Veron Barkett (
furtive_heroics) wrote in
glowfic2016-01-26 08:36 pm
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Just a bit chilly
A man grumbles at the cold. He always grumbles at the cold, here. Everyone does. There's no escaping it. You can wear the warmest clothing possible, sit by a roaring fire, and still the cold bites. It doesn't numb, either, you'd think that after a while you'd just go numb - no. It's not that kind of cold. The victim shivers and curses and bundles up with a thousand layers and still it's so cold that it hurts. Almost everyone here travels from tiny insufficient fire to tiny insufficient fire to insufficient and drafty bar run by a terrifying dragon, trying to stave off the cold. It never works, but it makes it slightly less torturous. And cursing and grumbling at it always helps.
He is not staying here any longer than he has to. He is not going to fucking stay here, no way. He's been through too much to languish as a sacrificial lamb in the eighth circle of hell while an archdevil goes on a rampage. Cania's for traitors. And he's not one. He was loyal until the day he - well, not died. Was banished. And he doesn't deserve to be here.
He'll find a way out. Eventually. And then someone's going to have a very bad day.
But he's not thinking about that right now. He's thinking that he's pretty sure some vital parts are going to turn blue and fall off from the cold, so he's picked the warmest of his available frigid options to try and plan his next move. He'll take the bar with the dragon. He opens the door -
...
And this is not the bar with the dragon. It's much, much warmer.
His head screams trap, but he can't bring himself to close the door and walk away. Inside he goes, shivering. Warmth.
He is not staying here any longer than he has to. He is not going to fucking stay here, no way. He's been through too much to languish as a sacrificial lamb in the eighth circle of hell while an archdevil goes on a rampage. Cania's for traitors. And he's not one. He was loyal until the day he - well, not died. Was banished. And he doesn't deserve to be here.
He'll find a way out. Eventually. And then someone's going to have a very bad day.
But he's not thinking about that right now. He's thinking that he's pretty sure some vital parts are going to turn blue and fall off from the cold, so he's picked the warmest of his available frigid options to try and plan his next move. He'll take the bar with the dragon. He opens the door -
...
And this is not the bar with the dragon. It's much, much warmer.
His head screams trap, but he can't bring himself to close the door and walk away. Inside he goes, shivering. Warmth.
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Well. It might be magic. He wouldn't really care if it was. He's been through a lot, lately. He doesn't even give the exploding stars a second glance, just thinks, Oh look more weird shit and then hopes to Tymora he won't need to kill another dracolich.
Warmth warmth warmth. He warms up. While looking around for the catch, because this is definitely a trap, or some kind of illusion. Something's about to eat his brain. Do mindflayers go to hell? Who even knows. Maybe.
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He has to start peeling off layers if he wants to be comfortable. He considers, and then decides against it, and instead steps away from the fire to get to investigating. If this is a very well-made illusion, he doesn't want to actually cause himself to freeze to death if he's wandering around a tundra. Can someone die in hell? He doesn't know. He hasn't asked. Probably.
He investigates. No bartender, but the bar's too small for a dragon, so that's - nice. He guesses. No dragon bartender this time. Slightly less weird to go with his morning breakfast, he'll take it. Is there a note at the bar? 'Back in five minutes' maybe?
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There is a note at the bar, and it says, Hello. Can I interest you in a beverage?
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The bar is the bartender.
Okay.
"What would it cost me?" he wonders, because with illusions sometimes you have to play along to find the catch. And sometimes playing along draws you deeper and deeper and deeper until there's no way out and someone comes across your skeleton centuries later...
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"No thanks," he says, and he sits at the bar. "So. Uh. What's the explanation for - this?"
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"Okay."
How does one crack an illusion? Usually by pointing out the leaps in logic, he thinks. Or asking for information it can't provide.
"Is there a library in here somwhere, or is it just the drinks?"
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"Can I have a book on," what does he need, that hell can't get him, "the doctrines for new clerics of," least hellish god he can think of, "Lathander?"
Shit that's too common, that's easy, he needs to pick something weirder, more there-is-no-way-you-could-get-this-legitimately...
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Can't be something he actually knows by heart because he's probably a focus for this, has to be something not common but something he doesn't know and can recognize.
... This is hard. He flips through the book on Guidelines and Fables while he thinks.
Then he asks for the blueprints for the Valsharess's palace. Could he recognize it? Yeah. He did storm the place and then get banished in the throne room of it. Does he know it at all? Hell no. Is it damned uncommon? Ha. He suspects anyone that actually had the plans in the Underdark would be killed, let alone anyone on the surface even knowing about it.
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What was that book of poetry Valen liked...? Some weird little book from some weird little place that's far far away that Valen picked up while in Sigil?
He names the author and the book out of some cobweb filled corner of his mind.
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He finds that poem Valen turned into a song and hummed when he was bored and. Has a problem with his eyes blurring and hastily puts the book back on the bar before he gets too caught up in - in - his various amounts of trauma. Yes. Let's not deal with his various amounts of trauma. Later, maybe. Get a tiny house in the middle of nowhere and sob for days or something.
He can't think about what new book to test the bar on, though. So he just - talks.
"So if this is for real, how come no one's ever heard of it before? You'd think someone would have."
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