It was disconcerting, this strange vertigo that settled in the back of his head as he stood in a room he did not recognize, something lined with desks with papers and …boxes atop them. Light streamed in from the widows that made his sensitive eyes squint, and the carpet was thin, flat.
And he was standing on it. Standing. Not floating, but standing.
What was this? A forced vision? Confusion? …not Banishment because no other plane looked like this. But as he tried to float again – less for the aesthetics and more to see if he could – nothing happened. ]
Caleb? Jester? [It was an effort to keep the panic out of his voice, but he had years of training to do so. Being the Shadowhand had its advantages.]
The Butcher’s Camp - cw: blood, gore
[What was a hundred dollars worth?
Not as much as the information.
Essek didn’t mind the human looking façade; he had grown used to wearing disguises over the years, both for good reasons and…less than. It looked closer than what he usually wore: dark brown skin instead of the purple hues, rounded ears still pierced several times over, white hair that hadn’t changed.
He had readily volunteered to go out here, hoping to find more answers about this place and understand the world and its dangers beyond what was fed to them. It had seemed a reasonable idea at the time, but as he smelled the death and scraps of carcasses, he wasn’t sure that applied anymore. He had seen camps before, but this- this was off.]
I…do not like this. [He shook his head slowly. He looked at the “phone”, this machine he still did not trust or like, then at the camp. Some of the viscera reminded him of a city he longed to forget.]
How long do you think this camp has been abandoned?
Mirror, Mirror
[Essek saw it in the window the first time, in the glass at night when the reflection was strong and sharp enough to see himself. It had been red and large and smooth against his throat, that eye in his skin staring back at him. He had gasped and gone to the bathroom to see it properly, finding his neck smooth and unburdened, the violet skin bearing no red eye tattooed there.
It had to be the stress of this strange place, the concern he had for his own lack of magic and many, many questions. He thought no more of it, preparing to settle himself as best he could.
But the next day, as he was walking past another set of windows in a common area, he found that red eye on his throat, as if it had never left. He could hear his hear slamming in chest and he worried-worried the other eyes were there, too, the ones he could not see. Fingers curled over his throat, rubbing at the skin as if he could get rid of the mark, his breath coming faster.]
Impossible. [He – and the city – were gone. This could not be happening.]
Haunting Tunes
[Essek remembered this sound: he had been taught dances to it when he was young. His mother had told him it was important for the high profile and political dinners he would be invited to; celebrations had their moments of levity too. He had learned with a dispassionate distance of someone getting through something unfortunately necessary so they could get back to what was really important.
It was still familiar, warm, something curious on why it would be here of all places. He followed the sound, worried if he would find someone else pulled from Rosohna, if it would be someone wishing him a rightful death. But the more he walked, the more tired he became, the lethargy in his bones in a way that was not common; he was used to weariness, but sleep was not something he normally did.
But there was a heaviness in his eyelids that felt as though Trancing would not solve. And as he walked across the street towards the graveyard, he didn’t see the coming traffic and the lights bearing down on him.]
Essek Thelyss | Critical Role
[Essek Thelyss did not know where he was.
It was disconcerting, this strange vertigo that settled in the back of his head as he stood in a room he did not recognize, something lined with desks with papers and …boxes atop them. Light streamed in from the widows that made his sensitive eyes squint, and the carpet was thin, flat.
And he was standing on it. Standing. Not floating, but standing.
What was this? A forced vision? Confusion? …not Banishment because no other plane looked like this. But as he tried to float again – less for the aesthetics and more to see if he could – nothing happened. ]
Caleb? Jester? [It was an effort to keep the panic out of his voice, but he had years of training to do so. Being the Shadowhand had its advantages.]
The Butcher’s Camp - cw: blood, gore
[What was a hundred dollars worth?
Not as much as the information.
Essek didn’t mind the human looking façade; he had grown used to wearing disguises over the years, both for good reasons and…less than. It looked closer than what he usually wore: dark brown skin instead of the purple hues, rounded ears still pierced several times over, white hair that hadn’t changed.
He had readily volunteered to go out here, hoping to find more answers about this place and understand the world and its dangers beyond what was fed to them. It had seemed a reasonable idea at the time, but as he smelled the death and scraps of carcasses, he wasn’t sure that applied anymore. He had seen camps before, but this- this was off.]
I…do not like this. [He shook his head slowly. He looked at the “phone”, this machine he still did not trust or like, then at the camp. Some of the viscera reminded him of a city he longed to forget.]
How long do you think this camp has been abandoned?
Mirror, Mirror
[Essek saw it in the window the first time, in the glass at night when the reflection was strong and sharp enough to see himself. It had been red and large and smooth against his throat, that eye in his skin staring back at him. He had gasped and gone to the bathroom to see it properly, finding his neck smooth and unburdened, the violet skin bearing no red eye tattooed there.
It had to be the stress of this strange place, the concern he had for his own lack of magic and many, many questions. He thought no more of it, preparing to settle himself as best he could.
But the next day, as he was walking past another set of windows in a common area, he found that red eye on his throat, as if it had never left. He could hear his hear slamming in chest and he worried-worried the other eyes were there, too, the ones he could not see. Fingers curled over his throat, rubbing at the skin as if he could get rid of the mark, his breath coming faster.]
Impossible. [He – and the city – were gone. This could not be happening.]
Haunting Tunes
[Essek remembered this sound: he had been taught dances to it when he was young. His mother had told him it was important for the high profile and political dinners he would be invited to; celebrations had their moments of levity too. He had learned with a dispassionate distance of someone getting through something unfortunately necessary so they could get back to what was really important.
It was still familiar, warm, something curious on why it would be here of all places. He followed the sound, worried if he would find someone else pulled from Rosohna, if it would be someone wishing him a rightful death. But the more he walked, the more tired he became, the lethargy in his bones in a way that was not common; he was used to weariness, but sleep was not something he normally did.
But there was a heaviness in his eyelids that felt as though Trancing would not solve. And as he walked across the street towards the graveyard, he didn’t see the coming traffic and the lights bearing down on him.]