Legacy of the Deceiver
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended. Tal'Dorei and all material related to the show Critical Role is not my property and I do not claim ownership of it.
“You have people trapped here, too?”
Arlin opened his mouth, then snapped his snout shut with a pensive look. He knew in his heart when the deed had been done. The half-dragon, or dragonborn, monk had felt it. That exact moment when the mercenaries called ‘Vox Machina’ killed his mother, Raishan. She was the ancient green dragon people had dubbed ‘The Diseased Deceiver’.
He answered the young man with a thin smile. “No, not that I know of. I’m just wanting to lend a hand.”
Arlin knelt down for another section of broken wall and lifted it aside. It landed in the wagon with a dull thump. A cloud of soot and dust billowed around the stone. The city had been devastated by the invasion of the Chroma Conclave and then again by the battle to remove Thordak the Cinder King. With both the Conclave and the Cinder King now gone, there was a staggering amount of work to do if the city was to regain its former life.
As the dust cloud faded, Arlin’s thoughts wandered. Which city was this? Emon? Arlin no longer remembered. There had been so many since he left the temple. After awhile, all the cities started to look alike.
The instant that word of the attacks across Tal’Dorei reached the monastery, Arlin feared the worst. News had been horrific. Dragons and their own forces invading towns and cities. Countless lives lost. Devastation for miles. It had been a war and like any war, the people caught in its bloody teeth suffered.
Arlin had seen the deft fingerprint of his mother in all of it. She had been working another of her machinations. Yet another deception, a cunning plan, to fulfill one of her inventive schemes. It explained why her letters and enchanted messages to him had become so infrequent.
In truth, he was not all that surprised she was manipulating a war. He had known for some time she had been busy with a new plan. Her latest correspondence inferred that much. The detail of what had escaped him until the attacks started.
During one recent message spell, Arlin’s conscience had gotten the better of him and he asked her to stop. To just let it go. Leave her plan alone. That there had to be another way to accomplish whatever she was trying to do.
She would hear nothing of it. Her work was important. Like always, she always reassured him that he would understand one day. For now, he needed to stay at the temple where it was safe. Arlin understood it was as much for her safety as his. That had been a regular theme. When he was young, it had been making sure he was not afflicted with the disease she carried. Now it was keeping him at arm’s length from the Chroma Conclave and his mother’s current scheme. That was just how his mother was when she was not off causing someone else a headache.
But after the attacks began, staying put was the last thing he could do. It was his mother. Arlin left the temple that evening the news arrived.
Her most recent letters mentioned the mercenaries of Vox Machina. She had allied with them as part of the next phase of her plan. It had taken some time to narrow down where his mother and Vox Machina would appear. Emon, Westruun and several points in between were on the list. Arlin raced to each location as fast as he was able.
As a monk, he had little money to spare and no personal magic to transport him. Instead, he bartered his own labor to pay for travel. A wagon ride here, a teleport spell there, anything to get him to the next town. There was plenty of work, he only required it to be legal. Chroma Conclave attacks had brought a dire need for strong backs and arms. It had also brought out a prejudice he had not experienced in the temple. His dragon-scaled skin was as green as his mother’s and the fact he looked like a half-dragon was hard to miss. That earned him more than one glare and a few fights in a back alley.
Despite that, he learned to bandage himself and push on. But he was always too late. A tree gate would have just closed or a teleport spell just finished the moment he arrived. He wanted to warn Vox Machina about his mother, then ask for them to spare her life. Or at least allow him a single moment to try and convince her that this scheme was not worth her death.
But he never got that chance. Arlin lifted another piece of debris from the wreckage and tossed it aside. The soot and dust rose around the stone like a charcoal ghost. He watched it rise up and fade in the sun.
A few minutes ago, Arlin and some of the locals had rescued another survivor, the miller’s son, from under the rubble. That was a good feeling. Like a balancing of the scales, drawing life from destruction. It made the occasional glares from the local city folk bearable. Too many people here saw his draconic features and green skin and vented their rage against him. He took some comfort that there were other people that looked past his appearance.
Arlin had stood to stretch his back when he caught sight of Vox Machina. Or to be accurate, one of the locals with him pointed them out. The mercenaries were speaking with some of the soldiers that had fought off the invaders.
“Vox Machina!” Fenwick grabbed Arlin’s sleeve. “Down there! Two streets down! I never get to see ‘em this close. Grog Strongjaw’s a lot bigger than I thought!” The young man stammered. “Well, I guess for a goliath or a half-giant or what not.”
“Oh? I heard Vox Machina come through here quite often. I would’ve thought you’d have seen them by now.”
Fenwick shrugged, then ran a soot-stained hand through his tawny hair. Not that it helped, the young man’s hair resumed its perpetual ‘bed tossed’ look. “Oi, sure they do. But they’re too busy to spend a day chattin’ away with the likes of you or me. Just think! How many times do you get to go an see genuine heroes!”
Arlin’s mouth pulled back in a thin smile that lacked depth. He wrinkled the end of his snout. “You have a point there. No, I don’t get to see heroes too often.”
Fenwick waved at the mercenaries while Arlin ducked away and resumed searching the half-collapsed building for survivors. The monk struggled with broken bricks and his far too quick reaction to hide his face from sight.
Was he afraid Vox Machina might attack him? Based on the letters from his mother, yes. It was all too easy to believe they might assume the worst of Raishan’s son. She had suspected they would turn on her at some point, she just had no idea when.
Did he have anxiety over meeting them? Perhaps some. They did kill his mother, even if it was to put a stop to what she was trying to do. They might kill him the moment he explained he was her son.
Arlin lifted a blackened timber and set it aside. Another cloud of soot surrounded him. He just wanted to ask the mercenaries about his mother’s body. The monk guessed they might suspect something nefarious, like an attempt to bring her back from the dead. But no, Arlin just wanted to say a small prayer over her. Closure. Nothing more.
He had already searched the pit where the locals swore Vox Machina had killed the Cinder King and Raishan the Deceiver. It was all rumors. None of the city folk had been there during that fight. No one had seen his mother’s death first hand. So Arlin checked for himself. Yet when he slipped past the guards for a look, the bodies were missing. There was just the dragon’s hoard and Arlin cared little for the Cinder King’s stolen valuables. Those belonged to the citizens of Emon. It also meant Vox Machina would be the only ones who would know of Raishan’s final resting place.
He dug deeper into the blackened building while his thoughts continued to wander. Raishan had not been the best of mothers. Arlin knew that. She was cunning, deceitful, and had been called evil more than once. It was a fair claim. In fact, she had tried to use him on five separate occasions in one of her rituals over the long years. That was his mother in a nutshell. But the part Arlin held close to his heart was that she never finished those rituals. That cold gleam would leave her eye and she would abandon her plans every time.
Then there were the moments of quiet, where she was not Raishan the Deceiver, but just Raishan his mother. Arlin hefted another section of broken wall aside as a faint smile curled at the memories. He carried the broken stone out of the darkness and back to the wagon. Right then, he made up his mind. He would swallow his nerves, his misgivings. He had to speak to the heroes and with any luck, they would understand. Arlin tossed the stone into the wagon then stretched his back.
When he stepped around the wagon, they were gone. Arlin glanced around. There was only the living digging through the corpse of a city, trying to rebuild their world. The monk sighed and turned back to his work. He never saw the loose brick under his foot.
Arlin tensed. He intended to roll into the fall and spare himself a sprained knee or scraped scale. But a firm grip kept him from landing snout first into the dust. He was pulled to his feet and looked into the concerned eyes of a thick human man in battered chainmail. They were kind eyes, laced with surprise, that peered out from a forest of curled hair and beard.
“All you all right?”
Arlin nodded with an embarrassed smile. “Fine. Thank you, sir.”
“Kerrek,” the man corrected him.
The monk answered that with a faint bow. “Thank you, Kerrek. I didn’t see-” he shook his head and waved at the rubble “-I was distracted by my own thoughts.”
Kerrek’s gaze took in the dragonborn for a long few seconds. A frown formed at the edge of the man’s eyes then melted away. He smiled and patted Arlin on the shoulder.
“Best be careful. Damaged buildings can be tricky things.”
Arlin wrinkled his forehead over Kerrek’s reaction. The monk had the impression that for a moment, this Kerrek recognized him. But Arlin could not fathom why. No one like Kerrek had ever been to the temple. Perhaps it was another ‘all dragonborn look alike’? He would meditate on it later.
Arlin inclined his head. “I’ll be more careful. It’s been a long day and there’s a lot of work left to do here.”
The frown returned to Kerrek’s eyes. Arlin swore the man looked worried. “You live here?”
Arlin shook his head and smiled. “No. I was traveling through to meet-” something made the words catch in his throat “-some people. But with all that’s happened, it’s better I help find survivors first.”
Kerrek’s frown vanished. This time a satisfied look crossed his face leaving Arlin even more confused, and curious, than before. The warrior patted Arlin’s shoulder again.
“A good sentiment.” He paused. “I didn’t get your name?”
Arlin tensed at his lapse of manners. He bowed again.
“Arlin. My name is Arlin.”
Kerrek quirked a bushy eyebrow. “Just Arlin?”
The monk felt the instinctive urge to add ‘son of Raishan’ but fought it down. “Yes, just Arlin.”
“Well, Arlin, if you’re ever in Westruun, ask for me.” Kerrek’s eyebrows reached for his forehead as his smile reached his eyes. “I know a blacksmith there that’s got an itch to fix things. He could use a strong arm and heart like yours. That is if you don’t settle here.”
Arlin caught Kerrek’s infectious smile. “I might. Thank you.”
Kerrek gripped the monk’s hand before he walked away. As Arlin watched the man leave, he felt a warmth grow inside, like from a soothing campfire. It spread a sense of calm over him he had not felt in some time. He could not explain it until he remembered the markings on Kerrek’s armor. Then it made sense. Kerrek was a holy man of some kind, like a cleric or a paladin. Arlin felt a similar sensation from one of the masters at the temple who had been a retired paladin.
The monk turned back to his work once he saw Kerrek had rejoined a group of soldiers heading out of the city. Putting Kerrek’s invitation aside, Arlin still needed to find Vox Machina and talk to them.
The monk looked at his calloused, dust-covered hands, then down at the broken brick. Arlin missed his mother. He missed the fairy tales she would tell him as a hatchling. Then there were the apple tarts she made every so often. Those were the few quiet moments where she was not Raishan the Deceiver but Raishan his mother. He was glad he kept her letters. Through them, he kept that private part of her alive.
Arlin reached down for another section of broken wall to move it aside. Nearby there was a cheer as someone else had been found alive. It was a time to rebuild and repair. To fix things. Beneath all her machinations, twisted though they may have been, that was how she explained it to him in her letters. She wanted to fix things and make them better. Well, at least Arlin could help these people do that. Fix what was broken.
He hoped his mother would understand.
“You have people trapped here, too?”
Arlin opened his mouth, then snapped his snout shut with a pensive look. He knew in his heart when the deed had been done. The half-dragon, or dragonborn, monk had felt it. That exact moment when the mercenaries called ‘Vox Machina’ killed his mother, Raishan. She was the ancient green dragon people had dubbed ‘The Diseased Deceiver’.
He answered the young man with a thin smile. “No, not that I know of. I’m just wanting to lend a hand.”
Arlin knelt down for another section of broken wall and lifted it aside. It landed in the wagon with a dull thump. A cloud of soot and dust billowed around the stone. The city had been devastated by the invasion of the Chroma Conclave and then again by the battle to remove Thordak the Cinder King. With both the Conclave and the Cinder King now gone, there was a staggering amount of work to do if the city was to regain its former life.
As the dust cloud faded, Arlin’s thoughts wandered. Which city was this? Emon? Arlin no longer remembered. There had been so many since he left the temple. After awhile, all the cities started to look alike.
The instant that word of the attacks across Tal’Dorei reached the monastery, Arlin feared the worst. News had been horrific. Dragons and their own forces invading towns and cities. Countless lives lost. Devastation for miles. It had been a war and like any war, the people caught in its bloody teeth suffered.
Arlin had seen the deft fingerprint of his mother in all of it. She had been working another of her machinations. Yet another deception, a cunning plan, to fulfill one of her inventive schemes. It explained why her letters and enchanted messages to him had become so infrequent.
In truth, he was not all that surprised she was manipulating a war. He had known for some time she had been busy with a new plan. Her latest correspondence inferred that much. The detail of what had escaped him until the attacks started.
During one recent message spell, Arlin’s conscience had gotten the better of him and he asked her to stop. To just let it go. Leave her plan alone. That there had to be another way to accomplish whatever she was trying to do.
She would hear nothing of it. Her work was important. Like always, she always reassured him that he would understand one day. For now, he needed to stay at the temple where it was safe. Arlin understood it was as much for her safety as his. That had been a regular theme. When he was young, it had been making sure he was not afflicted with the disease she carried. Now it was keeping him at arm’s length from the Chroma Conclave and his mother’s current scheme. That was just how his mother was when she was not off causing someone else a headache.
But after the attacks began, staying put was the last thing he could do. It was his mother. Arlin left the temple that evening the news arrived.
Her most recent letters mentioned the mercenaries of Vox Machina. She had allied with them as part of the next phase of her plan. It had taken some time to narrow down where his mother and Vox Machina would appear. Emon, Westruun and several points in between were on the list. Arlin raced to each location as fast as he was able.
As a monk, he had little money to spare and no personal magic to transport him. Instead, he bartered his own labor to pay for travel. A wagon ride here, a teleport spell there, anything to get him to the next town. There was plenty of work, he only required it to be legal. Chroma Conclave attacks had brought a dire need for strong backs and arms. It had also brought out a prejudice he had not experienced in the temple. His dragon-scaled skin was as green as his mother’s and the fact he looked like a half-dragon was hard to miss. That earned him more than one glare and a few fights in a back alley.
Despite that, he learned to bandage himself and push on. But he was always too late. A tree gate would have just closed or a teleport spell just finished the moment he arrived. He wanted to warn Vox Machina about his mother, then ask for them to spare her life. Or at least allow him a single moment to try and convince her that this scheme was not worth her death.
But he never got that chance. Arlin lifted another piece of debris from the wreckage and tossed it aside. The soot and dust rose around the stone like a charcoal ghost. He watched it rise up and fade in the sun.
A few minutes ago, Arlin and some of the locals had rescued another survivor, the miller’s son, from under the rubble. That was a good feeling. Like a balancing of the scales, drawing life from destruction. It made the occasional glares from the local city folk bearable. Too many people here saw his draconic features and green skin and vented their rage against him. He took some comfort that there were other people that looked past his appearance.
Arlin had stood to stretch his back when he caught sight of Vox Machina. Or to be accurate, one of the locals with him pointed them out. The mercenaries were speaking with some of the soldiers that had fought off the invaders.
“Vox Machina!” Fenwick grabbed Arlin’s sleeve. “Down there! Two streets down! I never get to see ‘em this close. Grog Strongjaw’s a lot bigger than I thought!” The young man stammered. “Well, I guess for a goliath or a half-giant or what not.”
“Oh? I heard Vox Machina come through here quite often. I would’ve thought you’d have seen them by now.”
Fenwick shrugged, then ran a soot-stained hand through his tawny hair. Not that it helped, the young man’s hair resumed its perpetual ‘bed tossed’ look. “Oi, sure they do. But they’re too busy to spend a day chattin’ away with the likes of you or me. Just think! How many times do you get to go an see genuine heroes!”
Arlin’s mouth pulled back in a thin smile that lacked depth. He wrinkled the end of his snout. “You have a point there. No, I don’t get to see heroes too often.”
Fenwick waved at the mercenaries while Arlin ducked away and resumed searching the half-collapsed building for survivors. The monk struggled with broken bricks and his far too quick reaction to hide his face from sight.
Was he afraid Vox Machina might attack him? Based on the letters from his mother, yes. It was all too easy to believe they might assume the worst of Raishan’s son. She had suspected they would turn on her at some point, she just had no idea when.
Did he have anxiety over meeting them? Perhaps some. They did kill his mother, even if it was to put a stop to what she was trying to do. They might kill him the moment he explained he was her son.
Arlin lifted a blackened timber and set it aside. Another cloud of soot surrounded him. He just wanted to ask the mercenaries about his mother’s body. The monk guessed they might suspect something nefarious, like an attempt to bring her back from the dead. But no, Arlin just wanted to say a small prayer over her. Closure. Nothing more.
He had already searched the pit where the locals swore Vox Machina had killed the Cinder King and Raishan the Deceiver. It was all rumors. None of the city folk had been there during that fight. No one had seen his mother’s death first hand. So Arlin checked for himself. Yet when he slipped past the guards for a look, the bodies were missing. There was just the dragon’s hoard and Arlin cared little for the Cinder King’s stolen valuables. Those belonged to the citizens of Emon. It also meant Vox Machina would be the only ones who would know of Raishan’s final resting place.
He dug deeper into the blackened building while his thoughts continued to wander. Raishan had not been the best of mothers. Arlin knew that. She was cunning, deceitful, and had been called evil more than once. It was a fair claim. In fact, she had tried to use him on five separate occasions in one of her rituals over the long years. That was his mother in a nutshell. But the part Arlin held close to his heart was that she never finished those rituals. That cold gleam would leave her eye and she would abandon her plans every time.
Then there were the moments of quiet, where she was not Raishan the Deceiver, but just Raishan his mother. Arlin hefted another section of broken wall aside as a faint smile curled at the memories. He carried the broken stone out of the darkness and back to the wagon. Right then, he made up his mind. He would swallow his nerves, his misgivings. He had to speak to the heroes and with any luck, they would understand. Arlin tossed the stone into the wagon then stretched his back.
When he stepped around the wagon, they were gone. Arlin glanced around. There was only the living digging through the corpse of a city, trying to rebuild their world. The monk sighed and turned back to his work. He never saw the loose brick under his foot.
Arlin tensed. He intended to roll into the fall and spare himself a sprained knee or scraped scale. But a firm grip kept him from landing snout first into the dust. He was pulled to his feet and looked into the concerned eyes of a thick human man in battered chainmail. They were kind eyes, laced with surprise, that peered out from a forest of curled hair and beard.
“All you all right?”
Arlin nodded with an embarrassed smile. “Fine. Thank you, sir.”
“Kerrek,” the man corrected him.
The monk answered that with a faint bow. “Thank you, Kerrek. I didn’t see-” he shook his head and waved at the rubble “-I was distracted by my own thoughts.”
Kerrek’s gaze took in the dragonborn for a long few seconds. A frown formed at the edge of the man’s eyes then melted away. He smiled and patted Arlin on the shoulder.
“Best be careful. Damaged buildings can be tricky things.”
Arlin wrinkled his forehead over Kerrek’s reaction. The monk had the impression that for a moment, this Kerrek recognized him. But Arlin could not fathom why. No one like Kerrek had ever been to the temple. Perhaps it was another ‘all dragonborn look alike’? He would meditate on it later.
Arlin inclined his head. “I’ll be more careful. It’s been a long day and there’s a lot of work left to do here.”
The frown returned to Kerrek’s eyes. Arlin swore the man looked worried. “You live here?”
Arlin shook his head and smiled. “No. I was traveling through to meet-” something made the words catch in his throat “-some people. But with all that’s happened, it’s better I help find survivors first.”
Kerrek’s frown vanished. This time a satisfied look crossed his face leaving Arlin even more confused, and curious, than before. The warrior patted Arlin’s shoulder again.
“A good sentiment.” He paused. “I didn’t get your name?”
Arlin tensed at his lapse of manners. He bowed again.
“Arlin. My name is Arlin.”
Kerrek quirked a bushy eyebrow. “Just Arlin?”
The monk felt the instinctive urge to add ‘son of Raishan’ but fought it down. “Yes, just Arlin.”
“Well, Arlin, if you’re ever in Westruun, ask for me.” Kerrek’s eyebrows reached for his forehead as his smile reached his eyes. “I know a blacksmith there that’s got an itch to fix things. He could use a strong arm and heart like yours. That is if you don’t settle here.”
Arlin caught Kerrek’s infectious smile. “I might. Thank you.”
Kerrek gripped the monk’s hand before he walked away. As Arlin watched the man leave, he felt a warmth grow inside, like from a soothing campfire. It spread a sense of calm over him he had not felt in some time. He could not explain it until he remembered the markings on Kerrek’s armor. Then it made sense. Kerrek was a holy man of some kind, like a cleric or a paladin. Arlin felt a similar sensation from one of the masters at the temple who had been a retired paladin.
The monk turned back to his work once he saw Kerrek had rejoined a group of soldiers heading out of the city. Putting Kerrek’s invitation aside, Arlin still needed to find Vox Machina and talk to them.
The monk looked at his calloused, dust-covered hands, then down at the broken brick. Arlin missed his mother. He missed the fairy tales she would tell him as a hatchling. Then there were the apple tarts she made every so often. Those were the few quiet moments where she was not Raishan the Deceiver but Raishan his mother. He was glad he kept her letters. Through them, he kept that private part of her alive.
Arlin reached down for another section of broken wall to move it aside. Nearby there was a cheer as someone else had been found alive. It was a time to rebuild and repair. To fix things. Beneath all her machinations, twisted though they may have been, that was how she explained it to him in her letters. She wanted to fix things and make them better. Well, at least Arlin could help these people do that. Fix what was broken.
He hoped his mother would understand.