Dak’s passed his time at Nost’kano Feldinil’s table in relative silence. He had, on occasion interjected an observation or a detail or two into the narratives Isilmewen provided the commander where the owlbears and their ‘keeper’ was concerned, but, as the ranger had become the troupe’s de facto leader in Arathea’s absence, the shrewd Cid let his friend do most of the talking while he did what he did best… watched and listened; farming the table talk for useful bits of information. There was little that he hadn’t already gleaned from his earlier foray into the commander’s offices, of course, but the attentive little halfling made a few mental notes all the same. When the dinner drew near its close, and Feldinil requested the party’s assistance with the matter, he was unsurprised by Isilmewen’s answer…

“What I might offer, myself, I'll gladly give. I will speak with the others on this as well,” she gave a smile and a nod, “If fortune and will favors, they'll be of similar mind, even if not similar reasons.”

“Agreed,” Dak said around the last crust of stew-soaked bread he’d popped into his mouth, an enthusiastic nod of his head sending his top-knot bouncing, “Our troupe is an adventurous one, and committed to doing what must be done, heruamin. I have no doubt that we will have a consensus even before dawn breaks.”

Following Dak’s initial violation of protocol and etiquette, supper at the Nost’kano’s table had gone as swimmingly as could be expected. Dak had apologized for his intrusion as profusely as was acceptable among the Sylvari and, for her part, Isilmewen had offered support by bolstering the cid’s self-reproach with contrite explanations of her own. In the end, his lapse in manners was overlooked and the little halfling slipped, all but unnoticed, into the remainders of the conversation. There was talk of owlbears - things with which the party were not unfamiliar - and rings of sickly green mushrooms - toward which both Dak and Isilmewen had both provided insight regarding the corrupt cleric of Kithy and their encounter with him. By the time dinner ended, it had been decided that there was certainly more conversation to be had on the topic but, surely, after such an already lengthy voyage, such talks could wait until the morrow. Soon enough, Dak and Isilmewen found themselves outside the dining hall and wandering, almost instinctively, toward quieter environs. When they reached a spot, shadowed deeply by the sun being obfuscated by a towering wall and unlittered by foot traffic, Dak reached up, curled his fingers around two of Isilmewen’s own, and tugged her to a halt.

“We have things to discuss, you and I,” Dak beamed up at the ranger, “More important things, I think, than what we might have talked over with Nost'kano Feldinil. Something much closer to you and I than even the commander might reach, in one instance, melui, and another development that might keep us entertained whilst we await the return of Arathea and our erstwhile wizard. Which would you like to hear of first?”

Isilmewen returned the smile, giving Dak a nod as they stopped in the shadows. Settling herself down on a comfy enough patch of greenery, more to meet Dak's eye level as she had done many times in the past while they had traveled together, she nodded, “You know that I would hear any you'd like to speak,” she chuckled, “But after the weightiness of earlier, I think we might both benefit from something light and playful first, hm?”

“Just how light and playful it might be is debatable,” he grinned, offering a shrug of his little shoulders, “but it is most certainly curious and possibly exciting. Have you ever heard tales of the Ruhuë?”

((OOC: If not, Dak will gleefully tell her the story of “Rin Thistleknot and Tali-something-or-another.” If so, he may share a snippet or two but will be more excited to get to this part…  ))

“Well, mellonamin,” the halfling said, his eyes sparking with mischief, “in my exploring of the keep earlier, I happened to find myself in the Nost’kano’s offices where I stumbled on a rather recent report that old Tali-whoiwhatsis had been spotted near the Mirily-Wen Duin not more than a couple hours march south and east of here!” He rubbed his hands together eagerly; “Can you imagine seeing such a thing with your own eyes? Perhaps even bartering some knowledge it may not already have? What boons might we receive if, for instance, we told it of our Fae friends? The sights we saw in their realm… Mayhap it would gift us one of its feathers just as it did Rin!”

((OOC: There is a bit more to this conversation that Rer and I haven’t touched on, as yet, but it can be worked in as we go… backpost style or otherwise, depending on how things play out.  ))

~~~

A bit later, when the troupe gathered in the barracks, Dak continued to watch and listen as Mae’rel called them up and shared what she had learned during her own wanderings of the keep. He was mildly amused and distracted, too, by Ruadhri’s intoxicated state but, aside from a faint smile or a soft chuckle, did little to point it out or have a bit of fun in taunting the bull-man over his indulgences. Isilmewen considered the Lysoran monk’s offerings and, as was her way, offered her analysis and opinions on the matter before appending them with the ‘offer’ Feldinil had made over supper…

“The commander's requested our aid in dealing with them, as we already know the most of our quarry of anyone at this Nost.” She added, "I wouldn't seek to command when that isn't my place, but I do think we should consider it. We are due to await Arathea and Selineniel either way, and if we can see this through to make the journey onward easier, if not also the journey back. I'll also be checking in with a few other taur'ohtar to see if we might better grasp his movements, the better to catch him rather than him catch us. They may be able to put arrows to his eyes in the sky while we track him.”

 “What do the rest of you think?”

“Speaking for myself,” Dak piped up, his feet hanging from over the edge of an upper bunk and kicking lazily at the air, “I think that such a thing is a far better use of our time than puttering about this keep and trying to keep ourselves from succumbing to boredom.” His pipe appeared in his hand and he tapped it on a knee before attending to filling its bowl with a pinch of moonshade. “Somehow, all of this is connected, if even vaguely, to the task for which we were initially dispatched to attend, no? We would be fools not to investigate…”

((OOC: More as necessary… if necessary…  ))

~~~

In the morning, the troupe gathered in Feldinil’s chambers, and the commander worked methodically through the intelligence his own agents had supplied (things that Dak had already learned for himself in his previous delvings) and, when Isilmewen’s analysis of those findings pointed toward the stray encounter to the south-east, his face lit up in an eager smile…

“That's the path the owlbears come from, but it might not be where he is.” Isilmewen added, “The southeast encounter strikes me as strange. Split off from the others, that has the feeling of finding something he doesn't want found. A shot I'd take if my prey were straying from the path I wanted them to take.”

“Those are my thoughts just at the first glance,” Isilmewen offered, “Anyone have other thoughts?”

“No,” Dak offered, shaking his head and allowing an almost anxious smile to play on his lips, “Were I to be left to the decision on my own, that would be where my eye would be drawn, as well. The Sendrian border is well guarded, well documented, but this …” he waved a finger at the south-eastern marker, “…This is an anomaly worthy of our attention, I think.”

Relief at finally arriving at Arathea’s hometown–bidding godsdamned Tanna and equally damned Tatheme good riddance, for now–was tempered by a creeping sense of guilt… 

Intruder. 

Seleniniel wasn’t one to worry over social conventions, one of a handful of Isil’nari birthrights she consciously wielded. But an uncomfortable knot tightened into an undeniable, if unfamiliar, sentiment at their arrival. Tightened more at Arathea’s reception. Hometown hero, descending from the sky, quite literally, on the ebbing tide of a beloved father’s death, hero worshipped–perhaps deserved–in a display of communal pride by the humble folk whose eaves and aprons had sheltered Arathea’s equally humble beginnings.

Seleniniel could not have imagined a more foreign homecoming. 

She waded through it tentatively. Not just an interloper. Listened, from a distance, to the genuine affection Arathea received and gently directed back to her people. Condolences taken with honest thanks, turned to queries of families and fortunes. Not deflection, the same genuine concern Arathea had shown the mage time and again in the preceding months. That Seleniniel had grown to expect, and dismiss, as the naivete of youth. Yet, watching now, Seleniniel suspected she saw a father’s reflection. Perhaps Seleniniel had projected too much onto the bladesinger. Not isolated prodigy. This place loved her. Had likely shaped her, set her loose on the world to represent them no less than her father. No wonder…

The reception rippled outward, growing into a second wake as the gravity that had pulled Arathea here, in turn, now seemed to draw the village to her. Seleniniel followed, resisting the crowd only enough to give the bladesinger what felt like respectful distance. As respectful as she could manage… having already thrust herself into the midst of it. As Seleniniel let the flow carry her towards Arathea’s home, the mage questioned her impulse to accompany the bladesinger–not for the first time. Indeed, as the emotional currents of the impromptu wake swirled against her own motives, they threatened to churn her guilt into shame. She looked over her shoulder at the now-distant Tatheme, conversing with an older syl who’d mustered the courage to approach the stormrider and his tame monsters. Gods be damned, she wanted nothing more than to leave those beasts behind, yet amid this she felt a cancerous splinter in Arathea’s side. Sarigraamin. 

She twisted the neglected Isil'nari ring under her robe, working to banish the self pity. Out of your head and into the present. Arathea’s father had been murdered, Seleniniel was sure of it. Not coincidentally. The erestor’s death, the fae’s bargain, the speaker’s stormrider... they orbited a point Seleniniel could not yet see. Fretting over her social gracelessness would not lend clarity. Focus. She took a deep breath. Quieted the din around and in her. You’re here to tend things Arathea cannot. It was a given that she and Arathea were in danger. The bladesinger surely knew it too, likely cared as little as Seleniniel. Even still, Seleniniel owed Arathea her life. Twice now. But that was not where Seleniniel’s value lay. 

Arathea was of this place. These people who measured one another by quality of craft and crop, stickiness to gods and principles, weight of the seeds sown to parochial pride. She suspected most here treated people like Arathea did. Took things at face value. Gave and received the benefit of the doubt. Frank honesty freely offered and expected it in return… The simplicity of it was alluring. But Seleniniel shook off the trance of the wake, reminded herself it was a fragile veneer. An easy way to navigate the world.. if only gods and the rest let you be. These people were lucky, that's all. But Seleniniel did not envy. The lucky rarely saw the world for what it is. An idyll of illusion. Mice pittering happily on the grindstone. Content to feast on the barleymeal, ever blind to the weight of the millstone overhead. That’s why she was here. To keep it from crushing Arathea. If, in the process, she opened her eyes.. All the better. 

They finally reached Arathea’s… home. A humble one... an erestor should know better. Not for his sake. Systems ran on symbols. Although, considering the late Ondolithe’s reputation, perhaps this was his symbol. Not the pride of false humility, but the contrarian seeking to pull down the system into which he… and his daughter… had been born at the bottom–by refusing it. Seleniniel grew more conscious of the ring she continued to fidget. She slid hand and ring into her robe, considering the politics of her presence for the first time, scolding herself for the belated recognition. Arathea didn’t think that way, though. Hopefully her family did not either. Gods knew the s***storm she’d stir up if she plopped down on Burdell’s or Telthathar’s stoop in such circumstances. It would almost be worth it for the headache she’d make for Tansathil. She smirked to herself. Black sheep that she was, she had a reputation to uphold. She wondered idly if her falcon had reached him. The smirk deepened as she imagined his red-faced reaction. 

She was promptly reminded how far Nandina stood from Ela-Ishtel, though. She smiled, genuinely, as Ondolithe’s manservant asked after Arathea’s retainer. She’d grown used to most she dealt with in Alloryen knowing the second daughter of House Isil’nari by sight… or at least reputation. Not many one-armed mages running around, after all. Godsdamned Tanna had carted her a long way south though. 

She responded before Arathea could introduce her. “I’m Selininiel” her hand emerged from hiding, sliding the Isil’nari ring into a pocket on its way out, gesturing down to her robe “of the Circle.” She let her left arm slide out of hiding too, watching the servant register it. “And House Isil’nari.” His eyes widened for a moment, then he bowed his head in a more formal greeting. “Forgive me, milady, I was unaware that mistress Arathea would be bringing such an esteemed guest.”

“Nothing to forgive. I’ve intruded with no forewarning. I won’t linger, though.” She turned to Arathea. “This is not for me. See your family. I’ll tend to myself and return in the morning.” She offered a wry smile. “Tatheme misses my company, I’m sure.” The forced levity was out of place, but Arathea was used to Seleniniel’s quirks by now.. she hoped.

((OOC: unsure what Arathea’s response will be, including whether she’d want S to give her and her family space or consider it rude for her to avoid the presumed hospitality of her home. Seleniniel is obviously uncomfortable but will stay if invited in))

A ghost of a voice came from deeper in the house. It rooted her for the moment. “You came.” The sight of the aging woman resurfaced the guilt of her trespass. She had Arathea’s cheekbones… well, Arathea had hers, she supposed. Her mother? Arathea seemed stunned, staring at the figure in silence as she approached… frailly. The syl wore her grief. In her eyes. Her gait. Her posture. Her presence transformed the home into something else. A place of mourning. With the transformation, Seleniniel yearned to be anywhere but here. She did not belong. She was the last person the grieving wanted or needed. The syl’s palpable grief tugged at Selininiel’s own demons. Gods be damned. She remained rooted, like a child hoping to go unnoticed. The aging syle spoke to Arathea. The words of a mother. 

The manservant waited a respectful moment, then introduced Selininiel. She had no choice. Stepped forward. “Lady Ondolithe.” Selininiel looked into those violet eyes as they reluctantly pulled away from her daughter. “I knew your husband by reputation only.” Seleniniel swallowed, mouth dry suddenly. “I’ve come to know your daughter, though.” Her eyes flicked to Arathea’s blue, unreadable as she watched Selininiel. She shifted uncomfortably beneath her robe, gaze returning to violet eyes. “The measure of him in her gives me a sense for the hole he must have left.” She looked down, smoothing her robe. Lowered her voice, almost as if to herself. “Nwalma'arwen haunts us all, eventually.” She looked back up, violet eyes. Cleared her throat, then spoke more clearly. “I hope you find a way back.” How many times she’d been offered similar platitudes. How empty. She cursed herself that it was all she had for a grieving widow who wanted nothing more than for Selininiel to leave her and her daughter to grieve in peace. 

She began to turn. To leave them to it. And to find a drink.

((OOC: will chart next steps based on Arathea’s and her mother’s responses - S wants to leave but she will not refuse genuinely offered hospitality if doing so would make things worse))

"The incident to the North could easily just be grouped in with the other Northeast incidents, or perhaps a simple stray. But the Southeast is far more difficult to dismiss as such, in my opinion. I agree with you two, our best bet, at least in my own opinion, is to investigate the south east first. Maybe then we can return with our findings, and regroup with Madams Arathea and Seleniniel to be at full strength. Assuming we don't find him at that first marker."

(OOC: Assuming the group travels to one of the markers)

Mae'rel had it occur to her, she didn't actually know much about her travel companions. Sure, they had shared some stories over the campfire, and most of them knew eachother better, but most of Mae'rels late nights were spent freshening herself, worshipping, or simply isolating herself and as such, she didn't often join the group at the campfire. She didn't engage in much small talk either, not even on the roads where it seemed like small conversation was what kept some of the group sane. As such, she decided it was perhaps time to do a little socializing, and who better than the Rogue?

Cidals were interesting creatures. Mae'rel had only seen a few in her life and they all had such vastly different personalities, like any other race, but they had that overwhelming tie, things that kept them together. This Cidal they traveled with was perhaps one of the most interesting she had ever seen, and it was the longest time she'd been acquainted with one. So it was without say that of course, she had a few questions.

Adjusting her position, Mae'rel made her way over to Dak as they continued to march. "So.. Dak. I've never actually been to your homeland. Though I suppose maybe you haven't either, considering you live with the Syls. I didn't visit the Sylvari homeland until I was well past my first 150 years. But.. if you have been, or were raised there, I have to ask.. what's it like?"

Dak looked up at the Dove-masked monk and offered a bright smile. "It has been quite a while since I've seen the lands of Goodhome, arwenamin," he confirmed, resting his bata over a shoulder as they walked, "I was quite young when I left, in fact, and, sadly, in all of my travels, I have yet to make it back."

"As for what it's like," he gave a litte shrug and scratched thoughtfully at his cheek a moment, "It's not unlike this..." he gestured expansively at the forest around them, "...though the woods aren't quite as vast. Many rolling hills, some of which serve as homes to those of my kind known as Stumps. Most of what I remember, though, is the food, the stories, and the songs."

"Like you, Mae'rel," the halfling continued, "I spent the better part of my formative years in Coria... a little village called Stones Hollow. Do you know it?"

"I do. I'm not intimately familiar, I must confess, but it's just some forty miles south of my hometown. From what I remember, it was a quaint town, and its locals were enjoyable. I do also remember the town had a mixed population, a few Cidals, maybe even a Khord or two. In fact, I was there treating the sick, which included a Cidal." Mae'rel explained. She found it interesting that someone else on this crew, recruited for a mission of utmost secrecy, wasn't even born in Sylvari land. Very odd, indeed.

"Coria was nice, I have to admit, I miss it sometimes. But Calestra.. I don't." Even through the mask, there was something unmistakable that Mae'rel tried to hide. There was guilt, and there was slight fear, underneath her literal and figurative mask. 

Dak arched a brow at the shift in her expression, his own smile fading a bit. "I had a few misadventures of my own in Calestra," he offered, "it was one of the first sizeable Sigie cities in which I ever spent much, in fact. Despite the trouble I got myself into, there, I seem to recall it being rather fun..." His head cocked curiously to one side as he tried to meet her eyes through the holes in her mask, "...If you don't mind my taking note of it, my lady, I get the impression that we have seen Calestra through very different eyes, no?"

"We have. The city has.. an underbelly, as you may be aware of. No offense intended, of course. I simply would expect someone of your profession to know such things. And, that's not mentioning the Weeping Plague." Mae'rel hesitated for a moment. Maybe it wasn't best to tell a spy a secret few knew. Why Mae'rel took her vow to begin with, why she was so focused on concealing herself. She didn't need to speak further, at least, not on that, but with what she'd said, it was clear she had seen much death at the hands of Ashlung. She continued, and changed the subject. "But of course the Healer has seen plagues. Is that not what the hand of Lysora is for? But what about you then, why have you walked the path you travel on today? Wealth? Adventure? Something else?"

"I am familiar with the seedier sides of a few cities," the little Cid bobbed his head, his impish grin brightening again, "Calestra included. For the likes of me, such places are all but irresistible, I suppose. Servants of Lysa, though, aren't often encountered in those warrens. I can understand why you'd find them... unsettling."

He had hoped to draw a little more out of Mae'rel in regard to exactly what might have happened to her in Calestra's more shadowy side, but she seemed keen on turning the conversation to lighter topics. When she inquired as to what had brought him to where he was, now, he pulled his pipe from beneath his cloak and chewed on the stem for a moment, seemingly contemplating the question.

"All of those things, I imagine," he chuckled finally, "and none more than the others." He skipped onto the fallen trunk of a tree that lay along side of the path, gaining a bit of temporary height from it as he continued. "As with most Picks, it started with little more than wanderlust," he explained, not having to crane his neck so much to meet her gaze, "Just an urge to see more of what's in the world and how much of it I might manage to see, hm?"

He pulled the pipe from between his teeth and pointed the stem at the path ahead. "That eventually brought me to the banks of the Mirily-Wen Duin, not far from where we are now, in fact," he chirped, "It was there that I first encountered Lady Raina Mithethiel... she mistook me for a faerie, at first, if you can believe that."

"Wanderlust.. I've heard of the concept before, though Sylvari get nothing like it, and neither do humans to my knowledge. Such a strange thing to me. The idea of urges to adventure, to see the world? It almost seems like a fairytale character to me, but I suppose it's quite real for all of you."

Mae'rel admittedly wasn't even that familar with the ideas and concepts known to Cidals. They were overall a strange race to her, not quite as unknown as the Khords, but certainly far less known then the humans or Sylvari she had come to deal with regularly. And she just hadn't heard many stories from them, funnily enough, despite how known Picks were for their stories.

"A Fae?!" Mae'rel couldn't help but laugh for a moment, quickly gathering herself, "Certainly this Lady must have never seen a Fae, no offense intended, but you look.. nothing like I would ever imagine a Fae to be. And now that we actually know, you look even less like a Fae! You must tell me more of these stories one night over the campfire. And perhaps it'll strengthen our bond further."

Mae'rel found herself chuckling a moment more after they had finished their conversation. Perhaps she had been missing out. But she couldn't risk the idea of them getting too close. She still had a vow, and at the end of the day, that was what was most important to her, even more than this mission. But right now, her mission aligned in a way with the vow, and as long as it did, she would cooperate with this group, and to do that, she would need a bit stronger bonds, and so she decided she would make a better effort to be involved in the group from this day forth.

The night before had been... eventful, to say the least. These soldiers may have been far from the pathfinders drinking like there was no tomorrow, as for most there wasn't, but they had that same... spirit, proof of fear of the lingering threat, even if their youthful pride didn't allow them to show it. They certainly had stronger and better wine than the bofír did though.

Ruadhrí agreed to meet the commander that morning, even though his head stirred and ached. The commander spoke of the owlbears, where they were, and those damned, gods forsaken mushroom rings. In truth, the rings made his blood run cold. those damned fungai were the closest he'd been to death in.., ever since his lá breithe.

Friends. Can I have your attention for a moment? I was in the infirmary this afternoon, and I've heard.. some reports from soldiers. Most disturbing ones. I believe that very same Hermit and his owlbears are attacking the military patrols that this keep sends out. I think he's chasing us.. for whatever reason. Perhaps he wanted to collect Ruadhiri from his.. strange injury?" Ruadhrí listened closely, but shook his head as she spoke. "With me in the state I was, if he was looking to take our heads, he would have done it while I was close to síoraí ithir dearg, not while we sit in a reinforced fortress." Ruadhrí knelt down and pulled a map from his bag, careful not to wake Lennox, then spread it out and pointed out the areas the captain did, with less detail, of course. "If he cleared this much ground in... however long it took him to get through those mushrooms, he could and would have cut us off, assaulted us with an ambush of his strongest - his owlbears - and left us a rotting puddle on the path. No, he wants the fort... or at least the people in it, but why? I'm not sure." Ruadhrí then stood up, grabbing one of his horns to crack his neck "However, there is one thing for sure."

"His beast will be wrend into fur rugs, his ghouls rotting, and I will crack his spine with my horns."

Home, Arathea was home again for the first time in years. The child of the village, the rose of the Ondolithe family, the hometown hero was finally back. This community grew her father and her mother, this community birthed her and gave her a net of safety when returning from training or the capital. So many childhood days had been spent here, running through the streets here and playing with other children. Arathea recalled other children playing with toy swords, she dominated of course. It reached a point where she was barred from playing army or soldier off of it being unfair, any team with her on it had an incredibly unfair advantage. She had made so many friends here, and now some of those faces were the ones greeting her with open arms as she arrived from the sky.

Arathea had been hoping to return again sooner rather than later, yet these were far from the conditions she had hoped for. Despite the many excited greetings, the children with stars in their eyes, the elders with pride worn on their faces, a cloud of grief still hung over the air. The community had lost someone near and dear to them all, a leader who had shown nothing but courage and strength, the ideal syl. And Arathea felt the loss deeper than many others ever could, returning her did not help mend the hole left in her heart from the news of her father's passing. All the memories with him came back to her here, it was like a whole bottle of salt getting poured all over her wound. It was suffering, she soon found herself fighting to maintain a smile.

Seleniniel's presence only added a strangeness to things, she was clearly foreign to this type of environment. It made sense, and helped to remind Arathea of the harsh social divides that served to plagued society in her view. Her father had all of his reputation, all of his experience, and yet to Seleniniel's kind he was still far beneath them. It felt unfair, and while Arathea had not paid deep attention to her class divide with Seleniniel before now it seemed so plain. 

They would arrive finally to Arathea's home, that humble building that sent her back all through the years. Arathea paid her respects to her father's steward, but another person was the one to take up her mind. Her mother, the only parent she had left now, Alwen. Upon seeing her, and seeing the light drained from her once energetic eyes, Arathea lost her composure. Alwen's words flew past her head, the same with Seleniniel's, instead she just stood there for a moment as a tear began to fall down her cheek. Then she ran forward as Seleniniel stopped speaking, it wasn't polite and it was far from courtly but none of it mattered. She wrapped her arms around her mother in a tight embrace as tears started to fall freely, she sobbed and sobbed before finally mustering words. “I'm sorry it took me so long,” she began with pain in her voice. “I'm sorry I wasn't here, I'm sorry for leaving you alone.” 

She stayed in that state for quite some time before finally being able to compose herself, she was embarrassed, she felt weak. But she had bottled up so much of her loss, her pain, and her grief. She needed to let go, now was that time. “I apologize,” she said with a deep breath. “I am ready to say my goodbyes to father when you are.” She looked over to Seleniniel, her expression read as her saying she had the option to follow Arathea but that it was not necessary.

Later when she had the option to speak to Vinalis alone she had composed herself, though a cloud of sorrow continued to follow her. She listened to the story and through it she could not shake off the feeling of wrongness she had ever since she first learned of the death of her father, this was no accident. Nothing about the situation seemed right, and as the day went on things seemed more and more wrong. A terrible accident? Vinalis you know much better than that, you know that is far from the case. “I want to do my own investigation,” Arathea stated after taking a deep breath. “I will take Lady Isil'nari with me, I understand what you are saying but I simply cannot leave it at this conclusion. You….you know how politics can be, you know there must be more to this.” Pain was clear in Arathea's voice as she spoke, she would not take no for an answer, she would not be reasoned with. She would find out who did this.

She'd not had the courage to refuse the hollowed out widow, but Seleniniel wouldn't repay the hospitality she’d forced on Lady Ondolithe by hovering. So she sat in the small bedroom, chair and head tilted against the wall as she stared sightlessly at the ceiling, twisting the Isil’nari ring around forefinger. Strange, how she found it comforting. Subconscious reminder that some bonds remained, weatherworn and neglected as they were. The ring served as a meditative focus of sorts. Her thoughts drifted to her own disrepaired family. She wondered after her father. Well meaning yet inept. Still respected by many. He wouldn't leave the erestor’s mark… but he would be mourned. Even by her. A homecoming would be nothing like Arathea’s, though... even if she lasted that far. 

Despite her scars, she embraced the forced reflection. A parting gift of the dead. She let it carry her along familiar paths. Seleniniel studied the poem that spiraled around her left arm. What would you do? She sat in silence, contemplating the question, and the answer. You're right. She's earned that. 

She let the chair come to rest, crossing the room to the untouched refreshments the manservant had deposited hours ago, ignoring the food and pouring wine from the silver carafe, studying it as she did. Simple workmanship but well cared for. Appropriate… and pours wine all the same. She raised her glass in a silent toast to her uncle’s fineries. Then took a healthy gulp that would make him scowl. It was sweeter than she preferred, but, of course, they were quite a ways south, and she suspected Lady Ondilithe’s cellar was not as robust as most… any… of the Isil’naris’. She swirled it in the glass, studying the blood red liquid. Metabolizes the same though. She threw the rest back and poured another. 

The knock on the door saved her from sinking unreachably into her reverie. Arathea. Recomposed. Seleniniel’s eyes flicked back and forth to the bladesingers’, looking for permission to break the spell of mourning. To speak frankly of why they… or at least she… was here. Seleniniel did not find it though. 

“We're going to visit his grave.” Seleniniel saw the bladesinger’s eyes flick down to the glass of wine. Her lips thinned, but she looked back to Seleniniel’s grey eyes and said levelly, “you should come.” Seleniniel searched the bladesinger for any clue if she meant it or this was just more obligatory courtesy. Knowing the bladesinger, there was little daylight between the two. Seleniniel answered with a nod, resisting the urge to dispel the solemn cloud that had settled around the bladesinger. They had work to do. But brittle iron breaks. So she left the shell of grief undisturbed. For now.

As Arathea turned to lead, Seleniniel gulped down the last of the wine, returned the glass to the table, and trod after–to pay respects to a man she'd never met.

She kept her silence to the graveside, trailing Arathea and her mother, in step with the manservant, ignoring the expectant energy from him. Anxious to serve, no doubt. She pulled her cowl tighter–against both rain and servant’s querying sideglances. Her eyes remained on the rapidly muddying path as they entered the forest. She noted the difference between the two Ondolithes’ gait. One, a coiled spring, confidently pushing the earth away with each step. Sure of the path she trod, even if unwanted. Perhaps a hint of anger there. Good. She would need that. The other… the vigil of a fading specter. Barely daring to leave a mark in the softening soil. Lost, yet tracing a path of memory, if only to tether her to what remained of this fading existence. Arathea offered her mother an arm. Lady Ondolithe took it, seeming to straighten… becoming more corporeal as she drew strength from her daughter. Seleniniel knew something of that. Arathea had a.. consistency to her. A pillar breaking the river, unweathered by torrents that would wash away most. Loss of her blade and the pride of carrying it, of father… perhaps mother.. of purpose even, if the fae tale had taken root. A century flood. Yet Arathea simply kept being…. Arathea. That swirling constancy of stoicism and optimism that was occasionally so godsdamned annoying… and yet… grounding. 

The rain stole whatever words passed from mother to daughter. 

Seleniniel slowed as they approached the graveyard. The low clouds left room for the reddening sun to filter through the rain. What was it her own mother used to say... Solinari quarrels with the Stormlord. Seleniniel paused inside the gates, leaving the survivors their moment with their dead. The manservant fidgeted next to her. Her silence made him uncomfortable, but he knew better than to break it. She shook the rain from her robe, ignoring him without conscious effort. Instead, studying the crypt. A humble stone structure that matched the rest of the erestor’s projection… Or, perhaps.. considering his daughter.. his character. The twin silhouettes bowed their heads together. Seleniniel looked away, freeing them of her voyeurism and staring into the dying rays that kissed the western face of these granite memories of Nandina’s ghosts. She idly ran her hand along a stranger’s headstone. Pitted from centuries of wear, barely readable. How they’d all end. Fading ripples in time. The luckiest might get a few centuries of memory beneath a crumbling monument. The rest… just meat, then fertilizer.

The silhouettes stirred, one looked back at her. She'd come all this way... She took the invitation, more from obligation than desire, leaving the manservant to tend his sputtering torch. She approached, listening to the rain that would eventually tear down the erestor’s monument. Arathea turned back to her father’s tomb. It was smooth.. for now. Seleniniel laid her hand on the cold stone, eyes remaining open. She took a deep breath and considered what she owed this stranger. I’ll find your last secret. Not for you. For her. And me. She paused what felt like a respectful moment, then, in parting. May we both defy the devouring Shadow. Her hand slipped from the stone. She hesitated, then laid what she hoped was a comforting pat on Arathea’s shoulder. Then wordlessly turned and left the two survivors to whatever rite they held between them, the dead, and the stone.

The return was a somber march, disrupted only by the sharpening bite of the wind. Her robe flapped around her legs as she kept her hand on her cowl to keep the headwind at bay. The forest creaked as now Adaron and the Stormlord quarreled, soon taking the servant’s torch as collateral. In other circumstances she might have summoned light and heat. But discomfort had a way of forcing presence onto wandering minds. So they made their way in the darkening cold. 

Until.

The crack of the canopy breaking snatched them all from their thoughts. Arathea acted before Seleniniel recognized the danger. A massive trunk of a limb crashed down on her and her mother. The bladesinger barely managed to shove Lady Ondolithe from its path. A second crack told Seleniniel the bladesinger was in trouble. Arathea crumpled beneath its weight as the lighter limbs followed, splintering across the trail in a stream of jetsam. Seleniniel threw her arm up reflexively to shield the trailing debris, then rapidly closed the gap as the trunk of the limb groaned to rest on Arathea’s torso. Lady Ondolithe stared, whitefaced and frozen, as Seleniniel pushed past her to aid her daughter. Arathea grimaced in obvious pain as she futilely pushed against the branch. Seleniniel didn't waste time tugging at it. She was useless in that regard. But not others. She locked eyes with Arathea as she delved her pockets for the ironshavings she'd thankfully replenished. “Where's that useless priest when we need her.” She formed the somatic routine in her mind, concentrating on the bulk of the limb. 

“Ai” 

She heard Arathea inhale as the weight pressing the air from her lungs diminished. Seleniniel turned to the servant to help her lever the remaining bulk away. 

Then froze. 

Something moved in the twilight of the woods. A shadow. It melted into the deeper dark. She stood bolt upright. The forgotten wind ripped her cowl away, raindrops spattering her face as a tingling dread crept up her spine. She spun back to Arathea. “This was no accident either.” 

She turned back, scouring the tangled forest for movement as she fished in her robe again. Seeing nothing, she made the only decision she could before her rapidly-closing window slammed shut.

She smashed the firefly into the palm of her hand and flung the orb of light as far as she could after the shadow. Seleniniel did not wait for its clarity, as she began to sprint into the dark.

Isilmewen gave a smile, her hand reaching up to the brooch of stars that fastened her cloak as she returned the greeting to the two who would be joining them, "Your aid is most timely," She offered formally.

"I welcome you both to our travelling group, for while our paths are together," Isilmewen returned. It was a touch formal for her, perhaps, but it was also something of a small rite she liked to recite in as rare circumstances as this when soldier joined wanderer. They'd be in her care. As loath as she was to make promises she couldn't keep, given her history, Isilmewen wanted to ensure they be returned to the nost hale and whole.

"You too, then." Her gaze turned remorseful as she heard of their fallen companions, "We nearly lost Rau'dri in our encounter with him." and would've if not for very special aid rendered, aid which she intended to repay in kind, "I know I don't need to say such, but even as rage may hone the edge of your arrows," she glanced once to Rau'dri and the others as well, since her words were for more than the two just joining them, "we'll all need to keep our wits about us in pursuit of this old and experienced adversary. Too much has been lost already."

The fallen, soldiers and others caught in the path, in the wrong place, dealt the wrong cards... 

Aside to Dak, Isilmewen also asked, "It seems unlikely, given how far the nest we were at was compared to here, but have you perchance found in anyone's eyes here recognition of that pendant found back there?"

(Opening for possibilities)

As she thought of those lost, she had to give a soft sigh. Such was the nature of nature, and fortune as well. Good fortune, bad fortune, all outcomes equal in Heren'salkya's dance.

Even if we should stumble in this endeavor, following the dance, I but hope we can regain our footing and turn the tides. And perhaps, this time, we'll cut short the machinations of our adversary.

And armed with certain knowledge, perhaps she could shift their fortunes.

"In our previous encounter with the owlbear's tamer, he used birds as scouts. If you two could, please keep watch above for birds that fly strangely. Although, I don't know whether it will be better to pluck out his eyes and alert him to movement in doing so, or try to avoid his gaze entirely, as impossible as that might seem with scouts from above. I imagine you might have a suggestion on this matter, Dak?"

()

~ ~ ~

The forest paths might've all melded together for others, but for Isilmewen she could make out details that told her one path from another. As they crossed markings that looked familiar, but not to her memory, she thought about it some before she found it in the tale Dak had told to her. As she regarded him, she gave a wink, "It seems we're passing close by... if we weren't already set on our path..."

She knew they'd both be inclined to follow this other one, just to see where it led.

(also opening for dialogue)

"Not now, in any case," Isilmewen nodded, "But if the dance allows, I'd be quite curious to retrace the path of the story you saw. Although, now I do have to wonder if our adversary may also have an interest in this particular entity. Also, if so, why, though that manner of conjecture is far removed from the steps familiar to me."

As they reached the sparse trace of what remained of battle far before, Isilmewen had to scour the grounds, the foliage, the branches. Weather had already seen to the passing of much of what was here, as it was to do. But Isilmewen knew where to look. Where traces were sheltered, or too deep to be worn away...

And there, she found them, in ground dried firm, marking passage and time both.

"A long while ago, now," She murmurred, tracing the marks carefully, "Not recent. Their business here is long since concluded? Hmm, bit too soon to say. But, we have a trail, one that doesn't go where we might expect them to gather."

Isilmewen grinned, looking to the others, "Shall we go see what it was they were sent out here for? That there's a trail like this means it wasn't just for this skirmish. There might be something else he was after or had planned. Perhaps we can interfere with whatever it was."

Their initial course agreed upon and their stores replenished, the troupe mustered at the gate of Hyanda Nost, the next morning, where they were greeted by Nost’kano Feldinil and a small contingent of Sylvari soldiers. Following a brief exchange of pleasantries, the commander called forth two of those warriors – one male and one female – to supplement the party’s numbers. When they were introduced, Dak sketched the semblance of a bow and offered a convivial smile to each of them and, in short order, the troupe and their two new (albeit temporary) members were dispatched into the wilds beyond the keep’s walls. It didn’t take long for the halfling to draw certain parallels between their new companions and the relationship that had been forged between himself and Seleniniel over the past weeks.

The male, Thanon, was stoic and stern, much like their missing mage, but the female, introduced as Kithiel, seemed much more impish and laid-back in her demeanor. The banter between the pair made Dak chuckle and, at the same time, filled him with a curious longing for Seleniniel’s company. Wherever you may be, Mistress Isil’nari, he found himself thinking as Isilmewen led them south and east along their chosen path, I hope you are doing well regardless of the glum circumstances, and that you and Lady Ondolithe are returned to us sooner rather than later. This thought, too, gave the Cid reason to chuckle, though, at himself, and at how soft-hearted his time among the Syls had apparently made him. Despite the mildly antagonistic nature of their relationship (and whatever misgivings he might have about her true motives), Dak had come to realize that he did, in fact, consider the one-armed mage to be a friend. Bemused, he was pondering this very fact when Isilmewen roused him from his reverie with a simple question.

“It seems unlikely, given how far the nest we were at was compared to here,” she queried, her voice low enough not to be overheard by the others, “but have you perchance found in anyone's eyes here recognition of that pendant found back there?”

“Unfortunately, no, Lala,” he answered, giving a scant shake of his head, “I have asked around, of course, but, as Seleniniel is in possession of the pendant, all I have is words to describe its appearance, and that seems hardly enough to spark recognition or remembrance of such a trinket.”

((Opening for possibilities, indeed. ? ))

A short while later, and in answer to some of Thanon and Kithiel’s questions and comments, Isilmewen spoke again, once more invoking his input…

“In our previous encounter with the owlbear's tamer, he used birds as scouts. If you two could, please keep watch above for birds that fly strangely,” the taur’ohtar suggested, “Although, I don't know whether it will be better to pluck out his eyes and alert him to movement in doing so, or try to avoid his gaze entirely, as impossible as that might seem with scouts from above. I imagine you might have a suggestion on this matter, Dak?”

“I very well might, arwenamin,” he grinned, spinning on his heel to face their newest Syl companions but continuing to keep pace with the party, “Should we be clouded over with ravens or crows and you find yourselves unable to ignore them, shoot down as many as you can, but keep your blades at the ready, hm?” He spiked a woolly brow. “A murder or an unkindness of such birds, I have learned, means that the enemy is certainly upon us,” he offered, “and, should the skies go dark with black feathers, the ground is soon to tremble with the heavier weight of ferocious creatures with pinions of brown and white. They’ll be on you before you can pluck more than a few shafts from your quivers, I imagine and, if you can’t keep at distance under their charge, steel will be a better friend than yew and goose-feather…”

( ? )

~~~

Later still, when their path forked away from the one that Dak had truly hoped to follow, the one that might lead them to discovering the mystical grove of the ruhue, Isilmewen flicked him a wink and an almost remorseful smile. “It seems we're passing close by... if we weren't already set on our path...”

“Just so, mellonamin,” Dak sighed ruefully, his gaze lingering on the side path for an instant, “but, as you say, for now, our path is set. We have things of greater import to attend. I suppose old Tali-somethingoranother can wait until our true mission is done, yes?”

“Not now, in any case,” Isilmewen nodded, “But if the dance allows, I'd be quite curious to retrace the path of the story you saw. Although, now I do have to wonder if our adversary may also have an interest in this particular entity. Also, if so, why, though that manner of conjecture is far removed from the steps familiar to me.”

“I have wondered much the same, Lala,” Dak admitted, plucking his pipe from beneath the folds of his cloak to chew on the stem, “The overlap of the tale and the location seems a tad more than just curious and convenient. Should our search for the owlbears prove fruitless, perhaps it will be enough to guide our next steps in the direction I had hoped to go, originally. I suppose we shall see…” he flicked a wink of his own, “…If nothing else, when this is all finished, you and I might return on our own, just to see what might be seen, hm?”

((Room, again, for more chitty chat as the butterfly sees fit… ))

~~~

Later still, as they came upon the sight they had chosen to investigate, Isilmewen did what she did best and scouted the scene. There were owlbear tracks, of course, but they lay in the middle ground between fresh and faded. “A long while ago, now," She observed quietly, tracing the marks carefully, “Not recent. Their business here is long since concluded? Hmm, bit too soon to say. But, we have a trail, one that doesn't go where we might expect them to gather.”

“Shall we go see what it was they were sent out here for,” she asked, looking back at the rest, her eyes glimmering with enthusiasm, “That there's a trail like this means it wasn't just for this skirmish. There might be something else he was after or had planned. Perhaps we can interfere with whatever it was.”

“Another brooding cave,” Dak nodded, flashing a smile of his own in answer to hers, “or, at the very least, a circle of singed sickly mushrooms that might give us another direction, no? I follow where you lead, Lala. As pengron Thanon has said, you are our nilaa, thus, your word is our command, hm?”

Although their stay at the keep wasn't exactly unpleasant, Ruadhrí vastly prefered being out on the trail once more. The company they were given by Feldinil was a welcome sight for Ruadhrí, the way he saw it, the more the marrier against monsters like these, especially if they can keep their distance and deal considerable damage to monsters like these skilled sylvari bowman could.

The story the bowman regailed as they followed the trail to the ambush sight was grim, and one Ruadhrí had heard and experienced a thousand times, a brutal ambush, a friend felled, another maimed, it was nothing new, but that didn't make it any easier to listen to. "My condolences, mister Thanon. A personal stake you have indeed, and I promise to you, we will fulfill it." Ruadhrí also had to get on even ground not with the beast, but with their master.

The ambush sight itself was... not what he expected to find, but maybe that was a good thing. On the bright side, they weren't getting their innards raked out by a bear the size of a Chindari wagon. The path had no tracks that he could see, but his seasoned eyes weren't what they used to be, nor were they ever anything close to a rangers, so instead, Ruadhrí produced his great ax and began to stand watch. With any luck, the ranger should find them before they found us, but should luck fail, Ruadhrí cold steel should suffice.

She had just gotten used to the group they were in and now there were two new people. Admittedly, there was frustration behind that mask. She was trying to build bonds, get more comfortable with Dak, with some of the other members of the group, but the last thing she needed was two more additions. Of course, Mae'rel recognized that these additions would be temporary, that these were members of the group who would not stay, but still, she couldn't help but feel a bit frustrated, especially considering it wasn't really an option, but she suspected that these two additions very well could spell the difference between life and death for the group.

The whole topic of facing the Owlbears again was another subject for Mae'rel. She did not care to fight such beasts again, but she did not have a choice if they were going to continue to harm the people of the keep. Innocents lives would be at stake, and though this was different from the mission they had received from the Fae, this was just as much about protecting people as was the Fae mission, and so Mae'rel knew it had to be done. Still, being assigned to such a mission, knowing she would face the Old Syl again inevitably, she looked over to Ruadhiri.

Not many times before had she been so powerless, especially not since she had taken the hand of the Blue Lady and only become more powerful with time. These days, she could heal almost any manner of wound, purge almost any sickness, and even fight off some poisons, but the poison, sickness, or both that haunted Ruadhiri's body was beyond her skill previously, and she knew that it would be no different in this case if she were to face that same ailment. It left her wondering if the Fae would extend that courtesy again or if they would be left with those casualties regardless.

Mae'rel did not like feeling powerless; it was a feeling she did her best to distinctly avoid, so being forced into a situation where she felt that way yet again? It left a sour taste on her tongue, to say the very least. It reminded her of her days as a lowlife in the slums of Calestra, and it made her feel like a worthless criminal. 

Everything about this situation seemed more and more suspicious and Arathea was slowly beginning to feel more dreadful, which was not giving her any favors. Her mothers comforting words had helped but only very little, the way things currently were made it effectively impossible for the warrior to be at ease. Vinalis and Seleniniel both added their own unique ways of causing stress, Vinalis clearly suspected more but there was only so much he could do. Arathea did not want Seleniniel to be here yet she knew she needed someone else with power to be there with her, this was too risky and the chances of something bad happening seemed to be high. Arathea needed to be tactical, even if she wanted nothing more than to mourn in peace.

Peace was what she desired as she moved towards the grave, peace and some sort of guidance. She wished her father were here, she wished he could speak to her and help relieve so much of this weight, yet it was impossible. She thought back to all the times he had offered tender advice, his loss felt so absolute here. Reaching the grave, seeing where he rested only made the dagger sink in deeper. She had loved him, him being there in her life was as natural as the sun rising every morning. Him being gone felt as if the night was eternal, no light ever coming to penetrate it and bring hope. 

Then she heard it, a crack and the unnatural of the air. She rushed to save her mother, she couldn't lose another parent another loved one, not now. She pushed forward, shoving the older woman back only for another disaster to come. The pain was yerrible, it brought her back to the feeling of the stinger of the wasp penetrating into her body some weeks before. She grunted in pain as her shoulder was crushed under the great weight, why now she asked herself, why did it need to be now of all times. 

As she was carried away to a healer, humiliated by her lack of mobility, she cursed herself. She wanted to run alongside Seleniniel but she was immobile, someone was after her and her family and she was powerless to stop it currently. She hated the feeling, she had spent so much time becoming powerful to save people to help people and yet it meant nothing currently. She layed in bed, looking to the healer Náriel like a detective. "Tell me," she began, understanding it was likely inappropriate but not particularly caring. "What do you know of what is happening? My father dead and now this... there is not coincidence."