Shadimon finds Hunger in the relative quiet near the tables of food. “I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I don’t think this is it,” he says to the fire elf. “Do you have a moment? I need advice again, and I’d rather have it out in person.”
The Hunger leans back against a nearby table. “Certainly. I take it my advice helped?”
“I hope it does, because the political situation has caught a downdraft these past couple seasons. Now I’m at the point of preventing riots before I can even start any real form of government.” He sighs, adjusting the infant he’s still carrying, “So the advice I need is on how to handle multiple conflicting political factions, none of whom are technically wrong, without the entire thing exploding.”
"Aha." Hunger coughs. "Politics. I wasn't expecting you to have to worry about that before your government actually forms, but I suppose that isn't terribly surprising, given the fun we've all been having of late." He glances over at Lucinia, still hiding behind Fury. "Be forewarned, my advice on this isn't and cannot be perfect -- not only is there no certain way to handle competing groups with equivalent fairness and impartiality, but we haven't been perfectly successful either.
"What I can tell you is that the strongest method I know of for handling competing interests is this: set them against each other." He gestures to Barry, who is currently lounging by a snack table, munching on River Elf canapes. "Leafstorm and his Phoenix Imperialis is something of a success story there. By allowing both they and their competitors, the Ashen, the space to argue over the course of the nation while we in the Triumvirate instead work to enact policy, we both gave them the chance to grow into a more stable and useful organization, and allowed their better ideas the chance to grow to fruition. And also ignored their stupider ones.
"The opposite of this would be the Ashen." Hunger sighs. "On the one hand, they are now stable, and provide a beneficial service. On the other, they were pretty much being run by the Wolf Elves up until last season."
Shadimon has been listening intently with the particular look of someone taking detailed mental notes, but all his feathers slick down at that last statement. “That bad? How did that happen?”
“The ultimate problem with centralized leadership -- a single point of failure. In this case… I’m afraid our friend ‘Faustus’ cornered Tsun in the ruins outside of Surt three years ago, and managed to con her into accepting a geas effect ‘in the name of helping Surt’. Which, given that she was able to report this to us, is probably still better than just flat out killing her would have been -- but not by a lot, and I may be a biased source on that. Terror and I are planning on having a full discussion on it with senior leadership here, somewhat later, in as secure an area as possible. In summary, however… one of the two groups we have dedicated to maintaining our internal security had been compromised for three years, as a direct result of the political interests of its leadership being manipulated by foreign interests. And I’m even more convinced that this ‘Faustus’ is our late, great, and overweight Muspelhami governor.”
Shadimon’s stare goes distant for a moment as he runs through the organizations in Asavardi. “Mother’s breath, they’ve been going after you. We...anticipated that they might turn to us, if they haven’t already, once they get wind that we’re having trouble. We’ve been working on countermeasures, which I’ll also bring up in that secure meeting.” He shakes out his tense shoulders, “Right...let me...give you a bit more detail about our situation, and you tell me if letting them go at each other seems wise.”
He drums his fingers on the blanket for a moment, and ends up with one finger caught in a tiny fist. “So...we have a very loud faction that fully supports an organized government. But they’ve also used phrases like ‘drag people along kicking and screaming’ and ‘for their own good’. That largely consists of recent immigrants who’ve been hiding out in human lands, and have gotten a bit more...abrasive than average.
“The other major group wants no organization at all. You may not know our history really, but we’ve never had anything more than small, scattered villages, most of which didn’t even have their own central leader, let alone any kind of broader organization. The main system of organized government we’ve seen is...the Empire. To these people, any kind of central organization or power is inherently corrupting, and they’re already calling me a tyrant for what little we’ve done-”
A strained chuckling sound echoes from behind Hunger’s mask. It takes Shadimon a second to realize that Hunger is trying not to laugh.
“Thanks,” Shadimon says dryly. “But what part of this specifically are you laughing at?”
Hunger covers his mouth, shaking. “My apologies,” he gasps. “I’m just… they called you a tyrant? ...I’m so proud.”
Shadimon throws up his free hand, “Yes they did, while lobbing a rotten tomato at me, in the middle of a speech, if you must know.”
The Hunger laughs. “And a rotten tomato! Oh, this is excellent! You must really be getting their attention!”
Shadimon opens his mouth, but an odd gurgling noise interrupts him. He glances down, and the baby is also giggling, waving his chubby fists. “Really? You too? And after you’ve been all of no help to me.” He sighs, “I’m glad at least that you don’t seem to think this is as much of a disaster as it felt to me.” His ears go down as his wings tuck against his back, “I’m not...used to being publically disliked. And yelled at.”
“Just wait until they accuse you of being a werewolf,” Hunger says flatly. “...I’m smiling, in case the mask doesn’t make that clear. And I’m not mocking you for your reaction. No one enjoys public disapproval, myself usually included. The public can be as needy, whiny, and unaware of itself as a baby -- no offense meant, tiny elf-child -- and their tendency to act out can result in some very painful consequences. But the point is they’re acting out. You have their attention -- which is far, far better than the alternative. In most cases, the anarchists of any society that had previously not had much of a government to speak of will ignore anyone trying to set up a real government. But they’re not ignoring you. They’re angry at you, trying to influence you, and maybe even a little scared of you. And that’s good.
“The person who throws tomatoes at you is one of the people you want to talk to, because they’re a solid indicator that at least some part of their group is energized. They’ve got opinions they want to express; values they want registered. Even to the point of risking public disapproval and violence themselves. And that means congrats to them, because now they’re part of it.
“So based on your description, there are a couple of different methods available to you. You’ve got two groups with opposite goals, neither of which is particularly trustworthy -- one keeps using language that screams ‘murder the opposition’, while the other employs fruit-violence in situations they don’t like.
“They both have to live in the same society, however, and that means they have to put up with each other whether they like it or not.
“One of your options -- which is honestly the one I generally prefer -- is ‘assumed impartiality’. Inform both sides that you want their opinion, but they’ll have to meet in the middle, or neither side will be happy with the result. Your anarchists don’t like the idea of a real government? Let them know there’s an entire other chunk of society that wants to, and that the best thing for both of them would be to come to an agreement. If you’re okay with playing the villain, tell them they need to form a coalition or you’ll ignore both of them; that way they’ll have to try to play moderate with each other in order to ‘keep you in check’. If not, find the members of them you like that are most agreeable, and start talking to them -- first separately, and then together. Make them try to find common ground. They’ll never agree with each other one hundred percent, but that’s on them, and that’s where the competition will come in. The point is to make it clear that you’ll only listen if they’re talking, rather than tomato-ing.”
“I do at least have an in with...they’re calling themselves Cynics. After one of the anarchists chucked the tomato, someone else whipped around and decked them in the face. That one was willing to be...apprehended? And we talked. I’ve been trying to talk to people, but it’s...a lot more people than I expected. I do want to hear from them. I can’t do anything until I know what they want beyond ‘our way or nothing’. How do you even arrange something like that? I was absolutely mobbed any time I went out in public this entire last season.”
The Hunger pauses. “This is where delegation, and having the Terror around, is particularly useful, but in your case… probably one of the best methods would be to aim for blunt bureaucracy. They don’t want a government? Well, tough, you can’t talk to everyone at once and expect to get anything done. Tell them they need to choose some representatives -- elves they think best argue for and support their interests -- so you can invite those elves to a close-quarters meeting, to really hash it out. Get a scribe to take notes of the whole thing, and then slap those notes somewhere public so that the Cynics know their reps are accountable for what they say. And if those reps missed something? Tell them to try to go to the other reps first -- you’re busy.”
Shadimon looks thoughtful, “That...is a good idea. Ridiculously, the Anarchists are more organized, of the two groups. They might already have actual leadership. I’m lacking in armored enforcers, but blunt intimidation wouldn’t help the ‘tyrant’ impression anyway.” He sighs, “Thank you. I don’t know yet if it’ll work, but it’s much more than I had originally. I also have some ideas to undercut both groups and try to boost a more moderate middle ground, but I need information that I just don’t have. But truly, thank you.”
The fire elf nods. “Happy to help. It sounds like you’re getting along pretty well, at the very least. They’re paying attention to you.” He pauses. “And watch the leadership of both sides. Especially with the Wolf Elves around.”
Shadimon smiles a little, “You’ll like our countermeasures, I think.”
After the general ruckus has calmed down, and it seems apparent that no more errant spell slinging was going to occur, The First finally emerges from the table he was crouched behind. Scanning the plaza, he notices that the Seeker is currently generally unengaged… and for reasons known only to him, opts to approach with a small frown(or maybe rbf) on his face.
Once there, he just kind of stands to the side of her… then clears his throat, noisily.
Bryti flicks an ear, then turns her head towards him slowly.
"Yes?” She asks in a weary voice.
“Sooo…,” he begins, really drawing the word out. “...just for my own notes… did you even consider using the potion I gave you?”
“What, against Echo?” She asks, “No. I wanted him to see me. I was not about to run. I will note that I do appreciate the potion. It will come in handy the next time someone sends a full military division after me.”
“No, not against Echo,” he says, exasperated. Then, he gets a thoughtful look on his face. “Although, thinking of…” he leans in a little, and asks in a low voice, “...did you kill him?”
Bryti blinks at him, then barks a laugh.
“No,” she answers, “That would have taken considerably more time. No, to my surprise, we ended up talking it out.”
The First gives her a deadpan stare. Then he sighs, explosively. “No, of course not. Why should fate do me any favors…” He frowns dramatically.
“Speaking of…” Bryti gives him a look, “He had some choice things to say about you. Did you have a list? During the Blight?”
The First blanches. He looks away. “Oh… lots. Dozens. Maybe even hundreds. There was a lot to track, you see, it was kind of a big deal,” he dissembles.
Bryti leans towards him slightly, causing the chair to creak.
“You know not to lie to me, First,” she states.
His lips tighten into a line. “Yes. Of course not. So, I haven’t,” he says, technically correct.
“You also definitely know what I’m talking about,” she continues.
“Okay, yes, Fine, I know what you’re insinuating! I’m certain he told you all sorts of things, the callous sneer I wore, the gleeful glint in my eye as I presented it! I’m surprised you could translate so much from grunts and inarticulate screams!” He seems somewhat defensive.
“He did mention that, yes,” Bryti leans back, relenting her looming, “Very similar wording. I see no callous sneer, though.”
“Well, what of it? I did what I had to do! What the ignorant fumbling of the others left me no option but to do! And after agonizing nights of trying to do everything I could to mitigate it, I tried to float it as an option, and he throttles me, calls me… me… ignorant of options, and then goes and burns down half a forest and an entire squad to try and… and…” He runs out of steam, just ending in a frustrated huff.
“And?” Bryti asks, “Not a trick. I didn’t get enough out of him to learn what actually happened.”
“... well, it certainly wasn’t palatable. And we had to stew half of it until it all turned the same color just to make sure it was safe to eat. But… it… tided things over. At least, until the Potatoes arrived.” What… what even is that pronunciation.
“I see,” Bryti tenses, “I… witnessed much starvation in the wake of the collapse. It hit the remote villages the worst. You were not the only ones forced to… to resort to such extreme measures. I cannot imagine what going through that was like, much less with… people you might have known.”
The First is quiet, for once. He just stares off into the distance. “...It didn’t come to that. Given how swiftly The Layer managed to secure the relief rations, it absolutely would not have come to the worst case scenario. I had… prepared everything, just so, to account for any windfall. It… wasn’t easy, no. But I did it. It was my Responsibility.” He grinds out the last word bitterly.
“Oh,” Bryti breathes out, “The way he phrased it I thought… Oh. That… is a significant relief.”
She is also quiet, considering First’s words.
“He also used that word a lot, Responsibility,” she says, “Spoken in the same manner.”
First scoffs. “Well, of course he did. Likely, it’s the biggest word he knows. Though I question his particular definition of it. For most Crag, it is the foundational concept behind our society, the quasi-sacred bond that we all adhere to to see that our people flourish and prosper, with each doing their utmost to propel us into a brighter future.” He makes a sarcastic, noncommittal gesture. “To him, it’s something more like ‘Fuck you, I do what I want.’ “ He grinds his teeth.
Bryti rubs her forehead briefly.
“To be a Crag…” She takes a moment to remember the words, despite the mild concussion, “Is to serve the Crag. To strive for them. To bleed for them. Quite a ways off from ‘Fuck you, I do what I want’ if I may add my commentary.”
Regardless of how terrible an idea it is, The First gives her a fierce glare. “Oh, so dutiful scholars cannot lie to you, but blood-drunk madmen get a pass?”
“I will note we were already punching each other in the head,” she gives him a flat look as his glare deflects off harmlessly, “But no, he was not lying. Rageful and violent though he may be, that’s what he really believes.”
The First’s glare slackens, losing power as he realizes it has no, or perhaps even the opposite, effect. “Well,” he finally manages, petulantly, “If so, then he has a curious methodology for demonstrating it.” He rubs at his arm.
“ANYways,” he says with finality, “since you haven’t done me any good turns in that department, then I suppose I only owe you a single word of Thanks. Brace yourself. ‘Thanks.’” He gets this smug look.
Bryti nods at him seriously.
“I appreciate the gesture,” she declares, “I understand how meaningful it is when coming from one with such challenges as yourself.”
He nods along, having mastered the gesture… but then slows, actually thinking about her words. “Wait. Challenges? What Challenges?” He actually slaps his hands on the table, leaning in closer. “What have you heard?” he hisses.
Bryti waves a hand.
“Don’t worry,” she says quietly “I will not tell anyone your secrets.”
“Which sec-”, he almost blurts, but seems to remember that he’s actually in a somewhat populated area. Where some people are looking at him. Probably, for openly conversing with a werewolf. He clears his throat.
“...Yes. That’s probably for the best. It is all well in hand, anyway.”
"That's inspiring to hear," Bryti bobs her head in a somewhat odd gesture, "I am glad to know you are overcoming your special difficulties."
The First seethes at that, but before launching into some indignant tirade, he seems to have a moment of realization. With no further explanation, he points his index finger into Bryti’s face… and then moves it left and right.
Bryti tracks his finger. Sort of. She maybe goes a little bit crosseyed.
“Since when did you learn sleight of hand?” She comments.
The First’s expression drops. “...Seriously? Seriously? You are literally Headdam! Thorny devils drag me to the eighth hell for salacious purposes, you were going to try and take on Ancestors only know how many Wolves were surrounding the place with a skull full of scrambled eggs?”
Though he sounds huffy, his expression reveals legitimate concern. He casts his eyes about the plaza, unfortunately finding that there are a number of other Crag watching him… but makes up his mind, a determined sneer crossing his face.
He rummages around in his robes, producing numerous small vials and small pouches that he mixes together with practiced efficiency. One by one, exactly 6 seconds apart, he slaps down 3 vials; one full of a green, viscous liquid, the next with a pink tinged gel with little sparkly bits, and lastly a vibrant orange solution.
“Drink,” he dictates, “Left to right. Hopefully there’s something to salvage in there.” His general irascible tone can’t quite hide the concern in his voice.
"Oh," Bryti comments as she lightly touches her bruised forehead and slowly pronounces the condition in draconic, "Commotio cerebi. I should have thought of that. Perhaps I should not have intercepted so many of his blows with my face."
Bryti carefully counts the vials once, ensures she's counting left to right twice, then swiftly downs the bottles one by one.
As she does, The First lists off an explanation. “That one should help with the throbbing… that one, with the damage… and that one should keep you alert. Sleeping while Headdam is super bad for you. I don’t doubt that your innate resilience should handle the rest after that. Maybe you’ll even recover enough grey matter to perhaps consider the odds against you the next time you spot some form of… predicament.”
Bryti's pupils contract, then dilate as she imbibes the concoctions. She looks down at the bottles, then her still fuzzy hands. She then looks to the hole in the wall, and finally to the crag still cowering from her presence.
"First, I am aware that I lack a great deal of knowledge about crag culture so please correct me if I am wrong," she speaks calmly, "but I believe I may be committing several forms of impropriety."
The First blinks at her. He seems at a loss for words. Finally, he manages. “...Yes. Are committing. Have committed. Will Commit. And, at some unknown time, will have been committing, making a pluperfect mess of things. But hopefully, we can move past some of that. But for now…” He glances about. “It will probably be best if you were to recuperate in one of the hopefully-still-lovely lodgings The Layer created for you Lowlanders. At the very least, not having you out in the open will let the rest of us start… cleaning.” He stares over at the cadaver still gently cooling in the plaza. Bryti follows his gaze.
“Now, that one wasn’t my fault,” she says defensively.
She grips the table briefly and shifts to her elf form. It seems to take a good deal of effort and leaves her out of breath for a few seconds.
“Though you are correct. A little time to recover would do me well,” she looks around again, “The fact that it’s available at all is heartening.”
Though few of the common Crag around the plaza seem ready to leave their hiding spots, The First, at least, seems partially relieved.
“I’m certain you can find lodgings to your own preference. Now, if you’ll excuse me… I need to figure out where one of my Scholars got off to…”
With that, the rest of the bewildered crag are left to try to determine why, exactly, their First among Scholars just had a conversation with a werewolf, what potions he gave her, and how in the world he wasn’t strangled by her.
Rumors have gotten out of hand in record time.
A few days have passed since the potluck itself. To most people's disbelief, Vesnia and Embebi's mission seems to have been a success. Some of the scouts are prisoners, but others have decided they'd rather join with Vesnia.
It's an awkward truce, punctuated by Athlon events. No one fully trusts Vesnia. She meant the words she said, and her motives for betraying her superiors are still suspect. Still, there is no immediate threat of violence from her towards the other elves. With an official invitation, Vesnia and her small group have taken up residence in one of the guest buildings specifically created for this event.
This is the building that Fury finds herself approaching, with Lucinia attached to her hip as usual. With the other wolf elves moving about the settlement in brazen furriness, Lucinia has dropped her disguise and shows her real face.
A face that is currently watching the door of the low stone building in front of them with deep concern.
Fury tucks her wings awkwardly behind her, leaving a few pseudo-feathers dragging sparks along the ground. “We’re not going inside,” she says, giving Lucinia a brief smile. “But I have some questions, and if Vesnia will answer them, all three of us will be better off.”
Lucinia looks to Fury's wings, then back to her. She quietly nods.
Fury knocks.
There is a slight pause before the door opens. Vesnia stands in the doorway. She is wearing crag-style clothing instead of her former military uniform. Though there are dark circles under her eyes, she is still standing straight. When she sees the Fury she steps out of the doorway and stands at military attention, though she does not salute.
"Fury," Vesnia states cooly, "State your business."
“If you have a few minutes, we have some questions,” Fury says. She gestures over to a set of carved benches, set in the stonework in front of the Wolf Elf residence. “I thought we could have a chat out here on the patio, since it's such a nice day.”
Vesnia rubs the bridge of her nose slightly. She closes the door behind her.
"Very well," she states in the same coldly professional manner, "Lead on."
Fury walks over to a set of benches about a hundred paces from the residences, and drops neatly onto one of them. Lucinia sits down beside her.
Vesnia scans the benches. Noting that Fury has selected a seating location that does not allow her to sit directly opposite the fire elf leader, she instead selects the one next to her. Vesnia sits stiffly and does not lean back.
"You aren't here for a polite chat," Vesnia states, "What do you want?"
“I am here for a polite chat,” Fury says, rolling her eyes. “I’m just taking precautions, the same as you would. And I was hoping you’d be willing to share a little bit of information. Let’s start with something obvious -- I want your assurances that you and your comrades won’t go after Lucinia while we’re here. Or at any future Potluck you attend, preferably.”
"What would I do, tattle on her to Faustus?" Vesnia laughs humourlessly, "No. I have no reason to harm her now, and neither do my men. We are all traitors here."
"Matter of opinion there," Fury says, "but I'll take your word all the same. Especially since I'm guessing the other Wolf Elves would treat you and your comrades the same way they'd treat her. So… the civilians. Can you tell me what's being done with them? Or 'to'?"
"The winged elf was right," Vesnia's voice is matter of fact but she can't quite seem to meet Fury's eyes, "The captives are being forcibly conscripted. Those suitable become wolf elves. Those not, or who have other valuable abilities, are intentionally afflicted. Once so, they have little choice but to serve us- serve them. No one else would let them live. It's an effective motivation, even when the affliction twists one's mind."
Fury sighs. "I was afraid of that. 'Elven Unity for everyone but those who disagree with us', huh?" She pauses. "I apologize. That was rude of me."
"Not particularly," Vesnia says, "What other questions do you have?"
"What happened to the spy who escaped? The one we nicknamed 'Rasa'?"
"I don't know," Vesnia sighs, "We keep- they keep their intelligence assets as compartmentalized as possible, to prevent scenarios such as the one happening here. I only know as much as I do because I was preparing to argue the merit of… our actions to the crag."
"Which whoever's in charge wasn't interested in, because it would mean sharing power," Fury says.
"In a sense," Vesnia thinks for a moment, "He would rather have compliance than a massacre. I was able to argue that the crag might serve as a unique sect, a knowledge base upon which to continue his exploration of elven flexibility. The issue was moreso that he is impatient. He wanted concrete results, not vague promises. He sees knowledge as a resource to be extracted, and he has a time table. You are correct, though. He sees himself as absolute authority."
“Right,” Fury said. “This ‘Ýtersto’. What do you mean by ‘exploring elven flexibility’?”
Vesnia gets a distant look, as if reciting something from memory.
"The humans, the hobgoblins, the dwarves…" She mimics a masculine voice with a familiar accent, "They will all outbreed us. They will always outnumber us. To overcome them, we elves must use our greatest strength: the adaptable power of our blood. Every environment, every magic, can be made a part of us. We must adapt to every extreme, to every enemy, we must take every advantage we can gain to be greater than our enemies."
“He sounds like quite a piece of work,” Fury says, in the same accent. Her accent.
"When was he not?" Vesnia replies.
Fury cocks her head. “...You must have known him for a long time, then. I’ll admit, I don’t know much about ‘Lord Ýtersto’ -- just what little intel we have.”
"You don't?" Vesnia gives her a quizzical look, "That's odd. Despite the name change, it is not difficult to figure out. His personality is as overbearing as it was in Muspelham, and I have a hard time imagining someone with a courtier's accent wouldn't have met Goldheart at least once. I met him, and I was a soldier."
Fury rolls her eyes. “He’s not Faustus Goldheart.”
"He is," Vesnia speaks cautiously, "I have met him, before and after. He is difficult to forget."
Lucinia quietly scoots a few inches away from Fury.
“Then he’s awfully chatty for a dead person,” Fury says, ignoring the sizzle on her fingertips where her hand touches the stone bench.
Vesnia glances at Fury's hands.
"I wasn't there," She speaks in a level voice, "I was deployed when the conflagration happened. I do not know how he survived or why he isn't a fire elf, but he is definitely Faustus Goldheart, whether you want him to be or not."
“Are you sure? Has anyone actually checked?” Fury says hotly. “Maybe you all were just talking to a charred skeleton.”
"Yes," Vesnia answers with equal measures of confidence and annoyance, "And unless you really are the vapid child he claims you to be, you will accept that. Ýtersto is Goldheart."
“Oooh, vapid child,” Fury says. “If that’s all he’s got, I must be right. He’s a brain-dead, bloated corpse, playing on his little throne again while kissing the paws of whoever his master is this time. He can’t even come up with new insults himself; someone else has to give him them.” She stands up. “For obvious reasons, Vesnia, I hope you never run into him again. But if you do, tell him he’ll wish he stayed dead, because next time I kill him I won’t be nearly so nice. Come on, Lucinia.” She starts walking away from the Wolf Elf housing area, and back towards the guest quarters closer to the entranceway.
Lucinia pokes her head out from under the singed bench, then hops back up to standing and follows Fury. Vesnia resumes breathing from where she has plastered herself on the far side of her seat away from Fury.
"I…" Vesnia clears her throat, "I'll do that."
As the formal potluck winds down, one of the two Afflicted Purifiers present builds up the courage to confront a problem head-on. He prefers that he does this before the other one decides to do it herself.
Allophryne finds Dust among the Dreamdust elves, and makes an effort to wait for a pause in their conversation before interrupting. When the mind readers don’t notice him waiting patiently he gives up and interrupts where possible.
“Mais, Dust, Sir? That’s what I call you, correct, me?” He pauses to see if he’s been noticed before continuing. “We gotta talk ‘bout that spy, weh. Best you an me chat, better ‘en havin’ it out with the Wolf unprepared.”
Dust rubs his face, looking tired. “Right. Let’s go somewhere quiet, then.”
Allophryne agrees, and finds somewhere out of the way. Once he can be sure they won't be overheard by any were-elves, he turns to face the important political figure directly.
"The message you sent weren't full up on detail, non. I know you were trusted wi th' prisoner cause of how Riverhaven were th' safest place, an you have a long long history of bein spies yourselves, weh?" He holds his webbed palms open to Dust in a placating gesture. "Mais what happened?"
"We got complacent." Dust sighs. "Rasa didn't remember anything about who he was before. We confirmed that. We didn't account for him retaining his old personality and skills-- all the suspicion of a spy. He was clever, and we saw what we wanted to see. We weren't as suspicious of his suspicion as we should have been, and it came back to bite us."
Allophryne looks like he bit a lemon.
"Non, those are the reasons or excuses for what done happened." The older river elf unconsciously runs his thumb across an old hole in the web of his fingers. "They ain't telling what actually done passed. Did he break your latches an stab your guards? Mais, how's a prisoner done git hisself free from a jailor et ken read minds?"
Dust… stares. "Prisoner," he says slowly. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Tell me, was everyone but us under the impression that the man with no memory was meant to be imprisoned for crimes he had no memory of? Because had I known he was meant to be under lock and key indefinitely, I would have sent him elsewhere, or killed him kindly. We don't imprison people, really. They either work to provide reparations of some kind, or we kill them."
“Weh?” Allophryne looks even more concerned. “Mais - you just, let a spy free without investigatin’ if there were a time limit or way to remove the curse?” The river elf’s eyes widen in panic. “Dust, sir, what did he know?”
“I believed that the mind wipe was complete and irreversible, as I gathered from the several casters that failed to lift it, so no, I didn’t pursue further solutions. He knows most of what we did about Wolf Elves, since most of that came from experiments on him. He knows a great deal about the layout of Riverhaven, and don’t think that hasn’t been keeping me up at night. He knows about the feathers. And that we worked with Bryti, though not by name. Your connection. Nothing else, to my knowledge.”
[A. Sense Motive: 12] Allophryne is concerned that this may not be the whole truth, but he does not have any indicator from the Dreamdust elf that these concerns are founded in fact.
“He ain’t got the schedules, ‘en?” This one River elf may have left the flotilla to travel with a werewolf inquisitor, but that wasn’t because he stopped caring about his fellow nomads. “He ain’t knowin’ where t’ look t’ find folks on the move?”
"We don't even have that information, apart from the one arranged meeting so far. So, no."
“Mais that’s a good good thing en.” Allophryne sighs in relief, but then remembers something that is somewhat relevant to his concerns. “Wait - an’ you said he knows ‘bout me?” His yellow stripes stand out more strongly as his skin turns greener in response. “Yall done painted a target on me? How’d he come t’learnt that? Ain’t common knowledge, non?”
Dust frowns. “Did you not get the feather update from Hunger, when we worked out what he knew?” He shook his head. “Wasn’t a focus on you, we gave a thumbnail sketch of the battle. The Tourist helped us out against afflicted, so when she called for help, the River elves, Fire elves, Vaquero elves, and Crag elves all came. That sort of thing. I meant to only say things that were well known.” He rubs a hand through his short hair. “I wish I’d done it differently, now, but that’s the peril of hindsight.”
“Dit mon la verite...Tell me the truth...” Allophryne sighs. “I were only able t’ survive an make that call for help fer bein’ overlooked. An’ th’ wolves targeted the dark elf Kolya ‘spiffically af’er a connection t’ my master. If’n they now know I been helpin her direct like, I’m good as drowned like anywhat else, me. An’ you done up an’ just told him? I got the message from Hunger, mais I wanted t’ hear from you direct, weh?”
Allophryne pauses and grits his teeth.
“Weh, sir, you done treat your friends like spies an’ your enemy’s spies like friends. Y’ain’t exactly bein’ free wi’ th’ details fer me, non, but you chat up a wolf elf an’ hand out information like it were no matter at all.”
"Fuck," Dust says softly. "I didn't know Kolya was targeted. I'm sorry I put you in more jeopardy. That said, you are seeing slights where none were intended." He considers, and finally says, "I think I would have preferred having this out with the Wolf, frankly."
"Non." Allophryne shakes his head sadly. "I'm glad we done talked, me. I learnt a lot."
With a sideways glance over a scarred shoulder he leaves to find something to eat.
As it has been since the days of old, wherever there are young children, there are old people to dote on them. So it was, and so it shall be, and so it is right now as the various honored elders of the Elven peoples gather to appreciate the dawning of a new generation. Baijani, the proud but tired grandmother, is thoroughly enjoying the break while other people do some of the work. And it’s just so damn cute to watch.
One of the tiny nuggets has been absconded with by the tall, ancient dark elf. He seems to be cooing at the baby in his arms, but not at a level easily heard by those around him. Rasputin might also be speaking to the child in a different language. It is really hard to tell sometimes.
Conspicuously absent from this gaggle, however, has been one intensely old elf… but it looks like that is about to change, as The Esteemed gently guides her ox towards the cluster. Stopping short of entering the circle, she keeps a polite distance, but seems to be interested primarily to speaking with Ehra.”
“Greetings to you, Grandmaster, Chief among the Blades.”
However, even the Crag know to respect the timeless ritual being conducted here, and so she is willing to wait until she is acknowledged. Ehra gently passes a wiggling baby to the next in line and turns to the Esteemed with a bow.
"And greetings to you as well, Esteemed Elpahka. I have to say, this has been an exciting event," he says so with a smile.
The Esteemed frowns quickly, before returning to a neutral expression. “Regrettably so. While I cannot say that I expected this event to function as… optimistically as some suggested, I had hoped that it would have been more orderly than this. I hope there is nothing that has caused you anguish.”
"Anguish?" Ehra's voice is still cheerful, "Most certainly not. No, especially now I can see the great challenges you faced in making this happen… and challenges provided by those who attended. I also have hope that though a great deal of chaos happened here, from it we will be able to produce a great deal of good."
The Esteemed gives a small smile. “That is as we must always hope for, that, gods willing, the trials of the present may lead us to prosper in the future. Which is, by chance, why I wished to speak to you.”
She sits up a little straighter, eyes open wide as she looks at Ehra, brandishing all the dignity she can muster.
“Grandmaster of the Blades, I have heard from my people the role you played in one of our darkest hours; The Layer of the Path, whom you may know as Slabal, was quite clear on the matter. Were it not for your timely intercession, the future of the Crag may have been placed in jeopardy. While I am aware that, nominally, a transfer of goods was already satisfied, I can also recognize that while we gave you iron, you gave us lives. I recognize that, in full balance, this exchange still leaves us indebted to your people. I hope that, some day, we may find a proper repayment.”
“Iron is life to us, in a fashion,” Ehra says with a little more seriousness, “But… that is not the point. I didn’t arrange such a trade expecting a perfectly balanced scale. I didn’t expect to call in a debt marker, or position myself for a position of strength. If there is such a debt, such an imbalance… my hope is that it will be balanced not by iron, but with goodwill. The extra value I hoped to achieve was finding a friend in a time when we have precious few, Esteemed.”
The Esteemed raises an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the definitely-not-sword-elf-infant that Ehra was just permitted to handle. “It seems in my estimation, Grandmaster, that you are unlikely to find yourself in such a position with what time you have to spend on this world. But let me assure you: I am not speaking to you as The Layer would, concerned explicitly with remuneration and exchange. Rather, I wish to express to you that the Crag people owe to your people a concrete return on your timely deliverance… to speak in the common terms of my youth, a ‘solid’.” She seems bemused.
“A ‘solid’ then?” Ehra actually grins at that, “Well that, I think, is exactly the kind of arrangement we were hoping for.”
The Esteemed makes a small affirmative gesture. “Just so. Should you ever wish to collect on it, I understand that there are now means to directly communicate that desire to us… means that I am now regularly made aware of.” Her words carry a hint of pique. She scans the area for The First, to glare at him… but, for the moment, he is nowhere to be seen.
Baijani gets up from the bench she’s been sitting on, gently bouncing the baby. She peers up at the Esteemed, “Seems like those kind of ties are going to be even more important in the coming seasons. With business out of the way, would you like to join us in complaining about young people?” She glances down at the baby, “Not these two though. Mostly.” After readjusting the colorful woven blanket, she holds out the bundle to the other woman.
The Esteemed raises her eyebrow again. “How do you mean?” She asks, sounding… intrigued.
“Just the usual, young people and all their energy, fond reminiscing of our own youth, comparing the sage wisdom we’ve gained over the centuries.” She grins a bit, “Is that not a pastime for elderly Crag?”
The Esteemed makes a small affirmative gesture. “Ah, yes. It is a common thing to share wisdom… and ‘wisdom’,” she says in a knowing tone. “Although… I have not had much experience in the practice. The duties of the Esteemed does require a degree of… freedom from distraction, so as best to understand and interpret the needs of the Crag people.” There is no sadness to the fact, just a simple statement of truth.
“Your time belongs to the people you lead, not yourself,” Baijani says with a nod, still offering the baby. He makes small grabbing motions toward the Esteemed and babbles what could almost be mistaken for real words. “But surely they can spare you a few minutes?”
If The Esteemed understands that Baijani is offering the baby to her, she shows no indication of it. Uncertainly, she examines the infant. “While that may be the case, it would be a poor example to make. Er, yes. Your people have done well for themselves; your Next Generation seems hale and hearty. I can only hope that ours will prosper as well when the time comes.”
“Would you like to hold him?” Baijani asks gently, fighting back a smile.
A startled expression leaps to The Esteemed’s features. This is evidently not a question she ever expected to hear. Slightly flustered, she looks away from the child, opting to look Baijani in the eyes.
“I… do not think that wise. It has been many centuries since I was last entrusted to act as Cladekeeper… and… my strength is not what it used to be. To tell a full truth, it is not what it used to be when I first uttered that it was not what it used to be.” She doesn’t exaggerate much… while not necessarily frail, her arms do seem to be extremely thin.
“But perhaps,” she says placatingly, “You do utter a truth. Especially for this day, and what it is meant to represent, I could… stay a while. To listen. To learn. And… to reflect,” she slowly reaches out, and runs thin, knobbly fingers gently across the baby’s scalp, “on the future.”
Fury has had a rough day. She still fully enjoys her new wings, but her showing at the flying competition was a very painful reminder that she still has a lot to learn. It was also a painful reminder of her own flaws, and her tendency to dive headfirst into things she doesn’t fully understand. In this case, it happens to have been literal.
She and Lucinia are sitting in her quarters after the long day. As usual, Lucinia doesn’t talk much. Still, Fury usually finds her company comforting. At the moment, she just feels frustrated. After a long hour or so of silence, Lucinia’s ears dart up and her nose wrinkles.
“What the-” she starts.
“Hello,” Ink’s voice comes from the shadows next to them.
“Hello, Ink,” she says, turning a shy smile his way, and suddenly very thankful that Lucinia is there to provide an extra set of ears (or nostrils) for Cryptid-spotting.
“Yeek!” declares Lucinia, followed quickly by, “I-I’m just going to go.. Getsomefreshair…”
Lucinia plasters herself against a wall and shimmies her way towards the door, never taking her eyes off the crypid. Ink watches her go, then turns back to Fury. She’s only just now getting to be able to read him, but he seems perhaps a little downtrodden.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“...Mostly,” she admits. “Turns out landing is a little trickier than I thought it was. And… as are other things I thought I did, apparently.” She pauses. “...But at least everyone had fun in the race. How did the Knowledge competition go?”
“I lost,” Ink states flatly.
“Oh,” Fury says. “Well… if it helps, I doubt you crashed into the ground and cracked your ankle while doing so. In public. While admittedly showing off, and challenging a bunch of expert flyers to a race, because you always dive head first into everything.”
“Only one I got right…” he grumbles in a distinctly downtrodden way, “Was… about flowers.”
Fury barely manages to suppress a giggle. “I never took you as a flower person,” she says.
“I’m not…” he continues to sound glum, “Got… lots wrong. Lots of voices… hard to remember… what goes where, sometimes… didn’t want to reveal things… just… made mistakes. Sounded… stupid.”
“You never sound stupid,” Fury says. “You’re allowed to make mistakes, but you’re not stupid -- you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. Smartest wizard, especially. And so what if you lost a literally trivial contest? I bet if you dragged Smilisca or Dust or… Rasputin, I guess… to any of the other planes you’ve been on, and asked them random questions, they’d probably do way worse than you did.”
“Thanks…” Ink says in a way that Fury could swear is bashful, “You will still fly?”
“Of course!” Fury says. “I’m not going to let ‘embarrassing failure’ stop me. It’s certainly never stopped me before. And besides,” she grins, “Flying. Is. Amazing! It is seriously the best. And the wings -- they just kind of showed up all of a sudden, right when I needed them! The whole watch house was on fire, Lucinia and the guards and I were trapped in the interview room, and I just… flew out of there!”
“Thought so…” Ink nods, “There was… thaumic resonance. At the lava lake. They’re supposed to be there.”
“Huh…” Fury taps her chin. “Does this mean I’m turning into some kind of ‘half-phoenix half-elf’ combination, or something? Cal’s grace, that would be weird.”
Ink just kind of shrugs.
“Still better than ‘tiny hatchling chestburster’, though.” She glances back at him. “Feel any better?”
Ink looks at Fury for a minute or two before replying.
“I-”
The door swings open, and Barrabus Leafstorm strolls into the room.
“Your grace,” he says, tipping his hat. “And Ink.”
“Hi Barry,” Fury says. “Have you considered knocking--”
“Once or twice,” Barry says quickly. “Anyway, your friend the wolf-elf tried to eat too much rock candy at once, and managed to stick herself to the stonework outside of the Ten-League race. You probably want to go extricate her before the Crag start trying to clean up.”
“What.” Fury sighs. “Stay right there, please, Ink,” she says. “I’ll be right back in.”
She dashes out the door. Barry kicks it shut behind her.
“Alone at last,” he says quietly, turning a full-force number-five ‘a smile this nice shouldn’t be this scary’ on the Cryptid. “Ink, my friend,” he says. “I don’t think we’ve ever talked much, have we? Almost as if you’ve been avoiding me. But you’re a blunt elf, and I can be ‘blunt’ where it’s needed, so let’s start that. What are your intentions with my daughter?” (Bluff: 38)
Ink just stares at Barrabus for thirty seconds before answering with an eloquent "What."
“I’m joking, obviously,” Barrabus says, still smiling. He bought it. Perfect. Not only can I lie to him, I know I can throw him for a loop. “Let’s be serious. It’s very obvious that Fury likes you. Cal’s ass, she even roped you into seeing that terrible play with her. In a crowded public area. You don’t strike me as being a particularly social elf. So why did you go?”
"S-She…" Ink actually stammers, "She what…?"
Barry pauses. This wasn’t quite the reaction he was expecting. “She’s… into you, you know. It's probably that ‘tall, dark, and mysterious’ vibe you give off. It’s not bad, I’ll grant you; I can see why she was attracted. But if you’re not actually into her back, this conversation will be a lot faster and less embarrassing for both of us if you just admit it.”
"Y- w- sh-" Ink fails to complete several syllables as he kind of plasters himself to the wall he was standing next to. Is he… hyperventilating?
Definitely not the reaction Barry was expecting.
Barry allows Ink a moment to catch up. Ink doesn't so much catch up as become able to coherently respond. He starts breathing normally again. Ink's eyes narrow from wide as dinnerplates to thin as razors.
"Who are you?" There's significantly more ice in Ink's voice this time.
“Barrabus Leafstorm,” Barry says cautiously. “Active bard, concerned friend of Fury’s, and possible romantic rival of yours. Who are you?”
"Why," Ink asks, "Should I tell you?"
“You probably shouldn’t,” Barry says. “But don’t take advice from your opposition. And since you’re clearly feeling better, let me make my intentions clear. Fury is my friend, is a very important part of my city, and very likely has a tragic backstory involving dark secrets and a desire to permanently hide her identity afterwards. So if you hurt her, I can make sure you regret it.”
"Oh," Ink growls and steps forward from the wall, "You're her… protector."
“I might be,” Barry replies. “Answer the damned question.”
Ink stares at Barrabus.
"Okay."
Ink's hand darts towards Barrabus. On the finely honed instincts of someone who has been smacked mid-conversation many times, Barrabus swats the long-fingered offending hand away. Before the cryptid can react, Barrabus deftly snaps his hand forward and pokes Ink roughly in the chest.
"Ah, so when you can’t have it easy, you resort to physical force? Cad!"
Barrabus suddenly feels very, very cold. Something is wrong. Very wrong. He looks behind him. The room is pitch black. The angles, the orientation of the room, the vanishing points of the walls, everything is twisted and dark. Nothing is where it should be and nothing makes sense. He turns to look back at Ink.
The cryptid is an impossible mass of darkness and void. His long limbs seem to be nearly infinite, even in the confined space. Patterns of unintelligible complexity roll across his skin. He leans forward and looks at Barry with eyes of unimaginable darkness.
"This is who I am."
Barry wants to scream. He wants to cry out in terror, to turn and run into the void. His primal instincts roar in his ears. Every fight-or-flight instinct screams “flight” all at once.
But something in him -- pure bardic instinct -- can’t let a chance like this go to waste.
“I’m sorry,” Barry says, trying to force the shivers out of his voice. “I don’t see anything. It's too dark in here.”
"Then that," Ink's voice seems to come from shadows all around him, "Is to your benefit."
“Is it?” Barry says, with slightly more confidence. “From one trickster to another, sir, I think we’re both aware that what we can see is far less scary than what we can’t. And that people don’t hide what they want to show off.” He concentrates. A bit of smoke curls out from his lips. The skin on his face, arms, and hands starts to glow. “Let’s shed some light on our situation, shall we?”
"No," Ink rumbles, "Let's not."
Ink moves a limb in an intricate pattern while the designs on his skin swirl. Cold shadows from the darkness surrounding Barrabus roll over his skin and quietly snuff the glowing light. If anything, Barrabus can see less.
"You are not in control," Ink states, "You are not her protector. You are not her keeper. She does not need you."
Hmm, Barry thinks. He was right. I’m actually better off not seeing anything. “So what else is new?” Barry says. “I’ve never been in control of anything in my life -- and certainly not Fury. Does that mean I shouldn’t stand in her defense when I think she’s in danger? Nicely hypocritical from an elf that joined a war he had no stake in.”
"I. Am. An. Elf," Ink growls, "And you are disgusting. You 'defend' her like a helpless child. You think me a monster? You think me a danger to her? Then why are you talking to me before her? You treat her like a prize to be won. A plot in your story. A mystery for you to unravel, a reward for your efforts. If you defend her, it is only to demonstrate your own chivalry. You only see an idea of her. You do not see her… or you do not care."
“You like to jump for the monster title, don’t you?” Barry says levely. “You’re used to people assuming you’re the ‘big, scary creature from beyond’. Well, I can respect that -- I’m used to people making assumptions about me, too. Like you’re doing right now.” He gives the ‘ground’ at his feet a swift kick. Kind of squishy, isn’t it? “I’m talking to you first because I already know Fury’s answer. She’s in love with you. She wears her heart on her sleeve; I could see it every time she looked at you in the tavern. And I’m not concerned that you’re going to crush her like some elf-eater out of a storybook. I’m concerned because you clearly didn’t see it. And that’s not good -- not for you, and certainly not for her.”
Barry gives the spot where he assumes Ink is standing a mild glare. “You think I’m making some sort of claim on her, and if I were, you’d be absolutely right to be disgusted. Hells, you still are right; I’m a cad, a fool, a coward, and probably several other despicable things. The most I am to Fury is a friend, and even that is tenuous. But I’m also not a fan of seeing people I know get hurt. And the longer this drags out, the more likely it is to hurt when the time finally comes.
“So what’s it to be? Are you just going to kill me here, or leave me to make my own way back? Or are you going to answer the question?”
Ink's face looms out of the darkness, mere inches from Barrabus.
"I liked the play."
Barry paused. “Really? Including the part where the entire cast starts singing ‘No Mask’ when it’s plainly obvious that’s just the main character’s beard? ...Well, to each their own, I suppose. At least it was better than At the Peaks of Psychosis or some of his other schlock.”
Ink's eyes narrow.
"I prefer The Whisper in Time."
"That one's not bad," Barry admits. "He really gets into form there, and with the right actors, the comedic timing is perfect. I played 'Mad-elf Two' in a rendition when I was young."
"Comedic-" Ink rumbles, but then changes tone, "I did not take you here to hurt you. Easier to talk."
"I figured that out by the fact you hadn't murdered me already. You do enjoy theatrics, however; I can tell."
"Perhaps," Ink rumbles ominously.
Ink moves back until Barrabus can't see him again.
"If she loves me," Ink's voice rattles, "She should not. I will always be other. She will always be more."
"Uh-huh," Barry said. Damnit. Also, good. But damnit. "Have you tried telling her this? Not that claiming to be 'the other' would stop her, necessarily. I have trouble thinking of an elf who'd give less of a shit about how 'other' you are." Fuck I was right. Fuck.
"She's not… I'm not…" Ink fumbles for words before answering, "I can't."
"Well, if you can't tell her, showing her would probably work well to start out." Shut up Barry. "Buy tickets to another play, and surprise her with them. Show her your nice… whatever this place is."
Ink is silent for a long time. Barry is a little worried he might be gone.
"I could just leave you here," Ink finally says.
"You could," Barry acknowledges. "You won't, however. Probably. And hey, at least Goldheart would have trouble finding me to kill me." He pauses. "Look, no one can tell her it won't work but you. I doubt she'll believe anyone else, anyway. And as it stands, she'll just keep bashing her head against that wall forever if you let her. She's stubborn as an Erinyes."
"She is," Ink is quiet before speaking again, "She… can be greater than you or I could ever be. She will be. I want to help her reach that. That is all."
“Who’re you trying to convince?” Barry says. He shakes his head. “Best advice I can give you is to let her know, or it’ll hurt worse later on. And if you can’t, you should at least admit it. ...Now, I only bribed Lucinia and those Bufonidae brothers for ten minutes worth of distraction, so at least one of us needs to get back before she notices we’re gone.”
"Okay," Ink grumbles.
A long shadowy limb reaches out from the darkness and rather peevishly pokes Barrabus in the chest. With barely a sound, he finds himself back in Fury's room… alone. Ink is nowhere to be seen.
“And since I know you’re still here,” Barry says, stepping over to the door, “I’ll ask you to politely not mention our conversation to Fu--”
The door swings open, revealing a significantly more bedraggled Fury and a generally sticky Lucinia.
“--rther the efforts of Cryptid - Fire Elf relations,” he finishes quickly. “Hello, Fu--”
“Hi Barry,” Fury says flatly. “Please don’t buy Lucinia any more rock candy.”
Before Barry can reply, Lucinia darts in front of him with an accusatory finger pointed at him.
"Your deception has availed you not, you deceptive… deceiver!" She yelps, "I have confessed my role in your plot and revealed your trickery! You will now face the Fury's judgment!"
“Oho! My plot has been foiled!” Barry says, twirling his mustache. “But what of my minor accomplice? What terrible fate awaits her for ruinous acts, Fury?”
“She gets to spend the next four hours combing wet syrup out of her hair,” Fury replies, deadpan. “And you get to help her.”
“Aha, but not if I esca--”
“Barry,” Fury says.
“Ermm… well, there is another compet--”
“Barry,” Fury says.
Barry sighs. “I’ve got some hair elixir in my quarters that should help.”
“Get it,” Fury says. “Lucinia, make sure he doesn’t run off. Or neither of you get dinner tonight.”
"Yes ma'am," Lucinia fixates on Barrabus, "He will not deceive me again!"
Barrabus nods. “Yep. Utterly defeated, that’s me. You’ve seen through my terrible lies. Oh whoa and--” He gives Lucinia a quick once-over. “Cal’s grace, that syrup’s really stuck in there, isn’t it? And what, did you roll around in the dirt afterwards?”
“Move it, you two,” Fury says tiredly, before shoving both of them out and slapping the door shut behind them.
Barry grimaces to himself. “Mistakes… may have been made. Come on, kid; we better get to this before ‘her grace’ decides on a real punishment. Like, making you have to work in the Hunger’s lab.”
"I do not fear just punishment!" Lucinia scoffs as she falls in line beside Barrabus, "Come! We fulfill our duty."
“You are going to be fun,” Barry says, setting a leisurely pace towards his quarters.
Fury drops tiredly onto one of the chairs in her quarters, forcing a bit of heat to her hands to burn leftover goo from her fingers. “Sorry about that, Ink, dear,” she says. “Lucinia managed to glue herself to a wall with rock candy. A lot of rock candy. I didn’t even think that was possible.”
Silence.
Fury looks up. “Ink?” She gives the room a rough scan -- floor to ceiling, and then ceiling again to be sure.
Nothing.
“Tourist,” the Terror says, stepping up as the werewolf munches on a between-games snack. “Have you time for a conversation?”
“I do,” Bryti says as she tilts her head towards the armored elf who recently defeated her in a dramatic showdown of Intimidation.
“I have a favor to ask,” Terror says carefully. “And I’m fairly certain you won’t like it.”
“You are a model of diplomacy and tact, Terror,” Bryti cracks a slight smile, “But I appreciate the honesty. What kind of favor?”
“I want you to remove a geas effect from Tsun. Who, admittedly, was directly responsible for the Wolf Elves tracking you down in the swamps.” She pauses. “And I know you’re going to object, but… I feel responsible for this. There were a lot of mistakes made on the road to this point, and not a small portion were mine. She… deserves a chance to make up for it. As I’ve tried to.”
“Mistakes were made,” Bryti’s smile disappears, “I have heard that phrase a lot lately. Often, I believe it. You, for example, made mistakes. Dust made mistakes. Those were genuine. Those were attempts to help that went sour. Bad decisions were made, but at least there were good intentions behind them.”
Bryti stands up.
“Harvest,” she slowly says the word, “I’ve been thinking about that word a lot lately. What do you think it means? Would I have been killed and dissected? Would I have been alive when they extracted the most precious gift of my goddess from my body? Would it have been vivisection? Perhaps they would drain my blood? Arcane or alchemical energy extraction? Or perhaps it would have been simple, old fashioned rape. Which do you think?”
“That whoever is responsible for this has probably been ‘harvesting’ innocent people for a while now. And that when we find out who this is -- the old governor of Muspelham or whoever -- he’s got blood on his hands, and should pay for that. As harshly as we can muster.” Terror stared at her. “And that you’re angry, and have every right to be. But Tsun is a hellsdamned kid, gullible enough to accept a geas from a stranger, and stupid enough to not find out what she was really being asked to do. And I’ve been that stupid kid, Tourist. When you’re young and dedicated and think you’re the only thing standing between everything and nothing, you take everything at face value. I had to die to learn better. I’d rather Tsun didn’t.”
A lot of the rage in Bryti’s face dissipates at Terror’s words. It is replaced with something else.
“She’s young,” Bryti says more calmly, “She took that geas because she thought she could protect people. I know that. That’s not why I never want to see her again. She knew. She had to have known. She knew that whole curse-blasted time that she was going to betray the wolf elves, she just hadn’t decided when. She was buying time. She may not have known about the harvest, but she certainly knew I was going to die. She certainly knew Allophryne probably would too. She knew she was going to betray them, and she threw my life to them to buy time. Not to protect people, not to save her city, not as some act of sacrifice, but just to buy herself some wiggle room. Then she goes ahead and betrays them what, two months later? My life meant less than nothing to her. Neither did Allophryne’s. Don’t try to paint that as something heroic.”
“It wasn’t,” Terror says. “Even if she probably thought it was; I never said she wasn’t a narcissistic little shit. She’ll have to make up for that. But she’s hardly the first one to sacrifice a stranger’s life for some petty objective -- there was plenty of that before and during the war -- and… she should get a chance to make up for that. Preserve what she nearly destroyed. At least that’s better than an eternity in a coma.”
“So you think she can change,” Bryti grunts, “Fine. You think she can make up for it. You think she can be better than any of those thousands upon thousands who would sacrifice a stranger’s life without a second thought. Very well. Give me one reason. Give me one thing that she has done that makes you believe this.”
“She saved Leafstorm’s life,” Terror says. “At personal risk to herself, while Leafstorm was her political opponent, and was actively debating against her politics and winning. And where letting him die would likely have given her victory and kept her party in power.”
"Could have been out of spite…" Bryti grumbles.
“Could have been,” Terror says quietly. “Could also have been a selfless act. These things are never clear-cut.”
Bryti doesn't have a counter to that, and this clearly pisses her off. She folds her arms and looks away from Terror. She thinks for a few minutes.
"Fine," she turns back, "I will come to Surt. I will consider attempting to free her from the geas. That is all that I promise."
“All I could ask,” Terror says. “There will always be room for you in Surt regardless. And at this point we’ve handled the rest of the compromised Civile units, albeit with some damage in the process. ...I’ll probably have some of Doukas’ constables back you up, honestly. They’ve proven themselves of late.”
"I… will try to avoid starting any fights this time," Bryti sighs, "Despite my current track record."
Terror snorts. “‘Starting fights’ is practically a national sport at this point. And thusfar you haven’t started fights with anyone in Surt who hasn’t deserved it.”
"So noted," Bryti's slight smile returns, "And if you ever desire a rematch, you know how to find me."
“Exactly. That’s another reason to keep starting fights when you’re in Surt -- you’re much easier to locate that way. All I have to do is listen for the sound of severe beatings.”
That actually gets a laugh.
Well, it could have gone worse.
Shrike has been thoroughly enjoying the Athlon, both watching and competing. Her vacation, however, cannot last forever. Duty calls, in the form of two very loud little voices. While plenty of other attendees have been quite happy to assist with babysitting, she decides that one particularly nice day is a perfect one to spend walking the twins around.
While she’s mostly just wandering the now-familiar area, trying different foods and watching the various performances, she’s keeping an eye out for one particular elf. Preferably unaccompanied by a walking suit of armor. Finally, she spots her quarry observing the Fortitude event. The distinct redness on Breaker’s arms suggests that she’s been ‘participating’ again. Shrike hitches up the sling holding both babies snuggled against her chest, and goes to stand next to the Vaquero. “Even the Blades didn’t go this far with their physical punishment,” she comments wryly, watching a Crag dunk her entire head in a barrel of snow.
"Hola, hermana!" Breaker greets Shrike happily and elbows her with mild to moderate force.
"I know, right?" She continues, "They're loco as hell. It's great!"
“I got spared some of the really crazy stuff Ehra reminisced about, because I started training as an adult, not a kid. But ugh I still remember having to stand holding weights with my arms out. They even worked out a way to hang them off my wings. And that thing with punching poles to toughen up your fists…” She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “What does ‘hermana’ mean? I’ve heard you say it, but not with enough context.”
"Oh, it means 'sister,'" Breaker shrugs, "Nothing crazy, just means I think you're alright."
Shrike pauses, a bit surprised, then laughs. "And if that doesn't segue right into it."
"Right into what?" Breaker gives Shrike her full attention.
Shrike squints at her with a severity that is utterly feigned even before it’s ruined by the tiny fist waving just under her chin. “I had a question for you before you and Terror vanished and the potluck blew up. Do you have an answer for me?”
“Yeah, uh,” Breaker scratches her head and looks at the babies, “About… being family, si? I uh, I dunno what you really meant…”
“With as much as you’ve done for my family, we want to keep you around.” She tilts her head, “Families for us are...informal? Especially for people who don’t live together. I guess you could just say ‘friends’, but to me that’s not enough.”
“I kinda think I see what you’re saying. It’s kinda weird to me that you want that and you also wanted to fu-I mean bang,” Breaker clears her throat and looks at the baby, “But uh, who am I to judge si? Still… I just gotta get this out of the way. Why do you want such a loco bi- I mean a fu-... a person like me in your family?”
Shrike barks a laugh, “Have you met me? The most stable person in our little family right is a wizard. Hells probably not even him. His familiar is his conscience half the time. But really? We like you. We also owe you, but it’s that simple.”
“Owe me what though?” Breaker gives Shrike a more cautious look, “I mean I know we talked a lot, yeah, but I know I’m kind of a mixed bag.”
Shrike opens her mouth, and pauses. “Oh...no, how would you have known. I’d already told you that the chat with you helped me get past some of my bullshit so these two little nuggets could happen.” She gently taps their heads, “But, that fight out in the badlands, where you and your people rescued a group of refugees? My brother and his two kids were with them. My brother, Althion, was leading it. They were all hurt trying to defend the group. You-” she glances away for a moment, “you’ve given my family five lives that we’d given up hoping for.”
“Oh,” Breaker exhales a bit, “Althy. Si. I remember him. Solid guy. I liked him. I… guess I better pay more attention. I had no idea…”
“You had no reason to,” Shrike shrugs. “We don’t look that much alike. Hells, me and Shadi look more like-” She’s interrupted by a small scuffle in the baby sling as one of them starts crying, setting the other off too. “Ah hells, here, give me a hand, would you…” She hands one of them to Breaker while trying to soothe the other. “Just kind of bounce him a little, they like that. They’re probably just hungry.”
Breaker awkwardly mimics the bouncing motion. It takes her a few seconds, but she’s putting forth the effort. It works after a moment or two.
“Hey, that’s better, pollito,” Breaker says, “Si yeah… I guess I had just been thinkin’ I was doing things for selfish reasons…”
“Well, no reason you can’t do things for more than one reason,” Shrike says reasonably. She smiles, “‘Pollito’, that’s cute. I’ve been calling them nuggets, but they’ve got a variety of stupid names. Exhaustion will do that.” She looks up, “You’re doing good. I’d like to bring them to Coldwater some. Get out, see new places, new people.” She grins, “Their crazy aunt.”
“Nuggets…” Breaker laughs, “Yeah I like that. Well if you managed to get ‘em this far, Coldwater won’t be too hard. I think I’d like to see Asavardi again too… maybe with a little less cliff diving, si?”
“Oh feel free if you want! Just let people know and we can have a net ready to catch you.” Shrike grins, “We do inadvisable shit all the time for a rush. Can’t blame someone else for it. Although…” She grins, distinctly mischievously, “Might have to make some trips to Surt, too. Assuming you and Terror have worked out your differences…?”
“Yeah, you could say that,” Breaker grins back.
“I could do worse than having her as another crazy aunt to my kids.” Her grin now is distinctly sly, “Can you imagine? They won’t be afraid of her at all.” She trails off, obviously imagining something intensely hilarious. “See? Perks of being family. Making your girlfriend suffer affection.”
Breaker laughs. Without her noticing, she seems to have gotten better about holding the infant.
“Yeah, si, she needs it. She acts like she ain’t all there, but lemme tell ya…”
Breaker and Shrike continue to talk, and perhaps even gossip. Even about the other competitors around them. You would be hard pressed to guess just how crazy these two women are just by looking at them here. Perhaps, at the moment, they are Kiara and Aranan.
While most crag give the Seeker a wide berth during the potluck and the Athlon, it slowly becomes apparent to them that she is here for the duration of the event. Once Echo is seen a few times, it also becomes apparent that she is not actively attempting to assault the settlement. While "acceptance" is likely too strong a word, "toleration" is relatively appropriate. Most do their best to avoid her, but neither do they actively avoid her.
It does come as a small surprise when she approaches the Esteemed Elpahka a few days after the events of the potluck. She does so in a distinctly non-confrontational way, doing so in a relatively public place and keeping a respectful distance. She starts with a bow.
"Esteemed Elpahka," she states, "I would like to speak with you, if that is acceptable."
“Seeker.” The Esteemed says after a moment. “Or is it ‘Tourist’? Or perhaps some other name or label you truly prefer. Or perhaps any will do. It seems you are quite at the home with the idea of being multiple individuals.” Her words aren’t bitter… rather, they come off as, well, ribbing.
The ribbing seems well received as the Seeker smiles.
"Seeker and Tourist, yes," she says, "Sometimes it's Katya, sometimes the Wolf, sometimes our Wolf, Sakya, the Heir though I hate that one, Loba, and as I have recently learned, the Last Lycan Hero. I am honestly losing track."
She lowers her voice until only the Esteemed can hear and says, "But my name is Bryti."
The Esteemed gives Bryti a solemn look. She closes her eyes. “So many names. So many titles. It is an unfortunate thing. Do you know what happens to one who gathers so many names unto themselves?”
"No," Bryti tilts her head, "But I am curious why it is so unfortunate."
“Because young Bl- one, to have so many names… is to become a Legend. And when one becomes a Legend, known by many by many names and for many deeds, one gains much… but loses themselves. Who you truly are falls prey to the Legend, and is consumed by it. A tragic fate… unless one does not much care for who they once were.” She utters this final sentence pointedly.
"And Legends tend not to have happy ends…" Byti notes.
“True. But the same may be said for all of us. But perhaps that is enough open Wisdom for a day. You wished to speak to me. You have, but not for the reason you wished, I would assume.” The Esteemed opens her eyes again, giving Bryti a level stare.
"Well, I did want to simply talk to you," Bryti says, "I meant no deception when I contacted you earlier. I genuinely did enjoy our conversation when we met a few years ago. We haven't spoken since. I wanted to see how you have been faring, given that it's quite apparent the crag in general have been enjoying many successes."
The Esteemed seems to be a little guarded. She responds carefully. “How I am doing? I am the Esteemed, the Soul of the Crag. As they flourish, I flourish. As they suffer, I suffer. So it is, and so it should be, until the time I must answer the Ancestors Summons.”
"Then I was right," Bryti smiles slightly, "You do lead your people well. I… do confess, with recent events, I have need of some wisdom."
The Esteemed seems slightly relieved, and makes a small affirmative gesture. “It is the ancient duty of the Elpahka, and more than all others The Esteemed, to impart Wisdom upon the Crag… and, in recent times, it seems proven that lending such to our Elven Kin seems to be a sound use of our abilities.”
"Very well then," Bryti sighs slightly, "Do you think I made the right decision by freeing Vesnia from the mark?"
The Esteemed frowns… but it is in concentration, not anger. She closes her eyes, inclining her head as she reflects upon the question.
It takes a fair amount of time, but ultimately, The Esteemed opens her eyes once more. She looks serene.
“By all that I see and foresee, Young Elf, you have been given a gift that the gods are very miserly with. In this decision, you were granted a choice… and made the correct one, whichever way you had chosen. Had you chosen to leave her, you would have been Just in doing so to the woman she was; by what is now being revealed, the crimes of her people that she has facilitated are many. But as you chose to intervene, you were Fair, to the woman she now is; penitent, seeking redemption. And, if, in the state she was in, you had chosen to strike her down… you would have been Merciful to the woman she was in that moment.”
Her sight drifted a little as she spoke, but she snaps it back to Bryti. The werewolf seems to contemplate that answer for a few moments.
"Then I suppose that which is Fair is what spoke to me. I made that decision quickly, and based on emotion alone. What happens as a result seems to be in Vesnia's hands now. Let’s hope the woman she is now finds that redemption."
The Esteemed inclines her head. “It is all any of us can hope and strive towards, when we have transgressed. But… I do not think that the outcome of all shall lie solely within Vesnia’s hands. There are others who will watch her. Others who will guide her. And others who will inspire her.”
She looks to Bryti once more, but this time with a piercing gaze. “And if I am to offer the Wisdom you would not put words to… You should be one of the latter.”
“Inspire…?” Bryti tilts her head, “You mean by example?”
The Esteemed makes a negative gesture. “While I have no doubt that it might help in some ways, I know your fate does not keep you here, as it does her. Rather…” she dwells on how to explain.
“You, Young Seeker, have given Vesnia her Life. While it is possible to give life fairly, it should never be given cheaply… though some may think it kind to do so.” Her gaze seeks out Ehra. It is not displeased. “But though it seems kind, it is, in a way, a folly… it undermines the value of life, cheapens it. No, you have given her Life… and in the same way, you should be the one to give her the Price for it. Who tells her what must be done to have earned it. To determine what may cause it… to be rescinded.”
The Esteemed closes her eyes, breathing deeply for a moment, but it is clear she is not done, just… recovering. When she opens them again, she is looking not at Bryti, or any other elf… she is just… looking.
“It is a terrible thing indeed, to be given Life, but to have no guidance as to what it is for. We should not be brought into this world, struggling for meaning, unsure of how we may better ourselves, and the world we inhabit. We look to others to tell us what that meaning is, what that way is; this, more than any other, is the essence of the Path. And now you, Young… woman… should help another woman to know what life is for.” At this, she stops; though her voice never falters, it is clear this much talking is draining.
“Kill what you bite…” Bryti comments quietly.
While The Esteemed… doesn’t much care for that comparison, she does not refute it.
Trischal has been meaning to talk to Ink. This is not an easy task. Even if you have him tied down in one spot he’s not easy to have a conversation with, and if you don’t actually have eyes on him, yeah good luck. It just so happens that late one evening as Trischal is enjoying the Dejima district as one of the few nocturnal people about she actually spots the cryptid elf. He’s sitting in one of the crag meditation gardens, watching a small decorative waterfall. Surprised to see him visible and alone, Trischal decides this is her chance.
She approaches cautiously -- far too used to how her Domawit would poof at the slightest hint of unwanted company or conversation. The waterfalls catch her attention as well and she watches them for a while as she comes to stand near the cryptid but not crowding.
“I do apologize, Ink,” she starts, “but I need to speak with you about something of personal importance.”
Ink raises his head kind of slowly. He looks tired for some reason, which is strange on someone who doesn’t sleep. He looks at her for a few seconds before quietly gesturing to a spot on the bench next to him.
Trischal takes in his weariness with a keen eye. She sits down next to him and lets her shoulders slump with a sigh. She seems to debate for a while, letting the silence stretch and knowing that she will be the one to fill most of it this evening.
She takes a deep breath. “What is Amenidal to you?” she states with blunt neutrality.
Ink’s ears kind of droop. His shoulders sag a little bit and he lets out some air.
“I have no idea,” he grumbles in probably the most honest thing he’s ever said to her.
Trischal keeps visual on Ink out of the corner of her eye as she presses her lips into a thin line.
“I know he told you how he felt. He spent a while in the badger dens when you both came back from the deep tunnels. He didn’t realize I was there.” Her finger taps on her knee for a moment as she continues, “I also saw how you reacted to him being in danger. I at least do not doubt that you care about him in some way.”
She levels a hard look in his direction as her voice turns steely, “So if you care about him, you better damn well figure it out before you lead him on and break his heart in ways I know he isn’t ready for. He trusts you more than his own kin. You gave him something that we failed to give him. If he is your student, make that clear. If he is your friend? Fine, he needs that. Make it clear. But don’t let him continue to fall in love with you when nothing will come of it. You are the adult, and he is only just starting to live as one.”
“You’re right,” Ink’s ears droop a little more, “Not fair to him. Should do better. Need to do better.”
Ink continues to watch the fountain, collecting himself.
While she is well known to fly into anger first, Trischal is wise enough for her years to realize that Ink is in fact collecting himself. She waits with a patience that almost seems uncommon for her.
“He is your godson,” Ink says more as a statement.
“He is,” Trischal responds evenly.
“You are a good godmother,” Ink says, “To be so careful for him.”
At that, Trischal closes her eyes, her ears flicking back slightly in a sign of pain. “I am not. I… I have misstepped so many times with him in the name of trying to keep him safe. I have hurt him.”
She opens her eyes and gives Ink a different look, one of regrets. “I am trying to make up for it. I don’t want to see the same thing happen to the trust you two have.”
To her surprise, she finds Ink giving her almost the exact same expression.
“I have… an… adopted daughter,” Ink says, “I… misstepped many times, trying to keep her safe.”
Trischal doesn’t blink as she stares at Ink and seems to process that. There is a question in her eyes but she doesn’t voice it, instead going with statements. “And here we are. Full of regrets and trying to be better for them.”
“Amenidal is important to me,” Ink says more clearly, “I helped him, but he helped me in many ways. I trust him too. I… I will not harm him, or his trust. I will speak to him. Make things clear. Is that… okay?”
Her head bobs in a nod, “That is… acceptable, yes.”
Ink gives her a curious look.
“Could you help me?” he asks.
Trischal returns his curious look. “I can, though I suppose that will depend on what the help is exactly.”
“She ran away,” Ink admits, “She’s safe. With people I trust. But… she does not trust me. Wanted to be away from me. I am… overbearing. I want her to trust me again, but… I don’t know how. She doesn’t know I know… I know I should talk to her, but… how? Without being overbearing…”
“I…” Trischal seems to not know what to say to that right way, her face going through a few different expressions.
She ends up laughing rather humorlessly and looking down at her hands. “Listen to her. Don’t go to her and fill the space with your words. Let her continue to do what she is doing and don’t hover or tell her what she should be doing. Giving her that respect and space will help.”
Her hands wring together almost nervously, “At least I think it will. I’m still… working on that part.”
“Okay,” Ink nods, “I… think I see. I… will do that. Am still working too.”
Trischal offers Ink a crooked smile, “It is all we can do.” She observes him quietly for a few moments of waterfall filled silence.
“...It… is not Dust’s tea,” she starts a bit awkwardly, “but Uncle makes a decent enough one that doesn’t smell horrible. You don’t have to stay, but I’m sure Fuzzy would also enjoy the extra set of hands…” There is an equally awkward pause as she seems to struggle with making this invitation tactful.
She clears her throat and scratches at her cheek, “Only if you wish. I can see that it has been… a long day.”
“I am not-” Ink stops mid-sentence. He looks at the fountain a little longer.
“Sounds nice,” he finally says.
In the end, Ink ends up with an extremely pleased, oversized badger purring in his lap and a cup of tea in his hands. Trischal and Shyrendora go quietly about their business and give Ink his space. Rasputin seems to have had his mouth glued shut by some form of magic, thankfully, and doesn’t hound the cryptid visitor.
It is a quiet evening.
Eventually, Ink begins a conversation about a tattoo...
Towards the end of the Potluck, the Triumvirate holds a meeting in one of the residences, inviting the various regional leaders who aren’t Wolf Elves into a discussion on what happened in Surt these past couple of seasons, and what the overall ramifications are for regional events.
First item covered is the status of the Wolf Elf PoWs. Hunger explains that the PoWs were lost in a direct assault by traitor Surtian forces led by Wolf Elf spies, who likely found out about where they were being kept when Rasa escaped while in Surt earlier in the year. Hunger had invited the Dreamdust Elves to bring Rasa over to witness an interrogation, in the hopes of helping restore his memories or at least give him more context onto the situation, but in the process, it appears it gave Rasa enough intel to allow them to be targeted.
He also explains that Tsun had apparently been hit by a Geas spell effect early in the second year, by none other than ‘Faustus Goldheart’ himself, as part of some plan to try to help Surt by separating it from the other elf nations. This clearly did not work out, but Tsun managed to remain undetected through a combination of failing to actually do anything significant or particularly unusual for her position, and active resistance against the geas on her part. Her conscience caught up with her shortly before Rasa’s escape; thanks to her help, the Triumvirate has been able to mostly clear Surt of wolf elf spies. She’s currently comatose, suffering from the later stages of geas resistance.
Fortunately, however, the Fury has developed and tested a powerful countermeasure -- a ritual, codenamed “Bad Dog”, that hits all Wolf Elves in a several-mile area with individualized five-foot-area stinking cloud effects, making them far easier to detect and far less happy with their lives. She presents her notes and design schemes at the meeting to anyone who is interested, though she notes that the more this is used as it is, the more likely it is that the Wolf Elves will develop countermeasures. Fortunately, the ritual is surprisingly simple; she assumes that modifying or localizing the effects shouldn’t be too difficult. In terms of spying deterrence, it's very reliant on manual triggering, and thus really can’t be just left on the way the detect wolves ritual can; in return, however, it can also potentially be used as an offensive weapon against invading Wolf army units.
Vesnia has had a difficult few weeks. The traitor’s mark was evaded, but now? Now it’s branded on her arm. She killed Krassus. She betrayed everything she knew. Everything she thought she knew. Worse, her soldiers went with her. Or… is that really worse?
She gave everything she had at the Athlon. It wasn’t enough. The other elves thoroughly slammed her at every event she participated in. She gave everything she could of her mind and body, and it wasn’t enough. Or… was it? She had Accolades. It was a mark of honor from the Crag. None for first place, but still far from nothing.
Despite all that, her impossible situation has resolved… or has it? The crag seemed willing to let her stay among them, but that doesn’t solve the problem. She can keep faking situation reports, but that won’t last long. They will be seen through eventually. Sooner, rather than later. That leaves her with an important question…
She hears footsteps behind her, entering the garden she has been thinking in. She slowly looks up, then bolts to her feet. Unconsciously, her hand goes towards her sword. She diverts it mid-movement to rest on the hilt of her silver dagger. Not that it would do much good.
“You,” Vesnia states almost as a warning.
“Me,” the Heir responds.
There is a long silence. Neither of them move. The Heir looks her over with those deadly eyes.
“So,” the werewolf finally speaks, “What are you going to do now?”
| BACK | Go home. | NEXT |