The Hunger is enduring an absolutely horrifying six days. The Dog is attempting to destroy him, mind and soul, at all times. His sanity must remain intact until the full moon for there to be any chance of saving him.
The Hunger is fully willing to fight until the end, but no mortal mind can resist Bellaphex's curse for long. He is going to need all the help he can get.
These two "specialists" are uniquely equipped to fight the curse. Then can temporarily suppress the Dog if it manages to escape, as well as having unique knowledge that helps them guide the Hunger's treatment.
Currently, they are sleeping in shifts, always nearby. One of them is awake and with the Hunger at all times.
In addition, Allophryne has Abeyance. It can be used to completely suppress the curse and the Dog for twenty four hours, but can only be used once by any caster. Thankfully, Hunger never used it before now. It is currently being saved as a last resort to provide a reprieve when the curse is closest to overwhelming him.
Clerics are helpful in keeping Hunger stable. In addition to spiritual and emotional support, they have a wide selection of spells that will be helpful in soothing his mind and preventing the dog from taking control or forcing him to change.
Ideally one cleric should be "on shift" at all times.
Whether it be physically helping to keep him restrained, having a few useful spells or extracts, or even just talking to him, any number of people can help. Even helping the Clerics or "specialists" would be beneficial. This is going to be physically, mentally, and emotionally taxing on them as well.
In this document we will be putting some of the smaller interactions that got overwhelmed by the plot containment breach. This is for smaller scenes that aren't quite worth their own roleplay doc, but still important.
We will be doing them separately with page breaks. For now I am starting a list with the character interactions I want to do. Feel free to add!
Consider all NPC characters currently present as available to talk, even if they're pretty busy.
As the group slowly files out of the potluck, the Tourist and Allophryne begin removing Hunger to the safe location they are preparing. At roughly the same time, the Fury and the Terror leave.
The Tourist briefly breaks away from the group helping the Hunger and approaches them. Her face is hard to read and she says nothing as she approaches.
For her part, the Terror’s face is equally hard to read, and she is, if anything, slightly more silent at the Tourist’s approach. The Fury’s intent is a little more clear; her shoulders are slumped, and her dress is dotted with more than a few singe marks.
Still, as the Tourist gets closer, she straightens, and forces a grimace off of her face. “Thank you for your help, umm… Tourist,” she says, presenting a careful curtsy. “I’m sorry… I don’t really know what else to call you. But we owe you. The Hunger is a good person -- when he’s not hiding the Affliction, I mean, but of course he doesn’t do that often-- I mean he’s not like that most of the time-- you know what I mean.”
The Tourist lets her speak, and is silent for several seconds after. When she speaks, there is both weariness and determination in her voice.
"I am going to bring him back to you. I swear it."
Without another word, she turns to leave.
“We will be waiting,” the Terror says, in her normal voice. The Tourist stops, looks back over her shoulder, nods slowly, and then resumes walking.
It is surprising how someone who stands head and shoulders above almost everyone else present can slip away unseen. Nevertheless, it seems that somehow Echo has managed to give his Shadow, Jahnni, the slip, and uses the opportunity to bee-line towards The Tourist. His face is decidedly un-placid. Approaching in what would be earshot for most elves, and is shouting range for him, he ironically barks at The Tourist.
“You. Seeker.” One hand points a massive finger, while the other clenches and opens, but does not yet reach for his weapon.
She stops, and with even more weariness in her voice, says "Yes?"
He closes the distance quickly, coming to stand much closer than he really needs to be. In spite of this display, however, he has visible difficulty with the words he wishes to say. Finally, he seems to settle on some. “You do not behave correctly.”
She does not flinch at his approach and stares at him for several seconds before replying, “I shall inform my tutors. They shall be distraught.”
Echo bares clenched teeth. “That is also incorrect. You do not speak as you should. You do not act as you should. You do not behave like an Animal.” In spite of his obvious anger, a small flash of satisfaction accompanies his correct pronunciation. “I do not understand you.”
"You are correct, Aggro," she says, "You do not understand us Animals."
While his mouth still scowls, Echo’s eyes expose surprise. There is a pause, then he starts once more, but the fury in his voice has been tempered with hesitation. “If there has been one clear thing to learn in these dangerous lands, it has been that to fight that which you do not understand is folly. I do not understand you.” Surprisingly, he takes a ‘polite’ step back; At least, he’s out of The Tourist’s personal space.
She gives him a look. There is no promise or threat.
"There is a dying man whom only I can save. Do you mind…?"
Echo pauses again, but ultimately, steps to the side, making a dismissing gesture.
"Thank you," she says genuinely as she starts to walk past.
As the Tourist passes, he has one final thing to say, confidence growing as he proceeds. “I… want to understand you. I need to understand you. You may change much of what I know.” His gaze wanders away from her, off into the horizon, back towards the mountain peaks that cannot even be seen from here.
“And when I understand you… Then, I will kill you.”
The Tourist stops dead in her tracks upon hearing that. She turns to face him.
“I would teach you,” she speaks, “but I do not understand us either.”
With that, she leaves.
Shadimon leaves Shrike and Baijani in the grotto, giving them time. He pauses at the opening into the space, looking up at the sky, and then slowly down and along the river to all the beacons and celebrating river elves. He steps aside as he hears movement behind him, moving out of the way, and looks back to see Dust and Steve approaching.
Dust nods to him, and they pause by the winged elf. “Well. That was… something.”
Shadimon rests one hand on Dust’s arm, spreading a wing behind both him and Steve, “It was. Part of me is wondering if Breaker left any of that tequila. I feel like I hit the ground head first again.”
Steve nods. “Goat to the head.”
Dust snorts, opening his arms to offer a hug.
Shadimon sighs and thumps face first into Dust’s chest, keeping a wing open in case Steve wants in on the hug. “Of all the things I expected-”
Steve is a hugger. Steve definitely wants in on the hug. Shadimon abruptly acquires an additional Dreamdust elf for no additional fee.
Shadimon sees no reason to pull away, when he can very much use the hug himself. “There’s not really going to be any better time, so can I ask one of you for a favor?”
“Of course.” Dust ruffles his hair. “What can we do for you?”
“We need as many healers as we can get our hands on. Can one of you send a message to Satri? It’s a long way, and I don’t know if she can make it here in time, but...even if not, she could be a huge help in either looking through Hunger’s notes, or just...preserving his story.”
Dust nods. “And she’d never forgive us for leaving her out, either. One of us can notify her, I’ll find out if anyone else needs a message sent. The feathers are amazing, but, uh. Trying to condense this into 25 words…”
“I know, and our feather is at Asavardi anyway, and Satri isn’t.” Shadimon suddenly pauses and thumps his forehead against Dust, “I was going to ask what other people thought should be done with the feather Coyote stole. Not exactly important right now, really.” He sighs, “But yes, if you can try to pass on as much information as you can, that would be great. I don’t mean to take advantage of you like this, but…”
“No trouble, we’re happy to help. We’ll all be around for a while, there’s time enough to discuss the feather.”
“Point.” Shadimon goes quiet for a moment and finally squirms free just enough to look past Dust back toward the grotto. “I don’t suppose you have any of that tea you gave me before? I have a feeling Shrike at least is going to need it tonight...”
“I do, in my things. Let’s go get it.”
Later:
Dust sat on the ground in front of Anasatri, in her dreams. "Hi! The great thing about dream messages is that I know for sure you're laying down for this. Now then, to business..."
Several hours have passed since the visit to the grotto. The Dog has returned with a vengeance. Allophryne, Eina, and the Tourist have been struggling to keep it under control. With no time to spare, they were forced to drag him to the nearest raft which happened to be the Hylidae family home. Having temporarily chased Litoria and Smilisca out of their home, they had to lash him to the low dining table right in the middle of their living room. It was an excruciating few hours of trying to contain a resurgent Dog.
Now, in the early hours of the morning, Hunger is in control of himself. He is, however, unable to sleep.
Given that he is stable, the Tourist gives both Eina and Allophryne instructions to get some rest. She will wake them if he loses control again. For now, Hunger is himself and alone with the Tourist, save for Eina’s light snores. He is, of course, still tied to the table.
The Tourist sits next to him for a few quiet minutes before speaking.
“I apologize for biting you.”
“I’ve had worse injuries,” the Hunger mutters. “Though not many. Accepted. And I apologize for… not being more forthright when we first met. I had been expecting a spy; I suppose at the time I was thinking like one, myself.”
The Tourist nods, “Accepted.”
She looks at him carefully before speaking again, “My name is Bryti.”
The Hunger pauses. “...Call me Guy.”
Bryti smirks at him, “You and I both know I am never going to stop calling you Innkeeper.”
“That’s fair, Tourist,” the Hunger says. “I am one, to some extent. Keeping Surt in alcohol and salted nuts is a frustrating endeavor on the best days.”
Bryti chuckles at that, “And I am a Tourist, to some extent. I certainly seem to find myself in strange places. Tourist is better than Seeker, at any rate. I can’t believe I once thought that clever.”
“Let me know when you strap a mask to your face and insist that everyone call you a vaguely unpleasant thing. That’s when you’ve truly hit rock bottom.”
“I still think that thing looks ridiculous, by the way.”
“You won’t hear any argument from me at this point. ...We were all a little out of our heads at the time. At least Fury and Scary back there had the sense to pick something dramatic to use as a base for the ritual; you wouldn’t want to know what this thing is made of.”
“What, a chamber pot?”
Hunger rolls his eyes. “The governor’s dining set. His dessert set, to be precise.”
She shrugs, “I can see what you were going for. I can think of worse things to strap to your face forever out of spite.”
“Yes, but you don’t have to wear it. It’s like a terrible tattoo; a few years go by, and you’ll start wondering at how imbecilic you truly are every time you see it in the mirror. ...And speaking of imbeciles… how long until we can get this confounded canine out of me?”
“I suppose I’d rather regret it by now if I had gotten ‘Seeker’ tattooed on my forehead…”
Her smile falters at the second part of his question, “Five days, and about… eight hours from now. It has to be done under Luna’s full light, in view of Her.”
She gives him a more serious look, “Guy, you need to know what is going to happen. I was quite serious when I told you that mortal magic cannot simply remove the curse at this point. Ritual and ceremony aside, there’s little I can actually do. At this point, the curse has wormed its way so deep in your soul, I can’t simply drag it out like I would a fresh curse. The only one who can do that is you. When the time comes, you will have to force it out yourself. The only thing I can do is open the door.”
Hunger sighs. “That will be enough; I’ll make sure of it. And I think I know where its grips are. ...I’ll admit, I wasn’t as certain six months ago, as I am now.”
“That’s good,” she answers, “From what I understand, the hardest part at this point will be understanding where you end and the curse begins. It is not simply a battle of wills. It is a crisis of identity, that you must resolve while it is trying to kill you. You will have to know with absolute certainty what parts of you contain the Dog.”
She pauses, “I… admit that I am going on theory, here. There are precious few recorded accounts of anyone even attempting to cure the affliction at this point. Fewer still that you would want to hear the outcome of.”
“Even a slim chance is better than nothing,” the Hunger said. “So I’ll take it. And I’m still serious about the… alternative solution. I’d still rather die than see that thing take over.”
“I will kill you before it takes you. I swear that to you.” She pauses, “... Fuck.”
“Something wrong?” he asks.
“Yes,” she growls at him, “I just remembered that I also swore to the Fury and the Terror that I would bring you back to them. So if you give up and die, you’ll make me a liar and I will kill you for that.”
The Hunger chuckles. “You didn’t promise you’d deliver me straight to Surt as well, did you?”
Bryti laughs, “Yes, and I’m sure I could explain that technicality to Terror before she broke my lower jaw in half again.”
“Don’t sell yourself short on that. She wasn’t much more alive after fighting you than she was after fighting Dreyugr.”
Bryti falls silent for several moments after hearing that.
“I don’t eat people.” Is all she manages to blurt out.
Hunger sighs. “My apologies,” he says tiredly. “I did not mean to imply you did. Or connect you to crazed dictators beyond your ability to deck Terror and stand up afterwards--”
Bryti genuinely laughs at that, “‘Standing’ is a rather generous description of what I was doing. The illusion I was using to distract you talked very tough, but I rather more looked like a fuzzy bag of fishing bait rolling down the road.”
Hunger snorts. “If it helps, she was canned fish bait.”
“I suppose we rather made a scene.”
“One of the political factions spent three months searching house to house for ‘Lycan infiltrators.’ It took ages to get them to sit down, and they’re still an annoyance on occasion. Really, they named the tavern after you. You were practically Surt’s first celebrity.”
“I suppose I should thank them for that. I heard a lot of descriptions of the artwork they made of me. I have gotten quite a bit of use out of it. Making myself appear to be twelve feet tall and breathing ice like some kind of white dragon works quite handily with that illusion spell. Very distracting.”
“Please do. Thank Tsun in person. Seriously. Even if I’m dead, this ritual will have been worth it.”
She tilts her head at him, “I have no idea who that is.”
“Edgy adolescent with an attitude and some serious delusions. You’re better off. The ‘Lycan infiltrators’ gimmick was her idea -- and proof of how little time she spent in a city before the war.”
“Absolutely,” she nods, “I have proven to be an objectively terrible infiltrator.”
Hunger nods. “You’re far too noticeable. Like a torch in a dark room.” He paused. “Also, loud. Like an angry foghorn.”
“I suppose I should apologize for the howling too. I got… carried away. It happens.”
Hunger shrugs. “Nothing to apologize for. You paid the fine.”
Bryti laughs at that, “Yes, Shadimon quite enjoyed my mail fraud.” she pauses, “Did you know that I wasn’t responsible for your affliction at the time?”
“...Can I call you as a witness at his trial? And… somewhat. I had not yet concluded that you didn’t carry it, but the odds were against it being your fault from the beginning. The timing was off. And at the time, well… it wasn’t like I was blameless, myself. You only bit me on your way out, and only because I didn’t forewarn you that an extremely angry murder machine was on her way. I could hardly blame you for defending yourself.”
“Perhaps, but I believe I slightly overreacted to the scenario.”
“Water under the bridge. I thought you were a spy, you thought I was trying to kill you, Captain Doukas thought you were going to eat him -- and that’s before we knew you were a Lycan. It resolved itself well enough.”
“I suppose I’m still banned, then?”
“I’ll see about getting you an appeal when I get back.”
“I’ll take it,” she smiles at him, “Perhaps this time I won’t maul any local politicians on my way in to bring you back.”
“...Could you make an exception for Tsun? It might help the appeal process. Or at least scare Barry a bit; he could use a good scare or two.”
“Oh, far too late for Barrabus. I already asked for his signature on a copy of Love Bites. He’ll never believe I’m the big bad wolf again.”
Hunger pauses. “You can’t see it, but I’m raising an eyebrow at you.”
She folds her arms, “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. They’re absolutely awful and I need a laugh sometimes.”
“I better not wake up in a dress at the end of this, Tourist.”
“Oh, please, Innkeeper, there’s not nearly enough meat on you for my tastes.”
“Well, remind me to tell him to skip this part in his next book. I think ‘long and painful soul surgery’ would put a damper on the romance.”
“Honestly, ‘long and painful soul surgery’ sounds a lot like Barrabus’ writing anyway.”
A slight snort from Eina distracts her momentarily. She blinks then glances back at the Hunger. She peeks a glance out one of the windows nearby.
“We’ve been talking for almost an hour,” she says.
Hunger nods. “I’m still… myself. At least for now. Clearly, talking helps.”
“Spite and sarcasm…” she chuckles, “An unorthodox way to fight the curse, but I will take it.”
Bryti looks over to Guy, “You should sleep. You seem stable for now. Rest will make your mind stronger. If it tries to fight, I will wake you and start talking again. I promise.”
“Thank you, Bryti.”
She nods to him, “Sleep, Guy.”
Bryti snuffs the nearby candle that has been giving them light. The Hunger tries to sleep.
She's a bitch, the Dog growls quietly in his mind.
That's technically correct, Hunger replies.
The Dog does not answer. The Hunger is able to get a few hours of peaceful sleep. Bryti stays sitting next to him. She remains alert, awake, quiet, and completely still until dawn.
After Bryti and Allophryne have escorted Hunger away, people slowly drift out of the grotto. Many of them have shell-shocked expressions, and a general consensus sees most people wandering back toward the bonfire and the tables still filled with food. Conversation is quiet, for the most part.
Baijani abruptly drops out of the air a short distance away, grabs the basket they had brought, and starts piling an assortment of food into it. She glances up at the small crowd, “You know. We’re all shaken up and various shades of upset. If anyone needs some quiet, and to be shaken up and upset with other people, come camp with us. This is no night to be alone.” She gathers the basket and, instead of flying, starts walking down stream toward a smaller camp fire.
The small camp the winged elves have set up is far enough for some quiet, but not so far they can’t still hear the music from the party. Baijani drops the basket of food in the center of a circle that consists of the winged elves, the dreamdust elves, and Amenidal. “Eat, my children. No use wasting it or going to bed on an empty stomach.”
Amenidal doesn’t glance up from the book open in his lap as he scribbles in it with purpose. “Sorry teta,” he mumbles in the voice of one far too focused on the goings-ons in their own head, “I won’t have an appetite for a few more days at least.”
“Yes, I remember. Barely eating enough to keep a bug alive.” She turns her stare on the other winged elves, who dutifully pick through the basket for small snacks. Steve and Dust are not exempt, and Baijani finally sits down when they have food too.
The winged elves are all sitting close together, wings or arms draped over each other. Shrike is in the middle of the group, and still looks the most shell-shocked. Baijani and Shadimon are on the edges, wings spread enough to include Amenidal and the dreamdust elves. The quiet is companionable.
There is an alarmingly familiar sound of stomping feet nearby. The quiet becomes something less than companionable as a clearly drunk Breaker half-storms, half-stumbles into the area. Oddly, instead of yelling or causing some kind of fight, she just stares at the group for a moment.
Apparently having made a decision, she walks towards the circle and awkwardly scoots her way to seated.
"Uh, hola," she tries not to slur, "Ran outta booze, 's I should eat somethin' 'fr I puke…"
Shrike tenses, her distant stare snapping into focus on Breaker. Neither she nor Baijani speak as Shadimon leans forward and shoves the food basket toward Breaker with one wing. “Try to at least make it to the river, if you must,” he says, wry.
Breaker makes an attempt at something that might be a salute and reaches for something bread based, "Sounds good…" she blinks at the group around her, "... aw, fuck, I'm bein' a bitch again, ain't I?"
“Not quite yet. Everyone was invited, you said hello, and you’re not shouting.” Shadimon looks her over, “You look like shit. Did you really drink that whole thing by yourself?”
She shrugs, "The lizard had a few shots…"
He shakes his head a bit, “Eat up, then.” Baijani had grabbed a generous selection of a little bit of everything. He kind of hopes Breaker finds one of the extra-spicy things.
Breaker eats just about anything she’s offered, whether it’s advisable or not. She either likes spicy food or is too drunk to care. After a few minutes, she sits and looks at the group.
“Th’ rivers’ got a weird idea of a party, but I sure like th’ food…” she looks around at the group staring at her, “Oh… right… y’all all… uh... “
There is a long pause, “... I put some of those names on that wall, didn’ I?”
Amenidal’s ear turns in her direction before his gaze follows it. He tilts his head at the very drunk new person who he has never seen before tonight, and proceeds to fail at reading the tone of the others around him. “We all put names on that wall.”
Dust meets Breaker’s gaze squarely. “We all put names on that wall,” he echoed. “Some of us more literally than others.”
"N'yet, here I am Brujo…" Breaker sounds shockingly contemplative. She looks over to Dust, "I wan't be one a' the good guys… but 'm shit at it."
Dust snorts. “You think the rest of us aren’t? The point is to keep trying. I try to make up for wrongs when I can, and let those I can’t stay in the past where they belong.”
"I put Coyote on the wall," she says with slightly more lucidity, "An' he's stayin' there. That's a start?"
“That’s a good start.” Dust raises his glass in a silent toast, passing her some water.
"Gracias," she takes the water and downs it, "'M gonna keep tryin'. Promise."
With that, Breaker goes back to eating every bread based thing she can find.
The small camp goes quiet again, almost companionable. Shadimon looks around for a moment, “Amenidal, do you know where Shyrendora might be hiding?”
Amenidal gives Shadimon a confused stare before looking around, his ears turning a few different directions. “Um...well when she wants to hide, she does it really well. My best guess would be that she is still in the grotto and drinking or uh...somewhere? Hopefully close by?”
“About what I expected. I saw that flask of hers come out pretty enthusiastically.” Shadimon stands up, dusting off his pants and resettling his wings. “I’m going to go see if I can strong-arm her into joining us. Wish me luck.”
Shadimon returns a short while later with Shyrendora, somewhat surprisingly. The camp is still quiet; Breaker appears to have passed out, and Baijani and Dust are talking quietly. Shadimon can smell the familiar, awful smell of the dreamdust tea coming from a small kettle by the fire. Shrike is flat on the ground, snoring; it looks like someone either talked her into it or held her down and made her drink it, but either way, the rest will be good for her. As they get closer, a glimmer of light catches his attention, and he sees Amenidal peeking out from under Shrike’s wing. Dhakamari is on Shrike’s other side, tucked under his own wings.
Baijani glances up at them and pats the blanket she’s sitting on, “Come join us. Shyrendora, I know you’re probably just starting your day. I’m sure the rest of you nocturnal people can keep each other company once we’ve gone to bed. Which will probably be very soon. It’s been an eventful day for us all.” She reaches over to smooth down some of Shrike’s feathers, “You’re all welcome to join the pile during the night, of course.” She smiles a little at Amenidal, “And attempt to escape, if you can. But now that all of my children are accounted for, I’m done for the night, I think.” She pushes Shrike’s wing over a bit and settled down next to her, adding another wing on top of Amenidal.
Shadimon drops onto the blanket and glances up at Shyrendora, but accepts her tiny head-shake. “I think I’m about done too. Don’t worry about waking any of us up; we can ignore conversations.” He raises his eyebrows and grins at Dust, “And aren’t terribly surprised to wake up to strange people in our beds.”
Dust returns the eyebrow and nods. “I may join you later, closer to my usual bedtime.”
Shadimon walks back toward the grotto, passing the celebrating river elves. He smiles and accepts well-wishes, but doesn’t stay long. The grotto itself is empty, with most of the torches inside having gone out. He keeps one hand along the wall, being very careful of his footing, and slowly makes his way inside.
"Rit’ honvoAss shit y’ stupid…..kurva…whore”
Shadimon raises his eyebrows and makes his way around the grotto. In the light from the remaining torches, he can just see one of her ears sticking out from behind a rock. The muttering continues as he gets closer, and the smell of very particular alcohol gets stronger. He makes no attempt to move quietly - and in fact very audibly stumbles over a few loose rocks - and leans around the rock she’s hiding behind. “Creative. Do I want to know?”
Shyrendora is a blur of movement as she launches into Shadimon, using her weight to drive him to the ground with her arm pressed hard against his throat. The snarl on her face shifts to startled blinking. “O...hai...oops?”
“...Ow. That good, is it?”
She removes her arm and mutters a very slurred “Prepáč…Sorry”
Slowly, she scoots off of Shadimon and flops gracelessly onto her ass. “Why’r y’ here?”
Shadimon sits up, stretching the wing that got awkwardly bent under him. “Why are you?”
A frown crosses her face and she squints some. “I ask’d first…” She then waves a hand in the general direction of the exit of the grotto, “I dun...I need t’ be here. Not there.”
He tilts his head, “Why?”
Shyrendora goes quiet for all of two seconds before shrugging, “Happier out there. Can’t...say zbohomGoodbye yet. Dun deserve t’ say it yet.”
Shadimon sighs and gets more comfortable on the stone floor. His wings are relaxed, draping feathers around him like a cape. “Neither do I.”
That gets a humorless laugh, “Nun do. I jus’ like t’ wallow.” She looks back to the wall and sighs, “Too many names.”
He squints in the dark, “I can’t even see most of them anymore. But I know they’re there. Is it not enough to know? Do you have to take it out and look at it every day?” He slowly lifts one wing, cupping it behind her, and sets his hand on her knee.
Shyrendora shifts to where she is leaning more into the wing, almost as if unaware that it is there. She shakes her head and blows some of her hair out of her face. “Keeps me grounded. Reminds me of w’at I dun wanna be. If I put it away...might start goin’ tha’ way.”
“What don’t you want to be?”
“Him.”
“....Who?”
Shyrendora turns a sharp grin to him, “An asshole.”
Shadimon snorts, “You are an asshole, but not in a terrible way.” He looks up past the walls to the sky, “You and I have the same problems. We both take too much on ourselves, and won’t let people help us. To protect them.” He puts an arm over her shoulders, “It’s an easy pattern to get locked into. Especially for those of us who...didn’t plan on being leaders. Even if you still feel a need to carry everything, there are other people who can help give you a tailwind. If you’ll let them.”
She allows the arm and maybe even leans into it slightly.
It is a while before she says anything and the first part of it starts with an exciting pthbth noise. “I’m...tryin’. They built me a room. With a bed. Is weird.”
Shadimon is surprised into a laugh. “It was a landing deck for me. Now that...now that I don’t live alone, I keep expecting to come home and find entire new rooms. I kept having to shoo people out and get them to focus on actual public projects.”
He goes quiet for a minute, “After I got home from Coldwater, people...gave me things. Clothes, food, housewares, things like that. Every day for over a week there would be a pile - an actual pile, not one or two things - of packages by my door. It made me uncomfortable, just like you and your room. We’re so used to giving everything we have and then some, taking is hard. Feels wrong. But...you can’t pour from an empty pitcher. Eventually the wind dies, you stall, and someone else is there to catch you.”
For the most part, Shyrendora seems to be keeping up with most of what Shadimon is saying. Like, potentially every three words for maybe the first two sentences. “I’ve ne’r had a room before…”
She cuts off and squints at him suspiciously. “Wind dies? How does wind die? Is tha’ a surfacer thing? Phrase...thing?”
“Ah, sorry. Probably specific to us. We can ride the wind; it saves us effort. But the wind can stop or change direction and you have to scramble to keep going if it happens too suddenly for you to predict.” He glances over at her, “I’m saying this badly, and it’s important. You give and give and give, and eventually you have nothing left. I came very close to running out, and didn’t even realize it. Not until people started giving back, and I realized how little I had. I’m afraid you’re sitting right on that ledge too, and I’d hate to see you fall.”
The suspicious squint turns into a cross-eyed frown, “Ride the…? Oh. Right, wings.” She waves a hand as if to chase away stray thoughts.
“I’ve always had very little, I am well acquainted with the ledge you speak of.” She sounds deceptively sober for the moment. “I will never take. It’s what he did. Giving of yourself is harder, and I owe my people a great debt.”
There is a pause before a forehead collides somewhat harshly against the side of Shadimon’s jaw. “Th’nks tho. Y’r a good person. Friend. Flapflap.”
Shadimon refrains from rubbing his jaw and starts to stand up, pulling her with him. “All right. Another time for that, then. For now, come on. You don’t need to sit in here by yourself all night. We set up our own camp back away from the party a bit. Come sit with us for awhile. Baijani already kidnapped Amenidal.”
Shyrendora sighs dramatically, “Oh woe, I am ‘n empty flask...guess I can’t mope ‘ny more.” She leans back more against the wing behind her and holds out her wrists in a ‘take me away sir’ gesture. “Take me ‘way t’ th’ happy land so I can sulk amongst th’ rabble.”
Shadimon laughs and puts his arm back over her shoulders to keep her from stumbling, “Whatever you keep in that flask of yours, pass us the recipe. The rest of us might need it.”
There is a heartening amount of laughter as Shadimon, night-blind, and Shyrendora, blind drunk, make their stumbling way back to the small camp.
“Nobody say a fucking word.”
Breaker’s angry grumbling is somewhat less intimidating due to the fact that it is muffled by feathers. In the (no longer quite so) early hours of the morning she slowly rouses only to find that at some point, someone put her in the recovery position and put a wing over her. She is a little baffled by this, but when someone hands her some hot tea to help fight off the hangover she calms down.
Baijani spots her being uncharacteristically quiet and sipping tea while sitting next to the winged elf group that is slowly waking themselves. She is conscious, sober, and calm. This is an unusual combination for her, and might be a good time to talk to her.
Baijani gets herself a cup of tea as well and rummages through the leftover food from the previous night. There’s impressively little left, which probably accounts for Breaker being as lucid and upright as she even is. Baijani takes her mug and sits a reasonable distance from Breaker, looking her over with a healer’s eye. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I ran out of tequila,” Breaker grumbles. She seems fine, for the most part, which is fairly impressive considering the sheer amount of alcohol she consumed. She glances around the group of elves then looks to Baijani,
“Uh, I didn’t say anything really stupid to you guys last night did I?”
“Not to us, no.” She mostly manages to keep a grin off her face, “You had some things to say about Terror though. Confessing feelings and the like.” She puts her chin in her hand, “But it was a delight to see Terror absolutely taken aback, so no complaints from me.”
Breaker very slowly closes her eyes, “Aw, shit, that actually happened. No, I didn’t drink enough tequila to forget that. Madre, I bet I looked like an idiot.”
Baijani shrugs her wings, “Maybe, but an idiot with conviction and the nerve to tell Echo of all people to back off.” She looks Breaker over again, “You are a very different woman than who I talked to before.”
Breaker hastily covers her mouth by drinking some tea, “Nope, just on a different side now. Better one, so far.”
“The ‘good guys’, you said. What are you going to do now?”
Breaker sighs and looks at the tea, “Go make sure I didn’t piss off the best military commander on this half of the continent by acting like I was gonna crawl under her armor last night, what else?”
Baijani’s chuckle is quiet, mostly. “Unlikely. Who knows, maybe she’ll let you take the armor off.” While Breaker chokes on her tea, Baijani glances to where the other winged elves are starting to get up, and carefully giving her and Breaker some space. When she looks back at Breaker, her expression is more serious, but not unkind. “What you’re going to be doing in the future, it’s not going to be easy. You know that. You’ve been hammered into a particular shape, and those habits are going to be hard to break. If it’s hard, and frustrating, and you feel like shit about it, you’re going in the right direction.” She raises an eyebrow, “You also have a painfully earnest little cleric to make mournful faces and keep you honest.”
Breaker actually laughs a little and takes a sip of tea, “Yeah, look… you, of all people, I owe an explanation, si? I mean, with the whole… cliffs thing…” she coughs awkwardly, “I know what you’re sayin’. So I’m gonna tell you what I’m feelin’, just this once. What I’m feelin’ is hundreds of people’s eyes on my back who for some fucking reason think this bitch is the one who knows what she’s doing. Hundreds of ‘em who betrayed the meanest sonuvabitch they’d ever met, followed me into the desert, and called themselves Vaqueros. Hundreds more back in Coldwater who I gotta get in line. I fuck up, I take them with me. So it doesn’t really matter who I am, matters what I do, and what I’m gonna do is try to be who they think I am. That good enough for you abuelita?”
Baijani looks at her for a very long moment before slowly nodding, “You’ll do, I think. Your actions shape who you are. And I’ll tell you a secret. None of us know what we’re doing.” She raises her voice a bit, “Dust might, but you’ve seen what happens when we leave Shadimon without supervision.” She smiles at the irritable grumbling and rude gesture he throws at her back.
Breaker laughs, “What, turn the best cavalry commander alive against your enemy and on your side? Seems like he did pretty good to me, no?”
“Thank you,” from behind Baijani.
Baijani grins, all teeth, “And all by pure dumb luck and improvisation. You can think on your feet; you’ll manage.”
“Yeah, well,” Breaker grumbles, “Lemme think on my feet how to keep Terror from blowing up for real.”
Several winged elves try and fail to stop a small wave of giggles from spreading out.
Terror growls, with the sound of an empty stomach.
"Well, if I thought you'd want some breakfast, I would have brought you some," Fury says. "But someone made their mask without enough of a mouth to eat through."
Fury plops onto a nearby stump, and scoops some runny duck eggs from her plate and into her mouth. She closes her eyes, and smiles; a bit of steam trails out from her lips. "These are excellent," she says, after a second.
Terror, seated on the ground a few steps away, glares at her.
"And the fish is perfect," Fury says, delicately plopping a chunk into her mouth, and openly savoring it, her eyes closed.
Terror turns back towards the dock, and resumes meditating.
She'd stepped down here, off the boats and a few steps into the untamed forest, specifically to give herself a quiet place to meditate. Fury had followed her. This wasn't exactly unusual -- and Terror had noticed how nervous Fury was -- but the insistence on taunting Terror with tantalizing eggs (she tried to ignore how much her mouth was watering) made her really, really tempted to haul Fury back to the boats and toss her in the river.
Fury coughs. "Terror..."
Terror mutters like a dying xylophone.
"I think someone wants to talk to you."
Terror looks up.
Breaker was hanging around a copse of trees, no more than a hundred feet away, and regularly glancing in their direction.
"I better leave you two alone to talk," Fury says, smirking. "I'll go and make sure Barry hasn't been eaten by a hippopotamus." She stands, puts her plate to her waist, and saunters off towards the boats. "Have fun!"
Muttering to herself, Breaker approaches. She's still wearing the same clothes as last night, looking extremely disheveled and with dark circles under her eyes. She has her hands shoved in her pockets as she approaches.
"Uh, Hola," her voice sounds like she has recently gargled gravel, "I'm… glad the lupa didn't kill your friend. That was some crazy shit, right?"
She does not sound convincing.
Terror sighs. “No kidding. Cal’s blessing, that was a weird day.” She stands back up. “Though I wouldn’t consider him safe yet. I might kill him. Two years?”
"Yeah, that's crazy. That big palace of yours hasn't had any cleaning staff go missing or anything, I fucking hope." Breaker kind of grits her teeth.
Terror shakes her head. “It hasn’t. Or if it has, I haven’t noticed… but I’m betting it hasn’t. He’s too careful, and… generally not murderous? I don’t know. Honestly I… we made agreements about this, during the war. Hunger, Fury, and I. I don’t think he’d risk this unless he was certain he could keep it contained. But I also didn’t think he’d risk this period, and clearly he did.”
"Yeah…" Breaker kind of trails off.
There is a long and awkward pause.
"Fuck it," Breaker grumbles, "I'm sorry I acted like a drunk crazy horny bitch to you last night."
There is an even longer and more awkward pause.
“I don’t see what you’re apologizing for,” Terror said. “You weren’t the one announcing to the world that I’m ‘arousing’. Apparently.”
Breaker coughs into her hand, covering her expression.
"Yeah but I made the fucking tongue comment first…" she mutters, "Mira, I know you didn't need some crazy bitch jumping up on a fucking table and acting like I staked a fucking claim on you." She suddenly turns red, "Fuck…"
Terror also turns red -- glowing red-hot. "I forgot about that one," she says. She put a hand on the back of her head, and stared at her feet. "And… umm… I didn't really mind you defending me."
"Well at least I didn't piss you off…" Breaker's shoulders slump, "Look, I… I'm just gonna say what I came here to say. Don't worry about it. Yeah, I got some… stupid… fucking crush on you, but it doesn't matter. I'm fine. I'll back off and behave."
Terror starts. "I could… kind of tell. And I mean, umm… I'll admit, I'm not good at this. In fact I'm terrible at this. But umm. Well... you don't have to."
"Don't," Breaker's face suddenly twists up with emotion, "Just don't. You're the fucking Terror. You're the big bad bitch of the fire elves, hell of all the elves," her voice cracks slightly as she raises her voice, "and you're a real elf, you don't need some psycho half-breed tagging along, it's fucking pathetic, and it don't matter because all you gotta do is just wait around a few decades and hey, problem fucking solved!"
Terror stands frozen for a few seconds, while a bit of steam curls out from around her mask. Finally, she speaks. “Wait. Hold a second. Why would -- Cal’s eighth arm, I don’t care about that! And you shouldn’t! And you shouldn’t downplay yourself here -- you’re Breaker! As in probably the best horserider the continent has ever seen, as in ‘killed Coyote’... and I’m pretty sure you’ll practically own Coldwater when you get back there! I’m not that big of a deal, trust me, I’m just… paying down an oversized debt…
“I’m not saying I’m not interested. I… just don’t get attention like this often, honestly, really. Especially twice at once, as with yesterday. In fact…” The steam trailing from her mask darkens, forming trails of smoke. “I’m kind of saying I am interested, if you’ll bear with me a bit on it and…”
"Fucking right I'm Breaker!" she yells again, "I'm not some fucking delicate flower that's gonna wilt if you don't water me enough! I'm a big girl, you don't have to let me down easy Espanta. I am going back to Coldwater and I am gonna keep the fucking place from falling apart if I have to drag everyone back in myself! Even if the Terror... doesn't…"
She kind of falters for a moment, "And madre diosa, how the fuck can you say you're not a big deal? They had you light the fucking bonfire! Literally last night! I thought I had problems, fuck…"
Terror waves her hand. “Yes, because they think I won a battle, when you did most of the work! And it was nice, but I’m practically a firestarter kit in a can these days-"
"I did most of the-" Breaker gestures wildly at Terror, "Coyote would have murdered me without your plan! I literally owe you my life! I have told you that more than once! You got it backwards! You built the bonfire, all I did was spark it off, and by that I mean stab the hijueputa in the neck! You saved my life and everything I care about! Fucking take credit for it!"
“All I did was put some lizardfolk there -- I didn’t expect him to trip over them! And you’re the one that killed him! I barely contributed! I… why are we arguing about this?”
"I have no idea!"
Terror paused. “Should we just… claim one of the tables on the raft, and chat a bit? The eggs they were serving smelled astonishing.”
Breaker deflates. Her arms flop to her sides. She exhales and closes her eyes, then rubs them hard with her palms. She opens them and blinks at the Terror.
"I want you to do something." Her voice is quiet and sounds more strained than ever, "I want you to look me in the eyes and say 'Kiara Cazares, I saved your life.'"
Terror pauses. “Kiara Cazares, I… Kia-- Breaker, I’m sorry, but I can’t just say that. Please understand--”
"I'll be seeing you around, Espanta."
Without another word, Kiara Cazares turns and walks away.
Terror stands there for several minutes, unmoving, staring at the ground, until eventually Fury and Barrabus stroll over to her side.
“You okay, Terror?” Fury says, putting a hand on her arm. “It doesn’t look like that went well.”
“I’m going to throw you in the river,” Terror mutters.
“Definitely didn’t go well,” Fury says, carefully pulling her hand back.
Barry frowns. “I know it isn’t exactly your thing, your terribleness, but if there’s something you wish to talk about…”
“I want to know why nothing makes sense anymore,” Terror says, her voice falling into a corpse-like whisper.
Barry smiles rather desperately. “The ways of love have never made sense, to be honest,” he says. “Least of all to me.”
“Then barring that,” Terror corpse-whispers, “Claim for me a plate of those eggs, and a huge basket I can hide under.”
The first day after the Hunger’s vigil has begun, the clerics who have agreed to help try to get their shifts worked out. They congregate on Eina’s raft, the closest thing to a church that exists in Partager. She generously offers the group use of her living space for the duration of their stay.
The Tourist suggested a cleric be on watch at all times to help ease the suffering the Hunger is enduring, but with only three available that is going to be difficult. It is beginning to look like Vahn is going to have to take all evening and night, which is frustrating, but she is prepared to do it.
That is, until a few minutes into the planning, one of the newcomer Cryptids… well, Cryptids her way into the room. Without saying a word, she steps up to the page and writes her name into a large portion of the night shifts, giving Vahn a good number of precious breaks.
Still then folds her hands back under her robes and stands in a corner of the raft, still not saying a word.
Eina looks to Still and raises a webbed palm as if she is considering asking a question, and then thinks better of it.
Still looks at Eina. She very slowly moves a hand to her neck and gently takes her holy symbol out from under her robe. It is a holy symbol of Calestros, made of platinum. It appears to have been actually broken, then put back together with a circle of silver holding it together.
She places it back under her robe, then gives what is unmistakably a smile.
Baijani gives Still an interested look and a small salute with the hand not busy holding Vahn’s baby, “Excellent. Shall we talk spells then?”
Still quietly gestures to the rest of the group, then folds her hands. She appears to not want to speak.
As the Tourist comes off shift a day into the Hunger's vigil, Grandmaster Ehra Indrek approaches her. He walks up to her and gives a formal blade elf bow. She does not return the gesture.
The Tourist folds her arms and states, "Indrek."
He gives her a calculating look, then asks, "Are you a Vatik or a Veraseggr?"
Bryti shakes her head, "The Vatiks and Veraseggrs are all dead. My name is only Bryti."
"I see." Ehra watches her carefully, "Artjom…?"
"Was killed by Dreyrugr," Bryti answers his unspoken question, "Ate his heart."
Ehra lowers his head. There is a long moment of silence as Ehra adds another name to his long list.
"He called you the greatest traitor alive, a disgrace to everything a blade elf should be. Often." Bryti says.
"I expected as much," Ehra sighs.
There is a long silence as Ehra silently mourns. Bryti watches him quietly for some time. Eventually, she speaks.
"When we were pups, before the betrayal," her voice is softer, "Father told stories about you all the time. He spoke of you as a great hero, loyal and wise. He thought of you as his brother. Whenever he said your name, he had a smile."
She pauses, then continues, "After the betrayal, he never told those stories again. He only spoke of you as the great traitor. It… took me many years, but eventually I understood. For the rest of his life, whenever he said your name, he was trying not to have that same smile. He only spoke of you as a traitor because he was trying to convince himself it was true. Convince himself to hate you."
Ehra looks up at her. She meets his eyes when she speaks, "He never succeeded. He saw you as his brother until the end."
"I see," Ehra just barely manages to say.
Bryti quietly removes her holy symbol from her neck. Gently, she unties her father's memory bead from the cord. She holds it out to Ehra in an open palm.
"I burned his body with the rest of my family. He is at peace."
Ehra looks at the steel bead. He reaches out for her hand. Gently, he closes her hand around the bead.
"He was your father." Ehra states.
Bryti doesn't respond.
"I knew Artjom for centuries," Ehra speaks quietly to her, "I do not know you yet, but… I can see that you are much like him. If he could see what you are doing here, he would be proud."
Bryti lets out a shuddered breath.
"Vatik, Veraseggr, werewolf, blade elf… whatever you are, you're welcome in my home."
"Thank you, Grandmaster," Bryti barely manages to say.
Ehra's familiar smile returns.
Two days after the potluck, the Tourist is relieved by Allophryne for a shift watching the Hunger. Apparently instructed by someone to get some fresh air, she steps out of the small but sturdy building the river elves have constructed to contain the Dog. She leans against the outside of the building and seems to mostly stare off into the distance for a minute.
Nearby, Shrike is currently being relieved of her shift by a river elf volunteer. She spots the werewolf nearby, apparently unoccupied.
Shrike glances at her, seems to consider something, and then approaches quickly. “Sakya, have a minute?”
The Tourist looks up, slightly surprised.
“Hm?” she asks, “Yes? Sorry. I was distracted.”
“Aren’t we all,” Shrike mutters, and starts to walk back toward where they’ve been camping. “You’re holding up?”
“For the moment,” the Tourist begins to follow her, “I am not the one going through the worst.”
Shrike stops a short ways away, stepping out of the walkway and leaning on her spear, “What’s happened to Hunger, you both figured it was these ‘wolf elves’ using the affliction as a weapon?”
Bryti shakes her head, “I am not certain yet, but Hunger had some fairly convincing evidence. I’ve seen them use the affliction as a weapon before, trying to lure me into a trap. It fits.”
“And you can cure it, but it’s best done quickly?”
“The sooner, the easier. With Allophryne, it was only a few hours old. After the first transformation, it gets much harder. Beyond that… It gets much, much worse.”
Shrike nods, “Then being able to contact you as well as Allophryne as quickly as possible is vital, if this is just a warning of what might be coming.” She reaches into the pouch at her back and pulls out...the feather. The one the Coyotes stole. She holds it out to the Tourist, “Shadi brought this with the intent of asking the others what to do with it, since it’s now a spare. Maybe give it to Breaker, maybe hang onto it. But the way I see it, you have to have this at least for now. We have no way of finding you otherwise, and that could get more people killed.”
The Tourist simply stares at it, “I’m… sorry, what is that?”
Shrike blinks a few times and then laughs, lowering the feather, “Hells I didn’t even think of that. I’d assumed you’d seen the river elf one. They were just decorations we made to give to the others, but Ink, the cryptid with the tattoo, enchanted them with Sending and...apparently several other things. But the main thing is that we can all talk with each other, immediately.”
“I see,” the Tourist looks at the magic item, “And this is the only spare?”
“For now. Coyote stole this one from us, and we never thought we’d see it again, so we asked Ink to make a second one. Breaker got it back to us and...here it is.”
“So… what you are saying is that you think it is more important that I have one of these than an entire city?”
“That entire city can’t cure people of the affliction,” Shrike says dryly. “Besides, we don’t know if we trust Breaker yet.”
Bryti tilts her head, “And yet you want to give it to me instead.”
“Should I not?” Shrike twirls the feather through her fingers, “Seems much easier than sending a message to the river elves asking them to send a message onto you and just hoping that you get it in time.”
“You just flew right past it, didn’t you?”
Shrike flicks one ear down, “And that flew right over me. What do you mean?”
“You trust me.”
“Ah, me personally? No, not at this point. I don’t know you beyond what I’ve seen here, and there’s been precious little chit-chatting going on.” She rolls the haft of her spear in her hand, leaning against it, “But Litoria does. The river elves do. Shadi likes you, and I trust his character judgments. Satri loves you, and while I don’t trust her character judgments, you did spend several weeks at the Observatory, and Thuridan and Naleryn had good things to say.” She smiles a little, “Shadi is pushing me into being the military lead, so I’m trying to do my homework.” She sobers a little, “Also you’re busting your ass to save Hunger, who you have every reason to not like. You could have just said ‘no, no helping it’, and taken his head off, and no one would have known any different. But you didn’t. I’m willing to pay out the line a bit for good behavior.”
She shrugs, “The river elves were able to find you when Satri sent a letter, so maybe they can just steal it back if needed.”
“Sound judgment,” Bryti nods, “It’s the mark of a good leader, knowing whose judgment you can trust in the absence of your own experience. There’s something you’re missing, though. What if the wolf elves target Coldwater?”
Shrike looks out over the river for a moment, “The dreamdust elves aren’t going to leave Coldwater unsupervised for a good while, whether the Vaquero’s know about them or not. They can relay on to Riverhaven or us, and a feather message can go out from there.” She pauses, “Do you know about that? They can send dream-messages. Though I suppose at that point, they can also just go for you directly.”
“Dream messages?” Bryti asks, “I had no idea.”
“Mhm, uncanny if you aren’t expecting it. Easy to remember and clear as day. And no word limit. Shadi asked Dust to contact Satri right after the potluck, to get her here with as much information as possible.” She studies Bryti a little more carefully, “Anything else I’m missing in my attempt to protect people by making you contactable?”
“I seem to have run out of excuses. Are you certain you aren’t going to cause a bunch of trouble for yourself by giving me this?”
“No, but I doubt it. Call it a temporary emergency measure. If we’d known you were going to be here, we would have probably already had this discussion amongst ourselves. As it is, we thought the only option was Breaker or gathering dust on a shelf.” She holds it out again, “Careful, it’s sharpened.”
Bryti carefully takes the feather and looks over it carefully, “This… is certainly not what I was expecting a few days ago. Thank you.”
Shrike looks at her for a long moment, “Come to our camp, me and Mama. Away from all of this so you’re not constantly staring at it, and actually get some sleep.”
The werewolf shakes her head, “I am needed here. This is what I do. This is what I am for. I will be fine,” a pause, then a slight smile, “but thank you.”
“Blade elves,” Shrike mutters, but there’s a fondness to it. “Very well, I’ll see you next shift.”
Bryti gives her a polite nod, "Speaking as a blade elf, you will lead well Shrike."
With that, the werewolf turns and walks silently back towards her duty. Shrike watches her go. She sighs and starts to turn towards home.
"Hello." A voice rasps behind her.
Shrike’s feathers fluff as her wings tense, and she turns to face Ink, “Hello, Ink. Am I in trouble?”
"Hm." Ink grunts noncommittally. He is looking in the direction that the werewolf left. After a few moments, he turns his head to look at Shrike.
"You're sure?"
Shrike lets her wings sag a bit, “Yes and no. Yes that we have to be able to get to her quickly until this wolf elf business is sorted out. Not many people can cast Sending, and we can’t be sure the dreamdust elves will be conveniently nearby.” She looks after Bryti, “And no because...gah, blade elves.”
"Been watching her," Ink says, "She… is a blade elf."
“She absolutely is a blade elf,” Shrike agrees. “I want to see her fight and then possibly shake some sense into her. I...didn’t expect that,” she says, lowering her voice. “That she would be an elf. She has all the blade tics and mannerisms. I keep forgetting she’s a werewolf, for Mother’s sake!”
"Hm," Ink looks back in the direction the blade elf left
He is silent for a few long moments before saying "Hope we're right."
“You and me both, friend. You and me both.”
A couple of days after the potluck, once Amenidal has had a chance to recover, he encounters Ink during the night. Bizarrely, instead of just appearing behind him as usual, Ink actually walks up to the river elf family raft that the dark elves are guests in. Still no idea where he came from, though.
"Hello," Ink ducks his head to look through the door.
Amenidal looks up from the book he has still had his nose in almost constantly and smiles brightly. “Oh, hi Ink!” He glances back to where Shyrendora is sitting but she is already making a dismissive shooing gesture with her hand, though she is giving Ink a curious look. Their river elf host looks between the three for a few seconds before shrugging and returning to the meal he was cooking.
Amenidal looks around the raft and then to Ink peering through the door. “Uh...I’ll come outside. Probably less uncomfortable.” He shuts the book and leaves it at the table as he makes his way over to the door.
Ink steps back as Amenidal exits. Once he has left the raft, Ink glances at Amenidal's new tattoos. Thankfully this time he doesn't poke them.
"Hm," he nods, "Very good work."
Amenidal’s ears turn red and he rubs the back of his head, “Ah...thank you. Self-tattooing was an exciting challenge.”
He falls silent and shuffles his feet awkwardly. Seems like he’s getting lost in thought. Ink is not good at resolving awkward pauses. It is a downright alarming amount of time before he says anything.
"You were planning something…?" He asks.
The dark elf popcorns slightly and looks back up at Ink with wide eyes. “Ah! Right, sorry. The expedition.” He hums softly before continuing, “We’re...going to try and go back to our old home system to acquire some cultural histories. I’m going. I...was wondering if you would like to help? I know I could use any advice aside from ‘No Amenidal don’t go.’” His voice pitches slightly and it definitely sounds like he is imitating someone else.
"You lost much of who you were," Ink repeats something he said years ago, "but you have a chance to get something back. I don't. You should take it."
Amenidal stares at him quietly for a moment before taking a deep breath, “We have. But we are still us, even without it. This expedition is a long shot and I want…” his face twists for a second and he thinks, “I want to make sure I get it right. I want to make sure I give them back something. I want to help them look forward instead of constantly back.”
He pauses awkwardly again, this time rubbing his arm. “I just...don’t fully know how. I’ve never...really been far from the caves before.”
"Hm," Ink looks off into the distance, roughly in the direction of the grotto. After a few moments he speaks, "Eina said… how do we start a new journey?"
“Say goodbye to those you are leaving.” Amenidal glances towards the grotto. “...My people haven’t said goodbye. Didn’t get a chance. Hm…give them something to mourn...”
He shakes his head and seems to rattle some semblance of thoughts into order. “I wanted to see if you would like to help with it. Kind of like a think tank for potential preparations? I uh…” his ears go red again, “trust your judgement and honestly think you would probably catch things that we wouldn’t even think about as concerns.”
Ink tilts his head, "I know several things."
That might have been a joke.
After a brief pause he adds, "Okay."
“Wellyesobviouslyyou’rereallyreallysmartandexperiancedand-” the stream of babble cuts short and Amenidal blinks. His mouth morphs into a mildly surprised ‘o’ before stretching into a wide, hopeful smile. “Really? T-Thank you.”
Ink watches him for a few moments before speaking again, "I will find you when you are ready to begin."
With that apparently being enough conversation, Ink steps away from the raft and begins to walk for a nearby patch of shadow.
Amenidal watches him leave before taking a small step forward, “Ink?” His tone is more of a request for a small pause than anything.
Ink stops and looks back, with a curious look on his face.
There is an earnest expression on Amenidal’s face as he speaks softly, “If you...ever need or want to think tank about other things, I will probably always have free time and you are always welcome to poke me. I made a promise, after all.”
Ink stares at him for a solid minute.
In the end, he answers "Okay," before quietly leaving.
Amenidal heads back into the raft, gives a short report to Shyrendora, and proceeds to bury his head under a pillow in horrified embarrassment.
Shyrendora laughs. Politely.
It has been four days since the potluck. The Dog's outbursts are becoming more frequent, more violent, and longer. This time, it took both Bryti and Allophryne to contain it and even then it very nearly escaped. Bryti was forced to take her hybrid form to overpower it, and then to use her abilities to strike and suppress it.
She heals the burns her strike made while Allophryne quickly refastens the restraints. Bryti is breathing heavily. Even in her powerful hybrid form, there is exhaustion written all over her face and body.
"Please tell me you are back, Innkeeper," she asks in a ragged voice.
“I am, Tourist,” Hunger coughs. “I apologize for the delay. And the dog’s behavior; he’s... getting somewhat harder to keep leashed.”
The werewolf breathes out a sigh of relief. She sits down with a barely controlled thud.
"I've noticed," she rumbles, "You fight it well. We're close. Just a little longer. Almost there…"
She is swaying slightly.
“You need rest,” the Hunger says, concern creeping into his voice.
Allophryne nods agreement and quietly slips out of the room.
"You need me here," Bryti answers with somewhat less steel than usual.
The First slowly paces back from the corner of the room he backed into. In spite of the incident having passed, his face is still marble pale. “I’m… forced to agree. Hesitant as I am to say it, I don’t believe any other option prevails with how violent the… entity, is becoming.”
Looking to the exhausted werewolf, The First performs the necessary calculus. Hesitantly, he reaches for his satchel, and with practiced motions, concocts a small vial of colored, sticky fluid. He places it on a table near Bryti- out of arm’s length, of course. He backs away, fear etched on his face.
“There. This should facilitate your abilities, at least for the next couple hours.”
“I… might provide an additional option,” Hunger says. “The small vial -- the one I removed from my person after the dog’s first ‘takeover’ here. Has anyone recovered it?”
"I'm not letting either of you knock me unconscious with alchemy," she actually growls this time, "I am fine. This is my purpose. I am not going anywhere."
The First curls his eyebrow; first, at The Hunger’s mention of a vial, and then at the Werewolf’s accusation. Terror slowly draining from him, he makes a sour face, but does not meet Bryti’s eyes. “I know you like to play the fool, Tra- Tourist, but believe me that I speak with full sincerity that I have no desire to be ripped asunder just so you can have a nap.” He gestures to the substance on the table. “That is a concoction I have personally used many times to aid my studies. I have often found reason to pull an all-nighter. And then an all-dayer. And then an all-nighter, again. It should work for now… although we may have to move to the harder stuff after several doses.”
Bryti's growl peters out and she rubs the sides of her snout, "I apologize, First among Scholars. I am not ripping anyone's sund-"
The door swings open and Litoria enters with a grim expression and Allophryne hard on her heels.
"Again, weh?" She glowers at the werewolf.
"I am not going- hoof-"
Litoria reaches down, grabs Bryti around the waist, and hoists her over her shoulder.
"You've got this, Crocodilian?" She asks Allophryne sharply.
"Weh, Warmaster," he answers.
"Bien." Litoria carries the Tourist away for some rest.
As Litoria carries the massive limp form of the werewolf out of the room, Bryti gives First and Hunger a look that is both tragically embarrassed and upside down.
"I have been overruled," is all she manages to say before Litoria hauls her out of the room.
"Litoria! Wait!" the Hunger shouts.
She hesitates, one webbed foot on the threshold.
"The vial I dropped is full of Azure Lily extract," the Hunger said. "Recover it please! It'll serve as a stopgap."
She nods, then continues. There is an odd silence after the massive werewolf has been unceremoniously hauled out of the room.
"I'll need to be dosed with it the next time it returns," the Hunger says, looking between the room's occupants. "Particularly if Bryti is still resting. It's in gas form, so stand at least three paces away."
"Gas?" Allophryne looks nervous. "I think I'll be further than that." He eyes the length of his spear and the scuffed dirt floor.
"That's fine," the Hunger says. "Just don't miss."
He turned back to the First. "Hit me with some questions, if you don't mind. I could use the focus."
The First quickly eyes his own discarded vial sighing. "Perhaps it is for the best…" he mutters. His eyes focus on Hunger. "Very well… I suppose we should start with an obvious launching point; what, precisely, is this Azure Lily… and how can an extract be gaseous?", he says, a chiding tone creeping into his voice.
"Azure Lily pollen is a powerful inhaled paralytic," Hunger says, straining. "I modified it to enhance its natural effects. It should hold the dog for at least two hours.
"It's more a powder than a gas… but it has been ground and heated to remove impurities."
“Ah, I see, so it’s more a Calcination, than it is an Extraction. Strange that-” The First stops short, then coughs into his fist. “Of course, considering your condition, certain, ah, elemental errors can be forgiven. But more to the point- how long is this Paralytic expected to last? Of course, within standard margin of error.”
"Two to... eight hours," the Hunger said. "And I would avoid contact the whole period. The dog is as aware of the calcinate as I am, and will probably try to feign paralysis if it sees an advantage."
The First’s face blanches. “I… See. Well, if that’s… Uh, with that in mind, then...” The First stumbles to a stop. Looking upon The Hunger’s exhausted form, his expression softens. He exhales.
“How in the Eighth hell are you doing this?!”, he blurts, with more volume than is strictly necessary.
“Spite,” Hunger answers. He chokes back a laugh. “I almost took Cantia’s damn ‘cure’ but for spite. Cal’s breath, I was tempted. Sometimes I think spite is the only damn reason I’m still alive. That’s what held us strong during the war -- that and the debt I owe.
“The dog’s reaction was priceless, though. Creature thought it was so close to the finish line, and if it had kept its proverbial mouth shut, it might have been.”
“Spite.”, The First deadpans. “That’s what you attribute it to? How much Yellow Bile do you have? I can see that if you had ki- done the obvious, but to experiment on The Entity, on Yourself, for two damned years? If you can do all that on mere spite, I shudder to think what you could do with actual anger! And besides,” The First looks to the side. “, that’s not exactly what I meant. I mean… how can you still keep trying to be so...helpful? You’re strapped to a gurney, fighting for your life, and yet you ask me to keep quizzing you like a Juve. I’d like to see you explain that away with spite.”
“For the former… Surt had to survive,” the Hunger said. “We barely had an operational aqueduct when I discovered my affliction. I couldn’t let a mere bodily frailty like this ruin the future of so many people. I owe them, First. They had to survive.”
He shuffles, trying to relax. “As for the latter, the questions keep me focused. The mind is a muscle, and flexing it helps keep me alert. Ready to push back at this thing in my head. And besides -- I like you, First. You’re clearly intelligent, and inquisitive. Cal’s breath, you’re likely smarter than I am. You’re at least smart enough not to end up in a position like this -- strapped to a table, fighting a monster living in your own head, because you couldn’t give up the ghost years ago as you should have. You remind me of someone I know. Or at least, used to.”
That, surprisingly, renders The First speechless for a moment. An incredulous look crosses his face.
“I’ll assume that’s some ironic, Lowlander ‘Like’. But if your exercise here is to… exercise, your mind, then answering questions, as you must realize, is only a reactive activity. If you truly wish to keep yourself keen… then perhaps it is you who should be asking the questions here. I understand that may be difficult… but that seems half the point, doesn’t it?”
Hunger nods. “Good argument. ...Then, on the subject of aqueducts, how do your people manage your water supply? I would imagine that would be difficult at great altitudes. Ours is reliant on snowmelt from the neighboring mountains, and the geysers beneath Surt, but I suspect snowmelt doesn’t flow easily at whatever height your people live at.”
The First hesitates, biting his lip. He glances over to the other occupants of the room… but, ultimately, he’s the one who asked for this. “...It is my understanding that snowmelt, retained seasonal waters, and the occasional magical supplement provide for the majority of our waters; while we do occupy great elevations, it is not constantly freezing. But, ultimately, I believe the foundational answer you seek is simply that we do not require nearly as much of the substance as you seem to.”
“A significant advantage, then,” the Hunger said. “...Inform me if I ask something that violates your people’s code of secrecy, or something as such. I have a secret or two of my own to keep, after all.” He thunks his face against the table, rattling his mask.
The First, in spite of his discomfort, makes a rotational movement with his hand which… might be dismissive? “It is of no concern! You already aware that our people do occupy mountains; I know The Layer told you that much to keep your kind from bumbling into our home. While my answer technically does allow you to extrapolate what elevation range we may exist at, I’m fairly certain that of those present, only you would be able to decipher such… and I believe you well understand the importance of Secrets, as you say.” He coughs into his hand again, attempting to cover his agitation. “By all means, continue.”
“So… is Echo typical of your Aggro, or is some kind of mountain troll your people adopted?”
The Tourist (back to elf form) returns to the hut about twelve hours later and quietly relieves Allophryne's shift. Oddly, instead of her usual black getup, she's wearing quite obviously borrowed river elf clothes under her armor.
The Hunger is currently somewhere between asleep and unconscious, thanks to the First's alchemy. The Tourist quickly checks his condition. After a few moments, she dismisses the cleric on duty to get some rest.
There is quiet for a few moments as the only conscious people in the room are the werewolf and an increasingly concerned First.
The werewolf looks at him, "Do you still have whatever ridiculous concoction you were about to give me before?"
It looks like some small improvement has happened there; confronted with her elven form, The First does not jump, flinch, or otherwise as she addresses him.
“...Technically? Yes. However, I doubt it will still be viable by the time it would do you any good. After several hours, the reagents have a tendency to separate… and congeal.” His words are carefully controlled, as he makes a great effort to keep them even.
"I see," she nods, "Well, as long as you can prepare it again in the future. I am in this for the duration."
She pauses, looking at the still form of the Hunger.
She turns back to the First and asks in as polite a voice as she can manage, "Did Eschaton withstand the Blight?"
Looking for an excuse to avoid eye contact, The First begins sorting through the reagents he has left; hopefully, it looks like he’s dutifully taking stock. “That? Oh, yes, water over the ridge now, no thanks to-” he winces. “Ahem. Yes. Nice attempt, by the way.”
The Tourist sighs with relief at those words, "That is all I wanted to know, First. I am not trying to deceive you. I genuinely wanted to know if the people of Eschaton were well. I don't like seeing people starve. Is that so hard to believe?"
“In factual truth, yes, it is difficult. But I endeavor to understand things as they are presented to me. You, yourself, provide quite the interesting conundrum, there. However, if you are, as you say, not trying to deceive,” he says, giving a quick glance up-and-down at her elven form before returning to his ‘work’ “, then perhaps you could provide some illumination…” he pauses, working up his courage (read; ire). “...Were you the one who gave The Blight to us?”
"What?" her eyes go wide, "No! Why would-" she stops herself, calming her voice, "No. I spoke truthfully while I was there. I found my way by sheer chance hunting a group of Afflicted that had fled into the mountains."
The First makes an exasperated exhalation. He mumbles under his breath, yet is still clearly audible. “Damnable Lowlander Conjugations… No, not you you. Plural you. What is it I’ve heard… ‘Allayall?’ The rest of your… ilk. That is, if they actually are kin to you. I have working theories on that particular question.”
Despite herself, the Tourist has to suppress a laugh at the First's attempt to use a river elf phrase. Her expression soon becomes more serious.
"Would you believe me if I said I don't know? I have no knowledge of such a thing, but having seen the things my people were capable of… it is not out of character. For your theories, we were generally divided by family but considered ourselves one people. We were a fractious lot, though. Each family 'ruled' a large area as they saw fit, and did not necessarily see fit to inform their neighbors on how they treated their… possessions." She says the word with venom.
The First goes rigid. His eyes, once playing over his components, now stare straight forward, boring a hole through the wall. Wide eyed, his expression slowly unfurls to one of shocking revelation.
When he speaks again, the hesitation in his voice is back in full force. “...And… if it is, as you say, that such wide separations exist… am I to assume that your particular kin were well offset from the… strife, which happened here?”
"My family?" She replies, "Yes. I am from a place hundreds of miles northwest of hear, much farther along the northern mountains. Novarsk." She squints, as if trying to remember something.
The First whirls around, his prior ‘task’ forgotten. He points a finger at The Tourist, a look of triumph etched on his face. “So you are a subspecies! Hah! Geographical diversification, different pressures! That explains everything!” He waves his hands in her general direction. “Curious that your phenotype should express so similarly, but every other makes the division clear! But that means… What was it? What was the pressure that forced you to master your bloodthirsty, anim- al- is. tic…. ehem.” As he trails off, a sheepish, and fearful, look replaces his triumph.
"You can call me an Animal. If anything, that is too kind."
Suspicious, but spurred on by her lack of violent response, he continues. “But… that may be the very thing. You might not be… that. Oh, if what I’ve heard is true, you may very well be crude, violent, prone to- look, the point is, I’m not actually convinced that the Madness, the Carnagethirst, the lust for Domination that rests in the… other subspecies… may be suppressed, or even absent in you. And if you lack those traits… then, by definition, you are not them. Just… unfortunately cursed to resemble them. Not that you have to, apparently.” This last one is actually toned as… a jest?
She shakes her head, "No such luck."
She nods to the Hunger, "The thing that's trying to take him? That could well and truly be called an Anmial. The people who committed whatever atrocities were done to the Crag? They were worse. An animal follows its nature. It has no capacity for good or evil. It makes no choices. If it does something cruel or brutal, it is because instinct commands it to. Us? We have the same capacity for reason, empathy, love, as anyone else, and yet chose to do what we did. The ones who murdered your people could have chosen not to do so. I wish I had the excuse of calling us animals."
The First is silent for a moment… and only for a moment, before he gives Bryti a condescending look. “And… this abundant outwelling of empathy, introspection, and remorse… is supposed to convince me I’m wrong?” With one hand, he rubs his temples, while the other gestures towards her. “Okay, look, I get it. Objective observation cannot come from within. SO! Simple question. Do you want to slaughter and/or conquer all of the elves at this celebration?”
She sighs perhaps a touch excessively dramatically, "No."
“And there we are, noted improvements! It really is that simple!” His hand drops from his temples, instead cradling his chin in a theatrical gesture of contemplation. “Really, considering what seems to be a vast improvement, and your proven capabilities,” he says, looking over at The Hunger’s prone form “, at outcompeting the opposing subtypes, it honestly seems our best option would be to pursue an aggressive policy of trait propagation in order to ensure sufficient core population to ensure the undesirable subspecies would be competed out entirely-”
"It's a curse, First," she interrupts him, "Literally a divine curse from a goddess of cruelty and violence. It does not follow natural rules. He is cursed, I am not, and neither were the ones who tried to exterminate the Crag."
The First sighs, definitely excessively dramatically. “More godtalk. Ancestors, spare me from more of the godtalk. Look, I’m well aware that divine elements can be in play, but nothing, nothing, is without rules. To think otherwise is just being lazy and defeatist. Besides, even if I give some credence to your particular distinctions of ‘cursed/uncursed’, you don’t need a curse to be afflicted by simple bad breeding. Please, try to keep up.”
She tilts her head at him, "So subtypes then? Like… different breeds of domestic animals? In your hypothesis… hm… do you consider the differences between elves the same way?"
The First quirks an eyebrow in return. “Yyyyesss? I mean, obviously? The propagation of traits across generations isn’t solely the purview of domestic animals! ...Of course, lacking the proper view of things, I can see that assumption; after all, in a single lifespan one may observe the gradual progression that allows the common, feral goose to become the far more tame and productive cragoose, but the same principle applies to all living things! ...Well, most living things, anyway. There’s some debate about oozes, and the like. But elves, and, I’m fairly certain, your ilk, are capable of benefiting from the same basic mechanisms.”
"I see," she forcibly maintains a straight face, "Well, while I cannot claim to have your bruising intellect, perhaps, in my humble way, I can contribute a small piece of data to your grand hypothesis: the bloodthirst my kind is known for is not something we are born with. It's something we learn. Cultural."
“Ah,” he says, disappointed. “The classic confound. What is innately tied to traits, and what is amplified by environment. ‘Derivation from collected traits as compared against derivation from collected experiences’. However, that contribution does little to dull my original point; after all, I am well acquainted… in spite of my better judgement, wishes, or personal safety… with the consequences a ‘Martial’ culture can have on disposition. Nevertheless, the fact remains that such learned behaviors could only be amplified to the observed heights if there was an innate component present! I would wager that you, yourself, had ample exposure to the culture you blame their behavior on… yet, we must once again refer to your own admission of basic fucking decency.”
She raises an eyebrow, "Was that a compliment?"
The First raises the same eyebrow, deliberately mimicking her. “Was that a recognition of your positive traits?”
She chuckles slightly, "Point to you. Then, to that basic question of how the same culture that produced me produced say, Dreyrugr… I'll tell you the same thing I told Echo: I don't understand us animals either."
The First frowns, worry etched on his face. “Whoever that is, I’m certain that he’s an apt demonstration of my point; the fundamental element you do not understand is innate, and should be propagated. But, pursuant to that-” his voice becomes dark, replacing his smug demeanor. “- it would be Wise of you to avoid that Crag at all costs. While I am capable, more than capable, in fact, am an expert, on understanding the fundamental difference between existing traits and visible traits... I cannot claim the same for the Aggro. Especially that one. Whatever potence you may have… well. I’m certain you get my meaning. I can confidently state it would be a damnable blow to our understanding of this quirk of the Lowlands were you to come to such an ignoble end.”
"While I may not have your keen observation skills, I am quite capable of recognizing it as a threat when an eight foot tall elf who weighs more than a house walks up to me in the woods and says he's going to kill me, thank you very much."
The First is quiet for a moment. He gingerly reaches up and rubs his neck. “Then in that,” he says wearily, “you demonstrate one more superior trait to the other subspecies. And perhaps otherwise,” he grumbles, sotto voce.
Bryti turns and gives first an odd look, "Wait… he can't possibly… oh." she frowns, watching the way he touches his neck. She opens her mouth to say something, but ultimately decides better of it.
"I hope Eschaton continues to thrive," she finally settles on.
Realizing what he’s done, The First snaps his hand away from his throat. His face turns a shade of crimson sandstone, part embarrassment, and five parts ire. He grinds his teeth.
“It will,” he growls out, pointedly not looking at Bryti, “even if I have to make it my hellsdamned self!”
She pauses, "There's more than one way to be an Animal."
The First has no response for that.
Barrabus Leafstorm, adventurer extraordinaire, plops neatly into his hammock, strung between poles on the back of Staurois' raft. "His" was a relative term; this was the spare he had borrowed on his vacation, now liberated again with the expectation (but not any actual investigation) that Staurois wouldn't mind.
He pulls his guitar onto his lap, and strums a few notes, before tucking the back against his chest and giving the strings a vigorous tuning.
Curiously, he seems to be having some difficulty tuning; the strings seem to vibrate of their own accord, throwing off his finely tuned senses.
That is when he realizes that the entire raft is vibrating.
Looking up from his work, he can see the landscape coming to meet him on the raft… or perhaps it’s just Echo of Blood, that delightful chap who is a faraway land. Not far enough away right now, however.
Never one to shy away from danger, Barry opts for the strategy of “ignore danger, and likely it’ll happen to someone else”. He pulls his hat a little lower over his eyes -- in part to feign sleep, but mostly in the hopes that the incoming mountain range won’t recognize him.
Sadly, while his hat does a wonderful job of concealing his eyes, it does little to conceal his ears, hair, or even, to some degree, moustache. As the thudding vibrations come to a halt in front of him, he thinks the jig may be up.
“You. Fire. Attend.”
Yes, definitely a hoisted jig, here. But perhaps the Wall of Elf here is only interested in idle small-talk, and can be deterred with quick discouragement? Barrabus tries a simple and incredibly overused strategy.
“Would you mind?” he says, without moving (thus hiding the rising tension in his muscles). “You’re standing in my light.”
After a moment’s delay, surprisingly, he actually can feel a little more of the sun’s rays upon him. The voice rumbles out once more, but with an edge of irritation to it. “Is this sufficient, or shall I give you more?”
Barry grimaces. It is now quite apparent that the mountain isn’t planning on returning to its range any time soon. He sits up, nodding his hat a little further back on his head, and glances up at Echo. And takes in Echo’s enormous size. And once again wishes that landscape was a little further out.
“Ah, well met, Echo of Blood!” Barrabus says, forcing on a cocksure grin that should help hide any evidence of fear on his face. “I had no idea that was you approaching. What can I do for you, good sirrah? A tale of heroism and triumph? A little music -- perhaps something to impress a fair maiden you fancy?” His fingers strum across the guitar, playing out by rote the opening to “Song of the Immigrants”.
Upon looking up, Barrabus can see that there is another present here; Jahnni, the soft-spoken shadow of Echo’s, has thankfully(?) followed him here. In spite of her presence… or, perhaps, because of it… Echo extends one finger, and places it across the instrument’s fretboard, muting it to simple twangs.
“Neg. You will tell me all that the Fires know about the Wolves. Now.”
Barry’s grin cracks. That… wasn’t exactly what he was expecting… but it also could have been far worse.
“That would be more of a question for a Terror or a Hunger than a bard,” Barrabus says. “I’m only somewhat privy to state secrets -- and usually only the saucy ones at that. Still… I can hum a few bars for you.
“I know they have conducted missions of subterfuge in several locations now -- Surt and Fort Alfyr in particular. I know they seem to specialize in spying and assassination -- of which I was almost one of their victims -- but don’t seem to have any known actual armies, or a base of operations we’re aware of. They seem to prefer to disguise themselves as elves that aren’t ‘native’ to whatever city they’re harassing; they’ve been Fire Elves in the Blade Elf capital, and River Elves in Surt -- that’s our capital, mind -- and apparently sent afflicted against the River Elves on at least one major occasion. And I know they ride dire wolves; or at least, that’s the rumor.
“And I know they are affiliated with someone the Hunger, Fury, and Ehra all know or at least know of -- Cantia Brighteye. No notion of who that is, but that is a Blade Elf name. Or at least, a civilian one. Perhaps she is a sorceress, or witch, or a similar spellcaster. Perhaps she is Afflicted; from what the Hunger said, she certainly seemed keen to spread that illness.
“And you, sirrah?” Barry tilts the hammock just a bit, rolling his guitar out from under Echo’s finger. “What do the Crag know of the Wolf Elves?”
Echo is quiet for a moment. “...And you say you know less than your ilk?”
Barry shrugs. “Hunger would know more specific details. Litoria would know the force of Afflicted they sent, and how that was composed. Terror would know more of what the wolf riders looked like. All I know is the proverbial word-on-the-street.”
At the mention of ‘Afflicted force’, Echo’s eyes open almost completely. “They sent-" he gets off, before clamping his teeth shut. He closes his eyes, and for a moment, a weary look descends over them. When they snap open, however, only irritation reigns. “our word-of-streets is quite thorough. I cannot imagine what else may be known that you do not. I will not imagine. You will help me know. Take me to your leader.” he growls, in all sincerity.
Barry sighs to himself, and rolls out of the hammock into a simple bow. “Which one?”
Echo mulls on this. “The Hunger is the one who is soon to be dead… but the company kept does not please me. You will take me to Litoria. I will know of these forces. Then… The Terror.” His words seem a bit softer at the end, shaking slightly./p>
Barry flashes a cheery smile -- directing most of it at Jahnni. “Right this way, sirrah,” he says, flourishing his guitar in the direction of the shoreline. /p>
Jahnni actually performs a smile in return; although far less cheery than Barry’s, it is notable largely for its presence on her usually placid face. As the trio begin their trek, Echo enquires; “I have understood your leaders title themselves after concepts, Bard. However, I am unfamiliar with the concept of ‘Litoria’. What is this?”
Barry suppresses an even wider grin. Well, he asked, didn’t he? He thinks to himself. “Litoria,” Barry says, “is a state of mind.”
“Which one?”
“The state of being constantly tired of this shit, from what I’ve seen. Typically experienced near the shoreline.”
“Ah,” Echo rumbles. “That is a fitting title. The ground is far too soft.”
Barry leads the two Crag to the back of the long line of rafts (steadily shortening as the front rafts are sent up the hopper). The trio make their way back to the location of the potluck, where Litoria and her cousin are disassembling the temporary platform. The apprentice is nowhere to be seen.
Barry strums a flashy entrance stanza, and then presents all of the occupants of Litoria’s boat with a flourishing bow. “Hail, Litoria,” he says, doffing his hat. “I present two visitors, with questions for you.”
He then deliberately takes a step back -- both to announce Echo and Jahnni, and also so that he is somewhat behind them, and out of Echo’s immediate range.
“Weh.” Litoria looks up at them from her task of stacking the wooden floor planks together on the shore. “Mais, the axin’s gonna cost yall in chores though. Come on down an’ help a bit.”
Echo is silent for a moment, before specifically seeking out Barry. “Bard. This is not a Fire. This is a River. Explain.”
Barry meets his gaze, at about an eighty-degree angle. “You wanted to speak to Litoria, about the army of afflicted the Wolf Elves sent after us. This is Litoria. My understanding is that she faced them and slew many of them herself.”
“There were an army of Afflicted, weh. Whatchu want to know?” Litoria gives Echo a sideways glance.
“I see,” he says, slightly confused, and significantly impressed. “I did not realize that you counted the Rivers as your leaders as well, Bard. Given these tales of prowess, however, I can understand why. Remain here. I will speak to your Fire leaders later.”
He turns to face Litoria, walking gingerly toward the shore. Even here, he begins to sink a bit. “The Litoria. Your title is well chosen. This army of those who carry the Blood of Madness; tell me, where did they come from? What was their number?”
“I’ll just… help stack these planks over here, so I won’t distract you,” Barry says, stepping over to the planks Litoria was working on, and gingerly stacking them into place.
“Weh,” Litoria answers with a shrug, “gettin’ assigned Warmaster probably weren’t the worst choice.” She splashes over to the pontoon to disconnect more boards.
“There were three hundret total. Two third were human when killt, an the last were hobs.”
Echo makes a sour face. “Humans. I had hoped to see the last of their ilk. Are they allied with the Wolves?”
“Hey, Litoria,” Barry says. “Where do you want these planks? In the raft?”
“Stack ‘em ashore. Caete will be by later to take ‘em for storage.” She gives Echo an appraising look. “An’ git to helpin’, you.”
Echo watches for a moment, seeing what Litoria is doing. He makes a noncommittal gesture. “If labor is the price for your answers, I will pay it. I am no stranger to lifting burdens.” As Litoria detaches a plank, he hefts it, stacking it upon his arm.
“Thank you.” She continues her way down the pontoon. “I ain’t convinced that the army we fought were connected to the wolf elves at all. We seen them after th’ battle were over, waitin’ in ambush near one’s the last stragglers. If’n they’re involved wi’ that army’s march th’ army weren’t aware ‘f it. They was using the Afflicted, they was.”
Echo’s face darkens. “Ample transgression.” he growls. “Where did you fight them? Where did they march from?”
“We laid ambush on th’ shore of the Goldfall, ‘bout halfway tween here ‘n Fort Alfyr.” She continues her work while talking. “Th’ Afflicted came down from up the Marraine, West of here, an’ North.”
This one takes Echo a moment to parse, his brain chugging away parsing map positions while his body lifts planks on automatic. The stack on his arm is… impressive. But finally, the dark look on his face returns, doublefold.
“Then that is the truth of it. I can only wish we had known of these abominations. That you have destroyed them in our stead is,” he stumbles for the right word. “… praiseworthy.” Noticing the enormous stack he carries, he takes a moment to unload them on shore… and unstick himself. “I believe I may be able to confirm some reports of these Wolves. I would assume, of course, that The Bard has given you his words of the street?”
“Words of the street?” Litoria looks to Barry with an expression that contains some confusion, a dash of humor, and a whole lot of what now. “Mais, tell me what you got.”
Barry rolls his eyes, and repeats to Litoria what he had told Echo earlier. He stacks a few more planks onto the pile as he talks. "And that's what brought us here," he says as he finishes.
“Hm.” Litoria hands another board to Echo and then sits on the pontoon to think. “Hm.”
“We didn’t get no sign that them Afflicted were bein’ organized by anythin’ but that hobbo commander of theirs, weh? Mais... that would track if’n they were lookin’ fer... hm.” There’s a bit of a pause. “We had some’un try an break in ‘fore the potluck, mais la they were stopped. Teratohyla took a poisoned knife fer it, which do suggest wolf elves, it do. Would be good to have a list of all th’ incidents to cross-reference em all, weh.”
Barry pauses. “Was Teratohyla out for a few days after the attack? ...A political rally in Surt went the same way. I was the target, but Tsun… took it for me, for reasons that are beyond me. And then she stayed out of the limelight for a few days, and came back as if nothing had happened.
“Beyond that, we had sightings outside of Surt, an incident where ‘unknown spies’ made it into the aqueduct system, a few more rumors of attempts… and of course whatever ‘afflicted’ the Hunger.”
Barry frowns. “This should be a ‘multi-elf-council’ thing, I believe. The Wolf Elves are clearly hitting at least most of us. We should coordinate.”
Litoria nods agreement. She hops aboard the raft to find Smilisca in his work room, tell him to get Acris to finish the job, and then goes to round up every actual leader that’s left in Partager.
Echo places down another towering stack of planks, caught up in the meditative task of simple bodily exertion. As Litoria departs, he turns once more to the long suffering Barry.
“More leaders, The Bard? Is there any here who does not lay claim to your wholesome self? It seems little wonder the breadth of your knowledge is such; they must exploit you to the point of exhaustion with each day which passes.”
Barry chooses to pointedly ignore the entendres present in Echo’s text, both for his own safety and because he knew several elf clans at this potluck had far-too-vivid imaginations and broadsheet artists. “This would be more of an allied war council, sirrah. If all elves at this Potluck have experienced Wolf Elf assault, it only makes sense to coordinate our responses, yes?”
Echo mulls on that. He rolls the phrase “War Council…” around in his mouth. There is a disturbing hint of excitement in his use of those words. “Aff, Bard. That which I have to share… indeed, apparently, that which all have to share… is best done in full Wisdom. I do not care for repeating myself.”
“Then with some luck, you won’t have to,” Barry says. “Though I imagine ol’ Hungry will be occupied. As will everyone else trying to de-afflict him.” He shudders. “Not a pleasant experience, probably. It's a bit late for wolfsbane; whatever they’re trying has to be nasty.”
Echo’s face turns dark once more. The mirth displayed at the novelty of a ‘war council’ has evaporated entirely. “If he is fortunate,” he says in a deep tone, “it will merely kill him.”
Barry shrugs. “He seemed okay with that. And, versus being afflicted, who can blame him?”
Echo just makes a noncommittal grunt in response, and then proceeds to lift more heavy things. That is far more familiar territory right now.
After a couple of hours, the "War Council" has been assembled. It consists only of those few who already have direct knowledge of the wolf elves and the few most important central leaders present. The leaders are gathered around the central table at the Hylidae family raft. The Eyes (and perhaps a few other guards) stand watch outside the shuttered windows of the raft.
Slowly, with scraps of colored papyrus and string, the leaders begin to piece together and share the various wolf elf incursions that have been detected.
Throughout it all, Echo has been looming in the background. His scowl has been steadily intensifying as the other leaders share their experiences.
Finally, as the group starts to run out of concrete information, Ehra turns to Echo.
"Echo, Barrabus mentioned you might have information about these wolf elves. If you wish to share it, now is the time."
Surprisingly, Echo’s scowl lessens at Ehra’s words. “As you say, Grandmaster. If all I have heard is true, then I believe I can illuminate crucial details.
All that I speak on comes from the mouth of- a highly trusted member of the most observant of our kind, our Stalkers. I have no doubt as to their veracity. If anything, all I can call into question is the conditions they were witnessed under. They may have obscured some elements under darkness and urgency.
It appears that for your number, these Wolves have appeared in concealment and subterfuge. We have witnessed them in full regalia. They travel in packs. True number cannot be said, but is no less than ten. They ride great canine beasts. They arm themselves with steel, clad themselves in banded plates of same, crown themselves with open-faced helms in kind. They are swift on rough terrain, unheard, unseen. But all of this merely points to the surface of what they are.
Underneath these arms, a deeper corruption lurks. By what was bared and seen, the truth cannot be denied; though they be elves, they carry the image of their masters upon them. It is a heinous thought.” He pauses for a moment, his scowl returning full force, but also carrying a hint of regret. He averts his eyes. When he speaks again, his voice is a tad less inappropriately loud.
"...I have heard much, but for all that I have heard, I have not heard much tale of their motives or desires. Can it be true that, for all of your encounters, you have heard nothing?”
Staurois rubs the spots on his bald head, clearly thinking fairly hard.
“Non,” he answers, “Not a thing concrete. It may be that we were all makin’ assumptions an’ not sharin’ em.”
Shyrendora speaks up quietly from the corner she has picked for herself, “I have assumptions, but they are based around the concrete fact that they were looking for the Tourist when they were at the Hilt’Inn. The spy referred to her as ‘the Heir’. That is about all I know as fact.”
“They tend to focus on either getting information about important places and people within our city,” Fury says, “or causing social disruption. Attacking people in the middle of political rallies, that sort of thing. That implies some motivations -- they want more information on how we operate, they want us to be unstable and off balance, they don’t have any military plans that would make the city defenses a target yet -- but nothing specific.”
Echo’s face betrays a hint of sorrow, before replacing it with his old standby of scowling. “Even that little rests in collusion to what I know. But it appears that there is more to tell. Em- the Stalker did not merely witness these Wolves. There was also opportunity to question one of their number. To hear of their desires. They seem innocent upon the surface, but to lay them beside all I have heard… it belays malicious intent.
They desire potence. Strength. It is clear enough that this has given them cause to… to… to trifle with the Blood of Madness.” The mixture of rage and disgust that flashes onto his face is plain for all to see. He tamps it down with a growl. “But that does not seem to be the end of their perversions. They have… learned, of other ways, by which potence may be gained. They have stolen them. Twisted them. By all that I have heard…
They seek to make their own Path.” He intones this with a dreadful finality.
“Their own what now?” The round spots on Staurois’s forehead distort with his raised eyebrows. “Weh, what Path are you talkin’ bout?”
The look on Echo’s face makes it abundantly clear that he just fucked up. “But… then the Layer didn’t… not even that bigmouthed craglet?” He appears conflicted. A glance at his empty shadow makes it clear that he is at least relieved that Jahnni was not permitted to attend. However, it takes mere seconds for shock to be replaced with defiant determination. “To inth hell with it then. It was likely only a matter of time regardless, with The First wandering around down here. The Path is…” He struggles significantly for words here. “...It is a plan. A plan to seek an end goal for a people. Through lineage, to make each passing Generation greater than the last. But it is meant to be a careful thing, a sacred thing. It is not to be lightly tampered or experimented with. But it is clear that The Path they lay… it is laid in haste. They seek power, potence, perhaps even Perfection far too swiftly. To do so only points to the madness for strength that already taints them from that which they have laid claim to.” His speech is hesitant, uncertain… apart from his disgust. That much is clear.
“So their plan -- sorry, their Path,” Fury says, correcting herself, “is… Lycanthropy? ...They have a ‘cure’ to the affliction, and from what Hunger said, that cure makes you a ‘natural’ Lycan. That sounds like a pretty hasty method towards ‘strength’, and it would be consistent with their use of Lycan imagery… and maybe with their thing about the Tourist. Who they’ve declared the Heir.” Fury dims noticeably. “...I don’t think I like the implications of that title, either.”
“Excuse?” Staurois continues to look very confused, and perhaps a few shades greener. “They’re - yall’re - breedin’ people like hippos? Pickin’s the sire an dam an forcin’ matches? An they’re tryin’a catch the Tourist?”
As he struggles to properly decline modern elvish, Echo gives Staurois a look that is a combination of confusion, anger, and disgust, with the three sides actively warring for dominance. Ultimately, he settles on anger, but not at Staurois- instead, he looks at the series of pins and yarn.
“And, perhaps, more. It seems a common thing that they try to inflict this Blood of Madness… ‘poison’... on others. In large order, those who have come to power among your ilk. It may be that they seek the traits held by these, as well. It would seem a fitting objective.”
“Mais, would it not make more sense to sugges’ tha’ they’re jus’ lookin to convert them’s in high places for the good ol’ normal purpose o’ controllin’ thems under em?” Staurois looks to be unconvinced. “It’d be a whole lot easier t’ just snag the best fit refugees on their way in if’n they’re jus’ lookin’ for shared uh... traits.”
Echo grunts. “Are you certain that had not already occurred? I cannot claim to know how well you manage your people, but from all I have seen and heard, during the times following The Extermination, even the Lowlands aspired to madness beyond norms.”
There is a pause before the Fury speaks. “The spies they’ve sent into Surt -- all of the examples we have that were about to be caught killed themselves. And they all looked like they were disguised as Blade Elves, or River Elves. ...What if those weren’t disguises?”
“Th’ one we caught couldn’t swim.” Staurois shrugs. “If’n they got some’a us folks wanderin’ round, wouldn’ they send one if’n they were gon’ send anyone here, weh?”
“Maybe not,” Fury says, “if they thought whomever they sent could be recognized.”
“An risk a drownin?”
Fury nods. “You’re right, that’s a bit unlikely. Or risk getting burnt in Surt, for that matter.”
Echo seems slow to catch up. “Disguises? Disguised how? I have not seen it common for either Fire or River to wear helms at all times.”
“Something like this, probably,” Barry says, tapping his hat. In an instance, he transforms into a (less finely detailed but still perfectly acceptable) Alejandro. He waits a few seconds, and then taps it again, restoring his dapper faux-river-elf outfit.
Echo is silent a moment. “...Impressive, The Bard. I can see how such a disguise would hide their form. But… ‘probably’? Do you not know? I had thought you privy to your many Leaders’ many knowledges.” His tone is… teasing?
Barry bows. “Even someone as astounding as myself has limits,” he says mildly. “And I doubt our enemies have a selection of magic hats to rely on; they would be forced to use spells and manual techniques, or stranger things. I’m certain the fine fellows here would know more.”
Fury rolls her eyes, bringing some brightness back to her face. “The body we managed to recover was burnt… pretty much beyond recognition… but we were able to tell that the subject was a Blade Elf. Honestly, that doesn’t tell us a lot, unless the Wolf Elves you’ve seen don’t look like Blade Elves.”
Echo curls his lips in thought. He looks down at Ehra. “Do some of your kind have… canine ears?”, he asks, incredulously.
"No," Ehra answers flatly. There is a look of extreme worry on his face. He glances at Terror and Fury, "but the blade elf form was always a product of Lycan decisions…"
Echo looks back to The Fury. “Then… I cannot speak of all of these Wolves. In the encounter, only one of their number became unhelmed. They had as I had spoken, features most foul upon their heads. Whether that belongs to all or some…” He trails off.
"Ears would not survive a fire like that," Ehra notes quietly.
Terror stirs. “We need confirmation,” she rasps. “There is too much supposition here. Echo of Blood, you mentioned that your Stalker encountered a band of them directly. Did your Stalker identify their path and trajectory? Would it be possible to track them, identify a regular route, and lay an ambush?”
Echo visibly shivers. After taking a moment to recover, he takes a deep breath. “Neg.”
“Then we’ll have to engage in more exploratory strategies,” Terror said. “We spotted similar movement near Surtian borders, but the wolf-riders in question avoided close contact. With clever scouting, we might be able to track the next band that moves into our area. ...Likewise, we now have multiple allies with fast scouts that should be able to evade a mounted response, and possible scout out their settlements or fortifications.”
“Where is the Stalker?” Litoria asks quietly.
Echo’s expression sags. “The Stalker…“ he pauses, then stares straight forward. “The Stalker was… injured, as a result of her discovery. It should heal easily, likely has done so by now. But…” He looks to Terror, conflicted. “I… admire, your motion to search out this foe. Its timely destruction would be of benefit to all of us. However, you must restrain yourself.” He sounds as though the wind has been knocked out of his sails.
Terror cocks her head. “Too high risk, for our limited intel?” she asks.
“...Aff. Environment hos, but they seem to have no diff in cross. Err…” he shakes his head, to clear it. “My meaning is that it seems likely their common environ is within the mountains, given their ability to… survive. It is not a simple task. For you Lowlanders to search it would come with great risk… from multiple fronts.” He glances over to Staurois. It seems this is sufficient to return the scowl to his face. “As I have heard, the Rivers have done a significant service to all of Elvenkind in removing a despicable threat from the World. It… frustrates me, to think that the Aggro have done less. Thus, this should be. It is We, the Aggro, who will find these abominations. That is the least of the tasks we must undertake in recompense.” His fist clenches, popping noises resounding in the room.
“Non.” Staurois crosses his arms. “Thems of ours at rest ain’t gon’ git back up jus’ caus’ you done gone all determined like to engage in prosocial behavers at last. Shrike, what say you to pokin’ bout some mountains, weh?”
Shrike grimaces, thinking, “Doable, certainly. The biggest concern is having to come down to rest. If I were planning it, I’d want to work in tandem with another group, both for safety and to cover all our bases.” She nods toward Terror, “Like how Varna’s group worked with yours in the Maar. We can see a long way, but fine details are easy to lose. Come to that, Varna’s group was all over the foothills north of Surt and didn’t see anything weird.” She takes a deep breath, “We could do it., yes.”
Echo blanches at the mention of foothills. It quickly passes, his face becoming more hostile than before. “Neg. You cannot.” He looks across the room, giving a dangerous expression. “I was unclear before. I will be clear now. You shall not search the Mountains. There are more threats there than Wolves. There are Crag.” His gaze settles on Shrike. “I do not know the full of what other Crag lips have told you. I will tell you the full True. Should any of you discover the Crag, discover our Home, you will not return. That is the risk you must consider.”
Shrike tilts her head and shifts her wings in a shrug before looking between Terror and Ehra, “You two, then? You’re the closest to the mountains and have seen the most activity. We can send rangers up to back you up.”
"We will not breach the agreed upon boundaries in entering mountain territory," Ehra quickly adds almost reflexively, "but it is clear that there have been organized scouts at least in the area between the Maar and the Caldera. Keeping vigil in these areas might be prudent."
Terror sighs. "The Maar is treacherous; scouting it can be deadly, even for our best. But I am forced to agree."
She turns back to the other leaders. "But we should not be the only eyes watching for Wolf Elf activity. They will not be content to stay only in the north."
“There’s a ward,” Shrike says. “The dark elves developed it, and we worked out how to integrate it with our main protective one. It won’t keep wolf elves out, but it will alert if they come into the warded area. I don’t know anything about magic, but Baijani was one of the main ones to work on it, so she could help.” She pauses, “Actually, I think Vahn was the first person to even make the thing. That could at least let us know where to look.”
A bit of smoke trails from Fury's ears as a dull red glow rises in her cheeks. "Yes. Please. I tried to get that hellsdamned ritual to work for months. Vahn must be an absolute genius, because the most I ever got out of it was a series of migraines and a melted worktable."
Shrike holds up her hands, “Definitely go ambush the clerics, then. I heard all about it, but the only words I understood was the swearing.” She looks around the room, “That goes for anyone who wants it; I don’t know the logistics of putting it on the flotilla as a moving target, but might be doable?”
Staurois coughs a bit.
“Mais, no,” he says with a shrug, “we’re a bit busy with alladeez other projects ri’ now. There’s a lot ‘a river to cover, weh? We got a schedule t’keep.”
Shrike grins at him, “And are we glad you’re coming our way. We have plans and something you might really like.” She sobers, and looks back at the collection of papers and string, “So, scouting then. Between the Maar and Caldera? We can absolutely help there.”
Ink, who has been completely silent so far, clears his throat, "Would like to see that ritua-"
"Ink, stop helping!" No one is sure if Skulk was actually invited, but there she is, "We have to withdraw our protection from Alfyr."
"Why?" Ink asks, baffled.
"If those wolves are doing what they say they are doing, imagine what would happen if they got one of us."
"Oh," Ink's eyes go wide, "Oh."
He gives Ehra an apologetic look, "We would be… worse than dead. I am sorry."
Ehra's expression is grim, but he nods, "We thank you for the help you have already given."
Fury coughs. “Ink… I shouldn’t ask this, and if it's too personal or its sensitive, I’m sorry, but… earlier, it sounded like when you ran into the Wolf Elves, they were prepared for you. Do they know about you? Outside of association with us, I mean. And is there is a reason they would?”
"Don't think so," Ink rumbles a bit, "To guess we are weak to light is… not difficult. That they knew for sure we exist and were guarding the fort is… bad enough. They have not guessed our secret, do not suspect it. Things would be… much worse."
Ehra takes a slow sigh, “I do not want to think about what that might mean.”
Shyrendora is staring pointedly at the cryptids but addresses all in the room when she speaks, “As it is, I will reiterate what Shrike said earlier - information of the ward is available to all who wish to look into it for the protection of their homes and people. Vahn is the best to go to, but Amenidal is also a quick study and can write out or magically transfer the information if you ask.”
“I also recommend some form of dispel. The spy we had was disguised as a fire elf through magical means. They might not all be disguised but that would help narrow it down.” She adds this almost as a much delayed afterthought, completely aware that she was silent through that tid-bit of former conversation.
Her finger taps on a flask. Alas it is empty.
Dust speaks for the first time. “We’ve had no contact with the Wolf elves thus far, but we would like information on the ward. Better to be overcautious in this.” He offers his flask to Shyrendora.
The fire elf convoy is preparing to leave, down to a diumvirate. Terror and Fury have waited as long as they can. Surt requires their presence, Hunger or no.
While Fury is supervising the attendants preparing their boat for departure, Terror steps away. She stands stock still with her hands folded behind her back, staring at the hut in which the Hunger is being treated. Or imprisoned, depending on your point of view.
As she watches, a short dreamdust elf approaches her cautiously. He pulls back his hood and face wrap to reveal a tanned Vaquero with close cropped hair and a neatly trimmed beard. It takes her a moment to recognize him as the Coyote officer she had taken prisoner, known as Shift.
Shift clears his throat and stands straight backed, making an admirable attempt at not shaking, "Uh, hola Terror Sir… shit, uh, Ma'am?"
Terror does not acknowledge Shift’s presence, and continues staring blankly at the Hunger’s hut.
Shift watches Terror nervously for a few moments before speaking again.
"Oh… Kay, then," he clears his throat again, "Uh, I know you don't really give a fuck about me, but uh, well, I gotta say something to you…"
He pauses, gathering his courage, before saying, "Thanks."
That gets Terror’s attention. She turns and focuses on Shift, giving him a questioning metallic whine.
Shift takes a couple steps back before realizing that Terror isn't about to kill him. He takes a few beats to understand she's asking him to continue.
"You didn't kill me," he explains in a slightly more confident voice, "And yeah, I know, you were taking me prisoner to interrogate me but… after that, you coulda. Coulda tortured me, coulda thrown me in some pit in Surt, just killed me to tie up a loose end or free up some guards… but you didn't. You gave me to Dust, let Dust keep me free. You coulda stopped him from doing that, I know, but you trusted Dust and me too I guess…" he trails off realizing he's rambling.
"You treated me pretty good even though you didn't have to," he compiles his thoughts, "and 'cuz of that, I got to see my wife and kids again. They're safe 'cuz you decided to take a risk on assholes like me and Breaker. They wouldn't be alive right now if you'd done what I woulda done in your shoes… so, thanks."
Terror rumbles. “I’m not a torturer. And you deserved a chance. Everyone does.”
Shift muffles a laugh,"Pues, maybe fifth times a charm, no?"
He gives her a second look, more curious this time, "Maybe I should take it more seriously this time so you don't kick my ass again, si?"
Terror crosses her arms. “You aren’t?” she rumbles. “Dust seemed satisfied.”
"Yeah, he did," Shift's tone gets a bit more pensive, "They've been good to me. Treated me like one of theirs. I like Riverhaven. I was thinkin' about stayin'. Could be real peaceful, no?"
He pauses, "Pero, I'm thinkin' that's not how I wanna use this chance. Sure I'd put the old life behind, but…"
He frowns, "Coyote killed almost everyone with rank who was loyal to Breaker at that party. If you hadn't brained me, I'da been there too. Probably dead, but I ain't…"
"I'm thinkin' I need to go back. I'm thinkin' Kiara's gonna need me. It ain't leavin' the old life behind, but maybe that's not what I'm supposed to do…"
Terror's skin flashes and the air briefly sizzles at the mention of Breaker's name. "Noble," she says. "She will need loyal commanders. Especially if you can keep the peace between Coldwater and Riverhaven. And Coldwater needs good people to lead its recovery."
Shift actually grins a little, "Pues, I think we ran outta good people a while back, so we'll have to make it work with just us assholes, no?"
"The difference is smaller than you think," the Terror says. Her eyes drift back over to the Hunger's hut. She pauses. "How long have you know… Kiara?"
Shift gives her a curious look, "Long time. I was a drunk-ass trouble maker, back before the war. Her dad was good people, though, as far as lawmen go. Used to lock me up and let me cool off 'fore I made shit worse. She was around, and not scared of pendejos like me. Used to take guard shifts. Talked to me some, when I was sober enough."
"When the war started, I jumped to Coyote's crew at first. When he brought back the silver, found us joinin' up with Gabe's marshals. That got weird. Come to find out, without bars and me a lil' more sober, Gabe and Kiara and I got along."
He pauses, "When Gabe… when we thought he turned on us and left her behind, it hit Kiara hard. She's Breaker so she didn't show it, but I knew. Made sure to stick around so she had help. She don't talk much about that kinda shit, but… even after all Coyote's bullshit, she's still Gabe's kid."
"So you might know, then," the Terror says. "I have to ask you something."
"Sure?" Shift shrugs.
"What in the dark depths was she talking about?" Terror says, her voice rapidly cracking from her tomb-laden tone to her normal elven voice. "I just-- I don't understand why it was so important that I say… That. I'm fairly certain that conversation left me behind somewhere, and… I'm burdening you with my own problems. I apologize. Disregard."
Shift makes one very slow blink, "Uh… que? You lost me, hermana."
Terror pauses. "We had a conversation yesterday about… the conversation with Echo the day before, and… to be honest I'm a little flummoxed by the whole thing. But it mostly involved shouting, and how important it was that I say that I saved her -- which isn't accurate in the slightest, I really don't know what she meant or why it was so important -- and… I don't even know how to deal with any of this. Ehra was no help. I need my books for this. ...And now I'm rambling at you, which is also not helping."
Shift goes a little wide eyed and holds up his pointer fingers on both hands, "Un momento, por favor, I'm catching up."
He points at Terror, "Okay, so… she came to talk about how she almost drunkenly jumped your bones at the potluck, but then yelled at you about saving her life? Huh? How'd it… how'd she go from... what'd she even say to you first?"
Terror shrugs. "A lot of things? Something about being a psycho half-elf, and Coyote's attempt at murdering her, and… well, that I'm a bitch. Or the bitch. That part may not have come across properly."
Shift continues pointing at Terror without otherwise moving, "Okay… yeah, but how'd you get to all that from how she wants to fuck?"
Steam trickles from beneath Terror’s mask. “I don’t know. ...Do you think that’s the problem? I feel like I missed a lot of subtext in that conversation.”
Shift moves his hands to a more open knife hands gesture, "Okay, okay, let's break it down, si? I saw that whole thing with you, her, and the brick shithouse cabron at the potluck, and lemme tell ya, Breaker wants to fuck you, and when Breaker wants to fuck you she's just gonna walk up to you and say 'let's fuck,' okay? And you're sayin' she just kinda… walked up to you and said other shit?"
Terror blinks. “Yes?”
Shift slowly lowers his hands, "Huh. Hmmm. Oh!" His eyes go wide and he looks Terror directly in the eyes, "Holy shit, hermana, I think she actually likes you!"
Terror rubs the back of her neck with one hand, looking about as awkward as a suit of usually-very-angry armor can. “I… don’t see a problem with that so far. Ummm…” A bit of glow starts crawling its way up her arms, and the air around her sizzles slightly. “So… why didn’t she just say that, I guess?”
Shift exhales hard, "I got no fuckin' idea."
Terror sighs. “Same. Nothing ever makes sense anymore.”
Shift gives her a surprisingly sympathetic look, "Hey listen… Breaker's crazy as shit, and Kiara? She keeps everyone at arm's length. Plays everything close to the chest, si? It's rare, like really fucking rare, for her to decide she actually likes someone, and I don't even know the last time she decided she like likes someone, so she's probably pretty confused too, si? I dunno if she's mad or scared of fucking it up or what, but… it ain't no small thing, si? She ain't good at letting people get close, and if she thinks she wants to get real close? I don't think she knows how. So… don't give up on her, si?"
“...All right. As long as she does the same. I’m not exactly good at this either.”
"Hermana…" Shift chuckles, "I don't know if Breaker knows how to give up on something."
“Heh. I think I know how that dance works,” Terror says.
"Hope so," Shift shrugs, "Breaker'll probably be more chill if she's getting some, s-"
Shift suddenly remembers who he's talking to and snaps his mouth shut with a violent cough.
Terror cocks her head to the side. “You say something, soldier? I didn’t quite catch that.”
"Nothing ma'am," Shift answers snappily, "Just… remembered I… have some horses… to feed…"
Shift rapidly finds somewhere else to be.
Terror nods. “Thank you anyway,” she says quietly, then turns back towards the hut.
Matias has been helping as much as he can, but it turns out to be frustratingly little. He mostly ends up doing standard Novice tasks like washing sheets and clothes, cleaning up, and generally helping out. He does get quite some time to talk to the various assembled clerics, and asks them many questions about their faith.
This is helpful, to some degree. Matias has seen quite a bit, and is eager to learn more and advance himself beyond the faith he has now. His enthusiasm is a relief to those who talk to him. Still, he is clearly frustrated by his inability to directly help.
A few days into the vigil, Baijani gets a chance to talk to him alone while he finishes folding a pile of clean linens. She sits down heavily on one of the chairs out of his way, her wings drooping, “Thanks for handling the chores for us, son. Saving us a lot of extra time, and it’s very appreciated.”
Matias gives her a weary smile, “It’s the least I can do. I’m great at bandages and splints, but this… is well, beyond even the best anyone could ever do with their hands and some tools.”
She sighs, “It pretty much beyond what you can do with magic, too. Our magic, anyway.” She brushes back some of her hair that had escaped from her braid, “You look about done here; Shadi had mentioned before that you were interested in learning more about healing wings. Interested in an anatomy lesson?”
Matias blinks, then lights up, “Oh! Yes! I’d love to! With Shadimon, I had to make a lot of guesses, and I am so glad it worked, but I never want to have to do that again, but Coyote didn’t-” he clears his throat and slows down, “Uh… sorry. Here, let me grab my things. Coyote never let me use my sketchbook and charcoal in the fort, so I had to make some guesses. Lemme show you…”
Matias turns and grabs his satchel of healing equipment. From one of the side pouches, he pulls a leather bound book and a tin of short pieces of charcoal. He flips through a few pages and show Baijani a page full of incredibly detailed sketches of wing anatomy. They are, however, mostly from chickens.
She whistles, “Not bad! Not bad at all. You’ve got a great eye for detail, there. Hmm, let’s head outside so there’s a bit more room, and see if I can find Shrike. It’s not easy to point out things on your own back.” A brief hunt finds Shrike back along the shore, not far from where they’re keeping Hunger.
Baijani waves, “Shrike! I thought you were off-shift. Here, come help us.” Shrike isn’t given a chance to say anything before Baijani drags her into the shade of some trees and sits down. “All right, Matias, you’ve definitely gotten a good start, having your hands all over a pair of wings already. You did an excellent job with Shadi. Not only was it broken bone, but it was a joint, and a complicated one, at that.” She ran her hand up Shrike’s wing to the wrist joint and flexed it, “He hasn’t lost any mobility, which is honestly shocking.” She looks back at him, “The biggest thing with wings is that they need to be seen to as quickly as possible.” She taps Shrike’s wing, “We have some hollow bones, like birds, and they start healing fast. If they heal wrong, then we have problems.
“Now, based on your sketches, you’ve absolutely done your research, but what’s different for us versus actual birds is how our wings attach. Feel here-”
She guides his hand under Shrike’s feathers, “See, the actual wing starts way up here. Follow that down, and see where it connects.”
“Oh, I saw that on Shadimon, but I had nothing to compare it to,” Matias looks over the wing carefully, “You got a few more limbs than an actual pollo, si?”
“We do, and making that work is definitely weird.” She prods the back of Shrike’s shoulder, “Wings and arms attach to the same shoulderblade, but it’s hard to feel it.” She thumps her chest, “Lot of extra muscle on us. Poor Shadi had to do a lot of embarrassing hopping to build that back up while his feathers were growing back in.”
“I’m really glad he’s okay,” Matias says quietly as he begins to sketch the musculature in his book, “I was really just guessing. And… the feathers… when I decided to follow Errigal, I swore to ‘first do no harm’... and I know Coyote would have done worse, but… that felt like doing harm.”
Baijani is quiet for a moment, watching him sketch. “It is, but it was to prevent worse. You’ve had to use a knife on patients I’m sure, yes? Lancing wounds, cutting out arrowheads, or just tidying up a wound so that it can be stitched? Smaller harm to mitigate greater. In that case, to both him and yourself.” She glances at him, “To hear Shadi tell it, if you’d refused, you might be dead, and Coyote would have probably done it himself.”
“Yeah…” Matias looks up from his sketchbook at Baijani, “I guess you could call it like cutting out an arrowhead, but… well, that does make me feel a bit better. Gracias. I’m just glad it worked, si?”
“So are we.” She flexes the wrist joint on Shrike’s wing, “Here, see how it flexes differently?” She holds out her hand, twisting it, “It’s essentially a wrist, but the range of motion is different. Spread your wing love,” she taps Shrike’s shoulder. “And see, the elbow joint can’t straighten out like an arm. You know how you have to bend your knees when you jump off of something? It’s the same thing here. The wing joins stay bent so you don’t wrench them backwards. Have you actually gotten a chance to see anyone flying?”
Matias’ charcoal scribbles over the page, “Oh I see, I didn’t think about how much strength and weight has to go through those wings. Double your weight at least, on a downstroke. Like rowing a boat, you wouldn’t want to lock any joints, si?” he pauses, “And… no. I got some glimpses when you were flying in, but I never got a good look at one of you in flight.”
“Exactly!” She pats Shrike on the back, “You heard the man. Up you go.”
Shrike chuckles and gets up, “Going up and coming down are the hardest parts. That’s why we like our high starting points so much.” She turns away and takes a few quick steps that turn into a leap and a thunder of wingbeats as she shoots upward.
Baijani leans over to Matias, “She’s showing off. Take-off’s don’t have to be that energetic.”
Matias watches Shrike with open awe. He immediately starts scribbling furiously in his sketchbook, watching her wings carefully as she moves. As she makes a loop around the raft, he stops scribbling and simply watches.
“Now I see why Shadimon wanted to go outside so much.” Matias comments quietly.
Baijani pats his shoulder, “You did all you could.”
“I know,” he deflates a bit, “Gracias.”
Baijani smiles and leaves the hand on his shoulder.
First
The First Among Scholars is taking a break. He has been in the hut as much as anyone, and even he needs to sleep. It is late evening, and he is making his way back to the large raft that the Crag are sharing with their modestly perplexed host family. At least they don't ask questions.
Suddenly, he is stopped by a polite if raspy throat clearing noise behind him. He whirls around to see one of the Cryptids, the one introduced as Shine, bowing formally to him.
"I greet you, First among Scholars," his voice is gravely but still a little clearer than the other Cryptids. He speaks without waiting for an answer.
"I have questions about your experience with the river elves. Please give your answer rating your satisfaction in the following areas on a scale of one to ten, with one being the worst and ten being the best. Overall, how would you rate your experience trading with the river elves?"
The First carries a nonplussed look on his face. Quickly, he glances behind himself, then to the sides, and finally back to Shine, gazing up incredulously. “...Is this some form of jest? I know some of you… Do you actually call yourselves Cryptids? Anyway, I know at least one of you is prone to that, so I’m going to need some context here.” He crosses his arms, attempting to look stern, but mostly just looking paranoid.
Shine makes a hand gesture that is probably supposed to be reassuring but comes off as more unnerving with his long limbs, “I apologize for the lack of clarity. Yes, you may call us cryptids.”
The First makes a distressed face as Shine’s limbs… unfold. However, he attempts to recover, frowning. “Well, yes, of course I know that I can call you Cryptids, that much is patently obvious from what all the other Lowlanders have called you. I could call you a tree, and I’d invite you to stop m-”
Far too late, the First thinks better of finishing what he’s already effectively said, instead wincing and coughing nervously into his hand. He scrambles to cover up the response he just invited. “...In any regard, As far as the Rivers… the quantity of foodstuff they facilitated transport of was… sufficient. It performed adequately. I can’t say I’m particularly fond of the specific flavors involved, but they served as sufficient buffer of nutrients to counteract the… troubles, we were encountering. Therefore, six out of ten.” He ponders on that for a moment. “Actually, lets call it a solid seven, extra points for their fascinating method of transportation. Velocity has a quality all of its own.” His lips purse into a self satisfied smirk, which he maintains largely by not making eye contact with the much taller elf.
“Thank you,” Shine inclines his head, “Overall, how would you rate the river elves’ respect for your privacy and discretion with your sensitive information?”
The First furrows his brow. “...Well… well enough? Honestly, my understanding is that the entire affair is very… displaced. Not much opportunity for them to broach our privacy or discretion. I suppose I can say that they show little desire to let curiosity get the better of their best interests; at the very least, I haven’t seen evidence of any of them attempting to snoop about, but then again, I don’t expect that if any had, they would have gotten terribly far…” In spite of his words, he stares into the distance, a concerned/upset expression growing on his mug.
“Could you please rate that on a scale of one to ten, with one being the worse and ten being the best?” Shine intones in exactly the same way as before.
In spite of his concerns, The First’s eyes snap back towards Shine. “...You want me to rate for ‘degree of discretion’? What possible metrics am I supposed to use for that? What’s one supposed to be, ‘Actually they’re invading Eschaton right this moment, would not recommend?’”
“Purely subjective,” Shine makes another gesture that fails to be reassuring.
The First scoffs. “A subjective rating? What is this, the philosophy of delivery? Am I supposed to form generalistic suppositions about whether their actions are in the betterment of the Greater Food?” Too tired to really get a good ire going, The First instead just exhales, entirely too dramatically. “Whatever! Seven out of ten, I don’t have any concrete evidence that they’ve tried to broach our privacy.”
"Very good," Shine inclines his head again, "I simply wished to understand your experiences with the river elves. Your answers are important to us. Do you have any other comments about your experience in trading with the river elves, or with otherelves in general?"
The First makes an exasperated noise. “ ‘River elves, fire elves, otherelves’ why do you do that? All you Lowlanders do, it’s driving me to conniptions! We know they’re elves. Are there some, I don’t know, River Dwarves around that we need to clarify for? Fire Humans? Winged Hobgoblins? It’s infuriating!” In spite of that, he doesn’t sound infuriated. More... nitpicky? Condescending?
"Huhm," Shine seems interested by the statement rather than annoyed, "So you call them… rivers? Fires? Winged?"
The First makes an of course flourish with his hand, then needlessly adds “Of course! Not the most… elegant sounding names, I’ll grant, but I wasn’t the one who picked them.”
Shine makes a rolling gesture with his hand, "And you call yourselves…?"
The First opens his mouth to respond, but a look of realization is followed by a sly smirk. “Well, on that, how about a lore for lore? That kind of barter is common down here, I’ve gathered. What do you call yourselves? Not ‘Cryptid’, I’d suspect…”
"Elves," Shine answers bluntly.
The First’s smug expression drops into an irritated half lidded stare. “I know you call yourselves ‘elves’, we just went over how unnecessary that was, I mean what do you call your phenotype? Lank? Tallfellow? High? Stop me if I get close!”, he grumbles, sarcastically.
"Just elves," Shine answers unhelpfully.
“Ah, Just. I suppose there’s something in there about order or natural law or something. Utterly fascinating, I’m certain, but I’m at just about the point where my tolerance for monosyllabic information exchange has reached its nadir. So! Lore for lore, we call ourselves ‘Crag’. Quite evocative, yes? A recognition of the gifts imparted us by our climes and the struggles of our forebears!” A note of sincere pride drips into his voice.
"Indeed, a proud and strong name for a proud and strong people. I see the struggles of your ancestors etched into every motion a Crag makes. It is most impressive," Shine returns to his more formal tone.
The First gives Shine a suspicious look, uncertain at first whether Shine is making light of him. Eventually, however, he seems convinced of the vertically superior elf’s sincerity, and a smug smile reappears on his face. “Well, it is gratifying to hear that at least some Lowlanders are capable of appreciating the patently obvious. Honestly, most of them it seems like they cannot see the range for the peaks! Not that I expect elevations of any sort to give you trouble,” he says, looking up and down at the sheer scale of the Cryptid. “...Which reminds me, your original question was about ‘other comments’ on the Rivers? I suppose I can say that, while merely adequate, the fact that they are so does point to a… counterintuitive strength, lets say. While I will give ample credit for the ingenuity of their aquaportation developments, the rest of what I have seen belays an overall lack of ambition in the phenotype… which, honestly, serves them well in the particular regards you have been inquiring into. It would be my educated opinion that you do not have to worry overmuch about the Rivers bothering you due to an overabundance of curiosity.” He says the final word with a hint of conspiratorial humor, a nudge-nudge spoken but unperformed.
"I see," Shine provides a rolling bow, "That information is indeed the type of insight I was hoping for. Thank you for your contribution to greater elven unity, First among Scholars."
“Naturally!”, The First blurts. He places his hand against his chest and closes his eyes, in an expression of false humility. “And, of course, should you ever need any further information… objective, hopefully… about the other phenotypes, even things they themselves do not know, I’d be more than happy to-”
By the time The First opens his eyes from his dramatic expression, he realizes that he has been speaking to empty air. His face falls.
“...fuck it,” he states to no one, “just keep walking, Renyan, just keep walking.” He resumes his trudge towards some R & R & Rx.
Just as he is about to enter the raft, he hears a quiet but hoarse female voice directly behind him.
"Perfection is a lie."
By the time he turns (hops, really, with just a bit of screaming) around, whoever spoke is gone. Holding his hand to his throat, he spins back around, desperately hoping no one else saw that. “Just. Keep. Walking.”
Staurois
Even though he knows the Cryptids are around, Staurois is unprepared for Ink's face greeting him through a random window on his raft in the dead of night.
"Hello," Ink rasps quietly as Staurois is making his way back to bed after comforting Natator, "Can we talk?"
“Weh? Weh. Weh...” Staurois urgently gestures toward the sleeping baby while he climbs back out of his hammock.
"Sorry," Ink whispers and puts a hand over his mouth.
"Rude," someone outside behind Ink grumbles.
Staurois steps over the caiman blocking the doorway and heads outside.
Ink and Shine are both standing around awkwardly outside the raft. Ink gently points to Shine, who steps forward and bows his head politely.
"Good evening, Oarmaster Ranidae. I would like to discuss opening an avenue for trade between our peoples."
Staurois looks around at the open water between the anchored raft and the shore. He looks back at the two cryptids. He mutters something vaguely unflattering under his breath and then perks back up.
“Weh, bien.” He spots the raft’s draft-gator lurking nearby and nudges him awake with a foot. “Let’s go ashore an pass a chat on that somewheres more quiet, non?” The druid takes up a seat on the gator’s wide back and gestures for the otherelves to join him.
"Of… course," Shine's voice is a little uncertain. He looks back to Ink, who merely shrugs and gestures at the gator. The two Cryptids awkwardly pile on the back of the gator.
With a foot to the creature’s more delicate armpit flesh, Staurois silently directs the alligator to swim to the shore, and holds it still there so the passengers can dismount. He tosses it a lump of something to chomp on from a pocket in his robe.
“Mais now. Whatchu wander’n round here at night wantin’ to talk for?”
"I apologize for the fault in scheduling," Shine quickly dusts off his silk wrap, "It is sometimes difficult to remember others are diurnal. We have discussed options and need amongst ourselves, and with other elves. Ink believes that we must interact with otherelves in order to continue to be viable. Given this, and your excellent handling of trade with the Crag, we are considering opening an avenue for trading between us and yourselves."
“I hear ya.” Staurois nods contemplatively. “What do yall have, an more import’ent, whatcha need?”
"We have need of hard commodities. Unfortunately our diet precludes trade of foodstuffs, but there are finished goods we could use. Metals and iron tools, for example, would be quite useful to us. Craft tools for large civic projects such as carpentry and scaled blacksmithing would be best, but the resources to create those tools would be adequate as well."
"In return, we have several goods that might be in demand. We are able to produce silk fabrics of a high quality," he gestures at his now slightly damp clothes, "and we also have access to several exotic varieties of trees and herbs. From these, we are able to create exotic incenses that greatly aid casters in focusing and preparing large scale rituals. Do you believe we could come to an arrangement?"
Ink exhales a bit. Apparently hearing another Cryptid talk that much made him exhausted.
“Weh. That’s all things we ken do.” Staurois looks thoughtful. He absently rubs a webbed palm across the spots on his bald head. “Mais, where you at? We ain’t gon’ be able to work yall into the schedule without knowin’ where’t git, weh?”
"That is a major issue that we would like to discuss," Shine makes a gesture that's probably supposed to be… accepting? It's not clear.
"At this time, we are not comfortable with revealing the location or locations of any permanent settlement or settlements that we may or may not have. However, using your interaction with the Crag as a model, we are considering opening an offsite trading post that could be used for cooperative trade. We have a range of acceptable locations, if you would be interested in pursuing that kind of arrangement."
“Weh, we ken do that.” Staurois offers a hand to shake. “Git with the Navigator to talk about them maps. Dependin’ on where yall are wantin’ a meet we ken git you on the schedule. This year’s up to Asavardi, an next’s intended for the Surt-Crag route. Mais, it may be a bit a’fore we ken git’t yall. That gon’ be okay, weh? No emergencies, non?”
"We are sustainable," Shine explains as he shakes Staurois' hand, "Our desire for trade is to support long term viability, however we appreciate the conce- uh oh."
Shine looks back. Ink is gone.
Shine makes a surprisingly genuine sounding sigh, "I should go get him…"
“Que?”
"You told us to get with the Navigator…" Shine explains helplessly.
Staurois turns a few shades greener.
“Non...” He slowly looks downstream with an expression of panic.
Smilisca
Smilisca is sleeping peacefully. This is not a stable situation. Smilisca is quite rudely interrupted from his rest by persistent poking.
He expects it's Acris, having messed something up again. He is incorrect. Instead, he wakes to see Ink towering over his hammock.
"Hello.”
The reflexive reaction to suddenly being poked away from an excellent dream usually involves some form of groggy violence. Due to the tense situation involving werewolves, the full moon, and the nightmares of the war that was, Smilisca is on a bit of a hair trigger.
Before he properly registers that this is reality and not a dream, the magical ball of mud has formed, fired, and is off in the direction of those blackly glinting teeth.
"I-" whatever Ink was about to say is interrupted by the heavy thwack of a heavy lump of mud slamming into his face.
Ink makes a crackling, hissing noise and staggers backwards away from Smilisca. With the ball of mud caking his face and blocking his vision, he trips over something behind him and lands in a tangled pile of too-long limbs.
"Ow," he garbles through a layer of mud.
Acris lurches awake from his hammock opposite Smilisca’s. He shrieks in panic, a very high-pitched sound that brings his aunt crashing through the lightweight curtain with her spear leveled into the room. Litoria spots the cryptid on her floor and takes a few steps backward, confused, but still within her weapon’s reach.
“Que fais-tu ici!” she demands, and then shakes herself further awake. “What are you doin’ here?”
"Talking!" Ink garbles as he pulls at the thoroughly stuck mud. Ink manages to yank the blob of magic mud off his face, revealing black bruises and a nose leaking black blood and slightly askew.
"Owww…" he moans and gently touches his nose.
“Pourquoi, Cousin?” The armed elf looks to the guilty wizard, who is still sitting in his hammock holding his super shitty ugly hat in one hand.
Smilisca shrugs, confusion and bleary lack of sleep showing in every line on his face.
“Tain’t m’faul. He done snuck up on me real creep creep like.” He yawns and blinks in the bright moonlight filtering in through the open doorway.
Litoria slowly sets down the giggin’ stick. She approaches the foreign wizard carefully.
“Le’me, weh?” She gestures to the broken nose.
Ink awkwardly shuffles up to a cross legged sitting position. He glances around the room, then nods rather sheepishly to Litoria.
She doesn’t warn him before she sets the crooked bit back in place. It’s a painful process, but she has seen that anticipating causes more flinching than just getting it over with. She doesn’t have any healing magic prepared though.
Ink makes a wheezing noise and flails, but otherwise allows the process.
“If’n you got some kinda cold spell it’ll help. If’n not, go see Eina ‘r Staurois t’git it fixed right.” She turns to give her cousin a glare. “An whate’r you needed, done git it over with an let me git back to sleep, weh.”
Ink grumbles something. There is a thumping of feet outside as Staurois and a surprisingly out of breath Shine approach the raft.
"Ink, we talked about this," Shine hisses as he sees his fellow Cryptid.
"Sorry," Ink rattles glumly.
"We apologize," Shine declares to the assembled elves.
Litoria rubs the sleep from her eyes, picks up her spear, and steps back out the doorway to her hammock on the porch. She is going back to sleep.
Acris has recoiled in horror and is trying to make himself smaller and more invisible, to mixed results. He has successfully tangled himself in his hammock and it may be awhile before he can be retrieved.
Smilisca shoves his hat onto his messy hair and stands up.
“Bienvenu.” He says sharply, and bows very slightly. “Come on in my office here an talk a spell.” He pushes open the interior curtain to the front room of the raft. His traditional maps are tidily stored in tubes along the rear wall. Long ropes coded with currents hang from pegs overhead. The wizard ushers the gathered elves into the room.
Shine helps Ink stand up. The shadowmage quickly rearranges himself to something respectable and quietly whispers out a spell to soothe his throbbing nose.
The Cryptids both follow Smilisca into the map room. Ink kind of sulks in the corner while Shine steps forward to speak.
"We apologize for our rudeness in approaching your home at such an unusual time," he begins, "We were discussing the potential of opening a trading post for the movement of goods between your people and mine. I am afraid my friend Ink here took Staurois' suggestion to talk to you about it… in… a very straightforward manner."
"Sorry," Ink mumbles to Smilisca.
Muttering something unintelligible under his breath, Smilisca pulls out the largest map he has and spreads it on the communal table. He pulls extra cushions out of their storage bin and sets them next to the low table and sits down. Staurois joins him, and sits, inviting the cryptids to do the same.
"Thank you," Shine says as he sits.
Somewhat more slowly, Ink sits down he looks over the map carefully, then nods to Shine.
"We would be able to place a trading post somewhere in this region," Shine explains as he draws a finger over the northeastern coast of the large bay at the center of elven territory.
"Would this be an acceptable arrangement?" He asks.
Smilisca nods. He uses a little measuring tool to make certain of the distances and narrows down the available space.
“We ken git here safely.” He pokes the map, and Staurois nods.
Ink looks carefully at the marked position. He gently places a finger on the marked spot, then nods to Shine.
"That will do nicely," Shine accepts.
“Mais. Let’s get t’th details, en?”
Steve wanders up to Anasatri and hums to get her attention.
Anasatri looks up from her frantic writing and stares for a moment, “Oh! Steve! Hello, how are you?”
Steve shrugs. “No goats to the head, no one is dead.”
“That’s...good. Hopefully it stays that way.” She looks in the direction of Hunger’s prison, “I couldn’t believe what was going on when Dust sent me a message. The two of you stayed to help, I assume?”
Steve nods. “Can help, a little. Can distract more.” He offers a half grin, then it fades. “Need to talk to you.”
“All right, just one minute before this thought gets away…” She scribbles another line or two and some kind of diagram before closing the notebook and setting it aside, “What can I do for you?”
Steve bites his lip, trying to collect his thoughts. It’s a difficult process. “Dream meeting process. Tried to reach you. Saw… saw things. Tourist, before being Tourist.”
Anasatri pauses briefly, “Dream meeting...You tried to send me a dream message?” She looks baffled, “I didn’t get one before the one Dust sent?”
Steve shook his head. “Before. Fall. Tried to build dream place to talk. But you have a dream place already. Stars. Stars and stars and stars. Was there. Saw Tourist-not-Tourist. Dreyrugr.”
Anasatri’s expression goes from confused to intrigued back to confused and settles on uneasy. “So you were trying to send me a dream message, but it happened to be while I was having a dream, and you saw that?”
Steve nods.
“And what you saw was something from Br-...the Tourist’s past.” She pauses for a moment, “You said I already have a dreamscape? Full of stars...you saw the starmaps.” She smiles a little, “Must have been fascinating, with your affinity for them.”
Steve nods again, more enthusiastically. “Good stars.” He stared off into the distance. “Was there for two weeks. Caught up on sleep.”
She startles, “Two weeks?? I’m um, glad that wasn’t a...problem?”
Steve shrugs. “Stuck. Was okay. The stars were nice.” He looks wistful. “Couldn’t describe it properly.”
“I’ve been trying to...describe them. The Observatory has maps, and I found a few, but the rest I’m going to need help to figure out.” She makes a face, “It requires math.”
Steve looks sympathetic. He considers. “Does Tourist know? Need to tell her? Shouldn’t have seen.”
“Hmm, well, she um, already knows that I saw it. She wasn’t upset; she seemed more...confused, than anything else. Why I would see that of all things. I still don’t know why either, but,” she shrugs. “It would probably be polite to let her know. I’d certainly like to know if people were getting mystical visions of my life.”
Steve nods, searching for words. “You come?”
“Absolutely. I don’t know if she’s with Hunger right now or not, but we can go check.”
The small hut wasn’t far away, and there are a few scattered people standing guard around it. As they approach, a cacophony of howling, snarling, and swearing erupts from inside. The guards all turn their attention inward, and Steve and Anasatri pause, wide-eyed.
Anasatri slowly looks up at Steve, “She seems...busy. Maybe later?”
Steve looks back, nodding slowly. “Uh huh.”
“Right...okay...So! Do you have anywhere else to be? Want to keep me company while I’m transcribing?”
The Dreamdust elf shrugs, then nods enthusiastically, gesturing for her to lead the way.
“Great! First, let me tell you more things we’ve learned about the Observatory…”
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