Falling didn't feel like flight—it was a pure, boundless void where there was no room for the wind or even my own scream. I simply dropped through reality. But no impact followed.
Instead of solid ground, Blue Glass opened up around me. An infinite sky without a horizon, a cosmos that had forgotten to light its stars. This surface breathed—steadily, lazily, in wide waves. Somewhere down there, beneath this fragile azure layer, beat a massive, titanic heart. It ticked a rhythm that was now my only compass. Every beat resonated in my own ribs, and where in the ordinary world there should be sound, this air dropped silent, heavy ripples.
Floating in this void was a vessel. Not a vase or a bottle—more like a long neck made of the thinnest, almost ghostly glass. Inside, a dark liquid swirled, thick with silver dust, as if someone had taken a piece of a southern night and shaken it well in the moonlight. The vessel pulled at me with a painful familiarity: the scent of wet leather, cold biting iron, and a fragment of an old song I had heard through a closed door long ago.
My palm found the glass on its own. My fingers rested on the neck—warm, vibrating, almost alive.
I took a "sip." Not with my mouth—with my whole being. And suddenly, my head became… quiet.
The world "turned off." Light folded like the blade of a pocket knife, and when reality unfolded again, everything was terrifyingly huge. I was small. A three-year-old. In a world that hadn't yet taught me to bite.
I was in a cloud of scents: hot bread, acrid torch resin, and fatty smoked fish. A flute wailed in my ears, and a drum vibrated in my belly—boom-boom—so loud the milk in the tin cups trembled in time with my own heart.
The men with bare shoulders approached a brazier. There, in the embers, the brand sang with a "red voice." Standing beside me was him. A tall Hadozi with a massive sword sleeping on his back. Dwight. My father.
Then, the red-hot metal touched my shoulder.
The world collapsed into a single point. Burning. Primal. I screamed, and then I smeared the tears across my cheeks with my fist. I was a Krauser. Wolves don't cry for long. But then the door flew open, letting in the cold.
On the threshold stood Hank. The Green Monk. His black gloves pulsed from within with a dull, swampy light.
"Dwight. Will you step out?" he asked.
"I will," my father replied. And the sword jumped into his palm.
The duel was like a song. Green light against the red glow of the visor. Block, thrust, a palm strike to the ribs—the sound was like a hammer hitting an anvil. Speed became a blur. Hank vanished and reappeared behind Dwight to deliver a disabling blow.
And then, something inside me snapped.
Rage flooded my three-year-old body like a forest fire in a dry hut. A warm, round ball of fire gathered in my chest—where adults keep a conscience, and where we, the Krausers, keep a fusion reactor.
"Don't!" someone screamed, but the orb had already left my palms.
BOOM.
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The wine barrel shattered, the wall ceased to exist. In the black smoke, green hands picked me up. Hank’s face was close. In his eyes was horror, anger, and… an impossible, quiet care.
"Breathe," he commanded.
He carried me through the fire. Behind us, in the smoke, remained Dwight. My memory couldn't hold the image—only the green glow of Hank’s gloves, which became my new horizon.
The blue glass pulled me into a new memory. Snow crunched under my feet. I was following my father—not the tall Hadozi from the fire, but another one. This one smelled of smoke and juniper. He was the man who raised me.
In the hollow below, a deer herd moved. The world was simple until the Red Caps emerged from the drifts. Faces like shriveled roots, eyes like beads, and hats stained dark with frost.
"Run behind me!" my father roared.
He fought with a knife, his blood turning dark, almost black on the dazzling snow. He was dying.
Inside me, it opened up again. The air became thick and warm.
"Don't you dare!" hissed a Hag from beneath the snow, but it was too late.
An explosion of fire tore through the circle of Red Caps. And once again—those green hands. Hank.
"I’ve found you teachers," he said, looking at me with a weight that could crush stones. "Across the sea. They will teach you to hold the power."
I wanted to learn not to burn those I loved. But my father didn't get up. And Hank was already looking at the horizon, where my new life under a false name began.
"Across the sea" turned out to be a cage. I was sold as a "gifted boy"—a commodity.
The overseer looked at me, spinning a focus wand, and finally spoke:
"Flint. The spark that ignites. It suits you."
"Flint." A dry, hard word. It was easy to wear, like an old coin in a pocket. The surname—Krauser—trailed behind like a wet thread until it finally broke. I let it go. Krausers don't live in cages. Krausers burn in fire.
I emerged from the glass, gasping for air. Krauser stood before me in the blue void. He was no longer a shadow; he was the foundation.
"You are still that pup at the ash-heap," Krauser smirked. "Without me, you would have rotted in chains. It was I who tore the bars with your hands while you cried in the corner of your mind. You want to 'choose'? You want to 'deliberate' while your friends are killed? Your mind is a brake, Flint. They need a motor."
I saw Gellia falling in the cave and Priorin turning grey with exhaustion. And I broke.
"You’re right," I whispered. "I am a fake. Flint is just a nickname for someone afraid to be Krauser."
"Finally," Krauser’s voice softened. "Admission is the first step to strength."
"Fine. Lead," I closed my eyes. "I can't protect them. Not as I am."
Mystra did not enter this glass world; she surfaced in it. Her voice vibrated in my bones:
"You are both true to yourselves. But this body needs one leading voice. I give you two weaves."
She offered her hands.
- The Weave of Personality Shift: A knot of two names. You can untie and tighten it by mutual consent. One goes to shadow, the other rules.
- The Weave of Inner Dialogue: A thread that binds you from within forever. Both hear. Both speak. But the one at the helm decides.
I looked at Krauser. The fear of failing my friends was greater than the fear of losing myself.
"For now—you," I said. "Where steel is needed, let it be you. Но we speak to each other. Always. No secrets."
"A deal," Krauser stated.
We touched the threads. The knot tightened with a melodic chime. I felt the Inner Dialogue thread stitch my consciousness.
"I’m here. I’m not disappearing," my last "Flint" thought whispered.
The answer came instantly—heavy and honest: "I won't forget."
The darkness closed in softly. The helm passed to him. I felt my shoulders broaden, my gait grow heavier, and my gaze sharper. I retreated to the back of my mind, becoming the witness. Now, I would see through his eyes, feel his rage, and hope that Mystra’s knot was strong enough.
The Helm and the Witness.
Krauser take the lead, he’s ensuring the squad has the "motor" they need to survive, but at the cost of his own agency.
Key Lore Drops:
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Dwight as Father: The reveal that Dwight (from the Leliana interludes) is Flint’s biological father connects the squad directly to the founders of the Republic. Flint is literally "Royal Blood" in a world that hates kings.
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Hank the Guardian: The Green Monk wasn't just a random encounter. He’s been Flint’s shadow guardian for decades, saving him from his own unstable magic. This adds a massive layer of complexity to their eventual reunion.
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Mystra’s Knot: The "Inner Dialogue" is a game-changer. Flint isn't "gone"—he’s the passenger. This creates a unique "Dynamic Duo" dynamic within a single character.
Questions for the readers:
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The Sacrifice: Do you think Flint was right to hand over the "helm" to Krauser? Is Krauser a protector or a predator waiting for an opening?
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Hank’s Intentions: Why did Hank keep sending Flint away instead of training him himself? Was he protecting the boy or the world from the boy?
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The New Flint: How do you think the rest of the squad will react when "Flint" suddenly starts acting with Krauser's cold efficiency and martial prowess?
?? SUPPORT THE JOURNEY & UNLOCK THE DM VAULT
Dual-Soul Stance mechanics or the full stats for Flint’s Unstable Fusion Magic, join us on Patreon!
DM Vault for Chapter 16:
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Subclass Supplement: The Vessel of Two Wills. Rules for playing a character with a shared consciousness.
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Mechanic: The Personality Shift. How to handle the mechanical differences between "Flint" (Social/Utility) and "Krauser" (Combat/Intimidation) in-game.
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Lore: The House of Krauser. The history of the bloodline and why their magic burns everything they touch.
[Link to Patreon — Take the Helm]