#silksworn

Iraestra may be just as prickly as the others----but Wyll gets along well enough with them, just fine. There is something to be said about a warrior's bond. Don't think he didn't notice her take his hand in the battle against Ketheric and bring him to his feet. Don't think he didn't notice the true passion and fire in her eyes----when she struck down Mykrul as if he was made of glass and not bone.

It is not that Wyll does not see that she is selfish, and unkind, and that she has rolled her eyes at him at every attempt of his own selflessness and kindness, but that, well... he sees the atrocities, and is pretending he can fix her, or that The Absolute is their truest issue, or that as long as she doesn't hurt anyone in front of him---he can rest easy knowing its not his fault, or he can watch her like a hawk and make sure she doesn't hurt anyone, and grow gradually to trust her as much as he thinks she's cool, just charismatic, intelligent, interesting, in ways some of the other party members fail to be. (He has average wisdom, for a human, and that means he can justify anything, reasoning it out in such logical tangles he can mystify himself with his own made-up mythos.)

She is something new, something shiny, proof that what they are doing---fighting against the Absolute, is just, even beyond the obvious.

And perhaps, perhaps, there is a part of him that wants her to smile at him, laugh at his jokes, for his own amusement. Can they not be friends? Can they not acknowledge him each other's humanity?

And she looks beautiful in the fae realm at this Autumn's Ball. Really, just dashing. This is the perfect chance to get closer to her. To get to know her. To show her he can fix her, make her better, rescue her---a damsel in distress.

And the night is young. And the night is just as dark and beautiful as she is, and just as full of secrets, and in Wyll's eyes... potential promise.

"Dance with me? Just one dance. I fear you are the only one who can match me beat for beat." The flames in his eye twinkle, as if kissed by starlight instead of Hellfire. "Please? Allow for this Devil's pact: You dance with me, I grant you one boon later. Anything you wish."

A dangerous, stupid thing to say. But he's hungry, to chew on her feelings, to forge a new, intimate connection that he can control and fantasize himself the hero in.

Wyll Ravengard is kind, but even the selfless can be a little too self-indulgent to speak their true fantasies out loud.

the troupe, consisting of afhiri herself, gale of waterdeep and mistress iraestra, lovingly referred to as irae by the pastel tiefling, were approaching moonrise towers, the seat of darkness and evil in this place. afhiri strode forward, full of confidence, although it did not come from a place of knowing what to expect, or how to handle what's to come, but rather the sheer stupidity of not realising this is a situation you might need a plan for, or at least an understanding. an unfitting smile upon her face, they reached the guards.

"that's far enough." the guard stops them in their tracks, eyeing the leader. index finger on his head, he begins to probe for afhiri's parasite, which responds with a purr. "ah, one blessed like myself. what news, true soul?"

you could almost feel the anxiety within the evoker, it was always frightening waiting to see how afhiri would respond to questions in high stake situations, and this was looking to be the most high stake they've been in yet.

"forget news, my friend!" oh dear, gale thought to himself, the anxiety welling to the surface, an expression he can no longer hide.

"what's a true soul like yourself out here, standing guard!" her energy infectious, she rushed the guard and placed an arm around his shoulder like they were life long buddies. "you should be inside, given the respect you deserve, the respect we both deserve." her voice trailed at the end of her sentence, tone shifting from friendly energy to that of authority.

"who better to stand guard than one of us." the guard poked his head a few times. "but you are right! head instead, true soul, z'ell is in the audience chamber. she'll be wanting to speak with you."

releasing the guard from her grasp, she gives him a playful bow as she walks backwards, shifting her gaze to her wizard companions, a look of pride and success, inviting them to follow her.

"not how i would have handled it," gale spoke low so only the troupe could hear his words, "but you did well, afhiri. i am impressed." his voice is genuine, a smile on his lips.

The stench of blood lingers in the air like rust leaching into springwater. It lingers, even after they've left the site of battle, even as they return to camp; battered, broken — ultimately victorious.

Normally, gore in exchange for victory is something to revel in. There is no finer triumph than that of an enemy's slaughter, the feeling of a blade's purchase through flesh. It would be so in this instance as well, were it not for the fact that it is Oblodra blood that assails her senses. And Iraestra, the proud little thing that she is, acts as though she is not actively bleeding out onto the earth.

Under regular circumstance, Minthara would be inclined to simply let her do as she wish. If Iraestra wanted to wear herself out, bleed onto the ground until she dies for something so insidious as pride, then who would Minthara be to stop her? It is clear in both her words and her actions that the Oblodran wants nothing to do with her. Which is fine, the feeling is most certainly mutual.

Alas — Shadowheart has her own wounds to tend, half-conscious and drained of her divine wellspring. And while their leader has been gracious in their mercies, extending them to Minthara where they are almost certainly undeserved, she is not quite so eager to test that graciousness. Allowing one of their companions bleed out in the midst of camp, regardless of how irritating that one companion might be, would be the quickest way to find herself back under the Absolute's mercy. Decidedly less benevolent.

So, fine. Minthara can play nice. Let her see if the wizard can do the same.

insight check for nibiloor, please!

While recruitment itself has been smooth, the tracks ahead proved ridden with bumps and arches of deep dips and high humps—anything to make settling difficult and friendships tenuous. Disconcert and distrust wove themselves thickly throughout their troupe’s composition, their whispers lacing the air with their poison.

Nibiloor understood why. The rage against his kin was justified, especially amongst this ragtag concoction of individuals—one of his brethren unleashed a tadpole unto eye or ear or naris, and now it sat about the innards of their skull, squirming and wriggling, begging for that final hurdle: ceremorphosis. Magical stasis served to keep that hurdle from its rapid approach, but it was never quite out of sight. Lingering, ominously, on the twilit horizon.

“Iraestra,” came the name, blooming midst the middle of her ears, veiled away from the rest. Nibiloor approached, the flats of his feet finding mixed emotions with the dirt, the rubble of their camp. So used to levitating about, it was almost repulsive to feel texture unlike their illithid city streets unto skin. He’d since stuffed those emotions away.

“You’ve got an intriguing collection of individuals, here. While my presence certainly elucidates the diversity, many disagree with your decision to allow me aboard. The emotion pulsating within their illithids—the tadpoles—is hard to avert one’s attention from.”

             [ 19. ]

" Yeah, well, it's a little bit hard to ignore the fuss that thing's making. " Karlach points at the book that is obviously causing a struggle. She didn't like the damn thing when they stumbled upon it and now it sits here in camp. Astarion had eyes on it too which -- and don't get her wrong she loves Astarion as much as the next person but -- does not bode well to this thing being entirely great to have.

She isn't much of a magic person. Best party trick she's got is talking to dogs and squirrels. But even she can see how dangerous this book is. It was locked up for a reason.

 The occultist class hinges on the notion of psychic impressions and potential being found in objects, and for the most part, those impressions are fueled by the object’s history. However, not all are content with something as esoteric as the part.

Indeed, some occultists instead focus on the make of objects, drawing upon the mystical significance of the most expensive materials. Thus are the silksworn a valid course of development.

As their name suggests, these mystics adorn themselves with expensive clothing and jewelry to infuse themselves with magical might, which, by necessity, means they either come from the upper classes, or seek to join them.

An occultist that is powered by fancy clothes may seem silly, but there is no denying the sheer mystical power they wield, not to mention gravitas on the social battlefield.

 Despite the occult nature of the class, these mystics actually utilize arcane magic with their spells, which may hint at the differences in what is valuable to each type of casting. This does mean that their spells require the classic verbal and somatic components, rather than thought and emotion.

Furthermore, rather than having individual implements, the occultist must adorn specific parts of their body in valuable and/or magical decorations in order to be able to cast their spells and invoke their various focused magics.

In addition to their great cunning, these mages also add their force of personality to the pool of energy they draw upon when infusing their jewelry and fancy clothing with power.

While not as skilled with strength of arms and armor like other occultists, the silksworn gain access to many more schools of magic, as well as a greater pool of energy to cast spells with, making them versatile spellcasters.

As one might imagine, they use the magic channeling through their opulent garb to bolster their social skills and confidence, the more they wear, the better.

Their extravagant clothing also helps conceal the gestures and words of their spells, making all but the most obvious spells hard to pin on them.

Additionally, while they can get by with expensive but nonmagical clothing, a silksworn can use magical articles and adornments to bolster the magic associated with that area of the body, making them harder to resist.

True to their mastery of more magics, silksworn that master the secrets of their vocation master not one but two different implement schools, becoming even more powerful in regards to those schools.

If the melee and magic circle aspect of occultists bores you, and you just want to play a mage with neat school-related powers and the charisma to deal with social situations, this archetype is probably right up you alley. Increased spell slots and spells known are your friend here, as is getting yourself a nice set of magic items in all your appropriate item slots. Beyond that, explore what this means for your build with the entirety of the occultist spell list.

 Both extremely magical and extremely fashionable, the appearance of a silksworn is their life. As such, whether they are dilettante nobles or courtiers, or are court mages, they rarely go unnoticed. Conversely, they may also become extremely vulnerable if robbed or forced into destitution.

  In the Croaking Courts, grippli discuss matters of rulership over the jungle below the treetop palace. The king’s advisor is a vibrant young man dressed in an outfit of the most bright and colorful feathers from the rainforest’s depths, which shimmers and shifts whenever he casts his magic.

 The entire point of a masquerade party is anonymity, where anyone could be anyone, escaping from the clout and grandeur of one’s own life in favor of a temporary façade. However, one man at the party seems to have an irresistible pull on his fellow guests, one that may not be so innocent.

@silksworn gets a starter!

Ikaria and Iraestra have crossed paths plenty of times. Under the influence of the Absolute and both in Moonrise, it's not like they're strangers to each other. But there's an undertone of both wariness and familiarity as Ikaria approaches Iraestra now. They've both been freed of their tadpoles' control by this odd little group of adventurers, who have done what Ikaria thought impossible and killed Ketheric.

"Can't say I'm sad to see him go," Ikaria says, leaning against the pillar Iraestra stands beside. "Glad to see you free, sister."

He spits out of the side on to the ground like he's chewing tobacco. A hawk pitoo so filled with testorone and frayed nervd-addled cottonmouth laced with hate there's nothing left between them but the spit and the rise and fall of the loogie and his utter contempt. "You've been a pain in the ass until now, lady."

You tortured me. You used me. I am so fucking used to it, though that it hardly matters. A blip on the radar. You keep me stupid. And yet, this moment of respite and lucidity is a burden and a burning load of shit from Satan's asscrack masquerading as a salve.

"And that ain't gonna change, is it?"

"You said you'd help me get home when this she-bang is over. I'll hold you to that because I can't do nothin' else."

"BUT I can be a spiteful, arrogant little snot too, bub."

He raises his chin and extends a middle claw, a sharp pierce of his bone through skin that doesn't so much as make him blink. The sound is flesh and muscle slinking and tearing. Hudson's work. Again, he's used to the torture, used to the pain. Feels like home, but an abusive one where your Dad hits you for smiling or breathing too loud. So you beat him back. Two for flinching.

She is both familiar and beneath him. She's barely worth a frown. She knows who she is and what she does. He's met real devils and demons before and he's not impressed by this imitation.