"If I could have had but a similar spot," Isilmewen murmured, "The things I could hide from my brother and sister, then," she chuckled softly.

Of course, the actual stowing of her quiver was... Less than pleasant. It brought to mind having lost one's boot in thick mud, and searching around for it blindly.

"Hmm, no, that wouldn't have done," she reconsidered. It didn't take much for Isilmewen to guess that, even if she had such a hiding place, when she was younger she wouldn't have had the strength to reach into it. Setting the thought aside, she stood back to await the opening of the path. 

She didn't anticipate the opening to be... Nothing. She heard nothing. Saw nothing. It was just a pocket of nothing. Isilmewen frowned. Was it that the light didn't reach, or was it really... nothing? Ysmiril's words didn't stop the shiver along the back of her neck, but they did give Isilmewen pause as the thought about what was said.

"So," Isilmewen gulped, averting her gaze from the void to look at Ysmiril, "it is like a bog, then, the steps of which I'll not be familiar with, but there is solid footing to be found, if one who knows can guide the path."

In a strange way, what Ysmiril described still followed a reasoning that Isilmewen could understand. Any untamed path likewise could hold many dangers to the unaware. This, this was just a path far wilder than she was familiar with. At least, that was what she had to believe. What exactly those dangers were, she didn't know. She wanted to know. She wanted to be able to guide the others in the case where they needed another guide.

"Maybe someday," Isilmewen pondered, "But for now... As much as I've already practiced taking your steps, would holding a line between all of us aid in keeping our steps together, or would such a measure be more hindrance than help?" she wondered.

When she wasn't bitterly reshelving her past, as the fae pulled more of it down on her head, Seleniniel studied. Analyzed It as it dragged her back There. She idly fingered the fireflies secured in her robes as she observed the way it crept from shadow to shadow. Wondering, if Rosariel hadn't stopped her, or she hadn't listened. Child of shadow… Seleniniel pulled one of the insects from its pocket–careful to keep her hand hidden–rolling the little preserved bug between fingers. Wondering what Light would do to it. It had said the Tides would not touch it.. but what of light.. what of the syl’s gods..

She eyed the Maiden, whose eagerness showed in her step. Perhaps she knew, but if so, it wasn't fear that knowledge evoked. Gods only knew with a Maiden though. Then a side eye behind… Rosariel maybe too. Perhaps from her hermited life in the deep woods. If either did, they weren't forthcoming. The huntress at least seemed to share some of Seleniniel’s caution. Rosariel had promised, too… but the fae would not openly betray them, Seleniniel was sure of that now. It would lure them in, layering mystery on promise, and threat of the old magic... ironic… a fabled thing threatening fabled magic. She knew the bedtime tales. Ancient mysticism, as far as Seleniniel had ever known, not that she’d gone looking. She knew the tides, could touch them, bend them to her–sometimes the coaxing weaver, others a demanding blacksmith. The tides were her thread and iron. To her. Some farflung corners of the world doubted the tides all the same. She would not share their mistake.

As she contemplated what use either woodswoman might have if… when… the sour underbelly of this bargain ripened, she mulled the huntress’s words. “I would have protected you”... Seleniniel had reflexively ignored her then, but now that the irritation had passed, she indulged a more calculating retrospect. A wounded animal, she'd pluck the thorn and bandage my paw…. Considering her dogma for a moment. Or slit my throat on her god’s alter I suppose. She smiled inwardly at the morbid thought as she considered how to use the ranger’s sentiment, how to sow seeds–from habit as much as caution.

She slowed until she heard the huntress's footsteps, felt the question in her tread as Rosariel shortened her stride to match. Seleniniel did not turn, just spoke quietly over her shoulder “Do you know how the viderak deal with wolves on their fishing shores?” Rosariel thankfully recognized its rhetorical nature. “They coat a knife in seal’s blood, hilt down in the ice. The wolves are drawn by the smell, but it is the taste of warm blood--their own--that drives them into a frenzy.” “They drink more and more, their life re-baiting the trap for the next.” A dozen paces in silence. “I have heard it does not take long.... But to them, it must seem like magic… right up to the end.” She lapsed back into silence, wondering if the huntress took her meaning. She would see. For now, Seleniniel was content to scatter some scant seeds, if only to judge the soil underfoot.

When they finally braked, what she hoped was for good, Seleniniel stubbornly remained standing while the fae addressed them. She would not give it the satisfaction of showing exhaustion, as much as her calves and soles begged. At least the pain had anchor her to now. Better that than idle hours wandering her inner libraries. But the choice the fae now offered twisted the knife already in Seleniniel’s gut, especially knowing the group’s answer even as it was voiced. Blindly trusting their fate to this thing all the more. Seleniniel had said her piece, been overruled… scolded… dismissed with a laugh. She would not work uselessly against the grain, however it grated her own convictions. She would find another way to the same ends. To voice her deepening objections would merely work against her now. So she’d tread this shadowpath silently, hastening a reckoning she’d intended to die without meeting. So be it. She was not one to flinch from an inevitable blow. The punishment is not the headman's axe, but the promise of it. She welcomed fewer days between her and there. 

She even met the uselessly vague answer to Rosariel’s question with stoic indifference, at first. So we’ll emerge tomorrow, or a millennia hence to find the k’ghoth have burned our forests to ash. What fools we are, to gamble away our place in the only world we know.

But the thought stuck in her, fermenting a bitter wine as she realized the thread that tied them all together. Do the rest really have so little tethering them to now? She knew she did not. If the arc of their path carried them decades from the present, she would miss the proxy for a home she’d made in House Galanren, and a few in it, but it was a thin thread indeed that tied her to this moment. She nearly broke her uneasy truce with her tongue as she ticked through the others, realizing how thinly all their bonds ran. The orphaned, the immigrant, lonely prodigy, solemn acolyte, hermit, abdicator… her, the withdrawn. Was that why? Not what they possessed–some hinted-at mortal birthright to travel sunlit paths–but an absence… of ties, kin, continuity… stickiness to this timeline. Chosen because only such would tread this path willingly. To jump into the river of time with no promise of the shore they would return to. How long has this thing really been watching us? 

Like a summer weed among paving stones, the thought took root... and blossomed into something altogether foreign. She rarely contemplated her place in the broader world–never before her place in this time. Yet now that she had tugged this thread, she found something unexpected. Not sadness. Eagerness.. bordering on hunger. To leave it. All living reminders. All markers. Swept away. She could barely admit it to herself, such was her meticulously constructed consciousness. But she now knew she wanted this. Badly. And she hated the fae more for it. With unforgivable abruptness, it had unraveled the story Seleniniel told herself–the most important story anyone held.. of who she was. By offering a sliver of hope, a chance of escape into another century. In an instant proving to Seleniniel jusy how inept her fortifications were. 

In a trance, she mechanically emptied the two pockets of ironshavings onto the forest floor. A price she would pay a thousand times over to be carried to a time that did not remember her, or Isil'nari… or her sister. Alwendiel. 

She ignored the rest of the fae’s performance, then warnings of its darker cousins. But not the que. Am I ready? She answered with her eyes, locked to its ethereal violet. She hoped it did not see the hunger. 

Yes. Let's f***ing go.

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?

The Fae's method of storing their item's was most interesting. For some odd reason, Mae'rel had thought that perhaps she would excavate the ground, or conjure a chest, or even stash them in a sack with seemingly endless capacity. But of course, all of that did not match the style of the Fae, especially not this particular one, Ysmiril. Of course she would bend nature to protect their items instead. Regardless, Mae'rel trusted the Fae, taking the sword and placing it within the wood. It was extremely interesting, to say the very least. It was almost as if pushing through a tough cloth, but the inside of the wood.. or maybe the tree? She wasn't sure if the wood was solid, or if it was hollow, it was hard to say. Whatever it was though, it was cold, and stale, something she felt even through her covered hands. She quickly retrieved them after letting go of the weapon, a look of discomfort hidden by her mask.

"Beware any strange lights or sounds.  Follow them not, no matter how beguiling they may appear; there are... things that roam the tabupolkuja, cold things that seek warmth.  A child of the stars or the sun would be very appealing to such things.  Your death would not come for a very long time - even by the standards of my people.  Were they to claim you, I would not be able to counter such a claim... and I fear that you would forget your name long before your agony ended."

An agonizing death that lasted long even by Fae's standards didn't sound very appealing, the Monk could say that for certain. She was sure that, one way or another, they would have an encounter with these wretched creatures, she only hoped that they would have some way to wound them, or at least flee from them, when they did. The fact that Ysmiril essentially gave the vow that she would not interfere should one of these creatures claim one of their members.. it sent a shudder through Mae'rel. She understood that the Fae had to look out for itself, but it certainly didn't help her nerves that were increasingly building. Of course though, the Fae instantly changed her tone again, as she had often done so many times before.

"Be brave, ystäväni!  Nothing may harm you as long as you tread where I tread, as long as you follow my light, as long as you ignore the nälkäisiä.  I will guide you through safe, I give you my word."

"If you are ready to lead, then I will follow, Madam Ysmiril."

Ruadhrí breathed in the autumn air, feeling like a prioneer inhaling real clean air for the first time in years, able to hold and exhale it without seasoning the ground like a salt shaker with wretched spores. It made him grin, knowing maybe just for a little while longer he could enjoy the sunlight without fear of falling to the shadows of evil and hunger that scar so deeply into all of these lands, though maybe he was already in the shadows.

Ruadhrí himself had no qualm with Ysmiril, especially to her friendlier personality than the doom and gloom of those he had become accustomed to in this party. The mage seemed to be losing her grip on the world around her with every glance at their fae friend which made him uneasy, which was a feeling he had become too familiar with and was very unwelcome in these moments of glee.

Ruadhrí shook his head though and tried to forget about it as he unclipped his warhammer and moved to the stump to put it in but was surprised to see how dense it is, as he could puch his great ax down to the pommel in even the thickest muck yet it took every ounce of his strength to push this - all be it, bulkier - weapon down into the stump but this would only be the beginning of his struggle with this stump. 

"Is brass okay?" He asks as he tries to confirm what either is or isn't okay to bring (Assuming yes) Ruadhrí nods, happy he won't have to remove all of the rings in his horns and begins fiddling with the iron rings in his horns which did not want to come out, after a while of struggling with the ornaments he gave an aggrivated huff as he looked down at his tender finger from working at it and finally voiced for someone a little better with small objects "Dak, I need your aid. I cannot remove the rings in my horns" (Assuming Dak accepts) Ruadhrí kneeled-no sat then leaned as far down as he could to give the halfling full range of motion.

(Assuming success) Ruadhrí lifted his head and rubbed his neck then took the rings "My thanks, Dak. I can remove everything else." He then sat down a little more comfortably to begin working at the crowns on his horns. First he produced a dagger and brought it up to the crown on his right horn and with a little finesse he found the screw-like metal bolt holding it together and undid it then the one on the other side of the horn and the crown flipped open and let go of his horn, revealing their full color and two very shallow holes where the crews were. The next side he was noticably more careful but did relitively the same thing but was more careful when removing it as a very large split crack when over halfway down the horn once revealed, wincing slightly as the iron crown snagged and pulled it a bit before being fully removed.

Ruadhrí then removed the iron rings from his ears as well as the decorative small steel chain on his left ear, finally his body-wait, one more iron ring on his finger as well as other assorted wood and brass ones, now his body finally has no iron on it or in it anymore and Ruadhrí looked down at his hands and shook his head. "This feels... wrong." He said, then pushed all the items into the stump and shook his head again, trying to shake off the feeling of all the ornaments being gone and stepped forward. "I have treversed many roads, this one shall not be any worse. I am ready"

Arathea took hold of the soft silk rope in her gloved hands, it was quite the fine tool, fitting of a noblewoman to have a rope made of such material she thought. The path into this realm of shadow and fog was to begin, and her mind was filled with a million thoughts and questions as to what would come next. The border was thick yet there seemed to be no physical boundry, it was strange and unsettling, a feeling that chilled her to the bone. The darkness fully consumed her as she pushed through the invisible barrier, pushed into this mystical land. She was unsettled by the pure oppressive darkness, it is said that black is not a color like the others, instead it is merely the absence of light. This realm was as example of land that seemed completely drained of all light, all life, all things that made the world healthy and good; then Ysmirel's song came.

As the world slowly came into view Arathea whispered thanks to the Gods that she would not be force marching through pure darkness, but it was still uncomfortable. This whole place was wrong, everything was wrong, but she tried to keep her optimism. This was still an example to see things that had been lost for so many years, to explore something totally forgotten, but still she had the lingering feeling of wrongness from this land that would not cease. It reminded her of her loss, reminded her of what the past week had brought on her. Her blade forsaken, her pride torn down, her despair. She was reminded of it all, and it was deeply discomforting. She tried to keep her focus on Ysmirel and her soft singing, but even as she followed it her pain kept digging into her heart, into her soul. The agony she had been able to supress it better, she had told herself the worst was over, but this place seemed to awaken the grief in her heart. Perhaps it was some mystical influence, or more likely she thought it was that she was left with nothing but her own mind in the eerie quiet.

Who was she? Who was Arathea Ondolithe? A warrior, a leader, hero, or perhaps more accurately farce. Was her life all just a lie she had constructed for herself? She found herself wondering if it was just her own delusions of grandure, a warrior who could not even honor her own blade. She saw an image of herself as a liar who had constructed herself a fortress of falsehoods to hide in, the true scum of the Earth and a failure to serve her country. The thoughts and questions plagued her, making her ache and pain. The force march was uncomfortable, but nothing unique to her, she had experience doing such things. But the psychological pain, it was a far deeper weight. She continued to question herself, continued to question her worth, but such thoughts were broken by an important happening.

She saw Seleniniel, saw her walking towards this strange light, saw her entranced by it. Maybe it could have taken her, but her will to push through for her sake, and for her companions sakes, pushed through. She saw this creature for what was, a horrific monstrosity against all life, a demon of shadow searching for prey. She realized that it had Seleniniel in it's grasp, quickly Arathea's mind raced as to what to do. She would be risking her life against forces beyond anything she understood to save Seleniniel, to save this woman who would likely never thank her for it. But she was an asset, she was important for the mission... and above that to Arathea, she was a person helpless and condemned to damnation if she did not intervene. So the warrior drew her blade and charged forward at the horror of the dark, knowing full well that it may be her last act. In a swift and graceful motion she brought her blade down on it, begging in her mind for Seleniniel to realize what was happening, yet the mage seemed totally lifeless.

The creature responded, and Arathea felt a cold chill consume her as she tried to strike it. She was paralyzed, she was doomed to be tortured by this horrific thing, her soul binded to it's torment. She wondered if it was a fate befitting of her, after all she had failed, failed so many times yet... she did not have to fail to save this life. She was stopped from attacking this abomination, but if she could not destroy it she could stop it from destroying another life. With all the strength left in her body she physically forced hereself in front of Seleniniel and cried out to the mage. "Run" she said with desperation."run!" She cried out with all her remaining strength. Yet the mage did not move, did not flench, it was over. She had failed to save her companions life, failed yet again, and now they were both damned.

As the dread and hopelessness consumed Arathea salvation arrived, a light pushed through the darkness, the light of Ysmirel. Once again Ysmirel was a force of salvation for the group, she forced the creature back in a scene that seemed straight out of legend. The fae despite her small body was so clearly larger than life here, her serene glow forced the horror back even in spite of it's resistance, it was truly a sight to behold. As the beast retreated the chill in Arathea's bones retreated with it, she felt like she could move without great struggle again. Quickly she forced herself up, barely registering Ysmirel's words as she grabbed Selelniel and pulled her up from the ground. "Seleniniel Isil'nari," she began whislt still trying to catch her breath. "Do not terrify me like that again, I was near ready to die, or worse there. Set aside your pride and follow the fae, nothing here can be trusted."

After the incident Arathea continued along the path, staying focused on Ysmirel and the march forward. Yet her doubts continued to plague her, only intensified now by the brush with terrors she could not even begin to understand. She felt like collapsing but she knew that was not an option, she had to push on no matter how much she felt like giving in. Finally the end of the path would come, and once she marched through the oppressive darkness and into the cool breeze of the material realm, surrounded by the normal serenity of the woods, the warrior let herself fall to the ground. She propped herself onto a tree and breathed in deep. Peace at last, for now at least.

It was the quiet, more than anything, that unnerved her. The background noise of the forest became vastly more noticeable for its absence than she’d ever paid its everpresence. Ironic, really, how she missed it. Among syls she was somewhat anomalous in her regard, or rather, lack, for the woodland that cradled her people. Yet she had grown up all the same, surrounded by the trill of birdsong, ambient hum of insect wings, western wind playing through blanketed canopy. The daily music of simple, verdant… life. Its severance brought a psychosomatic dread that weighed on her bones. Her subconscious–more, the deep instincts of her species–telling her this place was wrong. Like being drowned without water. She let loose the rope again as she worked her jaw and massaged her ears for the dozenth time since they’d come to this place. Trying to work the water from them. It did no more good than the eleven times hence. 

At least some semblance of sight had returned. Even that flitted in and out of focus. She found it was easier to track her surroundings by looking away, rather than at, her footing. Like the fainter stars only seen peripherally, the features of this place seemed to flee if studied too earnestly. So she navigated by impression, requiring a degree of trust in things ungrasped. And the fae. And its melody. And the rope… She was so tired. But she followed, step after step… The unfocus of this place tugged at her. The melody lulled her. The rope pulled her forward. She tried to sharpen her focus, but it merely narrowed. The rope. Step by step…. by step. The blackness seeped into her consciousness. Step. The rope–a tendril of light amid black. She followed. Step… She struggled to keep her eyes open… or to tell if they were. Her feet traced their memory of following... Step. Time stretched, thinner, not longer. Step… 

Then, slowly, vision returned. Real vision. And with it, acuity. Something pulled her mind back from the spell of this place. The fae’s place. The fae’s spell. She flexed, focused. Remembered the fae for what it was. Siren, not beacon. The others remained transfixed by its pull. She had been close. Rescued from the precipice by.. what? Light. It grew. Felt more than seen. A winter sun on her face. She turned towards it without turning. A distant warning, half remembered in the welcomed warmth. The fae’s warning. Woven of half truths and suggestions, words cloaked in shadows. Like it. Shadow, or light? The choice was easy. 

Words wrapped around her, untainted by the muffling shadows of the fae’s path. Lending the crisp honest light of a spring morning. “Child of stars, why do you follow this shadow?” She felt compelled to explain, to justify, to show that she saw. But as she reached for her reasons, she recall only one. To leave. That was not quite right, though. To escape. The light understood, recognized her honesty, with herself more than it. A self awareness so few possessed. It's warmth bundled around her, accepted her answer with understanding… the kinship of an older sibling… a sister… sharing her burden. The exhaustion began to leech from her legs, then her bones.. her soul, merely by the knowledge that it was not hers alone to bear. “This shadow would deceive. It has no power you seek.” She knew this already, began to scold herself for harboring such foolish hope. The hope of a child. She was stronger than that. The light knew she was. Even she had moments of weakness. She felt… acceptance.. understanding without judgment, gentle correction without scolding. I'm so tired, though. The warmth cradled her, scooped her up with the careless strength of a father. “The shadow has not blinded you fully, child. You found me, despite the veil they weave to keep the children of stars from us.” The praise brought a smile, she relaxed deeper into its embrace, a summer sun in a cloudless sky, offering respite from a day’s labor… from the labor of centuries. “There is peace to be found, for those who see. Why else would the shadows trap us here? They persist so long. How could they carry the weight of such time without help? Our help.” The light began to take shape, as it pushed back more of the shadows, as she shook the final vestiges of the fae’s spell from her mind. “It is our timeless purpose. Yet we are hoarded here, greedily consumed by the shadow. Captive suns they drink and smother from avarice and spite.” The light took on a sharpness, just a flash of it. Not at her. Seleniniel understood its scorn. Shared it. Unraveling more of the fae’s lies she had already begun to tug at. The light was grateful for her understanding. It changed again, softening from its momentary sharp white into the yellowgold glow of a late afternoon sun playing across fields of fall wheat. It's incandescence took form. A syl walked in the field. A mother. Her mother. “Yet you are here, child. Despite the veil. You carry the weight of time heavier than most.” Seleniniel followed her, playing her hand across the tops of the golden wheat as they swayed and sent her mother’s rays scattering through their stalks. Her hands. She remembered a time when she had only one. Her left felt strangely cold, distant. Her mother took both hands in hers, their remembered pain too. The cold siphoned away into her vastly greater ocean of warmth. “No need for that, my child. We are almost there.” She let her mother lead her. Paused, as if recalling an unfinished chore. Her mother turned to regard her with those infinite eyes. Welcoming the unasked question. Is Alwen there? The name felt hard, sharp, painful–starkly contrasting the soft motherly glow that cradled her onward. “Who?” Her mother said… And Seleniniel did not know. The hard lump of the name melted away in her mother's enrapturing radiance. She smiled. Nevermind. Let’s go.

A hand gently came to rest on her shoulder. A distant rumble rolled over the wheat fields, overtaking them from behind. The hand grew cold. Unnatural. Corpselike. Seleniniel found her mother’s eyes, seeking assurance but saw a whitehot anger instead, directed over her shoulder. The goldening afternoon glow lost some of its hue–still gold, but less.. saturating... Fear flooded in to replace the emptying peace. She desperately tried to wrench herself from the hand’s piercing grasp, to throw herself back onto her mother’s warmth. But it dug tighter, threatening to tear her flesh. Mother!.... Mom… help!

A slash of white traced a searing line across her mother's chest. No! The wheatfield greyed, stalks withering then dissolving into a spray of ash that drifted into mist as it all blinked out of existence, replaced by a murky dark that raced in to swallow her. To drown her mother’s light. With the darkness came a whiplashing avalanche of memory and sensation that sent her reeling. Phantom pain shot up her left arm, she looked down in shock and confusion at the ruined stump, its memory outpaced by the physical sensation and undeniable story her eyes told. Where her mother had beckoned moments ago, a flame of white rage burned. Burned away, again, the flood of sensation, blinded her to all else. It was directed at the icy hand that remained locked to her shoulder, but its overwhelming existence.. its intensity.. terrified her. She instinctively pulled towards it nonetheless. The flame surged into a wildfire of light that snapped back at the clawing darkness, threatening just as well to burn away the bundle of nerves and synapses that called itself Seleniniel.

Another slash, this time tracing a black line in the white flame that folded out from itself, bleeding the oppressive blackness back in. The flame shifted and dampened, from its diminishing radiance, a vision of internal structure began to grow. Nearly impossible to discern at first, but as the flame ebbed, an outline grew, then became impossible to unsee. Bones, yellow only in contrast to the purity of the white flame. A death’s head. Flame shrunk into eyes. Cloaked in darkness now but those infinite eyes remained. They did not regard her. Forgotten, for the moment. Another distant rumble of thunder washed over her, carrying a sensation of emotion she could not read. It had a distinct sharpness to it, though, a thin line of malice she grasped to reconcile with the fleeting vision now lost. 

The icy hand released. It did not matter. She stared into those once-infinite pools of light, rapidly shrinking under the greater weight of darkness. The dread returned, but she didn't yet understand why. Something stepped between her and it. Seleniniel tried to reach out. With her left hand. Confusion flooding in at its again-forgotten absence. The shadowy figure formed into a face, one she remembered, she thought. It was shouting something. The sound felt strange. Like being underwater. She worked her jaw. moving her hand to work the water from her ears. The sound resolved itself into a word she knew. “Run!” She didn't. Couldn't. She peered past, to the rictus death's head, twin pricks of light that offered no warmth now. Transfixed by the overwhelming sense of something missing, something precious, just out of reach. Where did she go? It reached for her. And Arathea. That was who the face belonged to. Arathea. The Bladesinger. But the once-welcoming embrace was no longer so, replaced by a steel-cold insistence and savage hunger of a starving animal. Seleniniel recoiled. Or wanted to. She was rooted. An unseen presence, just beyond sight, weighed on her shoulders. She wanted to turn, to see, to struggle, but it held her implacably forward. She felt its press towards the thing that stood before them, as it raised its skeletal arms to drag them away… down… somewhere cold. Somewhere she did not want to go. An impression came, more sentiment than fully formulated thought. I'm sorry… Arathea…

It grew from the corners of her eyes. She did not recognize it at first. Violet light of a second dawn. Black resolved into color. Undeniable color. A melodious voice she knew. It belonged to a fae, she recalled. Her name was… Ysmiril. But the voice was stern now. No, not stern. Angry. That didn't seem right. The voice she remembered was always amused, she thought–desperately trying to reassemble the fragments that flowed back to her in a jumble of centuries. She remembered she hated the voice, but she couldn't find why. Then, a roar of thunder accompanied by a brilliant flash of violet pulled her attention outward. The unseen oppression at her back was gone. She felt… not warmth, but the absence of cold… that clawing cold dragging her down.. To drown.. in the deep. A serpentine hiss fled, but failed to resonate in the stifling air of this place. She reached for her ear again. No. She remembered that would do no good. In the shadow path. She remembered its name. How long had she tread it? Ysmiril was talking to her now. To them. Arathea was by her side. Seleniniel tried to focus. She caught the tone more than the words. Amusement had returned, somehow. Scolding laced with amusement. Then, the bladesinger was offering her a hand. Seleniniel did not remember falling, but there she sat, splayed on what passed for a floor in this place, mists lazily trailing around her. Arathea was breathing heavily. Seleniniel realized her heart was hammering too. Her hand trembled uncontrollably as she reached for the bladesinger’s. It steadied when she clasped Arathea’s. Hers was solid. Like its owner. Seleniniel felt the calluses of Arathea’s sword hand on hers as she pulled her standing. “Seleniniel Isil'nari.” Scolding without amusement, but the youthful earnestness Seleniniel now remembered. “Do not terrify me like that again, I was near ready to die, or worse there. Set aside your pride and follow the fae, nothing here can be trusted”... Isil’nari... Isil’nari… Her name. Her house’s. Her mother’s. Her real mother. Her sister’s. The fragments tumbled back into place on their own accord as the flood overwhelmed her ability to process them. She just… held on… to Arathea’s hand. Her only anchor at the moment. Tears streamed down her face. She didn't care that the bladesinger saw her like this. “I’m sorry.” She meant it, in more ways than one.

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…”

Arathea sat back onto the tree she had found, trying to rest and get a reprieve from what had all just happened. Her eyes filtered closed as she let the fresh air blanket her body, for a moment her mind went back to home, to pleasant thoughts, but it did not last. Instead as she sat there half asleep the memories of the days events were what filled her thoughts, specifically the way Seleniniel had reacted to them. She seemed so much more vulnerable, it was a side of her that Arathea had never been able to see. This woman she knew as either emotionless or angry was sobbing as she gripped onto her hand like a lifeline, the two simple short words the mage had said rang through her mind, "I'm sorry." Arathea kept hearing those words, the apology of someone who's veil of calm and strength was totally broken down. Arathea started to wake back up, but the memory did not leave her mind. She thought on it as she pulled herself up and began to remove her gear, putting on more comfortable attire. She wondered if behind all the bitterness, behind all the hatred, behind all the ambivalence there was a good person in that mages heart after all. But even if there was, could Arathea ever reach that side? The only time the veil had truly been broken was when she had almost had her very soul destroyed, a fate quite literally worse than death, could it ever be broken again?

Arathea decided that some time in the pools was what she needed, or at least something that could help. So the young warrior brought herself over to one of the pools, placing herself on a rock while she dipped her feet into the water. Looking out at all the batches of water in this place she finally was able to feel a consistent calm, for everything at had happened, had she not honored her vows? To save always try to save a life in danger, no matter the life, no matter the personal cost. She had done that, even for someone who never seemed to care for her, she had honored her purpose tonight, even when the danger was something she could not even understand. Perhaps she wasn't completely lost, perhaps life would be okay.

Darkness deeper than the moonless night. No matter how much Isilmewen strained her eyes, there was nothing to see. Her neck tightened as air felt scarce, but she had resolved herself to this even before entering. If this was the one time fortune wouldn't see her through, well...

The thought was left incomplete as Ysmiril's song pierced the dark veil, and Isilmewen breathed a bit easier.

Alright, here we are. Wherever here was. A nightmare realm? Perhaps. Isilmewen didn't trouble herself to think about it much - better to leave that for the academics. All she had to worry about was doing her part, and that meant studying Ysmiril.

Even as limbs ached, even as she questioned her hearing for the thirteenth time, even as she could scarce make out if anyone was left behind her, Isilmewen had to trust. She forced herself to study Ysmiril's steps. Repeat the steps. Follow the guide. Guide the others.

Repeat.. the.. steps.. Follow.. the.. guide.. Guide.. the.. others..

If they were still there. They were still there, right?

She couldn't stop to look. She had to follow Ysmiril. Repeat the steps. Guide the others. 

Isilmewen's heart sank a bit in knowing one thing in particular. Oh, she could follow Ysmiril's footsteps. That wasn't the hard part. The hard part was in the knowing that she had neither the breath nor vocal skill to lend her voice to echo Ysmiril's song for the others to follow.

Then Ysmiril stopped. Isilmewen blinked at that. Had they stopped? Did they make it to their destination?

No.

Ysmiril's voice called out in urgency, and she moved swiftly. Isilmewen looked back, seeing the shapes off to the side that Ysmiril approached, but couldn't make them out. After following so long, she almost took a step to continue after Ysmiril, but the part of her that retained alertness screamed at her to stay still. Hold the line. Guide the others in the dark.

Isilmewen's knuckles whitened as she held fast to the rope she held. She'd stay on this path.

It didn't take long before Ysmiril once more took lead in the dark, but what she said last gave Isilmewen pause.

"These are bound to the Court by the oldest magic - even the likes of you dare not interfere with such. Begone!"

So the binds that Selineniel were so averse to were obligation and protection both. Isilmewen had to ponder that a moment. In a way, it did make sense. If one was summoned by another House, and that House offered transporation, it was their responsibility to see you arrived safely.

Somehow, Isilmewen didn't think Selineniel was going to appreciate the irony.

Dutifully, Isilmewen followed after Ysmiril as best she could after a long trek since that morning. Her body's cries for relief rang louder in her mind than even Ysmiril's song, but she knew she couldn't heed them. Hold the line. Guide the others.

And then they reached the dawn.

Isilmewen needed no urging from Ysmiril as she stumbled out, back in the forest once more. Everything was loud. Everything was bright. As they should be. Staggering over to a tree trunk, Isilmewen allowed herself to lean against it, and with her free hand pried her fingers loose of the grip she held.

Once she had counted, and made sure all were accounted for, Isilmewen let out a tired but relieved laugh, "First in a thousand years, hm?" She pondered Ysmiril's words, "Wonder if gran will believe me, even when my brother and sister won't. Though she'll want it as another verse for her collection. Darkness beyond moonless night... something something... maybe?" Isilmewen yawned, not paying attention as she let the tree she leaned against become her support.

Dak going off to refresh first sounded like a good idea to Isilmewen, but her body wasn't about to let her push it any further.

"Be there in..." Isilmewen murmurred sleepily, "... Whenever I'll be there."

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.  )

Rosariel pushed through the unsettling feel of the portal, her hand clasping Isilmewen’s silk rope along with the others. The odd feel of the portal was surprisingly one of the least unsettling experiences she would have, traveling through this fairy path. Ysmiril seemed to be the only source of miniscule light in this place, other than the floating lights she was sure were those their fae shepherd had warned them against of course. The rest of the world was darkness. Pure, suffocating darkness. It was oppressive, the way it pushed against her, her thoughts both running free into the chaotic oblivion of the nothing beyond, and feeling tightly pressed back into her skull, hiding in the comfort of the memory of safety. Here the darkness couldn’t bore itself into her. Here those beautiful lights wouldn’t tempt her toward misery.

The books that formed the inner layer of her cottage walls were mostly of the religions across Audalis. There were maybe a handful on Taurdor Salka herself, as her followers didn’t often lend themselves to the arduous work of chronicling. Her books spanned the realms, the woods, the art of living itself, and a few even mentioned the fae. Her curiosity had lead her to losing several nights to the lure of the lore of these ethereal creatures--as she learned quickly was often their way. Unfortunately her desire to fill her head with as much as she could of the Huntress pushed many of these stories out of her mind but here, surrounded by the dark and lured once more toward the mysteries of the fae realm, her mind searched desperately for the tales that had entranced her.

Her thoughts wandered, expanded, retreated so much so that perhaps that is why she had not caught the disappearance of her auburn-haired ally, the back of whom’s head she had grown so accustomed to seeing bob before her.

Rosariel stopped in her stride, looking for her, “Sel-” she began to shout her name before the bladesinger swept past her as a blur in the darkness. The huntress turned to follow Arathea’s path with her gaze, frozen in place as the elven warrior fought off the nightmare that had fascinated Selininiel, Ysmiril close behind to bring their allies back.

Her heart still raced as they all took their familiar places once again, their mage more subdued than Rosariel could ever imagine she could be. She wanted to lean forward, to ask if she needed any sort of healing, but with a quick glance she assumed the sort she was in need of was not any Rosariel was able to provide.

And so their march into the utter unknown continued for an eternity Rosariel was unable to comprehend. They had maybe been here all of her life. Had she fed Tubs? She reached her free hand back into her hood and he swatted her away while he slept. Perhaps he was immortal. Or perhaps she was losing her grasp on reality. Either seemed plausible at this point in their endless trek, through the endless dark of this endless--

“Quickly!” the lilting voice of the fae now hissed, "Morning is almost here. The varjoovi will close, and we will be forced to remain here until I can open another ring. With haste!"

Rosariel trusted the sound that had been their guard and their guide forever, it had been the only sound she had heard for so long, and soon found herself squinting against the light of the forest once more. It was disconcerting how painful something that had offered her so much comfort all her life was after having been so oppressed by darkness. She forced her eyes open, focusing on the vibrant color of the dirt and the weeds at her feet. They were beautiful. So full of life and not desperate to lure her further into the dark. She took a deep breath, the air as filled with depth and color as the wilderness around her. She listened to the rustling of the flora and the fauna, music far more familiar and lovely to her ears than the fae’s lilting lyrics that had been her most consistent companion in so long.

If Ysmiril was to be believed, the trek that had felt like months had only lasted the night, and somehow they were already at Lindela Elin. Rosariel had no reason thus far not to trust this fae, apart from the tales buried somewhere in the back of her exhausted mind, and she was too tired to argue.

Instead she made her way back to where Ruadhrí stood, “Hello my friend,” she greeted, her voice rough from lack of use, “how are you faring after all of this? Any irritation from your injuries? I can give them a look if you’d like.”

Their early morning camp was somber, perhaps like Rosariel the rest of their troupe was also exhausted and deep in their thoughts. She glanced across the way to Selininiel, a different air of tension surrounding her now than she was familiar with when it came to the mage. Even their usually jovial maiden seemed more world-weary. Eventually Rosariel dragged herself and Tubs off to wash the day (or month or eternity) away, before coming back to camp and passing out the moment her eyes closed.