It was quiet. Piercingly so.

That was the first thing that Mae'rels brain screamed at her when she entered the Shadowpath. It was natural for humans and demi-humans alike to always be stimulated in some capacity. But the shadowpath lacked that. It was almost like sensory deprivation. It was dark. It was quiet. It was cold in a way that did not correlate to temperature, and in a way that did. The air itself seemed disgusted, bitter, thick, like the very nature of being was altered here.It simply, beyond and above anything, did not feel right.. as if mortals were not supposed to know about a place like this, let alone, dare tread it.

Once Ysmiril conjured light, Mae'rel found herself pulled from that sense of impending, indescripable doom and terror. The light and sound of the Fae allowed her brain something to focus on, no matter how light and vague, and so she did. That was all she focused on for the next hour.


And then the next day.


As her eyes began to perceive the path she walked in, she too began to perceive the false lights in the distance. She struggled to make them out, but she dared not look at them long enough to learn more details. Ysmiril had warned against such things. The lands here felt like an echo, an indescribable reminder of what once was. She wondered if once upon a time, these lands had been glorious places. Or if these lands represented something. She wondered if the strange lights she had seen were souls of some type. Or maybe these lands were some kind of after-life.. she did not truly know, she knew too little, and with the lack of varied stimulus, her mind continued to wander.

She remembered those heavy thuds. The vibrations.

They called it Garghas's Tread, because the sound of the heavy bells sounded as if a powerful being were walking. A god. Garghas was evil, undoubtably, but there was one thing about him that one could appreciate in a twisted way. He did not discriminate.

When the Beggar's Plague struck Calestra, and the city sealed it's own grave shut, none were safe from The Poisoner. The rich council of merchants and their children died. The poor dock workers and their mothers died. The store-workers and the blacksmiths died. Even despite the efforts of other clerics to change the outcome, to protect those of higher status, it did not make a difference. The Lord of Rot laid his claim, whether they would cooperate or not. And once he had, the city was left like a distant memory. Like an echo.

These lands felt like that echo. Forests that seemed warped and vague, they might have perhaps been filled with life and trees, but were now instead barren wastes. Like the streets that were once feeled with travelers and city-goers, colorful booths and vibrant smells, they became empty, rotting streets. Calestra recovered with time, but the poor parts of the city, the slums, they never quite did. Some places were still empty. Some places even murderers would not go.


In some twisted, awful way, these lands felt like home


And then the next week.

At least, that was how she felt. The longer they seemed to stay in the shadow path, the harder it was to understand time. The longer they seemed to stay in the shadow path, the more her eyes adjusted to the tiny lights in the distance, or sometimes, the very near, the more she hurt. Her body ached, it was tired in every way she could imagine, and yet, she was not truly.. tired. She did not need to sleep. She simply needed to lie down. To collect herself. To rest, but not truly. She was exhausted, yes, but she was not tired. Others seemed to struggle with the same thing. The more hardened of the group, like The Ranger and The Bladesinger, they were more trained for such exhaustion. But others like herself, like The Burglar, they struggled more. The Mage had been struggling, but come to think of it, she hadn't seen the Mage recently.

She hadn't seen the Mage recently. Mae'rel quickly looked around, worry racing into her exhausted mind, adrenaline shooting across her skin. When she did not see the mage, she considered casting light, but she did not know if that would draw wretched creatures to them. Soon enough, in her frantic turns, she realized not just Madam Seleneniel, but Madam Arathea was missing as well. Half considering back-tracking, instead, she called out, trying to keep quiet but loud enough to gain the attention of the others. "Ysmiril! Seleneniel and Arathea are missing! Do you see them!?"

Then she saw it. The golden light. And the horrible creature that wielded it. The mists made it unclear. But the creature itself was wrong, simply perceiving it at all felt wrong. Wicked. Evil. It was indescribable, and yet also, Mae'rel could describe it with every word. Just as the creature began to grab The Mage, and Mae'rel considered rushing in to try and aid in any way she could, she watched Arathea strike it with her sword. When the creature did not relent, she struck again, and forced her way between the monster. A hero.

"And she'll die for it if I don't help." Mae'rel thought, and she began to take steps towards it, letting go of the rope. Then the bright light rushed across the shadow path, like an explosion of life into the barren wasteland, but in just a moment, it was gone. Ysmiril spoke to the horrible creature. Commanded it away. And she scolded the two as she quickly ushered them back in line.

And then, just like nothing had happened, they continued onward. There was no time taken to confirm the two were uninjuried. No time taken to confirm that they were ready to move. They simply moved. Mae'rel did not find this satisfying, and so she attempted to confirm that the two were alright the best she could, but it was hard to do so. She concluded she would confirm once they exited the shadow realm, that she would examine them.


And then the next month.


Or maybe it had been multiple. She simply could not tell anymore. Her entire body screamed in exhaustion. Mae'rel was certain that she just could not take another step at this pace. And yet she forced herself to, as she had been for some time. Time.

What even did time mean? Was it simply a concept of mortals to comfort them? In a place like this, did time even exist? Or was time more of a chain, something that limited portals? Did the Gods make it to limit them? Because they were afraid of what mortals could do without needing to sleep? Without time? Is this what you could become capable of if you did not have such measly restrictions, something so meaningless as time?

Her thoughts were interrupted when Ysmiril's song changed and they halted. Finally. An exit. 

She did not hesitate. The disgusting feeling that the portal provided as you pushed through it was almost like a comfort to Mae'rel. That was, until she had actually come through the mortal. Immediately her hands went to her ears as she nearly collapsed, quickly pulling her cloak further, over her eyes as she struggled to keep balance, forcing herself to sit down. The deafening noises. The blinding light. Even the air was overwhelming. She pushed herself over to her knees, and removed the cloth from in front of her mouth, though her face remained covered. After a dry heave, and another, the Monk's stomach gave out as her stomach voided it's contents. Several further heaves followed, before she caught her breath and forced her body to collct itself. Slowly, the noises became less loud. The air felt normal, and eventually, she realized it felt right again.

Finally, they were home.


It wasn't until after a long, well deserved sleep Mae'rel actually attempted words at anyone. A quick glance to The Mage and The Bladesinger revealed they lacked any urgent wounds, but she already knew that considering they continued successful travel through the shadowpath for what felt like ages. Her entire body still ached, and she felt absolutely famished. It was as if all the sleep, all the rest, all of the necessary care for her body that she had neglected had caught up to her, and now demanded to be seen to. She knew the others took a wash first, but it wasn't until that morning she did such.

(OOC: Specifying now, Mae'rel stays very reclusive and keeps herself covered best she can in the rare times they bathe. She prefers to do it without anyone around.)

Ruadhrí first relished in the fact that he was-though not by much proportionally-so much lighter, cracking and rolling his neck as all the heavy ornaments had just been removed which felt… a bit wrong in all honesty but it also felt slightly liberating, taking the creak out of his arched neck that would be cherished considering what was to come.

The portal looked… well, not like anything in particular. The portal looked like just a shadow except a few shades darker, making it look like it almost sucked in the light around it. Ruadhrí was slightly wary of the fact a gateway into nothing looked so plain. Ruadrhí was glad that at least one of them thought of the rope and Isilmewen’s rope was not a bad one at that.

With the rope in hand, Ruadhrí watched the others step through until he was up and stepped forward into the shadow-or at least tried to. It was a fight to simply go through it, like shoving yourself into thick much but finally he was able to break through to the other side but when he did, it was a feeling he had never felt before.

A jolt went through him like falling in a dream in the first few moments on the other side, then it settled and allowed him to analyze his unfamiliar and eerie surroundings. Alien echoes of chittering and broadcast calls crept in the far distance, though not far enough to make Ruadhrí comfortable as they were still close enough to be heard then the first recognised sound pierced this eerie darkness. “Follow my steps, all is well”

Ysmiril was a shade brighter somehow in this land of pure all-consuming darkness, almost glimmering like an underground spring with a single ray of light to touch it and it was… enthralling. Almost fascinating enough to drown your other senses but alas, we were still in-as far as Ruadhrí was concerned, a land of death and despair.

As their journey began Ruadhrí’s instinct first said to keep his hand on the leather strap that kept his ax on his back but he realised they were in an unmapped path that hadn’t been used in… who, or more accurately what knows how long. The fae said we’d be fine and it would be a shame to miss this opportunity  he thought as he drew a chalk and parchment and began to map as best he could their journey from the portal to where they were and where they were going.


Then someone or something seemed to whisper to him, not like a person would though, it seemed to almost go directly into his head then he saw it, some golden light on the ground and it pulled to him like a siren to a seamen but Ruadhrí knew better and looked away from it, paying mind to his map again only to not notice the mage fall behind.

By the time he knew something had happened it was already over though not gone completely as the bladesinger and the mage looked three shades and a half paler than usual and he didn’t have to see it to know what happened. “Awareness of a blind toddler…” Ruadhrí dismissed as Ysmiril lightly scolded them, though only to himself as there would be no point in further arguing.

After what felt like months they were finally out but it was not the warmth he had hoped for. As soon as he stepped through he went down to his knees, his eyes shut tight and hands clasped over his ears as they rung with the power of a train going right next to him, the birds boomed like grenades and the wind screeched and the sun scorched his pupils every time he opened them until finally his senses returned to his side.

After regaining his own senses Ruadhrí looked down at his map and a bit of disappointment struck his face at the incoherent charcoal scribbles “You’d have better luck reading an chéad lorgaire sea logs…” he mumbled to himself “Still, might be able to learn from them” he said as he put them with the other parchment pieces he had colored so far when Ysmiril spoke.

"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." Ruadhrí welcomed both his ability to rest again as he sat, letting Lenox put and pulled out a peace of Parchment and charcoal “Would be a shame to not be able to look back at this” he said as he began drawing the grove before him, happy to finally be out of the shadow path and in a place so beautiful it, nearly clearing his mind of all the horrible things that had happened in the last few weeks.

Ruadhrí finally felt a feeling he hadn’t truly been able to enjoy since long before the sylvari lands. Safety, true warm safety and he basked in it, capturing the moment of beauty via charcoal and paper as he knew it would be distant before he felt it again, by mind or body which felt the soft feeling, relishing in the warmth of this ancient, forevermore lush autumn land.

Arathea had never slept for quite so long before in her entire life, she did not believe herself able to do such a thing, yet here she was. She had remembered the events of the past few days as she pulled herself up from the ground, listening to Ysmiril explain the situation. At least she could feel like she had energy again, something she had been sorely lacking in after so much time spent purely traveling. 

Then Ysmiril asked if the group could hear the singing, Arathea did genuinely attempt to focus on the sounds around her, she did genuinely try to find any semblance of singing but it was in vain. She heard the chirping of birds, the serene sounds of the pools, the winds moving through the trees, but no voices. There was no singing that she could gather no matter how hard she focused, it must have been another of this fae's abilities she thought. It made her wonder though, with all the singing that the fae seemed to do, and how everything powerful they did revolved around it, and with how Ysmiril recognized the bladesong, Arathea had a thought. She connected how similar her own ability seemed to be with the fae, their power both seemed to come primarily from song, they both were connected to supernatural abilities via singing. Coincidence? She believed in very possible, but she still found it interesting, and it gave her some degree of understanding towards Ysmiril. 

As the group began to travel Arathea found herself watching Seleniniel more than normal, she was still caught up on what had happened, how they had both almost been condemmed to their own doom. She couldn't fully shake off just how vulnerable Seleniniel had seemed, how fearful her eyes were, how tight the mage had held onto her hand and how she had sobbed while she did. It wasn't something she could just forget, and she found herself walking up to the wizard, considering placing her hand on her companions shoulder but deciding against it. "Seleniniel," Arathea began in a voice that was stern yet sympathetic. "Next time we have the peace to talk I believe we need to discuss... recent affairs. Don't worry I'm not trying to give you some order or command, I just believe that we need to talk."

(OOC: Open to colabing with Sel next time we're at camp or anything of the like here, of course I also understand Seleniniel may just totally shoot her down here and that makes perfect sense)

But Seleniniel was not the only matter of focus, this was some place where the realms connected according to the Ysmiril. An Arathea just a few months younger would be completely surprised by the site of lake creatures or tails of portals into the other realms, but by this point it felt more like learning about a new forest creature, interesting ut not completely groundbreaking. What mattered more to her was once they reached the gate, and specifically Ysmiril's mention of friendship between the sylvari and fae people's. Arathea had spent decades studying ancient history, she had heard the passing discussion about the fellowship and alliance between the sisters of shadow and stars, but that was so long gone. Before the Great Invasion, before the death, the suffering, the destruction. An entirely different era, one even the greatest masters of history who had educated her only knew so much of. Perhaps they could discover more of those old bonds, perhaps this contact that was being had right now could even help plant the seeds for the two to at least recognize the other more in the future.

The time had come to present to the court, Arathea understood this song and dance very well, follow the rules of the house, in this case no eating or drinkin, don't touch anything. She was as ready as she could be, her mind spewing with questions about how this realm would operate, would it be like imperial law or would it be completely different? Would they be meeting some kind of 'Speaker of the Shadows' or would this be more like a council of wise men? So many possibilites. It was exciting, like meeting a long lost sister and learning about how she had lived her life all these years without you knowing. "I am ready, lead the way arwen en amin."

She’d never learned to enjoy sleeping outside. Even the earthiest ranger had to admit there was no substitute for a feather bed… well, those who’d slept in one at least. There had been a time that hadn't been true though. Here in fact. Two centuries and another person away… 

The night… or day… after was not an exception, though. Hardly surprising. She felt drained… more than that, emptied, embrittled. Spiderwebbed with cracks, waiting to shatter from the storm within. She thought she might welcome it, self loathing battling the scraps of self preservation. The cid’s quip tugged her back, for a moment. Muscle memory shaping an answering barb she couldn't muster the energy to fling, so she just stared, the scant germ of amusement fighting to the surface of her eyes only to die as quickly. He shrugged away her silence and skittered off to gods know what. Blissfully free… as her demons dragged her back to a place that didn't care. 

So she drifted. Back and forth across that ephemeral line between dream and consciousness.. and memory. One offering no respite from the others. Then was now again. Here was There. And she was a hollowed out corpse of Her.

The dawn brought consciousness, if nothing else. She tried to ignore the callously cheerfully trills of the morning birds. How nice, to sing so ignorantly. She worked the night’s restlessness from her muscles, to little avail, flicking at an encroaching dragonfly and forgetting it just as quickly as it made its unhurried retreat. Attention elsewhere. She walked a dozen paces in the direction she recalled flinging the pouch. Paced a few circles as she trampled the drifts of bankside grass into submission, then finally saw what she sought. Stared at it for too long. Looked up, her eyes unconsciously found Arathea. Then back down to the grass, it began to timidly creep back from its prostration. She stooped to grab the linen pouch, unwrapped it, stared again. Thumb tracing the purpled veins of the broadhead leaf. She hissed through her teeth. And flung it with all her strength into the undergrowth. Light as it was, it didn't oblige very satisfactorily. She hissed again. Her heel dug a furrow in the dirt as she turned and stalked back to her rumpled mess of a bedroll. Some things changed, while others remained. 

–

As Ysmiril called the nixies from the pools, Seleniniel couldn't help the sharp intake of breath. Gods… there were so many. All those days spent here, they’d been just beyond sight. A flicker of memory, unbidden, twisted her wonder into something more familiar. She wrestled with the impulse to push it away. The days of so many summers, spent transfixed by the memory of one such creature. Yet here, now, dozens. She sighed, as much of sadness as anything else. Another reminder, another swirl of the wineglass, sending her center of gravity spinning. Gods be damned. She looked back in the direction she’d thrown the linen pouch…

–

She felt the hesitation in Arathea’s step as she approached. Seleniniel didn’t turn, but she did listen. The bladesinger wanted to talk. Seleniniel didn’t... But she owed her something. After an uncomfortable silence, Seleniniel turned and spoke. Arathea looked surprised at first, but the youthful earnestness quickly returned as she listened. “Do you ever wonder if the dead think of us? Do they even remember the ones they’ve left… or care if we remember them…” What had started as a question trailed off into an ambiguous silence. Seleniniel looked at the ground as she finished, swallowing the last of her words and clenching her jaw against the thoughts that produced them. She looked back up at Arathea’s eyes. Blue eyes. Like Alwendiel’s. “You’re.. like Her.. you know…” If there was more to the thought, it died unspoken. Sarigraamin. Seleniniel cleared her throat, hiked her pack higher and turned back to Ysmiril, who was ushering them onward. Seleniniel tried to hide her hand in the folds of her robes as she walked away, wiping her eyes. Leaving Arathea with more questions than answers, not the least of which was who Seleniniel meant...

–

As she trudged after Ysmiril, Seleniniel drifted back into the same trancelike state she often passed the miles in… but this was no escape. Indeed, this time she fought to stay present. Counting leaves, noting the crunch of the forest underfoot, listening for changes in the wind. It worked, for a time. In part because of how infrequently she normally attended these things. But inevitably, she lost and fell back into the well of her thoughts before she could find a handhold… It was only the abrupt halt that pulled her back, punctuated by an uncharacteristic seriousness in the fae. Seleniniel attended her instructions more closely than previously. She was stubborn, but not an idiot.. she hoped. After the second warning that was clearly directed at her, Seleniniel gave the fae a nod. “I understand.” She had more than one question for Ysmiril, but not for here. She could wait. When prompted onward, she nodded again and followed the fae as Ysmiril danced through the shimmering light, stretched between the ashen bark of the aspens. She paused on the threshold, took a deep breath of the place she’d once loved more than home. She hoped it was not her last in Alloryen. That budding thought brought something akin to a smile. Rosariel’s soft tread paused behind her, questioning, but not insistently. Seleniniel checked her face, straightened her spine… and stepped through the portal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

Mae'rel was so exhausted the previous night that, while she had processed much of the information on a surface level, she didn't actually pause to think about the implications of such information. Her first thought waking up in her tent was that this incident wasn't actually a dream, and she wasn't dead. With many of the implications Ysmiril had put forth before their travels, Mae'rel honestly didn't rule out the possibility that last night could have been an illusion crafted by some horrific monster that had caught them. But a full sleep in normal senses restoring her mind had wiped such paranoia from her conscious, and now she was fairly certain all of this was real.

Her sleep was restless at first, as she struggled to fall asleep, finally being still after such a seemingly infinite amount of time. It didn't feel quite right. That neglected to even mention the fact that everything was still far more overwhelming then she could have accounted for, it was like trying to sleep in the middle of the sunlight, looking straight at the sun, in the middle of a town square, essentially. Once the Monk finally fell into Valdorn's domain, though, she did not wake, as much as she may have stirred. And her sleep was dreamless, as it seemed even the Gods above recognized the need for absolute rest.

Her second thought, which came after she had exited the tent, was that she hadn't slept at all, or maybe it really was a dream, because it seemed as if no time had passed. When she saw the Fae though, the thought of Valdorn conjuring this experience left her mind once more, and so she approached their guide, to inquire more. Were they perhaps in another realm, and they had misunderstood her? Or did she bestow some kind of spell to allow them to rest faster, something to do with the Oldest Magic? "My apologies, Madam Ysmiril, but it seems as if no time has passed at all. Were we only asleep briefly, or is there perhaps another explanation?"

"Of course not, ystäväni," the grinning fae trilled.  "The way was long and arduous.  You have slept all of the day and all of the night!  This place is safe, so I allowed you to regain your needed energy."

As the group traveled alongside Ysmiril, she narrated almost everything, as if the group were isolated children that had never been out of their mother's room. She explained how these lands worked, how the land of the shadow and the land of the mortals overlayed, and somewhere in there, Mae'rel heard a mention of fable creatures. She didn't think much of it at first, until she caught wind of what Ysmiril said next.

"These are beings that could belong in both worlds.  To you, they may be bedtime stories, they may be legends... but rest assured, they are very real."

And as if it was as simple as opening a door, Ysmiril seemed to summon the creatures from their hiding. But of course they were real! A Fae had just saved one of their companions from certain death and taken them between the very seams that sewed the worlds together! These things being real should not have thrown Mae'rel off, and yet, she still took a step back when the creatures showed their existence. But who could blame her? The stories of such creatures often made them off as simple monsters, creatures who would enslave men to do tasks much like men would enslave a horse, only they delighted in the man's suffering as an intelligent creature. 

When The Monk realized the creatures were of no threat, though, she reluctantly continued forward with Ysmiril, though her hesitation faded quickly as she had come to trust their guide, who had seen them through many times. 

Mentally, Mae'rel had long since been preparing herself for this inevitable meeting. It was something she often thought about on the road in the shadow path, as a way to occupy herself. Ysmiril had spoken countless times about being presented to the ones she served before they had embarked on the journey, and a few times in the shadow-path, though for the most part, she rarely talked. In fact, everyone rarely spoke. As a result, Mae'rel's nerves were not as high as she imagined some of the groups were, and that suspicion was confirmed by witnessing Isilmewen. Gods above, she was distraught.

The simple fact was, Mae'rel had audiences with many people who had sought reasons to hate her, to justify their distaste for her. The rich and powerful did not take kindly to their sect, as it often meant refusing service to them, as they would demand services before the poor who needed it more, or those who were already receiving it. But their wealth and status had no sway, and as such, they despised Mae'rel and those of her path. Still, many times she was to stand before them, or seek their blessing, and so forth. As such, she was not frightened by the concept of being on her best of manners, as she had many times before, and in fact, she almost always remained in such manners. The only one who seemed truly distressed was the Ranger.


Moving beside Isilmewen, Mae'rel observed their ranger for a moment, seeing if she would take note of Mae'rels presence. When she did not, she silently noted such. Their ranger was attentive, even in combat, and well-perceived. To ignore Mae'rel meant that she was truly in a rapid state of mind, and so the Monk knelt beside her. She reached up, removing the scarf that often concealed her mouth so that Isilmewen could perhaps find stronger comfort in clearer words. Her words were concise, but gentle not unlike that of a mother. "Madam Isilmewen, why do you worry so? You are one of the most flowing spirits I have ever met, yet you are so in distress."

Isilmewen kept taking out a brooch shaped as a circle of stars, turning it over, shaking her head, putting it back in the cloth which held it, and back in her pack, as if she could find something else to wear. The red dress lay half unfolded in her pack as she was taking off her wilderness friendly attire.

"Okay, be quiet unless spoken to," Isilmewen muttered, "But last time I did that, I was called cold. The time before that, too eager," she examined her red dress again, "Too plain? Or is it too-"

Mae'rel's words made her jump, "O-oh! Mae'rel! Hi! I, uh, hi. Just getting ready," Her voice trembled, "Yes. Getting ready."

Listening in to Isilmewen's frantic attempts to prepare herself gave the Monk more insight as to what seemed to trouble their normally carefree ranger. It seemed she was not afraid because this was her first time before an audience, but rather, one of many times, and judging by her mumbles, the previous times often went wrong. There was a form of trauma here, and though Mae'rel questioned more about it, she knew this was not a matter for now, and instead simply placed her hand onto Isilmewen's shoulder, and reached for Lady Lysora to bless her touch.

(OOC: Casting Soothing Touch)

Mae'rel spoke again, Lysora's voice guding her own. "Why must you get ready for such an occasion? As you are now, you are Madam Isilmewen in her truest form. You are magnificent, and you are a skilled Ranger who has seen us through our journey. You need not change anything."

Isilmewen's eyes, which had been distant even looking back at Mae'rel, regained their focus. Her breathing slowed, and though she still trembled, it was as if she were being pulled back from falling.

"We're being..." Isilmewen breathed slowly, "Entering a gathering. That means I need to change," she gave a wry smile, "We're not going to be traversing the wilderness in there."

Seeing the spell reach Isilmewen allowed Mae'rel something to go off. Though the Ranger kept herself somewhat enclosed and did not exactly disclose the source of her distress, she had allowed Lysora's hand to reach her, and as long as she maintained her calm, she could keep any secret she saw fit.

Maerel offered a giggle in an attempt to lighten the mood, her masked golden eyes meeting those of the Ranger. "You make a good point, Madam Isilmewen, though I suppose I would not know, as I have worn this outfit and its variants for many years." She paused for a moment, bringing them back to the topic, "If you fear the court, I understand. I imagine everyone among us does, to a degree. Simply follow me and Madam Arathea, and what we do. If you have any other questions, you may simply grab my shoulder to gain my attention, and I will answer." Mae'rel placed her hand onto the pendant that she wore of The Blue Lady. "Worry not. You will not make a fool of yourself. Not under my watch."

Isilmewen's breath caught slightly, and she gave a slow nod, "I think it's good that you do not know," she replied, her voice a bit tense, but still managing calm, "I'm just sorry to my sister, that she has to fill the role I was supposed to."

Isilmewen offered a gentle smile, "It's not myself that I'm worried about. I'm... I'm used to it. The dinners. Gatherings. Representing on behalf of everyone. Putting one's best face forward, right? But, I'll be glad for your presence, Arathea's too."

Passing comments about her sister gave the Monk a hint of the storm that stirred beneath. She would not press on the matter now, but she would later offer an ear for the Ranger, if she wished to share, though her remark about not being worried about herself left Mae'rel backtracking.

"Of course. However I can help, Madam Isilmewen, simply tell me." The Monk stood, gently remove her hand from Isilmewen. "But otherwise, know that you have bested many beasts. You will best this one, too."

(OOC: SHOUT OUT TO RERALAE FOR THE COLLAB! It was an honor to work with an Inn Legend on a post B) )

Ruadhrí would have been happy appearing in a thick, thorny and cold swamp over the drowning, numbing darkness of the shadow path, let alone a beautiful, peaceful, lush and undamaged forest without a single fallen friend or so much as a scratch at that, as a cost to be here. 

Seleniniel was easy marks going into a land like that, especially considering what state she was in upon entering the shadow path, all that was needed was a promise of power... or perhaps, simply a warm feeling to dry her from the soaking, freezing water that was her life. Maybe that was all that was promised or maybe something more impossing to grant her the power to claim such a feeling but never the less, it was dense, unwise, foolish, however one wishes to say but plain old stupid to think that anything residing there would fullfill any promise besides one of death.

Ruadhrí shook his head as he thought about it, disappointed but there was nothing to be done for it so instead he descided to follow the current matters, which meant following Ysmiril around this realm of painted sky and colorful floura. Following her was simple enough until she stopped and gestured at a blue... creature, for lack of a better word that quickly disappeared under the water which she assumed we called "nixies." Ruadhrí had no knowlegde of these creatures as the only body of water that could be called a lake was sagonige utugi by the natives or dóchas gorm to him and he had never heard his people tell anything like this though the Chindari might have something like that.

As Ruadhrí thought about it he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, the party along with him a Ysmiril's smile faded for what looked like the first time he had ever seen-save her annoyance towards Seleniniel after her straying from the path and beginning a lecture. She spoke of courts and ancient peoples, none of which Ruadhrí had heard of but he assumed they were important which was affirmed in her next sentence, "Touch nothing, eat no food nor drink no draught that you have not brought with you." Ruadhrí did not have to be warned again as he'd rather heed them and go another night with bread then not and suffer a fight unthinkable.

Her eyes danced across the party, sleeping on Seleniniel for a long moment before completing the graze across as she spoke "There are some who would not view you with the same... graciousness that I feel for your kind.  Stay close to me, allow me to remain your guide.  I will lead you safely to your meeting and back here again - of this, I give you my word.  In no circumstance should you wander away.  You do not wish to offer offense you may not even perceive; do not give to any an excuse to harbor ill will against you." then her familiar smile returned "Will you follow me, ystäväni?"

Ruadhrí spoke with not an ounce of worry in his rich, seasoned voice. "I am no stranger to the glares and distaste of others, trust my words when I say I wouldn't dare disrespect one who has earned yours. I would follow you until my chains are melted in the hells if thatw as what it should take. You have my ax."

It was still so dark. Hadn’t they escaped the suffocating nothing that was the varjopolku? Why was the dark still so penetrating? She had wanted this, hadn’t she? She had disagreed with Seleniniel’s ardent angst toward anything to do with the fae in lieu of her own curiosity. And now here she was, surrounded by the darkness she had willingly stepped into.

And then there were those sparks.

No… not sparks… lights? A liberation from the darkness. A reprieve, a gasp of air so needed, and yet so far off their fairy’s course.

But weren’t they through this already? Hadn’t they stepped back into the light? A light far less enticing than those that drew her here… but light nonetheless.

Rosariel’s steps stuttered as she contemplated veering away, and with one tiny tip of her toe away from that track set by Ysmiril, she plummeted down through the darkness, careening downward through the black water below. Disoriented, she tried to maneuver herself so her head was pointing up and she jabbed her hand into the water above her, then the other hand, kicking and trying to pull herself upward to no avail. No matter which way she turned, which way she tried to swim, she only plummeted further, and further, and further into the depths below. Not even the tumultuous light of the fae dared to follow her so deep. She could feel the last of her breath ready to betray her, no matter how desperately she tried to cling on to it. Like everything else important to her had.

She finally gasped as her head bobbed up out of the pond in the stag’s grove, where she had first met the Woodland Dancer, where her journey had begun. Where she had taken the first steps that would lead her to this journey.

As she waded, shadows lurked beyond the treeline. She dipped down into the black water, trying to blend in while keeping her keen eyes on those movements. She knew them. She had seen them before. Multiple times. The debauched. Those who would claim to hunt as intended, to feed and to warm, but hunted only ever for decoration. For waste. Filth. The black water swarmed past her teeth as she sneered, seething, ready to hunt them down herself before she found their target.

She was too late. The arrowhead whistled through the air. Right on target. Right through her skull.

As the arrow split through her head she gasped once more and shot upright in her bedding. Tubs jumped, terrified out of the cracker bag and scurried under her blankets. Her chest heaved as she took in her surroundings: her travel companions, the smoldering fire, the bright life-filled green of the small clearing they occupied, and the small, iridescent fae accompanying them.

She closed her mouth and forced the air in through her nose as she rubbed her eyes, urging away those last terrifying thoughts and the fear that had swelled in her before she had woken up. Eventually her breathing and her nerves calmed and she reached under the covers to find Tubs and scratch his chin, begging forgiveness for frightening him before joining the others who had awoke before her near Ysmiril.

"Ai että!, the Laulualtaat  are magnificent, are they not?" she was saying as Rosariel took a spot next to Isilmewen, "I wonder... can you hear their song?" her gaze drifted to Isilmewen and Rosariel. "Pikkusiskuret... the pair of you are moved by the earth's dance more than any of your companions, this is plain to see.  But listen... can you not hear the singing?"

Rosariel was not yet awake enough to fully entertain such a request, but she tried to concentrate nonetheless. She closed her eyes again, not fully feeling ready for that again either, as the darkness only reminded her of their frightening path here and the dream that followed. She tried to block it out but the unease in her stomach only grew and grew before she finally opened her eyes and gave the fairy a sheepish shrug before hiding a yawn behind her hand.

"Voi, you cannot hear it... though I truly think that you need only to learn how to listen for it."  She smiled and Rosariel could feel herself lighten a little at the eager sight, "Perhaps, when your task is accomplished, we will have time for such things. I would be honored to perhaps remind the tähtienlapsia how to listen in the ways that your people once did. If you were interested in this type of pastime, of course..."

"If it's in my ability, I'd really like to learn.” Isilmewen spilled swiftly, “After following your steps for a day and more, I have to admit, I wondered how close my steps could align with yours. And voice. Though I'll make no claim of having the skill to make mine near as lovely as yours."

Rosariel huffed a small laugh as Isilmewen’s words fell so quickly out of her mouth, and she smiled back at the fae, despite the sleep fogging her head and the unrest fiddling with her stomach. Curiosity hadn’t yet been beaten back from her by caution, “I would be honored to be reminded. Thank you, Ysmiril.”

Not long afterward they were on their shadow-ladden path again, following the fairy’s quick steps as she spoke to them of the other fae that shared this land. The sprites in particular caught her interest, with their fierce protection of their space in the wood. She squinted into the darker parts of the forest, attempting any glance of them she could get, but soon looked away, the act of searching through the brush and trees too reminiscent of the dream still fresh in her thoughts.

Instead she wondered if there were gods they answered to, if they honored their own version of Taurdor Salka, or if the Huntress herself blessed their way as they protected Her lands. She muttered a quick prayer for them at any rate. Any who fought to preserve Her beautiful domain deserved to be rewarded for their work, even if it was completely territorial.

Eventually they once again stood before what would be another portal to another place. Rosariel could feel the needle of caution pulling away from her curiosity, as the the memory of their last trek still sat coldly in her stomach, but the chance to actually walk amongst fae? Well that was exciting, though she feared for her manners. She didn’t even know what the rules were amongst the normal folk here, let alone within a cacophony of strange beings.

Isilmewen was higher born though, wasn’t she? And Seleniniel? Perhaps with Ysmiril as her guide and the other two as references, she wouldn’t doom their entire troupe to eternal slavery because of a poorly placed sniffle.

As Isilmewen suddenly panicked about her clothes, Rosariel both decided to maybe lean on Seleniniel’s reference more, and also wondered if her own fur and bone decor would offend any beyond this gate. Ysmiril would have mentioned something about that if it would be an issue, she was sure. Mostly. And now Isilmewen was naked.

"Will you follow me, ystäväni?" Ysmiril asked of them once again, as the panic subsided, or was at least subdued. And while caution now poked viciously at her spine, Rosariel reached back for an assuring sniff from Tubs, and nodded as they proceeded through the gate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The place matched Ysmiril. It was… loud. Too bright, too shiny, too.. much. She drifted through it, obedient to their guide’s remonstrations, but she did not revel. Curiosity was inescapable, to be sure, but not marvel. So she studied, silent. She found herself absentmindedly smoothing her robe, staring at its plainness for a momentary reprieve from the inescapable stimulus. The course wool against her hand comforting. She caught Arathea looking her way, with that ba-seldarine concerned look. Seleniniel ignored it. She guessed the bladesinger still wanted closure from… that… but Seleniniel had none to offer. As the time dragged on with its uncanny undulations in this place, the sheen of the fae’s domain dulled somewhat, and she returned to her own. Turning her past days over, again and again, jeweler straining for the make in the stone.

Eventually their summons saved her from her spiraling. Curiosity sprang back to meet the audience. And FINALLY, the point began to crystallize. 

They had been watching. A long time, it seemed. Her uncle’s task.. the pendant. Not just that, her’I’coia… power over life. Her uncle’s scrawlings took new meaning. She glanced down, saw the same dawning in the cid’s eyes. They knew it all. More, indeed, than she. Of the tomb, its protections, its contents. Its history.. presumably why the pendant bore such a thing. The fae had watched long indeed. Surely as broadly too… no mere luck stumbled onto their serendipitous plight to produce such a debt. The diligence of centuries… or, perhaps, intention. 

The trickle became a stream of revelation as the fae traded their people’s tragedy back and forth. The k’goth had doomed them to dwindle… slowly, it seemed. And their hope lay in the long-dead tomb of a long-dead house of her people. And this group’s willingness, or compulsion, to fetch it. The irony of it nearly dragged a smile to the surface. Irony. But not coincidence.

The stream tumbled over the cliff’s edge, wrenching a reaction from even Seleniniel’s well-practiced stoicism. The Speaker… Her uncle’s task evolved again. The k’goth had burned their swath millennia ago.. yet the Speaker retained some vestige. Apparently inaccessible to the fae. By design? And her Uncle had found another… Not coincidence. But why now? And why them… Opportunism did not wait this long. Surely there had been other paths.

The Maiden’s response was no surprise, as best Seleniniel could tell she relished blindly trusting the knots of fate, left for others to untangle. The cid’s only because he revealed more than he meant, she suspected, and lacking his usual facade, albeit under the cover of Isilmewen’s lead. At least a little honesty from him, for once. Or perhaps his own keen calculation, given the kernel of truth he revealed. It was “the sylvari,” and “us.” He was the latter. So were they. And he was right. 

Something clicked into place. This was not about House Isil’nari, Lanalthir,  the Speaker. They'd been laid on the knife’s edge by the fae’s bargain. Betray her uncle, perhaps her people, or test the strength of their debt. She saw only one path. The thought hardened into determination. She weighed the others quickly.. settled on Arathea. She was her best chance. 

Her eyes bored into Arathea’s, blue eyes, still wide. No doubt weighing the truth, and the implications, of what could only be heard as an accusation. Against her Speaker. Seleniniel willed her to hold the questions swirling behind those eyes. Laced, perhaps, with anger. Seleniniel hoped so, begged Arathea with her own eyes to wait. Arathea caught her gaze and amid the turmoil Seleniniel saw a question at Seleniniel’s insistence, followed by an answer. Arathea’s mouth closed, biting back either the lingering surprise or the growing response. It was enough for Seleniniel. 

She leapt. Trying to sand the edges from her words, but they still came out more jab than question.

“Why have the Speakers refused you?”