Dear Penthouse Letters, you wouldn’t believe what happened to me last… wait, no. That’s not right. That’s something else entirely.
Dear future me, whatever you do, don’t trust the skull! … no that’s not it either. Sure I’ve been mazed, but that’s about all we have in common. One more try Crazy Hooves, one more try. Yes I’m talking to myself in the third person. If you’d like, imagine that I’m talking to either future or past Il’setsya. I’m joined to a spooky protean greater artifact, and the Wyrms of the Maelstrom being what we are (yes, do note the inclusivity of my use of that grouping) it’s probably best to think of me not as a single polyamorous tiefling of questionable tastes and a predilection for strange substances and even stranger women, but as a bizarre, spread out wave function of especially Xaotic repute, and you’ve managed to hitch yourselves to this one iteration of me with lots of potential me spilling out like a succubus and an overly loose corset. My shoulder proteans are quite likely to just be me talking to myself. Don’t ask me how any of this makes sense, I’d be offended if I ever did!
But I’m veering wildly off track. Let’s rein this in like me upon being overly talkative to a priestess of Calistria with some handcuffs. Yes, I do indeed enjoy these lascivious metaphors!
Dear Ssila’mesh’nik the Colorless One, Protean Lord of Fate, Freedom, and Paradox,
This is both a confessional of sorts to you my divine patron* and a record of the stuff I’ve done for the next inevitable time that I get lit up on something fun and forget where I am and what I’ve done. I have a habit of that, yet paradoxically I can handle complex arcane theory and probabilistic chaos magic in my head. Life is funny sometimes, and I’m someone’s well deserved curse/joke on the matter.
*Even if technically my soul is bound not to the Colorless Lord but to the Watching Seven of Galisemni… but that’s a long story that I won’t be getting into at the moment. Brevity isn’t one of my virtues, but I’m going to fake it for the moment on this specific issue.
So let me describe my latest drinking companions slash enablers slash patsies slash adventuring companions. All of those things kind of run together in my experience along with other things entirely (like my habit of picking up lovers like street urchins picking up spare change tossed their way, feel free to insert a cute metaphor about putting them between my teeth for a nibble to test them out and promptly blowing them all on… yeah this is radically getting out of hand. Seriously chicka stay on track. Shut up tiny shoulder protean Il’setsya acting like a manifestation of what tiny sliver of a conscience I have. Huh, what happened to the second parenthesis that was supposed to be in there somewhere? Bah.
Take a long stiff sip of something north of ninety proof and then back to describing folks:
I find myself with a core group of Lucky, Lucidius, Farah Dey, Alcyone, Casimir, and a gorgeous tail attached to a tiefling named Estatira. There’s also the bleeding-eyed gnome that just hangs out around the corners of my vision, pointing accusingly, but I’m pretty sure they’re just a bad trip from the last time that I was kissing my girlfriend Astrid and she sneezed and poured faerie dragon breath at high velocity down my throat. Seriously, you date a half-faerie dragon woman with three apostrophes in her name and you expect to be able to take tokes off of her, but this has been going on a week now, even worse than the time I gargled a whole nutmeg on a dare. That was interesting. Not bad, but I don’t trust lamp poles anymore. Don’t ask.
Have another drink darling. Yes, thank you shoulder Il’setsya from the future with command over time magic now urging me on to more and more awesome things. Now back to writing and talking about these lovely chumps.
Lucky – Lucky is a darling, and by darling I mean she’s incredibly cute, and by incredibly cute I mean she’s hot. She’s also a grab bag of talents that I don’t have: mostly being perceptive and having a way with words beyond my penchant of just lying my fifteen foot tail off. Now being as how I’m not the most perceptive of girls, I won’t be saying any of this to her face, lest I find myself hamstrung in a dark ally. Beyond the threat of being stabbed, why have I not shamelessly hit on her yet? Probably because she’s waaaaay too young for me (especially given as how I frankly have no idea how old I actually am with twenty some years of memories and a giant black hole of nothingness before that), and also probably because I have a thing for the weird ones, being such a special snowflake myself, and she’s positively an elemental of prosaic. Unless she’s hiding weird freaky things in plain sight. Hmm. Must keep my eyes on her. Just don’t want to be so obvious about it. Sneaky sneaky sneaky.
Estatira – Speaking of special snowflakes, there’s the party bard and silver-tongued devil/demon/daemon/whothehellknows spawn, Estatira. By the time I’d known her for a grand total of half an hour I was snorting a line of pesh off of her tail. This is by far not a record for me, but it’s better than my median time, and better than the average for what type of intoxicant I’m indulging in along with the faint taste of salt or perfume from their flesh in that stretch of time when they aren’t hanging out in houses of best repute selling their services as such. Usually for people I’ve just met it’s just body shots of liquor. That may still happen. Be still my beating heart that wanders about my thoracic cavity by virtue of my internal anatomy not being strictly stationary courtesy of being protean-blooded. Did I mention that I danced with her in front of a beholder? I’m glad that I wore actual clothes that day rather than just illusory ones. That might have been awkward what with the central magic-nullifying eye and all.
Lucidus – I’ll be honest when I say that I have no idea what species Lucidus actually is, other than not being just simply a red headed, one-handed, psionic human. Still, being a red headed, one-handed, psionic something or another, Lucidus is safe from my poorly timed and reckless advances. At least until I manage to learn polymorph any object, at which points all bets are off and he’s a woman until he complains and I turn him back reluctantly because redheads, yummy. His floating around looks like fun. I should probably put some effort into drawing on my own protean heritage and learn to fly.
Farrah Dey is some manner of sorcerer with a knack for air and electricity spells. Don’t get me wrong, magic is magic about any way that you manage to conjure it forth. Some people earn it through being giant nerds and laboriously learning it from books, scrolls, overbearing masters, wrappings from ancient cursed mummies that will eventually hunt them down and ritualistically devour them alive years or decades later, and all of this while eschewing any semblance of a normal social life, also they seem to never get screwed, so screw that. Others like Farrah Dey get a lucky roll of life’s dice and have some measure of inborn power, be it a fluke of nature, some fraction of blood from an angel, demon, devil, dragon, etc or descent from a legendary mage of old whose power worked its way down the family tree like a transgenerational case of syphilis, except rather than eating holes in your brain, it lets you burn them in other people if you so feel like it. Me? Fuck being normal. I’m neither of those and both. You’re talking to Little Miss Chaos here. I see rules? I break them, usually while drunk, cackling wildly, and stripping off my clothes to shouts of ‘Take it off!’, ‘Hey Tequila-Hooves it’s not even 10am yet’ or ‘You fool, we’re in the King’s court, you’ll get us executed!’. You get the point. I’m not normal and neither is my method of magic. Still, I have a few things that I might manage to teach her that are applicable to her style from mine.
Alcyone – I’ve never been much of a particularly faithful person, at least as much as someone invested with power and tethered by a greater artifact and their own madness to fulfilling the whimsy of a vanished, mythical Protean Chorus can be unfaithful. You can’t particularly call me a saint of much of anything or even a role model given that the last time I… misbehaved… I was physically dragged before my qausi-divine patrons while in the middle of a drug-fueled three day bender with a pair of aasimar prostitutes. Yeah yeah, don’t judge me. Anyway, getting back to Alcyone, I suppose that I can respect someone willing to devote themselves to someone else’s will and get derogatorily called a godslave in the process. Not my thing though. Also she’s cute. I swear, I’ve managed to run into an adventuring group that could double up as a choir for Nocticula if you dressed them in anything black and tight. But back to Alcyone, she managed to shrink several inches as a result of some magic from an illithid linked construct (of all things…) that I’ll be damned if I don’t figure out how it worked. She has nothing to worry about though being shorter. I think shorter women are perfectly adorable.
Veering off track once again there’s the matter of my experience in snorting construct dust of unknown origins and nature. That act in and of itself was both a pinnacle of my ‘do whatever for the hell of it’ nature and kind of like making out with a toaster. I was happy when we killed that illithid flavored construct. Not for the mind-flayer link at all, but the construct aspect. Sorry, I can’t help but think of any construct as being intrinsically linked to the inevitables and their axiomite masters, or the modrons in their local cosmology. No I have not snorted part of an axiomite. No! Except for that one time and come on, there was a succubus involved, that doesn’t count! I blame Valesh on that one (that was her name, it ended badly after a torrid week and a half when an aasimon nailed her with a banishment spell, preventing any other nailing from going on, ugh). Damn, I with that I still had her profane gift. That was kinda fun, and so was she. Somewhere on another plane of existence, Il’setsya is still talking about what she was originally talking about. But we’re not on that plane. Muahahaha!
All this having been said, I still say that there should have been jello wrestling in the remains of the gelatinous cube.
Oh, and with my speaking of jello wrestling, I’d be remiss if I didn’t include a mention of the rogue formerly known as Casimir. Fun guy, keeps attempting to beat me in drinking contests, and he’s good natured about losing. For some reason that I keep ignoring because I keep forgetting, he regularly changes his name. One of these days I’ll remember not to call him Casimir, and call him something else, like The Hamburgler Formerly Known as Casimir, or I’ll-Shoot-You-If-You-Call-Me-Casimir, something like that.
And speaking of names, that my friends is the true story and tale of me, Il’setsya Wyrmtouched, Child of the Lethe Wall of Galisemni, Chosen Herald of the Watching 7 of the Chorus of Malignant Symmetry, otherwise known as D’zenirusiphia the Meandering Whisper of Wanton Whimsy self-professed honorary keketar of the Chorus of Nebulous Illumination. This latter bit changes to some extent virtually every time I say my protean name, which sort of makes sense –if anything about me makes sense– as proteans are the exemplars of True Chaos, whatever slaadi say, poor things shackled to singular forms by the Spawning Stone having forgotten what they once were…