At first, the delay in Isilmewen’s signal hardly registered for Dak.

Her distraction with the bow he’d left in her care notwithstanding, he trusted the taur’ohtar almost without question. When the fire was lit, though, and he found himself scampering up the hill without her having moved, he braced a little concern. When he reached the ridge where their ambush was set and she still studied the thing, though, he began to show concern. “Lala,” he murmured, as loud as he dared, given the owlbears emerging from the wood, “You are with us, yes? Now would be the time to make use of that or cast it aside in favor of your own…” He loaded a bullet into his bata and turned a wary eye to where the quartet of owlbears paced, screeching and enraged, paced at the smoking mouth of the cave, “We cannot wait much longer!”

When she still seemed enrapt with discerning the sigils scribed into the bow, the little pick dared to break cover and flung a bullet down the hill, aiming at the closest owlbear. “And now we cannot wait, at all!” He hissed, watching the bullet fly. “They come! Let loose, melloneamin!”

He smiled a bit when Rosariel nocked an arrow and let fly…  then, loading another bullet, stepped forward again, firing another volley at the surging tide of feathers and fur… “Come, friends! For the Empire!!!”

Isilmewen frowned slightly as she traced her fingertips over the sigils of the retrieved bow. It was a beautiful piece, there was no question about that, but the sigils themselves confused her. They evaded her sense of touch - indeed, if she closed her eyes, she couldn't guess if her finger brushed against a sigil. Such a distinctive bow, surely that meant the one who carried it was also quite distinct. Yet, no individual came to mind to go alongside the bow.

Still, something like this felt like a shift in fortune. And in this way, perhaps she could yet make good out of the loss, even if she didn't know how she compared to the bow's previous bearer.

And now, as she watched carefully, she counted. Four. That was more than they had dealt with in the cavern a week prior, but that was also not like this. Still, she waited, just a moment. That moment to really pay attention, look for sign of any that would be on the owlbear's heels, what could otherwise be unanticipated reinforcement.

With a quiet certainty, she drew the bow, "Yes. For those who've already been lost, and for those we may yet save. Fire, all!"

And as she loosed her own arrow into the volley, she whispered, "Heren'salkya, may I have this dance?"

Mae'rel moved with the rest of the group to prepare for the incoming battle. As always, she would avoid fighting directly, even if she thought these creatures were awful, and it would be her lady's wish to extinguish them, because she was simply not equipped to battle. Her experience on it was from an older time, so to say she was rusty would be an understatement. She much preferred playing a distant role and protecting the group via the Blue Lady's hand, restoring any wounds she could.

However, she would be lying if she didn't feel a bit of nervousness as she heard that screech and saw that group of owlbears rush towards the cave. Quickly she gripped her holy symbol, the thornless rose of Lysora, and took hand of the small mirror she often used. Passing the mirror in front of her face, she pulled the mirror towards herself as she uttered a prayer as she had done many times before.

Hearing her comrades shout their cries, Mae'rel felt a bit out of place for a moment. These were warriors, fierce men with monstrous weapons, archers whose arrows always struck true, and even if they were not warriors, they were still remarkable in the field of combat. It was safe to say she felt a bit out of place in the aspect. Of course, that wasn't to say she felt incapable. Ultimately, she elected to remain silent as they engaged the creatures, instead moving to the backline of the group so she could easily resposition to lend a hand if need be. 

Arathea watched as the healer left, deciding not to say anything to prevent causing anymore arguing between two, very stubborn as she observed, individuals. She waited for the door to close, then looked at Seleniniel. “You scared her off,” she joked. “You know humor aside, she was working to the best of her abilities I'm sure, and as much as it frustrates me she's correct that I probably shouldn't be doing anything too risky right now. Beyond anything else if I, or we, are being targeted, being injured will make us easier to go after.”

[Room for Sel to respond here]

Arathea looked over at her armor sitting idly again, the ornate symbols of her nation, her order. Yet here she was, her family and her body torn apart, laying useless on a bed. “Still I can't bear to lay around and do nothing, as soon as we can we should start talking to as many of my father's retainers as we can…” she pondered for a moment, then continued. “Maybe we can see if we can dig up any old connections he had during his time in uniform, when he was a soldier. Maybe I'm grasping at straws but it's all I can think of outside of his political opponents, and I never believed any of them would go this far…”

[More room for Sel if she wants]

Arathea thinks back to the stories of her father's time in the military, she didn't recall stories of any rivals but she was desperate. This had to have a deeper explanation, she couldn't give up on it. If there was a conspiracy against her family and she couldn’t stop it, she'd be a disgrace; she couldn't let the people she loved suffer any farther. She would act to avenge her father and redeem herself.

“We need to move fast, I worry for the rest of my family,” she ran a hand over her injuries. “I believe maybe I should be doing the talking and convincing with Náriel, not to attack you but I don't think we can do much investigating if you get run out of town.” 

“I probably shouldn't be doing anything too risky right now. . . . if I, or we, are being targeted, being injured will make us easier to go after.”

“That's bulls***. You know it.” She eyed the bladesinger, eyebrow cocked with enough of a question to blunt the edge of the words. Arathea pushed herself upright. She looked sturdy enough, though Seleniniel saw the wince, and the care she took with each breath. “I've seen you ripped open by an owlbear and back on the march the next day.” Seleniniel seldom dwelled on the masked priest or her god. A necessary tool… though perhaps one whose skill Seleniniel had taken for granted. “And there's no ‘if’ Arathea.” Familiar severity turned to uncharacteristic earnestness, almost pleading, “your family is a target. You're a target. Being here is risky.. laying around is suicide!”

The bladesinger was unmoved. Ba-seldarine rule follower. She doesn't know what she's caught in. Gods be damned where's one of those skulking Bones when you need them. Seleniniel slumped into the healer’s chair, feeling the weight of the bladesinger’s helplessness, as Arathea continued. “...we should start talking to as many of my father's retainers as we can … we can see if we can dig up any old connections he had during his time in uniform… it's all I can think of outside of his political opponents, and I never believed any of them would go this far…”

Seleniniel rubbed her eyes, trying to stave off the looming headache. To Arathea, quietly, eyes still closed, “it's a place to start… better than laying around waiting for them to finish the job.” She tried not to let the resignation bleed into her tone. More fruitless searching. She conjured up the memory of the shadow in the trees. The impression of movement, then gone. Shadows in the dark… “You're right about one thing… this isn't politics.” Arathea suddenly seemed so young. She was. It was easy to forget sometimes that Seleniniel had nearly a century's more scars than the bladesinger. You're a long way from your father… even he wasn't threat enough to warrant assassination. She thought of her own house’s rivals. Telthatathar or Burdell wouldn't risk this, even for her uncle… much less some upstart erestor. 

She tuned back in to Arathea, “maybe I should be doing the talking and convincing with Náriel … I don't think we can do much investigating if you get run out of town.”

That brought a wolfish smile. “I'd like to see her try.” Arathea scowled her disapproval, which Seleniniel shrugged off as easily as always. “You're welcome to woo her with honey, but that old stump is as stubborn as the tree that put you here.” She ignored Arathea’s look. “Pray with her if you like. We need to be on the move. If not today, first thing tomorrow.” She stood, dismissing herself. “I'll hunt down Tathema in the meantime. He can earn his keep as sentry at least.” A step towards the door, “And I'll watch after your mother.” Arathea's started, apparently recalling the source of her injuries. “She's fine…. physically. But she'd do good to see you standing too.” 

Seleniniel opened the door, finding Nariel hovering. “She's yours again.” She closed the door behind her, then, in a hissed whisper as she grabbed the healer’s robesleeve, “leave the window open while there's daylight and a lamp burning in every corner of that room tonight.” She released her, started to leave without more, then turned. “There's more than a bladesinger’s health in your care.” She did not answer the healer’s unspoken query. “We need her sword arm tomorrow morning…. Please.” She exhaled, rubbing at the headache again, “and… thank you,” barely a whisper “for saving her.” Then gone.

As she trod up the village path in search of the godsdamned stormrider, the wind gently swayed the trees around her. She stopped. Listening. Peering into the canopy. Searching. “I know you're here...” She clenched her jaw as she scoured the shadows, intensifying the aching in her temples. She thought she saw that same impression of movement. Her hand darted into her robe, fingers sinking into the powdered sulfur. It was gone before she could bring it into focus, if it had ever been there. “Show yourself you bastards.” She stood in the middle of the path, stock still, muttering to herself as she stared into the forest. A minute. Two. The headache bloomed into a maelstrom behind her eyes. She reached reflexively for her moonshade pouch, then cursed. Herself. This podunk town with its half assed healer. The stubborn bladesinger. The gods damned fae… She poured all of her frustration and helplessness into a feral scream at the swaying shadows “SHOW YOURSELF YOU F***ING COWARDS!” 

((OOC: assuming they don't, Sel’s priority is finding Tathema to convince him to watch over Arathea until she's on her feet, then to Arathea’s house (where presumably Sel is still staying) to question her mother without Arathea present))

Ruadhrí stood atop the ridge, eyes fixed on the cave mouth, grip tightening on the worn wood of the shaft of his great ax. As the trail of oil ignited into the cave mouth, the smell of smoke reached his nostrils. As he watched, his eyes began to once again tell the story of battles past. The mud. The smoke. The inferno consuming corpses still yet to still completely.

His breath became more intense, but despite the story unfolding behind his eyes, he tried to stay focused on what his role in the battle to come was. The cave. Just the cave. Then he heard it, the sound that snapped him all the way-well, almost all of the way back to the moment his physical body was in.

The shriek was difficult to describe, the cross between a roar, a squawk, a howl, he could go on, but it still made any animal he had ever heard sound inviting. The pure, unbridled rage and terror that came from the beast almost made him roar himself as he planted his hives down into the dirt, scraping it back slightly with his weight and strength, he prepared for a battle with a beast that shared his rage.

(Once the Owlbears are closing in on the party, Ruadhrí will charge to intercept the beast, and then from there, cleave until feathers and blood coat his fur, and then some.)

When the last of the monsters fell, negating any further need of his attempted flanking maneuver, Dak emerged from the tree line, pumped his bata in the air, and let out a victorious shout. “Woo!!!” he cried, grinning broadly as he scampered back to rejoin the party, “We made surprisingly short work of the beasties this time, eh?” The diminutive cid paused at Ruadhri’s side and, even as the clerics were still tending to the last of the bofear’s wounds, gave the warrior an appreciative clap on the back. “Well fought, mellonureamin,” he beamed in praise, his eyes sparkling as they flitted over the rest of the troupe, “Well fought, all!”

As the adrenaline began to ebb, he leaned on his staff, produced his pipe and chewed thoughtfully on its stem as his gaze swept the battlefield, surveying the carnage. His smile faded, the thrill of victory souring a little, as his eyes found the blanket-covered body of the young syl near the mouth of the cave… You are avenged, ai’aer, he sighed inwardly, not that it might mean much to you now… He wandered a few paces more in the direction of the cave, then paused and turned to regard his companions again. “Now that their murderers have been dispatched,” he suggested, gesturing at the covered corpse with the iron end of his bata, “perhaps it might be best if we tend to the fallen, eh? Ready their remains for transport back to Hyanda Nost where they might be properly honored if not identified…”

((OOC: Room for any response(s) here but am assuming general agreement. ))

“… I’ll not be able to retrieve the body of the taur’ohtar on my own,” he nodded faintly, tucking his pipe away again, “but I’ll gladly lead any of you more capable of the task to her.”

Not surprisingly, Isilmewen was the first to offer aid, whether out of sense of duty, by way of honoring the previous bearer of her magnificent new bow, or both. After she gave instructions for some of the others to fashion travois to ferry the fallen back to the keep, Dak led her into the cave. Smoke still hung in the air, stinging their eyes and lungs but, thankfully, also going some way to mask the fetid stench of excrement and decay within.  When they reached the brooding chamber itself, they discovered that, among the still smoldering furs, a few of the eggs had succumbed to the fire, though a couple of others yet remained, cracked and blackened but not completely destroyed. Dak gave a faint nod of satisfaction at the sight and then motioned toward the mangled body of the sylvari woman. “There lies the ranger,” he said quietly, “Ma Meil keep her…”

((OOC: Made a few assumptions throughout the post but hopefully not too many. If edits are needed, just let me know. ))

Rosariel says a quick prayer over the fallen beasts even unnatural ones as they were. She holds the words in her mind with stillness and silence.

Her prayer turns to one of guidance on what to do with the bodies. Her inner turmoil focused on not wasting a kill but that these literal monsters might have corrupting influence. She remembers that Dak took a few feathers and has not been TOO strange since. All of this before she turns to Mae'rel. 

"What do you think we should do with these? My thoughts are that even as monsterous as they are it is a waste to leave them when there deaths could be put to use."

(If it seems like harvesting is reasonable by the prayer and Mae'rel then Rosariel will work on the claws for knives, and the feathers to add to cloaks/blankets for insulation)

Rosariel finishes by starting the gathering of a few piece of wood like burning the bodies would be a good idea before stopping a minute later realizing how much time would need to be spent to reduce the corpses. She looks to the whole group before asking "Should we spend time on these bodies or just leave them where they lie?"

Mae'rel took advantage of their high ground as the battle begun, and she was not only able to complete her veil, but even bless the group to heighten their combat and resilience. Once she saw Ruadhiri charge down that hill, she couldn't help but shake her head and feel the tiniest smirk. He was truly an interesting soul. She leaned down, placing her hand behind her as she carefully moved down the hill after Ruadhiri as to not trip. As she watched the beast rip into him, she channeled the Blue Lady's Hand, keeping him healed and protected throughout the battle.

Once things calmed down, Mae'rel took a breath. She looked across the group to make sure no one else had taken injury during the skirmish that she had not noticed, and once she had confirmed such, she let herself relax, the tenseness that came with combat waning.

Hearing Rosariel's question, Mae'rel shrugged. She had been resourceful in her life but she did not know much about Owlbears. She knew their meat was tough and not exactly well-flavored, but otherwise, it seemed there would be no reason not to salvage what they could. "Truly this is not my area of expertise, Huntress. I know little about these beasts. However, I see no reason not to salvage what we can. I will not complain for a warmer night's sleep or an extra knife, even if from the carcass of a beast." She would not judge the Huntress for her choice to bring value from the beasts' death; she understood it was willed so by her Goddess, and she could imagine that even despite their nature, her Goddess would want something to be brought from their death.

"I don't believe we need to reduce them. Nature will take its course. The life these beasts have taken will be restored to the land by nourishing the next generation of creatures, and fertilizing the ground where they have fallen." Mae'rel paused, holding her tongue as if she intended to say more. Truthfully, she wasn't worried about what would happen to such creatures, but she did feel concern over the prospect of the witch perhaps returning for these creatures, and inflicting them with that strange fungus, bringing them back from death, if such a thing was even possible. She thought it far more realistic that the fungus would simply possess their lifeless bodies, rather than bring them back properly. Either way, such a distinction would not make the creatures any less fearsome.

Isilmewen let out a steady breath as she looked over what was before her. Owlbears, deadly as they were, unnatural predators, felled by their efforts. With her inhale, she let out a soft laugh, the tension easing from her as the bow now brought to rest. They had avoided the worst, and dealt a serious blow. That was worth rejoicing.

Isilmewen nodded at Mae'rel's words, "Even if they were wrought by unnatural means, their bodies still obey the cycle, even if their presence amongst the wilds does not. However, I would suggest we not stay overlong. The one that directs them may notice their absence, or ours, and I would see us return to the Nost while we hold an advantage." She looked then towards Rosariel, "If time were on our side, I'd be right with you in seeing what of anything might yet be salvaged from them. If there's some solace to be had, it's that with their absence, the right creatures will return, and see them returned to nature."

"So, while I help to gather the fallen, yes, go ahead and collect what may be usable, and please see to Raudhri, but we should make ready to move when we can; I fear the dance may get away from us if we linger overlong." Isilmewen offered her thoughts.

Entering the cave with Dak, Isilmewen's face flickered with a barrage of emotions as she looked on the body of the unrecognizable taur'ohtar. "I know not whether it is a fortune or misfortune that I cannot know you," She spoke gently, "The bow you carried, it is certainly special, and so too must you have been. I don't know if I'm the one you'd have willed it to, but I'll carry it for now, and finish what you may have tried to do. Make safe these wilds, that the tragedy outside might not be repeated."

Isilmewen didn't know if her words would reach the taur'ohtar, wherever it was they now dwelled, and she didn't know if it would offer any comfort. But she was going to do what she could, to see the body returned, rites performed for a companion she didn't get to know, but might've liked to, if things happened differently. She shook her head. Try not to dwell on that.

The bow, even as light as it was, felt a bit heavy.

Ruadhrí charged down the hill to meet the massive beast "Come on, beasty!", ax raising up behind him, but this time, while the beast roared, Ruadhrí tried to keep his head. It's just a beast. Don't lose your head. And with that, he brought the massive ax down as he met the beast, cleaving deep into it's shoulder as it tried to swipe at him, and grabbing it's beaked face and driving it into the dirt to avoid the bite. Ruadhrí then swung again, aiming to split the beast' skull, but he hit low and instead struck it's lower neck, allowing it to bite sickeningly deep into his side, raking his chest with it's massive claws. Ruadhrí bellowed in pain and punched the beast multiple times to get it to loosed it's maw, allowing him to leverage it away with the shaft of his ax.

Ruadhrí beat the beast with the shaft of his ax, then the flat of his blade and danced to the left to avoid a retaliatory bite, but slipped to his knee, allowing the beast land a sickening snap on his collar, the sound of bone fracturing only drowned out by the sound of another primal cry as Ruadhrí slipped into his rage, though he still tried to resist. His eyes widened as another owlbear began to run straight at him, but the beast caught an arrow in it's shoulder, and as it reared up to cry, an arrow pierced through it's eye, and it skidded to a halt as it's body dropped. Ruadhrí felt the owlbear tighten it's jaw around his collar, seemingly out of rage for it's fallen comrade, and used his other hand to jab a finger deep into it's eye, allowing him to roll away, but as he stood, the archers did not anticipate such a move to escape, and he stumbled forward as an arrow struck his back, but he managed to rear away from the beast as it swiped at him again.

Ruadhrí managed to stay up despite his great pain, dodging and weaving between bite, claw, and massive furry body as the final beast tried to carve him apart, but thanks to his skilled clerics, he was able to stay out of reach long enough for two more arrows to sing into the beast neck, and finally, into it's skull, causing it's head to jerk violently as the arrowhead exploded through the other side of it's skull, sending fragments into the dirt before it fell with an earth-shaking thump. Despite his injuries, Ruadhrí gave one final bellow of victory before kneeling down so his healers could properly reach him.

Since Ruadhrí had not fully dipped into his primal rage, he did not shake violently or see his comrades as monsters, instead only breathing heavily from physical demand of dodging that his body was not used to. He felt the healing hands touch his back, as well as the hands of the happy cidal hit his back. For once, after combat, he cracked a smirk, like a young calf after their first fight with their father able to drive his horns into the mud, he couldn't help but chuckle at the small rogue.

"Well fought indeed".

The slower pace of the return march had been expected given that transport of the remains weighed on them all, mentally as well as physically. Sleep, too, was more difficult to come by as resting among the uninterred dead was discomfiting to most and, as such, made for a more lugubrious camp. Japes and jests and humorous fireside stories were decidedly hard to come by when it felt as if the dead were listening in, after all. It had taken two pipefuls of moonshade and more than a few solemn strolls around the camp’s perimeter for Dak to relegate himself to his bedroll and close his eyes in preparation for his turn at watch. When slumber finally took hold, though, it wasn’t the most restful sort the little Pick had ever experienced. Instead, it was fraught with scattered dreams – disturbing glimpses of owlbear hordes, the twisted old cleric of Kithee, and the fungus infected bodies of the Syl ranger and child rising in the dark to plague the shadowed camp among them – so, when the hushed and lilting strains of conversation between Lala and another, not unfamiliar voice whispered over his ear, Dak, at first, dismissed them as little more than troubled sleep. When the exchange continued, though, rather than melting into another fitful imagination, the cid realized that he was, in fact, awake and hearing the dialogue, real and true. He sat up, reaching for his bata and turned his eyes toward the meager fire that was the camp’s heart. His eyes went wide when he discerned Lala hunkered down on one side of that yellow-orange glow and Ysmiril on the other.

Thirky scratch out my eyes, he blustered to himself, rubbing the remnants of sleep from those same orbs to ensure he wasn’t imagining things. When his knuckles failed to dispel the Fae woman from his sight, he grinned, hauled himself to his feet, using his staff for support in the effort, and toddled toward the fire. “Ysmiril,” he beamed as he approached, “Oio naa elealla alasse’!” He produced his pipe and the works to fill it as he crouched down by the fire, between the two women, and let himself fall into the tête-à-tête, puffing away silently as Isilmewen addressed the fae-woman’s concerns and provided a recap of events that had led them to being where they were.

When Ysmiril expressed what seemed like disapproval at their delay in accomplishing the task set before them by the Court, Dak finally interjected. “We seek not to defy our charge, arwenamin,” he assured her, “only to serve as best we can given our unavoidable delay. Surely the oldest magic is capable of seeing it as such, hm? The task you have set us upon is still our utmost priority, but circumstances have forced a detour. Surely, the Court can understand our mortal need to tend to our losses without judging us too harshly? We understand your concern, melui arwen, but we also beg your compassion…”

((OOC: Whatever response, Dak will ask/suggest that Isilmewen be allowed to retire and get her rest, and offer to ‘entertain’ Ysmiril until morning. Edits and updates as necessary, of course.))

When the camp roused, none too few of the troupe surprised to find a faerie in their midst, Dak did his best to make introductions and subtly tried to explain away Ysmiril’s presence, not that it might’ve gone a long way with the pengronea, as breakfast was made and the camp was struck. Kithiel and Thanon seemed to  have remained awestruck, even hours after the troupe continued its journey back to Hyanda Nost, but Dak and the rest of the troupe dispatched by Lord Isil’nari seemed to treat the fae’s presence as a normal occurrence.

"You return the empty shells of these tähtienlapsia to your fortress," she spoke, "while your other two companions fly to mourn her father.  What then will you do?" the fae asked.

Ysmiril’s gaze swept across the trees ahead while she walked, seemingly avoiding splotches of sunlight like water flowing around stones in a creek bed.  "You have slain more of these likainenkauhistusit, which brings harmony back to the song of the forest," she observed.  "Yet those who spread the discord still roam free.  Will you pursue more of these creatures while you wait for your friends?  Will you seek to stop the dissonant notes at the source?" Ysmiril's tone was neutral, as if she were asking about the menu for the evening's dinner, but something about her manner suggested deeper interest.

“I have thoughts on that matter, arwenamin,” Dak muttered as he balanced himself along the back of a fallen log, “There are rumors of a Ruhuë, going by the name of Tali-somethingoranother, that lives in a rosewood tree not far from here. If I could entreat such a creature to lend us aid, perhaps we could find a way to end this threat, once and for all…” He rolled his tiny shoulders in an uncertain shrug and dusted brambles from the legs of his orange trousers, “…Or get eaten in the process, I suppose. I have yet to convince anyone to accompany me in the trying of such, however…”