Fey Bait

krezk

Developer
Original poster
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Apr 15, 2025
23
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3
"Endure. In enduring, grow strong."

The half-elf stands at a modest height, as is the case with most of his kind. Not too short, but not too tall, the perfect height to complement his nimbleness and fighting style. Raven dark hair is contrasted by eyes of a deep sea blue. Upon his face, a scar runs across from one cheekbone to another, likely from an enemy sword judging by the width of the cut. His ears, slightly pointy, speak of his half-blooded nature. They are, however, not hidden under his hair, instead choosing to slick it back and out of the way, recently held in a bun at the back.

A raspy sailor voice with a thick accent accompanies the visage. The accent is hard to place, perhaps an amalgamation of many countries and many lands. Although his mannerisms display a certain amount of pride and snarkiness, his recent demeanor has been more reserved. Depending on the context and what is required of him, he might be more or less serious. But he is never afraid of replying with a quippy remark where called for.

His venturing outfit is simple and practical. A dirty white shirt with leather patches to protect his vitals. Favouring mobility, there is not much metal to be seen on his person besides his weapons. In combat, he can be sometimes seen wrapping a cape around his non-dominant arm and using it for a personalised cloak and dagger tactic. When in the city he can sometimes be seen wearing a typical sailor outfit, poorly made but always kept clean.

Strapped to his belt are two shortswords, his hands often resting passively on their hilts when he knows not what else to do with them. When in a fight, he performs something he often calls "The Dance". Graceful form is used to dodge the enemy's swings, side-steps and twirls performed for both function and spectacle. The name he uses for it is self-explanatory, since at times it looks like he is dancing with an unwilling partner. His technique is one of patience and endurance. Small cuts, soft thrusts. He wears down his opponent bit by bit, until the small wounds add up to a point that they can no longer be ignored.

And then, the final strike. When their guard is thrown off, he becomes aggressive. After having them get used to his nonchalant waltz, he switches to quickstep. Every move is full of intent. He invades the opponent's private space and delivers deep wounds. For the coup de grace, he usually tries to finish with a double slash of his swords.​
 
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A fire that burns​

Now, there is a fire in me.
A fire that burns.

The city of stone loomed, old and proud, when he agreed to walk beside one of the People. She wished to see a so-called trophy—a human claim of triumph, displayed like a prize in a cage. But it was hollow, gaudy. It bore no grace. A forgery, perhaps. A human-made echo, declaring false victory over the forest’s kin.

Still, they moved onward. The elf, curious, wanted to see the heart of the city. He hesitated. That heart was blackened, wounded. It beat in the Rows. But he did not deny her. They walked. Through upper streets, past the Strings and Things and down the Thoroughfare, the rhythm of the city shifted. Faces passed them—hurried, grim. The priestess of Selûne appeared, bruised and dazed, silence hanging like fog around her. A wound upon her head. She would not say why. His brow furrowed. The elf hid behind him, wordlessly. Then came the whisper: something was happening at the guard’s hall. She couldn’t say more. She asked him to go. He agreed. The path curved.

A woman on the road—barely known—stopped him with broken words.


"If you were headed to the Hall, I'd advise... Ah..."

His pulse quickened. A warning, soft as breath. But he would not turn away.

"Please say it."

"Ah... Constance got some mask put on her head... I thought she was going to get it lopped off, thank the gods..."

The world fell sideways. A crack through his calm. A fire in his gut. The tales of the masks came rushing back. His voice surged, raw and unfiltered:

"Th' fuck did you say. Wha- the fuck did ye just say?"

"She's at the Hall-- I think a man named Diago's going to get chopped..."

The woman worried at his increasing fury. He did not linger.

"We're going. Now."

He pushed forward, through crowds thick as thorns. The flames grew hotter. The elf clung to his side. Up the stairs. Elbows, shoulders, curses—none of it registered. Only the fire did.

"Whoresons." He spat the word, teeth gritted.

"She's alive--"

"So tha's th' bar we set?"

"Yes...!"

The answer only poured oil on the flames. The elf’s nerves shimmered through her fingers, but he couldn’t think of that. He saw it. The man of the Rows—branded. Screaming. Flesh burned. A hand grabbed his hair and lifted him like meat.

"This man is a criminal! He shall not be seen in the city, outside of the fetid slums that spawned him!..."

But the words meant nothing. Haran was not there anymore. He was a child again. On a ship. Perhaps he never left. Fists clenched. A jaw of stone. His voice, barely breath, trembled:

"They branded him. They fucking branded him. I don't like th' feckless scoundrel, but they branded. Him. The dogs."

The crowd was deadly silent. Views averted whispers hushed. The guards kicked. And he burned.

"Why would they do such a thing?" The elf asked, soft as rain.

"Because they are dogs. I want to go. But I need to know what happened to Constance."

He scanned the crowd. His breath sharp. Then—he saw her. The broker. Wounded brow. Blood down her face. Mask twisted upon her. Not justice. Shame. A mockery. A cage. Torment.

"They better let her go."

The words cracked through the night like thunder. Not plea. Not reason. Threat. He saw a friend in the crowd. Appealed to him with a question.

"########, I beg you. Why is Constance there?"

"Because she's stupid."

The heat surged. But another spoke before he erupted.

"Because she talked. They took everyone who talked."

His vision dimmed. His chest was a war drum. Breath forgotten. The crowd dispersed around him. He hid behind the pillar, eyes locked on her. The mask. The bleeding. The horror.

"I am... Not of the row."

"Then walk around with that thing all through the Thoroughfare. I don't care."

The infamous guard. Cruel. Enjoying it. Reveling. Rage painted his thoughts in red, yet his eyes burned blue. He whispered:

"I will kill them. I will kill them all."

The elf’s verdant gaze rested on him. A grounding weight. Reason flickered.

"Let's go."

They left. Fury trailing them like smoke. Yet the vow was not extinguished.

"I'll kill them all."

"Haran." The elf’s hand met his chest. Their voice a lifeline. "Now is not the time... evil lingers in the very air of this city... Let us make way to the road."

Truth. He hadn’t wanted to see it, but there it was. This city had never been for him. The rot was too deep. The Circle welcomed him as a refugee, but not even their kind words could quiet the storm. He had done nothing. Stood like the others. Watched. It tore at him. He needed space. Not to flee. To breathe. To choose.

He took to the woods. To calm the fire. Or to feed it. Let it become the flame that would one day burn the rot away.


•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

The fire crackled low. Haran’s eyes, weary and rimmed with smoke, left the embers. The stars above blinked soft truths into his chest. His breathing slowed. The fire still burned—but now, it burned with purpose. He thought of his friends. Of those who offered him kindness, even when he didn’t deserve it. Perhaps it was time to leave word with the rangers. Let them know he still lives. Let them know the fire still burned, but it had not consumed him.

He rose. The road was long. But under the night’s cloak, he would walk it once more.
 
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A journal entry​

On a sheet of parchment, one side is scribbled, writing in charcoal is crossed off and erased, few words can be made out. Among them, mentions of the high hunt, the elves of the Wealdath, a certain Laremy Locke and a mention of letters can be made out, but context is lost now. On the other side, much more legible, perhaps even slightly calligraphic writing in ink can be read.

"x of Tarsakh

I have been on my own for a few days. This is something that rarely has ever occurred in my life, with the exception of a few sentences carried.

It is different now. It is voluntary. I am learning to contend with the beast raging inside. When I am alone, I feel it at its fiercest. There is nobody to calm me, nobody to rationalise or offer comfort. The fury I have been containing has nothing to stop it now.

Or so I thought. There is someone... Something. The leaves and grass carry winds of change. They speak not of fury, struggle and strife, but of understanding. The forest listens, and does not judge.

I have offered a prayer that I was taught to Sehanine Moonbow a few times, but found greater comfort speaking with the Protector and the Trickster instead. There is never an answer besides the silent wind of the forest, but somehow I feel like they are listening. I feel a certain kinship. They try to protect the People and those dear to them. Even though their approaches and demeanors are different. I'd like to do the same.

There are moments... In dreams, but the waking world also... Moments where I am back on that ship. A kid that knew nothing but fury and hatred. I replay in my head the events of that night in Murann, and I get transported back there right after.

But, then, a soft breeze blows. A wolf howls. Leaves rustle as a badger takes off. It brings me back.

I feel calmer now. The road to change is long, but now I have time. Time is all I have. Time, and the gentle breeze..."
 
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A name abandoned

The branches rumble across the green path. The lone former sea dog is walking the long trail back to his little makeshift hideout, fresh hunt in his hand. The hunt today, in fact, was of a vegetarian nature. A collection of mushrooms and berries. Some that he intuited are safe to eat, and some that he was taught of by a certain cook in the Wealdath. His hair was unkempt, even his beard had started growing out. It marked him for what he currently was. A pseudo-ranger, willingly distancing himself from civilisation and even those he called friends.

The man sat down, allowing himself a moment of respite. Giving his lack of cooking skills, he'd just eat the raw vegetables and fruits one by one, savouring and appreciating the gift of the wilderness all the same. After a while, his mind would drift to many, many summers ago...

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

A young boy is stood on the deck of a ship. He'd just been saved, but felt nothing like it. The passionate hatred for all around him burned inside, and his saviour was no exception. He hated that man, his smug smile and charms. He hated the man's amused glances towards him. He hated the man's audacity to save him from his fate. He hated the world for allowing it all to transpire.


"So, what's yer name, lad?"

A simple question asked by his saviour. One he had no right of refusing. Yet refuse he would. The question was answered with a glare. The question was answered with eyes filled by blue fire.

"Don't have one. Don't need one."

The boy's answer was simple, direct. Such hatred he bore for his own name, that he'd rather go without. A name given to him by the one person he ever cared for, now abandoned to the endless sea. It was not without thought. The boy had long considered it. His name was a curse, he had decided. A promise unfulfilled, a dream failed. A child abandoned.

"Yer goin' to have to be called somethin', ye know? It be fine if you don't like yer name. We'll give you a new one." The captain replied with a smirk. It was not one of superiority, but one of understanding. A smirk that said - I got you. But as soon as the boy was starting to relax, the captain continued. "But even still, I'll have you give me yer real name. Today be the last ye'll hear it. But I want to know, and ye'll satisfy my curiosity, lad."

His tone was serious. The captain was kind, but not a fool. Not one to play around with. He wanted something, so he would get it. The boy clenched his fists. To give his name, one of the few things that his mom taught him to never do. Names have power. And yet, in front of the captain, he felt powerless. He had to comply.

"Haran Seaborn. Freedom from Shackles."

The boy recited the curse in its entirety. He accentuated the beginnings of the two syllables as his mother taught him, making it sound more like Ha'Ran. He followed the name with the translation that he was taught. The meaning of his name, as his mother explained it to him. The curse he would carry for the rest of his life.

"Alright, lad. Yer known to me now, and thy name be forgotten from this day onward. Yer name means nothin' to me anyroad. From now on, yer Fey. Subject to change, provided we discover a definin' trait or somethin'. Fer what it be worth, me name is-"

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

A stir. Haran opens his eyes, a gentle breeze landing on his face having had interrupted his walk of the dream world. His eyes present a stark contrast to those of the young boy. The sea blue in his eyes, now, speaks of the calm of the sea, rather than fire. Perhaps a calm before the storm, perhaps the calm that follows. He peers towards the treetops and to the moonlit sky. His captain is long gone now, but his name is returned. A name given, and then forgotten. A name remembered, and perhaps, in future, honored. He pushes himself up to his feet and rolls a shoulder. Under his breath, a sort of mantra escapes from between dried lips.

"Endure. In enduring, grow strong."

He masks away his hideout and sets his shortswords correctly on his leather belt before preparing for the road once more.
 
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The cleanse​

"If the nighttime lasts forever
But the days are cruel and mean
Let the water wash away your sins
And you thought one day you'd be happy
If you held in all your screams
Let the water wash away your sins"

Bells ringing bring life to the sleeping husk of the sea dog. A hand is raised to cover his right ear, as he pushes the left one into the cot he's been sleeping in. A futile attempt to return to sleep. The bells keep ringing, shouting starts to accompany them. Distant screams stir the mind of the half-elf.

"(...) To arms, ye bastards!"
"The cannons, the-"
"Pyke the cannons ye fools, they're already boardin'."

The last voice was too recognisable. The raspy, dry voice of the captain. Always smug, always collected. But not now. There was a sense of urgency, perhaps a tinge of fear. Unease sets in the mind of the half-blood. He leans into his upper back and shoves himself off the cot, jumping to his feet. He grabs the closest water flask and empties it on his face. A crude attempt at a forced wake-up, but effective. A foot is planted into the door leading to the deck which swings it open to reveal a dreary scenery. Blinding lights surrounding him in the middle of the night. To the port, to the starboard, to the bow and to the stern; ships. Enemy ships surrounding them, cutting away any chance at escape. Instinctively, he raises his eyes to the flags now visible in the night.

The Undying Mermen. The Terrors of Calimport. An unknown flag, depicting a golden rose crossed by a saber. Another unexpected flag in the mix, that of Amn. In a matter of splits of a second, it all clicks in his head. The situation was one that was expected, but the shock of it actually happening is never lessened. They are all to die here.

As the sea dog lowers his eyes, within his view enters his crew, and the enemy crews. Jumping from ship to ship, metal on metal clanked. Flying sparks danced in the night, and heads started following. Sometimes hands, sometimes legs, sometimes just pools of blood. His crew is slowly falling apart, but they are taking down at least two each. Just as they were trained to.

His eyes fixate on the captain. No longer in his prime, but no less a menace than before. He just finished cleaving down a sailor that boarded. No mercy, and no hatred. It was methodical, calculated and as painless as could be, given the circumstances. The half-blood deftly lets the rapier and shortsword at his hips fly out and into his hands as he rushes to the captain's side. As soon as he arrives, the corners of the captain's eyes stare into his. Hazel eyes, shining brightly in the lights of the torches. One twist of his waist and an elbow is planted into Fey Bait's chest, throwing him off balance and on his ass. The shortsword drops to his side, but the rapier is still firmly gripped. Confused, the half-elf looks up to his captain as he tries to catch his breath. There are no words, but his eyes spoke plenty.


"Not ye, lad. Ye swim. Yer Fey Bait no longer. Yer dues to me be paid now. Yer freed from shackles, Haran Seaborn. Now, go."

With that, the captain twists to meet the blade of another invader with his own. Parried, followed by a riposte. The captain's signature, passed to Haran. But his could never look as effortless and graceful as the captain's. The captain's Dance was always a goal unattainable. There is too much to process. Why would the captain do this? Why is he not letting the half-elf die with them all. Why is he forcing him to abandon his family, just like his own blood family did to him?

And what's more, the captain called him by his given name. He also recited the curse. The old man had respected his promise up to then. His given name never escaped the captain's lips since the first day they met. Yet, of course, the old bastard never forgot. In reciting the curse, he broke it. It would take long for Haran to truly realize this, but from that moment he had become free of the curse of his name. Mixed feelings aside, there is one thing that he knows for certain. It was trained in his blood. When the captain gives order, you follow. He drops his rapier and makes for the starboard. An opponent is stood between him and water, but there is no contest. The nimble half-elf slips under the opponent's blade, and plunges towards the endless sea.

As he falls, there is one more look spared towards the deck. His family, not by blood but by circumstance. A single tear of farewell drops from his blue eyes and gets lost in the deep waters. His head hits water next, body soon following. In less than a moment, he is fully submerged. The cold and cruel waters of the Wavemother surround him. They do not provide comfort, they do not provide solace. They are there to remind him of who he is. An unreedemable bastard. After thirty-something-years, he was finally freed from the curse, but it came at great cost. Cost of his family, but also cost of families not his own. He's lived a bad life, and others have paid for his freedom.

The azure waters wash over him, attempting to cleanse that which is rotten. They enter his ears, his nostrils and even his mouth. The waters of the Bitch Queen are trying to cleanse the rot from the inside out, and snuff out his life while at it. It's dark, and it feels like it's lasting forever. The process of change is slow, and it hurts. He's feeling it more than he ever has before. The sins, the regrets. Would this be enough to change his nature?


•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Haran pulls out his head from the river with a jerk of his head, starting from the waist. He uses a wet hand to wipe the water out of his eyes and push his wet hair back and put of the way. Pointy ears poke out from behind it as he lays gaze on the Sangrue river. The ripples formed by the shapeless water hitting rocks are a stark reminder of the turbulence of the sea that night.

Much was lost, but much was gained. Loss of a family, but a new path revealed in turn. He strains his hair of water and pushes himself up on his feet. It is a slow raise from his knees, very different from the jump he'd performed that night. He starts following the bank against the current. Much like he had always done. He was no longer swimming in fear of the Sea Queen, but instead he was walking the steps of renewal under the watchful gaze of the Seldarine.

Endure, and in enduring, grow strong.
 
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The hand that feeds​

"My (cap'n) taught me how to howl
How to bare my teeth and growl
He taught me that the hand that feeds
Deserves to be bitten when it beats
He taught me how to break my chains
And that money ain't worth a thing
And that no man should get
More of my time than me, than me

I may never be a rich man
But I can make sure that I am free
I may never be a rich man
The rich man will never have me, never have me"

At the bottom of the Sea of Swords lies a ruined logbook, its ink long since surrendered to the relentless waves. Once, however, its pages bore messy, hurried writing—the scribbles of a certain sailor with pointy ears. He had learned this skill out of necessity, never mastering elegance or precision. Yet among the faded pages, one entry stands apart, touched by uncommon care. Words scratched out, thoughts rewritten; though undated, it reads clearly enough:

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

'The old man is being cryptic again.

We boarded a ship today. Mad Dog was already frothing at the mouth, cutlass drawn, eager for blood. Easy to read, that one. Bloodthirsty, thrill-hungry—predictable. The old man, though, even after twenty damned summers, remains impossible to figure out.

Dealing with the privateers was simple enough. Fresh bloods, barely worth the steel. Yet their hold was packed with silver, gold, jewels—the kind of loot to set us for life.

Something felt wrong from the start. Shackles. Damn slavers, or protectors of merchandise. Good riddance.

Then we saw her—a woman, chained like an animal, starved near death. Her eyes full of terror, exhaustion, despair. She reminded me of her. She clawed up again, mocking me, haunting me, screaming silently, "You'll never escape me."

I gripped my blades tighter, rage boiling beneath my skin. Couldn't find the words—didn't trust myself to speak. The old man, ever calm, spoke instead.

"Get outta here, lass. Yer masters be dead. Join th' rest on deck."

Her voice shook, defiant yet frightened.

"I—I can't... If I leave, they'll kill me. I—I can't die yet!"

She hadn't given up completely. That small spark of fight in her eyes—beautiful, infuriating, heartrending, disgusting. I hated it and admired it. Stepping forward, not sure what I intended. The old man's hand stopped me, steadying, firm.

"We're goin', Bait." His voice softened, rare compassion seeping in. "Yer life's spared today. Take what's left, lass. Start anew. But remember—bite the hand that feeds, if it beats."

He turned away, ordered us off. Even Mad Dog followed. Though the wasted treasure burned in every sea dog's glare, The captain's word was law. Always.'


•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Years had passed since that day. Haran still recalled it vividly, but it took him a while to finally understand the old man's hidden softness. The captain never hunted the downtrodden, nor was he a saint. But he respected those who fought their chains. That day, the captain's compassion had touched Haran too. He rose from the rock, shaking off his meditation. Daylight would wait for no man.

"Endure. In enduring, grow strong."
 
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The ever-changing flame​

It had been some time since he'd left. The fire inside him felt calmer now—still there, still flickering and restless, but at last somewhat controlled. Each night, Haran offered prayers to the Seldarine. Usually, he addressed the Protector and the Chameleon, hoping for guidance or perhaps a sign. Most times, silence was his only reply.

Recently, though, odd things began happening around him. One morning, he found his lucky coin missing—the last memento from the old man. He tried to accept its loss gracefully, yet he felt a piece of his heart disappear along with it. Surprisingly, the coin reappeared the next day, nestled in the hollow of a tree—somewhere he'd never have dropped it. Even stranger, one face of the coin had changed. Instead of the old, weather-worn sun, it now bore a smiling flame. The smile was mischievous—not cruel, not kind—strikingly reminiscent of the sly grin he'd once worn proudly as Fey Bait. He pocketed the coin thoughtfully, wondering at the subtle joke of fate. Another time, as he walked a familiar path back to his camp, Haran found himself inexplicably diverted to a glade he'd never seen before, filled with mushrooms arranged in curious patterns. Compelled by an unknown urge, he traced those patterns first with his eyes, then with his feet, feeling oddly at peace as he did.

But everything culminated on a day when Haran was hunting. He heard a sudden cry and came upon a wounded ranger—a member of the Circle—trapped beneath a massive brown bear. Without hesitation, he drew his short swords, swiftly placing himself between the injured ranger and the beast. The fight was brutal and relentless. Unable to use his preferred hit-and-run tactics, Haran faced the bear head-on. Though he managed to wound the animal, a heavy paw caught him squarely, claws slicing deep across his chest and neck. Blood surged from the wound, knocking him backward onto the forest floor. Dazed, he barely rose to his feet before the bear’s fangs sank deeply into his shoulder, wrenching a muffled scream from him.

Strength rapidly left him. Death felt near. Yet, amidst the pain and despair, Haran laughed. Genuine, uncontrolled laughter, the kind he hadn’t experienced in years. He didn’t fully understand it himself, but the absurdity of the moment overwhelmed him, breaking through years of grief and bitterness.

Then, a child's laughter drifted toward him on the breeze—not mocking, but delighted, playful. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a fox watching him, its snout oddly green from grass stains. It seemed almost to share in the laughter.

Renewed strength flooded into Haran, surging through his limbs in a brilliant, unfamiliar glow. With energy he shouldn't have possessed, he thrust both swords deep into the bear’s neck, delivering a blow far stronger than he'd thought himself capable of. The bear faltered, collapsing at last, defeated. Haran sank to the ground, realizing with surprise that the glow lingered around his arms. More remarkably, he felt his shoulder wound beginning to close on its own. Quickly, he crawled toward the ranger, pulling him upright. As he touched the ranger, the same glow spread from his fingertips, sealing the ranger’s wounds with magical healing. Haran’s astonishment matched that of the ranger.

All became clear in that instant. The signs—the coin, the laughter, the fox—everything pointed to one source: the Fey Jester himself. Erevan Ilesere had reached out, fickle and playful, bringing not just gifts but profound change. Haran felt this transformation keenly. His combat-hardened reflexes felt dulled, his skills once ingrained by years of training now strangely distant memories. He'd need to relearn how to fight, guided this time by the playful spirit of the Trickster.

Yet, despite nearly losing his life, Haran felt joy again. A true, deep joy. With a genuine smile, he helped the ranger back to the Circle, politely declining to join them. He returned to his camp alone, eager to explore his newfound connection and adjust to the changes within him. Soon, he would rejoin those he cared about. He would face the world once more—not filled with bitterness or resentment, but with laughter and a mischievous gleam in his eye.
 
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