It's like the first breath after the pool: sharp and deep, lungs aching from too long without.
The rest comes slowly. A damp chill and the sound of waves breaking on a shore, pebbles beneath and a wind dragging at cloth and feathers and hair. Slowly, the Champion of Ravens pushes himself to his feet. Every inch of him hurts, a pain he has never experienced in all his years, neither as mortal nor revenant nor celestial. He looks out, breathing hard as if learning how all over again. The rocky beach is familiar and unfamiliar, a place unknown but still on the Material Plane. Fog obscures whatever water is beyond the immediate shore.
The Champion takes a step, staggers, then finds his balance again as he moves over the uneven ground toward the only other body he can see: the human man who had been one of those compelled to witness Daleth's plan come to fruition. He pauses and looks toward the northwest, as if he might see the beam of red light streaking through the sky, but all he can see is the dancing light of the leylines.
He came here for her. She was going ot die, and it wasn't right. It wasn't time. There are many things he couldn't save her from, but he would not let the machinations of those with aberrant ambitions sweep her from this world when she has so much left ahead of her. Even She could not stop him.
"Keyleth..."
But he does not move, he does not leave this plane or otherwise connect with the divine magic that allows him to travel where he will. The Champion breaths a shuddering sigh and turns his attention back to the man sprawled on the beach. He crouches down, taking stock of injuries, the collar, the man himself. Not dead, at least. He reaches out, hand covered by a thin black gauntlet with claw-like tips, and shakes the man's shoulder.
Perhaps there are better things to wake up to than a figure shrouded in black leather and feathers with a bone-white mask that obscures three quarters of his face.
There are better things, yes. Many. But there are also many worse.
Caleb starts from unconsciousness with a soundless cry, fingers moving with automatic muscle-memory in the somatic for Counterspell before his eyes have even fully opened. The power gathers, then dissipates uselessly. No verbal component, but no target either. Laying flat on his back, he blinks up at the figure now coming into focus above him, backlit against an overcast sky.
Naturally, given the circumstances, his first assumption is that the Matron herself has come for him. That would be fine if he didn't have so much to do. But he knows he isn't dead. If he was dead, he wouldn't feel rocks digging into his back or water soaking into his boots. If he was dead, every inch of his body wouldn't ache. If he was dead, he wouldn't have a collar around his neck.
Seconds before the world went white, he'd glimpsed this dark figure standing protectively over the bloodied body of the Voice of the Tempest, drawn into Ludinus' trap like all the rest of them. Caleb blames himself. How could he have missed so much? He should know better than anyone what that man is capable of. Seven years being a thorn in this fucker's side, but he couldn't do shit to stop him when it really mattered. The ache in his body has nothing on the sting of failure. He doesn't even know what happened, what he's doing here, or where here is.
Vivid images flash through his mind like a slideshow of his worst fears, except they are memories from barely two minutes ago. Ludinus, the beacon, the red moon hanging low, Beauregard shackled beyond hope of escape--
That last one sticks, jamming the gears of his brain and stopping it from spiraling deeper. There are things more important than self-flagellation.
Where is Beauregard?
He sits up suddenly, which puts him very close to that eerie raven mask, and looks left, then right. Desolate, unfamiliar beach, which explains why his boots, trousers, and half his coat are wet, the sea-salt taste in is mouth, and the heavy scent of brine with every breath. Wild-eyed, bleeding from a wound above his brow, gray-streaked red hair a messy tangle around his face, he must look as manic as he feels. Through the well-worn leather of his fingerless glove, he feels the texture of feathers when he puts his hand on this specter's surprisingly solid shoulder and squeezes, looking squarely into the holes in the mask where he would expect eyes to peer back.
We are alone here?
He speaks the words, feels his throat work and his lips move, but of course hears nothing. Hopefully this...entity can read lips. Whoever this is, they are no friend to Ludinus Da'leth, which is the only requirement Caleb has currently.
The Champion eases back, crouching and not particularly concerned as the man flails up and tries to cast something. No sound. He waits for his companion to take everything in. The Champion cocks his head, perhaps comically bird-like if not for the circumstances. A spell? He doesn't move as the man grips his shoulder and attempts to speak. Again, no sound.
But he can read the question on his lips.
"I haven't seen anyone else," he answers, voice a rasp. He hasn't had much occasion to speak in some time, though he managed it well enough before the woman who thought she would kill the Voice of the Tempest. "But I just woke."
Which is also a sensation he hasn't really had in the last thirty years or so.
Of course it would be too much to hope that Beauregard would wind up nearby. He breathes out, sharp and frustrated, but nods. He also takes in his sole companion more fully. He can make some guesses about his identity, given what he witnessed. Which is not the wildest thing to happen in the last ten minutes or so, but only because the bar is set so high. It's still pretty fucking wild.
If this figure is a god's Champion, there are worse companions to have in this situation. Maybe there is something to be done yet. He is already tired of being useless.
Caleb tugs open the front of his duster to reveal the thick tome strapped to his side, clearly a spellbook, then taps the metal collar locked securely around his throat and mouths, Silenced. That should be a clear enough explanation of his predicament: muzzled, humiliated, helpless.
(He thinks of closing a collar exactly like this one around his former master's neck seven years ago.)
Gaze flickering briefly down to the raven-feather mantle and then back up to the mask, his brow knits almost gently as he asks slowly, Who are you?
He takes in the spellbooks and collar and pieces click into place. Silenced. An arcane caster who cannot speak, and he suspects the collar will keep anything that is purely somatic or component-based from working either.
They're in a more dire predicament then. Neither of them will be crossing oceans with ease any time soon. The Champion's black wings ruffle behind him, then slowly fold. Soon enough, they look like a long, feathered cloak. The next question is predictable, but the answer is less straightforward. Who is he?
A gloved hand reaches to pull away the white, bird-like mask to reveal a pale, handsome face and hazel eyes. Braided into his dark brown hair is a blue feather and a few colored beads; he has the delicately pointed ears of a half-elf.
There is a face beneath that mask after all. A handsome one, timeless, but not in an elven way, as Caleb has become familiar with. Essek may not visibly age, but he does change. This face gives the impression of being frozen in time, more akin to a statue than a person. Which makes a grim sort of sense, given his identity.
Ja, okay. This is very weird, but he can work with weird. He nods again, and his lack of shock is probably enough to prove how deeply embedded he is in this insanity.
My name is--
He mouths the words again, then pauses, holds up a finger, and reaches into his coat. From his holster, he unclips the smaller, thinner book, a journal for notes and ideas that don't need to be recorded in his spellbook. The paper is only of middling quality, but it doesn't need to be more than that. Cracking it open to a blank page, he plucks a plain-looking white quill from the inner breast pocket of his coat. A Pumat Sol original enchantment, it writes in smooth black ink (unsuitable for transcribing, but still good) as soon as he puts nib to paper without the need of an inkwell. A gift from Beauregard years ago to commemorate his first year at the Academy. She claimed she was saving him thousands of gold on ink, and she was probably right.
In his tight, careful script, Caleb writes:
Caleb Widogast
and turns the book so the--the Champion can read it. Then, after a moment's consideration, he writes beneath:
I am a teacher.
And because there's no time for smalltalk, as curious as he might be, he quickly scrawls more.
Sorry you were dragged into this. Do you know what he did to you?
That might help him put together the pieces of what happened...in general.
The Champion watches with a distant sort of curiosity as the man digs into his coat again and retrieves a small notebook - a convenience. The quill that writes on its own is more interesting, and he watches the name appear across the paper. Not Bren Aldric Ermendrud, then. Not that it matters. There's a faint tick at the corner of his mouth when the man - Caleb - adds that he is a teacher. He cocks his head a little, that odd, bird-like movement.
"Caleb Widogast," he repeats, and that bare hint of a smile shows a bit more as he meets the other man's gaze. "I've been called many things... mostly trouble."
He remembers that. The Champion glances at the next scrawl of conversation and the smile fades. He shakes his head. "I don't know. That was--weird."
More than weird. He has never been compressed before. Made into a thing for some massive machine. He rolls his shoulders, as if working out the strain put on a body that does not - should not - feel strain.
Trouble. A small smile flickers over Caleb's lips as well, more from surprise than anything. The Matron's Champion is less of a stoic figure than he seems. But his pinched look of concern returns quickly as the Champion reveals he has no idea what happened to him. He is right, though; it was weird.
Caleb puts quill to paper again.
Ludinus said he needed a sliver of divinity for his lens.
The other two keys used Vestiges of Divergence, but this central one required something more powerful than the divine magic a mere object could hold. Something like...the divinity granted to a god's Champion.
He looks up again into the face of the dark-haired half-elven man. Caleb knows who this is, or who he once was, just as Ludinus had. Even if he were not a friend of Allura Vysorn, Vox Machina is legendary. Their story is well-known. Including the Voice of the Tempest's link to the Raven Queen's Champion.
It is certainly no more despicable than anything else Ludinus Da'leth has done, but Caleb hates him for it all the same. Of course that man sees selfless love as another connection to be exploited. Sickening how clever this trap was. Horrifying how he, and all those who uncovered pieces of the Vanguard's plans, had played directly into it. He and Beauregard--they knew it was wrong. In seven years, the Archmage of Domestic Protections had never been so obvious about his activities as in the last few months, which could be nothing but intentional. Provoking, counting on opposition. But what else could they do? Even if they were being strung along, they had to follow where the path led to have any hope of stopping him at all.
What a failure that attempt had been. One with consequences for all of Exandria.
He watches everything flicker across Caleb's face, the anger and frustration, the pain. He feels echoes of them in his own chest. The Champion looks down, frowning as he reads the words.
For a long moment he is quiet, taking stock of himself, of everything he knows and everything he should feel. He lets go of a heavy breath.
"Not all of it," he says darkly, an edge of vengeance there that has existed for as long as he's been Hers. It flares back to life now. The Champion's jaw ticks and he gets up in a flurry of motion, venting the growing anger the only way he's ever known how. A dagger flies and slams into a piece of driftwood; in the same flash, the Champion is gone and reappears where the dagger is to pull it out. He stays there for a moment, crouched and nearly shrouded in feathers. Being angry without direction is useless, however, and with that flare of temper spent, he gets up and returns to Caleb Widogast.
He does not watch the machinations of mortals, called to other duties. But he has always had eyes on Keyleth of the Ashari and the Baroness of Whitestone: two people that no force on this plane or any other could keep him from. All of them were pieces moved on a board, and he is angry that no one saw it sooner - not even the gods who watch this world. Another heavy exhale and he reaches for a calm he had known so rarely in his life before Her.
"She was lured there for me," he says, saying out loud what he's sure this man already knows. The story of Vox Machina is known; there are songs, for fuck's sake, about Keyleth and Vax'ildan, the rogue and the ruler. A soft sound, too embittered to be a proper laugh, catches in his throat as he looks to the northwest.
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donotgofar) wrote2023-03-13 04:51 pm
no subject
The rest comes slowly. A damp chill and the sound of waves breaking on a shore, pebbles beneath and a wind dragging at cloth and feathers and hair. Slowly, the Champion of Ravens pushes himself to his feet. Every inch of him hurts, a pain he has never experienced in all his years, neither as mortal nor revenant nor celestial. He looks out, breathing hard as if learning how all over again. The rocky beach is familiar and unfamiliar, a place unknown but still on the Material Plane. Fog obscures whatever water is beyond the immediate shore.
The Champion takes a step, staggers, then finds his balance again as he moves over the uneven ground toward the only other body he can see: the human man who had been one of those compelled to witness Daleth's plan come to fruition. He pauses and looks toward the northwest, as if he might see the beam of red light streaking through the sky, but all he can see is the dancing light of the leylines.
He came here for her. She was going ot die, and it wasn't right. It wasn't time. There are many things he couldn't save her from, but he would not let the machinations of those with aberrant ambitions sweep her from this world when she has so much left ahead of her. Even She could not stop him.
"Keyleth..."
But he does not move, he does not leave this plane or otherwise connect with the divine magic that allows him to travel where he will. The Champion breaths a shuddering sigh and turns his attention back to the man sprawled on the beach. He crouches down, taking stock of injuries, the collar, the man himself. Not dead, at least. He reaches out, hand covered by a thin black gauntlet with claw-like tips, and shakes the man's shoulder.
Perhaps there are better things to wake up to than a figure shrouded in black leather and feathers with a bone-white mask that obscures three quarters of his face.
no subject
Caleb starts from unconsciousness with a soundless cry, fingers moving with automatic muscle-memory in the somatic for Counterspell before his eyes have even fully opened. The power gathers, then dissipates uselessly. No verbal component, but no target either. Laying flat on his back, he blinks up at the figure now coming into focus above him, backlit against an overcast sky.
Naturally, given the circumstances, his first assumption is that the Matron herself has come for him. That would be fine if he didn't have so much to do. But he knows he isn't dead. If he was dead, he wouldn't feel rocks digging into his back or water soaking into his boots. If he was dead, every inch of his body wouldn't ache. If he was dead, he wouldn't have a collar around his neck.
Seconds before the world went white, he'd glimpsed this dark figure standing protectively over the bloodied body of the Voice of the Tempest, drawn into Ludinus' trap like all the rest of them. Caleb blames himself. How could he have missed so much? He should know better than anyone what that man is capable of. Seven years being a thorn in this fucker's side, but he couldn't do shit to stop him when it really mattered. The ache in his body has nothing on the sting of failure. He doesn't even know what happened, what he's doing here, or where here is.
Vivid images flash through his mind like a slideshow of his worst fears, except they are memories from barely two minutes ago. Ludinus, the beacon, the red moon hanging low, Beauregard shackled beyond hope of escape--
That last one sticks, jamming the gears of his brain and stopping it from spiraling deeper. There are things more important than self-flagellation.
Where is Beauregard?
He sits up suddenly, which puts him very close to that eerie raven mask, and looks left, then right. Desolate, unfamiliar beach, which explains why his boots, trousers, and half his coat are wet, the sea-salt taste in is mouth, and the heavy scent of brine with every breath. Wild-eyed, bleeding from a wound above his brow, gray-streaked red hair a messy tangle around his face, he must look as manic as he feels. Through the well-worn leather of his fingerless glove, he feels the texture of feathers when he puts his hand on this specter's surprisingly solid shoulder and squeezes, looking squarely into the holes in the mask where he would expect eyes to peer back.
We are alone here?
He speaks the words, feels his throat work and his lips move, but of course hears nothing. Hopefully this...entity can read lips. Whoever this is, they are no friend to Ludinus Da'leth, which is the only requirement Caleb has currently.
no subject
But he can read the question on his lips.
"I haven't seen anyone else," he answers, voice a rasp. He hasn't had much occasion to speak in some time, though he managed it well enough before the woman who thought she would kill the Voice of the Tempest. "But I just woke."
Which is also a sensation he hasn't really had in the last thirty years or so.
no subject
If this figure is a god's Champion, there are worse companions to have in this situation. Maybe there is something to be done yet. He is already tired of being useless.
Caleb tugs open the front of his duster to reveal the thick tome strapped to his side, clearly a spellbook, then taps the metal collar locked securely around his throat and mouths, Silenced. That should be a clear enough explanation of his predicament: muzzled, humiliated, helpless.
(He thinks of closing a collar exactly like this one around his former master's neck seven years ago.)
Gaze flickering briefly down to the raven-feather mantle and then back up to the mask, his brow knits almost gently as he asks slowly, Who are you?
no subject
They're in a more dire predicament then. Neither of them will be crossing oceans with ease any time soon. The Champion's black wings ruffle behind him, then slowly fold. Soon enough, they look like a long, feathered cloak. The next question is predictable, but the answer is less straightforward. Who is he?
A gloved hand reaches to pull away the white, bird-like mask to reveal a pale, handsome face and hazel eyes. Braided into his dark brown hair is a blue feather and a few colored beads; he has the delicately pointed ears of a half-elf.
"The Matron's Champion," he answers.
no subject
Ja, okay. This is very weird, but he can work with weird. He nods again, and his lack of shock is probably enough to prove how deeply embedded he is in this insanity.
My name is--
He mouths the words again, then pauses, holds up a finger, and reaches into his coat. From his holster, he unclips the smaller, thinner book, a journal for notes and ideas that don't need to be recorded in his spellbook. The paper is only of middling quality, but it doesn't need to be more than that. Cracking it open to a blank page, he plucks a plain-looking white quill from the inner breast pocket of his coat. A Pumat Sol original enchantment, it writes in smooth black ink (unsuitable for transcribing, but still good) as soon as he puts nib to paper without the need of an inkwell. A gift from Beauregard years ago to commemorate his first year at the Academy. She claimed she was saving him thousands of gold on ink, and she was probably right.
In his tight, careful script, Caleb writes:
Caleb Widogast
and turns the book so the--the Champion can read it. Then, after a moment's consideration, he writes beneath:
I am a teacher.
And because there's no time for smalltalk, as curious as he might be, he quickly scrawls more.
Sorry you were dragged into this. Do you know what he did to you?
That might help him put together the pieces of what happened...in general.
no subject
"Caleb Widogast," he repeats, and that bare hint of a smile shows a bit more as he meets the other man's gaze. "I've been called many things... mostly trouble."
He remembers that. The Champion glances at the next scrawl of conversation and the smile fades. He shakes his head. "I don't know. That was--weird."
More than weird. He has never been compressed before. Made into a thing for some massive machine. He rolls his shoulders, as if working out the strain put on a body that does not - should not - feel strain.
no subject
Caleb puts quill to paper again.
Ludinus said he needed a sliver of divinity for his lens.
The other two keys used Vestiges of Divergence, but this central one required something more powerful than the divine magic a mere object could hold. Something like...the divinity granted to a god's Champion.
He looks up again into the face of the dark-haired half-elven man. Caleb knows who this is, or who he once was, just as Ludinus had. Even if he were not a friend of Allura Vysorn, Vox Machina is legendary. Their story is well-known. Including the Voice of the Tempest's link to the Raven Queen's Champion.
It is certainly no more despicable than anything else Ludinus Da'leth has done, but Caleb hates him for it all the same. Of course that man sees selfless love as another connection to be exploited. Sickening how clever this trap was. Horrifying how he, and all those who uncovered pieces of the Vanguard's plans, had played directly into it. He and Beauregard--they knew it was wrong. In seven years, the Archmage of Domestic Protections had never been so obvious about his activities as in the last few months, which could be nothing but intentional. Provoking, counting on opposition. But what else could they do? Even if they were being strung along, they had to follow where the path led to have any hope of stopping him at all.
What a failure that attempt had been. One with consequences for all of Exandria.
Caleb's jaw tightens. He writes:
I think he stole it from you.
no subject
For a long moment he is quiet, taking stock of himself, of everything he knows and everything he should feel. He lets go of a heavy breath.
"Not all of it," he says darkly, an edge of vengeance there that has existed for as long as he's been Hers. It flares back to life now. The Champion's jaw ticks and he gets up in a flurry of motion, venting the growing anger the only way he's ever known how. A dagger flies and slams into a piece of driftwood; in the same flash, the Champion is gone and reappears where the dagger is to pull it out. He stays there for a moment, crouched and nearly shrouded in feathers. Being angry without direction is useless, however, and with that flare of temper spent, he gets up and returns to Caleb Widogast.
He does not watch the machinations of mortals, called to other duties. But he has always had eyes on Keyleth of the Ashari and the Baroness of Whitestone: two people that no force on this plane or any other could keep him from. All of them were pieces moved on a board, and he is angry that no one saw it sooner - not even the gods who watch this world. Another heavy exhale and he reaches for a calm he had known so rarely in his life before Her.
"She was lured there for me," he says, saying out loud what he's sure this man already knows. The story of Vox Machina is known; there are songs, for fuck's sake, about Keyleth and Vax'ildan, the rogue and the ruler. A soft sound, too embittered to be a proper laugh, catches in his throat as he looks to the northwest.
"Did we break the world?"