Dinner hypothetical
15-1-2023
Contains graphic injury
Bad things happen when he disobeys.
That is what goes through Julius’ head over and over again. The sweet lull of friendship, the pride of repeated success, the warm feeling of truly connecting with living beings again, it had lowered his defenses. It had taken great effort for him to touch his friends, to shed his layers of protection while everything in him was screaming not to do it. And by Moradin, he should have listened.
He still feels Strahds hands on his face, even when he scrubs the skin until it’s red. He still sees the stains of Dred’s blood on his hands, even through his gloves.
Dred themself had made jokes about it afterwards, but they couldn’t hide the glint of fear in their eyes when looking at Julius or the limp that they were left with after the gruesome necrotic wounds refused to heal properly. All his companions ensured him it was not his fault he turned against them, that it was Strahd who was to blame.
But Julius knew better. Had he not learned how to avoid possession years and years ago? He himself had opened the door to invite the devil in. His faith had wavered, and Moradin had made it very clear to him that day what would happen if he continued walking down that road.
You shall not stray.
His hands are chapped from the constant washing. He sees the worry in Valmines eyes when she hears him leave the room to pray so early in the morning that even Ireena is still asleep. He feels Felix’ sting of disappointment when he doesn’t answer the kids high-fives anymore. He hears the prayers to the Morninglord that Ireena murmurs when he flinches away from her healing touch.
Dred jokes about it when he goes back to sleeping fully clothed, but it becomes less funny every day.
He no longer jokes around with them. He does not toss his leftovers to the dog. He does not compliment Urwins cooking. He doesn’t think he can spar with Ireena ever again.
There is no room in his mind for any of that
Instead, he prays all day and until late at night, paralyzed under his blanked in fear of dreams that never come. He prays for guidance, for a strict hand to lead him and keep him on the right path. He prays for the strength to resist the desire to embrace his companions, the desire to cradle Dred’s face in his hands and kiss their forehead, to tell them that he’s so sorry, repeating endlessly that he never meant to hurt them.
Instead, he swallows his excuses and tells them to kill him if it ever gets this far again.
Above all, he prays for vengeance.
Every waking moment, he remembers his spells and their necrotic energy tearing Dred open, their shredded flesh hanging down their bones like Spanish moss, and every time he forces the image to change so it’s Strahd under his hands instead.
He prays for fear in arrogant eyes. He pray for blood and fury, for the stake and for the whip.
And when he is so stuck inside himself that even his prayers do not ground him, the image of violently wrenching the life out of the Undead is the only thing that keeps him going.
He never heard back from Morn. He’s ran out of leather soap after years. The time of nursing reminders from the past is over.
Now, he runs the links of the vampire killer through his chafed hands and thinks about the future.
Just another simple penance while he waits for all of this to end.