I stand at the center of the jagged disc Lae’zel carved from the Nautiloid’s hull, my bare feet gripping its slick, fleshy surface as it drifts downward through the Sword Coast’s predawn sky. The hum of my telekinesis pulses beneath me, a steady vibration I can feel in my bones, keeping this grotesque slab of alien meat and metal aloft in a mockery of flight. The air’s now cool and crisp, a salty breeze rolling up from the waves below, tugging at my silk pants and the brim of my favorite fishing hat. It tastes of the sea—briny, sharp, with a hint of pine from the nearby cliffs—and it’s far more to my liking than the sulfur and blood I’ve been choking on lately. The platform’s edges are rough, glistening with the ship’s leftover ichor, but it holds steady enough under my will, a makeshift airship (Air…raft? Air-dinghy?) carrying us through this early dawn calm.
The sky stretches out above me, vast and endless, painted in colors that – thanks to light and chemical pollution -- I’d only ever seen through a VR headset back in the 2040s. The western horizon still clings to the last scraps of night—deep indigo streaked with bruised violet—while the east now ignites with the sunrise’s first blush, pinks and golds spilling across the clouds like spilled paint. The stars are fading, those stubborn little bastards winking out one by one as the dawn creeps up, bathing everything in a soft, warm glow. Below, the sea catches the light, turning into a shimmering mess of molten amber and silver foam, waves rolling in lazy rhythms against the rocky shore.
I’ve never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
For a moment, I just let myself take it in; Faerûn’s beauty hitting me square in the chest, raw and real in a way Skyrim’s VR vistas could never hope to be.
I glance around at the others, these characters I’d only known through a screen until a few hours ago, now flesh and blood beside me. Karlach, still drenched in crusted blood and Zhalk guts, is leaning against the disc’s edge, her arms crossed like she’s daring the world to interrupt this peace. The gifted spectral Drainblood Battleaxe still rests on her shoulder, its ghostly glow pulsing faintly, casting a warm light across her red-tinged skin. The scars on her arms and neck catch the dawn, a roadmap of hellish years I likely can’t even imagine, and her infernal engine hums softly in her chest, a flicker of increasingly hot fire against the cool air. The wind pulls at her dark hair, loosening strands from its messy tie, and she tilts her head back, eyes closed, a lopsided grin tugging at her lips. She looks… content. Free. The brimstone scent that clings to her mixes with the salt, and her tail flicks lazily behind her, brushing the platform with a soft, and not at all unpleasant, thump-thump. “Yeah, Soldier,” she says, cracking one eye open to catch me looking. “Beats the Hell out of Avernus. Never thought I’d ever get to see a sunrise like this again—no Blood War, no devils…. You’re a miracle worker, you know that?” Her laugh is warm, rough, and it hits my soul like a mug of mead on a cozy night by the fire.
Lae’zel’s a pace away, standing like she’s ready to leap into battle, though her shoulders are looser than I’ve seen them. Her silver armor gleams in the sunrise, catching the pinks and golds, turning it into something almost alive. Those golden eyes of hers—sharp, predatory—sweep the horizon, unblinking, drinking in every detail like she’s memorizing it for some Githyanki war manual. The breeze lifts her short, dark hair, showing off the hard lines of her face—high cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, faint scars marking her as a warrior born. Her hands rest on her sword’s hilt, fingers twitching like they’re itching for a fight, but she doesn’t draw it, just lets the moment sit. “It is… adequate,” she says, her voice clipped but softer than usual, her gaze flicking to me. “The Planes hold greater vistas, but this has a certain… presence about it. A… resonance I did not expect.” I catch the slow rhythm of her breath—deliberate, like she’s forcing herself to feel this. She’s a storm held in check, and I can’t help but admire her composure.
Shadowheart is kneeling near the edge, her knees pressed into the disc’s slick surface, hands resting on her thighs. The Dragonbone Mace lies beside her, its pale, jagged head faintly reflecting the dawn light, the draconic etchings understated but eye-catching at the same time (damn, I looted some great stuff back in Skyrim). Her dark ceremonial armor’s scuffed, smeared with impish blood and Nautiloid gunk, clinging to her slender frame, and that silver Shar pendant glints at her collarbone, a quiet rebellion against the sunrise’s purity. Her equally soiled, raven-black hair whips in the breeze, floating around her face like shadows come alive, framing pale skin and those deep violet eyes—stormy, haunted, reflecting the golden waves below. She looks out at the sea, and there’s something soft and fragile flickering in her gaze. The breeze carries a whiff of lilac and leather off her, a scent that doesn’t belong in this chaos, and it twists something in my gut. “It’s almost too much,” she murmurs, voice so soft I barely catch it over the waves. “But… yes. Beautiful.” Her fingers brush that pendant, then still, and her eyes meet mine for a heartbeat, before she quickly forces herself to look away. “Thank you… for getting me out of that pod. For saving us from the ship. I… will not forget this.”
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We’re dropping lower now, the sound of the waves swelling—a steady crash and sigh that fills the air, soothing the jagged edges of my nerves. The sea’s a golden mess below, rippling with the wind, whitecaps smashing against the rocks in sprays of foam that catch the light like diamonds. Gulls scream overhead, their wings flashing white against the sky, their cries cutting through the breeze—sharp, mournful, grounding me in this moment. The cliffs loom closer, rugged and moss-stained, crowned with dark pines swaying in the dawn, their earthy musk mixing with the salt and mist. The air’s cooler down here, the sun’s warmth battling the sea’s chill, and I can taste the salt on my lips, feel the mist kissing my skin—real, tangible, and endlessly more engaging than VR sim bullshit.
Then my eyes catch something along the coast—a medieval-looking crumbling ruin, half-swallowed by the cliffs. Stone arches jut out of it like broken ribs, its walls are pocked with age and salt. My Gamer brain kicks in, and I realize that I know this place—that’s gotta be where Withers hangs out before meeting the player’s group. This is the perfect spot to touch down and say hello! I shift my focus, willing the disc to angle toward the structure, aiming for the flat stretch of roof still clinging to the ruin’s top. “Hang on,” I mutter, guiding us in, the hum of my power deepening as we descend straight for it.
The Bandits’ POV
Down below, in the dusty guts of the crypt, Gimblebock the Blade hunched over a rickety table, squinting at a lanceboard carved from driftwood and bone. The ruin’s air was damp, musty, thick with the smell of mildew and old stone, the kind of place that made your boots stick to the floor. Lanterns flickered on the walls, casting jittery shadows across the cracked arches and the piles of loot his crew had dragged over—rusted goblets, a dented helm, some moldy scrolls they’d probably sell for a copper each. His gang—six greasy, hard-bitten thugs—lounged around the rooftop, picking at their nails or arguing over a chipped dagger’s worth. Taman, a wiry man with a patchy beard and a chipped front tooth, was mid-move, his grimy finger hovering over a pawn shaped like a lopsided skull.
“Oi, Bock, you’re rubbish at this,” he grumbled, smirking at the gnome across from him. “It’s checkmate in three, ya oaf. Pay up—two silvers, now.”
Gimblebock growled, scratching his scalp, his squinting eyes narrowing at the pieces. “Ain’t no checkmate, Tam. You’se cheatin’ again, ya sneaky git—”
A shadow fell over the board.
Taman froze, his finger still on the pawn, as the light dimmed—like a cloud had swallowed the sun. But it wasn’t a cloud. The shadow grew, sharp-edged, unnatural, and a low hum vibrated through the crypt, rattling the table, sending the lance pieces skittering. He looked up, squinting, and his jaw dropped. A slab of… something—fleshy, metallic, dripping with gods-know-what—hovered right above them, blotting out the dawn. It was big, bigger than his tent, and it was landing, settling onto the roof with a wet, squelching thud that shook dust up from the ancient stones.
“What in the Nine Hells—” Gimblebock yelped, leaping to his feet, his chair clattering over. His crew scrambled up, hands fumbling for swords and clubs, eyes wide as saucers. Then they appeared—four figures stepping off the disc, and Gimblebock’s bladder nearly gave out.
The leader was a giant— a six-foot-four wall of muscle, shirtless, and caked head-to-toe in someone’s blood, the black-red muck dripping off him like he’d recently bathed in it. His pants and fishing hat were absurdly out of place, but the power rolling off him wasn’t funny—his terrifying eyes, ice-blue and piercing, locked onto Gimblebock like he was sizing up a snack. Beside him, a tiefling woman with a glowing chest, blood, and – was that guts? (he swallowed the encroaching bile) – tangled in her hair hefted a ghostly axe that shimmered like death itself, grinning like she’d just won a bar fight. There were also a Githyanki in silver armor with an enormous, sharp-looking sword and stare that could peel flesh, and a woman in dark armor clutching a bone mace that looked like it could crack an Ogre’s skull, her violet eyes glinting with something Gimblebock didn’t want to name. The air hummed with raw and heavy power, while the disc behind them pulsed… and bled purplish green goo like it was alive.
Gimblebock’s dagger trembled in his hand, his bravado evaporating. “Uh… we was just… leavin’!” he stammered, voice cracking. “No trouble here, sirs—er, lords and ladies—er, whatever you are! Just a bit o’ lanceboard, see?” He kicked the board under the table, sweat beading on his brow.
The giant stepped forward, blood splattering the stone, and his voice rumbled low like distant thunder. “Leave. Now.”
This time, Gimblebock bladder did give out, and he didn’t need telling twice. “Right you are! Pack it up, lads—move!” His crew bolted, tripping over each other, loot forgotten, sprinting for the exit like rats from a sinking ship. Taman lagged just long enough to snatch his own dagger, then legged it, muttering prayers to any god listening. Whatever those freaks were, he wanted no part of them.