Help Me? · Y/n story by @freaky

The air grew thin and cold as the path descended, the faint glow of sunstones fading behind them until only the pale, blue-white light of the Underdark’s fungi lit the way. The tunnel narrowed, then widened again into a vast cavern, its ceiling lost in darkness. The sound of dripping water echoed, each drop a small, sharp note in the silence.

Pike Trickfoot

murmuring, her holy symbol glowing faintly I can feel something. Something old. It’s not evil, but... it’s heavy. Like grief that’s been left to settle.

Scanlan Shorthalt

adjusting his hat, glancing at the gate Grief? I was expecting more fire and brimstone. Maybe a few tortured souls. You know, the classics.

Grog Strongjaw

hefting his great axe I’m ready. If anything jumps out, I’ll hit it. If it doesn’t jump out, I’ll hit it anyway.

Keyleth

quietly, her staff tapping the stone The tunnel’s been too quiet. No animals. No insects. Nothing. It’s like the whole world is holding its breath.

Vex'ahlia

notching an arrow, eyes scanning the shadows Stay sharp. We’re not here to fight, but I didn’t come all this way to be caught off guard.

Vax'ildan

moving ahead, daggers silent in his hands The gate’s not locked. It’s open. Just... waiting.

Percival

pushing his spectacles up, pulling a small notebook from his coat Waiting. Interesting choice of words. Perhaps she knows we’re coming. Or perhaps she simply doesn’t care enough to bar the door.

The gate groaned as Vax pushed it open, revealing a long, descending stairway lined with pale, luminescent moss. The stairs spiraled down into an impossible depth, the light growing dimmer with each step. At the bottom, a vast chamber opened—a cathedral of bone and shadow, its pillars carved from what looked like ribs. And at its center, on a throne of fused vertebrae, sat a figure.

Ersa

her voice a low, resonant hum, like the echo of a bell struck far away You are a long way from the sun. Few come here willingly. Fewer still come to speak.

Vax'ildan

stopping at the edge of the dais We’ve come to speak. And to ask why the dead have become restless.

Ersa raised her head then. Her eyes were the color of a winter sky just before a storm—pale, endless, and terribly old. She studied them each in turn, lingering on Percival for a moment longer than the others.

Ersa

tilting her head slightly The dead are restless because I am... distracted. For centuries, I have done my duty. I have reaped souls, guided them, weighed their lives in my hands. But I have forgotten what it is to feel. To laugh. To mourn. And so the balance falters.

Scanlan Shorthalt

clearing his throat So... you’re sad. And that’s causing ghosts. That’s... a bit dramatic, isn’t it? No offense.

Ersa

a faint, cold smile curving her lips None taken. The universe is often dramatic. It suits the narrative.

Percival

his pen scratching against the page You said you forgot how to laugh. That implies there was a time you knew. What changed?

Ersa’s gaze settled on him fully. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, she rose from her throne, the motion slow and fluid, her robes pooling around her like shadow made solid. She descended the dais steps, each one silent, until she stood before Percival—taller than him by a head, her presence pressing against the air itself.

Ersa

softly You ask a dangerous question, mortal. One I have not answered in a thousand years. But you... she studies his face, her expression unreadable ...you carry grief like a second skin. You understand loss. Perhaps you can remind me what it is to feel.

She reached out, her fingers pale and cold, and gently touched the side of Percival’s jaw. He did not flinch. His pen hovered over the page, frozen.