My Team, My Companions and I
Syldithas Myerheacmeath
I’m not fully sure why he asks people to call him “Jack.” He swears it’s because it’s “easier” to say, but I think maybe it’s his way of letting us in. Personally, I think his first name is lovely, even if his surname doesn’t quite roll off the common tongue. Jack is a Dragonborn soldier and has a tongue like a whip: dry, fast, and cruel only when you deserve it. He keeps his odd, ranged weapon of choice hidden from the public like a forbidden truth, though its cacophonous roar stirs the desire to delve into its mysteries. I won’t pry. There’s likely a good reason why he can’t talk about it. And I highly respect him and his secrets. He walks as if he’s always keeping watch. Like someone used to being the only one standing at the end. And yet, somehow, I’ve come to trust that if I fall, he’ll be there… likely exasperated and vocal the whole time, but there all the same.
Raph’æl Ward
Raph’æl is a high elf cleric of Ilmater. He is loyal, guarded, and far too lovely for this cruel world. There’s a sadness behind his smiles, and sometimes I think I catch glimpses of something hollow in his gaze, something he’s either not ready to say… or that has been plucked from him entirely.
He’s bumbling in his gestures. Nerves are often high, even in relative peace. He’s kind. Not gently kind, but urgently so, like someone trying to make up for lost time. He touches my shoulder when he thinks I’m hurting, makes the effort to understand my plight and… gods above, I’m still unsure if I deserve the honor of his care and friendship. But he clearly carries the weight of past mistakes—ones he may never forgive himself for. I choose to believe there’s still a path forward for him, and I swear I’ll walk beside him until he sees it. It’s the absolute least I could do. He has my respect, my loyalty… and my heart.
Ragar Shayerook
Ragar doesn’t say much to me directly, but when she does, it’s worth listening. There’s a steadiness to her that I covet—like she already knows who she is, and she’s just waiting for the rest of us to catch up. She’s a bugbear rogue, but that doesn’t even capture a portion of her. She moves like a shadow and hits like a landslide, but she has the gentlest hands when she’s embracing Smeak or sharing food. I’ve seen her put herself between me and danger without hesitation. There’s something sacred in that kind of loyalty, something rare. Though she unnerves me in some ways and my trust in her integrity outside of combat is… limited, to say the least… I would still follow her into the unknown, if only because I know she’s already charted the way out.
Super
Words fail me when it comes to Super. You just have to experience him …and I feel the others would agree with me. He’s a Grung monk with a presence like windstorms and a love for pickling that decisively crosses the border of obsession. He bounces around camp, around enemies, around all of us, as though his heart is made of lightning and he doesn’t quite know where to put it. And yet, beneath the chaos, there’s a peace, or ignorance, that I envy. In battle, he moves with precision that rivals any trained warrior I’ve seen. And I’ve come to accept we may never connect with him on a personal level by his choice alone. He once approached me after a fight and said, “In a world full of sourness, remember you are a big dill.” Then he handed me a pickle. I never eat in front of anyone, so I don’t know why he bothers…
Smeak
I used to think Smeak was just a nuisance—a loud, nosy goblin who was only here for the cart and the scraps. I was wrong. Well, he IS loud and nosy, and the cart is practically all his to navigate, but he’s also become something more: my reminder that joy is still possible. He sings when the rest of us are quiet. He makes stew from things I’m afraid to ask about (he’s not allowed to man the fire anymore). And he talks like he’s known us forever, even though we’ve never asked him to join us in the fray. But he has stayed. Through frost, flame, and failure, Smeak is still here. And somehow, that means something to me.
Finnegan Wraithwood
Finnegan is like a song you only realize was stuck in your head after it’s gone. A human wizard and necromancer, but you’d never guess it from the way he played the hurdy-gurdy or offered his boisterous word like a self-appointed host. He is clever without cruelty, strange without apology, and full of little, unexpected kindnesses. He made Raph’æl grin like no one else could. I wish I could do that.
One day, Finnegan left. He must’ve had something to follow, something he couldn’t explain. We waited. We wondered. We moved on, sort of. But I still think about him. About what I should have said. About the kind of friend I wasn’t, and the kind of friend I want to be now. He’s part of the reason I try to speak more, even when it’s hard. Part of the reason I write these things down. He made the world stranger and brighter. And quieter, when he vanished from it.
Then there’s me…
Fanesca.
Fourth and final alias I’ve taken.
Raised to believe that my life belonged to others. That I was chosen. A potential vessel for something divine. But I now believe I was just a child. A frightened svirfneblin girl with hope forced out of her like blood from a wound. In adulthood, I managed to unlock that potential. Then in the dead of night, I ran. Not sure if I escaped or if I’m still running.
I’m a sorcerer. The magic flows whether I want it to or not, and most days, I try not to think about where it comes from. But lately… I’ve begun to hope it might belong to me after all. The people I travel with—they’re the first ones who’ve ever looked at me and seen more than a symbol or a weapon. They see me. Or at least, I think they’re starting to. I write things down in case I don’t get to tell them myself. I’m learning to live like I might survive this. I’m learning to want to.