Just a short one...

I imagine Dak will spend some time "aimlessly wandering" Hyanda Nost, seeking out supplies (moonshade, sling bullets, rations, etc) that have been diminished in their travels and, if he can get away with it, possibly slipping into parts of the keep where he probably shouldn't be unattended. I'm leaving it a bit open ended just to see what might or night not happen during the first part of his exploration, I guess... Joined by one or more of the other party members? Chased down or chased off by overzealous and/or dubiously watchful guards? Random encounters with the Commander? Etc....

Following the departure of Arathea and Seleniniel, Dak found his assigned bunk in the barracks and unloaded a good deal of his heavier and less than necessary gear. After doffing his armor and changing into the scarlet and gold livery of House Mithethiel, he sat for a moment, resting his legs and pondering the impact and implications of this unfortunate (if unavoidable) delay of the tasks to which they’d been assigned. Both Lord Isil’nari and the Fae Court had expressed, at least, some bit of urgency in the completion of their intertwined missions, but he couldn’t help but wonder what a deferral of a fortnight or so might mean to creatures that lived for centuries or millennia as compared to those who only spent a few decades under the sun.

Surely the Fae’s patience would endure longer, wouldn’t it? Their sense of time (or lack thereof) being vastly different than those of mortal folk and all… and, from what he recalled, they hadn’t imposed a firm deadline. The Sylvari, though, despite their longevity, might have placed more exigent circumstance on a swift resolution.

Will they suffer a delay despite its cause, he deliberated, or, perhaps, can we expect replacements to be dispatched? Orders to carry on with our diminished ranks? There were many possibilities, he supposed, and many variables to consider in all of it… some of those variables, he imagined, were known to very few, and some were known to more than others might expect.

Lots to think on, he decided, slipping from the bunk and padding for the door, and, at least, a bit of time to mull it all over. He paused in the doorway, producing his pipe and tobacco pouch, his gaze drifting over the expanse of Hyanda Nost that was visible from this vantage point. When his fingers dipped into the pouch and found only a few meager flakes of leaf remained, he puffed out a sigh and exchanged it for the little linen bundle that Seleniniel had discarded all those days ago. He packed the pipe from her abandoned supply of moonshade and indulged in a languid puff or two. “Plenty of time, too, I imagine, to restock some supplies and sundries, before those other answers come to light,” the halfling muttered to himself, an almost eager grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he stepped fully outside, “And, at least, some to spend exploring this remarkable citadel...”

At camp

“I begrudge you nothing, Mistress Isil’nari,” Dak said from behind as genuine a smile as she’d ever seen from him, “Our differences aside, there are some things we share in common, you and I.”

At her mention of how uncommon it was for the likes of them to find friends… true friends… the Cid bobbed his head, his teeth bearing down on the stem of his pipe as his gaze flited in Isilmewen’s direction. “Just so,” he concurred, his eyes and smile returning to Seleniniel, “Rare, indeed, and a thing to be treasured above the most glittering of hoards or the highest reaches of power, hm?” He risked reaching out and patting the wizard’s knee before rising to his feet. “I hope you find that, arwenamin,” he offered, his topknot bouncing as he tipped his head toward Arathea, “with Lady Ondolethe or anyone else. Should you do so, I’d also caution you to not squander such a prize in favor of our manipulative nature, yes? Quel esta, Seleniniel Isil’nari,” he grinned, sketching an exaggerated bow before turning to wander off, “I wish you deep sleep and peaceful dreams.”

Hyanda Nost

While the night at camp had passed without incident, it hadn’t been entirely uneventful, and Dak found himself with plenty to think on as Isilmewen guided the party toward the legendary Blade Keep. Those thoughts kept him occupied enough, in fact, that the halfling had travelled in an almost uncharacteristic silence, at least until the towering battlements of the keep came into view. It was such an impressive sight that it served to shunt the halfling’s musings aside in favor of marveling at the majestic architecture. He had been to many places in the Three Kingdoms during his years in service to House Mithethiel but, until now, Hyanda Nost hadn’t made the list. It was as extraordinary a sight as he’d ever seen in all the realms, rivaling even some of the greater Syl cities he’d ever visited. He was so taken by it, in fact, that he didn’t notice (or chose to ignore) the dubious glances that were leveled at him and Ruadhri as they entered the citadel.

His attentions were called back, though, when soon after the party made the courtyard, they were met by an imposing Syl warrior, easily identifiable as one of the elite Rimen’arma by his armor and bearing. The impression that the Storm Rider had been expecting (even anxiously awaiting) their arrival, sent a chill of foreboding along Dak’s spine… This doesn’t look like it’s going to be anything good, he thought, taking in the stern yet sad countenance of the warrior who had introduced himself as Cilthas Tatheme… and it wasn’t good, at all. The Kosta’cora brought unfortunate news, delivered with reserved compassion and discretion, that Arathea’s father had lost his life in a tragic accident. The Cid’s heart swelled with sympathy for the bladesinger, but he swallowed the Storm Rider’s words well-salted. An accident, he considered silently, Possible, but not bloody likely.

Arathea took the news with the stoicism he’d come to expect from her, and seemed to mull over Tatheme’s offer of escorting her back home – weighing family duties against those of her order – but, in the end, as most in her position would do, she chose family. Not surprising. What did  catch the halfling off guard, though, was Seleniniel’s eagerness (or was it insistence) to accompany the bladesinger back home…

“I'm coming too,” the mage asserted, taking hold of Arathea’s arm in an almost too familiar manner, then releasing it just as quickly and giving a sheepish smile, “Please.”

Fast friends, indeed, Dak mused, a brow lifting at Seleniniel’s uncharacteristic display, Or, could it be something else?

“This is no coincidence,” Mistress Isil’nari went on, “You must go, but not alone… there is… too much at stake.”

Ah… There it is, the thief smirked inwardly, intrigued though not entirely surprised.

Although dubious herself, at first, Arathea relented, accepting Seleniniel’s offer of company.

“Madam Arathea,” Mae’rel spoke up, “my deepest condolences. I know we have.. a duty to fulfill, but I completely understand that you must go. We will await your return here, unless you would wish otherwise.”

“Indeed,” Dak nodded solemnly, “my sympathies, as well, Lady Ondolethe, to you and your House. We will await your return. Until then,” as he bowed, his gaze ticked unbidden between Arathea and Seleniniel, “Aa’ menle nauva calen ar’ ta hwesta e’ ale’quenle.”

The return to the mortal plane from the fae realm hadn’t been as disheartening for Dak as it had seemed to be for some of the others. Sure, he lamented the loss of vibrancy and the sense of wonder – the “real world” now seemed washed-out and dreary in comparison to Ysmiril’s – but, at least, here he could touch things, nor did he have to worry about a misstep inadvertently leading him off the edges of reality. He was exceedingly happy to have the bulk of his gear back, too; he’d felt naked without it (even if he hadn’t actually needed any of it while they had been away). The Cid had been a little sorry to see Ysmiril take her leave, as well. The faerie had been a constant among the troupe for long enough, now, that her absence seemed to leave something of a hole in the party’s dynamic.

Fortunately, it was a small hole and, as the group continued to Hyanda Nost without her, it filled itself in rather quickly if not completely. Isilmewen, for example, still seemed to hold on to some sort of longing for the fae’s company (and, perhaps, her realm, too). Seleniniel and Arathea both appeared to wrestle with the task given them by the Fae Court and their duties or loyalties to the Sylvari Empire but, nonetheless, the time spent in Ysmiril’s presence had forged a new sort of bond between the bladesinger and the mage… something less contentious than when they’d first struck out, if not altogether agreeable. Yes, even in her absence, Ysmiril’s influence on the party, for good, bad, or in between, was undeniable. At least from Dak’s perspective.

He was pondering those changes after they’d set up camp that first night en route to Hyanda Nost, puffing on his pipe and observing the goings on about the fire as he was wont to do. He felt a little heartbroken for Isilmewen when she had finally doffed the hienomekko she had been gifted in favor of donning her armor once more. She had folded the thing up and packed it away with something akin to sad reverence in her eyes… I’m sure you’ll find occasion to wear it again, Lala, he thought dolefully, even if you’re alone when that time comes. A droll smirk formed around the stem of his pipe, then, and he puffed out a smoke ring driven by a faint chuckle. I’ll miss it, too, he admitted to himself, but, given what lies before us, I’ll be grateful for the lack of distraction.

His emerald gaze tracked across the camp to where Seleniniel and Arathea were engaged in a low conversation, next. Their voices were indistinct at this distance, so Dak relied on his skill at reading lips to put the Syls’ chat into some sort of context… Musings on the tenuous duality of the intertwined missions and the motivations of those behind each, for the most part… Near the end of their talk, the mage held up a folded piece of parchment and muttered something that he interpreted as suggesting there was more information left behind at the Isil’nari manse than they had carried with them into the wilds. Arathea seemed to agree, although, she still seemed to cling to the idea that the situation was either black or white, reluctant to entertain the idea of any shades of grey in between.

Intrigued by what he’d been able to glean from his observations and, perhaps, even more curious about the contents of the letter Seleniniel had waved about, Dak hopped down from his perch on the fallen log and made his way toward where she sat atop her bedroll, sealing that bit of parchment shut with wax. His intent, of course, was to disarm her with a wisecrack by way of finding a way in to wheedle a little more insight from her. Before he could so much as draw the breath to float a jibe between them, though, Seleniniel cut him off…

“Your ‘Lala’ left you to find your own evening entertainment?” The mage queried from behind the disparaging glare she tried to fix him with. “Shame, to cover her ass with something so crude as a blanket, eeh?”

Someone’s in a lively mood, this evening, the halfling noted, peering through the cracks in her façade. “A shame, indeed,” he grinned around the stem of his pipe as he reached the edge of her claimed space. He flicked a brief glance in the ranger’s direction and gave a deliberate and exaggeratedly disappointed roll of his little shoulders. “Likely for the best, though,” he suggested as his gaze returned to Seleniniel’s face. He flashed an impish smile, cupped the bowl of his pipe with one hand, and waggled the fingers of the other between them; “Distractions and all that, you know?”

“Besides,” he crouched down at the foot of her bedroll and raised a brow, mischief gleaming in his eyes, “entertainment is found easily enough if one knows where to look, eh?” He tipped his head in Arathea’s direction without actually glancing that way; “It seems, for example, that you’ve been entertaining yourself with Lady Ondolethe’s company of late. Assuaging the concerns she has about all of this, perhaps,” his eyes went wide and he feigned a gasp of shock and covered his mouth with a hand, “or, could it be, Seleniniel Isil’nari is forging an actual friendship? Sheilin save me! Miracles abound!”

((OOC: Back and forth as you will. ))

So, amongst the members of the party, an accord had been reached to accept the task set before them by the fae court. Of course, with acceptance or death being the only options available, the choice was a simple one. He would happily, and without question, deny the Speaker additional decades to her already overlong life for the chance to enjoy a few more of his own. It was a matter of self-preservation as far as Dak was concerned, the propaganda and politics of it all be damned.

Others in the troupe had concurred just as readily as he had, though Isilmewen and Rosariel cited preserving the balance of nature, Mae’rel invoked her goddess’ teachings, and Ruadhri stood on his code of honor. Though, Seleniniel and Arathea chose different tacts in weighing their decisions than the rest. As was her way, the mage tested the court’s patience and courtesy by bluntly demanding ancient details and facts to support the fae’s assertions… there were a few moments during that exchange in which the cid was all but certain that they would all die here in this chamber… but, in the end, the dour wizard conceded if only to honor the promise she had sworn in exchange for the bofear’s life. The bladesinger, too, challenged the royal fae with queries (albeit with more polite diplomacy than Seleniniel had mustered), weighing her duty to the Speaker and the Sylvari Kingdoms against the task set before them; even going as far to question the veracity of the tales that Rhäärghan and Cwynthien had spun…

Just say yes, arwenamin, Dak willed silently, absently chewing on the stem of his pipe as the tension mounted and Arathea continued wrestling with her decision, No one in the Empire need know of any of this, after all, and what they don’t know can’t be used to challenge your loyalty. So, we bring back the pendant and it’s empty; who, other than us, can say it wasn’t that way when we found it?

After pushing through the portal (with notably less effort than it had taken to access the shadow path) and emerging into the keijuvaltakunta, Dak gasped in awe, his eyes wide and sparkling with excitement. Now, this is more like it, he beamed, his gaze sweeping the dreamlike vista before him, trying to absorb it all, Such colors as I’ve never seen! So magically beautiful! It’s incredible! His little fingers literally ached with the desire to reach out and touch something… anything… and, deep in his heart, there was a longing to leap into the pools and join the nixies in their frolicking. Hands to yourself, Whisperfoot, he reminded himself, his hands balling into fists and disappearing beneath his cloak with the effort of not doing so, Touch nothing. Eat or drink nothing but what you’ve brought yourself. Despite the strain of conforming to the edict and the way his head swam as his eyes darted from one thing to the next, the Cid was positively giddy at the sight of it all, unable to contain his delighted laughter as Ysmiril beckoned them to follow her deeper into the Fae realm.

The farther they travelled into this mystical domain, the more difficult it became for Dak to resist temptation. He wasn’t content just to marvel at the mystical splendor of the place and its people; he wanted… no, needed… to touch it, to feel it, to put some of it in his pockets. By the time the blue road spilled the party out into the open glade where more of Ysmiril’s people went about whatever business the fair folk tended to, Dak had wedged his hands under his belt to keep them still, and ‘touch nothing’ had become a nigh unending mantra echoing through his mind. It was almost painful. It was only when a male fae suddenly barred their way that the silent, ceaseless chant was interrupted and the halfling’s hands found themselves free of their self-imposed restraint in favor of seeking out the comfort on a dagger hilt.

“Ah, you must be the mortals we have heard of,” the mischievous man spoke in oddly accented sylvari, “May I have your names, please?”

Dak smirked and spiked a brow. Only if I can have yours in exchange, he snickered inwardly. Before he could give voice to the words, though, an obviously irritated Ysmiril interceded, brusquely scolding and then dismissing the trickster.

“Glyädumin has ever been a kusipää,” she muttered, shaking her head as the puckish man took his leave.

“Kusipää,” the halfling repeated the word on a light chuckle, “I haven’t quite figured out your language, arwenamin, but in the tongues of sun-children, I believe that word corresponds with asshole, no?”

“Very perceptive, uteliaspieniihminen,” Ysmiril nodded, her violet eyes sparkling with amusement, “Yes, something like that.”

“I figured as much,” Dak grinned, forcing his fingers back under his belt, “it was the inflection that gave it away.”

When the path that Ysmiril led them on brought them to what could only be described as a crystal palace, Dak’s jaw dropped and his eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. So dumbstruck was he at the sight of it that the ‘touch nothing’ mantra went still in his mind, only to return more fervently a heartbeat later… Touch nothing! Hands to yourself, Whisperfoot!

“Dear gods,” Isilmewen whispered, her tone matching the awe that he felt, “that such a place could exist!”

“Just so,” Dak nodded, tearing his gaze from the castle to flash the ranger a grin, “I couldn’t find better words, myself.”

The interior of the place was more astounding than the exterior, as if such a thing could even be possible, with seemingly fluid passages, shifting chambers, and sights, sounds, and smells that were positively overwhelming. In fact, it was so breathtakingly splendid that the halfling’s mantra finally escaped the confines of his skull, spilling past his lips in insistent whispers as he walked… “Touch nothing,” he muttered, even as his eyes touched everything, “Hands to yourself!” … Somehow, it seemed a thing of mercy for the Cid when the party was ushered into one of the chambers and, after being introduced to Äitienne, he was allowed to take a seat on one of the crystal platforms. He did so with great exuberance, freeing his hands again, and letting them drift over the impossibly warm and comfortable surface of the slab before taking up one of the pillows. He let go an almost blissful sigh as his fingers clutched the thing, sinking into the unthinkably soft material.

“The pillows are made of hämähäkkisilkki - spider silk,” Äitienne grinned, gesturing at the pillow in his grasp, “I do not suppose that mortals such as yourselves have ever experienced such things.” She paused thoughtfully.  “Ai että... I suppose that much of this place must be extraordinary for you.”

Dak simply nodded his head, smiled, and lofted another sigh before burying his face into the cloud-like cushion. He was so happy to finally touch something here that, when the flame-haired faerie asked them to relegate what weapons they had left to a table, he was reluctant to let go of the pillow in order to comply. He managed to do so, although it seemed to involve no small amount of effort, and, once his blades were laid out on the table, he returned to the crystal couch to sprawl contentedly into its comfort. Exactly how much time was spent lounging there, the halfling couldn’t be sure, but by the time Ysmiril returned, he felt that his need to touch something here had finally been sated.

The lavender-haired faerie swept into the room, a smile on her elegant features and a small parcel in her hands. “Isilmewen,” she called, offering the bundle to the ranger as Dak straightened himself in his seat, “This is for you, pikkusisko.  A kakankaantaiteilija, who is a dear friend of mine, created this for you.  She lacked the cloth to make it a punainen color like your own garment on such short notice, but it is a pleasing sinipunainen.  I believe that you will approve.”

Intrigued, Dak raised a brow and scooted closer to the edge of the crystal couch, smiling a bit at Isilmewen’s nervously excited acceptance of the thing… Oh, Lala, he snickered to himself, dragging his pipe out from beneath his cloak and clamping the stem between his teeth, In all the time I’ve known you, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your hands shake so… The ranger excused herself for a few moments to don the dress Ysmiril had brought for her and when she returned, an expression of pure enchantment on her features and sparkling in her eyes, Dak’s pipe fell from his mouth and clattered to the floor at his feet…

“Heren'salkya don't drop me. It is a marvel,” Isilmewen cooed, twirling in place, “Light, but not too cold, and not too warm either, like adorned in breath..."

“Thirkee stab my eyes,” the little thief croaked, clamping a hand over his mouth but not before the words had already escaped it. For an instant he was transfixed by the sight of her in that gossamer gown (and all that it failed to hide), but he didn’t realize that he was gawking until that nearly forgotten mantra came booming back into his mind…

Touch nothing!!! Hands to yourself, Whisperfoot!!!

…He shook his head to break the spell, his topknot dancing madly, and forced his eyes to go off in search of the pipe between his feet. By design, it took him longer to retrieve the pipe than it should have – he didn’t want to give Isilmewen (or anyone else) the impression that he was blatantly ogling her – but he did, at last scoop it up and, as a further diversion, set about packing it with a healthy pinch of moonshade.

“It really is lovely,” he heard her say, catching her curtsy out of the corner of his eye, “I’m honored to receive it. I’ll treasure it always.”

As will I, Dak mused, lighting the pipe and fighting the sheepish smile that threatened his lips, Gods forgive me.

Thankfully, there were plenty of distractions over the next few minutes that served to keep his eyes averted and spare Isilmewen any more undue embarrassment. The culmination of these diversions, though, was the appearance of a tiny, humming fae-creature that seemed to be a paige or messenger of some kind. As the little thing flew from the room like some sort of fantastical hummingbird, Äitienne smiled and addressed the party. “It would seem that the time of your summons has arrived,” she intoned, “Luck be dancing with you, children of the stars and sun.”

“Diola lle, arwen en amin,” Dak nodded as he passed the orange-tinged faerie, “We appreciate your hospitality.”

Ysmiril guided the troupe along a curving corridor and ushered them into a room that seemed celestial in its very nature. There, they were presented to a couple who Dak could only assume were the king and queen of this dominion. He followed their guide’s lead where genuflecting to the pair was concerned, bowing low and doing his best to keep his curious gaze from fluttering away from them in favor of other sights surrounding them.

“Mae govannen, heru en amin, arwen en amin,” he smiled, adding a respectful nod to both Cwynthien and Rhäärghan, by way of maintaining etiquette following the introductions, “Saesa omentien lle.”

Following that, he fell into silence, allowing Arathea to do her duty as their de facto leader and engage the noble couple. As expected, the bladesinger handled the diplomacy well, answering questions and providing the opportunity to make his own observations without much distraction. Admittedly, Dak was more than a little surprised at just how much Cwynthien and Rhäärghan knew about their mission, although, he supposed, he shouldn’t have been. He wasn’t sure that the Fae were as omniscient as the gods he knew but, having spent all this time in Ysmiril’s company, he imagined they were as close to on par as it might get. He listened and watched, gleaning nuggets of insight and information, as the conversation went on, but did his best not to betray anything with his expressions or reactions… until the pendant was mentioned.

At that, he was unable to keep his gaze from ticking sideways in Seleniniel’s direction. The knowledge he had gained from Lord Isil’nari’s ‘secret journal’ and shared with his niece, thereafter, set bells ringing in his head, and in hers, as well, if he read her returned glance properly. And, it perfectly explained the Speaker’s seemingly unnatural longevity and hold on her power in its course. Was there some sort of far-reaching conspiracy among the higher houses of the Sylvari to continue this trend, he wondered? Had the troupe been dispatched to Sendria to ensure the retrieval of this amulet for nothing more than to propagate the Her’I’coia mentioned in Tansathil’s scrawlings?

He couldn’t help but scowl at the thought and, when Seleniniel’s gaze met his a second time, he gave a subtle but knowing nod in reply. As the discourse came near its end, and the questioned was posed as if to whether the troupe would entertain the idea of doing what the Fae court asked, Dak, like Isilmewen, readily agreed. “Preserving the nature of both our worlds by trying to skirt that very nature seems wrong, even to me,” he answered for himself, “The Sylvari will have their prize as they like, but not at the cost of the rest of us. I agree.”

Upon awakening, Dak was more than a little confused as to how he could feel so well rested when it seemed to be, at best, a few minutes later than when he’d gone to sleep. He crawled out of his bedroll, rubbed his eyes, and squinted skeptically at the sky to confirm the sun’s position; wondering if there was fae magic involved in feeling so refreshed after mere moments of slumber. He wasn’t alone in his bewilderment, either. Others in the party were also questioning how such a thing was possible and, of course, the numerous queries that were floated seemed to amuse Ysmiril…

“The way was long and arduous.  You have slept all of the day and all of the night,” the tittering faerie explained, “This place is safe, so I allowed you to regain your needed energy.” She floated to her feet then and continued; “Even so, now is the time for the lot of you to be up!  Make your water, break your fast, and let us be on our way!”

…Confusion gave way to disbelief in a slow blinking of his eyes. “All day and all night,” he repeated, dumbfounded by the thought, “I was exhausted, yes, but even so, I don’t think I’ve slept that long in all my life!” He shook his head and, after resecuring his still loose curls back into a topknot, set about donning his armor and gathering up his things. I shouldn’t be so surprised, I suppose, he thought, his emerald gaze tracking the flitting fae, Everything has seemed as if pulled from dreams since we crossed paths with Ysmiril and, perhaps, it has... He raised a brow at the idea… Is it possible that these last days have been nothing more than one long dream? Am I dreaming even now?

Anxious to test the theory, the little Cid gave himself a hard pinch on the arm and slapped his own face for good measure. When neither method served to dispel the hallucination, he snorted out a chuckle and shrugged. “As real as can be, then,” he decided, watching as Ysmiril perched herself on a boulder at the edge of one of the pools, “At least for now, anyway.”

The faerie appeared almost blissfully entranced by the pools, commenting on their splendor and, after gazing out over the waters for a time, her violet eyes turned contemplative. “I wonder,” she mused aloud, her attention fixing on Isilmewen and Rosariel, “can you hear their song?”

There’s an actual song? Dak cocked a curious brow, bending an ear to see if he could hear it. I’ve always assumed that the melody referred to in their naming was of the babbling waters and the singing of the birds and frogs… When, after listening for a moment, he was unable to discern any real tune, he dismissed the effort of trying to hear it with another shrug of his shoulders… Meant for ears other than mine, I imagine.

His gaze wandered away from Ysmiril then, and found Seleniniel skulking through the swards a bit further down the bank. The way the wizard trampled the grasses, at first, seemed to hint at the return of the anger that had been stripped from her along the Shadow Path…

“Well, good,” he snickered quietly, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, “I rather prefer her snippy and snarky as opposed to all sullen and blah.”

…The longer he watched her, though, the more it became obvious that he wasn’t just fuming, she was looking for something. Components for her spells, perhaps, he mused, sitting down on his readied pack and fishing out his pipe, or something else? After a puff or two, Dak considered offering to help her find whatever it was, if for no other reason than to rile her up a bit in order to provoke some sardonic banter along the way. As he got to his feet to do just that, however, it appeared that Seleniniel had found what she was looking for. She stooped over, her long, slender fingers plucking a small white pouch from the ground. She opened the bundle in the palm of her hand, disdainfully regarded whatever was inside for a moment and then, with a hiss, lobbed the little package into the scrub. Whatever was inside couldn’t have been very heavy as, even with all the might behind the throw, it didn’t go that far. That seemed to incense the mage (and amuse the halfling) all the more and she hissed in the direction she had flung the thing before turning on her heel and stalking back toward where she’d made her bed.

As entertaining as Dak found the display to watch, it also served to pique his curiosity. It usually didn’t take much to set Seleniniel off – a quip here, an uninvited glance there – but the Cid could hardly imagine just what in all of Antaron could have been in that tiny parcel that might infuriate her so. Once the wizard had fallen into readying her things, Dak decided to ferret out the answer to that question. He discretely meandered toward the bank, pointing himself to where he’d seen the little sack land, and scoured the undergrowth with keen eyes and the toe of his boot until he discovered the cast away pouch. He scooped the little linen bag from amongst the nettles in which it had landed and peered inside, surprised to discover that it contained her cache of moonshade leaf. Interesting, he thought, his brow wrinkling a bit as he glanced over his shoulder to where Seleniniel toiled over her gear, Not at all what I would have expected her to throw away. She may come to regret that, later… a sly smile, shrouded by a swirl of smoke, played on his lips as the linen sachet disappeared into a pouch on his belt …especially if I smoke it all before she decides she wants it back.

…

Before long, the troupe was on the move once more, though this time the pace at which Ysmiril led them was less urgent. As they skirted the pools, the Child of Shadows, saw fit to impart more of the lore of her folk upon them and, in doing so, paused them at the edge of the waters and demonstrated how closely fable and fact were to one another by summoning a good dozen nixies to the surface. Dak’s eyes went wide at the sight of the creatures, and he giggled in spite of himself as he crouched near the edge of the pool in hopes of getting a better look as Ysmiril briefly conversed with them. When the exchange concluded and one of the little green lake folk waved goodbye, he couldn’t keep himself from waving back and he lingered at the water’s edge until not so much as a ripple or shadow was left to be seen. When they continued on and the faerie proclaimed that pixies as well as nixies watched them, here, the halfling’s eager gaze darted about in hopes of catching sight of the forest folk, too, and was half disappointed that he was unable to lay eyes on them.

More than once along the way, though, Dak pinched or smacked himself as if still unconvinced that this was all a dream and, each time, he failed to find himself back in the reality he had known before they had encountered the fae. He was delighted that it worked out that way, and hopeful that there would be more encounters which might cause him to bruise himself by way of affirmation. By the time they reached the aspens between which Ysmiril would open the gate to the Fae Realm, the Cid was almost too giddy with excitement and anticipation as to what might come next that he scarcely heard the faerie’s warnings, though he forced himself to heed them as best he could, his topknot bobbing with enthusiastic nods at almost everything the exotic woman said…

“Will you follow me, ystäväni,” Ysmiril asked as the gate shimmered into being between the trunks.

“Happily,” Dak answered, practically diving through the portal.

Dak was surprised when he wasn’t the only one to forego sleep in favor of a soak. When he caught sight of Arathea wandering to the edge of the pool, though, he didn’t immediately move to engage. The woman seemed serene, somber, and lost in her introspection, so he allowed her that for a time. As her thought began to untangle, though, and her eyes wandered away from the skies and across the sunlight that shimmered on the surface of the waters, Dak clenched his pipe between his teeth, dragged his elbows from the shore, and swam stealthily over to where the bladesinger sat.

“A long and arduous march, arwenamin,’ he said softly, resting his elbows on the ledge of rock at her feet, “and a bit trying for you, if I saw correctly… are you well?”

Arathea, who had barely taken notice of the halfling, was broken from her trance at his words. “A long march indeed, but that is not special to me.” She replied in a comfortable but sober tone, a small smile on her face.

The Cid offered a cordial smile of his own, bobbing his head in agreement. “No. Not for you, I’m certain,” he replied, plucking the pipe from between his teeth with one hand, and waving the other in the general direction of where their companions rested, “Probably not for Lal… er… Isilmewen, or Rosariel, either, I suspect… and Ruadhri…” he snorted out a puff of a chuckle, “…That beast will be dead twenty days before he realizes it and admits defeat, hm?”

“I am well, do not worry for me, I am just pondering;” the warrior continued, her tone light but strict, “there were happenings today, important happenings. You need not know right now, and I don't feel compelled to share, but I do appreciate you checking on me.”

The halfling’s smile brightened a bit, and he offered a slower nod in lieu of a bow. “I worry for you and the bull more than the rest of us, if you want the truth of it, astalder,” Dak admitted with a faint shrug, “Without the wall that you and he put between us and owlbears, and mushroom goblins, and gods-all-know what else, where would any of the rest of us be, this minute? Dead or running, most like. Checking on you is the least I can do.” He shoved a hand through his sodden locks, pushing water-plastered curls from his forehead, and pushed away from the rock, beginning to backstroke toward the shore from whence he’d come. “As to the rest, Arathea Ondolithe,” he called, still smiling, “I understand. Military intelligence, need to know basis, all of that…” The halfling made another expansive gesture that nearly sank him, but he managed to come back up sputtering. “…Far beyond my pervue. I asked only as a friend, not as an asset, yes?”

Arathea laughed quietly at the way cid behaved in the water, finding it an amusing display. “You are counted among friends, it is simply a long story. Things happened that even I do not fully grasp currently, but perhaps there may be time in the coming days.” The warrior began to sit up, collecting herself and stretching. “But now I believe it is time for me to rest, and I would recommend it for you too, my friend.”

“Just so,” the halfling replied, still slowly paddling away, “I imagine there are many things we experienced along the shadow path that are difficult to grasp. Though, I don’t think pondering on them overlong will bring them any nearer within reach… It is the nature of the Fae and their realms to be unknowable, I suppose.” He smiled and shrugged again, offering a faint nod, too, at her suggestion of getting some rest; “Indeed, arwenamin. I’m tired enough that I’ll count myself lucky if I don’t sleep the day away, hm? Rest well, Nila’arato Ondolethe.”

((OOC: Thanks for the collab, Esther! It was fun! At this point, I think, Dak will swim back to the shore of the pool where he entered, dry off, gather his things, and find a suitable place to pass out... unless he's intercepted by anyone else who might be feeling particularly chatty.  )

The varjopolku was nothing like what Dak had expected; though he truly had no idea just what those expectations might have been. Perhaps he had imagined this nether-realm to be more colorful… the way Ysmiril was as compared to the mortals with whom she now kept company… dotted with trees festooned with leaves of shimmering light or gemstones through which fantastical creatures frolicked. Maybe there had been some anticipation of the path they trod being strewn with chips of diamond as opposed to pebbles and flanked with enormous rubies and emeralds instead of stones and boulders. A violet sky above with an immense pearl in place of the sun. Something unimaginably magical. Whatever the halfling’s hopes had been for the place, this was not that.

There were trees and bushes and rocks, of course, but they seemed to be shadows… ghosts of themselves. Strange creatures, too, flitted about in the infinite penumbral expanse but, other than the light that flickered about them on occasion, they were as undefinable as the flora and as intangible as the filmy mists that writhed about and through them. It was magical alright, but not in a way that inspired wide-eyed awe and amazement. No, the magic here was more akin to what one might expect from a haunting or a curse. The Shadow Path was just that, a dark and eerie road through a bleak and ominous landscape that didn’t seem to always be there. It was disappointing and dreadful and, before long, Dak gave up on trying to perceive it as anything more than that. He didn’t try to make out shapes beyond the lights that skittered through the shadows on the side of the road, nor did he attempt to find words in the spectral songs that lilted from the deeper dark. Instead, he kept his eyes on the lavender light that was their faerie guide, and his hand entwined in the soft, silvery glow of Isilmewen’s rope, making certain that he wouldn’t offer so much as the tip of a toe to the vaporous blackness on either side of the path. For a while, he thought that his companions had resigned themselves to the same thing… eyes on the road, no distractions, and nothing to do but keep up with Ysmiril’s nigh-impossible pace… but then Seleniniel let go of the rope.

“What are you doing,” Dak hissed at the wizard’s back, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t draw unwanted attention, “We are meant to stay on the path…”

If she heard him, she didn’t acknowledge it, not even with one of those snide glances over the shoulder to which he’d become so accustomed. Rather, she wandered into the mist, seemingly entranced by the distant flickering of a mote of golden light.

“…Mistress Isil’nari,” he tried again, risking a louder, more insistent tone, “Come back!” Still no response and the mage was all but consumed by the haze now. “Seleniniel!”

There was another slackening of the rope, a blurred streak of blue armor, and a faint flash of steel as Arathea broke from the line and chased Seleniniel into the nothing. “Sarigraamin,” Dak winced, shaking his head as the bladesinger disappeared, as well, “They’ve both gone mad!”

In the distance, strange(r) sounds rose through the disquieting whooshing noise that the Cid could only assume was the ghost of the wind. A song, a shout, the clattering of bones, and a crunching of dry leaves. Before he could process what any of it was or meant, Dak realized that Ysmiril, too, had abandoned the path. Her violet glow no longer lighting their way but streaking like a star through the void and exploding like an aurora in the farther mists. Her song and words of rebuke boomed through the air like thunder, an agonized and defeated shriek followed and, as Dak squinted to try and make sense of it all, he caught a glimpse of the wizard and the bladesinger silhouetted in the blinding lilac corona of Ysmiril’s power… and something much darker, slinking its way back into the shadows.

When the trio returned and took up their places in the line once again, the diminutive thief’s gaze roved over Seleniniel’s features with freshly piqued curiosity. Her face seemed different somehow; softer, less severe, maybe even sad rather than angry. He wanted to ask her so many things… What were you thinking? What happened out there? Are you alright?... but, even with the gentler aspect that surrounded her, he sensed that now was not the time. Pressing her now, about any of it, would likely bring back the hard, acerbic, pinch-faced set to her visage, after all, and he felt that whatever thoughts or happening had wiped that away, she needed to be alone with and feel… uninterrupted. So, he bit his tongue and chewed on his own thoughts instead and, for the next hours (or days, or weeks, or millennia), followed Ysmiril’s lead, silently hoping that the next bend in the road would be the last and they would find themselves in the real world again.

Mercifully, just as Dak was beginning to believe that he’d not be able to manage another step, the faerie called them to a halt, announcing that they had, in fact, come very near the end of the Shadow Path. “Quickly,” the fae hissed, as her song shifted and began to open another ring,  “Morning is almost here.  The varjoovi will close, and we will be forced to remain here until I can open another.  With haste!”

“Praise all the gods,” the halfling sighed, “I’ll be twice as quick as you’d like me to be, arwenamin. Another second on this path would be twenty years too long!” He stumbled through the portal, one arm raised to blot out the too bright sunlight that stabbed at his eyes, and a shoulder lifted to press at his ear to muffle to overwhelming loudness of the real world. He melted into a ball against the trunk of the first tree he had seen in what felt like a lifetime and hid himself away from sun and sound until it became bearable again.

“Rest, ystäväni, and take heart,” Ysmiril said, her voice soft in his ears once more, “I will proudly watch over the first mortals to walk the varjopolku in a thousand years.  When you awaken, you may refresh yourselves in the Laulualtaat.”

“If it’s all the same to you, my lady,” Dak groaned out a chuckle as he pulled himself to his feet, “I think I’d just as soon refresh myself before I try to sleep. I want nothing more than to wash whatever that was…” he gestured vaguely in the direction of where the exit portal had been, “…off of me, lest it invade my dreams, hm?”

He staggered toward the pools, already having shed his cloak and in the process of doffing his gear and armor. As he passed Seleniniel, though, he paused and lifted a brow, wondering what dreams the Shadow Path might haunt her slumber with. Again, he wanted to assail her with questions but found himself too tired to do so…

“What,” she demanded wearily when she caught him looking at her.

“Nothing,” Dak replied from behind a crooked smile as he freed his topknot from its bindings and the curls of his hair spilled over his shoulders, “Just wanted to let you know that I think you’re more than a little off your nut, arwenamin…” Before she could respond, he started for the pools again but spun on his heel after only a few more steps. “Correction, Mistress Isil’nari,” he quipped, “I think you’re nuttier than a squirrel turd… but I’m glad you’re still with us, hm? Quel esta…”

En route to the circle…

Dak couldn’t help but laugh when, for the second time in as many hours, it was suggested that he might fare better in keeping pace with the fae if he were to ride on Ruadhri’s shoulders…

“Shall I carry you,” the bofear himself asked on the back of a bellowing chuckle, “I think Lennox can scoot over some.”

“An offer not altogether unappreciated, my friend,” the halfling snickered in reply, gazing up at the bull-man’s grinning face, “but I’m sure I’ll be fine… so long as we reach our destination sooner rather than later. Besides, you’ve endured burden enough these last days without having to add a Cidal nattering in your ear for the rest of the journey, hm?”

Ruadhri laughed again, lifting his broad face to the sunlight that Ysmiril avoided, and Dak smiled at the sound of it. He was beyond happy to see the giant warrior in good spirits and good health, once more. If this chase goes on much longer, though, the halfling mused as he scampered along in the faerie’s wake, I may take you up on the invitation, big fellow. If my legs have the strength for the climb, at any rate.

Under the Red Moon’s Light…

Despite being less than thrilled at having to leave so much of his gear behind in order to traverse the ‘shadow path,’ Dak agreed to divest himself of all iron implements and was pleased when Ysmiril conceded to letting him keep his steel. Even more pleasing was the fact that, while others in the party questioned their guide about various aspects of the varjopolku, he had the opportunity to sit and rest his legs for a short while. As he did just that, he paid close attention to his companions’ queries as well as to the answers the fae provided them. While those replies served to make him more curious about the nature of the paths they’d be traversing on the next leg of their journey, they also planted a seed of trepidation in his mind. He was no stranger to finding himself in unfamiliar environs or dangerous places, of course, but by what he could glean from Ysmiril’s descriptions of the shadow lands, it would be like nothing he’d experienced before and even the slightest misstep could spell certain (and unending) doom.

As if to underscore just how perilously unknowable their traversal of the faerie-realm was going to be, Ysmiril sang a song of the old magic over a tree stump and bade the party to store their iron trappings within. The act of doing so was more unsettling than the words of warning she had spoken and, as Dak watched his arm disappear into the seemingly solid wood, he cringed at the heightened sense of foreboding that crashed over him. Is this what true fear feels like, he wondered, pulling his arm free of the stump and absently rubbing at the limb as if to assure himself that neither any bits of the tree nor the magic that had made it a strongbox still clung to him, It’s an odd sensation, if so. It had been a long time since the Cid had entertained even the slightest pang of fear. Growing up a Guttersnipe on the streets of Bayris there had been no place for it except as a ruse. Showing it in the face of the Guildmasters would get one excommunicated if not killed. In his life… his line of work… fear had always been a distraction best ignored lest it take you out of the game for good and feeling it now didn’t sit well with him.

Ignore it, he told himself, disappearing into the folds of his cloak and adjusting the positions of the blades he still bore, Think of anything else… the workings of locks, the mechanisms of traps and the means of spotting them… anything else. Fear is not to be afforded, especially where we are bound to tread.

He did just that as their faerie guide sang the portal to the paths into existence, chasing the ominous feeling from his thoughts even as Ysmiril sought to caution them further about the perils that lie beyond the abyssal ring. By the time the gateway had fully opened to accommodate the party’s passing, the trepidatious look on the halfling’s face had fashioned itself into an almost eager smile.

“Are you ready,” Ysmiril asked, her sparkling eyes and lilting voice full of excitement.

“Off to new adventures,” Dak grinned, his topknot bobbing as he gave a nod that matched the shadow-child’s enthusiasm… I wonder what strange treasures might be found along the way?

...re: the lower house.

If the upper house is tentatively called "The House of the Stars," maybe the lower house could be "The House of the Trees?"

Stars and Trees both being important to the Syls, but one being loftier/more celestial and the other being earthier/more grounded... *shrugs* 

Just had the thought rattling around and figured I'd spit it out so it would leave me alone.

Previously, at some point along the path…

As focused as he’d been on watching Ysmiril along the course of the arduous trek, the Cidal sneakthief wasn’t quite so distracted by the Fae that he failed to notice that Rosariel had slowed to fall into step beside him. As she did, he let go of his scrutiny of their guide and lifted his eyes and smile to the Huntress.

“Master Dak,” she said even before he could offer her a proper greeting, “while I know your view has been fantastic back here, how are you fairing on today’s trek?”

“Mistress Faenwyn,” he returned, a cheeky grin playing on his lips, “Oio naa elealla alasse’, be it from behind or as it is now.” In answer to her question, he gave a vague roll of his shoulders. “I’m managing, arwenamin,” he chuckled, his footsteps falling twice for every one of hers, “True enough, Ysmiril sets a wearisome pace for one so small, but I’ve spent enough time in the company of Syls that I imagine keeping up won’t be terribly taxing.”

The cleric of Vilathera smiled back and stooped down a bit. “I know our large friend behind us is still recovering,” she whispered conspiratorially, “but if I distract him, I’m sure he’d be pressed to notice if you climbed up onto his shoulders to take a break.”

Chuckling softly, Dak cast a quick glance back a Ruadhri before reframing the kind face that peered down at him. “I have no doubt,” he snickered in agreement, “but, after what he’s been through, I’d rather not tax him with more a burden than he already bears. Besides,” he continued, a subtle inclination of his head in the direction of Seleniniel’s rigid back, “I’d likely hear no end of haranguing from that one if I did, hm?”

“Alright, alright,” Rosariel laughed, straightening to her full height again, “well I just wanted to check in. If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

“Indeed, I do,” Dak grinned, a genuine smile of gratitude lighting his features, “Just a few short steps ahead, where you’ve always been these past weeks. Diola lle.”

It's a pooooost!!!

Thanks, again, to Reralae for collabing that "secret" campfire conversation... and to everyone else for suffering the rather lenghty read! 

P.S. Elven phrases added to the first post of this thread.

At camp the previous night…

Given her mood and even though she tried to mask it, Dak was mildly surprised at Seleniniel’s refusal of the moonshade. All the same, he accepted it with little more than a shrug before returning the pouch to its place. Less surprising was the mage’s ‘non-answer’ to his question, though, in truth, he had been expecting a ‘f*** off’ rather than a recitation of ‘The Cat and the Candle’ in reply. In the end, it was just the same… Don’t let your curiosity burn your world down, little man…

“As you say, Mistress Isil’nari,” the Cid grinned, sketching the semblance of a bow, “No answer is answer enough. Quel esta, arwen en amin.” He watched for a moment longer as she stalked away, then, with a soft chuckle and a puff of his pipe, turned around and went in search of less acrimonious company.

He found Isilmewen sitting by the fire, her fascinated gaze fixed on their otherworldly benefactor. “Quite a sight to see, eh, Lala,” he said, laying a hand on the ranger’s shoulder before crouching down at her side, “Of all the things I’d prepared to encounter on this venture, this was not one of them.”

“I never put that much stock in the fables,” Isilmewen admitted, looking back to Dak with a smile, “Even with as many as my gran seemed to have - she must've been the eccentric knowledge opener of her generation around the dinner table.”

“But to be here, what a wondrous step we've found ourselves amidst, in the ongoing dance. Not necessarily safe,” Isilmewen gave a soft laugh, "but the safe bets never tell good stories."

“Just so,” he chuckled, nodding his agreement, “though opinions on the wondrousness of it all seem to vary wildly, hm? Your gleeful excitement at the prospect, my own curiosity albeit less enthusiastic,” He made a sweeping gesture with the stem of his pipe to indicate the rest of the camp, “Everything from wary acceptance, born of some sense of honor or another, to capitulation for no other reason than a bargain struck…” the halfling glanced over his shoulder, watching the mage disappear into her tent, “…to whatever it is that has tied knots in Seleniniel’s small-clothes. I had thought it to be fear, at first, but now I’m thinking it’s something altogether different.”

He shrugged, tucking the pipe back into one corner of his mouth, and his eyes found their way back to the ranger. “What about you mellonamin,” he queried, lifting a brow, “Exuberance aside, do you not find yourself mildly fearful as to where this path… this bargain we’ve made… might lead us?”

Isilmewen nodded thoughtfully, “Oh, I'd be lying if I were to claim otherwise. That said, we can't know what to truly fear, here. And with all the what ifs, I'm not a patron of the halls, but if I were, I wouldn't bet on a board of ifs. Though, where we may go, one thing that does concern me is how she asked us to pray in the rite earlier; if certain verses hold true, what does it mean for us to visit a place beyond reach of our gods?”

“Hmmm,” Dak droned, his own head bobbing, and a series of smoke rings disappearing into the fire as he digested the response, “Well, as I’ve told you many times and, now, Mistress Isil’nari once, gods and hope are far down on the list of things in which I place my trust…” he patted her on the knee, got to his feet, and, emerald gaze tracing another slow sweep of the camp, indulged in another thoughtful puff or two on his pipe, “…Fortunately, Lala, I have you to fill the void that blind faith can’t, yes?”

He flicked her a wink and a smile, then. “I would wish you quel kaima, dear,” he chuckled before turning for his own little plot in the camp, “but I imagine that, like me, not much sleeping is to be had. Instead, I say tenna’ tul’re whilst I go off to stare at my roof and worry over what you’ve said… Knowing, of course, that if this goes wrong in the worst way, at least, I’ll die alongside a true friend.”

As expected, Isilmewen’s tinkling laughter floated into the space between them and wrapped around Dak’s shoulders like a favored blanket. “Tenna tul’re, san’,” she nodded as he began padding away, “Good night, little man.”

“Quel du, melui.”

The next day…

Despite claims to the contrary, Dak did manage to get a decent night’s rest. Sure, he’d spent a good while blinking at the ceiling and chasing his thoughts around but, after the events of the previous day, sleep found him quicker than he imagined it might and embraced him deeply enough that he awoke fully refreshed. He was overjoyed to find Ruadhri up and about, greeting the massive warrior with an exuberant ‘good morning’ and gleeful banter about how worried the party had been and how much better he looked. Following the morning pleasantries, breakfast, and breaking of camp, an eager Ysmiril began leading the troupe in a vaguely northward direction.

Again, Dak found himself thoroughly fascinated with the creature as they travelled... The way the soft iridescence of her features and filmy garb glittered in the light of day, the preternatural grace and speed with which she moved so effortlessly along the path she blazed for them, and the fact that, though she seemed no more hurried than any of the rest of them, the Fae had outpaced the party on more than one occasion… All of these things snatched at the Cid’s attention and demanded that he commit every detail to memory so that he could write out detailed notes about them when they stopped to rest (again, a thing which Ysmiril appeared not to need). Most curious among the halfling’s observations, though, was the woman’s apparent aversion to placing herself directly in the sunlight; in fact, she wove something of a careening path, going out of her way to avoid such patches and remain in the shade.

“A Child of the Shadows, indeed,” he murmured once the purpose behind the habit dawned on him, “I wonder if sunlight physically harms the Sidhe in some way or if it’s simply an irritant?”

He appended his ever-growing list of mental notes to include a reminder to ask about this when the opportunity arose… Perhaps when we stop for lunch… The chance to make that inquiry was missed, however, as the midday break was a notably rushed affair, allowing barely enough time to eat a proper lunch or much of a rest, let alone a few spare minutes for conversation. Have I even seen her eat, Dak wondered as Ysmiril urged them back on the path, or is that yet another thing for which the Fae have no need? More mental notes and more hurrying to keep up with her as she flitted through the forest like the spirit that, just yesterday, she had professed not to be.

At one point, his inquisitiveness got the better of him and Dak broke from his usual place in the marching order, practically sprinting to catch up with the ethereal woman. “Forgive my asking, Ysmiril,” he questioned breathlessly when he reached her, “but why the urgency? I understand that a task of some sort awaits us, but I didn’t realize it was so pressing that we’d need to run our legs off to attend it.”

“I apologize for pressing your pace,” she replied with a smile, “but we must not tarry if we wish to take the varjopolku - the shadow path.  I believe that you will much prefer that choice, as it will make the journey so much easier.”

“The shadow path,” he pressed, spiking an inquisitive brow, “and just what might that be?”

“Fear not,” she answered from behind a sly grin, her tone enigmatic, “You will see soon enough.”

“Yes,” he sighed, slowing his pace a bit and falling back to his place in line, “I suppose we will…” If we’re not dead from exhaustion before then.

Some time later, following the setting of the sun and the rising of the red moon, which brought with it encroaching darkness and kisses of the approaching winter, the party started discussing likely places to set up camp. Hopes were high for the warmth of a fire, a good meal, and a well-earned rest to pass the remainder of the night. Again, though, Ysmiril had other plans… 

And, he noted, scolding himself for not having done so sooner, a strange indifference to this bitter chill that besets us without the sun. How is it that she’s not even shivering when she wears nothing but a see-through shift and her cloak of shadows?...

“No, ystäviä,” the fairy protested when the strains of the companions’ conversation reached her ears, “we must not stop now, for we are almost at our destination.  I implore you - travel with me just a bit further.”

A few dissenting whispers and grumbles went up in response to her plea, though few were strong enough to dissuade her, and so they pressed on through the dark. After a couple more hours, the blackness beneath the boughs was finally broken when a perfect circle of open sky appeared above them, bathing them in Lleua’s crimson light. “Hold here, companions,” Ysmiril commanded, holding up a hand and, at last, calling a halt to the march, “We are here.”

“The varjopolku lies before us,” she continued, turning to face them, “I can help you to walk it, and it will save you much time and effort.”

“Good,” Dak puffed through the scarf wrapped about his face, “I think that we’ve all spent quite a bit of that already…”

“However, you may take no iron with you,” Ysmiril cautioned, lifting a finger as her features contorted into an intriguing expression, “I would prefer that you leave all such metal - iron and steel - here for safekeeping until we return.  However, I will not force that - not yet.” Her head cocked, almost birdlike, to one side and she went on. “With that said, you may not bring any cold iron with you and still walk the shadow path.  That means no blades, no arrowheads, no necklaces or trinkets…” Amethyst eyes fixed almost accusatorily on Seleniniel, then. “…That also means no iron spell components, velho.  Weavers such as yourself usually have a few such items - shavings, rods, nails, or similar sundry.  If you will not set them to the side, then you may not enter the varjopolku.”

“Well?  What will you choose,” the fairy asked expectantly, “Your iron, or the chance to walk the varjopolku?”

So, the Shadow Folks aversion to iron as described in myth and legend is true, then, Dak mused, inwardly balking at the thought of having to leave his bata and several other useful sundries behind. The halfling’s hesitation was no match for his curiosity, though, and with a resigned sigh, he lay aside his staff and unshouldered his pack.

 “I’ll agree to the iron,” he said, fishing a veritable pile of iron from his gear and laying it alongside the bata, “but, for now…” glittering green eyes lifted to the Fae and he offered her a cunning smile, “…I am loathe to venture into such an unfamiliar place completely naked. I’ll keep my sword and daggers if it’s all the same to you.”

Bata, darts, caltrops, crowbar, hammer and chisels, grappling hook.

All are iron or have iron components, correct?

A scant handful of hours into the party’s treaty with Ysmiril and the tensions already ran deep; a thing, Dak suspected, was likely commonplace where dealing with the Children of the Shadows was concerned… Not that there’s anything commonplace about fae-pacts, at all, he considered, his emerald eyes darting curiously (and, perhaps, a bit nervously) from face to face as the seed of division planted by their bargain began to sprout.

Seleniniel’s incensed challenge of the Fae, while all but laughed off by Ysmiril, had apparently rekindled the embers of stern leadership in Arathea, bringing the bladesinger and the mage face-to-face in what very much felt like a clash of wills. Had it not been for Mae’rel’s intervention, placing herself between the two and speaking words of assuaging wisdom, Dak believed that the duel might have might have become a physical and magical one. The tension had become a palpable thing, much as the incendiary ire that had risen so suddenly in Seleniniel at the mention of Lindela Elin. So tangible, in fact, that it had begun to gnaw at the halfling’s nerves and instincts, calling his hands to hover near his weapons… Against whom would I bring them to bear, though, he wondered, scoffing to himself over the almost surreal unease the situation had stirred, and to what end?... Attacking the Sidhe would surely be an exercise in futility, and going against any or all of his companions would be similarly pointless… Not to mention utterly traitorous, he sighed inwardly… Still, the sense to fight or flee weighed heavily on him in those surreally strained moments.

Thankfully (and intriguingly), the fire that had so suddenly brought Seleniniel to her feet seemed to be just as quickly extinguished… Or shuttered, most likely, he observed, watching the blaze in the mage’s eyes morph into a void of detachment that was no less unsettling…

“Okay,” she said flatly in answer to Arathea’s rebuke. Then, she tuned her back on the bladesinger and the monk and began to skulk away, her expression severe but unreadable.

The heaviness in the air diminished, though it didn’t disappear altogether, and Dak puffed out a sigh of relief as his own apprehension started to drain away. He tried to find a smile for his lips or a quip to float by way of introducing some modicum of levity in the aftermath of the confrontation but, before he could…

“They are not the same,” Seleniniel uttered, a cold ominousness to her tone, “You’ll see…” dead dark eyes ticking toward Ysmiril, “…won’t they?” It wasn’t a question but a prophetic proclamation, and it chilled the Cid to his bones.

…Since neither a grin nor a joke were available to him in the moment, Dak settled for an uneasy chuckle, his gaze flitting from one face to the next, again, falling last on the retreating mage. “Well,” he tittered softly, mirthlessly, “that was… something…” Finally forcing a crooked grin, he bobbed his head, turned, and scampered off, his footsteps following in Seleniniel’s.

When he caught up to her, Dak matched the glowering woman’s pace and drew up his hood against the chill that seemed to emanate from her now. “You’re not wrong, Mistress Isil’nari,” he murmured, glancing up at her, “the Sidhe aren’t the same… nothing like any of the rest of us on this world… and, likely, we’ll all learn something that we’d rather not know along the way.” He produced his pipe and pouch of moonshade from the folds of his cloak and, after filling the bowl, offered the pouch over to the mage should she care for a pinch of the leaf.

((OOC: Whether she accepts the offer or not, Dak will eventually return the pouch to its place and light his pipe&hellip)

“Forgive me for saying so, arwenamin,” he murmured around the pipe stem, “and, maybe, too, for even taking notice, but I get the sense that your anger and trepidation back there has less to do with the bargain we’ve made with Ysmiril and more to do with where she asks us to go, no?”

((OOC: Tag, S… what happens next depends on how she responds… or doesn’t… ))

As the other Syls and Ruadhri, himself, consented to the Shade’s pact, Dak wandered toward the fringes of the gathering, his mind set on untangling the web of it’s words… to find the true meaning around which the creature had woven them. He was familiar with wordplay, of course, and had used it to great effect and personal benefit over the years, so he was all but certain that, despite the perceived directness of it’s speech, there were tenuous threads on which he could pull and catch at least a glimpse of the truth. He seated himself on a fallen log, exchanging the hilt of a sword for the bowl of a pipe in his hand, and settled into silent scrutiny. Perhaps the emotions it seems to exude when it speaks are the key to unlocking the puzzle, he imagined, tamping a generous pinch of moonshade into the pipe, or might they be the lock itself? A faint scowl, born of that self-inflicted conundrum, cracked the otherwise curious set of his features. Don’t go outthinking yourself, Whisperfoot, he scoffed inwardly, a quick shake of his head setting his topknot to bobbing, Just watch and see, hm?

A strange tingling swept through him as the pact was sealed and the dark figure’s purple eyes flashed within the depths of it’s cowl. The Cid shivered a bit at the feel of it but dismissed the sensation with another shake of his head and allowing himself the brief distraction of lighting his pipe.

“Bring the mieslehmä to me,” the enigma commanded as it drifted back beneath the boughs of the aspen.

Dak didn’t move to assist… not that he would be of much help in such an effort, anyway… choosing instead to simply watch as the others helped the bófear to the prescribed location. For a long moment, the being did nothing but stare down at Ruadhri where he lay dying at it’s feet.  Next, two shadowy hands reached up to grasp the edges of the hood, pushing it back and off it’s head. As the cowl was peeled away, so, too, was the veil of reality and the shade became something else. The halfling’s head spun and his mind boggled at the transformation, and he was sure that, even if he lived to be as old as any of his Sylvari companions, he would never manage to find the words to explain what he had just witnessed. Where a towering shadow once stood, there was now an exotically ethereal woman, scarcely taller than himself…

“Sidhe,” he gasped, nearly choking on the word as he swallowed a mouthful of pipe smoke in the speaking of it, “Thirkee stab my eyes!”

“I am Ysmiril of the children of the shadows,” she said, her head tilting to one side and a bright smile blossoming on her lips, “Now that we are friends... or, at the least, working in concert, I find it far more pleasing to show my true form.  While it is useful - and not a little amusing - to carry on as a great being of darkness and balefulness, I find it to be so very restricting to do so for long.  Wouldn't you agree?”

At first, all Dak could do was nod dumbly and gawk at the celestial creature, eyes wide and mouth agape. Then, when the tinkling of her laughter reached his ears, he found it all but impossible not to add a chuckle of his own. “I think I’d be a fool not to,” he chuffed softly, finally managing to tear his eyes off of the woman and set them in search of the pipe he’d fumbled, “or, maybe, I’m already a fool for cutting a bargain with the fae…”

With the stem of the recovered pipe clenched between his teeth, the Shawlin hastily rummaged through his pack for a sheaf of parchment and his pen. Over the course of the rites and rituals to cure Ruadhri, Dak scrawled out copious notes on the procedure and made myriad sketches of Ysmiril and her accoutrements. When it was over, he bundled the pages together in a scroll case, and squirreled them away in his pack before lending a hand in setting up camp beneath the aspen’s boughs. Once the camp was set and the fire lit, Dak once again wandered away to the edge of the firelight, tucking into his rations and resuming his intent and guardedly curious study of the strange woman.

Of all the unsettling things that had transpired since her arrival, the way that Ysmiril gazed into the fire, motionless and unblinking, for as long as she did was probably the most unnerving thing she had done, thus far. She seemed oblivious to everyone and everything around her and, after a time, Dak started to question whether she was even still in her head or not. Is she simply recovering from her exertions with Ruadhri, he wondered, watching the flames dance in those purple eyes, Communing with others of her kind, perhaps? Maybe she’s not really here, at all, and we’re only imagining that she is… The idea coaxed a dry and uneasy chuckle from his lips and, for another long moment, he gave thought to testing the theory. Just go over and try to pilfer that witchwood blade, he quietly coaxed himself, or slip that cloak from her shoulders. Hells, poke her in the forehead, for that matter! Anything to confirm or deny the reality of all this. Just as the halfling had convinced himself to do so, the otherworldly woman broke from her trance and rose to her feet, startling him enough to keep from getting to his.

“Your destination is your people's stronghold,” she queried, her gaze sweeping over those members of the troupe who had not succumbed to sleep, “this Hyanda Nost, is it not?”

“It is, my lady,” Dak confirmed with a nod.

“That is a... diversion from where I would see you tread,” she declared.  "I would have you accompany me to the Laulualtaat... the children of the stars call them Lindela Elin - the Melodious Pools.”  She paused.  “Of course, you will be at Hyanda Nost in less than two days, and the pools are... further away.  I will not begrudge you if you feel that your duties demand that you visit your own people first.”

Diversions seem to be this company’s stock in trade, Dak snickered to himself, his questioning gaze flitting from one companion to another, waiting for Arathea to make the decision. However, it was Seleniniel, seemingly snatched from her slumber at the very mention of Lindela Elin, who spoke first.

“You may have long ignored the stretch of time, but we do not have that luxury,” the mage railed.  “If you lack the authority to let us promptly settle our debt, summon your master–or whatever it is we’re pledged to–to Hyanda Nost. Surely we are not the only ones who walk paths forbade to others. That–or dispense with the needless obfuscation and tell us the full price rather that meeting it out bit by bit.”

Dak’s brows raised at Seleniniel’s impudence and in wonder of how Ysmiril might answer it, his curiosity over the matter finally drawing him in from the fringes of the firelight. If the celestial creature took offense, though, it didn’t show in her expression or manner. In fact, she seemed almost amused by the mage’s challenge.

“Ai että!” Ysmiril exclaimed with a laugh.  “You are an amusing one, vihainen yksilö.  As if the one who truly owns your debt could be summoned like some koira to your lap.”  She shook her head, iridescent gossamer locks floating around her ears.  “No, you will travel with me to the Laulualtaat.  They will explain the balance of your debt, for it is not my place to do so.”

“Amusing,” Dak snickered, emerging from the penumbra, “Now, that’s not a word I ever thought I’d hear used in reference to Mistress Isil’nari. Not out loud, at any rate…” he flicked a playfully taunting wink at Seleniniel before turning his gaze back to Ysmiril, “…We do have some rather pressing business at Hyanda Nost, my lady,” he stated matter-of-factly, “a matter having to do with returning a sword and, perhaps, acquiring another. I can’t make the choice as to whether we delay that business or this, however,” he inclined his head toward Arathea, “That decision falls to Lady Ondolithe.”

The nine days since the party’s encounter with the twisted old Syl in his hilltop grove had been harrowing, to say the least. Not because the troupe had been beset by the corrupt cleric, his minions, or adversaries of any other stripe, for that matter. Instead, the vexation that hung over the troupe seemed rooted in Arathea’s struggle to finding her way back onto her path and, more so, in Ruahdri’s ever-deteriorating condition. Despite the best administrations to his wounds that either Mae’rel or Rosariel had to offer, and notwithstanding his own stoic determination, the bófear worsened by the day. Rests had been taken only out of sheer necessity and, even then, were only long enough for the group to muster enough strength to get back on their feet and press on toward Hyanda Nost before the bull-man could succumb fully to his injuries. By the end of the sixth day, Dak was unsure that even this forced-march would see them to the keep in time enough to cure and save their companion and, by the end of the seventh, he found himself exchanging guarded glances with Seleniniel as to whether or not putting the enormous warrior out of his misery might not be the better option.

It was not a thing that the Cidal wanted to do, of course, nor was it something that he’d truly anticipated but, as the days dragged on and Ruahdri only worsened, Dak found himself considering the quickest and most humane ways in which he might dispatch the big bull, as well as sending up pleas to gods that he’d never prayed to before that he wouldn’t have to. On the ninth day, though, when the beastly warrior fell to a knee and appeared to lack the strength to rise from it, the forlorn halfling laid a hand to the hilt of his sword, all but ready to give Ruahdri the end he didn’t deserve but was sorely needed for the sake of them all, an intercession took place… Just as Dak began to unsheathe his blade, stepping forward to drive it into the base of the bófear’s skull and scramble his brains, a tall, dark, and curious figure revealed itself, offering an alternative…

From around the trunk of an alder the dark creature stepped, shimmering purple eyes glimmering from the shadows cast by its cowl. "Will you treat with me, travelers?" it asked, it’s voice tinged with enough concerned sadness to stay Dak’s hand for the moment. "You have journeyed far," it observed in that strangely hollow tone.  “Forgive me, as I have observed you since you dealt with the forest wytch.  I needed to know for myself…”

Need to know what, exactly, Dak wondered, his hand remaining on the haft of his sword but reconsidering the target of the blade.

“Your companion suffers greatly.  He will perish soon, for none of you can save him.  I doubt that he survives the night... not as himself, for certain.”

And who are we, Dak questioned, silently slipping back into concealment behind his peers as the dark creature continued. He felt, more than saw the interloper’s gaze sweep over him, and knew, despite his best efforts that the figure saw him plain as day. As such, his fingers relaxed slightly, or at least less threateningly on the sword, even though the hairs at the nape of his neck prickled…

ven though the strange visage did not move, everyone in the group could feel the gaze sweep over them one at a time. 

‘You respect the forest, I can see that.  And not in the twisted manner of the wytch and his ilk.  Although perhaps not as much as we do... but I suppose that remains to be seen.”

The voice paused before speaking again.  When it began anew, the sadness felt deeper.  “I can help your comrade, if you so desire.  But if I do this, you will all owe me a boon.”

An uneasiness settled on the Shawlin’s shoulders then, heavy as bags of iron but, at the same time, light as the feather of a genuine promise. The grip on his sword relaxed a hair and he spiked a curious brow… “And what boon might you seek from us, sojourner,” he tested, a tiny hand falling away from the blade’s hilt, “Do you have a thing in mind, or, instead, do you plan to make it up as you go?”

Before the shade could answer, a good number of the troupe seemed to readily agree, Isilmewen counted among their number, and, at that, Dak could only sigh and shrug. “Very well,” the Cid shrugged, “I suppose you have our treaty confirmed for the sake of our friend…” He peered up into the shadows of the cowl, trying to define the purple eyes that stared back at him from the veil of shadows, “…What is your price, spirit? Or do you know?”

Isilmewen’s parting instructions to the halfling were unnecessary, Dak was always watching, always observing everyone and everything that came into his orbit. It was what he did, after all, and he was very good at it. His aptitude for surveillance and assessment, if fact, was the primary reason that Sanfir had sent him to Sylvaria to begin with. Despite the needlessness of the ranger’s request, though, he had offered her an affable smile and assurances that he would do just as she asked. Following her departure, he spent long moments scrutinizing the party before focusing his attention on Seleniniel, engaging her with the banter she was accustomed to from him.

“…A copper for your thoughts?”

“You know we’ll have to kill him if it comes to that. You and I, I mean. I’m not sure the rest will,” the mage replied quicker than he was expecting but as brusquely as ever, “He’d want it. Same for me if I’m ever on the cusp of that.” She inclined her head in the Bofear’s direction, though her eye’s remained fixed on Dak’s, boring into him as if reading his thoughts on the matter to determine if they matched his words.

“Just so,” the cid nodded, casting a glance of his own in Ruahdri’s direction, a cloud of pipe smoke whirling into the air on the back of a sigh, “I think all of us, here, would prefer a quicker and more permanent end in such a case…”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” she continued, drawing his gaze back to her, “I like him more than you… But only fools trust in gods and hope.”

“It is lucky, then, that my part in all of this isn’t contingent on your liking me, arwenamin,” he chuckled softly, poking at the contents of his pipe with the end of a twig he’d scooped from the litter upon which they sat, “And, for all it may matter to you, gods and hope are far down on the list of things in which I place my trust…”

“I’m not spent yet, and you should rest warily tonight too,” the mage suggested as her hooded gaze wandered back to the firelight, “Probably best to squirrel away his weapons if he drifts off. I trust you’re up to that task.”

“I wasn’t aware that there was any other way to rest,” Dak smirked around the stem of his pipe, his own eyes lifting to the shadowed boughs above them, drawn there by the faint popping of beating wings and rustling of foliage, “especially in situations such as we find ourselves in, hm? As to squirreling away his weapons,” the halfling’s gaze abandoned the canopy, made its way back to Ruahdri, and he rolled his shoulders beneath his cloak in an ambiguous shrug, “I certainly will should it seem necessary, though I don’t think it wise to separate one of our better fighters from the tools of his trade without a measure of certainty, especially with our bladesinger as… diminished as she seems, now…” He puffed the remains of his pipe into nothingness, tapped the bowl out against his knee and, lifting a brow, offered Seleniniel a grin of surety. “I’ll be vigilant in my observations, Mistress Isil’nari,” he promised, “of that you can be sure. Should the darker fears you have appear to come about, he’ll not find his weapons anywhere within reach.”

The mood around the camp was decidedly sullen if not altogether dismal. Even Isilmewen, whom Dak could always depend on for a laugh, seemed in dour temper and the halfling found that more than a little unsettling. It was understandable, of course, considering Arathea’s perceived dishonoring of her blade and the disturbing nature of the mycelian infection that afflicted Ruadhri’s wounds, but for there not to have been so much as a single quip made to provide a flicker of hopeful light in the post-battle gloom…

This seems more unnatural than even the mad cleric and his minions, he chuffed to himself as he hunkered down at the edge of their meager fire and lit his pipe, Even a bit of condescending snark from Seleniniel wouldn’t be entirely unwelcome, just now… He allowed himself a faint chuckle at the unspoken jape – the gust of it blowing a ring of smoke past his lips which briefly framed the one-handed mage – but it, too, was far from mirthful. The pervading pall, it seemed, was quickly steeping into even his bones.

Puffing away on his pipe, Dak reclined against his pack and set his gaze to wandering about the site. It settled, first, on where Rosariel and Mae’rel hovered about the bofear, tending those wounds that even the blessings of the Huntress and the Blue Lady seemed unable to mend, and discussing other treatments which might counter the creeping fungal affliction. They spoke of herbs and poultices and other things that were beyond the little Cidal’s ken, though he did listen for a time, at least, until Isilmewen offered her aid in foraging for some of the components the clerics had mentioned. “Sheilin smile on you, Lala,” he said, offering her an encouraging nod and appreciative smile as the ranger gathered her things to set off on that endeavor. “I’d offer to come with you, but I haven’t the faintest inkling as to what I’d be looking for,” he added before she slipped out of the fire’s light and into the penumbra between the trees, “The only thing I might provide is company, I’m afraid.”

((OOC: Anything or nothing here as Rer (or anyone else) sees fit. Replies and/or reactions can be addressed in follow-up posts as needed.))

Clenching the stem of his pipe between his teeth, Dak leaned forward, took up a stick, and stoked the fire with it before adding it to the flames. When his eyes lifted from that task, they fell upon the bladesinger where she sat brooding, the sword loaned to her by Isilmewen resting across her knees, and the one she had ‘lost,’ still wrapped in the shroud Mae’rel had provided it, lying nearby, little more than arms reach away. She bears her misery well, he thought, watching as Arathea cast a melancholy glance at the bundled blade before refocusing her attention on attuning herself with the borrowed one, Outwardly, at least, she doesn’t wallow in it. He would have given a handful of silvers for a glimpse at her inward thoughts, though, if only to see just how much of the swordsmistress’ stoicism was but a mask. He’d have doubled that handful, too, if he could find his way to any words that might assuage her grief, but Dak had a feeling that all the silver in Antaron would buy such a thing right now.

He hid a discouraged sigh behind the façade of blowing another ring of pipe smoke into the air and forced his gaze to travel on. It settled, of course, on Seleniniel where she sat, huddled in her charcoal-colored robes, her stern visage shifting only occasionally as she mulled over whatever dark musings might be snaking through her mind. “You’re unusually quiet, tonight, Mistress Isil’nari,” he observed, a wry smirk forming around the stem of his pipe, “Not that you are terribly verbose most times, of course, but it has been hours since you’ve cast so much as a disapproving scowl my way. I’m beginning to feel invisible. A copper for your thoughts?”

((OOC: Again... anything or nothing, here. Just figured I'd get the ball rolling, so to speak. I made a few assumptions while writing this out, so if I need to edit or adjust anything, feel free to let me know.))

“We need to collect ourselves and find an area to set up camp in, we're not in any condition to attempt to pursue him to wherever he fled to,” Arathea commanded, her voice quavering with the misery she must have felt, “The least we need right now is for one or more of us to die in pursuit.”

Dropping his hood and shaking out his topknot, Dak bobbed his head in concurrence with the bladesinger’s estimation and, once again, when Isilmewen suggested scouting out a campsite set some distance from the corrupted grove. His gaze traced an assessing circuit of the faces of his companions, then, before falling to where the ancient sword lay, very much like a corpse in its own right, at least where Arathea was concerned. A faintly disheartened frown touched his lips at the thought that such a fine thing would simply be abandoned and left to rust away, especially in a place such as this. He puffed out a sigh, shivering a bit as the last bit of adrenaline ebbed from his tiny frame, and let his emerald eyes find their way back to the bladesinger’s face. “Forgive me any indelicacy in asking, Lady Ondolithe,” he said as gently as he was able before tipping his head in the direction of her sword, “but, surely, we don’t intend to just leave that where it lays, do we?”

((OOC: Assuming something along the lines of ‘That’s exactly what we intend to do’ and/or a mildly disgruntled lecture about bladesinger customs and etiquette where ‘dishonored blades’ are concerned… If that’s not the response he gets, I’ll edit the post to fit.))

“I understand this, arwenamin,” he returned, holding up a conciliatory hand, “but is there no other recourse than to just abandon it? Could we not bundle it away and deliver it to Megilindar Nost, for example? Perhaps, there, it could be… I don’t know… restored somehow?” His shoulders rolled in a doubtful shrug and his eyes ticked to the weapon again; “At the very least, we should take it from this grove and bury it, just as we would had it been one of us that fell in this battle, no? Just leaving it here to rot seems… wrong…”

((OOC: Again, if it is insisted that Arathea’s blade be left where it is, he won’t challenge the decision any farther. However, if she concedes to either the burial or delivery of the sword to the Bladesingers Keep, he will offer to assist with either option.))

Firstly, hooray for living!

Secondly, Dak is soooooooo sorely tempted to take that fancy sword!!! I seriously doubt he will, of course, as that would be akin to rubbing Arathea's nose in it... but daaaaaaammmmnnnn wouldn't that fetch a bloody FORTUNE from the right buyer? His sticky little fingers are just itching!

Dak bobbed his head, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as the sundered wasp fell from the sky and added its corpse to those already littering the field. The smug expression was quickly wiped from his features, though. As he set his eyes in search of another target he bore witness to something he never imagined he would see; Arathea had fumbled her blade. The little cid’s visage was stunned into bewilderment and he blinked in disbelief as his gaze framed the forsaken weapon… Oh… No…

“I need a sword,” the bladesinger cried, the despair in her voice tearing at Dak’s heart and nearly bringing a tear to his eye, “I need something to fight with!”

He was moved to offer his own sword to the bereaved megilindar, though he knew it was of lesser quality and would be a poor replacement for the one she had lost. All the same, as he found himself moving in Arathea’s direction, the halfling’s hand reached for the hilt of his blade fully prepared to make the meager offering. Before he could reach her, though, Isilmewen appeared at her side and handed over her own longsword.

“We dance, and we can fall,” the ranger tried reassuring Arathea, “All we can do is have the courage to stand again.”

“Just so,” Dak added, positioning himself to provide cover fire until the bladesinger did just that, “and the time to stand is now, arwenamin… Else I’m afraid we’ll soon be grieving more than a fallen blade.”

((OOC: Cover fire with the bata until Arathea gets back in the game, focusing on the webbed/nerfed owlbear. Will switch to the sword if anything gets too close and/or opportunity presents. Once our bladesinger is up and swinging, Dak will fall back to range again.))

... yeaaaaahhhh. Not good.

 Well done, kiddos! Uncle Eol is all aswoon and woohoo and stuffandjunkandthangzzz!