#aerden

Thursday nights had been something sacred to the group. Nobody officially declared it tradition, but somewhere between deployments, transfers, and increasingly complicated schedules, the five of them had collectively decided D&D campaign night took priority. They had trained together for the elite forces and despite no longer being stationed in the same places, somehow still found time every other week to gather at someone’s apartment, drink some cheap beer or wine, and make poor decisions inside worlds Keyalin built entirely from scratch.

Tonight was at Keyalin and Aerden’s apartment, which meant the dining table had once again ceased functioning as usable furniture for about a few days prior. Blackwater Crossing spread across nearly the entire surface in absurd detail. Crooked harbor streets twisted between weathered buildings, lanterns were fully functional, market stalls sat cluttered with hand-painted details, and the docks looked damp enough to smell faintly of saltwater. There were fishing nets, barrels, moss creeping along stone, and even tiny scattered oyster shells.

Lyessa stood over the table with crossed arms, staring. “There’s algae,” she said after a long pause.

Keyalin glanced up from organizing miniatures. “Yes.”

“Like, -actual- algae.”

“It improves the realism, why wouldn’t there be algae?”

Sael crouched lower and suspiciously narrowed his eyes. “Did you paint fish?”

“Yes.”

“You painted individual fish?”

“They’re part of the environment. Do you want your sets to look real or not?”

Across the room, Aerden sat comfortably on the couch with a beer, looking amused and unsurprised by any of this. Unlike everyone else, he had long ago accepted that living with Keyalin occasionally meant overhearing deeply concerning statements like ‘the dock erosion lacks authenticity’ at two in the morning.

“He spent three hours repainting roof moss last night,” Aerden mused.

“The original texture didn’t look right,” Keyalin replied.

“You whispered ‘immersion is suffering’ like someone died.”

Talia had already picked up one of the miniatures and was inspecting it closely. “…Did you contour this merchant’s face?”

“Well, of course,” Keyalin said.

“He’s an inch tall!”

“He still deserves cheekbones.”

Lyessa sighed, “you continue to horrify me.” It was a compliment from her, and Keyalin took it as one with an amused grin.

The strange thing was that if anyone outside their group saw Keyalin like this, they probably would not recognize him. He was usually much quieter and more reserved. A little awkward sometimes, especially socially. The kind of person who paused too long before answering because he was carefully thinking through every possible interpretation of a sentence. 

But campaign nights transformed him into someone else entirely. The moment he sat behind the screen, something shifted. He smiled and moved more, he became expressive in ways that bordered on theatrical. The awkward engineer who occasionally stumbled through small talk disappeared, replaced by someone fully committed to storytelling, dramatic tension, and too many NPC accents.

“Previously,” Keyalin began, lowering his voice dramatically in a way that made everyone groan, “our collection of catastrophically underqualified adventurers arrived in the harbor city of Blackwater Crossing seeking answers regarding the disappearances beneath the cathedral district.”

“Oh, we’re being insulted immediately,” Sael muttered.

“You robbed a funeral home,” Keyalin reminded him.

“It was abandoned!”

“There was an active funeral!”

“There were no signs...”

“There were mourners.” Keyalin sighed, this was normal.

Sael’s rogue, Rook, was essentially just Sael with lockpicks and worse impulse control. Overconfident, reckless, and somehow still charming enough to survive consequences, Rook approached danger with the unwavering confidence of someone who had survived enough bad decisions to start trusting the process. 

Lyessa played Seraphine, a heavily armored paladin who specialized in healing and spent most sessions functioning as the exhausted parent of the group. Off the table, Lyessa had always been practical, dependable, and quietly protective, and somehow she had accidentally recreated herself in fantasy form.

“I just want everyone to know,” Lyessa said while organizing dice, “that if any of you touch something obviously cursed this time, I reserve the right to slap you after healing you.”

“Hostile much?” Talia replied.

“You remember what happened last time.”

Talia’s warlock, Vesper, remained one of Keyalin’s greatest narrative challenges because she treated every single encounter as a potential romantic opportunity. Guards, villains, mysterious strangers, cultists, even suspicious entities… it truly did not matter. He was also fairly certain she had used those skills in real life against Aerden, judging by the way they kept glancing at each other across the table with obvious interest. 

“You flirted with a wanted criminal last session,” Lyessa reminded her.

“He had sad eyes.” Talia pointed out with a smile.

“He murdered six people.”

“I could fix him.” She winked over to Aerden.

Aerden, meanwhile, had refused to play anything remotely close to a healer. “I already heal people in real life,” he had said months ago. “In my free time I would like to hit things.” His barbarian, Bram, reflected this philosophy beautifully. Dryly sarcastic and profoundly practical, Bram approached everything by asking whether it could be solved through violence before entertaining literally any other option.

The evening’s session began in the harbor market, where rumors of disappearances beneath the cathedral had begun circulating among fishermen. Keyalin slipped seamlessly between characters, moving effortlessly from a suspicious dockworker to an exhausted merchant to a city guard who was clearly hiding something. Watching him work always felt faintly surreal, because he got so into it. He gestured while speaking, changed his accent, tone, and even posture between NPCs, and did insanely realistic sound effects. 

The disaster began when Sael attempted stealth. Again. “I rolled a natural one…”

Aerden sighed immediately, and the other two facepalmed, something terrible was about to happen. Rook was the worst rogue in existence.

Rook attempted to discreetly sneak through the fish market. Instead, according to Keyalin’s increasingly delightful narration, he tripped over stacked crates, tangled himself in fishing netting, knocked over an entire display of oysters, and accidentally stumbled face-first into the single angriest goose in existence.

Keyalin dug through his stash of minis before placing a tiny, white, angry-looking goose onto the table. “You see...” he spoke slowly, visibly trying not to laugh already, “an aggressively territorial harbor goose filled with resentment!"

Silence.

Talia immediately leaned forward. “Oh my god.” She considered seducing it, but decided that perhaps even Vesper had her limits.

Aerden nearly snorted beer through his nose.

The goose attacked instantly. It bit Sael hard enough to knock off a good chunk of hit points. It chased a screaming Lyessa through the market, who apparently had unresolved issues with birds. It stole bread directly out of Talia’s inventory. Then, somehow, it snatched a folded map from an NPC cultist and sprinted into the harbor district while hissing like something fueled entirely by vengeance.

“You’re kidding,” Sael said.

“We have to pursue the goose!” Aerden exclaimed.

Thanks to one entertaining roll after another, the goose kept accidentally helping. It led them toward hidden tunnels beneath the cathedral, bit a suspicious priest, exposed someone secretly involved in disappearances, and then violently attacked a cultist carrying an important key.

“He senses evil,” Talia whispered.

By the end of the investigation, after Sael fed it stolen berries and Lyessa wrapped a scarf around its neck ‘for characterization,’ nobody wanted to leave it behind.

“What’s his name?” Keyalin asked, already sounding tired. This was all improvised and not a part of the plan, but this was also how every single one of their campaigns always went.

Aerden answered immediately, “Duke Honkers.”

Nobody questioned it, and they all immediately cheersed Duke Honkers.

The cathedral beneath the harbor came later. Keyalin physically swapped sections of the map while narrating their descent underground, and the mood shifted almost instantly. The deeper they traveled, the stranger things became. Hallways bent subtly wrong, statues seemed to change direction when no one was looking, and something wet moved somewhere in the distant dark.

Then, Keyalin stood and everyone immediately groaned.

“Oh no,” Talia muttered.

“He’s standing,” Lyessa sighed.

“That means trauma,” Sael winced.

“....But we have Duke Honkers, all will be well.” Aerden whispered.

The creature descended slowly from the ceiling. Keyalin paced slightly as he described it, fully committed now, voice low and unsettling enough that even Aerden stopped joking. Flesh hung unevenly across its body like soaked cloth stretched over bones assembled incorrectly. Limbs folded inward at grotesque angles, joints clicking as they reset themselves with squelching sounds.

Faces moved beneath its skin. Not fully visible, just impressions pressing outward briefly before disappearing again, mouths opening silently beneath translucent flesh. Too many eyes blinked in places eyes should not exist. Mouths split across ribs and palms, with rows of teeth grinding together while fragments of overlapping voices escaped in frightened whispers.

“The smell reaches you next,” Keyalin continued quietly. “Saltwater and rot, with something sweet underneath that in an attempt to mask the stench.”

The fight became chaotic. Sael nearly got swallowed after another bad stealth roll. Lyessa spent most of combat healing everyone through visible disappointment and constant swearing. Aerden solved problems by throwing furniture. Talia attempted flirting with the eldritch horror, which forced Keyalin to physically stop narrating because he was laughing too hard.

Through logic nobody could fully explain, Duke Honkers landed the final blow. The room exploded into laughter while Keyalin sat behind the screen staring at the battlefield in complete disbelief. “You know, there wasn’t even supposed to be a goose.”

“He chose us,” Talia replied.

“He chose violence,” Aerden corrected with a firm nod.

Keyalin looked down at the tiny goose miniature, sighed dramatically, and quietly moved it beside the party figures. “Fine,” he muttered. “Congratulations.”

Duke Honkers had joined the campaign. Keyalin already had three ideas for his backstory.

Silvermoon was already under the hush of night when Aerden finally stepped into his apartment, locking the door behind him. His day had been a blur of working out, followed by advanced techniques and theoretical triage scenarios. His mind and body were so tired that he didn’t fully register what he was seeing at first.

Keyalin was seated at the kitchen table with some of his tools neatly arranged beside him, book in hand, and posture straight but relaxed. Maybe a little too relaxed for him. Aerden squinted suspiciously, eyes tracking over his features before locking in on his face. “…What the heck happened to your face?”

Both of Keyalin’s eyes were ringed in red and purple, the bridge of his nose still faintly swollen despite having been cleanly set. Keyalin glanced up, calm as ever. “You’re extra late tonight.”

“Key.” Aerden’s tone was flat.

“A drunk man on Murder Row.”

Aerden’s bag hit the floor. “He did that?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And I stood there.”

“You stood there?” Aerden closed the distance between them quickly. “Did he jump you?”

“He swung. I didn’t see it coming.”

“Reading?”

“Maybe.” Keyalin was definitely reading, it was his constant state of being.

Aerden stared at him, incredulous. “Why didn’t you message me?”

“You were at your healing thing.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” Keyalin replied quietly.

Aerden moved closer, hands hovering near Keyalin’s face without touching. The swelling had gone down somewhat, but not enough for his liking. “You reset it yourself.”

“Yes.”

“Of course you did.” Asking others for help wasn’t Key’s strong suit.

“The clinic gave me something for the pain.”

“Yeah I can tell,” Aerden muttered. “Lean back.”

Keyalin obeyed without protest. Aerden stepped between his knees, tilting his chin gently to assess the alignment. His expression tightened, he was suddenly mad at himself for not being there for his friend. But also maybe Keyalin shouldn’t have been reading while wandering Murder Row.

A soft teal glow bloomed beneath his palms as he began to work, the color shifting naturally toward a light green as it sank into bruised tissue. The air warmed subtly around them as energy weaved through inflamed vessels and tender cartilage. The swelling receded further under his touch, and the discoloration faded slightly. There would still be some bruising.

“What were you thinking?” Aerden wondered aloud.

“That I could end it in seconds,” Keyalin answered. “And that I didn’t need to. I thought about every way I could put him on the ground. It would have been so easy. I knew exactly where to hit, and exactly how much force to use. …I didn’t though.”

The green deepened briefly as Aerden corrected fine fractures along the bridge of his nose, smoothing imperfections with careful attention. A silence settled between them.

“I would’ve broken something,” Aerden admitted.

“I know.”

“I might not have stopped there.”

“I know that too.”

The magic softened as the healing finished its work, and only faint tenderness remained along with the bruising already present, now with a softer edge. Aerden exhaled slowly. “You should’ve told me as soon as it happened.”

Keyalin’s mouth twitched faintly, it was time for a subject change. “People are wondering why you’ve been difficult to find.”

Aerden withdrew his hands fully now, the glow fading into nothing. “I’ve been busy.”

“Yes.”

“With extra training, and the others.”

“Yes.” The repetition wasn’t accusatory, just observant.

Aerden leaned back against the counter, folding his arms. “They understand. -You- understand.”

“I know, I do.”

“It’s easier.”

“I know.”

A pause before Keyalin asked quietly, “Are you avoiding them?” 

“No.” Aerden answered a little too quickly.

Another pause.

“…I don’t know how to fit back into that version of my life,” Aerden admitted. “Everything before feels far away, like it belongs to someone who didn’t know as much.”

Keyalin studied him. “You’re not that different.”

“I am. You didn’t know me then.” Aerden let out a slow breath. “I don’t want to walk into a room and feel like I’m being measured against who I used to be.”

“You won’t be measured.” Silence settled again, longer this time. “...I wasn’t upset about getting hit,” Keyalin said after a moment. “I was surprised at how calm I was. Years ago I would’ve run. This time I just calculated, and chose not to act.”

Aerden looked at him more carefully. “That’s growth.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

Keyalin held his gaze. “Then maybe learning how to be here again counts as growth too.”

Dammit. 

The words landed gently, not as criticism but as truth. Aerden swallowed, something tight easing just slightly in his chest. He stepped forward again, brushing his thumb lightly along the bridge of Keyalin’s nose in one final check. “You’re healing fine.”

“I know.”

Their eyes met, understanding each other without explanation. While they hadn’t known each other for a long time, there would always be a shared understanding between those who went through a massive life change together. They stood in that quiet space between who they were and who they were becoming.

“I’m trying,” Aerden said finally.

“I know,” Keyalin replied.

November 2024 DWC Day 3 - Strength TW: spiders, some gore Read Part 1 Read Part 2 Read Part 3

Dajjalen shot up like a rocket, gasping for air as he clawed at his chest and throat, only to be wrangled back down by Feyrindora. There was another presence nearby as well, he knew this aura well. Aerden’s eyes were like two small beacons of crackling lightning for just a brief moment before they closed and the young elf collapsed onto his side.

“Fucking fel, I just bloody saved him.” Dajjalen immediately checked for breathing; it was shallow, but it was there.

“He just bloody saved -you-, asshole. From death. He saved me too.” Fey brought him into a tight hug, “I thought I lost you, I couldn’t… I didn’t want to lose anyone else. You’re not gonna die on me on my watch.”

It was then that Dajjalen realized they were not yet safe, nor were any of them in good condition. Aerden was unconscious, and both he and Fey had noticeably gaping wounds all over from where the toxin of the webs had managed to eat away flesh. It would have been much worse if their skin wasn’t toughened by years of housing their internal companions.

“We need to get out of here. …We need -him-.” She gave him a pointed look, he knew what she meant.

These days Dajjalen tried to avoid changing, the hunger became insatiable, gnawing at his insides and he wasn’t sure that these undercrawlers were going to sate that need. He felt less in control, but that was the purpose, wasn’t it? They needed strength, absolute destruction, and felfire if they were to get out of here in one piece. She was right. “Please guard him well, he’s important to me. I need you to just run and not look back.” He pointed up towards a larger crack on the other side of the cavern. “I’ll get their attention, you just go. I’ll be fine.” He wasn’t so sure about that last bit.

Fey kissed the gruff man on his cheek and scooped Aerden up with ease, cradling him close to her chest as she waited.

He was severely injured and running on pure adrenaline at this point, not to mention he had just been brought back from the brink of death. But this is what demon hunters were made for. They were killing machines meant to annihilate anything in their paths with little care for themselves.

Dajjalen hobbled out from the alcove they were hidden within and wasted no time in dashing towards a group of the spider-like creatures blocking their path. He lept into the air and crashed down right in the middle of the group as an eruption of felfire spreading from him in every direction. Now nearly doubled in size, Dajjalen took on the appearance of that internal companion: A Doomguard - Elongated horns, cloven hooves, tough leathery wings, and razor sharp teeth and claws. He was already a formidable opponent before his metamorphosis, but this allowed the extra burst of adrenaline and the overwhelming urge to destroy everything. Claws and teeth were sharper, skin was tougher, and everything he touched would alight with fel.

Now that everything in this cavern had its attention turned towards her fellow hunter, Fey darted through the shadows towards their target opening with Aerden shielded and kept close. They would make it without issue, crawling up the spongy ramp towards the light above only to find themselves in a MUCH larger, foreign cavern. There was no time to look, instead she dashed towards some nearby rocks, crouching behind them as she set the young elf down and waited at the ready in case she needed to join in the fight.

Green flashes of felfire flickered through the porous material of the nest below and just as Fey was about to re-enter, Dajjalen came dashing out in a crackling blaze. “WE HAVE TO RUN!” Behind him, the entire colony seemed to be in literal hot pursuit; some of the undercrawlers on fire and running madly in an attempt to douse themselves.

“We could take the–” Fey’s words were cut short when the entire nest seemed to rumble and shake beneath them. A MASSIVE, jagged claw ripped up through the permeable membrane, slamming its spiked toe down just shy of Dajjalen. “Yep, running!” she scooped up Aerden once more and sprinted as fast as she could towards anything else.

Another jagged claw slammed down just behind her, and a brief glance over her shoulder offered a glimpse of Dajjalen now taking to the skies and swooping towards her, and a monstrous undercrawler: The Broodmother.

Fey reached her arm upwards, hand open and waiting as she continued to run. As soon as Dajjalen’s claws curled around her forearm, she gripped him tight and tucked her legs in as the three soared up into the cavern and away from Pillar-nest Xesh. None of them had any idea where they were, or where they were going, but anywhere was better than there.

Aerden's Story Dajjalen's Story *There may be some stories that go in between this one and the previous, but Aerden-mun has been busy and will write when he can! For now we wanted to get this out there!*

So much of this campaign had felt like a fever dream: From the moment he told Aerden to stay safe and not play the hero just before Dalaran’s fall, to the moment he watched Queen Ansurek plummet to her death, and even now as he sat in the City of Threads with a thousand-yard stare up towards the massive cavern’s ceiling, everything felt so far away. He managed to maintain his focus when needed, but having to report your own son as ‘missing, presumed dead’ had taken a harsh toll. 

How long had it even been now? Time dragged on, yet felt so quick to pass at the same time. He hadn’t felt this way since all that time he spent in the hospital, but he would happily do that all over again if it meant Aerden was safe and sound. Why didn’t he make him to go to the evacuation portal? Why didn’t he just stay by his side? It was useless to focus so much on the ‘what ifs’, but the stillness and silence around him forced it all to the forefront of his mind.

He had already lost so much in his life.  Why did it have to be Aerden?

There were small moments of reprieve in victory, and in times when living captives had been found and rescued. There was still hope to grasp onto, and Pollux searched every face they found, dead or alive, only to deflate a little more and more over time when none of those faces were Aerden’s.

He still had some hope. Aerden was resilient, resourceful, and much more powerful than he ever gave himself credit for. If anyone could make it in this hellhole, it would be his own flesh and blood. For now he would have to cling onto that hope, and throw himself into his duties.

“Hale, letter for you.” One of the other men held up a small letter between two fingers before passing it over.

It wasn’t unusual to get letters and packages during a campaign, it was always nice to receive something physical from loved ones back home, even with the instant gratification that comm messages brought. Although the moment he saw who it was from, his heart nearly beat out of his chest: Aerden.

I’m safe and in Dornogal.

That first line was exactly what Polllux needed to read, and it felt as if the weight of the world suddenly lifted from his entire body.

I would have sent you a message on your comm, but I lost mine and I don’t really have any numbers memorized. I’ll tell you more in person, but just know for now I am safe at the military outpost, Dajjalen is here with me too. He’s kind of in rough shape, but he’ll be okay. Please stay safe, I’ll see you soon. Love, Aerden

Pollux breezed through the words a few times just to ensure he had read everything correctly. This was Aerden’s handwriting and his signature, stamped a couple days ago, so this had to be real. He pressed the letter to his chest and smiled to himself. There was still a small part of him that would remain skeptical until he saw the boy in person, but for now he could finally breathe again. 

He took out his comm and sent off a quick message to Khaeris: 

‘I heard from Aerden, he’s safe. I don’t know the details. Can you let Pyra know?’

November 26 - Day 7 Infatuation / Endless

Companion story to Aerden’s Day 2 -> here

This had all started as an infatuation, hadn’t it? It was kind of funny to think about now— how girlish she’d been about it all. But, she’d been younger, and having a crush had been fairly new. The highs and lows of those emotions she felt so much more keenly, back then. Not that it was really that long ago, but it felt like it at times.

They’d been better friends these last few years than they had in those early ones; she’d go so far as to call Aerden one of her dearest friends even, ranking him high in the echelon of people she had endless admiration for.

Which was absolutely why she, a former noblewoman who had traded away her titles for a bit of mental peace, was getting all dressed up to go watch some brawls in Dalaran’s infamous Underbelly.

Well, not all dressed up. Really it was more dressed down, or maybe even dressed simply, if the clothes were still a little expensive. A black satin bomber jacket with a nice pastel pink lining to hide most of her prosthetic arm, basic white t-shirt and snug black denim pants that hugged her legs and made her look every inch the six foot tall that she was, and a well worn pair of slouchy adventuring boots that were comfortable enough to stand in if there wasn’t seating.

She looked good. She felt good. She was so happy to be asked, they shared a few interests but it was kind of a treat to get invited to share in one of the ones she didn’t know much about.

No matter what happened, they were going to have a good time!

Seeing Pyraelia shine wasn’t something that ever got old. It had been a while since she’d had an event to dress up for, Fiorenze knew, and Vixannya’s gallery opening — one that happened to coincide with her little sister’s birthday — seemed a good opportunity. Pyraelia loved art and, personal proclivities aside, didn’t seem to mind paintings of nude figures. Hedonismia seemed more her style than the last one had been.

It was nice to watch her dance with Aerden around the Opulence ballroom’s floor, his deep red suit jacket complimented the soft pink of her dress in a charmingly unplanned way. Every now and again the light would catch the gems in the bracelet he’d gifted her as they whirled around and she couldn’t help but smile a little as her eyes followed them both, proud. Fiorenze wasn’t sure she would’ve been able to keep her composure and glow like that under the same circumstances.

He’d brought another woman as his date, after all.

Arandori, specifically.

She hadn’t been able to keep herself from throwing the other woman a few sharp looks, even though Pyraelia had been clear she wasn’t to meddle in any of it. It was hard not to. In all their years growing up together her little sister hadn’t ever really wanted anyone, and wasn’t it her duty as the eldest to make sure she prospered? She certainly thought so, but Pyra, as always, had a mind of her own.

Fiorenze’s mood certainly hadn’t been helped by the shadow that had loomed over the event for a week or so, and while the night was meant to be a celebration, the bitterness of it had settled in. Vixannya had invited the Red Moon to host at the infamous after party, and with that kind of money on the line Fio knew Xylaes wouldn’t be able to turn down the offer. She could’ve hired him out for equal to what he’d be paid, but that felt dirty in its own way. Whether or not Ms. Ana’diel knew it, it was a slight that Fiorenze was going to remember for a long time.

The decent enough compromise that she and Xylaes had settled on after a tense enough conversation had kept him on her arm through the gallery opening at least — something she had enjoyed immensely — with the promise of a later getaway for just the two of them in the days following the whole thing.

But, in the moment, it still stung much more than she had anticipated.

It was an odd experience, she mused, to be jealous of someone who was so clearly not, but Pyraelia had always been the best of them all — and at the very least, one of them had a wonderful time.

Day 24 Revelry/Denial