Adventurer who has gone overboard in their academic research on slimes, oozes, puddings, jellies and other related dungeon-blobs.
"How'd the date go?" Threnody says nonchalantly, and Valgar — haggard, slumped, and tragic — shifts a little. Their elbow is propped on the tavern table, and their face has heretofore been clutched in their hand; now they peer through their fingers, over the sea of empty beer tankards and coffee cups in front of them.
They give Threnody an eloquently withering look.
She reaches over and pats their shoulder. "Clerics," she says sympathetically. "They're the worst. All hot to trot and laughing at your jokes, and the next second mortally offended because you called it their holy fount, and you find yourself standing in the moonlit street with the door slammed and your drawers still round your ankles."
"Truly," Valgar says hoarsely, "on the day the world is consumed by the dread gods of pestilence, your services to the spread of crotch-pox will be rewarded."
Threnody nods judiciously. "That's very unpleasant, Valgar," she says civilly, and waits.
"Sorry," Valgar mutters eventually. "I'm — I had a good time. And then I had a very bad time."
"Want to tell auntie Threnody what the nasty little temple mouse did?"
"She seemed interested in my research," Valgar says, and puts their face back in their hand. "And I tried not to talk about it too much because — well, you know, I know people don't like that. But she asked questions and she didn't seem like she was humouring me at all, and...it felt flattering."
"Val," Threnody says gently, sitting on the edge of the table. "Are you telling me she took advantage of you by feigning interest, and hurt your feelings?"
"Don't make fun of me." Valgar brings their other hand up, as if they can hide their face even more.
"I'm honestly not," Threnody says, even gentler.
"...No," Valgar says. "Not the way you mean."
"What way's that?" Threnody says, and Valgar folds their hands under their chin and gives her another unwavering stare from wet-lashed eyes.
"I took her around my laboratory," they say. "I talked to her about my specimens. I talked to her about their ecology and life cycles and place in the natural dance of predation and detritus. I showed her my notes. I — she paid attention. She was thrilled."
"So what went wrong?"
Valgar puts a hand back over their face. "She's not exacly from la Cattédrale," they say from behind it. "She's quartered at their local temple, but she's from a splinter order, she's — she's a fucking Tithenite."
"No," Threnody says. "Order of St. Tithenai? The we don't care about the undead, oozes are the real abominations against life nutters?"
"She — she was so happy," Valgar says in a broken little voice. "She started saying that my research could practically exterminate the Common Pink—"
Threnody gingerly puts her arms around the slumped research wizard. "If she ever speaks to you again, I'll stab the genocidal little zealot," she offers.
"She was very nice apart from that," Valgar says, in a way that would be inaudible if not for the wetly choking misery.
"That's how cultists get you," Threnody says, and risks a soothing stoke of their hair.
