The place on the map is labeled “Oarsman’s Rest,” just like the somewhat more formal invitation from Staurois said. The obvious landmark is the massive Fall Hopper, a device currently in the process of having its more fragile bits reassembled from storage. The Goldfall River widens at the base of the Aborder falls into a series of deep pools.
Barges of the flotilla sit placidly anchored at regular intervals covering a mile of the river itself. They give their varied draft animals plenty of space to rest and eat their fill away from their reins. At a lower frequency interval river elves are working together to construct towering stacks of timber, pulling in traps from shallow muddy water, and preparing large quantities of vegetables.
Toward the end of this long line, there is space prepared for visitors to feast. A temporary pontoon floats beside a long raft, and long boards create a large open deck. It looks sturdy, and is certainly spacious enough for the expected crowd. Stacks of rough-woven pillows stuffed with swamp moss sit waiting to be used where they’re wanted, as river elves do not generally use chairs, and they are pairs for the set of low tables scattered around the deck.
On shore, a well-trodden path leads away from the river, following a little stream created by an eddy. Nyctibatrachus is working on piling the materials for the bonfire beacon to be lit at the little fork, while Natator splashes in the protected shallow stream. Opposite the wooden tower, Smilisca and Staurois carefully arrange the items needed for preparing the meal, while the meal itself swims in a set of traps staked down to the rocky shore.
Eina sits on the edge of the raft, feet dangling in the water. Everything that can be prepared in advance, has been. It’s ready and waiting for Acris to muck something up.
The winged elves are the first to arrive, understandably, with Oarsman’s Rest being practically next door. They glide along the length of the flotilla, finding the floating deck, and coming in to land. Two of them are carrying a small net holding some kind of container. Those two, Shrike and Dhakamari, head for the tables to start unloading their offerings: a heaping basket loaded with some kind of dumplings.
Shadimon makes the short hop to the shore, landing by Staurois and Smilisca, while Baijani strolls over to where Eina is sitting. She sits down next to the younger cleric, tilting her wings out of the way, “How were things in Coldwater when you left? I heard you took charge of the civilian situation for awhile.”
“If by, ‘took over,’ you mean I done patched up some injuries an put myself to workin where needed, shore. Mais cher, I ain’t put myself in charge, me. Ask Matias when you git the chance, weh.” Eina replies, splashing the water for emphasis.
Baijani smiles, “Doing the work that needs doing counts. But Matias, Shadi will be happy to hear he’s all right.” She looks up for a moment, “And you? Have you gotten your feet under you?”
“Been real busy, weh. ‘S to be expected.” Eina shrugs.
“Everything has been busy these past few months. I am very much looking forward to it slowing down for awhile.” Baijani sighs and looks out over the river, watching the activity across the flotilla.
A cluster of Dreamdust elves come into view, picking their way closer to the river. They wave at the river elves, and readjust their course to aim for the ones on shore.
"Smilisca, Staurois," Dust greets, waving off part of his escort to deliver their pastries. "Thank you for hosting." His face goes a bit more somber. "And for everything you did at Coldwater." He turns his attention to Shadimon, looking him over. "Oh good, someone has been feeding you."
Shadimon snorts, “Dust you saw me a few weeks ago. And said roughly the same thing.”
"That's because it's worth repeating," Dust waves a hand. "And my thanks again. I suspect we'll be saying it often at this potluck."
“Don’t know whatcher talkin’ bout.” Staurois shrugs. “Them walls just fell over on their own.” Ny carefully weaves additional kindling into the beacon, but her chuckle is audible from across the creek. Staruois winks.
Tik'Tak peeks around from behind Dust, where he has apparently been hiding.
"Hi," he says, "I am a dreamdust elf."
“Welcome to Partager,” Staurois answers with a wave, “Allayall elves is always welcome.”
"Thanks." The spikey elf smiles.
Shadimon looks past them toward the waterfall and the giant fall hopper, “Every time I see that thing, I still fail to believe it. Good to see you, Staurois, and we’re thrilled that you’re headed our way after this.”
Staurois smiles, "Weh, we're lookin' forward to it."
"Sister Eina," a voice calls from nearby, "I think the bonfire is… oh!"
Brother Matías detaches himself from a clump of river elves that he was too short to be seen among and trots over to the group, "They're here! Hola, pollo!"
Shadimon’s jaw drops, and he lunges forward and throws his arms around Matias, “You’re alive! I was sure Coyote would have taken my escape out on you…”
Matías oofs a bit upon being tackled, but manages to keep his composure, "Si, thanks to your friends. Coyote didn't know I had anything to do with it… and the elves who came to the church, too. They saved my life. Then Sister Eina, well, she said we were just going down the river a bit, and I guess that means something different to river elves…"
Matías gives Shadimon a worried look, "Your wings…?"
Shadimon spreads his wings, taking care to not clip anyone with them, “Good as new!” The long black flight feathers still have stripes of paint from the recent fighting, but it’s slowly fading.
He turns more serious, “Thank you, for what you did. Not just healing me, but keeping me sane. I know you had to fight Coyote for every bit of kindness you gave me, and you’re the only reason I was able to walk out of there on my own.”
Matías kind of wilts a little bit at the thanks, "It was just the right thing to do, and… well… no one else was gonna do it, so…"
Shadimon lightly shakes his shoulder, “You’re supposed to thank the people who save your life, which I’m sure you did to the people who came to help you all. So go with it, si?” He smiles a bit and glances back over his shoulder, “You’ve been talking with Eina? That’s good.”
“Si,” he nods, “She seems to have some ideas for helping me… Not complaining, no. I was hoping to meet Baijani too…”
A slow grin spreads over Shadimon’s face and he looks back over his shoulder, “Hey Jani! Come meet the healer from Coldwater!”
There’s a brief moment while Baijani politely excuses herself from Eina, and then she comes to join them, landing nearby. Before Matias can even introduce himself, Baijani also pulls him into a tight hug, “Thank you, son, for keeping him together long enough to get home to us.”
“I - oof - um,” Matías shuffles awkwardly, “I… I’m just glad I could. I… clipping someone...” He stops himself, “Shadimon, I’m really glad you’re okay.”
Baijani lets him go and steps back to look him over with interest, “Shadi told me about you, and how you’re all that’s left for either clergy or healers. He also said you did a fine job for having never handled a wing in your life, and that you’d hoped to learn more.” She smiles, “Looks like Eina has made a good start, and you’re more than welcome at Asavardi as well, anytime.”
“That’d be wonderful, thanks,” Matías smiles back, “It’s gonna be a little while, though… Coldwater’s in pieces, and there’s lots of people who need help. Though… it coulda been worse. Coulda been way, way worse. I think we’ll be okay, with a little time…”
While the group continues their conversation, another group arrives. Ehra Indrek is in the lead, with Siiri of course right beside him. With him is a somewhat bewildered looking Terje. The reason for which is imminently obvious, considering who is with them.
The raft the Sword elves arrived on dips dangerously as one of its passengers disembarks, with a ginger uncertainty that belies his massive stature. More than grateful to have landed on solid land, the thuds of Echo of Blood’s footsteps grow more confident the further inland he treads. Not far behind him, The First Among Scholars has to move at a power-walk to keep pace with Echo’s stride, a necessary task to continue the ‘whispered’ conversation between them.
“I’m serious, Echo! Yes, they might be degenerate savages down here, but even they have their limits!”
“As do I, First. Do not presume to lecture me further. I grow weary of hearing what I already know. Appoint your lessons to yourself.”
“...What is that supposed to mean? I already know what I know, and I’ll remind you it’s well more than you! You may have spent a great deal of time down here, but I-”
Noticing that they draw within earshot of the other assembled elves, The First drops his nagging mid-sentence. He takes a moment to arrange his tunic and place a smug smile on his face. “Greetings to you all once more, honored dignitaries! I, once again, am The First Among Scholars, and I-”
“Rations are here.” Intones Echo, unslinging what can only be called a stone coffer from his back, and laying it in front of the assembly. The First silently fumes at the interruption.
Almost unnoticed due to the front two’s antics, a third Crag slips silently forward from the boat. Her Kyanite hair hangs long over her shoulders, the bangs obscuring the top of her face, and tunic, while not as ostentatious as the First’s, has a long orange sash across the shoulder. The look on her face, what can be seen of it anyway, is decidedly placid as she sidles behind the two other Crag, who are currently eyeballing eachother.
Baijani makes a few quick hand gestures to Shadimon. One of his ears flicks down as his eyebrows go up, but he makes no comments.
Completely unfazed and oddly able to keep up with Echo without speeding up his stride, Ehra gives a grandfatherly smile to Staurois. Terje lugs a pot of various potato based goods onto the shore, and then another burlap sack.
"It's good to see the flotilla again. Thank you for inviting us Staurois. We brought some red ones raw, too. For the boil?"
“Cho! Co!” Staurois accepts the sack from the very familiar blade elf. “I shore yall’ve got an envieCraving for alladis gone be cooked up real soon, mais.” He sets to work getting the little mud chimney stove lit. Smilisca is all of no help with this task at all. He’s just not that kind of wizard.
While Staruois is concentrating on his task, Eina heads down the plank from the raft to help welcome the guests.
“Good to see yall! I’m real glad yall could make it here, weh!” The cleric gives Terje a quick hug and reaches out to shake hands with First and the unknown (non Echo) crag elf.
The First notices the movement from the corner of his eye, and flicks a glance at the proffered hand before returning his gaze to Echo. He hisses at the larger elf, in a failed attempt at whispering. “Well? Go on, introduce yourself! This is the Lowlander leadership, they aren’t going to be impressed by bushy frowns and grunts.”
Before either has further chance to respond, however, it is the Third crag that responds to the gesture. Gently clasping both her hands around Eina’s, she gives a light squeeze. Her voice is soft, and contains a much stronger trace of the Crag Elf accent than the other two. “Tranquility upon you. I thank you for your greeting, River.”
Eina gently squeezes the other elves fingers in her own webbed hands in return. She bows slightly. The Crag bows in response.
“Gentle currents to you too, Stone,” she replies.
After a second or two, the third Crag then releases her grip, and takes a gentle step back. The other two seem to have taken a break from watching eachother to instead watch this exchange. However, the First then clears his throat, and arches his eyebrows at Echo.
Grunting, Echo finally draws himself to full height, before slapping his palm onto his sternum with a resounding thud. “I am Saltik, of the Bloody Bloodname of Bergen. I am granted the Title of Echo of Blood, in recognition of my Deeds.”
...And that seems to be the extent of his introduction. He returns to an at-ease stance.
Dust nudges Tik'Tak, who has apparently stopped moving and also breathing. "Crag elves," he murmurs very softly. "They helped at Coldwater."
Literally only Tik’Tak’s eyes move as he looks back up at Dust, “What’d he do, push the walls over?... Elves don’t eat people, right?”
"If anyone tries to eat you, it will be the last thing they do. And no, the River elves and Dark elves knocked the walls down. I think the Crag drew the focus of the Coyote forces, allowing the rest of the operation to succeed. But that's secondhand information."
Tik’Tak phews out a breath and resumes respiration, “Okay, good. Yeah, he’d be pretty good at drawing attention.”
Shadimon looks around and steps into the breach, giving a polite nod to the Crag elves, “I’m Shadimon, Wingleader of the winged elves.” He looks up at Echo for a moment, “I think at least one of my scouts used you as a launching point during the War, or at least they claimed they did.”
Echo looks down. “They did. Once, under their own power.”
Baijani barks a laugh, “Oh I’m sure. I suspect they got some impressive distance the second time.” She dips her head and wings in a polite bow, “Baijani, priest of Calestros. First of Scholars I know,” she turns to the third Crag, “But you are a new face.”
The new Crag bows once more, same as she had with Eina. “This is true, Baijani. At least, in these lands. But that is cause enough to be known, especially to those who know the gods. If it remove confusion, I am Jahnni, holding no Bloodname, though Ancestors will upon my return. It is not a name to require much memorization. I am hear to watch, hear, and advise.” Her elven, like Slabal or Embebi’s was the first time they showed up at the potluck, is oddly phrased and heavily accented.
Baijani nods, lips twitching into a slight smile, “Jahnni, pleased to meet you. And good luck, this is likely going to get very strange. That’s been the tradition.”
With that almost prophetic statement, there is the sound of hoofbeats on wet soil. Dodging neatly between rafts and elves, Breaker rides in and comes to a halt at the edge of the group. Apparently unconcerned, she hops off her horse and grabs a large clay jug of something off the back of her horse.
“Hola,” she raises it at the group, “Someone told me there was a party, so I brought Tequila.”
Baijani glances back and Jahnni, “Like I said, strange.” Shadimon lightly touches her wrist and she huffs quietly before raising her voice again, “Well bring it in; after the year we’ve had I think most of us are going to need it.”
“Oh cher!” Eina hurries over to the formerly-Coyote. “I’m so glad you came, me!” She offers a hug. Somewhat surprised, Breaker attempts to both receive the hug and not drop the Tequila.
“Yeah, uh, thanks for the invite,” she blinks at Eina, whom she has not actually met in person, “You must be the one who pinged my head, si?”
“Weh weh! Couldn’t not have you here.” Eina grins. “Couldn’t be anyone else comin’ in on horseback like that, non? You gotta sit a spell an’ vay ya.Spend time gossiping”
Breaker gives Eina a confused look, “Que? VayaGo, imperative? Well which do ya want me to do, stay or go?”
Eina stops and considers.
“You stay,” she answers, and then makes a gesture like a duck quack with one hand. “You mouth go.”
Dust snorts.
Shadimon leans around Eina, “Tell us all about what’s been going on.” He holds out a hand, “Welcome.”
Breaker shakes Shadimon’s hand, “Good to see you out the cage, pollo. Gracias for keeping your end of things.”
“Good to be out of the cage, and same to you. Are you the official Lady of Coldwater now?”
Breaker laughs, “Not that I heard. I hadn’t been back yet. We’re still getting the Vaqueros together to leave Riverhaven. Lotta desert in the way, si? We’ll have to find out how things play out when I get there.”
“From what I heard, it’s still intact, except the fort.” Shadimon’s voice lowers a bit, “But with that having been Coyote’s house, I imagine that’s not too great a loss for you.”
“It got rebuilt once,” she shrugs, “It can be done again. People? That’s what we gotta see…”
Shadimon nods, a considering look on his face, “Food is near the raft over there if you want to drop that jug off.”
Breaker nods, punches Shadimon lightly on the shoulder, and heads to drop off the tequila, only taking one shot along the way.
Smilisca and Staurois have a giant pot of water boiling away, and toss the sack of potatoes right into it. They add large quantities of different spices, being quite secretive about exactly what they all are in the process. And into the pot go several lemons, roughly cut in half. They debate among themselves about how long to wait for the stragglers to show up before starting the rest.
The dark elves arrive quietly in a group of two, as usual dressed head to toe in their surface wear and goggles. The shorter carries a small basket which they set in the general area of other foods. Looks like mushrooms again, but also with something that might or might not be large bugs.
The taller tucks a book under their arm and waves at the general gathering of elves. “Hi guys!” The lack of formality and general glowing enthusiasm easily pins them as Amenidal.
Baijani brightens visibly, pulling an unsettled stare away from Breaker, “Amenidal!” She goes over and gives him an enthusiastic hug, just like the previous year.
There is a squeak as he is squished. Amenidal gives her an awkward one armed hug back, “Hi teta! Good to see you again.”
The other dark elf shakes their head and moves over to an area with more shade.
Shadimon quietly shifts that way as well and lifts one wing to block more of the sun, “Hey Shyren, glad you could make it.”
An ear flicks in response to the added feather umbrella, “Likewise.” A soft pause, “It is good to see you well again, Shadi.”
Shadimon smirks a bit, “I’m just glad things wrapped up over in the scrublands. If I’d had to miss another one of these because of Coyote, I’d be irritated.”
Shyrendora chuckles dryly from behind her mask, “I’m sure. I am simply glad for it to be as wrapped up as it can be.”
Another boat pulls over to the docks, and out steps the Terror, hauling a large basket filled to the brim with food. Barrabus Leafstorm and the Fury trail close behind her, with Barry rather overloaded with various amphora, and the Fury looking rather soggy and uncomfortable with the surroundings.
The Terror marches over to the dining area, sets her basket beside the firepit, and then immediately moves to loom by a tree at the far side of the meeting space.
Staurois leaves Smilisca wranging a large basket of wriggling critters into the boil pot and follows Terror over to her looming station. He attempts to engage her in a quiet private conversation.
A one-eyed alligator silently emerges near the barge. Eina repositions herself politely toward the center of the gathered group of elves. She looks somewhat on-edge.
The Terror looms at Staurois. He speaks with her in hushed tones. She merely looms.
Seeing Staurois busy, Ehra walks over to Barrabus and Fury. He stands between them and smiles at Barrabus.
“I hear you got up to another adventure,” he asks with a raised eyebrow.
Barrabus smiles. "Just a fantastic duel on the edge of the wall, followed by a long drop into churning water," he says, waving his arms. "Nothing exciting."
Fury rolls her eyes. "Ehra," she says, forcing a smile.
Ehra gives Fury a polite nod, "I hear you had an adventure yourself. A new friend, maybe?"
Fury brightens. "I did meet a dragon -- who happens to be a neighbor, as it turns out. It was very exciting. Honestly, if I had thought to ask earlier, we could have invited him to the Potluck. With the approval of the other nations, of course. But I think adding more potential allies to these meetings would be appropriate. After all--"
Barry glances back towards the docks, where another ship is pulling into place. "And there's the Hunger," he muttered.
"Speaking of," Ehra asks, "What is he up to? I've never known him to miss an event like this."
"He took a separate boat," Barry says. "Sick, or something. ...He's been sick a lot of late. Or so he's said."
Fury nods.
"I suppose the man has been under a great deal of stress," Ehra speculates, "Perhaps it's merely his way of coping. I know he pushes himself too hard. Maybe that's his way of taking a breather. Not unwise. Everyone has a breaking point."
"He's fine," Fury says hotly. "He was probably just… river-sick, or something. Boat rides just don't agree with everyone. That's all."
(Typical of past behavior, the Crag tended to the edges of more heartfelt conversation; However, upon hearing that The Hunger has arrived by a separate boat, The First gets an eager look on his face… and then promptly wanders off toward said boat, unsupervised. Neither Jahnni or Echo say a word about this departure; the former just watches as he goes, and the latter seems to have his attention fully occupied in considering The Terror, sizing her, and her hammer, up.)
"...I don't suppose Breaker has already arrived, has she?" Barry says.
"Er, yes," Ehra answers, "I think she's over by the food, drinking tequila… how'd you know she was coming?"
"Narrative causality," Barry replies.
Fury glares at him.
Just about everyone notices Acris, as he artfully attempts to steal from the pastries presented by the Dreamdust elves. Staurois pretends that he did not notice the theft. Ny had been looking in the wrong direction.
“Mais la you little peeshwankRunt!” Litoria calls from the river, where she sits on top of the hippopotamus with a still-flopping fish stuck on the tines of her spear. Behind her rides a second elf, with long white hair, holding a basket of additional fish.
The elf deftly hops from the hippo to the shore, still carrying the basket. A second river elf helps her off the hippo, then nods as she walks forward. She gently sets it down with the rest of the offered food. She then stands up, turns around, and approaches the group of elves.
“Hello,” the Tourist speaks casually as she addresses the group and folds her arms, “It is cedar grilled salmon. Honey glazed.”
The Terror drops a hand onto the grip of her Earthbreaker.
“That’s a guest.” Staurois places a hand on the Terror’s shoulder.
Terror looms at Staurois with unsubtle annoyance, and then gingerly pulls her hand off of her hammer.
Shyrendora pulls away from Shadimon and walks up to the taller lady. She looks up at her with hands on her hips before holding one out, “I forgot the door again. Good to see you.”
The Tourist snorts back a laugh and smirks at Shyrendora, “Good to see you, as well.” She pauses, then shakes Shyrendora’s hand.
Shadimon follows a few steps behind Shyrendora. As he goes, he holds one hand up, visible, and makes a few quick signs where the other winged elves can clearly see. He joins Shyrendora, spreading his wings rather more than usual while in this size crowd, and looks up at the Tourist, “I never did get a chance to thank you for checking in on me. That message was a wonderful break from the grinding monotony of being in prison. I’ve also heard good things from Satri.”
“It… was all I could do. I am glad it helped you, and that you are free.” She gives Shadimon a slight bow.
Dust followed Shadimon over, and listens with interest. “Oh, she contacted you too? I’m glad to hear it.” He offers a hand. “I’m Dust, of the Dreamdust elves. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“You have?” she asks, “I… am afraid I know very little about the dreamdust elves, but I thank you for the congeniality.” she shakes Dust’s hand.
Fury gives the newcomer, and the sudden rush of conversational Elves, a curious glance. She gives Ehra a nod, and then slides over to the crowd.
"I don't believe we've been introduced," she says, extending a hand in the white-haired elf's direction. "I am the Fury, of the Fire Elves. It’s wonderful to meet you, miss--"
The Tourist extends a hand to her, “I am-”
Barry strides over and steps right in front of Fury,then presents the Tourist with a deep, dramatic bow. "Ah, if it isn't the famous Tourist of the Wilds," he says, presenting her with a smouldering grin. "Your reputation, and beauty, precede you."
A bit of smoke trickles from the Fury's ears. Her eyes go very wide.
The Tourist slowly folds her arms again and gives Barry an absolutely frigid look, “Are you Barrabus Leafstorm?”
Barry smiles a little wider. "You've heard of me?"
She looms over him in a nearly Terror-like fashion, “So you are, then, the author of those absolutely insipid novels that slander my name and draw my reputation through the mud like I am some kind of cheap thrill to be used and discarded?”
Smilisca snickers.
"Only the first one," Barry says, still smiling. "And even then, there was some ghostwriting involved. But you should be thrilled. Not everyone gets a tavern named after them. The largest in town, even."
“I see,” She narrows her eyes at him. Very, very slowly, she reaches under her cloak. She withdraws a worn, battered copy of Love Bites. She holds it out to Barry.
“So you would be willing to give an autograph?”
Barry's smile becomes a little more genuine. "Certainly! ...Who should I make it out to?"
“Viatora Mezzaluna,” she raises an eyebrow, “Who else?”
"Of course," Barry says. He traces a fingernail along the back of the book's cover with a sizzling sound.
While the majority of Echo’s attention has been placed upon The Terror, he has been casting occasional glances toward the Tourist… an uncertain, peeved look rests upon his face, like he’s trying to remember something.
It is when she reaches into the folds of her cloak, shifting the position of her sword, that the something finally clicks. His face furrows into a grimace. Without any hesitation, he strides into the middle of the conversation, with Jahnni following quietly in his wake, a look of mild concern on her lips.
Without preamble, he stares at The Tourist, points a burnt finger, and plainly states; “
As Echo approaches, the vague smile that was developing on the Tourist's face vanishes. She places her book back under her cloak and turns to face him. When she speaks, she answers in a calm voice with no hesitation.
"Yes, I am."
Echo’s eyes drill into The Tourist’s(coincidentally ignoring the book). “The One Who Came. The One Who Left.” His emphasis on this last word is… definitely not happy. “Tell me now. Tell me Full True. Do You Keep Your Secrets?” He scans her, looking for signs of hesitation, signs of deception… or, perhaps, hoping for signs of aggression.
There is no sign of hesitation or deception. She meets his eyes without the slightest hesitation. As for aggression… that's really not the right word. Perhaps more a promise. Regardless, her answer is certain.
"Yes, I do."
As the two lock eyes, there is a change in Echo’s tension. His body shifts subtly, Promise matched for Promise. More than anger, a small thrill inches into his face- But, a light touch from Jahnni upon his arm dulls this expression. Glancing back at her for just a moment, he sees her expression, placid.
-and then his body untenses. He seems disappointed.
“...Good. Then remain silent. Remember that I am here. I will put test to your words.”
And, as promised, he still just sort of… looms, there.
Seeming somewhat surprised, the Tourist gives Echo a reasonably respectful nod.
"You will not find me wanting."
She gives Jahnni a curious look, but says nothing.
As the tension in the group eases slightly, Breaker takes another shot of tequila and looks around the group in mild confusion.
"Pero," she asks to no one in particular, "Who the fuck is this?"
Smilisca hollers for his apprentice to come assist, and Acris trips over himself in his hurry to obey his master. Fumbling complete, the pair hoist the basket of bright red critters out of the water. They shake its contents into a couple of large buckets.
The wizard takes a careful taste of one of the potatoes and decides that it is edible. He directs the apprentice to start serving the crawfish to the guests. They waddle walk the heavy buckets across the gangplank from shore to the waiting tables on the raft.
They dump the buckets directly onto the tables, where persnickety observant guests will have noticed that the tablecloths are in fact, waterproof canvas tarps.
Staurois looks around and checks the track of the sun, to be sure it is nearly set. He pokes his familiar with his toe and the little caiman makes a loud squawking honk sound to get the guests’ attention.
“A’fore we git to eatin’,” the druid begins, “we gots to light the fire. Weh, for yall’s new to how we do New Years on the flotilla, a little explainin’. When we celebrate the change of year, we ain’t always in the same place, non. So to make sure th’ good fortune ken find us, we light beacons on th’ riverbank.
Makin’ sure tha’ the fire’s lit ‘s always a most important chore. We put somewhat in charge of it that has needed fortune’s attention in the year gone by. Someone who done well by it, an who will shore make for themself a good year comin’.” Staurois turns toward Terror.
“In honor of your grand grand strategic success at Riverhaven, please Terror, light us a beacon for a good year.” Staurois gestures toward the towering pile of timber.
Terror bent down, and a finger across the second level of logs. A line of fire erupted along the same path, before spiraling out over the entire level, and then slowly but inexorably up the rest of the bonfire logs, until the entire stack was lit, top to bottom.
Echo’s stare snaps from the Tourist to the Terror, intensifying as she seems to conjure a blaze with nothing more than a touch.
With the first beacon lit, observers looking upriver or downriver can spot additional bonfires sprouting in the darkness. Music crosses the distance and all can hear singing, fiddles, and accordions as the celebration of the new year begins in earnest.
“Weh weh!” Staurois exclaims excitedly, “Eat eat!”
Shadimon flicks another glance at the Tourist before deciding she has enough protectors for the moment. As he joins the other winged elves at the tables, there is a flurry of signed conversation, and Shrike, her spear slung across her back, throws a sharp, considering look toward the werewolf.
Dhakamari has spent the afternoon so far trying to stay in the shadow of Shrike’s wings, but now she drags him forward and claps him on the shoulder, “Staurois! Look who we brought, speaking of good fortune!”
The river elves drag over their pillows and plop down at the tables set up to eat. Eina carefully makes certain to stay in the middle of the general gathered group of people. Litoria climbs from the hippopotamus onto her raft, and takes a brief minute to efficiently clean the still-flopping fish that had been skewered on her spear. She leaves it uncooked, but allows it to soak in a pre-prepared jar of marinade.
Staurois grabs Dhakamari for a hug, and shoves a crawfish into his hands.
“Ga lee!” Staurois says with a grin, “We don’ git enough o’ yall visitin here. Eat eat you too tin.”
Dhakamari laughs, still looking nervous, but not as blatantly uncomfortable as he has in the past. “I’d love to, but how do you get into these without ripping them apart?”
Staurois demonstrates as he slowly rips his crawfish in half, shoves a thumb under the softer shell of the tail, and the meat comes free. He pauses to suck the fat from the head, and then pops the tail meat in his mouth.
There is an exciting cracking noise as Shrike, half-way paying attention, snaps hers in half, stares at the crunchy mess, and shrugs, nibbling at the meat stuck to the shell. “Delicious, as always, Staurois!”
The Tourist, apparently happy at the attention being diverted, quietly moves to sit next to Litoria and attempts to figure out the crawfish. Ehra gives her a focused look as she walks away, but does not confront her. The blade elves move to sit at the table, though away from the Tourist. Terje is unsurprisingly competent at eating crawfish. He attempts to instruct Siiri and Ehra, with mixed results.
With the bonfires lit, the two dark elves remove their masks and goggles. Amenidal stares curiously at a crawfish before deftly twisting it and pulling the two sections apart. Shyrendora gives him a look but seems to catch on and follows his lead. The sudden face he makes upon eating the meat has her pausing to laugh.
As the sun sets and it begins to get dark, four shadows lengthen behind Staurois. He manages to keep his composure as the Cryptids arrive. Ink is first to approach. Skulk is behind him, along with two other Cryprids. The first is wearing what appears to be a white silk wrap. He has metallic gray skin and silver colored hair, wrapped into braids with metal rings holding it together. The second has features that might be the beginnings of wrinkles on her off-white skin, with long dark gray hair tied into a ponytail. She is wearing a simple linen robe.
“Hello,” Ink tells Staurois, “We are late. It was too bright. Sorry.”
“I am Shine,” the cryptid with braided hair speaks up, “This is Still,” he gestures to the second new cryptid, who merely bows her head in reply. The cryptids take their seats at the table, near the dark elves. They put down their own plate of what appears to be smoked fish, since they seem unable to eat the crawfish. Ink pauses, then walks over to the Tourist.
“Are you an elf?” he asks her.
She gives him a slightly wide-eyed look before responding, “Yes.”
Ink stares at her for a few moments.
“Okay,” he responds flatly, then goes to sit next to his sister.
“Okay seriously, what the fuck are those!?” Breaker hisses in a whisper as she sits down next to the dreamdust elves.
“Cryptid Elves,” Terror whispers, taking a seat across from Breaker. “Beyond that… ?” Terror shrugs. “Nonhostiles.”
“You guys got some fucking weird friends,” Breaker mutters to the Terror as she takes another shot and begins her attempt to decipher the crawfish.
Litoria delivers the soaking fish to the Cryptid delegation.
“Thank you,” Ink states as the Cryptids begin to enjoy the meal.
Seeing the Terror move spurs Echo into action. Approaching the Fire Elf -and somehow noticing the Cryptids for the first time as he approaches, which does put a hitch in one of his steps- he finally powers over to her side, staring down upon her.
“You. I do not know who you are. I will know who you are.”
The Terror stands back up, and looms in Echo's direction.
“She’s the Terror,” Breaker mumbles through a crawfish tail, “She’s the big bad bitch of the fire elves.”
Echo switches his gaze toward Breaker. “Are you her tongue?”
Breaker nearly avoids a spit take on a shot of tequila, “Only if she asks real nice.”
“I speak only when necessary, Echo of Blood,” the Terror says, in a voice like a crypt door squeaking shut. Particularly perceptive elves might spot a slight blush running down her neck.
Echo… trembles, slightly, as The Terror speaks. He switches his gaze back. “This is necessary. I have deemed it so. How are you this way?”
Terror cocked her head sideways. After a second, she waved her hand, letting a few sparks roll off of her fingertips, and gestured to them with her head.
Echo watches the display, but appears to be frustrated. “No. Not that. That is…” he trails off. “But not that. How are you Arousing?”
Breaker does not avoid a spit take this time. She completely cracks up.
The Terror blinks. A lot. “Uh… what?” she says, in a voice that is both noticeably more ‘alive’ than her voice normally is, and also features a noticeable Blade Elf accent.
“Aw, come on, tall dark an’ dull!” Breaker is slurring slightly as she gestures at Terror, “MiralaLook at her, si? She’s the big bad bitch! Ain’t someone you can fuck with, cuz she ain’t got no fucks to give! Nothing but a big bag of fuck you wrapped in armor an’ comin’ at you with a fuckoff hammer! What’s not to uh-” she coughs and takes another shot, apparently turning red.
Echo again looks at Breaker, a growl rumbling from his throat. “Do you take me for Blind? Do you think I cannot see what you say? Her every stance, motion, word and action, it does more than merely promise violence. It is violence. Distilled into a concentrated form. I have never seen the like. Gazing upon her-” His sight switches back to the Terror. There is another shiver, and his teeth clench. “I can already picture the devastation, the carnage, that lies as pledge upon her form. I am frightened. I am Aroused.”
Terror, coughing, puts a hand to the back of her head. “Umm… well… chapter twenty-seven, subparagraph forty-five, ‘how to…’ ...That is… well…”
Breaker’s face twists into several expressions. She puts down the shot glass, grabs the jug, takes a huge swig, then leaps to her feet on top of the table. The only way she’s even remotely close to Echo’s eye level, she points an angry finger at him.
“Back off pendejo, I was here first!”
Echo issues another growl. “What is your intention in this? Do you seek to Provoke? For every word of Terror I have, I have twenty of yours, and a thousandth of the desire for it. You delay me from what I seek…” he pauses, squinting, and a look of realization crosses his mug. “Coyote.”
Through all of this, Jahnni’s expression is… completely flat and placid.
“Vaquero,” Shadimon calls from down the table. “Coyote is dead and no longer a concern. And she’s the one who killed him.”
Confusion rests on Echo’s face a moment. He looks to Shadimon. “Ridiculous! I did not kill all of them. Nor will I believe she has; their form is upon her.”
“Coyote was a guy, cabron. Called us all coyotes, so we were his. Ain’t his no more, so I cut his fucking head off. Now I’m an elf, si? Fuckem.” Breaker slaps her chest.
“What is this, some dense Lowlander Wisdom? Whatever you seek to call yourselves, of course you were elves. Your form has not strayed that much. Do you seek to confound, as well as provoke? It seems to be your Art.” Echo growls out this final word, gaze intent into Breaker’s.
Eina gives the combative elves a level glare. She has prepared many spells for this particular occasion.
“You will not be bringin’ this to blows.” The river elf cleric raises her voice to be sure she is heard, and scoots her pillow somewhat closer. She snaps a crawfish in half. “Yall’s all guests, an guests do not git hurt.”
Breaker turns to Eina, then back to Echo, "This ain't over, pendejo.Stupid"
“I don’t even know what this was,” Terror says, entirely to herself.
“This never truly began, Powless.One without ability, or ability below their claims.” his gaze turns back to the Terror. “And I still await my answer.”
"Fuck did you-"
Matías approaches Breaker and coughs.
"Kiara," He whispers to her, "Please don't start an international incident at literally the first event you got invited to, por favor."
Breaker exhales hard, "Fucking fine."
She sits down hard and pours another shot, pointedly not looking at anyone.
Terror shrugs. “Experience, training, and long years of leadership and war,” she says, her voice back to its regular inelven-ness. She glances over at Breaker. “I am the Terror my people felt at Muspelham, made manifest to wreak revenge on those who wronged us. That’s all.”
Echo swallows, audibly. “...Said all of carnage, so factly a tone. Such Potence. Is it so possible that Strife in these Lowlands is all it takes to make one such as you?”
Barry and Fury are leaning against a pair of trees by the 'docks', letting the last traces of laughter roll out of their systems.
When the shaking finally subsides, Barry turns back to the Fury. "Are you--"
"I'm fine," Fury snaps. Her eyes swivel back to the Tourist, who is now chowing down on what Barry can only describe as 'lobster veal'. "I was just... surprised. That's all."
"You looked terrified."
"Well, I wasn't, jerk," Fury says. "I just wasn't expecting a..." her voice drops to a whisper. "An extremely large and armed Lycan warrior five feet from me."
"She's not scarier than the Terror," Barry says, smiling. "And more polite."
"She's polite. You just haven't talked to her. And I've never seen the Terror rip someone's face--" Fury starts.
Barry raises an eyebrow.
"...Okay, bad example. But... I mean... I can't be the only one who's a little uncomfortable with this after..."
"You aren't," Barry says mildly. "Why do you think I moved in front of you?"
Fury rolls her eyes. "Because you're an egotistical attention vampire who hits on literally everyone."
Barry smiles. "Is that jeal--"
"Its disgust."
Barry frowns.
"And anyway," Fury continues. "I don't trust her. I know that's rude, and I'm not going to make a scene, but I'm not going to trust someone who can rip a kidney out of me if she gets hungry. I've only got one left, and I'm attached to it, and anyway..."
Barry gestures towards a boat at the far end of the shore. "Was the Hunger looking so... ill, when we left?"
The Hunger stumbles down the gangplank of his boat, leaning heavily on an axe handle now serving as a borrowed cane. The First tags along beside him, pushing past the Fire Elf guards that are trailing the Hunger, seemingly trying to help him down the plank. The Hunger waves them off.
"How long has your 'Esteemed', I believe it was, reigned over the Crag?" Hunger says in a rough voice.
The First makes a scoffing sound. "Well, 'reigned' isn't exactly the best term. After all, it's not like she could actually stop me from directing the Bakshish as I see fit! But as far as how long she's held that position... I believe around 200 years, give or take some decades? I'm afraid the specifics escape me, there; the Records of her titling were lost. But how about your Potentate? How wizened is this 'Terror' you speak of?"
"Wise enough, given her youth," the Hunger says. "And willing to listen, even through her tendency to brood about the past. I'm certain she--"
Hunger pauses. His eyes fell on the Potluck -- and on the white-haired 'elf' currently dining there.
"Merde," Hunger says, with a bit more strength in his voice.
"Shit", the First hisses, at the exact same time.
For Allophryne only: As Allophryne opens his eyes, the vision Luna granted him reveals the Hunger. Allophryne sees his elven body, but he sees something else as well. Layered over him, he sees the body of a werewolf with copper red fur that darkens to blacks and greys at the ends of his arms and the tips of his ears. The werewolf is wearing a mask, a twisted version of the one that the Hunger wears. Its orange eyes burn with hate as its teeth and claws sink into the Hunger and pull at him. It is trying to tear him apart from the inside, to rip its way out. It is a sick and twisted version of the balanced forms he saw in his master. He has never seen this before, but he needs no explanation to understand it. The Hunger is Afflicted.
A fairly nondescript elf standing on the shoreline approaches the First and the Hunger from behind. He taps the Hunger on the shoulder.
“Excuse me sir,” he says, ever-so-softly, “please come wi’ me, weh?”
“That depends entirely on where you’re going,” the Hunger says wearily. “I have an appointment that needs to be fulfilled shortly, and I would prefer to skip any delays.”
“Et’s best if this’s said in private, sir.”
“Private?” The First asks incredulously. He looks to The Hunger. “What’s going on here?”
“Please enjoy yer visit,” the river elf says to the First, a gentle webbed hand guiding the Hunger away from the festivities toward the other side of the bonfire.
“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me.” the Hunger says, clear strain in his voice. He sighs. “You get two minutes. That’s all I can give.”
The obese alligator scoots ashore.
“Sir, please don’t be makin’ this go more capsized ‘en it is.” The river elf removes his offending hand.
Hearing the commotion, the Tourist looks up from the table. Spotting the group, her face goes blank. She stands from the table and begins to swiftly walk towards them. The river elf notices her about to disembark.
“It can be cured, sir,” is all he says.
“If this is the whole ‘complete the transformation as a cure’ routine, then I’m afraid I’ve already discounted that one,” the Hunger says bitterly.
“What.” The First adds, adding nothing.
“Non,” is the answer, “I ain’t never did the howlin, an it ain’t on me no more.”
“So your cure only works within the first month?” The Hunger continues with a growl. “I’m well past that as well, I’m afraid.”
He glances back towards the Potluck, and spots the Tourist on approach. “Ah. I see my appointment is to meet me.”
“Axe ‘er.” The river elf’s tone is pleading. “There’s more’n you know.”
The Tourist approaches. She stares at him with eyes that flash bright blue. She stops inches short of him, staring him directly in the eyes.
"Hello Innkeeper," she speaks in a serious tone without looking away from him, "Step aside, Crag. This man is afflicted."
“What,” the First contributes, definitely helping.
Eina scurries to the other side of the raft, making sure she’s definitely less than 20 feet away from them.
“Impressive powers of deduction,” the Hunger says. “Give that you bit me in the first place. Though, let me take a guess -- you can’t naturally afflict with your bite, can you?”
She raises an eyebrow at him, "That is correct. Luna blessed me in recognition of my service. I no longer carry the affliction. I did not curse you. How did you know?"
“The affliction rarely takes a full season and more than four full moons to reveal itself,” the Hunger says mildly. “And I didn’t exactly keep any samples to examine -- I’m not quite that stupid, despite appearances. ...No, this means we have a much, much bigger problem. This was an assassination attempt.”
"Four…" the Tourist's face and tone go completely flat, "Innkeeper… how long has it been since your first transformation?"
“Is… Is this some kind of sick metaphor? Or Wisdom? None of this makes sense.”, The First laments.
“Please enjoy yer meal,” the river elf attempts to redirect the First away from the conversation he had hoped would be occurring somewhere much less open where much fewer people would be staring directly at it.
The Hunger shakes his head. “No metaphor, First Among Scholars,” he says. “I’ve been afflicted since midway through Surt’s first year.”
"Over two years… Hel…" the Tourist's expression falters slightly, giving Hunger a strange look.
“Don’t be impressed,” the Hunger says. “It's not that hard to keep an animal locked up. I’ve got some alchemical skills, and a perfectly good laboratory. And the… ‘dog’, as I’ve taken to call it -- no offense -- is a coward. It took a surprising amount of effort to get it here so we can be dealt with. But I’m out of options. And your statement, plus another ‘cure’ I was offered by what I have to assume is the Wolf Elves of all things, confirms a suspicion I’ve been working on for some time.
“So if your ‘cure’ can handle my situation, and leaves no trace of the abominable intelligence the curse left in my system… good. Otherwise, let’s move this public, if you please. I’d like my execution to be easily visible and easily explained, and with as little “shadiness” as possible.”
The Tourist closes her eyes briefly while he speaks, then opens them. When she speaks, there is genuine sympathy in her voice.
"If these Wolf Elves afflicted you intentionally, I will hunt them down and make them pay. I swear it. Innkeeper… I can cure the affliction, but… there is no recorded case of the affliction being cured more than a year after the first transformation. Such things are only found in sagas and legends, the work of grand heroes. I am no such thing. It is beyond my ability to save you. I am sorry."
“...Well, I wouldn’t mind the attempt regardless, to be honest. Particularly if you’ll make certain to execute me should it fail.”
Hunger glances back over to the First, and then to the other Fire Elves, still at the Potluck. “But if you can’t, we should get this over with. I’d rather remove this thing’s influence before it causes me to lose any more composure. First, if you have questions, please ask them quickly. I will not be able to answer them for much longer, I’m afraid.”
Eina hops over the side of the raft into the shallow water.
“If’n this is suicide or en execution you’ve gotta take a minute first.” She wades toward them quickly, giving the fat alligator a shove out of her path on the way. “Hunger, cher, Calestros bless ya, can you hold on long enough to say yer goodbyes?”
Baijani lands nearby with a rush of wings, her holy symbol glowing softly in the dim light. “Hold, we’ve got you as well as we can.”
"NO!" The Hunger suddenly snarls, "I WON'T LET YOU DO THIS! I'LL KILL THEM ALL!"
The Hunger jerks backwards and screams as his body begins to twist and change. Copper red fur erupts over his skin as he changes forms. In only a few seconds, a werewolf wearing a twisted version of the Hunger's mask stands in front of the group, snarling and reaching for something in its robes.
Allophryne is not ready for this. He thought he was, but oh heck he’s really not. He takes a swing at the Hunger, and completely misses. Blinkin, the one-eyed, obese, usually lazy alligator, is however, on top of things. He chomps down on the Afflicted on the water’s edge, tucks in his stubby legs, and hurls his body in a death roll.
“I WILL - ARGH-” the Dog yelps in pain as the gator’s silver capped teeth dig into the back of his leg. He’s unable to keep his footing as the gator’s massive bulk twists, its jaws locked on his ankle. The Dog snarls and twists, trying to escape, but the gator is entirely nonplussed by the flailing.
The Tourist lunges as the afflicted falls. Before either of them hits the ground, she is in her hybrid form. Snarling, she falls on him as his back impacts the muddy ground and the alligator holds him down. She raises a hand above her head, and it glows with a pale light.
“GET OFF OF ME YOU BITCH!”
“ÞegjaBe Silent” She yells in Lycan and slams her open palm into his chest.
The light flares as she hits him in the sternum. The dog howls in pain as there is a sound like searing meat. The red fur burns away from her touch as the pale light washes over the afflicted werewolf. When the flash clears, the Hunger remains, back in his elven form.
For the first time in two years, the Dog is silent in his mind. He can feel it writhing in pain somewhere, but it is cowed for the moment.
“It will only last a few minutes,” she growls.
“My apologies,” the Hunger says. “This thing is irritatingly persistent -- would you mind letting go of my foot?” He looks over to the alligator with its mouth currently wrapped around his leg. The fat alligator declines the request.
Having been momentarily been in the presence of not one, but two full blown werewolves, and still in the presence of one, the First does the only rational thing. He panics.
Babbling a stream of mixed expletives, he stumbles backward away from the Tourist, before falling on his back on the shore.
Baijani pauses in the act of opening her wings, shoots a glance at the werewolf situation, and hurries around the group to the First. She catches his shoulder and tries to help him up, “Come on, son, this is no place for us. It’s going to be fine, we just need to get out of their way.” The First emphatically accepts the help to get as far away as swiftly as possible.
Eina puts her foot down. She gathers her spellcasting powers, makes the proper gestures to her Goddess and casts.
“CALM EMOTIONS”
A sudden wave of enforced calm prevents Terror from charging screaming into the midst of the group, but does very little to deter her from leaping from the dining area, and marching over to the group with a hand on her hammer. She stops at the edge of the group, and looms over the Tourist, pulling off a pretty impressive snarl even despite the spell. “Two.”
The Tourist's attention is forced away from Hunger. Her ears pin back as she growls at the armored figure.
"We aren't in Surt, Terror. You command nothing."
Echo blinks. The near perpetual scowl on his face falls. He appears at ease. Tranquilly, he turns, and plods over to the commotion. He gets a big eyeful of the werewolf present, and then placidly turns his gaze over to Eina.
“You. You did something to me. I want to kill this Anim... Ani… huh. This creature. But I don’t need to kill this creature. I do not appreciate this.” In spite of his words, he makes no move for his hammer, no other hostile gesture.
Sneaking behind him, the astute can make out Jahnni surreptitiously preparing a spell… one very similar in form to the one Eina just used. She glides behind Echo, out of his line of sight.
“And what, pray, is going on here?” Barry says, meandering casually over to the edge of the scene. There’s a slight nervous twinge to his voice; his hand stays close to his machete.
Fury steps in close behind him, keeping a wary eye on the hybrid standing on her coworker in the middle of the circle.
Shadimon and Shrike exchange glances and leap into the air. They settle into a lazy spiral above the group, watching.
Dust sidles closer to the group surrounding Hunger and the Tourist, silent but watching everything.
Ehra strides up. He glances at Fury and Barrabus, then moves to stand next to them. His face is calm, but his grandfatherly smile is completely gone.
“Ah, Ehra,” the Hunger says. “I’m glad you’re here. It seems our friends the Wolf Elves have decided to use the affliction as an assassination tool. Tell me, have you heard of the name ‘Cantia Brighteye’?”
Ehra pauses, and speaks with a deathly calm voice, "I have."
“I suspect this is her doing,” the Hunger continues. “Particularly since she reached out to me with a ‘cure’ some weeks before -- a cure that would have fully transformed me into a Lycan. Which was not tolerable in these particular circumstances; I’ve found the ‘personality’ of this affliction dogging me to be rather craven, and… to be honest, I’d rather be dead than under its thrall. I’m afraid this will cut our working relationship rather short, I’m sorry to say.”
"I… see," is all Ehra manages to say.
“Removin’ the hurt of a thing makes it a good time to stop an’ reflect a bit,” Eina answers Echo softly. “This’un’s done a fair balance of good.”
Shyrendora stands from the table with a few ear motions for Amenidal to stay put. Slowly she makes her way to the group, quietly assessing the situation and the whole ass werewolf. She is silent and waiting.
The Tourist turns her attention from the Terror to Eina. She exhales slightly, then quietly casts a spell and puts her hand on Hunger’s chest. She draws a Lycan rune, and with a slight hiss, the burned handprint and wound on his leg close. She gives him an odd look, then stands and shifts back to her elven form.
“His mind is his, for a short while. Allophryne? Do what you can to ease his suffering.”
Allophryne nods, kneels next to him, and begins to slowly cast a spell.
“That’s not necessary,” the Hunger says. “I’m fine. The pain is keeping me sharp. And it’ll be a waste, shortly, regardless.”
The Tourist nods for Allophryne to stop casting.
"Let him up. He should face this standing."
Once Blinkin has slowly released his prisoner, the Tourist offers a hand to help Hunger stand, “For what little it is worth, Innkeeper… I am sorry.”
“I think we’ve established you’re not responsible for this,” the Hunger says. He looks over at the Terror. “Wolf elves. An assassination attempt. A successful one, it seems.”
Terror stiffens.
The Tourist hisses between her teeth, “You said they offered you a ‘cure.’ You refused it. Why?”
“The cure would have left me ‘saddled’ with the personality the curse afflicted me with. ...I’ll admit, it's strange to describe it as that. My research showed no evidence of any other victims reporting a ‘second personality’ tagging along, acting as the curse’s ‘viewpoint.’ Perhaps that says more about myself than anything… but to answer your question, her cure would have left it as an aspect of myself, and it turned out to be several aspects of myself that I would quite rather see dead than in control. So… that left us here.”
The Tourist is completely silent for several seconds before answering with clear disgust in her voice, "And they called that a 'cure?' That is an abomination. You… made the right decision. I…" she pauses, there is a conflicted look on her face.
"The longer an affliction lasts, the deeper the curse worms its way into the victim's soul. The deeper it reaches, the harder it is to cure. If… if it reaches a certain point, no mortal magic can unseat it. Even then, after the first transformation… curing it is incredibly difficult and dangerous. Most are beyond saving after a few months. It has been… two years. Even if… even if there is still something left to save now, it is six days until the full moon. The Affliction will grow stronger every moment until then. Allophryne and I can only provide temporary relief…"
She gives him a level look, "If you wish for certainty… there is only one way to deliver it."
Hunger blinks. “You mentioned a certain point. Is there any way to determine where that point is? The dog’s behavior has been nagging at me since the start of its little farce; there’s something… unlikely about it. It doesn’t behave like a normal affliction; even during the full moon, it displayed complete -- albeit disturbing -- lucidity. It rearranged my office and made its own plans, for Cal’s sake. Add to that the source of the ‘cure’... and I’m wondering if this is the normal affliction at all, or if instead Cantia’s played around with the nature of the curse in order to achieve some end. Probably a nihilistic and vaguely Randian one; given the cure she offered, that seems her style.”
He pulls a small jar from his robes, and tosses it gently onto the grass. “Don’t step on that. It was my emergency ‘shut up dog’ option.”
“Allophryne Allophrynidae, you put that giggin’ stick down right this instant,” Staurois calmly addresses the Crocodilian, who drops his spear in response to the direct order from his Oarmaster. “These are our guests, weh. Noone will be hurt while they’re here wi’ us.” He turns toward the raft. “Litoria, make sure of it.”
And the warmaster mutely nods.
Echo, whose calm stare has been boring a hole through the Tourist, notices something; he feels irritated about the situation. More than irritated. Well more than irritated, in fact.
His hand begins moving towards the haft of his weapon, but before it can reach it, a graceful touch alights upon his elbow.
“Ancestor’s Tranquility Upon You.“ Jahnni says, her voice trembling as the first Calm wears off. However, her calm returns as she gives in to her own tranquility.
If he could look confused, Echo would. “What is the meaning of this action, Elpahka? Why do you also seek to rob me of my Responsibility? What wisdom is there in denying my task?”
Jahnni’s response is light and even. “Echo of Blood, greatest of the Aggro, there is much at work here that is beyond what it appears to be. Please, accept this Wisdom. What passes here, must pass here. It is Wisdom to allow it. Acknowledge this Path.”
He pauses a moment, and then his dead stare returns to The Tourist.
“Ack. Now.”
The Tourist gives Jahnni a quizzical look. Her gaze then turns to the Hunger, then to Allophryne. Finally, she looks up at the sky to see the not quite full moon rising above the treeline. She lowers her head for a moment.
"Mother guide me…" she whispers to herself.
She turns to the Hunger, "Innkeeper. No matter what mortal tampering, there is only one affliction. It has the same stakes and the same costs. There is only one question I can ask you, and precious little time to answer it before the curse resumes."
She pauses, and gives him that same intense stare that she did when they first met, "If I were to tell you, right this moment, that the risk to save you was too great, that the only way to surely stop the curse, to prevent it from spreading and visiting this same suffering on those you care most about, would you allow me to execute you right here and now, to ensure its banishment with complete certainty?"
“Yes,” the Hunger replies, without hesitation. “Honestly, that’s why I came here.”
The Tourist watches him carefully, then responds in a level voice, "I fight the affliction, not the afflicted. It… It is clear that you are still fighting, not to survive but to defeat this curse. I cannot know what you have been through, but I can see that despite incredible odds you have not given up. I call myself a servant against the affliction, have sworn my life to fight it. I… must do so with at least the conviction that you have."
She takes a slow breath, "I cannot promise that I can cure you, but I can promise that I will try."
“I’ll hold you to that, then,” the Hunger says, closing his eyes for a second. “How do we get started?”
“Now? We try to keep your mind and soul from collapsing for the next six days,” the Tourist looks to Eina, “We will need restraints. He’s going to need a cleric, any healing supplies you have, and both myself and Allophryne at all times. We will need a secure location. This is going to be incredibly dangerous. The ‘dog’ will be trying to regain control constantly. We have very little time until it does.”
A weak, unsteady, audibly terrified voice pipes up from the back of the barge. “Y-You said- healing s-supplies?” The First, in spite of himself, takes a few cautious steps forward. “I… I can have such. In abundance.”
The Tourist gives him a gauging look, “Anything that you have that can soothe this man’s mind, body, or soul will help. Even if it is only words. This will be the most incredibly agonizing six days he has ever endured,” she glances at Hunger, “And yes, I know what happened to you before.”
From beside First, Baijani lifts a hand, “Count me in. Healing is my specialty.” She smiles a little, “As is madness.”
“More questions would be fine, First,” the Hunger says. “Anything to keep me focused will help.”
The Tourist nods, “Anything to keep his mind strong.”
Eina gives him a hopeful look.
“We done planned to offer it to erryone when the night wore down,” she says, her voice slowly gaining confidence. “Mais, Hunger, we chose to host this event now because we’d be here.” Eina stops, and gestures beyond the little creek, to the gap it forms in the stony outcroppings of rock that line this river. “Come on in,” she offers, “it’s a restful place.”
The Tourist pauses, “Yes… I think that might be helpful for him. We can keep it under control for just a little longer.”
“Mais, might as well jus’ invite allayall on in.” Staurois’s voice carries better than the cleric’s. “Watch the rocks, they’re on the slippy side, weh!” The little caiman honks a squeak at the crowd to get it moving.
The Tourist helps the Hunger stand. When she is sure he is able to walk on his own, she gives him a nod. She walks beside him, watching him carefully.
Shrike and Shadimon land, careful of the mud, and wait for Baijani to come join them before following after the river elves. They stay close together, and their feathers are ruffled.
“Well then.” a new voice announces itself from the shore as a third dark elf approaches. Her straw blond hair is tied tightly into a braided bun, accenting the sharp, sternness of her face and how she looks less than impressed at the gathering. She seems stockier than a normal run of the mill dark elf, the arm she has wrapped under the wiggling bundle on her chest thicker than both of Amenidal’s and Shyrendora’s combined. She looks around, taking in everything before bouncing the bundle slightly, “You surfacers sure know how to throw a party.”
Shyrendora blinks slightly. “Lady Vahn...I didn’t think you were coming?”
There is a snort from the newcomer. “As if anyone could have stopped me save for this little bug, and boy did they try.” There is a guilty gurgle from the bundle. She looks around again before nonchalantly, and rather bluntly, asking, “Alright, so who died or is dying? You can cut stone with the tension here.”
Shyrendora shakes her head and makes a motion for Vahn to follow her. “Let’s just...go this way shall we?” She glances back at Amenidal but leaves the young dark elf be for the moment.
Vahn shifts with a shrug and they both head in the direction that people are all slowly headed in.
The winged elves glance back at the new-comer that they haven’t met before. Baijani glances from her face down to the wiggling infant, and catches on the holy symbol the baby is currently mouthing. Her eyebrows go up, “You wouldn’t be the cleric who worked out the warding glyph, would you?”
“If you are referring to one of the biggest pains in my ass that I have had in a long while, from the mind of the actual biggest pain in my ass, then yes.” Vahn glances at the older winged-elf, “I take it you had fun reading Greg’s notes?”
“There was alcohol involved. It was impressive as all hells, and we worked it out, but I was contemplating jumping in the river after.” She pauses and waits for Vahn to catch up, “Let me fill you in; this is good timing and if you’re up for it, you’re going to be needed.”
The baby makes a noise as Vahn continues her bouncing. She looks more amused now than unimpressed. “Lay it on me. I had a feeling tonight was going to be a bizarre one.”
Baijani does an impressive job of summing up the situation with Hunger, while explaining the acceptable presence of the Tourist, and is only distracted by the baby a few times.
Shyrendora looks like she wants to vanish into the ground as the explanation is given and Vahn’s pointed stare turns to her for the rest of the walk.
Ehra Indrek watches the Tourist leave without changing expression. He makes a weary sigh when she is gone. He goes to gather Terje and Siiri (who both stand with wide eyed expressions,) then gestures for them to join the procession to the grotto. He pauses momentarily, then turns to walk back towards the fire elves alone.
“Hey lizard,” Breaker mumbles as she passes Tik’Tak another shot, “Are their parties always like this?”
“Pretty much,” the Machakw grumbles and downs it.
Dust was coaxing Steve out from under the table. “Sometimes they’re worse. No one’s ever died though, don’t worry.”
“We should go,” Matias ushers the group forwards, “It sounds important.”
The cryptids, having shunted to literally the opposite end of the raft from the commotion, share a look amongst themselves. Without discussion, Still is the first to stand. The rest follow her.
Amenidal’s brain seems to finally kick back into play after whatever just went down. He scampers up from the table and makes a light jog to catch up with the others.
Fury waits until the last of the calming effect had lapsed, and then marches over to the Terror, who is still staring at the steadily retreating Hunger and Tourist.
"...What was that?" the Fury asks.
Terror shakes her head.
"...Did you know?" the Fury demands.
Terror gives her a sideways glance.
"...I didn't, either," Fury says.
The two stand in silence for a moment, watching the crowd heading for the grotto, until Barrabus steps up from behind them.
The bard twirls his mustache. "Well, my dears--" he says, before cutting off at a glare from Terror.
"Did you know?" Fury asks quietly.
"That the Hunger was hiding a dark and terrible secret?" Barry says, "Yes, but I assumed all three of you were."
He gives them both a quick glance -- waiting for a reaction -- and then continues. "And the Hunger is an extremely boring person; I assumed his secret was something straightforward and prudish, like 'secretly wears dresses' or 'paints miniature soldiers' or something else equally boring that only an obsessively rigid person would consider a 'dark secret'."
"You don't need to make fun of him," Fury says, glow rising up her neck.
"I'm not!" Barry says. "If anything, I'm impressed. A little concerned, maybe, but..."
"I would have executed him," Terror says quietly.
"And he would have told you to," Fury says, putting a hand on Terror's arm.
"Right," Barry says, glancing at Fury and Terror curiously. "Time to see this through, then."
Terror and Fury nod.
"By which I mean I'll go with Hunger and his furry friend, and you two stay put."
Both immediately glare at him.
Barry swallows. "...I can't and won't stop you, but... look, 'diumvirate' is hard enough to say. There's still risk."
Terror looms at Barry.
"And he wouldn't want you to take it," Barry says, looking Terror in the eye and trying hard not to wince. "Look, this is enough of a mess as it is. I don't even want to know how this'll spin this in Surt. It's a huge mess even with just the Hunger involved. And besides..." He glances over at Echo, and then to Breaker. "I think you have something to work out... international affairs and all. Things that Fury is an expert on."
A blush creeps up Terror's neck.
"...You're really bad at compliments," Fury says.
"You two should go to the grotto," Ehra speaks politely to the fire elves as he steps up to them, "Eina wants you to. I think it would be helpful."
Terror glares at Ehra.
“...Did you know,” Fury asks.
Ehra makes a rather uncharacteristic pthbth sound as he exhales hard through his lips, "Hell no."
“But you know who Cantia Brighteye is,” Fury says.
"Only by reputation. She had a dossier two inches thick. I believed her dead at Muspelham," he shrugs, "It was a name I had genuinely hoped to never hear again."
“We’ve seen how reliable ‘dead at Muspelham’ is,” Barrabus says jovially. He glances at Fury. “Maybe Catia lived through it just as we did?”
Fury shakes her head. “Her? Not bloody likely.”
"Nothing is off the table when it comes to that madwoman…" Ehra shakes his head, "Turning the affliction into natural lycanthropy… only her."
Barrabus nods, “Infamous Lycan supremacist, right, of course.”
Ehra frowns at him, "Please stop talking about things you know nothing about, Barrabus."
Fury grins. “In fact, try not talking in general,” she says. She turns back to Ehra. “This… isn’t something they tried during the war, is it? I… we would have heard about it, right?”
Ehra closes his eyes and makes a weary sigh, "I think it's rather apparent that my knowledge of events happening in Muspelham at the time was extremely flawed."
Fury’s grin drops. “...Not for lack of trying from our end, thank you much, Ehra. We sent a lot of reports--”
Terror groans, and puts a hand on her face. “Who is Cantia Brighteye?” she says.
"Governor Goldheart's Court Alchemist, and his right hand as far as I could tell. A woman whose intelligence was only matched by her madness."
Ehra opens his eyes and looks at Fury, "The fault was mine."
Fury opens her mouth as if to say something, and then pauses.
“It's a little late to be concerned with fault anyway,” Barrabus says. “What matters is our riposte. Ehra, sir,” he bows, “Help me convince these two to head towards the Grotto, and not accompany the Hunger wherever our fair Tourist is taking him afterwards. I’ll follow those two; this pair needs to concern themselves with their response. And maybe with… decompressing a bit. This is shaping up to be an exciting year.”
Ehra nods and looks to the two leaders, "Surt is going to need you more than ever. And… I left you to the wolves once. I will not let that happen again. I am with you this time. Now let's go."
As the group turns to head towards the grotto, Ehra drops back to speak quietly only to Terror.
"I absolutely did not have that kind of situation in mind when I wrote the codices," his grandfatherly smile returns just slightly, "You're going to have to go with your gut."
The Terror makes a noise like a cactus being suddenly compressed.
As the small knot of Crag move towards the promised event, silence and uncomfortable tension reign. Only one dialogue occurs.
“You were quick to offer aid, First. Very quick.”
The First’s face flushes. “Whatever you are thinking, you’re wrong, Echo. It is an opportunity to see a study that none have even imagined. Even you should see the value of that.”
Echo grunts. “...Do not forget the past, First. Is that not your Responsibility?”
The only sound that follows is the grinding of teeth.
Elves turning the corner around the little stream that leads to the grotto find a sudden and extreme absence of light. Only stars and the waxing moon light the way.
A deep pool fills the center of the grotto. Its still surface reflects the stars above. A narrow pebbly beach surrounds the pool. Vines from the scrubby woodland above the grotto dangle over the edge of the cliff. A dry stream bed sparkles with polished stones over the far side.
As everyone makes it into the grotto, Staurois gestures for silence.
“In this place,” Eina begins, her soft voice echoing in the enclosed space, “we find peace. Erry new journey, it done always begin’t the same. The first thing you do, afore an oar breaks water, you say goodbye to those you’re leavin.”
Acris runs into the grotto at full tilt, holding a torch and splashing through the shallow water. His expression is one of pure panic, which is particularly visible as he lights a row of torches that are set up to mark the ledge where the water in the pool becomes dangerously deep.
The light illuminates the walls of the grotto.
“We can’t always stop en say them goodbyes in person, non?” Eina continues, when Acris finishes with the chore he should have done earlier. The apprentice backs away into a corner, panting. “So here,” she gestures to the wall, “we say em’ to those that ain’t around to hear ’em no more.”
The walls of the grotto have hundreds of names written on them in many different handwritings. In several places, the outline of a webbed hand has been left by splattering paint around it. The largest name among them is Parrain Bufo.
“An yall,” Staurois offers, once there’s been a chance for the holy site to sink in a bit, “please be free t’add yer own if’n you need. A space fer goodbyes is fer all elves.”
At the foot of the wall are several paint kits, ready if needed.
For Hunger only: As Hunger enters the grotto, he feels the Dog begin to rouse. It grows in strength once again. Hunger braces himself to fight it.
Not here, he hears an unknown chorus of many voices, not now.
The Dog promises pain to come, but remains silent for now.
There is a shuddering, rustling sound as Shrike’s wings sag. Shadimon and Baijani step closer on either side of her, bracing her as she stumbles forward. She picks up a paint brush and stares at the wall for a moment, and then looks up. There’s plenty of space higher up, but beyond her reach. She turns wide eyes to Shadimon, “They should be higher, closer to the sky, I can’t…”
Shadimon gestures, and Dhakamari quietly joins him. Together they boost Shrike higher, and she reaches as high as she can, wings spread for balance. She writes two names, in large print: Kirenaria, Anjalishok.
She pauses for a moment, looking back down to Baijani, and adds more: Althion, Ariawyn, Hiranjani, Sanjika. She spreads her wings slightly as they lower her back to the ground, and silently passes the brush to Shadimon as she steps aside with Baijani, looking up at the names.
Dust covers his mouth walking into the grotto, and pulls Steve closer to him for reassurance. They sit down at the edge of the pool, staring at the names. “Too many to add,” Steve murmurs.
“We can try,” Dust offers.
“Soon,” Steve sighs, reading the names and mouthing them to himself, fingers running over the knotted cords dangling from his belt.
Brother Matías looks at the wall with conflicting emotions. He turns to say something to Breaker, but she is already pushing past him towards the wall.
"I only got one person to say goodbye to," she speaks in a fierce but surprisingly quiet voice.
She kneels next to the wall and picks up a brush. With quick strokes, she writes a name.
Anjele Malave
She viciously bites her thumb and draws it across the wall, leaving it underlined with spit and blood.
"Adios, you bastard." She whispers to herself.
Matías sits next to her and places a hand on her shoulder.
Amenidal approaches the wall carefully after looking around the grotto in awe, slowly folding himself into a seated position next to a paint kit and a fairly tiny spot of free wall. With a shaking hand he pulls free a brush and gingerly begins to make markings in his chosen spot. The names are stylized and attached to one another but can be easily separated: Ivan, Seb.
Quietly, he rests his head on the wall and shakes. “Urobím ťa hrdým…I will make you proud.”
Vahn moves up to him and places a gentle hand on the back of his head. “Oni sú.They are.”
His shaking only gets worse in response to her whisper.
Shyrendora is still before she moves in as well, her face a forcefully controlled type of blank. She writes one word, Valerian, before moving away to as secluded of an area as she can find. Her hand is not steady.
The Crag stand separate from the other elves. Echo stands motionless, Jahnni beside him, while The First’s eyes flick up and down the grotto walls.
“A remembrance ritual,” he mutters, “basic, ritualistic. Without context-”
“Shut up.” Echo continues his straight-forward stare.
The First furrows his brow. “I was only-”
“Shut. Up. Now."
Though angry, The First’s eyes flick again to the walls… and then, more, to the elves who attend them. A look of realization washes onto his face.
“...I see.” A moment passes in silence. “...Should we…?”
Jahnni is the first to respond. “Respect them,” she says calmly, “but it is not our way.”
“No point,” Echo adds. His stare marches over to The Tourist. “There is not enough paint.”
There is a small throat clearing noise from beside and below Eina. Tik'Tak is standing near her.
"Ma'am?" He asks her, "I know they aren't elves… but…" he gestures helplessly at the paint, "I don't know how to write." He looks up at her, "Please…?"
Eina kneels beside the spikey elf and nods quietly. She loads up a paintbrush and hands it to him.
“Follow my finger. We’ll do it together, weh?”
"Thank you," he moves with slightly shaky movements.
With Eina's help, Tik'Tak adds over a dozen names to the wall. He sheds no tears. Lizardfolk cannot cry, but elves can.
The Hunger approaches carefully -- keeping himself clearly visible, and his arms far from his tools -- and carefully scrawls a single name at the very bottom of the wall. Gaius Freshleaf.
After a moment’s hesitation, the Terror steps over to another section of the wall. She puts a finger to the wall, towards the middle, and scrawls a series of names onto it. Faenia Leafsplitter, Claudios Hammerbutz, Sexta Greenaxe, Cefali Hemicyonae, Titus Narwal… the list continues for several lines, covering over twenty names, before finally ending with Milum Ignotum.
Terje and Siiri give each other a quiet look. The both approach the wall and begin adding names. It will be some time before they are done.
Ehra Indrek looks over the names on the wall, then to the free space. Then to the ceiling. He lowers his head and breathes out.
He steps toward the wall and slowly draws his mourning blade - quite clearly, not as a weapon but as an item of ceremony and memory. Carefully, he takes paint and draws an outline of the sword on the wall. He pulls it away, and accents the image to ensure it is a clear rendition.
With practiced ceremony, he cleans the blade and sits in a cross legged pose. He places it flat on his lap and closes his eyes in meditation.
Fury steps over to the wall, and burns a single name into an open spot: Rajska.
Shadimon has been watching the others with a very distant look on his face, the paintbrush mostly forgotten in his hand. He startles when Baijani puts a hand on his shoulder. He passes her the brush, shifts one of his wings forward, and plucks one of the largest feathers, white with a black tip and nearly as long as his arm. Taking the brush back from Baijani, he makes several quick marks on the rachis.
By the time he’s finished, Baijani is holding out a sturdy leather cord and feathers from her, Shrike, and Dhakamari. Shadimon ties them all into a sturdy bundle. Looking up to the lip of the cliff, he squints past the vines and roots to a small jutting rock. As the others step back, Shadimon springs upward, the wind from his wings sending waves across the water. Unlike Shrike, Shadimon can hover. He quickly ties the bundle of feathers to the little spur of rock, and drops back to the ground.
“It doesn’t have to stay there,” he says absently to Staurois, still looking up. “They fall eventually, and that’s fine. The wind will take them where they need to go.”
The cryptids have gathered on the far side of the grotto, away from most of the others. They stand in a close group, whispering.
One of the new cryptids, Still, steps forward and takes a paintbrush. Slowly and with great reverence, she begins to draw one of the strange and haunting black and white faces that can sometimes be seen where cryptids have been. She finishes one, but then stops as her hand begins to shake. She looks back to Ink, with despair in her eyes. She speaks with a voice so quiet only those with the keenest ears could possibly hear it.
"I can't remember what they look like."
Ink places a hand on her shoulder. He takes a brush and begins to paint another face. Slowly, the rest of the cryptids join. They paint until a large section is covered in the mournful images. When finished, each one of them paints their hand and places a long-fingered handprint on the wall.
They step back and watch in silence.
Dust squeezes Steve's shoulder. They stand and make their way to a wall. Dust begins to paint names in small precise letters. Everytime he pauses, Steve murmurs more names, until another large patch of wall is covered.
The Tourist stands silently with her arms folded. She has been watching the other elves carefully, but has not moved or said a word. Her eyes scan the slowly filling walls.
Litoria approaches, and leans quietly against her shoulder.
“Plenty’a space,” she waves a hand toward the walls.
The Tourist uncrosses her arms and turns her head towards Litoria.
"Are you sure?" She asks, "They were…" her voice trails off.
Litora puts an arm around the Tourist’s shoulder and gently steers her toward a specific portion of the wall, near the center, near Parrain Bufo. She places a webbed palm in the void of one painted over a name scrawled in messy handwriting. The translucent paint renders the text legible underneath. It is a perfect match for her hand, if not her handwriting.
The name there is Holt Vinr. And it is not a river elf name.
The Tourist slowly lowers herself to her knees and looks at the name. She takes a few steadying breaths.
Litoria places a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Et’s fer elves to say their goodbyes, ain’t noone gonna stop you from sayin’ em to whoever you want.”
The Tourist nods quietly. She slowly takes something from around her neck that was hidden under her clothes. It is a holy symbol of Luna. Oddly, there is also a worn copper symbol of Calestros attached to the cord, as well as five steel memory beads.
She runs her fingers over the memory beads for a few long moments. Slowly, she takes a brush and begins to add names to the wall.
Artjom Vatik
Leysa Veraseggr
Vigr Veraseggr
Fyrir Veraseggr
Katya Vatik
Slowly, she places the brush back down and lowers her head. Her shoulders shudder silently as she speaks.
"I miss them so much."
Hesitantly, Litoria sits down next to the werewolf. She leans against her shoulder in an expression of silent support.
The werewolf places a hand in Litoria's. Quietly, she leans her head on the river elf's shoulder and closes her eyes. Silent tears slowly land on Litoria's arm.
Staurois eventually steps out of the grotto, leaving everyone to spend as much time as they need, but also needing to tend to the giant raging bonfire that’s still going on outside. Visitors from the other fires have started dropping in to share food, and bring their music and dancing to everyone. Outside the memorial grotto, the new year’s festivities continue unabated.
-FIN-
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