Talking to tombstones, and other ways of making friends: Letters of Ophelia Bell

[Naiad]

A poorly written letter is burned and sent up to the sky. It's writing stiff and erratic, the spacing poor with words meandering around the page at random.

Dear Papa,

I know you probably can’t read this. Being that you can’t read…and you’re dead. But maybe this will get to you somehow, and a nice spirit will read this to you. I got some bad news for you papa. I got taken up in some strange place, with strange people, and a strange way of dying. There is no Fugue here. That’s priest-speak for I won’t find you when I die. We won’t be together no more. I’m sorry papa, but I’m okay. I met a tax collector first thing, so I knew people still had to die around here. I got it easy. Lot of priest and knights don’t have such solid proof of faith as I do. People gotta die, and I gotta take care of them. I don’t have to go through all the depression and horrible thoughts that come with losing a god. At least, I try not to. Death is easy to rely on. I’m a pretty lucky outlander, ya know? (An outlander is a person from our land. Just to be clear.)

I met some nice people to help me along the way. So I’m not alone. Ictinous, Ictinus, The tax collector is a really smart guy. I bet he writes with those neat twisty curves in his letters. He introduced me to a man named Sentinel Zeles. You’d like Sentinel Zeles pa. He’s just like you. Realistic and grumpy. Also old. He’s teaching me about the dead of this place. It’s some scary stuff. Long story short, Kelemvor isn’t here papa. We’re on our own when we die here. No gods. No nothing. Just unrest. It’s spooky, but you don’t need to deal with it. I’ll not go into detail, so you don’t worry about me. Don’t worry at all Pa. I’ll be buried proper when I die, and I’ll just sleep. You know how I like naps!

I want to write you more, but my hand is getting tired. I’ll send you another letter soon. I’ll get better at this writing thing. You were right, it’s important to know all this reading and this writing. It let me talk to you, even though you are not here. Always the smart one papa.

I miss you. I love you.
XOXO
Ophie 

[Naiad]

Another letter is burnt and sent to the sky.

Dear Kelemvor,

Hi. I know I should be praying instead of writing to you, but I can’t feel you anymore. I kinda miss that, but I’m aware you are busy and can’t reach here. That’s okay, I figured just trying to write you might help. So, if you get this. I’m doing okay. The dead are different here, as I’m certain you are aware. There’s no Fugue. Which is…creepy. It means I’ll probably never see you again…. are you going to miss me too?

There is a religion here called the Eternal Order. Not your Eternal Order, but kinda similar. They honor the dead like we do. They do some other stuff too. They are great. I like them a lot. Would it be wrong if I helped them? I know I’m your novice—I’m not a priestess sure, but I’m your novice and that’s important. But you’re not here now…would you be angry if I learned some from them? You can’t show me the way anymore, and there are no priests here either. Sooo… if you are reading this. Know that I still love you, even if I’m listening to what Sentinel Zeles says.

Love,
Ophelia

[Naiad]

Another awkwardly written, and passionately misspelled letter is burned. It's ashes sent up to the sky above.

Dear Papa,

I wish you could be here with me. You would like this place. The people here might be a bit strange, but that’s because I am mainly surrounded by adventurers, and they are weird regardless of the place. The people of this land are good people, and they remind me of home. I might be an outlander, but I sometimes feel a bit out of place among the other outlanders. I thought it was normal to not be able to fight, or write, or read very well. But most outlanders can do that already. I’m so very far behind them. I try not to let it get to me. I’m getting better at writing, but I still have trouble. Sometimes my outlander friends take it for granted and think spelling things wrong or not being able to write good means someone isn’t worth taking seriously… and that kinda hurts. But all in all, they are still good folk. I’ve met a lot of great people here.

I met a few knights. -real- knights. Siegward and Vichard. They are just like the story books. Really handsome, and brave, and selfless. I spend most of my time with Vichard, and I’m certain he’s the bravest person I’ve ever met. Knights are the best. I’ve also met an honest to the gods priestess of both Lathander AND Ilmater. They are just as inspiring as people say they are. They are like little beams of light…and it’s neat to watch a -real- priestess work. I also met a druid—who turned into a BEAR! A Bear papa!

I also met a local named River who shows me different graves out in the woods. He has a pretty good head on his shoulders, and he helps with the memorial. He made the benches, the crates, the signs…everything really. I want to find a way to pay him back. He’s made the memorial a success, and that’s made your memorial better. Problem is, I can’t think of a way to do that. It’s a shame your spirit is back at home…I could use your smarts. Don’t worry though. I’ll think of something…. eventually.

I’ve also made friends with other locals. The garda here are like the militia back home. Underpaid and overworked. I try to help where I can. They deal with a lot of dead, and they need someone to take it off their hands. You used to tell me about how Grandpa helped the militia back in his day, and that’s how we got our home. Do you think I could do that here? It would be great to have a bed again.

As always, I miss you, but I’m making you proud!

Love,
XOXOXO
Ophie

[Naiad]

Apocalypse and Cake

Ophelia Bell had believed Warden Creek's doomsaying long before it was anything but the mad ramblings of a zealot. Sentinel Zeles had been crystal clear about the risk the Fourth Sect posed. From the moment Ophelia stepped out from under his shadow, she knew the ezrites would be the death of her, but she hadn't expected that they would take the rest of the world with her. An apocalypse was overkill, but it fit. She considered the ezrite's unparalleled darkness and The Hour to be one and the same. It just made sense. Which meant some dark times were on the horizon.

She didn't allow herself to fall entirely into certainty as she couldn't handle being mocked as well as Creek. Instead, she let the notions dance around her mind, entertaining the idea before drifting off to sleep or mulling it over while pulling weeds. Dropping the topic in conversation and fence-sitting as she listened to those around her. This was the norm until the sky went dark, and the scales started to tip more and more in her head. As the cold turned to a bitter and unnatural chill, she had become convinced she was going to see the end of the world.

There was just one small problem; she wasn't an Ezrite. Ophelia believed in the end of the world, but she wasn't attracted to its trappings. She didn't like Ezra, and she dutifully kept her thoughts to herself when Creek started to go on about the salvation and redemption bits. She didn't buy that Ezra would save anyone but understood that the end of the world was most likely the end of her life. So what did someone do with the knowledge that their hour was at hand? For Ophelia, that was easy, find yourself the best view to watch the world die and something good to eat, and she couldn't think of anything better than cake.

Traveling from Borovia to Dementlieu was a trek Ophelia didn't take often. The ferry was closed, and the road east was cold and ice-bitten. Jack had given her a pair of wolf-fur boots long ago, and they were starting to show their age. The lining had been rubbed thin from constant use, and the leather was soft and beginning to hint towards breaking at the seams. She couldn't bring herself to replace them and was paying for it now that the harsh early winter froze the roads.  Slipping and sliding her way through the forest and up the mountain, the clumsy grave keep ended up in a snowdrift alongside the road several times. The bridge across the falls was a sheet of ice, and her arms hugged the ropes as she shimmied her way inch by inch across the falls and through freezing rain. By the time the caravan was in sight, she was cold, wet, and slightly frostbitten. This was a lot for cake, but that was how good port-à-lucine's food was.

Once she reached the mist camp, she lingered. Meandering around the settlement and peering into tents, looking for Maeldwen. Maeldwen was never in one place for long, which meant the chances of her finding him were slim. It was a rare reward for her patience when she did manage to see him, and it took a lot of effort to corner him and keep him in one place for an evening. She had hoped to rope him along and maybe keep him with her. To finally tackle the awkward conversation of convincing the elf to stay with her. Stay, and eat cake while watching the world crumble. It was a hopeful daydream; she dared even consider it romantic, but it was all in her head. The mist camp was empty, which meant there was an adventure afoot elsewhere. He was off having fun and wouldn't be back any time soon. Giving up on her eager search, she hailed another caravan. For now, she was on her own.

Port-à-Lucine was a beautiful city that Ophelia had no patience for. What was originally a paradise of coffee and sugar proved to be a den of judgment and contempt. One half-hour conversation with the locals had pushed Ophelia spiritually closer to Domencio's side of death than all the injustices of Barovia combined. Yet the cake. The cake was worth the stares. She changed into her skirt and furs, smoothing over the fabric self-consciously before stepping out of the caravan. Nothing she owned was going to make this easier. Yue had loaned her a pretty dress, but it felt like a defeat to use it. She didn't like the idea of giving the city what it wanted. It felt like lying.

Instead, Ophelia drew her cloak in, locked her eyes on the cobble, and strode through the gates. She kept her head down until she heard a voice raised over the rest. She didn't speak their language, and she couldn't understand what it had said, but she could tell it was directed towards her. They had flower girls in the winter—a cart in the frost filled with color and a woman beckoning to her. Ophelia was moving before she realized it, drawn in by the warm red roses and yellow tulips. She didn't know how they managed to grow flowers in the snow, and she wouldn't ask. Despite the language barrier, the flower girl knew how to sell to someone completely unequipped to say no.  Ophelia walked away from the cart, still processing what had transpired, a bouquet in her arms. This cycle repeated until the cake shop. By the time she was making her way back to the covered wagon, she had accumulated not only a bouquet but a whole chocolate cake, a stuffed sheep with a bell, cinnamon sugar sticks, pretty ribbons, a fan with a painted skull, and wooden bird-whistle that chirped. She had used nearly all of her money, having a small jolt of panic as she counted down to the last coin to pay for the ride back home. The trip back was a blur of picking at sweets and toys.

Once home, she set everything out along the hill of the Vallaki Cemetery. Settling into the ledge that overlooked the western wall of the city, next to Florette's grave. She swung her legs over the ridge, cutting them both a piece of cake, making sure to give the dead girl the slice with the icing flower. Licking her fingers clean and digging through her treasure trove, she dug out the wooden bird and started to wrap a bow around its wings. River was probably going to return before everything was gone, and she thought it a perfect gift. She was looking forward to seeing him before the end, and she owed him something nice. With the present wrapped and her duties done, she spent the rest of the evening staring up at the ash-covered sky. The reds of the sunset making the world a hazy orange glow. Despite being alone, she was happy. The cake was sweet, and the winter chill was crisp. Her friend was only six feet away, and the sky promised she might be soon to join her. Ophelia knew things were going to get worse, that it was going to be a loud and terrible affair. Yet, for now, it was a blissful quiet before the storm, and that quiet went great with cake.

[Naiad]

Burnt Out

Part 1

Ophelia was good at putting a smile on things that didn't deserve one. Her job was to pick up the pieces of someone's life and somehow make them presentable. To make Death approachable. But, even she had her limits. There had been a lot of fires recently—a lot of bombings. Her current guests were a family of three that had burned alive in their barn.  Fire always brought a particular challenge. A body wasn't a piece of wood. Skin melted, bones cracked, and the smell. That smell clung to everything. Two adult cadavers clutched a tiny delicate skeleton in the corner of her morgue. The family's remains had fused from the heat. They no longer had faces. Their clothes had melted to them, making it impossible to separate the fabric from their skin without ripping into the tissue. It had taken her all day to separate them. Hours of meticulous morbid labor left her drained and malcontent. After carving a small child out of the melted clutches of her parents. After prying flesh from bone, snapping heat-welded joints to steal the body away from the iron grasp that had held her tight in those final moments. The entire ordeal had her in a foul mood.

She had tried to shake it, to put herself in a better state of mind. She built a shrine for the girl. She had toys and offerings for not just her but her parents, yet a dread hung over her shoulders that persisted. She continued to be stalked by her thoughts. It followed at her heels and wreaked havoc on her. Those she spoke with could tell something was off. She made excuses, like telling Roland she didn't like being so far from home or telling Vandryn she was just tired. She kept it hidden like most of her private affairs, telling herself it would be fine. In truth, she couldn't get that family out of her head.

Sleep was no longer easy for her. Ophelia was lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling of her bedroom. Her covers were heavy and warm, shielding her from the cold barovian winter that had soaked into the rest of her chamber. That little girl was on her mind again. Little nagging feelings kept running through her brain, chasing their tails and keeping her from sleep. What a tragic way to die, her thoughts began, but soon they drifted to how lucky the girl was. That girl's death was unique. Without Ophelia's meddling, she would be in an eternal embrace. Forever with those who loved her. She wanted that death, eventually. Bubbling loneliness was tracing up her legs towards the pit of her stomach. She envied a corpse.

Then something brushed her foot—a warm and soft slip across her skin. Her wandering thoughts screeched to a halt, and she snapped up from bed. Her fingers fumbled on the nightstand and found a match to strike. The flame sprung to life, and the room was cast in shadows. Her shrine was in the corner, a vase of fresh flowers surrounding a row of extinguished candles in reverence for the dead. At the foot of her bed, a pile of dolls staring back at her with soulless eyes. Ophelia collected dolls. They reminded her of her father back home but were less than comforting in the dim light. She stared at them until she was confident they were not moving. As she searched, the corner of her bed shifted, and her eyes darted around her blankets. Something moved; something was here. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she held her breath, straining to listen. Her body frozen in place.

Several minutes faded into silence. The small fleeting flame of the match was greedily chewing closer to her fingertips. Ophelia finally moved to light a candle. Then, when her back was turned.

creeeeeaaaak.

The long groan of her bedroom door pierced the quiet. She saw the fading movement of her door as it swung open just enough to reveal the void of the room beyond. It's darkness felt intrusive, and Ophelia felt suddenly alone and exposed. Trying to quiet her mind, she ran her tongue over her bottom lip and pulled the covers in closer. She was haunted, Ophelia thought. That had to be it. It was the only thing that made sense. She pried that poor little girl away from her parents. She broke something sacred when she separated them, and now something was angry.

She pulled herself out of bed and stood staring out of her doorway.  The chilled floorboards and winter air bit at her skin, causing her to shiver. Her first thought was to get help, not to be alone. Elás might hear if she called out for him. Then, she chided herself. He would just get angry at her for waking everyone up. Besides, she was a Death Cultist. When it came to hauntings, she was the help. Whatever was angry, she could appease it. Or so she hoped. She stood shivering in the center of her room, goading herself into moving forward. She made her way towards the bedroom door, and she pressed her temple against the old worn wood.  Nothing but the silence of the night was on the other side. She gathered her courage, took a deep breath, and with a push, she stepped beyond the threshold and into the dark.

[Naiad]

Desert Dues

Ophelia had gone into the deserts of Har'Akri and returned drained, sweaty, and potentially on the verge of heatstroke. Her hands shook so severely that lighting the candles to illuminate her space was an extraordinary feat. The room she had chosen was tucked away in the abandoned parts of the mist camp keep. It suffered from long neglect with a broken bed sagging heavily against the far wall where she had thrown her pack and her Ledgers that kept the names of the dead. Her armor was strewn around her as she lay on the floor, letting her entire body pulse with a throbbing ache. Ophelia had gone into the desert with Danika, Lyra, and Creek, and they had barely crawled their way out. She had rarely been so exhausted. Yet, she had an overwhelming sense of satisfaction that lingered with her. An accomplishment that came with evading peril in their disaster in the desert.   

Like most catastrophes, things were initially going well. Lyra was a confident and capable mage. She had been patient with Ophelia and seemed to know the entirety of the desert. First, they had followed Lyra into and fought their way out of an entire tomb worth of grave robbers and brigands. Then, they had rounded the bend towards a shoddily made gate that housed a series of trolls. Danika was hesitant to go any further, and usually, Ophelia would be on Danika's side.  Her instincts were to listen to the Warden and turn around. But she had noticed a subtle change in the Inquisitor, which distracted her from Danika's excellent intuition. In the sweltering heat and merciless crawl through desert tombs and dunes. Covered in blood, sweat, and sand, Inquisitor Creek was having fun. She didn't dare speak of it and was confident he would deny it if confronted. So, unable to bring herself to stop him, she instead pushed on, coaxing the others to follow.

Lyra had both the skills and the knowledge to slow, stun, and eradicate with arcane precision. Ophelia barely had to do anything but bandage an arm or two and help Lyra up after a troll got a bit too close to her. They had walked and fought up and down the sandy hills, and after exhausting their supplies, decided to backtrack. It was another successful mission in their minds. However, as they turned and started back towards the exit, they learned one of the most critical lessons in fighting trolls. They regenerate.

Every troll they had previously fought had recuperated and gathered in a hoard behind them, patiently waiting for the party to return. They were caught completely off-guard, and sand and dust kicked up under their feet as the fog of war scattered them in different directions. She couldn't find Lyra, and Danika had vanished into the dust cloud. Creek was on the ground in the distance and wasn't moving. It had all fallen apart.

The sound of pages turning broke her out of the memory. She lifted her head and peered towards the noise. Her ledgers lay open on the bed—lists of the dead open to the air.  Names that she called upon to heal. Not ask, but demand them get the Inquisitor back on his feet and conceal herself and the others from the hoards.  To command the dead to get them out alive. Ophelia had a unique relationship to her talents. She believed if she served the dead unflinchingly, they would bring her prayers to Kelemvor.  She revered them as one would saint, and in turn, asked for their help. Yet, the deceased were far from benevolent messengers. Everything they awarded her had a price. So, in using everything she had to get them out alive, the grave keep had rung up a hefty bill.

The names of her Ledgers started to whisper inaudibly, draining away any heat from the chamber.  She wiggled sand out from between her toes and pushed herself upwards onto her knees,  leaning towards the bed with sore muscles. Her arms gathered up the ledgers and drew them into her, embracing the biting frost that began to gnaw up her skin, chewing at her warmth. Her breath spilled out in chilly clouds as the candlelights were snuffed out and left her in the frozen stillness. It would be a difficult and uncomfortable evening, but it was well worth the price.