"Lovely," Morgana's voice nearly purred, and the straw doll's hands were brought together, "It's so rare to be called by someone who knows my name lately, let alone titles."

The doll twirled about on one leg, before bringing itself to a sudden stop, twisted over on its side as though half limp while it's head moved in a glance between Adedre and Tecla.

"Now then, what services do you require?" Morgana asked. 

Tecla, as fascinated as she was by the morbid little construct, couldn’t help but look away as the thing flopped bonelessly to one side and peered in her direction. Adedre, on the other hand, seemed to delight in the doll’s antics. “It’s a bit of a complicated situation,” she said, leaning forward a bit, “bet let me see if I can explain it succinctly enough so as not to waste any valuable time.

Something very valuable was recently stolen from me; a creature both rare and powerful which took me a long time and great expense to acquire. It was intended as an offering to D’hurgen on the night of The Burning. An offering that was to secure me enough power that, in time, I might be able to challenge Amer’Loc, herself, for dominion over Sendria. Last night, however, a bothersome little thief found her way into my dungeons, set the creature free, and escaped with it into the streets of the city. Again, leading me to incure expenses which I was not prepared to pay and, worse, muddying the designs I’ve been weaving for months.”

Adedre sighed heavily and crouched beside the table, now, resting her chin on its rotting edge to gaze into the featureless face of the little doll. “Unfortunately,” she continued, “following their escape, my beast and the slippery shadow who absconded with him, have taken up company with a bladesinger of Sylvaria, and an Adherent of the Helping Hand. With their aide, both beast and bitch have eluded the best efforts of those I have sent after them.

What I require of you, dear Morgana,” the witch purred, now reaching out a finger to delicately stroke the straw-formed face, “is to retrieve my Kazari and the thief before the time of the Burning has passed.”

"Hmm," Morgana nodded the head of the straw doll, letting it lean onto Adedre's fingertip further for a moment, "I do believe I know of who you speak…"

Adedre’s eyes widened in surprise (or was it fascination), for a moment, but she quickly managed to subdue, at least, the outward traces of her astonishment. Beside her, though, Tecla swallowed a lump in her throat that was large enough to make a sound when it went down. The girl, despite having been warned to keep her movements to a minimum, felt the need to turn her head in order to avert her eyes far enough from the straw puppet to feel comforted by it.

... The straw doll really did go limp this time, falling backward on the book as the threads withdrew from it into a bundle of threads floating just above, in a vague semblance of a hand. There was the sound of fingers snapping. Several threads tore the straw doll open as if they were razors, slicing it into quarters. Then straw became fabric, and the four piles shifted into four fabric dolls. A shadow doll, a silver cat doll, and two elf dolls. The red headed elf doll was picked up by the red threads, almost invisible against the doll's red hair.

"Ahh, much better. Straw is convenient, but not comfortable," the red headed doll seemed to stretch its far more limber body, the red slash sewn across before its body seeming to pulse as if it might bleed. The doll then gestured to the motionless dolls beside it, "These are my targets?" Morgana asked, "And you are requesting two alive... Unusual, most unusual. Most ask me to bring death, but you ask me to bring life..."

“Only for the kazari and the thief,” Adedre nodded faintly, “and the shadow bitch you can have, as well, once I, and perhaps the retinue of my guard house, have had our way with her. “The cat-beast, though, I wish alive and kept so for my purposes, so long as I have him before the Burning. After that, I’d have to consider the value of keeping him alive for another year versus the power his life might provide…” Adedre clucked her tongue almost dismissively, her yellow eyes, at last flitting only briefly away from the much prettier puppet than had begun the conversation. “…Time passes and ceatures come and go. I have learned to keep myself fresh as the need arises and, should I have to wait another year or more,” her thin shoulders hitched in a shrug, “I’ll not like it, of course, but, if I must…”

Morgana chuckled, twisting the doll's body around as if it were in dance, a far more graceful performance than that of the straw doll, "Then, my price for this will be jewels of particular quality. One for each puppet I bring to bear against these individuals."

“I have no such jewels on hand, sweet Puppeteer,” Adedre confessed, “but, if that is your price, I have the means to get them. Can I assume that my promise is good enough for the time being?”

"Of course," Morgana had the doll stop, tilting it into a curtsy for her host, "That you offer this shadow walker is of particular interest to me. I hope that her will remains unbroken; that would be even lovelier. A broken will makes for a... bitter taste, so to speak. Though given how young she appears, the body is appealing regardless of what else happens to her..." Morgana mused.

"Ah, but I distract myself," Morgana lifted the doll back up, raising its hand, and Morgana leaned in over the table, the silhouette of a slender looking woman, one hand outstretched over the table, her thin fingers meeting the red threads that controlled her doll. It was nearly impossible to determine any details of the apparition, aside the silhouette being clearly that of a woman, and a black mask that reflected the flickering candlelight, nearly featureless save a bright, starry ruby in the forehead and painted red lips. Given how hazy the image was, it was clearly a projection.

Tell me how many gems you will procure, and promise them to me upon my mask, Morgana's red lips moved with her speech; this particular mask was no simple mask.

“I will procure as many gems as you bring me lives,” Adedre almost moaned, watching those red lips dance, “That, Thread Witch, I promise you. The life of the kazari, though,” and, at this the witch’s eyes flitted to the ever unravelling girl at her side, “and of this one,” she sighed, almost contemptuously, “are mine to do with as I see fit.”

Adedre leaned sideways, then, and coaught Tecla’s chin in her taloned hand. She cruelly wrenched the girl’s face toward her and danced her black tongue over the girl’s pink lips before looking back to the red, satin doll that writhed so seductively over her table. “You may have your choice of my men, your specification of jewel, your burning of soul, Morgana, but the kazari and this girl are mine.”

Morgana's lips curled into a wide smile, Then, my dear, we have a deal. And do not worry about time; my puppets are already in the city's streets.

Morgana lifted her hand, drawing the red headed doll back to her before doll and sillhouette faded into shadow, as the illusion she was.

By the way, open the silver doll if you wish. What's inside may be of interest to you.

The seam was not hard to find, but Adedre's talons nearly tore the doll apart in her curiosity. There, safely in the doll, was a vial of still fresh blood.

Gotta loot the baubles

Course, I'm not Ocyari so I don't think to do it myself.

Yes... Morgana is present. 

I've one slight adjustment to what you currently have, fairly minor in the long scheme of things, buuuut it may try Tecla's ability to remain still.

* * *

As the motes of dust spiralled about the doll, the bloody ribbon came undone, floating into the air just above the straw doll. Then it tore, shredding itself into long red threads that twisted about erratically. The threads stopped for a brief moment, before the tips sank themselves into the doll, the straw sizzling with the scent of burning. The threads pulled taught, lifting the doll upright. With but a brief glance about to gather where it found itself, the doll's head tilted towards the two women beside it...

... Too lucid  

She went from high to low temperature, and now she's getting ideas 

Also, I love how disorganized her library is. Can't find one simple, totally normal and not at all important book.

Clearly she could use a card catalogue system

On topic of said book... I'm rather tempted to make a write up of the completely irrelevant and uninteresting pages she found...

It was fun to write 

This is the journal of a Lost Syl's change into the same sprite that they thought they killed. 

There were secondary messages in a few of the pages hinting more strongly that the original sprite wasn't completely gone, found in the first letter of each line break

Page 10 - Thank you, Windbell

Windbell's sole request of Mirithiel was to be brought back to her home, and this is about when they did arrive there

Page 15 - You are safe

The remnant of the original sprite trying to reassure Mirithiel that she wasn't in any danger. At least from the sprite's perspective. 

Page 22 - We are one

The point where there was no longer a distinction between Mirithiel and the original sprite - as Mirithiel became more saturated with fae magic, she became a sprite herself, and her now compatible energy blended with the residual energy of the original sprite that she had been carrying with her. 

Additional behind the scenes details are as follows.

With the strong connection made between mirror sprite and mirrored Sylvari, when the sprite was dying, it made a wild gamble and dove into the one reflection that remained immediately available to it. The reflection in Mirithiel's eyes.

Too weak to do much more than imbue Mirithiel with her essence, the sprite still decided that was certainly better than dying. At that moment, Starflower felt Windbell's complete disconnection from her dream, and began calling the mirror sprite with the name it had last assumed. To call them home.

And that is also why they were calling Mirithiel by the name Windbell - not specifically to force a change, though they were certainly happy with that outcome.

In this particular case, the fae motivations are not so inscrutable  

Page 23-28

Each of these pages shows a different painting, many of them with annotations written in Sylvan, using the same grass green as before.

One is a portrait of a being that seems vaguely humanoid, clouds obscuring their form like clothing. Bands of black help define the humanoid shape, almost providing an outline to them. All the lines lead from their limbs to their back and then into spiralling wings with dots in seemingly random places - wings of written song.

A'nia Songstorm

Another is a landscape - jagged cliffs overlapping one another into the distance, many with cascading waterfalls, fed by the rain coming from above. On each cliff are stones with holes in them. Music notes have been placed beside each of these stones.

A'nia Songstorm's domain, a boundless orchestra of whistling stones accompanied by the percussion of the rain falling from the dark clouds that support her castle in the sky.

There's a painting of a star-filled sky, broken by a burst of fire shaped in a ring, one side coloured blue and the other side coloured normally, a red haired sprite with hands outstretched on the left, and a white haired sprite with body tilted to one side on the right.

Fireblossom and Lightbloom practising their art in A'nia Duskwing's domain, a domain always dark as night, broken by stars near and far. Looks pretty, but no wind here, so it's a bit uncomfortable for me.

There's a group painting that folds out of the book, five sprites sitting together on a stone rooftop and watching bursts of colour in a night sky. Two with stiff, white hair, one with wings like snowflakes, the other with crystal wings. One with curvy blue hair, with wings like the rainbow on a bubble. One with wild red hair, and black, sooty wings. And the one in the middle of them all, short green hair framing their face, wings like a butterfly's but translucent and white.

We've no name for our group. We don't really need one.

There's another page that unfolds into a large full body image of a woman in a black gown that sparkles like a starry sky. She has large, butterfly-shaped wings that seem to be formed out of glittering flower petals. Her face is framed by long silver hair woven into braids that keep the hair out of her face. Her eyes seem as like galaxies, and her lips are curved into a warm smile.

A'nia Starflower

A note in the margin reads I'm running out of pages. Wonder if I can use the backs of the first pages?

Page 29

This page is a mess of colours. Red, black, green. Some of it ink, some of it not. The Sylvari script is halting and broken, as if the author was not a native speaker of the language.

Why did I write that I died? I obviously didn't die. And the world outside a'niorna is a dead world we can't survive in. At least not without making extensions of a'niorna into that place, behind closed reflections, little pockets of magic that can sustain us. And what's the deal with the name on the front? Mirithiel? Weird way to spell Windbell. And ink? Why would I use something so bland as that?

I write that but I do remember something. A scream. I... did write... I'd never forget it.

No.

It's not me.

I'm not dead!

This book came from outside, right? Well it can go back there. I don't want it. I don't need it. I can get another one. A better one. One that actually has big enough pages to paint the pictures I want to keep. Pictures of my family, my A'nia, our domain and those we visit.

But this book is not mine to throw away, nor ask Fireblossom to burn. I'll return it to A'nia Starflower. She can decide where to put it, or get rid of it.

Page 30

The words written here are black as the night sky, and stars can be seen in the blackness, as though each letter were a window to some distant place, looking out into space. It is not a language of any kind seen on Antaron. There are two notes placed in the book, however. One being a rough translation provided by a cleric of Jusarin. The second being an assertion by that same cleric that their translation cannot be incorrect.

I dream a dream of a world
We dream of knowing the world
That world we left behind
Do you remember the dream we shared?

Crossroads
Our lost children
Your lost children

I found my child again
You will not take my Windbell

"Trouble"

The word had scarced left Ch'dau's mouth, but Aranwen reacted quickly, opting to drop the armour she was attempting to don. Instead she grabbed her left vambrace and quickly tied it on.

"SAMUEL, ARA-"

Aranwen jumped to her feet, drawing her blade from the sheath beside her, "Ambush? Mosic, stay behind us. We know not what we face."

As she stepped into the hallway after Ch'dau, she was surprised to see just how quickly he moved, having not seen him in battle previously. Her eyes widened in surprise as he nearly knocked over the three men on the stairs. Rushing forward, her body more limber without the armour that normally protected her, she kicked one of the men in the chest before they could recover, sending him tumbling down the stairwell backwards. From the reverse momentum, she spun around, her voice echoing through the hallway as she began to sing, making a horizontal swipe that the second man just barely had time to duck under, having the advantage of being lower on the stairs to do so.

The two men still in front of her drew short swords, casting a glance at each other to make sure they were in this attack together, before going for the unarmoured woman before them. A clang of metal on metal sounded as Aranwen caught one blade with her own, driving it towards the wall beside her. The other blade she lifted her left arm up to catch, battering the blade away just shy of her shoulder with the vambrace. Seizing the opening, Aranwen breathed, bringing her voice to a low crescendo as she rushed between the two men, following the parry into a riposte and impaling the one man in their dominant shoulder, forcing the blade from his hand.

"Bloody banshee!" The remaining armed man on the stairs called, lunging towards Aranwen.

She brought her blade across, her vocal going off key in her haste. Thankfully, his blade was narrowly parried aside Aranwen's torso. With the blades locked, she forced his away with her vambrace once more. Her voice found a resonating low timbre and she added her left hand to her right with her blade, lunging forward before he could recover, and impaling him where he stood. Kicking the man's body off her blade, onto the one that was just recovering from their fall down the stairs.

Aranwen turned back to the man still in the hallway, holding her sword ready.

"Is this really worth whatever you were told you'd get for this trouble?" She asked the man, who had gone for a dagger with a shaking left hand.

"Maybe yer right," The man replied with a grunt. Then he threw the knife.

Aranwen parried the weak throw, and lunged, driving her blade through the man's side.

"When will I learn?" Aranwen muttered to herself, withdrawing her blade and watching the man's body crumple to the floor.

Mosic's eyes were wide as he stared at the body in the hallway just before the stairs, and having watched the entire battle.

"Is it always like this?!" The poor priest asked in shock.

"I've seen worse," Aranwen replied matter of factly, before giving a gentle smile, "You may feel unaccustomed to this, and that's okay. If only there weren't a need to be accustomed to this..." She gave a soft sigh and shrugged her shoulders.

“Are there any others? Samuel is here!”

Mosic flinched at the sudden and loud shout, "Sweet Father Falloes!"

Aranwen didn't hear the Cidal's shock as she called down the stairs, "Might be one guy at the base of the stairs. Another fell on him though, so he might be knocked out or playing dead."

"Mosic, please watch from the doorway and let me know if more come up here. I'm just grabbing my things," Aranwen asked as she ducked back into the room he had rented. After sheathing her blade and donning her belt, she quickly picked up her bags and stuffed the rest of her armour into one. She was still underdressed, all things considered, but she drew her black cloak around herself. That would have to do while they relocated to a safer place.

As she made her way down the steps and into the common room proper, she looked between Kithran and Ch'dau, before offering the swords she had collected from the two men she slew to the Kazari, "I recall you mentioned wielding two blades?" Aranwen asked

Aranwen looked back to Kithran, "So much for not being followed, huh?" She chuckled softly, "Well, we'd better move. No need to get bogged down explaining ourselves to the town guard and be sitting targets for another wave of mercenaries."

"Now then... if they were told you were wearing a black cloak, Kithran," Aranwen mused, "I'll go first out the front door. Decoy. See if I can't draw the attention of onlookers and lead any pursuers away if they expect I'm you and therefore that Ch'dau will be following, relying on you to scout ahead," She looked around the common room, before her eyes settled on the kitchen, "There's probably a side entrance for receiving food from the market there in the kitchen. The rest of you go that way. Get some medical supplies from that apothecary."

"Any questions or things to consider?" Aranwen asked.

If there was a system, Morgana wouldn't work at all

So I'm happy to be without a system at present

I see we have undesired company. It seems Aranwen won't have her armour back on in time for this battle...

So rude, can't they wait until a lady's done dressing?

Page 17

The page is littered with diagrams. Perhaps magical, perhaps musical. Perhaps both.

In the margin, hidden in a corner is written When did I stop being Sylvari? 

Page 18

This page has a painting of a white haired, dragonfly winged humanoid doubled over in laughter at another barely visible one enveloped by a large snowball.

Page 19

This page has a painting of a blue haired sprite with a hand outstreched, and multiple droplets of water floating around them, glittering like stars.

Page 20

This page has a painting of a pale, almost transparent figure walking upon a carpet of snow through a flowery field.

Page 21

This page is covered with geometric looking diagrams similar to page 17.

There may have been writing on this page, but it has since been covered.

Page 22

The script is Sylvari, but it is not written in ink. The letters are a vibrant grass green, a substance that defies identification.

Why do I keep this drab book around? It's so plain and boring. Doesn't look like something of mine.
Even the others can't help but laugh. It's like, the one thing I keep carrying around that doesn't belong.

Ah, much better.
Really, A'nia Starflower spoils us. I only asked if she might help me figure out how to make this book less bland, and she takes it in hand and suddenly - bloom!
End result, one beatiful tome of memories for a pretty (I like to think so anyway) wind sprite.

Off we go to A'nia Songstorm's domain. I want to learn more songs, learn to play the bells better. I'm actually a bit nervous.
Never would have imagined meeting A'nia Songstorm again. I can remember Snowbell annoying the storm pixies a long time ago. It was really quite fun.
... Ever feel like you've forgotten something?

2 seems the much better alternative without the benefit of a single point to defend. So we'll proceed with a Gib, Aranwen and Ch'dau as the front line while advancing down the hall. I'll amend my post to that effect a bit later  

I'm not able to really visualize the room proper, but from my understanding it is a room with several doorways opposite the gate we entered, most of which are small cells, one or more leading further in.

Given the halls are narrow, if we know the path they are coming from by Gib's magic, Aranwen will either

1. block the path to buy time while the gate is dealt with
   -or-


2. push forward with the party on the hope that they can get to the enemy mage and perhaps where the undead are coming from, and be able to stop the creatures from overrunning our position

Aranwen had no words as she stared at the man. It just didn't make sense. It didn't make sense at all.

And then it did.

Her eyes burned with molten fury, but she had no words for this despicable creature. Instead, she turned her back, moving to the front and center of the group.

"Eyes forward! Ch'dau, Gib, with me! Cover Cedric and Midge," Aranwen spoke, her voice colder than it had ever been heard before in present company, "We can only go forward now."

She may well have led them to their deaths, and that was why she stood at point. Even if they were to die here, no, especially if they were to die here, she'd do what she could to keep them safe as long as she could. She lifted her blade, holding it forward and ready, mindful of her stance and her placement. The stone was solid beneath her feet, no errant foliage to slip on, and she willed herself to be as unyielding as the very firmament. She'd take down every damnable ghoul she could, pay the price of every step and their safety with her blood, until either they stopped coming, or she was dead. 

It was all she could do.

As Aranwen closed her eyes, it felt as if her blade had cracked again, an aching pain that spread from her heart, water pouring out of the crack as tears flowed from her eyes. She did her best to keep moving. Did her best to think about what she needed to do, what had to be done, how to get something done. Keep herself busy, so it wouldn't register in her head.

She was alone.

Aranwen could hear the others talking still, but the voices barely registered to her. She knew she had to pull herself together, and she tried. She didn't want her blade undone. She couldn't lose what she had left. 

Aranwen felt Kithran's touch, faint through the placement of the cloak on her lap. A connection that helped her start to find her ground. Where she was.

Then it was warm. She opened her eyes in surprise, finding herself embraced with silver fur. There was a moment of confusion, but then, Aranwen leaned into the embrace. It had been a long time since she had shared warmth like this from another.

“I know very little about what any of you believe about what comes after this world,” the kazari said softly, cradling Aranwen’s head against his chest, allowing her tears to soak into his fur, “but, among my folk, it is believed that the honored dead find themselves called to the Eternal Hunt.

It is a place of beauty and bounty,” he explained, “where pain is no longer found. When you leave this world, you are greeted in the next by those who were called to The Hunt before you – your ancestors and the companions who have fought by your side – and, for the rest of time, you feast in their presence, hear tales told of their bravery and yours, and remain guarded by Rrowl and Keziri as both of Khr’a’s eyes smile happily down upon you.

Death is not a thing to be feared,” he finished, tipping his head forward to press it against Aranwen’s, “but embraced. What awaits us on the other side are all the things we will never find here.”

The belief Ch'dau offered was not so different from that which Aranwen had hoped in her heart. There was a similarity, and as he spoke of the Eternal Hunt, Aranwen's thoughts turned to what had been called the Eternal Forest. Perhaps in some strange way, they were not really separate places. As Ch'dau spoke, she took comfort in his arms as her tears dried, and she found herself returned to the present.

"I do not fear death," Aranwen murmurred, her voice faint, "I dance with death every time I draw my blade in battle."

With her eyes closed, she looked at the grey crystal embedded in the blade of her spirit.

"But to walk the road without them feels... lonely."

Aranwen took the gleaming grey crystal from her blade, and held it close in her heart. Before, whenever she had done this, it seemed to be more painful to do than if she hadn't. In the here and now, she felt warm, almost rekindled between the faint embers of distant memory, and the gentle flame beside her of Ch'dau's spirit.

Looking up at Ch'dau, she gave a sheepish smile, "Second time in only one morning, you've held me in the present twice now."

It did embarrass her a bit. She hadn't meant for it to happen. Her burdens were hers.

She offered a smile to Kithran as well, "It's alright," Aranwen offered, "I'm not so fragile that a piece of cloth will see me undone. Else I wouldn't have offered it; you can use it, if you wish. But, thank you, Kithran."

Sitting up once more, Aranwen breathed deeply, centering herself on where she was, who was around her, and what they planned to do.

Aranwen took a breath, "Her name is Saeriel," She offered, "She died thirty years ago in this cursed land, while we were in pursuit of slavers," She averted her gaze, "Perhaps it might seem a long time to mourn, but if things were different she'd still be here. It's... a lot harder to accept when a Sylvari dies when you know they still had many, many years they could have seen, and their absence is felt so much keener."

"But, that's enough of the past for one morning," Aranwen observed as she started to re-don her leather, "I dare not indulge it again right now, unless I risk falling in once more."

Aranwen's lips curled in disgust. It took no small effort to imagine these smaller cells formed what were some manner of hold, for those that were captured or perhaps even purchased. Would that she could see this place brought down to never be open again, but that was not in her power. All she could do was hope that this led to where they needed to go.

"Gib, do you feel anything from the passage we came from?" Aranwen asked, "We might as well be certain of both our fore and aft before proceeding."

"Now then, let's clear this path. I'd proceed as we can while you still have the blessing of the Battle Lord with you."

I get very demonic vibes from Morgana...

Or is it infernal? Can never get them straight in my head...

Piles of fabric, cotton, and thread littered the octagonal chamber to the point where the floor was not visible. The chamber was lit by a single chandelier in the middle of the room. The flames and shadows danced in the breeze blowing through the open window. Or were the candles moving?

With metalic creaking, the chandelier unfolded pieces of itself into bronze, spindly, wire-like arms, stretching as one might stretch after waking from slumber.

A thief, a cat, and a blade walk into a bar

Several bronze hands went for fabrics, grey, black, brown, and apricot, while others rummaged about, searching under the mess.

Things have become very exciting indeed

Needles and scissors flew of their own accord, sewing the fabric into two roughly humanoid shapes no larger than a toy doll, one distinctly larger formed of grey cloth, the other smaller and made of brown cloth save the tips of the arms and head, where the apricot fabric was used.

Time is against her. Her ants scurry about trying to fix the mess she has made, but there is no certainty, no way for her to know if she will be successful in her endeavours, let alone the success of her ants

Details are added. Cat ears, and elven ears, noses and eyes. A small black cloak. Little sticks like daggers.

I wonder, how desperate is she getting? Desperate enough to make... a deal?

Fabric, needles, scissors and thread fell to the floor once again, and in the bronze hands of the chandelier was a doll of a silver cat and a doll of a dark thief. But one arm kept moving, kept rummaging about in the piles of fabric

The desperate are always the easiest to make into a puppet

Finally the one arm stopped moving, withdrawing from under the mess two cloth dolls sewn together at a hand, one with red flowing hair, the other with brown. Red stitches formed a long line across the torso of the red haired one.

There you are

A pair of scissors was brought up, making a snipping sound as it was brought closer to the connected hands of the two dolls

I wonder... how desperate are you?

My inbox is always open for scheming

That reminds me... we've not seen a post from the Puppeteer in a bit...

76 - that's a yes

Maybe they'll end up with a hostage situation on their hands...

Also to be fair, Aranwen did catch on to the fact that she was being followed, but didn't look down to see that it was a child following her and she already had suspicions of Kithran's skill set after the previous evening, so was extra alert to Kithran's movements

Please leave Saina with me

Maybe she'll appear again

Maybe she won't

Who knows?

And to amplify the paranoia - did anyone actually see her enter the tavern?

(The answer is yes; she didn't appear out of nowhere. She just walked directly up to Aranwen after entering, so people assumed the child was with her. Also now I'm wondering if the waittress will comment on Saina when she reports back... there's a ponder)

PS I loved the 'maybe they're not as strong' also Ch'dau hugs are very heartwarming

Kith did glare at the Syl this time, though a smile played at the corner of her mouth. She took a step forward so that she was in front of her accuser, “First of all, Ara, please do not do that again. Second of all,” and now her grin widened much too fully, “you are right, Syl. Incredible,” she turned to the Cidal, handing him back his medallion, “She really is too good at this, but I’ll get her. And,” she shrugged, “I am sorry, I suppose.”

She gestured to the bed beside Mosic, “Go on now Ara, you stoic, golden-eyed, terror. Even gods need a little assistance sometimes.”

Mosic returned a look somewhere between bemusement and annoyance at the sleight of hand Kithran had just performed, "I would very much appreciate that not happening again," He noted, "We who follow the Right Hand carry little that isn't for the benefit of others less fortunate than ourselves."

Aside Kithran, Aranwen flinched again, as she had each time she had been called Ara. On some level she had thought to endure it, if only to reduce the ache she felt by exposure, but it didn't seem to work as she had hoped, "If you will use my full name, I won't do that again," she offered.

With a sigh, she shrugged her shoulders, looking between Kithran and Mosic, "Well then. I see you will not be convinced..."

She began loosening the leather bands around her arms, and winced as she took each sleeve off. Unbandaged were numerous wounds where blade or skeletal hand had managed to land a blow through the leather, sealed by coagulation as the leather was tight enough to hold the wounds closed. Perhaps that was another reason why rather than leather plates, hers was more like winding vines. Eventually the entire armour was off, leaving her in the light layer of clothing she wore underneath which left her shoulders bare as well as her arms.

"It looks worse than it is," Aranwen reassured the others.

"A-are you certain of that?!" Mosic asked incredulously, "Why are your injuries uncared for?"

Yet, as he examined Aranwen over, his face went from shock to relief. True to her words, her bloodied arms looked a lot worse than they were, as she hadn't the opportunity nor real means to clean them since the string of encounters from the prior evening. All of the injuries she had sustained were minor, though there were a fair number of them.

After Falloes' blessing, her arms were easier to see properly. Aranwen's body overall showed many scars across the otherwise fair Syl skin, especially along her left forearm where she had evidently used her vambrace in an attempt to deflect blows she hadn't avoided.

"Thank you, Mosic," Aranwen gave a smile, "The others' injuries were far greater, and the supplies I had to treat them with was never meant for more than one person over the length of their patrol," She offered as an explanation.

"I see," Mosic lifted a hand to his chin in thought, "Then, what is it that ails you so? Even as you sit here, without it showing in your face, I have the sense of a pain of some kind. I would know of it to see how it may be helped, if not healed."

Aranwen shook her head, "It is not important right now. Kithran has a book she would like to get her hands on, and we have Adedre actively scheming something that-"

Mosic however had turned his attention to the cloak Kithran wore, "That cloak... Is that yours?" he asked

((Kithran commenting it is hers for now but was lent by Aranwen))

Mosic nodded solemnly, "I think I understand," His generally warm tone seemed subdued before he looked to Aranwen, his eyes with a gentle sympathy for the Bladesinger, "I am sorry for your loss."

Aranwen's eyes widened, and once again she bowed her head, her hand going to her face as she began to cry.

Mosic looked to Kithran and Ch'dau, "That cloak... I wasn't sure until I saw it closer in better light, but I've seen its like before," He offered as an explanation, "As a priest, how could I have not? The pattern stitched into the fabric marks it a cloak worn by a Syl in mourning."

Mosic gently placed a small hand on Aranwen's arm, "This is, indeed, a deep wound that will not heal easily."

As Kithran pushed for Ch'dau to accept help, Aranwen sighed inwardly. She knew full well the resistance Ch'dau was offering, and she was glad Kithran was there to push him into accepting the ministrations of Mosic. Once Mosic looked steady on his feet, having recovered from learning the identity of the one Kithran had called Samuel, and Aranwen saw him retrieve needle and thread, she moved to Ch'dau's side.

The question Mosic asked of Ch'dau gave her pause. In all the rush, she had never given thought to the question of Ch'dau's origins, her concern only for Ch'dau's wellbeing in the present, especially resulting of the state she found him in. Aranwen already saw in him a companion in need. That he was someone people would be afraid of, someone so out of place on Antaron, she didn't think of that. He was a proud warrior who she would be happy to fight beside, and that was what she saw when she looked at him. 

With a gentle smile, she offered him her hand. Aranwen might not have had much skill as a healer, but she knew it was going to hurt.

Though she had no doubt as to Ch'dau's strength, and so she had offered her left hand as a precaution for herself.

He just needs to hide behind Aranwen while Kith and Ch'dau stealth and scout. Aranwen can keep him safe, right?

Page 15

This page is written in Sylvan, with an extra curl for fancier looking script.

Young sprites really can be quite distracting, always seeking to make fun with whatever they come across
Or are they even young? Do they have a concept of age? It's so easy to think of them as children, but they could be older than I am
Under the star sprites at night they will rest for a bit, giving in to the tiredness that comes with their boundless-seeming energy, at least until Fireblossom and Lightbloom start competing over a lightshow

A'nia Starflower mostly watches, like a mother content at seeing their children at play, providing the canvas upon which we stand, occasionally treating other sprites and other A'nia
Recalling, perhaps at times, Antaron and the land beyond their own, a land they simultaneously would like to return to, a land they have given up to the peoples of Antaron... is it a land they would like to reclaim?
Even though it hasn't been long, my feelings for Antaron, especially the forests... are they beginning to fade?

Scares me a bit
After all, home should be where I came from, where I want to go, where I want to return
Fever dream as that is now - like any other sprite, I wouldn't survive long if I went back
Even saying all that, it's a strange feeling. I don't think I should feel as though this is more of a home than where I was

Page 16

This page is written in Sylvari, multiple lines having starts and stops with clear hesitation on part of the writer.

Are my dreams... really my own? I keep meeting Windbell in them. I've never met her as a wind sprite, so how do I know what she looks like and recognize her?

It was awkward at first, neither of us really ready to talk to each other. Just idly noticing each other in the dream and keeping our metaphorical distance. Then one night she asked me to play with her, and I found out why I had the name Windbell. Together, we wove wind as one might weave a cloth, though that is a very loose description of what we did. I haven't the right words to describe it. Instead of forming a fabric, it formed music.

The next day, I tried the same motions on a whim, and it worked. The sprites heard and were overjoyed. They were so very happy to listen to my music again. Snowbell in particular was worried I had forgotten, and it wasn't something another sprite could teach me. Even A'nia Starflower seemed joyful that evening. I think that was the first genuinely warm smile she gave me.

I have mixed feelings about it.

Together, we make up a group of performers: Snowbell and I lead the song in duet, a dance of ice and wind - Firebloom and Lightblossom dazzle with displays of fire and light - Waterpetal sets the stage, and enhances the part of every other sprite with rainbow and sparkle

They've been without Windbell for a long time.

When I met Windbell again in dream, I shared with her the memory of how happy A'nia Starflower and the sprites were. She was surprised to learn I had picked up what we did the previous night, and was glad for it, perhaps even relieved.

We shared our apologies. In the end, it seems we both took the other's life, even if she was the mirror sprite.

I don't know what's going on exactly with our connection, if it's even real, or how it happened. Yet, it feels as though... it's growing stronger. As it does, I feel better. Though it's... not without its complications.

... Getting used to the size of a sprite will take some time.

I really wouldn't put it past Kithran to try sneaking another piece if she suspects someone is distracted