#fenny58

Idk if you'll look back at Tumblr and see this at any point, but it's the best option I have atm, so. This is what we're going with!

The echoes of the crash were still ringing in her ears when consciousness crept back into her bruised and bloodied body. The sound of something stirring nearby caused some alarm, but it was dulled behind a raging headache and the sudden need to cough as a cascade of dust fell upon her.

She rolled to one side to get the dust out of her lungs, and nose. Everything hurt, and it was difficult to remember why she was here, or where here, was. She couldn’t see anything, only faint beams of pale light some way ahead and below her.

Zelda pushed herself to her knees and checked around her for her pack, seeing it not too far away, but hat to tie the strap since it had snapped at some point. The potions seemed to be all but smashed save for one vial of the least potent one. She shook out the glass and picked up anything salvageable. Then noticed a small strange token that looked stuck to her glove. She pried it off and made to throw it aside but stopped and put it into a side pocket. A few scrolls were unharmed, if a little frayed at the edges. One she read off and cast it on her holy symbol, creating some light around her. She shouldered her pack, and called her sword to hand so she could sheathe it to her back, within reach.

A little red fox crept quietly along the forest floor, a little feather totem woven into the fur near her right ear barely swaying with the careful steps. She looked up, examining a mark on one of the trees, a leftover from the now abandoned lumber camp nearby, and the mark she’d been told to look for. The beast had last been seen a short way away from here and chased out the lumber workers.  

She sat on the knot of a root to take in her surroundings for  a moment, listening to the sounds around her and sniffing for something unusual in the wind, her tail wrapped around herself and her tired paws. 

@fenny58

When Bishop came to his room after a long day of hunting, he noticed it was cracked open. Immediately he paused and frowned, eyes taking on a dangerous look. Slowly he crept forwards, retrieving his bow and nocking an arrow as he inched towards his quarters at the end of the hall.

The door wasn’t cracked enough to see who it was or what could have happened. Maybe it was an ambush waiting to happen. Maybe it was someone hoping to get something out of him. Or maybe...

Bishop kicked the door the rest of the way open, arrow pointed directly at a naked drow lying languidly on his mattress. He paused, taken aback by the unexpected appearance of Scorto. How did he even get in?

Well, that was a stupid question. The man’s a drow.

The door to the Sunken Flagon opened and in strode Casavir in full armor - and towed along behind him by the scruff of his neck was Bishop, sporting a black eye. The ranger was glowering balefully, arms crossed as the heels of his boots dragged continually against the floorboards. There could have been nothing less than murder on his mind. Still, by all appearances, Casavir seemed to have won this exchange between the two of them.

It wasn’t long before the Tyrran spotted Scorto finishing up with a customer. Many sets of eyes followed along curiously as he hauled the ranger towards the drow. Moments later, Casavir whipped Bishop around to the front so he faced Scorto and stood him up straight, armored hands clasped firmly on his drooping shoulders. Bishop scowled at the world.

“Apologize to Scorto,” the paladin prompted sternly, looking down at the man with narrowed blue eyes.

“Sorry,” muttered the ranger. He didn’t look at Scorto.

“Louder, Bishop.”

“I’m sorry, okay?!” snapped Bishop through grit teeth, jerking himself out of the paladin’s grip violently. He glared over his shoulder at Casavir before returning his attention to Scorto.

“What are you sorry for?”

Send 🌑 to crawl into bed with my muse

Illindriel did not have much use for beds these days, although even after death he still retained a preference for reading while laying down. It was a habit, and although he was dead Illindriel would have no objection to comfort.

The moon elf laid frontside down on the mattress while propped up on his elbows. The graceful, gentle arch of his pale and tattooed back remained free from covers that lay messily draped over him from his hips downwards. His bare skin in the gloomy darkness made him appear as though he were a ghastly apparition in contrast.

Illindriel sensed Scorto as he entered the room but said nothing. It was not uncommon for the drow to visit him late at night. Slight movement beside him told the necromancer that Scorto was joining him upon the bed and Illindriel made no movement to stop him.

Sitting down for tea sounded like a fine idea, even if his guest happened to be a drow. Why not? He’d had odder company before. As a matter of fact his own partner was a tiefling. This might as well happen. Sand gave up trying to make sense of it long ago, and he found himself much better off without the headache.

Sand took the screaming kettle from the fire and poured two cups of calming chamomile tea. Unfortunately he was out of lavender - this fellow certainly seemed to need it. The drow, Scorto, reeked of fear. Was it himself? Sand heard through Aku about the elves that held Scorto captive. Or perhaps it was something else weighing heavily on his mind...

Regardless, the shop was closed down early due to a slow day and Sand had no other plans to whisk him away from socializing. The moon elf carried the tea set out to his living space and set a cup in front of Scorto on the coffee table. Also occupying the free space was a plate of biscuits, some fruit, a bowl of sugarcubes, and a container of honey.

“Well met,” said the wizard amicably enough. “A pleasure to have you in my shop, Scorto - a friend of Aku’s is always welcome here.” Sand allowed himself a few moments to savor the aroma before taking a cautious sip. “Although it seems you have something else on your mind unrelated entirely to making smalltalk, yes?”