Renvarin: Guilt and Futility

Renvarin sat on the floor of his tent, oiling his blade for the umpteenth time since their return to the Carnival. The time since he and his companions had returned, the days were beginning to blend together. Every morning began with a walk about the grounds, and ended in torment and guilt. He was simultaneously exhausted and enraged; enraged at how stuck, how trapped he felt here. Logically, he knew Morag was right, that chasing after Stewart was suicide. Yet sitting here idly, crosslegged on the ground on the outskirts of this wretched carnival was enough to drive him to the brink.

Though, as he sat, a voice caught Renvarin’s ear, one that he’d made no small effort to block out whenever he’d returned to the Carnival in the past. It was that duergar, the one who’d made Renvarin look a fool… but who’d also sought to encourage and entertain the children. At once, Renvarin gathered his blade, fixed his boots, and followed the direction of the voice. It was still late morning, and so with no guests it was odd to hear the voice of the duergar at this hour. 

As Renvarin crossed the grounds, adjusting his sword belt, there before the booth he spotted little porcelain Hildy, fumbling with both hands a small stack of rings being handed to her to throw at the bottles. Renvarin stopped some ways off, not wanting to interfere, and watched. 

“Come on, little lady,” the duergar shouted encouragingly as Hildy struggled to get a grip on a ring. “One more shot, I’m sure you’ll get it this time.”

Gingerly, mechanically, Hildy took the rings in her small porcelain hands. She adjusted her foot for a throw and reared her arm back in two clunky, disjointed movements. Quite clearly she was still unused to moving. Suddenly her arm snapped forward and the ring flew wide, back over the side of the booth. 

“Oh, so close!” the duergar said. 

Hildy pulled her arm back again, trying to adjust to the direction the ring had flown. Two awkward, mechanical clicks, then… release! The ring flew out sideways, perpendicular to the booth, missing it entirely. 

“I can’t do it!” Renvarin heard Hildy’s voicebox crackle aloud in frustration. She threw the remaining ring to the ground. “I can’t do anything! I can’t move, I can’t run, I can’t even eat. I just want my old body back.”

Whether the duergar said anything to her, Renvarin was unsure. He’d caught only a sorry look on the duergar’s face before turning and walking back to his tent, unable to bear watching the struggle any longer. His heart hadn’t sank, no, he was furious. It wasn’t fair. Everything had been torn away from this girl – her family back in Falkovnia, her safety at the hands of a devil, her mind from Stewart, and now even her autonomy. And what had she done? She’d simply been born to a realm that sought only to corrode and torment its inhabitants, until Renvarin and his companions had come along… were they to blame? After everything, was that the sick truth?

  Renvarin flung the tent flap aside, donned his fighting leathers – no more inaction. He sheathed both daggers – no more contemplating. Back outside, he stormed across the empty bit of lawn back behind the communal tent, making his way towards the trees that bordered the Carnival grounds. He needed to leave, but didn’t need everyone to notice, lest he cause a commotion with his compatriots.

“Where ya goin’, long ears?”

Hermos. Artemins smite him.

Renvarin sighed. “Visiting a friend. There’s something I must see to.”

“I ‘ope you’re not tinkin’ of gettin’ lost in de mist again.”

The look of shock on Renvarin’s face lasted only an instant, but was there just long enough for Hermos to notice. The giant smirked, tapped his head knowingly, and waved at Renvarin dismissively.

With another sigh, this one of relief, Renvarin walked beyond the trees to the silver veil that marked the boundary, and was gone.

Low campfires and paper lanterns strung from boughs cast shadows long enough for Renvarin to slip over to a wagon he knew all too well by now. Arriving here at night never seemed to bode well for him, but this time the cover of darkness was welcome. Skulking up to the door, he gave a light knock. Esmerelda appeared in but a moment. She wore her sleeping shift, but didn’t appear at all bothered or surprised by his appearance – she rarely was, in truth. She stepped aside letting him in.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she said with small amusement as Renvarin sat upon the edge of a chair, clearly on edge himself.

“I feel sanity escaping me, trapped to the confines of that blasted carnival,” he spoke quickly. Esmerelda settled in a chair beside him, placing a soothing hand on his shoulder, and shushing him slightly. 

Renvarin bolted from his chair and began pacing. “I understand we are in over our heads. But I can’t help but feel we’re wasting time. There’s a demon and a devil on the loose because of us, and a-a murderous brain growing stronger by the minute.”

Esmerelda looked at Renvarin with complete calm in the ensuing silence. She reached over to a cup of tea that had been cooling on a table, took a sip, then said, “I need you to start from the beginning. Is this to do with Hildy?”

Renvarin put his face in his hand for a moment, composed himself and pushed his hair back. “We failed that girl. Her body was lost, and the demon inside was set loose. Further, Stewart, that brain, escaped with a body of his own.”

“I’m familiar with the brain, dear. And the devil?”

“Tobias was harboring it. It was set free when–” he caught himself. His body – their bodies. How did he begin to explain that? “He was killed. In a manner of speaking. Rainer brought him back to life, but…”

Esmerelda gave an appraising look. If she knew he was lying, she showed no signs. Instead she took another sip of her tea, stood, and took both of Renvarin’s hands in her own. “So what do you need from me?” There was no pressure in her tone, only gentle understanding. 

For all of Renvarin’s flaws he knew all too well how much he and his companions had begun to rely on not only Esmerelda, but all of the Vistani. Never did she ask for anything in return, save for Renvarin’s attention and more recently the request of foresight. Rarely did he even provide her that grace. But that’s why he’d come – he needed to be better.

Renvarin shut his eyes for an instant, breathed deep. “I need help. Not to go somewhere or hunt some thing, not yet. I need to discuss with my father.” His voice dropped, nearly to a whisper, “But I thought this a good opportunity for you to come with me, to meet him.”

Awe more than surprise was written across Esmerelda’s face. “What has gotten into you?” she asked, now grinning. “While I’m flattered, this is entirely unlike you. I’m almost fearful. What’s happened?”

“What? Nothing has happened, nothing more than what I’ve just explained to you. Renvarin gripped her hands tighter, then, with assurance. “Do you not understand?  You’re important to me,” he almost couldn’t believe the words coming from his own mouth, “I feel I’m going insane, and everyone is grieving after Hildy, and I just really need… someone right now.”

Esmerelda gently cupped Renvarin’s face, brought his head to hers and kissed his forehead. “And you have me. Stay the night. And I’d be glad to meet your father in the morning.”

A frigid gust swept across the rolling hills of Sithicus that chilled Renvarin and, truthfully, made him feel as though the realm’s dreadlord had never been slain at all. An occasional sunbeam passed between the clouded sky, but the realm appeared just as dreary as ever. The gnoll they strode across appeared void of all life and not a single monument stood to attest that civilization had ever once graced these lands, save for a lone, ruined cathedral off in the distance. Esmerelda had said that this was to be the place they’d find Mistendol, and though Renvarin had no way of confirming this truth for himself, he knew it to be so.

Esmerelda had wrapped herself in a thick blanket as they walked, and despite her claims appeared to be equally as chilled as Renvarin. Yet in spite of this, her stride never slowed; she kept pace with the quick elf and never let slip even a grumble of discontent. She was not only capable and strong-willed, but evidently excited to be joining Renvarin in this journey, and that told Renvarin he’d made the right choice.

As they began to approach the cathedral, Renvarin understood; they’d been approaching the cusp of a valley, and from here – though the road leading down had long become overgrown and succumbed to negligence – a large town could be seen sprawled across the valley floor. 

The cathedral itself was as decrepit as Renvarin had presumed. Great holes were taken out of the ceiling, the crumbled pieces littering the overgrown floor. Only one banister remained to a single second floor walkway, and below that, tucked in the corner not far from what may have once been a pulpit, were the furnishings of a camp. Hunched over a battered table and a myriad of alchemical apparatuses was a man covered by a cloak of feathers.

“Father.” Renvarin called as he strode into the space.

The man, Mistendol, looked up. “Back again so soon?” His eyes landed on Esmerelda, his voice suspicious. “And who’s this?” Something changed in the old elf’s eyes then, and his tone darkened. “To what do I owe the pleasure of a Vistani shaman visiting me in my home?”

Renvarin blanched slightly. “Peace, Father. This is Esmerelda.”

“Ah, yes. You’ve told me of this one in passing.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Esmerelda said with a nod, her voice hardened in a way Renvarin hadn’t expected. Then she said aloud, “I wasn’t aware your father was the Bane of Lamoran.”

A knot formed in the pit of Renvarin’s stomach as the two eyed each other. “I… did not think you two would be familiar with each other.”

“Of course not,” Mistendol said, his voice still devoid of pleasantry. “Why would you?”

That one stung Renvarin, though the wizard did not seem to notice as he began to resume his work.

“I came here that I might seek your assistance.”

“And I should hope that your asking for favors won’t become a regular occurrence. I’ve much to attend to.”

“What is this you’re working on? Perhaps—”

“Renvarin,” Esmerelda cut in, cautiously.

“Nothing you can assist with.” Mistendol replied matter-of-fact. “At least not yet. I’m helping the people of Sithicus rebuild.” He moved over to a side table littered with what appeared to be artifacts, reagents, other odds and ends. “In time perhaps our people will have a home here once again. A true home. Not one of blood, scraps and ruin.”

Renvarin didn’t know what to say. He knew what Esmerelda had meant when she’d spoken his name. This wasn’t the time, nor his battle to fight — at least not yet, even alongside his father. 

Renvarin meandered over to the side table. “I’ve come to ask for advice. The little girl, perhaps you’d seen her aboard our vessel in Kartakass, her body has been stolen.”

“Stolen?” Mistendol said more than asked, refusing to look up from his work.

“Well, lost, more like. She was killed, her body destroyed, and her soul placed in a puppet.”

“And you wish to know how you might find a suitable form for her.”

Renvarin was silent for a long moment. He heard Esmerelda move somewhere behind him. 

“Yes.”

“You cannot,” Mistendol said at once. “It’s futile. You won’t find a replacement more suitable than the puppet she has now.”

“But you see, I was thinking.” Mistendol’s eyes lifted slowely to look upon his son intently. “My Deal, the contract of the Bastardizer. My firstborn is promised in exchange for my blade. If just the soul is taken—“

“Renvarin!” Esmerelda spoke again, audibly flustered this time. She approached now, standing close to him. 

“‘If’ is a strong word,” Mistendol chided.

“And where would this child come from, hm? Surely this would not be one of ours, borne from my womb. Surely you would not even think—!”

Mistendol had crossed his arms and was now shaking his head. Renvarin looked between the two of them, not backing down. 

Esmerelda drew closer then, leering. “You are the most selfish man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing.” She turned on her heel and stormed off, crossing the cathedral but stopping near the door, refusing to leave just yet. 

With the utmost calm Mistendol spoke plainly, loud enough for Esmerelda to hear, “It wouldn’t work. The soul of a child is nearly impossible to rehome. Her soul maintains her memories, her autonomy. It’s the very essence of her being. She would go mad, trapped in the body of an infant, unable to move or speak in accordance with what is familiar. Her body would be at war with her mind.”

“It is now!” Renvarin snapped back.

“But she will adapt. Her mind will grow and her body, if it is truly inorganic, can be reforged, expanded, and rebuilt.”

“There must be another way, through magic. Surely there’s a spell or artifact…”

Mistendol resumed his work, seeming to muse, picking his next words carefully. His son’s ambition was not lost on him. If he ever needed proof that this was indeed his blood, it was present before him now. This ambition he knew all too well, thus was there need to temper his son’s expectations, lest he lose him to his grief and this apparent sense of duty. Just as he had lost himself to his own duty, in the name of the Queen of Memories. He had left Kartakass, destroyed his chance at love, abandoned his son. Renvarin was here now, yes, but at what cost? He chuckled inwardly at the irony, at what had been robbed from him, all for a sense of purpose. 

Mistendol stopped working then. He noticed Renvarin looking intently at Esmerelda and let out a long sigh that he’d hoped would be imperceptible, but was not. “There is one solution.”

Renvarin turned his steely gaze to his father’s.

“Magic of the highest degree. To call it dangerous is an understatement. A wish.”

“A…wish? You mean like from a fairy tale.”

“Wishes are real, though they’re as rare as they are deadly. Their potency is entirely dependent on the will and strategy of the speaker. A slip of the tongue can throw everything to chaos. They are literal.” This last word Mistendol spoke with emphasis. Renvarin merely nodded. 

Esmerelda came back now. She’d been crying, her cheeks stained with tears, but her voice did not falter now. “Renvarin, you cannot pursue a wish. You and your friends, companions, whatever you want to call them — set free a devil, a demon, and an errant brain!” Her voice shrank to a whisper. “You would destroy everything.”

A flash of recognition sparked in Mistendol’s eyes, and he spoke before Renvarin could retort. “You say a demon. Would this be a glabrezu?”

“That sounds familiar,” Renvarin said. “Yes, I believe so.”

Esmerelda started, “How do you—?” 

“It is here. Wreaking havoc in Sithicus. I suspect the devil is here as well. Though they’ve been preoccupied, likely with each other, that hasn’t stopped the glabrezu from terrifying the local populace. As for the brain—“

“It’s traveled to Bluetspur. It obtained a body from the same craftswoman as Hildy,” Renvarin said. 

“Then you combat with an illithid, most likely,” Mistendol provided. “A very powerful foe. You should avoid Bluetspur at all costs.” 

Renvarin looked to Esmerelda then, went to take her hands but she pulled away. “A wish may be our only chance to right any of these wrongs. I can think of no other way to stop Stewart if he’s surrounded himself with similar kin.”

Esmerelda looked to Mistendol then, seeking reassurance. But he only stood, arms crossed. He would not condone Renvarin’s ideas, but nor could he deny the truth of them. He had provided a plausible solution, nothing more. Whether this solution was obtainable, well, Renvarin and his companions would need to weigh that cost on their own. He had his own fires to maintain. 

“It is little solace, I know, but I will do what I can to entertain the threat of the glabrezu and this devil for now,” Mistendol tried. “Do what you must, and you know where to find me if necessary.”

“That’s it?” Esmerelda said, doing nothing to mask the betrayal she felt. “Renvarin is your son and all you can think to say is ‘do what you must’? Unbelievable.”

“Esmerelda, please,” Renvarin pleaded, but it was too late, and again Esmerelda was leaving. This time, she didn’t stop at the broken door. 

“She cares for you deeply,” Mistendol said. “You should hold on tight to that.”

***

Renvarin tried following Esmerelda, over the wind-beaten hills of Sithicus and then to her cart in the Vistani camp, wherever that had been. But it was painfully obvious that she had no interest in further discussion, at least not right now, and so he returned back to the Carnival. 

When he arrived, the treeline had changed. The Carnival had moved, apparently not far from Varithne, according to Tobias, who’d received word from Rainer and so on. The kind and curious paladin had then tried to inquire as to Renvarin’s whereabouts, but the elf shrugged off the question and returned to the communal tent. Throwing down his sword belt, he sank into his cot, turning over in his mind the recent events, and letting the scent of Xar’aven’s incense batter his senses. 

Esmerelda meant more to him than he could ever hope to explain — to her or to anyone. But he’d never had to put another before himself before. And wasn’t he doing that now by seeking to restore Hildy? He wasn’t sacrificing Esmerelda, perhaps only a piece of their love, and all so that this little girl could feel whole again. His companions, too, might feel some measure of relief, knowing they succeeded in correcting one of their numerous, immeasurable wrongs. 

He knew it wasn’t morally correct, but what in these blasted realms was? Misery was waiting at every turn to put them all into a stranglehold, to smother them and snuff them all out once and for all. Renvarin couldn’t let that happen. 

Renvarin had closed his eyes, even though he could not actually sleep, hoping he wouldn’t be disturbed. But he felt someone standing over him, lingering, and cocked one eye open. 

It was Hildy. 

“Look what I got,” She crackled with some measure of joy for the first time in Renvarin couldn’t remember how long. 

Cupped in her porcelain fingers was a new stuffed toy: a crocheted egg, with a little hinge. She opened it, and inside was a small stuffed raven.