#timon thread

“Thanks, kid. How old are you?” The copper teifling shot the little druid a tired but sharp toothed smile. It was a hell of a day. Timon’s armor was off to the side, plated dulled bronze. He’d take it to get polished up... and undented at some point. That took coin he didn’t really have...

He looked down to the wound of his arm, flexing his fingers over it... but he had nothing for now. Not even a little bit. He sighed, leaning back, but looked over the kid’s handy work.

“You might have a future in the divine art of fixin’ up.”

[ cont from here with @silva-vinandi​ ]

“Yeah, he’s sick alright...” Timon announced mostly to himself, but glanced to the old lady when she gave a hum of what he thought was agreement. He reached in his pocket and handed her a few silver muttering something about blessing of Avandra but his attention was clearly else where as he started to follow the other tiefling. 

"You know I've... never actually spoken to someone that looked like me before..." Timon tilted his head, giving a small shrug. His skin was a light copper, his horns tall and twisted, his hair just a shade darker than his skin and his eyes black and curious. His kind weren't evil. They were misunderstood. They were maligned. All his life, Timon was expected to fail. And here was someone who seemed to be the opposite of that. Because she chose to be.

He was still learning. He didn't join the temple of Avandra to be 'saved'. He followed because he felt the goddess of luck would understand. At first he only needed help with a gambling debt here and there and praying seemed to work. Now... he knew it was because she was calling him into something bigger. Something better.

He was sweeping the main room of the temple of the Changebringer when Zahra walked in. He had spoken a few general pleasantries after being surprised at her appearance. He had been such an oddity in his small town, in his orphanage. Even when he as brave enough to travel Tal'Dorei he hadn't seen many, or those he did he was cautious of, ashamedly. Too nervous or too afraid of being disappointed or thought of as sheltered or childish. He was none of those things. Merely... unlucky. Or at least he used to be.

“And like lambs to a slaughter we shall follow…”

"You got any better ideas?" Timon raised his shackled wrists, shaking the chains to prove his point. He was a nobody. A tiefling with sticky fingers, no one nobody cared about or cared for. The priests of the Changebringer were kinder than most, but he didn't see them coming to the rescue while being led to the stocks.

"Don't fucking jinx me. I'll be put in a bad position for a while and it'll hurt like hell but I'll live. I just-- I need you to guard me. Okay? That's all. And I'll pay you when I get out. I promise."

“What do you know? You weren’t even paying attention.”

"Ye-- I was-- I was paying attention!" Timon paused, the teifling's dark eyes darting from the action to their companion speaking to them. He hadn't. He still wasn't. The curse of a short attention span and jangling coins in the distance.

“Mmm. The chicken is good. It’s a nice broth… What do you know about necromancy?”

"Oh thank you it was a recipe--" Timon turned to look at the woman over the campfire, not having expected that sentence to follow up the compliment on his cooking.

"And here you seemed like such the innocent type. What do you know about necromancy?"