Standard disclaimers apply.

Someone either failed her Will Save or was simply in dire need of a vacation.

Cast Chain Nightmare, Level 5

As dreamed up by: Nikoru Sanzo


She had said it all, keeping nothing back as she revealed her true feelings for Casavir. Fenrir finally decided that it was time to admit how she had begun to care for him not long after they first met in the mountains of Old Owl Well. Her speech done, the young cleric of Lathander cast a beseeching look at the older Tyrrian paladin standing before her.

Casavir sighed, "I appreciate your words, Fenrir. You will always be my captain and forever you shall have my devotion as your loyal follower and comrade-in-arms, but…"


"I am with child."

Fenrir blinked several times, unable to swallow what she had just heard. "With-," she stammered, "With child?"

The paladin threw down his shield and hammer. He then proceeded to strip himself of his armor. Only then did Fenrir notice the pregnant bulge in his pale belly where firm and rippling abdominal muscles used to take residence.

The cleric rubbed her temple with trembling hands. "Miracles abound in Abeir-Toril but I am not quite sure how this could even be remotely possible with a human male," she said.

Casavir smiled. "I did not believe it either. At first, I resisted it with all my being until I realized that despite our differences and similarities-", he coughed first before continuing, "-I must embrace the fact that we were meant to be together."

"May I ask who's we?" Fenrir dared to inquire. After all, it was obvious that she wasn't the cause of this.

"I was afraid we'd have to elope without telling you," Bishop spoke up as he stepped out of the shadows. He walked over to Casavir's side.

And to Fenrir's horror, the ranger knelt before Casavir, rested his scruffy cheek on the paladin's belly and planted a loving kiss upon the taut skin.

"No need to fret, dear leader, we're not just going to abandon you and your quest while Casavir and I settle down and enjoy our newfound marital bliss. But for his sake and that of the child's, Casavir shall remain in the Keep while I continue to lend you my skills as a tracker and hunter," Bishop declared. It seems fatherhood had finally succeeded in completely wiping out his evil nature.

"Fenrir, you were instrumental in bringing Bishop and I together. As a token of our gratitude, we have decided to name you as our baby's godmother," Casavir offered, his often somber face breaking into a motherly smile.

Fenrir woke up, clutching her scabbard and screaming like the bloody Nine Hells.

Uncle Duncan was already standing beside her bed. "Glad to see that you're finally awake. I know you're tired from running errands for Lord Nasher and the Watch, but could you go downstairs and help Qara serve the customers?" Duncan asked as he wiped his hands in his perpetually-soiled apron.

"Kindly repeat?" Fenrir mumbled, still groggy from the nightmare. She lifted the bedcovers and frowned with distaste at the discovery that she had slept in her armor again.

"Didn't you hear what I just said, lass? Go downstairs and help Qara. I expected a lot of patrons wanting to watch the show but it seems everyone in Neverwinter is here tonight and the Sunken Flagon's about to burst at its seams!" Duncan exclaimed.

"A show?" Fenrir wondered. Nonetheless, she obediently grabbed the apron Duncan held out for her, tied it over her belt and weapons, and proceeded downstairs to the common room. It was true. The Sunken Flagon was packed, but for what reason?

Fenrir bumped into the sorceress. "There you are! I was about to go upstairs and set your bed on fire! Take these and get moving!" Qara barked and shoved a tray of drinks at her.

Still somewhat dazed, the cleric took hold of the tray and began handing out tankards of ale to the patrons, whom were all a-buzz over the night's upcoming entertainment. It was not long before the commotion was hushed down to excited murmurs.

The curtains on the stage, which Fenrir didn't remember being there, suddenly pulled back and revealed a smallish figure working it on a single steel pole.

"Khelgar? What in the Nine Hells?" Fenrir gasped at the sight of the balding dwarf fighter, now garbed in a scanty sequined tunic with a neckline that plunged daringly to show-off his bushy chest. Khelgar hugged the pole and snaked his short, muscularly stout body up and down its length while emulating the seductive gyrations of Calimshan's courtesans. The crowd cheered and roared its approval.

"Marry me Khelgar!" a man yelled admiringly, only to find himself slapped by Sand, sitting on said tavern patron's lap and dressed in a silky white bodice.

"You dare prefer that tawdry, talentless display over my classy, exquisite ministrations?" the elven mage sputtered angrily.

Grobnar, clad in a purple veil and a green evening gown with tiny golden bells sewn at the hips, was catering to two other tavern patrons. He giggled at Sand's predicament. "Oh, Sand! Dear, dear Sand! Khelgar is the lustiest, most sought-after dancer in all of Neverwinter! Our charms are pale compared to the allure of his brawny feminine wiles!"

Refusing to concede, Sand retorted, "I was poised to become the Head Whore of the Arcane Brothelhood! I was the greatest! The most desired! Yet now, I am shamefully reduced to peddling my fleshly wares for two-bit coppers in the Docks District!"

The cleric could only watch the exchange in stunned silence. She turned her eyes back to the stage in time to see Khelgar joined by Callum, sporting the same gaudy indecency as his fellow dwarf. The crowd was going wild.

Fenrir woke up, clutching her scabbard and screaming like the bloody Nine Hells.

"You said you would not lose your temper, cast Flame Strike on my trousers and switch my hair pomade with alchemist's fire again! You promised!" Nevalle whined in front of her.

"I did?" Fenrir asked, her head still throbbing from the nightmare.

Nevalle was clutching a small white bundle, his breathtaking blue eyes brimming with tears. "Yes! Did you not give your word? Oh, how could I have resisted my Lord Nasher- the object of my secret desire in all these years of unfailing, ahem, service when he said- 'Nevalle, let's play Hide-the-Sausage-Taxes'?"

He loudly sneezed on the sleeve of his elegant uniform, which proudly announced his inclusion in the elite Neverwinter Nine. "Darling, now that I confess that this child, the fruit of my womb, is not of your seed but is Lord Nasher's, I beg of you- find it in your heart to forgive my momentary weakness and accept this baby as your own."

And before Fenrir could conjure a shred of rationale, Nevalle thrust the small bundle into her arms.

The bundle was an infant.

An infant with Nasher's bearded adult face, complete with the golden crown of the ruler of Neverwinter.

"Dada?" Little Nasher cooed.

Fenrir woke up, clutching her scabbard and screaming like the bloody Nine Hells.

"I know we should all savor this moment and whatnot, but could we get on with the ceremony? These fine robes are giving me the itchies and we have to get back quick because I left Sal in charge of the Sunken Flagon!" Duncan pleaded.

Fenrir looked down and found herself in the ceremonial vestments of a Dawnbringer, a heavy tome of rituals resting on her arms. Her uncle was standing before her, dressed in uncharacteristic finery- clean finery bereft of the smell of spilled ale and tavern stench. He was holding the hand of a woman whose face was completely obscured by a white wedding veil.

Duncan seemed excited. "Oh, and before I forget, I want you to meet your new Auntie," he said.

The mysterious bride lifted her slender gloved hands and drew back her veil to expose the taut and fleshless face of a githyanki sword stalker.

"Hello, Kalach-cha!" Zeeaire greeted, her fanged smile overflowing with sheer malice.

Fenrir woke up, clutching her scabbard and screaming like the bloody Nine Hells.

The cleric found herself buried beneath silken sheets. It was night and only a small oil lamp burned on a nearby dresser. Her naked skin felt the warmth of another person in bed with her, sending a small stab of alarm in her chest. Still gripping the scabbard underneath her pillow, Fenrir turned around slowly to find a soundly sleeping form beside her.

Though swaddled in sheets and with only the back turned towards her, it was evident that the other person's entire body was likewise devoid of clothing.

The skin was pale, the hair dark and short.

The muffled snoring appeared to be that of a man's.

By Lathander's glorious toe! Could it be?

A quick recollection of what had transpired brought blood rushing to her cheeks. Clasping her hands, the cleric winked at the heavens and wordlessly thanked the gods as she swore, by Tyr's holy dismembered right earlobe, her fidelity to the paladin's noble little heart.

Barely able to contain her joy, Fenrir lightly touched her sleeping companion's bare shoulder.

"Casavir?" she tenderly called.

The other person turned to face the cleric, stretching and yawning deliciously before addressing her.

"Oh, so we're still playing Let's-Pretend-You're-A-Tyrrian-Paladin-So-I-Can-Ravish-You-Like-An-Animal? You know I like it when you're rough but could you not be calling me 'Casavir' and making me harp about good and justice while you're at it? Reminds me of Garius, except you're not a man and old and wrinkly and evil and calling me 'Lorne' in bed," Torio said as she gave the cleric her most seductive and feral smile.

Fenrir woke up, clutching her scabbard and screaming like the bloody Nine Hells.

"Watch out!" Elanee shouted at her. By virtue of reflex, Fenrir obeyed the warning and managed to evade an incoming blow from an axe with a handle wrapped in pink ribbons and violets.

The attack was delivered by an orc wearing a blonde curly wig and haphazardly smeared lip rouge on its tusked maw.

"Fenrir, do not let your guard down! These orcs from the Drag-Dressing Tribe may look prim and womanly, but they are twice as deadly!" Casavir sternly reminded her as he successfully deflected an assault from another orc dressed in pearls and fine lace. Not far from the paladin, Neeshka was dodging blows and attempting to carry out a sneak attack against an orc in a periwinkle tutu and armed with a spiked hairbrush.

The cleric's opponent roared, the curls in its blonde wig shaking with anger. "Foolish and arrogant humans! You think you can keep the Drag-Dressing Tribe from taking over Old Owl Well and setting up our own nail spa? We will never secure a business permit from your Lord Nasher! Never!"

Fenrir dryly sighed as she drew her sword from out of its scabbard.

Oh, merciful Lathander. I may as well enjoy it while it lasts.