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He had always been delightfully familiar with games. They were simple time-wasters, the delivery and punchline for bets and competition and the most thrilling gambles that a younger sibling could envision. And yeah, maybe it carried over into something more… uncomfortable (or violent, or tragic, or whatever) , but Br’aad just amounts it to a shared admiration or fondness for the act that his former patron found.
Br’aad has his inclination to word games, riddles and jokes and delightful wordplay. Sylnan, unfortunately, caught on quickly to playing Jacks, able to outplay the less dexterous boy every time. But, as time wore on and he found more jaded evenings, sleepless nights, and ragged celebrations with the ramshackle group that tolerated him, it was one discovery after another that he pursued.
Mountain favored competition of physical capability. Primarily drinking games. Actually, literally just drinking games and murder counts. But the aggressive dwarf reveled in the thrill of these matters, and whilst he most certainly is not going to partake in another drink-off, thank you very much, he keeps an open ear and encouraging banter for the combat competitions.
Taxi appreciated simple games of low stakes. From checkers and cards to harmless bets, Br’aad noted that it fit the feline’s somewhat paranoid personality, but having no risk to the fun seemed to put him at ease, especially after grueling days of travel and terrors.
Velrisa, predictably and competently, preferred ones of wits and pattern. She possess a particular fondness for chess, Br’aad learned, and… elected to not comment on it. Or play it.
He’s had enough of chess, thank you.
But, in the end, they all seemed to drift towards games of chance. Plucking through a deck of cards, praying that lady luck would favor you, or methodical repetitions until one coincidence shines through.
So, when Captain Cedric offered a moment of respite from a day’s work on the airship, the impromptu crew finds themselves gravitating towards their bard as he brandishes a small, faux velvet pouch. Sylnan’s eyes gleam in recognition, and he swiftly darts alongside his brother as they lead the crew below deck, settling themselves around a common table.
“Alright! A simple game of chance and choice,” Br’aad announces, tugging the lip of the pouch and spilling its contents onto the table. Metal dice scatter across the worn wood, in a variety of pointed shapes. It’s quite the fancy set; smooth black faces, with edges and numbers shining in polished gold accents. Curious hands dart towards them: Velrisa inspects a familiar six-sided cube, Taxi curiously turns a ten-sided die in his paw, and Mountain pokes a fingertip onto the sharp point of a pyramidal one, frowning when it pricks into his skin.
Br’aad quickly collects the wandering pieces, and plucks a trio of identical dice from the pile: peculiar twenty-sided shapes.
“We’ll do it in rounds; partner up, and roll the twenty-sided dice, adding up your three results. If both players agree, you both get to re-roll the same amount of the three, but only once. Player with the highest total moves on,” Br’aad explains, rolling the dice he wields for emphasis. A three , a fifteen , and a nine shine back up at him. Re-rolling the three returns him a two , and he dramatically frowns at it.
“What’re we betting on?” Mountain challenges eagerly, at the same time Velrisa quietly asks, “what do you even call a twenty-sided shape?”
“Gold?” Br’aad suggests to the dwarf, and turns to Velrisa. There’s a few beats of silence.
“Round,” he decides.
Chuckles rise from the group, and Br’aad smiles. Nothing feels better than an entertainer pleasing a crowd, no? He steps back from the playing field, satisfied to just orchestrate the shenanigans. A few gold pieces are shuffled around the table as the bets and rolling begin, impromptu rules and fits of frustration and laughter bursting sporadically as the hour of respite rolls along. The sun sinks past the distant clouds, swiftly replaced by luminescent candlelight, and the gold-trimmed dice glimmer the same hue as Br’aad’s tattoos, glistening ever so innocently.
--
A couple more hours of work passes before the crew is sent below deck once more, trudging feet followed by praises from Cedric and the bantering between adventurers. They’re quick to retreat into their shared quarters, and it’s hardly any time at all before Br’aad hears Mountain’s chortling snores, Velrisa’s even breaths, and the familiar slight sighs and quiet exhalations that he recognizes as his brother’s.
An hour passes before he acknowledges that he’s not asleep, and it’s another thirty minutes before he acknowledges that he’s not going to, either.
Br’aad sighs, resigned, and slips out of the hammock cradling him. His bare feet dart across the floorboard with ease, hardly making a sound as he creeps out of the room, and into the common area. He makes his way toward the familiar table, quietly shuffling the messy array of chairs back into their respective spots, and glances towards his prior seat.
The velvety pouch sits on the table, strings pulled taut. The chair is slightly pulled back.
He sighs. He supposes that, among the jovial gameplay, that he had left his possession here. And, there’s nothing else to do in the middle of the night, alone, so he might as well play his own game. Br’aad settles into the seat, pulling it forward, and gold-laced fingers naturally pull the bag open, and he tips out the contents.
A singular die tumbles out, rolling a few inches before a metallic, purple ‘one’ stares back at him.
Br’aad freezes. His breath catches in his throat, his heart quickly races, and hardly a moment passes before it syncs up with a back and forth ticking.
He pulls his gaze away from the dice, and looks up.
He may be surprised that it happened , but he’s sure not surprised that his former deity sits across the table from him, fingers laced together. A gleaming white smile crosses Ob’nockshai’s face, canines sharpened just enough to be noticeable from the distance.
“My boy,” he purrs, and Br’aad notes as he talks that the deity’s tongue is thin and forked. Br’aad opens his mouth to protest, to shout, to curse out the motherfucker, but with a nonchalant wave of a thin hand, his voice dies in his throat.
“Ah ah ah— no need for that, Br’aad! I’m just visiting ,” Ob’nockshai continues, woefully uninterrupted. “You may have decided to forsake me for that Storyteller bastard, ” he hisses. “and trust me , that’s a conversation that we most certainly will be having together, but I’ll graciously grant you the mercy of delaying that business.”
“Instead, I’m just dropping by, because—well— why not? You orchestrated quite the simple and delightful game earlier, and that’s just my fancy,” he explains. “And frankly, I’m appalled that you denied yourself the joy of partaking in it. So ," Ob'nockshai muses, "I thought I'd treat you and rectify that!"
No longer interrupting, apparently, Br'aad finds his voice returned.
"I'd rather not."
Across the table, Ob’nockshai rolls his eyes. “That’s nice, Br’aad. Now, I’ve got some different rules for you. Very simple, but very effective, I’d say. Just take the dice, and give it a roll. Depending on how high or low it is, the result differs. Higher, the better, and lower— well, we don’t need to spoil that ,” he teases.
“How do I win?” Br’aad dares to ask. He rests one hand atop the table, fingers tapping, while keeping his trembling, tattooed hand out of sight.
Ob’nockshai clicks his tongue. “Ah, bluntness doesn’t suit you, my boy. But,” he dramatically sighs, propping an arm up from the table and leaning his cheek onto it. “I suppose that’s the nature of games. I’ll roll each time you roll. Your score is how many times you roll higher than I do— and no worries, lad, I don’t play with weighted dice. Beat my rolls three times, and you’re a genuine winner,” he cheers in a sickly sing-song voice.
“And how do I… lose?” Br’aad says hesitatingly. He certainly doesn’t fucking want to invite the deity an idea of Br'aad losing, but… he’s learned from too many games of jacks and dead tieflings that he can’t play ignorant to the stakes.
Ob’nockshai answers with a nonchalant shrug and a noncommittal hum. “Just depends on how low you roll, I suppose. You may be dumb as rocks, but you’ll figure it out quick,” he says, expression laced with a sneer.
There’s a beat of silence shared, filled only with the half-elf’s sparse breathing and haphazard heartbeat, before Br’aad grabs the glittering purple dice.
It’s cold in his hand, but the metallic purple ebbs away, revealing the original gold beneath it. The metaphorical comparison is not lost in the bard as he gulps, but he rolls the dice around his palm. His gaze shifts, eyeing as Ob’nockshai summons a die of inverted colors to his own: a matte white base, with inky purple numbers across each face.
“Three wins, right?” Br’aad confirms, pushing mind-shattering terror aside for faux confidence. “Well, I’ll just roll with it,” he quips, and lets the die roll from his hand.
It makes quite the satisfying sound as the metal rolls against wood, that in most other circumstances, he would take a moment to appreciate. Now, however, his gaze remains fixated on the die as it settles, and a golden 19 shines upward. Genuinely, Br’aad’s face shifts into a smile, and it only strengthens when an echoing roll across the table reveals a contrasting 10. Ob’nockshai lets out a disappointed sigh.
“Unfortunate. Alas, that’s the nature of pure chance,” he concedes, flicking the twenty-sided die into his hand with a slight glare. Br’aad scoops his back up as well.
“One down,” he murmurs, and after a brief spin in his palm, he sends the die cascading back onto the wood, in unison with his former patron.
Innocently, the topmost face shines with a 1.
Br’aad stares at the result, and just within his focused sight, Ob’nockshai’s die rolls on over, displaying another 10.
“...what do low rolls d—”
Br’aad gasps, his question warbling into a strangled shout as blistering heat and pain rockets through his pain. His back arches and his arms claw around his sides, instinctively trying to locate the offense’s origin as what feels like red-hot metal pierces into his back. His breathing is gasping and insufficient and it fucking hurts and the commotion shifts him to the edge of his seat until he slips off the edge with a flinch, forehead slamming into the edge of the table as he sinks onto his knees, desperately gasping and whimpering at the fictional brand peels away from his spine.
“That,” Ob’nockshai casually answers.
Br’aad despises the own sounds pulled from his throat as the whimper shifts into a wet cry, his hands clamped too tight against his sides as his kneeling form trembles. He’s been stabbed and nearly gutted and burned and bludgeoned and none of it hurt like this.
Ob’nockshai innocently hums as Br’aad gasps for air, and he grimly acknowledges that, despite his prior assurances, Ob’nockshai is certainly slipping in bitter revenge for his abandonment.
Fuck.
But… that was just a one, right? That’s the worse it can be, he internally promises himself. He survived that. He’s okay.
Just a few more rolls, and Ob’nockshai will leave him be.
Tremors still wracking his form, Br’aad grips onto the table, and pulls himself back onto the chair before letting himself limply fall into it. He cranes his head up just enough for some semblance of dignity, reaching for his die again.
Thankfully, there’s no comment from the demon across the table, and he hardly ‘shuffles’ the die before letting it clack against the table. It quickly comes to a stop, revealing a welcome 16.
Immediately, Br’aad’s chest seizes for a moment before ebbing, taking a great deal of pain away with it. It’s not a soothing cold like Velrisa’s familiar healing, but the surge of relief that comes with the unbearable pain subsiding is glorious enough. His breathing evens, and with an exhausted shuffle, he pulls himself into a proper seated position. His back remains sore, but nothing akin to the hot coals that it seemed to endure previously.
Ob’nockshai is met with a 15, earning a ‘tsk’ . “So close,” he bitterly notes, swiftly plucking the die back up. Br’aad takes his time, steadying his breath and his hands, before picking up his own.
“Two,” he mutters. “One more. C’mon, Br’aadley, one more.” He takes a little extra time, cupping his other hand over his palm and shaking them, before pulling them apart to let its contents spill out.
His utters fall short when an 8 ends up on top, and Ob’nockshai hardly keeps him waiting. Perhaps accentuated by frustration as the bard was blessed with his prior luck, it’s an immediate stabbing pain that shoots through his left leg. The closest thing he can compare it to is a barrage of arrows piercing down the back of his leg, and a sputtering whimper forces itself from his lips before his leg crumples beneath his weight, sending him feebly collapsing back onto the floor. He ends up propped up by his arms, chest heaving for air, tears pricking the edges of his vision. He’s so close, though, he’s so fucking close, he just needs one more stroke of luck—
Br’aad’s hand blindly reaches towards the top of the table, smacking empty air before they catch the edge of the metal die, and he haphazardly tosses it across the table. Out of sight, he can only hear the echoing clacks as it rolls past his head, and it comes to a stop halfway across the wooden table.
Silence.
Br’aad’s breath slowly begins to even, despite the pain vividly shooting through his leg. Nothing? The unknown assurance brings him such a wave of relief mirroring what accompanied his high roll, and he slowly shifts himself back upright—
right in time for a fucking sword to plunge through his stomach.
He doesn’t resist the natural urge, and Br’aad fucking begins to bawl. There’s no visible wound and certainly no weapon but it’s so unbelievably vivid, as if the fucking blue orc came up behind him and tried to gut him, and he sobs. It’s an ugly sound, wet and gurgling and he keeps his eyes tightly shut, lest he see blood lacing the spit that splatters onto the ground, even though, distantly, he knows it’s just a psychic wound.
He remains cradled on the wooden planks for a few minutes. He tries to catch his breath again and again, but each time, a pulse of pain shoots through his leg or chest and sends him into a heaving panic. It feels like hours passes before he peels himself off of the floor, messily brushing an arm across his eyes to try and regain his vision. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, frighteningly quick and loud, and yet, not loud enough to deafen the footsteps that clack against the stone floor. Not loud enough to blot out the delighted whistling that sings in the air, completely unbothered— in fact, pleased— by the incapacitated half-elf on the ground.
Half-lidded eyes are enough to show the deity stepping around the side of the table, crouching down on thin, elegant heels, and tossing Br’aad’s die towards him, spinning his own between his fingertips.
“Come on,” Ob’nockshai invites in the same tone one would encourage a particularly reluctant puppy. Br’aad doesn’t have the energy to react to that, and a trembling hand reaches forward. It slumps against the floorboards once, then twice, before finally brushing the die and pulling it into his palm. He doesn’t try to even his breathing or whisper a prayer to any god that would bother listening, and as his hand goes limp, the die tumbles out. His body slumps against the floor before it finishes rolling, exhaustion muddling his mind and stealing any use from his limbs, but his warped, tear-stained vision remains focused on the die. Ob’nockshai calmly rolls his own inverted die alongside Br’aad’s, and the two come to a stop in unison.
1, reads the purple font.
2, displays the golden script.
Realization takes a moment to set in, and a relieved, desperate laugh is pulled from Br’aad’s chest, sputtering but a laugh nonetheless. The closest of calls, and he fucking won.
“Ha...ha…” he breathes, and before him, Ob’nockshai frowns for a moment, before his expression shifts into something unbothered as he shrugs.
“T’was chance,” the former patron concedes to no argument, and with a flick of his hand, whisks the white and purple die out from existence. “ Congratulations , Br’aad! I do hope you had as much fun with our game as I had,” Ob’nockshai says with a sickly sweet grin.
He stands up, metal heels clacking against wood as he backs away. Br’aad’s vision is hardly competent enough, but he watches as Ob’nockshai steps towards a door that most certainly wasn’t there before.
Mahogany, Br’aad numbly notes.
He steps towards the doorway, elegant fingers pushing it open, curling around the isolated doorframe. Ob’nockshai begins to step through, before looking back over his shoulder. His chosen face bears a devilish grin, and most horrifyingly, it’s purely genuine.
“Ah, I thought I had forgotten something. You might have bested me in a competition of numbers , my dear boy, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t roll poorly ,” he gleefully reminds, and steps into the doorway. It clicks behind him quite satisfyingly, and the door fizzles out of existence.
Br’aad silently ponders what the fuck Ob’nockshai meant, and tries to prop himself back up. Pain still shoots through his body at every possible movement— particularly his left leg and stomach, where the latest psychic inflictions were focused.
He tries to steady his breathing, and it takes longer than he’d like before realizing that despite being acclimated to the pain, and the threat being gone, his breathing is quite labored. It’s as if it were a physical restriction, he numbly ponders, before glancing down.
A frighteningly large gash is torn down the center of his bare chest, and the pooling of blood by his leg certainly implies a mirrored wound there. His fingers hover over the gaping wound, trembling at the realization.
A 2 isn’t the greatest possible failure, Br’aad distantly notes, but nevertheless, it’s hardly ever a win.
Exhaustion and pain and blood loss and swift shock are quick to overwhelm his mind, and he tries to hobble upwards. His fingers numbly pull at the edge of the table, and his chest makes it a foot off the ground, and, despite his most sincere efforts, it’s… not enough. His muscles seize and his limbs suddenly fall limp, and a scream wrenches itself from his throat as he falls onto his back, where the exit of the devastating wound impacts against the floorboards.
His head lulls to the side, and as his eyelids flutter shut, he can catch the faint sight of his dice, glimmering gold, and bloodstained.
--
Sylnan is halfway out of his hammock before he’s even awake.
Muscle memory alone catches him, sending him stumbling against a wall rather than to the ground, and he swiftly darts towards the door. His companions had only let out stifled, tired responses to the distant scream, but Sylnan yanks the door open, the heavy wood slamming into the wall. He leaves the yelps and surprised utterances behind him as he sprints, adrenaline chasing off any trace of tiredness, because he knows that noise.
It’s a noise that haunts him through every nightmare that leaves him trembling when he wakes, prayers begging to never hear it again burbling at his lips.
Footsteps patter distantly by the time he reaches the stairs from the bottom-most floor, and deft rogue feet carry him up, two steps at a time. He flings himself forward two steps below the top of the staircase, and the tip of his foot catches the top step. He grunts as his body thuds against the ground, but he swiftly untangles his limbs and scrambles to his feet, uncaring of the bruising and darting forward again. His eyes scan the room, and the moment he finds nothing, he’s shooting towards the next— the common room.
He stumbles as he catapults himself in, head whipping around.
The table that they had played at is askew, as are the chairs on either end. One is pulled away just enough to stand up, while the other lays against the floor, back to the floorboards.
Sylnan sees the humanoid form, and shoots towards it without a second thought. He slides onto his knees, stopping just before the limp figure, and his hands gently grab at his shoulders, carefully but quickly rolling him over.
The giant bloodstain against the back of the vest was evidence enough, but seeing the gaping wound across Br’aad’s chest is what hits Sylnan hardest. His own breathing becomes shallow and his heartbeat races as his hands hover over his brother’s chest, trying to identify anything. A glance to the right reveals that one of Br’aad’s legs is unnaturally bent, and oozing lacerations are scattered across it. Looking towards his face, Sylnan finds that Br’aad’s expression is emotionless, clearly unconscious, with an unsettling pallor to his cheeks.
Footsteps race up from behind him, and past the table, Sylnan sees a sleep-addled Cedric stumbling into the room, head shooting around before focusing on the kneeling half-elf. His gaze is confused, before stricken with realization. The captain and the rest of the party converge upon Sylnan, Velrisa first to drop to her knees beside him.
“What…?” she murmurs, before grabbing Br’aad’s green scarf that had fallen to the side, and pressing it against the chest wound. Br’aad’s face scrunches, but silently, Velrisa works fast. She sops up a majority of the spilled blood concealing the wound, and Cedric is quick to approach, lighting a lamp. His mouth is slightly agape, clearly befuddled.
The new light shines over the unconscious half-elf, and, no longer restricted by the monotone nature of darkvision, the color of Sylnan’s face is quick to sink away as Velrisa pulls the blood-soaked scarf away. The severity of the wound is revealed, several inches long from the top of his chest, cutting through the intricate golden tattoos.
Formerly golden tattoos, Sylnan realizes as his breath hitches, at last catching sight of his chest tattoos, and how those immediately around the wound are stained with a sickly purple hue.
He grabs Br’aad’s hand and squeezes it. The lavender-tinted skin beneath the bandages twinge with familiarity, but he only focuses on the faint pulse through it. It’s distant, but its presence is salvation enough as it softly beats in a faint, back and forth rhythm.
Tick.
Tock.