She was dangerously close to a good mood on the return. On reemerging at the Pools, she smirked at the irony of what a difference a few days made. A tenday ago she had been tramping through Alloryan, blind to the dueling gravities tugging at her. And now, such clarity. Such had always lifted her spirits. To strip back the veneer and See. The verdant forest she once thought saturated with life and color… its plainness was a relief after the unavoidable assault of sensation of the fae’s realm. Even her second passage through the shadow path couldn't dampen her mood, though she attended the rope like the lifeline it was, gritting her teeth through the itch that nestled in her nose, as if it knew her powerlessness. She glared at every free hand that drifted so carefreely to attend their owners’ whims… but she would not loose the rope. Some lessons need only be learned once. So she suffered silently, focusing on the discomfort instead of the fear she tried to deny purchase. Er, atta, neld…. The routine helped. But when they finally emerged, a second wave of relief buoyed her spirits even more, the fleeting mania that often accompanied an ill fate glimpsed yet avoided. 

Seleniniel scoffed to herself at Ysmiril’s departure. Our business is our own…pah, what utter bulls***. She assumed they were watching. Of course they were. Mae’rel’s trinket was just that... if not more... She recalled the ebonywood rod, still secured in the cid’s pack, wondering if the fae’s crystal had a similar purpose. Little she could do though, but she took care all the same on the two days to Hyanda Nost.

The first night, she found her usual solitude, and scrawled a hasty note by the firelight’s edges. Keeping an eye on the cid’s creeping gaze, curious as a cat and twice as canny for this kind of thing. But he seemed distracted by the Maiden’s quirk, keeping the fae’s gaudy garb longer than necessary, if it ever had been. Still.. As she blotted the ink dry with the sleeve of her robe, Seleniniel idly wondered what it felt like to wear such a thing. She might not share the maiden’s impulses, but she could respect Isilmewen’s confidence. Seleniniel released the thought, mentally shrugging it away. She’d never know, never wanted to. Her charcoal robe hid more than her body… but even that was enough to keep its comforting opacity.. as she caught a leer from the cid, aimed at the Maiden from across the circle. Smirking, she returned to her task. Satisfied the ink wouldn't smear, Seleniniel fished in her robe until she found the often neglected ring. She needed Isil’nari for this. She rose, filtered towards the fire, careful to avoid the conversation that seemed to be dwindling along with the crackling embers as the exhaustion of the past few days tugged at the others as much as Seleniniel. She retrieved a smoldering stick–it would do–and began to retreat back to her solitude. She stopped though as she caught Arathea’s gaze. Seleniniel had apparently broken her reverie in the dying fire. The bladesinger had been uncharacteristically silent on their return, neglecting her habitual, and sometimes obvious, commands that had quickly become part of the background cadence of traveling with the young warrior. Arathea sat on her bedroll, arms hugging her legs, borrowed blade and fallen blade–now retrieved–wrapped carefully at her side. Staring at the mage with a distance in her eyes that made Seleniniel wonder if Arathea was looking at her at all. 

Seleniniel found herself moving towards Arathea.. what a difference indeed a few days made. She squatted on her heels next to the bladesinger, whose blue eyes followed, though Seleniniel still could not tell if they saw, or if her movement was merely a proxy for the dancing flames. Arathea remained rooted in her thoughts, so Seleniniel spoke first, guessing at where the bladesinger was wandering and venturing a nudge along the path Seleniniel hoped she would find. 

“You can believe the fae and still hold your oaths, you know.” Her voice was low, not quite a whisper. Arathea’s eyes focused, finally seeing the mage. She seemed surprised at first, but Seleniniel thought she saw a query in the bladesinger’s eyes as Arathea processed what she had said. “History is full of conflict where both sides are the heroes of their own stories, the other the villain. The power in those stories is deeper than any arcane.. or divine.” The last was perhaps a bit sacrilege, but Arathea was no priest. She pushed on. “Its those stories that compel us to fight wars, to build walls, and keeps... And.. ward tombs in iron.” The bladesinger took her meaning, but Seleniniel saw the skepticism forming, curiosity transforming to a challenge. Seleniniel did not want to argue. She tucked the smoldering stick under her arm and raised a palm, face out to Arathea, in a pacifying gesture. “My point is this. Accept the fae’s words as their truth. That does not mean your Speaker.. our Speaker.. is our villain. Unvarnished avarice does not produce millennia of actions such as this.” She hoped Arathea could believe that, or at least doubt the alternative enough. “I want to know our people’s reasons as much as you.” She retrieved her letter, enclosed in its folded parchment, held so Arathea could see the name. Tansathil Isil'nari. “He knows more.” “And you know others who no doubt do as well”

((OOC: leaving space for conversation with Arathea))

She returned to her bedroll, eyeing the stick skeptically now, but it still held enough heat to melt the dollop of wax that would seal her uncle’s letter. She pressed the Isil'nari crest into it, hoping her words to Arathea–and her uncle–were not wasted. She gently fanned the letter, satisfied, tucked it back into her robe. She caught the cid’s eyes as he was watching her, apparently no longer distracted by the maiden’s display, returning to his habitual surveillance. He was not abashed at having been caught.. he never was. He hopped off the downed tree he had been perched atop and scampered her way, trailing a few puffs of smoke as he approached. She intercepted the quip she knew was coming. “Your ‘Lala’ left you to find your own evening entertainment?” She smirked at him, trying to load her look with as much judgment as she could pile on, though she suspected the jocular grin still showed through the smirk. Gods, she was in a good mood. “Shame, to cover her ass with something so crude as a blanket, eeh?” She raised her eyebrows expectantly at the cid, studying the glimmer of authenticity creeping into the grin that wrapped around the pipe stem. 

((OOC: leaving space for some back and forth))

The next day found them at their long-neglected waypoint. It had been some years since she'd seen the keep. It seemed more bustling than she remembered. Perhaps the k’ghoth were keeping them busy. Or the Khords were up to something. Seleniniel studied Arathea as they approached. The bladesinger seemed to stand a bit straighter, either shedding some of the road weariness or hiding it behind the mask of protocol. As they made their way into the keep, Seleniniel scowled at their welcome. Something struck her as off. The commander who greeted them was not what she expected. When he spoke, it made sense. A kosta’cora. She had never met the fabled warriors. Not just a storm rider, a commander. She studied him as he addressed Arathea, but when he laid his grim news at her feet, Seleniniel felt adrenaline flood her bloodstream. Her fingernails dug lines in her palm as she studied the bladesinger’s reaction. Arathea stood stock still, eyes unblinking as she received the news. Seleniniel realized she was holding her breath. When the kosta’cora offered her a griffon to attend her father’s funeral, Seleniniel’s suspicions grew deeper still. The timing of the accident. The Speaker’s supposed intercession on Arathea’s behalf. The Speaker’s knowledge of their whereabouts. They were being tugged by forces beyond their reckoning. Arathea was not equipped for this kind of conflict. Her upbringing in an upstart house, her straightforward way of dealing with people… she’d be eaten alive. Seleniniel subconsciously took a step towards her, resisting the altogether foreign impulse to put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She listened to the bladesinger’s breath. Arathea paused for a moment, holding it, appearing to collect herself before she answered. Seleniniel listened carefully to what was said, and unsaid, waiting for her window. You won't do this alone… there's too much at stake.

((OOC: S wants to go, will finish after Arathea’s answer))

Returning from the fae land was indeed a bittersweet, while she did miss the vibrant colors and the magic in the air it was incredibly relieving to return to the more subtle colors of the mortal world. She had missed the earthy greens and browns, the clear edges of the stones, and the fresh moist air. She didn't truly know just how much she had missed it until she was able to run her hands across the cold green grass yet again, until it felt like time was actually moving again. After everything that had just happened, it was relieving, and it helped bring at least a small amount of weight off her shoulders.

The return to the Shadow Path did not make things more comfortable however, and a pervasive stress followed Arathea every step along the way. She remembered what had happened there before, remembered the feeling and the pain. It was just one thing after another she thought to herself, something like that would normally be by far the most notable event of any mission but here... here it was just one of many. Finally however the group was back in the mortal realm, much to her relief. The awe Arathea had felt about these things before was gone, now she just wanted to be back in the Earth. She collected her items as Ysmiril informed the group that they, at least for now, would be going in seperate ways. Truthfully Arathea didn't know how exactly to take that information, Ysmiril had done many positive things yes, but she was also full of constant surprises and constantly brought the group into new dangers.

She bowed her head respectfully before speaking in an equally polite tone. "Farewell, I thank you for all the aid you have provided on this journey and I wish you well." It was not complicated, it was not ornate, but as a simple goodbye from an exhausted warrior she felt it would do just fine. The night would come, but she struggled to rest. She wandered around camp instead, practicing the Eighty Nine Steps over and over again trying to distract herself. But she was not alone, no... Seleniniel was there, the mage, the comrade, and the rival. She had been many things in Arathea's mind but the words she spoke now were hardly what Arathea expeceted, she seemed to be treading some sort of middle ground.

To her there wasn't much of any middle ground, either the fae were lying and attempting to smear the greatest ruler in the world or the Speaker was a villain, content to destroy an entire people to fulfill a selfish need. Seleniniel made an interesting point, but what she said next brought even more curiosity. Tansathil, she was writing a letter to Tansathil; it made sense, he would have more information after all. Arathea considered it for a moment before responding in a tired but but clear tone. "He does have extensive knowledge, how much he'd be willing to share however is a good question. I see this in two ways, and while I may be incorrect I currently have no reason to believe so with the knowledge I have. Either the fae are liars, or the Speakers power is built on corruption..." Arathea paused for a moment, breathing in deep. "I hope you're right, it will be easier if you are."

With that it was time once more to try at rest, and while she had had better nights before, Arathea was able to find some sleep. There would be a considerable amount of time spent travelling, but they would reach Hyanda Nost. It was a testament to sylvari strength and ingenuity, a beacon of military might and power. Seeing it brought back an extra pump in Arathea's step, how could it not? It served as a reminder of what she was serving, it did not clear her mind of her pains and doubts, but it did inspire her. Walking in was a good feeling, surrounded by soldiers, neat and orderly surroundings, the faint sound of commanders giving orders in the distance.

Upon introducing herself and the party to the guards they were brought into the courtyard, like the outside of the fortress it was a well taken care of. It brought back memories of all the time she had spent in various fortifications, some grand and some small, and memories of all those who she had served with over her years as a warrior. But the man they were brought to was not like any other who she had served with, immediately upon seeing him Arathea was filled with a sense of deep respect. This was a Storm Rider, elites that soared above the rest, just like her own order. 

Arathea bowed her head. "Yes sir, it is an honor to be in your presence Rimen'arrna." She wondered of all the reasons someone like this would be here, and what they needed specifically from her. She was ready to be told she had another mission waiting for her before any excitement, awe, or frustration at the possibility of having more on her plate was thrown away.

Her father was dead, it seemed fake at first. The one who had encouraged her to join the order, the one who helped form her ideals, her personality. The person closer to her than anyone else in the world ever had been, was dead. She felt as if she was about to throw up, she was telling herself to wake up from this nightmare inside of her mind but instead of jolting from her bedroll in a sweat she just stayed there. Her eyes were blank, her expression was blank, yet her hands were shaking. 

After what felt like hours Arathea snapped out of it, blinking  her eyes rapidly as the riders words registered in her mind. She had a mission, she understood that, she had duties. But she also had duties to her family and it's friends, to her mother and brother, to all those around her father who had helped shape her into who she was. She could hardly bare this without them, and she had a responsibility to be there with them, and so she made her choice. "I... choose to return home, they will be expecting me." She said in shaky words, trying not the break into pieces on the spot. "Thank you for informing me, Aina'Vakha's blessings upon you."

Seleniniel released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding when Arathea agreed to the stormrider's offer. The choice seemed obvious to Seleniniel, but with someone like Arathea it was always hard to tell what duties overrode others. Condolences for her father aside, this was too good an opportunity to pass. An erestor’s funeral would provide plenty of chances to learn how far the knowledge of the wytchwood seeds had trickled down from the speaker. And a chance to convince Arathea of their path without the others’ interference. She’d never ridden a griffon but surely it could bear both of their weight. She took another step towards Arathea and grasped her left wrist. Arathea turned to regard her, and Seleniniel thought she saw a trembling panic behind the steel clenched jaw. But no tears. 

“I'm coming too.” She put just enough inflection at the end to give it the suggestion of a question. Arathea’s brow furrowed with a question, perhaps a hint of anger as Seleniniel felt the tendons in the bladesinger’s wrist flex. Seleniniel released her arm and gave a small smile, trying to soften her eyes into something resembling sympathy... She was ill practiced at such things. “Please.” She gambled with raw honesty. “This is no coincidence. You must go, but not alone… there is… too much at stake.” She begged Arathea to see, and to agree.

((OOC: Arathea absolutely can decline, S is obviously being a little sketch and has not proven to be the kind of company you necessarily want at a funeral))

The return to the mortal plane from the fae realm hadn’t been as disheartening for Dak as it had seemed to be for some of the others. Sure, he lamented the loss of vibrancy and the sense of wonder – the “real world” now seemed washed-out and dreary in comparison to Ysmiril’s – but, at least, here he could touch things, nor did he have to worry about a misstep inadvertently leading him off the edges of reality. He was exceedingly happy to have the bulk of his gear back, too; he’d felt naked without it (even if he hadn’t actually needed any of it while they had been away). The Cid had been a little sorry to see Ysmiril take her leave, as well. The faerie had been a constant among the troupe for long enough, now, that her absence seemed to leave something of a hole in the party’s dynamic.

Fortunately, it was a small hole and, as the group continued to Hyanda Nost without her, it filled itself in rather quickly if not completely. Isilmewen, for example, still seemed to hold on to some sort of longing for the fae’s company (and, perhaps, her realm, too). Seleniniel and Arathea both appeared to wrestle with the task given them by the Fae Court and their duties or loyalties to the Sylvari Empire but, nonetheless, the time spent in Ysmiril’s presence had forged a new sort of bond between the bladesinger and the mage… something less contentious than when they’d first struck out, if not altogether agreeable. Yes, even in her absence, Ysmiril’s influence on the party, for good, bad, or in between, was undeniable. At least from Dak’s perspective.

He was pondering those changes after they’d set up camp that first night en route to Hyanda Nost, puffing on his pipe and observing the goings on about the fire as he was wont to do. He felt a little heartbroken for Isilmewen when she had finally doffed the hienomekko she had been gifted in favor of donning her armor once more. She had folded the thing up and packed it away with something akin to sad reverence in her eyes… I’m sure you’ll find occasion to wear it again, Lala, he thought dolefully, even if you’re alone when that time comes. A droll smirk formed around the stem of his pipe, then, and he puffed out a smoke ring driven by a faint chuckle. I’ll miss it, too, he admitted to himself, but, given what lies before us, I’ll be grateful for the lack of distraction.

His emerald gaze tracked across the camp to where Seleniniel and Arathea were engaged in a low conversation, next. Their voices were indistinct at this distance, so Dak relied on his skill at reading lips to put the Syls’ chat into some sort of context… Musings on the tenuous duality of the intertwined missions and the motivations of those behind each, for the most part… Near the end of their talk, the mage held up a folded piece of parchment and muttered something that he interpreted as suggesting there was more information left behind at the Isil’nari manse than they had carried with them into the wilds. Arathea seemed to agree, although, she still seemed to cling to the idea that the situation was either black or white, reluctant to entertain the idea of any shades of grey in between.

Intrigued by what he’d been able to glean from his observations and, perhaps, even more curious about the contents of the letter Seleniniel had waved about, Dak hopped down from his perch on the fallen log and made his way toward where she sat atop her bedroll, sealing that bit of parchment shut with wax. His intent, of course, was to disarm her with a wisecrack by way of finding a way in to wheedle a little more insight from her. Before he could so much as draw the breath to float a jibe between them, though, Seleniniel cut him off…

“Your ‘Lala’ left you to find your own evening entertainment?” The mage queried from behind the disparaging glare she tried to fix him with. “Shame, to cover her ass with something so crude as a blanket, eeh?”

Someone’s in a lively mood, this evening, the halfling noted, peering through the cracks in her façade. “A shame, indeed,” he grinned around the stem of his pipe as he reached the edge of her claimed space. He flicked a brief glance in the ranger’s direction and gave a deliberate and exaggeratedly disappointed roll of his little shoulders. “Likely for the best, though,” he suggested as his gaze returned to Seleniniel’s face. He flashed an impish smile, cupped the bowl of his pipe with one hand, and waggled the fingers of the other between them; “Distractions and all that, you know?”

“Besides,” he crouched down at the foot of her bedroll and raised a brow, mischief gleaming in his eyes, “entertainment is found easily enough if one knows where to look, eh?” He tipped his head in Arathea’s direction without actually glancing that way; “It seems, for example, that you’ve been entertaining yourself with Lady Ondolethe’s company of late. Assuaging the concerns she has about all of this, perhaps,” his eyes went wide and he feigned a gasp of shock and covered his mouth with a hand, “or, could it be, Seleniniel Isil’nari is forging an actual friendship? Sheilin save me! Miracles abound!”

((OOC: Back and forth as you will. ))

Arathea turned to Seleniniel with judging eyes, watching as the mage grabbed on her wrist. Part of her wanted to pul it off, but she decided to hear the mage out. What came out of her mouth seemed almost insulting but she took a moment to consider it, if Seleniniel was being true to the goal of keeping the mission then Arathea could respect that. The mage had released her, And Arathea took another moment to thing. "I don't know Seleniniel, this is a family affair. The funeral will likely be over by the time we arrive, there won't be much of value for you."

Arathea took another moment, remembering the time in the Shadow Lands. Did Seleniniel hold any real emotional investment? Arathea felt that was unlikely, she figured this was all pragmatic. "You may come with me but, you must be respectful. Do you understand?"

Then 

The cid pressed his luck again, and this time she was not still reeling from the shadow path, but even as a child she'd despised those in the higher houses who thought themselves so far above the rest. Dak had clearly gleaned as much, unsurprisingly. She smiled at his absurdity, giving him a bit of the wordplay he so craved. “Come now, master Whisperfoot, a schemer can’t begrudge scheming.” His words brought a tinge of sadness, though, dampening her smile a bit. “In any event, you know how rare friends are to our kind.” She raised her eyebrow, venturing a bit of honesty. “We are… users.” 

Now

“I understand,” she promised the bladesinger.

As the group made their way from the Fae lands, Mae'rel couldn't help but feel a bit invigorated. They had their purpose now, and it relieved her to know that the debt they would be paying was an essential embodiment of everything she took her oath for. Perhaps the Fae had some degree of ulterior motive, perhaps they wanted it more for the personal benefit that it would bring, maybe they were essentially lying altogether, maybe the Speaker extended her life via other methods. The fact of the matter remained that even if the Fae monarchs were perhaps.. wanting to restore the land to have more people to rule over, or wanting it for some kind of personal wealth, or one of the many other reasons, they would still be restoring life to a wasteland, an undeniable good.

Throughout the travels, Mae'rel was a bit more responsive and engaged than she normally was, willing to engage in casual conversation. She was beginning to warm up to the group; this was true, but something to give her proper optimism about certainly did not hurt either. Of course, that said, she still kept personal details mostly to herself. By sharing her name and more of her identity with this party, she had already given them signficantly more information than she had an overwhelmingly majority of others, and while she hadn't broken her principle of anonymity by doing such, she did not want to risk doing such.

When they arrived in the city of Hynda Nost, Mae'rel intended to initially split from the group for a few days, tending to anyone in the city who needed healing, especially those less fortunate, which was perhaps different from the average cleric upon arriving in a city, but far more important to her. Instead, they ran into the Kosta'cora, an elite soldier, a commander no less. Mae'rel did not know much about the bladesingers, but this man's equipment, the way he carried himself, and the mention of the legendary Storm Riders were enough to say he was important. She suspected that perhaps Arathea was about to be enlisted in a crucial battle, or some other duty, but when he spoke, his news almost seemed to hang over the group.

Mae'rel did not have much to offer in terms of words at first, but after a moment, she collected herself and looked to the bladesinger. Her voice showed empathy in its tone, and her words were understanding, "Madam Arathea.. my deepest condolences. I know we have.. a duty to fulfill, but I completely understand that you must go. We will await your return here, unless you would wish otherwise." She spoke for the group in a way with such a declaration, but she hoped no one else would object. That said, Seleniniel asking to go alongside Arathea was most certainly strange, but since it seemed Arathea was to allow it, she decided not to comment.

At camp

“I begrudge you nothing, Mistress Isil’nari,” Dak said from behind as genuine a smile as she’d ever seen from him, “Our differences aside, there are some things we share in common, you and I.”

At her mention of how uncommon it was for the likes of them to find friends… true friends… the Cid bobbed his head, his teeth bearing down on the stem of his pipe as his gaze flited in Isilmewen’s direction. “Just so,” he concurred, his eyes and smile returning to Seleniniel, “Rare, indeed, and a thing to be treasured above the most glittering of hoards or the highest reaches of power, hm?” He risked reaching out and patting the wizard’s knee before rising to his feet. “I hope you find that, arwenamin,” he offered, his topknot bouncing as he tipped his head toward Arathea, “with Lady Ondolethe or anyone else. Should you do so, I’d also caution you to not squander such a prize in favor of our manipulative nature, yes? Quel esta, Seleniniel Isil’nari,” he grinned, sketching an exaggerated bow before turning to wander off, “I wish you deep sleep and peaceful dreams.”

Hyanda Nost

While the night at camp had passed without incident, it hadn’t been entirely uneventful, and Dak found himself with plenty to think on as Isilmewen guided the party toward the legendary Blade Keep. Those thoughts kept him occupied enough, in fact, that the halfling had travelled in an almost uncharacteristic silence, at least until the towering battlements of the keep came into view. It was such an impressive sight that it served to shunt the halfling’s musings aside in favor of marveling at the majestic architecture. He had been to many places in the Three Kingdoms during his years in service to House Mithethiel but, until now, Hyanda Nost hadn’t made the list. It was as extraordinary a sight as he’d ever seen in all the realms, rivaling even some of the greater Syl cities he’d ever visited. He was so taken by it, in fact, that he didn’t notice (or chose to ignore) the dubious glances that were leveled at him and Ruadhri as they entered the citadel.

His attentions were called back, though, when soon after the party made the courtyard, they were met by an imposing Syl warrior, easily identifiable as one of the elite Rimen’arma by his armor and bearing. The impression that the Storm Rider had been expecting (even anxiously awaiting) their arrival, sent a chill of foreboding along Dak’s spine… This doesn’t look like it’s going to be anything good, he thought, taking in the stern yet sad countenance of the warrior who had introduced himself as Cilthas Tatheme… and it wasn’t good, at all. The Kosta’cora brought unfortunate news, delivered with reserved compassion and discretion, that Arathea’s father had lost his life in a tragic accident. The Cid’s heart swelled with sympathy for the bladesinger, but he swallowed the Storm Rider’s words well-salted. An accident, he considered silently, Possible, but not bloody likely.

Arathea took the news with the stoicism he’d come to expect from her, and seemed to mull over Tatheme’s offer of escorting her back home – weighing family duties against those of her order – but, in the end, as most in her position would do, she chose family. Not surprising. What did  catch the halfling off guard, though, was Seleniniel’s eagerness (or was it insistence) to accompany the bladesinger back home…

“I'm coming too,” the mage asserted, taking hold of Arathea’s arm in an almost too familiar manner, then releasing it just as quickly and giving a sheepish smile, “Please.”

Fast friends, indeed, Dak mused, a brow lifting at Seleniniel’s uncharacteristic display, Or, could it be something else?

“This is no coincidence,” Mistress Isil’nari went on, “You must go, but not alone… there is… too much at stake.”

Ah… There it is, the thief smirked inwardly, intrigued though not entirely surprised.

Although dubious herself, at first, Arathea relented, accepting Seleniniel’s offer of company.

“Madam Arathea,” Mae’rel spoke up, “my deepest condolences. I know we have.. a duty to fulfill, but I completely understand that you must go. We will await your return here, unless you would wish otherwise.”

“Indeed,” Dak nodded solemnly, “my sympathies, as well, Lady Ondolethe, to you and your House. We will await your return. Until then,” as he bowed, his gaze ticked unbidden between Arathea and Seleniniel, “Aa’ menle nauva calen ar’ ta hwesta e’ ale’quenle.”

After being given this task by the greta fae king, Ruadhrí was glad to continue their journey to the sylvari outpost, the atmosphere of the trail much less urgent than it was before the fae had come. However, the mood, unbeknownst to him, would return to gloomy and hopeless as for news that would be beared by the nature-prone humanoids.

The guards of the outpost stood watching but not tense, and showed proper respects and manners when allowing the party to enter the outpost, or at least as much as you can expect when your party of adventorers consist of those like ours but it would turn out that these comments would be even more insensative than usual.

"it pains me to bear such tidings, but your father, Erestor Moreuron Ondolithe, was killed a tenday ago." Ruadhrí's weight and gaze shifted down, closing his eyes as he knew the feeling of loss and greif well. Ruadhrí felt sympathy for the bladesinger, for her situation only got worse and worse-first questioning her loyalties and now processing her fathers death, Ruadhrí then placed a hand on her shoulder and nodded "He steps with an chéad chraein, rest assured" he says before giving her space, conscious that he takes up a lot of it.

Suddenly, his seasoned brown eyes were caught by something truly beautiful, something majestic, something... perfect. Grey in feather and skin, claws and talons, a large muscley build, it was an amazing griffin. Ruadhrí had never seen an animal so perfect in his life and, partly to give Arathea time to descide, stepped carefully towards the majestic beast, his eyes full of respect and interest like a new born calf as he intended to interact with the great bird-lion.

Once in Hyanda Nost proper, Isilmewen tried to relax. It was the end of her guiding them through the wilderness, at least for the moment. The others would find respite here, if not her.

Or, that had been the hope. Isilmewen glanced about, seeking possible familiar faces among those within the Citadel, and looking to find someone from whom she may requisition a resupply of her arrows and a new blade. Then her attention was caught by the warrior that made directly for them. No, not them. Arathea.

News delivered, ill tidings. Isilmewen didn't need to feel to know the weight that just landed upon Arathea. Isilmewen gave a soft nod.

"Go where you must," Isilmewen spoke gently as Arathea announced her departure, "Worry not. We'll not be idle; for myself I'd sooner traverse ahead, that I might know the route better for your return."

In the back of her mind, something pressed at her awareness. The name of Arathea's father. She knew it. But in that moment she was more focused on considering her foray beyond the citadel of Hyanda Nost than idle thoughts that might have given rise to alarm.

Once the party was shown to the barracks, Mae’rel offered only a small bow to the others and slipped away without further notice. Her steps were considerate and cautious, but not because she was afraid of the territory she was in. It was simply how she had adapted; after all, a quiet step was a kind step in places like this.


(OOC: Assuming the keep has SOME place for worship)

She found her way into a small room for prayer and praise. It wasn't remarkable in any way, but many of the small towns she had traveled to had something much like this room. And truth be told, she preferred a small room for worship over a grand church or temple. Those things didn't quite align with her vows, regardless.

From her bag, she withdrew a soft cloth, unwrapping it carefully, an ornately carved piece of wood, resembling the classic thornless rose that Lysora was represented by, much like the pendant she used for miracles.. She placed it against the wall, knelt, and let her hands rest in her lap, palms up.

There were no words, just her thoughts. Breathe in and out. The stillness that made space for clarity. Her words, though not spoken, were bound to Lysora. She thanked the Kind Lady for the journey they had so far, for revealing the opportunity to help others to her. She prayed for many things, but among them, she prayed for Arathea's father to be gently received.

When her eyes opened again, she let a bundle slide from her arm, this one much longer and larger than the first, heavier as well. The sword. Arathea’s bladesinger weapon, the one she had let fall. It was not broken, not damaged in any way, and yet now that Mae'rel looked at it, it was different than when Arathea had wielded it. She couldn't place her hand on exactly what, or how, as the blade remains in physically gorgeous condition, but it was almost best described as silent. Not like an angry silence, but more like something proud, grand, left out in the rain. Like something forgotten almost.

She admired the weapon for a few silent moments and uttered a few words towards the blade before she wrapped it once more. She carried it across the keep, asking after the commander’s location, and after a few questions to a few soldiers, she was directed toward him. When she found the Nost'kano finally, she approached him and offered a small bow.

“Gentle winds, Nost'Kano Saelron. My apologies for intruding, but I am here to present you with a sword. Madam Arathea's sword." She paused for a moment before continuing, "I am sure you know, but Madam Arathea is a bladesinger, and their weapons must never touch the ground. During combat, unfortunately, hers did.. I must confess, I do not know the full weight of such a thing.. I'm not completely familiar with the culture of these warriors.. but it seems best placed in your care until sh-.. until someone else can determine what's best for the blade."


(OOC: Assuming the commander takes the blade, and with no further inquiries. If he has questions or leaves her with the blade, I will address it in a response post.)

When she left (whether with the blade or without), she stepped back into the open air and moved through the keep’s inner courtyards. She asked gently after the wounded. There was not much to be said about the keep's ill or injured. There was only one man who would need her services. A soldier, mauled yesterday by an animal while on patrol. He was still in the infirmary, and the medics had done what they could.

Inside the infirmary, the air smelled a bit different from the rest of the keep. Like herbs, but there was a distinct smell of sweat if you were familiar with it, especially nearer to the bed. The soldier was lying mostly still, his skin pale, and his bandages soaked with sweat, though not very bloodied. He murmured occasionally, nonsense for the most part, and his breath was ragged, shallow. 

The medics had done well, the wounds were dressed properly, the bandages were kept clean, besides the sweat, ointments were properly applied, but medicine could only take the body so far. Especially if it had been delayed. It was likely that the man lost much blood before reaching the medics safely. The Monk found herself kneeling beside his bed, inspecting further.

Finally, she whispered a prayer as she grasped her pendant and let her fingers settle over his heart. There was no burst of light like many thought of miracles, just warmth as his body sealed its wounds.


(OOC: Mae'rel will cast spells as needed to restore the man to mild or full condition, whichever comes first.)

"You are not lost," she murmured. "Not yet."

She stayed beside him long enough for the trembling to ease, and for his fever to begin to subside. When Lysora's hand seemed to have eased his pain enough, she rose from her position. He would still need to rest. There was more to do. But for now, this was enough.

Following the departure of Arathea and Seleniniel, Dak found his assigned bunk in the barracks and unloaded a good deal of his heavier and less than necessary gear. After doffing his armor and changing into the scarlet and gold livery of House Mithethiel, he sat for a moment, resting his legs and pondering the impact and implications of this unfortunate (if unavoidable) delay of the tasks to which they’d been assigned. Both Lord Isil’nari and the Fae Court had expressed, at least, some bit of urgency in the completion of their intertwined missions, but he couldn’t help but wonder what a deferral of a fortnight or so might mean to creatures that lived for centuries or millennia as compared to those who only spent a few decades under the sun.

Surely the Fae’s patience would endure longer, wouldn’t it? Their sense of time (or lack thereof) being vastly different than those of mortal folk and all… and, from what he recalled, they hadn’t imposed a firm deadline. The Sylvari, though, despite their longevity, might have placed more exigent circumstance on a swift resolution.

Will they suffer a delay despite its cause, he deliberated, or, perhaps, can we expect replacements to be dispatched? Orders to carry on with our diminished ranks? There were many possibilities, he supposed, and many variables to consider in all of it… some of those variables, he imagined, were known to very few, and some were known to more than others might expect.

Lots to think on, he decided, slipping from the bunk and padding for the door, and, at least, a bit of time to mull it all over. He paused in the doorway, producing his pipe and tobacco pouch, his gaze drifting over the expanse of Hyanda Nost that was visible from this vantage point. When his fingers dipped into the pouch and found only a few meager flakes of leaf remained, he puffed out a sigh and exchanged it for the little linen bundle that Seleniniel had discarded all those days ago. He packed the pipe from her abandoned supply of moonshade and indulged in a languid puff or two. “Plenty of time, too, I imagine, to restock some supplies and sundries, before those other answers come to light,” the halfling muttered to himself, an almost eager grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he stepped fully outside, “And, at least, some to spend exploring this remarkable citadel...”

Seleniniel waited what seemed like a respectable space after the commander’s condolences. Seeing Arathea’s nod, but when nothing more seemed forthcoming, Seleniniel took the opening left by his parting words. “Nost'kano, if I may.” He had just been turning to attend other business, but returned his full attention to her. She had no need for secrecy from Arathea, but she took a step towards him and lowered her voice on account of the rest of the crowded courtyard. “Before we depart, I have two requirements.” She did not look at him as she spoke, instead fishing in the folds of her robe for the two items she sought. She did not see his arched eyebrow at her phrasing, though he did not interrupt her. She produced the folded parchment with her uncle’s name, handed it to him for inspection as her hand delved back into the robe for signet ring. “I assume, if you know Isilmewen,” she produced the ring, displaying it just as he was turning the letter over to study the seal, “you have a hunch at who I am.” She tucked the ring back in her robe as he gave a nod. “Good. I assume you have falcons. Can you see this delivered? Promptly.” Another nod. “My uncle’s reply is for me. And only me.” As she looked at him expectantly, he finally replied with a terse, “Very well… Lady Isil’nari” The last carried undertones of annoyance that she disregarded as she continued on. “I also need ironshavings. A fistful will be more than enough.” His acceptance was more forthcoming this time, presumably understanding why one such as she would need such a thing. “I have many matters to attend to, but I will see you get your iron before you depart.” He turned and left without waiting for her reply. 

((OOC took a few lite liberties but can retcon as appropriate))

–

A short time later, as they followed the Stormrider to their mounts, Seleniniel entertained a rare moment of self-doubt as she approached the beasts, subconsciously slowing her step as she neared them, taking the cover offered by Arathea and the Stormrider who both seemed at ease… though perhaps Arathea was still anesthetized by the news of her father. Seleniniel studied their looming bulk and tried hard not to think of the similarities between those godsdamned owlbears that seemed a fair cousin to these things.

"Lady Isil'nari," the Stormrider interrupted the thought, "I would recommend that Nila'arato Ondolithe mount first, and you slide behind her. . .  Were you to fall from Tanna here, you would likely not survive."

Tanna… s*** name for such a beast. “Fine” she tried not to show her unease as she watched Arathea smoothly mount after a few quick pointers from their chaperone. Seleninel grabbed a heathy fistful of mane as she struggled to swing her weight up onto its towering back. The Stormrider seemed amused, the griffon altogether unperturbed, thank the gods they’d seemingly given them the tamest of these warbeasts. Arathea grabbed the mage unceremoniously by the back of her robe and tugged her the rest of the way up as Seleniniel huffed in discomfort, finally jostling into an uncomfortable stasis, hiking her robe up and glaring at the Stormrider, daring him to leer at her overexposed thigh. He grinned, uncaring. “Are you ready?” Sarigralle. She wasn’t, but she never would be. He didn’t even give her a chance at a begrudging nod, though. A moment later his shout spurred the beast into motion. The first bound covered half the yard and nearly threw Seleniniel back to it. She rapidly released the bunched mane she had naively hoped would keep her secure and threw a panicked arm around Arathea’s torso just in time for the second bound that sent them airborne. She could barely make out the Stormrider’s whoop of joy over the sound of the beast’s wings as they buffeted huge swaths of air that rapidly gained them altitude in a jolting motion in synchrony with each wingbeat. She shut her eyes as the safety of land rapidly retreated, pressing her whole body into Arathea’s back as she clung to the bladesinger with a desperation that seemed eerily familiar. Sarigraamin. Don’t let me fall, Arathea.