Dak winced, fingers clutching at his stomach as the water he’d drunk turned to an icy spike there. A punishment for his misreading of the situation, he was sure. It was a discomfort that verged on painful and more than a little distracting, scattering his thoughts enough that chasing them through his mind in search of a worthy nugget of knowledge became an almost physical effort. Despite the ice in his belly, sweat beaded on the Cid’s brow as he rummaged his memories for something… anything… that might sate the ruhüe’s appetite for knowledge and, thereby, save him and his friends from feeding the great owl’s other hunger. The murderous glare that Seleniniel shot in his direction gave him a bit of a chuckle, as well as a modicum of focus, allowing him to fish the pond of his thoughts with a bit more clarity…

Amin hiraetha, Mistress Isil’nari, he grinned inwardly, offering the mage a vaguely apologetic shrug, but who would have ever imagined that you would follow my lead, hm?

… The bit of knowledge that she offered, though, sent chaotic ripples dancing across the clearing waters of that pond and, once more, Dak found himself at a loss. “House Isil’nari of Alloryen moves against the Speaker to the Stars,” she had said. The little thief’s jaw dropped open at the admission and his brows climbed high on his forehead where the beads of sweat had frozen from the sudden external chill pervading the air around the table. A bold disclosure, arwenamin, he thought even as Arathea launched into a blistering rebuke of the one-armed woman, Perhaps I am not the only fool at this table.

After a moment, the betrayed bladesinger reined her anger in and seemed to set it aside. The Cid was sure, however, that it would come to the forefront again should any or all of them survive Tali’Yore’s grove. Arathea offered her own nugget of knowledge, then, inadvertently stealing it from Dak’s own grasp… “The realm of the fae is dying…” He would have to come up with something else, now, or nothing at all.

Rosariel spoke next, expounding on her experiences with and feelings for the troupe as her offering. It was an interesting angle that the huntress took, essentially answering a question with a question while still providing what might be looked upon as heretofore hidden information.

“I bear the story of my family, the families before them, and before them,” Ruadhrí offered in the wake of the huntress’ discourse, “I bring the way of the plains, and the people it holds.”

As her initial verses had seemed to appeal to the ruhüe, Isilmewen’s contribution was an offer of more poetry that the old bird may never had heard before. She didn’t immediately speak any further poesies, though, Lala was always more cautious than that. Instead, she slipped back into silent contemplation, waiting for Tali’Yore’s acknowledgement.

Dak still struggled to find something of his own to offer up to the great old owl, though. He knew plenty of secrets, of course, they were something like currency in his trade, but how many of those mysteries might Tali’Yore already be aware, he couldn’t quite be sure. In this moment, the diminutive sneak-thief could only latch on to one such enigma that might fit this particular bill and, in the wake of the other revelations that had been floated, if now wasn’t the time to uncover it… “Sarigra ta,” he muttered, turning his eyes toward the canopy and drawing in a slow breath, “If my life is to end here among these that I have come to consider friends, I suppose it should end with nothing less than truth.

I am both more and less than what I seem, hodoer,” the halfling confessed, “For many years I have been known as Dak Whisperfoot, messenger and courier for House Mithethiel of Faernae and, also, a thief. While some of that is certainly true, much of it is fabrication. I did not come into the service of a Sylvari house by sheer coincidence of Pickish wanderlust, I do not hail from Stone’s Hollow in Coria, and my name… my true name… is not Dak Whisperfoot. I am Sage Thistleknot, the descendent of Rin who you met long ago, and I am an agent of the Thieves Guild in Bayris. When the Guild learned that an Alloryen noble had a willingness to pursue trade and diplomatic relations beyond the edges of the Empire, I was sent into the Sylvari Empire as a spy, tasked with gathering information and artifacts which might be used to exploit those ends for profit…”

Was this group full of nothing but frauds then?

Mae'rel had remained quiet, allowing each of the group's members to speak their stories first. Some offered short, brief nuggets, like a poem, while others.. confessed their entire identity to be a sham, and that their house intended to kill the leader of the Sylvari Empire? And another offered the story of his family. How varied. Gods above, Mae'rel vowed she would have never taken this role if she had known even the slightest what it would have entailed, at least for a moment. She quickly gathered herself though, telling herself she could do more good with what she had learned about the Fae, that this would all be worth it. 

Before she could offer her own wisdom, The Monk first needed to absorb all that had happened. She did not care deeply that the Speaker was to be struck. After all, from what she understood of the Sylvarian politics, the Speaker was a less than favorable woman who, as she had come to learn, had participated in a flavor of genocide. While she did not favor violence.. there was a time no amount of reason or punishment could stop someone, so she understood that it was perhaps a necessary measure. Of course, she knew that the House would not possibly seek to move against her for any noble reason. As for Master Dak, or rather, Master Sage, she didn't know quite what to make of it. They had travelled together for months, and while it was a short-lived companionship to many in the party, The Monk had learned to appreciate the short periods of time to a Sylvari from her days among humans. The fact even continously in the face of death he would maintain these lies, Mae'rel had to bring herself to believe. It was disapointing.

"Master Sage. I am disappointed to hear this. Your deceit is concerning to me, as while I would not necessarily question your own business, the thieves guild is not known for their consideration of others. This makes trusting you forward.. difficult."

But this was all unrelated to the question at hand, ultimately. Just a side effect of it, if anything. Mae'rel had much wisdom to offer, but the Priest's gut told her this would not be the last time she would speak knowledge to this.. thing. So she would keep her dice close.

"My Master Ignacio, of the League of the Wayfarers, taught me an old song. One you would sing a verse from to identify other long-serving members."

"Rest now, traveler, rest from the road,
Lay down your sorrow, lighten your load.
Stars keep the pathway, moon guards the door,
Rest now traveler; wander no more."

"Roads have no ending, though footsteps may cease.
Where one bears another, Lysora walks in peace."

5th Poleii, 452 E.R.
The rosewood "table"

After Mae'rel fell silent, the silence seemed to spread through the forest. For several long moments, there were no sounds whatsoever - no night birds, no insects, not even the rustle of the wind in the early winter leaves. Uneasiness began to spread among the group... had the demigod rejected their offerings? Had he been angered?

Then, the deep voice began again like a boulder grinding all before it to dust.

"You bring me no certainty, daughter of Isil'nari," he spoke to Seleliniel. "You bring me the shape of your fear. Even so... fear may know the outline of a hidden thing." The bladesinger's anger at the noble's pronouncement clearly did not escape Tali'Yore's notice.

"Singer, keep thy blade sleeping," he admonished. "This table weighs knowledge, not loyalty."

Then, he addressed her own offering.

"I knew the old songs had thinned," he stated. "I knew certain doors opened stiffly, and certain roads forgot their ends. I did not, however, know that mortals had been informed." A long pause filled the air before the voice spoke again.

"This is knowledge of weight."

Then, the great unseen owl turned its attention to Rosariel.

"To cut rot from one's own root is a lonely wisdom, huntress," he spoke.

Next, the demigod shifted focus to Ruadhrí.

"A people's road does not fit within a bowl," he declared. "Give me one story now, plains-son. Keep the rest alive until I call for it."

Moving on, Tali'Yore considered Isilmewen's poem and offer of songs.

"Songs remember what ledgers betray," he stated. "Much old wisdom can be found within them."

Then, he looked to the masked priestess.

"Some knowledge is diminished by repetition," the demigod declared. "I will not sing that back." Clearly, the ruhuë saw the value in respecting such a private religious tradition.

Finally, Dak became the center of attention.

"Sage Thistleknot came to me wearing Dak," the ancient creature proclaimed. "Yet Dak, perhaps, has done kinder work than Sage intended." He paused. "Rin's blood, then. And Rin's trouble."

Again, the forest fell silent for several long moments. Then, the trees just beyond the rosewood "table" seemed to twist and bend for a handful of breaths before they simple faded away.

An opening now stood in the trees - easily wide enough for half the party to walk side by side.

Stepping through the "gate", the companions found themselves inside of an enormous moonlit glade. At the very center of the glade stood a great rosewood tree, both impossibly tall and of incredible width. Its bark was a deep, dark red - seeming almost black in the grooves. Enormous branches twisted into platforms and shelves. Scrolls, bones, brass lenses, broken tablets, carved stones, maps, feathers, and hanging cages full of whispering paper crowded the boughs. At the highest branch was a massive spyglass aimed not at the stars, but down through the world.

Once the group came to a stop, a sound became apparent. Scratching. Scraping. The sound of a quill the size of a spear moving across parchment.

Two or three long minutes passed with nothing but the sound of scratching... and then, the great voice returned - much closer now, and much louder.

"Ten days in my outer leaves, and still you come forward," it declared. "Hungry. Frayed. Proud. Afraid." A pause. "Interesting. So few visit in these recent years. So few are even close to worthy."

The ruhuë spoke again. "And Rin's blood walks among you. And yet, you do not bear Rin's feather." Another long pause. "Curious."

A small sound - a clicking, clattering - as if something were dropped. Then, the stars changed, blotted out as a great silent shape dove from an invisible perch froma dizzying height above mortal perception. A heartbeat or two before it landed, the party could make out the shape of extended wings, of a creature that resembled an owl - but impossibly large.

The demigod was indeed shaped like an owl - if an owl somehow were the size of some dragon of legend. Its talons were like great spears, its wings stretched out to an unfathomable distance. Despite the incredible size, it made no noise whatsoever as it plummeted from the top of its divine tree.

As it came to rest on the forest floor, the feeling of dread spread through everyone - everyone save Dak, that is. But even the pick could feel the truth in those senses - the doom of the companions stood a few strides away. The ideas of trying to flee such a creature or of raising a weapon against it both seemed entirely laughable; even Ruadhrí's massive axe was like the armament carried by a child's tin soldier.

Now, the voice spoke again, with the timbre of granite cliffs grinding against one another. "You mortals have purchased an audience to trade with me." It paused. "Very well."

The creature straighteend to its full height, the orange eyes glowing down from an unreachable height above.

"I am Tali'Yore, the scribe of Jusarin," it declared. "I witnessed the land rise from the oceans when time itself began. I followed the first tree as it grew. I watched the first of the sylvari lay their claims to these lands, and I saw them fall out with one another. I observed the white ships sail from the shores of Antaron, never to return. I saw your cities rise and fall, I have seen every one of your Speakers of the Stars be born and die. Such is my duty - and my curse - to watch until the seas boil away and the skies turn to ash, to witness all until the death of this world itself."

The massive head tilted as it regarded the companions, and the tone changed slightly to one of irritation. "You draw me from my task," it declared, "so let us hasten this exchange."

Each party member could feel the gaze sweep across them. "You cannot have earned this audience without understanding this process," it declared. "So name the knowledge you seek from me, and speak what you will offer in return."  

“Master Sage. I am disappointed to hear this. Your deceit is concerning to me,” Mae’rel castigated in the wake of Dak’s revelation, “as while I would not necessarily question your own business, the thieves guild is not known for their consideration of others. This makes trusting you forward.. difficult.”

“Understandable, Mistress Mae’rel,” the halfling responded with a scant bob of his head and a thin smile, “and all of you have my apologies for any perceived deception but, in the face of this,” he gestured toward the looming ruhüe, “your trust in me is the least of my concerns, hm? Regardless of what name I bear, Dak or Sage, I am still the same Cid you met all those months ago and my deception of any of you in that time ends with my name and origin…”

Tali’yore’s voice echoed around them, addressing each of the party in turn and, when the great old owl’s attention fell on Dak, its words seemed to reinforce his self-defense. “Sage Thistleknot came to me wearing Dak,” the ancient creature proclaimed. “Yet Dak, perhaps, has done kinder work than Sage intended.” He paused. “Rin's blood, then. And Rin's trouble.”

“You see? Just so,” the sneakthief said, his grin broadening as the trees beyond the table shimmered and slipped away, “My trickery amounts to little more than a shiny but sharp pebble buried in the silt of a riverbed.” He scooped up his trinkets, returned them to his pouch, then slipped from his seat and scampered through the ‘gate’ that had been opened for them. As he entered the glade, Dak’s glittering eyes went wide in amazement at the sight that greeted him. He couldn’t help but wonder at the value of the collection of knowledge and artifacts in Tali’Yore’s ‘observatory. Surely it went beyond immeasurable.

“Ten days in my outer leaves, and still you come forward,” the great old owl observed as the party drew to an anxious halt beneath the boughs. “Hungry. Frayed. Proud. Afraid.” A pause. “Interesting. So few visit in these recent years. So few are even close to worthy.”

The ruhuë spoke again. “And Rin's blood walks among you. And yet, you do not bear Rin's feather.” Another long pause. “Curious.”

The little Pick could barely contain his excitement when the ruhüe dove from the heights of the library and landed silently before them. It was all he could do to keep from laughing and clapping at the sight and proximity of the enormous creature, and it took every bit of restraint he could muster to keep from reaching out to touch so much as a talon on the owl’s massive foot. He craned his neck, beaming up into those blazing orange eyes as the demigod made its introduction and its desire to hurry the proceedings along.

“You cannot have earned this audience without understanding this process,” it declared. “So name the knowledge you seek from me, and speak what you will offer in return.” 

“Would that I had Rin’s feather, hodoer,” Dak admitted, grinning as he took a step closer, “it might have made all of this all the simpler if I did, hm? Sadly, that artifact is as lost to time as any of my names might be, if not more so. It’s still a thing of great pride among my folk and I have no doubt that it remains in the possession of someone among the branches of Rin’s family tree, just not mine.” The ghost of a frown briefly tugged the corners of the halfling’s mouth downward, but the scowl remained for less than the blink of an eye and was dismissed with a shrug. “I have been gone from that family… my family… since the time I was perhaps eight summers of age, you see? Got myself lost in the chaos of Bayris, left behind by my kin in the tangled streets of that great city, and taken in and raised as a Guttersnipe rather than a resident of Goodhome. So long ago that was, in fact, that I had nearly forgotten the tale of Rin’s encounter with you until recently,” he chuckled, almost embarrassed by the admission, “The reminder of it that I discovered, though, especially in light of what my companions and I have endured since this troupe was formed, was something that I saw as the key to untangling the complexities of what we face. If there is anyone or anything that possesses the knowledge and wisdom to do that, Great Tali’Yore, surely it is you.”

“This fellowship before you was brought together in order to venture into Sendria, to the ruins of Viastel, to be more precise,” Dak explained, “where our mission to retrieve an artifact of the lost House of Lanalthir and return it to Lord Tansathil Isil’nari. A dangerous task, of course, but in the beginning, it seemed a straightforward one. However, within a week, straightforward quickly became roundabout, you see, and roundabout became something of a tangled web not long after. One mission became two; one a quest of Sylvari design, the other assigned us by the Fae by way of repaying them for saving the life of our friend,” he gestured to where Ruahdri stood, “and there’s a third, perhaps somehow intertwined with the other two, that is likely of our own making. That last one, Yaaraer, is the one we… or, at least I… would ask your wisdom on. It concerns a certain wytch, a corrupted cleric of Kithee, I might guess. The same one with which you taunted us when we finally found our way into your grove…”

Here, the Pick launched into a recounting of everything that had transpired since the party first gathered under Lord Tansathil’s audience – the directives given them by House Isil’nari; the encounters with the owlbears and, eventually, their presumed master and creator; their experiences with Ysmiril and delvings into the Fae realm along with all that entailed – the detailed recap came to an end at the here and now. “…Of course, I cannot relate what Lady Ondolethe and Mistress Isil’nari might have experienced during their sojourn to Maelamin,” Dak drew to an end, “but I have a feeling that that, too, is no small piece of the larger puzzle we seek to solve. I wish for you to reveal to us, if you will, Great One, just what part the ksher plays in it all, and how we might remove him from the equation.” He raised a brow and grinned up into the ancient owl’s burning eyes; “Hopefully, Tali’Yore, there has been something in my tale worth your price but, if not, I offer you my own soul as payment, provided that my companions leave this place armed with your wisdom. I owe them nothing less…”

5th Poleii, 452 E.R.
The Glade of Tali'Yore

The great ruhüe listened intently to Dak's tale of the feather and what had become of it. It stood there, impassively, orange eyes glowing from above the party. And then, the sound began.

Once might best describe it as a clicking, a sound of two large objects repeatedly striking one another in a rhythmic manner. Eventually, the companions came to realize that the sound was actually laughter - or some terrifying parody of it - coming from within the great owl's chest. It was impossible to determine if the sound was amusement, hunger, or some awful combination of the two.

After several uncomfortably long moments, the sound ground to a halt.

"The feather is not lost, then," the deep voice rumbled. "It is multiplied; it has passed among your people, become part of the tapestry of your story." The avian face was nigh-unreadable, but a note of what might have been amusement crept into the voice. "I think that Rin would have found that to be very fitting," the demigod opined. "I do not believe that I could argue with such a viewpoint."

The head of the great creature cocked to the side in a strange manner before it spoke again. "Rin stood before my hunger and found wonder there. You stand before me wearing lies, and yet you have brought truth. The feather would have compelled my assistance... but you do not have the feather." It paused. "Nevertheless, the tale invites my favor. Speak, then, little echo of Rin Thistleknot."

And so, Dak launched into his tale of their adventures, leaving no detail whatsoever reserved - including the fact that he had intercepted, opened, and read the missive that Seleliniel had sent to Lord Tansathil back in Hyanda Nost. The shadelin shared all, giving every step of the journey, all that the fae had spoken, all that the party has discussed. When the tale was complete, every moment had been recounted, every secret laid bare before the demigod's orange gaze.

The creature waited for several long moments before answering the tale. The very real concern that no matter what the cidal had offered, that Tali'Yore might feast upon all of the companions, hung heavy over the glade. Finally, he spoke in his bone-tingling tone.

"You spin an interesting tale, master pick," Tali'Yore spoke. "And truthfully, you ask me for two pieces of knowledge - not the one that our agreement provides." A silence hung meaningfully in the air as the demigod's assessment sunk in.

"You ask for what part this wytch plays, and on how to remove him," Tali'Yore stated flatly.

The ruhüe's eyes returned to a level position as it continued. "As for the latter - a few inches of steel, well placed, seem to be as effective with this creature as with any mortal. Surely any of your weapons, or the damaging magics some of you wield, would suffice to remove this being from Audalis."

After another long pause, the clicking sound returned for several long moments. "Fear not, mortal seekers," the great owl spoke after its laughter died away again. "I seek not to twist your words to dishonor our bargain. This is not the knowledge you came so far to purchase... but with so few distractions these recent centuries, I would not resist such a jest."

It gave a long blink before speaking again. "The sylvari is mortal. The road he uses is not. He does not make doors - he teaches wounds to open."

Tali'Yore seemed to consider his words before speaking further. "The wytchwood once joined realms," he stated. "The trees are gone, but the dead roots still remember. Your enemy has fed those memories rot, fear, blood, and fungus. His green rings gnaw at the edge of the Shadowpath. They are infections shaped like doors."

"You wished to know if the wytch belonged to the greater tale. This is a foolish question. All rot belongs to the wound that feeds it. What part does this twisted priest play?" the owl asked rhetorically. "The wytch is not your Speaker's hand... nor is he free of the wound that made her hunger possible. He is not a servant of a Great House, nor is he an ally of the fae." Another blink briefly hid the glowing orange eyes. "He is a hateful person who mistook a wound for a weapon."

The deep gravelly voice spoke on. "This... wytch calls ruin freedom. He calls abomination wildness. He believes that he serves his god by teaching beasts to hate as he does." The creature straightened, rising even higher above the companions before it spoke again. "An army will not easily uproot him. Armies bring boots, blood, fear... and corpses. Such things feed his rings. Such things grow his power."

"If you wish to destroy him," the ruhüe proclaimed, "then you must find his anchor. You must break the black root he carries - or the rot that carries him. When next he enters the green flames, cast this into the wound, and the ring will not close so quickly."

The creature shifted in the darkness above, and a downy feather the size of Dak's head drifted down to land at his feet. When the cidal reached to pick it up, he discovered that the feather was far more dense and heavy than it appeared. "Understand this, descendant of Rin Thistleknot," the demigod intoned, "this feather makes no safe road; it merely holds open an unsafe one."

Tali'Yore made a deep rumbling sound, then spoke again. "Once, when placed into the flames or ash of one of these rot-rings of this wytch, the gray down you hold will prevent the passage from closing until seven mortal breaths have passed. During that time, those who enter the rot-ring may follow the wytch's path, though I offer no promise that you will emerge unscathed." He paused, as if considering. "If you follow," he continued, "do not answer voices in the gray. Do not look at faces in the mist. Do not believe anything that speaks with a friendly breath."

After this longest speech, Tali'Yore shifted. Without understanding how they knew, the party knew that the demigod's attitude had changed, and that the audience was coming to an end.

"You have been told the fae realm is dying. This is true," he stated. "Children think a cut branch suffers alone. When one side of a bridge falls, only fools count merely the stones they can see."

A rumbling sound came from the owl's chest. "Go now," he spoke. "Kill your wytch, if you can. Then walk west with sharper eyes."

As the party, obviously dismissed from the divine presence, turned to leave, Tali'Yore spoke a final time. "Treoir," it addressed Ruadhrí. "What is the first story of your tréad?" it asked. "Answer not now," he added before the bófear could reply. "Your road is not ended. When your people come to fire beneath a safe sky, send me the first story told there."

With that, the great owl leaped into the air, the merest whisper of a flapping sound to be heard as it disappeared into the night sky above.

It was a strange sensation. The blend between receiving formal audience at a banquet, witnessing the host's address, and somehow also the sense of sitting by the hearth and listening to old words from an elder. Isilmewen listened dutifully, and carefully. What was said would not be repeated, and she wanted to make sure it was remembered.

Hearing of the state of what remained of the wytchwood roots, Isilmewen nodded. That... That would be her target, for the present. If they could clear the source of the rot... Well, it wouldn't heal what was no longer alive, but it'd keep them from deteriorating further. She could hope.

All of which pointed to the truth and resolve that Isilmewen had held onto since the meeting with the fey - life had to be restored. What came after only made sense to concern with once it actually happened. Right now... Well, the time scale was such that it didn't require all out urgency, but it remained her focus.

Thankfully, the path back was far less harrowing than the path there. Isilmewen gave a look of relief on finding familiar markings, tracks which told her exactly where they had already been. She was unable to show them the way there, but she could at least do as she was trained to situate them back in familiar forests. Isilmewen idly wondered when next they might cross paths with Ysmiril. Even if some of the others still felt wary of the fey, Isilmewen intended to share the knowledge they had been given to Ysmiril, especially as far as the wytchwood roots were concerned. 

"If it's been so long, we'd best make our way back to the Nost. Resupply, hear if there's been any particular movements, and from there, we can begin properly hunting this quarry, now that we know how to corner them." Isilmewen offered.

Rosarial gives Tubs a quick scritch and places him back on her shoulder. The poor thing is still trembling from the sight of the large owl. "Don't worry we are back in our realm now, only normal sized owls to worry about and they won't get past me. We will find you some fresh morsels from the forest as we travel for being just so brave!"

"I agree that we should make for Nost to resupply. Though I expect the woods here will be far more generous than those of the Demigod's realm. I think you are right Isilmween, the news their scouts can provide that we might correlate them with our knowledge of the wytch and speed our hunt."

"Then we must press onto our primary quest. I dislike that statement that the falling of the Fae realm would affect the others."

Mae'rel wasn't sure where to start with what had just occured. She had faced, from her understanding, a demigod head on. This creature, far smarter than any mortal she'd ever even heard of, actually gave them some of it's own knowledge. And the knowledge itself.. the Wytch was actually a greater threat than they'd initially imagined. This Wytch was connected to the Fae and Shadow Path, at least in some way, even if not directly. She shook her head. It was as if whatever horrific being (if any at all) residing over the shadow path enjoyed the suffering it had caused them. This would not be an easy journey. She was certain that if they were to confront the Wytch, especially in the path.. the noise of their conflict would certainly attract things.

Regardless, there was the matter of their next actions, and The Ranger made a good point. They were starved for supplies now, the Journey back to Nost would require hunting and they would still likely be thinner than when they first set out. They'd not just need to resupply, but time to actually recover and collect themselves. She was certain they would need to return though.

"I agree, Madam Isilmewen and Madam Rosariel. Nost is our first order. We should take more time to recover, as well. The Journey back should be more forgiving, but we should still be cautious as we are starved of supplies. From there, we should make haste to deal with the Wytch. The Fae still need us, and there is only so much time we can spare before it is not just us who face the consequences of our lack of urgency."

It was true, the fae were dying, but that was not the only revelation. The path to victory against the wytch was opened, mysteries were answered, in the heat of the moment Arathea would be inclined to be most excited about the fact that it seemed Seleniniel was not telling the whole truth, but what mattered most in the immediate was the ending of the wytch. The fact that they had received information on multiple issues was more than Arathea could have hoped for, and was reason for excitment great enough to overshadow the anger from before, at least for a little while.

Arathea wanted to thank the spirit, but it left as quickly as it came. She turned her attention to the rest of the group. "We rest, and then we hunt," she spoke in a very matter of fact manner. "We have the means to handle this lunatic of the forest, after that we need to get back on track. We have little time to waste, we got more than we anticipated." She turned her attention to Dak, putting a gloved hand on his head and ruffling his hair in a playful manner. "We have Dak to thank for it I would reckon."

Finally she turned her attention to Seleniniel, shooting her daggers through her gaze. Arathea tried to judge, was she a traitor or was she just crazy? Maybe it was a mix of the two, maybe she was intentionally lying to push forward an agenda of her own. "When the wytch is dead we will have much to talk about," she stated. "And if you try anything funny do not expect any mercy from me, lady Isil'nari. I'm not a friend of traitors."

Seleniniel braced herself as she held her gaze on the rustling canopy far overhead, listening to the silence space occupied by a certain bladesinger. The other audience of her owl’s ante. She listened for how much of the fae’s tale had taken root in Arathea. None, it seemed. Knowledge worth the price, but a price that still lashed at her. Briefly, to Arathea’s credit. The upshot from the bursting volley almost made Seleniniel turn… 

“You betray me, no not just me, our country…” 

Not you… Arathea. Seleniniel sighed, eyes still fixed unseeing to the canopy. It’s the world that betrays you… but for now I will have to suffice. She held her tongue, swallowing some guilt at tugging the bladesinger’s strings, knowing the work it would take to repair this, but now knowing the path she must walk with Arathea. She hoped that knowledge would be worth the damage… in the end. 

Arathea’s loyalties were not the only clarity lent by the owl’s table. Intent as she was on the bladesinger’s reaction, Seleniniel missed the impact of her words on Dak.. but she did not miss his confession. The act itself surprised her more than its substance, but then, the glade had sent Dak… Sage, it seemed… spiraling into some genetic mania that shoved his mask aside, for now, at least. How much of this, I wonder, did House Mithethiel know when they plied you into my uncle’s service. Spying by a lesser house was one thing, but she bristled at the thought of some grimy cutthroat wantonly peddling her house’s secrets for a mug of piss and a tumble with a portside whore. She smirked at the irony of her own relative loyalties. Still… she’d have to ensure Tansathil’s secrets remained this side of the Shade… one way or another.

The voice tumbling down from the canopy interrupted her thought of just how she might do that, scattering yet more revelation onto the rosewood table. Most notably, that it was unaware of their trist with the fae. Good. Farseeing, not omniscient.

As trunks of the giant sentinels faded, they were finally invited to transact, it seemed. The reason they’d come, but Seleniniel still hesitated as Dak skipped ahead. She tried to catch Arathea’s eye, assuming the bladesinger would speak for them, but Arathea’s gaze was fixed stiffly forward as she stalked away from the mage into the moonlit clearing beyond. Seleniniel sighed and followed, taking in their new surroundings with the same wondering dread that had accompanied each inward turn.

With the minutes of uncomfortable waiting, the mage cataloged their currency. Knowledge of the fae seemed most certain, but what to trade it for... Did Arathea harbor enough doubt to confirm the speaker’s betrayal.. Unlikely, after her reaction to Seleniniel’s offering. The mage herself wanted more of the great house’s pendants, their role in keeping the wytchwood seeds, the ironwarded crypt… 

She jerked her gaze upward as a shadow blotted out the moon, and her mouth dropped open. The impossibly large owl dove directly towards them, talons outstretched, flooding her with adrenaline. Her hand flinched towards inner pockets, but logic overrode the reflex. What good was that against this. Still, she took a step back, as the owl landed with a stalking silence, covering the group in hulking shadow, bloodorange eyes looked down at their prey. Trying to slake the panic, Seleniniel smoothed and resmoothed her robe, drew a shaky breath, let it go slowly. Er.. atta… f***! Her hammering chest didn’t slow, even as she accepted her fate. This was the final fork. One branch led to swift death.. or worse. 

Then she saw him, in the foreground of those predatory talons, Dak appeared to be reaching up to pet the creature that even Seleniniel now accepted as a demigod. What the godsdamn f*** are you doing you insane halfling bastard?! She hissed in his direction, but couldn’t muster the words as realization dawned that he intended to cast their dice… not Arathea. Dak.. Sage.. she did not care right then, craned his head directly up to those eyes… smaller than a morsel… and began to spin his tale, eagerly casting her fate along with his into the claws of this shadow that drank the moon. 

—

A sneakthief’s sneaking.

The wytch’s secrets.

The speaker’s hunger. 

Credence for the fae.

For them, a wedge for the shadowed door.

Fear eventually dissolved to focus as the audience ended and she began to assemble the new pieces into plans she’d worked and reworked. First, revenge. Some might think it valor. Revenge was fine with Seleniniel, even if it meant retreading the shadow path. Voices in the grey… she swallowed the lump in her throat.

She half listened, keeping her silence, as the group collectively exhaled and demi-divine revelation eventually turned to mundanely practical…  “what will we eat,” being the most pressing. She smirked at the preeminently mortal question, caught Arathea’s scowl at her smirking, replayed the group’s chatter in her head and eventually shrugged to Arathea, “I’ll follow your lead,” she nodded in Iselmewen’s direction, “though I think she’s right that food and scouting are preferable to simply wandering around in the forest.” The muscles in the bladesinger’s face tightened at her casualness, though she seemed to agree with the logic. 

As they were about to embark, Arathea pulled her aside with an uncharacteristically menacing growl. “When the wytch is dead we will have much to talk about . . . do not expect any mercy from me, lady Isil'nari. I'm not a friend of traitors." Seleniniel looked down at the bladesinger’s grip on her arm. Arathea released her, Seleniniel watched the blood return to the mark she’d left. The mage looked back up into the bladesinger’s blue eyes, returning the stare as neutrally as she could, masking the worry that she’d miscalculated. The bladesinger had hear the same words she had... but this was not the time to speak plainly. 

“Life eventually makes traitors of us all... Traitor to whom, is the question.” She softened her gaze, trying to show the warrior she was sincere. “I have not betrayed you, Arathea. Nor will I.” “I hope, for now, you can accept that.”

She broke Arathea’s gaze, hefted her pack onto her back, and began to follow Iselmewen silently into the once-more corporeal forest.