What's on your hind--I mean, mind? Mmm.

The moment captured here is special to me. When I made a relationship with Gale an official part of this character's background, I customized a lot of the story in my head. This is how I envisioned Gale's confession would have gone, with a setting personalized to Damaia (and also less to do with his "last night alive", since in my version of events they basically met in Act 3, after Moonrise). He needed some help from Halsin and his druid magic to grow the flowers - but of course in usual Gale style, they were enhanced with constellation-like illusions to make them special.

I don't have a full scene written out for this moment... but in the notes for my current D&D campaign, I occasionally jot down extra moments that I imagine happening "off-screen", and I do have one that pulls from this that I'm actually kind of proud of. There's too many campaign-specific references in it, so putting it here is mainly for me as usual.

But if anyone comes across this and wants some context - on this day in-game my group had just finished a mini arc in Barovia, where Damaia faced old demons, discovered horrible truths about the nature of the Domains of Dread, and believed she inadvertently caused the death of one of her oldest friends. It was a rough day for her, to say the least (also in this campaign our home base is in Sigil, where the only spell that can make contact from another plane is Sending. So I imagine Gale checks in every couple days or so, but no real conversations can be had with that 25 word limit).

* . °•↟ᨒ•°☆☾ ∵ ☽☆°•ᨒ↟•° . *

A Sending message from Gale enters Damaia's mind, sounding playful: Does Ella’s use of evocation have you missing my own days of destruction? I could always return from the soft art of illusion, for you.

She responds with: It’s strange how Sigil has a night despite no sun or sky. I can’t think as clearly anymore when the stars are blocked from view. 

Her tone is somber, almost melancholy, filling Gale with immediate alarm. For the first time since she willingly left Waterdeep, he sends a second Sending: Say the word and I’ll conjure them for you across the realms. I’m sure I could devise a way. <a pause> I am here for you, love.

I’d prefer to see your eyes, actually. And your face. Throw in the head, torso, arms, and legs too, please. <a pause of her own> Thank you. Love you.

Gale is rattled, but her joke makes him feel some amount of ease. His miniscule comfort feels widely inadequate, and it burns him inside to not know what had happened. But he knows she can get through this. She’d proven it time and time again.

As he’s thinking before bed, he realizes he has something he’s never had to use before. A variation of Programmed Illusion, that he managed to permanently cast on Damaia’s union ring but never told her. He’d been saving it for either something special - or a time of need. Which may be right now. 

He casts Sending a third time: If a reminder of my feelings could provide any comfort, speak the greatest words I’ve ever heard from you to your ring with closed palm.

I don’t have time to figure that out before responding, so I’ll say ‘thank you’ now. I bet it’s over the top - and wonderful.

Damaia finds a quiet corner of the sanctum, away from her companions. She thinks it over, and first tries softly saying “You were right, Gale” to her ring. Nothing happens.

She spends a few more minutes wracking her brain, pacing back and forth. Could it be something from their wedding day? She hadn’t spoken any vows during the ceremony, hadn’t wanted to speak her feelings publicly. She did express to him how she felt later in private, but it wasn’t anything fancy or rehearsed. 

She then recalls a special night, in a quiet section of woods outside Baldur’s Gate. Gale had told her something very important, and in a moment of clarity she had responded with words she’d never said before. She repeats them now in a whisper to her ring - “I’m in love with you too.” She sees a glow between the curled fingers of her fist. Gingerly opening her hand, there is an illusion of a blossom from her childhood home, one of the many local flower varieties that Gale had conjured for her that night in the past. Just like then, this illusory version of the flower is enhanced. The veins in the petals glow and pulse, the surface of each glitter with tiny sparkles like stars, giving the impression of linking constellations.

Damaia sinks slowly to the floor, staring at the bloom in her palm. A tear rolls down her cheek - whether a happy or sad one, it’s hard to say. After a few minutes, the flower fades. She clutches her now empty hand gently to her chest, lost in thought on the floor for a bit longer.

It’s strange, how the flower reminds her of multiple things at once. Her childhood, the loss of it; the first time Gale told her he loved her; that period back then of finally dealing with the aftermath of Barovia, and the weight of her new mysterious patron. Her life has changed many times over the years. She’s weathered dark times, but also experienced pure joys. She’s contemplated her true place in the world. She still has so much to learn. 

First of all, words cannot express the amount of talent Nodens has - when I say she understood the assignment, she understood the assignment. Off of just my vague idea she captured exactly what I was picturing for a concept so critical to this beloved character of mine. I am so eternally grateful 🖤 The level of details she achieved is mind blowing, I encourage anyone who finds this to zoom in and see for yourself.

For my own indulgence, I wanted to say how meaningful this piece is to me and my girl. This is part of Damaia's story that my DM has woven into our D&D campaigns, and now after so many years (both in real life and in game) she is closer than ever to a conclusion. She has carried the title of Deathwalker, champion of the Raven Queen, for years without really knowing what it means, and even in our current campaign got startling revelations she (and I) didn't expect. She was basically told she wasn't totally resurrected like she thought, her lifeforce depends on the will of an enigmatic goddess, and her entire existence is a hypocrisy based on that goddesses' hatred for undead.

“A revenant, given life, and yet vengeance still to be attained — what an irregularity you are… you might be the only one of your kind.”

“The champion of one who seeks the end of all undead... if she blessed you, one who was undead — that's very interesting, wouldn't you say?”

The Battle of Yester Hill

The party had woken that day feeling heavy within their hearts, and the weather reflected it. Dark clouds pressed in from above, blocking the little light that was barely able to illuminate the land of Barovia to begin with. The faint sound of thunder made the atmosphere somehow more ominous than usual.

Damaia’s steps along the trail through the thick woods were sure, despite the gloom and the certainty that they would find trouble at their destination. She knew for a fact there would be trouble at Yester Hill, the literal hill on the edge of this domain where evil blights were born; that faint pressure nestled deep in the back of her mind - always there, a second heartbeat behind her eyes - told her so. She had sensed its sudden movement southward almost two days ago, at a worrisome speed. For most of her previous days here she had felt it from the east, tugging invisibly at her like a hooked thread. 

Sure enough, the closer they got to the hill covered with dead grass and cairns of black rock, the greater the tension in her skull became. As they looked to the top of the hill, they saw a wide ring of black boulders and smaller rocks collectively form a makeshift wall enclosing a field of dead grass. Regular lighting strikes at the edge of the ring illuminated a ghastly, enormous statue made of tightly woven twigs and packed with black earth. It resembled a towering, cloaked man with fangs - and its muse could not be more obvious as Strahd von Zarovich himself stood within the ring of stones, atop a fiendish horse with a coal-black coat, glowing red eyes, and flames in place of hair.

When her gaze landed on the vampire, the tightness at the base of Damaia’s skull reached a new peak, almost to the point of pain. The violent desire within her ignited, but just as she was ready to act on it… she heard a whisper. A deep voice carried on the wind. 

“Long have I waited for one who is worthy. My spear hungers for blood. Retrieve it, and rule these mountains in my stead, just like the mighty warriors from the early days of the Whispering Wall.”

Her amber eyes flashed. She, too, hungered for blood. Without a second thought, she took off at a run, a new thread pulling her in a direction that felt right, in her bones. Amongst the two concentric rings of cairns encircling the hillside - each a tall mound of slimy black rocks - just one mound of stone held what she was looking for. 

A figure Damaia had not noticed at Strahd’s side clocked the movement and stepped forward, a lethal looking bow already drawn and nocked with an arrow. She was elvish in appearance, but her skin tone was the telltale dark shade of a drow - an odd sight in a land mostly filled with humans. She fired with impeccable aim, her ammunition finding purchase in Damaia’s side. The tiefling let out a roar of pain, almost indignant; to her there was something offensive about an archer being struck by an enemy's arrow. She stumbled, her running pace faltering.

Behind her, the others were already mobilizing as well: Poksu was moving a safe distance away, and Naiyana placed a Ring of Protection on herself and Bellamy. Meanwhile Bellamy had a plan all her own. The small gnome bent forward, her form rapidly growing and stretching until in her place stood an enormous saber-toothed tiger, much larger than the tiger her friends had grown accustomed to her wildshaping into. Seeing Rictavio (or rather, Rudolph) with his saber-tooth animal companion in Vallaki the other day had clearly given her new inspiration.

The massive beast took off, reaching Damaia in just a few bounds and giving her a pointed nudge on her arm. Understanding quickly, Damaia hoisted herself onto the druid’s now much larger backside, with nothing but fur to cling to with one hand, the other putting pressure on the arrow wound at her side. Bellamy continued her run, allowing Damaia to guide her through tugs on her fur.

Beyond them, the battle of Yester Hill continued. With a muttered incantation, three duplicates of Strahd appeared around him; luckily a quick blast of fire from Naiyana dispelled the false imitations easily. A small cluster of druids, looking much like the ones that they had cleared from the Wizard of Wines vineyard, were occupied with a chant next to the horrible wooden statue. They moved about rhythmically together, repeating strange words and gesturing to the effigy in what appeared to be a kind of ritual.

Damaia shouted for Bellamy to stop in front of one of the cairns. The spear the whispered voice spoke of, she could feel it there, buried under the rocks. Still half frenzied, she threw herself from the tiger’s back and began shoving rocks aside. They were by no means light, but the adrenaline coursing through her allowed her to quickly roll them away. The pain emanating from the protruding arrow in her forgotten, she worked till an earthen grave was revealed, hidden under the cover of sod and dead grass. Using only her fingers, Damaia hurriedly dug through the dirt until she hit something hard. 

There in the soil lay a set of bones, crusted with mold that must have been growing for centuries. Skeletal fingers were still grasped around the handle of a spear stained with blood. The jagged edges of its tip spoke to a life of heavy use, of merciless hunting and brutal killing. As Damaia reached for it, that new pull on her mind whispered to her again: Kavan. She could almost see the barbarian chieftain, ruling his ruthless tribe in the mountains long before the devil ever came to these lands. Moving in the night, drinking the spilled blood of his prey and letting it fuel his stamina with revitalized life.

She gripped the spear, pulling it free of its former master, and the earth began to erupt around her. The other graves beneath the cairns were being undug, this time from the inside. Wild-looking, half decayed figures caked head to toe in bluish-gray mud clawed their way to the surface. They clutched crude stone axes, their hair long and tangled and their eyes wild with pent up violence. Those eyes, six sets of them, were locked onto Damaia, expectant. 

The original hook in her mind was still tugging, persistent and familiar, and she turned to its source. Pointing the spear at Strahd, and the others who occupied the center ring atop the hill with him, she snarled in a voice almost not her own, “Kill them all.” 

Without hesitation, the horde moved in an enraged frenzy up the hill. Strahd’s eyes narrowed in displeasure, and with a raised hand he brought down some of the ongoing storm’s lightning to strike at the new threats rushing toward him, though it did not do enough to slow them down. The drow archer registered the disadvantage she would be at in hand-to-hand combat and made to retreat - but the swarm of berserker warriors caught her quickly. Despite her call for blood, even Damaia watched in horror as they brutally ripped the drow’s head clean off of her body before whipping around to find another viable target.

Strahd pulled the reins of his nightmare and it ascended to the air, conveniently out of reach of the berserkers below. The druids within the stone circle continued to chant and dance around his wooden statue, showing no signs of stopping despite the chaos around them. Without a care for their survival, the vampire above them hurled a massive fireball into the circle, killing all but the eldest looking druid and at least half of the barbarian warriors.

The party persisted, Bellamy using her saber-toothed form to rush into the fray, Damaia rapidly firing her arrows, Naiyana wielding her divine magic. Poksu noticed something at the south end of the hilltop - a sickly copse, a grove of dead trees and shrubs with a huge, misshapen tree at its core. Blood oozed like sap from its twisted trunk, embedded with a shiny battleaxe. Most concerning were the gangly, needle-covered humanoid creatures skulking around its base: blights. 

Poksu pulled out the staff they had recovered from the body of a druid at the vineyard; a spongy, black length of wood. Made from the branch of the Gulthias tree, where the first blights originated from - perhaps the very tree located at this hilltop. He eyed the lurking blights again, gripping the staff more firmly. He had an idea.

The elder druid within the stone circle continued his chant, and his efforts alone were enough to complete the twisted ritual. Suddenly an enormous plant-like creature burst out of the wooden statue, sending twigs and earth flying. It resembled a dead treant, with green light seeping out of its chest. Its nature paralleled the much smaller blights still shuffling amongst the dead trees and shrubs across the hilltop, with its spongy wooden flesh, thorny branches, and rubbery roots trailing behind.

Seeing his chance, Poksu raised the rotten wood staff into the air with a hand on both ends, forcefully bringing them downward so that it snapped in half with a loud crack! 

From within the blackened wood came a terrible, inhuman scream, loud enough to be heard all the way to the forests surrounding the hilltop. The blood-soaked, ancient tree monster had only taken a few lumbering steps when it instantly withered at the sound, its roots and branches shriveling and curling inward until it looked as innocuous as an ordinary dead tree. In the same moment the blights gathered across the hilltop, at the Gulthias tree, wilted and perished as well. 

Out of the center of the now inanimate tree blight, where a heart on a living creature would be, a large stone tumbled onto the field. It was as large as a pinecone, and glowed with a green light as bright as a torch. This was what they were here for - the vineyard’s stolen magic “seed,” the source of the protection for the vines and their grapes against the land’s darkness. With this, the Barovians were closer to having their wine back, one of the only indulgences left to them that kept them from losing their last shred of hope and succumbing to utter despair.

Seeing his efforts ruined, the elder druid turned and made an attempt to flee. However the remaining berserkers, just two left, were still following Damaia’s deadly order. They swiftly caught and carried out their brutal execution against the ritual leader, leaving Strahd von Zarovich as the only target left alive. 

But the vampire was still out of reach, glaring down at the scene below him atop his demon steed. With his usual stiff poise, he dropped a single piece of paper into the center of the blackened, ruined stone circle atop the hill. “You are invited to my castle,” were his only words before turning his mount in the air and riding away, vanishing quickly from sight.

The pressure in Damaia’s head subsided somewhat with his departure, its draw moving to its familiar easterly direction. The dull pain of her arrow wound was also slowly beginning to come back to her awareness. The two barbarian warriors, now without quarry or orders, stood motionless in the spot underneath where Strahd had been, and looked to her once more.

She was still standing by the dismantled cairn where she had unearthed the blood spear, which had been strapped to her back so her hands were free to wield her bow. Her bloodlust was subsiding as well, though she could swear she felt an almost thrum at her back, the spear craving more. More death, more blood. She felt she could deliver that during her time here. She carried a violent thirst of her own, after all.

Turning away from where she had been watching the eastern sky, her attention became absorbed on the lone paper still lying on the ground. She marched up the hill to its peak, picking up the offering and reading its contents. The words were written in gaudy, curling script, and next to the signature was a wax seal imprinted with a large raven in front of the outline of an all-too-familiar castle. It was clear this note had been written prior, carefully prepared for whenever its author was inclined to bestow it to its intended recipients.

My friends,

Know that it is I who have brought you to this land, my home, and know that I alone can release you from it. I bid you dine at my castle so that we can meet in civilized surroundings. Your passage here will be a safe one. I await your arrival.