#onieromancer

So, later on in the campaign, the party is going to meet my self-insert character, Lady Rosalind. She’s a modified Divination witch, with the power to grant other individuals vivid dreams about a person. These dreams are essentially how I plan to exposit the backstories of all of my NPCs, and also holy shit it’s a fun writing exercise, so here we are. I’ve written out the first four dreams that the players may choose to have, the ones for Edna VanLee, The Stranger (aka Adrian Drake), Darius Drake, and Jason Drake. These dreams pretty much completely encompass what the character has done before or during the party’s adventurers and encapsulates who they are while retaining a very vivid and storybook-like format. Edna and Adrian will appear to have the same text, but there are important differences in their perspectives, and their dreams soon completely diverge from each other, so don’t skip one after reading the other. So yeah, here they are, lengthy and vivid descriptions of the formative moments in these characters’ lives that my party had better damn well appreciate. Also definitely read the blurb descriptions of at least these four made in the previous post because this will be wayyyyyyyyy less impactful otherwise.

Edna VanLee: Your vision clears and immediately, one thing consumes you: fire. It surrounds you on all sides, washing over you like a wave. As it passes, you get a glimpse of the toothy maw that exhaled it, and you realize that you are face-to-face with a gigantic red dragon. The dragon quickly turns to face a figure you can just barely make out, a lithe silhouette in a black cloak. Next to them is a tall man in gleaming armor brandishing a platinum greatsword. He quickly aligns his back with the cloaked figure, seeming to take reassurance in their presence. Both adjust their stance, used to fighting together. They leap at the dragon, who claws back in anger. You watch as the pair dance with this massive beast, the cloaked figure constantly seeming to vanish from sight even as you concentrate on keeping track of them, only to appear again, dagger sunk into the dragon’s hide.The man in gleaming armor heavily swings his greatsword, parrying the dragon’s gigantic paws and teeth with its flat before striking powerfully back. The two appear to be winning, inexplicably, despite the absurd power of the creature they face. However, as the dragon seems to be weakening, it tosses its great head back before exhaling red-hot flame at the cloaked figure just before they land. Time seems to slow as the man leaps toward the figure, pushing them out of the way before the gout of flame completely immolates him. The figure’s hood falls and you can see her face: It’s a much younger Edna VanLee. Her hair is jet-black, without a hint of grey. Her features are without wrinkle, and her eyes seem centuries younger. However, you can see the anguish within those eyes as she watches the man who saved her burn. The fire jets for what feels like eternity until finally, a blackened corpse, holding no semblance to the human that once stood there save for the sword still clutched in its near-skeletal hands, crumples to the ground. Edna fills with rage and reaches for her belt. She throws a dagger towards the creature, and vanishes in a puff of smoke. The dagger enters the beast’s skull and immediately Edna reappears, with it, twisting it and driving it into the beast. The two wrestle momentarily, but the dragon soon falls dead.

Immediately, Edna leaps from the dragon’s head to the charred corpse of the man. She rips open a bag at her side, and, hands fumbling, she manages to pull out a piece of parchment. From the treasure horde that the dragon was sitting on, she scoops up a big armful of gold, and begins to chant. The paper glows, the gold vanishes. The man stays dead. She tries again. And again. The parchment burns up in her hands. Throughout the whole process, the man’s corpse hasn’t moved in the slightest. Edna pounds on his chest over and over again, visibly sobbing. Finally, she stands, resolute. She climbs up onto the dragon’s head and retrieves her dagger, where it had been stuck this whole time. She stands tall, the tallest thing in the room, staring at the small sea of gold surrounding her. She opens a bag.

Your vision distorts, and refocuses on a different, dark chamber. This time, you recognize it: It’s the Brinewater Undercity. However, unlike when you visited, it’s clean. The walls lack rot, the floors are dry. Your vision focuses on Edna, once more, a little bit older than your last vision. She stands, confident, in front of a horrifying creature… a beholder. The monster points its huge, unblinking eye at her. The beholder is, almost amusingly, “sitting” behind some kind of gigantic desk. You begin to realize that this is some sort of office. Edna smiles sweetly at the creature, and it seems to pay her little heed as they apparently converse. It’s difficult to tell, as you can’t hear the beholder’s telepathy. It turns to a window, away from Edna, apparently deep in thought. The instant that its large eye isn’t facing her, Edna vanishes into smoke, reappearing atop the creature. Several of its eyestalks whip towards her, but they are all far too late. She’s already sunken her blade into its flesh, ripping the creature open. The two crash to the ground.

Your vision changes once more and you gaze upon Edna, once again just slightly older. She sits at the same desk where the beholder had once sat, feet up. She leans back into a very peculiar chair-the same one you saw in her new office in East Brinewater. The only difference, though, is that this version of the chair isn’t finished yet: you can tell that it’s only halfway carved. And, at last, you realize, it’s being carved out of a beholder’s skull.  

The Stranger (Adrian Drake): Your vision clears and immediately, one thing consumes you: fire. It surrounds you on all sides, washing over you like a wave. As it passes, you get a glimpse of the toothy maw that exhaled it, and you realize that you are face-to-face with a gigantic red dragon. The dragon quickly turns to face a figure you can just barely make out, a lithe silhouette in a black cloak. Next to them is a tall man in gleaming armor brandishing a platinum greatsword. You look closer at his face, and you somehow see the resemblance. Though his back is not hunched, his beard is not a wisp, his skin is not green, and his armor is not rusted, you can tell: This is what the Stranger looked like back when he was human. He quickly aligns his back with the cloaked figure, seeming to take reassurance in their presence. Both adjust their stance, used to fighting together. They leap at the dragon, who claws back in anger. You watch as the pair dance with this massive beast, the cloaked figure constantly seeming to vanish from sight even as you concentrate on keeping track of them, only to appear again, dagger sunk into the dragon’s hide.The Stranger swings his greatsword, parrying the dragon’s gigantic paws and teeth with its flat before striking powerfully back. The two appear to be winning, inexplicably, despite the absurd power of the creature they face. However, as the dragon seems to be weakening, it tosses its great head back before exhaling red-hot flame at the cloaked figure just before they land. Time seems to slow as the Stranger leaps toward the figure, pushing them out of the way before the gout of flame completely immolates him. The figure’s hood falls and you can see her face: It’s a much younger Edna VanLee. Her hair is jet-black, without a hint of grey. Her features are without wrinkle, and her eyes seem centuries younger. However, you can see the anguish within those eyes as she watches the man who saved her burn. The fire jets for what feels like eternity until finally, a blackened corpse, holding no semblance to the human that once stood there save for the sword still clutched in its near-skeletal hands, crumples to the ground. Edna fills with rage and reaches for her belt. She throws a dagger towards the creature, and vanishes in a puff of smoke. The dagger enters the beast’s skull and immediately Edna reappears, with it, twisting it and driving it into the beast. The two wrestle momentarily, but the dragon soon falls dead.

Time seems to rapidly speed up: in fast motion, you watch Edna move all over the corpse, trying everything. She pounds on his chest, moving around him, staying near him, sobbing, but it all seems so ephemeral. She is but a drop of motion in his eternal stillness. Eventually, she leaves his side, and the chamber darkens, brightens, and darkens again. Days are passing by almost instantly, and the corpse begins to stir. Dull, green light begins at the feet, intertwining streaks of light seeming to knit new flesh over what was burned away. The process is painfully slow, even though the days are passing like seconds. Finally, the corpse beings to rise off of the ground, and it now looks like you remember it: Pale, green skin that gives off a faint glow. Soft, glowing yellow eyes. A wispy memory of a beard on his chiselled face. His “resurrection” finally complete, the Stranger falls onto his feet once more. The instant he hits the ground, a wave of green energy radiates from him. The dragon’s corpse, now only bones, instantly disintegrates. What little gold is left in the chamber instantly rusts and twists out of shape. The Stranger seems to suck all the light left in the chamber into his being. He walks over to his beautiful platinum sword, now rusted from his transformation, and rips it from the ground. He turns, dragging it against the ground as he walks, and leaves the chamber.

Your vision shifts again and you find yourself in an area somehow even darker. A graveyard. The Stranger meanders forward, still dragging his former blade. However, the tombstone he carried when you met him is now on his back. His shovel is slung over his shoulder. He now wears his purple cloak, which fades into mist at his feet. He shambles forward unerring, walking past grave after grave. Shadows cling at his feet, his shoulders. Specters lazily float past him, whispering. Tempting. A wraith slides her finger under his chin, teasingly. He ignores them all. The path he walks finally dead-ends, and he stops before the only marked grave on the whole path. He hefts the rusted greatsword up in his hand, and unceremoniously jams its blade at an angle into the flat piece of stone. He looks upon it for a moment. Then he turns away. However, your vision remains focused on the grave, and you can just barely make out what it says: “Here lies Adrian Drake.”

Darius Drake: Your vision blurs and is drenched in white. As it clears, you see a young man in full armor, wielding an ornate longsword. He has dark hair, and is clean-shaven. He seems to be training with another man, a bald man with a jovial expression. Their blows are careful and calculated, but made without the intent to seriously injure. Eventually, the dark-haired man disarms his bald-headed opponent, who laughs triumphantly and claps his student on the shoulder. Darius Drake looks up and grins.

Suddenly, Darius is in an inn. In fact, he’s in a bed. He stares up at the ceiling, smiling, arms behind his head. A blonde-haired woman rests her head on his chest, asleep. It feels as if you have blinked, and the scene changes. This time, it’s a man’s head on his chest, in a different bed. Darius is in the same exact position as before. One moment it’s a lithe elven man in a sunny inn with fine white linens, the next it’s a dirty blonde dwarven woman in a dark stone chamber. The scene changes this way numerous times. The bed, the surroundings, the time of day, the bed’s second occupant and where they lie with Darius all change over and over again. The only constant is Darius himself.

Your vision fully blurs this time, the constant of a young, smiling Darius fading at last from your view. He appears again, a few years older, sporting a relatively new beard and wearing black plate armor. All around him is a blistering white. Ice. Darius isn’t alone, though; several humanoids surround him as together, they face a white dragon. A huge, grey-skinned goliath man wearing almost nothing despite the frigid environment swings a warhammer at its skull. A tiefling woman in a robe points a wand at the creature as a lightning bolt erupts towards it. Darius’s blade swings triumphantly towards the beast as the image fades.

A tall, man-shaped shadow looms around the corner of a crypt. A creature with rotting flesh and glowing eyes creaks its head towards the sight. Darius Drake, older still, confidently turns the corner, the tiefling from before in tow. You don’t recognize his other two companions. Darius’ shadow grows, suddenly shaped like a raven. He charges forward, his blade somehow glowing black.

Darius kneels before a crude tombstone made from sticks and twine. Hands clasped, he seems to mutter something, and places the wand that the tiefling woman had held next to the mound. Solemn, he picks up his blade and walks away, three young adventurers watching from a few feet away. They follow him.

Darius rides a chestnut horse with full saddlebags. His armor is gone, but he still wears a longsword on his back. He waves at two adventurers, whom you recognize from the last vision. The third is nowhere to be seen. They seem older now. They wave him off as his horse canters away.

Darius holds hands with a young elven woman in a white dress and veil on a beautiful sunny day in a garden. A dwarf, smiling, reads from a small book, standing between them. He looks up and gestures, and the two kiss.

Darius holds an infant in his arms, his wife clinging to his side. Both look into the infant’s blue-gold eyes, its ears ever so slightly pointed.

Darius holds the hand of a half-elven toddler as they stare together at an ornate marble tombstone. The toddler squeezes Darius’ hand, and Darius picks him up, walking back toward a black castle.

Darius Drake sits, bored, at the head of a mahogany table, dressed in a fine robe. The other guests are all dressed even more ornately, and they seem to be shouting, gesturing intently at one another. A very young half-elven boy waddles into the room, chased by an embarrassed dwarven woman in a maid uniform. The boy reaches his father and manages to grab his hand. Darius looks over at his son, tousles his hair, and waves him off with a wan smile. The attendant scoops up the child and rushes him out of the room.

Darius wakes up alone, covered in sweat, in a large four-poster bed. He looks himself over in a mirror, runs his hands down his face, and takes a longsword off its display above the cold fireplace. He has a shadow, despite the fact that there is no light source in the room, and it coalesces into a raven. Darius, grim, merely nods in its direction.

Darius stands atop a mountain, pelted by freezing rain. He’s wearing his black plate armor once more, and his longsword clangs against the hilt of a shovel. Darius has the low ground in a duel against a figure with a purple cloak and glowing green skin. The Stranger. Darius loses his footing for a moment, and the Stranger’s shovel pierces his stomach, breaking his armor. He falls on his back. The Stranger does not move for a finishing blow. He plants his shovel in the ground and opens his mouth, speaking to the wind. He gestures at Darius’ prone form. It almost appears that he is bargaining with something. He grants Darius one last look, apologetic. He then turns with a flourish of his cloak and continues scaling the mountain.

Darius, shirtless and bandaged, offers his cracked breastplate before an altar in a darkened temple. The shadows coalesce into a giant figure, its face a porcelain mask. The mask holds no expression, but the offering is accepted. The formless figure grows a hand that reaches towards Darius. It caresses his face, gentle. The mask itself nods, and the gargantuan entity fades. Darius gets up from his knees, smiling faintly. He clasps his hands together once more and leaves the temple.

Darius Drake once again sits at a mahogany table, more patient this time. Noblemen speak and he listens. He speaks rarely, but when he does, the rest of the table’s occupants quickly fall silent.

Darius watches his son, now an adult, train with the same balding man as he did. The boy’s golden hair bounces gently as he deftly outmaneuvers his aging opponent. The bald man hugs the boy, and they both turn to wave at Darius. He smiles back, wanly.

Darius stands at the castle gate, packing saddlebags onto a white horse. His son, Jason Drake, looks his father in the eye. The day is cloudy, but a ray of sunlight almost seems to focus on the younger man. He claps his father on the shoulder and mounts the horse, galloping away from the castle. Darius reaches a hand out, but Jason is already on his way. Darius crosses his arms and watches his son ride away, masking his worry with pride.

Jason Drake: A tall man in dark hair stands solemnly before a great marble tombstone. A very young boy, perhaps three or four years old, clutches his hand. The boy’s golden hair covers his eyes as he looks down towards the ground. Tears silently run down his face. As soon as one hits the ground, the man next to him looks down, smiling wanly. He, too, is crying. He gets down on one knee, and embraces the boy. The boy seems almost surprised, not sure of what to do in this situation. He tentatively hugs back, his tiny fingers barely reaching his father’s muscular shoulders. They breathe together. The man stands up, ending the embrace. For the first time, the boy is able to read the chiseled marble: “Amnestria Drake. Mother, Wife, Queen.” The boy tugs down on his father’s arm, and he is quickly scooped up. The two walk away, Jason’s eyes fixed on the stone until they enter the pitch-dark castle together.

Your vision distorts and changes, finding Jason older, but far from grown. Moving easily under his own power, he races throughout the drab castle, messing up its fine red carpeting and bumping into tables as he goes. Far behind him, an exasperated dwarven woman, dressed like a maid, chases him, arms outstretched. Presumably, she intends to yank the boy off of the floor as soon as she catches him, but judging by their respective paces, that won’t be soon. Jason rounds a corner, half-opening a heavy wooden door by simply slamming his body into it. He nearly trips as he makes his way to a man in a fine black robe, sitting idly at the head of a grand mahogany table. He leaps up to grab his father’s arm as it rests against the chair. The stoic face turns, gazing down upon the bright-eyed, bright-haired child. Darius smiles halfheartedly at his foolish son. Jason is suddenly acutely aware of everyone else in the room. Tall, scary noblemen dressed in finery all scowl down at him, apparently angry. Shame washes over Jason’s tiny elvish face. Suddenly, a pair of arms wrap themselves around his waist as he is unceremoniously yanked off of the floor and practically dragged out of the room. Jason watches his father turn away as the door is slammed behind them.

Jason Drake lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is ornate, boasting a king-sized four-poster bed. The walls are covered in bookshelves, tapestries, and all other varieties of noble finery. Despite all this, however, the room seems dark. Jason lies on his back, not on the bed, but on the floor. A tiny rectangle of light shines on his face, courtesy of one lonely window, very high up on the far wall. He seems to bask in its glow, the one tiny strip of brightness in his ornately morose surroundings. Jason’s golden hair drifts gently around his head on some impossible breeze. He stands up in place, the sunbeam still lighting on his face. He seems to draw that light into himself, letting it radiate off of his skin. Jason Drake looks around his tiny world as if he’s seeing it for the first time. The incumbent gloom of the chamber seems to almost press in around him, but Jason confidently strides towards it. Like a sea, it parts for him, the darkness disturbed and forced aside by his radiant presence. He tosses open the heavy wooden door to his chamber with a flourish and strides through the gloomy Castle Ravenloft. People stand aside for him, and their faces brighten as he passes. Singlehandedly, he cuts a swath of light through the lazy darkness that seems to coat his father’s castle. He reaches his destination-the castle’s temple. The room is dusty and undisturbed. Jason passes the symbols of the other major deities on Tora before settling upon his quarry: The six-pointed sun of Pelor, god of light. Jason rests his hand on the god’s small shrine, and he seems to grow even brighter.