It was an ugly truth, one Mae'rel did not appreciate. Lady Lysora promised for her followers, her servants, an afterlife with a body ever young, ever beautiful, and most importantly, ever healthy. A reward for those who put their faith foremost into the Blue Lady. And yet, it was so different in the mortal plane. Mae'rel herself tended to stay in better health these days then the average person would, but even she would eventually succumb to her mortality, as would all other clergy of Lysora. Ruadhiri's brutal state reminded her of that.

First the fungus spread into his limbs, the areas his immune system would consider the lowest priority as the body fought to protect his organs. And that slowed them some. But then he developed a fever as the body desperately tried to cook the fungus. And finally, his organs began to give way, his fits of coughing making such obvious. He had a day. Two if he was lucky. But they would not reach the city even still, as he had become far too crippled.

Then that strange thing approached.

Thing truly was the best way to describe it. It was difficult to discern if it was even a male or female, let alone something they could understand. Mae'rel had heard tales of the Fae who ate children and stole your eyeballs if you ventured alone into the forests. They struck horrible bargains, and they were never what you expected. But they were left without an option right now, and Mae'rels highest regard would always be those in her party, under her care.

The Monk offered a bow, "I will be in your debt, should you save my companion. Lady Lissentoria's Servant is at your hand for any resources you may need to do so. If all you need is my word, then I declare, you have it."

The nine days since the party’s encounter with the twisted old Syl in his hilltop grove had been harrowing, to say the least. Not because the troupe had been beset by the corrupt cleric, his minions, or adversaries of any other stripe, for that matter. Instead, the vexation that hung over the troupe seemed rooted in Arathea’s struggle to finding her way back onto her path and, more so, in Ruahdri’s ever-deteriorating condition. Despite the best administrations to his wounds that either Mae’rel or Rosariel had to offer, and notwithstanding his own stoic determination, the bófear worsened by the day. Rests had been taken only out of sheer necessity and, even then, were only long enough for the group to muster enough strength to get back on their feet and press on toward Hyanda Nost before the bull-man could succumb fully to his injuries. By the end of the sixth day, Dak was unsure that even this forced-march would see them to the keep in time enough to cure and save their companion and, by the end of the seventh, he found himself exchanging guarded glances with Seleniniel as to whether or not putting the enormous warrior out of his misery might not be the better option.

It was not a thing that the Cidal wanted to do, of course, nor was it something that he’d truly anticipated but, as the days dragged on and Ruahdri only worsened, Dak found himself considering the quickest and most humane ways in which he might dispatch the big bull, as well as sending up pleas to gods that he’d never prayed to before that he wouldn’t have to. On the ninth day, though, when the beastly warrior fell to a knee and appeared to lack the strength to rise from it, the forlorn halfling laid a hand to the hilt of his sword, all but ready to give Ruahdri the end he didn’t deserve but was sorely needed for the sake of them all, an intercession took place… Just as Dak began to unsheathe his blade, stepping forward to drive it into the base of the bófear’s skull and scramble his brains, a tall, dark, and curious figure revealed itself, offering an alternative…

From around the trunk of an alder the dark creature stepped, shimmering purple eyes glimmering from the shadows cast by its cowl. "Will you treat with me, travelers?" it asked, it’s voice tinged with enough concerned sadness to stay Dak’s hand for the moment. "You have journeyed far," it observed in that strangely hollow tone.  “Forgive me, as I have observed you since you dealt with the forest wytch.  I needed to know for myself…”

Need to know what, exactly, Dak wondered, his hand remaining on the haft of his sword but reconsidering the target of the blade.

“Your companion suffers greatly.  He will perish soon, for none of you can save him.  I doubt that he survives the night... not as himself, for certain.”

And who are we, Dak questioned, silently slipping back into concealment behind his peers as the dark creature continued. He felt, more than saw the interloper’s gaze sweep over him, and knew, despite his best efforts that the figure saw him plain as day. As such, his fingers relaxed slightly, or at least less threateningly on the sword, even though the hairs at the nape of his neck prickled…

ven though the strange visage did not move, everyone in the group could feel the gaze sweep over them one at a time. 

‘You respect the forest, I can see that.  And not in the twisted manner of the wytch and his ilk.  Although perhaps not as much as we do... but I suppose that remains to be seen.”

The voice paused before speaking again.  When it began anew, the sadness felt deeper.  “I can help your comrade, if you so desire.  But if I do this, you will all owe me a boon.”

An uneasiness settled on the Shawlin’s shoulders then, heavy as bags of iron but, at the same time, light as the feather of a genuine promise. The grip on his sword relaxed a hair and he spiked a curious brow… “And what boon might you seek from us, sojourner,” he tested, a tiny hand falling away from the blade’s hilt, “Do you have a thing in mind, or, instead, do you plan to make it up as you go?”

Before the shade could answer, a good number of the troupe seemed to readily agree, Isilmewen counted among their number, and, at that, Dak could only sigh and shrug. “Very well,” the Cid shrugged, “I suppose you have our treaty confirmed for the sake of our friend…” He peered up into the shadows of the cowl, trying to define the purple eyes that stared back at him from the veil of shadows, “…What is your price, spirit? Or do you know?”

Her worries grew and ebbed in tandem. As Ruadhri’s demise became a near certainty, she mourned the warrior–his utility as much as anything–and wondered how well the group would stick… to their mandate and each other… and how effectively, without his greataxe. All the more as their de facto leader remained preoccupied–in her own head instead of tending the morale that withered with Ruadhri. Seleniniel did not begrudge the bladesinger her grief, though, inopportune as it was. 

Those worries perversely counterweighted any doubts that she, and perhaps the cid, could quickly end this. The shell of Ruadhri’s former strength was cracking. Fevered sheen in unfocused eyes. The stumbling gait. Foreshadows of a metamorphosis. Or maybe just death, if they were lucky. She would not wait to see. She owed him as much, not from some distantly-held sentimentality; rather, the shared pragmatism to take, rather than wait for, the uncaring fate cast by uncaring gods. We’re all just meat and fertilizer in the end. She ruefully eyed the spores sprouting from his skin. Not always in that order I suppose…  

As the days wore faster than the distance, she passed the dismal march by watching the cid watch him. Dak never fully shed his instinctual canniness, perhaps he couldn’t.. too ingrained by blood and ethos. But the days produced less cautious glances, more overt surveillance.. then unmasked worry. Hand idled more often on hilt. He knew it was close too.  

On the ninth day, time outran them. Ruadhri fell, and remained. She sighed. Spine straightened, subconsciously steeling to make good on her promise. A look told the same in the cid’s green eyes. Tighter than she’d ever seen, smilelines twisted to grim determination. 

A nod. 

Scooping three sands from three pockets, she let them sift through her fingers for a moment… grains through an hourglass. Ruadhri’s. Borrowed time now. Still… more than most get to make peace with your gods… hopefully those of your tread…

She closed her eyes, shifting her mind’s eye to a splayed hand, directed at the base of Ruadhri’s thick neck, now speckled with fungal parasites. He wouldn't resist. Couldn't. Best she could do for him. A simple void before… whatever came next. She heard an inch of steel slide from leather. Finished the somatic routine, opening her eyes as she held the image, started to form the word that would send Ruadhri to that blissful empty space between stars… 

And stopped.

She felt, more than saw, the Maiden’s change, peripherally sensing her abrupt stillness, attention aimed at something unseen, then fist commanding the rest to follow her eyes to the trees… where something coalesced from the deepening shadows playing the forest floor. Seleniniel’s eyes begged for more, but cowl and cloak absorbed her gaze along with the meager sunlight retreating from the canopy’s imposing dusk. Sand, still held in her fist, filtering slowly through her fingers, discordantly depositing their cheerful hues on the hem of her monochrome robe. 

The Shadow moved, then a voice punctured the tension, somehow dryer, colder than the age-warped conjurer’s. It chilled Seleniniel's blood, but it would soon warm again, with anger, as she listened to its grating speech. “Your companion suffers greatly . . . I can help your comrade, if you so desire. But . . . you will all owe me a boon. . . ."

"The life of the mieslehmä.” The shape of the word felt strange as she turned it over. Otherworldly. 

We’ve traded one ba-seldarine wood’s wytch for another. She dusted the sand on her outer robe, replacing it with a small insect, holding its faintly phosphorescent abdomen between thumb and forefinger just above the bursting point. Its cousins shyly peppered the evening dark with their own bioluminescence, motes drifting in shadow, seeming to synchronize with the cadence of the creature’s sad voice as it continued. “You all agree, or there is no bargain.” . . . “Choose” 

Seleniniel leaned forward angrily, prepared to dispel the shadowy aura with a blaze of light when she felt a hand on her arm, breaking her concentration. She turned, surprised to see the Huntress. Rosariel’s eyes flicked down to the firefly, then to Seleniniel’s, with a quick shake of her head. "Not yet," Rosariel whispered, giving Seleniniel’s wrist a light squeeze, "He betrays us and I'll help you rid the forest of both his evil and the undead fate of our damned bofear friend." Rosariel held Seleniel’s near-glare for a moment, "Deal?"  Seleniniel clenched her jaw and pulled her arm free from Rosariel’s grip, but she flicked the firefly angrily into the underbrush, turning her attention to the bladesinger, who was just beginning to answer the Shadow's bargain.

And listened incredulously as first the bladesinger, then the ranger and Lysoran blindly accepted. Seleniniel ground her teeth. Ba-seldarine fools. This thing waited for hope to die for a reason… a bargain it didn’t think we’d accept unless we had no choice. She quickly made her own choice, moving as subtly as she could to avoid attention from both Huntress and Shadow. She fingered the flat copper piece inside her robe. Concentrating on splitting her consciousness, half to listen to the reason finally coming from the Cid, as he asked the true price of Ruadhri’s life. The other half on forming the somatic routine with her long-dead hand, aimed directly at those ethereal purple eyes. As the Shadow equivocated around Dak’s query, she whispered, as softly as she could manage under that alien voice: “lóme.” 

[[Casts ESP, trying to remain undetected, but will not deny it if she is]]

When it finished its unsatisfactory answer, she took a step forward, “That answer, and your bargain, asks much trust. More than you were willing to place in us, it seems.” “But you’ve now satisfied yourself," She nodded down to Ruadhri, still kneeling, unclear how much of this he was taking in… "and let your bargaining chip ripen. Though not without cost.” Ruadhri’s raspy breath came quicker now, perhaps reaching for speech… “Quite a bargaining chip too. One that would make most agree to even the most onerous conditions." She sneered, unable to help herself, "And yet, you withhold those conditions." She tried not to blink as those purple eyes bored into hers. "Perhaps I'll share my companions' blind faith." "But first, what is a mieslehmä? And what assurance do you give that the life you’ll restore is the life he wants–the one he had nine days ago?”

She felt the heat growing at the back of her neck as the thing lectured her with an ambivalent condescension that grated at her pride and self control. She did not interrupt, though under her robe her fingernails raised angry red marks on her palm. The pain lent clarity though. A lesson long ago learned. To bargain in anger puts a thumb on their scale. Rationality, not emotion–when you are outmaneuvered most of all. Her demeanor softened as an image of Lady Galanren sprang to mind, hunched over her greatdesk, as she often was… adopted mother and mentor whose small house lacked the luxury of Isil’nari’s heft. Shrewdness by its matriarch was all that kindled its posterity…

As she listened to its words, realizing the futility of probing its unnatural mind–perhaps too the futility of dickering with its ancient indifference–she released the spell and tasked that half of her consciousness to another purpose. Inhale. Its words dulled in her ears as she sunk into her mantra.  Er.. atta… neld… By the time she finished, it had too. She still glowered at its chiding, but the heat was gone. 

“You have manufactured your leverage. And whatever gods or arcanum you employ towards your ends is beyond ours. So.. you’re right. He,” nodding to Ruadhri, “is at your mercy.” “I, though, am not. Nor will I be. You pat our heads for our prudent skepticism, then speak as though we are free to reevaluate the equities of this pact once made. Perhaps that is so.. perhaps not.” She shrugged, then a deep sigh. “I agree–to a debt commensurate with the value given. Once verified.”

Ruadhrí kept moving, ever silent to mortal infiction upon him. Ruadhrí's thoughts were of his tread, Andriv and Alani, what had they done to keep the others calm? What had the sylvari done with them? Did they even know he was still alive? Ruadhrí's head lingered on the last thought, itching his arm as he pondered if his condition would let him stay that way.

Damn fire of Yirgon, what is that- he looked at the his lower arm and armpits and which were filled with tiny fungal stems, much like cordyceps and called out to his companions "Rosarial, come quick!" every one he pulled out, forced one by one as they are too strong was agonizing like a reversed barbed needle and he stopped. Rosarial couldn't do anything about it-neither Mae'rel-so they just kept moving.

By the end of the fith day Ruadhrí contemplated what manor they would kill him in, a simple blade? Or something more... thurough like a torch to his fungal inflamed skin. By the sixth and seventh day, he silently prayed for his own death, a mercy to the flaming pain of his skins infliction. He coughed regularly and small, orange-gray dust clouds puffed out, spores of the affliction and the reason he was infected in the first place.

By the dawn of the ninth day, he would frequently double over in coughing fits, leaving a small seasoning of spores on the soil under him. Ruadhrí stopped thinking, mindlessly stumbling on as he swayed weakly while his mind showed fractured images of lost battles and companions. Then it happened, his hoof hit the top of a rather flat and slick rock and he stumbled, crashing into the soil with a boom and contimplated not getting back up. Ruadhrí's determination gained the upper hand though and he attempted to stand, putting a knee up and trying to stand but like a sail on a ship, was taken down again by a slight breeze and he winced, spores puffing out of his chest like squeazing a bag of sand. Ruadhrí crawled back to the rock and propped himself up, waiting for which ever companion would act first.

As the figure spoke, Ruadhrí thought of protesting and just letting his companions finish what the wytch started but he then remembered everyone needed him. Andriv was not ready and Alani did not have the tongue for leadership, they would all perish after the sylvari kicked them out. Ruadhrí then pushed himself up straight, determined no matter the cost of himself or his companions to prevent that from happening.

"I would charge through every last hell a thousand times and a thousand times again" His voice echoed weakly as he slowly listed a knee up straight "Barrel through every gate and fell every drake" he said as he sat up on the rock "put my horns to the flames of war and stain my name in blood" He spoke through a coughing fit as he finally weakly made it to his feet "I will not die. I am not gifted that mercy yet" finally his voice returned to a silhuette of itself for two words of promise. "I accept"

One of the Woodland Dancer’s domains was death.

Rosariel pondered this for much of their journey over the course of the next few days. While the Huntress had blessed Rosariel with the ability to heal, to bring back from the brink of death, She did not grant her the ability to manipulate it, nor did she want that kind of power. That path led to the wytch who had wrought this evil upon their ally, upon them all. But watching a creature slowly die such an uncomfortable death went against her nature as well. Had Ruadhrí been any other of the Dancer’s creatures, Rosariel would have sent him to the Hunt beyond the veil days ago. Indeed, as each hour passed now she felt herself pulled closer and closer to such an end.

She glanced behind herself briefly at the shambling bófear, both a shadow of his normal form and a premonition for what should befall him if he is not cured soon. She turned back to the auburn hair of the stoic mage in front of her. It was nearly meditative at this point to stare at that bobbing head as they trudged through the woods day by day. Rosariel often wondered how her back remained so rod stiff this entire journey. It was exhausting just to look at. She huffed a quiet laugh to herself and offered Tubs a protective head scratch before losing her grin altogether. Seleniniel probably had Ruadhrí’s death planned out. She wasn’t one to dally, and none of them wanted to see him turn into--

"Rosariel!” She bounded out of their line and spun around to the source of the call, her hands already reaching for the pouches slung across her chest and waist, “Come quick!”

She sprang forward, calling Mae’rel after her as she ran to the bófear’s side. Small green mushroom buds had begun to spring forth from his wounds, just like those the undead Syls the wytch had raised against them bore. The realization struck Rosariel deeper than the actual fungi alone. Their friend was diminishing quickly, and as she took her place again behind the mage, shaking her head at the caster’s questioning look and shuffling forward as they slowly began again, she thought it would not be such a bad idea to begin putting together her own plan to end his suffering, before it was too late.

On the ninth day Ruadhrí finally fell. Rosariel ran to him once more but a single look in his large brown eyes told her all she needed to know of his decision. He was ready. Waiting.

Rosariel could sense the party’s understanding without looking at them. She stepped away for whatever the mage or their other companions had planned, her own hand slipping over the hilt of her knife while her gaze narrowed to a point in his neck that would end his pain the quickest, should the others not meet him with the efficiency she hoped to give him.

Strength. The third and final domain of the Huntress, after beasts, and after death. Strength, a tenet of Ruadhrí’s as well. A core part of who Rosariel knew him to be. As she looked at him now, hardly any of that physical strength that defined him remained. His courage to face death, his nobility in resigning himself to this proud fate of dying him rather than the morbid pawn of another, both reflected a strength of being Rosariel herself hoped she might possess. Both reflected a strength that honored the Huntress.

She felt the air change, the quiet tension before the strike.

And then everything stopped. Isilmewen’s fist went up and all attention turned first to her and then to her gaze as a massively tall though thin, hooded being approached them from the shadows.

Instinctually her hands moved from her knife, fleeing instead to her pouches as she moved closer, ready to buffer her allies should the newcomer prove nefarious.

He spoke of having watched them, of being able to heal Ruadhrí in return for a boon, but all would need to comply.

Rosariel studied him as best she could. Nothing she had seen or read had ever described something like him. He had refuted Dak’s use of “spirit” to describe him, but perhaps he was some sort of fey being? Perhaps something far older?

The bladesinger, the monk, and the ranger had agreed quickly, though Dak had not. And while Rosariel wanted Ruadhrí cured, she wondered what such a powerful creature could need from them.

Movement from Seleniniel’s robes caught her eye and a familiar bug appeared between her fingertips. Rosariel quietly stepped closer and grabbed her wrist, “Not yet," she whispered, giving Seleniniel’s wrist a light squeeze, "He betrays us and I'll help you rid the forest of both his evil and the undead fate of our damned bófear friend. Deal?"

To her genuine surprise the mage conceded, albeit begrudgingly, tearing her arm away from her and speaking out to the entity. To her continued surprise, Seleniniel did not attempt to burn the figure alive once more after he spoke down to her as though she were a child.

With the approval of the cidal, the mage, and finally the bófear in question, Rosariel remained the last to agree, though her question still lingered.

“You say you respect those who respect the forest. You and I are the same in that way. For that and your willingness and ability to save our friend, I am honored to treat with you today, and would with my friends agree to your assistance in return for a boon. But I must ask first, a being such as yourself, one that could bring him back from this,” she waved to where spores now fell lightly from Ruadhrí’s cracked lips, “What could we possibly provide someone as powerful and capable as yourself, that you could not find on your own? What could we provide worth a life?”

((OOC: assuming he provides a vague answer for now to keep things moving, but can change later if he actually lays his cards on the table))

Rosariel sighed and nodded, “Very well. I agree. Please save Ruadhrí.”

Seleniniel stood, arms crossed, skeptically watching as the transformed creature–she preferred its original form… more honest, Seleniniel suspected, than this tittering nymph–saw to Ruadhri. It put on quite the show, no doubt performative to drive up the value of its ministrations to justify the yet-unnamed price. Seleniniel’s hand dipped into her robe a time or two as Ruadhri screamed in agony–ready to exact a swift counterprice from the fae if its supposed remedy sent Ruadhri to his original destination. But there was no need. Ruadhri was strong enough to bear both disease and cure, it seemed. 

The clerics were rapt by the ordeal–taken in by the no-doubt embellished tale of ancient medicine administered with a song. Pah, just pour the s*** on and be done with it. When the fae did.. After lancing the fungal wounds, Seleniniel had to look away and pull her cloak over her nose. She finally left the circle at the sound, and smell, of sizzling flesh. Let the clerics earn their due. If it went sideways now, Rosariel had promised… 

She paced around the group in the now-full dark. Wondering over the price of it. Eventually, once song and prayer subsided, Seleniniel returned to see the fae's end of this bargain. Even to her untrained eye, Ruadhri looked markedly improved. She watched the Lysoran and Huntress closely as they tended the warrior. They seemed satisfied too. Seleniniel nevertheless scowled at Ruadhri’s “savior”.. now blankly staring into the fire as its light played across her gaudy appearance–adding its orange glow to the already-nonsensical clash of colors. You’ve earned your mercenaries.. Though I’ll not forget how. The fae looked almost childlike… arms clasped around her knees, staring as if the fire were spinning some marvelous tale that rapt her attention. Childlike… in all but her face.. those sharp features and unnatural eyes chilled Seleniniel’s spine. A dangerous bargain, to trade with something that reasons so differently. Something this… old... will never see the world as we do… never share our conceptions of value… She idly twisted the chain of the ruby necklace within her robe. Trading gemstones to a starving wolf... 

The necklace made her think of the Cid, who had been curiously absent… or at least unseen, during the showy “ceremony.” Seleniniel now caught a glimpse of him on the periphery. Firelight just barely reflected in his eyes. Eyes that studied the fae with a strange intensity... No doubt plotting how to relieve her of her shadowcloak and age-petrified dagger. She actually smirked a little, leading to the realization that she had been clenching her jaw for… hours.. perhaps days. She worked her jaw to relieve the tension, noting with a hint of her everpresent ruefulness that she actually felt.. calm.. perhaps even safe.. for the first time since the summoner’s grove. She’d been holding onto the certainty of Ruadhri’s death… and her expected part in it. Her eyes flicked back to the fae, daring it to find even a hint of gratitude in her. But it just stared, unblinking, into the fire. Those alien eyes stymied Seleniniel’s budding sense of safety. A starving wolf… or worse.

Eventually the thing stirred, hopping back to life not long after Seleniniel had drifted off to sleep, though not without a proper watch set against threats beyond, and within, the firelight. 

Her lingering grogginess was wiped away with a phrase. “... the children of the stars call them Lindela Elin…” 

The Pools. A rush of unbidden, unwelcome memories flooded her.. a sister’s laughter.. sunlight frivolously dappling through the trees and waters in mimicry of the carefree children who splashed in its rays… lost. Lost.. LOST. Sarigraamin… sarigraamin… Seleneniel blinked rapidly for a moment, physiology and psychology desperately trying to weather the unexpected assault. A wave of anger at this ba-seldarine creature for springing it on her. Then herself, for the flash of weakness she should’ve been fortified against. Inhale. Er.. atta.. neld… She ran through her routine twice… then a third. Exhale.

Physiology eventually won and her focus shifted outward again–to see the fae looking at the group expectantly. The question had barely registered, though she got the gist: west or north. She’d never had any intention of returning to the Pools. Ever. She interrupted the Laughing Maiden just as Isilmewen was starting to answer. “You may have long ignored the stretch of time, but we do not have that luxury. If you lack the authority to let us promptly settle our debt, summon your master–or whatever it is we’re pledged to–to Hyanda Nost. Surely we are not the only ones who walk paths forbade to others. That–or dispense with the needless obfuscation and tell us the full price rather that meting it out bit by bit.”

((OOC: fully expect others to disagree with S and/or override her))

As the other Syls and Ruadhri, himself, consented to the Shade’s pact, Dak wandered toward the fringes of the gathering, his mind set on untangling the web of it’s words… to find the true meaning around which the creature had woven them. He was familiar with wordplay, of course, and had used it to great effect and personal benefit over the years, so he was all but certain that, despite the perceived directness of it’s speech, there were tenuous threads on which he could pull and catch at least a glimpse of the truth. He seated himself on a fallen log, exchanging the hilt of a sword for the bowl of a pipe in his hand, and settled into silent scrutiny. Perhaps the emotions it seems to exude when it speaks are the key to unlocking the puzzle, he imagined, tamping a generous pinch of moonshade into the pipe, or might they be the lock itself? A faint scowl, born of that self-inflicted conundrum, cracked the otherwise curious set of his features. Don’t go outthinking yourself, Whisperfoot, he scoffed inwardly, a quick shake of his head setting his topknot to bobbing, Just watch and see, hm?

A strange tingling swept through him as the pact was sealed and the dark figure’s purple eyes flashed within the depths of it’s cowl. The Cid shivered a bit at the feel of it but dismissed the sensation with another shake of his head and allowing himself the brief distraction of lighting his pipe.

“Bring the mieslehmä to me,” the enigma commanded as it drifted back beneath the boughs of the aspen.

Dak didn’t move to assist… not that he would be of much help in such an effort, anyway… choosing instead to simply watch as the others helped the bófear to the prescribed location. For a long moment, the being did nothing but stare down at Ruadhri where he lay dying at it’s feet.  Next, two shadowy hands reached up to grasp the edges of the hood, pushing it back and off it’s head. As the cowl was peeled away, so, too, was the veil of reality and the shade became something else. The halfling’s head spun and his mind boggled at the transformation, and he was sure that, even if he lived to be as old as any of his Sylvari companions, he would never manage to find the words to explain what he had just witnessed. Where a towering shadow once stood, there was now an exotically ethereal woman, scarcely taller than himself…

“Sidhe,” he gasped, nearly choking on the word as he swallowed a mouthful of pipe smoke in the speaking of it, “Thirkee stab my eyes!”

“I am Ysmiril of the children of the shadows,” she said, her head tilting to one side and a bright smile blossoming on her lips, “Now that we are friends... or, at the least, working in concert, I find it far more pleasing to show my true form.  While it is useful - and not a little amusing - to carry on as a great being of darkness and balefulness, I find it to be so very restricting to do so for long.  Wouldn't you agree?”

At first, all Dak could do was nod dumbly and gawk at the celestial creature, eyes wide and mouth agape. Then, when the tinkling of her laughter reached his ears, he found it all but impossible not to add a chuckle of his own. “I think I’d be a fool not to,” he chuffed softly, finally managing to tear his eyes off of the woman and set them in search of the pipe he’d fumbled, “or, maybe, I’m already a fool for cutting a bargain with the fae…”

With the stem of the recovered pipe clenched between his teeth, the Shawlin hastily rummaged through his pack for a sheaf of parchment and his pen. Over the course of the rites and rituals to cure Ruadhri, Dak scrawled out copious notes on the procedure and made myriad sketches of Ysmiril and her accoutrements. When it was over, he bundled the pages together in a scroll case, and squirreled them away in his pack before lending a hand in setting up camp beneath the aspen’s boughs. Once the camp was set and the fire lit, Dak once again wandered away to the edge of the firelight, tucking into his rations and resuming his intent and guardedly curious study of the strange woman.

Of all the unsettling things that had transpired since her arrival, the way that Ysmiril gazed into the fire, motionless and unblinking, for as long as she did was probably the most unnerving thing she had done, thus far. She seemed oblivious to everyone and everything around her and, after a time, Dak started to question whether she was even still in her head or not. Is she simply recovering from her exertions with Ruadhri, he wondered, watching the flames dance in those purple eyes, Communing with others of her kind, perhaps? Maybe she’s not really here, at all, and we’re only imagining that she is… The idea coaxed a dry and uneasy chuckle from his lips and, for another long moment, he gave thought to testing the theory. Just go over and try to pilfer that witchwood blade, he quietly coaxed himself, or slip that cloak from her shoulders. Hells, poke her in the forehead, for that matter! Anything to confirm or deny the reality of all this. Just as the halfling had convinced himself to do so, the otherworldly woman broke from her trance and rose to her feet, startling him enough to keep from getting to his.

“Your destination is your people's stronghold,” she queried, her gaze sweeping over those members of the troupe who had not succumbed to sleep, “this Hyanda Nost, is it not?”

“It is, my lady,” Dak confirmed with a nod.

“That is a... diversion from where I would see you tread,” she declared.  "I would have you accompany me to the Laulualtaat... the children of the stars call them Lindela Elin - the Melodious Pools.”  She paused.  “Of course, you will be at Hyanda Nost in less than two days, and the pools are... further away.  I will not begrudge you if you feel that your duties demand that you visit your own people first.”

Diversions seem to be this company’s stock in trade, Dak snickered to himself, his questioning gaze flitting from one companion to another, waiting for Arathea to make the decision. However, it was Seleniniel, seemingly snatched from her slumber at the very mention of Lindela Elin, who spoke first.

“You may have long ignored the stretch of time, but we do not have that luxury,” the mage railed.  “If you lack the authority to let us promptly settle our debt, summon your master–or whatever it is we’re pledged to–to Hyanda Nost. Surely we are not the only ones who walk paths forbade to others. That–or dispense with the needless obfuscation and tell us the full price rather that meeting it out bit by bit.”

Dak’s brows raised at Seleniniel’s impudence and in wonder of how Ysmiril might answer it, his curiosity over the matter finally drawing him in from the fringes of the firelight. If the celestial creature took offense, though, it didn’t show in her expression or manner. In fact, she seemed almost amused by the mage’s challenge.

“Ai että!” Ysmiril exclaimed with a laugh.  “You are an amusing one, vihainen yksilö.  As if the one who truly owns your debt could be summoned like some koira to your lap.”  She shook her head, iridescent gossamer locks floating around her ears.  “No, you will travel with me to the Laulualtaat.  They will explain the balance of your debt, for it is not my place to do so.”

“Amusing,” Dak snickered, emerging from the penumbra, “Now, that’s not a word I ever thought I’d hear used in reference to Mistress Isil’nari. Not out loud, at any rate…” he flicked a playfully taunting wink at Seleniniel before turning his gaze back to Ysmiril, “…We do have some rather pressing business at Hyanda Nost, my lady,” he stated matter-of-factly, “a matter having to do with returning a sword and, perhaps, acquiring another. I can’t make the choice as to whether we delay that business or this, however,” he inclined his head toward Arathea, “That decision falls to Lady Ondolithe.”

As the creature finished, “No, you will travel with me to the Laulualtaat . . .” It was less the condescension, more the matter-of-fact way she assumed compliance… She stewed while the Cid bantered--appearing to enjoy having someone new to crack quips at. Before Arathea could answer his deferential nod, the words came pouring from Seleniniel. She knew it was a mistake, but she didn’t care. “Why?” She cocked her head as she looked down at those radiant eyes. “Why should we go to Lindela Elin? Because you say so? You’ve proven no more than a glorified messenger, sent to spook us with shadows and wooden blades. You’ve made good on your word,” nodding at Ruadhri who appeared to be sleeping peacefully despite her now-raised voice, “but you’ve given us two days–the time we lacked to reach Hyanda Nost–and demanded a month’s detour before we can even begin to settle our debt. Dispense with the patronized bemusement at us silly mortals and either accept reasonable repayment, or add some weight to your side of the scales." "Or. Show your skill at more than circletalk and pouring old tree sap,” as her hand disappeared into her robe. “If it’s the threat of violence that compels us to honor your unbalanced trade, let’s get it out in the open so we can at least have an honest understanding.” 

[[assuming no immediate interruption/response]] 

As she finished, she turned to Arathea, who seemed taken aback by the tirade, “I’ll abide by your choice,” as she glanced about, doubt cracked her self-assured glower as she realized only the Bladesinger was meeting her eyes, “but I’d not let this sprite lead us by the nose from mere misplaced honor” she nodded back to the purple eyes, “to them, we are means to ends… a convenient tool to be used, or broken, as it suits their fleeting fancy” 

((OOC: S expects to be overridden/talked down))

As they set up camp and rested after such an intense healing, Isilmewen's gaze kept looking over at Ysmiril, her own eyes distant though perhaps not the same distance as Ysmiril's own gaze. Where was she? Isilmewen wondered, If her mind has wandered, where has it gone?

Really, there was so much she wanted to ask. A fabled fey being, right there, beautiful and unknown. Isilmewen busied herself with her watch and subtly checking on Arathea again, as well as making sure Rosariel and Mae'rel were not too worn out by what the earlier healing demanded of them.

Then, Ysmiril spoke, and she immediately had Isilmewen's attention. Lindela Elin. No, Ysmiril named it Laulualtaat. Isilmewen was intrigued. And more than a little startled by Seleniniel's vehement response.

It was all she could do not to, but Isilmewen had to laugh.

"Seleniniel," Isilmewen laughed, "How is this so different than the agreement made back at the Isil'nari estate? You and I both know, the heads of our own Houses are like to see us as much tools and extensions of their will as you say our unexpected patron does. But, we have received boon of this patron. I'd sooner settle our service in return while we can, lest Heren'salkya's dance tips unfavorably, and we find for some reason later on that we cannot." Isilmewen's voice went a bit quieter, "If the old fables are to be believed, such a scenario would certainly not be favorable in any capacity. To us, or kin."

"In any case," Isilmewen added, "We've effectively received summons from one who would receive us and return their favor. To keep them waiting could be an insult," Isilmewen frowned a bit as she scratched at her cheek, "At least, going by House summons and what my siblings told me about how those are supposed to work. If I remembered that right... did I remember that right?"