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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His scythe and the clasp get respectfully placed on the table, but his breastplate and bloodied clothing are dumped irreverently on the floor. He at least casts Mending on his shirt before he drops it.

The wound is largely closed, more like an open sore rather than a previous stab wound, but he casts one last low-energy healing on himself to scab it over and heads into the showers to seek the bliss of hot water.

“Blink dogs teleport and are as smart as an average person. They have pups and firmly warned us away. I’ve just enough magic left to conjure food, but if you want flavor, you’ll need to go find it.” Chris calls over the spray.

“We can buy some things to help with spices when we go to town tomorrow.” At least, he assumed that was the plan. Everyone had seemed so antsy to leave yesterday, he wasn't going to try to argue and start more fights when it finally felt a little like some footing was regained.

“I’ll do the laundry when I get out.” He calls again.

Jon emerges from the room dressed in a long dark robe, carrying his clothes to set them near the wash basin and gathers Chris' things along the way, as well. He'd considered going with the more 'modern' attire the wardrobe offered, but if they're just going to be in here, maybe he ought to try out something different. Something... 'fantasy.'

"Don't we have a ridiculous amount of smoked fish from that monstrosity Chris caught yesterday?" He lifts a brow at Amelia. "I'm sure we could make do with that for now. We'll want to eat it before it goes off, anyway. It's not like refrigeration is a thing here." Probably. Maybe? Maybe they have it in the sense of ice spells or magical items? And Chris had said they have plumbing...

"Its fish jerky, not smoked. It'll last a good long while. A couple months, actually," Wolfe corrects, looking over at Jon and stopping a bit short as he takes in the ensemble, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. "That suits you quite well. You could pass for a Circle mage."

Not that there are any in Faerûn, nor would he wish it on Jon, let alone his worst enemies, but the look is right. But none of that has to do with blink dogs. He turns back towards the showers, playfully indignant.

"You mean to tell me that there are Mabari-level intelligent dogs that can teleport and never told me? And there are puppies nearby?!" Of course he's aware if the dogs themselves warned them away they should leave them be, but it wars with his desire to see what native dogs are like.

Patience, though, huffs and pointedly sits on his foot, looking up at him moodily for scratches. He obliges, crouching down and ruffling her jowels. "Aww, my girl, are you jealous? You'll always be my first love."

She huffs again, as if to say damn right.

"It's better we start keeping things like the jerky on hand while we travel. The game around here is plentiful enough that another round of hunting will be easy." Everything will be better when they have spices on hand, but even a plain meat stew is better than bland foods.

Amelia's eyes flick to Jon when he emerges in his robe and she quickly decides not to comment. The clothes look well in him and she doesn't want to say that or have her words misinterpreted. Better to say nothing.

"Wolfe," she chides as the conversation continues. "We are not getting a puppy, certainly not before we've done our quest for Mystra. We have enough to do as it is. Besides, I love our family as it is. The girls already complete us, and I don't need anyone else trying to tell me what to do when Patience takes care of that every day."

Puppies also mean more need than what they already have with their small menagerie. Amelia would be happy to not add to that.

He decidedly does not comment on the dog discourse or why he hadn't mentioned blink dogs. He hadn't really mentioned displacer beasts either, and both for a reason.

Instead, he focuses on the warm water and the feeling of soap scrubbing away the blood and filth so he's perfectly clean, if moving a little tenderly, when he emerges in no more than his towel. He should have gone and fetched clothes first, but oh well. He stands, hip cocked near the showers, idly watching the conversation. It was...nice. Almost normal. Funny how they could have a distinctly more pleasant day with a bit of monster fighting and some members of their party blowing off a bit of steam.

Jon just nods at Amelia's chiding. Too right. They have enough of a pack already. "I also have a hard enough time keeping track of our winged beasts. We don't need something that can be anywhere it sets its mind on." And a puppy would be be even more trouble, like a toddler who didn't actually need thumbs.

"In any case, if you're going out for 'game,' please don't bring back one of the Furbies. Or whatever Chris was calling them. Surely there have to be normal rabbits around." Surely. "They're-" He sighs. "They look like a toy from my world. An incredibly uncanny and unsettling toy. I'd rather not think about eating them."

His attention shifts briefly when he hears the shower turn off, and he looks over at Chris just watching them. Maybe he should go fetch the man some clothes?

"I wouldn't dare take a puppy from its family unless they were bred for that. Its entirely different if they're wild," Wolfe says indignantly, playing it up for the humor and the camaraderie through the room. He's noted Chris standing and watching as he does sometimes, like he's trying to memorize the moment, and far be it from Wolfe to ruin that.

"If you want a hunt, Love, go ahead. I'm sure the girls will enjoy the exercise. Just try and get something that agrees with our archivist's delicate 'modern' sensibilities." He gives the jab with a cheeky smile, clearly making fun in a joking sense and not meaning anything truly disparaging by it. "I do wonder if we couldn't use one extra day just to relax before getting on with making some coin, though? Chris, you were injured, and we've all been through the ringer the last few days. We should also probably go over anything cultural we should know that's unique to Faerûn over other worlds that would just be a given. Races and societies and such. I imagine there is a lot of that to learn."

"And yet you perked up when puppies were mentioned. Don't think I didn't see that hint to your smile." She knows you far too well to miss that, Wolfe. She's still teasing, but she knows she had a fair concern when it comes to her lover and any dogs.

"I could use a day after that battle as well," she chimes in, leaving aside the talk of hunting for now. Her gaze moves to Chris. "I'll need time to alter more clothes for Wolfe and rest, and another day for our men to study more Common would do them well in case we're separated at all in the city." She holds up a finger to pause any interjection. "I also owe my own clothes and leathers some care if we're going to be entering fights in Bastila. I wasn't injured as seriously, but my garb would suggest otherwise."

She still can't believe she got distracted so soundly in the middle of the battle. A chance to gather her focus ahead of fighting similar to what 'she' did in Ragneux with the Family would be helpful, too. The time will give her a chance to choose a name, too, since anything she's come up with so far would only add to the distractions in her mind.

Chris puts a hand up in defense and waves away the reasons as he walks across the temple towards one of the rooms.

“Alright, alright, I don’t need convincing I just knew last that we were leaving. We can stay another day, Bastila’s not headed anywhere.”

He shoots Amelia a small smile and shakes his head. “Happy hunting, love, avoid the Binxes for Jon’s sake, there’s bound to be rabbits or ducks about. I’m going to dress and then…rest a moment or two.”

He still needed to attend the laundry unless he could cite getting stabbed and make Wolfe do it.

Jon is, admittedly surprised at everyone wanting to stay another day. It finally feels like they have some momentum. There's learning, excitement, prey to be found away from this place. The scraps he's picking up from the dead aren't enough. He needs more, and no one is acceptable here apart from Chris... and the cleric needs to be left to recover, himself. There are still a few Statements he hasn't recorded from Duplicity. He can... do that. There's some instinctual part of him that's disappointed, craving what he knows he can't- shouldn't have.

"If you're resting, then I can see to the laundry." At least that might take his mind off the sudden recalibration it's having to adjust to. "And we can discuss what our cover story is, in the event anyone asks who we are and where we're from. We have the whole day, though. It's not even noon. Maybe we should see how we're feeling come evening. We don't want the automatic translation effect to wear off before we have a chance to talk with people. Ideally."

Maybe just a small nudge toward moving. Jon's eager to study, as well, but surely he can do that in the city between rounds in their arena. There are two real books in the Archivist's bag, both from Chris and Faerun. They'll serve to practice his Common.

He heads to the wash basin and moves to dunk the cloths collected by it.

"I know you're eager, Jon, but there are still a few conversations to have, even beyond the cultural knowledge we're lacking," conversations that he needs to have with Chris and that he and Amelia have to have with Chris. "But mostly Amelia asked for another day, so we take another day. It would be the same for any one of us asking for that time. Besides, it would be a waste to leave the temple here to stay in some inn in Bastila we can barely afford. It does last a good 24 hours."

He glances at Chris. "Should we do something about your appearance before we go, by the way? I mean, you do look like yourself, and you said you've fought there before. Might you be recognized?"

Amelia nods to Chris before disappearing into the room with the wardrobe, her pack in hand. Unlike the men in this temple, she knows she has to change out of the temple's clothes before leaving the temple. Not that she knows they've all managed to 'ruin' the temple's conjured clothes like that, but she doesn't feel the desire to go hunting completely naked.

She reappears a few minutes later and softly calls the girls to her, giving them each scratches behind the ears. Patience has already gleaned that they're going to be going outside and is eager to go. "Have a care with my shirt when it's washed," she calls to Jon as she kisses Wolfe on the cheek. "It has a few holes in it I need to repair later." Her mage gets a smile before she moves to the cleric to peck him on the cheek as well. Jon gets a brief wave as she makes her way to the door.

"I'll be back within the hour, with no Binxes in hand." Her lips tug into a brief smirk as she opens the temple and ushers the dogs out ahead of her. The group of men gets another brief wave before she steps outside to leave them to their washing and conversations. It'll be good to clear her head and be productive for a while - and to not pass out until after she's eaten.

Chris again smiles to Amelia for the kiss she leaves him once he’s dressed in a tight undershirt and loose pants, then goes to the couch to lie down on it with some care. After another thought, he whistles to Little Thunder to have her follow the rogue out before the door can shut. Better she get some time to stretch her wings.

“You don’t need to do the washing, Jon, I’ll do it later,” Chris calls to his partner. To his other love, he rolls his head to look at Wolfe.

“I’ll prepare a spell that will disguise me, not to worry. As for culture things…I admit I struggle to think of what needs covering when I know it inherently.

“Elves are often aloof, tall beings who live hundreds of years. Dwarves will seem friendlier but also often hold a distance due to culture and living so long. They’re more straightforward whereas elves are often poetic. Tieflings are slow to trust because a lot have dealt with racist shit, Halflings are fun-loving and often kind, but there are those who’ll use that reputation to cheat people. No matter the shapes and sizes, skin, scale, and fur, they’re all people. I can give you broad strokes but it won’t apply to everyone you meet.”

Edited 2025-12-12 06:33 (UTC)

He waves back to Amelia, feeling only a touch awkward. It feels like something Martin would do, and he’s not sure how to feel about that. Some kind of way. But best not to dwell on the loss when there’s far too much of it to handle. They’ll all be spending a lifetime unpacking that. Eventually. Maybe.

“I can do it,” Jon insists when Chris waves him off the chore. He fetches the soap and pushes his sleeves up so that he can start working… sort of. So he can at least make an attempt. “And I just think we can do a lot today still. Set off in the morning…” Just leaving that there again.

“As for relevant information… should we know that Melvaunt’s been destroyed? Should we know any of the politics of the region? Who’s in charge, which names or places it might be a bad idea to mention.”

Edited 2025-12-13 02:04 (UTC)

Amelia's kiss to his cheek is met with a more openly affectionate one to her lips, as if he's trying to fortify her until she returns. Maybe he is, not because he thinks she needs it but instead because he wants to give it to her.

Once she's taken the girls and slipped out, he turns back to the sofa and promptly lifts Chris's legs so he can plot back down and drape them over his lap. He briefly considered picking Chris up wholesale and interposing himself but this is less invasive considering where they were with each other yesterday. Even so, its taking all he has not to just blurt out what he and Amelia talked about, but he shouldn't without her present. Somehow Jon rolling his eyes or worse, being legitimately uncomfortable or disparaging about it, in reaction also would feel worse to him right now. Better to just get comfortable.

"Well, we're not to say we're from Mulmaster, I know that much." He was listening every time Chris talked about the Moonsea. "You say elves are tall, as a rule? And live a long time? Practically the opposite of what I'm used to, then. And for dwarves, are all the ones who live on the surface outcasts? Or can yours come and go from their mountain as they please? I would hope the latter as your world seems like a much kinder one."

He runs his fingers through his beard for a moment, thinking, as he places his other hand on Chris' leg and absently runs his thumb gently back and forth over the fabric under his touch. "Well, where would how we sound mark us as being from? Could we pass as being from wherever that is? Unless we just want to be open about having come from other worlds, but I would assume people will think we're insane if we said that. It would make it easier to explain any gaps in our common knowledge though."

Chris makes a small sound of surprise at having his legs lifted, but doesn't protest the rearrangement. If anything, he settles in where he's lying more. If Jon was going to stubbornly insist, Chris wasn't going to fight back too much.

"We can know Melvaunt was destroyed, it was about nine months ago, word around here has travelled. As for what you all sound like, you both sound as if you're nobility; the Sword Coast often has your sort of accent, so the nobles around here emulate it too...but don't say you're from the Sword Coast, they apparently had some Illithid shit happen recently, according to Astarion, and I don't know enough about it to sell the story."

What would work? Zehntil Keep was too insular. Phlan could work, or maybe Hulsburg, but what if someone asked about the politics or recent goings-on, or if one of them slipped and said something that didn't make sense?

"Just...just say you're third or fourth nobility from the Heartlands, traveled through Teshwave on the Moonsea. There, you picked up a local guide, and your travels have taken you north. The Heartlands is varied enough that any inconsistencies can be waved off, and that slight accent Amelia's got won't be pondered over too much. As for who and what you should know, the Varm, Vaeguld, and Veld of the Ride are nomadic barbarian groups that largely rule there, so far as anyone rules the land. Springmeadow, Whitbell, and Bastila are the only established towns on the Ride up until Ilinivur, where all you need to know for sure is that it's run by a council. The Head Speaker for it is named Elilah Soliell. The rest I'll tell you later, but as traveling nobility, no one would expect you to know everything about the area anyway. And...why you're dressed as you are is to dissuade bandits."

He shrugs lightly. "I don't know first thing about Planeswalkers and how they tend to introduce themselves, but I think announcing you're from a different plane from the top is unwise for a number of reasons."

Jon glances up to see Chris with his legs on Wolfe and there's some fleeting moment of envy before he sets it aside. Wolfe has been trapped away from them, having sex with dying people for weeks on end. He deserves that closeness. Not to mention he'd saved the Archivist from what could have been a nasty scratch or bite. Jon certainly hadn't acquitted himself half so well in the Shadowfell. If he were better fed, maybe he could-

No. He shouldn't be thinking like that anymore.

"I imagine we'll be in trouble if we're asking for the head of a council." The idea of just ringing round to the local MP is mad enough. Then again, with Chris being actual nobility, maybe he's done that sort of thing. Jon shakes his head slightly to himself as he starts scrubbing. "Is your man Gideon part of it, though?" If he's some powerful member of the city, it stands to reason he might have some political influence.

"I suppose the other thing is... is Jon a normal name? Or Wolfe? Amelia? You said your own name is unique in this world, but it's common in mine. I don't mind having a 'unique' name here, but if we're trying to be discreet for the moment and need to pick something else while we're in Bastila, it would be good to know now."

"Its easier to sell a lie if its half true. I'll just go with minor and unseated nobility for myself," he says with a shrug. He's had plenty of practice laying low and keeping his identity a secret. This will be easier than that, even. Mostly. "I don't particularly want to give up my name though."

Adalwolfe Hawke, as archaic as his first name is, remains as the last connection to his home. His magic will be gone soon, replace by another version; his own family and friends were either never his or can't be anymore as he's now someone else, depending on how you look at it. But the name still feels like him and he suddenly feels a bit defensive at the idea of leaving that behind. Its one thing to leave his world, another to leave himself behind entirely.

"It sounded to me like Gideon was the sort of person that we could tell our peculiar origins, though, yes? I mean you wouldn't have suggested him as an option still if he wouldn't believe us or would call the guard immediately or something." Wolfe looks at Chris' face, expression turning slightly less jovial and more concerned as a thought occurs to him. "...Providing we can convince him of who you are? How do you intend to play that?"

Chris shrugs again. He'd asked for city leadership before, but that had been a perk of his standing they couldn't rely on now. Regardless, it didn't seem too weird to him.

"Gideon is part of the council, yes. He's the head of magical affairs. I don't intend to call on him at the council's meeting place, though; I intend to ask for a meeting with him at the magic school. I won't pretend to be anyone but myself...and then, once we're up with him, I'll ask him to cast a Circle of Truth and won't resist. He won't have any choice but to know I'm telling the truth, no matter how wild."

And it would be wild. Gideon would ask questions, want to know finer details until he was satisfied it wasn't some sort of modified memory spell or something... but he'd listen. Chris was sure of that much.

"As for your names, you don't have to change them. Jon can still be short for something, just not Jonathan. Maybe Joavan? That's a common enough name around here. Wolfe, too, is fine so long as you leave off the full version. Amelia ought be fine as well."

He didn't know many Amelias, but not none. Besides, if they're from further away from here, who was going to question them that intensely anyway?

"I think, with exception to Gideon, we need only half-lie to get what we need in civil places. Most won't ask as long as we keep our heads down."

Jon makes a face at 'Joavan.' He refrains from asking how you would even get that nickname from it, though. He's known at least one 'Margaret' who went by 'Peggy.' If they don't need to hide their names, though, he's fine with that. He's not especially tied to 'Sims' as a surname, and as long as people call him 'Jon,' that's sufficient. Jonathan will have to be reserved for Chris for when he's in trouble. His mind jumps briefly to Elias, one of the only other people in his life who'd used his full name every so often. In a much different context, thank god.

"Right. Well, I'm happy to say I'm your scribe, or something. Saves me actually having to pretend I'm some sort of noble." And whatever manners or rules might come with it. "Kirkwall sounds more like a town here than London probably does, if we want to say we're from there, if anyone presses for specifics." Hopefully, they won't.

"And Amelia can be your bodyguard. Oh, Lord Hawke."

Jon calls him 'Lord' Hawke again and he only barely suppresses the grimace because he knows its sarcasm. "I think if I'm to be "Lord" anything it should be Lord Wolfe. Lord Hawke is still in Thedas."

Shifting a little, he tries to see both of the other men at once with only modest success. "And bodyguard could work. So could wife."

He almost doesn't say it, but the thought bubbles out of his mouth before he can think the better of it for the timing. It is horrific timing for a myriad of reasons but it makes him so boyish happy that currently he doesn't much care that Amelia's penchant for awful timing may be rubbing off on him.

He nods vaguely to Jon's suggestion of scribe. That would work too; no reason a scribe couldn't sound as prissy as his master. "Kirkwall's fine. Small enough to not warrant being on a map, recently founded, whatever makes most sense to whoever's asking."

He looks over at Wolfe, where his legs are still over the mage's lap, and he can tell there's something pleased with himself for his suggestion, but he assumes it's due to Wolfe's romantic nature. It would probably make Amelia blush, but that was fine, too.

"Sure. Might be better, even, people will be more likely to think her a noble as well and not suspect she might be a capable fighter and rogue. So long as everyone agrees, the details are whatever we like."

And hopefully, they could decide on them soon; it was barely noon, but he felt he could sleep for a few hours at least. Too much magic expended in one day after so long barely using even half, probably.

Jon's expression flickers momentarily to irritation. He doesn't want to have the same argument with Wolfe that blew everything up with Amelia, but it grates at him. This isn't a fight worth having, he reminds himself. He tells himself. He warns himself. There's no winning it and everyone's in a better state than they were yesterday. It would be kind to give them at least a day before he starts arguing.

There's also something oddly gleeful about the mage's suggestion of pretending to be married to Amelia. Jon knows he deserves some of that. So, he swallows down the part of himself that wants to snap that Lord Hawke is here and in Thedas, and carries on washing. The scrubbing is hard on his arms, but he's not giving up just yet.

"Couldn't you actually get married? I mean, you have that Ceremony spell thing, don't you?" His gaze shifts to Chris.

Wolfe runs his hands down his face. He was too casual in mentioning it, thats what it was, but Jon's comment at least gets them to the same place. Its a good thing he doesn't know what Jon is uncharitably thinking of him or that might derail the whole conversation.

"Yes, that's. That's what I was implying," Wolfe looks at Chris meaningfully. "Nothing is stopping any of us now, and Amelia and I were talking..."

He gestures as if that says it all, then considers that Chris is both very literal sometimes, and very tired now. "Those of us who want to marry each other should. We can talk about it after we've rested, but I wanted to put it out there for us all."

Oh…yes, he could cast that at any moment. Say the words he’d said to marry Sasha and Tim and make it official as any court record.

He’d very nearly forgotten with everything else that his stipulation of simply not being in Duplicity to do the deed was met.

His thoughts go to Wolfe and to Jon, who he’d thought he’d need to make wait longer until he sorted things with Ra’ah and Kallian…who now had no care or say over who Chris tied himself too. They weren’t his fiancés. They weren’t his anymore at all.

His thoughts go to Jacob, who he’d talked at length with about a domestic life. A grand ‘what if’ including running a gang and protecting a city and children. A ‘what if’ neither of them had likely thought actually possible.

And if he’d known it had been their only chance? If he’d known then what he did now…he’d have bound himself to all three of them much sooner. Seen Jon married to Martin too. He’d have encouraged a lot more that he’d discouraged in the name of waiting for a better, more deserving, location.

Wasn’t that always his problem? Planning and waiting and planning and waiting too long. Too late.

Chris moves slowly, but extracts himself enough to sit up again so he can look between his boys.

“Good. Then I don’t think you should wait. You’ve waited plenty by my counting…I can’t today any longer, but as soon else as you’d both like, I’d be more’n happy to see it done.”

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