Thirty six years of age.
Human, for whatever that may be worth.
Ellisandre Prosk
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Mr Flibble
- Posts: 4
- Joined: Sat Nov 29, 2025 8:57 pm
Ellisandre Prosk
Born in Yûlash on the Moonsea, 1325 Dale Reckoning.
Thirty six years of age.
Human, for whatever that may be worth.
Thirty six years of age.
Human, for whatever that may be worth.
Last edited by Mr Flibble on Mon Dec 01, 2025 5:46 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Mr Flibble
- Posts: 4
- Joined: Sat Nov 29, 2025 8:57 pm
Somewhere on the Northwest Moonsea, 1345 Dale Reckoning
Sixteen years before the present
Ellisandre fumbled with one of the knots securing the cargo that had been hastily lashed to the deck. The Sylph, an entirely unsuitable name for this shabby Cog, traversed the rough waters of the headland, buffeted by the current. Other crew moved hastily across the deck and through the rigging, attempting to follow the directions being bellowed in stentorian tones by Captain Hyram. She swore to herself as a crate shifted, further loosening the load, the rope she was attempting to tame jerked from her hands with a familiar sharp burning sensation.
She glanced up to see that the vessel was coming into a trim sufficient to avoid the ragged rocks beneath the sheer cliff of the heads. Drowning was no longer imminent. Turning her gaze behind them, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun rising to the east, the less immediate but more inevitable threat could be seen. A sleek cutter, neatly rigged, the glinting of arms and armor visible on its occupants, was making easy work of the conditions. Even a novice sailor such as herself could tell there was no outrunning the owners of the cargo she was wrestling with. Too much weight which had been hastily secured in all the wrong places.
A firm grasp was laid on her shoulder. Turning her head she saw Aeldred,his shaggy hair and unkempt beard contrasted by a kind, deep, but rough voice. “Take this and stay with cargo, lass. Eyes open, keep your wits.” He pressed a heavy utilitarian cutlass into her hand, and turned, beckoning to others who fell in behind him as he made his way toward where the captain was surrounded by a group of cronies. The dull metal of blades, hooks, and iron bars was visible in their fists as they went.
Hyram, noticing the group approaching, turned and began to yell. “Back to work you swine, before they’re upon us!” Aeldred spoke loudly, his voice carrying over the noise of the ship “Ella, start cuttin’ loose that load… Captain, we ain’t dyin’ over this. No profit in that for you or for us.” Ellisandre turned toward the crates lashed to the deck and began severing the ropes with stokes of the cutlass, moving quickly so as not to be caught by ropes or the shifting load. “This is mutiny, I’ll have you all gutted!” She heard Hyram scream, voice shrill. Then the sounds of shouting, steel on steel, steel on flesh, bodies hitting the deck. The keening of wounded man, followed by another another thud and for a moment something close to silence. Then, the sound of rushed movement and the lingo of sailors calling about the rigging of sails and direction of the wind and currents.
She turned to see the bodies of Hyram and his closest associates being unceremoniously dumped over the railing. Sailors moved hurriedly about various tasks. A knot of crewmen ran up to start manhandling the crates she had been freeing.
The stolen cargo followed the captain into the churning waters.
Ellisandre fumbled with one of the knots securing the cargo that had been hastily lashed to the deck. The Sylph, an entirely unsuitable name for this shabby Cog, traversed the rough waters of the headland, buffeted by the current. Other crew moved hastily across the deck and through the rigging, attempting to follow the directions being bellowed in stentorian tones by Captain Hyram. She swore to herself as a crate shifted, further loosening the load, the rope she was attempting to tame jerked from her hands with a familiar sharp burning sensation.
She glanced up to see that the vessel was coming into a trim sufficient to avoid the ragged rocks beneath the sheer cliff of the heads. Drowning was no longer imminent. Turning her gaze behind them, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun rising to the east, the less immediate but more inevitable threat could be seen. A sleek cutter, neatly rigged, the glinting of arms and armor visible on its occupants, was making easy work of the conditions. Even a novice sailor such as herself could tell there was no outrunning the owners of the cargo she was wrestling with. Too much weight which had been hastily secured in all the wrong places.
A firm grasp was laid on her shoulder. Turning her head she saw Aeldred,his shaggy hair and unkempt beard contrasted by a kind, deep, but rough voice. “Take this and stay with cargo, lass. Eyes open, keep your wits.” He pressed a heavy utilitarian cutlass into her hand, and turned, beckoning to others who fell in behind him as he made his way toward where the captain was surrounded by a group of cronies. The dull metal of blades, hooks, and iron bars was visible in their fists as they went.
Hyram, noticing the group approaching, turned and began to yell. “Back to work you swine, before they’re upon us!” Aeldred spoke loudly, his voice carrying over the noise of the ship “Ella, start cuttin’ loose that load… Captain, we ain’t dyin’ over this. No profit in that for you or for us.” Ellisandre turned toward the crates lashed to the deck and began severing the ropes with stokes of the cutlass, moving quickly so as not to be caught by ropes or the shifting load. “This is mutiny, I’ll have you all gutted!” She heard Hyram scream, voice shrill. Then the sounds of shouting, steel on steel, steel on flesh, bodies hitting the deck. The keening of wounded man, followed by another another thud and for a moment something close to silence. Then, the sound of rushed movement and the lingo of sailors calling about the rigging of sails and direction of the wind and currents.
She turned to see the bodies of Hyram and his closest associates being unceremoniously dumped over the railing. Sailors moved hurriedly about various tasks. A knot of crewmen ran up to start manhandling the crates she had been freeing.
The stolen cargo followed the captain into the churning waters.
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Mr Flibble
- Posts: 4
- Joined: Sat Nov 29, 2025 8:57 pm
The Bullroarer Tavern, Thentia, Northern Moonsea, 1352 Dale Reckoning
Nine years before the present
The Bullroarer was not quite living up to its reputation for raucous debauch as of yet, but it was still early in the evening and the patrons seemed lively enough. Ellisandre stretched, joints cracking and tired muscles complaining. It was quite enough to be clean, under a roof, and safe. Recently she had experienced none of these luxuries, so having all three at once was no small thing. She settled on a stool at the bar, called for an ale, and allowed herself to relax.
It would be an understatement to say that the endeavour of working as a caravan guard on the route from Thentia to Glister, involving a trip across the badlands of Thar and then back again, had not gone well. The trip outward, the caravan laden with food and other necessities of life, was uneventful enough. The tribes of the waste had not bothered them, though in a land where ogres and worse are abundant, existing in a state of constant tension is the exhausting norm. The return journey, carrying iron, copper, and silver, had been an unmitigated disaster.
It was not even an ambush which led to the slaughter. The group of ogres had merely blundered across them as the caravan traversed an area of rocky outcroppings which had obscured the surrounding terrain. Had there been some warning it might have turned out differently, but the perpetually half-drunk fool who was responsible for organising the mercenaries had not bothered to spur the equally useless scouts into actually doing their job. In honesty, the ogres had stunk of booze as well, so the whole farce could certainly be characterised as a some type of inebriated cluster (do-me). The wagons were irreparably damaged and a good share of the merchants and mercenaries slain, as with most of their assailants. From there it had been a long, terrifying trek over hostile terrain back to Thentia. At least she had been given half the pay in advance, because none was forthcoming at the conclusion of that ghastly misadventure; the surviving merchants and caravaners had all been paupered.
However, there was a time and a place for the thing which had undone them, and so she took a lengthy pull on her ale, savouring the warmth that began to spread from her stomach.
She surveyed the tavern, enjoying the easy joviality of the place. Her eyes settled on a small group near the fire. Three people were seated around it. The fourth stood before it, regaling them with some tale or digression, eliciting good natured laughter which carried across the room. He was a compact man, dressed smartly in green and black, his handsome features animated with the intensity of a true raconteur. As the man held forth, his expansive gestures seemed also to speak, gradually becoming more focused as he seemed to weave intricate patterns in the air to emphasise his points. Ellisandre watched with enjoyment, not able to hear, but appreciating the display and the laughter which accompanied it. There was some spark of energy and light in this man, easily seen in his expression and manner. As she watched, increasingly entranced, the air in front of him began to shimmer. Shapes gradually took form, giving the impression of figures and places as he spoke. A broad grin spread across her face.
Ellisandre turned, beckoning over the bartender. “Tell me if you would,” She indicated the man. “would you happen to know that gentleman’s name?”
The woman, seeing Ellisandre’s grin, gave her a slight smile and leaned over conspiratorially “The name he gave me was Florian.” She paused a moment, raising an eyebrow conspiratorially “And I can even tell you what he enjoys for a drink.”
Ellisandre’s grin became lopsided, her eyes flashing” No need to tell me, but please be so good as to fetch a cup of it” she said, placing a stack of coins on the counter. “And keep them coming.”
She took the drink in hand, stood, and turned to make her way toward the fire.
The Bullroarer was not quite living up to its reputation for raucous debauch as of yet, but it was still early in the evening and the patrons seemed lively enough. Ellisandre stretched, joints cracking and tired muscles complaining. It was quite enough to be clean, under a roof, and safe. Recently she had experienced none of these luxuries, so having all three at once was no small thing. She settled on a stool at the bar, called for an ale, and allowed herself to relax.
It would be an understatement to say that the endeavour of working as a caravan guard on the route from Thentia to Glister, involving a trip across the badlands of Thar and then back again, had not gone well. The trip outward, the caravan laden with food and other necessities of life, was uneventful enough. The tribes of the waste had not bothered them, though in a land where ogres and worse are abundant, existing in a state of constant tension is the exhausting norm. The return journey, carrying iron, copper, and silver, had been an unmitigated disaster.
It was not even an ambush which led to the slaughter. The group of ogres had merely blundered across them as the caravan traversed an area of rocky outcroppings which had obscured the surrounding terrain. Had there been some warning it might have turned out differently, but the perpetually half-drunk fool who was responsible for organising the mercenaries had not bothered to spur the equally useless scouts into actually doing their job. In honesty, the ogres had stunk of booze as well, so the whole farce could certainly be characterised as a some type of inebriated cluster (do-me). The wagons were irreparably damaged and a good share of the merchants and mercenaries slain, as with most of their assailants. From there it had been a long, terrifying trek over hostile terrain back to Thentia. At least she had been given half the pay in advance, because none was forthcoming at the conclusion of that ghastly misadventure; the surviving merchants and caravaners had all been paupered.
However, there was a time and a place for the thing which had undone them, and so she took a lengthy pull on her ale, savouring the warmth that began to spread from her stomach.
She surveyed the tavern, enjoying the easy joviality of the place. Her eyes settled on a small group near the fire. Three people were seated around it. The fourth stood before it, regaling them with some tale or digression, eliciting good natured laughter which carried across the room. He was a compact man, dressed smartly in green and black, his handsome features animated with the intensity of a true raconteur. As the man held forth, his expansive gestures seemed also to speak, gradually becoming more focused as he seemed to weave intricate patterns in the air to emphasise his points. Ellisandre watched with enjoyment, not able to hear, but appreciating the display and the laughter which accompanied it. There was some spark of energy and light in this man, easily seen in his expression and manner. As she watched, increasingly entranced, the air in front of him began to shimmer. Shapes gradually took form, giving the impression of figures and places as he spoke. A broad grin spread across her face.
Ellisandre turned, beckoning over the bartender. “Tell me if you would,” She indicated the man. “would you happen to know that gentleman’s name?”
The woman, seeing Ellisandre’s grin, gave her a slight smile and leaned over conspiratorially “The name he gave me was Florian.” She paused a moment, raising an eyebrow conspiratorially “And I can even tell you what he enjoys for a drink.”
Ellisandre’s grin became lopsided, her eyes flashing” No need to tell me, but please be so good as to fetch a cup of it” she said, placing a stack of coins on the counter. “And keep them coming.”
She took the drink in hand, stood, and turned to make her way toward the fire.
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Mr Flibble
- Posts: 4
- Joined: Sat Nov 29, 2025 8:57 pm
Baldurs Gate, outside the Temple of Mystra, Third of Nightal, 1361 Dale Reckoning
The present day
Ellisandre sat cross-legged on the ground next to a bed of flowers in the courtyard outside Mystra’s temple. Insects she did not recognise flitted and crawled around the temple’s garden. The clamour of the docks, the calls of workers and the squawking of gulls, could be faintly heard, muted by the intervening buildings. The scents of the ocean, the city, and the temple’s garden surrounded her, seeming both familiar and foreign. As any experienced traveller will attest, often at great length and in considerable detail, every city has its own distinctive bouquet.
A leather-bound book sat open in her lap next to a single sheet of parchment. The text in the book and on the parchment were inscribed in the same elegant and exuberant hand. Both were written in the draconic script. The writing in the book she could decipher, but that on the parchment she could not. Turning her attention to the book she studied the descriptions, incantations and accompanying intricate diagrams. In truth she had made sense of them years ago. Feigning incomprehension, making tiny errors in execution, and innocently pretending to misunderstand had become part of a game between them. She would say something mildly ridiculous about what Florian was teaching her, and he would chide her good naturedly with a twinkle in his eye. An attempted cantrip would fizzle due to an imprecise gesture, and he would grin and caper through a comical performance of despairing in her abilities until they were both unable to contain their laughter. For a moment she smiled fondly at the memories, but grief quickly emerged, turning the simple joy into something sour and hollow. There would be no more of those games. Consequently, there was no more reason to put off progress and perhaps some measure of peace to be gained from it.
Ellisandre breathed deeply, calming herself, and began to murmur incantations, her fingers tracing out the shapes suggested by the diagrams in the book. A tingling sensation. The writing on the sheet of parchment snapped into focus with shocking rapidity. The Netherese text, impenetrable just a moment ago, had become entirely comprehensible. It began as a love letter, in his inimitable and expansive style. The initial overwrought attestations of devotion gradually became inflected with the style and content of an obscene limerick. She laughed, feeling warmth, comfort, and affection. The writing settled down, taking on a more measured tone. It ended with congratulations for performing the spell and a promised reward of cooking for her under the stars in whatever place she might wish him to do so.
A surge of emotion buoyed her for a moment as the present was displaced by fantasies of a future that no longer existed. Reality reasserted itself and the creeping emptiness of loss swallowed the momentary delusion. She thought for a moment about burning the letter. Instead, she tucked it carefully inside the tome, reattached this to her belt, stood, and made her way into the city in search of an inn.
Ellisandre sat cross-legged on the ground next to a bed of flowers in the courtyard outside Mystra’s temple. Insects she did not recognise flitted and crawled around the temple’s garden. The clamour of the docks, the calls of workers and the squawking of gulls, could be faintly heard, muted by the intervening buildings. The scents of the ocean, the city, and the temple’s garden surrounded her, seeming both familiar and foreign. As any experienced traveller will attest, often at great length and in considerable detail, every city has its own distinctive bouquet.
A leather-bound book sat open in her lap next to a single sheet of parchment. The text in the book and on the parchment were inscribed in the same elegant and exuberant hand. Both were written in the draconic script. The writing in the book she could decipher, but that on the parchment she could not. Turning her attention to the book she studied the descriptions, incantations and accompanying intricate diagrams. In truth she had made sense of them years ago. Feigning incomprehension, making tiny errors in execution, and innocently pretending to misunderstand had become part of a game between them. She would say something mildly ridiculous about what Florian was teaching her, and he would chide her good naturedly with a twinkle in his eye. An attempted cantrip would fizzle due to an imprecise gesture, and he would grin and caper through a comical performance of despairing in her abilities until they were both unable to contain their laughter. For a moment she smiled fondly at the memories, but grief quickly emerged, turning the simple joy into something sour and hollow. There would be no more of those games. Consequently, there was no more reason to put off progress and perhaps some measure of peace to be gained from it.
Ellisandre breathed deeply, calming herself, and began to murmur incantations, her fingers tracing out the shapes suggested by the diagrams in the book. A tingling sensation. The writing on the sheet of parchment snapped into focus with shocking rapidity. The Netherese text, impenetrable just a moment ago, had become entirely comprehensible. It began as a love letter, in his inimitable and expansive style. The initial overwrought attestations of devotion gradually became inflected with the style and content of an obscene limerick. She laughed, feeling warmth, comfort, and affection. The writing settled down, taking on a more measured tone. It ended with congratulations for performing the spell and a promised reward of cooking for her under the stars in whatever place she might wish him to do so.
A surge of emotion buoyed her for a moment as the present was displaced by fantasies of a future that no longer existed. Reality reasserted itself and the creeping emptiness of loss swallowed the momentary delusion. She thought for a moment about burning the letter. Instead, she tucked it carefully inside the tome, reattached this to her belt, stood, and made her way into the city in search of an inn.