not just her face. The land of the living sings around them with birds calling and woodland creatures skittering among the brush and trees not far from where they've set up camp. And... Wolfe's voice? From beside her? He said something, didn't he? Or did she imagine that around the sound of her own breathing in her ears?

Everything feels like too much, suddenly. The Raven Queen, their work in the Shadowfell, the truth of what they are, the breeze, her clothes, Shadow of shadows of mistresses of loyalty, the hand around hers, all of it. Every last bit of it.

Her hands rip away from the others as she struggles to loosen and shove off her boots before she gets to her feet. Her knives and mask fall next, starting a line toward the lake that continues with her bodice, her belts, her shirt, and her pants. By the time her feet touch the cool water the only thing left on her person is a cropped undershirt and her small clothes. She rushes far enough into the water to dunk herself and rinse off the first layer of ash and dust, coming up with a gasp that turns into soft panting as she scrubs at her face. She can't remove everything without soap, but it helps. It's something to focus on that isn't the overwhelming sense of everything that happened in the Shadowfell and helps bring her back to the moment.

Her breathing is steady again when she turns back to look at the others, eyes no longer wide but body still tense as she stands chest-deep in the water. Words aren't there yet either, but she doesn't move to go deeper or to go back under the surface. Things will get better, things will be better, she just needs to bleed out the adrenaline and fear with sensations that can't be mistaken for anything but what they are.

And just like that, they're back on the Material Plane, icy air even colder than the Raven Queen's touch. Her touch, her boon, her presence! The Archivist's mind is feeling with possibilities, curiosity, and a wonder he's rarely associated with anything good. He's stood in the presence of something vast, unknowable, horrifying and beautiful and She had talked to them. Communicated. Granted what they asked for and more gifts on top of that. And she'd never asked for his soul or something terrible in return.

Chris' feathers are Her feathers, and he's in pain and injured, and Amelia's broken, and Wolfe is holding together...

The broken fractures in his own mind buckle as he tips his head back and stares into the sky, white clouds threatening rain or snow or just a chilly day in thin light. There's no eye, but Jon can picture it, the thing filling his soul and slowly leaching out of him.

It begins with a huff, then a giggle, and he's suddenly gone, helpless as manic laughter shakes his thin frame. He's met something terrible and magnificent and it was kind.

He doesn't belong here, he doesn't deserve it, this isn't his world, but it's one he'd wanted for so many years. One he'd hoped his own might be in some deep and desperately small part of himself.

He makes a small grunt of pain when Wolfe presses Chris's own hand back to his wound, and he nods. Mass Cure Wounds takes up the last of his strongest magic for the day, and he sighs for the effort and the relief from the pain and the knowledge that the rest of his family would be healed too. What lingers of the wound will heal when he sleeps, and gods knew he intended to sleep sooner over later.

"Thank you, Wolfe...for saving Jon. And for your support." It's about all he can mutter to his mage before their other partners start crumbling around them.

Amelia dashes off to the water, stripping down as she goes. Chris looks from her to Wolfe and squeezes his hand before letting go. He would likely be better suited, considering his last conversation with their rogue.

Yet as he gets back to one knee, Jon's laughter starts, and it's the kind of laughter he's only heard twice. That record-playing room with their memories that went wrong, and on the roof with Lucian. It twists his stomach, but when he goes to Jon's side, he doesn't try to shush him; he just takes his hand and presses it to his lips.

He's not sure he even needs to ask. "I'm sorry, I know that was probably a lot for all of you. I don't think I could have warned you in a way that would have helped." It's not loud, but he offers it all the same to those who can hear him.

Chris thanks him and Wolfe replies with a pair of kisses, one to his lips and one to his forehead. Something has shifted after all that; the distance he felt between them all last night feels lessened now, even as they're made to split up in care for their other partners.

Even so, it takes Wolfe a calculated minute or two to get himself up off the ground and go after Amelia. She needs a moment without anyone's attention he thinks, and he needs a moment to steel himself against the effort of rising from sitting on the ground. He does finally manage to take his feet, pops in his back and the click of his knees notwithstanding.

"I don't think words can accurately explain how that felt," he agrees gently, glancing at Jon is a bit of worry but if Chris doesn't seem rattled by it, then its probably Jon working through some things. "When you pray for your spells in the morning, I might join you, if thats alright."

They do owe Her so much, and will for the rest of their days. And beyond, hopefully.

He kisses Chris again, this time to his temple, and gives Jon an unobtrusive but nonetheless supportive squeeze to the shoulder. "We'll meet you inside," he says, and turns towards the lake, stooping to gather Amelia's clothes as he goes, the healing spell having done its work for him so well he barely grunts when bending over.

When Amelia turns back to look at them, Wolfe is waiting with her clothes over his arm, smiling gently.

Laughter rings out and it's not a happy sound. Amelia feels it deep in her bones and the shiver that pulls through her after hearing it isn't entirely from the cool water and air around her as it finishes echoing across the lake. The entire experience was far more than anyone but Chris was ready for, though Wolfe seems to be doing better than the rest of them. She watches him from afar, soft with Chris and then Jon, and she finds she needs one more dip beneath the surface to reset herself. It 'fixes' nothing, but it allows her to meet her mage's gaze with something closer to calm than the wild-eyed stare that would have been on her face before it.

She looks between his face and her clothes before slowly making her way out of the water. Again she shivers, arms crossing over her chest so she can rub her arms for a moment before reaching for her pants. It's only once she has them in hand that she realizes--

"I should shower before getting dressed." A beat. "And wash these clothes before I put them back on." Another beat. "Or... something else so Jon doesn't have to deal with my being naked."

A task, something tangible to do. Several somethings. That helps. Focusing on one thing at a time helps, though it's easy to be distracted from the task she set herself to when she actually looks at Wolfe and remembers she hasn't asked him how he is. She needs to know that he's all right after risking himself to save Jon.

"Are you all right, love?" She rests a chilled hand on his cheek. "When you stepped in for Jon, cast that spell, I was so worried. I'm glad you did, but..." Her lips tug into a small frown and her voice drops to a small murmur. "I know it's ridiculous, but I was so afraid I'd turn and find you gone."

Chris and Wolfe both try to offer some sort of comfort because they don't understand, and it just has Jon laughing harder still, tears tracing down his cheeks. He does hear Chris' words, feels Wolfe's hand and his departure. He can't stop, but he does turn to his boyfriend and wrap him in a tight hug, shoving his face into the other man's shoulder and jamming his glasses up against his own face.

The pain across the bridge of his nose and so near to his eyes is grounding and the laughter fades to sobs, then to heavy breathing after a minute or two. "She listened," he manages to say. "She listened to us, spoke to us. Chris, she's listened..."

The hug is a surprise, but not one Chris shies from. He meets how tightly Jon holds him, hoping the grip of his arms will offer some stability to his boyfriend.

It's only once Jon's muffled words come that the pieces come together. This was overwhelming in its own way, but one of manic relief. Compared to the Eye...what must the Raven Queen seem like?

He turns his face to press a kiss to Jon's hair but keeps him tightly pressed to his chest until he indicates he's had enough.

"She did. She will. This is a place of balance." He's said as much to Jon before, but his partner was one to take things with dubious suspicion until he saw it for himself. "The great and terrible, the wonderful things you want to discover are available to you, love...and it'll be a lot harder to be arbitrarily punished for it." He would be safe, as safe as Chris could make him.

"Something tells me you're not what has his attention right now, my love." He leaves off the part about not fathoming how as it doesn't feel appropriate, but it does cross his mind as he wraps his arms around her against the cold.

"I'm alright. I was worried too, to tell you the truth, but I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if harm had come to Jon because I left the area. I don't feel any different from casting, though. From speaking to a God, maybe, but not from the spell." There's soft humor in his tone, bewildered at having met an actual God. He's encountered false ones; Thedas' history is rife with self-proclaimed gods that were just powerful mages trying to grab for more. Even the Maker Wolfe has a sneaking suspicion was a mundane person once, if he wasn't just as story. The Nightmare was the closest being to a God that Wolfe ever came in actual contact with - not Corypheus, as he's sure that ancient magister would be rankled to know - but even that wasn't anything like being in the presence of the Raven Queen.

"What about you? Do you feel better after a dunk in the freezing lake?"

She relaxes a little as Wolfe pulls her close. He still feels like himself, and that helps when combined with his words. She hasn't lost him yet, doesn't have to turn and fight the gods or the world to get him back. Tranquility hasn't taken him, nor has the Raven Queen. He's here. He's safe. He's still hers.

Her eyes fall closed as she holds him, fingers pressing into his back gently. Weeks apart and it still feels natural to reach for him like this, even if the only thing she's seeking is reassurance that he's whole and still hers. "I'm glad you're safe," she murmurs into his shoulder. Her worries aren't all gone, but they can be set aside now that she's certain about his state of being.

The question posed to her is difficult to answer. 'Better' is a relative term and while she feels better than she did in the seconds after they returned, the truth is that she feels so much worse after their meeting with the Raven Queen. It's no one's fault but her own, and she doesn't know how to talk about that. She doesn't know if she wants to yet.

"No, but I feel more settled. I don't feel the need to run off into the woods for a time." That's better, at least? She sighs softly and buries her nose against his chest. "I'm not all right after that. I don't know when I will be or when I'll be able to speak about it. I know I need to, but what She said..."

Shadow of shadows of mistresses of loyalty. But who is she?

Her fingertips grip harder at him. "I wish I had the certainty that her name for you gave. You are a man of love." And she's just a copy, a shadow. Nothing.

"What would give you certainty?" Wolfe asks half rhetorically, pausing a moment, then shifting her clothes over his shoulder and scooping her up with a soft grunt in both arms. "The title She gave me, I think it was already mine, in my heart. I've been told many times I'm made of love and it feels right. I'm fond of it. When She said it, it made me feel as if She really saw me, not just what I am, but who."

He takes her through the doors and towards the showers, adjusting only a little as they go. Despite his tiredness from the battle, he feels like he could carry her to the moon and back if she asked. "I think you are a woman of loyalty, as She said. You'll do anything for those you've chosen to keep. Just because it was true of the woman you were made from doesn't make it any less true for you. You proved it time and again in Duplicity."

Reaching the partition that leads towards the showers, Wolfe presses his forehead against Amelia's, loathe to put her down just yet. "So... What would give you certainty? What do you need to know about yourself that will bring you peace?"

It's a question she knew would come eventually, though she has no idea how to answer it. His certainty in himself brings her warmth, but doesn't help her find her own. His offerings about her don't necessarily help either. She's loyal to her people, she knows that, but the way the Raven Queen phrased her name... it makes her wonder what's more important: the loyalty or the shadow?

"I don't know." She curls into him and wraps her arms more tightly around his arms. Hang how wet her clothes will be as a result, she doesn't care. "She called me a shadow of shadows, too, and that's exactly how I feel. Like I'm a shadow who stands in the shadows of those who were supposed to be important to me. A shadow of the past I was told was mine but isn't. It doesn't matter that I'm loyal to all of you because it doesn't change the fact that I don't know who I am beneath all of that. All of us here are loyal to each other - what about that makes me different? Makes me unique?"

Her stomach twists and knots again, and she trembles against him as she tries to curl so tightly that she could disappear. "It's worse than it ever was in Duplicity. There, at least, I thought I had a past and not feeling right because everything about me was too soft made sense. Now I don't even have that. Now I'm just... lost. A shadow of who I thought I was, of a woman who never had her shit figured out." She shakes her head and sighs heavily.

"I'm sorry, Wolfe. You want to help and all I can think right now is that She was wrong in calling me 'enough' if I'm like this. Things should be better now that you're back, and they are, but I've never felt less settled in myself or my body. And I don't know how to fix that."

"No one ever has their shit figured out." It's said a little wistfully as he leans against the wall, content to hold her to him until she feels the need to pull away. At least she won't freeze now that they're inside. "We can think we do, but there's always going to be something that comes up. Figuring shit out is a lifelong process."

Despite feeling like he could carry her indefinitely, his back believes otherwise, and he's forced to shift so they're in a comfortable tangle on the floor. Somehow, he still manages to keep her in his lap. "Would it be easier to think of the memories you have before Duplicity as those of another life? We've sort of been... reincarnated, in a way, but with memories to guide us. You still have the skills of a talented rogue, the ability to slip into the shadow, and those are yours. You may remember her having them, but they've been passed on to you to do with as you see fit. The experiences of her life inform yours but they don't make your decisions for you. You protected many in a messed up world, you took out a myriad of awful SIN guards, and you - only you - fell in love. Learned to be soft. Learned slowly to relax and live, not just work. I don't know if the woman you came from is capable of that, but you've proven you are."

He kisses her forehead gently, wishing she'd look up at him but refusing to force her. "Shadow of shadows sounds to me like the greatest of shadows, exemplary. What all shadows should strive to be."

There's truth in that last bit, but he is clearly trying to make her laugh, even if its just a little. "Besides, its incredibly bold of you to call our patron Goddess wrong when She's as intimately knowledgeable about our souls -all souls - as anyone on this plane. If even Her saying you're enough won't convince you, then there's no help for it."

He leans down over her, bringing his face close enough that his beard tickles her cheek. "I'll just have to spend the rest of my life with you so I can remind you every single day. Amelia Royer, love of my life, you are more than enough."

Edited (typo) 2025-12-06 21:07 (UTC)

It would be easier, but she's not certain she can believe it. At least not yet. 'Amelia Royer of Ragneux' is a completely different person from her and she doesn't know if she's ready to allow herself to believe that those are her memories when she has no reason to connect with them anymore. She's still trying to come to terms with grieving that that past isn't hers; changing how she thinks so suddenly simply isn't possible.

"Maybe, but I don't know yet. What's happened to us is too complicated to think of in such a simple way." Perhaps she's making more of this than she should, but a solution that feels too good to be true is one that can't be trusted without interrogation. She needs the chance to do that interrogating before she's ready to agree to the idea.

She keeps her head down as he continues, not wanting to argue any of his points. She could, dreams she could make such arguments that he'd believe her in the end, but she doesn't. Even if she'd started, her words would've died in her throat when he professes he'll remind her she's enough for the rest of their days. He loves her, and she hears that in his words too, and that would be enough for her. Even if she didn't feel like enough, her life would be filled with more than enough simply for having his love and having him in her life again. Instead he speaks words that mean so much more to her, that place themselves over her self-doubt and urges it to hush so she can hear him over the sounds of her doubts.

Carefully, slowly, she tips her face to meet his eyes, tears gathered in her own. She presses a palm to his cheek and stares at him, loving him more in this moment than she possibly ever has. Here, curled on the floor of this temple for the goddess who has bound them to this plane and granted them refuge and blessings both. She sits up in his arms, pulling herself closer and barely restraining herself from kissing the life from him in favor of pressing their foreheads together.

"Dreams." She utters the curse in Elven without thinking about it. "I want nothing more than to show you how much I love you without uttering a single word right now. I... I won't, but dreams, Wolfe--" She dips her face to press their lips together in a long, needful kiss. "You're impossible to resist when you speak to my heart like that."

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cw: panic attack

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