[CR] Refuge
Apr. 24th, 2020 06:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Refuge
Universe: Critical Role, Campaign Two
Characters: Fjord, Caduceus Clay
Rated: K+
Description: While shackled in the prison of the Iron Shepherds, Fjord dreams and his future reassures him.
For FjorClay Week, Day Five, Dreams
Jester's humming.
Even in this dark and dirty and dank place, Jester's humming and babbling behind the gag, and generally doing her best to put on a brave face. Fjord tries to return the favor, but he's beaten all to hell, exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open.
Sleep isn't a refuge. Not with those dreams. Not with the eyes watching him. Multiple eyes. Yellow and luminous, the deep voice resonating words at him. Commands. Commands he can't follow.
Consciousness is worse.
Consciousness is Jester trying to stay positive, and the sound of their captors trying to break Yasha, and failing. Every time, they leave her a bit more beaten, a bit more blooded, a bit more broken. Consciousness is their fellow prisoners, weeping and hungry and hurting. Consciousness is torture.
The nightmares are something of a refuge. They, at least, aren't real.
Until the being which gives him his power decides to visit, slipping into his dreams as it’s been doing as of late.
Fjord’s on the open sea, pointed to the horizon where the sun is starting to set, turning the sky a brilliant rainbow array. The wind is in his eyes and in the sails, buffeting his tunic. It smells of wet and salt and the storm rolling in above, dark and angry, swallowing the red-orange sunset.
The waves lift and toss him, but he rides out the motion, hand on a rope, the other on the steering, guiding the sloop with well-earned practice.
A voice rumbles through the sky.
WATCHING.
Fjord shivers at the unexpected burst of chilly, damp air that wraps around him. The warmth of the sun baking his skin is gone.
POTENTIAL.
The storm roars, crashing over him like a tidal wave, tipping the tiny sloop and tossing him into the sea. Fjord smacks into the churning waters, and flails to keep his head above the pounding waves, but they are too strong.
Down, down he goes.
PROVOKE.
Fjord’s breath runs out, and the cold, cold water rushes in. He thrashes, throat burning, surrounded by darkness.
No, not darkness. There’s a single, bright yellow eye. A familiar eye.
LEARN.
Fjord flails. He’s choking. It’s getting darker. He panics, and would shout for someone to save him, if there was anyone to hear. He’s alone here, swallowed by the ocean, haunted by a voice he doesn’t understand.
CONSUME.
Fjord tries to scream. He chokes on saltwater. It burns in his nostrils, in his throat, and he thinks all he has to do is promise. Make a vow. Give himself over to the thing that granted him this magic, and it’ll all be over.
A light pierces the dark, growing brighter and brighter, until the massive eye closes and is eclipsed by it. Warmth floods through the chill, like stepping toes first into a clean bath on a frigid winter’s day. Long, elegant fingers wrap around his, the hands soft and calloused, their grip firm.
They pull, and wind roars through Fjord’s ears. He squeezes his eyes shut until his kicking feet touch something solid without the resistance of water around them.
Fjord takes a deep, gasping breath as his eyes open to a white, sandy shore. The sea is blue, a brilliant blue, calm and welcoming. The waves lap gently; the sun warms his skin.
“You’re going to be fine, Mr. Fjord. You just have to hold on a little longer.”
He turns at the unexpected voice, the slow and easy drawl. There’s a person standing within a few feet of him -- long pink hair, pale gray skin, armor in a bright green, a long staff. He looks like Pumat Sol -- a firbolg -- but Fjord has never seen him before.
“Who are you?” Fjord asks.
The man smiles at him, and it’s such a gentle smile, like Fjord has nothing to fear from him ever.
“A messenger,” he says. “And right now, Her voice. You haven’t met us yet, but you will. She’s sure of it.”
The stranger speaks in riddles, but Fjord prefers these over the single word commands that come to him in the terrifying dreams.
“What’s your name so I’ll know you?” Fjord asks.
“It doesn’t matter. You won’t remember this when you wake up.” The man comes a step closer, and he’s tall, at least a head taller than Fjord. He rests a hand on Fjord’s shoulder, and where he touches, warmth blooms outward.
Warmth and a growth of some kind of pink moss which chases away the last of the jitters. It smells sweet and earthy, like a field of fresh flowers after a heavy rain.
“Hold on a little longer, Mr. Fjord. They’re coming for you. For all of you,” the stranger says as the wind rustles his hair, and he starts to look like he’s getting farther away, despite the hand on Fjord’s shoulder. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Wait,” Fjord says, but it’s too late.
The stranger’s hand leaves his shoulder. He starts to fade, and the beach fades, until Fjord opens his eyes again, and he’s back in the dark, dank cell, wrapped in chains.
Jester is humming again.
Fjord knows he had a dream. The wisps of it are still there, wisps of warmth and comfort and reassurance after the choking chill it started with.
He can’t remember anything but a sense of safety. He doesn’t know why, but for a moment, he felt it was all going to be okay.
There’s a bloom of pink on his spaulder. It’s starting to grey, dry up, flake off his armor. He can’t, for the life of him, remember how it got there.
But far, far in the distance, he swears he hears the rumble of an explosion.
***
Universe: Critical Role, Campaign Two
Characters: Fjord, Caduceus Clay
Rated: K+
Description: While shackled in the prison of the Iron Shepherds, Fjord dreams and his future reassures him.
For FjorClay Week, Day Five, Dreams
Jester's humming.
Even in this dark and dirty and dank place, Jester's humming and babbling behind the gag, and generally doing her best to put on a brave face. Fjord tries to return the favor, but he's beaten all to hell, exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open.
Sleep isn't a refuge. Not with those dreams. Not with the eyes watching him. Multiple eyes. Yellow and luminous, the deep voice resonating words at him. Commands. Commands he can't follow.
Consciousness is worse.
Consciousness is Jester trying to stay positive, and the sound of their captors trying to break Yasha, and failing. Every time, they leave her a bit more beaten, a bit more blooded, a bit more broken. Consciousness is their fellow prisoners, weeping and hungry and hurting. Consciousness is torture.
The nightmares are something of a refuge. They, at least, aren't real.
Until the being which gives him his power decides to visit, slipping into his dreams as it’s been doing as of late.
Fjord’s on the open sea, pointed to the horizon where the sun is starting to set, turning the sky a brilliant rainbow array. The wind is in his eyes and in the sails, buffeting his tunic. It smells of wet and salt and the storm rolling in above, dark and angry, swallowing the red-orange sunset.
The waves lift and toss him, but he rides out the motion, hand on a rope, the other on the steering, guiding the sloop with well-earned practice.
A voice rumbles through the sky.
WATCHING.
Fjord shivers at the unexpected burst of chilly, damp air that wraps around him. The warmth of the sun baking his skin is gone.
POTENTIAL.
The storm roars, crashing over him like a tidal wave, tipping the tiny sloop and tossing him into the sea. Fjord smacks into the churning waters, and flails to keep his head above the pounding waves, but they are too strong.
Down, down he goes.
PROVOKE.
Fjord’s breath runs out, and the cold, cold water rushes in. He thrashes, throat burning, surrounded by darkness.
No, not darkness. There’s a single, bright yellow eye. A familiar eye.
LEARN.
Fjord flails. He’s choking. It’s getting darker. He panics, and would shout for someone to save him, if there was anyone to hear. He’s alone here, swallowed by the ocean, haunted by a voice he doesn’t understand.
CONSUME.
Fjord tries to scream. He chokes on saltwater. It burns in his nostrils, in his throat, and he thinks all he has to do is promise. Make a vow. Give himself over to the thing that granted him this magic, and it’ll all be over.
A light pierces the dark, growing brighter and brighter, until the massive eye closes and is eclipsed by it. Warmth floods through the chill, like stepping toes first into a clean bath on a frigid winter’s day. Long, elegant fingers wrap around his, the hands soft and calloused, their grip firm.
They pull, and wind roars through Fjord’s ears. He squeezes his eyes shut until his kicking feet touch something solid without the resistance of water around them.
Fjord takes a deep, gasping breath as his eyes open to a white, sandy shore. The sea is blue, a brilliant blue, calm and welcoming. The waves lap gently; the sun warms his skin.
“You’re going to be fine, Mr. Fjord. You just have to hold on a little longer.”
He turns at the unexpected voice, the slow and easy drawl. There’s a person standing within a few feet of him -- long pink hair, pale gray skin, armor in a bright green, a long staff. He looks like Pumat Sol -- a firbolg -- but Fjord has never seen him before.
“Who are you?” Fjord asks.
The man smiles at him, and it’s such a gentle smile, like Fjord has nothing to fear from him ever.
“A messenger,” he says. “And right now, Her voice. You haven’t met us yet, but you will. She’s sure of it.”
The stranger speaks in riddles, but Fjord prefers these over the single word commands that come to him in the terrifying dreams.
“What’s your name so I’ll know you?” Fjord asks.
“It doesn’t matter. You won’t remember this when you wake up.” The man comes a step closer, and he’s tall, at least a head taller than Fjord. He rests a hand on Fjord’s shoulder, and where he touches, warmth blooms outward.
Warmth and a growth of some kind of pink moss which chases away the last of the jitters. It smells sweet and earthy, like a field of fresh flowers after a heavy rain.
“Hold on a little longer, Mr. Fjord. They’re coming for you. For all of you,” the stranger says as the wind rustles his hair, and he starts to look like he’s getting farther away, despite the hand on Fjord’s shoulder. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Wait,” Fjord says, but it’s too late.
The stranger’s hand leaves his shoulder. He starts to fade, and the beach fades, until Fjord opens his eyes again, and he’s back in the dark, dank cell, wrapped in chains.
Jester is humming again.
Fjord knows he had a dream. The wisps of it are still there, wisps of warmth and comfort and reassurance after the choking chill it started with.
He can’t remember anything but a sense of safety. He doesn’t know why, but for a moment, he felt it was all going to be okay.
There’s a bloom of pink on his spaulder. It’s starting to grey, dry up, flake off his armor. He can’t, for the life of him, remember how it got there.
But far, far in the distance, he swears he hears the rumble of an explosion.
