Godsdamned fool. Arathea danced around Seleniel’s shield to slice at the once-ranger. The mage hissed in frustration at the blind conditioning the bladesinger exhibited more and more. The assaults on her doctrine had force Arathea deeper into its grasp…. to Speaker and sword. A good soldier. Seleniniel let the useless shield dissipate as the group hacked the dead flesh back to inanimacy. The creeping tendrils held her gaze. Something was still alive in there… she reached for tallow, began to work it with the heat of her palm, when Arathea interrupted...

 

“I don't need you to save me, when we finally confront the man who did this I need you to fight.”

 

The inhale Seleniniel had meant to be calming flared her nostrils as she whipped her head to face the bladesinger and spat “And I need you, Arathea of House Ondolithe, to learn the difference between a soldier and a leader!” She jammed the tallow into the pocketed iron and sulfur, crushed them together with an angry somatic jab in the bladesinger’s direction. “Ruivë.” [[casts flaming sphere, centered on the fallen undead ranger]]

 

The fire that sprang to consume the corrupted ranger was close enough to heat the bladesinger’s armor. Seleniniel did not care. She continued, “One thinks. The other is just a tool of bone and sinew.”

 

The mage turned to the fae and the healers, faces half-lit in flickering orange from the undulating flame, still fussing over the doomed ranger. “Work fast, or let me put an end to it.” She nodded towards the mushroom circle. “The longer you spend trying to save one, the more likely you waste the lives of others.” Her hand stretched towards the flaming sphere, ready to do what was needed if the others would simply get out of her way.

An infection like this took time to remove, that much was true. Upon further instructions from the Fae, The Monk changed her method, focused on removing the tissue she could. The poor ranger thrashed against them, something that made the process more difficult. The infection seemed to be almost sentient in the way it fought against the three. With every pick of a piece of the fungus, Mae'rel could have sworn she watched it root and burrow deeper into the skin. Still, she did what she could to root out the corruption, almost performing a surgery of course. 

Upon Seleniniel's interruption, Mae'rel took a deep breath. Seleniniel was ignorant. More so than Mae'rel knew of course. For someone to be Faithless.. a concept the Monk could not comprehend. But the surface was all the priest understood. And she understood that well. What had happened in the Mage's past, the Monk could only imagine. She was deeply hurt, through and through, and she asked for Lady Lysora's guidance to help forgive her for the constant hurt she caused. She did not acknowledge Seleniniel. There was simply no need to. 

(OOC: Mae'rel will focus on removing corruption, and using spells as needed with a max of 3 to help heal. She will only stop if directly attacked)

Fight Ruadhrí... You have to fight! he thought to himself, frozen for a moment as the fighr begun before shaking the feeling out of his head. They depend on you, all of them. With that, he raised his courage, swallowed back his fear, and gripped the haft of his ax, charging at one of the undead. I'll put you out of you're misery. He thought to himself, and with a mighty roar, he raised his ax high above his head, it's blade gleaming in the light before coming down with a sickening Splat, leaving the creature with a gash down the middle big enough to stick his arm down, and leaving it open for another, then another, nearly cleaving it in two before Ruadhrí kicked it to the ground with his mighty hoof.

It's done... it's over... Ruadrí stood above the corpse of the fallen creature, disgust swelling up in the back of his throat as he watched the fungus try to stretch towards the sky and release it's spores in a last-ditch effort to spread itself into something-anything-to try and survive. It made his thick, leathery skin crawl. 

"Come.  Your might will be needed to hold him down while the healers do their work." The fae girl's words snapped Ruadhrí from his mind, he eyes returning to their normal, seasoned expression from the wide circles of fear they were. Hold... hold him down? What if he infects me? "Are you certain he is... yes, of course." Ruadhrí stopped himself mid-question. Now is not the time to ask, we must help him he thought, approaching the injured sylvari and preparing himself to aid in the healing of this sylvari.

“Thirkee thumb my bum,” Dak hissed behind his scarf as the battle came to an end, “That came quicker than expected… Our visit with Tali’Yore must have poked a bear somewhere...”

 

 He remained crouched and ready for a moment, his gaze sweeping the hollow for any further threats. When none were presented, he returned the unspent dart to its bracer, hefted his bata, and turned his attention to his companions and the bedraggled fey. None of the troupe seemed to have suffered any grievous injuries, Ma Miel be praised, and a greater majority of them seemed to be gathered around Ysmiril and the body she seemed to be protecting. So that’s where he went, too.

 

He scampered over to the scene, mindful not to tread inside the broken circle, and pulled his scarf away from his face. Making a quick assessment and picking out key parts of the conversation, he leaned on his bata and lifted a brow. “What might I do to help?”

 

((OOC: Yeah, it's not much, but, hey... I'm posting again!   ))

6th Poleii, 452 E.R.
Forest southeast of Hyanda Nost

 

Over the objections of Seleliniel, Mae'rel, Roasarial, and Ruadhrí moved to aid Ysmiril.

The bófear steeled himself against the horror that threatened to overwhelm him. He had been in the place this fearcoille found himself in, and despite his own might, it was all that the massive warrior could do to force himself close to the corrupting infection of those accursed spores.

Still, he used his considerable bulk and strength to pin the ranger down as Rosariel approached with her knife.

The blade was sharp, honed to a perfect edge so as to efficiently dress the game that Taudor Salka allowed her servant to harvest. Rosariel could separate good meat from a carcass without conscious thought... but cutting through the living flesh of another person was quite a different thing.

Still, with focus, she was able to discern the pale green, nearly white, threads within the fallen warrior's wound. With a grim look at Mae'rel, she began.

The poor soul bit down against the pain, but before long, he was unable to hold back his screams of agony. One by one, Rosariel found the strands that seemed to almost wriggle like worms to escape within the victim's bloody flesh. One by one, she pulled them free before they could properly fasten - per Ysmiril's panted instructions.

When the bleeding got too strong, Mae'rel would lay her hands upon the wound, asking Lissentoria to preserve the ranger's life while Rosariel continued her gruesome battlefield surgery.

The screams, the agony, were enough to turn the stomach of even the most stolid. If not for the huge warrior bearing down, the ranger would have pulled free despite his weakened state. Mercifully, his screams slipped into groans, and he finally passed out from the pain.

The process was painstaking. Several times, Roasriel was certain that she had removed every thread of the fungi, but Ysmiril would sing and then shake her head. Again and again, the huntress had to cut into the poor sylvari's flesh; her own sleeves became saturated with blood as she worked.

Finally, the fae nodded. "The corruption has been removed," she declared. She turned her violet eyes on Mae'rel. "Ask your goddess for her boons now," she urged. "My own reserves are long since depleted." Mae'rel called the favor of her goddess, and the ranger's wounds began closing.

While the healers worked, Arathea, Isilmewen, and Dak had moved to secure and clean the battle site. Every trace of the fungal tendrils were collected and burned to prevent them from possibly spreading, as was the body of the infected undead soldier.

The fae straightened slowly, awkwardly, all traces of her normal grace gone. "I must rest," she declared. The lavender-haired faerie actually stumbled, then slumped to the ground. When Isilmewen stepped over in alarm, she discovered that the fae had lost consciousness.

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

Hours passed. The ranger actually regained consciousness before the fae.

"I am Arandir Ordel," he offered by way of greeting. "And I owe you a debt I can never repay."

He shuddered.

"The idea of meeting a fate like poor Rission..." His voice trailed away as his gaze found the blackened patch where the undead soldier had been burned. For a few moments, he seemed unable to pull his attention from it.

Then his expression changed.

"The voice," Arandir said. "When Rission spoke... that was not his voice."

The ranger struggled to sit upright. Pain crossed his face despite the healing that had closed his wounds, and he quickly abandoned the effort. His complexion remained pale beneath the gray cast of exhaustion.

"It belonged to Calith," he continued. "One of the soldiers who accompanied me. He is the one we could not find."

Arandir closed his eyes for a moment, collecting himself.

"Our nikerym, Eruar, commanded the squad. Six soldiers, all experienced. I was assigned as their pathfinder." His mouth tightened. "We had heard the reports of green fire and strange growths in this part of the wood. With the owlbear nests destroyed, we believed the worst danger had passed. We expected to find some lingering corruption, perhaps another den."

The bitterness in his voice made clear what he now thought of that confidence.

"We stopped at the cache and found the mushrooms there, though we didn't truly understand their significance. The food had already been fouled. Eruar wished to return and report, but I found a trail, so after we discussed it, we chose to follow."

Arandir looked toward Isilmewen.

"The trail was from one person. A sylvari, judging by the stride and weight, who moved northest from the cache. At first, his passage was almost careless - broken stems, disturbed leaves, prints where no competent woodsman would have left them. Then the trail would vanish completely, only to reappear fifty paces farther on."

He drew a slow breath.

"I knew that it was wrong. I knew we were being invited to follow."

The admission seemed to cost him.

"But we were seven. We were armed, disciplined, prepared. I believed that whatever had fouled the cache might be found at the end of that trail. I believed that recognizing the bait made us less likely to be caught by it."

His eyes opened again.

"I was wrong."

The ranger explained how the signs had led them deeper into the forest. He told of how the tracks would disappear before walls of briar or stretches of open stone, then resume beyond them without any mark of passage between. Once, they found the same boot print repeated three times around a tree, each impression perfectly identical. Later, pale mushrooms began appearing inside the prints.

Then came the voices.

"At first, we thought someone else was moving through the forest," Arandir said. "Eruar heard me call from ahead, though I stood beside him. One of the soldiers heard his sister singing behind us." He paused for a long moment.

"She has been dead for twelve years."

His hand tightened weakly around the edge of his blanket.

"We should have turned back then."

The patrol had followed the trail into the hollow, where they discovered the broken circle and the exposed black root. Calith had moved to examine the mushrooms while Arandir and the nikerym tried to make sense of the tracks around them.

Then Calith's voice called from beyond the circle.

"He was still standing where I could see him," Arandir whispered. "Yet his voice came from the trees ahead of us. It said that he had found the path."

The ranger swallowed.

"Calith turned toward it. The mushrooms burst into green flame before anyone could reach him. Something came from beneath the earth - what exactly, I cannot say. They wrapped around his leg and dragged him into the ring."

Arandir's voice became unsteady.

"For a heartbeat, I saw into the place beyond the fire. What lay beyond was not another part of the forest... it was a gray place. Mist without sky. Shapes moving where nothing living should have moved."

His gaze shifted to Dak, who could feel the Gray Down in his possession.

"I saw the wytch."

The twisted sylvari had stood beyond the green flames, untouched by them. Arandir could remember little of his features through the shifting light, but he remembered the object clutched in one hand: a length of blackened wood, no longer than a dagger, webbed with pale fungus and pulsing with the same sickly light as the root beneath the hollow.

"He told us that the forest had learned our names," he stammered.

Then, the attack began.

The patrol formed its defensive line, but the danger did not come from one direction. Fungal corpses rose from beneath the leaves. Great insects struck from the trees. Voices called warnings and commands from places where no speaker stood. More than once, soldiers turned to answer companions who were already dead.

Each time blood struck the ground, the black root brightened.

Each time someone screamed, the mushrooms spread.

"It wanted us there," Arandir said. "And it did not merely dead. It wanted us... afraid."

The nikerym had tried to withdraw the patrol, but by then the hollow itself seemed to turn against them. Paths shifted. Soldiers who believed themselves standing shoulder to shoulder found trees between them. Rission fell near the broken ring, and the pale fungus covered him almost immediately.

Arandir remembered being struck and feeling something tear through his side. He remembered the cold sensation of filaments moving beneath his flesh.

After that, his recollection became fragmented.

"The last thing I saw clearly was the green fire closing," he said. "The wytch was gone. Calith was gone with him."

He glanced again toward the remains of the pyre.

"But Calith's voice remained."

Silence settled over the gathering. Arandir looked from face to face before his eyes found Isilmewen.

"The trail we followed came from the northwest," he said. "And when the wytch vanished, I saw the light beneath that root run in the same direction."

His exhaustion finally began to overcome him. Still, he forced out one final statement.

"He wanted soldiers to die here. This was no chance battle - this was a trap."

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

It was nearly dusk when Ysmiril awakened.

The fae's violet eyes opened without warning, and she drew a sharp breath as though surfacing from deep water. Isilmewen moved quickly to her side, but Ysmiril raised one trembling hand before the ranger could touch her.

"The mortal?" she asked.

"He lives," offered the ranger.

The fae's eyes closed again, and some of the tension left her features. "Then the song was not wasted," she breathed.

It took her several moments to gather the strength to sit. Even then, she leaned heavily against a tree, her iridescent skin dim and her lavender hair still clinging in tangles damply to her face.

When told of Arandir's account, she listened without interruption. At the description of the black splinter in the wytch's hand, however, her expression hardened.

"That is his anchor," she said. "Or one piece of it, at least."

Her gaze moved toward the broken mushroom circle.

"What lies beneath this hollow is not the heart of his corruption. It is a cutting - a dead memory grafted into the greater root. He has taught it to drink fear and death, and through it, he reaches the larger wound."

Ysmiril shifted as though she intended to rise, but weakness forced her back against the tree.

"This abomination you call the wytch does not make roads; he infects those that remain."

When asked where she had been, the fae's mouth tightened.

"The great owl did not strike me, nor cast me across the world. He simply refused me." A hint of affront touched her exhausted voice. "Every path I opened bent away from his home. Every song returned me to where I began. I could sense you only as one hears voices through a wall."

She glanced toward the dead patrol.

"When his paths released me, I followed the nearest cries. I arrived after the green fire had closed."

Ysmiril regarded the exposed black root for several silent moments.

"If we sever this cutting, the corruption will recoil toward the source that sustains it. For a few moments, the greater root will answer its pain. Your ranger may read the movement beneath the soil. Your wizard may sense the direction of the magic."

Her attention settled upon Dak.

"And the gray feather will remember the wound from which this one grew."

In the cidal's keeping, the Gray Down shifted once.

Ysmiril's expression remained grave.

"But understand this," she deplacer.  "When this root cries home, the wytch will feel it where he has nested."

A thin pulse of green light moved beneath the blackened wood.

"And he will know that we are coming."

 

 

 

“…When this root cries home, the wytch will feel it where he has nested.”

 

A thin pulse of green light moved beneath the blackened wood.

 

“And he will know that we are coming.”

 

Chewing on the stem of his pipe, Dak’s gaze flitted from Ysmiril’s face to the light that chased along the blackened root and back again. “Good,” he smirked, giving a bob of his head that set his topknot bouncing, “Let him know and let him be afraid…” He laid a hand on his pack, feeling the Gray Down’s power through the oiled leather, “…We have the key to his lair, and he can’t keep us out. That’s something he should fret over, eh? Fear has been the undoing of many since before time was even measured...”

Rosariel was thankful for the recovery time afforded. The mangling of a human body under her own hand in the hopes of healing and restoring had been a strain she had not ever thought she would need to endure. Careful breathing and prayer let her center herself but she knew she would be seeing the images her own hands wrought for the days and nights to come. And yet even this was not to be the greatest of the evils she would witness if this was just a splinter of the wytch's power. She suppressed the shudder at the thought of a larger nest. Tubs curled to her neck thinking she was cold and she provided a soothing pat before he could beg for food.

 

"If evidence was needed that we were on the right path I did not expect it to be so strong. Have you all prepared yourselves for what will come? Are we ready to face this challenge?" She asks hoping that the answer to be yes as in the delaying she is concerned that they will lose their conviction.

 

(Assuming that she gets an affirmative answer) "Then let us not give another moment for our enemy to prepare. Let us strike with purpose opening and holding open the way with our earned treasure."

Idealistic fools. She let the sphere burn itself out in silent judgment of the healers who’d never met a wound they could resist. Most of the group wanted to play some part in this, it seemed. She had to wrench her eyes away from the maggoty fungus. Seleniniel had no interest in watching the grisly lancing, much less any illusion her help was needed.. or wanted. 

 

She reckoned they’d burn the better part of a day on this. The mage turned, intent on finding a spot of sun to bide her time… well away from the writhing ranger, caught Dak’s eye as she did. “If that’s me,” nodding back without looking, “kill me and be done with it.” Morbid dread pulled her gaze back, catching a glint from the huntress’s blade as she grimaced. Tried to focus back on the cid’s green eyes. Tried not to remember the healer’s failed attempts at saving her arm… “I’ve no interest in letting the woodsgirl and her rat carve at me.” She walked past the pick, far enough into the forest that she judged she wouldn’t hear the cost of Rosariel’s scalpel, plopped down with her back against a tree... and promptly realized she hadn’t gone near far enough. Sarigraamin. She snapped her hood up, as if the thin wool would muffle the ranger’s screams… and waited.

 

Seleniniel gave the silence a good half hour before she ventured back. A few looked up as she reentered the clearing, her cloak dragging autumn leaves crunchily. She ignored them, finding a seat in the now-afternoon sun. The ranger lay in a heap… apparently alive despite how much of his blood watered the grass beneath him. The priestess looked exhausted. Rosariel looked like she’d cleaned fresh kill. The fae, unconscious… 

 

Seleniniel’s gaze lingered on the dimmed faerie… So helpless… Ysmiril had said the mage’s weaves would not touch the fae, but so many of her words were shrouded half truths. Still, weaves were not all she had. Her belt knife was barely sharp enough for their stale bread… but… she sunk her fingers into the iron shavings, staring at the fae. Sifting again and again, wondering what a handful would do… 

 

She lost track of time. 

 

The ranger woke. Filled in the gaps the glade had left. Seleniniel’s eyed the circle. The door. Wondering if this was a trap for more than just the rangers. He couldn’t possibly know they had the key though… she hoped…

 

The trees’ shadows crept in to cradle the fae before she stirred. The group huddled around their meager fire. Seleniniel listened from the edge in silence as the fae illuminated a little more of their inevitable path. “... he will know that we are coming." Sarigraamin. So much for an advantage. The owl had given them a key into a slot canyon, it seemed. They’d paid too much to turn back, though… even if the group could have been dissuaded. A frivolous thought. Dak projected brazenness.. his way of coping, she supposed. Rosariel a grim determination. Seleniniel sighed.

 

At the huntress’s suggestion, the mage broke her silence. “... let us not give another moment for our enemy to prepare..." Seleniniel disagreed. The day was spent. They needed all their tools at their disposal… even the cleric’s. 

 

“We should face him fresh,” Seleniniel replied, “at dawn,” as she eyed both healers, “assuming your gods give back what you’ve spent today… gaining numbers to throw at this wytch’s wall.” She looked to the fae, who seemed to already assume she would accompany them, then the ranger, giving him a you bet your f***ing ass you’re coming with us look. “If our plan is to march into this bastard’s lair, announced, counting on brute force to break him… well… we better have all the brute force we can muster.” She turned to Arathea. “And a plan that’s more sophisticated than ‘run in and hit him with a sword.’”

 

[[OOC: Sel will debate their approach if others want to. She will advocate for using the night to rest and recover spells/HP, etc. before they delve into the shadow path and whatever else awaits them - assuming the wytch won’t know they’re coming until they step into the shadow path. Sel will also push Arathea to develop a tactical plan that minimizes the risk that their front liners get infected.]]

Isilmewen's face was uncharacteristically grim as she harkened to the tale as told by Arandir. This was... rather different than what they had dealt with.

 

"We won't let it go to waste, Arandir," She offered the ranger, "Those those which were lost, there will be an answer. And what you've shared will aid in its delivery."

 

Easier said than done, she knew. But the reassurance was all she could offer him, and the fallen. As she retold the tale to Ysmiril later on, she turned over the details in her mind around and over. How to go about this, it would be tricky, she knew. But they had to.

 

"When I consider our approach, there's no good way to go about this." Isilmewen admitted, "The only thing we have in our favor, quite possibly, is the timing. Once we set this in motion, it'll be a race to get to our destination before the wytch fortifies their position. As such, I would agree with Seleniniel here. We rest, and we ready; we don't rush. Under light of dawn, we'll have good visibility of where we're headed. At least, on this side of the threshold. Once we get close, however..."

 

She paused.

 

"By Arandir's account of what happened here, it might very well be like the shadowed path we took following Ysmiril's step, in the sense of there being sounds if not sights that may lead astray. As such, we should try to organize now what our tactics will be. That will be the stone path on which we tread later. We won't always have time to verify who is talking or when in the heat of the moment, after all, so let what needs be said happen here and now. Even if we cannot see the lay of the battlefield ahead of time, we still can prepare a basic approach and a few adapatations for as we need them."

 

"We know, for instance, that large insects will undoubtedly be called to the wytch's defense, as they have done twice now. We also know that the wytch has a mystical defense that makes landing a blow on them more difficult. And we know they generally control the battlefield from what distance they're able to maintain."

 

"So then, one of our best approaches may be to deny them the space to do that. If an opportunity presents itself to close distance, then we should try to do so. If it happens that aid to them is coming from somewhere, if insects are being literally called, then sealing the route from which they arrive will be essential. Of course, it's possible to say such about any number of possibilities, so..."

 

"For myself, I'll try to provide cover fire as I have been. I might suggest Raudhri be the one ready to rush at any ingress that invites reinforcements, insect or otherwise, if any should be present, the sooner to block them off. Preferably by cutting off whatever path they need, perhaps literally. Seleniniel's eye for the magical might also be important if any active magics are present for us to respond to. If any ritual implements might be laying around in important locations, might disrupting their placement might also disrupt what they're doing? I would leave that to Seleniniel and Dak, perhaps."

 

"Just a few thoughts as they came to me, anyhow." Isilmewen offered, "All of which is to say, Arandir reported his company hearing voices known or otherwise present in this ill-fated battle. We may not be able to trust each other's word at our destination. To say nothing of voices of those known to us. That's why we should take the opportunity to establish what we can now. That we can know what each other will do without it needing being spoken in the moment."