Chapter Text
The Material Plane is cold, far colder than I could ever have imagined it. The wind actually bites here, the chill actually seeps into your bones. I had a moment where I questioned if I was always this pale or if this was actually the cold getting to me. But I was told I needed to be here, that my questions would be answered in time. But the more I think on it, the less I remember… and so I push onwards.
I stumble across some temple, and immediately don the only mask that is remotely palatable on this plane: chocolate brown hair, tanned olive skin, bright green eyes. I am an unremarkable half-elf ranger stumbling out of the wilderness after years of being alone. I’m sure that’s a story that sounds plausible. Despite my protests, the temple’s clerics insist I rest and recuperate. Apparently I look like shit. I’ve never heard of their god or goddess or whatever they worship, but I’m still grateful for this little bit of warmth, even if their kindness is incredibly off-putting, much like the too-sweet taffy Cilla had once made, where I could feel the sugar crystals scraping against my gums. I help them as best as I can, but something still feels off. But that’s just non-fey-folk emotions, I guess.
I can’t linger. I’m here on this dastardly cold and grey and dull plane for a reason. After a few weeks of rest, recovery, and quietly liberating some equipment, I move on, heading southward. There are enough odd jobs to keep my coin purse full — though I can’t stress how much I mean odd. Evidently, “regular” folks on this plane don’t know how to stick a wild deer with an arrow. Their fur looks like the trees! Where I’m from, the trees would move to help you make your shot, so this is quite confusing. Still, I nod and sink an arrow into whatever it is they need. Easy coppers, sometimes even silvers.
It isn’t until I’m in an incredibly loud tavern with an atrocious cover band in the biggest city on this continent that I piece together tales about “the Grip”, a coastal town further south.
The Grip. Less than 400 people. So few people I can blend in however I’d want. Spend a few days observing the passers-by, get a good sense of who looks like who, ask about families, and all of a sudden, I’m a distant cousin looking for a new life.
Check one.
“The Grip on the Throat.” Well, if I don’t have a sense of humour about everything that has happened to me, I wouldn’t have a sense of humour at all. Fitting, I guess, that this is where I’m choosing to go.
Check two.
“People who go south rarely come back.” It’s all I hear as I travel southward. I feign surprise, but truth be told, when you’ve seen the kinds of things that I’ve seen, nothing is all that surprising. Besides, being the stubborn asshole that I am, I will gladly prove people wrong, especially since I can’t shake the feeling that south is where I’m supposed to be heading.
Check three.
I meet the dwarves first. Cousins, apparently. The barbarian is a hothead who acts first, thinks second. I appreciate his passion and intensity, though, even if he is a bit careless. I have a lot of respect for him; I’ve not seen many people on this plane who run around everywhere – and I mean everywhere – completely shirtless. But when you’re built like a yeth hound and your muscles have muscles, I can’t see why you wouldn’t parade yourself around like that. What makes him even more fascinating is the shock of bright orange hair he styles into a wild mohawk that falls all the way down his back. His equally striking beard is full and thick and adorned with tiny replicas of the colossal greataxe he wields with zealous ferocity. I pity the poor fools who meet the business end of that thing. We have an agreement: I keep things off his back so he can die face-to-face with his enemies, and I get the luxury of not dying.
His cousin, the cleric, is fine; there’s nothing really to write home about. He’s unassuming, keeps to himself, and is considerably less preachy than the priests and priestesses in the north. But still, he’s an odd one. He’s always clad in his clunky metal armour that looks like it should weigh more than he does. What’s more, he wears a full metal face helmet, complete with a beard shield, making him look more like the stone he’s constantly going on about than the brown-bearded tinkerer he is.
Not to mention, he makes things in service to this “Moradin”, his god. Setting aside the fact that I find the mere idea of religious worship questionable at best, problematic at worst, all together puzzling, and highly unappealing, why bother subjecting yourself to a restrictive set of principles and morality? Life isn’t black and white, not all situations can call for doing the “right” thing or the “morally good” thing. Nature, at its heart, follows its base instincts, and we are at our best when we can be flexible and do what needs to be done in the moment. Besides, why indenture yourself to some cosmic, otherworldly being who doesn’t give a fig about you or the goings-on of us lesser folk? He’s patient when we bicker about these things, which only makes me respect him more and wonder why in the hells he decided to set out adventuring.
Funny enough, the two dwarves squabble amongst themselves more than the cleric and I do. I suppose that’s probably how they attracted the swarm of bullywugs they were fighting – and losing to – before I stumbled upon them. In truth, I’m quite proud of myself. Not a soul heard me approach (at least my time with Mistress wasn’t all suffering, I managed to pick up some skills), and the ambush helped us fend off this almost scriptural plague of creatures. There were a few moments where our efforts looked futile, and I had considered trying to sneak off again at one point. Thankfully, the tides turned in our favour just in time, and we scared off the thinning horde.
We meet the firbolg later. I have a rule: kill all fey on sight, even half-fey. I’m not sure what stayed my hand at the time, but that arrow was nocked and ready to sink into his skull. Maybe it was his ridiculously oversized ears, or his stupid, dopey face, or the fact that he’s just so plain and simple, but I gave him a chance, surely there can’t be any harm in it — though he’s on incredibly thin ice. He’s a druid… like Cilla, and it turns my stomach to knots watching him do similar magics that she’d use in our everyday life. It’s fitting that he’s a druid, though – he’s practically as tall as a tree and his fur is just as brown. I had gotten used to being the tallest in the party, standing about a foot taller than the dwarves. But now, even I’m being dwarfed by this towering gentle giant by at least two feet.
I refuse to reveal myself to the others, despite the uncomfortable tingling just below my skin. The story of the hermit half-elven ranger stumbling into civilization for the first time is amusing, even to me. And I can’t help but add a few new embellishments each time I tell stories about “my” harrowing experiences in society for the first time. I’ve considered telling them what I am, but when even my fellow fey are suspicious and apprehensive of changelings, I can’t imagine what folks on this plane would think. So I wear my mask and I play my part.
We spend a couple weeks in the swamps, picking our way slowly through muck and murk. I’m far more adept at traversing picturesque coastlines than muddy sludge, but a hunt is a hunt and I’m hunting for a way to Grip. Fortunately, our travels are uneventful and we encounter no issues, save for constantly wet boots, as we press forward. The dwarves continue bickering the whole way, and I can’t help but interject every so often to stir up a bit of trouble. The firbolg is mostly quiet, but he’s not done anything yet to attract my ire, so I’ve grown a little less wary of him.
It’s a sunny day when we finally spy the gates to the Grip on the Throat. We pass by a handful of houses on the outskirts of town before being met with a large gate. The little village is surprisingly well-fortified, and based on the stories I’ve heard, it’s for a very good reason. The Grip isn’t just the place people go when they never want to be seen again, it’s also the last bastion of civilization before the unexplored Southlands. No one knows what’s past Grip – that’s why people rarely return; brave adventurers get lost to the unknown.
The town hums with excitement as we enter the village properly. There’s apparently going to be an execution at the gallows. Apparently someone was caught using magic, which, I’ve learned, is strictly regulated and outright banned in most parts. It’s a confusing notion as a native of a plane infused with magic, where it’s as natural as breathing. But I haven’t questioned it in my time here and I won’t start now.
With some helpful guidance from a few local residents, we find our way to the gallows and get ourselves situated in the crowd. I scan the faces around me, taking them all in. These could all be useful masks. A hush soon falls over the crowd as the proceedings begin and I can’t help but wonder what exactly the next chapter of my story has in store.