Arathea wriggled her way through the thorns, it was not the worst experience of her life but it was uncomfortable. And she had to handle more than she would like due to her duty to her companion's blade; taking great effort to prevent it from touching the ground beneath her meant that she got to touch more sharp thorns. It was unpleasant but she made it out just fine, it was better than being crushed by a tree or skewered by a giant insect.

What could be as bad as the pains that she had experienced historically was getting torn into tiny pieces by a giant owlbear. She let loose a few curses in her mind as she quickly drew her sword. Crying out to the wytch who was presumably running, she tried to project her voice as much as she could. "In the name of the Speaker and the Empire surrender immediately! Your reign of terror ends now." She got ready to charge forward at the nearest owlbear when... Dak started to converse with... something..?

Of course the creatures didn't look right but they weren't born naturally so that checked out, and worse this wytch had made a monster out of a child. She wanted to trust Dak's better judgement, and she saw that Seleniniel seemed to be doing just that, and she knew far more of these illusions and tricks than Arathea. Still, Arathea couldn't just do nothing, could she?

"Dak, what the hell are you doing?" She shouted out as she moved in to be ready to intervene to save his life if necessary.

The crawl was horrible, as expected, for Ruadhrí. He simply lacked both the build and flexibility for tight squizes. His horns were either getting hung in thr thorns, forcing him to back out and shred himself again, or dragging in the dirt, creating a trench and deepening the soil beneath him in his wake. His leathery hide was constantly being stabbed and slashed by thorns, shredding the thin fur that sat above it and making it feel like trying to crawl through a pile of needles. Why do we pay heed to this forest of death? This home to a wytch? He thought, all while envying the route he could have taken in avoiding all of these brambles and simply carving his way through the thorns, as he and his Pathfinders had done a thousand times.

When Ruadhrí did finally push his great ax out of the clearing and lift his horn from the soil, though, what he saw was both stunning... and foreboding. The massive trunks of the trees around him were like none he had ever seen, surely rich in wood he would envy harvesting if his tread were here, but they formed a sort of ring that couldn't help but make him feel he had just entered a battelfield. This was only confirmed when Ruadhrí saw the flames of the cowardly wytch fleeing in another fungus ring, and the wretched beast he so loved to spawn begin materializing from the foliage.

"We can't let them strike first!" Ruadhrí yelled as he claimed his ax from the dirt, "if they build the speed to charge, we'll be impaled in the thorns and rend asunder by the beast." Ruadhrí planted his hooves in the dirt, and prepared to charge. "Ruadhrí, brother, help me!... please-agh..." I'm sorry, my friends. Ruadhrí had lost too many friends to being cornered, and even though they had fought these beast before, he knew better than to get complacent. So, with a defening roar, he charged.

(Ruadhrí is going to charge with his ax to intercept the owlbears and create a wall between them and his party)

The cautionary shouts that went up at his back didn’t stop him, nor did the questioning calls of his sanity. Even the thundering hoofbeats of the charging bofear with the very real threat of trampling him under foot did not deter him. Cool and calm as wading into any roadside tavern, Dak proceeded, gibbering away to faces unseen by his companions but clear as day in his imagination. When the illusion collapsed and the table and bowls full of water appeared, Dak clapped his hands a climbed readily into the seat he somehow knew was assigned to him.

“Thank you, wise one,” he said, reaching out and lifting the bowl to his lips, slurping up the water that he (they) had been denied for gods-only-knew how many days in their misguided wanderings, “Your offering is much appreciated.”

His desperate thirst slaked, the little rogue returned his bowl to the table, his eyes scanning the canopy for any sign of the ruhue’s eyes or feathers, or even the inkiest smudge of its shape. “Will you not reveal yourself to us Tali’Yore,” he asked, not bothering to so much as spare his befuddled companions a glance, “or do you demand another test of our faith that you are here?”

He looked around then, noticing that the others had yet to take the seats that the scribe of Jussi had set out for them. His brow furrowed and he motioned them to the table. “It’s alright,” he assured them quietly as he beckoned, “this is but a test… another piece of the puzzle, hm? Come. Sit and drink. We’re so very close to the answers we seek. We have only to satisfy the scribe’s curiosity and get him to accept what we have to offer before we can move on, eh?”

The pick’s emerald gaze tilted back up to the canopy, still in search of the wise old bird. And he puffed out a dry chuckle. “I can’t see you Yaaraer,” he laughed quietly, “but I know you’re there… watching… listening… waiting… Show yourself… Please?”

He fished the treasure trove of trinkets he had found in the tunnel from his pouches, arranging them in the now empty bowl before him, just so. The string of beads indicating an outline of an owl’s head, the brass buttons serving as its eyes, and the little cup placed upside down where its beak might be. Finally, atop the cup, he placed the bone-carved feather, recalling that Tali’Yore had gifted Rin one of his own and how would the old owl have plucked it but with his beak? "Gifts from those who sought you before but failed to find you, hm?"

Seleniniel exhaled her relief as whispy tendrils from the foremost beast swirled around Dak’s wiggling fingers, then slowly unraveled the rest of the illusion in a shimmery wave of blown dust before the young winter’s wind. Dak beamed back at the group with a facefull of self satisfaction. Gamblers wouldn't gamble if they didn't win occasionally. The stakes of this one kept the fistfull of ironshavings in hand though… She widened her aperture and yelped as she saw the Bofir still falling forward with terrifying momentum intent on cleaving flesh that wasn't flesh. “Ruadhri no!” She braced against the price of ignorance, promptly given respite from it as the axe blinked violently through a swirl of smoke and sand, arresting with a wet thunk a good half foot into the well-mossed ground. But nothing more. No more thorns for Ruadhri. Not a lesson then…. for us at least. She contemplated the purpose. Measuring the houseguests, it seemed. Of caution? Or some other end...

If Dak felt similar relief at his brash gambit it was overshadowed by his now-buoyed self assurance. The pick’s heels floated above the loamy ground as he scampered deeper into the grove, gesturing madly for the others to follow while muttering incomprehensibly to gods knew what. No point dragging this out more than it already has. Still, his devolution from the ever-sly watcher into this starry-eyed dreamer had her on edge. As she followed at her own begrudging pace she pulled her hand into the robe, brushed the iron back into its pocket, found the thin-hammered copper strip instead, twirled it through her fingers in synchrony with her train of thought. Was this just the legendarily-frivolous halfling curiosity… or more… Her eyes unconsciously rose to the looming giants around them. Illusion and compulsion tugged the same strands…

She watched him with new eyes as he hopped to the smallest stone set before the arboreal table. It held him–a less ephemeral illusion, at least… As had been the thorns. She tried to catch those sharp green eyes to see if they remained sharp, straining for other signs…. The rest collectively held their breath as the pick eagerly threw back the contents of the bowl. She took a half step backwards, waited to see if he'd finally found the bait to this trap. Not obviously, at least. He continue muttering to himself then turned again, this time with a look of impatience, as if they were the unreasonable ones for their lack of urgency in gulping down some unseen stranger’s gift. She bored into those green eyes as he spoke, searching. “This is but a test… We’re so very close to the answers we seek. We have only to satisfy the scribe’s curiosity and get him to accept what we have to offer before we can move on, eh?” He looked lucid, but she couldn't shake the suspicion. 

She looked to her left. To Arathea, who looked equally cautious but took a step towards the table to follow Dak’s lead. Seleniniel caught her attention with a sharp gesture. Arathea turned her eyes to Seleniniel, still obviously pulled towards the gravity of the table. “Hang on” she hissed under her breath. “Let me check something.” She didn't say more, hoping the thin trust she'd forged with the bladesinger held for a few moments at least. 

She turned back to Dak, who was now emptying pocketsfull of junk onto the table, gazing and talking skyward. She bent the ductile copper between index and midfinger, forming a half ring as she closed her eyes and whispered to herself “lóme”.

[[casts ESP directed at Dak. If he does not save, she is probing for substance but also trying to gauge if something is influencing Dak’s thoughts]]

The image of Dak fixed in her mind’s eye began to shimmer and flex at the edges as constituent strands of corporeal thought unraveled into spiraling flares of his jetsammed image-consciousness, projected into the black behind her eyelids….

Hazily enshrouding the Pick in encircling onyx wings, a midnight silhouette of a monstrous owl, starspeckled, crowned with horned-peaked penumbral borealis, peering down at seven tiny figurines… From the smallest radiated a wildfire of audacious revelating light, absorbed by the inkblack that drank it, unchanged but still looming. As if daring more. That drew clucking warm ripples from the Cid, apparent delight at this devouring puzzle that pulled him deeper into its maw. He refocused. An impression of a simple bowl swam to the foreground, reflecting a wavering image of Dak… Telling, to see him as he did, enhanced so… handsomer, deepened smile lines… wider and softer around the middle, reward for long years of good meals and easy living… and – she smirked – projecting an aura that reminded her of the fabled warrior-curators who wandered the continent in search of artifacts for their hidden libraries. The grandiosity of the self-image almost dragged a laugh from the mage, but Dak severed the though as he promptly devoured his amplified reflection. Replaced it with a spray of stars, offered like glittering diamonds to the hungry bowl. Equally hungry eyes returned skyward, back to the midnight owl. Waiting. Toes quivering on the precipice of revelation, barely able to resist the plunge. 

Seleniniel had seen enough. She closed Dak mind as she opened her eyes. His fanciful projections supplanted by the undeniable ocular evidence that still drew some awe from the mage, if only at the intricacies of its construction. Dak’s were a fool-fabled version of the same sensory inputs, conjured as they were, but they belonged squarely to him. The inheritance of his forebearers, she supposed. Ironic, that such a careless instinct had survived the culling of so many generations… And yet here, he seemed to hold the oracular vision that defied the rest of them, herself included. 

She made her choice, less in trust of Dak’s intuition and more from her own fatalistic logic – struggling in the web was wasted energy when so well ensnared. Opposing impulses as they were, they produced the same outcome. She nodded to Arathea. “It’s fine” I guess. Took four long strides to the stone she felt had been shaped for her. Stared into the bowl, slate eyes looked back, undeniably hers… blocking the opalite sky above. It was hungry. Dak had the right of that. She gulped the contents down in one swift motion, spilling a bit down here chin that she wiped with the back of her sleeve. Then flicked the thin-hammered copper strip off her finger and into the bowl. Her only such catalyst, one she’d made many decades ago. It tried to roll but was betrayed by the years of bending and rebending, collapsed onto a wobbling side, eventually lay still. Waiting. Perhaps more symbolic than Dak’s trinkets, but the bowl seemed less hungry now. 

She plopped down on her stone, hand in lap, and waited…

One lesson Arathea had learned was that part of leadership was to trust those under you, and to always value their instincts. As the illusions cleared Arathea learned that lesson again, Dak had been right, and now she looked to the new sight. The table was beautiful, it reminded her of the kind of art you could find back in the capital. It was clearly intelligently designed but it seemed as natural as any other formation of the forest. She took a glance back at Seleniniel for a moment, "I think we should trust Dak in this."

Taking a few sure steps forward, she made sure not to give any signs of weakness, if the stories were true this being was far more powerful than anything she had seen before. She wondered what it knew, Arathea thought back to the fae and to the claims they made about the Empire, if this being would know the truth. Through the chaos and grief Arathea had let these questions which challenged all she knew about the world sit in the back of her mind, but it came back to her... maybe this Tali'something or other had the answers needed to save the country from it's long decline, to finally bring a guranteed peace to clear the scars from the wars. She began to feel excited, maybe there was hope to be had in this.

Feeling confident Arathea sat down in the chair matching her height, and with all the proper etiquette she drank the water in front of her. Following the lead established by Dak she got out a trinket from her belongings, a bracelet with the symbol of her order carved into it was placed into the cup. "I hope this will suffice, your honor." Arathea hoped her manners would earn some respect and understanding, especially knowing that some people here would likely be... less than polite.

Isilmewen sat at the table where it was most comfortable for her, looking around at the others as she watched. And listened. She waited before touching the bowl - formal gathering etiquette that had been repeatedly told to her surfaced again in her mind.

Do not consume unless the host does first.

Do not speak unless it would be impolite to withhold words.

Do not act with haste, but do not be too passive either.

Isilmewen's breathing quickened. She hesitated, trying to keep herself calm. This was... An idea she had sanctioned. She had to do the right thing.

What was the right thing? 

She looked into the bowl. Water. Was it? She looked at the reflection, and marveled at its clarity.

"Beneath the stars of twisting night,

Shadows dance by veiled moonlight,

Waters resting, still as the wind sighs, 

Watch, listen and learn, through reflected eyes."

Barely a whisper, as the poem came to her mind. Something to go with water? An offering... What did she have that would suffice? She looked into the watery mirror as she considered the question she hadn't truly been prepared to answer. She had anticipated that perhaps Dak would entreaty the entity; she didn't think she'd be part of any meeting, just help to guide the others there. 

Reaching to her ear, Isilmewen undid the single purple earring she wore.

"Sis won't be happy," Isilmewen gave a soft chuckle at the thought as she set the earring on the table. Her sister had its twin. By rights, Raenenniel should've received both when Isilmewen forfeit her inheritance as Mithvanryl's heir, but Raeneniel had insisted they both have one. 

As the forms of the owlbears melted away to mere illusions for everyone else, it took longer for their horned companion to realize he had been duped. However, even after he had, he still did not take the time to investigate their surroundings, instead distancing himself to run off the last bits of his profound, unending, fiery pain-fueled rage away from the party, allowing them to get first impressions on what appeared before them when they followed the redwood roots.

The table and stone circle of... chairs? Was anything other than natural, obviously placed there by the demigod of knowledge and curiosity they had come here seeking. Yet, instead of paying the caution common sense dictated in this scenario, the foolish half-foot continued to push his luck further after his recklessness with the owlbears, plopping down on the smallest stone and drinking from the water-filled bowl like it was set there just for them. Then, he began filling it with assorted pieces of garbage, calling out to the ruhüe like he 'owed' them an audience, and wasn't a being older than time that could strip their eternity in a heartbeat.

The images of smoke, ash, and blood finally retreated from his vision, allowing him to finally join his companions around the table. However, he began to question his own intelligence as he saw each of them missing the modt obvious solution to this. Ruadhrí knows that he is not the brightest member of this party, so he felt as though he was missing something when he saw none of them took the most obvious approach. Finally, his thundering foot steps approach the table, and he sat, tilting his had back and calling to the canopy. "Great owl of the gods, I call for an audience with you. I am Ruadhrí of the Blood Plains, bofír, and seeker of knowledge. I come from a people of suffering, and my own path is full of it. Now, I call to you for aid in ending the suffering of others with a gift of my people's history."