Ilsenhoon the Mind Flayer Ministrel
tl;dr: An illithid named Ilsenhoon devours the brains of bards, becomes musically-inclined, is then banished from home, adventures.
As he adventures, he eats more minds, absorbing traces of their original personalities and abilities. Among his victims are a warlock, a sorceror, a rogue, and even a cleric of Pelor.
Storytiem[edit | edit source]
Chapter 1[edit | edit source]
Ilsenhoon stepped back and let the elf's body fall to the floor with a wet thump. He clacked his mandibles several times, sure to dislodge any stray bits of skull or brain matter. Searching his pockets, he produced a handkerchief and dabbed at his tentacles, wiping them clean.
He sat down in his chair and looked at the corpse in front of him. Not long ago, it was pleading for its pathetic little life. Some nonsense about hunting drow. Ilsenhoon cared not, it had stumbled upon his territory, and its life was forfeit.
It did carry peculiar gear, however. Most would go to the city of course, to arm the thralls and perhaps to be traded off to duergar, or the beholderkin. But something caught his eye. It was oddly shaped, and he was sure he'd never seen such a thing before, but nonetheless, he recognized it. Reaching down, the grasped the guitar and untangled it from the cooling corpse. He held it as if he'd played his whole life, and gave it one quick strum.
It made such a pleasant noise... But no, such things were for lesser mortals. Weaklings. He set the guitar aside and departed his quarters... maybe he'd keep it though. The city wouldn't miss it. And it sounded so nice too. He couldn't help as his cheek twitched, in a twisted mockery of a smile.
It had been several weeks since he'd eaten the elf musician. Since then he'd been experimenting with the guitar. He certainly knew how to hold it... he knew all the chords, and he could make quite a racket with it... but there was something that eluded him. Something he did not yet grasp. It infuriated him. There was something he didn't understand about it. It sounded well enough, but it didn't sound right.
Ilsenhoon was browsing the slave pens, examining the new stock. They all stood, half-dressed in the cages like scared animals. They shrunk away as Ilsenhoon passed. He moved on to the benches of equipment, things taken from the chattel as they were stripped down and imprisoned... there it was. A mandolin. Certainly not a guitar, but it was close. Perhaps its owner could reveal the secret of this ‘music.'
He grabbed the instrument and held it up towards the cages. WHOSE INSTRUMENT IS THIS? His thoughts boomed out across the sea of deadened, inferior minds. Almost all flinched at the telepathic contact, but one of the slaves, a human, looked up at the object with a look of familiarity. Ilsenhoon knew it was the owner.
He looked to a nearby thrall guard, BRING THIS ONE TO MY CHAMBERS. It nodded and gathered more guards to open the cage.
Ilsenhoon returned to his quarters with the mandolin and the slave in tow. He tossed the mandolin aside, it was not the thing that intrigued him. He picked up his guitar and pelted out a few chords.
IT SOUNDS WRONG. TELL ME WHAT I AM DOING WRONG, his thoughts cracked into the human's head.
The human flinched away for a second, and then spoke up in a nervous, hurried tone, “Ah... you're not making any music... you're just playing random notes... You need to give it rhythm. Let me go and I'll teach you!” It looked hopeful. Stupid chattel.
THAT WILL NOT BE NECESSARY. THRALLS, RESTRAIN HIM.
There's nothing better than a nice, fresh meal.
Later that night, a sweet, soft melody rang out in the halls around Ilsenhoon's quarters.
Chapter 2[edit | edit source]
A month later, Ilsenhoon was brought before the Elder Brain of the city, held fast by two orcish thralls. WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS, he boomed to all within range, struggling against his captors.
Ilsenhoon stared down into the iridescent blue pool, just able to make out the grand splendor of the Elder Brain, its massive tentacles gently undulating in the murky depths, without causing a single ripple on the surface.
Other Illithids circled around the pool. The orcs forced Ilsenhoon onto his knees before retreating and leaving the chamber. How strange, thralls were only forced to leave during certain proceedings... implantations, military and diplomatic meetings (usually one in the same), and... Ilsenhoon's milky white eyes narrowed... banishment.
The illithids stepped close. Ilsenhoon was sure he could even see several ulitharids, and the city's only alhoon among the circle.
ILSENHOON, the Elder Brain cracked, its thoughts entering his mind like a fine razor. YOU HAVE MADE A REQUEST TO HOLD A ‘CONCERT' DURING THE NEXT IMPLANTATION CEREMONY. EXPLAIN.
Ilsenhoon shook his head for a moment, clearing his thoughts and gulped, feeling nervous for the first time in his life. OH GREAT ELDER. A CONCERT IS AN EVENT WHICH FEATURES MUSIC. I AM TOLD IT IS QUITE ENTERTAINING, AND HELPS TO INCREASE MORALE AND PROMOTE FRIVOLITY.
Immediately Ilsenhoon could feel dozens of voices inside his head, all shouting, all angry. One rang out above them all, silencing them. SILENCE. WE DO NOT NEED FRIVOLITY. WE DO NOT NEED MORALE. WE ARE ILLITHID. WE ARE SUPERIOR.
The circle closed in further, their thoughts striking him as one. ITS MIND IS UNCLEAN. IT HAS BEEN TAINTED.
CONFIRMED, the Elder Brain's thoughts again silenced the rest, cutting into Ilsenhoon's mind painfully. YOU ARE TAINTED. EMOTIONS CRACK THE BORDERS OF YOUR MIND.
There was a moment of absolute silence for a long while, deafening silence. Ilsenhoon knew they were communicating amongst themselves... deciding his fate.
The Elder Brain's thoughts returned. YOU WILL BE BANISHED, WITH THE LOCATION OF ALL ILLITHID CITIES STRIPPED FROM YOUR MIND. YOU ARE NEVER TO RETURN TO OUR KIND. YOU WILL LIVE OUT YOUR REMAINING DAYS ON THE SURFACE WORLD, NEVER AGAIN TO SEE THE GLORY OF THE ILLITHID EMPIRE.
A cacophony of thoughts entered his mind again, overpowering him, and pushing him into unconsciousness.
He later came to, at the mouth of a cave... the vast night sky laid out before him. He couldn't remember where he came from... but he held his guitar close and struck out into the world.
Chapter 3[edit | edit source]
The first creature Ilsenhoon came across was a robed figure, smelling of sweat and blood. Ilsenhoon approached cautiously, unable to call out at distance with his thoughts, being so far from an Elder Brain.
Ilsenhood got within range of the creature and hailed it with his thoughts, HALT. I MEAN YOU NO HARM, MORTAL.
The figure jumped and spun round, facing the illithid with wide eyes and a gaping jaw. It appeared to be human. From its fragile mouth it stuttered, “Wh-what did you say?”
Ilsenhoon frowned, and then remembered that inside the collective cities, the combined psionic power translated all speech, telepathic or not, for them. He searched his mind for the right language, using the common tongue. IS THIS BETTER?
The human nodded. The surprise in his eyes was rapidly diminishing, replaced in equal parts by excitement. “I can't believe it... They actually sent me one.”
Ilsenhoon raised a brow. WHO SENT YOU WHAT?
The human pointed upwards towards the stars, “They did. The old gods themselves! I'm a warlock, by trade, you see... I've made a secret pact with the old gods, a while back, and just last night, I gave them a human sacrifice in hopes of gaining their favor. And now, you're here! My very own minion!”
Ilsenhoon's brow furrowed as he glared at this weak, pitiful human. It actually thought it could command an illithid... as a mere minion?
“Now with you at my side, I'll be able to finish off that damn town once and for all.” The human whooped and hollered at the air, too caught up to notice the piercing, furious stare of Ilsenhoon.
Reaching out and grasping the human's neck, Ilsenhoon gave the inferior creature's mind a fierce blast of raw, psychic energy. The creature howled in pain, but to Ilsenhoon, it sounded only like a mewling kitten. THERE IS A REASON YOUR KIND CALL US MIND FLAYERS. YOU WILL KNOW SOON ENOUGH.
Ilsenhoon shoved the human onto the grass, his mind constantly sending psychic power into his victim. Bit by bit he could feel the thing's mind degrading, losing coherency, thoughts and memories jumbling together. Pain, pleasure, anger, fear. Emotions of every kind contorted its face, like some horrible painting left too long in the rain. It bit its tongue, blood rushing into its mouth and making it choke. The fleshy bit of tongue flopped to the grass.
Soon it would choke on its own fluids. Best to eat while it's still alive...
Chapter 4[edit | edit source]
The next morning, Ilsenhoon struck out towards the town. He was stopped at the walls by a near-legion of armed men, mostly working stiffs by the looks of them, but nonetheless Ilsenhoon raised his arms, and thought out, I MEAN YOU NO HARM.
“Codswallop, that!” A wizened old human in chainmail called out and marched forth, “Yer workin' with that warlock up on the hill, ain'tcha. Here to snatch away more of us, eh? Well it ain't gonna happen, freak.”
NO, I OWE NO ALLEGIANCE TO THAT DECEASED HUMAN. Ilsenhoon watched them close. There was a soft whispering among them.
“Oy, wot? Deceased? Ye mean he's dead? How?” the old human said.
I KILLED HIM. More whispering, some looks of fear, some of respect. Mostly of fear.
The human backed off a little bit... “Why would one such as you kill him? Ain't he your type, all into the squiddies...” It looked at Ilsenhoon's face again and shuddered.
IT WISHED TO USE ME TO KILL YOU. SO I KILLED HIM. More whispering.
After a minute, a cheer went up into the crowd, many lowered their weapons and the elder human stepped forward, extending a hand. “Well... ye may be ugly as sin, but we owe you a debt, then... he'd been plaguing our town for near goin' on two moons now, blathering on about old gods and such...”
Ilsenhoon looked at the hand, not knowing what to do. The elderly human wavered and then withdrew it, then caught sight of the guitar on the illithid's back. “Yer a minstrel, then? Come on down to the pub and regale us with a tale, then!”
Ilsenhoon nodded, happily. He thought of telling them he only helped because of the warlock's labeling him a minion, not because of killing off the town itself... but maybe later. A tale needed to be told, and songs needed to be sung.
Chapter 5[edit | edit source]
Ilsenhoon remained at the town for a few days. Although many shunned contact with him, largely due to his appearance, the barman had said, he had won several over. He regaled them with tales of heroic adventurers, descending into the Underdark for fame and glory. Truth be told, he really didn't know where those stories came from... they just popped into his head. Sometimes when he'd describe the heroes, he'd get flashes, blurred memories of slaves in cages... but those thoughts were too indistinct.
He even played several songs for the bar, without a telepathic commentary. Oddly, he'd thought, more people seemed to enjoy those segments. Perhaps they didn't like the telepathy... no, that couldn't be it. He'd just have to find better stories later.
On his fourth day in the town, Ilsenhoon met up with a small group of so-called adventurers. Two humans and a dwarf. They said they had heard of his bravery and decided to invite him along as they looted a mage's tower. Perhaps this would serve as decent story material, Ilsenhoon thought, and promptly agreed to go.
The journey there took well over a day, during which time the dwarf constant expressed its disapproval of Ilsenhoon. He didn't care, of course. Duergar were inferior in every way to the mighty Illithid. And from what he'd heard, surface dwarves were inferior to even duergar. This furry-faced creature was little more than a noisy annoyance, but for now he was necessary. There were no thralls to be had, so willing allies would do.
They reached the tower, and began to make their way up, fighting off all manner of foul creature as they did. Ilsenhoon kept back while the three warriors carved a path through them, even encouraging them with bits of song now and again, keeping their spirits up. It definitely seemed to help, they often ignored their wounds and kept fighting, beating back skeletons, and generally keeping everything away from Ilsenhoon.
Eventually they made their way to the top of the tower and came face-to-face with the dreaded master mage himself... naught but a shriveled old man upon his deathbed. As we entered he rose his head ever-so-slightly, blind eyes searching in the dark for intruders.
Ilsenhoon glanced at the others, who shrugged, “We'd heard he was dying... Usually a place like this would be a death trap... but a dying mage doesn't pose much of a threat, eh? C'mon you guys, lets loot this place and head out. The old geezer can sit here and die for all I care, he ain't gonna bother us.”
The other three began rooting through desks and tearing apart shelves. Ilsenhoon casually looked through one bookcase, hoping to find a tome on spells, or even tales of old... but alas, there was nothing. He approached the old, sick man and sat on the bed next to him, his thoughts reaching out to touch the mage's thoughts.
YOU HAVE MAGIC. WHERE ARE YOU MYSTICAL TOMES?
The mage gave a stuttering cough, and a slight chuckle, “I cannot see you. I can barely hear you. Soon I will depart this world. You may loot my tower, take a few potions... maybe a cookbook or two... but you see,” he fell into a coughing fit for a moment, flecks of blood splattering his already dirty bedsheets. “But you see... I am no wizard. Everything of magic I know,” he raised a wrinkled, almost shriveled finger, to his temple and tapped it, “is up here. The draconic magics are not learned... they are inherited, you filthy brigands... Now leave me be. Let an old man die in peace.”
Ilsenhoon considered it a moment. There was no history here. No tales of epic adventure. Not even a book of magic he could use for himself... All of this for naught? No... there was something else to be gained.
NO, SORCERER. INHERIT IT, I SHALL. YOU WILL DIE, BUT YOU WILL LIVE ON.
Ilsenhoon descended upon the old mage, his tentacles wrapping around its head, constricting its windpipe. The illithid's beak bit into its skull with a sickening crack and began draining its contents. Blood seeped from around Ilsenhoon's mouth, down the old sorcerer's head and pooling on the bed.
The mage gave a final choke and went limp in Ilsenhoon's tentacles. He let the head drop, the hollow skull resting peacefully on the bloodsoaked pillows.
Ilsenhoon's mind raced with the new information. Now he had magic... now he had history. And more importantly, now he had a story to tell.
Ilsenhoon wiped the blood from his tentacles with mild disgust. Some chattel age like... what did humans call it? Right, fine wine. But this one was more like milk. It was old and sour... but he got what he needed out of it. His mind filled with adventures, songs and tales to be sung and told.
He turned back to the party, who were looking at him aghast. Ilsenhoon quirked an eyebrow, WHAT? DO I HAVE SOMETHING IN MY TEETH? He inquired and opened his maw wide. The group shrunk away, looking thoroughly sick.
The furry-faced dwarf was the first to speak, “I told ye, that flayer was trouble! Goin' off and eatin' brains! Let's just kill it an loot the body!” It brandished an axe and took a step forward.
SILENCE, Ilsenhoon commanded. I HAVE FOUGHT YOUR BETTERS, THE DUERGAR. THEY ARE WORTHY FOES, BUT YOUR KIND... YOU SURFACE FOLK ARE WEAK, DWARVES MORE SO. A RACE SO USED TO THE DARK, THE MOUNTAINS, AND YET HERE YOU ARE, SCUTTLING ABOUT IN THE DAYLIGHT.
The dwarf's face went red with anger, its fist clutching the axe white with strain. Its face contorted, mouth spewing words like a plague victim spew sickness, “And wot does that make ye, then, flayer? Yer even more out of yer element!”
Ilsenhoon's eyes narrowed with anger. True, he never thought of that... banished he was, no memory of how to get back... The humans began backing away from the dwarf, content not to get involved in this scuffle. That was all he needed. No slight goes unrewarded.
Ilsenhoon reached his thoughts out and blasted the dwarf's primitive mind, sending searing pain throughout its body. It was certainly no pushover, however, and charged forward, swinging its axe towards Ilsenhoon, narrowly missing him.
Not liking to be so close to a foe, Ilsenhoon gripped his foe's thoughts and twisted, sending the dwarf reeling backwards several steps. It shook its head and charged forward again, swinging its axe furiously, catching him in the shoulder with a deep cut.
Ilsenhoon had it, none should be allowed to touch him... he was after all, Illithid. Illithids were superior. Though he was no longer of the Empire, he was still superior to all other races. YOU WILL STAND DOWN, his thoughts boomed, slicing into the dwarf's head like a hammer into a melon. It shook its head again, and again, and then slumped to the side, eyes rolling back and forth in their sockets.
Ilsenhoon waved a hand to the humans and strode towards the door. HE WILL LIVE. YOU WILL NOT FOLLOW ME. YOU WILL NOT BOTHER ME AGAIN. AND YOU WILL KEEP HIM FROM DOING EITHER AS WELL, OR I WILL NOT BE AS GENEROUS NEXT TIME.
Chapter 6[edit | edit source]
Ilsenhoon left the tower behind. He never did see the three again. In retrospect, he might have overreacted, but in the Illithid Empire, nothing goes unpunished.
Months later, Ilsenhoon found himself in one of the larger port cities on the continent. He was allowed inside, albeit reluctantly, after he gave up his weapons and spoke of his deeds, saving a town from a deranged warlock. Luckily, one of the watch had relatives in those parts, and confirmed his stories, thus allowing him entrance.
Ilsenhoon took care to hide his appearance after entering, though, purchasing a cloak and pulling the hood up to obscure his face. He wandered from tavern to tavern, looking for other bards, other stories to hear. But there were none. And they didn't care to hear his either. Ilsenhoon was downcast, wandering the streets, dejectedly strumming his guitar as he went. If this is what human cities were like, he would rather live in the towns.
He sat on a bench in the city square, watching the people as they went about their daily lives. Humans were growing on him, he had to admit. They were like velvet fungus in the Underdark. Sure, it's fungus, and it grows everywhere with no regard for order, or the regard of its betters, but during the autumn seasons, it sparkled like phosphorescent lamps on the ceiling. Truly beautiful, and a sight to see. Plus it tasted quite good, so the analogy was quite accurate.
Now feeling unwanted and homesick, Ilsenhoon stood and prepared to leave, but then something caught his eye. Some humanoid creature with pale yellow-green skin entered an alley nearby. There was something chillingly familiar about the skin tone... Ilsenhoon gripped his guitar tight, his weapons still with the guards, and followed the figure into the alley way.
The alleys twisted and turned, until Ilsenhoon finally caught up with the figure deep between the buildings, the hustle and bustle of the city left far behind.
IDENTIFY YOURSELF, Ilsenhoon's thoughts rang out.
The figure hissed horribly, slowly turning into a cacophonous laugh. It turned to face Ilsenhoon and threw back its hood. Its yellow-green face was withered, but not from age. It was naturally that way, Ilsenhoon knew. Spots dotted around its eyes and down its face.
Ilsenhoon flinched away. If he could mutter, he'd mutter ‘Gith!' under his breath. The Githyanki grinned, showing off its yellowing teeth and drew a vicious-looking serrated dagger. “My, my, my, said the spider to the fly,” it chortled, “Will you walk into my parlour?”
Another githyanki dropped down from a nearby building, this one wielding a wicked, silver longsword. “I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high. Will you rest upon my little bed? Said the spider to the fly,” the new one spouted.
Ilsenhoon backed away. Gith. The bane of illithid existence. The wretched creatures that took down the Empire. His face morphed into a look of rage and his thoughts were as steel, LEAVE NOW, OR YOU WILL JOIN YOUR ANCESTORS IN DEATH.
They both laughed and advanced, “Sweet creature! Said the spider, You're witty and you're wise. How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I've a little looking glass upon my parlour shelf, if you'll step in one moment dear, you shall behold yourself!” The two sang in unison.
A third githyanki dropped down, this one also wielding a dagger, and said “What they mean to say is, we're gonna show you your eyes. And your guts.” They grinned wider and kept advancing.
Ilsenhoon gulped, but began to recompose himself. So what if they outnumbered him 3 to 1. He was still an Illithid, damnit. It took their whole gith race, every last one of them, to take down the Empire... and certainly the Empire was outnumbered more than 3:1.
He gripped the neck of his guitar and gave it a quick, powerful strum, sending a wave of sound toward the first gith. The note ripped into him like a blade, shredding the cloak from his back. The three lunged, each taking a swipe. Ilsenhoon managed to avoid both the daggers, but the silver longsword cut him along the lower forearm. Purple-blue blood trailed down his hand and dripped onto the pavement below.
He didn't want to be this close, but he had no choice. Ilsenhoon reached out psychically, shouting into the first gith's head, making him reel backwards, howling in pain. The other two struck again, again dodging the dagger but the sword nicking his other arm this time. Ilsenhoon dug deep, closing his eyes momentarily, searching for something. There it was...
He grinned disgustingly, his tentacled maw spreading wide, as he opened his eyes, now red and slitted... like a dragon's. With the sorcerer's power, he gave the guitar a heavy, powerful stroke, directing it at all three of them, blasting them backwards several feet.
He didn't have long, they wouldn't be dazed for long. Gripping the guitar by the neck, he swung it at the third gith, wincing as the wood and metal broke apart on contact with the creature's skull. The first gith lay in the alley, nearly unconscious. And the second gith, the one with the silver sword stood back, glancing between Ilsenhoon and the two downed gith before backing away, leaving the alleys.
“You will enter my parlour soon, said the spider to the fly. And within my little parlour, you'll ne'er come out again,” it spoke before turning and rushing out of the alley.
Ilsenhoon tossed the ruined remnants of his guitar away before turning his attention to the live gith. I AM GOING TO ENJOY THIS.
The downed gith looked at him in fear, trying to pull itself up and run away, but all it could do is struggle against the ground. Ilsenhoon hoisted it up, wrapping his tentacles around the head of one of his people's worst enemy, and slowly feasted, making sure the gith was alive until the very end.
Chapter 7[edit | edit source]
Ilsenhoon soon took to the world, travelling from city to city, town to town, spreading his songs and tales as he went. He never spent too much time in once spot. If he did, he was sure he'd see his gith nemesis, the Spider, stalking him from the rooftops. He didn't like the Spider... The other gith had been chumps, but the Spider was, Ilsenhoon hated to admit it, a worthy adversary.
He'd bought a new guitar, though he still carried the broken remnants of his old one with him. He didn't want to say for sentimental reasons... but really, it was his first guitar. It was what got him in this whole predicament in the first place, he didn't want to just throw it out.
Ilsenhoon occasionally found companionship among adventuring crews. He'd accompany them, patch up their wounded, take a portion of the loot, and then tell stories of it later. It was all win-win, in his mind. In fact, he figured he came out a little bit ahead, as he got loot and stories, and stories were far more valuable.
But his forays with adventurers were usually short-lived, as they grew too unnerved by his nature. Not outright hostile, but he couldn't help but be proud of his race. If that meant berating an idiotic companion for failing to live up to Illithid expectations, so be it. Really he began to pity these humanoids instead of hating them. Here they were, so much potential in them... but they weren't, and didn't want to be, Illithids.
On the road towards his next destination, Ilsenhoon slowly paced onwards. He was in no particular hurry, there would always be patrons to entertain. But as he heard the telltale sound of an approaching wagon, he figured it might be worth a shot to ask for a ride. Sticking out his thumb, he looked backwards to see the approaching cart, but he froze when he saw the driver.
Around the human's neck was a holy symbol. A golden sun, in the middle: a face. A servant of Pelor.
The cart stopped alongside Ilsenhoon, and he lowered his hood. MAY I ACCOMPANY YOU INTO THE NEXT TOWN?
The cleric paused at seeing Ilsenhoon's face, but apparently his reputation preceded him. “You're that flayer minstrel? Yeah, all right, climb aboard.”
MY THANKS, he replied and pulled himself up onto the back of the cart.
“So, ah, I hear you're like a good guy?” The Pelor-worshipper asked.
NOT REALLY. PEOPLE CALL ME SUCH. BUT GOOD IS TOO LOOSELY DEFINED.
The cleric nodded, “I hear you there... So what do you, y'know, eat?”
Ilsenhoon considered it for a moment, I HAVE GROWN RATHER FOND OF YOUR DELICACY, I BELIEVE IT IS CALLED A SHISH-KEBAB. WONDROUS. MEAT, MUSHROOMS, PEPPER. ALL ON ONE STICK. ONLY HUMANITY CAN THINK OF SUCH A DELECTABLE DISH.
The cleric laughed. After a moment, he piped up again, “And is it true that you used to eat brains?”
The illithid examined the back of the cleric's head. Pelor. God of the sun. The wretched sun. If the Empire could just destroy it, blot it out, the world would be theirs. Only a few races could function perfectly in the dark, and chief among them was the Empire of course. Sure the Drow would try to capitalize on it of course, but they would be too caught up with revenge against the elves. And the Duergar, Aboleths and Beholders, well they're all too content in their tunnels. No, if the sun were out of the way, the world would fall for the Illithids.
USED TO? Ilsenhoon asked, inching closer. Maybe this cleric has information that could help. It's a long shot, but he could use the information to secure his return to his people. And he hadn't had a brain in so long... it was just too tempting.
His arm shot out, wrapping around the cleric's neck as he descended upon its skull. This death would be quick, and painless.
Afterwards, he pushed the corpse over the side, but paused. It seemed, somehow disrespectful... Climbing off, he removed the cleric's holy symbol, draping it around his own neck. He also retrieved a copy of the Light of Pelor, which he tucked into a pocket, and then proceeded to dig a grave for the poor soul.
Ilsenhoon trundled along in his cart, his symbol of Pelor proudly draped around his neck. He was considered a chief convert for the church, who tried to use him to sway more people to their cause. Ilsenhoon would have none of it, however. He was simply a casual follower. And besides, they would hate to know how he was converted...
He scribbled in his spellbook, a messy collection of mystical rituals he knew. All copied down in the form of songs, of course. It made them much more fun to perform. He glanced around while passing through the square of a common port destination of his. It was usually quite busy, so workers would manually lead horsecarts through, leaving Ilsenhoon free to concentrate on other things.
But as he glanced up, he recognized his wife among the crowd.
Chapter 8[edit | edit source]
Not his actual wife, of course. The wife of one of the people he ate; he's not sure which one, likely one of the bandits that had been in the area. His eyes watched the human, its long, curly brown hair, wearing a peasant frock and hurrying about its business.
The feelings in Ilsenhoon's mind were alien to him. He wasn't sure what they were... he'd heard humans talking of love, of course, but such concepts were beyond him. It felt more like guilt than anything, he'd have to guess.
He watched it work as his cart rolled on its way. Memories of the human flooded his mind. He saw it laughing and running through the woods, he saw it during a candlelit dinner, he saw it during an... intimate encounter. That part actually made Ilsenhoon shudder a little bit. Humans reproduced so... messily. It's completely inefficient, he thought. Better to be Illithid, fertilizing your own larvae is much easier.
Another memory entered his mind, the human holding its child. Others congratulating the couple, many remarking on how it looks like its father. That point was moot to Ilsenhoon; all humans looked the same, so of course it would look like its father.
He climbed off his cart for a moment, making his way through the crowd towards the widow, conflicting emotions within him.
Memories continued to erupt in his head. He remembered the hunt for the husband now. He was indeed a bandit in the area... but seeing the situation from its side; it didn't have much of a choice in the matter. It did it to care for its family. Ilsenhoon could understand that, certainly.
The hunt flooded his mind. He saw it from both points of view simultaneously. As the bandit, he ran through the woods, fleeing the hideout which now housed only corpses and a monster. He knew he shouldn't have signed on with the crooks, but he had to. He stalked the bandit, fresh on the psychic vibe of fear it gave off. He'd just taken out the rest of his friends, just one loose end left. They ran. He tripped over a root, giving his predator a chance to catch up. He caught up to his prey, tentacles splayed and lamprey-mouth wide. He felt strong tentacles wrap around his skull, holding him painfully tight; he felt his tentacles constrict against the bandit's throat. He felt a horrible pain in the top of his head, sharp, dull and everywhere; memories became jumbled, incoherent; he sucked the brains out quickly, eager to leave the bandit camp behind.
He pushed the corpse away and strode away.
The confusing memory faded, leaving Ilsenhoon face-to-face with the widow. He pulled out a bag filled with clinking gold coins and pressed it into her hand, before pushing his way back to his cart.
Chapter 9[edit | edit source]
When the cities put out a call for explorers willing to venture into uncharted wilderness, the last person they expected to see was Ilsenhoon. A mind flayer as part of the expedition? Preposterous they said. But nonetheless, Ilsenhoon packed up his guitar and boarded a ship as they made way to the new lands.
He was quite a hit on the ship, entertaining crew and passenger alike. He didn't eat much of anything, except when the crew made up some kebabs, to get rid of some meat before it went bad (and really, that one passenger who ‘fell overboard' hardly counted as a meal). He even offered spiritual wisdom for some who followed Pelor, keeping morale up with scripture set to music.
When the ship landed, however, things were a different matter. The new jungles looked imposing and dense, but the worst part was the other ships. Somewhere along the way, any idea of cooperation and civility had gone out the window. Groups formed, each claiming land as their own sovereign nation. Truly, Ilsenhoon was impressed. He'd seen more monarchies, democracies and republics form and fall in a week than he'd ever seen in his life.
Sometimes he couldn't help but wonder if humans and illithids really were so different. Every once in a while, he saw that spark. The illithid spark of control and domination. It made his heart warm, and yearn for home.
Ilsenhoon soon found himself teamed up with a woodsman, both deciding to ignore the shore-side politics and do what they came here to do: explore. The elf ranger led them deep into the jungle, where they came upon several relics of considerable age. They found sculptures of snakes and scorpions, bronze swords that Ilsenhoon dated back at least two thousand years, of not more. Everything was in remarkable condition, despite the environment.
The elf frequently remarked that what they found would be work a mint back in the cities, sold to the rich and powerful. Ilsenhoon shrugged. Money wasn't really what he was after. Just uncovering the artifacts was good enough. For once, he was making the story himself.
Each expedition into the jungles, Ilsenhoon noted a considerable change in his companion. At first the elf was content to store their loot aboard the ship, but he'd noticed lately it'd been sneaking small relics off, and burying them along the tree line when it thought no one was looking. Foolish elf. Its eyesight might put a human's to shame, but it couldn't see in the dark, not like Ilsenhoon.
The snap finally occurred during one particularly extended trip into the wilds. While investigating a stone temple, overgrown with vines and trees, the elf discovered a large, thick tome, with a heavy gold cover. Ilsenhoon, eager to attempt a translation, requested the book.
That's when the elf lost it, “I knew it! You're only after the money! You want my collection, don't you? Well you can't have it, flayer!” It dropped the tome, and drew both of its scimitars, sneering at the mind flayer cruelly.
Chapter 10[edit | edit source]
Ilsenhoon could only laugh at the elf, each chortle reverberating around in its head like an echo. EVER SINCE WE TEAMED UP, I'VE GAUGED YOUR ABILITIES. YOU ARE INFERIOR. EVEN IF YOU WERE AN ILLITHID, YOU WOULD BE INFERIOR.
Furious, the elf charged forward, swinging both blades at him. Ilsenhoon ducked under the first and backed away from the second. He pulled his guitar into hand and played a powerful chord, directing the sonic wave towards his former ally, distracting it with reverberations long enough for him to retreat to a safe distance.
When the elf regained its faculties, Ilsenhoon had already disappeared into the foliage. It searched nearby, finding nothing. “Come on out, coward! You'll not get my collection!”
COWARD I AM NOT. TACTICS, FRIEND. TACTICS, Ilsenhoon's thoughts bellowed.
“Your only tactic is cowardice!” the elf shouted, swinging a blade wildly at the closest bush.
ARE YOU A FAN OF LIMERICKS? I'M NOT TERRIBLY FOND OF THEM. TOO SHORT, AND THERE'S HARDLY EVER A PUNCHLINE. WOULD YOU LIKE TO HEAR ONE?
The elf tore another bush apart looking for its target.
SINCE YOU'RE AN ELF, I'M SURE YOU'LL LIKE THIS ONE.
THERE WAS AN OLD DWARF WITH A BEARD, WHO SAID, ‘IT IS JUST AS I FEARED! TWO OWLS AND A HEN, FOUR LARKS AND A WREN, HAVE ALL BUILT THEIR NESTS IN MY BEARD!'
The elf grumbled an began thrashing at the temple altar madly.
NOT EVEN A SMILE? THAT JOKE'S A KILLER, Ilsenhoon said, approaching the elf from behind. He reached out with one psychic hand and twisted something inside the elf's head. Instantly it fell to its knees, gripping its sides in pain as it began laughing hysterically.
Ilsenhoon sighed softly and pushed the corpse of the elf away. Elves never tasted quite as delicious as humans. Too scrawny, that was the problem. You'd eat one, then thirty minutes later you'd want another. There's no filling. Now humans, they're good eating. Just enough meaningless knowledge and emotion to add flavor.
He stood and wiped his tentacles clean before retrieving the golden tome and making his way back to the camp. What he returned to, however, was not what he'd left. Black-skinned humanoids in loose leather clothes had the crew of the ship in chains. They all had stark-white hair, and many had white tattoos covering their face and arms.
Oh great, Ilsenhoon thought, Drow. Within seconds, half a dozen drow seemed to melt out of the jungle, quickly surrounding him. They all held forward curving blades, and brandished them in a menacing manner, although Ilsenhoon could clearly tell they were more than a little scared. Likely they'd never even seen an illithid before. The Empire didn't particularly like to deal with the elves. They were nearly as arrogant as the beholders, but only half as cooperative. Usually when there was cause for diplomacy or trade, the Elder Brain would send a drow thrall to broker the deal, a wonderful gesture that always brought a smile to Ilsenhoon's face.
He just grinned at them all and raised his arms in surrender, WHITE FLAG, DROW. TAKE ME TO YOUR MATRIARCH.
They all looked at each other before removing his equipment and tying him together with the rest of the captives. Little did they know, however, that Ilsenhoon managed to hide a lockpick, and that as they walked, he carefully fiddled with the cuffs.
Chapter 11[edit | edit source]
It was a long walk back to the drow city. Surprisingly, it was not deep underground. Instead, it was carved into the side of a deep canyon. The drow led the line of captives down several rickety ramps and finally into a large underground meeting hall. Opposing the entrance was a large stone throne, adorned with scorpions. The drow lined up their captives so that all were facing the throne.
A moment later, the drow matriarch appeared from a hidden door behind the throne. It glanced up and down the row, its eyes settling on Ilsenhoon before it sat upon the throne.
“Kneel!” one of the drow captors shouted, punching a crew member in the stomach, making him double over onto the ground. The rest fell to their knees rather quickly, hoping to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Ilsenhoon remained standing, however.
He took the cuffs off his wrists and let them clatter to the ground as he stepped forward. AN ILLITHID DOES NOT GET CAPTURED. AN ILLITHID MERELY PLAYS ALONG. ANY OTHER ASSUMPTION IS ASININE.
The matriarch hissed an order, and the other drow in the meeting hall drew weapons and closed in. Ilsenhoon just gave them the wide grin again and thought to the matriarch, AND ALSO, BY THE TIME THIS IS ALL THROUGH, YOU WILL BOW TO ME, BITCH.
As the drow charged forwards, Ilsenhoon concentrated, drawing upon an ancient pact with the old gods. A bright light shone down upon him. The drow charging forward all looked into the light, their eyes narrowing a bit from the brightness. In the light they saw fast, unfathomable creatures of impossible dimensions, covered with eyes and tentacles, tongues and pustules. Before their eyes they saw a creature the size of a planet get swallowed whole by something no larger than a pinhead, and yet it remained the same size.
The drow all shrieked in horror, turning from the light in such obvious pain. As the light dimmed, Ilsenhoon was half-way towards the equipment pile. The drow shook off the fear and turned their attentions back onto the mind flayer.
Hearing a battlecry close behind him, Ilsenhoon turned backward, seeing a particularly large drow close behind, and let loose a storm of psychic energy towards it. The dark-skinned creature faltered for a moment before tumbling forward, and coming to a stop on the stone floor, blood oozing out its ears.
Ilsenhoon reached the equipment pile and snatched up the guitar, before sliding to a stop while giving the instrument two quick strums, both chords conflicting violently with each other. The next drow charging towards Ilsenhoon fell to its knees, clutching its ears in pain.
The third drow raised a hand crossbow and fired as the other three moved in. Ilsenhoon wasn't quite fast enough, and the bolt nailed him right in the shoulder , the tip just barely poking out the other side. Giving the drow a loathing glance, he readied himself, but rather than strumming the guitar, instead he reached out with his mind, grasping the drow's psyche and choked as hard as he could. In reality, the drow's eyes turned bloodshot and blood began leaking out of his nose, ears and tear ducts before he fell backwards.
Three drow remained. They circled around Ilsenhoon, each holding a kukri at the ready. As one darted in, Ilsenhoon deflected the blow with his guitar, but the other two took the opportunity to strike as well, scoring deep cuts on his back. Ilsenhoon winced and pushed back against his main attacker, sending a sharp note after it, which cut into it like a knife, sending it reeling backwards.
He spun round at the other two. COME ON, FELLAS. I'M SURE YOU'LL DO BETTER THAN YOUR FOUR FRIENDS. I MEAN, IT'S NOT LIKE THEY WERE YOUR SUPERIORS, WERE THEY? He laced the thoughts with magic, causing them to cut deep into the drow's heads like timebombs, just waiting for the right time to off.
One drow advanced, but the words caught up with it, and it hesitated momentarily, but long enough for the spell to complete. A quiet pop echoed around the room as a portion of the drow's skull exploded outwards.
Ilsenhoon stared at the final guard, HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF A BROWN NOTE? He asked, patting his guitar. DEATH IS ONE THING, HUMILIATING DEATH IS ANOTHER. The drow quirked an eyebrow for a moment before understanding dawned on its face. It backed away slowly before turning around and running at full speed out of the meeting hall.
Looking proud, Ilsenhoon turned towards the Matriarch, NOW ABOUT THAT KNEELING THING. The Matriarch smirked, but said nothing. Instead she stood, narrowed her eyes and began to change. Her body shifted, armored plates grew on her flesh, a tail sprouted. Her arms grew into giant pincers. Right before Ilsenhoon's eyes, the drow matriarch transformed into a giant, black scorpion, ready to fight.
Troublesome. He'd expected the matriarch to be a cleric, not some sort of druid. He backed off as the scorpion advanced, snapping pincers his way, and setting up a clear shot for its tail.
He backed away into the rest of the captives, who, up until now, had been watching the fight with fear. Now as the giant scorpion scuttled towards them, they all stood and ran out of the cave, albeit awkwardly as they were still chained together.
Ilsenhoon was at a loss. He dodged left and right, hoping to find an opening somewhere in the scorpion's attack, but none presented itself. A quick snap caught the side of his left thigh, leaving a deep wound almost to the bone. Limping away, he made a quick, telepathic prayer to anyone who would hear him, asking for assistance.
A stirring of an answer came... not from without, but from within. Several voices, all within his own thoughts began to voice themselves. They spoke of a being called the Summer Queen, and her songs. One of them flooded his head, and he couldn't resist but playing a haunting, but powerful melody on the guitar. He instinctively aimed it towards the scorpion, which recoiled in pain with a chittering hiss.
Ilsenhoon took the momentary opportunity to back outside, onto the rickety rope bridges that connected the canyon city. The scorpion followed after, but it didn't seem altogether too stable on the planks.
Ilsenhoon backed off onto the platform behind him and waggled a finger disapprovingly at the scorpion, and strummed two sharp notes on his guitar, sending the chords off like daggers to cut the ropes on the bridge. An almost human look of rage and despair hit the scorpion's face as the bridge gave out underneath it.
Ilsenhoon descended another set of bridges to the platform the matriarch landed on. Its body was broken, now fully drow again, leaving limbs bending in directions they truly shouldn't. Ilsenhoon stepped on one of her hands, eliciting a sharp scream of pain from the thing's gurgling throat.
IT MAY NOT BE PROPER KNEELING OR BOWING. BUT IT SEEMS LIKE GROVELLING ENOUGH TO ME, his thoughts cracked in the matriarch's mind. He bent down, lifting the drow's head and began to wrap his tentacles around it. One slipped around the broken creature's neck, strangling it, while two kept it still and the fourth made for the thing's eyes, wriggling into the sockets and bursting them like oversized maggots, so that even in death, the matriarch would be unable to see again.
His mandibles dug into her skull and eagerly consumed her brainmatter, savoring the taste of new magic, new history and best of all, the flavor of a leader.
Afterwards, he pushed the corpse off the edge of the platform, letting it fall to the bottom of the canyon before quickly departing the area, before more drow arrived.
As he made it back to the campsite, he found the rest of the crew there, getting out of their shackles and packing up the ship, readying it to leave immediately. Giving the jungle one last look, Ilsenhoon boarded the ship as well and settled in for the long trip back.