go back your strength
media: dungeons & dragons (personal campaign)
originally published: february 2020
word count: 2502
notes: reides finds his strength in the spells that he brings forth from his fingertips. the world may not be a kind place, but the good within it is worth protecting - and he'll do his best to help it in whatever way he can.
it bears being said: you have taken life before.
in self-defense, mind you. but it counts. less-than-pleasant creatures settle in the sea - as do pleasant creatures who are simply looking for their next meal. naturally, you weren’t exactly keen on becoming anyone’s supper… no matter how lovely they would’ve been with a full belly. you quickly understood the notion of it’s me or you. when you couldn’t swim away fast enough, your frost always protected you.
but you never really hunted, did you? well, that’s not entirely your fault. your brother would shove a sword in your hand and that would be the end of that.
you think of him and smile, though the expression is devoid of joy; more wry than anything else. it’s been weeks since you last saw him - since you last saw any of them. you sometimes wonder what they must say. the princeling born of a storm: so smothered that he tore his own life apart. that suits you just fine. that life never fit you, anyway. your regalia comes to mind - bulky and cumbersome; perpetually weighing you down until you finally cast it aside. they must deem you naive for all you’ve done. selfish, too. and maybe they’re right. but you realized a long time ago that no one truly understands how the world looks from your eyes. and as you stand with solid earth beneath your feet, you realize that this will somehow end up becoming your strength.
you get accustomed to the way the surfacers stare at you, and, sometimes, you find yourself staring at them, too. you suppose you can’t quite say you’re no one to them - you stick out like a sore thumb and gave up on trying to conceal yourself within hours of docking at the port. and yet: you’re not reides aurelian yon-zinthos kien-khavas laverath. you’re not the storm prince. you’re titleless. nameless. and the people who ask for your name don’t necessarily get to hear it. you walk and you read and you drink. you write and you discover and you drift. at times, things are so interesting that you feel as if your heart will burst. the words from the surfacer on the ship are still in your head, of course. a mantra, an anchor: there’s bad people out there. it’s obvious, yet still you put your faith in the kindness of strangers.
when one such stranger mentions brigands, lurking about the outskirts of the port - robbing innocents of their funds or their lives or their funds and their lives - you find yourself thinking. she’s willing to pay to have them dealt with and you could do with some money, you suppose. but more than that: this place has been good to you. you’ve done small jobs here and there to make ends meet, and this is just another type of job, isn’t it? the way the stranger’s face lights up when you agree to help dispels any reservations you may have about the situation. she says it means a lot; that her sister lost a cherished family heirloom to one of those ruffians. a necklace. a string of pearls. better to lose that than her life, the stranger prattles on, but you can’t hear her anymore. lotlyn comes to the forefront of your mind.
you suppose you’re in for it, now.
you search and you ask questions. port valor isn’t exactly the safest place, despite how light on your feet it’s made you feel as of late. you wonder if you’ll end up taking down the wrong group of people on more than one occasion; it’s a very possible outcome. from what you gather, the brigands in question don’t seem particularly special but their operation is erratic. they strike in the middle of the day or in the middle of the night, from one place or another - only showing themselves to those who can’t defend themselves. it makes them hard to pin down, and the guards seem to have bigger things to worry about than run-of-the-mill bandits. you manage to find some of their victims and learn that there’s only a handful of them. three or four nondescript humans who could be just about anyone, really... save for one man who’s supposedly got a sharp golden tooth, so large that it’s always peeking right out of his mouth.
it’s as good a lead as any.
you truly hit the mark when you meet someone who knows them. knows where they reconvene - where they rest their heads when they’re not holding up innocents. it’s ideal, really, and you meet everything he says with a large share of enthusiasm. he’s a sailor, heading out of port soon, and is no stranger to combat. we’ll make quick work of them, he says. couldn’t do it on my own, but you’ll be more than enough help. and you think of how happy the woman will be when you tell her that you managed to get those pearls back.
maybe if you ask them nicely, they’ll kindly pack up their operation and head elsewhere. reform. take up some sort of profession that doesn’t feature quite this level of criminal activity. you bring up the option to the sailor and he looks at you a bit funny - laughs in a strained sort of way as he directs you down an alleyway. it’s dark and smells of piss and puke. not exactly an ideal place to rest.
you’re about to comment on this when you’re shoved so hard, you lose your breath - and your footing. a hand covers your mouth and an arm grips you in place.
it vaguely occurs to you that you probably asked the locals too many questions.
there’s bad people out there.
you writhe and you elbow and, you, ultimately, bite - and the man’s grip loosens on you as a stream of colourful swears pours from his mouth. you hit the ground, the metallic taste of blood strong on your tongue. you spit, backing up as you reach for your spellbook. you hear voices; other voices.
“oi! the hells are ya doin’?!”
“the plan was to lure him in and - oh, blight it all!”
the man - who wasn’t a sailor at all, you suppose - is clutching his hand.
“the - that thing, he fuckin’ — he bit me!”
you’re on your feet, spellbook in hand. and, sure enough, three more men have appeared from the depths of the piss-and-puke alleyway. you don’t know if it’s the group in question - not until you see the light of the moon catch on the face of one of them. the tooth; the golden tooth.
they’ve set you up, and you realize:
you’re stupid.
but that’s okay, because you’ve finally managed to find them.
“i’ll do more than bite you,” you say, and it’s such a strange threat that you almost laugh. the unmistakable glint of a blade catches your eye, though, so you decide against making conversation. instead, you’ll let one of your spells do the talking.
magic isn’t quite the same, up here on the surface. ice doesn’t come to your fingertips quite as easily as it did back in the depths of the sea. yet it feels sharper, somehow. more distinct. your mind clears and you draw water out from the air around you. it was always there, you think. just not able to be seen as clearly. you help it to be seen. it helps to protect you. an even trade.
the shard forms and you waste no time. you direct it towards the man who deceived you; who grabbed you. the ice tears into his legs easily and he screams out in pain - falling to the ground. and the shard shatters, sending sharp splinters into those behind him.
those three cry out, too. but they don’t fall. one lunges at you, and you dive out of the way - the movement more reflexive than anything else. another takes a swing at you with his sword. the blade is too bright for these surroundings; too well-maintained. it was stolen, you figure. at least that probably means he doesn’t know how to use it all that well. it’s a hypothesis with instant support: you’re able to dodge the swing, too.
yet the gold-toothed man rushes towards you and you’re not quick enough to avoid him. he slams into you and you’re launched backwards, hitting the ground so hard that you lose your breath and - for a moment - can’t seem to remember how to find it.
but you remember your magic. you remember the ice. and that’s good enough.
you don’t bother with ice knife. rather, something more familiar comes to you. you whisper those words you know well and white-blue light overflows from you. frost spills, engulfing the ruffian with the overly-fancy blade. he becomes sluggish, leaning against the alleyway wall - and you know he’s not going to draw that blade against you again.
his companion panics; he lunges for you once more. but he’s still not quick enough; you roll out of the way and that’s that.
they really don’t seem to know what they’re doing. not for the most part, at least. it’s no wonder that they only targeted defenseless people.
“you fish-freak,” the gold-toothed man grumbles, and you wonder if he’s their leader. he’s certainly bulkier than them - muscular and scarred, with oddly wild eyes. “i’ll make you wish you were back in the fuckin’ sea.”
you’re still not up on your feet and he’s bringing his fists down on you. there’s a spike of emotion in your chest. it’s an emotion with heat and hesitance and desperation: you’re quick to identify it as fear. the blow should connect. yet - through your fear - you hold up your hand, and magical energy enshrouds you. it shields you; keeps you safe.
and it disorients him.
“what -”
you take advantage of his confusion and find your confidence once more. these odds weren’t so great from the start… but they’re getting better. you form another shard of ice and send it towards the gold-toothed ruffian.
this time, you don’t take aim. this time, you’re backed into a corner. and everything you’ve been through in your life thus far serves to prove that you don’t do too well when backed into corners.
your ice knife pierces right through his chest - sends him reeling backwards. he clutches at the gaping wound as he falls, words coming out of his mouth in an incoherent garble before drowning out in silence. his blood looks more like ink in the moonlight.
splinters of ice hit the remaining ruffian. he’s bleeding, too; his breathing has gone ragged. he stares at you as you stand once more. wide-eyed. incredulous. you knocked out two of his companions and killed the other.
you were targeted. underestimated. that much is obvious.
“i think it’s about time you stopped living like this,” you say, and your voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to you. your hands are shaking, gripping your spellbook tightly. but you don’t think that the man can tell how hesitant you are.
still: he isn’t in any position to complain - and he doesn’t.
he nods, frantic, before shoving right past you and scrambling out of the alleyway… running so fast that he almost trips over his own feet. should you be trying to stop him? you know that the surviving brigands likely face a prison sentence, at best. they deserve it, but you remember being locked away and fear wells up in your throat.
this isn’t the time to think about that.
there’s bad people out there.
you decide against giving chase.
you’re not sure how long you stand there - in that disgusting alleyway that smells of puke and piss and, now, blood. you don’t regret what you’ve done. it was them or you, and you weren’t about to meet your end in a gross place like this. especially not by the hands of people who would treat others with such cruelty.
but it feels... different, somehow. taking the life of a person - it’s far different than taking the life of a creature, deep in the sea. you breathe in; breathe out.
everything’s fine, now.
everything’s fine.
you don’t look at the gold-toothed man’s corpse, but you give the other two bandits a cursory glance. they’re out cold but are definitely still breathing.
and maybe it’s foolish - maybe you should be finding the guards - but you walk past the bandits. you head down the alleyway until you meet its dead end. you’ve come too far to not satisfy your own curiosity, now. the space is littered with empty bottles and other bits of rubbish. some sacks are strewn haphazardly about. none are full, but, as you peek inside of one, a string of pearls stares back up at you.
seems like you found the stolen items. or, at least, the ones that weren’t sold off.
you think of the kind stranger and her sister as you tug the sacks over your shoulders.
the guards deal with the alleyway. there’s no big ceremony to it - for them, it’s just another day on the job. they take the stolen goods, including the sword that the brigand tried to slash you with. however, you offer to return the string of pearls to the woman. after all, she’s the reason why you got caught up in this. the guards are hesitant to trust you, at first, but end up giving in.
apparently, you’re actually quite okay at talking to people.
you meet the woman again the following morning. she’s slack-jawed when she sees you and looks like she’ll pass clean out when you hand her the string of pearls. they’re in remarkable condition, considering that they’re on the surface and not in the deep sea. you think of the gatherers back in laverathia who’d harvest these for your family; of the pearls that adorn your now-abandoned crown. those shone brighter - looked stronger - but the woman holds her family heirloom in her hands as if it’s the most valuable thing that this world has to offer.
that definitely counts for something.
she’s grateful; admits that she didn’t think you’d be able to pull any of this off. says her sister’s bound to weep with joy. you’re paid and the two of you drink a bit too much firewhiskey. it burns your tongue and you laugh until your stomach hurts. everything that happened last night - the hands that clamped around your mouth, the ink-black blood in the moonlight, the fear - it all melts away in the warmth of the tavern.
you need to become stronger if you want to survive up here on the surface. on your own; far away from your people. you need to learn how to protect that which matters to you, no matter the cost. even if your hands shake. because for all the bad people out there, there’s certainly good people, too. tons of them.
and good people shouldn’t suffer. not if you have any say in it.