Mine Folly

[Yvonne]

Yvonne’s metallic eyes bulged out of her head, so wide they could have popped out of their sockets. The ground fell away from the hybrid’s heels and her stomach dropped as she found herself lifted abruptly, heaved high over the dark elf’s stark white hair and plopped down behind it upon Lilly’s shoulders. The little one felt immediately out of place. The only moments when she had experienced such loftiness before was in the saddle, riding on the back of her chestnut palfrey Mead.

To think she had it all sorted out in her head, what was going to happen next. Reality could often prove altogether different, pitching a curve ball to be evaded or caught. The hysteria in her voice peaked as she tenuously found her balance, wobbling to and fro even as Lilly plunged into the water without warning.

“Ahhh! No-no-no! Put me down, put me-- whoa, whoa oh nooo! Hold me up, hold me up!” Yvonne expressed through panic. “Oh me gosh, what be yer thinking!? What we be doing!? We’ll just jump right in will we!? Ye be one crazy goose me dear,” she disputed, confronting her carrier by focusing on the top of Lillian’s head. She didn’t have much to hang onto, unlike in the saddle where there were reins available at the very least. The hybrid gently stroked through the dark elf’s alluring white hair and wrapped a crown-like gesture around her temples, holding behind her long ears to stabilize herself.

Yvonne had shut her black eyelids tightly, trying to block out the incident - to avoid her memory committing it - but water splashed at Lilly’s chest height and that reassuring, soothing voice snaked its tendrils into her consciousness regardless. She couldn’t ignore what was happening to her. As Lilly checked up on her Yvonne began to settle down and the grey dwarf sensed a lump in her throat, feeling a bit choked up. The only indication of this which escaped her composure was a quiet sniffle.

You see, Yvonne had spent her first decade enduring ridicule and shame. She’d been berated, beaten and bullied. She’d been stoned with (approximately) thirty seven rocks at the tender age of eight years old, three boys taking turns pelting her with twelve stones each and one more for good measure; battered and broken within an inch of her life. She considered herself lucky to be alive. From that time onward she had promised herself, somehow she would turn it all around. Clawing herself out of blood-spattered mud and never mind shattered fingernails, Yvonne stood upright despite broken bones and damaged ribs, in spite of a fractured eye socket and bruised eye, in spite of a dislocated knee… she walked home.

Ever since that life-changing day the young mongrel had stood up for herself, cast off the hatred and shame that her peers dumped over her little frame like black tar. Yvonne had made it a rule, to project who she was and amplify her personality to awe and inspire others. Nobody would look down on her and get away with it. No one would make her feel small or leave her feeling crushed. She had spent the rest of her life picking herself up, stepping up to the plate, puffing her chest out and conveying who she was, with the most powerful voice she could muster.

To falter, to flinch away from a situation she wasn’t comfortable with was disheartening. To have someone liberate her of the problems she was faced with, even for a little while was renewing. To have a friend pick her up without asking, to carry her weight and bear her burden, hold her up and lift her above the problem like she was some kind of important figure who deserved elevation; why it brought tears to her welling eyes. She fell very silent and tried so hard not to cry. There was no time for weakness in this life. Only the strong survived. The remorseful were stoned.

Yvonne’s feet finally touched down, her moment of Queen for a day coming to an end. The mixed breed made certain Lilly had climbed out of the cold water safely, that she wasn’t freezing and shivering. No, only drenched. She looked up to the dark elf, genuinely appreciating what she had done, keeping her completely dry while wading between stalagmites and through the liquid misery of the tunnel. Few people had ever helped her with her issues and those that had, she considered each of them her closest friends.

“Ye be too good ta me,” Yvonne said softly, wiping the tears from her eyes. Lifting her on high left her humbled and quiet.

Scarcely using her voice allowed focus on her senses, sight, hearing, and smell. The awful, pungent smell of this stuffy room knocked her for six, nearly bowled her right over. Yvonne pinched her nose in an attempt to keep the scent of death out, her eyes watering from a new reason. There was a third dark elf in the underground hollow, this one adorned with black, hooded robes but he lay still, motionless, lifeless. The unlikely mage assumed Lilly understood the necromancer was dead. The smell was unmistakable but she seemed eager to approach the source.

The staff, cradling its light and euphoria-diminishing gem in its oaken grasp was the lure. Lillian couldn’t help herself and Yvonne was eager to leave. Magical objects drew Lilly toward them and scared Yvy away witless. She wanted nothing to do with this room, nothing to do with the staff and nothing to do with an ironically dead necromancer.

It was toward the end of an adventure, when feet were weary and packs were heavy - when the time was late and thoughts drifted to warm beds - that adventurers often let their guard down. Lilly approached the necromantic staff. Yvonne let her take what she had come here to take, so they could then swiftly leave - the objective so near and her awareness of traps so far from her mind.