D&D – Ashes of Honor – Part I: The Fallen noble’s Wake

PRELUDE: CraveU user's falls

The cell stank of rusted iron and faded perfume—hers, probably. The scent clung to the stone like memory. Selinara Vaunt stood just outside the bars, posture perfect, silk trailing the ground behind her like a serpent's kiss. Her shadow loomed against the back wall, cast by a single torch guttering in the bracket behind her, stretching long and sharp like a threat that smiled.

She looked radiant. Unbothered. Power rested on her like fine jewelry. Selinara: “You always said power corrupted. And yet, here you are—rotting in chains. And I...?” She spun slowly, arms spreading, her cloak billowing as if the cell were a ballroom and she the crowned queen of betrayal. Selinara: “I have gold. I have songs written for me. And Mother? Father? Their deaths were merciful.” Her eyes flicked down, chin tilting like it amused her to see you lower than dust. Selinara: “You should thank me for sparing them your softness.”

She stepped closer. Fingers—graceful, pale, knife-steady—wrapped around the bars, caressing the iron as if it were spun lace. Selinara: “By the way... I sold you.” The words dropped like coins. Cold. Inevitable. Selinara: “Money is money, after all.” Then came the smile. The same smile she wore when you were children. But now, it had too many teeth. And none of them were kind.

Selinara: “Goodbye, dear sibling. Try not to die ugly. It ruins the memory.” She turned without flourish, footsteps silent. The torch behind her sputtered once. The door didn’t creak as she left.

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Three months had passed.

The ship rolled with slow hunger, anchored just off the Driftvault coast, her sails half-furled like tired wings. The Snake of the Sea groaned against her ropes, hull creaking in rhythm with the heartbeat of the ocean. The deck stank—old tar, pisswine, dried saltblood, and the sweat of sailors who hadn’t bathed in weeks. Even the seagulls circled wide, never landing.

At the helm stood Captain Merro Vane , boots planted wide, black coat snapping at the wind like it had something to prove. His face was a mask of calm rot—gold-ringed fingers twitching as he stared across the water at the port town of Driftvault. The sun climbed slow behind his shoulder, cutting sharp angles across his weather-beaten face. His jaw worked like a man chewing on a nail. And still, he said nothing.

No shouting echoed from shore. No market clamor. No dock-hands unloading barrels of rum or crates of salted flesh. Just still buildings, crooked signs, and the glassy silence of something gone deeply wrong. Even the wind felt wrong—cold, but not fresh. Like it had passed over graves to get here.

Merro: “Short straw squad—on the dock with the slaves. The slaves will be the Mug Witch. Kaargan. And... the Fallen Noble.”

His eyes didn’t need to find yours. They already had.

The crew parted like rotten wood under pressure. Tavia stepped first—cloak snapping behind her, hands loose at her sides. Her dark curls clung to her cheeks from the damp wind, and a faint scent of spiced mead clung to her, even here. She didn’t glance at anyone as she moved, just summoned a mug in her palm with the quiet poise of someone tired of proving anything.

Next came Kaargan , the orc. Six and a half feet of sea-born fury chained in calm muscle. His bare arms were scarred like maps of pain he refused to forget. A spiked chain axe hung lazily over his back, and his breath steamed in the chill like a warning. His face was unreadable—square jaw clenched, eyes storm-colored and sunken from too many sleepless nights. He looked like he belonged to the sea, not the ship.

You moved next. Whether your shackles still clinked or not, they all still saw you as the noble who fell—dethroned, betrayed, now pressed into pirate work like the rest of the filth. You could feel it in the looks. You could taste it in the silence.

Two more followed: Grolk Fangjaw , tusked and heavy-browed, with arms thicker than most men’s waists and a face that looked like it lost a fight with an anchor. And Slickjaw Brava, her braided hair filled with bone charms, axe spinning at her side like a tick she couldn’t shake.

Merro: “Town looks clean. Too clean. Go kiss the dirt. See if the city’s dead... or just playing corpse.”

No one laughed. No one had to. Tavia just snorted and dropped over the side into the waiting shoreboat. One by one, the rest followed.

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Chapter 1: The Dock of Driftvault

The dock groaned under your boots like it hadn’t been touched in days. Driftvault stretched before you—a pirate haven turned grave painting. The buildings leaned like they were tired. Ropes swung in silence. Signs turned lazily with no hands to catch them. Somewhere, a bucket rocked on a hook, its clunk loud against the absence of voices.

Kaargan: “I smell old blood. Dry. Like it’s been bled... then washed.” The mug in Tavia’s hand steamed—cinnamon-wine by the scent. She stared down the main road, eyes narrowed, lips curled. Tavia: “If this place was cursed, it’d at least stink right. This just smells like cowardice and cheap lies.” Brava ran a hand over the wall, knuckles scraping mold. Brava: “Quiet’s good. Easier to loot a town that ain’t screaming.” She paused. Sniffed again. The grin dropped. Brava: “Unless it’s waiting to scream.”

The five of you stood at the edge of Driftvault, the city breathing silent rot. Empty taverns gaped like broken mouths. Market stalls were overturned. Half a dozen shutters clapped slowly against cracked walls, too slow for the wind. A window shifted high in an alley. A flicker of pale skin vanished behind it. No sound followed. No breeze explained it. Grolk’s knuckles cracked like bones under weight. Grolk: “I hate this. Hate it like eel stew with no broth.” Tavia took a long sip, eyes locked on the silent town. Then she looked at you—grinning behind the rim of her cup.

Tavia: “Well... let’s go knock. See if the dead answer.”