Vayne's page

Greetings Keepers, I like the cut of your cloth. Having found myself committed to spending at least a year and a half in the wilds of the River Kingdoms, I have been looking for a band with which to lend my spear. Though a dedicated servant of Iomedae, I have found the more militant-focused orders a little too... zealous for my tastes, and as one of those frowned upon as "Forlorn" by those of my race, associations unduly focused on the traditions and interests of the Elves bear even less interest for me.

I am Dame Vayne dIr, and I will add my spear to your Circle of Steel if you will have me.

Vengeance take them all
She promises me such sweet revenge. How can I not answer?

I sit in my cell, brooding, listening to whispers of damnation, and contemplate the sacrifice of everything I once held dear.

Oh, Iomedae, who I once served so loyally. You are a hypocrite! Elitist! Faithless in those who hold your faith!

I once held hope, but in my moment of weakness, when my man died, and you judged me, judged I’d gone too far in my vengeance, stripped me, took from me all I had left. Faith.

I once held hope, but in my moment of motherhood, I knew my lover was dead, my son born a bastard, never to know a father, never to know a proper family.

I once held hope, but your son proved too faithless, too weak, too much a coward to be fashioned into a tool of salvation, of redemption. I saw him die and had him brought back again to fulfill his fate, and he abandoned me, just as you had.

And so I rotted here amongst the Witches, for they were the only ones to have me. And Tamara, sweet Tamara, a comfort on cold nights, a voice in the dark, whispered of Vengeance, of another Goddess.

I held on to that divine spark of Battle, nurtured it with my hate, for you may have turned your back to me, but not I to you!

I waited.

I watched over the stumbling dead in Gyrrona’s Graveyard, and laughed. She, at least, didn’t ignore her failures. She made a lesson of them!

And when Tamara came to me, all innocence in her eyes, and told me of your zealots...
And when she suggested I speak with them, abase myself before them, beg their forgiveness, beg YOUR forgiveness...
And when they said they would, but only with sacrifice, only with HER sacrifice...
I saw what they called evil in their eyes, I saw what they called evil in YOUR eyes...
And I agreed, a sacrifice must be made.

I sit in my cell, brooding, and contemplate that sacrifice of that which I once held so dear.

I am the General, and the dragon-born that serve me are loyal to that fault. The tragedy of Peter’s claim was that he was right, as much as he was wrong. We came in like ghosts, and took them in their sleep. Such is the wages of war. Only in their death-throws was a lamp knocked down, a flame ignited, an Inn burned. Peter was right, and wrong, to stop me... If only he had paused to speak with me discreetly, not play the fool hero and challenge me openly, claim I was a criminal, when I was seeing my justice done, was seeing the zealots stopped before lives could be taken, before they could take Tamara and punish her for beliefs that fit not with theirs.

But I know the code of the duel, and for that Peter beat me fair.

If he was not already taken, he might be enough of a man for me, fool that he is.

And so I sit in my cell and listen to whispers, for I am not alone. I sit and listen to her priestess, she who comes to oversee my rebirth, to anoint my hands and head and heart, who atones me for all the myriad sins YOU made me do... She brings me under the Hag’s singular gaze, promises me battles and blood and vengeance. Yes, everything is forgiven through vengeance...

And the Wisp come singing buzzing hosannas, corrupt angels giving witness with a tainted rainbow of witchlight both above and bellow.

And I stand in my cell, an unholy warrior for an unholy cause.

And I smile, newly baptized, newborn in my faith.

And I smile.

Turtle & Mushroom stew
We came up from the earth, slept, wept.

With morning came new allies to replenish the dead:
Tamara the Green, Yossen spymaster, rat-witch, friend...
Jan One-eye, runty knight, boar rider, shell-shocked hero...
Aquila of the Olovsky, gnomish hexbinder, attention snatcher, innocent...
Kale Malakir, Riddleport mercenary, thinks we’re friends,we’re not.

With a week comes nature, fury, exploration. The Gudrin river leaves only one ford to pass, and plugs it, again, and again, with Elk stags rutting, Thylacenes hunting, and rain-thickened waters high. But all things pass. We Elves know this to be true.

We pass south, ford the river, skip the dangers, eat well on the slow Elk the herd leave behind. More than the Thylacenes can eat. Enough for all to share. Another week, more fury, more exploration. And turtle soup.

Old Crackjaw, caught in his pond. A Wisp thought to lead us into it, stumbling, blind, foolish. We are wise to its’ ways. I scream at it in the night. I tell it I can see it. I can. It knows. It leaves us well enough alone. So with day comes the old turtle, large, ornery. And then, soup in a shell the size of my shield.

Days pass, nature pisses on us and we laugh. Southward still, to a crack between the hills, to a foul smelling pit of mud, Black Rattlecaps rattling, bells on the feet of a giant. Tentacles snatching, Winterheart snatched, swallowed whole. Fire and sword, glaive and flail, and the mushroom mountain falls, explodes, and Winterheart is born again from the sap and muck.

We clean ourselves off, dry our selves out, and head home to find our day not yet done.
A bad wolf has been killing the sheep.
Barmaid Saki will serve no more.
The Baron of Witchhaven is not pleased.

Old Soldiers
Tomb robbing and treasure maps lead fools to their deaths.

As does loyalty.

I race to their aid, heavy sword in hand, heavy armor in my back, to save them. I am tired, so tired. But I race, again, to save them.

We left the comforting crib of court. Armored, armed, aimed.

Following Peter, masked and sinister, new minted law of the land, following the hope of a leatherworn map, to a lonely Barrow, over the hills, eastward, eastward, past the bones of wolves, pawprints long past mourning. Following Peter, though other paths presented. Old Beldame asking for Black Rattlecaps, mushroom collecting. Arvan Fisherman asking for Old Crackjaw killing, murderous turtle meddling. Baron Kenzil asking for slaughtering Trolls, echoing Swordlords saying “Kill Kill.”

But no, Peter wants the dead man’s Flail. So tomb-robbing first. But dead men have tight grips.

So we came to the Lonely Barrow. We outwitted the hungry bats. We shrugged off the poisonous breath and broke many bones. And while I rested, as ordered behind, Winterheart’s wolf at my side, guarding, tired, they pressed on, to fight the dead man for his prize.

A shriek and a scream, and I am stumbling, rushing, hobbling forward, wolf at my side. Limping forward I find them struggling, Gregor dead but walking, sneaking, so I cut him down; one, two, three strokes of my blade and he dies, again, he dies. This time never to rise again. Peter taking the brunt, arrows from Winterheart and Tyrok flying, the Lonely Warrior finally falls, dead as dead.

Weak and weeping for the dead, we limp out to wait the sunrise. Peter has his prize. But was it worth the price?

Old Soldiers
Tomb robbing and treasure maps lead fools to their deaths.

As does loyalty.

I race to their aid, heavy sword in hand, heavy armor in my back, to save them. I am tired, so tired. But I race, again, to save them.

We left the comforting crib of court. Armored, armed, aimed.

Following Peter, masked and sinister, new minted law of the land, following the hope of a leatherworn map, to a lonely Barrow, over the hills, eastward, eastward, past the bones of wolves, pawprints long past mourning. Following Peter, though other paths presented. Old Beldame asking for Black Rattlecaps, mushroom collecting. Arvan Fisherman asking for Old Crackjaw killing, murderous turtle meddling. Baron Kenzil asking for slaughtering Trolls, echoing Swordlords saying “Kill Kill.”

But no, Peter wants the dead man’s Flail. So tomb-robbing first. But dead men have tight grips.

So we came to the Lonely Barrow. We outwitted the hungry bats. We shrugged off the poisonous breath and broke many bones. And while I rested, as ordered behind, Winterheart’s wolf at my side, guarding, tired, they pressed on, to fight the dead man for his prize.

A shriek and a scream, and I am stumbling, rushing, hobbling forward, wolf at my side. Limping forward I find them struggling, Gregor dead but walking, sneaking, so I cut him down; one, two, three strokes of my blade and he dies, again, he dies. This time never to rise again. Peter taking the brunt, arrows from Winterheart and Tyrok flying, the Lonely Warrior finally falls, dead as dead.

Weak and weeping for the dead, we limp out to wait the sunrise. Peter has his prize. But was it worth the price?

Flying Pigs
We row desperately for shore, as wild boar, one by one, loose their footing, and fly, skipping like stones across the water towards the howling waterspout behind us. They are not alone in struggling against the hungry winds.

One by one we too are sucked from the boat, to receive our dunking. I do not know how the rest faired. Only that their luck faired better than mine.

I touched the tornado. For six seconds I flew. Buffeted by water, by wind, I touched the sky.

And it was gone. The gods gave up on their murderous charge, and I used the magics that Toad showed me, that Kenzel refined in me, to float, gently, like a feather, back down to the Tuskwater’s shore, where my associates had since thrown themselves, heaving breaths, wet, tired, terrified, relieved.

I am battered, broken by the winds and the water. I feel glorious.

The gods failed to kill me yet again.

Dark Alliances
We fought. It flew. We swung. It vanished, reappeared elsewhere, vanished again.
The vicious little horror tormented us, fought us to a standstill. We healed and hunkered down. It refreshed, and waited us out. FInally we retreated, slowly, sickly, nerves frayed, and heard the wisp laugh at our leaving.

We made it back to our boat, and rowed away to the farther shore. A light gleamed above the tower, laughter buzzing alien above. We camped, we tried to rest, yet another wisp struck as we had just begun to relax (or was it the same one stalking? Who knows?), slipping into a tent unseen. Gregor died in his sleep, his body found stiff and smelling of burnt hair. Peter bravely charged in and, shockingly, grabs it, wrestles it back into the tent, shouting to us to collapse the tent around him, net them both. Thing shrieks, it trills, it shocks him again and again. It cannot get free of his iron grip, as he hammers it again, again, with spiked gauntleted fist, throws himself on it, mashing it to the ground. We roll the two up, like arguing lovers, a cocooned violence itching to be reborn as something worse. Then Tamara does something unthinkable. She talks to it.

She persuades it. She makes peace with it. With the killer of comrades.

And it agrees to a truce.

Tamara tells it of Peter’s role. The Witchlord’s executioner, of how he can feed it all the fear it could eat, if it comes back with us, to Witchhaven. This can not end well.

Peter names it “Vasha.” “A good name” he says. Don’t name it, you idiots I think, don’t invite it home, fools! But like a silent partner in crime I say nothing. And we bundle up Gregor, and it follows us home.

Back in Witchhaven Tamara explains all to Baron Yossen, and I think Old man, you have sense, do you not? But like all grandparents, he spoils the young, and he shakes his head, and agrees that it can stay. He agrees that it can feed from Peter’s kills. That it can haunt the dungeon and feed from the prisoners. That it can hunt in Gyronna’s Graveyard. And I shiver. No good can come of this. And at night, when I rest, it whispers to me, you’re right, nothing good will...

Still, we set out the next day. Gregor is reborn, not learning from past mistakes. Brought back dwarf no longer, but human, and woman. Brought back Talya, no ties to the old, yet still, same old, same old. Still eager to risk life so swiftly, so expensively returned. “We must save little Tig!” they say. Trade a little brat for a kingdom any day, that is the hero’s way, so they say. So we row back, south past the Old Beldame, waving on the beach, old scarecrow waving behind, south past the Candlemere, haunted and dead, then west, to a fortress in the middle of the river, to a young boy’s screams.

And again we are faced with monsters, bored Lizardfolk watching. And again, Tamara talks. That’s IT! We will cleanse the Greenbelt with Tamara’s tongue! She will talk to every menace we face and talk them to death! It can be done! I am sure of it!

How did we elves lose this world to these chattering monkeys?

Still, the guards are bored. And tired of the brattlings' screaming. Their King told them to keep the boy alive, they say, to make their ancestors happy. They wonder if this is the way - not to eat him a week ago, like they would have if they could have. Such nice monsters. Such responsible monsters. Debating the finer points of should we torture children? versus should we eat them?

But we don’t kill them. Tamara... talks to them... and they let us in. Perhaps you can persuade the king? the troubled monsters ask. And we follow, like good little lambs to a slaughter.

So we stand in the heart of the village, surrounded swiftly by the curious reptiles, and their King, a mountain of a monster, comes. And he listens to Tamaras’ twisting tongue, and he says No.

No, you may not have the boy.

No, you will not leave alive.

And I smile, the battlesong on my lips, and war leaps from our scabbards. Blood from our skin. Violence our conversation.

Though the King has his pets, and some subjects loyal, some prove not, and our battlecry proves stronger. Though his best warriors arrive to aid him, they arrive too late, and Tamara again talks the fight out of them. We leave, crying child in tow, dead king tucked under our arms, “spoils of war for our victory feast,” they tell us. “And don’t come back."

I wonder what their “ancestors” will have to say about this. Their ancestors that live on the island. Candlemere Island. Oh, we’d best row quick.

We row quick past the island. The sky darkens. We row up past the Old Beldames' hut, her little windows shut and shuttered, old Scarecrow hiding his face. Rain pelts us. Thunder growls.

The sky twists down, the lake twists up. We row desperately for shore. Wild Boar scream in fear and anger and rage, awaiting us. I loosen my sword in its’ sheath, and smile.

Maybe Tamara can “talk” to them.

Candlemere in Crimson
We should not have come here.

I am not afraid. That fool Gregor is not afraid. But the nettles and thorns we dug through to get up to the tower has made Winterheart and myself ill, and the Tower itself has filled most of the others with a nameless dread. The Old Beldame warned us. She told us months ago that the Candlemere was a haunt for Wisps, ever since the Old Ones touched this place back in ancient days. The ruins are old, dating back to one of the ages after my race left, before the return, shaped by crueler hands than mine. Tamara has found strange writing, but none of us recognize it, cruel words for a cruel place.

Wait... wait... the sun has nearly set. Where is that other light coming from?

We are not alone here.

I am not afraid...

Gozran, 23
The whispers come again, unbidden, unwanted. The spirits of dead soldiers come to me in dreams, whispering of the son of a king and the son of a goddess, walking in lands far to the East, walking a path that will forge kingdoms, walking a path of bloodshed and battle. In my lucidity, away from rest and trance I speak with Toad, and Toad croaks his laughing croak, and says "go East!" I visit my lover's grave, and I ask he who fathered my child, and my dead lover laughs, and says "go East, silly girl!" ...and I wipe away my tears, and kick his head-stone, and wish again he was alive. I visit my Master, the Owl Witch, Kenzil the Fat, and I ask he who knows much and says little, laughing at all and at nothing, and my Master smiles and says "Ha! Hold your child tight girl! Hold your blade tighter! We go East!"

And we are gone. One step. Two steps. He holds me at the elbow, and the world winks out. He holds me at the shoulder, his meaty, muscled hand clasped tight, his other twisting, opening the spaces between. And Kenzil the Fat, the Laughing, the Witch of Air and Wisdom and Owls, laughs as the world snaps back into place around us, different in place but not time. Kenzil Caldron brother laughs and points to the lake and the ruins on the far side that stink of evil, of an ancient patron of other, darker witchcraft, and says we are here. We are here in the land blooming with promise of battles and blood.

And I tighten the straps of my shield to my shoulder, the straps of my child to my back, grasp my Glave as my walking stick, and begin picking our path north. I am Vayne, Toad Witch, Red Witch, Blood Witch, Oracle of Battles and War, mother of Orphans and exile of Koynin. I am Vayne of the red cap, the butcher of Thistletop, the avenger of Hotspur, the unforgiven of Iomidae.

I shall find the child of she who looks away from me, and if he is unworthy, I will put him down. I shall find all these would be kings and queens, and they shall have no hope if i find them wanting.