The funeral of Biscotti is a sombre and melancholy event. It lasts most of the day and the last mourners don't leave until an hour after sunset. Everyone is free to mourn as they wish, although many of the guild members will follow the local tradition of either committing as many small crimes as they can for the rest of the night, or pulling off that one impossible crime that almost everyone has heard about but none have dared attempt.
(Please make your first post or two an introduction to your character and anything you do or say to pay your respects at the funeral.)
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"A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow."
— The message of Eilistraee to all decent drow.
"Run thy sword across my chains, Silver Lady, that I may join your dance.”
A large gorilla of a man stands beneath a nearby tree, scratching old scars and eyeing the other mourners. He ne'er was one fer cryin'. It dinnae make this any less poor, but damn the young'uns if they weren't hurtin'.
...Ah, well. Time to get started. He picks through the crowd of onlookers with his eyes, his guildmates peppered throughout. The plan? Get drunk on the boss's glories, rob some shite, punch things, maybe sleep with some of 'em. How better to honor Biscotti's memory?
Emerging from the shadows, a young human man steps forward, his form cloaked in a flowing black robe that billows softly with each movement. Circular-shaped glasses perched upon his nose, adding an intellectual air to his enigmatic presence. As he joins his fellow guild members, his eyes, a striking shade of reddish-orange, look around at everyone slowly.
He doesn't really know the names of most of them, or maybe he just never bothered remembering because he's always buried in his magic books. But there are a few faces he recognizes, the ones he's hung out with more often over the years.
'Biscotti, vaulty, haughty, manacotti, basmati,' His thoughts went on as he made rhymes surrounding the fallen leader's name. It was almost a poem of sorts- of things he knew the leader to be like and also just words he thought sounded funny. The changeling druid had sauntered into the funeral, not really sure what to make of it. Sure, Biscotti was his leader, but did he really have much of a personal connection... not really. But for formalities sake, he arrived. Along the way, his long, white hair got stuck in a few low-lying tree branches, to which some leaves still clung to his matted hair.
By the time he had reached the gravesite, he had shapeshifted into persona of a short dwarf he had once saw at the tavern where he hid at. His regular greyish purple cloak hung baggily like an oversized robe with this new form's size. He lightly threw an orchid onto the grave's plot, "For you, my friend." He lingered there for a moment to contemplate the scene, breezily swaying back and forth at the grave before turning around to survey the other guildmembers. His eyes caught the figure of the hulking man by the tree, not familiar, but oh so interesting~
"Hello~" He had skipped over there, sitting next to the man with eyes wide and curious, like a child waiting for a fairy tale, "What are you plotting?"
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<---- me irl slow reader, even slower writer easily jumpy thanks for being patient
DM: Drakkenheim Mind and Matter + Blood Secrets + What's in the Here and Now;
The funeral of Biscotti, leader of the Night Ravens, has drawn to its bleak conclusion. As dusk blankets the world in shades of sorrow, the mourners’ silhouettes disperse into the encroaching night, leaving the guild’s members to embrace the tradition of mourning through mischief and mayhem.
Amidst the shadows the Rhinemaiden finds herself alone with her grief and madness, cradling a ghastly doll in her arms—a sinister figure with soulless eyes that seem to follow the living, its visage a grotesque caricature of innocence lost. This eerie totem, a patchwork of tattered fabric and stained lace, harbors eyes like black abysses set deep within a chalk-white face smeared with the dark residue of forgotten playtimes. Its limbs, stiff and disjointed, are adorned with chains that speak of captivity and a silence more haunting than the grave itself.
In a feverish torrent of emotions, Mad Molly oscillates between a macabre giggling and the raw anguish of tears. Her voice, a discordant melody of the Common tongue mixed together with pure gibberish or perhaps another tongue that no one but her is familiar with, fills the air—a twisted lullaby to the inanimate confidant nestled in her embrace.
“Wölfe schlafen tief im Wald, von Eulenschrei jetzt umwoben,”she murmurs, her eyes fixed on the lifeless companion or rather his grave. Suddenly, her tone shifts to an anguished Common, “But only one soul lies fully awake, thinking of witches, of specters, of loss.”
Her gaze, wild and untamed, flits to the freshly turned earth marking her mentor’s resting place. “Du hast mir den Schlüssel versprochen, Vater! Ein Deal ist ein Deal! Wo ist es? Gib es mir!”she demands, her voice a tempest of fury and despair, challenging the silent grave to yield its secrets.
The verses of her songs intertwine with her demands, a jumbled symphony of languages that reflect the chaos within:
“Wölfe schlafen 'midst the trees, Fledermäuse, dancing in der Brise. But eine Seele lies anxious, wach auf,”she sings, her tone shifting to a sinister timbre as she regards the doll with a disturbing tenderness. “Fearing Hexen, Unholde, und Gespenster.”
She clings to the grotesque figure, her voice a crescendo of mania and melancholy as she pleads and accuses. “For deine dolly Polly, sleep has geflogen, don’t dare lassen sie zittern alone! For the Hexer, herzlos kalt, paid in Münze aus Gold. Er kommt, er geht, leaving us with nothing but grief and the echoes of a promise unfulfilled.”
The grave offers no reply, the doll no comfort. Molly’s presence is a portrait of turmoil, her mind a labyrinth with no exit—a soul haunted by the loss of a father figure and tormented by the unyielding silence of the unanswered.
Her display, as unhinged as the winds of chaos, serves as a testament before the guild—an unveiling of a force as unpredictable as the tide or the fate of a mind teetering on the brink of darkness. Yet, in the throes of her mad soliloquy, a stark reality emerges: the Rhinemaiden stands before them, not merely an enigma but a living conundrum, an embodiment of the Night Ravens’ darkest lore that they must now endeavor to decipher or dare to dread.
"Heh. Hehehe. Violence, mostly. Tonight's a night o' reve'ry, boyo. You best bet we're sendin' the boss off with a lil' mayhem ta spare. Among o'er 'tings..."
He eyes the changeling with an... unsettling gleam on his crude, scored face.
"What say we 'round ta o'ers up and go fer a night on the town?"
He's already drawn a bead on the wizard boy at the crowd's edge, as well as the crazy one. Tonight was gonna be fun...
Off in the corner of the funeral, a lone man leans against a tree, face turned toward the ground so that no one can see the tears rolling down his cheeks. The man is tall and slender, with stark white hair. His skin is very pale, but still natural for the human he appears to be. However, anyone who knows him well knows his skin is naturally as white as his hair. In fact, anyone who knows him well would be concerned, as he never goes out in public with this low effort of a disguise. But today, Fyn couldn't bring himself to care.
Fyn keeps an eye on the gravestone, waiting for a moment when no one is next to it. When he gets the chance, Fyn walks up to the grave and kneels down, dropping some orchids on the ground and remembering the good times. After a moment, Fyn stands up and starts to wander back to the tree when his eyes lock on Fist. Fyn instantly knows that Fist is planning something or another, and changes course to walk over to him. Could be a fun distraction.
Anyone who approaches can likely hear the old bruiser barking about his "night on the town" in the big boss's memory. Drinking, fighting, loving, sinning the night away -- an 'unkindness' to be sure!
"...Hehehe! Anyhoo! I figured we hit the pub, first. Plenty 'o' marks wi' pockets o'rflowin' with gold. Plus a lil' liquid courage ne'er hurt no one! Maybe you boys," he nods to the changeling pair, "could con a couple o' fellas in there, then we'll clean the place out! An' if'n things get a lil' rough, well -- 'tis a night to cut loose! Hells, I'll hit 'em, too! Heh! Heheheheh!"
As the funeral of Biscotti comes to a close, Steelclaw stands tall among his fellow guild members, his sleek black fur illuminated by the dim light of the setting sun. His subtle stripes of dark gray seem to shimmer faintly, adding to his already striking appearance. His eyes, a piercing green, betray a mixture of emotions—grief, determination, and perhaps a hint of anger.
He watches as the last mourners depart, their footsteps echoing in the fading light of the day. Steelclaw feels the weight of the loss keenly, a deep sense of grief settling over him. Despite this, his resolve remains unwavering.
Dressed in his usual attire, Steelclaw wears light, flexible clothing that allows for easy movement. A hooded cloak drapes over his shoulders, its dark fabric blending seamlessly with the shadows around him. Leather armor covers his torso, providing some protection without sacrificing agility. His claws are visible, sharp and ready, a testament to his skill and readiness for whatever challenges may come his way.
Steelclaw steps forward and drops two coins into the grave, a tribute to pay the ferryman. Steelclaw also performs a traditional Tabaxi ritual, placing a small offering of food and drink at the grave as a sign of respect and remembrance "For the ferryman and the journey my friend." he says just looking at the grave.
As the somber twilight of Biscotti's funeral wraps its melancholic shroud over the assembly the Rhinemaiden clutching her grotesque doll, wanders amidst the mourners with an aimless gait. Her pale blue eyes, wide with a blend of curiosity and unspoken thoughts, fixate on a peculiar figure—it's sleek black fur glistens under the fading sun, casting him as an otherworldly presence among those assmembled in the graveyard.
Molly approaches hesitant at first as if mesmerized at the sight of a creature from a half-remembered dream. Her gaze is drawn not just to his striking appearance but to the curious rituals it performs at the grave. "Kätzchen, komm hier, süßer Kater, puss, puss," she coos, the words spilling from her lips in a singsong cadence.
The kitty's solemn tribute of coins, food, and drink escape Molly's grasp of reason. Her mind, touched by the whims of madness, sees not a ritual of mourning but a curious interaction ripe for her own peculiar brand of participation.
"Oh, was für ein hübscher Kätzchen du bist,"she murmurs, reaching out with a trembling hand to stroke it's soft fur. Her fingers, stained and unkempt, trail through his sleek coat with an eerie gentleness, even giving the beast a loving scratch under it's chin.
Quickly becoming disinterestedly Molly's attention shifts to the offerings laid upon the grave. She picks at the food, sniffing it curiously before tasting it. A grimace distorts her features as she spits it out in distaste, her expression contorting further into one of disgust. "Pfui, schrecklich,"she declares to no one in particular.
Her eyes, gleaming with a childlike mischief, next fall upon the two shiny coins. With no comprehension of their somber significance, she snatches them up, turning them over in her palm as she giggles quietly. "Für mich? Oh, danke, Biscotti," she whispers, sliding the coins into the ragged folds of her garment as though securing a found treasure.
As she begins to saunter away, her doll swinging from one hand, Molly's voice rises in a disjointed lullaby that fills the air with its eerie melody. "Schlaf, meine Puppe, schlaf," she sings, her notes drifting into the evening air.
"Ohoho! Magnificent! Of course!" The changeling clapped in glee at Fist's proposition, "That sounds like fun!" He jumped up to meet the man at head level (well almost at head level. In his dwarf size right now he was almost half the height of the human). He immediately stuck out his hand in a shake, but instead did a smooth pivot turn on his heels to face the newcomer changeling. "Hiya!"He shook Fyn's hand and then Fist's next, his two arms overlapping each other like an 'x' as he did this simultaneously, "Hiya!"
He tapped his chin in thought for a second, the oversized sleeve covering his actual hand, "We should hit up my tavern! There's never short of fun nor excitement from that place! Ohhoho if only the walls could speak!"He looked as if he were ready to jump out of his seat if there was one, skipping from one foot to the next, "It ain't too far aways from here!"
He heard the lullaby coming from Molly and attempted to hum the tune, but it came out awkward and jarring, and he gave up within a few seconds of trying. "Ohhh~ I like that one!"He twirled, then pointed over to the young woman. His head tilted in curiosity as she walked over to the taxabi's offering and then proceeded to eat it, "Ah well, there she goes~"
His focus went back over to the two men, lifting his arms up into the sky, "Shall we make this a night to remember?" He put his hand out flat in front of him, smile growing larger by the second, "What do you say, boys? For Biscotti?!"
A bit taken aback by the sheer amount of energy coming from the other changeling, Fyn can't help but chuckle lightly and nod. "For Biscotti." Fyn straightens himself up a bit, swiping a bit of dust off of his fine (stolen) clothes and darkening his hair to a light brown. A night on the town might be just what he needs to feel better.
Fyn does glance back over at the grave to see Molly and Steelclaw, but just shakes his head and looks back towards the rest of the group. "Ready when you are."
The brute stands straight, towering at just under 6'6. He wraps a large hairy arm around the wizard and pulls him a tad too close, jostling his glasses and hair. Hot stinking breath smacks the younger man's face as Fist pulls out a busted gold coin with flecks of dry blood on the mint, sliding it into the wizard's breast pocket and patting his chest. His words ring in the spellcaster's ear.
"Tell ya wha', lad. You lead the others down, buy the first round, on me." He somehow manages to pull Gotu in even closer, slightly choking him, and in lower voice he adds: "Scout the place out, and keep our crazier ones in line. 'Don wanna start the night early, now do we...?"
With that, he releases him, then grabs poor Fyn by the shirt collar, pulling him along back up the hill. "C'mon, le's grab the cat," he says in a rather somber tone. He keeps a side glance on the girl, or whatever she is. He's a big man. Most girls her size, he could snap in half, easy. Her? He wouldn't even try.
The brute stands straight, towering at just under 6'6. He wraps a large hairy arm around the wizard and pulls him a tad too close, jostling his glasses and hair. Hot stinking breath smacks the younger man's face as Fist pulls out a busted gold coin with flecks of dry blood on the mint, sliding it into the wizard's breast pocket and patting his chest. His words ring in the spellcaster's ear.
"Tell ya wha', lad. You lead the others down, buy the first round, on me." He somehow manages to pull Gotu in even closer, slightly choking him, and in lower voice he adds: "Scout the place out, and keep our crazier ones in line. 'Don wanna start the night early, now do we...?"
With that, he releases him, then grabs poor Fyn by the shirt collar, pulling him along back up the hill. "C'mon, le's grab the cat," he says in a rather somber tone. He keeps a side glance on the girl, or whatever she is. He's a big man. Most girls her size, he could snap in half, easy. Her? He wouldn't even try.
Gotu rubs his neck, scowling.
"You're asking the wrong person here, but fine." He shakes his head and looks at the others.
"For Biscotti!"The druid yelled after Fyn. When no one joined him for his super fun hands-in-the-middle team-building-exercise, he let out a small frown of disappointment, but tried to play it off cool and reeled his hand back in and into the pockets of his cloak.
'Oh no!' He stood there lamely when the man he was just talking with had nearly picked up the small wizard guy almost by the scruff of his neck. Asbestos's eyes widened in both shock and observation. He was about to open his mouth in protest, but decided it was better not to. He was not one to pick fights... but this guy surely was! 'Ohhh~ 'the crazier ones'', He liked the sound of that. Yes, he was self-aware, but only to a degree. He did, in fact, agree (in glee) with that statement! He wondered who Fist meant the others were. The changeling gave a small thumbs up at Gotu after the harrowing encounter.
The sight of Fyn's hair changing color had also filled him delight. 'How wonderful! It's been a long time since I've ever seen another changeling,' He mused to himself, holding in the impulse to clap and grinned wide at the other changeling until Fist was at it again. 'Ah what a fickle thing,' Fist seemed rather fun, but not one the druid himself would ever want to mess with. He instead just continued staring day-dreamily.
He almost winced at the thought that Fist was going to go after him next, but when it seemed he didn't need to, he relaxed. Since he had been given no directive, in a jolt he pointed his finger into the air, "Yes! The tavern is very close to here! We will have a fun time, yes! Very much so!"
Fyn turns back towards Gotu as Fist essentially drags him forward. Despite that, Fyn smiles with his regular charm at the wizard. "You'll get used to it." The way Fyn says it makes it very unclear if he's joking or not. Fyn then turns forward, and does his best to maintain his composure while being dragged by the collar (a mostly futile effort). Fyn does keep glancing over at the girl, though. She's unpredictable. And that makes Fyn nervous.
Gotu takes this time to ritual cast Comprehend Languages to understand what Molly is saying, and then he quickly goes after her to bring her to the tavern.
"I swear the others really need to stop making me deal with this."
Fyn turns back towards Gotu as Fist essentially drags him forward. Despite that, Fyn smiles with his regular charm at the wizard. "You'll get used to it." The way Fyn says it makes it very unclear if he's joking or not. Fyn then turns forward, and does his best to maintain his composure while being dragged by the collar (a mostly futile effort). Fyn does keep glancing over at the girl, though. She's unpredictable. And that makes Fyn nervous.
Noticing Fyn stumblin' about tryin' to keep pace, Fist stops and lets the young'un's shirt go, though his grip seems to have stretched the collar a wee bit. It makes the poor lad looks like he's been tumbling in the sheets with a gnoll or two! Ach. ...He'll get the lad something expensive once the fun starts. That'll fix it.
...Yeah, that'll work. He bends forward, wraps his arm around the young man's slender waist, and hefts him up o'r his shoulder instead, throwing the poor lads clothes into even more disarray. If there's one thing ta be said 'bout the man, he's got street smarts fer days, book smarts fer a minute. Just don't let him hear you say that. Jetty said it once, but we don't talk about wha' happened with 'im, not after it popped off like that.
As his stride jostles the lad, he explains his plan: "Alright boyo, first thing's first. We gotta get ev'ryone together. You, the crazies, the gumshoe, the toy boy, the wizard, and the cat. We go down to the pub, drink ourselves silly, rob some good folk, start a fight or two, maybe e'en find a few lads or lasses to warm our beds t'morrow. Tis tradition! Now, I ain't ken ta carryin' the *****cat back down the hill! No' after the last time. Ach! 'Still got the scratches to prove it --" he points to the missing chunk of his ear. Though to be fair, he's also told folk he lost that piece to a ghoul. Jury's out on the truth.
"...So that's where you come in. The two 'o' you are the most broken up o'r Big Boss goin' belly-up. Now we all 'ad our kinship wit the man, but you two are espec'lly busted. So. Talk to the furball. Get 'im to open up, at least enough to get 'im to wreak havoc wit us. For Big Boss himself, if for no'one else."
Reachin' the hill's crest, Fist stops a few feet from the cat, who himself is likely a tad peeved o'r the crazy lass messin' wit 'is off'rins. He gives Fyn a light, somewhat innocent pat on the rump and sets him down. "Go. Talk. Con-vers-ate."
Fyn turns back towards Gotu as Fist essentially drags him forward. Despite that, Fyn smiles with his regular charm at the wizard. "You'll get used to it." The way Fyn says it makes it very unclear if he's joking or not. Fyn then turns forward, and does his best to maintain his composure while being dragged by the collar (a mostly futile effort). Fyn does keep glancing over at the girl, though. She's unpredictable. And that makes Fyn nervous.
Noticing Fyn stumblin' about tryin' to keep pace, Fist stops and lets the young'un's shirt go, though his grip seems to have stretched the collar a wee bit. It makes the poor lad looks like he's been tumbling in the sheets with a gnoll or two! Ach. ...He'll get the lad something expensive once the fun starts. That'll fix it.
...Yeah, that'll work. He bends forward, wraps his arm around the young man's slender waist, and hefts him up o'r his shoulder instead, throwing the poor lads clothes into even more disarray. If there's one thing ta be said 'bout the man, he's got street smarts fer days, book smarts fer a minute. Just don't let him hear you say that. Jetty said it once, but we don't talk about wha' happened with 'im, not after it popped off like that.
As his stride jostles the lad, he explains his plan: "Alright boyo, first thing's first. We gotta get ev'ryone together. You, the crazies, the gumshoe, the toy boy, the wizard, and the cat. We go down to the pub, drink ourselves silly, rob some good folk, start a fight or two, maybe e'en find a few lads or lasses to warm our beds t'morrow. Tis tradition! Now, I ain't ken ta carryin' the *****cat back down the hill! No' after the last time. Ach! 'Still got the scratches to prove it --" he points to the missing chunk of his ear. Though to be fair, he's also told folk he lost that piece to a ghoul. Jury's out on the truth.
"...So that's where you come in. The two 'o' you are the most broken up o'r Big Boss goin' belly-up. Now we all 'ad our kinship wit the man, but you two are espec'lly busted. So. Talk to the furball. Get 'im to open up, at least enough to get 'im to wreak havoc wit us. For Big Boss himself, if for no'one else."
Reachin' the hill's crest, Fist stops a few feet from the cat, who himself is likely a tad peeved o'r the crazy lass messin' wit 'is off'rins. He gives the Fyn a light pat on the rump and sets him down. "Go. Talk. Con-vers-ate."
Zeren sighs as he looks up from the book he was reading. He prefers quality to quantity when it comes to alcohol but knowing Fist they'll be buying too many drinks to get the good stuff.
Still a drink someone else is paying for always tastes better.
Shutting 'Intangible Thefts' (a book on how necromancy can supplement the arts of assassination and thievery) and stowing it in his bag Zeren moves to join the rest of the group, stepping out of the shadows as if he'd teleported.
Taller than the average human but nowhere near Fist's towering height, one of the stealthiest members but not the stealthiest, Zeren seemed to end up second-best at a lot of things. Still, he was good at more of them than most of the group and he'd only get better if he could figure out how to access the spirits of the dead like the book claimed was possible.
But back to the matter at hand.
"The old man said 'Any day you end with more coin in your pocket than when you started it is a good one' and he was right about that! Let's make sure we 'earn' back twice as much as we spend on drink, yeah?"
Zeren licks his lips. He was known for his prodigious appetite for many things. Money, knowledge, and in this case food.
"Personally I say why stop at drinks though? Remembrance of an individual of Biscotti's level demands at least a feast! How about we fill our pockets first and then end the evening filling our bellies with food and liquor?"
No sense doing a job drunk, so they should rob before they partied, but Zeren always tried to tailor arguments to his audience and what he'd said would be better received. Plus he stood to get a better cut of the take if the rest wanted to get the division of loot over with so they could get to the party faster.
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The funeral of Biscotti is a sombre and melancholy event. It lasts most of the day and the last mourners don't leave until an hour after sunset. Everyone is free to mourn as they wish, although many of the guild members will follow the local tradition of either committing as many small crimes as they can for the rest of the night, or pulling off that one impossible crime that almost everyone has heard about but none have dared attempt.
(Please make your first post or two an introduction to your character and anything you do or say to pay your respects at the funeral.)
A large gorilla of a man stands beneath a nearby tree, scratching old scars and eyeing the other mourners. He ne'er was one fer cryin'. It dinnae make this any less poor, but damn the young'uns if they weren't hurtin'.
...Ah, well. Time to get started. He picks through the crowd of onlookers with his eyes, his guildmates peppered throughout. The plan? Get drunk on the boss's glories, rob some shite, punch things, maybe sleep with some of 'em. How better to honor Biscotti's memory?
Emerging from the shadows, a young human man steps forward, his form cloaked in a flowing black robe that billows softly with each movement. Circular-shaped glasses perched upon his nose, adding an intellectual air to his enigmatic presence. As he joins his fellow guild members, his eyes, a striking shade of reddish-orange, look around at everyone slowly.
He doesn't really know the names of most of them, or maybe he just never bothered remembering because he's always buried in his magic books. But there are a few faces he recognizes, the ones he's hung out with more often over the years.
'Biscotti, vaulty, haughty, manacotti, basmati,' His thoughts went on as he made rhymes surrounding the fallen leader's name. It was almost a poem of sorts- of things he knew the leader to be like and also just words he thought sounded funny. The changeling druid had sauntered into the funeral, not really sure what to make of it. Sure, Biscotti was his leader, but did he really have much of a personal connection... not really. But for formalities sake, he arrived. Along the way, his long, white hair got stuck in a few low-lying tree branches, to which some leaves still clung to his matted hair.
By the time he had reached the gravesite, he had shapeshifted into persona of a short dwarf he had once saw at the tavern where he hid at. His regular greyish purple cloak hung baggily like an oversized robe with this new form's size. He lightly threw an orchid onto the grave's plot, "For you, my friend." He lingered there for a moment to contemplate the scene, breezily swaying back and forth at the grave before turning around to survey the other guildmembers. His eyes caught the figure of the hulking man by the tree, not familiar, but oh so interesting~
"Hello~" He had skipped over there, sitting next to the man with eyes wide and curious, like a child waiting for a fairy tale, "What are you plotting?"
<---- me irl slow reader, even slower writer easily jumpy thanks for being patient
DM: Drakkenheim Mind and Matter + Blood Secrets + What's in the Here and Now;
Player: Dragonlance
The funeral of Biscotti, leader of the Night Ravens, has drawn to its bleak conclusion. As dusk blankets the world in shades of sorrow, the mourners’ silhouettes disperse into the encroaching night, leaving the guild’s members to embrace the tradition of mourning through mischief and mayhem.
Amidst the shadows the Rhinemaiden finds herself alone with her grief and madness, cradling a ghastly doll in her arms—a sinister figure with soulless eyes that seem to follow the living, its visage a grotesque caricature of innocence lost. This eerie totem, a patchwork of tattered fabric and stained lace, harbors eyes like black abysses set deep within a chalk-white face smeared with the dark residue of forgotten playtimes. Its limbs, stiff and disjointed, are adorned with chains that speak of captivity and a silence more haunting than the grave itself.
In a feverish torrent of emotions, Mad Molly oscillates between a macabre giggling and the raw anguish of tears. Her voice, a discordant melody of the Common tongue mixed together with pure gibberish or perhaps another tongue that no one but her is familiar with, fills the air—a twisted lullaby to the inanimate confidant nestled in her embrace.
“Wölfe schlafen tief im Wald, von Eulenschrei jetzt umwoben,” she murmurs, her eyes fixed on the lifeless companion or rather his grave. Suddenly, her tone shifts to an anguished Common, “But only one soul lies fully awake, thinking of witches, of specters, of loss.”
Her gaze, wild and untamed, flits to the freshly turned earth marking her mentor’s resting place. “Du hast mir den Schlüssel versprochen, Vater! Ein Deal ist ein Deal! Wo ist es? Gib es mir!” she demands, her voice a tempest of fury and despair, challenging the silent grave to yield its secrets.
The verses of her songs intertwine with her demands, a jumbled symphony of languages that reflect the chaos within:
“Wölfe schlafen 'midst the trees, Fledermäuse, dancing in der Brise. But eine Seele lies anxious, wach auf,” she sings, her tone shifting to a sinister timbre as she regards the doll with a disturbing tenderness. “Fearing Hexen, Unholde, und Gespenster.”
She clings to the grotesque figure, her voice a crescendo of mania and melancholy as she pleads and accuses. “For deine dolly Polly, sleep has geflogen, don’t dare lassen sie zittern alone! For the Hexer, herzlos kalt, paid in Münze aus Gold. Er kommt, er geht, leaving us with nothing but grief and the echoes of a promise unfulfilled.”
The grave offers no reply, the doll no comfort. Molly’s presence is a portrait of turmoil, her mind a labyrinth with no exit—a soul haunted by the loss of a father figure and tormented by the unyielding silence of the unanswered.
Her display, as unhinged as the winds of chaos, serves as a testament before the guild—an unveiling of a force as unpredictable as the tide or the fate of a mind teetering on the brink of darkness. Yet, in the throes of her mad soliloquy, a stark reality emerges: the Rhinemaiden stands before them, not merely an enigma but a living conundrum, an embodiment of the Night Ravens’ darkest lore that they must now endeavor to decipher or dare to dread.
"Heh. Hehehe. Violence, mostly. Tonight's a night o' reve'ry, boyo. You best bet we're sendin' the boss off with a lil' mayhem ta spare. Among o'er 'tings..."
He eyes the changeling with an... unsettling gleam on his crude, scored face.
"What say we 'round ta o'ers up and go fer a night on the town?"
He's already drawn a bead on the wizard boy at the crowd's edge, as well as the crazy one. Tonight was gonna be fun...
Off in the corner of the funeral, a lone man leans against a tree, face turned toward the ground so that no one can see the tears rolling down his cheeks. The man is tall and slender, with stark white hair. His skin is very pale, but still natural for the human he appears to be. However, anyone who knows him well knows his skin is naturally as white as his hair. In fact, anyone who knows him well would be concerned, as he never goes out in public with this low effort of a disguise. But today, Fyn couldn't bring himself to care.
Fyn keeps an eye on the gravestone, waiting for a moment when no one is next to it. When he gets the chance, Fyn walks up to the grave and kneels down, dropping some orchids on the ground and remembering the good times. After a moment, Fyn stands up and starts to wander back to the tree when his eyes lock on Fist. Fyn instantly knows that Fist is planning something or another, and changes course to walk over to him. Could be a fun distraction.
Anyone who approaches can likely hear the old bruiser barking about his "night on the town" in the big boss's memory. Drinking, fighting, loving, sinning the night away -- an 'unkindness' to be sure!
"...Hehehe! Anyhoo! I figured we hit the pub, first. Plenty 'o' marks wi' pockets o'rflowin' with gold. Plus a lil' liquid courage ne'er hurt no one! Maybe you boys," he nods to the changeling pair, "could con a couple o' fellas in there, then we'll clean the place out! An' if'n things get a lil' rough, well -- 'tis a night to cut loose! Hells, I'll hit 'em, too! Heh! Heheheheh!"
Campaigns:
Wildemount: The Felderwin Irregulars (2020) - Balassar Silverstone - Dragonborn Fighter (Rune Knight) Lv. 5 | Rise of TIamat - Aiwin Aralana - Wood Elf Fighter/Ranger (Arcane Archer/Gloom Stalker) Lv. 9
As the somber twilight of Biscotti's funeral wraps its melancholic shroud over the assembly the Rhinemaiden clutching her grotesque doll, wanders amidst the mourners with an aimless gait. Her pale blue eyes, wide with a blend of curiosity and unspoken thoughts, fixate on a peculiar figure—it's sleek black fur glistens under the fading sun, casting him as an otherworldly presence among those assmembled in the graveyard.
Molly approaches hesitant at first as if mesmerized at the sight of a creature from a half-remembered dream. Her gaze is drawn not just to his striking appearance but to the curious rituals it performs at the grave. "Kätzchen, komm hier, süßer Kater, puss, puss," she coos, the words spilling from her lips in a singsong cadence.
The kitty's solemn tribute of coins, food, and drink escape Molly's grasp of reason. Her mind, touched by the whims of madness, sees not a ritual of mourning but a curious interaction ripe for her own peculiar brand of participation.
"Oh, was für ein hübscher Kätzchen du bist," she murmurs, reaching out with a trembling hand to stroke it's soft fur. Her fingers, stained and unkempt, trail through his sleek coat with an eerie gentleness, even giving the beast a loving scratch under it's chin.
Quickly becoming disinterestedly Molly's attention shifts to the offerings laid upon the grave. She picks at the food, sniffing it curiously before tasting it. A grimace distorts her features as she spits it out in distaste, her expression contorting further into one of disgust. "Pfui, schrecklich," she declares to no one in particular.
Her eyes, gleaming with a childlike mischief, next fall upon the two shiny coins. With no comprehension of their somber significance, she snatches them up, turning them over in her palm as she giggles quietly. "Für mich? Oh, danke, Biscotti," she whispers, sliding the coins into the ragged folds of her garment as though securing a found treasure.
As she begins to saunter away, her doll swinging from one hand, Molly's voice rises in a disjointed lullaby that fills the air with its eerie melody. "Schlaf, meine Puppe, schlaf," she sings, her notes drifting into the evening air.
"Ohoho! Magnificent! Of course!" The changeling clapped in glee at Fist's proposition, "That sounds like fun!" He jumped up to meet the man at head level (well almost at head level. In his dwarf size right now he was almost half the height of the human). He immediately stuck out his hand in a shake, but instead did a smooth pivot turn on his heels to face the newcomer changeling. "Hiya!" He shook Fyn's hand and then Fist's next, his two arms overlapping each other like an 'x' as he did this simultaneously, "Hiya!"
He tapped his chin in thought for a second, the oversized sleeve covering his actual hand, "We should hit up my tavern! There's never short of fun nor excitement from that place! Ohhoho if only the walls could speak!" He looked as if he were ready to jump out of his seat if there was one, skipping from one foot to the next, "It ain't too far aways from here!"
He heard the lullaby coming from Molly and attempted to hum the tune, but it came out awkward and jarring, and he gave up within a few seconds of trying. "Ohhh~ I like that one!" He twirled, then pointed over to the young woman. His head tilted in curiosity as she walked over to the taxabi's offering and then proceeded to eat it, "Ah well, there she goes~"
His focus went back over to the two men, lifting his arms up into the sky, "Shall we make this a night to remember?" He put his hand out flat in front of him, smile growing larger by the second, "What do you say, boys? For Biscotti?!"
<---- me irl slow reader, even slower writer easily jumpy thanks for being patient
DM: Drakkenheim Mind and Matter + Blood Secrets + What's in the Here and Now;
Player: Dragonlance
Gotu raised an eyebrow in bemusement at seeing all this unfold, then turned to look at everyone else, silently questioning their reactions.
"Alright, when should we leave?" He asks everyone, or at least those that remain.
A bit taken aback by the sheer amount of energy coming from the other changeling, Fyn can't help but chuckle lightly and nod. "For Biscotti." Fyn straightens himself up a bit, swiping a bit of dust off of his fine (stolen) clothes and darkening his hair to a light brown. A night on the town might be just what he needs to feel better.
Fyn does glance back over at the grave to see Molly and Steelclaw, but just shakes his head and looks back towards the rest of the group. "Ready when you are."
The brute stands straight, towering at just under 6'6. He wraps a large hairy arm around the wizard and pulls him a tad too close, jostling his glasses and hair. Hot stinking breath smacks the younger man's face as Fist pulls out a busted gold coin with flecks of dry blood on the mint, sliding it into the wizard's breast pocket and patting his chest. His words ring in the spellcaster's ear.
"Tell ya wha', lad. You lead the others down, buy the first round, on me." He somehow manages to pull Gotu in even closer, slightly choking him, and in lower voice he adds: "Scout the place out, and keep our crazier ones in line. 'Don wanna start the night early, now do we...?"
With that, he releases him, then grabs poor Fyn by the shirt collar, pulling him along back up the hill. "C'mon, le's grab the cat," he says in a rather somber tone. He keeps a side glance on the girl, or whatever she is. He's a big man. Most girls her size, he could snap in half, easy. Her? He wouldn't even try.
Gotu rubs his neck, scowling.
"You're asking the wrong person here, but fine." He shakes his head and looks at the others.
"For Biscotti!" The druid yelled after Fyn. When no one joined him for his super fun hands-in-the-middle team-building-exercise, he let out a small frown of disappointment, but tried to play it off cool and reeled his hand back in and into the pockets of his cloak.
'Oh no!' He stood there lamely when the man he was just talking with had nearly picked up the small wizard guy almost by the scruff of his neck. Asbestos's eyes widened in both shock and observation. He was about to open his mouth in protest, but decided it was better not to. He was not one to pick fights... but this guy surely was! 'Ohhh~ 'the crazier ones'', He liked the sound of that. Yes, he was self-aware, but only to a degree. He did, in fact, agree (in glee) with that statement! He wondered who Fist meant the others were. The changeling gave a small thumbs up at Gotu after the harrowing encounter.
The sight of Fyn's hair changing color had also filled him delight. 'How wonderful! It's been a long time since I've ever seen another changeling,' He mused to himself, holding in the impulse to clap and grinned wide at the other changeling until Fist was at it again. 'Ah what a fickle thing,' Fist seemed rather fun, but not one the druid himself would ever want to mess with. He instead just continued staring day-dreamily.
He almost winced at the thought that Fist was going to go after him next, but when it seemed he didn't need to, he relaxed. Since he had been given no directive, in a jolt he pointed his finger into the air, "Yes! The tavern is very close to here! We will have a fun time, yes! Very much so!"
<---- me irl slow reader, even slower writer easily jumpy thanks for being patient
DM: Drakkenheim Mind and Matter + Blood Secrets + What's in the Here and Now;
Player: Dragonlance
Fyn turns back towards Gotu as Fist essentially drags him forward. Despite that, Fyn smiles with his regular charm at the wizard. "You'll get used to it." The way Fyn says it makes it very unclear if he's joking or not. Fyn then turns forward, and does his best to maintain his composure while being dragged by the collar (a mostly futile effort). Fyn does keep glancing over at the girl, though. She's unpredictable. And that makes Fyn nervous.
Gotu takes this time to ritual cast Comprehend Languages to understand what Molly is saying, and then he quickly goes after her to bring her to the tavern.
"I swear the others really need to stop making me deal with this."
As always, he got to be Molly's caretaker again.
Noticing Fyn stumblin' about tryin' to keep pace, Fist stops and lets the young'un's shirt go, though his grip seems to have stretched the collar a wee bit. It makes the poor lad looks like he's been tumbling in the sheets with a gnoll or two! Ach. ...He'll get the lad something expensive once the fun starts. That'll fix it.
...Yeah, that'll work. He bends forward, wraps his arm around the young man's slender waist, and hefts him up o'r his shoulder instead, throwing the poor lads clothes into even more disarray. If there's one thing ta be said 'bout the man, he's got street smarts fer days, book smarts fer a minute. Just don't let him hear you say that. Jetty said it once, but we don't talk about wha' happened with 'im, not after it popped off like that.
As his stride jostles the lad, he explains his plan: "Alright boyo, first thing's first. We gotta get ev'ryone together. You, the crazies, the gumshoe, the toy boy, the wizard, and the cat. We go down to the pub, drink ourselves silly, rob some good folk, start a fight or two, maybe e'en find a few lads or lasses to warm our beds t'morrow. Tis tradition! Now, I ain't ken ta carryin' the *****cat back down the hill! No' after the last time. Ach! 'Still got the scratches to prove it --" he points to the missing chunk of his ear. Though to be fair, he's also told folk he lost that piece to a ghoul. Jury's out on the truth.
"...So that's where you come in. The two 'o' you are the most broken up o'r Big Boss goin' belly-up. Now we all 'ad our kinship wit the man, but you two are espec'lly busted. So. Talk to the furball. Get 'im to open up, at least enough to get 'im to wreak havoc wit us. For Big Boss himself, if for no'one else."
Reachin' the hill's crest, Fist stops a few feet from the cat, who himself is likely a tad peeved o'r the crazy lass messin' wit 'is off'rins. He gives Fyn a light, somewhat innocent pat on the rump and sets him down. "Go. Talk. Con-vers-ate."
Zeren sighs as he looks up from the book he was reading. He prefers quality to quantity when it comes to alcohol but knowing Fist they'll be buying too many drinks to get the good stuff.
Still a drink someone else is paying for always tastes better.
Shutting 'Intangible Thefts' (a book on how necromancy can supplement the arts of assassination and thievery) and stowing it in his bag Zeren moves to join the rest of the group, stepping out of the shadows as if he'd teleported.
Taller than the average human but nowhere near Fist's towering height, one of the stealthiest members but not the stealthiest, Zeren seemed to end up second-best at a lot of things. Still, he was good at more of them than most of the group and he'd only get better if he could figure out how to access the spirits of the dead like the book claimed was possible.
But back to the matter at hand.
"The old man said 'Any day you end with more coin in your pocket than when you started it is a good one' and he was right about that! Let's make sure we 'earn' back twice as much as we spend on drink, yeah?"
Zeren licks his lips. He was known for his prodigious appetite for many things. Money, knowledge, and in this case food.
"Personally I say why stop at drinks though? Remembrance of an individual of Biscotti's level demands at least a feast! How about we fill our pockets first and then end the evening filling our bellies with food and liquor?"
No sense doing a job drunk, so they should rob before they partied, but Zeren always tried to tailor arguments to his audience and what he'd said would be better received. Plus he stood to get a better cut of the take if the rest wanted to get the division of loot over with so they could get to the party faster.