Your first stop in Surtian territory is “Gerdr”, a sheltered cove on the side of the Marr with most of a village propped up around it. The village is new, poorly decorated, and fortified; its denizens are a hundred trident-bearing guards, and around twice that number of annoyed villagers. The smell and temperature are less intense here, but only a little, and your path out onto the Marr itself quickly brings the brimstone scent and intense heat crashing down atop you. The guards offer to shelter your transports, but are quick to remind you that the walk is long, and in a worst case scenario, they may have to leave in a hurry.
The path to the city is another twenty miles of cobblestone road, through hot Marr-ian weather and the occasional intense dust storm. You pass acrid lakes, active geysers, and charred-black trees topped with green leaves. A few hares and coyotes, and stranger things, dash through the sickly underbrush or over distant hills.
You crest a ridge, and Surt fans out below you -- a forest of stone walls and columns, nestled against a trio of tall mountains. Every rooftop is covered in thick vegetation; bushes and vines dangled fruit over patios and windowsills, while rows of puffy sunflowers cut yellow-orange-red streaks through the brilliant green lines of cultivated farmland. The whole of the city is encircled by a wall of white stone, with a number of Blade Elves standing atop it. A cloud of grey smoke hovers languidly above.
The gates are open. You step through.
Surt itself is a kaleidoscope of colors, with the dull reds and browns of its concrete-work and cobbled city streets clashing against the bright reds, yellows, and oranges of its citizens, the bold whites and golds of the flowers dangling from above, and the sharp purples and blues of the decorative fires blazing from the doorways of the shops and restaurants. Citizens stop and stare curiously as you pass by. Street vendors shout to you, offering free samples, spectacular illusions, or alchemical trinkets to ward off the Marr’s worst. Ashen in stenciled fatigues stare out at you from alleyways, while their sister Firedancers perform complex acrobatics in bonfires as their own clothing burns around them.
Your path takes you to the Agora, the city’s primary market square, and then to the Palace, itself a miniature fortress poured from white concrete. A set of Blade Elves and Fire Elves (the latter in blue and bronze uniforms) lead you to a raised patio three levels up, with an iron-gated view of the Agora and the open Marr beyond it.
A wide table sits at the patio’s center. It is already half-covered with an assortment of food, ranging from bayleaf-wrapped spiced cheesecakes, bowls of honey-sweetened yogurt, chicken segments fried in a crunchy shell, wines, ales, and trays of thinly-sliced meats and cheeses skewered beside hot cooking braziers.
The Hunger sat on a bench in a far corner of the ‘conference room’, staring at the stack of papers in his hand. A small cauldron, actively smoking, sat at his feet.
He stared at the topmost paper, visibly scanning it over and over. Then he shook his head, crumpled up the top page, ignited it with a spark of blue flame, and tossed it languidly into the cauldron.
The winged elves fly in and land directly on the patio, probably upsetting the guards down below. In the lead is Baijani. She is flanked by Dhakamari on one side and a tall woman with stark black and white feathers on the other. This is Shrike, and she carries a very large spear with a leather wrap covering the head. Behind them is Anasatri, looking more animated than all the others put together, but in an equally agitated sort of way. There are two others, scouts or guards, who take up positions on the edges of the patio. Baijani scans the table and glances at Hunger, “I don’t suppose you have any spare serving dishes. Bit hard to transport those.”
"Certainly," the Hunger said, not looking up. "I'll have some sent up from the kitchen. How was the flight?"
“Quiet, uninteresting. Thankfully.” Normally she would make some joke about that length of a flight at her age. She doesn’t, and this seems telling.
"Good, good," the Hunger said. He tossed another page into the cauldron. "We have to withdraw the Charred Eagles."
Baijani paused and glanced at Shrike, “The what? What’s going on?”
It takes Staurois a while to make it up the stairs, the dry air seems to be disagreeing with his complexion. His bald head looks a bit chapped, and his ears are flaking. The three people traveling with him are dressed for the weather in clothing that better keeps in the damp, but unfortunately also hides their faces. One of them has a long piece of cloth wrapped about her body, holding a bundle close to her chest. Staurois spots the Hunger and starts to head over to him directly, but the other elf puts a mittened hand on his shoulder and mutters something in Sylvan about not interrupting - it’s rude. Staurois stands a polite distance away and looks grim.
Baijani dredges up a smile and motions him closer, “Staurois, welcome. You look about like the rest of us feel. Come join us and get it over with.”
The river elf holding the Oarmaster back shrugs and he heads over to the group already speaking, rubbing the spots on his bald head nervously.
“Mais la, was a long journey,” Staurios grumbles.
"The division we sent to Dreamdust territory. They're exhausted, or close to it." He tossed another balled-up page. "We either hold them where they are, which would leave them vulnerable to a counterstrike, or pull them back and let them rest a season. Which would leave the Dreamdust Elves vulnerable, but allow us to prepare for a counterstrike. And might even open the way for negotiation."
He glanced up. "Ah! Welcome!"
The Hunger stood up, slipped the entire stack into the cauldron, and gave the guests a quick bow. "Welcome to Surt. I do apologize for the heat, but I'm afraid that is a natural side effect of our local terrain. We've worked hard to make the roads -- and the city itself -- a bit more comfortable, but there's only so much we could do."
Baijani’s feathers slicked down, “Don’t think negotiation is on the table at this point, unless you send Terror to do it her way. She and their bitch of a leader would get along wonderfully, I’m sure.” She fluffed her feathers again, “Our rangers had good things to say about Surt, and it doesn’t look like they were exaggerating. Very impressive.”
"Just a bit of landscaping, nothing more," the Hunger replied. "And I wouldn't remove either form of negotiation from the table yet. The Eagles need time to recover... and perhaps get a little intel out of the captives." He glanced over to the entrance, and then at Staurois. "I should see to the kitchen, and those serving dishes. Make yourselves at home, as it were. Staurois, there are some drinks towards the center of the table you might find to your liking. I'll return shortly."
Barring interruption, the Hunger stepped over to the door, and vanished into the halls.
Staurois looks a bit miffed about the sudden departure of their host. He turns back around to his companions, and utters a sad little “mais la” before going to fetch food and drinks for them - carefully avoiding dairy products this time.
Baijani settles her wings and goes over to the river elves, “Staurois, it’s good to see you. You’ve met Anasatri; this is Dhakamari, one of our rangers, and my daughter, Shrike.”
“Good to see yall too, weh.” Staurois hands the shorter winged elf a plate of food as well, since he was in the process of serving. “Wish t’were better times. You remember Ny, weh? An’ these are Rulyrana and Teratohyla.” He gestures to the other elves with him, and they pull down their masks to smile when introduced.
“An this is Natator,” Ny pulls aside part of her wrap to introduce Baijani to a little green baby river elf, snoozing quietly in her arms.
Baijani’s expression relaxed and she smiled much more naturally, “Ahh, hello hatchling. I’m happy for you all.”
As the group starts to settles in, a gruff voice echoes from outside.
“Grandmaster, it’s a rock.”
The blade elf group enters. Of course, Ehra is at the head. He is wearing a cloth mask and carrying what appears to be in fact a small rock. He is flanked by Siiri, also of course. To his left is Taavet, who shockingly has been allowed to interact with other elves. Behind him is Captain Villhook, unhelmeted, and two other swordelves. The two soldiers take guard stations near the door as the enter.
Ehra holds up the rock defensively, “It’s not just a rock, Taavet. It’s an untrained magma rock. You heard the shopkeeper! It bonded with me.”
“It’s,” Taavet makes a rumbling noise, “A rock sir.”
“Nonsense,” Ehra pats the stone, “I will treasure him eternally.”
Siiri is trying not to laugh her ass off and mostly succeeding. Villhook is a pillar of dour steel. Taavet appears to not get the joke. As always.
Ehra lowers the mask. He has the same smile as always, but today it seems more strained than usual and there just might be more lines on his cheeks. He walks over towards Baijani and Staurois.
“Oh! Goodness!” His smile warms genuinely as he sees the tadpole, “Who do we have here?”
Ny grins and turns so that the grandmaster can see the little babe. “Parrain, this is Natator, he’s ‘bout three months old now.”
“Welcome, then, Natator, and congratulations Staurois and Ny. He is beautiful,” He smirks a little at Staurois, “Though I suppose it may be some time before I can teach him how to braid my hair.”
Baijani chuckles, “You and children, Ehra. It continues to be precious. How have you been? You made the trip perfectly well, I see, despite what I’m sure were some spirited arguments.”
Ehra winks at Baijani, “Only because they couldn’t stop me! I threatened to walk.”
Siiri glares daggers at him. Taavet’s expression remains unchanged from his natural unhappiness.
Ehra’s smile weakens slightly, “We are doing well at Alfyr, though… I almost feel guilty for that.”
He glances at Staurois, “Litoria…?”
“She’s,” Staurois pauses, with a pained look on his face, “busy. I’ll find out how it goes, ah, soon I hope, me.”
Elsewhere - The werewolf howls in pain. Litoria twists her spear into the chest of the afflicted with the sound of cracking ribs. The howl is cut short. She watches the fur fall away, replaced with orange skin. The dead hobgoblin goes limp. Litoria pulls her spear free and looks up for the next fallen afflicted.
“Then we must trust her,” Ehra puts a hand on Staurois’ shoulder, “I am so sorry we could not help. We are spread so thin…”
Baijani frowns, “What’s happened? Is Litoria all right?”
“She’s settin’ en ambush, she is. We got word of an army of Afflicted on the march near the Fort, an we moved our army to intercep’. If’n it goes well we should hear ‘bout it soon ‘nuff. Smilisca’s got our feather, he should be able to send a message ‘afore we leave, him.”
“Ah, that’s why we didn’t hear…” Her jaw tightens, and there’s more pain on her face for a brief moment. “But an army of Afflicted?”
“Weh. Over tree hundret of em.”
“Goddess bless…”
While Baijani and Staurois are talking, Shrike edges around them and snaps to a rough version of attention, bowing with spread wings to Ehra, “Grandmaster, I’m happy to see you again.”
Ehra turns to Shrike and returns the bow respectfully, “As I you, Shrike. I understand Asavardi saw violence. I hope that the training our war scholars gave you helped you in such dark times.”
She grimaced, “Once we were free to act, yes. The enemies were...very well-prepared.” Her wings tensed, “But once things turned in our favor, oh yes.”
Another voice filters in from outside, this one unfamiliar, and also apparently irate. “For fu- Be careful with that! Don’t you know how to hold an urn? It’s got a flat bottom for a reason!”
A small number of Surt guard, exasperated looks on their faces, enter the room carrying, as best they can, impractically oversized stone urns with as much grace as they can manage. Not far behind them are a pair of Crag elves. One of them is familiar; it is difficult to mistake the green, curly hair as belonging to anyone but Embebi. A coy smile sits on her face as she follows the small procession, though she looks somewhat frustrated that she can’t help with the carrying… the fact that her right arm is in a sling probably has something to do with that.
The other Crag Elf, however, is entirely new; small for a Crag, he stands only a little taller than an average elf, and while his body and extremities are mostly concealed by a series of robes and sashes, it’s not difficult to tell that he’s also somewhat gangly. Overall his features are fairly youthful… and that’s about the kindest thing you can say about them. Otherwise they are, to summarize, obnoxious looking; a long, pointed nose dominates the center of his face, and an unruly set of dacite eyebrows jut above his pointed brow. Above them looms an impressive fivehead, which is exaggerated by what is perhaps the most unfortunate decision of all: he’s sporting a pronounced widow’s peak, but it’s clear that it’s a shaved affectation, not natural; the entire affect seems intended to display as much cranium as possible.
His expression is one of irritated impatience, at least until the guards finally manage to lever the urns up onto the table, beating a hasty retreat afterwards; Only then does he seem capable of relaxing. He casts a glance around the room, evaluating those present; upon eyeing an infant, his eyebrow quirks upwards. He clears his throat.
“Salutations to you, Lowlander emirates! I am Renyan, holder of the Keen Bloodname of Elemat, First Among Scholars, Seeker of Forgotten Truths, Mender of Fallen Tomes, and so forth. I have several other titles, but I expect they would mean little to you. As is required for this ‘celebration’, I have brought a bounty to offer before the Masters of this land, to honor their sovereignty and recognize their power. From the Crag people to you, some of the finest of our dishes and culinary arts! At least, those that survived the trip,” he concludes, on a sour note.
From where she has been seemingly lost in her own thoughts, Anasatri’s ears perk and she suddenly appears next to Renyan. “Another Loremaster! Oh I do like that ‘forgotten truths’ title; that’s what it’s all for, isn’t it? I’m Anasatri, Loremaster for the winged elves. Renyan, you said. Do you go by name or title? We’re very casual about titles, and you and I are colleagues, but I do want to be polite.”
An ill timed and alarmingly large badger meanders into the room at this point, odd saddle bags of some kind slung over its back. Beady black eyes scan the room before it snorts, wanders over to the food table, and sits itself down like a sulking child who would like to go home as soon as possible.
A duo of semi-familiar voices follows not long after the creature’s entrance. “I’m surprised he went in instead of sulking outside.”
“I don’t think he’s a big fan of the outdoors right now, what with his winter adventure and all.”
Two black-clad figures enter, their headwraps and goggles obscuring their features from view for the moment. The taller of the two shrugs half-heartedly and moves to the sulking badger to begin transferring meger food items from the saddle bags to the table. The badger gives its opinion with a loud, grumbling snort.
“Excuse me,” Baijani says to Staurois and Ehra, stepping around them. She pauses briefly to shove Shrike toward Ehra, “Hug the man; everyone can tell you want to.” She goes past the crag elves, and directly to the second dark elf. She throws her arms and wings around him in a tight hug, “Amenidal! You were supposed to come see us sooner!”
There is a small squeak from the elf in her grasp in addition to some wiggling. Finally the headwraps and goggles shift enough to reveal Amenidal’s bright smile. “Hi titka! I swear I was planning on visiting, but things got…” the smile turns into a sour twist as he looks for a word, “...exciting.”
“Blown to the silent hells on a downdraft, you mean. That’s not Trischal over there with Fuzzy is it?”
Amenidal flicks an ear. “No, she’s … under cave arrest you could say. Greg was the only other one available to come this year.”
Baijani’s eyebrows went up, “Exciting, right. Come, when she stops fluttering at that crag scholar, you need to properly meet Anasatri. I think the two of you will get along very well.”
"Scholars," a nearby voice grumbles.
Skulk is sitting at the table, leaning back in a too-small chair as if she's been there the whole time. On the table next to her is what appears to be a three foot long smoked squid, cut into neatly portioned finger food bites. Oddly, Ink is nowhere to be seen. Skulk rolls her eyes at the chattering academics and munches a bite of tentacle.
The small Crag quickly scans Anasatri as she approaches, his expression blank, but with a swiftly mounting cocksure grin. “ ‘Loremaster’, you say? Then you must be one of the Bakshish of the Winged, or whatever your rough equivalent is. In any case, it is gratifying to confirm that there are Lowlanders concerned with such learned endeavors. And please, call me The First Among Scholars. Or The First, if you wish to make an attempt at informality. However, I was hoping to-”
He pauses, scanning the room once more. His mastery of modern Elven seems much better than Slabal’s was, although he has an odd tendency to put the wrong em-PHA-sis on words and mispronounce certain diphthongs.
“-I’m not seeing any Fire here. I thought this was their settlement? The general disposition of what could kindly be called their geography would signal as such. Oh, unless they were conquered! Of course. The Internecine conflicts here in the Lowlands must be something to be witnessed…”
"Very insightful," Tsun said as she marched into the room. She gave Ehra a nod, and a smile that did not make it to her eyes. "But inaccurate. The Triumvirate is somewhat distracted; I have no doubt they will be here shortly."
"Hello then, Tsun," Ehra fakes a smile better than Tsun, "It's good to see that -"
Taavet takes a sideways step between Tsun and Ehra, giving Tsun an even more foul look than usual.
"You will keep your distance from the Grandmaster," he growls, "Lest you try to pull another foolish stunt."
Ehra sighs, and Siiri pinches the bridge of her nose.
Greg snorts from his place by the table. “Tactfully done.”
This time, Tsun's smile was genuine. She settled herself against the wall. "I have no need of stunts, foolish or otherwise," she said. "How has your visit to Surt been so far? I see 'the grandmaster' is already enjoying our city's finest... novelties. Are you planning on assaulting our citizens as well? Your troops certainly seemed eager to do so this past season... I have to assume its a popular pastime for Blade Elves."
"I will not fall for you - erf!" Taavet is interrupted as Siiri gently kicks him in the shin.
"I'm sorry, Tsun," Ehra takes the opportunity to edge past Taavet, "You'll have to remind me. Old man's memory, and all. What violence, exactly, are you talking about? Oh! And I have found Surt quite surprising and exciting, thank you for asking."
"Surt is quite special," Tsun said. "And fragile, like volcanic glass. Disturb it too much, and it'll shatter. And you won't enjoy the shards as much."
"I know that," Ehra speaks more quietly, "That is why I am here."
"Such noble intentions," Tsun said. "Have you considered the disturbance you're already making?"
The Hunger strolled back in, carrying a set of copper food trays. The Fury swept in close behind, wearing a red chiton that swirled to purple towards the bottom, and her typical geneal grin.
"Good afternoon!" the Fury said. Her eyes fell on Tsun, Taavet, and Ehra, and her grin fell a little with them. She sidestepped to her left, moving between Tsun and Taavet (and coincidentally blocking Tsun from view for most of the patio). "Welcome! It's wonderful to have you all here. I'm sure you've seen some of the Firedancers performing on your way in; well, just to let you know, one of the best circles -- Earth, Wind, and Flames -- has offered to conduct a ritual blessing for this potluck a little later in the evening. They'll be performing in the Agora below us, so you should have an excellent view from the Patio -- so please, stick around. I'm certain it'll be exciting. Also," she rolled her eyes, " 'Barrabus' will be performing as well."
"That sounds wonderful" Ehra smiles warmly at Fury, "I am quite enjoying Surt's hospitality. I have even met a new friend!"
He holds up the pet rock with a sly grin, "His name is Pavel."
The Hunger set the trays on the table, in a spot close to Baijani. "My apologies," he said mildly. "The kitchens were unexpectedly busy."
While Embebi has been keeping to herself during the proceedings, her expression perked up noticeably when Tsun entered… and then dropped back to normal when The Hunger did. Still, she’s keeping her distance.
The First, however, does no such thing. He faces Fury. “Concealed faces, correct physiology… you must be the Named-analogs I was informed of. Is this an appropriate time for introductions, or are there more of you who will require them? While I am proud of my accomplishments, it’s going to get tedious if I have to repeat myself constantly.”
"Pavel," the Fury said. Her smile fractured just a little bit more. "He's... quite handsome! Very gneis-- nice!" She turned to the First. "Well, there are two more of our dignitaries that will be showing up soon," she said. "And the representatives from the Dreamdust elves have yet to arrive, as well. Still... it'll be hard to hold a conversation with you without learning your name. Maybe we can start there, and see where that goes, mister...?"
The First rolls his eyes. He looks back down at the Fury, which seems to be a novel practice for him. “So I take it that the protocol is… a total absence of protocol. Fine. I can adapt. I am The First Among Scholars, to present my most… situationally appropriate appellation. And, while I could likely extrapolate your identities from description alone, I’ll grant you the courtesy of allowing you to introduce yourself in the manner you find most fitting.”
"Its an honor, and a pleasure to meet you, the First Among Scholars," the Fury said, smile carefully restored. She bowed. "I am the Fury, of the Triumvirate. My compatriot talking to the Winged Elves is the Hunger, also of the Triumvirate. Our third member, the Terror, is currently assisting the Dreamdust Elves with a dangerous situation to our far south. How are you liking our city so far?"
“Hmm…” He pauses for a moment, considering. “Your population seems uncustomarily unruly, although I can only assume it is exuberance due to this New Year celebration, and thus can be understood. However, I will note that, in contrast to the vast tracks of… useless… land through which we had to schlep to get to this place, your settlement, such as it is, is a paragon of order, in comparison. At the very least, here, the vegetation knows its place.”
"Thank you!" the Fury said. "That was mostly the work of the Hunger, and the City Planning Committee. It took them a whole year to establish the aqueduct and farming system properly, but it's had an amazing effect on our crop yields. And the crops themselves. Have you tried the wine?"
“Ah… No,” the First states bluntly. His lips curl into a smug smirk. “An able attempt, but fortunately, I was forewarned of Lowlander dining practices before venturing down here. You will find me adequately more prepared than The Layer was, although she could not be blamed for her lack of… prior notice.”
"I'm not trying to get you drunk, First Among Scholars," the Fury said, flashing a smile. "Try some of the dates, or the cheesecake. Anything you think looks interesting. We have a very pretty surplus these days."
Anasatri perked up, “‘The Layer’? Is that Slabal? Another title like yours, I assume? What’s the full version? Also you said ‘Bakshish’, is that a scholar equivalent? Something more specific? That also reminds me, Embebi over there - hi Embebi! - said something about...oh what was it...Onagi? And...Aggro! Other titles?”
Caught a little off-guard by Anasatri, The First stops and starts a little (“It… ye-...we…”) before finally waiting out the deluge of questions, his expression shifting from it’s previous smug, to irritated, and then to concerned. After it has become clear that the current battery is complete, he starts again in earnest. “Well. I can see that The Layer… And yes, that would be The Layer of The Path, Slabal, holder of the Inspired Bloodname of Nanock… was not particularly forthcoming about the details of the Crag… likely a wise decision, on her part.” He chews this over. “However, given the changing… situation regarding Lowlander interaction, it would likely be beneficial to make some cultural context understood.”
Embebi, for her part, has been watching all this with a somewhat bemused expression. She holds her good hand up to Anasatri when mentioned, before letting it hang back at her side.
“To whit:” the First continues. “Bakshish, Aggro, Onagi… and, to complete the set, Elpahka and Samra… are the Great Bloodlines of the Crag. Those of the Bakshish- like myself,” he says, placing a hand on his chest for emphasis, “are dedicated to the collection and safeguarding of knowledge, writ, record, and history. We are the Keen Intellect of the Crag people! Our duty is, and always shall be, to provide them with all learnedness and knowledge which the Crag require to… Well, lets not get ahead of ourselves.”
It is quite clear that he has dropped into ‘lecturer mode’.
“The Aggro, as in Embebi over here, are our Warriors, our staunch defenders. The Onagi, as The Layer is, are our peerless craftselves and designers. The Elpahka… Well, no examples there, and I’d be somewhat surprised if there ever were for you, so just take my word for it that they tend to be somewhat thinset and narrow-framed… are the… well, general organizers, managers, I suppose you could call them ‘leaders’, in the right context, of the Crag.”
“Oh, and the Samra are the laborers. Pretty standard, I expect. I would wager that you likely have some of your own.”
Amenidal takes this opportunity to glance at where Skulk is sitting. He casts his gaze about and only seems slightly dejected when he doesn’t see what he is looking for. He gives Baijani a tight hug and smile, “Anasatri seems pretty intent on that First guy, so I’ll sit back and wait.”
He moves away from her and vanishes through a small tear in the air. Shortly after, he pops up next to Skulk. Idly he snags a piece of squid to nibble on as he watches the current proceeding with interest.
Skulk peers at him and turns her head.
"Neat trick," she comments idly before returning to lazily snacking.
“So,” Staurois spots the Hunger and heads his way again, “What was that I hear about divisions movin’ round? En why’re the Blade Elves here, weh?”
"The Terror led the Charred Eagles south to help the Dreamdust Elves disrupt their 'Coyote Elf' problem," the Hunger said. "Ehra was kind enough to reinforce us with his Beta Division while our primary force was out, but unfortunately, that turned out to be a tactically poor choice; the Coyotes sent a diversionary force to fight the Dreamdust Elves, and their bulk elsewhere." He glanced over at Shrike. "The Eagles held the field, but are close to exhaustion. The Terror will have to withdraw them to Surtian territory -- if not this season, then the next."
"Bravo division," Villhook grumbles in the background.
The Hunger rolled his eyes. "Bravo division, of course. My apologies for using the wrong alphabet."
Shrike and Dhakamari exchange glances, “We think they won’t try us again, and if they do, they won’t have the information they did before.”
“How’s that?” Staurois gives the winged elves a curious glance.
“We had a traitor,” Baijani said quietly.
"Ah," the Hunger said. "I suppose that explains the package I received."
Apparently Staurois has plenty of quizzical glances to spare. He’s handing them out liberally.
The Hunger is not one to refuse free stuff -- quizzical glances included. "Some months ago, an unusual package was delivered to my office via "Flappymail". The package purportedly came from a Lycan source, and was in fact full of cash. I assumed at the time that it was some sort of poor attempt at a joke, but it could easily have been a spy's attempt at sowing dissension."
“Well, at least you got paid,” Baijani shrugged. “It’s been dealt with.”
"Paid?" Taavet growls, "Bribed more likely…"
“A Lycan source you say, weh?”
"Precisely, Taavet," the Hunger said, dodging Staurois’ question entirely. "An attempted bribe, supposedly from a Lycan, addressed directly to me, and coming through the Winged Elves' postal service. The perpetrator would have wanted to embarrass me and hurt relations between our nations by alleging a connection between myself and the Lycans, and could only have done so with access to the Winged Elves' post. A crude attempt, but an attempted bribe nonetheless."
“Wolves, Coyotes, and Lycans - oh my.” Greg mutters from behind a cup of wine.
Baijani turned to him, “And what is going on with these wolf elves you’ve seen? You said you were able to create a ward against them; do you know anything else?”
Greg gives her a blank look. “Didn’t see them at all. I made it possible to attune a ward to blood and bloodlines - something our cleric has had oodles of fun cursing me for.”
He takes another drink and shrugs. “Don’t know much else past that.”
While The First remains engrossed in his lecture, something about the ongoing conversation seems to have caught Embebi’s attention for a moment. She doesn’t move from where she’s been standing, but her eyes snapped over for just a moment, before returning to the empty space she’s been looking into.
Baijani nods to Greg, “Well, knowing there’s another faction at play is very important. If we find any more Coyotes, we might send you blood samples of them to see if you can develop a second ward.” She nods again, and leaves the conversation to make her way toward Skulk and Amenidal. She gives Amenidal a slight smile, and then looks up at Skulk, “We haven’t met properly, but you must be Skulk. Can I speak to you for a moment please?”
Skulk makes something of a hissing noise, "You can."
Baijani glances at Amenidal for a moment, then shrugs, lowering her voice. “I don’t know if you know already, but Shadimon was shot down and captured by these Coyote elves. Our scouts report that their city is larger than we thought, and walled. An attack is...not feasible.” She took a long breath, “Do you think it would be possible for your people to help us? I’m only asking, not demanding. I don’t see many other choices at this point.”
"Nope," Skulk answers flatly.
Baijani’s wings sag, but she nods, “I see. Thank you.” She smiles again at Amenidal, and goes back to where Shrike and Dhakamari are standing.
Ny quietly finds a seat on the patio near where they’d been told there would be a good view of the dancing. She carefully unwraps the baby and loosens her clothes so he may nurse in private. Discouraged at Hunger’s dodging of questions, Staurois turns to Taavet instead.
“Mais, chu find some more wolf elves in the fort or were them also coyotes?”
"That's the thing," Taavet folds his hands, "We never got a good look at them. They could have been any kind of elf."
He squints at Hunger "Any kind of - OW!"
Almost too fast to be seen, a spoon careens off his forehead.
Skulk leans back in her chair again and and folds her arms.
"Dumbass," she grumbles, "They were wolves."
Amenidal bites back a snicker, poorly.
"...What do the Coyotes look like?" the Hunger said, scratching at his neck. "The Terror mentioned that they managed to catch a few of them, and a few horses... you've mentioned you now know where they're located... and Shadimon needs to be recovered, of course..." He glanced over to the Crag Elves, and then to the Ashwalker. "Tsun -- you should escort your friend Embebi to see some of the improvements made to the Civile Praesdium. I'm certain she'd be impressed."
"Am I yours to order around?" Tsun asked, gazing down at her fingernails.
"...You know, actually, I think you are," the Hunger said, after a pause. "But please, indulge me. As a personal favor. I'll owe you."
Tsun blinked, and then nodded, looking at the Hunger with some confusion. "...Very well." She glanced over to Embebi, and then walked back out the doorway.
The Hunger paused. "I didn't think that would work, honestly," he said. "But let's get to important business. Baijani, we'll need your input here. How do we rescue Shadimon?"
Baijani spread her hands, “I don’t know. Our other scouts reported that their city is an actual city with a large civilian population and walls. As satisfying as it would be for Terror to go break heads and kick in doors, I don’t think that’s going to happen. They’re based in the town of Coldwater; it’s on our original maps, and was built around another Lycan fort.” She looked around the room, for once letting fear show on her face, “I...I don’t know.”
Shrike set her hand on her mother’s shoulder, “We need information. If the Charred Eagles have a prisoner, that has to be the starting point. The dreamdust elves can get information from him whether he wants to give it or not.”
The Hunger glanced over to the Fury. "So what I'm hearing is that we could use a crack team of infiltrators. A group that could blend in with the populace, and could gather intel -- or possibly recover the captives and leave, all without requiring a large armed presence or an overt assault. We would need some starting intelligence on local customs, modes of dress, etc, and horses, themselves disguised to not be easily identified.
“Just about an hour before this potluck started, we received a mass-broadcast message over Feathernet, from someone calling themselves ‘Warlord Coyote’. He stated that he had Shadimon, and will quote ‘cut his throat’ if he sees anyone he quote ‘doesn’t like’ within 100 miles of Clearwater. I imagine that is both a preliminary threat to defend his holdings, and also a promise of future demands. ...Giving in to those demands are not guaranteed to preserve Shadimon’s life, and we have a limited time even if we do so before those demands likely become untenable. But for the moment, while it is unclear whether we’ll meet their demands or not, they’re likely to keep him alive. So now is the time for an exit strategy -- for us, as a whole, to come up with a method for recovering the hostages while we know they’re still comparatively safe.”
Baijani squeezed Shrike’s hand, “I pray to Calestros and any other god who might listen that it doesn’t come to it, but we cannot prioritize Shadimon’s life beyond all the rest of us. If we can rescue him, then yes, we have to try. But not at the expense of everything else. These Coyotes...they’re violent and cruel, but they’re smart. The attack on Asavardi was terrifyingly well-planned. They’re a problem that must be neutralized one way or another. I’m not giving up, but if it requires sacrificing Shadi…”
"All the more reason to pursue this early, before they can get more intel from him," the Hunger said. "However, this is your 'ball game', as it were. All I want is to push forward the option."
Interestingly, it seems like The Hunger read the situation correctly. Not long after Tsun left the potluck, Embebi begins moving towards the exit herself. However, while engrossed in his lecture, The First can’t help but notice this particular occurrence.
“And so, by utilizing leftover grit and mixing with- Wait, where are you going?” he says, interrupting himself.
“Heading outvec,” she replies, unhelpfully.
“What? Heading where?”
“To a place. To do a thing. Don’t worry about it. Entekay. Opsec, quiaff?” She cuts her eyes towards the Hunger.
“What? What does that- You’re leaving me here? Alone?”
“Nullfear, First. Lowlanders don’t like bloodshed at their parties. Makes them grumpy. You’ll be fine.” She claps him on the shoulder, once, causing him to stumble a bit, before gracefully ambulating towards the door.
For his part, the First seems momentarily uncertain of the situation.
Anasatri patted his arm more gently, “She’s right you know, we don’t bite. Unless someone asks for it first.” She tilted her head, flicking an ear toward the other conversation, “But maybe we can come back to this; we’ve got a problem, and having an extra brain on it might be useful.” She used a wing to herd him toward the others in time to overhear Hunger relaying the feather message.
He huffs, although he is successfully herded. “Well, of course. I’ll attempt to make efforts to think in Lowlander terms, but I can’t-” First pauses, actually somewhat distracted by the wing that is herding him. He points a finger, tracing a feather, coming close but not actually touching it.
“As I thought,” he mumbles to himself, “there’s simply no way this is sufficient to provide lift in and of itself. There must be a magical component…”
“That’s fine, do what you do,” Anasatri adds. “You have a different context and perspective, and you might think of something we miss. Also if the wings are magic, it’s not conscious or obvious to us. Pretty sure it’s just feathers and muscle.”
As they return to the group, Ehra is speaking, “As much as I know it is painful to say, I agree with Baijani. While we must work on a plan to recover Shadimon, that must not come at the cost of giving in to the Coyote’s demands. If we give them an inch, they will take a mile I am certain. Which is why we… why I am going to suggest that the Charred Eagles stay in the field. If they retreat now, it will embolden the Coyotes. Surely, the dreamdust elves can assist the Eagles in recovering. I can arrange for supplies to be delivered as well. If not that, then, well, Fort Alfyr is open to you. It would be a shorter distance for them to cross, and we have the facilities you would need.”
“You can’t poss-” Taavet begins to speak, but suffers glares from several nearby individuals, “-ibly… uhm. Suggest. That they do that. Without a… proper… welcome?”
He rubs his forehead.
The Hunger paused, and then nodded. "Those are both viable, but staying closer to the Dreamdust Elves would be better for deterrence purposes. What are your thoughts on an infiltration attempt, Ehra?"
Shrike shook her head, “Hard to do. These elves are a type, like us, and they have a dialect that would be hard to mimic.”
“To use a winged elf idiom, we are flying blind,” Ehra rubs his chin, “Truthfully, I believe infiltration is our only viable option at this point, both for intelligence and to recover Shadimon. There is also, however, the notable fact that the coyote elves have proved consistently more capable than us in that regard.”
Ehra gives Skulk a glance, but instead continues with, “If we create a plan to rescue Shadimon, it will need to be as airtight as possible as we may only get one chance. I suggest we wait for the dreamdust elves to arrive, as they are far better at that kind of operation than any of us.”
Conveniently, the Dreamdust elves slip through the door, wrapped in their usual bright and earth toned clothing. They wander towards the table, quickly setting out boxes of pastries and a cheese plate. The pair push back their hoods as soon as their hands are free, revealing Dust and Steve. Dust’s gaze sweeps the room, making eye contact with everyone in passing. “It’s good to see everyone, though I wish the circumstances were better.”
"We're glad you made it all the same," the Fury said, taking the opportunity to slip away from the currently-distracted First. "Welcome!"
"Your city is lovely." Dust is not the most verbose person, but he seems sincere.
“Now that erryone’s here,” Staurois says dryly, “Mayhap yall can spill what all is goin’ on, weh?”
Dust sighed. "Coyote elves raided. We planned an ambush. The winged elves let us know when they were coming, the fire elves hid inside a flammable caravan, and we set it alight at the proper moment. Worked well, but we got word that Shadimon was captured carrying a message to them. And the winged elves were attacked at the same time. I want to know how many of these buggers there are, and why they're attacking us."
"Exactly what were discussing as you entered," the Hunger said. "Baijani has informed us that their home base has been located -- the old town of Coldwater. And there are a lot of them -- a whole city of people, whom we know next to nothing about."
He paused. "Or would... except we now have sources of information. Or rather, you do," he said, gesturing to Dust. "A potential goldmine of information, trapped in the heads of a few captive Coyotes. And not just 'battle plans', for I doubt they have much of those. Their mannerisms. Their dialect. The names of their leaders. Their favorite drinks. The best inns in Coldwater. All pieces we can use to build a proper picture of a "Coyote Elf". And all ingredients in a potentially powerful concoction of our own."
Dust nodded thoughtfully. "We can pick their brains a bit. Don't know if it'll be enough for infiltration, if that's what you're thinking, but more information never goes amiss."
“I think that sounds like an excellent plan,” Ehra adds, “We’ll have to hold our ground as much as we can in the meantime, but if they’ve made it quite clear they’re using Shadimon as a shield. The best we can do now is buy time, and use that time to get as much information as we can until we can stage a rescue. The more we can keep this ‘Warlord’ talking to us, the less likely he is to try to pull something new.”
Dhakamari lifts one hand, “Shrike and I are here specifically to describe what we saw of their plans and fighting.” He paused, “It’s frankly unbelievable, even after seeing it…”
"Those horses of theirs are fast." Dust agreed. "And they can do a lot from horseback that I wouldn't have thought possible."
“They came onto the cliffs!” Dhakamari exclaims. “The cliffs! Non-flying elves aren’t even sure about those paths yet, but they got horses onto them. Not far before they hit ladders, but still.”
“There was only one actual pathway down,” Shrike added. “That was being dismantled as we left. But their tactics are...brutal. They had archers in place to keep us pinned down before we could react, and they took hostages in minutes.” Her wings rustle, “They bound peoples wings and hung them off the cliffs, threatening to drop them if we didn’t let them take what they wanted.” She smiles a little coldly, “But it took them too long, which was enough time for Dhakamari and some of the others who had escaped to make their own plans. Once we were able to free the hostages and get into the air, we could drive them off. But they’re coordinated, very well. These aren’t bandits, this is military. But, military that doesn’t like any kind of active resistance.”
"That doesn't bode well." Dust rubbed a hand across his face. "None of us are inclined to take raids lying down." He swore. "Sandstorms, the last thing we want is another war on our hands."
Shrike reaches into one of her belt pouches, “We do have at least something of a map of the city and surrounding territory. The scout who was with Shadimon escaped and brought that back.” She smiles slightly at Dust, “And was trying to pass it on before even having the arrow taken out of his leg, from what I heard.” She tosses the paper on the table, holding the corners with assorted dishes and cutlery. “So we’re blind but not completely so.”
"Pass on our thanks," Steve murmured, speaking for the first time. "We're honored by his shed blood."
Dust sighs. "Pass on the thanks part, at least."
Amenidal’s ears perk at this point in the conversation. “Would it be feasible to use that map and your captive to see if they know of any tunnels in or around their city?”
"Ain't the city on a lake?" Staurois asks, trying to be useful.
“Yes, look,” Ehra traces his finger along the map, “This river flows south of the city just outside the city walls, and feeds into Coldwater lake. I believe the lake was the reason for the Fort itself. It sits on a bluff, right on the lake. Hm, looks like the city walls extend actually out into the lake itself somewhat. Maybe they have protected docks, or water collection? If they have that, they might have a sewer system or underground storage like Skaplyndi did.”
"We could maybe help get folks to the end of the river, up here. We're willing to ferry folks around in our wagons, if we want to keep anyone out of sight." Dust traced the river with a finger.
“Hunger said they gave a 100 mile radius ultimatum,” Shrike added. “Worth keeping that in mind, since I’m sure they’ll have scouts everywhere. But there is one other problem. We go through all this, make a plan, maybe even send people in. How do we know they haven’t already killed him?”
"We know he's alive." Dust said firmly. "Since we got word of his capture, I've been sending dream messages. They're going through, so he's alive. I'm sorry I can't tell you more -”
“Hello,” A voice comes from behind Dust. It is of course Ink, who is standing behind Dust.
"Hello," Dust greets Ink, after a brief pause.
All four of the winged elves visibly relax when Dust assures them Shadimon is alive, and then simultaneously fluff up when Ink appears...only to calm back down once oh ok this is fine.
Greg sighs quite loudly as Amenidal visibly brightens like a highly unwanted ray of sunshine. He reaches over and gives one of Amenidal's ears a sharp yank. "Down boy. Not the time."
Staurois eyes the large blank space between the Goldfall and the city in question mighty suspiciously.
Ink looks down at the map, then the assembled group, “I…”
Before he can finish another word, Skulk leaps from her chair like a coiled spring and stands at her full height between him and the rest of the group without a sound other than “Don’t.”
Ink looks the other Cryptid and mutters, “Sister…”
“Don’t!” She snaps at him, “You said you wouldn’t.”
“I…” Ink tries to get another word in before Skulk interrupts him again, “You promised.”
Ink takes a step back, with a worried look on his face.
Several people react simultaneously.
The Fury swooped into the space Ink had just abandoned. She glared up at Skulk, hands on her hips, sparks dancing at her feet. "Don't do what, exactly?"
At the same time, Baijani steps into the space facing Ink and spreads her wings, blocking the Cryptids’ view of each other. “Ink, it’s all right. This is going to be dangerous regardless, but we aren’t going to prioritize one person over the rest of us.”
Amenidal makes as if to move forward but Greg has a tight hold on his arm. Upon seeing the duo between the two Cryptids, he relaxes slightly. "...I feel like I'm watching a fight between Trischal and Shyrendora…"
Greg rolls his eyes and pulls the young dark elf further back.
“Show off,” Skulk glares at Fury and pokes her in the chest with a long finger, “Like he did with you.”
“Please,” Ink looks down at Baijani, but doesn’t elaborate further.
“Goddess bless, I’m not going to stop you, but I’m not going to ask you to do something you’re not comfortable with.” Baijani slowly lowered her wings, but stayed where she was.
"And why is 'showing off' a problem?" the Fury said. The temperature on the patio rose a few degrees. "Is it because of the wolves? Are they what you two are so skittish about?"
“Comfortable?” Skulk grinds a laugh at Baijani, “What’s that? And you, Sparky, you have no idea what you’re saying.”
“No,” Ink looks at Skulk, “She doesn’t. We have… many small secrets. On their own, not so bad. The small, though, lead to one large. If it is ever discovered… we will die.”
"Then it's a good thing we aren't asking for them," the Fury said. "Seven damnations, I get that. Half the elves in this room have secrets that can kill them. But I'd rather you didn't damn Ink for doing something other than hide behind them, Skulk."
“Not just me and him, Sparky,” Skulk growls, “He toys with the lives of all Cryptids. You may not ask for secrets, but he sure gives them out. Especially to you and Doe Eyes over there,” She jerks a thumb at Amenidal.
“How many of you knew about Ink’s tattoos or his magic before he showed them off?” She finishes.
"I didn't," the Fury said. "And didn't ask. And still haven't. I owe him."
“A secret’s a secret,” Skulk lowers her voice, “Once it’s gone it’s gone. No matter what you intend. I don’t care how it benefits you. We’re -”
“THEY NEED US!” Ink suddenly yells in a clearer voice than you have ever heard before.
Skulk takes a step back and hisses, then narrows her eyes, “Lovely epitaph.”
Without another word, Skulk turns away from the group and stalks out of the room. Ink places his hands over his face.
Baijani folds her wings and lightly touches Ink’s arm, “Come, sit. Eat something, if you have the appetite.” She drops her voice so the others can’t hear, “No one here will fault you.”
Ink looks at Baijani between his fingers and whispers, “I will.”
The Fury exhaled, heat and sparks fading out in time with her breath. She patted her hair back into place. "Well… that happened." She turned back to the crowd. "Back to the party, everyone!"
She swept back over to the buffet table, carefully giving Ink a bit of space.
“You can’t carry anyone else if you clip your own wings, love,” Baijani murmurs, steering Ink toward a seat.
Dust murmurs something inaudible to Steve. Steve heads to the buffet table, getting two plates of assorted goodies and carefully making a cup of tea. He returns, handing a plate to Dust and setting the tea in front of Ink. "I know you like the smell."
Steve settles quietly in a nearby chair.
At the sound of all kinds of disruption, there’s a high pitched fussing from the edge of the balcony. Ny desperately tries to comfort the baby, but he is not having it. He’s not hungry, his diaper’s dry, he just doesn’t want to be held by his mom anymore. Staurois takes the little tadpole from her arms and starts pacing the back of the room making silly ribbit noises at him. The baby stops crying, but keeps wriggling and hiccuping sadly.
With Greg’s minor distraction over beebee being upset, Amenidal dimension slides out of his grasp with a few pieces of squid.
He appears close to Ink and Baijani, trying to keep a respectful distance. He sets the squid on the table shyly, “If you do get hungry. Fights are never fun.”
At the sound of the distressed infant, Ink’s head snaps up. Upon seeing the source, his ears droop.
“I...I…” He stutters in a quiet voice, “I’m sorry…”
Ink sits at the table and huddles over the cup of tea. He takes a few moments breathing over the beverage.
Baijani spreads one of her wings, cupping it over him.
Amenidal awkwardly shuffles over and very gently touches the side of his head to Ink’s arm before moving away once more.
Ink shudders slightly at being touched, and gives the two of them confused looks. He does not complain, however, or make any kind of movement to push them away. Instead he closes his eyes and takes a few breaths.
“I came to help,” he speaks in a slightly steadier voice.
Ink taps the tattoo on his chest, then slowly casts a spellMinor Image with tattoos moving up his arm. A three dimensional image springs to life on the table. It is Shadimon, lying on his side on a wooden cot. The winged elf appears to be asleep, with his chest moving slowly up and down. His leg, arm, and wing have been splinted and are wrapped in clean bandages. He is in a dimly lit brick room, with a set of manacles chaining him to the wall. There’s an empty plate on the floor in front of him. There appear to be Lycan runes along the edges of the floor and engraved on the manacles, but the image does not extend far enough to show anything else about the room.
“I scried him,” Ink states.
Baijani leans over the image, “They bandaged him up, I’m honestly surprised, but very glad to see it.” Her wings shivered, the feathers brushing over Ink’s back, “I’m glad to see it. Thank you for looking for him.”
Dust and Steve relax a little, on seeing the image. "I'm glad he's being cared for," Dust says. "At the very least, that means they're smart enough to recognize he's more valuable alive." He shoots an apologetic glance at the winged elves, for his pragmatism.
"Agreed," the Hunger said. "They also do not appear to be torturing him."
Shrike squints, “They didn’t even clip his wings. That surprises me.” She grimaces, “Not that he’s going anywhere with a broken one anyway…” She rolls her shoulders, “Well, we know for now at least they’re telling the truth, and that means we have a little time.”
“Les maringouins ont tout mangé ma belle,Mosquitos have eaten up my darling” Staurois sings quietly to the baby, keeping him entertained and quiet for the time being.
"They might not know how to do it safely," Dust notes. "Or they know that the broken wing is enough."
Baijani looks up at Ink, “Can you pinpoint where he is? If we’re thinking of going in by water, that would save us a lot of trouble.”
Ink shakes his head, “Warded, or running water. Mhm,” He points to the runes on the shackles and along the wall, “Dimensional anchor.”
Amenidal eyes the runes with interest. “Can’t get him out with magic, at least not with those on.”
“But with them off?” Baijani asks. “Does it prevent anyone from getting in, or only from him getting out?”
"If we can get in, any number of us have sneaky folks with a distaste for locks, I imagine we can take care of that part." Dust offers a sharp grin.
Greg reluctantly pipes up from where he is, “You’ll have to get him out of the room as well. Those runes block more area than just the chains.”
“So…” Shrike taps the table, “Get someone in nearby? Mh, we’d need more information for that to be at all safe. Scouting is going to be questionable at this point.” She shakes her head and cocks an ear toward Ehra, “Grandmaster? Thoughts?”
The two river elf guards, Rulyrana and Teratohyla, are still looking at the map over Ehra’s shoulder. They’re having a whispered conversation in Sylvan. The best that can be picked up is their curiosity.
Ehra leans in to the image and squints, scratching his chin, “That brick looks distinctive. Solid construction, too. Perhaps he’s been held in the Fort itself somewhere? That’s the real question, though. We need to know where he is, as precisely as possible, before we risk sending a team to retrieve him.”
Baijani nods, “And we have at least some time. This doesn’t have to happen tomorrow. I suspect this ‘Warlord’ will start sending demands.” She glares around at the assembled elves, “And no one is going to give in to those demands, ah?”
“I fer one, will be interested t’see what they are, me.” Staurois shrugs, then goes back to the song. “Ils n'ont laissé que les gros orteils.They left only the big toes”
“As am I.” Baijani grimaced, “And we don’t have our feather anymore.” She glanced at Dust, “Can you try to keep us up to date?”
“Them feathers ain’t a help when people don’t use em.” Ny apparently has opinions of her own. “We done find out that Alfyr’s deployed by gettin turnt down when we axed fer help.”
Ehra visibly winces when he hears that, but doesn’t say anything.
Dust nods. "We'll do our best to update everyone as we learn things. Let us know who you want information sent to via dreams. If you can keep us updated about your news, we can pass it on."
“Best make that Smilisca. Staurois ain’t sleepin often enough to catch ‘im on d’regular.” Ny nods agreement.
“Speaking of…” Baijani said slowly, “We have names for these people, yes? Coyote and Breaker. All you need is a name, yes? Not yet so we don’t push anything, but if they start getting uppity…”
"Yes, all we need is a name," Dust nodded. "But we sent a message to each after the first raid. So they know we're capable of it. Can always start harassing them though, like Lock. Screaming goats do a number on sleep quality, we've found. But that's not something we want to escalate to while they have Shadimon, I'd think."
“Prolly want’a go with Breaker,” Teratohyla mutters, “Coyote’s got a thing for cuttin off yer balls I hears.”
“Breaker’s the one I met,” Baijani says. “Charming madwoman.”
“They don’ afear her as much as the Coyote, non.”
Shrike leans closer, “You’ve overheard them?”
Teratohyla nods. “A’yup. Ain’t overhear’d much, but they’re foh shore skeert of Coyote, an not as much Breaker.”
Baijani tilts her head, thinking, “Maybe then...I tried to offer a bit of undermining. Knowing they fear their leaders...who knows.”
Steve looks up. "They stole the feather." He isn't meeting anyone's eyes. "Only one. Look for it."
Ink shakes his head, “I warded them. Only polite.”
Shrike frowns, “From yourself, even? It’s your magic; can you...detect that somehow?” She winces, “Sorry, I don’t know anything about magic.”
“Specifically designed not to,” He explains, glancing at the First, “Would be rude, otherwise.”
Dhakamari pipes up from where he’s been standing behind Shrike. “The message. Shadimon was going to Coldwater to drop a message. It would have been in a scrollcase, and it was addressed to these leaders. If they have it, it might show us something about them, at least?”
“That… might work,” Ink tilts his head.
“He would have had other things on him at the time, too. Standard things we carry while scouting. They certainly wouldn’t have left his weapons or anything with them.” Dhakamari slowed down, “If...that’s...helpful?”
Ink simply nods.
Although he paid some attention at the outset, it seems The First quickly grew disinterested in the discussion of daring raids and blossoming conflicts. Instead, he has taken advantage of the distraction the conversation provided to orbit the assembled elves, openly staring and inspecting their various features. Unlike his earlier inspection of Anasatri’s wings, he now attempts to keep a modicum of distance, but his demeanor makes it quite clear that he’s, for lack of a better term, sizing everyone up. The Cryptids, in particular, held his attention prominently, at least until the argument broke out. Now, it seems that the most recent focus of his attention is none other than young Natator.
“C'est pour faire des bouchons de liège,This is to make corks” Stauois continues while Natator hiccups quietly.
Sensing a momentary lull in the conversation, and blithely ignoring it’s somber tone, The First spots this as an ample opportunity to further the cause of Lowland Esoterica. “It has been reasonably easy to draw numerous deductions, given what information I already have, but here I will admit myself to be somewhat overwhelmed by unknown variables. So, my curiosity is; This infant you have brought. Did you have a hand in siring it? Or is it just a keen example of your subtype’s… The Rivers, I am reasonably certain... infants?”
Ny makes a curious look of her own toward the strange Crag elf. Staurois laughs softly.
“Weh, Nate’s mine. Wouldn’t steal somewhat else’s just to take to a party, non?” Staurois idly runs a thumb over the spots on Natator’s bald head that match his own.
“Ah, so it is a potence display to the other subtypes, demonstrating your superior fecundity. Which, I suppose, you are to be commended on. While I don’t currently have a large example set to work from to compare it to other Lowlander young, the infant seems to be in fair health. And the other sire would be…?” He eyes Ny, but allows the inquiry to hang in the air.
Ny appears to be barely containing her embarrassment. She blushes a bright green and looks like she’s about ready to hide physically behind the bench she’s sitting on.
“Ain’t gonna leave the little tadpole a’home alone neither.” Staurois raises an eyebrow at The First. “Tchew gettin’ at?” The two “guards” leave the map and keep an eye on the interactions with their Oarmaster.
The First frowns slightly as his abundant eyebrows twist into an expression of confusion. He stares into the air a moment, mouthing Staurois’ response. Then, realization! “Ah! Not a literal tadpole. An expression, involving your somewhat aquatic bent. I see.” He nods. “In any case, as I have broached the topic, I was merely attempting to come to a stronger understanding of Lowlander practices in this… fascinating subject. Indeed, were both sires present,” a fact that he still seems uncertain about, “I was going to enquire what… particular traits you had sought in the other when aiming to create this offspring. It would be an enlightening insight into the nature of your subtype’s priorities and cultural structure.”
“Quoi...?” Staurois manages to keep his voice down, continuing to pat the hiccuping infant on the back. “Nyctibatrachus is my ballast. She keeps me steady in any storm. Ain’t noone else for me, weh.”
The First’s eyebrows curl into confusion once more. He looks up again, grumbling “damned meme-speak. Ballast? Bal-last?...” to himself. Again, once more, realization strikes. He seems particularly proud/smug about this one. “Ah, ballast! The ancient term related to marine transports. Although, of course, I take it the reference is metaphor, not that you literally chose for density, even distribution, and ability to be jettisoned if necessary. Instead… likely you are referring to a form of ‘emotional ballast’? Selecting for traits that result in an even-tempered descendent? A worthy selection, though a somewhat esoteric pick, considering your physical properties…” This seems to give him pause for thought.
“C'est pour boucher mes demi-bouteillesIt's to seal my half full bottles.” Staurois gets back to the nursery rhyme while still holding a suspicious stare toward The First.
Anasatri appears again at the First’s elbow. She’s been quietly following his rounds, observing him as he’s been observing the others. “What about the Crags? What do you look for?”
Still lost somewhat in thought, The First responds off-handedly. “Oh, the typical things, of course. Onagi select for keen perception and manual dexterity, Elpahka for empathy and resilience, Aggro select for robustness and “mohs”, whatever that is, and so forth, logically. Of course, it’s all moderated based on what traits are required for the Pa-” He stops short, as if suddenly realizing where he is. He turns around to look at Anasatri, a small flush evident to his features, a look of frustration present. But then, curiosity. “Actually, Loremaster, you might be one of the best suited to provide a counter-example. I now have more insight into River selections, and while some of your own predilections are… apparent,” he says, staring once more at the wings, “there are likely some other selections that are not as readily apparent. After all, I do note an absence of Winged infants on display, so I can assume fecundity is not among those… or, if it is, I suppose the River’s display is somewhat frustrating to you.”
Anasatri giggles, “Well Baijani brought her daughter, but Shrike’s awfully past the infant stage at this point. We have big families, depending on our different relationships. Me for example, my family is pretty small for now, after, well, everything. There’s Amatiri and Sarumara, the three of us are lovers. Tiri’s brother Tyrvin also lives with us; we’ve been great friends since we were fledges. He’s lately been bringing one of his lovers around, and we all get along great with him, so he’ll probably be joining the family soon too.” She tilts her head, “Family for us is...people you love and want to live with? You get a lot of back and forth between different households, and sometimes groups will split off to form their own houses. As to what we look for…” She laughs, “Well flying skill is a big one, obviously. But that’s more...this is pretty to watch? We want someone you can get along with. That’s a must if you’re going to cohabitate. But if you’re just looking for someone to have sex with and not start a family, that’s all personal.”
“Ton papa semble un elephant,Your father looks like an elephant,” Staurois sings quietly.
Frustration and confusion seem to go hand in hand with The First’s expressions. After mulling momentarily over Anasatri’s deluge of information, he sighs explosively. “So… your structure is predicated on a complete absence of structure. To be honest, that seems only fitting with the Lowlands. Much like the only demi-organized-chaos that seems to be these proceedings. Perhaps, however, that is a selected survival trait in and of itself; the environment you find yourself in is also impossibly unpredi-” Something seems to click. He stares skywards, and then focuses back in on Anasatri. “...Loremaster, repeat that part you had said regarding ‘Family’? I need to double check my understanding…”
She is clearly holding back more laughter, and tilts her head, “People you love and want to live with? That part?”
“Yes, that part!”, he says, clearly excited. “Now, while I could make a great deal of assumptions regarding “love”, that is a notoriously indistinct concept. Perhaps you could provide a more specific cultural context on the Winged take on the concept?”
“Ah...well…” She pauses, thinking. “It’s...hard to explain? Being...very close to someone?”
The First rudely interrupts as Anasatri attempts to parse over the difficult subject. “Yes, yes, indistinct, closeness, let me drill down more specifically in order to assist you in explaining correctly. Based on some contextual clues, I would suspect that a part of your definition of the matter involves both components of physical and emotional attraction! Would that be correct to state?”
“I suppose so? Sometimes just one, sometimes both? For family, the emotional part is more important.” She grins, “But the physical is a big bonus.”
“Et ta maman semble un automobile,And your mother looks like a car,” the continued singing is less than flattering.
The First grins, almost wickedly. It is quite clear there is some condescension in his expression. “That helps to illuminate a fine point, Loremaster. I had a rising suspicion as such, but confirmation of that point is most gratifying.” Furious scribbling ensues, which he seems capable of doing without even looking. “And would you say such elements are common among the Lowlander definition of the concept? That would also help to further elucidate the endless stream of memes from the Rivers, for instance…”
Anasatri tilts her head the other way, “Does that not get exhausting? Needing everything to fit in neat boxes?”
The First stops scribbling. For the first time in a while, he actually looks at Anasatri. His expression stiffens. And then relaxes.
“...I- Of course it is. Endlessly. Perpetually. Ancestors preserve, almost insufferably. But of course you would understand that, Loremaster. If it were simple to understand The World, it would not require minds like mine- like ours, I suppose- to be constantly dedicated to it. That is the duty, the Responsibility, of our Bloodl- of our kin. It is a perplexing, infuriating, life draining task. And yet, for the good of us all, we endure it.” His smug smile returns. “Of course, endurance is one of the keenest gifts that we Crag possess, so I suspect that is why I would not give voice to it so, Loremaster.”
Anasatri brightens, “Ah! I see the problem! It’s a worldview difference. You think like stone and we think like wind! We operate on patterns, but they’re constantly changing. It’s easy to jump to a new windstream if the one you’re on isn’t getting you where you need to go. So, if something doesn’t make sense to me in my context, I have to jump out of it.” She smiles, “Your people will never make sense based on winged elf standards, so I can’t use them. Stone changes, I’m sure, but much more slowly and it’s much harder to force, so maybe it’s harder to shift out of those patterns.” She taps his notes, “That’s what I do: each culture has to start totally from the beginning, without any of my ideas what’s ‘normal’ or ‘right’.” She pulls out her own notebook, flipping through it at blurring speed, “See? We Lowlanders aren’t all the same; you can barely compare us to each other, let alone to yourself.” Her smile is genuine, but there might be just the faintest hint of mania somewhere in it.
The First’s expression darkens somewhat. He frowns, his lips curling. “... In your own way, Loremaster, you’ve hit on all the salient points of my presence at this… anarchic soiree. You are absolutely correct; This World operates on patterns. Patterns within patterns within yet more damnably elusive patterns. But merely abandoning a pattern when it doesn’t ‘fit’ to pursue one from blank-slate is self defeating; you will gain innumerable tiny understandings, but you will be cut off from the fundamental understanding you would retain if you merely continue to dig further. All things are connected; the connections may be small, they may be only temporarily present… second hell, they may even require further understanding to dig down to how they could possibly even be connections. But that is why the Bakshish are dedicated to the cause. We do not abandon what we already know to ‘start from the beginning’. We find where our knowledge belongs, how it connects, and, most damnably difficult, why it connects! It is difficult, it is frustrating, it is maddening. And yet, it was the Responsibility for which our kind was made.” His expression turns into a wicked smile again. “Of course, it is that flighty, infuriatingly uncertain reasoning that you Lowlanders espouse that helps to properly illuminate the abyssal conditions which you are assailed by every day. Without a doubt, if you had not developed such a mental plasticity, the environment you live in would likely destroy you before you could manage to come to grips with the basics of it…”
Anasatri’s eyes lose focus for a moment before snapping back to First with sudden unnerving clarity, “How do you record your information?”
“Et ton petit frère semble un ouaouaron,And your litte brother looks like a bullfrog” Staurois continues singing, and this is a much more flattering association than the last in his opinion.
Dust and Steve are watching the-- discussion? Argument? Intently. Behind them, the Hunger had grabbed a stack of napkins from the table, and was now overtly scribbling notes onto them with one smoldering finger. Ink is watching the conversation intently, with the only muscle he moves being his eyes flicking back and forth between the two scholars.
The First’s expression darkens once more… this time, significantly so. His gray skin grows flushed, his cheeks and forehead darkening. He grits his teeth, then waves his notes in Anasatri’s direction. “Is poor eyesight a common malady for the Winged, or a personal one?”
“Oh not at all, I’ve been reading your notes as you take them. Your lines have been getting rougher as you tense up. I ask, you see, because we have to change how we do things. Among us, Loremasters are the repository of knowledge.” She taps the side of her head, “Every story and history we have, which is a couple thousand, probably, and every thing I’ve ever seen or heard is all right here. You perceive, of course, how potentially dangerous this is. Were something to happen to me, that would be a crippling loss to us as a people. My life’s work is almost certainly going to be transcribing what’s in my memory out into physical form.” She fluffs her feathers, “Perhaps an archive, or a library. Perhaps some of your works could be in it too. With steadier handwriting.” There’s definitely something a little manic in her expression now, her smile a little too wide and her eyes a little too bright, “If you could see the inside of my head, you might be as flighty. It’s the only way I’m not completely mad. Mind your superiority, friend. That wind won’t carry you forever.”
Speaking of mad… the darkening flush brought to The First’s face seems to have claimed the entirety of his head. His eyes narrow. His teeth audibly grind. “I am quite satisfied, ‘Loremaster’, that I cannot perceive the inside of your small cranium; this blighted land already contains far more than its fair share of noxious, odorous scents! Of course, knowing what you perceive to be knowledge worthy of pride, I suppose I should not judge you too harshly. Thousands of stories! Oh, Ancestors preserve! What a truly daunting, staggering amount of Lore! Your people must be the pride of this misbegotten land, to be able to retain such an unimaginable wealth of knowledge! Oh, yes, yes, sixth hell, I cannot imagine what an incalculable loss it would be to your people to lose all of that ancient lore! Why, I can’t think of anyone who could possibly envision what a staggering blow that would be!” His stylus has poked a hole through is parchment as he presses on it. He continues, unheeding of the ink spreading over his notes. “It is quite intriguing that your people would seek to challenge yourself with such a self imposed restriction on your accumulation of knowledge, but hey, maybe there just isn’t that many things worth knowing down here! Besides, when has knowledge ever helped anyone when philosophical excuses for laxity suffice?!”
The Hunger sighed. He dropped his makeshift notes onto the buffet table, and moved between the two bickering (or one bickering and one manic) scholars. "If you're quite finished arguing over whose methodology is superior -- like a pair of over-inflated apprentices, I should add -- then please, move to separate areas and give the rest of us some peace. This is a party, not a lecture hall, and we have several other rude public arguments to go through today--"
“Ta petite soeur semble le coin de banquette.Your little sister looks like the corner of the sidewalk” And the rhyme is finished with another colloquialism for “ugly”.
Anasatri gave the Hunger a sunny (and normal) smile, “Ah! Of course!” She turned and trotted back to where the other winged elves were and got herself a plate of food.
Unfortunately, it seems all the Hunger succeeded at doing was redirecting the flow of the First’s hostility. “Over-inflated apprentices?”, he practically screams, as Anasatri wisely disengages from his raving.
“I’m sorry, are public arguments the normal method of discourse among the Crag?” the Hunger said mildly. “We try to confine those to private areas, ourselves. To better contain any resulting fires. Anyway, you were providing some interesting discussion on the nature of Bakshish methodology -- ‘checking information into boxes’ as it were. I’d love to continue a further discussion on that -- perhaps even an overall organized research sharing program between our various parties, to maximize the overall utility of the information we’ve gathered with our esoteric methods -- but frankly this will likely bore the other attendees. We’ll save it for the afterparty, shall we?”
With the shouting, the baby’s awake again and wriggling furiously. Staurois sighs, and starts over.
While the Hunger is making his completely reasonable, entirely logical, and overall conciliatory suggestion, The First has been trembling in place. It seems he is making some considerable effort to get himself under control. He lifts his stylus from the ruined page, lays it into its groove with a tak, and closes his eyes. He inhales deeply, running his now free hand over his forehead. He adjusts his robes, dishevelled as his gesticulations became more animated, and opens his eyes.
“Listen to me, you tin-plated pile of useless scree. I am more than capable of correcting your numerous flawed conceptions of proper record-keeping and inquiry, but if you think you’re going to get away with insulting my credibility and then smoothly moving on to dictating to me, ME, then I would advise that you detach that shiny mirror from your face, turn it around, and use it to examine the solid mass of coprolite jutting from your neck. I will not be talked down to by someone literally incapable of doing so for once!”
"My apologies, then," the Hunger said, feigning a bit of appropriate humility (DC 25 bluff). "I should not have implied you were not an experienced researcher. And in fact, I would love a chance to learn the capabilities of your methods. After all, your people have had a very long time to research and develop your methodology," he guessed wildly. "Since you have an entire caste of your people dedicated to it."
While The First had looked geared up to launch into another tirade, he actually looks nothing short of shocked that someone would actually apologize to him. He is, in fact, stunned. Sense Motive 13 It seems as though he actually totally buys the Hunger’s sincerity.
After several seconds, he coughs into his fist. “Um. Yes. Of course. And, all things considered, the appropriate cultural contexts will need to be put into… uh… context. It would be the best way to avoid mistakes like these in the fut-” he doesn’t finish the sentence, actively wincing.
"I can arrange for something after the buffet finishes," the Hunger said. "If you're interested, of course; we would be learning from you after all. For now... the firedancers will be starting shortly, and it may be too late to call them off. And they tend to provide a good example of 'Fire Elf selection strategies,’ as it were, so people can get a bit... distracted."
The flush has been slowly retreating from The First’s face, although a tinge of it still remains around his cheeks. He sniffs, attempting to stand up straight, broad shouldered. “I will admit to a professional interest. It will assist us all in understanding the… dizzying amount of distinctiveness that pervades the Lowlands, and how it can perhaps be brought into greater understanding.” he winces again, realizing he’s repeating himself. He switches gears. “And, of course, I will bear witness to this… firedancing. It should be most illuminating.” He actually manages to say this with a smug smirk.
"Yes, quite," the Hunger said, some amusement in his voice. "I'll go check, and make certain they are getting started as planned. It was a pleasure to meet you, First Among Scholars." He gave the First a quick bow, and then stepped over to the edge of the patio, grabbing the Fury's arm as he went.
"The Firedancers weren't supposed to start for another hour," the Fury whispered. She peeked through the open patio screen to the Agora below. "I don't think Barrabus is even ready yet. He was going to head up here first."
"Change of plans," the Hunger replied quietly. "Everyone is a little too on edge at the moment. Head down there and get them started."
The Fury set her jaw, and dropped her hands to her hips.
The Hunger sighed. "You know you have a better rapport with them than I do. Wolf-devils, I'm the damn bureaucrat, not the... whatever they think you are. But if you want to sit here and deal with arguments, by all means..."
"No, no, I get it, I get it," the Fury said, shaking her head. "Give me a second. I have to do something first."
She turned and swept over to Ink's spot at the table. "...For what it's worth, I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to start a fight between you and your sister, and I certainly didn't mean to make it worse."
"You didn't," Ink replies quietly.
The Fury shook her head. "I did. Half of her complaints were on me." She grimaced. "Don't tell your sister this... but she can be scary as hell when she wants to be."
She glanced over at Amenidal, and gave him a pleasant nod -- somewhere between a "good job" and an "I'll stop depressing your man when he's down". "...I better help get the Firedancers started," she said. "I'll see you later, Ink."
Without waiting for a reply, she swept out, and down the stairs to the floors below.
A gentle muttering echoes up from the stairway (DC 15 Perception: "How goes the party, my lady?", said Barrabus), followed almost immediately afterward by a loud slapping sound. Moments later, Barrabus Leafstorm rolled onto the patio, landing in a fancy pose only somewhat marred by the reddened handprint on his face.
"Greetings, good ladies and sirs," Barrabus said. "I am Barrabus Leafstorm, the Phoenix Lord, and I welcome you to our fair city!" His eyes fell on the river elf actively attending to a much tinier river elf. "Aha, Staurois! How are you, good sirrah!"
“Cousin! It’s good ta see ya!” Staurois grins and waves.
Barrabus strode over to Staurois and Ny, giving them both a smile and a nod. "And Ny! You're looking well. Does that mean...?" He glanced down, as if only just now noticing the tadpole actively being sung to. "Erm... aha! This must be the youngest, then," he said, a slight tinge of nervousness in his voice. "How do you do, young tadpole?"
Natator wriggles and makes a series of random noises. Babies aren’t exactly the best conversationalists.
“This is Natator, weh.” Staurois smiles happily.
"Natator," Barrabus said. He made a silly face in Natator's general direction, and then glanced at Staurois. "...You're supposed to make faces at babies, correct? I'll admit, I have little experience; I'm not even convinced I was one, to be honest."
Staurois wiggles his flaking ears at Barrabus conspiratorially, “At this age, he ain’t seein’ too great. Faces are the only thing he’ll stare at. Funny faces are the best.”
"Good thing I came equipped with one," Barrabus said. He stuck his tongue out sideways, rolled his eyes, and puffed out his cheeks. "Good Cal, you're small," he said to Natator in a high, squeaky voice. "Must be frustrating, huh?"
“Mais, probably more fer him ‘en anywhat else. Still buildin’ them muscles for things like turnin ‘is head an stuff.” Staurois rotates the baby so he can better see the silly faces Barrabus is making.
As is inevitable with all interactions with children, Ehra is drawn over like a moth to flame. He had kept his mouth shut for the entire previous conversation, and seems quite glad for this distraction.
“Well, now that he’s awake, perhaps we could be properly introduced?” Ehra smiles at Staurois, “Must of course make a good first impression. And you’re doing fine, Barrabus. An admirable silly face.”
"So the ladies tell me, Grandmaster," Barrabus replied.
“A course, Parrain,” Staurois pats the baby on the back to keep him calm, “This is Natator, he’s gon be a lot bigger when we come through the Fort ‘gain.”
Ehra grins at Natator, trying to get a tiny smile in response, “I have no doubt of that Staurois. I’m sure by then he’ll be -”
“Hello,” Ink is standing between Barrabus and Ehra. His eyes dart back and forth between them briefly.
“- Ink, my friend, we very much need to talk about your concept of personal space,” Ehra sighs.
“Sorry…?” Ink rubs his neck, then looks to Staurois and Natator, “I am sorry I yelled.”
“‘S okay. Everywhat’s got their sore spots.” Staurois shrugs, an action that apparently makes Natator wiggle even more. “Ain’t no family gets along all the time.”
Ink peers down at the tiny tadpole. His hand moves as if to touch him, but then returns to his side.
“Hello Natator,” he speaks gently, then looks up to Staurois, “He is beautiful.”
A series of sharp notes echoed from the street below.
Below the patio, on the open Agora street, a series of large bonfires had been set up. More than two dozen Fire Elves of various genders lined up behind them, dressed in a variety of bone-white costumes. A band of musicians with fiddles, drums, and thin brass horns were tuning their instruments to the right.
"They started without me?" Barrabus said. He nodded to Staurois and Ny, and then rushed to the edge of the patio. "Outrageous!"
"You were slow, Leafstorm," the Hunger said, collecting his notes from the edge of the table. "And you'll have more important business soon enough."
Barrabus stared at the Hunger. "More important meaning...?"
A drum roll pattered out from the performers below, and the first Firedancers stepped to the bonfires.
"We dedicate this blessing to all the elves of this world," the middlemost lead firedancer said. She bowed, and the flames caught on her large white headdress, turning it into a wick with green flames at its top. "And to the Fury, Terror, and Hunger, that brought us out of death and allowed us to rise, reborn, and embrace the life-giving flames. May all who witness our dance tonight achieve peace, happiness, and oneness with the passions that give us life." She stepped forward, and the flames wrapped around her like a snake, before abruptly parting as she and the others began their dance.
The act was a series of complicated acrobatics maneuvers, with performers dancing and gyrating through the flames; it started slow, focused on the performers writhing within the fires as the costumes, tinted bizarre colors by the flames, burned off almost in sequence with the gradually escalating music. By the middle, the dancers were jumping and somersaulting between bonfires, and by the end, they were stacking into elven pyramids, and tossing each other between the flames.
Abruptly, the music hit its crescendo, and the flames ceased, as if spontaneously doused. The glowing dancer pyramids collapsed, their members rolling into balls in the bonfire's ash. As one, they stood, shook a cloud of dust from themselves, and bowed.
On the patio, the Hunger clapped politely.
Winged elves are, by nature, very impressed by any variety of dance or acrobatics. Baijani spent the performance leaning on the patio railing, elbowing Shrike and making appreciative commentary, especially as more and more clothing burned away. The two of them whistled loudly as the performance ended.
The First watched the proceedings with a detached expression… at first. As it went further and further, he seems more engrossed. Curiously, although he has calmed down from his previous outburst, it seems that a small amount of that flush has crept back on his face.
Elsewhere - Smilisca grabs the feather from where it was hidden in his kayak and sends a bleary message consisting of only one word to whomever may hear it. They have won the day, but at what costs, they will not fully know until the moon is full. And then he tumbles into the little boat and falls right to sleep.
The Dreamdust elves were watching the dancing with appreciation, cheering at the finale. Dust stiffens suddenly, feeling a vibration alerting him to a message. He pulls out the copper feather. "Message," he announces, loud enough to get the attention of those nearby.
Baijani looked under her wing from over by the railing, “Ah? What have we got?”
"Don't know yet. If anyone interested will gather up, I'll play it."
Baijani whistled sharply, loud enough to be heard over the general conversation, “Hey, we’ve got a feather message.”
The First snaps from his thoughtful fugue. “A what?”
The Hunger pulled out a fresh napkin. “Proceed at your leisure,” he said.
All of the River Elves snap to attention and focus intently on Dust.
Dust tensed a little when attention focused his way, but he triggered the message to play audibly.
"Success," the feather says in Smilisca's voice.
"From Smilisca," Dust adds, somewhat unnecessarily. "To all the feathers."
Ny cheers loudly at the news. But the other three adults are much more reserved.
"Glad to hear it," Dust says. "That's one storm passed." The feather pings, and his eyes widen. "Another message."
"Congrats!" The feather announces in a cheerful voice that no one recognizes.
"The winged elves' feather," Dust says uncertainly. "Not sure who, to everyone." The feather pings a third time.
"Bless the breath in your lungs...glad to hear it."
"Shyrendora, to everyone." Dust waits, putting the feather away when it doesn't immediately notify him of any more messages. "I think that's all."
“A curious device,” The First comments. “Some form of communication, I assume? Or portent?”
Baijani frowned, “You have one too. Did no one tell you about it?”
The First frowns in kind. “While I understand this might be tied with some of your Lowlander mythologies, I can assure you no such device is among ours.”
Baijani looks to Anasatri, “Shadi did give them one, yes?”
“Yup, the one meant for the Totem elves, since they didn’t make it. Slabal gave him the magic light in exchange. Said they aren’t big on sentimental exchanges.” She looks up at Ink, “Did you enchant theirs?”
Ink, who has not moved from next to Staurois, nods, points to Staurois, and says, "They passed it on."
“Made sure they got it when we done delivered all that food fer ya.” Staurois shifts Natator from one arm to the other.
The First looks… nonplussed. Not really angry, just annoyed and confused.
“But… That makes no sense. If The Layer had obtained such an artifact from the Lowlands, I’m certain she would have logged it with the Bakshish. Unless-” Well. Now he looks angry.
“It’s how we pass messages if anyone needs help or has important news,” Baijani says. “You certainly don’t have to send anything, but surely it would be useful to know what we’re all up to down here.” That last is said with a bit of a wry smile.
“I see,” he says through clenched teeth. They squeak audibly. “That would be particularly helpful.”
Anasatri, who has been looking generally around the room, suddenly stopped with her gaze on Staurois. “Wait. Wait. Staurois.” She’s suddenly right in front of him, leaving just enough space to not distress the baby. “Earlier, you said you got word of the Afflicted army. From who?”
“We been callin’ her the Stranger.” Staurois passes the now sleeping babe back to Ny. “She’s a Lycan out hunting the Afflicted with some kinda mad folle death wish.” He folds his hands and stands respectfully quiet. “I thinks you call her the Tourist, me.”
Anasatri nods and leans forward, “Where were you? Can you tell me where this was?” She’s looking at him, but it’s obvious she’s seeing something else too. “Please, please this is important.”
“We were out on the Goldfall, headed toward Hilt’Inn?” Staurois looks concerned at this insistence.
“I need to know as well as you can tell me. Could...could you point it out on a map?”
Baijani sets a hand between Anasatri’s wings, “Stay grounded, love.”
“I need to- this might be-” She grits her teeth, “Please, Staurois.”
“Uh...” Staurois shrugs again, “Shore? I ain’t a navigator, but I ken try.”
Previously angry, now The First’s eyes widen, nearly bugging out. He looks back and forth between Anasatri and Staurois, a disbelieving look on his face.
Anasatri swings around, pinning her wild-eyed stare on Hunger. “Do you have the map of our territory? All of it? We don’t...we didn’t bring one.”
"I do, in my office," the Hunger said, giving Staurois a somewhat suspicious look. "At this rate, I should ask the Fury to develop a Tourist-tracking ritual of some sort. It seems she... gets around. At least now we know some of what she is hunting."
He stepped out of the room.
Anasatri is practically vibrating, though Baijani still has a hand on her back and Shrike has closed in from the other side.
"So… she just…" Ehra gives Staurois a completely confused look, "Walked up and told you?"
“More like she sat down and waited for us to show up an’ then told Litoria.” Staurois shrugs again, it’s becoming something of a tic. “Ain’t hard to catch us if you guess the right river, weh.”
"And Litoria didn't just… stab her? Or any of the other Crocodilians? And you… trusted her?"
Taavet snorts, "They are clearly in league with-"
"Taavet, shut up," Ehra snaps in a very uncharacteristic way. Taavet shuts up.
"Yes," the Hunger said, stepping back into the room. He had a long scroll case tucked under one arm. "Never assume an act is malicious when it can just as easily be..." He hesitated. His eyes fell on Staurois, and then on Barrabus, who was currently chowing down on crepes. He sighed. "Overwhelming friendliness and hospitality."
He swept a hand over a clean area of the table, slid the map out of its scrollcase, and unrolled it.
Staurois sweeps his hand over the map, following the curves of the Goldfall River up to an exact point between Hilt’Inn and Ft. Alfyr.
“Weh. We encountered the Stranger here.” He looks between Ehra and The Hunger. “As far as I know, the Afflicted army was here.” He points to a different location, west of the Fort, and very near the swamp to its north. “I don’ know why Litoria would rather talk to her than kill ‘er, but I do know that trustin’ her done saved a lot of lives t’day.”
Anasatri eagerly leans over the map, looking at where he’s pointing. “It’s close, but it’s not the right place...it was somewhere else. There’s something else.” She looks up at Baijani, “I need to-”
Baijani holds up a hand, “I know, but not now. You won’t make it far in the dark. Wait until morning.” She glances around at the others, “She had a vision. I can’t in good conscience say more than that.”
"Ah good," the Hunger said. "You weren't planning on inviting her in to hang out, then. The Tourist is still banned from Surt -- and Gerdr, if there's any question on that."
“...Banned.” The First says, flatly.
Ehra shakes his head, "I suppose we have our evidence. If Smilisca says they were successful, she must have been genuine. It makes sense, in a way. Lycans want afflicted running around even less than we do."
“...Genuine.” The First repeats, equally flatly. All trace of emotion has fled from his face. Now he’s just sort of… staring.
“Why else would a Lycan have a silver sword,” Baijani adds with a shrug.
" 'Banned' is as good a term as any," the Hunger said, addressing the First. "The Terror tried to kill her, she tried to kill the Terror, and when neither succeeded, she left behind a few illusions and escaped to parts unknown."
The First doesn’t say anything. Instead, he simply puts his notes under his arm, and slowly reaches into his robes. With steady, practiced movements, he extracts a vial of bluish fluid, unstoppers it, and slams back the contents, swallowing with a single gulp. He then, equally steady, restoppers it, and returns the vial to the folds in his robes.
He clicks his tongue a couple times, and then turns back to The Hunger. “What,” he says, placidly, “the Fuck.”
The Hunger blinked. "..Yes, her use of illusions is unusual. I've encountered very few Lycans with any skill at that particular school."
“Illusions,” The First parrots. “So, just to be clear, this is some sick freak who likes to pretend to be one of… one of them. Take their form, rile people up, play on their history of carnage and mutilation to capitalize on their fears.”
"Well, she had exposed my intestines to the air at the time," the Hunger said flatly. "So I will admit, I did not give her a rigorous examination to find out. That would explain some of the results, however."
“Right. So, vicious, violent, bloodthirsty, keen on disembowelment, does not play well with others. A prime example of a Lowlander entirely unhinged by the horrors they’ve witnessed and the environment that plagues them, driven to such madness that they eagerly identify with one of the most despicable and inelven creatures imaginable just to justify how and why they will inflict their pain and suffering on others.”, The First deduces.
“Or it’s just an actual Lycan,” Baijani says dryly.
“We haven’t seen her, but the simplest answer seems the most likely,” Dust agrees.
The First is quiet a moment, and then looks to The Hunger, before doing a ‘go on, explain to them’ head gesture.
"Well..." the Hunger said. Then he paused, as a low, scraping noise echoed from the floor. (Bluff DC 20: that was his foot scraping on the floor). His eyes snapped shut. "My apologies," he said in a pained voice. (Bluff DC 24) "I'm afraid my joints haven't been the same since the creature tried to pull my legs off. I just need to sit down for a moment."
He stumbled over to the table, and dropped neatly into the first chair in reach.
Left alone, The First closes his eyes, then rubs his temples. “Okay. Rude. Fine.” He turns back to the others. “I will assume you’ve met, or heard of, other examples of Animals. You know what? I’ll actually even go so far as to admit, I haven’t, because hey, I’m alive! So, basic dissertation. Given what I know, admittedly second hand, regarding vicious, bloodthirsty, genocidal, phenocidal, and generally unpleasant creatures, why should I believe that there is one who has supposedly been travelling among you, not murdering you all?”
Baijani snorted, “Because they’re people, son. I say this as someone still carrying scars from them. They’re people, and plenty of them disagreed with the Empire. What’s surprising to me is that there’s only one.”
“So,” The First says, putting his hands together, index fingers pointing outwards. “Your hypothesis is that there are distinct subtypes of these creatures. There are the ones most commonly encountered by your kind, who were only predominantly violent, and there are others who were so driven by bloodlust and desire to conquer that they cannot be bargained with, cannot be reasoned with, which is the variety with which I am more familiar?”
“Something like that, yes.”
“And so, furthermore, assuming that to be true, we further hypothesize that among the predominantly violent variety, there is at least one… and you are surprised not more… who’s inherently antisocial tendencies have mutated, and thus turned them against their own kind, to such a firm degree as you would consider them trustworthy enough to be in the same general vicinity as them?”, First continues.
“Don’t believe in ‘inherently’ anything, son. Is every Crag elf identical in their thinking and personality? Why would anyone else be?” Baijani shrugged, “She’s been seen in at least two places, and one of those was peaceful, polite, and resulted in a tip about Afflicted. I’m willing to give the benefit of the doubt.”
“...and, reportedly, in another, she practically disemboweled a man.” The First glaces over to the table, where the war-wounded survivor still rests.
At the table, the Hunger is sitting with his eyes closed, clutching at his right knee.
“Alternate hypothesis, actually multiple people assuming the same identity, review later,” he grumbles to himself. “Allright, I like a challenge. I’ll try to think through this as you would, your Loremaster indicated that was your preferred way of tackling unfamiliar circumstances. Hm. I believe nothing is inherent about behavior. Anyone has the potential to act anyway at any time. And so, we should trust a known member of-” he pauses. While his voice was dripping with sarcasm, his face mocking, he actually stops short, pondering.
“...Wait. Okay. Hang on. Something I’ll admit that I wasn’t taking into consideration before-”
A sudden resounding slap echoes around the room, followed by a second thudding noise. Baijani stares First down, her hand and wing still raised. “Boy. You have been insulting every single person in this room left, right, and center since you arrived. You wanted to know about our culture? Very well. Shut your gods-be-damned mouth. You are a professional, so act like it instead of a bratty child.”
The First is, for the second time tonight, stunned. His mouth gapes. Then, the flush returns to his face, in mere seconds this time claiming his head, then all his visible skin. His hands clench…
And then release. He looks tired. Totally spent.
“So,” he says, voice exhausted, but lined with poison. “I take it you are the Winged equivalent of the Esteemed. Old, and so that obviously means knowledgeable in all things. What could children possibly know that you don’t?” His smile is insincere and weary.
“Plenty of things, son,” Baijani’s voice is much gentler. “Not a day goes by I don’t learn something new, or it’s a day wasted.” She steps back well out of his space, “You have plenty to teach us; we know nothing of the Crag elves.” She gestures toward the table, “We’ve been here for several hours, and you haven’t eaten. Take a moment, if you’re so inclined.” She nods slightly and turns to walk away, back to where Anasatri and Shrike are.
For his part, the First just stands in place, hands rubbing his temples in small circles. He’s muttering to himself. “ ‘Oh, yes, yes, so much to learn from you, just make sure it's something we want to hear. None of this facts and logic shit.’ It’s the same everywhere. All fiends of the 9th hell spirit me away to eternal torment.”
Staurois, for his part, watched this exchange in silence for a while before taking a seat of his own. The pair of guards are bickering in Sylvan in a low whisper. Ny just looks a little shell shocked by the whole thing.
“Well I, fer one, am just glad tree hunnert crazed loup garouWerewolf didn’t just take a tour trou where our refugees are hidin’.” He mutters to himself. “Ain’t gon’ be so bêteStupid ta turn away th’ help we need, me. Damn couyonsIdiots, testicles.”
“Yeah, couyons,” Barrabus said, dropping into a nearby chair. Her grabbed one of the wine bottles, popped the cork, and gave it a long whiff. “...Eugh,” he said. He slapped the cork back into place, and glanced sadly at a nearby cup. “Not sure what those are, but I agree.”
Ehra finishes a whispered conversation with Siiri before turning back to the table and speaking, “Staurois is right. Whatever else this Lycan may be, she helped stamp down an outbreak of the Affliction that could easily have overwhelmed all of us. All of us know that we can’t turn aside any kind of aid when faced with a threat like that. As for what happens now? I don’t know. We can’t just… trust her, but right now? No one’s asking anyone to. She helped us kill afflicted. If that’s her goal, there’s no shortage of that throughout the world. Hopefully, she’ll just go on her way doing that. Until she starts knocking on the door to Surt, or requesting amnesty at Fort Alfyr, she is far, far, far down on the list of threats we face right now.”
Ehra sighs and rubs his temples, “Not that I am certain what more we can do to address them at the moment either. All I mean is that now, in this exact moment, we might not want to look a gift wolf in the teeth.”
“Has anyone at leas’ dug up some silver yet?” Staurois looks pointedly in the direction of The First. “It’d be a lot less mal-prisIn a bad situation aroun’ here if’n we could do somewhat about that.”
At this, Amenidal gives Greg a curious look.
Greg flicks one of his ears sharply downwards but remains silent.
Amenidal presses his lips into a thin line. "We-"
A hand slaps over his mouth. "Not your place, squeak," Greg grumbles sourly.
The First senses he’s being looked at, and looks back… but, ultimately, says nothing. Greg is not the only one being sour.
Perhaps trusting, unwisely, that Amenidal would now keep his mouth shut, Greg shifts with purpose from his position to approach where Ink is standing. He grabs a random food item off of the table and looks up at the Cryptid, “I need a word with you later. In private,” he pauses and makes a face before tacking on, “please.”
He turns and heads back to his original spot. Subtlety is obviously not a trait he understands in any capacity.
The Fury stepped back into the room, grinning to herself.
She made it about two paces before the atmosphere in the room caught up to her.
"So," she said, forcing her grin back into place. "What did everyone think of the show?"
“It was lovely, ma’am.” Ny smiles up at her.
“It was!” Shrike agreed. “Excellent dancing.”
"They'll be so pleased to hear that you said that!" she said. Her eyes darted across the patio, landing briefly on Barrabus, who glanced up and nodded. She scowled back at him, before again turning a smile on the rest of the room. "Anyway... did I miss anything exciting?"
Ehra glanced between Baijani and the First, “Just some heated scholarly debate.”
The First scoffs, but otherwise holds his tongue.
Ehra clears his throat and stands, “It’s been a long few months, a long few days, and a long few hours. I know we are all at the end of our ropes, but there is one more thing I have to mention.”
He pauses before continuing, “A few months ago, Litoria visited Fort Alfyr. She brought a group of river elves for training. It went well, their soldiers learned from our war scholars, our war scholars learned from their soldiers. In the end, I made her a promise that I would be there to help her if violence ever visited us again. As you can tell, Litoria spent the last twelve hours fighting afflicted. I spent it watching firedancers and eating. I have clearly failed in that promise.”
He glances at the fire elves before continuing, “We are too few. I suspect this will not change. Humans, Hobgoblins, Dwarves… Elves will always be outnumbered. Whatever differences we have, when violence visits us, I do not want us to be unable to fight. To be caught undermanned like we are now. To that end, I am offering the facilities at Fort Alfyr for military training to any allied elven armies that might have use of it. We have been constructing a military academy. It is my vision that this academy can become a repository for the combined martial knowledge of all elves. When violence visits, we will be ready. I do not intend to fail any more promises. Fort Alfyr is open,” he glances at the First, “to you all.”
Although he looks sullen, after a moment’s thought, The First perks up. “Intriguing. I’ll be certain to pass your intentions on to the Aggro. I can only hope they will see the wisdom in participating.” He makes a tired smile, lost in thought.
"...How many soldiers can attend this academy at once?" the Hunger asked. "Will we need to 'draw lots' to see which nations can train their soldiers there during which season?"
Dust looks thoughtful. "We may take you up on that. Our fighting styles are different, but military training might not be a bad plan. We appreciate the offer."
Ehra nods to Dust, “That’s exactly my point. Each of us has a very different method of fighting. The more we learn from each other, the stronger we get. And Hunger, for now, I think we can manage two units a season. If we are able to keep up that pace, we may be able to expand capacity. Maybe have a program for allied training, instead of a full training program. It is experimental for now.”
Shrike held up a hand, “With at least two hostile groups out there…” She paused, “We only have the one unit of Harriers, and that’s it. Would it be possible to work out some kind of rotation, like the fire elves backing up the dreamdust elves, and blade elves reinforcing Surt? We...don’t want to leave Asavardi undefended, since the cliffs aren’t enough.”
“Ain’t the point of the program to train new soldiers as much as old ones, weh?” Staurois looks a little confused. “‘S how it worked fer us.”
Ehra nods, “Yes, Staurois. The point would be to allow everyone access to the best training facilities that we can manage, so that we can all have the soldiers we need to defend ourselves. Like your training, Shrike, simply on a larger scale.”
Shrike nods with a faint grin, “Ah good, other people can see that I wasn’t exaggerating.”
Ehra grins back, “Precisely. I apologize, Hunger and Fury, I didn’t mean to upstage you at your own event.”
"You didn't, Ehra, dear," the Fury said. She smiled thinly. "Thank you for attending. And for the academy."
At Fury's statement, Villhook moves towards her. He shares a brief glance with Ehra, who nods in reply. Captain Villhook steps up to the Fury and delivers a smart salute.
"Ma'am," he address her, "It sounds like you might need Bravo division for a bit longer. It has been an honor to serve the Triumvirate so far, and I have no doubt it will continue to be so. I am at your service still,"
Villhook lowers his hand to offer a handshake with a movement in his scowl that could theoretically be a smile, "No inspection needed this time."
The Fury smiled, and gave the captain an uncomfortably warm (in the temperature sense) handshake. "Thank you, Captain Villhook," she said. "We're grateful to have you."
She glanced back at Ehra. "Captain Villhook has been more than helpful," she said. "He's been an amazing asset to our city's defense. And Bravo Division have been examplary; Captain Doukas keeps telling me that his Constabulary Guard are learning a lot from working with them. ...Honestly, you should watch out; if they stick around here too long, I'm pretty sure Doukas will try to offer Bravo's officers permanent positions here."
Her eyes fell past Ehra, to where Ink was still sitting at the buffet table. Ink, who was still next to Amenidal, glanced around the room nervously and just kind of waved back awkwardly.
"Well Villhook?" Ehra asks with a smile, "Looking for a transfer?"
Villhook gives him a somewhat wide eyed look before replying, "That sounds like politics, Grandmaster."
-FIN-
Given that we got this potluck actually done in a weekend, I am starting our two weeks as of today, Sunday, if that’s okay with everyone.
Once again, I have been wildly enjoying the massive amount of story this game is creating.
Everyone’s central Leader character may gain another level, and one other character may also gain a level even if they weren’t present at the potluck. There has been enough character growth all around that everyone has someone who has done something!
Have fun, and I’m looking forward to your next turn!
Current year: 3| Go home. |