The pact was accepted, the deal was accepted. Ruadhrí would be spared from a horrific fate, a death that would cause him to strike at his ow companions, some of which who were friends. Despite the objections of some in the group, specifically Seleniniel, and it worried Arathea. A sinking feeling consumed her, Seleniniel and her cynicism could easily make for a massive issue here, and while for now it had been resolved an instinct told her that this would not be the end of it. For now though, what mattered most was saving the life of her companion, the rest could come afterwards.

"Bring the mieslehmä to me," the creature seemingly made of shadow commanded, and Arathea complied. She quickly moved to assist Ruadhrí, quickly providing as much support as she could. Her companion was heavy, larger than any Sylvari she had ever met, but that was not at all surprising. With the help of others in the party, and with what little strength the great warrior still had in him, he was in place, and Arathea whispered a silent prayer that he would live. When happened next was something which Arathea had never seen beore, a transformation like nothing she had ever witnessed. Hair that resembled an auorora shining bright in the night sky, colors which were nothing like that which she'd seen on a sylvari. He ears suggested she was a syl, yet she barely stood taller than Dak. Arathea reminded herself to try not to stare, a flush present on her face. I see dignity and modesty are not... ideals upheld by these people of the forest, she thought to herself.

Ysmiril, that was the name this being of beauty and wonder went by, but more important to Arathea was the mention of the 'children of the shadows' that she belonged to. Arathea remembered her education, learning Imperial history as part of her training. The children of the sun, the short lived mortals living in dying as fast as the sun will rise and set. The children of the stars, the sylvari who lingered for a great matter of time, and the children of the shadows, who no matter what were always there, the fae. That explained a great deal, it was both affirming, a being of such power Arathea believed would definitely be a capable healer, yet also terrifying.

As she began to gather her tools to treat Ruadhrí, Ysmiril brought forth another reveletation. "What do you know of wytchwood?" She asked so casually, as though it was just some kind of common knowledge. As Ysmiril brought forth the wooden dagger, Arathea stood shocked, her eyes lighting up. This material was legendary, once upon a time some of the greatest blades of the greatest heroes were made from it. To this day some of the highest ranking members of the order still had such weapons, though now they were so rare they held more value than some of the finest jewels and diamonds. "I am familiar," Arathea responded trying to speak through the shock and surprise this being was bringing at seemingly ever othe statement. And yet still, the surprises did not end, Ysmiril brought attention to the sap, something Arathea knew very little of. Yet it was clear that this sap was of just as much value as the blades the wood could produce, maybe even more, at least if they could heal afflictions of this level.

Once it was clear the sap was not enough, Arathea took her position to help hold Ruadhrí down. It was a battle, and it took great strength to keep the warrior down, even in his injured state the pain must have been enough to drive anyone on. The scent of the rot being removed made Arathea want to hurl, it was truly disgusting, but she knew it was the process of healing. Then came the singing and the prayers, it reminded her almost of her own bladesong, something deep and meaningful, something powerful and important. Once it was over Arathea felt great relief, it was true that Ruadhrí seemed to be much much better than he had been in days past. He had color in him once more, it seemed like his soul was brought back into his body. But it seemed Ysmiril was exhuasted from it, clearly it had taken much effort, this was no easy task, no simple prayer or spell. This was something truly great, and it showed.

Once camp was made it seemed Ysmiril was still completely exhausted, or at least that is what Arathea had guessed had happened. Watching the being stare so aimlessly with those odd eyes was very... off putting to see, and it left Arathea feeling uneasy. No blinking, no moving, just endless staring, it reminded Arathea how removed this fae was from sylvari or any other race for that matter. Arathea struggled for sleep that night anyways, practicing her motions, trying to adjust to the new blade in a way which she new she would not be able to do. So when Ysmiril finally spoke, she had her attention, and Arathea did ponder her words for quite some time. Strategically Arathea felt it would be best to just get this done with, to not delay any kind of deal with a being as powerful as this simply seemed to be the most strategic and tactical choice to make. But beyond that, after all that had happened Arathea wanted more time before having to engage with others in the military again. It was not because she wanted to run from her duty, she simply felt it was better for her to be more prepared for it.

But Seleniniel seemed to have other plans, and the sinking feeling Arathea had earlier in the day returned. She watched at first as the fae and mage exchanged words, preparing to intervene when there was an opening for dialogue. But it came to her realization that just dialogue did not seem adequate for this, Seleniniel was threatening violence, and to Arathea that meant she was threatening the whole party. Without missing a beat Arathea stepped forward, closing any distance between her and Seleniniel, she looked into her companions eyes and spoke in a loud, commanding tone. "You will NOT threaten the well being of your companions because you cannot put your trust into a bargain, she has done nothing to suggest she will not uphold her commitments, now we will uphold ours. I will not tolerate you putting your life or the lives of any of us in danger because you seek to act like a head strong foul, we will travel with her and that will be the end of this discussion." Arathea readied herself in case Seleniniel took any action against her, not intending to do anything to actually cause lasting harm but she was ready to push her back or knock her down if need be. "We are a group, we stick together, we will die if we do not. Put your feelings aside whatever they are, if they are too hard to put aside then talk to me, we can work some solution out. But do not threaten violence against what is effectively an ally, stand down, I will not repeat myelf."

Healing the wound was not as uninvolved as Mae'rel would have thought. The creature did not accomplish it without help, and it likely would have failed if not for the two clerics. Mae'rel had known that making a pact with this strange being wasn't going to come without it's downsides, but as soon as Ysmiril revealed her true nature, The Monk felt a lump form in her throat.

The Children of the Shadows, the Wild Ones, the Fae. They went by many names, but there was rarely any good about them. Some fae were mischievous, and not inherently malicious, instead finding everything as a sort of game. Thankfully, Ysmiril seemed to be one of those Fae, but they still had their threats. It was better then the type of Fae that would take your firstborn, or take your eyes because you complained of the brightness of the sun. Realistically though, Mae'rel knew only the tales of Fae, as most did, so she wasn't sure what all was real, and what all was simply fairytales. Funny.. that saying came from a type of Fae. They really were living in a fairytale.

The creature's personality most certainly was something. And her appearance was confusing, furthermore. She seemed like an illusion, an unrealistic expectation of what the most perfect woman should look like. Almost as if she was some sort of deity herself. She wasn't, of course, though The Monk could admit, this creature's magic was most certainly powerful.
Still, Mae'rel sat in quiet observation, curious about the substance that she had retrieved. She wondered what it was, but as if the creature felt all the curious eyes on it, it explained. Wytchwood.

Mae'rel did not know much of the fabled wood. And as Ysmiril explained a bit more, she understood why. Such a valuable tree had likely been completely and utterly harvested, and the fact that they had to pay such a debt now made sense. This was not just magic that would be restored when the being rested. This was a healing substance that would never be harvested again, and had an extremely finite amount left in existence. It was in unbelievable demand, nobles cried for it when their children fell sick, or when they themselves did. In fact, often, criminals would con the rich with it. And the rich were often dumb, making them easy targets for it.

She wanted to ask more questions, but before she could, Ysmiril moved on, and Mae'rel studied, as if she was watching Ignacio once more. The healing occurring was incredible, but it wasn't going to be enough, and Ysmiril confirmed that. "When my treatment is complete, you who bend the ears of the gods must pray to them with all of your might.  This medicine is powerful, but I fear that he is too far gone without their intercession."

And so Mae'rel did. She clutched her pendant, and she waited with bated breath as she watched the group hold Ruadhiri still. The compliment the Fae passed her had not fallen on deaf ears, but Mae'rel could not thank her before she continued. The fungus seemed to fight, causing extreme pain to the Bull as he fought to hold himself together, and thrashed against the group. Finally, the Fae hissed at the clergy, commanding prayers.

So the Servant called out to Lady Lysora. She desperately prayed as she channeled the miracle into his wound, fighting to seal it as she placed her hand on the rotting flesh. And when she finally stopped, when she finally opened her eyes, it was healed, and their warrior could finally recover. Her eyes went again to the Fae, curious behind her mask. The fact she struggled to heal the affliction of Ruadhiri, even with such power, made Mae'rel take pride once more, even if just internally, in the fact she had slowed the progression of the wound. She wondered if any healer in the city would have been able to heal this wound, even if they had made it.

---

For a while, Mae'rel allowed herself to rest. While the magic was not drawn from her being, making it different from Ysmiril, it was still exhausting to channel the energy of the Gods so intensely. Such power, even in microscopic fragments of it's full form, was tiresome for even the most legendary of Clerics to wield for prolonged periods. When she had found herself with enough energy, and had finished her prayers thanking Her Blue Lady, she found her way outside of the tent, just in time to see a conflict reaching it's peak.

(OOC: Assuming Alan and Esther don't mind me inserting Mae'rel here)

Arathea stood inches from Seleniniel's face, and it seemed as if in just a moment Seleniniel would strike a flint behind her back, igniting the Bladesinger, and starting a full out battle. Mae'rel hoisted her cloak over her mask, covering her hair as she rushed to the two, quickly wedging herself between them the best she could as she spoke, her voice as calm as ever. "Seleniniel, Arathea, we are still recovering from the battle between ourselves and the Wytch. We need not create more enemies between ourselves."

(OOC: Assuming no interruptions from Arathea or Seleniniel on both of these speeches)

She turned to Seleniniel, trying to reason with the wounded Mage. "I understand you find this creature.. unsavory. It's methods and vagueness unsettle me as well, but without your assistance, we may not complete our task, let alone even fulfill this debt. Your skills as a mage are unlike any I have seen in my life, but combat with this being could very well spell your end, or at the least, set us back further while we wait for you to recover. You are above this battle, there is no need to take it. The detour is no doubt frustrating, but we knew we would pay a considerable price."


And then, to Arathea, attempting to reason with the Dancer. "And Madam Arathea. I know you do not often agree with Madam Seleniniel, but you must see from her perspective and realize she is not trying to put us in harm's way. There is no need to threaten Madam Seleniniel, I've often found that persuasion has better results. I agree completely that we need not make an enemy out of this ally, but that means we should also avoid making enemies with our existing allies, as well."


The Monk stepped slightly to the side, and hoped that her words would be enough to put the matter to rest.

“Fer the las’ time, I don’t know anythin’ ‘bout about the Huntress but tha’ she protects the woods I travel through, an’ I appreciates that about her. Now shove off! I ‘ave things to sell.”

Rosariel stared up at the man's chest, where a small piece of antler hung by a thin leather strap around his neck, “You bear her symbols though, you must know some prayers! Anything!”

The merchant grunted, waving an arm in the direction of his stall for the pestering girl, “Do I look like a priest to ya, amadahin? Go find someone else’s day to ruin, or better yet, go off ‘an cry to your mum, though I suspect she’s long since tired of your whingin’ as well.’”

She glared back at him for a moment, frustrated both at her dashed hopes of gaining some direction in her study of the Woodland Dancer from something other than a crumbling book, and that he had been so rude about it. But it had all been pointless, and he was mean for no reason. Rosariel kicked dirt at the big, unhelpful man, then turned and sprinted for the woods while he shouted after her.

If the books she procured were her only physical source of education in the ways of the Huntress then so be it, but she would need to find some way to better commune with Her, better open herself up as a conduit for Her blessings. She didn’t have a teacher, but she had the land the Huntress watched over, lived among the beasts She hunted and protected. These things could guide her. These could be her connection to Taurdor Salka.

Rosariel drew her small knife, dragging it swiftly across the top of her forearm without thought, then dropped to one knee. She was far, far from ready for the Hunt, but a small antler shard she had found hung from a band at her wrist, low enough for her to grab as it dangled in her palm. She lowered her head and closed her eyes, leaning forward to dig her free hand into the dirt beneath her, and prayed. Words spilled from her as soft pleas to help, to come to her, to guide her, to bring her back together, to help her do the Huntress’ work. She did not feel the flow of her blood dripping down her arm, through her fingers and mixing with the dirt beneath her fingertips. She felt only the giving soil, the sharp bone, and the soft tears that slid down her cheeks as she searched for a connection to her goddess.

********************************

Sweat dripped down the side of Rosariel’s temples as she prayed. The smell of Ruadhrí’s wound once pungent and piercing now gone from her, along with any other sensory distraction that wasn’t the antler grasped beneath her white knuckles, the tiny creature she protected at the back of her neck, or the dirt digging into her fingernails as she grasped onto the earth to ground herself, to focus her. Words spilled from her lips both as practiced chants, and in waves of emotion for the fierce warrior she knew Ruadhrí to be.

It could have been minutes or hours, but at some point in the liminal, meditative space she had carved for herself, she was jolted away from it, gasping as she opened her eyes and turned to find Arathea there, a gentle smile on her face and a hand on her shoulder, bringing her back.

"Sister,” she was saying, “rest now, you're exhausted."

Rosariel patted her hand in thanks and started to give her a smile back before everything flooded back to her. She jumped to her feet and ran to Ruadhrí, where he layed blessedly asleep, his wound closed and his breathing normal.

Relief flooded her body and a wide grin nearly split her face as she looked to the pale, iridescent fae woman on the other side of him.

“Thank you, Ysmiril, he was lost without your help.” She looked back down at Ruadhrí and dropped to her knees beside him, lightly tracing the place on his arm where the fungus had sprang. No evidence remained, only the memory.

“This magic,” she started, softer now as she looked back to the fae creature, “is this something you can show the other cleric and myself? Even if we do not yet have the fortitude to conduct such a powerful healing now, perhaps we can study and pray on it until we can. I have a feeling we may have to fight this off again, should we pursue the one who did this.”

((OOC: will change my reply as needed, as I see this as going at least 3+ different ways))

Rosariel nodded, “You have already provided a great deal to us. Thank you, again.”

As the majority of this day was spent providing Ruadhrí some much needed rest and recovery, Rosariel had much more time to forage and hunt, honoring her goddess for the miracle she helped to provide. She offered her kills to Her as her practiced hands skinned and dressed the creatures, ensuring as much of them would be put to use as possible. Consequently, this would also provide their group a fuller feast than she had been able to provide as they pressed on in the long days before this.

Soon the shadows grew long, and the clearing Ruadhrí had been saved became the place they would rest for the night. The small fae had been staring dejectedly into the fire for some time, and the rest of the party seemed to be recovering from the dread of watching their ally slowly deteriorate for the last nine days. Even Tubs seemed exhausted, having simply been her bestial connection to the Huntress during her prayers, and a restless passenger the rest of the time.

She had let him run down her arm and into the grass to eat his small portion of the spoils she had gathered earlier in the day, and she was now working on more commands with him to pass the time. She was frustratingly trying to focus his attention on the twig she wanted him to fetch when their celestial companion finally broke her silence.

"Your destination is your people's stronghold, this Hyanda Nost, is it not?" She asked, to no argument, "That is a... diversion from where I would see you tread. 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."

She stretched as she spoke, "Speak amongst yourselves and decide. If you choose to visit your folk first, so be it. Go and attend your business, but return here to me, and we will journey together to the Laulualtaat on your return. If not, we will leave for the Laulualtaat upon the morn, and I will accompany you back to this place after."

Rosariel glanced around their small group. It would likely make sense to report to Hyanda Nost first, perhaps even just to send word to Lord Isil’nari of their findings. She’d wait to hear what their bladesinger would say of course, but--

Seleniniel suddenly burst out against Ysmiril. Anger, distrust, and malice spewed from her lips in a way Rosariel had never seen from her before. Anger, sure. Distrust, perhaps. But not malice, and never like this. Her instinct was to jump in, to try to delay her action once again, but before she could the others had already intercepted.

She instead held her ground, studying the mage’s behavior. She seemed different from herself but familiar to Rosariel in other ways. She had seen a turn like this before in others - some people, but often in creatures. There was anger brought about by an afront, and there was anger brought to the surface by something else.

Rosariel had had a lot of time to study the back of their powerful companion’s head on their journey, and didn’t make it a point to stare into any of their faces while they carried on their own business in the evenings at camp. Still, she recognized a difference there, that look humanoids and creatures alike got when feeling backed into a corner. A fear.

Something Ysmiril had said triggered this in Seleniniel. She had shown her disdain and distrust in others before, as well as her willingness to act upon that, but she had never been driven this far this quickly.

She turned her gaze back to the fae, the one who had shut Seleniniel down so swiftly before, who had shown herself to be so powerful already. Rosariel had promised Seleniniel that she would join her should the fae betray them, and indeed she was ready to defend her allies now if that seemed to be the case… but Ysmiril just stood there, as unbothered now as she was when Seleniniel had challenged her earlier. She was still just waiting for their decision, as though Seleniniel hadn’t just threatened her.

While the others attempted to assuage their mage, Rosariel kept her eyes on Ysmiril, her hands resting lightly on the pouches of components that adorned her.

Laughter, anger, consolation... perhaps a glimmer of understanding from that last, from the Lysoran. Seleniniel let them all smash against her walls, determined none would reach her; indeed, she’d use them. Mortar for another brick. And another reason to stay safely within. Clearly, they were going… there. As Arathea redirected the anger Seleniniel had spewed at the ba-seldarine fae, Seleniniel retreated into her bastion. The tight lines of anger in her face melted, not in capitulation, but into that mask of indifference she had so consciously cultivated over the decades. They would get nothing. No satisfaction in reaction or reason. She had grown weak with these over the months. Shown too much, been drawn out too far… not from some misplaced sense of comradery, but from her own inattention. A good lesson. Suffering so many so close for so long demanded a degree of diligence she'd not needed in decades. Those muscles had weakened, but not atrophied. A good reminder. She smiled, as the wolf to the hare. Not visibly, though. They would not get even that. As she held Arathea’s fiery gaze, Seleniniel’s eyes drained into pools of endless emptiness. Just as stoically, she showed no gratitude to the cleric for her intercession. The gate was already closed. Neither rage nor kindness would find her. She sniffed, then to Arathea. “Okay.” Then turned her back on the bladesinger, in more ways than one, and to the Maiden “They are not the same, You'll see.” Then silence stretched thin, as she cocked her head at the fae… "won't they" 

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… ))

She ignored the leaf, but not the question. She certainly wasn't in the mood for his games. But some instincts ran deep. “Do you know the Corian parable of the cat and the candle?” She continued without a pause for answer. “She sniffed the flame from curiosity, and found her whiskers burned.” She felt him listening, attentive, as always. A little mouse, making a meal of her crumbs. “So she bit the flame from spite, and found herself bitten back.” “Angry, she batted the candle from hubris, and burned her master’s house to cinders.” She left the moral unsaid, leaving him to riddle it out, never bothering to look down to him.

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.”

Rosariel watched as Seleniniel placed a mask over her emotion before retreating back to her resting place, Dak on her heels, though whether to pacify or provoke, she couldn’t say. Her attention was brought quickly back to Arathea and Ysmiril, as her hands fell from her pouches, the tension, while still present, no longer so intense. She had thought they would report in to Hyanda Nost first since it was so much closer than Lindelea Elin, but instead they would see to this messenger fae’s benefactor first.

With the decision settled, Rosariel headed right back to Ruadhrí’s side to check in on him before retiring to her bedding as well. With a quick once over she gave his sleeping form a small smile, he looked even better than before. Satisfied with his recovery, she left him for her own space.

It wasn’t exceptionally late, but the day and evening had been eventful, and they were to get an early start to the day. She attempted to get as warm as possible before resting for the night, but a chill had begun to settle over the forest; they would need to find a better means of accommodation in the weeks ahead. She thought back to her life in Dor’ghen Loth, as a child huddled with the other children around the fire in the nessambe during the cold seasons; then later when she was given her own dwelling, buried under her furs or in the comfort of her companion for the night’s arms.

She thought briefly of obtaining furs for them, but the tanning alone would take time they didn’t have. Perhaps when they approached another village she would attempt a larger hunt to barter for warmer clothing and bedding for them. Thoughts of trade, and memories of those travellers who would pass gratefully through her small settlement with trinkets in exchange for their hides and furs in the harsh months occupied her mind as she drifted off to sleep.

Morning came quickly and Rosariel accompanied Mae'rel as Ruadhrí awoke to assess how he was feeling, and once again check on the wounds that seemed to be nearly completely erased.

“Welcome back, my friend,” she said through a grin, Lennox curling fondly through his ankles, “You were almost to a point where even I could have taken you on!” She struck his once fungus-riddled forearm lightly with her knuckles as the bofear found his footing, “Let’s not do that again, yes?”

((OOC: any answer))

With their camp on their backs once more, they filed into their traveling line. Rosariel wanted to speak with Seleniniel. The mage had hardly spoken or made eye contact with the others since last night, at least as far had Rosariel had seen. She wanted to know what happened. Rosariel didn’t exactly trust the fae either, based on the tales she had been told, but Seleniniel’s ire had been so immediate, so visceral.

((OOC: took a couple liberties above, will amend as needed))

Rosariel wanted to speak with her, to learn more, but she doubted the mage had many words for her, especially after she had slipped that mask back on. Instead, she stepped into her place behind the auburn-haired Syl and said for only her to hear, “I would have protected you,” before they were on their way.

She doubted it meant much to the mage, considering her distrust as well in the efficacy of the gods, but Rosariel would do what she could to keep them all alive, despite whatever they believed of her.

--------------------

For being so small, Ysmiril kept up a punishing pace. The Sylvari and Bofear were able to keep up well enough, but Rosariel worried for the Cid behind her. She slowed for a moment to match pace beside him.

“Master Dak,” she started, keeping her own breathing even despite their hurried march all morning and afternoon, “while I know your view has been fantastic back here, how are you fairing on today’s trek?” She leaned down conspiratorially, “I know our large friend behind us is still recovering, 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.”

((OOC: assuming something fun from our boi, again, will edit as need be))

Rosariel laughed, “Alright, alright, well I just wanted to check in. If you need anything, you know where to find me,” And in two long strides she was in her place once again between the charcoal clad spell slinger, and their Cidal companion.

--------------------

As the evening wore on, they were denied even to make camp, despite both the cold and the darkness setting in. Rosariel sigh deeply. She was used to long days and even nights, hunting through the woods, just not normally so intensely, or without some reward. Indeed, she was grateful at least to have had so much time the previous day to obtain a little more edible flora (she would perhaps keep the mushrooms out of Ruadhrí’s portion for a few days) and fauna than usual, but tomorrow might be a bit lean.

Suddenly the small fae stopped them as a circle of open sky appeared overhead, “Hold her, companions,” she demanded in the same politely fervent tone she had been ushering them along with all day, “We are here. The varjopolku lies before us. I can help you walk it, and it will save you much time and effort.”

Rosariel tensed, anticipating another confrontation from Seleniniel as the Ysmiril informed them of this otherworldly pathway, especially after she had let her gaze linger on the mage.

((OOC: Assuming our fearless leader agrees to the terms to quick-travel to our next location))

It wouldn’t be too harsh a payment for herself, should their items indeed remain in safe keeping here. She wouldn’t be able to hold any humanoid that maybe be aggressive, or bofear, she thought ruefully, thinking of the last few times she had used the spell. Her arrowheads were next to fall, and she stared down at them with narrowed eyes, hoping they wouldn’t be gone long. A headless arrow was more likely to piss her prey off than fell it. She pursed her lips as she slung the quiver back over her head and settled the strap across her chest, creating an X with the sash of pouches, filled with components, save one.

“Ysmiril,” she began thoughtfully, approaching the fae and the light of the circle, “I’ve heard traveling by fae magic can sometimes alter the way time flows for its passengers. Normally it is when entering or leaving your domains, but as we do have more duties to perform, I wanted to ask if any such alteration will happen with us, as we travel by these means?”

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.”

Arathea wasn't seeking violence, she didn't want for anybody to get hurt, that was why she was doing this. Seleniniel was threatening the well being of  the whole group because of her emotions, Arathea was just trying to avoid that. But emotions were hot, tempers had been flared. To Arathea however this was just discipline, a century of her life spent in a military setting had made her adjusted to such things, if you do or say something so incredibly ridiculous as this you would be disciplined. Arathea had been on the recieving end of such disciplining many times since she was a little girl being trained, and the experiences stuck with her. She remembered a time in her adolescence when she disrespected a nobleman in the military, he had been a rival of her father who gone as far as running against him for Erestor out of little more than spite. She lost her temper at him, telling him of the many unpleasant things he deserved to experience. For speaking out of line in such a way she was brought to her teacher, an experienced warrior who had spent centuries in service of the nation and the order. She was made to run seven miles while carrying a bucket full of water after a speech by her teacher that spared nothing when it came to tearing down Arathea's actions.

Arathea was waiting for Seleniniel to respond when Mae'rel intervened, pushing herself between the two women. "And Madam Arathea. I know you do not often agree with Madam Seleniniel, but you must see from her perspective and realize she is not trying to put us in harm's way. There is no need to threaten Madam Seleniniel, I've often found that persuasion has better results. I agree completely that we need not make an enemy out of this ally, but that means we should also avoid making enemies with our existing allies, as well,"  she said to Arathea, it was...exhausting. I have yet to see planting flowers and making love as an effective strategy in leadership, or in most things in life, Arathea thought silently to herself, yet she knew this was not a battle to fight. "Lady Mae'rel, I respect your input but I never sought to hurt Seleniniel, this is discipline, it is necessary. Seleniniel is threatening her own life and the lives of others, that cannot just be allowed," she stated plainly. But she knew this dispute was closing, she watched Seleniniels expression go cold as the two women stepped back from the eachother.

****

The day that followed was full that travel, Arathea anaylzed Seleniniel with both eyes. She had a mask on now, she concealed herself from the world, from others. Part of Arathea was frustrated at how childish the behavior was, it was hardly befitting any grown woman let alone one with such pressing matters on her shoulders. Yet she also understood there was something deeper wrong, something of more meaning. As they walked along with the rather incredible pace of the fae, she approached the mage. "You remember what I said?" She began, trying to strike a friendly tone. "You can talk to me, whatever is wrong we can work out. I won't press the issue, I doubt that would do us any good, but I am here. I care about you and your well being, both for our mission but also for you as a person." She knew it would almost certainly fall on near deaf ears in the current moment, but she hoped it would carry at least some weight. She kept her way following the fae after offering her words, now was not the time for deep conversation, though she hoped once the group was settled down that it could be discussed more in depth.

The group continued to march under the guidance of the fae, even into the night, a night where the chill of autumn hung in the air. It reminded Arathea of a time she had followed a man through the snow, a criminal who had been fleeing from justice for the murder of multiple important people. She had refused to stop even as the sun set, believing that marching through the night would allow them to gain ground on him. Eventually the outlaw was caught while he rested by a campfire, leaving Arathea and her companion to drag him back. And then they arrived, a clear circle in the sky devoid of the countless stars that dotted the rest of it. It was something of myths and legend, though ever since she had taken on this quest from lord Isil'nari she had seen many things previously confined to myth and legend.

Ysmirel spoke, innocent as always and giving an offer. A chance to walk this shadow path, to shave off a tremendous amount of time from the journey, but they would need to remove their iron. Arathea considered the offer before speaking, then she gave her thoughts. "I am for anything that would get us through this... quest as fast as we can. Giving up our iron is a sacrifice I believe to be acceptable," she turned to the rest of the group before turning back to Ysmirel and continuing. "But our steel is another subject, I am willing to part ways with this blade if I will not need to use it, I understand it may be... disrespectful for your people. But I do not want to march into a batte with no weapon."

“Seleniniel! Sel!” a pause, then an overdramatic huff, “Seeeeeeelllllll!”  

She giggled to herself, relinquishing a few bubbles to the surface amid the sea of lilypads. One draped perfectly over her head, concealing the wild mop of red hair that would quickly betray her latest attempt to frustrate her sister–which was working marvelously at the moment. She eyed Alwendiel from her camouflaged enclosure as her sister searched among the rushes, distractedly shooing the sleepy branches of the bankside willow as the midsummer breeze awoke them to whip wildly about her sister’s head. “There's a rainstorm blowing in! Sel! Come ONNNN!” Seleniniel’s lungs were starting to burn. Ever so sneakily, she rose just enough to steal a quick breath, then, just as stealthily, plunged all the way under, muffling sister and storm alike. 

She opened her eyes, the crystalline azul water refracting the handful of late afternoon rays that bravely defied encroaching thunderheads and lily pads alike. She pushed off, sweeping her way through the sea of stalks tethered to the flower-speckled surface. It tickled her imagination just so. As she wiggled her way through the aquatic garden, it transformed… 

The kraken’s tentacles grasp at the wave mistress as she dives to the icy depths to strike at its inky heart. She remembered the stick, momentarily forgotten, yet still in hand, now swiping madly at the tethers that lazily drifted around her. Of course, this produced quite the commotion on the surface, as her makeshift sword yanked first one, then several of the lily pads into submission. The surface world and any concern for it had ceased to exist, though, as she bravely swam deeper toward the beast’s maw, parrying its attacks in a demonstration of equal-parts skill and bravery, leaving a jetsam of bubbles and rumpled flora in her wake. She reached the monster’s gaping mouth just as her traitorous lungs were giving out–not lungs–the pain of a thousand cuts from the monster’s neverending appendages! The pain would not deter her. She struck the killing blow, skewering the kraken with her forbidden blade of khord-forged silver…. and burst to the surface with a triumphant gasp of delight!

*SPLACK* The mud hit her square in the forehead, quickly followed by her sister’s sharp laughter that mirrored the triumph she’d so abruptly stolen from Seleniniel. “lle ai’thost!” Seleniniel exclaimed at her sister. “Ha!” Alwendiel parried, “You don't even know what that means, aiwë.” It was true–something that grumpy, nearly-ancient cook Salinfor had called her when he'd caught Seleniniel sneaking her favorite snack from his stores–but she knew an insult when she heard one. Seleniniel swiped muck and drenched mess of hair from her eyes, flinging the residue back at her sister, then, unsatisfied, hurled her sword-now-stick too. The latter stole the smugness from Alwendiel’s face as her sister’s dodge became a fall thanks to a fortuitously placed cypress knee. Seleniniel’s joyful cackle at her misfortune was cut short, Alwendiel’s glower too, by the sharp crack of thunder–commanding them like a scolding parent, snapping both girls’ attention westward. “It's getting close Sel, c’mon.” Alwendiel was earnest now, transformed from combatant to elder sibling in the time it took the rumbling echoes to play themselves out across the darkening sky. Alwen brushed the dirt from her lightwoven summer dress–functional enough for a day at the pools, but much less practical than the deerskin breeches Seleniniel had… borrowed… from their cousins’ wardrobe, which quickly shed the pool’s moisture as Seleniniel waded begrudgingly to shore. 

The first fat raindrops began to spackle the surface of the idyllic little pond as the girls retreated into the canopy's accommodating embrace. The disinterested drops were the vanguard to the summer storm that would blow itself over while the two shared a snack of hard cheese and soft bread, filched from Salinfor’s kitchens, in the cozy leeward embrace of the friendly boulder that marked their homeward tread. Seleniniel fought a late afternoon nap as she contentedly sucked the nectar from honeysuckle, carelessly flung out onto the mossy forest floor, listening to the storm’s stragglers gently pattering the leaves overhead and the now-distant rumbling retreating deeper into the eastern forests. The birds were beginning to re-emerge, gently testing the muted forest with shy melodies that grew in confidence as the soft patter of rain waned into the dripping sighs of the upper canopy, slowly lending its water for the rest of the forest to drink. 

“Alwen?” Her sister perked up, the forest’s song had apparently been tempting her too. “Why can't we stay?” Her sister’s eyes shifted to annoyance at her ever-repetitious little sister. “You know, Sel. C’mon, we might as well get moving.” Alwen stood and stretched. Reluctantly, Seleniniel did the same, dusting a few crumbs onto the spongy ground, smiling at the chipmunk who eyed them lustily from beneath the drooping fronds of the undergrowth that carpeted the lower forest. She bent to retrieve a leftover corner of bread–a feast for the critter–and tossed it closer with a wink as she began to skip after her sister, bare feet leaving rhythmic footprints in the mossy underfloor that quickly filled with water as she hopped from one to the next. “But Alrarion says the fae are just a child’s tale dad tells us to keep us from wandering off at night.” Alwen sighed as she began the trek home, unable to resist the impulse shared by all older siblings to correct their younger’s mistakes. “Alarion is barely older than you, why do you listen to him?” “But he was right about the pixies, they’re harmless… and so cute!” Alwen smiled, remembering too. “There’s a big difference between pixies and faerie folk…”.... They argued most of the way home.. the older instructing the younger from her infinitely greater pool of wisdom, the younger accepting none of it. 

As birdsongs gave way to the chirping rhythm of the early evening insects, Seleniniel eventually tired of the sparring, drifting to silence and then back to imagination. Of what it would be like to play in the deep forest amid stars and fireflies, of creatures with violet eyes, blanketed in midnight, who moved through paths unseen by the children of the stars…

–

A century away, someone called her name. “Seleniniel.” She focused. A face she knew. The bladesinger. That bladesinger. Earnest, as always, donning some false-friendly tone. Trying to lead, it seemed. Clumsily. “You can talk to me . . . I care about you . . . for you as a person.” Clueless. Sarigraamin. Seleniniel stared at her, subduing the sneer that began to reflexively grow at the corners of her mouth, trying to conjure anything that would make her go away. Not that Seleniniel wanted to return to the memory, unearthed as it was by the fairytailed fae her distant past would’ve found so enamoring. But Arathea was the last person she wanted to share it with. Finally, she responded. “How many years before you earned enough trust for that blade?” she nodded towards Mae'rel, whose pack still bore the fallen blade. 

((OOC: assuming a straightforward answer given Arathea’s personality))

“The same is true of people.” She walked on in silence, desperately trying to hold on to the present.

Finally, the protests of their mage seemed to break their Fae guide's patience, even if just slightly, as Ysmiril finally issued something vaguely resembling a threat, but more keen to a promise. Mae'rel had been issued many threats, but the threat of doing nothing and still causing someone's death was frankly far more threatening than the downright threat of violence or death. She could credit the Fae for that.

Mae'rel made sure to visit Ruadhiri early in the day before they set out alongside Rosariel. While the Huntress's servant was more light-hearted with her review of his condition, Mae'rel was more stoic. It was often difficult to read how she felt beneath her mask, but an attentive Ruadhiri would notice her mouth seemed to curve into a soft smile as she asked several questions about how he felt and inspected him. She was relieved, indeed.

When they continued the next day, the pace was indeed relentless. Mae'rel had traveled in her life much, and while she was not as well traveled as their Ranger was, she had been all over Coria, and the other human nations, even occasionally to Sendria. Her days and nights were often made up of treading through commonly walked paths or streets to reach those whom Lysora called her servants to aid, those she called Mae'rel to heal. Even with all of this, she struggled to keep herself disciplined as she did her best to keep pace.

Mae'rel did not have much trouble adapting to being behind the Fae, that said. When she had first begun to travel with the party, her almost rushing demeanor often put her ahead of the group, so she had to adjust her pace, something that caused her discomfort even now, as she often felt the group could move faster than they did. In fact, that was not just in her travel; that aspect of haste seemed to be in everything. Her walking, her speech, even the way she was to drink water, she simply did not savor the moments as much, as if she had not much time left to live. This, unbeknownst to Mae'rel, was because she had been raised among creatures who did not have much time left to live, not compared to a syl, anyhow. A sylvari could reach maturity after multiple generations of humans had been born, matured, grown old, and died. But to Mae'rel, every moment of life was precious and to be pushed to its fullest, much like the common human's view. And this often made her behavior strange, at least compared to other Sylvari.

Ysmiril was incredibly fast, but there didn't seem to be much she was not skilled at. It was good she had decided not to show Seleninel up, indeed. This Fae was a fascinating creature, and she had many questions for it, truth be told, and many things she wished she could learn from it. She wasn't sure exactly what the price would entail, from Ysmiril's answer earlier, but again her mind wandered. She pondered if the skills the Fae could teach, even without Wytchwood, would allow her to help others better than she ever had. Of course, Mae'rel would never do such a thing without the Blue Lady's guidance.

"Only if to prevent further harm, may you do harm unto another."

It was one of the lines of the simply-worded, yet complex vow Mae'rel had pledged to follow to the best of her ability. It was not like a paladin's oath, in the sense that, without properly following it, her magic would be stripped and she would be abandoned. It was not even part of her duties as a cleric. It was part of her order, something her sect believed was the best way to worship the Blue Lady. There would be no life-changing consequences forced upon her if she failed to uphold it. And considering their order lacked much formality and union, it was likely no one else from her way would ever know. And yet, Mae'rel followed it just as intensely as a Paladin. So when the Fae said one would need to dispose of their Iron and Steel to walk the path of the shadows, Mae'rel simply chuckled to herself. She did not carry such things, save for perhaps a single spell component or two.

"I carry no iron or steel, Madam Ysmiril, besides the one I carry for Madam Arathea. I will walk this path alongside you, but I must ask a question. Can our items be guaranteed safe until we return? Even though Madam Arathea deems herself unworthy to carry this sword, I am sure she would not want it stolen in our absence. And the rest of the group, they value their items much the same."

Ruadhrí's eyes squinted shut as he drank the sap, it tasted burnt yet was cold and increadibly strong and adhessive like trying to drink glue, the bitter-trully bitter-slug down his throat like honey, choking him literally and figuratively until he finally swallowed it, the after taste left his mouth cold and sour like bile lingering on his tongue though thankfully he would not have to endure it for long.

Ruadhrí's pupils widened as the knife open the scab, grunting as biting down as it did so, unaware of the stench of gangrene and willfully ignorant to look upon hus chest wound though he still saw a a few specs of spores float across his peripherals, though he squinted his eyes shut to ignore them... or at least tried to before being inturrupted. Ruadhrí's brown eyes shot open again, pale and agonizing as he screamed not the usual one of pain-fueled rage but of pure unfiltered agony as he heard his flesh sizzle... sizzling Bofír... Nograd.

Ruadhrí truly understood now how deeply he failed his kin in the Nograd blitz as he felt the same thing they did in their last moments, his screams an echo of the past ones that filled the oil-scented and smoke-thick air of Nograd that day. Kieran, Darragh, Fionn, names of the deceased that day who tried to peel their skin of in the last fleeting moments of life, sizzling and crying in horror as they watched themseoves burn.

Ruadhrí-AGHHH HELP ME Ruadhrí unintentionally busted the top of his back right muller as he bit down in pain - a word that didn't even cover a fraction of the healing processes feeling - but did not notice as his mind became foggy and his feeling in his digits became nulled but he had just enough cohesive thought to realize this was a seizure, something that put many ill in the ground on his venture here.

All this effort... everything I gave for them... for nothing... Andriv... Aoife... take care of them... Kirvan, Birnak my brothers... I met you where the... sun sets and... the field stretches... Ithir dearg. Ruadhrí finally fell uncouncious as Mae-rel put on the prayer that saved his life, though his dream still drifted him to the endless flat shenandoah field.