Rosariel takes a few moments of silence over the bodies at each stop and start of their travel to think a prayer for their souls and those that live on without them. 

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

Rosariel brings herself into the conversation. "It seems to me that we should not choose between hunting of more of these threats and pursuing the source. Eliminating these threats while gathering the pieces of the pattern of their introduction to the forest might let us set a snare." 

(OOC Rosariel is suggesting that there is intelligence to be gathered by knowing when and where these creatures are being created/lead to these areas.)

"If nothing further can be gleaned then our time is still not wasted by clearing the corruption." Rosariel looks to the group for support in this. "I would wager there will be knowledge to be learned as no one is completely traceless."

Isilmewen started at the sudden voice, but on her eyes lifting to find Ysmiril, she settled again, a smile flickering at her lips.

"It is good to see you, I was curious when that might be," she offered in return to greet her. As Ysmiril made note of the group, and it's missing members, Isilmewen gave a nod.

"Indeed, it is so," she replied, "Upon our arrival, our mie..." she paused, before shaking her head, deciding against trying to repeat the word even though she was curious how to form it. Context enough made it clear to her that it referenced Arathea, "Arathea was met with ill news. Death among her house; her father. She is gone to respect the one before her, and her house, but will return. Selineniel accompanied her, that she wouldn't journey alone."

As Ysmiril spoke of the old magic, and as Dak expressed his own thoughts on the matter, Isilmewen smiled again, giving a gentle laugh. She took care not to put her whole breath into it this time, for the sake of those sleeping.

"I won't claim to know what I cannot know," Isilmewen considered, "But if it measures intent, I feel Arathea will return none worse for wear - she knows the weight of the duties she has accepted, and will keep our promise close to her. After all, that's part of the song she sings, isn't it?"

But still, Isilmewen was grateful - Ysmiril's concern, even if it might have been obfuscated by language barrier and urgency in their quest, was plain for Isilmewen to see.

"Thank you, both of you," Isilmewen offered, accepting Dak's relief for watch and Ysmiril's warning both, "Unfortunately, I do need to retire."

******

The following day, Isilmewen paused as Ysmiril posed the question. What would they do, indeed. 

"Our adversary that spreads such discord, I won't deny that I would see the end to such actions if I could. The power they wield, though, doesn't seem to be something I can end with a well placed arrow, as much as I'd like that to be the case."

Her mind went to the last encounter, where her arrows were seemingly drawn awry by something she couldn't see or understand.

"Hmm, we may have bought time." Isilmewen mused.

Blinking as she realized she needed to give more words to that thought, she added to the others, "In striking at least one of their nests, one possibility is that they'll be slower, less certain. If they anticipate attack, perhaps they won't be quite so hasty to seige the Nost. If that should be the case, then yes, I think it may best see if we can tip the table more in our favor. To follow Dak's suggestion, if we might gain the aid of one perhaps as or older than he who would turn the melody into cacophony, that might truly be what makes the difference."

Isilmewen nodded to Rosariel as well, "We must take care if we hunt more of them, but I wouldn't doubt there will be need and opportunity for it. If this Ruhue might be one to tilt the table, I shouldn't doubt that our adversary will see the path to it guarded."

As a former friend returned to their camp past the darkest of the hours, Mae'rel rested in her tent, finding the deepest part of her rest. The priestess often struggled with sleep, being light with her sleep, and she still had nightmares, though her Goddess often worked to quiet them. That said, the longer she had travelled with the party, the more she had begun to get a handle on her rest. She could trust she would sleep soundly with this group, and that if she couldn't, when she woke, they would assist her in whatever beast or foe she would be faced with. Those thoughts alone allowed her more solace and serenity in her sleep than she had in decades, maybe even since she had travelled with Master Ignacio.

When she awoke early that morning, just before the first crack of sun, when that faint blue washed over the sky but it was not yet fully bright, like a clear lake's water, Mae'rel noticed the familiar face. She pulled her hood over her head to shield her from the cool morning air and the light wind that greeted her, helping wash away any faint trace of rest that still hung in her eyes. The clouds that hung above threatened frost, but as if The King of Winter was planning his action carefully, though not yet making his move, there was no falling white quite yet. Regardless, Mae'rel no longer faced the heat her comprehensive robes sometimes brought, and for that, she was most certainly grateful.

She approached Isilmewen, shooting her a curious glance, before speaking plainly her questions, "Madam Isilmewen, Madam Ysmiril. I did not expect you would join us at this moment. What brings you to these woods at this moment?"

(OOC: Expecting either/both to explain)

"So I see. Rest assured, Madam Ysmiril, we mean not to offend. Madam Arathea simply wished to say her final words to her father, before he passes into the arms of Beyond. She will certainly return, alongside Madam Seleniniel, and we will continue with our duties as tasked by the Court. My word is my bond, by My Lady."

When the party had completely gathered their camp and made their way to the fortress, much slower than they had made it to the cave, Mae'rel walked alongside the bodies, staying as close as she could to them, as if to make sure they were tainted no further by the forces that had harmed them and ended them so early. There was a reason they had been called up to such, and they would complete their cycles early, joining those of their family and friends who had already been called. Still, though she knew the reason was true, she could not help but feel sorrow for these fallen ones.

When Ysmiril asked their next intent, Mae'rel was not entirely sure how to respond. The others had spoken of a Ruhue that could help them, but truthfully, Mae'rel did not know much of such creatures, and she was hesitant to ask for a powerful being's help on this matter, as they were already in debt to one such powerful set of beings. "Though their shells are empty, their families will find closure in such. I imagine such for your people may not.. be entirely the same." Mae'rel paused, questioning for a moment how the Fae dealt with death, as different as it must be to them. She finished her statement though, "From here, we will spend time, however we may. When the others return, we will rejoin them at haste, and continue our original mission."

Although Ruadhrí had managed to smirk after the battle, it was quickly snatched from his face, along with all of the warmth as he saw the soldiers begin preparing the child for transport. His eyes replayed scenes behind the tired brown where he had seen similar things, including as a child when he saw his friends stripped away at such a young age. He slowly approached, all-but silent despite his massive size, and kneeled down beside the soldier, a hand on his shoulder. "Allow me, saighdiúir." 

(Assuming yes)

Before lifting the child, he bowed his head all the way down to the ground, whispering "Bimi, Glac an leanbh seo isteach i do ghrásta te, agus treoraigh iad isteach san ithir dhearg shíoraí." Taken far too soon, leanbh. Allow Bimi to guide you to peace. He then uncharacteristically gently lifted the grey cloak and it's contents into his arms. They were far from heavy, almost like holding a babe to Ruadhrí, and he held it just as gently as he would one. He did not mount them on his back or free his hands, but carefully cradled the body as they began their journey back to Hyanda Nost. Throughout the night, even as he slept and the fae spoke with Isilmewen, the child remained in Ruadhrí's arms.

Even the next day, as Ysmirill walked beside them, Ruadhrí stayed completely focused on the child, like comfort was still something it could feel, even while long cold. Suddenly, after blocking out most of what the otherwordly being had said, his ears twitched as it spoke again. "You return the empty shells of these tähtienlapsia to your fortress," Ruadhrí's face visibly soured even further from the melancholic expression he had shown all day and the day before, but as he listened, he realized she was correct. They must choose, wait for the warrior and witch, or pursue purity. His gaze fell only to the child before he spoke. 

"No more needless death" he said, voice low and deeper than they had ever heard him speak "wait if you wish, but even if I must move alone, I will prevent anymore tragedies like this leanbh has suffered. I will the light in the eyes of this d'aois witch, personally."

–the Inn–

She found the inevitably-smug Tatheme exactly where she knew he’d be. The local tavern… which, she supposed, was the local inn.. but still… As she pushed through the door, she found him in a perfect caricature of himself. Boots on the table. Chair leaned back on two legs, yelling something over his shoulder at the innkeeper halfway across the room. Mug of something dark that made her nose wrinkle. An empty one next to it, and a long thin pipe within arms reach. Gods. He’s on a f***ing holiday. 

She cut to the point. "I need you to watch over Arathea. She's at Nariel's. Something's trying to kill her."

The Stormrider arched an eyebrow as he planted his boots on the ground.  "And not so much as a hello, arwenamin?" he asked with a smirk.  "I had heard there was an accident near the cemetery, but you feel that there was more to it, I presume?"

“It wasn’t an accident.” She shot an obvious look at the innkeeper over Tathema’s shoulder–who’d taken the silent dismissal of Seleniniel’s entrance, now humming to herself as she swept last night’s ash scattered before the hearth. Even he couldn’t miss the implication.  

The tall soldier sighed.  "And you wish for me to stand watch, then?"  He finished his drink with a gulp.  "Given that I have little else to do, I don't see why that would be a problem.  Have you notified the town constable of your concerns?"

She snorted, glad he was still seated–the better to glare down at him. “Yes, Tathema. I have notified the f***ing constable of my concerns.” The innkeeper’s humming stopped. Seleniniel caught the disapproving look in her peripheral. Seleniniel ignored it as Tathema stood, gathering the swordbelt slung over the chair back. He had the decency to at least look chagrined… though whether at Seleniniel’s language or the stupidity of his question, she couldn’t tell… or care. 

Good soldier. She took the opportunity to delve another direction, more to needle the Stormrider than from any real hope of getting something useful from him. As she poked at his reasons for dropping out of the sky to them, she got about what she’d expected. “.... I was given the order, and so I followed it." Just… a soldier. She did not press him. He was on his feet and headed to Nariel’s. That was good enough for Seleniniel as she trod the path to Arathea’s house.

–the Home–

Seleniniel did not find Arathea’s mother nearly as malleable. Seleniniel had taken Lady Ondolithe for a hollowed-out shell. Frail sparrow with a broken back. But it seemed the graveside vigil or near-loss of her daughter had strengthened the widow’s spine. And she’d found the simmering anger below her sorrow. Seleniniel let it boil over her–did not begrudge the widow her catharsis. Seleniniel knew something of this. While Lady Ondolithe paced, Seleniniel listened, but she also remembered…

A long room with a tall ceiling. The one her parents’ used for formal dinners. Put back into stasis following the wake. Table now bare. Sconces snuffed. Only illumination deepening orange rays through the western windows. The sunlight ebbing towards the ceiling would have told her it was well past dinner, if she’d cared. Her sobs were muffled by thickwoven tapestries on the walls and plainwoven coverings on the furniture. Curled into a ball under the great table, still in the new black dress. Knife gripped in the hand that also held knees to chest. Her right hand. Her left arm was still wrapped in healer’s cloth. It felt awkward, even though she’d always favored her right. Now it was just… uneven... The knife wasn’t sharp. A utensil, not a weapon. Still, she felt safer having it than not. With a creak, a thinner, yellower light bled into the room. Her knuckles whitened around the handle. She sniffed back tears, quietly as she could, wiping her eyes on the healer’s cloth and trying to hold her breath. “Seleniniel” She knew it would be her. Footsteps. “Sel.” She shouldn’t call her that. That was Alwen’s name. “Sel… you have to eat something.” A hand appeared, beginning to lift the tablecloth. She slashed at it as savagely as she could…

The edge wore on Lady Ondolithe’s words as she became a tired widow again. Seleniniel let her finish, silently cataloging the information–most of which matched Seleniniel’s guesses. It had been too much to hope the widow held a key…. Though Seleniniel raised her eyebrow at her last thought. 

"What if this is some... trap meant for my daughter, with me serving as bait? . . .  I will not bury my daughter, as well. . . . Perhaps it would be best for you and my daughter to leave here sooner rather than later." 

Seleniniel nodded, finally responding as the manservant held the door expectantly. “You may be right.” The widow rose and turned to leave. “Knowing your daughter, though, that is not likely to scare her.” Lady Ondolithe did not reply as she left the sitting room. 

Seleniniel sighed. So much for answers. 

–the Healer’s–

Arathea awoke in the morning alone, another night of work to help her recovery behind her. But it had not been for nothing, she felt substantially better now. She felt like she could move again without the ache of a thousand knives through her chest, her breathing no longer caused her discomfort, her sword arm could be maneuvered again. And she knew what this meant, finally she could be active again, she could continue her hunt after what felt like weeks stuck in bed, though in truth it had only been a few days. She had some idea of where to go, remembering a name… Calaien Talnaris, from the stories her father told he was a nikerym her father had served with in the Imperial Army. She looked back on those stories, they recounted a brave leader and a strong man, a man like her father. 

Arathea missed him but she knew she couldn't waiver now, she had to find Talnaris and hopefully soon put an end to this. Part of her wondered, a part of her she tried to silence but couldn't stop, that part wondered if any of this was worth it, if there would be any answers. She tried not to listen but it continued to crop back up, and with it came doubts, Ararhea wondered if she really was all she was said to be. Throughout her life she was always so confident, she was always sure she had what it would take, and almost everyone around her agreed. She was a hero, she was a prodigy, she was a star. But now she felt weak, so weak.

It was oppressive and all consuming, she tried to muster the flame within her but the doubts kept only growing stronger and stronger until… 

Seleniniel entered the room, and Ararhea was grounded. She needed to be present now. “Good morning,” she spoke in a serious tone that tried to hide her internal strife but the struggle inside was hard to wipe from her face. “I feel better, far better now. And I think I have a plan, I remember an officer my father used to speak fondly of… he might be our only shot.”

–

Seleniniel nodded. “Good.” Arathea looked hale enough, and anything was better than sitting around waiting to be ambushed. “Your mother is fine, by the way.” She picked up the bladesinger’s armor, depositing it on the foot of the bed. It was lighter than she’d expected... not that Seleniniel knew much of such things. “I think she wants you… us.. to leave…” Absentmindedly, still studying the armor, “seems to think we’ve bought whatever killed your father back to her doorstep.” 

She let the thought hang in the air, then refocused. “Where’s the old crow? I saw Tathema on the way in. Judging by the bags under his eyes, he must’ve actually kept a decent watch.” She huffed to herself, taking some enjoyment in the Stormrider’s discomfort. Arathea gave her one of her well-used disapproving looks as she began to don her armor. Seleniniel waived the silent judgment away, “he’s a soldier, he’ll be fine.” The bladesinger’s movements seemed less… fluid… than normal, but she was into the well-worn armor quick enough, and only winced a little as she sinched up the side straps. 

“You good?” At the bladesinger’s nod, “great, let’s go.”

24th Bre Uthan, 452 E.R.

South of Nandina

Former Nikerym Calaien Talnaris lived in a small estate a little more than a half hour south of Nandina.  The journey was an easy one, with a well-marked path and pleasant shade.  The home was no true manor - nothing like those of the Great Houses that Seleliniel had known - but it was far more opulent than anything in the town itself.  Several symmetrical rows of well-maintained fruit trees lined the approach to the house itself; at this time of year, the branches were heavy with apples.

As the pair approached, they spotted an older sylvari overseeing the efforts of two much younger males as they harvested the fruit.  Upon recognizing the visitors' approach, the older individual moved to stand in anticipation of their arrival.

Despite his hair being totally white with age, there was obvious strength in the wiry frame.  The soft civilian clothes did nothing to mask the ramrod-straight posture or the promise of violence hiding in his stance.  The face was noticeably older than the one in Arathea's memories, but there was no mistaking the identity.

"Nikerm Talnaris," Arathea inquired politely.  "I trust you are well?"

The old ohtar smiled politely.  "Arathea Ondolithe," he offered by way of greeting, then gave a shrug.  "Adaron still smiles my way from time to time."  His glance rested on Seleniniel for a moment.  

"This must be the one-armed high noble I had heard accompanied you to Nandina," he observed.  He gave a small nod.  "And a northerner at that.  Welcome to my home, arwen en amin," he offered with a little more politeness.

Seleniniel nodded in return, but did not speak.

A touch of sincerity entered his tone as he turned back to Arathea.  "I am sorry for your loss, Etriel Ondolithe.  Your father was a good man, taken far too young.  The world is a darker place without him."

The shadow cast by his comments put an awkward pause in the conversation until Talnaris shook his head.  "Please, come in, etrielea.  Now that the harvest is upon us, the time to open last year's sweet cider has arrived.  Come share a mug, and we will speak of the reasons for your visit."

Arathea offered a respectful bow. “We would be honored,” she responded, thinking back to drinking cider with her father in the Autumn.

The bottle hissed as Talnaris uncorked it; the pour revealed sparking bubbles.  As he passed the mugs around, the old soldier spoke.  "Janira oversees the breeding of the trees," he explained, "but I put the fruit to use.  I have little interest in selling bushels at market, and there are only so many pies and such one can bake before the apples spoil.  But cider ages very nicely, and serves as social currency from time to time."  His expression was slightly bemused.

The beverage was outstanding; sharp, tangy, with enough sweetness to balance it perfectly.  As they sipped, the white-haired syl spoke.  "You are here to ask about Moreuron, of course." Arathea sighed, and nodded silently.

"He was murdered, that much is obvious," Talnaris stated.  "I never knew a better soldier than the Enyalie.  He was far too tough to die in some carriage accident - and asking me to believe that his driver also died in some random crash strains the tiniest shred of credulity."  He shook his head.  "No foe would take him in an ambush... he had the most uncanny sense for trouble I have ever seen.  So he either knew the person killed him, or some dark trick laid him low... one of the two."

Talnaris stared into the distance.  "I cannot imagine who would want the Enyalie dead, however.  He was widely loved here at home, with a well-earned reputation for fair dealings.  Any of his ohtarim would have gladly died for him.  I cannot think of a single one who bore him a grudge."  

He frowned.  "Politics were Moreuron’s forte, not mine.  But from what I know, he posed no threat to anyone.  I never knew anyone to threaten him, never knew him to seem worried for his safety, or that of his wife."

The Nikerym took a sip and mused.  "His politics were not popular - as you well know, your father was one of the dreamers who wished to open borders with the humans."  He rolled his eyes.  "Needless to say, such ideas do not play well with the Great Houses, but the position is a minority even among the erestorea... killing him would be pointless politically, as he had no power to force any of his ideas upon anyone."

Talnaris shook his head again.  "His business dealings were modest - you know the home he lived in.  I served longer than he, but he was more accomplished, a great Enyalie turned erestor.  Yet his home was more humble than my own, his staff laughably minimal.  He never sought wealth, and as such, avoided the enemies one might make when doing so."

The old soldier drained the remainder of his mug.  "It makes no sense.  No one profits from his death in any way that I can see.  But his death had to be murder."  

He stood, grabbed the bottle, and poured himself another serving.  "I spoke to the ohtarhea who found the body.  Good soldiers, honest, from the Aluir-Ishtel garrison.  They agreed with my own findings - it felt wrong; it felt like murder.  Said the forest was so very quiet when they found him, said you could feel a chill in the air, like someone walking over your own grave.  But they found nothing to justify a murder investigation."

His gaze went empty as he stared into memory.  "I went and saw the body for myself.  Couldn't believe the Enyalie was dead.  That my friend was gone."

The old syl sighed heavily.  "I never did thank Náriel, but I should have.  The ohtarea had brought the body to her.  She must have anointed it with herbs or flowers or something before I got there; I'll never forget that sickly sweet smell, as long as I live.  Like overripe fruit, maybe.  I've seen death before, and while it didn't completely cover the odor, it did help... which was a blessing."

A look of horrified embarrassment suddenly crossed his face.  "I beg your forgiveness, Etriel Ondolithe.  I meant no disrespect to you or to Moreuron's memory.  I did not consider how such a thing would of course sound to his own daughter.  Please forgive an old soldier for being insensitive and macabre."

“I understand how it is,” Arathea replied empathetically. “At least nominally, I've spent enough time serving the crown with people like us. You need not apologize… I am not a child now, I've seen people I know and respect fall, my own master fell on a mission with me some years back. You're honest, like a good soldier.”

Talnaris sat back down, his face dark.  "No evidence, no motive, no suspects.  No strange visitors skulking about the town.  You tell me what there is to do."  He shook his head.  "Naturally, you had one or two of the old folk chittering about evil spirits... hah, I heard that you had your own encounter with one at the cemetery!  Good thing that Náriel could tend that injury, that's for certain."

Holding his mug, the Nikerym sat back into his chair.  Suddenly, he looked the full age of every accumulated year; he seemed small, shrunken, alone.  

"My friend is dead, and there is nothing I can do about it," he mused.  "It is good for you to have come to pay your respects, but I don't see what you can do, either." 

Arathea stood up, this was a waste of time… this whole trip was, and now it was truly dawning on her. There was no evidence, there was no story, there was no trail to follow. This was it, a murder with the killers on the run, and that made Arathea a failure. “I thank you for the hospitality, Nikerym, and for the information; I wish you well sincerely.”

She turned to Seleniniel, who had been even more silent than her through the affair. “Let's get moving, we need to figure out where to go next…” she stated, the hopelessness clear in her voice now.

Seleniniel nodded, drained the dregs from her cup, handed it to the old soldier. “It’s quite good.” Too sweet.. the cid would like it. “Might we have a bottle for the road?” There was nothing to be gained by dragging it out. She’d heard the resignation in Arathea’s voice. Seleniniel couldn’t blame her. Everyone here knew Arathea’s father had been murdered. They’d all come to accept it… without the satisfaction of reason, much less justice. It seemed Arathea finally had too. Perhaps it was just the senseless chaos of gods… She didn’t believe it, but it didn’t change anything. 

The Nikerym gave the mage a curious look, then found his balance as he called for one of the younger syls to bring two bottles. Seleniniel nodded her thanks as she tucked one under her arm. She raised an eyebrow towards Arathea, who hesitated, giving Seleniniel a half-scowl, then bowed slightly as she gratefully accepted the second.

As they departed the estate, Seleniniel twisted the cork with her teeth. It gave a satisfying pop as it let loose and she spat it into the undergrowth along the hardpacked path. Arathea was stoic, lost in thought. Selininiel took a long pull, passed the bottle to the bladesinger. Arathea reflexively took it but did not drink. “You haven’t failed him.” Arathea side eyed her, but didn’t respond. “You said goodbye.” A few more steps in silence. Seleniniel took the bottle back, found no resistance as she pulled the neck from Arathea’s slack grip. “And you reminded your mother to keep living.” Arathea’s gait didn’t change. A soldier retreating from defeat. Seleniniel accepted her lack of argument as agreement… or at least acceptance… and so she let her have her silence. 

Seleniniel finished the bottle as they wound their way back towards the village. They came to the branching paths… one that would lead them back to Arathea’s home.. the other to the inn where Tathema was probably sleeping off last night’s watch. Seleniniel offered the meager kindness she could. Of saving Arathea from being the one to decide. Seleniniel stopped. “Arathea.” The bladesinger turned to look at the mage. “It’s time to go.” Arathea looked over her shoulder, to her home, then back to Seleniniel, blue eyes almost pleading. Seleniniel saw it. “I’ll stay… if you want. We can keep chasing ghosts… But…” she trailed off. 

Arathea sighed. “You’re right.” She felt like a failure, but staying and stewing would not change anything. The twinge of relief she felt as she said it out loud told her Seleniniel was, indeed, right. It did not change the guilt that gnawed at her, but she begrudgingly followed the mage towards the inn. Away from home. Her murdered father. Her failure. 

Seleniniel slowed, let the bladesinger catch up. Hesitated.. then awkwardly placed an arm around Arathea’s shoulders…. How long had it been since she’d let someone inside her walls… She felt the bladesinger’s muscles tense in surprise. Seleniniel almost pulled back, cursing herself. 

Arathea relaxed after the momentary shock, accepted the awkward bit of friendship… knowing what it had cost the mage to give it. Arathea then surprised herself, “let’s go see your pal Tanna,” with an uncharacteristic smirk. She felt the mage’s arm tense. “F***ing Tanna.” Seleniniel muttered… as they trod the path to the sleepy inn. To Hyanda Nost. To Sendria.

Tali’yore. Not Tali-somethingorother, Dak mused, the ruhuë’s name, now that he had learned it in full, echoing through his thoughts, Tali-yore. Not Tali-whatshisname. Tali’yore. It would be good to remember it if he was going to seek out the wise old owl – which, following his talks with Ysmiril (and despite her cautions) on the matter – the pick was more certain than ever that he would do just that. All creatures with the wit to give themselves names took some measure of satisfaction in hearing those names spoken by others, after all.

Committing the ruhuë’s name to memory wasn’t the only consideration that played in his mind as the party wended their way back to Hyanda Nost, either. Thoughts of precisely what knowledge they might seek from Tali’yore (assuming that they would find him and survive the encounter) and what the old bird might require in exchange for said information also encumbered his brain. To that extent, Dak found himself almost grateful for the slow pace that the party’s somber burdens had imposed; it gave him time to mull these things over at length and in depth before they reached the keep. As the troupe neared the final approach, Ysmiril promised to meet them again, either on the path to find the ruhuë or the one that led to Sendria and took her leave. This stirred the cid from his reverie long enough for him to bid the fae a fond farewell and then refocus his attention on the way ahead. When they reached its end, Dak was unsurprised to find Nost’kano Feldinil awaiting them at the gate.

After Kithiel and Thannon made their report to the Commander, the pair was dismissed and Feldinil’s gaze turned to Isilmewen. “It seems that the trust in you was well-placed, Arwenamin Mithvanryl,” he offered. “You and your companions have removed the threat of these owlbears.  I applaud the destruction of their eggs; in truth, you did not destroy three of the monsters, but nine.  Surely more than one life was saved thanks to your efforts.”

Dak allowed himself a subdued smile at the praise but, for the time, said nothing, deferring any response to Lala.

When the commander stepped away, examined the bodies they had brought back from that horrid cave, and expressed recognition of the ranger as well as her station to the Speaker, the cid spiked a brow. Since the very outset of this venture there had been numerous threads, plucked from nearly every encounter, that had begun to weave a rather dark tapestry with the Speaker at its center and the connection of this taur’ohtar, Enalastra, to Speaker Luthiel was the latest but, Dak was coming to believe, far from the last to be incorporated in that particular arras. Just another silk to add to my web of thoughts, he smirked inwardly, watching the corpses being carried respectfully away.

“Thank you also for returning these bodies; most would not have gone to the trouble,” the Nost’kano said, drawing Dak’s eyes back,  “May Adaron grant you blessings.”

“I don’t think that any of us would have ever been able to sleep well had we left them where they were discovered, heruamin,” the cid replied, sketching the facsimile of a bow, “better that they are honored properly and laid to rest amongst their own.”

“What will you do now?” Feldinil asked. “You are of course welcome to wait here for your companions to return.  Or you may replenish your provisions and seek more of these beasts to slay.  But I do not presume to tell you your own business.”

“Replenishing our supplies is certainly a priority, Nost’kano,” Dak nodded, a faint grin playing on his lips, “as is a hot meal and a bit of rest…” his gaze flitted across the faces of his comrades, “…As to what happens after, I believe that is something that bears discussion, for we have other options beyond simply waiting and hunting, don’t we, melloneamin?”

((OOC: I think I’ll cut it off there for now and give the rest of you room to add your two coppers. Not sure if we need to play out the confab regarding Tali’yore or if we just let that happen behind the scenes… ))

"We should not wait idly by for their return. Our hands are sturdy and our minds capable. Mind that we don't reach further than our strength can sustain us." Rosariel looks to the sky for a long moment before continuing. "I know not what the proper action is but it feels that until we are whole again that we should not take drastic risk in our actions."

"Dak if more than you wish to pursue another ally or bargain for power I will of course support the action but I feel it is time for us to slow for a moment and fill our waiting with challenges we know we are of a measure with. Let fate dictate when we need to rise to the next height of challenge without goading it by our own action. Hunting the other owlbears in the area while we wait for our companions return is our best course of action."

Rosariel goes quiet having said her peace. Her hand unconsciously moves to grasp the antler as she looks around the group for their judgement on her words.

“We should not wait idly by for their return. Our hands are sturdy and our minds capable. Mind that we don't reach further than our strength can sustain us.” Rosariel opined, her gaze cast heavenward for a moment. “I know not what the proper action is but it feels that until we are whole again that we should not take drastic risk in our actions.”

The pick’s emerald eyes turned her way and, as he produced his pipe and tucked it into one corner of his mouth, he offered a faint nod in acknowledgement of her estimation.

“Dak if more than you wish to pursue another ally or bargain for power I will of course support the action but I feel it is time for us to slow for a moment and fill our waiting with challenges we know we are of a measure with,” the Huntress continued, “Let fate dictate when we need to rise to the next height of challenge without goading it by our own action. Hunting the other owlbears in the area while we wait for our companions return is our best course of action.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest that we simply wait out the return of Ladies Ondolithe and Isil’nari,” Dak smiled in reply, leaning on his bata and touching a match to his pipe, “and, if the rest of you would prefer to root out more of the k’sher’s abominations, then quel fara, hunt them we shall. What I propose, though, is no more chancy than wading into more owlbear dens as we find them,” He rolled his little shoulders in the semblance of a shrug and blew a smoke ring toward the canopy, “Not by much, anyway.”

“Should we be able to find Tali’yore and successfully barter for the right information,” Dak went on, lifting a brow, “perhaps we would have no further need of seeking out any more nests, hm? It might be that the ruhuë’s knowledge and wisdom could lead us to the old wytch, himself, and provide us with the means to remove him from the equation. No more wytch, no more owlbears, lle elea?” He puffed on the pipe again, his eyes dancing from face to face. “By way of giving you all some idea of how it looks from my perspective and, perhaps, some information that may color your decisions,” the cid offered, “allow me to share with you something I have only shared with Isilmewen thus far…”

((OOC: Here Dak will tell the tale of how he discovered the ranger’s report in the commander’s offices and relate the ‘legend’ of Rin Thistleknot and the Great Old Owl.  ))

Enalastra. Isilmewen regarded the name as one might a flower. She had to wonder their life, if they were so known to the Speaker. How closely were Enalastra and the Speaker entwined? Enalastra's presence here, had she been here on the Speaker's behalf or their own, investigating as Isilmewen might've if she weren't already involved in another mission...

Many questions. Enalastra would be unable to answer.

She would continue to borrow the bow, as she had reason to believe that seeing the end of the wider owlbear threat and the one leading them was Enalastra's intent here, and in that way she'd let Enalastra see this through, even if by proxy. If the bow perhaps came from the Speaker, or their resources, then it may end up need be returned there. Isilmewen accepted that, inwardly.

"I do hope that this means the witch's presence in this region is weakened accordingly, but I would be remiss if I were to admit that I feel like all is done, yet. I'd like to see this through all the way, if I can." Isilmewen admitted.

She nodded to Rosariel, "And sit idly, I would see us not, as well. That being said, the blow afforded our adversary's position is not something we should leave to time to mend. We may not have Arathea or Selineniel with us, but if nothing else, I think continuing will be best for all involved. After all, we may not have the luxury of deciding the when to an encounter with him, as before. I'd rather we have what preparations we may, and perhaps we can yet tilt the table of his game, even if we're not of all companions."

After Dak had recounted the tale of the Great Old Owl, Isilmewen added her thoughts.

"This sort of exchange is one we can see to do ourselves. One thing that comes to mind, as far as information goes, is a way to circumvent or weaken the strange magics wielded by the witch. Then, we may see an end to his machinations. But, it is an exchange. We needs must be prepared with what in mind to offer as trade."

Isilmewen crossed her arms as she thought of her own history.

"I'm afraid I may not have much to offer myself in this regard. I've little doubt that the ways of a taur'ohtar would weigh much on the scales, nor old gossip from the courtly affairs before I made this my path." She admitted with a soft sigh.

"Oh, it would be remiss of me to also say," Isilmewen added, "I want to propose that such sharing or exchange need not be presented together, either - if knowledge that any one of us will share with Tali'yore for an exchange is not for each other's ears, let us respect that from the beginning, here."

Isilmewen's eyes briefly flickered towards Dak. The little shadow, she knew, had certainly his own share of information picked up over time, even if no one else did. She didn't want to force anything into the open because of this, even if Tali'yore would certainly not be holden to such an agreement. This was for the present company, and Isilmewen wanted everyone to have this assurance, at least.

Mae’rel had remained quiet through the exchange, her gaze drifting not between those who spoke, but beyond them, toward the inner workings of the keep. Even now, life moved within its walls. Soldiers passed in sync step, servants carried out their duties, and somewhere within, grief had already begun its slow, quiet work. The world did not pause for sorrow, she knew… but neither did it escape it.

Her hands rested loosely within her sleeves, gloved fingers brushing the worn edge of them. The familiar texture steadied her, as it always had. Breath came slow, deliberate. In. Out. The small ritual anchored her in the moment, in the place between decision and action. When at last she spoke, her voice was soft, but steady.

“Lady Rosariel speaks with good sense.”

Mae’rel inclined her head slightly toward the huntress, the little visible of her mouth suggesting a neutral expression, though in reality there was more there, something contemplative. “To pause is not to falter… and to act is not always to advance. We have seen what haste may leave behind. And we have seen what neglect may allow to grow.”

Mae'rel was not one to jump brashly into things. From what she understood of this mythical creature, to pursue it without proper preparation and certainty would only bring about one kind of absolute. A fate worse than death. They could not afford something like that with the stakes so high. She spoke once more.


"I believe we should wait a moment before we pursue this creature. Gather our supplies. Help the keep. And prepare. If the tales of this creature are true, we should all be on the same page even before we set out on the journey. What we could offer it. What exactly we will ask for. After some time to think and be nothing but certain, we could move."

She drew a slow breath, the cool air filling her lungs before she continued.

“If we are to remain here a time, and not to pursue the Tali'yore, let it not be said that we waited. There are those within these walls who still suffer. By claw, by fear, or by loss. The wounds we saw in the forest do not end at its edge.” She paused, then added, more quietly, “And grief, if left untended, festers no less than any injury of flesh.”

For a moment, her eyes lowered again, as though recalling something not present. As if she searched for something out of her reach, searched for a memory. Then it passed, as all things must. Mae’rel’s posture remained composed, but there was a quiet resolve in her tone now.

“I will go among them. Where I am able, I will tend what pain I find, be it of body or spirit. There is labor to be done here that requires no blade. If it would please you, Lady Rosariel, I would welcome your company in such work. The voice of the hunt may bring a different comfort than my own… and perhaps together, we may reach those who would not hear one alone.”

Even if they were indifferent to the suffering that had unfolded as a result of this witch, Mae'rel most certainly was not, and it was her duty to tend to all wounds, whether they be of the mind or of the flesh. Before she could pursue yet another task, she had to remind herself she could not become distracted from her vow. A brief downtime would allow them to gather themselves, as well, and prepare for the challenge.

Ruadhrí didn't like Hyanda Nost any more the second time there than he did the first time. The pleasant aroma of their flowery fae had slipped away and been replaced with a balance of sweat, pride, and remorse for the fallen.The scraping of his hooves against the stone, or the cramped doorways too small for his large frame, or the human-esque sylvari shooting look at him sharp enough to skin cattle, though there was less of that, seemingly due to the respect he had shown the dead.

The weight of the child in his arms on the journey here was not one that was difficult for him to manage at all. He had made sure, despite it being a corpse, it did not bobble too much on the journey, like comfort still mattered. While many would see it as a tragedy that could not be helped, Ruadhrí saw the fallen syl as the worst thing he had seen since crossing the border.

“I… can still feel the weight… of that child in my arms.” He spoke, his accent seasoning the words which he spoke ever so softly. “No child of any kind deserves that… no parent should suffer the loss of their calf…” it was not the first time he had seen a child torn away from this life, or even the worst time he had seen it, but he still treated it with the sorrow of a thousand men. “I wish to stay, and fight on every front those beasts peak their beaked faces out of, personally, to prevent this from happening ever again, but alas… if you all believe the best course is to seek out this a bheith níos sine, while I will mourn every second lost that could be the last of another child, if it stops the beasts for good, I'm ready.”

Things didn't sit well as it stood.

Well, that was an understatement. She was supposed to lead the others through wild, day or night. So why did this space so wrack her ability to do so? Did she lose step with the dance?

Isilmewen herself had taken to eating less. It was by her approach they went this way. It was her responsibility to the others to do what little seemed within her ability.

Something. She was missing something. She had to be. Ysmiril explained it as a game. Isilmewen had to do her part to play it. If not for herself then for the others. She failed her family, would she fail here too?

Isilmewen shook her head and grit her teeth once more, in as many moments as she had done so of late. There was a way. There was a pattern. There had to be something.

She didn't even realize Selineniel and Arathea had arrived, so lost in her own ruminations she was as she sketched another attempt at a map in the ground by the firelight. 

If the gods had cared to listen, they would have struck the frozen mage from the sky for the curses she hurled their way on the endless northern return. The bite of quickening days numbed her exposed flesh as much as the cramped saddled deadened her bony ass. Luckily for Seleniniel, neither the gods nor Tanna paid her curses any mind. As the journey stretched thin, even Tathema let them roll past with the northblown wind, smirking from habit more than humor. More than once, Seleniniel wondered if the western dwarves in their earthbound kingdoms might have the right of it. In their cozy holes, far from wind and sky. So much did the trip weather her resolve, the silhouette of Hyanda Nost, looming over the forest from its clifftop perch, brought a whoop from the stormrider that Seleniniel couldn’t help but echo. As Tanna’s talons clattered to the cobblestone, she threw her travel sack to the stone and leapt from the beast’s still-ripping back to kiss that blessedly immutable ground. Finally.

And yet. 

The Nost'kano’s news that greeted them promptly sloughed her relief off the towering parapet. “They’re what?!” As the mage tapped a new reservoir of vulgarity that momentarily left the Nost'kano and his onlooking soldiers speechless, Arathea whipped her head around with shock that hardened to a glaciating glare. Seleniniel tried to return it, but her eyes betrayed her. Don’t be so godsdamned noble Arathea. We just got here. We can at least spend the night… we can walk… we can borrow a horse.. they can’t be that far… they’re probably almost back… they can take care of themselves… don’t make me get back on that f***ing beast… please…. Arathea… please no. But, compelled by her inexorable inner compass, Arathea entreated the stormrider to bear them after their companions. Seleniniel looked down at her bag that lay.. so carefree.. on stone worn smooth by centuries of sentinels. She looked longingly west, to the lands those sentinels watched. Then turned reluctantly east, to the depths of their forest where the rest of her troop was apparently tromping after that withered old coot that had nearly forced her to kill Ruadhri and had thrust them into the fae’s debt. Relenting to Arathea’s gravitational pull and a consolating germ of hope for revenge, she stooped to retrieve her bag, feeling the weight of her centuries as she lifted it. “Here” she threw it at Tatheme. He caught it easily, fastened it back to Tanna’s saddlebags, then wordlessly offered a boost. A soldier begrudgingly following orders. He’s as sick of us as we are him. She ignored the offered help and grabbed Arathea’s forearm, digging her boots into Tanna’s muscled shoulder as she pulled herself back to the saddle. Tanna squawked indignantly and repaid the mage’s impudence with a shake that threatened to return both mage and bladesinger to the stones. Seleniniel scrambled to hook her arm into the back of Arathea’s armor, yelling over the swooshing wind as the griffon warmed her wings, “we want to be rid of you too, you dumb beast, now FLY!” She punctuated the last with two heels into Tanna’s belly. The beast catapulted upward, tearing the air with her talons and letting out a wailing call that reminded Seleniniel this was no farmhorse she goaded. Just find our fool companions and you and Tatheme can fly straight to the hells or anywhere else you please.

–

“What the f*** was that Tatheme?” She gestured wildly at the sky, batting one of the riverside cattails that came springing back to smack her in the face. She yanked it out by the root, swinging the plant for emphasis in a wild arc aimed in the general direction of Tatheme and his mounts, still trying to find her balance as she sat splayed in the bankside grasses. The abrupt swerve, followed by the spiraling dive, had thrown her into Arathea’s backside and nearly sent them both tumbling. If she’d had the presence of mind, she would’ve seen Tatheme too, struggling to level his mount, trying and failing to pull it back eastward.

"I've never seen anything like it," the stormrider admitted. "These beasts are fearless, but you saw what I saw - they won't fly over that area. . . . you'll have to go on foot."  

Fine by me. She flung the cattail into the flowing water, shifted her focus to judge the depth of the forest beyond. Though I’d rather we had one of the woodsy ones in tow… Tatheme deflected Arathea’s final plea with the bladesinger’s own sword… “duties demand my return.” How convenient… the errandboy has other errands. “May your paths be green and golden, arwenaminae." She rolled her eyes. “May your path be s***brown and poxy,” she muttered under her breath as Arathea returned a more socially adept valediction. 

As the three figures shrunk to two shadows, then one, then a blur on the horizon above that endless sea of canopy, Seleniniel fought back the twinge of panic. Where the hells are we. She looked to Arathea for assurance, found some, but more the we're-in-this-together variety as opposed to the I-know-where-to-go type she was hoping for. Seleniniel took in a long lungfull of the deep forest’s air, listened to the pace of her heartbeat. She closed her eyes, turned her attention outward, to the water, the late afternoon cricket trill, the first frog to the evening sonata, the northern wind playing the bankside grasses. She sunk her hand into the muddy topsoil, felt the cool sodden earth. Took another breath of loamier air. Measured the sensory inputs one by one, a curator checking her stock. Not the whimsy of her childhood, but the worn circular path she had painstakingly laid stone by stone, spiraling inwards towards a center. 

After she'd found it, she opened her eyes, saw Arathea studying her. Worry mingled with curiosity and a hint of impatience. The mage pushed herself to her feet, dusted herself off, mostly managing to leave a muddy smear on a robe that was direly in need of a laundress.

“Welp… you any good at tracking?” A smile betrayed the measure of calm her routine had returned to her. That, and the relief at finally being beholden to her two legs and the pull and push of the earth on her soles. “The smelly one and her rat can manage it, can’t be that hard. Come on,” confidently, “we’ve got a few hours of daylight…” she squirted upward “I think…”

Turns out, track finding was, indeed, quite easy–more thanks to luck and Ruadhri than their woodscraft. Track following, however, proved more vexing. After a few hours flattening the grass on both sides of the river, they'd found no onward trail. Seleniniel eventually prevailed on Arathea that the morning sun would lend more clarity that more stooped circling in ebbing light. 

The pitiful fire barely kept the young winter’s night at bay. Seleniniel moved to stoke it with more than wood, but Arathea’s talk of predators reminded the mage why their companions had ventured this far in the wrong direction. She let the powdered sulfur sift, unused, through her idling fingers, studying the Twins… and stopped. 

“Arathea!” an excited whisper “look, there.” This was always the problem with illusions, particularly outdoors. They could brighten and dim with the ambient light, but inevitably a shadow would fall out of place or a refracted ray would betray the trick. This was masterful though. Gods they'd paced these shores for hours without noticing. Seleniniel wondered and who… or what… could have produced such a masterpiece. If the woodswytch possessed this power they'd have never found his grove. She took some comfort in that… trying not to dwell on the alternatives. 

Arathea stared blankly, looking without seeing. "I see nothing but trees and moonlight."

"Exactly!" Seleniniel hissed. "The moonlight - which falls in the wrong direction!"

Seleniniel practically lept up, took several long strides towards the thicket that was not a thicket, marveling again at how it was woven into the wider forest tapestry. She muttered to herself as she looked for its edges, ignoring Arathea’s unasked questions. There! She waved her hand through, just to be sure, then, before Arathea could object, strode confidently into the bramble. For a moment it was like being underwater, moonslight dappled across her skin as the illusion resolved into a simple forest path. Arathea called out, Seleniniel turned but could not see her, though she knew the bladesinger was only a few feet away. "Well," she grinned to herself, "are you coming?"

As the two delved the illusion, her wonder began to creep towards dread. Not just at the thought of the power it must have required for such an illusion. But this wasn't just bent light. Her sense of direction and distance were twisted. Sound and sight came from one direction and all directions. She felt that the rhythmic owl call was taking her somewhere and yet she could have sworn she backtracked more often than not. Arathea walked by her side, but seemed just as vexed by this place. “Stay close.” The bladesinger’s warning was unneeded. More and more Seleniniel felt that this was either intricate trap or intricate defense. Regardless, she was not sure she wanted to find its conjurer. 

And then, they were there.

It was a strange feeling to abruptly stumble on the scraggly crew she had spent so many nights ignoring or watching from the edges of camp. She'd searched for them from necessity, to be sure, but in this moment she realized she'd missed the routine of their companions, their idiosyncrasies, the comfort of others’ presence… in other words, she'd missed them. And here they sat, looking disheveled and forlorn. Gods… she studied them… how long had they been out here. She quickly did the math and wondered how many of the days from the keep they'd spent wandering this. Isilmewen stared blankly into the fire, didn't seem to see them. Dak looked up with a look of genuine shock that made her smirk with reflexive satisfaction. Ruadhri was sharpening his axe, either ignoring them or stoically tending his task. Rosariel held up a cracked nut to that nasty rodent perched on her shoulder, then brightly regarded the duo as they broke the dancing circle of firelight. The priest sat stoically, studying the others, then turning her attention to the newcomers. It felt like a profound moment. Seleniniel looked to Arathea, who seemed to be taking a breath to speak. Seleniniel should have let her, but some habits die hard.

“Gods… you guys look like s***… and what the hells is this place?”